#this post was sponsored by my travel anxiety

[stellocchia]

I think in the Color ending, Killer would develop travel anxiety.

Like, listen, he's free of Nightmare's influence and he's traveling with Color to help all of those AUs he previously was working with Nightmare to devastate. He's working on himself and changing for the better.

But how many people know about that? Color, Epic, Delta, maybe Core. I feel like there are way more people who knew him as Nightmare's right-hand man. It would take time for him to redeem his public image. And it won't be easy at first when most of the people he meets are understandably hostile toward him, probably enough to make him doubt his own progress.

In a situation like this, it would be inevitable to start dreading visiting new places. I don't think it would stop him from doing so, especially with Color by his side helping him every step of the way, but it would be a new hurdle to overcome.

[panuccispizza]

Hi, you said to send you an ask if anyone has more ideas for the neurodivergent aid post - Maybe weighted blankets sold by IKEA? IKEA is available in a lot of places, they have different weight options, the product is called ODONVIDE.

ohh!! this is a great idea, thank you!! hope you don't mind I expanded on this with more weighted items.

here's a link to the 13.2lb twin size, they also come in 17.6lbs and 22.1lbs, just going off the Google ads.

here's an alternative link to a cheaper option from target, these can also be in the store but im sure the price fluctuates. my app currently says this one is $30 but it's set to my store, it can be different based off location, availability, and eventually when the deal ends or begins again.

there are many Amazon listings for different weighted blankets, as well as options on Etsy.

( image description: a general weighted blanket guide chart comparing the users body weight to the blanket weight, for safe use for the individual, or couple. general rule is your blanket being 10% of your body weight. /end description )

if blankets are not the product for you, but you still want something weighted;

Amazon has weighted hoodies, I know I'd personally enjoy this a Lot more.

Etsy, Amazon, and maybe even a local grocery store near you has weighted and/or microwavable plushies. please check the product information before you put your plushie in the microwave.

I don't have a weighted heating pad myself, but when my cat lays on me I know in my heart it would've helped me so much with my PMDD when i was still menstruating.

i can't find a weighted version of my favorite fidget toy(the tangle, if anyone knows that one exists lmk!) but I recall Markiplier reviewing fidget toys and his #1 favorite was the ONO roller, and he said it was rather weighty. I don't actually watch Markiplier since gaming YouTube isn't my thing but I trust his opinion.

ok I'm running out of ideas here. hand weight to help your fine motor skills in your hand, if you have shakey hands. there are a lot of disabled people out here who I believe would benefit from something like this, especially if you're someone who does crafts with their hands such as crochet.

since I've already gotten one angry anon, I am not sponsored or making any sort of money off any of this.

[prototypesteve]

A network of safe places to leave your luggage during the gap between check-out and fly/train/bus time!

So, I’m checking out at 10 AM and my train leaves at 5PM and that’s seven hours of hauling a wheeled suitcase around a city with cobbled streets which means seven hours of making noise while being Canadian, introverted, and in England. Shoot me now, right?

Found a solution. It’s called Nannybag. They babysit your luggage. This is a godsend.

It’s basically a network of affiliate businesses with locations all around touristy cities (and maybe not-so-touristy ones) who have some spare secure space. They sign up as “agents” for Nannybag (and not gonna lie, probably other networks too). You use the app (or the website) to say where you are, when you’re wanting to drop off, and pick up. They then show you who’s got space that day, and you can quickly book storage! In my case I picked storage spaces near the Durham and York train stations, and I was able to pay with Apple Pay.

This is a major anxiety-buster.

Oh, shit, right. Links.

Here’s the iPhone app:

https://apps.apple.com/ca/app/nannybag-luggage-storage/id1400722568

Here’s their website:

This isn’t sponsored. I just know I’m not the only person who gets terrified of drawing attention to themselves for being disruptive. Travelling while already feeling different—race, orientation, singleness, neurodivergence, etc.—is hard, and it can make you want to just stay home and not see places, but you deserve to have adventures. So I’m going to start tagging relevant posts with neurodivergent travel, asexual travel, travelling while beige, etc. with any lessons I’ve learned or places I’ve found that take make the hard things a little easier.

[secret--psalms--saturn]

Tree of Life - Team Tolkien

For @inklings-challenge 's challenge

Cue mandatory "I didn't finish this enjoy what I wrote"

The premise is a diplomatic man is sent to another planet to settle a dispute about a dying life giving tree. A group comes out to fight for resources on the planet. War breaks out and its up to the man and help from the other villages to end the war while figuring out why the tree is dying.

Mix of portal fantasy/space travel

Please forgive my grammar and mistakes, it isn't polished.

--

Augustine adjusted his hat and gripped his suitcase as he approached the train station. He made it just in time to grab his ticket, get to his train, and settle into the coach to decompress. He was looking forward to gathering his thoughts and putting his anxiety to rest. Most importantly, to get back.

You’re only going to discuss negotiations.

As he approached the ticket booth, he greeted the woman with a slight small smile.

“Yes a ticket to ZoChai please.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “ZoChai sir?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a letter of approval?”

“Yes Ma’am” He brought out a letter from his pocket and transferred it to her hand. She briefly looked over the letter, stamped by the Board of Diplomatic Peace, and handed it back to him. 

“Very Well, I assume they have gone over-”

“The rules, safety, yes, and signed all the waivers and whatnot.” He waved his hand. “I know.”

“Your business?”

“It’s a business trip for the board.” He took out his ID and showed it to her. She again looked at it and sighed, “Okay, here is your ticket then.” She said with a grimace and slight concern. “Enjoy your trip, and be safe.”

Augustine nodded and he stepped away. He looked up to the board of the arriving trains.

7:15  Arrival, 8:00 Departure

He looked at his pocket watch, engraved in his business’ symbol, and checked the time. It was 6:55. His mother always said if you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re late. So with that, he walked briskly to the station after he checked his ticket. By 7:00, he was leaning slightly against a post, watching the bustling train station play out before him. Families dragging little kids around, business men focused heavily what's before them, lovers holding hands, and normal people coming to and from. He watched as a guy sprinted to a train, as it was getting ready to close only to slip in just in time. Augustine never really understood people who were late, or just getting on time. The stress, wasting everyone’s time, not being able to prepare yourself… not the most ideal way to live.

The train arrived right as the clock turned a quarter past. The big red caboose train came rolling in. Although electric powered like the other rounded modern looking ones, This one was persisted to keep its traditional integrity that kept its coal-powered shaped. It was always on time, stringent, and strict to protect its passengers, and it's only 2 destinations: Here and ZoChai.

The conductor stepped out. He was a tall stout man with a jet black mustache and striped clothes. His figure was intimidating and at the same time, everyone was greeted by a smile. His intimidating stance was dissolved through the eyes of those who knew him, although the conductor kept much to himself. Everyone knew he had a kind soul, for one reason: he gave out his tickets for free. The conductor would pay for everyone’s ticket and sponsors and donors would take care of his needs. 

Ever since the tension of a ‘cold war’ started on the Zochai and the threat of civil war, the conductor was limited to either start charging people ridiculous prices, limit the number of tickets, put restrictions on etc, he had to negotiate. He could still give out tickets, however, ticket holders had to have permission, connections, or a reason to go. You could see the stress creep through the hairs splitting through the conductor's hat and the crevices carved under his eyes.

Augustine approached the door and greeted the conductor with a slight nod. The conductor gave a warm smile as he gave him a welcoming look pearing under his cap. 

Augustine took to his coach. It was a small space with a table and a bunked bed.He put his stuff immediately in the cubbies that sat near the door and hooked his suit and hat above it. He sat down and picked up the newspaper that he requested be sat out on the table. Newspapers were quickly running out of style with built technology, but with Antique workers pairing up with trending historic hobbies, things like newspapers, landline phones, or non digitized items still hung around. To him, it really held society back. Why hang on to the past when advancements when the future has advanced society so much. However, with technology, came higher risks of things like breach of systems, violations of confidentiality, and less freedom. He quite enjoyed advancement, however, it wasn’t a hill he would die on.

CIVIL WAR AT RISK: DEPLETING RESOURCES LEADS TO VIOLENT UPRISINGS

Augustine sighed as he continued reading. Zochai villages begging for food as the 4 clan leaders discuss their strategies to save the Tree of Life, how to distribute what resources are left, etc, while a small group that had dubbed themselves The Protectors, had been rumored to be inciting the uprisings, and even stealing food or resources for their people. 

“This is hopeless.” He muttered to himself. “We have created lots of good enough trees that produce the same things.” He huffed. “Why bother with this archaic thing?”

It wasn’t an option, though. The ZoChains were attached terribly to the tree. It was practical, economical, and resourceful to grow and eat what's in front of it, but of course a huge spiritual aspect was born of it as well. The people regard it as some kind of god due to the waters that used to regenerate and food once bountiful. Hasn’t in years, and he doubted it ever will.

“Just a tree.” Augustine scoffed, and scribbled away at the crossword on the back.

Soon the train let out a loud whistle, and started chugging forward. 8:00 on the dot. Augustine glanced out the window as words appeared over the screen about safety and such. It soon disappeared as he watched people waving the train off.  The train chugged out into the tunnel that connected planet Fresco to ZoChai. It was a 24 hour trip between the two. He figured he could prepare for work to get ready for the next week so he didn’t have to worry about falling behind. However, he did bring a few books and puzzles to keep his mind busy elsewhere.

Augustine clasped his hands together and leaned his head into them as he continued to watch the stars whirl past.

–

Variel sat among her 2 siblings in the underground room.

“Listen, pops wants to increase the intake of resources taken from the tree, including the water.” Hastey pointed out on the map printed right on the table.

Stag shook his head. “Brother, if we do that then the war will really begin. Our group is not equipped to handle whatever is coming from the outside.”

“Listen Stag, you might be content here but you’re gonna starve out our people and give it to everyone else, making it quicker for all of us to die?” Hastey rebutted, jamming his finger on the table,

“And that’s worth inciting the war over?”

“Enough you two we’re getting nowhere.” Variel stood up and leaned over the table. “We have to play this smart and buy more time. How bout this, let's recruit as many people as we can, promise them food, give them a small portion, just enough to stay, and then increase it slowly until we can prepare to give ‘em a fight. War is inevitable.”

Hastey laughed. “You out of your mind?” He leaned forward, and slapped one hand on the table. You’re gonna starve us AND kill us!”

Variel snarled and shot him a look. “Listen you little-”

“Children, children enough.” 

The three turned their attention to a man who had entered the room quietly.

“Increase the resources, slowly. Let me handle the recruiting. Don’t you worry, it’ll be just fine.” The man grinned, his shadow dimming half his body but his sly smile. His kids sat back down and sighed, avoiding eye contact.

“Just trust me.”

[wincore]

runway (m) | jung yoonoh

pairing: model!jaehyun x fashion designer!reader

words: 18.7k

summary: there are some things that come with dedicating your life to fashion: a taste for finer fabrics, a splash of love for art, and an appreciation of the human body. none of these are supposed to include the hottest model you have ever laid eyes on, or the fact that you completely, utterly hate his guts. 

genre: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, light smut, comedy-ish

warnings: sexual content, mentions of anxiety

a/n: woohooooooo she’s finally here!!!! i cant believe this!! everything aside, i do not have first hand experience working in the fashion industry so please do take this with a grain of salt. i’m also going to pass out. good night <3

A list of things you appreciate: colours, satin, comfort.

A list of things you do not appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

The hum of the car engine has little effect on you; you travel like this almost every day. Tall buildings, scorching pavement, the blare of traffic—it’s Seoul, after all. You sigh, more of a short expression of annoyance, scrolling down with your thumb and back up again. Since when did he get permission to post pictures from pre-fittings? And one of your works, no less. 

His feed is so messy. You click your tongue. For a model, that is. 

You open the story again and consider messaging him. It’s your cherry red coat, or rather the collar of it, golden thread sewn in swirls of patterns, and a sheer floral shirt extending all the way up to cover Jaehyun’s neck. You frown. It’s meant for showcase, not teasers. Even if the picture extends just from the curve of his shoulder to his parted lips, you can’t stand the sight of it on him. It’s not bias, you try to tell yourself. This is business. You tap your fingertips rapidly against the back of your phone. This is obviously business. 

Seoul Fashion Week is the height of your anxiety, which means you have little regard for anything else decorated around you. With a new frenzy arising in every minute of your day—you don’t have time to think, a sense of madness in the way you keep busy. Your Elixir collection is more than what you had hoped for it to be, a twinge of satisfaction sitting at the pit of your stomach. It nicely puts together everything rich and extravagant, humanity’s first love—everything you despise really, so Jaehyun wasn’t a bad choice for a model. 

You backspace on your text. Is this rude? Should you care if you’re being rude? How unprofessional, you imagine his voice saying. It wouldn’t be the first unprofessional thing you’d done.

The final text reads ‘Glad you’re enjoying my designs, but they were not meant to be publicly displayed before the official show, as common sense predicts.’ 

No, of course you’re not trying to be snarky. It’s perfectly formal. All that time writing professional complaint letters to companies for ripping off your designs paid off, you suppose.

You exit the Uber, thanking the driver quickly before you rush into the building, checking the time on your watch. It’s sunny, and hotter than you anticipated. You can only hope it’s cooler tomorrow so the heat doesn’t suffocate your models.

The company building is another madness in its own. Joohyun greets you with a quick smile, a bunch of fabrics being handed to her before she can make any conversation with you, and the rest of the workers bow in greeting before getting back to their own individual windstorms. You step over a few boxes on the grounds, beelining to your workspace so you can settle down your bag.

You’re team leader, you tell yourself, a short breath tumbling out of your mouth. Even so, you don’t do very well under several pairs of eyes on you at once. Some part of you is still the timid fashion designer, packing your entire identity into a small sketchbook.

The sunlight is blaring out of control in the place—it’s meant to be spacious and sunlit, of course, but the heat makes you adjust your collar before you can move forward. The bustle of the style and design team along with the production team in the same place is akin to a nightmare, and you trace your steps quickly.

“Guys,” you begin, fidgeting with the leather strap of your watch as you continue, “Firstly, good job.”

There’s a bunch of short cheers and clapping to interrupt before you can continue. 

“As for tomorrow…stylists, I need you to touch up the collars in all the Western-style coats. The detailing needs to be kept clean and sharp. I want the audience to be able to see it.”

You pause, your tone still neutral. “And let’s not start again on the lacing. We had that discussion yesterday.” 

There’s some nods and sounds of affirmation. 

“Production team…I don’t think I can say much to you without Doyoung getting on my case.”

There’s collective laughter and you crack a smile. With a few more rapid words, you dismiss yourself, walking over to your colleagues to help them out. You’re team leader, the one with the final say in all the designs, but you can’t possibly imagine completing it without Joohyun or the others. 

“Good pep talk there, (name),” Joohyun says, walking over to you as her hands sharp and steady as they go through the clothes rack. 

“They think I’m an asshole,” you say, breathing out. You know your words are too direct. Drunk co-workers on a Friday night are not the best place to discover facts about yourself. Sometimes even you think you sound bossy. You check the key parts for each item, knowing you’ll be doing this once again before the show.

“We wouldn’t be going anywhere without direction,” Joohyun responds, laughing as if you’d said something silly. “We’re all glad you’re here, (name).”

Words like these are so easing for a mess like you, not that you’d admit it. Joohyun has always been a sort of mother figure to you after you entered this company, followed by Doyoung. A good few years senior to you, she started out as a model before she moved on to designing. 

It’s her last year working in this place. But of course, it’s a given when she’s starting her own label (mom clothes and children’s apparel, she’d called her clothing line, rolling her eyes) and one of the most well-known names in South Korean fashion not having her own label is sacrilege (according to your colleagues anyway). She’d said to contact her when you start your own family, and maybe she’ll send a congratulations package for both you and your baby. You’d laughed. Out of all the insults you could ever receive, that was perhaps the loveliest one.

Ridiculousness aside, you’ll miss the comfort of her presence. You were still in school when your designs led you to a showcase in New York Fashion Week, your sponsor more than generous. You stepped into it too soon, too eager. It was breath-taking and awful all at once—and the first time you saw a world outside of your own. It was overwhelming. There are few people in this new world as kind as Joohyun.

The sound of your notification snaps you out of your thoughts. You swear you kept it on vibrate, a little irked at having to search for your phone when your hands are full. The notification itself brings on a stronger wave of vexation.

_jeongjaehyun:

My manager told me it was good publicity

But I could take it down for you

The ‘for you’ adds an unnecessary effect, you think as you hold back a scowl. And what does ‘could’ mean? A miscommunication with the sales team isn’t even on the list of things you need to worry about. Honestly, you don’t have time to fight him, quickly typing out a ‘whatever. it’s okay’ before looking back up.

You jump, the look on Joohyun’s face a little suspicious for what might come out of her mouth.

“It’s not a crime to text people.” She shrugs, shuffling through the rack one more time to take the clothes for transportation. 

You’re quick to jump to your defence. “I have nothing to do with him.”

Joohyun looks at you, amused. “He’s not a bad person, you know? How long are you going to keep hating him for one thing he did?”

“It’s not one thing,” you groan, averting your gaze to the clothes so as to help her. “I just- he’s so- so- oh come on. You know how I feel about him.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have any reason to. Everyone’s different from what they appear to be. Especially in this line of work.” Joohyun balances the clothes you give her across her forearms.

“So he’s fake. I hate that even more.” You sigh, pulling out the blue silk overcoat, the colour matching Joohyun’s work dress.

“You mean unreal? Models tend to be that way—don’t be so harsh on him, honey.”

You simply shake your head, words entering one ear and out the other. Joohyun presses her lips into a line but lets it go soon enough. She knows you’re capable enough to separate professional from personal and that should be enough. You’re not keeping a tab on something as warming as spite. 

You can’t believe you’d ever been within five feet of him without turning your nose. You can’t believe you’d smiled at his jokes once, even if it was just that one night. He was the godsent Prince Charming, just perhaps not yours. Paris surely had a distressing effect on you that year. 

You don’t make the same mistake twice.

You walk back to your desk to take a seat and scavenge through your belongings, most of the people already outside. Fashion Week, which once upon a time was a faraway dream, now is part of life—exciting and exhausting. It’s almost always over in a flash, your love for it whisked in peaks of bittersweet. (“You work your ass off for six months and it’s, what, fifteen minutes long?” your mother had asked after you’d brought her to one of the shows.)

This line of work is a nightmare without mental preparation. You have a degree, you have experience and yet it doesn’t feel enough, confidence easier to drain in a person than blood. And you’re not very fond of pale cheeks.

It came to asking yourself if you really have it in you for a few months—a test of sorts everyone puts themselves through at least once in their lives. At that time, your favourite professor, a bald man nearing his retirement years with the wrinkliest face you’d ever seen, had asked you just one question. 

Do you love it? 

Of course you fucking do. 

You couldn’t say that to his face, sure, but you know he saw it in you—either the effort you put out every day of the semester or the way your hands moved across fabric like a machine, your designs made with the persistence of nature. Your final year project landed you an internship at one of the largest clothing brands in Seoul and your internship landed you a job at the same. Your job, well, lead you to Jaehyun, among many other things. 

You scowl at the image of his face that appears when you close your eyes, massaging your forehead—it’s hard to not see it everywhere already, from Cosmopolitan to Vogue.

While you were biting your nails in New York, Jaehyun had flown out to Paris with Saint Laurent, one of the younger male models to show his face for the first time. He’d taken the whole place by storm, you had heard from a friend. To say half the world had fallen in love—either with his dimples or his confident walk—would be an understatement. A privilege, to be gold-plated in a mercenary world.

You’d briefly made eye contact at the airport the first time you saw him, a year later, when you were arriving in Incheon and he was leaving it. It was London, that time. For him, Milan. As much as you couldn’t believe living a fashion student’s dream, Jaehyun’s face was truly, unironically much more unrealistic. Your classmates’ gabs and gossip in sewing class had suddenly made sense. You taught yourself to not be swayed by faces, even if they look like they’re stitched together by Aphrodite and Apollo with their bare hands—friendly advice from seniors at the orientation night ‘party’. 

You’d met him formally in Paris, after you’d graduated from fashion school. He was certainly the most beautiful face in the room—and you weren’t the only one aware of it. The entire night you’d been starting conversations you couldn’t relate to, till he came along with his charming dimples and a faux connect. You were naive, and a little tipsy. The attraction was obvious, and it had been you by the bathroom pulling him in for a drunk kiss till he’d snapped out of the daze—as if it were some joke you’d been playing. He’d apologized before leaving, like it wasn’t a big deal, with silken lips parted in a gesture of remorse and a short, firm bow. It didn’t settle very well alongside the merlot in your gut.

You. You’re a big deal. 

You were alone in a room full of painted faces and he sat atop the throne they worshipped. Why had you expected any more from him—in the understanding nods or the few kind words that escaped his lips? You felt stupid. He made you feel like smiling for the first time that night and you hated him for it—you’re sure he doesn’t care either way. Or maybe he does, with the wonderfully irked responses he graces you with. 

Jaehyun made something out of himself in these nine years, just as you have. Runway supermodel to the face of South Korean men in fashion to an entrepreneur, he might as well have a documentary on him—and he would if he didn’t evade paparazzi and reporters like his life depended on it. Enigmatic, the articles wrote. You scoffed. Conceited, more like. After the initial years, he decided to settle in New York, frequently flying to Seoul and other fashion capitals for business and contractual events. Some of those occasionally include your shows.

Having Jaehyun gets more attention but it’s not like you’re a new, doe-eyed kid. Your works have been featured for popstars and foreign celebrities, and you’ve been invited to several interviews with big magazines. You’ve gone global (albeit under the brand’s name) and you’ve been to places you’d only seen pictures of in the very same magazines you looked up to. They can describe your work as unique all they want—and you don’t mean to sound fucking pretentious—but your job is nothing more than an expression of the self. It’s a part of you; you first started sewing patches onto things simply because your closet lacked colour. And eventually, you found yourself searching for more—colours, fabrics, dreams. You’re devoted to your job because you love it, you want to do it. You’re allowed to be a little arrogant about it. 

If only trying desperately to be arrogant did something about your insecurities.

You hope your works redefine themes, your need to stand out contrasting with your fear of it. Eye-catching is always your forte; this time it’s fairy tales and royalty in a mix of East meets West. 

D-1. Same feeling, new season.

The press is here, you take note. Photographers. Models. Students. Vloggers. It’s a burst of colours down there.

You hate running late, rushing down the stairs to the plaza through the crowds of people. Some recognize you, as they make their way to you but you end up walking a little faster to minimize your presence.  You curse yourself for wearing the jacket. It goes nicely with the rest of your outfit and March isn’t supposed to be this hot. You wipe the sweat from your hairline, hoping the makeup is waterproof like it said.

You consider stopping at the café for a fix of coffee but stop when you notice Joohyun holding a bunch of cups by the venue. She doesn’t look too happy about the sun, or the burdening errand of fetching coffee. You adjust her little red beret at her request, smiling at her annoyance but trying your best to keep it hidden. You don’t want to get cussed out by Joohyun. 

“Someone tell Doyoung to get his coffee,” Joohyun complains. “I’ve been waiting for half an hour.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” you say, sipping your coffee. The taste fills your senses with a pleasant dose of energy and you hum out a satisfied note. “Why are there so many students out here? Influencers? Did we sponsor this many kids?” 

Joohyun shakes her head.  “Jaehyun just got here.”

You suppress an eye-roll. “Wonder why he still comes back for Seoul when he’s booked full for New York.”

“It’s his hometown.” Joohyun shrugs. “I’d come back too. Even if I’m paid more out there.”

You finish your coffee and duck into the fitting room, much to Joohyun’s displeasure as she’s left alone again. Doyoung’s in for an earful, you chuckle thinking about it.

It would look like a hell of a mess to anyone not accustomed to this. Everyone is a flurry by themselves alone but if you mix them with the eclectic crowd you find at a Seoul Fashion Week backstage, it’s more of a disaster. A colorful one, at the very least. 

New York was worse. You were too young, in a world that was too big. It’s a miracle you even received an opportunity from so big a name. But, you suppose, it hardly matters now.

You no longer live in a world where Seoul is far from Paris. Fashion and art are things unmarked by place of origin.

It’s easy to spot Jaehyun in a corner, two people adjusting his coat for better fitting at the waist. His makeup’s done, you notice as you get closer. Good, you think. If any makeup were to get on the fabric, you’d go feral (although you do have full confidence in the makeup artists here and their choice of product).

“Jaehyun,” you greet. Your co-workers give each other a look before excusing themselves. You raise an eyebrow, too late to stop them. They didn’t finish the looping of the belt properly, you take notice. You wrinkle your nose. Sloppy. 

“(name).” He responds with an equal lack of amusement. 

