#oh god i love using water as a symbol in writing

[losver07]

okay we have talked about regulus being a swimmer but have you considered SIRIUS being a professional swimmer and after regs death not being able to go near water?

[separocean-anxiety]

[ start image description: A digital illustration of Lauren Olamina (left) from Parable of the Sower, and Harriet Adu (right) from You're Breaking My Heart.

As she's imagined here, Lauren's hair is styled in short cornrows; she wears an Earthy green t-shirt with spiral designs on the sleeves, and an acorn earring. In her hands, she clutches a green book with "Book of the Living" written on the front. Her face is in profile, while her body is angled toward Harriet.

As she's imagined here, Harriet's hair is styled in flowing goddess braids, with two braids on the side of her head making the form of a heart. She wears a neon yellow tank top with the words "Just keep swimming" written on the front, as well as a silver necklace with a half-heart charm. Her face is also in profile, while her body faces frontwards.

Both girls are smiling with their foreheads pressed together—Lauren's eyes are open, while Harriet's are closed. They're at peace in each other's company. The pair stands waist-deep in water, with a radiant ripple of sun rays behind them. In the foreground are the words "I feel, therefore I can be free," a quote attributed to Audre Lorde, a Black lesbian poet and essayist. This specific quote derives from her essay "Poetry is Not a Luxury," which you can read in full through the link below. /end image description ]

"The white fathers told us, I think therefore I am; and the Black mothers in each of us- the poet- whispers in our dreams, I feel therefore I can be free. "

"Poetry is Not a Luxury" by Audre Lorde

This piece is dedicated to all the Black artists who inspired it, as well as all who continue to express themselves unapologetically.

Lauren and Harriet are two characters I hold close to my heart, and have been wanting to imagine design-wise for some time. Their emotional journeys lie at the heart of their respective stories, with Lauren having the ability to involuntarily experience the pain and pleasure of others, and Harriet contending with grief and remorse in the form of a voice in her head. Both are teenage girls who navigate an uncertain, tumultuous world, and reckon with this in different ways. Lauren creates the religion Earthseed to make sense of her reality and build a community with her fellow uprooted strangers; Harriet seeks closure by tracing a path of strange clues to a dreamlike underground world of surreal parties and intersecting dimensions. Lauren writes; Harriet swims. God is Change; Just Keep Swimming.

I want to briefly shift focus over to You're Breaking My Heart, the more obscure of these two incredible books. Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich weaves a story so deeply affective to my soul it was surely a synchronicity that our paths collided. I first met Harriet at a bookstore at the beach, and was hooked on this tale the moment I met eyes with Briana Mukodiri Uchendu's ethereal cover art. And this story. This STORY!!!!!!! Everything from the characters to the pool symbolism to the portal mysteries to the underground world to the everyday liminal to the experimental chapter structures to the fact that Dory's mantra is a motif whose meaning transforms in tandem with Harriet's arc... THIS BOOK CHANGED MY LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is mayhaps the first time I have ever burst into tears for several minutes after reading the last line of any story. Oh my god. Oh my God.

Harriet's path to self-love is a veritable labyrinth of memory and mending ties and crowns denied and imperfect love and visitations from the past and every step of the way you're rooting for her to find the happiness and closure she deserves. Likewise, Lauren too embarks upon an uncertain course in the wake of tragedy, and forges her future in verse alongside the found family she cultivates. Both Lauren and Harriet are young Black girls who often mask their emotions—for the comfort of others, and the safety of themselves. In the line of the white gaze, Black expressions of emotion—especially those of Black women and girls—are either written off, ignored, or disproportionately and unjustly demonized, which leads many to mask, as Lauren and Harriet do, out of societally imposed necessity.

To the Black readers of this post, your emotions, your expression, your perspective, your spirit, YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! belong in every space which calls your heart. You deserve to be welcomed with open arms—anything less isn't worthy of your time. When a space feels disingenuous, claustrophobic, you hold within yourself the power to create something new—something better. And you never, ever have to do it alone. All of this goes without saying, of course, but it bears repeating. Your emotions are precious, and deserve a place to flourish. You deserve to see yourself reflected in the narratives you love!!! Always and forever!!!!!!!!!!!!! And when something doesn't measure up, the onus is on its creators to put in the time and effort to ensure you feel seen, welcome, CELEBRATED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you so much to @creatingblackcharacters for hosting this event, for your comprehensive lessons and advice, and for sharing your love and passion with the world.

Without further ado, here's some awesomesauce artists you should go check out!!!!!

@oakwolves

instagram | twitter

The best of the best when it comes to characters!!!! The dynamics she explores are unmatched—if you love (and miss) Infinity Train, so much of her art is dedicated to imagining what it would be like if different characters from different books had encountered each other at just the right time; what friendships, families, and rivalries would arise. If you dig all that with a dash of mystery, check out her fic Train Chasers (it's got a website and everything)!!!! Her character designs—both OC's and reimaginings of existing characters—are endlessly inspired and creative. I'd be remiss not to mention her High School Story works—a world that grows more and more vibrant with each passing day!!!! You can learn more about all her creations at the site below!

Zeinab Diomande

instagram

I had the honor of discovering her works in the real at the Magic Gardens! Many of her pieces are fantastical and dreamlike self-portraits, envisioning Black womanhood as a limitless and vibrant spectrum of possibility. If you visit her Instagram (and I highly recommend you do!!) you'll see that each painting holds a story, a train of thought, a revelation. Stars, smiley faces, and spiderwebs are just some of the motifs she employs; my words truly can't do her work justice. Each piece feels like a window into a new realm. Fun fact: a number of the colors in the above piece were actually drawn from her painting, "Caring for yourself is making room in your life for it"

snowgirl

Snowgirl's awesome and experimental compositions are utterly indescribable. Each album is an experience in itself, and all seem almost nostalgic in the strangest of ways. There's something unspeakably sublime in these notes, abstract sounds, and visceral poetry. Among my personal favorites are fertilizerface and we spring from our sleep like it matters. Please give them a listen—something here will surely speak to you.

Briana Mukodiri Uchendu

instagram

I mentioned her stunning work on the cover of You're Breaking My Heart, and I highly recommend that you explore the rest of her oeuvre! She works first and foremost in pastels, and the softness of the medium translates beautifully to her digital illustrations as well. Her artistic philosophy—art-as-connection above all—resonates profoundly with me, and shines through every piece she creates. In the illustration above, I wanted to emulate the cross-hatching sort of texture she used in her own rendition of Harriet. You can explore her works here!

Paul Lewin

instagram

Lewin's work truly speaks to the heart of Afro-Futurism. I phased in and out of discovering it, seeing his signature gorgeous style on a number of books, such as Ebony Elizabeth Thomas's The Dark Fantastic, and even some versions of Parable of the Sower! There came a point when I realized all these works stemmed from the same hand. There's an enchanting elegance to it, and one could spend hours studying the details of his painting (yes, paintings!!!!!!!!!!). This interview gives so some stellar insight into his artistic process.

Both Parable of the Sower and You're Breaking My Heart are phenomenal books I couldn't recommend enough; that being said, both also deal in some heavy topics, so if you need trigger warnings, by all means, reach out!

Here you can read the Book of the Living 1, which Lauren writes over the course of her story:

Here's a preview of You're Breaking My Heart you can listen to!

Even though this is the last day of the event, I still want to tag @r4trave and @okapi8 just to let you know about some awesome artists and stories!!! I invite everyone to share your favorite Black artists and creators in the comments of this post🌟

[sycamorelibrary754]

Can I send in an angst kate bishop request please where her sibling gets injured on a mission and ends in comfort?

Thank you :) love your work!

Sister, sister

Pairing: Kate Bishop x Sister! Reader

Summary: As Kate Bishop's younger sister, you have always lived in her shadow. But the time has finally come for your first mission as an Avenger. While Kate wants to protect you, she must learn that she can't do that forever. What will happen when your sisterly bond begins to crack, and the mission takes a turn for the worse?

Genre: Angst, Comfort

Warnings: Mentions of injury and blood.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: My first request for Kate! I hope this is what you had in mind anon. This was so fun to write!

“Come on, Y/N! Focus!" Clint shouted, his voice cutting through the air as he stood beside your older sister, Kate, watching intently from outside the ring. 

Sparring with Natasha was a full-on battle, but you were determined to succeed in this rite of passage and prove that you were ready for your first mission. Like Kate, you were immersed in athletics growing up. But, instead of wielding a bow and arrow, you felt a pull toward the Dojo. Your shelves proudly displayed a remarkable collection of karate trophies—gleaming symbols of your hard work and dedication—that could easily compete with Kate’s impressive archery accolades. You earned your Black Belt shortly before turning twenty-one, a testament to the countless hours spent mastering the art of karate.

In a surge of adrenaline, you launched into a flurry of kick and punch combinations, each strike calculated and electrifying. Your fists were a blur, finding their mark with incredible precision. With a swift block, Natasha pivoted and unleashed a roundhouse kick that slammed into your ribs, knocking your breath out. Gritting your teeth, you quickly regained your footing, channeling your focus as you countered with a jumping spinning crescent kick. In an instant, The Black Widow was sprawled out on the mat, the surprise of your move momentarily flashing in her eyes.

“Well done, Bishop,” Nat winced as you helped her to her feet.

You stepped back into the corner of the ring, the cool towel against your forehead providing instant relief as you took a long sip of water. In front of you, Nat leaned casually against the ropes, chatting with Clint and Kate.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Clint asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone.

“She’s ready,” Natasha asserted, her confidence unwavering.

“Really? Are you absolutely, positively sure? I mean, don’t you think she could use more HIIT training, maybe some extra sparring sessions—” Kate rambled.

“Kate,” Natasha cut in, her hand resting reassuringly on your shoulder. “Y/N is ready. Trust me.”

“Let’s be real here. She’s already more prepared than you were when you joined,” Clint said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey! My situation was completely different! The Track Suit Mafia attacked me out of nowhere!” Kate shot back, her cheeks flushing with indignation.

“Right, right. After you put on my Ronin suit first, and you had zero professional training to back it up,” Clint retorted, crossing his arms with a smirk.

“Technicality,” the young archer grumbled.

You adjusted your workout top to avoid intruding on three Avengers conversing, even if one of them was your sister. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they called you over.

Natasha looked at you with her trademark poker face, her hands resting behind her back. “Congratulations, Bishop. You’ve passed the probationary training. Deputy Director Hill will contact you within 48 hours with your first mission. You're officially an Avenger.”

“Are you serious right now? Oh my God, thank you!” you shouted, excitement coursing through you as you wrapped your arms around the redhead in pure joy.

Kate’s eyes widened in shock, and she instinctively waved her hands, shaking her head furiously. Realizing your mistake, you quickly pulled away from The Black Widow.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” you stammered, noticing a few strands of her hair had escaped her ponytail. You instinctively reached out to fix it, as Nat’s expression remained stoic.

Clint rubbed a hand down his face, a mix of admiration and exasperation in his eyes. “Why don't you hit the showers now, Y/N?”

“Right!" You replied as you climbed out of the ring. You gave Clint a quick peck on the cheek and Kate a high-five before running out of the gym. 

In your rush to leave, you completely missed the worried expression across your sister's face.

