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alcinasw1neglass · 10 months ago

Text

Broken Vessels

Alcinaswineglass

Summary:

During the mid-1950s, a chance encounter between a countess and a peculiar girl, brought together by a mutual friend, sets in motion a series of events that would forever alter the countess's life. This tale is one of love and hardship, as the two women navigate through the challenges that come their way. Will they find a way to overcome their struggles and emerge victorious? Only time will tell.

{𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘋𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘶 𝘟 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘍𝘢𝘯 𝘍𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯}

Notes:

If you enjoy this Fic, please leave likes and comments. I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback, I strongly believe this ship is heavily underrated. Both characters are strong lovers, and that’s why I believe they are perfect. They accentuate each other perfectly, and I just love them and I hope you will too! ❤️

Ao3 Link- https://archiveofourown.org/works/54159589/chapters/137132614#main

Chapter 1:

Hope for the hopeless

June 28th 1955

Lady Alcina Dimitrescu, the elegant and regal matriarch of the Dimitrescu family, was known for her extravagant, lavish parties. They were always talk of the town. As usual, she had spared no expense for her latest gathering, and the grand ballroom of her opulent home was decorated with the finest tapestries and ornate chandeliers. Today’s overly dramatic party was celebrating a milestone of her and her husband's ever-growing successful business.

Despite attending numerous events in the past, Alcina had a feeling that this party would be the absolute worst. Watching her husband gloat about a business that wasn’t his or the success that he shared with his wife. She welcomed her guests with a serene smile.

Taking a deep breath, Alcina reached for a glass of her finest wine, savoring the rich aroma and the smooth taste.

The scene was a vibrant and lively one, with everyone dressed in bright and beautiful colors, wearing stunning dresses. Amidst this crowd, she stood out in her ivory dress, with long sleeves and white gloves, and of course, her signature prodigious wide-brim hat decorated with lavish white flowers and feathers. As she looked around, she realized that almost everyone looked the same until her eyes fell upon a girl dressed entirely in black, with a mask covering half of her face. She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the sight of this oddly dressed girl.

She then proceeded to greet the men who were standing by her husband's side, smiling and laughing politely at their not-so-funny jokes. However, before she could even finish her pleasantries, a hand touched her shoulder, causing her to pivot around. She was surprised to see a mutual friend of hers, who then proceeded to drag her away from her husband towards a quieter part of the party.

“Wh-What are you doing? I was greeting my guests, you foolish woman…” She sneered, and her friend sniggered as she spoke, “I want you to meet someone…”

“I haven’t got the time. George wants me to make a damned speech.” She protests, “Selene, please…”

“No, Alcina, forget the pleasantries. You need to meet this person.”

Selene was one of Alcina’s oldest friends. She was a confident and assertive woman. Selene grabbed Alcina by the arm and pulled her away from her husband and his group of friends. Alcina, clearly annoyed, allowed herself to be dragged through the crowded room until they reached their destination - Lady Beneviento, a shy and introverted woman who had only attended the party at Selene's request.

"I want you to meet someone," Selene repeated, her voice tinged with excitement. "But please, be nice to her."

Alcina let out a scoff at Selene's request. "I am nice," she replied defensively.

Rolling her eyes in response, Selene retorted, "No, you're not. You're cold and distant. But I promise you'll love her."

With that, the two women maneuvered their way through the throngs of party-goers until they finally reached Lady Beneviento, who was standing quietly by the window.

Selene, being the idiot she was, pushed Alcina towards Donna and smiled mischievously. “Lady Beneviento, this is Lady Dimitrescu, the owner of the very wine you are drinking,”

Donna had faced a lot of tragedies in her life, including the loss of her sister and parents. Naturally, she had lost hope and given up on life. However, her friend Selene, who had been with her through thick and thin, decided to take her to an extravagant party, hoping to cheer her up.

Despite being an introverted person, Donna reluctantly agreed to come along. Upon arriving at the party, she found herself drawn to the window where she could escape from the loud music and the bustling crowd. Holding a glass of wine in her hand, she gazed outside, lost in her own thoughts.

Suddenly, she felt someone bump into her, causing her to startle. She turned around to see Selene standing behind her and was about to say something when she noticed a stranger standing right in front of her. Donna took a step back, confused and alarmed. She sent a worried glance towards Selene before stuttering, "Excuse me?”

Alcina was taken aback by the sudden appearance of the girl in front of her. Her eyebrows furrowed in surprise, and her body stiffened as if preparing for a confrontation. However, before she could react, Selene disappeared from her sight, leaving Lady Dimitrescu to turn her attention back to Lady Beneviento.

Clearing her throat, she spoke in a cold, calculated tone that seemed to echo through the room. Her words were chosen carefully, meant to instill fear in her target while still holding their attention. Lady Dimitrescu was well-known for her imposing presence and intimidating demeanor, and she used it to her advantage as she circled gracefully around the young girl.

As she moved, she studied the girl with a predatory gaze, making every step she took seem like a threat. The girl tried to keep her composure in the face of such a formidable opponent, but she couldn't help but feel a shiver run down her spine.

Lady Dimitrescu paused for a moment, taking a sip of her drink, and then deadpanned, "I didn't realize I was having a Masquerade, I would have brought a mask also." She pointed to her guests and added, "Now, why are you in the corner? The party is over there."

Donna shifted uneasily, feeling like a mouse caught in the claws of a lion. She knew Lady Dimitrescu was not one to be trifled with, and the last thing she wanted was to draw her ire. So, she mustered up her courage and replied, "The mask brings me comfort, and so does being alone. So if I may, I’ll just excuse myself.”

Alcina grabbed Donna’s forearm, her grip tightening with a sudden harshness that made Donna flinch. Alcina's face scrunched up into a scowl, her brows furrowed in anger or frustration. The tension between the two was palpable as Alcina spoke, her voice low and threatening. "I didn't see you..." she began, her words trailing off into an ominous silence that left Donna feeling uneasy and unsure of what would happen next, but then Alcina broke the silence once more. “When I greeted my guests. I stood at the door for an hour, and yet you escaped my notice. And how you stand out from the crowd”

Donna's eyes widened in shock as she felt a sudden tug on her arm. Instinctively, she yanked her arm back and took a step backward, putting some distance between herself and the person who had touched her. "D-Do not touch me... please," she said firmly, trying to keep her voice steady. She looked down at the ground for a moment, taking a deep breath, before looking back up at the person in front of her. "Perhaps you weren't paying attention," she said, her voice tinged with frustration. "I've been here since my friend dragged me here. I don't know what you want from me, lady Dimitrescu, but you need to show some respect and unhand me.”

