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pkg4mumtown · 5 years ago

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Welcome to Hawkins PD (Ch. 3)

Chapter Title: Men’s Rooms ‘n’ Muffins

Chapter 3 of 9?

Read Chapter 2 / Masterlist

AN: I never really gave you guys a timeline for this fic, so I’m imagining it about a month or so after Season 2. So, it’s roughly two weeks into December. This one is a bit longer, so enjoy!

Warnings: Brief mention of homophobia, police stuff, strong language

Summary: Your first day as one of Hawkin’s finest could have been worse, really.

Taglist: @kingphillipblake

Lmk if you want to be removed or added from my taglist

I wouldn’t have minded sleeping on the bare mattress, the first day, if it wasn’t thirty degrees that night. In hindsight, I should have prepared to be on my own in December, but we hadn’t really needed heavy coats in the academy the past four months. A sweatshirt and layers in October and November had been enough with how much we were moving. I had bundled up my sweatshirt to use as a pillow, threw on sweats, thick socks, and my sweater but was still cold due to the thin walls of the trailer. I had glanced at the closet, remembering that Hopper said he had clothes in there. I bit the bullet and pulled one of his large, heavy flannels off its hanger and used it as a blanket. If he ever found out I’d slept with it, I’d be mortified.

As promised, Hopper took me to the dealership and supervised the salesman. It didn’t take much for Hopper to intimidate him, just flashes of glares as the salesman spoke to me about the cars. He would nervously glance at the Chief every now and then, which was amusing in itself. At the end of the day, Hopper’s presence even got the guy to shave off a few bucks. After that, we had bid each other goodbye while I set about buying out all the blankets at the nearest store.

Monday morning, I was up by six and out the door before seven. I prayed that the long sleeve I wore under my uniform would be enough when paired with thick socks and gloves for the temperature high of forty today. I turned my nose up at the thought of putting my academy sweatshirt over my uniform, but did it anyway. I’d rather get in trouble with Hopper and not be freezing, than the alternative.

I arrived at the station at seven sharp, seeing an older lady opening the front door as I pulled up. I got out of my car, slinging a small bag with a towel, running shoes, and a change of clothes over my shoulder in case I had time for a run before the others arrived.

“Can I help you with that, ma’am?” I asked, hoping she couldn’t hear my teeth chatter.

“Ah, Officer Y/L/N, I assume?” she questioned and shoved her purse in my arms while fiddling with the keys in her gloved hands.

“Yes, ma’am,” I nodded, shaking ever so slightly.

“Call me Flo, dear,” she smiled, finally getting the door open. She took her purse back from me, feeling my hand lightly shake as she did. “Oh, you poor thing, come here. The Chief put some essentials on order for you when you got assigned to us.”

Flo led me to a back room, my body rejoicing when I saw a heavy blue jacket with the Hawkins patch on it, among other items like extra uniforms and PT clothes. She handed them all over to me and showed me to my desk.

“We’re a pretty lax station here, but definitely change out of that thing before Hopper comes in,” she patted my shoulder, referring to the grass-stained academy sweatshirt.

“Of course,” I nodded. “I was actually hoping you could show me to the lockers, Flo. I’m itching for a run.”

“In this weather?”

“Nothin’ like a run to warm up,” I raised my eyebrows but she looked unamused.

She scrunched up her face, “Well, we technically only have lockers and showers in the men’s bathroom, but no one uses them.” She thought for a second before leading me over to said bathroom, “I’ll make sure to tell the boys, so they’re not surprised. The other officers won’t be in for at least another hour, and Hop…well…maybe he’ll be on time for once for your first day. You have some time to kill.”

Flo patted my shoulder and left me to my own devices. Near the entry of the bathroom were the urinals, while deeper into the bathroom had four lockers on either side of a long bench and ended with two open showers.

I chose a locker and changed quickly into my sweats, sweatshirt, and running shoes. I elected to keep my gloves on because I’m not that crazy. I walked back out to the bullpen and stretched lightly near the door, preparing myself to brave the cold again.

“I’ll be back by,” I paused to look at my watch, “eight at the latest.”

“Good luck,” Flo murmured as she wrote.

The first few minutes absolutely sucked as my body fought to warm up but I was able to push through it eventually. I didn’t go down too many streets to avoid getting lost on my first day, but that didn’t mean I was stared at any less. As business owners opened up shop, I felt eyes on me from all directions assessing who I was. I smiled as nicely as I could but between running and the cold air, there was only so much friendliness I could accomplish.

I arrived back at the station a few minutes before I said I would, seeing a couple more cars parked alongside the cruisers. The Chief’s truck was still absent, so it was safe to assume Flo was right and he’d be late.

Two officers were inside chatting with their feet propped up on their desks when I walked in. They glanced up at the sound of my entrance, obviously intrigued at the unfamiliar face.

“Can I hel—” one officer with glasses started as he stood up from his desk.

“Officer Y/L/N,” I stuck my hand out.

“Ah, the newbie,” the other officer chimed in while leaning further back in his chair.

“Callahan,” the first officer replied and shook my hand.

“Powell,” the other waved.

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna shower,” I nodded toward the bathrooms.

“Flo already warned us, you’ve got it to yourself for the next fifteen,” Powell gestured behind him.

The shower was surprisingly not terrible and the water was warmer than the air outside, so I could hardly complain. I kept nervously glancing to the front of the bathrooms, hoping everyone had gotten the memo. I showered as quickly as possible, so I could get back to my desk before Hopper showed up.

As it would happen, the Chief was in at a decent time, for once. He was still late, but definitely not as late as usual. He stormed into the bullpen, making a beeline for the coffee and donuts, and grumbling when he saw a lack of donuts.

“Chief—”

“Flo!? Where are my donuts?” he complained loudly, even though she was right behind him.

She rolled her eyes and pushed an apple into his hand, having had it waiting especially for him.

Hopper turned up his nose at the fruit and grumbled to himself. He spun around while taking a bite of the fruit, eyeing my desk and pointing with the same hand that held the apple, “She here?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good,” he said around a mouthful of apple. “I gotta take a leak,” he took another huge bite and chucked the rest into a nearby trash can.

“Chief!” Flo called out.

“It can wait until after I pee, Flo, jeez,” Hopper mumbled while chewing and walked away.

“Chief, wait!” Powell called after him.

“Am I speaking English?” Hopper called over his shoulder as he took long strides toward the bathroom.

“Chief—” Callahan caught up to him and tried to cut him off but was pushed aside by a single, strong shoulder.

Hopper grabbed him by the shoulders and put himself between Callahan and the bathroom door, “Are you gonna watch me take a piss, Cal?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Good,” Hopper smiled sarcastically. He pushed the bathroom door open and slammed it in Callahan’s face.

“Fuck's sake,” Hopper grumbled as he stood in front of a urinal.

The seemingly quiet bathroom echoed the sound of Hopper's zipper. I panicked as I stared at his back with only socks and underwear on under my towel. I tried to dress quietly as the sound of his bodily function echoed in the otherwise empty room. I managed to get my uniform pants on, but mistakenly left the belt in when I changed earlier. The clank was noticeable enough for Hopper to look over his shoulder.

“Someone in here?” he called out.

I squeaked, shoved feet into my boots, and grabbed my long-sleeved undershirt, barely having it over my head and around my neck when Hopper zipped up and turned around.

“God dammit!” he shouted, “What are you doing!?”

“Sh—shower, Chief,” I stumbled over my words, fumbling with the sleeves as I hurriedly stuck my arms in so I could cover my bra.

Annoyed, Hopper sighed heavily and stalked over to the sink and washed his hands, “Does the one in the trailer not work?”

“No, it does. I just…it's just I got here early and went for a run…”

Hopper came back into view after drying his hands, my undershirt finally in place while I unhooked my uniform shirt from the hanger.

“This is the men’s room,” Hopper stressed, his hands on his hips and his mouth a tight-lipped line.

I held my shirt in front of me, “If we had women’s showers, this wouldn’t be a problem...” I murmured softly, not sure how he’d respond to me effectively talking back.

Hopper sighed once more, running a thumb and forefinger along his brow and gripping tightly. He made no move to leave, however.

I pursed my lips and couldn’t stop the next words from tumbling out of my mouth, “Are you paying for a show? Or…?” I trailed off while sliding my uniform shirt over one arm, then the other.

Hopper dropped his hand in exasperation, staring me down with a, what can only be described as murderous, glare, “You remember I’m your boss, right?”

I let out giggle as I buttoned up my shirt and tucked it in, “I’m joking, Chief.” I fastened my belt, then pulled out a small brush to fix my hair. I walked briskly over to the only mirror in that bathroom, right above the sink, having to pass an agitated, yet amused Hopper. “You should come with me next time,” I offered, while tying up my hair into a bun.

“What are you trying to say?” he pretended to be offended while gesturing to his stomach, throwing his weight onto one leg and tweaking his hip out. His thumbs hooked into his belt loops, framing his crotch without actually meaning to.

I looked at his form in the mirror, laughing and shaking my head. “That you should join me next time. Y’know, lead by example,” I teased. I walked past him again, lifting my foot up to rest on the bench so I could tie my boots.

“Oooh, ouch, yea,” Hopper squinted at me and bit his bottom lip. “I think I like spending my mornings with a coffee and donut, thanks.

I stood up straight, finally done getting dressed given the distraction Hopper provided. I slammed the locker shut and locked the padlock before walking towards Hopper. I used that stretch of space to fasten my duty belt and clip my radio onto my shoulder.

“Plus,” he gestured to the wide-open view of the showers from any angle due to a lack of curtains, “What are we gonna do? Shower at the same time? You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna waste precious coffee and contemplation time waiting for you to finish in the shower.”

“Yea, the invitation did not extend past running, Chief,” I scrunched up my nose. Except, I really wouldn’t mind if it did. I took a step towards the bathroom door and spun back around, nearly getting run over by Hopper as he tried to bulldoze me out. “But, if we hung curtains in here…” I raised my eyebrows, “…it could work.”

Hopper closed his eyes and let out a heavy groan, “Just do me a favor and get to work, please.”

“Yes, sir,” I gave him a two fingered salute and made my way to my desk.

I sat at my desk, inserting myself into a conversation with Callahan and Powell quite easily. Hopper poured himself a coffee and was about to round the corner to hide in his office when Flo called him yet again.

“Chief!”

“For the love of…” He sighed heavily, “Are my mornings not sacred anymore, Flo?”

“Vandalism at Vicki’s Bakery!”

Hopper let out a dramatic groan and spun on his heel to enter the bullpen again.

“Urgent, Hopper!”

Grumbling, he downed his coffee and slammed it next to the coffee maker, “Y/L/N, let’s go!”

I scrambled to my feet, barely catching my new jacket as Hopper chucked it at me from the coat hanger. He grabbed his hat and jacket as I caught up, and put them on before reaching the door.

“If we’re lucky, we’ll get free muffins,” Hopper raised his eyebrows and hummed at the thought.

I scrunched my brows at him in disbelief and pushed the station doors open. The ride to the bakery took all of two minutes, then we were pulling up to an empty spot directly in front of the shop.

“Jesus,” Hopper murmured, seeing the front and side glass windows all broken with multiple gaping holes in each.

“What in the world…” I got out of the Blazer quickly, seeing a lady in an apron through the broken glass. She had a broom leaned up against the glass display case, but seemingly had yet to use it. I glanced up, seeing a camera mounted and facing the door.

We stepped as delicately as possible, into the bakery, to avoid making a bigger mess than there already was.

“Hey, Vick,” Hopper greeted.

“Been a while since you’ve been in here, Hopper,” the older lady greeted him.

“Yea, Flo's been on my case,” he rolled his eyes and pulled his notepad out of his pocket. “This is Officer Y/L/N,” he tilted his head in my direction.

“Mornin, ma’am,” I nodded.

“Hi, dear,” she greeted warmly, contrasting the image of the broken glass around her.

Hopper started taking her statement while I examined the broken glass. There were numerous bricks that were assumed to be what had been thrown through the windows, but one of them caught my eye. I noticed paint on one side and tipped the brick over with my foot, before crouching down.

“Shit,” I murmured, reading the homosexual slur deliberately written on it.

I curiously revisited the rest of the bricks and found more slurs. I glanced at Hopper to get his attention but he was still talking to Vicki. I looked around the bakery, seeing clusters of pictures throughout. I examined each one carefully, finally walking over to a wall near the front counter, seeing pictures of Vicki at Pride marches. I was interrupted by Hopper’s heavy footsteps coming up behind me.

“Thoughts?” He questioned me while sliding his pen back into his shirt pocket.

“Hate crime,” I answered, turning to face him.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, just go look at the bricks, Chief,” I pointed with my thumb.

He stood over one of the bricks and squinted at the lettering, “Yea, sounds about right,” he sighed. “Too bad we don’t have hate crime laws, we’ll only get them on criminal mischief.”

“The damage is pretty significant though,” I glanced around the shop, “Easily a ‘Class A’ misdemeanor.”

“This much glass isn’t cheap,” Hopper agreed.

“Do you have the tapes for that camera outside, ma’am?” I turned and asked her.

“Of course, come on back.”

She led us to a back room and played through the footage from last night. I watched in amusement as Hopper had to bend over to get a better view of the screen.

“Pause it there,” Hopper pointed to the screen.

The screen paused on a figure approaching the bakery with an armful of bricks at two in the morning. Hopper squinted and told her to keep playing the video, trying to see if he recognized the man. At some point the man looked down the street, in the direction of the camera.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Hopper said quickly. “Got him.”

“You recognize him?” I squinted.

“The town asshole,” Vicki muttered.

“Mason Thomas,” Hopper finished. “You’ll get to know his face. He’s in and out of prison all the damn time. He was in middle school right before I graduated high school, always had a rep for bad behavior. Teachers caught him smoking all the time, even pulled a knife on a kid once or twice in the schoolyard.”

“What the hell?” I wondered out loud.

“Yea,” Hopper grunted as he stood up straight, “and apparently homophobic.”

“Let’s go get this jerk,” I tapped the desk and started walking out of the room.

We walked back out to the main area as we wrapped up with Vicki. I was already making my way to the front door when I didn’t hear Hopper following me.

“Can you ring me up a muffin, Vick?” he asked her as I turned around, looking at him like he was insane. “Muffin?” he asked me, pointing at the assortment.

“Criminal,” I pointed at the Blazer with my thumb over my shoulder, really wanting to just leave so we could get this guy.

“Throw another one in there, I’ll convince her,” he said matter-of-factly to Vicki and gave her an exaggerated wink.

Hopper pulled out his wallet as he waited, caught off guard when Vicki slid a box of four muffins and two coffees in front of him.

“On the house,” she pushed Hopper’s hand away.

“Nah, Vick, come on. The damages are gonna cost you,” he pointed to the windows.

“That’s what insurance is for, Hop,” she waved him off. “Just go get the guy, that’s payment enough.”

“You got it,” Hopper smirked, flipping up the lid of the box, and shoving a muffin between his teeth.

“Thank you,” I smiled at Vicki, taking one of the coffee cups.

Hopper shoved the box of muffins in my arms and turned me around with two fingers in my back, “Let’s go,” he said incoherently around the bread.

When we got inside the Blazer, I watched him eat the entire second half of the muffin in one bite. I stared at him in horrified amusement as he chewed on the dense bread. I pulled the tab back on my coffee lid and sipped it delicately to judge the temperature. Hopper grabbed his, roughly ripping the tab off and bringing the coffee to his lips without any sense of caution. He closed his eyes and let the coffee wash the muffin down, finally noticing me staring at him.

“What? Three bites of an apple was not breakfast,” he defended himself. He brought the cup back to his mouth, licking the coffee near the opening and stopping, “Eat one, seriously.”

I almost didn’t hear him as I focused on his tongue lapping the coffee on the lid before finally taking a gulp. I nearly choked on my own coffee at the sight. He raised his eyebrows at me as he grabbed a second muffin, so I humored him and grabbed one as we drove off. I finished it by the time Hopper pulled over on a residential street and took a swig of coffee to clear my mouth.

The Chief jumped out of his truck with a grunt, hiding a soft burp behind his palm. We strode up to an unkempt house with our hands braced on our belts out of habit.

“Police!” Hopper pounded on the front door with a closed fist and upon no answer, he repeated the action again while trying to listen intently to what was happening inside.

“Mason! Open up!” Hopper beat against the door harder.

I heard a scraping sound from the side of the house, making me lean over the side of the porch to take a glimpse. I watched Mason fall to the ground from his window and scramble quickly to his feet in a full sprint.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Hopper sighed as he watched Mason take off.

I vaulted over the railing, nearly tripping from the momentum forward as I landed.

“Y/L/N! Wait!” Hopper called after me as he took the easier route down the stairs of the porch.

“I got it, Chief!” I yelled over my shoulder.

I chased after Mason, considerably easier for me in actual treaded shoes while he attempted to run in flip-flops. Before I could gain too much on him, he tripped over a crack in the pavement and rolled. The forward momentum helped him to spring back on his feet quickly but by then I was right behind him.

Mason threw a wobbly punch as he turned around to face me, thankfully still recovering his balance from the fall. I used his own energy to guide the punch and turn him around while grabbing his wrist. I pulled his hand behind his back, twisting his arm when he resisted and tried to pull out of my grip. I couldn’t hear Hopper yet and Mason had yet to stop fighting me, so I jabbed the back of his knees with the toe of my boot and yanked down so he’d fall on his ass. I maneuvered him onto his stomach and was finally able to get my cuffs out as Hopper approached in a jog, slightly out of breath. I had just finished spouting off the Miranda rights as Hopper stood over us, hands on his hips and chest heaving while catching his breath.

“Good thing one of us runs, huh, Chief?” I grinned while slapping one of the cuffs on.

“Shut up and cuff him,” Hopper rolled his eyes.

“This mean you’ll run with me in the mornings?” I asked while fastening the last cuff.

“Not a chance,” he chuckled, holding out a hand to help me up. He pulled me until I was standing, hurriedly grabbing my upper arms as I swayed forward from the force. I grabbed his forearms as an immediate response, trying not to imagine how they’d feel without his heavy jacket and long sleeve. I cleared my throat and stepped back, narrowly avoiding stepping on Mason.

Mason mumbled angrily, under his breath, as Hopper yanked him to his feet and shoved him forward as an indication to walk. We took a leisurely walk back to the Blazer with Mason being dragged along. Hopper tried to burp discreetly but underestimated the force and glanced sheepishly my way.

“Shouldn’t have had that second muffin, Chief,” I laughed behind my hand as I verbally jabbed at him, feeling his glare instantly.

“Oh, this’ll be the last time I share anything with you, ya brat,” he scoffed and bumped me with his large arm.

We loaded Mason into the back seat of the Blazer through the passenger side, shoving him not so gently all the way in. I flipped the seat back to its normal position and climbed into the truck, landing in the seat with a heavy sigh. Hopper was already in the driver’s seat with his hat sitting on the dashboard as he waited for me. He started the truck and took off while I pondered over a silly idea that popped into my head.

I stuck my tongue out slightly, glancing at the side of his face. I snagged his hat off the dashboard and plopped it on my head, grinning as he scowled at me.

“I think I earned this now, don’t you, Chief?” I bit my bottom lip, trying to hide my giddy smile.

Hopper’s eyes dropped down to my mouth and back up to my eyes quickly. He squinted at me but couldn’t hold his demeanor together and chuckled while looking back at the road, “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter 4

#jim hopper fanfiction #jim hopper x you #jim hopper x reader #stranger things fanfiction #chief hopper fanfiction #chief hopper x you #chief hopper x reader #david harbour fanfiction #david harbour x reader #david harbour x you

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cle1024 · 5 years ago

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erubescent | hhj

member: hwang hyunjin

genre: angst, fluff

summary: why are my cheeks erubescent? i shouldn’t be feeling this way about you; i’m not supposed to trust you. bad boy!au, florist!au, high school!au, enemies to lovers!au

warnings: swearing, underage drinking, cigarettes

a/n: it’s big cliche teen romance hours. i’ve been working on this for a while so it’s kind of long, i also apologise in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors. enjoy!

Monday, 2:35am.

Music blasted from the garage down the street, as it had been for the past four hours. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, a huff passing your lips before you shoved the covers off of your sleep-deprived body. The house was on the other side of the road, three houses down, yet the sound it emitted was still agonisingly clear. There wasn’t a party or get together going on, it just served as the background noise for some boy who decided to do god knows what at two in the morning. ‘Some boy’ referred to the devil incarnate. Personally, you had your own bad traits and habits, and you were willing to acknowledge that. The boy, on the other hand, was not as willing. He was cocky, self-absorbed, arrogant, and many other synonyms. Students at your school found him annoyingly charming and attractive, parents found him to be deceptively charming and a total sweetheart, you thought he was a dumb prick. A self-absorbed, untrustworthy, dumb prick. A no-good, rudderless, troublesome bum. Hwang Hyunjin was the bane of your existence without even trying.

