yenhan

[yenhan]

TF141 & International student neighbor pt. 3

Previous - Masterlist

Doing a walk of shame to their place while holding a Tupperware container filled with your contribution to dinner, two boiled eggs and a single sad tomato, made you feel silly. You were inventive, you could come up with something to bail last minute. But the alternative was another night alone with leftover rice and the sound of next door laughing without you. Did you want that? No, you were miserable enough already.

The door to their flat opened before you even knocked. Johnny must’ve been watching from the peephole like a feral dog. “Took ye long enough!” he held a beer out like a bribe.

“Do I look like I can be bought with alcohol?” You brushed past him into the warm, curry-scented room.

“Ye look like ye want to be. C’mon, hen, shoes off, drama on. We’ve just started burnin’ the onions.” You’d never noticed how sparkling his eyes were. Soap really was the life of the party; you could learn one thing or two.

“They’re not burnt,” Gaz called from the kitchen, “they’re caramelized.”

“What’s this arson smell, then?” You replied, stepping in.

The first thing you noticed was a humongous laundry basket full of tactical gear shoved under a coat rack. How did you even know the word ‘humongous’? Fan fiction, probably. The IELTS certification abandoned in a box under your bed hadn’t helped with half of your English vocabulary till this day. Above the basket, a paper sheet had been attached to the wall; it had tally marks and the boys’ names on it.

Days since retirement – John: 243, Simon: 197, Kyle: 243, Johnny: 425 Months since the last ‘gear wash’ day – John: IIIIIII, Simon: I, Kyle: IIIIIII, Johnny: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

“Do I want to know?” You let out a small, dry chuckle.

“Price and I washed our military uniforms on the day of our retirement. Johnny has been out for 14 months, but those are 25 lines.” Gaz leaned with both elbows on the kitchen counter.

Ah.

…

“Gross! Johnny, I can’t believe you!”

“Wot? I dinnae wan’ to erase ma masculine scent, bonnie!” The Scotsman defended himself with a way-too-childish pout.

“Stay away from me, I’ll sit next to John!”

He raised a finger, as if realizing something. “Technically, ma name’s John, too—”

“Vade retro! Shoo!”

Johnny’s questionable hygienic habits aside, there was a lingering scent of spices and beer hung in the air. It was the most lived-in place you’d seen since arriving in the country. Soap motioned you to a stool by the counter, then dramatically gestured to the stove. “Feast your eyes on our gourmet operation.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be,” Ghost muttered, appearing from the hallway like a haunted Victorian widower in grey gym shorts. You jumped slightly, he always moved too quietly for a man built like a fridge.

“Are you cooking too?” You asked, trying not to show how much his presence still intimidated you.

He stared. “No.”

Right. Of course.

“I supervise,” he added after a beat.

Price was at the dining table with a bottle of dark ale and a frown carved into his face. You’d seen it before. The dad face. He motioned to the other chair. “Sit down. You eat with us, you eat properly.”

You obeyed instantly.

Gaz passed you a bowl of rice and a second one full of fragrant chicken curry; your stomach made an embarrassing sound. Aunt Wang’s fried rice hadn’t been enough.

“So,” John started, tilting his head, “you survive the immigration office?”

You groaned into your spoon. “Barely. They lost my file again. I think I’m being cursed by a low-level demon who feeds on administrative dysfunction.”

The youngest of the sergeants nodded seriously. “Aye, they dae. Our Lt. once swore blind a goat farmer in Al-Amarah’d cursed the whole unit.”

“I said hexed,” Ghost corrected without looking up from his bottle. “Get it right.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes. “Do you ever have a normal day? Like, just one?”

“No,” Price said flatly.

-

They let you vent. Not the polite nod-and-smile kind of listening that the cashier at Tesco would offer while you bagged the groceries, they were listening; locked in and taking notes. You told them about your classes, how your advisor always forgot your name, and the time your essay got an Upper Second-Class Degree because you put a capybara emoji in a pargraph to see if the professor actually read assignments.

