#like either play both don't play either or just don't care at all atp | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kwondotcom · 1 month ago

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(1) haven't we met? is heavily inspired by kimi no nawa, in every possible way. the title and the general plot flow comes from the film + personally, i feel like i could've spent more words expanding on the lore of my own fic, but i was working on a time crunch lol. here's the scene in the movie that the fic is named after.

(2) minor detail, but this was very telling of minghao being in denial. in the first body swap, he refers to the reader's mother with quotes because he's still in denial/detached from her. this is dropped when minghao realizes it's a body swap.

(2.5) first hint of foreshadowing to the weather! <- note: this is only 2.5 because i made a numbering mistake and i'm too lazy to correct everything atp. oh, well. lol.

(3) a hint that reader/minghao aren't from the same time. since reader was in a time pre-pandemic, 'work from home' was yet to be normalized.

(4) a common comment i get, either in the rbs or not, is asking what reader could have done to mingyu while in minghao's body. i really think it was as simple as mingyu & soonyoung blowing up minghao's phone, and reader— panicked at this foreign situation— tells them both off. mingyu gets sulky because minghao rarely yells at him. :(

(5) it's admittedly been a while since i touched haven't we met (over a month), but i recall this little part being something i liked. i was really soft to the idea of minghao still thinking of taking care of you while he's in your body, both in the sense of what he can do as you vs. what you can do as him. it's somewhat convoluted to unpack, but it just goes to show how his care extends.

(6) enjoyed the idea of this, because i really like the line the body remembers. (more on that later.) even though it's minghao's consciousness, minghao's mind, it's still your body. and meditation is as much of a bodily act as it is a mental one; it would make sense that your body rebels against it, even though minghao knows the technicalities of meditation.

(7) another foreshadowing that you came from different timelines. minghao recognizes them as 'older' novels, but they're in 'pristine condition' because they're new to your era.

(8) time to admit something: a point that i toyed with was making yue lao the tanghulu vendor (lol)! i think this is something that can still exist implicitly, but i certainly thought of making it more abundantly clear and pervasive throughout the fic. it might be one of my real regrets: not being able to work that mechanic in, and instead having yue lao just kind of exist as a plot device. i hope it still somewhat works out, in the sense that the eventual conclusion is justifiable.

(9) i wrote this line first, and then i wrote the rest of the scene backwards. my writing process can be such a mess, really, because i tend to write endings-beginnings-and then work my way through the middle. all i knew is that this 'day' would end with minghao and the tanghulu, just so i could work in this line.

(10) i think this is the last, dated hint that reader and minghao are not from the same timeline. the reveal hits a couple of paragraphs later, and so i wanted to squeeze in a last ounce of foreshadowing. reader isn't a 'second gen fan', but simply a fan of the biggest k-pop group of her era.

(11) this isn't so much of a hint, but there's certainly some undertones here that's meant to give away the fact that reader and minghao don't exist in the same time. ultimately, reader doesn't think they've been to his part of the city because of the industrialization, because it's completely different from the seoul that they recognize.

(12) one of my favorite passages in this body of work. minghao's moment of realization is harrowing, and i'm the first to admit that i abuse em-dashes far too much. i enjoyed playing with the imagery of the ringing in his ear, the bomb drop, and the repetitiveness of it, as if coming to terms with the fact.

(13) the original version of the second passage is written far more bluntly. if i can recall, it goes something like "Nine years ago, Minghao had been 18. Just about to debut. Nine years ago, you had died." it felt too on the nose, and the succeeding sentence loses its weight, so i switched it out.

(14) i get a bit blurry, here, as i try to reconcile with the reader's mother reacting to you vs. reacting to minghao. it's another one of those things that are difficult to explain, but it manifests in the way that minghao starts to acknowledge that the reader's mother isn't reacting to him. the mother is reacting to you, which shows here.

(15) in an ideal world, one where i might've fleshed this fic out more, this is another thing i would have wanted so, so badly to make right. i feel like this is something i could've expanded so much more to make this eventual payoff worth it/impactful. as it is, it's... alright, i suppose, but there's definitely a way i could've executed this better.

(16) lots of simple stuff in one go, but the cruxes here are a) the prevention of the tragedy, which is what the vendor calls it earlier in the story and b) the reiteration of the earlier 'i want to live'.

(17) i think it was about four a.m. my time when i started writing this scene, but i am somewhat pleased to say that i am happy with how it all still turned out. this is one of my favorite lines to come out of it. the imagery of old gods, of a plea/prayer, exists until the very end. one of the other things i liked in this passage was being able to draw the parallels of how differently minghao was in your body, with your voice, and how jarring it must be, to be face to face with it later on.

(18) i pulled a little call-a-friend, here, because initially, i think i was just supposed to close this scene with "'I prayed for this,' he repeats. He had prayed for you." or something like that? but i feel like the "... he supposes you're right." adds just a nice little layer. i also subscribed to the traditional way of how a red string of fate is supposedly tied: the man's thumb, the woman's pinky.

(19) direct parallel to the beginning of "Odd. His ceiling is supposed to be beige."

(20) terrible kimi no nawa visual for driving my point home (lol), but even after saying this fic is one big, explicit ode/reference/draw from the film, this is the one that i feel pulls the most.

(21) the body remembers. :)

(22) the ear-ringing is a recurring theme, just for the sake of epiphany moments. and because, of course, it's a matter of gods, it feels right to end on the concept of prayer. honestly, i'm glad to have started with haven't we met? and lost in translation for this birthday series, both of which i consider to be some of my favorite work despite their differences/parallels. but a part of me adores haven't we met? so much more, if only because i enjoyed playing around with it. my regrets are that i feel like i could've fleshed it out for at least 3-4k more words, though, as it stands, it's a fic i'm happy to have written for minghao.

haven't we met? ♾️ minghao x reader.

“wherever you are in the world, i swear i'll find you again.” # day one of (the)8 days of minghao.

☆ includes: mentions of death/calamities. soulmates, body swapping, time travel, delayed ripple effect, references to chinese mythology, light angst. this is inspired by & heavily references makoto shinkai's film kimi no nawa/your name, but it's not required to have seen the film to understand the plot. word count: 9,000+

It’s a Wednesday when Minghao wakes up in a room that isn’t his.

He doesn’t immediately register it. His senses come to him slowly; the sun is warm on his face, supposedly streaking through the windows.