Luck was never on your side, evidently. The bus ride to school took fifteen minutes at the least and school started at 8:00am sharp. Your bus was intended to arrive at 7:40am, but eight minutes had passed and it vehemently refused to show up. A groan bubbled in your chest, prepared to be expressed through your soft lips and into the crisp morning air, but the chance was cut short, much to your dismay.

“Doesn’t school start at 8:00am?” As if your morning couldn’t get worse. The distinct voice of the boy, who’d managed to keep you up all night with his music, echoed from beside you. As far as you were concerned, he had no clue who you were: no name, class, nothing. You’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Yes,” Hyunjin clicked his tongue before shoving his hands in his pockets. You weren’t sure if he was expected more of a conversation from you, perhaps some stuttering and blushing on your behalf, which you most certainly weren’t going to provide. Your morning had already gotten off to a shit start due to his behaviour, no need to make it even worse. As the clock ticked to 7:51am, the bus finally pulled up in front of the two of you. Hyunjin made a beeline to get on first, almost knocking you out of the way in the pursuit. You rolled your eyes: what on earth did people see in him?

Wednesday, 1:22am.

You banged your head against your desk continuously. Life was an unpleasant, torturous ride that you could not get off of. Hyunjin’s music was blasting from down the street, this time accompanied by the obnoxious laughter of his friends, all the while your chemistry report sat unwritten in front of you. Of course you had the scaffold and results you needed, but none of the motivation to write a full scientific report. What was the point? You didn’t wish to pursue a career that had anything to do with chemistry. It infuriated you immensely, the way adults dictated what was and wasn’t important to learn, even if you had no intention of applying it to your life later. You allowed your head to rest on the desk solemnly, the pain forming from where you’d hit it repeatedly - not hard enough to do any damage, but enough times for it to cause some pain. That, partnered with the lively sound of Hyunjin’s house, was enough to give you a killer migraine. You rubbed your temples tiredly, trying to recall if there was any panadol stashed in the cupboard near the kitchen. Much to your displeasure, you were almost certain there wasn’t. You sighed as you refocused your eyes on the bright laptop in front of you. With an exasperated sigh, you let your fingers wander over the keyboard to write the stressful report. You had roughly seven hours until you had to be at school and subsequently hand it in, going one more day with a few hours of sleep should be fine.

It was absolutely not fine. You had fallen asleep at your desk after printing out the report and stapling it together, waking up with a major neck cramp and back ache. Furthermore, you only managed to catch your bus by a second, any later and you would’ve been forced to watch the bus roll away and catch sight of Hyunjin’s smug face as he sat at the back of the bus. Though you were glad you wouldn’t be subjected to such a look, you were stressed out of your mind. Stupid fucking chemistry report. As soon as you made it off the bus you muttered a thank you to the driver, speed-walking in the direction of your school. Hyunjin dawdled behind you, a fairly large distance between the two of you. He didn’t understand why you were in such a rush to get to that hell hole. He’d only noticed you for the first time on Monday at the bus stop, but now he saw you everywhere. Every time he wasn’t in class on Monday, either because he was skipping or because it was break time, he managed to catch a glimpse of your face.

And you always looked like you wanted to die.

It was quite humorous to Hyunjin, almost paradoxical in a way. You appeared to pay attention in class from the glimpses he got, dedicated to your studies he could assume, yet there was never an emotion other than stress or distaste creasing your facial features. He didn’t blame you, though. As soon as he could get out of that school he would run off to become a choreographer at the same studio as Minho. If he was old enough, he would do it now, but Minho said the company was strict on the ages of choreographers: “I’m not fucking around, Hwang. If they find out you’re still in school, they’ll come into my house and cut up all my clothes while I’m sleeping. I don’t have the money to buy new ones!” It was a very specific, unrealistic threat, but Minho could be very persuasive when it suited him.

Friday, 1:41am.

How anyone in the neighbourhood got any sleep was beyond you. Every night the Hwang house pumped music, different genres but none that piqued your interests or matched your tastes. At this point, it had been a week since it had started - you believed that was when his parents left town for a trip to visit relatives, at least that’s what you’d heard around school. People had been buzzing with excitement when they heard that Hwang Hyunjin had an empty house and could, as a result, throw a rambunctious party. Of course you weren’t as keen on the idea, but nothing you could do would stop it from happening. The party, thankfully, hadn’t happened yet, and you were secretly praying it never would. Though, now that you thought about it, could it be any worse? You already lacked sleep due to his deafening sound system, would the rambunctious sounds of teenage laughter really add to the noise? The only times you could make out the noises of his dickhead friends was when the music had been turned down significantly so they could hear one another yelling and hooting. Your eyes rolled at the thought, imbeciles. In their defence, the group had never directly done anything to you that made you feel that way. Rather, the way they acted left a bad taste in your mouth and a ringing sensation in your ears. Just like Hyunjin, they exuded an inflated sense of entitlement and were noisy beyond belief at school―at least when they were together. When they were apart, some of the boys were more quiet and mainly threw dirty looks or dropped an occasional comment. You weren’t sure whether Hwang Hyunjin classified as one of those boys as you’d never seen him alone at school, there was always someone matching his footsteps and snarky remarks. Come to think of it, the only time you’d seen Hyunjin stood alone was when you’d been late to catching the bus or the bus had showed up ten minutes late. Regardless, you had your reasons for wanting to stay as far away from them as possible.

You sigh at the bright screen of your mobile, the energy draining from your body at the thought of working through the weekend. There was nothing wrong with the florist your family owned, you were merely unsatisfied with being paid the minimum wage of nine dollars and thirty cents an hour. Majority of the customers you’d had the duty of serving were restaurant or cafe owners, people with sick friends or family, lovesick teenagers, or middle-aged women who wanted to spruce up the dining room. Your mother often spoke of an elderly lady who came in with her handsome grandson, though you’d never been working when she frequented the store. You supposed the store was easy money, just neatly wrap some flowers with an adequate meaning and smile as genuinely as possible. There was never any displeasure from customers or passing civilians, but standing behind a counter for nine hours was less than stellar―and it was only for the grand payment of $135.40, that was better than nothing you supposed. You rested your head against the cool glass window of the bus, the cold air frosting the surface temperature. Grey clouds loomed across the autumn sky, the transition to winter becoming clearer each day. Autumn was usually a blue-skied sunny time, though as it faded into the crisp winter everything became abysmal. The sky took on monotone greys and watered the grass every now and then, it became dreary and people lost energy simply by looking at the dark weather. Though it was a small motivator for some, signalling that winter break would approach in a months time. Late November, always so deplorable. That was usually the time you had the most people coming into the flower shop looking for some bright arrangement to make their home feel less cold and dull; they cared not for the meaning but for the colour, even if it meant throwing together flowers of hatred and passion to achieve such a look. You wanted to laugh at their ignorance, but how could you blame them? Everything just felt so cold at this time of year.

Sunday, 5:36pm.

Rain gently pattered the glass windows of the store as you swirled the straw poked in your strawberry milk carton. The pink liquid followed the movement of the straw in a slow swirling motion, twisting in currents of dairy as a form of entertainment for your exhausted self. Business had been slower than yesterday, likely due to the ugly shades of grey and sharp rainfall haunting the sky, but you didn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing. You’d been standing in one general area since nine in the morning and your feet were aching. Your eyes drifted from the liquid inside the carton to the white clock on the wall―6:00pm wasn’t that far away. You were down to your last few sheets of the brown craft paper used to support the delicate bouquets, perhaps you could just restock that in the meantime. A cracking noise sounded from your back as you straightened your posture, rolling your shoulders from their previously hunched position. Your legs moved slowly in the direction of the staff only area of the shop, walking through the opened door in search for new paper. As you sifted through the craft paper, debating whether you continued with the tan brown colour or switched to an opaque blush pink, you heard the faint echo of the bell from above the door and the sounds of the rain grew heavier momentarily before the door shut. Your ears could just make out the sounds of quiet muffled talking, two voices evidently present, though you couldn’t pinpoint the exact words. With a stack of new pink craft paper in hand, you exited the storage room and returned to your usual spot behind the checkout, placing the newly gathered paper underneath the leftover brown sheets. From your position, you could clearly spot the two customers studying the large vases of fresh flowers, the taller and younger of which with their back to you. They had short yet messy black hair, slightly growing into a mullet from a lack of trimming, a white hoodie and light jeans. Their companion was much smaller, an elderly lady with grey hair and a soft smile. Perhaps this was the grandmother and her charming grandson that your mother spoke so fondly of―though that thought was immediately dismissed when the two figures turned to approach the table you stood behind. Hwang Hyunjin, of course it had to be.

You weren’t the only one who felt less than stellar about the situation. As soon as Hyunjin laid his eyes on the person behind the counter, you, he groaned internally. He hadn’t a clue what your name was, nor had you done anything to him, but he distinctly recognised you as someone from his school. This was going to be beyond humiliating―surely you would taint his infamous reputation at school, or at least blackmail him to avoid doing so. His grandmother smiled warmly at you as she placed the yellow flowers on the counter, “hello, dear. Just those ones today,” you nodded with a small smile, your fingers working carefully to wrap the bouquet in shades of tan brown. Hyunjin tried to avoid looking at you entirely, though he couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the lady who usually ran the store―you did bare a striking resemblance to her, so he just made the assumption that you were related by blood, just as he was to his grandmother.

“Any special occasion for the flowers?” Your soft voice floated to his ears as you tied a silk ribbon around the paper.

“Oh no, my grandson just likes tulips,” his grandmother chuckled as he forced an embarrassed smile, “though it would be nice to have some colour in this dreary weather,” you nodded understandingly. That was always the case in such weather. Hyunjin’s smooth hands placed the money in yours as he picked up the bouquet, praying to escape the store as soon as possible even with a growing storm outside. As soon as he heard the register close, he made his way to the front door of the shop while his grandmother shouted a quick thank you from behind him. You watched in amusement as the infamous Hwang boy exited the dainty little shop. You certainly never took him for a lover of flowers, let alone tulips. Then again, you only knew his reputation. You didn’t know Hwang Hyunjin.

Monday, 3:51pm.

Hyunjin glanced at the clock dreamily, feeling very resemblant of Britney Spears in her Baby One More Time music video. Only nine minutes until he could get home and prepare a half-assed meal, then ditch his after school study groups for some time with friends, as he always did when his parents weren’t able to monitor him. It was always a paradise when they were gone―no fighting, no classes until ten o’clock at night, no demands to turn his music down when it wasn’t even turned up halfway on his phone. He much preferred his grandmother. She was wise, sweet, gentle, and always prepared him hot chocolate and biscuits in the winter. Although now that he thought of his grandmother, he couldn’t help but cast his mind back to the flower shop and how you had served him. An internal groan erupted in him at the thought. He didn’t care that it was you who served him, he had no clue who you were, though the knowledge that you had some sort of leverage over him bugged him greatly. You knew he wasn’t all parties, unsafe drinking and scoffs, you knew he was a sucker for tulips and accompanied his grandmother to a warm little florist. The bell rung right as his eyes rolled subconsciously. He could only hope that your interaction at the flower shop wouldn’t synchronise with his visits to the store.

Hyunjin glared at the cracked screen of his phone, furrowing his eyebrows at the text message from the girl in the year below him. If it hadn’t been for the persistence of the girl, he would’ve completely discarded her name from his memory. Son Bongcha, the way she squeaked it vivaciously was an earache and a half. The boy didn’t really know when Bongcha started her quest to ‘win his heart’ or whatever the fuck she was trying to do, he tended to not take much notice of her in hopes of getting her to realise that he was far from being interested. Though it seemingly never worked. Everyday, or everyday she could find him, she’d have another sickly giggle and batting eyelashes prepared in advance. At this point, his friends ridiculed him relentlessly for it―just as they planned to do now. Hyunjin felt the phone being snatched from his grip suddenly, causing him to swiftly look up and meet the sight of Jisung sprinting in the opposite direction as his other friends followed behind. The tall boy groaned at the thought of their teasing, “Ji, give it back.”

“Why, so you can be harassed by…”

“Bongcha!” The boys mimicked her voice in unison as the huddled against one another in the distance. Hyunjin rolled his eyes with an amused half-smirk. He initially felt bad for mocking the girl, but the memory of her desperate flirting seemed to rid of the guilt―he still vividly recalls the time she caused a scene in the hallway, loudly demanding he admit their relationship (which didn’t exist) to the rest of the school. That all happened when he was in his third and final year of junior high school, aged fifteen while she was only fourteen―Chan would’ve been in his final year of senior high school at that point. The thought felt odd; Hyunjin had only met Chan through Minho last year, the idea of the eldest being in school felt… wrong. His attention fell back to his laughing friends as they read over Bongcha’s irritating messages. Changbin rolled his eyes before taking a swig of his beer, “I don’t get why you haven’t blocked her number yet.”

Minho laughed, “who else will be a loyal booty call?”

Hyunjin sighed heavily, “not all of us rely on booty calls, Minho,” the older held his hands up in surrender as the others cheered Hyunjin on, “besides, a blocked number doesn’t stop her from approaching me at school.”

After the words left his plump lips, Felix came running up to him and tugged on his arm before whining, “oppa! Why haven’t you texted me back?” The group laughed at his impression of the girl, the alcohol pumping through their blood seemingly hyped them up and amplified the humour of the situation. Jisung tossed the cracked phone back to Hyunjin.

“Chan and Minho have no other way to experience her cringiness, don’t delete her number,” Hyunjin took the younger’s advice. No one would know about how they flamed the girl, and it felt like a good form of redemption for the way she had humiliated him in junior high school. It took months for those dating rumours to die down―although Hyunjin still isn’t one-hundred percent sure people knew the truth of the situation. Then again, the truth of a rumour always turned out to be the version people wanted to believe, no matter how much evidence proved otherwise.

Thursday, 7:38am.

Hyunjin’s feet slapped against the pavement gently as he strolled to the bus stop. He never usually took the bus to school, at least not since the first year of junior high when his parents last went on a holiday―some sort of romantic getaway bull shit, just as they were this time. Although he was used to the sound of honking horns and road rage from his short-tempered mother, even if short lived, he much preferred the journey from the bus. The walk was always comforting even in the depths of winter and swells of summer, and there was something about sitting on a bus with two other people that was oddly comforting to the boy. Perhaps he was just odd―no, if he was odd then no one would understand him fully, yet there were people who did, friends no less. A sigh escaped his lips as the bus stop entered his sight, as well as your figure sitting on the furthest end of the bench. He didn’t see you here every morning, likely because he took much more time to dawdle here than you did, though you were there on mornings where the bus was inexcusably late or you had woken up on the wrong side of bed far too late. It seemed like one of those mornings. As Hyunjin drew closer he could make out the dark circles under your dull eyes, the messy strands of hair that carelessly fell in your face, eyes half-shut as you looked ahead in a trance. He wondered how long it took you to get here each morning, perhaps you rarely ran into each other at the stop because you lived closer than he did, or perhaps you just had a more sensible understanding of time and its value. The thought seemingly left his mind not long after it entered. He hadn’t a reason to care for how you got to the bus stop, nor did he take much notice of you when you did happen to cross paths―except for at the florist. The dark-haired boy was close to forgetting that incident when it resurface with the sight of you. Sighing softly, he leaned against the poll of the bus stop sign and gazed in the direction the bus would usually come from.

You picked at the mini pajeon on your food tray, only slightly listening to the conversation of your surrounding three friends. You could make out the sound of disgust made by Seungmin as Jeongin appeared to eat a chunk of rice whole, “Jeongin, you need to chew,” his nasally voice sounded diagonally to you. There was no need to look at the first year to know his response, you could practically hear the over exaggerated eye roll he often did at one of Seungmin’s critiques. Although they bickered a fair bit and tormented each other to no end, you knew it was out of non-blood related brotherly love. Yuqi chuckled from your left, nudging you gently to engage in a conversation outside of the two bickering boys.

“How’s the noisy house going?” She smiled playfully before popping a piece of nori seaweed in her mouth. You mimicked Jeongin’s eye roll on a smaller scale.

“Awful. Still staying awake until four or five in the morning after bashing my head against a wall,” Yuqi laughed at your dramatic words. Her elbow rested on the table as she shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just say something to him about it. You’re not even neighbours and it keeps you up!” You sighed gently, knowing she was right. Of course the confrontation would be more beneficial, but it would also be your worst nightmare. You never wished to interact with Hwang Hyunjin. Besides, you knew complaining about his behaviour would only gain a scoff and door slamming in your face, perhaps a friendly “go fuck yourself”.

“I just don’t want to complain about something when I know it won’t change.”

Saturday, 1:43am.

The buzz about Hyunjin’s potential party while he had the house to himself morphed into a nightmarish reality at ten o’clock, Friday night. He threw ‘everyone is invited’ type of parties, which only served as a way for desperate girls to throw themselves at him and blame it on alcohol the next day when he inevitably rejects him. You could remember Yuqi saying she would go, only because her boyfriend didn’t want to get wasted without someone reliable by his side―although you were pretty sure Yuqi just wanted to hear him drunkenly ramble about how she was the love of his life or some crap. Jeongin had been begged to go by one of Hyunjin’s friends, Felix. You hadn’t a clue how they met but Jeongin said he was a good guy, even when Hyunjin was near him―in all honesty, you’d never spoken to Felix in your entire life, you just knew that he and Han Jisung had gotten more detentions in one semester than you’d gotten in your entire time at school. Seungmin detested the idea of parties, way too many “loud and sweaty barbarians in one cramped space” as he once said, and you were in a similar boat. You didn’t know anyone at the party who wouldn’t be dragged away by someone giggly and drunk to leave you standing awkwardly, and you didn’t want to be in the same cramped house as Hyunjin―let alone his own house. You didn’t really want to think about the fact you could almost feel the vibrations of the bass from across the road, two houses down, though it was almost impossible when it was the main cause of your splitting headache. You sighed before grabbing your phone from the nightstand beside you, squinting at the brightness of the screen in your dark room. Yuqi’s simple text message, signifying her ending the night, appeared on your screen in the form of a blinding notification: xuxi is pissed off his face and telling me to never leave him, i’m really dating an overgrown child huh. A small chuckle escaped your lips at the thought of the six foot teenager babbling about loving Yuqi―you couldn’t blame him, Yuqi was practically perfection personified. Love and alcohol can make a person do crazy things, admit all their secrets and give everything away. Yukhei was just lucky Yuqi was willing to make the same sacrifices for him, regardless of his sobriety at the time.

The clock on your phone displayed the early time of 2:46pm, eliciting a disapproving groan and eye rub from your tired form. You supposed it was catch-up for all the mornings you’d woken up with four hours of sleep. A satisfying crack sounded as you arched your back and stretched your arms, pulling the covers from your pyjama-clad body to make your way to the window. The weather was far more bright today, blue skies and fluffy marshmallows speckled around against the cool colour, though you could still feel the frosty nip of the air as you opened the window. You were met with a gust of wind and voices, indistinguishable but strong. Your eyes cast downwards towards the road right outside your house, immediately spotting seven boys in the area―you could easily tell who they were. You noticed Jeongin first, watching from the gutter as he laughed from beside another boy you hadn’t seen before. The dimpled boy, evidently older, had slightly curly brown hair atop his head and a cheerful grin on his pale face. In the road was Jisung and Felix, both in your year and far too loud for your liking―though Jeongin had defended them numerous times saying they were ‘funny and wholesome dudes’. Then you spotted Lee Minho with his head turned sideways and his back to you. A graduated boy with a permanent smirk and never-ending collection of flirtatious comments, that was the best way to describe Lee Minho―based off everything you’d heard about him, at least. He oozed sleaziness, though his smile in that moment seemed so genuine and pure as he laughed at the younger boys in the road. Seo Changbin sat nearby the elder male, his feet resting on the tar road as he sat on a skateboard identical to the one Jisung had almost fallen from moments ago. The most you knew about him was that he had a permanent glare, unwanted opinions to share all the time, and bangs that would seem annoyingly ticklish on your eyes. Directly across from you, supporting his outstretched body on his elbows, was the boy you had been running into far too often for your liking. There was a cigarette twiddling between his long fingers, though you could tell it was unlit and seemed to be staying that way. His gaze drifted, tired of absentmindedly looking up the street, to look straight ahead of him. He cocked his head at you almost teasingly, a small smirk playing on his lips as he maintained your gaze. Nothing was different about his appearance: same dark eyes, same dark messy hair, although slightly longer at the ends now. You pushed yourself away from the ledge of the window to avoid the shivering breeze and invasive gaze of a certain Hwang.

Monday, 12:54pm.

