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seongwars · 1 month ago

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strangers by nature | viii

Pairing: heir!Song Mingi x heir!Reader AU: non-idol | arranged marriage | enemies to lovers Genre: angst, humor, fluff in future chapters Rating: NC-17 Summary: After a life-altering car accident, Mingi is given one final shot at redemption—reborn as a fuzzy little puppy. To earn a second chance at life, he must complete three tasks or risk being doomed to the afterlife forever. Word Count: 5.5K Warnings: fluff, mentions of infidelity

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“You’ll need extensive physical therapy,” Dr. Jang said, flipping through his chart the day Mingi was to be discharged.

“Walking will be difficult at first. You’ll experience weakness, dizziness, and possibly some coordination issues.”

Mrs. Song let out a sharp breath, bringing a hand up to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. Beside her, Mr. Song reached over and placed a firm, reassuring hand on her arm. They had known this was coming, yet hearing it aloud made it all the more real.

“We’ll have to make arrangements,” his mother replied. “Oh, if he’s going to struggle, we can have the physical therapist come to the house.”

“There’s no need,” Mingi rasped, glancing over at you. “Y/N can help me.”

The entire room fell silent.

Dr. Jang stopped mid-page, his eyes flickering up over his glasses. The nurse who had been taking discharge notes blinked so fast it was almost comical. Even Mr. Song, ever composed, arched an eyebrow in surprise.

“W-What? Me?” you stammered, pointing to yourself as if there had been some mistake.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like your help,” Mingi repeated, his voice steadier now, as if the decision had already been made in his mind. There was something almost… gentle in the way he looked at you.

You stared at him in disbelief. Mingi, the man who never wanted anything to do with you, was asking for your help?

“Mingi, are you sure?”

Mrs. Song was still staring at him like he had grown a second head. “But you always—” She hesitated, searching for the right words.

“You’ve never liked being…helped. You always insist on doing things yourself.”

Mingi exhaled, leaning back against the pillows, his fingers twitching slightly against the blanket. “I know,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, almost contemplative.

“But things are different now.”

And for some reason, the way he said it made it feel like he wasn’t just talking about his injury.

You pulled up to the entrance, cutting the engine before stepping out to grab Mingi’s crutches from the backseat. By now, the visits were becoming routine, but each time, it still struck you as surreal.

You turned to him, holding out the crutches. “Do you need anything else? I can grab a wheelchair if you want.”

Mingi shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve got it.”

Then, to your complete and utter bewilderment, he smiled—small, unguarded, but warm in a way you’d never quite seen before. The sight of it sent a strange flutter through your chest, something unfamiliar yet not entirely unwelcome.

Before you could process it, his hand brushed against your arm, a brief touch that sent a gentle warmth trailing in its wake. His fingers lingered just long enough to make you wonder if it was intentional before he gave your arm a light squeeze—as if he were telling you he’d see you soon.

It was fleeting, gone too soon, but the feeling remained, leaving you gripping the car door handle as if it were the only thing keeping you steady.

Mingi had never smiled at you before.

The whole drive home, you were lost in thought, your hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. Confused didn’t even begin to cover it. Lately, everything about Mingi had been confusing.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. But then it became impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the way he looked at you now—like he was seeing you for the first time, rather than through you. It was how he acted. How he hovered.

He followed you around the penthouse like a puppy. If you turned around too quickly, he was there, standing just a few feet away. If you rounded a corner, you nearly crashed into him. It was like he was always waiting for something.

Waiting for you.

You could almost see it—the imaginary puppy ears perking up, the wagging tail swishing behind him, hoping you’d notice that he was there.

And as if that weren’t strange enough, he’d also become…talkative. Well, in his own way. Mingi had started initiating conversations with you through animal facts, seemingly random tidbits of knowledge he’d been holding in until they just slipped out.

“Did you know that vampire bats share their food with other vampire bats?”

“What?” You blinked at him, holding your fork mid bite.

“They, um…they regurgitate blood for bats that didn’t eat.” His voice was quiet and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if this was something you’d want to hear but hoped you might find it interesting.

You blinked at him, trying to decide if this was some kind of weird joke. But there was no teasing in his expression—just an earnest kind of hopefulness, like he wanted you to acknowledge his effort.

Like he wanted you to know he was trying.

“Oh…” You let out a small laugh, tilting your head at him. “Are you telling me I don’t eat enough?”

Mingi’s ears tinged pink as he gave a small, sheepish nod.

“Kind of…” he admitted, shifting awkwardly.

“I noticed that sometimes you skip meals when you’re busy or stressed.” His voice dropped slightly, almost as if he was embarrassed to say it aloud.

“It’s not good for you.”

Another instance, you were humming to yourself as you sorted through the laundry, tossing a few shirts into the washing machine. The penthouse was quiet, save for the whir of the dryer running in the background. You reached for the basket when—

“Did you know that wombats poop in cubes?”

You yelped, throwing your laundry into the air as you spun around. Mingi stood just a few feet away, wide-eyed, his hands hovering awkwardly in front of him like he wasn’t sure whether to help or apologize.

“Mingi!” you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest. “You scared me!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled, shifting on his feet. “The sugar cubes you put in your tea reminded me of wombat poop for some reason.”

You shook your head as you stepped into the lift back to the penthouse. You weren’t sure how you felt about your husband’s newfound attitude. It wasn’t that you were ungrateful—Mingi had finally woken up, and that should have been enough.

The moment you kicked off your shoes in the foyer, Mrs. Ha, the chef, scurried over, her eyes darting between you and the hallway like she was still in the habit of speaking cautiously.

“Oh, Ms. Y/N!” she whispered urgently, clutching her apron. “How was he?”

You let out a sharp exhale, still trying to make sense of it yourself. “Weird,” you hissed, picking up your pace to match hers as you both hurried toward the kitchen.

