bleuebelles

[bleuebelles]

⭐Anchor 02: a shared table

Not warm, not frozen. Different.

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The late afternoon light slanted across the pavement as Belle walked back from campus, the sun brushing her cheeks with a slow, warm hand. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, uneven, and she was clutching a half-full drink—one of those campus drink stalls she bought as a reward. She tried out a new flavor. It tasted like strawberry and cream and regret, lips pursing at the unexpected tang.

She should’ve chosen chocolate.

Lumine caught up to her outside the library, calling her name with that sunbeam energy that Belle always admired from a distance. They fell into step without asking, and it felt easy. Familiar.

“So,” Lumine said, bumping her shoulder. “How’s the new place?”

Belle hesitated, taking another sip to stall. “It’s...quiet.”

“Quiet good, or quiet like a horror movie?”

Belle laughed, a soft huff. “Quiet like a waiting room.”

Lumine hummed, tilting her head thoughtfully. “You settle in okay?”

“I unpacked.” She shrugged. “Still doesn’t feel like mine. Just feels like... someone else’s place I’ve been allowed to sleep in.”

“Your roommate’s a guy, right?”

“Yeah. Not that I see him much.”

Lumine raised an eyebrow. “Not even for, like, kitchen turf wars?”

“No turf wars. It’s like—um, how do I say this? We pass each other like ghosts. Like we both agreed silently not to exist too much.”

They cooked their own meals. Ate at their own time. It was two separate routines created to rarely cross each other’s path, and it was successful so far. She wasn’t sure if that made the space any less heavy though.

Not with anything negative. Rather, heavy with the clear weight of history.

There was a beat of silence before Lumine huffed an exhale. “Well, as long as he isn’t doing anything weird. He’s always been kinda confusing for me.”

Belle stilled. “Scaramouche?”

“Yeah, that guy. I only see him whenever I tag along with Childe to his friends. Apparently, they were super close in high school. He’s kind of a mystery guy. Doesn’t talk much but still shows up to stuff.”

Belle nodded slowly. That...tracks.

Lumine continued, “I saw him once with this girl, like, forever ago. Thought they were dating or something, but I don’t think they’re a thing anymore. Childe said he’s been kinda different since last year. Not bad different, just... quieter.”

Belle filed that away somewhere behind her heart. A useless, echoing curiosity.

“Anyway, haven’t seen or even talked with him enough to make any other impression.”

A beat of silence. Lumine then tugged her hand with a cheeky grin, steps quickening to a small jog. “C’mon, Aether promised to cook some churros if you visited!”

She got back to the apartment around six. It was empty. Still again. She wasn’t surprised.

The lights were off, so she flipped the switch as she kicked off her shoes. There was a faint scent of lavender and something burnt clinging to the air. Was that…incense? Her eyes flickered to the left of the room, eyeing his door. 

Did he like using them? A brief moment of scanning her memories, and none. She never got to visit his house before, maybe this was something new. A detail she never got to know. A reminder that she didn’t know much about him at all. Not she needed to.

The silence wasn’t hostile. Just thick. Walled-in.

She padded into the kitchen. Her hands were automatic, pulling ingredients from the fridge without thought—rice, tofu, onion, leftover carrots. Stir-fried tofu it was. She hummed under her breath while chopping, the knife rhythmic against the board.

Sometimes she wondered what he did in his room. If he still wrote and read like he used to back then, when he’d scribble thoughts in the margins of textbooks. If he ever listened to music that wasn’t melancholic anymore.

By the time she was halfway done, there was a second pair of footsteps.

She turned and found him in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he was trying not to startle the air.

Scaramouche. Still in dark clothes, headphones around his neck. Barefoot.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to find her there, cooking.

Belle blinked. “Oh—hey.”

He nodded, glancing at the stovetop. “Smells edible.”

She made a face, mock-offended. “It’s more than edible.”

A smirk painted his face, faint and crooked, before moving toward the cupboard to grab a glass.