But then an alarm blares, and it’s an alarm that’s decisively not his. It’s loud and oppressive. The complete opposite of the gentle tinkling of bells that he sets for his mornings. Minghao peels his eyes open before blinking blearily up at a ceiling that’s in a shade of dark green.

Odd. His ceiling is supposed to be beige.

Minghao finally manages to sit up, to glance around. The room he’s in is not his. It’s much more disorganized and the furniture’s a bit more old-fashioned. He lets out a slight exhale.

A dream, he thinks wearily. I’m dreaming.

Minghao can’t help but think that it’s a particularly realistic dream as he unsteadily gets to feet. As he pulls aside the sheets that had covered him, he notices snatches of a body that isn’t his, either. Lithe legs, painted toenails.

I’m dreaming I’m someone else, he thinks. It happened, didn’t it? One might sometimes dream from the perspective of a stranger, a friend.

Minghao’s attention is drawn to a half-full water carafe on the bedside table. Without much thought, he reaches for it— before smashing it onto the floor. Free will, baby.

Except—

He feels it. The wetness lapping up at his feet. The shards of broken glass flying in all directions. Something closes up in his throat. Did he usually feel things in his dreams? Had he eaten something weird, drank something the night before, to have him dreaming like this?

The door to the room swings open.

A silver-haired woman stands in front of him, now, her face pinched with worry. She says a name— a name that isn’t Minghao’s— and asks, panicked, “What happened?”

Minghao doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just stares and stares as this wrinkled woman chides him in a motherly way until he realizes, ah. This must be his mother. Not his mother, but his dream self’s mother.

He can work with that. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice is different. Not his, not his. He tries again— softer, this time— like it might change things. Like he might be able to coax his old voice to break through whatever sleepy haze he’s in. “I’m sorry. I knocked it over by accident.”

“You’re so clumsy,” his ‘mother’ chides, but she’s already getting to her knees to wipe at the puddle of water with her apron. That snaps Minghao into action; he stumbles across the room in search of a towel.

What a crazy dream, he thinks as he delicately gathers up the shards, as he wipes up the spilled water. I’ve never had a dream like this.

As his ‘mother’ heads back downstairs, Minghao figures he might as well play the part.

He follows her down for breakfast. He’s struck by how visceral, how tactile everything feels. The creeks of the old staircase. The smell of seaweed egg drop soup. The crick in Minghao’s neck.

Am I going insane? Minghao briefly wonders as he settles into the dining table, where there’s already a spread of food waiting for him. He notes that it’s a rather small table, made for only two people. It’s a stark contrast to the long tables he usually shares with twelve other boys, to the family tables he reserves with his own family.

“Why are you being so quiet?” his ‘mother’ asks as she sits across from him. “We’ll just get you a new carafe, kiddo.”

Right. That’s definitely why he was being quiet. Minghao picks up the chopsticks in front of him and goes to try some of the braised potatoes.

He can even taste it. This was probably the most detailed dream he’s ever had.

“Aren’t I always quiet, though?” Minghao manages to ask in the voice-that-is-not-his. It’s a higher pitched voice, one that has a distinct Seoul accent.

His ‘mother’ lets out a snort of laughter. “Yah, in what universe are you quiet?” she says with a snicker, reaching over to flick Minghao’s forehead.

He lets out a small sound of protest.

“That’s more like it,” his ‘mother’ notes. “Now, eat up. You’ll be late for work.”

Work. Something like unease begins to pool at the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. Not because he hates his job, no. Minghao loved being a dancer, an idol, an artist. But— he had a feeling that wasn’t the job he should be expecting this time around.

“I— I’m not really feeling well,” he mumbles, pushing around some seaweed at the bottom of his soup. When his ‘mother’ shoots him a scrutinizing glare, he forces out a cough to sell the act. “I’m not sure if I can go in today.”

His ‘mother’ goes from looking skeptical to concerned. She sets her own utensils down. “Do you need me to take care of you? I can take off, too—”

“It’s okay,” Minghao says hastily. “I think I just need to stay in bed.”

The woman across from him doesn’t look convinced, and so he presses on, “How is work, anyway?”

It’s a polite question, one meant to wheedle out more information. His ‘mother’ takes the bait, though, and goes on to rant about bad co-workers, about impatient patrons. She’s a grocery store bagger, Minghao gleams. And when she complains about other small things— the weather making it difficult to hang laundry, the lack of delivery shifts— Minghao realizes that his ‘mother’ has an array of other side hustles.

He listens intently. He nods in all the right places. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, but his ‘mother’ falters mid-sentence to fix him a worried look.

“You really are so quiet today,” she repeats, reaching over to put the back of her hand against Minghao’s forehead. He feels the touch, feels the warmth of concern wash over his skin, and it makes him shiver. “You really must not be feeling well, huh?”

Minghao thinks he’s only about to feel so much worse.

He heads back to ‘his’ bedroom, and it’s only then that he catches a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror. It’s… the face of someone he’s never met before.

Minghao once heard that the people you see in your dreams are never strangers. They’re all faces you’ve seen at least once or twice, and in Minghao’s line of work— well, he’s seen a lot of faces. He raises a hand to pinch at his cheek, to pat at his hair.

It all feels so real. He doesn’t dwell on that.

Instead, he starts to explore. Walking around the cramped bedroom feels both like a museum visit and an intrusion. There’s posters peeling off the wall, shelves groaning under the weight of books, clothes that look a little worse for wear. It’s honestly such a mess that Minghao ends up killing a couple of hours just cleaning.

He lets out a snort of laughter as he does. Even in his dreams, he’s picking up over someone.

He doesn’t know how long he spends gathering hangers and sweeping the floor, but, at one point, the silence is broken by a high-pitched ringtone. He fumbles for the shabby cellphone on the bedside table.

It had been password-protected, which is why he couldn’t open it. Now, though, there’s an option to answer the incoming call.

BOSS MAN 👿, it says, and Minghao nearly cracks a smile. Yeah, he can relate to that, at least.

When he answers the call, though, any and all humor dissipates at the yelling that assaults Minghao’s ear. “WHERE ARE YOU?” ‘Boss Man’ screams on the other end. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU ALL DAY! YOU’VE GOT SOME NERVE, PUNK—”

Minghao definitely sees now why the devil emoji was warranted. He has the urge to cut into the other man’s tirade, partly because it’s a dream where there’ll surely be little to no consequences. Something holds him back, though, as he puts some distance between his ear and the phone.