Yukhei leaned his head on Yuqi’s shoulder as he shovelled rice into his mouth, the minor display of affection earning a disgusted look from Seungmin. As they did every year, Yukhei and Yuqi marked this as their week of public affection in the lead up to their anniversary. It baffled your mind to think about how the pair had been together since the second year of junior high, four years on Sunday. You could never imagine yourself tolerating anyone in a romantic sense for that long―then again, you’d never had any romantic relationship in the first place. The idea of shy smiles and reddening cheeks made you sick nowadays, even though it was an ideal you once yearned for. The sound of Jeongin forcefully sitting down broke the concentrated gaze you had on your own food tray, glancing up at him momentarily to smile. Your eyes lingered for a second―the boy was positively beaming, braces and dimples on full display as he grinned enthusiastically. Seungmin studied the younger male beside him, “did you ingest the sun?”

Jeongin rolled his eyes, though his smile remained, “no, I just had a good weekend and got a good mark on my chemistry report.”

Yuqi smile supportively at the young boy, “good job, Innie!” He usually hated that nickname, but he seemed okay with Yuqi using it occasionally―she was like an older sister to him, even if they hadn’t known each other for decades.

“I take it Hyunjin threw a good party.”

“Yeah, we hung out the next day too,” the comment garnered a teasing “don’t go replacing us” from Yuqi, though you couldn’t really focus on that. The only thought on your mind was the heavy eye contact you held with Hyunjin, while he had that stupid shit-eating smirk on his face. One incident at the florist couldn’t undo the cockiness that he exuded at all times. You hated self-righteousness―Hwang Hyunjin just so happened to be the walking form of such an undesirable trait.

Saturday, 5:46pm.

Your hands nimbly wrapped the bouquet of pale pink azalea flowers, they were the perfect decision in your eyes. They expressed fragility, gratitude and passion, all of which Yukhei harboured towards his long-time girlfriend Kim Yuqi. There was a goofy, dazed smile on his face as he undoubtedly allowed his mind to travel along a road structured by thoughts of her. You shook your head lightly, tying the bouquet with a delicate white ribbon before handing him the bouquet, to which he slid over the adequate amount of money and left with a thank you and a smile. You sighed as the door slammed shut behind him, squeaking slightly on its hinges―you had to remind your mum to get some WD-40 to fix that up. Glancing at the clock, you mentally praised the swift movement of time as you relished in the fact you only had fourteen minutes left. You allowed your head to roll forwards, stretching your cramping neck before rolling it all the way back, fixating your gaze on the white ceiling of the store. The bell sounded from the door causing you to return your gaze to looking straight ahead as your neck pushed your head back upwards. The familiar back of Hyunjin greeted you as he sifted through the display vases, clearly in look of a certain type of flower. You heard him curse under his breath before awkwardly turning to make his way to the counter―you could see that the feeling of wanting to avoid the other was mutual. He cleared his throat slightly before speaking with a soft voice, a tone that shocked you as it came from the typically rebellious boy, “uh―do you happen to have any yellow roses left? Maybe in the back or something?” You watched him fiddle with the ring on his right index finger before you quietly made your way to the storage room in search of the sunny roses; a symbol of joy, friendship, of get well. To his luck, there was a fresh display vase of the yellow petals waiting to replace the last one.

“How many were you hoping for?” Your voice sounded as you reappeared from the nearby room. His head shot up towards you as he fixed his gaze on the roses.

“Just a dozen, grandma only likes receiving flowers in groups of twelve,” he mumbled the second part more to himself than you, though you still made out the words. With a silent nod, you plucked twelve of the roses from the glass vase, wrapping them delicately in the pink craft paper before handing them to the tall boy.

“I hope she gets better soon,” you offered as he took the bouquet. His hand was outstretched towards you to offer the necessary payment, though you shook your head in refusal. Hyunjin studied you for a second before shoving the money back in his pocket, only to turn and leave without even thanking you. A scoff passed your lips as he left the store. You didn’t expect much from him, but certainly he would have the common decency to thank someone for saving them thirty-six dollars―three dollars for each stem, though you didn’t particularly agree with the price. Regardless of the cost, Hyunjin should’ve thanked you for saving his money so he could spend it on more cigarettes that he wouldn’t smoke, or whatever the fuck he spends his cash on.

Wednesday, 12:33pm.

Hyunjin had essentially gone M.I.A after the flower shop incident, though you were certain it wasn’t related to your involvement. You chalked it up to taking care of his grandmother, or at least being by her side while she was sick, though other people didn’t seem to think the same―then again, other people didn’t know about the health of his grandmother. The only reason you knew was because Hyunjin wasn’t as quiet as he had hoped when he spoke to himself, you were never meant to know. You poked at your rice with your chopsticks in an attempt to rid the vague memory from your mind. Your eyes glanced around your surroundings, noticing how pathetically lonely you looked. From what you knew, Yuqi was studying in the library, Seungmin was at some student council meeting, and Jeongin was always late to lunch: “I have a full hour until lunch ends, why can’t I be twenty minutes late?” That always earned an eye roll from Seungmin, a boy who highly valued punctuality and reliability. In your opinion, he could go a little overboard with his withering patience, but you supposed there was nothing he could really do about it. Especially when Jeongin tested it every other day.

A carton of strawberry milk was slammed on the table in front of you, though not with enough force to break the carton and allow the milk to spill everywhere. Your head rose, as did your gaze, in order to figure out which of your friends had decided to interrupt your pondering. Instead, Hyunjin stood with a hand in his trouser pocket and the other by his side, backpack slung over his shoulders as he looked at you with a blank expression. He gazed at you for a moment, breaking the contact to walk in the direction of his friends’ lunch table, somehow ignoring the gaze of every fucking person in the lunch hall. Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment as you reached out to take hold of the milk, unsure as to how he knew to go for strawberry rather than chocolate or banana. There was a small sticky note, pale yellow, stuck to one side of the carton with messy handwriting scrawled on its surface. You dropped your chopsticks to peel the note off and decipher the words ‘now we’re even’, right above much smaller writing. You squinted involuntarily as your eyes traced the lines, struggling to make out the simple ‘thank you’ he’d, probably shamefully, written. A small smile graced your features before you opened the carton; you didn’t think about the fact people had watched the whole thing, not in that moment at least.

“What was that all about?” Changbin questioned as the younger sat down at the table.

“I owed her something,” he explained with a small shrug.

Jisung scoffed in disbelief, “yeah, because you’re so giving, Jinnie,” the words earned a glare from the taller boy, but it went unnoticed by Jisung as he happily munched on his food.

“Doesn’t matter, no one’s gonna see it that way regardless,” Felix commented absentmindedly before swiftly transitioning to another topic. Hyunjin drifted his eyes towards you, watching as you sipped from the milk carton and nodded slightly in acknowledgement as Jeongin approached your table. He furrowed his eyebrows, how had he never noticed you around Jeongin before? You placed the carton down momentarily before glancing around the lunch hall, eyes landing on the Hwang boy who was already staring into you. Though you didn’t react the way most people would—no flushed cheeks or shy smile, just a blank expression as you internally questioned why he was blatantly staring at you. The feeling it gave him was strange. It almost felt like you treated him like a human being, not a reputation or status to ogle at. He smirked slightly at you, causing you to turn away with an unimpressed expression. You were an enigma in the cafeteria; he knew so little about you, yet knew exactly how you felt about him with a few facial expressions.

Thursday, 7:36am.

People seemed to have a fucking field day with your little — very little — interaction with Hyunjin in the cafeteria. Numerous people, majority of which gossiping girls you’d never cared for interact with, questioned you about your ‘relationship’ with Hyunjin. It made you agitated beyond belief, almost in a way that was unjustified. No, actually, it was most definitely justified. If you had a dollar for every time someone approached you to ask whether you two were dating, how you knew him, why he gave you milk, why you’d never spoken before, or anything that could get even a little bit of information — which would inevitably be the victim of manipulation and embellishment as it passed through the school — you’d no longer need to be working for your parents in that dingy old florist. You groaned slightly at the thought of the store. You knew you’d inevitably return whenever your parents told you to, until you got another and higher-paying job, and that would mean possible interactions with Hyunjin—with or without his smiling grandmother. Perhaps it was that thought that, unbeknownst to you, summoned the boy to your vicinity. School shoes slapped against the concrete pavement, smoothly approaching the bus stop. You could feel the sharp sensation of someone’s prominent gaze fixated on you, yet you waited until the approaching person had halted their movements to glance at them. You had intended to keep a blank expression on your face, though couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling back into your head at the sight of his smug face. Hyunjin towered over your seated form with a faint smirk dancing on his lips. His smugness was likely prompted by your eye roll, or the fact he bought you a fresh carton of flavoured milk—not that it meant anything, he was repaying you after all. Hands in pockets and backpack slung over his shoulder casually, the consistent styling of the consistently careless Hyunjin. You diverted your gaze elsewhere, refocusing on the road ahead of you. His eyes were still trained on you, you could sense it. There was no watch on your wrist, nor did you know how to tell the time based on the sun’s position in the sky, but you could estimate at least two minutes passed before Hyunjin opened his snarky mouth.

“Tutor me.”

An exasperated sigh passes your lips, your gaze shifting up toward the cloudless blue sky, “what do you need tutoring for? Your grades are fine.”

A noise escaped his mouth at your words, a mix between a scoff and a chuckle, “no, not school,” you didn’t like the tone he used in that phrase—as if you were a pure moron for even entertaining the idea of school tutoring. He continued shortly, breaking your irritated thoughts, “flowers.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you turned your head to look at him, evident puzzlement tracing your features. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, diverting his gaze momentarily to the pavement beneath him. You appreciated his shift in tone as he spoke, a softer and calmer, almost soothing, sound.

“Teach me about flowers.”

And so you started working every Saturday, dedicating two hours of your shift to teaching Hyunjin the meaning of flowers that caught his eye, sometimes helping him decently wrap a bouquet of flowers. It was odd how you saw the gentler, less cocky side of him when in the quaint store, yet couldn’t even glance at him on the grounds of school without copping a greasy smirk—you liked to assume they were directed at someone stood behind you.

Saturday, 1:06pm.

The hand of the clock ticked silently with each movement, mixing with the bustling volume of passing cars and pedestrians. Although your gaze was fixated on the time-telling contraption, you didn’t absorb the numbers the hands pointed to, completely zoned out as your mind drifted to other thoughts. There were few of significance, but there were many roaming your head. They were distracting enough to stop you from recognising and acknowledging the sound of the bell above the door. Unbeknownst to you in your distracted state, Hyunjin shuffled into the store with a black hoodie pulled over his unkempt hair, a carton of strawberry milk contained in his right hand. The sound of the carton being roughly placed on the wooden countertop was enough to break your trance, giving you a sense of déjà vu as you shifted your gaze to meet Hyunjin’s, “what’s got you in a trance?”

You sighed as you fiddled with the sealed carton, “the three hours of sleep I got because of your party last night—so nothing new.”

“Oh, ha ha, very funny—”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“—For your information, that was just a get together with the guys. The party’s actually tonight,” you rolled your eyes. You didn’t care what he wanted to call it, it was still way too loud, “you should come.”

A scoff passed your lips at his suggestion, “I’ll pass, I’d rather not go deaf from how excruciatingly loud you play the music,” he shrugged nonchalantly before snatching the flavoured milk from you, taking a small swig of his own while his eyes darted over the fresh flowers.

“What do coral roses mean?”

“Friendship, modesty, and sympathy,” you mumbled in boredom.

“Perfect!” He exclaimed, waltzing over to the display of coral roses to pluck one up. As he reapproached the counter, he shoved the flower in your face, “if you value our friendship, you’ll have great sympathy for me and make my party enjoyable by being there.”

You watched him in bewilderment. Part of you was confused as to why he wanted you at his party so desperately, while another questioned whether he really just called you friends. You didn’t want to dwell on it too much—Hyunjin was friends with lots of people, you weren’t significant to have that title. At the same time, you couldn’t help but question the meaning of his words. Had Hyunjin ever outright called anyone his friend, other than the group of boys he seemed to be physically attached to? The taller boy watched you in amusement as your cheeks tinted a soft pink colour, deciding to take your silence as a yes.

“Great, it starts at nine.”

Saturday, 9:35pm.

You absolutely did not want to venture to Hyunjin’s house, regardless of the situation. The fact it was for one of his ‘raging parties’ was no better. Nine o’clock had passed thirty minutes ago and the party was well on its way - you could already hear faint retching if you strained your ears enough - and yet you remained in the warmth of your bedroom. If Hyunjin hadn’t directly asked you to come then you wouldn’t be sitting in your room, dressed for a party. If that little shit hadn’t made out like your presence was vital to the party, you wouldn’t have to ponder intently over reasons to bail. You cursed Hyunjin under your breath as you threw on a pair of shoes—he insinuated that he was expecting you, and now you felt like you were obligated to go.

As soon as you opened the front door, a tsunami of regret washed over you, along with the stench of sweat and alcohol. You had taken one step inside and already felt overheated, overwhelmed, over it. You’d caught sight of some familiar faces — most of Hyunjin’s friend group surrounded some curly-haired guy, Jeongin was chatting with Felix near the group, Hyunjin was nowhere in sight. You weren’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing—on the one hand, Hyunjin was someone you knew. Jeongin was wrapped up in a conversation with Felix, and you didn’t know the freckled boy well enough to insert yourself into that conversation. But at the same time, Hyunjin was probably half-past wasted right now with an amplified ego — if that was even possible — and even more unbearable cockiness. A sigh passed your lips as you began to push your way past the sweaty bodies—why was everyone so fucking sweaty?—to escape to a less crowded area. Truthfully, you had no clue where you were going. Of course you didn’t, this was a house you’d never had the desire to enter. Gosh, why did you even come? It wasn’t too late to turn back around, walk out that door and return to your semi-quiet bedroom—only semi-quiet due to the deafening volume of an infamous Hwang party, even from houses away. That would be the better option in this moment, partial deafness seemed better to deal with than complete deafness.

“Y/N!”

You take it back. Complete deafness was far better, especially in this moment. Perhaps if you kept walking he’d think it wasn’t you and give up, right? No, of course not. You’d never be that lucky. You’d made it ten more steps before the boy grabbed your wrist and spun you around, beaming at you with his childlike grin. You loved Jeongin, who didn’t? But all you wanted was to go home, this party was a mistake and you already knew it. A small smile graced your face, “hey, Innie.”

Jeongin was one of those people who were always happy, always smiling and living their days without any problems or bothers. He was persistent, persuasive and currently dragging you towards the group of people he previously stood near. You didn’t want to go over there, but if you refused Jeongin would look at you with a tiny hint of sadness in his eyes and you’d feel a tonne of guilt land on your shoulders—he didn’t mean to guilt trip people so easily, he was just one of those people that never deserved to be sad. Thankfully, Jeongin knew better than to throw you into a sea of strangers and expect you to survive, opting to drag you over to Felix, who snacked on a plate of colourful macaroons. You’d never spoken to Felix — the most you knew about him was that he was Australian, Hyunjin’s friend and had freckles — but you had a gut feeling he wasn’t as bad as his association with the delinquents would suggest. The boy smiled brightly at the two of you, seeming to emit rays of sunshine through the toothy grin; he seemed sweet and friendly. You should really just trust Jeongin’s judgement at this point, he always managed to construct more accurate judgement on an individual’s character than others, “hi, Y/N!” Felix was very bright and cheerful, it came across in his sober voice—at least you assumed he was sober, he didn’t reek of toxic alcohol like most of the party goers. You smiled slightly in response, waving in what you deemed an awkward fashion. Jeongin easily continued his previous conversation with Felix, one you tuned out for the most part as you instead focused on the suffocating and humid atmosphere, until Felix suddenly bid goodbye to the younger, disappearing into the mass of people. The remaining boy contentedly munched on a pastel pink macaroon, eyes sparkling and widening slightly under the hazy lights of the room.

“Jeongin, do you know where I can get some fresh air?”

The boy nodded swiftly, directing you to walk up the stairs, down the hallway and onto the balcony, away from the vomiting and skinny dipping teens. You nodded with a soft thank you before happily following his directions — if you couldn’t leave this wretched atmosphere, for no reason other than your own fabricated obligation to be here, then you might as well get as far away from it without leaving the property.

The moonlight glistened against the chlorine water, music pumping through the building and teenagers yelling to hear each other. Oddly enough, it was peaceful. Even with the splashing, drunken giggles and what you think is people having a sloppy makeout session, the atmosphere felt calming — the visuals of party goers vomiting and skinny dipping didn’t assist in building that atmosphere, but you supposed there was nothing you could do about it. At least, not until a hand tapped your shoulder, breaking you from your trance of observing people on the grass. You turned your head, met with the sight of Hyunjin with his hands in his pockets. He gestured for you to follow him and, for some reason, you did, leaving your spot on the second floor balcony.

It was quieter on the roof, somehow, despite the worrisome journey. You were thankful for your shoe choice, anything too uncomfortable or without proper grip would’ve had you tumbling to the ground below—that would’ve been embarrassing, painful, and potentially lethal if you landed on the concrete. The stars glimmered against the dark night sky, seemingly closer than most other nights. Hyunjin hadn’t spoken to you at all, even during the difficult climb to your current spot. You weren’t entirely sure why he’d escaped his own party, or why he’d taken you with him, but you weren’t mad about it. The silence was nice, and you were certain that opening his mouth would dismantle the tranquillity. If he was as wasted as most of his other friends — specifically Jisung — then he’d certainly come out with some horny bull shit. You weren’t in the mood for that, not now, not ever. The music softened in the background and a loud voice ordered everyone out of the house with a short “party’s over”. It seemed sudden, but you supposed it had been going on for a while. And Hyunjin had disappeared. What time was it?

“Can I ask you something?” Ah, shit, he actually wanted to talk. You mumbled a word of confirmation, waiting for Hyunjin to come out with something you could answer with sarcasm or an eye roll, “what do you think of me? Honestly,” you weren’t expecting that one. You could feel Hyunjin train his eyes on you with intent, curiosity, perhaps hopefulness. What were you supposed to say? Was he hoping for something other than the typical ‘bad boy’ description? You couldn’t provide.

“I think you’re… confident,” uncertainty laced your tone, “and curious. I think there’s more to you than meets the eye, but I don’t think many people see that part of you. And- I don’t think you want them to,” you turned your gaze to him. His eyes seemed to be glazed over, his mind in a distant land of existential thoughts or offence at how you perceived him. His brown orbs shifted to his lap while his lips stumbled over words, seeking a way to carry on the conversation—or end it, you supposed.

“I…” he trailed off hesitantly. This was a side to Hyunjin you’d never seen. Sure, you’d seen his confidence and cockiness at school, his laidback humour at parties and the admiration his eyes held whenever he was among flowers, but you’d never seen him look so confused. Lost, rather. He seemed anxious, on edge and scared. He didn’t want to confront the words forming on his tongue, didn’t want to break down his walls for someone who saw him every Saturday and taught him about flowers. He couldn’t help it, though, the words seemed to slip out without permission, “I feel like no one truly knows me.”

Hyunjin’s words hung heavily in the air as a hush fell over the neighbourhood, “I just―” he paused slightly as his breath hitched, raising his gaze from his lap to the starry night. His eyes were glossy, the stars twinkling against the water forming around his orbs. His walls were breaking, “I just wish I could go somewhere no one knew me,” as the sentence progressed, his voice shook. It was getting harder to keep it all in. For once, he decided to let it all go. Allowing his walls to crumble, the dams in his eyes broke too, tears glistening on his smooth cheeks as he choked up a sob. You watched him with pity, subconsciously moving to wrap your arms around him in a comforting hug. He sobbed into your chest, “I just want people to know who I really am.”

All your perceptions were based on falsehoods, fabricated rumours and retellings of old stories. He used his tough exterior to hide his crumbling contents, any traits that could be taken as weakness or fragility. As the boy ― because that’s what he truly was: just a boy ― cried under the stars, only one thought could cross your once racing mind. Hwang Hyunjin’s very existence was a lie. Hyunjin’s pained sobs were reduced to soft sniffles after what felt like a long time, though tears still soaked his cheeks. You couldn’t tell how long it had been since everything still looked the same, almost like time didn’t move. A shaky breath passed Hyunjin’s lips, his head raising from your shoulder.

“You know, I always thought you were really interesting. And pretty.”

“Hyunjin, you don’t mean that,” you dismissed. Your head shook slightly in disagreement, you didn’t want Hyunjin to tell you that you meant something.��

A humourless laugh echoed in the night, “yeah, I really do.”

Hyunjin looked at you with intent. How did the night get to this point? There was a part of you that wished you stayed home, just so you didn’t have to feel these butterflies in your stomach. He must’ve been drunk―was he drunk? Were you drunk? Memories of the night had slipped through your fingers like warm brittle sand. The night sky danced on his cheeks, reflecting against the salty water his eyes had unleashed previously. His eyes stayed on your face, flickering from your eyes to the lower part of your face momentarily. Then, he was leaning forwards, closer and closer. Closer until his lips were pressed against yours in a piteous kiss. His hand moved from his side to touch your arm, just above your elbow, as if he was making sure you didn’t slip away from him. It was like he wanted you there, but you couldn’t believe that. Salty tears stained your lips in the midst of pitiful desperation, until Hyunjin pulled away to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was sharp as he choked out a whisper, “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to feel alone anymore, even if it’s only for a moment.”

