seekrzz

[seekrzz]

four reasons

The Lead: After finding you on the rooftop, Semi thinks you only need four reasons. Four reasons for everything.

Primary Source: Semi Eita x Fem! Reader

Classification: Angst, Fluff, Strangers to Lovers

Content Advisory: Bad Grammar, Suicide, Crude language, Suggestive (one make-out scene, but it should be pretty tame compared to the stuff i've accidentally stumbled on here)

Coverage: 11.5K

Editorial Footnotes: semi is a little odd in this but i fear that's js how i write my characters. romantic with a pinch of oddity. also please excuse how long it took me to write this, this was supposed to be done weeks ago but I've been feeling a little.

Loneliness has 4 definitions as told by Meriam-Webster. They include;  

being without company; cut off from others 

not frequented by human beings 

sad from being alone 

producing a feeling of bleakness or desolation 

Zero.

Semi Eita is quiet, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t really like to talk or yell. But he rather likes to use his music to speak his mind. Capture the thousands of words that reside in the heart and let them reflect in the way his fingers gently play the strings of his beloved guitar.  

Oh, his guitar—his love. His best friend. The only thing that understands him.  

Music is his soul—it is everyone’s, he believes. What is there without music—he will never understand. There is a tune in everything. The way that people talk, the birds that chirp, the way that a human’s heart beats, or the way it flatlines, and even the desolate silence at night, when everything feels like it’s falling apart. Slowly. Softly. But not quietly—no, the world is not silent. Not the way that humans tend it to be.  

Semi Eita is quiet. But not silent. He hates silence. There is a difference and has been from the time he was born to now, where he resides on the rooftop of an old, abandoned building. He doesn’t have his guitar with him, but his black-painted nails strum the air, cradle it gently as he can. His ashen hair is ruffled and unruly as he leans back against the brick wall.  

And just thinks. About everything. He thinks of the small things. Like his sacrifice for the volleyball team. The way that he had to give up his sport for someone else who was more talented, better than him. The way that he was a benchwarmer. But for something that seems so huge—it was so long ago that it now resides as a tiny pebble in his world of problems. It’s almost laughable.  

He also thinks about the big things, like what he is going to do with himself in the future. This one is, albeit hard, because he really knows what he sees in the future, but at the same time, he doesn’t. It’s hard to visualize but it’s there. Waiting for him. And everyone else in the world. 

Ushiwaka is going to be a great, badass volleyball player. He’s for sure going to go, how could he not?  

Tendou is going to end up...doing tendou things. Semi has no doubt about him that wherever he is going to end up doing will be as whimsical as his personality, and as much as he pretended to not care for the redhead, he finds himself missing his weird touch.  

And Shirabu will complete his third year in a good few months and will continue to do whatever he desires. Semi knows that whatever he puts his mind to, he will get it. Shirabu is stubborn like that. 

But for him, he wonders.  

Sighing, he clicks his tongue and checks the time. He should leave, it’s getting a little too late, and he’s starting to ache for the warmth of his bed. Semi’s about to get up, but a little creak out in the distance jolts him, and he’s forced to whip his around, a little spooked.  

And as he scans his eyes around, they widen when he notices a mass by the railway, sitting rather dangerously on it. What the hell. An odd realization comes to mind, and he freezes. No way.  

Getting up to his feet, he swallows and watches you carefully—heart beating in his throat. He takes a step. Then another. Another.  

And another. 

Before you squirm, about to move, and all Semi can do is mumble out, hoarsely, “W–what are you doing?”  

You stop, and Semi breathes as if he just ran a marathon. “I—you know that’s really dangerous, right? You can die.” He winces at his poor choice of words, but he brushes it off as he sees your body tense.  

Semi doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to touch you or not, but he stands close, waiting. When you don’t move away from the edge, he tries again, this time his voice not wavering.  

“Please. Get away from the railing.” 

“You should leave.” You whisper, breathy as the wind and so quiet that if there wasn’t complete quietness, then he would’ve missed your words.  He sees the way your fingers tighten against the metal, flicking your wrist. “I’m not going to leave you.” 

“You don’t even know me...” 

“So? That doesn’t mean anything. Stranger or not, that doesn’t justify anything.” He gently nudges himself against the railing, and with carefu, lithe fingers, he places it on your shoulder.  

You don’t flinch, but you wipe at your cheeks before turning towards him with a small smug smile. Semi notices the pearly tear tracks on your cheeks and your barely illuminated puffy eyes and your trembling lips, but he doesn’t say anything. He swallows and grips you a little harder. 

“I wasn’t going to do anything, by the way.” You simply shrug. “I was just thinking...” 

“About what?” Semi croaks. Your eyes harden, and you brush his hands from you, before swiveling around to jump back onto the ground. “That’s none of your business...is it?” 

He quickly shakes his head, “Sorry.” He gives himself a moment to really look at you. You’re dressed in something that isn’t deemed for the cold weather, but you’re not shaking. Your lips are tight, and you don’t meet his eyes, sharp and ready. He wants to ask an obvious question, but... 

“I was up here to think, too...” He states that when the quiet gets too awkward. He mentally face palms himself when you hesitantly nod. “I see.” 

“Er...uhm, why were you sitting so close?” He stutters at your cold stare, “I mean! Uh...you were sitting close to the edge.” Fuck, what the hell is he saying?!  

“Right. Thanks for your help. I’ll be leaving now.” 

“Will you be coming back tomorrow?” Semi panics. 

You turn back and look at him, “Why would I be doing that?” 

“Er...to think?”  

You give him one hard look before it dissolves into giggles. For a spark that should come with such a sweet voice, Semi is saddened to find that it doesn’t reach your eyes. They are rather filled with nothing. He has the urge to reach back out to you. 

“Maybe. You’re really nosy, though.” Semi fights his eyeroll and huffs.  

“I know. Sorry, can’t help it. But...” He looks up at the sky and sees the millions of stars. He thinks of you, waiting patiently for him to finish his sentence, and he exhales quietly. His stomach lurches.   

“Can’t help it when the girl in front of me needs help.”  

“I don’t need help. Don’t fucking pity me.” You spit. And he flinches. But he presses on, pride unable to let go. “You know there’s more to life, right? Don’t try to...fuck, how do I say this? End it? Sorry, it’s blunt.” 

“I’m really going to leave now.”  

“You’ll be back tomorrow, though! I just can’t—”  

You shrug and start to walk away, but his hand catches your wrist, and you stop.  

“No, wait! What I really mean is uhm...” He curses under his breath and looks at his feet. Four steps until he’s at the edge...Four. 

He then looks up at you and blurts out, “I can give you four reasons to stay. Four reasons. I promise. Please.”  

You scoff bitterly. “Don’t joke.” But you pause. He tilts his head, almost desperately.

“Four reasons...” You murmur, playing with the number on your tongue. Semi watches patiently and lets go of your hand that swings into your side. It thuds against your body, but you don’t pay any mind, dissolved in your own thoughts. 

‘How brutal they must be?’  

“You’ve never seen me before. Why do you care?” You ask, snapping out of your daze when a cold breeze roams over. Goosebumps run up your arms, and you hug yourself tighter at his gaze.  

“I’ve seen you now, haven’t I?”  

And at that, you weakly smile, but it drowns into something sourer—crueler, and he knows that it’s more directed at yourself. “You...won’t understand. You can’t. I—” You cut yourself off and look at him. 

You catch his eyes and hold them, and he is taken aback by how beautiful your eyes are. Deep and sunken—he forces himself not to flicker away. “If you were in my shoes...you would’ve given up sooner.” 

“I know. I can tell how strong you are. I see you.” 

Something glints and something shifts. He feels it—the pulse that you produce. “Four reasons. Fine. Okay. Sure. I’ll let you humor me.”  

You breathe out from your nose, and turn around, walking back to the exit door and pulling it open. "I'll be back tomorrow at this time. To think. Give me a reason why, then.”  

The door shuts before he can get another word out. And he wonders what the hell he just got himself into.  

Later that night, Semi ponders on his bed. He listens to his roommate's soft snores, and it doesn’t waver him away from his thoughts. It brings him some comfort—the breathing of a person. His own hand is on his chest, feeling the way that his heart beats underneath his fingertips and how his chest rises. Up. Down. Again. 

Four reasons. Four reasons to stay? He replays his words over and over again. Are there four reasons? And he doesn’t even know anything about you—to know what would matter to you and what wouldn’t.  

He didn’t even get your name. Shit.

Still, he thinks. Tries.  

And at the end of the night, the beginning of a morning, he comes up with his first reason and writes it down on a slip of paper.  

His reason at least. Semi Eita’s reason.  

One. You are not alone. Listen.  

Semi’s guitar is quite heavy, but not enough for him to break a sweat as he carries it up the long, winding stairs. There’s a heavy building of anticipation that croaks in his throat, one that he desperately tries to swallow away at every step.

It’s horribly dark, so his phone flashlight brightens the place, but when the moon filters in through the small window carved out on the metal doorway, he freezes. 

And for a split second, he wonders if he should just go back down. But before he can even still about it, his quivering hands are on the doorknob. Using his other hand to calm the jitters, he grasps his own wrist and sighs, opening the door. 

The creak of the door is thundering against the quietness and makes you turn around from where you sit on the edge. Semi notices that you’re bundled up—in a thick sweater and jeans.  

“I didn’t actually think that you were going to show up.” You speak.  

“You thought wrong, then.” 

You don’t make any move to get away from the wall. You don’t really do anything at all, and that scares Semi. He takes a footstep, slow and hesitant.

He’s still a little nervous—a little doozy because he genuinely can’t wrap his head around the situation. He takes another step and diminishes all his worries when he spots the bright, white moon. It winks down at him, and that’s all he needs to know.  

Your eyes flicker to him, then to the big mass that he carries on his shoulders. He expects you to say something about it.  

You don’t.

And Semi, halfway from you, placing the black mass on the floor and crouching down to unzip the cover. He uncovers a guitar. Wooden.  

You raise a brow in confusion. He then, from his pockets, holds what seems like a piece of folded paper and a pick. White and ashen like his hair.  

“You know I never caught your name.” The boy says. He strings the guitar over himself, and this time, he walks with a feeling that you cannot catch.  

“(Y/n).” You retort back. “It’s my first name. Yours?” 

“Eita.”  

Semi throws you a wolfish grin—he’s right in front of you now, tapping on your arm. His own hand hovers over your back as if you were about to fall backwards. You scooch into his touch, smiling when his eyes bulge and he grips onto your shirt.  

He doesn’t say anything of it though, and instead taps a little harder on the back of your palm. “Open your hand.” 

You oblige. And in your palm, he places the white paper and takes his fingers to close your hand around it. You bloom them back immediately like a growing flower. You don’t pinch the note back, though; you wait and catch Semi’s eyes.  

He nods, and with his arm, he gently pushes you back onto the concrete. You don’t resist.  

“Reason number one.” He whispers. Semi then takes his guitar and sits perfectly on the dirty floor. “Reason number one.” You echo back. Undoing the folds, you hold the small piece up.  

“You are not alone. Listen.” He hums and plays a soft note on his instrument.  

Looking back at him on the ground, you mumble. “This is your reason. T—why is it so ominous?” He pats the ground next to him. “It’s true. And not only is this your reason. It's also mine." 

You slide down next to him.  

Semi pauses and plays another note. “Your reason...?” 

He nods. “I’ll show you how. Just shut your mouth and your eyes and listen. You are not alone—or rather in the way that you think you are.”  

Blinking thrice, you finally let your eyes shut and tuck your mouth. And you listen. You listen to the soft wind and chirps of the cicadas. You listen to your breath and the boy next to you. You listen to the faint sound of your heartbeat.  

After a minute, Semi breathes confidently, “You hear that. The sound around you.”  

“Mhm.” You snap your eyes open, and Semi is already glancing at you. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you see his fingers inch their way closer to you. You move back and he stills. He still looks, though—not a single ounce of shame in his eyes. They swirl with something more—panicked, relaxed, confident, sad, happy?  

You can’t tell. You don’t know if you want to tell. But you do wait for an answer.  

“Life is still going on, and it still accompanies you. And even more, it’s a little louder with you in it.” 

“How?”  

He shrugs, “Your heartbeat. It makes music...so it’s with you. Gives the world another chord to play in its harmony.”  

“But what if it makes the harmony...bad. Like off-key.”  

Semi pauses and chuckles, before taking another look at you.  

“And? Off-key doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad. It’s unique. Different.” He looks up at the night sky, “In fact, if the world had a harmonic tune associated with it, I would’ve been surprised if it wasn’t off-key. Weird. That would be wrong—he world is not perfect.”   

“Poetic one, aren’t you?” You try to laugh, but nothing humorous comes out.  

“No. Just imaginative, I suppose. And a little real.”  

The quietness after his words lingers. But then it cracks when you nudge yourself, playing with your fingers as you look down at the ground. You’re thinking—he can tell.  

“Eita.” You say. He perks up, “The guitar was to play for me, right? Is that why you brought it here?”  

“Yes. Would you like me to play?”  

Your shoulders do this odd shrug—or at least midway of one. Your hair whisks from the wind. You don’t say anything, but he waits for your permission. You exhale deeply.  

“Can you?” 

“Of course. But...if you don’t mind, can I get to know more about you in between?” 

You whip your head around to him, brows furrowed, and lips parted. “I... why?” 

“I don’t want to be playing music to a ghost. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But I figured that I cannot write your other three reasons without knowing you.”  

“Will you ask why I—?” 

Semi shakes his head. “No. You should tell me that on your own record. Or tell me if my reasons don’t work.” 

“I’m not giving you more chances, you know that, right?” 

He scoffs and leans back into the wall. His fingers play with the strings and adjust the tabs of the instrument. “I’m not asking you to.”  

You freeze stiffly and then pause, chewing at your lips. “Okay. Play for me then.” 

Adjusting his instrument against him, you nudge yourself a little closer. “Do you have song requests?” He doesn’t expect you to say anything, but you immediately open your mouth and nod. “Yeah, actually. You look like you compose your own songs, don’t you? Play me one of your songs.”  

He thinks for a moment and stares into your eyes. You don’t waver, but you push, lashes fluttering when he lowly chuckles, tonguing at his lip ring.  “Alright. It’s not very good, but I’ll try.”  

You don’t say thanks because you’re sure you're already indebted to him at this point, so you wonder what the point really is. Tucking your knees into yourself, your fingers brush by your hair, pulling it behind your ear. You don’t look at the boy next to you as the first chord hums out into the air. It’s haunting. 

And you close your eyes and delve deeper into his music. 

“What’s your favorite color?” He asks. The pads of his fingers don’t let up, and he continues to play. “Purple. But not that deep, generic one. Lavender like the night sky.” 

“That’s a beautiful color,” he says. You don’t acknowledge it.  

“Are you still in school?” 

You nod. "Yes.” And if you knew that he was going to ask another question about it, you sigh. “I’m going to be a second year.”  

If he feels any kind of surprise, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he quietly mumbles, “Me too. What school?”  

“Sendai Community College.”  

He’s heard of that college before—everyone in the area has. He’s sure that he’d walked past it too, it was a bit near his old school. He slows down his playing before he switches to another tune. This one was a little faster. You think you like this one better.  

Semi doesn’t ask anything else after that, or at least until another question pops up in his head. But that’s at the end, when his hand was starting to get sore and muscles ached, and he was starting to get a little drowsy.  

When he stops, it’s gentle and easing. You expect him to, and you don’t jolt at the quietness. But there’s this weird feeling in your gut—and you suddenly feel the air of emptiness on your left side. The side that he sits on. 

Your heartbeat is loud against you. You crumple up your shirt with your fingers. Not alone. Louder.  

“Did my first reason work?” He questions. You don’t give him an answer. You look down at the ground and with a meek voice, you ask,  

“Do you think I can listen to your heartbeat.”  

Your eyes widen at his expression, mouth parted and shocked, and you shake your head, getting up to your feet. He follows, leaving his guitar on the floor. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that—”  

“Yeah. You can.”  

Snapping your head up to him, there’s a soft flush on face, but his eyes are locked onto yours. Determined. “Are you sure?” 

“I insist.” He says loudly. You edge closer—an inch before you’re right at his chest. And taking his arm, you place it behind your head and let him dip your figure to where his heart resides. Your own hands tremble against his waist, just lightly hovering. He’s warm. Against the cold wind.  

And then when it’s all quiet. You hear it. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.  

“It’s fast.” You point out. You don’t feel him move, but then, barely inching away from his body, you see the way that there’s this soft smile dancing on his face. With his fingers, he brushes away at a strand of hair.  

“Tomorrow. Meet me at the entrance of your school. I’ll be there at six sharp. You can be late.” He speaks. “I’ll give your second reason then.”  

Two. There’s more to explore. Starting with Mcdonald’s new menu item. 

Semi writes his reason over an empty stomach, on his couch. And his roommate's bag of KFC. And the new menu item from McDonald's that popped up on his feed. He realizes at that second that he’s never been hungrier. 

So, at six pm, not a minute before and not a minute after, Semi waits at the gates of your school. There are still a ton of students roaming around the campus. Some give him weird looks that make him look away, but there not more than a second before they continue their way. Semi fights the urge to play with his phone. He doesn’t know if he was allowed to.  

He hopes that you understand what he meant by being late. Though it’s rather annoying if he’s stuck out here for an hour or two, he’ll wait. If it means that he still gets his second reason out to you.  

Semi questions, as the chatter passes by, if they know of you. If they know that you’re feeling like this. He guesses not. He then wonders how you act in school. Are you the same as you are with him? Cold, distant, sad? 

You don’t make him wait long, though. Semi finds you emerging from one of the buildings with a group of what seem to be your friends. You’re not very hidden, to the left of two others, and you’re smiling, cheeks quirked up to a crinkle. Semi thinks that you’re very adorable.  

But what Semi notices when he stares for a second too long is that your eyes aren’t very reflective of the happiness that you give out. They’re sour, and frowned, heavily cast with clouds blocking the sunlight. You open your mouth to say something to one of the girls, but they brush by you.  

He raises a brow. But says nothing to attract your attention. Not yet—he wants you to find him yourself.  

And you do. Your eyes shoot out to the front of the gate where he stands. You don’t acknowledge him. He doesn’t either—except for holding his gaze. Subtly, he raises his slip of paper into the air, before pocketing it.  

You scoff before saying goodbye to your friends. They head through a different gate but warily stare you down as you go to meet with the boy. You spare them a glance, longingly, and Semi asks himself why. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” You bluntly say, not providing an explanation. He thickly nods before tapping on your arm, and this time you understand what he means. You put out your palm, and he tucks it in the crook of your fingers. You both start to walk, with him near the road.  

This time the paper isn’t folded but rather placed on you flatly—backwards. There’s a small drawing of a guitar—his guitar on the back that you admire for a second before turning it over.  

“There’s more to explore. Starting with Mcdonald’s new menu item.”  

When you look up at him, in confusion, he starts to laugh. “I hope you’re hungry. McDonald's came out with a new burger today. We’re going to go try it!” 

You’re in disbelief, and you don’t seem to shake out of it until Semi has his phone out, googling the nearest McDonald's to you. “What if I don’t like burgers?”  

He pauses, eyes widening. “Do you?” You try to hide the cracking grin, remaining as stoic as possible. “Wait, do you not? I’m so sorry—” 

“It’s alright, Eita. I was just joking. I do enjoy burgers,” you say, giggling when he grunts. “Though that is an odd reason, though.” 

“Odd world,” He retorts. “There’s one within six minutes walking distance from here. Are you alright with that?”  

You nod. “I don’t care. I’m partially starving.” 

He pockets his phone and gives you a glance. He demands gently, “Let me take your backpack. You adjust yourself to his gaze. “No.” 

“You’ll be paying for our meal. This is the least I can do.” 

You're still in your walk. He stops, too, a second later. “Sorry? I’m paying? For both of us?” 

He shrugs and beckons you along. You don’t move, and he frowns. “You didn’t like to be pitied. You told me that the first day. And if I pay for our meals, then you would think that I pitied you. So, I’m letting you pay for our burgers while I carry your backpack. It’s a win-win situation.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” You huff, but something genuine gnaws at your chest. You don’t like to be pitied. And at his nonchalant reaction, you frown.  

“Can’t we just pay separately?” He shakes his head and takes the strap of your backpack into his hands, slinging it over himself. “Nope. Now come on, you're making this six-minute walk longer. We would’ve been there by now.”  

The rest of the walk is filled with quietness. There aren’t any words exchanged between you two, but you have a feeling that Semi is waiting to eat before delving into talking. You understand that—and inside, it makes you feel weird. That bit of normalcy.  

You like normalcy. You understand it at that second.  

When you two enter, Semi doesn’t make you pay. You argue with him weakly, but he reasons that it was gentlemanly of him to do. He wasn’t pitying you—he was abiding by social norms. 

“You said the world was weird, so why are you being normal?” You say, sitting down. You grouch at his grin. “Yes, I did say that. But my mother told me to always be a gentleman. I could never go against her.” 

You roll your eyes, “And what about your lip ring? I don’t think she was very happy at that.”  

Semi grimaces almost as if he were remembering a sour memory—you sure it was. “Fashion choices. Freedom of expression.” 

“Right.” You sneer. “Just don’t do that again.”  

“What? Pay for you? You’re not my mother, are you?”  

You open your mouth to angrily spit something out, but one of the waiters gently places the tray with the food in front of you two. He smiles. You don’t. He takes one of the burgers. You take the other one. 

“Will you be telling me about the explanation behind your reason now?” You ask. He takes a bite and hums. When he notices that you haven’t even unwrapped your food yet, he gestures to you. “Yeah. Once you take a bite and tell me how it is, truthfully.”  

“Fine.”  

Giving him a hard look, you finally sigh and tear off the yellow paper to reveal the greasy burger. Hesitantly, you take a small bite from it. And as you start to chew, you nod your head. “I mean. It’s good, I guess, especially from something from McDonald's. It’s better than some of their other food options for sure.” 

Tilting your head at the boy, you raise a brow as he starts to agree, only to go back to eating. Rather starved—amusingly. 

“Sorry, I thought that you were going to explain to me your second reason?” 

He looks up from his eating. “I thought I did?” 

You scowl, “No you didn’t. You just told me to take a bite of my burger.” 

“Yeah. That was my reason.” 

You stare incredulously at him, wondering if you are dreaming or not. Yesterday, he was talking in prose, beautiful and haunting with his words and his music. But today, he’s being...you don’t even know.

It’s a little grounding. Your body twitches. 

“Maybe I’m being dumb, but...I don’t understand.” You take another bite of your food and swallow. He nods thoughtfully before straightening in his seat. 

“Well, you see, if you’re gone, then you wouldn’t have been able to experience any more special menu items. Not only McDonald's.”  

You interrupt him by pointing at the sauce on his lips. He wipes it away with a clean napkin before continuing. “Life keeps going on, and you’re going to miss those things. Those small. And those big.” He nudges at your almost-finished burger.  

“You said that this tasted better than most of what was on the menu, right? Then this should be your favorite, no? Or at least one of your favorites?” You nod slowly. You don’t know why, but there are angry pricks of tears lining your eyes. You blink them away or at least try to. 

“See you would’ve missed this then. And maybe in the future, they’ll release another menu drop and that will be your favorite then. Or maybe you’ll really hate it, I don’t know.”  

You let a tear drop. His expression cracks a little—but it’s comforting. He takes your trembling hand. “Gosh, Eita. You really need to know when to shut up.” You give him a watery smile. This time it softly—glowingly reaches your eyes. 

And his heart is beating faster—it’s in his throat. 

“Should’ve minded my business when I first met you, huh?” 

You laugh—throat dry. “Maybe.” You take another chew and wipe away at your cheeks.  

He crumples his paper and sits there in observation. It’s not scrutinizing—just normal and apparent. “Anyways, past that, how was your day today?” 

“It was alright. Had a few shitty classes. You?” 

He pushes air into his cheek, “I had this music theory assignment due today. Kicked my ass.”  

You stare at him thoughtfully. 

“Who were your friends?” He asks. He takes your side of the trash and bunches it with his, pushing it to the side. Semi notices the way that your eyes dim. “Er—some girls in my classes.”  

“You don’t look happy.” 

You don’t say anything, or at least for a second. You mull over your words, not meeting his eyes. “We’re not really friends, I guess.” And then on a quieter note, you mumble. “I don’t really have anyone to call friends.” 

He shoots up his eyebrows. “Really? What about me?”  

“You’re not my friend.” You snort. You start to peel the skin around your nails, breaking into a wound. Semi stops you from plucking it all the way. “That hurts.” You don’t know if it’s about what you said to him, or what you were doing to yourself. 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t say sorry.”  

Semi doesn’t let go of your hand. You don’t force it away either, but you make an effort to not look at his face. “You’re my friend.” He utters after a second. 

“You’ve just met me. Y—you can’t call me a friend.” You spit bitterly.  

“Is that what you think?” 

You don’t respond. But you do gently jerk away from his touch and get up to your feet. There’s an ache in your chest. Semi doesn’t look quite surprised, but he does gaze at the table before flickering up to you. There’s a sad twinkle in his eyes, and you feel guilty. 

“At eight, a few days from now, I have an art exhibit. Would you come?” You croak—feeling blood rushing from the cracks in through your throat. It pools in your stomach.  

“I’ve invited my family and others, but I don’t think they’ll come.” You pause to take a breath. “I’m not saying this to guilt you but rather to state the truth, and that if you don’t want to, then you don’t ha—” 

“I’ll come.” 

You don’t act speechless. You already knew the answer, but there is this deep fear that he was going to reject it. Or stand you up—he wouldn’t be the first. You don’t know. God.  

“You’re sure?” He nods and gets up, brushing off his jeans.  

“More than you are.” Semi lightly—softly scrapes his hands against yours and takes his palm into yours. He pushes you through the door and into the cold. 

“I’m not going to give your third reason tomorrow. I want that day to be all about you.” Semi hums. And you think of his music. It is light but falls heavily.  

“I want you to enjoy. For yourself.” 

2.9 Art Exhibit; Interpretation 

There are a ton of people around you.  

Though they part around you like how rushing water in a stream makes way for a lodged rock, harsh and thudding and jagging. Eroding and chipping. Lonely. They don’t meet your eye, even as they stare in awe at the product of your loneliness—white clay formed with lonely hands, with lonely eyes and even lonelier mind.  

“(L/n) (Y/n)”, they mouth, reading the artist’s tag underneath the sculpture. They seek more, behind the piece, but there’s nothing else to scavenge. There’s no description—no background. You liked interpretative works—interpretation works in the real world.  

It’s there at every glance, every thought, every word. How you translate those around you, those behind you. How people see you, how they see each other, how they see the world. That’s what makes up a person. You understand that very well.  Horribly well—to the point that you can also conclude that interpretations of one can be overlooked.  

Not everyone is seen, because there are others that make up for it. Those who shine brighter, louder. In the small ways. In the big ways. In every way.  

Eyes furrowing, at the way that the goers try to reach for the white sheen of the cast—they try and then they don’t. They touch a little, a little scrape, before they whip their hand away to check out another bigger piece. Their hand, though already made an imprint—made their mark on the white, and you wonder as you sit on a bench—if they’ll come back for more. 

You sigh. And swallow thickly, bunching your purple dress in your hands. Slippery and smooth, beneath your fingertips. You trace circles against the fabric and look up once more. More people are crowding your works. You’re a little happy at the least.  

It’s 8:37. Semi Eita isn’t here. And you’re disappointed to say that you’re a little stumped, though you shouldn’t be. You still give him excuses, though—you suppose that you like him enough to. You’ve stopped giving reasons––little tickets to people after a good while, when they didn’t care enough to take them. 

You rip at your skin, enough to make it bleed slightly as your teeth plays with your tongue, snappy and hurting. You breathe in. It aches a little. You breathe out. It aches a little. There’s something so achy in your chest. Rotten. You notice the pounding discomfort underneath your breastplate when your heart beats. Slow yet unsure. It carries down to your stomach, swirling. 

You pinch. Rip. Bite. Just to distract yourself for a second. A second is all you need.  

A mome—

“(Y/n), sorry—huff—sorry I’m late! There was too much traffic—so I—uhm ran over here.”  A voice distracts you, and with a soft, slow, unsure movement, you whip your head up to the ruffled man over you. His hair is astray, wispy, and his formal wear is rather crumpled. His face is flushed, and his mouth is parted, trying to swallow more breaths of air than he can hold. 

But Semi Eita in the flesh...is in front of you.  

“Sorr—” 

“Eita." You softly say, interrupting him. You don’t say anything else, because his eyes are trained on you. They're tunneled—you notice, and they scamper on your face, haunting and greedy as they travel down to what you wear.  

He coughs, “Hi.”  

“Hey.” You grin. “Glad you could make it...you didn’t have to run through the streets though. I could've waited."

He rolls his eyes, and you scooch over so he can really catch his breath. “Yeah, but I wanted to. I didn’t want to be later than I am now, plus I didn’t waste my energy if I ran for you.”  

Semi shoots you a little tug of his lips—smug. You push him away.  

Something against the ache beats hard. It’s not unfamiliar—you’ve felt it many times in your life. You know what it is—and that scares you. The way that your nerves tighten and your breath is too short, too much, and the way you shiver. It’s there—those signs. 

But this time around, they’re more pronounced. You don’t like that—it’s another mix to your rot. 

You look away from his stare. And he takes it as a sign to pull himself closer to you. You hear him gingerly sigh. “You look real pretty.” 

You scoff and you turn to say another remark, maybe nudge him away, but something catches your eye. You look at him, brows furrowed, and before you can stop yourself, you lean a little closer. 

“Where’s your lip ring at?” You mumble, using your thumb to brush over his bottom lip, just barely skimming it. With wide eyes, his chest stops moving and nuzzles into your coldness, taking your hands into his.  

“Thought it wasn’t appropriate for something as formal as this.” 

You shrug, albeit flustered with nonchalance, moving away. You make sure not to flush too hard underneath the warm lights. “I like it. It makes you...you.” 

He doesn’t say anything, so when you look back at him, his fingers toy with his lip, just where the piercing holes punctured through his skin. When he catches your eye, he smiles—half and trembly. Something delicate... It dries up, though—when you turn your body all the way towards him, fingers lingering against his hand.  

Warm and cold. 

“So, you like me?” He teases, gruff and light, and you punch him. He winces before taking this as an opportunity to finally take in the environment around him. Semi’s eyes are bouncy and energetic as they jump around from piece to piece, observing and quietly noting. You watch.  

They finally stop on your section. And you freeze.  

After a beat—a long moment, he finally says, “Those ones are yours, aren’t they?” You nod as he finally rises to his feet and puts out his hand for you to take. Inviting. You accept it and flush when his fingers slither down to your waist, reeling you closer to him. 

He shoots you a look, asking if what he was doing was okay. You don’t answer him, but instead let your own hands linger over his figure, leaning into him.  

“How’d you know? You can’t even see the name from here.” 

“I dunno. It just felt like you.”  

“Really? How so?”  

Walking to the first piece in your collection, his hand that wasn’t holding you close skims over the nameplate—over your name as if he was soaking it into his skin, pressing the pads of his fingers hard enough to make a little indent.  

You watch curiously—as though your heart wasn’t being torn into bloody shreds.  

Semi turns his head towards you and smiles with his eyes. “Because they look like they shoulder the burden of the world onto their shoulders, strong, but if you look close enough, they’re crumbling.” He points at the intentional cracks made on the shoulders of the clay—subtle but there. 

 It’s there.  

You didn’t think he noticed them. No one really does, or if they do, they wonder what you did wrong. Tensing your jaw, you savor the few seconds of quietness. You hear your heartbeat in your chest—a reminder that you’re here and well, and you feel the warmth next to you. Semi Eita.  

He doesn’t look away, but he watches your piece in an awe that you cannot comprehend. You wonder what he sees that you don’t. For something so depressing—is there anything good about it? It’s ruined by the fractures of the clay. Permanent.  

“Do you like the cracks?” You ask. 

And he answers, so out of breath as if he has been holding the air in his lungs, not even wasting a second to let it out when you question him the legitimacy of his words. If he really means what he says.   

“Yeah. I do.”  

Pausing, you breathe in deeply. And he moves you onto the next piece as if you didn’t create them—but you find that you don’t mind. You like watching through his eyes—through his heart. 

This one is more disturbing. It’s the torso of a woman with an empty hole in her chest, with hands clawing at it. Semi looks at it for a few seconds, humming softly. He scavenges through the hole, watching the way that the fingers pulse into the skin of the clay, destruction in its wake.  

And as he does that, you can’t help but stare at his side. You don’t think you’ve taken in how much beauty and coolness the man next to you gives off. His eyes are partially lidded, and he parts his mouth before sighing, tonguing at his lips.  

“This one is absolutely horrifying...” He murmurs. You grin. “This was the first piece I made.” 

“Horrible,” Semi bluntly says before turning towards you and tilting his head. You’re gazing at the piece in a certain type of nostalgia—whisks of light swirling in your eyes, and your lips play a sad tune.  

“Whose hands are those?”  

He squeezes the expanse of your back gently, and you remind yourself to breathe, letting yourself fall. Crack.  

“They’re my family’s. I... I made this after my mum made me reject my offer to my dream school. They said that they had to save up for my sister’s college funds soon.” Looking at him, you shrug. “Said that art was a waste and that if I was going to continue pursuing it, then I would rather support my sister who was going to be doing more...er...useful things.”  

“Hence the heart being ripped out?”  

You nod. “Hence the heart being ripped out.”  

“I see. Are you mad at them?” 

Shaking your head, you exhale, ignoring the sting in your chest. “Not really. They...they had a point.” 

Semi next to you huffs, and you look at him in confusion, staring at the way he rubs the nape of his neck. His eyes, sharp and piercing, are surprisingly gentle when they probe through your flesh. “I didn’t ask if they were being reasonable. I asked if you were mad.” 

You blink. It burns. And as the weight of his question settles like a suffocating blanket over your nose and lips, your voice cracks before you say, “Y-yeah.”  

Then, as you stare at the piece—at the gaping hole, for the first time, you envision something odd. There’s this heart—full and beating. Warm. And when you look at Semi Eita, it’s there. Brighter.  

Then you sourly chuckle. “But you already could tell right?” 

He nods. “I suppose. This piece was created from anger. But...” He pauses, and you wait patiently. “But this might be my favorite one.” 

“Why?” 

His eyes furrow, and he struggles a little—mouth twitching.

“Because this is the only one from what I’ve seen that actually admits how you feel? Admittance...is uhm, how do I say this...cool?”  

You take in his words, heavy, and it stirs deep inside of you.  

“Like at the rooftop.” You whisper. He puffs— ”Rooftop.” And then you, with a small smile, you snort and pinch at his arm. “You’re so lame.” 

Semi rolls his eyes, cursing you underneath his nose as you giggle, then tugs you along to the next section. Then to the next. And the next. He talks. You talk. He listens. You listen.

Something festers, but it’s not ugly. It manifests in the way that he holds you close, the way your chests rise and fall. It burns when his eyes observe, and you shake, goosebumps riding up your arms into your stomach.  

And it’s there when he kisses you on the cheek, at the end of the tour, when he decides to stay until closing times for you. Outside, where the crisp air nips at you with its cruel biting lips, he laughs at the way that your face turns warm, and you hide in his chest. He just embraces you into him and you turn quiet.  

Not silent. You’ve learned that silence doesn’t exist. Especially with the man you’ve only met days ago.   

“(Y/n) ...” Semi warmly states. “Thank you for inviting me. That was wonderful.” 

You tenderly scoff. “You...you’re just saying that, just because.” 

His face tenses up, and he uses his finger to part away at your hair, tucking it behind your ears.  “No. I’m saying that because I actually think it was.” 

Taking your face in his, he makes you face him.  

“It was absolutely wonderful. Really.”  

You wrap your arms around his waist, and he touches his forehead against yours.  

“You’re absolutely wonderful. (Y/n). Really.” 

Three. Do out of spite if for no other reason exists 

You meet Semi a few days later at a coffee shop. Purely out of coincidence—really, but his brows shoot up so far into his head when you both spot each other, and a huge smile cracks out on his face when he slides into the opposite seat across from you.  

You don’t pay him any attention, though, scribbling something furiously in your notebook and typing aggressively into your laptop, teeth gnawing at your poor lip.  

Semi frowns. Leans back. And he watches you with a certain amount of mild curiosity, sipping his cup of coffee leisurely. Then, when a few heartbeats pass, and you’re unable to ignore the awkward attention that oozes around you two, you groan and look up at him. 

“What’re you doing here?” 

He shrugs and tilts his cup in your direction, before he nods at your notebook and your computer open in front of you. “What’re you doing over there?” 

You roll your eyes and snap, “What does it look like I’m doing?”  

“Planning someone’s funeral, it seems.” 

You snort and chew on the cap of your pen, deeply in thought, before you sigh and take your dizzying head into your hands, rather dramatically, but rather justified. “I’d rather be doing that, honestly. Fuck I think I’m going insane.”  

Semi blinks. And then a Cheshire-like grin breaks out on his face. It’s scary—devoid of human features, and something in your instincts makes you feel like you need either to run or slap the smirk from his face. You don’t act on either—but your eyes do narrow, and you say in a short, cold tone, “What?”  

“...You’re mad.” 

“...No, I’m not.” 

You chuckle, and his eyes point down to your notebook. Your notebook that has a single rip that spans the whole page—the result of the pen in your hand. You look back up sheepishly and exhale. 

“I dunno. I guess? Everything’s been too much lately.” 

Semi nods slowly. “Like it’s always been.” 

“But now more than ever, I suppose.” 

He places his head in the palm of his hand, and something burns inside of you—loud and furious like he was expecting a story, fueled by. Like he was watching a mildly interesting show!  

Raising a brow, he murmurs with a lazy smirk, “Yeah? Why is that?”  

You twitch.  

“That’s none of your business.” You snap. Shutting your computer with a loud slam, you scurry to shove your stuff into your bag. And you’re about to take your drink in hand, before it’s reeled back with lanky hands.  

You watch in absolute horror, as Semi Eita holds your cup as hostage.  

“Give it back.” You growl. You try to lunge across the table, but he’s stupidly tall and full of limbs, so he’s easily able to thwart any motions of an attack, chuckling loudly when you huff and puff. 

Glaring at him, you blow wind out of your lips before tucking your hair back aggressively. “Fine. I was going to tell you why I was mad today, but just because of that, I don’t care anymore. Goodbye, Semi.” 

He snorts at the usage of his last name, but stretches across to pull your arm, "You're being rather spiteful. I have your third reason by the way.”  

You freeze and look down at him. “Sorry?” 

“Your third reason.” He parrots. He then lets go of you in full confidence that you won’t run away and grabs a spare tissue offered on the table. Semi grabs your pen and starts to write something, brows pinched. You slip a soft smile and wait patiently. 

When he looks back up at you, you already have your hand perched high to receive the tissue. He places it on your outstretched hand and takes a sip of your drink. 

You scoff. He ignores you and nudges you to unravel the brown tissue. "Read it out loud!” 

Breathing harshly through your nose in annoyance, you comply and twist the paper through your hands, unfolding it. There in messy writing; he has written.  

“Do out of spite if for no other reason exists” 

Giving him a long look, you sigh obnoxiously and take back your seat, stealing his own drink. You both don’t say anything for a good few moments, letting the words said aloud blanket over you two in a heavy manner.  

Eyes glazed over, you jump a little when Semi coughs through the bubble that encompasses the table. There’s a fiery feature that clicks threateningly in his eyes—burning red and orange and yellow. But then...that’s when you realize that you’re just looking at a reflection of yourself. Your lips crinkle a little—just a smidge. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time...or at least since the last time we met...and... if my other reasons aren’t futile enough, then your spite should be your own will.”  

He breathes in deeply and slouches in his seat. The evening behind you two descends into darkness. “My spite?” 

“Yeah. Your parents obviously want you to fail. Your friends think that you’re useless, and you’re practically invisible to the eye. Yet...er—doesn’t that make you want to prove them wrong, even more?” 

His words, harsh and deep, make you pause for a good second, as your nails dig into your arms. “Why?” You ask, fully and deeply, the timbre of your voice low. There’s no stutter—no doubt, you just want to understand. Understand. 

Semi’s response comes quick and fast, almost as if he were waiting for you to question the existence of his words. “Because you’re so much more than that. You’re more than what they think of you. You’re your own anger, sadness, grief, happiness. Don’t let them label you—spite them.”  

“Oh.”  

You nod. Once. Yet it’s profound. And Semi lets you mull over, deep and shallow. Yet when he finds you diving too deep, he pulls you back in with a stupid grin that makes time freeze and your heart beat to the rhythm of blurry lines of adoration and love. Are you scared? You don’t know. 

A ba-dump. A pause. A long, heartful look. And then... 

You both break out into laughter. Tears spring into your eyes from how much your stomach weeps and your throat rumbles. Finally, as you both choke into dying gasps and are tinged with a little bit of shame from onlookers, you wipe at your cheeks in pure, unadulterated amusement.  

“Gosh. Why is that you have the most life-existential takes in the middle of a public area?”  

He shrugs and looks at the time. “Twice in a public restaurant, too. Maybe we’re just fat.”  

You don’t laugh at that, but you do shoot him a hard glare that makes him giggle. Semi then takes out his phone to check the time before his features curl into something of mischievousness. You stare at him in anticipation.  

“You’re thinking.” You say bluntly. “That’s not good.” 

He sneers and takes the last sip of your drink. You do the same to his. Spite  

“Shut up. Are you free right now?” 

You raise a brow and tilt your head. “Yeah. Why?” 

Semi gets out of his seat, slides over to you, and takes your bag in his hand before you can protest. Not that you were going to, you already know his antics, but you still grumble, and he pats you on the head.  

And vaguely says, “Because we need to get that anger out of your system.” 

You have no idea what Semi means by that, but you don’t definitely expect to wind up at a late-night sports store to buy two pairs of baseball bats, protective glasses, and snacks, and take a long-ish walk to the nearest junk site.  

The moment you spot it, you stop. Freeze.  

“Eita.” You say calmly. A nerve pinches at your forehead. “Where the hell did you bring me?” 

And as expected, the man opts not to respond to your questionnaire. Instead (without checking whether you were following him or not) Semi throws his bat and glasses up into the air before he crouches down and practically crawls through an open hole through the metal gate; the only thing that separates you and junk. 

His bat lands on the other side with a hard thud. And he grins, picking it back up as he rises to his feet, smugly wiping the dirt from his jeans.  

And you...you stare in terror. Only to warily follow him, when the quietness gets a little too loud for your comfort, hand digging into his harshly as a form of retaliation, when he tries to help you through the narrow hole. He doesn’t even wince. And he’s smug enough to show that flicker of amusement—it ticks you a little more. 

“Eita, I’m not going to ask you again. What the hell are we doing here?” You grunt. 

He smiles. “We’re here to take out your anger. Call this, uhhh a cheap version of a rage room.” 

You don’t blink. And he puts on his glasses, before slamming yours on your face too. You don’t do anything, standing there idly. In shock, really, until he lightly hits you with the bat. 

“A rage room...huh? Eita, we’re in a freaking junkyard. We can’t be smashing stuff up like this like hooligans!” 

Semi freezes, and as his back was turned towards you, he slowly spins around. “Sorry. Did you just say hooligans? What are you? A grandma?” He roars, and you flush, bringing your bat swinging towards his body. Hard enough that it hurt and soft enough that it didn’t break a bone.  

When he starts to whine from the pain, immediately as soon as the wood meets his skin, you grin sharply, doubling in laughter when his look morphs into a murderous intention. He’s not scary, though—no way—so you don’t take a step back when his feet pad closer to you, almost menacingly.  

“You’re right! Smashing up junk totally makes me feel better!” You tease, holding his stare, without an ounce of a waver. He stops in front of you. And something shifts—deeper. You don’t know if you should welcome it. If you’re allowed to.  

“You’re going to regret that.” Semi-lowly groans. You greet it with open, shivering hands.  

And with a steady hand, he softly palms your reddening cheeks, eyes blown wide at the closeness between you two. You swallow thickly and slightly nudge into his warmth. Your eyes flicker to his lips, then back to his eyes. He scrunches his nose. 

“Will I?” You breathe.  

Semi doesn’t do anything, not for a breath. But then he steps closer—too close, and there’s this rush that sends goosebumps up your spine. At first, you think that your brain was blaring signs of discomfort—that he was being too much.  

But before you’re able to notion what you’re doing, you’re leaning in, with an intent, so close you can see the smattering of moles on his face, soft and gentle.

And that feeling, it rises to your heart—pattering loud and hard that you wonder if he could hear it. You both look at each other, the bat hanging lowly against your thighs. 

“You will.” He finally answers. Semi drags his thumb against the curve of your nose, slowly before it dips down, just above your quivering lips. He doesn’t dare to push past, pressing into your skin. Your mouth parts at the intimate interaction, scared to move an inch as you fear the coldness that would follow his searing warmth. 

But then, when your eyes find your own, pooling in a state of desperation and brokenness in his eyes, you jerk away as if you’ve touched a hot stove. The cold whispers in your ear and the guilt that secretes, almost chokes you alive, trying to ignore the hurt stare. 

“Sorry.” He simply says, and it hurts even more, that he sounds so sincere. And all you wish to do is grab him by the shoulders and tell him that you didn’t mean to do that. That you’re working on yourself, for the better, but God, you were just a stupid coward. And fuck, you just wanted to kiss him!  

But Semi, the person he was, doesn’t let it hang—the pain. He just turns around, bonks you again, and tugs you along. “C’mon, let's smash up some cars!”  

You roll your eyes at the jovial tone he muses, but your nose twitches painfully, and your chin shakes rapidly, uncontrollably. Do you really have to mess everything up? Is everything you touch—love, doomed?  

When you don’t utter a word, Semi realizes that your world has gone silent, and he stops. “(Y/n)” he says. Using his fingers and with a kind smile that shot butterflies through your stomach, he wipes at your tears.  

“Sorry.” You whimper. But he just shakes his head, and you’re clasped against his chest, waterfalls pouring from your eyes. You have no idea what is going on with you, but all you know is that you want it to stop. 

“Don’t say sorry. Don’t you ever say sorry—you’re not the one that’s supposed to apologize.”  

You’ve always wanted everything to stop.  

The world had to stop—because it was going way too fast for you to comprehend. To comprehend the meanness, the loneliness, the unforgiving lips of the world, kissing you to near suffocation. Too much. Always too much. But always too little. 

That’s why you figured that you found yourself on the rooftop that morning. Because it was too much. But too little.  

But then, with this small realization, as you’re in Semi’s hands, clutching onto him like your life depended on it, there’s not this blur that you’re so used to. You can see the trees that encompass the junkyard clearly, green and beautiful. You can see the dirt and stars. And, and, and—! 

You can see Semi Eita. So clearly—blindingly it hurts. So, with bitten lips, you mutter, before you can even think with an ounce of rationality— 

“Apologize.” 

Eita smashes his lips against yours.  

The bats you both hold drop to the ground. It’s a little loud, muffled by the grime, but it doesn’t waver you, as your palms fly to his face, holding him tight against you, pulling him closer—until he’s forced to dig his fingers into your waist, curving his spin down. His glasses messily invade.

There are so many emotions poured out from the kiss—God, so many, and it tears you alive. Anger, sadness, spite. Your fingers pad against his growing stubble, trying to ground yourself. He notices and takes your hand and clutches it in his, while his other palm slides down your back soothingly. You gasp softly at the warmth.  

The kiss is messy, and when you both part for air, he barely pulls away, grunting softly against your lips as you both try to catch your breath. He then, with shaking hands, takes off his askew glasses, yours following,g and throws them on the ground.

There’s not even an inch of space between you two, and Semi finds it in himself, in a selfish desire that he would rather like no space, so you’re pulled against his mouth once more. 

You whimper—cry a little. But your eyes shut once more—willingly.  

And let the sorry atone itself.  

Semi’s hands wander against your body, smooth but confident, up against your sides just above where your back ends. They rise to your cheeks, wiping away the iridescent trails that have cooled down from the air, thumb against your brows and to where your lips meet—just to the edge, where he can feel your mouth languidly move with his.  

In sync. Your hearts are in sync, too—as one. Your breath hitches at the thought, lips parting more when your tongue darts over the cool metal of his lip ring, and Semi takes that as a sign to deepen the kiss. Warmer. Faster. 

Feeling a little more daring, Semi nips at your bottom lip, and you murmur, letting him ease into you even more.  

Your eyes flutter in confusion when he breaks apart and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand,  giving you a smug smile when you look away in a fluster. 

“E-eita” You gasp. 

And then with a slow, tantalizing pace, he takes off his jacket, throws it on the junk behind you, leaving him in his sleeveless top, and suddenly he’s on you again. This time, it’s hungrier, greedier, and you’re both fighting each other as he gently pushes you against his clothing.  

The jagged ends of the metal cut into you uncomfortably, a little painfully, but it’s easy to put on the back of your mind when Semi makes out with you like it’s the end of the world—like he can’t get enough of you.  

His warm figure feels so excruciatingly hot against yours, and you shiver against the heat, chest heaving against his, a little harder when he doesn’t let you gasp for air. He’s starving. 

And finally, when your fingers weakly push against his shoulders, softly moaning when he presses a kiss to your jaw, and uses his forearms to hover over you. 

He softly smiles, lip ring sheen, and you fluster even more as the events that just unfolded finally register in your mind. You whine and try to hide in the crook of his neck when he starts to lowly chuckle—but he doesn’t let you. 

Instead, his palms caress your cheeks—so softly that it makes you hurt gently. He kisses your forehead before his eyes wander across the expanse of your face. Semi finally stops when he meets your eyes. 

Your vision starts to get bleary-eyed again.  

“Fuck you’re so beautiful. Thank God I found you that night. You’re so fucking worth it.” 

You still. Quietness fills—and all you can hear is the sound of your heartbeats. The sound reminds you of his first reason, and finally, you hear that harmonic tune he was talking about.  

It’s absolutely breathtaking. And you break. Fully. But comfortably without those thoughts plaguing your mind. The ones that you are so used to, the ones that carried your despairs. 

Semi holds you close to his chest, and that sound—his breathing, his whispers, the way his hair bristles is angelic. But human. Grounding. He’s there. With you.  

You listen to his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. And feel yours. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

And then with the amount of love, hate, and spite you can muster, with all your parents in mind, your friends, your heart, your cracks and questions of if you deserved this, you mumble in his ear, 

 “Thank god you found me.” 

Semi doesn’t say anything—rather, his breathing deepens, and you’re subjected to his soft, ravenous gazes. There’s so much warmth. So much love. So much. Much. 

You take the initiative to kiss Semi, jamming your lips against his harshly before it delves into something softer. You grip his tank, and his cold, biting fingers slide underneath your top, pressing goosebumps up your stomach, whispering touches moving up. 

The rest of the night is filled with touches and comfort against the chill of the wind and of the world. It’s filled with unspoken love and his reasons, and your life of wonder. It’s filled with laughter, tears and groans and moans. His slow hums and tunes lull you to sleep. 

And it’s filled with Semi Eita. 

You fall asleep in his hands and wake up in a daze several times. You press mind-searing kisses to his jaw and to his chest before snuggling deeper into his sturdy arms. You’re sure he does the same, too; the fuzzy feeling of softness on your cheeks and your brows is rather pleasurable as you dip in and out of consciousness. 

You both lay against the junk until sunrise. Until the warmth crashes over you too, gently in a way that your eyes flutter and you groan, trying to shield yourself against the waking light. 

Semi doesn’t let you, though. He rather laughs, thickly and lowly grumbles in your ear, mumbling something about waking him up. You pout but don’t say anything else.  

Then, as the sun filters properly on his face and you’re unable to look at his beauty anymore (more at the dark marks that litter his pale skin), you get up and look around. 

You spot your dropped bats, glasses, and snacks on the ground and you frown. 

“We didn’t get to trash stuff properly yesterday…” You quietly complain. You hear rustling beside you, before you feel Semi’s breath tickling your ear.   

“We did something better, though, didn’t we? Your anger gone yet?” He teases. The boy opens his mouth to say another thing, but you slap his arm before he can get another word out, getting up to your feet so he doesn’t see the way that your lips quirk and your cheeks tremble. 

Semi, after a second, swings his legs and follows you too. He’s a little lanky so his shadow encompasses you as he stands behind. And with arms that seem like they’ve done this forever—love you forever, tug you closer into him. 

“You, okay?” He quietly asks. He places a chaste kiss on your temple. You take a moment—a breather, because he makes you truly know that you need it, before turning back into him. 

“Eita, I’m glad it was you. No one else. Just you. Thank you.”  

Then your fingers, light as air, tug slightly at his jewelry adorning his lip. He winces, but mirth dances in his sharply shaped, brown eyes. 

“I don’t need the fourth reason.” You simply state. You feel a little silly saying it, but you suppose in front of the man you adore, there’s no reason to feel that. Especially because you think that you’ve already found the last reason standing in front of you.  

Semi makes a sour face. “You never needed it them.” 

And then with blinking wide eyes, you stare up at him with a small smile that twitches, blooming into something sincere—intimate. "Yeah? Then how would I have met you?" 

His eyes crinkle and his shoulders shake. “You fucking sap.” You laugh in response, lightly hitting his chest. Semi then pauses—thinks deeply, and then bends a little forward. You flicker.  

“I’m still going to give you my fourth reason, though. I promised myself and you that I would give you four reasons. And I’m not one to go back on my promises.” 

You titter, “Did your mother teach you that?” 

And he shrugs with a sly smile. Simply haunting 

Four. Semi Eita doesn’t tell you the reason. 

Eita doesn’t tell you the fourth reason—instead, he tells you to figure it out yourself. A test, he called it, as you both spread on his bed, watching the gorgeous moon through the crack of the curtains. You don’t respond to his analogy, finding it a little stupid, whimsical even, but you do think.  

Think of your past. Think of your present. And for the first time in a while, think of a future. A future that holds you. Maybe you’ll like Burger King’s new menu item that was going to come out in about fifty years. Maybe you’ll throw it up. But all you know is that you’ll be there. And so will Semi Eita. Right next to you.

Eita doesn’t tell you the reason. But he does make it known.  

He shows in it his silly love songs that he likes to sing with his guitar in tow. He shows it in the way he kisses you messily at night, and the way he showers you with his beating heart, full, presented on a platter for you to take. 

The way that he picks you up from school and makes you play volleyball with him against the little kids in your neighborhood. The way he argues with you and yet makes you laugh. The way that he cheers and cries harder than you when you get accepted into your dream art school. The way that he brushes past your cracks with so much acceptance makes you fully wail.  

The way he doesn’t let you know the word silence. Or loneliness.  

The way that he loves you, so fully, without a doubt or hesitation. In so much confidence, his love is a second skin to him. He breathes, eats, drinks, his complete adoration for you—easy as if he were waking up. 

Semi Eita doesn’t tell you the reason. He doesn’t say it then. Or now—when you’re walking down the aisle, soaked in tears as your friends watch with heavy hearts. And you don’t think he’ll ever say it later.

But that’s just because he believes it’s you. And you believe it’s yourself.  

Especially when you see yourself in the glimmer of his eye. And you’re smiling.  

[seekrzz]

LOCO—M.O (based on this iconic video)

You've always hated the closing shifts at Onigiri Miya. You hated cleaning up the customer’s messes, closing down the registers, and making sure that everything was stocked for tomorrow morning.

