#i wanna be so mentally ill about the chaos flame it’s what i’m known for. do you understand

[eye-of-yelough]

maybe i should make my icon the flame of frenzy and go fully into my “the flame of frenzy guy” era

[witchymarvelspacecase]

Firebug and Freezer Burn

My entry for @tilltheendwilliwrite​ ‘s 7.7k follower (covid sucks) writing challenge. 

Clearly my time management (and mental health management) is lacking, but I figured I would post this anyway. 

Sorry. 

The pic on the right was my prompt, I added the one on the left.

PLEASE FORGIVE THIS SHITASS TITLE

WC: 3276

Warnings: Fire, cursing, panic, being ill, fluff who the fuck knows

The small suburban neighborhood evening was shattered by the fire engine sirens screaming toward the pillar of fire that had once been a family home. Neighbors who had called 911 huddled outside, speaking to responders as they arrived. The three person family living in the burning house hadn't been seen since the fire started, but as far as anyone knew, they had been at home earlier. The parents had picked up the little girl after school, and returned home like usual. On a normal night, they would have all been in bed by now, if not for the noisy terrier up the street, the fire may have spread farther. Tears burned in throats, and sobs were barely contained as smoke and ash stung sleepy eyes. Lucky. The neighbors were lucky, and they all felt it, the feeling increasing in strength as the minutes ticked by with no sign of the family.

There was practically nothing left of the house now. The supporting structural pieces were still standing, but drywall had been all but disintegrated, leaving an empty shell, filled with smoldering ash. Nothing could have survived a blaze that hot.

An impossible shout came from a firefighter in the house. Firefighters converged on their brother and all blinked in surprise at what they saw. A small body, unconscious but unharmed, wrapped in an equally small blanket. The little girl, she was untouched by fire, though it was clear it had burned through the room around her. Her bed was ash beneath her, and nothing of her room remained standing. She seemed asleep, snoring softly as her dreams went undisturbed by the chaos around her.

The only thing odder still was her skin. It was tinged gray. That could have just been the smoke, if not for the cracks. Like lava creating fissures in soft volcanic stone, lines glowed red-orange all across her skin, visible even underneath her nightgown. The stunned firemen didn’t seem to know how to react, but one of the EMTs on sight already had their phone up to their ear, 

“Phil, you need to get here. There’s someone you’re gonna want to see.”

...Years Later

Having been raised by Phil Coulson, your life was fairly heavily impacted by SHIELD (and the tales of Captain America), it wasn’t a surprise that you became an agent. Though Phil actually wasn’t too happy about his little girl being put into dangerous situations, you gained his approval after pointing out that you would probably involve yourself in dangerous situations whether or not you had the training or backup that SHIELD provided. Working with the Avengers probably shouldn’t have surprised you either, but all you knew you had was your immunity to fire. Turned out that ability, in combination with your martial arts and weapons training from SHIELD, was actually incredibly useful to the Avengers. One mission became several more, and before you knew it, you were living with them.

Phil was a pretty constant visitor, he wasn’t “checking on you”, he was “touching base with the team”, or fanboy-ing over Cap. Mmmmhmm, sure thing. You knew better, but you generally didn’t call him on it, though it got you a lot of shit from Tony Stark. Honestly, Tony would have found something to tease you about either way. Being called “kid” was probably pretty tame, especially considering Tony’s other name for you: “Glow-Stick”. Clint called you “kid” all the time anyway.

The two members of the team who could have called everyone “kid” were usually the most respectful. Steve never called you anything other than your name, Bucky had called you a few different names, but none of them pejorative. Natasha tended to refer to everyone but Clint by their last name, and Sam, well Sam just called you an idiot, but that was for a different reason.

“Well you are an idiot. Seriously, you oughtta man-up and tell him already.” You and Sam were in the lounge area, having reached a commercial break during the game you were watching. He was leaning back against the arm of the sofa opposite you, rolling his eyes.

“First of all, ‘man-up’? Really? You wanna have that discussion again?” you gave him a significant look, eyebrow raised in indignation. He scoffed and waved you off, you continued, “second of all, mind your own business.”

“He’s gonna die in his sleep before you say anything at this point,” Sam’s voice was mocking.

“Stay in your own lane Wilson,” you growled.

“I’m just saying-”

“Nothing. You’re just saying nothing. The game’s back on.”

“C’mon , you gotta -”

“No, Sam.”

“What’s he up to now?” Natasha asked as she walked into the room, dropping into a seat with a bowl of popcorn.

“Nuh-uh, I’m not saying shit to you.” You knew better than to even give a kernel of information to a master spy.

“Pft, I probably know whatever it is already,” she shrugged. She wasn’t wrong, but as long as she didn’t realize Sam was pushing you to admit it, Natasha wouldn’t interfere. 

You turned to watch the game, missing the glint in Sam’s eye as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

You weren’t going to say shit. The only reason Sam knew about your adolescent crush was that he had hung out with Phil for too damn long one night, and Phil had been a little too open with your story. Years of hearing about Captain America’s exploits had been a basis of your childhood, but Steve wasn’t the character who fascinated you. That was James Buchanan Barnes. Unlike your father figure, your interest lay in the Commando’s sniper, not its leader. Originally, you had wanted to specialize in long-range shooting, but now, having more intimate knowledge of just how involved sniping was, you were even more impressed with Bucky. There were way too many calculations involved in what he did, and he did it so well. 

He had been the yardstick you’d used to measure every romantic partner you’d had, and most of them fell short. That was before you knew he was alive. What was funny was that the Bucky you knew now beat the yardstick you’d made of his past self. 

He was sweet, and mindful of everyone around him, and when he wasn’t too deep in his own head, he was really funny. From the first night you had accidentally stumbled upon him on the roof after a nightmare, you’d been fast friends. Though he was the member of the team you worked with the least, he was the one you spent the most downtime with. Hence, why you put up with all his nicknames. Doll, Sugar, Sweetheart, Darlin’.

When a tennis ball bounced off your head, startling you out of the unintentional mental tangent, you realized that not only had more of the team entered the room, they had clearly been talking to you. 

A blush rapidly heated your face. “Sorry. What?”

“Where’s your head at, kid?” Tony asked. He was sprawled across the loveseat, looking more at you than at the TV.

“Nowhere important; zoned out a little. Guess I’m just tired.”

“Suuuuure you are,” Sam drawled, exchanging looks with Natasha. Your brow furrowed, but you said nothing. 

The topic changed back to the game, as Bucky came into the room. Steve was already seated in the armchair next to Natasha, but instead of crossing to his best friend, Bucky settled on the arm of the sofa, right beside you. Sam cleared his throat, and you shot him a threatening look. 

“Jesus Sam, what did you do to get her looking at you like that?” Steve asked. He sounded almost worried. You would have laughed at his concerned look, but you had to keep an eye on Sam. You let the silence stretch out, not answering Steve and not looking away from Sam, until you were reasonably sure he would keep his mouth shut.

“It’s nothing Steve. Sam just needs to mind his own business.”