You could’ve sighed in disappointment, but you stopped yourself. That’s all you’d ever be to Hyunjin: temporary. A last resort, even. You didn’t mind―no, you didn’t want to mind. As the moonlight danced along your skin in hues of blue and grey, the epiphany of falling for Hyunjin sank in. Damn it, you really fucking minded.

Tuesday, 7:57am.

You’d made a point to avoid Hyunjin since the incident at the party ― or, rather, after the party. Every time you glanced his way in the hallways, he was already staring at you with enough intensity to make you shift uncomfortably. He’d tried to approach you during break yesterday, but you bolted with the excuse of needing to use the bathroom before he could open his mouth. You left a disheartened and anxious Hyunjin behind, as well as a confused Jeongin and querying Seungmin. A sigh passed your lips at the thought; you’d probably have to face him on Saturday, regardless of whether you did or didn’t want to. Hyunjin was persistent, after all.

But he was also a liar. It became most obvious when you were approaching the classroom with your locker hurriedly, attempting to sort your belongings out before morning roll call began. Glancing absentmindedly down the hallway, you halted in your tracks with a double-take as you processed what you’d seen. Hyunjin, the boy who claimed to find you pretty and interesting, leaning against a wall as he sucked face with Son Bongcha. She was in the year below and had an annoying voice, that’s all you knew about her―she also had an iron grip on his wrists, but you didn’t see that. You glanced away dejectedly, rushing away to save yourself from further embarrassment. What did you expect? Hyunjin said he just didn’t want to feel alone, you didn’t actually mean anything to him. How could you be foolish enough to let yourself fall for him? He played you, in more ways than one. He acted like he cared, claimed he was different, and kissed you as if he was actually attracted to you―and you made the mistake of kissing back the same way.

Hyunjin fought against the grip of Bongcha, shoving her away with a mix of disgust and anger across his features, “what the fuck is wrong with you?” He hollered. Her eyes held innocence, satisfaction, delusion. The girl’s face faltered with confusion, her mouth opening to spit an excuse in that unbearable squeaky tone. Hyunjin didn’t want to hear it, even if he’d questioned her, “stay the fuck away from me.” With one last seething glare, Hyunjin stormed away from the younger girl. He was just thankful no one was around to see it and spread rumours about what they saw, the last thing he needed was a school full of people convinced he was with Bongcha―at least, that’s what he was telling himself to stay calm.

Nothing was out of place at lunch. Everyone sat in their regular seats, having the same conversations and engaging in the usual banter with their friends―your friends were no different. Jeongin was encouraging Seungmin to meet his other friends, namely Felix, while Yuqi smiled softly at their trivial bickering. Things were different for you, though. They were bad. You had too many thoughts racing through your mind, as they were in a sprinting race with no determined finish line. This day sucked, but things could only get worse with your luck. A throat cleared behind you, “Y/N?” You turned around lifelessly, meeting the gaze of Hyunjin while the rest of your table―and the surrounding tables―watched the scene unfold silently. It was none of their business, they knew that, but no one cared, “can I speak with you? Alone?” With a slight nod, you stood from your seat and followed him into the hallway.

“I was just wondering if we could do the tutoring on Thursday instead of Saturday? I’m busy this weekend and we don’t have after-school studying on Thursdays,” he rubbed at his neck awkwardly.

“Yeah, fine.”

A relieved smile graced his lips, quickly falling at the memory of the other thing he wanted to talk about, “and―uh, about the party… I didn’t mean―”

“Forget it, Hyunjin. I know what you meant,” you tried to suppress the stinging bitterness that leaked through your tone, you didn’t want Hyunjin to know your true feelings on the situation. It would’ve worked if you were as good at lying as he was, but you weren’t going to say that. Hyunjin understood why you felt the way you did ― or, how he assumed you felt. After all, he brushed you off like you meant nothing to him. Just something to fill the void of isolation growing in his heart; the kiss meant nothing. Gosh, he was such a liar. It was an opinion the two of you unknowingly shared―for different reasons, of course.

Thursday, 7:25pm.

An awkward two hours had passed inside the florist. Hyunjin had sensed something was different about you, chalking it up to his careless actions on the weekend. He’d been beating himself up about it since he did it, and he knew you didn’t want to talk about it, but he felt as if he owed you an explanation. One you hadn’t made up by yourself, based on his poor choice of words after it happened. Your delicate hands fiddled with the stems of three white flowers while Hyunjin formulated the right words to say. He didn’t want to mess it up again.

“Y/N, about Saturday ni―”

“God, Hyunjin, just forget about it!” The boy was startled into silence by your outburst, “I know you didn’t mean it, I know it was a mistake!” Frustration and betrayal laced your tone, your cheeks reddening slightly as your face flushed in annoyance.

“I wasn’t―”

“I won’t tell her, okay? But stop lying to me,” Hyunjin’s eyebrows furrowed with perplexity. He couldn’t figure out what you were talking about; he wanted you to listen to him.

“‘Her’? What are you talking about? I’m not lying about anything,” a pit formed in his stomach as anxiety pooled his chest.

“Bongcha,” the name was barely decipherable due to how quietly you spoke it, as if saying it any louder would summon her on the spot. Hyunjin’s face fell, for fuck’s sake, “stop acting like you genuinely care, it’s obvious you don’t.”

Silence settled into the air before a sigh escaped your lips. The flowers slipped from your fingertips as you moved away from the table, “I have to go.”

“Y/N!” Hyunjin spoke desperately, thankful no one was in the shop to see your dispute or his despair.

“Just�� don’t talk to me anymore. Please,” with one last sorrowful look, you turned on your heel and exited the store, the sound of the little bell ringing throughout the now empty store. Hyunjin watched you leave, hopeless. How did he fuck it up this badly in such a short amount of time? He hung his head low, eyes glancing towards the flowers you’d dropped moments before.

White chrysanthemums; the truth.

Such a bitter irony, if only you’d stayed to hear it from him. Hyunjin couldn’t help but scoff.

Wednesday, 10:21pm.

Life ― at least, almost two weeks of it ― had been hell for Hyunjin, to put it dramatically, since your confrontation at the flower shop. Every time the two of you met eyes at school you’d quickly divert your gaze, rushing away before Hyunjin could even process what was happening. He never ran after you, partly because he knew you wouldn’t listen to him and partly to avoid other people seeing the interaction. People struggled to mind their own business, he supposed it was human nature for many. Bongcha had made the wise decision of finally listening to Hyunjin and staying the fuck away from him; it was too late, you’d already seen enough to misunderstand his relationship with the younger. He hadn’t understood how he became so attached to you without noticing. That fateful night, when he stumbled over his words after molding his tear-stained lips with yours, he finally realised it was an attachment he feared. When moonlight shone on his salty tears and stars flickered at him with lost hope, the words simmered in the air with a false certainty. He couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol pumping through his blood, he was completely sober that night. No, it was his own fault. It was his slip up, his fabrication that came out sounding more truthful than it was. You weren’t just temporary, a spur of the moment decision he’d never talk about. You meant so much more, that kiss meant so much more. Would you ever see it that way? Hyunjin doubted it. When you told him how you saw him, as per his request, you were slightly inaccurate in your description. Now, your perception had changed, there was no doubt in his mind it had. You saw him as a liar, didn’t you? He could accept and admit that, but not for the wrong reasons. When it came to you, he’d only lied twice: the night of the party and the morning of the party, when he called you his friend. You were so much more than that.

The following afternoon, the universe delivered Hyunjin the perfect opportunity to explain himself to you—even if just partially. He stopped in his tracks as he saw you walking home from school, he assumed you missed the bus or something. With the encouraging words of his friends from the night before echoing in his mind, Hyunjin jogged in your direction, “Y/N!”

Your footsteps sped up, unsuccessfully attempting to keep distance from the long-legged boy, “leave me alone, Hyunjin.”

His hand grabbed at your wrist, “no! Not until you listen to me.”

You sighed exasperatedly, “what do you want?” Your exhausted voice made Hyunjin falter slightly, but he couldn’t miss this opportunity.

“I’m not with Bongcha, I never was, okay? I wouldn’t waste someone like you for someone like her!”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

So you did see him that way: a liar. He couldn’t blame you, and he didn’t know how to prove you wrong. Why didn’t he think about that? A tugging motion made him snap out of his trance, your wrist leaving his clutches as you turn away and speed walk home.

Thursday, 9:52pm.

Rain pattered against the glass pane of your window. Your eyes followed stray raindrops as they cascaded down the surface, dripping away and out of your sight. The vibrating of your phone rippled across the table, the sound causing your eyes to snap towards the device in a mix of curiosity and annoyance. Lifting your head from the desk, the screen glared at you brightly, causing you to squint to become accustomed to the brightness. There were six messages from Jeongin, an Instagram notification and reminder to take out the trash at 6:00pm. It was now 9:52pm, you needed to mark that reminder as complete. Your finger swiped the messages from Jeongin, opening the conversation and being met with five screenshots. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

| innie ☼ : these are messages between hyunjin and bongcha, please don’t misunderstand their relationship

| why couldn’t hyunjin send these himself?

| innie ☼ : you blocked his number

| innie ☼ : please, y/n, just give him a chance

Your stomach did flips as you read through the messages. Some were from last month, some from last week, some from the day they kissed, but they all conveyed the same message. Hyunjin wasn’t attracted to her, not in the same way she was attracted to him. There was a screenshot of an argument they had on Thursday, after you confronted him at the florist. With furrowed eyebrows, you processed the revelation. He didn’t kiss her? Your expression fell. Gosh, you’d really fucked it up, hadn’t you? He wanted no part in that kiss, and what right did you have to be jealous anyway? You were meant to be friends, after all. His temporary. Even if that title hurt, you still had to take back the words you said, fix whatever relationship you had left with the boy. It was raining outside, of course it was, but you didn’t care. You pattered down the stairs, unlocked the front door as quietly as possible before running out into the rain, fully intending to run over to Hyunjin’s house. There was no need. The boy sat on the curb outside your house, black strands of hair and black attire a void in the dim streetlight. At the sound of the door closing, he turned to see the cause. He was soaking wet, probably cold, and had a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. Black strands of hair were splayed against his face, dripping with rainwater as he continued to be pelted by the droplets. His head turned away from yours, returning his gaze to the moonlight; you two were making an awful habit of meeting under the moonlight. Parting your lips, you prepare to spout heartfelt apologies, even if you don’t completely forgive the words he spoke to you.

“Were you going to come looking for me?” His words escaped before yours could.

“Y-Yeah, I wanted to apologise,” Hyunjin clicked his tongue in disapproval, producing a ‘tch’ sound.

“What for? You don’t owe me shit,” the cigarette found home in his lips, breathing in the toxins with desire.

“For making assumptions about you and Bongcha. I owe you that.”

The cigarette drops against the dark road, soon being grinded into the surface under the sole of Hyunjin’s scuffed sneaker.

“It’s fine, I would’ve made the same assumption,” the boy stood up, his legs straightening with a satisfying crack. How long had he been sitting there? “Are we back to being friends?”

You nodded hesitantly, “yeah. Friends.”

Hyunjin had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you in the same way you wanted him, on more than one occasion now. He could sense the unease in your voice, as if you were hoping for him to say something more or re-title you as something other than a friend. There was nothing more that he wanted, but he didn’t deserve it. You were too good for him, far too good for him. He was a liar, a delinquent, a bad influence. All he could ever do is hurt you. Even if it pained him to hide it, some things had to be left unsaid.

“Can we—talk about the party?”

The boy looked away from you momentarily, rethinking his decision. It’s for the best, “no. I don’t want to talk about it.”

His tone was icy, brushing you off as if that night meant nothing, “Hyunjin, you bugged me to talk about that for days.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t matter anymore,” he was exasperated. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, it would mean revealing his true feelings or making you feel worse. All Hyunjin wanted was to keep you safe and happy; getting wrapped up in him would be your downfall, he just knew it.

“I need to know why you did it.”

“Drop it, Y/N.”

It was a warning you didn’t listen to, “please, Hyunjin.”

“I said, drop it.”

“Why did you do it?” You hadn’t intended for your voice to be so loud, you didn’t mean to shout, your walls broke down involuntarily. The world blurred around you, salty tears forming in your eyes as you thought back to the night, “why did you kiss me when you clearly didn’t feel that way about me? I don’t want to be something to temporarily fix your loneliness.”

Hyunjin kept his eyes down guiltily. He didn’t want to say anything, but your words kept pressing him to speak up. Your voice was echoing around him, cutting through the night sky and tugging at his ears. The sobs that formed in your chest were bubbling out; the rain was mixing with your tears. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t escape what happened. He didn’t want to say anything, but he could feel it slipping out.

“Why would you do that, Hyunjin? I—”

“Because I love you!” The shout rang through the cold air like a lone gunshot, “I love you and it scares me!”

A poignant silence settled around you, the words sinking into your chest and pumping your heart to beat faster. A slip of the tongue and here you were. Days of sadness, anxiety and insecurity, all over Hyunjin’s unknown fear of his feelings. Could that be worth it? “Hyunjin—”

In swift motions, the boy paced towards you to grab your face in his hands. Tilting your head upwards, his lips collided with yours in a show of passion, with every emotion Hyunjin could muster. Thumbs rested gently on your cheeks, laying against the few escaped tears and fallen raindrops, as his lips moved against yours. As the rain pelted your skin, running through your already soaked hair and tickling your exposed skin, words didn’t need to be spoken. When those lips moved against yours, you finally saw the hidden emotions Hwang Hyunjin was so afraid of.

#stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin scenario #hyunjin scenarios #bad boy au #kpop #high school au #florist au #i don't know how to tag #hwang hyunjin scenario #hwang hyunjin scenarios #angst #fluff #skz

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musingsofawritertatheart · 4 years ago

Text

Unresolved questions...

2nd November, is observed as All Souls Day across the World. It is also known as the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed and the Day of the Dead, it’s a day of prayer and remembrance for the departed souls. On this day, people visit their departed family members gravesite to pray for their souls.

It has been a yearly ritual, which we have been following since i was kid...to make a visit to cemetery to pray for my grandparents souls.

As a kid, i used to think of cemeteries as a place that offers lots of green space and trees. Now, i look it as a place which provides a great backdrop for quiet reflection, peace of mind and closure.

After spending some time at our departed family member’s grave site. one of us will always be cleaning the stone and pulling the weeds around the cement border, putting departed person’s fav flower on the grave and lighting up candles and spend time praying for that departed soul . Every visit fills me with mixed feelings as many thoughts cross my mind...

When I see people coming to cemetery on All Souls Day, laying flowers on their loved one’s gravesite...I tend to look at people’s faces. When we loose a loved one, the pain we experience can be unbearable and we sometimes wonder if the pain will ever end. Understandably, grief is complicated and we go through a variety of emotional experiences such as anger, confusion, and sadness.

When the word “Cemetery” comes up, people generally exchange sheepish looks as it unsettles them. But for me, it is a place that gives a closure to people who are grieving.

2020 will be remembered as a lost year for most of us. Historians will use it as a reference point. While some of us are suffering the loss of income, livelihood and the simple expected meeting of life’s most basic needs

More tragically, others will remember this year as the year of losses – much greater losses than a cancelled vacation, a missed graduation or the inability to dine out freely.

Others are grieving the deaths of family members and close friends – compounded by the inability to gather and remember in comforting ways. Personally, this has been a year of loss for me as well...I lost two of my favourite people this year. One beautiful soul left me in February and other soul left our family in July. My brother from another mother, the love of my life – my Pet, Joey passed away in February and my favourite uncle, I’m extremely fond of...slept in the lord, in the month of July. The fact that I saw him gasping for breath right in front of my eyes was extremely painful to say the least....

Nothing can ever heal the pain, you feel when your loved ones leave you. At that moment it might look like you will be consumed by this pain and you may not be able to heal from this pain. Loosing a loved one leaves a painful scar on your psyche and try as much as you want ...one can never recover from that pain ...that void will never be filled with anything or anyone...it’s the memories of the loved one that haunts you.

This void left by the passing of my near and dear ones made me realise one thing though, it’s not the big things but the little things we tend to miss about your loved ones. It could be as simple as getting a morning message from that person or that customary call on your birthday or that small word of encouragement when you are feeling down from that favourite person that you tend to miss. It can also be as simple as being woken up by your loving pet and that wet nose on your pillow and that warm greeting you get when you come home. Somehow your birthdays and other special occasions look less special because of that void left by our loved ones...

When you experience such tragic losses in quick succession ...pain is inevitable and the will to live is slowly beaten out of your system. Suddenly, HOPE is not that evident anymore. At times like these, it is difficult to pull yourself from this pain that threatens to consume you. During these times, its important to take one day at a time and keep moving ...no matter how hard it may be.... even when breathing looks like a chore and getting up from bed seems like an uphill task...you still pick yourself up and keep going...that’s life I guess.

I was totally numb when my uncle passed away in July...it was like the final nail in the coffin...where do u go from here? I was just drifting through life for more than a week ....and then I saw this huge rainbow right next to my balcony and I just knew this was the sign from God or beyond...to move on with my life and that’s when I got back to life ...one step at a time.

A theory suggested by psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross suggests that we go through 5 distinct stages of grief after the loss of a loved one: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

DENIAL...When I see families with so much pain in their eyes... could it be that they are still in Denial about their loss.... all though they know what has happened. Sometimes, it takes time to grieve and heal and that quite resignation on their faces conveys a million things....and silently I wish them strength so they can accept this harsh truth and say a prayer for that family....

ANGER....When I see families with a hardened expression on their faces ...could it be that they are still angry towards their loved ones who left them to face this harsh world with added responsibilities. And they have this pent up angst towards god and the world for snatching up their loved one? It can be daunting to live life like this and silently I wish them strength so they can let go of this anger and have peace...

BARGAINING...When I see families that are inconsolable and wailing like small kids ...could it be that they are still not able to accept it and wish it wasn’t true and still have a hope that they might wake up one day and wish this was some kind of a nightmare they are going through? my heart goes out to them and the only thing I can do? Say a small prayer for that grieving family....

DEPRESSION...When I see families with an indifference in their attitude and keep looking at their loved ones gravesite...could it be that they are going through depression? During this phase its hard to look beyond this painful incident and hope looks like a distant word. Not knowing when they will ever recover from this loss of their loved one. It might look like they will be consumed by this pain and never recover ...I wish them strength so they can look beyond this painful time...

ACCEPTANCE...When I see families putting on flowers and lighting up candles with a faint smile on their faces and peace ...I know they have accepted this truth and they have come out of that dark tunnel of grieving and only remember good moments and memories with their loved one...

It’s not necessary that everyone will go through these 5 grieving stages. At times, it might look like you may have healed and in the next moment, mere mention of your loved one or some memory pulls you into grief once again. Grieving is never linear. It’s important to give vent to your grief- cry it out, write it out, sing it out, walk it out and talk it out. Give in to the weight of it. Be taken by this storm and let it wash over you. It’s important not to let anyone rush you through this grieving process and unless and until you are healed completely you cannot move on in life. Once you accept the inevitable only then Peace will prevail.

As I walk down that old pathway, I could see gravestones of every size and shape mark the landscape in every direction. Off in the distance, I could hear the distant roar of traffic; within the confines of the cemetery, all was quiet, save for the birds and insects. For whether one believes in an afterlife or not, spending time at a burial ground inevitably stirs thoughts of our own mortality -- what life means, whether we are living the life we are meant to be living, and what comes next.

The invisible presence of the departed creates a kind of vortex of deep tranquillity, silencing the ten thousand insignificant things clamouring for our attention.

That's the thing about cemeteries: rich or poor, powerful or powerless, known or unknown, all our lives come down in the end to a resting place in the earth. If we are at all sensitive, this kind of proximity to death has an instant centering effect. Like a good meditation practice, visiting a cemetery focuses our attention on what really matters; helping us to discriminate between what is true and lasting from what is transient, and of little importance.

When you look at life through this prism, the way you lead your life is different. You don’t hold onto petty things like greed, hatred and grudges. If you don’t like someone, just walkway from that person and if you like someone, you speak your mind. I would rather live my life with an “oops” than a “what if” hanging onto my conscience. I guess life is too small to hold onto fears and worries.

Cemetery visits can bring up a mess of emotions. It takes a few days to “reset” after a visit to the cemetery.

Sometimes, I wonder what constitutes a good life???

Q) When you are surrounded by your near and dear ones during your last moments on this Earth and leave with a smile on your face...is this considered as a well-lived life?