Alcina is taken aback. She has never had anyone speak to her like that before, let alone order her around in her own home . Her eyes widen as she tries to process the situation. Feeling a surge of anger, she purses her lips and speaks with a growl, her voice low and menacing. ��How dare you? Do you know who I am?” She asks before rolling her eyes. “I was paying attention,” she snarled, malice dripping from her voice. “However, I didn't see a ‘Beneviento’ on the guest list, which means I should have you escorted out of my home.”

Donna scoffed at the woman standing in front of her. She had recognized her at first, but now all she could see was a woman who seemed vexed because someone had said no to her. Donna crossed her arms, trying to act tough, but her trembling hands told a different story. She finally spoke up and said, ‘Then, by all means, lady Dimitrescu, escort me out. I would prefer to be at home.' Despite herself, Donna couldn't hide the fear in her voice. She felt like she had just made a big mistake and was now facing the consequences.

Alcina's sudden chuckle caught Donna's attention, causing her to pause in their conversation. Alcina looked towards the fireplace and cast a hopeful glance over her shoulder, silently urging Donna to follow her. Curious, Donna followed Alcina's lead and walked towards the fireplace, where she noticed Alcina's gaze was drawn upwards to the painting that hung above it. The painting depicted Alcina and her husband, captured in a moment of happiness and love, or so one would think. However, the harshness of his gaze and his hand firmly placed on Alcina’s shoulder would show otherwise... As Alcina stood there, gazing at the painting, She swallowed hard, suppressing the horrid words that had threatened to escape her lips moments before. "Hm... You have a bite to you, bravo..." Her voice trailed off, distant and contemplative, as she continued to stare intently at the painting. The flickering light from the fire danced across the canvas, casting shadows on Alcina's face and lending a solemn air to the room.

Donna let out a deep sigh and reluctantly trailed behind Alcina as the latter led the way toward the fireplace. As they reached their destination, Donna kept a slight distance from Alcina, standing a few feet away from her. The two of them came to a halt, facing the warm glow of the roaring fire, and a moment of silence ensued as they both stared into the flickering flames and risked a glance at the painting. "You're not happy, are you?" She mumbled, quiet enough just so that Alcina could hear her.

Alcina stood with her arms crossed. Her expression was one of disdain and contempt as she scoffed loudly, “well, you’re rather rude.” She then turned her head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of Donna in her peripheral vision. "I didn't want to have a grand party," she said with a heavy sigh, her eyes betraying her exhaustion. "But George insisted on it. Of course, I had to be the one to organize it. He has absolutely no idea how to throw a proper party. It was just another excuse for him to gloat about his ever-growing business - a business that isn't even his. The man has no shame."

Alcina paused for a moment, her eyes flickering with an emotion that was hard to read. "I- I love my husband," She trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. Anyone who heard her words could tell she was lying through her teeth. The truth was that she despised the man and everything he stood for. But she couldn't bring herself to admit it, even to herself. So she put on a brave face and pretended like everything was fine, even though she knew it wasn't.

Donna patiently listened to Alcina as she ranted on about her life. Donna didn't interrupt her even once and waited until the end to share her thoughts. "I'm happy that I never had to go through the experience of getting married," Donna said. "I say this mostly because of my scar. It has scared everyone away from me, and I'm grateful that I can now live in peace in my home and focus on my work without having to worry about anyone bothering me.” She turned to Alcina. "I live on my own if you ever need quiet. Time to be away from your husband. You can always stay in the village with me. If your husband allows it.”

Alcina turned her whole body to face Donna, her piercing gaze fixed upon her. With a raised eyebrow, she spoke in a low, measured tone, "Not all of us are so fortunate, Miss Beneviento… However, he gains from me, and I gain from him." Her voice trailed off momentarily before she continued, "That would be delightful." Alcina's face broke into a genuine smile, but it was short-lived as she scoffed once more, "George is hardly ever home. He's only here when... he needs something… Or when we have guests, he goes on hunting trips and lots of business trips.”

Donna stood quietly as she listened to the woman of the house speak once again. "Well," the woman said, her voice laced with a hint of weariness, "now that that's been settled, I will excuse myself. I need to get home before the drunken men try to hit on me. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Dimitrescu.” She gave a small, knowing smile to Alcina, who stood nearby. Donna couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the woman - it was clear that she had dealt with this sort of thing before. As the woman turned to leave, Donna wondered how many other women in this town had to deal with the same dangers on a daily basis.

Alcina's expression changed to one of genuine sadness as she slowly nodded her head in acceptance. "We wouldn't want that, would we?" she said. “Will you write to me? You know my address." Her voice trailed off slightly as she spoke.

Donna felt a sudden rush of excitement as she heard Lady Dimitrescu's request for her to write to her. With a shy smile, Donna replied, "If you really want me to write to you, Lady Dimitrescu, then of course I will. We can schedule a date, and I'll make sure to have a letter ready for you by the end of the week."

Feeling emboldened by the moment, Donna decided to take a chance. She reached out and gently took Alcina's hand in her own, giving it a soft kiss before turning and walking away. As she walked, she couldn't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement coursing through her. She had no idea what the future held, but for now, she was content to bask in the glow of Lady Dimitrescu's attention.

As Alcina stood there, a smirk slowly crept onto her face in response to Donna's choice of words. "I look forward to it," she replied, her voice dripping with a sense of amusement. Just as Donna was about to turn away, Alcina felt her hand being grasped and lifted to her lips for a gentle kiss. As Donna's lips touched her skin, a faint blush appeared on Alcina's face, though she quickly composed herself. "Miss Beneviento...Stay, will you?" she called out, her voice calm and steady. “I- I have guest bedrooms. We could have tea in my gardens tomorrow.” She struggled to get her words out, progressively getting more flushed.