“He is nosy as hell,” Bucky grumbled behind you, his arm going to the back of the couch and essentially around your shoulders.

“Aw, you’re just mad cause he’s bugging you about your secrets.”

“Natasha, I don’t care how hard it’ll be, I will kill you.” There was no inflection in your voice, nothing to give away how angry and scared you were. Maybe you should have given a little emotion for the team to read. Maybe then they would have let it go.

As it was, they collectively ganged up on you, grilling you, and refusing to be redirected until you snapped. 

“Just fucking drop it!” you shouted, throwing the tennis ball that was still in your hands at the last team member to pry, Tony.

Everyone was staring. And it took you a moment to process exactly why.

The tennis ball had been on fire.

It hadn’t been on fire before you threw it, and yet it was flaming when it almost hit Tony in the head.

Silence, and slow blinks all around. 

“Holy shit.” Sam was staring open mouthed.

“FRIDAY, when was the last time we checked the fire protocols?” Tony asked, his face still showing surprise, but his voice calm.

“I- I-... That-” you couldn’t seem to form a sentence. Your body seemed frozen to the spot.

“Well that’s interesting,” Natasha mused.

“Is this- is this new?” Clint asked from his seat on the floor in front of Natasha’s chair.

You didn’t know what to say. Was this new? You’d never done it before. You would have known if you had… right?

The only fire you’d ever been in was… oh god.

And just like that, your body was no longer frozen. You shot up out of your seat and sprinted down the hall. You ran into your room and passed through to the attached bathroom without checking if the door was closed, too intent on reaching your destination. Your knees hit the floor in front of the toilet just in time. 

Tears poured from your eyes as you retched. Panic had your chest and gut constricting, making you struggle to breathe. The room would have spun if your head weren’t resting on the cool porcelain of the toilet. As it was, your ears were ringing so much that you couldn't hear your own panting breaths, let alone someone entering the room behind you. You wouldn’t have known Bucky was there if he hadn’t slid his cool metal hand to the back of your neck.

“Shh, doll. It’s okay. It’s just me,” he soothed when you jumped.

You hiccuped in response, taking several minutes to calm to the point that he was able to usher you out of the bathroom. 

Sitting you on the edge of your bed, Bucky stepped back into your bathroom, flushing the toilet and wetting a soft washcloth before coming back to you. He held out the cloth, but when you failed to take it, he began to gently wipe at your face. 

“You know none of the team is upset or freaked out, so what made you run outta there?” Bucky asked quietly.

“What if I did it?” you asked in response, your voice so low Bucky almost missed it.

“Did what, doll?”

“The fire, my parents-” you cut off, unable to say anything more, as fresh tears filled your eyes.

Phil Coulson had been a fantastic foster dad, no doubt about it, but your child’s brain took a long time to adjust to his parenting style. You had missed your parents. Phil had done his best not to erase your parents from your memories. He didn’t know much about them, but your old neighbors had been happy to share stories with you, and you’d created an idealistic version of them in your head. You couldn’t understand why you had survived and they hadn’t, and the nightmares that had followed you into adulthood were still traumatic. What if you had been the cause of the mysterious fire that had killed them. 

“Doll. Hey. Hey Sugar, look at me okay?” Bucky’s hands were on either side of your face. When you met his eyes you got the feeling he had been trying to get your attention for a while. His thumbs softly rubbed your cheekbones as he spoke. “It wasn’t you, doll. It wasn’t your fault.”

“How- how can you possibly know,” you asked in a whisper, trying to pull your face out of his grip, but his fingers tightened slightly. 

“You’ve never done that before. And you’ve only been in one mystery fire.”

“Yeah but-” you started, but Bucky talked right over you.

“If you had been able to start fires as a kid, you would have had it happen around you frequently. When you were angry, when you were scared; it would have happened all the time when you were little, but it didn’t.” He brushed a tear from the corner of your eye and his voice softened. “It wasn’t you honey. I’m sure of it.”

That was a sentiment that he repeated with a few minor variations for several minutes until you calmed down. Once you did, you realized that the position you were in was a little close for comfort. At some point, Bucky had moved from kneeling in front of you, to sitting on the bed beside you, to holding you in his lap. He had his arms around you and your head tucked under his chin. 

However, when you squirmed slightly, embarrassed by your behavior and more than ready to put some space between you and the super soldier you had a giant crush on, Bucky did not let you go.

“Buck,” you said, your voice was a little gravely from crying, “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” He replied, not sounding convinced.

“Yeah, you can let me go now.” You were fairly certain he could feel the heat in your face through his shirt.

“I can, but I don’t want to.”

“I- what?” you stuttered.

“I happen to like holding you, never got to do it before, but I’ve decided I like it and I’m not ready to let you go yet.” Bucky said it in such a matter of fact tone, it sounded reasonable.

The fuck? Did you hear that right? Uh….

Before you could formulate any kind of response, Bucky’s phone started to ring. He managed to get it from his pocket and answer it without releasing you.

“Hello Agent Coulson, thank you for calling me back. Yes, she’s right here, hold on,” he held the phone out to you.

Still in a sort of shock, you took the phone without question. “Papa?” You used the name you called him when you were little. He was never “Dad” or “Daddy” you could remember calling your father that. No, Phil Coulson was “Papa”.

“Hey sweetie. I heard you had a little scare.” You almost burst into fresh tears, but Phil continued. “You never really asked me about the fire, so I never made it a point to tell you about it. It wasn’t you sweetheart.” As Bucky continued to hold you, occasionally rubbing your back, or rocking you slightly, Phil told you about your father’s business, and the intense and hostile relationship he had with his rival. A rival who had decided that killing your father and your family was the best way to enable a hostile takeover of your father’s much more successful business.

An entire amusement park’s worth of emotions rolled through you as you listened to the tale. Anger so intense you could feel smoke all but coming out your ears.

“Doll,” Bucky softly drew your attention, his fingers ever so lightly grazing your arm. When you looked down, you almost jerked out of his hold.

“Holy fuck!” The lava fissures were glowing across your skin. You knew you let off heat when you were like that. You’d burned plenty of bad guys, guards, and assholes as soon as they made skin contact. “Bucky, let me up.” He did, but he didn’t leave the room as you finished your call with Phil.

Phil felt guilty for not telling you all this earlier, but you shook your head, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “It’s not your fault, Papa. I didn’t know this was even a possibility for me to do, I never questioned the fire before. There’s no reason for you to tell me, I didn't ask.” After reassuring him a few more times, and promising to visit him soon and showing him what you’d done, assuming you could repeat the stunt, you said your goodbyes. “Love you, Papa.”

“Love you too sweetheart. See you soon.”

You handed Bucky his phone back, not getting too close to him. But he took his phone and then quickly grabbed your wrist, pulling you close to him again.

“Bucky, you're gonna get burnt!” “No I won’t. You haven’t burned me before, and I’ve been near you like this before. It’s okay.”

“You’ve what?! Why would you do that?!”

“Why would you let me get anywhere near you?”

“Huh?” Well that was a topic change.