*^~^*

"You need to relax, Kate Bishop," Yelena said, slowly stirring a bubbling pot of Mac and Cheese on the compound kitchen stove.

Perched on the kitchen island, Kate murmured, “She’s my sister. All I want to do is keep her safe.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her tone laced with teasing and seriousness. “If she weren't ready, MY sister wouldn’t have passed her.”

Kate nodded slowly, her chin resting on her forearms as she considered Yelena's words. “That makes sense, I suppose,” she admitted, her uncertainty lingering. “It’s just that we’re all each other has left.”

Yelena offered the archer a warm, empathetic smile. “Here, eat something,” the blonde said, sliding a steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese across the counter as she settled in across from Kate. “The bottom line is simple: Y/N has done the work and aced her training with flying colors. You’ve got to shift your perspective. Stop seeing her as your little sister who needs protecting, and start recognizing her as she is now—a full-fledged Avenger who could karate kick your ass into next week.”

Kate couldn't help but smile softly as memories washed over her. You supported each other through your numerous archery and karate competitions. Those moments stood out even more against your parents’ constant struggles, whether their arguments about money or their focus on schmoozing Bishop Security clients. Amid it all, you were each other's anchors, offering comfort and understanding when the world around you felt chaotic.

“Thank you, Yelena. Your words were helpful,” Kate said gratefully.

“Of course, they were. I’m a very helpful person. Now eat your macaroni before it gets cold.” Yelena insisted. 

*^~^*

The following day dawned crisp and bright, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the nearby trees. Kate stood on the archery course, a place she had eagerly convinced Tony to construct just for her, determined as she nocked another arrow onto the string. The vibrant colors of the fletching danced in the sunlight as she focused intently on her target, a bullseye set at a distance that challenged even the most skilled archers. 

She drew the bowstring back with practiced precision, feeling the familiar tension build in her muscles. As she released the arrow, it soared through the air with a whisper, striking the target with a satisfying thud. Her marksmanship was exceptional, though she knew well that Hawkeye only rivaled it. As usual, he had conveniently found an excuse to avoid training with her this cold Sunday morning. He had made a fuss about his hearing aid being on the fritz, a plausible excuse that always seemed to emerge when the weather turned chilly. 

Even after her heart-to-heart with Yelena, Kate couldn’t quite shake the anxiety that twisted in her stomach at the thought of you taking on the mantle of an Avenger. Still, she refused to let it get the better of her. Determined, she stepped up to the archery line, drew back her bowstring, and lined up another shot. 

"Kit Kat!" you shouted, echoing through the clearing. 

Caught off guard, the archer let out a surprised yelp, sending the arrow soaring into the sky. It arced gracefully before plunging into the shadows at the forest's edge, a soft thud marking its landing among the trees.

As Kate turned around, she shot you a glance so flat and unimpressed it could’ve turned stone to dust.

“I’m sorry!” you exclaimed, breathless with excitement. “But, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I just came from my meeting with Deputy Director Hill. My first mission is tomorrow! Me, Natasha, and Wanda—talk about girl power.” You couldn’t help but grin as you held up your briefing packet.

Kate nervously rubbed the back of her neck. “Right, girl power.” She agreed hesitantly, her excitement tempered by concern. “Look, Y/N. I don’t want to be patronizing, but are you sure you’re ready?”

Your brow furrowed at your sister’s words. “What do you mean?”

Kate sighed, putting down her bow. “I mean, a real mission in the field is a whole different ballgame than hitting the gym.”

“I crushed my training, Kate! You saw it yourself—Natasha said I was ready. Hell, even Clint thought I was good to go!” you shot back, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

She let out a heavy sigh, her eyes softening. “I’m just saying it would ease my mind if you took a little more time to prepare.”

You couldn't hold back the exasperation. “What have I been doing for the last two years? Learning to make balloon animals?” 

“Hey, don’t lose your cool,” Kate warned. “I just want what's best for you, Y/N.”

“This isn’t about you, Kate! Seriously, this is so typical of you,” you snapped, turning to leave. 

But your sister wasn’t having it. She tightened her grip on your arm, pulling you back. “Wait a minute. What does that even mean?”

“When Dad passed away, you started hovering over me because Mom was too busy to give a shit. When she ended up in jail, it felt like everything shifted. Suddenly, it was no longer about our needs but what you wanted.”

“I’m just trying to protect you, Y/N!” Kate's voice echoed with desperation.

“Wake up, Kate! I don’t need your protection—I need you to step aside and let me live my own life!” you shot back, your frustration boiling over. 

The tension crackled between you, each word ringing with the weight of unspoken truths.

“Then what the hell are you even doing here, Y/N? You're not living your life; you're living mine. It’s pathetic!” Kate shouted.

The moment Kate uttered those words, a wave of regret washed over her, and she desperately wished she could rewind time and take them back. She watched as your expression transformed, the light in your eyes dimming and your lips pressing into a tight line—a look of disappointment and hurt that struck her like a lightning bolt. It was a face she had never encountered before that spoke volumes about the pain her words had caused. The silence that followed felt unbearable. You turned and walked away without saying another word.

*^~^*

Kate lay in bed, the sheets twisted around her restless legs as she tossed and turned, haunted by the weight of her words. Guilt gnawed at her insides like an insistent tide, refusing to ebb. She texted you before bed, but your lack of response was deafening and left her feeling even worse. 

As dawn broke, she sprang out of bed. She hurriedly dressed, her heart pounding with anxiety and hope as she ran outside. Her breath caught in her throat when she finally reached the landing pad. There you were, standing a short distance away, the morning light casting a warm glow around you. It was the first time Kate had seen you in your new Avengers suit. The design was sleek and streamlined, hugging your body with a predominantly blue and gold color scheme that exuded power and sophistication. The garment was meticulously segmented, each section allowing maximum flexibility, essential for agile movements. 

As she looked closer, she noticed the intricate patterns of visible circuitry that ran along your limbs, pulsating softly with a faint blue glow. The micro-thrusters were another striking feature, strategically placed to provide enhanced mobility and quick bursts of speed. When you flexed your arms, the retractable energy gauntlets shimmered to life. It had Tony Stark’s fingerprints all over it.

Natasha spotted Kate first and strode over to her, her eyes narrowing as she caught the brunette’s distracted gaze. You were conversing with Wanda when Nat crossed her arms and pointedly looked at Kate. 

“I knew you’d show up,” Natasha remarked, trying to sound casual but failing to mask her seriousness. “It took all night for me to pry out what went down between you two yesterday from Y/N.”

Kate opened her mouth to respond, but Nat quickly raised her hand to interrupt. “Listen, your sibling relationship with Y/N is your affair, but sowing doubt in her mind right before a mission? That’s my business because it jeopardizes her and the whole team.”

“I know; I’m sorry,” Kate said, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked down.

Natasha sighed, the conflict evident on her face. “The Black Widow wants to be furious, but as an older sister, I get it. When I found Yelena, all I wanted to do was keep her safe—something I didn’t manage to do when we were younger.”

The brunette caught the empathetic smile on Natasha’s face. With a nod, she stepped aside, granting Kate the space to approach you. 

You noticed your sister approaching from behind in the shimmering reflection of the Quinjet windows. 

“What do you want, Katherine?” you asked, a hint of pettiness in your tone. You knew that using her full name always ruffled her feathers. “I’m a bit busy here.”

Kate let out an exasperated sigh. “I wanted to,” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. It was unfair of me to say you weren’t ready for missions.”

“Yes, it was,” you said matter-of-factly.

“Be gracious,” Wanda said with a fake cough, her eyes lingering on the mission file in her hands as if it were the most captivating thing in the world.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m not ready to forgive you just yet,” you shot back, gripping your duffel bag tightly. “I understand why you did what you did, but I can handle myself just fine.” With that, you took a determined stride up the ramp of the Quinjet, the engines humming softly in the background.

"Okay, that wasn’t the most gracious response,” Wanda remarked. “Don’t worry, Kate. She’ll come around,” she assured, gently resting a hand on the archer’s shoulder.

“I hope so,” Kate murmured

“Just give her some time,” Natasha reassured gently. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

Kate nodded somberly, her expression filled with sadness and acceptance. She went inside, unable to watch as the Quinjet's engines roared to life, the aircraft began to lift off the ground, and the engines' roar faded into the distance.

*^~^*

“I can’t believe I was so stupid.” Kate reflected, her thoughts swirling as she sat upside down in the chair, her legs propped in the air. Her head dangling near the ground, hair spilling around her like a dark halo. She stared at the ceiling, lost in her mind. “Y/N has dedicated just as much time and effort to training as I have, and she’s a Black belt, for God’s sake. Who am I to decide she isn’t ready for this? It just doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Lucky tilted his head to the side, a puzzled look crossing his expressive face as he tried to understand Kate's words. After a moment of contemplation, he seemed to dismiss the confusion entirely and, with a playful spark in his eye, began to lick her face affectionately. 

“Thanks for the support,” Kate said with a smirk as she sat right side up. 

That night, the brunette went to bed with the same uneasy feeling in her stomach that she had woken up with. Until the room's stillness was suddenly shattered by a frantic barrage of knocks on her door, jolting her from her restless sleep and pulling her back to the present.

“Who is it?” Kate asked, her voice shaking with a mixture of nervousness and sleep.

“It’s Ms. Belova. Shall I let her in?” FRIDAY replied.

“Yes, please,” Kate managed to say, though a knot tightened in her stomach.

In an instant, Yelena stormed into the bedroom, flicking on the light with a flair that left Kate squinting against the sudden brightness. Blinking rapidly, she glanced at the nightstand, where the clock ominously read 2:27 AM.

“What’s happening?” the brunette asked, her voice thick with confusion.

“Get up now,” Yelena commanded urgently, yanking the covers away from the archer. “The mission went south.”

“Went south? What does that even mean?” Kate stammered, still dazed as she tried to process the words.

Yelena met Kate’s gaze, her expression grave. “They’re rushing Y/N to the Med Bay.”

Kate felt a disorienting blankness wash over her as those words echoed in her mind. It was as if time had folded in on itself, and she was abruptly transported to the sterile, brightly lit Med Bay. She couldn't recall getting dressed or even how she'd arrived, her memory shrouded in a heavy fog.

Just as she pieced together her surroundings, a stretcher barreled through the swinging doors, causing her heart to lurch. There, lying motionless, was your bloodied body, a sight that froze her in place. Panic surged through her as Dr. Cho's urgent voice pierced the air, calling for immediate assistance. 

Natasha and Wanda flanked the stretcher, their faces marred with cuts and bruises, evidence of the battle they'd just endured. Natasha’s usually fierce expression was clouded with worry, while Wanda's eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“What happened?” Yelena’s voice trembled as she rushed to Nat’s side, fear etched across her face.  

“Bad intel,” Nat gasped, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “Hydra was lying in wait. We were completely outmanned. Y/N… Y/N jumped in front of Wanda just as one of them pulled a gun from behind.” 

Kate’s heart raced as she sprinted towards the double doors, desperate to follow your stretcher. But a nurse blocked her path, arms crossed firmly. “You can’t go in there, Ms. Bishop,” she insisted. 