Belle continued to stir the tofu on the pan, adding seasonings in. She didn’t look at him, mumbled softly, “I made too much. You can have some if you want.”

A pause. The sound of water running. Then, “Sure.”

Her fingers twitched on the spatula, like she’d been holding her breath without knowing.

They ate in relative silence. She set two bowls down. He sat across from her. There was no music, no television, just the clink of utensils and the distant hum of the city through the balcony door. And Belle desperately tried to mind her own business, keeping her eyes on her own food.

Halfway through, he glanced up. “You overcooked the rice.”

Belle nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s clumpy. You need less water next time.”

She gaped at him, mouth open. “I made you dinner.”

“And I’m eating it.” He shrugged. “I’m just saying, next time—”

She jabbed her fork at him, cheeks puffed. “There may not be a next time, you…you rice snob.”

The insult landed like a paper airplane. Light, a little crooked, a little off the mark, but determined.

He stared at her. Then, without meaning to, without effort, his lips twitched upward. The tiniest smile.

Belle saw it, and for a moment, it felt like middle school again. like the sunlit cafeteria, and stupid jokes that made him smile like that.

Her heart stumbled a little.

He looked down at his bowl. “I didn’t say it was bad.”

“Your standards are just abnormally high?”

“For food, yes.”

She huffed, but it wasn't angry. “Noted.”

Of course he did. He always had. How could she have forgotten?

When they finished, she cleared the bowls. He moved to rinse them without asking. They didn’t talk. But the silence felt...different. Not warm, not yet, but maybe no longer frozen.

A neutral truce. A kitchen no longer haunted.

As she turned to dry the dishes, Belle glanced at him. His face was relaxed. His shoulders a little less guarded.

She wondered what he looked like when he wasn’t defending himself.

Maybe, someday, she’d find out.

As she dried the last bowl, her mind drifted—not to the dinner, but to a memory. Scaramouche years ago, sat beside her on a grassy hill, not saying anything, their shoulders almost but not quite touching. The cicadas screamed around them like a hymn. She never said what she wanted to say. He never did either.

Maybe they were always like this, edges nearly brushing. Always almost.

But for now, she handed him a clean bowl and said, “Next time, you cook.”

He glanced at her. “Hope you like better rice.”

And maybe—just maybe—that was the start of calling a place home.

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a/n (❁´◡`❁)

[bleuebelles]

⭐ Anchor 01: strangers again

Sometimes, it isn't the face you remember first. It's the pause before your name.

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The apartment building was older than it looked online.

Not run-down, just…seasoned. Outside, there were plants on some balconies—mostly shriveled aloe vera and overwatered succulents—and a bike someone had spray-painted mint green, now rusting by the parking area. And once she slowly walked in, it was the kind of place that had heard laughter down the halls and late-night footsteps up tired staircases.

Belle stood on the second-floor landing, one hand gripping her suitcase handle, the other curled around the key. The rest of her items would arrive tomorrow.

Her cardigan slid off one shoulder, but she didn’t bother pulling it back up.

Room 2B.

She’d memorized the listing. It was the only one she could afford that didn’t feel like surrender. Being a third year in university drained her soul enough. Add to that having to travel two hours daily, all to return to a run-down unit.

It was super cheap, sure, but she had spent too many nights hearing arguments through thin walls. Saw on too many occasions a furry little friend scurry away. And dealt with leaks on her windows when it rained hard. Enough.

Childe had messaged her the details, promising it was "chill, safe, just a guy I know who needs a roommate—doesn’t talk much but not weird or anything lol."

Belle trusted him. Not because they were close—they weren’t, but because Lumine loved him. And Lumine didn’t fall for dangerous people.

That and a hint of desperation, she supposed.

"Mom, I'm sorry, your daughter is staying with a stranger," she whispered.

Now, standing in front of the door, key cold in her palm, she hesitated.

She could hear music faintly through the wood. Not lyrics, just chords—guitar, soft and electric. It felt like a pulse. Like something alive inside.

A turn of the key.

The door opened with a gentle creak. And then everything stopped.

