#like i dont get it my fics get so many likes but no one wants to request đ
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u either hate me or want me to go into cardiac arrest because HOW COULD I COPE WITH THIS FEEDBACK???? HOW đđđđđđ i cant tell u how happy it makes me that you dont just read my fics but truly read them. you allow my characters to live in your heart and mind and thatâs the biggest privilege for me. thank you thank YOU for making writing so enjoyable, reading ur feedback is easily top best thing about this entire process.
NOWWW to actually respond,, truthfully i tried to search for an equivalent for dĂ©chirure in english but tear imo doesnât convey the feeling of being ripped to shreds, in french it feels more raw, even when u pronounce it this combo of letters have a sort of blunt force in them, like something being teared apart not by choice but by a sick twist of fate (like our mc and hyune) thatâs why i picked it!!! :p thank you for asking đ„č
THANJ YOUUUU đđđđđ no this is my favorite compliment i try to put sm thought into the characters and for u to pick up on that!!! on the floor rnâŠ. i originally intended for the mother to apologize but then i realized that someone like her would still think that they did nothing wrong. in her mind, she was a mourning mother trying to make her late daughterâs memory live through her new one. but it doesnât work like that. it still hurts. maybe she apologized later on, maybe she didnât. still i think it would be too late anyway. so thatâs why i left it at that. (also the dad just faded. anger is hard to carry)
also u calling it movie⊠im going insane. if one of my fics ever get adapted into a movie ull be front row PROMISE.
the characterization of mc hurt me a lot đ i mean i tried to make her as realistic as ever and i think the anger being directed towards someone who isnt here anymore helped her cope :(
i get u for the slightly rushed part đđ itâs partly because i wanted the âgoodâ parts to be short because there was this sense of impending doom, in a way, haunting them. like they both believed this happiness will end sooner or later and it did pass by quickly on both of them. but also because i wanted to post the fic because itâs been so long and i dont think tumblr dot com loves fics that are longer than 20k đđđ
also SO HAPPY U PICKED UP ON THE DETAILS đđđđ i love a good full circle moment. and i thought ending it in a graveyard would be nice. mc lived a good life loved by hyunjin and she has someone waiting for the day theyâd meet her again. this was her biggest fearâ to never be loved, because she grew to believe she hasnât deserving of itâbut she was. so i thought :D that sounds good. death doesnât have to be a horrible depressing thing in this fic anymore đ also yes the olympics were my inspo i actually got inspired by many things while writing this fic u can tell it consumed my mind KANSND
i love YOU thank you for reading and for being so attentive to every detail and for being here in my life. like genuinely i appreciate your presence and existence more than i can describe. i hope u are always happy and healthy!!! i love you, my favorite reader :p
La dĂ©chirureÂ
You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief youâve always known.
pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.
genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.
warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.
word count: 21.8k
authorâs note: heyyyyâŠ. havenât posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU
Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You donât remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.
But the pain doesnât register in your brain, not yet. Youâre only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstoneâ your last name, to be exact.Â
Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too.Â
Youâve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during springâ gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter tooâ even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.
Though youâve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sisterâs graveâ every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault.Â
You donât know the person theyâre mourning.
You donât know the person they wish to mold you after.Â
Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe.Â
She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest.Â
That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sisterâs features. There was nothing in her, in everyoneâs memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind.Â
You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be?Â
The question first popped into your brain at age fiveâ maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents donât love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you.Â
Youâve always been aware of this realityâ there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven.Â
And she loved ballet.Â
So, you had to love ballet too.
You werenât given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacherâs instruction. It wasnât easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.
Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, youâve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone.Â
Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.
It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.
How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?
Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, pliĂ©, tenduâ those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. Sheâs a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face.Â
Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun youâre sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.
And sheâs the only person who believes in you.
Sheâs not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, âI see something magical in youââ that she was telling the truth.Â
You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.
In you.
You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.
You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didnât have enough time to breathe.Â
Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you canât stop now. Suddenly itâs two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didnât have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque.Â
But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasnât heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.
âI got into JulliardâÂ
That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow.Â
Your motherâs eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. Youâll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your motherâs heart. Surely, she will only see you now.
But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whisperedââshe would have loved Julliard too.â
You donât remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents.Â
You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you donât recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausibleâ he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sisterâs absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life.Â
You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone theyâd kill in an instant to bring her back.
It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for youâ âI wish she never died so you wouldâve never been born.â
A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didnât mean it.
For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?
For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead?Â
You donât remember how you got to the graveyard. You donât recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried.Â
You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you donât know what youâre yelling, who youâre calling out for, what youâre trying to achieve by punching her grave.Â
Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.
âWhat are you doing?â a strangerâs voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt.Â
You donât reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.
âDo you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?â he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that youâre drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin.Â
You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.
âSheâs my late sister,â you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record.Â
âShe died young,â he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone.Â
You feel so horrible, for a millisecond.Â
She was only seven.Â
Her grave is too small compared to your body.Â
But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.
âDid she do something to you?â he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing.Â
âNo,â you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next questionâ âthen wouldnât she be sad seeing you do this?âÂ
âWhat about MY sadness? MY anger?â you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rainâs pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.
He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrellaâs shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin.Â
But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You donât dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throatâ what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?
âI am rage,â he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. âIt means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. Thatâs not something anyone here can enjoy,â he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you.Â
âYou get to do something with that anger. But this, this wonât cure it.âÂ
Heâs young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesnât fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too.Â
Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldnât confront its ugly face?Â
The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didnât even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful.Â
âYouâll catch a cold,â the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesnât reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel.Â
He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you.Â
âWait here,â he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard.Â
What a silly request, you think, itâs not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go.Â
He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. âI tried to warm it up with the carâs heating,â he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks.Â
âThank you.âÂ
His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment.Â
âI have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?â His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole.Â
âI donât want to burden you.âÂ
âYou wonât,â he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, âI promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.â
You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasnât there to visit someone, he says that itâs okay, he can come back tomorrow.Â
You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. Heâs beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.
You donât know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you donât think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh.Â
You donât think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers.Â
But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didnât seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet.Â
He looks like a good person.Â
You wish to tell your good news to a good person.Â
âI got into Julliard,â you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You donât allow yourself time to regret your confession.Â
A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features.Â
âReally?â he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. âMm. Really.â
âThatâs amazing!â his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. âI know Iâm just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,â his voice softens, âI mean it. I hope youâre proud of yourself too.âÂ
It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold.Â
This was all youâve ever wanted to hear.Â
âThank you,â you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he isâ âI'm Yn, by the way.âÂ
âYn,â he repeats, his voice tender. âNice to meet you, Yn. Iâm Hyunjin.âÂ
Four years later.
âYou need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.â
âThanks, coach.â Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses.Â
His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort heâs poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competitionâ the most important one of his life, by far.
âAre you leaving now?â Jihyounâs voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. âJust gonna take a breather.â
âIâll head out then,â Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, âmake sure you get some rest.â
Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself.Â
A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjinâs rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows heâs on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descentâ a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isnât ready to face.Â
When does he ever?Â
But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to.Â
With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuckâof course.Â
âFuck,â he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.
âI am rage,â a voice suddenly teases from behind.
Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there.Â
Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusementâ that light, however, dims slightly when he doesnât immediately respond.
It takes all of Hyunjinâs will to act like he doesnât recognize you.
âYou get to do something with your anger, but this wonât cure it.â You quote, your voice softer now. âYou know, you told me this, near the graveyardâŠâ You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if youâre no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.
Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.
âMiss Julliard,â he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if youâve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.
âWhat did the vending machine do to deserve this?â you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.
âStole my money,â Hyunjin mutters.
âYouâve got to hit the side when that happens.â You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.
In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â you ask once he stands.
âIâm an ice skater,â he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.
âReally? Thatâs amazing!â
âYeah⊠I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?â His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met.Â
âFor a little while. Just a few months. This studioââ you glance around, ââitâs where I used to train before I went away.â
âI see,â Hyunjin nods, âI train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because Iâm an ice skater,â he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.
âIâll see you around then,â he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away.Â
Heâs almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.
âHyunjin!â
His body freezes before his mind orders it toâheâs not the only one who remembers, then.Â
âDid you eat dinner?â you shout, a little out of breath.
âNo,â he admits.
âThereâs a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?â
âIâm not hungry.â
âItâs my treat.â Your smile has slightly dimmed, and youâre unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken.Â
âAre you lonely?â Hyunjinâs question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. Heâs always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that itâs better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you.Â
Your smile falters. âI just⊠donât want to go home. not yet,â you confess quietly.
âSo youâre using me?â he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering âNever mindâ under your breath as you start to turn away.