You ranted about the cold, about how people said “cheers” for everything, and how your landlord responded to maintenance requests with philosophical questions like ‘what even is a functioning radiator, really?’. A practical ��You’re not Nietzsche, Truth isn’t a human construction for you. Just fix my shitty apartment,’ shut him up.

“God, I missed student chaos. It makes me feel young again.”

“Aren’t you the one who insists he’s still young?”

“Dunno. My knees disagree.”

“You’re all really weird,” you remarked, curled up with a glass of lemon soda. You’d been warned the beer they bought wasn’t that nice, but… jeez, it tasted like grief and Simon's black face paint.

Gaz raised a brow. “You’re one to talk. You translated Aunt Wang’s death threats and then thanked her with a bow.”

“She gave me extra rice!”

In the end, Johnny did read aloud from your anthropology textbook. Kyle played a Spotify playlist titled Chicken Curry Vibes, which included a weird mix of Arctic Monkeys, Pitbull, and a loud Bollywood remix.

Ghost didn’t read the villain lines in your favourite cheap romance novel. He did, however, steal your naan bread, then feigned innocence like a cat caught getting inside the microwave.

You didn’t feel so helpless anymore.

This wasn’t home yet.

But it was beginning to be yours.

And the 141? Oh, they already belonged to you.

[yenhan]

"Accidental pregnancy scare"

Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor ft. Alejandro and Rudy

Part One - Masterlist

You knew you’d messed up the second Rudy dropped his drink.

He was laughing at first. He was. That man had a distinctive laugh, and he definitely fit his newest job as a self-defence instructor for kids. He just gave the impression to be that good with children. Alejandro, on the other hand, had his eyebrows so high up that they were about to vacate his forehead entirely.

Knowing they spoke Spanish, you took it as a chance to dust the drawer in which the 'one month exchange in Spain' had been abandoned. You finished telling them a story; being flustered after an evil seagull stole your sandwich at the beach. "Me sentí tan embarazada," you said at length.

Except, you just made a terrible mistake. A little mix-up between languages. Who could blame you? Your brain switched languages every two seconds! Embarazada, imbarazzata, embarassed... Why did they sound so similar? Was it really your fault if 'embarazada' meant 'pregnant'?

Which you were not. Not even remotely.

You coughed. Alejandro grinned like Christmas had come early.

“¿Embarazada?” Rudy repeated slowly. “You’re pregnant?”

Your heart dropped into your socks, under your shoes, under the pavement of the flat. “No! That’s not what I meant! I’m not—" You covered your face.

Too late.

The colonel, bless him, was already turned toward the lads, aware he was about to deliver a bombshell of gossip. “Did you know your little neighbor is pregnant?”

“Wot?!” Soap choked on his tea, beating his chest to avoid suffocating.

Gaz immediately teared up. “I—I’m not ready to be an uncle... Who’s the dad? Does he have a job? This requires an emergency meeting. We don’t have a contingency plan!”

Ghost stood up and walked directly to the window. As if the shining glass could track the identity of the mystery father... You were fairly certain he was running through a list of local male residents and assigning kill orders. Was it Jared from the butcher's shop? That boy had a penchant for dangerous endeavors, alas flirting with you when you accompanied Johnny and Simon to buy steaks. Perhaps Ray, the mailman, had lingered a little too long by your doorstep lately?

Price’s sigh could’ve powered the National Grid. “For Christ’s sake.”

Soap, poor guy, was pacing now. "Right, who wis it? Ah'll kill 'im. Naw, seriously, just blink twice if it’s someone we ken."

Encouraged by Alejandro's discreet sneer, you made a show of holding your stomach. “Oh, I just felt a flutter. Must’ve been the spicy fried chicken.”

The Scotsman nearly fainted. “You sneaky wee shite!"

“Y’lot are absolute idiots,” Price muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can someone get me a drink? Or a shovel to bury the rest of my patience?”

“I’m kidding! Not pregnant. Just linguistically challenged. Sorry, Kyle.”

Gaz stopped mid-sob. “Thank God. I wasn’t ready to financially commit to diapers.”

“Tha's it? No situation to… address?” Ghost turned. He sure was inscrutable, but you noticed the relieved glint in his eyes before it disappeared.