Q) When you leave this earth a bit better by creating or leaving a piece of art – be it your songs, your book, your music, your paintings ...can this life be considered as a well-lived life?

Q) When you raise a good family with kids, inculcating good values and leaving behind a loving family...is this considered as a well-lived life?

Q) When you have a positive impact on the people you come in contact with on a daily basis and spreading goodwill and positivity in your family, friends and community... is this considered as a well-lived life?

May be it’s living a life less selfishly, and not allowing this fear of uncertainty to drive us away from gratitude, faith, compassion and hopefulness- are markings of a well-lived life?

As i ponder through these questions, i’m reminded of Rainer Maria Rilke’s quote that I came across some years back...

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves...do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given to you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now”

I just want to send these questions into this cosmic void...may be life will give me answers, when I least expect them... Perhaps someday there will be some method to this madness we call life or may be not???

Leaving the cemetery, I thanked the dead for returning to me the gift of life.

#life is strange #grieving #mourning #peace #hope #strength #resilience #unresolved trauma #death is inevitable

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runenc03 · 6 years ago

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Minho (a seaycee oneshot)

Writing date: December 2018

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none, except for a lot of personal information lol. Basically this is a real life experience, although 'Minho' (who's actually a Newt irl) and I are now actual friends, but nothing else. I love him, but not in a romantical way. And that's okay, I'm happy this happened, because I can't imagine my life without him now :)

--------------------------------------------------

It was around mid september when she first saw him. He was walking through one of the corridors of her school, head down, dark, healthy hair brushing his forehead. He was wearing a long coat, his hands deeply burried in their pockets. His jeans were ripped, but not too much, and his sneakers were a daring shade of red for a boy.

She felt herself immediately drawn to the mysterious boy. She didn't know him, had never seen him before, but there was just something about him that made her want to know more about him. Who was he? He must at least be a year older than her, they would have their breaks at the same time if he wasn't.

As soon as she realised that she was shamelessly staring at the boy, she quickly looked down at her feet, scolding herself silently for zoning out like that, and accelerated her steps, hurrying to her next class.

Still, she couldn't get the unknown boy out of her head, wracking her brain for someone he reminded her of.

He looks like Minho from the Maze Runner.

And in that moment, it just clicked. For her, his name was Minho.

****

"You see that boy there?"

The girl tried to whisper to her best friend when she saw 'Minho' again, feeling the need to share her thoughts with someone else.

"You mean the one with the long coat and the healthy hair?"

"Shh! He'll hear us if you don't talk a bit softer!"

Her best friend had the decency to look guilty.

"Well, yes, that one. Please tell me I'm not the only one who thinks he looks just like Minho. You know, from the Maze Runner."

Her best friend rolled her eyes at first, but soon had to agree with the girl.

"I know who Minho is, you idiot. And you're right, he does resemble him. But, wasn't Ki Hong Lee your celebrity crush? You should smile to the boy! See what he does! You have- Oh gosh he's looking at you!"

The girl's head shot up from her smaller best friend, whom she had been looking at earlier, since they were in a conversation. The shorter girl was right, he was looking at her.

The girl's brain seemed to stop working and everything around her slowed down. Not because it was love at first sight, no, it was far from that. She was simply paralyzed, not knowing what to do in a situation like this, having never experienced it before.

She couldn't stop looking however, her eyes seemed to be glued to his, even though there was about 13 feet of distance between them. It was only when she turned a corner and he dissappeared out of her eye sight that her brain seemed to function again.

"He was so staring at you!"

The girl's eyes went back to her friend, and her eyebrows curled itself in a critical manner. Even though she knew that her best friend was right, her brain's malfuntions seemed to make an appearance again, because it simply refused to believe what her eyes had clearly registered.

She told herself that he probably just looked at her best friend, not at her. She wasn't nearly as beautiful as her friend was, not having the same curves as her, not to mention that the smaller girl's hair was always on point, while her own was a mess, if not completely tangled, then probably dirty, even though she washed it non stop.

Who would ever look at her?

She sighed, tuned out all of her friend's squeals and fangirl-talk, and focussed herself on her next class. He was probably just staring into space, hadn't even noticed her. No need to get so riled up.

Little did she know that things like this would happen a lot more in the near future...

***

It was late october, and the girl was, as usual, walking though her school with her best friend, when the latter elbowed her in the side.

"He's looking at you again."

Instantly, she turned around, forgetting to be careful or subtle. He wasn't either, if she could believe her best friend's judgement.

The boy was indeed staring at her again. Their eyes locked, and just like every other time this happened, the girl didn't know what to do. It was simple, really. As soon as their eyes locked, her brain refused to work. Should she say something? Smile? Glare? She didn't know, wasn't used to these kind of situations.

Suddenly, a large group of rowdy teens blocked her view, and their eye contact was broken, as was the spell she seemed to be under whenever he looked her into the eyes.

He had deep brown ones

Did she just notice that?

A smile made its way on her face. She remembered something, which meant that she wasn't as shocked and frozen anymore when she looked at him like when she did for the first time.

She was making progress

***

"We should try to find out what Minho's real name is. Maybe Instagram or Facebook can help"

The girl was sitting in the canteen with her friend, and somehow, the conversation had turned to Minho again.

She liked to talk about him

Did she really just think that? She couldn't keep the blush from forming on her cheeks, completely embarrassed and horrified that she had thoughts like that.

Come to think of it, she really didn't know anything about him.

But did she want to?

She'd always thought that she wanted to know who he really was, but now that her friend proposed to actively search for him on social media, she wasn't so sure anymore. In all honestly, he had been more on her mind the last few weeks than was probably healthy, invading her rational thoughts and turning them into a fangirl-like mess. Always.

Did she really want to know the real Minho, who would undoubtedly not be as perfect as the one in her head? Was she really willing to give up that perfect image of him?

On the other hand, maybe his real self wasn't that far away from the perfect boy in her mind, and she could - then what, actually? What could she do? She knew she would never make a move, she was way too shy for that, not to mention that she still wasn't convinced that he really looked at her. It just seemed so surreal. What did he even see in her? Was he attracted to her? She couldn't imagine being attracted to someone like her, she was just so...plain. She didn't have the curves of a model, but wasn't a plus size either. Her hair was brown, but a plain, boring kind of brown, and too busy with a lot of other things, her clothes weren't the most fashionable either. She was rather comfortable in something less beautiful than having to worry about every little imperfection in her outfit. What did he see in her? Why did he keep staring at her, not one or two, but at least 15 times over the course of the last 8 weeks?

"Hello? Are you still there? Zoning out about Minho again? I just said that we should try to find out his name. How does that sound, miss Daydream?"

She felt the blush on her cheeks burn even harder, busying herself with her sandwich, instead of looking at her friend. Refusing to make eyecontact, she simply nodded.

"Alright, let's find out his name."

How could she not? Her curiosity would always win over her fear.

***

Sean.

That was Minho's real name.

The girl was at home this time, it was a Tuesday afternoon in early november, and she had seen Minho talk that morning to someone she vaguely knew the name of. She hadn't wasted any time when she came home, quickly throwing her bag on a chair and plumping down on the couch, looking on Facebook for the person's name and immediately clicking on the 'friends'-section. She had scrolled down on the seemingly endless list, looking at every profile picture, trying to catch a glimps of slightly longer dark hair or an athletic build.

Just when she hadn't been expecting it anymore, she'd come across a picture of a boy in sweatpants, hair disheveled, sweaty from sporting.

She felt a flutter inside her chest.

It was him.

And then her eyes shifted towards his name. Sean Lew.

She hadn't expected that name, but she didn't really know why. Had she subconciously expected something Asian? It shouldn't matter, she realised, but in reality, it did. She had been refering to the boy with the name Minho for so long, that it felt weird to think of him as anything else.

Why am I even thinking about that? His entire profile is one click away, for God's sake!

She couldn't contain her curiosity anymore, didn't even think about the doubts she had had a few weeks ago.

She clicked on his name.

She wished that she would've been able to call her best friend with the news that Sean was just like Minho, but that wasn't entirely true.

The second picture she came across, was one of him holding an empty bottle of liquor above his open mouth, showing his muscular arms, but also his immaturity.

It felt like her heart dropped a bit, suddenly feeling a lot heavier.

This is what she'd been so afraid of.

But she refused to let go of him completely, at least for now. Holding on to the last drop of hope that was still within her, praying that this picture was just an exception and he was actually a good guy with manners and maturity, she scrolled down his profile.

She honestly didn't know what to think of him. It almost seemed like he was 2 completely different people at once. There were the typical bad boy replies to girls who commented bold things under his pictures, but there were also posts where he talked about how much he loved his family, which honestly warmed her heart.

And she realised then and there, that she still had no clue who he really was.

***

It was still early in the morning. The young girl was waiting for her best friend, while also looking one last time through her notes for chemics, since it was her worst subject and she was in her exam -slightly-more-than-a-week.

She sighed. She would never get the hang of those oxidation state numbers.

Deciding that she'd seen enough of those, she looked up from her notes, only to see the back of a head that looked a lot like Minho's, but was only covered in very slight stubble.

Her breath hitched. It couldn't be him, could it?

But it was. He had turned a bit, walking in another direction than he had previously stood, and she could see his face now.

Definitely Sean.

But why? His hair was one of the most attractive things about him! Her friend had agreed with her, saying that it was the only attractive thing about him.

And that's where she had to disagree with her friend. It hadn't been a very long time since she had finally admitted to herself that she found him attractive. Like, really attractive. True, his hair had been his best facet - although his arms weren't far behind- but that didn't mean he wasn't attractive in general. In fact, she realised as she looked him walk away, unaware of her presence for once, she was still incredibly attracted to him.

But an almost bald Minho would still take a lot of getting used to.

***

She didn't get a lot of time for that, however. It was currently half past 2 in the afternoon, and she felt like she could breath again now her exam chemics was over. The girl was standing all alone outside of the toilets, waiting for a few of her friends to get out, deep in thoughts, until her attention was brought back to reality by the sudden feeling you get when someone else is watching you. She looked around, and at first, she only saw a shadow of someone walking upstairs to the first floor. When she squinted her eyes however, she saw that it was a boy with a long coat on and very, very short hair.

Sean.

She didn't recognise him at first, still not used to his short hair, but when she focussed on his face, all thoughts about the state of his hair went out of the window.

He was literally not even looking at the steps he took, his eyes glued to her, craning his neck to be able to watch her as long as possible.

She couldn't do anything, only stare back at him, like all the previous times. She felt so drawn to him, so interested in him, that she asked herself if she really didn't have a crush on the boy.

But you can't have a crush on someone who only stares at you, but never says a word to you, right?

And with a shock, she realised that she really couldn't deny it anymore: he looked at her, and only her. No-one was near her, not her beautiful best friend or some model-like popular girl, she was the only one in the whole corridor.

She couldn't hold back the smile that crept on her face, or the sudden surge of confidence that swept through her for the first time in forever...

***

It was almost one week later, the last Monday of this semester. The girl was walking towards her bus, earplugs in her ears, humming slightly to the music and already imagining different types of choreography to it. She was in a good mood, her last exam being tomorrow, English at that. She was almost at the place where she always waited for the bus with the other kids who took the same one, when she felt his eyes again. Properly looking around this time, she found him, and their eyes met again. He was standing only a few feet away from her, and she could see that his hair had already grown a little bit, now in a decent buzzcut, instead of the fuzz of a week ago. She studied his face for the umpteenth time in the last few months, not ashamed anymore since he never looked away from her either. His eyes seemed bigger with his short hair, jawline sharper. And his lips-

She had never thought about his lips before. Sure, she was attracted to him, but not to the point where she fantasised about kissing him, hence why she'd never thought about his lips. Yet his lips seemed the only thing she could focus on right now, and she had a very logical explanation for that.

He smiled at her.

Not just a tight, quick smile. Not a smirk either. His smile was a genuine, heartwarming smile.

And it was directed towards her.

Not being able to help herself, she smiled back at him, only for her to bury her face in her scarf a second later, scared that he would see her blushing cheeks. This was something new, something she wasn't used to yet.

Not that she would mind having to get used to him smiling at her like that.

She didn't know whether the drinking bad boy, or this smiling, seemingly awe struck, gentle boy was the real Sean, but for some reason, it didn't bother her anymore. Maybe her 18 year old self was laughing at her younger self while cuddling Sean, or maybe she had completely forgotten about him by then. It didn't matter. Right now, he made her feel something unexplainable. It wasn't really love, not even a crush actually, but it was definitely attraction, and even though the situation probably seemed like an incredibly boring one for the rest of the world, the fact that he looked at her, stared at her, smiled at her, made her feel powerful, feminine, and for the first time, confident in herself.

And for that alone, she was him incredibly thankful.

#seaycee #high school #the maze runner #tmr #minho #newt #dancers #dance #love #crush

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1dreality · 6 years ago

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Zayn Malik was never the celebrity you thought he was. If it wasn’t already obvious from his detached, often melancholic interviews in the wake of his 2015 departure from One Direction, it will be from the title of his second solo album. The very elongated 27-track Icarus Falls is comprised of more of the sparse R&B that Malik has perfected since his first release Mind of Mine in 2016, but like its titular myth is also indebted to themes of incredible ascent and crushing decline.

A decline not of Malik’s career, it should be said, but rather of his own mental health, the album serving as both an intimate meditation on Malik’s life so far and a dire warning about the trauma of instant fame. It all leads to one obvious question: Is Zayn OK?

In an age of millennial openness and Instagram confessionals, Malik remains something of an outlier: an enormously famous and highly visible celebrity, but one whose ambiguity allows us to project much onto him. In our collective consciousness, he has been the 1D-fleeing villain, smoking cigarettes, being mean to his bandmates on Twitter and looking miserable as well as the “soft boy” pin-up, a vulnerable figure in desperate need of a hug.

Much of that ambiguity is intentional. Along with declining to tour Mind of Mine, Malik is often press-shy, choosing not to take part in TV sit-downs or play the social media game in an era in which somebody like Ariana Grande spends much of the waking day interacting with her fans on Twitter and Instagram.

And while Malik has been open about some of his past struggles, including his battle with an eating disorder at the height of his One Direction fame and consistent difficulties with anxiety, they’re often revelations that feel accidental in nature. We learn of them during an unexpected moment of truth-telling between him and a journalist, the subject quickly changed soon after, or through lyrics that are just descriptive enough to imply deep truths. Even talking about his anxiety in an essay for Time Magazine felt like a necessary course-correction after a string of cancelled gigs led to unflattering rumours about his health in the press.

Whether Malik’s public persona is intended as a protective mask or not, it is still difficult, particularly in the wake of Icarus Falls, not to feel something for him. After all, his jump from a working-class kid to an international superstar worth a reported $50 million, practically overnight, is the sort of trajectory most of us would struggle with at the age of 40, let alone at 17 when Malik auditioned for The X Factor.

Icarus Falls doesn’t cover any new sonic ground for Malik as an artist. It sees him return to the same well of threadbare, silky R&B that helped Mind of Mine easily trounce his fellow One Direction bandmates in the “best first solo record” stakes. But it does whirr with a noticeable sadness, Malik repeatedly mourns the peace of his pre-X Factor past and beats himself up for mistakes he feels that he’s made since. And when he speaks of emotional pain, it often sounds not like something confined to history, but rather something he’s dealing with every day.

“I’d rather be anywhere but here,” he sings on Good Years. “I close my eyes and see a crowd of a thousand tears / I pray to God I didn’t waste all my good years.” On Insomnia: “I’ve been roaming and strolling all in the streets / Burning my eyes red, not slept for weeks.” On Back to Life: “I been flying so long / Can’t remember what it was like to be sober.” On Satisfaction: “Nobody said this would be easy / Nobody gave me a rule book to follow.”

Even typical love songs are fatalistic in nature, talk of Armageddon running through both Flight of the Stars (“I will follow / Hold you close standing on the edge of no tomorrow”) and Tonight (“Love me like tomorrow’s never gonna come”), while much of the album nods to an unnamed great love in Malik’s life that he needs to overcome incredible odds to be with – nothing new for love songs, but given a greater weight when paired with his statements over the years. Because if we know anything about Zayn Malik, it’s that he often can’t stand being Zayn Malik.

Through much of the little press he has done, Malik has expressed unease with most of the trappings of fame, particularly the assumptions that he ought to be personable and friendly with industry figures or musical collaborators. And when it comes to One Direction, he still appears burnt by the experience. While he told Vogue in November that he has recently been able to see his time with the band as “an amazing experience,” despite the “bulls---” of what he refers to as “the machine,” he also told GQ in June that he didn’t make any actual friends during the peak of his fame: “I definitely have issues trusting people.”

In the numerous articles that pop up every winter recalling how good The X Factor used to be, clips are embedded that showcase many of its most memorable contestants, and every year it becomes that bit more shocking how much One Direction looked like children during their time on the show. The scrawny limbs, those Justin Bieber haircuts, the awkward school-talent-show bopping and shuffling. It somehow worked, enough at least to turn them into a tween phenomenon, but in hindsight it’s indefensible that they were pushed as significantly as they were.

There was always something deer-in-the-headlights about the band in its early days, a sense that at least a few of them had been pulled along for the ride as opposed to having a firm grip on the steering wheel. The hunger so visible in pop bands of similar notoriety, whether manufactured or not, wasn’t always visible – and while all of them have transitioned into stable adults who are, for the most part, comfortable in the spotlight, their jarringly different responses to fame remain clear.

It’s important to remember, for context’s sake, that Malik was always a reluctant star. Only attending his original X Factor audition after being guilted by his mother into waking up early and making the journey there, he was, in his own words to The Fader, “a lazy teen”. And even during the audition stages, he expressed reluctance to properly join in, walking off stage during a choreography rehearsal and having to be coaxed to go back. At the time, Malik’s reaction registered as a petulant strop, but now feels oddly prescient.

Of Malik’s One Direction bandmates, Harry Styles was always the most naturally inclined to superstardom – such an affable schmoozer and networker that it was quickly no longer surprising to see images of him palling around with Mick Jagger or Stevie Nicks. Liam Payne always bore the personality of someone very eager to be seen, lack of self-awareness very much included, while the perpetually chipper Niall Horan has always simply appeared very, very happy to be there. But both Malik and Louis Tomlinson have often visibly struggled, uninspired by the more performative and fraudulent elements of celebrity, or the levels of attention handed to them by Simon Cowell and co.

“What I really can’t ever get used to, or really enjoy, are these super geared-up celebrity parties,” Tomlinson told Noisey last year. “No one actually cares. You see people who are beyond self-absorbed, and that’s why it can be a dangerous place.”

Malik has echoed similar sentiments. “I don’t work well in group situations, with loads of people staring at me,” he told GQ. “And when you say ‘star’… everyone wants you to be this kind of character that owns a room or is overly arrogant or conﬁdent. I’m not that guy, so I don’t want to be a star.”

What’s odd is that, for all his claims, Malik does bear all the superficial trappings of modern stardom. He’s a fashion darling but is permanently magnetised to the covers of cool indie magazines. Furthermore, his on-again/off-again relationship with supermodel Gigi Hadid has, since 2015, become a Generation Z equivalent of Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder in its aesthetic-heavy, era-defining popularity.

But Malik is also simultaneously detached. The GQ profile, his most extensive recent interview, bears all the hallmarks of a journalist struggling to fulfil a word count because of an uncommunicative subject, writer Carrie Battan even expresses Malik’s tendency to reply to her questions in “friendly but anodyne one-liners.” Like the very best of pop idols, from Britney to Beyoncé, Malik is so compelling principally because he’s so hard to read. But this can also be a poisoned chalice: every expression of doubt or self-pity determined to be a cry for help, every revelation shaping an image that may or may not be real.

It means that listening to Icarus Falls isn’t an entirely joyous experience, Malik’s lyrics painting a picture of a young man still working through the discomfort of his sudden fame and the trauma of a moment in the spotlight marred by illness and fractured relationships, many of its scars still visible today. But it’s also a record that you can’t help but admire as a result, especially if it serves as a form of catharsis for him.

In the decade since Britney Spears was forcibly taken to the hospital surrounded by hundreds of paparazzi photographers, our collective relationship with the idea of fame has greatly altered, particularly for a generation who watched Amy Winehouse essentially die before their eyes. The one beneath them are currently coming to terms with a raft of recent pop star crises, from Demi Lovato’s overdose to the deaths of artists like Mac Miller and Lil Peep.

For all the obvious charms in Malik’s life, from his incredible fortune to a kind of artistic freedom that he never had in One Direction, you’d have to be particularly cold not to feel empathy for the sheer strangeness of his adult existence; a world of rampant, maddening attention that has historically led even the strongest of stars into tragedy.