“Like hell, I can’t! That's my sister!” Kate shouted, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face. 

Yelena quickly wrapped her arms around the archer, steadying her as her legs gave out. “You need to stay strong,” she whispered, fighting back her emotions.

The nurse sighed, her expression softening. “We’re going to do everything we can,” she promised before rushing into the Operating Room.

Yelena guided Kate to a nearby chair as the rest of the team began to trickle in. Clint moved to Natasha, concern etched on his face, but she waved him off, dismissing his worry. Kate was hunched over, her head buried in her hands, her knees shaking nervously.

“Hey, kid,” Clint said softly, kneeling before his protege.

Slowly, Kate lowered her hands, revealing tear-streaked cheeks that glistened in the overhead light.

“It’s going to be okay. Y/N is a fighter,” Clint reassured her, his voice steady and calm.

As he wrapped her in a warm embrace, Kate sniffled and wiped her tears away. “I just knew she wasn’t ready,” she whispered, vulnerability spilling alongside her exhaustion.

“No," Wanda’s voice rang out, piercing the tense atmosphere in the room. "Y/N was ready. She was nothing short of brilliant out there."

Nat nodded, her expression serious. "Absolutely. She single-handedly took down eight Hydra agents. It was incredible."

Wanda’s eyes glistened with tears as she continued, "She saved my life... without a second thought."

*^~^*

As the hours dragged on with no word on your condition, silence enveloped the waiting room, punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of feet and murmurs of hushed conversations. The atmosphere was tense, and everyone did their best to cope with the uncertainty. With his steadfast optimism, Steve tried to lift the mood, hoping to bring a smile to weary faces. Tony immersed himself in his work, methodically sketching out intricate designs for new weapon upgrades, and the rhythmic sound of his pencil scratching against paper was a symphony of focused determination.

Maria, unable to remain still, paced anxiously, her voice rising and falling as she spoke urgently into her phone, updating Fury. The tension in her shoulders revealed her struggle to maintain composure. Natasha sat nearby, her pen swiftly moving across the pages of her mission report, a deliberate distraction from the anxiety clawing at her insides. The tedious paperwork was a fragile shield, keeping her thoughts from spiraling into chaos. Wanda seemed adrift in a sea of her thoughts, grappling with the guilt of your sacrifice. 

Meanwhile, Kate's gaze was locked onto the OR doors, her heart racing with every passing moment. She clutched Clint’s hand tightly, silently begging someone to emerge from behind those sterile doors with good news. Each second felt like an eternity, and with every tick of the clock, her hope hung by a thread, praying that she would hear the words she so desperately needed to hear: that you would be okay.

Finally, as the moonlight streaming through the windows began to fade to early morning, Dr. Cho stepped into the waiting room, drawing the attention of everyone present. ��Ms. Bishop?” 

Kate rose slowly from her seat, her heart racing as she struggled to read the doctor’s expression, which held the weight of the room’s anxious eyes.

“Y/N is in serious but stable condition,” Dr. Cho began, her voice steady yet solemn. “She sustained two gunshot wounds—one in the thigh and the other in the chest. She lost a significant amount of blood, but she was fortunate; the first shot narrowly missed the femoral artery, and the second was a through-and-through.” 

“Thank God,” Clint breathed, relief washing over him.

Kate exhaled slowly. “May I see her?” she asked, her voice trembling as she brushed a tear away from her cheek.

Dr. Cho nodded gently. “Yes, she’s still asleep, but you may sit with her if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cho,” Kate said, her voice tinged with appreciation as she turned to face the rest of the team. 

“Take your time, Kate. We’ll be right here,” Steve encouraged.

As Kate approached your room, she took a deep breath, her hand hovering over the door handle for a moment, gathering her courage. When she finally pushed the door open, the sight before she stole her breath away. Tears brimmed in her eyes again as she took in the scene: there you were, fragile yet fighting. A nasal cannula rested gently against your pale skin, and the stark white of your hospital gown was marred with bandages, hints of dried blood peeking through around your chest and left leg—reminders of the bullet wounds that had brought you here.

Your sister settled into the chair beside your bedside. Tentatively, she reached out, her hand hovering above yours, afraid that even the slightest touch might shatter you even more. Finally, she gently wrapped her fingers around yours, carefully avoiding the maze of wires and the IV that connected you to the machines around you. With a sigh, Kate rested her head on the cool edge of your bed, her breath syncing with the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. She closed her eyes and drifted away as the soft beeps filled the room.

Twenty minutes later, you groaned as consciousness began to creep back in, the bright hospital lights stabbing at your senses. Pain coursed through you, a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. As the memories washed over you—leaping in front of Wanda, shielding her from the Hydra agent's relentless gunfire in that not-so-abandoned base. 

You glanced down and felt a warm, familiar grip in your hand. Turning slowly, you found your older sister, her face soft in sleep, resting beside your bed. Seeing her grounded you in the moment as you held onto her hand.

Your throat felt as dry as sandpaper, but you managed to croak, “Kate… Kate.”

The brunette stirred groggily, her eyes widening in shock as she caught sight of your open gaze. With a sudden burst of energy, she shot up, her expression a blend of relief and concern. 

“Oh my God, you’re awake!” Kate exclaimed, her voice a mix of joy and disbelief. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and leaned closer, placing a gentle hand on your cheek. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her eyes searching yours for answers.

You whined as the sharp pain surged back, forcing a rasp from your lips. “Like I got shot,” you replied, the words barely making it out. “Twice.”

“Hey, Y/N, listen to me,” your sister said, her voice steady and reassuring. “You’re going to be okay, I promise. We’ll get through this together.”

Your lip trembled, and you felt hot tears pooling in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Kate scanned your body, searching for the source of your pain. “Do you want me to call Dr. Cho?”

“No,” you replied quickly, your voice shaky. “It’s not that... I just—” You hesitated mid-sentence, a wave of pain crashing over you. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I know you were only trying to protect me.”

“Let’s not do this right now, Y/N,” she urged, her tone gentle as she attempted to steady you.

“No, please,” you pressed, determination overcoming your distress. “I shouldn’t have acted like a jerk when you were just trying to apologize.”

“It’s my fault, too; I shouldn’t have said you weren't ready,” Kate admitted, her gaze softening.

“Well, guess what? You were right,” you replied, tears rolling down your cheeks. “I failed.”

Kate’s expression shifted to one of disbelief. “What? No, Y/N! You didn’t fail. Nat and Wanda both said you were brilliant out there.

Panic surged again, as you remembered. “Wanda— is she okay?”

“She’s perfectly fine,” Kate assured you, a reassuring smile on her face. “You saved her life.”

“Thank God,” you said, feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

Then, if on cue, with a grace that was unmistakably Wanda, she stepped into the room and wrapped her arms around you in a gentle embrace. The warmth of her body was comforting, but you couldn’t help wincing at the pain that shot through you as you returned her hug. Despite that discomfort, you held her close.

“Thank you, Y/N. I won’t forget this,” Wanda whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“You did good, Y/N,” Nat said, leaning on the door frame. Her voice was steady, and her lips curled into a small, proud smile.

“I just did what I was trained to do,” you declared, your voice steady but laced with uncertainty.

Kate met your gaze, her expression firm and unwavering. “You did what any true Avenger would do,” she corrected.

"I learned from the best," you said with heartfelt appreciation, grasping your sister's hand tightly. "You’ve always been my greatest teacher.”

[blicketdabest33]

FINAL CABIN PLACEMENTS I DON'T WANT TO EDIT IT AFTER THIS

So many of y'all had so many good ideas (and since a lot of these i came up with without any real reasoning) here's my updated version that i think fits A LOT better

#1 Zeus Cabin: Jimmy, Joel Jimmy: He's a Zeus kid, but everyone somehow forgets about it. Joel: He's competitive and strong. Also, because Jimmy is his half brother through godly parent, i get to make a fun bit about him dating Lizzie. And one of his origins in Afterlife SMP was a thunderborn

#2 Hera Cabin: Scott, Impulse, Ren Scott: Scott's whole thing is loyalty. Hera is the goddess of marriage and is insanely loyal to Zeus. However, I feel like Hera should get at least one affair. So now Scott can use peacocks as weapons. Impulse: According to @dawnfire7 Impulse is known for loyalty, which i did not know. He's also known to hold grudges. Perfect Hera kid. Ren: He's apparently known for loyalty (and i didn't really like his Nike placement anyway)

#3 Poseidon Cabin: XB XB: Something about water temple guardians

#4 Demeter Cabin: Sausage, Shelby, Bdubs, Stress Sausage: This man built Sanctuary in a jungle and has flowers in his hair. He sells wood. There is no other place to put him. Shelby: Mushroom gnome, spooky mangrove witch, powerful storm witch, i need not continue. Bdubs: Moss man. Stress: SHE HAS FLOWERS

#5 Ares Cabin: Martyn, False Martyn: His planet is Mars, which is the roman version of Ares. He ended Limited Life in such a violent way, i can't help it. He was also red for the majority of Secret Life. False: I just feel like False should get to kill people more often.

#6 Athena Cabin: Grian, Pix, Owen, Xisuma Grian: This sums it up pretty well

Pix: Smart man. Archeologist and definitely a nerd. I wanna see him skipping out on training just so he can read history books. Owen: He likes to explore and discover new things in Pirates. In Rats, he's a tinkerer. In New Life, he's an explorer who wants to study hybrids. In Empires, he's a Llama who's curious about how humans work. Just a very curious character overall. Xisuma: Admin. I'm not elaborating.

#7 Apollo Cabin: Oli, Lyarrah Oli: MUSIC. MAN. Lyarrah: She writes the captions for the hermitcraft recap.

#8 Artemis Cabin: Pearl, Gem Pearl: Y'know, Artemis could've just like... had a kid, even though she took that oath. It wouldn't even have to be with a guy. Gods can change to whatever gender they want. Anyway, Pearl gets to be an Artemis kid because her symbolism is moon, she loves dogs, and will commit murder and hunt at night. Gem: Someone really wanted these girls to be sisters, and I think Gem and pearl should get to hunt at night and be fierce together. Oh, and she's got the whole deer aesthetic.

#9 Hephaestus Cabin: Doc, Mumbo, Tango, Zedaph, Fwhip, Iskall Doc: Redstone Mumbo: Redstone Tango: Redstone Zedaph: Redstone Fwhip: Redstone AND has a red scarf (don't ask me how that's relevant) Iskall: Redstone

#10 Aphrodite Cabin: Keralis, Skizz, Bigb Keralis: Okay, I don't know why, but Keralis gives me the vibes of a very charming person. His voice is nice to listen to, so imagine how useful it'd be if I gave him charm speak. Skizz: Person in the tags said he was really charming and you can't help but love him. I agree. He's here now. Bigb: Smooth talker. Someone (i think it was Scott) said in one of their videos "It's hard to kill him while he's talking". Charmspeak. Ma man, go do chaos.

#11 Hermes Cabin: Scar, Etho, Joe Scar: Trader Scar, scammer extraordinar. Etho: All i must say is Shady-E's. I get "jack-of-all-trades, master of none, often better than master of one" vibes from him. He's funny, he's mischievous, it just works. Joe: Comedy man. Excellent delivery. And, yet again, i look at this man and go "That right there is a multi-talented man with a habit for mischief."