A boy sat on the couch, legs folded up like he owned the quiet. Headphones slid down around his neck, hoodie half-zipped over a black tee. His hair was dark, cut in sharp layers that framed his face like he was meant to be stared at from a distance. A little too clean to be messy, a little too jagged to be soft. There were rings on his fingers. One was chipped.

He looked up.

And Belle’s lungs forgot how to be lungs.

"You?" she whispered.

His eyebrows lifted. Not all the way. Just enough.

"…Belle?"

The sound of her name in his mouth snapped something loose in her chest. A small exhale. A piece of her spirit, probably.

He stood slowly, arms dropping to his sides. Unsure if he should put down his guitar or hold to it tighter. His voice was lower now. Rougher. As if he’d stopped caring how it landed.

"I didn’t know it was you," he said.

She laughed once, awkwardly. "Me neither."

They stood there, two halves of a story they never wrote.

The silence between them felt like a held breath that had stretched long enough—five years too long.

He showed her around without meeting her eyes.

"It’s clean. Heater’s moody. The left side of the fridge is yours—"

On the counter, clean of any distraction or mess, sat a conspicuous blue mug. And its presence was akin to items in museums, where you'd wonder if the glasses on the floor were a lost item or a meaningful piece of art. Before she knew it, her hand reached out.

"—don’t…use the blue mug, it's cursed."

She flinched, stopping at his heavy tone. Sucking in a soft breath, Belle backed away quickly, nodding after each word he uttered as if he were listing commandments.

But at that last line, she blinked.

There was no humor in his voice. No smirk. Just the kind of flat, practiced warning you give when something holds far more weight than it used to.

She didn’t ask. But part of her wanted to.

Who the mug belonged to. What made it cursed. And what made him sound like he still believed it. But that was soon set aside when he nodded to her room.

It was simple. Bed, shelf, small desk, a sticky note on the closet door that read,

"don't slam. seriously."

It wasn’t cozy. But it wasn’t cold, either. Just…waiting.

Like someone had left the light on in case she came home.

Scara—she still didn’t know if she could call him that—disappeared into his room after muttering "night."

The door clicked shut. Belle stood alone in the soft hum of an unfamiliar space.

She didn’t unpack much. Just her toothbrush, her journal, the mug her mom gave her before university that said "the universe is within you!" One corner of her lips twitched up.

Through the wall, she heard him strumming again.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to remember something beautiful without making it hurt.

Belle curled under the covers.

About five years ago, they’d stood side-by-side at a school fair, both pretending to ignore how their pinkies lingered...intertwined.

He never said goodbye.

She never asked why.

Now here he was. A little older. A little sharper around the edges. Still quiet in all the same places.

But also unknown, standing between the memory of the past once true now a haze in the present.

Unfortunately, that same past crept in her dreams that night.

Because of it, she woke the next day all groggy, walking out her room with squinted eyes. And there, she found a mug of tea on the counter—already slightly lukewarm, like it had been there for awhile.

No note.

But he left the cursed blue mug beside it, untouched.

Almost like a joke. Almost like an apology.

And she wondered if he was daring her to touch it, or telling her it wasn't as important as it seemed.

Either way...she realized—Hah, he was hard to read as ever.

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a/n i think the hardest part for me is writing natural introspection TT how to write thoughts w/out making it too much. and eugh actually practicing showing not telling :')

[bleuebelles]

🕯️masterlist

latenightblues | stories, stars, and slow-burning hearts

"I write to remember. not always in order. not always great. but it's mine, and sometimes that's all that matters."

✦📖 works

✧ constellations of us | the quiet

[bleuebelles]

⭐constellations of us

—a nonlinear love story told in fragments

pairing: scaramouche x oc

"we were never a beginning or an end, just a pattern waiting to be named."