âFine,â he sighs, pushing off the wall. âBut Iâm craving sushi.â
âŠ
Hyunjinâs eyes are more worn than the last time youâve seen him.Â
Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.
You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesnât seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.
The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead. Â
Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than heâd care to admit, even less so to you.Â
He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his griefâ no one understood how his motherâs death consumed him whole. Â
It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjinâs soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen.Â
His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his angerâat the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.
That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection onceâwhen he met you.
Hyunjin didnât know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his motherâs grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more.Â
âHow long have you been skating ?â you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment.Â
âSince i was a kid, nearly two decades now,â he says.Â
âDo you like it?â it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding.Â
âI do, I really do,â he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to askâ how have you been? and itâs your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.
âIâm okay.â
The next question slips from him without thought, âare you still as angry?â
You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.
âWas I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.âÂ
Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindnessâ He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.
Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too.Â
âI feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,â you say with a smile. âHave you worn out yet? Thatâs what Iâd like to ask.âÂ
âArenât you afraid of the answer?â he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, âI am.âÂ
The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. Youâve never been optimisticâlife hasnât allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.
But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. âLetâs ask it another time, then,â you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table.Â
âAre you sleeping?â Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.
âItâs fine,â you wave a hand in the air. âThe owner knows me. Heâll wake me when itâs time to close.â
Both of you are running from home, or whatâs left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief heâs etched into his memories.
Far more beautiful, too.
âThen wake me up, too,â he sighs, resting his head beside yours.
His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.
Many minutes pass byâ quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company.Â
âŠ
The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.
You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasnât Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didnât wish to see you?
Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.
The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a sirenâs voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.
For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid youâd lost the capacity to be amazedâby sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.
But watching Hyunjin skateâ that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.
âHeâs good, isnât he?â a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.
âYes, he is,â you reply quietly.
âIâm Jihyoun, Hyunjinâs coach,â he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.
âYn,â you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. âAn acquaintance.â
Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.
As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps heâd think you were a stalker. So, you remained there.Â
âHey, coach,â Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light upâyou regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadnât asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.
âMiss Julliard,â Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
âJulliard? Thatâs impressive,â Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school wasâperhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.
No one, except Hyunjin.
âHave you eaten?â Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
âNo,â you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.
âIâm craving kimchi jiggae again,â he tipped his chin towards you, âwe can go again, if youâd like.â
âSure, Iâd like that,â you grinned.
âOkay. Wait for me.â
âŠÂ
Hyunjinâs routine has always been quite simple.Â
Heâd work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed fromâ until you wove yourself into it.
For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights youâd go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes youâd simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.
There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one anotherâ an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.
But you hadnât come to see him in two days.
Itâs past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio.Â
He hopes it is you dancing there.Â
With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone elseâs presence.Â
When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stemâ layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.
You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterdayâsoft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door.Â
Heâs frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time heâs around you?Â
He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. âMiss Julliard,â he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, âWhat are you doing here?â
The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.
âYou didnât come by yesterday so I came to see you,â he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze.Â
Your grin brightens like the sun. âAh, did you miss me?â you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor.Â
Did he miss you? no he didnât, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.
âWhy did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?â he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.
You sigh, taking your place across from him, âpracticing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.âÂ
He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.
âYou know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.â
You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. âThere is this one song.. From a barbie movie.â
He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.
âBarbie?â
âYes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.âÂ
âIs that so?â he grins, placing his chin atop his palm.Â
âYeah, she wanted me to follow my sisterâs footsteps,â you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. âI wonder if I wouldnât have become a ballerina if I didnât watch it,â you muse, before clearing your throat.
âAnyways,â you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg.Â
You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit.Â
You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He canât help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell.Â
Youâre a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.
As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.
âI havenât danced to that in years,â you say, catching your breath. âI probably looked ridiculous.â
He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. âI think ballet wouldâve found you anyway. Itâs like you were born for it.â
Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studioâno, not just the studio. Itâs the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesnât need to walk down the path of life alone.
âŠ
Youâre lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the doorâone to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.
You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.
Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because heâs clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.
But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.
The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.
Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that youâd shared this.Â
You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasnât the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home.Â
At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.
âYouâre home,â your motherâs voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly.Â
âI made pasta, itâs in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,â she says, but her words are too sweet, too forcedâlike the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks.Â
âThanks,â you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.
âIâll grab it for you,â she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. âThatâs strange⊠I couldâve sworn I put it here.â You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic.Â
âItâs fine, Iâm not thirsty,â you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.
âAh, silly me,â she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. âIâm sorry,â she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, âI forget so much these days.âÂ
And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole. Â
You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.
And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive herâto hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day sheâll forget who you are entirely.
But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask?Â
Has she ever cared to?Â
âŠÂ
The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.
You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.
He hadnât meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lipsââAre you listening to me?ââhe could only offer a sheepish grin in response.Â
âWhatâs on your mind?â you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow.Â
Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dancesânever out loud, never to another soul.
But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldnât mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.
âMy momâŠâ he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. âShe used to make the best kimchi stew,â he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about?Â
Still, he pushed through. âShe made it for me whenever I was sick. I donât attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.â He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. âI hadnât eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldnât bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.â
His eyes glistened as they settled on you, âSo thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.â
Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. âIâm sure I wouldâve.âÂ
He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldnât mind sharing her with you. âShe was the best figure skater Iâve ever seen.â
âWas she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?â you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. âYes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,â he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.
âIt was always just her and me, so Iâd stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. Sheâd always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.â
âShe sounds like a good mother,â you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises.Â
âShe was. She is.âÂ
âTell me more,â you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles theyâd blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter.Â
He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didnât mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together.Â
When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasnât fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.
His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didnât speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his.Â
It is his very soul that twitched at your touch.Â
âWhat are you doing?â he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps.Â
Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.
âComforting you.â
âIâŠâ he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his.Â
âIâm scared,â he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldnât use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfortâ somehow that only saddened him even more.
âWhat if⊠What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?âÂ
âYour mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.âÂ
Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjinâ your mom would want you to be happy.Â
He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his handâonce, twice, thriceâeach pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart.Â
He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.
What does that mean?Â
âŠ
Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality.Â
He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.
He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew heâd rather die than not achieve his motherâs dream, for him.Â
But something within him was shiftingâunraveling.Â
His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.â the time you usually come by to the studio.Â
âDonât worry, sheâll drop by,â Jihyonâs voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.
âWhat are you talking about?â he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly.Â
âMiss Julliard,â his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too?Â
That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never askedâthough he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.
He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past.Â
Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely?Â
âDonât stay up too late,â Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.
âDonât worry about me.âÂ
Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.
It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when heâs grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place.Â
What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone elseâs presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?
Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.
âHow was practice?â you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.
âIsnât your competition next week?â you ask and he nods, âCan I come watch then?â you say and his heart stutters at your request.
âYou can, if you want to, if you donât itâs okay too, you actually donât have to,â he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing himÂ
âIâll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,â you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that heâll qualify for the Olympics.Â
His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.
This isnât normal.Â
âShould I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? Whatâs your favorite color?âÂ
âWill you actually come?â he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesnât remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win.Â
Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjinâs question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesnât try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.
âOf course I will,â your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. âI promise. IâŠâ you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, âI pinky promise.âÂ
You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together.Â
âThere, sealed forever.âÂ
You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both.Â
âHave you ever tried ice skating?â he suddenly asks and you nod, âI know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.âÂ
âDo you want to try?â he smiles and you lighten up, âActually? What if I fall?âÂ
âIâll be there to catch you.â
A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. âThis feels so different from ballet,â you chuckle and he grins, âdo you like it?â
âYeah, i do.â
âCome here,â he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you donât hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink.Â
Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.
âIâm scared,â you giggle happily and he shakes his head, âLet go of your fears and hold on to me.â
And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. heâs spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.
He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice.Â
He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.
Youâre so close, closer than youâve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent.Â
He doesnât wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume.Â
Itâs a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasnât a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of thisâof your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how itâd feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.
âFuck,â he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasnât accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.
Until you.
âDo I like her?â he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. âGo to sleep, Hyunjin,â he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.
But to no avail.
He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.
He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.
He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.
Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing othersâ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.
But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.
He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would followâwhen a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.
He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his motherâs death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didnât allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.
But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.
That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didnât skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sunâs light. He didnât capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers doâmagical, beautiful.
He sees you in a whole different light, now.
Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.
Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.
Is his soul drawn to yours?
Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.
Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?
It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.
âŠ
There are places in your parentâs house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living roomâ the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.
But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight.Â
It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoulâs horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.
You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.
The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs.Â
Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. Youâre surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.
Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixerâuseless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here.Â
Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasnât pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but sheâd entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy.Â
You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.
