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[petalbcrnes]

𝒢𐔌ㅤㅤㅤㅤjealousy headcanonsㅤㅤ𓏴

synopsis　　𓏴𓏴　　what is damian wayne-al ghul like when he is jealous?

note pad　　𓏴𓏴　　when i got this request i started having weird flashbacks of writing dami jealousy hcs, but i got confused bc i never posted anything like that. i checked my docs— and there it was :⁠0

Damian doesn’t blow up or shout— his jealousy is sharp and quiet.

None of that is directed at you. The relationship you two share is built on mutual trust. Any disdain he might feel when jealous is directed at the individual making him feel inadequate— as if he isn’t enough for you.

First step? Make sure the individual who is letting their hand linger on you for far too long know that they are way out of line.

His tone gets clipped, his posture stiff, and his already intense eyes somehow narrow even further when someone else is too close to you.

He starts calling people the wrong names— as if to remind them that they are lucky to even be in front of you—… plus to just tick the person off.

“Is this your friend? Jaime, was it?”

“No, it’s actually James—”

“Right, John. You’re a little too close for comfort.”

He is direct. He isn’t hiding the fact he is jealous. Maybe during the first steps of your relationship he’d he confused about these nagging feelings and try and hide them. But, as time progresses, things change. He has no qualms proving who you chose to go home with every day and night.

He’ll stand a little closer than usual, put a hand lightly on your lower back, or subtly pull you toward him when someone is making him feel territorial.

All of this is a warning— the way he tells the person ‘I am giving you a chance to back off.’

But if someone flirts with you in front of him openly— ignoring his warning? Oh, they’ll be getting the sharpest, driest sarcasm known to man.

“Are your eyes malfunctioning or are you just unaware they’re taken?”

“Dami!”

“What? They are clearly overstepping boundaries, even if they are informed that you are in fact in a relationship.”

The self restraint he shows in this situation is only because of you. But, there are some factors that can make him even more jealous. I mentioned how people flirting with you might make him feel inadequate at first— it’s a small and nagging feelings in his heart. It worms his way into him and festers.

If the person flirting with you is smart or shares your interests, Damian gets quietly competitive.

He’ll suddenly bring up topics you two have discussed in private— just to reestablish your bond in front of the third party.

He wants it known that he knows you better.

“Yes, they enjoy postmodernism, but only in photography. Not that you asked.”

If you notice his jealousy? In the beginning of your relationship, he might deny it, but as I said with more time he opens up more.

Once he trusts you more, he’ll admit it with a low voice and clenched jaw.

“I am not accustomed to—… feeling this way. I didn’t like seeing someone else think they had the right to look at you that way.”

There are ways to cheer him up afterwards though.

Clear words and gentle touch work best. Let him know he’s chosen— that you see him.

Bonus points if you tease him lightly after he’s calmed down.

Telling him he’s cute when he’s jealous? You’ll get a grumble from him, but he loves it.

If you get jealous over him, he’s genuinely shocked at first.

Then smug. Very smug.

“Hmph. At least you’re finally being honest about how deeply attached you are.”

𝄢　© petalbcrnes 𓈒　𓋫　main masterlist𓈒　ᛝ

[loveofkatsukislife]

jealous jjk men. No thoughts except that hehe. I just love to think abt how they'd react. Likee?? Toji's obv bold or he'll be smug abt it. Choso being jealous also itches my brain like crazy. Ty for coming to my ted talk🤌🫴🟣 (if you'd like, I'd LOVEE a smau of this)

hii anon !! i would love to do a smau but.. im working on one right now and im going to reallyy strugle if i do both at once, so ill just do a little blurb !

including: gojo, geto, yuta, megumi, yuji, toji, choso, nanami(separate)

gojo

If he sees someone getting a little too comfortable with you - even if it’s innocent — he immediately appears at your side like:

“Heyyyy, sweetheart- Who’s your new friend?”

Big fake smile. Arm around your shoulder. Sunglasses lowered just enough to give the most disrespectful stare to the other person.

geto

If someone flirts with you, Geto doesn’t blow up. He smiles politely. Says something like:

“Ah... I didn’t realize you were so popular.”

But there’s this edge in his tone. A weight behind his words that makes even the boldest people suddenly forget how to speak.

yuta

He doesn’t get mad right away - he just... wilts. Like a kicked puppy.

You say hi to someone attractive? Laugh at their joke? Yuta’s quietly like:

“Oh. Yeah. That guy was... funny. Haha..." But the poor boy overthinks everything. Starts spiraling: “Are they better looking?” “Am I being too clingy?” “Maybe I should give them space..."

(Meanwhile, you literally just said “good morning” to someone.)

megumi

he doesn't say anything when someone flirts with you...but his entire aura goes dark? his jay clenches. his eyes narrow. the silence around him gets heavier. like gravity just shifted and no one knows why. hes just standing there.. plotting.

yuji

He’s not subtle. At all. If someone flirts with you, he literally blurts. “Wait-are you flirting with them???” He knows you’re his but he panics anyway. Like: “We’re together, right???” You reassure him and he immediately melts.

toji

The second someone looksat you a little too long? Toji’s already clocked their height, weight, fighting style, and what it would take to put them in the ground. Doesn’t even flinch. Just mutters: “You know that guy’s staring, right?” Then smiles, very slowly. it’s not insecurity. It’s predatory instinct. You’re his, and he doesn’t share.

choso

Choso doesn’t react right away. He just watches. His stare sharpens. His body stiffens He doesn’t move, but the air around him gets heavy. That other person might not realize they’ve made a mistake... but they feel it. He’ll quietly ask you afterward: “Do you... like them?” And even though his face is neutral, you can hear the hurt in his voice.

nanami

If someone flirts with you? He--doesn’t make a scene. He just goes quiet. Polite. Frigid. He’ll look the person dead in the eye and say something like: “believe you’re being unprofessional.” or “You’ve overstayed your welcome.” It’s not what he says - it’s how. That tone? That flat stare? They will excuse themselves IMMEDIATELY.

im soo glad i was able to get this donee. i had alot of fun making this, anon i hope you enjoyed and same thing for anyone else that read this !! (once again pleasee send in requests)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Quite A Few More Writing Notes for your Sex Scenes

Threesome - any sexual activity that happens between three people.

If you're used to engaging in sexual activity alone or with one partner, a threeway can take practice.

What if one person feels left out? Is it okay to be the center of attention?

Open communication—and great positions—are essential for a successful threesome.

Tips for Having a Successful Threesome

Set your intention. Take time to think about what you want to get out of the experience, especially if it’s your first threesome. Are you trying to fulfill a particular fantasy? Do you want to explore your own sexuality? Is something missing from your current sex life? Clarifying your desires will help you navigate the intricacies of a threesome.

Discuss with your partner in the right context. The idea of having a threesome might intimidate your partner at first or cause them to experience jealousy. Stay calm and explain the reasons why you are interested in having a threesome. Be sure that you are not using a threesome as a bandage for or distraction from an existing problem in the relationship. Adding another person to your sex life will only complicate any communication or sexual issues with your partner. Remember that your partner needs to make the decision for themselves—don’t try to convince them. If your partner is the one suggesting a threesome, make sure it’s something you are excited about as well. If it’s not, be honest and discuss other possibilities.

Find the right third person. Once you and your partner are on the same page, discuss potential lovers to introduce into the relationship. Perhaps you met an attractive stranger on an app date, or maybe you want to include your best friend. As long as you and your partner both feel a chemistry with the third person, you can take the next step by approaching them and extending an invitation. Keep your invitation fun and casual, but remember to be direct and clear.

Set boundaries and ground rules. After finding the right person for a threesome, the three of you should sit down to discuss boundaries and ground rules. Agree on which sex acts you all are comfortable performing and receiving. This includes anything from kissing to penetration to oral sex to BDSM play. Always make sure you have consent before engaging in any sexual activity. It’s important for all parties involved to discuss safe sex practices to avoid passing on any sexually transmitted infections (STIs). Decide whether or not you need to use condoms, gloves, or dental dams. Discuss with your partner if the third person is invited to sleep over or not. Once you’ve established boundaries and ground rules, set a date.

Get comfortable and enjoy. Create the right mood for your threesome. Light some candles, share a bottle of wine, and listen to some sexy music. Get comfortable with each other by talking and flirting. Once the sexual encounter begins, try a few different positions until you find the right one that works for all three of you. Keep lube close by, and use it often. Consider introducing sex toys into your threesome. The right sex toy can add an exciting element to the encounter and ensure that everyone is being stimulated the way they want. Be sure to clean your sex toys before sharing them. Remember that if you are feeling uncomfortable at any point, you can stop the sexual encounter immediately.

Debrief. After your threesome, be open with your sexual partners about what you enjoyed. Discussing the experience can help alleviate any jealousy or awkwardness. Once you and your partner are alone again, be honest about whether or not threesomes are something you want to make a regular part of your sex lives or if it was a one-time thing.

With the right partners and clear communication, a good threesome can be a way to explore your sexuality, reignite a connection with your long-term partner, and experience new forms of pleasure.

Some Threesome Sex Positions

These threesome sex positions will help you and your partners get the most out of your session.

Daisy chain: The daisy chain is similar to the sixty-nine position but with three people. Each participant lies on their side, performing oral sex on one other partner. The daisy chain also leaves your hands free for fingering your partner’s genitals or stroking their other erogenous zones.

