#Time to scrap the old sketch and try again

[d1sapp01ntm3nt]

I know I said I’d make a Dr. Rab ref sheet a while ago but gave up but I’m lowkey gonna try now. I’m feeling oddly motivated and I haven’t drawn him in so long

[padawan-snack-packer]

Don't imagine Rex quietly fixing a younger clone’s armor after hours, muttering, "you gotta take better care of yourself, kid," while he polishes each scratch like it’s sacred.

Don't imagine Fives trying to teach shinies how to play cards, cheating outrageously so they win, whooping and hollering like they’re champions of the galaxy, and slipping a few credits into their pockets when no one's looking.

Don't imagine Cody staying up all night after a tough battle because he's personally stitching medals of bravery into the empty bunks of fallen troopers, so when they’re remembered, they’re remembered right.

Don't imagine Hardcase giving away his dessert rations to any clone who looks even remotely sad, acting like it’s a prank or a dare so no one knows he’s doing it out of love.

Don't imagine Echo re-learning how to shoot left-handed after his injury, stubbornly, painstakingly, so he can teach other injured clones that they’re not broken — just different.

Don't imagine Jesse carving tiny little messages into the walls of every base they’re stationed at. Messages like "501st were here. We fought. We lived." like he's trying to leave proof they mattered.

Don't imagine Dogma leaving tiny notes in people's lockers that just say "you’re doing good." "you’re brave." "I believe in you." — and then feeling too shy to admit it was him.

Don't imagine Wolffe pretending to be annoyed when Boost and Sinker sneak stray animals into the barracks, but secretly building a little hidden shelter for them behind the hangar.

Don't imagine Kix memorizing the medical charts of every single brother in his battalion — birthdays, allergies, old injuries — because he doesn’t trust the GAR systems to care enough (and he's 30000% right).

Don't imagine Tup tending to a tiny makeshift garden in the middle of a warzone with whatever seeds and scraps he can find, because "something’s gotta grow, sir."

Don't imagine Rex carrying every goodbye letters and notes he never got to say or give tucked in the seams of his armor or in a chest under his bed — every brother he couldn’t save, every friend he couldn’t reach — and still standing up the next morning because someone has to lead, and if not him, then who?

Don't imagine Waxer carrying around a crumpled, dirty drawing of Numa from Ryloth in a hidden pocket inside his armor, smoothing it out and smiling every time he feels like the war is eating him alive.

Don't imagine Boil pretending to grumble about it but secretly checking the drawing too, mouthing, "stay safe, little one," before every mission because part of his heart never left Ryloth.

Don't imagine Bly sketching little comic strips in the margins of his field reports to make Aayla laugh during debriefings — and still carrying the last one he never got to show her, tucked inside his chest plate.

Don't imagine Colt teaching his new ARC trainees how to properly tie a tourniquet and lecturing them seriously, but at the end quietly handing each of them a little lucky charm, like an old Republic credit or a braided cord, "for good luck, kid."

Don't imagine Appo still wearing a piece of Fives' blue paint on his armor as a "tradition" without telling anyone where it came from or why it matters so much.

Don't imagine Fox locking himself in his office after long shifts guarding Coruscant because he can’t stand seeing the brothers’ faces when they look at him like he’s a stranger now — so he sits in the dark and listens to the old 501st comms chatter recordings, just to feel something again.

Don't imagine Jesse and Kix starting a stupid prank war in the barracks where they replace each other's ration packs with terrible "mystery meat," laughing until Rex threatens to demote them — but Kix sneaks Rex a spiked caf packet later as revenge.

Don't imagine Tup painting tiny flowers on the inside of his helmet where no one can see them, tiny bursts of color against the cold plastoid — because he wants to carry beauty into battle even if no one else knows.

Don't imagine Dogma standing at the memorial wall and reading every single name out loud, even the ones he never knew, because he thinks someone should.

Don't imagine Waxer and Boil talking about "after the war" plans, like opening a repair shop on Ryloth, taking in lost kids, making sure no one else has to grow up the way they did — and laughing about it like it could actually happen.

Don't imagine Fives pulling a prank so chaotic that even Rex laughs — real, loud, helpless laughter — and Fives looking absolutely stunned before grinning like he'd just been handed the whole galaxy.

Don't imagine Rex tracing the scars on his hands sometimes without realizing, as if he’s trying to memorize every mistake, every battle, every time he almost didn’t make it — and then closing his fist around them like a promise to keep going.

Don't imagine Kix secretly saving every "thank you" note the boys have ever given him — crumpled sticky notes, bad handwriting, a piece of torn armor that just says "thanks doc" — tucked into his med kit like the most valuable supplies he owns.

[moraxine]

Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

i.

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.

[enjakey]

Light Switch in the Dark

Or, the train to Paris that led to Shanghai

Pairing: architect!Sunghoon x author!fem!reader

TWN | (30k) | strangers to lovers, right person wrong time | a single perfect night could change the course of everything | so much yearning | angst, suicide, blood, mental health issues, loneliness, loss of partners, reader gets Alzheimer’s | not your average happy story and very sad ending ig | written into five distinct parts, each framing a significant point in their lives | heavily inspired by HIMYM and Grey's Anatomy and this reel.

Summary: two strangers travelling on the same path with different journeys in mind meet on a train to France. They spend a night of adventure, only to part ways the next morning. A decade later, they cross paths again in a book store in Shanghai. They’re both different people now, obviously, with so much life under their belts- success, loss, age. But the spark of the train still flickered between them. Did that mean the pair would live happily ever after or would they still have to struggle the curveballs thrown at them- Alzheimer’s, depression and utter fear of mortality?

i. The Train to France

The train was part of an old European railway network- one that spanned four countries, took three days, and moved like it was in no rush to arrive. Neither were the passengers. Most people opted for this train because it was slow and tranquil, because it was built for expansive journeys and for people that wanted a break, an escape from their lives.

Outside the window, the world blurred in gentle motion. Some places looked untouched with rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers, sleepy cottages tucked into hillsides and rivers that stitched their way across valleys like threads of silver. Occasionally, the train slipped by cities, glass buildings flickering in the reflection of early afternoon sun or passed small towns where the houses were still painted in vibrant pinks and yellows and bougainvillea grew like wild weed. Sometimes, the train passed through forgotten stations where no one ever boarded and no one wanted to get off.

Inside the train, things were quiet. It wasn’t the quiet that hushed like peace but the kind that vibrated with restrained life. Babies cooed or cried in soft bursts, children were coaxed to sleep, tourists tried to speak over headphone wires to gesture at maps (that were far beyond folding back) with crooked fingers and somewhere in the coach, there was an old married couple who started off with affectionate intent but ended up in an argument their son was trying to fix. There was also an old man with wiry hair that was asleep, his walking stick clutched between his knees like a weapon- so one saw him eat or drink water or even wake up, but the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated his life.

There were families with matching suitcases, travel groups with heavy coats and light eyes and lovers who couldn’t stop touching each other and then there were people like Y/N who boarded in Istanbul alone and waited for their destination in France alone.

She sat by the window with a modest stack of books beside her- books she tended to read again and books she had never read before, waiting to be explored. She told herself that in the three day train ride, she would finish reading them- but honestly, she was far from it. Some were underlined and dog-eared, others held paper scraps as bookmarks that no longer made sense. It was easy to get distracted in that train, as surprising as it was. Watching the scenery would immediately have her hand itching towards her pen to fill her notebook- her notebook that now lay open in front of her, nearly every page covered in scattered handwriting and ink-smudged sketches of things she noticed. People, trees, buildings, the flow of the rivers. And not all the words in her notebook made sense. Some were quotes she found and forgot to cite, some were just scribbles that looked like Russian cursive- absentminded movements of a restless hand.

There was an empty coffee cup tipped slightly on its side, leaving a pale brown ring on the edge of a page. When she grew bored of writing or reading, Y/N dipped her fingertips into the puddled remains of it, painting quick strokes in the margins- little trees, the silhouette of a bird mid-flight, a sketch of a mountain that might have been a memory or a dream.

That was all she really did in the first two days of the trip- read, wrote, watched the world move backwards from the glass. Sometimes, she liked to pretend like she was leaving things behind to start a new life, to create a new identity as the eccentric traveler. But Y/N could never be that- she was too quiet, too grounded into her reality. And perhaps, that was where her loneliness stemmed from. She felt lonely- not in the heavy, aching sense that people seemed to love succumbing to. This was the loneliness she had grown immune to- a dull companion that hummed in the background but never really asked for attention. 

Now, at twenty-five, Y/N was content with it. She grew accustomed to the quiet. She liked that her days were filled with Greek and Latin literature and academia while her nights were stolen by books and philosophical texts to analyse. She liked that she needed no one- this was enough.

Outside, the sky had begun to change- the golden wash of the late afternoon slipped into a cooler blue, edges softened by lavender. Towns gave way to sharper silhouettes of buildings and the world wasn’t moving backwards anymore, slowly catching up to Y/N’s pace. The train began to slow down as it curved the edges of a waking city.

Y/N looked up as the wheels beneath her softened into a screeching halt. The platform signs were in German now. People were beginning to stir, stretch and gather their things- people who left were replaced by new passengers. Her fingers were still damp with coffee. She wiped them on the inside of her sleeve and closed her notebook with a sigh, head leaning against the window again.

Zurich.

She wasn’t getting off here, but the brief lull in motion always felt significant- like the story might shift if you paid close enough attention.

And it did.

Because somewhere amidst the movement of passengers, the hiss of doors, and the tired shuffle of new bodies settling into old seats, someone slipped into the space across from her. No suitcase, no coat- ust a tall cup of coffee, a phone, and a man with dark eyes and an expression that said very little.

He didn’t ask if the seat was taken- he didn’t need to. For the first time since Y/N got on the train, the seat across from her had been claimed. It was out of pure luck, she thought, that no one wanted to occupy it- there were either enough seats or not enough passengers. Perhaps, this time, it was that there were no more seats left to occupy but the seat in front of her.

The man just looked at her, nodded once like they were already acquainted and turned to face the window. And just like that, the table she had thought was hers alone- her sanctuary of scribbles and silence- was now shared. And Y/N, for the first time in two days, found herself watching something other than the world outside.

Y/N tried not to stare, she really did. 

But there was something curious about him- this stranger who came bearing nothing but a steaming drink and a phone he hadn’t looked at once since sitting down. He leaned back against the seat like he’d done this before, like he belonged to this train more than the tracks did. His eyes moved slowly across the scenery as if he were trying to memorize the shapes of things. He looked so fresh, so bright despite the scowl look of his resting face- sharp eyes and eyebrows, a clenched jaw.

He didn’t look out of place. But he definitely didn’t look like he was a local either. His hoodie, navy in color and looking stiff, gave it away- it was brand new, most likely bought in account for a trip.

She returned to her notebook, flipping to a clean page. The tips of her fingers were still stained with coffee. Without thinking, she began painting again- small birds, crooked rooftops, the tracks the very train moved on.

He noticed.

“You draw with coffee?” he asked, his voice low, lined with amusement.

Y/N blinked. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her on this train. She glanced up. “Only when I run out of ink.” It felt new to even be talking. It felt like she hadn’t heard her own voice in eternity- she almost sounded foreign to herself.

He smiled at that, and it softened him. “Seems inefficient.”

“Only slightly,” she said. “But I like the color. Feels more honest than black ink.”

He nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee. “That’s poetic.”

“I’m a writer,” she said, as if it explained everything.

“Ah,” he gestured to the pile of books beside her. “I figured you were either that or a librarian on the run.”

A small laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Depends. Did you commit a literary crime?”

She leaned forward slightly, propping her chin on her hand. “I guess I stole too many endings that weren’t mine.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of interest deeper than casual banter. “Then maybe we’re both criminals.”

She raised a brow. “You’re a writer too?”

He shook his head. “Architect. I steal pieces of cities and try to turn them into buildings.”

“That sounds noble,” she said, tilting her head. “Or maybe romantic.”

“It’s mostly just paperwork and disappointment,” he admitted. “But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to build something that stays.”

Y/N fell quiet at that, because she knew exactly what he meant.

“So,” he said, tapping his cup lightly against the table, “how does this work? Do we exchange names now, or do we pretend we’re ghosts passing through each other’s lives?”

She studied him a moment longer, then extended her hand across the table.

“Y/N.”

He took it, his grip warm and firm. “Sunghoon.”

And just like that, the train began to move again, slowly at first, then with a growing rhythm.

The scenery shifted once more. But the air between them was different now- thinner, sparking. Something had changed. Not loudly, not all at once. But enough for Y/N to realize that loneliness had finally taken a step back. And someone else had taken its seat.

The train hummed like a lullaby beneath their feet as Europe unfolded around them under moonlight. Seats hummed with quiet life, arranged in open clusters with personal tables- no compartments, no doors to close behind. Just people and stories and the soft flicker of overhead lights as the train curved gently around valleys and mountains alike. In the corner of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, listening to each other share life stories- two attractive strangers, staring into each other's eyes like this was permanent. 

Y/N told him about her degree in Greek literature and how her parents were against it when she first announced her decision. Their distaste towards her academic goal was understandable- what kind of living would their daughter make out of such a fickle degree? And truth be told, Y/N was struggling. After graduating, she barely made a living through small writing gigs and coffee shop jobs as a barista. Now, she was on the hunt for a story to hopefully write her first book- hence her lonesome presence on a three day train, from Istanbul to France. 

“Oh, you haven’t published yet?”

“That’s why I call myself a writer. Not an author yet,” she grinned, hiding her embarrassment. 

“There’s a difference?” Sunghoon’s brows raised.

“It’s clear how much you don’t read.”

Sunghoon listened with the kind of attention that didn't feel performative. His gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t press either. Just there… with his warm curiosity towards this new person he met.

And when Y/N finally asked him to speak about himself, he started ranting about his architecture career- twenty-seven years in the making, since the day he was born. Apparently, when he was born, his parents went to an astrologer who said that Sunghoon would grow up to be an architect. And the gola never changed, only manifested deeper into him as he grew up- from stacking legos that stood taller than his body as a kid to his professors adoring his models in college. 

“I just want to contribute to a skyline,” he said. “Doesn’t matter which city. Doesn’t even have to be famous. I just… I want people to look up and feel something.” His voice grew softer. “My boss doesn’t get it. He’s just… numbers and deadlines and grey rectangles.”

There was something oddly touching in that, a boyish idealism that had somehow survived into adulthood. He wasn’t jaded- not fully.

“Is he a brutalist?” Y/N asked.

“No, he’s just… boring. And brutalist architecture isn’t boring.”

He explained he’d been on a trip across Europe with his two best friends- a plan they’d made years ago, when life was still about university cafeterias and late-night dreams. But he’d broken off from the group for a detour to Zurich, to see his younger sister, now studying there. It had been a short, sweet visit. Familiar in the way only siblings could be- awkward hugs, sarcasm, shared complaints about their mother’s relentless texts. Now, he was rejoining his friends in Paris. “They’ve probably eaten their way through half the restaurants by now,” he grinned. “And argued over where to go next.”

“They’re all architects?”

“No, just me,” Sunghoon nodded, proudly. “But, one’s studying to be a lawyer. The other is gonna be an intern for surgery soon.”

Their conversation melted into the sound of the train wheels against the track. Their conversation didn’t feel like two strangers getting to know each other. It felt like slipping into a rhythm that had always existed, like picking up a thread from a story that had already begun. There were no awkward pauses, no searching for the right words- just an easy back-and-forth that felt strangely familiar. Like they were old friends who had somehow forgotten they were old friends. Like this was a reunion, not a first meeting.

At some point, he coaxed her up, dragging her down the aisle with a mischievous “You can’t sit still forever, writer girl.”

She resisted at first, rejecting his grip on her wrist with a hesitant gaze of her eyes. But he was too persistent- that sharp smile of his, was too persistent. And shyly, almost awkwardly, she stood up and followed him. And that would be the first time Y/N got up for reasons other than using the washroom or finding a meal to eat.

The train during the night was more alive than it was in the morning. That’s just the way it was with things like this- when a group of strangers came together to travel across borders. It was a silent promise of haven, of comfort. They walked past the soft flicker of reading lamps, the faint rustle of pages and whispered exchanges in many languages. They passed a woman knitting tiny socks with blue yarn, a man asleep with his head tipped back and opera music playing from his phone, a child pressing glow-in-the-dark stars against the window.

In the lounge coach, someone was playing the harmonica. The sound was low and imperfect, but so achingly human that it felt like a story in itself. 

“This is definitely something I want to write about.”

Sunghoon looked at her, confused. He couldn’t see the expression on her face, he was towering over her to get a glimpse of her hair that was hidden by her hair. But by her voice alone, he could hear the sparkle in her eyes.

“Yeah?” Sunghoon said. “What can you say? It’s just a guy playing a harmonica. Incorrectly, at that.”

“But do you hear the history in it?”

Somewhere near the middle of the train, tucked into a dimly lit dining car, was a makeshift poker table- though it wasn’t official, and the chips were mostly replaced by foreign coins, buttons, and old candy wrappers. A group of old men sat around it, the air thick with the scent of tobacco that no one was actually smoking, and laughter that came in easy bursts like waves hitting a dock. They sang as they played- old folk songs in accented English and native tongues, clapping along to choruses only they knew. One had a flute he’d chime in with between rounds; another drummed his fingers rhythmically on the edge of the table like it was a snare.

Sunghoon was the first to slow his steps, then Y/N. Something about the scene pulled them in- the warmth of it, the chaos, the openness of strangers too old to care who joined as long as they knew how to smile. The invitation came with a gesture- a crooking finger, a grin, a gap-toothed nod toward the table. They didn’t resist.

They slid into the seats like they’d always belonged there, excited smiles and palms rubbed together. A few coins from Y/N’s pocket, some spare notes from Sunghoon’s wallet- it wasn’t about winning. The old men were ruthless and charming, teasing them in thick accents, telling them the rules only after they'd broken them. Sunghoon forgot which suit beat what, and Y/N mistook her hand for something stronger than it was. They lost every round, but they laughed harder each time. It was never about the cards. It was about the way joy could travel across decades, across languages and lives, and land right there between two young people on a midnight train.

One of the men told a story about a girl he almost married in Portugal after two drinks too many, another about a time he danced barefoot in a rainstorm on the German border. One told the story of how he lost his arm during the war- Y/N and Sunghoon didn’t know which one, but were too scared to ask. Their words stitched across the table like quiltwork- melancholy in parts, hilarious in others, but always rich. Y/N listened with wide eyes, mentally bookmarking characters she hadn’t even written yet. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, one arm resting behind her, the other fiddling with a useless hand of cards. Every now and then, they’d glance at each other and grin- caught in a secret moment neither of them could explain.

By the end of it, they had lighter wallets and heavier hearts, full of names they’d forget by morning (Sunghoon would forget, not Y/N) and faces they’d remember forever. When the group eventually dispersed, the men wished them luck- at life, at love, at whatever came next. And then the dining car emptied slowly, leaving Y/N and Sunghoon alone at the table with empty glasses and leftover laughter.

For a long time, they just sat there. But Sunghoon dragged her up again, like he was impatient on what he would find next. 

They reached the back of the train. The stars were louder there, with no glass to filter them- sharp and endless, scattered above the moving world like they’d been nailed into the fabric of the night. The wind whipped fast and gentle all at once, lifting their hair in small chaotic dances- Sunghoon’s dark strands tousled back like the wind was styling him on purpose, while Y/N’s hair tangled and curled around her face, occasionally catching on her lips, on the collar of her coat, in the crook of Sunghoon’s arm when they stood too close.

The railings were rusted, chipping with time and weather, flecked with the stories of thousands of travelers before them. They leaned on it anyway- elbows pressed into the cool metal, fingers curling over the edge, palms warming the cold. It groaned slightly beneath them, like it remembered what it meant to hold someone’s weight.

The air smelled like the wild- earthy and crisp, threaded with something that felt like memory. Below them, the world blurred in soft motion- dark forests, sleeping towns, rivers that shimmered like liquid glass beneath the stars. Above them, constellations took their time- Orion with his quiet confidence, Cassiopeia lounging in her eternal curve. Neither Y/N nor Sunghoon said anything for a while. 

There was a stillness in that speed- a paradox only night trains seemed to understand. The kind where time slowed down just long enough to notice the way his knuckles grazed hers on the railing, or the way her eyes reflected stars like she’d been born from them.

And then Sunghoon said, quietly, like he was saying it to himself, “I feel like I’m running out of time.”

Y/N didn’t look at him, but she listened. You could tell she was listening by the way her breath caught a little, and how her fingers curled tighter around the metal bar.

“I’m twenty-seven. I know that’s not old,” he continued, “but it’s not exactly new either. And there’s this pressure- this... noise in my head that says I should’ve done something big by now. Left a mark, built something that outlasts me.”

The train curved then, slow and smooth, and the stars tilted slightly in the sky. Y/N still said nothing.

“I feel like no one gets it,” he added, half-laughing, but it was a bitter kind of sound. “I feel like no one understands why it’s so important to build something beautiful. All everyone seems to care about these days is money and loopholes.”

She looked at him then, finally. Just a glance, soft and brief.

He looked over at her. “But you get it, right?”

Y/N nodded, then turned back to the night. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.” Her voice was quiet, not in a sad way but in the way Sunghoon understood that she was feeling it too- his plight. “When I say I want to write a book, I don’t mean just anything. I mean… I want to leave a mark, I want my work to be talked about. I want to be as great as Clarice Lispector or Kazuo Ishiguro.”

Sunghoon said nothing, mostly because he didn’t know the authors she’d just mentioned. He just watched her speak.

“But lately... I don’t know. I feel like I’m borrowing other people’s words. Like I haven’t lived enough to write anything worth reading.” Her fingers brushed the railing again. “My parents still think I should’ve picked something safer. Like business or economics or something. And maybe they’re right.”

“No, they’re not,” he said, too quickly. “You need to live to write. You can’t just… watch life through windows and call it enough.”

“I know,” Y/N’s eyes were welling with tears at that point. But she convinced herself that it was the wind hitting her eyes and not the weight against her heart. “I think I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Living,” she said, almost laughing. “Living, experiencing everything right- only to ultimately fail and write something unforgettable. It’s so stupid. Sometimes I feel like writing is so stupid.”

“It’s not,” Sunghoon shook his head. He stared straight ahead, crossing his arms on the railing. “You know how they say every artist hates their own work? I’m sure Louis Sullivan hated his first building. But it didn’t stop him from completing it.”

Y/N tilted her head, blinking away the burn behind her eyes. “Who’s Louis Sullivan?” she asked.

Sunghoon smiled faintly. “Architect. They call him the father of skyscrapers.” He hesitated, then added, “His buildings didn’t even get much attention when he was alive. It all came later. But still, he kept going. Even when it felt like no one cared.”

“I’m assuming with your career, you learnt a lot about architects,” she chuckled.

“I’ve got a whole archive of information,” he grinned proudly.

Y/N looked away again, the wind catching the edge of her jacket and lifting it gently behind her. The rusted railing creaked softly beneath their weight, but they didn’t move. There was something sacred about the discomfort- like they owed it to the moment to stay right where they were.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” she asked eventually. “Giving your life to something that might never be seen?”

“I’d like to think it’s better than not trying at all,” he said. “But sometimes, I don’t get it. When I saw my sister, she was thriving- university and all that. But I’m still figuring shit out. It’s like I always have been.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Y/N said. “I don’t think anyone really figures it out. Some of us are just better at pretending.”

He smiled. Not a big one, just enough.

“I used to sit on my roof as a kid,” he said. “Stare at the stars and make wishes even though I didn’t believe in them.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “What did you wish for?”

“A lot of things,” he shrugged. “Toys, lenient parents, a sibling… and I eventually got a sister. Then eventually, I stopped believing in it.”

She didn’t respond. Just leaned into the railing a little deeper. 

“The stars remind me of myths,” she said after a while. “The ones I studied. Greek tragedies, gods turning into animals, lovers becoming constellations just to be together.”

“You believe in that?” he asked.

She paused, then smiled. “No. But I like that someone once did.”

And in that space between them, something invisible and delicate bloomed. Not love, not yet. But something heavy and soft, rooted in the chest. The kind of connection that only happens at the back of a moving train, with stars sharp above and wind in your teeth, and a stranger who suddenly isn’t one anymore- something permanent, even if they were not.

Eventually, they made their way back through the softly dimmed train- past the poker table now quiet and empty, past sleeping passengers curled beneath jackets and scarves- to their seats. The overhead lights buzzed gently above, their little corner of the train wrapped in a hushed stillness.

Y/N pulled out a pen from her tote and tore a napkin into squares. “Tic-tac-toe?” she asked, already drawing the grid.

Sunghoon grinned. “Prepare to lose.”

She tore the corner of an old train pamphlet and started scribbling grids. Tic-tac-toe. Then hangman. Then the dumbest drawing contest either of them had ever participated in. She dared him to draw a duck and he came up with a lopsided blob with antennae. She laughed so hard her eyes watered. He laughed too, head tossed back, his knees pressed into the seat in front of him, body curled like it was trying to hold the joy in.

They spoke less as the hours dragged on. There was no need to fill the silence. The kind of quiet they shared wasn’t awkward- it was warm, stretched like a blanket over the two of them. They sipped from a tiny carton of orange juice they found buried in her tote and whispered about the most useless superpowers they’d want to have. (He said being able to always know which lane moved fastest in a grocery store. She said being able to taste colors.)

Eventually, her eyelids drooped. She laid her head on her folded arms, right there on the tiny table between them. Her hair spilled over like ink, her breathing evened out, and her mouth twitched slightly in sleep- like she was smiling at something in a dream she wouldn't remember.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

He watched her for a long while. Not in a creepy way. Just… in awe. At how still she was- how peaceful. There was something about the way the moonlight through the window painted across her face that made him feel like this moment was borrowed- like time had paused and he’d been given a glimpse into something sacred, like an old Victorian painting.

He turned to the window. The stars were fading now, washed thin by the first hints of dawn. He pressed his palm against the glass and felt the faint thrum of motion beneath it.

And he thought- about how fleeting everything felt lately. About how moments like this- ones that sneaked up on you and made you feel deeply human- never lasted long enough. He thought about the future, about buildings he hadn’t yet sketched, about lines and edges and spaces that could become something living. He thought about asking her for her number, how he’d even phrase it, how not to make it weird.

He thought about what kind of book she would write- maybe something strange and wandering, the kind of story that didn’t apologize for taking its time. He thought about how her characters would probably be like her: observant, quiet, a little brave without realizing it.

The train kept moving.

And then… morning came. It wasn’t loud- just a slow blooming of gold across the sky. The clouds turned soft and lilac at the edges, and the air began to shift. The train started to slow. The brakes hissed, metal groaned.

They were in Paris.

The station was already awake- blurred voices, hurried footsteps, the distant beep of announcements he couldn’t quite make out. But inside their little cabin, everything still felt untouched.