#12 Dionysus Cabin: Joey, Beef, Cub Joey: *points at his season one empires theme* i need not say more Beef: Idk, food. I don't really have a reason. I don't know too much about Beef. Cub: Someone said Cub was really laid back, i liked this idea, he's here now. C'mon, go make ur empire.

#13 Hades Cabin: Zloy Zloy: Zombie man. He writes the Hermitcraft recaps in the dark at 2am with nothing but pure spite.

#14 Iris Cabin: Katherine Katherine: SHE. HAS. COLORS. and also I couldn't put her in Demeter cabin because Shelby is already there and i am NOT excluding Nature Wives from this au

#15 Hypnos Cabin: Wels Wels: @dingdinghq said something about sleeping during S6 and i completely agree

#16 Nemesis Cabin:

#17 Nike Cabin:

#18 Hebe Cabin: 

#19 Tyche Cabin: TFC TFC: Man goes mining and gets really lucky. That's it.

#20 Hecate Cabin: Lizzie, Cleo, Jevin Lizzie: Witchy vibes. Also, Arson. Cleo: Arson. She uses her magic for Arson. Jevin: He's a magic slime. Also, Arson. All Hecate kids love Arson.

[famdommcfanface]

An analysis of alcemy for the Magnus Protocol!

I have just finished the episode I have found a list of alchemical symbols let's fucking gooo baby. Just to clarify it is my belief these are the new entities. I know it would probably be better if they were less rigidly defined but I love sorting things and am hyped!!! This is going to be long so strap in (not all of those though they're just to illustrate)! I am so sorry if you use dark mode (like me!) these images are almost all transparent.

1: Mercury!

Referring to both the metal and the planet, go wild. Mercury is all about transcending boundaries as it's kind of both a solid and a liquid (it's not but whatever), specifically the boundary of life and death, possibly even transcend death. That seems relevant. Also related to snakes so if snakes show up... probably mercury. Also if we ever get some sort of white queen in a chess way? Mercury. It also represents the mind, or spirit maybe? It's got a lot going on. Colin said it'd make the world end. Fuck yeah probably why not.

2: Salt

This is one that is not included on one list I have but is on the other. I'm not guaranteeing all of these are significant I'm finding it hard to find a definite list. If you look into just all the alchemical symbols they've got loads and I doubt they're all significant. Anyway. Salt is the physical body in this trifecta (we'll come onto that). Very to do with physicality, the body, honestly might manifest in a few ways similar to the Flesh. Also to do with purification? In general but also 'purifying' the body which I think medieval people meant in a good way but sounds evil to me. There is also of course, seperate to the whole alchemy thing, salt circles and all that. You've seen supernatural you know what I'm talking about. Although that's also to do with purification.

3: Sulphur

Or sulfur, if you are American. This one's actually got a few different symbols but let's go with this one for now. Honestly, and I know we shouldn't be comparing these to the TMA entities, but this one's pretty desolation. It's all dry heat and masculine destructive energy. Yeah this one's 'masculine' and mercury's 'feminine' for some reason, I doubt that will come up. Which I guess makes salt non-binary. This is the red king, too. This is the soul in the 'tria prima', Mercury, salt and sulphur, which were the three first elements apparently, and also cause disease? Idk. That might be relevant. Hell's meant to smell of sulphur, that tells you most of what you need to know. Again, we've all seen Supernatural. Colin said something about this making you go mad. I think yeah sure but less spiral-type mad more slaughter-type mad.

4: Air

Right, onto the four basic elements. These all have a humour related to them too and air has blood for some reason. Air is life and light and God and passion and all that good shit. I have to imagine it's gonna have some vast shit going on too because I don't think Jonny can help himself, but it's also to do with being changable and generally quite nice. Oh also ideas and creativity. All that good shit!

5: Earth

Basically the opposite of air. The 'masculine counterpart' as all these websites keep saying. It's associated with salt, which makes sense, and is all about stillness and being grounded and again, I feel like there's going to be some buried attributes in there. It's got the humour black bile which is all about sadness and shit. Most of the four basic elements are fairly self-explanatory.

6: Fire

You know what fire does. Passion, emotion, love and hate and all that. Although honestly in an alchemical way fire seems to be more emotional. So far (and I am writing these as I look into them) if you want something based around physical destruction you're gonna wanna look at sulphur. Its humour is yellow bile.

7: Water

Water, humour is phlegm, connected to mercury, honestly alchemically I can't find anyone having much to say about it but y'know. It's water. BUT I HAVE THINGS TO SAY ABOUT WATER. Okay so this has gotta be the deep, right? The whole mix of the buried and the vast thing with the sea? That killed the girl Alice saw? Or at least was involved with the death. It's all very water.

8: Lead

Right, onto planetary metals! Which Mercury kind of also was but hey ho. So, Lead is associated with Saturn. So, alchemists believed that lead was the base metal, that all other metals were just lead that had turned into something else. Which means it's really important but also kinda sucks, and is why people kept trying to make it into gold. So lead is also to do with change but also kind of purity as they thought it 'purified' into gold. Also associated with the Roman god Saturn/Greek god Chronos, who are both to do with time so that might be involved.

9: Tin

To do with the planet Jupiter. It seems to be connected to wisdom and maturity and education and all that. BUT ALSO. It is connected to Lady Mowbray, hell yeah. Because I watched a video about the arg and noted that on the back of Lady M's assistant's clipboard or whatever is this symbol which I recognised at the time as Jupiter! Now. What does tin have to do with dogs and eating people. As far as I can tell fuck all. I thought I'd misremembered for a moment and it was actually the Saturn symbol because that would work with cannibalism at least but no Lady Mowbray seems to serve... tin. Which is kind of funny. I get the connection to nobility at least, Jupiter is king of the gods after all, but as far as I know he doesn't hunt people with dogs? Idk.

10: Iron

Related to Mars and, as I'm sure you can tell, men. Because these fuckers loved gender. Similar to fire it's all about anger and passion, but also seeing as Mars is the god of war I don't think it's beyond belief we've got something similar to the slaughter on our hands here.

11: Gold

Connected to the sun and therefore does not have a classical god I can interpret. Damn. Maybe Apollo? Gold is about having gay lovers. No. So gold's big thing is that it doesn't corrode. Something about staying as you are, the opposite of Air's changability, sort of similar to earth... I could make something out of this.

12: Copper

Well hello ladies. Copper actually has a cooler symbol but I suspect we're sticking with these. Connected to Venus, obviously, which is all about attractiveness and desirability because copper is a very pretty metal. Personally, I would say episode 2 is to do with copper. I don't know if ink5oul themself is (I think they might sort of span entities) but what's her name from the episode and her obsession with looking good seems very copper to me. I know I'm not sorting all these episodes (yet! I have to relisten first) but this one jumped out at me. Copper is also to do with love, of course. I feel like one reason maybe the desire theory got so big is a lot of alchemical elements are to do with love and desire, so that just sort of bled through?

13: Silver

That's right, it's the moon! Very to do with mystery and weird shit. I think if you get the non-literal elements of The Dark you've got Silver. Also keeps away evil, again, Supernatural. Although it also has to do with tides so I think there is a very small chance that actually this is the Deep? I doubt it though.

14: Antimony

So I wasn't going to do the mundane elements because they're less likely to be important (you'll see) but some of them are really interesting! I might not do them all. Anyway, antimony is about the wild and animalistic side of human nature, and is to do with wolves. That remind you of anyone? A certain... aristocratic milf? I know she's connected to tin but it should be antimony okay??

15: Arsenic

Arsenic is cool, we all know it. It's my mum's favourite element on the periodic table. Anyway. Swans? It's to do with swans. Apparently it transforms its appearance like a cygnet to a swan. It also fucking kills people which I'm not convinced the alchmists were aware of.

16: Bismuth

Nobody knows what they were doing with bismuth. RIP. Also, I don't know my astronomy but that is taurus. Does that mean anything? I looked into the metal; it's quite pretty and people get it mixed up with tin.

17: Magnesium

Oh boy. It's hard to extinguish once it's lit, so it represents eternity! That's gotta be something babyy! Some combination of the end and the vast and all that.

18: Phosphorus

They thought phosphorus trapped light. I know it's easy to say this from a modern perspective but alchemists were fucking dumb. I feel like I could disprove this. But they were the first scientists so we have to be nice to them I guess...

19: Platinum

Supposedly a combination of gold and silver, hence the symbol. Possibly something about being bound to something... idk.

20: Potassium

Or potash. Didn't seem to have much historical context. But I believe it has very important modern context.

21: Zinc

They burned zinc to get what they called 'white snow'. You fucking idiots snow is already white.

That's it! Honourable mention to horse dung, which is a more obscure element but gets its own symbol and everything.

also soap and urine and all sorts of shit so I think we should stop there. What have we learnt? Possibly nothing! One of these has got to be to do with plants - I assume earth? That would make sense. One's something to do with luck from the sounds of things and I have no idea what that is, hopefully someone knows more about alchemy than I do for that. There's definitely some sort of watcher and I think either that's the eye crossed into this dimension or possibly mercury? I don't think the names are going to be these because honestly imagine Lady Mowbray being like hey I serve Tin. She's probably going to say Jupiter but we all have to know in our heart of hearts. It's just fucking tin. I am very tired I am going to bed.

[berrypass-de-murdler]

2 - 24 Under the Sea, Over the Line

Last dumb episode before the season finale!!! Almost an entire season into MOTLE YAYYYYY

Featuring the dumbest character DUKE OF VERMILLION!

Idk if I've posted this before but here are some old oxymorons doodles vnfjkvns <3 kiss now my perfect potatoes

Although warning when I say dumb episode I mean DUMB episode-

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

The submarine dunks into the ocean. The only passengers that made it on were Logico, Violet, Silverton, Slate, and… the Duke of Vermillion??

VIOLET: I didn’t even invite you! DUKE: Has it occurred to you that I might live here in the ocean? VIOLET: Oh…

Logico looks around and is completely and utterly shocked! The Duke SPOKE? No, that’s not it. 

LOGICO: Who let THAT one on the ship?

He points to… wanna guess? A dead human. 

DUKE: [suddenly sobbing] I just wanted to enjoy a party! VIOLET: Ew! You were there the whole time? DUKE: Yus… [snif] SLATE: Well, this is fun. SILVERTON: I miss Bunny…

The submarine is a very cramped place to try to solve a murder. There’s less room than on the zeppelin! Logico is constantly bumping into everyone, like the Duke curled up on a bed.

DUKE: Could you move… this bed is so small as is… LOGICO: No. I get paid for this. Or at least I SHOULD be…

The king crab lies back down and stares at the metal ceiling, and the water outside. What a miserable life he has! And they cruise in silence for a long time.

SLATE: I’m done with this. Don’t bother me…

She heads into the tiny airplane-style bathroom and never returns.

SILVERTON: Wait a second! She wouldn’t even be able to USE a bathroom! THIS IS HYPOCRISY!!!

As he thrashes around in rage, the Duke catches a glimpse of his face. It’s so shiny and yellow… he immediately falls in love! He grasps Silverton’s arms.