It was just too much, and you were so tired, and god was it boring. Boring enough that you subtly complained to your boss, and he begrudgingly let you take hold of the playlists so you could listen to…whatever you listened to while working. 

You’ve never agreed to a deal faster and soon enough, the restaurant’s speakers were yours.

Out of respect for yourself and for Osamu, you never played any vulgar music or anything stupid. Still, it definitely gave you a bit more motivation to work, humming along to the tune under your breath. 

But you suppose that was only when he was in the building, doing his own stuff. When he was gone, either to run errands or to pick up more stock, you never missed the chance to play actual music. 

Your music. 

You always keep an eye on the door when you do, though. You’d rather pass away than get caught by your boss. And you greatly pride yourself in the fact that until now, your quick reflexes have never failed you in changing the music before he was even a few steps from opening the front door.

You forgot to look out the door today, though.

Especially when your favorite song abruptly blasts through the sound system and you grin as you mop the floor, fingers twitching against the wooden handle happily. 

Everyone tells you that you’re always too caught up in your head. Too caught up in your actions to even realize what you’re doing.

And before you know it, as the infamous chorus approaches, you drop the broom and the dance that you’ve very tiredly incorporated into your muscles starts to crack. 

The dance itself is very wild, loud, and very energetic, and that’s why you love it.

But it’s also the very reason you don’t notice your boss opening the front doors and freezing in shock. Or the way that his face drops, as he slowly closes the door behind him, and leans back in the middle of the room, quietly observing you as you prance around…er—rather dramatically, performing in the chairs in front of you.

You don’t notice until one of the steps requires you to turn around, and all you see is Osamu grinning at you brightly with his arms crossed over his chest, clapping loudly when you catch his eyes. Fuck. 

You stop—heart falling all the way down to your knees. “I—‘Samu! How long have you been there for?!” There’s a deep warmth that burns your cheeks as you look away from him, unable to meet his eyes in embarrassment. 

He brushes off your shame and takes a step forward, slowly as he softly chuckles, and pulls you into a hug, his ring glinting against the bright lights of the building. 

“Long enough. Didn’t know you could dance like that, baby…” He sighs, cracking up even more when you bury your face into his chest. “Stop it. That was so embarrassing. I’m never coming back here again.” You groan.

He raises a brow at that. “What if your very non-judgmental husband misses you? Hm?” 

“I don’t care. You can see me at home.” 

He rolls his eyes and just hugs you in closer, swaying you side to side before dropping his lips to your ears. “I don’t know why you’re so ashamed. You’re a good dancer…plus I’ve seen you in more compromising positions before.” 

Your husband is able to get away from your grasp before you chuck your shoes at his head. 

[seekrzz]

firsts

The Lead: You take a little memory trip down all of your firsts with Oikawa Tooru (Requested)

Primary Source: Oikawa Tooru x Fem! Reader

Classification: Romance, fluff, a sprinkle of angst

Content Advisory: Bad Grammar, Pregnancy, Childbirth

Coverage: 6.9k (hehehe)

Editorial Footnotes: google translate came in clutch 😼 but I'm really sorry if i got something wrong, i tried. also i rlly need to be doing my sat prep or I'm cooked for august.

Iwaizumi's Version

First Meet

Oikawa Tooru surprisingly doesn’t miss his homeland that much. Sure, he pours over old photos with a small grin and sometimes cries in his room because (as much as he would hate to admit it) he misses Iwa’s vulgar nicknames about him. 

But other than that, he’s doing just fine. Er—he thinks.  

Yet the one thing that he finds himself missing ultimately is...his fangirls. He knows he’s being shallow, but he liked the attention that was showered upon his good looks, the praise at every game, every move, practically at every breath that he took. It was a good contrast against his rather depressing life.  

He liked the chocolates that he received, the love letters, and the feeling of being admired just because he existed. 

But now, in Argentina, he finds that the locals here hold themselves to different standards than those set in Japan. And he's rather disappointed when he realizes that he hasn’t received a confession since leaving Japan.  

That no one has asked for his number yet.   

So, he decides one fateful afternoon that he’s going to have to step up his game. Pronto.  

And when he sees you waiting at the bus stop, he sidles up next to you and thinks. His friend, when he was complaining about his problem earlier told him a pick-up line that apparently worked on everyone. 

“It means what is a pretty face like you doing here! Go on and try it Tooru, with a face likes yours, you’ll definitely get any girl” And for more reassurance he clapped him on the back and nodded. Oikawa nodded back grinning as brightly.  

Now, the man smirks and sighs, catching your attention. You spare him a look as he looks around dreamily.  

“¿Cómo es posible que una chica como tú tenga esa cara… y aun así salga sin máscara?” Oikawa breathily says—just like he would to his fans in high school. And he waits for the shy giggles or the bashful scoff. But nothing reaches his ears—he even strains them! 

He stills. A beat passes, and then he thinks that you must be too shocked to even respond, so he decides to do you a favor and look at you—

Why the hell are you glaring at him like he was a piece of gum on the soles of your shoes? 

“Uhm...hola? Lo siento.” He stutters, ego broken. His face was red, flushed like a tomato, and he went to take a step away before you opened your mouth and stopped him.  

“Do you even know what you just said?” You coldly ask in English. You raise a brow at the way he slowly nods. “...What is a pretty girl like you doing here?” He mumbles, kicking at a rock.

When he peeks at your face, he groans when you stare incredulously at him, laughter cracking underneath your pretty features.  

You finally start giggling when you meet his eyes, and his heart beats a little faster. And he’s suddenly feeling a little bashful.  

“It means something else, doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah. Do you wanna know what you just said to me?”  

He nods and weakly croaks, “Please,” bracing himself for the worst.  

You try to hold back another bout of chuckling, “You just asked me, how it’s possible that a girl like me has this face and still goes out without a mask.”  

Oikawa’s face contorts into one of complete horror. “I... oh my god, I’m so sorry. I—you see! My friend told me to say that...and I believed him.” He takes a deep, shameful breath in as you start laughing even harder. “I am so sorry again.” 

“Don’t worry about it at all. Just do your research next time before you say something else to the wrong person.”  

He grins, but another idea pops up in his head, one that would send Iwa into a coma from his stupidity, “Of course. I’ve learned my lesson now. But you know if I had a translator I wouldn’t have run into this probl—” 

 “I’m not giving you my number.” You bluntly say, but there’s a soft smile playing on your lips that makes Tooru look away for a second to ignore the way that his stomach is twitching. 

He exhales dramatically, “You won’t even take pity on this young, lost, handsome, foreigner? Oh, what has this world come to?!”  

You snort and shake your head, but as you roll on the balls of your feet and chew on your lip, you finally let in. “I really don’t know about the handsome part—” 

“Ouch.” He gasps, holding his chest.  You roll your eyes and continue, “But fine. I’ll be your translator. But only because I feel bad.”  

And at that, Oikawa smugly twinkles. And thinks that maybe he’s still got it in him. 

First Date

You didn’t actually think that Tooru was going to use you as a translator. But as soon as you get back home, you are met with a flurry of texts from the man, asking you which route was the fastest way back to the city or what the packaging on his snack meant.  

That wasn’t the last time that you got a text like that.  

You didn’t really mind, though. To be honest, you quite enjoyed his texts, finding them rather funny in your mundane day, and you liked helping him when he got a little lost. You find it endearing. You find him endearing.  

So, when Tooru, after a few weeks of back and forth, asks you out to coffee to say thank you for your trustworthy efforts...you say alright, only pretending to be annoyed.  

You weren’t sure if it was a date or not, or if he was just being friendly. You kind of hoped it was, deep in your heart, but you knew that he was way out of your league.  

Yet when the awaited day came, you put on a dress that made you feel pretty and put on a little more makeup for something so casual.   

You're glad you did, because Tooru’s flustered face was worth it, eyes scanning you up and down as you opened the door for him. You flush and lean your head on the door. 

“Hi Tooru.”  

“Hi—Wow...you’re really gorgeous.” He croaks. He then takes a moment and breathes in, “I um got you flowers...didn’t know if it was a date or but you know.” he shrugs and pulls out the most stunning flower bouquet. And you stare at it in silence, touched...which he mistakes for disappointment.  

“It’s totally fine if you don’t like it! I just—” 

“They’re really pretty, Tooru. It’s just that no one’s gotten me flowers before, so...thank you.” You smile blindingly, and the man must hold onto a wall before he passes out from the light that you radiate.  

You’re genuinely the most beautiful woman he thinks that he’d ever seen.  

“And um...” You say, taking the flowers and holding them close to you. “It is a date, right?” 

Tooru blinks. Then nods rapidly, “Yes. Yes. Date. It’s a date.”  

You laugh prettily and excuse yourself so you can set your flowers down before taking his waiting hand. You flush when he takes the back of your palm and gently places a soft kiss on it. 

The coffee that day has never been sweeter. 

First Kiss

Tooru is an all-time sweetheart—something that you find out and experience through your many dates. Dates that consisted of late nights, food at the park, his volleyball practice, and your hand in his as he navigates through his new life. With you. Always you, he swears. 

Where he muses you soft, sweet, sometimes awkward nothings and makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world. Where he teases you so funnily but always turns serious when your lips downturn into a frown, and you’re both suddenly going on a whole spiel of deep thoughts.  

Dates that embody the true meaning of one in love. And God, you’re in love.  

Oikawa Tooru asks to be your boyfriend over a bottle of wine and a small basket of your favorite foods. You say yes...not even hiding the eagerness in your tone. You got horribly poked at that in his dramatic flair, but you quietly remind him that he had called you something nasty the first time you two met. He apologized once more. 

That day was quite boisterous, something that was loud as two hearts start to intertwine—messy at first as they try to sync in beat. Still nice though—you cannot complain.   

But now, as you stare at the man next to you, so handsome against the night sky, there’s this constant quietness. Not clumsy, but one of understanding as something thrums underneath your fingertips when your hand is in his.  

You study his features, all the way from his unruly hair to his slender figure. And when your eyes whisk back up to his face, you flush when you realize that you were caught ogling at him. “Like what you see?” He prods, but you see the way that his fingers scramble to conceal his reddening ears. Cute. 

You roll your eyes, “Shut up.” You turn away to move, but Tooru’s warm hands pull you back. “Tooru, what happened?”  

He shakes his head, but then he takes a step closer, peering into your eyes with a honeyed gaze that you cannot look away from. He says so much without talking, brows furrowing beautifully, and his hands slithering up to your jaw.  

“You really are the most captivating woman I’ve ever met. I... can I please kiss you?” He whispers, ghosting over your left cheek. You swallow thickly and grip his collared shirt.  

“Will you?” 

He doesn’t give you an answer. Instead, he meets you halfway and firmly but steadily moves his lips against yours. Your fingers play with the curls, tightening at the maple intrusion—so sweet and tender yet hard and secure. 

You two only part when you’ve run out of air. But it’s not for too long, as you’re both on each other again.  

And he realizes that night that he’s a man addicted.  

First I Love You

Tooru was disappointedly informed that you were unable to attend one of his games due to work. Which was no big deal, because there were obviously so many more that you can go to in the future to make you happy, but he supposes that he feels a little out of place. Like an incomplete puzzle—so empty.  

And he wonders how he even made it this far without you.  

But as he’s about to serve, all he thinks about is you, you, you. The way that you crinkle your eyes crinkle when he catches your eye before the match, the way that your lips pout when the opposing side scores a point, the way that you cheer for him, so loud and bright without any shame.  

And your good luck kisses that always left him a little ruffled and lovesick. Fuck. You didn’t even give him one today morning, rushing out to your office...and his stomach drops at the thought of it.  

Tooru promised you that he wouldn’t look out at the crowd when he was about to play because you were scared that he was going to distract himself. But he can’t help it this time, his eyes scanning the people, the faces...before— 

Before they stop on you.  

Front row, grinning so bright that he felt jealous of whoever was next to you. You meet his eyes, and glare, nudging your head back to the game ahead of him. But your soft, flustered smile says something else.  

And this odd realization comes upon him...You skipped work. For him.  

So, Tooru, with much more confidence from before and a faster heart filled with, throws up the ball and smashes it onto the other side of the court. Service Ace.  

All he hears is your raving, which doesn’t stop until the end of the game. His team wins by a landslide, a huge one, but something is nagging at his chest.  

Something that you can fix. 

He doesn’t even spare his teammates a glance before he’s sprinting out through the stadium’s hallways and finds you staring at a vending machine. ‘How typical,’ he snorts, but there's this thing that is pounding at his ribs, sharp and wanting. Wanting you.  

Tooru’s feet are lithe and quiet, but your body feels him before you even realize it, and so when his strong, sweaty arms wrap around you, you relax into his chest, relishing in the chaste butterfly kisses he drowns you in. 

“Mmm, Tooru, you’re so sweaty!” You whine, but you don’t make any effort to push him off. You instead just spin around in his arms and look up at him so lovingly that it pains him beautifully. “Were you surprised?”  

He weakly nods and buries himself in the crook of your neck. “You didn’t have to skip work for me, you know. I would’ve been just fine.” 

You shrug softly, “I know. But I wanted to. That’s why I rushed out today morning. It was so I could get all my work done earlier!” 

Something blooms in Tooru’s chest, and he just hugs you closer, tighter, the three words already scorching his tongue. 

“Thank you. You mean so much to me. I really love you.” 

And at his proclamation, you don’t still or freeze or gasp. Instead, you ease into it, so easy and adoring. Not jagged because it has never been awkward with him. 

“I love you, too, Tooru."

First Fight 

Tooru was a volleyball addict, surface-level-wise. A freak. 

But you knew better. Knew him. You saw past his insecurities and his horrors. The thoughts that circle his nightmares of always being second place, never getting better, that his hard work will never pay off against someone with raw, unadulterated talent.  

He had told you once that it started in high school. That one of his juniors had created this swirling fear, an aching in his hands whenever he set a volleyball. It continued until high school, unable to get into nationals. Unable to make a name for himself in the sports world. That’s why he moved here, he reasoned with you. 

“Because I knew that I was never going to make it in a country that only housed talent.”  

And so, when he’s at practice a little longer than usual, you let him be. You understand that he needs to feel this pain—to improve, to succeed, and that all he wants from you is your undying support—a hand as he battles himself.  

But you draw the line when he starts to neglect himself. 

“Tooru, it’s almost one in the morning, and you haven’t eaten all day. You need rest.” You groan. One of his teammates has informed you that your boyfriend was still at the gymnasium practicing and has not been letting up.

And to that, you’ve called his phone a dozen times before picking up your keys and driving all the way to the courts.  

You sighed, knowing that this wasn’t going to be easy. “No, I don’t. I’m doing perfectly fine. You’re not my fucking mother to worry about me.” He spits, and it stings. But you brush it off and sigh, not able to ignore the anxiousness that creeps up on you.  

You take a step forward, and he turns awa,y and you feel like you’ve just been slapped.  

“Love, please. I understand—” 

“No, you don’t (Y/n)—” 

“Fine. Okay, I don’t understand! But seriously,y Tooru, you’re going to injure yourself if you don’t take a break! I’m just worried that you’re going to fall sick or something bad is going to happen. You’ve been up against it for days! And—”

You’re twisting your fingers, pulling at your skin, opening wounds to the stingy tension that crackles between you two.  

“You know (Y/n)...” Tooru coldly says, “You’re being really damn clingy. It’s starting to get fucking annoying.” You hear him open his mouth to say something else, but you storm out of the gym, tears pooling in your eyes at a rapid rate.  

So much for caring.  

First Anniversary 

Tooru knows how much you despise huge dates. That you really don’t like going to big, fancy restaurants or anything else that requires you to act so formal, because it was so uncomfortable. So, expecting. 

You liked the small things. More intimate things, where your eyes twinkled brightly and your lips quirked so prettily, cheeks full and happy. And God, he really loves you for that.  

He loves when you love, when your heart beats against his chest, and all he can think of for the rest of the night is how much he adores you. Tooru’s been with you for a whole year—a whole year of love and cherishing each other.

Where your lips have molded against his, molded against the right side of his bed, molded in the kitchen when you cook him blueberry protein pancakes. 

Molded in his heart, his eyes, his touch, his ears, his nose. Indents. 

So, when your first anniversary rolls around, you both choose to go out to a home-cooked diner. Comfortable and happy, he watches you with wide eyes as you talk about your job promotion and other affairs that have been happening.  

He pouts and grins and does his theatrics at the right times, making you giggle or act all annoyed at him.  

In turn, he tells you about the antics that his best friend Iwaizumi has been doing in California. You've been on a call with the dude once, and it ended up with you two bullying your boyfriend and a promise of sharing rather horrendous pictures of him.  

You laugh now and take an off-guarded picture of your lover in front of you, as he rants about wanting to go surfing once because Iwa went, and you just roll your eyes and tell him that he’ll drown in the water.  

He sulks at that but perks up as you share of strawberry cake roll in and he’s immediately begging for a little bite, like he didn’t have his own lava cake in front of him.  

And you give in, because how can you not? He pays for the check with faux annoyance that you slap him for, before he takes your hand and leads you to a surprise that he’d been planning.  

Tooru takes to the top of a hill, so tall that it overlooks the entire city. You gasp when you see it, the little blanket lying there, and a little letter on top of it addressed to you.

When you give him a questioning look, he just says, “I’m not very good with words, so I wrote them down. Read it later, okay? But...” 

He swoops down on you and cradles you so softly that tears already prick at the corner of your eyes. You sniffle—always a crybaby.  

“Te quiero muchísimo. Gracias por cuidarme durante un año y por los muchos años que quedan, mi amor.” 

First Morning Moved in Together 

You’re very used to the bold, thick arms that wrap around you in the morning. The small drool on your shoulder and the warm chest pressed against your back.  

It’s nothing special, but it’s there and it grounds you as you awake your fluttering eyes, from the peeking sun that shines through the half-open blinds.  

Turning over against the mattress that you both placed on the floor, because your new bedframe wasn’t here yet, you whine into your boyfriend’s neck. Rudely awakened by the sun, because he forgot to close the shutters when you told him to last night.  

“Stop moving against me...” He groans, his hair tickling your forehead. Yet when you huff and try to wriggle out of his grasp, he just pulls you in deeper and presses a dry kiss to your hair.   

“You forgot to close the blinds when I told you to.” You say, trying to sound pissed. 

You don’t, and Tooru can feel that warm smile against his jaw, so his fingers tighten against your waist, and he breathes you in deeply. “That still sounds like your problem.”  

He smirks. And you sigh.  

“Really?” You cock your head and then knee him in the gut. “Oops!” 

 He yelps in pain and pushes you away as you start to cackle. But then this silence overcomes the room as the laughter dies, and your fingers touch the hardwood floor from the lack of a frame.

You stare at the empty walls that will be filled with memories and love. With tears and happiness.  

And then you get this realization. It’s weird and specific, but it makes your stomach dip and creates an uncontrollable grin on your face. ‘You didn’t have to leave to go back to your house when you’re already in it’  

When you look across at your lover, your home, he is already staring at you. Taking your arm, he tugs you into his bare chest. “Whatchu thinking about?” He asks, eyes fluttering close as you wrap around him once more. Your breathing relaxes, and a sudden doziness falls upon you.  

“About how much my back hurts. We really need to get a proper bed.”  

Last Proposal 

Oikawa Tooru didn’t know from the very beginning that he was going to marry you. For someone who had many partners, he didn’t think that the concept of marriage was even possible for him. For someone like him, who was so unstable and angry.  

But (and however cheesy he thinks it is, he knows it’s true) love changes him. You change him—in all your glory.  

Oikawa Tooru is still unstable and angry. He still cries over his losses and mourns over his mistakes. But what he thought was unlovable, you taught him that he was just human. That he just wasn’t this ball of negativity, that he was loved, so loved by you. 

That thought scares him, though. Because he understands that he doesn’t know himself without you. That you make a part of him—his other half.  

The side that he loves and doesn’t hate about himself.  

Oikawa Tooru has this thought late at night after a rather terrifying horror movie. Though you were known not to fear such films, you had clung onto him the whole time, only to fall asleep snuggled against him after the movie ended. 

That’s when Tooru, against his beating heart, when he stared at your peaceful face, knew that he wanted to put a ring on your finger. That he wanted—no, needed to be with you for the rest of his life. 

By God, he was an impatient man. When he made up his mind, he knew it was final. The next day, he called his best friend (and his best man) and headed to a ring shop. He doesn’t find the one he was looking for, so he leaves and tries again the next day.  

And the day after that. And for a good whole week. Until he found the one, with Iwaizumi cursing him out on the call. It was rather chaotic, but the peace that followed in his heart was worth it. 

Tooru didn’t believe in right timing. After all, he didn’t exactly meet you at the right place, at the right time, or the right way. So, he trusts his gut instincts on when to say the four magical words.  

He decides, after many months, that it is time to do it in the comfort of your home. His home. The place that housed so much. So little. So big. So, everything. The place that he comes back to every time because you’ll always be there, waiting for him, no matter the situation. Because you love him. From the bottom of your heart.  

The place of love.

And he knows that there’s no other place as romantic as his living room, when his hair is all messed up and he’s in the ugliest pair of alien pajamas that he can sport. When your shirt is half wet from the hot shower that you just took, and you’re chowing on some ramen that he had generously cooked for both of you.  

It’s usual. Easy. Routine. Love.  

Tooru, however, the perfectionist he is, cannot find it in himself to be nervous. Not when it comes to you, and there’s something romantic about that. From what you have taught him, love should be aided painlessly, but with flaws. It doesn’t have to be perfect. And it doesn’t have to be showy. It just must be him—raw to the fullest.  

So, he stares at you, stripped to the bone and with such a bursting heart, filled with you, just you. All of you. And then he fiddles with the box in his striped pajamas and beckons you closer to him.  

“Hi,” He whispers, pressing a small kiss to your temple. You giggle. “Hey.” 

“You have a bit of noodle here...” He laughs, brushing away at the corner of your mouth, and you pout, leaning up against him. “My savior, hm?” 

“Always. If... you let me.” 

He nods and he rises from the couch, and you raise a brow in confusion, but you don’t question his antics. Instead, you wrap your fingers around his outstretched ones, and he kisses them ever so softly.  

“(Y/n), you’re too good for me.” He starts but then falters, sighing as he grasps your hand tightly. You weakly smile but pulse your palm three times. 

 I. Love. You.  

And with that, he grins back, already choking up in emotions.  

“I love you, too. More than you will ever know. I will love you through sickness. I will love you when you’re annoying.” You roll your eyes at that, but your eyes are starting to get blurry. 

“I will love you when you are sad, happy, or sick. I will love you when you hate me. I will love you when you are you and through our sickbeds when we’re old and ugly and through death and beyond because not even the universe can stop me from loving you.”  

He doesn’t know why tears are streaming down his cheeks, but without letting you go, he gets down on one knee and clicks open the box with his fingers.  

“I love you (Y/n). Will you marry me?”

First Night Married  

The wedding was rather exhausting, but it was lovely. So lovely—and the concept that you’re now married to the one that you love doesn’t settle in your bones peacefully. It ricochets and you’re jittery, a giggly drunken mess as your husband carries you back (bridal style) to your designated suite.  

You press kisses to his neck and his jaw, tucking your head against him when it all feels too much. When there’s so much emotion, you’re practically imploding.  

“I ordered the pizza that you were craving. It should’ve been delivered by now.” He mumbles, and you perk up at the box that awaits you two at the front of your room.  

When your husband gets there, he unlocks the door with one hand and holds you tighter, compressed against his body, unwilling to let you go as he bends down to grab the pizza. Then he shuts the door behind you two with his leg. 

And the whole time you’re staring at him in awe, which just ultimately raises his ego as he beams and gently places you on the crisp, white bed. “Thank you so much...hubby.” You say, laughing harder when he cringes, but he towers over you, pinning you against the mattress.  

You flush.  

“Of course...wifey.” He mumbles against your skin, placing a smooth kiss on your ring. You reciprocate it back, letting the coolness of his wedding band linger on your lips. And this time, you’re happy to see the redness that shoots up his neck. 

He pulls back awkwardly and stumbles around before patting the vanity next to your shared bed.  

“Come sit here, so I can undo your hair while you eat your pizza.”  

You nod and slip off your heels, placing them next to your husband’s, who cracks his fingers all menacingly when you sit down in the chair and open the fresh box of pizza. Tooru just chuckles when you immediately dive in, grabbing the first slice that you can get your hands on.  

Using his fingers, Tooru nimbly picks apart your hair, pulling out the bobby pins and stretching out the rough strands that were coated in hairspray. You intently watch him work, groaning when he starts to massage your scalp, literally melting into him and into your food. 

Maybe you had died, and this was heaven.

Turning your gaze back to yourself, you find that your red eyes have died down. So had Tooru’s. And you’re thinking this because you both cried today morning, at first look, as you walked down the aisle and during the speeches.  

You grin at the thought of it and munch back into your food, offering some to the man behind you. And when you pull it back, you glare at his foolish face when you realize that he just chomped down the rest of your slice, leaving the crust.  

First Pregnancy

When Tooru gets back home, he’s met with the delicious scent of his favorite meal and the loud dialogue from a dramatic TV show that you like to binge. Grinning, he takes off his shoes and neatly places them by the front door (he’s more careful than ever after you scolded his improperness) 

“Honey! I’m home!” Tooru says, and just like clockwork, you rush out from the kitchen, kiss him on both cheeks, and hug him tight...while also throwing a soft but off-putting insult about his sweaty odor. 

But you don’t this time. Instead, you just embrace him harder, closer, and he quirks a brow at your immense affection. Not that he was complaining, of course. But it was weird. And suspicious. Especially for you.  

“Nothing about my sweat today, hm?” You scoff and punch him gently. “Do you want me to say something? Because I will.” 

He shakes his head rapidly, and you let him go. “Nope. No, thank you, Mrs. Oikawa.” 

You sigh and spin around, trying to hide the flustered beam that grows on your face. “Shut up.”  

“Whatever you say...” He sings, but then he dramatically sniffs the air and relaxes. “Smells good. What’s with the special occasion?” 

He doesn’t expect you to say anything big, maybe something like that you just wanted to cook it, but that twinkle in your eyes stops him in his tracks.  

“You’ll find out soon. Go clean up, dinner should be done by then.” 

When your husband comes back with hair wet and still floppy with his new haircut, he’s rather eager and jumpy as he skips to where you were sitting in the living room, the floor set with all his favorite dishes. He doesn’t spy the gift bag that you’ve hidden behind your back or the way that your fingers pick at your skin, rather nervously.  

“Will you tell me now?”  

You roll your eyes, “Yes, but first eat your food that I’ve worked so hard to make.” He pouts but obliges, sitting next to you as he piles his plate up, moaning and groaning expressively about how good your cooking was. 

But as he does, his eyes glance towards you. Once. Twice. Thrice. Annoyingly. You exhale deeply from your nose before opening your mouth, letting the edges of your face soften from jittery nerves. You're shaking. You don’t know.  

“Tooru.” You say, interrupting his scoop of vegetables. He looks up at you, all starry-eyed, and you have this rushing feeling of emotions. They prick at your eyes, and you swallow thickly.  

“Close your eyes and put out your hands.” 

His face crinkles, but his eyes shut immediately, ears perking up at the ruffling that he hears beside him, “You’re not going to cut off my hands or anything, right?” 

“Maybe.” You mutter, a watery smile overtaking your features as you place the blue pregnancy test in your palms. His hand, by reflex, snaps down on the object.  

 “Guess what it is, Tooru.”  

He whines, “You know I’m bad at stuff like this!” The pads of his fingers brush by the test, and he’s playing with it, twisting and turning it between every crook and cranny.  “Why can’t you just t—” 

He freezes, his eyelids relaxing in shock. “Wait. No way. I—” 

When your husband opens his eyes, he finds two things. He first notices the bright pink test in his hand, two lines staining the white, and his arms shaking. And then he sees you, wiping away your rapid tears with messy hands.  

He jumps up to his feet. “You’re pregnant?! What?! Oh my god! Oh my god!” Crouching down again, he flings his arms around you. “Oh, my baby. Oh gosh.” He coos, choking up as he drowns your face in lighthearted kisses. “We’re going to be parents?!”  

You chuckle and squirm your arms behind yourself and place a sonogram in his hands. “Look at our little babies...” You sob. And he stops breathing.  

“B–babies?” He squeaks. Then there in the black and white photo he sees two little masses, right across from each other. “Twins?!”  

Your husband passes out. 

First Birth

“B—babe? Maybe loosen your g—grip on my hand. I don’t think I’ll be able to s—” 

“Shut up, Oikawa!” You screech, and he stumbles back down, whimpering from your brash tone and the pain that you induce on him. You send another hard glare towards him, and he stops moving altogether. Still as a statue, as you curse loudly and Tooru has to fight the urge to say another (not so) comedic quip to you.  

But he knows that you’re strong enough to actually turn his whole arm into dust, so he decides against it.  

You’ve been in labor for the past twelve hours after your water broke over a game of UNO. The events that followed were rather a blur, but it was chaotic as you were calm and your husband cried, running around the house like a madman.  

“T-tooru...” You weakly gasp, and his heart breaks. Your teeth are gritted, and your face is drenched in sweat, nose sniffling. “It’s okay. I’m right here. You’re doing amazing...” He whispers. You kiss his jaw for comfort as the nurses around start to assist you. 

“Shhh, it’s going to be okay, promise. I’m so sorry, baby. Just listen to my voice. I’ve got you.” You nod, and with a gentle finger, he moves your head so you’re only looking at him. 

“I love you, Tooru.” You cry, the pain starting to get to you. You know you look horrible, disgusting, and a mess, but you don’t understand how your husband, so handsome, looks at you like his entire world. So soft and gentle. And so, loving. 

“You’re going to be such a good father.” You speak tenderly.  

“I hope so.” 

When the two pairs of shocking cries enter the world, you’re subjected to nothing but care as your husband doesn’t leave your side, even after your babies are taken away.

“They’ll have the nurses.” He explains, calming down your heartbeat as he wipes your sweaty face with a rag. Smiling, you brush off his own tears with the pad of your thumb. Warm and grounding.  

“You need me. Let me take care of you.” 

First Day of School 

Tooru wasn’t ready to let his two babies go just yet. Not when they both cling onto him and sob into his lanky legs, begging him not to go to school. “Won’t you miss us at home?” They cry, eyes big and wide, and Tooru just melts.  

“I won’t be here to spike your sets anymore,” His daughter says, shoving her teary face into his knee. His son follows too, “And I can’t watch any more alien shows with you. What if you watch them w—without me?” 

“I would never do that?!” Your husband wails, tugging his two kids into his arms. He then whips his head towards you. You were standing in the kitchen, watching your family with an amused smile and a cup of coffee in your hands.  

“Couldn’t they skip school? I’ll support them! I have enough money to!”  

His two kids agree, only sobbing harder when you shake your head and take another sip. It seems, though, you and your husband have switched places when you gave birth to these two gremlins.

You haven’t cried as much, and now there doesn’t go a day that your husband isn’t sobbing.  

But you suppose he was always dramatic. And always yours. 

“They’re being spoiled too much, Tooru.” You sigh, rounding the countertop with the twins’ lunches to give a half-hearted glare to your husband, who sheepishly smiles.

He knows it’s true.

“But mama!” Your daughter says, and you crouch down and pull her into a hug, wiping away her tears.  

You then turn to your son and do the same, pressing a chaste kiss on both of their foreheads as they melt into you. Looking up at Tooru, there’s a soft smile and a gleam in his eye. He’s so in love. 

“Naughty like your dad, hm?” You tease, making your kids laugh when your husband whines. “Daddy is very naughty.” Your son says after a beat, but then ultimately sighs, exchanging sad looks with his sister. 

“So, we really have to go to school?”  

“Yes, sweetheart.” You brush their hair and coax their father to kneel with you. “Besides, you need to get smarter than me and your dad.” They both beam, and then after a pause, you bluntly say. “Or at least smarter than me. You two are already smarter than your father.” 

Gasping, he clutches his chest. “You’ve been calling Iwa too much!” But he kisses you on the cheek, which turns the twins’ giggling into a bout of disgust rumbles.   

“Can we call Iwa after school then? I miss him.” Your daughter proposes, taking her lunchbox from your hands. Her brother nods along. Both of your kids have taken a great liking to their uncle, unfortunately, to their father.

“I swear you two like him better than me! Your own father!” 

The three of you brush off Tooru’s cries. “Of course. He’ll be very happy to hear that.” Getting up on your feet, you drag your husband’s limp figure up too. “Your bus should be here any minute. Do you guys want to wait outside?” 

“Mhm!” They both sync, and when you lock eyes with the man beside you, he carries both in his arms as you open the front door.

And just as you said, their bus was curving down the lane. Tooru, with a slap from you towards his arms, hesitantly puts them both down.  

They don’t cry. But they do send you both nervous looks. “It’s okay. We’ll be right here when you come back home, okay?” You say, adjusting your son’s uniform. You kick your husband’s leg when you hear sniffling beside you.

“Stop crying. You’ll make them cry too!”  

“R—right! And h—have fun and make a lot of friends!” He whimpers. Tooru brushes at his face before placing a watery kiss on their chubby cheeks, making them both grimace in disgust. They wipe away at their cheeks just as the bus comes screeching to a halt.  

“They just—Do you guys not love me anymore?!” 

You ignore his blubbers and gently push your two kids. “There you guys go. I’ll see you guys later!”  

“Bye!” They scream.  

Then, with their shoulders aligned as if they were going into war, they stomp all the way down to the open doors. And all is calm...excluding the man who throws his arms around you.  

You scowl as you turn back into the house, which proves to be rather difficult as he drapes himself all over you.  

“Tooru!” 

“They don’t love me anymore.”  

You sigh and shake your head, a growing grin on your face. “They do love you. Stop being so dramatic. Look at it on the bright side. We finally get the house to ourselves.” 

You think that you say the right words. You don’t. Because he suddenly smirks, and all you can do is deadpan. “You are right! A house all to ourselves—” 

“No.” He sulks, but something visibly comes to mind that makes you raise a brow. He pulls you into his arms. 

Tooru exhales dramatically, “You won’t even take pity on this young, lost, handsome, foreigner? Oh, what has this world come to?!” 

You freeze, and a wave of nostalgia washes over you. “I—isn’t that what you said when I refused to give you my number the first time we met?” 

He shrugs, “Yeah. But look at you now. Here with me. Your husband. And having two kids. What do you think would’ve happened if you didn’t give in?”  

You don’t think about it. You don’t like to, because you genuinely have no idea, and the thought of it is painful and achy. When you don’t answer, Tooru just hugs you closer.  

“Thank you for being my translator. Thank you for everything.” 

Something shifts in your heart, and you press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as he rocks you. But then, when the silence gets too loud and you’re caught back into your head, you pull back and ask.  

“So do I still need to wear a mask for a face like mine?”  

[seekrzz]

firsts

The Lead: You take a little memory trip down all of your firsts with Iwaizumi Hajime (27), athletic trainer.

Primary Source: Iwaizumi Hajime x Fem! Reader

Classification: Romance, Pure fluff, Pinch of angst (like really, really tiny)

Content Advisory: Pregnancy, Childbirth, Iwaizumi Hajime (27) athletic trainer, ONE SEXUAL JOKE THROWN IN THERE BUT LIKE PLEASE DON'T CANCEL ME I'M SORRY I COULDN'T HELP IT

Coverage: 5.4k

Editorial Footnotes: the way that I drool for this man (WHO SAID THAT :0) lowk just rushed the end forgive me huhuhu

First Meet

Iwaizumi is a known, die-hard Godzilla stan.  

A huge one. So, he makes it his lifelong mission to collect all the DVDs of the franchise. But when there’s only one more left in the action section, and you’re both reaching for it, he takes a step back.  

And all a sudden, he’s hit with an unfamiliar bout of bashfulness, deep flush creeping down his neck, when your eyes meet and you shyly hand him the DVD. You tuck your hair back behind your ear and smile so warmly that his heart stops.  

“Er—sorry, you can have it.” You quietly mumble, bouncing on the balls of your feet. His throat is all dry and scratchy, and he wonders for a good second if he’s dreaming, but he quickly snaps out of it when your eyes squint awkwardly. 

“No, that’s alright. I... uhm, I can run to the next store to get it.” He breathes out, and he quietly curses himself at the way that he stumbles over his words.  

“Everywhere else is sold out. This is the last place that has it...” 

“Oh.”  

You nudge the box against his hands, stepping a little closer. He can’t breathe—he’s in complete awe. “I don’t mind, really. You can have it, I insist.” 

“I...” Something pops up in his head, risky—insane. Yet before he could stop himself, he blurts it out.  

“I could get your number. That way, we can switch after you're done.” He pauses in embarrassment, and he gets this urge to just walk away and jump off the nearest building. “If you would like...” 

Fuck. Holy fuck. 

Your lip's part, and when he thinks that everything goes wrong—that you’re about to call him a weirdo, you giggle softly. “That’s an amazing idea, actually. I would love to.”  

“Okay. Cool. Er—then let me pay for it.”  

And so, Iwaizumi Hajime, with a great deal of happiness, walks out of the store in delight. With his wallet holding less money than it contained before, and your number in his phone.

Very cool.  

First Date

Iwaizumi’s first date with you happens after late-night raves about the franchise, and a little meet-up to exchange the DVD. He ends up giving it back for you to keep, even after your insistence that he paid for it.  

And then that’s when he realizes that you’re just too good for him to lose. That you were a sign. Maybe he should take a little page from Oikawa’s book and... just ask you on a date. Simply. 

His face reflects shock at your immediate acceptance, giddy at that. But how could you ever say no to someone like him?

Especially when he dresses a little more than casual and shows up at your place with purple flowers and chocolates, looking handsome as ever on your doorstep. You melt under his gaze and his stuttering compliments. 

“You look really gorgeous...” He mumbles, taking your hand gently as you walk down your porch steps.  

The date is filled with ice cream, laughter, and a shared bond for action movies. And two beating hearts that sync beautifully, when you end off the date with a chaste kiss on his cheeks, up on your tiptoes.  

Iwaizumi walks all the way home that night with his fingers brushing his skin and an exploding smile that he couldn’t hold back.  

First Kiss

Iwaizumi is hoping to pop the question to you: Would you like to be my girlfriend? It’s been a few dates of hanging out already, and he’s getting a little impatient. He’s nervous—you can tell,l but you just clutch his fingers tighter, warmer, and sigh against his arms. You hope that he gets the message. 

He doesn’t. Rather, he gets more choked up because he really doesn’t want to mess this up. God, he really, really, really likes you, and you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, but he figures that he doesn’t know what to do with himself if you say no.  

Overthinker—but he can’t help it. He can’t help it with you.  

So, you do what you must do.  

When he drops you home that night, you hold onto his biceps and carefully place your palm against his cheek. His fingers come to wrap you around your waist, digging in firmly.  

Shit.  

“Iwa...I–can I kiss you?” You choke. His ears warm horribly, but he nods, and before you can close the distance, he’s dipping you down into a kiss. It’s soft, gentle, and a little clumsy,y but it’s loving.  

When you pull apart for air, he mumbles against your lips. “Hajime...” 

“Sorry?” 

He pecks the side of your lips, “Call me Hajime. Please.” He then tucks your hair and brushes his calloused fingers against your cheeks. You ooze with so many feelings. 

And he asks you, “Will you be my girlfriend?” 

First I Love You

December rolls in, and everything has frozen over. It’s cold and really chill, and so when Hajime walks out, stacked in winter coats, he’s a little surprised and rather worried to see you waiting patiently outside his school.  

Hajime, as quickly as possible, bids bye to his fellow teammates, brushing off their teasing before jogging up to you. “(Y/n), what are you doing out here? It’s really freaking cold—” 

“You told me that your parents weren’t home, right? I made you something warm bento to eat after practice because I knew that you were going to be hungry and tired.” You shrug, watching his frozen reaction amusedly.  

He snaps out of it with a growing heartbeat and an immense sweep of butterflies when you wrap your arm around his, tugging him along. Hajime looks down at you, mouth parted, unable to get any of his words out.  

“I uh...” He croaks, turning into a mess when you just giggle and snuggle yourself closer to him. Running your palms down his arm, you frown at his cold hands.  

“Gosh, you’re so cold too...” You say out loud. And you take his hand in yours and pull it into the pockets of your coat, smiling proudly. “There! That way we can both still hold hands and you don’t have to be co—” 

“I love you.”  

“Huh?” 

Snapping your head towards the boy, your eyes widen in sync with his. He seemed to realize what he had just blurted out. God, he really needs to work on thinking before he says anything.  

“Shit, I’m so so—” 

“I love you too, Hajime...” You mumble. Your lips are pursed in a way that makes you look so cute, and his heart practically fails on him. But he thinks that he likes this new flustered look on you...you’re not even meeting his eyes! 

“You know you don’t have to say it, just because I did.” He laughs, chuckling harder at the way that you panickily deny it. “No! Really! I said it because I’ve been wanting to say it. I just...didn’t know when.”  

He sighs and just pulls you in closer into him. 

“Yeah?” He grins, his heart full. 

You beam back at him. “Yeah.” 

First Fight 

“What do you mean you’re leaving for California...I—when was this even planned?!”

You’re gasping on the phone, curled up on your bed. When Hajime called you late at night, you thought you were going to receive one of his sweet rambles about his day. About how annoying Oikawa was and how stressful finals were going to be. 

Not...whatever this was.  

He sighs almost mockingly, and anger flares up in you. You’re trying really hard not to cut the call in his face, so you put it on speaker and nudge it away from you. “For a while.”  

“And you didn’t think of telling me earlier?!”  

Hajime’s brows furrow, “I’m telling you now, aren’t I? How does it matter if I tell you then?!” You scoff, brushing your hair back angrily.  

“How does it matter? I—Hajime, do you know how hard long-distance is going to be? The time difference...fuck.” 

He fires back, spitting into the receiver. You can hear him shuffling around, “So you’re telling me that I shouldn’t just go?! Is that what—” 

“Don’t put fucking words in my mouth, Hajime.” You pause, and he aches a little. “I... just wish you had told me earlier. So, I dunno...could’ve prepared? Were you thinking of this when you first asked me out?” 

He wants to lie and say no, but his gut just drops to his stomach. “Yes. You know that it’s been my dream to study Sports medicine—” 

“Yeah. I know. I just didn’t know you were going to study it across the whole world. You—” Your voice breaks desperately, breath hitching in your throat, “You told me that you were going to go to Miyagi University and now you’re just...”  

Hajime’s heart breaks, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to do. 

“You know what. I think I’m just going to cut the call before we say something that we’ll both regret. I’ll talk to you later, Iwa...” 

Beep.  

First Anniversary 

Hajime isn’t very fond of plane rides. He doesn’t like how he’s surrounded by strangers or the food that they offer. Or how his ears pop painfully. 

But the thought of you makes it easier. Way easier.  

Sixteen and a half hours later, he finds himself in Sendai, just thirty minutes away from your apartment.

And he makes Mattsun (who begrudgingly came to pick him up with a promise of treating him out to BBQ) stop by your favorite florist and pick up a bouquet of red roses, which luckily for him, next door housed your favorite bakery.   

He knows he’s going to need it, especially from the scolding he’s going to receive for not replying to your texts for the last almost twenty hours. Mattsun laughs at his pale face when he checks the time and sees that it’s an hour until midnight.

An hour until your one-year anniversary is over. 

Cursing his delayed flight, he asks his friend if he can go a little faster. His response consists of annoyance, but he complies, pressing on the gas pedal a little longer than before. Hajime thanks him and leans back into his seat, making sure that his little gifts don’t get squished.

Fuck he was so screwed. 

Time seems to slow down, but the clock still ticks on, and he swears that he sees the same houses every few blocks, but as soon as he sees the familiar building complex, he practically jumps out of the car before Mattsun has time to even stop the vehicle. 

He throws a few bucks into his face for compensation, and he’s darting up the stairs, brushing down his hair. There’s this tingly sensation that shoots up his body, and he fears that he’s going to puke.  

11: 47  

Hajime stands on your porch. His hand hovers over the bell. And he sighs. It’s been so long since he’d seen you face to face, he wonders how you were going to react. He looks at his phone, the last message you sent to him.  

And then he rings the doorbell. And waits, hands gripping the flowers and the small bag with your strawberry cake in it. He waits. Waits. For a second. A moment. 

He first hears the creaking of the locks being unlocked, and the light from your apartment being filtered outside. Then he sees you, looking like an angel with the bright lights behind you.  

Your lips drop. “...Hajime?” 

“Surprise. Sorry, I’m late.” He grins. “Happy anniversary.”  

And he’s able to get the last word out before you’re on him, legs wrapped around his waist, and you're holding him in your soft hands. He misses your touch, and he realizes it dramatically, seeking your warmth.  

You're blubbering something—something through your tears, something about how you thought that he forgot and that you were so, so angry at him. But he just shuts up with a kiss, trying not to let his own tears peak through. 

And then you breathe, hovering just over his lips, “Let’s go inside, Hajime. I missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you, too. So much.” He then takes you into his arms, your head in the crook of his shoulders, and you kiss just behind his, as he holds you against him tightly. As if you were going to leave.  

And then he shuts the door behind you two. 

First Place Together 

You’re utterly exhausted. Hajime is utterly exhausted. And you’re both lying on the floor of your new, small, dingy, broken-down apartment.  

Which is utterly yours. Yours as in you and Hajime.  

Your fingers pad against the wooden tile, and you smile, wondering about the future memories that you two are going to make.

Your head leans against your boyfriend’s shoulder as he pulls you into his lap. You both were sitting on the floor due to the lack of furniture—the moving van was just a bit behind schedule, but you didn’t mind. 

You’d rather wanted to enjoy this sliver of admiration. Where the walls are empty and the kitchen is clean and sparkly, only to be filled with dirty dishes and quiet moments of pure yearning.  

Sighing, you squeeze his biceps and point at the wall in front of you, “We should put our TV right there, and that picture of us should go on that table that we ordered, which will be next to our couches over there.”

You start pointing around the whole house, envisioning an image that you’ve been thinking about for months.  

A vision when he first shyly proposed to move in with him in a new place. You found how funny it was when he got flustered when it was obvious what your answer was going to be. 

Hajime chuckles deeply at your rambles and places a chaste kiss on your forehead, sweet and lingering when he pulls away. He then cups your cheeks and squeezes them, laughing even more when you furrow your brows and whine. 

“Alright, sweetheart, whatever you say...you have good taste, so I trust you.” He nuzzles into you even more, tighter, but you don’t say a word, relishing lovingly at the way that he clings onto you.  

Though he does have a tendency to refuse that claim later on.  

“Hah. Are you just saying that because I’m dating you?”  

Hajime gives you a coy smile, one that is full of jovial mirth, “No idea what you mean.” 

Scoffing, you smack him on the head, and he grumbles. “Ouch, that hurts.” 

“Meh. That’s what you get for leaving me for California...anyways, do you think our neighbors would be like really, really friendly? Or like really, really scary, like they hide dead bodies in their freezer?” 

“Uhm. I mean, I hope they would be friendly. Or otherwise, they would’ve shoved us in their freezer from how thin our walls are.” He grins, obviously proud of his little innuendo. 

You don’t like that, so you hit him harder than before, and he doubles over in pain.  

Last Proposal 

Hajime doesn’t recall being this nervous ever. Not when he first asked you out or the time he got lost in America and wasn’t able to speak English properly. But as he strolls on the beach, with the setting sun...he can’t breathe. Literally, he’s taking shallow breaths as his feet press into the soft sand.  

And that’s partially because of the ring tucked in his pocket and because you’re dressed to the nines, looking so, so beautiful. Yeah, he might as well just go into the ocean and drown himself.  

But...but as he thinks harder, his fingers twitch against the box and a small memory pops up. About how he and Oikawa were at the jewelry shop for a whopping three hours because they were trying to decide which ring was going to be the best for you.  

Half of the time, Oikawa kept nudging him towards the pricier ones with an evil grin on his face, and the other half was spent Iwaizumi practically having a minor breakdown with the sales clerk.  

With a lot of arguing, vulgar nicknames, and rather too many hang-ups, one ring stood in its glory that made Hajime stop in his tracks and make Oikawa, the annoying chatterbox, shut his mouth with a gasp. And as his fingers brush over the glass protection, a serious voice blares out from his device.  

“Iwa...if you don’t get that I’m actually going to come all the way from Argentina to where you are now and smack the shit out of you.”

Beep.  

That was the last time that Hajime cut the call on him because he knew that the band staring back at him was the one. The one for you to wear for the rest of your life...with him. 

With him.  

At that, he snaps out of it, and his hold against your hand grows, intertwining your fingers with his properly. Rubbing his rough thumb against the back of your soft palm, he breathes in deeply. And you look at him, so pretty, so...his. So, his future wife and his lifelong supply of love.  

There wasn’t this sudden realization of the thought of spending the rest of his life with you. Of becoming your husband. He guesses that he’d already known that, though—maybe even from the first day that you two met.  

Hajime isn’t one to believe in fate, but when it comes to you, there’s no doubt that you two weren’t made for each other.  

“Hajime, is there something wrong?” You question his frozen pose. You poke at his dimple and place a soft kiss on his jawline. He squirms under your touch, but then his fingers cradle your face, and his chest is against yours,s and he’s placing butterfly kisses.  

This was really it. 

“(Y/n) I know I don’t say it often...But I really love you. So much. I... I can’t imagine where I would be without you. My number one supporter.” 

He pauses, trying to catch his breath, and your voice is breathy when you speak, “Always. How can I not, Hajime?” 

“How can you not...” He softly mimics, kissing your head. “And I really want you to be my number one supporter for the rest of my life. My love. So—” 

Your eyes widen, and your hands fly to your lips as he sinks down onto one knee with an easy but adoring smile on his face. His hands pull out the box, and he snaps it open in front of you.  

“Will you marry me?”  

First Morning Married

The first rays of the sun have no effect on you and your sleeping husband, but later, when it hits 9:08 in the morning and the bright light is inescapable through your curtains, you are forced to wake up.

Rolling around in bed, you curl into your husband’s figure, his warm, strong hands on your waist, and his ring digging into your shirt.  

It takes a second for you to realize that it wasn’t just a ring, but his wedding band. And your husband— 

Your eyes fly open, and suddenly that weight of promises and forever love sits on your left ring finger. You can feel it thumping—your heart in your throat as you try to take in your surroundings and the pure pleasure and fondness that erupts within you.  

You’re feeling jittery suddenly, and you decide to make it your husband’s problem too.  

“Hajime...wake up.” You mumble in his ear. That earns you a groan, and he turns around, facing his back towards you. You sigh and try again, digging your newly done nails into his skin. “Hajime! Please! I have something really important to tell you!”   

“Hmmm? What’s the time? Isn’t it too early for your shenanigans?”  

You wrinkle your nose and huff. “First of all, it’s almost 9:30, so no, it isn’t late. Second, who the hell uses shenanigans? And third, Hajime just turn around and face me! I promise you, it’s really important!” 

You think he’d gone back to sleep, but with a loud murmur, he turns right back around and cracks his eyes open a little.

A bit of drool stains the corner of his mouth, and his cheeks are flushed with sleep. But in your eyes, you can’t help but think that you’re the luckiest woman in the world.  

“What’s so important that you had to wake me up?” He gruffs, stiff and alert. Only that act doesn’t last long because he softens when you hug him. “We’re married, Hajime. You’re my husband.” You giggle, and you put your ring finger out in the air.  

When you look back at him, you think that you’re going to find him deadpanned at you, but you’re a little taken aback when his eyes scream nothing but adore, and his lips are melted into a love-sick grin.  

He slowly turns and puts his own fingers in the air, against yours, pressing a longing kiss on your cheek that makes you turn red. He then cups your hand and brings your ring to his lips.  

“Hmm, wonder how that happened.”  

First Pregnancy Test 

You find out that five minutes is a long time. It’s long enough that you’ve retraced the whole outline of the bathroom more than a dozen times and have bitten off all your nails down to their core.  

And you’ve gagged over the toilet in rolling waves of nerves, so that was a plus. But as the seconds on your phone count down, you’re doused in more rounds of anxiousness. Your fingers press into your stomach, and you’re looking up at the ceiling and—

The phone buzzes off. And you’re feeling incredibly sick. Like horribly sick.  

With quivering hands, you turn the pregnancy test over—there are two very visible pink lines. 2 lines meant that you were pregnant.  

You freeze and look away. Then look back. And then away. You then pull up your phone, call your mom for confirmation, before reality crashes into you.  

Both you and your mom and sobbing on the call, and you don’t even notice it until you hear your husband’s panicked footsteps thunder through the apartment.  

“(Y/n)! Are you okay!” He yells. Hajime must’ve just come back from work, you note, wiping away your tears. 

You’re able to cut the call and hide the test behind your back, forcing your smile to contort into one of despair when the door slams open and you’re met with your husband’s very pale face. His eyes meet yours on the floor, and he’s gasping,

“Are you...I heard crying! What happened? Are you okay? Have you been throwing up again? I told you to go to the doc—” 

Another sob wrecks through you and immediately blames it on the hormones. A silly thought crosses your mind, ‘I can finally blame everything on my hormones!’ but you suppress the choked giggle down your throat as Hajime pulls you into an embrace.  

“(Y/n)—” 

“I’m pregnant.”  

You feel him still, his breath going silent against your ear. “Sorry? W–what?” He strains, pulling back from you. His eyes stare deep into puffy ones, and you reach behind yourself to grab your surprise.  

Taking his hands, you put the test in his fingers and cover it. At his shocked face, you grin wetly, and that’s all it takes for him to unwrap his hands to uncover the two lines.  

“No fucking way.” His eyes whip up to yours, unadulterated joy flickering in them. “No way...oh my god. We’re going to have a baby!” His arms envelop you, and then they loosen, just a little before he sways you side to side.  

You’re absolutely destroyed against his shoulder, snot dribbling down your nose and tears leaking nonstop from your eyes, but you’re as happy as you can be.  

You can finally start your own family with the man you love.  

And the thought of it makes you break out into a louder, hysterical cry while your husband makes you get up on your feet, already fussing.  

First Birth

For someone so strong, whose occupation is being a physical trainer, Hajime thinks that his fingers are going to fracture. But he figures that it’s nothing against the pure torture that you’re going through. Three months of horrible nausea, followed by a sore back, and now this.  

There are pearly tears that run down your cheeks, and you’re whimpering, and his heart just breaks. He really wishes that he could take this pain from you, but he can’t, so he resorts to squeezing back tighter and placing kisses on your trembling eyelids.  

He whispers sweet words of comfort, which only get rapid, to the point you don’t think he’s speaking Japanese, when the nurses start yelling. You’re sweating really bad, and he wipes it away with the soft calluses of his hand, which you lean into, mouth mumbling at him nonsensically. It’s panicked, rushed, terrifying. 

And Hajime can get one more kiss on your lips before the sound of crying stills the world. 

“It’s a girl.” One of the nurses whispers. And Hajime, who has never actually cried in his life, breaks down into a happy, ugly sob, hands slapped over his eyes. A girl. His two girls. 

A few hours later, when the Earth starts spinning again and all is peace and quiet. Hajime pulls his chair against your bed and ghosts a finger over your cheeks before it lingers on his daughter’s. You smile weakly, obviously exhausted, but your heart is so full that you can’t find it in yourself to care.  