“He smiled at me. And—” You hesitated for a second before lowering your voice. “He squeezed my arm.”

Mrs. Ha gasped so dramatically you thought she might faint. “No.” She shook her head as if refusing to believe it.

“I know,” you muttered, half-joking, but not really. “He used to pretend I didn't exist. Now he’s…” You trailed off, struggling to find the right word.

Warm? Inviting? Considerate?

It felt strange to say out loud, but stranger still that it might actually be true.

Mrs. Ha grabbed your wrist as if trying to steady herself, or maybe you. “Ms. Y/N,” she said gravely, “do you think he hit his head too hard?”

You swallowed, the thought lingering in your mind longer than it should. Mingi’s accident had been severe. He’d been unconscious for months and it was a miracle he woke up at all.

And yet, this wasn’t just waking up. This was different. The Mingi you knew had been cold, distant, cruel even. He never touched you unless absolutely necessary, never smiled at you unless it was laced with sarcasm or condescension. But today?

Today, he’d looked at you like he actually saw you.

Could head trauma really alter someone’s personality that drastically? Had the accident shaken something loose inside him?

“Can you believe he asked me about plants?” Yohan scoffed, handing you a cup of tea as you stepped into the kitchen.

“Mingi and plants.” He shook his head in disbelief, leaning against the counter. “I can’t believe he’s actually considering keeping something alive besides himself.”

You snorted, though the humor was short-lived. The shift in Mingi’s behavior was too drastic, too unnatural. You took a sip of your tea, the warmth doing little to ease the uncertainty. This new Mingi was too good to be true, and you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mingi’s kindness, his warmth—it didn’t make sense. Not when he had spent so long resenting you.

“This morning, he casually mentioned that zebras can’t sleep alone,” you murmured, tapping your fingers against the cup.

“Well he said he’s looking forward to dinner!” Mrs. Ha interjected.

“Three months ago, he barely spoke to anyone, including Y/N and now he’s making conversation?” Yohan shook his head, placing a hand on his hip.

“This is suspicious.”

No one wanted to say it out loud, but you all felt the same way. Mingi’s recovery wasn’t just physical. He was changing, bit by bit. And for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t for the worse.

⋆

“Your grip strength is starting to improve, as well as the mobility on your left side. Soon, you won’t need the crutches anymore,” Dr. Lim noted encouragingly.

Mingi exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he steadied himself. The session had been brutal, as they always were, but hearing that he was making progress gave him a small sense of victory.

“That’s it for today. We’ll see you next week.” The physical therapist gave him a nod of approval before turning away, already moving on to his next patient.

Mingi nodded, gripping his crutches tightly as he made his way toward the exit. Every movement still felt like an uphill battle. He had spent the last two months relearning how to move, how to function without feeling like his own body was working against him. The physical therapy sessions were grueling, pushing him to his limits, but he refused to back down.

The accident had nearly killed him. Three broken ribs, a fractured femur, and nerve damage. Though it wasn’t extensive, it was enough to remind him that no matter how much he pushed, there were still limits.

And he hated that.

He hated the way his body trembled when he overexerted himself, the way his right arm sometimes felt too weak to grip things properly. He hated that he still struggled to get up without support, that simple tasks took twice the effort they used to.

But he didn’t hate the way you anticipated his struggles before he could voice them. The way you reached for his arm before he could stumble, or placed things in a way that made it easier for him to access. And he didn’t hate how easily you entertained his ramblings, even when they were about the most mundane things.

For an hour and a half each week, he hated being away from you.

Because no matter how frustrating the setbacks were, no matter how exhausting the battle of recovery became, seeing you at the end of each session reminded him of his purpose and his promise to Hongjoong and Wooyoung.

The thought of going home had him biting back a grin as he adjusted his crutches and made his way out of the rehabilitation center. He was already looking forward to sliding into the passenger seat beside you, exaggerating the difficulty of his new balance exercises and guessing what Mrs. Ha had whipped up today.

The anticipation carried him forward until it came to a screeching halt.

The moment he stepped into the rotunda, his fingers instinctively tightened around the crutches, his body going rigid. The hospital lobby was a blur of white coats and murmured conversations, but all he could focus on was the figure standing in front of him.

Ahri.

Her arms were crossed, her manicured nails tapping impatiently against her sleeve. She looked annoyed with her lips pressed into a thin line as her sharp gaze raked over him.

The sight of her made something curdle in his stomach—something sharp, bitter, and unwelcome.

“What are you doing here?” Mingi asked flatly.

Ahri scoffed, stepping closer. “Are you seriously asking me that? You’ve been avoiding me ever since you woke up.”

“Maybe that should tell you something,” he muttered, but he already knew Ahri wouldn’t take the hint.

Ahri rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Mingi. Don’t act like this. We need to talk.”

“No,” he said simply, his grip tightening around the crutches until his knuckles turned white.

“We really don’t.”

“You’re being dramatic. I was worried about you—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, his voice low, firm.

Ahri’s mouth opened, then closed. For the first time, she looked uncertain, like she hadn’t expected him to be this direct. Her expression faltered for a split second, But then, just as quickly, she recovered, her lips curling into a sneer.

“So that’s how it is?” she scoffed. “You wake up and suddenly forget about us? Is it because you want to play house with her?”

Mingi’s jaw tensed but his silence spoke volumes.

“What’s wrong with that?” he replied quietly.

That made her pause. Just for a second. But then she shook her head, scoffing again like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Oh, give me a break,” she snapped. “You spent so long telling me how miserable you were, how you were trapped with her.” She let out a bitter laugh.

“But now what? You wake up from a coma and suddenly, she’s the one you want? You told me you wished you’d never married her, that you never loved her.”

She took a step closer, her voice dropping to something softer, something almost pleading as if she could still reach him.

“Mingi, you told me I was the only thing that made you happy.”

And maybe, once, he had believed that.