Double cowgirl: Start in the cowgirl position, with one partner lying on their back and the second partner straddling them. The lying-down partner can penetrate or stimulate the straddling partner with a sex toy, finger, or penis. Then, add the third partner, who can ride the lying-down partner's face for some oral pleasure.

Double penetration: If at least one sexual partner has a vulva, a threesome can be a an opportunity to explore double penetration, or simultaneous vaginal and anal penetration. One way to execute double penetration is to have the person being penetrated kneel, while the other two partners configure themselves around them—one in front and one in back. You can use fingers, penises, strap-on dildos, or vibrators. Remember to wash any toys or body parts used for anal sex before inserting them anywhere else.

Group blowjob: If someone with a penis is participating in the threesome, have them stand while the two other partners kneel to perform a blow job. One partner can play with the shaft while the other focuses on the balls, perineum, or anus. The partners performing oral sex can also masturbate or stimulate each other with their hands.

The Eiffel Tower: In this penetrative sex position, all three partners stand. One person bends over so they can be penetrated from behind, vaginally or anally, by the second person. The third person stands in front of the first person to receive oral sex. You can also try this position kneeling.

Dry Humping - (also known as outercourse, frottage, or dry sex) a non-penetrative sexual activity in which a person grinds against another person or object to elicit pleasure.

The sexual activity serves multiple functions: an alternative to penetrative sex, a form of masturbation, and a foreplay option.

For penis owners, dry humping offers pleasurable friction, while vulva owners receive clitoral stimulation from the grinding motion.

While straddling is the most prominent dry humping position, you can perform the activity using various positions and angles.

Tips to Improve Your Dry Humping Sessions

Dry humping is a non-penetrative sexual technique that anyone can perform, regardless of gender identity or sexual orientation. Here are a few tips to help you make the most out of outercourse:

Wear the right garments. For vulva owners, the thinner the barrier between the clitoris and the external stimulus (like a partner’s body or a vibrator), the stronger the sensation. If you’re anticipating a dry humping session, wear thinner fabrics on either end of the compression spectrum, from silk to spandex. For penis owners, the friction from the sexual activity heightens pleasure, so wear jeans or bottoms made from thicker materials for your session.

Incorporate foreplay. Foreplay and dry humping can be a powerful duo, especially if your goal is to achieve orgasm. Before you begin your dry humping session, set the mood by lighting candles, and playing sexy music. A sensual environment makes you and your partner more comfortable to explore other forms of foreplay. Enjoy a long makeout session; kissing triggers the release of chemicals in your brain like oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, giving you a sense of euphoria.

Practice safe dry humping. Exchanging bodily fluids (secretions or ejaculate) is still possible when dry humping, depending on your state of undress. If you’re trying dry humping with a new partner, discuss using prophylactics before your session to reduce the risk of sexually transmitted infections (STIs), sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), or even pregnancy (ejaculation can seep through some materials).

Try different positions. While the straddle position is the most commonly associated with dry humping, you can perform the sexual activity in various positions, including standing, missionary, and scissoring. For vulva owners, the optimal dry humping position capitalizes on clitoral stimulation. For penis owners, friction is key, so grinding in the opposite direction of your partner is a great way to heighten pleasure. Get creative with different angles, speed, and pressure to find the most effective position.

Dry Humping Positions

Dry humping can be a highly effective path to sexual pleasure and orgasm. Here are a few of the most common positions for outercourse:

Straddle: By straddling a partner, piece of furniture, or a sex toy like a vibrator, vulva owners can control the speed and intensity of the pressure on the clitoris and better direct sensations across the entire vulva. Reverse the position to better free up your hands for fingering, massaging, or light touching.

Missionary: The missionary position is commonly associated with penetrative sex, but it can also elicit maximum pleasure when dry humping. For this position, one partner lies on their back while the other situates themselves on top, facing their partner. This position also makes for an easy transition from dry humping to oral sex, if both parties consent.

Standing: A standing dry hump is perfect for fans of doggy style, a position in which one partner rests on their hands and knees (or elbows) while the other partner is positioned behind them. For the standing position, choose a wall or surface for your partner to lean against, then begin rubbing into them, using different angles and pacing. While in this position, kissing your partner’s neck, shoulders, or earlobes can induce pleasure.

Scissoring: Scissoring refers to a sexual technique in which a vulva owner rubs their vulva against their partner’s body for sexual pleasure. While scissoring is typically associated with queer women or lesbian relationships, anyone can practice the technique, regardless of their genitalia, gender identity, or sexual preferences. In the scissoring position, partners lie side-by-side and intertwine their limbs as they grind—perfect for applying pressure to either genital area.

Wall Sex

Scope out your surroundings. Before engaging in sex with your partner against a wall, you want to be mindful of your surroundings. Make sure there's nothing on the wall that could hurt you or your partner, like a picture frame, shelf, or a stray nail. Choose a wall that will be a comfortable surface for you or your partner to lay against—rougher materials like concrete and brick could get uncomfortable. Wall sex can require a lot of physical effort, so consider choosing a space with a table or counter nearby, which you can use for extra leverage if you get tired.

Enjoy foreplay. Once either you or your partner are safely and comfortably against the wall, you can both enjoy some foreplay. Consider making out, dry humping, or stimulating your partner’s erogenous zones with your tongue and fingers. The giving partner can even kneel in front of the receiving partner, and use the wall as a surface to perform oral sex.

Use your hands to your advantage. You want to use the wall to give yourself leverage when you’re having wall sex because it can be physically demanding. If you’re the giving partner, you can lift the receiving partner up by shifting your bodyweight towards the wall, or using your hands to maintain that tight pressure against the wall.

Add extra support. To help prevent fatigue or injury during a physically demanding session of wall sex, consider using a sex swing or a stool to help support you or your partner’s weight.

Make friction your friend. During wall sex, make sure both partners’ pubic bones are level and free to grind up against one another for extra pleasure. Specifically for vulva-owners, this kind of sex can help with clitoral stimulation.

Wall Sex Positions

A few positions that lend themselves well to having sex against a wall.

Doggy-style to the wall: This doggy-style variation requires the receiving partner to stand facing the wall. The receiving partner can either bend over so their torso is parallel to the floor, or stand up so that their back is against the giving partner’s chest.

Against-the-wall oral: To execute this variation on oral sex, the receiving partner stands with their back against the wall while the giving partner kneels in front of them, at the level of their pelvis.

Standing missionary: Standing missionary involves both partners standing facing each other, with one partner’s back against the wall. As the giving partner penetrates the receiving partner against the wall, the receiving partner can wrap one or both legs around their partner's hips, so they're suspended in the air. If you go for the second option, the giving partner must be strong enough to support their partner’s body weight to avoid injury.

Stool sex: Using a stool is an easy way to help you both stay in the moment and enjoy your sexual experience without focusing on balancing and supporting body weight. Place a stool up against the wall, and have the receiving partner sit on it so their back is flush against the wall, with the giving partner facing them. The receiving partner can open their legs and tilt their waist slightly up towards the giving partner, who can prop one hand against the wall for balance while using the other hand to grab their partner. The receiving partner can also wrap their legs around the giving partner's buttocks to increase friction.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[occamstfs]

Stand Up For Yourself

Tired of seeing people treat his friend like trash, Ben makes a wish unawares and sends Jackson on a path towards domination. Though it seems Jackson has other ideas on just who he longs to dominate.

Meek man to a musky, capital D Dom top! How could anyone resist being their quiet friend bulking up before their eyes? Hope you enjoy! -Occam

I just hate to see people walk all over him. It wasn’t the first time Jackson has been brought near to tears by a customer, nor will it be the last. And of course I don’t mind being a shoulder to cry on, obvi- he’s my  best friend here! But I’d be lying if I didn’t hope each time would be the last. The cafe gets its fair share of, for lack of a better term, Karens- and as long as Jackie’s so obviously affected by them, they’re gonna keep going in on him.

“Girl… You’ve gotta stand up for yourself!” I’ve said the same thing dozens of times to Jackson after every recounting of some bitchy- err, persnickety customer. But as I repeated myself to Jackson this time, there was almost a crackle in the air. I don’t know how or what it was, but it felt strange. Different.

I’ve never seen him affected by my little pep talks but this time my words hit him like a wave. Eyes still watery and cheeks almost blotchy from choking down his hurt, Jackson stumbles back a couple steps. I bolted to try and catch him but just as soon as he foot hit the tile he straightened up, rigid as a pole. His bony shoulders raise as he takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his eyes, and finally exhales.

After a moment Jackson reaches out to put a hand on my shoulders and after a second he makes direct eye contact, a rarity for the meek man. His voice is dreamy, but underpinned by a drive rarely present in Jackson, “Yeah. You’re right Ben. I need to…” He clenches his eyes shut and grunts as he shakes his head and returns up to his usual self. “Ugh, I just need some coffee I guess?”

Back to work it is then, but throughout the day I couldn’t shake that from that moment on something was noticeably different in Jackson. Nothing physical, I don’t think? He just seemed more vibrant, louder. I certainly never would’ve guessed he had a bad morning. As it turns out, my advice was going to come in handy sooner rather than later as our most infamous regular strutted into the cafe.

Usually I’d hop on that grenade but today Jackson pats my chest and says he’ll handle her. I know she’s chewed him out more times than I can count so I laugh it off and try to push Jackie’s arm down- Operative word being try. There’s absolutely no give to his lanky arm as I push against it with no small amount of strength.