You gave him a look™. “Uh? Like you’d what, adopt the baby out of spite?”

He didn’t answer.

"Simon."

"I didn’t say yes."

"..."

Price just pointed a finger at both of your Mexican friends. “You two are banned from visiting. Indefinitely.”

Remember kids: Check your false friends before they give your neighbors a collective aneurysm. Or a reason to plan a shotgun wedding.

P.S. Yes, Simon would adopt the baby.

Based on a friend's mishap in Madrid. I promise pt. 3 will come out :)

[yenhan]

As an actual international student in the UK I relate to reader so so much. Like damn girl the food, the cost of living…NO THANK YOU

Funnily enough, I'm also an international student. Just not in the UK. I feel you 🥲

Btw sorry if I make any mistakes describing life there, it had to be the UK cause you know... 4 traumatized men

[yenhan]

𝔜𝔢𝔫ℌ𝔞𝔫

Yen/Xuxi ✮⋆ twenty ✮⋆ cod and music

⭑.ᐟ I do not write nsfw

✩ 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ✩

𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒖𝒕𝒚

TF141 & International student neighbor

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

S'i' Fosse Soap

Accidental pregnancy scare

Simon Riley - For the lore

TF141 as types of pasta - Here

𝑼𝒑𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈...

TF141 & International student neighbor:

Study session with the 141

[yenhan]

“S’i’ Fosse Soap”

Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor

Part One - Masterlist

You sent them a text. Did it sound like a poorly worded order from a hobbit half their size? Yes. Nothing screamed “girl power” more than a panicked invitation typed at midnight on an overdose of Cheetos, deleted twice, and sent with one eye closed for emotional damage control:

Lunch at mine, 1PM Saturday. Nothing fancy. Pls pretend to be normal :)

To your surprise, all four of them showed up.

You’d cleared the clutter off your tiny table, whipped up a savory pie with loads of leftover vegetables and meat, and added the closest thing to a centerpiece you could find: a half-dead bouquet of tulips and a candle that smelled like disappointment. It will have to do, you thought. Everyone knows you're on a budget. You were hosting four former elite soldiers with the table manners of well-trained raccoons. Upon witnessing Simon inhale the tray of lemon crumb bars you'd baked to celebrate his garage opening, the raccoon comparison felt generous. Everything was going great until Johnny and Gaz presented their “welcome gift” with stupid, toothy smiles. Mind you, regular adults have 32 teeth… Your beloved sergeants would lose all their incisors if they didn’t remove that monstrosity from your humble abode in the next 5 minutes.

Jellied eels. Ew.

You stared at the wobbly mess, blinking like a confused owl or a murderous hyena; it’s all about perspective. “This is a joke, right?”

Gaz beamed. “Traditional British cuisine!”

Soap bounced with enthusiasm. “Delicacy, lass. Cultural exchange an’ all that. Dinnae ye trust yer Johnny-boy?”

You muttered something not fit for polite company in two and a half languages before plotting your vengeance with a smile that should’ve worried them. “Fine, but as punishment, you’re reciting S’i’ fosse foco.” You hummed sweetly.

Johnny’s grin died instantly. “Whit’s that?”

You pulled out a battered paperback from your bookshelf. “It used to be my favorite Italian poem. It's a middle school classic. He’s an angry little man who wants to burn the world. Very relatable.”

-

Price leaned back on the couch, amused; he’d fetched himself a consolation drink after you actively prohibited cigars in the house. Ghost, on the other hand, crossed his arms, clearly resigned to another descent into chaos. Soap cleared his throat, ready to give the performance of his life. You pressed record on your phone.

“S’i’ fosse foco, arderei ‘l mondo…” he began, absolutely butchering the pronunciation with a Scottish-Italian hybrid accent so atrocious it made your ears weep and your ancestors cry out in horror.

You lost it somewhere around “s’i’ fosse acqua, i’ l’annegherei,” where he pronounced “acqua” like “ack-wah” and made dramatic tsunami movements with his hands. Kyle was the only one cheering for him.

“Eh, no one can say I didnae put my heart into it,” Johnny puffed out his chest.