Maybe, once, he had convinced himself that Ahri was the answer, the escape he craved, the proof that he was still alive, still capable of feeling something. But standing here now, after dying and coming back, after losing everything and being given a second chance, he saw it for what it truly was.

A mistake. A desperate attempt to outrun his own self-destruction.

But you—you had always been real. And this time, he wasn’t going to run.

This time, he was going to love you the way he should have all along.

“You weren’t,” he said steadily. “You never were.”

Ahri’s face twisted, something wounded flickering across her features before it morphed into anger.

“Bullshit! If that were true, then why did you keep coming back to me?”

"You were there when it was easy, Ahri. When it was fun. But when I was lying in that hospital bed, barely clinging to life, you were nowhere to be found."

Ahri’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“And you know what? I don’t blame you,” Mingi said, tilting his head.

“Because we were never real, were we? We were just two selfish people feeding off each other’s worst impulses.” He exhaled sharply, as if the weight of it all was finally lifting off his chest.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

People turned, pausing in their tracks, stealing glances at the commotion, but Mingi could care less. Instead, he stepped past her without another glance, heading toward the one person who mattered—

You.

"You think you can just walk away from me?" Ahri's voice rose, sharp and unhinged.

Mingi didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all.

And that set her off.

"Do you really think she’ll love you after everything you put her through?!"

Her lips curled, a smirk. "You think a self-respecting woman like Choi Y/N would want you?" She let out a breathless, almost manic laugh, her eyes glinting with something unhinged.

"Especially when you fucked me on your wedding night!"

A murmur rippled through the gathering crowd. Gasps. A sharp intake of breath. Someone muttering under their breath. But Ahri was past caring. Her hands trembled at her sides, whether from rage or something deeper, something uglier, even she wasn’t sure.

“You threw her away like she was nothing. And now, you think you can just have her?”

Ahri let out a broken laugh, something desperate and wild.

"She’s stronger than you ever gave her credit for." Ahri’s voice turned quiet, almost pitying.

“She doesn’t need you."

Mingi’s breath hitched, and for the first time since this entire confrontation began, doubt slithered in, coiling tight around his chest.

Because what if Ahri was right?

What if you never forgave him? What if everything he had done, all the cruel words, all the neglect, had built a wall so high between you that he’d never be able to climb over it?

He remembered the way you had looked at him when he was just a clumsy, oversized puppy, tail wagging, tongue lolling, no words to defend himself—only his actions. And still, still, you had cared for him. Fed him. Sheltered him. Loved him, even when you hadn’t known it was him.

Mingi clenched his jaw. He could fix this.

Because if he had been capable of love then, stripped of his pride and his excuses, then he was capable of love now. And he would prove it to you. No matter what it took.

He would not lose you.

"Ms. Jeong," a voice said smoothly, "I suggest you leave before you embarrass yourself any further."

Mingi tensed. He didn’t need to turn to know what he’d see—that infuriatingly calm expression, always so composed, so sure with his stupid face and stupid hair.

Seonghwa.

The hospital director's voice was calm, but the authority behind it was unmistakable. He stepped into Ahri’s path, yet the weight of his presence alone was enough to send a chill through the air.

Ahri whirled on him. "Stay out of this, Park Seonghwa!" she snapped. "This has nothing to do with you!"

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. "You’re causing a disturbance in my hospital. That makes it my problem."

Her chest rose and fell with sharp, angry breaths, but Seonghwa remained unfazed.

"You’re humiliating yourself. If you don’t leave, I’ll have security escort you out."

Ahri’s lips parted, her eyes darting between Seonghwa and Mingi, as if searching for an opening—one last attempt to regain control of the situation. But Mingi had already turned his back, walking toward the exit. Toward you.

And you—you had just barely managed to keep your knees from buckling.

You had been standing just around the corner, heart in your throat, ears ringing with every word that had left Mingi’s mouth.

"Do you really think she’ll love you after everything you put her through?!"

You didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

But Mingi, your husband, the same man who once treated your marriage like a prison sentence—was choosing you.

Your phone chimed, interrupting your conversation with Yohan and Mrs. Ha.

Pick up Mingi.

“Has it already been an hour and a half?” Yohan sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Mrs. Ha chuckled as she wiped her hands on her apron, already turning back to the half-prepped vegetables on the counter.

“Time flies when you’re talking shit, I guess,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone.

Conversations like these had once been a source of relief, a safe space where you, Yohan, and Mrs. Ha could freely air out your frustrations about Mingi and his insufferable attitude. It had been cathartic, a necessary way to bond over shared grievances, particularly in the way he ignored Yohan’s presence, dismissed Mrs. Ha’s kindness, and, worst of all, the way he had treated you.

The usual satisfaction of venting was absent, replaced instead by something heavier.

Guilt.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered now, softer, searching, as if trying to memorize every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. Like he was looking for something—hoping for something.

Or maybe it was the way he hesitated before speaking, as if he wanted to be understood but didn’t know how. As if he was afraid that one wrong step would send him tumbling right back into the version of himself you had every reason to despise.

And that’s what made your chest ache.

You sighed, grabbing your keys from the counter and with a quick farewell to Yohan and Mrs. Ha, you made your way down to the garage. The drive to the hospital was quiet, the high rises casting fleeting shadows as you navigated the city streets.

Your mind wandered. Mingi was still a mess of contradictions—still the person who had hurt you more than anyone else ever had. And yet, in the past two months, something had shifted. He’d been different.

You weren’t sure what that meant for you, if it meant anything at all.

Pulling into the hospital lot, you glanced at the time. You were early. With minutes to spare, you found yourself hesitating, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. You could just wait here, let Mingi find his way out like always.

But today, something in you wavered.

Maybe, just this once, you’d meet him halfway.

Sighing, you turned off the engine and walked into the hospital. The automatic doors parted soundlessly as you entered, the sterile scent of antiseptic and faint traces of coffee from the café wrapping around you.

