#being trapped in this flesh prison with an over emotional brain is my own personal hell

[homicidal-slvt]

I have this issue where I see people talking about how bad others interpretations of certain characters are and then I start going "Oh no what if my interpretations suck. What if people hate them. Am I mischaracterizing and don't realize it??? Oh god oh god oh god"

And then I just panic, burn myself out and become unable to write.

[project-ohagi]

Natsuo Todoroki x Reader - Christmas Scenario

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, Depression.

----

The mirror was your greatest adversary, forever threatening to split your soul with its whispered words of discouragement and reality. Being doomed to suffer eternal torment behind it, never again realising the blinding rays of the sun, was something else entirely. Perhaps it was a curse, but the individual to place it upon you remained veiled in shadows. It was a miserable, meagre existence, but at least you hadn't the burden of responsibilities. Or...maybe you did. Maybe the tides had changed, while you slumbered, to further distort and fracture your heart. Apparently, those who peered into your reflective prison were unaware of the accompanying humanity - the personality amidst the inanimate glass. You had refrained from etching words on to it, and your vocal cords had long expired, so you became trapped, isolated, lonely.

For a time.

Thanks to your efforts, the mirror was partially broken. Baneful shards of glass were scattered at your feet, and your initial instinct was to use them. Not for a conventional purpose, but to inflict damage upon yourself, to embrace accountability for whatever transgressions you had committed. The jagged outlines cut almost cleanly through your flesh, but it still stung. You were frightened of the kiss, serpentine with its poison and dolour. It wouldn't hack too deeply, but it hurt like Hell. Tears streamed down your face, as you whimpered. Could nobody save you from this deplorable fate? You prayed to any gods listening, and to any heroes too. You feared and you suffered, perpetually.

Of course, the problems started far earlier than your confinement, however, it definitely served as a catalyst. People didn't search amongst the abyss to find your dwindling light, they couldn't understand your silent pleading. The mirror itself was ornate, and so garnered much attention, although customers often complained about a sudden surge of bile, a sick feeling boiling the pits of their stomachs. It never lasted long in one household, being sold off promptly to the highest bidder. Glass in hand, you proceeded to count the passing days - it had been exactly 1825 days (or 5 years) since the stars imprisoned you. No food had graced your lips, nor water, so you wondered how you still lived. Were you still living? Were you really alive, or was this simply a version of Hell? Purgatory? Was it a near-death experience? A plethora of questions wanted to leap from your tongue, but you subdued each one. Who would listen, after all? What a nasty shock it would be, to discover a human caged inside your mirror, being forced to watch daily, as women and men alike beautified or belittled themselves.

It felt like high school, all over again.

And, what if upon that most disturbing revelation, they (purposefully or accidentally) broke the mirror? To your knowledge, you hadn't experienced any side-effects at the barely-noticeable fragmenting of glass, but what would happen if the whole thing shattered? What would become of your body, if you even possessed one anymore? Sure, you comprehended a realism about yourself, but what did that actually mean? The senses are notoriously easy to fool, at the end of the day.

Someone picked up your mirror, lugging it across a pathway, surrounded by traditional Japanese statues, with a zen garden aesthetic. It was gorgeous, and for a moment, it relaxed your brain. Your new owner was a male, muscular and quite handsome. It alleviated your concerns a little, when his slanted eyes gazed into his own reflection, unknowingly encountering you. Actually, this one was stunning. Spiked, snowy hair protruded from his head, and his resting expression was somewhere between an angry scowl and a playful smile. Your cheeks heated up - he was (unintentionally) staring right at you! The bliss that enveloped you was other-worldly. Over time, you learned to wait with baited breath for his arrival, pretending that you were a housewife, taking his coat and asking about his day. Deep sighs escaped your lips, but they were far from sorrowful. He elicited a strange sensation within your very core - he made you want to speak up, to uncover more of his personal life, to tear the curtains from his eyes and allow your presence to be noted.