“She has your eyes and your lips. Look at the way that they curve here, mine don’t do that.” Your nail pads over your mouth before they reach out to his, which he willingly obliges, trying not to laugh.  

“Yeah, but she looks so much like you.” He pauses and watches the way that his daughter’s chest moves up and down, and with total fondness, Hajime adds, “I really hope she doesn’t get your stubborn personality, though.” 

“Hey!” You weakly slap his chest, but you don’t show any signs of anger. Rather, your features are relaxed, and Hajime sees the way that your eyes blink, slowly each time.  

“I have a feeling she’s going to be a daddy’s girl, though.”  He swallows at your words, but he laughs at the way that your voice slurs.  

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up. When both of my pretty girls wake up.”  

He then sniffles and breaks out into another round of hiccupping tears.  

First Day of School 

Your child, to everyone’s surprise, is excited to go to her first day of school. You definitely were not like that as a child and apparently to your husband’s mother, neither was Hajime. 

You for sure weren’t complaining. Hajime swears he isn’t either, but you know he’s sulking late at night, watching over old baby videos of...his grown-up baby. You once, menacingly whispered to him that she was already 5 and that time was passing by so quickly—

You’ve never seen a man run so fast to his daughter’s room and coax her back into sleeping with you two again. He chastises you for spoiling her, but you wonder if he ever thinks about himself.  

He definitely doesn’t right now, as he snaps pictures of his baby, dressed up in her endearing little uniform. She’s a cute as a button, tiny as one too, and you can’t help but sneak in a few small chomps of her chubby cheeks from time to time. Hajime was right, she looks exactly like you when you were her age.  

So tiny and adorable. But she’s a little fiery, demanding demon. Like her father. Just like her father. Her puny hatred for her uncle is rather admirable, though, and it does get a laugh out of you when she looks at you and her dad for approval for insulting who she calls ‘kawa.  

“Mama, what’s the time?” She chirps,s and you gasp, almost forgetting in the whole spiel. "It's almost time for us to walk to school!”  

Hajime turns around and gives you a sad look, which quickly turns upside down when your baby asks him if he could give her a piggyback ride. He doesn’t even respond, getting on his knees and letting her get on his back, groaning when he rises back onto his feet. 

He gives you a cold look when his hips pop and you start to laugh obnoxiously, scooping her abandoned Godzilla bag from the floor before taking Hajime’s outstretched hand. 

It fit in yours just as perfectly as it did all those years ago. You kiss his knuckles, then his temple, before placing just one more smooch on your daughter’s cheeks. She giggles, and that’s all it takes for you guys to set off. 

The walk there isn’t far, seven minutes max, but it takes almost twelve minutes as your baby stops at every crook and cranny possible, chewing your head off. And it didn’t help that Hajime was trying to prolong the duration, so he didn’t have to see her go to school.  

And see her grow up so beautifully in front of his eyes.

That’s what really hurts, he supposes. He starts to feel bad for his own parents as his son now has his own family.  

That thought unfortunately snowballs into his daughter having her own husband and kids in the future, and now he’s slowly smothering her with his chest, unable to let her go.  

You sigh. And then pinch his arm, and he dejectedly places her back on the ground. Only to crouch down in front of her, pulling you along with him.  

“We’re here. Are you excited?” You whisper, coddling her as she wraps her arms around you two. Hajime smooths down her hair, but you think that’s just a distraction, so he doesn't burst into tears. He’s been rather emotional since the birth of your baby.  

“Yeah!” She cheerfully says, but then a shadow casts on her face, and she deflates in your embrace. “I’m going to miss you. Will you guys miss me too?” 

You and Hajime share a look, one filled with glimmering sadness and the other with amusement.  

“Of course we will, princess.” Hajime coos. You nod, “Every second will be spent thinking of you. We’ll be right here waiting for you when school ends, okay? We'll even rewatch your favorite Godzilla movie.” 

Her doe eyes twinkle, “Promise?” And she puts both of her pinkies out. Which you two comply with, without a hint of hesitation. Hajime pulls her into another hug, murmurs sweet words before letting her go.  

You both watch her run off into the school gates, not sparing you two a glance before she’s out of sight.  

“Oh my god, she’s all grown up, she didn’t even look at us.” Hajime mumbles. You chuckle, but your stomach is churning, and you already miss your little girl. “It’s going to be so quiet at home.” You sigh.  

... 

“You know what? Maybe I should go back and get her—” 

“Absolutely not Iwaizumi.”  

He snorts at that and slings his arms around your shoulder, turning you around to walk back home. Your steps are silent on the pavement, and it feels weird not hearing the small pattering right next to you. 

“You know you can’t use my last name against me. It’s technically yours too.” 

You laugh, but it simmers into one of melancholy. Your husband notices too, but he doesn’t say anything as you two walk on.  

“We’ll be okay, right?” You whisper, voice cracking. You don’t know why you feel so weird, but you can’t help but swallow thickly. Looking up at your husband, you notice him already staring at you with an adoring grin on his face. 

“Of course. As long as we have each other...we’ll be just fine.” He huffs. And then on a lighter note, he adds, “Who’s being emotional now? Hm?” 

You roll your eyes and softly push him away.  

“Don’t act like you weren’t—oh my god, Hajime!”  

"What!"

Your brows shoot up, and you’re looking past him. Hajime’s face furrows before he spins around, wondering what the hell made you gasp. 

It takes him a second because what he interprets as just across the street is a small street shop. And then he registers it as a DVD store. Wait.  

“Oh.” 

“Oh.” 

The DVD store where he first met you. And when he looks closer, he spots a rather familiar box. Just one last copy left on the shelf. 

[seekrzz]

recklessly in love

The Lead: Tsukishima Kei, for the love of god, cannot figure out his emotions because you're just so damn reckless. But then you get tangled in the Tri-Wizard tournament, and everything just changes.

Primary Source: Tsukishima Kei x Fem! Reader

Classification: Harry Potter AU, Romance, Angst to Comfort

Content Advisory: Bad Grammar, Crude Language, Injuries

Coverage: 4.7K

Editorial Footnotes: I apparently suck at writing comebacks and emotionally constipated characters. But I tried my best!! Also this was written to distract me that AP scores are coming out lit in a few hours js end me

Three things are apparent in Tsukishima Kei’s life.

First, Tsukishima Kei purely despises you. Has been since first year. Has been when you two were sorted into opposite houses.

And has been since you bumped into him recklessly while trying to ride the Hogwarts Express, almost knocking him down with your lumbering suitcase and an apologetic smile on your face.

Second, Tsukishima Kei has endured you through all his classes. For some stupid reason, you two were always in the same class. Same period. Same time, for the past six years.

He has endured your cauldron bursting, your wand jabbing, and your mandrake screaming with grimaces and moans. You notice—how can you not when he makes his displeasure with you obvious to the entire world? Yet you do nothing but shoot him an amused look.

And finally, Tsukishima Kei thinks you're the most reckless being in the entire world. The way that you rush into things headfirst. The way that you speak before thinking. The way that your hair swishes in the air and the way that your eyes narrow in an annoyingly determined fashion. And don’t even ask him how many times you were sent to the infirmary because of your own actions.

He knows that it’s written in your DNA, that recklessness rushing through your blood. You breathe, eat, and speak it at this point.

But there’s another apparent thing. He doesn’t like to acknowledge it, though, so he doesn’t. But it’s there—for sure. Festering deep within him.

That even in first year, when you tackled him down with that grin, his heart had beat too wildly for him to like it. That his palms were sweaty and his neck was flushed when he slapped away your hand in defiance. That when you pouted, his stomach churned, and he almost looked sorry. Almost.

Not enough.

But enough for Tsukishima Kei to know that there was something wrong.

The involuntary gasp that Tsuki lets out from his nose is nothing against the thunderous claps that roar in the Great Hall. Stomachs full of the food that the elves in the kitchens have so graciously provided, the hall buzzes with energy at the slip that Dumbledore holds between his fingers. The slip that shot out of the blue fires that enveloped the inside of the cup.

The slip that he had just read out. The slip that contained your name.

You were stupid—Tsuki knows that. But he didn’t think that you were actually hit in the head by a broom as a kid, for you to place your name in the cup to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. A tournament in which many had died.

Inhaling a sharp intake of breath, he watches your shocked face in the sea of many. He was always able to scope you out, whenever it was and wherever you were.

You rise to your feet, stumble a little as your friends pat you harshly on the back, and your body spins—just a little, but enough to catch his eyes. He gives you a mean, old stare that you brush off.

And then you give him a smug smirk, eyes crinkled with joy, and your cheeks flushing... heavenly. It matches your red tie rather well, he points out. Tsukishima points out a lot of things about you.

“Told you I would get it,” you mouth to him. He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Then rolls his eyes, looking away, trying to ignore the lodge stuck in his throat. Suddenly, his uniform is way too tight on him, and he can’t breathe.

He watches your back get brutally petted by the headmaster himself, quietly chuckling at your wince before you disappear from sight. He then sighs and pulls at his green tie before setting his head in his hands. Boredom or contemplation. He doesn’t know.

Tsuki doesn’t dare to look at the Hufflepuff table because he can already feel his green-haired friend’s annoying smile, which the blond-haired next to him snickers at, catching on.

Nor does he pay any mind to the orange head that screams your name with a banner in hand in the Gryffindor section. Or the raven-haired, just a few seats next to him, who politely claps—albeit louder than he actually would—because it was you.

Tsuki’s brows start to furrow. It’s partly because the chaos ensues from all of the other names getting called. He recognizes one of them—Miya Atsumu, a famous Quidditch player, getting called up from Durmstrang. This time, the claps are louder, and his lips twitch into a frown.

But the real reason for his grouchiness is that he wonders what will happen to you. There’s this realization starting to set in.

For a competition so dangerous—risky enough that it got banned for a while... will you be alright? As much as he doesn’t like to admit it, you’re pretty much a genius when it comes to spellwork—better than himself, dare say—but there’s this pit in his stomach when his imagination starts to spew the worst.

Then the pit grows more—deep and consuming like a black hole—when he asks himself: why does he care? Why does he care if something happened to you? He doesn’t care. No—

There’s blood in his tongue from the constant chewing on his lips.

No. He’s only worried because if you get hurt, then he can’t tease you anymore. He has to pretend to be nice.

He nods in his hands—subtly—and he relaxes. Slightly. Just slightly.

When the whole ordeal is over, he waits by one of the corridors, nearest to the one that you disappeared into, along with Yachi, Hinata, Kageyama, and Yamaguchi.

Leaning against the wall, he scoffs at his friends' insistence on being the first people to congratulate you properly. His heart is racing in his chest, though, and he steps a bit away from Yamaguchi, scared that his friend could hear it.

“This is so stupid,” the tall blond groans. “We can literally do this tomorrow when we see her. I’m tired and it’s late.”

Hinata just pats him on the back, and Tsuki grimaces in disgust, wiping away at his robes in a prudent fashion. “That’s just ’cause you’re an old man!”

Yamaguchi, next to him, raises an amused brow. “Hinata, you’re literally the oldest.”

“Well, still—!”

Yachi’s loud gasp breaks the boys out of their rising tension, and they all whip their heads around, just peering down the hallway. Lit with torches, the dancing fire creates a glowing cast on your face, features contorted into pure bliss of happiness.

You’re skipping a little, laughing at your friends, and Tsuki’s in this state of unwanted adoration. He’s trying not to let the lines on his face melt, but he can’t help but let his eyes waver into pools of softness and his lips jut out.

He’s not oblivious—how can he be when it comes to himself? But can he let himself enjoy it—that question keeps him up at night.

“Oh god (Y/n), I knew that you would get it!” Yachi gets hold of your hands and spins you around into a hug. Hinata jumps up on your shoulders in excitement. “Did you hear me scream your name?!”

“I did, Shoyo! You were the loudest!”

Kageyama shoots you a smile—or rather, tries to—his grin terrifying. Yet you still take his palms and give him your own high-five, slapping it loudly against his that it wakes up some of the portraits who weren’t already woken from the cheering.

“Thanks, Tobio!”

Kageyama, pleasantly surprised, nods his head. You nod back, grinning so bright, it outshines the sun.

Yamaguchi himself tugs you into his chest, wrapping his hands around you playfully before shoving down a congratulatory chocolate frog into your mouth. Your favorite sweet.

Something bubbles in his chest. Green.

Then your wide eyes, warm and loving, look at him. And his heart stops. His eyes travel your face, from your hair to your chin. He drinks in the pride and beauty that you exude, and his breathing all of a sudden is labored, painful.

Because you’re so...

“Nothing for me, huh?” you tease, nudging him with your elbow. He just pushes you away with his finger against your forehead. “What am I supposed to say? Congrats on your stupidity?”

You just laugh and brush it off, giving him a cute look. And Tsuki has to clap himself on the back for not freaking out because of you. But then he turns to the green-haired when he realizes your warm palm is against Hinata’s shoulder. And he opens his mouth.

“Yamaguchi, how much do you want to bet that she loses her arm, first round?” Tsuki snarks. Everyone moans at his pessimism. Not you, though—you just punch his arm and bite back.

“The cup picks whoever is worthy... Tsuki. Are you saying that Dumbledore is wrong?!”

“No, I’m just saying that it might’ve been a fluke.”

You cross your arms and blow a strand of hair from your face. “Right. I’ll prove you wrong when I take home the thousand galleons.”

“Enough to buy your own Quidditch team!” Hinata pipes in. It’s thoughtful—his words—and Tsuki does not know if he was actually serious. But still, everyone giggles (he snorts), and now they’re starting to walk down the hallway before Ms. Norris catches them after curfew.

“Right, Shoyo!” you chirp. Tsuki tries not to look down at you or turn red when your fingers brush against his. Soft and inviting. And you smell nice like you always do—like daisies.

“Anyways, Tsuki, you’ll be cheering for me, right? You must. Everyone else is our opposition.” You pause and then add thoughtfully, “You’re my friend, so.”

The word friend isn’t very pleasant, Tsuki realizes. A crack shoots down his body, and his slim figure rather jolts against the ground. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like these feelings. With you. God. What the hell do you do to him? There’s anger brewing in his lips, and his tongue slips:

“We’re not friends.” He mockingly chuckles. He doesn’t notice how everyone goes quiet and the way that your lips purse, sadly. “Besides, everyone else seems way better than you. You’re not worth my cheering.”

He hopes that you take it as a joke when he says what he says. That your quietness is you thinking of something to say back, something meaner, because he deserves it.

You don’t. Obviously. And there’s a tremble in your lips and twinkling in your dimmed eyes, and a slap from Hinata on his back that makes him groan out in pain. “Yeah, thanks for your support,” you murmur, before walking off, with Yachi right behind you.

“That was a cold blow, Tsuki,” Yamaguchi sharply says. Kageyama shoulder checks him.

But that doesn’t scare him. Wound him. The disappointing look that you give him before turning into the next corridor does. And it haunts him for the rest of the night. And over breakfast. And it seeps into his heart for the next few days.

Tsukishima has had many fights with you. But he supposes that this might be the worst one. You’ve been ignoring him. And he’s going insane. Actually insane. For the first time ever, he receives an A in potions. Fucking potions.

You're like a drug—and he’s a man addicted, because he craves your presence, in the small things. In the big things. The smell of parchment paper, which you claim to be very comforting. McGonagall, because she’s your house head. Even your damn tabby owl that he sees in the morning makes him wilt back into his porridge.

He knows why. But tries not to understand it. He clearly reflects it—that indifference with his smug grin and scoffs at your name.

Yamaguchi is being sharper and colder to him. Everyone else too—but fuck! He doesn’t want to confront himself. He doesn’t know what to do.

But deep down, he wishes that you would know that what he said isn’t true. He will always praise you. Tsukishima doesn’t know how to—really. He will always be there for you, always defend you. In a heartbeat. In a single breath. Whether you’re friends or not. Or more.

Speaking of...

Jaw clenched, he watches a pair of girls a few seats down, giggling to each other. At first, he doesn’t know what they’re talking about, so he doesn’t pay any mind, but his sharp hearing catches your name leave their glossy lips, and he’s perked up.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that they’re bad-mouthing you.

He dares to go back to grading more essays for Professor Slughorn (the professor’s trust in him should be studied), but his quill is quivering too much between his fingers for him to even circle the rights and wrongs. He tries, but he ends up leaving a big hole in the parchment.

Tsukishima decides it’s enough when they start coming for your looks. ‘For someone so jealous, they don’t even compare to you,’ he thinks. His long strides are strong and confident as he stops by their table.

They look up. Exchange looks. And all the infuriating smiles that make his temple click.

“Ah! Tsuki, would you like to study with us?!” One of them slyly sighs, coiling her hair around her finger. The other nods eagerly.

And he’s disgusted.

“No, thank you. I don’t like to associate myself with embarrassments who don’t have the looks or the brains to back up their words.” He pushes up his glasses and hands them their packets with a big D circled in red. Dreadful.

“I’m sorry that we can’t all be smart.” He quietly says, enjoying their shocked faces. They’re on the verge of tears—he can tell, and he relishes in it. Tsuki doesn’t take a moment to spare them a glance, turning around with his bag in hand.

Only to momentarily freeze, when he sees Yamaguchi narrowly staring at him. There’s a smug smirk playing on his face, and his cheeks are contoured into one of amusement.

Obvious that Yamaguchi witnessed the whole interaction, and knowing well enough that he couldn’t defend himself, Tsuki brushes past his friend with no intentions to speak.

But Yamaguchi follows.

“You know you like her, right?” He says airily. He knows. Fuck.

Yamaguchi easily wipes off his friend’s deadly glare, already used to his antics. When the blonde doesn’t say anything, because his lips are too tight to even open, he prods once more.

“I hope you know that everyone can see it. You’re not very good at hiding it.”

Tsuki keeps looking forward, sharply cutting corners. No budge—to Yamaguchi’s disappointment. So, he tries one last thing.

“You really hurt her, Tsuki. Out of everyone, she was counting on your support the most. ...Make it up to her.”

Tsukishima freezes, and Yamaguchi almost crashes into his friend. He thinks that he’s about to get the scolding of his life, but is proven wrong when Tsuki slightly shakes from exhaling out a breath.

“I...I want to. But I don’t know how.” Tsukishima looks at his feet. “I really messed up this time, hm?”

Yamaguchi’s face shows nothing but pity and a calm smile, “I dunno, that should be her call. But...you really like her, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go this soft for anyone.” This earns him another glare that makes him laugh, but at Tsuki’s silence, he encourages himself to go on.

“Be there for her. Show her that you like her. And lucky for you, she’s going to wait.”

“You said that I was being obvious at...her?” He swats at his friend’s face before walking away.

The green-haired boy snorts, “You are. I don’t think she believes it, though.”

Make her believe it.

And for the next week or so, Tsukishima finds himself on a mission that he does not want to do. Or rather, he’s forced to do on behalf of himself, you, and Yamaguchi. And soon Yachi.

He’s always known that Yamaguchi’s mouth was too big to keep this a secret. And he always knows that Yachi and Yamaguchi have their own gossip session deep in the Hufflepuff common rooms, so he isn’t too surprised when Yachi shoots him a thumbs up.

He’s rather irritated. But then it turns into small hints of admiration when they both help him apologize. Not outright, though.

Because he couldn’t force himself to say sorry to your face without messing up. Or sounding sarcastic and making everything worse; Yachi’s truthful words, not his.

Tsuki delivers a small package of chocolate frogs infused with strawberry syrup. And a little note with the drawing of the moon on it. He feels your pouty eyes stare him down as you scarf down your breakfast. He adjusts his collar so it hides his ruby neck.

Which only worsens when you grin so prettily and open the package, laughing when a smidge of syrup caresses your cheeks. And his heart is in his throat. Holy shit.

His mission doesn’t stop there, unfortunately for him.

Because you make him drag it out, not sparing him any of your sweet voice, but rather your soft looks that make him want to rip out his hair, or accidental brushes that make him yearn. Harshly. Softly. Warmly. Coldly.

Tsukishima is fucking hopeless. Such a romantic. He notices. And slowly accepts as the days turn into weeks. This time, with the help of the rest of his friend group, he slowly sends you more gifts. More apologies. And more advances to his heart.

As time passes and he’s subjected to what he calls psychological torture, he realizes two things. First, he’s a coward with no spine to talk to you at all. He’s quiet, though—no more snappy remarks, but that’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Second is that his mean words must’ve wounded you deeper than he expected. He doesn’t think you’re dramatic because he deserves the shit that you throw at him. But he’s growing frustrated.

Because he just wants to be next to you. Talk to you. Especially before the games officially start, and you’re thrust into danger that he does not want you to be in. Reckless. He’s scared.

The night of the first game, he didn’t sleep at all. He walks by the fat lady subconsciously, with you running through his mind. He asks Hinata painfully how you are, and he is informed that you are doing quite well.

Except you have thrown up once in the past few hours because of nerves, and you can’t stop chewing on your nails, and you have been slathering your face in makeup because of the deep, dark circles being carved onto your face.

So, in theory, not well. Not at all. And he feels so guilty because he isn’t there for you when you need him.

Yet the next day, he refuses to see you in the great hall with the rest of your friends. He tells Yamaguchi to give his support to you, but he just stalks back to his dorm and lies in his bed, long limbs outstretched across the bed.

He just thinks—there’s too much in his head as of now, and he’s about to explode. He doesn’t want to. But he does.

Tsukishima is twenty-five minutes late for the games. He stumbles into his reserved seat, in the middle of Yamaguchi and another peer. No one asks him anything because they all know why from the cold sweat breaking out on his face and his lightly trembling hands.

He coughs to steady his voice, then asks, “I—I did I miss her? What’s going on?”

Hinata answers for him, quite cheerfully, “No, you didn’t miss her, you only missed the champion from Beauxbatons! Anyways, long story short, the champions must steal this golden egg from a dragon... I think. Right?”

He looks around in approval, which everyone gives, but Tsukishima doesn’t focus on that. He focuses on more serious matters.

Dragons?! He pales even more but doesn’t show it. He just slinks back into his seat and sighs. Throbbingly.

“Our next contestant is Miya Atsumu, from Durmstrang,” Ludo Bagman announces with his wand pointed at his neck.

Tsukishima recognizes the name, and he slumps back down, anxiety ridden. It’s not you. Not yet. He's glad that it’s not you yet, but then he’s plagued with the fact that you will be next. That’s the truth. Final settlement. He might as well jump off a broom and die.

The slight bit of relaxation of not facing the treacherous dragon whisks away when he sees the brute. And Miya Atsumu’s small stature next to it as he conjures different spells, different tricks to get to his end goal.

He gets burned, almost squashed, and is brutally harmed by a spell gone wrong, but he manages to get the sacred golden egg.

Then he’s gone away, the Chinese Fireball is being contained by trained specialists—and it’s too fucking quiet.

Not just him. The whole Hogwarts section because they’re waiting for you. He sees in the corner of his eyes that Yachi is squeezing the hell out of Kageyama, who looks like he’s squeezing back, eyes trained on the field. Yamaguchi is whispering prayers under his breath, and Hinata is jittering in his seat.

And he’s about to pass out. He thinks he does for a good second, when his vision blurs, and you’re being let out by Mr. Bagman. To face the dragon. God to face a dragon—is everyone fucking stupid?! How are they allowing this?!

Tsukishima immediately identifies the animal. It’s a Hungarian Horntail. The worst one to ever piss off. And of course, you’re going to go do exactly that. There are claps smattering, hoots loud and clear, and cheers for you. You’re smiling, it’s strained, but it’s still there, and he can tell just how nervous you are.

And he feels wrong for thinking this because it comes to him in a split moment—you look good in the uniform that you wear. His heart is pounding, and his blood is rushing.

Your eyes, which are fast and sharp, dart around the whole arena before they find your friends. And then he, who is not your friend. You nod, and then your shoulders tense and relax. He shakes his head lightly, and you give him a huge beam before continuing on. Reckless. Stupid. Idiotic.

He wonders how the hell he likes you.

What happens next in a series of events is enough to send him into a coma that he cannot be awakened from. There’s a bunch of clashing, fire, brutality, and yelling. You jump around from rock to rock, flames just missing the edge of your pants when you make a daring run against the dragon’s legs.

But you’re strategic, you know what you’re doing. He knows. He can tell. And he admires it. You distract the dragon with a charm that Tsuki had no idea even existed, before missing a planned tail swipe by throwing yourself to the side as you boost yourself towards the golden eggs with your wand.

And holy shit, you’re almost there! Tsuki stands up, leaning over the edge to watch you. You’re just a whisper away from the prize...just a little more...

Before thwack, and golden talons lodge themselves into your chest, scraping you deeply as the savage throws you into a wall.

Next to him, Yachi literally passes out from shock, and there’s an echoing gasp around the arena. Tsukishima is paper white now, limbs shaking at your limp figure.

He sees blood—red and ruby and he has half a mind to go down and save you and perhaps also knock some fucking sense back into you...If you weren’t dead.

Tsukishima finds out that he cannot think straight. Or rationally. Because he wonders, with his heart stopping in his chest cavity for a good few seconds, if you were going to be the second person dead in this competition.

But that’s before, you’re literally thrusting the egg into the air as you weasel back onto your feet. There are first mumbles because you are the fastest person to get the egg, then there’s an eruption into cheers and whistles.

He's going to kill you for scaring him like this.

Yachi is shaken awake by another professor, and Hinata is crying, and Kageyama is still frozen in shock, and Yamaguchi is hugging another student, and Tsukishima—

Tsukishima is already on his way to the little tents to the side. There’s a rush in his steps, he stumbles, he is not careful, he is reckless. Tsukishima pushes the others to the side, barely even able to form any apologies because, before anyone else gets one, it must be you first.

You deserve the first sorry from his lips. And his love...but that comes later.

By the time he reaches his destination, his hands are on his knees, and he’s panting. He is just outside, and the wind flaps the white sheets towards him, as if it were inviting him in. He doesn’t, not yet.

He needs to collect his thoughts before getting over himself for being such a coward. A spineless idiot.

Tsukishima painstakingly tweaks open the tent. He doesn’t see you at first, but then he steps in, slowly, and you’re in the very back, getting treated by Madam Pomfrey. You’re in agony, it’s evident on the way that you twitch and the nurse’s quiet coos, but you still hold this brightness on your face.

Your eyes catch his, determined and heavy. And everything freezes. He looks like a mess, hair unruly and ruffled, and his robes ripped, but you think he is the most gorgeous man in the world.

And you look like you just escaped death (you did), lips pale and bloody and shrouded with ugly scars and burns, but he thinks that you’re the most beautiful being that has ever graced this earth.

Madam Pomfrey leaves with a titter. And he’s already walking up to you.

“Are you fucking dumb?!” He cries, “You could’ve died out there?! You are so fucking reckless!” His breathing is rough as he scans your body, traces of the dragon scattered around you. There’s something that brews, and he’s just so tired and sad.

He gulps when you take his hand in yours and hold it to your chest, where your heart beats. You wait and let him hear it. Feel it. Because it’s for him. And it’s time that he realized that.

“I’m still here, Kei. For you.” You softly whisper, and he thinks that he’s about to cry. You’re not one to shy away from first names because you call your friends, except for him, by their given name. He’d always asked why so. Do you hate him that much?

“Too intimate...” You sigh, knowing exactly what he's thinking. He looks down at you before cupping your face tenderly in his hands. His fingers, dainty and long, brush away at your bandages, almost hesitantly, before they crawl up to your hair, tucking it behind your ear when you giggle and let your own hands hold his face.

You brush his glasses.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod once. But it’s enough for him to let himself swoop in and capture your lips with his. Fuck, you’re so sweet and he just lets himself deepen the kiss even more, sighing when you play with the hair at his nape. You grin.

When you both break apart for air, he doesn’t let go. He’s scared that this isn’t real. His nails hover over your lips before pressing his forehead against yours.

“I’m so sorry.”

You pull him back into a kiss, “That’s okay. You can make it up to me with your love. But you are right, we aren't friends.”

Extra Bonus Scene:

Yamaguchi, Hinata, Yachi, and Kageyama almost trip and fall as Tsuki uses his wand to uncover the culprits who were silently chuckling to themselves.

You, on the other hand, just laugh out loud, giving them a bright twinkle, slowly melting into your lover's side. His hand is warm and firm against your back as you sit upright, and it makes you slightly dizzy.

But you’re having fun. Especially seeing him insult your friend’s entire bloodline with a deep flush on his face.

You decide that you like that he looks like a tomato. So, you kiss his cheek to make everything worse, before delving deep under the covers.

And all he can hope is that you will be worth the trouble. But he already knows the answer.

You're worth everything and anything.

[seekrzz]

the tale of the sun and the moon (and the stars)

The Lead: "The moon does not fight. It attacks no one. It does not worry. It does not try to crush others. It keeps to its course, but by its very nature, it gently influences."- Ming-Dao Deng

or

You think you have a chance. With him. But then again, who would pick the moon over the sun, when the sun burns bright and the moon basks in silence?

Primary Source: Akaashi Keiji x Fem! Reader

Classification: Romance, Slice of Life, Angst, She fell first, he fell harder>

Content Advisory: Bad Grammar, Crude Language, Insecurities, and low self-esteem

Coverage: 13.8k

Editorial Footnotes: Anthem by Ayn Rand talk. This was one of the only books I read last semester that I thoroughly enjoyed. The thesis statement that I used in here was the same one I used for my literary analysis hehehehe. Also, get ready for slightly odd but yearning (maybe ooc but idc this is how i see him) akaashi 😈

When you stare into the mirror, you see yourself. Your eyes that blink slowly, fluttering. Your nose that twitches upon your gaze on it. Your cheeks that try not to tug themselves. Your lips are trembling when you chew on them from the inside. You glimpse your teeth when you finally stop and take it in—take in yourself and a deep breath that your lungs cry for.

There you are. In your whole. And god, it’s terrifying. Behind you, the moon peers at you through your open blinds. It blinks back at you. The moon is cold. It is lonely. Depressing. It chokes you. And you must avert your eyes. You don’t really like the moon. You don’t like the way that it only glows because of the sun.

The sun.

You cannot explain its beauty. Oh, the sun. How it glows, so brightly, so radiantly. It nurses life, gives the day something to look forward to. Scares away the dark, the monsters in the shadows. So perfect. The sun.

Your eyes scan the girl on your bed, because you’re hysterical about the dark. You need the glow—that effortless light. The warmth that you seek. And the warmth that you wish to become.

The girl on the bed is on her phone. She’s lain rather weirdly, rather boredly. But you cannot take your eyes off her—but you really cannot blame yourself, because no one else can either. Because she is the sun. She burns and burns. Blindingly. It pains you, twists your heart, and makes your guts scramble.

But still, you stick by her. Because without her, you are nothing. The moon is nothing without its sun.

Your eyes flicker back to yourself, and you’re bubbling in green.

It’s hot today. But the grass sways in appreciation, and the sky gleams blue without the clouds covering it. It’s still a nice day, and the breeze provides some comfort to you as you sit outside with Hikari, sharing a twin popsicle together.

As always, when you break it, you get the one with the least amount on it. And as always, your best friend begs for you to switch with her, and you deny her pleading. Every single time.

You don’t really mind, though; it’s just a small observation you like to point out to yourself.

“Hmmm (Y/n), do you know someone named... er—Nishimura Kaito?”

Her voice snaps you out of your daze and you snap your head back up at her. She’s looking at something on her phone, lips collected to the side.

“No. Why?” You ask, finally tucking the last piece of the sweet treat into your mouth. You know why. And you have to brace yourself, because there’s this squirming in your heart that you don’t like to acknowledge. Your teeth clench.

“He swiped under my story...”

“Oh. What did he say?”

She doesn’t reply to you but instead turns the phone over. The story is this pretty picture of her that you took at the park earlier. She took ones of you, but you looked utterly disgusting, so they’re tucked in the deep depths of your recently deleted.

‘Hi Beautiful.’

You read the words only once before you lift a brow at her, giving her a strained smile. She doesn’t notice it—she never does, thank god—but she turns her device back to herself and stares down at the text again.

“What do I say to this?” Hikari sighs, and you have the tendency to snort because she makes it sound like it’s a crisis.

“No idea. I’m the worst person to ask.”

She doesn’t say anything, just hums before she stops. And her wild smile etches on her face.

“Should I troll him? That would be funny.”

You laugh but you think that you’re hurting. If someone said that to you, you would be over the moon.

But then again, you suppose that if you got that many messages all with the same meaning, you would get bored of it anyways. You would do the same thing if you were her, you guess.

“That’s too mean. Just thank him. Be nice and simple.”

“Boring. Hmph.” She boos, but you see her do it anyway. And from her face, it seems that the guy replied quickly and seemed to hold a conversation that was interesting enough to intrigue your friend, her fingers tapping at her phone quietly. You sigh. And chew on the wooden stick, looking around solemnly, back in your little daze. But it breaks again as you catch two figures, one a little ahead of the other.

“Akaashi! Come back here!”

You could recognize the voice from anywhere—really, the whole school could from how much it bounces down the corridors in passing periods. Bokuto—the infamous volleyball captain. His blubbering provides a bit of entertainment as you watch him chase the person in front of him.

Akaashi Keiji. The setter on the Fukordani Volleyball team. And your classmate in Lit. He sits a little in front of you, towards the left of the room, always diligently taking notes or playing games on his computer when the lecture got too boring.

And you would know because you’ve unfortunately developed a bit of an admiration towards him.

You like the glasses that he perches on his nose, and his bag of pens and highlighters. You like the gentle look that he owns and his annoyance at some of the books that your teacher makes you read, clicking his teeth, and eventually giving up midway through annotating.

He’s cute. Really cute. But you haven’t really talked to him before. Maybe once or twice over metaphors and similes but really nothing else.

You don’t even know if he knows your name, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. You don’t exactly talk in that class.

But when Bokuto trips by a bench near you, you can’t help but let out a soft giggle, catching the attention of the dark-haired boy. It’s nothing dramatic—no, but you both exchange looks, one exasperated and the other slightly amused. And then he nods at you.

God, it’s so embarrassing the way that you burst inside, tiny fireworks that patter your heart, roughly to where your breath gets stuck in your throat. But it’s a moment, nevertheless. A moment that you get to share quietly in the confines of your mind.

But then his eyes slide. A little to the right. Where Hikari sits. You crack and unfortunately shatter when her bright eyes notice, and she smiles so brightly at him. You have this sudden urge of walking off, but you suppress it and look away.

“Hi, Akaashi, what’re you doing out here?” She softly says, laughing at Bokuto’s furrowed face. “Could ask you the same...” He retorts, sending her a gentle, tiny smile. He turns his head towards you. You try not to be awkward, because you know that you can be sometimes. Especially next to her.

So, you flicker back and give him a hint of a smile. You pick at your fingernails.

“Hello (L/n).”

You try not to choke. And from the way that your eyes shoot up, you hope that he doesn’t recognize the surprise that overtakes you. But even if he does, he doesn’t comment on it as you greet him back. Timidly at that.

You clench your fingertips against you and tuck your lips, so you don’t grin all ugly. But you really want to, it hurts your cheeks as you pull back the joy.

Hikari clears her throat, looking up at the boy with a coy face, “Did you finish the math homework that Mr. Takashi gave us?”

Akaashi rolls his eyes and scoffs, “God no, I took one look at them and gave up... so, I won’t be able to give you the answers this time.”

She giggles in response, “Yeah? How’d you know that I was going to ask for them?”

At that moment, you notice how quiet Bokuto has gone, his eyes flickering between the two individuals as if it were a volleyball game. There was this proud smirk on his face, mischievous really, and he caught your eye and then looked back.

You could feel his quiet excitement radiating from where you were sitting. And it just makes you feel worse, slowly sinking in on yourself in disappointment. So, you decide to pull out your phone to avoid your arising feelings.

He raises his brows, “You’re pretty obvious, really.”

The rest of the conversation, you’re able to cut out of pure sheer will. You don’t know how it ends—the small, harmless chatter—but before long, you’re nodding them goodbye pitifully and turn your attention back to your phone, unable to find the courage to look at your friend’s face.

You know it’s going to hurt.

“How do you know Akaashi?” She innocently asks, her smile slowly simmering down to a pout once she realizes that you weren’t paying her any regard. “He’s in my Lit class...”

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence that lingers. You could feel her ogle on you, but you refuse to stop looking at your phone, out of pettiness? You don’t know? But you know that you were being a bitch... yet, yet—

“He’s nice, isn’t he? He’s pretty cute too, hm?”

This makes you jolt and shiver, lungs tightening. “I suppose. I don’t really talk to him—” You look up at her and wince, “So I wouldn’t really know...”

She hums thoughtfully and opens her mouth to say something, but you cut her off, your stomach starting to unravel.

“Hey ‘Kari, I think the sun’s getting to me, my head’s starting to hurt. I’m going to go home. I’ll call you tonight, alright?”

You don’t give her another look as you pack your bag. You politely refuse her concerns for you, and her pleas to walk you back home, knowing well that she lives on the other side of where you call home. Because if you did, then you would live with regret.

You think that you don’t deserve her care. Never did. She’s always too good for someone like you. You’re not a good friend, you know it. And it keeps you up at night.

The next morning, when you see her, you hand her a chocolate bar in apology. You’re so stupid, you think as you watch her light up, letting something so pitiful, something so awful, upset you. She wonders out loud why you didn’t call her last night, and you tell her that you fell asleep early, doing your physics homework.

That part was true—you did fall asleep from exhaustion for a good hour or two—but you don’t tell her that you never were going to call her in the first place, phone placed downstairs and away from you.

She exhales, a chuckle cracking through her faux exasperation, before tugging you along, her slender fingers wrapping themselves around your arm. Just as Hikari finishes the sweet treat, you’ve done laps around the whole school with her, allowing her to greet every single person in the building and hovering around to chat with her.

You say hi once or twice to others, honestly just to roam, but other than that, you stay silent. Or you’re on your phone. Both.

It’s always been like this. It’s a routine that you’ve built. But it’s to say that it doesn’t make you ache. When you look at her, you want to see yourself. All talk, all pretty, all perfect. She’s so smart too—always 100’s on her tests, nothing else. Like it isn’t hard to keep an A.

Like you don’t fight tooth and nail to keep your grade above a 90. Especially in Calculus. You shudder in trauma as you pass by your classroom, giggling with Hikari when she notices.

There are these nice moments that you admire. Just you and her, where she’s just your friend. These happen more often than not.

You don’t feel the way you do every day. You’re not a horrible person every day. And it’s nice, where the volcano in your stomach calms down, and you’re able to breathe.

But that’s until the bell shrills in the air, and that never-ending anxiety piles up on you once more. You’ve always had it, you think. On the first day of school, obviously. Yet sometimes you would have it when you went to sleep, that churning feeling. Or when you woke up. You had it last night with dinner.

Some days, you know why. Some days you don’t. But for now, you know very well it’s because your next class—your first period—was Lit. As it has been for the past few months. And you really don’t want to see his face.

You unwillingly say goodbye to Hikari, and you still walk up the school stairs. Trudging. One step at a time. And by the time you make it, there’s a minute left before the final bell rings and the doors close, shutting in the few stragglers’ faces.

You sit down. Silently. And stare right in front of you, towards the board. There’s this lingering presence, though, one who calmly takes out his book and annoyingly taps his pen against the desk.

One that swivels around once he realizes that his friend isn’t next to him, his face furrowed as he huffs. One that makes eye contact with the side of your face as you push your stubborn agenda at not paying attention to him.

You feel his stare, bright and unwavering, maybe curious as you turn the other way and grab your book, turning pink and apologetic when you accidentally kick your seatmate. She’s a sweet girl, albeit loud, so she brushes you off airily. Gently.

And he’s not looking anymore when you sit properly once more, obviously coming to the fact that his friend was not in class today. Konoha, you think. You’re pretty sure he’s on the volleyball team too, both donning their team shirts on gamedays.

You see him from the corner of your eye, pull out his phone discreetly as the teacher grabs her own copy of the book—Anthem by Ayn Rand—and starts going over the chapter that she gave out for homework.

But you don’t pay attention. Unfortunately amused by the silent furrow that Akaashi carries as he stares at his phone screen, tucking it back into his

Apparently, Konoha wasn’t going to be here today. And Akaashi isn’t the only one who wishes he were.

Your class was an odd number, which meant that anytime there was group work, you were always swallowed by another group of two; these two girls who were nice enough to reach out to you when you chewed on your cheek in silence.

But today, your class was an even number. And your teacher notices that too, her eyes counting every pupil in the classroom before she glances and switches to the next slide of her presentation—the assignment of the day. You inwardly groan and slump back into your seat.

“As you all know, to wrap up this unit, you’ll each be writing a literary analysis on Anthem. So, to let you guys have a head start and to avoid last-minute chaos, I’m letting you work with a partner to develop a thematic idea to base your essay on. Your job is to go through the text, pull out relevant evidence, and start thinking about how you’ll analyze it. You and your partner should explore the same theme, but each of you will write your own thesis and essay based on your personal interpretation.”

She pauses, as the students around you try to cram in her word vomit, too much information spilling out from her mouth. But as gruntled moans start to ring out, she just smiles and changes the slide again, presenting her assignment in clearer terms.

But you’re feeling sick to your stomach. You’re sure that there’s sweat gleaming on your head as you look around the classroom. There were already known friend duos. Friend groups.

Which meant if your friend duo wasn’t here, then you could usually partner with someone else who was your friend... leaving someone out to partner with you.

Whoever that poor person is, you feel sorry because they obviously don’t want to be put in that position. And at that thought, it just makes you feel more disgusting, wrapping your hands over your stomach in worry.

You pray that something drastic happens, a fire alarm goes off, so you can avoid this assignment for another day. Maybe Konoha can come back, and you can go back to your usual group. The other two girls. Yes. Pray.

But for the love of God, you hate change.

“You guys may start now...” The teacher drawls, going back to her seat. There’s the shuffling of chairs, the shuffling of chatter all around you, but you don’t make an effort to get up from your seat. Instead, you flip through the book awkwardly. You do it so well that you don’t realize the looming shadow over you.

“Err (L/n)... would you like to be partners?” There’s this bashful voice that you recognize, and looking up, you find yourself surprised.

Arai Souta, a classmate who you’re pretty sure just moved a month ago, and someone that you didn’t expect at all.

He looks down at you with a meek smile and a natural red flush on his neck, accompanied by a wicked stuttering stare that makes you grin as you soften, nodding your head towards an empty chair.

You’re finding yourself enjoying his company a little more than you would’ve imagined. He cracks unfunny jokes that still make you laugh and creates an atmosphere so friendly that you shiver in your skin, eyes crinkling ever so often.

You tell him to call you by your first name, and he tells you the same, pushing up his glasses shyly.

And he’s diligent too—hardworking and doesn’t spare a glance at the rest of the ruckus in the room as you two rack up ideas (your idea to write them all on a sheet of paper) for a thesis within the book.

You’d finished it while you were on a reading whim once after procrastinating even to start the book, so that gave you a bit more advantage on what could be presented.

Soon enough, under a little nudge of confidence, you shyly bring up an idea that you’ve tucked behind your head—something you would love to write an essay about but weren’t sure if your partner would (Hikari always thought that you took stuff too seriously, too metaphorically, especially for a class such as Lit): strict gender roles erasing female identity and enforcing women’s subservience under the guise of societal equality.

Heavy words. Heavy thoughts. But Souta doesn’t think so.

You think you see him tear up. He says it’s from your brilliance because he genuinely doesn’t know how the hell you pulled that out from your ass (his words, not yours). But you think it’s because he’s just pulling your leg, trying to elicit another half-hearted snort from you.

But it works. It makes you laugh as you two crack open the ripped book and delve into another bout of re-reading passages because the other students read the words aloud. Akaashi and his partners are more prevalent as they sit right across from you.

It goes on for about five minutes—that concentration and work ethic, both of you guys pulling out good pieces of text to create two different thesis statements and storing them down on a doc for further examination.

Until it doesn’t. And you’re bored of reading Equality’s attempt at stealing light. And he’s bored of cursing out the council.

So, you start to immerse yourselves in rather heavy, weighted, intellectual talks. Like the best flavor milk to ever exist? Strawberry, of course! Or if a genie granted you three wishes, what would they be? 1. Infinite money, 2. Infinite happiness, 3. Everything is to happen my way.

By the time that class ends, you’re left with his thoughts. They’re funny, whimsical, and you two forwardly exchange contact information because, under further terms, this assignment has turned into a full-blown project that you two must present after the essays are written.

He thinks you’re funny and gives you a weird contact name that is totally you. And for the first time in your life, you think that you’re starting to enjoy Lit. It’s refreshing.

You pack slowly—a contrast to his rushed goodbye, because his classroom is across the whole building. You have physics just the corridor next door, and you really don’t want to solve any more coefficients of friction problems with the useless variables that are given to you, so you carefully maneuver your laptop into your bag. Kneeling. Just slowly. Gently.

And calmly enough that Akaashi’s smooth voice eases its way into your bubble.

“I liked your thematic statement.”

Your eyes glance up, and he’s handing you your English notebook with a blank face that makes you smile at him nervously, accepting your possession and compliment gratefully with a small thank you.

You rise back to your feet, and only then do you realize how tall the boy is. It’s attractive, and you have to take a step back, wincing when you hit the table.

“You heard?”

“It was hard ignoring something beautiful as that.” Pause.

And you stop. In your tracks. Just for a second before your senses catch up to you and you’re on fire, nerves tingling, and your throat drying out.

He doesn’t seem to realize your sputter of a thank you, waiting by the door as you both bid goodbye to the teacher. You’re too numb from shock to comprehend that he was walking with you. Side-by-side, jostling with the other students. You brush your arms with his, but it doesn’t burn.

It doesn’t hit you, not yet. You’re still trying to process that he called your statement from earlier beautiful. Though you’re sure that maybe later in bed, you’ll start to get nauseous and weirdly giddy. But for now...

“I think it’s genius—you know, using Ayn Rand’s male chauvinist ideas that are hidden in the story to bring attention to societal equality.” His eyes scamper toward you, then back to the ground as you must stop yourself from combusting.

You’re absolutely floored. And in a state of adoration. Partly because he knew what chauvinism was.

“I—I—thank you! I thought I was the only one that noticed them... I mean the way that Liberty is portrayed! She had so much potential and she... and she was reduced to someone that was just—!”

You freeze and look up and register that you two aren’t walking anymore. Instead, you’re already in front of your physics classroom. And you flush when you realize that you brought Akaashi along with you, tonguing your cheek when you look at him.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, I was just rambling—”

“It’s okay. It was interesting, I liked it.”

You shut up at his comment and lean against the door, letting a few of your classmates by. Sighing, you’re about to nod him goodbye and maybe apologize once more for dragging him all the way to your classroom (you don’t want to subject him to the trauma of physics) before he cuts you off.

“Will you tell me more about it tomorrow?” He asks, laughing at the face that you give. But you can’t help but snort, brows raising, “Wow, are you trying to steal my idea? You’ll just have to hear about it during mine and Souta’s presentation later, I guess.”

“Right. Never mind that I asked.”

You snicker and wave him off, and he rolls his eyes. You think it’s endearing the way he scoffs and murmurs something jokingly underneath his breath before he really looks at you. It’s quiet for a second, only for you to crack the silence, heart twisting when you speak.

“You can call me (Y/n), by the way. I don’t really do that last name... thing.”

He nods. Once. Twice. Then breaks out into a grin and turns around into a flourish that makes you exhale the breath that you were storing.

“Sure. See you, (Y/n).”

The next few days are sort of out in an order of events that are so unusual from your daily woes that you must pinch yourself and wonder if you were dreaming or not.

First, you’re subjected to a bout of friendly back and forth with Souta, a growing dynamic festering as he throws your pens at you, and you make crude jokes back.

At the end of three days, you’re both able to successfully submit your thematic statement, clippings of well-thought-out evidence, and two different but similar thesis statements. It’s a little pitiful—solemn even—when he has to go back to his seat, and you shake your head at him in a snickering fit when he dramatically sighs at you. But it’s nice.

Second, Akaashi’s unrelenting stare is on yours (to be honest, you send glances towards him during your chatter) when you discuss the meaning of Liberty and her actions. And when you discuss Equality and his ironic relationship with his supposed lover. And… really anything that comes to mind.

You find him nodding along at one of your claims before he’s sucked into a discussion of his next tournament with Konoha that you listen into. You soon find out—with little prodding and a tinge of curiosity and boredom—that he and his partner were doing it on the symbolism of fire in the book.

You spend a good five minutes in awe about it as the class waits for the bell to ring.

And finally, third, you’re dragged to a volleyball game on a good Friday night. Irritated as you were because you really wanted to catch up on a new drama, Hikari’s requests were soon complied with by you because there was a promise of cheesecake from the bakery just a few blocks away.

You were not one to say no to free food.

You really never liked school events… maybe sometimes, but you found them boring. Especially when you were stuck by Hikari’s side all the time.

She was fun, yes, but there are times that you catch yourself looking away, looking at the ceiling in weariness or down at the floor as a grouch settles into your skin and suddenly, you’re itching to go back home.

But this time around, you don’t do it as much. Partly because the gym lights were so bright to look up at and you’d rather ignore the chewed gum on the floor, but also because it was entertaining. You feel like you don’t even recognize yourself when you cheer for your school’s team.

Or when you praise Bokuto’s spike. Or gasp at Akaashi’s very meticulous set over the net. You even take it upon yourself to learn new phrases and verbs, so the gameplay makes sense to you.

And you bought good old chips too for you and Hikari to share.

Mostly for you, because she kept running off elsewhere, and you were too lazy to follow her around like a little duckling. But you wouldn’t have it either way, knees tucked up to yourselves as you watch the rally back and forth, occupying the back bleacher.

Soon enough, as if it wasn’t obvious, Fukurodani scores the winning point, and all that ensues is great chaos. And you’re unfortunately hauled in the middle of it as Hikari’s warm hand clasps around your wrist and takes you all the way down the bleachers despite your protests.

“We have to congratulate them!”

“We really don’t.” She rolls her eyes at that before stopping in front of a fellow peer with a black and white uniform, giving him a high-five when he puts his palm out.

“You did really good!” She sings back at him, and he chuckles. It’s warm—her energy—and you try to reciprocate by giving him a strained smile when he looks at you, murmuring something along the lines of encouragement.

But you don’t think you’ve said it loud enough because he just spins right around.

You sigh greatly, trying to gently shake Hikari’s tight grip on you. You’re starting to feel just a bit out of place, and there’s a creeping sense of shallow breaths that overcomes you. Annoyance and stress.

But it all whisps away into cowardice when you’re presented in front of Akaashi, who’s wiping away his sweat with a towel. His eyes catch yours, then they disappear next to you. He waves at you two smallly. You both reciprocate it, one more loudly than the other, before she bounds up to him, a glint in her eye.

You follow along too, stumbling as you give him a shy dimple.

His eyes flicker.

And then you frown when you realize it’s probably because Hikari’s practically on him. She looks back at you, nose scrunched and bright, so you can’t help but melt the small hitch that you carry before she turns around to face the black-haired boy.

“That setter dump was genuinely the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. That was so cool.” He gives her a tiny grin and thanks her, but you notice this red flush on his ears, just hidden behind his messy hair.

Something sour begins to grow, bile perhaps hidden behind your tongue as you stare at her. But when you look back, Akaashi’s gunmetal blue gaze is on yours, and he doesn’t flinch back when you catch his eyes.

“Hey Fujimoto! Did you see my amazing spikes! They were so cool, weren’t they?!”

She gasps, “Yes, of course!” and it knocks you out of your stupor, and you cringe, subconsciously taking a step closer to the setter, tripping practically over your feet.

It’s small—you’re sure that no one would’ve noticed—but to your shame, Akaashi does, and his warm palm lands on your back, steadying you. You don’t dare look at his face, but it hovers—his glow—and you blush furiously, coughing.

“Shit I’m so sorry.”

“No worries…”

Eyeing him from the corner of your eyes, he takes a noticeable step back, and you practically deflate in embarrassment. The atmosphere—despite the warmth that the energy around you exudes—is sticky. Bokuto and Hikari are in some rambling conversation that you have no wish to butt in on, praying that they stop soon before you lose your mind.

But they don’t. And this weird silence is killing you.

“Uh… Akaashi?”

He raises his head and quirks his head to the side. “Hmm?”

You take a deep breath in, “Good job today… you played really well.”

His face heats up, and he’s practically red at his neck. And you figure that you find it cute that he isn’t able to take compliments without turning into a bright tomato.

“Thank you.” Akaashi then pauses. Furrows his brows tightly. And plays with his fingers. “You’re not usually at the volleyball games, are you?”

You sheepishly shake your head, “Nope, this is my first one. It’s not really my forte. But…” Biting your lips, peeling at the skin to reveal bits of blood to your tongue, you soothe over the wounds in such nervousness that you pinch your arms. “But… er—I’m glad I came…?”

The moment those words leave your mouth, you severely regret it. Because Akaashi, in all his glory, just stares at you. He’s frozen, and for a second, you genuinely think that you’ve said the wrong thing, that maybe you were coming off too strong. Way too strong. You’re clumsy, god, and were you stupi—

He laughs. Like actually. He’s laughing—what? It's not loud, but it’s loud for him. His nose crinkles, and you drink it in—his reaction, mouth parted in confusion.

“Uhm—”

“What’s with the question mark?” He quiets down, but there’s mirth dancing on his features, his lashes fluttering, and his lips pulled slightly to the side. He’s absolutely pretty—there’s no other word to describe it. You start to warm under his words.

“You know what I mean. Maybe on second thoughts I should’ve stayed home.” You grumble, huffing softly. You still break out a grin at Akaashi’s raised eyebrow. “So you didn’t like my sets today?”

“Great usage of context clues then?”

“Thanks.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Hikari just places her warm hand on you, peeling you away from the conversation. You’re grateful because you didn’t know what you were going to blurt out.

And that makes you scared because you were getting too ahead of yourself. Suddenly, it feels like you’re pulled underwater, drowning. Too scared. Too comfortable.

“Hey, wanna go now?” She probes, tucking her hair behind her ear. You don’t know what you want to say. Yes? Or. No?

Checking over at Akaashi, he just peers neutrally, his eyes bouncing off of Bokuto after a particularly loud scream. He doesn’t meet your eyes this time—not on purpose, he’s just out of it, in a dreamy daze. You wonder what goes on in his mind. He’s brilliant but else. Cool. Awkward. Reserved.

You like him. God. You think you like him a lot. More than you suppose. It’s weird. You’ve had a few crushes here and there, but you could never tell if they were serious enough to like. They were attractive. Or they were nice. It’s a crisis. Existential crisis.

But for some reason, you feel like you’ve overstepped some boundaries. You need to go back. Behind the invisible line. He’s too good for you to like.

Pretty face with an equally pretty mind—Akaashi glows. You don’t. You won’t ever.

But she does.

A soft, bitter smile crosses your face when you notice Hikari looking at you. It’s tender. This feeling of envy isn’t good—you know that you get too caught up in your head, and you really want to stop. But… Ah. Hikari would be cute.

So, you nod your head—yes, let’s go. Away. Too comfortable. Too scared

You’re like a turtle. Always tucking yourself underneath safety, the way a turtle tucks itself underneath its shell. It’s nice for a while—that oblivious bliss—but sometimes you wish that you could go for more. Maybe reach for the skies.

You obviously don’t.

So, you don’t bat an eye—or at least try not to—when Hikari tells you that she has to meet up with Akaashi after school today because she did not understand today’s math lesson. I could teach it to you! You almost say, but you just stuff your face back into your pillows.