Donna came to a sudden halt and pivoted on her heel to face Lady Dimitrescu, "I'm sorry, Lady Dimitrescu," she began, her voice quivering slightly, "but I have no clothes to wear, and I have a lot of work to complete by tomorrow. Perhaps we can schedule a meeting for another time?" In an attempt to mask her mounting anxiety, Donna managed a small smile, hoping it would be enough to placate the imposing figure in front of her. Despite her best efforts, however, Donna was just one step away from a full-blown meltdown.

Alcina appeared to be overwhelmed with emotions as she gazed at Lady Beneviento, her face tinged with sadness as she gave her a small, melancholic smile. After a moment of silence, Alcina nodded in acknowledgment of their parting, and Donna turned around to walk away. Alcina followed behind her for a few steps before they separated, and she watched as Lady Beneviento disappeared from view. As Alcina made her way back to her husband, she stood to his right and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with a sense of finality as the two women went their separate ways, leaving behind a lingering feeling of sadness and longing.

George's speech was slurred as he grabbed Alcina's wrist tightly, demanding an answer. "Where did you run off to?" he asked impatiently. Alcina's expression turned sour as she retorted, "I was with our guests, darling ," The tension between them was palpable, and it was clear that there was more to their exchange than just a simple question.

Alcina was standing next to her husband and felt his tight grip on her hand. She managed to free herself, and with a fake smile on her face, she grabbed a glass of wine from the silver platter. Holding the glass up high, she proposed a toast. "Here's to our ever-growing business and to my loving husband.”

Everyone cheered as they raised their glasses, clinking them together in celebration. The music grew louder, and people started dancing, twirling around the room in a joyful frenzy. The night ended on a high note, and everyone left with smiles on their faces, looking forward to the next celebration. Bidding her guests goodbye, she sighed, relieved the party was now over. However, she couldn’t get Lady Beneviento out of her head.

As the night grew darker, the lady couldn't shake off the image of Lady Beneviento from her mind. She made her way back to her chambers, her feet aching from the long night, her mind heavy with thoughts. As soon as she entered her room, she let out a sigh of relief, and her staff rushed to help her.

They quickly unlaced her dress while she stood there, feeling the cool air on her skin. Finally, they undid her corset, slowly and carefully, allowing her to breathe freely again. With her body finally feeling relaxed, she got herself ready for bed, her mind still preoccupied with the mysterious Lady Beneviento.

⇠ ༒ ⇢

As the night progressed, Selene, the carefree soul, couldn't resist wandering off and giving Alcina and Donna some time alone. Selene had a little too much to drink, and it was evident in her slurred speech. She struggled to put her words together, but Donna patiently listened, knowing that Selene meant well. Despite her slightly intoxicated state, Selene's presence brought a sense of joy and excitement, which was hard to ignore. “So… ‘ow was it? Do you ‘ike ‘er?”

“I suggest that we should start by finding an alternative beverage for you to drink apart from wine. However, I suppose she is ok. not someone I would see myself spending time with. She’s… A snob, to put it lightly.” Donna, with a concerned expression on her face, was keeping a vigilant eye on Selene. carefully observing her every move, ensuring that she didn't accidentally trip or fall on the uneven terrain they were traversing. Donna's attention was completely focused on Selene.

Selene scoffed, "Pff, I'm fine... I'm just a ‘ittle tipsy." Despite her attempts to defend herself, she failed miserably and burst out laughing. "You know, she may seem intimidating, but she's all bark and no bite. She may be a bit of a snob, but deep down, she's really just a big old teddy bear. She gets so badly treated by that bastard of a man…. I don’t know why she stays.”

As Selene stumbled on air for the second time, Donna rolled her eyes in frustration. "Selene, you've nearly fallen twice, on air at that," she said, her tone laced with concern. She then let out a deep sigh and shook her head. "Sadly, there is nothing we can do about her husband. Men like that deserve the worst hell you could imagine," she added, her voice firm and resolute. She then reached out and used her hand to help steady her friend.

“That’s because the air hates me… I am perfectly fine, where is our car? I need a snack.” As Donna made a witty comment, she couldn't help but let out a light chuckle. She then pushed herself away from Donna and crossed her arms as she continued to laugh softly. “Honestly, he’s an adulterous little snake. It’s made her cold.. she used to be so warm, you know I’ve known her for 15 years, and it’s when she met him that she changed…. I- Ah, our car!! DRIVERR!!” She calls, waving her hand like an idiot.

Donna couldn't help but snort as she listened to her friend Selene go on a drunken spiral, her words slurring and her movements unsteady. However, when Selene waved her hand around like an idiot and started yelling, Donna flinched and quickly grabbed her friend's hand. "He can see us, Selene," she whispered urgently. "Please don't cause any more ruckus." Donna knew that Selene's behavior could attract unwanted attention, and she didn't want to get into any trouble.

As the car approached them, she stumbled and almost fell into the car. Her face turned pale as she struggled to regain her balance. After managing to get inside the car, she felt a sudden dizziness, "Is the car spinning? Or is it just me?" Her voice trembled.

As Donna got into the car, she couldn't help but scowl at the strong smell of alcohol. Her voice was laced with worry as she turned to Selene, "You're drunk. How much wine did you drink?" Her concern was palpable as she spoke, and it was clear that she was genuinely worried about the safety of both the driver and herself.

“I ‘ave only drunk a ‘ittle. I am a grown woman.” Selene protested. The journey back to Donna's estate was a long and tiring one, with Selene feeling exhausted and drained. Despite her best efforts to stay awake, she eventually succumbed to her drunken state and fell into a deep slumber, her head resting against the window in a very undignified position.

Meanwhile, Donna was lost in thought, her mind preoccupied with Lady Dimitrescu. She couldn't help but wonder if there was more to the imposing woman than met the eye. Perhaps, deep down, there was a gentle swan lurking beneath the cold, harsh walls that Lady Dimitrescu had built around her heart.

Donna's car jerked to a sudden stop, causing her to peer out of the window and let out a sigh of relief. She had finally arrived back at her estate. Turning to her friend Selene, who had dozed off during the ride, Donna tapped her on the shoulder to wake her. As they stepped out of the car, Donna took a deep breath of the fresh air. The city air always made her feel suffocated, but since Lady Dimitrescu's estate was located in a somewhat rural area, the air was much cleaner and fresher.

As they walked down the path towards the estate, Selene trailing behind her, Donna opened the door and stepped inside, removing her coat. She watched as Selene stumbled into her home, her movements unsteady and her speech slurred. ‘Not drunk, she says.’ Donna thought to herself.