Once the other man pauses to breathe, Minghao manages to get a word in. “I… wasn’t feeling well,” he says lamely. “Could I maybe work from home or something?”

“WORK FROM HOME? ARE YOU CRAZY?! WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT—”

At that point, Minghao just hangs up. When ‘Boss Man’ tries to call again, Minghao turns off the cellphone’s ringer and goes back to cleaning.

He cleans until there’s not a speck of dust in the bedroom. And when that’s done, he goes to work on the grout in the bathroom, the oil stains in the kitchen. He’s not really sure what he’s doing. Occasionally, he’ll stop in the middle of a chore, wondering if it’s finally time for him to be shaken out of this mundane, long-winded dream.

Night falls. His ‘mother’ texts about taking on an extra shift. She says something about food in the refrigerator, but Minghao can’t be bothered; he’s so exhausted that he blacks out the moment his head hits his pillow.

He doesn’t even have the energy to contemplate the mechanics of falling asleep in what’s supposed to be a dream.

On Thursday, Minghao wakes up back in his dorm.

When he hears the familiar chime of his morning alarm, when he opens his eyes and sees beige, he feels a wave of relief. It really had all been a dream. A very realistic one, sure. But a dream all the same. He was awake now, and he was ready to go about his Wednesday schedule—

Except, when he checks his phone, it says that it’s already Thursday.

Minghao blinks. How long was he out? Surely one of the boys would’ve dragged him out of bed if he’d been out of commission for twenty-four hours.

He unlocks his phone to a dozen unread messages. Eyebrows furrowed, he decides to first go with Seungcheol’s texts.

🍒: myungho 🍒: are you feeling better? 🐸: Hyung, hi. I think I just overslept a bit but I’m feeling ok.

Despite the early morning, the three dots indicating that Seungcheol is typing pop up.

🍒: are you sure??? 🍒: you had us worried 🐸: Did I really sleep that long? 🍒: i mean, i don’t know how long you slept 🍒: was that the problem? were you hysterical yesterday because of lack of sleep? ㅋㅋㅋ

Suddenly, Minghao’s room feels a lot colder than earlier. Hysterical. That was the word Seungcheol had used. And yesterday— Tuesday? Nothing out of the ordinary had happened to Minghao. It was all the usual; he had practiced, eaten dinner out with Soonyoung, then went home.

The dream had been the only unusual thing about the day prior. Minghao is jolted when Seungcheol sends another slew of texts.

🍒: seriously 🍒: i was worried i might have to bring you to the hospital or something 🍒: but you say you’re ok now?

Minghao can’t help it anymore. He dials Seungcheol’s number and puts the phone to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest all the while.

Seungcheol answers on the first ring. In lieu of a greeting, Minghao jumps straight into “Was I really— hysterical, yesterday?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Seungcheol speaks, he still sounds a touch gruff, like he’s only half-awake. “I mean, kind of. What, are you worried about it? Do you need help apologizing to Mingyu?”

Apologizing to Mingyu? “What— is Mingyu mad at me?”

“Uh.” There’s some sounds of shuffling on the other end, as if Seungcheol is sitting up. It’s a pretty clear giveaway of his growing concern. “You might have to ask him that. But, Hao— you sure you’re better?”

Minghao swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know where to start without sounding insane.

“I think I’m still feeling a bit off,” Minghao says weakly. “Must be the flu or something.”

“I can come over.”

“No, no. I think I just need some rest.”

Seungcheol lets out a contemplative hum. “Alright,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all too convinced. “I’ll keep the boys off your back for the day. Text me if you need anything, and maybe text Mingyu when you can.”

“Text Mingyu,” Minghao repeats absentmindedly. “Yeah, got it.”

The call ends without anything more. Minghao stays seated in his bed for a long moment, just staring at the call log.

Seungcheol had called him hysterical. Mingyu was upset with him.

Something was definitely not right.

Minghao’s suspicion is only confirmed when he goes to check the texts he’d gotten from other members.

🐯: need to call u about choreo but preferably u dont yell at me this time 😒 let me know when’s a good time 🐱: Are u ok? Or did u actually ditch me for our dinner (bec if then, wtf) 🦖: i’ve been in the practice room for an hour now!!!!!! Where are you!!!

If Minghao wasn’t already sitting down, he might’ve collapsed.

He yelled at Soonyoung. He ditched Jun and Chan.

He had no memory of any of that.

But he remembers the shattered carafe, the seaweed soup, the shrill shrieks of ‘Boss Man’ in his ear.

For a moment, he’s convinced he’s just in another version of the same dream— except, this time, it looks a lot more like a nightmare. As Minghao finally musters up the energy to get to his feet, he notices something at the foot of his bed.

He unfurls the folded piece of paper. The handwriting isn’t anything he’s seen before. His eyes inadvertently skip to the very bottom, and his heart nearly stops in his damn chest. Minghao drops the paper like it had physically burnt him.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he scrambles to his feet, as he puts distance between himself and the now-discarded paper. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”

At the very end of the handwritten letter had been a name.

The name that had been uttered by his dreamself’s mother. The name that ‘Boss Man’ had shrieked. A name he hadn’t heard before yesterday, before his dream—

Minghao is finding it increasingly hard to believe that it had been a dream in the first place. Hell, he doesn’t even know what ‘yesterday’ is anymore.

He paces his room. He does breathing exercises. He brews half a pot of tea.

None of it helps. Hours later— with all his texts still unanswered and his tea depleted— Minghao stumbles back to the letter.

I don’t know who you are, it starts. But I can tell you who I am.

I’m from Umyeon-deong in Seocho. I live with my mother; my father hasn’t been in the picture for a long time. I work as an editorial assistant for a local newspaper. (It’s not exactly what I want to be doing, although that’s a story for another day.)

For a big part of today, I thought I was dreaming. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom, but the hours have ticked by and I’m still here. Your friends keep contacting you. It’s driving me insane. I accidentally yelled at two of them because they wouldn’t stop calling. The Mingyu one got really upset about it, I think. Sorry.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. If this is nothing but a dream, then this shouldn’t matter. But in the 0.000000001% chance that something truly insane has happened to me and you? Well, at least now you know.