You’re ridiculed, plagued by your own feelings. It’s been a month since you told yourself that you didn’t want him. Tried to convince yourself. Left him for your strawberry cheesecake. Does it work? You would be lying if you said yes.

At school, you still warrant his rare discussions, and you tell yourself that’s because that would be rude to ignore... yet you still find yourself enjoying them. Every last bit, every drop of his words that leaves his mouth. It’s addictive.

The next day at school, you half of a petty mind to ask him how tutoring went. But you don’t, because you don’t even sit next to each other. In front of you, towards the left of the room, you figure that it would be alright to watch him. For your entertainment, can you not even let yourself indulge in that?

Your teacher sits at her desk, scanning the room with a softened gaze, dressed in a long shawl. It’s starting to get colder as the month dips into chilly December. Winter break is soon, and you’re excited. Even though you’re sure that you’re just going to be bed-rotting anyway. But still, it’s nice to dream.

Scrchh.

You’re writing mindlessly—you realize it soon enough, and you quickly erase the string of words without any correlation. You were almost a third of your way done with your essay. Your book stayed open beside you as you looked back at it in reference. It was nice; you liked this quiet atmosphere.

You liked writing. You liked the sounds. And you liked your progress, as the words filtered on the paper. You were never good with words—your lips always puckered and mouthed the vowels wrong.

Writing never did that. You liked it—the way you could say so much, and it could never be enough. Could write a thousand pages, and it wouldn’t even encompass half of what you’re thinking, of what you could record.

Looking forward again, at Akaashi’s empty desk, you wonder where he has gone. Because you think that you would like to write him a letter. It would be delicate, fragile, because you would’ve poured your heart into it. You’re giving him your heart. You would tell him that he’s an enigma that you’re trying to figure out, without getting yourself too settled with him. That Hikari would be perfect for him.

That you’re still falling in love with him no matter how hard you try not to... oops.

Shaking your head, you lowly groan.

And then that’s when you hear it. “Tired of writing already?”

You whip around, and Akaashi is staring at you with a few papers in hand. When the hell did he get there?!

“Yeah, honestly...” You make a show of cracking your fingers to divert him from your loud, beating organ. You could feel it in your throat, it’s on your tongue, and it hurts slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just looks. So, you step up unwillingly... clearing your throat as you look to the side. “Er—do you need something?”

“Yeah. Would you be able to look over this paragraph? It’s been really stumping me, it looks wrong; I need your opinion.”

Ba-dump. What the hell. Straining your head up at him, you wonder if he really knows the effect that he has on you. That would be brutal.

“You? You need my opinion?”

He blinks.

“Yes.” He pauses, “Please. Yes, please.”

Leaning back in your chair, you exhale, “Uhm, sure. L-let me have a look at it...”

Taking his essay from his hands, you’re careful to not even let a sliver of skin brush his or else you would be doomed by dropping his hard work on the dirty floor. Akaashi takes a chair from nearby and pulls it up to your desk. He sits on it, close to you, with one of his cheeks in his hands.

And he’s gazing at you. Intently. You want to puke. This is so not good for you.

The bright white paper envelops you as you succumb to his writing. Your eyes blur as you consume his words, and you think that you’re in a state of awe.

Each letter, each word is placed meticulously. You find out that he makes a mean argument, and that if ever in the future you had to go against him in a supposed literary analysis competition, you would be scared.

You nod at his sentences as if they were able to see you, let them bask in your approval, and then, when you finish what he wanted you to scrutinize, you twist your lips and sigh. You could see where he was coming from, some of his work was, albeit clumsy, for the rest of the paragraph. Thinking, you slowly turn towards Akaashi.

“Do you mind if I write stuff on the side?”

He shakes his head no and puts his head down, perched upright on his hands. He’s still looking at you, though. With a small whisper of a smile. It makes your heart ache.

“Tired of writing, huh?” You tease him.

He chuckles, “Yeah, honestly...”

You go back to whatever you planned to do, with your lips brutalized by your teeth. It doesn’t take very long (most of the time was taken by you pondering) to finish your commentary before you hand it back to him. This time around, the pads of your fingers skim each other ever so slightly.

You still jolt. And hide a grin, just behind your own paper that you’ve pulled up against you. You watch his expression carefully for any signs of distress or a grimace. They don’t. Rather, he hums, tongue snapping against the roof of his mouth. His fingers, slender and long, with the pencil he holds.

You like the number 2 pencil. You like writing. You like reading. And you like watching Akaashi Keiji.

When he was apparently satisfied, he scoots himself even further—closer to you. From here, you could see his long lashes that kiss his face and his gentle eyes. The way his lips dip and the way his cheeks puff slightly.

He was certainly pretty, prettier than most. And you’re so lucky to even be next to him.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, loud enough to lace his gratitude but low enough that it makes you slightly giggle. “No problem. Glad to be of help.”

You thought that he would get up. Go back to Konoha, but he doesn’t. He just stays put. In the drawn seat. Next to you. Really close to you.

“Are you going anywhere for winter break?”

Catching a glimpse of him, you exhale and shake your head, disappointed. Akaashi picks up on it because he shrugs and looks smug. It looks good on him, though.

“Unfortunately, not. What about you? Will you be going anywhere?”

“Same boat as yours.” Akaashi mutters. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. He takes a second to look at you (Ba-dump) before furiously switching back to his computer. Your heart is beating too fast in your chest, throbbing to be released from your ribcage. And then you fathom the idea of Anthem. Liberty and Equality. Like. Love. Akaashi Keiji.

You like his dark hair. You love his dark hair. You scooch forward—

Lean forward and then choke. Because the whole point of this—the whole point of you—was to stop.

You were never supposed to get this close to him. God, you promised yourself.

The moon, the stars, and the sun exist in the same universe. They are bright. They exude copious light. The stars are beautiful—they twinkle in the night sky. They are the stars. The sun booms, so loud and bright. It burns so passionately that if, for a second, you tore your eyes off it, it would only glow brighter in hues of red and orange and yellow.

But the moon illuminates too. But it’s so ugly with its dark, patchy craters. And... you have nothing else to say. But you wonder if Akaashi Keiji stares at the moon. Does he like it? Does he muse?

For the rest of the class period, you are doused in unexplainable anger and sadness. You pick at yourself like vultures at a carcass, stripping away dead meat, the useless parts.

And for the rest of the class period, Akaashi Keiji talks with his pretty mouth. Unusual. You hate change. But you ask yourself if you hate it? His voice? Him? No, of course not. Change with him, whether you’d like to admit it, was okay. It was comfortable. Yes? But it shouldn’t be.

Akaashi Keiji asks you questions with a fervor that you cannot perceive. They are odd questions, so your heart Ba-dumps against you.

“Do you like the beaches or the mountains?”

“What planet would you live on, if you could?”

“Who is one superhero that you dislike?”

“What’s your favorite book?”

You answer each one to your best ability. Hikari isn’t here for you to bounce yourself off, so you are truthful. He makes you think. For a few seconds to a minute. But he still waits patiently for the answer you always give. And then he goes back to himself to let you two work on your essays.

Only to come back for more.

This cycle repeats until the rest of the class. Until the rest of tomorrow’s class. Until the end of finals. Until the start of winter break. Every day’s an odd question—he never fails to ask in the glory of his endearing oddity. Cats or iguanas? Chocolate or cola? Would you rather...

And then one day, he asks a question. Not about you, because god forbid if something is about you. He asks, “Is Hikari coming today? After school for our game?” You nod yes. And then you retract. Back into your shell.

It’s cute. But it just hurts whenever you see him. Or when you see Hikari. Or when you see them both, which is often. You let them be. You let them play with you, even though they don’t realize it. Every chuckle, every giggle, every snort they share, you drink in.

Hikari goes on to call him Keiji. You don’t follow because that’s too intimate for you. Too shiny. Too nice. Too perfect.

The stars and sun glow because they are hot, luminous balls of gas undergoing nuclear fusion. The moon glows because they glow.

You’re not a liar to anyone but yourself. But Akaashi might think otherwise because you’ve just posted several pictures of yourself from Switzerland. It’s beautiful—Switzerland—and you think that you would like to live there someday.

On a good day, you would own a small bakery with whatever the world desires, and you would live in a small cottage right near it. On a bad day, you would become a doctor and live to treat the patients there.

But more on the cottage—it would be warm and would smell like fresh cookies out of the oven. It would house kids, your kids and they would play in the meadow that is so vast and green.

And you would be in love with your husband, who carried you at the crack of midnight and up the stairs purely because you were so exhausted taking care of your small business. He would then carry the kids because they had fallen asleep on the couch.

Your husband would be so in love with you as he declares his proclamations of love, not in a loud way. But in the way he cares. He would write you love letters, read you the books that you liked, and would annotate them. He would wear stupid t-shirts and say stupid things that made you deadpan.

He would have black, unruly hair that would tangle between your fingers when you would kiss him so sweetly, and wear black framed glasses that made him look so adorably sexy. He would have this deep timbre every time he chuckled lowly. Haha—Ba-dump!

He would’ve been a setter in high school and liked to talk about chauvinism with you. And sometimes at night, he likes to look up at the moon. Not the sky. But the moon.

But sometimes he would let a glimmer of sunlight in through the curtains. Even though you hated it...

You furrowed brows and click on the roll of comments on your Instagram post. The first ones come (as always) from Hikari; she was the one who helped you with choosing the pictures and the song to go along with it.

She sends gifs and many flattering and just a tinge of suggestive strings of words. They’re cute, so you reply to them. You can be harsh with her; no need to be fake.

So, you laugh and retort, fingers padding on your phone. Your like count grows steadily, and you watch it the way a cat watches a mouse. Steady and sharp with your heart about to explode. You turn your phone off.

And then on again. Off. On—and this time there’s a like and a comment from Souta. It’s purely silly, and you groan, but you’re smiling as you type something out.

You wait. On. Off. On. Off. On—you go back and check Hikari’s own profile out of anticipation and regret and guilt and envy and all the things in between.

She just posted something last week, and in her typical fashion, it had garnered a lot of attention. Not that you really care—you guess—but you scroll through the people who had liked it. Some names were familiar, others weren’t.

You see Bokuto first and then Akaashi. Keiji to her. Akaashi to you. It makes your insides sting a little, but you must brush it off because you did this to yourself. Taking one big breath, you turn it off again.

And then on.

Akaashi_Keiji has liked your post. And commented.

‘Thought you weren’t going anywhere this break, if I remember correctly’

With shaky hands, you pull up his comment and just stare at it as if it were gold. You shut your phone off again and throw it against your pillow. You wait. You look at the clock. And wait for a few minutes so you could pretend that you didn’t reek of desperation, before opening the app again.

You click on his comment and think.

‘Sighh, you’re right, I wasn’t going to go anywhere. This was some spontaneous trip that my parents planned.

You replied. You were done. Or at least thought so because your phone buzzes. And Akaashi has commented again.

‘Akaashi Keiji: 0 (L/n) (Y/n): 1’ Followed by a fire emoji. And then a dog.

You have no idea what the hell he means. But you giggle into your pillow like you do.

The rest of winter break is filled with boredom, but you decide that you would rather have that than go back to school and suffer. You spend your days with Hikari and missed dramas—sleepovers every week, practically every day. And the days that you aren’t with her, you either do one of two things.

Either reminisce about anything or nothing at all.

Or slowly but steadily finish your Lit presentation with Souta over the phone. You two were to present the day after school starts, so one day you two decide to meet up in a sleepy cafe, five minutes from where you lived.

Unfortunately, and fortunately, you catch sight of Bokuto, who was unsurprisingly followed by Akaashi. He wears a silly shirt and mismatched pants that are so ugly. But it’s absolutely pretty on him.

They make small talk, and Akaashi asks you about Switzerland. But you’re whisked away into another bout of stress and nervousness over your presentation before you’re able to delve deeper into your vacation. Souta nods, and all is done.

Days turn into weeks, and New Year's creeps upon you. You and Hikari visit the shrine in hopes of a good and peaceful year. Someone asks for Hikari’s number, but she rejects the advances like swatting at a fly. Nothing more. Nothing less. Calm. Usual.

The day that school starts is the first day of presentations. You could feel the nerves in the air as some of your fellow classmates dressed in business attire grumble in misery, and others mumble to themselves so rapidly you wonder if they were even talking in Japanese anymore.

But you know that will be you tomorrow, so for today, you let yourself melt mellowly and tiredly into your plastic chair.

Your teacher claps twice and signals for the first duo to come up and present. You look at them, and then their presentation, and then the back of Akaashi’s head. Not to be rude, you look back again...but they’re already done? Huh.

The second group goes, and then the third, and so forth. You’ve lost track,k but your teacher, with the ounce of mercy she carries, lets the remaining time left to be allotted to improving your own presentations. This time, you saunter over to Souta and sit down in the empty seat next to him.

He gives you a bright grin that is so infectious that you mirror it back.

“Are you ready to get that hundred on the presentation tomorrow?”

You cough and roll your eyes, pulling out your notecards from your folder. From the corner of your eye, you see Akaashi glance around the classroom, gaze lingering at your seat before he looks up at you. You give him a small, reserved smile before turning your back completely on him to give your full focus on your partner.

“Yeah sure. Do you think we’ll still get that hundred if I puke all over the floor?”

Souta snorts loudly enough that it catches the attention of his friends, all snickering with you as you slap his hands lightly with your notebook. “Stop being so damn loud!”

“Sorry!”

You slap him again, and the conversation twists into something humorous before it settles down. The classroom goes quiet with hushed whispers and a few yawns drowning the room. Once or twice, you notice Souta’s eyes flickering up, just behind you, before he smirks. It’s weird, but he’s weird in his glory, so you don’t say anything about it.

You do give him sly faces though.

At the end of the class period, you feel like you are thoroughly comfortable with your script, and you hope that Souta is too, but judging by the fluency and the confidence of his words, you would say so. Maybe that hundred wasn’t too high to grasp on to, a silver of it on your fingertips.

“(Y/n) I don’t want to go to my next class yet. Can I walk you to yours?”

Packing up your stuff, you nod at Souta and beckon him to your side. As you do, you regret to inform him that the Physics classroom isn’t too far out, so there would be no point in striding next to you.

But he still does. And he cracks a few jokes here and there, rambunctious in his nature, but they are well appreciated by you. So much by the time that you reach your classroom, you panicily tell him by placing your hand on his shoulder; “You have one minute, idiot! Run!”

He does and almost crashes into Akaashi down the hallway. And in your own stupor, you don’t even question his presence as you dip into your own classroom before your physics teacher shuts the door in your face. He was mean like that.

Hikari wolf-whistles when she sees you all dolled up. She’s a little tan from the vacation she took, back yesterday late at night—apologetic about her absence from social media because she lost her phone. Pity.

You blush at her, though. “Aww, you look so cute, (Y/n)!”

“Oh, shut up. You’re being annoying again. That’s why you lost your phone.”

Pouting ensues.

Yet she doesn’t shut up until you tell her that you’re actually going to throw up all over her. Hikari gets the last word in, though, before you two separate earlier than usual upon your request: “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine, I promise! Good luck!”

“Thanks.” You weakly strain. You try to let her gentle, easing words calm you down, but it doesn’t work. You find yourself starting to struggle to breathe as you enter your first period.

The lights are too bright, and you wonder if you should just pass out so you could alleviate the stress for another day.

You’re the first one there—you think. But you’re proven wrong when Akaashi sits at his desk in silence, reading a book. You recognize the book in his tender hands—how could you not? It was your favorite. At the sound of your footsteps, he looks up and catches your eye. His pupils widen as you just stare.

“Good morning—”

“Is that No Longer Human?” you ask. He blinks and turns the book over to the front page.

“Yes.”

You press on, “Do you like it so far?” You take a step towards him, tilting your head when he chuckles. You flush a little, apologizing for your demanding tone. Akaashi brushes it off.

“It’s depressing. I love it.” He says after a beat. You laugh and agree. Then he gives you a look before handing you something from his bento and nudging it toward you—strawberry milk. You love strawberry milk.

“I—” You stutter, about to refuse it, but he cuts you off with a shrug and pushes it further, almost teetering off the edge of his desk. “Uhm. Hikari told me you were nervous yesterday. So, uh—here you go. To help with your nerves...”

You’re sure you look stupid as hell—like a goblin who can’t stop smiling. But you don’t care because there’s a certain happiness that almost overrides the anxiety tearing you apart within. You want to say something, word vomit and all, but his eyes soften and he whispers, “Breathe.”

You do. Then mumble—if you said it any louder you’d for sure cry—, “Thank you, Akaashi.”

A second later, Souta bursts in. He’s the third person in the classroom. You don’t notice how he freezes, looking at you. Looking at Akaashi. But Akaashi’s eyes glimmer for a second, so you turn back and seize Souta.

You sigh in relief at your partner, who bounds up to you. He’s a little pale, but it suits him, with his red tie that he wears.

“Good morning, Akaashi! Not good morning (Y/n),” he utters, and you slap him on the shoulder for being too loud.

“Morning, Arai.”

You grumble, “Good morning to you, too, Souta.”

He grins with his teeth and says, “Cleaned up nice, have you?!” That earns him another slap, and he practically skips to his seat. You click your tongue in annoyance. You’re about to follow him, stabbing the straw into your milk, but a small, grounded voice holds you back.

“You should call me Keiji.”

“Hm?” You squint down at him. He doesn’t spare you a peep, back to his book, but you think you see his eyes glint at the drink in your hand. A gentle smile plays on his lips.

“Keiji.”

You nod and play it on your tongue for a second, tucking your hair shyly. Keiji to Hikari. Keiji to you now, too.

“Keiji... thank you.” And the turtle stretches from its shell, basking in the moonlight.

Your presentation went as smoothly as it could. You end it with a flourish, and the claps begin. Some are drowsy, disinterested. Others are polite. But Akaashi’s claps are respectfully loud. You catch them. They boom as you and Souta opt to sit next to each other, eager for your score. You both sigh and relax before exchanging a fist bump under the desk.

Someone next to you leans over and says, “That was the best presentation I’ve seen so far. I’d be surprised if you didn’t get a hundred.”

You both flush brightly. Proudly.

But as that relaxation seeps away, boredom floods back. Other presentations follow, but you and Souta pay them no mind. Instead, you decide on a good old game of hot hands.

To your surprise, it’s entertaining enough. Quiet, choking giggles escape as neither of you gets caught, though it’s close a few times.

Souta’s hands are warm, comforting against yours as he stares you down challengingly. You’re amused by the little skirmish but hold steady, fingers aligned with his. Then he opens his mouth.

“Do you and Akaashi have something going on?”

You still, almost pulling your hands from his in shock. “Sorry? What?”

He tilts his head, curls bouncing against his forehead.

“No? I can feel the romantic tension from him. I almost feel like I have to apologize to him whenever I’m near you.”

“Stop being an idiot,” you grouch, but you can’t hide the flush. Souta sees it—the way his eyes widen—but he sneers and leans closer. “You know he’s looking at you.”

“Right now?!”

“Hmm, yeah... gotcha!” Souta flips your hands over and yelps in victory as you moan and kick him in the shins.

You try not to cause a ruckus, but apologies lodge in your throat as a shadow materializes over you. You think it’s the teacher, but when you turn, Akaashi stands there—backpack slung over his shoulder (one look at the clock, and you exchange looks with Souta, hurriedly gathering your stuff)—his fingers in his pocket.

“Akaa—” Souta starts—

“(Y/n), can I walk with you today? I want to get your opinion on the book.”

Souta’s lips pucker as he leans back. You can almost picture that smug grin breaking through his nonchalance, but you don’t care. You’re trying not to burn. Your heart beats too fast; butterflies rush through your stomach. So many damn butterflies.

“Yeah.”

When it’s time to leave, Akaashi and you talk about the book in the hallways. It’s awkward at first, but after a well-placed comment from him on the alienation of the main character, you talk—ramble, really.

So much that you’re out of breath. It feels like your first real conversation with him, but this time you’re red-faced with exhilaration instead of shock. And when he leaves you a little later, you feel solemn.

You thought it would get easier—that feeling—because at this point, he walks you everywhere now. Yes, to physics class, but also to your bus and your seat in class. To all the small places. The little places. Sometimes it’s quiet. Other times, it’s filled with warmth. The brightness of stars. And the cold slap of the moon, forcing you back to reality.

One night, you stare at the sky. It’s dark. No sun. The stars and the moon are out.

You gape at the moonlight. Trace it with your fingers. Hold it in your fist, blocking it from yourself. Then you look beyond, at the dark clouds and twinkling stars.

Suddenly, a realization hits—sharp and sudden, like a train, blood coiling in your veins. The stars don’t shine as brightly. The night sky looks wrong without the moonlight. Cold. Lonely. Depressing. You furrow your brows and ask why. Like a puzzle amiss—the sky is incomplete.

You let go. Of the moon.

And the warmth returns.

Your school hosts a Valentine’s Day dance for the first time ever. And you feel this strange flutter inside... You don’t even know what it is. You don’t indulge it because the one time you did, you imagined a certain someone asking you.

Then, anyone else asking you. You’re a little wretched, but you don’t want to admit it.

You shake your head and watch Hikari field a multitude of confessions. You don’t know if you’re green or red or yellow with envy. Eventually, she settles with one—the captain of the soccer team. He’s cute and makes her giddy. And you’re helplessly filled with a little bit of envy.

You don’t want to go. Hikari makes you go. So here you are, at her house, dressed up, doing your makeup. Your heels sit ready by the door, your hair stunningly done.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, pulse quickening with pride. Maybe happiness. But then you glance at Hikari, and suddenly you can’t look at yourself anymore. Her blue fitted dress is so beautiful, it feels almost outlandish that you’re standing next to her.

You look meek. Ugly. Then your eyes catch the moon through her mirror. You sigh, gathering your purse. You don’t want Akaashi to see you like this tonight, so you decide to hide in the shadows of the dark, right after Hikari ditches you for her date.

Her dad drops you off, not before taking a few pictures of you two on her phone. As you look through the pics with her, you beg her not to post any of them before huffing away at her disappointment. She agrees dimly, but you could tell that she was a little ticked by the way she partially stomps off, leaving you alone on the sidewalk.  

Half of your mind screams at you to leave. You don’t. Instead, you hesitantly step inside, already overwhelmed by the crowd. Red and pink disco lights flood the room as loud music pulses through the air. You recognize the song.

You’re not claustrophobic—yet. Maybe it’ll set in later. For now, you’re filled with fumes of loneliness and anxiety, goosebumps crawling up your skin. You don’t know what to do.

The darkness offers little comfort as you pick at your nails. Maybe you should get a drink. Yeah, that’d be best. You’re a little parched anyway. Busy yourself.

There’s a small table off to the side filled with refreshments. Few students linger there, but you duck down to avoid stares. You feel exposed and raw, but you don’t know why. You wish you did—then maybe you could fix it. Then maybe you’d be back with Hikari’s side, all bright and new. Maybe... maybe you’d have a date.

“(Y/n)?” A loud voice snaps you back.

You look up at Souta’s slick-combed hair, forehead exposed. You don’t realize you’re laughing obnoxiously until he hits you lightly.

“Can you st—”

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

He grumbles, running fingers through his locks dramatically. “Sorry you don’t understand this level of handsomeness.”

You snort. “Right. Sure.”

Silence. You try to hold back giggles. Souta tries not to mess with your head. Then you remember why you’re here.

“Alright then, Mr. Supposed Handsome—what drink do you recommend?”

His eyes soften as he leans in. “Wow, can’t believe you’re entrusting me with this. You must really like me, pretty.”

You choke. “Pretty? What are you—”

“Yeah. You look pretty nice. God forbid I give a compliment, huh?” He rolls his eyes, ladling what looks like watermelon juice into a cup. “Here you go! The best for the best.”

“Hah, thanks.” You don’t have the heart to tell him you hate watermelon juice, so you take it, squeezing the plastic cup between your fingers.

But someone does.

“(Y/n), you don’t like watermelon juice, right?”

You look beside you in shock. Akaashi stands calmly, holding a cup of strawberry lemonade—you like strawberry lemonade. Turning warm under their gaze, you shrug. “I mean... I don’t mind it, but—”

“You know, (Y/n), if you don’t like it, you should’ve told me,” Souta pouts, mock-hurt but still grinning. He brushes his curls again—you want to deck him. His eyes flicker to your cup and Akaashi’s. “I’ll be leaving you two then. Goodbye, lovebirds.”

Yeah. You’re definitely going to deck him.

Whipping your head to Akaashi, you suddenly realize how pretty he looks. His hair was still unruly but just right, black strands framing his face. His cheeks glow red—probably from the lights—but his eyes are a blue haze you can’t look away from.

He looks deadly in that suit.

Utterly heartbreaking. And you take a step back, unsure what to say.

“Ak—Keiji, I—”

“You like strawberry lemonade, right? I remember you telling me that. Let’s switch.”

“A—are you sure?”

His neutral expression breaks into a soft smile that makes you grin. “Positive.”

For the rest of the night, you sit with Akaashi, swallowed by the edge of the room, backs against the wall. You both revel in the fact you were forced here against your will—Akaashi with Bokuto, you with Hikari. At some point, he asks if you want to dance. Out of boredom, he says. Then there’s mirth; “Unless you can’t dance...” You scoff.  

You take his outstretched arm. Grounding against yours yet delicate, the curve of his palm fits perfectly against yours, as if it were meant to be there. Love was meant to be there.

The tune playing is soft and mellow. He hovers his hand over your waist—fragile, soft—before tugging you a little closer when a peer stumbles by. He acts bashful, but his eyes don’t lie. You don’t either.

You let your arms slither against him—warm and haunting, shy and beautiful. You laugh when he steps on your toe, almost tripping over your feet. It's slow. The way that the environment shifts. And change. Change happens.

Akaashi grins, spins you gently, then tucks your hair behind your ear—intimate without breaking eye contact. He settles a warm hand on your cheek for a second before dropping it back against your figure.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs in your ear.

You tuck your lips and look away slyly. “You’re just saying that...”

His wispy features dip into a frown, lips quivering. “No. I’m saying that because it’s true.” You see him shiver when you play with the hair at his nape. He wraps you closer. “I’m saying that because I see you. You’re absolutely glowing.”

Everything in that room stops.

You freeze.

Akaashi notices, opens his mouth to say something—apologize, you think—but you don’t let him.

You pull him into a tight hug, shoving your neck against the crook of his. His fingers dig into your dress, into your skin. He sways side to side, whispering words so atrocious, so beautiful into your hair. Loud. Soft. Akaashi Keiji loves deeply.

“Thank you, Keiji,” you utter. No tears, but your heart is weeping, sobbing quietly. You hope he can hear it—the way it cries for him.

“I really want to kiss you. But not now. Let me make myself yours first.”

Akaashi sighs contentedly when you nod. You’re choking on words, but he understands.

Serene.

Just you and him. No one else. The moon and the stars in the night sky.

Before Hikari’s wobbly voice interrupts.

“(Y/n), I—I’ve been looking for you. Can we go home?”

Sharp, cold hands tug at you. Her eyes register who you’re with. Mouth parts, but she still holds on. Her nails dig painfully.

“Oh—I, uh—”

You swivel to meet her red eyes and the pearly, iridescent trail on her cheeks. Her lips were smudged with pink lipstick. For the first time, she looks like a real mess.

Something yanks at your heart—something apologetic. You don’t know for whom.

You take her hands in yours.

Looking back at Akaashi, you mumble, “I’ll see you later, Keiji. Take care.”

You feel Hikari stiffen against you as Akaashi peers at you, nodding slowly. Soft, romantic—the way he moves closer, wiping something at the corner of your cheek, floating his nail against your lips.

“Bye, (Y/n),” he says before walking away.

With that, he leaves you love.

Raw adoration.

Yet... with Hikari beside you, you feel wrong. Sorry. You think you’re about to cry—guilt hinting beneath the surface.

Hikari’s house is not far. But it feels like forever in the car with her. She doesn’t speak, not once, but her eyes glisten with so many words. Her mother doesn’t say anything if she picks up on the tension, but she does leave you two be, not asking any questions as you both trudge up to her room.

Her room is packed with memories. Some of them are her family. Some of them are other friends. But most of them are you. When you sit on her bed, you wish that it would swallow you up. There’s a beat of quietness, because a million things are running through your mind. Yet nothing at the same time.

You sigh. She exhales. And then—

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes widen, and harshly she spits, venom in her voice as she clutches at her toy bunny. The one that you gave her. “Why are you sorry?! I was the one who ruined...ruined your moment.”

When you don’t give her a response, she asks you again, “Why are you sorry?”

You don’t know. You really don’t know. You shake your head, shrug, and tuck back into your shell. She steadies her breathing and looks away bitterly. She wipes at her lips.

“He tried to kiss me. Got real mad when I said no.”

Your stomach jolts, and you peer at her through your lashes. She’s not crying as she was before, but her shoulders shake. And hesitantly yet as carefully as you can, you steady her hand in yours. She glances up.

“(Y/n). Did you know I asked out Akaashi?”

You lurch and unclasp your hand unknowingly, but she holds on, tighter. She pulls your arm into her lap.

“When?” You weakly croak.

“A few weeks ago. Do you know what he said to me?”

“What did he say?”

She weaves her fingers through yours. Tight. Fixing.

“He said no because he had his eyes on someone else.”

Your tongue rolls in your mouth. You want to think that you’re surprised because who in the world would reject Hikari? The beauty. The perfection. But then Akaashi’s words from earlier replay in your mind. “I see you.”

“Oh.” Then you wonder. You press into the wound, silently. “I—Do you want him?”

“No. Not at all. I...I want the way that he looks at you.”

“Wha—”

“(Y/n). Do you know how jealous I am of you?” Hikari murmurs. You open your mouth because you’re suddenly starting to see hot flashes of anger. Jealous. Of you? She has everything that she wants in the world, so why would she be jealous?

“Hika—”

“Akaashi stares at you like you’re the only girl in the world! The only person. He looks at you like you’re the moon. I—urgh—fuck! I’m so, so jealous of you. No one fucking looks at me like that. I—”

There’s blood boiling. And you snap.

“You don’t ever get to say that! You got every fucking person wrapped around your damn finger; everyone looks at you like that. Do you even understand how I feel? No one fucking sees me when I’m with you” You gasp for air, heart cracking at her expression. But you keep on going, “It’s like I’m invisible. God-forbid that a boy likes me! Is that so surprising?!”

You don’t even know that you’re crying until your voice cracks in your throat, “I really wish I were you at times. Most of the time. So. You don’t ever get to say that. Just...please.”

She parts her lips, but nothing comes out. She just leans over and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, emotions pouring out from both sides. You’re both sobbing into each other’s shoulders. But she breathes deeply and utters,

“Most people just want me because I’m Hikari. Akaashi wants you because you’re (Y/n). But also, because you’re you.” She then pulls apart and gives you a wet kiss on your forehead. “I am so happy for you. I swear.”

You know she isn’t lying. You just know.

Akaashi takes you on a date to a little book nook. You both share a strawberry milkshake over fries as you both find each other little reads. He interlocks his pinkies with you. And for someone who’s on their first date, you don’t feel an ounce of nervousness.

Probably because you feel like you’ve done this date a thousand times before. Every day in school. Except this time, it’s brimmed with shy and soft gazes. You would say love, but you’ve realized that you’ve both teetered against the lines of friendship and more. So, no love was there.

At every touch. And every look. And in Akaashi Keiji, when he's with you.

When night falls upon you two, he spreads a fresh picnic blanket on the green grass. Cicadas chirp, and the gentle wind kisses your cheeks. But you both lay on the checkered fabric, staring at the sky. You both hold hands.

The moon is out. A full moon. And you admire its beauty. The way that bathes nature in its moonlight. The way the dark craters give it something special, something alluring. You want to sing your praises to the moon.

The moon that you love. And the stars that you love.

Turning your head to gauge love’s reaction, you find him already looking at you with a soft expression gracing his face. You find that you don’t like to hold out with him.

“Have I told you how pretty you are, Keiji?”

He laughs—grasps you tighter. As if you were going to go away, “I feel like I’m dreaming. I'm going to wake up and you don’t exist.” You feel so warm. So full of adoration. In love.

“Like I would let that happen.” You happily hum. He giggles again and pushes himself up from the ground. He doesn’t waver his gaze, though, still on you as you tilt your head curiously at him. “What happened?” You ask.

“Nothing. I just want to see you.”

Your jaw clenches tightly, and you pull his fist against your lips, kissing his knuckles gently. He closes his eyes.

“(Y/n) ...I’m not very good at words, but I want to try for you. You are so beautiful that it pains me. I think that I’ve always liked you, I’m sure even in the womb, I was thinking about you...”

You snort at his odd words. And he keeps going. Not stutter. No waver.

“Did you know what the Greeks believed in? They believed that Zeus halved each human, dividing one soul between two bodies. And as a result, each person yearned for their other half—their soulmate.”

Akaashi exhales and shakes his head.

“I thought it was bullshit when I first read it. But now that I’ve met you...I—”

He pauses at the tears that litter your eyes and uses his fingers to brush them away, bending down over you, brushing the hair out of your face. “I yearn for you (Y/n). I yearn for you like no other. I yearn for my soulmate.”

He hovers over your lips, “Can I kiss you. Will you let me be yours?”

“Yes.” And he doesn’t waste a second, not a moment to capture you into a kiss.

And you feel like everything’s going to be alright.

[seekrzz]

<Jung's Shadow Theory>

image: jung'shadowtheory.png"

"Data Synopsis" <One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. The latter procedure, however, is disagreeable and therefore not popular. – Carl Jung>

<or>

<You were born to be seen. Hwang Hyunjin was born to be your shadow. And you're surrounded by the wreaths of broken promises and an ever-growing itch >

"User Interactions" <Painter! Hwang Hyunjin x Ballerina! Fem! Reader>

"Data Classification" <Dark Horror/Romanticism, Thriller, Strangers to ???, Fast-burn>

"System Alerts" <Bad Grammar, Graphic Violence & Murder, Language, Psychosis, Domestic Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Major Character Death, Obsessive Behaviors>

"File Size" <17.3k>

"Tracklist" <I Want You - Mitski // Forward Beckon Rebound - Adrianna Lenker // Swan Lake, Op. 20, TH 12 – Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky>

"Creator Notes" <If you saw this earlier no you didn't>

Midnight flurries have seemed to finally strike your town. They pound on your walls and shake the wooden doors. It whistles and it sings a soft cradle song while it lays a thick, white blanket over the numerous houses and cars.  

It’s enchanting—you’ve come to realize as your forehead presses against the cool window. And you close your eyes, allowing the bitter cold of the misty glass, to pierce your hot flesh a little awkwardly. Underneath you, your left ankle twitches nervously and you wince. There’s a baby pink lace that suffocates the poor limb. It cries for help once more.   

So, you sigh and carefully slide your leg out in front of you. Your foot—covered in white and the same shade of pink moves back and forth. Side to side. Writhing erratically as if it was slowly running out of air before you decide to reach forward and have the pads of your fingers untie the knot. It’s slow and tedious and you’re careful with your nails digging into your rather expensive tights that you couldn’t afford to rip.  

You repeat the process with your right leg as tender as possible only to cast both pointe shoes away from you. When they thud against your wooden floor just dangerously near the burning fireplace, you watch one of them bounce away towards your dozing feline. It catches on her ugly, patchy fur yet she doesn’t shake awake. 

You furrow your brows, the creases of your skin prominent against the moonlight.  

And then the clock chimes 11:11. And then your hands interlock into a prayer. And then your eyes find the little music box by right by the giant watch. And then you notice that you left it open from yesterday, exposing the inner flesh of the plastic box—exposing the small disfigured, grotesque ballerina that stands in a gnarly stance that you’ve never performed in your life.  

It was a stupid gift from your late mother that was given to her by her grandmother. Your mother was an aspiring dancer just like you when she was younger. Yet she was hung from the rope of hopes and dreams, forced onto a noose by your extremely dunderhead of a father That’s all you know of her. And of him. A died dream. 

And that’s all you bother to know, nothing more. 

Because the thought of your mother is slightly depressing and it’s interrupting your prayer to the stupid ballerina in the box. The blood that seeps from the indents of your nails is going to waste. So, you divert yourself back to your gasping lungs and the whispers that leave your mouth rapidly. Whispers of a craving... 

A craving to be seen by the world.  

That’s what you wish for. Let the people know who you are past your small town, let them seek praise from your grace and beauty of how you dominate the stage. Have them inspired by who you are, the determination that you sweat, and the drool that you seep through your bitten lips, hungry, ravenous to dance.  

It takes you exactly another twenty seconds to finish up your chanting before the clock hits 11:12, your eyes pulsing close a few times for good luck. After that, you push yourself up from the ground, limp due to the striking pain that shoots up your sore corpse, slowly twist the knob to play a little creaky off-tune melody from the music box before shutting it close and softly kicking the cat with your big toe.  

You then gather your precious pointe shoes, wish the burning fire goodnight, and head to bed with blisters coating the soles of your feet. 

There’s a strange scene. Out by the small community council. Just before the woods that cover a vast area. Your usually quaint village that housed a few quaint villagers including yourself and the bones of others, had scattered footprints in the snow. Which was accompanied by the ruffling of two bodies.  

There was a quarrel going on. A physical quarrel between two adult men that you recognize to be the two sons of the owners of the one and only pharmacy shop in your town that get their shipments a little too late when needed. The two sons of the Lees; Minho and Yongbok. The snow was now tainted in their messy tracks and it’s a bit annoying. Yet you don’t do anything but watch with wide eyes.  

Until your mind registers Yongbok, your friend that you haven’t seen in almost a year due to his teaching position down in the south! You part your lips slightly in recognition.  

And that prompts you to take a step—no two steps forward to observe the scene a little closer, the fingers in your pockets that were protected from the gnawing cold, flexing rapidly as you try to adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder without moving too much so you wouldn’t catch their eyes.  

Yet that becomes a fruitless attempt as several Sunday Massgoers take no time to break up the fight. It takes three of them to pull Minho apart and another two to tug Yongbok away, hitting his head hard into the ground. They scold the two young boys, one of the wives of the goers slapping Minho softly and thumping his brother on the head. Then to your absolute dismay, Yongbok’s uncanny ability to be able to seize you in a crowd of people starts to work because you lock eyes with him. 

He stiffens—gasps and rolls over to onto his feet, stepping on his brother’s pinky either on purpose or not. You stiffen and smile lumberingly. Minho stiffens—groans and then when he finds out who Yongbok is looking at, he waves at you with his unbroken hand.   

“(Y/n)! Hi! Hello!” Yongbok laughs. That’s when you realize that his usually black hair was dyed a bright blonde. You wonder why but you can’t deny that it suits his softened features extremely well. When he finally catches up to you, stumbling a bit in the snow, he pants and lays his tiny hand on your shoulder. You squeak. 

“How long... how long were standing there watching us?” He blinks like a doll, waiting for your response.  

“Mmm, yeah, I dunno. You dyed your hair though?”  

The blonde visibly brightens at the very obvious observation and squeezes you harder. “Yeah! Thought it would be a nice change.” He tilts his head, “Do you like it?” You nod but right behind Yongbok, his brother stumbles up to you two with a grim face. You almost have the instinct of pushing the blonde away, afraid that another fight would break out between them two but Minho’s silly trip over a stray twig makes you giggle.  

“Why were you two fighting anyway?” 

Minho who was close enough to listen, beats Yongbok in answering your query. “Because this moron came back after not telling anyone that he would fucking run away.” You look back at Yongbok who swallows nervously and shamefully lowers his head.  “Do you know how worried sick Eomma and Appa were?” He harshly spits.  

“Right. Sorry.” Yongbok whispers but you’re confused.  

He’d told you that he had found an amazing opportunity to showcase his love for children just a week before he’d left. He had solemnly broken the news to you with a small kiss on your forehead while feeding you his infamous brownies and with a sad smile.  

But as you watch Minho pull out a cigar and a lighter from his pocket and see Yongbok scrunch up his nose and cough with dimmer eyes, you get the answer to your doubt.  

“Would you like a smoke?”  

Minho attentive as ever offers you the brown roll in his hand. And you’re about to say “No thank you” as politely as possible because you quit the bad habit a year ago, but Yongbok’s hands find yours and he plucks them away.  

“You know she’d stop smoking, why would you ask her if she wanted to do it again?”  

You smile at the exasperation in your friend’s voice. That’s what you like about him. He always knows the best for you and always holds the flashlight when you are lost in the dark. Minho rolls his eyes and looks at you to confirm. You do. Very clearly. 

“Kay. I’ll see you later then and have Eomma cook up something special I suppose.” He runs his eyes over Yongbok’s figure and very gently places the butt of the cigar against his brother’s pale skin—not enough to hurt of course. He then trudges away, leaving you and Yongbok to stare at his diminishing figure.  

“He’s very mean.” 

You snort at the childish comment and let go of his hand to wipe away a spare snowflake on your reddening cheeks. “Is that why you didn’t tell them and told me instead? Am I not mean?” 

His lips twist into a pout almost as if he was debating on answering your questions. His brown eyes sink deep into yours and he sighs and bites his cheek. He’s holding back a flustered, extremely dainty smile. 

“No, you very much are” His fingers then crawl up to your backpack strap which you’ve forgotten you had on.   

“Are you going to practice today? I’m sure you took rest days on Sundays and Wednesdays? I thought we would be able to get a cup of coffee and perhaps hang out at your place?” 

The offer is tempting. It salivates your tongue at the thought of cozying up next to the warm body of another person. Yet... 

“Mhm, I wish. Er—it’s scouting season, and you know...I need that scholarship.” 

Yongbok deflates slightly at your words but the hesitance that lingers at the timbre of your voice bounces him right back up again. He huffs his chest. “Maybe you can—” 

“Yes. I’ll cut practice an hour early today for you. Make up some stupid excuse again I guess.” 

Yongbok the ever lively one radiates a sun-like twinkle on his lips. They look magnific carved onto his washed-out skin. “Great! That’s amazing—god I truly love you.” He places a chaste kiss on your temple where it penetrates through your thick skull and into your throbbing brain.  

You grip his thick jacket.  

“Meet me by my house uhh by one?” 

“Perfect because that’s when your favorite extra extra sweet brownies will be done by if I start baking them in another thirty or so.” That fills you with warmth. 

“Mmm, that sounds delicious thank you so much.” Your tiny flip phone buzzes against you and you grimace. “I’ve gotta go, I promise I’ll express my gratitude later, alright?”  

“Mmkayy.” 

When you finally make it to the auditorium there’s a sense of impending doom in your entrails–it knots your guts.  

The snow falls faster and harder now. The harsh wind pounds on doors moaning to be let inside, in a pitiful plea. There’s a spasm in your stomach. You get changed into your attire and when you look at the pointe shoes, you’re reminded of your mangy kitten.

You wish that she would watch you from the audience– is what you think as you step on the mark in the middle of the stage. There’s a glimpse of her tiny figure in the corner of your eye that frightens you a little.  

Yet as soon as the music flows from the speakers that surround you, everything around you is gone. All five senses. You’re just left with yourself and the fluidity of your limbs as they move elegantly, practiced movements easily perfected to finish.

The blood of your tongue seeping onto your teeth as you bite harder and harder and harder in pure, utter determination. And. And. And. 

Seconds feel like hours when you spin relentlessly. And a single minute is short. Short enough that when you stand still, you can’t even chase your own breath, keep it caged in your gasping lungs that feed off of it.  

So, when you finally take a bow, there’s a creak in your knees.  You’re sure that there’s yellow mucus flowing from a sore on your foot. Your teacher is rubbing at her glasses. And there’s a glob of sweat that dives down your aching back from the harsh lighting of the stage lights. 

When you straighten back up, Mrs. Choi offers a thin-lipped smile.  

“I am afraid that was spectacular. Jaw-dropping, in other words.” Her praises make your heart sing. Your eyes blur back into focus at her lonely stature by the blood-red seats.  

“Thank you. Was this time better around?—I know that I messed up the middle a bit.”  

The wrinkles around her old mouth scrunch up. They make your nose furrow. “It certainly was. And even so, now thinking about it, I didn’t even notice the small fumble.”  

She leans forward, her beaded eyes hiding under those heavy flaps of skin, piercing you sharply. 

“Yet...I just...I have a feeling that the scouts will have a hard time choosing you over the other talented ballerinas just like you.”  

You freeze. Again? Why?  

Almost as if the confusion you were radiating was burning her alive, she heaves a big, loud breath. And you’re jealous.  

“You’re just missing something. I would say passion—yet...I believe so that you’re not made for the stage. And I—I don’t mean my words to be harsh–no not at all, but as talented as you are, you lack the emotion.” 

You’re starting to tremble. You’ve heard those words before. From past teachers. From past judges. From the last scouts. And you swear you’ve practiced! There’s a great dip in your lips now–a merely exaggerated form of a frown and you look foolish, you’re sure. 

“It really is pitiful. It is. But there’s still a chance. You will never know.”  

You want to cry. Sob even. Horrendously. But you still bop your head along and as she beckons you closer to the end of the stage, you obey without any hesitance.  

You heave deeply when she takes a step closer and softly tucks in your chin with her fingers, having them trace up your cheeks. You bristle underneath her touch and for some odd reason you have the urge to bite at her fingers hard. Your teeth ache in sensitivity at it. 

“You’ll be the first to perform—the first name on the roster that the scouts will receive...You’ll have a better chance to make an impact—to show them what you really got.”  

She turns away and walks off (her time here is done with you; she has a family to get back to soon) her echoing footsteps thumping in your head. You lift your weight off a foot that throbs erratically, watching her go pitifully. 

“I left some of my husband’s apple pie if you’d like some. It’s in my office. Don’t practice for too long, stay safe and lock up after you’re done.”  

You don’t say anything. She doesn’t need you to. Because the loud bang of the door behind her says enough. And then when you pick up a prop that was carefully crafted by the high school drama team and throw it against the floor.  

That’s another word, another sentence, another scream from you. Your throat is hoarse and now you’re forced to stare at the smushed prop on the floor before you reluctantly pick it back up and place it against the wall, just where it was found.  

There’s a small sigh that wisps out of your mouth. And then one more, before the tears that you’ve been holding at bay have been swallowed up painfully. No more twitching in your cheeks—you notice as you raise your eyebrows a few times and clear your throat twice. 

And your fingers turn to the sound system, letting your nails push on the knob just a bit louder than it is supposed to be. It rings your ears yet you’re hoping that the music notes embed themselves into your skin and you become one with the stunning melody. Feel whatever it feels.  

Have the flats shape your smile. Have the sharps carve your eyes and your cheeks.  

That’s the last thought that crosses your mind before the tune starts to envelop you again, and there’s blood rushing, flourishing through your ears. You smile, and then you laugh. You pretend to sob as your feet carry the footsteps of an anguished woman. Your eyebrows twist, and they cramp horribly. Achingly.  

Your lips dig into your skin. Achingly. The pink straps are throttling. Achingly. The bones in your hands melt as they burn. Achingly. You can smell the vile scent of blazing skin. Raw skin. Red.  

Blisters everywhere.  

They pop and you can hear them pop as you spin. They trail against your face—you think because it’s wet on your cheeks, and it stings there. Your eyes too you conclude. They’re stinging. 

And then you ache before you end. Ache before a deafening, single clap shakes you in your place.  

You internally shriek. Loud, because your whole body seizes and shudders violently. Then you spot the young man standing up in the seats, wide-eyed with his cheeks ample and full. He claps a count of five times this time before he realizes that you are in complete, utter shock and can’t open your mouth at all.  

“Hello. Er—excuse me. There’s a huge snowstorm outside and I’ve come inside for shelter—brr—yes, uhm sorry for...for intruding.” He trips with the way that his teeth clack and how his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His muscles tense up when you move a little away and don’t say anything. Though you fumble back partially because the young man is quite gorgeous–heavenly even that you have to stumble back in shame at what he must’ve witnessed of you. A mess.  

Yet he seems to think the quite opposite. And he expresses it very clearly in the way that his voice pitches and his brows shoot up while his lips tremble when he speaks. His eyes glaze over you and you have to tuck yourself back into your skin.  

“You were...that was amazing. I’ve never seen anything as...” He trails off at the end and tucks a stray piece of black hair behind his ear, smiling nervously. “Seen anything as gorgeous or graceful...er...haha excuse me, you—you’ve made me speechless.” 

Your cheeks warm at the compliments the strange man throws at you and your fingers dig into the skin of your arm, itchy, as you hold back a deep flush that threatens to rise when he takes a few steps closer.  

God, he’s breathtaking. You’ve worked that out immediately as his face glows underneath the warm lights of the stage that shine out into the ghostly audience.  

“Thank you.” 

He crinkles his eyes, and you find it rather cute. His pink lips pucker in and out and you notice that his thoughts are occupied. His eyes flicker between the curtains.  

And then they lock onto you once more. It’s sharp—more intense yet he carries an air of uncertainty that you feel the need to clear. So, you clear your throat and push your arms into your chest more, eyes darting up to look at the ceiling. You feel naked under his eyes.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before. Are you new?” 

His lips curl and he tilts his head to the side. The grey puffer jacket that he sports puffs out more as he sighs. “Not exactly. I’ve always been here...I just don’t like going out much.” 

You crack a smile at his confession. You’ve always felt the same too. The world only sees you due to ballet and Yongbok.  

“Me too. If I wasn’t doing this, then I don’t think I would’ve ever left my doorstep. My cat would’ve just kept me company.” You shrug. A waft of air seeps in and you shiver, breathing in deeply through your little shake when the beautiful stranger chuckles and shakes his head.  

You’re entranced by him.  

“What’s your name?” He rasps out, closer to the stage now. You usually don’t give your name out to random people, but his eyes glint and you can’t help but cave in immediately–your answer already souring on your tongue.  

“(Y/n).”  

“Mmm, that’s a pretty name. It suits you.” His eyebrows cock up when you try to stifle an embarrassed giggle. “I’m Hyunjin, nice to meet you (Y/n).” 

“Nice to meet you too.” You pause before taking a breath. “I hope to see you around...er more often.”  

He shoots you a smug smirk, twisting his lips to the side. You darken with a ruby even more. 

“I believe you will—you’ve convinced me to do so.” He then looks outside and you both notice that the snowfall has lessened, and the wind doesn’t howl in agony anymore. It instead whistles a tiny tune. Achingly.  

And then your heart thunders when you look back at the beautiful man—Hyunjin. Because he is already looking at you.  

You’re starting to have nightmares again. The last time they were incorporated into your routine, was last season. Yet this time they’re more vivid and real.  

They consist of pure, unadulterated, and grotesque thoughts of death and terror. When you awake from the horrifying ending, your mouth is filled with blood from your tongue and cheeks carry the trails of its sorrows.  

Today when you wake up again, you don’t immediately pull back the covers and try to lull yourself back to sleep. Instead, your fingers dance around your nightstand to get a hold of a small, brown dainty notebook that Yongbok had bought you the other day when you had confessed your sleepless lights. 

He said to you as he bagged the notebook by the self-checkout, “Write down your dreams and thoughts in this. I heard it helps! And then when you fill every single page up, we can burn it.” 

Though his words did not make any sort of sense, you’ve always blindly followed him when it came to the good of your heart. So, you go ahead and turn on the light and grab a black pen.  

Flipping the book open, you notice that your last entry was cut short–possibly from the lack of words that could explain what you experienced, the lack of expressions that could communicate the thoughts that were running through your head. 

You let the ink scribble down the half-empty page, before starting your entry on the next one. You write the date and time on the top. And then you start to think.  

i was standing in a house that was dark. there was maybe a light or two i think but still it was very very dark. i think that there was something watching me i am not sure. there is a loud noise. like a cat screaming or some sort of animal. so, i turn around yet i am met with a mirror. i was feeling weird almost scared and i could feel my heart in my throat. i don’t really know how to explain it. i think i was going to throw up. but the mirror starts to crack even more and i can’t back away as much as i want to. my feet were stuck to the floor. then very familiar music starts to play. it’s was very shrill and loud. but the mirror in front of me starts to double and more and more pieces start to surround me. then when i look a little closer in the reflection, i don’t see me. i see my mom and a boy. they are like shadows though because i can barely even make them out. but there’s blood now, seeping from the glass. it was cutting into my skin. and then i wake up. i think it was from the pain. 

You stop and squint your eyes.  

There’s more that you feel than what you can write on the page. The despair and hopelessness swirl into your chest yet your pen quivers in your touch as you try to make it out. And then when you realize that you’ve blanked out totally—nothing else to write, you close the book and lay it back down beside you.  

When you look around the room and swing your feet up and down, you brush against something soft—your cat so you stop and sigh once more before an ache in your head begins to make itself present.  

Your migraines were starting to become more intense—more than usual. You suppose it is from the stress on your shoulders. You’re starting to wince and turn and thud your head against the pillow when it becomes too much. It hurts. So bad.  

Getting up from your bed, you squeeze your temples with the tips of your fingers trying to alleviate the pain, but it doesn’t do much. You need aspirin, which is currently located on your countertop from earlier. You don’t turn on the lights as you grab your robe, opting to stumble through the dark rather than worsen your headache even more.  

Which you regret almost immediately.  

Because there’s goosebumps down your back—you’re shaking to the bone. The dark room is starting to produce colorful shapes that float and disappear through the air in front of you.  

And there’s someone here. You think—possibly! You live alone. God. What.  

There’s an old superstition that your grandmother had whispered to you before when you were perhaps five or six. It used to haunt you at night and because of her you’ve covered all your mirrors and placed two stuffed animals on your chairs at night. Because if you don’t, you’re inviting someone or something to sit on your chair to watch you at night. Because if you don’t, you're letting someone or something peer at you through the reflection of the mirror.  

There’s a black chair in front of you. There are tiny rips in the seat, where you can see a splash of yellow cracking. The chair itself is metal—so it's cold. But when you accidentally tripped over the legs just a few seconds earlier and your hands found the seat—it felt warm. Warm to the touch. As if someone was sitting there earlier. Too warm. 

You stand there still. And the chair is not the only reason why. Your bathroom door is open to where you can peer inside. You see the sink, the toilet, and the bathtub. You see yourself, through the mirror though because the moon shines from the crack of your blinds. You see it just in the corner of your eyes.  

You see the mass of darkness behind you. It moves eerily. It comes closer and then back away for a second. And then comes closer again.  

You close your eyes shut.  

“S—stop it. Please. Get out of my house.” You whimper, swallowing deeply. It doesn’t move. You can feel it behind you. So, you try again.  

“Get out.” There’s a faint scent of blood and you’re thrown onto the floor. because your trembling knees buckle into themselves. Yes. Fuck. No. Get. Out.  

You start to scream banging your head on the floor. Your head is splitting open. You can see the brain—it’s mushy in your hands. There’s an itch. It’s familiar, but you can’t figure out what.  

“Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out of my head! My house!” 

“Out!” You let out a guttural scream.  

“(Y/n) wake up!” 

Your eyes shoot open, shaking tremendously, gasping for air.  

“It’s Bokkie baby. Come on calm down, I got you.” There are soft hands that pull you into a warm hug. It takes you a second to realize that you were just dreaming before you hesitantly wrap your hands around the cozy body, sinking into him, with your eyes shut closed.  

A shudder runs through your body.  