Rolling her eyes, Donna rushed over to Selene and helped her up, guiding her to a nearby sofa. She couldn't help but feel frustrated with her friend's recklessness, especially since she had promised not to drink too much. As Selene lay unconscious on the sofa, Donna couldn't help but wonder how she was going to deal with the aftermath of this latest escapade

⇠ ༒ ⇢

July 1st 1955

“ Dearest,

Would you possibly be free to meet me for tea this evening? There is a quaint little restaurant down near the river.

La Fonte, Mainstreet.

6:30 Pm.

I understand if you cannot,

A Dimitrescu”

Alcina had every intention of being on time, but her husband had other plans. He had a lot to say about her meeting with the young Beneviento girl, and despite her protests, he insisted on delaying her. Eventually, she managed to break free from his grasp and made her way to the restaurant.

As she walked in, a sense of calm washed over her, and a serene smile graced her face. Her heart fluttered as she caught a glimpse of Donna sitting at a table in the corner. She made her way over to her, apologizing for her tardiness. “Sorry, I'm late… George was being difficult .”

The waiter approached them with a friendly smile and offered to take their drink order. Alcina nodded, placing her purse down. "I'll have the second-best bottle of wine on your menu," she said.

Donna had initially been hesitant about going out but eventually decided to give it a try. She put on some comfortable clothes and wore the same mask she wore at Alcina's party. As she arrived at the venue, she scanned the area and quickly found a good spot to sit. Smiling slightly as she saw Alcina walking towards her and taking a seat in front of her.

"T-that’s ok," Donna reassured. "I haven't been here for long either." She waved her hand nonchalantly and turned her attention to the menu. She carefully browsed through the options and eventually placed her order, making sure to avoid any alcoholic drinks. She wanted to stay alert and focused throughout the night and not let anything dull her senses.

“Well, I'm relieved that you showed. I was worried you wouldn’t after how I… Treated you the other night. I- I’m sorry, I was horrible. But the stress of everything got the better of me.” With a sad smile on her face, she took a deep breath and gathered the courage to speak up again. Her voice carried a hint of impatience as she said, "Are we ready to order food? I'm absolutely famished. I do hope Italian." She could feel her stomach growling audibly.

As if on cue, the waiter arrived with their drinks in hand. However, she raised a hand to stop him as he poured the wine, indicating that she'd prefer to handle it herself. "Leave the bottle. I'll pour my own wine," she said firmly, making sure that the waiter understood her request. Her tone was polite yet assertive, conveying her confidence in handling the wine.

Donna sat comfortably in her chair, sipping on her water, as she observed Alcina's behavior with a hint of interest. Alcina, a known wine connoisseur, was giving the waiter a hard time as she insisted on pouring her own wine. Donna couldn't help but feel a bit sympathetic towards the poor man who seemed to be struggling to meet Alcina's demands. Alcina finally settled down and turned towards Donna, giving her a small smile. “You were intoxicated. You needn't worry. But yes, I am ready to order…”

The waiter, dressed in his crisp uniform, stood at attention near the table as he patiently waited for the two ladies to make their order. Donna, sitting gracefully with a serene expression on her face, spoke up first. Her voice was soft and gentle as she said, "I would like to have the ossobuco with the freshly baked focaccia bread, please." The waiter nodded and noted down her order, ready to take the other lady's order.

Alcina's voice was laced with frustration as she spoke, "I wasn't… That's why I'm apologizing." Her tone was sharp, but it softened a bit as she continued, "I'll have the same." The waiter nodded and assured them both that it would be served soon before walking away. As the waiter left, Alcina leaned forward in her chair, placing her chin in her hands. "So, 'Beneviento'," she began, her tone curious, "I’ll assume you're originally from Italy?”

Donna leaned back in her seat, letting out a small sigh as she crossed one leg over the other. After a moment of silence, she finally responded to the question, her voice calm and measured. “I am not," she said. "But my parents were. They moved here just before I was born." She took a sip of her drink, her eyes fixed on Alcina. "What about you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you originally from this area?”

Alcina let out a soft hum in response, indicating that she was listening to what was being said. After a brief moment of silence, she let out a deep sigh as if she was about to reveal something important.

Alcina's voice was filled with disappointment as she replied, "Yes, unfortunately. I was born and raised in this city. But if you thought my family was snobbish before, you'll be absolutely shocked now." Despite her somber tone, Alcina let out a small chuckle, perhaps trying to lift the mood. She fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, until Donna's voice brought her back to reality.

Donna teased Lady Dimitrescu in a playful manner, "You have my interest piqued, Lady Dimitrescu. What secret are you about to reveal? Does your family own a grand castle?" In response, Alcina let out a deep sigh and slowly nodded her head. Her expression was a mixture of sadness and nostalgia, suggesting that she was lost in thought.

"Not exactly, Lady Beneviento," Alcina replied. "I remember my father telling me stories about his ancestral home. It was a grand castle that overlooked a small village. My mother used to describe it as a grand estate surrounded by lush greenery and blooming gardens." She paused for a moment, lost in thought, before continuing.

"Your surname, Dimitrescu," Donna interjected. "Is there any relation to Caesar Dimitrescu? After my sister passed away, we had a family who lived in the castle. They were the founding family amongst the other lords." Alcina cut her off, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"I have no information about my family history," she explained. "My father never spoke of them. I know that I am of noble descent, but there could be many Dimitrescu lines. However, maybe now that my father is gone, I should try to find out more about my family history.”

As she spoke, Alcina's expression turned serious and somber as she recollected the memory of her mother. She revealed that her mother was French and a lovely woman, but unfortunately, she had passed away when Alcina was just a teenager. Her voice carried a hint of sadness as she spoke about her mother and the memories they shared.

Alcina was about to share more when their waiter arrived with their food, interrupting her train of thought. Despite the interruption, Alcina couldn't help but smile at the sight of the delicious food before her. “Bring me a bottle of my own wine. This swill is not adequate enough.”

As the waiter approached the table, he seemed a bit nervous and nodded his head anxiously before walking off. She picked up her knife and fork, ready to enjoy her meal. "Bon appétit," she said with a smile.