Sunghoon looked at Y/N. She was still sleeping, arm tucked under her head, breath warm against her sleeve.

And for a moment- just one- he didn’t want to wake her.

He let the idea wash over him like a wave. What if they stayed on? Just didn’t get off. Let the train roll again, take them to another city, maybe even another country- Vienna, Lyon, wherever. Just so he could sit beside her a little longer. Just so he could hold onto this stillness.

But reality was patient. And it always catches up.

So he reached out, gently pressing his fingers to her shoulder. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, almost apologetic. “We’re here.”

She stirred slowly, blinking against the light. “Huh?”

“Paris,” he said.

Her eyes widened. She sat up, sleep still clinging to her limbs, disoriented but already reaching beneath her seat for her suitcase. Her hair was tousled, face creased slightly from her nap, and she looked so real (he didn’t even know how to explain it, it was the fact that she wasn’t his imagination, that she was a person, had a life, outside of the night they had together) in that moment that Sunghoon’s chest ached.

He stood too, grabbing her bag and guiding her to the exit. The train doors hissed open with a kind of finality that neither of them were ready for.

They stepped onto the platform.

It was colder here than he expected- a sharp, Parisian morning air. It was the kind that carried the scent of fresh bread and motion. People hurried past them with cameras and coats and open maps, but the two of them just stood there- still holding their luggage, still close enough to touch but too far to say anything meaningful.

And then it hit her.

That this was it.

This was goodbye.

She looked at him, like, really looked. Not like someone she met on a train, not like a stranger. But like someone whose existence, however brief in her story, left a ripple.

“I guess this is…” she began, then trailed off.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon said, swallowing. His adams apple bounced. “It is.”

His attention, however, was ripped towards the opposite direction- Sunghoon heard them before he saw them.

“SUNGHOON! LET’S GO!”

Jake’s voice echoed across the platform, followed by Jay dramatically flailing his arms like he was about to take flight. “WE'RE GONNA GET CHARGED AN EXTRA HOUR FOR PARKING!”

They were standing near the exit, beside a wheezing rental car with an uneven paint job and too much luggage crammed into its trunk. They looked like they belonged in a different world, one that hadn’t just stood still all night; one that hadn’t just sat across from someone and quietly fallen into a version of affection that didn’t need time to grow- it bloomed instantly, and painfully.

Sunghoon looked at them.

Then… looked away.

He turned back to Y/N.

She was already pulling her suitcase handle upright, her face composed, wearing that brave expression that people wear when they know the goodbye will hurt but they’re choosing dignity over drama. Her eyes were a little puffy from sleep- or maybe it was emotion. He didn’t ask.- he would never know.

“Guess that’s your ride,” she said, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes.

He didn’t reply. He wanted to say something- anything- but every sentence that formed in his throat felt too small, too stupid or too late. His emotions didn’t make sense to him anymore. His heart skipping a beat at the way the sunlight hit her eyes didn’t make sense anymore.

Y/N took a small step forward and stuck her hand out between them. Her fingers were steady, her voice wasn’t.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” she said, smiling softly. “But for now… goodbye, Sunghoon.” It could’ve ended there. But she blinked- just once- and added, quieter: “Thank you for making the night a little less lonely.”

And just like that, he was ruined.

Sunghoon took her hand, firm, certain- like that moment deserved at least that much clarity. And maybe that was the saddest part of it all- how their story ended the same way it began: with a handshake.

Two people. One shared night. A lifetime’s worth of unanswered questions.

He held on for a beat longer than he should have. Then he let go reluctantly. Then stepped back with a nod, his eyes memorizing the shape of her one last time. And without another word ((he didn’t even find it in him to reciprocate a goodbye), he turned and jogged toward his waiting friends, who were still dramatically yelling about the parking ticket.

Behind him, Y/N turned in the opposite direction, hoping to hail a taxi to her hotel.

She didn’t look back. Neither did he.

When Sunghoon finally caught up with them, breath uneven and head a little too full, Jay and Jake didn’t waste a second. They manhandled him into the backseat like he was carry-on luggage.

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” Jake exaggerated from the passenger side, twisting halfway around to stare at him. “You better have a Nobel-worthy reason for making us risk another parking fine. How’s your sister, mate?”

Jay, hands on the wheel, sunglasses on even though it was barely sunrise, shot a look at Sunghoon through the rearview mirror.

“Fuck that,” he said. “Who was the girl?”

Sunghoon groaned, dropped his head back against the seat, crossed his arms over his chest like a sulky teenager. Suddenly, the night that had felt so luminous, so important, shrunk down into this weird, private ache. The kind that couldn’t be explained without sounding stupid. Because how do you tell your best friends that one night on a train with a stranger made you question everything you thought you wanted? Made you feel more than you had in months?

Sunghoon just stared out the window as the city passed in a blur and tried not to think about how fast it was all slipping away. Jake and Jay didn’t wait for an answer. Of course not- they were already in full chaos mode, cooking up scenarios like they were writing for a shitty soap-opera.

“You sat beside her?”

“Made a new friend?”

“Fucked the new friend, perhaps?” Jake added with a dramatic gasp, clapping once. “Train version of the mile-high club, huh?”

“In the bathroom?” Jay asked, feigning shock. “Dude, gross. Those toilets flush like portals to hell.”

“Oh, wait-” Jake snapped his fingers, “you kissed her. That’s it. You kissed her and then cried about it while looking out the window like you’re in a sad indie film.”

Sunghoon inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “You guys,” he said, voice low and deadly calm, “are disgusting.”

Jake and Jay erupted into laughter.

“Which means,” Jay said smugly, tapping the steering wheel, “something definitely happened.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He just leaned his head against the window, the cold glass pressing into his skin. The city of Paris unfolded outside, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Not the cafés, or the early risers with fresh bread tucked under their arms, or the old men reading newspapers on benches.

He was still on the train. Still in that quiet, starlit space. Still listening to her say thank you for making the night a little less lonely.

ii. Ten Years Too Lonely

When Y/N was young, her parents used to tell her about how they met. Her bedtime stories weren’t made up of dragons or fairies, but of reckless youth, of laughter echoing in tiny bars that no longer existed, of impossible nights that somehow still lived on in memory. Her parents had lived like people in novels- messy, brave, complicated. They told her stories filled with bad decisions that made great memories, spontaneous road trips, heartbreaks that healed over time, and a small group of friends who stayed, who always stayed.

Those friends were still around- her honorary uncles and aunts. They showed up for the big moments: the day she was born, the major birthdays, and all her graduations. They were the ones who took her out for her first legal drink, who called her kiddo even when she was twenty, who looked at her like she belonged. And maybe it was only around them that she ever felt like she did. Like she was part of something bigger, warmer, something permanent.

But outside those rare, glowing reunions, Y/N felt like a ghost of a person. Like she hadn’t been fully written yet. Like her edges were blurry, her voice a little too quiet, her presence too easy to miss. She used to think that one day, she’d grow into herself. That she’d wake up and suddenly feel whole. But the days kept ending and nothing changed.

She’d always been unlucky with friendships. People liked her, sure- they said she was nice, called her sweet. But no one stayed. No one ever fought to keep her close. She was the kind of person you texted when you were bored, not when your world was falling apart. She was always the one listening, nodding, comforting. Rarely the one being held. She didn’t know what she did wrong- maybe she didn’t shine enough. Maybe she was just forgettable. She tried to tell herself that wasn’t true, that she mattered, that someone would one day see her the way she longed to be seen. But most days, the silence was louder than any hope she tried to build.

Relationships? Those were worse. Crushes that never looked her way, dates that fizzled before they even began, almost-loves that ended in vague texts and unreturned calls. She couldn’t even be mad at them. She understood. Why would anyone stay with someone who didn’t really stand out? She wasn’t the bold, flirty girl with a spark in her eyes. She wasn’t magnetic, or mysterious, or even particularly witty. She was just… there, easy to walk away from.

And that was the thing that hurt the most- the thought that people would forget her. That she could pass through someone’s life and leave no mark at all. That years from now, someone she once shared a laugh with wouldn’t even remember her name. That she was the kind of person you had to try to remember. Not because she was unpleasant. But because she was just so easy to overlook.

She hated that. She hated how much it bothered her. She hated that she wanted to be seen so badly, wanted to matter to someone- anyone- just for a little while. And more than anything, she hated that she’d let life pass her by. That she hadn’t been brave enough to chase the moments she dreamed about. The semester abroad she kept telling herself she’d apply to. The marine research internship near the beach she’d bookmarked five times but never actually submitted an application for. The universities she never left her hometown to attend. She watched opportunities drift by like trains she couldn’t get herself to board.

And every time she missed one, she told herself it was fine. That there would be another. That she was just waiting for the right time. But deep down, she knew. She knew she wasn’t waiting. She was hiding. From the possibility of failing. From the pain of not being enough. From the crushing weight of trying her best and still falling short.

But the thing is… her parents had always known that Y/N would make a life for herself. From the day she was born to the day she graduated and began the daunting task of job hunting, they’d looked at her with a kind of certainty that Y/N never really understood. “It’s just that your life hasn’t begun yet,” they would repeat to her like a prophecy.

And for a long time, she believed them. Or at least she tried to. She clung to the hope that one day, her plight would mean something, that she'd wake up and suddenly become the person she was always supposed to be. But that hope wore thin. Especially in the years that followed graduation- years where nothing really happened. Where she lived at home again, working part-time jobs she never talked about at family dinners, feeling more and more like she was treading water in a pool where everyone else was learning how to swim laps.

Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore- the guilt of still living under her parents' roof, the quiet shame of watching life pass by like a train she kept missing. So, in a burst of desperation or courage or maybe both, she booked a trip to Europe with the savings she’d been hoarding for no particular reason. She drained her bank account in one impulsive night of scrolling and airfare. And just like that, she was gone.

And suddenly- suddenly- her degree in Greek Literature didn’t feel so useless anymore. Not when she was exploring a three-day train with a stranger. Not when she was wandering through the streets of Athens, tracing the ruins her textbooks used to speak of in dusty academic tones. Not when she stood beneath the Parthenon at sunset with a backpack and a journal and no plans for the next day. And just like that, her life started to change.

In the month she spent abroad, she felt herself unfold. Like some slow, patient blooming. She talked to strangers without rehearsing the conversation beforehand. She danced at rooftop bars in Lisbon with people whose names she barely caught. She took a spontaneous night bus to Prague with a pair of Finnish siblings she met in a museum café. She broke down crying in a quiet alley in Florence and was comforted by a woman named Elif from Istanbul, who shared her gelato and told her heartbreak was a sign of living. In Barcelona, she accidentally joined a group of traveling circus performers for three days because they mistook her for someone else and she was too embarrassed to correct them- until she wasn’t. She even kissed someone under a broken street lamp in Amsterdam, someone whose name she still remembers but whose face is already fading in her mind.

There were so many stories. Wild, unthinkable, movie-scene type stories. But perhaps the most unbelievable part was how alive she felt. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a background character. She didn’t feel like someone waiting for something to happen to her. She was the happening.

She met people. She lived with them. She cooked pasta in tiny hostel kitchens, shared beds with near strangers, drank cheap wine in public parks, danced barefoot, and got lost more times than she could count. She met Luca, a Sicilian med student who taught her how to flirt in Italian; Josie, a Canadian street artist who carried a notebook filled with secrets from people she met; and Santiago, a chef from Buenos Aires who taught her to make empanadas while talking about love like it was a religion.

They were fleeting people. But they mattered.

And she kept in touch with most of them- at least for a while. They exchanged numbers, promised to visit, sent postcards and songs and memes across time zones. Luca sent her a blurry photo of his med school graduation. Josie invited her to a pop-up art show in Toronto that she couldn’t attend. Santiago messaged her every few months just to ask how she was, calling her mi poeta.

But life moved on. As it always does.

Y/N came back home, and things had changed, but she wasn’t quite sure if she had. She floated through a string of jobs- proofreading textbooks, writing content for lifestyle blogs, tutoring high school students in Greek mythology. Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever felt like hers. Until one day, almost on a dare to herself, she sat down and started writing again- not for money, not for work, but for herself.

The book came quietly. No agents, no fanfare. A small indie publisher picked it up. And somehow, her first novel resonated with enough people to warrant a tiny book signing tour. She visited three cities. Five bookstores. Signed a hundred copies with her slightly messy, unsure signature.

And still… She felt alone.

As the years passed, the messages from her travel friends became less frequent. The jokes grew stale, the memories stopped coming up in conversation and eventually, keeping in touch became just liking each other’s Instagram posts or sending the occasional emoji reply to a story. 

When she moved to Shanghai to teach English at a small local university, she barely told anyone. She packed her life into two suitcases, boarded the flight alone, and arrived in a city where no one knew her name. The loneliness there was quieter, less sharp. It didn’t ache the way it used to. Because in times like this, feeling lonely was inevitable and she didn’t beat herself up for it. Because this was going to be her new life, her new norm.

She taught classes, went to the market, and drank tea by her apartment window. Life was simple. She liked it. And she realised how her age was catching up to her, that she was yearning for the peaceful moments in her life rather than late night travel trips.

And yet, some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d scroll through old photos- grainy hostel selfies, street corners, sunset skies she had once sworn she’d never forget. She would look at those faces and wonder if any of them remembered her too, if she’d been as temporary to them as they were eternal to her.

Because the truth about Y/N was that no matter how much she saw, how many stories she collected, or how far she ran, she still came out of it alone. Not broken, not bitter- just… still waiting. Still wondering if her life had really begun yet, or if she was still standing on the edge of something bigger, too afraid to take the leap.

Though some nights, the memories haunted her, most days, Y/N kept moving. She walked the same narrow streets from her apartment to the university, nodded politely at the same old man who sold dough strips by the metro station, and let her world stay predictable and repetitive.

But it was on a rainy Sunday- one of those Shanghai afternoons where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet concrete and jasmine- that things would change again.

She’d been wandering aimlessly, an umbrella tucked under her arm, letting the drizzle kiss her skin as she browsed street vendors and quiet alleys she hadn’t taken the time to explore before. She wasn’t even looking for anything in particular when she ducked into the tiny bookstore nestled between a tea shop and a dry cleaner, a place so unobtrusive she’d passed it a dozen times and never noticed it.

Inside, the lighting was dim and golden, the smell of old paper and incense wrapping around her like a blanket. There was jazz playing faintly from a record player near the counter. A cat slept on a stool in the poetry aisle. And for the first time in weeks, she exhaled without even realizing she’d been holding her breath.

She wandered through the shelves slowly, fingers brushing over cracked spines and titles in Mandarin, English, French. It reminded her of a place she visited in Lisbon, one she never thought she’d think of again.

She turned the corner of the aisle, absently reaching for a poetry collection when her eyes landed on him.

At first, she only saw the profile- the clean lines of his face, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead- and for a heartbeat, her mind couldn’t quite place it. Her body stilled before her brain caught up.

Then he turned slightly, lifting his head toward the Popular Picks display by the counter, a stack of three books balanced in his arms, one tucked awkwardly beneath his chin.

And she knew. She just did.

The recognition crashed into her like a wave she hadn’t braced for.

Sunghoon.

Just like that, the bookstore shifted from quiet nostalgia to something surreal. Her fingertips curled slightly around the spine of the book she was holding, as if steadying herself. Her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. And suddenly,she was naive and twenty-five again, sitting in a train with a stranger to entertain.

And as if he felt her gaze, Sunghoon looked up- eyes landing on hers instantly.

The air between them was still. The jazz in the background faded. So did the cat, the incense, the muffled rain tapping at the windows.

He blinked, almost like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned upward- not quite a smile yet, just the beginning of one.

They just stared at each other for a second too long. Not out of awkwardness- but because neither of them wanted to be the first to break whatever this was.

Then Sunghoon shifted, took one step forward.

And that was her cue.

Y/N slipped her book back onto the shelf and walked toward him, steps careful, like she was still half-convinced he might disappear if she moved too fast.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she expected. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”

Sunghoon let out a soft breath, the ghost of a laugh caught in his throat. “I wasn’t sure you were real.”

They both smiled- wide and full this time- the tension breaking like light through overcast skies.

Y/N blinked, still grounding herself in the impossible fact that it was him. “What are you doing here?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would break the spell.

Sunghoon gave a soft breath of disbelief, almost a laugh, like he wasn’t quite sure how this moment existed. “I live here now… I’ve been living here for three years.”

Y/N gave a half-smile. “Five years for me.”

And that was the moment it hit him. Five years. They’d been orbiting the same city, breathing the same air, living maybe a handful of metro stops apart- and somehow, they never crossed paths until now. It felt like too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Like the universe had deliberately waited, held its breath, timed this to some impossible rhythm only it understood.

“I teach at the public university,” she offered before he could ask. “English. But I publish sometimes as well.”

Of course it was her. The name had been bothering him ever since he picked up that book, strung together in a delicate serif font on the spine- a first name and a last name that brushed up against something familiar in his memory, but not enough to sound the alarms. He’d held it in his hands, flipped through the pages, even lingered on the blurb wondering why it made his chest ache a little. But he hadn’t made the connection. Not until she was standing in front of him, telling him, almost offhandedly, that she wrote now- had published a few books. And then it hit him like cold water: that book. The one he’d nearly bought before settling on something else. He almost felt guilty now, absurdly so, for not choosing hers. As if picking another novel over hers had been some kind of betrayal- to her, to that night, to the unspoken space they’d both carried all these years.

He nodded slowly, his chest tightening. “Still an architect,” he said, then glanced at her with something just shy of a smile. “I think you’d be proud of me.”

It was a soft, unassuming statement, but it hung between them heavily. He was thinking of that night- the train, the way her words had stayed with him long after the lights of the station faded. Ten years ago. Ten full years. He didn’t know if she remembered.

But Y/N’s expression shifted in that subtle way that told him she did. Of course she did.

“Yeah?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Yeah,” he looked down for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I’m glad you finally published.”

And he meant it. Beneath the sincerity sat his quiet guilt- one he wasn’t going to admit just yet. He hadn’t searched for her name. Not once. Not online, not on bookshelves. And now that he knew, now that he held the knowledge of what she'd gone on to do, it felt like an ache. Because he had thought of her- more often than he let himself admit. He’d bring her up sometimes when he was drunk, recalling that weird night on the train, the girl who talked about words like they were living things. But he hadn’t done anything more. 

And now here she was.

“This feels insane,” he murmured, voice softening.

He was staring at her- not just with disbelief, but with the kind of quiet reverence reserved for things once lost and now unexpectedly found. And as he stood there, barely hearing the rustle of pages or the distant hum of jazz, a thought rose, unbidden and almost embarrassing in its honesty- this was the girl who had changed him.

In one night- a single stretch of hours between train stations and tangled conversations- she had shifted something fundamental inside him. He’d started reading not long after that. Nothing big at first- just a book she’d mentioned, something he'd scribbled down on a receipt in his wallet. But it became a habit, then a hunger. Because of her. Because of how she spoke about stories, about words like they were holy. Because of how she saw the world- like it was both tragic and beautiful and worth telling anyway.

And now, a decade later, here she was. Not a memory, not a story he told his friends after two beers. But real and alive, standing in front of him again- older, softer in some ways, sharper in others. Still her, always her.

And all he could think was: I can’t believe it’s you.

Sunghoon arrived at the café early. Of course he did. He always did that when he was nervous- pretending it was about punctuality, about professionalism, about making a good impression. But really, it was about control, about giving himself a moment to settle the way his heart had been stammering in his chest for days.

Since that day in the bookstore, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her- Y/N- her voice, her eyes, the way the rain had traced soft lines down the bookstore’s fogged windows while they talked. He hadn’t said it out loud, but as soon as they’d agreed to meet again, he’d gone home and done something impulsive- something a younger Sunghoon might’ve laughed at. He bought all of her books. Every single one. Three novels, each with a cover so delicate and so deliberate, he almost didn’t want to crack the spines.

But he did. In fact, he devoured them. He read like he was chasing something. Like he was trying to catch up on a decade of her life that he hadn’t been a part of.

Her writing stunned him. It was raw and strange and poetic and painfully observant. But it wasn’t just that. It was familiar. Not in the stories themselves- they were nothing like him, nothing like the night they’d shared- but in the details, in the quiet gestures of a supporting character, or the rhythm of someone’s speech, or the offhand way a man in his late twenties scratched the back of his neck when he was uncomfortable.

That was him. That was 27-year-old Sunghoon. He remembered doing that on the train, mid-conversation, when she’d asked him about the kind of buildings he wanted to design someday. There was a character in her first book who did the same thing- and that character had a way of seeing cities like they were made of feelings, not steel. It was him, even if it wasn’t.

He hadn’t known she’d remembered him. Not like that. He’d told himself it was just one night. A good night. But fleeting. Something the world would blur out with time. And yet… she had remembered. She made it permanent on ink- she eternalized him.

And here he was- in Shanghai, of all places.

Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it. He’d said yes to the opportunity three years ago- an architecture firm in Seoul was invited to pitch a design for a mixed-use skyscraper, and he’d poured himself into it with the hunger of a man who needed to be consumed by something. It was his vision that won. A sinuous, glass-and-steel tower that mimicked the ripple of the Huangpu River, with an atrium shaped like a lantern- part office space, part museum, part observation deck, a living homage to old Shanghai meeting the new. 

The project had saved him. Or maybe it had given him something to hold onto after everything else fell apart.

Nora.

Even now, her name carried the weight of a thousand sharp edges- soft at first, then all at once like glass. He met her at a work party, back when his firm was still small and barely making a name for itself. It had been hosted in a high-rise lounge, the kind where conversations floated over clinking glasses and low jazz murmured beneath everything. He remembered spotting Nora by the bar, laughing with a group of journalists, her voice rising and falling like it belonged to the room. She was magnetic- self-assured in a way that didn’t demand attention but still received it, effortlessly. She had this grin, this unmistakable fire behind her eyes, and when she asked what he did, she looked at him like she actually cared about the answer.

They started seeing each other after that night- cautiously, at first. She was always busy, always moving between studios and press conferences and flights to cover some political chaos. But she made time. For him, she made time. She’d wait for him at his office sometimes with takeout, wearing heels and an oversized coat, telling him that he worked too much and kissed too little.

They dated for two years. Two golden years that felt too good to be real. There were lazy Sundays with her head on his chest, whispered fights over whose turn it was to do the laundry, travel plans never taken, and endless conversations about buildings and breaking news and what it meant to chase something until you caught it.

He proposed on a rainy night in Busan, when they’d gone for a vacation and spent the evening ice skating in a mall. She was trying to keep up with him, giggling while finding her balance. And just like that, he glided towards her on one knee and revealed the ring and he just… said it. Marry me. And she had said yes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They were married for four years. Four whole years of learning each other in all the quiet, invisible ways- the morning rituals, the favorite side of the bed, the type of silence that felt warm instead of cold. He’d never known that kind of peace. Even with her career constantly pulling her toward chaos, even when they were barely passing each other at home- it still felt like they were orbiting something steady. 

And then, one morning, she left for work like she always did. Hair still damp from the shower, still brushing lip balm onto her mouth as she stepped into her heels, grinning at him like she had some scandalous news she couldn’t wait to share after her segment.

She never made it to the station.

The accident happened in a flash. A truck ran a red light on the Olympic-daero. Witnesses said the rain had made it hard to see. She was gone before the ambulance even arrived, but they tried. Jake tried.

He remembered Jake’s call- the way his voice cracked over the line. "Come to the hospital. Now."

Sunghoon remembered sprinting through corridors, his hands cold, his lungs burning, shirt and tie astray with wide eyes and matted hair. And then- Jake, his closest friend and one of Seoul’s top trauma surgeons, standing outside the trauma unit, drenched in blood that wasn’t his, eyes hollow, surgical mask hanging off one ear. No words- just a slow, agonizing shake of the head.

Sunghoon collapsed.

The days after were a blur of numbness, sirens and screaming silence. There was no funeral that could contain that kind of grief, no eulogy that could articulate how deeply broken the world had become in just one moment. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t look at the chair she used to sit in. Her mug sat untouched for months. He buried himself in work until even the blueprints started to blur, until the only thing that snapped him back was his other best friend, Jay- who took one look at him and told him to press charges.

The man who caused the accident had been drunk. Slightly below the legal limit, but enough to impair judgment. Jay, relentless in a courtroom, helped Sunghoon file lawsuits that dragged on for nearly two years. They won. But it didn’t bring her back- nothing would, nothing did.

And then came the offer, an international firm asking him the chance to design a tower in Shanghai- something iconic, something bold. He said yes without thinking. He needed to go, to leave, to start over, to breathe somewhere else.

And now here he was, four years later. Sitting in a sunlit café in Shanghai, about to see the only other person who had ever made him feel like the future might be a story worth reading.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to tell her all of it- the job offer, the building, the wife, the accident, the ache. But he knew one thing: telling her all of this, over coffee, across a tiny round table in a quiet café… it felt oneiric. Like time had folded in on itself and handed him a second chance he hadn’t dared hope for.

Y/N listened like she always had- with stillness, with presence, with that rare ability to make silence feel like safety. When he spoke about the building, her face lifted, just slightly. Her eyes softened, like she was genuinely happy for him- not surprised, not performative- just quietly proud. 

But when he said Nora’s name, something shifted. The subtle tension in her brow, the way her fingers paused mid-motion on the coffee cup’s handle, the sudden stillness in her breathing- it all changed. She didn’t interrupt nor did she didn’t look away. She just let it wash over her, the grief, the enormity of it. Her eyes, when they met his again, held something solemn and full- not sympathy, not pity, but that unspoken understanding of loss. And for a moment, Sunghoon wondered if that’s what had drawn them together again- not fate, not coincidence, but the quiet ache of having both learned how to live after breaking.

“I lost someone, too,” she nodded. “My uncle- well, technically, one of my parents’ best friends. But we were close. He was my godfather.”

Then she told him, how her godfather had taken his own life just months before she made the move to Shanghai. Y/N had been in the middle of her own upheaval, getting ready for the transition that would take her to this city, to this life. But before she could even leave, she had to contend with the shock of losing him in the most horrific way. His death was nothing like the natural rhythm of loss that people often prepare for. No, this was the kind of pain that tore through the fabric of life with no warning, no sense. She never had the chance to say goodbye, never had the chance to make sense of it- her parents never let her read the suicide note.

Y/N’s aunt had found him, face-down in the bathtub, the water around him turning crimson. The image of it must have haunted her even now. Sunghoon could imagine the cold shock that must have flooded her godmother’s body as she found him there- her best friend, her partner in life, lifeless in a way that made the world seem unreal. The knife had slipped from his hand, the weight of it barely more than a detail in the aftermath. But the emptiness in his eyes, that was what stayed with her. 

