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CISRS Scaffolding Labourer Card
CISRS Scaffolding Labourer Card: Complete Our COTS Course in just one day and pass CITB Health & Safety Test. with these steps you will be well on your way to earning your CISRS Scaffolding Labourer Card
#cisrs course#scaffolding course#cisrs construction course#uk cisrs course#cisrs labourer card course
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Scaffolding training and qualification involves training about the safe usage of scaffolds and ladders to avoid falls and prevent other types of accidents. This training includes a comprehensive overview of the methods, safety guidelines and regulations required for installing a scaffold at the construction site. Here, you will learn about the importance of proper training for scaffolders in Sussex.
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the thing im enjoying most about learning a new language is learning new cultural context. i never noticed learning this with english probably bc youre already one foot in american pov before you even speak the language what with all the popular media coming from there, but with french i have to dig this knowledge out with my bare hands and it's really fun
like, when i read in a book that the english people at the english train station our english protagonist who just came home after 15 years exile in france is arriving at "were going about their business with their english sense of timing and rhythm", what am i supposed to understand by that? is that like a swiss clock sort of thing (another cultural reference you now realise you have learnt to understand the right way at some point even without knowing anything necessarily about swiss clocks) or more of a doctor who kind of sense of timing? what is the french cultural idea of the british and their sense of punctuality? i dont know yet! i feel like a child!
#if youre french you may answer this#but honestly it's more rhetorical and i'd kinda prefer it if you didnt#i want to find out for myself#assuming it's even an answerable question and not a creative choice or author's peculiarity#which is of course also always an option#learning is fun more at 8#remember when half the things adults said were words you could understand but you were missing like#all the scaffolding knowledge to interpret them?#it's an exciting feeling. frustrating. but like. promising#one day i will know all this#and then i will learn a new language to feel it all again thats the magic#you can do that for the rest of your life
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this has been a frustrating chapter to write but i am biting the concept of 'witness to the martyr' (aka witness to the witness) SO HARD. i love it. you as a martyr are called to bear witness your faith/god's truth BUT doing so requires a crowd to witness you. i want to eat this concept.
and then when martyrdom is denied (1550s protestant martyrological criteria are very strict) but the crowd is still called to witness the dead as if the martyr was still there....hrgh. instead of them leaving their body and suffering behind, all we are shown is suffering. to which we must give the SAME kind of intellectual effort and SAME close attention. we now bear witness not to an act of witnessing but to bleak violence. melpomène really is playing herself on the scaffold-stage
#sophies ramblings#though of course to claim the scaffold as stage there would need to be trials which are being denied. so it's even wilder
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can't believe third semester takes place in late winter too. incredible. literally made to make my brain go whirring around until it explodes.
#LIKE I CAN'T ARTICULATE WHAT I MEAN BUT LIKE.... of course this is happening in january in the city.#can u see the early cold winter sunsets by the stadium scaffolding? the blue fading light on all the concrete? your breath in front of you#in a perfect world? can you feel the dissonance like a tritone like the cold seeping through your coat? are the#christmas lights still up? god.#anyway hi. winter makes me feel insane things in my brain.#p5 lb
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you know, if I had my shit together more this would have been such a good time to release The Secret Fourth Novel, but I live perpetually untethered in time so nah, actually
#The Secret Fourth Novel#which is of course an erik novel#also other stuff but all the scaffolding is an excuse for an erik novel
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[id: a Tweet from @/CRCliff. "My professor hot take is that trusting students makes life so much better than assuming they're all lying or trying cheat [sic] on everything.]
#i think founding a pedagogy on distrust and antagonism is a pretty sick (negative) thing to do.#and yet there are people who will call you naive for trusting students (or even acknowledging that your course may not be a priority)#it is in fact a little bit radical to offer everyone grace#it is a bit revolutionary to say actually grades are a distraction from what we really care about: feedback and growth and learning#that doesn't necessarily mean you remove all structure. kind of the opposite#we build structures-- scaffolding-- to help people grow. we treat them like humans. complex. fallible. tired. but usually trying to do good#kevin gannon has an excellent book on this entitled 'radical hope: a teaching manifesto'
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i need to stream tomorrow i have Ideas i need to bounce off someone.