Donna gazed at Alcina with a perplexed expression. Her brows furrowed with a hint of confusion before she exhaled audibly. She realized that the restaurant they were currently dining in sells Alcina's wine, and this made her curious. "Wait a minute, they actually sell your wine here?" she asked Alcina, her voice laced with curiosity. "Why didn't you just order that instead?"

Alcina nodded and replied in affirmation, "Yes, they do sell my wine, and it's by far the best they have." At that moment, Donna couldn't help but chuckle, but she stopped short when Alcina continued speaking. "If I ordered my own wine at a restaurant, it would come off as very pretentious," Alcina said, her tone laced with a hint of self-deprecation. "However, this swill that they're serving is not to my taste, so I suppose I am being pretentious after all.”

Donna's voice was barely above a whisper as she replied, "I understand." Her eyes flickered with concern as she gazed at Lady Dimitrescu, trying to gauge her mood. After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "How was your day, Lady Dimitrescu? You seem a bit preoccupied."

Lady Dimitrescu's expression softened at Donna's gentle tone. "I have had an eventful day, to say the least," she replied, her voice tinged with weariness. "But I would rather not burden you with the details. How was your day, Lady Beneviento? Hopefully, it was more peaceful than mine."

A small smile tugged at Donna's lips as she recalled the day's events. "Well, I finished a very large commission for a client this morning," she said, her eyes sparkling with pride. "It was quite challenging but also very satisfying to see it all come together. After that, I spent some time reading in my garden, enjoying the sunshine and the flowers. And now, here I am with you, Lady Dimitrescu." She gave the woman a warm smile, hoping to lift her spirits.

Alcina sat upright, taking a deep breath and delicately picking at the food before her. As she chewed, she studied Donna's face with a discerning eye. After a moment, she spoke. "Hmm... A much more peaceful day than mine. I envy you, lady Beneviento.” She poured herself a glass of wine, savoring the flavor before continuing. "I'm curious to know more about you, Lady Beneviento?"

Donna paused mid-bite and wiped her mouth with a napkin before responding. "T-there isn't much to tell, I'm afraid. Most of my free time is spent either reading or working on commissions." She took a sip of water before continuing, "As for friends, I have a small circle. My closest friend is Selene, and then one other person.” She trailed off, not offering any further details.

Alcina sat gracefully with the glass of wine in her hand and took a sip, her eyes fixed on Lady Beneviento. Tilting her head, she asked in a soft voice, "Do you have an affinity for art, music, literature, or perhaps something else entirely?" Her eyes glimmered with curiosity and she leaned in slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. "I am intrigued to know what piques your interest, Lady Beneviento. What kind of things do you enjoy?" She finished her glass of wine and set it down on the table, waiting patiently for Lady Beneviento's response.

“I have always had a passion for art, especially creating my own dolls. I consider myself a bit of a seamstress, too, as I make dresses and sell them for a decent amount. It's always been a source of pride and fulfillment for me.” With a heavy heart, she lets out a deep and sorrowful sigh, her expression a mixture of sadness and melancholy. Her eyes seem to gaze off into the distance, lost in thought as if she is grappling with some deep-seated emotional turmoil. “However, lately, I find myself struggling to feel any joy from these activities. It's been difficult to find happiness since my family passed away. They were my biggest supporters and inspiration, and now that they're gone, it feels like a part of me is missing.”

“My condolences. Do you mind me asking how they died?” Her tone was soft, and she placed her gloved hand on top of Donna’s for support. Smiling at her.

“My older sister… C-Claudia, she had a… Disease that she was born with, s-she was 15 when she succumbed to the illness. I was only 13, and my parents couldn’t handle her death… They prayed every night that the black god would return her to us, but it never did, so one day, they decided to go behind our estate and… They jumped off the edge of the waterfall. I was going to follow them, but I just couldn’t… I was too weak.” Donna looked down at her plate.. talk of her family made her lose her appetite.

“Forgive me, but you weren’t the weak one. They left their 13-year-old daughter alone. That is weakness.” s he spoke in a hushed tone, conveying her disappointment in the parents' actions. Her face seemed to be filled with a tinge of sadness as she observed Donna's body language, which had become tense. Wanting to change the mood of the conversation to something more cheerful, Alcina decided to ask a question. "What do you usually do on Sundays, dear?" she inquired with a warm smile, hoping to redirect the focus away from the previous topic.

"I typically spend most of my time working on commissions from my studio. I don't really get to go out and explore much, unfortunately. May I ask why you're asking about my daily routine, Lady Dimitrescu?" As Donna spoke, her body language became more relaxed, indicating that she was glad to have diverted the conversation away from her family.

“I mostly ask as my husband is almost never home at the weekends, so perhaps you could come to stay with me?” Lady Dimitrescu, the towering and enigmatic figure of Castle Dimitrescu, was known for her unwavering confidence and commanding presence. She had learned to wear a strong mask that concealed any vulnerabilities or doubts whenever she was away from the comforts of her chambers. However, despite her usual poise, her mask was now cracking, revealing a hint of nervousness that she had never shown before. She was hesitating to ask a question, one that she had asked many times before without any hesitation. The reason behind her uncharacteristic anxiety was unknown, and it was a rare sight to see the Lady in such a state.

As the night progressed, Alcina was starting to feel the effects of the bottle of wine she had to herself. Her words slurred as she spoke, but her laughter was still as infectious as ever. The conversations around the table were at an all-time high, and Alcina lifted an unsteady hand up for the waiter to come over, asking for the bill. Donna had insisted that she would pay her half of the bill, but Alcina refused her offer, saying, "It is no money from my pocket, please... Let me pay."

Nodding her head, Donna leaned back in her seat, feeling a little embarrassed. She didn't know what to do now. Alcina raised her brow before she stood up, stretching her back as she adjusted her hat. "Well, Lady Beneviento, I had a fabulous evening... We must do this again. I'll show you out." And she did so, waiting for Donna's carriage. Before she could get into the carriage, Alcina kissed Donna's cheek, smiling down at her. "Till we meet again, Lady Beneviento." Donna watched as Alcina's carriage disappeared into the night, feeling grateful for the wonderful evening they had shared together.