Two near-strangers become roommates in their third year of university, only to realize they once knew each other in a sleepy rural town, long ago. Soft moments, quiet stares, and the gravity of almost-love—told in stars and space.

format: nonlinear fragments + anchor chapters

status: ongoing

✦ ⭐anchor chapters — structured, grounding story points

✧ anchor 01: strangers again

✧ anchor 02: a shared table

✦ 🌌fragments — scattered moments, the in-betweens

✧ fragment:

✧ fragment:

✦ extras

✧ Playlist: CoU

a whisper that i haven't posted any works in so long (ehem last active platform was in wattpad, yes, that long T-T) nor successfully finished a complete story yet :'). it has been quite a while. i hope you enjoy this! it's nothing extraordinary, more so for the me who likes to read too hehe. and tumblr is so confusing XD lovelots!

[bleuebelles]

The Quiet

Genre: angst

Word Count: 1,515

Concept: The first conversation right after breaking up.

A/N: This is my first time posting here and just really making an account in Tumblr (I just free-roamed before this) so I’m confused as heck. I’m threading in unknown waters XD, I hope I can improve my writing in my time here. Now, presenting this short work that I hope you enjoy!

It was quiet, the blurry kind. 

Beeps and honks of traffic sprouted from different areas of Seoul, along with flashy lights from towering hotels or corporations. However, they all fell muffled from inside his dim room.

There was another kind of quiet in that room.

It was the tense and heavy kind. 

You were sitting on one of the comfiest beds this country could provide. HOMELY, the furniture brand had its name to speak for itself. Still, the high quality it was made of did nothing to make you relax. You were suffocated. A massive weight rested on your chest, almost pulling you down to sink in the mattress if it were possible. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your eyes flicked to your right. There it was again, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on his notebook as he stared into the view outside the window. He had stopped a few minutes ago and now resumed. 

A silent chuckle left you, but you immediately masked it by licking your chapped lips. It was funny. It wasn’t actually that quiet. There was his tapping, the air-conditioner humming, and the city being alive.

 However, it was quiet. For you, it was. It had been an hour since you two exchanged any words.

You’d been sitting in this silence. Throughout the ticking seconds and minutes, you thought of something to say, but came out with nothing. And, for you, it was justifiable. That was because before the hour of silence, he uttered three words to you. Three words you’d seen coming for a while now, but it didn’t matter because your entire being still drowned when you heard it.

‘Let’s break up.’

When he said that, a tight smile formed on your lips, but you were sure it looked more like a wince than anything. You responded with a decisive nod, then came this silence because what else could you add to that?

Strangely enough, you weren’t crying.

 It was as if you swallowed a handful of pills, and all your energy drained out, but you weren’t crying. The one thing you expected to happen didn’t. Now, you sat half contemplating what to say, half wondering that, hm, maybe you had used up all your tears.

No. Maybe you should just leave. You already settled the matter. There was nothing to stay behind—

“Did you regret it?” 

You breathed in sharply. At the sound of his rough whisper, the weight on your chest grew heavier, almost unbearable, leaving you breathless. Hesitant, you tore your gaze away from the wide view the fixed window gave, and turned to your right where a pair of tired eyes was already looking back.

You already knew what his question meant, yet, with a croaky voice you asked, “What?”

Silence, again.

You stared into his eyes, oh, his eyes. The dead giveaway to the emotions he hid. His eyes shone with excitement when his whole exterior showed boredom. They were what exuded love while he grumbled at you for being too careless back when you got a high fever. 

However, at that moment, all you saw was the shallow reflection of the city’s sparkling lights that did nothing to hide the pure exhaustion in them. It made him seem child-like as opposed to the visible dark circles under his eyes.

“Us,” he said, keeping his gaze locked with yours. His eyes screamed for answers, yet you swore you could see fear in them, fear of what you could say. But what did he have to be afraid of? You didn’t know. “Did you regret us?”

As if his question wasn’t clearer to you, he added, “Did you regret being with me?”

You licked your lips, returning your eyes to the night view of the city. “What—“ a dry chuckle left you, “What made you ask that?”

He snorted, a forced smile on him as he removed his gaze from you and back to the view outside. 