The Zayn Malik of today is a little bruised, a little listless, his magazine profiles never complete without references to the cloud of marijuana smoke that lingers around him, or his need to lock himself away from the world. It doesn’t sound like the most ideal of outcomes for a man who calls himself a pop idol Icarus and sings with whispery detachment that he has “[flown] too close to the sun.” But we can only hope that it at least serves as a parachute.

#zayn malik #zayn's music #icarus falls #icarus falls review #icarus falls promo #z2 #z2's promo #god damn this was long to read #It's like the author is more into analyzing Zayn's life & the contradiction than the actual album #but you know what I kind of like it #it'S true that icarus falls is not a joyous album but it is introspective.#the reviewer seems to have enjoyed the album #i highlighted the parts where he talks about the album but overall I think it's a good read #it feels like a think piece rather than a review

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 6 years ago

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I accidentally joined one cult after leaving the Unification Church cult

I decided I needed to get out of this church immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

by HANNAH November 21, 2014

When we opened our eyes, I could still feel the fleeting warmth from his hands placed on my head. We sat in a circle as he led us into a quiet chant known as the “moola mantra.”

“Moola? Like money?” I wondered. The incense smoke snaked throughout the room. I noticed a donation bowl being passed around. Yes. Like money.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I readily joined the others in chanting, not really knowing what they were saying. When I couldn’t remember the next phrase, I just Milli-Vanilli’d my way through it, letting the other voices fill in the gaps for me. I’ve had a lifetime of chanting in a language I didn’t understand to prepare myself for this.

In 1982, my parents, among many others, had an arranged mass marriage at Madison Square Garden (photo above), performed by the infamous Sun Myung Moon. With a simple hand gesture, Sun Myung Moon matched my parents together among a sea of brides and grooms, and five years later, I was born, the second of four children. It’s always troubling to think about how my very existence was decided by some Washington-Times-owning, money-laundering, homophobic, sushi tycoon/sexist cult leader, but I guess it makes things interesting.

Our childhood was…weird, in a word. Even as a kid I found myself thinking, “Why are we selling flowers at the side of highways?” “Why are we going door-to-door making strangers drink juice?” “Why are we sprinkling salt over our groceries?” “Why are we waking up at 5 a.m. to bow to a picture of a Korean man and a bowl of fruit?” “Why are we chanting right now, I mean, really? What language is this? I’m tired.”

Friends would come over and ask who the Korean people were in the photos around our house, referring to the Mr. and Mrs. Sun Myung Moon.

“I…uh…they’re my grandparents.” I often found myself saying.

“But…you’re…not Asian,” they’d reply, stating the obvious.

I’ll never forget my birthday during the blizzard of ’96. My parents took us to one of Moon’s mansions in D.C. to meet some witch doctor of a woman. She claimed to embody the spirit of Sun Myung Moon’s dead mother. We stood in line behind a closed door in the foyer.

Before the door slammed shut, I caught a glimpse of a large group of people gathered around a woman and a boy. The woman had her eyes closed with the boy sprawled over her lap. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and seemed to be crying. Red marks were all over him. He tried to escape her grip, arms extended to what I assumed to be his mother, who sat silently in the circle. Then, the door shut. I’m haunted.

Finally, my turn came. I nervously sat myself next to the woman. She lifted my shirt, prepubescent chest exposed, as the captive audience watched as I was hit several times on my back. She prayed in Korean over me. And then, applause. It was over. Somewhere, there is a photo of my brother and I standing in front of the mansion after the woman hit us that day. We were smiling.

Beyond the ritual abuse, there was a certain strain of poverty that only a child of a cult could understand. You get used to communal living and sleeping on floors very quickly.

Before we eventually settled in the D.C. metropolitan area, we had traveled around the country, staying in attics, basements, and church-owned hotels and mansions. There’s a very real cognitive dissonance that occurs when you’re living in a mansion, sleeping in a tiny bedroom with all six members of your family. In that mansion, I befriended a young, Japanese opera singer who lived on the top floor. She’d French braid my hair and show me pictures of her fiancé, a man she had yet to meet.

I thought this was so strange, but I would later learn that being “matched,” or engaged to a stranger in another country was common. At 17, it happened to one of my best friends. I’ll never forget the look of misery on her face as she stood in her wedding dress, among the sea of brides and grooms, holding the picture of her future husband.

It was then that I decided I needed to get out of this church, immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

Within days of that decision, I got a phone call from an old friend.

“Do you want to get your third-eye opened?” She asked.

“Do I…what?”

“You heard me. Get your third-eye…opened.”

When we arrived at the house, a blue-eyed man answered the door.

“David!” Joanna squealed. “It’s so good to see you!” He wrapped his arms around her, practically swallowing her tiny frame. “Hannah, this is David. We met at a commune conference. We couldn’t stop staring at each other from across the room. It was kismet.”

David laughed and put out his hand to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, Hannah.” He led us inside, where a bald-headed man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed deep in meditation.

He opened his eyes and spoke with a soft cadence. He introduced himself as Daniel. He told us that he had recently returned from a trip to India, where he received a special blessing known as “deeksha,” from a group called “The Oneness Movement.” By taking part in this expensive ceremony in India, he became empowered to pass this gift of enlightenment to us.

He instructed us to close our eyes as he guided us into meditation. He came around the room and gently placed his hands on our heads. I was struck by the similarities of this ritual with another my parents performed for my birthday. There is something spiritual about having someone caress the crown of your head while they speak in soft tones over you. I felt enlightened, or at least relaxed. Like Fox Mulder [The X-Files], I wanted to believe. But there was a Dana Scully in the back of my head that wouldn’t completely let me.

I began attending meetings regularly. Daniel and I developed a close friendship where we spoke on the phone daily. At one point, I was $300 short for my rent, and without blinking, he loaned me the money. Three months later, I found myself riding in a car with him to attend a Oneness Movement get-together in Pittsburg.

We pulled up to a row house in Pittsburg, where we were greeted warmly by a jolly man. He placed prayer beads over our heads, luau-style. “Namaste,” he bowed, and we did the same. He led us upstairs to his railroad apartment and gave us a tour.

“And this…is my Christmas room.” It was August.

There were two entirely decorated trees with trains circling around them. Presents galore. Reindeer, flashing lights, snowmen. It was Christmas hell. I took a seat, completely entranced and horrified by the mechanical Santa’s never-ending “ho-ho-ho” mantra. I kept thinking, “Where am I?”

Daniel called me into the next room where others had already gathered and were chanting in harmony.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I sat on my knees, and just as I was about to lower my head in a child’s pose bow, I noticed a familiar face from across the room. She looked a lot like Diane, a Moonie truck driver who would stop and make us oxtail soup when she passed through town. She loved talking about God with my parents. No. It couldn’t be. It was. Our eyes met. In a panic, I lowered my forehead to the ground to hide my face.

Finally, the chants subsided, and a faint voice spoke up. “Hi, I’m Anthony and I prepared a song for you all.” I slowly raised my body, trying to hide my face behind my hair. A mousy-looking teenager stood before us, boom box ready. The familiar sound of chimes and wind instruments filled the room. I knew this song.

“Olha eu vii lue mostar…” He sang. “Como é belo este mundo…”

He was singing “A Whole New World,” the Disney classic, in Portuguese. I noticed Diane was full-on staring at me. I panicked just as Anthony’s falsetto kicked in for Princess Jasmine’s part of the duet.

“Um mundo ideal…Um mundo que eu nunca vi…”

I looked around the room, scanning for any sign of acknowledgement from another human. Nothing. I noticed everyone in the room was in fact, crying. Was I that cynical? Should I feel something right now? Watching Anthony shimmy his way through the intense key change was definitely a spiritual experience, but I still didn’t want to give these people my money. I felt duped. This “whole new world” suddenly felt a lot like the old one.

I retreated to the Christmas room in an attempt to hide from Diane. On a table, I noticed a photograph of Sri Bhaghavan and his wife, the founders of the Oneness movement. They were sitting in chairs, like royalty. The photograph was nearly identical to ones my parents kept of my pseudo Korean “grandparents.” Horrified by the parallels, my inner Dana Scully finally broke through.

I spent the rest of my time at the retreat doing just that — retreating. I slithered along the walls, and managed to avoid a conversation with Diane other than, “funny meeting you here” and “please don’t tell my parents.”

When I left my respective cults, I was excited to be integrated into the real world, a place without cults, or so I thought. Not so. These days, I see cults everywhere: cults of influence, cults of institutions, cults of politics. You learn a lingo, you follow a set of rules, a code of ethics. Sometimes you wear a uniform and a name tag. Sometimes you are sleep-deprived and haven’t seen your family in weeks. In a world where CEO’s are more likely be to sociopaths, it’s harder to define what is a cult and what isn’t.

What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.

_______________________________________

Hannah

After selling flowers as a child with the Moonies, Hannah is now a part-time florist. Her life has hilariously come full circle. She is also a songwriter and musician. She is a student majoring in human services and hopes for a career in social justice advocacy.

_______________________________________

A few of the comments on Hannah’s story:

mrsdanger So interesting, would love to hear about your life now and your parents’ reaction to leaving.

Keith All religions are cults, some are more destructive than others. Thank you for sharing your story. Write another story for us later to let everyone know how you are doing on your new journey.

sara_ahoy I understood what she was trying to say here. A lot of successful people become that way because they refuse to follow the rules of society, some are more aggressive, and willing to throw other people under the bus in their bid for a promotion. Cult leaders tend to act similarly, acting charming but ultimately bullying their way into leadership positions and ruling through fear and ignorance.

We like to think that the societal rules that we all follow are there to benefit us, but I’ve found time and time again that I’m paying arbitrary fees of all kinds that go straight to a rich businessperson somewhere…

Lalaloki … they sure discourage people from ever taking a day off, even when sick. And then, when people do call out sick, there’s a sort of underlying guilt involved. People are being paid to be there, sure, but in a cult, people are being “paid” salvation.

tracy This is perfect! “What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.”

Huh Wow, you should write a memoir! I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian church that was very cultish. We left in middle school and it was hard adjusting to the real world but my “inner Dana Scully” has been strong and made me skeptical of all things spiritual ever since. My advice: If a group (religious or otherwise) makes you isolated or relies heavily on secrets get the hell out!

FoxMulder She needs to know the truth is out there

breebree Moonies aren’t rich at all! The majority (my parents included) dropped out of school and donated ALL of their money to the church. And keep doing it. Ugh, so stupid.

berly I want to know why the cult did a ritual of hitting children? [ansu, a Korean shaman ritual to get rid of evil spirits]

_______________________________________

The FFWPU / Unification Church and Shamanism

Soon-ae Hong (the mother of Hak Ja Han) spent two years in Chuncheon Prison after Ansu beating an 18-year old boy to death.

Fear and Loathing at Cheongpyeong Lake

#shamanism #Hannah #2nd gen #moonies

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ghostbustermelanieking · 7 years ago

Text

ashes and dust (part one of three)

s8: deadalive and three words. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: The days following Mulder’s resurrection.

note: this fic came largely as a result of wanting to understand mulder and scully in this part of mulder’s abduction arc/wanting to resolve all that onscreen tension. turns out that three words is awkward and hard, and this is way longer than i ever would’ve expected.

this fic contains several references to auld acquaintance and sort-of references to encephalon (encephalon is not canon compliant whereas AA is, but i like to think parts of encephalon are rooted in canon). it is not necessary to have read either of those fics to read this one. i borrowed several scenarios and dialogue exchanges from other s8 fics i’ve done (because i liked them) and altered them according to the story. any resemblance to other late s8 fics is not intentional, and is probably due to the fact that three words fix it fics are one of my favorite kind. i tried to make this one my own, but if there is any resemblance to existing fics, i do apologize.

warning for discussions of death and mulder’s trauma.

---

Mulder is alive, and the idea is absolutely dizzying to Scully. Incredible and impossible. She prayed for a miracle and somehow received two.

She still can't believe she has him back. It’s taken her nearly eight years to believe in the impossible, and it’s still easy to revert to old habits. She believed for Mulder when it seemed vital, when it was imperative that if he couldn’t be there that someone else be there to fit his role, to take his place (at least in terms of the Files), but she didn’t believe when it was really, truly vital, when it was life or death. She never imagined him coming back from the dead, always thought it was impossible. If she ever imagined them raising the baby together, she imagined a reality where he never left and her life didn’t crumble to dust.

Six months without him and it still feels as if she has lost a vital organ, like she can't quite breathe. She still feels short of breath even now, sitting here beside him. She can hear the beeps of the heart monitor, his chest rising up and down. It feels unreal that he is here, alive, breathing. She felt his heart beat under her cheek earlier as her tears fell onto his hospital gown, she knows it is real. But she almost can't believe it, still. She reaches up and takes his hand, being careful of the wires taped to the back. His fingers are warm. She rubs her thumb over his last two fingers as she watches him breathe. And then his hand moves under hers.

She gasps a little in astonishment, drawing as close as she can get to him without leaving the chair. His head is moving against the pillow as he starts to awaken. Tears are welling in her eyes. He's here, he's really here. “Mulder,” she whispers gently.

He opens his eyes slowly, licks his lips and turns his head to look at her.

Her fingers tighten around his in a desperate sort of way. “Hi,” she whispers tremulously.

Confusion flickers over his face, and he answers in a voice dull from disuse, “Who are you?”

Shock ripples through her in waves; she struggles to keep from sobbing full-on as a tear trickles down her face. Not this, not after all they've been through. This just feels like another cruel way of losing him. She's about to say something—whether it's a prayer, a plea, she doesn't know—when he smiles, just a little, showing his bluff.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, tearful laughter in her voice. She'd hate him for that, except she's too relieved, she never thought he'd prank her again. She never thought she'd even hear his voice again. “Don't do that to me.”

He's looking at her in the way he has a thousand times, in the way she’d though he never would again: like she is everything in the world, the only thing that matters. She'd missed him more than he can put into words. If only she could have saved him sooner, if only he hadn't been put through… “Do you know…?” she whispers, because at this point, she thinks it would be a blessing not to. She used to hate being unable to remember hers, but she's seen the abductees, the things she was unable to save him from. “Do you have any idea what you've been through?”

“Only what I see in your face,” he says.

She squeezes his hand, reaches up with her free hand and strokes the hair away from his face. She can't stop touching him, doesn't think she'll ever be able to. He's looking up at her and he mouths something. Something that looks like, I love you.

Her stomach twists; the corners of her mouth lift up in a smile. She can't remember the last time she's heard him say that. November of 1998, she thinks, maybe. And she knows she's never said it to him. It was one of her biggest regrets, after she lost him. She blinks back more tears, leans down to bury her face in his shoulder. She rests her cheek flat against it, adjusting herself for comfort and squeezing his hand again. She never wants to move, if she can help it.

Mulder's chin brushes the top of her head as he turns his head towards her, whispers, “Anybody miss me?” She laughs waterily, turns her head to kiss his shoulder before pressing her cheek to his chest again. Everything feels so still; she can hear his heart beating.

Across the room, the door opens. Scully looks up, expecting to see the nurse, and finds Agent Doggett instead. He stands there awkwardly, mouth hanging open like he wants to ask a question. She says nothing, only looks at him and hopes he'll understand. He seems to; he turns and retreats back into the hall, closing the door behind him. Scully lowers her head again. Mulder's nose brushes over her hair; her hands balled into fists on his chest, she closes her eyes and listens to him breathe.

---

Mulder dozes in and out of consciousness, his mind foggy. It's impossible to ground himself to one moment. He's having faint memories of pain, tight spaces and pitch-black and blades cutting into his chest; he presses his lips together hard to keep from crying out. Scully the day he left for Oregon, when he'd kissed her in the doorway, her eyes puffy and red and her trying like hell to hide it. She's wearing her cross, the one she'd given him before he left, and he has no idea how she'd gotten it, but that doesn't matter. She's here. She's here and showing no signs of leaving. When he wakes for the second time, he finds her still leaning against him, sitting in the chair with her cheek against his shoulder. He brushes his lips over the top of her head and she shivers, burrowing against him, her breath hot through the gown. “Your back is going to be killing you in the morning,” he mumbles, reaching up to brush her side with a tentative hand.

She shakes her head without looking up at him. “Not going home,” she says stubbornly, in a tone he's rarely heard from her: vulnerability. Oh, Scully.

“I don't want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, even though he doesn't want her to leave. He doesn't. He reaches for her arm and rubs a hand up and down it.

Scully lifts her head a little, her eyes red and puffy like she has been crying. “Do you think you could move over a little?” she asks softly, brushing her fingers through his hair again. “Is there room?”

It takes effort, but he does move, sliding to the other side. The corners of Scully's mouth lifts, just a little, and she stands to climb in behind him. And that's when he sees it: the curve of her belly under her sweater.

Anything he wanted to say catches in his throat, freezes there. She is pregnant. He has no idea how long he's been gone, how the hell is she pregnant? He thought it was impossible. He always thought they'd try again someday, but he never thought this would happen. That he'd wake up with her this far along and no idea how.

Scully doesn't seem to notice, doesn't make any effort to explain. She crawls in beside him, curled up against him; there is no space for her to do otherwise. She presses her face into his neck, right below his chin where his pulse beats against her forehead, and breathes shudderingly into his skin.

“Scully?” he whispers, heart thudding. This can't be real, he isn't here. He's on the ship and they've found a new way to torture him: by showing him his partner as a mother, the thing they'd so badly wanted last December. It's impossible. It's impossible.

He feels a strange fluttering against his side, where the round of Scully's abdomen presses into his side. The baby is kicking. Scully makes a startled sound against his throat and holds him tight, arms wrapped hard around his ribcage. “Scully?” he whispers again, pressing his mouth into her hair. Is this real? he wants to ask. How did this happen? Is it mine?

“I love you,” she murmurs, voice cracking. She's never said it before.

A tear trickles down the side of Mulder's face. His throat is sore; he feels numb, foggy. He has dim memories of a coffin, tight with no space to move. He thinks he can remember Scully crying. It's too much, he lets his eyes slip closed, his head falls back against the pillow. Scully is asleep, curled against him; he can hear the ease of her breathing. He presses his cheek to the top of her head. The baby kicks again and he shivers. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

---

He's back on the ship, pinned in place as they slice into him. He cries out with pain, shrinks away from the blades, pushes at the blankets they've wrapped him in. He's hurt, he's buried, he can't breathe. He calls out for Scully out of pure habit, a useless attempt at comfort on the ship after she'd come so close to finding him. He had heard her calling for him in the desert, and he'd called back, but she hadn't heard. He thought she was here, but he's alone, he can't feel her beside him, he knew it wasn't real. He knew that seeing her again was too good to be true.

And suddenly she's beside him again, her face white with concern as nurses crowd behind her. “Mulder,” she whispers, stroking his forehead. “It's okay, Mulder, you're safe. I'm here.”

Someone injects something into his IV, and he clenches his teeth hard. “Scully?” he rasps, trying to get control of his breathing. He can feel his heart pounding. “Where am I?”

“You're in the hospital.” She takes his hand and grips it in both of hers. “You're safe, it's okay.”

He swallows dryly as the drug enters his system. “That-that was real last night?”

Scully nods. Her eyes are red and puffy. He looks down a little and sees her baby bump. He swallows again. That was real, too.

“Take it easy, Mr. Mulder,” says the nurse, who seems to be checking his vitals. “You're safe. We're going to examine you later, but right now, you should just try to relax. Get some more sleep.”

He doesn't want to go back to sleep—sleep is too dangerous, sleep has no ability to ground him, remind him that he is safe and back on Earth—but his eyes are already lolling, tired from the sedative they must've given him. Scully kisses his knuckles, sitting beside him in the chair.

“The chair… it's too hard for you,” Mulder mumbles. If she's pregnant (pregnant, Jesus, he'd never thought…), than she shouldn't be sitting in hard plastic chairs beside his hospital bed. She should be at home. He doesn't think that there's a father of the baby, someone for her to go home to—he has no way of knowing for sure, of course, but he doesn't think Scully would jump into bed with someone else right away—but whether it's just her or not, she should go home. The baby needs rest. “You should go home,” he says sleepily. “Your baby needs rest.”

Scully's mouth opens a little, maybe in shock, maybe like she intends to say something. Her hand brushes over her stomach. “I'm not going anywhere,” she says firmly.

“What about… what about your baby?” His eyes are only half open.

“The baby will be okay.” Her voice is soft, affectionate in a way he's only ever heard her use with Emily or scared children on cases. A mother's voice, he thinks, and flinches.

He wants to ask her how this happened, if she decided to try the IVF again, if there's a father. How long he's been gone. But sleep is overtaking him. He closes his eyes and tries not to dwell on it. He's too tired.

“Mulder,” Scully says in that same.soft voice, like she wants to tell him something. But he's falling asleep, he's already gone and he can't remember anything after that.