Tilting my head at Jackson I start to ask what’s up before I see the burning look of determination in his eyes. Like I wasn’t even there, let alone pushing against him. In the end he just lets it fall away as he strides to the front desk with a smile as crisp as his ironed apron. “Welcome to Monroe St. Cafe! What can we do for you today-”

He’s promptly interrupted as the most haughty woman in the city snaps her fingers, “Don’t need the spiel, you know what I want. Press your little buttons so I can get my macchiato and leave.” Jackson’s smile doesn’t falter as she speaks over him, standing firm he continues precisely from where he left off, “May I start with a name for the order?”

She lowers her sunglasses to shoot a glare that would curdle the milk in her non-fat sugar free off-menu macchiato, “You know who I am.” Leaning forward she taps stiletto nails on the counter as Jackson brazenly scratches his head in faux forgetfulness, “Hmmm not sure I do ma’am? Maybe if you start over with a ‘please’ you might jog the old noggin?” There’s a clear vein jutting out of her forehead as she reaches over the counter for Jackson’s apron. He doesn’t flinch away.

I’m absolutely floored watching it go down, this is not Jackson. Sure, he’s the same five four twink drowning in the one size fits all apron. But as he stands there unwavering in the face of a woman who has poured multiple drinks on the floor of the cafe before, he seems taller. Confidence projecting out from him almost like an aura.

Crossing his arms they seem larger than they should be as he baits her into laying a hand on him. His flat grin widens into a smirk as he speaks up in a voice that demands attention. With the click of his tongue her hand freezes in place, “Ooh tsk tsk Miss! With that I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Unless you’d like to explain to the authorities why you assaulted an employee?”

Gasping, she quickly steps away from the counter and prepares some rebuttal. Surely something along the lines of demanding a manager or suggesting they’d take her word over his any day. But then she looks over her glasses at Jackson and sees the same uncanny confidence that is only increasing as he stands there stoic. Unwilling to risk finally getting banned from what must be her favorite cafe, she leaves with a huff. Promising to return with a petty vengeance.

Only when the door jingles closed behind her does Jackson turn around. He looks absolutely ecstatic as he rushes over to me, “Dude! Benny! Did you fucking see that! I- Did you see me!” His excitement is a blur as he shakes me, his grip on my shoulders is firm, when he pulls me into a hug I swear I can feel biceps squeeze into the sides of my chest. 

I’m sure I said something or other praising how well he routed the witch, but I could scarcely focus on getting a word in as I realized that Jackson’s not just standing taller, he is taller. His arms are thicker. After a few seconds of hugging Jackson realizes that I’m just limp in his arms and releases me blushing, “Woah ah! Sorry Benny, just all hopped up after that victory haha!” 

After that, the rest of the day was smooth sailing. Customers were friendly and Jackson seemed to be closer to his usual self. Though he’s still more outgoing than I’ve ever seen him and I swear his shirt was tucked in when he came to work this morning? Now when he reaches for something it exposes a happy trail I’ve never seen before. Not that I’m just staring at his midriff, God. No, he’s not my type. I prefer my men well, manlier. 

Jackson’s just a sweetie at the end of the day; which soon approaches. “So any big plans to celebrate getting everyone’s favorite customer to go kick rocks girlie?” Jackson smiles at being reminded of his victory on this otherwise banal day, looking at him scratch his messy hair as he does so I swear his shirt falls differently on his shoulders, across a chest not nearly as flat as I remember. “Ahh I just did what we’ve all been waiting to do haha!” 

Before I can even mention not thinking he had it in him, Jackson takes one of his hands and almost cups my jaw as a look I didn’t think he was capable of crosses his face, “anyway I couldn’t have done it without you.” Blushing from the surprise alone, I back away from his hand and he breaks out of the intense stare. Seeing my shocked grin, he tries to play it off, “No, no plans. I’ll just uh- I’ll see you tomorrow!” 

And then he rushes out the door, tugging his shirt down as he sprints. I mean it would be a lie to say I didn’t stare at his ass as he jogged. He must have started hitting the gym or something. It’s the only thing that makes sense. My preoccupation with making sense of this would falter rather quickly the next morning.

We were set to open together, usually Jackson would be waiting for me at the entrance to the cafe. After getting inside and starting to brew the first batches of the day I was a little worried about him so I shot a quick text. After a few minutes of me getting slightly more antsy at his absence he finally responded, ‘oop srry bb. B there in like 5 ;)’ 

Even if my mind wasn’t already flashing back to how bizarre Jackson was yesterday, this text message could not be more of a red flag that something was off with him. Sure they were friends but Jackson just wouldn’t be so blase about being late for work. It would be more in character for him to send a warning text that he’s not to be early! I’m rereading Jackson’s message for the third or fourth time when there’s a pounding on the locked entrance to the cafe.

Dropping my phone in shock I do a double take to the front door as the man standing at the door in a tank top looks more like some brute than Jackson. After a closer inspection though it is clear that despite everything in my mind suggesting otherwise, it is him.

He winks at me as I make my way over to let him in which only reinforces my ideas that he’s been bodysnatched and replaced- or something similar at the very least. But when he speaks, despite his stubbled face and slightly sloppy appearance it is more than clear it’s Jackson himself.

“Sorry that I’m late, Ben! Lost track of time on the treadmill!” Mostly relieved that this explanation makes sense I am thrown back off guard as he wanders past me into the storage closet stinking like a gym locker room. I have to steel myself to not gag I’m enveloped by what can only be described as his aura of musk, “Fuck Jackie!? Did you get sprayed by a skunk on your way here!?”

Walking backward as he continues on he shyly scratches the back of his head and chuckles, “Ahh c’mon Benny it’s not that bad is it?” I’m halfway to saying something clever when I notice the obvious strands of curly pit hairs sticking out from his pits. Obviously I’d never seen them before but I can’t help but stare. It just doesn’t seem right. Flickering between the pit dripping with sweat to its partner whose thick hairs clearly escape from under his arm. 

Before I can confront him however, he notices my gaze and takes the first shot, “heyyy there BenNY? You saying you’re not a fan?” Halfway through his voice cracks and sinks deeper, I desperately try not to let him see how much that affected me. I can’t tell if I want to tear that smug look off his face or giggle. No. No I can tell, I want him to explain himself and what he did with Jackson! 

I open my mouth to do just that, but as soon as I recover from fluster I look to see him biting his lip, and growing. As if he were drinking in my unspoken praise. His pecs dance against his tank as he bounces them, nipples suddenly poking beyond their bounds as his upper body widens. Shoulders broadening as his back stretches and he stands straighter. 

He knows I’m still staring at him as he goes into a pose to flex his biceps at me. Already larger than those slightly-muscled arms that squeezed me yesterday, I see muscle begin to bloat as his face clenches from concentration. Smooth firm muscle continues to pile on as his arms expand in between each of my wanting blinks. I try not to stare, I really do, and I’m just able to not let my gaze lower enough to see the bulge that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt growing beneath his waist. 

“Man B! And I thought the gym was a workout!” He laughs for a few seconds as he wipes sweat off his face with his shirt, obviously trying to get me to stare at his glistening abs. I mean, obviously I do, it was hot when it was a thin stomach with some pubes. Now it’s- fuck his pecs are so hot. 

Letting the top fall down unevenly, he reveals his only slightly changed face. “Now let’s try to keep things professional today, kk Benny?” shooting another wink at me I debate with myself whether it’d be fine for me to just lock him in that supply closet while I try to calm myself down. 

Him changing and deodorizing as much as he’s able, or rather cares to, gives me enough time to mentally  prepare for his return. In the meantime he’s sprouted a head taller and tied an apron around a shirt that does nothing to hide the new pecs underneath. Pushing down the idea that Jackson’s even remotely attractive, I still my nerves and together we’re just about able to get the cafe going for a Thursday morning.

The first half of the day goes quite swimmingly. Despite his best efforts to put me on edge, leaning over me or making excuses to brush his impossible body against me as he walks by -god- I’m quite able to stay out of his way. It just so happens that to do this I have to keep a watchful eye on him.

Watching him with customers makes it only increasingly clear that whatever’s happening to him is not just skin, or rather, muscle deep. Usually he does all he can to avoid front facing roles but today he’s almost annoyingly chatty with customers. More than a few times I’ve even heard him flirt with them! Which is- it’s whatever. It’s just not like him.

And every time he’d assert himself or take praise he’d just get that smallest amount larger. His eyebrows thickening or jaw sharpening as he playfully does some ostentatious trick with a drink or slyly pops a pec for a blushing audience. Thank god he didn’t catch me staring as he drinks in his own growth.

Finally the time neither of us knew we were waiting for arrives as that wretched regular walks up once more. Jackson matches her pace as he races to meet her at the register. “Welcome to Monroe St. Cafe! What can we do for you today, Miss?”

I can tell her eyes widen beneath her glasses as she looks up from her phone to see the adonis at the register. Behind his apron his shirt has risen high enough to always bare some midriff and the small of his back. Refusing to acknowledge that she was caught off guard she makes to leave as soon as possible, “Claire. If you wouldn’t mind, could I get an upside down nonfat sugar free caramel latte.” 

I can hear Jackson’s tongue click as he smirks down at her, slowly inputting her order. Like he’s drinking in her discomfort, bathing in this victory he didn’t even need to lift a finger to earn. She didn’t even put up her usual fight about what a macchiato is! Finally she pays and retreats. From the corner of my eye I see Jackson sauntering over here, taking time to extend his arms and notice his new vascularity.