You weaved through the familiar hallways toward the rehabilitation center, past patients in wheelchairs and staff exchanging clipped instructions.

And then—

"You think you can just walk away from me?"

You stopped.

Ahri.

Her voice carried through the clinic, too loud, too reckless for a public space, but she didn’t seem to care.

A few steps ahead, just past a row of columns, Mingi stood—partially obscured, his broad shoulders stiff with tension. Ahri stood in front of him, heaving with anger, her expression twisted into something between fury and despair.

Your instincts told you to walk away before you were pulled into something you weren’t meant to witness. But your feet wouldn’t move. Instead, you ducked behind the corner, pressing yourself against the wall, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

"Do you really think she’ll love you after everything you put her through?!"

You sucked in a breath. That stopped Mingi and Ahri knew it. You peeked out just enough to catch the smirk curling at the edges of her lips and the cruel glint in her eyes.

"You think a self-respecting woman like Choi Y/N would want you? You fucked me on your wedding night!"

The words slammed into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You had known what you were getting into when your parents arranged your marriage to Mingi. You had no illusions about love or loyalty, not when his heart had already belonged to someone else. You had told yourself his affair with Ahri didn’t matter, that you weren’t some naive child clinging to false hope.

But hearing the words now, so bluntly and irrevocably, felt different. It was like an old wound you thought had scarred over, threatening to tear open all over again.

A murmur of voices rippled through the onlookers—gasps, hushed whispers, stolen glances exchanged in uneasy silence. Mingi remained frozen, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful, his fists curling and uncurling around his crutches.

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, nails pressing crescent marks into your skin. The way Mingi stood there, facing Ahri’s wrath without backing down, without crumbling the way you might have expected, made your chest tighten.

For the first time in your marriage, Mingi was choosing you.

The realization sent a flutter through you, foreign and unwelcome and you had to keep your knees from buckling beneath you.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was something.

Swallowing hard, you spun on your heel and hurried back to your car. By the time you reached the door, your hands fumbled slightly, a little shaky as you slid inside and shut yourself away from the world.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the strange, fluttery feeling in your chest to go away. But it lingered, stubborn and insistent, curling around the edges of your thoughts. Ahri’s words still echoed in your mind, but even louder—more impossible to ignore—was the quiet whisper of, What if?

What if Mingi really was choosing you?

Not out of obligation. Not because there was no one else left. But because he wanted to.

A breathy laugh escaped you, more out of disbelief than amusement.

“What do you think, Maro?”

The name slipped out before you could stop it, but it felt natural, like Maro was still here, curled up beside you, tail wagging, waiting for you to spill your heart out.

You swallowed, gripping the steering wheel as if it could ground you.

“It’s stupid, right?” Your voice was tentative as you leaned your head against the headrest.

“It doesn’t change anything. Just because he—” You stopped, shook your head, trying to chase away the warmth threatening to creep in.

“It doesn’t mean I should believe in something that’s never been real.”

You could imagine Maro pressing his head into your palm like he understood everything you couldn’t say. Like he was telling you that you didn’t have to figure it all out alone.

“God, I don’t even know what's happening anymore.”

A sudden, sharp knock against the window jolted you upright. Your heart lurched into your throat as you turned, only to find Mingi standing just outside, giving you a small wave. Your face burned. Huffing, you fumbled for the lock with clumsy fingers before scrambling out of the car.

“I got it,” Mingi said with a chuckle, adjusting his grip on his crutches. His voice was light, but his gaze lingered on you, studying you with an expression softer than you were used to.

“You okay?”

You forced a small smile, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves in an attempt to steady yourself. “Yeah, just tired.”

Mingi didn’t look convinced. He lingered for a second longer, his eyes searching yours as if debating whether to press further. But he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, nodded, and slid into the passenger seat.

The drive home passed in a blur. The streetlights stretched long across the pavement, casting soft, flickering patterns against the windshield, but you were lost in the whirlwind of thoughts brewing in your mind.

Did he really love you?

⋆

"Y/N…can you call my phone? I can’t seem to find it."

Mingi had been more flustered than usual lately—not that he wanted to admit. The accident had left him disoriented, but it was unlike him to be clumsy. But lately, he kept doing things that frustrated him to no end like pushing against a pull door and standing there and now, misplacing his phone for the third time this week.

He was also never one to ask for help—especially from you.

Before the accident, he had gone out of his way to keep his distance. He had made it clear he wanted nothing from you, and you had gotten the message. Eventually, you stopped offering. And for a while, that’s what he thought he wanted.

Now, he couldn’t stand the thought of it.

If you were in the kitchen, he was suddenly rummaging through the cabinets for a snack he didn’t actually want. If you were on the couch, he was sitting on the opposite end, scrolling through his phone but not really paying attention to it.

And if you got up to leave the room? Well…so did he.

Because he wasn’t afraid of being clingy. Not with you. Not when the thought of you leaving, of not having you here, was far scarier than anything else.

You nodded, pressing the call button as Mingi shuffled past you, disappearing into his room. Your gaze lingered on the doorway long after he was gone.

For the duration of your marriage, you had never once stepped foot inside this room. The door had always remained shut, a silent boundary he had drawn long before he ever knew you. A reminder that no matter what legal document bound you together, there would always be parts of him you would never reach.

But as you took a step forward, following the faint sound of his phone vibrating somewhere in the great beyond, you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d let you glimpse into the parts of himself he had kept locked away.

You stood hesitantly by the threshold watching your husband rifling through his laundry, digging through pockets, and muttering to himself under his breath. The Mingi you had married would’ve cursed under his breath, thrown something, or blamed someone else for his misplaced phone.

But this version of him? He simply kept looking, patient and persistent.

His room was dimly lit with the faint scent of paint and cologne filling the space. Canvases leaned against the walls, some vibrant and abstract, others more detailed and unfinished sketches scattered across his desk.