It didn’t make sense, the way Y/N described it, the way the world just seemed to stop making sense after that. Her godfather had always been a constant, someone everyone relied on, someone who had always been there. And yet, just like that, he was gone, leaving behind an ocean of unanswered questions. His kids, her honorary cousins, had been the most affected. They had been too young to grasp the weight of what had happened, but in their confusion, they’d come to resent him. They couldn’t understand why he had chosen this moment, why he had left them without a second thought. It was that kind of loss that tore at the edges of families, that strained relationships with no answers to make it right.

Y/N’s parents had struggled too. In the wake of his death, they didn’t know what to do. They didn’t know how to explain it or how to handle the grief that had flooded their lives. So, in an attempt to do something, they set up a fund in his name. The money went to children in need, a small part of it allocated to his family to keep them afloat, to provide for them until they could get back on their feet. But in truth, nothing really ever settled. The ache never fully left, and the questions remained unanswered.

Y/N never spoke of the details, the parts of it that were too horrific to describe, the part of the story that would stay locked away, untold. But Sunghoon could feel the weight of it all. The pain, the loss, the confusion. The fragility of life, of the people we think will always be there, and how suddenly that certainty could be ripped away. 

Both of them had experienced it- the kind of loss that reshaped everything, that left scars that didn’t heal. It marked them, carried their loss, holding it within them, even now. 

"Okay, so... all of that," she started, hesitating before looking for something to shift the conversation. "Tell me more about your building. How far along is it… considering," She trailed off, smiling a little. "I’d love to hear more about it."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and swiping to the photos he’d been saving. The sleek, minimalistic sketches of the building, fuzzy early shots of its half-constructed frame, and the sweeping views from the construction site filled the screen. He held the phone up for her to see, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched her reaction.

"It... it’s still a work in progress. Probably gonna take a couple more years- there were a lot of legal constraints to worry about in the beginning," he admitted. "The final designs are much more refined, but this is the stage we’re at right now,” he scrolled through the images, showing her various angles of the building, the steel beams twisting upward like a forest of metal. "It’s supposed to be a mixed-use space- office floors at the top, public space at the bottom, some retail. It’s going to contribute to the skyline, be one of those landmarks that people would look at and think, 'Yeah, that's part of the city now.'"

Y/N leaned forward slightly, peering at the screen. She nodded appreciatively, her eyes scanning the images with curiosity. "It looks amazing," she said, her voice a little lighter now. "I’m proud of you, Sunghoon."

She was proud of him- not just for the building, but because this was the man he’d dreamed of becoming, the path he’d mapped out for himself on that train ten years ago, now finally real and unfolding in front of her.

Sunghoon grinned, but there was something in his eyes- an edge of quiet pride. 

Sunghoon’s voice broke through the gentle quiet that had settled over their table. “How have you been, Y/N?” he asked, not like a casual question, but something deeper. Something closer to how did the world shape you, after we parted ways? “How was Europe… after that train ride?”

Y/N smiled, and it was the kind of smile stitched with memory. She set her coffee down and reached for her phone, unlocking it with ease, swiping through the familiar glow of her gallery. “Messy,” she said, almost laughing. “But good.”

She turned the screen toward him, letting the photos tell the story. Blurry hostel mirrors, cobbled streets washed in soft morning light, a half-eaten croissant on a balcony in Lisbon, a tiny annotated map with a coffee stain in the corner, a carousel in Florence, a dog she didn’t know the name of but still remembered.

“This one,” she said, pausing on a photo of her standing by a stone archway in Athens, sunlight catching her cheek, “was taken the day I finally got the courage to walk up to a stranger and ask for directions.”

Sunghoon leaned in, quietly taking it all in- not just the images, but her voice, the tone of it, how alive she’d become in those moments. He watched the way her thumb lingered over some pictures longer than others, how her smile flickered when she reached one taken in the rain. He didn’t ask what it meant. He just listened.

“It was everything I hoped it would be,” she said. “And nothing like I imagined.”

And Sunghoon nodded, because he understood that too well. Maybe not for the same reasons as her, but he understood it, at least, to an extent. 

She went on, showing him more- strangers who became friends, books scribbled with notes in the margins, sunsets over rooftops that looked like paintings. There was something sacred in how she shared it, like she was letting him hold a decade of her life in the palm of his hand, one swipe at a time.

Most people, when they finally receive the thing they long for, the thing they had built up in their heads, carried in the quiet pockets of their hearts- don’t really know how to sit with it.

At first, it felt surreal, like handling porcelain so fine you were afraid it might break just by looking at it wrong. They moved carefully around the edges of it, half-believing, half-doubting, waiting for the catch, the sudden hand that would snatch it all away. And then, slowly, imperceptibly, it shifted. The dream stopped feeling like a dream. It became ordinary. The extraordinary blurred into everyday life the way sunrise blends into morning- so gradual you didn’t even realize it was happening until you looked up and found yourself living inside what you once thought was impossible.

Because when something becomes real- when you brush your teeth beside the person you once thought was lost to time, when you argue about laundry or grocery lists, when you kiss them goodnight without even thinking about it- that’s when you know it’s yours.

Not a moment snatched from fate. Not a miracle about to be undone.

Just yours.

That’s what it was like for Y/N and Sunghoon.

They didn’t crash into each other the way they had once imagined, all desperate declarations and sweeping promises. No, they folded into each other the way dusk folds into night- quietly, inevitably, without needing anyone to announce it had happened.

Their days together began quietly. The café became a second home- tucked between two stone buildings in YuYuan Garden, its windows fogged with steam and stories. They always met at the same table near the back, beside the bookshelf that tilted slightly to the left. When Sunghoon wasn’t at site meetings and Y/N wasn’t buried under red-marked essays, they sat across from each other. Sometimes they spoke, other times they didn’t have to.

Sunghoon would talk about things like glass density and foundational anchoring- things Y/N barely understood but always found beautiful in the way he described them. And she, in return, would read out loud lines from her students’ essays, shaking her head in disbelief, saying, “even I wouldn’t have thought of something so beautiful.”

Eventually, coffee dates gave way to quiet afternoons in the city. The café wasn’t enough anymore. It was Sunghoon who suggested they meet somewhere else. “Just a change of pace,” he said, “we don’t have to talk,” he said it like he always did- casually, softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever fragile thread was stretching between them.

Their first outing was to the art museum. A safe place, one where quiet was expected. They walked side by side through galleries washed in cold white light, pausing before each painting with the solemnity of churchgoers. Y/N liked watching Sunghoon look at art- the way he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. She wondered if he’d always observed the world like that.

Then, from there, the places they’d visit became less quiet, but somehow even more intimate- an afternoon at the aquarium, a stroll through the zoo, then a trip to Shanghai’s architectural icons- the Pearl Tower, the Shanghai Tower, and finally the World Financial Center.

When Sunghoon pointed up at the tower’s iconic trapezoidal aperture and told her, with absolute conviction, “A plane could fly through that,” Y/N laughed and promptly named it the keychain tower because, well, it did look like a keychain. He didn't even argue. He just smiled like someone who had been waiting a long time to be teased like that.

Eventually, their meetings moved indoors.

Y/N invited him to dinner one night. She made a strange mix of Italian and Chinese dishes- spaghetti with a recipe learned from an old Roman chef who once told her that Italians lived without regret through their pasta, and mala tofu with stir-fried bok choy, a dish she had perfected alone in her Shanghai kitchen which they had with a small bowl of sticky rice.

They ate slowly, in no rush, their conversation trailing between bites. Sunghoon leaned his forearms on the table as she told him stories about the Roman chef who had taken her under his wing for a week after she accidentally helped him carry groceries through cobbled streets. He laughed harder than he had in weeks, his mouth full of overcooked noodles and his heart unexpectedly light.

After dinner, they opened a bottle of red wine Y/N had been saving for a "meaningful occasion"- the label long peeled off, the cork slightly stubborn. They sat on the floor, backs against the couch, wine glasses in hand. She asked him about his time in university, about what he had been like before architecture turned into a career and not just a dream. He asked her about the books she didn’t publish, the ones she kept hidden in folders titled things like maybe one day and this one’s a mess. She didn’t deny it- just sipped her wine and smirked into the glass.

Later, Y/N reached behind the couch and pulled out an old, mismatched box of Jenga, the kind where a few pieces had pencil doodles and one was mysteriously chipped at the corner. “No pressure,” she said. “But I haven’t lost a game since college.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes. “You wrote your thesis on Greek tragedy, and now you’re challenging me at Jenga?”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “I’m well-versed in watching things fall apart.”

They played three rounds. She won two. The third collapsed in a drunken fit of laughter when Sunghoon accidentally sneezed and nudged the table, knocking the whole tower down.

It was one of those nights- quiet, unassuming, the kind you don’t realize is special until much later. Nothing big happened- there were no confessions, no kisses. But the air between them had changed by the time they stood at the door. There was something gentler in the way she leaned against the frame, something softer in the way he adjusted his coat before stepping into the cold.

He didn’t stay over.

He called a taxi, waited with his hands in his pockets, and when the headlights turned onto the street, he looked back at her- just once. She was still standing there, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. Not asking him to stay, not pushing him away. Just there, like always.

When Sunghoon invited her over for the first time, it wasn’t for dinner. It wasn’t even for coffee or idle conversation. He had something he wanted to show her- something that felt almost too private, too close to the part of himself he rarely let anyone touch.

The original blueprints.

He had spent years sketching versions of this building in the margins of notebooks, on napkins, on the backs of receipts. Rough ideas first, then refined ones- layer after layer of graphite and ink until they became something almost real. And now, sprawled across his living room floor, they looked delicate, almost fragile, like pieces that belonged in a museum archive.

Y/N knelt beside him without hesitation, legs folded underneath her, her hands moving carefully across the pages as if they were ancient ruins of history. She didn’t speak at first. She just traced the lines with the tip of her finger, pausing now and then to tilt her head, her brows knitting together in thoughtful concentration.

Sunghoon watched her more than he watched the drawings. The way her eyes scanned the layers of floor plans and elevation sketches, how her mouth twitched upward at the little handwritten notes he’d left for himself in the margins: rethink lobby entrance, sunlight angles too harsh?, find better material for glass- don't cheap out.

“This,” she finally said, looking up at him with something shining in her expression- not awe exactly, but something heavier, something fuller- “is incredible.”

They spent hours like that, sprawled across the floor, Y/N asking questions, Sunghoon explaining the angles of support beams and the challenges of balancing beauty with function. At some point, he realized he was rambling, getting too technical, but she never once looked bored. She just listened, the way she always had, like every word mattered.

At some point, night swallowed the city outside. The only light in the room came from a single dim lamp near the window, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. And when she finally left, long after midnight, he felt a strange ache in his chest- the kind that only comes when you realize you’ve just given someone a piece of yourself you can’t take back.

The next morning, he brought her to the construction site.

It wasn’t glamorous. The building was barely a skeleton of what it would become- exposed steel frames reaching skyward, the floors still raw and unfinished, the air thick with dust and the scent of wet concrete. Workers moved around them like ants, shouting instructions in Mandarin, the noise of drills and hammers clattering through the cool morning air.

He didn’t know why he brought her there. Maybe because part of him wanted her to see it- not the polished, finished dream, but the messy, imperfect beginning. Maybe because part of him wanted her to understand that this wasn’t just work. It was a piece of him, standing stubborn and half-built against the skyline.

She wore a bright yellow hard hat that was slightly too big, the strap loose against her chin, and an oversized reflective vest that swallowed her frame. She looked ridiculous, she looked adorable.

Sunghoon pulled out his phone and snapped a picture without thinking.

In the photo, she was smiling- not a big, posed grin, but a small, shy one, the kind of smile you give when you’re proud of something, even if it’s not yours. Behind her, the skeleton of the future loomed, all raw beams and silent promises.

He would keep that photo tucked away for years. Through the good days and the unbearable ones. Through everything that would come after.

Their friendship blurred, slowly. It didn’t surprise either of them. Somewhere, in the back of their minds, they had always known it wouldn’t stay platonic forever. From the moment they met on the train ten years ago, there had been something- not chemistry, not even longing. Just... inevitability.

It was the way their silences folded easily into each other. The way their glances lingered a beat too long, not searching, just... settling. It wasn’t some great romance that unfolded with fireworks and declarations. It was subtler than that. Quieter, like the way you reach for a light switch in the dark- it was instinctive, without needing to think.

There was no single moment when the line between them vanished. It just stopped mattering. It was in the way Sunghoon started buying her favorite kind of breakfast without asking. In how Y/N started showing up at the café with a book tucked under her arm, one she thought he might like even though he rarely read. It was her making him lunch boxes when he needed to go to the construction site. It was in the pauses between conversations- the way they both leaned in just a little, without meaning to.

They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t really need to. There was no confession, no careful declaration of feelings. It was all already there, hanging between them in the air, in every shared look, in the quiet comfort of knowing that somehow, inexplicably, you had ended up in the same place as the one person who once felt like a fleeting moment.

It wasn’t falling, it was remembering.

Remembering that even if they’d only spent a single night together on a train a decade ago, it had never truly ended when she said goodbye. That night had only paused and carried itself across years, across cities, across grief and growth- just to arrive here. And now, sitting across from each other again, it finally resumed. Like picking up a song mid-verse. Like they were simply continuing something that had never really finished.

Sunghoon told his friends about her not long after. It was during one of their three way calls that occurred once a few months, when they could accommodate the time difference and their busy schedules. And when Sunghoon told them that he was seeing someone, that it was getting serious, Jake and Jay hollered for him like they were in a football locker room. Despite their age and the sophistication that was expected by their professions, when they were around each other, they were still the weird trio from university that seemingly did everything together.

“It’s the girl from the train,” Sunghoon said. “Y/N, the girl from the train.”

And the call reached a ceasing silence. It stayed like that for a second, so quiet that Sunghoon couldn’t even hear them breathing.

He pulled his brows together in confusion. “Hello?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake finally said. “What are you saying?”

In all the nights Jay and Jake had stayed up with a drunk Sunghoon- back when they were younger, when heartbreak still looked like bruises instead of scars- they listened to him whine about a girl he met on a train. Mystery Train Girl, they called her, even though Sunghoon had told them her real name a dozen times. It became a running joke between the three of them, a sort of coping mechanism, maybe. Naming her made her feel less dangerous, less real- just another lost figure from a hazy, romanticized past.

But it wasn’t really a joke, not when Sunghoon would sometimes, in the thick of too much whiskey, talk about her like she had been a fixed point in his life. Like somehow, even though they’d only spent a single night together, she had left fingerprints on his ribs.

The stories didn’t stop even when Sunghoon met Nora- even when he fell in love again, even when he married.

They didn’t come often- only sometimes, in the quiet hours between drinks, when Nora was asleep and the weight of old memories pressed too heavily against his chest. But when they did, the fact that he still spoke about Y/N at all said more than Sunghoon probably meant it to. Jake and Jay never pointed it out. Some things didn’t need pointing out.

After Nora died, Sunghoon stopped speaking about love altogether.

He didn’t date, he didn’t flirt, he didn’t even look at anyone the same way anymore. After Nora died, the idea of opening himself up again felt unbearable. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love- he did. He had lived it, fully, with Nora. She had been his real love story, the one he thought would carry him to the end of his days. And losing her had carved something hollow inside him, something too fragile to risk breaking again. It wasn’t about moving on and it wasn’t about forgetting. It was fear- plain and sharp- the fear that if he let himself love again, he would have to survive losing it again too. And he wasn’t sure he could.

It wasn’t until Sunghoon first relocated to Shanghai- when his career finally cracked open and handed him everything he had worked for- that the two friends acted on a thought they had laughed about for years. One night, after too many beers and too much unsaid worry, they pulled out Jake’s laptop and typed her name into the search bar.

And there she was.

Older, yes- different, a little. But still unmistakably the girl Sunghoon had described with a kind of reverence no drunkenness could dull. Her picture stared back at them- in a small university profile, smiling faintly, hair tucked behind her ear.

She had published three books by then. She taught English at a local university in Shanghai. She was real. And terrifyingly close.

Jake and Jay stared at the screen for a long time, the silence between them heavier than either of them expected. They could have told him. They could have shown him. But something about it felt wrong- like opening a door Sunghoon had already chosen to leave closed.

So they didn’t say anything. They closed the laptop, and the next morning, neither brought it up again. And if there was a trace of guilt that lingered between them when they saw Sunghoon staring too long out of windows, lost in thought, or smiling a little too sadly at passing strangers- well, they buried it. Along with the rest of the secrets you keep out of love.

“Mystery Train Girl?” Jay gasped and they could imagine that his eyes were widening. “You’re joking. Y/N?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, pressing his phone closer to his ear as he chuckled. “Can you believe it? I found her. Y/N- Mystery Train Girl.”

“That’s…” Jay trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“That’s incredible, Sunghoon,” Jake said, firmly, as if he was answering for both of them. “I’m happy for you, mate. Are you happy?”

“Unbelievably, so,” Sunghoon breathed, and they could hear the smile on his face- the smile that highlighted his pointy teeth and made his eyes squint.

Jay and Jake didn’t comment much after that, only listened as Sunghoon recalled the story of how they found each other again in a tiny book store. And while listening, they were bracing for the impact of Nora’s name falling out of his mouth- that maybe he would mention her again, maybe he would break down over his first love, his dead wife. But it never came. And it sounded like Sunghoon was happy again. And his two friends didn’t have to worry about him feeling alone in another country.

A month later, Jay announced he was taking a weekend trip to Shanghai. He said it was for business, something about meeting international colleagues. Sunghoon didn’t ask many questions and simply offered him the guest bedroom, knowing it would be Jay’s first time visiting the city. It was usually Sunghoon who made the trip back to Korea, although he preferred not to. The last time he had gone back was for Christmas Eve the year before. This year, he planned to stay in Shanghai and spend the holidays with Y/N.

Sunghoon picked him up from the airport. He had booked a driver to meet them; living in a foreign country didn’t leave him much reason to own a car, and most foreigners in Shanghai got by without one anyway.

When they finally reunited at arrivals, Jay hugged him like a brother lost to time, gripping him tightly and nuzzling his head into Sunghoon’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh. Sunghoon laughed, patting his back with more affection than he realized he still carried.

On the drive back, as the city blurred past the window in streaks of neon and rain, Sunghoon casually mentioned that Y/N had prepared dinner for them. Jay blinked, the words settling slower than they should have. For a moment, he didn’t say anything- just stared out the window, watching the city streak by in blurs of gold and gray.

“Y/N,” he repeated eventually, like he was trying the name on his tongue, reminding himself it was real.

Sunghoon didn���t notice the way Jay’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag, or how his chest rose just a little sharper with the next breath. He just kept talking- about the dinner she was cooking, about how it wasn’t anything fancy, how she insisted it was "just empanadas" even though she spent all morning preparing it.

Jay nodded, smiling faintly, his throat too tight for much else. And inside, he told himself he wouldn’t ruin this. He wouldn’t say a word about the night he and Jake had found her online, sitting in some Seoul bar with Wi-Fi sticky and regret thicker. He wouldn’t tell Sunghoon that he had almost reached out once, almost booked a flight years earlier just to shove him toward her.

No.

This was Sunghoon’s story now. Finally, it was finding its way back.

Jay leaned his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes briefly, letting the city rush by.

Maybe some things were meant to take the long way around.

Jay was normal again by the time they reached Sunghoon’s apartment. It didn’t take much- just a lot of conviction and slipping back into his usual cocky persona, the one he wore like a second skin. Most lawyers had it; Jay had perfected it. Still, as they crossed the threshold, something in him braced without meaning to. His eyes swept the room instinctively, looking for proof, for her. For a second, it felt absurd- this quiet desperation to confirm that she wasn’t just another ghost Sunghoon had built out of grief and old memories. That she was still real after all these years.

And there she was. Y/N. Sitting at the dinner table, mid-bite, blinking up at them with a startled, awkward little smile that somehow made Jay’s chest tighten.

“So you’re the girl Sunghoon’s been unbelievably happy with,” Jay said, smiling.

His voice was easy, his posture relaxed- all charm, all mischief- and he didn’t mean any harm by it. This was his way of showing acceptance- approval, gratitude.

Sunghoon groaned, already dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t need to know I talk about her to you.”

Jay stepped forward and pulled Y/N into a quick hug- a brief, casual squeeze that made them acquaintances, allies, something realer than strangers but not yet friends. More importantly, it let Jay swallow the last of his disbelief, let him anchor himself to the fact that this girl was real. That Sunghoon had found her again. He couldn’t wait to talk to Jake about this.

He pulled back with an easy grin. “Don’t worry, all good things,” he said.

“I sure hope so,” Y/N laughed, soft and easy, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

As she turned toward the kitchen to check on dinner, Sunghoon called over his shoulder, “By the way, Jay. When’s the business meeting or whatever?”

Jay flashed a mischievous grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Not really a business meeting,” Sunghoon immediately understood what Jay meant. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that line. He knew Jay well enough to know that when he said he needed a break, it wasn’t from work, but from the suffocating life at home. “Just needed to get away from the wife and kids for a while,” Jay continued, as if it was nothing more than a simple errand.

It wasn’t the fact that Jay was going out to a club, or that he’d been doing it for years now. What gnawed at Sunghoon wasn’t even the affairs. It was the contradiction that Jay had become. Jay, the man who could charm anyone, the man who always knew how to treat his friends with unwavering loyalty and kindness. Jay, who would never let his mother lift a finger, who’d drop everything for a friend in need, who was the first to volunteer to help anyone. He was the perfect son, the perfect friend. He was the kind of man you’d want your daughter to marry. And he was an amazing father to his kids, too. His son adored him; his daughter looked up to him with the kind of love only a child could give.

But as a husband? It was a different story.

Sunghoon had tried to make sense of it. He’d never been one to pry, but he’d known something was off for a while now. There were the fights, the tension that seemed to hang in the air when Jay spoke of Emma, his wife. The woman who, on the surface, was everything Jay needed- beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious. But beneath that exterior, there was something darker. Something... volatile. Emma was a storm, and Jay was constantly caught in the eye of it. She never seemed to be satisfied, always complaining, always accusing him of neglect. It wasn’t the life he had envisioned when they first married.

Sunghoon had learned the truth two years ago, though. It had been over the phone, after another one of Jay’s “business trips” that seemed to stretch on longer than necessary. Jay had been in Spain, hiding away from his reality. The phone call had come late at night, the words slurred, his voice raw with emotion and shame. Jay had admitted it then, between half-chuckles and half-sighs: his marriage wasn’t just falling apart- it had already shattered.

Jay had been cheating. Not just once, but over and over again. The guilt was written all over his face when he finally confessed, his eyes avoiding Sunghoon’s. It was an open secret now, something neither of them could pretend didn’t exist. 

But Jay asked one thing: that Sunghoon not tell Jake. Jake was too pure for this, too innocent to understand. Jay’s words stuck with Sunghoon, gnawing at him every time he saw his friend. Jake, who was the embodiment of what every relationship should strive for. He was the one who would never hurt anyone, let alone his wife, not intentionally.

Jake was probably the happiest in his marriage out of all three of them. He and his wife had built a life together, with shared goals, trust, and respect. He was everything Jay had once wanted to be, before everything fell apart. Jake wouldn’t get it. Jay knew it, Sunghoon knew it. If Jake found out, it would disgust him.

“Guys, dinner’s ready,” Y/N called from the kitchen, unbeknownst to the stare Sunghoon and Jay were sharing, her voice casual but a little shy at the edges.

The table wasn’t grand- just a small spread of empanadas glistening under the soft kitchen lights, bowls of salad thrown together with whatever they had left in the fridge, a bottle of cheap red wine breathing in the center. But it felt like a feast anyway because Jay was in Sunghoon’s city for the first time and it was celebration enough.

They gathered around with clattering feet. Jay joked that he hadn't had a home-cooked meal since his kids started insisting chicken nuggets were a food group, and Sunghoon rolled his eyes, already grabbing a plate like he belonged here, like they all did.

The conversation started simple- work, weather, flights, cities. Jay filled the gaps easily, weaving stories with the kind of natural charm only a seasoned lawyer could pull off. He talked about his firm back in Seoul, how his youngest daughter had tried to draw on his legal documents with crayons, how his son still teased him for losing an argument to a four-year-old. Y/N laughed, head tipped back slightly, that kind of laugh that warmed the room more than the radiator ever could.

Eventually, the stories shifted and, predictably, they turned toward Sunghoon.

Jay grinned around a mouthful of salad as he launched into tales Y/N had never heard- how Sunghoon, back in college, once pulled three consecutive all-nighters trying to finish a model for an architecture competition, only to sleep through the final submission. How he once broke his wrist during a drunken dare to skateboard down the steepest hill on campus, and still showed up to class the next day with his notes balanced on the cast. How he used to draw intricate skylines in the margins of every notebook, even in classes that had nothing to do with architecture.

And of course, Jay couldn’t resist mentioning the infamous Europe trip- the one that changed everything without them realizing it at the time. He talked about how Sunghoon had been so annoyingly hopeful during that summer, so convinced that life was about to open itself up to him in some grand, cinematic way. How he came back different after that trip- quieter, a little more weighted- but never explained why.

Y/N listened closely, soaking in every word.

There was something almost reverent in the way she paid attention- like she was piecing together the missing years of a story she had unknowingly starred in for far too long. She laughed at the right moments, gasped in mock horror when Jay described the skateboard incident, shook her head when he revealed how Sunghoon had once nearly gotten arrested in Barcelona for accidentally trespassing on a historical site he was “admiring too closely.”

Sunghoon mostly kept quiet, nursing his wine, his gaze flickering between his best friend and the woman sitting beside him. He didn’t mind being the subject tonight. If anything, he liked it- liked the way Y/N looked at him with that half-smiling curiosity, like every ridiculous thing Jay said only made him more real to her.

“You know, on that train?” Sunghoon started, looking between Jay and Y/N. “We played cards with this group of old men. And before leaving, they wished us all the best for the future and for love.”

“I remember that,” Y/N’s smile spread softly as she recollected the memory.

“Isn’t it insane? How things worked out.”

Eventually, the night wound down. The dishes were cleared, the wine finished, the laughter tapering into that familiar, comfortable tiredness that only comes after a good meal shared between people who no longer feel like strangers.

Y/N stood and grabbed her bag, pulling out her phone to book a cab. She moved easily, like she had done this a hundred times before. But Jay frowned, watching her from his place on the couch, a sliver of unease threading through his expression.

“How’s it alright,” he muttered under his breath “for a woman to travel alone this late?”

Before he could say more, Sunghoon cut in, already waving him off. “It's safe here,” he said simply. “Safer than Seoul, honestly. She’s done this a million times.”

Jay didn’t argue further. He just pressed his lips into a tight line, nodded once, and disappeared into the guest room, trust stitched into the quiet way he left the conversation.

Sunghoon pulled on his jacket and walked Y/N down to the road where her taxi was waiting, the night wrapped heavy and slow around them. The city had quieted into a low hum, the air thick with the smell of rain and petrol, streetlights buzzing overhead like tired lullabies. They didn’t speak as they walked. There was no need to fill the space between them; the silence had its own kind of gravity, pulling them closer with every step.