⇠ ༒ ⇢

July 22nd 1955

Lady Beneviento had been eagerly waiting to hear from the countess for weeks. One stormy morning, she sat in her kitchen staring out of the window, watching the raindrops fall down one by one and trying to keep herself occupied. But as time ticked by, her anxiety began to mount, and she couldn't help but feel desperate and sad. She had a pen and paper before her, and she started contemplating writing a letter to the countess, who seemed to be ignoring her.

With a heavy heart, she started writing, hoping that this letter would finally give her the answers she deserved.

“ Lady Dimitrescu,

I do hope this letter finds you well, I am writing to you because I deserve clarification. I have not heard from you in nearly three weeks, and I would like to know why? I care deeply about you, however the disrespect is unfathomable if you do not wish to see me do say so.

Yours,

Donna Beneviento ”

Donna had just finished writing a letter to Lady Dimitrescu, but the moment she put down her pen, she was hit with a sudden wave of regret. She couldn't help but worry that the letter might be taken the wrong way, and that Lady Dimitrescu might see her as being needy or desperate.

She was well aware of Lady Dimitrescu's high status and importance, and she didn't want to do anything that could potentially damage their relationship. But despite her reservations, she couldn't shake off the strange feeling in her stomach. She knew that something wasn't quite right, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

Perhaps Lady Dimitrescu had simply decided that their time together was over, or maybe there was some other reason for her silence. Donna couldn't help but wonder what the future held for her and Lady Dimitrescu. Would they remain close, or would their relationship slowly fade away? These questions weighed heavily on Lady Beneviento's mind, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of unease.

Donna let out a deep sigh of frustration as she stood up from her seat and made her way to the kitchen. She headed straight to the liquor cabinet, her eyes scanning the rows of bottles before finally settling on a bottle of whiskey. Turning around, she scoffed at the lifeless doll seated on the nearby shelf. "Do not look at me like that," she muttered as she reached for a small glass and poured herself a generous amount of the amber liquid.

As she took a sip of the whiskey, Donna's mind was filled with thoughts of the person who had caused her so much hurt. "I am hurt, Angie," she said to the doll, her voice filled with sadness. "I have never gotten this close to someone so quickly, and now she ignores me. What should I do?"

She waited for a response, hoping that the doll would somehow give her the guidance she needed. However, as expected, there was no answer from the dormant toy. Donna was left alone with her thoughts and the bitter taste of whiskey on her tongue, unsure of what to do next.

Donna had been eagerly anticipating Alcina's letters for the past few days. She had been keeping a close eye on her mailbox, hoping to see the familiar handwriting on the envelopes. However, as the days passed, there were no signs of any letters from Alcina. This made Donna feel frustrated and disappointed.

Unable to contain her emotions, Donna stormed off to her workshop. She knew that she could always count on her work to help her deal with her unpleasant thoughts and emotions. As she got to her workshop, she took a deep breath and looked around the room. It was filled with tools, materials, and half-finished projects. She picked up a nearby tool and began to work on a project, letting the familiar feeling of working with her hands soothe her mind.

Donna was sitting at her desk, completely immersed in her work on a doll commission, when she suddenly heard a woman's voice behind her. Startled, she jumped up in surprise, not having noticed anyone entering the room.

“Donna? It smells like a tavern in here… Are you ok?” The woman's voice was familiar, but Donna couldn't immediately place it.

“Selene!! W-what are you doing here? How did you get in?” Donna asked, still trying to gather her wits.

Selene shot her a look of disapproval. “The front door was wide open. And I haven’t heard from you or Lady Dimitrescu in weeks. I thought she’d be here with you. Clearly I was mistaken.” She looked around the room, taking in the mess of doll parts and fabric strewn about.

Donna felt a pang of guilt at Selene's words. She had been so absorbed in her work that she hadn't noticed the door, let alone heard someone enter. She quickly gathered herself and turned to face Selene, grateful for the unexpected visit.

Donna looked worried as she spoke to Selene, "I haven't heard from her either. She clearly doesn't wish to speak to me. I have tried reaching out to her several times, but she hasn't responded."

Selene gave Donna a confused look before she spoke again, "That can't be true, she was singing your praise at tea with the others a few weeks ago. Are you sure something else isn't bothering her?"

"Minds can change in a couple of days, Selene. I care not for the countess," replied Donna, her voice tinged with bitterness.

Selene raised her brow and scoffed, "Is that why your house smells like whiskey? You do care for her. Come back to the city with me, I am worried about her. It's unlike her to go this silent.”

Donna rose from her seat, her movements deliberate and her gaze fixed on Selene. As she made her way towards the exit of the workshop, she turned around and raised a single eyebrow in Selene's direction. "No," she said firmly, her voice laced with a hint of annoyance. "I will not go running to her. If she wants to speak with me, she can come to me herself." Her tone was clear and resolute, leaving no room for argument or negotiation.

Selene furrowed her brows, a clear sign of frustration etched on her face as she made her way towards the door. With a tinge of anger in her voice, she spoke, "I'll be in the village until Thursday. I’m staying with a friend in the village square. Should you change your mind, come and see me.”

As Selene made her exit, the heavy wooden door closed with a slight slam, leaving Donna all by herself in the room. The silence that filled the space amplified the thoughts racing through her mind. With her mind clouded with doubts, Donna sat there, lost in thought, hoping to find some clarity. Had Alcina really been neglecting everyone?

⇠ ༒ ⇢

Standing tall at the drawbridge that led to Lady Beneviento's estate, Lady Dimitrescu gazed into the distance with a hint of reluctance. It had been a while since she had last laid eyes on Lady Beneviento, and the anticipation of their impending reunion was palpable. The sun was setting on the horizon, casting an orange glow across the sky and painting the surrounding landscape in a warm, golden hue.

Lady Dimitrescu took a deep breath, feeling the crisp evening air fill her lungs, as she prepared to cross the drawbridge and enter Lady Beneviento's domain. As she stood there, deep in thought, a sudden hand on her shoulder startled her. She turned around to see a kind looking man, probably in his mid sixties, wearing a pair of well-worn gardening clothes. He flashed her a warm smile and asked, "Hello, miss... Can I help you?"

She hesitated for a moment before replying, "Not particularly, I'm looking for a friend." Her tone was devoid of any warmth or emotion, it was measured and deliberate.

The man nodded thoughtfully and said, "Ah, I see. Well, Lady Beneviento likes to spend her evenings in the garden, watching the sunset. If you'd like, I could take you around the back and show you the way.”