You wiped tears from your eyes, still convulsing with giggles as you hit stop on your phone. “That was something, Johnny.”

Eventually, Soap knighted himself ‘Sir Butchersalot.’ “A self-proclamation of power, lass,” he insisted, and your cheeks ached from smiling. Ghost paused at the door, gave your shoulder a pat that nearly dislocated it, and grumbled a “Good lunch.”

You stood at the threshold as they walked away. What a bunch of weirdos, at least Johnny matched your freak.

Translations for reference:

“S’i’ fosse foco, arderei ‘l mondo…” - If I were fire, I would consume the world

“s’i’ fosse acqua, i’ l’annegherei” - If I were water, I would make it drown

Set somewhere between part one and two. I apologize, I'm obsessed with the boys and this trope and got too much time in my hands.

[yenhan]

TF141 & International student neighbor pt. 2

Next - Masterlist

The day had been long. We’re talking are-we-sure-it’s-not-weekend-tomorrow long. You'd spent most of it hopping between the university hall and the immigration office, trying to track down a document they’d somehow lost again. Three times in a row, how could a public institution lose a non-criminal record so many times? Did they feed their paperwork to a magical tiger pet kept under the desk? You were starting to suspect they stored things in a black hole powered by bureaucracy and spite. At some point, a clerk told you to come back “next week, maybe, if you’re lucky,” and you almost threw a chair at him. With violence. But you didn’t. Because you were superior and an adult and had exactly two tissues left in your bag; you weren’t about to waste one when it was barely 11 o’clock in the morning.

So, like any competent and mildly running-on-caffeine person, you went to Aunt Wang’s for food.

Oh, Aunt Wang was yelling. God may help her victim…

Her tiny shop, wedged between a butcher’s and a century-old pharmacy, survived on selling frozen dumplings, cheap snacks, and the occasional expired energy drink. In a nutshell, every broke student’s three Michelin stars restaurant. You’d long given up questioning how she got imported curry fish balls from Malaysia or why she always knew when you were low on laundry detergent. Aunt Wang knew everything. She also had opinions about everything. Especially when her prices were being questioned by two men who looked like they’d survived war zones but apparently couldn't survive the cost of instant noodles.

You were halfway through shoveling pre-cooked egg fried rice into your mouth when you heard the familiar ruckus. At first, you thought she was scolding the delivery guy again for mixing up her cartons of rice wine and white vinegar. That happened two days ago; the lad scurried off crying after bravely succumbing her ire for 6 minutes and 11 seconds. Yes, you timed it. Speaking of Lads™, half of your dream team was there.

“Eight pounds? For fungus?” John Price raised an eyebrow at a pack of Swiss brown mushrooms.

Wang shot back in rapid Mandarin. Something about inflation and people not appreciating the labor of small shop owners. Gaz was next to him, holding a suspiciously dented can of coconut milk like it might explode. “We just want to make curry, not buy the entire rainforest.”

Price grunted. “Back in Basra, we could get ten of these for a quid.”

Wang cut him off with a menacing 老外 and 吃不起不要吃. You coughed loudly to hide your chuckles, setting down your microwaveable rice bowl. Your oh-so-stealthy cover couldn’t possibly work when your neighbors had already memorized every detail of your laugh and smile like tattoos carved on their brains. You didn’t know that, though.

You turned your head from the wobbly plastic table you were squatting at, clutching your chopsticks like they were lifelines. There he stood, your favorite Captain Beard himself. And lovely, lovely Gaz, sleeves rolled up, trying not to choke on air. "Translation?" The younger man asked hopefully.

You sighed, stepping in. “She says if you can’t afford it, go cry to your government, not her. Also, that your beard makes you look like a fisherman whose Finding Nemo campaign failed.”

Price blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Wang pointed at him, nodding. “老水手。”

“Old sailor,” you said promptly. “She’s not wrong.” Price looked vaguely betrayed at that quip.

You helped settle the argument with a few words and a reminder that Wang would accept payment in cash and only in exact change. When Price asked why, you whispered, “Last week someone paid her with a coin from 1986 that turned out to be a game token.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, handing over the coins.