I’m going to try and go to sleep now, although I must admit: You have some pretty nice stuff. I ate some of your tea and snacks (sorry, again). This is crazy. None of this makes sense.

The letter unceremoniously ends there. Minghao’s eyes flick again to the signoff, to the name at the very bottom.

Your name.

His head is reeling. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

This is no coincidence, no practical joke. It’s— as you’ve said— truly something insane happening.

Minghao is struck with the realization that it just might happen again, and this time, he actually does get sick. He ends up hurling into a trash can.

After brushing his teeth, chugging some water, and running through one too many of the chips in his pantry, Minghao gets back to the letter.

It’s still there, in his hands. The stationary that was locked away in his drawer, bearing handwriting that is not his.

None of the boys would pull off a prank as elaborate as this. Minghao is fairly certain he would’ve noticed if any of them snuck in, too. So, now, the only logical explanation was the one that was left.

And Minghao really didn’t like that explanation.

For what feels like forever, he contemplates what to do. He considers calling up Seungcheol again. He debates the merits of apologizing to Mingyu and Soonyoung; he decides against it when he realizes he wouldn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He knows what to say to Jun and Chan at least, but that doesn’t make it any easier. How would Minghao even begin to justify himself? Hey, sorry for ditching you; I think I body swapped with a complete stranger. Let’s grab dinner tonight instead?

There’s a headache blossoming behind Minghao’s eyes at the mere thought of putting the words out into existence.

In the end, he does what he deems to be the easiest thing to do. He picks up a pen and writes on the other side of your letter.

Hello, he begins. I’m The8 Myungho Minghao.

I’m an idol who’s part of a group called SEVENTEEN. They’re the friends who keep contacting me. Mingyu is a fellow member and good friend of mine. I’ll talk to him.

My family is in a different country.

As Minghao goes on to write the next parts, he feels a bit foolish. He doesn’t really know what to say, though he feels like he should say something. You had given him something to work with, after all. Slivers of context. He should be able to do the same for you.

I met your mother. She’s nice.

I talked to your boss. He wasn’t happy. He yelled at you (me?), and I may or may not have put down the phone. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what your work was so I ended up not going at all.

I hope you liked the tea. Feel free to have all the snacks you want.

And you’re right. This is crazy.

If I’m lucky, you’ll never need this letter.

Minghao wakes up on Friday to the realization that he is decidedly unlucky.

The loud alarm is back, and the ceiling is dark green again, and Minghao once again leans over to throw up. Luckily, there’s a bedside garbage bin that comes to the rescue.

There’s no sun this time. It’s fairly gloomy outside, the overcast skies peeking through the windows.

Minghao immediately notices that there’s a folded piece of paper on the pillow next to him. He unfurls it so fast that he almost tears it in half.

This is a precaution, you start. Maybe, come tomorrow, I can just chuck this out and chalk it all up to a one-off freak incident.

The thought of this phenomenon not being a one-off nearly has bile rising up in Minghao’s throat all over again, but he forces himself to read the rest of your words.

First off, I guess I should thank you. My room has never been this clean in my life! And you should have seen the look on my mother’s face when she saw that ‘I’ cleaned the entire apartment. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was possessed, for the lack of better term, by someone who is a much better person than me.

That almost makes Minghao smile. Almost, because the next part sends a pang of guilt through him.

Secondly, though, you almost cost me my job. I can’t believe you hung up on my boss, Donghyuk. I had to do some serious damage control. I managed to get today off, just in case.

Minghao is struck by your foresight and, adversely, his absolute lack of it. The most he had to do was appease a sulky Mingyu and message back the rest of the boys. His brain races to figure out if he has any schedules for— Friday, was it? A practice, maybe. Or a recording.

Either way, he’s screwed. You’re screwed.

Minghao his face in one hand and quietly prays that you know how to dance.

He skims over the rest of your letter.

I don’t know why this is a thing. I don’t know if it is meant to be a thing. I’m going to try and look for some answers, whether or not I wake up as you/myself.

Wish me luck.

A small part of Minghao feels a tug at the thought of both of you ending your letters with the concept of luck. That feeling is quickly replaced by something akin to dread, because he’s fairly convinced that this is no longer a dream.

Minghao has woken up in a body that isn’t his. Minghao has woken up in your body— the body of a person he’s sure he’s never met.

He has to live a day in your life with nothing to go by but the notes you’ve left and a handful of context clues.

For a moment, Minghao contemplates just going back to sleep. Maybe if the both of you just slept right now, the switch would trigger. Maybe he could just spend the whole day in bed until you have to swap again.

The latter seems like the best idea until knuckles rap against the bedroom door.

Your mother pops her head through the crack in the door. “I’m going to leave early today. The rain isn’t looking so good,” she says with a slight grimace.

Minghao glances out the window. It’s all he can do, really, to keep himself from not going insane then and there.

“Take care,” he says.

He’s suddenly acutely aware of your voice— the cadence and timbre of it. He knows what you sound like, how you write, and he wonders how the two might combine. What might be the right thing to say in this situation.

Because your mother has that look again, that openly dubious expression.

“Are you alright?” she asks cautiously, not quite stepping into the bedroom just yet.

A flash of panic rises up in Minghao. What would you say? What would you do?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone’s just a little haughty now. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Minghao nearly winces, but he persists. “Go on, don’t get caught in the rain.”

Your mother lets out a huff of a laugh, mumbling something like ‘ungrateful kid’ as she retreats. Despite that, it seems to work; she takes her leave without another protest. Minghao lets out a shaky breath.

His— your stomach, really— lets out a low grumble. A part of him wonders if you’ve been just on edge as he’s been. Unable to eat properly, losing sleep over this whole thing.

Regardless, the least he can do is take care of you. He pads over to the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator for some leftovers. All the while, he’s thinking of what he has in his own kitchen.

Will you be hungry? You did say you liked his snacks. Would that be enough?

The questions rattling in his head turn into considerably more stressful ones.

Is this going to happen forever? Will he have to spend the rest of his life swapping bodies with you on a day-to-day basis?

He thinks of the group, thinks of your mother. Thinks of his demanding job and your terrible boss.

Minghao nearly panics again. He manages to keep it together enough to make a sandwich and sip some coffee.