You silently sob, your palms messily thrashing over his bare back. His nails sink into your hair and they calmly thread through your scalp as he whispers sweet, honeyed words into your ears. And when you pull back from him, his hand softly wipes away the ugly mess on your face.  

Yongbok’s smile is pitying when he kisses you against your head and you wetly laugh into his shoulder. 

“Holy fuck...that was...that was something else. I—hmmm yeah.” You mumble, taking deep breaths. His chest moves in sync with yours and you focus on the way that it rises and falls. 

“Sorry for waking you up Lix. Was I screaming or something?”  

He gently shrugs before he moves, he around you to stretch his arms, “Sort of I suppose...and uhm anyways it’s morning! So, you didn’t really wake me up, I was going to in 30 minutes or so...”  

“I’m glad then.” You simply say, leaning over to peek through the blinds. It was indeed daytime. 

The last remnants of your...double nightmare (?) still lingers but as always it fades away in slow waves. Excluding for the distinction of the way that your emotions aroused at that moment–that was always the worst you suppose.

There’s a scar of your shivers and your piggy-like squeals that thrive in you, and once Yongbok leaves the room to give you the privacy that was needed, you through a small white towel over the expanse of your mirror and stack two—no three stuffed animals on your chair just for safe measure. The smell of breakfast wafts heavily into the room and you’re forced to swallow copious amounts of bile back into your throat.  

Yongbok is coerced to split ways with you. He is whisked away by his stubborn father by his very very red ear, his mother shaking her head in disappointment, yet a small smile dancing on her dainty lips. You could see where Yongbok got his beautiful looks from, they have the same twinkle in their eyes at the root of happiness and the smallest quirks in their hands, twitching—almost as if their knuckles throbbed endlessly.  

Minho is there too. And his pupils flicker between you and the scene. When they catch your looks, he tilts his head and almost as if it was possible to do so, he slowly yet firmly pushes against the gate of your eyes. You have to snap your head away, almost immediately, and a small scoff rumbles from his chest. It’s playful though–a little bite at your cowardice.  

“Right (Y/n), you’ll have him returned to you once he spends his time with us. His family.” His mother jokes, yet there’s a snobby implication under her breath. Yet you can’t help but laugh and nod, turning away when Yongbok sends you an apologetic smile. You walk away, finally looking back up when their voices drift away.  

The snow crunches underneath your feet, it’s a few inches thick and you feel as though you would like to be buried underneath the white blanket one day. It would be nice you suppose. But then questions arise. When would that be? How would that be? Would you be alone? Is it rotting? Your cat?  

Your fingers brush by the snow and as if you were a magnet, a newspaper comes tumbling your way, from the harsh wind that nips at your exposed skin, almost as if it was trying to fester a wound. The paper is crumpled—torn at some edges like someone tried to nibble on it and it lands by your ankles. You stare at it, waiting for the breeze to carry it somewhere new, yet it just sits there. By you. Almost solemnly, waiting for you to give it your love—your attention.  

So, you do.  

It’s today’s edition. Big, black words bolded on the top catch your eye—as they should because they are quite literally the news headlines. They read—to your shocking horror ‘Murder in town—young girl found dead!’ 

Averting your eyes down to the page, they scramble at the photograph of the girl. Twenty at best, she smiles in what looks like a picture for the high school yearbook. Her long black hair drowns her shoulders in such a beauty and her cheeks are slightly darker from the natural flush that she holds. Her nose, a little large yet suiting her softened features in almost an eerily stunning way, is dipped down. Her body carries a cardigan and her posture is upright–perfectly so. 

You know of this girl–it’s hard not to in this small town. Kim Jiwon. She had an older sister and a young father. Your lip's part in revulsion and it takes you a beat or two for you to move down to the smaller text, throat closing in on itself. 

18-year-old beloved was found dead in the woods early morning Tuesday in what the police are identifying as a homicide. Found by a passing jogger, authorities were called to the scene at 7:30 AM after a distressing call was made moments later.  

The victim identified as Kim Jiwon, was discovered near a tree with multiple stab wounds that scatter her body, along with signs of blunt-head trauma. Investigators noted signs of struggle but have not confirmed whether the attack was targeted or random.  

“This was a violent crime, and we are actively pursuing leads,” said Detective Kang Hyunwoo of the Eogwi  Police Department. “We urge anyone who saw suspicious activity between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. to come forward.”  

Neighbors described Kim as quiet and friendly, often seen walking her dog in the evenings. “It’s terrifying,” said her friend, who lives in the apartment next door. “She was just here yesterday. I can’t believe this happened so close to home.”  

Authorities have not yet named a suspect but are reviewing records and files of past criminals who are recorded to committed past violent crimes. The Eogwi County Medical Examiner’s Office will conduct an autopsy to determine the exact time of death. 

The first thought that comes to mind is poor girl. Young and beautiful–one that had such a long winding path ahead of her.

Second, is to look around. There’s an itch. Whipping your head back and forth, you are relieved to find a few stragglers in sight. They too are confined to morning shock and fear, so they don’t do much but mutter lowly.

A dreadful shiver runs up your back when you accidentally catch Jiwon’s face in the newspaper clipping and as if the paper was suddenly a million degrees, you drop it back into the snow, chest heaving up and down.  

You feel as if you’ve run a marathon, heart in your throat, pulsing on your quivering tongue. Kim Jiwon is a girl you’ve known—or rather you’re forced to know because of her famous sister. Her older sister is a dancer. Her sister used to remain indifferent to you when you partnered up with her in school.

Her sister who could move so fluidly, that if you went ahead and clasped her by the arm she would’ve just slipped right out. Her sister who is a loved, golden girl.  

You flinch. Because in all regards you hate her sister. Kim Seoyeon. But you cannot help but feel immense pity for her. You start to pray. 

And as you do, a familiar voice joins in, the ghost of their fingers just hovering over your shoulders, stopping you in your words, the last sentence of your chant stuck in your throat as the unknown finishes it for you, chuckling in your ear when you don’t take the initiative to turn around. Just frozen.  

“Hullo, what are we praying for?” 

Ah. Hyunjin. Boy from the theatre. It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him, yet he hasn’t left your mind, exactly. He lingers in there like a ghost.  

Connecting the dots, you shift yourself around until you’re face to face with the boy. His delicate features break out into a grin, and he sways on the balls of his heels. You seemed to give him a look that said, “What are you doing here?” 

“I told you that you’ve convinced me to come out more.  

“Right.” You murmur, taking a step back and huffing a laugh. You accidentally step on the newspaper, right on Jiwon’s happy face. You jump. And Hyunjin notices.

Yet he doesn’t point it out. He doesn’t even ask the question he asked you before about why you were whispering. He actually asks you a new one that makes your shoulders sag in a reminder of why you were even outside. 

“What brings you out in this cold?” 

“I could ask you the same.” You sigh, tucking a stray piece of hair. “I needed to go to the supermarket. I’m running out of bread and milk.” 

He nods. Then he stops swaying and cocks his head to the side. “Mind if I join you?”  

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod slowly with an air of hesitation. You know that you are to be careful, the goosebumps on your arm reminding you of the dangers that lurk behind a stranger, and what had happened to Jiwon, but you are naive and helpless against the glinting in his eyes.

His beauty is strangely evocative, more than before when he was practically hidden in the dark. This time the white wispiness around him is magnetic, and the rosy glow that covers his cheeks is enthralling. 

“Sure. Why not. I could use some company.” 

His strides from what you’ve noticed are long but delicate. He carries confidence with a mysteriousness that you want to peel away. His lips that chatter against the cold air, sigh occasionally, and you must stop yourself from staring at him. 

“So—er, what do you do?” You question, twiddling your thumbs in your pockets. 

“I paint. Make art.” He responds, smiling at the sky. It suits him—being a painter.

“Wow. Do you like to specialize in anything?”  

“Realism. I like painting people.” Hyunjin then turns his head towards you and with a great big smile says, “I would like to show you soon, actually.” 

Taken by surprise, you feel yourself flush. “I would love to see them.” 

“I just think it would be fair since I’ve seen your ‘art’” He shrugs his shoulders, yet that lilt of happiness doesn’t leave his face.  

“When’s your next rehearsal? I want to take you after then if you’re free.”  

“Tomorrow. Ends at eight.” You whisper breathlessly. The moment feels too intimate, and your heart beats against its cage, trying to escape its confines.  

As the weeks close in, getting further and further to the recital date, your feet are to be sorer. You have increased your practices twice and almost thrice a day, for hours straight.

You have been standing in front of the mirror, mocking emotions a human would feel. You have gone through packs and packs of pointe shoes.  Today you were reluctantly required to take a break by your mentor. She was very stern and even went as far as to buy a new lock for the auditorium, so you wouldn’t be able to practice on your own.  

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up by eight sharp.” 

He doesn’t leave room for a refusal not that you would be able to give him one. The rest of the walk to the supermarket is filled with words.  

They range from solemnity to child-like exuberance. Yet one thing stays the same. He shares the same mind as you. Same wavelength, that you understand even Yongbok couldn’t reach. And you wonder, where has he been your whole life, however dramatic that sounds. His thoughts are the same. His love is the same. His sorrows are the same. His excitement is the same.  

A walk of fifteen minutes builds a connection with someone that you feel like you’ve known since the womb. It’s scary how attached you are to a complete stranger when you still can’t even open up to your own childhood friend. You pity Yongbok.  

And it makes your stomach swoop and feel sick. 

Yet once you get there, when the brown carts finally come into view, it’s filled with silence that you cannot explain. Quite opposite from before. Hyunjin blends in with the small rush of the people, but he’s always right there beside you, hands brushing along with yours, as his voice tickles your ears with the best choice of groceries to pick. You squirm and laugh, butterflies fluttering against your stomach.  

And as you try to claw the excitement out of you while you are tucking yourself into bed, you realize as your cat brushes by your side—that you’ve never been ticklish before.

The next day, when you dress yourself in your usual rehearsal clothes, you must take a moment and stand in front of the mirror nude. You trace your eyes over yourself and rub your fingers through the knots of your neck, unable to catch a break from the pooling of tears, that comes from the relief of it.

You groan, letting it echo, hovering your nails just over a small scar just above your breastbone. It’s jagged yet smooth at the ends, small pricks riding up your skin when you press against it earnestly. Almost curiously. 

The quietness of the room is too loud, filled with buzzing of the unsaid and said. Of the dreams and the nightmares. You finally adjust your leotard and face your back to the mirror, unable to spare another second to look at your reflection anymore.  

Grabbing the duffel bag, you sling it over your shoulder and head out to the stage. The stage lights that you could never get used to, shine brightly and warmly and there’s a small head that peeks out at you. Her lips croon and twist when you settle yourself up there, just underneath the spotlight, stretching.  

And this time when you dance, you think of Hyunjin. It’s small at first—just the thought of him. But then it grows, thrives at the way that you spin and furrow your teeth into your bottom lip. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did the other times you’ve done it, the same expression that mimics the mood set on stage. It doesn’t hurt much at all—your cheeks when you have to have to smile. All you must do is imagine—fantasize about Hyunjin.  

It all comes to a sweet end when you get that nod of approval from Mrs. Choi.  

“You’re not that stiff—it’s an improvement. It’s beautiful. Beautiful when you let your smile reach your eyes.”  

“Thank you.” You croak. And it starts again, the music, the soreness, and the appeal of him. And again. You can’t help it at all—really and you don’t seem to mind it much. But a lingering itch claws.  

When you finally leave, letting your feet touch the porch out front, there’s a shadowy figure that awaits by the illuminating streetlight. The body leans against the smooth, black pole. It’s faceless—the figure but you know exactly who it is.

Lips tucked under your teeth, there’s a sinking moment of hesitation—almost fear that licks at your body, sending shivers up the expanses of your back. Jiwon. You’re not naive—not one bit. That was Yongbok all in his glory–he once believed that you were his blood-right sibling, amusingly.  

But the intense feeling disappears as soon as Hyunjin lifts his head up, cooly brushing his hair back, and flashes you a blinding grin. 

It’s warm. Even underneath the pattering of snowflakes on your face.  

“Hey,” He gasps, jogging up to you albeit awkwardly. It’s sort of cute and you giggle when he sort of stumbles through the thick snow. “Hi,” You whisper, eyes catching his before they avert to the ground, staring at his boots. You seem to redden under his gaze.  

“How were rehearsals?”  

“Hm? They were good. I think I have a good shot of getting that scholarship.”  

“That’s...that’s good! It’s a pity that you’re going to have to leave...leaving me alone huh?” He teases. You snort and shake your head, pretending to sound exasperated, “Oh god, here we go again...”  

He hums with a small chuckle that you both share before it gets swallowed into the night air. Playing with the hem of your jacket, you stare at the Church just beyond you two—the Church that transcends into the darkness.  

Twisting your head up to glance at the man beside you, your fingers freeze up in their tiny, erratic movements as his hand comes up to adjust a piece of hair that was a twinge out of place. His nose twitches when you sigh lowly, the pads of his pointer finger just brushing against your burning forehead.  

“Shall we go?”  He asks. He then pauses and adds, “I’m excited.” Nodding to show that you were too, you let him lead you into the night, one hand on just hovering over your back and another in his pocket. Seeking warmth, you stay close to his side, biting your cheeks whenever you two shuffle towards each other. 

You soon find out that Hyunjin lives not too far away from you—but just on the outskirts where the animals of the deep woods find their comfort.  And then the cottage—his humble abode comes into view.  

It’s quaint. Small and run-down. Yet not exactly cozy in this weather. The lawn such as the rest of the town is covered in white, yet through the hazy dark there are small trinkets that litter the grass, buried helplessly underneath. A large tree just overhangs it, big and proud it stands. Yet it whimpers at the small touch of the wind, ridiculing the house with the fear of crushing it under its mass.  

The black woods entice you scarily, and you gulp nervously as you follow Hyunjin onto the wooden steps. The stairs creak under your weight, and you have the humorous fear of falling through. You almost laugh at the image but your lips crack when they twitch in the cold, so to save yourself the pain you focus yourself on Hyunjin’s cool ease that seeps out of him. 

His hands fumble with the clanking keys–sending you one last look, shining with something that you couldn’t catch, he unlocks the beige door, slowly letting it open. It moans.  

“Home sweet home.” Moving sideways he lets you go in first. Cautiously, as your voice gets stuck in your throat, you trot in through, feet sliding against the floor. You’re wary enough not to get snow on the ground, but you can’t put your heart to the action as the black-haired man, closes the door shut. It groans in pain this time—but that’s cut off when he locks the door with a loud click. 

He shoves the keys in his pockets. You press yourself against the wall and breathe. It’s dizzy.  

“Er I cleaned up as much as I could in here—might still be a mess, don’t mind, don’t mind. But...if you could, could you please keep your boots by the shoe rack? Might minimize the...you know” He uses his palms to point out the small disarray that is presented to you. He moves his arms bizarrely. You scoff amusedly.  

“Haha, sure!” You toe off your boots as he said and bend down to put them orderly. The light crackles on, and you can see how blistering your palms are. When you rise back up, Hyunjin is intently staring at the clock.  

A noise snaps you out and you’re suddenly looking down at a furry mass. Kkami. You’re not exactly a dog person, per se but your nails thread themselves through the small knots of Hyunjin’s precious dog. You’ve heard so many demonic stories about her, followed by your own stories of your cat, but you can’t help but coo at her. The dog nuzzles against your palm, and you shiver in delight. 

“Fucking dog, stealing your attention.” Hyunjin sighs, but it’s lighthearted banter. You still jolt at the use of language though.   

“Stop it, she’s so cute. I think I already love her.” 

You can practically see Hyunjin rolling his eyes before he softly swats his dog away. The dog skips away unhappily and the man follows, uncovering the kitchen to you as you try to drink the place in. It connects to the living room. And there’s not a single picture up—no signs of personality. That’s the first thing that you regard. Your fingers skim the empty walls behind you. 

“Would you like anything to drink?”  

“No thank you.”  

He nods and takes a glass cup for himself, filling it up with water. He then points at a small door, one that you didn’t see when coming in. “My paintings are down in the basement.” 

When you nod in acknowledgment and bite the nail of your thumb off, he grabs the knob of the door and pulls it open. And just like before, he lets you go first. His dog doesn’t follow you two in. 

She just stands there and noses Hyunjin’s pants before scampering away. Your eyes crinkle at the sight. When you turn back, you’re met with a pool of darkness.  

“Right—er excuse me.”  

“Yes—um—” Hyunjin’s firm fingers dig into your shoulder as he gently adjusts you to the side, chest pressing against yours to find the light switch beside you. Your breath stutters as he closes in on you.  

He has a mole under his eye... 

When your lashes flutter rapidly, he shoots you a smug grin. His breath is light and easy as it lands on your shoulder which prompts you to take a step down. And then another. And another. His own feet follow yours, stopping when you do and continuing when your heels drag against a wooden stair. His soft gasps even seem to be in sync with yours.  

You prance around carefully as you would on stage. 

When you finally let your eyes leave the ground, where you stared at the way your feet shook as they raised and were put down, is when you catch the clutter. A clutter of everything—really. Paints and brushes are tossed everywhere. And several sheer white canvases stacked in the corner, all ranging from different sizes.  You see the gold accents that decorate the walls the flock of birds and the eerie splotch of red paint that hits the otherwise white walls.  

But then you see the clutter of bodies.  

Grotesque bodies. They’re all painted in mixtures of red, tan, blue, black, and colors that you can’t even stomach. And they’re all dancing–so beautifully, so hauntingly. One stands in the clear though and you take a big step towards it It’s unfinished and you can tell that’s what Hyunjin was pouring on before he had come to pick you up, still upright on the easel. 

“She’s my new one. Started on her a few days ago,” Hyunjin whispers. When you look back, you find that he stands where you left his side. Blankly staring at you. With all teeth showing. Behind him, a shadow casts. You tremble and for that split second, you think it’s because of fear. But the sour, vile taste doesn’t isn’t settled on your tongue and the bile in your stomach doesn’t churn. 

No... the adrenaline is still there. 

When you get close enough, you brush your fingers through the drying paint. The features of the girl strike you. Her long black hair drowns her shoulders in such a beauty and her cheeks are slightly darker from the natural flush that she holds. Her nose, a little large yet suiting her softened features in almost an eerily stunning way, is dipped down. 

And she’s lying down in the snow, arms twisted and turned weirdly. Inhumanely. Like she’s playing dead. Stunningly, a trickle of blood runs down the left corner of her mouth, and you have an itch to wipe it away.  

But you don’t. Because Hyunjin's palms wrap themselves over your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t move. So Hyunjin does for you. He first sways you side to side, humming a small tune. You sniffle. And then he calmly turns you around to face him. 

God, he’s ethereal. You’re wordless, lips moving soundlessly like a fish. A dumb fish. His hand soft and golden, caresses your temple, dipping down to your cheeks. They sting underneath his touch. And in that touch—to where the pads of his skin touch against yours, you know what he is. But there’s no fear. None at all.  

His hand cups your jaw and pulses there for a good second.  

“You’re so beautiful.” He says it on your lips. So close. It scars. “You’ll make it big. You’ll leave me behind, I know it. I hope you do. Promise me.” 

You crash your lips on him.  

It’s soft. It’s addicting. Your hands run through his hair and up his back, clutching onto his shirt, so tightly it rips a little underneath your nail. His arms circle around you and back you into the painting behind you. You could feel her smear onto you. In the faint background, you hear Kkami’s scratching. Your hearts are in sync.  

And when you finally part, for the lack of oxygen, you still stay close to his lips. To where you mutter a name. Jiwon? 

The soft pattering of footsteps catches you off guard, as you turn around and face your mother. Her lips are soft and pink are gentle when they kiss you with so much love on your cheek. The music in the back, a wonderful piano piece resounds, and each note is sweet and bitter. You hum. “Oh, my baby. My sweet baby. You’re born to be a star.” She presses a chaste kiss on your forehead, and you giggle. “Eomma..”  

“Hm?” She picks you up to spin you around. “I love you so much, sweetie, oh gosh.” 

“I love you too!” You say, hugging her close. You never want her to leave. It’s too warm. Too much love.  

When you unlatch from her, her eyes grow big and wide and her frail fingers, she holds up her pinky to you. You blink. 

“Promise me that you’ll make it big. Be famous—live your life. Don’t be like me. Promise me that, please.” She pleads. Grabbing her shaking wrist with yours, you focus on stabilizing the shaky movements with a grin. She lets out a wet laugh. Then raising your own tiny pinky to her, you interlock it with your head flopping into her neck. You don’t want to leave. It’s so nice. Too nice. Please.  

“Okay Eomma”  And in the corner of your eye, you see him. Your father. And you must scratch yourself—the feeling crawls up your swaying limbs. It’s too much.  

It’s been a week since your shoulders have been burdened with such news that they sag. They feel as though they are on the ground along with your feet. Your cat gnaws on them, curiously, as the moon shines on her through the slip of the curtains.   

In your fingers, you hold a smoke. It’s not lit. But it just sits there, and once in a while, you put it in your mouth, chew for a split second, and bring it down again. You’ve met up with Hyunjin every day and you’re brought with a bout of sickness of what he does. What he truly does.

The other girls, women, boys, men, you have all seen before. Or heard about in recent years. Newspapers, on the radio, through Yongbok, through the nosy neighbors. Realism. You peel at your lips, and it burns so good when the blood seeps onto your tongue.  

When the doorbell rings, you almost drop the smoke. But you stay put. Yet it rings again, so you have no choice but to haul yourself back up to reach the door. The moment you open it, you freeze.  

“Hi Minho.”  

“Hey. Yongbok told me you were running out of Advil. Forced me to come by and drop some off.” And as if he was able to read your mind on why Yongbok just didn’t come by himself, he follows up with, “Eomma needed help with something—with the shipping, I think?”  

“Oh. Uhm, thank you. Would you like to come inside?”  

You surprise yourself with the invitation, but you can’t take it back now. And maybe inside of you, you find out that you don’t really want to.  

Minho whose eyes are widened, flickers between amusement and shock, but he just simply nods and shucks off his winter boots, neatly placing them beside your own. He humbly walks in and takes a look around.  

“Hot chocolate or tea?” 

“Tea...Thank you by the way for letting me in.”  

You hum and softly chuckle. “Least I can do. It’s too cold outside.” 

“Hmmm, yeah. Do you think this weather is going to give up any time soon?” 

“Maybe...I don’t really know if I’d like that though. I like the cold.” The water boiling fills the silence. Grabbing the tea bags, you look up to see Minho smiling warmly at a picture of a baby you. You turn back, with a grin.  

“I was like five in that.” 

“You were cute...”  

This time, you can’t help but fully laugh, brows furrowing deeply. It causes Minho to scowl, but it titters between that and a soft smile. 

“What? Why’re you laughing?” 

“Didn’t know the word, cute was in your vocabulary.” 

“Har Har. You’re very funny.” 

You grab two mugs and fill them to the brim, with piping hot tea. The smell makes your stomach quiver, and you realize that you haven’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast.  

“Thanks, I try.” 

Telling him to be careful with the heat, you settle across from him with your drink. The first sip burns your tongue. It shows on your face and Minho snorts, blowing on his own mug. 

“How’s er...ballet going? Dunno Yongbok was going on something about that.” 

“Good, I suppose. I’m trying to get out of here so this the only way I know how to.” 

Minho’s eyes, though you don’t catch waver and narrow. “Really? You don’t like it here?” 

You don’t know what elicits you to say this, but it slips out of your tongue anyway, floating into the air before you can grab the words back and shove them into your mouth. 

“Too many bad memories.” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

It’s quiet now. Not a peep from the both of you. But it’s not awkward at all. Slow slurps and quiet murmurs. That’s all—except for the fact that Minho just stares. He stares with an odd face, and it has much to say yet it seems as though his lips are sewn shut. They do shake though. 

And to break it, because you cannot handle his intense eyes anymore, you ask him, almost childishly, “Is it good?” It takes a few beats, and you are ready to joke that he is disgusted with it, if there’s no answer but he cuts you off.  

“How much do you trust Yongbok?”  

“W—what?” 

He sets the cup down on his knee, steadying it carefully as he slinks forward. “How much.... how much do you trust Yongbok?” 

The answer comes easier than you could process it. “A lot. I trust him a lot. Why...just where...where is this coming from?” 

There’s a crazed look in his eyes, and his lips are starting to twitch. He downs the last of his tea and you can’t imagine the burn in his throat from it. You wince.  

“I—fuck. Do you trust him not to—” He bites his lips and then stops abruptly. You wait. You’re shaking and suddenly the temperature plummets. Below negatives. It pricks your skin, your flesh, your blood.  

“Minho...” You softly murmur. A whimper.  

He doesn’t answer. But ferocious knocks on your door do and you jump angrily, spilling some of the hot drink on your legs. It's scalding and as soon as it happens, as if Minho snapped out of his trance, comes up to you hurriedly removing the source away from your thighs. 

“Shit!”  

The knocking doesn’t stop, rather it gets louder more ferocious, and violent, and for some reason, tears are starting to well up in your eyes, you can’t breathe, Minho’s freezing fingers are on you...on the burn and on your face. It’s all too much. Even more when the loud booms and the loud jingling of metal replaces through. 

At this point you’re gasping for breath, chest heaving up and down—you’re possibly even crying, you can’t exactly tell.  

But you can tell of Yongbok’s shouting figure that stomps through–so angry. Angrier than you’ve ever seen before—it’s fucking frightening that you curl up into yourself, hiding yourself from Minho’s frozen touch and his brother’s glare. 

“What the hell are you doing here?!” He snarls. His usually tended hair is in a frenzy, and you notice that he’s not wearing any protective wear. Just a thin sweater and jeans that you’re that do nothing against the freeze. 

Minho doesn’t say a word. His fingers softly press into your burn, trying to cool it before he catches your eyes. His lips tuck themselves in when they notice the streaks of tears that have left their trace on your flushing cheeks.  

“She’d burnt herself.” 

Your friend softens a little, eyes scampering up the two of you. They linger on his brother’s hand on you. You’re so confused but you don’t say a word. You hiccup instead. Yongbok usually so predictable, isn’t so this time as he makes his way to the kitchen. You don’t see him but you know what he is doing—the fridge opening loud and clear. When he comes back into view, he carries a pack of frozen peas.  

“Get out Minho.” He simply says when he’s close enough to the two of you. Minho who makes no effort to move just gazes longingly again at you. There’s blood on his lips now, from his teeth.   

“Alright. Sure.” He rises to his feet, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you, until Yongbok roughly pushes by him, shoving him to the side. You’re reminded of the fight that escaped the two when the blonde came back, and you pray that another brawl doesn’t break out in the middle of your living room. 

You waste your 11:11 wish on it. 

The moment that Minho closes the door behind him, Yongbok bursts into a waterfall of tears. They flush his skin so red, and in shock, you stay silent as he gently places the cold bag on where your skin is about to blister. He wobbles side to side tremendously. 

“Bokk–” 

“What did Minho say to you?” He cries, pulling you close into him. His normally warm skin, comforting and homely is numbing. Sharp.  

“You’re cold Bokkie.”  

“I—really? God, I can’t tell.”  He whines. He then pulls himself off you, and grabs your face, softly knocking his forehead with yours.  

“What—what did—” 

“Just said that you told him to bring more Advil. That’s all. I was the one that let him inside...I—was that a problem?” You let the last part out with a tinge of harshness than you meant but that makes your boy in front of you squeeze his eyes tighter. You can tell that he knew you weren’t telling him the whole truth by the way that he sighs and grips you tighter.  

You don’t want to tell him that it’s bruising.  

“Can I stay the night, please?”  

You don’t answer his question. You give him one of your own. 

“What’s wrong? You need to tell me what’s wrong.” 

His face pales and he burrows his face into the crook of your shoulder, shaking his head. “I can’t. I d—don’t even know myself. I just...” He trails off, obviously deep in thought. “Why weren’t you here yesterday? Or the day before? At nighttime too, do you know how dang—” 

“Did you come by Bokkie? Why didn’t you tell me?”  

His breathing comes out hard and fast and his chest pitter patters on you. He’s starting to shake, and you rub your fingers throughout his back, squeezing at his sides in comfort and in growing irritation.  

“Just where were you?” He sniffs, but he’s demanding too. You heave deeply and you consider telling him about Hyunjin. It’s on your teeth—really, all the sneaking out and kissing. All the secrets, the fear, the tolerance, and the willful ignorance that you’ve given him. You’re rubbing yourself, a habit that you’ve used to calm yourself down. It doesn’t work; the urge just grows strong.  

But the thought of Hyunjin ...Yongbok just can’t know. He can’t know that connection that you and Hyunjin share—fuck.   

From the moment you’ve met him, you’ve noticed that there was a certain buzz that bursts underneath your skin. 

The buzz helps you smile. It helps you dance. What you were lacking before is now suddenly here...you can laugh. There’s no ache in your chest when you do–when you dance the stage away. You have a chance. He gives you that chance.

You need him. You cannot let him slip away, no matter what you do. You live through him—through his kisses. A new exhilaration that you nearly can’t breathe. There’s a growing itch that starts in the back of your throat. You scratch violently at your chest as you stare helplessly at Yongbok.  

Mrs. Choi now offers you a full grin whenever she sees you. You manage to cry to yourself every night. Either in pure happiness or relief, you do not know. You bite your cheeks.

And then Minho’s question from earlier rebounds in your mind shoved down your throat. Yongbok recently has been acting very weird—different almost and you must swallow down the gasp of air that tries to escape—god what do you do? If he tells then what? Tells about Hyunjin? Tells you he’s not good enough–because you can’t bear to weigh that thrashing sense of disappointment from your best friend? You just can’t. No.  

Then your eyes widen. Does Minho know about Hyunjin? Is that what he means?  

Yongbok opens his mouth to say a word, but you beat him to it.  

“Stay the night.”  

“You’ve brought flowers...why?” 

You’ve made a routine. You like routines. They make you feel safe. You adore the way that you can predict when something happens, the way that it thrums in your limbs. So Hyunjin picks you up from your last night's practices again.

Like he’s been doing.

Sometimes he comes back covered in red. It’s his paint—he says. But you know or you think. You like to think that you know. You enjoy his paintings, they’re the new addiction, they give you if not more the addiction that nicotine gave you; you don’t want to give them up. Even though they’re tainted—but that matters the least.  

“My mother. We’re going to go meet her.” You sigh, smiling. His face glinting doesn’t show much but a twitching cheek. He swoops down and steals a kiss from you.

Never too much—but he always manages to deepen it and there’s that rush of blood in your head that makes you lightheaded. You pass by a bus stand. It’s covered in posters, and they all have faces on them. Your fingers linger on them, but you decide to linger your stare on Hyunjin.  

The graveyard is not that far away, but you’re not willing to walk so you’ve brought your car to the studio. Once you both have gotten in, you start the engine.

You snicker when Hyunjin starts to play with the radio, tongue sticking out to find the best channel. His hair is slightly ruffled, and his nose scrunches a little at the cold air. There’s that overwhelming sense of feelings that you feel for him. It’s squeezing your chest so hard that, you’re sure that your heart has been smushed into a pulp. It hurts so good that you must pulse your eyes close for a second. 

You finally back out.  

As you drive off, you pass by the many yet empty homes that are on the way. They are all grieving the warmth that the earth has to offer. And a few of the houses grieve more.  

One of them even holds a funeral. And you know for who. It’s saddening, all the faces that hold remnants of sadness and even anger. There are traces of love and at the same time nothing at all.

You cannot see the body because the car flies by too fast, but you catch the grins of two small children, possibly seven or eight. Surrounded by the sad culture around them, they play and laugh, holding hands and gripping each other.  

You don’t know if you had ever had the chance to do that–be happy and play you mean. Most of your childhood is not remembered on behalf of your sake but there are sudden nauseous waves of nostalgia from time to time. And as if Hyunjin could read your mind, he sighs. 

“Do you remember meeting me before?” 

Snapping your head in shock, you shake your head after a few seconds. “No? Did we meet? I feel like I would’ve remembered that...” 

“Yeah, we did. It was when we were little. You were crying at the park. Crying about someone...” He trails off, obviously trying to offer more. You raise your eyebrows, biting your lips. The park used to be your safe place.

The swings used to give you the comfort that no one did and the mulch that you covered yourself was morbid in the sense where you thought of leaving—sleeping forever. You liked the way that the dirt and tiny pieces of wood hugged you. 

But there’s a distinct memory that you’ve chosen to forget. But it appears in your nightmares, and you have a feeling that you know what Hyunjin is talking about. In where you stand, there was always a boy there too. Ah, you remember it now.  

Yet you don’t pick at it. It’s like a scab; too much picking away even so quickly can let you bleed tremendously. It’s too much to even talk nonetheless think so you slip a little white lie to him.  

“No idea. I do have a memory of a goldfish. Yongbok tells me that.” 

Hyunjin nods but you know that he doesn’t believe you. The rest of the ride is filled with silence and whatever solemn tune Hyunjin had picked. You try not to think too much of the memory that has resurfaced. But there’s that itch again. It’s reoccurring and it’s usually taken care of when Hyunjin’s with you, but it’s slowly making your head spin. 

Thankfully it dwindles down enough when you get to the cemetery. Where the ghosts whistle and pucker their lips to blow, is where it gets colder. Parking and cutting off the engine, you must take a second to shake in your car. Hyunjin who seems to understand, slings his hand over yours and shoots a blinding smile. You furrow your brows. And you try not to frown while you’re at it.  

Hyunjin taking the initiative, climbs out and treks his way to your side. He opens the door and puts his hand out for you to take, which you gladly accept. Hyunjin gently pulls you out.  

And you’re outside. Vulnerable to the slaps of the cold. And the stinging snow. And soon your mother. You’ve always grown restless around this time of the year. Nights filled with thrashing and nightmares. Hallucinations of your mother and father, whispering, talking, crying. That was all. Yongbok knows most but not how deep it penetrates you.  

Your father is not here, though. So, you’re faced with your Eomma. And you can almost feel her in your bones when you creak open the gate. You haven’t been here in years. You’re scared of her voice that follows. 

‘My sweet darling...I’m so sorry’ 

You try not to whip your head to Hyunjin to see if he heard it too, but from the looks of it, he hasn’t, and you swallow down an onslaught of tears and a growing fear. Her grave is weathered and unkept from the lack of visitors. Kneeling with Hyunjin right beside you, his warmth letting your shaky hands place the flowers down, you brush your fingers over her name. Her name...glares brightly at you.  

“I promise. I’m so sorry.”  

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until Hyunjin’s soft hands wipe away the pearls that fall. You have to choke back a sob, but Hyunjin understands what you want. He points at the gate. “I’ll go wait over there, take your time.”

He kisses your temple and gets up. You have to stop yourself from reaching out to him, to beg him to take you with him but you don’t say anything. You just shut up and sigh, trembling when the white mist follows.  

“I—I don’t expect anything...but please. Just—fuck—Iet me live. Peacefully?” 

You wait and not in hope but in knowing.  

“I’m so sorry, baby. Oh sweetie, I shouldn’t have left you alone, should I. Please forgive your old Eomma. I...I know that you think I wasn’t there that night, but I was. I’m so proud of you...I regret it so much.” 

This is why you don’t come to visit her anymore. Her whispers sheath into you like knives. Her murmurs pain you to no extent. Her promises start your heart to race. You know that she regrets it. She too was like you, full of the love of dance. But she’s succumbed to the ground below and heaven’s arms calling for her. You have no idea if you hate her for it or not.   

“You promised, Eomma! You said you would come!”  

“Oh gosh, I know. But just...don’t fall in too deep, okay? And if you do—I know you are, don’t worry your Eomma will be right here? I won’t hate you. I don’t, no not at all.”  

There’s a soft kiss, right at the top of your head. You know it’s her, and so you let yourself yield to her, your hands slowly heaping the snow onto yourself for an attempt at an embrace. It’s depressing you know, but you try. You really do. 

“Will you be here this time?” You ask, voice cracking into the air. But there’s no response. So, you ask it again. And once more, before the snapping of a twig has you delirious—desperate. When you look over to Hyunjin, that itch comes back again, and your heart aches. So, you kiss your mother goodbye and call him over.  

“Are you rea–” 

“Hyunjin promise me something.”  

He widens his eyes and nods. Taking his cold hands, you cup them over your face.  

“Promise me you’ll be there next week? To watch me?” 

The small tutu you have on flounces as you bounce around your poor mother, who sits on the floor and claps her hands. She sings a small tune—a game that you two have been playing since you were just starting to walk.  

The tinges of cracked and red lips, tinged with blue and purple don’t accompany her kiss to your cheek. Your hair in pigtails, flaps around you and you giggle when it softly slaps you. The roaring voice of your father telling you to shut up falls on deaf ears. Ten and thriving, his voice was nothing next to your mother’s sweet, honeyed ones which shush you gently. 

You nod and land on the floor next to her. The sun thrives in love and smiles at you two. “Eomma... will you be coming? You’ll be coming right?” You nuzzle your head into her neck, minding the red handprints around it and wrapping your arms around her. There’s a sinking feeling that has been treading in your chest and you don’t know why.  

All you want to do is hug your Eomma and shield her away. You want to protect her.  

Her smile filled with warmth doesn’t reach her eyes—instead, they flicker to the heavy crashing from the room next door. She gives a moment to her own photographs up on the walls, of her dancing brightly. She relishes in something that you cannot recognize so you stare curiously at her. Her fingers dance lightly on your skin, cup your face. 

“Of course I will, but you go ahead, okay? Go ahead with Yongbokkie and his parents, I’ve already told them–” 

“You’re not coming now with me? What if you miss my dance?”  

She laughs and hugs you tighter, “I have some work to take care of with your Appa, I’ll come on time to watch you dance, okay?” 

You huff but you cannot have it in yourself to be mad at your mom. You wonder what work; your parents must do but you suppose it’s too much for your small brain to handle. It must be important though—yes. But... 

“But I hate Minho he’s so weird he keeps showing me his dead rats' collection!” You whine, but you quickly shush yourself up in habit. Yet you still pout and cry silently. And she giggles—that's what you were hoping for. She’s been too sad recently, too caught up. You want to make your mother smile like she used to.

How she used to before she married your father and had you–like how she does in her old pictures. So beautiful and young. You want that.  

You're hoping that your dancing does that. When she sees you, she smiles and thinks of herself. You’re doing this for her–you hate ballet really. It’s too tiring. It hurts you. But she always grins when you come back home and you’re all sweaty.

And she cries when you show her the new moves that you’ve learned, even the ones that you hate, and oh she laughs when you mess up and she shows you how to really do it, her graceful stance so ethereal and blinding.  

That’s why you want her to come. To escape. 

So, when it all quiets down and she’s back in her own thoughts, where she’s massaging and wincing at the red on her body, you whisper to her. 

“Promise me you will come?” She stops. And she stares.  

“I promise.”  

The “scouting shows” are disguised underneath performances for everyone—like a talent show. For such cold weather, seats fill up fast from the lack of entertainment in this town. Everyone is here to distract themselves from something—anything. From boredom, from the snow, from the deaths, from the grief. Anything.  

And as they wait in anticipation, your breathing keeps getting stuck in your throat and for a few beats in a minute, the life of you slowly gets strangled out. Your fingers squeeze and unravel, and your feet squirm from where you sit on the floor.

The sounds of the world bleed in through the room that you’re in and you must wrack your fingers on the floor for a bit of comfort that you try to offer yourself. You grab your phone to call Yongbok, but you remember that he was busy today, when you asked him to come, he politely declined in a distressed voice.  

You sigh in disappointment.  

“(Y/n) few more minutes alright?” One of the stage crew comes in and grants you a charming smile that waters into pity at the way that you shake and nod. He closes the door behind him, and you’re left waiting either for your doom or for the future that you deserve.  

You know that you deserve it...right? Right? Why wouldn’t you deserve it— 

The wishes of making it to the big stage...the wishes that your mother had...the prays, the sacrifices. The saliva that dripped down your lips when you had grown too tired–all that waste of breath god, and the aches that followed you deep into the night where they haunted your sleep, and the blood that stains the floor that you’ve walked—it comes down to now.  

You suddenly have the urge to retch up your stomach.  

Pushing yourself up slowly, painfully, you clumsily fidget on your feet, wishing for the floor to eat you alive and spit you back into Hyunjin’s arms...Hyunjin he would be here today. He swore. He gave his pinky to you.  

At the thought of him, your teeth relax from the constant attack they give your lips. Wiping at them, you clamber out of the room and take in the environment around you. Past you runs a small little girl. You swallow thickly watching her prance. The itch returns deep in your belly.  

“Ready? You’re going to do great. I believe in you–you’ve improved so much. I wonder why.”  You don’t tell Mrs. Choi (who pops out of nowhere that you know the answer to her ponder, so you let her take your hands in hers. Her weathered ones feel nothing more than discomfort against yours, especially at the way that they knob and grip your fingers, but you have no choice but to sigh and flash her a grin. “Yes. I believe.”  

Frail and weak, she stumbles over the floorboards backstage, but it does not stop her in the pursuit of pushing you to the stage where the lights are dimmed, and the curtains are closed.

The voices behind the ruby-red cloth, make you question if Hyunjin’s down there waiting for you. And upon any of the distinct conservations that you’ve picked up on is him. Is he excited? You hope so. You’re performing for your mother. Him. And lastly for yourself.  

“You’ll make it big. You’ll leave me behind, I know it. I hope you do. Promise me.” 

You smile. Laugh even, when Mrs. Choi gives you a funny look, but she pats you down and trails her finger down the expanse of your back, straightening you out. It’s cold. It stings, as if her nail penetrates your skin and you imagine blood staining your flesh. You close your eyes and breathe.  

Your body moves before you even realize it. It’s in tune with the music that plays. The notes that flood the air, guide your hands here. And there. And your legs too—they bounce and twist and flounce and spin—

You cannot find Hyunjin.  

You easily find the scouts, they’re all maddening and intense. You see the group of teenagers watching in boredom, dragged along with their parents to watch their younger sibling’s recitals. You spot the old man at the corner shop, mouth quirking up and down. And you find...and you find...and you find...but you cannot uncover Hyunjin. His familiar long black hair is not there. Nor is a comforting smile. And his shining eyes. 

You miss a beat. Missed it by a few seconds too late.  

The crowd doesn’t notice but you’re sure that Mrs. Choi does. Her piercing stare is on you—but! you can’t find in yourself to care. The scouts take the point of it too, their cruel and cold eyes not accepting an ounce of mercy for a poor, poor girl who cannot find her lover—her Hyunjin! 

Oh. Oh.  

Hyunjin...had broken his promise. Like your mother... 

The house is dark when you trek back to it. The cold dries your tears, and it pricks your little cheeks as they puff and huff, hiccupping from the sadness that consumes your heart. Your mother was not there to watch you. You wish she was, and a bit of anger ignites within you—you did all of this for her! 

You did not like Yongbokkie’s mom’s smiles of sympathy or his father’s pats that say more than he wants or even your best friend’s warm hug. You just wanted your mommy. 

The door to your surprise is open. It creaks as you push against it lightly and you carefully tread in with your trophy in hand. Your father is nowhere to be seen. And neither is your mother.  

Your stomach drops at the silence. No yelling. At all–where was everyone? 

Closing the door behind you, you make your way to your parent’s shared room. Maybe they were tired enough to go to sleep early. You can forgive them if that’s why. You’ll just drag your mother to your room and have her hug you tight. You’ll just have her kiss you softly and let her sing you a song as she rocks you to sleep.  

You’ll just have her love you. 

But there’s no chance to do that. Because the bedroom door opened wide ajar, holding your mother’s hanging body from the ceiling.  

You stumble. You fall. You fall hard on the stage, and you gasp so loud that it blankets the other chokes that echo. Your promise... 

You scramble off from where you are and into the comfort of backstage where the curious and ugly eyes stop following you. You don’t stop running until you find a room to lock yourself in and when you do, you slam the door hard. 

Fuck what did you do?! 

Tangling your fingers in your hair, you tug yourself back into the wood behind you. You want to feel the blood of your mistakes everywhere, so you do it until stars fill your vision and you must land on the floor at the way that the room spins. You gag.  

“(Y/n) open this goddamn door right now!” The pummeling of a fist–Mrs. Choi’s fist is starting to become clearer–it’s fucking annoying. Her screams and shouts are squeezing your stomach, twisting until you can feel the bile burn through your tongue.

Added to the anger of a promise and the death of who you were supposed to be, you swing the door open and pull the old lady inside. Harsh. 

Yet it doesn’t waver her one bit as her palm contacts your cheek. Harsh.  

And then everything freezes and you’re staring at her with widened eyes and your lips parted in shock. You grip onto her arm tighter, and she shakes it off with disgust rolling in waves. 

“You bitch! What we're doing there out there, huh?! Are you stupid?” She jabs her pointer finger at your forehead, hard enough for you to take a step back. You scratch your arm enough that that it bleeds, collecting underneath your fingertips.  

At no response, she grows angrier, and she slaps you again and grips your wrist, her nails sinking into your skin. You quiver. It hurts. And you’re taken back to your Appa. At the way that he hurt you—ripping your flesh with his limbs and strong pelts. It’s too strong, his presence and you’re choking, you cannot breathe. You can feel his lashes at you, the screaming of disgust and revolt turned towards you after your mother got her fair beatings. 

Too much. You see him. He haunts you. You just want him to go away. Your vision blinks–you blank and you can feel something wet on you—it’s warm. Your tears.  

The grip on you loosens and you wrench your arm away to wipe away at the face—you refuse to show how much she(he) affects you. But as you pull your hand back, your hand is stained red. 

Red. You look down. Your pink leotard–so innocent, so pure. Is red.

Your other hand encloses against something, something you’ve just realized that you’ve been holding. As you pull it out, Mrs. Choi gasps—blubbers as her own hands shoot to her neck. The strong smell of metal invades your senses, staining the air along with the old woman’s smothering cries.

Using your body, you push her against the wall where she thuds. Terror flits in her eyes, but you press your palm against her mouth, squeezing it until she shuts up.  

You hold a black pen. And you use it again. In fluid motion.  

Relief floods.  

Floods as you watch her life being taken away from her, the way that she twitches and squirms, and the way that blood gurgles through her lips. You push harder. And harder. Until she stops. Until her chest stops moving and her feet stop thrashing. Until her arms stop pushing against you. Until you hear her last breath. The itching stops. Finally.  

You slowly lay her down and grab a yoga mat from the corner of the room and put her on it. Carefully, you roll her up in it, the blue mat reeking with red once you're done. As you drag the body-covered mat and stack it like it was never moved, you pass by a mirror.  

You don’t dare to look at it. But you know that you’re satisfied in a way. He’s gone. She’s gone. And you’re fucked. 

When you make your way outside, not bothering to clean up the bloody mess that you made, the snow showers you. The cold doesn’t sting like it usually does as your flats drag you through sluggishly. You’re tired and all you want to do is to go to take a hot shower and go to sleep. 

Hyunjin can wait later, you know that you’ll scold him for his disappearance but in the end, you’ll be in his arms, begging for his comfort. Maybe you’ll throw in a joke about how much he’d rubbed off on you.  

The ten-minute walk lets you ponder about what you should do now. What is to happen in your future, can you try again next time? Will the scouts give you another chance? Huffing, you rub your arms to trap some heat in you–you’re starting to regret not bringing in a jacket. It’s okay. You’re okay. Yes...everything is okay. 

In the distance as you near your house, someone is banging on the door, furiously. Their body slams against it and you can see them wail and cry. Their blonde hair shakes side to side angrily and you pause for a second to observe.  

Yongbok slides against the door. He looks red and blue—the cold catching up to him as he hyperventilates. You start to worry. 

“Yongbok! What happened? Are you okay?”  

You start jogging or rather try to (the snow escapes into your shoes, slowing down) as the blonde shoots up, looking for you through the haze of the blizzard. And when you’re finally close enough, his eased face turns into horror. 

“Jesus! What happened to you?!”  

His eyes travel down to your stomach where all the red resides and you shrug, shaking your head. “I’ll tell you when we get inside...it’s cold. Why are you here anyway?”  

Your friend instead of nodding dismisses your question as he starts to sob, startling you. “Did—did he get to you, fuck! (Y/n)! You’re hurt!” 

You stop. “Who—who got to me? And no, I’m not hurt I just—”  

Someone screams from the distance, the voice too familiar as your eyes widen and you see your friend stop breathing, his eyes squeezing as he falls back against your house. “Yongbok, you bastard! I’m gonna fucking kill you...” 

“Bok–” 

“We need to go inside now.” He cuts you, grabbing you by the arm as you try to get your keys...but— 

“Yongbok.” You rasp. “I forgot my keys.”  

“Fuck.” His face goes pale, and his body starts racking with heavy sobs. “I’m so sorry (Y/n), I tried to stop him—” He gasps when the snow crunches underneath leisurely paces.  A figure comes into view, stalking heavily as their eyes grow with anger, zeroing in on you and Yongbok. But his lips curve into a dangerous grin. Minho just laughs when Yongbok throws himself against your door, obviously trying to break it open. 

You don’t question him at all, and a sense of dread fills you. Grabbing a nearby pot from a dead plant, you slam it on your lock as hard as you can, and with a combined push from the blonde after a few tries, the door swings open.  

Minho drags himself against your wooden stairs.  

Yongbok grabbing you by your waist, pulls you in and shoves you inside, knocking the wind out of you as you hit the wall, and you gasp as he thrusts the door shut. But Minho is too fast—he shoots out his foot, blocking the entrance from closing and he grabs his brother by the throat, slamming him down to the ground. 

“What the hell Minho!” You scream, tugging at him to release Yongbok. But it’s in vain as the older man pushes you to the floor. He squeezes Yongbok’s neck tighter aided with unexplainable fury in his veins. He gasps for air. Like a fish.  

“He had it coming for him...I told him to—I told him to stay far away from you. And this bastard—” He grunts when his brother tries to kick at him. “And this bastard came back, idiot.” He laughs when Yongbok shakes his head, tears flowing freely as he fights for his life. 

And all you see is him again. Your father. And your mother. Scampering to the kitchen, you grab a large kitchen knife and stumble against the floor towards Minho. Yongbok’s strangled howl alerts Minho who grabs your wrists trying to stop you from stabbing him and in his distracted attempt, the blonde leans up and scratches at his brother, squirming away from his grasp.  

But it’s too late because Minho redirects the knife into him. Into Yongbok.  

You freeze in shock.

And Minho lets go giggling. He leans back. You stare at Yongbok’s arms going limp. And the way that the blood courses onto you... 

You killed him. You fucking killed him.  

You scuttle back like a cockroach. “I—I—” 

“It’s ok (Y/n)! It isn’t your fault, it’s his. He had it coming anyway. Told him that if he wanted to live, he had to stay faaar away from you. Didn’t listen, did he? He was always too close to you and told me that you were too good for me.” He shrugs. “I did what I had to do. You always belonged to me.”  

Your eyes shoot up to his in fright. “What—what do you mean I belong with you?”  

He doesn’t respond but instead, he tries to crawl towards you. But you don’t let him as you throw a fallen pillow at him. He stiffens.   

Your waterline wells with tears. “You’re a sick psycho! I don’t—I don’t...” You cry, choking on your own words, too confused and exhausted to continue them. He furrows his brows, and a rich laugh emits from the bottom of his chest. You just sob more, wiping your bloodied hands on the floor.  

“I’m the psycho? Okay sure I am but...you’re one to talk (Y/n), you killed someone too, didn’t you?” He gives you a pause, a grin growing when you shake your head. “Who was your latest victim anyways (Y/n)?”  

“Latest victim... what do you mean? I—I just—Mrs. Choi.” You whisper and the weight of your actions from before dawn upon you. Holy fuck. What did you do?  

“She was hurting me!” You shriek, grabbing your hair, and pulling on it in anger. You don’t notice Minho proximity as he coos at you and hugs you close to him. He’s cold. And he smells of death. “Aww, it’s okay. Shh, it’ll be alright.” He rubs your hair and adds, “We belong together (Y/n), you’re just like me...Yongbok never deserved you.”  

You shake your head and try to move away but he just hugs you tighter. It’s suffocating. “I don’t know wha—what you mean...?” You mutter. 

His cheeks light up with red and he presses a chaste kiss on your forehead. You recoil, sickened. “Do you think Yongbok would’ve accepted you as who you are? Would you trust him to not rat you out as the person that you are? He’s too much of a goody-two-shoes, he wouldn’t understand the both of us.” 

He then cups your face and forces you to look at him. He flicks your nose when you close your eyes and wail softly. “You know I was the one that cleaned up after you so you wouldn’t be caught? Are you proud of me? I am sooo proud of you. Don’t worry about Mrs. Choi or Yongbok, I’ll clean them up too and...and you can finally move in with me!” 

“What messes?” You weakly ask but you hold your breath at the way that Minho’s face flickers with confusion.

“The bodies. The ones you’ve killed.”  

Bodies? Killed? Who...You stop moving, your heart in your chest. You could feel it on your tongue from how hard it was beating—Jiwon. 

“I didn’t kill them. What—what are you talking about? I—that was Hyunjin!” 

Minho’s eyes narrow at the name of another man. “Who is Hyunjin?” 

“He killed them! Not me! Not me! I—he’s here! He lives here! I swear!” 

Minho pauses and stares into your eyes. “There's no one named Hyunjin” 

"No! There is! He lives by the house—by the house near the woods, you know near the Church and there's that big tree hanging over it, it—"

"What big tree—(Y/n) do you remember they knocked down all of the houses near the woods? Who the fuck is Hyunjin?"

And your whole world shatters.  

A swamp of memories throws you into a whirlpool, memories that crash in front of you. All the blood, the screaming, all the tears. All the red that you’ve been seeing–the itches and their soothing, have all been you. 

You’re not sure what happens next, except for Minho’s excited rambling of how you can trust him! Of how he’s the perfect one for you because he knows what you feel, what you are. He holds your hands and whispers sweet nothings to you. He talks about the itch and how it only goes away after he kills someone. And you just sit there, eyes glazed with the scrambling past trying to catch up with it. 

Minho explains that Yongbok had left in fear for his life after he threatened him because Yongbok was too close to you but had come back for you after he heard about the slaughtering of women in the town over—he knew that it was his brother committing all the murder.  

And he talks on and on about how much he loves you, an obsession that came out of nowhere, and how hard it was to repress his feelings towards you. And just how fucking happy he is right now and that you could get married and you’re just going to feel so fucking loved. And loved. And loved.  

Minho is so obsessed with you while you’re so obsessed with the idea of Hyunjin who doesn’t even— 

Before you even know it, you reach over to Yongbok and grab the knife. And you skewer the man against you with it. You tune out his sudden gasp of surprise and do it again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. 

He tries to fight but the rage in you knocks him on his back and by the hilt, shove it into his chest by pressing your palm against the black handle. You don’t stop until you hear it crack–hear his body crack. 

There are two dead bodies in your living room. And much more in fields around you from where you’ve buried them. The young girls and women stripped away from a life—because of you.  

And not because of Hyunjin. Hyunjin is you.  

You get up and grab a cigarette, lighting it up. In the mirror, you see your window. And in the park through that window, you two little kids. A girl and a boy. One of them cries and the other comforts. You know what he is saying to the little, sad girl. And he offers her something.

A tiny pocketknife. And you can see it clearly—the way that the girl with newfound confidence treks down. And you see her enter the house, and watch her father, sleep soundly against the couch—yes you can see him now.  