âShe was so kind,â your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. âShe gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.â You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them.Â
Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, smallâso small.Â
And then, a note.Â
Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands.Â
Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now.Â
Youâve never had words that she addressed to you.Â
The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veinsâuncomfortable, deafening.Â
The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragmentsâ to my future sisterâthen something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.
Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You donât have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.
I would love to dance ballet with you.
The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.
Youâve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.
How horrible are you?Â
Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You donât think as you barge into your parentâs room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her.Â
âWhy did you never give me this?â you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils.Â
âIâŠâ she stammers, and you laughâa hollow, jagged soundâas your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.
âYou know I hated her, right? Iâ I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,â you choke, voice fracturing, âhowâ my god how pathetic is that?âÂ
âiâve always loved you,â she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment.Â
âIâve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasnât here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!âÂ
âI was a grieving mother!â she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. âDo you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? Sheââ her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, âShe kept telling me that she didnât want to leave us, that she didnât want to die. How am Iââ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, âhow am I supposed to forget my babyâs last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldnât protect her?âÂ
âi never wanted a perfect mother.â you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. âI never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.â Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. âDid I mean so little to you?â
You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. âIâm sorry that I wasnât always a good child. Iâm sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. Iâm sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know Iâm not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.âÂ
Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple wordsâ Iâm sorryâthat is all it would take to soothe your heart a little.Â
You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isnât apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.
âForget it.â you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.
Itâs nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance.Â
Hyunjinâs frown deepensâsomething feels off.Â
âAh, hyunjin,â the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. âThe security guard told me you still hadnât left.â
âIs something wrong?â
âYn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And Iâm worried she canât get home safely.â Soheeâs tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjinâs mind.Â
His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on youâyour cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you
He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?
âHey,â he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.
âHyunjin,â you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. âWhatâs wrong, hm?â
His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.
âIâm aâIâm a horrible person,â you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjinâs hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.
âNo, youâre not,â he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.
But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. âIâm a horrible sister,â you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.
Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.
With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.
âYou didnât even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?âÂ
âI hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, Iâm a-a horrible person.âÂ
Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine.Â
âI donât think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.â
Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesnât mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.
âHumans arenât straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when weâve never wanted to go through them.â
He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. âA bad person does not worry about being a bad person. Iâm sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.â
Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isnât enoughâ to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesnât know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart insteadâ heâs used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.
Heâs racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.
âWould you like to hear my favorite poem?â he asks, in a whisper.
He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.
Hyunjinâs eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesnât fall prey to the hazards of stormsâ âYou do not have to be good.â He smiles softly. âYou do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.â The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. âYou only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.â
It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.
Itâs gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continuesâ âTell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.â
âI want to tell you,â you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.
âI will listen,â he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.
And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.
You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.
You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.
You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.
Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the griefâ for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten.Â
The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.
âŠÂ
Hyunjin is beautiful.
This isnât new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized itâhe was the most beautiful human youâd ever seen.Â
But somehow, youâve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldnât be weird for a friend to admireâ and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you.Â
You enjoyed the poems, all the ones heâd recite to you from time to time. You loved watching peopleâs eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole.Â
But there are moments when itâs harder to forget. Like nowâwhen Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.
There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you closeâHyunjin asked for you.
He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, youâve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place.Â
His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyesâheâs too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.
You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjinâs hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesnât let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. âiâm scared.âÂ
Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, âyouâll do amazing. Iâm sure of it.â
He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. âThank you. Iâll see you after.â
âOkay,â you grin back, âIâll see you with a gold medal.âÂ
Youâve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new.Â
Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells.Â
Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees.Â
He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. Youâre first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise.Â
You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first.Â
Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.
Heâs already skating towards you, and youâre moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.
âHow was it?â he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question.Â
How could he be anything but extraordinary?
âYou fucking did it, Hyunjin,â you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.
âProud of you son,â he says and you can see Hyunjinâs eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows.Â
Oh god.Â
The thoughts submerge you like youâre doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.
âThereâs an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,â Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjinâs back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.
âAre you coming?â Hyunjinâs voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. âI want you to come, please.â
âOkay,â you smile, though your feet are already inching away. âBut I left my phone at home. Iâll go get it and come back.â That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.
âDo you want me to come with you?â
Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sisterâs grave?Â
How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name?Â
âNo, itâs a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.â You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.
Youâve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their motherâs womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.
You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief youâve always known.Â
Itâs been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjinâs eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversationâ Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater.Â
His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?
His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.
He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.
Then he sees itâflashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car thatâs all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree.Â
A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.
Please, not again.
His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. Itâs pounding wildly, erratically, like itâs trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet.Â
He canât turn aroundâheâs too afraid of what heâll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the manâs arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. âDid someone get out of the car?â he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.
Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he canât stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.
âHyunjin?â A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you areâlimping, disheveled, but alive. Youâre breathing.
In an instant, heâs in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.
âAre you okay?â His voice is raw, stripped bare.
âI am,â you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if heâs been drowning and youâve finally pulled him to the surface.
He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close.Â
His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know youâre real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.
âYn,â he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, âI thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.â
It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought youâd grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of.Â
âYouâd care this much if I died?â Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.
Hyunjinâs bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. âYn, IâŠâ He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. âYn, please donât leave me.â
âIâm sorry,â your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. âIâm sorry I didnât mean to worry you,â you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.
Hours later, youâre in Hyunjinâs home, tucked into the safety of his bed. Youâd refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality.Â
The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjinâs wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken recordâ âThe brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.â Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.
âHow are you feeling, Yn?â Hyunjinâs voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce.Â
âIâm okay. Iâm sorry I ruined your night.â Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch.Â
âIf youâre okay, thatâs all that matters to me.â
He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You donât overthink your next words, you think youâre long past that when it comes to him. âYou called me by my name. I thought you didnât remember it.â
âI never forgot,â he says, stepping closer. âIâve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I⊠I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,â a pause, âfor different reasons. Sweeter reasons.â
He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.
âMe too,â you smile softly, âI think about you so much it feels as if youâre all Iâve ever known,â you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.
Before you can think, youâre standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry.â You pull away, stumbling back.
But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. âCan I do that again, Yn?â His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?
His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins.Â
Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors youâve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way youâve longed for.Â
Youâre still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms.Â
âIs this what happiness feels like?â he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, âI think it is. It tastes so sweet.â
âMm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,â he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.
âŠÂ
âSo, how do we do this?â
Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waistâyet, itâs that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.
âWouldnât it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, butâŠâ Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjinâs thoughts. Heâs no longer listeningâheâs observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn heâll ever witness. As if, by morning, heâll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red.Â
He smirks, satisfied by the effectâperhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess.Â
âYou were saying?â he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. âI was saying that it would beââ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower.Â
In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for himâ to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.
âFinally!â Jihyounâs voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. âThank you for kissing him, Yn. Now heâll stop with the longing stares at the door.â
âWhat stares?â you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).
Hyunjin catches his coachâs eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms himâknowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, heâs certain of it.
âWill you stay with me tonight?â Hyunjin whispers later, as youâre leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.
âI donât have anything of mine there,â you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. âThatâs part of my secret planâto get you in my clothes.â
âOh, what a very secretive plan,â you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. âAnd what would we do tonight?âÂ
âSleep together.â You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. âI meanâsleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldnât want to make love to you,â Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. âI just want to hold you close. Thatâs all.â
Your sweet Hyunjin.
âI want that too, Hyune.â
Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his fortĂ© has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom.Â
He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall.Â
âDo you believe in fate?â you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you.Â
âI never did, I didnât want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldnât that confine who I am, who I could be?â he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. âBut somewhat,â he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. âI believe in it now, because of you.âÂ
âI think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,â he confesses.Â
âAnd what do you feel for me?â you ask, your voice soft, curious.Â
Hyunjin doesnât answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching.Â
And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now.Â
âI used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didnât want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.âÂ
âBut now,â he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, âitâs reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.â
Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fearâ if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didnât, then werenât you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life?Â
But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you donât want to run.
You want to stay.Â
It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his beingâ his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against youâ that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him.Â
And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after?Â
âŠ
Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to himâ seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids.Â
But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart.Â
Hyunjin didnât feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp.Â
He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your beingâswept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once.Â
Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by cornerâyour satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher.Â
In some way, it mirrored how youâd seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nightsâ threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness.Â
Heâd steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. Youâd brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. Heâd do your laundry. Youâd make his coffee each morning. Heâd brew your tea each night.
You didnât have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.
It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.
In the hush of the twilight, youâd unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers withinâyouâd share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both.Â
âI think I know my purpose now,â you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. âWhat is it?âÂ
âI think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parentsâ dreams, like Iâd be becoming what they always wanted me to be.â You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. âBut I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.âÂ
His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. âYou already do.â
Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand.Â
âWould you go into her room with me?â he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his motherâs bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.