DUKE: Be with me. SILVERTON: What? DUKE: I can’t live like this any longer. I need someone like you. LOGICO: Okay, I’m going to be sick.

But he can’t enter the bathroom, because Slate’s in there!

DUKE: Please… [falls onto Silverton’s chest] stay with me…

Silver shoves him off.

SILVERTON: ARE YOU INSANE?? YOU’RE MARRIED!!!! AND THERE'S NO WAY IN HELL I'D GO ON A DATE WITH A MOTHERFUCKING CRUSTACEAN!

Duke is so depressed by the revelation, he attempts to pull his own head off.

VIOLET: [cries] I hate all of this so much! 

Irratino is on the zeppelin, approaching Drakonia! But it’s so freaking slow. He squirms in impatience as he waits for the Wifi symbol on his phone to reach just one bar…

IRRATINO: THE FAMOUS ACTOR HAS THE BRIEFCASE FULL OF MONEY!!! AND THE FAMOUS ACTOR, IS SILVERTON THE LEGEND!!!!!!!!

This phone call is so loud, EVERYONE on the sub can hear it. Poor Logico is out cold!

VIOLET: Oh my god, who is this?! IRRATINO: Uh… it’s me :3 VIOLET: You killed Logico-

Once the deductive finally comes to, he announces the Duke as the killer.

DUKE: Well, I had to do it! We were running out of air, or we would have, if my figures are correct. [brings out a piece of paper and stares intently] Oops.

Logico says ‘I can’t believe you’, but only with his eye.

DUKE: All right fine! I’m tired of being portrayed as the forgettable one! I’m SURE all of you will remember me now!

He lets himself out somehow and swims away, probably to return to his boring wife.

The end!

Omg I can't wait to write the next episode it has cupcake muppet in it and so much angst

He deserves the entire world

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

[correctproseka]

So @queer-prosekai told me to do my own top 10 list of the sets + my favorite card of each, so here's some rules i set for myself

1- i have to REALLY like the full set, not just really like a card but a little less to the others (cough Saki in no seek no find, for one example. Though other sets have also triggered this rule)

2- i also am judging by card only, not the story, however. I am not completely good at this because a lot of the cards that are already good get to be way better because of the event behind it.

3- only counting the trained cards, not untrained, it would be a very different list.

ANYWAYS. LIST STARTS NOW:

10: LIGHT UP THE FIRE

Oh my poor child are you okay??? Going past how much i like this event. Which would get me here writing for hours mind you. I also just really like the set. The dark colors and the fact that in all 3 cards you can barely see color- its black and then each has their own color showing up, An has red, Toya has blue and Rin has white. It just gives a fucking impact on you looking at them. Would not change a thing, really.

9: WISHING TO THE BLUE SKY FOR YOUR HAPPINESS

Anyone else remembers qhen this set just totally broke us? Oh my god. I do. Shizuku in a suit. An in this pretty ass dress. I just cjsjcjsmcjsncjdj. It was mainly those two that really hit for me, specially An. But when it hit it hit hard man

8: SMILE OF A DREAMER

It was the first lim set, so it was really simple compared to what we get now. But simple doesn't mean bad. I really love the colors and idk man i have a soft spot for it i cant defend everything my brain is a dvd logo bouncing around😭

7: HEAR ME HOPEFUL SHOW

Angel Minori is one of the prettiest sets ever, it just isnt higher because personally i like some others more, doesn't mean this shit isnt fucking gorgeous. The lightning, the setting. I love this mmj card with everyone in it bc this is such a beautiful place???? Just. Licks this set like an ice cream then cries bc i ate the pretty ass set.

6: Someday, from the depths of despair

Lowkey i did not expect this one to be this high before i made this list. But it is just gorgeous setting, gorgeous lightning. It just makes my brain go brrrr looking at it.

5- What lies behind lies ahead

The hermit set has people in a chokehold for years, and for good reason. The hairstyles are pretty, the au ideas one can get out of it are yummy. AND THE CARD THEMSELVES ARE SO CKSJFKDK. All of them having this golden thing around as if hermit was a story told to us by images. It just could be a poster. Its certainly pretty enough to.

4: Our escape for survival

Sorry for the amount of niigo here. It will happen again. Niigo never misses. Anyways i just love this set sm. The lightning, muffled colors and backgrounds just hit so fucking hard. The rain shared on the 3 cards from the set is so symbolical and so is the clock and the engines on Mafuyu's and Luka's card. It tells us a story before we even read the event and that is beautiful.

3: Close game offline

I had to skip this set and i am still sad about it. Man the the the cmsucksjcjx aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa viddygame and neon.

2- Unnamed Harmony

I like silly, your honor. I also like water. Saki's card has both /hj. No but really i just really like the outfits and colors and just everything in this set it would be a CRIME to not have this here as a Saki stan. Just look at it!!!!

1: Draw your bow in this white world

.. so, who's surprised? I can barely even find a favorite card in this set. From Kaitos . Kaito. (Does he need more?), Shizuku's gracefulness and beautifulness and Mafuyu just pretty and badass breaking the "screen"/mirror/window with an arrow. Its just soooooo ancjamvjsjchsjxncnsicjsv chomps.

HONORABLE MENTION:

Knock the future, which light up the fire took it off on a technicality (i like 3/3 cards on light up the fire and 2/3 on knock the future bc Honami is very meh compared to the others to me)

Anyways if anyone else wants to do this as a challenge id love it. And @probably-not-niigo i challenge u to do the same

[theonlyqualitytrash]

I just found your blog through your cult Fyodor fic... Honestly, it's something new for me. I'm so confused with the end... I assumed y/n's happy, but why did you say in the end, she got manipulated? I'm not a christian nor catholic, so I don't understand a single thing about the baptism scene. Do you mind if you explain with baby's language?😭

(Even though it's a bit traumatic for me, it's still enjoyable. Love your writing❤️)

Oh, baby anon, come here—let me give you a virtual hug to soothe the trauma I caused. (つ╥﹏╥)つ ❤︎

First of all, welcome! A lot of new people have been finding me because of that fic, and honestly? It’s overwhelming—in the best way. I’m really glad you're all here.

So! The ending is made to feel a little confusing and a little uncomfortable. It’s not supposed to be fully happy or fully sad. The MC isn’t joyful, but she feels safe. She feels needed and she feels like she belongs. And for her, that’s more important than being “happy” in the usual sense—her deepest desire was to feel protected, to have a place, to have purpose, and she achieved that through Fyodor.

(If you want a more detailed explanation regarding the MC and Fyodor's relationship, I’ve answered another ask about it more in-depth!)

Now—onto the baptism scene. I know it can be confusing, especially if you’re not familiar with Christianity or Catholicism. Let me break it down for you.

First, in real life: baptism is a religious ceremony, especially important in Christianity. In Orthodox Christianity (which is very old-school and symbolic), babies are dipped in water three times. This act represents a few things, depending on where you're from or what you’ve been taught. One common interpretation is that the three dips symbolize the Holy Trinity—the Father (God), the Son (Jesus), and the Holy Spirit. Another is that it mirrors the three-day burial of Christ before his resurrection. Either way, it’s meant to cleanse the baby of sin and welcome them into the faith.

Now… in my fic, I kept the structure of that ritual, but gave it a cult twist.

The baby still gets dipped three times, but I stripped away the Christian meanings and made it all about the child being prepared for their future role. The first dip is for the soul—“your spirit is clean now.” The second is for the body—“your flesh is sacred.” The third is for sins not yet committed. In the cult, they’re not just blessing the baby—they’re assigning them a purpose. This child is being spiritually prepared to carry the weight of others’ sins (a sin-eater). In some folklore, a sin-eater consumes a ritual meal to take on the sins of the dead, so their souls can pass on cleansed. In this story, that role is being planted in the baby before they even understand what it means.

After the water, the baby is anointed with myrrh. In Orthodox Christianity, this part is called chrismation—a holy seal, a blessing of the Holy Spirit. But in the cult, it takes on a new meaning: “You’ll carry both burden and balm.” The baby is being told they will suffer, but also bring healing; “So rot will not find you.” means they’ll be protected from spiritual decay—but again, it’s not pure kindness. It’s a way of saying: you were made to endure.

Next, spirals are drawn on the baby’s body with oil and herbs—symbols far older than Christianity, often used to represent eternity, sacredness, or divine cycles. The cult uses them to mark the child as holy. They draw one over the navel, the place where life begins and the child’s tie to their mother. Another is drawn on the throat—symbol of voice, hunger, truth. All of it foreshadows the child’s future: to take in the sins of others, even in silence.

Then comes the most haunting part. The mute sister of the faith cuts open the stitches on her own mouth to sing. In the cult, pain is sacred and devotion costs something. Her blood is the price she pays to offer a blessing.

Finally, the baby is returned to the MC (you!) wearing a flower crown and a red sash. The sash matches your wedding sash, symbolizing that the child is part of your sacred bond with Fyodor. But it also means they belong to the faith now.

And for the MC, who has always wanted to feel like she belonged to someone, this is comforting. But it also shows us: the cult doesn’t give love for free. Their love is always tied to control, to sacrifice.

TL;DR: In Orthodox Christianity, baptism symbolizes cleansing and rebirth through God. In the fic, the cult mimics this but twists it: the baby is dipped three times—not for the Trinity, but to sanctify soul, body, and future sins, marking them as a future sin-eater. They're anointed not just for blessing but for endurance, pain, and purpose. Spirals mark them as sacred. The mute sister bleeds to sing a blessing, showing devotion through suffering. The child is returned crowned and sashed, symbolizing both love and ownership.

I hope this helped clear things up, sweet anon!

If you ever feel confused again, don’t be afraid to ask. I’ll always try to explain things gently. And thank you so much for reading something that might’ve pushed your comfort zone—I know that’s not easy, and I really appreciate it. (｡•́︿•̀｡)♡

Sending you kisses and good vibes!

[saltlickmp3]

I’d love to hear you talk about PJ Harvey and queerness, if you’re so inclined!

OH MY GOD ANON I LOVE YOU reveal yourself so i can kiss you /joking and platonic (unless...)

this is gonna be really long so TL,DR, A Lot of PJ's work can be interpreted to be about a sapphic and/or gender non conforming experience.

OKAYYYYY SO

PJ Harvey, despite having never actually said she isn't straight, has written some Very Queer music, both in subtext and fully in the lyrics.

a few examples -

Dress could be interpreted to be about feeling the pressure to be a stereotypically girly girl and trying to navigate social situations where it's expected you have a boyfriend -

'Must be a way that I can dress to please him It's hard to walk in the dress, it's not easy [...]

Filthy tight, the dress is filthy I'm falling flat, and my arms are empty Clear the way, better get it out of this room A falling woman in dancing costume'

but failing to do so because it's just not you. feeling uncomfortable in a dress, trying and failing to have normal interactions with guys - which of course cishet girls can feel as well, but hits particularly hard as a queer, gender non conforming, girl adjacent person

O Stella, while the symbolism makes it about a religious idol, could be interpreted to be about idolising an older girl. Oh My Lover is about being totally fine with a partner's hypothetical polyamory.

Man-Size is a big one, before i even knew the term gender envy i was Deeply Aware that that was what man-size is about (in my opinion, at least) - wanting to things that guys do but not being able to cos you're a girl.