He tries to meditate, even, but it’s like your body knows that it’s not a practice that you frequent. Your hands twitch in the stillness; your heart only slams harder instead of calming. You need to catch a goddamn break, Minghao thinks as he grits his teeth and tries to relax.

Something good comes out of his attempt, at least. It comes as an epiphany of some sorts— how he suddenly remembers a portion of your letter.

I’m going to try and look for some answers, you had written.

He might as well do the same.

Once he’s changed into outerwear that’s slightly more acceptable for the rainy weather, he spends a good amount of time searching for your wallet. When he goes to check it, he inadvertently lets out a grumbled “damn.”

Your wallet has nothing but a couple of loose bills.

Minghao can’t blame you, not really, but you’re certainly giving him very little to work with. A part of him even feels kind of bad for you. Not only did you have a demon for a boss; you were also severely underpaid. He makes a mental note to bring that up in his next letter to you.

He can’t go far with the lack of funds, though that’s not the only thing hindering his quest for answers. It’s pouring outside, the rain coming in heavy droplets.

Minghao braves it with a raincoat and an umbrella, hoping against hope to find something. Anything.

As luck would have it, your neighborhood has a local library.

When he steps in, the librarian doesn’t pay him much heed. Minghao is momentarily amused by the thought. Did you not come here often?

It’s a quaint place with a scarce collection. A lot of the novels are on the older end— published nearly a decade ago— but they remain in pristine condition. Minghao skips over the best-sellers and the manga serieses, instead opting to sift through the psychology textbooks.

He’s not surprised when he doesn’t find anything of use there, when he spends nearly four hours reading and reading to no avail. The lack of non-fiction about a body swapping phenomenon is to be expected. This wasn’t something that just happened, after all.

And yet it’s happening to me, Minghao thinks with frustration as he grabs at his sixth book of the afternoon. The unexpected force knocks some of the surrounding books onto the floor.

The librarian gives him a vicious side eye.

“Sorry, sorry,” Minghao mumbles as he immediately gets to his knees.

His hands close around one of the books he knocked over. It’s a heavy hardbound with a gorgeous deep red cover and metallic gold lettering. There’s a dragon featured on the front and the familiar iconography of it nearly bowls Minghao over.

While still crouched down on the floor, Minghao flips through the pages. The images that go flashing by are not strangers to him, but there’s one in particular that he’s looking for.

He finds it on the thirtieth page. Almost out of instinct, his fingers trace over the characters.

月老. Yue Lao.

Suddenly, Minghao is a child again, listening to his mother’s stories. He had been young and wide-eyed, sprawled on her lap as she talked soothingly about the god who presented himself as an old man under the moon.

The god of marriage and love. He’s the reason why your bàba and I met, his mother would say amusedly. Yue Lao made it possible.

How? His younger self had demanded. How did he make sure?

His mother had laughed, then. Had stroked Minghao’s hair out of his face as she told him about the myth. The magical cord may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.

And, oh, how Minghao had prayed back then. He prayed to Yue Lao the hardest— his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clasped to his chest.

I hope I find love.

It doesn’t matter when, or where, or how.

Qǐng, Yue Lao. Please, please, please.

“Are you going to check that out or what?”

Minghao is dragged out of his memories at the sound of the librarian’s sharp tone. “I—”

The words stick in his throat. Eventually, he manages a meek, “I’ll put it back.”

It’s still pouring as he leaves the library and makes the short walk back to your apartment. The rainwater pooling in the gutters has muck and grime sticking to the bottom of his— technically your— rain boots. Another thing to apologize for, Minghao thinks wryly.

He seeks temporary shelter underneath the corner store near your apartment block. The vendor looks up expectantly.

“The usual?” the woman croaks, and it takes a moment for Minghao to register that he’s being addressed.

“Not today,” he responds with a tight smile.

The vendor lets out a bark of laughter. “When have you ever said ‘no’ to me?” she says with a tut of disapproval. Before Minghao can protest, the stranger is already shuffling over to her cooking station.

Minghao watches in silence when he realizes what’s being made. Some fruit is speared onto a bamboo skewer, then dipped into a simmering syrup. It emerges coated like a clear gemstone before it’s shoved into a bowl of ice.

Tanghulu, Minghao thinks dazedly as he accepts the snack. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The vendor smiles. She’s already missing a couple of teeth.

Minghao takes a tentative bite. Tanghulu was a familiar enough delicacy, but the fruit he'd been given— your ‘usual’— is something he hasn't seen in quite some time.

The date-plum persimmon is soft and glutinous, wrapped in a thin layer of crisp sweetness. Minghao can't remember the last time he had black jujube this way.

“You’re still the only one who likes that stuff.” There’s an edge of fondness to the vendor’s tone. A clear indicator that you have some sort of camaraderie with her, something that Minghao isn’t entirely privy to. “Do you know how hard it is to find stock of that darn fruit?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, like something that you’d probably take in stride. But Minghao can’t bring himself to joke. His free hand is already fishing for your wallet, where he’s prepared to blow the last of your money on this dessert.

The vendor shakes her head. “Not today,” she chirps, echoing Minghao’s words from earlier. Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, where the downpour is relentless.

Minghao is not quite sure what the norm is supposed to be. Do the two of you talk? Do you leave right after you’ve made your purchase?

He doesn’t want to be rude, so he mumbles his gratitude and decides to stick around for a moment. The vendor thankfully chooses not to make conversation.

Minghao spends a long time just standing there, making slow work of the sticky date-plum. He watches the rain that never lets up. He watches the lights of your apartment building flicker on as night falls. He watches, and he tries to commit it to memory as he finishes off his tanghulu.

For what it’s worth, he’s glad to ‘share’ this with you— something sweet to get the both of you by.

Come Saturday, Minghao wakes up with more questions than answers.

Your letter is within reach, resting atop his bedside table. He goes to read it despite the fact that he’s barely lucid.

It’s shorter this time. If he strained, he could almost hear the words in your voice. A distant echo.

I can’t believe you’re actually an idol. Have you met BIGBANG?

That draws a surprised laugh out of him. It’s been years since he last heard of his industry seniors. The thought of you being a second gen fan is a little endearing to him.

Anyway, I told everyone who contacted you that you were really sick. Like, throwing up levels of sick. ‘Coups-hyung’ said he would send a manager, but I assured him that you already had one on the way. You might want to corroborate that lie.