You pull the belt at his waist, Jaehyun stiffening at the contact.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“My job? What do you think, genius?”

Jaehyun presses his lips together and lets you complete the altercations. The chiffon shirt allows you to see the hazed definition of his core, a rather flustering thing to be exposed to for anyone with eyes. When you look up in a moment’s mistake, you’re reminded of why his face is everywhere. Flawless, almost. You hate it. Averting your eyes, you fix the collar so the pattern stands out more. You can feel his eyes over your outstretched hand all the way to your face, subtle as ever. If Jaehyun thinks you’re bothered by it, he’s an idiot for believing so. 

You take a step back to analyse the coat. The golden threads are flawlessly detailed, spiraling in patterns of different flowers and vines around the collar, gradually getting larger as they twine at the base of the neck. They meet the polished rhinestone buttons a little lower. You almost smile. You’d sewn each thread and each button in yourself the first time. It hardly looks the same now.

Bright red is an eyesore if you look at it longer than five minutes, you realize. The frown that’s been itching to show up finally does. Suddenly, you’re glad Jaehyun is modelling this piece. You shake your head and look back at his face, from his deep-set brown eyes to his full, tinted lips before pausing. The little Swarovski pearls line strands of his hair in a starry display, perfect in every angle of it. It’s easy to appreciate the human beauty when you see his face, and even if you claim your vehement dislike for him, you’re not a liar nor an idiot. 

How infuriating it is, to let things be. Bad blood can only dry to an ugly, unusable brown.

You narrow your eyes at the thinning layer of glitter on his peach-blushed cheeks. He doesn’t exactly need much more of it but the unevenness bothers you.

“Your makeup needs retouching,” you say, frowning. “Did you touch your face? I thought you were a more...professional model than this, Jaehyun.”

“You walked in,” he replies, casually. “I was distracted.”

You feel your cheeks colour. “That’s- that’s not a reason.”

He smiles politely. “I suppose I’ll leave you then. You must have other work to do.”

You hold back a biting remark. His playfulness doesn’t sit well with you; he’s polite just enough to annoy you and straightforward just enough to make you want to throw something at him. He could’ve directly told you to fuck off maybe—but oh no, it’s Jung Yoonoh, seamless and radiant, with only the sweetest collection of words on his tongue. You think of the first time you met, something warm in the corner of your heart. You’d mistaken it, of course. 

He didn’t care for you, or any of the people trailing after him and his silver flute, or the rest of the shallow carcass of a world so undeniably obsessed with him. It didn’t hit you till he’d left you hanging, mangled memories of something close to hurt. You’re glad you didn’t kiss him. You wouldn’t be able to get over the embarrassment, the blow to your pride had it escalated any further.

And of course, the one thing he did to make you absolutely certain of his distaste—was simply choose another designer’s work over yours when given a choice. It seems silly, unprofessional even, but the lack of response to your Fall/Winter ready-to-wear collection had been embarrassingly low, someone else’s designs sold out at an equally awful rate. You—your insecurities—wanted to blame your own failings—maybe it was the lining of the coats, or the colours maybe— the fabric? Perhaps, you hadn’t focused on comfort all too well. But it was clear, a word from Jung Yoonoh could change the minds of a fashion-forward youth as easily as his face and physique scored contracts with the biggest brands and labels. And it was clear he didn’t like you very much.

You walk over to the other models, eyes scanning down to the T. You glance over one of Joohyun’s designs, a modern men’s hanbok. The blood red paired with yellow is certainly easing on the eyes, though the shades vary from top to bottom, like a sunset. The dark grey chunky shoes fitted under dark tights complete the entire future oriental look you suppose she was going for. She’s only showcasing two of her designs this year and they’re just before the centrepiece. You shake your head, clutching the fabric of your jacket sleeve. You hate seeing other designs before a showcase, even if they’re a friend’s. 

You turn your head to make eye contact with Jaehyun across the room. It takes a few seconds but you snap your head in another direction to break the spell. 

How strange. You haven’t had nearly enough coffee to feel jittery under his gaze.

You’re forced to take a breather away from this jungle of liveliness. 

The amount of people outside the venue gives you yet another headache. Excited college students and fashion vloggers stand outside expectantly, and you give a short bow and polite ‘hello’ to anyone who approaches. You desperately want to be left alone. Even if it’s for a few seconds.

You walk quickly, your feet soundless against the floor. Your mask performs considerably (and surprisingly) well in hiding you. You consider visiting the Design Market to enjoy a seat alone and charge your phone before it’s show time.

Open spaces. You need open spaces. Suddenly, the DDP seems to be suffocating you despite its tremendous size.

“Hey!” You’re greeted with a sudden force to your right side, an arm wrapping around you. You look up to see Johnny, a wide grin on his face and you let yourself mirror it, shaking your head.

“Big day,” he says. “Want me to take some pictures? I’ve got some time between shows—lovely outfit, as usual.”

It’s strange how Johnny’s the photographer and not the model—you’ve heard he receives a lot of requests to get on the other side of the camera though he always refuses. He doesn’t visit Seoul as often, but he has much to do in uplifting the mood with his strangely effective sense of humour. The coffee-coloured shirt he’s wearing goes well with the plaid grey coat, reminiscent of Fendi’s Spring collection, and sometimes you wonder whether a job as a fashion photographer ever had much to do with his style. Johnny has always been effortlessly impressive. 

You politely decline, your mind still focused on the smooth running of things. Nothing’s ever on time when it comes to Fashion Weeks—yes, it’s called fashionably late but it just makes you annoyed. You consider ducking back to your venue, adding some final final touches and any more last-minute altercations. Years have passed and you’re still not used to it, fingers itching to do something about everything. You’re grateful the company gives you your creative space but it only makes you wonder just how far the limits are. 

Johnny accompanies you to the charging station till he’s distracted by some of the children in the latest Fendi kidswear and you make a mental note to never bring your kids to Fashion Week, if you ever choose to have them.

You breathe in and out for a few moments, feeling lightheaded before the sense of reality touches on you. People walk in and out of the stores lining the pathways, a soft buzz of conversation in the air as your eyes follow their movement. You wonder if you’ll have your own stores opened in plazas like this—here, in Seoul, and on brightly lit streets of the world outside. After all, colourful dreams are the hardest to get rid of. You sit quietly till you get a text from Doyoung asking you to get your ass over there quickly with several exclamation marks. You smile to yourself. Joohyun might have had a sour effect on him.

You arrive back at the venue, trying to tear your eyes away from anything that might want to make you fix it. You avoid Jaehyun’s eyes even more so, like you’ll jinx something right before it’s showtime. 

The buzzing reaches a peak before everything is drowned out.

The show finally starts. And it’s over. Twenty-two minutes, this time.

That’s the way it goes. You hold your breath till you’re sure it’s safe to let go, blind to everything that goes on in between. Sometimes it’s underwhelming, sometimes you can’t give a fuck when you love doing this anyway.

You breathe a sigh of joy when everyone gathers backstage, Johnny making all the models pose together for one giant group photo. It’s like a ritual for him, always finding time for a backstage picture with the models goofing off.

Jaehyun looks at you instead of the camera, a nervous shiver running through you. His gaze is not something of inconsequence, eyes piercing into you with words hanging in the air that you don’t care enough about. You think he sends you a smile, cockier than you’d like. Despite your efforts, you have to look away.

Now, what should your dear Fall collection look like? You exit by yourself, relief humming through your veins when you think of getting back to your apartment, papers to be sketched on in your hands, soft fabric to be sewn on your table. Maybe they’ll display your works in the front rows of the stores, maybe you’ll even have displays outside of Seoul. You’re not a student anymore and your job has taken you enough places. 

Even so, Paris and Milan sneak into your dreams often. You used to dream of them so much that it was hard to consider them reality—finding yourself in those streets, in between all those beautiful picture-book monuments.

You prefer Seoul, you decide after conscious thinking. You don’t have to worry about the world outside. 

Afterparties are not your thing. 

You somehow still find yourself in them, hoping to catch a drunk video of Doyoung for blackmail or make eye contact with an attractive stranger only to stop at exchanging numbers because you never find the time. 

It’s a social event. You’re supposed to be doing social things. It’s exhausting.

The last person you expect to bump into is Jaehyun, drinks in hand as he looks down at you with a greeting of surprise on his tongue. He’s wearing a simple dark Oxford button-down, two buttons at his chest undone, and tucked neatly into his pants. His hair looks untouched since afternoon, parted in messy waves, minus the pearls. The music changes to something with slower beats as you stare at each other for a few moments.

“What are you doing here?” You raise an eyebrow. There are other afterparties he could be attending. Big ones.

Jaehyun tilts his head, cracking his neck before smiling. “Charming, as always. I’m here because I want to be here, obviously. So does everyone, I’m sure.” 

“Fucking narcissist,” you mutter to yourself. You think Jaehyun might have heard you because you get a dirty look thrown your way, masked with the signature apathy across his relaxed lips.

“That’s a little rich from you,” he mumbles.

The muscle by his mouth twitches but he doesn’t say anything more. This is probably the most emotion he shows, you think. Wouldn’t his lovestruck magazines relish seeing him riled up like this? They’d still find a way to fall in love with him.

You could have, too.

No way. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous. 

You’re aware he’s booked for at least three other shows this week. It’s a miracle he agreed to yours, considering your mutual distaste for each other. You suppose it had more to do with his agency than himself but it wasn’t like you were the keener one. Jung Yoonoh is the face professionals look for and your company loves the publicity, although you keep telling yourself your designs would still shine without him. 

Jaehyun excuses himself before you can get on with any unpleasant conversation you might have. At least you have something in common—that is, trying to avoid each other as much as possible.

A few minutes (and uncomfortably snaking through swarms of bodies) later, you find Doyoung, unfortunately sober and intending to remain so, people congratulating him with claps on the back for securing the position of PR Head. You think it was supposed to be a secret, but someone higher in the ladder must have spilled early. Joohyun never attends these, and honestly, good for her. 

Afterparties are not your thing.

You shouldn’t have taken those shots but you’re on the dance floor now anyway—what more could happen? It’s easier when you’re not paranoid about all the eyes on you, dancing against a stranger with a lion tattooed against his neck. Maybe you’ll go home with him, maybe you’ll leave at the first signs of attraction. Romance isn’t quite on your to-do list, but an occasional intoxication with the skin works just fine. You could live like this for a few moments.

Your back runs into someone else’s rather forcefully and you turn around, apology bubbled up to your tongue already, mixing with the alcohol.

“Oh look.” You roll your eyes. “It’s the prince of high fashion. What can I get you today, sire?”

Jaehyun drives his tongue over his lips, quite definitely over your antics. Soft breaths leave his mouth in a rhythm irrelevant to this box of laughter and blaring music called a party. You love how he never knows how to respond—what new words will he choose to keep false dignity? If you think about it, he’s the embodiment of why you always thought everything was so out of your reach—big names, exclusive parties, not for kids like you. They were never for fashion students too honest to know their own worth.

“Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear.

You scoff, a pang of annoyance sizzling through you. “Jealous? Of who? You?”

You sneer at the last part, Jaehyun’s frown deepening. Some days you just like to think you’ve won. A few moments pass between you two, the sound of pop music filling in the gaps. 

Jaehyun presses closer to you, your chests almost touching as your breath hitches in your throat.

“Do you know what makes success?” he says, head dipping lower to look you in the eye. The smell of alcohol disturbs you for a second before your heartbeat gets loud enough to drown it. You try to not focus on how his mouth is so near yours—and perhaps if you were drunk enough, you might commit a mistake against the very core of your being, something you’d been dangerously close to once.

You stay quiet, the pulsing in your ears too loud in the shallow distance between the two of you. You swear it’s always the two of you pressed up like this once you’re drunk enough, the dislike growing stronger and stronger with every breath exchanged. You’ve intertwined each other into a strange garden of contempt, easy to forget when you're facing him. Jung Yoonoh has the prettiest face in the industry, and the only one you can’t bear seeing. 

“It’s confidence,” he answers, as slow and steady as ever. “And there’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance I intend to keep. I’m not so sure about you.”

The rest of the night passes without conflict and you retire early, Jaehyun’s breath still hot against your face. Only when you collapse on your bed do you get an urge to shout, yell, anything that doesn’t make you call him up and scream at him. You have your precious dignity too, something he seems to look past. The effect he had on your breathing, the crawling over your skin—God, you hate him. You’re too stubborn to not continue doing it.

“What’s this?” you ask, your eyes darting in between the director of design and Lee Taeyong.

To say you were surprised to see him would be an understatement. You note the simple dark rimmed glasses in contrast with his light dyed hair, the mellow blue of his cashmere sweater sporting his own label’s logo—Lee Taeyong is a household name. You feel yourself shrink the tiniest bit.

This industry’s all about names, you think miserably. You meet people and you remember the ones who can get you ahead. It’s tiring.

Taeyong started his career even earlier than you did, and before he had changed his major to fashion. He’s a little older than you, though he doesn’t look it and he had begun with working exclusively on jackets. Several rejected designs later, he had popped up as one of the designers to look out for in Seoul Fashion Week. Now he has his own global label slowly turning brand, several worldwide stores and everything dreamers in the same place as you look up to. You think you’re fine here, you tell yourself despite that.

The director smiles at you, her hand gesturing rapidly at you to come forward.

“You’re going to be so happy,” she says, signalling Taeyong to continue.

“Uh, hi,” he greets.

A little awkward for a world-class designer, you think.

“I’m Lee Taeyong. You might have heard of me—”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, ignoring the disapproving look of the director.

“Oh, that’s good!” He smiles. “I’ve seen your work—I’ve been following your work for a few years now…and, well, I’d love for you to work under my label—in a collaboration of sorts. You’ll have full creative freedom, of course! I’m just there more or less for supervision, really…”

You think you feel your heart stop for a few moments, Taeyong’s sudden stream of information fading out. The pinnacle of your career, you believe, had been Paris Fashion Week four years ago and you’d been dreaming of it ever since. This is a business contract, you’re sure, and you don’t know if you have a real choice but maybe you could take that step forward you’ve always wanted to.

“Isn’t that great, (name)?” The director interjects. “You get to work under the Lee Taeyong label. And…surprise! You’ll have your work presented at New York Fashion Week in September. They’ll hit the stores a week later.”

You freeze. 

“New York?” you manage to squeak.

“Yep!” Her voice a notch away from annoying. She’s not the first person you’ve met who sounds so goddamn manufactured. “Pack your bags, darling. You’re flying next weekend.”

You must be looking like a deer caught in the headlights because Taeyong opens his mouth to say something, alarmed. You speak before he does.

“Okay,” you say, more to yourself than them. It should be a good thing. It’s supposed to be a good thing. Even so, you feel the anxiety in your ribcage threatening to overgrow into thorns. 

“I’ll- I’ll do it,” you clarify. Looking from your manager’s bright yet stern face to the hopeful smile on Taeyong, you don’t think you have much of a choice.

New York, huh. How long has it been? You shudder at the memories, your focus a little off for the rest of the day.

Joohyun visits you a day before you leave. She places the box of chocolates on the coffee table, that Doyoung apparently sent for you. 

“You know, I’m really happy you’re getting this chance,” Joohyun says, crouching down beside where you’re splayed, trying to count the travel essentials and everything else on your messy checklist.

“He gets promoted and now he can’t even come visit me, huh?” you say, shifting to grab the box and tear off the clear wrap.

Joohyun laughs. “He’s certainly enjoying his duties. I can’t wait to boss him around again after I leave.”

Your shoulders hunch, a sigh leaving your lips. “Great. You’re leaving. Doyoung’s too busy to annoy. And now I’m a part of this godforsaken project for almost six months.”

Joohyun softens a bit, running her hand through your hair. “I heard you accepted it. All by yourself. You’ll do just fine, don’t worry.”

You feel yourself turn pink, a feeling of warmth you’ve been missing for a week. It’s cozy in your apartment, always the right temperature with a tinge of happy memories. You wish you could find comfort in people as easily as others do. Everything happened so fast, you can barely remember the conversation you had with Lee Taeyong. A few moments pass, Joohyun and you picking out chocolates before you can rummage through your suitcase again.

“I hate New York, Joohyun. Just what else can you throw into the mix to make me hate it even more?”

She freezes for a fraction of a moment, pressing her lips together before clearing her throat. “Oh. Uh. I probably shouldn’t tell you what I was about to tell you then.”

You turn your head to her, eyes narrowing. “What?”

She shrugs, eyes not meeting yours. “You know. New York. Fashion capital of the world. Lots of things to love.”

“What are you not telling me, Joohyun?”

She sighs, defeated. “A certain someone might be on the same flight as you. I was about to give you his number in case you needed help.”

You pause to think, curling your lips. “It’s Jaehyun, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

You groan, dropping your head back and yelping when it hits the coffee table. Joohyun moves to rub your head and ease the pain as you let out a stream of complaints.

“You really thought I’d call him for help?” you yell. “Him? Of all people?”

“I think you’d rather have a known face there. Besides, he’s a good kid,” she reasons, looking you in the eye. “And stop yelling.”

You quieten a bit at her glare, gulping. She adds the number to your contacts, saving it with a professional ‘Jung Yoonoh’ before she helps you clean up, advising you on how to manage your finances abroad. You know she’s trying to ease you, but how could she—after dropping this awful news on you like it shouldn’t matter at all? She doesn’t even know what happened—almost happened in Paris, or the fact that your honeyed feelings had turned bitter so easily. She’s worked with him before, you know this, when he was a much younger model and she trusts him more than you ever could. 

But maybe, just maybe she can’t see what you see—after all, she’s also part of the elite, crème de la crème of this industry, more so in this country. It’s frightening, and so vague what goes on up there, at the top of the chain; and whatever you have—it might never be enough. 

You’re you. Sometimes, that isn’t enough.

You jump at the water rushing from the shower, too cold for skin and scramble to twist the knob the other way. This time, the water’s too hot and you yelp, shutting it off altogether.

You press your hand against the shower glass, breathing heavy. You’re trying—you’ve been desperately trying ever since you landed a week ago. Change is not something you can take lightly. You miss the dim lights of your apartment in Seoul that Joohyun always warned would get you some brand new prescription glasses. You miss walking down the streets to your favourite convenience store at three in the morning to get honey butter chips. You miss picking fights with Doyoung over which detail to scrutinise during your project discussions. This project seems to have torn apart several things that belonged to you.

You can’t seem to get your head into it either—even spacing out during the meeting you had with Lee Taeyong among several other things. You can’t remember a single design detail he’d specified or what the theme was even supposed to be—a bunch of bright foggy lights replacing whatever fuzz was growing in your head. A twenty-something-year-old shouldn’t be letting homesickness affect them like this. 

You finish the rest of your shower with a heavy heart and a clouded head. 

Taeyong booking a luxury suite for you was a bit…much. Not that you’re complaining, but it gives more fuel to the profound sense of emptiness you keep drawing. There’s no intimacy to this place, no love. It’s a little hard to create things without love, and comfort.

Still, you grit your teeth and get dressed into something more comfortable for the night. If not today, then tomorrow. Something will have to give, even if it costs you—whatever the hell your parents keep telling you when you’re going through problems. What if you don’t want to be cost things? Compromise isn’t as delicate as it sounds. You try to comfort yourself, rocking yourself on the much too large couch, hugging a pillow close and trying to think of things that don’t immediately make you want to throw up.

The memories of your first visit are a little less than pleasant. You think you cried after the entire ordeal because you thought you did a bad job of talking, socializing, the most ordinary things. There are some people who are good at wearing masks—good at making copper look like gold, good at shining under dim lights, and good at using words that don’t have much meaning to their existence other than being pretty. 

You were not one of them. 

The intense need for everything to be perfect was still there, even when you couldn’t possibly have achieved it. You wanted to make things and show them to the world—what was so wrong with that? Why did being there make you feel like you could never even touch your dreams? You were so out of place, feeling completely out of touch with yourself. There were people from the top there, established and famous. It felt out of your grasp. You felt fake.

The city lights twinkle with life but there’s no sound, the windows shut tight. The ambience of the room is kept to a caramel minimum—the best you can do to honour your sweet little home back in Seoul.

The hatred for everything pretentious was born with your first step into this place, into the game that the big boys play. It showed in your designs, your choice of fabric, your distaste for certain people. You wanted reality—you wanted a taste of life in your everyday clothes. You wanted that flavour you feel on your tongue in a room full of strangers or the one on a quiet night by yourself at your apartment rooftop. You didn’t want dignified fur coat ensembles, you wanted the naive chaos you feel every day and you wanted to make it look good. It’s driving you insane just how much you feel like you’re losing now.

You take out your phone after what seems a few minutes of contemplation. 

Jung Yoonoh. Your finger hovers over the call button. What would he say if his night is interrupted by your voice?

You’d met at the airport after landing, though you were only two seats away in the plane. You’d made no error in acknowledging his presence, browsing through the inflight magazine half-heartedly. Truth be told, sometimes you couldn’t really seem to get over him. Sometimes the thought of him made you so pissed, you had no idea what to think of it. 

“Welcome to New York,” he had said shortly after you’d exited, a giant crowd of people greeting out-goers, holding up placards with names of people, in numbers you’re unaccustomed to. Or, used to be accustomed to.

You hadn’t talked since—and really, you weren’t expecting to.

You press your home button, any lingering thoughts of him vanishing at the force with which you tell yourself it’s not worth it. How is Jung Yoonoh better than anyone else you know here? He might have been living in New York for quite a few years now, and he’s probably the only one you’d feel comfortable enough to swear at—that doesn’t mean you’d actually ask for help. That doesn’t mean he’d actually help. Joohyun must have had her hopes far too high to have convinced you for even a moment.

The couch feels colder all of a sudden, and you turn down the air conditioner. This place will never adjust to you, and your stubborn little self won’t either.

You think of Jaehyun from the afterparty, loose shirt and knowing eyes, and you wonder if he feels just the same frustrated agony, if not more. You think of his parted lips and breathing words close enough to be provocative, discomfort growing at the base of your stomach. Who does he think he is? He might have the airs and dignity of someone way up in the hierarchy of society but you know what people can be like. You know envy, you know malice, and you know lies. He has to fit in there somewhere—and perhaps you would have hated him less if he did.

Even if you’d scoffed at the idea of jealousy, that might very well be the closest to what you feel, what you keep hidden in the darkest corners of your locked chest. When you first met at that star-spangled dinner, you’d felt what it’s like to watch a fireworks show or a big musical opening; but the fireworks are being blocked by skyscrapers and you’re only the helping staff at the theatre, watching from a balcony at the very back. Jaehyun was impressive with barely any words. It annoyed you so much and somehow, the only solution you arrived at was the tremendous need to understand him, pick him apart and see what made him.

No. That’s wrong. You were annoyed because you still wanted to kiss him after he’d pushed you away, his dislike steaming clear. It strikes you as gently as lightning that the only reason someone would have to hate Jaehyun is being attracted so violently to him. God, you hate making a fool out of yourself.

You pass the night in quiet contemplation, promising yourself a better tomorrow. After all, no one else is going to do it. 

You walk with your chin up as if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. You picked out your black Harrington jacket to look at least a little more professional, but you might have miscalculated the size and the material in the equation because you look completely and utterly ridiculous in it. No one would look at you and think you even work in fashion, much less be competent in that line. 

(To be fair, you wear the same beige sweater and black corduroy pants to work and if your coworkers choose to judge you, you wouldn’t blame them.) 

It’s only been a month and somehow, it translates to forever to you. You think you’re adjusting better now, and you pat yourself on the back for it. It’s not raining today at the mercy of the skies, a tidal wave of sunlight splashing through the buildings every time you take a turn. The city doesn’t scare you all that much anymore. It’s a good day, for once.  

You lean your head against the car window, eyes trailing up and down the reflective blue of each skyscraper. You can barely see any clouds, and the sky’s endlessly the same, comforting blue. Just like back home, you think for a moment. Your eyes move back to the sidewalk, people passing by—mothers with their babies in strollers, kids clutching the strap of their school bags as they run, men and women in all levels of professional clothing. No one stops in this city. Except the fucking traffic apparently.

You sigh, glancing at your watch. Only moments ago, you were moving and yet again, you’ve stopped. The cycle keeps repeating and you’re trying to keep patience focusing on things around you that you can appreciate. 

Maybe you jinxed it when you said it was a good day.

You reach Taeyong’s studio just in time (not that you’d get yelled at or anything, he’s too nice of a guy). Your eyes fixate on the numbers that light up on the elevator one by one till it finally reaches the first floor.

You walk right into someone’s chest, an apology tumbling out of your lips as you bow out of habit. 

“(name)?”