Your gaze landed on a small canvas resting on the edge of his desk. The soft eyes and the cheeky glint, the little nose, and that signature smile. It wasn’t finished, but there was no mistaking it.

Maro.

“There it is,” Mingi muttered, plucking his phone from the ground next to his bed.

As he swiped the screen to end the call, his gaze flickered toward you, then followed yours to the canvas on his desk. He watched you carefully, half-expecting sadness, maybe even confusion. But instead there was something unexpectedly tender.

And then you looked at him, and Mingi felt it.

Why did you have to look at him like that? Like he had done something right for once. Like you saw him in a way that made his heart squeeze. His ears burned. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I… picked up painting,” he admitted. “My physical therapist said it’d help with motor skills and strengthening my hands and fingers.”

He swallowed. “I hope you don’t mind that I painted Maro. I… I wasn’t sure if I got the eyes right,” he admitted, almost shyly.

You stepped closer, drawn in by the familiar shape on the canvas. “It looks just like him,” you murmured, reaching out to trace the dried brushstrokes with your fingertips. The texture of the paint, the careful detail—Mingi had poured himself into this.

Mingi let out a sigh of relief but then, as if realizing something, tensed again a second later. “I—uh, it was supposed to be a surprise,” he blurted out, his eyes widening slightly, as if he’d just realized his mistake.

You blinked up at him. “A surprise?”

“For you,” he admitted, shifting awkwardly. His fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“I wanted to give it to you when I felt like it was perfect. But, um… I guess I kind of ruined that, huh?” He let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his head.

“You painted this for me?”

He peeked at you through his lashes, leaving something softer and more vulnerable in its place as he gave you a small nod.

“I just… I know how much you loved—love Maro, and I thought maybe… you’d want something to keep. Something I made for you.”

Something only for you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Oh. Your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his voice and the way he’d poured so much of himself into a piece just for you was overwhelming.

“Oh, Mingi…” you breathed.

Emotion swelled in your chest, thick and impossible to name. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could do was stare at him—the quiet hope in his eyes, the way he watched you like he wasn’t sure what you’d do next.

“I love it,” you said, and you meant it. Not just the painting, but the thought behind it. It was just a painting. But it wasn’t. It was a piece of him—his effort, his sincerity, his quiet way of saying what he couldn’t put into words.

“Thank you.”

The words felt small, insufficient for the weight of what he had given you. But then he smiled—a slow, relieved, utterly radiant smile that knocked the breath from your lungs.

And suddenly, the moment stretched—too long, too precarious.

Your eyes flickered around the room, a sharp awareness settling over you. Mingi’s room. When did he get so close? When did you even come in here?

“I should…” You cleared your throat, glancing toward the door. “I should let you get back to painting.”

Before he could say anything, you turned, slipping out of the room, closing the door gently behind you. For a moment, you leaned against it, trying to steady the sudden pounding in your chest. But before you could make sense of anything—

The door creaked open.

“Wait.”

You turned, as Mingi poked his head out. There was a hint of bashfulness in the way his fingers gripped the doorframe, but his eyes held no hesitation.

“…You can leave it open.”

<< vii | ix >>

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theonottsbxtch · 4 months ago

Text

COURAGE | OP81

an: i warn you ahead of time this faces the topic of substance abuse, if you or anyone you know needs help, please feel free to talk to me or here are links for who to talk to: united kingdom, united states, canada, europe. these are some of the links i've found, if you need help searching for one, my inbox is always open!

warnings: substance abuse, religous themes, mentions of death & hospitals.

wc: 4.6k

The church bells rang out over the small town of Willow Creek, their low hum rolling through the autumn air like a solemn hymn. Oscar stood at the edge of his front porch, adjusting the cuffs of his Sunday shirt as he waited for her. He always waited for her.

She emerged moments later from her house next door, pulling her shawl tighter against the chill. The hem of her modest dress caught the breeze, brushing against her knees as she approached. She didn’t say much, she never did on Sundays. Her gaze, solemn and steady, flicked toward the church steeple visible from the end of the street.

“Ready?” Oscar asked, though he already knew the answer.

She nodded, her braid catching the sunlight as they started down the gravel path.

The girl was his best friend, his constant, the one person in this quiet town who felt as real to him as the chipped paint on his window frame or the threadbare pews at St. Anne’s.

Their routine was always the same: church in the morning, quiet afternoons spent sitting on his porch or hers, talking about scripture or nothing at all. It was an existence that felt safe and good, built on a foundation as steady as the faith they shared.

But something had shifted in her lately. He couldn’t place it, not exactly. She still walked with him to church. She still bowed her head during the prayers, her lips moving silently along with the hymns. But her eyes were somewhere else, distant and restless, as though her thoughts had wandered too far and couldn’t find their way home.

“I heard Father O’Connell mention the youth retreat next month,” Oscar said, breaking the silence as they neared the church steps. “He said he’s hoping for a big turnout this year. Are you thinking of going?”

She hesitated. The pause was brief, but it was there, and Oscar caught it like a pebble in his shoe.

“Maybe,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. Then she offered him a faint smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ll see.”

Oscar didn’t press her. He never did. But as they entered the church, he couldn’t help but notice the way her hand lingered at the edge of her shawl, clutching it like a tether.

It started with small things.

Oscar didn’t think much of it when she skipped their afternoon talks one Sunday. Her mum had said she wasn’t feeling well, and that made sense. People got sick; life happened. But then she missed the next Sunday, too. And the one after that.

She stopped coming to the Wednesday youth group meetings at church, which was even stranger. For as long as he could remember, she’d been one of the first to volunteer for scripture readings or help organise bake sales. Now, her name wasn’t even on the signup sheets.

Oscar wanted to ask her about it, but he couldn’t figure out how. It wasn’t like they had a friendship built on confrontation. They’d grown up side by side in the same pews, their lives as intertwined as the ivy creeping up the churchyard walls. But it was a quiet bond, one where words weren’t always necessary.