Delighting in his growth thankfully prevents him from noticing my attention as I quickly get to making Claire’s usual well before he arrives and leans in close to me. My hands tremble slightly as he towers over me, crashing arms the size of my thighs on the counter as he positions his mouth enough that I feel his sticky breath on my ear as he whispers. “See that Benny? Just gotta assert myself. Take what’s mine~”

Every word drips from his mouth deeper, rougher than the one before. By the last it may as well be a growl. Then his thicker hand snakes away from the counter and behind my back. I can’t look away from the frothy milk in my hands lest I lose control. His brutish fingers pounce and try to get under my clothing, no chance to tell pants or shirt as I turn around and grab his wrist.

My fingers couldn’t hope to encompass his new meaty arm as I slapped it away. Tongue out, Jackson just stands there looking down at me as if this were some game- as if I were some prize he was just waiting to collect. I’m sure my face twitches or my eyes flicker to take in some bulging vein on his arm, causing his smile to grow wider. Words are caught in a jumble in my mind as I can’t even think to reprimand him.

Then the smartwatch clearly cutting into his wrist pings and all the arrogance and want in his expression fades away. “Oh shoot! Benny baby, you good if I take lunch now yeah? Growing boy’s gotta eat y’know!” I stammer as I watch him grab his gym bag from the supply closet and walk off the floor. “I- You-” He salutes and sticks his tongue at me as he strolls out the door and into a nearby restaurant. 

Seeing me frazzled, though for some reason I can’t understand not addressing that Jackson is a totally different man, one of our coworkers offers to send me on break as well. In desperate need for a breather to chill out if nothing else I happily accept, foisting Claire’s drink on her now less charitable hands as I wander into our semi-cozy breakroom.

Maybe I could’ve paid more attention to what Jackson was doing, maybe I should’ve paid less attention? I don’t know. For now I should just try to relax, remove him from my mind and find some peace. Rejoice that my pulse can finally slow for at least half an hour.

It seems Jackson had other plans. Nothing could have prepared me for the dirty pump cover crammed into my locker. My mouth instantly goes dry as I saw, or rather, smelled it. The opposite problem began in my crotch as my suddenly hard dick drips pre like a faucet wetting my briefs. Its musk, his musk was calling out to me. Even while he’s gone he continues to assert his presence over me.

It was in my hands before I knew it. In spite of the cock harder than it’s ever been straining my pants, I knew I couldn’t just give in. It’s a piece of dirty laundry. I should toss it to the floor, it would be insane for me to just force it against my face and inhale. To force my head into its holey underarm seam and indulge where his pits once dripped, to find a stray curl in my mouth as my tongue dances across its still slick cotton. An image of him in my bedroom fills my mind as the chair underneath me creaks from my rutting.

There’s no need for me to toss around ideas like humping into it or trying it on and feeling its scratchy stains against my skin as by this point I've already cum. Biting down on its obscene sleeves to prevent myself from announcing my orgasm to the small crew of people in the cafe. Sprinting into the customer’s restroom I cover my now dripping crotch with Jackson’s hoody, my teethmarks now adding to its medley of stains.

As soon as the lock latches my underwear are off and in the trash. It takes everything in me to toss that fucker’s jacket in there as well, but in the end I’m able. Absolutely unaware of how much time has passed I wander over to the sink and splash some water on my face. When my hands near my nose I can’t help but notice how they still reek of his sweat, his strength. I can’t stop as one of them rests over my mouth, clutching my jaw and infusing each and every breath with his pure essence. 

Looking to my reflection as what could be seconds or minutes pass, I struggle to find whatever similarly sick transformation has overtaken me. How I too have changed by some off-handed remark or well-meaning suggestion. There’s nothing. The same face, same hands, same hair. The only transformation my search produces is in my eyes, deeper than pupil or iris there hides an all-encompassing need. 

I flush them with water and drown my hands with our too-cheap soap to try and wash him from my mind, from my skin, but my cravings only burn brighter. His stink only grows stronger by breaking through the sickly sweet lavender lather. God. Every passing moment only ads more depth to my need. After a deep breath, one steeped in his musk as I collected the restroom trash bag. I prepare to return to the floor where Jackson is sure to be returning shortly.

In a desperate attempt to preserve what remains of dignity for the world I bury evidence of my indulgence in our dumpster and return to get the credit. It’s the little victories that count in a world now apparently governed by a man whose primary drive seems to be making himself known. Making himself dominant. 

I smell him before I see him traipse back into view. Clearly top heavy as he saunters into view, during his break he has only continued to grow. Doubt he was in the gym as he forces one last massive bite of a burrito into his mouth before he reenters the cafe, wiping his dirty hands on the larger but already strained shirt he changed into. Fighting back a burp, Jackson’s eyes scan the cafe as he sizes up everyone present. Looking for someone he can stand above.

Finally reaching behind the counter he sees me and his expression shifts. I swear he gets half an inch taller as he looks down at me. Wandering back behind the bar I can hear a seam strain as he nears. Nervously eyeing our coworkers I barely quiet a yelp before sneaking into the supply closet which, despite the oppressive odor of coffee beans, I find still slightly tinged by his post-gym stink from earlier in the day.

Honed in on that unmaskable musk I don’t notice his plodding footsteps skipping right past returning to work and following me into the closet. The din of the cafe is buried by some shameless joke I don’t quite catch as he shuts the door quite loudly behind himself, not that anyone minds, that’s Jackson. Who holds more authority than him here. 

His heavy pecs bump into the back of my head before anything else. Arms thicker than my skull wrap around my chest as if it were a book clutched to his chest. I can feel distinct heat ushering forth from his pits that he clearly reapplied deodorant to in vain. I squirm in his arm as his head leans down to mine, his eyes clouded as he goes to speak, “Now now there Benny? Almost looks like you’re trying to hide from little old me?” 

I feel his chest vibrating as he rumbles out every word, it takes everything in me to summon resistance but I’m just able to fight against the need filling me as his stubble scratches my cheek. “Are you fucking insane!? Of course I am! You’re a beast! You’re not fucking Jackie!” Pushing away from him his arms fall away and I turn to see his expression is one more of impatience than hurt.

“Sure sure, the chick at Chipotle was sayin’ Jax fits me more. Think she might be onto somethin’ tbh-” he goes on for a few seconds about his lunch break. How he flirted to get free food from some chick he had less than no interest in. But I can’t hear it as at her mentioning, my jaw reflexively clenches and blood rushes to my ears. Obviously I don’t actually care. I don’t care that he flirted with some Nobody. But judging from Jax’s laugh as he looks down at me, my face must say something otherwise.

“Aww babe~ You’re not jealous are you?” the same sing-songy quality that bathed his voice when it was a few octaves higher remains as he teases me. It takes everything in me to spit back, “I’m not your babe Jax!” my own words are tinged with whiny rebellion. Something twitches within him as the statement hits him like a battering ram.

For the first time his cocky expression is disrupted and I hope more than anything that with the spell of confidence broken that he’ll return to the same twinky self that I can look at without chubbing up. It turns out to be quite the opposite. As his confidence is barely  grazed, something in him shifts darker.

Looking up at him his smile is clearly forced, perfect rows of teeth glint down at me as I hear an undercurrent of desperation I don’t understand in his complaint, “But Benny, all this? I did it for you didn’t I? This is what you wanted? You wanted stronger,” tears trail across his shirt as he bulks larger in a second, sweat glistening on every bit of exposed skin. His shoulders burst wider as traps bulge upward.

“More confident,” without breaking a stride he flexes and his clothes fully fall away. Every blemish fades as his skin bronzes into a faultless tan. Thick pumping veins web down his arms as tattoos race to decorate his form like the work of art it is. His hand goes to cup his bulging cock and for the first time I forget myself and stare right at it as it throbs free from his jockstrap. At its sight my mouth simply falls open as a deep emptiness within me demands to be filled.

“Dominant.” Finally reaching me he pushes me against the wall without raising a hand. Simply pushing his weight against me with his nude body. My mouth is still ajar and far too close to one of his pert nipples, his oily chest hair tickling my face. His sweat soaks into my apron and I almost vibrate with need as he slowly gyrates his pulsing cock into my torso.

A rough hand reaches up to my head, petting me like a dog before clenching my hair and yanks my head up to look him in the eyes. Buried beneath the arrogance that every ounce of him is steeped in, I see the same burning need I found within my reflection. Biting his lip it looks like Jax is almost drooling as much from his mouth as from his cock as it paints my apron with his pre.

Thirst greater than I’ve ever felt burns in my throat as I see his mouth drip, as I see him biting his lip and his eyes crossing from the pleasure of making contact with me. I let my mouth drift open even wider. My tongue lolls out, leaving me panting as he grunts and pants himself, allowing drool to splatter across my face as it drips from his large canines. 

No words are shared as at once we both know that I’ve fully given in. That we’ve both given in. In less than a moment my pants are torn off and his thick neck cranes down for his wanting lips to find mine as my legs curl around his waist. His tongue fills my mouth before his head flies back with a loud moan, Adam's apple bobbing the size of some lesser man’s fist, obviously announcing what’s going on to the world. 

Not that anyone cares. It’s Jax. Who’s going to tell him no.

After adding a few stains to the walls of our supply closet and sending racks of now beyond unsellable product crashing to the floor, we finally tire out. I throw on clothes that could not be more disheveled while he ties on an apron that barely disguises the flaccid, still dripping hose hanging from his waist. Knowing that whatever this life was is over, we both exit into the cafe. Jax’s arm hangs around my shoulder, declaring me as his property almost as much as his partner.