'Good Lord I'm big I'm heading on Man-sized got my leather boots on Got my girl and she's a wow [...]

I'm man-sized no need to shout Let it all, let it all hang out / out out out'

fantasising about a reclaiming of power while presenting in a more masculine way - WITH A GIRLFRIEND I MIGHT ADD - before going back to feeling as though that is unattainable -

'Silence my lady head Get girl out of my head Douse hair with gasoline Set it light and set it free'

like, 'get girl out of my head' is a pretty queer thing to say, yknow?

and 50ft Queenie -

'Hey I'm one big queen No one can stop me [...]

Hey I'm the king of the world You ought to hear my song Ah come on measure me I'm twenty inches long'

which is at the same time using male terms - even though the song is called Queenie, and that word is used a lot, she specifically calls herself King of the world, and proceeds to make fun of the perceived importance of a particular male organ, while at the same time saying she's better than them

more songs with gender and lesbian undertones - Yuri G, Catherine, to a degree A Woman A Man Walked By / The Crows Knows Where the Children Go (that one's quite explicit, word of warning if yu haven't heard that one before) - and songs that are covers of songs written by men without any pronoun changing - Shake Your Hips and I Can't Get No Satisfaction are two notable examples of that.

and then there are her songs that are just sapphic without being specifically gendery - My Beautiful Leah, Claudine the Inflatable One - i first thought that Down By the Water was about sneaking out to meet a sapphic lover under the bridge in the dead of night, a doomed romance, but there are lots of better and far more likely interpretations than that.

Polly herself has also said a lot of things that just kinda read queer. Like Patti Smith before her, she has said that she writes her songs from a place 'beyond gender', and just writes them as stories, sometimes from a male perspective. But of course, to a queer audience, you can hear her singing and *know* she's singing from a male perspective, but also can't help but to hear it as queer as well.

bit of a quote to go with that -

You've said that you don't like to think in terms of gender when it comes to music. Why do you think the gender issue, especially the concept of you being a feminist, is constantly mentioned with your work?

'I can only presume that, especially in the early days and early those labels tend to stick, but I know that I really played with gender in my lyrics, and I might sing in the shape of a man or I might sing in the shape of a woman. Or I might be dressing women in a loving way as a man or as a woman, or sometimes as neither. Sometimes more as just an essence, a feeling or an atmosphere. And I think that feels quite natural to me, but I think for some people it's not natural, and that's where the gender issue seems to become quite important.'

she was also adamant that she didn't want to be seen as part of riot grrrl, but rather as part of grunge - grunge was a very very aggressively male genre, and i don't think she thought riot grrrl had the right idea about how to go about empowerment - she took herself more seriously than that i think. she didn't want to be called a feminist, because she didn't want to be called a 'female artist', but rather just an Artist.

her gender presentation, moving from fairly neutral in 1992 (big black leather jacket, black boots etc, to the hyper-feminity of the To Bring You My Love era, 1995, also comes into play - she was showing femininity to be a performance, while also using it to her advantage, she didn't actually dress like that normally, no one wears that much eyeshadow, it was closer to a drag show than an actual outfits, a lot of the stuff she wore on stage. which is another one of those things that makes sense to a cishet girl, but gains more complexity as a queer person.

there's probably a lot more i can say on this, but that's everything off the top of my head! i cannot tell you how excited i was to get this ask, PJ Harvey is so much of how i've explored my own gender and sexuality, i could talk about this for a very long time!

[bonesandthebees]

Hey bee!

It’s been a while, to say the least, since I’ve sent an ask but gods, exams. Who invented them.

Also, GLASS REWRITE

Glass is probably one of my favourite stories (pushes away the list that has glass, stars, and vanderlyle tied on top) and I LOVE all the symbolism and the character arcs in it, like the tattoos and how the Seer slowly realises the trauma they have that they’ve been locking up in a mental box for YEARS-

Also tattoos, have I mentioned that? I love the tattoos and the bird with the rib cage and thorns. And the blindfold, finally letting go off the “proper” blindfold and using the goggles, just the final step of rejecting what was pushed onto them.

And worldbuilding, oh my gods everything just works so well together and you can picture every single detail, and there are so many banger sentences throughout the entire thing.

I love it so so much.

And also the new characters (AND ROMANCE HELL YEAH) and new dynamics are so *chef kiss*???

And I’m really happy for you to have found a story to make into your own original creation, and I wish you the smoothest journey possible and all the best.

One more thing, slightly unrelated.

I went back to reread glass and uh.

I came across two of you?

I just wanted to make sure that you own both these accounts just in case one of them is fake, or if they’re like side account/main account ones.

Or maybe my device is malfunctioning, who knows, I’m not sure.

Anyways, drink more water, rest when needed, and have a nice day(or night)!

Happy to see you here again!! Sorry to hear about exams hope they’re going/went well!!

Awww thank you I’m so glad you enjoyed glass so much! Despite the faults I see in it, there’s so much I love in that story and I just have such a deep love for the world and concept that I’m so excited to keep writing in it. I’m so glad you’re excited for the romance, I really can’t wait to dive into the dynamics there because there’s just so much potential I want to explore

Also, yes those are both me lol. Ao3 has this system called pseuds where you have your main account, and then you can write fics under a pseud which is an alternate username. It’ll still show your main account username in parentheses (hence the bonesandcacti in parentheses after bonesandthebees), but if you were to just click on bonesandthebees and go to the works there it’ll only list my mcyt works compared to if you click the works on bonesandcacti which will show you my mcyt works plus my older mystic messenger fics. Pseuds are basically just a way to slightly separate some of your fics out from the rest of your works. When I first started writing mcyt fic I wanted to separate them out a bit, hence why I put them under the bonesandthebees pseud.

(Although at this point I am just debating if I should change my main account username to bonesandthebees and just get rid of the pseud so it’s all under a single name. It’s not like I’ve used bonesandcacti for much anyway. Food for thought)

I appreciate the concern though! Hope you have a nice day too!!

[appalachianhearthcraft]

What do you do when you can't feel connected to God or the Saints? Love Ur blog btw 💕💕

Thank you so much! One of my favorite ways to reconnect is through praying a novena. I’ll make it into a ritual/devotional act, by cleansing & blessing the candle with holy water & dedicated it in the name of the Trinity & whichever saint I am praying to.. I will then dress the candle with herbs/spices & oils. I’ll use herbs & oils that remind me of that saint or aspect of God that I am praying to. Same goes for incense. I’ll burn some as an offering & to symbolize my prayers being lifted up to the Heavens through the smoke.

During the duration of the 9 days of the novena, I will further connect by watching video’s & documentaries on the Saint/God. YouTube is a fantastic free source. Same goes for reading articles, blog posts or books about them.

The Psalms are also a lovely way to connect with God. Oh! And with the saints that I am deeply devoted to, I’ll dedicate jewelry & perfumes to them & wear in their honor.

Other devotional acts, such as building an altar space for them can be another way to connect. It doesn’t have to be a physical altar either. You can do this through a blog, Pinterest, etc. Writing poetry, letters and/or songs for them or even painting/drawing them are creative ways to connect, too. I hope this is helpful!

[haravatat-slime]

The Narzissenkreuz Adventure: Initial Thoughts

I want to make sure I write these down before I forget them, so please don't consider this post an "in depth" lore rant so much as some preliminary thoughts I hope to delve into later!

SPOILERS FOR FONTAINE UNDER THE CUT

First: names. Oh my god. Friends will attest that I've been screaming in Discord for the last few weeks, "WHY IS THE FROG NAMED JAK!?," with no context. Now I finally have an answer, and I am sated (for now). While the names of the actual water constructs aren't inherently important - they even say so themselves - we can now conclude that Mary-Ann / Ann pulled the names of people who lived and worked around her at the Narzissenkreuz Institute for the characters in her children's stories. We have Jak(ob Ingold), Al(ain Guillotine), Rene, Kate (possibly Karl??) and Petit Chou (this one is a stretch, but since Chou and Basil Elton are both named after vegetation, I think that's who Chou is supposed to be.)

Also I love that they decided to make Mary-Ann a direct reference to Alice in Wonderland (Mary-Ann is the name of the housekeeper the White Rabbit mistakes Alice for; and the Narzissenkreuz Mary-Ann is a caretaker and governess for the children).

Platonism has SO much weight in Fontaine, and especially here. Ashikai made a video recently that references the Veluriyam Mirage and Plato's Allegory of the Cave, and this time around we have characters who blatantly announce that their physical forms and names have nothing to do with their essence. In their minds, their "purpose" in the story is who they are. This is highly likely to be a reference to Aristotle and Plato's believe in animism and essentialism - all things have souls and the soul is the true form of the self.

JUNGIAN ARCHETYPES!!! This made me extremely excited. The Adventure Team says that "our purposes are our essences," which feels very archetypal. Kate is not Kate, but The Battle Hardened General. Narcissus is not Narcissus, or even an Oceanid, but The Dragon. Ann is not Ann, but The Hero. The repetition of certain archetypes in every single nation we've been to has made me spin in circles the whole time I've been observing it. There have been MANY archetypes that have repeated themselves in each nation (a Dragon, a Dragon-Slayer, a Holy Bird, a Big Tree, etc.) - and if things like archetypes and the collective unconscious are real and have a real effect on the events of Teyvat, it brings up two more questions: which of these archetypes were the "first," and how many times will they keep repeating?

"THE RULE OF THREE IS AN ANCIENT PRINCIPLE" DO I NEED TO SAY MORE? yes. yes i do. SO. despite poking through BOTH Aristotle's Rhetoric and his Poetics, while he loves listing his premises and theories in groups of three, he doesn't actually mention WHY he uses the number three so often. It's more likely thanks to our buddy Pythagoras that the number three is considered a Special™️ number, because he thought that (since it's the sum of all numbers beneath it - 1 + 2), he believed to be a "noble" number representing unity and harmony. Hence, why it's shown up everywhere from Christianity to neopaganism to writing to business marketing (!?) since.

THE NARZISSENKREUZ DOMAIN IS AN ENDLESS DOWNWARD SPIRAL WITH EACH LEVEL ON TOP OF ONE ANOTHER AND THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS GOING TO BE A LONG TOPIC FOR ANOTHER DAY

The only other time we've seen Paimon have such a strong response to a domain was under The Chasm - which was also a time loop of sorts. We've also seen (especially via the Sabzeruz Samsara) that she can't tell when we're stuck in a time loop. She can only feel its effects via fatigue and dizziness. This definitely has to be important.

So these are artifacts right. The pocket watch and the feather. These are symbols of aspects of Ann's story, so they're parts of an artifact set? They hold parts of her soul? We're all on the same page with that right!? RIGHT??

It's not given its proper name, but the Jabberwock's Holy Sword is quite obviously the Vorpal Blade, a well-recognized dragon-slaying sword from Lewis Carroll's poem "The Jabberwocky," which features in Through the Looking Glass.

Speaking of all the Alice references in this world quest - the final chapter of TtLG ("Who Dreamed It?") is a little unnerving in a Genshin context, since "what is life but a dream?" implies that, if whoever is dreaming of Teyvat(?) ever wakes up...well. Let's hope the collective unconscious thing is a more accurate representation for how Teyvat works, since then everyone would have to wake up for the universe to disappear.