I know I said I would look for answers, but I couldn’t really go far. I was scared of getting lost. And, man, your neighborhood is overwhelming. I’ve lived in Seoul my whole life and I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the city.

I ended up spending most of my day just reading your books. Good taste.

The compliment puts the smallest grin on his face.

I promise to do better research when I’m back in my own body. ‘Till then.

As curt as your letter is, it gives him an idea he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Better research. Back in his own body.

He fishes for your first letter, which he had kept tucked in his drawer. It’s still there, which means the past couple of days have not been a bout of psychosis. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or horrified.

Minghao focuses instead on scanning your introduction, where you had mentioned your neighborhood. Umyeon-deong.

While he’s in the back of the cab, Minghao texts back his members. He’s vague, still, but it’s not anything particularly new. Feeling a little better. Getting a check-up, just in case. Stop worrying. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The heat is oppressive for July, almost beating down on Minghao’s back as he finally makes it to the district. It’s a full 180 from yesterday’s rain. He regrets the baseball cap and the hoodie, but both are necessary evils.

He’s not entirely sure where to drop off, so he settles for one of the corners at the mouth of the neighborhood. Once he’s there, he just— begins to walk in a general direction.

Later, he realizes he probably could have pulled up Google Maps. He would have benefited from asking around, would have cut his time in half if he deigned to admit that he was lost. But, at the moment, he’s just taking it all in.

The apartment complexes. The children’s park. The liquor store.

Briefly, he wonders if he’ll run into you. Would you recognize him?

Would he even want you to?

Minghao is so busy mulling it over that he almost misses it. The streetside food stand advertising fresh tanghulu. It feels like yesterday— well, it was yesterday. His mouth is already watering at the thought of the candied date-plums as he wanders over to the stand.

A rasping voice addresses him. He looks up from scanning the selection, realizing with a jolt that it’s the same vendor.

But it’s also— not.

Something is off.

Something he can’t quite place.

It almost steals the breath out of Minghao. He probably looks dumbstruck, looks stupid with his mouth hanging slightly agape, but the vendor asks again, “What do you want?”

Minghao forces an answer out of his chest. “Do you have— black jujube?”

A myriad of micro expressions flash across the seller’s face. It starts with recognition, but ends with something closer to tightness. She gives a labored grunt in response before going to make the snack.

When she hands it over to Minghao, there’s a slight quiver in her fingers. She nearly drops it, even, but Minghao catches it just in time.

“Sorry,” she grouses. “It’s an order that a regular of mine used to have.”

There’s a low ringing in Minghao’s ears as he says “ah,” as he hands over his payment. The vendor busies herself with cleaning her workstation, and Minghao tries to enjoy the date-plums, but it’s not as good as he remembers it.

Was it perhaps a difference in taste buds?

No, he thinks. It’s the lump in his throat. It’s the seller’s words nagging at the back of his mind.

An order that a regular of mine used to have. Used to.

He saw her yesterday. You were supposed to have seen her yesterday.

As he munches on the fruit, he asks almost too casually, “Is it your first time selling in this area?”

The vendor shoots him a suspicious glare. Minghao knows he’s being a little odd with the line of his small talk so he fields his question, tries to make it come out more naturally. “I remember you used to have a spot somewhere else,” he offers. “In front of an apartment building.”

This time, it’s the seller’s turn to mumble “ah.”

“That’s why you had that order,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You knew them, huh?”

“Them?”

The vendor says your name. The ringing in Minghao’s ear gets louder; his fingers, tightening around the skewer of his tanghulu. It’s the first time he’s hearing your name in his own body and it sends a shiver down his spine.

The question is even harder to answer. Does he know you? Was he allowed to say that?—

No. No, wait. The vendor had said knew.

The ringing reaches an almost feverish pitch. It’s a miracle that Minghao hears anything else, that he picks up the murmured words that the seller says next.

“It’s a real shame,” she says with a voice so soft, so solemn, so small. “It’s been nine years, hasn’t it?”

Nine years.

Since what? Since you?

A lot of things haven’t made sense to Minghao in the past couple of days, but this— this is the one that baffles him the most. He saw you— he was you— yesterday.

When Minghao finally finds his voice, it’s to ask for a favor.

The vendor complies, albeit skeptically. She hangs a ‘be right back’ sign over her stall. It’s a short walk, not more than seven minutes.

If Minghao’s ears had been ringing earlier, now, it’s just dead silence. A dreadful sort of quiet as he stares at the ruins of the apartment building he was staring at just the day before.

The seller is watching his face carefully. “You didn’t know?” she prompts gently.

Minghao realizes he has to come up with something. “We were friends. Me and—” He chokes around your name. When he finally says it out loud for the first time, he feels guilty. It feels so wrong to be saying it in this context. To have it be part of a lie. “But then—”

He trails off. The vendor supplies, “You lost touch?”

Sure. Minghao gives a jerky nod in response. That’s one way to put it.

He’s not even looking for an explanation, but the seller gives him one. “The typhoon was so bad that it triggered landslides,” she says gruffly. She nods towards the direction of the mountain towering over the neighborhood. “I think the death toll was around eighteen people.”

Minghao resists the urge to scream. If he were a lesser man, he might have fainted. Instead, he quietly says, “Nine years ago.”

“Nine years ago,” the vendor confirms. She pauses before adding, her voice just a little sadder, “A tragedy.”

“Tragedy,” Minghao repeats. That doesn’t even begin to cover it, he thinks.

Neither of them say anything for a long time. He can feel the pity rolling off the seller in waves; still, he can’t bring himself to turn away. He stares, and he stares, and he stares at the rubble, at the derelict building. At the mere echo of what had been so loud and alive to him just yesterday.

After what feels like forever, he asks another question. “Is— is the library still around?”

The vendor leads the way. At the door of the library, she attempts to give Minghao a reassuring smile. It’s all just gums, now. No teeth. There’s an endless refrain of nine years, nine years, nine years screeching through Minghao’s head as the seller bids him goodbye with “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he responds with a solemnity that doesn’t need to be feigned.

The librarian isn’t the same one.

This one has a calmer demeanor, a more restrained smile. Somehow, that only makes Minghao feel much worse. He knows what he’s looking for this time; he goes straight to the neighborhood records and scrolls all the way back to nine years ago. 2015.

It’s a lot of information to digest all at once. There’s the newspaper clippings about the heavy rainfall. The flash floods, the landslides. Class action lawsuits. Landmine threats. Government incompetence.