You look up to find Jaehyun in the elevator of Taeyong’s building, a casual white shirt clinging to his frame that’s tucked into his jeans to look somewhat formal. A pink overshirt hangs at his forearm and from the windswept styling of hair and his perfected dark locks, you’ll assume he’s here for a shoot—even without it, he looks like something from a teen magazine, someone people would see and instantly daydream of. Best known for high fashion, Jung Yoonoh is still a spectacle in casualwear. 

“I can’t believe I have to see your face here too,” you mutter, getting into the elevator. You’ve had your share of moments with him.

“Good to see you too,” he says, bemused. 

You make a sound of acknowledgment, taking out your phone to turn the damn notifications off so you don’t feel it vibrate in your pocket every few minutes. You feel eyes on you for a moment and snap your head to the side.

Jaehyun has his eyes focused on the door, quiet breathing fresh against his lips and you hesitate before concluding you might have been mistaken in your perception. 

“You’re here for a shoot?” you ask, curious about his relationship with Taeyong. 

“What else can I be here for?” He says nonchalantly. 

“Sarcastic. Very nice.”  

“It’s a little weird, you trying to make conversation with me. You’re usually raving about me too much to actually talk to me.” He smiles, the dimples provoking and eyes the familiar beguiling brown. 

“I’m not trying to make conversation,” you hiss, crossing your arms. “I’m sorry, I forgot you’re only a person in front of cameras.”

Jaehyun takes a sharp breath before turning to you, a not-so-happy look on his face despite the calmness over his features. You’ve seen it enough times.

“How long are you going to keep up the pretentious this and pretentious that before you face it, really?” He looks at you with tight lips, poisonous implications in his question. “Why you love to get up in my case all the time?”

The words take time to settle in. You shake your head when you realize, a sardonic laugh leaving your lips. Of course he’d think that.

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You’re so full of yourself. You think I’m interested in you? Don’t let what happened years ago get to your head.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, what did you mean then? Pray tell.”

“First of all, stop cutting me off,” he says, taking a step towards you. A certain feeling of uneasiness runs through you when you detect annoyance in his quiet statement.

“Secondly,” he says, taking a another step forward just as your back hits the wall of the elevator, “Stop treating me like I’m the bane of your existence. I have nothing to do with you.”

He’s right, of course, but the words sting where they hit. Asshole, you think. He has no business telling you what to do and what not to do. But in this moment, you can’t fish for the correct words—you don’t have the strength to when you’re so close to each other like this, the scent of his cologne syrupy and sickening. His tall stature is intimidating, with his straight shoulders and proud jawline.

The elevator dings at the seventh floor, Jaehyun stepping away from you without a glance or care, striding out just as smoothly as on a runway.

You take a moment to breathe, unsaid words burning holes into your tongue. You wish you could’ve said something better, anything that didn’t make you feel so pathetic. Maybe you should’ve told him to stick his words up his ass, sounding vulgar being the least of your worries. You wait patiently to reach the last floor, each ding souring your mood little by little. 

You are so glad you didn’t call him that night. To think he’d ever help you knowing it’s mutual, the whole hating each other’s guts. You just can’t believe the audacity of him—to accuse you of, what, romantic feelings? In an industry where you can’t tell apart gold from copper? Where all the people warming up to you are fair weather friends and competitors? He must have let all that attention get to his head. Runway faces aren’t as easy to fall in love with as he thinks.

“(name)! Come quick!”

Taeyong’s voice urges as soon as you enter and you settle your bag down, rushing to him. His smile drops when he sees your seething figure place your bag on the desk with a loud thud. You turn to him, without a hint of sweetened formality and ask him the day’s schedule.

Taeyong gulps before responding, undoubtedly afraid of your lips, a twitch away from a scowl, but he explains nicely nonetheless.

“Can you do a rerun of these designs for me?” he says, arranging the papers on the desk. That’s how he says these need improvement. No wonder the interns love him.

Taeyong’s in his usual attire, still too chic for you but strangely comfortable to look at. You nod, immediately scrutinising them, your (almost pointless) years of training trying to give you hints as to where you went wrong. You’re not really expecting to find big flaws or anything—just details you can enhance. You’ve learned enough about Taeyong in a month and it’s that his sense of style encompasses comfort, even in the most abstract of concepts. You respect him for that. It doesn’t change the fact that you think it’s a little overdone maybe.

Taeyong laughs, breaking you out of your daze. You raise an eyebrow.

“Is- Is something wrong?” You look at him, perplexed.

“It’s just that- It’s just you remind me a lot of the fashion students.” He smiles at you.

Your shoulders droop. Amateur. New. Unprofessional.

“Oh.”

Taeyong rephrases himself quickly, waving his hands about. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing! It just means you still…love doing it.”

It sticks with you longer than you’d expect, as you work throughout the day. You think Taeyong is too nice to criticize you properly but he eventually gets the point across—stick to the theme, written in Taeyong’s dainty handwriting and pinned to the softboard. 

Secrets. 

What an atrocious concept. Firstly, it makes no sense apart from sounding like a fucking lingerie collection. Secondly, when you went over Taeyong’s designs with the layers and patches, you supposed he wanted to focus on the inside of things because everything he’d drawn was inside out. Thirdly, when you heard him explain it, you were a little taken aback to hear it was going to be all about you, us. The designers, the models, the photographers, the magazine editors—there are millions and millions of people working to make sketches come to life, for a few items of clothing in someone’s closet. It feels nice to hear that from him. You promise you’re going to perfect it. 

And perfection is your dear old friend. 

It’s what you always strive for, but end up with something else that’s a little less beautiful. You take slow breaths, removing and adding details (after all, art is in the details). But perfection can easily grow tiresome. It makes you increasingly frustrated and you don’t think you have the heart to tell Taeyong everything in his studio stresses you out.

“So, you’re working with Jaehyun?” you ask, trying to look less antsy.

Taeyong blanks out for a moment before responding. “Yes. Why? Is he- Is he making you uncomfortable?”

Uncomfortable wouldn’t even begin to explain what he makes you feel. 

“No,��� you deny. “Just curious.”

Taeyong smiles. “We usually work on summer shoots together. It’s like tradition.”

“That’s…nice,” you say, trying to reciprocate his smile.

“Oh, but we’re having terrible weather so the shoots keep going longer than planned. That’s why I’m having to compromise planning time with you. Sorry about that.”

You try to keep your posture despite the mild annoyance brewing at the back of your head. Great. Now you have to see Jaehyun’s unbelievably annoying face every time you walk in. Maybe if you plead enough, you’d get permission to leave early and not want to throw some insults at him. 

You decide to walk, despite Taeyong insisting his driver help you get home. He doesn’t act like it but he’s a busy man, with side projects and interviews coming up so often you lose count. It’s no wonder he had to, and you hate using this word, hire someone for the label’s next venture. You think articles like Lee Taeyong loses touch and hires designers instead of doing his job would make him upset but he seems to genuinely not let it bother him. It’s about ideas to him. His label, almost large enough to be a brand, is for ideas; what a pretty thing to base your business around. While you thought you were a big shot back in South Korea, you’re almost nothing more than Lee Taeyong’s co-designer—assistant here.

You feel drops of what you felt years ago trickling down your throat. Overshadowed. Powerless. Imposter. Something about New York makes you want to pull all your hair out. You wish you hadn’t been here in the first place, maybe then this would seem more of a fun trip than memories weighing you down. But then if you hadn’t been here, you might not have even started.

You hug yourself at the sudden downpour, clouds kind enough for it to be nothing more than showers but you’re soaked anyway. Kind, but still a little cruel. Running under the eaves of a store, you curse yourself for not bringing an umbrella the only day you needed it. You stand there for a while, just breathing.

Real life is never like movies, is it? Cameras lie. Pretty faces lie. Sometimes you end up stuck in New York rains without an umbrella or a friend to call or a lover to protect you. You end up getting an Uber, taking awfully long to arrive due to the traffic the rain had ensued and try your best to ignore the disgruntled driver mumbling about you wetting his seats.

You still don’t know how the goddamn shower works. 

You manage to complete without either scorching your skin off or freezing it to Greenland and back—a feat much more successful than whatever you had going on for today. You slip into the absurdly soft mattress, pillows and covers swallowing you into a state of sleep.

You start the day almost pouring coffee onto Jaehyun’s spotless white shirt. And you might have were it not for immense self-restraint, and the fact that Taeyong’s eyes were trained on the two of you.

“So…are you two…a thing or something?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“No,” Jaehyun responds calmly while you sputter it out.

Taeyong apologizes, a laugh following. “You seem to have worked together before. Jaehyun, you never told me that.”

“I…I thought you knew,” he answers, leaning back against the tabletop.

“Ah, well,” Taeyong shrugs. “Thanks for helping me out with this, (name). Maybe- maybe we can draw some inspiration for the collection from outdoors.”

“Of course,” you say as you smile wide, trying hard not to break the coffee mug in your hand.

If you’re being honest, you had a gut feeling you’d be asked to help with Taeyong’s (apparently) infamous summer shoot. He walks into his studio every morning with hair in a disarray, talking to more people than he might enjoy and the entirety of New York weather against him. There’s only so much time a man can have and under pressure, he’s going to have to choose. It’s easy to feel sorry for someone like him.

This should be the stylist’s job. Jaehyun stands with his chin up as you adjust the fitting, smoothing out creases and making sure the cerulean shirt is pinned right, satin feeling cool and nice under your fingers. Sleeveless is back in trend this summer, and so are low-cuts.

“Careful there,” he says when you hand brushes a little lower, just below the full-grain leather belt.

You hope your face isn’t steaming from the rush of heat but you manage to limit your emotions to a sound of discomfort, remembering the horrendous accusation he’d thrown at you. “I don’t care about your dick, twit.”

Jaehyun laughs, bending a little to whisper. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“You look like you’re having a wonderful time making me uncomfortable.”

“You’re just so easy to work up.”

His dimples are getting on your nerves. You reach up to button his collar, perhaps a little too harsh because he chokes, an uncharacteristic sound leaving his mouth as he winces. You suppress a smile, glad you managed to do something about the look on his face.

The sunlight over this park feels like Christmas come early, with the way Taeyong is flitting from model to model and stylist to stylist with the intensity of a five year old after an ice-cream truck. 

“Is he- Is he usually like this?” you ask, eyes on the makeup artist getting directions from Taeyong.

“I just assumed all of you are this way,” Jaehyun, responds looking at the same sight.

You roll your eyes. “We’re not all crazy.”

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe a little bit,” you correct yourself, watching Taeyong almost trip over someone’s bag in order to greet the magazine’s style director. 

Jaehyun chuckles, eyes meeting yours for a moment before the two of you go about your own business.

You like magazine shoots for the most part. You never find a glass of water anywhere, but some intern or the other will definitely be there to fetch you Starbucks. There’s at least three people fussing over each model and at least two exasperated photographers trying very hard to snap clean shots. The stylist and designer look as though they might explode any minute, although the relief on their faces after it’s all over is something worth looking at. The skies are so bright and blue, you think, for a cosmopolis. The trees and shrubs lining the park are in a state of tranquility compared to the chaos it encircles.  

Magazines might not be as important in an age of social media advertisement, almost part of nostalgia now—but maybe some of you are not yet willing to deny kids the thrill of reading a magazine under their blankets in the middle of the night. It often gave hope to little boys playing dress up and little girls sewing their own clothes. 

You’d forgotten just how exhausting shooting with magazines is. The models must be having it worse but their masks don’t come off easy. If you had ever underestimated their job difficulty, it comes back to throttle you at full speed every time you’re at a shoot.

 Looking good in front of a camera is pretty damn hard. 

They don’t even get to keep the clothes, unless some asshole of a designer decides to pay them in apparel instead of actual money. Most models leave New York in debt. Men are paid even less than women. You’re surprised Jaehyun is as celebrated as he is—or the fact that he was clever enough of a businessman in launching his own high fashion-themed restaurant. You’ve heard he barely visits it, like a careless afterthought. But you’re not one to get carried away by sketchy articles on the internet. All you’ve needed are more reasons to hate him.

You sip the iced coffee, its effect pretty much worn out during humid afternoons. It’s time for a break, but no one’s willing to break momentum. You find yourself feeling a little awkward, as nothing more than a guest with creative advice, and so you sit under the comforting cool of the giant green umbrella at one of the tables. You could sink into your chair were it not so damn uncomfortable.

Jaehyun takes a seat right beside you to your surprise, offering you a box of diced mango before you fervently decline. You still think he’s an asshole. It doesn’t make any sense—why accuse you of unsaid affections and then flirt with you like he never said it? It’s not like you’re even friends, how ridiculous. There are quite a few jerks you’ve met in your life, but Jung Yoonoh really takes the cake.

“What?” you snap when his gaze gets on your nerves.

“I didn’t say anything.” He raises his hands defensively, eyes still on yours. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoy the air conditioned suite Taeyong booked me more than this, yes.” You sigh, leaning back. “I don’t really have anything to do.” 

“I’m assuming he booked you the luxury suite on the fifteenth floor,” he says, chuckling.

You furrow your eyebrows. It’s not impossible that Jaehyun knows Taeyong’s favorite suite to book for guests.

“The view’s pretty nice from there, right? Oh, and you must be enjoying the silence.”

“I actually like the outside sounds,” you defend. “It’s calming.” 

“Not when you’re on the third floor,” he says, shoving a piece of mango into his mouth with a fork. “All you hear is middle aged men screaming.”

You rest your elbow on the table, placing your chin against your palm. The shade is separated from sunlight by a thin line against his chest, pale blue satin glimmering where the sun meets it. Jaehyun’s eyes shine a darker hue of honey under the shade, moving to the box in his hands occasionally before trailing back to the background noise again. Taeyong really does love pretty fits, but this might just be one of the most gorgeous pieces you’ve seen this summer (and you’ve already been through all the ready-to-wear lookbooks you possibly could). A thought passes you in a breeze, that maybe it's the model making it seem that way.

“You’re talkative today,” you note quietly, the sun harsher on your cheeks than before.

Jaehyun shrugs, hurrying to finish all the pieces. He suddenly pulls a face, one you don’t see very often in high fashion websites and Instagram pages. It’s almost cute. 

“Sour.” 

You find yourself laughing, a gentle influx of peace filling the inside your chest. You quickly recover, looking back up to see Jaehyun simply staring at you, breathing. He looks caught off-guard, no camera to warn him. You straighten, your cheeks flushing with heat.

“Is- Is something wrong?”

He immediately shakes his head, more to himself than you. There’s a pause before the two of you are happily distracted. The style director appears to be gesturing at him from the other side and Jaehyun responds with a curt wave.

“You’re doing two different concepts today?”

“Three, actually.”

You raise your eyebrows. Well, they’re definitely taking advantage of the good weather. They could just photoshop it, in your opinion, but authenticity is everything when it comes to magazines nowadays. 

“Well, don’t let me hold you back,” you say, your tone dismissive. “Go get changed into whatever pretty shirt Taeyong has up next in his collection.”

“The next shoot doesn’t have a shirt,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

You almost choke on your coffee, blaming the heat for your weak state of mind. You’re just having one of those strange days—just that, nothing else.

You finish the rest of the coffee, cup resting in your hand till you find the energy to get up and find a trash can.  

Jaehyun was right. This time the shoot’s a little too wet and a little too much skin for you to enjoy. The only thing added to Jaehyun above the waist are a dainty red scarf knotted over his neck and a small, flat hoop earring on his left ear. The velvet fingerless gloves, although you’re not very fond of them, complete a rather rugged yet soft look. You didn’t expect Taeyong to come up with something like that. 

Jaehyun’s well-developed physique, while you’ve seen it in other shoots and online articles, is completely different when you’re a few feet away from it. The dark blue cargo pants, silken, are a signature style of Taeyong but the details don’t distract you easily enough. Funny, this is the first time you’re feeling somewhat flustered in a place full of half-naked models. 

You suddenly think of reds and oranges, lilac shrubs and a hint of Burberry men’s perfume. In a way, it reminds you of the strums of the guitar your roommate used to play while you stayed up late, coming up with concepts. Cherishing, soothing—and special, just enough. The corner of your lips twitch and you take out your pocket sketchbook. It’s never too late to add a design to the collection, right? After all, you have secrets too. Maybe Taeyong was right about the outdoors for inspiration. 

Something sets into motion, subtle but sharp.

The next time you walk into Taeyong’s studio, you feel the sun on your face better. Everything seems to be fitting into place, as you smooth through designs at a pace your student self would be jealous of. When Taeyong praises your work, you feel a rush of pride smearing the inside of your chest and you finally feel like everything’s not falling apart. It feels good. It feels like you’re someone.

The days go by in what seems like barely seconds—you know what they say about New York minutes. The mustard cloth draped over your desk to the cottage blue of your curtains, the colours around you change as quickly as the wind. Sometimes they’re abstract—and other times, well, they have more to do with a stranger’s eyes, or the swirls within a coffee cup. It’s the way in which transition occurs around you, that you often forget it moves something within you too. 

You’ve put together some samples with Taeyong, most of them by yourself; the process of making is ever comforting, fabric even more so. You’ve sent the revised designs for production, feeling giddy about whatever is to come like it’s something new. (It shouldn’t be.) 

You fucking hate how different this is. Seoul is nothing compared to New York. The anxiety is nearly ten times worse, the streets are far more attractive when it comes to inspiration and the figure of Jung Yoonoh is no longer as easy to ignore. 

Even after the summer shoot’s over, Jaehyun often comes by to hang out at the studio, dressed in what you would call the simplest fucking thing you’d ever seen and still managing to look just as gorgeous. He blends in well with university students, often wearing the ugliest baseball cap you’ve ever seen, and the look of his face feels much, much worse than ever before. It’s at ease, smug even, but never failing to smile at you when you’re trying to focus. You don’t care how good of friends Taeyong and Jaehyun are—you want to tell him to leave. 

But you just can’t bring yourself to. It’s not that you don’t trust yourself, you certainly do, but whatever New York has done to you, includes making you feel a different way about him. Sometimes you find yourself pressing your legs together harshly, stiffening at any proximity with him and a pool of warmth at the base of your stomach you’d rather not feel.

It’s embarrassing to even think about it—the fact that he makes you feel that way, so hot and bothered like it’s your first time. You blame your lack of going out these few months because after all, anyone could fall in love with runway faces. It doesn’t have to mean it’s him you want. You carry on doing what you’ve been doing for the most part of your career, your best to avoid him. There are more pressing matters, and your head might just implode if you keep on worrying about things (a man, of all) you need not. 

Time passes even faster when all your thoughts revolve around the same thing.

One month. D-30. Whatever the hell you call time before the end of the world.

Your palms sweat a whole lot easier here. It’s a little weird, considering you don’t find much difference in humidity between Seoul and New York. Your heart often catches up in your throat too. Not a great feeling, your heart choking the breath out of you, but you’re used to it. You cope and you learn, that’s what it means to be human.

You pull your hand down before it reaches your teeth. The day ended in a meeting with Taeyong’s production team—everything’s running smoothly so you need not worry, he said. 

Why are those the words that make you worry the most? 

You check the time on your phone. 23:05 and a whole month to go. You better get some sleep for all the meetings you have scheduled tomorrow. You close your eyes and for a while, everything falls quiet.

You dream of New York Fashion Week. People come here to feel included. Everyone wants to be a part of something they don’t understand.

The models walk down the runway in increasingly uncomfortable outfits. You didn’t design any of them. Where are the ones you worked on? You can’t move from your seat, or turn your head from the runway, anything at all. Something’s wrong, everything’s wrong. You don’t belong here. Thunder strikes outside the venue and you wake up with a gasp caught in your throat, and the clock on the bedside table flashing 2:14.

You’ve had enough. You swear you’ve had enough.

You get up out of bed, pacing the giant bedroom, the empty spaces making you feel more and more miserable. The city twinkles with innumerous stars beyond your window, curtains half drawn so they can comfort you whenever you need—but these lights don’t shine for you, or anyone else. They shine for themselves. That’s what it means to be in New York again. 

What time is it in Seoul? Could you call your mother? Joohyun? Everyone must be busy right now—you don’t know what to do. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt so helpless. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding New York for this long and now it’s come crashing down on you. 

This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake.

You look down at your phone, the light hurting your eyes despite being set to the lowest brightness. You think a little, and then some more. There’s no one else you can call. Even if he’s busy charming all the other employees whenever you see him, even if half the world is in love with him, there’s no one else you can call. This time you don’t stop yourself.

You tap the call button beside the Jung Yoonoh saved neatly. Tapping your foot against the floor nervously, your mind goes blank for a few seconds or so. He answers when you’re just about to hang up, breath hitching in your throat at the sound of his voice.

“Hello? Hello? If this is a reporter—”

“It’s me, Jaehyun.”

The line goes quiet for a moment and your voice overlaps his before he can begin.

“I- I didn’t mean to call so late. Sorry…uh.”

You scrunch up your face at your own voice. This is not getting you anywhere.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice lower.

You fall silent, unable to answer without breaking down into tears. You did not call Jung Yoonoh for that. 

“Yeah,” you choke out. “Fine. Completely fine. I just…”

You trail off, trying to get yourself to breathe.

“I’ll send you an address. Be there in an hour.”

You blink back tears, confusion adding to the burning pile of worries inside your head. 

“What?”

“Address. I’ll text you. Be there. One hour.”

“I’m not stupid, Jaehyun,” you snap, strength refilling your voice. “Why?”

“I’m not answering questions, just be there.”

With that, the line goes flat and an embarrassing amount of ‘hello’s get you to realize that he hung up. A notification pops up a minute later and you’re too groggy to decipher it, logging it to Maps instead so you can follow. It’s fifteen minutes away, you realize with a sigh of relief, so you can at least present yourself within the given constraint. 

You can’t grasp what you feel in the moment, the night air and warm streets beckoning you to leave the clamped apartment soaked in fear. You think this is unlike Jaehyun, what he’s doing, but you’re too shaken to care. You need some respite, even if it comes from somewhere you can’t picture.

“You…wanted to meet me at a Korean barbecue restaurant?”

Jaehyun’s ears turn red, as they often do when he doesn’t know how to respond to you.

“I-It’s not that I…Never mind,” he tries to explain, fidgeting with the cloth over his shoulder. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”  

We? You think, eyes scanning his face in confusion. If you want? Where’s the uncaring Jaehyun you’ve known, foreign eyes and impassive lips? He hardly looks the part he’s meant to play—a billboard face with a confident jawline and nothing more behind it. Outside of work—you don’t even know what else to call this—Jaehyun looks hardly intimidating, or abrasive. He seems different, gentle almost, although the dark circles under his eyes might have something to do with it. Maybe he’s too tired to say anything more and that’s it.

But he still came all the way here.

“Aren’t you a little…overdressed?” 

There comes the remark you were hoping to not hear. You just wanted to look nice; you’d hardly call this overboard. The loose, mustard-colored chiffon shirt cinches at the waist, paired with your nicest (only not faded) pair of light blue jeans and shoes that haven’t seen the light of day since you arrived here. You barely ever design clothes for yourself anymore but you thought you looked good in this.

“No,” you defend quickly, feeling your face grow warm. “You’re underdressed.”

You say that, but he clearly looks good in anything he wears. Could you expect any less of  a supermodel? He doesn’t seem to have dressed in as much a hurry as you had. Clad in a plain black T-shirt that’s half tucked into skinny jeans, he’s added his hideous baseball cap and a pair of navy blue shades which looks just as ridiculous as it sounds. You really think he shouldn’t be leaving his house without the help of a stylist. 

“I…I just mean you don’t wear anything other than the same sweater and pants combination to work, so… please excuse my surprise.”

Jaehyun's eyes flicker over your figure before masking it with an awkward cough. You reach out and pull the shades over his head, the look bothering you more than anything else. He doesn’t respond to it, at least not in a way that’s obvious, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do—you fixing his hair and unquestionably awful sense of style.

“There’s a soju place a few blocks ahead. Or if you’re not into that, there’s a noodle shop just at the edge of K-town,” Jaehyun rambles on, not meeting your eye. “If you’re looking for something inexpensive—"

“You came all the way here to give me directions?” You raise an eyebrow. You might even be enjoying this, although your inner voice bites back at you, denying it.

Jaehyun shakes his head, the red in his ears pulsing back up. “No. I…I needed some fresh air.”

“You…have someplace to be then?”

Jaehyun might not realize it, but the answers he gives always have room for teasing. Aloof. Vague. Yet somehow sweet.

“And you’ll go alone? At this hour? No, I’ll accompany you,” he says out loud, trying to play off the sudden vocal inflection. You sigh. Boys will be boys, as they say. Even if they’re twenty-six.

You let him keep you company. Though the first few minutes are painfully quiet, neither of you knowing quite what to say without starting a disagreement, you continue your walk through a city that never sleeps. It’s awkward even, being side by side without you seething at his charming, (undoubtedly) fake smile. He feels real, for once, and you don’t know how to react. There seem to be some gold-tinted cracks appearing in your reality, slowly but surely, and you’re not very good at patching anything other than fabric.