“I’m just as dangerous as you. More so actually, I’ve hurt and killed way more people than you probably ever will. You never hesitated to get near me.” Bucky held up his metal arm, drawing attention to it.

“That’s different Bucky, I don’t have control of this. You have control, you would never choose to hurt me.”

“It’s not different to me. I’m not afraid of you. You wouldn’t intentionally hurt me, and I trust you to keep me safe.” You shook your head, incredulous. “You’ve never burned your clothes. You have burned the shit out of people before, but you’ve never burned your clothes.” When you didn’t respond, Bucky said, “you’re in control, Sugar, and I trust you.”

Too many revelations in one day. That was your explanation. A second after Bucky stopped speaking, you registered what he was saying, and dropped your forehead to his, all the fight leaving your body, as your eyes closed. He settled you more comfortably on his lap but kept your foreheads together.

You sighed. “It’s been a hell of a day,” you said with a laugh.

“You’ve had a few shocks alright,” Bucky agreed. After a short pause, he spoke again. “Think you can handle one more?”

You hummed, “probably,” and soft lips pressed against yours. 

A quick intake of breath and your eyes shot open, but you didn’t pull away. “Bucky?”

It was his turn to hum. A small smile slowly spreading across lips that had just pulled back from yours.

“What- why?”

“Been wanting to do that for a while. And if you don’t want to tell me to fuck off, I’m gonna want to do it again. You gonna tell me to fuck off?”

Hesitantly, you shook your head and the smile on his lips stretched. When he pulled back from your second kiss, you could feel a matching smile on your own lips.

Hours later, the two of you emerged from your room, a plan in place to test your new ability. Another plan for how to explore your relationship with both of you being Avengers and having very little privacy. And most importantly, a plan in place to fuck with your nosy, annoying teammates. 

“Hey there, Matches,” Tony called as he spotted you from down the hall.

“Seems I’ve got a new name,” you grumbled. 

“At least you’re not ‘Manchurian Candidate’,” Bucky grouched, pressing a kiss to your temple. A kiss Tony did not miss.

“OH MY GOD! Firebug and Freezer Burn are kissy-face!” Tony Stark, a 12 year old. You rolled your eyes and prepared yourself for handling your teammates.

[minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong]

Sweet Dreams Chapter One

Lucid dreaming: The process of being aware that one is dreaming. Some researchers believe that in lucid dreaming, the individual may be able to change the outcome of the dream or control their degree of participation in the imaginary (dream) environment.

Description: Lee Eunbyul has been plagued with hellish nightmares since she was a child. Not the sort of nightmares you may be familiar with. There are no monsters to evade, no serial killers to outrun, no auditoriums of classmates in front of whom to stand naked. Instead there is just...darkness. Endless darkness. With professional help, the dreams come less frequently. But after moving away from home to live with her sister, Eunbyul’s nightmare returns, only this time it’s different. This time...she’s not alone.

What would you do if you had the chance to change the outcome of not only your dreams, but your life?

Genre: Romance, Drama, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn

Pairing: Namjoon x (f) OC

Word Count: 8.0k

Tags: Non-Idol!Au, Producer!Namjoon, Bookstore Clerk!Seokjin, Potter!Jimin, Producer!Yoongi, Dancer!Hoseok

Warnings: Frequent mentions of mental illness, infrequent swearing and mentions of alcohol

A/N: Hey guys! Here we are at the start of a new series! Ahhhh I can’t believe it. I’m so so excited about this one, so I really hope you guys like it. I hope I can continue it with your support! I tried uploading yesterday, but it didn’t get much traction, so I’m trying again today! Hopefully this time it works out. Regardless, I’m really enthusiastic about this plot so I’m excited to hear your thoughts! Please don’t be shy and send feedback, critique, questions, theories, and comments my way. I’ll be sure to respond to all asks I receive within a day of receiving them! Links will be added later, so for now check my masterlist to find previous chapters!

And again, if you want to follow my Twitter, my username is @/plzpunchmebts. I’m super active over there and hopefully in the future I’ll do some livestreams/chats with you all! 

- Mercury

Previous Chapter – Next Chapter

Masterlist

Weekly updates: Sunday, 1PM (PST)

Eunbyul

Some people say dreams don’t mean anything. That we assign a story to them when we wake up to make sense of all those disjointed electrical impulses, to glean meaning from the random energy. I always kinda liked that theory. Something about it is a little charming: finding the reason in the chaos. I read somewhere that dreams might serve as a form of psychotherapy, letting us deal with difficult issues without bringing them into waking life. I don’t like this theory as much. I also read somewhere that Sigmund Freud thought dreams give us an insight into our unconscious.

I really don’t like that one.

The air was quiet, half-dead after most of the customers had taken their leave, and smelled of instant coffee and old books. Rows of bookshelves lined the scuffed wood floor, endless greenery swaying in hanging baskets or draping over the tops of shelves. Distantly, I heard the sound of the old coffeemaker straining. Sunset rapidly approached on the horizon, encroaching on the city like a curtain. With a sigh, I let my eyes slide from the tabletop beneath my fingers to the window beside me, overlooking the broken outline of stout buildings, green hillsides, and ocean beyond. My eyes ached a little from straining them for hours and I took a moment to give them a rub with my palms, jimmying my glasses up my nose so they pressed into my forehead.

“Need some coffee?”

I jumped, my glasses clattering onto the old table, and I squinted up toward the voice. Chagrined, my cheeks flamed and I scrambled to grab my glasses once more, placing them carefully on the bridge of my nose so I could see him properly. There he stood, terribly handsome with wide eyes and full lips half-parted, brows raised as he looked down at me like a peculiar creature to study. Kim Seokjin.

When I took a moment to really look at him, there wasn’t a single thing I didn’t like. From the caramel top of his head to the bits of smooth forehead that showed through his hair to his playful round eyes to his lopsided half-smile.

“You okay?” he asked, leaning down at the waist to examine me.

My back went rigid and I coughed a little, slamming my book shut and standing to my feet. “I…I was about to leave,” I said without looking directly at him. If I did, I might embarrass myself again.

He chuckled and watched me shove my things into my satchel haphazardly, edges of paper sticking out at odd angles and several book corners straining against the canvas fabric. With a bow, I walked past him in the narrow aisle, careful not to touch him.

“Take care!” he called, whistling as he wandered back toward the register in the corner. He greeted the customer waiting there with a smile.

I watched from the doorway for a moment, scanning him in profile. Even his shapeless maroon bookstore smock looked handsome on him. He nodded gently as the customer made idle conversation, the two of them chatting easily. He placed her books into a paper bag and slid them across the counter, resting his chin in his hand and raising his eyes to offer his full attention. The customer, a young girl maybe a few years my senior, flushed just a little and a nervous smile spread across her face, eyes flitting around as she avoided his gaze.

I sighed and pushed the front door open, exiting to the sound of the overhead bell.

“You smell like bad coffee,” remarked Gaeul as I fell onto the plush living room couch.

She sat in front of the TV on the floor, criss-crossed, nursing a can of lukewarm beer as reruns of Produce 48 droned on. “Went to the bookstore,” I mumbled into a pillow, laying face-down on my stomach with my legs bent against the arm of the couch.