Minghao feels like he’s drowning in news, but it’s still not what he’s looking for.

He finds it in a directory. There’s two people with the same last name and Minghao nearly loses it then and there, at the thought of your mother, too—

He focuses on you for now. His quivering finger traces the cell that contains your name, your date of birth. 1997. The same year as him. A couple of months younger, though.

Nine years ago, Minghao had been 18. Just about to debut.

Nine years ago, you had been an editorial assistant. Not exactly what I want to be doing, you had written in your first letter to him. There was no way for you to know that you would never have the chance to be anything more.

Minghao’s eyes fall on the date of death.

Except—

It’s not nine years ago yesterday, not nine years ago today. It’s tomorrow.

In that very moment, he understands what he’s meant to do.

When Minghao wakes up in your body on Sunday, he knows he has only one chance.

He had read up all about it the ‘day’ prior but the details were vague. None of the news reports mentioned when exactly the landslide would happen. The most he gleamed was that it would be due to an unstable slope from the nearby Mount Umyeon.

A wall of mud three storeys high hit the building, one article had said. It’s the only information that Minghao has to go by as he drags himself out of bed, ignoring the blare of your obnoxious alarm.

He goes straight for your mother’s room. She’s already awake, standing by the window.

Outside, the storm rages on. Your mother turns to face Minghao. “It’s not looking good out there,” she says disapprovingly. “The news said it’s the heaviest rainfall in nearly a century.”

Back in his body, Minghao had contemplated how he would go about this. He thought he might try to coax your mother, might be logical and rational in urging her to evacuate.

In that very moment, though, he instead finds himself blurting out, “We’re going to die.”

A beat. Your mother looks unfazed.

“You’re always so dramatic.”

The panic simmers in the pit of Minghao’s stomach. “We’re going to die,” he repeats, his tone on the shriller end now.

It wasn’t like him to give in to hysteria; he was you, though, and your mother seemed nonchalant enough about it. He’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. “It’s just a little bit of rain,” your mother says dismissively as she squeezes past Minghao and heads towards the kitchen.

Minghao is on her heels, his hands wringing together. “We can’t stay here,” he pleads. “We have to leave.”

Your mother shoots Minghao— you— an exasperated look. “Where are we going to go in this weather?”

“No. No, no. We have to go somewhere safe.”

“We’re safe here—”

“We’re not—”

It’s almost like a crack of thunder, the way your mother says your name. The sound shuts Minghao up immediately. It’s a familiar warning, an intonation that all mothers seem to wield over their children.

“What’s going on with you, really?” your mother questions, her hands at her hips. She’s eyeing Minghao with mild annoyance but he sees it for what it is. Concern. “You’ve been so odd these past few days. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

And how is Minghao supposed to answer that?

I’m not actually your child. I’ve swapped bodies with a man who lives nine years in the future. Our survival hinges on whether or not you’ll hear me out.

When Minghao stays silent for a little too long, your mother shakes her head. “Get it together,” she says sternly.

Maybe it’s that. Maybe that’s what finally gets Minghao to say—

“Please.”

Your mother pauses in the middle of rifling through the refrigerator. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound is the rain.

Minghao’s hands are shaking at his side. “Please,” he repeats. He knows he sounds more like himself than you. He knows he’s being out of character, being obvious.

But he needs your mother to understand. She’s looking at him now like he’s a stranger.

Like you’re a stranger. And you are— at least in that moment.

The words tumble out of Minghao before he can contain them. “I want to live.”

He doesn’t know where it’s all coming from, this rush of emotion. Your voice wavers; he pushes on. “I want to live,” he gasps out. “I want to move us to an apartment that’s not next to a damn mountain. I want to not work in this damn job. I want to live until I’m your age, until I’m even older than that, dammit—”

Your mother crosses the room, the refrigerator long forgotten. When she raises a hand to Minghao’s face, he doesn’t even realize that some tears had escaped.

These are all things he wants for you, he realizes.

He wants you to have a good job. He wants you and your mother to be out of harm’s way. He wants you to live a long, full life.

“Please,” Minghao says a third time, his voice cracking around the word.

There’s a softness to your mother’s gaze; this time, her worry is undeniable. She holds Minghao’s face— no, he thinks. She’s holding your face. Her child’s face. Her child, who’s crying, who’s begging.

That’s likely the reason why she acquiesces. “Alright,” she exhales, using her thumb to wipe away some of Minghao’s tears. “We’ll leave. We’ll go.”

That’s only half the battle, though.

Minghao mutters something below his breath. Your mother raises her eyebrows in a silent question, and so he clears his throat before speaking louder.

“We have to evacuate the entire building,” he mumbles.

It takes time to convince your mother, which stresses Minghao out beyond belief. Time isn’t a luxury that he has. Not when he has no idea when the landslide will hit. Not when the rain is only worsening, making it less likely to persuade people to leave the comfort of their homes.

By some grace, he manages to get your mother on board. Sure, he had to spew odd specifics and statistics about the dangers of landslides, but it works. The two go door to door.

They’re met with initial resistance. Minghao doesn’t care.

He badgers the elderly. He negotiates with the children. He almost gets to his knees when a family with a baby refuses to budge.

The entire apartment complex is bewildered.

But when somebody is batting so hard for safety, when somebody is so desperate in what seems to be just a little more than paranoia— you listen.

The landslide hits just as Minghao is helping the last resident out of the building.

He’s never felt anything quite like it. He’s experienced earthquakes and their aftershocks. He’s been in stadiums that have shook with the sheer amount of people, the pulse of their music.

This one starts with a rumble. Low and deep, like it’s coming from the very ground. He hears the trees crack, the boulders knock together. And then—

Your mother is grabbing him by the arm. She’s screaming, screaming, screaming, the sound drowned out by the storm, by the shrieks of all the other evacuated residents, by the mud that suddenly crashes down on the complex in one fell swoop. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once.

Minghao is soaked from head to toe. Some of the mud flies and sticks to his hair, his clothes. He can almost taste it, too. The earth. The rain. He feels the chill to his very bones.

Despite that, he laughs. Your mother is dragging him, you, away from the calamity, the tragedy, and all that Minghao can do is laugh.

Because he made sure that no one was left in the building.

Because he’s alive.

You’re alive.