“You know, it’s actually a little relieving to see Korean letters here,” you say, sighing. You never thought you’d be so corny, but it really does feel good being here. 

Or is it him? 

“Thanks,” you add quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear. No, maybe you do. You can’t tell at this point.

“I…I know what it’s like,” he says, so softly that it almost gets carried away by the wind. He clears his throat, an ‘ah’ escaping his lips as he stops abruptly.

“We…We missed the turn,” he declares, a little sheepish as he scratches the back of his head.

You look at him in disbelief. “Jaehyun, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, I was born here actually,” he says, tilting his face to look at you, blunt sarcasm evident on it. “How many times have you lost your way to the convenience store in Seoul?”

“Literally zero times.”

Jaehyun puffs a cheek before going back to normal and turning a hundred and eighty degrees down the street.

“Hey, wait up!” you huff at his increased pace, half jogging to keep up.

You reach the acclaimed noodle shop, your breath barely within your lungs and swearing at Jaehyun who looks like he wasn’t bothered one bit. He reaches his hand out to help you and you swat it away, chest still heaving with your hands on your knees.

“Dickhead,” you hiss.

“I don’t think I deserved that,” he responds with a widening smile. 

“Asshole,” you say, standing up straight to glare at him.

“What would Seoul say hearing their beloved designer swear like this?” Jaehyun looks almost amused, as if you hadn’t shared an awkward time together, like two teenagers who were forced to walk home together from the bus stop.

“They can go to hell,” you retort. “As can you.”

Jaehyun laughs, a strange sound to hear and you blink a few times, unsure of what to do. You wonder if it’s the night playing tricks or if Jaehyun really is an actual person, not the basket of preprocessed insults you were used to. The cracks are widening—you’re not sure if they’re meant to be patched.

Perhaps you were a little eager to enter someplace warm, but you feel immense relief in this little shop, despite the smell of chili paste and noodle soup wafting through the air. It’s a little empty; in fact, you two seem to be the only people there apart from some students at the other corner, but you sit there in your own bubble, talking with Jaehyun of all people about which singer is better. He laughs occasionally, still managing to catch you off-guard with how honest it sounds and you wonder for a moment, how nice this feels. For the first time in a month, your heartbeat seems to have settled at a normal rate.

“What?” you enounce, a little offended. “What’s so wrong about my love life?”

“You just- You just don’t seem that type,” he explains, his ears as red as the bowl.

“I don’t have time for commitments, Jaehyun,” you sigh. “It’s what happens when you’re good at your job.”

Jaehyun nods, something akin to agreement in his response. 

“So, your, uh, what is it? Training camp? What’s that about?” you ask, in between blowing your food.

“You could really Google things once in a while, you know?” he replies, bringing his chopsticks close to his mouth.

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not one of your creepy stalkers, Mr. Jung.”

“Nothing to do with that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s for kids interested in fashion, modeling, photography—stuff.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I just sponsor them. You know how difficult it is to get noticed in…this industry,” he explains, like it’s not a big deal. Nothing ever seems to be a big deal to him.

You nod, unable to help the smile. Maybe it isn’t a big deal, but you’re sure now that you were mistaken. Just a little bit. 

“I was lucky,” you mumble. “I can’t believe they saw those ugly embroidered patches and decided to sponsor me, oh my god. That sweater was hideous.”

Jaehyun laughs loudly. “They saw me cleaning outside my school and decided to pick me up and ship me straight to Paris.”

“Nothing’s worse than the first day.” You take another mouthful, the taste savoury and filling. 

“You know, I’m pretty sure they photoshopped my ears out in the first magazine shoot I had.”

You laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Your first year was rough, huh?”

He hums, his eyes flickering from your nose to your lips. It makes you a little self-conscious, blood rushing to your cheeks at an unexpected pace. Who knew Jaehyun could have such an effect on you? 

Your eyes flutter over his face once again.

He’s handsome. But it’s the sort of handsomeness that tells you, you don’t know much beyond it. You look back at your bowl, sobering up and completing the rest of the noodles.

It’s still midnight blue in the faraway sky as you walk down the streets. Most of the people you see out and about are those drunk off their faces from club hopping or a particularly enthusiastic group of tourists. The watermelon soju, while better with budae-jjigae and arguably the best soju flavor, somehow had little effect on you with the bitter aftertaste still settling in. The crowds in other places would make for great people-watching but you walk in a lonely street that calls for proximity. Beside you, Jaehyun sneezes, the sound of it making you jump on the quiet sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ, Jaehyun,” you huff, wincing at the sound, “you sounded like a fucking tractor.”

Jaehyun laughs, looking down at the pavement. When he looks back at you, the circles underneath his eyes seem to have darkened and you wonder if yours are the same. Yours can’t possibly be as important as his, though, and you wonder if it’s appropriate to laugh at how dorky he looks.

You find yourself not wanting to walk back into the safety of your suite. Jaehyun has a look of calm across his features, drawing over the landscape around you. New York lights don’t faze him, they only reflect in his eyes. 

The way his soft breaths fan out against his lips remind you that he is human, after all—he has a soul and body, thoughts and its beautiful intricacies. When he turns back to you, you feel those criminal feelings all over again, except this time it’s even louder. It feels so wrong, and yet you can’t help but think of the liberation that could come with his lips on yours. 

You could swear out loud, all the colorful words ready at the tip of your tongue.

“Your collar’s…”

Jaehyun’s voice trails off, his hand moving to fix your flipped collar, and when the heat of his skin brushes your neck, you try to not think of where else his hands could be, his lips could be. 

In fact, there’s a moment within where it’s perfectly reasonable for him to kiss you, the taste almost on your tongue. But Jaehyun moves away, an indecipherable look across his face.

“I should get going,” he says, “I have a- I have a shoot early tomorrow—today.”

You nod, cheeks coloring at your own unsaid thoughts. Just what have you done to yourself? Why is your skin searing, why does your stomach feel upside down and why were you so ready to give in to him? To Jaehyun? You’ve never felt want like this before, this need to press skin against skin in a manner so illicit. 

You part with a short goodbye, the sudden loneliness in your path making you want to backtrack, ask if you can go somewhere else again—maybe there’s a club nearby so you can see him through a round of shots as you usually do. Maybe the bitter feelings will return then. 

When you think of the words you exchanged over the course of so unusual a night—your former unforgiving words contradict you. You hate the realization but being so obscure in front of a camera doesn’t have to mean he’s pretentious. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe someday you’ll even admit it.

You feel a flash of heat in your face. You are not running to Jung Yoonoh—what an embarrassing thought. If the very core of your being isn’t repulsed by it, there’s something wrong with you. 

There’s something definitely wrong with you, love.

You breathe sharply, trying to organize your thoughts. As if the paparazzi wouldn’t have a treat out of this meeting you had with him if they got to know. You’d better limit it to the only one.

You bite your nails out of force of habit. It’s not going to help. You know. But there’s hardly anything else to cool your nerves.

Front row tickets to New York Fashion Week—the most mortifying dream out of all the ones you’ve ever had. The way Taeyong fidgets, you want to believe he’s in the same boat as you—it makes you thankful even. 

Even outside of New York, Lee Taeyong is known for booking out exclusively intimate spaces. There are some props for the pre-show photography, including inked sketches on giant vertical banners stuck to the walls and tables with a messy collection of coffee cans, pencils and a sewing machine. Diverse types of fabric roll off the table in long strips, gently lining the floor till they end midway to another table. It’s a mess—a mess you made look good.

You’d left that and the backstage behind now. All eyes are on the sparsely lit runway, your aspirations coating the air in a thick veil. Are you ready? You won’t know till the first model steps out and till you can elicit a response from the audience.

Jaehyun’s at another venue—career before friendship, or, heaven forbid, attraction. You’d seen the fitting, cape skirt doing daringly well with his long legs clad in black pants, and a classy vest over a ruffled white shirt. You hate seeing other designs before a show, but god, were you glad you’d visited Givenchy to meet Johnny. 

But you’re relieved even, that Jaehyun isn’t here. You don’t have the strength to face him anyway, all your energy directed into this chasm of whatever you’d call six months of effort. You want to call yourself accomplished. You want to be proud of yourself.

So this time, you remember all twenty-six minutes of it.

God, they look so beautiful up there, when they’re being looked at, seen for what they are—you’ll never get over it. There’s still hardly much to remember, except this time you’re happy to do it all over again. Effort only exists if it’s acknowledged.

It settles in quite a while later, the weight of all you’d done. You could almost cry, but that’s better left to pillows and the unrelenting skies above a midnight-coated rooftop. This is your moment. For once, you’re anything but afraid. 

Afterparties are still not your thing. 

However, you had your nicest outfit picked out and Lee Taeyong’s fancy, themed afterparties are something notorious among your colleagues. You’ve heard designers tend to go all out, wearing the best things they’ve designed even if it makes them a little embarrassed to be wearing their own work.

You feel a sigh leave your lips as you finally find a place to sit, your earlier conversations leaving you drained of social energy. You don’t feel alien—it’s strange—and their compliments feel almost warm. The music playing over the speakers is something, you’re sure, from a 60’s American movie, and while it has its own strange allure, the champagne gives you a larger dose of relief. 

In fact, if you’re not mistaken, it’s quite like the ballroom in Paris, although significantly smaller. Burgundy wallpaper and lit up crystals hanging in hexagonal shapes across the ceiling—it’d look lovely on a dress too.

Taeyong’s speech, of course, gives you a spike of anxiety with the sudden announcement of his label’s future, a brand now. He smiles on the small podium, everyone admiring his radiance when suddenly he gestures at you, the glass in your hand feeling hotter and hotter.

“…I couldn’t do this without the only designer I felt was up to this—the first designer to work under my brand, as of now…” 

You try not to blush under all the pairs of eyes that turn to you. 

“(name), thank you.” 

Success feels good. Gratitude feels even better.

Everything feels natural, as if a dream gone right. You’re no longer afraid of the world you stepped into, or the accumulation of feelings that molded you into the person you are now. The confidence you so chased after as if it were morphine, you’re going to be keeping an eye on it before it can run away again.

There’s still one little problem to your night of triumph, though. 

Jaehyun hasn’t taken his eyes off you ever since you entered, a conversation yet pending. You already know he looks good in the plainest of T-shirts, so it might be a no-brainer that he looks absolutely stunning in a suit. The crystals lining the lapels of his coat glimmer amidst the crowd he’s gathered. It’s hard to come in contact, however. He’s magnetic, almost formidable in the way he attracts attention, and you know it’s something that comes with being a man of few words. 

“You’re not enjoying the party?” you ask, taking in Jaehyun’s figure on the veranda overlooking the garden. He sits on one of the mahogany chairs, swirling the glass of champagne with a look of indifference coating his eyes and lips.

“I am,” he says, turning to face you. “Needed a short break.”

“I suppose being the most attractive man in the room needs a break,” you say, taking a seat beside him.

A wry laugh leaves his lips, as he lays his eyes on you. “You don’t seem bothered by it though?”

“I believe that pretty is as pretty does,” you say, your lips twitching.

Jaehyun smiles, furrowing his eyebrows yet still. “You think multimillionaire companies are built on things like inner beauty?”

He’s right. What’s inside is beautiful—it’s too idealistic a phrase. You sigh, adjusting your sleeve. It’s a difficult life, walking the runway no one dares to step on. 

I think you’d make that cut too, you want to tell him.

“You know the best thing I got told today?” you ask, diverting the stream of conversation. You think he’s a friend. Even if it could be the champagne talking. Even if you want something more than the innocence of friendship. 

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow. “Did Cristóbal Balenciaga’s ghost show up to compliment you?”

“No,” you emphasize, laughing at his pronunciation. “It was this girl. A student. Said she wrote an essay about me.”

Jaehyun hums, dimples marking his cheeks. “I didn’t know a student could get you so giddy.”

You laugh, looking down at your hands before resting your gaze on him again. He leans forward in his seat, strands of hair falling over his face from the rest and a contemplating look over his features. He looks much, much different from when you first saw him, and even handsomer, if that were possible. He’s grown up from the awkward boy you saw in the press release pictures of the Saint Laurent Fall Collection—he looks sharp and valiant on front covers, his shoulders broad and his eyes darling. Jaehyun is still unironically the most breathtaking man you’ve ever met. He might even be one of the sweetest, inside out. 

You look to his lips, full as ever. Perhaps you have something to confess. Secrets aren’t meant to be kept so long.

“Jaehyun,” you call, bringing his attention before faltering. It’s not like you’re the only one fawning over his smile. You get up instead, excusing yourself. “I’ll see you inside I suppose.”

“You know I like you, right?”

You turn around. “What?”

Jaehyun gets up, brushing his suit and fixing the lapels. The gentle night haze and the contrasting calls of the brightly lit party inside brush over an effect you’ve never felt before. “I…I like you. It’s pretty straightforward, I think.”

You deny it, or rather, some repressed little emotion inside you denies it vehemently. “Jaehyun, really. I admit I was a complete asshole to you and- and...it was…kind of you to accompany me that night but—”

“Stop. Don’t- Don’t call that kind. You’re not seeing the full picture.”

You stand there, unsure of what to do as you feel your chest grow warmer. Jaehyun turns his head upwards, letting out an audible breath. You can see conflict on his face, the struggle of someone still mulling over the perfect words.

“I don’t hate you. I never really hated you even if I wanted to.”

You suppose it wouldn’t be the right time to say that you might have indulged in that.

“I did,” you confess. “I hated you for a very, very long time, Jaehyun.”

“I know,” he whispers, looking straight at you. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging—”

“Jaehyun, I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice rising, “You told me you felt suffocated in bow ties and laughed when I asked if you wanted to run away with me. I just ended up thinking you were a goddamn liar.”  

“Fine,” he says quietly in his baritone timbre, sounds of the chatter from inside numbing away. “Then let me be honest.”

“When I met you, I thought there was someone like me doing just the same—so…suddenly in the midst of everything. Even if you were a complete asshole to me. You were still real.”

He phrases it delicately, lilting, as if that hasn’t been your whole purpose here.  He’s only a breath away from you, but you don’t want to push him away this time. There’s a moment’s pause.

“Between work and myself, which is more important? For once, I thought I could answer that question.”

Your breaths are soft and shallow as they fall, trying to understand his words.

“And then you just fucking stopped. You stopped flying out and I’d barely see you outside of Seoul like you- like you gave up or something. I didn’t understand—what happened to you?”

Jaehyun looks at you with a hardened expression, ears turning red as if he hadn’t expected this outburst of truth. He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. It’s not like him to open his mouth and let out words that are raw and honest; it makes you feel the weight even more. You were still kids that night. You’re not anymore.

“Jaehyun,” you whisper before reaching your hand out and placing it against his cheek.

It’s so hard to not take in the details. The prominence of the muscle by his mouth when he speaks, the fine lines by his nose which appear sporadically or the look of complete reverence in his eyes when he’s staring at you like this—everything those runway shots can’t possibly capture. Your eyes trail to his lips, your own drawn to it with a desire you don’t know how to comprehend—and don’t quite wish to, either.

You want to believe he made the first move but you give in so easy, it’s alarming. Your lips move against his in a rhythm new and frantic, his hands gripping you with full strength at the waist and you part your lips to allow a deeper kiss. Your hands are free to roam his perfectly styled hair, tousling it in a fashion that makes him groan, only to push you harder against the wall. 

“I should’ve- I should’ve let you kiss me that night,” he mumbles against your lips. “Maybe I…I wouldn’t have made you hate me.”

“Maybe you should shut up and kiss me right now,” you respond, your tongue pressing against his, effectively doing the job.

It’s not difficult to see stars when his hips press against yours, his hand resting on one thigh to pull it up slightly. You feel the impact of it head-on, almost moaning out loud when his fingers press harder against the back of your thigh.

“Tell me- Tell me you want this,” he breathes out when he breaks the kiss.

You respond with reconnecting your lips, your tongue sliding against his in fervent affirmations. You’ve already forfeited your modesty, there’s no reason to stop.

You leave early, getting into the car you’d booked for the night. It would be far more embarrassing were it not for the separation between the front and backseats, when Jaehyun’s hands are up your clothes and his lips rough against your neck. The lip colour has smudged by the side of Jaehyun’s lips, a short giggle escaping you when you notice. It’s not enough to halt the kissing, or feeling each other up —something that feels long overdue. You try to keep your sounds to a minimum but Jaehyun seems to not care about things as worthless as shame, at least for the moment.

“Well, you’re about as graceful as a sea lion when you’re off the runway,” you hiss when Jaehyun’s teeth prick your skin.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he responds in a low tone, the rest of his retort pushed away by his lips against your mouth.

You don’t have time to take in the details of Jaehyun’s apartment because he’s already carrying you to the bed, your legs around his waist and continuing to kiss you as if making up for something. All those years, you could have been doing this. Maybe you do have some regrets.

The material of his dress shirt feels expensive but clothes are not what you need right now. His phone rings once but he drags a finger over it to reject the call, his mouth still pressing against your collarbone. The only sounds you hear are rugged breathing and you fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you pull it over his shoulders. The city lights below you reach through the drawn curtains, all the unrelenting complicacies left behind in those faraway streets.

Jaehyun makes a sound of annoyance at the phone ringing yet again. He breaks apart from you, receiving the call while his fingers massage his temple.

“Hyung, I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later—”

“I was just wondering where you disappeared and you don’t even grace me with a hello?” Johnny’s voice rings clear in the all too silent bedroom.

“Hyung—”

“Wait a minute.” There’s a pause within which Jaehyun seems to tense up. “Are you fucking? Like did you leave the party to get la—”

“Hyung. I’m hanging up.” 

The coral pink spread over his ears is almost as pretty as the look of pure annoyance over his face.

“That—”

“Didn’t happen,” you complete, giggling. If someone were to tell you’d be seeing Jaehyun like this a few months ago, you wouldn’t know whether to be embarrassed or exhilarated.

You place your hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

Sex is barely ever beautiful—even if it’s Jung Yoonoh over you, planting kisses from your mouth to jaw, neck to chest and whispering sweet, delicious words against each part. He certainly knows how to use that tongue of his, better than you’d expect from a boy so pristine.

It doesn’t matter if it’s not beautiful, when it’s just like a slow dance—in shared solace and love out of time. You bite your lips to stop smiling too often for it to feel as serious and indifferent as all the other times. Sometimes you feel Jaehyun grinning into the crook of your neck, the giddiness of love taking over the movement of your hips against his. The perfect anatomy of his, paired with his candied words makes you think that maybe you do fit together.

Jaehyun pushes into you at a steady pace, your fingers digging into his back and over his shoulder blades only to draw out sounds more pleasing to your ears. You let someone else take charge for once, his praising whispers of ‘that’s my baby’ or ‘you just look so good’ far too teasing but he follows through, your body barely able to respond apart from shaking and shuddering till you reach your high. 

The sound of skin against skin dies down well into the night and you get cleaned, still blissed out from making the summit of all your senses. It’s warm inside, despite turning the air conditioner on.

“Jaehyun,” you call, lowering yourself to press a quick kiss to his lips. 

“Hm?” He gives you a drowsy smile, arm under his head and hair sticking to his forehead funny.

“Did you really not hate me? Not even once?” You rest your cheek against your palm as you lie beside him.

Even under the dim lights, it’s not hard to spot the blush on him when he positively glows. Jaehyun reminds you of warm auburn and the touch of cool satin—it’s easy to make things, find inspiration in love.

“Oh my god, you were lying!” you accuse, sitting up straight. “There’s no way you didn’t hate me. I called your modeling as good as a coconut’s!”

“As you so love to remind me,” he mumbles.

There’s a brief moment before the two of you crack up, his deep laughter perfectly mismatched with yours. There’s hardly many sounds on the eighteenth floor, but maybe you’ve always been yearning for this privacy—this proximity in shared laughter and warm touches. 

“No, I didn’t,” Jaehyun answers your question after it’s quiet once again. “I thought...I think you’re…”

Jaehyun trails off, his eyes flickering over your face before fixing on your lips as his own tug into a smile. He gulps. “I think we’d be in trouble if the paparazzi saw us throwing choice words at each other, don’t you think? You were barely out of school then.”

“Me?” You laugh. “You were thinking about me?”

“And a little bit about me.” 

You fall asleep against Jaehyun’s chest with the certainty of kinder tomorrows, a thing he teaches you through whispers against the pillow and fingers playing with your hair. There’s something private in the way he holds your face, something delicate and homely running from his long fingers to his flushed knuckles and the rest of his hand as it presses against your cheek. It’s warm here, and safe, and maybe home is where the heart is, after all.

“Really? You’re not even a little bit sad I’m leaving?” you ask, placing your hand over your heart. “Who’s going to help you when you’re getting bullied in the workplace now?”

Doyoung huffs in annoyance, placing the box down beside the moving truck. “You’re the only one who bullies me in the workplace.”

You adjust the ugly baseball cap on your head, the one Jaehyun had pulled over your head in an attempt to stop you from complaining about his messy apartment. You hadn’t realized you’d worn it all the way to Seoul till the articles about your questionable choice of accessories had surfaced.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,” Doyoung says, making a face as he picks your phone up from the box near him. “I can’t even believe this. All those years of flirting and—”

You snatch it from him, glaring at him for the choice of words. He raises his hands defensively, rolling his eyes at your sudden movement.

“Are you sure you don’t want me flying to Seoul?”

“Unless you’re planning to work in a truck rental.”

You hear Jaehyun laugh on the other side of the line. Is it normal to have blood rush straight from your chest to your ears at the sound of laughter? You hope that doesn’t change.

You’d visited him a day before your flight. It hasn’t been all that long but Jaehyun certainly makes it out to be, just so he can use his cheesy one-liners. You try not to smile thinking about how he had flung his hair band out, immediately tousling his hair back into a pretty mess and struggling to keep a straight face when you’d visited out of the blue. Jaehyun wakes up at one in the afternoon when his schedule is empty and it had appalled you enough to help him out with basic chores before you left. (It didn’t end well. He kept putting his chin on your shoulder and sneaking his arms around you while you did the dishes.)

“(name)? (name), are you daydreaming again?” 

You sigh. “You can’t wait three more days, Jae? It’s, what, one in the morning there!”

“Do you want me saying something cheesy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don’t think I can sleep without waking up to your face.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, unable to grace him with a response. The dreamy languor in his voice is more than recognizable and if you’re not mistaken, he’s going to be saying something highly inappropriate.

“Do you know what dream I had last night?” he asks, the smile almost evident with how suggestive it sounds.

“Jaehyun, no,” you warn before lowering your voice. “I swear if it’s another dirty dream—”

“Come home and I’ll tell you all about it. With demonstrations.”

This time you can’t help the laughter, trying to mask it with a cough only to fail. You push the back of your hand against your cheek in order to soothe the involuntary blush. Your perfume smells just like him, and you realize suddenly why he’d gifted it to you.

“That definitely makes me want to leave faster,” you quip.

“I certainly hope so.”

It’s different now, especially if you remember your feelings just last February. Change feels easy for the first time in your life. You check off your list of items, counting the boxes as they’re lifted onto the truck. It took a good amount of thinking, and a bunch of fights before you could decide. New York isn’t so bad. Not when you have reason to be there. You’d like to call it love.

A list of things you do appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

[innytoes]

Leverage Redemption 1B Let’s Go Steal A Protégé waffling

You know I gotta.

Okay okay so many people have told me ‘omg Jamie and Breanna are very similar’ and I am kind of proud of that (and glad I started posting before Redemption came out because else I’d just had to have binned the whole fic). They are Crime Cousins, okay. I’m planning a whole chapter on it.

-Breanna totally called Jamie like: ‘OMG I stole a watch from a councilman’s brother and they’re making me go to trial with a lawyer and everything, so rude! Did they ever make you do that?’ And Jamie is like: Of course not. I never got caught.

-Okay so for the International teams we have Korea and Nigeria (canon) and then Team LesbiQuinn and Jamie’s Dutch Team.

-Every Leverage International Team gets a pet named after Eliot just for fun.

-Since Parker and Hurley pickpocketing seems like a ‘Leverage Greeting’ thing, Jamie probably keeps like, little trinkets in their pockets for Parker to find when they go home. Welcome home, Jamie, you failed to steal Parker’s wallet but she found the marzipan frog in your coat pocket.

-I waffled on about the Leverage International Newsletter in my episode 12 watch but I am really charmed by that idea and it’s now canon. Every team can send in stuff and it’s like a monthly or bi-monthly thing. There are a lot of pictures of Robert and Downey, the Team Dutch alpacas. There’s recipes from Eliot. There’s the latest three things Team LesbiQuinn blew up, along with Hacker Grandma’s latest craft project (the Come Back With A Warrant cross stitch was very popular). There’s Hurley’s Cat Of the Month, usually one he met during his travels. Breanna includes a ‘tiktok the old people among us need to know to be cool with the kids’.