You sat on the wooden stool near the register, tucking into your rice, warmth spreading from your mouth down to your frozen toes. Wang had even added a boiled egg, on the house. You must’ve looked extra pathetic today; that was basically a declaration of love from her. The men lingered by the exit, fiddling with their bags of groceries like they weren’t sure what to do next. It was awfully endearing. Gaz finally leaned over, looking at your bowl. “That any good?”

“Best three-minute meal in the UK,” you replied through a mouthful. “Better than those jellied eels you and Johnny persuaded me into trying. I may not have forgiven you yet for that stunt.”

Price walked past and placed a hand on your shoulder. You swore it wasn’t tears burning your eyes at his offer. “We’re making curry. You can come. Or don’t, it’s up to you, kid.”

Gaz added, “There’s beer, too. Not the good kind, y’know. Not poisoning-inducing, though.”

Your eyes prickled. You didn’t cry. You absolutely did not. You had the waterworks in full blast in front of Simon just last week; your dignity was still reeling from that. And the scolding the captain gave you afterwards because you should’ve just gone to them, they would make it better.

“Thanks,” you murmured. “I might join if I finish my reading.”

“Bring your books, Johnny likes reading aloud when he’s drunk. Calls it ‘dramatic education.’” The sergeant raised two fingers over his shoulder.

Lifting your head just enough to be heard, you called after them with a crooked grin. “Only if he agrees to put more effort into the Italian accent, he sounds like Super Mario on steroids. And tell Ghost he better not just stand in the corner judging us like some emotionally repressed Batman. He’s reading the villain lines, or I’m not coming.”

Price muttered something about "bloody spoiled brats." It was a start.

Woke up to a couple of hundreds of notes and felt like a confused cat meme. Anyway, I got plenty of random ideas for this, enjoy!

[yenhan]

TF141 & International student neighbor on the verge of a crisis

Next - Masterlist

You didn’t cry when you moved into your flat. A few tears spilled when the kettle refused to boil, and the radiator wheezed like it was dying, but that hardly counted. You weren’t this close to a soul-shattering mental breakdown in four different languages and two whole personalities. Nope. That was just being a successful woman, completely in control of her life. You lived in a flat that could be described as vintage, or one good gust from collapsing, as your best friend kindly put it when you called. It had four walls, a roof, and the washing machine only flooded the kitchen every other week. It wasn’t the worst deal in the world. At least you didn't have spiders building their little lego-web houses on the ceiling. That would be disgusting.

However, you spent your first night on the couch wrapped in every hoodie you owned, scrolling through your phone with the Wi-Fi from the library nearby that cut out if you breathed wrong, wondering what the hell you’d gotten yourself into.

The move to England had been impulsive, at least that’s what your parents said. “You’re barely out of high school, sweetheart. Isn't it too soon?” But you wanted to prove you could do it; be independent, get a degree, build a career. Whatever that meant. You didn’t know yet. Those stupid tik toks about girlbossing your way through life didn’t help much, either. Classes were hard. Work was harder. You cleaned tables at a café full of old ladies who judged your every move, then crammed lectures and assignments into your evenings, falling asleep to the sound of cats screeching in the alley outside your window.

And then there were your neighbors.

The first time you saw them, your eyeballs nearly popped out. Four men who looked like they’d walked out of an action movie trailer. Broad shoulders, broader chests, paired with alertness that made you sit up straighter when they walked by. Pavlov's a bitch. One of them wore a beanie and had a beard that probably intimidated children. Or made them laugh, it depends on who you ask. You bet he worked as Santa Claus during Christmas time, that beard would do wonders. One limped slightly but moved like he’d break into a sprint at the slightest excuse, he also had a nasty scar on his head. One always had his baseball hat up and gentle eyes. And the last one… he wore sunglasses even on cloudy days and didn’t speak unless he was being sentenced to death. You nicknamed them The Lads before you even learned their names. It was honestly a really bad attempt at copying the British accent, a silly little inside joke meant only for yourself.