That truth felt easier to confront with you near.
âOf course,â you replied softly. âWhatever you need.â
The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go.Â
He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.
You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.
He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved mostâa thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.
âKeep it,â he whispered. âIt will live again through you.â
In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wardsâsomething he never found the courage to do, until now.
Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face nowâa soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.
Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. âyour mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warmââ would want you to be happy.
Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hungerâan insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him.Â
When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all.Â
Somehow, Hyunjinâs biggest joy came from watching you danceâ the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, heâd choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner.Â
There, heâd watch you, leading the group of dancers youâll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.
How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.
You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone.Â
That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and youâd begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.
You arenât as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. âDo you need anything?â he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.
âI just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.âÂ
Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you donât have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadnât gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.
Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed youâ delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing.Â
You didnât simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him.Â
And it is hyunjinâs arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other.Â
âYou won, my love,â he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you.Â
He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint.Â
Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.
But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isnât meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows himâhis own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.
âŠ
âI think Iâll go to Switzerland.â
It takes a few seconds for Hyunjinâs words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore.Â
Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlesslyâthe pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.
âWill you go?â youâd asked, and heâd only shrugged. âIâm thinking about it.â The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomachâ dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.
But you should have knownâsome things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.
You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water.Â
Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?
âOkay,â you nod, biting your lip anxiously. âWhen will you go?â
âIn three days. Or else Iâll miss the deadline to join.â
Oh.
You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.
You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.
âI know itâs sudden,â he murmurs, voice low, âI tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying itâs a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I donât want you to feel abandoned.âÂ
You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.
âIâve always known we wouldnât stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just⊠never thought it would happen this fast.â You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. âBut youâre meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where youâll find them, then I couldnât be happier for you.â
âI love you,â he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. âWeâll make it work, right?â
He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.
âOf course, we will.â
It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin.Â
âI love you,â he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.
âIâve only known love thanks to you,â you murmur. That much is true.
Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythmâpassion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love youâs between broken whimpers and moans.Â
He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.
Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodiesâ the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.
âŠÂ
Youâre back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at JuilliardâThe Sleeping Beautyâthe ballet that will close this chapter of your life.
Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.
Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.
It all feels hollow, empty, when you canât remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.
Youâd already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the newsâmore vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be goodâfrequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.
But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselvesâ hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls.Â
Youâre afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjinâs face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionistâs brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.
There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it wonât be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin.Â
And you couldnât afford that.Â
You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The cityâs chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.
The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.
Thereâs no grace in the way you donât allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, havenât you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?
You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjinâs contactâ my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.
With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.
âHi, my angel,â he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.
You force a smile, hoping he wonât hear the tremble in your voice. âHi, baby. Practicing?â
âYeah.â He hums. âAre you outside?â
âIm going for a walk.â Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.
âAre you okay, my love?â he asks gently, and you nod though he canât see.
âI am,â you lie. âI just miss you.â The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much itâs killing you.
âI miss you too,â he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you.Â
âI think we should end things,â you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongueâ just like your words.
âWhat?â he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.
âWhy do you want this? Donât you love me anymore?â His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.
âYou know thereâs no one I love but you,â you say, drawing in a breath that doesnât wish to be trapped by you. âBut weâre both so busy it barely feels like weâre together anymore.â
âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry, baby, Iâll try to text more, I promise. Iâll cut back on my training for you, Iâllâ.â
âYou know Iâd never ask that of you.â You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.
You see him then, in a haze of memoryâHyunjinâs head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, âMy momâs last wish for me was to win that gold medal. Iâm terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about itââ Heâd let out a humorless laugh. âShe isnât here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isnât that strange?â
You know it wellâthe pain of failing those you love, even those who donât love you back.
âYour mom wanted you to win that medal, didnât she?â you say softly. âI would never come between you and that.â A pause. âBut doesnât it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?â
âIâŠâ he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.
âYn, I- you know that I love you.â
And in that instant, you know he understands. Itâs because Hyunjin understands that you love him.
âI love you too, my Hyune.â
âThen donât say this,â he chokes out, âsay something cruelâsomething thatâll make it easier not to miss you so much when youâre gone.â
You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps youâd have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything.Â
âI came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thoughtâŠmaybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.â His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.
âThank you,â you whisper, voice cracking, âthank you for making me happy.â
The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if youâve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.
Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existenceâ for both me and him?Â
âŠÂ
Youâve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.
You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to griefâyour life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.
But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. Itâs a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.
It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled withinâTo the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.
You didnât reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.
Youâve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.
Sometimes, youâd let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, youâd catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the waterâs surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.
But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.
After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.
The heart is no rigid thing; it doesnât stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadnât done much to heal itâtruthfully, you hadnât believed you deserved to feel good once more.
Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.
But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. âI think you could be this generationâs prima ballerina assoluta, she saidâabsolute first ballerina, the best of the best.Â
âReally?â you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. âYes, if you keep going this way, you will be.â
You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he wouldâve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if theyâd been real.
Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjinâs name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spinâ forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.
You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.
You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound?Â
Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professorâs eyes then searched yoursâ âwhere do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?â
Hyunjinâs arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself.Â
âI donât know. I think Iâll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.â
âThen go to opĂ©ra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.â
You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.
You now had an excuse to be there.Â
You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monetâs paintings at MusĂ©e de lâOrangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?
Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadnât decided, you never had to find out. You didnât see him.
It is the menâs singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. Youâre seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.
Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones.Â
Heâs dazzlingâachingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too.Â
Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being.Â
He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him.Â
You wonder if heâs thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?
It has always been his face for you.Â
The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.
Then, he launches into the air.
The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see itâ one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth.Â
Two spinsâ seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock.Â
Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.
Three spinsâ fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.
And then he does it.
His fourth and final spinâ your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.
You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyoneâs mouths.Â
But not on yours.
Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would.Â
Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater.Â
Hyunjinâs name comes first.Â
He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, âYou did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!â The tears wonât stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.
You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours.Â
The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.
Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. âYn, IâŠâ he chokes, and you nod, whispering, âI know. You did it, Hyunjin.â
âI did it, Yn,â he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you.Â
No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but himâand you.
As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjinâs eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last.Â
Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment.Â
âMiss Juilliard,â Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more.Â
Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. Heâs never been able to hide his eyes from you.
âCongratulations on your win,â you say.
âCongratulations on your graduation.â
He knows.
In that moment, you see it allâthe two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.
Or, you could speak now.
âI made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,â you say, your voice tentative. âWould you like some?â
Hyunjinâs shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. âOf course.â
You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.
âIâm sorry,â you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.
âFor what?â
âFor stealing you away.â
His shoulders relax. âDonât apologize. I wanted to come.â
The apartment you rented is smallâstudio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where youâve loved taking nightly walks by SacrĂ© Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.
For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.
He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.
âThank you,â he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. Itâs as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain.Â
He yields first.
âYou came,â he whispers, glancing over at you.
âI couldnât miss seeing you win.â
âI missed you,â he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. âIt hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.â
âIâm here tonight.âÂ
Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjinâs gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yoursâthose piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing somethingâanythingâto diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.
Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.
Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone whoâs finally tasted salvation.Â
You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veinsâ anything so you wouldnât have to part from him once more. You donât think you can handle it. You donât think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you canât.
When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. âTell me, Yn,â he breathes, âdo you still love me? I need to know, please. Itâs been tearing me apart.â
âI love you,â you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. âI loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.â
A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sisterâs grave and repent once more. Youâd do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.
âI was always ever yours to love.âÂ
Epilogue.Â
Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts werenât always kind. His hands didnât always sweep gently against his skin.Â
But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasnât a sharp emotion, it didnât slice away at the heart, it didnât puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there.Â
And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didnât wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now.Â
And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore.Â
You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight.Â
It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. âNot so long now,â they reassure, âyour loved ones will follow.â
You believe them, and you will wait. For now, youâll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave.Â
They are now meant for you, at long last.Â
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When you mentioned fused stancest I literally could not stop thinking about how they would act if they couldnât infuse for a while everyoneâs reaction to how they function as one person. I would love to hear more of you take on it.
I have so many!! This ended up longer then i expected (Sorry if this isnt what you meant)
So I actually wanted to write something like this concept but the angst is like a parasite and it takes over everything
I think if they got stuck as a Fordley (thats what im calling the fusion) the reactions would go like this:
Mabel is squealing and thinks its so cool and definitely asks to ride on their shoulders. Shes having the time of her life (and even asks if she can try the fusion machine too.) Two grunkles for the price of one and all that but now they are one cooler taller Grunkle.