At the curb, they paused. Y/N fiddled with the strap of her bag, glancing at the taxi, then back at him. The cab’s engine purred in the background, patient. Sunghoon stood there, watching her, a hundred words building and crumbling behind his teeth. He didn’t want her to go, not again, not even for the night. Without giving himself the time to overthink it- without giving the fear room to grow- he leaned down and kissed her like he did most nights they were parting ways to go to their respective homes. It was a ritual, an agreement that this was how they chose to end their days, some sort of contact, some form of affection.

She smiled at him, softly, like how she always did, her doe eyes staring back at him. He was sleepy, she could tell by his droopy eyes and ruffled brows.

“Move in with me,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual for the weight of what he was asking.

“What?” she whispered, frowning slightly as if she hadn’t heard him right.

“Move in with me,” Sunghoon repeated, steadier this time. “You basically live here anyway. Half your stuff is already here- your books, your sweaters, your coffee cups...” He gave a small, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Might as well make it official.”

For a long second, she just stood there, caught between him and the waiting cab, the night buzzing softly around them. And then, slowly, impossibly, she smiled and kissed his cheek, her free hand softly cradling his face. She didn’t explicitly say yes, she didn’t have to. She just climbed into the cab with a lingering glance over her shoulder, the answer shining in her eyes before she even closed the door.

And as the taxi pulled away into the night, Sunghoon stood there for a moment longer, jacket hanging open, hands shoved into his pockets, feeling like maybe- finally- he had stopped running.

They found an apartment tucked between Y/N’s university and Sunghoon’s office- a green building at the edge of a sleepy, semi-gated community, where the sidewalks were cracked but clean, and trees arched overhead like old, patient guardians, their branches laced together like clasped hands. Stray cats wandered the streets freely, their coats dusty and proud, weaving between parked bicycles and the crooked legs of plastic chairs.

The building itself was four stories high, its walls covered in creeping ivy that turned gold in the autumn, burgundy in the winter. The paint was chipped in places. The elevator creaked every time it climbed past the second floor. But it was homey in a way most new constructions weren’t- a place that had been lived in, softened at the edges by years of small, ordinary lives.

Their unit was on the third floor, just high enough to catch the breeze but low enough to hear the neighbor’s piano practice in the evenings. The windows were tall and stubborn to open, framed by old iron grilles that let the light scatter across the walls in slanted, golden bars. The living room was small but bright, with just enough space for a second hand couch they picked out together and a low coffee table cluttered with books, half-finished crossword puzzles, and Sunghoon’s abandoned sketches.

The kitchen was recyangular, a single counter running along one wall, stained and scratched from a dozen past tenants. The stove clicked stubbornly before lighting. The fridge leaned slightly to the left. But still, it became a place where pasta boiled over and dumplings burned slightly on the bottom, where mugs clinked in the morning quiet, where grocery lists were scribbled on sticky notes and slapped onto the fridge door.

Their bedroom was tucked into the farthest corner, modest, almost shy. A narrow balcony stretched out from it, barely wide enough for two chairs and a crooked table where they sometimes sat on humid nights, sipping beer or eating cheap ice cream, watching the street lights flicker like tired fireflies.

Downstairs, the community buzzed with a life of its own. There was an old woman who sold baozi from a folding table near the gate every morning, always shouting friendly scolds when Sunghoon forgot his wallet. There was a florist who only opened his shop at odd hours and once gave Y/N a wilting rose for free, just because she said she liked the smell. There were children who played soccer in the narrow lanes, their laughter bouncing off the weathered stone walls, and a retired artist who painted landscapes on the sidewalk with chalk, only to watch them wash away with the next rain.

Inside, they built a life that settled into a rhythm almost without them realizing. Mornings meant fumbling around the kitchen together, half-asleep and heavy-limbed, passing mugs back and forth with clumsy hands and sleepy smiles. Sunghoon usually made the coffee- strong and bitter- while Y/N hovered near the stove, pretending to help but mostly just getting in the way, stealing sips from his cup before her own was ready. Their jokes were softer in the mornings, murmured around yawns, laughter curling lazily into the sunlight pooling across the tiled floor.

Evenings were a little louder, a little messier. Dinner at the small wooden table by the window became a ritual neither of them ever bothered to question. Sometimes it was takeout- greasy dumplings or cold noodles in plastic boxes- and sometimes it was whatever Y/N could cobble together from the fridge after her classes: one-pot pastas, stir-fries that set off the smoke alarm more often than not. Afterward, they curled into each other on the sagging couch, the city flickering outside the window. Y/N would read aloud from whatever novel had captured her that week, her voice threading gently through the room, while Sunghoon rested his head against her shoulder, letting the sound of her fill in all the tired spaces inside him.

Sometimes it was him doing the talking instead- late-night ramblings about impossible project managers, bureaucratic nightmares, steel orders delayed yet again. He would pace the living room in frustration, tossing out architectural jargon, until Y/N tugged him back down beside her and told him, simply, stubbornly, that he was brilliant. And somehow, the knots inside his chest always loosened a little when she said it.

They argued, too- like all real couples did. Sometimes about big things, but mostly about nothing at all. Y/N wanted a pet- a dog, a cat, even a bunny, she said once, her face half-buried in a blanket, grinning. She wanted something living and soft and theirs. Sunghoon resisted, citing their long hours, their unpredictable travel, the fear of leaving something small and trusting behind. Neither of them ever won those arguments outright, but somehow they circled back to it again and again, a low-burning want that never fully left the room.

The balcony plants were another battleground. They had bought them in a fit of optimism one spring- small pots of basil, rosemary, a lemon tree that Y/N insisted would one day bear fruit- but between Sunghoon’s site visits and Y/N’s grading marathons, the poor things wilted and browned faster than they could save them. Every time a plant shriveled into nothing, they pointed fingers half-jokingly at each other, sparring over who was supposed to water them that week.

Some nights, they bickered over movies, scrolling endlessly through the options, each rejecting the other's picks with increasingly absurd excuses. In the end, they usually gave up and flipped to whatever Chinese drama happened to be airing on local TV- always badly acted, always wildly over-the-top, full of improbable plots about secret twin siblings and dramatic amnesia. They would sit side by side on the couch, trading sarcastic commentary, laughing until they couldn’t breathe, until the night felt stitched together with something stronger than just habit.

And just like that, three years had slipped by since they reunited in that quiet Shanghai bookshop, and two years since they moved into their creaky, stubborn apartment- the one with the ivy-covered walls, the third-floor balcony, the kitchen that never fully heated up in winter but somehow became the warmest place they knew. Their home had filled itself over time- birthdays celebrated with mismatched streamers taped hastily to the walls, cooking disasters they cleaned up side by side, little wins toasted with cheap wine until they laughed themselves breathless on the worn-out couch. The walls bore witness to it all- Y/N’s cluttered shelves of trinkets, Sunghoon’s architecture sketches pinned in loose, sprawling lines across the living room, the hum of music on lazy Sundays, the clink of coffee mugs in the mornings, and the quiet, sacred moments of intimacy that didn't need words.

And now, it was time to mark the next chapter. 

Sunghoon’s building- the one he had sketched and dreamed and fought for- was finally complete. His name was folded into the skyline of Shanghai, stitched into concrete and glass, visible only to those who knew where to look. He'd done it- he finally did it.

To celebrate, his company hosted a grand opening, a party far more extravagant than anything Sunghoon would have thrown for himself. It was held in the top floor of the building where the champagne flowed, velvet ropes cordoned off the important people, and unfamiliar faces mingled under bright lights. It was supposed to be about his achievement, his vision made real- but to Sunghoon, it felt heavier, more personal. It felt like surviving. It felt like standing on the other side of everything that should have broken him.

Jay and Jake flew in from Seoul for the event, carrying the kind of chaos and heart only old friends could bring. Jay, with his reckless grin and booming voice, immediately made enemies with the event staff over "no kids running" rules. And the tension between him and his wife didn’t go unnoted. Jake arrived with Minji and their two children, presenting Sunghoon with an aged bottle of whiskey so expensive he almost dropped it in shock. 

When asked what gift Jay had brought, he slapped Sunghoon hard on the back and joked, "Who do you think is gonna be your lawyer when the lawsuits come in?" But later, when the crowd thinned slightly, Jay leaned in and muttered that the real gift- a carved jade vase picked out for him and Y/N- was waiting in his hotel room, too fragile to be dragged through the crowd.

As Sunghoon was swept away by a crowd of people- clients, architects, and reporters, all eager to speak with him, interview him, and congratulate him on the success of his building- Y/N found herself momentarily adrift, the hum of conversations around her blending into a distant background. But before she could get lost in the noise of it all, Jay’s voice broke through, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Y/N,” he called with a warm smile, one that seemed to soften the usual edge in his eyes. “Come meet everyone.”

He introduced her first to Emma, who gave her a polite, though reserved, handshake. Emma’s eyes were kind, but there was something guarded about her smile, as if she were measuring Y/N before deciding how much to let in. Next, Jay introduced her to his children. His son, a bright-eyed eight-year-old, immediately started chatting about his favorite cartoons, while his daughter, a few years younger, shyly held out a hand for a quick shake before retreating to her mother’s side.

Y/N smiled warmly, watching the kids interact with Jake’s, whose boisterous laughter seemed to fill the air as they played together like long-lost friends.

And then, Jake’s family appeared, standing close behind them with easy smiles and a regal air about them, as if their wealth and poise were as much a part of their DNA as their names. Minji, Jake’s wife, stood confidently beside him, her hands full with the impeccable, expensive gift they had brought. She, too, offered Y/N a warm handshake and a glance of approval, one that spoke volumes about the quiet power she held within their circle.

“Your boyfriend’s quite the star tonight,” Jake grinned and raised his wine glass, scanning his eyes across the crowd.

Sunghoon stepped up to the mic, his hand briefly adjusting the collar of his shirt as the room fell silent. A soft clink of silver against glass echoed through the space, signaling the beginning of his speech. He looked out over the crowd, his gaze finding familiar faces among the sea of guests. He looked nervous, his friends could tell by the smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his squinted eyes. Y/N chuckled, clasping her hands together and coaxing him.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, his voice steady but filled with gratitude. "This building has been a lifelong dream of mine, something that’s been in the making for years. I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid, when I was still playing with LEGO.”

The crowd lulled at him. 

"This moment wouldn’t be possible without the support of my family, my friends, and everyone who believed in me. I’m especially grateful to my parents, who have always been my foundation, and to my friends- Jay, Jake, and everyone who’s been by my side through thick and thin."

He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as it landed on Y/N. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"And to Y/N, my wonderful girlfriend who never stopped believing in me- for fifteen years, you’ve always been patient and supporting me. In your own, quiet ways." The room was quiet, everyone’s attention rapt, as Sunghoon continued. "This building- this achievement- it's as much as all of yours as it is mine. So, thank you, all of you, for helping me get here."

The crowd erupted in applause. 

He raised his glass slightly. "Here’s to many more moments like this."

The crowd cheered, and the applause filled the room, but Sunghoon’s eyes stayed on Y/N, his heart full.

The applause still echoed in the room, but Sunghoon barely noticed. His heart was pounding, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as his feet moved instinctively toward her. His eyes locked on Y/N, standing at the edge of the room, her smile brighter than he’d ever seen it before.

He could feel the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him- the pride of the night, the weight of the years of work, and the absolute certainty that in this moment, in this life, all that mattered was her. Everything else- every achievement, every challenge- had led to this.

Without thinking, he jogged towards her, ignored everyone that reached towards him, the excitement in his chest pushing him forward. He took her hands in his, the warmth of her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. The world felt distant, muted, as if the room had shrunk down to just the two of them, standing in a bubble of their own.

Y/N’s wide, surprised eyes met his, her lips curling into a smile as she looked up at him, unsure of what was coming. Sunghoon didn’t let the moment slip.

"Marry me," he said, his voice low but certain, no hesitation, no ring, no preparation. Just the raw sincerity of what he felt.

Y/N stared at him, stunned, the question hanging between them like a breath neither of them could take. For a second, the whole room seemed to still- the lights, the music, the people- all blurring into the background. All that was left was him, and her, and the weight of everything they had built without ever daring to name it.

"Sunghoon?" Her voice was soft, unsure, like she couldn’t quite believe what he was asking.

"Marry me, Y/N," he repeated, the words tumbling out with all the confidence he had in her, in them, in the life they’d built together. "Make me yours. Marry me,” he looked at her like she’d written his life, like she hung the stars that his building touched. His hair fell on his forehead, eyes sparkling under the white light of the room, his pointy teeth peeking under his lips.

The room continued to buzz around them, but all he could hear was the beating of his heart and the way her hands tightened in his. It was as if everything had led to this point- every smile they’d shared, every quiet moment, every fight, every laugh. It was all right here, and in that one moment, all of it felt like it was finally falling into place.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his face, taking in the rawness of his plea, her breath catching in her throat as her heart caught up with what he was saying. For a beat, it felt like the world had paused. The future, their future, stretched out ahead of them, and for the first time, it didn’t seem so uncertain.

“Yes,” she whispered, fighting the smile that inevitably spread across her face, her eyes beaming. “I’ll marry you, yes.”

That night, their apartment was filled with the kind of laughter that wrapped around the walls and stuck there, soaked into the wood and the floorboards and the worn fabric of the couch. Jay and Jake’s families crowded into the small living room, balancing wine glasses and plates of leftovers, their kids weaving between legs and couch cushions, building forts out of pillows and throwing giggling fits that made even the neighbors downstairs stomp once on their ceiling in protest.

The celebration wasn’t just for the building- although Jake made a big, showy toast about Sunghoon “finally putting something other than Legos together.” It wasn’t just for the engagement, either- although Jay yelled loud enough for the entire floor to hear when Y/N showed off the temporary ring Sunghoon had bought from a street vendor just to make it official. It was for everything- for the survival, the endurance, the blind faith it had taken to get here.

The whiskey Jake had brought from Korea was uncorked, its rich, smoky scent curling through the apartment, mixing with the smells of cheap takeout and someone's abandoned lavender hand lotion. They drank too much and laughed too hard and retold old stories, the ones that had been dragged out a hundred times before but still hit just as hard. They toasted to love, to family, to new beginnings that had been a long time coming.

At the center of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, pressed into each other on the couch, still a little dazed, still blinking like they couldn’t quite believe their luck. Sunghoon leaned into her, his forehead bumping against hers, their hands tangled loosely in the space between them. Y/N laughed at something Jay said across the room, the sound spilling over Sunghoon’s shoulder like warm water. He looked at her the way you look at something you know you’re going to spend the rest of your life memorizing.

The next morning arrived heavy and slow. The hall smelt of whiskey and cold takeout with sunlight slanting lazily across the messy apartment floor. Jay and Jake groaned their way out of the guest room, looking like they'd aged a decade overnight. The kids and the wives were still sleeping, Y/N still locked in the room with her head buried in pillows. While Sunghoon, somehow, had the audacity to be chipper, already showered and dressed, pacing the living room with a cup of coffee in hand.

"Let’s go," he said brightly, nudging Jake with his foot where he slumped on the couch.

"Go where?" Jake grunted, rubbing his face.

Sunghoon just grinned and said, "You’ll see."

Half an hour later, they were standing in front of a jewelry store in downtown Shanghai, still half-hungover, blinking against the polished glass and diamond shine like they’d stumbled into a parallel universe. Jake muttered something about needing sunglasses. Jay just stood there with his hands in his pockets, squinting at the window displays like they personally offended him.

When they went inside, it didn’t take long for chaos to start.

"I’m telling you, oval cut is the way to go," Jake said, leaning dramatically over the glass counter, pointing at a delicate, glittering ring.

Jay scoffed. "Oval is boring. Get her a princess cut. Classic. Clean. Also sounds badass- princess cut."

Jake rolled his eyes. "You're a lawyer, not a jeweler. Stay in your lane."

"And you’re a surgeon, not a stylist. What do you know about jewelry?"

“I know more about cuts than you!”

They kept going, arguing louder and louder, drawing a few raised eyebrows from the staff, while Sunghoon- unnoticed- had already chosen. The moment he saw it, he knew. Simple and elegant, a solitaire diamond, set low in a slender band of platinum. Not too flashy, not too plain.

Exactly Y/N- exactly her in every way that mattered.

Without saying a word, Sunghoon pulled out his card, signed the receipt, and slipped the velvet box into his jacket pocket. By the time Jake and Jay turned around, still bickering over cushion cuts versus marquise cuts, Sunghoon was already walking out the door.

"Wait- did you pick one?" Jay called after him, confused.

Sunghoon didn’t even slow down. He just tossed a grin over his shoulder and said, "Already done. Keep arguing if you want, though. Maybe you can pick your own next time."

“Excuse me, next time?”Jake looked at Jay, comical confusion on his face. But they ignored him and dragged him to a restaurant for lunch.

iii. When The Lights Start to Flicker

They'd been married a little over a year now, still living in the same apartment. The place had become a reflection of them- a small, sunlit sanctuary amid the constant rush of Shanghai. Sunghoon had started designing a house for them to build one day, a place they could call their own. He envisioned a space with wide windows to catch the morning light, a garden with space for their future children to play, and maybe even a little patch of grass where they could set up a swing. The plan was to settle in Shanghai, to raise their family here, to grow old together and, eventually, die here. Shanghai had become their city, their home.

Above their bed hung their only wedding photo- a courthouse wedding they had to have in Hong Kong. They hadn’t had time to plan something big, but the simplicity of it made it feel real in a way nothing else could. Their faces were flushed from laughter, hair messily styled from the winds on the ferry, clothes wrinkled and etched, eyes bright and full of hope- a stark contrast to the quiet mornings that followed.

The jade vase Jay had gifted them for their wedding day now sat on their balcony, a tiny lemon tree growing from it, its leaves stubborn and green despite the occasional gusts of wind. It was one of those small symbols of their life together- not perfect, not always flourishing, but resilient. Framed pictures dotted the apartment- photos from holidays with their families, snapshots from trips they’d taken with Jake and Jay’s families, and spontaneous polaroids of the two of them in various places, their smiles as wide and unguarded as the moments in which they were taken. 

Jay and Emma were divorced now, but they still kept in touch, if only for the sake of the kids. Jake’s children were growing fast, entering middle school now, a milestone Sunghoon couldn’t quite wrap his head around, hearing them yell “Samchon Sunghoon” over the phone all the time. Sometimes, they’d talk about their plans for the future- whether it was dinners at the new restaurant in Shanghai or weekend trips to the coast- always something to look forward to, always an excuse to keep moving forward, to keep adding to the timeline of their life.

Life seemed good. No- life was good. Better than Sunghoon had ever dared hope for. In the mornings, Y/N would make coffee while he sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his sketches for the house, and they’d talk about their day- trivial things at first: what they’d have for dinner, what he should wear to the meeting later. Then, there were the deeper conversations, the ones where they talked about their future, the one they were building together, like they were planting seeds for something that would last a lifetime.

Evenings were quiet. After dinner, they’d curl up on the couch, wrapped in soft blankets, watching old movies or the latest series they had gotten hooked on. Y/N liked to talk about their plans as if they were already there- as if the house was already standing, the kids already laughing in the garden. It felt like a dream Sunghoon was terrified to wake up from. There were nights he lay awake beside her, her steady breathing grounding him, his mind racing with the fear that it could all be taken away with a single misstep, a wrong decision. He felt too lucky, too undeserving of all of this. He couldn’t help but wonder, sometimes, if this was just a dream, one that he would wake up from at any moment- a dream that, apparently, was their life.

There were small moments, too- the way Y/N would smile when he’d finish a long day at work, the way she hummed a quiet tune while tending to the plants in their living room, the soft rustling of pages as she read before bed. Little things, but they were the rhythm of their life, the foundation of something they had both worked for and built from scratch.

Yeah. Life was great.

Until the night he came home and found her sobbing on the couch.

The sound cracked through the apartment like a whip, stopping him in his tracks. His bag slid forgotten from his shoulder as he rushed to her side, crouching in front of her, reaching out without even knowing what he would say. Y/N was folded into herself, shaking, the kind of sobs that came from somewhere deeper than just grief. It took long, fumbling minutes to piece the story together through her broken words.

“Do you remember my uncle John?” Y/N asked between sobs. “The one who…”

Killed himself?

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, his hand gripping hers and holding her against her chest. 

“His daughter,” she sobbed. “His daughter hung herself.”

Her cousin- the eldest daughter of her late uncle- was gone. A suicide, barely days away from earning her PhD. She had flown home under the pretense of rest and family- and instead had left a note explaining she had come to say goodbye.

Sunghoon’s arms wrapped around her instantly, pulling her against him, shielding her from the world with nothing but his own helpless warmth. He listened as she cried out memories, old guilt, new grief, her voice cracking apart in ways he didn’t know how to fix. He stayed with her through the night, through the tremors of her heart breaking open again, whispering comfort into her hair even though he knew it couldn’t patch the hole now yawning wide inside her.

The days that followed blurred together. Y/N couldn’t sleep. She wandered the apartment like a ghost, curling into Sunghoon at odd hours, talking in tangled loops about death, about missing signs, about how unfair it all was. Sunghoon held her through it, steady as he could be, biting down his own helplessness because what else was there to do?

And then, one night, it shifted into something worse.

She sat on the couch again, curled up in her favorite worn sweatshirt, the fabric soaked with tears. But this time, when she spoke, the names were wrong. The story was wrong. She wasn’t talking about her cousin anymore- she was talking about her uncle. About the bathtub, the blood, the knife slipping from his hand. Events that had happened years ago, long before they met. Like all of that was happening now.

Sunghoon’s heart stopped cold.

He knelt in front of her, his hands cupping her tear-streaked face, his voice shaking as he tried to pull her back. “Y/N,” he said softly, urgently, "that was... years ago. Not now. Not this time. It's your cousin, remember?"

For a long moment, she just stared at him like she didn’t know where she was, like he was speaking a language she couldn’t quite catch. And then, slowly, she blinked, wiped her face with trembling fingers, and whispered, “Sunghoon? Right. Right… years ago.”

Sunghoon didn’t think much of it- he chalked it up to exhaustion. In all the time she spent crying and juggling work and keeping herself alive, it could easily have been her brain trying to keep up. The stress of grief, the late nights spent tossing and turning, and the constant pressure to appear okay- it all had to take its toll somewhere. He convinced himself it was just a phase, something temporary that would eventually pass. But deep down, there was a quiet, nagging feeling he couldn't quite shake.

Because one day, when she woke up beside him, Sunghoon felt it in the air before she even opened her eyes. She stared at him like she had never seen him before, like a stranger had slipped into their bed overnight. The seconds stretched and cracked, her gaze flickering with confusion, then panic. And in a heartbeat, she was scrambling out of bed, shouting “Bloody Mary!” like some kind of primal instinct had taken hold of her.

“Who are you?” She demanded, voice breaking, hands shaking, frantic. “How did you get in here?”

Sunghoon’s heart sank, raw and painful, as he sat frozen for a moment, the silence between them suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. He slowly got out of bed, each step toward her feeling like a weight around his chest, every word that left his mouth laced with fear.

“Y/N, it’s just me. It’s me- Sunghoon,” he whispered, his voice shaking, as if trying to pull her back from some invisible abyss. She froze, eyes wide, unblinking, but she wasn’t seeing him. Not really.

It took minutes- long, painful minutes- before her eyes cleared, and she blinked slowly, the pieces clicking back into place. She looked at him as if waking from a nightmare, and the moment she realized it, she crumpled into him, sobbing uncontrollably.

He didn’t leave her side that day. She didn’t go to work. She didn’t even get out of bed. Her body seemed to collapse in on itself, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her, and he held her tighter, as if that might make the pieces fit again.

There were other days, too, small moments that cut through him like a knife. She’d stand in front of the fridge, staring at it like she had no idea what it was for, no idea what she was looking for. He'd ask if she needed anything, and she’d shake her head with a small, distant smile, as if she were trying to remember the question.

And then there was the train.

The train ride that had started it all- the one that had sparked their first conversation, the first connection, the first laughter. Sunghoon would bring it up from time to time, a simple, warm memory to anchor them both. But Y/N would look at him, eyes soft and unfocused, and tilt her head.

“Train?” she’d ask, brow furrowing. “What train?”

He would try again, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Y/N, our train. Sixteen years ago, when we met. In Europe. You remember? We talked for hours.”

“Europe?” Her voice was small, uncertain, as if the word was a strange, unfamiliar sound in her mouth.

Sunghoon’s heart would crack a little more every time, and he’d blink back tears, trying to hold it together. She wasn’t her in those moments. The woman who had laughed with him for hours, who had stolen his heart on that train ride, seemed to slip farther away with each passing day.

He'd search her face for something- anything- that resembled the woman he knew. But all he’d find was a faint trace of recognition, a distant look in her eyes, as though she was staring at him from the other side of a foggy glass.

“I... I don’t remember, Sunghoon,” she’d say softly, a frown pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry.”

“How did we meet, Y/N? When was the first time we met?”

Y/N broke down in tears again because she, in fact, could not recall.

But then, the memory lapses seemed to fade. As she began to come to terms with her cousin’s death- after the funeral, after the guilt, after the crushing waves of grief- she seemed lighter, steadier. The moments of confusion slipped into the background, infrequent enough to feel like grief-induced fog rather than something concerning. And Sunghoon, so desperate to believe that everything was okay, let himself believe it too. He didn’t tell anyone. Not Jake, not Jay, not even her family. He pushed it away like a bad dream, convinced that maybe it had all just been stress, and that maybe, just maybe, they were fine again.

Until one day, when Y/N was on her way to the metro station for work and called him in full-blown panic. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered into the phone, breath sharp and uneven. “I don’t know where I’m going, Sunghoon. I don’t know why I left.”

He ran out of the apartment, sprinting down the streets near the station, his heart thudding so hard it made his ears ring. When he found her, she was sitting on the sidewalk by the flower vendor, her knees pulled to her chest, hands trembling. And when she looked up at him, her eyes flooded with relief. “Hoon,” she gasped, like she had been holding her breath the whole time. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms right there on the pavement. And at least she still remembered him. That was something- that was everything.

But the small incidents began piling up like dominoes. One evening after dinner with friends, she fumbled through her purse for the house keys, her anxiety rising with every second. “They're gone, I can’t find them, I must’ve lost them.” Her voice cracked with panic- until Sunghoon gently took her hand and unfolded her fingers to reveal the keys she’d been clutching all along. Another day, she left the stove on while boiling eggs and stepped out for groceries. The fire alarm screamed through the building, and Sunghoon came home to the smell of scorched metal and neighbors in the hallway, shaken.

Then there were the names- she’d start stories and stall mid-sentence, unable to remember who she was talking about. She began confusing days of the week, missed appointments she’d never forget before, and sometimes called objects by the wrong name- a toothbrush was a “face stick,” a clock was a “time circle.” She started repeating herself too- asking if they had milk three times in ten minutes. Sunghoon would answer each time like it was the first, but the silence that followed hurt worse than anything else.