When at last we’re exposed to the lobby he just struts out, chin held high and chest puffing, begging anyone to utter a challenge against him. The only eyes he catches are those of admires, and who would dare do anything but stand awestruck at his sight. His beard thickens as he leads me to the door, the apron already straining against his widening torso.

Were I of the right mind I might question what has gone oh so wrong with the world that a nude man can walk free from a sex-stained inventory without the place immediately being shut down. My mind is still blurry from getting railed for who knows how long though. The only preoccupation I’m able to humor is but enjoying bliss at this behemoth’s side.

His meaty palm eclipsing my thin shoulder, I try to squeeze even tighter into his exposed chest, feeling his sweat drip onto my only just dried clothes. I hear him grunt as he continues to catch the envious eyes of every passerby. It’s no wonder of course who wouldn’t gawk at a man sculpted to a more ideal degree than David. No one could deny his presence, his strength. I can’t imagine anything ever standing in his way.

[linxnnalyn]

hellooo could i req for mira dating hcs pls

Dating Mira HCs

࣪𖤐.ᐟ note -> I'm down on my knees for her.

࣪𖤐.ᐟ warnings -> none.

࣪𖤐.ᐟ content includes -> fluff, civilian! reader, physical affection, emotional vulnerability, dates, gift-giving, kissing, cuddling.

۫ ꣑ৎ Mira is a very attentive and observant girlfriend. She knows all of your likes and dislikes like the back of her hand, she knows what makes you blush and what makes you flustered, she knows when you feel uncomfortable, she knows whenever you are sad and/or need comfort. Honestly you are starting to think that she might know you better than you know yourself.

۫ ꣑ৎ While she does love you and wants to show you off to the world, Mira knows that some of her fans would not be happy about the fact that she is in a relationship and knowing how fans can be, Mira doesn’t plan on putting you in any kind of danger. Mira is open about the fact that she is in a happy relationship, she just refuses to tell who you are or show you off for your own safety.

۫ ꣑ৎ Mira is very touch-starved because of how distant and cold her family was, so she always keeps an arm wrapped around you or is touching you in some way, scared that if she let go, you would disappear. It is a fear that she has shared with you a few times, but Mira never goes into much detail about it. She doesn’t want nor like to really talk about it.

۫ ꣑ৎ As you two get more serious about each other, Mira starts thinking about having you move into the HUNTR/X’s penthouse. Mira could get to see you every day and wouldn’t have to wear a disguise herself just to see you, and her friends and even her manager adore you! Of course Mira wouldn’t force you to move in with her especially if you are not ready but the option is always on the table.

۫ ꣑ৎ Mira’s love language is quality time and acts of service. She doesn’t always say “I love you” outright, but you can feel it in the way she makes time for you no matter how packed her schedule is as an idol, or how she insists on doing the little things for you even if you say you can do them yourself. Mira thinks love is something you show, not just something you say.

۫ ꣑ৎ Going on dates with her is an experience you never fully get used to—every time it feels like the first. Mira always plans everything down to the last detail. Sometimes it’s something simple like stargazing from the rooftop of the HUNTR/X building, other times it’s extravagant like a private dinner in a luxury suite. But even then, she always chooses dates that feel intimate and personal.

۫ ꣑ৎ Mira does not mind spending her money on you, after all she is insanely rich so money isn’t a problem for you. She would buy you anything you want AND anything she is certain that you would like. Mira makes sure that you know not to feel bad about her spending her money on you, because she enjoys seeing you get so happy after she buys you something you like. Plus she has a lot of money to spare.

۫ ꣑ৎ It took a while for Mira to be able to tell you about the truth behind her idol group and demons really existing. She wanted to wait until she was absolutely sure that you wouldn’t leave her or freak out when you found out, and she even got permission from Rumi and Zoey to tell you. Mira didn’t even bother asking Celine because she knew that she wouldn’t approve, and Mira didn’t want to keep any secrets from you. Thankfully you took it well.

۫ ꣑ৎ Mira loves spending lazy days with you. She just wants to stay in her bed, curled up with you and cuddling you for the rest of eternity. Mira just can’t help herself but kisses you whenever the two of you cuddle, she is just addicted to your kisses and she does not mind it one bit. Oftentimes Mira turns cuddling into a full blown make out session but never goes too far if you’re uncomfortable.

۫ ꣑ৎ She has a private photo album on her phone dedicated entirely to you. Some of the photos are candid shots she secretly took when you weren’t looking—laughing, sleeping, lost in thought—and others are selfies of the two of you that she scrolls through whenever she misses you. No one else has access to it, not even her closest friends; it’s something she cherishes just for herself.

[rosie-posie1313]

Jason Todd Fic Recs pt 2

07/13/2025

Sleepful studies  By @coffee-latte-sprite

The Truth Untold by @/coffee-latte-sprite

The pain of the aftermath By @peculiarpenman

Jason’s S/O attempts to patch him up after he gets injured while on patrol.

Midnight intrusions By @/peculiarpenman

someone breaks in to Jason and his S/O's house in the middle of the night.

An image of bliss by @/peculiarpenman

Jason and his s/o enjoy a quiet moment in a library together.

Assurance by  @/peculiarpenman

A glimpse into the workings of a tired Jason.

dating Jason Todd headcanons By @c-nstantine

Dating Jason Todd Would Include… By @peterbarnes

I’ll Be Okay (½)  By @that-sokovian-bastard

Five years ago, you lost your best friend. Now, you think he may be back.

“don’t give me space. that’s the last thing I want from you.“ By @robinofgothamcity

Heir to the Throne By @writingblock101

The Daughter Of Superman, The Adopted Son Of Batman…What Could Go Wrong? PT. 1 by @ragingbookdragon

Kryptonian!Reader

Jason Todd x Cold!Reader Headcanons by @mysadcorner

Jason Todd x Affectionate!Reader Headcanons by @/mysadcorner

Interrupted by @snickletastic

Jason reluctantly goes with his wife to her high school reunion

Definitely in a Creepy Way By @/snickletastic

jason and reader go out to a club for a date, but jealousy erupts when multiple women won’t stop flirting with jason

Cravings  By @jaybirdxarsenal

The reader is pregnant and really wants pickles, what she doesn’t knows is that her little escapade searching for pickles will lead to her finally meeting Jason’s family.

Cheshire cat:  by @igotanidea

that damn gala: by @/igotanidea

five years later by @/igotanidea

So easy: by @/igotanidea

The L word: by @/igotanidea

sleepless nights admiring jason by @yourmomxx

Confessions of a Roommate by @blackbat05

Jason comes back to you shared dorm injured leading to confessions from the both of you.

University AU

Brotherly Love by @strangeshoepatrolbandit

Time at your father's has broken apart your relationship with your twin brother, but what about your adopted brother?

Al-Ghul/Wayne Reader

 Your childhood best friend, whom you died with finds you again. By @/strangeshoepatrolbandit

Jason can be insecure. By @/strangeshoepatrolbandit

Jason actually getting secret reader to go out with him by @xxgoblin-dumplingxx

A touch starved reader and Jason by @/xxgoblin-dumplingxx

the off the clock kiss by @mxtantrights

Bite By @kyberphilosopher

Batman’s newest Robin, Jason, has strangely obsessive tendencies over one specific enemy of the Batman.

Jealous Jason Todd Headcanon by @anothertimdrakestan

“the roomate.” by @katsumox

TITANS! red hood (jason todd) x fem!angel!reader by @urmoonlightbebe

titans red hood!jason todd

“It’s in the past, it’s all over.” by @jaozendry

You try to comfort Jason as he is having nightmares of his past trauma. Jason, as stubborn as ever, won't open up to anyone, not even you, his lover. This same cycle has been repeating since he came back to life. You tried everything, even therapy, and on this one night, you decide enough is enough: he needs to let his anger and sadness out and talk about it.

Hate Is A Strong Word by @mercyofmurdock

Touch Starved by @somewherebetweendisorder

Adore You by @rekiilysm

you and jason have been together for a few months, and all the bird boy can think about is how perfect and amazing you are.

venom in your voice by @dollwritesarchive

you come face to face with red hood.

Time-out by @kaitlynpcallmebeepme

Thanksgiving by @stararch4ngelqueen

thanksgiving w a gf who loves the holidays but doesn’t have family or friends to spend them with

“The talk” by @your-nanas-house

Masterlist by @alphaabucky

Castle of Glass Masterlist by @imaginingmarvelandeverything

Y/N and Jason do not get along, but some forced proximity might just change that (fluff, angst, may eventually be some smut, enemies to friends to lovers

Single Mom by @batfam-imagines

Masterlist by @jasonsredhoody

Red Lighter by @bvckysmanbun

Rings by @batmagines

Jason Todd x Joker’s Daughter!Reader by @spidernuggets

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 by @kimjun

Heal a Broken Heart By @wondergotham

“jason and the reader seeing each other after sm they thought he was dead”

Meeting the Family  By @lazydoodlesandfanfic

Masterlist  By @avengerdragoness

Birthday Girl By @jaybirdtoddsblog

Jason and Y/n celebrate their daughter's birthday.

two can keep a secret By @invisibleanonymousmonsters

What is the difference between a secret and a lie? Jason Todd is in love. But will his relationship survive when Y/N realizes she doesn’t know him at all?

FOURTEEN AND FIVE By @jvsons

this would be the fifth year since you adopted such a tradition. the unchanging date of fourteen, and five years since you lost him.

Jason Todd x Shy!Sensitive!Reader By @ldrfanatic

make your move By @acourtofidiots

The Set-Up by @yourlocalcringydaydreamer

The batfam takes notice of your crush on Jason and decide to do something about it.