She reached back and gave my arm a smack before returning her attention to the screen. “Stupid,” she said.

I sighed and nodded, reaching out my fingers toward her. Without saying a word, she handed me her can and I took a greedy sip, wincing as the stuff slid down my throat. I bumped the can against her shoulder once I was finished and silently she retrieved it. I let my arm dangle, fingers brushing the plastic-covered floor, and shut my eyes.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Mhm.”

“What’d you say?” she asked.

I opened one eye. “Something dumb.”

She nodded, gaze glued to the television. “Predictable,” she said.

I inhaled slowly, glancing toward the new mural she was working on. A nature scene, the wall behind the TV was now dedicated to a half-finished paint project Gaeul had started the week after I moved in. Green pine trees were poking through grayish fog that ended abruptly where the unpainted white wall began. She’d been following a Bob Ross tutorial after seeing a video of someone else doing it online, but lacked the followthrough to see it to completion. The floor was still covered in plastic tarps from the living room to the kitchen, and each step crinkled, but it made cleaning easier. Consider cleaning your rent, Gaeul had said when she agreed to take me in, At least until you get a job.

“Wanna order in?” she asked, eyes affixed to the television.

We’d ordered in more times in the last few weeks here than we ever had at our parents’ house, mostly because of me. Chinese food containers formed skyscrapers in the recycling bin and not one of Gaeul’s nice ceramic plates had seen use since I moved in.

I sighed, shutting my eyes once more, and gave a defeated nod. “Yeah,” I said.

I washed my hands in the quiet restroom at Hyejin’s Books, trying not to look too long at my gaunt reflection in the mirror. Since moving, my skin had gone lackluster from lack of time outside and my once-long hair was now chopped short, curling from the beach town humidity, sticking up around my shoulders. Why’d you cut it? Gaeul had asked upon my arrival at her apartment. I hadn’t answered, only shrugged. After all, how was I supposed to explain to my sister that cutting it off felt like the only thing I could do? The only thing that made me feel like I was moving forward, even a little?

I adjusted my round rims on my nose bridge and patted my flushed cheeks, nodding once as I turned on my heel toward the exit. But as my fingers clasped around the doorknob, I heard a distinctive sniffle coming from the farthest stall. My back stiffened. Was someone crying? I swallowed hard, body like firm glass, and waited with bated breath for the sound to come again. Had I been preening in that bathroom while this stranger cried? All along?

I peeked over my shoulder, just a little, and bent enough to see the ground beneath the stalls. Indeed, a pair of sneakered feet rested on the polished linoleum, and a person sitting on the ground attached to them. I swallowed hard and lingered in the doorway, awaiting another sniffle, another sign of distress.

But none came. Just silence.

And despite my misgivings, I simply exhaled and absolved myself of guilt. Whoever they were, they didn’t want to be bothered or they’d be making themselves known. I didn’t want to risk upsetting them further, or earning someone’s anger. I pushed the door open and made my way out into the narrow hallway, my mind hanging back in that bathroom.

Gently, I repositioned my meager belongings — wallet, glasses case, memo pad — back into my bag with a sigh. Seokjin wasn’t working, and while he wasn’t the only reason to come to a lazy bookstore and kill time, a place where I knew I wouldn’t be in anybody’s way, he was a big part of why I braved the two-block walk along a busy main street nearly every day. How pathetic. I stared down at the tan skin of my hands, still poised to shove a book or two in my bag, and sighed. What use were hands if they were idle?

I shook my head. A flash of that endless darkness crossed my mind. If I thought too much about my disappointments I’d have the bad dream.

But as I turned on my heel and stepped into the walkway, I heard the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching. Perhaps if I’d have been more alert, the sound would have made me pause, but my mind still lingered on that sniffle. I was making something out of nothing, right? It wasn’t even my business, really. If they wanted to cry in a bookstore, they had that right, didn’t they? Who was I to pry anyway? And what if asking if they were okay made them mad at me?

My body collided with someone else’s. Someone solid, with more flesh and height than I had.

“Ah!” exclaimed a voice from in front of me, too loud for the mellow bookstore.

Another bookstore employee, the girl was holding a beautiful potted plant in her gentle hands, and as if in slow motion, she was swaying back on her heels from the force of our collision. With long, pin-straight black hair and a crooked smile, she was the goofy sort of pretty that made you feel at ease. Or at least, it should make you feel at ease. Unfortunately, looking at her now as she peered down at me with wide, chestnut eyes and lips forming a surprised ‘O’ I felt nothing short of panicked. She swung her hand out, seeking purchase, and clasped hard onto the strap of my satchel.

“Ah, sor-,” I began, voice weak, but before I could continue I heard the distinctive rrrriiiiip of fabric tearing apart.

Too late.

I didn’t even have time to mourn the torn-open satchel because with her pulling so hard in one direction and me still walking in the other, when the tether between us snapped she ended up yanking me down with her. Arms flailing as they scrambled to cushion my fall, my knuckles brushed something hard and another upsetting noise ripped through the quiet store, like someone had thrust open the emergency exit on a plane.

Crash!

I sat on my hands and knees, eyes wide and watering and focused on the ground in front of me to avoid looking at the ground beside me where I knew the carnage lie. Out of my peripheral, however, I saw the unmistakable array of broken pottery, mingling with moist soil and prematurely torn leaves. It seems my momentum had been strong enough to cause a casualty, and I’d grabbed the beautiful potted plant she’d been trying to protect on the way down.

“Oh no!” she cried, horror etched into her gentle features.

The two of us lie in a heap, limbs tangled, belongings strewn about in all directions. My heart was racing, face hot. I eyed the broken pot as it lay splayed out on the ground beside my fingertips. The shock and embarrassment had rendered me immobile, sitting slack-jawed on all fours, eyes wide. Why had I done that? Why hadn’t I contained my fall? Why couldn’t I keep from being in somebody’s way?

“Shoot…,” she mumbled as she scrambled toward the wreckage on her knees. She began collecting the jagged clay pieces, but before she could handle too many I jumped and clasped her hands to stop her. “Huh?” she asked, eyes round as she turned to me.

“You’ll cut yourself,” I said, eyes on the pieces.

I pursed my lips and turned the remains of my satchel upside down, wrapping my hands in the canvas as my belongings rolled around the floor, adding to the mess. I collected the pieces in my covered palm, holding the bigger chunks between my index finger and thumb.

“Thanks,” said the girl, her voice low as she used her smock to help. “I’m sorry for grabbing you on the way down.”

I shook my head, letting my mind focus on the pieces instead of the palpitations of my heart, the sweat gathering in my palms. Doctor Kim said when I felt it coming, I could circumvent it with enough focus. Just…focus on something else. So I did, watching with an almost catatonic gaze as my hands worked on their own accord, independent of my will.

“This thing was kinda expensive…,” she mumbled, sighing as I deposited the pieces I’d collected into the hamper she’d made of her smock. “I bet they’ll take it outta my pay.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, struggling to track her words as they left her mouth. Folks around the shop were staring now, spectating. It was hard to find something else to focus on when all I could think of was disappearing right then and there.