The way he snores innocently as if he didn’t kill her mother. You watch curiously as she peers over at him, and pulls out the small object that the sweet, sweet boy gave her. She looks at the playground one more time and stares at it before she swiftly lets the blade slide against her father’s throat. Her Appa’s throat. 

Your Appa’s throat.  

Yes...the itch is gone. 

In the corner of your eye as you release smoke you see a figure smoothly tread towards where you stand. His light fingers and face–painted by the gods trail over you and your ruined leotard, tights, and ballet slippers. The pads of his fingers stop where blood is splattered on your face, and he wipes it away before pulling you into a kiss.  

Hyunjin is sweet. And when he parts you give him a big, watery smile.

“Why weren’t you here today? You broke your promise.” 

He gives you an apologetic frown and embraces you close, rocking you back and forth. “I’m sorry. I know you were great.” 

“No... I messed up. I... I think I made my mom sad. I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be.” He softly chuckles, “What? Famous right? She wanted you to be famous?” You nod and kick at his feet, like a dejected puppy. “Mmm, wanted the whole wide world to know me.”  

Hyunjin nods and sighs. “You know you still can make her happy. I know how to.” 

You perk up, “Really?” 

“Yeah.” He reaches for the landline and hands it to you. “Call the police and tell them what you did. What you've been doing. And then...” He grabs your hand and clasps it close to himself. “Join your Eomma and your friend, Yongbok.” 

‘Let the people know who you are past your small town, let them seek praise from your grace and beauty of how you dominate the stage. Have them inspired by who you are, the determination that you sweat and the drool that you seep through your bitten lips, hungry, ravenous to dance.’  

You get what he means. If you can’t be known through your dance, then you can through other ways. It’s okay. You were never really a dancer. You hated to dance. It never got the itch away. The blood did. And you just didn’t notice.  

Grabbing the phone from him, you let out a shaky breath and did what he had told you to. You tell the operator your address and what you did, “I killed them. All them.”, and hang up the phone, throwing it away. It lands in Minho’s blood. 

Then you walk to your room and look at the ballerina box one more time.  

You notice that you left it open yesterday, exposing the inner flesh of the plastic box–exposing the small disfigured, grotesque ballerina that stands in a gnarly stance that you’ve never performed in your life.  

It was a stupid gift from your late mother that was given to her by her grandmother. Your mother was an aspiring dancer just like you when she was younger. Yet she was hung from the rope of hopes and dreams, forced onto a noose by your extremely dunderhead of a father, who went missing, leaving you behind. That’s all you know of her. And of him. A died dream. 

When you come back to the living room, Hyunjin is gone. He doesn’t exist. You can hear the police sirens in the background, and you sigh, taking one last hit from the smoke. You wretch the knife away from Minho and direct your attention to Yongbok. Lifeless on the floor. 

Oh, your poor Bokkie... 

He was just looking out for you. And you decide that if you were going to die, then you would do it with his arms around you. Like he would when you would when you had a nightmare. His broad chest up against your back and his kind and gentle words that he would whisper into your ears when you would cry.  

Laying down next to him, you stare at the ceiling. The knife dances along your throat and you press down gently enough for it to sting.  

All you wanted to do is take a nap anyways. 

So, you do.  

[seekrzz]

im in love with the concept

awww thank you! you're so sweet

[seekrzz]

the links on your pinned post arent working 😭😭

OH SHAT!! ermm i js fixed them! thank you for telling me 😋

[seekrzz]

erm erm some ik this is like really really basic but i love playing the moonlight sonata and i’m currently trying to learn how to play only by leehi for my upcoming recital!! and i js listened to the song and i can see why you like it so much oml it’s so heavenly

OMG IT’S NOT LETTING ME ADD KMAGES BUT MY STORAGE IS GONE KILL ME

DO YOU WANNA BE FRIENDS😭 I don't have friends here that are close to my age💔💔

AWWW YESS I WOULD LOVE TO BE FRIENDS! AND I DON'T EITHER HAHA. i'm kanu what should i call you??

[seekrzz]

wait omg so what's like ur favorite song to play on the guitar!! and like that's so cool that you can sing i look sound like a dying rat when i do LMAO...but also like what's ur favorite song to sing too

DO YOU WANNA BE FRIENDS😭 I don't have friends here that are close to my age💔💔

AWWW YESS I WOULD LOVE TO BE FRIENDS! AND I DON'T EITHER HAHA. i'm kanu what should i call you??

[seekrzz]

i love music!! considering that i've been playing the piano for 6 years...wbu 😋

DO YOU WANNA BE FRIENDS😭 I don't have friends here that are close to my age💔💔

AWWW YESS I WOULD LOVE TO BE FRIENDS! AND I DON'T EITHER HAHA. i'm kanu what should i call you??

[seekrzz]

aww that's such a pretty name

DO YOU WANNA BE FRIENDS😭 I don't have friends here that are close to my age💔💔

AWWW YESS I WOULD LOVE TO BE FRIENDS! AND I DON'T EITHER HAHA. i'm kanu what should i call you??

[seekrzz]

DO YOU WANNA BE FRIENDS😭 I don't have friends here that are close to my age💔💔

AWWW YESS I WOULD LOVE TO BE FRIENDS! AND I DON'T EITHER HAHA. i'm kanu what should i call you??

[seekrzz]

um hello following you rn because we're lit the same person like im indian too <3

wait yess we lit are omg! i'm freaking obsessed with true crime too ahjsjsshhss (i watch rotten mango a little too much for it to be good for my mental health oops!) and it's soo refreshing to see another indian writer on this app 😋😋

[seekrzz]

<Jung's Shadow Theory>

image: jung'shadowtheory.png"

"Data Synopsis" <One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. The latter procedure, however, is disagreeable and therefore not popular. – Carl Jung>

<or>

<You were born to be seen. Hwang Hyunjin was born to be your shadow. And you're surrounded by the wreaths of broken promises and an ever-growing itch >

"User Interactions" <Painter! Hwang Hyunjin x Ballerina! Fem! Reader>

"Data Classification" <Dark Horror/Romanticism, Thriller, Strangers to ???, Fast-burn>

"System Alerts" <Bad Grammar, Graphic Violence & Murder, Language, Psychosis, Domestic Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Major Character Death, Obsessive Behaviors>

"File Size" <17.3k>

"Tracklist" <I Want You - Mitski // Forward Beckon Rebound - Adrianna Lenker // Swan Lake, Op. 20, TH 12 – Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky>

"Creator Notes" <If you saw this earlier no you didn't>

Midnight flurries have seemed to finally strike your town. They pound on your walls and shake the wooden doors. It whistles and it sings a soft cradle song while it lays a thick, white blanket over the numerous houses and cars.  

It’s enchanting—you’ve come to realize as your forehead presses against the cool window. And you close your eyes, allowing the bitter cold of the misty glass, to pierce your hot flesh a little awkwardly. Underneath you, your left ankle twitches nervously and you wince. There’s a baby pink lace that suffocates the poor limb. It cries for help once more.   

So, you sigh and carefully slide your leg out in front of you. Your foot—covered in white and the same shade of pink moves back and forth. Side to side. Writhing erratically as if it was slowly running out of air before you decide to reach forward and have the pads of your fingers untie the knot. It’s slow and tedious and you’re careful with your nails digging into your rather expensive tights that you couldn’t afford to rip.  

You repeat the process with your right leg as tender as possible only to cast both pointe shoes away from you. When they thud against your wooden floor just dangerously near the burning fireplace, you watch one of them bounce away towards your dozing feline. It catches on her ugly, patchy fur yet she doesn’t shake awake. 

You furrow your brows, the creases of your skin prominent against the moonlight.  

And then the clock chimes 11:11. And then your hands interlock into a prayer. And then your eyes find the little music box by right by the giant watch. And then you notice that you left it open from yesterday, exposing the inner flesh of the plastic box—exposing the small disfigured, grotesque ballerina that stands in a gnarly stance that you’ve never performed in your life.  

It was a stupid gift from your late mother that was given to her by her grandmother. Your mother was an aspiring dancer just like you when she was younger. Yet she was hung from the rope of hopes and dreams, forced onto a noose by your extremely dunderhead of a father That’s all you know of her. And of him. A died dream. 

And that’s all you bother to know, nothing more. 

Because the thought of your mother is slightly depressing and it’s interrupting your prayer to the stupid ballerina in the box. The blood that seeps from the indents of your nails is going to waste. So, you divert yourself back to your gasping lungs and the whispers that leave your mouth rapidly. Whispers of a craving... 

A craving to be seen by the world.  

That’s what you wish for. Let the people know who you are past your small town, let them seek praise from your grace and beauty of how you dominate the stage. Have them inspired by who you are, the determination that you sweat, and the drool that you seep through your bitten lips, hungry, ravenous to dance.  

It takes you exactly another twenty seconds to finish up your chanting before the clock hits 11:12, your eyes pulsing close a few times for good luck. After that, you push yourself up from the ground, limp due to the striking pain that shoots up your sore corpse, slowly twist the knob to play a little creaky off-tune melody from the music box before shutting it close and softly kicking the cat with your big toe.  

You then gather your precious pointe shoes, wish the burning fire goodnight, and head to bed with blisters coating the soles of your feet. 

There’s a strange scene. Out by the small community council. Just before the woods that cover a vast area. Your usually quaint village that housed a few quaint villagers including yourself and the bones of others, had scattered footprints in the snow. Which was accompanied by the ruffling of two bodies.  

There was a quarrel going on. A physical quarrel between two adult men that you recognize to be the two sons of the owners of the one and only pharmacy shop in your town that get their shipments a little too late when needed. The two sons of the Lees; Minho and Yongbok. The snow was now tainted in their messy tracks and it’s a bit annoying. Yet you don’t do anything but watch with wide eyes.  

Until your mind registers Yongbok, your friend that you haven’t seen in almost a year due to his teaching position down in the south! You part your lips slightly in recognition.  

And that prompts you to take a step—no two steps forward to observe the scene a little closer, the fingers in your pockets that were protected from the gnawing cold, flexing rapidly as you try to adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder without moving too much so you wouldn’t catch their eyes.  

Yet that becomes a fruitless attempt as several Sunday Massgoers take no time to break up the fight. It takes three of them to pull Minho apart and another two to tug Yongbok away, hitting his head hard into the ground. They scold the two young boys, one of the wives of the goers slapping Minho softly and thumping his brother on the head. Then to your absolute dismay, Yongbok’s uncanny ability to be able to seize you in a crowd of people starts to work because you lock eyes with him. 

He stiffens—gasps and rolls over to onto his feet, stepping on his brother’s pinky either on purpose or not. You stiffen and smile lumberingly. Minho stiffens—groans and then when he finds out who Yongbok is looking at, he waves at you with his unbroken hand.   

“(Y/n)! Hi! Hello!” Yongbok laughs. That’s when you realize that his usually black hair was dyed a bright blonde. You wonder why but you can’t deny that it suits his softened features extremely well. When he finally catches up to you, stumbling a bit in the snow, he pants and lays his tiny hand on your shoulder. You squeak. 

“How long... how long were standing there watching us?” He blinks like a doll, waiting for your response.  

“Mmm, yeah, I dunno. You dyed your hair though?”  

The blonde visibly brightens at the very obvious observation and squeezes you harder. “Yeah! Thought it would be a nice change.” He tilts his head, “Do you like it?” You nod but right behind Yongbok, his brother stumbles up to you two with a grim face. You almost have the instinct of pushing the blonde away, afraid that another fight would break out between them two but Minho’s silly trip over a stray twig makes you giggle.  

“Why were you two fighting anyway?” 

Minho who was close enough to listen, beats Yongbok in answering your query. “Because this moron came back after not telling anyone that he would fucking run away.” You look back at Yongbok who swallows nervously and shamefully lowers his head.  “Do you know how worried sick Eomma and Appa were?” He harshly spits.  

“Right. Sorry.” Yongbok whispers but you’re confused.  

He’d told you that he had found an amazing opportunity to showcase his love for children just a week before he’d left. He had solemnly broken the news to you with a small kiss on your forehead while feeding you his infamous brownies and with a sad smile.  

But as you watch Minho pull out a cigar and a lighter from his pocket and see Yongbok scrunch up his nose and cough with dimmer eyes, you get the answer to your doubt.  

“Would you like a smoke?”  

Minho attentive as ever offers you the brown roll in his hand. And you’re about to say “No thank you” as politely as possible because you quit the bad habit a year ago, but Yongbok’s hands find yours and he plucks them away.  

“You know she’d stop smoking, why would you ask her if she wanted to do it again?”  

You smile at the exasperation in your friend’s voice. That’s what you like about him. He always knows the best for you and always holds the flashlight when you are lost in the dark. Minho rolls his eyes and looks at you to confirm. You do. Very clearly. 

“Kay. I’ll see you later then and have Eomma cook up something special I suppose.” He runs his eyes over Yongbok’s figure and very gently places the butt of the cigar against his brother’s pale skin—not enough to hurt of course. He then trudges away, leaving you and Yongbok to stare at his diminishing figure.  

“He’s very mean.” 

You snort at the childish comment and let go of his hand to wipe away a spare snowflake on your reddening cheeks. “Is that why you didn’t tell them and told me instead? Am I not mean?” 

His lips twist into a pout almost as if he was debating on answering your questions. His brown eyes sink deep into yours and he sighs and bites his cheek. He’s holding back a flustered, extremely dainty smile. 

“No, you very much are” His fingers then crawl up to your backpack strap which you’ve forgotten you had on.   

“Are you going to practice today? I’m sure you took rest days on Sundays and Wednesdays? I thought we would be able to get a cup of coffee and perhaps hang out at your place?” 

The offer is tempting. It salivates your tongue at the thought of cozying up next to the warm body of another person. Yet... 

“Mhm, I wish. Er—it’s scouting season, and you know...I need that scholarship.” 

Yongbok deflates slightly at your words but the hesitance that lingers at the timbre of your voice bounces him right back up again. He huffs his chest. “Maybe you can—” 

“Yes. I’ll cut practice an hour early today for you. Make up some stupid excuse again I guess.” 

Yongbok the ever lively one radiates a sun-like twinkle on his lips. They look magnific carved onto his washed-out skin. “Great! That’s amazing—god I truly love you.” He places a chaste kiss on your temple where it penetrates through your thick skull and into your throbbing brain.  

You grip his thick jacket.  

“Meet me by my house uhh by one?” 

“Perfect because that’s when your favorite extra extra sweet brownies will be done by if I start baking them in another thirty or so.” That fills you with warmth. 

“Mmm, that sounds delicious thank you so much.” Your tiny flip phone buzzes against you and you grimace. “I’ve gotta go, I promise I’ll express my gratitude later, alright?”  

“Mmkayy.” 

When you finally make it to the auditorium there’s a sense of impending doom in your entrails–it knots your guts.  

The snow falls faster and harder now. The harsh wind pounds on doors moaning to be let inside, in a pitiful plea. There’s a spasm in your stomach. You get changed into your attire and when you look at the pointe shoes, you’re reminded of your mangy kitten.

You wish that she would watch you from the audience– is what you think as you step on the mark in the middle of the stage. There’s a glimpse of her tiny figure in the corner of your eye that frightens you a little.  

Yet as soon as the music flows from the speakers that surround you, everything around you is gone. All five senses. You’re just left with yourself and the fluidity of your limbs as they move elegantly, practiced movements easily perfected to finish.

The blood of your tongue seeping onto your teeth as you bite harder and harder and harder in pure, utter determination. And. And. And. 

Seconds feel like hours when you spin relentlessly. And a single minute is short. Short enough that when you stand still, you can’t even chase your own breath, keep it caged in your gasping lungs that feed off of it.  

So, when you finally take a bow, there’s a creak in your knees.  You’re sure that there’s yellow mucus flowing from a sore on your foot. Your teacher is rubbing at her glasses. And there’s a glob of sweat that dives down your aching back from the harsh lighting of the stage lights. 

When you straighten back up, Mrs. Choi offers a thin-lipped smile.  

“I am afraid that was spectacular. Jaw-dropping, in other words.” Her praises make your heart sing. Your eyes blur back into focus at her lonely stature by the blood-red seats.  

“Thank you. Was this time better around?—I know that I messed up the middle a bit.”  

The wrinkles around her old mouth scrunch up. They make your nose furrow. “It certainly was. And even so, now thinking about it, I didn’t even notice the small fumble.”  

She leans forward, her beaded eyes hiding under those heavy flaps of skin, piercing you sharply. 

“Yet...I just...I have a feeling that the scouts will have a hard time choosing you over the other talented ballerinas just like you.”  

You freeze. Again? Why?  

Almost as if the confusion you were radiating was burning her alive, she heaves a big, loud breath. And you’re jealous.  

“You’re just missing something. I would say passion—yet...I believe so that you’re not made for the stage. And I—I don’t mean my words to be harsh–no not at all, but as talented as you are, you lack the emotion.” 

You’re starting to tremble. You’ve heard those words before. From past teachers. From past judges. From the last scouts. And you swear you’ve practiced! There’s a great dip in your lips now–a merely exaggerated form of a frown and you look foolish, you’re sure. 

“It really is pitiful. It is. But there’s still a chance. You will never know.”  

You want to cry. Sob even. Horrendously. But you still bop your head along and as she beckons you closer to the end of the stage, you obey without any hesitance.  

You heave deeply when she takes a step closer and softly tucks in your chin with her fingers, having them trace up your cheeks. You bristle underneath her touch and for some odd reason you have the urge to bite at her fingers hard. Your teeth ache in sensitivity at it. 

“You’ll be the first to perform—the first name on the roster that the scouts will receive...You’ll have a better chance to make an impact—to show them what you really got.”  

She turns away and walks off (her time here is done with you; she has a family to get back to soon) her echoing footsteps thumping in your head. You lift your weight off a foot that throbs erratically, watching her go pitifully. 

“I left some of my husband’s apple pie if you’d like some. It’s in my office. Don’t practice for too long, stay safe and lock up after you’re done.”  

You don’t say anything. She doesn’t need you to. Because the loud bang of the door behind her says enough. And then when you pick up a prop that was carefully crafted by the high school drama team and throw it against the floor.  

That’s another word, another sentence, another scream from you. Your throat is hoarse and now you’re forced to stare at the smushed prop on the floor before you reluctantly pick it back up and place it against the wall, just where it was found.  

There’s a small sigh that wisps out of your mouth. And then one more, before the tears that you’ve been holding at bay have been swallowed up painfully. No more twitching in your cheeks—you notice as you raise your eyebrows a few times and clear your throat twice. 

And your fingers turn to the sound system, letting your nails push on the knob just a bit louder than it is supposed to be. It rings your ears yet you’re hoping that the music notes embed themselves into your skin and you become one with the stunning melody. Feel whatever it feels.  

Have the flats shape your smile. Have the sharps carve your eyes and your cheeks.  

That’s the last thought that crosses your mind before the tune starts to envelop you again, and there’s blood rushing, flourishing through your ears. You smile, and then you laugh. You pretend to sob as your feet carry the footsteps of an anguished woman. Your eyebrows twist, and they cramp horribly. Achingly.  

Your lips dig into your skin. Achingly. The pink straps are throttling. Achingly. The bones in your hands melt as they burn. Achingly. You can smell the vile scent of blazing skin. Raw skin. Red.  

Blisters everywhere.  

They pop and you can hear them pop as you spin. They trail against your face—you think because it’s wet on your cheeks, and it stings there. Your eyes too you conclude. They’re stinging. 

And then you ache before you end. Ache before a deafening, single clap shakes you in your place.  

You internally shriek. Loud, because your whole body seizes and shudders violently. Then you spot the young man standing up in the seats, wide-eyed with his cheeks ample and full. He claps a count of five times this time before he realizes that you are in complete, utter shock and can’t open your mouth at all.  

“Hello. Er—excuse me. There’s a huge snowstorm outside and I’ve come inside for shelter—brr—yes, uhm sorry for...for intruding.” He trips with the way that his teeth clack and how his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His muscles tense up when you move a little away and don’t say anything. Though you fumble back partially because the young man is quite gorgeous–heavenly even that you have to stumble back in shame at what he must’ve witnessed of you. A mess.  

Yet he seems to think the quite opposite. And he expresses it very clearly in the way that his voice pitches and his brows shoot up while his lips tremble when he speaks. His eyes glaze over you and you have to tuck yourself back into your skin.  

“You were...that was amazing. I’ve never seen anything as...” He trails off at the end and tucks a stray piece of black hair behind his ear, smiling nervously. “Seen anything as gorgeous or graceful...er...haha excuse me, you—you’ve made me speechless.” 

Your cheeks warm at the compliments the strange man throws at you and your fingers dig into the skin of your arm, itchy, as you hold back a deep flush that threatens to rise when he takes a few steps closer.  

God, he’s breathtaking. You’ve worked that out immediately as his face glows underneath the warm lights of the stage that shine out into the ghostly audience.  

“Thank you.” 

He crinkles his eyes, and you find it rather cute. His pink lips pucker in and out and you notice that his thoughts are occupied. His eyes flicker between the curtains.  

And then they lock onto you once more. It’s sharp—more intense yet he carries an air of uncertainty that you feel the need to clear. So, you clear your throat and push your arms into your chest more, eyes darting up to look at the ceiling. You feel naked under his eyes.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before. Are you new?” 

His lips curl and he tilts his head to the side. The grey puffer jacket that he sports puffs out more as he sighs. “Not exactly. I’ve always been here...I just don’t like going out much.” 

You crack a smile at his confession. You’ve always felt the same too. The world only sees you due to ballet and Yongbok.  

“Me too. If I wasn’t doing this, then I don’t think I would’ve ever left my doorstep. My cat would’ve just kept me company.” You shrug. A waft of air seeps in and you shiver, breathing in deeply through your little shake when the beautiful stranger chuckles and shakes his head.  

You’re entranced by him.  

“What’s your name?” He rasps out, closer to the stage now. You usually don’t give your name out to random people, but his eyes glint and you can’t help but cave in immediately–your answer already souring on your tongue.  

“(Y/n).”  

“Mmm, that’s a pretty name. It suits you.” His eyebrows cock up when you try to stifle an embarrassed giggle. “I’m Hyunjin, nice to meet you (Y/n).” 

“Nice to meet you too.” You pause before taking a breath. “I hope to see you around...er more often.”  

He shoots you a smug smirk, twisting his lips to the side. You darken with a ruby even more. 

“I believe you will—you’ve convinced me to do so.” He then looks outside and you both notice that the snowfall has lessened, and the wind doesn’t howl in agony anymore. It instead whistles a tiny tune. Achingly.  

And then your heart thunders when you look back at the beautiful man—Hyunjin. Because he is already looking at you.  

You’re starting to have nightmares again. The last time they were incorporated into your routine, was last season. Yet this time they’re more vivid and real.  

They consist of pure, unadulterated, and grotesque thoughts of death and terror. When you awake from the horrifying ending, your mouth is filled with blood from your tongue and cheeks carry the trails of its sorrows.  

Today when you wake up again, you don’t immediately pull back the covers and try to lull yourself back to sleep. Instead, your fingers dance around your nightstand to get a hold of a small, brown dainty notebook that Yongbok had bought you the other day when you had confessed your sleepless lights. 

He said to you as he bagged the notebook by the self-checkout, “Write down your dreams and thoughts in this. I heard it helps! And then when you fill every single page up, we can burn it.” 

Though his words did not make any sort of sense, you’ve always blindly followed him when it came to the good of your heart. So, you go ahead and turn on the light and grab a black pen.  

Flipping the book open, you notice that your last entry was cut short–possibly from the lack of words that could explain what you experienced, the lack of expressions that could communicate the thoughts that were running through your head. 

You let the ink scribble down the half-empty page, before starting your entry on the next one. You write the date and time on the top. And then you start to think.  

i was standing in a house that was dark. there was maybe a light or two i think but still it was very very dark. i think that there was something watching me i am not sure. there is a loud noise. like a cat screaming or some sort of animal. so, i turn around yet i am met with a mirror. i was feeling weird almost scared and i could feel my heart in my throat. i don’t really know how to explain it. i think i was going to throw up. but the mirror starts to crack even more and i can’t back away as much as i want to. my feet were stuck to the floor. then very familiar music starts to play. it’s was very shrill and loud. but the mirror in front of me starts to double and more and more pieces start to surround me. then when i look a little closer in the reflection, i don’t see me. i see my mom and a boy. they are like shadows though because i can barely even make them out. but there’s blood now, seeping from the glass. it was cutting into my skin. and then i wake up. i think it was from the pain. 

You stop and squint your eyes.  

There’s more that you feel than what you can write on the page. The despair and hopelessness swirl into your chest yet your pen quivers in your touch as you try to make it out. And then when you realize that you’ve blanked out totally—nothing else to write, you close the book and lay it back down beside you.  

When you look around the room and swing your feet up and down, you brush against something soft—your cat so you stop and sigh once more before an ache in your head begins to make itself present.  

Your migraines were starting to become more intense—more than usual. You suppose it is from the stress on your shoulders. You’re starting to wince and turn and thud your head against the pillow when it becomes too much. It hurts. So bad.  

Getting up from your bed, you squeeze your temples with the tips of your fingers trying to alleviate the pain, but it doesn’t do much. You need aspirin, which is currently located on your countertop from earlier. You don’t turn on the lights as you grab your robe, opting to stumble through the dark rather than worsen your headache even more.  

Which you regret almost immediately.  

Because there’s goosebumps down your back—you’re shaking to the bone. The dark room is starting to produce colorful shapes that float and disappear through the air in front of you.  

And there’s someone here. You think—possibly! You live alone. God. What.  

There’s an old superstition that your grandmother had whispered to you before when you were perhaps five or six. It used to haunt you at night and because of her you’ve covered all your mirrors and placed two stuffed animals on your chairs at night. Because if you don’t, you’re inviting someone or something to sit on your chair to watch you at night. Because if you don’t, you're letting someone or something peer at you through the reflection of the mirror.  

There’s a black chair in front of you. There are tiny rips in the seat, where you can see a splash of yellow cracking. The chair itself is metal—so it's cold. But when you accidentally tripped over the legs just a few seconds earlier and your hands found the seat—it felt warm. Warm to the touch. As if someone was sitting there earlier. Too warm. 

You stand there still. And the chair is not the only reason why. Your bathroom door is open to where you can peer inside. You see the sink, the toilet, and the bathtub. You see yourself, through the mirror though because the moon shines from the crack of your blinds. You see it just in the corner of your eyes.  

You see the mass of darkness behind you. It moves eerily. It comes closer and then back away for a second. And then comes closer again.  

You close your eyes shut.  

“S—stop it. Please. Get out of my house.” You whimper, swallowing deeply. It doesn’t move. You can feel it behind you. So, you try again.  

“Get out.” There’s a faint scent of blood and you’re thrown onto the floor. because your trembling knees buckle into themselves. Yes. Fuck. No. Get. Out.  

You start to scream banging your head on the floor. Your head is splitting open. You can see the brain—it’s mushy in your hands. There’s an itch. It’s familiar, but you can’t figure out what.  

“Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out of my head! My house!” 

“Out!” You let out a guttural scream.  

“(Y/n) wake up!” 

Your eyes shoot open, shaking tremendously, gasping for air.  

“It’s Bokkie baby. Come on calm down, I got you.” There are soft hands that pull you into a warm hug. It takes you a second to realize that you were just dreaming before you hesitantly wrap your hands around the cozy body, sinking into him, with your eyes shut closed.  

A shudder runs through your body.  

You silently sob, your palms messily thrashing over his bare back. His nails sink into your hair and they calmly thread through your scalp as he whispers sweet, honeyed words into your ears. And when you pull back from him, his hand softly wipes away the ugly mess on your face.  

Yongbok’s smile is pitying when he kisses you against your head and you wetly laugh into his shoulder. 

“Holy fuck...that was...that was something else. I—hmmm yeah.” You mumble, taking deep breaths. His chest moves in sync with yours and you focus on the way that it rises and falls. 

“Sorry for waking you up Lix. Was I screaming or something?”  

He gently shrugs before he moves, he around you to stretch his arms, “Sort of I suppose...and uhm anyways it’s morning! So, you didn’t really wake me up, I was going to in 30 minutes or so...”  

“I’m glad then.” You simply say, leaning over to peek through the blinds. It was indeed daytime. 

The last remnants of your...double nightmare (?) still lingers but as always it fades away in slow waves. Excluding for the distinction of the way that your emotions aroused at that moment–that was always the worst you suppose.

There’s a scar of your shivers and your piggy-like squeals that thrive in you, and once Yongbok leaves the room to give you the privacy that was needed, you through a small white towel over the expanse of your mirror and stack two—no three stuffed animals on your chair just for safe measure. The smell of breakfast wafts heavily into the room and you’re forced to swallow copious amounts of bile back into your throat.  

Yongbok is coerced to split ways with you. He is whisked away by his stubborn father by his very very red ear, his mother shaking her head in disappointment, yet a small smile dancing on her dainty lips. You could see where Yongbok got his beautiful looks from, they have the same twinkle in their eyes at the root of happiness and the smallest quirks in their hands, twitching—almost as if their knuckles throbbed endlessly.  

Minho is there too. And his pupils flicker between you and the scene. When they catch your looks, he tilts his head and almost as if it was possible to do so, he slowly yet firmly pushes against the gate of your eyes. You have to snap your head away, almost immediately, and a small scoff rumbles from his chest. It’s playful though–a little bite at your cowardice.  

“Right (Y/n), you’ll have him returned to you once he spends his time with us. His family.” His mother jokes, yet there’s a snobby implication under her breath. Yet you can’t help but laugh and nod, turning away when Yongbok sends you an apologetic smile. You walk away, finally looking back up when their voices drift away.  

The snow crunches underneath your feet, it’s a few inches thick and you feel as though you would like to be buried underneath the white blanket one day. It would be nice you suppose. But then questions arise. When would that be? How would that be? Would you be alone? Is it rotting? Your cat?  

Your fingers brush by the snow and as if you were a magnet, a newspaper comes tumbling your way, from the harsh wind that nips at your exposed skin, almost as if it was trying to fester a wound. The paper is crumpled—torn at some edges like someone tried to nibble on it and it lands by your ankles. You stare at it, waiting for the breeze to carry it somewhere new, yet it just sits there. By you. Almost solemnly, waiting for you to give it your love—your attention.  

So, you do.  

It’s today’s edition. Big, black words bolded on the top catch your eye—as they should because they are quite literally the news headlines. They read—to your shocking horror ‘Murder in town—young girl found dead!’ 

Averting your eyes down to the page, they scramble at the photograph of the girl. Twenty at best, she smiles in what looks like a picture for the high school yearbook. Her long black hair drowns her shoulders in such a beauty and her cheeks are slightly darker from the natural flush that she holds. Her nose, a little large yet suiting her softened features in almost an eerily stunning way, is dipped down. Her body carries a cardigan and her posture is upright–perfectly so. 

You know of this girl–it’s hard not to in this small town. Kim Jiwon. She had an older sister and a young father. Your lip's part in revulsion and it takes you a beat or two for you to move down to the smaller text, throat closing in on itself. 

18-year-old beloved was found dead in the woods early morning Tuesday in what the police are identifying as a homicide. Found by a passing jogger, authorities were called to the scene at 7:30 AM after a distressing call was made moments later.  

The victim identified as Kim Jiwon, was discovered near a tree with multiple stab wounds that scatter her body, along with signs of blunt-head trauma. Investigators noted signs of struggle but have not confirmed whether the attack was targeted or random.  

“This was a violent crime, and we are actively pursuing leads,” said Detective Kang Hyunwoo of the Eogwi  Police Department. “We urge anyone who saw suspicious activity between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. to come forward.”  

Neighbors described Kim as quiet and friendly, often seen walking her dog in the evenings. “It’s terrifying,” said her friend, who lives in the apartment next door. “She was just here yesterday. I can’t believe this happened so close to home.”  

Authorities have not yet named a suspect but are reviewing records and files of past criminals who are recorded to committed past violent crimes. The Eogwi County Medical Examiner’s Office will conduct an autopsy to determine the exact time of death. 

The first thought that comes to mind is poor girl. Young and beautiful–one that had such a long winding path ahead of her.

Second, is to look around. There’s an itch. Whipping your head back and forth, you are relieved to find a few stragglers in sight. They too are confined to morning shock and fear, so they don’t do much but mutter lowly.

A dreadful shiver runs up your back when you accidentally catch Jiwon’s face in the newspaper clipping and as if the paper was suddenly a million degrees, you drop it back into the snow, chest heaving up and down.  

You feel as if you’ve run a marathon, heart in your throat, pulsing on your quivering tongue. Kim Jiwon is a girl you’ve known—or rather you’re forced to know because of her famous sister. Her older sister is a dancer. Her sister used to remain indifferent to you when you partnered up with her in school.

Her sister who could move so fluidly, that if you went ahead and clasped her by the arm she would’ve just slipped right out. Her sister who is a loved, golden girl.  

You flinch. Because in all regards you hate her sister. Kim Seoyeon. But you cannot help but feel immense pity for her. You start to pray. 

And as you do, a familiar voice joins in, the ghost of their fingers just hovering over your shoulders, stopping you in your words, the last sentence of your chant stuck in your throat as the unknown finishes it for you, chuckling in your ear when you don’t take the initiative to turn around. Just frozen.  

“Hullo, what are we praying for?” 

Ah. Hyunjin. Boy from the theatre. It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him, yet he hasn’t left your mind, exactly. He lingers in there like a ghost.  

Connecting the dots, you shift yourself around until you’re face to face with the boy. His delicate features break out into a grin, and he sways on the balls of his heels. You seemed to give him a look that said, “What are you doing here?” 

“I told you that you’ve convinced me to come out more.  

“Right.” You murmur, taking a step back and huffing a laugh. You accidentally step on the newspaper, right on Jiwon’s happy face. You jump. And Hyunjin notices.

Yet he doesn’t point it out. He doesn’t even ask the question he asked you before about why you were whispering. He actually asks you a new one that makes your shoulders sag in a reminder of why you were even outside. 

“What brings you out in this cold?” 

“I could ask you the same.” You sigh, tucking a stray piece of hair. “I needed to go to the supermarket. I’m running out of bread and milk.” 

He nods. Then he stops swaying and cocks his head to the side. “Mind if I join you?”  

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod slowly with an air of hesitation. You know that you are to be careful, the goosebumps on your arm reminding you of the dangers that lurk behind a stranger, and what had happened to Jiwon, but you are naive and helpless against the glinting in his eyes.

His beauty is strangely evocative, more than before when he was practically hidden in the dark. This time the white wispiness around him is magnetic, and the rosy glow that covers his cheeks is enthralling. 

“Sure. Why not. I could use some company.” 

His strides from what you’ve noticed are long but delicate. He carries confidence with a mysteriousness that you want to peel away. His lips that chatter against the cold air, sigh occasionally, and you must stop yourself from staring at him. 

“So—er, what do you do?” You question, twiddling your thumbs in your pockets. 

“I paint. Make art.” He responds, smiling at the sky. It suits him—being a painter.

“Wow. Do you like to specialize in anything?”  

“Realism. I like painting people.” Hyunjin then turns his head towards you and with a great big smile says, “I would like to show you soon, actually.” 

Taken by surprise, you feel yourself flush. “I would love to see them.” 

“I just think it would be fair since I’ve seen your ‘art’” He shrugs his shoulders, yet that lilt of happiness doesn’t leave his face.  

“When’s your next rehearsal? I want to take you after then if you’re free.”  

“Tomorrow. Ends at eight.” You whisper breathlessly. The moment feels too intimate, and your heart beats against its cage, trying to escape its confines.  

As the weeks close in, getting further and further to the recital date, your feet are to be sorer. You have increased your practices twice and almost thrice a day, for hours straight.

You have been standing in front of the mirror, mocking emotions a human would feel. You have gone through packs and packs of pointe shoes.  Today you were reluctantly required to take a break by your mentor. She was very stern and even went as far as to buy a new lock for the auditorium, so you wouldn’t be able to practice on your own.  

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up by eight sharp.” 

He doesn’t leave room for a refusal not that you would be able to give him one. The rest of the walk to the supermarket is filled with words.  

They range from solemnity to child-like exuberance. Yet one thing stays the same. He shares the same mind as you. Same wavelength, that you understand even Yongbok couldn’t reach. And you wonder, where has he been your whole life, however dramatic that sounds. His thoughts are the same. His love is the same. His sorrows are the same. His excitement is the same.  

A walk of fifteen minutes builds a connection with someone that you feel like you’ve known since the womb. It’s scary how attached you are to a complete stranger when you still can’t even open up to your own childhood friend. You pity Yongbok.  

And it makes your stomach swoop and feel sick. 

Yet once you get there, when the brown carts finally come into view, it’s filled with silence that you cannot explain. Quite opposite from before. Hyunjin blends in with the small rush of the people, but he’s always right there beside you, hands brushing along with yours, as his voice tickles your ears with the best choice of groceries to pick. You squirm and laugh, butterflies fluttering against your stomach.  

And as you try to claw the excitement out of you while you are tucking yourself into bed, you realize as your cat brushes by your side—that you’ve never been ticklish before.

The next day, when you dress yourself in your usual rehearsal clothes, you must take a moment and stand in front of the mirror nude. You trace your eyes over yourself and rub your fingers through the knots of your neck, unable to catch a break from the pooling of tears, that comes from the relief of it.

You groan, letting it echo, hovering your nails just over a small scar just above your breastbone. It’s jagged yet smooth at the ends, small pricks riding up your skin when you press against it earnestly. Almost curiously. 

The quietness of the room is too loud, filled with buzzing of the unsaid and said. Of the dreams and the nightmares. You finally adjust your leotard and face your back to the mirror, unable to spare another second to look at your reflection anymore.  

Grabbing the duffel bag, you sling it over your shoulder and head out to the stage. The stage lights that you could never get used to, shine brightly and warmly and there’s a small head that peeks out at you. Her lips croon and twist when you settle yourself up there, just underneath the spotlight, stretching.  

And this time when you dance, you think of Hyunjin. It’s small at first—just the thought of him. But then it grows, thrives at the way that you spin and furrow your teeth into your bottom lip. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did the other times you’ve done it, the same expression that mimics the mood set on stage. It doesn’t hurt much at all—your cheeks when you have to have to smile. All you must do is imagine—fantasize about Hyunjin.  

It all comes to a sweet end when you get that nod of approval from Mrs. Choi.  

“You’re not that stiff—it’s an improvement. It’s beautiful. Beautiful when you let your smile reach your eyes.”  

“Thank you.” You croak. And it starts again, the music, the soreness, and the appeal of him. And again. You can’t help it at all—really and you don’t seem to mind it much. But a lingering itch claws.  

When you finally leave, letting your feet touch the porch out front, there’s a shadowy figure that awaits by the illuminating streetlight. The body leans against the smooth, black pole. It’s faceless—the figure but you know exactly who it is.

Lips tucked under your teeth, there’s a sinking moment of hesitation—almost fear that licks at your body, sending shivers up the expanses of your back. Jiwon. You’re not naive—not one bit. That was Yongbok all in his glory–he once believed that you were his blood-right sibling, amusingly.  

But the intense feeling disappears as soon as Hyunjin lifts his head up, cooly brushing his hair back, and flashes you a blinding grin. 

It’s warm. Even underneath the pattering of snowflakes on your face.  

“Hey,” He gasps, jogging up to you albeit awkwardly. It’s sort of cute and you giggle when he sort of stumbles through the thick snow. “Hi,” You whisper, eyes catching his before they avert to the ground, staring at his boots. You seem to redden under his gaze.  

“How were rehearsals?”  

“Hm? They were good. I think I have a good shot of getting that scholarship.”  

“That’s...that’s good! It’s a pity that you’re going to have to leave...leaving me alone huh?” He teases. You snort and shake your head, pretending to sound exasperated, “Oh god, here we go again...”  

He hums with a small chuckle that you both share before it gets swallowed into the night air. Playing with the hem of your jacket, you stare at the Church just beyond you two—the Church that transcends into the darkness.  

Twisting your head up to glance at the man beside you, your fingers freeze up in their tiny, erratic movements as his hand comes up to adjust a piece of hair that was a twinge out of place. His nose twitches when you sigh lowly, the pads of his pointer finger just brushing against your burning forehead.  

“Shall we go?”  He asks. He then pauses and adds, “I’m excited.” Nodding to show that you were too, you let him lead you into the night, one hand on just hovering over your back and another in his pocket. Seeking warmth, you stay close to his side, biting your cheeks whenever you two shuffle towards each other. 

You soon find out that Hyunjin lives not too far away from you—but just on the outskirts where the animals of the deep woods find their comfort.  And then the cottage—his humble abode comes into view.  

It’s quaint. Small and run-down. Yet not exactly cozy in this weather. The lawn such as the rest of the town is covered in white, yet through the hazy dark there are small trinkets that litter the grass, buried helplessly underneath. A large tree just overhangs it, big and proud it stands. Yet it whimpers at the small touch of the wind, ridiculing the house with the fear of crushing it under its mass.  

The black woods entice you scarily, and you gulp nervously as you follow Hyunjin onto the wooden steps. The stairs creak under your weight, and you have the humorous fear of falling through. You almost laugh at the image but your lips crack when they twitch in the cold, so to save yourself the pain you focus yourself on Hyunjin’s cool ease that seeps out of him. 

His hands fumble with the clanking keys–sending you one last look, shining with something that you couldn’t catch, he unlocks the beige door, slowly letting it open. It moans.  

“Home sweet home.” Moving sideways he lets you go in first. Cautiously, as your voice gets stuck in your throat, you trot in through, feet sliding against the floor. You’re wary enough not to get snow on the ground, but you can’t put your heart to the action as the black-haired man, closes the door shut. It groans in pain this time—but that’s cut off when he locks the door with a loud click. 

He shoves the keys in his pockets. You press yourself against the wall and breathe. It’s dizzy.  

“Er I cleaned up as much as I could in here—might still be a mess, don’t mind, don’t mind. But...if you could, could you please keep your boots by the shoe rack? Might minimize the...you know” He uses his palms to point out the small disarray that is presented to you. He moves his arms bizarrely. You scoff amusedly.  

“Haha, sure!” You toe off your boots as he said and bend down to put them orderly. The light crackles on, and you can see how blistering your palms are. When you rise back up, Hyunjin is intently staring at the clock.  

A noise snaps you out and you’re suddenly looking down at a furry mass. Kkami. You’re not exactly a dog person, per se but your nails thread themselves through the small knots of Hyunjin’s precious dog. You’ve heard so many demonic stories about her, followed by your own stories of your cat, but you can’t help but coo at her. The dog nuzzles against your palm, and you shiver in delight. 

“Fucking dog, stealing your attention.” Hyunjin sighs, but it’s lighthearted banter. You still jolt at the use of language though.   

“Stop it, she’s so cute. I think I already love her.” 

You can practically see Hyunjin rolling his eyes before he softly swats his dog away. The dog skips away unhappily and the man follows, uncovering the kitchen to you as you try to drink the place in. It connects to the living room. And there’s not a single picture up—no signs of personality. That’s the first thing that you regard. Your fingers skim the empty walls behind you. 

“Would you like anything to drink?”  

“No thank you.”  

He nods and takes a glass cup for himself, filling it up with water. He then points at a small door, one that you didn’t see when coming in. “My paintings are down in the basement.” 

When you nod in acknowledgment and bite the nail of your thumb off, he grabs the knob of the door and pulls it open. And just like before, he lets you go first. His dog doesn’t follow you two in. 

She just stands there and noses Hyunjin’s pants before scampering away. Your eyes crinkle at the sight. When you turn back, you’re met with a pool of darkness.  

“Right—er excuse me.”  

“Yes—um—” Hyunjin’s firm fingers dig into your shoulder as he gently adjusts you to the side, chest pressing against yours to find the light switch beside you. Your breath stutters as he closes in on you.  

He has a mole under his eye... 

When your lashes flutter rapidly, he shoots you a smug grin. His breath is light and easy as it lands on your shoulder which prompts you to take a step down. And then another. And another. His own feet follow yours, stopping when you do and continuing when your heels drag against a wooden stair. His soft gasps even seem to be in sync with yours.  

You prance around carefully as you would on stage. 

When you finally let your eyes leave the ground, where you stared at the way your feet shook as they raised and were put down, is when you catch the clutter. A clutter of everything—really. Paints and brushes are tossed everywhere. And several sheer white canvases stacked in the corner, all ranging from different sizes.  You see the gold accents that decorate the walls the flock of birds and the eerie splotch of red paint that hits the otherwise white walls.  

But then you see the clutter of bodies.  

Grotesque bodies. They’re all painted in mixtures of red, tan, blue, black, and colors that you can’t even stomach. And they’re all dancing–so beautifully, so hauntingly. One stands in the clear though and you take a big step towards it It’s unfinished and you can tell that’s what Hyunjin was pouring on before he had come to pick you up, still upright on the easel. 

“She’s my new one. Started on her a few days ago,” Hyunjin whispers. When you look back, you find that he stands where you left his side. Blankly staring at you. With all teeth showing. Behind him, a shadow casts. You tremble and for that split second, you think it’s because of fear. But the sour, vile taste doesn’t isn’t settled on your tongue and the bile in your stomach doesn’t churn. 

No... the adrenaline is still there. 

When you get close enough, you brush your fingers through the drying paint. The features of the girl strike you. Her long black hair drowns her shoulders in such a beauty and her cheeks are slightly darker from the natural flush that she holds. Her nose, a little large yet suiting her softened features in almost an eerily stunning way, is dipped down. 

And she’s lying down in the snow, arms twisted and turned weirdly. Inhumanely. Like she’s playing dead. Stunningly, a trickle of blood runs down the left corner of her mouth, and you have an itch to wipe it away.  

But you don’t. Because Hyunjin's palms wrap themselves over your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t move. So Hyunjin does for you. He first sways you side to side, humming a small tune. You sniffle. And then he calmly turns you around to face him. 

God, he’s ethereal. You’re wordless, lips moving soundlessly like a fish. A dumb fish. His hand soft and golden, caresses your temple, dipping down to your cheeks. They sting underneath his touch. And in that touch—to where the pads of his skin touch against yours, you know what he is. But there’s no fear. None at all.  

His hand cups your jaw and pulses there for a good second.  

“You’re so beautiful.” He says it on your lips. So close. It scars. “You’ll make it big. You’ll leave me behind, I know it. I hope you do. Promise me.” 

You crash your lips on him.  

It’s soft. It’s addicting. Your hands run through his hair and up his back, clutching onto his shirt, so tightly it rips a little underneath your nail. His arms circle around you and back you into the painting behind you. You could feel her smear onto you. In the faint background, you hear Kkami’s scratching. Your hearts are in sync.  

And when you finally part, for the lack of oxygen, you still stay close to his lips. To where you mutter a name. Jiwon? 

The soft pattering of footsteps catches you off guard, as you turn around and face your mother. Her lips are soft and pink are gentle when they kiss you with so much love on your cheek. The music in the back, a wonderful piano piece resounds, and each note is sweet and bitter. You hum. “Oh, my baby. My sweet baby. You’re born to be a star.” She presses a chaste kiss on your forehead, and you giggle. “Eomma..”  

“Hm?” She picks you up to spin you around. “I love you so much, sweetie, oh gosh.” 

“I love you too!” You say, hugging her close. You never want her to leave. It’s too warm. Too much love.  

When you unlatch from her, her eyes grow big and wide and her frail fingers, she holds up her pinky to you. You blink. 

“Promise me that you’ll make it big. Be famous—live your life. Don’t be like me. Promise me that, please.” She pleads. Grabbing her shaking wrist with yours, you focus on stabilizing the shaky movements with a grin. She lets out a wet laugh. Then raising your own tiny pinky to her, you interlock it with your head flopping into her neck. You don’t want to leave. It’s so nice. Too nice. Please.  

“Okay Eomma”  And in the corner of your eye, you see him. Your father. And you must scratch yourself—the feeling crawls up your swaying limbs. It’s too much.  

It’s been a week since your shoulders have been burdened with such news that they sag. They feel as though they are on the ground along with your feet. Your cat gnaws on them, curiously, as the moon shines on her through the slip of the curtains.   

In your fingers, you hold a smoke. It’s not lit. But it just sits there, and once in a while, you put it in your mouth, chew for a split second, and bring it down again. You’ve met up with Hyunjin every day and you’re brought with a bout of sickness of what he does. What he truly does.

The other girls, women, boys, men, you have all seen before. Or heard about in recent years. Newspapers, on the radio, through Yongbok, through the nosy neighbors. Realism. You peel at your lips, and it burns so good when the blood seeps onto your tongue.  

When the doorbell rings, you almost drop the smoke. But you stay put. Yet it rings again, so you have no choice but to haul yourself back up to reach the door. The moment you open it, you freeze.  

“Hi Minho.”  

“Hey. Yongbok told me you were running out of Advil. Forced me to come by and drop some off.” And as if he was able to read your mind on why Yongbok just didn’t come by himself, he follows up with, “Eomma needed help with something—with the shipping, I think?”  

“Oh. Uhm, thank you. Would you like to come inside?”  

You surprise yourself with the invitation, but you can’t take it back now. And maybe inside of you, you find out that you don’t really want to.  

Minho whose eyes are widened, flickers between amusement and shock, but he just simply nods and shucks off his winter boots, neatly placing them beside your own. He humbly walks in and takes a look around.  

“Hot chocolate or tea?” 

“Tea...Thank you by the way for letting me in.”  

You hum and softly chuckle. “Least I can do. It’s too cold outside.” 

“Hmmm, yeah. Do you think this weather is going to give up any time soon?” 

“Maybe...I don’t really know if I’d like that though. I like the cold.” The water boiling fills the silence. Grabbing the tea bags, you look up to see Minho smiling warmly at a picture of a baby you. You turn back, with a grin.  

“I was like five in that.” 

“You were cute...”  

This time, you can’t help but fully laugh, brows furrowing deeply. It causes Minho to scowl, but it titters between that and a soft smile. 

“What? Why’re you laughing?” 

“Didn’t know the word, cute was in your vocabulary.” 

“Har Har. You’re very funny.” 

You grab two mugs and fill them to the brim, with piping hot tea. The smell makes your stomach quiver, and you realize that you haven’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast.  

“Thanks, I try.” 

Telling him to be careful with the heat, you settle across from him with your drink. The first sip burns your tongue. It shows on your face and Minho snorts, blowing on his own mug. 

“How’s er...ballet going? Dunno Yongbok was going on something about that.” 

“Good, I suppose. I’m trying to get out of here so this the only way I know how to.” 

Minho’s eyes, though you don’t catch waver and narrow. “Really? You don’t like it here?” 

You don’t know what elicits you to say this, but it slips out of your tongue anyway, floating into the air before you can grab the words back and shove them into your mouth. 

“Too many bad memories.” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

It’s quiet now. Not a peep from the both of you. But it’s not awkward at all. Slow slurps and quiet murmurs. That’s all—except for the fact that Minho just stares. He stares with an odd face, and it has much to say yet it seems as though his lips are sewn shut. They do shake though. 

And to break it, because you cannot handle his intense eyes anymore, you ask him, almost childishly, “Is it good?” It takes a few beats, and you are ready to joke that he is disgusted with it, if there’s no answer but he cuts you off.  

“How much do you trust Yongbok?”  

“W—what?” 

He sets the cup down on his knee, steadying it carefully as he slinks forward. “How much.... how much do you trust Yongbok?” 

The answer comes easier than you could process it. “A lot. I trust him a lot. Why...just where...where is this coming from?” 

There’s a crazed look in his eyes, and his lips are starting to twitch. He downs the last of his tea and you can’t imagine the burn in his throat from it. You wince.  

“I—fuck. Do you trust him not to—” He bites his lips and then stops abruptly. You wait. You’re shaking and suddenly the temperature plummets. Below negatives. It pricks your skin, your flesh, your blood.  

“Minho...” You softly murmur. A whimper.  

He doesn’t answer. But ferocious knocks on your door do and you jump angrily, spilling some of the hot drink on your legs. It's scalding and as soon as it happens, as if Minho snapped out of his trance, comes up to you hurriedly removing the source away from your thighs. 

“Shit!”  

The knocking doesn’t stop, rather it gets louder more ferocious, and violent, and for some reason, tears are starting to well up in your eyes, you can’t breathe, Minho’s freezing fingers are on you...on the burn and on your face. It’s all too much. Even more when the loud booms and the loud jingling of metal replaces through. 

At this point you’re gasping for breath, chest heaving up and down—you’re possibly even crying, you can’t exactly tell.  

But you can tell of Yongbok’s shouting figure that stomps through–so angry. Angrier than you’ve ever seen before—it’s fucking frightening that you curl up into yourself, hiding yourself from Minho’s frozen touch and his brother’s glare. 

“What the hell are you doing here?!” He snarls. His usually tended hair is in a frenzy, and you notice that he’s not wearing any protective wear. Just a thin sweater and jeans that you’re that do nothing against the freeze. 

Minho doesn’t say a word. His fingers softly press into your burn, trying to cool it before he catches your eyes. His lips tuck themselves in when they notice the streaks of tears that have left their trace on your flushing cheeks.  

“She’d burnt herself.” 

Your friend softens a little, eyes scampering up the two of you. They linger on his brother’s hand on you. You’re so confused but you don’t say a word. You hiccup instead. Yongbok usually so predictable, isn’t so this time as he makes his way to the kitchen. You don’t see him but you know what he is doing—the fridge opening loud and clear. When he comes back into view, he carries a pack of frozen peas.  

“Get out Minho.” He simply says when he’s close enough to the two of you. Minho who makes no effort to move just gazes longingly again at you. There’s blood on his lips now, from his teeth.   

“Alright. Sure.” He rises to his feet, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you, until Yongbok roughly pushes by him, shoving him to the side. You’re reminded of the fight that escaped the two when the blonde came back, and you pray that another brawl doesn’t break out in the middle of your living room. 

You waste your 11:11 wish on it. 

The moment that Minho closes the door behind him, Yongbok bursts into a waterfall of tears. They flush his skin so red, and in shock, you stay silent as he gently places the cold bag on where your skin is about to blister. He wobbles side to side tremendously. 

“Bokk–” 

“What did Minho say to you?” He cries, pulling you close into him. His normally warm skin, comforting and homely is numbing. Sharp.  

“You’re cold Bokkie.”  

“I—really? God, I can’t tell.”  He whines. He then pulls himself off you, and grabs your face, softly knocking his forehead with yours.  

“What—what did—” 

“Just said that you told him to bring more Advil. That’s all. I was the one that let him inside...I—was that a problem?” You let the last part out with a tinge of harshness than you meant but that makes your boy in front of you squeeze his eyes tighter. You can tell that he knew you weren’t telling him the whole truth by the way that he sighs and grips you tighter.  

You don’t want to tell him that it’s bruising.  

“Can I stay the night, please?”  

You don’t answer his question. You give him one of your own. 

“What’s wrong? You need to tell me what’s wrong.” 

His face pales and he burrows his face into the crook of your shoulder, shaking his head. “I can’t. I d—don’t even know myself. I just...” He trails off, obviously deep in thought. “Why weren’t you here yesterday? Or the day before? At nighttime too, do you know how dang—” 

“Did you come by Bokkie? Why didn’t you tell me?”  

His breathing comes out hard and fast and his chest pitter patters on you. He’s starting to shake, and you rub your fingers throughout his back, squeezing at his sides in comfort and in growing irritation.  