Smooth motherfucker by @newmih

Jason takes advantage of Y/N’s presence.

Slumber Party? By @moonlitdesertdreams

here’s no better cure to a hard day than cuddles and ramen noodles.

Jason Todd masterlist by @gangrenados

wearing jason's initial on a necklace by @fcthots

Mullets and Sweet Caresses by @ganseyth

Jason Todd gets much needed haircut and cuddles. 

Dancing in the Dark by @stararch4ngelqueen

Slow Day by @imaginingmarvelandeverything

Sweet Kisses by @jokingmisfit

“Right… Well… I’m not sure how we ended up kissing like that…”

Back Again by @book-place

Jason was back, but there was one person he was the most terrifed of seeing

Sister reader

In Sickness and In Health by @i-talk-too-much

The remainder of the anesthesia in your system made you more emotional than you would’ve cared to be. The pain from the wisdom teeth removal made tears fall down your face, and your boyfriend would rather be damned before he’d let you simmer by yourself in your suffering.

Quiet Realisations (i) by @dxckgrxsonx

Anniversary by @dejwritesarchived

Dating Arkham Knight (S) by @dearest-dirt

Random Jason Todd relationship headcannons by @kayadrake123

Unknown Girl by @flowerpot101

𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 by @lightwing-s

jason loves you, always have, but you’ve always loved someone else. and even when he finds you broken, even when he could just put himself first and finally try to make you his, he decides he’d rather help you be yourself again over getting you in your lowest. he’ll heal you up, then make you his

[stargirlygirl]

feeling totally normal about this btw^

.

.

.

erm... let's begin with a brief timeline:

oct 25, 2024: i post my first ever fic on here for shoto called rut suppressants; a post i still get likes on to this day feb 8, 2025: my first post to go viral is this jealous!bakugou one apr 29, 2025: first ever lads post is about sylus supporting your labubu obsession jun 9, 2025: my 1k special for werewolf!caleb

and now, i'm here. pretty much posting for lads full-time and some rare mha stuff for the small portion of my followers who are also into mha.

i am so grateful for all of you who have interacted with my blog since i started last year. i haven't been posting for very long, but i've made some incredible friends and written some cool works that i've hope you've all enjoyed.

i will admit, as my blog has gotten more followers and engagement, i've been more critical of myself. it's been a struggle to balance my personal/uni life and this blog. comparing myself to other bloggers is inevitable, and sometimes i do beat myself down about why i don't have xyz likes in a short time or why i can't pump out long works most days of the week.

i say this to be honest. having a blog comes with it's own challenges. one of which being that i do this for free. but i do this for free because it's my hobby and i enjoy sharing all of my thoughts with you. i enjoy the community i've built here, and i'm excited for the future with all of you!

while i might not post lots of cute little thoughts about the li's, and instead opt to talk about smut conventions that give me the ick or why i won't be using the tumblr tagging system like the ao3 tagging system, i hope my opinions and works push you to think more critically about the content you consume.

i will be announcing my 2k special very soon, so i hope you stick around for that!

big thank you to all of my followers! obviously couldn't be here without all of you.

and a big thank you to my mutuals: @starryeyed-apple, @asiatic-apple, @heartyluv, @syncaleb, @tragicvictoriantears, @cuntphoric-main, @sweetcalebb, @humanjarvis, @bloomness, @cielito--lindo for your ongoing support!

[bebx]

Hi there!

I really enjoy your fanfics, and I wanted to share a few thoughts with you about GinHo and *Squid Game*. I wouldn’t say I’m a hardcore fan of the series—I watched the first season when everyone else did and I liked it, but that was it. A few days ago, Iwatched the last two seasons, and that’s when everything kind of hit me differently.

As a psychologist, I found the dynamic between Gi-hun and In-ho absolutely fascinating. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel deeply unsatisfied with how their storyline ended. That’s how I ended up diving into fix-it fanfiction—and yours, honestly, are more than amazing.

What really stuck with me in Season 2 was In-ho’s emotional state and what must’ve been going through his head when he was listening in on Gi-hun and Jung Bae’s conversation during that final night watch. He came across as jealous—not just of their bond, but also of Gi-hun’s ability to connect, to care, to *live*. And there was this almost wistful daydream quality to In-ho in that moment, like he could picture himself and Gi-hun going out for a drink together... which made his line, *“Buy me a soju when we get out”*, feel so natural and emotionally loaded.

I kept thinking about Gi-hun’s night after his encounter with In-ho/Young-il. It must’ve been a whirlwind. How do you reconcile the bright, warm, emotionally available person you just spent three intense days with... with the cold, masked, brutal persona of the Front Man? Once the shock wore off, I imagine Gi-hun was overwhelmed by flashbacks—confused, haunted, maybe even betrayed???

Are there any fanfics that explore this emotional fallout? Or would you consider writing one? I’d love to read your take on these moments.

Now, if I were to imagine a more emotionally satisfying ending… I get that the sacrifice and the current ending are powerful in a literary and symbolic sense—it's raw, it hits hard, it leaves a mark. But psychologically, I just can’t see In-ho letting it go that far. I believe that he truly has a deja vu and he sees himself again in the position to save a person he cares for and a child. I believe the words he says to Gin Hun - I will make sure you and the baby will live, u have mai word, are the same he had said to his wife.

The moment he saw that Gi-hun wasn’t doing what was expected of him, I think he would’ve flipped the green button on his own—or at least ordered a shutdown or evacuation faster, especially once his brother showed up.

In my mind, the three of them (plus the baby) leave the island—maybe not willingly for In-ho, because he doesn’t see life beyond the island as something he deserves—but Gi-hun reminds him that he still owes him that soju.

Maybe Gi-hun goes to America, finally gets closure with his family, and then comes back to Seoul—to get closure with In-ho too.

---

As for their relationship… to me, Gi-hun and In-ho are caught in a tragic emotional loop. In-ho is obsessed with Gi-hun—not in a romanticized, sweet way, but in a complicated web of fixation, infatuation, and control. There’s a deep-rooted ambivalence in the way In-ho treats him: part of him genuinely wants to protect Gi-hun but another part wants to *break* him, to test him, to pull him so close to the edge that he either falls—or proves he can survive.

It’s like he needs to see Gi-hun suffer in order to justify his own suffering, to validate his own descent into moral decay. And still, through all that darkness, there’s a longing—for connection, for redemption, for being seen.

Post-Games, I don’t immediately see them jumping into a romantic relationship. I think they’d start as uneasy friends, two broken men orbiting around each other, not knowing if they’re going to collide or collapse. Over time, maybe, something more grows—awkward, hesitant, and messy.

And yes, in some ways it might even look like a toxic dynamic: In-ho as the abuser, Gi-hun as the one absorbing the damage. But there’s also something undeniably magnetic about them—something that says *soulmates*, not in a fluffy way, but in the sense that they are each other’s mirror and wound and medicine.

Neither of them can fully heal without the other. They are trauma-bound, but also bound by something deeper—recognition. They see each other, *truly*, and even if that connection is painful, it’s real.

Let me know what you think. I'd love to hear your interpretation too—this ship definitely has more layers than it gets credit for.

Thank you so much!!!! Hearing you enjoy my fics means so much to me ❤️

As for the unmasking scene, I’m sure there are fics that explore the emotional toll Gi-hun goes through after learning who “Young-il” actually is. I’m also open to writing one myself. So we’ll see.

And I love and agree with everything you said here. Just perfect. Nothing more to add because I couldn’t have said it better myself.

[cressidagrey]

Hi love. I've been sending a few asks your way but I think my internet connection was a bit poor and none of them were send. But forget about those.

I have to say, I hate it when things that i love end. I hate it when I have to accept the end of a chapter and the beginning of a new one. I hate that white horse is ending. I love every chapter, I have been rereading it a few times over the weekends now but I always weirdly need to fight myself to read you latest updates. Because I do to want it to end. Even of then we will have so many greater things but still I don't want this one thing to end. So I've been putting off reading your latest updates of the white horse because I am I use avoidance as a defense mechanism and run away from things that make me feel bad or in this case sad.

I absolutely love everything else and have been snorting all the Felicity content like cocaine. And injected your Lewis fic into my veins directly and your latest Charles fic gave me new life.

I just usually get so exited and start gushing like an idiot that I spend most of my time just squealing and forgetting to send you a detailed massage of why exactly Charles sputtering like an absolute shy boy makes me want to devour the sun and spit out stardust and then snorting that stardust.

Anyways. Here are some random pics of cute animals.

1. My cat, Felix,in air jail. He is not sorry. He is a psychopath and feels no empathy.

2. This is my little girl. Pepper. Not a single braincell can be found. She is 9 but still gets the zooming like she's still 1. Also she may look like a lobotomised chihuahua, but she's actually a derpy shi-tzu.

3. Keral. One for our horses during some dental work. He was the most difficult little tird and I think he might have given me a concoction. We live him. He is an idiot.

4. This is the little golden baby i told you about. Her name is Zhaleen. And i held her when she was less than 24h old. She bucks like a little monster and my arm is bruised. She also has discovered she has teeth which she can tear things with. Cloth, hair and fingers are not safe from her. I think she won't be as golden as we expected she might become a bit darker like her mama. But we love her nonetheless. ( ps. She is a nightmare child. Very energetic and impossible to work with or near.)

First of all, thank you so much for sending me this incredibly sweet message.