Dipper hates it. He constantly gets jumpscared. He'll go down to get water and Fordley is creeping around in the middle of the night to get snacks before slinking back down to the lab and dippers like cluching his chest and shaking and sweaty and he really just wants them unfuse already.
Stan would be upset cause why would ford even build something like this. And then he fucked up and now theyre stuck this way. But also he's secretly pleased with the fact that the intensity of his feelings for stan drove Ford to literally create a way for them to be one.
Ford is only too pleased because this is what he wanted. Now he's only thinking that they get to do all the things they love together just like they always said they would do as kids. They'll watch stans shows and do science stuff and he's pleasently surprised with how their minds blend together so well. Even if stan pretends he doesnt enjoy the explorations they go on Ford can feel that he does.
They still work on a way to fix the machine so they can get unfused but only cause stans still a bit pissed at not having a choice in the matter but Ford fully intends to convince him that being one is how they are supposed to be.
Wendy would be like wtf then rapidly compartmentalize and just nod and be like "this is my life now."
Soos looses his mind and fanboys so hard and writes all types of fusion fics and has tea with them to ask how it feels to make his fics as canon as possible. He will also au the hell outta Fordley.
They definitely become an urban legend cause some townie or tourists saw them slinking around in the woods "Seven foot tall, four eyed creature spotted in the woods of gravity falls. Hairless cousin of bigfoot??" And all of the photos are super blurry and you got some people saying it has four arms and debating if it eats humans or only family sized bags of toffee peanuts?
As for specifically with the angsty one i wrote
Ford refuses to let them find a way to fix it cause he doesnt see them being stuck as a problem
Stan is (rightfully) upset and refuses to engage with Ford. Ford eventally coaxes stan to hear him out and they slowly work through their issues cause really what else can they do when their literally stuck together. And then maybe stan realizes that being them isnt so bad and he begrudgingly respects fords audacity (and insanity) to make what he wanted a reality.
And when they do (mostly stan) finally accept the situation, they allow themself to truly start to think of themself as one and i think even the deformites of their unstable fusion would start to shift into a more stable form.
Mabel is lowkey scared of them because of what happened in the lab but she slowly warms up to Fordley. But its only after her grunkles stop fighting. (dont ask how you can fight when you share one body because they do it and they do it easily and she can tell)
Dipper is confused cause no one actually sat him down to fully explain what happened and he's working on context clues only. He's too scared to ask Fordley and anytime he asks mabel she just goes wide eyed and pale. And then one day everything is cool. Like Fordley is still there but he's happier and engaging with the nibs and mabel isnt scared of them anymore and dippers even more confused because nobody has clued him in????
Maybe i should just turn these into fics atp?
#stancest#stancest fusion#pines4the(t)win#ask me more about Fordley cause thats all I'll be thinking about for a good minute
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I'm gonna be shitting and screaming and starting fights if Sera becomes a villain. I can't take sibling angst, Sera loves Emily I swear guys believe meeee.
#im making a fanfic of two and a half halos and the mc is Emily and it focuses alot on her and sera's dynamic#ill probablg send it here when im done. in 100 years because i havent finished a fic in 20 centuries#hazbin hotel sera#seraphim#hazbin sera#emily hazbin hotel#hazbin emily#hazbin hotel emily#emily seraphim#hazbin hotel#PLEASE DONT MENTION HAND PLACEMENF PLEASE /S#I WAS DRAWINF THIS AT 3 AM AND I KEPT BLACKINF OUT BUT I KNEW ID LOSE MOTIVATION IF I DIDNT FINISH#I DIDNT NOTICE UNTIL I WAS DONE SO PLS JST- IDK. JST LOOK AT MY BABIES#i headcanon Sera as trans. for pride month i have the idea of putting every ship and character under their pride flags#sooo sera is gonna be covered with a trans flag and emily... also trans becauze everyone is trans becauze o said so#charlie is ALSO trans because i said so#i came up wit trans sera on my own(idk if it existed be4 but i jst thot of it and got all happy cuz she is so trans idc) but#i freaking love trans emoly and trans charlie so for a bit i felt wrong for hc so many characters as trans#rhen i woke up one day and was loke. yeah idgaf they all trans cuz theres not enoigh#like im not gonna ALAAYS depict them as trans except sera(she is 100% trans to me) i like the other hcs for fun. im so srs for sera i đ her#sera just wants to hug her huggable sister sometimes and thats ok! đđ#art#fanart#artists on tumblr#digital art#*in stupid egg boy voice* i wish Sera would hold ME in her arms... đ#gave them snouts because i cannot deal with the no noses. it genuinely disturbs me. have yall SEEN velvettes side profile omfg đš#my babies... i just want them to be happy. why must there be sibling angst... they jst want to do whats right âčïž#im gonna fight to protect Sera from spme of yall fr fr cuz she do not deserve to be SO hated. JST. JST GET TO KNO HER I SWEAR SHE COOL#like i get it. what she doin is wrong. but if you was in her shoes you know you would do the same dont even lieeee đš
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"Angry robin" "violent robin" "misbehaving robin" shut up and accept my alternative; spunky Robin. Determined and head strong, can out-stubborn the Batman, has a strong moral-backbone and does what he thinks is right regardless of what anybody else says, Robin. Jason who was sassy and quippy and made crude jokes with a smile on his face. Jason who hid in Bruce's cape and whispered gossip to him. Jason who, if Bruce refused him something, could keep bothering endlessly until Bruce caved. And also dramatic Jason. If Bruce tells him no, it becomes a whole theatrical show; a monologue, a narration, embellishments, and falling onto the floor in his grief upon the fact his cruel father has denied him once again.
(Jason who has suffered through abuse and homelessness and poverty and starvation, who is the Fight out of Fight or Flight, who's built up defenses and walls and when pushed and triggered responds with the thing that's always protected him; anger. He's sweet and kind and funny, and when he sees a pimp hitting a prostitute he gets furious and responds with violence.)
#my dc posting#dc#jason todd#jaybin#im having so many thoughts abt jaybin and he is so important to me#in one fic he went on a hunger strike bc alfred didnt eat w them and did it for so long they had to compromise#i love a jaybin 100% willing to menace and bother batman until the man folds. as is his right#the thing abt jason's backstory is that it shows him unwilling to suffer for a home#ma gunn's is bad; he gets beat up and she tries to get him to help rob a place. so he leaves! and rats the whole thing out to batman#and shows up himself cus he didnt think he had been believed#and lets not forget the fact he hit batman with a tire iron and called him a 'big boob'!#the boy's got moxie!! let jaybin be crass and angry and sassy and flawed and traumatized without reducing him to 2d caricature of a 'troubl#d kid'#i dont like a jason who did nothing but use excessive violence and disobey orders and be cocky and all that shit#i like a jason who was. oh yknow. a complex person!! a child/teen who has been fucking abused!!!#you shouldnt erase the fact that jason's reaction/response to stressful situations and triggers IS anger#it's not an indication that he was always gonna become a criminal/red hood or whatever. get outta here w that shit#but like. let us not go so far in the other direction we forget to have him react and be affected by the abuse he's suffered#anyway. if anyone should be a drama-queen it should be jaybin. once he becomes truly comfortable w bruce he should dial it up to 11#a lot of red hood's appeal (to me&many others) is that he is an 'imperfect' victim. meaning he is angry and flawed and doesnt suffer quietl#but is loud and obvious abt it#so when i see jaybin written as the opposite its like. man whats that about#anyway. jaybin is good and cares and wants to help and protect people. and by god if i ever see anybody writing#him having arguments with bruce about the no kill rule WHILE robin again im gonna throw hands istg-#my tags are like a hidden treasure box. most of what i say is in here lmao
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one bingo and several close calls
tagging @sobeautifullyobsessed @worstloki and @babygirlthor because i don't know who else currently writes
commentary below bc i am talkative at the moment
-had a ff.net account -wattpad was my second fic website (quotev being the first) but like my first phase on quotev ended and wasn't that great. i started on wattpad & since then i've been writing. i still update on wattpad bc i'm still getting readers so may as well update on both wattpad and ao3. stopped updating on quotev bc i got annoyed -yep, i have an ao3 account (under same url) *i'm sex averse -used to roleplay but i don't currently -have beta read (& i'm willing to beta read) -i've never had any of my fics beta read because i'm the type of person that feels bad asking help for things (which i'm trying to get over listen i've prioritized this in my personal life over fic i promise i'm working on it) but i guess i've had sections beta read, especially since i've come back from brazil. at times i think my english sounds off so i ask someone to tell me if that english sounds normal or not. i don't have anything against beta readers, i just don't have the courage to ask for one -most of my fics are self-indulgent, Captive being the most by far -it is hard to communicate feelings but everyone understands alhdkglhalkdgha -yes, have also done the same equivalent to leaving multiple kudos on wattpad (the two fics that got me back into fic reading are still up and i still reread them every once in a while. author is on hiatus. hope they get the sporadic emails of me commenting about how i've read it a thousand times) *i prefer whump or hurt/comfort over pure fluff *just now realizing i haven't written m/m or f/f. i've written with nb characters though *okay so i used to be multifandom but lately i've only written for the mcu so i'll say that for now i'm not *i wouldn't say i LOVE researching. sometimes it annoys me and/or stresses me out bc i want to be accurate and i stress myself over it. so i do it but it's not my favorite part of the process -i keep an outline. whether i follow it is another question. -who doesn't love comments? *have not (if anyone would make art for my fics i'd probably die of feels) -oh dear dont get me started on how many wips i have -editing is hard -i get ideas during my nightly thinking-of-scenarios-before-sleeping thing *don't drink *don't drink coffee. i'm not much of a tea person & i preferred tea in brazil (passion fruit tea guys. passion fruit tea). more likely to drink pop or sparkling water, maybe gatorade or terere while writing -i like my aroace!Loki fics and they haven't gotten tons of attention. one might because it's multichapter and just. isn't far along yet. but the one shot i feel like is some good writing that could potentially be very stirring for aroacespecs. i wrote it while questioning things and used it to process those feelings i was having and i think a lot of aroacespec people would appreciate it. *used to want to be a pro writer. but for now...i'm just burnt out from original writing. maybe one day. right now i'm gonna focus on fics.