That’s what made the silence feel so loud.

One Friday afternoon, after work, Oscar saw her for the first time in weeks. She was sitting on the front steps of her house, legs crossed, the heel of her shoe tapping a restless rhythm against the wood.

“Hey,” he called as he approached, hands in his pockets. “Haven’t seen you around.”

She looked up, her expression unreadable. “Yeah, I’ve been busy.”

Busy. The word felt wrong coming from her, like a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong spot.

“Your mum said you were sick,” he said, testing the waters.

Her eyes flickered, just for a moment. “Yeah. That too.”

He leaned against the porch railing, watching her closely. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t pin it down. Her braid was still neat, her dress still modest, but the way she sat—loose, almost careless—was unfamiliar.

“You coming to youth group next week?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

She shrugged. “Probably not.”

“Why not?”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and he felt like she was seeing through him instead of at him.

“Just not my thing right now,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice he didn’t recognise.

Oscar frowned. “You’ve been going for years.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, standing abruptly. “People change.”

And just like that, she disappeared inside, leaving Oscar alone on the porch with the sound of her footsteps echoing in his ears.

Over the next few weeks, Oscar saw less and less of her. When he did see her, she wasn’t the same.

The first time he noticed the guy, it was at the diner on Main Street. She was sitting in a booth near the window, her back to him, but he recognised her laugh instantly. She wasn’t alone.

The guy was tall, older, with a leather jacket slung over the back of his chair. He leaned in close when he talked to her, his hand brushing her arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Oscar stood outside the diner for a long time, watching them through the glass.

When she turned her head and laughed again, Oscar caught a glimpse of her face. There was something wild in her expression, something unrestrained and electric. It scared him.

He didn’t tell her he’d seen her. He wasn’t sure why.

But the next Sunday, when her mum stopped him on his way to church, the worry in her eyes told him she’d seen it too.

“Have you talked to her?” her mum asked, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “She’s… I don’t know what’s going on with her. She won’t talk to me.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sure it’s just a phase,” he offered weakly.

Her mum smiled, but it was the kind of smile people gave at funerals.

“I hope so,” she said.

The next time Oscar saw her, it wasn’t at church or on her front porch. It was behind the convenience store on Elm Street, just after dusk.

He had been walking home, the kind of mindless stroll he often took when his thoughts got too loud. The streets were mostly empty, the only sounds the faint hum of a streetlamp and the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes.

He heard her before he saw her. Laughter—sharp, jagged, and nothing like the laugh he remembered. It came from the alley behind the store, followed by the low murmur of voices.

Oscar turned the corner, and there she was.

She leaned against the brick wall, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. The glow of the lighter in the guy’s hand caught her face just long enough for Oscar to see the hollow beneath her eyes, the strange way her smile curled at the edges, like she wasn’t entirely sure it belonged there.

The guy was the same one from the diner, older and out of place in this small town. He said something to her, and she threw her head back in laughter, her voice ringing out into the quiet night.

Oscar froze. She looked so different. Her braid was gone, her hair loose and tangled, framing a face that seemed sharper, thinner. Her clothes were casual but careless, like she’d grabbed the first things within reach. She didn’t look like the girl he’d grown up with—the girl who bowed her head in prayer and scolded him when he skipped scripture reading. She looked like someone else entirely.

The guy noticed Oscar first. He smirked, nudging her with his elbow. “Friend of yours?”

She turned her head, her smile fading when she saw him. For a moment, something flickered in her expression—guilt, maybe, or shame—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharper than he expected.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his throat dry.

She rolled her eyes and took a drag from the cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold air. “It’s none of your business, Oscar.”

“It is my business,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re my friend.”

She laughed, but it was a brittle sound, lacking any real warmth. “Yeah, well, friends don’t follow each other around like lost puppies.”

Oscar felt the words like a slap, but he didn’t back down. “This isn’t you,” he said quietly. “What are you doing with him?”

The guy smirked again, clearly enjoying the tension. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”

“No one asked you,” Oscar snapped, his voice louder than he intended.

The guy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you two to it.” He handed her the lighter, brushing her fingers with his in a way that made Oscar’s stomach turn, and walked off down the alley.

She didn’t look at Oscar right away. Instead, she stared at the lighter in her hand, turning it over like it was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

“I’m fine,” she said finally, her voice softer but still distant. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You’re not fine,” Oscar said, his frustration bubbling over. “You’ve stopped coming to church. You won’t talk to your mum. And now you’re…” He trailed off, gesturing helplessly toward the cigarette still in her hand.

She sighed, tilting her head back against the wall. “I don’t need a lecture, okay? I get enough of that at home.”

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just… I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

Her gaze flicked to his, and for a brief moment, he saw something raw in her eyes—pain, anger, maybe even fear. But then she blinked, and the mask was back.

“Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect little Catholic girl,” she said, her tone light but cutting. “Did you ever think of that?”

Oscar stared at her, searching for the girl he knew beneath the stranger in front of him. “This isn’t you,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

She pushed off the wall, brushing past him. “Maybe you never really knew me.”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving him standing alone in the alley, the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air.

That night, Oscar lay awake, staring at the cracks in his ceiling. He wanted to help her, to pull her out of whatever dark place she’d fallen into, but he didn’t know how. She wouldn’t let him.

For the first time in years, he prayed not for himself, but for her.

“God,” he whispered into the stillness of his room. “Please. Bring her back.”

It became a pattern.

Oscar would see her slipping further away, each time a little less like the girl he had grown up with and a little more like a stranger. Sometimes it was behind the convenience store. Other times he saw her stumbling out of a car that didn’t belong in their quiet town, the headlights cutting through the dark as it sped off, leaving her swaying on the curb.

She wasn’t hiding it anymore.