(Also I haven't gotten any other messages from you, so I think they all died in the void of bad internet connection.)

I totally get what you're saying about White Horse ending. It’s always so bittersweet when something you love comes to a close, right? It’s like, on one hand, you want to keep reading more because it feels like comfort, but on the other, you don’t want it to end. It’s like saying goodbye to a good friend.

That said, I am so glad you're still enjoying the other stories and getting to immerse yourself in all the chaos and fluff! I’m thrilled you liked the Charles fic! I was so glad that I finally finished it!

Also, thank you for sharing the adorable animal pics, I’m literally smiling from ear to ear:

Felix in "air jail"? Iconic. He sounds like a true psychopath and I absolutely adore that. 😂

Pepper— I love her energy. She is honestly a mood.

Keral giving you a hard time while trying to get his dental work done? Classic! (My horse decided she needed to be hysterical enough to need the double dose of sleep juice because she was just not calming down this year...) Keral sounds like a handful, but I’m sure he’s charming when he wants to be.

Zhaleen is absolutely gorgeous! She sounds like an absolute terror in the best way possible.

P.S. If Felix ever does take over the world, I’ll be ready. I respect his power. 😂

[ruereii]

Hi there!

I really enjoy your fanfics, and I wanted to share a few thoughts with you about GinHo and *Squid Game*. I wouldn’t say I’m a hardcore fan of the series—I watched the first season when everyone else did and I liked it, but that was it. A few days ago, Iwatched the last two seasons, and that’s when everything kind of hit me differently.

As a psychologist, I found the dynamic between Gi-hun and In-ho absolutely fascinating. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel deeply unsatisfied with how their storyline ended. That’s how I ended up diving into fix-it fanfiction—and yours, honestly, are more than amazing.

What really stuck with me in Season 2 was In-ho’s emotional state and what must’ve been going through his head when he was listening in on Gi-hun and Jung Bae’s conversation during that final night watch. He came across as jealous—not just of their bond, but also of Gi-hun’s ability to connect, to care, to *live*. And there was this almost wistful daydream quality to In-ho in that moment, like he could picture himself and Gi-hun going out for a drink together... which made his line, *“Buy me a soju when we get out”*, feel so natural and emotionally loaded.

I kept thinking about Gi-hun’s night after his encounter with In-ho/Young-il. It must’ve been a whirlwind. How do you reconcile the bright, warm, emotionally available person you just spent three intense days with... with the cold, masked, brutal persona of the Front Man? Once the shock wore off, I imagine Gi-hun was overwhelmed by flashbacks—confused, haunted, maybe even betrayed???

Are there any fanfics that explore this emotional fallout? Or would you consider writing one? I’d love to read your take on these moments.

Now, if I were to imagine a more emotionally satisfying ending… I get that the sacrifice and the current ending are powerful in a literary and symbolic sense—it's raw, it hits hard, it leaves a mark. But psychologically, I just can’t see In-ho letting it go that far. I believe that he truly has a deja vu and he sees himself again in the position to save a person he cares for and a child. I believe the words he says to Gin Hun - I will make sure you and the baby will live, u have mai word, are the same he had said to his wife.

The moment he saw that Gi-hun wasn’t doing what was expected of him, I think he would’ve flipped the green button on his own—or at least ordered a shutdown or evacuation faster, especially once his brother showed up.

In my mind, the three of them (plus the baby) leave the island—maybe not willingly for In-ho, because he doesn’t see life beyond the island as something he deserves—but Gi-hun reminds him that he still owes him that soju.

Maybe Gi-hun goes to America, finally gets closure with his family, and then comes back to Seoul—to get closure with In-ho too.

---

As for their relationship… to me, Gi-hun and In-ho are caught in a tragic emotional loop. In-ho is obsessed with Gi-hun—not in a romanticized, sweet way, but in a complicated web of fixation, infatuation, and control. There’s a deep-rooted ambivalence in the way In-ho treats him: part of him genuinely wants to protect Gi-hun but another part wants to *break* him, to test him, to pull him so close to the edge that he either falls—or proves he can survive.

It’s like he needs to see Gi-hun suffer in order to justify his own suffering, to validate his own descent into moral decay. And still, through all that darkness, there’s a longing—for connection, for redemption, for being seen.

Post-Games, I don’t immediately see them jumping into a romantic relationship. I think they’d start as uneasy friends, two broken men orbiting around each other, not knowing if they’re going to collide or collapse. Over time, maybe, something more grows—awkward, hesitant, and messy.

And yes, in some ways it might even look like a toxic dynamic: In-ho as the abuser, Gi-hun as the one absorbing the damage. But there’s also something undeniably magnetic about them—something that says *soulmates*, not in a fluffy way, but in the sense that they are each other’s mirror and wound and medicine.

Neither of them can fully heal without the other. They are trauma-bound, but also bound by something deeper—recognition. They see each other, *truly*, and even if that connection is painful, it’s real.

Let me know what you think. I'd love to hear your interpretation too—this ship definitely has more layers than it gets credit for.

Hello Anon! I'm similar to you as well where I watched s1 but my obsession didn't start until s2. Also, thank you so much for your compliment on my fics, I am so happy and honored that you enjoy them! There are actually a lot of fix-its out there ever since s3 came out, though I haven’t gotten around to reading them. I have considered writing the confrontation/ending scene + post canon of my own.

I typically have a darker lens when analyzing Inhun’s dynamics in canon. So take my interpretation with a grain of salt (I hope I don't get dogpiled for this lol).

For the soju scene, I think Inho was using it as leverage and manipulation similar to how he offhand mentions about people picking umbrella in Dalgona as well as the iconic “does it bother you” line after saying Gihun’s name. However! There is a small part of Inho that is envious of Gibae's friendship and also yearns to make human connections again despite how desensitized and brainwashed he is.

I think when Inho took off his mask, there was probably a lot going through Gihun’s mind. I can see him having flashbacks to Oh Ilnam, maybe that “of course” epiphany. As much as I reallyyyy wished Gihun and Inho had some conversation about what transpired between them; in that moment, I felt like Gihun cared more about keeping the baby safe and alive rather than Inho’s betrayal and everything else that comes with it (which just felt... idk odd like something is missing). On top of that, there was nothing to say to Inho as he was just “one of systematic wardens” who saw Gihun as a horse. He’s probably thinking “why would the Frontman genuinely care about a horse anyways?” (I still wished the confrontation was longer and I will forever be salty about it).

The canon ending. Okay, so, this might be an unpopular opinion, but I don’t feel like Inho was ever going to take that first step (whether ending the game or saving Gihun). The concept of “choice” is a repeated theme from s1 to s3. The guards talk about how the players “chose” to join the game, “chose” to sign the form even though this “choice” is a twisted illusion. In that moment when Gihun was standing on that last tower realizing it was either him or the baby, deep down he probably knew Inho wasn’t going to save him (again, Gihun believes FM sees him as a horse and not even a human).

Meanwhile, Inho was probably rationalizing it as “this was Gihun’s own choice, it's out of my hands, I gave him the opportunity, and he didn't take it" (Inho, you are a coward and I will forever believe that).

To me, Inho is a bird in a cage that is open but doesn’t know how to fly. Gihun could’ve taught him, encouraged him to fly again, but they parted ways with the only conversation being about the baby. That leads me into explaining the 2 ways I think could coax Inho to fly again:

Inho tells Gihun he was once a player

Gihun telling Inho that he can still make the right decisions and that it’s never too late

I don’t see option 2 happening since the moment Inho unmasks, the bridge between them had burned. To Gihun, he probably thought Inho joined the games to mess around and “have fun” similar to Ilnam. He never knew that Inho was unironically the only person in the world that would understand him, his trauma, and his desperation.

Option 1 would pretty much shatter Gihun’s perception of the Frontman, and pair it with Gihun’s empathy I think Gihun would’ve asked “what did they do to you?” “Why did you choose this?” It would make for a very interesting conversation and can lead into option 2 and then pave the way for Inho finally choosing to fly out of the cage. And the best place for this to happen is the damn confrontation scene.

Inho can have his wavering of heart, his very last bit of humanity spark again, but we also shouldn’t forget that Inho has been a prisoner of the Squid Game institution for ten years. The emotions he does show in s3 are the cracks starting to form in this cynical shell that he had learned to call home. But to undo all that psychological damage isn’t something that will go away in a few days. To me, Inho is someone who was broken who doesn’t even believe himself to be capable of making the good or right choices anymore.

Post-game is probably where all the healing would be happening. I also don’t see them jumping into a romantic relationship; however, I do see them trauma bonding (especially if Gihun knows Inho had played in the games before). I can see them having nightmares, one telling the other ‘it’s okay, I get them too’. Perhaps one day Inho would ask Gihun why he didn’t take the offer to kill the remaining finalists and Gihun would hesitate before saying “because someone once told me I was a good person and not a murderer. And I still believe her”. Gihun would essentially be the Saebyeok to Inho (Director HDH has also mentioned Inho didn’t have a Saebyeok in his games and maybe if that character existed, Inho’s path would turn out different).

Inhun holds a really special place in my heart, not just for their toxic/dark/erotic dynamic but also for their irony, unspoken, and unearthed understanding for each other. To me, I like to see Inho retain his corruption but leans toward the light while Gihun holds onto his faith, but his canvas is also splotched with darkness.