EDIT: Ann mentions three cities/civilizations while we're in the Looking Glass Domain: Yith, Arcadia, and Hyperborea. I've posted an explanation about Yith in my Lovecraft References post but I want to mention the other two really quick! In Greek mythology, Arcadia was supposed to be an unspoiled paradise outside of human civilization, where the god Pan lived alongside a bunch of nature spirits (dryads, nymphs etc.). Hyperborea, meanwhile, was a city "beyond the reach of Boreas (the North Wind)," inhabited by people who worshipped and were beloved by Apollo (god of being Booked and Busy, apparently). The former wasn't so much a utopia as a place where supernatural entities could chill away from humans (which reminds me of the lost kingdom of the Seelie?), while the latter was a maybe-real, maybe-not utopia inhabited by 10-foot-tall blondes.

THAT'S ALL I'VE GOT FOR NOW BUT. but if you want to chat about things that happened in Narzissenkreuz, my ask box is open!!

[donnerpartyofone]

ACK I almost stepped on Jesus on my way home from church! Good thing I missed! Actually if I were writing a movie about persecuted Christians where someone tries to make them trample the cross and stuff, I'd have them say "Sure man, I'll trample the cross, I'll shit on the Bible. You think my God is trapped in there? That I step on him like a bug and he dies? Let's try it and find out!" as per the great thing they discuss in STIGMATA. STIGMATA is the one where Patricia Arquette stars as a sexy raver chick who gets possessed and then sexy priest Gabriel Byrne has to solve a religious mystery with her that changes the world. It's the best movie and you should definitely watch it.

LOVE the tag line on poster #2. Anyway one of the priests who is a main reason I've been going to this great church for a year gave a homily this morning about a piece of scripture I'd heard before, but not in this way. Jesus encounters a cripple at a healing spring in Bethesda and asks him, "Do you want to be made well?", and instead of saying "OH MY GOD YES OF COURSE MAKE ME WELL IMMEDIATELY," the guy starts complaining evasively about how he can never get into the water because everyone else is faster than him. Jesus heals the guy anyway and says "Pick up your mat and walk," and then the guy instantly gets in trouble with the authorities for carrying his mat around on the sabbath, and by extension Jesus is in trouble for working on the sabbath. The Bible usually sounds pretty antique to put it mildly, and therefore kind of alien and artificial, but when I heard that story today suddenly it was like "Oh shit, people really act like this right now. All the time." Somebody asks you what you want and you don't know how to say "I WANT THIS EXACT THING AND I'M READY TO GET IT," you might not even know precisely what you want, or you're just so used to making excuses and being passive aggressive and protecting yourself from disappointment and trying not to be inappropriate that you have no ability to be direct or speak from a place of self-knowledge. And then on the part of the Pharisees, they're so concerned with the litigation of their religion that they can't even see the miraculous evidence of God appearing right before their eyes, they're too blinded by their obsession with technicalities and the pre-fabricated template for divinity to notice that what they would ultimately want is happening now. It doesn't appear in the way they expect it to, so they don't even see it. Modern people are exactly like this. You encounter all these behaviors on a daily basis if you interact with other people at all.

I love this priest and at least one other guy who is really surprising and inspired, enough that I've been going there for a year of my life. But I sometimes feel like I'm leading them on. I love gay people and abortions too much to formally convert, among other reasons. But I also realize that religion is about emotion. You're supposed to love God more even than you concern yourself with his factuality. For me religion is a bit too much of an intellectual exercise. I'm curious about the mechanics of belief, how it rewards people, what kinds of changes it manifests, what it is as a psychological phenomenon. And more abstractly I'm interested in how people seek encounters with the numinous, how they explore deeper meaning through the lens of symbol and allegory. I'm interested in the collective unconscious. Almost my whole life is more of an intellectual exercise than an emotional one, maybe I'm fundamentally not wired to be a religious person. But I do love this church and I love the people in it, and I think it's a net positive for us to get to know a kind of person/people who you don't normally encounter, and get the chance to be kind and curious toward them. Everyone is always welcoming to me even if it seems like they wouldn't like me personally and I find that moving, I embrace the chance to return the favor. I embrace them even though I know they will never watch STIGMATA with me.

[abyssalpriest]

God. Talking to Lev about the religion we're in the process of making together... He's been treating it as a pet project for only the two of us bc it makes me anxious, ie he's hiding what it truly is and I only know that it's hidden and not what is hidden, but slowly hes introducing the idea of it being an actual established thing with more than just us in it (not necessarily big, just that us two was already intimidating in size when it started so even three people feels Established to me), and I just asked him like. OK. You know. I already know Im coming here and incarnating from the future for A Personal Job, is this a part of it? Do the waters of our time mention or talk about this or does it die with me? I'm not getting into what was said because future shit is the one thing I don't want to discuss anything about online, and also I. kinda. shut down him answering bc I don't want to think about it rn

Suddenly though I'm like... A switch is flicking in my head from "I was a part of the pop culture pagan section of my ex's cult, he was having me expand his cult by creating a 'new religion' based on BB secretly connected to it" to "hold on, why did my ex, who knows who I am and when and where I'm from, start trying to get me to create a new religion with him that's eerily similar to the one Leviathans insisting on creating with me?" i already new my ex has been trying to twist fate and time and reorder his downwards spiral and steal shit for his own and so this is a little...... Uh...

Bc like. I keep getting this overwhelming relief and clarity throughout my entire working w Lev - even way before this was ever a broached subject - these past three years of "ohhh THIS was what I was supposed to be doing, THIS is who I was supposed to be doing things with, THIS is the real god of oceans and dreams and the dark shadowy aspects of life and (etc), my ex was just fully playing up all these aspects to fulfill a role" i never.... Stopped to ask why my ex did that.

Why was he having me fashion a religion based on what I'd later come to find was Leviathans attributes, energies, symbols, etc ?? Because my soul already loved him, he didn't need to pretend to be Lev bc I knew lev and not him or something. He could've picked a mask based on anything - he even specifically picked cut content micolash and not even in game micolash because the mask he chose didn't fit micolash's aesthetics and energies so it's not even a "oh well I just happened to be drawn to micolash bc micolash is like Leviathan, so he had to go with it" they. are not alike. he literally had to change his fictional mask to be like Leviathan. He had to warp the character so hard and just count on cut content mic having no fucking content so that he could be as much like Lev as possible. Yes, they are indeed very similar, but like also no they're not. Anyway. and then he spent five years bringing me into this spirituality only to start building a religion with me -

- oh my god. I always brush past "yeah in the months before we broke up was when he started getting me to write stuff on the religion, our religion (called Oceanic Spirituality. bruh) really only started being made just before shit hit the fan and idk what he was trying to get me to do" but like. I. Wasn't supposed to be making it with him. was I.

[its-stayville-forever]

I stared at my laptop for so long, not knowing what I wanted or needed to say. What do I say? What will I say that will do justice to this beautiful, intricate, detailed piece of art you’ve craved with your hands? Do I start with the tears? Or the smiles? Or the plethora of questions that I have for you?

(Yes. Yes I am taking this apart and reading through the lines, underneath the lines, along the lines, you name it, I’m doing it. I think you knew what you were bringing upon yourself when you started writing this lol)

-The Title.

Listen, I’ve had my fair share of duolingo lessons with French, and I know that the title translates to ‘Tear’. Not the salty droplets of water (that’s la larme, but you don’t need to know that), but the ripping into shreds. So I really, really am soooo curious as to why you chose that word for the title. Is it because both the characters have their hearts torn and shred apart or is it that you ultimately wanted to tear OUR hearts apart? Or is there a reference that just went over my head? 🤓

-The Characters.

To create characters with depth, with hurt and suffering flowing through their veins? And to make it seem so easy for their hurt to seep into you? You know you’re actually fucking insane right? You’re so crazy SAHAR. Coming back to the point ehm ☺️. To write about a character that loathes a dead body, and to write her so intricately broken from the inside, to write a character that hurts from death and loss and to put the two with each other in a GRAVEYARD!? You put a person who’s hurt because of their mother (and father but 🤷‍♀️ ), and another individual who’s hurt due to the DEATH of their mother. Similar but such different causes. I absolutely hated the mom’s character, but I LOVE the way you wrote her and kept her character as it is throughout. The loss of a daughter and the need to see her all the time in the other one, literally everything about her character made my heart throb. I don’t, GOD I really don’t know the way your brain works wonders like these. How long did you put into developing the movie? 

-The Story.

This is a personal preference but I’m a SUCKER for angst (you know that), and this hit alllll the spots. I shed so many tears, so many gasps, so many emotions all together, like you always do with your works. 

Anyways. The story.

You know what this reminded me of? A movie. Reading through this entire thing, i felt like i was watching a movie unfold. Although I did feel that the story was slightly rushed (just a bit, i would’ve LOVED if it was two parts or longer but i ate this up anyways), I think the way you wrote from the beginning, her wishing death, that is her name on the stone than her sisters, to hyune finally putting down the flowers on her graveyard. Red lilies symbolize death and loss (yes baby i saw you there ��) and i am in so awe of how you took out even the minutest of details like that one. I absolutely adored the quote and its use throughout the entire story and the relationship the two had as a ballerina and a figure skater. NOW. THE SCENE WHERE SHE GOES TO WATCH HIM IN THE OLYMPICS!?!? It reminded me of all the cute scenes we witnessed at the recent Olympics and it was just so 😿 I reached my peak at the end, I burst out crying in the last few paragraphs.

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. 

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. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

THISSSSSSS OH MY GODDD 😭

Thank you sahar. Thank you from the depth of my heart for putting something out that I sort of relate to when I need it the most. Just like with this and the poem you posted when you visited Monet’s birthplace, you put it out when I needed it the absolute most. I hope the love and care you put out for others is given three folds back to you. Take care and a big kiss for you, mwah.

-your biggest fan

La déchirure 

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 you’ve 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

author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t 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 don’t 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 doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact. 

Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too. 

You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.

Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault. 

You don’t know the person they’re mourning.

You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after. 

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. 

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. 

That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s 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. 

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? 

The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you. 

You’ve always been aware of this reality— 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. 

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

You weren’t 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 teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.

Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve 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. 

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, plié, tendu— 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. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face. 

Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.

And she’s the only person who believes in you.

She’s 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, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth. 

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 didn’t have enough time to breathe. 

Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t 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. 

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 wasn’t 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.

“I got into Julliard” 

That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow. 

Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s 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 whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”

You don’t 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. 

You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life. 

You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d 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 you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”

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 didn’t 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? 

You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t 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. 

You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave. 

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt. 

You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.

“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin. 

You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.

“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record. 

“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone. 

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

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.

“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing. 

“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?” 

“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.

He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin. 

But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?

“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It 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. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you. 

“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.” 

He’s 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 doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too. 

Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face? 

The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel. 

He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you. 

“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard. 

What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go. 

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. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment. 

“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” 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. 

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”

You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow. 

You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s 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 don’t 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 don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh. 

You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers. 

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 didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet. 

He looks like a good person. 

You wish to tell your good news to a good person. 

“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession. 

A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features. 