It was the limp that pulled you into their circle. Soap. His real name was Johnny, but everyone called him that. Something had happened to him. Not a car crash kind of injury, and surely not a oops-I-got-a-paper-cut issue. Something else. A kind of hurt that reeked of bloodshed and gunfire. He looked so cheerful despite it all... you envied his lack of self-restraint. He helped you carry a box of books up the stairs when you dropped it.

"You don’t look like a librarian." You tried to break the ice.

He grinned. “Cheers, lass. Ye don’t look like yer old enough to be living alone.”

“Rude,” you replied, winded. “But fair.” You became something like their mascot after that. Or a stray pup they all silently agreed to look after.

Price knocked on your door the night your power went out. Just handed you a flashlight and an extra blanket and left, didn’t even wait for a thank you. Gaz noticed your bike had a flat and fixed it without a word. Ghost, well, Ghost scared you a little. A lot. But you never said it to his face. It wouldn't be polite, would it?

You weren’t supposed to become attached to them. They were four grown men with lives and a bond so deep you couldn’t begin to understand. And you? You were just the girl next door. Sweet, a little clueless, a little cheeky, and hanging on by a thread.

You were tired all the time. Tired of pretending you were having the time of your life when really, you felt like you were slowly crumbling. Like the version of yourself that had boarded that plane so full of hope and plans had somehow gotten lost between Heathrow and the broken laundromat on the corner. How could you tell your mum you were regretting everything? How could you face your brother and say that the big sister he looked up to was just a loser? The weather was hell 365 days out of 365, if someone offered you another fish and chips dish you'd crash out, and you were likely forgetting all of the damned languages you spoke because of the humidity eating your brain cells.

Wasn't youth supposed to be the best time of your life? This was the part where you found yourself and laughed and made memories you’d cherish forever... Seriously, what the heck were you doing? You felt cold and alone. Ate one-pound meals at the measly convenience store run by Aunt Wang and listened to her ranting in Mandarin Chinese. What an exciting existence. How dignified.

Until the night you cried in the stairwell. You’d just finished a shift where someone called you incompetent because you didn’t know what a “flat white” was supposed to taste like. Your exam results had come back worse than expected. And your period had started early, like the universe had decided to kick you where the sun doesn't shine while you were already down. Bollocks, Simon's voice rang in your mind. You were curled up by the railing, the hoodie laid over your knees, when the door opened. Boots. Heavy ones. Speaking of the devil, Ghost’s voice scared the shit out of you. “Bad day?”

You sniffled, eyeing him up and down. “No, just peachy. Rainbows and all that.”

“Bollocks." He countered timely. You giggled. It was ridiculous and extremely easy to make your day better. Any of them could with just a snap of fingers. "I'm telling Price y'were here cryin' like a baby."

"Oh, shut it. I'll have you know some of us have beating hearts under our ribcage, Mr. Creep-a-lot."

"Oi, yer fifteen years too young t'make fun o'me."

Perhaps you did have one good thing in your hands, wasting it would be a shame.

[yenhan]

Something something... Simon Riley with an (ex-)partner who does things "for the lore" but in a not-so-good way.

You met Simon Riley in a café the same way people in bad rom-coms meet: disastrously. Your elbow knocked the steaming cappuccino straight onto his shirt as you reached for sugar that didn’t need to be added. Your mother would chew your head off for the inhuman sugar intake in that cup. He looked at the stain, then at you, expression unreadable behind the skeletal mask. You braced for some Hulk-flavored wrath, but all you got was a mumbled “No worries. It’s just a shirt.”

Oh, he's one of the mature types. Because for the love of whoever lived above in the skies, if someone ever poured a shit-hot cup of coffee on you, you'd go ballistic. Blame youth or anger issues. After that, you pulled your best "Let me pay for the laundry" and shoved some bills in his hand.

That was months ago. And now it was over.

He ended it on the one-year mark, right after you handed him the box with the gift you spent three weeks agonizing over. Some tactical nonsense you didn't understand but knew he needed. And who were you to decide your boyfriend's horrible tastes? Happy wife, happy life, wasn’t it? If that wardrobe of a grumpy-and-traumatized man could be called a wife. He hadn’t even unwrapped it yet.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. Heavens forbid, not in a cruel way. Just... in a very Ghost fashion: delicate as a boulder on your toe.