“Anyway, thanks for helping,” she said with a soft smile.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, nodding and pushing to my feet.

“I really am sorry,” she said, helping gather my things from around the floor.

I swallowed hard. “It’s okay.” I kept my eyes on the ground, eager to disappear from that book store and find a new place to spend my endless days.

I collected my things and carried them awkwardly in front of my stomach. I glanced around and found that every patron had paused their individual activities to watch the show. My throat constricted and my breaths became slightly more shallow. Before I could think too hard, I rushed out the door and down the stairs.

I sat by myself on a swing, all alone in a big, sprawling park. I’d only just turned seven, and the world seemed all at once too big and too small for me. Gaeul told me to wait for her there, wait until she was done with soccer practice so we could walk home together. But as sunset began to bleed across the sky in red and purple, the shadows started to look too long, the trees rustling too loud in the breeze. Picking at the skin around my fingernails, I slouched over my knees, eyes on the sand below that my toes couldn’t quite reach. My throat felt a little tight, and swallowing didn’t fix it any.

“Byul!” called Gaeul as she ran down the sidewalk toward me, waving her arms above her head with a gummy grin.

Upon seeing her, I smiled and slid off the swing. I ran to meet her halfway. “How was practice?” I asked, slurring a little with my missing front tooth.

She whistled and rested both hands on her hips with the smile of a champion, cleats tied and slung over her shoulder, kneepads slid down to her ankles. She was skinny, like a waif, knobby knees emerging from beneath too-big gym shorts. But to me, she looked like a superhero with the sun silhouetting her. My big sister, here to save me.

I hadn’t learned yet that there were things even she couldn’t save me from.

“Nevermind that,” she said, waving a hand with a loud laugh that crashed and echoed against the trees. “Jaehyun’s mom gave me some money for helping out with her lawn. Let’s go get some snacks at Auntie’s!”

My eyes went wide at the mention of food and I beamed up at her. Her round face was flushed, hair a mess, eyes nearly invisible with the force of her smile. And I knew that, if I had her around, I’d be okay.

“Let’s go through the woods!” said Gaeul, sliding past me on the playground path and pointing with one spindly arm towards the line of trees ringing the west side.

I stared into the rapidly darkening forest, squinting into its depths. It seemed the longer I looked, the deeper the woods became, and despite having played in those woods enough to know them like the back of my hand, something about it felt a little ominous that day.

I should’ve listened to my instincts.

“Let’s go!” called Gaeul as she jogged toward the tree line, leaving me to toddle cautiously in her wake.

I awoke with a start and stared at the analog clock on my wall. Squinting against the barely breaking morning outside my window, I saw the time. 4:03. My fingers found the empty bridge of my nose and squeezed. I grabbed for my glasses and slid them on, rubbing my jaw. There was no hope of falling asleep again, not after a dream like that.

At least it wasn’t the bad dream.

I stretched in bed and gave my fleshy thighs a squeeze, massaging the tension out of them with my fingers. My body had a tendency to seize up during dreams. Doctor Kim said it was because of my fitful sleeping habits, and that seemed to make enough sense. But it had certainly been a while since I’d felt these cramps.

I sighed, pushing myself out of bed and padding in my socks toward my yet unpacked luggage. I rifled through the clothes I’d been cycling for weeks, some of them washed and some not, and settled on an old Nirvana shirt Dad gave me before I left and a pair of shorts that allowed the warm air to unknot the cramps in my legs. Tiptoeing out onto the tarp-covered living room floor, I made my way to the front door and slipped on a pair of tennis shoes, not bothering to tie them, and slid a baseball cap on my head.

With a glance over my shoulder at the still, quiet apartment, I stepped out into the hallway and made my way to the stairwell.

Walking helped the muscles loosen up, and after thirty minutes of wandering the dawn-drenched alleyways and sidewalks around Gaeul’s apartment, my body felt relaxed again. Dawn was a nice time of day. Nobody was out yet, the businesspeople still tucked in bed, the late night wanderers making their ways home. It was just me, the lilac morning, the sleeping city, and the ground beneath my untied shoes.

Well, and the sound of jazzy lofi.

As I rounded the corner toward the arts district, about a block from Hyejin’s, I heard the muffled sound of music bumping quietly from an open window on the first floor of a narrow shop, nestled between two tall, windowed buildings. The storefront looked a little out of place in such a modern area. In fact, it probably suited the beachfront more with its brown shutters and faded turquoise paint. I approached it slowly, rubbing my bleary eyes to get a proper look at it. Who was up and working at this hour?

Park’s Pottery.

The sign was old, weathered, propped out over the sidewalk to attract attention from passers by. Well, it certainly attracted my attention. I wandered closer to the open window and peeked inside. I scanned the dim shop with a squint. It was small, but crammed with vases and teapots and bowls. Floor to ceiling were metal racks housing all manner of trinkets. The walls were adorned with tapestries, paintings, and posters from all over the place, and the floor was home to several elegant rugs, all splattered with dried clay. To the right of the front window was a cash register and to the left was an alcove with a bright, yellow warehouse light. That was the source of the music.

I crept a little closer, placing my hands on the windowpane, and craned my neck to see better. In that alcove was a spinning table and, with his back hunched over it, a young man with a bandana holding his hair off his shiny forehead. I raised my brows as I got a better look at him in profile. Dark hair and focused, serious eyes, he had cherubic cheeks and pouty lips as he worked his hands over the clay, smoothing it as it spun in rapid circles. His fingers looked capable, certain as they molded the material, occasionally dipping into a bowl of sludgy water and returning with biceps straining. It was almost like a dance. The hypnotic motions had me in a trance. He seemed so sure of himself, so confident. In control.

I didn’t even notice when the music stopped.

But he did.

He turned his head sharply toward the desk behind him and stared at his cell phone with a sigh. He sure was pretty. But before I could admire the stranger properly, his smart, dark eyes were upon me, sweeping naturally from his phone back to his clay. I stiffened in the windowsill and, as he opened his mouth and widened his eyes, I jumped and ran down the sidewalk, pumping my arms.

What was I, a criminal?

I sprinted quickly, squeezing my eyes shut as embarrassment turned my skin into hot leather. Great, I thought, another place I have to avoid.

“Wait!” called a high, gentle voice from behind me.

I turned to glance at the stranger as he exited the building, leaving the front door swinging behind him. He took off in a jog after me, fists clenched and still dripping with wet clay. I flushed and ran faster, desperate to avoid this awkward confrontation. My throat was closing, and not from the running. Each time I glanced over my shoulder, the stranger was right there, just a few paces behind me.

As I forced myself to run faster, I felt something tug at my ankle and before I could react, the untied lace from my right shoe was trapped beneath my left foot and I went sailing through the air. I flew for a foot or two before skidding to a stop on my bare knees, crying out in pain as my palms collided with the rough concrete. Wincing, I examined my hands and let out a strangled yelp as I found the skin had begun to peel away, revealing a layer of blood.