Eventually, with a shaking hand and dread thick in his throat, Sunghoon called Jake.

“She’s forgetting things, Jake,” he said, voice low and broken. “Not just little things. Big things. She gets scared. She’s getting words wrong, she’s leaving the stove on. She called me from the metro station and didn’t know why she was there. And... it’s happening more and more often.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Jake’s voice came through, steady but grave. “Sunghoon… She's showing signs of dementia. It sounds like she’s on her way to Alzheimer’s. You need to find out if anyone in her family has a history of it. Now.”

Turns out, after a gentle, seemingly harmless conversation Sunghoon started one afternoon while folding laundry beside her- “Hey, do you know if anyone in your family ever had memory problems?”- he found out that Y/N’s maternal grandmother had died of Alzheimer’s. It happened in a way her family never really talked about it. It had been brushed off as “old age,” but the signs were there, Y/N’s mother admitted later. She had forgotten her children’s names in the final years. She couldn’t even recognize her husband.

And from then on, it was like the truth became impossible to ignore.

Y/N’s memory declined like the last embers of a dying fire- slow at first, barely visible, but then suddenly collapsing inwards. She’d forget what room she was walking into, or why she was holding a spoon in the bathroom. She began writing notes on post-its and sticking them everywhere- Keys are on the hook. Your uncle and cousin are dead. You’re married to Sunghoon. Sometimes, even she couldn't read her own handwriting.

She stopped cooking. She’d forget she had started, then come back hours later to find uncooked rice soaking or wilted vegetables on the counter. Sometimes she’d call Sunghoon in tears because she couldn’t find the phone she was calling from. Her mood began to swing without warning. Sweet one moment, then suddenly furious, accusing Sunghoon of hiding things, or worse- cheating on her.

She’d wake up in the middle of the night and scream because she didn’t recognize their bedroom. There were days she wouldn’t even let him touch her, claiming he was an impersonator. “Where’s my husband?” She’d cry. “Sunghoon would never keep me here.” And then, as if a switch had flipped, she’d melt into his arms and sob.

Eventually, she quit her job and stopped working on her next book. She couldn’t remember her passwords, couldn’t keep up with deadlines, and once left her office because she got scared that the people there were “pretending” to know her. Sunghoon stopped going into the studio too. He asked to work remotely, spending most of his time beside her, trying to anchor her to the present. But she started living almost entirely in the past.

The outbursts became violent. She once threw a mug across the kitchen. She started locking herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. Jake and Y/N’s family began to insist gently- and then firmly- that Sunghoon consider long-term care. That he couldn’t do this alone, that she was slipping away and needed help.

Sunghoon didn’t want to let her go. He couldn’t imagine a day without her- her real, true self, even if she only appeared in flickers now. But after one especially bad night- Y/N screaming and crying, hitting herself, convinced her dead uncle was still alive and had just called her- he brought it up.

“I think maybe…” he whispered, kneeling beside her where she was curled up in the hallway, “maybe we should find a place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere with people who know how to help you.”

Her eyes blazed. “You want to lock me up?” She spat. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No- no, baby, that’s not-”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” she shrieked. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere! You’re not taking me!”

They tried again later. Her mother came, and Jake, and even her old colleague from the university. But each time, Y/N fought like a wild animal. She screamed and sobbed and clung to Sunghoon like a drowning woman. And each time, they had to remind her- again and again- You’re in the future. You have dementia. You don’t remember because your brain is forgetting things. You have Alzheimer’s.

Some mornings, she’d dress up in old college hoodies and ask what time her environmental psychology class was. She’d talk about a boy named Henry- someone she dated when she was 19- and wonder why he hadn’t called. Once, she set the table for dinner and asked if her uncle was coming. Another time, she stood by the window for hours waiting for her cousin to come pick her up.

Worst of all were the moments when her eyes would light up, recognition blooming, and she'd talk to Sunghoon like she remembered everything- only to forget his name halfway through the conversation.

One afternoon, they were walking back from a small bakery, when she wandered toward a street vendor selling baozi. She smiled warmly at the woman and launched into fluent French. The seller blinked, confused, and Sunghoon gently placed a hand on Y/N’s back.

“She thinks she’s in Marseille,” he whispered, forcing a smile.

Y/N turned to him, delighted. “Can you believe this aunty sells baozi in France?”

Sunghoon didn’t correct her. He just nodded, voice tight, “Yeah, baby. That’s wild.”

Because sometimes, lying was the kindest thing he could do.

And then… Y/N wasn’t lucid anymore. Not even for a moment, not even in the in-betweens. The disease had taken everything- her memories, her language, her personality. It stripped her of everything that made her her- and what remained was just a flickering ghost, a body that moved and blinked and sometimes smiled at nothing. A shell. Breathing, yes, but not alive- not really.

Sunghoon wasn’t her husband anymore. He was a kind man who brought her food and gently wiped drool from her chin. A stranger who helped her get dressed when she stared blankly at her hands like they didn’t belong to her. A shadow in her life that didn’t mean anything to her anymore, though to him- God, to him- she was still everything.

He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly there with him.

Was it months ago? When they went to that new Chinese film- the one they’d talked about for weeks? He remembered holding her hand in the theatre, feeling the tremble in her fingers, how she laughed at a joke five seconds after everyone else. Or maybe it was more recent- last week, maybe? When he was cooking dinner, she wandered in, looked at him for a long, glassy-eyed second, then slowly wrapped her arms around his waist. She just held him. No words, no explanation- just a small human miracle.

But that was gone now. Completely, utterly gone. 

She stared through windows like she was waiting for someone who would never arrive. She whispered to herself, nonsense words, phrases from decades ago. She forgot how to use the bathroom. Forgot how to chew. She didn’t recognize mirrors, or her own name.

And her eyes- those beautiful, sharp, sparkling eyes- were just fog now. Pale glass. Empty, like a house with all the lights turned off.

Sunghoon sat beside her every night and read the books they used to love. Even though she didn’t respond. Even though she didn’t blink. He combed her hair. He played her favorite music. He held her hand until she pulled away like he was nothing but static.

Jake flew in from China after a call with her doctors, something urgent in his voice. He couldn’t stand the silence on the other end of the updates anymore. Couldn’t stand the breaking in Sunghoon’s voice- the exhaustion, the hollowness. He met with every doctor, every specialist, brought files and reports and records. But they all said the same thing, their eyes filled with pity:

“She’s in the final stage.”

Jake stood in the cold hallway outside Y/N’s room that night, phone to his ear, as he talked to Jay back home. His voice was low, cracked.

“I don’t think Sunghoon can live through this,” Jake said. “Not this time. He loses Y/N, we lose him too.”

Jay didn’t respond for a long time. When he did, his voice was barely a whisper.

“There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s… is there?”

Jake’s silence was answer enough.

There was a long, bitter breath. The kind you let out when there’s nothing else to say.

“He’s dying in pieces,” Jake finally said. “Watching her fade day after day- he’s dying with her. But slower. Crueler.”

And it was true.

Sunghoon hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t been eating right. His eyes were rimmed red all the time, the edges of his mouth permanently turned down like someone grieving something invisible. He sat beside Y/N’s bed for hours, watching her blink at the ceiling or hum some broken tune from childhood. He whispered her name so many times it stopped sounding like a real word.

And sometimes, just sometimes, she would glance his way. Not with recognition. Not with warmth. Just the barest flicker. A look that said: You seem kind. But not: You’re mine. You’re the man I loved. The life I chose.

That had died a long time ago.

“No, no, don’t touch me!” Y/N screamed, thrashing her arms violently, knocking over the bedside lamp.

“Y/N, please- please, it’s me,” Sunghoon pleaded, hands hovering midair, helpless. “It’s me. It’s Sunghoon.”

“Don’t say my name like you know me!” She howled, eyes wide and wild, spit flying from her lips. “Where’s my Uncle?! Where’s my cousin? What did you do to them?!”

“Y/N, they’re not-” He couldn’t even say it. Not dead. Not gone. Not again.

She stumbled back into the dresser, knocking down her perfume bottles. The crash made her scream louder. “You kidnapped me! You sick bastard, get away from me!”

His legs gave way and he knelt on the floor, arms limp. The weight in his chest felt like drowning, like suffocating underwater and knowing no air was coming.

His Y/N, who once kissed him under the rain in Prague. Who held his hand through every storm. Who made burnt toast every morning and danced barefoot in the kitchen when she thought he wasn’t looking.

That woman was gone. And this… this terrified creature screaming at shadows- was what remained.

He watched her curl into a ball near the window, sobbing into her knees, whispering names of people who hadn’t existed in years. Her cousin. Her uncle. All dead. Yet in her head, they were just in the next room.

His lungs burned. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

She’s dying.

Not fast, not clean. But slow and fucking torturous- like a sun going cold over weeks, months, years. He couldn’t even scream. The pain was too heavy for sound.

He crawled toward her, barely able to speak. “You’re safe, Y/N. You’re safe. I would never hurt you.”

She flinched from him like he was a monster.

And it broke him. God, it broke him in a way no words could hold.

He wanted to tear his skin off. Rip out his heart and offer it to her like: Here. Take it. If it means you remember me again for just one minute- take it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hollow. “Even if you don’t know who I am anymore. Even if this- if this is all that’s left of us.”

She just kept sobbing.

And Sunghoon sat beside her like a ghost in his own home, rocking slightly, eyes glazed with tears that would never stop falling.

He was losing her. Just like before.

But this time… this time, it wasn’t death that took her.

It was forgetting.

And that was worse.

Because now, he had to wake up every single day… to watch the woman he loved disappear right in front of him.

Over and over again.

Until there was nothing left.

iv. The Bath Water Was Cold

Y/N was lucid.

For the first time in weeks- maybe months- her mind was still. No fog, no missing names, no confusion. Just unbearable, crystalline clarity.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, trembling, knowing that something was wrong. The moonlight streaked across the wooden floors like ghostlight, pale and haunting. The house was quiet. Too quiet, like it was already mourning her. Sunghoon was asleep beside her, his face serene like the past few years weren’t filled with the torture Y/N had brought upon him- she’d become a burden, she knew it.

The walls no longer combined into a collage of framed pictures, Sunghoon’s sketches and movie posters anymore- they were sticky notes, all small reminders of Y/N’s life and what it really was- the real version, not the jumbled memory version. The house was messy with ripped pillows, strewn blankets, a shattered mug in the corner of the kitchen, a broken window- she didn’t know what happened to cause it. But she knew it was probably because of her.

In the mirror, she saw herself.

Not the version Sunghoon kept insisting still existed- the brave, curious woman who once dove off boats and kissed him under stars. Not the woman who used to teach English, who quoted Greek philosophy, who went on a spontaneous Europe trip alone. No. This version was frail, hollowed, yes sunken, lips pale, skin dull. She looked like someone halfway to the other side already.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink, nails digging into the ceramic. She thought of her cousin, of her uncle, of the smell of her old childhood home, of France, of baozi, of the train ride with Sunghoon, of the moment she fell in love with him, of the night he asked her to marry him. But she couldn’t remember what had been happening for the past couple of years- she didn’t remember how Sunghoon was killing himself to take care of her, she didn’t remember the pain her condition brought upon her family- she just knew, like it was some sort of gut feeling.

She thought of what would happen tomorrow when she woke up. The blank stares, the panic, the shaking, the way Sunghoon’s voice cracked every time he had to explain who he was again. Like carving a wound into his chest, again and again, daily.

She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t be a monster in his story and he couldn't be the martyr to her story. She wouldn’t allow it.

So she ran a bath. Not hot. Not warm. Cold- the kind of cold where you hissed at the contact of water. And she wanted to feel it- wanted it to shock her back into herself, wanted the bite of it to remind her that she was alive- right now.

She stepped in slowly, like stepping into a grave. The porcelain shivered beneath her as she slid down, letting her head rest back.

And then, she slipped under.

No gasping. No flailing. Just… silence.

The last thought that crossed her mind was of Sunghoon’s face when she first kissed him. How his eyes fluttered shut, how gentle he was, how scared he was to fall in love. And how he did it anyway.

I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.

And just like that, Y/N was alone- ceasing to exist. The shadow she thought she’d gotten rid of had returned in a form much more permanent, much more numbing.

Sunghoon woke up to cold sheets.

That was the first sign. Y/N was always up early, but she always tucked herself back in, wrapped herself around him like ivy. The second sign was the silence. No kitchen clatter, no soft footsteps, no humming of French lullabies. The third sign was the open bathroom door.

“Y/N?” he called softly, walking barefoot across the wood.

Nothing.

He stepped into the bathroom and saw her.

At first, he didn’t understand. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Then it hit him like a train. Her body, limp in the tub. Water still, blue, like glass around her. Her face turned slightly to the side, lips pale, eyes closed. So still, too still.

“No,” he breathed, and the world cracked.

He fell to his knees, the sound that escaped him not even human. It was raw, unhinged, guttural. He plunged his arms into the water, ice biting his skin, and pulled her out with all the strength he had left. Her body was heavier than he remembered. Deadweight. Dead. Dead. He screamed her name, pressed his ear to her chest, shook her, slapped her face gently, kissed her cold lips, sobbed into her skin.

“Come on,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, wake up, Y/N. Please. Baby. Just one more time.”

He tried CPR. He screamed until his throat bled. He called the ambulance. He called the police. He called Jake. He called her mother. Called his mother. He called anyone and everyone. But she was already gone- had been for hours.

He lay on the bathroom floor with her cradled against him, soaking wet, rocking back and forth like a man possessed. When the paramedics arrived, they had to pry her from his arms. He fought them. He kicked and screamed. He cursed God. He cursed the mirror. He cursed himself for not waking up earlier. For not sleeping with one eye open. For not knowing.

Jake arrived just as they were wheeling her body out. He caught sight of Sunghoon- barefoot, drenched, shaking like a leaf, bloodshot eyes, face a ruin of grief.

“I should’ve known,” Sunghoon rasped, collapsing into Jake’s arms.

Jake couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just held him as Sunghoon shattered.

In the days that followed, Sunghoon stopped eating. Not out of protest, not out of some conscious decision to spiral- but because food simply didn’t make sense anymore. The smell of it nauseated him. His stomach didn’t growl; his body didn’t ask. It was like it too had given up, echoing his refusal to accept the world without her in it. He didn't move from their bedroom, except to use the bathroom or stare blankly out of the balcony where the lemon tree still stood tall in the jade vase Jay had gifted them, now with one yellowing leaf curling at its edge. The rest of the apartment felt like an unfamiliar museum of their life together- every framed photo now a relic, every memory preserved in glass. He sat curled up on her side of the bed for hours at a time, her old scarf clutched between his hands, threadbare and faded but still faintly warm with her scent. He would press it to his face, over and over, inhaling until his chest hurt- like if he could just breathe deep enough, she’d come back to him. But with each passing hour, the scent faded, and so did his hope.

The funeral happened without him. He couldn’t bear it- the thought of standing before a coffin and admitting aloud that it contained her. That the girl who once ran barefoot through summer rain with him, who cried watching terrible documentaries, who held his face and told him she would love him forever- was now a cold, still body in a box. He didn’t want the last time he saw her to be like that. He wanted to remember her in motion- laughing, crying, living. So when her parents and Jake pleaded with him to come, when Jay sent messages begging him to say goodbye properly, all he could do was shake his head and whisper, “I already did.”

People came and went- friends from university, colleagues from work. Emma and Minji came by with a bouquet and left it in silence. Jake and Jay stayed. They cooked, cleaned, and took calls when Sunghoon couldn’t answer them. They spoke in hushed tones with her family, organized papers, and cleared out her drawer of medications. Once, Jake heard Sunghoon crying softly in the kitchen, trying not to be heard, and for a split second, he wanted to go to him, to lean on someone. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Because the only person he had ever learned to lean on was gone. And in her place was just this howling emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He whispered into the silence at night, curling into himself on the cold mattress. “I love you. Come back.” He said it like a prayer, like a mantra, like a spell. Over and over. Sometimes it was a whisper, sometimes it was a scream into the hollow dark. But she never did. There was no sign. No dream, no flicker in the corner of the room that maybe, just maybe, she was still around. The scarf didn’t smell like her anymore. The lemon tree began to wilt. And one afternoon, he caught a glimpse of their wedding photo, and it felt like looking at strangers- a man and a woman in love, two people he no longer recognized. Because who was he now? What was left of her, other than ashes in an urn and silence in the house they were supposed to grow old in?

The bathwater was cold. He remembered the moment he found her like it was still unfolding in slow motion- the door ajar, the silence unnatural, the steam long gone, and her body submerged- pale, still, floating like she belonged to another world. He remembered the sound of his own scream. The way he’d collapsed to his knees and tried to lift her out- how heavy she was, like her spirit had left her behind, leaving only a shell. He remembered slipping in the water and choking on sobs, calling her name, begging, pleading, wailing until the neighbors banged on the door and Jake had to pry him away from her lifeless body.

She was gone. No coma. No miracle. No bargaining with God. No gentle goodbye. Just gone. And he had no one but himself to blame. 

And now all he had was this echoing ache, a grief too big to fit inside his ribs. He wished she had left a note. Something-  anything- to make sense of why she chose to leave like that. But maybe she didn’t need to explain. Maybe knowing her mind was unraveling was enough explanation. Maybe she didn’t want him to have to see her forget again. Maybe she thought she was saving him.

How ironic- how utterly, grotesquely hilarious- that the universe seemed to have written his life as a tragedy with no intermission. He had lost his first wife in the kind of grief that rots you quietly, only to stumble into Y/N’s love like it was salvation. But now she was gone too, and in her place was nothing. No redemption, no closure- just silence and rot. He had lost his first wife to find Y/N. He had lost Y/N to lose himself. It was as if love had only ever existed to teach him the shape of absence; as if love was nothing but a punishment wearing a beautiful face.

v. Epilogue: The Lightswitch 

When Sunghoon told people that he’d been married twice- that had been widowed twice, people looked at him with disbelief. As if someone with such an attractive face and impeccable talent as an architect could not possibly receive such punishment from the universe. And usually, it was the young women that reacted this way, the ones who had daddy issues and looked at him like he could fix them for the night. And to these girls, his loss and grief and brooding past was more attractive.

Sunghoon was old now. In another world, he would have been a grandfather by now- if life went according to his plan, if no one had passed away and if no one walked away like idiots and luck was on his side. And with age- since a young age, actually- Sunghoon had attended a plethora of funerals. He knew funerals the way he knew an old friend- always there in the back of his mind, stored with random information, but not knowing where to let that information go.

The first funeral he attended was when he was a kid. It was his grandfather’s funeral. And after his, more of his grandparents passed away and his life circled around grieving parents, white flowers hung around framed pictures of the deceased and rituals that he didn't understand the need for performance but since his parents dragged him to it, he had no choice. The funeral he attended as an adult- the first true loss he faced- was of his first wife’s. He was the one that organized her funeral- through tears and pain and weight he couldn’t carry himself but did anyway. Because as a husband, he was responsible for it. And because he respected her too much and loved her too much.

And the funeral after that? It was of his second wife’s- Y/N’s. And he didn’t exactly attend the funeral, nor did he play a part in organizing it. His friends and Y/N’s parents had taken full responsibility, letting Sunghoon grieve over the love of his life- because she truly was, Y/N. The girl he met on a train, the girl he reunited with in a random coffee shop in a random city and the girl who let him rediscover himself. And she was gone too fast, too soon. Sometimes he'd wonder how many good years they had together- four years? Maybe five? Before her cousin had passed away- he still remembered the date.

There was a piece of her in everything he did- his building in Shanghai, the rest of the buildings he’d ever design, the clothes he bought for himself now (he’d only buy clothes in colors Y/N liked) and the food he cooked for himself. Usually it was her spaghetti recipe or her mala tofu recipe. And everytime he cooked one of Y/N’s recipes, he’d cry while eating the food. 

Sunghoon even wrote a book, in the memory of Y/N. He’d dedicated it to her and also his first wife, his friends, and his family. The book was a collection of short stories that revolved around two characters- two characters who met in a train and chose to adventure through life together, who explored themes of love, grief and all the other complicated emotions Sunghoon never got to confront until writing that book. And when publishing it (with the help of Jay’s connections), he’d included his favourite picture of Y/N in the back page- it was of her standing in front of the skeleton of his Shanghai building wearing a bright yellow hard hat and ridiculously large reflective vest. He even had that picture framed on his desk.

The funerals that would follow felt more natural that the previous two. His parents passed away with old age, his dog (who he adopted a few months after Y/N’s death) passed away due to cancer and more older people he knew- Jake’s parents, Jay’s parents, Y/N’s parents… one by one, they all passed away. But Sunghoon wondered why he was still alive. He wondered why the universe had taken away everyone from him but refused to take him instead. 

Sometime after Y/N’s passing, he moved back to Korea. And he lived with Jay for the time being- both bachelors (but Jay had his kids over a lot), both focusing on their careers and both holding onto each other for support. Some nights, they went to Jake’s house where they would play with his kids and eat the dinner Minji cooked. And other nights, they would both be buried in their work, not a word exchanged between them. 

He didn’t intend on visiting Shanghai, not even to see his building. He was too afraid, too weak to look at the building and not remember the glow on Y/N’s face when he asked her to marry him. It was too personal, too obvious. Sometimes, a picture of his building would show up on the paper or on social media would bring an ache to his chest. And he tried moving on, to replace the memories, but somehow, everything that was his had also been hers. 

Eventually, living in Korea felt like a burden, too. And so he relocated to Paris, where he got a job with double the pay and where his company provided him with accommodation in a fancy apartment. He went to France because it was the country Y/N spoke about the most during her last few days- always recalling the Eiffel tower, always spewing in the little French she knew and always calling baozi baguettes. When he reminisced, Sunghoon was able to chuckle at those moments now.

Her death still defined him- it still defined how he lived his life and the choices he made, like he was running again. But it wasn’t negative anymore. Sunghoon was able to live on and he was able to do it contently. When asked if he was happy, he didn’t really know what to say. Or, to be precise, he never understood the question. Because during moments where he was watching some of his and Y/N’s favourite shows, when he was reading one of her favourite books, when he was working and designing buildings and houses that he knew were going to be used and when he found himself laughing in certain fleeting moments, he thought he was happy. There would be a spark, a heat, in his chest that came from the brief thawing of his heart.

But then, there were the nights Sunghoon would stare at one of herold pictures and feel his chest clench- like, physically feel his heart contract. There were the nights when he would look at himself in the mirror, old now with a slight stubble and a permanent weight in his brows, and wonder where his life was leading to, what he was planning on doing next. There were nights where he would come home to an empty house and realise that he was… empty. Truly, empty.

To his friends, Jake and Jay, he was hanging onto life. He was living his life, day by day, working and eating French food and going to operas and plays with his colleagues and drinking expensive French wine. And it wasn’t a bad life, not at all. Most people would dream to have his life. But Sunghoon dreamed of sharing this life with Y/N. Because, somehow, he knew she was the only person who could appreciate it like he did- he knew only she could brighten his days filled with wine and food and art.

He wouldn’t call himself suicidal, but Sunghoon had thought about it a few times- during lonely nights where the cold wrapped him and he wished it was water instead, or during days he had to cook meals for himself and he wished the knife was slicing through his wrists instead of fresh tomatoes. They were intrusive thoughts, really- thoughts that emerged when he was tired and exhausted. 

To save himself from his thoughts, Sunghoon adopted a bunny. A grey, fluffy thing that hopped around his apartment and followed his feet, batted her ears and nibbled on carrots when he gave them to her. She also liked napping near his jade vase that stood in his balcony- the one that Jay gifted them all those years ago- which now potted a mint tree instead of a lemon tree. She was quiet, gave him company and made him smile with how dumb she was sometimes- knocking over pencils, jumping on counters to reach him and wiggling her tail to get his attention. In many ways, the bunny reminded him of Y/N- that she was quiet but always around him, always filling his space when he didn’t know he needed it. 

Y/N did used to say she wanted a bunny- especially during the first few years of their marriage. She wanted all sorts of animals- cats, dogs, bunnies, hamsters, birds, fish. Sunghoon had always refused- not because he hated animals but because he feared he had no time to care for one. He’d already gotten a dog, one that eventually died due to cancer. So the next best thing was this bunny, who he named after Y/N’s favourite color- Red.

She used to say red was her favourite color because Sunghoon’s favourite sweater was red in color. And also because the train they had met in, the one in Europe, was also painted in red. She used to tell him that a lot- well, until her dementia kicked in and she forgot she even had a favourite color. 

It was Sunghoon and his pet bunny against the world. It was odd, telling his colleagues and friends that he adopted one- a man so old who should have been worried more about taxes and acquiring property was more concerned over pets. But Sunghoon didn’t mind it. He liked that a pet was all he had to worry about- a pet that reminded him of her. And he’d send folders and folders of pictures of Red to Jake and Jay and they’d always make fun of him, but eventually admitted that they loved the bunny too.

Jake and his family even took a trip to Paris once and the kids got to play with Red. They loved feeding her and by the time they left, Red was a bit chubby and overweight for her size. 

When Jay finally visited him in Paris, they had spent a weekend exploring parts of the town Sunghoon didn’t have the heart to go alone. He finally got to eat at restaurants and cafes that seemed too posh to dine alone in and he finally went to museums that were the hotspot for tourists. 

And sometimes, during times like this when he was reminded that he had a support system who were willing to travel across borders to come see him, he didn’t feel as lonely anymore. He didn’t feel the need to feel sad, to feed into his depressive cycle, to wonder what would happen next. Because Sunghoon had lived- he’d lived enough to make himself proud, to make Y/N proud. And he’d lived enough to honour his first marriage- the fact that he didn’t give up then. 

Sunghoon, until his last breath, lived for the girl who gave him a second chance, in remembrance of the girl who taught him how to hope again. Because it wasn’t the end of the world- not yet. And it wouldn’t be for a long time. And he realised that even though Y/N might have been the lightswitch, Sunghoon had been his own bulb the whole time.

END CREDITS

It was one of those slow, golden evenings in Shanghai, the kind that curled into your bones and made you believe that maybe- just maybe- life could stay gentle forever. The sky blushed a deep rose, and the warm autumn breeze carried the scent of sweet osmanthus from the trees below. On the balcony of their little third-floor apartment, Y/N and Sunghoon sat cross-legged, sharing ice cream mooncakes from an artisan cafe, laughing at each other’s messy eating habits.

Y/N had a smear of ice cream sauce on her cheek, and when Sunghoon pointed it out, she’d stuck her tongue out at him in defiance. He leaned over to kiss it away instead of wiping it, and she’d giggled like she was twenty and in love for the first time.

Inside, the record player spun something old and scratchy- an Ella Fitzgerald vinyl she insisted she didn’t buy just for the aesthetic. The music floated around them like a lullaby, soft and warm. They hummed along, pretending to know the lyrics, pretending the world wasn’t hurling toward something unknowable.