You blinked. “Is this because I tried to dye your dog tags pink?”

“No." Then, “You deserve someone whole.”

Ah. That. What a classic. You almost applauded him for not saying, "It’s not you, it’s me." You looked at the ceiling. Breathe in, breathe out.

“So... you’re dumping me on our anniversary?”

“Didn’t plan it that way,” he muttered, jaw tight.

You nodded. The moment didn’t feel real, not in the sharp, cinematic way you expected heartbreak to feel. It was more like someone else was living it. You were just watching the rerun. “Okay. Cool.”

He was frowning, you'd learned to decipher his emotions despite the constant presence of the balaclava. “That’s it?”

“Yep.” You leaned back in your chair, legs crossed. “Want me to cry? Throw a slipper in your face? Slap you with a baguette?”

His shoulders stiffened. “I thought you’d be angry. You always fight back.”

“I fight for things. Not against people,” you replied. “You made up your mind. What’s the point?”

The truth was, you should have been angry. Or heartbroken. Or something. But your feelings floated somewhere above you, out of reach. Like trying to grab smoke. Dissociation was funny like that; it felt like watching someone else get dumped, someone prettier, someone who cried prettier. You were just along for the plot, like those side characters who only appear for 1 minute and 18 seconds in TV shows.

Most of your life had been like that. Things happened. You collected the results like odd trinkets. Being chased for shoplifting a lip gloss? For the lore. Almost failing your high school senior year for the thrill? It was an interesting plot twist. Dating a man with more shadows than skin? Scientific purposes. Loving him? You weren’t sure what that had been. Something too soft to name, maybe. Fragile and a little too holy for lil' old you. Something you’d believed could anchor you to this world.

He stood to leave. Took the gift box with him, which honestly surprised you. He paused by your chair. “I did love you, you know." The admission almost slipped past you. Did it hold any value at all?

You nodded again. “I know.”

And then he was gone. The day moved on. So did you, sort of.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought lingered. They called him Ghost, a spirit who was everywhere and nowhere at once. Hard to grasp, a man like him. But maybe that fits you better. You’d been the one floating through it all, untouched. Like none of it ever really happened.

[yenhan]

TF141 as types of pasta

Gaz — Penne rigate

Precise, straightforward, and always reliable. Penne is a classic. But only ridged ones, none of that smooth nonsense! We want flavor! Combined with a good homemade sauce? Chef's kiss. Kyle is the friend who shows up to help you move house before you even ask. The man who remembers every date and every little thing you mention. He has a practical soul, gets right to the heart of the matter, and offers you solutions to solve all your problems. Just like sauce gets into the ridges of the pasta.

Soap — Ruote (Wheels)

It’s no’ a funny shape, pal. It’s practical! Ye can keep the bairns busy wi’ it, build wee Lego lookin’ things, an’ still eat the lot! Please, I think he would them, don't judge. I'd make cars with pasta and leftover bread and play with him. And the kids, lots of kids. A whole kindergarten playing with ruote. Johnny would be the class president.

Price — Stelline (little stars)

Now, Price is the old man. As a captain, the amount of responsibilities he carries is massive. I'd let him do my taxes and pay my stuff just because he's that kind of man, you know? He wants his loved ones to trust him, to rely on him. And I do, I trust him as much as I trust stelline to cure me when I'm sick. Cold, fever, being literally on the brink of death. Whatever, stelline can and will save you. Stelline in broth? Absolute banger.

Ghost — Conchiglie (shells)

I have a love-hate relationship with conchiglie. When the sauce goes inside and you have a perfectly balanced bite at your disposal? Lovely. However, they're also damn hard to grab. Maybe I'm dumb (or maybe my mum overcooks them), but they're so slippery for no reason? And that's how I see Simon. He can be either the best, most attentive person alive, even with an emotional intelligence as deep as a puddle, or a mysterious c*nt. Plain and simple. Either way, I love him.

[yenhan]

me everyday