“Shit! You okay?” asked the same voice from behind me.

Heart hammering, I kept my head low, face obscured by my baseball cap, and nodded my head. “Mhm.”

I felt him approaching as he squatted beside me, glancing over my shoulder. “Ah,” he exhaled with a sigh. “Come back with me. I’ve got a first aid kit.”

I made no move to leave my spot, sitting on my skinned knees. But the young man was persistent and, upon seeing my reluctance, huffed and grabbed me by the crook of my elbow, leaving fingerprints of clay on my skin. Without a word, he led the way back to his pottery shop and I followed like a scolded child.

Well, at least the city was still asleep.

The young man kept his serious dark eyes trained on my hands as he applied several large bandages to them. He’d already taken care of my knees, and had demanded I sit in front of the pottery wheel while he took his time dressing my wounds. After what felt like an eternity in that dark shop, he finally spoke.

“Why’d you run away?” he asked.

I stiffened. Why had I? “I…,” I began, then shook my head. My heart rate had slowly returned to normal with the passage of time, and despite this man being a stranger I felt at ease around him. Probably because he hadn’t properly looked me in the eye. “I got nervous.”

He chuckled and patted my palm, glancing toward his half-finished work on the wheel behind me. “Nervous?” he asked.

“I was watching you through your window,” I said with a sigh. “Kinda creepy.”

He glanced at me for only a moment before shutting his eyes and offering a shrug and an easy smile. “I like having an audience,” he said.

I eyed him, his soft face, his slim shoulders and the dirty smock he had draped over them. He didn’t look like a potter. “Are you an employee?” I asked.

He opened his eyes and raised his brows. “Me?” he asked, then laughed and waved his freshly cleaned hands. “No, I own this place.”

I felt my eyes go wide, but tried to manage my expression. “You’re…you’re pretty young to own a pottery shop.”

He smiled. “Twenty-four,” he said with a nod. “It’s a family business, but my dad retired and handed the place down to me.”

I hummed as I glanced around. It sure was rustic. But charming nonetheless. Like a relic lost to time. “Your pieces are pretty,” I remarked as I scanned the racks.

He hummed, patting his thighs with a nod. “Well, after so long learning I’d sure hope my wares are good.”

“You get a lot of customers?” I asked, peeking at him out the corner of my eye. This was the longest conversation I’d had with anyone since moving out here, and for some reason I was reluctant to cut it short.

He chuckled and rubbed his jaw. “Mhm,” he said. “Why else would I be out here so early?”

“You work all day?”

“Nearly.”

“Every day?”

He smiled and met my eyes. “Nearly.”

“Wow,” I mumbled as I took in the shop from this new angle. I sighed. “Must be nice.”

“Hm?”

“Having something to do.”

I felt his eyes on me as my own eyes wandered, catching on little details all throughout the shop. A painting of Venus beside the door, a bare lightbulb, unlit, dangling from the ceiling beside the checkout counter, the frayed edge of a red and purple rug. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, wasn’t even sure what I was thinking, but wordlessly I felt him shift as he sat on a crate in front of me.

“You wanna take something with you?” he asked quietly, lilting voice barely above a whisper in the silent shop.

I raised my brows. “Can you do that?”

He shrugged. “My shop.”

I chuckled and nodded. “I guess that’s true,” I said, sighing as I pushed myself to my feet. The young man joined me and gestured with one swooping hand toward the racks.

“Choose whatever you want,” he said, walking beside me as he weaved his way through the aisles. My gaze landed on a particularly beautiful flower pot sitting at eye level, just beside the throwing table. “Teapots are over here. Bowls are over there. Got a few-,”

“I want this,” I said, reaching for the pot with two careful hands.

He blinked a few times and met my eyes from the other side of the rack. “Oh,” he said, then nodded. “Alright.”

I ran my fingers over the flower pot. It had been intricately carved with swirling roses and twisting vines, leaves floating everywhere. It was definitely prettier than the one I broke, that much was certain. It looked about the right size. Hopefully they hadn’t already bought a new one.

Well, if they did I could just keep the thing for myself.

I offered the young man a tight-lipped smile and bowed my head, excusing myself to the exit. He followed beside me, eyeing the pot in my hands with a curious expression. Once in the doorway, I turned to him and gave one more bow.

“I’m sorry for spying on you,” I said, meeting his eyes carefully.

He smiled and, lucky for me, his eyes nearly disappeared. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Stop by again sometime. Maybe you can buy something.”

I nodded and smiled at the flower pot. “I will.”

“I’m Jimin, by the way. Park Jimin,” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I hoisted the flower pot up on my hip and took his warm hand, shaking twice. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Lee Eunbyul.”

He smiled again. “Pleasure,” he said, waving as I slipped out the front door. “Hope to see you again soon, Eunbyul.”

I slipped through the front door of Hyejin’s Bookstore, still holding the flower pot close. I’d waited an hour for the shop to open and, allowing the morning staff a ten minute grace period to set up shop, was the first patron to enter. The shop housed two stories of books and, navigating the stacks expertly like a covert agent, I maneuvered my way to the second floor unbeknownst to the two opening employees. I hadn’t had the time to figure out which ones they were, but from the broad back and chestnut hair of the man standing at the coffee maker I was pretty sure I could guess at least one.

God, of course. During my most important stealth mission, my Kryptonite shows up.

Nonetheless, I tiptoed toward the register and, using the sides of my fingers as cushions, set the flower pot down beside the register with a wince. By then, several other patrons had begun filing in, braving the steep stairs to the second floor and lining up beside the ancient coffee machine. I kept an eye on everyone, but mostly Seokjin as he restocked the paper cups and coffee stirrers. Once I was certain the pot was placed perfectly, I took a half-step back and glanced over my shoulder at Seokjin, still unaware of my presence.

His hair was quaffed out of his face today, styled to reveal his forehead, and his skin was practically glowing. I wasn’t sure if I was more jealous or in love with the guy. Sighing, I wandered lazily toward my favorite spot by the window, resting my hands palms-down on the tabletop. A few moments passed in silence before I heard someone speak.

“Oh…,” breathed a voice from the register.

To my dismay, there stood the same girl from the day before, eyes wide as she stared at the intricate, detailed flower pot with wonder-filled eyes. She turned it around a few times, appraising it, before smiling softly and scoffing once. She swept her gaze around the bookstore and I let my head fall downwards, heart racing. If she spotted me, I was cooked. She’d know for certain who had left it there.

“Jin!” she called with a disbelieving laugh.

Seokjin jogged over toward his coworker at the register and, rolling up the cuffs of his white button-down, glanced down toward the pot. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Someone left it here?”

“Seems like it,” replied the girl, smiling stupefied at the gift. “I was just about to buy a new one after work.”

I had to admit to a little swell of pride at that expression. It felt good to do good, that’s what Dad always said. And even though the pot was just repayment for the broken one, I felt a little piece inside me slip back into place. Like cogs in a clock.

“Huh,” said Seokjin, and without warning his eyes found me.