As they walked down the path leading to the house, the man tried to engage her in conversation. However, the countess seemed preoccupied and uninterested in small talk. Eventually, they arrived at the back of the house, and Alcina gestured for the man to leave "I can go on from here." The man nodded, acknowledging her request, before turning and walking away. The countess watched him go until he was out of sight before continuing on her way.

As Lady Dimitrescu made her way closer to the garden, she could hear the gentle and soothing sound of a waterfall in the distance. She walked towards an old and rusted gate, which she pushed open with ease, and stepped inside. As she walked through the gate her dress snagged on the old iron bar, mentally cursing herself for ruining one of her best dresses. But her thoughts were soon interrupted when she spotted Lady Beneviento seated on a soft blanket under a tree, overlooking the beautiful scenery.

Clearing her throat to announce her presence, Lady Dimitrescu spoke gently, "Hello, Lady Beneviento." Donna snapped her head to the voice, looking surprised and slightly panicked as she stood up. Her voice trembled as she spoke, "L-lady Dimitrescu… I- What are you doing here?”

Donna was taken aback when Lady Dimitrescu suddenly appeared in front of her after a long absence. "I wanted to apologise for my...disappearance. I have been rather busy ," Lady Dimitrescu said calmly, but Donna could sense something else in her words. Was it exhaustion? Regret? Donna couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Feeling a bit frustrated, Donna couldn't help but express her disappointment. "A letter would have been nice, Lady Dimitrescu," she said with a slight edge to her voice.

However, instead of reacting defensively, Lady Dimitrescu stepped closer to Donna with a sad look on her face. "Alcina," she said softly.

Donna was confused and didn't understand what Lady Dimitrescu meant. "Pardon me?" she asked.

With a heavy sigh, Lady Dimitrescu repeated herself. "Call me Alcina. We are past formalities." Alcina what a beautiful name, fitting for such a beautiful woman Donna thought as she nodded “Alcina.” Donna whispered to herself, "Why did you disappear?" she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought..." Her words trailed off as she struggled to find the right words to express her feelings.

“Like I said, I was indisposed. I had work that needed my urgent attention, and George returned home…” Alcina had been hiding her struggles from Donna, pretending that everything was alright, however her recent episode had taken her completely by surprise. During the physician’s visit, she noticed that he wasn't his usual cheery self, which frightened her. She didn't want to admit it, but the thought of her illness getting worse scared her to the bone. Despite this, she found solace in her interactions with the young woman. She appreciated the fact that Donna treated her as a person and not just a terminally ill patient. Although it's only because Donna didn't know about her condition, it was refreshing all the same.

Donna's voice was filled with a hint of disappointment as she spoke, "I still would have appreciated a letter, lady Dimi-Alcina." She paused for a moment, then continued in a softer tone, "However, you're here now." Donna patted the space on the blanket beside her, inviting Alcina to take a seat. Looking up at her with pleading eyes, Donna silently conveyed her desire for Alcina's company and comfort.

Alcina took a seat, her movements somewhat uncomfortable as she shifted her skirt to one side. After a brief moment of silence, she spoke softly, attempting to ease the tension that seemed to have enveloped the two women. "I must say, your garden is beautiful," she said, her eyes scanning the lush surroundings. "The roses, in particular, are just exquisite. And the scenery is most favorable…”

Donna sat, gazing out into the sunset. The sound of the nearby waterfall echoed in the distance, a soothing melody to her ears. Before she turned to face Alcina speaking in a distant tone, "Yes, I am lucky… I am the only one in the village with the view of the waterfall… And my garden is my pride, it makes me feel somehow kind." As she spoke, she placed her delicate porcelain hand on Alcina's gloved hand. "I missed you," she said softly, her eyes full of concern.

Alcina sat still, her face contorted with the emotions that she had buried deep inside for far too long. She had always been a strong and independent woman, and showing weakness was never part of that image she wanted to portray. However, the burden she carried was becoming too much to bear. She wanted to tell Donna everything, to let her in, to share her pain, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it.

With a bob in her throat, Alcina shook her head, trying to hide the pain that was welling up inside her. "I am here, and I will not leave," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Donna could see the pain etched on Alcina's face, and it broke her heart. She knew that something was wrong, but Alcina had always been so guarded that she didn't know how to approach the topic. But she had to try.

Taking Alcina's face into her hands, Donna guided her to look at her. "I worried about you, because I care," she whispered. "Whatever plagues you, let it also be my worry."

Alcina was caught off guard by Donna's unexpected act of kindness. For a fleeting moment, she felt a sense of vulnerability, an emotion that she rarely allowed herself to experience. As she looked at lady Beneviento, she gathered the courage to confide in her. "I- was..." she started to say before cutting herself off. For a brief moment, she hesitated before continuing with a lie, "George and I had a fight, but it's nothing to worry about.”

As Alcina and Donna sat together in quietness, Donna noticed that there was something different about Lady Dimitrescu. Although she exuded regality and power, there was a softness to her that only a few keen observers could detect. Underneath her composed exterior, there was a rich array of emotions that she kept well-concealed. Suddenly, Alcina reached into her purse and pulled out a sterling silver case, from which she extracted a cigarette and placed it between her lips. She then offered one to Donna, “N-no thank you, I- don’t smoke,” with a grimace, she shook her head, and Alcina nodded before lighting her cigarette and taking a few deep drags, exhaling the smoke calmly. "It helps ground my emotions," she explained as she continued to smoke.

Alcina let out a wistful sigh as she began to reminisce about her teenage years. "When I was a teenager," she began, "I used to sneak away and smoke my grandfather's cigarettes in secret. It was my little act of rebellion, you could say." She paused for a moment before continuing with a hint of amusement in her voice, "I remember once getting a butler fired because of my smoking habit. He always seemed so surprised whenever he went to smoke and found a handful of cigarettes missing. He used to count every single one he had, so I wasn't the most careful smoker."

Alcina then went on to explain that she didn't smoke very often, only when her emotions got the better of her. Interestingly, her parents hadn't protested against her smoking, as long as she kept up appearances. "Sitting on the grass in a dress was considered a much more offensive crime," she remarked with a smile.