Thank you for the tag @theblueeyedfirebender (any FMA-blog followers, check out this blog!)
I mainly write for LoZ (ao3), but on an older AO3 account (no I will not be linking it) I've written for Supernatural and Sherlock (mostly trash one-shots when I used to take commissions).
@snail-studios, @hero-of-the-wolf, and @gracieelinn, I put a clean bingo sheet below so fill one out if you'd like! â€ïž
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idea. since askdusttale answered an ask about where dust got his determination from (because dust has SOME determination just so he can remember the timelines and keep going against the human) and said it was totally up to personal interpretation on how he got his determination. so so so like what if what if dusttale's player did something similar to something new's player and changed dust's code to give him determination??? so dust and killer COULD BOTH had their codes tampered with??? the parallels would be INSANE. they both started off as sans and got their codes tampered with by the player but dust and killer went on two opposite paths. dust out of his own voalition decided to go against the human but killer had to team up with the human no choice at all. the opposite parallels go CRAZY oh god im tweaking
killer doesn't know exactly (since i forgot whether or not he can see codes or something like that. i swear there was an image of him describing fell and swap's code and then his own) but he can SENSE that something's off. something's different about dust that he doesn't quite know about. maybe it gets him to ask a bunch of questions that dust is definitely not open to answering because jesus man mind your own damn business but the question that really sets killer off is the way dust answers when he asks "so if you have determination then how did you get it?" and dust just shrugs his shoulders and said that one day he suddenly remembered the resets and then that's when he got it (and then goes back to mumbling to phantom paps or wtvr) and killer's just like. zomg. a sudden change in behavior or mentality that seemingly has no apparent reason related to the human???? like like like when he suddenly had to agree with the player despite literally never wanting to????? killer is over thinking the implications behind this
meanwhile dust is just annoyed now because killer keeps on following him. he keeps asking him strange questions. wtf why is the guy asking to see his SOUL that's incredibly personal???? he just wants to be left alone man he has no idea what's going on
#this is what happens when i go on my weekly ask dusttale scroll through i come up with ideas like this#one day killer asks dust if he knows about the players and creators#dust says no. and the moment killer starts explaining it to him he backs off#because dust is actually fucking going crazy at what he just barely said#there are people above us that control our stories??? our LIVES???#so he wasn't fighting against some random human but a literal god who wanted to play with him out of curiosity???#dust is never going to forget that conversation. killer knows even that one sentence changed him#dust is really paranoid now when he sees a human. immediately kills them compared to before#yk what let's make this nightmare's gang related! nm notices dust's paranoia toward humans#mans is getting upset because he's killing precious negativity. so he asks killer#killer wtf happened to dust i told you to watch over him and horror (sadly i cant drag him into this hc)#and killer's like i might've told him about creators and players and now he's probably having a crisis over his free will and stuff#yeahhhh that dust gets replaced asap. it's better to leave aus unaware of creators in the DUST (haha)#and then promptly replaces him. killer keeps on eyeing the new dust like#is it a dusttale thing? is it all dusts? or was that the only one? maybe this one KNOWS?#but in the end he leaves him alone bc nm told him too. he's still overthinking those implications though#GOD THIS IS SUCH A COOL FUCKING IDEA#askdusttale i love having freedom to come up with ideas like this BLESS đđđ#listen if there were a real canon reason dust gets determination then i wouldn't have this idea#but dusttale's canon is so loose and just structural its GREAT!!!! i love it#and the fact that the dusttale fics dont even change much to the lore??? just explains dusts personality better#HOW MANY MORE PARALLELS CAN THE MTT HAVE BEFORE THEY EXPLODE I SWEAR#killer sans#dust sans#nightmare sans#murder time trio#bad sanses#utmv#sans au#tricule rant
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sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all
My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.
#Its so shocking whenever anybody mentions that fic to me#like its just such a specific combo of interests how are there this many people interested in it...#I have some fragments of unfinished chapters for it laying around but I was struggling to get them to work#and I definitely dont have the motivation to finish them now#If youre curious the chapters were going to be Slaughter avatar miss Power and Web avatar Mr Big#and possibly Flesh avatar Butcher but I never got around to starting that one#The Miss Power chapter was basically going to be about her having kind of lost her thread#I wanted to leave a lot of ambiguity as to what happened with her home planet#but she hadnt been in contact with them for agessssss and her radio is damaged and her ship is in bad shape#the chapter was just going to be her being like 'pfff I dont interpersonal connection Im doing great out here. Murdering. All on my own'#Well she has her little squirl thing but she treats him like an animal#mr giggle cheeks or whatever#anyway I wanted it to imply that whatever happened her bloodthirst was destroying her#The Mr Big chapter was from Lesley's perspective#She would have been one in a long long line of assistants that Mr Big went through like candy#Lesley is his favorite though because. while she is terrified of him. shes still willing to push him. to be honest with him#but she also knows exactly when to step off. when to lie to appease him#( its always a tossup as to whether he wants a sweet lie or the harsh truth that day. He can always tell either way#its a gamble he does to be cruel. She always picks right though. or maybe he's more lenient with her than he should be)#He likes that she knows exactly how to push him without ever stepping over the line#He likes that her guilt and revulsion are slowly eating her up inside but shes too selfish to leave#She likes being special. She likes the idea of ruling the world alongside him#She'll always be second in command but shell be so much higher than everyone else#and shes willing to do anything to get that#Mr big doesnt think shell ever make it that far#but he likes her anyway#shes the one assistant he'll be sad about dying#OK damn apparently I did still have things to say about this old fic DAMN#still not gonna finish it tho. they call me the struggler becaus.e writing is a struggle...
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"Found out" set in kind of a made-up chapter where the girls are in trouble, or something.
#witch hat tag#orufrey#i hate having a strong cinematic image in your mind for months..working hours on it..& at the end looking you have to be like âSure. :/"#i'm especially unsatisfied with the beginning and the end and how i can't get eyebrows to work as i want#but i dont care any more... this is probably the comic that has given me the most trouble ever i just dont care#i barely even care whatsoever if anyone even sees this..Ugh..but at least i can move on to the next era now#i'm just annoyed i cant get out good enough my image of qifrey flinching bc he thinks oru will hit him but then he is not hit#i feel like sensei will do something along these lines. i want to see what she will do.#there are also other variations i have in my mind. i just want to know#i just don't want it to happen with qifrey on his deathbed or something. but it possibly will. I DONT EVEN KNOW.#i have another very cinematic image in my mind for something sort of along those lines which i will do soon. it never ends...#btw after this is probably my fics. yeah.... i think it has to be my fics. jasmine sort of goes along these lines#i need that space for dialogue. look - i'm a writer. this is HARD for me. so i am really glad i had the space and freedom of words#to process all the feelings. but i tried to get something out in a quick visual space too. <- me defending myself to myself at cai court#anyway going along the lines of 'Jasmine' - they talk this out and argue and cry and oru pushes the hat at him and tells him#why not just erase every memory i have of you then. That would be easier for us all wouldn't it?#they kiss and sob and kiss and lie outside in the flowers for many hours in that one. and then there's 'Deep End' where it turns out#way way way way more time and words is needed for this actually and that's upsetting for everyone.#the destruction of the hat is certainly another path to take. Can you make this work without that hat going up in flames?#something you have always had and have been clinging to will have to be destroyed. You have to lose something now. This is the crux qifrey#I CANT GET IT OUT IN ONE COMIC!!! I CANT DRAW IT OUT!!!! I NEEDED THOSE FICS!!!! PRAISE WORDS!!!! whatever im going to have dinner now
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Last Line Tag Game
Thanks for tagging me @teejaystumbles ! A really nice surprise!! :D I am indeed contemplating writing two Dead Boy Detectives fic right now, but they're both in the very early 'being-outlined-in-my-head' stage, haha. They both revolve around post-s1 Edwin pining for Charles, one where Edwin takes matters into his own hands and one where he decides to have a chat with the Cat King about it. Not sure if they'll ever be written but they're intriguing!