I stiffened, ready to make a run for it, but was stunned into stillness as our gazes locked and his handsome face broke into a small, knowing smile. “Seems like someone’s looking out for you,” he said gently, still smiling my way.

I cleared my throat and glanced out the window at the pastel morning sky, resting my burning cheek in my hand and allowing my mind to wander to the faraway clouds that ringed the horizon.

I’m dreaming, I thought to myself as I examined my hands, the fuzzy edges where my brain tried and failed to remember the finer details. Last thing I remembered was falling asleep in bed. What had Doctor Kim said? If you know it’s a dream, you can wake yourself up if you try hard enough. I tried hard to feel my body, the mattress beneath it, the covers I’d kicked off of it in the middle of the night. I tried to reason myself back into a physical space, out of this dark, cold, colorless void. But the more I struggled, the more suffocating the darkness felt. I squeezed my eyes shut, but like when I was young I could find no solace in the pitch-dark backs of my eyelids.

“Alright, alright,” I said aloud with a nod, shaking out my hands. I glanced around the void for a moment, eyes scanning the depths. “Detail, detail,” I said. I managed my breathing. “Doctor Kim said to find a detail.”

I scanned the darkness, searching for something, anything, that stood out. Something that clued me in to this being a dream. Something I could use to shake my brain out of sleep. I took a tentative step forward, or rather what might have been a step, and felt the same cool air I always felt in this void. My throat was constricting the longer I spent in here.

“Detail,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut. I begged for it. I longed for it so hard I wondered if I could simply will it into existence. “A tear,” I began. “Or a fray.” I scoffed as determined tears marched down my cheeks. “A fucking shoelace!” I shouted into the nothing.

Frustrated, I fell backwards onto my bottom and submitted to the sobs that began wracking my frame. The chill bit my exposed skin and raised goosebumps on my arms. “Jesus,” I said aloud, rubbing them down through tears. “For a dream, this shit is too realistic.”

I sniffled and stared around me at the darkness. When I was young, I used to search for the end of it. I walked for what felt like miles in one direction each night, wandering endlessly until eventually I woke up.

I never did find the end.

“Because there is no end,” I mumbled to myself, kicking my toe into the nothing beneath my cold bare feet.

“Yes there is.”

I screamed and jumped upright, scrambling backwards away from the voice behind me. Gasping for breath with my heart hammering, I peeled my eyes open and saw to my horror and immense relief…

A young man.

Standing about six feet tall with kind, dark brown eyes and a dimpled smile, the man seemed…inexplicably gentle. He stood dressed in plaid pajama pants and an old t-shirt, no shoes like me, honey-blonde hair sitting like a mop atop his head, standing in all directions. He yawned and scratched his jaw, eyes half-shut. Had my brain conjured another person to keep me company?

For the first time, I wasn’t alone in here…

I adjusted my posture, staring at him for what felt like a long, desperate moment. And, without meaning to, I rushed toward him and wrapped trembling fingers around his arm. Despite my expectations, he was real. Tangible. My fingers clamped down on actual flesh. They didn’t pass through. A fresh wave of emotion swept me up and carried me away and wordlessly, hot tears rolled like raindrops down my cheeks. Still holding on to his arm, I dipped my head, leaning it against his firm chest, and sobbed.

Startled, he tried to step away from me, but I was putting too much weight on him. He coughed a little before, almost reluctantly, he raised a hand and patted my shoulder.

“Ah…um…it’s okay…?” he said, trailing off.

I sniffled. “I can’t believe it.”

“Hm?”

“Detail,” I mumbled, wiping my messy eyes on his white shirt.

“Ah!” he shouted as I leaned away and he saw the wet spots. “Oh shoot.” He freed his arm from my grasp so he could pat the stains with the pads of his fingers.

I sniffled and stared up at him, juxtaposed against the unfathomable darkness, eyes downturned to focus on his shirt. “You’re not real, are you?” I asked slowly, edging away. My brain wasn’t tidy enough to worry about a stained shirt…

So whatever he was, he couldn’t be from me.

His eyes flashed back toward me, sweet, heavy-lidded, pupils huge in the dark. “I…yes? Are you?” he asked, then squinted at me with those sweet eyes. “Have you been crying for a while? You’re very red.”

I blinked at him and took a half-step back, not trusting myself to speak again. I glanced down at my bare legs, covered only by frumpy panties and a big shirt, and tried to subtly guide the hemline down the skin of my thighs.

“You…you’re really a real person? Really?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Really really.”

I furrowed my brow and examined him from where I stood several inches shorter. His cheeks went pink under my scrutiny, but it was incomprehensible to me. “I’ve been having these dreams since I was seven and I’ve never seen another person,” I said.

He raised his brows. “Seven?” he asked. “Huh.” He peered down at me. “How old are you now?”

“Does that matter?”

“I’m just trying to make sense of it too,” he said, watching me carefully.

I sighed. “Twenty-two,” I said.

“I’m twenty-four…,” he said with a hum, rubbing his jaw with his right hand. Something about him was oddly intellectual, like he had answers to any question I could conjure. But my heart was still racing, my palms still slick with sweat. No matter how forthcoming he was, he was still a stranger in my dream. “Guess it doesn’t have to do with age. Maybe time?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, frustrated.

He glanced at me before squinting into the darkness. “Well I started having these dreams at age nine,” he began, eyeing me. “Same time you did. I was just two years older.”

“So?”

“Maybe it’s connected?” he asked with a shrug.

“Doctor Kim said-,” I began, then stopped myself short, clamping my mouth shut. I crossed my arms and sighed. “It’s trauma-based. This whole thing.”

“Is it?”

I glanced at him. “Isn’t it?”

He smiled. “I’m not so sure,” he said, then sighed and took a step forward. “Why’s it so dark here?”

“You’ve been having these dreams since you were nine and you don’t know it’s gonna be dark?” I asked, cocking a brow as I sat down on the nothing beneath me.

He blinked at me. “Wait, it’s always like this for you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Is there anything else it could be?”

He scoffed and crossed his arms, disbelief etched into his features. “Well,” he began, glancing around. “It can be anything, really.”

“Huh?”

Before I could interrogate him further, the blackness around began to give way to something else. Like spilling paint across a canvas, vibrant colors began to bleed from behind the stranger’s back, extending forward toward me. A frightened cry escaped me and I leapt to my feet, scuttling away from the colors as they spread like a drink tipped over. At first, the colors seemed shapeless but as they grew the image began to clear up, revealing soft edges and patterns and before I knew it I was standing on a beach, golden sand between my bare toes, purplish ocean rising and falling behind the man’s back as an invisible tide drew waves against the shore.

Tears pricked my eyes as I stumbled back once again, only this time I felt the warm sand beneath me, cushioning my fall. Gaping, I sat with my legs bent awkwardly on the shoreline’s slope, staring at the endless ocean and the cliffside forming a ring around the beach.

“W-w-what the hell is this?!” I screamed, and my voice didn’t echo, it just seeped through the landscape, swallowed by the sound of the waves. My tears returned, trailing hot down my face.