When their paths crossed now, she barely looked at him. Her words, when she offered any, were short and cold, like she was daring him to stop caring. But he couldn’t stop.

So he prayed.

Every night, he knelt by his bed, his hands clasped tightly together, his eyes shut so hard it hurt. He prayed for her to come back, for her to see what she was doing to herself. He prayed for the strength to find the right words, the right actions, anything to pull her out of this spiral. But every morning, when he saw her again—laughing too loud, her eyes bloodshot and empty—it felt like no one was listening.

One night, well past midnight, there was a knock on his window. He woke with a start, his heart pounding, and stumbled to open it. She was standing there, her hair tangled and wild, her face streaked with something he couldn’t tell if it was makeup or tears.

“You need to stop,” she said, her voice slurred but venomous.

“Stop what?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Praying for me,” she snapped. “I know you’re doing it. Just… stop.”

Her words stung, but what hurt more was the way she looked at him—like he was the enemy. Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving him standing in the cold.

A week later, it was her mum who knocked—not on his window, but on his door.

Oscar opened it to find her standing on the porch, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red from crying. She looked older than he’d ever seen her, like the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders and wouldn’t let go.

“Hi, Ms,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

She didn’t move. Instead, she stood there, clutching the edge of her sweater like it was the only thing keeping her together. “Oscar,” she began, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know who else to come to.”

He felt his stomach sink. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s her,” she said, her voice cracking. “She’s… I don’t know what’s happening to her. She barely comes home anymore. And when she does…” She broke off, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Oscar didn’t need her to finish. He’d seen it all himself.

“I’ve tried talking to her,” Her mother continued, her words spilling out in a rush. “I’ve begged her to stop, to come back to church, to tell me what’s going on, but she won’t listen. She doesn’t even look at me anymore. And now…” She trailed off again, her shoulders shaking as tears filled her eyes.

Oscar reached out instinctively, placing a hand on her arm. “Ms…”

She shook her head, brushing his hand away. “I don’t know what to do, Oscar. She’s slipping away from me, and I can’t stop it. I thought maybe you could… I don’t know. Talk to her. Get through to her. She listens to you, doesn’t she?”

The desperation in her voice was like a knife in his chest.

“She used to,” he admitted, his throat tight. “But not anymore. She won’t let me help her. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so many times.”

Her face crumpled, and she let out a sob, covering her face with her hands. “She’s all I have,” she choked out. “It’s just me and her. I don’t know how to do this alone.”

Oscar hesitated, his heart breaking at the sight of her. He wanted to promise her that he could fix everything, that he’d bring her daughter back, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know if he could keep that promise.

Instead, he did the only thing he could think of. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened for a moment, then broke down completely, her sobs muffled against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his own voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, the house silent except for her quiet, broken cries.

When she finally pulled away, wiping her eyes, she gave him a look so full of raw hope it made his chest ache. “Please, Oscar,” she said. “Don’t give up on her.”

He nodded, though his heart was heavy with doubt. “I won’t.”

But as he watched her walk back across the front garden to her house, the weight of the promise settled over him like a stone. He didn’t know how to save someone who didn’t want saving.

So that night, like every night before, he knelt by his bed and prayed.

“God,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice trembling. “Please. Show me what to do.”

That night the ringing of his phone jolted Oscar out of a restless sleep. For a moment, he thought it was his alarm, but the screen glowed faintly in the dark: Unknown Number.

He rubbed his eyes and answered, his voice groggy. “Hello?”

The sound on the other end wasn’t words at first. It was crying—deep, heaving sobs that clawed at his chest before he even recognised her voice.

“It’s me,” she managed between gasps.

Oscar sat up so quickly the blankets slid off his lap. “Where are you? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she choked out. “I’m… I’m at this party, and I—I took something, and now I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she let out another sob. “I feel so weird, Oscar. I feel like I’m dying.”

His heart dropped. “You’re not dying,” he said quickly, already grabbing his keys from the nightstand. “You’re not. I’m coming to get you. Just tell me where you are.”

She mumbled the address through her tears, barely coherent, but he caught enough to recognise the street. It was across town, the kind of neighborhood he tried to avoid.

“Stay where you are,” he said, his voice shaking. “Don’t move. I’m on my way.”

He hung up and bolted for the door, his chest tight with fear.

The streets were eerily quiet as he sped through town, the glow of his headlights slicing through the darkness. His mind raced faster than the car, flashing through every worst-case scenario he could imagine. He gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, his foot pressing harder on the gas.

When he turned onto the street, he knew he was in the right place. Cars were lined haphazardly along the curb, some with doors still hanging open. Music blared from the house, but the sound was disjointed, chaotic.

And then he saw them.

A wave of people surged out the front door, spilling into the front garden and onto the street. They were shouting, laughing, some tripping over themselves in their haste to leave. Oscar pulled over and jumped out of the car, his heart pounding.

“What’s going on?” he yelled at one of them, grabbing a guy by the arm.

“Cops are coming,” the guy slurred, shaking him off. “Some girl OD’d, man. It’s bad.”

Oscar didn’t wait to hear more. He shoved his way through the crowd, pushing against the flow of bodies until he reached the front door. The smell hit him first—alcohol, smoke, and something sour underneath.

Inside, the scene was chaos. The music was still blaring, but most of the partygoers were gone, leaving behind overturned cups and broken bottles. He stepped over a pile of discarded coats and followed the sound of a frantic voice.

In the living room, he found her.

She was lying on the floor, her face pale, looking like nothing he’d ever seen before. A girl about their age was kneeling beside her, pressing her hands against her chest in a desperate rhythm.

“Come on,” the girl muttered, her voice shaking. “Come on, don’t do this.” She glanced up briefly, her phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah, I’m doing compressions,” she said into the receiver. “Please, hurry.”

Oscar froze for a moment, the sight stealing the air from his lungs. She looked so small, so fragile. Her hair was damp with sweat, her lips tinged blue.