“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”

“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.” 

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. 

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

“Thank you,” 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 is— “I'm Yn, by the way.” 

“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.” 

Four years later.

“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”

“Thanks, coach.” 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. 

His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.

“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”

“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”

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. 

A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— 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 isn’t ready to face. 

When does he ever? 

But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to. 

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 stuck—of course. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.

“I am rage,” 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. 

Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.

It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.

“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re 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.

“Miss Julliard,” 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 you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.

“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” 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. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.

“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met. 

“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”

“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.

“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away. 

He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.

“Hyunjin!”

His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then. 

“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.

“No,” he admits.

“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken. 

“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s 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 it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you. 

Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.

“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.

“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”

…

Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him. 

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 doesn’t 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.  

Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you. 

He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.  

It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen. 

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 anger—at 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 once—when he met you.

Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s 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. 

“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment. 

“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says. 

“Do you like it?” 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. 

“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s 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.

“I’m okay.”

The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”

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.

“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.” 

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 kindness— 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. 

“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.” 

“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.” 

The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t 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. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table. 

“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.

“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”

Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.

Far more beautiful, too.

“Then wake me up, too,” 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 by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company. 

…

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 wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t 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 siren’s 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 you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by 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 skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” 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.

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.

“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”

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 he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there. 

“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.

“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.

No one, except Hyunjin.

“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.

“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

He’d 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 from— 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 you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d 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 another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.

But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.

It’s 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. 

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

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 else’s presence. 

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 stem— 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 yesterday—soft 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. 

He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you? 

He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”

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.

“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze. 

Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor. 

Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.

“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.

You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.” 

He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.

“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”

You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”

He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.

“Barbie?”

“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.” 

“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm. 

“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.

“Anyways,” 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. 

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. 

You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell. 

You’re 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.

“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”

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 studio—no, not just the studio. It’s 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 doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.

…

You’re 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 door—one 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 he’s 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 you’d shared this. 

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 wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home. 

At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.

“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly. 

“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.

“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic. 

“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.

“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.” 

And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.  

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 her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.

But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask? 

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

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 hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response. 

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow. 

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 dances—never 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. 

“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t 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.

“My mom…” 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. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about? 

Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”

His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”

Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.” 

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 wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, 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,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.

“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”

“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises. 

“She was. She is.” 

“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter. 

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 didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together. 

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 wasn’t 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 didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his. 

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps. 

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

“I…” 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. 

“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.

“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?” 

“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.” 

Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy. 

He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart. 

He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.

What does that mean? 

…

Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality. 

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 he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him. 

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

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.— the time you usually come by to the studio. 

“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly. 

“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too? 

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 asked—though 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. 

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me.” 

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 he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place. 

What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s 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.

“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.

“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.

“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him 

“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics. 

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 isn’t normal. 

“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?” 

“Will you actually come?” 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 doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win. 

Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.” 

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. 

“There, sealed forever.” 

You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both. 

“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.” 

“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?” 

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”

“Yeah, i do.”

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink. 

Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.

“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”

And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s 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. 

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.

You’re so close, closer than you’ve 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. 

He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume. 

It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t 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.

“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” 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 others’ 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 follow—when 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 mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t 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 didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t 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 do—magical, 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.

…

There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— 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. 

It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s 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. 

Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re 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 mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here. 

Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy. 

You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.

“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them. 

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, small—so small. 

And then, a note. 

Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands. 

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. 

You’ve never had words that she addressed to you. 

The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening. 

The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then 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 don’t 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.

You’ve 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? 

Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart. 

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her. 

“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils. 

“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.

“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?” 

“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment. 

“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!” 

“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do 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? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?” 

“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I 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.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”

You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m 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.” 

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 words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little. 

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 isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Forget it.” 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.

It’s 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. 

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind. 

His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your 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?

“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”

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.

“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.

“No, you’re not,” 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. “I’m a horrible sister,” 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.

“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?” 

“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.” 

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. 

“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”

Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

“Humans aren’t 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 we’ve never wanted to go through them.”

He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”

Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— 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 doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.

He’s 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.

“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” 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.

Hyunjin’s 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 doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

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.

It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“I want to tell you,” 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.

“I will listen,” 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 grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten. 

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.

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

This isn’t 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 it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen. 

But somehow, you’ve 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 wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you. 

You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s 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. 

But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when 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 close—Hyunjin 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, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place. 

His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.

You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t 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. “i’m scared.” 

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, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”

He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”

“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.” 

You’ve 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. 

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. 

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. 

He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re 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. 

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. 

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.

“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question. 

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” 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.

“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s 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. 

Oh god. 

The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.

“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s 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.

“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”

“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

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 sister’s grave? 

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? 

“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” 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.

You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s 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 you’ve always known. 

It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s 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 conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater. 

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 it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree. 

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. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet. 

He can’t turn around—he���s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” 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 can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.

“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.

In an instant, he’s 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.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.

“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve 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. 

His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re 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.

“Yn,” 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, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”

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 you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of. 

“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.

Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” 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. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” 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, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality. 

The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.

“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s 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. 

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” 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. 

“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”

He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”

“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve 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,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”

He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.

“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.

Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.

But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” 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. 

Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve 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 you’ve longed for. 

You’re 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. 

“Is this what happiness feels like?” 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, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”

“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” 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.

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

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 waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.

“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” 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. 

He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess. 

“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower. 

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 him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”

“What stares?” 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 coach’s 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 him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.

“I don’t have anything of mine there,” 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. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”

“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?” 

“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté 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. 

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. 

“Do you believe in fate?” 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. 

“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.” 

“I 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,” he confesses. 

“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious. 

Hyunjin doesn’t 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. 

And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now. 

“I 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 didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.” 

“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”

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 fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life? 

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 don’t want to run.

You want to stay. 

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 being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him. 

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? 

…

Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids. 

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. 

Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp. 

He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept 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. 

Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your 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. 

In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness. 

He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.

You didn’t 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, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both. 

“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?” 

“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.” 

His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”

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. 

“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s 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.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

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. 

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 most—a 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.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”

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 wards—something 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 now—a 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. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.

Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an 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. 

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. 

Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d 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. 

There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll 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. 

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 you’d 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 aren’t 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. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.

“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.” 

Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t 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 you— 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. 

You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him. 

And it is hyunjin’s 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. 

“You won, my love,” 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. 

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. 

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 isn’t 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 him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore. 

Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.

“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.

But you should have known—some 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. 

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?

“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”

“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”

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.

“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.” 

You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.

“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”

He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.

“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.

Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans. 

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 bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.

… 

You’re 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 Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the 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 can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.

You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent 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 yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls. 

You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s 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 won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin. 

And you couldn’t afford that. 

You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s 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.

There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t 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 Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.

With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.

“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.

You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.

“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you. 

“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.

“What?” 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.

“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.

“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”

“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.

You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”

You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.

“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”

“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”

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 you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything. 

“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”

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 you’ve 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 existence— for both me and him? 

… 

You’ve 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 grief—your 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. It’s 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 within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.

You didn’t 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.

You’ve 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, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s 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 doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t 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. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best. 

“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”

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 would’ve 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 they’d been real.

Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— 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? 

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 professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”

Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself. 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”

“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”

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. 

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 Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?

Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.

It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re 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. 

He’s dazzling—achingly, 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. 

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. 

He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him. 

You wonder if he’s 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. 

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 it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth. 

Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock. 

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 spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.

And then he does it.

His fourth and final spin— 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 everyone’s mouths. 

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater. 

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

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, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t 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. 

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. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”

“I did it, Yn,” 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. 

No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.

As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s 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. 

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. 

“Miss Juilliard,” 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. 

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. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

In that moment, you see it all—the 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.

“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”

You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”

The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré 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.

“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain. 

He yields first.

“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”

“I’m here tonight.” 

Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those 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 something—anything—to 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 who’s finally tasted salvation. 

You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.

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. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”

“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I 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.”

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 sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

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 weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin. 

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 wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t 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. 

And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t 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. 

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. 

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. 

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. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[ajkuerschner]

It’s a warm, sunny evening. We walk through the forest, barefoot, hand in hand. Our path is laid out with white-yellow-orange rose petals. Sunny and Gwen wait in front of a striking tree in a small clearing. Santi and I decided to have a boho wedding. This style integrates wonderfully into nature. I don’t feel any nervousness or any doubts. In my life I have never been so sure, never been so in my midst, as now, in this peaceful moment. Today’s day of our marriage is not chosen by chance. It’s the day we became intimate for the first time. „Wow, Amy, you look stunning,“ Sunny raves, „And Santiago, this look suits you very well.“ „You two are also a feast for the eyes,“ I say. The four of us are shaking hands. Sunny begins her speech. “Full of gratitude and joy begins that day. Almost three years ago, your eyes met. From then on, the wheel of life took its course. Many love stories do not go as one would like us to believe and often you try to record what is not intended for you. But there is always what belongs together. That is why we stand here today, because you have recognized, because you have admitted that it is you who belong together. This day will be another moment of your relationship, which once again makes it clear that love defies everything and always finds a way to oneself, also symbolized in a bund that will also unite you in the metaphysical world. She pulls out a piece of wood, to which three ribbons are attached, in the colors red, blue and yellow. It symbolizes the three states of time, the three main levels of a person, as well as the main aspects of life. Santi and I braid the ribbons. These connect from below as if by themselves. At the end, we thread the end piece once in the middle of the band through a small remaining hole so that it does not open again. „Now Gwen hands the rings.“ „Thank you, my little one.“ “Santiago Canning, do you combine your life with Amy Dabrows, both in this life and beyond? So put the ring on her now. „With slightly trembling hands, Santi pushes the self-made copper ring with an inserted aquamrin on his finger. „Amy Dabrow, do you combine your life with Santiago Cannings, both in this life and beyond? So put the ring on him now.” His finger is also now adorned with a self-made copper ring. „By virtue of my office as mourner and witness of the ceremony, I may now announce that Amy and Santiago Dabrow have entered into the covenant of souls. You are welcome to kiss at the end.” Let’s not be told that twice. “Thank you, Sunny,” I say. She comes to us with Gwen and we put our heads together.

At home we look at a slideshow, with memories of the past, from our time as an official couple and yesterday’s day of writing together. At the end of the video, a picture of me with a positive pregnancy test appears. Sunny cheers. “Oh my God, congratulations. How far are you?” Santi doesn’t realize it right away. „About the twelfth week,“ I answer her. „Will the child be a human or a mermaid?“ he suddenly asks. I have to laugh. „How do you come up with that?“ asks Sunny. „You got pregnant at the waterfall,“ says Santiago. „Yes, your request got me pregnant.“ „And I said twice that you should marry me. Are we having twins?” I have to chucke again. „We’ll see.“ „They didn’t notice anything to you either,“ says Sunny.

„I think it’s related to the fact that I eat a balanced diet, drink enough and be in balance.“ „This is wonderful news,“ she added. „That’s them. I’m going to be a father!” Santi is happy and hugs me. Then he puts his hand on my stomach and talks to the baby: „You will have wonderful parents, a super great big sister and a lot of joy in this life. We love you already, or you.” „This evening must be celebrated twice,“ says Sunny and pours us all a glass of water.