Later, when everyone is gathered in an evacuation center— shivering underneath blankets, talking about how it was all such a close call— Minghao falls asleep at your mother’s side. He feels like a kid again, with his hair being stroked, with soft words being uttered to him.

He drifts off and dreams.

Minghao is sure that this is a dream because his surroundings take on the hazy quality of one.

It’s just a little too bright to be real, the setting bathed in a light that feels almost like a bulb had exploded. Minghao has to put one hand over his eyes—

It’s his hand, he realizes. He’s dreaming as himself.

His sight adjusts. He’s at a dining table. It’s a two-person dining table. Much smaller than he’s used to.

“It’s you.”

He drops his hand and braces it against the edge of the table, because your voice— he should be used to it, shouldn’t he? He had used it for a bit, formed words like sorry and thank you with a lilting tone.

When he responds, his own words are imperceptibly soft.

“It’s me,” he confirms.

You’re seated across from him. He had caught glimpses of your features in reflections, in photographs, but it’s something entirely new. To be taking you in from an outsider’s perspective. He sees how you would control your body, how you were inclined to react. It makes him dizzy, just how much he had gotten wrong about your mannerisms.

The first proper words you speak are, “You have some good friends, you know?”

A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward. The thought of the boys constantly checking in on him seems about right.

“And you have a good mother.” Minghao pauses. He did say he would mention the next part. “Terrible job, though. You should quit.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Idol,” you shoot right back.

He winces; you laugh. The sound has the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. A sepia of the past, the present, and whatever this moment is, all blurring into one. Minghao doesn’t want to wake up.

“What happens now?” you ask, your own fingers tap, tap, tapping on the table between you two.

“I’m not sure.”

“Why—?”

“— Did this happen in the first place?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing.”

The edges are closing in a little more now. Minghao can feel it— the familiar warmth of his bed at home, the tug of his own time. He’s already asked so much from his mother’s old gods but he lets his eyes flutter close so he can make a final plea.

Just one more minute. Give me one more minute, please.

“I think…” he starts slowly. His voice already sounds so distant. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault.” Skepticism undercuts your tone, enough to prompt Minghao to open his eyes again.

He looks down at his hands, the ones that had folded atop the table. “I prayed for you,” he admits quietly. “Every day, back when I was a kid.”

Confusion drips from your every word. “For me specifically?”

He laughs. “Okay, maybe not you specifically,” he amends. “But—”

It’s getting unbearably bright now, so much that he can only really make out the silhouette of your form. He itches to reach, to touch, just to see if you’re real. He doesn’t want to push it, though.

Minghao settles with holding up his hand. If you squinted, if you really, really tried, you might see it, too.

The faint glimmer of a red cord— looped around his thumb, tied to your pinky.

Every day, back when I was a kid.

“I prayed for this,” he repeats.

And so, in some way, he supposes you’re right.

He had prayed for you.

The chime of bells.

The beige ceiling.

Minghao is fairly sure he had dreamt, but it’s the kind of dream you forget the moment you wake up.

He blinks once, then twice. Odd. It felt like a good dream, too.

There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest, though it fades just as quickly as it blooms.

Minghao never wakes up as you again.

The universe takes, and takes, and takes. It takes away Minghao’s memory. He’s not entirely sure what happened to him those couple of days. Seungcheol says he went to the hospital. Mingyu laments that they fought.

Minghao borrows one of Soonyoung’s favorite words. Funk. He had been in a funk, probably. An off couple of days.

He’s back to regular programming so seamlessly that the others are forced to believe him.

Still—

Minghao goes about the next couple of weeks feeling like something is missing.

It annoys him to no end. It’s not any of his valuables, he’s sure. He double, triple checked everything. He turns his entire apartment upside down and puts it back together again. He goes for meals with all of his members, hoping to find the answers there.

Nothing.

He falls into dreamless sleep every night, and wakes up every morning with that empty feeling in his chest.

It’s an unassuming Wednesday evening— one that he spends driving around with Vernon and Wonwoo— when it hits him.

“Hey,” he says, throwing them a glance through the rearview mirror. “I could go for some dessert.”

Vernon perks up at that. “Should we head to Myeongdeong?”

“Sounds good.”

Vernon throws out directions. Wonwoo queues the music.

Minghao keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

The night market is an assault on the senses but it’s also a good cover for the three idols. They set out with their matching hoodies and half-face masks, in search of something to fulfill their cravings.

Vernon goes to get some dragon’s beard candy.

Wonwoo wanders off to purchase some hotteok.

Minghao… He isn’t sure, really, which is a bit ironic. He had been the one to make the call, after all. He weaves through the crowds, his hands in his jacket pockets, as he scrutinizes the stalls.

Kkwabaegi. Bungeoppang. Tanghulu. Dalgona. Bing—

He backs up a bit.

“Hi,” he greets the seller. “This is a bit weird, but do you have black jujube?”

The tanghulu vendor lets out a grunt of approval. “I think I’ve got one more stick,” she notes as he ducks to check her stock.

What a weird craving, Minghao thinks to himself. But it’s the first thing that came to mind.

A voice at his side addresses the seller by name.

“Got my date-plum persimmon, ajumma?”

It’s not a voice that Minghao has heard before, and yet—

Frantically, he tries to sort through the hundreds of fansigns and fan meetings he’s had in the past decade. Could it be that? Could that be the reason why the lilt was so damn familiar?

As he turns to look at the source, he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not the case.

You’re already turning away, though, grumbling about the lack of the tanghulu that you want. Minghao hadn’t even heard the vendor respond.

There’s a ringing in his ears.

“Excuse me,” he manages.

You falter in your steps. When you look up at him, he sees the same flash of confusion. One that’s borne out of recognition.

The ringing has gotten louder. Despite that, he pushes out three words.

He thinks he’s yelling them; in reality, they’re barely audible over the din of the night market.

“Haven’t we met?” he breathes.

For one dreadful, dragging moment, he’s convinced he’ll die if you say no, even though his mind is being terribly uncooperative. He can’t place when, or where, or how he met you. He can’t say if you’re familiar because he knows you or someone like you.

All he knows is that he can’t, won’t let you walk away.

Your response makes everything in Minghao’s head go quiet.

“I thought so, too,” you say, and something in his chest thrums.

It feels a lot like an answered prayer.

#𖤐 kae annotates

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