But for the sake of the tag game, here's a lengthy bit from a Dreamling wip I've slowly been chipping away at for a few months!
A scene from Every Little Thing (Working Title)â In which Morpheus is a figure drawing professor who has just been fired from a film production based on his comics, and Hob does part-time figure modeling and is determined befriend the aforementioned professor.
Morpheus picks his class schedules wiselyâ he runs two first year general figure drawing classes, at 8 a.m. and at noon on Mondays and Thursdays. He helps the uniâs live figure workshop club on Wednesdays and Fridays at 6 p.m., and meets his sister for lunch on Wednesdays. All other free time was dedicated for his industry work. That wouldnât be a concern anymore, would it. By the time Morpheus unlocks the door to the studio, sets his bag down by his desk, and starts fiddling with the ceiling studio lights pointed at the model stand, all of Morpheusâ thoughts have reduced to pure spite. Fine, maybe the big studios donât want him. They donât deserve him, then, their loss. His portfolio and repertoire are infamous in the industry, theyâll be crawling back to him in no time. Too bad, maybe he would have started his own production studio and heâll end up with the next ground-breaking animated film. Maybeâ Morpheusâ thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. He shakes himself out of it, calling, âCome in.â A glance at his watch tells him itâs only 7:48, perhaps itâs an overeager student here early. Itâs only the second week of the semester, they grab every opportunity to prove themselves with a spirited step that Morpheus might be slightly envious of. âHello, Morpheus Endeles?â Hearing his full name startles Morpheus, and he turns from the lighting settings to the door. âYes?â The man who steps into view can only be described as radiant. He canât be much older than Morpheus, not much taller either but wider in the shoulders. His hair is cropped just above his shoulders and he sports a neatly kept beard. Morpheus registers this all first simply because of his profession butâ he gets caught on the manâs brilliant smile and deep brown eyes. Thereâs something there that knocks all thoughts clear out of Morpheusâ head. The stranger smiles warmly, smiles like he already cares. âIâm here to model for the morning and noon figure classes?â The man says. Morpheus clears his throat and steps forward, âYes, this is the right studio.â He extends a hand, âRobert Gadling, I presume?â The man takes his handâ god, heâs so warmâ and shakes it steadily, âPlease, call me Hob! All my friends do.â
I'm a sucker for the 'Morpheus catalogues Hob's appearance during their first meeting' trope in most Dreamling human AU fics, I couldn't not do it too :]
Besides this, I've also got a Dreamling Velvet Goldmine-ish AU fic that I want to get done this summer. I'm a very slow and ruminative writer so let's see if I can commit to any of these fics now that I've posted about them lol!
No pressure tags! I have no idea who's been tagged recently so-- lol. @hardly-an-escape @valeriianz @moorishflower @amielot :)
#ive seen so many Artist Dream AUs but theyre always pretty vague with the specifics of his work so i was like#i need to write the specific ins-and-outs of what my ideal Artist Dream AU would be. and its this#that he's a really difficult collaborator with extreme creativity who starts out in animation#and branches out from there into art directing various things doing his own comics on the side (the corinthian is one of his comics)#(he DEFINITELY forays into themed environmental design)#which is half inspired by my actual professors' professional lives and a guest speaker that spoke to us recently#i want morpheus to be really good at teaching younger artists#and i want him to doubt weather his passion for storytelling is worth it#and i want hob to befriend him and ground him by reminding murphy about what he loves about making art#and of course i love figure drawing classes so much! theyre the essence of narrative art#and ofc hob and dream are gonna fuck at some point. i already have a mildly kinky sequel scene planned involving hob knowing how paint#anyway god this is so long#i just love the ideas in this fic theyre so personal to me. i really hope i finish this fic and get to share it with everyone :')#LONG POST AUGH ANYWAY BYE THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME TASH!!!!!!#i dont really get to talk about my fic anymore so this was really nice thank you :') !#rex writes#rex speaks#tag game#last line tag game#long post#fic
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#having a creative rut feeling#gonna rant#im basically a giant baby and i don't handle angst very well#and i constantly worry that im just. idk mentally weak or a deeply uninteresting person bc of it.#every big fantasy artist i see is usually very into making sad or angsty pieces and like i wish i was like that#like i fall into this mental hole very very often that im just holding myself back with how many subjects i dont write or draw#but also like when i DO write dark subjects it doesn't make me feel any better??#i dont like feeling sad or angry bc once i am its extremely hard to get back out of it.#and thats scary for me.#but also i want to make art that means something instead of my nonestop slew of smut and feelgood content.#i genuinely feel so trapped by my own emotions and its sp frustrating.#i keep getting told how good for you it is to get the negative feelings out but it never helps when i do it#i just feel. worse? i dont feel good.#i kinda wanna delete the one cloud post bc it just doesn't feel good.#ugh#idk i want to have good intelligent things to say and thoughtful art to make#and everything i make feels soft and cheesey and lame.#not that i find those things lame#but just that it feels like im stuck in baby brain.#when i was a teen i would write horror stories!!! i still love horror!!!#but if i make someone suffer in fic now it feels me with this awful awful overwhelming sense of dread and guilt and i end up so upset#im frustrated at me bc this is such a fucking weird sensitivity to have. im tried of telling myself its okay#bc i WANT to feel mentally free enough to create shit that isnt just uwu soft.#i don't think im making sense but like.#you know#I've literally been bullied out of fandom spaces for only making soft content#multiple times.#so idk maybe this is a learned sense of shame#but i feel like a big over sensitive baby and like I'd be able to do so much more if i wasn't#vent ish
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#i have a GREAT idea for my 50 followers event idea#since im almost there đ€«#yippee#but im not sure if itll work out#idkâŠâŠ#like if it flops im getting beheaded at the nearest town square#like i dont get it my fics get so many likes but no one wants to request đ#the only request i have is the one from ren because i was begging on dashboard
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insane brain telling me to turn one of my oldest wip fics into an ask blog instead vs i dont wanna draw
#shut up luci#delete later#by one of my oldest i mean its a premise i've been playing with since middle school.#it is veryyyyyyy loosely a shimotsuma monogatari au for my bbygrls alice and sakura. loosely.#at this point the only real resemblance is the punk x lolita combo. entirely different plot and such#i've rewritten it so many times and even considered filing off the serial number to make it into an original story instead of fic#a couple scenes from my stageplay began their life as being part of this fic before i realized it matched my ocs better than iggypan#i havent touched this story in a while but i'm rereading some of it and i thought hm this would be a cute askblog premise also#however i dont feel like drawing all that but now im tormented with all the cute snippets i could show into their lives and the story#it might help me get the ball rolling on rewriting and polishing up to eventually publish#not to get anyones hopes up im prob gonna still take another decade on this fic#inb4 u can run an askblog without art. yeah i know that but art is my fave component of an askblog#inb4 no one sends asks anymore. i dont care i already know what asks i want to send to myself. but i would like to receive some others also
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i really love dc x dp tbh but i hate how so many fics end up making the batfam dumb as shit. and i don't mean in a "loveable goof" kind of way but in a genuine "these people don't have the skills or intelligence to be heroes" kind of way. which is just antithetical to their entire thing
sometimes it's because the writer just genuinely doesn't know anything about the batfam or what they've been through so they come across as idiots. and other times it's because the writer is writing op ghost king danny or just generally op danny and they genuinely think he could outsmart or beat them. more often than not, it's a combination of the two.
it's just so sad. like not only is it disrespectul to the batfam, essentially getting rid of all the skills and experience they have just to prop up danny, but it also makes things a lot more boring imo. don't get me wrong, i don't mind the occasional "main character is super op" kind of story, but it's boring when like 70% of fics are like that and there's no real challenge or obstacle for him. part of why the show danny phantom was so fun was that it was exciting and chair gripping to see danny have to deal with his new ghost powers, figuring out how to deal with ghost attacks or vlad, and dealing with school and his parents on top of that.
but often, dc x dp fics just,, get rid of any challenge for him. sure batman is a skilled detective but danny will always be able to trick him! sure cass has been trained since birth to read people's body language but this random ghost teen knows how to conceal and control everything!! yeah damian has also been trained since birth to fight and kill but this random guy from the midwest who just started fighting in his teens is so much better!!! like, alright. it's fun every now and then but it sucks when so much of the dc x dp content is just people acting like the batfam are the worst vigilantes/detectives in the world.
and honestly i still feel this way even with the ghost king danny fics because how? he's never had to deal with people obsessively reading his body language or reading between the lines. he's had to deal with hiding stuff sure but his parents aren't the most observant people - their whole deal was being neglectful. even as a ghost king, why would he know how to outsmart, take advantage of, or beat the batfam in any capacity when he would still mostly deal with ghosts. it's a completely different skill set here - one that he likely wouldn't be prepared for. it'd be fine if they at least attempted to explain why danny would have those skills (like league danny aus) but most of them don't.
and i'm not saying danny couldn't do it at all, especially if it's a ghost king au, but i'm just tired of seeing the batfam constantly downplayed in these fics Just to make danny look better, smarter, stronger, etc. ik most people in the fandom are just danny fans but it really shows with how they treat, characterize, and shit on the dc characters just to prop danny up. it also serves to occasionally make danny look like an asshole when he intentionally messes with them and basically commits psychological torture for a goof.