But outside, the real magic was happening.

It was the Mid-Autumn Festival. Lanterns, thousands of them, were drifting up into the night sky, glowing softly like heartbeats in the dark. From their rooftop, they had a perfect view. Lights rising like dreams, weightless, fearless. The entire city felt like it had collectively exhaled.

Y/N, eyes wide and glittering, rummaged under the deck chair and pulled out a little paper lantern of their own. It was handmade- clumsily folded, leaning slightly to the left, the soft red tissue already creased from too many attempts. She held it out to him with both hands like it was sacred.

“Write something,” she said, handing him a pen.

Sunghoon quirked an eyebrow. “What are we, teenagers?”

“Obviously,” she replied, grinning. “But it has to be a secret. Fold it up, tuck it inside the lantern, and then we’ll let it go.”

He hesitated- but the look in her eyes disarmed him. That look always did.

So they wrote.

Y/N sat quietly for a long time, chewing her lip, as if she were trying to write something that might change the trajectory of the universe. When she was done, she folded the paper twice, kissed it once, and slid it into the lantern.

Sunghoon finished his in half the time but held onto the paper longer, staring down at the ink as if the words might disappear if he blinked too long. Then he, too, folded it gently and tucked it inside.

They lit the flame together. And as the lantern began to rise, fragile and glowing, Y/N turned to him, her voice softer than the wind. “Let’s promise each other something.”

He looked at her, not the lantern. Always her.

“What?”

“Let’s promise to grow old together. Really old. Wrinkled and annoying. Still dancing in the kitchen at 80, still calling each other stupid names. I want to be the weird couple yelling at pigeons in the park. You and me, always.”

He chuckled, a sound from deep in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, hand finding hers. “Promise.”

She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder like she’d done a thousand times before. “Even if I forget everything one day,” she whispered, almost too softly, “promise you’ll remind me.”

His heart ached without knowing why. He tucked his fingers into her hair, breathed her in.

“Every day,” he murmured. “I’ll remind you every damn day.”

The lantern floated higher, a red star against the indigo sky.

Later- too much later- he would find the tiny notes tucked inside the lantern box. Burnt at the edges from the heat of the flame but still legible.

Y/N’s said: “I hope I never forget how it feels to love you. But if I do- please love me loud enough that I remember.”

Sunghoon’s said: “Please let this last forever. Let time be kind to us. Let her be happy.”

They stood on the balcony long after the lantern disappeared from view, hands entwined, the city alive around them. Time, for once, pausing just long enough to let them exist in peace. And in that single, suspended moment, it felt like nothing could ever touch them. That their love, reckless and tender, would outrun everything. 

Even memory. Even death.

[yesihaveaobsession]

A Break in the Chaos

Alastor x female!reader

Summary: Overwhelmed by art burnout, the reader (you) reluctantly takes a break when Alastor creates a calming escape. Through his unconventional help, you find the peace she needs to regain focus and clarity.

A/N- REQUESTED BY: @jormungandr-42, I hope you like <3 !!

You were an artist, an artist whose work was more of a side job in addition to helping Charlie manage the hotel. It was something you enjoyed, and you made a little cash while doing it. You could call it a hustle. Today, though, it wasn’t your favorite. You had so many commissions to get done, and you were still staring at a blank canvas.

Needless to say, it had been a long day, and the dim light in your room had been flickering as you stared at the pile of crumpled art commissions and scrapped ideas scattered across your desk. Your hand trembled slightly as you picked up your pencil, only to let it fall back down with a sigh. You were mentally exhausted. You spun slowly in your desk chair, the rhythmic motion trying to soothe your frazzled mind, but it did nothing to calm the pressure mounting inside you.

As you glanced up at the ceiling, as if praying for answers from the old, faded painting above your desk, you could feel the tension in your shoulders, the stress building like an unstoppable force. How could you possibly finish all of this? You thought, feeling the weight of every brushstroke and sketch.

From the doorway, a familiar voice broke through the silence. "Well, well, well, my dear. It seems like you’re in quite the... predicament," Alastor said with his signature smugness, his eyes gleaming with mischief as always. His presence filled the room with that unsettling yet strangely comforting energy.

You groaned and spun in your chair again, this time more forcefully. "Yeah, no kidding, Alastor. I’ve got a mountain of commissions to do, and I can’t even pick up a pencil without feeling like I'm drowning," you muttered. Frustration and a hint of tiredness were clear in your voice. Alastor chuckled, and his grin widened.

“Oh, darling, you do know how to make things sound dramatic. Perhaps you need a little... help?" Alastor was still standing in the doorway, leaning forward with his claws resting in front of him on his microphone. You could tell there was curiosity and amusement in his tone, and you didn’t even have to look.

"Help?" you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you spun in your chair again. "You’re not helping. You’re just standing there and watching me," you snapped, clearly agitated. "I need to finish this, not have you stand there being all... mysterious and making everything worse." You leaned back more in the chair, which made a noise. You could feel the heat in your cheeks from how annoyed you were, and the last thing you needed was Alastor being his usual teasing self.

Alastor raised an eyebrow and gave you a mock pout, though he still wasn’t hiding his amusement. “Oh, how tragic. I do so enjoy your fiery spirit, but surely you can’t deny that my mere presence is quite enthralling?”

Finally, picking up your head, you shot him a pointed glare. “You know, if you actually helped me with these damn commissions instead of making sarcastic remarks, I wouldn’t be losing my mind right now!”

His response was only a thoughtful hum, his hands now behind his back. “You do seem a bit... overwhelmed, dear. Perhaps you need a different kind of assistance.” Was he flirting with you? Or were you being delusional? Maybe you were just tired. The only response you could muster was a huff, and you turned away from him back to that blank canvas, feeling the pressure of burnout press down harder. “I don’t need help with anything, Alastor. I just need to finish these. But I can’t focus. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

The room fell silent for a long moment, and maybe, just maybe, for a split second, you got your hopes up, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Alastor would say something useful. But instead, you felt a sudden weight lift off your shoulders as the air shifted slightly, the tension easing just enough for you to breathe.

You blinked and looked back at him. He was now somehow in front of you. His smile was softer than usual. "Perhaps the real help you need... is a little time away from all this pressure. A moment to breathe and find that spark again," Alastor suggested.

As much as you hated admitting it, he might have had a point. You were running yourself ragged, drowning in commissions, almost forgetting why you loved art in the first place. “…Maybe,” you sighed, feeling the exhaustion seep deeper into your bones. "But what do you know about taking a break, huh? You’re always on."

Alastor chuckled. “Even a demon needs a moment to catch their breath now and then, darling.” You sat there for a moment, your gaze falling back to your desk. The mess of unfinished art sat in front of you, but something about Alastor’s presence made it seem less insufferable. Maybe a break wouldn’t be the worst thing after all. “…Fine, maybe I’ll take a little break,” you grumbled, slumping in your chair, though you couldn’t fully suppress the hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Excellent choice, my dear. I’d be more than happy to help you unwind.” Alastor smiled. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Ridiculously helpful," he quipped back, giving you a theatrical bow. You shook your head, but at least, for the moment, the weight of artistic burnout seemed just a little lighter. Alastor hovered nearby and watched your every move like a hawk. Although you agreed you would take a break, you were still sitting at your desk. He knew you were hesitant. "A true break requires more than just stepping away from your work for a few seconds. It’s all about a change of scenery... and atmosphere."

You eyed him warily. “What are you getting at?” Alastor snapped his fingers, and the room shifted. The cluttered, dim space morphed into something entirely different—a cozy, dimly lit parlor with plush chairs and a warm, inviting atmosphere. A crackling fire roared in the hearth, casting a soft glow over the room. A velvet chaise lounge appeared next to a small table.

You blinked in surprise, half-expecting the room to revert back to your messy space. But it didn’t. The warmth of the fire and the soft scent of something sweet filled the air. The tension in your shoulders loosened just a fraction. You had to admit, the sudden shift was… oddly soothing.

“What… what is this?” you asked, incredulous.

“A perfect place to take a proper break,” Alastor replied smoothly, his grin never wavering.

"A little relaxation before you dive back into the trenches of your art. After all, you need a clear mind to continue, don’t you?” Alastor said, and you just stood there and looked at him. Why was he helping?

“You underestimate the power of comfort, my dear. It’s just as important as hard work. Without it, one can easily crumble beneath the weight of their own expectations.” You raised an eyebrow at him, suddenly noticing the hint of sincerity in his words. You hadn’t expected that from the Radio Demon, who was often more interested in his own amusement than anyone else’s troubles. “You value my well-being? I thought you just liked watching me run myself ragged.”

Alastor smirked. “Oh, I do find your struggles... entertaining, yes. But that doesn’t mean I want you to break under the pressure, dear. Where would the fun be in that? If you’re unable to perform at your best, how could you give me your finest work?” He gave a dramatic sigh. “Such a disaster that would be.”

You huffed out a laugh despite yourself. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“That’s what you love about me,” he replied with a grin.

“Alright,” you said, settling further into the chaise, “I’ll admit it. This is nice.” You glanced at Alastor, who was still watching you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “But it doesn’t fix my art block.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it gives you the space to fix it. Sometimes, the best ideas come when you’re not drowning in stress. Just remember, you’re allowed to rest. And when you’re ready to go back, your mind will be clearer, your hands steadier.”

“I hate to say it,” you murmured, staring into the flames, “but you’re right. I needed this. You’re not as useless as I thought.”

Alastor’s grin widened, “A compliment from you? How delightful. I do enjoy helping when I can." You snorted. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I won’t,” he said with a wink. “But perhaps next time, you’ll allow me to help you before you reach the breaking point.”

You just smiled and shook your head and leaned your head back against the head rest, and closed your eyes, taking in the peaceful atmosphere, all thanks to him.. you guessed.

[luxuki-1]

Like I said I would, I'm going to go through the details I hid in my recent FNAF painting. Not because anyone asked, but because I want to and I'm proud of everything put in

1. Michael's design is my own! I've pretty much had the same concept for the design since SB came out. I just really liked the idea of having part of his jaw missing for no particular reason other than it looks cool. But, I have since moved the jaw gap to the other side, as well as defining scars and wrinkles.

2. I've already posted Golden Freddy but here he is again. I redrew the original poster since I really didn't feel like I just should just slap the original on there. Since I had that freedom now, I decided to make references in the design to later games since it is appearing as a hallucination(?) to Michael. Obviously there are blood stains around the mouth to reference The Bite of '83 and I also added tear stains to reference Evan/CC, said victim of the bite.

3. The classic "Celebrate!" poster. The same thing with Golden Freddy, I didn't feel like I should copy and paste the original so I drew it myself, but this time I only drew the bottom half of the crew since you'd only see that part anyway. Maybe one day I'll fully recreate the poster but for now, this is it lol (You may also notice that I gave each of them different leg shapes, to make them more distinguished from each other other than just colour)

4. And again, didn't want to just copy and paste, so I re-typed all of the newspaper clippings myself in Canva. They say pretty much the same thing as the originals, but I'll still put them here anyway in case anyone wants to take a look:

5. I also recreated the children's drawings myself. Fun fact: I actually used my NON-dominant hand to draw most the basic shapes. I figured that if I drew with my dominant hand, the lines might look too clean, showing my obvious years experience. It's silly but I really wanted it to look and feel like a child drew it

6. It ends up being pretty much invisible in the final painting, but on the floor you can see old confetti and blood stains on the tiles

7. If it wasn't obvious; cup from the Security office is here too

8. Now it should it obvious by now that I chose to not draw the security office. Why you ask? I'm still new to drawing more detailed backgrounds, and I really didn't feel like drawing the office in the moment lol so I opted for the hallway, and I think it still looks pretty good with what I was going for

9. As a bonus, here's the original sketch I planned out. As you can see, I was originally planning to have more posters, some featuring the missing children. But in the end, I decided to scrap it and leave room for the wall to be more detailed since I thought it looked bare. Also, if you look closely, you can see a faint plan for a shadow over Mike. I was originally planning to put a shadow of Freddy there, but when I really started finishing up the shading, I realised that the extra shadow would be too much for an already dimly lit scene

And that's pretty much everything! I had so much fun doing all the little details and references, even though it did end up being more time consuming lol. I also tried out a bunch of different rendering techniques and I think they really helped pulled everything together. I'm definitely going to try my hand and making more paintings like this in the future ^^

If interested in seeing the full process, here's a link to the speed-paint:

[necrolog1st]

headcanons/sketches with JOE/gn!reader

fandom : REVERSE1999

tags/warning : gn/reader, romantic, sfw, VERY BAD ENGLISH(I hate my translator), comfort, in moments non-canonical behavior.

6k worlds

First meeting...

The golden age of San Francisco, or the fever that everyone wanted to cash in on, in your time engulfed many, from noisy and proud pranksters to sullen uncles in black glasses and with gold teeth that sparkled like prey. They had one thing in common - everyone wanted to take a piece of the delicious cake. San Francisco will become an important trade center. More visitors - more money! Enormous potential for young and old. The streets, like trophies, were divided between gangs. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, hot asphalt and caked blood. Alcohol and metal became a constant taste on the tongue.

It was terribly hot outside, and stuffy. The air seemed to be pressed into your throat. You walked trying not to touch the crowd or not to trample the feet of passers-by. Even despite your caution, you received a couple of elbows in the side. The voices of people merged together, forming a noise. The merchants shouted about "exclusive goods from Boston itself!", some customers were indignant at the top of their voices, trying to knock down the price. Saturday is one of the only days off for you. And you are clearly not the only one. The shoes slid on the heated stone as if on a frying pan. They rubbed badly, you already felt another blister and washing with soap until your fingers cracked.

On weekdays it was quieter here, almost cozy - you could leisurely look at the goods and buy another piece of junk with a clear conscience. Now everything was more like a race, you looked almost reproachfully at each seller who was pestering you with goods. You were heading to the French pastry shop. Although only the name was French, the buns there were truly divine - warm, crispy, with a filling. Walking through all the obstacles, you were pushed again, this time on the head, obviously by one of the tall boors. "Excuse me" did not follow, but you did not care, because thanks to this, your gaze fell on a small passage between two houses, a little to the left, a narrow passage was guessed. Thinking quickly, you turned, otherwise you would have to go against the flow of people, and for this here they could call a couple affectionate words.

The alley greeted you with a pleasant silence, as if someone had turned down the volume. The hum of the street was left behind. You leaned your hands on the wall - uneven, peeling in places, with damp spots. Scraps of paper, pieces of old newspapers and magazines were lying on the floor. You took a step deeper, trying to catch your breath a little, here between the walls the world slowed down, in your case it seemed luxurious.

You knew the area, and in fragments remembered this place from childhood. Now the steps were quieter, and the goal was much more noble: buns. Warm, crispy, with cinnamon or chocolate. You had already mentally asked yourself about this difficult choice. Thoughts floated easily with the flow and your step became more confident. Thoughts crashed into an obstacle: two unfamiliar faces ahead. One was holding the door into an incomprehensible abandoned building, and the other was leaning against the wall at the entrance. You decided that you would calmly walk through them, although a bad feeling covered you from head to toe. Maybe they were just smoking, or waiting for someone. But inside, a chill ran down your neck. A premonition, not loud, but dense, like an impending disaster. Mentally, you regretted turning at that moment. When you were halfway there, one of them smiled, without saying your name, without straightening his back. Just a half-smile, too long, too addressed to you. It was as if he slid slightly towards you - not completely, but enough for you to feel alarm.

The second was silent. But the gaze was noticeably directed to your face, a little longer than allowed.

"What is such a pretty face doing in a place like this?" one drawled, leaning closer.

"Don't be afraid, we are cultured. We just want to know your name." the second grinned, looking you over.

They tried to play gentlemen, in their manner, in their intonation. But there was mockery in their eyes, lazy superiority in their poses. Your fists gave in on their own. Your chest felt tight. Swallowing your saliva, you moved away two short steps, your eyes darting around trying to find salvation, taking in details: blank walls, trash cans, a narrow passage straight ahead. Not a soul. You knew that San Francisco was a city full of risk. Maybe you just liked to promise yourself without giving guarantees. You grew up on these streets, heard shots at night, but as long as it didn't concern you, you thought that trouble would pass the 'ordinary civilian'.

—Sorry... I'm not looking for new acquaintances. —You were surprised how quiet your voice became. It almost didn't belong to you. Feeling wary and afraid, you were ready to run, but your cottony legs wouldn't obey. You didn't know what their plans were, but you didn't want to find out.

And then — quick, swift steps from behind. Your brain began to scroll through the most terrible scenarios. Is this another bandit? The leader? Has he come to break your hopes? Everything inside you shrank into one lump. You began to scroll through all your sins and began to think why this was happening to you.

Suddenly, someone's heavy, clearly male hand fell on your shoulders. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed burns, a theory floated up that the man was an alchemist, or a blacksmith, it seemed that you felt hard calluses on your palms through your gloves. From surprise, your whole body tensed up, like a tightly wound spring. Someone high y stood close behind you, looming, as if fencing you off from the other two. He didn't look at you, he looked straight ahead. The stranger, forcing you to shuffle your feet, dragged you further down the alley. You shuddered. A squeak escaped before you realized that you wanted to remain silent.

"Sorry guys, let me pass," he said, in a tone in which politeness was felt only in words, although the man smiled almost in a friendly way. The stranger was already dragging you along. His steps were quick, decisive. Your gait was uncertain, confused. They were slightly surprised, one even said not very kind words for the road, and perhaps wanted to speak out, but the second slapped him on the shoulder, letting him pass, as if saying that problems were not needed. And at that time, you did not really enjoy the attention of men. The shoulder under his arm was tense, as if under fire.

"May I walk you?" — he patted you on the shoulders soothingly, like older brothers do, but you had neither the strength nor the trust to believe in this gesture.

— No, I'm just heading to the pastry shop... — You were abruptly interrupted by the stranger's action, he looked around slightly and carefully glanced from behind, with an almost strained smile.

— Play along with me, I'm being chased. — he said in one breath, trying not to move his lips, so that it would not be noticeable that he was talking at all. It was as if you heard his thoughts, in which it sounded 'I know that now all this is like a bad joke, but... I need you to play a role.'

— Oh... — in response, he heard only a short, simple answer. You walked straight ahead, as if you were really with him. Although everything inside was torn back, now kicks in the side and pain in your fingers seemed like luxury.

You did not look back and your steps fell into your own rapid pulse. The semi-darkness of the shadow of the damp gateway pressed down from above. Your legs felt weak, as if they had forgotten: you need to run. Occasionally you caught yourself thinking that your heart was beating like a wounded sparrow: you could hear the blood pounding in your temples through your skin. Your legs were trying to keep up with the stranger. Almost reaching the end and seeing a small passage, you relaxed a little, as much as you could in such a situation. For a moment, a weak hope pierced you. Trouble begins where you least expect it. And at that very moment, a voice, hoarse and impudent, hit you in the back:

“I told you, Joe, we threw you a bone, but we won’t be so generous next time.” - someone’s hoarse voice is heard from behind, bandits are looking out of the windows of houses, or rather thugs for whom only green bills are important. The speaker, most likely the leader, shifts the gun from one hand to the other and then points it at the stranger-savior, more precisely - Joe. You recall this name, you can say this is the leader of Haight Street. You have heard about him many times, especially about the metal badge symbolizing the donor's friendship, you will not be welcome among criminals, but this round "token" gives the poor from the street a guarantee of protection. You once saw him, but did not really want to get involved in this. Now, whether you want to or not, you had to get involved. Your throat was dry, you stood behind Joe, your feet stuck to the dirty concrete did not even give you the opportunity to breathe. Your body treacherously froze, your voice sat down - you could not breathe, your throat was dry to the point of creaking. Joe slowly turned to them, reaching for the knife behind his back. The blade flashed, and Joe slowly ran his fingers along the edge, as if he was checking it for sure - solid, thick, ready for blood. Another detail that you remembered, the so-called Bowie knife, you heard about it on the radio.

"You know, you can cut people with this knife, you can cut dragon fruit - good metal doesn't care. And are these bullets of yours capable of any of that?" he teases with a half-smile on his face, but in fact he is examining other places for victory and slightly pushing you. The leader frowned, but still kept his sights on you. A smile flashed across his face - the same one that should not be trusted.

"Run, don't worry, as long as my girl Bowie is with me, I have nothing to worry about." You followed his words without thinking about the words. One word 'run' was enough. You ran out of the alley and quickly returned to the market, the sound of which seemed like a comforting melody, your heart was beating wildly.

For a couple of minutes, you just stood there, resting your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. The air, warm and dusty, filled your lungs - today was not on schedule. While you were realizing what was happening five minutes ago, you decided to put aside the cinnamon buns and confidently headed to the Haight Street arcade restaurant. The place was noisy, warm and slightly shabby - J's friends and those who were left behind the system flocked there. It was known for being an arcade. If you were lost, you could get free leftovers and a good night's sleep with a roof over your head. J is not just a guy. But you still wanted to make sure that he was okay. You did not plan to be a hero. You just came up with a simple plan, the main thing is to be careful, without direct interference. As soon as we crossed the threshold, our gaze immediately fell on him: a living mannequin in a colorful hat - a Pioneer. One of those who are known by both sides of the street. He was one of those who, despite his oddity, always held himself with dignity. You immediately approached him and hastily explained the situation. The pioneer kindly asked for some water for you and listened, unlike some, he is a real gentleman. Taking off his colorful hat and adjusting his jacket covered in graffiti, he thought for a moment.

“Thank you for reporting the incident,” he said after a pause. “I’m sure J is fine. But it’s still worth visiting him.”

The fear did not go away, but your legs moved on their own. You wanted to at least say “thank you.” You wanted to return the debt. Having reached the place where everything happened, you would not say that you were very surprised. No drama. Only broken walls, traces of a fight - scratches on the concrete, dents, blood. You saw only one unconscious body, a thug, probably from that very gang.

However, Joe was no found.

You combed everything: from the market to the backs of diners, peered into gateways, peered into faces, staring at every passerby who looked even a little like you. No one saw either J or the "large man with a burn on his cheek." As if he had evaporated. It was already getting dark. The sun was setting, leaving ragged shadows on the walls of the alleys. Your back ached, your legs trembled from fatigue. Pioneer, who did not get tired physically, seemed to be exhausted mentally: he stood, leaning his shoulder against a dirty wall, as if the weight of powerlessness also existed in him. A rusty garbage can stood between you, you shuddered, squatting down. The most deplorable thoughts causticly crept into your head - J was taken by bandits, and now his body was being safely buried, or throw him into the river. Your brain thought up the details on its own. No matter how optimistic the pioneer was, you seemed to hear his thoughts, and they were no different from yours. The pioneer did not try to cheer you up. He was simply silent, and this silence screamed louder than words. As if the two of you were standing at a funeral. You felt sad and ashamed, if you had been faster, perhaps he could have been saved... And so slowly the guess turned into truth for you. You and the pioneer were silent, as if at a minute of silence in memory of the deceased. However, someone's hand suddenly slipped out of the tank, feeling for something to lean on. You shuddered with your whole body, as if someone had poured ice water on you, and jumped up from your place so abruptly that pain shot through your lower back, although you were still in the prime of youth. The pioneer, no less stunned, stepped back, just in case getting into a fighting position stand. The heart was beating so hard that it seemed like it would burst out.

Someone was trying to get out.

A hand, shaking and covered in dust, found support - a worn, rusty piece of iron on the side of the tank. Heavy breathing came from inside, with a hoarseness, as if a person had just survived a fall. The pioneer, as if realizing the whole situation and solving the riddle, jerked open the lid. You both, almost simultaneously, looked inside. The guess turned out to be correct: in a pile of torn clothes, as if in an old nest, J was lying. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and blood slowly flowed from his punctured leg.

It seems they didn’t chase me - he muttered and sank back into the rags with a dull groan. It seemed that he didn’t care too much. As if he was planning to take a nap now, and not die from a wound. - Help me stand up. - J, laughing hoarsely, tilted his head slightly and suddenly looked closely at your face. J, whose attention was riveted on the Pioneer, switched to you. The thought sounded in his head that he would not remember you, but he almost thoughtfully looked at your features and, finally standing on one leg, he snapped his fingers.

- You're the guy I saved this morning. - You nodded, already preparing to say thank you, but the pioneer interrupted your thoughts.

- You know, you're lucky, old man. This box is filled with torn clothes and children's toys from a second-hand store. - He knocked his cane on the asphalt, as if beating a march.

- Well, - J muttered, wincing slightly, - better clothes than rats. Although I'm not sure that they weren't here.

From the light, casual conversations, you felt a little better, a stupid smile almost spread across your face smile. He was still hanging on your and Pioneer's shoulders. His body was warm, heavy, you felt how all your clothes for tomorrow would be soaked with the smell of the forge and alchemy. Remembering your reason for helping, you turned to J.

- Thank You, Mister Joe, for helping me out of trouble. - you still said quietly, but with a share of gratitude. It seems that you and Jay were the same age, but it was already a habit to speak formally 'You' and 'Mister'.

- There is no need for such formalities, it seems that you will also pay me in a similar coin. - The words sounded so sweet that Pioneer slightly rolled his eyes and kicked Joe in the shoulder. Now you were simply leaving the alley, helping Joe to move his legs. You stole a glance at the Bowie knife - it was in its sheath, did he really carry it everywhere...

- Interested? - as if he answered your thoughts, you were slightly surprised. - You have no idea how hot this girl can be! This forge is taking all my attention. Do you want to take a look? you didn't understand the action, but it was alien to you that a man with a half-dead leg was talking with such passion. You got to Dr. Liu - a local underground doctor living on trust and something underground, you did not go into details. Jay's leg was fixed, he was still limping unnoticeably, but the main thing was that he was alive. You were sitting near the door on the curb looking at a small bush of dandelions, not wanting to get into their conversation. It was worth remembering that you did not want to get into these games. You were not a florist or an amateur, but it seemed that dandelion wine was popular these days. Suddenly it dawned on you - you still hadn't bought buns, it was already getting dark, so you did not really want to eat the leftovers. You were tired and inhaled.

- Looks like I won't eat buns today ... - you muttered, staring into space

- What buns? — a familiar voice sounded almost next to you, and you flinched, reflexively turning around. Joe stood leaning on the door frame, as if he hadn’t been lying in a trash can a couple of hours ago.

— Initially, I was going to the bakery. — you tiredly dropped your hands on your knees. — But something went wrong...

— Then we’ll have to fix it. — He chuckled quietly, came up, limping slightly, and carefully sat down next to you on the curb. You raised one eyebrow, but Jay only cleared his throat, as if he hadn’t said anything. You sat like that for a minute.

You took one last short breath and stood up, adjusting your clothes. All you wanted was a good night’s sleep and to get home as soon as possible.

— Get there in one piece — J said goodbye.

Awareness of feelings. . .