But...you couldn't. More than ever, the terror gripped you. What if he freaked out? Not only would you risk ruining your (admittedly) very slim chance with him, but you might be abandoned again.

Another few weeks strolled by, your toxic habits subsiding ever-so-slightly. Whenever those cloudy-coloured gemstones entered your mind, with an accusatory glint, you simply couldn't bring yourself to cut. And, when he removed his shirt...gods, those back muscles were so well-defined. But...for some reason, he always faced away from your mirror. Perhaps he was superstitious. When garlands of evergreen began littering his room, you knew that Christmas was fast approaching. There were bells and candy-canes decorating a fairly-large tree in the centre of the room. Tinsel wound around it haphazardly - the result of an almost-fatal struggle, during which your beloved caved. He seemed to have a vision of the perfect tree, but surrendered when everything went to shambles.

A gruff voice yelled his name, which was a lovely contrast to the wintry-themed room. You locked that valuable information in a safe, guarded box. Natsuo. It tasted heavenly. One day (you estimated it to be around the 18th December), he brought a plate of Christmas-inspired foods into his room. He located a perch mere inches from the mirror. He sat down the plate. He stared, focus morphing into fixation. Confusion contorted his beautiful face, as he shuffled forwards. You felt an urge to preserve the distance, so you stepped back as much as the abyss would permit.

No acclaimed literary could have wrapped their words around this moment, for it was indescribable. The floodgates of your heart splintered with the force of your repressed emotions. You cried crystalline tears, but you wished to chant carols of celebration. The warmth of mulled wine flowed through your veins, lacing into them an intoxication. Happiness bubbled away in your throat, and your hands struggled to suppress it.

"How did you get in there?" A single, angelic echo breathed new life into your withering soul.

A million snowflakes endeavoured to barricade your voice, but you needed this - you needed to speak. "I-I don't know...I've been in here for..." You glanced to your arm. "...around 5 years?"

Those radiant, grey irises widened in shock. "5 years...? And those scars..."

"They're okay!" You tried reassuring him. "They don't hurt anymore. This is just...it's a lot to take in."

Concern only grappled him tighter. "Is there any way to get you out? Ah, wait...if you knew that, you wouldn't still be stuck. I had a feeling something was up with this mirror. There are rumours that it's cursed or haunted, y'know? Well, I guess that's not wrong..."

"Is that why you never faced me while you changed?" You asked, not immediately realising how strange that sounded.

A dark crimson hue dusted his cheeks, and a stuttered response caressed the air.

"Y-Yeah...I didn't think you were watching, though."

You flushed. "Ah! I'm so sorry! I stepped out of line, again...wait a minute - how did you realise I was trapped in here? You never seemed to look too much, and no-one else saw me."

"I was w-watching..." His voice lowered, as embarrassment fluttered in his stomach. "...maybe a god did something nice for you? It is almost Christmas."

"No...four Christmases have already passed since I got here. If a god truly cared, wouldn't I already be out?" You questioned, tone assertive.

Natsuo paused, deep in thought. "Then...maybe it was me? I was feeling frustrated and lonely, so I prayed for an angel. I got you. You must be a blessing, right? And the fact that only I found you...that confirms it. You're my gift. So I'll help you. I'm no hero, but I'm sure I can figure something out." An adorably-bashful smile adorned his lips, as he added, "This is fate, I can feel it!"

[yeoldontknow]

In Absentia

Author’s Note: hello!! welcome back to chanvember! i hope everyone is having The Best Time. this story, like IWTN, will also be very unlike the standard bits of writing i do. this piece is very loosely based on George Orwell’s 1984, and i hope...wow i hope you like it because my word i loved writing it. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Summary: In a city where love is a considered a disease and a crime, you are arrested and forced to undergo treatment. While in prison, you think on all your happiest times with Chanyeol. Genre: sci-fi; angst; romance; some smut Rating: R Warnings: dark themes; explicit sexual situations Word Count: 4,294

I wish I could just...stop. I wish my heart would let me. 

If someone else could be in this room with me, I'm sure they'd see my face - take in my sagging eyes and leather skin binding hollow bones together - and call me insane. If someone were here, I’m sure they’d try to talk to me, ground me in some kind of brittle reality that reminds me of all the ways I am little more than a sinner. Maybe, if someone were here, I would listen. Perhaps, I could even be persuaded to believe them. But I am alone, in this ten by ten cell.

Desperately alone.

Sometimes I wish I would die. I get pushed to that limit when the agony becomes too much to bear, when they hold me down in that transcendent moment when you can feel your life slipping between your fingers. In that moment, you think strong enough to hold on, but in the back of your mind, you know doing so means accepting the pain of actually being alive, and life itself becomes an all encompassing suffering for an indeterminable amount of time. It feels like it could go on forever. That's when I want to let go.

But I won't.

I will never let myself slip away. Often, it feels so easy and simple, and the knowledge that everything would end nearly drives me to finally giving in. But to die means I would forget and that I would be forgotten.

And I don't ever want to forget.

In truth, that's what they are doing. When they drag me from this cell, down the hall, and into the sterile white room; when they strap me into the chair; when they place the neurocipher onto my head, all they really want to do is take my memories. All of them, they are not picky, uncareful and unorganized, they take like vultures at a feast. They don't realize that doing this forces my heart into cardiac arrest and traps my brain in a stasis of constant stroke - or maybe they do and they just don't care. In the end, I think probably the latter.

It's like they're hungry for them, ravenous beasts of the police force who cannot, and will not, ever know or feel the love I have. I was stolen and beaten, arrested and gagged while unclean hands moved along my skin because I fell in love. Because I admitted to being in love and having love returned. The city mocked me, called me an imbecile and a traitor, because I knew it was the highest offense. I knew, we all knew. Rather, we know.

Love. The vicious affliction. Turns strong men into broken shells of their former selves, and leaves women in ruins; turns empires into ash and sends humans out to die for its cause. Love is a disease that can not be cured and so, the great country of Great Aeritum has set out to exterminate the symptoms. Valiant, maybe, if you’ve never truly lived.

And this is how they do it. Sucking the memory and the feeling out of the body, the soul, until nothing is left. Slowly, they have been feeding on every memory I have of him. They take him from me, and there are countless moments I can no longer recall, but they leave behind the sensation until that too comes undone. Without something tangible for my brain to hold or caress my emotion dissolves into a fog, until it dissipates completely.

At this moment, there are few memories left I am able to cling to. I reach for and grasp at them now, curled in on myself, desperate and needy to mold them into my bones. It's been six weeks and I can sense that a year of joy has been ripped from me, a lucid cavern of remembrance opening in my mind as a chasm. In the depths of my chest, I feel the seeping void where each of our shared seconds used to reside, and with the calloused threads of my mind I can almost touch the hole as it tries to form a scab.

To keep him as close to me as possible, I have etched our story into the concrete walls of my cell. I broke a small stone beneath my bed, sharpened it to a point, and each night since my first session I have taken to carving our story into my surroundings. I'm running out of space as quickly as I'm running out of time, and soon my words will bleed onto the floor.

Soon, they will all be just words.

You would never admit it, but you were positively aching for Chanyeol to take your hand. All polite smiles and boyish blushes, Chanyeol remained the picture of a gentleman even when his jubilant laugh gave away his true intentions. But even still, regardless of personality, he would never openly reach for you, fearing the EDA would find and arrest you both, separate you, a torture in and of itself. Instead, you settled for walking side by side, your fingers brushing in a nondescript pattern.

He walked you home, neither of you saying a word, both somewhere aware that speech was not needed. You bowed your head, smiling to yourself as the sound of his grey worker fatigues became the soundtrack of your final minutes together. It had, for intents and purposes, been an utterly exquisite first date. Unable to follow the conventions of the classic romantic stories you were taught in school, yet wholly unable to remain apart, Chanyeol had taken your to the game center where your played a virtual reality martial arts game until the city's curfew descended upon your pleasure, cutting the evening short.