Thank you so much for this ask anon, I had to put on my canon Inhun thinking hat on. I really enjoyed reading and responding to it! 🥰

[darielivalyen]

Everbloom: Free | Full game | Cozy Fantasy

Everbloom is a cozy fantasy game set on the idyllic Everbloom Isle, a place where the charm of a simpler life and the warmth of a close-knit community come together. In this tranquil world, you’re invited to slow down, cherish the small moments, and find joy in building connections and creating a space where everyone feels at home.

Your journey centers on the dream of opening a teahouse, an aspiration deeply influenced by your longing for independence and a meaningful life. This dream becomes a reality with the inheritance of your grandmother’s house on Everbloom Isle. Here, in a setting far removed from the bustle of city life and your family’s expectations, you begin the delicate process of building a new life for yourself.

Are you ready to leave behind the monotony and dullness of daily life and build the teahouse of your dreams on Everbloom Isle?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary.

Choose your appearance and personality.

Romance or befriend one of three distinctive characters: a brave knight seeking a new purpose, a mischievous oakling who finds joy in life’s lighter moments, or an enigmatic elf with a complex past, seeking solace and clarity on Everbloom Isle.

Create and customize your own teahouse.

Cultivate and enhance your grandmother’s garden.

Explore Everbloom Isle in search of unique tea saplings.

Interact with a host of quirky characters, from the whimsical Holy Cow and her not-at-all terrible fish choir to giant turtles, winged wolves, and mysterious fernlings.

Follow a lovely little quest from the Holy Cow that will challenge you to build friendships, honor your grandmother’s legacy, and expand your collection of unique teas.

Wordcount

Overall: 220.000. Playthrough: 60.000.

Sir Castian/Dame Castillia Honeycutt

Personality: brave, honorable, old-fashioned, bashful. Blurb: In a land where swords are replaced by teacups, Casti(), a knight accustomed to battles and quests, struggles to find his/her role. Everbloom Isle, with its whimsical ways, challenges him/her to redefine what it means to be a hero. Can you help him/her weave his/her knightly virtues into the fabric of your new home?

Narciso/Narissa Roseblade

Personality: mischievous, lighthearted, adventurous, non-committal. Blurb: Nar()’s presence on Everbloom Isle is like a breeze through the Elder Tree’s leaves–light, unpredictable, and full of life. His/her playful antics and seemingly carefree nature captivate those around him/her. Yet, there’s a depth in his/her eyes suggesting more than just whimsy. Will you be the one who figures out what really inspires his/her eternal dance through the grove?

Ideru/Ideri Nightingale

Personality: calculating, composed, solitary, adaptable. Blurb: Ider() arrives at Everbloom Isle cloaked in an aura of intrigue, his/her quiet nature standing in stark contrast to the isle’s vibrancy. Amidst the isle's welcoming community, his/her enigmatic presence stirs a sense of curiosity. Will you be the one who digs into his/her mysterious past and discovers what brings him/her to Everbloom?

DASHINGDON | ITCH.io | FORUM | TUMBLR

PS: If you're interested in why I decided to release Everbloom for free, you are welcome to visit the forum and look under the 'State of the Game' section. I explained everything there! 😊

[itissadbutitsmy-life]

listen I just can’t find fault with a candy person for finding something that unexpectedly brings them joy and doing everything in their power to make it keep happening. I just can’t find it in me to blame them for wanting the approval of the person they love and respect more than anyone else, and wanting that approval over and over again, and I just straight up can’t blame james for figuring out a trick to make his princess smile and call him her hero. like, banana guards get her praise and approval and hugs all the time, but he’s just some random engineer with an easy smile and no one who wants to hang out with him after work. and she likes him so much, she wants him in her kingdom, even when he goes and does something stupid like push her out of the way of a super dangerous not-moving car, at the cost of his own life, she wants him back and she’ll bring him back and she'll tell him that was very brave and she loves him. of course she loves him. she loves all the candy people. but he figured out how to make her look him in the eyes and say it and give him material evidence of her pride. I can’t find it in myself to blame him for that. it wasn't good, i don't think he should have been left unchecked to keep going forever, but i can't blame him for wanting to keep reliving the nice thing that happened once. the really nice thing that happened once that came with material gifts. if she didn’t want to keep doing it she would’ve stopped LONG before there were TWENTY FIVE of them. before she was so fed up that she didn’t even spare him a kind goodbye or a chance to go home one more time.

like you’re not beating the dystopian dictatorship allegations. saying she was right to exile him from the only home he’s ever known with no recourse because he was acting weird. and the thing is, I just can’t find it in me to blame a character living in a dictatorship for getting himself into a situation because he was desperately trying to be happy the best way he could figure out how. I’m not saying he was right, he’s insane, but it just rubs me wrong, the idea that he is the one holding all this heavy blame. the idea that the princess is right to look down at him and shake her head firmly and turn him out in the cold. for chasing the rush that she gave him willingly, over and over, without any specific end parameters. for not being able to make friends, and doing something weird about it. he’s bored and lonely and this works and it’s not, inherently, bad. it really isn’t. it’s batshit, but it’s actually not hurting anyone at all.

[risingsunresistance]

twitter is entering their "rts > likes" phase now that likes are private after they spent years calling us ungrateful for being demotivated by ratios lmao

[weirdlizard26]

so bizarre to me that my love language is apparently recording music for people. how did this even happen

[lackadaisycats]

Video essay by Jellybox about what's good and bad about indie animation!

Wanted to share this in case it's helpful to anyone wanting to pursue making animation independently. It's also for fans of indie animation who may want some insight into how an indie studio works, why indie cartoons are always selling merch, why release schedules are often erratic, etc.

I also wanted to clarify the video's context, because it seems to have been somewhat misconstrued in some circles. Not long ago, WGA and SAG strikes, followed by TAG negotiations were very much in the news, shining light on the struggles the artists, writers, and actors in the Hollywood studio system are facing. In response, the words 'just go indie' have been tossed around quite a bit lately.

Gene and Sean at Jellybox approached us a few months back explaining that they were planning to make a video about the realities of running an indie studio/producing indie animation, largely in response to that 'just go indie' attitude. They were curious if we'd be willing to share our experience, including information about actual costs and the various difficulties and complications we've encountered. We said yes! We'd like for people to know what it's like. As much as it might look appealing next to the currently very broken studio system, indie has its own set of problems, and we think it's a good idea to be transparent about that because talking about problems is how you begin to address them.

Of course, while you get creative freedom and you have no shareholders to appease with indie production, the primary struggle you're always going to face is funding…and funding avenues are limited. Banks aren't eager to hand out business loans to freelance artists making cartoons, for instance. Social media algorithms reward frequent updates you can't swing with hand-drawn animated content, so you can't rely much on things like AdSense. You can't really insert sponsored ads into your animated videos without being too obtrusive. You can take on client work, but that interferes with your ability to focus on own animated project. Crowdfunds can be great for seed money, but they're also a ton of work to fulfill, and fulfillment itself will tend to eat up a considerable amount of the funds you've raised. Once your animation is produced, there is no well established way to sell the animated episode itself like there is for, say indie games sold on Steam. So, while we consider ways to try to make the terrain a bit more hospitable to indie creations, if nothing else, let this explain why productions rely a lot on merch drops!

-----------------

And hey, if you're an animation fan, consider supporting the independent productions you enjoy, whether you're tossing a few dollars their way, buying their merch, or just mentioning them to friends:

The Far-Fetched team is launching a crowdfund very soon to help them complete their pilot!

The Monkey Wrench team is killing it lately, and they deserve so much more fanfare than they've gotten!

And of course, thank you to the excellent folks at Jellybox for starting an important conversation!

[heesmiles]

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape. 

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut. 

 Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.  

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption. 

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” 

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make. 

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library. 

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you. 

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence. 

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief. 

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for. 

Before 

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose. 

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon. 

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one. 

Present day 

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner. 

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.” 

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest. 

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged. 

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession. 

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty. 

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room. 

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. 

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door. 

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit. 

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.” 

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.” 

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot. 

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice. 

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away.  It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?” 

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away. 

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.” 

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.”  Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.” 

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.” 

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered. 

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to. 

Present day 

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve. 

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again. 

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care. 

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.” 

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.” 

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too. 

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone. 

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone. 

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger. 

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now? 

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.” 

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire. 

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection. 

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail. 

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat.  No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move. 

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.” 

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass. 

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.” 

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help. 

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you. 

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between. 

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise. 

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now." 

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.” 

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.” 

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly. 

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured. 

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips. 

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close. 

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something. 

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life. 

Present day 

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away. 

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly. 

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame. 

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.” 

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul. 

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.  

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding. 

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.” 

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe. 

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere. 

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be. 

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe. 

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it. 

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go. 

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?” 

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate. 

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint. 

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly. 

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered. 

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted. 

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you. 

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark. 

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy. 

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow. 

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him. 

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent. 

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud. 

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave. 

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say. 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified. 

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?” 

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in. 

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this. 

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed. 

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it. 

Before. 

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?” 

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.” 

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped. 

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.” 

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.” 

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.” 

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?” 

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?” 

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him. 

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day 

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?” 

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.” 

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.” 

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.” 

“We’ve given you space—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long. 

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.” 

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls. 

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” 

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready. 

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch. 

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day 

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance. 

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.” 

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?” 

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.” 

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—” 

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.” 

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts. 

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—” 

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?” 

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away. 

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey. 

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked. 

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?” 

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain. 

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his. 

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another. 

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late. 

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov 

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.” 

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.” 

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.” 

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more. 

Present day 

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.” 

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.” 

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox