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iansdreamer · 27 days ago

Text

Merry Go || Christian Yu

Pairing: Christian Yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ

Genre: Fluff, heartbreak, bittersweet ౨ৎ

Inspo: The song Merry Go, by DPR IAN on his album "MIITO (Moodswings In To Order)" ౨ৎ

Word count: 1.6k

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

The rain was pattering outside his window, soft at first—like fingertips on glass—but gradually building into a restless symphony of storm and sorrow. Each drop slid down the pane like the seconds he was losing, time running through his fingers again.

He was in a rush.

Always in a rush.

But this time, it was different.

This time, it mattered.

He cursed under his breath, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. His car had broken down again—this time in the middle of the highway. The engine had coughed, sputtered, and finally died, and the headlights, long flickering like they had one foot in the grave, gave out entirely.

You always told him to fix it.

Over and over.

But he never listened.

Not about the car. Not about anything.

Now, with the sky barely blushing blue and the streetlights flickering out like tired stars, he sat stranded, helpless, and too far away.

He slammed his fist into the wheel, head falling forward, his forehead resting there in defeat. His breathing was shallow, rapid. Then slower. And then, suddenly, there were tears. At first, he tried to fight them—like always—but this time he couldn’t. They spilled. Heavy, hot, and angry.

He picked up his phone.

5:30 AM.

He was late.

He missed your flight.

His vision blurred, the cold light of the screen glowing in the darkness of the car. Panic twisted through his chest like a knife. But even as the tears fell, he didn’t give up. He couldn’t.

He hailed the first taxi he could find, yelling into his phone, voice cracking as he gave the driver the destination: LAX.

By the time he arrived, the airport was already alive. Bright lights, sterile air, people moving like static through the halls of departure. He ran—ran like his entire soul depended on it. He pushed past faces, past security lines and escalators, past time zones and memories. He searched until his lungs burned.

Then—he saw you.

You were standing near the gate, your suitcase at your side, hair gently tangled from the wind outside. And for a split second, everything froze. You hadn’t boarded yet. You were still there.His chest collapsed with relief, and without hesitation, he broke into a sprint. The moment you turned, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground. You gasped, more in disbelief than fear, and when he set you down, his eyes were red, tear-streaked, and wild with emotion.

“Don’t leave me…” he whispered, voice trembling.

You reached up, your thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. You were calm, heartbreakingly calm. “I have to,” you said softly.

He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks, trying to memorize everything—the shape of your lips, the small crease between your brows, the way your eyes looked when you were trying not to cry.

“You know I’ll long for the boring nights we used to rock?” he whispered, a faint smile breaking through the grief. “I remembered the last time I was at your spot. These might be unknown dead ends, but we...we were all that.”

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in a kiss that ached like goodbye.

Then he held you. Just held you.

But before he could say anything else…He woke up.

Cold sweat clung to his skin like static. His chest was heaving, heart galloping like it was still running through that terminal.

Another nightmare.

Not a dream. Never a dream.

It had been months now, but that nightmare haunted him like clockwork.

Because in reality, he never made it in time.

You never waited.

And he never got that goodbye you both had longed for.

He checked his phone again.

5:32 AM.

That hour. That cursed hour. Always lingering like a ghost.

He blinked against the blue light, rubbing his eyes as if doing so would erase the image of you. But it never worked.

He must’ve passed out again last night, midway through reliving your memories. He always did that—ruminated on the past, tried to dissect every what-if like an autopsy. It was a habit now. A ritual of pain.

He remembered that specific moment with perfect clarity—the last time you tried. The rain was pouring then, too. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

You stood at his door, drenched and trembling, mascara smeared like war paint, eyes swollen from crying. You had begged him to open the door, just like every other time your worlds had started slipping apart.

He opened it.

And maybe… maybe that was his biggest mistake.

Because he let hope in again. He let you in again.

You collapsed into his arms like you belonged there, like home was a person and he was it. He carried you inside as if you were weightless, as if you hadn’t both been dragging invisible baggage behind you for months.

You sat on his lap later that night, both of you cross-legged on the couch in dim lighting, legs tangled, hands framing each other's faces. Your fingers brushed through his hair gently as your gaze locked with his, unwavering.

“What do I do to you?” you asked, quiet and deadly.

The question pierced him.

You never really understood what you did to him—not fully—because he never opened up. But that question…It cracked something wide open.

“You make me feel like I’m on a merry go,” he whispered.

You blinked. “Merry go?”

You knew what he meant. But you needed him to say it.

“I keep spinning,” he said. “Round and round. Same place, different day. Always hoping it'll stop. But it never does.”

His grip on your hips tightened. His eyes shimmered with unshed guilt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this back and forth… I’m a mess, darling. You know that.”

You said nothing. What could you say? It was all true.

So instead, you rested your head on his chest, while he ran his hands along your back beneath your shirt. His hands were warm. Familiar. Real.

This… this was the comfort you craved. Not the yelling. Not the slammed doors or bitter silences. Just this—him, close, breathing with you.

You’d been there too many times—love, break, repair, repeat.

You both knew how it started and how it always ended.

But that didn’t stop you from missing each other.

Even now, he missed you with everything inside him.

You took pieces of him with you when you left, like shards of a mirror—reflections of who he used to be when he was with you.

The night before you fled, you were lying in bed together. The windows were foggy from the rain. Your head was on his chest, your arm draped across his torso.

You tilted his face toward you, gently.

“Can we be forever?” you asked.

His breath caught.

You felt his heart race. Loud. Erratic.

“What do you mean?” he asked, playing innocent. But you could see through the cracks in his mask.

“Don’t act stupid, baby,” you whispered, voice feather-soft. “Just tell me if this can genuinely work.”

You were brave in that moment. Braver than he’d ever been.

But he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t give you what you wanted.

“I can’t,” he finally said.

And then, even softer, almost inaudible—

“I’m scared.”

You understood.

God, you understood.

You gave up your fear to be with him.

But he couldn’t do the same.

So, while he slept—breathing softly, peacefully, unaware—you booked your flight.

You sent him a message before the sun rose:

|| I’m leaving. If you care… come see me before I go. ||

When he woke up the next morning and saw your message, it felt like drowning. Like waking up underwater.

He sent you a flood of texts.

One read:

|| Haven’t I made it any further? You know I told you I was nervous... I didn’t mean to murder the moments I had with you. ||

But he forgot something.

Something his mind buried so deep in regret it erased it entirely.

That same night, before bed, he had said:

|| I’ve been telling myself I could be better off alone. ||

And he said it casually. Like it meant nothing. Like it was just air.

But it meant everything.

And now… it’s been a while. Time moved on.

But he hasn’t.

He still feels like he’s on that merry-go-round. Only now, you’re not there.

The spinning never stopped.

He went on a world tour after that. Music was all he had left to cope.

Then, one night, his tour brought him to the city you moved to. He never knew where you went—never asked. Maybe he was too ashamed. Maybe he didn’t think he deserved to know.

You, however, knew.

You stayed quietly updated. You knew about the album he released after you. You knew the song he wrote for you.

And despite everything—despite the pain—you bought tickets. Third row. Not close enough to be seen. But close enough to see him.

When the concert started, he walked out into the blinding lights and roaring crowd.

But somehow, someway… he saw you.

You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile.

But he saw you. Instantly.

His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the mic. He kept singing.

But something shifted.

And then… the song. Your song.

The one that bled you onto paper.

As it played, he locked eyes with you. And the world stopped spinning.

His voice cracked, raw with emotion. He cried. You did too.

No one else noticed. But somehow… they felt it. The emotion in his voice. The ghost in the crowd. The pain in every note.

They cried too.

Fighting their own demons.

The song ended.

You left.

Before the encore. Before he could find you. Before anything could start again.

And he didn’t chase you.

Because for the first time…He knew.

It was time to fully let go.

And that…That was the last time you ever saw each other.

But even now, even still—He spins.

Around and around.

On a merry go.

Without you.

58 notes · View notes

iansdreamer · 20 days ago

Text

Merry go (happy ending) || Christian Yu

Pairing: Christian Yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ

Genre: Fluff, heartbreak, bittersweet ౨ৎ

Inspo: The song Merry Go, by DPR IAN on his album "MIITO (Moodswings In To Order)" ౨ৎ

Word count: 2k ౨ৎ

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Tags: @dlme08

He was in a rush. Always in a rush.

But this time, it was different.

This time, it mattered.

You always told him to fix it. Over and over.

But he never listened. Not about the car. Not about anything.

Now, with the sky barely blushing blue and the streetlights flickering out like tired stars, he sat stranded, helpless, and too far away.

He picked up his phone.

5:30 AM.

He was late.

He missed your flight.

His vision blurred, the cold light of the screen glowing in the darkness of the car. Panic twisted through his chest like a knife. But even as the tears fell, he didn’t give up. He couldn’t.

He hailed the first taxi he could find, yelling into his phone, voice cracking as he gave the driver the destination: LAX.

Then—he saw you.

You were standing near the gate, your suitcase at your side, hair gently tangled from the wind outside. And for a split second, everything froze. You hadn’t boarded yet. You were still there.

His chest collapsed with relief, and without hesitation, he broke into a sprint. The moment you turned, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground. You gasped, more in disbelief than fear, and when he set you down, his eyes were red, tear-streaked, and wild with emotion.

“Don’t leave me…” he whispered, voice trembling.

You reached up, your thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. You were calm, heartbreakingly calm. “I have to,” you said softly.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in a kiss that ached like goodbye.

Then he held you. Just held you.

But before he could say anything else…

He woke up.

Cold sweat clung to his skin like static. His chest was heaving, heart galloping like it was still running through that terminal.

Another nightmare.

Not a dream. Never a dream.

It had been months now, but that nightmare haunted him like clockwork.

Because in reality, he never made it in time.

You never waited.

And he never got that goodbye you both had longed for.

He checked his phone again.

5:32 AM. That hour. That cursed hour. Always lingering like a ghost.

He blinked against the blue light, rubbing his eyes as if doing so would erase the image of you. But it never worked.

He remembered that specific moment with perfect clarity—the last time you tried. The rain was pouring then, too. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

He opened it.

And maybe… maybe that was his biggest mistake.

Because he let hope in again. He let you in again.

“What do I do to you?” you asked, quiet and deadly.

The question pierced him.

You never really understood what you did to him—not fully—because he never opened up. But that question…

It cracked something wide open.

“You make me feel like I’m on a merry go,” he whispered.

You blinked. “Merry go?”

You knew what he meant. But you needed him to say it.

“I keep spinning,” he said. “Round and round. Same place, different day. Always hoping it'll stop. But it never does.”

His grip on your hips tightened. His eyes shimmered with unshed guilt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this back and forth… I’m a mess, darling. You know that.”

You said nothing. What could you say? It was all true.

So instead, you pulled his head to your chest, running your hands along his back beneath his shirt. His skin was warm. Familiar. Real.

This… this was the comfort you craved. Not the yelling. Not the slammed doors or bitter silences. Just this—him, close, breathing with you.

You’d been there too many times—love, break, repair, repeat.

You both knew how it started and how it always ended.

But that didn’t stop you from missing each other.

Even now, he missed you with everything inside him.

You took pieces of him with you when you left, like shards of a mirror—reflections of who he used to be when he was with you.

The night before you fled, you were lying in bed together. The windows were foggy from the rain. Your head was on his chest, your arm draped across his torso.

You tilted his face toward you, gently.

“Can we be forever?” you asked.

His breath caught.

You felt his heart race. Loud. Erratic.

“What do you mean?” he asked, playing innocent. But you could see through the cracks in his mask.

“Don’t play stupid, baby,” you whispered, voice feather-soft. “Just tell me if this can genuinely work.”

You were brave in that moment. Braver than he’d ever been.

But he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t give you what you wanted.

“I can’t,” he finally said.

And then, even softer, almost inaudible—“I’m scared.”

You understood.

God, you understood.

You gave up your fear to be with him.

But he couldn’t do the same.

So, while he slept—breathing softly, peacefully, unaware—you booked your flight.

You sent him a message before the sun rose:

|| I’m leaving. If you care… come see me before I go. ||

When he woke up the next morning and saw your message, it felt like drowning. Like waking up underwater.

He sent you a flood of texts. One read:

|| Haven’t I made it any further? You know I told you I was nervous... I didn’t mean to murder the moments I had with you. ||

But he forgot something.

Something his mind buried so deep in regret it erased it entirely.

That same night, before bed, he had said:

|| I’ve been telling myself i could be better off alone. ||

And he said it casually. Like it meant nothing. Like it was just air.

But it meant everything.

And now… it’s been a while. Time moved on.

But he hasn’t.

He still feels like he’s on that merry-go-round. Only now, you’re not there.

The spinning never stopped.

He went on a world tour after that. Music was all he had left to cope.

Then, one night, his tour brought him to the city you moved to. He never knew where you went—never asked. Maybe he was too ashamed. Maybe he didn’t think he deserved to know.

You, however, knew.

You stayed quietly updated. You knew about the album he released after you. You knew the song he wrote for you.

And despite everything—despite the pain—you bought tickets. Third row. Not close enough to be seen. But close enough to see him.

When the concert started, he walked out into the blinding lights and roaring crowd.

But somehow, someway… he saw you.

You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile.

But he saw you. Instantly.

His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the mic. He kept singing.

But something shifted.

And then… the song. Your song.

The one that bled you onto paper.

As it played, he locked eyes with you. And the world stopped spinning.

His voice cracked, raw with emotion. He cried. You did too.

No one else noticed. But somehow… they felt it. The emotion in his voice. The ghost in the crowd. The pain in every note.

They cried too.

Fighting their own demons.

The song ended.

You left.

Before the encore. Before he could find you. Before anything could start again.

And he didn’t chase you.

Because for the first time…

He knew.

It was time to fully let go.

And that…

That was the last time you ever saw each other.

—

But the story didn’t end there.

Not quite.

—

Weeks passed.

The song lingered like a bittersweet echo in your heart. You thought you were done. That chapter closed.

But one evening, as you sat alone in your favorite quiet café, a shadow fell across your table.

You looked up.

There he was.

Not on stage, not a distant figure in the crowd—just him.

Eyes searching, hopeful, vulnerable.

“I never stopped looking for you,” he whispered.

You blinked, disbelief and hope warring inside you.

“Why didn’t you try to find me before?” you asked, voice trembling.

“I was afraid,” he said simply. “Afraid I’d lost you forever.”

You smiled—a small, shaky smile. The walls you’d built around your heart softened.

He pulled out two coffee cups from a nearby counter, the steam curling like a promise between you.

“Can we start again? Just… talk?”

You nodded.

—

That night, you talked for hours.

About mistakes, regrets, dreams deferred.

About how much you missed the way things used to be.

But also, about what you both wanted now.

No pressure.

No expectations.

Just two people willing to try again.

—

The days that followed were filled with simple moments.

Long walks under streetlights, laughter that bubbled unexpectedly, and coffee shared in early morning silence.

He showed you the lyrics he’d written after that concert — new songs, honest and raw, dedicated to healing.

You shared your fears and hopes, opening up piece by piece.

—

One rainy afternoon, the city blurred in droplets on the café window as he took your hand gently in his.

“I don’t want to be a ghost in your past anymore,” he said softly.

“You’re not,” you replied, squeezing his hand back.

“I want to be your present. And maybe your future.”

You felt your heart catch and then steady.

—

Months passed.

The pain didn’t disappear overnight, but it became softer, easier to carry.

And in its place grew something new — a steady, quiet love.

Not the whirlwind of before, but a gentle tide.

He took you to the merry-go-round at the old city park, the one you both used to love as kids.

As the carousel spun, lights twinkling and music playing softly, you felt the world tilt differently.

This time, you were both riding together.

Holding on.

And for the first time in a long time, the ride didn’t feel endless.

It felt like home.

—

You looked at him — the boy who once spun around you like a wild, chaotic storm.

Now, steady. Present.

And you smiled.

Because this time, the music was yours to write together.

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