---

Mulder sleeps on and off as he slowly regains strength. Scully sits beside the bed. Daylight comes and Skinner is dropping in to visit, Doggett is poking his head in. The baby shifts inside his watery world, and she rubs her hand over the spot where he's kicking. I'm here, she thinks. She wants to tell the baby that his dad is here, too, but Mulder’s detachment makes her hesitate.

She doesn't know what to say to Mulder about the baby. That first night he woke up, he seemed shocked. She hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even thought of it, but she thinks he might've known based on the surprise on his face when he stood up. And last night, he'd told her to go home for the baby. Or her baby, he'd said. Did he say that because he was concerned about the baby, or because he didn't want her there? Her baby, he'd said. Hers. Not theirs. Hers.

She'd wanted to tell Mulder about the baby. She'd daydreamed about it when she first found out, before she knew he was gone, thought about Mulder coming back from Oregon and her greeting him with this wonderful news, miraculous news, until the Gunmen came to her room with sorrowful looks on their faces… Later, she'd thought she could tell him after she found him. Some degree of good news to surprise him with when he came back safely. Their miracle. She hadn't known how he would react half the time—and besides that, it got harder and harder to think about the longer he was gone and became impossible to imagine after she buried him—but she always imagined that she would be the one who got to tell him. Never imagined a scenario in which she was so visibly pregnant that Mulder knew just by looking at her.

He'd wanted to be a father when she asked him to do the IVF with her; she'd been nervous about his level of involvement, but he'd wholeheartedly thrown himself into the process, comforted her after it didn't take, offered to try again or adopt with her. He'd wanted to be a parent with her. She wants to know what's changed. She keeps hearing his voice saying Your baby, and she wants to know if he ever really wanted this. If he just said yes because he thought it would make her happy, or if he wanted it once but doesn't anymore. If he's as willing as he was back then.

It doesn't matter, she tells herself. All that matters is that he is here. Mulder is breathing raspily beside her and it is miraculous. She sniffles, reaches up and touches the side of his face. It feels different, his skin smooth and not decomposed (she bites her lips to hold back a shudder). He still has scars along his cheek, but he's starting to look more alive. Scully thumbs a tear from her eyes, shifts in the chair and watches him sleep with one hand in his and the other on her stomach.

When Mulder wakes up, later, he seems subdued. Better, in good health, but subdued. He speaks in few words, looks vaguely off into the distance. She tries to goad him into conversation, but he doesn't seem very interested. She doesn't even know what they'd talk about, anyway. The baby? His missing time? The X-Files? That's probably the safest topic and the one he'd be the most interested in, but she isn't ready to talk about Doggett yet. It still feels wrong, having another partner. Like she's betrayed him. They end up sitting in silence. But she keeps on holding his hand. He's here, she tells herself again. He's here, he's here.

They take him in for testing later and he is able to walk on his own. He really does seem to have a lot of his strength back. When the doctor mentions checking the state of Mulder’s brain, his face whitens a little as he looks over at Scully in fear. She clenches her jaw and doesn't break eye contact. She still hasn't completely forgiven him for keeping that from her. “You… you know?” he asks quietly, and she nods. He gulps, looking down at the ground. “I'm sorry.”

She swallows back any anger she has. She'd barely let herself think about this before, the fact that he was dying and never told her, because she was so focused on finding him. And now that she has him back, she doesn't want to ruin it with a fight. “It doesn't matter,” she says. “It's over now.”

Mulder looks down a little at her stomach before looking her in the eye again. “I guess it is,” he says softly, and she's not sure if he just means the disease. And she isn't sure if it is actually over. He could still be sick. He could still be dying. When Mulder leaves with the doctors, she goes to the chapel and spares a quick prayer for Mulder, for the baby, for herself.

Skinner visits when Mulder comes back, relief visible on his face. From leaving Mulder in Oregon to pulling Mulder off life support, Scully can imagine that he must be feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. Mulder seems somewhat subdued. Skinner apologizes awkwardly and Mulder just as awkwardly accepts it, and Scully stares down at her hands on her knees, unsure of what to do. Skinner is not normally the sentimental type; she's gotten used to it, his caring demeanor, after six months of crying all over him, but she supposes Mulder hasn't. She's a little relieved when he leaves.

“Was there any news?” she asks, almost as soon as the door has closed. “With your scans?”

Mulder works his jaw back and forth, looking straight ahead instead of at her. “Results tomorrow,” he says softly. Scully nods, thumbing the corner of her eye and praying she doesn't cry again.

“Scully, I…” He's speaking uncertainly, and when she looks up, he's looking at her. The scars on his cheeks are glaring, an expression not unlike fear on his face. “I found out after you… you went on the road trip with the smoker,” he says quietly. “I… I didn't know how to tell you. I know it's no excuse, but I didn't… I didn't want to try and make you forgive me by dumping that kind of news on you, and then… I kept chickening out. I didn't want to upset you.”

Scully swallows back the anger in her chest, her fear. She wants to scream at him, tell him how hard it was to lose him. That he has no idea. That he owes her the truth, at least, and he was the first person she told when she was dying, how dare he, how fucking dare he. “It doesn't matter,” she says too firmly, and now she's the one to look away. “All that matters now is that you're back.”

She can feel him watching her carefully, maybe a little sadly. Tears well up in her eyes unexpectedly; she curses these pregnancy hormones and struggles to her feet, muttering, “I'll be right back,” and making a beeline for the bathroom. She doesn't want to cry in front of him again. There's no Kleenex in the cramped room, so she muffles her sobs with the scratchy toilet paper. He could still be dying. She could lose him all over again.

---

Scully doesn't go home; when she exits the bathroom with red eyes, his chest stings as if someone has sucker-punched him there, and he tries to tell her to go to a hotel and get some rest because it's too hard seeing her like this. And that's when she tells him that she doesn't even have a hotel, and she doesn't want to drive an hour back home when she's this tired. She doesn't leave, but she also doesn't get back into the bed with him. She asks the nurse to bring her a cot. Mulder can't be too surprised, considering the fact that she knows about the brain disease and is pregnant with a baby that is likely not his, but it stings just as much as seeing her this sad.

No matter what, though, it helps to hear her breathing beside him in the dark. Being alone only increases it, the fear building inside of him. If he closes his eyes, he sees the ship. He sees the coffin he can barely remember and he can't breathe. He lies flat on his back, eyes open, and listens to Scully breathe.

---

In the morning, Mulder feels well enough to get out of bed and go to the bathroom on his own, without any help getting up or walking. When he exits the room, he finds Scully sitting up on the cot, her hand protectively over her stomach. “You must be feeling better,” she says, the corner of her mouth turning up just a bit. Just a little. She sounds extraordinarily relieved.

Instead of the bed that he's entirely too tired of, he opts for the hard plastic chair. “I'd say so,” he offers. “Considering everything.”

Scully climbs off of the cot, smoothing her rumpled hair. “I'm going to go find your doctor,” she says briskly. “Maybe I could get you home by lunchtime.”

Mulder looks at the overly clean tiles below his feet. “That'd be nice,” he mumbles. “But, uh. You might have some trouble getting me out of here in this.” He plucks at the thin hospital gown he's been wearing.

Scully unsnaps the top of her bag. “Actually, I brought some of your clothes with me,” she says, and he looks up in surprise. She pulls out a stack of his folded clothes. “I… I was trying to be optimistic,” she adds softly when she sees him looking.

“I still… I still have clothes?” he asks cautiously. He supposes that he expected Scully to keep some things, but an entire outfit? He's been buried for three months. Had she made a K-Mart run on her way to Annapolis?

“I kept your apartment,” says Scully. “I don't know why, I just… But everything of yours is still in it. It's still waiting for you.”

He chews at his lower lip, staring at her with some surprise. He can't believe she'd do this, keep his apartment through three months of him being buried. Scully, who is meticulous and not at all frivolous. Scully, who couldn't possibly have believed that he would come back, kept his apartment for three months while he was dead. His stomach twists with the weight of her confession. He thinks it'd be nice to go home, but he also doesn't want to go anywhere without her.

Scully leaves to find the doctor and Mulder stays in the chair, makes no move towards the stack of clothes in the corner. Maybe he should've tried to go with her; he hates to be alone. His memories rush in like running water, invading the corners of his skull with a piercing sharpness. The ship, the pain. He touches his cheek gingerly, the place where they pinned him, the scars on his chest, but that only grounds him further in the flashbacks. He stares numbly at the wall until he hears Scully behind him, saying, “Mulder, you okay?”

He turns to look at her and finds her standing in the doorway with the doctor. “Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet and turning to face them. “For a guy who was, uh… in a coffin not too long ago I think I'm doing pretty damn good.” He begins to cross the room, away from Scully and the doctor, because they both are staring at him in a worried, expectant kind of way and it makes him squirm. He adds, “I don't quite have my legs under me… yet.”

Scully says from behind him, “Well, you might want to consider sitting down when you hear what we have to tell you.”

This would be the result of his scans. “Uh-oh.” He spares a quick hope that he isn't still dying, that they won't have to go through all this bullshit again, as he turns and sits down.

“No, it's, uh… it's good news. It's… it's miraculous news,” Scully offers, smiling just a little bit as she looks back at the doctor for his part of this song-and-dance.

The doctor begins speaking, but Mulder is barely listening. The same shit he's heard before, about how incredible this all is, how they can't believe it. Spare me, he thinks bitterly. He's watching Scully, and he finds that she's watching him, too.

She speaks next, confirming what he had hoped. “Whatever neurological disorder you were suffering from, it's no longer detectable. After a course of transfusions and antivirals it has rid your body of the virus that was invading it. The scars on your face on your hands, on your feet, on your chest, they-they seem to be repairing themselves.” He touches his scars a little as she speaks, not sure whether to be relieved or frightened that they are disappearing. If they're gone, is it supposed to be like it never happened? He's faced the impossible before, but he'd never wanted to be the impossible.

“Mulder, you are in perfect health,” Scully finishes. Her relief is hidden underneath her professional tone, but he can hear it. He knows it. He heard her crying in the bathroom last night.

“Wow,” he says dumbly, unsure of what else to say. He's relieved, of course, but it's hard to process among everything else. He's not dying, but he knows what it's like to be dead. To be buried. He’ll live, but at what cost? How much do they really know about what's happened to him and why? What is his future with Scully, now that she's a mother?

She's smiling a little at him, like she can't believe it and is overwhelmingly happy because of it. It hurts a little; he can still hear her muffled sobs from the night before.

“How do you feel, Agent Mulder?” asks the doctor.

“Like Austin Powers,” he cracks dryly.

Scully laughs quietly, briefly, but her heart isn't any more into it than his is. They're on dangerous ground, treading lightly, trying not to hurt each other, and he knows he's doing a shit job of it. And besides all of that, he can't find one single thing funny about any of this.

#this fic has been the bane of my existence for the past week glad i can finally say goodbye!!#anyways this arc makes my head hurt #xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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evenstevensranked · 7 years ago

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#24: Season 3, Episode 10 - “Hutch Boy”

School bully Lloyd Offler targets Louis as his next victim. Meanwhile, Ren’s hair is accidentally dyed blonde!

First off, I just want to say that I'm dedicating this review to Brad Bufanda, the actor who played Lloyd. It was brought to my attention on Instagram that he just recently passed away on November 1st. He was 34. Very strange timing because this episode was next on my list already and I was working on the review as I found out. My heart kinda sank. I feel really weird segueing into my regular, light-hearted style now after the fact -- but I figure it's actually better to keep things light during darker times. So yeah. Let's do this!

This one opens with one of the most incredible things ever: a flying squirrel. Not an actual flying squirrel of course, but a mechanical one that Louis and Twitty rigged to scare Tom -- who happens to have an extremely specific and strange fear of flying squirrels. I wonder what instilled that fear? lol. How many squirrels have you seen flyin' around out there?

This bit used to have me in stitches. Tom’s terrified scream is something you have to hear for yourself.

Just then, some guy named Lloyd Offler approaches them and starts yelling at Louis for giving him "hard looks." Like, excuse me? I'll never understand how bullies pick their victims. Louis is the best, leave him alone. I know that Louis, Tawny, and Tom are supposed to be outcasts of sorts (leaving out Twitty because we’ve seen that he’s actually pretty popular)... But still. Louis is cool imo. Lloyd walks away, but not before letting Louis know that he’s on his radar now. Great.

~Radar~

Cut to the subplot. Ren volunteers her hair to the “Future Beauticians” Club, and let me tell you... I had such an ah-ha moment when I was re-watching this episode. For whatever reason, I always thought the club was called the Future PETITIONS club. Ruby says the name so fast it’s hard to understand. I was always so confused, like... What the heck is that? What petitions? And what do they have to do with dyeing hair? And then it hit me. I kid you not, it was like the skies opened up! "Beauticians” obviously makes so much more sense, lol.

To Ren’s horror, her hair turns out platinum blonde. Ruby has a flashback to the moment it all went wrong. We see that mid-gossip, she was distracted and poured soda into the dye mixture instead of whatever else she was supposed to use. I always felt personally responsible for this accident because she starts off the gossip with "So, I'm talkin' to Brittany..." Don't drag me into this, Ruby.

At least it was “natural” soda.

Ren is furious at first but soon notices that her hair is garnering attention. So she starts strutting down the hall to a "Walking on Sunshine" rip off.

This is another situation like the "Staying Alive" rip off in Stevens Genes. From memory, I would've bet money that the actual "Walking on Sunshine" was used here!! But nope. I'm still fascinated by how the brain can be tricked like that. Girls are staring at Ren with jealousy now and guys are checking her out... including Louis -- who doesn’t recognize her at first. It’s highly disturbing.

“hey, blondie... how u doin?” - Louis stop. Ignoring the fact that it’s Ren, it’s so weird to see Louis attempt to hit on someone. *shivers with disgust* I take back what I said about him being cool.

At lunch, the gang is laughing about how Lloyd’s name is spelled with two L’s. “Maybe he pronounces it La-Loyd?” Tawny jokes. Louis dies of laughter and says “...And my name’s La-Louis” so sarcastically. IT GETS ME EVERY TIME. Shia is so full of joy here and the whole scene has such an organic feel to it. You get the sense that these are real friends at school having a laugh. It’s contagious and warms my heart.

So pure.

Suddenly.......... this iMovie “suspense” sound effect plays twice as Lloyd appears hovering behind Louis asking “You having a good time, La-Louis?” Why are these double L jokes so funny to me?! Oh my god. Lloyd picks up Louis’ sandwich, licks it dramatically, and puts it back on his tray. Nice guy! Louis tries to reason with him, but Lloyd refuses and says “See you in shop class” ominously.

During shop class Louis is so afraid of what Lloyd might do, he’s quite literally shaking like a leaf. Twitty tries to reassure him by saying the teacher is nearby and won’t let anything happen to him. But then the teacher is all “I’m gonna step out of the room for a minute and I will take my time.” This is so good. Now that they’re alone, Lloyd snatches away Louis' “shelf” project and puts it in the hutch he's constructing. This is a great bit though because Louis decides to face Lloyd then and apologize (even though he did nothing wrong.) It’s really nice. Louis is so sincere and mature here. Lloyd seemingly accepts the apology... but then stuffs Louis into the hutch as well. (see cover photo)

Tom politely confronts Lloyd insisting he let Louis out of the hutch, before he says “I’m sorry it’s come to this...” and randomly goes completely black belt on Lloyd to everyone's shock. Then again, was it to everyone’s shock? Because their classmates emerged from their workstations, conveniently holding up wood for Tom to break lol. I love how the teacher walks back in while Tom is kickin’ around like he’s Jackie Chan, and has one of those “f this, I’m out” moments:

This show’s humor was way ahead of its time.

Louis is beyond shocked and it always cracks me up when Tom calmly helps Louis out of the hutch and whispers “Come on, buddy.” I don’t know what it is... but it’s just so freaking funny. There’s this hilarious ~zen~ music playing as well which is the icing on the cake. There’s a great line later that day when Louis starts evaluating the situation: “If Tom was the biggest wimp at school, and he saved MY butt? That means I’M THE BIGGEST WIMP AT SCHOOL.” ....true tho. Twitty mentions our good ol’ buddy Pete who everyone apparently prays to on this show when he says “Who would’ve known he was an honest to Pete, second degree black belt?!” lol.

To wrap up Ren’s plot, because not too much else happens: She basically becomes an overtly stereotypical blonde overnight. Constantly saying “oh muh gosh!,” reading fashion magazines during class, and blowing off her commitments to roller skate in the house instead.

Okay, is she curling her hair now? or did they honestly think we wouldn’t notice that Ren’s hair magically became curly after it was dyed blonde. Who picked this wig?

She also went out and got a whole new wardrobe to go with her hair or something?! Because these clothes she’s wearing do not seem like stuff she already had in her closet. Ruby rounds up a bunch of blondes from LJH and holds a mini intervention for Ren -- telling her that she’s giving blondes a bad name. And that’s pretty much it! Ruby dyes her hair back to normal.

I love how Ruby left her “a little souvenir” of blonde! I’ve been dyeing one small section of my hair blonde for years now, so this always makes me happy lol. Look at how much body Ren’s “hair” has when she’s blonde and how flat it is when she’s back to normal lol.... seems legit. I also definitely owned that yellow and blue striped top that girl on the left is wearing.

Back to Louis’ drama. Tom is outside casually practicing his martial arts when Louis approaches him with some hot chocolate from Doris. Tom’s so ~in the zone~ that he almost roundhouse kicks Louis in the face. I needed to gif it:

Louis tells Tom that he wants to be just like him, he wants to learn how to fight. Tom agrees to teach Louis ~his ways~ and I swear this is one of my favorite bits EVERRRRRRR. There’s no way I’m typing all of this out. You have to feast your eyes on the greatness yourself:

youtube

“Louis... did I mention it takes 9 years to learn my ways?” - This show is absolute GOLD, I do not care what anyone says.

Who knew Fred Meyers could actually do all of that, though?! So yeah, after telling Lloyd he’d fight him, even though he can’t fight -- Tom tells Louis his only option is to “find his inner strength and harness it.” And Louis, being the actual genius he is, takes that advice quite literally. I also love how Louis just says “meet me in the alley at 7″ .......which alley, bro? Ya also gotta love that “The Rock” reference. (”If you smell what Louis is cookin’!”) This show really did pick the BEST things to reference when it came to pop culture. It feels like Dwayne Johnson is everywhere these days!

The last big scene of the episode is the alley sequence, and I love it so much. Louis has Beans and Twitty secretly help him work a harness he rigged to fly around like some crazy martial arts master just to freak Lloyd out and avoid fighting altogether. It starts off pretty hilarious (Louis literally does the macarena as a “kung fu” move) but then it gets serious for a minute and it’s perfect. Of course, it all goes down in flames and Lloyd sees the wire. It feels so satisfying to reach the heart of a bully. It's great when you start to see Lloyd feel bad about how he’s treated Louis and I freaking love how Louis gives in, but at the same time -- stands up for himself. He tells Lloyd to beat him up, almost pressuring him to do so -- which obviously makes Lloyd NOT want to beat him up. It's great.

“I’ve come to the realization that if I’m gonna get hit, I’m gonna get hit. You know what you’re gonna wanna do? Get some towels. ‘Cause I’m a bleeder.” - Yesss, Louis.

This leads to one of my favorite little exchanges in the series. Lloyd immediately becomes a huge softie and wants to know how Louis pulled off the harness trick and they quickly start bonding over engineering. Lloyd is all "I didn't know you were into mechanical stuff!" And Louis says "Yeah, dude. I am. But you were too busy putting me in your hutch." - I'm sooo glad they actually had Louis say that engineering is something he's into! Because otherwise, his inventions come across as nothing but wacky things that only exist to support the gags he pulls with no further explanation. Idk. It's such a short moment, but it makes me so happy every time!!! Louis even gives Lloyd a quick rundown of the materials he used to rig the harness and idk man, it just makes me smile. I LOVE THIS CHARACTER SO MUCH. (I also just noticed that the flying squirrel gag was solid foreshadowing for this harness rig.)

I always get a little sad that Lloyd didn't become a bit of a recurring character for the rest of the season or something. This final scene between them has a ~beginning of a beautiful friendship~ sort of vibe. Lloyd invites Louis to check out his home workshop and ugh it’s so nice. We hardly ever see Louis with any friends outside of his core group, let alone someone else who shares his love of engineering, so maybe that’s why this scene always hits me.

I really like this episode for some reason. Always have. Like, A LOT. I think it’s because of the big showdown in shop class. And Louis wanting to learn martial arts from Tom. And the flying squirrel. And Louis and Lloyd in the alley. It's all amazing. And Ren’s plot is pretty fun, too. This is just an awesome episode all around.

Rest in Peace, Brad Bufanda.

Thanks for reading! And please contribute to the conversation below if ya like.