#im in college and have to make a fuckinnn short film [15-30 minutes]#and i do in fact have ideas. maybe too manyyy but its okay or whatever.#i kinda need backups bc my current idea kinda hinges on a softplay area near me letting me dick around there after dark#and also let me film a horror flick there thats important to mention#i have a specific location in mind bc it has this really disconcerting like. scaffolding i like it#its also absolutely fucking massive i could get really nice shots there#BUT if they say no im kinda cooked bc where the hell else am I supposed to film#dont go to college for film dont do it and if you do make sure you dont go on a course with its shit friend. the radio
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Construction Safety Training Courses: Safer Work Environment
Introduction Construction sites are inherently hazardous environments where workers face numerous risks daily. To mitigate these dangers and promote a culture of safety, construction safety training courses are essential. These courses equip workers with the knowledge and skills necessary to identify hazards, implement safety protocols, and respond effectively in emergencies. This article…
#construction health and safety#construction safety courses#construction safety training#electrical safety training#fall protection training#hazardous materials training#OSHA training#safety officer certification#scaffold safety training
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Check out our upcoming CISRS Overseas #scaffolding #training schedule!
Secure your spot today! 📞 Call: +971 54 581 3513 📧 Email: [email protected] 🌐 Website: www.simianinternational.com
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#𝐄𝐎𝐒𝐇 - 𝗨𝗞 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬#Train the Trainer Courses#Award in Accident Investigation-Train the Trainer#Award in Certified Safety Trainer (CST)#Award in Train the Trainer-Confined Space#Award in Train The Trainer-Fire Safety#Award in HACCP-Train the Trainer#Award in HAZOP-Train the Trainer#Award in HAZWOPER-Train the Trainer#Train the Trainer-HSE#Award in Incident Investigation-Train the Trainer#Award in Train The Trainer-Lifting & Rigging#Award in Gas Testing-Train the Trainer#Award in Oil & Gas Safety-Train the Trainer#Award in Train the Trainer-Scaffolding#Award in Train The Trainer-Security Management Safety & Operation#Certified Master Trainer#Award in Work at Height - Train The Trainer#Contact Us:#Mob:#+919787872866#Email:#[email protected]#Web:#www.cosmostrg.com#WhatsApp Channel :#https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaHMYayGufJ45OH4Xo1n#WhatsApp Group :#https://chat.whatsapp.com/IunhDueyuLsEPc9SkB7dlK#eoshcourses
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#CISRS Scaffolding Tube & Fitting Card#cisrs course#cisrs course online#cisrs scaffolding certificate#cots course scaffolding#cisrs scaffolding#cisrs refresher course#cisrs certificate#cisrs scaffold inspection course#cisrs basic scaffold inspection#cisrs advanced scaffolder course#Apply cisrs course
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To add a small thing, there was also this part in the blog post from DA Day 2023, in which they were already hinting at something in that regard! 😁
"Know this, though: The Dread Wolf has not been idle these past years. His reach is far, and soon his plans will come to fruition—a cataclysmic rejoining of magic and realms hundreds of years in the making."
There was a post a little while ago where someone mentioned that Solas had been bringing back the magic for longer than we think but I can’t find it anywhere and I was wondering if maybe you might know what I’m talking about (I think it was epler)
Mostly I want to know if I imagined this, and if it does exist or not 😭
hello! ◕‿◕ could this be the passage you're thinking of?