#man...#i Do like this crossover but i completely understand why so many dc fans hate it#the oocness the fanon the constantly making these skilled trained characters fumble around and get outsmarted by Some Guy#ghost king danny isn't even canon to dp! which isnt a bad thing by any means ik the dp fandom goes crazy for fanon#and generally speaking the fanon Is a lot more fun and engaging than dp's canon#but as a dc fan its insane to watch#i want to engage more with dc x dp content so badly like this crossover is really interesting to me#but so much of it is just 'the bat.fam are actually fucking useless and my blorbo is so much better :)))'#it's almost like they dont even like the bat.fam!!! they keep saying they just dont know/understand them#but it fully feels like they straight up dont like the dc characters#it definitely comes across as 'hey this is a fun world to put danny in lets do that while also shitting on it and all of the characters'#'lol bruce is so stupid this random teen can outsmart him and he can lie to cass and he can beat dick in a physical fight lol'#there's a point where it stops feeling like indulgent op blorbo and more like insulting anyone who isn't danny#<thats actually exactly what it is and its insane to me like why even like crossovers if you dont want to engage with anyone but danny#how can you say you like them when you outright refuse to know them or respect them?#and obviously im using 'you' in a vague way im not specifically calling anyone out#ik there are people in the fandom who are genuinely fans of both and Do know and respect the dc characters#but so far its very few and far between which is just such a fandom culture shock for me#like in most fandoms im able to read a lot of fics and only occasionally think 'thats not right'#but with this one its the other way around - im constantly going 'they wouldnt say/do that at all why does the op think that?'#like 9 out of 10 fics im like 'oh yeah this person has never read a comic in their life'#i can immediately tell when someone has only read the webtoon its extremely obvious unfortunately#maybe i should make a dc masterlist for dp fans... like here you can write about them again After you do your homework ajdhgl
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#hhhhhh reread the flashback chapter i wrote w d/dirk and just hooh boy i love it so much ugh#im tempted to post it on its own but i want to save that bomb of a scene for the middle of the larger fic its in#just ughhhhhhh i love everything about how i wrote d#im going nuts bc i have been working on it since like december? ish? but the past couple months have been hell for me personally#fuck like i remember going thru an entire calendar of movie release dates for that historical year and found the perfect spot#to where it accounts for historical events and events in canon and has its own special date and how the release of the movie...#...effects how d managed to make it a success and just#fuck man i researched the hell out of that and only had to put one anachronism to grease a moment in it#like#this fic is so big for me and i am so scared that i wont finish it bc i have so many things planned out for it and so many ...#...annotations i keep adding to modify things i wrote earlier in it (which is why im not publishing any of it yet)#i want to share it w the world so fucking badly but i keep getting amazing ideas to weave in from an earlier point i already wrote#cries lol#ughhh this is why im so tempted to post the flashback as a standalone chapter/separate posting#but#i wrote it to match a scene from both the previous and next chapter so i dont wanna ruin that either#fucking writers block man ahhhh wish my life wasnt shit rn bc i need to finish it#tag edit: i used the wrong spelling of affects earlier lol#but yeah ughhhh so frustrated w life rn i have such bigger problems going on rn but#rereading my fave chapter kinda just made my day at least lmao#personal#vent#kinda i guess#delete later / /#maybe idk lol#ShitPost.exe#like this wip is over 33k words and its probably not even halfway done in terms of event points i want to happen in it lmao fml#all bc i wanted to make one punchline happen which happened a long time ago before i wanted to write all that backstory into the fic
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^dragging tiny mark winters snippets to ur doorstep like a cat trying 2 well meaningly feed its friend <3
HEHEHEHEEHEHEE ARE THEY TRYINF 2 FIGURE OUT WHAT KIND OF LIZARD HE IS........ ohhhhh that's everything 2 meeeeeee ehehehehe. I'm not a fuckign gecko..... Mark what do u have against geckos they're so fuckign cute and awesome!!!!!!!! domt be rude!!!!!!!!!
#THIS IS AWESOME#actually one of my favorite things abt canon is that we never actually get to know what kind of lizard mark is#rubs my gay little biology hamds together like a fly. that means i can do whatever i want 2 him#we dont talk abt the possibility of him being an iguana enough#i almost added an iguana to the list of scientific nmaes in the nhw fic but i felt like 4 different animals was a bit excessive -_-#eating this up i love getting bits of this fic im gonna read this fic so many times when u pos6 it. food 4 ME#friends!!!#asks#friend art#intertexts
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name some canonically nonbinary characters why dont you
#toy txt post#those 'name 10 female characters' posts got me rolling my eyes again. just ultimate performative bullshit huh#its giving i think picking a favorite blorbo os activism. by shipping an appropriate amount of femslash in a way that is genuine#but not overbearing or that might be fetishizing! and im not forgetting the characters for the ships not like those nasty m/m shippers!#and by doing this i will reinstate abortion rights. with my Feminist Tastes. im putting words in ppls mouths and being petty but good god#like everyday this shits on my dash. can you all just start blocking the annyoing misogynist m/m shippers you dislike then?#'dont name a male character you just call babygirl' are you normal about trans headcanons? im sure im SURE you are getting the most#annoying fuckers in the world in your notes just calling male characters babygirl without it being a trans headcanon but i have seen so#many posts of this flavor now. are you consuming media correctly? are you consuming the correct media correctly? are you doing it right?#are you meeting your ship quota? are you caring about the characters outside of their ships enough? are you shipping the characters of#color the right amount the right ways to the right characters but not too much cos that might be fetishy? are you headcanoning them aspec?#are YOU aspec? we'll give you a begrudging pass for headcanoning marginalized characters as Aspec MAYBE but dont get too annoyed about#seeing ships and you have to be so polite about everyone equating aspec headcanons with infantilization with no thought to the irony that#in doing so theyre infantilizing aspecs. its honestly 50/50 if you get a pass to headcanon a character as aspec. but we will talk about#doing so as a one to one example of writing the character out of the way of your ship. you and i are not the same. name ten female#characters. name 5 of their albums and recite all the lyrics from memory. produce 5 pieces of heartfelt fic or fanart to prove your genuine#love of the character. are you going to be normal about it if someone names a cano ically male character they headcanon as a trans fem?#or will you start on some shit about how that doesnt count cos shes not a real girl? or do you know better than to say that bc that would#be genuinely shitty. are you doing it right? are you doing it right? are you doing it right? prove your fandom activism to me. write a#feminist retelling of the narrative. what if i name 10 female characters that im headcanoning as transmasc or nonbinary and calling them#babygirl? are you doing it right? am i doing it right yet? am i performing fan engagement correctly?#am i correctly engaging with fan content? is this going to please your algorithm? but not too much. just a little spicy. a little punk. but#not so much i get banned from the platform. for fandom. am i doing it right? are you shipping Pure and Wholesome Ships?#are you Cool and Edgy? do you only ship characters that hate each other that kill each other that are siblings that are problematic? have#you gone so far the other way you think youre cool to scoff at those silly tiktok puritans who only ship pure ships? you wont even think#about a show if its Politically correct you want it to call you a slur. cos youre tough and cool not like those mentally weak uncritical#tiktok puriteens. are you winning son? are you winning? are you having fun yet? are you doing it right? pass my gauntlet#are you a fake nerd girl? name five obscure comics characters to prove youre a real fan. do you hate women? are you winning?#are you winning at correctly engaging with media content? do you get a sticker? is there a sticker for naming 10 female characters? what#about 20. do you completly write off media with Less Women? put your money where your mouth is then. ship the girls in fast and furious
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