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dailyaudiobible · 7 years ago

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11/28/2017 DAB Transcript

Daniel 5:1-31, 2 Peter 2:1-22, Psalms 119:113-128, Proverbs 28:19-20

Today is the 28th day of November. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I am Brian and, like always, it's wonderful to have this opportunity to be together for a few minutes as we take the next step forward into our adventure through the Bible this year. And, right now, the path is leading us through the book of Daniel, and through second Peter in the New Testament. This week we’re reading from the contemporary English Version and we begin with Daniel chapter 5 verses 1 through 31.

Commentary:

Alright. In second Peter today we have a bit of a tirade against false prophets. And our understanding of prophet in this day and age is often tied to a person who predicts the future. But here we’re more appropriately talking about a person commissioned and sent by God to speak on his behalf. And, so, sometimes this is translated, false teachers. So, a person claiming to be commissioned and sent by God to speak on his behalf, but it's not true, it's false. And there was plenty of this going on. A lot of people were saying a lot of things for a lot of reasons about the faith. Before we dive into this, I think an important distinction needs to be made, because we can read passages in the Scripture like this and get the impression that we can’t ask any questions because we've seen a lot of that in our time. Anyone who asks questions that might mess with our tidy little box of assumptions can be labeled a false prophet, a false teacher, simply for posing questions or asking them. And I don’t think that’s the same thing and I don't think that's fair. I ask questions constantly. I ask questions of the Bible. I ask questions of the Lord every single day of my life, simply because I want to know the answers and you probably due too. That's not what we’re talking about here in second Peter. Peter is being very forceful about people who are claiming to speak on behalf of God, who have come to faith in Christ and then have begun to or have completely turned away from some of our all of the core essentials of the Christian faith and are leading people to do the same thing. And Peter has little tolerance for this. And, so, to quote him, ‘these teachers don't really belong to the master who paid a great price for them and they will quickly destroy themselves. Many people will follow their evil ways and cause others to tell lies about the true way.’ And, so, we’re pretty clear what he's talking about and what he's saying is, this is not going to work for those people, in fact, it's going to go quite badly for them in the end. And then he goes on to give some examples of what that will look like, and he uses the examples of rebellious angels in heaven, the wicked and ungodly people in Noah's time, and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. So, we could all agree, that's not a good time and that's not a trajectory to aim your life in. And then Peter tells us what's going on. Right? What the behavior is that he's so upset about. And it's here that we have the opportunity to look into our own lives to see if any of this is going on with us. These people, Peter says, ‘speak evil of things they don't know anything about. They have done evil, and they will be rewarded with evil. Their immoral and the meals they eat with your spoiled by the shameful and selfish way they carry on. All they think about is having sex with someone else's spouse’. Right? So, in other words, they are consumed with lust. ‘They trick people who are easily fooled and their minds are filled with greedy thoughts, but they are headed for trouble. They have left the true road and have gone down the wrong path by following the example of the prophet, Balaam’, which is a reference to unrighteous behavior for personal gain. ‘These people’, Peter says, ‘are like dried up waterholes and clouds blown by a windstorm. They brag out loud about their stupid nonsense and by being vulgar and crude they trap people who have barely escaped from living the wrong kind of life. They promise freedom to everyone, but they are merely slaves of filthy living because people are slaves of whatever controls them.’ And there’ something to put in your pocket carry around today. I am a slave of whatever I let control me. And it is here in this last paragraph that we read today that Peter shows us what happened to these people and where that road is going. He says, ‘when they learned about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ they escaped from the filthy things of this world, but they are again caught up and controlled by these filthy things. And now they are in worse shape than they were at first. They would've been better off if they had never known about the right way, because even after they knew what was right, they turn their backs on the holy commandments that they were given. And that is like a dog coming back to lick up its own vomit.’ Alright, this is pretty poignant, and this is pretty direct, this imagery that Peter's using to describe what it's like to know the truth, have tasted the goodness, and then turn around and walk back into the filth of a former life. So, I imagine that most of us have at least been around a dog. I guess I've been around dogs most my life in one way or another and I've watched them do this. Right? Haven't you. Dog goes out into the yard, has to poop, and can barely finish before they have to turn around and smell that nice steamy pile of waste. You're out walking your dog, they’re smelling every mailbox, but if they can come around some other dog poop, oh, that's just a treasure and they smell that and maybe even eat it. Dog is sick, pukes on the ground, pukes in the kitchen, and they might give it a nice whiff and even lap it up. I know, I mean I know that's gross, I know what I said is his disgusting, and I said it frankly because it's disgusting to go back to a former life after the beauty of the presence of God. It's like puking in a bowl and then eating it like soup. Sometimes understanding something starkly can shake us away to what we’re doing. And when we realize what we’re doing it explains a lot about the shape our life is in. To turn away from the narrow path that leads to life and go back and try to resurrect a life that is no longer a part of our story is like walking into a gas station bathroom, seeking out toilet that has been backed up for days, hoping to ladle out some of that filth into a Styrofoam cup so that we can go back to our car and drink it down. That is what it is like to try to resurrect the corpse of who we were before Christ. That is what it is like to wander into territory that will only lead us away from our union with God and the intimate collaboration in life that we've begun with Him. And that helps us understand the context of so many of the books of prophecy that we've read and are reading, when God is exasperated and essentially saying, why would you choose this over me? Why would you choose sewage over the banquet I have prepared for you?

Prayer:

Father, those are questions that have no valid answers. They never have. And we’re all guilty of this. And we’re all humbled at the starkness of what we’re doing. And, once again, we are called to repentance, we are called to change from within. And this can only happen with our surrender and Your participation. And, so, together we pray the ancient prayer of repentance, most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. We have not loved You with our whole heart. We have not loved our neighbor as ourselves. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent. In Your mercy, forgive what we have been, help us to amend what we are, and direct what we will be, that we may do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with You, our God. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is the website. It’s home base. It’s where you find out what's going on around here.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible here as we move toward the end of the year, you can do that at dailyaudiobible.com. There's a link on the homepage. If you prefer the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Springhill Tennessee 37174.

And as always, if you have a prayer request or comment 877-942-4253 is the number to dial.

And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Song:

O God Forgive Us for KING & COUNTRY https://youtu.be/tz4toSf-xQU

Lyrics

We've prayed the prayer with no reply

Words float off into the night

Couldn't cut our doubt with the sharpest knife

O, O God forgive us

Silence isn't comfortable

We want drive through peace and instant hope

Our shallow faith it has left us broke

O, O God forgive us

A slave to our uncertainty

Help us with our unbelief

O, O God forgive us

Young and old, black and white

We're rich and poor, there's no divide

Hear the mighty, hear the powerless, singing

O, O God forgive us

A slave to our uncertainty

Help us with our unbelief

O, O God forgive us

With our white flag sailing in the night

Eyes pointed to the sky

Hands up and open wide, open wide

With our white flag sailing in the night

Eyes pointed to the sky

Hands up and open wide, open wide

With our white flag sailing in the night

Eyes pointed to the sky

Hands up and open wide, open wide

With our white flag sailing in the night

Eyes pointed to the sky

Hands up and open wide, open wide

O, O God forgive us

A slave to our uncertainty

Help us with our unbelief

O, O God forgive us

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pamphletstoinspire · 8 years ago

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Saint Teresa Benedicta of the Cross - (Edith Stein) - Feast Day: August 9 - Ordinary Time

Teresa Benedict of the Cross Edith Stein (1891-1942) - nun, - Discalced Carmelite, martyr

"We bow down before the testimony of the life and death of Edith Stein, an outstanding daughter of Israel and at the same time a daughter of the Carmelite Order, Sister Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, a personality who united within her rich life a dramatic synthesis of our century. It was the synthesis of a history full of deep wounds that are still hurting ... and also the synthesis of the full truth about man. All this came together in a single heart that remained restless and unfulfilled until it finally found rest in God." These were the words of Pope John Paul II when he beatified Edith Stein in Cologne on 1 May 1987.

Who was this woman?

Edith Stein was born in Breslau on 12 October 1891, the youngest of 11, as her family were celebrating Yom Kippur, that most important Jewish festival, the Feast of Atonement. "More than anything else, this helped make the youngest child very precious to her mother." Being born on this day was like a foreshadowing to Edith, a future Carmelite nun.

Edith's father, who ran a timber business, died when she had only just turned two. Her mother, a very devout, hard-working, strong-willed and truly wonderful woman, now had to fend for herself and to look after the family and their large business. However, she did not succeed in keeping up a living faith in her children. Edith lost her faith in God. "I consciously decided, of my own volition, to give up praying," she said.

In 1911 she passed her exams with flying colors and enrolled at the University of Breslau to study German and history, though this was a mere "bread-and-butter" choice. Her real interest was in philosophy and in women's issues. She became a member of the Prussian Society for Women's Franchise. "When I was at school and during my first years at university," she wrote later, "I was a radical suffragette. Then I lost interest in the whole issue. Now I am looking for purely pragmatic solutions."

In 1913, Edith Stein transferred to Göttingen University, to study under the mentorship of Edmund Husserl. She became his pupil and teaching assistant, and he later tutored her for a doctorate. At the time, anyone who was interested in philosophy was fascinated by Husserl's new view of reality, whereby the world as we perceive it does not merely exist in a Kantian way, in our subjective perception. His pupils saw his philosophy as a return to objects: "back to things". Husserl's phenomenology unwittingly led many of his pupils to the Christian faith. In Göttingen Edith Stein also met the philosopher Max Scheler, who directed her attention to Roman Catholicism. Nevertheless, she did not neglect her "bread-and-butter" studies and passed her degree with distinction in January 1915, though she did not follow it up with teacher training.

"I no longer have a life of my own," she wrote at the beginning of the First World War, having done a nursing course and gone to serve in an Austrian field hospital. This was a hard time for her, during which she looked after the sick in the typhus ward, worked in an operating theatre, and saw young people die. When the hospital was dissolved, in 1916, she followed Husserl as his assistant to the German city of Freiburg, where she passed her doctorate summa cum laude (with the utmost distinction) in 1917, after writing a thesis on "The Problem of Empathy."

During this period she went to Frankfurt Cathedral and saw a woman with a shopping basket going in to kneel for a brief prayer. "This was something totally new to me. In the synagogues and Protestant churches I had visited people simply went to the services. Here, however, I saw someone coming straight from the busy marketplace into this empty church, as if she was going to have an intimate conversation. It was something I never forgot. "Towards the end of her dissertation she wrote: "There have been people who believed that a sudden change had occurred within them and that this was a result of God's grace." How could she come to such a conclusion? Edith Stein had been good friends with Husserl's Göttingen assistant, Adolf Reinach, and his wife.

When Reinach fell in Flanders in November 1917, Edith went to Göttingen to visit his widow. The Reinachs had converted to Protestantism. Edith felt uneasy about meeting the young widow at first, but was surprised when she actually met with a woman of faith. "This was my first encounter with the Cross and the divine power it imparts to those who bear it ... it was the moment when my unbelief collapsed and Christ began to shine his light on me - Christ in the mystery of the Cross." Later, she wrote: "Things were in God's plan which I had not planned at all. I am coming to the living faith and conviction that - from God's point of view - there is no chance and that the whole of my life, down to every detail, has been mapped out in God's divine providence and makes complete and perfect sense in God's all-seeing eyes."

In Autumn 1918 Edith Stein gave up her job as Husserl's teaching assistant. She wanted to work independently. It was not until 1930 that she saw Husserl again after her conversion, and she shared with him about her faith, as she would have liked him to become a Christian, too. Then she wrote down the amazing words: "Every time I feel my powerlessness and inability to influence people directly, I become more keenly aware of the necessity of my own holocaust."

Edith Stein wanted to obtain a professorship, a goal that was impossible for a woman at the time. Husserl wrote the following reference: "Should academic careers be opened up to ladies, then I can recommend her whole-heartedly and as my first choice for admission to a professorship." Later, she was refused a professorship on account of her Jewishness.

Back in Breslau, Edith Stein began to write articles about the philosophical foundation of psychology. However, she also read the New Testament, Kierkegaard and Ignatius of Loyola's Spiritual Exercises. She felt that one could not just read a book like that, but had to put it into practice.

In the summer of 1921. she spent several weeks in Bergzabern (in the Palatinate) on the country estate of Hedwig Conrad-Martius, another pupil of Husserl's. Hedwig had converted to Protestantism with her husband. One evening Edith picked up an autobiography of St. Teresa of Avila and read this book all night. "When I had finished the book, I said to myself: This is the truth." Later, looking back on her life, she wrote: "My longing for truth was a single prayer."

On 1 January 1922 Edith Stein was baptized. It was the Feast of the Circumcision of Jesus, when Jesus entered into the covenant of Abraham. Edith Stein stood by the baptismal font, wearing Hedwig Conrad-Martius' white wedding cloak. Hedwig washer godmother. "I had given up practising my Jewish religion when I was a 14-year-old girl and did not begin to feel Jewish again until I had returned to God." From this moment on she was continually aware that she belonged to Christ not only spiritually, but also through her blood. At the Feast of the Purification of Mary - another day with an Old Testament reference - she was confirmed by the Bishop of Speyer in his private chapel.

After her conversion she went straight to Breslau: "Mother," she said, "I am a Catholic." The two women cried. Hedwig Conrad Martius wrote: "Behold, two Israelites indeed, in whom is no deceit!" (cf. John 1:47).

Immediately after her conversion she wanted to join a Carmelite convent. However, her spiritual mentors, Vicar-General Schwind of Speyer, and Erich Przywara SJ, stopped her from doing so. Until Easter 1931 she held a position teaching German and history at the Dominican Sisters' school and teacher training college of St. Magdalen's Convent in Speyer. At the same time she was encouraged by Arch-Abbot Raphael Walzer of Beuron Abbey to accept extensive speaking engagements, mainly on women's issues. "During the time immediately before and quite some time after my conversion I ... thought that leading a religious life meant giving up all earthly things and having one's mind fixed on divine things only. Gradually, however, I learnt that other things are expected of us in this world... I even believe that the deeper someone is drawn to God, the more he has to `get beyond himself' in this sense, that is, go into the world and carry divine life into it."

She worked enormously hard, translating the letters and diaries of Cardinal Newman from his pre-Catholic period as well as Thomas Aquinas' Quaestiones Disputatae de Veritate. The latter was a very free translation, for the sake of dialogue with modern philosophy. Erich Przywara also encouraged her to write her own philosophical works. She learnt that it was possible to "pursue scholarship as a service to God... It was not until I had understood this that I seriously began to approach academic work again." To gain strength for her life and work, she frequently went to the Benedictine Monastery of Beuron, to celebrate the great festivals of the Church year.

In 1931 Edith Stein left the convent school in Speyer and devoted herself to working for a professorship again, this time in Breslau and Freiburg, though her endeavours were in vain. It was then that she wrote Potency and Act, a study of the central concepts developed by Thomas Aquinas. Later, at the Carmelite Convent in Cologne, she rewrote this study to produce her main philosophical and theological oeuvre, Finite and Eternal Being. By then, however, it was no longer possible to print the book.

In 1932 she accepted a lectureship position at the Roman Catholic division of the German Institute for Educational Studies at the University of Munster, where she developed her anthropology. She successfully combined scholarship and faith in her work and her teaching, seeking to be a "tool of the Lord" in everything she taught. "If anyone comes to me, I want to lead them to Him."

In 1933 darkness broke out over Germany. "I had heard of severe measures against Jews before. But now it dawned on me that God had laid his hand heavily on His people, and that the destiny of these people would also be mine." The Aryan Law of the Nazis made it impossible for Edith Stein to continue teaching. "If I can't go on here, then there are no longer any opportunities for me in Germany," she wrote; "I had become a stranger in the world."

The Arch-Abbot of Beuron, Walzer, now no longer stopped her from entering a Carmelite convent. While in Speyer, she had already taken a vow of poverty, chastity and obedience. In 1933 she met with the prioress of the Carmelite Convent in Cologne. "Human activities cannot help us, but only the suffering of Christ. It is my desire to share in it."

Edith Stein went to Breslau for the last time, to say good-bye to her mother and her family. Her last day at home was her birthday, 12 October, which was also the last day of the Feast of Tabernacles. Edith went to the synagogue with her mother. It was a hard day for the two women. "Why did you get to know it [Christianity]?" her mother asked, "I don't want to say anything against him. He may have been a very good person. But why did he make himself God?" Edith's mother cried. The following day Edith was on the train to Cologne. "I did not feel any passionate joy. What I had just experienced was too terrible. But I felt a profound peace - in the safe haven of God's will." From now on she wrote to her mother every week, though she never received any replies. Instead, her sister Rosa sent her news from Breslau.

Edith joined the Carmelite Convent of Cologne on 14 October, and her investiture took place on 15 April, 1934. The mass was celebrated by the Arch-Abbot of Beuron. Edith Stein was now known as Sister Teresia Benedicta a Cruce - Teresa, Blessed of the Cross. In 1938 she wrote: "I understood the cross as the destiny of God's people, which was beginning to be apparent at the time (1933). I felt that those who understood the Cross of Christ should take it upon themselves on everybody's behalf. Of course, I know better now what it means to be wedded to the Lord in the sign of the cross. However, one can never comprehend it, because it is a mystery." On 21 April 1935 she took her temporary vows. On 14 September 1936, the renewal of her vows coincided with her mother's death in Breslau. "My mother held on to her faith to the last moment. But as her faith and her firm trust in her God ... were the last thing that was still alive in the throes of her death, I am confident that she will have met a very merciful judge and that she is now my most faithful helper, so that I can reach the goal as well."

When she made her eternal profession on 21 April 1938, she had the words of St. John of the Cross printed on her devotional picture: "Henceforth my only vocation is to love." Her final work was to be devoted to this author.

Edith Stein's entry into the Carmelite Order was not escapism. "Those who join the Carmelite Order are not lost to their near and dear ones, but have been won for them, because it is our vocation to intercede to God for everyone." In particular, she interceded to God for her people: "I keep thinking of Queen Esther who was taken away from her people precisely because God wanted her to plead with the king on behalf of her nation. I am a very poor and powerless little Esther, but the King who has chosen me is infinitely great and merciful. This is great comfort." (31 October 1938)

On 9 November 1938 the anti-Semitism of the Nazis became apparent to the whole world.

Synagogues were burnt, and the Jewish people were subjected to terror. The prioress of the Carmelite Convent in Cologne did her utmost to take Sister Teresia Benedicta a Cruce abroad. On New Year's Eve 1938 she was smuggled across the border into the Netherlands, to the Carmelite Convent in Echt in the Province of Limburg. This is where she wrote her will on 9 June 1939: "Even now I accept the death that God has prepared for me in complete submission and with joy as being his most holy will for me. I ask the Lord to accept my life and my death ... so that the Lord will be accepted by His people and that His Kingdom may come in glory, for the salvation of Germany and the peace of the world."

While in the Cologne convent, Edith Stein had been given permission to start her academic studies again. Among other things, she wrote about "The Life of a Jewish Family" (that is, her own family): "I simply want to report what I experienced as part of Jewish humanity," she said, pointing out that "we who grew up in Judaism have a duty to bear witness ... to the young generation who are brought up in racial hatred from early childhood."

In Echt, Edith Stein hurriedly completed her study of "The Church's Teacher of Mysticism and the Father of the Carmelites, John of the Cross, on the Occasion of the 400th Anniversary of His Birth, 1542-1942." In 1941 she wrote to a friend, who was also a member of her order: "One can only gain a scientia crucis (knowledge of the cross) if one has thoroughly experienced the cross. I have been convinced of this from the first moment onwards and have said with all my heart: 'Ave, Crux, Spes unica' (I welcome you, Cross, our only hope)." Her study on St. John of the Cross is entitled: "Kreuzeswissenschaft" (The Science of the Cross).

Edith Stein was arrested by the Gestapo on 2 August 1942, while she was in the chapel with the other sisters. She was to report within five minutes, together with her sister Rosa, who had also converted and was serving at the Echt Convent. Her last words to be heard in Echt were addressed to Rosa: "Come, we are going for our people."

Together with many other Jewish Christians, the two women were taken to a transit camp in Amersfoort and then to Westerbork. This was an act of retaliation against the letter of protest written by the Dutch Roman Catholic Bishops against the pogroms and deportations of Jews. Edith commented, "I never knew that people could be like this, neither did I know that my brothers and sisters would have to suffer like this. ... I pray for them every hour. Will God hear my prayers? He will certainly hear them in their distress." Prof. Jan Nota, who was greatly attached to her, wrote later: "She is a witness to God's presence in a world where God is absent."

On 7 August, early in the morning, 987 Jews were deported to Auschwitz. It was probably on 9 August that Sister Teresia Benedicta a Cruce, her sister and many other of her people were gassed.

When Edith Stein was beatified in Cologne on 1 May 1987, the Church honoured "a daughter of Israel", as Pope John Paul II put it, who, as a Catholic during Nazi persecution, remained faithful to the crucified Lord Jesus Christ and, as a Jew, to her people in loving faithfulness."

#st. edith stein

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