After a few seconds without an answer, your brows furrowed as you stared at the side of his face, which was as unreadable as ever. “Yoongi?” you whispered.

“You…” he faltered, licking the edge of his mouth. You leaned closer to peek at his face for a hint of what he was feeling, and the sight before you made your lips part. His passive facade broke, his dark eyes darting around while he huffed. “I’m not dumb, you know? You spent a lot of time on me and I just…you—ugh.”

Yoongi wiped his face, his mask breaking further when he hunched over, leaning his weight on his legs. Seeing him at this state, you raised your hand to touch him but froze. Any minute now, any second, you’d be leaving this room no longer his significant other. You immediately retracted your hand. 

You should get used to this.

Silence fell between you two again. It was not unusual. Yoongi always preferred the silence, and you basked in its comfort as well. You used to spend hours together just enjoying each other’s presence. This moment, however, was not the same case.

He sighed, fingers picking on his skin. “I just feel that you wasted a lot of yourself on me.” With that, a crack in your heart grew, and it was too late to look away when Yoongi raised his gaze and that crack took away a piece of you. Tears had formed in his eyes. “Did you regret all the time you wasted on me?”

A shuddering breath left you, and you diverted your gaze to the carpet floor. Flashes of your time together, every moment, every memory, ran through your mind. In a moment, you could feel his lingering touches, his soft, hesitant kisses, and his smile. You could hear yourself crying whenever you fought, his usually quiet voice thundering, the chilly nights alone…everything.

And you knew your answer.

“No,” you whispered, turning to see his head perk up and, this time, his eyes genuinely lit up. It broke you further.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing at your answer. It was the smallest of movements, but ones you learned to catch in your relationship. “No?”

“No.” One edge of your lips curved up. “No, I don’t regret it, Yoongi. Not one bit.”

Questions swam in his eyes, making you wait no longer and continue, “Just because we didn’t work out, doesn’t mean I didn’t treasure us…doesn’t mean I never treasured you. We had our moments, and eve—even if it won’t be like that anymore, I got to…” You paused, taking a sharp breath, “I got to love you.” 

With a burning throat, you let out a shaky breath as those last words echoed in your head and your vision turned blurry.

Yoongi snapped to action, lifting a hand to wipe your tears, but just like you, he froze mid-air and in that moment you could see the thousands of emotions run through him. You placed your hand over his and gently placed it on the bed. His warmth from your hands touching was too comforting, too much for you to linger a second longer, and you immediately pulled away.

It seemed you two had the same mindset. It was time to let go of such gestures, even if you didn’t want to. Doing such things wasn’t wrong, but it was as if you were sealing the deal, preventing feelings to return from such intimate acts. 

You wiped the tears yourself a bit too roughly. With your vision cleared, you sniffed and smiled at him. “I got to love you, Yoongi. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he turned away, the city lighting up his face. You turned away as well. Letting out a thin stream of breath, you could feel the weight on you lighten up the tiniest bit. This was good, for now. You didn’t need to hear his reply. He wasn’t obligated to. Besides, the only reply you could hear from him was that he didn’t—

“Me too,” he said with a small voice, and if you were careful, you could detect the crack in it.

And that was it.

Your body went rigid. All it took was his hoarse whisper and two words for all your walls to crumble down, and you didn’t even realize it had until a trembling whimper escaped your lips and your cheeks became wet with tears. Your entire form shook as your cry filled the silence of the dark room.

Your time in his studio, watching him as he worked in all seriousness, your small unrevealed mukbang videos with him…everything, everything came crashing down and all you could do was cry, like the baby he always teased you are. 

In all that trembling, he said nothing, but you could feel his hand nudge yours and you were more than willing to take it as your own wrapped around his pinky. Not too much touch to resurface feelings, but just enough to know that he was there. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be soon, but right now was all you had.

 …

 It was quiet, the painful kind.

One where you knew there were no other words needed to say. It was over. In this dark room, illuminated by Seoul’s flashy lights, your frail cry echoed, but it fell muffled to the wide world outside the window.