-Hacker Camp is totally also a Leverage International/Hardison’s Good Guy Hackers thing. They all get together in some nice airconditioned hotel together. Jamie sending Farah off with like, a little lunch box and telling her to sit next to Breanna if she’s nervous because Breanna is really cool and nice and will talk to her about her epic crush on Pleun. (Farah reminding Jamie that she’s older than they are so stop being all first-day-of-camp-parent at them, but also like, the social anxiety gets the best of her and yeah that helps she will sit next to Breanna.) The hackers all sit around bitching about their respective teams and ‘does your hitter also try to punch the screen when the tablet doesn’t do what they want it to?’.

-Jamie coming home and Harry trying to bond with them like: so do you have a Redemption List? And Jamie just staring at him like: I have never done anything wrong in my life ever. (Hardison in the background like: I know this and I love you.)

-Jamie is also not here for Harry’s ‘if you can’t use the law as a guideline for what’s morally right and wrong’ argument. I’M SORRY HARRY I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE SOUND OF THIS STOLEN ALT RIGHT MERCH I’M BURNING. I’m too busy using the money we stole from this evil hate church to sponsor top surgeries. Can’t hear you over the sound of this jerk shrieking that I deleted his entire harddrive and minecraft server because he threatened to revenge porn my internet buddy.

[rbbalmung]

Pokemon SwSh GPL AU: Character Headcannons P1

(From this point on, I am calling this Pokemon Sword and Shield AU the GPL AU after the Galarian Pokemon League). Here are my character headcannons! I am going to give each character and age and a general ethnicity even though A) time will pass in this au and B) obviously there are no countries in Pokemon. I will be giving them an age based on when the AU starts, at the beginning on Gloria’s Pokemon League Journey. 

GLORIA:

-Age: 16

-Ethnicity: Half English, Half Japanese (English father, Japanese mother)

-General Headcannons: 

o  She is an introverted extrovert. She loves meeting new people and making new friends, but she is on the quiet side due to her troubled relationship with her father. 

o  Going off of that, her parents got a divorce when she was 6 years old because her father was negligent. She has not been in contact with him since he left, but he is at the base of some of her social anxiety. That is why she mostly speaks either in short sentences or not at all (going off her interactions in the game). 

o  The thing that makes Gloria stand out as a Pokemon trainer is that she can pick up on her opponents nuances just by examining them. For example, if her opponent’s breathing quickens, she knows that they are nervous and will resort to mainly attacks. That is why it is so hard for her to beat Leon: He has an emotionless mask during his battles.

o  She picked up this strategy by watching GPL battles throughout her childhood. Gloria was often put in front of the television set to distract her from her parents fighting, and since she had to put so much of her attention towards the matches, she picked up on a lot of people’s ticks. 

o  Gloria is very clingy to Hop. She finds comfort in being near him, so she is often latching onto his arm, hugging him from behind, or holding his hand. The closer she gets to people, the more she hangs onto them. This is rough with Bede and Bea, so it takes a bit of work on both their ends to make sure they’re not making the other party unhappy. 

o  Gloria is ridiculously brave. She will go into pretty much any situation, which is why she just goes along when asked to join the dojo/go on an expedition. 

o  Speaking of expeditions, she looks up to Peony as the father figure she never had. She doesn’t outwardly tell him this because A) her relationship with her father really messed her up and B) the fact that he is related to Rose makes her a little wary. She knows how much Rose messed up Bede and does not want to cause more grief. 

o  Speaking of Bede, they actually become really close friends after the League wraps up and during Rose’s trial. Bede is one of the only people that can emphasise with her social anxiety, and luckily for him, Gloria doesn’t give up on people. She has to work on not being clingy with him because he does not like being touched. 

o  Gloria is the first female champion! 

o. Victor exists in this au, but not until way after Gloria’s first year as champion. He is her half brother; her father eventually remarried in Stow-In-Side and had Victor a year-ish later (making him 7 years younger than Gloria). They do not reunite until she is 20 years old, but she accepts him as her brother easily (she knows how terrible their dad is). 

o  Gloria’s full name is Gloria Park. She does not have a middle name. 

(I took the most liberties with Gloria because she is the MC and the game doesn’t give toooo much of a character. I know a lot of people head cannon her as super extroverted and confident, but I preferred this take for this particular AU).

HOP:

-Age: 16

-Ethnicity: Half Spanish, Half Black (His mom is Spanish, his dad is black)

-General Headcannons: 

o  Hop’s dad died when he was 2 years old, so he doesn’t really remember him. He never really had a father figure since Leon left to become Champion when he was 6. That is where is anxiety is rooted: Both his father (who was a firefighter and treated like a hero after his death) and Leon’s success makes Hop feel like he has to do something grand to live up to them. 

o  Hop actually befriended Gloria through their love of Pokemon battles! His mum invited her mum over for dinner, and while his and Gloria’s interactions were stiff at best during dinner, they really clicked after when they began watching the game on the TV. They’ve been inseparable ever since. 

o  I headcannon that Hop has ADD. He practically never sits still and has a hard time paying attention to things unless he is hyper focused. Hop is really booksmart, he just has trouble focusing. He also doesn’t really see the point in maintaining his grades when he’s just going to become the new Champion.

o  He played soccer when he was little as an outlet for his ADD. He joined the GJPL (Galar Junior Pokemon League), but since he was in a small district, he never made it to the big times like Bede. He did manage to score fairly well with his wooloo, though, making him one of the MVPs in the 76th GPL.

o  Hop is a nickname. HIs full name is “Hipoltio Henry Hoffman”. (Henry was his father’s name).

o Like Gloria, Hop is a really touchy person. They kind of rubbed off on each other, so he shows affection by linking arms, bumping shoulders, ect. 

o  After the GPL wraps up and he gets asked to be Sonia’s assistant, she gives him the opportunity to study abroad until he graduates high school. He takes this opportunity and briefly moves to study other Pokemon in Johto. He does come back to visit in the summer, which is why he ends up on the Isle of Armor around the same time as Gloria. 

BEDE:

-Age: 17

-Ethnicity: White 

-Headcannons:

o   He never met his parents, but he was told he was taken away from them by child protective services. This made him really bitter from the get-go because they never came back for him.

o   Bede has abandonment issues, but in a different way from Gloria. While she is willing to let anyone in, he is more prone to shut everyone out. He only starts to open up when he realizes Gloria’s life isn’t as perfect as he originally guessed.

o   Bede reeeeaaaallllyyyy doesn’t like being touched. He got into a lot of fights in the orphanage when he was younger because of his short temper. That is barely the tip of the iceberg: There was a lot of shady things that happened at the orphanage that only stopped once Chairman Rose started showing interest in him. Bede doesn’t talk about this to anyone.

o  Bede participated in the GJPL and made it to the championships two years in a row! He got to travel to Hoenn for one of them and meet the champion there. This was what brought Rose’s attention to him. 

o  The reason Bede didn’t join the league at 16 was because Rose didn’t sponsor him yet. Because of this, he decided to challenge Raihan for his position as gym leader of Hammerlocke. Sufficed to say, Bede lost pretty badly. 

o  He was very convinced that Rose was going to adopt him, which made his dismissal ten times worse than it originally was. He eventually comes to term with the fact that the Chairman used him and threw him under the bus when he realised that he could get in trouble for destroying the monument. 

o  Opal becomes his guardian when he accepts his new role as the Fairy Gym Leader, but she officially adopts him about a year later. He isn’t very good at talking about his emotions, but he does care deeply for the old woman and her acceptance of him brought him to tears. 

o   Bede gave himself his middle name: Steven, after Hoenn’s Champion Steven Stone. His full name is Bede Steven Doe pre-adoption, and Bede Steven Waltz post-adoption. 

o  He is super prickly, but after becoming gym leader, Bede mellows out a little bit. He is still haughty and self absorbed, but he is not as outwardly rude about it. 

o  He ends up forming a lot of unlikely relationships after he settles in his position as gym leader. He and Bea get along really well because of their proximity and similar personalities, Gloria won’t let him not be her friend (he has a soft side for her), and Marnie is one of the less eccentric gym leaders that he likes to hang around with at group gatherings. 

MARNIE:

-Age: 16

-Ethnicity: White

-Headcannons:

o   Marnie is the youngest of 5 children, and she is the only girl. Therefore, she was always coddled by her family. One of the biggest reasons she joined the pokemon league was to prove her true worth to her family.

o   Out of all her siblings, she is the closest to Piers. She doesn’t agree with his opposition to dynamaxing, but they are both passionate about restoring glory to Spikemuth. He also spent the most time with her when they were growing up because her parents worked a lot (Spikemuth is a poverty-stricken town). 

o   Marnie is quite the little activist. It is a little ironic because she is incredibly soft-spoken and will swear up a storm at the same time. 

o   She gains a lot of fans during her GPL alongside Gloria because they are both favourites to become the first female champion. Instead of forming a bitter rivalry with her, Marnie elects to befriend Gloria because she reminds her of her friend, Primrose. 

o   Marnie LOVES shopping. She never really had the chance to leave Spikemuth growing up, so a lot of her free time when not participating in Pokemon battles is spent in boutiques. 

o   One of Marnie’s special skills is that she can see right through a person’s core. That is why she is initially kind to Gloria, Hop, and Bede. On the other hand, she and Piers both constantly talk shit about Chairman Rose. She isn’t really a fan of Leon either, but she knows that he is a good person so she tries to be nice.

o   Speaking of Leon (to some degree), she immediately decides to befriend Hop when she realises he is also the younger sibling of a famous Pokemon trainer. They bond over their similar roles in life and their shared love of music! (Hop really likes Piers’s music and freaks out when he gets to meet him). 

o   Marnie can play the guitar and the piano! If she didn’t become a gym leader, she could definitely see herself going into music. 

o  I head cannon that Marnie is bisexual, but she is not currently aware of it. I will definitely talk more about this later in the AU or if I actually get around to writing a one shot. 

o  Her full name is Marnie Isla Lewis. 

Next Part: Gym Leaders! 

[meeedeee]

Here is a list of fan-run, professional and semi-professional virtual conventions for the rest of 2020. This is not a comprehensive list, feel free to drop a link below (Name; URL; dates; type; whether the event is free or charges a fee)

https://tinyurl.com/virtual-cons

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vLyi3qcuOUZGcPKWd0PF4mTtYNlpEbgmjhQtR1sHKv8/edit 

 I am also posting a recent essay about  the history of virtual conventions written by Claudia Rebaza with her permission

________________________________________________________

Many fan conventions aren’t being held this year but some are going virtual. Surprise – this isn’t actually new!

by Claudia Rebaza

Pandemic restrictions have meant that many events are moving to some kind of online equivalent, but fan conventions have offered online alternatives for a very long time. What’s more, conventions have only been one type of activity fans can take part in online with other fans.

Although numbers are hard to agree on, there’s little doubt that fan conventions have never been more popular. But while it’s possible to find a fan gathering in most cities (or even on the ocean!), there are still barriers that keep many people from participating. Whether it’s because of high costs, difficult travel schedules, physical disabilities, or social anxiety, many people have found themselves on the outside when it comes to fandom events. However fans have always been inventive, so the virtual convention developed decades ago. These virtual cons might mean:

an entire convention held online

live streaming of a physical gathering

activities taking place online at the same time as other fans were meeting in person

The 2000s Say Hello

Yuri Con began in 2000 not as an in-person gathering, but an online fan community. A few years later it sponsored a three-day anime and manga convention in Newark, NJ. The convention brought together fans of Yuri with panels, an academic lecture series, games, vendors and video programming. This was similar to FemSlash Con, which ran from 2012-2017.

Femslash, which is art, fiction and more involving female/female romantic pairings, was celebrated with panels for different TV shows as well as workshops for the creation of fanworks.

In the UK, VidUKon has been held since 2008. The convention focuses on the making and sharing of a style of fan videos called vidding, and features showings, panels, and workshops. People who can’t attend can still follow along with events through the use of convention memberships, which allow access to real time streaming as well as access to content after the convention ends.

But if an event isn’t online or doesn’t offer access to drop into the in-person event, there’s a third option. For example, the Starsky & Hutch fandom's Share Con began in the 1980s and is now held every other year. Like many conventions it has a mailing list and a Facebook group, but some fans also held a Virtual ShareCon from 2012-2016. The virtual con was a side event that took place at the same time as the physical gathering for people who couldn’t meet up in person. At the virtual con, members met at a community on LiveJournal, with an organizer making posts and people commenting. They watched an episode of the show together, watched fan videos together, played a trivia game, had panel discussions, and had a drawing for prizes. Attendees also contributed to the creation of a virtual goody bag with pictures of Starsky & Hutch items.

Virtual con attendees also used the opportunity to prompt one another to create fan art and fanfiction in what has become a common practice among fans – the challenge or fest.

Challenges and fests

Given that not all convention activities are free, and many a fan is having a particularly hard time economically this year, there are fan events that don’t cost a thing. They do, however, require some time and creativity. A fanworks challenge or fest, is an organized event that prompts participants to create fanworks. These events can take many forms, one of which is the “challenge” where people create fanworks to fit certain criteria, or an “exchange” where people create fanworks to order for one another. The fandom wiki Fanlore lists nearly 800 entries on fests that have been held for a wide variety of fandoms over the decades, with many more out there.

The fest is a typical option for a virtual con, so that fans who are not going to an in-person gathering can celebrate as well. In some cases people sign up ahead of time to create fiction, art, videos or other fanworks to share on an assigned day. In others, people respond randomly to prompts from the fest organizers or other participants in a more game-like activity. But in the case of a virtual con, the fest is important for both keeping people engaged, as well as producing new content that outlasts the few days during which the con is held. That way the benefits can be shared with people who couldn’t attend the virtual con due to its timing.

Sometimes virtual con events are held at the Archive of Our Own which includes a feature for fanwork collections and tools for creating specific types of fests. Some virtual convention contributions that can be found on the site include fanworks for Due South, The Closer, Shadowhunters, Game of Thrones, Highlander, and the K-pop group B.A.P. 

The con on your laptop

With large public gatherings prohibited almost everywhere, many fan conventions have been cancelled or postponed, including the mega-popular San Diego Comic Con. But other organizers and fans alike are still trying to keep fan activities going. As a result some events are still being held, only online, and sometimes at no charge.

May saw Balticon 54, WisCONline/WisCON 44, Con Carolinas, and the 2020 Nebula Conference go virtual. July will see more taking place from smaller events such as CON.TXT 2020 (free) on July 24-26, to major cons like CoNZealand (WorldCon 78), host of the Hugo Awards, on July 29-August 2. Just as with the early virtual cons, these events will adapt activities to online space, and not just for panels and vendor rooms. In the past many fans have paid to shake hands with their favorite artists, writers, or actors in quick meet-and-greets, photo or autograph sessions. Some events are shifting these bookings to one-on-one video chats, where each person has a few minutes in which to spend some face time with those celebrities. 

What about next year?

Researcher Dr. Naomi Jacobs published an article on virtual conventions in 2018. Discussing the future of such events, she said “I think that as the barriers between online and offline fandom become more fluid, and as technology improves, we might see new ways that conventions become digital spaces as well as physical ones. Conventions are about fans coming together to share experiences, to ‘convene’, and it is no longer the case that this has to involve a face to face meeting.”

Jacobs studied fans’ experiences at Supernatural conventions and found that, while most of them preferred meeting in person, there were various reasons why virtual attendance was important. For some fans who go to many conventions a year, attending them is a part of one’s social activities and a way of staying up to date on happenings in their community. Jacobs said, “Being part of the digital space during a convention seemed to be almost as important as being at the event, particularly because there were so many conventions each year and many people attend several, but very few could go to them all.”

For fans whose favorite part of attending a convention is meeting celebrities, a virtual con might not seem like much of an alternative. But for many fans, the principal draws of a convention might be interacting with other fans, shopping, or sharing information about their fandom interests through meet ups or attending panel discussions, all things that could be done in other ways. There are many conventions whose principal draw is activities rather than celebrity guests – although even celebrity appearances will be going virtual in some cases.

For example, one staple of conventions that has become a central part of many fans’ experience is cosplay. While you’d think that this kind of fanwork would be something missing at a virtual con, being online doesn’t have to be a barrier to sharing one’s costuming skills. A lot of cosplay experience has already gone virtual. For example, in 2015 Nicolle Lamerichs wrote about the rising popularity of cosplay music videos (CMV) which are created and shared after the event. In discussing common factors for the videos, Lamerichs notes that “the videos are usually shot at the fan convention and are also a means of preserving the performances and making them accessible to a wider audience.” The practice has developed to the point that “some CMVs are also fan works in their own right." 

Is it for you?

While the virtual con may not replace the experience of an in-person gathering for the majority of fans, it does address the importance of these events for both specific fandoms as well as fans as a whole. When writer/producer Alison Zeidman wrote that comic books changed her life, the examples she gave were of personal experiences surrounding comic books, such as attending a fan convention. "At Wondercon, I was the most relaxed I’ve been in years, but it was also so incredibly creatively stimulating and inspiring. And I realized that how I felt on that exhibition floor is how I want to feel every day of my life: constantly learning, seeking out new experiences and meeting new people — whether or not they’re dressed in a custom-made Captain Marvel uniform.” Whether in-person or online, many fans share that feeling.

[codevassie]

Superpower TS Fic Recs

[***Let me know if I’ve missed anything on the Content Warnings!]

[**Do Not Ask Authors for Updates!]

[*Leave these authors Comments, please and thank you!]

What You Can Stand by manyfandomsonelog

Status: Incomplete, Work In Progress

Summary:  Virgil tried so, so hard to avoid becoming a supervillain. He really did. But when your superpower is literally manifesting a person's worst fears, it's a hard thing to avoid. Still, he really, really tried. Even when his own parents feared him. Even when the whole school feared him. Even when he hated himself and his Propensity so much that he wanted to give in. He might've succeeded, if he hadn't met him- Roman Reyes, AKA Roman Spectacular, AKA The Prince, AKA the worst thing that has ever happened to him (which is saying something).

Relationships: Prinxiety, Logicality 

CW: Psychological stuff, nightmares, bullying, physical harm, spiders, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, brief discussion of racism, self-hatred,  bomb, explosion, blood, injury, bad/abusive parenting, imprisonment, fire,  homophobia, pedophilia mention, discussion of child abuse, evidence of physical abuse, sexual innuendo, anxious thoughts, death, funeral, flashback, reference to sex, fairly aggressive arguing and yelling, public speaking, secondhand embarrassment

My thoughts: My quarantine savior!!! I started the fic like a week into quarantine, so I really mean that literally. The characterization is absolutely fantastic--I love seeing all of them interact. It’s so natural and fun and interesting. The plot is also just wonderful--one thing keeps happening after another and these guys just cannot seem to get a break. The pacing is awesome, and whether it’s a character or plot chapter, you just can’t look away. Log is such a fantastic writer and a wonderful person, so if you like awesome prinxiety, superpowers and secret identities, trust and betrayal, humor and angst, you really need to read this one! 

Rewind by ravenclawicecream 

Status: Incomplete, Work In Progress

Summary: When a group of superheroes show up to kill him, it's just another Wednesday for Virgil Messana. After five years of being on the run, he's used to the idea people want him dead. That fact is just an unfortunate side effect of having the power to destroy everything you touch. What does surprise him, however, is when he finds himself agreeing to join those superheros and become part of the team. It's not long until Virgil learns that all the heroes have chapters of their lives they'd rather keep unpublished, along with events they'd rather not relive. And, as he spends more time with the team, he realizes that he may know certain members much better than he'd originally thought. Virgil longs for a moment to figure everything out but by then it's too late. He's already caught up in a bigger scheme; one where they no longer have the power to control their own destinies. With every movement monitored and every action proven to be calculated, the lines between allies and enemies blur, leaving Virgil caught in between. When the stakes are inevitably raised, the remaining heroes must do all they can to change the future of the world. But time has always been a cruel master, and sometimes the only answer is to rewind.

Relationships: Loceit, Logicality, Prinxiety, Remile

CW: Major Character Death, Murder

My thoughts: Gosh, I wish this one got more love. It’s probably the MCD tag, so understandable, but also take into consideration the time travel tag and perhaps give it a chance? I feel like this fic is setting up for so much, and I cannot wait to see how it all goes down. I have so many questions for this fic which is always a good sign (so many that I may have freaked the author out with my WALL of questions on chapter three don’t worry about it /j). Please. Read. This. 

Powerless by patentpending 

Status: Complete

Summary: “People like us,” Logan had once remarked to Virgil. “Are statistical anomalies.”(Almost) Everyone in the world has powers. As for those who don’t, well, they’re such a small part of the population - only 0.04% - why would anyone care about them?Ever since he realized what people mean when they call him Powerless, Virgil Sanders has tried to fight back against the system that oppresses people like him, Patton, and Logan. When Patton’s bakery is targeted in a hate crime, he finally snaps. With the help of a mysterious sponsor, Virgil becomes a villain, ready to remake a broken society. The only thing standing in his way is the world’s most Powerful (and infuriatingly charming) superhero: The Prince, who is hiding the fact that his gilded life isn’t as perfect as it may seem.

Relationships: Prinxiety, Logicality, Roman/Female Fanon Character 

CW: Classism, Unreliable Narrator, Thinly Veiled Criticism of Society,  emetophobia, violence, gun mention,  implied suicide attempt, dub-con, mentions of blood, graphic depictions of a riot, non-graphic description of a wound, possessive and abusive behavior, kid being kicked out of the house by parent, kidnapping, kinda torture (?), body horror, gore, graphic descriptions of injuries, emotional abuse, police brutality, pain and injury, burning building, swearing, vomiting, murder, panic attack, dysphoria, misgendering, minor character death, major character death, self deprecating talk, mentions of suicide

My thoughts: Well, doing a TS superhero rec without Powerless is just treason. I don’t know--I’m trying to figure out a way to describe it and instead launching up to pace around the room with an instant replay of different scenes in my head. I mean, the grocery store chapter?!?! This stuff lives in my head rent free. The characterization, the banter, the tension, the motives--I can’t describe it y’all. Just, if you love yourselves (love yourselves, please <3) then just go read it. Or reread it. Do that for yourselves. 

Waterspout by Greenninjagal

Status: Complete

Summary: "Hail!” The boy says all smug smiles that Virgil immediately hates. “You’re Recluse aren’t you?”As if there was some other spider themed weirdo who clung to buildings in their free time.“No,” Virgil says, because he can. *** Virgil finds himself stuck on the side of a building in a rainstorm and is helped by an annoying-admittedly attractive-guy.

Relationships: Prinxiety

CW: Mild cursing, storms

My thoughts: This one is very cute. Virgil is a spiderman-like hero who went up a waterspout, and down comes some rain trying to wash him out. Roman comes to help, they banter a bit, and, maybe, there’s a little surprise at the end. I would not mind more of this AU. In fact, I would love it. But that should not discount how wonderfully made a oneshot it is either. The author wrote it perfectly for the length it is, presenting the charm of the characters, great plot and symbolism, and left me wanting more at the same time. Definitely go check this one out. 

Technically. It’s A Secret by supervillain 

Status: Incomplete, Work In Progress

Summary: Virgil Storm, the adopted son of a reality TV star with telekinesis was born without a power. That's been a problem for him all his life. His only friend is Patton Vega, his only chance at romance the irritating Cros Corson--until he gets a job at a top-secret facility, playing babysitter to a bunch of kids with dangerous powers and even more dangerous minds. Kids who happen to be exactly his age.Yeah, this is going to be a piece of cake, especially when the enigmatic villain Believe (aka Roman Torres) takes a liking to Virgil. And even worse, when Virgil starts to more than like him back. Pull in some evil mad scientists, a plague created to decimate the world, a murderous villain, an obnoxious stalker, and the greatest Kinetic the world has ever known, and you're in for a hell of a ride.

Relationships: Prinxiety, Logicality 

CW:  Anxiety attacks, arson, murder, minor character death, blood, spiders, being eaten alive, falling, death, sleeping, fighting, cop mention 

My thoughts: I’m behind on this one, and I wanted to catch up on it before I posted this rec list. Today is the last Friday of the year though, so I decided to just go ahead and do it. I love this fic a ton so far, and I can’t wait to read more. I can tell the author put a lot of thought into writing the world and characters, and that the plot is interesting and deliberate. There’s mysteries unfolding which intrigues me So Bad. It’s a super interesting one, so I’d say go read it!

[canonicallysoulmates]

Last week Jensen was on Rosenbaum’s podcast, this week it’s Jared’s turn. Just like with Jensen’s I recommend checking Jared’s out it is for free on youtube, I will be linking to it at the end of this post, and I also recommend checking out his first appearance on Rosenbaum’s podcast. 

While Jensen’s appearance was recorded in the beginnings of the boys Vancouver quarantine, Jared’s was recorded a little more recently after the boys had resumed production and when they were starting on the final episode nonetheless if you are looking for information regarding Supernatural and/or the final epis you will not find them here, Jared actually didn’t talk much about the show. He did however open up about some topics including his arrest. 

Of course, they are two different people whose interviews were done at different moments in time and who got asked different questions but this had a very different feel from Jensen’s; while Jensen’s felt more interview like, this felt very much like a conversation between two friends who’ve known each other for years....the majority of the time. 

Here’s the thing, and some of y’all are not gonna like me for this....while the conversation had its deep moments and Jared opened up about some personal stuff it felt to me like a more open version of how he is in conventions. Which is not a bad thing! But it’s not like last time where he was, imo, a version of himself that only those in his circle might get to hear. There was some fuckery people, okay? There was some fuckery and we will be talking about it.

I am going to put a disclaimer here, just in case, that this post is not going to be G*nevieve friendly. Or friendly towards her and Jared’s “marriage”. 

Before we get into what Jared said and talked about, I do want to take a minute to acknowledge and say condolences to Rosenbaum and his family, one of his sisters recently passed away after being sick pretty much her whole life. 

I also wanna say real quickly that something that I really like, and I would say even respect, about Rosenbaum is how open he is about things and listening to the intro of this “episode” made me realize why it is that he gets his guests to open up so often; I think it’s because he himself is open about his struggles and his issues and he is free of judgement so if you confess to something stupid he’s not gonna judge you for it, he’s also willing to cut things out if his guests ask him too so his guests know they can talk to him and he will understand and not judge them and will respect their privacy and cut something out if they ask it of him so they can talk freely. 

Okay, after all that let’s get into what Jared said and talked about in the podcast. FYI, much like in the Jensen post, from here forth Rosenbaum will be referred to as MR for convenience. 

- The conversation starts on what I considered to be a funny note with Jared talking about his infrared sauna blanket which he travels with that is such a weird item to travel with I can’t with the white richness of it all but hey we all got our quirks 😂

- After that the conversation turns pretty serious and deep, he talked about Sadie and having to make the decision to put her to sleep. He was tearing up talking about it, and I’m not gonna lie I myself was crying - hell I’m tearing up as I’m writing this not just because I can’t handle seeing this man cry but because I know what he’s talking about, I know that pain, I know what he meant by Sadie looking at him like it was time for her to go, I know what it’s like to be in that room with a beloved pet as they’re taking their last breath...I have had to put two of my cats to sleep in the past and it’s the most difficult and heartbreaking decision one sometimes has to make as a pet owner. 😔

- Something I like about when MR and Jared talk to each other is that they have very similar personalities in some ways and they’re good friends so when they’re talking it very quickly turns into two friends talking to one another which means the conversation is all over the place. In a good way. They got into a conversation about living in the moment and how social media and cell phones can affect that; I, personally, found it fascinating. I love hearing them discuss their different POV’s about these types of topics. 

- And here’s where we get to the fake. I’m writing this post at an extremely late hour but I’m determined to get it up before I go to bed and I really wanna go to bed, so I’m gonna try to get through this as fast as possible so strap in cause there’s a lot of bullshit to quickly wade through in this section. 

Jared starts praising the fuck out of G like this man was going for it, he was really pilling it on nice and thick. So, there I am watching this with my eyes about to roll right out of my skull wondering what was up with all the fuckery cause there’s being civil and a gentleman and then there was this when a light bulb goes off above my head 💡: When this was filmed, he already knew she had been cast to play his wife on Walker, he probably figured out that by the time this aired either the news would have already been out or would be announced soon so he’s hyping her up in the only way he knows how which works anyways cause the character she’s playing is his wife and her likability is in part going to rely on people overlooking her bad acting and the nepotism to focus on her being married to Jared in real life cause people love when irl couples work together even more when they’re playing a couple. From what I’ve seen it makes people less likely to call out a lack of chemistry cause then they feel like they’re insulting the couple.

He hypes her up using the same script he and Jensen have used in the convention circuit for years when it comes to praising the wives complete with classics such as ‘i’m never home so i never knew she did so much’ and ‘i ask her what i can do and she tells me to take out the garbage’. Nothing new is added to the script, he doesn’t go into details about what makes her amazing or about “all she does” he just pretty much says over and over that she’s incredible and does so much, if he meant it and she really does “so much” why not go into detail? It’d be so easy of him to say something like ‘oh, she’s always making us healthy meals and trying out new recipes’ which can be backed up by her insta because during quarantine she did a bunch of insta stories about cooking and checking out recipe books like goddamn Jared if you’re gonna lay it thick at least put in the effort even I could hype her up better and I don’t even like her. 

It all comes off as very insincere, have y’all ever seen somebody talk about the person they love? You can tell in their voice, in their eyes, some even get a fond little smile. It’s actually quite cute to watch but there’s none of that here, even when he mentions G giving birth there’s no emotion there’s no sincerity, it’s like he’s saying all the right things but he doesn’t believe them. It reminds me off- have you ever had someone, maybe it’s a friend or a romantic partner or whatever just someone who you’re introducing to somebody else or a group of people and you really need them to like this person you’re introducing so you start to sell them meaning you just start singing their praises to an over the top extend as if you were a car dealer trying to boost up their merch? Yeah, it’s like that. 

I don’t believe for one second that she volunteered to go with him to Van so he wouldn’t be alone like Jared go to somebody else with that story 🙄

I did have to laugh at some parts cause he was laying it on thick as if I didn’t remember and know that he looked miserable in almost all the pics G posted of him from quarantine right from the beginning, and being all ‘she doesn’t have any time for herself’ well clearly she found some time cause she does her little yoga collabs, she’s had her little photo shoots, she’s done a bunch of sponsored ads, she did her clothing collab with Kohl’s, she started a book club clearly she has the fucking time to do things for herself and pursue hobbies. He also said with three kids he didn’t have time for himself which I found funny because I don’t know if y’all remember this but early on in the quarantine Jared and G did a livestream and in it he mentioned several times that he was using his time for phone calls and even way too seriously said he was handling cabin fever by hiding and letting G handle the kids so....

It’s also an interesting contrast between what Jensen said in his podcast appearance because while Jared tried to make it sound as if G had no time for herself and like that’d be impossible with three kids, Jensen pretty much said the opposite, he said that he and D would sometimes take the kids and entertain them so the other one could have some space to do their own thing, and even gave an example of settling the kids with a movie so the parents can have their own space at the same time. 

- Moving on from that fuckery, the rest of the conversation was very deep and interesting. He talked about going to therapy and once again mentions being afraid of fucking up his kids, but adds that he’s come to realize that no matter what he does he’s gonna fuck up his kids anyways cause that’s what every parent does even if they’re amazing. This is a statement that I very much agree with it doesn’t matter how amazing a parent is they’re gonna make mistakes and fuck you up. 

He talked about his anxiety and his depression and how he doesn’t like to say he suffers from it because it makes him sound like a victim he prefers to say he deals with anxiety. 

This is gonna sound so weird but I loved something Jared said about death, MR talked about his anxiety and he said that his psychologist told him anxiety is always in the backseat and a. that is so true I think pretty much anybody who suffers from anxiety can tell you that it’s always there but b. Jared mentioned that he head somebody talk about death the same way, that death is always in the passenger seat but they become a friend. I know for some this might sound concerning or macabre but personally I think this is the best way to think about death not as something to hate but as a friend who is always besides you and that doesn’t mean you’re in any rush to welcome its embrace but it does mean you don’t fear it. 

He said that now a days if he wakes up and doesn’t feel anxiety he’s like ‘what’s wrong?’ which honestly relatable af

And I am paraphrasing btw, this is the cliffnotes version of a very deep in-depth part of the conversation between him and MR starting when they’re talking about therapy the whole thing is very interesting I’m not doing it justice. 

- Towards the end of the podcast Jared opened up about his arrest. He said he has no real recollection of what happened, he doesn’t know if maybe he was drugged or just got black out drunk but he doesn’t remember the fight he just remembers up to the point of going to his friends bar. He has seen the security tapes of that night, saying he didn’t recognize himself due to the way he was acting. He thinks perhaps because he has been jumped before that maybe he acted on instinct to fight back. It is not something he is proud of and he doesn’t make excuses, he knows he fucked up. He also says he has not drank since then. 

I am very proud of him for opening up about this, and for either quitting or limiting his alcohol consumption - quite honestly I’m not sure if he has full on stopped drinking or if he is just limiting himself to only once in a blue moon cause I do know people, hell I am one of these people, I don’t drink 99% of the time but if it’s a special occasion or I’m just chilling with someone I know and they’re having a drink I might have one or a sip or two so technically I don’t drink so I don’t know if maybe that’s what he’s decided to do or if he’s quit alcohol forever, either way I’m very proud of him. I’m proud of him for opening up about this and for talking about his mental health and therapy.

With the exception of some fuckery he really did open up about some things and I highly recommend giving it a listen/watch because when it’s the real him talking it’s a very insightful conversation.

Inside of you | Jared Padalecki

[astonishinglegends]

Ep 201: The Disappearance of Frederick Valentich Part 3

“I am prepared to swear on oath or submit myself to any lie detector test to substantiate this, my statement.”

– Don Cox, who observed a triangle-shaped UFO for 45 minutes from his yard in Adelaide, 385 miles northwest of Valentich’s last known location, just 28 minutes after his radio fell silent.

Description:

As we wrap up our coverage of the Frederick Valentich story in Part 3 of our series, we'll continue our conversation with Melbourne resident Chris Tyler about his research into the case and other possibly related UFO incidents around the same time and area. We'll also examine the Australian Department of Transport accident report's remaining findings and discuss its conclusions. As you begin to reach your own conclusions, it's essential to keep several factors in mind which make the usual mundane explanations seem inadequate. The high number of independent sightings of aerial phenomena occurring in proximity to the disappearance suggests Valentich wasn't alone in witnessing it. The distance a Cessna cowling was found from a potential crash site and the lack of definitive markings makes its discovery inconclusive. Even if the cowling did come from Valentich's plane, it still doesn't account for what caused him to ditch, let alone other missing debris and Valentich himself. Perhaps the most surprising revelation comes from the summary of the report itself. Rather than dismissing the possibility of a UFO entanglement, an official government statement lists it as one of four likeliest scenarios. Remember that Valentich himself never suggested he interacted with a UFO in his last transmission, despite being painted as obsessed with them by his skeptics. When these factors and more are taken together, it's no wonder this incident is one of the most baffling and tragic in the phenomenon's history and leaves us all to wonder, what happened to Frederick Valentich and where did he go?

Location:

Moorabbin Airport, where Frederick Valentich took off from on October 21, 1978, headed for King Island across Bass Strait.

Reference Links:

“UFO suspicions still cloud disappearance of Frederick Valentich” from Melbourne’s Herald Sun

The strange noises heard on Valentich’s last transmission, posted on Facebook by A.U.F.O.A. – Australian UFO Action

“How the 40-year-old mystery of a UFO in New Zealand lives on” from news.com.au, about Quentin Fogarty’s UFO experience

The UFO Documents Index on NSA.gov

Cape Otway Lightstation

“What is the Aurora Australis?” on Universe Today

The Green Flash

“The Disappearance of Flight N3808H, Puerto Rico, 1980” blog post by “karl 12” on AboveTopSecret.com

“Disappearance of flight N3808H 28th of June, 1980” with pilot’s radio transmission on YouTube

“UFOs, USOs and the Island of Puerto Rico.” by “karl 12” on AboveTopSecret.com

“Jet Fighters disappear as they approach UFO in Puerto Rico” section of a documentary on YouTube

“Two F-14s kidnapped by UFO near Puerto Rico” forum thread on unexplained-mysteries.com

“The Valentich Disappearance: Another UFO Cold Case Solved” by James McGaha and Joe Nickell on Skeptical Inquirer

“Spooky Space ‘Sounds’” from nasa.gov

“What Is This Flying Object??? Occurred at Cape Hatteras Lighthouse - 1/7/2021” on YouTube by Wes Snyder Photography

The “PPRuNe” forum or “Professional Pilots Rumour Network” discussing Valentich's radio transmission

The Melbourne Marvels podcast and their episode on “The Unresolved Disappearance of Frederick Valentich”

“10 Truly Bizarre Incidents From The Bass Strait Triangle” from Listverse

The Unsolved Mysteries Wiki on Fandom.com for the Frederick Valentich episode

“Lost yacht mystery continues 30 years on” from abc.net.au

Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race on Wikipedia

“Race Tragedy Tale / Oracle CEO tells all to St. Francis Yacht Club” from SFGate.com

“'Holy grail' or epic hoax? Australian Kelly Cahill's UFO abduction story still stirs passions” from ABC South West Victoria news

“Capturing the Light” – The true story of Dorothy Izatt on Amazon Prime

Close Encounters of the Third Kind feature release date information on IMDb

The Frederick Valentich case on the original Unsolved Mysteries, Season 5, Episode 2 on Amazon Prime

“Last Light: the Valentich Mystery” from The History Listen with Kirsti Melville on ABC.net.au

“Disappearance of Frederick Valentich” on Wikipedia

“What Happened to Frederick Valentich? Possibly the scariest UFO case ever” by OzWeatherman on AboveTopSecret.com

“Valentich Case Files Finally Released” by Kandinsky on AboveTopSecret.com

“The Valentich Abduction/Disappearance: 40th Anniversary” by MirageMan on AboveTopSecret.com

“The Abduction of Fred Valentich” from The Unexplained Files on Discovery UK – YouTube clip of Melbourne Flight Advisor Officer Steve Robey describing his radio communication with Valentich

Complete episode on the Valentich disappearance from The Unexplained Files on the Discovery Channel

Cessna 182 “Skylane”

Valentich’s missing aircraft report online, from the National Archives of Australia

Download of Valentich’s missing aircraft report as a PDF

Bass Strait

Moorabbin Airport

“'Truth' was out there after all –An accidental discovery sheds new light on the mysterious disappearance of a pilot in 1978, writes Miles Kemp” from The Advertiser

Australian UFO researcher, Keith Basterfield

Melbourne, Australia

Tasmania

King Island, Tasmania

Visit King Island at kingisland.org.au

“Biography of Bette Nesmith Graham, Inventor of Liquid Paper” on ThoughtCo.com

Bette Nesmith Graham on Wikipedia

Australian crayfish

The TCAS or Traffic collision avoidance system

“What C.S. Lewis and Martin Luther Would Say About Our Coronavirus Panic”

Black Death

Second plague pandemic

“Plague was one of history’s deadliest diseases—then we found a cure” on NationalGeographic.com

Suggested Listening:

Melbourne Marvels podcast – “a podcast about true stories from Melbourne” CLICK HERE to listen to their episode on “The Unresolved Disappearance of Frederick Valentich”

Check out our good friend Gledders’ paranormal podcast, ANOMALY, where he, his co-host Steve Freestone, and Forrest discuss some of the more weird and wild events of 2020 and more in his latest 2-part series. Click here to subscribe and listen on Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, the website at anomaly.co.uk, or anywhere excellent podcasts are found.

And then after that, check out Gledders’ “80’s Mix Tape” for the best in 1980s music, Saturdays, 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. in the UK, or stream anytime at Huntingdon Community Radio HCR 104 FM!

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Credits:

Episode 201: The Disappearance of Frederick Valentich Part 3. Produced by Scott Philbrook & Forrest Burgess; Audio Editing by Sarah Vorhees Wendel. Sound Design by Ryan McCullough; Tess Pfeifle, Producer, and Lead Researcher; Research Support from the astonishing League of Astonishing Researchers, a.k.a. The Astonishing Research Corps, or "A.R.C." for short. Copyright 2021 Astonishing Legends Productions, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

[thejosh1980]

“My Daughter”

I'm really tired.

Even though I sleep well most nights, I'm still tired. Sometimes the whole day.

I'm still trying to find my routine. For sure, at 08:00 each morning I'm driving Mum to school and picking her up again at 15:00...

Other than that, it's all about whatever I can do to keep myself occupied... Look for work, think about my career, visit a friend, take Alex for a drive, clean the pool, swim in the pool, check the surf or think. 

Today's been a thinking day..... I miss my dog.

It's a very long story, one that I wouldn't want to bore you with the finer details of, but in the end, I was once a proud father, but now my 5 year old baby is with her mum in Dresden and I am here in Ocean Shores.

I miss her every single day.

Some days are worse than others. I can't go a day without thinking about her. She was my life. There's usually 2 questions that roll around in my head...  “what is she doing/feeling now, without me?” and “what would we do together if she was here?”.

I well up thinking about these questions, and usually distract myself immediately so as not to cry.

My ex and I agreed early on we wouldn't post pictures of her or discuss/post about her online. We wanted something private just for ourselves. That decision was made back when I was touring a lot and we had plenty of fans around.

I don't know if that rule applies to me now, and while I do want to respect my ex's wishes (our wishes), I also feel that I should write something down, document my feelings and try to process this... Writing has helped me with a few things so far, why not with my grief?

I guess in the end, I have to get used to the idea that she's no longer my dog. 

I mean, I never had any official paperwork with my name on it saying I owned the “property” that was our dog (how could I? It was all in German anyhow!!!). Officially, I have no say in where she lives and who she lives with.

In fact, I didn't want a dog at first. I've always been scared of them... Terribly afraid because when I was very young, our own dog (in Melbourne in 1984-85) scared the living shit out of me too many times... So I have always had reservations about dog ownership...

That was until the little brown ball of fur came into my life... I loved that little puppy like my life depended on it.

Although I may not be registered as her father, I love her like one.

I am her Daddy. I always will be.

I trained her, I took care of her, I loved her. And I was very proud to do so. She is amazing...

I trained her to skateboard, paddle board and hang with me in the studio (yes, I even have videos of her singing along with me). She could travel all over Europe with me, visit any number of famous locations and take it all in her stride. She's walked Venice, urban swam in Bern, had tourist photos at Checkpoint Charlie and been photographed by more Japanese tourists than I can care to remember...

I taught her how to give hugs on command. She'd pull me in and wrap her little paws around me, it was the sweetest hug anyone could ever get... I miss them...

She is a real beautiful talented little girl...

But maybe the most important thing was, what she did for me.

When “my daughter” came into my life, I had just stopped drinking (6 months earlier). I was still trying to find the new “me” in a world where all my friends and band members drank regularly around me. I was fine with everyone drinking.... However, if anyone who has stopped drinking (or doing drugs) knows, when that crutch is no longer in your life, when you have nothing to hid behind anymore, you learn more about yourself than ever before...

She gave me love, strength and courage to do things I was scared or worried to do... She gave me reason to live...

If this was an AA meeting, I'd say she was my sponsor.

I received unconditional love no matter how bad I felt in a social situation that made me uncomfortable. She looked up to me for guidance, and in doing so, guided me to feeling more comfortable in my uncomfortable skin.

I wasn't afraid to go places when she was with me. I wasn't worried about what people would think, or how I would feel or think... I was happy because she was by my side, and she surely was happy having me take her places and give her treats.

We were a great team...

Now that I no longer have that team, that partnership, that unconditional love, I hurt.

I worry if I can do anything without anxiety anymore. Can I step out of my comfort zone without her??

Well surely I have come along way in the past 5 years. Still ain't drinking, still learning all the time how to deal with my inner struggles. But without her, it feels harder... I struggle without her constant love and companionship.

I never thought in all my years, that a dog would be so important to me... She still is...

The last time I saw her was in late June. I decided to take control of how and when I let her go free. I arranged my dearest and trusted friend to meet with us, and I could pass “my daughter” over... And my friend could walk her to my ex's place.

The idea of passing her over directly, that would have been too much... I couldn't do it. It was hard enough just to pass her to my friend. It took a long time, a hell of a lot of tears (in public no less). The idea of giving this beautiful thing away hurt me to my core.

It still does.

She knew something was up. She was quiet and attentive. She could read me like a book... I tried to say “goodbye”, but the words could barely come out. I know I said “I love you” as often as my tears would allow.

When I made the decision to leave Europe, I knew I'd miss a lot of people and places. I knew I had to give up a lot of things... At that moment, that day in June, it all came to a head.

If, at the time, I was still on the fence about moving, I'd have stayed... I wouldn't have been able to let her go (I still haven’t)... But as all the plans had been made, and I knew my Mum was waiting for me, I had to do it. I had to keep moving forward... No matter how much it hurt...

My last image of my girl is her walking away with someone we both trusted. (she has the sweetest little butt). I ran after them down the street (crying like a fool), but she didn't look back.

She didn't know that was the last time she'd see me... How could she, she's a dog! She doesn't understand... But I do... And it hurts to think about how she feels without me in her life.

I have not had a photo or an update since... It's been 4 long months...

I wake up everyday wondering if my ex would see things my way and send her to me... Maybe she'd have a change of heart, or maybe her circumstances have changed... My ex knows I'm waiting... 

Hope is the last to die...

Originally I wanted to write an update on how our new life down here was going, but I can't get “my daughter” out of my mind, so I figured I'd write about her... Maybe in a few days I can express more about our life here, but for now, my beautiful four legged girl is all I can or want to think about.

I cried while writing this, and I'll cry again if I have to proof read it again (so I’ll get Alex to do that!). 

The sense of loss and sadness is overwhelming.

I just want to process this pain and replace it with love and happiness for our past... I really want to smile when I think about her, and laugh about her silly ways, but I’m not ready... I realised now, I still have more grieving to do... 

I hope writing things down helps...

Thanks for reading,

Josh

[marginsofmarga]

Great Hope Amidst the Pandemic

As much as possible, we totally want to be in control of our lives. We take time to manage personal goals which are the big things to work for and accomplish such as receiving a diploma, getting married and having a family, starting our own business, becoming a big-time executive, or traveling the globe and such. These are essentially some of the things we want to do in life and in preparation for that, we plan. There may be small interruptions like atmospherical conditions, heavy traffic or sickness and we're used to it. But in an unexpected instance, in a snap, a pandemic called Coronavirus hit us by surprise and consumed us within months. Worst case scenario: it is a huge interruption everywhere with no specific vaccine.

Everyone has been writing on this and I don't know where to start. When I first heard about Coronavirus, there was a certain fear I felt as if my heart skipped a beat, wondering what repercussions it may create. By researching, I came to understand that it's highly contagious, attacks the respiratory system and no one is an exception especially the immuno-compromised ones. Knowing the fact that there is no cure for this disease heightened up my worries — for myself, my loved ones, my nation and the world.

The world is grippling with an invisible, deadly enemy. I had a feeling that it will be one heck of a ride. This pandemic got me feeling a roller coaster of emotions. I was not in my comfort zone. I had a lot of what-ifs. Before quarantine started, usual activities were still allowed despite having early cases in the country so I couldn’t help being paranoid at school, while commuting, while going to the mall and going outside with no choice but to be exposed to a lot of people which made me totally anxious and wonder "what if I get the virus" so, I did the best ways possible not to catch it. I sanitized every now and then, did limit interactions, took vitamins, used face mask and became extra careful when going out. After school, in the dorm where I stay, I really make sure to keep my health in check so I wash my hands, eat and sleep properly. Let me just say that living a little away from home sucks especially when there's a sudden global virus. I had to take care of everything myself. I was longing for security. I just wished I could go home.

There was a time back then when I really had a hard time sleeping that I fell asleep at 4 o'clock in the morning so it led to overthinking and unwanted panic attacks. Fears abound. Such uncertainty. How long will it last? What if I get sick since I lack sleep? What will happen next? Worries kept rippling because aside from these, there were school requirements to fufill, an overall health to watch and uncertain future to come so it was absolutely tough for me and took a toll on my mental health.

Days before ECQ was imposed, it was another day full of worries and not being in control. Classes were suspended due to more cases detected. So I packed my luggage, took a 1-hour ride to get home and finally be with my family. It felt good to walk into our doorstep but even if quarantine was imposed, oh God, my worries didn’t fade. Fear and anxiety were still present. During the first week of ECQ, I still got panic attacks and sleep issues. I was deeply overwhelmed. That’s why I willingly shared my thoughts to my go-to person, my mom. It's been a long time since I had a panic attack and that time, it was difficult to control and worse, even my sleep was affected. My mom would calm me down by helping me meditate with a bunch of essential oils and by staying present. I also talked over the phone to my Kuya who's in Manila and with other loved ones so it eased out my agony. Their words comforted me. Their company patted my back. I started to feel safe. I felt much better. I stopped dwelling on the negativity. I looked into the blessings which I'm really grateful for. I prayed to God. I consciously focused on the fact that I'm alive and I have a purpose. I knew I just had to shift my perspective. I started to heal. I started to pick up my broken pieces like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Well, there’s always a new day. The virus is still there, but no one’s stopping me from overcoming my fears and doing what I love. Let’s face life no matter what. Since I'm really a home person, I didn't bother much about things to do in quarantine. These are the things that kept me going while staying at home: I do love being active so after getting up in the morning, I would pray and think about the things I'm grateful for. After that, I would turn the television on, go to Youtube and do my usual workout routine (a good sweat releases endorphins). I also got to bake some goodies, learn to cook new recipes and get creative with my makeup looks. I also do household chores and binge-watch my favorite shows on Netflix right after. I even do some home photoshoot so I get to play dress up. Spending time with my family 24/7 is a major blessing I experience amidst the crisis. Every night, I pray to God and talk to him sincerely. Prayers are the best antidote and His hands are my safe haven.

These were some of the meals I cooked.

These were some selfies I took during quarantine as I get creative with my makeup looks to avoid overthinking.

Watching my favorite series, FRIENDS. A good laugh comes a long way.

With regards to academics, as a student and as a person, I was firm on my stand to push for mass promotion of all students. Considering the situation and ongoing threat of the global crisis, health is greatly at risk. I voiced out my opinion on social media. In my little way, I wanted to help those near around me to come to our house for internet access if ever mass promotion didn’t push through. Good thing my professors were considerate enough to pass us all even if the university didn’t go for mass promotion at first. Luckily, a new memo from our school’s administration came to a decision in benefit of the students. Mass promotion pushed through.

This is a screenshot of my Mass Promotion post where I voiced out what I felt.

Just yesterday, I received a bad news. It felt devastating to lose one of the best professors I had. We didn’t see it coming. He suffered from severe pneumonia and tuberculosis. He was one of the people who believes in me and appreciates my passion. He had expert communication skills and a strong work ethic. Not to mention his great sense of humor that kept every discussion in class fun. I have always admired him. I will surely miss Sir Guban. Heaven gained an angel. May he rest in peace.

This is Sir Guban, one of my best professors who just passed away.

Giving shape to time is indeed important now when the future is so shapeless. The pandemic is a whole new ballgame with new rules being created each day. We are challenged to let go of normalcy and face a new one. I know it’s hard to gain a perspective when you are in the middle of such uncertainty; to make sense of what is going on and how the future will emerge. But I have learned that I need to trust the process because eventually, it will unleash a better version of myself, a stronger one. As I began to reflect on the reality of such a virus and trying to contain it, it became clear that it says something quite wonderful about humanity. It says that we have the capacity to shift out of our comfort zones and to quite literally work together to save our lives and the lives of others. There is a tremendous hope for humanity being demonstrated around us. We can choose to walk through it lightly, with a little luggage, ready to imagine another world and ready to fight for it. Life may hit us hard countless times but I found out that it’s about finding ways to get back up again and moving forward despite the greatest obstacles.

Always wear your face mask, sanitize, be mindful and be safe.

This is a contribution to ComCo Southeast Asia’s “Write to Ignite Blogging Project”. The initiative is a response to the need of our times, as every story comes a long way during this period of crisis. Igniting and championing the human spirit, “Write to Ignite Blog Project” aims to pull and collate powerful stories from the Philippine blogging communities to inspire the nation to rise and move forward amidst the difficult situation. This project is made possible by ComCo Southeast Asia, co-presented Eastern Communications and sponsored by Electrolux, Jobstreet and Teleperformance.

[nikkoliferous]

He doesn’t bother explaining why he’s here.

This is early on, late May, a few months into the race, but he is already of the belief that he is doing something extraordinary with his presidential campaign — something that’s never been done before. The trouble is describing it. There’s no word for this in modern politics. It is, he believes, “a new way to communicate with the American people” — though he won’t say this until later, and only when asked. Even now, long after he’s put this work at the center of his campaign — at his events, in ads, on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube — he won’t talk about it much. He isn’t sure it’ll work, or if people are “picking up on what we’re trying to do here.” The media, he believes, has always believed, can’t fathom what’s at the heart of this.

So when he arrives at the house, a small mobile home 40 miles outside Montgomery, Alabama, over the Lowndes County line, in one of the poorest places in the country, with five reporters and his own camera crew, he steps through the front door, greets his host, and begins with no clear mention of what he hopes to accomplish here or how it will help him become president.

Pamela Rush, a 49-year-old mother of two, is showing him the problems with her home: the floor tilting visibly to one side, the sheets of plaster peeling off the wall, the broken pipes, the broken cabinetry. He stops in the room where her daughter sleeps. “Do you guys wanna…?” He motions for everyone to come closer. His videographer shuffles forward. On the bedside table, there’s a ventilation machine, the kind used for sleep apnea. A tube of ribbed plastic connects the device to a mask resting on the bedspread, which is patterned cheerily with tiny elephants. Because of mold in the house, Pamela’s daughter needs the device to breathe in her sleep. “How old is she?” the candidate asks. She’s 10. Pamela holds up the mask so he can see up close.

“Show them, not me,” he says, gesturing toward the camera.

She shows the camera the mask.

The visit continues like this. “Show them,” he keeps saying. “Show them.” He speaks only to ask questions, prompting Pamela to “explain” this or that, pointing her to an unseen audience on the other end of his camera lens. It’s like he’s directing his own video — except the video isn’t about him or his campaign or his policy agenda. He is, it seems, somewhere offscreen, an omniscient narrator, felt maybe, but not seen or heard. This is not a public event. There is no crowd. There is no podium, no speech. Mostly, there is silence. The leader of the political revolution — a man who has spent 50 years of his life trying to talk about his ideas — is not saying much at all.

In his first campaign, a third-party bid for US Senate in 1972, he lugged around a 2,000-page, two-volume study by the House Banking and Currency Committee, liberally quoting its findings to the people of Vermont. He spent that year telling anyone who would listen about the fact that a mere 49 banks were trustees of $135 billion and held 768 “interlocking directorships” with 286 of the country’s largest 500 industrial corporations. To him, the phenomenon of interlocking directorships was not arcane or irrelevant to daily life in Vermont. It was an urgent outrage.

In Congress, he developed “the oligarchy speech,” a bleak overview of income inequality in America. The speech became the basis of his public events, his lengthy posts on Facebook, of an entire book — title: The Speech — consisting solely of the transcript of an eight-hour speech he delivered on the floor of the Senate.

And in 2016 — the rallies? The arenas? He had 2,600 in Iowa’s hulking Mid-America Center — largest crowd of the caucus season. He hit every city he could: 5,000 people in Houston, 8,000 in Dallas, 10,000 in Madison, 11,000 in Phoenix, 15,000 in Seattle, 27,500 in Los Angeles, 28,000 in Portland — plus overflow! All those people showing up to hear an hourlong speech they already knew by heart: wages down, median income stalled, one family with more wealth than the bottom 130 million… As he spoke, they’d mouth along to their favorite lines: “Congress does not regulate Wall Street—” “WALL STREET REGULATES CONGRESS,” the crowd would shout back. “Enough is—” “ENOUGH!” they roared. The succession of grim facts — “but let me tell you what is even worse!” he’d say — became a ritual. When a small bird, later identified as a common house finch, once landed on his lectern, an entire stadium full of people cheered wildly, mouths open, their arms raised to the sky, eyes turned upward — not to God, but to the image of the bird and their candidate on the Jumbotron. There was power in the speech. He believed, aides have said, that he was literally changing a generation, person by person, line by line, with every rally.

That was the whole thing — Bernie Sanders, talking.

This is something different.

“Pamela,” he says gently, “why don’t you explain it.”

“And be loud so everyone can hear you…”

Bernie Sanders is sorry for your troubles, but that’s not the reason he’s asking you to talk about them — which he is, everywhere he goes. He wants you to talk about your medical bill — the one you can’t pay. He wants you to talk about losing your house because you got sick. He wants you to talk about the payday loans you took out to keep your kid in school. About the six-figure student debt that’s always on your mind. About living off credit cards, or losing your pension, or working multiple jobs for wages that won’t be enough to support your family.

He would like you to talk about this publicly, in detail, and on camera. He will ask you to do this in front of reporters, or in a room full of strangers at one of his town halls. Of course, the Bernie Digital Team will be there — they are always there — taping your story on camera, or streaming it in real-time to his own mass broadcast system on YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. On any given day, he is capable of reaching millions of people.

“Who wants to share their story?” he’ll say. “Don’t be embarrassed. Millions of people are in your boat.”

He has, it turns out, built an entire presidential campaign around an open invitation to speak — to talk plainly about the “reality of life” in this country — to be “loud so everyone can hear.”

His suggestion, by asking you to speak up about your private anxieties, many of them financial, is that you and the millions of people in the proverbial audience will begin to see your struggles not as personal failings, but systemic ones. He is less interested in explicitly presenting solutions than naming the problem — that “we have millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world who are struggling every single day,” which is a phrase he repeats daily, almost like an exhortation, as if to grab the American working class by its shoulders. He doesn’t deal in pity or reassurance. Yes, he’ll give hugs — one arm, from the side, other hand still clutching the mic. But mostly he’ll just listen and nod, gaze lowered. Or he’ll shake his head at the crowd, like can you believe this? And then, from the gut, a clipped scoff, like of course you can believe it. That’s the point. He has heard your story before, because it’s all part of the same story: a broken system, driven by profit and greed, built to reinforce the notion that if you’re bright enough, if you work hard enough, then you can travel the path to the middle class. And if you don’t make it there…well, maybe you’re the problem. And who wants to talk about that?

He believes his presidential campaign can, he says, help people “feel less alone.”

He is trying to change the way people interact with private hardship in this country, which is to say, silently and with self-loathing. He is trying, in as literal a sense as you could imagine, to excise “shame” and “guilt” from the American people. These are not words you hear often in politics, but in interviews this year with the candidate, his wife, and his top advisers, they are central to his strategy to win. He is imagining a presidential campaign that brings people out of alienation and into the political process simply by presenting stories where you might recognize some of your own struggles. He is imagining a voter, he says, who thinks, “I thought it was just me who was struggling to put food on the table. I thought I was the only person. I thought it was all my fault. You mean to say there are millions of people?”

He still has his rallies, but “it’s a different campaign, and we do things differently,” he says. “I can give the greatest speech in the history of the world, but it will not have the significance and the impact that the real-life experience of ordinary Americans will have.” At many of his events, the antiseptic macro focus of the “oligarchy speech” — the anonymous actors on Wall Street, the greed of the American corporation, the rigged system — has been replaced by the most intimate details of someone’s life. The outrage in his voice, a booming rasp amplified across three tiers of an NBA-size venue, is softer now. The arena itself has morphed into a digital platform for one voter’s story.

Show them, he says. Show them, not me.

We understand presidential campaigns, in their most basic form, as a conversation between a candidate and the American people. The conversation is happening all the time, in person and online, directly, indirectly, at every possible scale: It’s a handshake, a speech, a television ad, a sponsored post on Facebook. It’s a policy rollout. It’s the signage at a rally, the way an American flag is steamed and hung just so on a stage. Every dollar of every campaign is spent on shaping or beautifying or amplifying some message from the candidate. Bernie’s first presidential bid, in a sense, was the unprocessed, stripped-down version of that conversation: It was the speech. In terms of the mechanics of the thing, as he put it in late 2016, he wasn’t “reinventing the wheel.”

Four years later, he is attempting to run a presidential campaign that facilitates an entirely different conversation — one between people like Pamela and the American people. The stories he collects and broadcasts across the internet aren’t just voter testimonials produced to validate the campaign or its policies — they’re aimed, in Bernie’s mind, at people validating one another.

After 50 years, this is an unlikely place for the political revolution to land. It’s more human. More empathetic. More personal than what you’d expect from a man who’s willingly played along with his persona as a perma-“outsider” and, as he put it in 2015, “grumpy old guy.”

There’s this idea that Bernie Sanders is “a man of the people who doesn’t like people” — just issues. That’s not exactly right, though the precise balance between the two can be difficult to pin down. “Policy, policy, policy,” says his wife, Jane, who is a strategic partner on her husband’s campaign. “Fight, fight, fight — which is true, but he’s also about people.”

He arrived in Vermont in 1968, full of ideas about movement politics, and began his career by raising his hand at a local third-party meeting. He settled in Stannard, a remote town with no paved roads, populated by fewer than 2o0 people, where he learned to live in isolation. But in politics, he also discovered that he liked talking to strangers about the issues of the day. In the ’80s, he hosted his own public broadcast show as mayor of Burlington. In the footage, unearthed by Politico earlier this year, he can be warm and dryly funny. On the campaign trail in Vermont, he liked to take impromptu walks and kept a pair of trunks in the car in case he passed a swimming hole. In Washington, he kept more to himself. Interviewed in 1991, fellow members of Congress described him as a “homeless waif” with a “holier-than-thou” attitude who “alienates” his potential allies, who “screams and hollers,” one said, “but he is all alone.”

Part of the problem, of course, is that Bernie Sanders is not an open book. He will snap at reporters when they ask him to talk about himself or, god forbid, how he’s changed as a person, because what does that have to do with Medicare for All? “You’re asking about me, and I’M not important,” he once said in an interview. “What’s important are the kinds of policies we need to transform this country. OK?” The conversation was over after six minutes. His interior life, to the extent that it is acknowledged among his campaign staff, is a subject only a few people can address with any authority. A simple question on the subject — have you ever seen him cry? — recently reduced senior aides to various forms of lawyer-speak. “I’ve seen him emotionally affected,” one said after a long pause. Another, as if the question had been unclear and possibly even sinister, said only: “What do you mean?” With Jane, he’ll call from the road to talk about his day, but questions like “How did that make you feel?” are not a part of the discussion. “Oooh, no,” she laughs at the suggestion. “Oh no, no. Yeah, no. He doesn’t do that. No. No. Neeevver.”

He can be harsh with staff — short-tempered and demanding and sometimes rude. “Some people say I am very hard to work with. They say I can be a real son of a bitch. They say I can be nasty, I don't know how to get along with people,” Bernie told his press secretary in 1990, according to a memoir by the former staffer. “Well, maybe there's some truth to it.”

His mood is under careful observation. Aides are always noting things like “He’s in a good mood today.” When he is happy, everyone is happy. When he’s not, everyone is quiet, especially in the SUV, where he will ride shotgun with his iPad, a red Vitaminwater at his side, scrolling through tweets from @BernieSanders, maybe only speaking up to dispassionately observe that people must really care about education in this country because a tweet about education is getting a lot of engagement today. Everyone knows which staffers make him feel most at ease — a special currency on the campaign. Small signs of interpersonal comfort — watching an aide make him laugh, watching another gently brush dandruff from his navy blue blazer — can feel like extraordinary acts of intimacy. In 2016, when discussing the campaign at a bar, some staffers got in the habit of referring to him as “Earl” or “the old man,” because at the end of the day, he is 78 years old. And who would have expected this — the most emotionally driven, intimate, borderline touchy-feely campaign of the 2020 election — from “a real son of a bitch”?

Correction.

“I don’t like the word ‘touchy-feely,’” Bernie Sanders says curtly.

Everyone is sensitive about how to describe this. There’s been a lot of “experimentation” with this, one of his advisers will start to explain — before doubling back to say that, actually, “I think ‘experimentation’ is the wrong word.” There’s no precedent for it. Joe Biden and Elizabeth Warren often invite you to consider your story through the lens of their own. Bill Clinton said “I feel your pain,” but he never asked people to reorient the way they feel about their own pain.

Bernie says he is trying to “redefine our value system.” Jane talks about breaking down decades of societal muscle memory: “It seems to be the American way,” she says. “That we all think it’s our fault — instead of recognizing there is a system that is making it unfair for them.” They are, as they see it, trying to dismantle the ideal of “rugged individualism,” an entire era of political thought. Ari Rabin-Havt, a top adviser who travels with the candidate every day, puts it more tangibly: The campaign is a “megaphone” for working people, he says. Briahna Joy Gray, his national press secretary, has likened the effect to “catharsis” from nationwide “gaslighting.” On the podcast she hosts for the campaign, she compares her boss to Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting: the therapist who tells Matt Damon, a young man who was abused by his foster parent, “It’s not your fault. Look at me, son. It’s not your fault… no, no, no, it’s not your fault.”

It really started late this spring, around the time he went to Alabama. The campaign YouTube page started pushing out stories like Pamela’s: a family living without clean drinking water in South Carolina; a family with inadequate low-income housing in San Francisco; workers at Walmart. On Twitter, he asked people to reply with stories of “their most absurd” medical bill. He got 50,000 responses in a week. By the fall, he was holding more town halls than rallies. In rooms from Iowa to Nevada, one person would raise their hand to speak, then another, and another, and another. “Don’t be nervous,” he’d tell the crowd. “You really are among friends.” Not every event has been as affecting as the next. On one trip, he visited a woman’s home in Des Moines to document her problems with contaminated well water. His host happened to be a fan and prepared two trays of homemade brownies for the occasion. Bernie, already late for his next event, declined to eat a brownie and left after 15 minutes. But more often than not, he is an attentive and genuine listener. At one event last month, a woman stood to say that people are “embarrassed if they don’t think they make enough money.” Bernie told her this had been “instilled” by “the system.” The campaign posted footage of the exchange on Instagram. As you watch the video, bold capital lettering runs across the top and bottom of the screen like an emergency weather alert: “THE SYSTEM WANTS YOU TO BE ASHAMED.”

“What we are doing,” he says, “is really speaking to the working class of this country in a way I’m not quite sure any candidate has ever done before.”

Eventually, when asked, he comes to describe this as core to his strategy to win.

“Here’s the gamble,” Bernie says. The gamble is there are millions of working people who don’t vote or consider politics to be relevant to their lives. “And it is a gamble to see whether we can bring those people into the political process,” he says. “One way you do it is to say, ‘You see that guy? He’s YOU. You’re workin’ for $12 an hour, you can’t afford health insurance — so is he. Listen to what he has to say. It’s not Bernie Sanders talking, you know? It’s that guy. Join us.”

And yet, on a Tuesday night, in one moment, the full force of the political revolution, all 50 years of it, came grinding so unquestioningly to a halt by one blocked artery. He will spend two and a half days in the hospital — and he will lie there hooked up to their beeping machines, and he will yell at the doctors when they try to ask him stupid questions, and he will quiz them about health care policy and obsess over what all this would cost without insurance — and there will be a crisis over what to say in the press release and when to say it and if it can wait until Jane is able to deliver the news in person to the seven grandkids before they see it on CNN, and there will be reporters stalking him outside the building, and all sorts of people will want to visit — and for days, he will say over and over again, “I can’t believe I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine how I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine…” like this is a fact he simply cannot accept, because he feels fine as soon as they finish the procedure and because he’s always had terrific “endurance”... Never thought it’d be his heart to cause him problems… Ran a 4:37 mile in high school...!

But not once, in all that chaos and frustration, will he consider dropping out.

ii.

Here is what Pamela explains to Bernie Sanders: that her family bought this mobile home in the ’90s for a trumped-up price of $114,000; that she lives on $1,000 a month; that she still owes $15,000 on the house; the house she fears will harm her daughter’s health; the house where her mother caught pneumonia and died; the house where, “when a storm comes,” she says, “we have to stay in the mobile home and just pray.” He learns that Pamela’s sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to pay for the county garbage service. Another sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to buy into the sanitation system. He turns to a reporter in the Alabama heat. “Really something, isn’t it?” he says. He is frowning, jowls gathered slightly at the neck, but there is no shock or judgment in his face. It will become a familiar expression over the summer and fall. He is not always an obviously comforting presence, but there is never judgment.

“So this is where the waste goes?”

Everyone is outside now, around back. Sanders wants to see where the waste goes.

He learns that Pamela, like many residents in Lowndes County, is also “straight-piping” her untreated sewage from the bathroom to her yard. She is here with Catherine Flowers, an activist who has worked with Congress on the pernicious tangle of issues facing Lowndes County: criminalized poverty, environmental degradation, inadequate infrastructure.

He peers down at a line of dark, matted grass where, a few paces from his feet, inches from the base of the trailer, sewage flows via exposed PVC pipes into a shallow open-air trench. “Is this uncommon in this part of the world?” he asks, steering the conversation for his unseen audience, and the cameras swing back to Pamela and Catherine.

The sun is beating down. Bernie rolls up his sleeves and starts talking gravely about how this is the richest country in the history of the world... “Today we’re in Lowndes County, Alabama, in an African-American community,” he is saying. “Tomorrow we’ll be in California in a Latino community, or in West Virginia in a white community, and the stories will be the same.” You can see his bald head turning shades of pink and red. Everyone is sweating. Pamela is talking about her mother’s death. It is not an easy conversation. “This is America,” he is saying.

Back in his Washington headquarters, the digital team is waiting for the footage.

In the supercharged world Bernie inhabits, the decision to stay in the race was considered not only reasonable, but obvious. Here, there is no confusion about “what we’re trying to do here.” The candidate moves amid a swirl of people you would classify uncynically as “true believers.” It’s a lot of passion in one place. The stakes always feel high. But the hard and fast question of whether they can win the nomination is, to a certain extent, supplanted by the general sense that the movement is a just and right cause and, therefore, in the end, the cause will prevail, likely in a shocking fashion when no one anticipates it or believes it can be done, à la Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And so they are always on guard against outside forces — people who will doubt them, or underestimate them, or try to actively destroy them.

This is how things go in “a politics of struggle.”

In “a politics of struggle,” as Sanders explains it in a 2015 foreword to his first memoir, setbacks are expected. There will be defeats before there can be the “breakthroughs” few people imagine possible. In a politics of struggle, the goals are “transforming a city, a state, a nation, and maybe the world.” It is already understood that this is “about more than winning an election.”

It’s in this environment that the advent of the heart attack became another motivational “setback.” Ocasio-Cortez decided to endorse. Supporters only hung on tighter. Campaign staffers spoke in grave tones about the “sheer terror” of a world without Bernie. “What is happening right now,” Briahna Joy Gray told her subscribers on the campaign podcast, “is that an old man is carrying the most colossal imaginable weight on his shoulders.” By the time he is back on the trail, the mission of the campaign takes on newly urgent, almost philosophical importance.

He’s in Iowa — a town called Toledo, Tama County, population 2,341 — coaxing people to talk to him about how they feel. “What about health care?” he says at a local civic center, roaming out from behind the podium. “Don’t tell me what I wanna hear! — I want YOU to think about it. Should health care be a human right?” The crowd, not quite warmed up yet, signals a yes. “WHY?” he replies, voice booming. “Who wants to tell me why? Don’t be shy…”

This is his first campaign swing since the heart attack. Five events in 24 hours.

He has to address the age question, of course, so he does. “I've been criticized for being old. I plead guilty. I am old!” he says at his first stop of the trip. Reporters ask him about it. Pundits analyze why it matters. Dr. Oz, the heart surgeon and television host, provides his unsolicited opinion that Bernie’s “protoplasm is strong,” a you-know-it-when-you-see-it term in the medical community for physiological sturdiness. Voters also weigh in, as if to offer reassurance. “Seniors rock!” a woman says at a town hall in Marshalltown, Iowa. Moments later, a middle-aged man raises his hand to tell the candidate that, by age 39, he’d had three heart attacks, a stroke, and a triple-bypass surgery — “and it doesn’t have to get in the way of living, all right?” Bernie takes these remarks in stride, smiling back gamely. He is in a good mood. Though you get the distinct impression that he would rather not be discussing the state of his protoplasm, or himself, at all.

During the town hall in Toledo, Jane and a few staffers can hear Bernie speaking through the walls of an adjacent hold room. She and Ari Rabin-Havt, the deputy who was with Bernie in the hospital through the whole ordeal, are sitting at a small table talking about the heart attack like family members who, maybe years later, are finally able to look back at the whole thing and laugh. Except here, it’s been days, not years. Jane is going into her own Bernie impression: “He’s like, ‘I feel fine. I don’t understand… You’ah tellin’ me I had a heart attack?? I don’t — I, I don’t understand.’”

The thing that bothered him so much about it was the relative smallness of it — like this was needlessly, stupidly about him, “and I’M not important,” remember? What did his aging body, in his mind a vessel of little consequence, have anything to do with the reality that “millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world are struggling every single day”? The answer, of course, is everything: This, like any endeavor in electoral politics, hinges on the will and presence and personality of its leader. The political revolution is no less human or fallible.

And there he was, having to ask for a chair during an event in Las Vegas — he rarely sits on stage — because of chest pains. “Ari, can you do me a favor?” he looked around the room for Rabin-Havt. “Where’s Ari? Get me a chair up here for a moment. I’m going to sit down here.” Staffers found their jobs suddenly transformed. They were dealing with the questions of a health crisis: Should they take him to the hospital? And which hospital? The closer one, or the one with the better cardiology center? But this was Bernie. Everyone knows Bernie. There would be a scene. People would ask for selfies in the waiting room. Reporters would hear about it. They did not want that. It was Rabin-Havt, in the end, who approached the front desk at the urgent care center behind the MGM Grand and discretely flashed his boss’s driver’s license — 09/08/1941, SANDERS, BERNARD — so the nurses would usher him into the back quietly and without delay.

“They're like, ‘Look, we're gonna have to put him in the cath lab,’” Rabin-Havt says. Jane, seated to his right, hasn’t even heard this part of the story yet. So they got him in the cath lab. The doctor asked, how much pain are you in on a scale of 1 to 10, which Bernie rebuffed as a useless question. Then they asked him to please remove his wedding ring. “Really?” he growled, removing the ring. Then they asked for his glasses. And that’s where he drew the line. “JESUS CHRIST! I'm not gonna do that,” he said. That night, Rabin-Havt and another staffer took turns wearing the wedding ring so they wouldn’t lose it. “Oh my god,” Rabin-Havt says. “It was the scariest part.”

The next morning, when Jane arrived from Vermont, she found her husband unchanged. He was talking about how someone without insurance maybe wouldn’t have gone to urgent care at all because of how much it would cost. “That’s his brain,” Jane says. She turns to Rabin-Havt. “Did he say anything to you?” “Not during,” Rabin-Havt says. “The next day when he woke up, he was like, ‘What do you think this is going to cost?’”

His room became the center of activity in the hospital. He held policy discussions with the nurses. He asked the doctors about the hospital's finances. That was a relief, Jane says — to see “the same old Bernie.” Back in Washington, the press team kept obsessive watch over the news coverage, demanding corrections from reporters who described the stent procedure as a “surgery.” There was no surgery, they said breathlessly. It was a procedure! “I’m talking to the doctors,” Jane recalls, “and they’re saying ‘procedure,’ not surgery. It was not a surgery.” Rabin-Havt nods: Not a surgery. Once they finally got the diagnosis — “heart attack” — they needed a statement. So they hunkered down in a hospital break room. The doctors (multiple) started dictating to Rabin-Havt, who tapped out notes on his iPhone. Their first draft was a bit medical — too much jargon. One of the physicians, an English major in college, cut in: “No, no, no — we can do this so the press understands.” So then that doctor tinkered. Once they had their finished product, Rabin-Havt emailed it to the doctors and asked for a formal reply affirming the statement as their own. Proof in writing, presumably, in case of conspiracy theories.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Jane says, laughing. “Well, it was — it was not fun.”

You might wonder, reasonably so, why a 78-year-old man would rather be here, back in Iowa, still doing this, likely at some risk to his health, when he could also just drop out, endorse Elizabeth Warren, and spend his days at the family home on Lake Champlain. Maybe this is especially true if you also believe that Bernie Sanders stands no real shot at winning the Democratic nomination and probably knows it — but will take his diehard supporters, his loyal 15%, a big enough chunk to influence the debate and stay relevant, as far as they can carry him. But then, of course, you would be ruining his good mood and missing the point entirely.

“Honestly,” his wife says, seated at the small table, “I think things are getting worse. Things are getting worse.” By which she means wages, costs, bills, just not knowing if you can keep a roof over your head. “And this is an opportunity. I don't know that the opportunity was there in 2016, where it was so widespread in the same way, the feeling among people of, ‘Wait a minute. We deserve better. This is not OK. The system is completely broken.’ There were some people who saw it in 2016, but it has gotten so much worse over the last two or three years.”

“We’re losing ground as a people. And that angers him,” she laughs dryly, and from the other room, you can hear that he does sound angry — angry about how people go bankrupt for getting “CANC-AH,” angry about our crumbling “IN-FER-STRUCHRR,” angry about his colleagues in Congress who say everyone “LOOOOVES” their private health insurance. “THAT TRUE?”

He is yelling, yes, but Bernie Sanders is “happiest and most comfortable in rooms like this,” Rabin-Havt says, gesturing to the event across the hall. “When you put him in a room full of political hacks — like, phonies — that’s not his room. He’s not going to like it.”

Jane nods. “And he’s going to be gruff.”

“He’s going to be gruff,” Rabin-Havt says, “and he’s not going to know how to deal with it. You put him in a room with real people telling their real stories and—”

“And he’s a different person,” Jane says. “If you have politicians and, uh, media personalities just trying to play gotcha politics or talk about the polls or other candidates — and never asking the real questions about what's affecting the people, he has no time. He has no time.”

Jane, like most everyone around her husband, is a true believer. The two grew up in the same area of Brooklyn — 10 blocks apart, where her father worked as a taxi driver — but they wouldn’t meet until 1980 in Burlington. She was a community organizer. He was running for mayor. She had never heard the name “Bernie Sanders” when she helped organize a debate for the candidates at a Unitarian church in town. “Nobody liked the incumbent mayor in the community groups. Being a good Catholic girl, I greeted him and made sure he was all set up. I didn't even talk to Bernie! But everybody was interested in Bernie. And then I sat in the second row, and I listened to him, and so did the entire Unitarian Church,” she pauses, then continues slowly, “and I felt that he embodied everything I believed in. The first time I heard him speak. And I knew I would be working with him from that moment on.”

There is a stunning intensity in the belief — one made very real by the heart attack, one held firmly by his staff, his wife, by the candidate himself — that if Bernie Sanders isn’t going to be telling the American people these stories, then no other candidate will.

“It was a gut check for a lot of people,” Jane says. “Everybody was thinking cerebrally, ‘well, you know, we'll see how it plays out. The polls don’t seem to be doing that well right now. Who knows whether it's gonna be Biden or Elizabeth or Bernie…’” She waves her hand in the air.

“And then when people — I mean, I felt it very strongly from so many people — when people heard that he had a heart attack, it was like, ‘Oh my god.’ And envisioning, OK, without Bernie's voice, oh my god, this would be a totally different race. It would be a totally…” her voice trails off. “People understand that he's the one that can affect real change…”

“This is not a, uh, an intellectual discussion.”

At some point, the sound of Bernie’s voice from the other room drops out.

Jane goes silent. The staffers go silent.

Everything is abruptly quiet, and there is an instant, a half of a split second, when the mind imagines that maybe something’s happened — and then there’s the sound of Bernie Sanders speaking again.

“Somebody was just asking a question,” Jane explains.

“Oh, OK,” Rabin-Havt says.

“OK.”

iii.

The video team is still rolling outside Pamela’s house.

After about 25 minutes, the visit is over. They are all standing in the front yard — Bernie, Pamela, and Catherine. Two campaign vans are idling silently in the driveway. Both women have dealt with politicians before: Catherine has worked on legislation with US senators, including another presidential candidate, Cory Booker, to address rural wastewater problems. Pamela has testified before a congressional forum on poverty convened by Elizabeth Warren.

“Thank you,” Pamela tells her guest.

“I want to thank YOU,” he replies. And suddenly, there are tears. Catherine is hugging him, and then Pamela is hugging him too and crying into his blue button-down shirt — and then they are all hugging together. “We won’t forget you,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

After they leave the house, he turns to one of the political reporters with him. “Learning something?” he asks.

The visit is still heavy on his mind. There is some light conversation about the trip — and then you see his face turn to a grimace. The reporter asks about Joe Biden. At this particular juncture in the horserace, there is a thirst for conflict between the two candidates.

“One day at a time…” he responds.

The reporter tries again: “Do you think Biden’s message is resonating in the South?”

“We’ll take it one day at a time, I have no idea. Nor does anyone else.”

He is, of course, annoyed. “You have all heard me rant and rave,” he starts telling the group. “I don’t think that the media is the enemy of the people, that it’s fake news. God knows I don’t think that.”

“But I do think we have to do a better job in looking at issues that impact ordinary people.”

“There are millions of people in this country…”

Later in the day, he relays Pamela’s story to the crowd at his town hall. The following month, his campaign releases a two-and-a-half-minute video about the trip, titled “Trapped.” Eventually, it hits 750,000 views.

In the middle of an interview, he bats back a question to ask one of his own.

“Do you know what it’s like to live —”

He is about to say “paycheck to paycheck,” but he stops himself. As he sees it, the media doesn’t know anything about that. Reporters, even the well-meaning ones, he thinks, don’t have a clue. “I mean, I do,” he says. “I grew up in that family.” His father, a paint salesman, worked hard but never made much money. The family lived in a three-and-a-half-room, rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn. Both parents died young. As a young politician in Vermont, Sanders had to borrow gas money to campaign. The windshield wipers on his Volkswagen bug didn’t work. He struggled to pay bills. After his swearing-in as mayor of Burlington, he bought his first suit at age 40. He was, in those days, the same voter he’s trying to reach now. His old notebooks, legal pads fished from the archives by a Mother Jones reporter earlier this year, include rambling notes on his inability to do better for himself and his young son. The internal commentary is scathing and unkind. “Not only do I not pay bills every month — ‘What, every month?’ — I am better now than I used to be,” he wrote, “but pretty poor…”

The secret, it turns out, is that in addition to taking this work very seriously, Bernie Sanders also takes it very personally. The secret is that a mostly solitary man — a man who has spent most of his political career on the outskirts, who’s never really fit into someone’s idea of a politician, who’s “cast some lonely votes, fought some lonely fights, mounted some lonely campaigns” — is now trying to win a presidential campaign, maybe his last, by making people feel less alone.

This is his campaign, his theory of change, though he’s done very little to explain it to a wider audience. “I care less about the coverage, in one sense,” he says. “What I care about is that someone turns on the TV, and there’s someone who works at Walmart, or someone from Disney, or McDonald's. And they say, you know, ‘that’s me.’” He wants those people to do the talking: the people who worry about their electric bill. The people who wonder if they can afford to have another kid. People for whom “the idea of taking vacation” — he scoffs as he says the word — “is not even in their imagination even though they work all the time.” In his mind, he was those people.

He is not among the politicians “whose mommies and daddies told them at the country club that they were born to be president,” as he put it last year. He suspects his parents were Democrats, but he isn’t sure — it’s not something they discussed. So he is not drawn to Washington in the usual ways. Which is not to say that he doesn’t have ego. In 2016, staffers watched him adjust with unexpected ease to his new power and popularity: The guy in the middle seat, coach class, was suddenly flying private and showing up to watch the Golden State Warriors play the Oklahoma City Thunder in Game 7. But he does not have what one former president called “that wretched mania, an itching for the White House.” He is driven by a different compulsion.

You get the sense, without exaggeration, that he will keep doing this for the rest of his life. That he would die before he stops. There are some signs, after the heart attack, that this is playing on his mind. “At the end of the day,” he told his supporters in a seven-minute video he recorded after his release from the hospital, “if you’re gonna look at yourself in the mirror, you’re gonna say, ‘Look, I go around once, I have one life to live. What role do I wanna play?’”

But for the most part, his mood is notably light. His return to the campaign trail, ever since the heart attack, aka “heart incident,” as senior aides refer to it in the press, has been a happy, bordering-on-joyous affair. He starts cracking jokes during his speech. He plays basketball. He hosts his staff at his house in Burlington, demonstrating the best way to build a fire in a tiny stove. He announces plans for his own New Year’s Eve party in Iowa with food, drinks, and live music: “Bernie’s Big New Year’s Bash.” Inexplicably, he ends up dancing at a labor solidarity dinner in New Hampshire. “Our revolution includes dancing!” he declares. And then, to the sound of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and The Temptations’ “The Way You Do the Things You Do,” he sways his hips from side to side, grinning, and twirls woman after woman across the banquet hall.

The major papers describe this period as a “renaissance” and “resurgence.” In polls conducted since the heart attack, he has either maintained his position or become even more competitive. He has a shot at Iowa. He looks good in Nevada and California. He remains the only candidate with more donations than Donald Trump. And he has some $1.67 million coming in each month from people who have signed up for automatic recurring donations.

On one afternoon in late October, he travels to Brooklyn to do a few interviews.

The plan is to walk up Henry Street to the Brooklyn Promenade, a pedestrian area overlooking the East River and downtown Manhattan, but he makes a turn onto Kane Street instead — spontaneous! — another indication of his good mood, which an aide quickly notes aloud.

He walks a few blocks, greeting passersby, before ducking into Francesco's Pizzeria & Trattoria, where he orders a slice of pepperoni. His staffers also order pepperoni. “See!” Bernie says. “Can’t think for themselves!” Jane shrugs. “Well, I got cheese,” she says.

The guys behind the counter open the oven and pull out a slice of pepperoni, wet and shimmering in its own hot oil. No one is concerned, apparently, about whether pizza is a wise choice three weeks after a stent procedure. Jane doesn’t blink. His staff doesn’t blink. No one blinks. Bernie takes his plate to a corner table, where he sits for a brief interview, giving polite but clipped answers about his decision to stay in the presidential race after the incident.

In one swift hand motion, as if to dispense with this line of inquiry entirely, he lifts the slice from its white paper plate, folds the crust lengthwise, takes a large bite, and swallows.

“This is my life,” he says.

The statement is, for Bernie, as straightforward and uncomplicated as it sounds. Everyone seems to understand this. Of course he should eat pizza. Of course he is still running for president.

“Well,” Jane says a few days later, “I mean, it would be kind of ridiculous if it didn't affect him in some way.”

“I think the way it affected him was, ‘OK, this… This is my mission in life. This is my purpose. I'm here for a reason.’”

On that long flight from Vermont to Las Vegas, she thought about what she should do when she saw him in the hospital. “If he wasn’t doing well,” she thought, she would put her foot down. She would tell him no. “If he was in danger, I would absolutely say, ‘I’m sorry. You can’t.’”

Jane pauses. “But honestly, I don’t know that he would have listened to me.”

[chibimyumi]

Wait - so if I got this right, Furukawa is tohos favourite cow and he belongs to their company. And they're paying a lot for kuromyu. So why do they let him continue in a musical, which basically can't afford anything and would go down without him? As far as I understood, Toho gains as much as nothing from that. So couldn't it be as well possible to tell Furukawa to stop playing Sebas or is this his own desicion wether to do that or not? Greetings from a confuzzled fan °A°/

【Related Post】

Dear anonymous confuzzled fan,

It seems like you understood it perfectly! Furukawa is indeed TOHO’s favourite cow. My friends and I call him “Furucowa”, he has played “Moowzart”, starred in “Lady Bessie”, and is most well known as “Sebessie” in this fandom.

Okay, okay sorry, I’ll be more serious now.

Why does TOHO let Furucowa continue in Kuromyu?

Despite the Imperial Theatre’s esteem as the most elite form of entertainment, the fanbase is - though incredibly loyal - still relatively small. TOHO is not very accessible, and they only have Tokyo and Osaka as their theatre bases. So even if people would like to see a TOHO production, they’d still have to travel all the way to either Tokyo or Osaka. Japan is a big country; most people have to book a plane/shinkansen ticket and a hotel to watch theatre. The traveling costs on top of the expensive ticket can quickly become an astronomical sum.

In contrast, manga and anime are very accessible. Compared to the fanbase manga has, theatre’s is but a niche minority.

Though theatre is niche, Kuromyu can ride the tailcoats of the manga/anime’s immense success. Most people did not see Kuromyu because they are theatre fans, but because they are Kuroshitsuji fans.

By letting Furukawa partake in Kuroshitsuji, TOHO managed to market Furukawa not just in the niche world of theatre, but also in the wide world of manga. Indeed, after Furukawa’s major success in Lycoris 2015, the Imperial Theatre noticeably gained an increase in spectators; most of these were Kuroshitsuji fans. (When I went to Romeo & Juliette in 2017, half of the people standing in front of me had the Kuromyu Tote bag.)

Not only did TOHO manage to gain more customers whenever Furukawa is performing, but Furukawa also became the gateway for many manga-fans to liking theatre in general. Ever since Furukawa’s skyrocketing success, TOHO also began to aim their marketing strategies at late teens and young adults. Before, it were mostly rich madams who set foot in the Imperial Theatre, but nowadays we see increasingly more young people attend as well. Furukawa has managed to widen the age demographics of theatregoers.

Symbiosis - TOHO’s Side

Even though TOHO spends quite a fortune on sponsoring MKP (Musical Kuroshitsuji Project), that money is basically their payment for grandiose advertisement.

No matter how many posts TOHO would make on social media, on their own they could never beat the publicity gained from a praising tweet by Yana herself, and they don’t even have to pay Yana a single yen for that!

The reason TOHO does not often produce DVDs is because they usually lose money on the sales. However, when the Romeo & Juliette 2019 Black Version DVD with Furukawa was released on August 1st, it sold out almost immediately, whereas White Version (Ohno Takuro’s Romeo) didn’t. A DVD being quickly sold out was unprecedented for TOHO. They were not prepared for this, so they had to rush the reprint. This again was evidence for TOHO that Furukawa is indeed their best cow.

Like I said before, it seems like MKP is going to struggle very hard without TOHO’s aid now, simply because the bar has now been raised too high for MKP to reach on their own. As it is now, TOHO has demonstrated just how powerful they are, how much of a difference they can make. Besides, they also won the reputation as ‘the charitable senpai who looked out for poor little 2.5D kouhai’. Perhaps they will also lend their other cows to other manga franchises in future. Who knows?

No matter how much they spent on MKP, TOHO probably earned that back multifold.

Symbiosis - MKP’s Side

Even though it is a risk to rely on TOHO, MKP did manage to make a noteworthy break through a glass ceiling; the glass ceiling of 2.5D theate’s reputation of being amateurish. Even now, Kuromyu is acknowledged to be one of 2.5D’s leading productions. Though the risk was high, the fame they got in return was phenomenal. What other “amateurish” 2.5D can say they have had the honour of starring actors from the esteemed Imperial Theatre? What other 2.5D could say their Troupe Lead is THE Prince of the Imperial Theatre?

Furucowa’s Decision

Furukawa honestly loves Sebastian from the bottom of his heart, and he did once say that as long as the material is canon and things within his power, he would guard the role of Sebastian like a mad dog.

Ever since he played Sebas he has changed for the better. He has come to see the source of many social judgements stemming from other people’s insecurities, for example. Playing Sebas taught him how to objectively assess human behaviour, allowing him to better deal with anxiety.

As an additional bonus, he also shared with us how this new skill of objective observation turned out very helpful in studying and interpreting different roles. Nowadays, Furukawa often drops phrasings like: “humans this, humans that”… It is truly beautiful how much Sebas still lives in Furukawa.

I am not sure whether TOHO has the right to “make Furukawa STOP” playing in Kuromyu. But again, as long as the material is from canon, it would probably be very hard for anybody to actually make him give up on Sebastian.

[naysaltysalmon]

2019 was bitchin’

Writing a post to sum up my progress over the past year has become tradition ever since I started college in 2017. I’m not one to quit now.

This year, I dove into my religious studies more than ever. I enjoyed academia as a whole, and absorbed school at a level I haven’t ever been able to in previous years due to mental illness. I went to China to live and study in a Buddhist monastery -- something I never believed I could accomplish on my own financially or emotionally. But I did it! And it was definitely a life-changing event, one that changed me for the better.

I haven’t spoken much about what occurred while in China (except on a few Instagram posts), and though I gained a fuck ton of confidence in traveling, more importantly I gained a new perspective on (my) life. I got into a fight with my two closest friends. Both are friends I met in college freshman year. Why I was angry doesn’t matter to this post, but the important part is that I finally wracked up the courage to tell them my feelings, despite living under them in a foreign country. I got the two extreme reactions: 1) One friend said she was glad I told her how I felt and agreed, and we’ve become closer friends because of it. 2) The other... totally disregarded my feelings, and I’m dreading seeing him again (he’s been studying abroad in London).

Something the friend I’m on-the-outs with told me is that whomever you have as friends reflects on who you are as a person. I believe he’s right.

I lost a lot of friends again this year, just like I did in junior year of high school. And both times, it’s been for similar reasons: hiding my true desires until I couldn’t keep it in anymore, and then they turned on me when I finally told them. (More on that in a sec.)

Another big thing that I did this year was started going to a private therapist. Now, I’d gone to three school-sponsored therapists before my current therapist, but the goals of a school-sponsored therapist versus a therapist totally disconnected from the school are completely different. In April of this year, my last on-campus therapist and I decided it was time I see someone off-campus, being that I’d finally been able to work through the daily management of depression and anxiety, and now to get to the deeper underlying issues to these things, I would have to address my trauma.

Dealing with my trauma this year has not only made me more exhausted during school, but it has made me realize... just how many people have failed me.

While in the monastery in China, I had seven days of complete silence to meditate for over eight hours per day. We weren’t allowed to talk, make eye contact with anyone, or gesture to anyone else during this retreat, and I got to thinking about many things in my life. After that much silence, you really do think about everything.

I had some what you would call “religious” experiences -- but I won’t drawl on here. Mainly, I remember thinking a lot about the past, specifically one relationship that really fucked me up in high school around this time four years ago, in junior year of high school. She and I had been best friends since 7th grade, and we did everything together. I developed feelings for her -- but more than romantic feelings, I became familially -- and admittedly, codependently -- attached to her. The major problem with our relationship was that we never spoke seriously about anything. If one of us was having an issue, it was all jokes and smiles. I hid from her everything that I had been going through with my family for the entire time we were friends. And when I finally told her everything, blurting it all out in hundreds of long back-and-forth texts during Winter Break of junior year, the next time I saw her...

Nothing had changed.

It was still all jokes and smiles.

This year was the year of acceptance -- but that acceptance hasn’t been easy. Needless to say, our relationship didn’t last much longer after that. I’d not only confessed my romantic feelings to her, but shared things with her I hadn’t told anyone out of trauma-induced fear. And she’d ignored it all, not knowing how to continue on without ruining what we’d had.

All this time, I guess I thought it was my fault. Not only with this friend, but with my family too, with anyone who’s been my friend or said they would be there for me and they weren’t. By making it my fault, I had control of the situation. By convincing myself that it was just something I was doing wrong to get through to people, it made me feel less helpless. So I clung to that idea, that it’s been my fault this entire time. All these years.

Ten years ago, things changed in my family, which made it so I could no longer ignore the truth, living the same oblivious life riddled with a pain I didn’t understand and therefore avoided, believing it was just me. And all this time, I’ve still avoided my trauma as much as possible, knowing it only makes me depressed, and gets me vacant stares and flippant tangential conversation, even from the people I consider my “friends.”

I still hold myself accountable for the things that I’ve done -- but now... In spite of all my “gifts,” I’ve finally admitted to my own powerlessness in it all. I did what I did because I didn’t know how bad it was, because that’s how I was raised. It wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t my fault.

...And with that, I welcome 2020 with open arms. I’m fully an adult now by society’s standards (some of you may know December 31st is also my birthday) -- but I feel, only just now, have I finally started to understand where everyone else was two years ago when they started college -- or in junior year of high school.

Me, in 2017? I was immobilized by my freedom, too scared to see what the world had to offer. Now, I’m exhausted, because I’ve only just reached the starting line.

I’m still alone, in many/most ways. That hasn’t really changed after all this time Coming back from China, after so many days of meditation I naïvely thought I could cast aside my fictional worlds and become a more forthright me overnight. The truth is, these stories are the only friends I’ve retained throughout the years.

I still need them for a bit longer, but in a different way... The friend who accepted my feelings not only in China but since then... even when we part ways, I know she’ll still be with me, unlike that “friend” from high school, or so many who have abandoned me at the first sign of trouble for the idea of me they had in their heads. Even though their significance -- both real and fictional -- has changed overtime, I’ll carry a piece of them within me forever.

This post is a lot longer than my previous year-end “reflections” -- I think that’s significant in and of itself. I’ve avoided talking about this stuff all this time, fearing it would alienate even the online world from me. Not anymore.

In 2020 and the decade to come, I’m looking forward to gaining more financial independence from my parents. I’m looking forward to no longer doubting whether the trauma I experienced was real. I’m looking forward to continuing to connect with people on a level that will provide me with the support I need and allow me to heal from the past. I’m looking forward to having more energy to pursue my classes, physical activities, and social interactions, now that I can more easily keep my mental illnesses at bay.

In 2020, I also want to work on stepping up my writing game, as it is my long-term goal to become an author one day -- of what, I’m not yet sure. It’s likely I still won’t be able to write much in 2020 due to being a college student majoring in a humanities department, but I’ll do my best to reignite the fire that’s been in me before. I hope to finish off Things I Don’t Understand once and for all, as it is a remnant of all my regrets in high school, and now a symbol of how far I have come.

One last thing I accepted this year and this decade is acknowledging my limitations, and how much help I need from other people. Trying to do things alone or expecting someone to do everything for you -- neither are realistic. In order to become the best version of yourself, you need to take care of yourself, which includes allowing yourself to be close with others.

Happy New Year, everyone -- and 21st birthday to me! 🍻