The girl performing CPR looked up again, her eyes wild. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?”

Her words jolted him into motion. He dropped to his knees beside them, his hands trembling as he reached for her. “What happened?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“I don’t know,” the girl snapped. “She took something—pills, I think. Someone said it was laced, but I don’t know with what.”

Oscar’s hands hovered uselessly over her, his mind racing. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never been trained for this, never thought he’d need to be.

But he knew he needed to do something, looking at the girl in front of him, he watched her hands and pushed them aside, continuing for her.

“She went upstairs to take a phone call, walked back in and collapsed.” The girl sat back on her heels, then leaned forward to blow two breaths into her mouth. “They thought it was a joke at first, but it all got so serious all of a sudden.” Oscar continued the same rhythm on her chest, watching as the girl flexed her hands nervously. Underneath his breath, he was silently praying that someone was listening, because in the last couple of weeks he was beginning to lose faith. No one listened to him when he was desperate, begging for someone to save her.

“Stay with me,” the other girl murmured, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face. “Don’t you dare give up.”

The distant wail of sirens broke through the chaos, growing louder with every passing second. Relief flooded Oscar’s chest, but it was fleeting. He looked down at her pale, lifeless face and felt the weight of every prayer he’d ever whispered.

“God,” he said under his breath, his voice breaking. “Please. Don’t take her.”

The sirens grew deafening as the paramedics burst through the door. Oscar was pulled back, forced to watch as they took over, their voices calm but urgent as they worked to save her.

He didn’t realise he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips.

As they loaded her onto a stretcher and wheeled her out the door, Oscar followed, his legs unsteady but his resolve firm. He wasn’t leaving her—not now, not ever.

He watched them close the doors of the back of the ambulance and ran back to his car to follow them when he saw the girl weakly walk out of the house. He could have just left her, but she had just saved his best friend’s life. Instead, he walked back up to the house, hugged her and offered her a lift.

When Oscar finally got to the hospital, it was cold and quiet in a way that felt wrong, like it was holding its breath. Oscar sat in the hard plastic chair next to her bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly together. He had barely spoken to anyone since they arrived, giving only short, clipped answers to the nurses’ questions.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at her pale face, willing her to wake up. The IV in her arm looked too big, too intrusive, and the steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

Finally, her eyelids fluttered.

He shot upright, his breath catching as she groaned softly, her head turning toward him. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused and heavy, but when they landed on him, recognition flickered.

“Oscar?” she croaked, her voice barely audible.

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he let out a shaky laugh that was more relief than joy. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said, his voice thick. He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He never cursed.

She blinked, her gaze shifting to the IV in her arm, the sterile hospital room around her. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked, his voice breaking.

She shook her head weakly, then winced. “I… I don’t know. I was at the party, and then…” Her voice trailed off, her brows furrowing as if the memory was too painful to touch.

Oscar leaned closer, his face inches from hers. “What were you thinking?” he asked, his voice low but trembling. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you? You could’ve—” He stopped himself, his chest heaving as he swallowed back the lump in his throat.

This wasn’t what she needed to hear.

She looked away, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “I didn’t think it would…”

Oscar let out a shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I lost you,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

They sat in silence, the weight of his words hanging between them.

A nurse came in not long after, checking her vitals and saying she’d be discharged soon. Oscar nodded numbly, his mind already racing.

When they stepped out of the hospital, the chill of the early morning air hit them both. He helped her to the car, her steps unsteady, and buckled her into the passenger seat. She leaned her head against the window, her eyes glassy and distant.

“I’ll call your mum,” he said, turning the key in the ignition.

“No,” she said quickly, her voice hoarse but firm.

Oscar paused, his hand on the wheel. “I need to tell her. I stopped the hospital from calling her.”

“Please, don’t,” she said, her voice breaking. She turned to him, her eyes pleading. “I can’t face her right now.”

He hesitated, the conflict written all over his face. “What do you want me to do?” he asked finally, his voice soft.

“Just drive,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

So he did.

They didn’t talk as the car rumbled down the empty highway. The radio was off, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of her shifting in her seat.

She didn’t cry, but her silence was heavy, and Oscar didn’t push her. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.

After a couple of hours, her breathing evened out, and when he glanced over, he saw that she’d fallen asleep, her face turned toward him, her expression soft but exhausted.

He sighed, his chest aching with a mix of relief and sadness. He took the next exit and drove toward her house.

When they arrived, it was still early, the sky a pale gray as dawn broke. He parked in front of her house, then got out and walked around to her side. Carefully, he opened the door and unbuckled her seatbelt, slipping an arm under her knees and another around her back.

She stirred slightly as he lifted her, but she didn’t wake. Her head lolled against his chest, and he carried her up the porch steps and knocked softly on the door.

It swung open almost immediately, and her mum stood there, her face a mixture of worry and exhaustion. When she saw her daughter in his arms, she let out a strangled cry, her hands flying to her mouth.

“She’s okay,” Oscar said quickly, his voice gentle. “She’s just sleeping.”

Her mum nodded, tears streaming down her face. She stepped aside, and he carried her inside, laying her gently on the sofa.

Her mother sank to her knees beside her, sobbing quietly as she brushed the hair from her daughter’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at Oscar. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

Oscar knelt beside her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “She’s going to be okay,” he said softly, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.

They sat there for a while, her mum’s quiet cries filling the silence.

Eventually, Oscar cleared his throat. “Do you have a spare set of sheets?” he asked.

She looked at him, confused. “Why?”

“I’m going to stay,” he said. “Just for tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Her mum nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice breaking.

Later, after setting up a makeshift bed on the floor beside the couch, Oscar lay there, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet now, her mum having gone to bed, but he could hear her breathing softly above him.

He closed his eyes and whispered another prayer, one of gratitude this time.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for giving her another chance.”

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like someone was listening.

the end.

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