The next day you slept, determined not to show up at home. The world could wait. Nothing seemed more important than catching misty dreams and watching blind starfalls pouring into your head. Unfortunately, you woke up too early. The duvet cover wrapped itself around your legs, as if trying to keep you in your sleep, but it was too late. Morning laziness pleasantly enveloped your body, you closed your eyes and involuntarily smiled at how quiet and peaceful it became inside. Birds settled on the windowsill. They chirped to each other, called to each other, as if sharing their mood with you. The sun lazily made its way through the curtains, it seemed that nothing could destroy this fragile idyll. The sun lazily made its way through the curtains.

At that very second, the silence was broken by a deafening:

— BEEP!

You shuddered. The birds took off with a startled flapping of their wings and disappeared into the sky. You sat up abruptly, your hair was all over the place, your heart was pounding in your chest. You were ready to throw a stone at the window, hoping to hit an important part of the motorcycle, or the motorcyclist's face. You approached the window and almost fell, and opened the casement with the intention of giving out a portion of morning eloquence - but you froze for a second. A familiar silhouette in a hand-painted motorcycle helmet was standing by the sidewalk. J. Of course. Without even taking off his helmet, he held out his hand with a paper bag. At first you were a little surprised, but your brain wasn't working in the morning, so you automatically took the bag and opened it and were pleasantly surprised, there was a bun from the bakery that you never bought yesterday.

- J? - it finally dawned on you, while your eyes were like five cents.

- You can say thank you for yesterday. — You didn't make a sound, too quick a change of mood. Before J had time to step on the gas, you glanced at the bun and then back at him.

—Thank you... — the last thing that escaped your lips.

They smiled at you and waved back. And you stood by the window, not understanding anything.

I guess that's where it all started.

You started dropping into the restaurant on Haight Street more and more often — seemingly just like that, to while away the time. But gradually this 'just like that' became a habit, and conversations with Jay became as common as morning tea or the sunset outside the windows. Since then, it was as if you had grown into his life — a thin thread, imperceptible, but strong. He was always there: sometimes like an annoying speck of dust in the eye, sometimes like a warm shadow on a hot day. You opened up to each other gradually, as if polishing each other, removing layer after layer. Every time he would say something like, "Hey, be careful and avoid the dark streets!" when you were leaving home in the evening, there was an almost childish affection in his voice. He loved to touch you: put his arm around your shoulders, run his fingers through your hair, tousle it so that it became a whirlwind. At these moments, he seemed almost like an older brother - and always, with a grin, compared you to Paulina, his little sister. "Wrong time, wrong place!" you always repeated. He still stopped by with treats - and when your patience with hearing his honking halfway across the street finally snapped, you pulled him by the ear and quietly but sternly scolded him. You tugged his unfortunate ear about fifty times. This only amused him. At first he tried to justify himself, and then he laughed so loudly that you were already embarrassed in front of passers-by, for which you called him even weirder. Sometimes you sat together at the bar, reading old action comics. J didn't like them, but he never left. 'I'm not a fan of those comic book heroes. They're usually some rich kid with a tragic past playing "defend the city."' He chuckled softly at every other illustration. What was doubly funny was that he didn't even get offended - he just said: "Then you deserved it." At some scenes you just quietly laughed together, and at others you burst into laughter and got hit in the forehead with a fork from the neighboring table. He often teased you. He often teased you. He liked to see how irritation jumped out on your calm face. But what amused him most were the moments when you didn't get the joke - your different upbringing made itself felt, and at such moments it was him who felt awkward. He would fall silent and then try to explain the joke for hours, making excuses. The quiet evening enveloped the restaurant in soft light. Somewhere behind you, plates were clinking dully, the radio was lazily playing old songs, as if breathing in time with the rhythm outside the windows. You and Jay chatted as usual, unhurriedly, as if time stretched out between phrases. At some point, you both fell silent, catching snatches of conversation from the neighboring table. Trying not to laugh, you began to discuss someone else's incident - in a whisper, with a noticeable spark in your eyes. You had already forgotten that Mercuria, with whom you, by the way, quickly became friends, and of course Pioneer were sitting next to you. Pioneer looked at you chatting, and Mercuria meanwhile, tapped out the rhythm of the song with her fingers, playing along with the melody that, it seemed, only she was enjoying. This was not the first and not the last time. It was as if you were cut out of common time - and no one, it seemed, wanted to bring you back. You looked next to each other as if you had been together from the very beginning. Like family.

- When will they already confess. - Pioneer quietly inhaled and adjusted his hat, his ears were already tired of listening to both of you. He did not even try to speak too quietly, you were both deaf when you chatted. Mercuria, without changing her character, calmly answered. - Everything will happen in due time.

J had relationships, although more likely affairs. It is not that he was a womanizer, not at all. It was just that over time he became that very friend with whom you could joke, laugh, cry on the shoulder, and nothing more followed. J was ready to continue doing this, but one day Pioneer called him an idiot, and began to give heartfelt speeches. He did not even try to hide the fact that he listened to little. However, the words "You are both hopeless..." stuck in my memory. The feeling came when for the first time he looked at you differently, not as a younger sister in whose eyes he should become an imitator, but as a person who can listen to him too. Without pretense. Without a bulletproof vest of jokes. You were sitting together on a sagging dusty sofa, the light barely touching his face when he spoke. Not right away. Word by word - as if he was first pulling out splinters, one by one. About how he misses Paulina, about how much he wants to hug her again and introduce her to you. About how he is offended inside that she left with a crash. Word by word and he seemed to have revealed every inch of his soul. J, whom everyone on Haight Street knew, was a rock. A support, a shoulder, a stupid joke, a cigarette for two and armor that he forged for himself. But not now, not with you. Or rather, he simply poured them out, simply did not believe in what was happening, answered sarcastically. He hated. Not you, not the world - only himself.

You did not say much. Just sat down next to him. In response, you held him tightly by the shoulders and almost quietly stroked him. The lamp flickered. He held a photograph in his hand, old, a little faded, but not torn. The owner was careful - the very one where Paulina was still nearby. It seemed that his pain was yours too. You tried to calm him down, unobtrusively, rather encouraging him to think, when you realize something yourself, this is much more effective. In the end, you turned his head towards you, carefully. For the first time, he felt like he had become a fragile vase, but they weren't trampling on him, on the contrary, they were trying to save him.

- If you ever feel hard... if you want to hide inside yourself again... - you paused, not for beauty, but so that he would remember. - Just remember: I'm here.

At that moment, time seemed to freeze. A simple promise, quiet, unobtrusive. For J it was not just words. It was an explosion, an axis shift, something almost impossible for the old J, who suppressed every tear. He hugged you sharply, like a person who is afraid of being seen too openly. Not out of pride, but on the contrary, out of fear of being vulnerable. Inside, he knew it was more than just ego. You responded carefully, stroking his hair, a soft gesture that did not demand anything, only confirmed: "I'm here." He did not know what to say. He just breathed, while it was allowed.

After that moment, all the ordinary ones really near you became almost intimate. Unnoticed, but irreversible. He would look at your face for much longer than he should have, and then he would quietly look away and not look at you for the rest of the day. He would walk you to the door of your house, with the feeling that he wanted to say something, something important, but all that came out was a goodnight. He would feel a slight tremor in his spine when you accidentally touched his shoulder. And when you held his hand, he would squeeze his fingers a moment longer than necessary. One night, lying in silence, he couldn’t stand it and covered his head with a pillow, wanting to drown out all thoughts. Thoughts about you. He wanted to return to that time me, when I could just laugh with you, without analyzing your every gesture, without being afraid of myself. When I thought that all this was natural.

It was scary to admit. But to continue was even scarier.

You noticed the changes immediately, he was no longer the J you knew. He joked cleverly and was the first to fight. He was still like that... but not with you. Some tension appeared in your conversations on his part, as if he was afraid to be himself next to you.

You decided not to push, to give him time. Maybe that evening had shifted too much, maybe he needed a break. Or he was afraid of what was nearby. For him, everything had become even worse now, you were not imposing yourself, which meant that soon your communication would come to zero. He was lying with his torso on the bar counter, ready to hit his head against it. The companion was standing next to him, and through the pile of metal you could feel her sad look. He had almost resigned himself to it, thinking that now everything would end in silence. That you would no longer speak first. That you would leave. And this was giving him away more than any street fight. He didn’t even know what he was more afraid of — losing you or confessing. Of course, everyone already understood what was between you, especially J’s feelings. Suddenly, he lightly slammed his fist on the table. He was fed up. He needed to confess once and for all, he was no longer a child to mumble. So he thought.

The next day, J looked like he had spent the night fighting a brick wall and it seemed the wall had won. He invited you to the same Haight Street restaurant, although you went there almost every day. You walked in. He was already sitting at his favorite table, not turning around, as if he was waiting for you, like someone waiting for a verdict with strained calm, although before he would immediately wave his glove. When you hugged him tightly from behind while he was sitting at the entrance, you were ready to swear on the street, you saw a pink tint on his cheeks. With a pure soul, you ordered a new salad, a new one, with a fashionable name, hoping that at least the food that day would be predictable. You did not eat all day, deciding to keep your appetite. So when you waited five, ten, thirty, an hour for the unfortunate salad, you were dying of hunger. This was J's plan. No, not to starve you, but just wait until all the visitors leave and finally blurt out all his feelings. In front of the mirror, he worked out all the words, he was not a pedant, but the moment was special. Then when the restaurant was empty, you were finally served a salad, even Sputnik left, which seemed strange to you. However, your brain went empty when you started eating. J was sitting next to you, it seems you did not notice his nervous face behind the smile. J mentally encouraged himself, said that everything would go well, that you need to start from afar and not disgrace yourself.

— Can I k-kiss you? — he was almost sure in his face, but his whole body tensed up. As if he was waiting for a blow. Or an answer. The words mixed up in his head, this was the last phrase. Everything inside was shrinking, from shame. He sighed heavily, did not want to look you in the eyes.

— For the first time I see a man asking for permission. — You, meanwhile, were calmly chewing. The salad was delicious. Or you were just starving to death. J was quite surprised by your words, although he was more likely in misunderstanding.

— So can I or...? — he drew out the last words

— Wait a minute, I'll finish the mushroom — you said, without raising your voice, not losing a bit of dignity.

— Yes, yes, eat. Don't rush. — Jay muttered, moving away and at the same time not knowing where to put his hands.

He was sure this was the longest minute of waiting. He was about to say something - that it was okay, that if you didn't feel the same way, he would understand. That he might have messed it up. That he shouldn't answer out of pity. That -

Suddenly your lips covered his. Not gently, not timidly, not like in an old movie in the rain. But sharply, firmly, with confidence, as if he had been yours all this time. Your hands fell on his shoulders and pressed him closer, and no matter how hard he tried to look calm, he froze with eyes the size of five kopecks. He tried to gently respond to the kiss, but you didn't give him a breath. It seemed he was hoping too much for him to lead, but you had other plans.

When you pulled away, that same old, cheeky, careless smile blossomed on his face. Funny and beloved. A smile you hadn't seen for so long.

- I thought I would lead... - then you kissed the edge of his lips at the end.

THANKS FOR READING ⟵⁠(⁠o⁠_⁠O⁠)

[signed-sapphire]

The Fallen Star ✨

A Wish rewrite

(Scrapped) Act I - Prologue

We hear a woman’s voice reminiscent of the Golden Age of Disney, narrating events from a book:

Once upon a time, Stars roamed the earth. Magical beings from the sky that used their magic to help people, to assist them in fulfilling their dreams.

However, the Stars soon started to simply grant wishes, and people became lazy and dependent, demanding the stars make their wishes reality. The Stars became full of themselves and mad with power, almost destroying the kingdoms.

[Author’s Note: Take my messy sketches! Idk I’ll try to do little doodles per part IT WAS RUSHED OKAY]

One survivor, Magnus Arman, escaped his burning homeland. He saw the wreckage the Stars had caused, and vowed that he could never lose the people he loved to the Stars again.

On his journey, Magnus came across another wrecked kingdom. Another land the Stars had destroyed. Another land with no survivors… but one. Magnus heard a faint sob in the distance. Once he followed it, Magnus came across a child— Asha Arabella.

Magnus took Asha under his wing, and started working to stop the Stars. He studied their magic, bringing his young daughter with him on his adventures.

While he studied, he met a young woman named Amaya, who cared for Asha like her own. Soon enough, the two fell in love and wed.

[Amaya’s dress is a callback to the classic Golden Age princess wedding dresses]

But one day, more Stars fell from the heavens and attacked, wanting all the magic for themselves.

That day, Magnus almost lost his family.

So Magnus, determined to protect his family, used all his magical knowledge and became the Wishgranter, one who would decide what wishes were good and what could never be granted.

Note that the book doesn’t tell exactly how Magnus defeated the Stars… but anyways now he has a sick-ass white outfit like the one we see in the canon movie.

He defeated the evil Stars, and together, Magnus and Amaya founded the Kingdom of Rosas, a safe haven across off the Iberian Peninsula where people could give their wishes to Magnus and he would keep them safe from harm, from the greedy Stars. Magnus became known throughout the lands as Magnifico, the master of wishes.

And often, the wishes people gave Magnifico were good, and he granted them.

We see Magnifico granting a wish [I can’t find the picture but let’s say the dressmaker one we saw in the movie with a callback to Sleeping Beauty’s dress. And you know what, it’s blue.]

Little Asha was raised in the castle where she was doted on by her parents.

Teen Asha, just a bit younger than she is now, so around fourteen, and the page flips to Asha now, seventeen years old.

And this is where our story begins.

Next (coming soon)

So! Epilogue! I guess! Halfway done but I need to get it out bc I want to start random doodles and I need somewhat of a starting point!

Heavy heavy thanks to @annymation and their INCREDIBLE rewrite, go check it out, it’s amazing and wayyyy more of a tribute to the original Disney than mine will be. And @gracebethartacc/@gracebeth3604 (hey, I was the one who asked about whether your rewrite was written or thought dumps/ etc, but btw your rewrite IS well known, my roommate’s friends know of it and Anny’s) bc they have a popular rewrite with their amazing art doodles and thought dumps, so… I said fuck it and posted this.

I will update with more doodles! These are messy but I wanted to put SOME there… also! Check out @uva124 if you want to see some FANTASTIC wish art!

[tea-stained-notes]

Colin x Penelope - Divide | Chapter 6

Colin has made it: He’s a famous pop star, touring the world, adored to extremes. If only he wasn’t drowning his loneliness and anxiety in too many drinks, missing home and yet incapable of going back. But when Violet falls ill and he reluctantly returns he has to face the mess he has made - not only with his family but also the woman who might have always been the one.

Warnings: illness (cancer), death, anxiety, drug use, alcohol abuse, eventual smut

Chapter word count: ~2200

MASTERLIST

Dance like they do in the Mediterranean Spin you around me again and again, and You're like something that God has sent me I want you, baby, solamente - Barcelona

Francesca arrives the following morning, the last piece on the Bridgerton chess board Colin has been trying to navigate for these past few days. She seems almost the same as he remembers, albeit a little more grown into herself. But still quiet, still gentle. Still saying more through music than words. So she just takes him in for a moment, wonder and a hint of pain in her eyes. “Everyone always asks me about you at school,” she eventually says. “Oh.” He wavers. “What do you tell them?” “That I miss playing duets with you.” Colin’s chin trembles. He has to fight the urge to pull her close, but he knows better than to overwhelm her and especially after all these years. So he smiles shakily instead. “Well, how about you pick one out for later? One of the classics?” She nods, hesitant joy in her features. “I’d like that.”

Colin spends the day roaming the halls, reacquainting himself with every nook and cranny, noticing every new addition and change. Anthony, Kate and the boys have gone back to London for a couple of days, so he can breathe a little more freely in the house. Although the mansion officially belongs to them, the entire family still uses it as their refuge from the city and he finds traces of all of them. Sketches, sheet music, boxing gloves, shabby toys, well-thumbed books. He runs his fingers across the notches in the bathroom door frame, marking their growth over the years. Memories cling to every single surface and by dinner time it feels like he is covered in them from head to toe.

After the quiet meal he immediately retreats to his room, the one place he hasn’t really dared to look at. He’s still living out of his suitcase. He doesn’t turn on the lights when he comes up here at night and in the morning he barely allows his bleary eyes to adjust to the space around him before he drags himself into the shower. But now he forces himself to take it all in. He cleared out his room at Bridgerton House when he moved away for university but this place is like a time capsule. Prizes from country fairs, countless scraps of paper with unformed music and lyrics, worn-out sports gear, blurry polaroids of half-forgotten adventures. He pieces his past together bit by bit, the nostalgia at once angel and demon on his shoulder. And there, in the corner, his first guitar. A somewhat random Christmas present from his parents a million years ago. The last Christmas with his dad. It’s a little small for him now, strangely light when he picks it up. For a long moment he just holds it, until the wood warms beneath his skin. He tunes it carefully, handling it like the old friend it is. Then his fingers pick gently at the strings, coaxing a couple of notes from it. It’s nowhere near as expensive and well-crafted as his show guitars. But the warm, familiar sound fills a space in his chest that has been empty for far longer than he’d realised. He used to love this. Truly love this more than anything. When on earth did that stop? His eyes fall to the sheet on his music stand. He takes it, blows off a little dust, then reads the title. “Trusty James Morrison,” he mumbles to himself with a half-smile. He skims the page, quickly taking in the notes while his left hand ghosts across the frets. After a moment he sits back, gripping the instrument properly, and strums the first chord. “I have been down so low, people look at me and they know. They can tell something is wrong, like I don't belong. Well, staring through a window, standing outside, they’re just too happy to care tonight. Wanna be like them but I'll mess it up again. I tripped on my way in, got kicked outside, everybody saw.” He’s leaning into the song now, his eyes closed as his fingers and voice follow the notes he carved into his memory all those years ago. “And I know that it's a wonderful world but I can't feel it right now. I thought that I was doing well but I just want to cry now. Well, I know that it’s a wonderful world from the sky down to the sea. But I can only see it when you're here, here with me…” He lets the sound fade out, his mouth suddenly dry. “Story of our lives, huh, James?” The door bursts open and Hyacinth skips in. “You’re playing! I’d forgotten you still have a guitar here,” she beams. “You must play for us.” “First of all, Hy, you need to knock, you almost gave me a heart attack.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on, it’ll be fun! Remember when we had our little family band?” She pulls him off the bed with surprising strength, then pretends to hold a microphone and gestures to the empty space. “Creating magic on the keys: the incomparable Francesca! Manning the drums better than any man could: Eloise! Tickling the bass until her fingers bleed: the fabulous Hyacinth!” “Ears started bleeding around you, long before your fingers did.” “Rude!” She slaps his arm. “My solos were legendary.” “Yeah, all of Mayfair’s still haunted by them.” “I was six, Colin.” “Fair.” He loves their easy banter. Hyacinth is the only one who seems to have forgiven him almost instantly, somehow still the bubbly girl she’s always been. “If I promise not to dig out my bass, will you come downstairs and play?” “Hy, no one wants to hear—“ “Nonsense, come on.”

She drags him out of the room, ignoring all protests, and a minute later he finds himself in the sitting room with most of his siblings staring up at him as he pauses awkwardly on the threshold. “Col is going to play,” she announces, clapping her hands gleefully. “Is he now?” Eloise raises a quizzical brow. “Does he take PayPal or shall we be blessed with a gratuitous performance?” “El.” Daphne rises from her chair, offering it to Colin. “Never mind, Hy was just being sill—“ “Sit down. It’s the best one for playing, remember?” They exchange a long look and he finds a hint of the once familiar sparkle in his sister’s eyes. Gingerly he takes the seat while slipping the guitar strap over his head. “Okay, any requests?” “Bach’s Chaconne in D minor,” Francesca quips and he can’t help but smile, the air a little lighter than before. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall,” he says, strumming the first few chords and grinning at the chuckles that dance around the room. Even Eloise cracks a little. He smoothly transitions into Tikka by Scott Helman, a song they all used to belt along to on car rides back in the day. His hands fly across the guitar, drumming out the beat and picking the notes in rhythm with the strange lyrics. Little by little the others start to hum and sing along, tapping their toes — and Christ, he has missed this. Performing for the fun of it, to make them happy. At some point Francesca joins him on the piano, quickly falling into their old synchronicity. They play song after song, old family favourites they still know off the top of their head, requests from their siblings they improvise the chords to. “What’s going on here?” Penelope stands in the doorway, wide-eyed but smiling, mirroring Violet on her arm. “Exactly what it looks like,” Benedict says jovially, standing up to lead his mother to the sofa. Colin sends a crooked grin to Penelope, waving her in. Hesitantly, she settles into an armchair. “Honey, do you still remember the songs that nice guitarist taught you in Barcelona?” “Ooh, yes, that was such a fun holiday!” Hyacinth exclaims. “It was bloody chaotic and boiling hot,” Eloise groans. “Yeah, but the music was good.” All eyes snap to Gregory, who suddenly blushes under their stares. “What?” “Nothing, Gee,” Daphne says with a smile. Colin tunes out their chatter for a minute while he tries to recall the impromptu guitar lessons at a bar from nine years ago. The techniques, the patterns, the vibe. Then he stretches out his fingers and starts playing. A lively melody fills the room, soaking everything in easy warmth. Five minutes in, Benedict breaks out the sangria and a little later everyone’s on their feet, precariously balancing their glasses between fits of laughter at increasingly ridiculous dance moves. For a little while all the rules of chess seem forgotten, the pieces scattering themselves across the board without any regard for complicated gambits. It’s messy and beautiful and Colin wishes he could bottle this moment somewhere other than his unreliable mind. Violet sits on the couch, a tired but smiling Sophie curled into her side, watching fondly on as her children twirl around the room. Eventually, Colin puts down the guitar with aching fingers and they switch to a Catalonian playlist. He downs his drink, light-headed from the alcohol bubbling in his veins along with the rush of endorphins, then takes Penelope by the hands and spins her around until she’s giggling. Suddenly she is so close. Strikingly gorgeous with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. For one magical moment the world grinds to a halt. There’s only her. Dipped in candlelight, swaying her hips to the beat from the speakers. But right when he thinks his heart might give out, Eloise swoops in, roping Penelope into a complicated choreography they devised as teenagers. And he can’t be disappointed because they look so goddamn gleeful — they all do. So he just pulls a breathless Hyacinth into his side, brushing a kiss to her temple and whispering “Thank you, kiddo” into her ear.

As the night wears on, one by one they start yawning and wandering off to bed, Colin and Penelope among the last. He walks her to the door of her guestroom, still buzzing from the last few hours. She turns to him, inspecting his features in the dim light of the hall. “You looked so happy back there,” she murmurs. “Like you used to. When I see videos of you on stage now, it’s…“ “What?” “Different. A performance. And the songs don’t sound like you.” He swallows. “Because I rarely write them anymore. They have all these people from the label writing for me.” “Why?” Colin shrugs, trying to fake nonchalance. “My stuff isn’t ‘commercial’ enough.” Sadness soaks her gaze and drowns the last few butterflies still fluttering in his stomach. “There was so much of you in that first album. So much heart.” A long pause. “And now?” “Honestly?” “Please.” “It’s generic pop, made slightly interesting by your voice.” Her words hit him square to the chest. A truth that he’s been desperately trying to avoid, to drink out of his system on those nights when everything else was already threatening to crush him. That none of it has been worth it. That he is not the artist he once longed to be. “I’m sorry.” She blushes, gnawing at her wine-stained lip. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “It’s okay,” he rasps. “I asked for honesty.” “Still—“ “It’s fine, Pen. And thank you for giving it a listen anyway.” “Well, there’s no escaping it these days. Even when I want to.” He chuckles awkwardly. “That bad, huh?” “It’s not about the music, Colin. It’s about you.” His faint smile falls. “Oh. Right. Another reminder of the arsehole who left.” “Mostly a reminder of missing you. Then again, I could never forget about that.” She says it with calm sincerity but her gaze flickers anxiously across his face. Goosebumps erupt on his skin as his heart rate picks up. Once more, she is dangerously close. But he feels himself drawing even nearer, as if pulled by an invisible string, completely unable to resist. And she rises to meet him, making his pulse race impossibly faster, until they’re only an inch apart. He lifts his hand, gently caressing her cheek in perfect awe. A loud thud drives them apart with a gasp. Muffled groans drift up the stairs before Benedict appears, rubbing his ribs. He is startled by the sight of them but quickly recovers. “Next time remind me that I’m a boring old person now who can’t hold his liquor anymore.” Colin inhales deeply, then chisels a smirk onto his face. “Let’s get you to bed, grandpa.” He offers Benedict his shoulder who gratefully throws an arm around him, making Colin nearly buckle under his brother’s weight. He slings his own arm around Benedict’s waist and in spite of everything feels a jolt of joy at the familiarity of it all. And when he glances up at Penelope, who still looks shell-shocked, he’s infinitely thankful for the interruption. They almost did something very stupid. “Goodnight, Pen.” “’Night,” she whispers. Benedict sends a wobbly salute in her direction, then lets himself be steered down the landing. Colin doesn’t look back.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

CHAPTER 7

Likes, reblogs and comments are more than welcome ♥️

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[zombeebunnie]

Trembling Essence:💙Background + poll results💙

Hello hello and welcome new followers! :]

Firstly I just want to say a very big thank you to everyone that participated in the poll I did last week, I was really surprised but happy with the results and responses! This will help me a lot moving forward! :,] If you missed it and would like to say which route you preferred feel free to comment!

Anywho, this week mainly focused on art practicing again but I did work on the game and managed to get my bearings even more!

Here is the new background for the start of the game:

This took a long time to draw up since I sketched out the background instead of looking at references this time. Once I got a basic idea of how I wanted it to look it felt.. too empty and flat. At first I couldn't figure out why until I added more shrubbery and grass. After that I started adding the trees and then added a few more to give it depth and adjusted some of the coloring. So far the immersive symbolism I'm going for is slowly coming together! Since it just finished raining where you're located I tried to give the background the illusion of looking tolerably humid but slowly getting colder over time with a hint of decay in the distance. This is a better look of the dreary foreboding atmosphere compared to the "fairy-forest" from last week. >:,] It took a while but I also added a parallax effect here and optimized the images to save space. I kept getting an error when it came to the middle ground so I had to find and fix the problem which delayed things. I don't have a video to show it in action but maybe next time. I do want it to be known again that these automatically happen and don't follow the cursor. :,,]

Here's a sneak peek of the new choices you can do when you're in this area now. >;]

This part required a lot of brainstorming before I figured out how I wanted the explorative part to go. This was originally going to go a different way completely but a particular day caused me to just scrap it and start everything over. I have a very solid idea on how I want all of this to go better than ever so I can't wait to show some of the new areas! I didn't expect this background to take as long as it did to draw up but hopefully next week I'll have more done!

Progress doodle layout:

Since certain endings are being changed I thought it would be cool to animate a progress layout to visually show how everything is going! It shouldn't take too long to finish this section up since I already have a foundation laid out.