"Epler, who writes Bellara, tells me about her place in Thedas as an elf and the connection elves have to the magic of the world. He says if you’ve paid attention to the franchise, you likely already know that elves are historically an oppressed people in the games. Now, with two of their gods on the loose in Veilguard, magic has poured back into the world in a big way. [...] A Quick Detour: Magic During my discussion, Epler spoke about magic’s place in the world and how it differs in Veilguard from previous Dragon Age games. Here’s what he said: "Historically, as you’ve mentioned, we’ve been in the south of Thedas and south Thedas is Ferelden, Orlais. Both are fairly still oppressed, they still have circles. Mages are viewed with suspicion, but Tevinter has always been this land where mages rule, mages are in charge, mages make the rules, mages run the show. So what does that look like? And as we’ve gone through [Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition], magic has become more and more present. And part of that is because Solas has been slowly preparing this ritual for longer than anyone in the Dragon Age universe is really aware of, but also, just going into the spaces where magic is, by definition and by the lore, much, much more present. And it’s been fun because, again, we do have rules; we want to make sure we’re not violating the lore or violating things we’ve said before. But it’s also, again, that permissiveness of, ‘Okay, what is the most interesting way to do this? What’s the most interesting way to tell the story? [In] Origins, II, on the Eclipse engine, we could talk about this fantastical magic, but the engine didn’t really allow us to show it. For the first time, we’re really able to let the visuals speak for themselves and not have to tell the player, 'Trust us, it’s spectacular; this magic is really cool.’ We can actually show you and let you drink it in." [post this is from, archive post of the original article as that went down when GI did]
There is also this:
Lore/art direction: “Magic has started seeping into the world through Solas’ ritual”, “and so you’re seeing the effects of that on the space, and on the visuals as well” [post this is from, original source. original source is a John Epler interview video]
#I've already made a post talking about this I think#how I initially thought this was about Mythal and her directing the course of history throughout the ages 👀#but this is REALLY interesting#and the fact that Solas has apparently preparing this for hundreds of years..#..yet he still was ''in a hurry'' when he did such a shitty job with the scaffolding lmaoo#datv#datv spoilers
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SCAFFOLDING INSPECTOR COURSE IN SAUDI ARABIA
SCAFFOLDING INSPECTOR
In this course you will learn the following skills:
Introduction to Scaffolds
Types of scaffolds and Hazards associated with scaffolds
Inspecting Scaffold components
Inspect Tools used with scaffolds
Simple procedures (practical/actual)
Check Safety requirements of scaffolds
Personal Protective Equipment
For inquiries: (WhatsApp) +966 50 860 5585
Website: https://e-growthonline.com/
E-mail: [email protected]
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𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆
ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.
𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.
𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k
❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3
masterlist
there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.
they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.
YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.
harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.
as if on cue, his eyes met hers.
the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.
he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.
it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.
his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?
the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.
she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.
their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.
they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.
he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.
YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.
“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.
“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.
there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.
“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.
“so do you.”
silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.
he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.
his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”
“neither did i.”
the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.
there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?
he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.
but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.
the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.
“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.
her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”
and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.
it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.
it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.
the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.
it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.
but she wouldn’t.
he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.
until three days ago.
“you’re brooding.”
the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.
“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.
he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”
“not much to talk about, yeah?”
“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”
“yeah.”
“and?”
harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.
“you still care about her.”
“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”
jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”
the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.
the tea had gone cold.
–
the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.
harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.
the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.
she didn’t like this.
her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.
so, she clicked.
subject: reaching out
from: hs@—
to: YN@—
i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.
i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.
i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.
this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.
for old times sake: all my stars and moons,
H.
all my stars and moons.
he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.
it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.
she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.
it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.
her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.
the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.
she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.
harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.
it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.
why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.
she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.
because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.
she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.
harry,
it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.
i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.
your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.
it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.
but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.
forever and a day,
YN.
her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.
forever and a day.
it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.
she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.
the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.
harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.
sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.
it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?
and then, her last email.
he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.
subject: RE: late night thoughts
from: YN@—
to: hs@—
h,
i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)
anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.
here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.
YN
harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.
he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.
the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”
he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.
and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.
he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.
“hello?”
“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”
a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”
once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.
“hi.”
“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.
she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”
“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”
“you overthought it.”
“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”
she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”
he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”
her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”
“and here i am.”
“here you are.”
she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.
“s’bigger than the last one.”
she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”
he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.
“i’m surprised you actually came over.”
“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”
“i didn’t think you would.”
he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”
she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”
“how much d’you think changes in two years?”
her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.
“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“s’just us talking. that’s all.”
they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.
the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.
YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.
his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.
and then she said it.
“you’ve written songs about me.”
a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.
harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.
“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”
his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.
she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.
she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”
it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.
his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.
it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.
a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.
“you’re disgusting.”
he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—
“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”
and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.
and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.
“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.
“i remember everything.”
the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.
he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.
time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.
they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.
she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.
she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.
she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.
and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.
he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.
YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.
"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.
he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.
you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.
so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.
he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.
the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.
the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.
but the body is merciless in its remembering.
her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—
then he kisses her.
it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.
his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.
it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.
it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.
his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.
and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:
forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.
not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.
when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.
it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.
"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.
she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.
but there was no language for this.
there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.
so she didn’t speak.
instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.
all my stars and moons, he had said once.
forever and a day, she had answered.
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