The stranger approached and crouched beside me, eyes wide. “Shit, I didn’t mean to scare you or anything! It’s just-,”

“Wh-what the fuck are you?” I asked, hands trembling violently. “I-I-I’ve never s-seen it do that.”

He blinked at me, genuine worry in his soft eyes, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I thought you could do it too.”

“Do what?”

“Control it.”

“Control what?”

“The dream.”

I swiped a hand across my face, wiping my tears, and glanced around the beach. The longer I looked, the more beautiful it was. Like a snapshot in time. The sky was drenched in shades of lilac and amber and the sun seemed to live perpetually against the horizon line, never dipping below. A never-ending sunset. When I inhaled, I could even smell the salty seawater and fresh summertime air.

“What’s your name?” asked the stranger, coming to an uneasy crouch beside me.

I turned my wild eyes toward him and blinked. “Eunbyul,” I said weekly. “Lee Eunbyul.”

He smiled gently and held out his hands for me to shake. I was struck by the memory of Jimin from earlier that morning. Was this perhaps all he was? A manifestation of my memories of the day? “Kim Namjoon,” he said as he clasped his hand around my bandaged palm. “This is a first for me too, you know,” he said as he fell onto his bottom by my thigh.

I glanced at him. “What?”

“Having someone else here,” he said with a chuckle. “Not that I think you’re real.”

“I’m not real?” I asked, eyes wide, as I pointed a finger toward my chest.

He raised his brows. “Well how could you be? It’s not like this is a different dimension. It’s just my dream, right?”

“It’s my dream,” I said. “Listen, you’re really freaking me out.”

He turned to me with a furrowed brow. “Then you’re real? Are you sure?” He then rolled his eyes and rested his chin in his hand. “Stupid question. If you’re something I made up then of course you’re gonna say you’re real.”

“I’m a real person, Namjoon,” I said seriously, meeting his eyes. “I have a sister named Gaeul and a mom named Iseul and a dad named Doyeon. I’m from Sangdo-dong-,”

“You’re from Sangdo-dong?” he asked, eyes wide.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, timid pinned underneath his incriminating gaze.

He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms. “Huh.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can I prove it?” I asked.

He eyed me. “I don’t know.”

I swallowed hard. “Do I really seem like just character you dreamed up?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Do you really think your brain is that powerful?”

At this he chuckled and a little bit of the tension I’d been holding in my gut dissolved. I glanced at him, bathed in gentle dying sunlight, and found my proof. There was no way my mind could conjure someone like him. Something magnificent like this scene. I wasn’t equipped like he was.

“How did you do it?” I asked quietly, still scanning his fine features, his honeyed skin.

He raised his brows. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just kind of…do it,” he said with a nod.

I blinked. “That’s super unhelpful.”

He laughed. “Well…I guess the best I can do is say…think of a vivid memory, something really sensory, and try to put yourself there.”

“So you’ve been here before?” I asked, glancing around.

He smiled. “It’s a beach in the town where I live,” he said softly. “I came here when I graduated high school. All alone. And I just watched the waves until night came.”

“And what if I want to go to…I don’t know, Barbados?” I asked.

He laughed, a vibrant, bellowing sound, and his eyes squeezed shut. He hooked his elbows around his knees and grinned at the skyline. “Then I’d say study up.”

“Have you ever done it? Created a place you’ve never been to?” I asked, my curiosity forcing my inhibitions to rest.

He hummed. “Once or twice, but it’s harder. Gotta know what you want to see like the back of your hand for it to work.”

“And you do this every time?”

“Mhm,” he said with an easy smile. “A lucid dream is defined as a dream during which dreamers, while dreaming, are aware they are dreaming,” he said, sounding like an encyclopedia. Like he had it memorized. “That’s what specialists say.”

“So this is just a lucid dream to you?”

“Is it not a lucid dream to you?” he asked, raising his brows.

I blinked, mouth agape, and returned my eyes to the sea. “I never thought of it that way,” I said quietly, picking at the skin around my nails. “I guess since I couldn’t control them…”

He smiled. “But you can,” he said. “It’s your dream after all.”

I turned to him, brows furrowed, and exhaled slowly. “It’s my dream…,” I repeated with a nod. I turned to glance at the ocean. “I think I figured out a way to prove I’m real.”

“Mm?”

“If I can show you something you’ve never seen…that would be enough, right?” I asked, watching the waves lapping the shore.

He smiled. “I suppose.”

I nodded and squeezed my eyes shut. I focused on all my senses. The scent of old wood, pancakes cooking in the kitchen, far away. The feeling of Mom’s quilt beneath my fingertips, the cool air-conditioning blowing strands of hair around my face. The sound of muffled conversation through the walls, footsteps falling through the wood-floored hallways. The way my bed looked, tucked in a corner beside the window, white sheer curtains blowing with the breeze that Mom scolded me for letting in, the dresser in the corner, the narrow door, my box of toys half-open by the bed. I saw and felt it all so vividly I was certain that when I opened my eyes-

There it was.

I blinked at the dark wood paneling of my childhood bedroom, the beams criss-crossing overhead, the shiny floor. A few scoffing breaths escaped my lips in uneasy puffs, but before I could say a single thing, a voice retrieved me from my reverie.

“Wow,” said Namjoon from beside me.

And with that, the illusion crumbled and my bedroom faded away like sand through my fingertips. The image slipped in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only the black emptiness of nothing, all around us. I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the blackness for a few tense seconds. It had been there. My room had really, truly been there right before my eyes. I could feel it, smell it, touch it. Like I was right there.

I glanced at Namjoon and found him smirking at me. “Well,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve certainly never seen that before.”

Before I could reply, I felt a vague tugging sensation in my chest, like I was being yanked from the inside. “Oh,” I breathed.

He glanced down at his own chest and nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

“W-wait!” I called, resisting the pull and reaching my desperate, clinging hands out to him once more. I grabbed his forearm in my hands and stared up at him, pleading. “I…I don’t wanna go yet,” I said, shaking my head. “I have so much to ask you.”

He smiled gently and gave my hand a pat. “It was nice to meet you, Eunbyul,” he said, taking a step away from me and breaking the tether of my grip. My hands fell to my sides and the pull became too strong to fight.

“Namjoon!” I called, but my voice was fading and so was he. “I’ll come back! I swear!”

“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” he said with an echoing laugh. “Maybe even in real life.”

I felt like I might cry again. So much had happened in one night. The fear I’d always harbored for this dark nightmare was all but gone. In its wake, anticipation so great it threatened to sweep me away like the inescapable force of a tide.

I awoke panting, sweat beading along my hairline. I swallowed hard past the dryness in my throat and reached for my water bottle, removing my glasses from the bridge of my nose and slipping them onto the table. I usually didn’t sleep with those things on. I drank greedily, shutting my eyes, and ran a hand through my hair before collapsing once more against the cushion of my bed. 4:03.

I huffed and set the bottle aside, lying still on my back and staring at the fuzzy outline of the ceiling, unable to see it properly with my glasses.

Again, I was awake before the sun.

Only this time, I couldn’t remember what sort of dream had woken me up.