“Just where were you?” He sniffs, but he’s demanding too. You heave deeply and you consider telling him about Hyunjin. It’s on your teeth—really, all the sneaking out and kissing. All the secrets, the fear, the tolerance, and the willful ignorance that you’ve given him. You’re rubbing yourself, a habit that you’ve used to calm yourself down. It doesn’t work; the urge just grows strong.  

But the thought of Hyunjin ...Yongbok just can’t know. He can’t know that connection that you and Hyunjin share—fuck.   

From the moment you’ve met him, you’ve noticed that there was a certain buzz that bursts underneath your skin. 

The buzz helps you smile. It helps you dance. What you were lacking before is now suddenly here...you can laugh. There’s no ache in your chest when you do–when you dance the stage away. You have a chance. He gives you that chance.

You need him. You cannot let him slip away, no matter what you do. You live through him—through his kisses. A new exhilaration that you nearly can’t breathe. There’s a growing itch that starts in the back of your throat. You scratch violently at your chest as you stare helplessly at Yongbok.  

Mrs. Choi now offers you a full grin whenever she sees you. You manage to cry to yourself every night. Either in pure happiness or relief, you do not know. You bite your cheeks.

And then Minho’s question from earlier rebounds in your mind shoved down your throat. Yongbok recently has been acting very weird—different almost and you must swallow down the gasp of air that tries to escape—god what do you do? If he tells then what? Tells about Hyunjin? Tells you he’s not good enough–because you can’t bear to weigh that thrashing sense of disappointment from your best friend? You just can’t. No.  

Then your eyes widen. Does Minho know about Hyunjin? Is that what he means?  

Yongbok opens his mouth to say a word, but you beat him to it.  

“Stay the night.”  

“You’ve brought flowers...why?” 

You’ve made a routine. You like routines. They make you feel safe. You adore the way that you can predict when something happens, the way that it thrums in your limbs. So Hyunjin picks you up from your last night's practices again.

Like he’s been doing.

Sometimes he comes back covered in red. It’s his paint—he says. But you know or you think. You like to think that you know. You enjoy his paintings, they’re the new addiction, they give you if not more the addiction that nicotine gave you; you don’t want to give them up. Even though they’re tainted—but that matters the least.  

“My mother. We’re going to go meet her.” You sigh, smiling. His face glinting doesn’t show much but a twitching cheek. He swoops down and steals a kiss from you.

Never too much—but he always manages to deepen it and there’s that rush of blood in your head that makes you lightheaded. You pass by a bus stand. It’s covered in posters, and they all have faces on them. Your fingers linger on them, but you decide to linger your stare on Hyunjin.  

The graveyard is not that far away, but you’re not willing to walk so you’ve brought your car to the studio. Once you both have gotten in, you start the engine.

You snicker when Hyunjin starts to play with the radio, tongue sticking out to find the best channel. His hair is slightly ruffled, and his nose scrunches a little at the cold air. There’s that overwhelming sense of feelings that you feel for him. It’s squeezing your chest so hard that, you’re sure that your heart has been smushed into a pulp. It hurts so good that you must pulse your eyes close for a second. 

You finally back out.  

As you drive off, you pass by the many yet empty homes that are on the way. They are all grieving the warmth that the earth has to offer. And a few of the houses grieve more.  

One of them even holds a funeral. And you know for who. It’s saddening, all the faces that hold remnants of sadness and even anger. There are traces of love and at the same time nothing at all.

You cannot see the body because the car flies by too fast, but you catch the grins of two small children, possibly seven or eight. Surrounded by the sad culture around them, they play and laugh, holding hands and gripping each other.  

You don’t know if you had ever had the chance to do that–be happy and play you mean. Most of your childhood is not remembered on behalf of your sake but there are sudden nauseous waves of nostalgia from time to time. And as if Hyunjin could read your mind, he sighs. 

“Do you remember meeting me before?” 

Snapping your head in shock, you shake your head after a few seconds. “No? Did we meet? I feel like I would’ve remembered that...” 

“Yeah, we did. It was when we were little. You were crying at the park. Crying about someone...” He trails off, obviously trying to offer more. You raise your eyebrows, biting your lips. The park used to be your safe place.

The swings used to give you the comfort that no one did and the mulch that you covered yourself was morbid in the sense where you thought of leaving—sleeping forever. You liked the way that the dirt and tiny pieces of wood hugged you. 

But there’s a distinct memory that you’ve chosen to forget. But it appears in your nightmares, and you have a feeling that you know what Hyunjin is talking about. In where you stand, there was always a boy there too. Ah, you remember it now.  

Yet you don’t pick at it. It’s like a scab; too much picking away even so quickly can let you bleed tremendously. It’s too much to even talk nonetheless think so you slip a little white lie to him.  

“No idea. I do have a memory of a goldfish. Yongbok tells me that.” 

Hyunjin nods but you know that he doesn’t believe you. The rest of the ride is filled with silence and whatever solemn tune Hyunjin had picked. You try not to think too much of the memory that has resurfaced. But there’s that itch again. It’s reoccurring and it’s usually taken care of when Hyunjin’s with you, but it’s slowly making your head spin. 

Thankfully it dwindles down enough when you get to the cemetery. Where the ghosts whistle and pucker their lips to blow, is where it gets colder. Parking and cutting off the engine, you must take a second to shake in your car. Hyunjin who seems to understand, slings his hand over yours and shoots a blinding smile. You furrow your brows. And you try not to frown while you’re at it.  

Hyunjin taking the initiative, climbs out and treks his way to your side. He opens the door and puts his hand out for you to take, which you gladly accept. Hyunjin gently pulls you out.  

And you’re outside. Vulnerable to the slaps of the cold. And the stinging snow. And soon your mother. You’ve always grown restless around this time of the year. Nights filled with thrashing and nightmares. Hallucinations of your mother and father, whispering, talking, crying. That was all. Yongbok knows most but not how deep it penetrates you.  

Your father is not here, though. So, you’re faced with your Eomma. And you can almost feel her in your bones when you creak open the gate. You haven’t been here in years. You’re scared of her voice that follows. 

‘My sweet darling...I’m so sorry’ 

You try not to whip your head to Hyunjin to see if he heard it too, but from the looks of it, he hasn’t, and you swallow down an onslaught of tears and a growing fear. Her grave is weathered and unkept from the lack of visitors. Kneeling with Hyunjin right beside you, his warmth letting your shaky hands place the flowers down, you brush your fingers over her name. Her name...glares brightly at you.  

“I promise. I’m so sorry.”  

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until Hyunjin’s soft hands wipe away the pearls that fall. You have to choke back a sob, but Hyunjin understands what you want. He points at the gate. “I’ll go wait over there, take your time.”

He kisses your temple and gets up. You have to stop yourself from reaching out to him, to beg him to take you with him but you don’t say anything. You just shut up and sigh, trembling when the white mist follows.  

“I—I don’t expect anything...but please. Just—fuck—Iet me live. Peacefully?” 

You wait and not in hope but in knowing.  

“I’m so sorry, baby. Oh sweetie, I shouldn’t have left you alone, should I. Please forgive your old Eomma. I...I know that you think I wasn’t there that night, but I was. I’m so proud of you...I regret it so much.” 

This is why you don’t come to visit her anymore. Her whispers sheath into you like knives. Her murmurs pain you to no extent. Her promises start your heart to race. You know that she regrets it. She too was like you, full of the love of dance. But she’s succumbed to the ground below and heaven’s arms calling for her. You have no idea if you hate her for it or not.   

“You promised, Eomma! You said you would come!”  

“Oh gosh, I know. But just...don’t fall in too deep, okay? And if you do—I know you are, don’t worry your Eomma will be right here? I won’t hate you. I don’t, no not at all.”  

There’s a soft kiss, right at the top of your head. You know it’s her, and so you let yourself yield to her, your hands slowly heaping the snow onto yourself for an attempt at an embrace. It’s depressing you know, but you try. You really do. 

“Will you be here this time?” You ask, voice cracking into the air. But there’s no response. So, you ask it again. And once more, before the snapping of a twig has you delirious—desperate. When you look over to Hyunjin, that itch comes back again, and your heart aches. So, you kiss your mother goodbye and call him over.  

“Are you rea–” 

“Hyunjin promise me something.”  

He widens his eyes and nods. Taking his cold hands, you cup them over your face.  

“Promise me you’ll be there next week? To watch me?” 

The small tutu you have on flounces as you bounce around your poor mother, who sits on the floor and claps her hands. She sings a small tune—a game that you two have been playing since you were just starting to walk.  

The tinges of cracked and red lips, tinged with blue and purple don’t accompany her kiss to your cheek. Your hair in pigtails, flaps around you and you giggle when it softly slaps you. The roaring voice of your father telling you to shut up falls on deaf ears. Ten and thriving, his voice was nothing next to your mother’s sweet, honeyed ones which shush you gently. 

You nod and land on the floor next to her. The sun thrives in love and smiles at you two. “Eomma... will you be coming? You’ll be coming right?” You nuzzle your head into her neck, minding the red handprints around it and wrapping your arms around her. There’s a sinking feeling that has been treading in your chest and you don’t know why.  

All you want to do is hug your Eomma and shield her away. You want to protect her.  

Her smile filled with warmth doesn’t reach her eyes—instead, they flicker to the heavy crashing from the room next door. She gives a moment to her own photographs up on the walls, of her dancing brightly. She relishes in something that you cannot recognize so you stare curiously at her. Her fingers dance lightly on your skin, cup your face. 

“Of course I will, but you go ahead, okay? Go ahead with Yongbokkie and his parents, I’ve already told them–” 

“You’re not coming now with me? What if you miss my dance?”  

She laughs and hugs you tighter, “I have some work to take care of with your Appa, I’ll come on time to watch you dance, okay?” 

You huff but you cannot have it in yourself to be mad at your mom. You wonder what work; your parents must do but you suppose it’s too much for your small brain to handle. It must be important though—yes. But... 

“But I hate Minho he’s so weird he keeps showing me his dead rats' collection!” You whine, but you quickly shush yourself up in habit. Yet you still pout and cry silently. And she giggles—that's what you were hoping for. She’s been too sad recently, too caught up. You want to make your mother smile like she used to.

How she used to before she married your father and had you–like how she does in her old pictures. So beautiful and young. You want that.  

You're hoping that your dancing does that. When she sees you, she smiles and thinks of herself. You’re doing this for her–you hate ballet really. It’s too tiring. It hurts you. But she always grins when you come back home and you’re all sweaty.

And she cries when you show her the new moves that you’ve learned, even the ones that you hate, and oh she laughs when you mess up and she shows you how to really do it, her graceful stance so ethereal and blinding.  

That’s why you want her to come. To escape. 

So, when it all quiets down and she’s back in her own thoughts, where she’s massaging and wincing at the red on her body, you whisper to her. 

“Promise me you will come?” She stops. And she stares.  

“I promise.”  

The “scouting shows” are disguised underneath performances for everyone—like a talent show. For such cold weather, seats fill up fast from the lack of entertainment in this town. Everyone is here to distract themselves from something—anything. From boredom, from the snow, from the deaths, from the grief. Anything.  

And as they wait in anticipation, your breathing keeps getting stuck in your throat and for a few beats in a minute, the life of you slowly gets strangled out. Your fingers squeeze and unravel, and your feet squirm from where you sit on the floor.

The sounds of the world bleed in through the room that you’re in and you must wrack your fingers on the floor for a bit of comfort that you try to offer yourself. You grab your phone to call Yongbok, but you remember that he was busy today, when you asked him to come, he politely declined in a distressed voice.  

You sigh in disappointment.  

“(Y/n) few more minutes alright?” One of the stage crew comes in and grants you a charming smile that waters into pity at the way that you shake and nod. He closes the door behind him, and you’re left waiting either for your doom or for the future that you deserve.  

You know that you deserve it...right? Right? Why wouldn’t you deserve it— 

The wishes of making it to the big stage...the wishes that your mother had...the prays, the sacrifices. The saliva that dripped down your lips when you had grown too tired–all that waste of breath god, and the aches that followed you deep into the night where they haunted your sleep, and the blood that stains the floor that you’ve walked—it comes down to now.  

You suddenly have the urge to retch up your stomach.  

Pushing yourself up slowly, painfully, you clumsily fidget on your feet, wishing for the floor to eat you alive and spit you back into Hyunjin’s arms...Hyunjin he would be here today. He swore. He gave his pinky to you.  

At the thought of him, your teeth relax from the constant attack they give your lips. Wiping at them, you clamber out of the room and take in the environment around you. Past you runs a small little girl. You swallow thickly watching her prance. The itch returns deep in your belly.  

“Ready? You’re going to do great. I believe in you–you’ve improved so much. I wonder why.”  You don’t tell Mrs. Choi (who pops out of nowhere that you know the answer to her ponder, so you let her take your hands in hers. Her weathered ones feel nothing more than discomfort against yours, especially at the way that they knob and grip your fingers, but you have no choice but to sigh and flash her a grin. “Yes. I believe.”  

Frail and weak, she stumbles over the floorboards backstage, but it does not stop her in the pursuit of pushing you to the stage where the lights are dimmed, and the curtains are closed.

The voices behind the ruby-red cloth, make you question if Hyunjin’s down there waiting for you. And upon any of the distinct conservations that you’ve picked up on is him. Is he excited? You hope so. You’re performing for your mother. Him. And lastly for yourself.  

“You’ll make it big. You’ll leave me behind, I know it. I hope you do. Promise me.” 

You smile. Laugh even, when Mrs. Choi gives you a funny look, but she pats you down and trails her finger down the expanse of your back, straightening you out. It’s cold. It stings, as if her nail penetrates your skin and you imagine blood staining your flesh. You close your eyes and breathe.  

Your body moves before you even realize it. It’s in tune with the music that plays. The notes that flood the air, guide your hands here. And there. And your legs too—they bounce and twist and flounce and spin—

You cannot find Hyunjin.  

You easily find the scouts, they’re all maddening and intense. You see the group of teenagers watching in boredom, dragged along with their parents to watch their younger sibling’s recitals. You spot the old man at the corner shop, mouth quirking up and down. And you find...and you find...and you find...but you cannot uncover Hyunjin. His familiar long black hair is not there. Nor is a comforting smile. And his shining eyes. 

You miss a beat. Missed it by a few seconds too late.  

The crowd doesn’t notice but you’re sure that Mrs. Choi does. Her piercing stare is on you—but! you can’t find in yourself to care. The scouts take the point of it too, their cruel and cold eyes not accepting an ounce of mercy for a poor, poor girl who cannot find her lover—her Hyunjin! 

Oh. Oh.  

Hyunjin...had broken his promise. Like your mother... 

The house is dark when you trek back to it. The cold dries your tears, and it pricks your little cheeks as they puff and huff, hiccupping from the sadness that consumes your heart. Your mother was not there to watch you. You wish she was, and a bit of anger ignites within you—you did all of this for her! 

You did not like Yongbokkie’s mom’s smiles of sympathy or his father’s pats that say more than he wants or even your best friend’s warm hug. You just wanted your mommy. 

The door to your surprise is open. It creaks as you push against it lightly and you carefully tread in with your trophy in hand. Your father is nowhere to be seen. And neither is your mother.  

Your stomach drops at the silence. No yelling. At all–where was everyone? 

Closing the door behind you, you make your way to your parent’s shared room. Maybe they were tired enough to go to sleep early. You can forgive them if that’s why. You’ll just drag your mother to your room and have her hug you tight. You’ll just have her kiss you softly and let her sing you a song as she rocks you to sleep.  

You’ll just have her love you. 

But there’s no chance to do that. Because the bedroom door opened wide ajar, holding your mother’s hanging body from the ceiling.  

You stumble. You fall. You fall hard on the stage, and you gasp so loud that it blankets the other chokes that echo. Your promise... 

You scramble off from where you are and into the comfort of backstage where the curious and ugly eyes stop following you. You don’t stop running until you find a room to lock yourself in and when you do, you slam the door hard. 

Fuck what did you do?! 

Tangling your fingers in your hair, you tug yourself back into the wood behind you. You want to feel the blood of your mistakes everywhere, so you do it until stars fill your vision and you must land on the floor at the way that the room spins. You gag.  

“(Y/n) open this goddamn door right now!” The pummeling of a fist–Mrs. Choi’s fist is starting to become clearer–it’s fucking annoying. Her screams and shouts are squeezing your stomach, twisting until you can feel the bile burn through your tongue.

Added to the anger of a promise and the death of who you were supposed to be, you swing the door open and pull the old lady inside. Harsh. 

Yet it doesn’t waver her one bit as her palm contacts your cheek. Harsh.  

And then everything freezes and you’re staring at her with widened eyes and your lips parted in shock. You grip onto her arm tighter, and she shakes it off with disgust rolling in waves. 

“You bitch! What we're doing there out there, huh?! Are you stupid?” She jabs her pointer finger at your forehead, hard enough for you to take a step back. You scratch your arm enough that that it bleeds, collecting underneath your fingertips.  

At no response, she grows angrier, and she slaps you again and grips your wrist, her nails sinking into your skin. You quiver. It hurts. And you’re taken back to your Appa. At the way that he hurt you—ripping your flesh with his limbs and strong pelts. It’s too strong, his presence and you’re choking, you cannot breathe. You can feel his lashes at you, the screaming of disgust and revolt turned towards you after your mother got her fair beatings. 

Too much. You see him. He haunts you. You just want him to go away. Your vision blinks–you blank and you can feel something wet on you—it’s warm. Your tears.  

The grip on you loosens and you wrench your arm away to wipe away at the face—you refuse to show how much she(he) affects you. But as you pull your hand back, your hand is stained red. 

Red. You look down. Your pink leotard–so innocent, so pure. Is red.

Your other hand encloses against something, something you’ve just realized that you’ve been holding. As you pull it out, Mrs. Choi gasps—blubbers as her own hands shoot to her neck. The strong smell of metal invades your senses, staining the air along with the old woman’s smothering cries.

Using your body, you push her against the wall where she thuds. Terror flits in her eyes, but you press your palm against her mouth, squeezing it until she shuts up.  

You hold a black pen. And you use it again. In fluid motion.  

Relief floods.  

Floods as you watch her life being taken away from her, the way that she twitches and squirms, and the way that blood gurgles through her lips. You push harder. And harder. Until she stops. Until her chest stops moving and her feet stop thrashing. Until her arms stop pushing against you. Until you hear her last breath. The itching stops. Finally.  

You slowly lay her down and grab a yoga mat from the corner of the room and put her on it. Carefully, you roll her up in it, the blue mat reeking with red once you're done. As you drag the body-covered mat and stack it like it was never moved, you pass by a mirror.  

You don’t dare to look at it. But you know that you’re satisfied in a way. He’s gone. She’s gone. And you’re fucked. 

When you make your way outside, not bothering to clean up the bloody mess that you made, the snow showers you. The cold doesn’t sting like it usually does as your flats drag you through sluggishly. You’re tired and all you want to do is to go to take a hot shower and go to sleep. 

Hyunjin can wait later, you know that you’ll scold him for his disappearance but in the end, you’ll be in his arms, begging for his comfort. Maybe you’ll throw in a joke about how much he’d rubbed off on you.  

The ten-minute walk lets you ponder about what you should do now. What is to happen in your future, can you try again next time? Will the scouts give you another chance? Huffing, you rub your arms to trap some heat in you–you’re starting to regret not bringing in a jacket. It’s okay. You’re okay. Yes...everything is okay. 

In the distance as you near your house, someone is banging on the door, furiously. Their body slams against it and you can see them wail and cry. Their blonde hair shakes side to side angrily and you pause for a second to observe.  

Yongbok slides against the door. He looks red and blue—the cold catching up to him as he hyperventilates. You start to worry. 

“Yongbok! What happened? Are you okay?”  

You start jogging or rather try to (the snow escapes into your shoes, slowing down) as the blonde shoots up, looking for you through the haze of the blizzard. And when you’re finally close enough, his eased face turns into horror. 

“Jesus! What happened to you?!”  

His eyes travel down to your stomach where all the red resides and you shrug, shaking your head. “I’ll tell you when we get inside...it’s cold. Why are you here anyway?”  

Your friend instead of nodding dismisses your question as he starts to sob, startling you. “Did—did he get to you, fuck! (Y/n)! You’re hurt!” 

You stop. “Who—who got to me? And no, I’m not hurt I just—”  

Someone screams from the distance, the voice too familiar as your eyes widen and you see your friend stop breathing, his eyes squeezing as he falls back against your house. “Yongbok, you bastard! I’m gonna fucking kill you...” 

“Bok–” 

“We need to go inside now.” He cuts you, grabbing you by the arm as you try to get your keys...but— 

“Yongbok.” You rasp. “I forgot my keys.”  

“Fuck.” His face goes pale, and his body starts racking with heavy sobs. “I’m so sorry (Y/n), I tried to stop him—” He gasps when the snow crunches underneath leisurely paces.  A figure comes into view, stalking heavily as their eyes grow with anger, zeroing in on you and Yongbok. But his lips curve into a dangerous grin. Minho just laughs when Yongbok throws himself against your door, obviously trying to break it open. 

You don’t question him at all, and a sense of dread fills you. Grabbing a nearby pot from a dead plant, you slam it on your lock as hard as you can, and with a combined push from the blonde after a few tries, the door swings open.  

Minho drags himself against your wooden stairs.  

Yongbok grabbing you by your waist, pulls you in and shoves you inside, knocking the wind out of you as you hit the wall, and you gasp as he thrusts the door shut. But Minho is too fast—he shoots out his foot, blocking the entrance from closing and he grabs his brother by the throat, slamming him down to the ground. 

“What the hell Minho!” You scream, tugging at him to release Yongbok. But it’s in vain as the older man pushes you to the floor. He squeezes Yongbok’s neck tighter aided with unexplainable fury in his veins. He gasps for air. Like a fish.  

“He had it coming for him...I told him to—I told him to stay far away from you. And this bastard—” He grunts when his brother tries to kick at him. “And this bastard came back, idiot.” He laughs when Yongbok shakes his head, tears flowing freely as he fights for his life. 

And all you see is him again. Your father. And your mother. Scampering to the kitchen, you grab a large kitchen knife and stumble against the floor towards Minho. Yongbok’s strangled howl alerts Minho who grabs your wrists trying to stop you from stabbing him and in his distracted attempt, the blonde leans up and scratches at his brother, squirming away from his grasp.  

But it’s too late because Minho redirects the knife into him. Into Yongbok.  

You freeze in shock.

And Minho lets go giggling. He leans back. You stare at Yongbok’s arms going limp. And the way that the blood courses onto you... 

You killed him. You fucking killed him.  

You scuttle back like a cockroach. “I—I—” 

“It’s ok (Y/n)! It isn’t your fault, it’s his. He had it coming anyway. Told him that if he wanted to live, he had to stay faaar away from you. Didn’t listen, did he? He was always too close to you and told me that you were too good for me.” He shrugs. “I did what I had to do. You always belonged to me.”  

Your eyes shoot up to his in fright. “What—what do you mean I belong with you?”  

He doesn’t respond but instead, he tries to crawl towards you. But you don’t let him as you throw a fallen pillow at him. He stiffens.   

Your waterline wells with tears. “You’re a sick psycho! I don’t—I don’t...” You cry, choking on your own words, too confused and exhausted to continue them. He furrows his brows, and a rich laugh emits from the bottom of his chest. You just sob more, wiping your bloodied hands on the floor.  

“I’m the psycho? Okay sure I am but...you’re one to talk (Y/n), you killed someone too, didn’t you?” He gives you a pause, a grin growing when you shake your head. “Who was your latest victim anyways (Y/n)?”  

“Latest victim... what do you mean? I—I just—Mrs. Choi.” You whisper and the weight of your actions from before dawn upon you. Holy fuck. What did you do?  

“She was hurting me!” You shriek, grabbing your hair, and pulling on it in anger. You don’t notice Minho proximity as he coos at you and hugs you close to him. He’s cold. And he smells of death. “Aww, it’s okay. Shh, it’ll be alright.” He rubs your hair and adds, “We belong together (Y/n), you’re just like me...Yongbok never deserved you.”  

You shake your head and try to move away but he just hugs you tighter. It’s suffocating. “I don’t know wha—what you mean...?” You mutter. 

His cheeks light up with red and he presses a chaste kiss on your forehead. You recoil, sickened. “Do you think Yongbok would’ve accepted you as who you are? Would you trust him to not rat you out as the person that you are? He’s too much of a goody-two-shoes, he wouldn’t understand the both of us.” 

He then cups your face and forces you to look at him. He flicks your nose when you close your eyes and wail softly. “You know I was the one that cleaned up after you so you wouldn’t be caught? Are you proud of me? I am sooo proud of you. Don’t worry about Mrs. Choi or Yongbok, I’ll clean them up too and...and you can finally move in with me!” 

“What messes?” You weakly ask but you hold your breath at the way that Minho’s face flickers with confusion.

“The bodies. The ones you’ve killed.”  

Bodies? Killed? Who...You stop moving, your heart in your chest. You could feel it on your tongue from how hard it was beating—Jiwon. 

“I didn’t kill them. What—what are you talking about? I—that was Hyunjin!” 

Minho’s eyes narrow at the name of another man. “Who is Hyunjin?” 

“He killed them! Not me! Not me! I—he’s here! He lives here! I swear!” 

Minho pauses and stares into your eyes. “There's no one named Hyunjin” 

"No! There is! He lives by the house—by the house near the woods, you know near the Church and there's that big tree hanging over it, it—"

"What big tree—(Y/n) do you remember they knocked down all of the houses near the woods? Who the fuck is Hyunjin?"

And your whole world shatters.  

A swamp of memories throws you into a whirlpool, memories that crash in front of you. All the blood, the screaming, all the tears. All the red that you’ve been seeing–the itches and their soothing, have all been you. 

You’re not sure what happens next, except for Minho’s excited rambling of how you can trust him! Of how he’s the perfect one for you because he knows what you feel, what you are. He holds your hands and whispers sweet nothings to you. He talks about the itch and how it only goes away after he kills someone. And you just sit there, eyes glazed with the scrambling past trying to catch up with it. 

Minho explains that Yongbok had left in fear for his life after he threatened him because Yongbok was too close to you but had come back for you after he heard about the slaughtering of women in the town over—he knew that it was his brother committing all the murder.  

And he talks on and on about how much he loves you, an obsession that came out of nowhere, and how hard it was to repress his feelings towards you. And just how fucking happy he is right now and that you could get married and you’re just going to feel so fucking loved. And loved. And loved. ��

Minho is so obsessed with you while you’re so obsessed with the idea of Hyunjin who doesn’t even— 

Before you even know it, you reach over to Yongbok and grab the knife. And you skewer the man against you with it. You tune out his sudden gasp of surprise and do it again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. 

He tries to fight but the rage in you knocks him on his back and by the hilt, shove it into his chest by pressing your palm against the black handle. You don’t stop until you hear it crack–hear his body crack. 

There are two dead bodies in your living room. And much more in fields around you from where you’ve buried them. The young girls and women stripped away from a life—because of you.  

And not because of Hyunjin. Hyunjin is you.  

You get up and grab a cigarette, lighting it up. In the mirror, you see your window. And in the park through that window, you two little kids. A girl and a boy. One of them cries and the other comforts. You know what he is saying to the little, sad girl. And he offers her something.

A tiny pocketknife. And you can see it clearly—the way that the girl with newfound confidence treks down. And you see her enter the house, and watch her father, sleep soundly against the couch—yes you can see him now.  

The way he snores innocently as if he didn’t kill her mother. You watch curiously as she peers over at him, and pulls out the small object that the sweet, sweet boy gave her. She looks at the playground one more time and stares at it before she swiftly lets the blade slide against her father’s throat. Her Appa’s throat. 

Your Appa’s throat.  

Yes...the itch is gone. 

In the corner of your eye as you release smoke you see a figure smoothly tread towards where you stand. His light fingers and face–painted by the gods trail over you and your ruined leotard, tights, and ballet slippers. The pads of his fingers stop where blood is splattered on your face, and he wipes it away before pulling you into a kiss.  

Hyunjin is sweet. And when he parts you give him a big, watery smile.

“Why weren’t you here today? You broke your promise.” 

He gives you an apologetic frown and embraces you close, rocking you back and forth. “I’m sorry. I know you were great.” 

“No... I messed up. I... I think I made my mom sad. I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be.” He softly chuckles, “What? Famous right? She wanted you to be famous?” You nod and kick at his feet, like a dejected puppy. “Mmm, wanted the whole wide world to know me.”  

Hyunjin nods and sighs. “You know you still can make her happy. I know how to.” 

You perk up, “Really?” 

“Yeah.” He reaches for the landline and hands it to you. “Call the police and tell them what you did. What you've been doing. And then...” He grabs your hand and clasps it close to himself. “Join your Eomma and your friend, Yongbok.” 

‘Let the people know who you are past your small town, let them seek praise from your grace and beauty of how you dominate the stage. Have them inspired by who you are, the determination that you sweat and the drool that you seep through your bitten lips, hungry, ravenous to dance.’  

You get what he means. If you can’t be known through your dance, then you can through other ways. It’s okay. You were never really a dancer. You hated to dance. It never got the itch away. The blood did. And you just didn’t notice.  

Grabbing the phone from him, you let out a shaky breath and did what he had told you to. You tell the operator your address and what you did, “I killed them. All them.”, and hang up the phone, throwing it away. It lands in Minho’s blood. 

Then you walk to your room and look at the ballerina box one more time.  

You notice that you left it open yesterday, exposing the inner flesh of the plastic box–exposing the small disfigured, grotesque ballerina that stands in a gnarly stance that you’ve never performed in your life.  

It was a stupid gift from your late mother that was given to her by her grandmother. Your mother was an aspiring dancer just like you when she was younger. Yet she was hung from the rope of hopes and dreams, forced onto a noose by your extremely dunderhead of a father, who went missing, leaving you behind. That’s all you know of her. And of him. A died dream. 

When you come back to the living room, Hyunjin is gone. He doesn’t exist. You can hear the police sirens in the background, and you sigh, taking one last hit from the smoke. You wretch the knife away from Minho and direct your attention to Yongbok. Lifeless on the floor. 

Oh, your poor Bokkie... 

He was just looking out for you. And you decide that if you were going to die, then you would do it with his arms around you. Like he would when you would when you had a nightmare. His broad chest up against your back and his kind and gentle words that he would whisper into your ears when you would cry.  

Laying down next to him, you stare at the ceiling. The knife dances along your throat and you press down gently enough for it to sting.  

All you wanted to do is take a nap anyways. 

So, you do.  

[seekrzz]

<Jung's Shadow Theory>

image: jung'shadowtheory.png"

"Data Synopsis" <One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. The latter procedure, however, is disagreeable and therefore not popular. – Carl Jung>

<or>

<You were born to be seen. Hwang Hyunjin was born to be your shadow. And you're surrounded by the wreaths of broken promises and an ever-growing itch >

"User Interactions" <Painter! Hwang Hyunjin x Ballerina! Fem! Reader>

"Data Classification" <Dark Horror/Romanticism, Thriller, Strangers to ???, Fast-burn>

"System Alerts" <Bad Grammar, Graphic Violence & Murder, Language, Psychosis, Domestic Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Major Character Death, Obsessive Behaviors>

"File Size" <17.3k>

"Tracklist" <I Want You - Mitski // Forward Beckon Rebound - Adrianna Lenker // Swan Lake, Op. 20, TH 12 – Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky>

"Creator Notes" <If you saw this earlier no you didn't>

Midnight flurries have seemed to finally strike your town. They pound on your walls and shake the wooden doors. It whistles and it sings a soft cradle song while it lays a thick, white blanket over the numerous houses and cars.  

It’s enchanting—you’ve come to realize as your forehead presses against the cool window. And you close your eyes, allowing the bitter cold of the misty glass, to pierce your hot flesh a little awkwardly. Underneath you, your left ankle twitches nervously and you wince. There’s a baby pink lace that suffocates the poor limb. It cries for help once more.   

So, you sigh and carefully slide your leg out in front of you. Your foot—covered in white and the same shade of pink moves back and forth. Side to side. Writhing erratically as if it was slowly running out of air before you decide to reach forward and have the pads of your fingers untie the knot. It’s slow and tedious and you’re careful with your nails digging into your rather expensive tights that you couldn’t afford to rip.  

You repeat the process with your right leg as tender as possible only to cast both pointe shoes away from you. When they thud against your wooden floor just dangerously near the burning fireplace, you watch one of them bounce away towards your dozing feline. It catches on her ugly, patchy fur yet she doesn’t shake awake. 

You furrow your brows, the creases of your skin prominent against the moonlight.  

And then the clock chimes 11:11. And then your hands interlock into a prayer. And then your eyes find the little music box by right by the giant watch. And then you notice that you left it open from yesterday, exposing the inner flesh of the plastic box—exposing the small disfigured, grotesque ballerina that stands in a gnarly stance that you’ve never performed in your life.  

It was a stupid gift from your late mother that was given to her by her grandmother. Your mother was an aspiring dancer just like you when she was younger. Yet she was hung from the rope of hopes and dreams, forced onto a noose by your extremely dunderhead of a father That’s all you know of her. And of him. A died dream. 

And that’s all you bother to know, nothing more. 

Because the thought of your mother is slightly depressing and it’s interrupting your prayer to the stupid ballerina in the box. The blood that seeps from the indents of your nails is going to waste. So, you divert yourself back to your gasping lungs and the whispers that leave your mouth rapidly. Whispers of a craving... 

A craving to be seen by the world.  

That’s what you wish for. Let the people know who you are past your small town, let them seek praise from your grace and beauty of how you dominate the stage. Have them inspired by who you are, the determination that you sweat, and the drool that you seep through your bitten lips, hungry, ravenous to dance.  

It takes you exactly another twenty seconds to finish up your chanting before the clock hits 11:12, your eyes pulsing close a few times for good luck. After that, you push yourself up from the ground, limp due to the striking pain that shoots up your sore corpse, slowly twist the knob to play a little creaky off-tune melody from the music box before shutting it close and softly kicking the cat with your big toe.  

You then gather your precious pointe shoes, wish the burning fire goodnight, and head to bed with blisters coating the soles of your feet. 

There’s a strange scene. Out by the small community council. Just before the woods that cover a vast area. Your usually quaint village that housed a few quaint villagers including yourself and the bones of others, had scattered footprints in the snow. Which was accompanied by the ruffling of two bodies.  

There was a quarrel going on. A physical quarrel between two adult men that you recognize to be the two sons of the owners of the one and only pharmacy shop in your town that get their shipments a little too late when needed. The two sons of the Lees; Minho and Yongbok. The snow was now tainted in their messy tracks and it’s a bit annoying. Yet you don’t do anything but watch with wide eyes.  

Until your mind registers Yongbok, your friend that you haven’t seen in almost a year due to his teaching position down in the south! You part your lips slightly in recognition.  

And that prompts you to take a step—no two steps forward to observe the scene a little closer, the fingers in your pockets that were protected from the gnawing cold, flexing rapidly as you try to adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder without moving too much so you wouldn’t catch their eyes.  

Yet that becomes a fruitless attempt as several Sunday Massgoers take no time to break up the fight. It takes three of them to pull Minho apart and another two to tug Yongbok away, hitting his head hard into the ground. They scold the two young boys, one of the wives of the goers slapping Minho softly and thumping his brother on the head. Then to your absolute dismay, Yongbok’s uncanny ability to be able to seize you in a crowd of people starts to work because you lock eyes with him. 

He stiffens—gasps and rolls over to onto his feet, stepping on his brother’s pinky either on purpose or not. You stiffen and smile lumberingly. Minho stiffens—groans and then when he finds out who Yongbok is looking at, he waves at you with his unbroken hand.   

“(Y/n)! Hi! Hello!” Yongbok laughs. That’s when you realize that his usually black hair was dyed a bright blonde. You wonder why but you can’t deny that it suits his softened features extremely well. When he finally catches up to you, stumbling a bit in the snow, he pants and lays his tiny hand on your shoulder. You squeak. 

“How long... how long were standing there watching us?” He blinks like a doll, waiting for your response.  

“Mmm, yeah, I dunno. You dyed your hair though?”  

The blonde visibly brightens at the very obvious observation and squeezes you harder. “Yeah! Thought it would be a nice change.” He tilts his head, “Do you like it?” You nod but right behind Yongbok, his brother stumbles up to you two with a grim face. You almost have the instinct of pushing the blonde away, afraid that another fight would break out between them two but Minho’s silly trip over a stray twig makes you giggle.  

“Why were you two fighting anyway?” 

Minho who was close enough to listen, beats Yongbok in answering your query. “Because this moron came back after not telling anyone that he would fucking run away.” You look back at Yongbok who swallows nervously and shamefully lowers his head.  “Do you know how worried sick Eomma and Appa were?” He harshly spits.  

“Right. Sorry.” Yongbok whispers but you’re confused.  

He’d told you that he had found an amazing opportunity to showcase his love for children just a week before he’d left. He had solemnly broken the news to you with a small kiss on your forehead while feeding you his infamous brownies and with a sad smile.  

But as you watch Minho pull out a cigar and a lighter from his pocket and see Yongbok scrunch up his nose and cough with dimmer eyes, you get the answer to your doubt.  

“Would you like a smoke?”  

Minho attentive as ever offers you the brown roll in his hand. And you’re about to say “No thank you” as politely as possible because you quit the bad habit a year ago, but Yongbok’s hands find yours and he plucks them away.  

“You know she’d stop smoking, why would you ask her if she wanted to do it again?”  

You smile at the exasperation in your friend’s voice. That’s what you like about him. He always knows the best for you and always holds the flashlight when you are lost in the dark. Minho rolls his eyes and looks at you to confirm. You do. Very clearly. 

“Kay. I’ll see you later then and have Eomma cook up something special I suppose.” He runs his eyes over Yongbok’s figure and very gently places the butt of the cigar against his brother’s pale skin—not enough to hurt of course. He then trudges away, leaving you and Yongbok to stare at his diminishing figure.  

“He’s very mean.” 

You snort at the childish comment and let go of his hand to wipe away a spare snowflake on your reddening cheeks. “Is that why you didn’t tell them and told me instead? Am I not mean?” 

His lips twist into a pout almost as if he was debating on answering your questions. His brown eyes sink deep into yours and he sighs and bites his cheek. He’s holding back a flustered, extremely dainty smile. 

“No, you very much are” His fingers then crawl up to your backpack strap which you’ve forgotten you had on.   

“Are you going to practice today? I’m sure you took rest days on Sundays and Wednesdays? I thought we would be able to get a cup of coffee and perhaps hang out at your place?” 

The offer is tempting. It salivates your tongue at the thought of cozying up next to the warm body of another person. Yet... 

“Mhm, I wish. Er—it’s scouting season, and you know...I need that scholarship.” 

Yongbok deflates slightly at your words but the hesitance that lingers at the timbre of your voice bounces him right back up again. He huffs his chest. “Maybe you can—” 

“Yes. I’ll cut practice an hour early today for you. Make up some stupid excuse again I guess.” 

Yongbok the ever lively one radiates a sun-like twinkle on his lips. They look magnific carved onto his washed-out skin. “Great! That’s amazing—god I truly love you.” He places a chaste kiss on your temple where it penetrates through your thick skull and into your throbbing brain.  

You grip his thick jacket.  

“Meet me by my house uhh by one?” 

“Perfect because that’s when your favorite extra extra sweet brownies will be done by if I start baking them in another thirty or so.” That fills you with warmth. 

“Mmm, that sounds delicious thank you so much.” Your tiny flip phone buzzes against you and you grimace. “I’ve gotta go, I promise I’ll express my gratitude later, alright?”  

“Mmkayy.” 

When you finally make it to the auditorium there’s a sense of impending doom in your entrails–it knots your guts.  

The snow falls faster and harder now. The harsh wind pounds on doors moaning to be let inside, in a pitiful plea. There’s a spasm in your stomach. You get changed into your attire and when you look at the pointe shoes, you’re reminded of your mangy kitten.

You wish that she would watch you from the audience– is what you think as you step on the mark in the middle of the stage. There’s a glimpse of her tiny figure in the corner of your eye that frightens you a little.  

Yet as soon as the music flows from the speakers that surround you, everything around you is gone. All five senses. You’re just left with yourself and the fluidity of your limbs as they move elegantly, practiced movements easily perfected to finish.

The blood of your tongue seeping onto your teeth as you bite harder and harder and harder in pure, utter determination. And. And. And. 

Seconds feel like hours when you spin relentlessly. And a single minute is short. Short enough that when you stand still, you can’t even chase your own breath, keep it caged in your gasping lungs that feed off of it.  

So, when you finally take a bow, there’s a creak in your knees.  You’re sure that there’s yellow mucus flowing from a sore on your foot. Your teacher is rubbing at her glasses. And there’s a glob of sweat that dives down your aching back from the harsh lighting of the stage lights. 

When you straighten back up, Mrs. Choi offers a thin-lipped smile.  

“I am afraid that was spectacular. Jaw-dropping, in other words.” Her praises make your heart sing. Your eyes blur back into focus at her lonely stature by the blood-red seats.  

“Thank you. Was this time better around?—I know that I messed up the middle a bit.”  

The wrinkles around her old mouth scrunch up. They make your nose furrow. “It certainly was. And even so, now thinking about it, I didn’t even notice the small fumble.”  

She leans forward, her beaded eyes hiding under those heavy flaps of skin, piercing you sharply. 

“Yet...I just...I have a feeling that the scouts will have a hard time choosing you over the other talented ballerinas just like you.”  

You freeze. Again? Why?  

Almost as if the confusion you were radiating was burning her alive, she heaves a big, loud breath. And you’re jealous.  

“You’re just missing something. I would say passion—yet...I believe so that you’re not made for the stage. And I—I don’t mean my words to be harsh–no not at all, but as talented as you are, you lack the emotion.” 

You’re starting to tremble. You’ve heard those words before. From past teachers. From past judges. From the last scouts. And you swear you’ve practiced! There’s a great dip in your lips now–a merely exaggerated form of a frown and you look foolish, you’re sure. 

“It really is pitiful. It is. But there’s still a chance. You will never know.”  

You want to cry. Sob even. Horrendously. But you still bop your head along and as she beckons you closer to the end of the stage, you obey without any hesitance.  

You heave deeply when she takes a step closer and softly tucks in your chin with her fingers, having them trace up your cheeks. You bristle underneath her touch and for some odd reason you have the urge to bite at her fingers hard. Your teeth ache in sensitivity at it. 

“You’ll be the first to perform—the first name on the roster that the scouts will receive...You’ll have a better chance to make an impact—to show them what you really got.”  

She turns away and walks off (her time here is done with you; she has a family to get back to soon) her echoing footsteps thumping in your head. You lift your weight off a foot that throbs erratically, watching her go pitifully. 

“I left some of my husband’s apple pie if you’d like some. It’s in my office. Don’t practice for too long, stay safe and lock up after you’re done.”  

You don’t say anything. She doesn’t need you to. Because the loud bang of the door behind her says enough. And then when you pick up a prop that was carefully crafted by the high school drama team and throw it against the floor.  

That’s another word, another sentence, another scream from you. Your throat is hoarse and now you’re forced to stare at the smushed prop on the floor before you reluctantly pick it back up and place it against the wall, just where it was found.  

There’s a small sigh that wisps out of your mouth. And then one more, before the tears that you’ve been holding at bay have been swallowed up painfully. No more twitching in your cheeks—you notice as you raise your eyebrows a few times and clear your throat twice. 

And your fingers turn to the sound system, letting your nails push on the knob just a bit louder than it is supposed to be. It rings your ears yet you’re hoping that the music notes embed themselves into your skin and you become one with the stunning melody. Feel whatever it feels.  

Have the flats shape your smile. Have the sharps carve your eyes and your cheeks.  

That’s the last thought that crosses your mind before the tune starts to envelop you again, and there’s blood rushing, flourishing through your ears. You smile, and then you laugh. You pretend to sob as your feet carry the footsteps of an anguished woman. Your eyebrows twist, and they cramp horribly. Achingly.  

Your lips dig into your skin. Achingly. The pink straps are throttling. Achingly. The bones in your hands melt as they burn. Achingly. You can smell the vile scent of blazing skin. Raw skin. Red.  

Blisters everywhere.  

They pop and you can hear them pop as you spin. They trail against your face—you think because it’s wet on your cheeks, and it stings there. Your eyes too you conclude. They’re stinging. 

And then you ache before you end. Ache before a deafening, single clap shakes you in your place.  

You internally shriek. Loud, because your whole body seizes and shudders violently. Then you spot the young man standing up in the seats, wide-eyed with his cheeks ample and full. He claps a count of five times this time before he realizes that you are in complete, utter shock and can’t open your mouth at all.  

“Hello. Er—excuse me. There’s a huge snowstorm outside and I’ve come inside for shelter—brr—yes, uhm sorry for...for intruding.” He trips with the way that his teeth clack and how his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His muscles tense up when you move a little away and don’t say anything. Though you fumble back partially because the young man is quite gorgeous–heavenly even that you have to stumble back in shame at what he must’ve witnessed of you. A mess.  

Yet he seems to think the quite opposite. And he expresses it very clearly in the way that his voice pitches and his brows shoot up while his lips tremble when he speaks. His eyes glaze over you and you have to tuck yourself back into your skin.  

“You were...that was amazing. I’ve never seen anything as...” He trails off at the end and tucks a stray piece of black hair behind his ear, smiling nervously. “Seen anything as gorgeous or graceful...er...haha excuse me, you—you’ve made me speechless.” 

Your cheeks warm at the compliments the strange man throws at you and your fingers dig into the skin of your arm, itchy, as you hold back a deep flush that threatens to rise when he takes a few steps closer.  

God, he’s breathtaking. You’ve worked that out immediately as his face glows underneath the warm lights of the stage that shine out into the ghostly audience.  

“Thank you.” 

He crinkles his eyes, and you find it rather cute. His pink lips pucker in and out and you notice that his thoughts are occupied. His eyes flicker between the curtains.  

And then they lock onto you once more. It’s sharp—more intense yet he carries an air of uncertainty that you feel the need to clear. So, you clear your throat and push your arms into your chest more, eyes darting up to look at the ceiling. You feel naked under his eyes.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before. Are you new?” 

His lips curl and he tilts his head to the side. The grey puffer jacket that he sports puffs out more as he sighs. “Not exactly. I’ve always been here...I just don’t like going out much.” 

You crack a smile at his confession. You’ve always felt the same too. The world only sees you due to ballet and Yongbok.  

“Me too. If I wasn’t doing this, then I don’t think I would’ve ever left my doorstep. My cat would’ve just kept me company.” You shrug. A waft of air seeps in and you shiver, breathing in deeply through your little shake when the beautiful stranger chuckles and shakes his head.  

You’re entranced by him.  

“What’s your name?” He rasps out, closer to the stage now. You usually don’t give your name out to random people, but his eyes glint and you can’t help but cave in immediately–your answer already souring on your tongue.  

“(Y/n).”  

“Mmm, that’s a pretty name. It suits you.” His eyebrows cock up when you try to stifle an embarrassed giggle. “I’m Hyunjin, nice to meet you (Y/n).” 

“Nice to meet you too.” You pause before taking a breath. “I hope to see you around...er more often.”  

He shoots you a smug smirk, twisting his lips to the side. You darken with a ruby even more. 

“I believe you will—you’ve convinced me to do so.” He then looks outside and you both notice that the snowfall has lessened, and the wind doesn’t howl in agony anymore. It instead whistles a tiny tune. Achingly.  

And then your heart thunders when you look back at the beautiful man—Hyunjin. Because he is already looking at you.  

You’re starting to have nightmares again. The last time they were incorporated into your routine, was last season. Yet this time they’re more vivid and real.  

They consist of pure, unadulterated, and grotesque thoughts of death and terror. When you awake from the horrifying ending, your mouth is filled with blood from your tongue and cheeks carry the trails of its sorrows.  

Today when you wake up again, you don’t immediately pull back the covers and try to lull yourself back to sleep. Instead, your fingers dance around your nightstand to get a hold of a small, brown dainty notebook that Yongbok had bought you the other day when you had confessed your sleepless lights. 

He said to you as he bagged the notebook by the self-checkout, “Write down your dreams and thoughts in this. I heard it helps! And then when you fill every single page up, we can burn it.” 

Though his words did not make any sort of sense, you’ve always blindly followed him when it came to the good of your heart. So, you go ahead and turn on the light and grab a black pen.  

Flipping the book open, you notice that your last entry was cut short–possibly from the lack of words that could explain what you experienced, the lack of expressions that could communicate the thoughts that were running through your head. 

You let the ink scribble down the half-empty page, before starting your entry on the next one. You write the date and time on the top. And then you start to think.  

i was standing in a house that was dark. there was maybe a light or two i think but still it was very very dark. i think that there was something watching me i am not sure. there is a loud noise. like a cat screaming or some sort of animal. so, i turn around yet i am met with a mirror. i was feeling weird almost scared and i could feel my heart in my throat. i don’t really know how to explain it. i think i was going to throw up. but the mirror starts to crack even more and i can’t back away as much as i want to. my feet were stuck to the floor. then very familiar music starts to play. it’s was very shrill and loud. but the mirror in front of me starts to double and more and more pieces start to surround me. then when i look a little closer in the reflection, i don’t see me. i see my mom and a boy. they are like shadows though because i can barely even make them out. but there’s blood now, seeping from the glass. it was cutting into my skin. and then i wake up. i think it was from the pain. 

You stop and squint your eyes.  

There’s more that you feel than what you can write on the page. The despair and hopelessness swirl into your chest yet your pen quivers in your touch as you try to make it out. And then when you realize that you’ve blanked out totally—nothing else to write, you close the book and lay it back down beside you.  

When you look around the room and swing your feet up and down, you brush against something soft—your cat so you stop and sigh once more before an ache in your head begins to make itself present.  

Your migraines were starting to become more intense—more than usual. You suppose it is from the stress on your shoulders. You’re starting to wince and turn and thud your head against the pillow when it becomes too much. It hurts. So bad.  

Getting up from your bed, you squeeze your temples with the tips of your fingers trying to alleviate the pain, but it doesn’t do much. You need aspirin, which is currently located on your countertop from earlier. You don’t turn on the lights as you grab your robe, opting to stumble through the dark rather than worsen your headache even more.  

Which you regret almost immediately.  

Because there’s goosebumps down your back—you’re shaking to the bone. The dark room is starting to produce colorful shapes that float and disappear through the air in front of you.  

And there’s someone here. You think—possibly! You live alone. God. What.  

There’s an old superstition that your grandmother had whispered to you before when you were perhaps five or six. It used to haunt you at night and because of her you’ve covered all your mirrors and placed two stuffed animals on your chairs at night. Because if you don’t, you’re inviting someone or something to sit on your chair to watch you at night. Because if you don’t, you're letting someone or something peer at you through the reflection of the mirror.  

There’s a black chair in front of you. There are tiny rips in the seat, where you can see a splash of yellow cracking. The chair itself is metal—so it's cold. But when you accidentally tripped over the legs just a few seconds earlier and your hands found the seat—it felt warm. Warm to the touch. As if someone was sitting there earlier. Too warm. 

You stand there still. And the chair is not the only reason why. Your bathroom door is open to where you can peer inside. You see the sink, the toilet, and the bathtub. You see yourself, through the mirror though because the moon shines from the crack of your blinds. You see it just in the corner of your eyes.  

You see the mass of darkness behind you. It moves eerily. It comes closer and then back away for a second. And then comes closer again.  

You close your eyes shut.  

“S—stop it. Please. Get out of my house.” You whimper, swallowing deeply. It doesn’t move. You can feel it behind you. So, you try again.  

“Get out.” There’s a faint scent of blood and you’re thrown onto the floor. because your trembling knees buckle into themselves. Yes. Fuck. No. Get. Out.  

You start to scream banging your head on the floor. Your head is splitting open. You can see the brain—it’s mushy in your hands. There’s an itch. It’s familiar, but you can’t figure out what.  

“Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out of my head! My house!” 

“Out!” You let out a guttural scream.  

“(Y/n) wake up!” 

Your eyes shoot open, shaking tremendously, gasping for air.  

“It’s Bokkie baby. Come on calm down, I got you.” There are soft hands that pull you into a warm hug. It takes you a second to realize that you were just dreaming before you hesitantly wrap your hands around the cozy body, sinking into him, with your eyes shut closed.  

A shudder runs through your body.  

You silently sob, your palms messily thrashing over his bare back. His nails sink into your hair and they calmly thread through your scalp as he whispers sweet, honeyed words into your ears. And when you pull back from him, his hand softly wipes away the ugly mess on your face.  

Yongbok’s smile is pitying when he kisses you against your head and you wetly laugh into his shoulder. 

“Holy fuck...that was...that was something else. I—hmmm yeah.” You mumble, taking deep breaths. His chest moves in sync with yours and you focus on the way that it rises and falls. 

“Sorry for waking you up Lix. Was I screaming or something?”  

He gently shrugs before he moves, he around you to stretch his arms, “Sort of I suppose...and uhm anyways it’s morning! So, you didn’t really wake me up, I was going to in 30 minutes or so...”  

“I’m glad then.” You simply say, leaning over to peek through the blinds. It was indeed daytime. 

The last remnants of your...double nightmare (?) still lingers but as always it fades away in slow waves. Excluding for the distinction of the way that your emotions aroused at that moment–that was always the worst you suppose.

There’s a scar of your shivers and your piggy-like squeals that thrive in you, and once Yongbok leaves the room to give you the privacy that was needed, you through a small white towel over the expanse of your mirror and stack two—no three stuffed animals on your chair just for safe measure. The smell of breakfast wafts heavily into the room and you’re forced to swallow copious amounts of bile back into your throat.  

Yongbok is coerced to split ways with you. He is whisked away by his stubborn father by his very very red ear, his mother shaking her head in disappointment, yet a small smile dancing on her dainty lips. You could see where Yongbok got his beautiful looks from, they have the same twinkle in their eyes at the root of happiness and the smallest quirks in their hands, twitching—almost as if their knuckles throbbed endlessly.  

Minho is there too. And his pupils flicker between you and the scene. When they catch your looks, he tilts his head and almost as if it was possible to do so, he slowly yet firmly pushes against the gate of your eyes. You have to snap your head away, almost immediately, and a small scoff rumbles from his chest. It’s playful though–a little bite at your cowardice.  

“Right (Y/n), you’ll have him returned to you once he spends his time with us. His family.” His mother jokes, yet there’s a snobby implication under her breath. Yet you can’t help but laugh and nod, turning away when Yongbok sends you an apologetic smile. You walk away, finally looking back up when their voices drift away.  

The snow crunches underneath your feet, it’s a few inches thick and you feel as though you would like to be buried underneath the white blanket one day. It would be nice you suppose. But then questions arise. When would that be? How would that be? Would you be alone? Is it rotting? Your cat?  

Your fingers brush by the snow and as if you were a magnet, a newspaper comes tumbling your way, from the harsh wind that nips at your exposed skin, almost as if it was trying to fester a wound. The paper is crumpled—torn at some edges like someone tried to nibble on it and it lands by your ankles. You stare at it, waiting for the breeze to carry it somewhere new, yet it just sits there. By you. Almost solemnly, waiting for you to give it your love—your attention.  

So, you do.  

It’s today’s edition. Big, black words bolded on the top catch your eye—as they should because they are quite literally the news headlines. They read—to your shocking horror ‘Murder in town—young girl found dead!’ 