Donna sat looking out at the setting sun. She felt a sense of calm and serenity wash over her, despite the memories that haunted her. “My parents forbid smoking, and swimming… Being as we live on the edge of the waterfall, my sister before she died used to be rather dangerous, always wanting to go down to the lower cliffs and jump into the river. I would always get ‘Donna, do not go to the water, the water is dangerous…’ I never understood why, but I never argued.”

As she looked out at the sun setting over the horizon, she felt a lump form in her throat. Her sister was gone now, and she missed her terribly. She wasn't sure why she was telling all of this to Alcina, as they both watched the sunset, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"Donna is a very lovely name," Alcina said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

Donna nodded, her lip trembling. "Uh- y-yes. It means 'Mistress' in classic Italian," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s strange… I feel as though I can talk freely with you, like nothing could ever go wrong when I’m near you. I usually am much more hidden, it’s like I want to tell you about things that I have never told anyone before. Most people pity me, but you just listened, thank you” Donna stated, holding Alcina’s hand. Alcina had tensed once again, how could she be so selfish when the girl she barely knew just opened up to her… Hiding her illness was cruel, yet she couldn’t bring herself to tell her.

Donna and Alcina had been talking for hours, and as the sun began to set behind the mountains, Alcina sighed. “I really must be leaving, the drive back will be horrendous in the dark. It seems we lost track of time, all I wanted to do was apologise for my disappearance… Thank you for this wonderful evening.”

As Alcina prepared to leave, Donna stood up “Absolutely not! You will stay here.” She said firmly, she couldn't bear the thought of Alcina driving in the dark, as it would be too dangerous. Alcina hesitated, unsure of where she would sleep, but Donna was insistent.

"Lady Beneviento, please don't worry I’ll find an inn. I wouldn’t want to impose," Alcina said kindly, brushing down her dress. “Nonsense, please I don’t like the thought of you driving in the dark. And there are no inn’s in the village, we aren’t a tourist destination.”

Alcina let out a sigh of defeat before breaking into a smile, "That settles it then... But where will I sleep?" Donna stared at the countess blankly, her cheeks flushing with a soft blush before she spoke, "Well, the guest bedroom is upstairs... I will mostly be awake doing commissions so I'll sleep in the basement." Alcina raised her brow slightly before chuckling, "I would like to see your work, Lady Beneviento, if you wouldn't mind indulging me."

Donna's face lit up as Alcina expressed interest in her dolls, nodding excitedly, "Of course, do you want to go now?" Alcina looked at Donna with a smile, nodding slightly, "Indeed." Donna excitedly led Alcina into her house, watching as the woman took in her surroundings with a serene smile on her face. They entered the sitting room, and Alcina's gaze fell upon an empty wall. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully before humming, "A painting would look perfect there, perhaps a self-portrait?"

Donna spun around, her expression doubtful, "I have thought about putting something there, but I don't like self-portraits. They always make me look demonic..." Alcina chuckled, "You clearly haven't found a good enough artist."

Donna spoke with a hint of amusement in her tone, turning to Alcina as she said, "Well, if you have any recommendations, I'd love to hear them," Alcina rolled her eyes slightly but couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement at the opportunity to suggest something. "Actually," she said, "I have the perfect recommendation in mind."

Alcina had always been fascinated by the art of creating beautiful things. She appreciated the time and effort that went into every piece, whether it was a painting or a sculpture. So when they made their way to Donna’s workshop. The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut fabric and oddly enough a strange earthly scent fluttered around the room.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." Donna said with a smile.

Alcina walked around the room, admiring all the dolls and the dresses that were hanging on the walls. She couldn't help but be in awe of the intricate details and the delicate fabrics. As she approached Donna's worktable, she noticed a half-finished doll lying on it.

"That's beautiful," Alcina remarked, pointing at the doll. “I am not a fan of dolls but I cannot deny the talent.”

"Thank you, dolls aren’t for everyone but they pay for the house so, I cant complain." Donna replied, blushing slightly. "I'm working on the dress right now."

Alcina watched as Donna picked up a piece of fabric and began to cut it into the shape of a dress. She was amazed at how quickly Donna's fingers moved, cutting and sewing with such precision.

"How do you make the dolls?" Alcina asked, curious.

Donna smiled. "It's a long process. First, I sketch out the design, then I sculpt the body out of clay. After that, I make a mold of the body and cast it in resin. Then, I paint and dress the doll."

Alcina listened intently, fascinated by the process. "And the dresses?"

"I usually start with a sketch and then choose the fabric and trimmings. Then, I cut and sew the pieces together," Donna explained.

"It sounds like a lot of work," Alcina said.

"It is," Donna replied, smiling. "But it's worth it to see the finished product."

Alcina nodded, impressed. "I can see why you're so good at it."

Donna blushed again. "Thank you, Alcina."

The two women continued to chat, with Donna showing Alcina different dolls and dresses that she had made. Alcina was amazed at the attention to detail and the level of craftsmanship that went into each piece.

As they talked, Alcina couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for Donna. She was talented, creative, and passionate about her work. She knew that she had found a kindred spirit in the shy but talented dressmaker.

As the night stretched on, an air of stillness settled in the room until finally, a voice broke the silence. "Well, I suppose it's time to retire for the night, I have a long drive in the morning," she said, her tone laced with a hint of weariness. The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment.

Donna had been lost in thought, looking up and smiling at Alcina. "Of course, please don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything else. Thank you for listening to me natter on," she said warmly, her eyes conveying a genuine sense of appreciation.

Alcina was standing near the door, her posture relaxed and a soft smile on her face as she listened attentively to Lady Beneviento speak. She nodded understandingly, showing that she was fully engaged in the conversation. Chuckling quietly, Alcina responded, "Why of course, I love listening to you 'natter'." Her voice was warm and friendly, "That's very kind, sleep well, lady Beneviento." Her words were sincere and heartfelt.

As the night drew to a close, she made her way into the spare bedroom, feeling the weariness of the day settle in her bones. With a deep sigh, she slowly began to undress, her fingers fumbling with the zipper of her dress as she struggled to remove it on her own. Finally, with a little effort, she managed to slip out of the confining garment and let it fall to the floor. Feeling a sense of relief at the release of the tight fabric, she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Before long, the gentle rhythm of her breathing signalled that she had swiftly fallen into a deep and restful sleep.

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astraystayyh · 2 months ago

Text

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.

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.

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