Noah's sprite sheet update:

As far as Noah sprite sheets goes, it's still in sketch mode and I haven't messed with them yet since I've been practicing. :,,]

There are some old drawing prompts I wrote down and sketches that I'm still doodling up behind the scenes so hopefully I can get to them at some point with some attached lore. :,]

Q&A / Ask box is still open:

If you have any questions about Trembling Essence/Noah feel free to ask here please. This makes it easier for me to see and answer accordingly! I would really like to hear from you guys!

Thank you to those who have sent in asks after everything got reset! I'll try to get to them when I can along with the ones that come to mind that got deleted. I just need time to answer since I like to respond with doodles/drawings as practice. :]

Overall that's everything I have to share so far, thank you guys for your continued encouragement and support through all of this, I wholeheartedly appreciate it! :,,]

[snake-berry]

some very old & some relatively new sketches (including asoiaf, hp, & tmi/shadowhunters)

since im never going to finish these, i thought i'd post them. and since i have nothing new to post (been the worst ive ever been mentally for the past 5 months, which is saying... a lot). but im working on some requests so i'll get back to regular posting soon.

sooo anyways (left to right, top to bottom)

ashara dayne x howland reed sketch for last february's ship challenge that i never finished coloring

regulus black redraw (for an old drawing posted here). from around/over a year ago. didn't like the way it looked so i scrapped it - still might try to redraw that one again

clary fray sketch from november-ish. going to do some shadowhunter fanart soon probably. not exactly the type of content i think my target audience expects and/or wants but i have to do what brings me joy

shiera seastar colored sketch. from last summer. i like this one but it was meant to be for a full page of sketches for the great bastards lol

ACOK sketches (melisandre, theon & robb, shae, and bran). veryyyy old (march 2022). i always liked something about this one, but i guess i got too overwhelmed and abandoned it. the character designs here contradict the way i draw these characters now but yeah

ginny weasley + mystery man i shall not yet reveal sketch. embarrassingly more recent. basically for a while i lost all ability to draw, literally, like any semblance of skill i had completely disappeared and sketches that would have taken me 20-30 mins started taking hours and hours. andddd this was one of the sloppy products of that time. still going to redraw this mystery ship and post it soon tho so stay tuned

anyways thats all sorry for the mid drawings i'll be back to actual posting soon

[sealofarchives]

Oneshot scenario: Merfolk!reader with the turtles (separate)

Just something for a mermay themed prompt while trying to think of other stuff to write

Warnings: the slight mention of drowning (just a brief topic again nothing too graphic)

(I forgot the exact concept art picture from one of the scrapped episodes where Mikey went all out for a mermaid costume for a distraction but, surprisingly it helped while trying to brainstorm ideas for the other scenarios lol)

Soupful Confessions

In the lair, close to the living room...

You were about take another spoonful of clam chowder soup. While your fish tail sat on one of the steps a surface level in a large aquarium tank filled with water. You placed the soup bowl by the makeshift table beside you. Then swam towards the box shell turtle pacing around a few distance away from the tank.

Before you could ask, Mikey immediately squeaked startled by your sudden appearance.

"Oh (Y/N)! Was the soup okay?"

"Mikey, I'll pretty much eat anything you make. Sorry for scaring you."

"Is something on your mind? You almost made a lap walking around my tank."

"Well... Despite that short-staffed situation during a surf and turf event near the Run of the Mill pizzeria..."

"I'm still excited that I made friends with you and a few other merpeople!"

You winced with a fake smile before going back to the soup filled bowl.

"I mostly tagged along with that group for a discount on seafood pizza."

"I couldn't stomach the idea of eating turtles, let alone ones who were brave enough to serve an angry mob of hungry merpeople."

"Yeah... I still think we were pretty lucky that we based off the menu from a few of dad's old movies. Clam chowder being one of those."

You blinked surprised at the soup then back to Mikey.

"Any clue why he doesn't like talking about clam chowder?"

"Because I tried bringing it up and he just avoids the question with something else."

Mikey only shrugged while playing around with his orange bandana tails.

"He told us only criminals like that movie but, Cassandra turned over a new leaf because of his words of wisdom."

"Maybe, something terrible happened during the making of the movie so, it might have been that..."

You hummed understanding that reasoning. Then held the bowl to drink what's left out of the almost empty soup. Mikey gulped as you perched your arms content with the meal.

"Hopefully its not too weird to ask but, are you free to be a muse?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I had a few sketches for some disguises especially with the mermaid theme in mind but..."

"I didn't want to offend you if some of the designs are in poor taste..."

You couldn't help but, giggle at Mikey as you placed the bowl on his head.

"So you want feedback from me? Sure, I don't bite."

"But, take it easy when you decide to use said distraction in action."

"I wouldn't want that cute face of yours getting hurt."

Mikey blushed as you winked at him and hurried off to get dessert. Unfortunately for him, his brothers also saw the incident and appeared with teasing grins, casually hanging around the kitchen like nothing happened.

Old and New Memories

In the turtle tank...

Donnie spoke up with a sigh.

"You know its impolite to stare at someone for a long period of time..."

"Oh sorry, a while ago, I got stuck with helping one of my classmates for something in Witch Town."

"That place still mentions you-"

"Being the infamous scientist turtle who scoffed at anything magic related and destroyed the center piece statue during an important ceremony."

Donnie felt an imaginary arrow hitting his head as he winced while you continued to talk.

"But still, you made a long way from being stubborn about mystic magic."

"And gained some understanding of it through your way of approaching things."

You fidgeted one of the charms added to the custom made backpack (courtesy of the purple turtle himself) to avoid the tedious process. Carrying a large jug of water when there's no aquarium tank around.

Donnie faked cough now regaining his composure as you looked back at him.

"Accidental destruction of property was the more correct term to describe it..."

"At that time, I was more focused proving April wrong that she didn't need help from those witches."

"Also, there is no way I'm setting foot near that place if they still talk about me in that matter."

"I was already greeted with the angry mob gathering pitchforks and torches when I tried to apologize for my actions."

Donnie crossed his arms as you lightly puffed one of your cheeks.

"On a lighter note, I found out some of my classmates grew up with parents who are big fans of Splinter's movies."

"And..."

You held up a conch shell device and played a recording from its string.

"Do you think we'll turn heads if we change the purple one's wanted poster in a light tone similar to the splitting image of Lou Jitsu?"

"I already heard stories how the former star dedicates his life to raising four turtles and..."

"The purple one can easily get away with anything for having such dashing looks-"

You immediately held the string down with blush surfacing an annoyed look on your face.

"It slowly started an argument on which of you was the best Lou Jitsu look-a-like."

"So the fan club forgot to start the project..."

"But still, at least you have me and a few other fans by your side."

Your fish-fin ears fluttered a bit taking notice of Donnie's smirk.

"While I'm flattered by that girl's comment, I only assume you haven't thought of the idea towards a surprise meet and greet."

"Or you don't like the thought of her dating me..."

The blush deepened your face as you looked away.

"I think she'll be more disappointed that you aren't into pda and hugs."

You felt Donnie's arms pulling you into a hug now sitting on his lap.

"Given the nature of my happy go lucky family members, I just give in to the hugs. However, for you."

"I'm willing to make some amends towards my soon to be partner's needs..." On the back of Donnie's mind was slight panic. With the realization that you look really cute sitting there. And how, he got a closer look at your face.

A Merfolk That Can't Sing?!

Near a rooftop pool close to 10 pm... (Totally not trespassing says the red slider turtle)

Your face sank halfway into the chlorinated water. Attempting to hide the embarrassed feeling as Leo immediately sat up.

"Wait, for eel? I always thought it comes naturally that most merpeople can just lure anyone in by a wonderful singing voice."

You laid on your aquatic back, letting the water glide you across the lightly dimmed pool. With a whine at Leo's fishy oneliners.

"Not me, my parents tried to get help and it didn't even work."

"I already don't like the thought of it being associated with drowning..."

"I almost forgot about that part but, the reason I brought the singing was more towards..."

"Donnie was playing a game where sirens sang during a boss fight."

"I don't know much about metal but, the song surprisingly blends well with the siren singing."

"Okay? I still don't get what you're trying to say."

"I don't want to sound like Dr Feelings but, if you have a favorite song you'd usually like to hum to."

"Maybe try that, since you don't seem happy trying to fit into the scary siren image.

Leo saw you hesitated for a bit but shrugged, now lazily laying on your stomach.

"I'll think about it but, thanks for the brief pep talk."

"Well if you feel up to a small karaoke battle, you know who to call!"

You held back laughing at him in an attempt to hide the blush on your face.

"You almost fell off the turtle taxi proudly winning the previous karaoke battle during a late night beach party."

Leo's confident smile quickly faded into embarrassment. As he immediately placed one of his beach hats on your head. Causing you to sit up to avoid damaging the hat.

"It still counted as a victory for me. We weren't expecting anyone to be up around that time."

"Let alone a surprise visit from a merfolk."

You blushed at the water's reflection, wearing Leo's straw beach hat. A tiny bit of regret deepened the blush as you caught sight of his slow smirk.

"Did my singing actually lure you in?~"

Your fish fin lightly splashed water near his face as you looked away.

"The turtle tank caused a tiny rumor about a turtle with a taxi on its shell"

"I don't think Donnie would be happy about making his prized vehicle open to the public."

Leo wiped the water off his face with a spare towel as he got off the chaise lounge chair.

"I still think I lured you in."

"It just happened to be in good timing, with Donnie making small tests to the turtle tank."

Your fish tail sat by the pool step ladders as you sighed.

"Just don't add any love songs to the playlist or I might curse you for a week."

"I can probably handle whatever hex you throw at me but, I'll still give you dibs on picking the first few songs.

"Just so I have somewhat an idea of what songs you're into."

Ever since he got you to laugh at some of his jokes, the red slider turtle believes you have that merpeople charm in you.

Early Morning Seaside Chit Chat

Close to early sunrise by the Hidden City beach.

The turtle tank was parked a few distance away from the volunteer vendor booth that usually helps with clean up, trash, and protecting wildlife. However, the daily weekend event usually starts in around 9 or 10 am.

Raph could see the groggy eyebags on your face as you struggled to stay awake, resting your arms above the aquarium tank.

"We brought some snacks that should last until lunch."

"So try to eat something so you don't accidentally chomp on a seagull."

You snatched a family sized bag of chips from the snack pile. With a brief thanks as Raph sat across from you.

"I scared off some birds from last year's sea turtle hatching tour."

"I'll be fine."

Raph bit into a piece of jerky as he rolled his eyes.

"That one pink heron almost knocked you into the sea if we didn't step in to help."

"Mikey almost saw a baby turtle getting pecked to death."

"That's the only time I pick fights with any of those birds."

Raph muttered a sigh under his breath as you pouted.

"Okay I'll admit, we didn't want to see that but..."

"I'm surprised how you convinced Donnie and the volunteers to set up a eco friendly barrier for those baby turtles."

You smiled a bit biting into another chip as you spoke.

You guys still helped, spreading the word through cute flyer posters and a tiny fundraiser for a good cause."

Raph lightened up with his toothy grin as he chuckled.

"So, no secret plan to get revenge on that bird."

"I mean Donnie was almost thinking about it, until he got praised with so many compliments displaying his work to the staff."

"Oh, so Donnie didn't have some speech with how cruel nature is and just went with your idea."

You accidentally yawned with an annoyed expression on your face.

"He did but, life is already like that sometimes."

"And not to bring down the mood but, you four would have been just regular turtles if it weren't for Splinter stepping in to protect you guys from being Draxum's super soldiers..."

Raph hummed briefly looking down at the half empty plastic bag.

"I don't think I could fit in with the other alligator snapping turtles."

"I had a lot of weird moments not realizing its a solitary thing and its just not for me."

Raph looked up after hearing you chuckle.

"You could easily win a few over just from your gentle smile."

"Showing off your strength is one thing but, your level of honesty."

"Its almost too sweet that it could blind the competition."

The alligator snapping turtle blushed at your compliments.

"If this is your way of wanting that expensive seafood buffet for lunch, I'm not budging..."

"Awww, but I saved up enough money for a really good couple's discount~..."

Raph eventually caved in to the offer after most of the baby sea turtles safely made it to watery shore. However, to your surprise, the two of you sat in one table alone. With the blush beginning to appear on your face as the waiter took his order.

[glaciart]

From 2014 - 2016 I spent my days playing Ragnarok Online..

It was quite a ride.

Depression hit hard, but playing MMOs was still possible. I spent day and some nights on OriginsRO (now Arcadia Online), got to know people all around the world and even participated in some big PVP events (very unusual for me!). The first really fun guild I joined was the Cotton Shirt Crew. I drew the picture above as an inspirational piece for the crowd. My dancer Nepenthe wearing one of the iconic cotton shirts!

I didn't draw all too much during those days. But what I did draw I drew without any kind of reference. Just imagination and muscle memory.

I did try to draw a picture with more effort going into it, too, but never finished. Behold, my priest, who's character name I changed a few times around:

One reason I never finished the picture was, that the technique I used is exhausting for me. Color first, lines later. It works best for detailed spaces, not so well for big things like the robe. Also, the anatomy on the first draft was definetly terribly off (that's what you get from avoiding references!). After scrapping most of my progress away I never took it on again.

The last thing I drew in context of this game is this little lap-dance scene sketch, spontanously called into existence for my friend Kergal, which I met ingame. Good old times!

But eventually I batteled off the worst of the depression and found my way back into reality. Thanks to everyone who was around during that time. I miss you.

[noxxytocin]

damn you have mastered so many different art styles!!! What’s your secret, how do you manage to have such distinction in each piece? I’m still learning and I find no matter how much I practice there’s always that ~~me~~ in each piece. Like realism I learned in school so I have trouble escaping that with more stylized looks like chibi or something 🤔😩

Ah, thank you kindly! That’s very sweet of you to say. Though, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve mastered anything, really. I think I’m still very much learning with each piece I do.

I also wouldn’t say I dabble in too many styles. I tend to stick to realism and drawn-animation for the most part. Though I do have a soft spot for sketching and pastels!

My secret? Haha! You make it sound like I keep it in a safe. No magic here, I’m afraid. I’ve simply been drawing since I was a wee thing. Started off drawing anime and manga, then slowly veered into realism and surrealism. I even pursued art at university for a time. Although, I gave it up when doubt came knocking.

I’ve always admired the old masters. Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, etc. But The Desperate Man by Courbet? That one stopped me in my tracks the first time I saw it. Still does. There's something maddeningly alive about it. It was an Aha! moment for me.

Hmm...I don’t particularly believe in having a “consistent style”, if I’m honest. Art isn’t supposed to sit still and behave. It’s meant to grow and shift. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your work having a bit of “you” in it. 🫰✨

In fact, that’s the best! I think all my pieces have a few hints of me buried in them. For example, I lean into sadder themes or moodier palettes. I reuse the same brushes constantly, still struggle with anatomy (hands and feet, in particular, are the bane of my existence), and just this morning I spent hours on a sketch only to scrap it and start all over again.

✍️ So if there is a secret, it’s this: don’t EVER limit yourself. Try everything. Break rules. Let your art be messy and wild. And most importantly...have fun with it. The rest sorts itself out.

[strawberrysundi]

-OUR FOUNDER-

⚙ THE CHAIRMAN ⚙ OF COGS INCORPORATED EST. 2003 ---------------------------------

So I've never talked about this on here before, but Toontown was one of my absolute FAVORITE games as a kid (despite never having membership so being locked out of 99% of the actual game jlkjfsakj) Like it was absolutely formative for me, I drew the cogs a bajillion times and they inspired a ton of my own stuff later on (and still absolutely do) Then the game closed and Rewritten came out so I could actually play the whole game for the first time (haven't gotten anywhere close to getting to the end though) To this day I have an on again off again interest where once or twice a year I'll suddenly get absolutely smitten with it again haha

So, if you're also into Toontown, you'll obviously be familiar with the mysterious, unseen overarching villain The Chairman This is my own take on his design that I came up with a few years back ^^

We don't have much to go off of from the original game for what the Chairman might've been like, so I had a couple of different inspirations

Obviously the giant head in the Sellbot Factory, since those old Chairman pics with that head pasted onto a cog body were absolutely what I was most exposed to as a kid, but it's also not a 1:1 lift

In some of my earliest sketches trying to come up with the ideal design I tried making him look like he had the giant robot from the old installer video underneath his suit, so he had like lanky, cartoonish proportions, toonier hands, etc It looked really bad though and I couldn't do what I wanted with the head since it would've had to fit over the shorter, wider robot head, so I just ended up scrapping it (i do take some inspiration from the video for my vision of Toontown's story, but i've just scrapped the robot entirely) Oh I also gave him the eyes from the Field Office since I thought that could be neat, but it looked out of place so I simplified them to what he has now (they're still stylistically similar to the eyes on regular cog buildings, so i don't think i'm really losing any of the meaning behind them at least)

By far the biggest inspiration was when the FY11 plans got released

Holy FUDGE did this blow my mind when I saw it for the first time All those years as a kid of the Chairman not even being ACKNOWLEDGED except by the CEO's final words and a couple odd references in obscure magazines and whatever Desperately speculating and grasping onto all those tiny pieces of some mysterious, horrifically evil entity behind everything And then this??? This awesome, ominous silhouette?? Plans for something huge??? Seeing it is what drove me to go and draw him in the first place, it still gives me chills just looking at it

So yeah, I wanted mine to have that same aura of cold evil, that striking silhouette, while also having a bit more character to him Like most cogs are frozen in the same screwed up scowl, where there's not much room for expression If I could, like, make an actual model for him, I'd want him to have the same sort of capacity for different expressions as the toons have (even some you wouldn't expect from the head of the cogs)

He's ruthless, calculating, doing everything he can to maximize the profits and efficiency of Cogs Inc and expand their operations to the entirety of Toontown, with no regard for ethical business practices or the wishes of the people he plans to subjugate (But does it work? Is he happy?)

I'm absolutely gonna do an analysis of the cogs as a whole at some point (as long as my interest doesn't plummet for a little while longer), there's a ton of stuff I wanna get into about my interpretation of them as villains because oh my god I love them so much

OTHER STUFF - He's not as massive as the other boss cogs, but he's still absolutely huge (iirc the highest level cogs are all canonically like 8ft?? and he's got a LOT of height on them) - He's drinking oil in the pencil drawing - I happened to watch this video where one guy talked about the way the villain in Tarzan held a glass of wine and how it left a huge impression on him, so I just arbitrarily decided to emulate it in my drawing XD - Oh yeah a big reason for the main drawing in the post was that I really felt like I was getting too attached to a single style in my digital stuff (literally just using the same default pen tool for everything, never changing the size), so I wanted to force myself to try something new - I drew the frame myself, just kinda winged it so it's. not as good as it could be but it works fine I think

[caffinedragon]

Bear with the Heart of a Dragon

Chapter 3: What do your elfy eyes see?

Ursa chuckled as Sera blew a raspberry at Solas for trying to speak Elvhan to her, knowing the type of person she was.

She had been a elf from an alienage somewhere, her culture so far removed from her as to be unrecognizable.

She was the direct generational result of the majority of the elven population being so completely cut off form their history and culture that they just started all over from scratch.

Something Solas was having trouble understanding because there home of Arlathan was still new and fresh in his memory.

Whereas for Ursa, she was practically in the same boat as the young elven woman due to the trauma she wanted to separate herself from.

Hopefully, having her around would help her really bring it home to Solas how much the world and their own people have moved on from the world they once knew.

And maybe help reinforce why, what she suspected he wanted to do, was a really bad idea.

"Vhenhadas Lasa." He sighed as he apparently gave up and fell into step next to her.

Ursa just shook her head and continued walking down the dune, the Oasis in sight.

"I do not understand why she would be so disdainful of her own heritage. Why does she want to reject it?" He spoke in old Elvhanan.

"Because to her, Lethalan, it isn't her culture." She responded in the same. "To her it feels as if your trying to force your belief of who she is supposed to be down her throat and ignoring who she is."

"But it is her culture, is she not elven?"

Ursa sighed, "Solas, you have to consider that to you, mentally, it feels like the war and the fall of Arlathan only feels like it occurred maybe a year or two ago. To myself and the rest of Thedas, it has been a millennia. And during that millennia, the history and culture of the world we knew was wiped out twice over. What little there is left, is only gathered by the Dalish clans. Clans that are forced to keep moving so they aren't forced into an alienage in the city. Those elves like Sera who grew up in an alienage, have had no access to the literal scraps that are left. Our world may as well be a fantasy drummed up by some washed out drunkard trying to make their life worthwhile then actual historical fact. Because to them, even if they found out it was true, it would just make their situations feel ten times worse. It just doesn't serve them anymore, so they made their own. Hence..."

She pointed over at Sera who was drawing a crude sketch of something she couldn't quite make out but was guessing it was probably a butt or something knowing her.

"Twice over?" Solas asked shocked.

"Yeah. I mean if you count the actual fall, you could say three but, not long after we lost our magic, human's realized they still had it and made an empire based of of that fact. An empire that slaughter, violated and enslaved our people. And when conquers enslave a people they..."

"Try to erase their history so they wont have cause to rise up."

"Exactly. So, generations of that isn't gonna leave a lot behind, and then when you add on the Chantry's Exhalted March into the Dales because the elves they helped free didn't want to convert..."

"They do the exact same thing, destroying even more history."

"And also round up all the elves they can catch and force them into alienages where they..."

"Are completely cut off."

"And thus..."

"Sera."

"There ya go." She saw the anger in Solas's eyes as it all sunk in and to keep him from ruminating as he often did, she wrapped an arm around him. "Solas, I honor what you are trying to do, but, our world is gone. I watched it get washed away in the rising and falling of emperors over and over again. The same shit, different day just with a lot less magic and a lot more stabbing. It hurts. And it fucking sucks. But we have to grieve it and let it go."

"IS that what you did?" His tone wasn't angry and bitter like she expected, but desperate, like a grieving loved one trying to stay strong and barely holding on.

"What else could i do? You get a lot of chance for introspection over 1000 years and if my kids could do it despite what happened to them well, what excuse did i have?"

Solas looked down and leaned in to her side, "I...don't know...how to do that."

"When we get back to Haven, I will teach ya."

He nodded before his eyes traveled back to Sera again.

"If you want to try and find some connection to her. I would suggest on finding some common ground first, that isn't completely centered around the fact that your both elven."

"Why?"

"Because, when you grow up in an alienage, all people care about is that your an elf and attributed it to everything your expected to be and do. Ya know, like a slave. So..."

"Ah. I now understand why that may be offensive. I will...find a different approach. Thank you Lethalin."

"No problem." She patted him on the shoulder and moved to start finding all the shards.

After finishing up the final skull, Solas started again.

"What color is the sky, Sera?"

Ursa stood up, still holding the last shard she grabbed under her arm. "The fuck?"

Solas raised a finger indicating he had a whole spiel he was about to do.

She stared at him with an eyebrow raised, placing her free hand on her hip.

After she answered his question he asked, "And when you looked past the Breach? As perhaps you were drawn to do?"

Ah. Now she saw where it was going.

She continued to the next shard the skull had indicated.

"Greenish? Then clear a long ways, and kind of... felt like falling. Ugh! Makes my head hurt. You make my head hurt."

She chuckled again as she climbed up a ladder to grab the shard at the top. Just as she reached it, Sera called out.

"You, Herald or..whatever."

She grabbed the shard and slid back down, "Ursa."

"Wot?"

"My name. It's Ursa. Means Bear."

Sera gave her a very hungry elevator look, "The name fits..."

She shook her head, amused, "You needed something?"

"Oh right! Your elfy right?"

"Eh."

"Eh?" She asked.

"Like...I am more 'elfy than someone who grew up in an alienage but not quite as 'elfy' as the Dalsih so...Eh."

"Elfy enough. So, What do you see when you look at the Breechy thingy?"

"I don't know. I have only really looked at it long enough to close it. I have been avoiding it otherwise."

"Why don't you look now. Tell us what you see."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"There is clearly nothing to be afraid of with the way baldy here goes on about it, so go one, have a peak, tell me what you see."

She sighed as she looked up at the breach fully prepared just to see a whole lot of green and maybe a few spirits.

What she was met with instead, was the sounds of screaming spirits and the familiar laughter and voices of those who hurt her the most and were the reason, three of her children were dead.

She tried to pull her eyes away but found she couldn't move as she was dragged into an old memory.

-----

"Ursa? Ursa? Hey Solas, somethings wrong, she she's stiff as a board and her eyes are like, far away. What's going on?"

Cole appeared from nowhere as Solas ran up to her.

"Screaming. So much screaming. They are hurting them, chaining them, they can't-" Cole stood next to her as Solas looked at her dazed eyes and tear streaked face. He had seen this before. She was locked in a flashback.

Cole continued, "We locked the monsters away but their victims came for us. Killing, Torturing, and violating, taking their rage out on those they deemed just as bad because they had the same shaped ears. I saved as many as i could but...I failed them. And they willingly allowed themselves to be chained so they wouldn't come for them too."

Solas felt his heart start to break as he realized what Cole was talking about.

Just as he went to try to draw her back Cole gasped and started to scream.

"No, not again! Don't go up there! Don't let the monsters out! Don't let out the black-" He calmed again, "Too late. The fools brought it back with them. The monsters didn't escape but the black-" Cole stiffened and slapped a hand over his mouth as he cried, "Mother-it hurts-it's breaking me! Please, help me! It hurts! Please kill me-stop me or I am going to-" He calmed again. "From seven to four. Two, kept to the surface, never to sleep so the black wouldn't find them. Two corrupted, died, then brought back again, reborn but different. But three...the black took, never to come back. The worst thing a mother can endure is outliving her children. Seven, down to four."

She had heard them.

Her children.

Those that had been found, corrupted and turned into Archdemons...she was able to hear them.

"Oh, Lethlin...I am so sorry."

"What? Is creepy over here sayin Ursa lost her kids? Is that what she is remembering?"

"Yes." Cole answered, "She had seven. Five were tainted by the blight. Two survived because she was close enough to take them to get help, three didn't."

"Ooof." Sera winced, "I assume it must have been from that last blight yeah? That's rough."

Before Cole could respond, Ursa came back to herself, "Ugh. Fuck. What happened?"

Solas turned to her, "You slipped away from us for a while, Lethalin. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, Ursa, you okay? You look a bit like you need a nap. All this Herald stuff getting to ya?"

"Maybe. Haven't been sleeping well. But, with the hole in the sky I don't have a lot of time to rest. Maybe once it's done I can pass out for a few...days."

"Well in that case, we should finish what we are here for and get back to it as quickly as possible." Solas suggested.

"Yeah. Good idea. Then i can have some coffee."

"Oh! Can i have some?" Sera asked.

"You don't need-"She started then was reminded of her late daughter Zazikel, "Actually, you might benefit from some. I will talk to Josie about it when we get back."

"OI! What is that supposed to mean?"

"We will find out once you drink some."