Averting your eyes down to the page, they scramble at the photograph of the girl. Twenty at best, she smiles in what looks like a picture for the high school yearbook. Her long black hair drowns her shoulders in such a beauty and her cheeks are slightly darker from the natural flush that she holds. Her nose, a little large yet suiting her softened features in almost an eerily stunning way, is dipped down. Her body carries a cardigan and her posture is upright–perfectly so. 

You know of this girl–it’s hard not to in this small town. Kim Jiwon. She had an older sister and a young father. Your lip's part in revulsion and it takes you a beat or two for you to move down to the smaller text, throat closing in on itself. 

18-year-old beloved was found dead in the woods early morning Tuesday in what the police are identifying as a homicide. Found by a passing jogger, authorities were called to the scene at 7:30 AM after a distressing call was made moments later.  

The victim identified as Kim Jiwon, was discovered near a tree with multiple stab wounds that scatter her body, along with signs of blunt-head trauma. Investigators noted signs of struggle but have not confirmed whether the attack was targeted or random.  

“This was a violent crime, and we are actively pursuing leads,” said Detective Kang Hyunwoo of the Eogwi  Police Department. “We urge anyone who saw suspicious activity between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. to come forward.”  

Neighbors described Kim as quiet and friendly, often seen walking her dog in the evenings. “It’s terrifying,” said her friend, who lives in the apartment next door. “She was just here yesterday. I can’t believe this happened so close to home.”  

Authorities have not yet named a suspect but are reviewing records and files of past criminals who are recorded to committed past violent crimes. The Eogwi County Medical Examiner’s Office will conduct an autopsy to determine the exact time of death. 

The first thought that comes to mind is poor girl. Young and beautiful–one that had such a long winding path ahead of her.

Second, is to look around. There’s an itch. Whipping your head back and forth, you are relieved to find a few stragglers in sight. They too are confined to morning shock and fear, so they don’t do much but mutter lowly.

A dreadful shiver runs up your back when you accidentally catch Jiwon’s face in the newspaper clipping and as if the paper was suddenly a million degrees, you drop it back into the snow, chest heaving up and down.  

You feel as if you’ve run a marathon, heart in your throat, pulsing on your quivering tongue. Kim Jiwon is a girl you’ve known—or rather you’re forced to know because of her famous sister. Her older sister is a dancer. Her sister used to remain indifferent to you when you partnered up with her in school.

Her sister who could move so fluidly, that if you went ahead and clasped her by the arm she would’ve just slipped right out. Her sister who is a loved, golden girl.  

You flinch. Because in all regards you hate her sister. Kim Seoyeon. But you cannot help but feel immense pity for her. You start to pray. 

And as you do, a familiar voice joins in, the ghost of their fingers just hovering over your shoulders, stopping you in your words, the last sentence of your chant stuck in your throat as the unknown finishes it for you, chuckling in your ear when you don’t take the initiative to turn around. Just frozen.  

“Hullo, what are we praying for?” 

Ah. Hyunjin. Boy from the theatre. It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him, yet he hasn’t left your mind, exactly. He lingers in there like a ghost.  

Connecting the dots, you shift yourself around until you’re face to face with the boy. His delicate features break out into a grin, and he sways on the balls of his heels. You seemed to give him a look that said, “What are you doing here?” 

“I told you that you’ve convinced me to come out more.  

“Right.” You murmur, taking a step back and huffing a laugh. You accidentally step on the newspaper, right on Jiwon’s happy face. You jump. And Hyunjin notices.

Yet he doesn’t point it out. He doesn’t even ask the question he asked you before about why you were whispering. He actually asks you a new one that makes your shoulders sag in a reminder of why you were even outside. 

“What brings you out in this cold?” 

“I could ask you the same.” You sigh, tucking a stray piece of hair. “I needed to go to the supermarket. I’m running out of bread and milk.” 

He nods. Then he stops swaying and cocks his head to the side. “Mind if I join you?”  

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod slowly with an air of hesitation. You know that you are to be careful, the goosebumps on your arm reminding you of the dangers that lurk behind a stranger, and what had happened to Jiwon, but you are naive and helpless against the glinting in his eyes.

His beauty is strangely evocative, more than before when he was practically hidden in the dark. This time the white wispiness around him is magnetic, and the rosy glow that covers his cheeks is enthralling. 

“Sure. Why not. I could use some company.” 

His strides from what you’ve noticed are long but delicate. He carries confidence with a mysteriousness that you want to peel away. His lips that chatter against the cold air, sigh occasionally, and you must stop yourself from staring at him. 

“So—er, what do you do?” You question, twiddling your thumbs in your pockets. 

“I paint. Make art.” He responds, smiling at the sky. It suits him—being a painter.

“Wow. Do you like to specialize in anything?”  

“Realism. I like painting people.” Hyunjin then turns his head towards you and with a great big smile says, “I would like to show you soon, actually.” 

Taken by surprise, you feel yourself flush. “I would love to see them.” 

“I just think it would be fair since I’ve seen your ‘art’” He shrugs his shoulders, yet that lilt of happiness doesn’t leave his face.  

“When’s your next rehearsal? I want to take you after then if you’re free.”  

“Tomorrow. Ends at eight.” You whisper breathlessly. The moment feels too intimate, and your heart beats against its cage, trying to escape its confines.  

As the weeks close in, getting further and further to the recital date, your feet are to be sorer. You have increased your practices twice and almost thrice a day, for hours straight.

You have been standing in front of the mirror, mocking emotions a human would feel. You have gone through packs and packs of pointe shoes.  Today you were reluctantly required to take a break by your mentor. She was very stern and even went as far as to buy a new lock for the auditorium, so you wouldn’t be able to practice on your own.  

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up by eight sharp.” 

He doesn’t leave room for a refusal not that you would be able to give him one. The rest of the walk to the supermarket is filled with words.  

They range from solemnity to child-like exuberance. Yet one thing stays the same. He shares the same mind as you. Same wavelength, that you understand even Yongbok couldn’t reach. And you wonder, where has he been your whole life, however dramatic that sounds. His thoughts are the same. His love is the same. His sorrows are the same. His excitement is the same.  

A walk of fifteen minutes builds a connection with someone that you feel like you’ve known since the womb. It’s scary how attached you are to a complete stranger when you still can’t even open up to your own childhood friend. You pity Yongbok.  

And it makes your stomach swoop and feel sick. 

Yet once you get there, when the brown carts finally come into view, it’s filled with silence that you cannot explain. Quite opposite from before. Hyunjin blends in with the small rush of the people, but he’s always right there beside you, hands brushing along with yours, as his voice tickles your ears with the best choice of groceries to pick. You squirm and laugh, butterflies fluttering against your stomach.  

And as you try to claw the excitement out of you while you are tucking yourself into bed, you realize as your cat brushes by your side—that you’ve never been ticklish before.

The next day, when you dress yourself in your usual rehearsal clothes, you must take a moment and stand in front of the mirror nude. You trace your eyes over yourself and rub your fingers through the knots of your neck, unable to catch a break from the pooling of tears, that comes from the relief of it.

You groan, letting it echo, hovering your nails just over a small scar just above your breastbone. It’s jagged yet smooth at the ends, small pricks riding up your skin when you press against it earnestly. Almost curiously. 

The quietness of the room is too loud, filled with buzzing of the unsaid and said. Of the dreams and the nightmares. You finally adjust your leotard and face your back to the mirror, unable to spare another second to look at your reflection anymore.  

Grabbing the duffel bag, you sling it over your shoulder and head out to the stage. The stage lights that you could never get used to, shine brightly and warmly and there’s a small head that peeks out at you. Her lips croon and twist when you settle yourself up there, just underneath the spotlight, stretching.  

And this time when you dance, you think of Hyunjin. It’s small at first—just the thought of him. But then it grows, thrives at the way that you spin and furrow your teeth into your bottom lip. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did the other times you’ve done it, the same expression that mimics the mood set on stage. It doesn’t hurt much at all—your cheeks when you have to have to smile. All you must do is imagine—fantasize about Hyunjin.  

It all comes to a sweet end when you get that nod of approval from Mrs. Choi.  

“You’re not that stiff—it’s an improvement. It’s beautiful. Beautiful when you let your smile reach your eyes.”  

“Thank you.” You croak. And it starts again, the music, the soreness, and the appeal of him. And again. You can’t help it at all—really and you don’t seem to mind it much. But a lingering itch claws.  

When you finally leave, letting your feet touch the porch out front, there’s a shadowy figure that awaits by the illuminating streetlight. The body leans against the smooth, black pole. It’s faceless—the figure but you know exactly who it is.

Lips tucked under your teeth, there’s a sinking moment of hesitation—almost fear that licks at your body, sending shivers up the expanses of your back. Jiwon. You’re not naive—not one bit. That was Yongbok all in his glory–he once believed that you were his blood-right sibling, amusingly.  

But the intense feeling disappears as soon as Hyunjin lifts his head up, cooly brushing his hair back, and flashes you a blinding grin. 

It’s warm. Even underneath the pattering of snowflakes on your face.  

“Hey,” He gasps, jogging up to you albeit awkwardly. It’s sort of cute and you giggle when he sort of stumbles through the thick snow. “Hi,” You whisper, eyes catching his before they avert to the ground, staring at his boots. You seem to redden under his gaze.  

“How were rehearsals?”  

“Hm? They were good. I think I have a good shot of getting that scholarship.”  

“That’s...that’s good! It’s a pity that you’re going to have to leave...leaving me alone huh?” He teases. You snort and shake your head, pretending to sound exasperated, “Oh god, here we go again...”  

He hums with a small chuckle that you both share before it gets swallowed into the night air. Playing with the hem of your jacket, you stare at the Church just beyond you two—the Church that transcends into the darkness.  

Twisting your head up to glance at the man beside you, your fingers freeze up in their tiny, erratic movements as his hand comes up to adjust a piece of hair that was a twinge out of place. His nose twitches when you sigh lowly, the pads of his pointer finger just brushing against your burning forehead.  

“Shall we go?”  He asks. He then pauses and adds, “I’m excited.” Nodding to show that you were too, you let him lead you into the night, one hand on just hovering over your back and another in his pocket. Seeking warmth, you stay close to his side, biting your cheeks whenever you two shuffle towards each other. 

You soon find out that Hyunjin lives not too far away from you—but just on the outskirts where the animals of the deep woods find their comfort.  And then the cottage—his humble abode comes into view.  

It’s quaint. Small and run-down. Yet not exactly cozy in this weather. The lawn such as the rest of the town is covered in white, yet through the hazy dark there are small trinkets that litter the grass, buried helplessly underneath. A large tree just overhangs it, big and proud it stands. Yet it whimpers at the small touch of the wind, ridiculing the house with the fear of crushing it under its mass.  

The black woods entice you scarily, and you gulp nervously as you follow Hyunjin onto the wooden steps. The stairs creak under your weight, and you have the humorous fear of falling through. You almost laugh at the image but your lips crack when they twitch in the cold, so to save yourself the pain you focus yourself on Hyunjin’s cool ease that seeps out of him. 

His hands fumble with the clanking keys–sending you one last look, shining with something that you couldn’t catch, he unlocks the beige door, slowly letting it open. It moans.  

“Home sweet home.” Moving sideways he lets you go in first. Cautiously, as your voice gets stuck in your throat, you trot in through, feet sliding against the floor. You’re wary enough not to get snow on the ground, but you can’t put your heart to the action as the black-haired man, closes the door shut. It groans in pain this time—but that’s cut off when he locks the door with a loud click. 

He shoves the keys in his pockets. You press yourself against the wall and breathe. It’s dizzy.  

“Er I cleaned up as much as I could in here—might still be a mess, don’t mind, don’t mind. But...if you could, could you please keep your boots by the shoe rack? Might minimize the...you know” He uses his palms to point out the small disarray that is presented to you. He moves his arms bizarrely. You scoff amusedly.  

“Haha, sure!” You toe off your boots as he said and bend down to put them orderly. The light crackles on, and you can see how blistering your palms are. When you rise back up, Hyunjin is intently staring at the clock.  

A noise snaps you out and you’re suddenly looking down at a furry mass. Kkami. You’re not exactly a dog person, per se but your nails thread themselves through the small knots of Hyunjin’s precious dog. You’ve heard so many demonic stories about her, followed by your own stories of your cat, but you can’t help but coo at her. The dog nuzzles against your palm, and you shiver in delight. 

“Fucking dog, stealing your attention.” Hyunjin sighs, but it’s lighthearted banter. You still jolt at the use of language though.   

“Stop it, she’s so cute. I think I already love her.” 

You can practically see Hyunjin rolling his eyes before he softly swats his dog away. The dog skips away unhappily and the man follows, uncovering the kitchen to you as you try to drink the place in. It connects to the living room. And there’s not a single picture up—no signs of personality. That’s the first thing that you regard. Your fingers skim the empty walls behind you. 

“Would you like anything to drink?”  

“No thank you.”  

He nods and takes a glass cup for himself, filling it up with water. He then points at a small door, one that you didn’t see when coming in. “My paintings are down in the basement.” 

When you nod in acknowledgment and bite the nail of your thumb off, he grabs the knob of the door and pulls it open. And just like before, he lets you go first. His dog doesn’t follow you two in. 

She just stands there and noses Hyunjin’s pants before scampering away. Your eyes crinkle at the sight. When you turn back, you’re met with a pool of darkness.  

“Right—er excuse me.”  

“Yes—um—” Hyunjin’s firm fingers dig into your shoulder as he gently adjusts you to the side, chest pressing against yours to find the light switch beside you. Your breath stutters as he closes in on you.  

He has a mole under his eye... 

When your lashes flutter rapidly, he shoots you a smug grin. His breath is light and easy as it lands on your shoulder which prompts you to take a step down. And then another. And another. His own feet follow yours, stopping when you do and continuing when your heels drag against a wooden stair. His soft gasps even seem to be in sync with yours.  

You prance around carefully as you would on stage. 

When you finally let your eyes leave the ground, where you stared at the way your feet shook as they raised and were put down, is when you catch the clutter. A clutter of everything—really. Paints and brushes are tossed everywhere. And several sheer white canvases stacked in the corner, all ranging from different sizes.  You see the gold accents that decorate the walls the flock of birds and the eerie splotch of red paint that hits the otherwise white walls.  

But then you see the clutter of bodies.  

Grotesque bodies. They’re all painted in mixtures of red, tan, blue, black, and colors that you can’t even stomach. And they’re all dancing–so beautifully, so hauntingly. One stands in the clear though and you take a big step towards it It’s unfinished and you can tell that’s what Hyunjin was pouring on before he had come to pick you up, still upright on the easel. 

“She’s my new one. Started on her a few days ago,” Hyunjin whispers. When you look back, you find that he stands where you left his side. Blankly staring at you. With all teeth showing. Behind him, a shadow casts. You tremble and for that split second, you think it’s because of fear. But the sour, vile taste doesn’t isn’t settled on your tongue and the bile in your stomach doesn’t churn. 

No... the adrenaline is still there. 

When you get close enough, you brush your fingers through the drying paint. The features of the girl strike you. Her long black hair drowns her shoulders in such a beauty and her cheeks are slightly darker from the natural flush that she holds. Her nose, a little large yet suiting her softened features in almost an eerily stunning way, is dipped down. 

And she’s lying down in the snow, arms twisted and turned weirdly. Inhumanely. Like she’s playing dead. Stunningly, a trickle of blood runs down the left corner of her mouth, and you have an itch to wipe it away.  

But you don’t. Because Hyunjin's palms wrap themselves over your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t move. So Hyunjin does for you. He first sways you side to side, humming a small tune. You sniffle. And then he calmly turns you around to face him. 

God, he’s ethereal. You’re wordless, lips moving soundlessly like a fish. A dumb fish. His hand soft and golden, caresses your temple, dipping down to your cheeks. They sting underneath his touch. And in that touch—to where the pads of his skin touch against yours, you know what he is. But there’s no fear. None at all.  

His hand cups your jaw and pulses there for a good second.  

“You’re so beautiful.” He says it on your lips. So close. It scars. “You’ll make it big. You’ll leave me behind, I know it. I hope you do. Promise me.” 

You crash your lips on him.  

It’s soft. It’s addicting. Your hands run through his hair and up his back, clutching onto his shirt, so tightly it rips a little underneath your nail. His arms circle around you and back you into the painting behind you. You could feel her smear onto you. In the faint background, you hear Kkami’s scratching. Your hearts are in sync.  

And when you finally part, for the lack of oxygen, you still stay close to his lips. To where you mutter a name. Jiwon? 

The soft pattering of footsteps catches you off guard, as you turn around and face your mother. Her lips are soft and pink are gentle when they kiss you with so much love on your cheek. The music in the back, a wonderful piano piece resounds, and each note is sweet and bitter. You hum. “Oh, my baby. My sweet baby. You’re born to be a star.” She presses a chaste kiss on your forehead, and you giggle. “Eomma..”  

“Hm?” She picks you up to spin you around. “I love you so much, sweetie, oh gosh.” 

“I love you too!” You say, hugging her close. You never want her to leave. It’s too warm. Too much love.  

When you unlatch from her, her eyes grow big and wide and her frail fingers, she holds up her pinky to you. You blink. 

“Promise me that you’ll make it big. Be famous—live your life. Don’t be like me. Promise me that, please.” She pleads. Grabbing her shaking wrist with yours, you focus on stabilizing the shaky movements with a grin. She lets out a wet laugh. Then raising your own tiny pinky to her, you interlock it with your head flopping into her neck. You don’t want to leave. It’s so nice. Too nice. Please.  

“Okay Eomma”  And in the corner of your eye, you see him. Your father. And you must scratch yourself—the feeling crawls up your swaying limbs. It’s too much.  

It’s been a week since your shoulders have been burdened with such news that they sag. They feel as though they are on the ground along with your feet. Your cat gnaws on them, curiously, as the moon shines on her through the slip of the curtains.   

In your fingers, you hold a smoke. It’s not lit. But it just sits there, and once in a while, you put it in your mouth, chew for a split second, and bring it down again. You’ve met up with Hyunjin every day and you’re brought with a bout of sickness of what he does. What he truly does.

The other girls, women, boys, men, you have all seen before. Or heard about in recent years. Newspapers, on the radio, through Yongbok, through the nosy neighbors. Realism. You peel at your lips, and it burns so good when the blood seeps onto your tongue.  

When the doorbell rings, you almost drop the smoke. But you stay put. Yet it rings again, so you have no choice but to haul yourself back up to reach the door. The moment you open it, you freeze.  

“Hi Minho.”  

“Hey. Yongbok told me you were running out of Advil. Forced me to come by and drop some off.” And as if he was able to read your mind on why Yongbok just didn’t come by himself, he follows up with, “Eomma needed help with something—with the shipping, I think?”  

“Oh. Uhm, thank you. Would you like to come inside?”  

You surprise yourself with the invitation, but you can’t take it back now. And maybe inside of you, you find out that you don’t really want to.  

Minho whose eyes are widened, flickers between amusement and shock, but he just simply nods and shucks off his winter boots, neatly placing them beside your own. He humbly walks in and takes a look around.  

“Hot chocolate or tea?” 

“Tea...Thank you by the way for letting me in.”  

You hum and softly chuckle. “Least I can do. It’s too cold outside.” 

“Hmmm, yeah. Do you think this weather is going to give up any time soon?” 

“Maybe...I don’t really know if I’d like that though. I like the cold.” The water boiling fills the silence. Grabbing the tea bags, you look up to see Minho smiling warmly at a picture of a baby you. You turn back, with a grin.  

“I was like five in that.” 

“You were cute...”  

This time, you can’t help but fully laugh, brows furrowing deeply. It causes Minho to scowl, but it titters between that and a soft smile. 

“What? Why’re you laughing?” 

“Didn’t know the word, cute was in your vocabulary.” 

“Har Har. You’re very funny.” 

You grab two mugs and fill them to the brim, with piping hot tea. The smell makes your stomach quiver, and you realize that you haven’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast.  

“Thanks, I try.” 

Telling him to be careful with the heat, you settle across from him with your drink. The first sip burns your tongue. It shows on your face and Minho snorts, blowing on his own mug. 

“How’s er...ballet going? Dunno Yongbok was going on something about that.” 

“Good, I suppose. I’m trying to get out of here so this the only way I know how to.” 

Minho’s eyes, though you don’t catch waver and narrow. “Really? You don’t like it here?” 

You don’t know what elicits you to say this, but it slips out of your tongue anyway, floating into the air before you can grab the words back and shove them into your mouth. 

“Too many bad memories.” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

It’s quiet now. Not a peep from the both of you. But it’s not awkward at all. Slow slurps and quiet murmurs. That’s all—except for the fact that Minho just stares. He stares with an odd face, and it has much to say yet it seems as though his lips are sewn shut. They do shake though. 

And to break it, because you cannot handle his intense eyes anymore, you ask him, almost childishly, “Is it good?” It takes a few beats, and you are ready to joke that he is disgusted with it, if there’s no answer but he cuts you off.  

“How much do you trust Yongbok?”  

“W—what?” 

He sets the cup down on his knee, steadying it carefully as he slinks forward. “How much.... how much do you trust Yongbok?” 

The answer comes easier than you could process it. “A lot. I trust him a lot. Why...just where...where is this coming from?” 

There’s a crazed look in his eyes, and his lips are starting to twitch. He downs the last of his tea and you can’t imagine the burn in his throat from it. You wince.  

“I—fuck. Do you trust him not to—” He bites his lips and then stops abruptly. You wait. You’re shaking and suddenly the temperature plummets. Below negatives. It pricks your skin, your flesh, your blood.  

“Minho...” You softly murmur. A whimper.  

He doesn’t answer. But ferocious knocks on your door do and you jump angrily, spilling some of the hot drink on your legs. It's scalding and as soon as it happens, as if Minho snapped out of his trance, comes up to you hurriedly removing the source away from your thighs. 

“Shit!”  

The knocking doesn’t stop, rather it gets louder more ferocious, and violent, and for some reason, tears are starting to well up in your eyes, you can’t breathe, Minho’s freezing fingers are on you...on the burn and on your face. It’s all too much. Even more when the loud booms and the loud jingling of metal replaces through. 

At this point you’re gasping for breath, chest heaving up and down—you’re possibly even crying, you can’t exactly tell.  

But you can tell of Yongbok’s shouting figure that stomps through–so angry. Angrier than you’ve ever seen before—it’s fucking frightening that you curl up into yourself, hiding yourself from Minho’s frozen touch and his brother’s glare. 

“What the hell are you doing here?!” He snarls. His usually tended hair is in a frenzy, and you notice that he’s not wearing any protective wear. Just a thin sweater and jeans that you’re that do nothing against the freeze. 

Minho doesn’t say a word. His fingers softly press into your burn, trying to cool it before he catches your eyes. His lips tuck themselves in when they notice the streaks of tears that have left their trace on your flushing cheeks.  

“She’d burnt herself.” 

Your friend softens a little, eyes scampering up the two of you. They linger on his brother’s hand on you. You’re so confused but you don’t say a word. You hiccup instead. Yongbok usually so predictable, isn’t so this time as he makes his way to the kitchen. You don’t see him but you know what he is doing—the fridge opening loud and clear. When he comes back into view, he carries a pack of frozen peas.  

“Get out Minho.” He simply says when he’s close enough to the two of you. Minho who makes no effort to move just gazes longingly again at you. There’s blood on his lips now, from his teeth.   

“Alright. Sure.” He rises to his feet, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you, until Yongbok roughly pushes by him, shoving him to the side. You’re reminded of the fight that escaped the two when the blonde came back, and you pray that another brawl doesn’t break out in the middle of your living room. 

You waste your 11:11 wish on it. 

The moment that Minho closes the door behind him, Yongbok bursts into a waterfall of tears. They flush his skin so red, and in shock, you stay silent as he gently places the cold bag on where your skin is about to blister. He wobbles side to side tremendously. 

“Bokk–” 

“What did Minho say to you?” He cries, pulling you close into him. His normally warm skin, comforting and homely is numbing. Sharp.  

“You’re cold Bokkie.”  

“I—really? God, I can’t tell.”  He whines. He then pulls himself off you, and grabs your face, softly knocking his forehead with yours.  

“What—what did—” 

“Just said that you told him to bring more Advil. That’s all. I was the one that let him inside...I—was that a problem?” You let the last part out with a tinge of harshness than you meant but that makes your boy in front of you squeeze his eyes tighter. You can tell that he knew you weren’t telling him the whole truth by the way that he sighs and grips you tighter.  

You don’t want to tell him that it’s bruising.  

“Can I stay the night, please?”  

You don’t answer his question. You give him one of your own. 

“What’s wrong? You need to tell me what’s wrong.” 

His face pales and he burrows his face into the crook of your shoulder, shaking his head. “I can’t. I d—don’t even know myself. I just...” He trails off, obviously deep in thought. “Why weren’t you here yesterday? Or the day before? At nighttime too, do you know how dang—” 

“Did you come by Bokkie? Why didn’t you tell me?”  

His breathing comes out hard and fast and his chest pitter patters on you. He’s starting to shake, and you rub your fingers throughout his back, squeezing at his sides in comfort and in growing irritation.  

“Just where were you?” He sniffs, but he’s demanding too. You heave deeply and you consider telling him about Hyunjin. It’s on your teeth—really, all the sneaking out and kissing. All the secrets, the fear, the tolerance, and the willful ignorance that you’ve given him. You’re rubbing yourself, a habit that you’ve used to calm yourself down. It doesn’t work; the urge just grows strong.  

But the thought of Hyunjin ...Yongbok just can’t know. He can’t know that connection that you and Hyunjin share—fuck.   

From the moment you’ve met him, you’ve noticed that there was a certain buzz that bursts underneath your skin. 

The buzz helps you smile. It helps you dance. What you were lacking before is now suddenly here...you can laugh. There’s no ache in your chest when you do–when you dance the stage away. You have a chance. He gives you that chance.

You need him. You cannot let him slip away, no matter what you do. You live through him—through his kisses. A new exhilaration that you nearly can’t breathe. There’s a growing itch that starts in the back of your throat. You scratch violently at your chest as you stare helplessly at Yongbok.  

Mrs. Choi now offers you a full grin whenever she sees you. You manage to cry to yourself every night. Either in pure happiness or relief, you do not know. You bite your cheeks.

And then Minho’s question from earlier rebounds in your mind shoved down your throat. Yongbok recently has been acting very weird—different almost and you must swallow down the gasp of air that tries to escape—god what do you do? If he tells then what? Tells about Hyunjin? Tells you he’s not good enough–because you can’t bear to weigh that thrashing sense of disappointment from your best friend? You just can’t. No.  

Then your eyes widen. Does Minho know about Hyunjin? Is that what he means?  

Yongbok opens his mouth to say a word, but you beat him to it.  

“Stay the night.”  

“You’ve brought flowers...why?” 

You’ve made a routine. You like routines. They make you feel safe. You adore the way that you can predict when something happens, the way that it thrums in your limbs. So Hyunjin picks you up from your last night's practices again.

Like he’s been doing.

Sometimes he comes back covered in red. It’s his paint—he says. But you know or you think. You like to think that you know. You enjoy his paintings, they’re the new addiction, they give you if not more the addiction that nicotine gave you; you don’t want to give them up. Even though they’re tainted—but that matters the least.  

“My mother. We’re going to go meet her.” You sigh, smiling. His face glinting doesn’t show much but a twitching cheek. He swoops down and steals a kiss from you.

Never too much—but he always manages to deepen it and there’s that rush of blood in your head that makes you lightheaded. You pass by a bus stand. It’s covered in posters, and they all have faces on them. Your fingers linger on them, but you decide to linger your stare on Hyunjin.  

The graveyard is not that far away, but you’re not willing to walk so you’ve brought your car to the studio. Once you both have gotten in, you start the engine.

You snicker when Hyunjin starts to play with the radio, tongue sticking out to find the best channel. His hair is slightly ruffled, and his nose scrunches a little at the cold air. There’s that overwhelming sense of feelings that you feel for him. It’s squeezing your chest so hard that, you’re sure that your heart has been smushed into a pulp. It hurts so good that you must pulse your eyes close for a second. 

You finally back out.  

As you drive off, you pass by the many yet empty homes that are on the way. They are all grieving the warmth that the earth has to offer. And a few of the houses grieve more.  

One of them even holds a funeral. And you know for who. It’s saddening, all the faces that hold remnants of sadness and even anger. There are traces of love and at the same time nothing at all.

You cannot see the body because the car flies by too fast, but you catch the grins of two small children, possibly seven or eight. Surrounded by the sad culture around them, they play and laugh, holding hands and gripping each other.  

You don’t know if you had ever had the chance to do that–be happy and play you mean. Most of your childhood is not remembered on behalf of your sake but there are sudden nauseous waves of nostalgia from time to time. And as if Hyunjin could read your mind, he sighs. 

“Do you remember meeting me before?” 

Snapping your head in shock, you shake your head after a few seconds. “No? Did we meet? I feel like I would’ve remembered that...” 

“Yeah, we did. It was when we were little. You were crying at the park. Crying about someone...” He trails off, obviously trying to offer more. You raise your eyebrows, biting your lips. The park used to be your safe place.

The swings used to give you the comfort that no one did and the mulch that you covered yourself was morbid in the sense where you thought of leaving—sleeping forever. You liked the way that the dirt and tiny pieces of wood hugged you. 

But there’s a distinct memory that you’ve chosen to forget. But it appears in your nightmares, and you have a feeling that you know what Hyunjin is talking about. In where you stand, there was always a boy there too. Ah, you remember it now.  

Yet you don’t pick at it. It’s like a scab; too much picking away even so quickly can let you bleed tremendously. It’s too much to even talk nonetheless think so you slip a little white lie to him.  

“No idea. I do have a memory of a goldfish. Yongbok tells me that.” 

Hyunjin nods but you know that he doesn’t believe you. The rest of the ride is filled with silence and whatever solemn tune Hyunjin had picked. You try not to think too much of the memory that has resurfaced. But there’s that itch again. It’s reoccurring and it’s usually taken care of when Hyunjin’s with you, but it’s slowly making your head spin. 

Thankfully it dwindles down enough when you get to the cemetery. Where the ghosts whistle and pucker their lips to blow, is where it gets colder. Parking and cutting off the engine, you must take a second to shake in your car. Hyunjin who seems to understand, slings his hand over yours and shoots a blinding smile. You furrow your brows. And you try not to frown while you’re at it.  

Hyunjin taking the initiative, climbs out and treks his way to your side. He opens the door and puts his hand out for you to take, which you gladly accept. Hyunjin gently pulls you out.  

And you’re outside. Vulnerable to the slaps of the cold. And the stinging snow. And soon your mother. You’ve always grown restless around this time of the year. Nights filled with thrashing and nightmares. Hallucinations of your mother and father, whispering, talking, crying. That was all. Yongbok knows most but not how deep it penetrates you.  

Your father is not here, though. So, you’re faced with your Eomma. And you can almost feel her in your bones when you creak open the gate. You haven’t been here in years. You’re scared of her voice that follows. 

‘My sweet darling...I’m so sorry’ 

You try not to whip your head to Hyunjin to see if he heard it too, but from the looks of it, he hasn’t, and you swallow down an onslaught of tears and a growing fear. Her grave is weathered and unkept from the lack of visitors. Kneeling with Hyunjin right beside you, his warmth letting your shaky hands place the flowers down, you brush your fingers over her name. Her name...glares brightly at you.  

“I promise. I’m so sorry.”  

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until Hyunjin’s soft hands wipe away the pearls that fall. You have to choke back a sob, but Hyunjin understands what you want. He points at the gate. “I’ll go wait over there, take your time.”

He kisses your temple and gets up. You have to stop yourself from reaching out to him, to beg him to take you with him but you don’t say anything. You just shut up and sigh, trembling when the white mist follows.  

“I—I don’t expect anything...but please. Just—fuck—Iet me live. Peacefully?” 

You wait and not in hope but in knowing.  

“I’m so sorry, baby. Oh sweetie, I shouldn’t have left you alone, should I. Please forgive your old Eomma. I...I know that you think I wasn’t there that night, but I was. I’m so proud of you...I regret it so much.” 

This is why you don’t come to visit her anymore. Her whispers sheath into you like knives. Her murmurs pain you to no extent. Her promises start your heart to race. You know that she regrets it. She too was like you, full of the love of dance. But she’s succumbed to the ground below and heaven’s arms calling for her. You have no idea if you hate her for it or not.   

“You promised, Eomma! You said you would come!”  

“Oh gosh, I know. But just...don’t fall in too deep, okay? And if you do—I know you are, don’t worry your Eomma will be right here? I won’t hate you. I don’t, no not at all.”  

There’s a soft kiss, right at the top of your head. You know it’s her, and so you let yourself yield to her, your hands slowly heaping the snow onto yourself for an attempt at an embrace. It’s depressing you know, but you try. You really do. 

“Will you be here this time?” You ask, voice cracking into the air. But there’s no response. So, you ask it again. And once more, before the snapping of a twig has you delirious—desperate. When you look over to Hyunjin, that itch comes back again, and your heart aches. So, you kiss your mother goodbye and call him over.  

“Are you rea–” 

“Hyunjin promise me something.”  

He widens his eyes and nods. Taking his cold hands, you cup them over your face.  

“Promise me you’ll be there next week? To watch me?” 

The small tutu you have on flounces as you bounce around your poor mother, who sits on the floor and claps her hands. She sings a small tune—a game that you two have been playing since you were just starting to walk.  

The tinges of cracked and red lips, tinged with blue and purple don’t accompany her kiss to your cheek. Your hair in pigtails, flaps around you and you giggle when it softly slaps you. The roaring voice of your father telling you to shut up falls on deaf ears. Ten and thriving, his voice was nothing next to your mother’s sweet, honeyed ones which shush you gently. 

You nod and land on the floor next to her. The sun thrives in love and smiles at you two. “Eomma... will you be coming? You’ll be coming right?” You nuzzle your head into her neck, minding the red handprints around it and wrapping your arms around her. There’s a sinking feeling that has been treading in your chest and you don’t know why.  

All you want to do is hug your Eomma and shield her away. You want to protect her.  

Her smile filled with warmth doesn’t reach her eyes—instead, they flicker to the heavy crashing from the room next door. She gives a moment to her own photographs up on the walls, of her dancing brightly. She relishes in something that you cannot recognize so you stare curiously at her. Her fingers dance lightly on your skin, cup your face. 

“Of course I will, but you go ahead, okay? Go ahead with Yongbokkie and his parents, I’ve already told them–” 

“You’re not coming now with me? What if you miss my dance?”  

She laughs and hugs you tighter, “I have some work to take care of with your Appa, I’ll come on time to watch you dance, okay?” 

You huff but you cannot have it in yourself to be mad at your mom. You wonder what work; your parents must do but you suppose it’s too much for your small brain to handle. It must be important though—yes. But... 

“But I hate Minho he’s so weird he keeps showing me his dead rats' collection!” You whine, but you quickly shush yourself up in habit. Yet you still pout and cry silently. And she giggles—that's what you were hoping for. She’s been too sad recently, too caught up. You want to make your mother smile like she used to.

How she used to before she married your father and had you–like how she does in her old pictures. So beautiful and young. You want that.  

You're hoping that your dancing does that. When she sees you, she smiles and thinks of herself. You’re doing this for her–you hate ballet really. It’s too tiring. It hurts you. But she always grins when you come back home and you’re all sweaty.

And she cries when you show her the new moves that you’ve learned, even the ones that you hate, and oh she laughs when you mess up and she shows you how to really do it, her graceful stance so ethereal and blinding.  

That’s why you want her to come. To escape. 

So, when it all quiets down and she’s back in her own thoughts, where she’s massaging and wincing at the red on her body, you whisper to her. 

“Promise me you will come?” She stops. And she stares.  

“I promise.”  

The “scouting shows” are disguised underneath performances for everyone—like a talent show. For such cold weather, seats fill up fast from the lack of entertainment in this town. Everyone is here to distract themselves from something—anything. From boredom, from the snow, from the deaths, from the grief. Anything.  

And as they wait in anticipation, your breathing keeps getting stuck in your throat and for a few beats in a minute, the life of you slowly gets strangled out. Your fingers squeeze and unravel, and your feet squirm from where you sit on the floor.

The sounds of the world bleed in through the room that you’re in and you must wrack your fingers on the floor for a bit of comfort that you try to offer yourself. You grab your phone to call Yongbok, but you remember that he was busy today, when you asked him to come, he politely declined in a distressed voice.  

You sigh in disappointment.  

“(Y/n) few more minutes alright?” One of the stage crew comes in and grants you a charming smile that waters into pity at the way that you shake and nod. He closes the door behind him, and you’re left waiting either for your doom or for the future that you deserve.  

You know that you deserve it...right? Right? Why wouldn’t you deserve it— 

The wishes of making it to the big stage...the wishes that your mother had...the prays, the sacrifices. The saliva that dripped down your lips when you had grown too tired–all that waste of breath god, and the aches that followed you deep into the night where they haunted your sleep, and the blood that stains the floor that you’ve walked—it comes down to now.  

You suddenly have the urge to retch up your stomach.  

Pushing yourself up slowly, painfully, you clumsily fidget on your feet, wishing for the floor to eat you alive and spit you back into Hyunjin’s arms...Hyunjin he would be here today. He swore. He gave his pinky to you.  

At the thought of him, your teeth relax from the constant attack they give your lips. Wiping at them, you clamber out of the room and take in the environment around you. Past you runs a small little girl. You swallow thickly watching her prance. The itch returns deep in your belly.  

“Ready? You’re going to do great. I believe in you–you’ve improved so much. I wonder why.”  You don’t tell Mrs. Choi (who pops out of nowhere that you know the answer to her ponder, so you let her take your hands in hers. Her weathered ones feel nothing more than discomfort against yours, especially at the way that they knob and grip your fingers, but you have no choice but to sigh and flash her a grin. “Yes. I believe.”  

Frail and weak, she stumbles over the floorboards backstage, but it does not stop her in the pursuit of pushing you to the stage where the lights are dimmed, and the curtains are closed.

The voices behind the ruby-red cloth, make you question if Hyunjin’s down there waiting for you. And upon any of the distinct conservations that you’ve picked up on is him. Is he excited? You hope so. You’re performing for your mother. Him. And lastly for yourself.  

“You’ll make it big. You’ll leave me behind, I know it. I hope you do. Promise me.” 

You smile. Laugh even, when Mrs. Choi gives you a funny look, but she pats you down and trails her finger down the expanse of your back, straightening you out. It’s cold. It stings, as if her nail penetrates your skin and you imagine blood staining your flesh. You close your eyes and breathe.  

Your body moves before you even realize it. It’s in tune with the music that plays. The notes that flood the air, guide your hands here. And there. And your legs too—they bounce and twist and flounce and spin—

You cannot find Hyunjin.  

You easily find the scouts, they’re all maddening and intense. You see the group of teenagers watching in boredom, dragged along with their parents to watch their younger sibling’s recitals. You spot the old man at the corner shop, mouth quirking up and down. And you find...and you find...and you find...but you cannot uncover Hyunjin. His familiar long black hair is not there. Nor is a comforting smile. And his shining eyes. 

You miss a beat. Missed it by a few seconds too late.  

The crowd doesn’t notice but you’re sure that Mrs. Choi does. Her piercing stare is on you—but! you can’t find in yourself to care. The scouts take the point of it too, their cruel and cold eyes not accepting an ounce of mercy for a poor, poor girl who cannot find her lover—her Hyunjin! 

Oh. Oh.  

Hyunjin...had broken his promise. Like your mother... 

The house is dark when you trek back to it. The cold dries your tears, and it pricks your little cheeks as they puff and huff, hiccupping from the sadness that consumes your heart. Your mother was not there to watch you. You wish she was, and a bit of anger ignites within you—you did all of this for her! 

You did not like Yongbokkie’s mom’s smiles of sympathy or his father’s pats that say more than he wants or even your best friend’s warm hug. You just wanted your mommy. 

The door to your surprise is open. It creaks as you push against it lightly and you carefully tread in with your trophy in hand. Your father is nowhere to be seen. And neither is your mother.  

Your stomach drops at the silence. No yelling. At all–where was everyone? 

Closing the door behind you, you make your way to your parent’s shared room. Maybe they were tired enough to go to sleep early. You can forgive them if that’s why. You’ll just drag your mother to your room and have her hug you tight. You’ll just have her kiss you softly and let her sing you a song as she rocks you to sleep.  

You’ll just have her love you. 

But there’s no chance to do that. Because the bedroom door opened wide ajar, holding your mother’s hanging body from the ceiling.  

You stumble. You fall. You fall hard on the stage, and you gasp so loud that it blankets the other chokes that echo. Your promise... 

You scramble off from where you are and into the comfort of backstage where the curious and ugly eyes stop following you. You don’t stop running until you find a room to lock yourself in and when you do, you slam the door hard. 

Fuck what did you do?! 

Tangling your fingers in your hair, you tug yourself back into the wood behind you. You want to feel the blood of your mistakes everywhere, so you do it until stars fill your vision and you must land on the floor at the way that the room spins. You gag.  

“(Y/n) open this goddamn door right now!” The pummeling of a fist–Mrs. Choi’s fist is starting to become clearer–it’s fucking annoying. Her screams and shouts are squeezing your stomach, twisting until you can feel the bile burn through your tongue.

Added to the anger of a promise and the death of who you were supposed to be, you swing the door open and pull the old lady inside. Harsh. 

Yet it doesn’t waver her one bit as her palm contacts your cheek. Harsh.  

And then everything freezes and you’re staring at her with widened eyes and your lips parted in shock. You grip onto her arm tighter, and she shakes it off with disgust rolling in waves. 

“You bitch! What we're doing there out there, huh?! Are you stupid?” She jabs her pointer finger at your forehead, hard enough for you to take a step back. You scratch your arm enough that that it bleeds, collecting underneath your fingertips.  

At no response, she grows angrier, and she slaps you again and grips your wrist, her nails sinking into your skin. You quiver. It hurts. And you’re taken back to your Appa. At the way that he hurt you—ripping your flesh with his limbs and strong pelts. It’s too strong, his presence and you’re choking, you cannot breathe. You can feel his lashes at you, the screaming of disgust and revolt turned towards you after your mother got her fair beatings. 

Too much. You see him. He haunts you. You just want him to go away. Your vision blinks–you blank and you can feel something wet on you—it’s warm. Your tears.  

The grip on you loosens and you wrench your arm away to wipe away at the face—you refuse to show how much she(he) affects you. But as you pull your hand back, your hand is stained red. 

Red. You look down. Your pink leotard–so innocent, so pure. Is red.

Your other hand encloses against something, something you’ve just realized that you’ve been holding. As you pull it out, Mrs. Choi gasps—blubbers as her own hands shoot to her neck. The strong smell of metal invades your senses, staining the air along with the old woman’s smothering cries.

Using your body, you push her against the wall where she thuds. Terror flits in her eyes, but you press your palm against her mouth, squeezing it until she shuts up.  

You hold a black pen. And you use it again. In fluid motion.  

Relief floods.  

Floods as you watch her life being taken away from her, the way that she twitches and squirms, and the way that blood gurgles through her lips. You push harder. And harder. Until she stops. Until her chest stops moving and her feet stop thrashing. Until her arms stop pushing against you. Until you hear her last breath. The itching stops. Finally.  

You slowly lay her down and grab a yoga mat from the corner of the room and put her on it. Carefully, you roll her up in it, the blue mat reeking with red once you're done. As you drag the body-covered mat and stack it like it was never moved, you pass by a mirror.  

You don’t dare to look at it. But you know that you’re satisfied in a way. He’s gone. She’s gone. And you’re fucked. 

When you make your way outside, not bothering to clean up the bloody mess that you made, the snow showers you. The cold doesn’t sting like it usually does as your flats drag you through sluggishly. You’re tired and all you want to do is to go to take a hot shower and go to sleep. 

Hyunjin can wait later, you know that you’ll scold him for his disappearance but in the end, you’ll be in his arms, begging for his comfort. Maybe you’ll throw in a joke about how much he’d rubbed off on you.  

The ten-minute walk lets you ponder about what you should do now. What is to happen in your future, can you try again next time? Will the scouts give you another chance? Huffing, you rub your arms to trap some heat in you–you’re starting to regret not bringing in a jacket. It’s okay. You’re okay. Yes...everything is okay. 

In the distance as you near your house, someone is banging on the door, furiously. Their body slams against it and you can see them wail and cry. Their blonde hair shakes side to side angrily and you pause for a second to observe.  

Yongbok slides against the door. He looks red and blue—the cold catching up to him as he hyperventilates. You start to worry. 

“Yongbok! What happened? Are you okay?”  

You start jogging or rather try to (the snow escapes into your shoes, slowing down) as the blonde shoots up, looking for you through the haze of the blizzard. And when you’re finally close enough, his eased face turns into horror. 

“Jesus! What happened to you?!”  

His eyes travel down to your stomach where all the red resides and you shrug, shaking your head. “I’ll tell you when we get inside...it’s cold. Why are you here anyway?”  

Your friend instead of nodding dismisses your question as he starts to sob, startling you. “Did—did he get to you, fuck! (Y/n)! You’re hurt!” 

You stop. “Who—who got to me? And no, I’m not hurt I just—”  

Someone screams from the distance, the voice too familiar as your eyes widen and you see your friend stop breathing, his eyes squeezing as he falls back against your house. “Yongbok, you bastard! I’m gonna fucking kill you...” 

“Bok–” 

“We need to go inside now.” He cuts you, grabbing you by the arm as you try to get your keys...but— 

“Yongbok.” You rasp. “I forgot my keys.”  

“Fuck.” His face goes pale, and his body starts racking with heavy sobs. “I’m so sorry (Y/n), I tried to stop him—” He gasps when the snow crunches underneath leisurely paces.  A figure comes into view, stalking heavily as their eyes grow with anger, zeroing in on you and Yongbok. But his lips curve into a dangerous grin. Minho just laughs when Yongbok throws himself against your door, obviously trying to break it open. 

You don’t question him at all, and a sense of dread fills you. Grabbing a nearby pot from a dead plant, you slam it on your lock as hard as you can, and with a combined push from the blonde after a few tries, the door swings open.  

Minho drags himself against your wooden stairs.  

Yongbok grabbing you by your waist, pulls you in and shoves you inside, knocking the wind out of you as you hit the wall, and you gasp as he thrusts the door shut. But Minho is too fast—he shoots out his foot, blocking the entrance from closing and he grabs his brother by the throat, slamming him down to the ground. 

“What the hell Minho!” You scream, tugging at him to release Yongbok. But it’s in vain as the older man pushes you to the floor. He squeezes Yongbok’s neck tighter aided with unexplainable fury in his veins. He gasps for air. Like a fish.  

“He had it coming for him...I told him to—I told him to stay far away from you. And this bastard—” He grunts when his brother tries to kick at him. “And this bastard came back, idiot.” He laughs when Yongbok shakes his head, tears flowing freely as he fights for his life. 

And all you see is him again. Your father. And your mother. Scampering to the kitchen, you grab a large kitchen knife and stumble against the floor towards Minho. Yongbok’s strangled howl alerts Minho who grabs your wrists trying to stop you from stabbing him and in his distracted attempt, the blonde leans up and scratches at his brother, squirming away from his grasp.  

But it’s too late because Minho redirects the knife into him. Into Yongbok.  

You freeze in shock.

And Minho lets go giggling. He leans back. You stare at Yongbok’s arms going limp. And the way that the blood courses onto you... 

You killed him. You fucking killed him.  

You scuttle back like a cockroach. “I—I—” 

“It’s ok (Y/n)! It isn’t your fault, it’s his. He had it coming anyway. Told him that if he wanted to live, he had to stay faaar away from you. Didn’t listen, did he? He was always too close to you and told me that you were too good for me.” He shrugs. “I did what I had to do. You always belonged to me.”  

Your eyes shoot up to his in fright. “What—what do you mean I belong with you?”  

He doesn’t respond but instead, he tries to crawl towards you. But you don’t let him as you throw a fallen pillow at him. He stiffens.   

Your waterline wells with tears. “You’re a sick psycho! I don’t—I don’t...” You cry, choking on your own words, too confused and exhausted to continue them. He furrows his brows, and a rich laugh emits from the bottom of his chest. You just sob more, wiping your bloodied hands on the floor.  

“I’m the psycho? Okay sure I am but...you’re one to talk (Y/n), you killed someone too, didn’t you?” He gives you a pause, a grin growing when you shake your head. “Who was your latest victim anyways (Y/n)?”  

“Latest victim... what do you mean? I—I just—Mrs. Choi.” You whisper and the weight of your actions from before dawn upon you. Holy fuck. What did you do?  

“She was hurting me!” You shriek, grabbing your hair, and pulling on it in anger. You don’t notice Minho proximity as he coos at you and hugs you close to him. He’s cold. And he smells of death. “Aww, it’s okay. Shh, it’ll be alright.” He rubs your hair and adds, “We belong together (Y/n), you’re just like me...Yongbok never deserved you.”  

You shake your head and try to move away but he just hugs you tighter. It’s suffocating. “I don’t know wha—what you mean...?” You mutter. 

His cheeks light up with red and he presses a chaste kiss on your forehead. You recoil, sickened. “Do you think Yongbok would’ve accepted you as who you are? Would you trust him to not rat you out as the person that you are? He’s too much of a goody-two-shoes, he wouldn’t understand the both of us.” 

He then cups your face and forces you to look at him. He flicks your nose when you close your eyes and wail softly. “You know I was the one that cleaned up after you so you wouldn’t be caught? Are you proud of me? I am sooo proud of you. Don’t worry about Mrs. Choi or Yongbok, I’ll clean them up too and...and you can finally move in with me!” 

“What messes?” You weakly ask but you hold your breath at the way that Minho’s face flickers with confusion.

“The bodies. The ones you’ve killed.”  

Bodies? Killed? Who...You stop moving, your heart in your chest. You could feel it on your tongue from how hard it was beating—Jiwon. 

“I didn’t kill them. What—what are you talking about? I—that was Hyunjin!” 

Minho’s eyes narrow at the name of another man. “Who is Hyunjin?” 

“He killed them! Not me! Not me! I—he’s here! He lives here! I swear!” 

Minho pauses and stares into your eyes. “There's no one named Hyunjin” 

"No! There is! He lives by the house—by the house near the woods, you know near the Church and there's that big tree hanging over it, it—"

"What big tree—(Y/n) do you remember they knocked down all of the houses near the woods? Who the fuck is Hyunjin?"

And your whole world shatters.  

A swamp of memories throws you into a whirlpool, memories that crash in front of you. All the blood, the screaming, all the tears. All the red that you’ve been seeing–the itches and their soothing, have all been you. 

You’re not sure what happens next, except for Minho’s excited rambling of how you can trust him! Of how he’s the perfect one for you because he knows what you feel, what you are. He holds your hands and whispers sweet nothings to you. He talks about the itch and how it only goes away after he kills someone. And you just sit there, eyes glazed with the scrambling past trying to catch up with it. 

Minho explains that Yongbok had left in fear for his life after he threatened him because Yongbok was too close to you but had come back for you after he heard about the slaughtering of women in the town over—he knew that it was his brother committing all the murder.  

And he talks on and on about how much he loves you, an obsession that came out of nowhere, and how hard it was to repress his feelings towards you. And just how fucking happy he is right now and that you could get married and you’re just going to feel so fucking loved. And loved. And loved.  

Minho is so obsessed with you while you’re so obsessed with the idea of Hyunjin who doesn’t even— 

Before you even know it, you reach over to Yongbok and grab the knife. And you skewer the man against you with it. You tune out his sudden gasp of surprise and do it again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. 

He tries to fight but the rage in you knocks him on his back and by the hilt, shove it into his chest by pressing your palm against the black handle. You don’t stop until you hear it crack–hear his body crack. 

There are two dead bodies in your living room. And much more in fields around you from where you’ve buried them. The young girls and women stripped away from a life—because of you.  

And not because of Hyunjin. Hyunjin is you.  

You get up and grab a cigarette, lighting it up. In the mirror, you see your window. And in the park through that window, you two little kids. A girl and a boy. One of them cries and the other comforts. You know what he is saying to the little, sad girl. And he offers her something.

A tiny pocketknife. And you can see it clearly—the way that the girl with newfound confidence treks down. And you see her enter the house, and watch her father, sleep soundly against the couch—yes you can see him now.  

The way he snores innocently as if he didn’t kill her mother. You watch curiously as she peers over at him, and pulls out the small object that the sweet, sweet boy gave her. She looks at the playground one more time and stares at it before she swiftly lets the blade slide against her father’s throat. Her Appa’s throat. 

Your Appa’s throat.  

Yes...the itch is gone. 

In the corner of your eye as you release smoke you see a figure smoothly tread towards where you stand. His light fingers and face–painted by the gods trail over you and your ruined leotard, tights, and ballet slippers. The pads of his fingers stop where blood is splattered on your face, and he wipes it away before pulling you into a kiss.  

Hyunjin is sweet. And when he parts you give him a big, watery smile.

“Why weren’t you here today? You broke your promise.” 

He gives you an apologetic frown and embraces you close, rocking you back and forth. “I’m sorry. I know you were great.” 

“No... I messed up. I... I think I made my mom sad. I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be.” He softly chuckles, “What? Famous right? She wanted you to be famous?” You nod and kick at his feet, like a dejected puppy. “Mmm, wanted the whole wide world to know me.”  

Hyunjin nods and sighs. “You know you still can make her happy. I know how to.” 

You perk up, “Really?” 

“Yeah.” He reaches for the landline and hands it to you. “Call the police and tell them what you did. What you've been doing. And then...” He grabs your hand and clasps it close to himself. “Join your Eomma and your friend, Yongbok.” 

‘Let the people know who you are past your small town, let them seek praise from your grace and beauty of how you dominate the stage. Have them inspired by who you are, the determination that you sweat and the drool that you seep through your bitten lips, hungry, ravenous to dance.’  

You get what he means. If you can’t be known through your dance, then you can through other ways. It’s okay. You were never really a dancer. You hated to dance. It never got the itch away. The blood did. And you just didn’t notice.  

Grabbing the phone from him, you let out a shaky breath and did what he had told you to. You tell the operator your address and what you did, “I killed them. All them.”, and hang up the phone, throwing it away. It lands in Minho’s blood. 

Then you walk to your room and look at the ballerina box one more time.  

You notice that you left it open yesterday, exposing the inner flesh of the plastic box–exposing the small disfigured, grotesque ballerina that stands in a gnarly stance that you’ve never performed in your life.  

It was a stupid gift from your late mother that was given to her by her grandmother. Your mother was an aspiring dancer just like you when she was younger. Yet she was hung from the rope of hopes and dreams, forced onto a noose by your extremely dunderhead of a father, who went missing, leaving you behind. That’s all you know of her. And of him. A died dream. 

When you come back to the living room, Hyunjin is gone. He doesn’t exist. You can hear the police sirens in the background, and you sigh, taking one last hit from the smoke. You wretch the knife away from Minho and direct your attention to Yongbok. Lifeless on the floor. 

Oh, your poor Bokkie... 

He was just looking out for you. And you decide that if you were going to die, then you would do it with his arms around you. Like he would when you would when you had a nightmare. His broad chest up against your back and his kind and gentle words that he would whisper into your ears when you would cry.  

Laying down next to him, you stare at the ceiling. The knife dances along your throat and you press down gently enough for it to sting.  

All you wanted to do is take a nap anyways. 

So, you do.