And while in your own reality, neither of you could reveal your feelings, Chanyeol had displayed all that was necessary when he allowed his character to sacrifice himself for yours - four times.

When you approached your door, Chanyeol cast his eyes to the pale wood and gazed longingly at the entrance, a small sigh escaping his chest. Biting your lip, you choked an offer for Chanyeol to come inside down your throat, forcing it to die a silent death in the bowels of your lungs. With the CCTV's now inside each room of a citizen's house, there truly was no privacy and it would not be long before you would be discovered. Instead, Chanyeol nodded a quick goodnight and shook your hand.

As he walked briskly in the direction of his own home, you clenched your fist together to revel in the sensation of his warm skin. It was then you became aware that Chanyeol had slipped a small, folded note into your palm. Unable to contain your excitement, you turned towards your door, back facing the city’s cameras, and discretely unfolded the paper.

I wish you knew how badly I want to touch you; I wish it could be more than this. Yeol

I've come to loathe the morning, the slamming of the steel door against the wall shattering my brief moments of peace. They drag me by my ankle, crude and barbaric, out of bed and onto the floor. The most efficient alarm system I have ever come across. During my early days here, I would fight their hands only to injure myself in the process. Eventually, I stopped the struggle and started to anticipate the pain of the fall. No matter how weightless I become, it always hurts.

It's the anticipation that causes the most pain. Waiting for the door to open; waiting for the greedy hand upon my skin; the fall; the tug of my flesh along the floor; the leather straps around my wrist. The fear never seems to lessen.

When I'm strapped to the chair, they always say the same thing.

"Prisoner 100101. Y/LN, Y/F/N."

Same arbitrary numbers. As though my identity is binary code that happens to translate to alpha-symbols.

"Guilty of: Romantic relations. Infected with: Emotional Deterioration."

A disease to cause the guilt, a sickness to devour the blame. I wish they saw that the only thing that had deteriorated was my nationalism.

I pick concrete out of my nails as they slip the helmet over my head again. The contraption has become a ceremonial headdress that lays bare my moments for my captors to feast. A deranged emotional buffet, I think of it. Sometimes, like today, I am bitter and I hope my thoughts, my feelings, my memories taste sweet. I hope they get drunk on them, and, then, I hope they die from their unsatisfied grief.

Other times, in the moment before their great feed, I imagine my memories are glass and they are broken into pieces by the electricity of voracious envy. These shattered pieces are the crumbs my captors crave.

They flick the switch and I am left bereft.

‘Chanyeol, it's two in the morning! What are you doing?’ you whispered, though your voice carried into the night, anxious and eager.

‘I'm taking you to the Veldapark!’

‘Someone will see! Are you insane?’

Hushed voices and soft giggles were the limits to your volume. Anything too loud, and the world would hear the truth. The world would hear you.

Even in the bleakness of your surroundings, the grim, sickly black of the night, you could see his beaming smile. ‘Not at this time of night, trust me.’

Fond suspicion and a warm smile masked by the dark. Suddenly, you were overwhelmed by affection. ‘Why do I get the feeling that you've done this before?’

‘Because I have. And this is the only time of night we'll get to see them.’

‘Yeol, I'm more worried that someone will see us - wait, who is them?’

‘You'll see.’

A park made of cement, no greenery left anywhere in the city. It tried to remain beautiful, a place where children would feel the soft hands of freedom as long as they were innocent. A jungle-gym, a slide, sculptures of ancient landmarks big enough to jump through. History frozen in time.

‘I still don't know if this is a good idea.’

‘We have 30 minutes before the CCTV turns its attention back to us.’

He tossed a blanket onto the ground, placing you in the very center of the Veldapark.

‘Come. Lay with me.’

There was no room for hesitation, not that you would. He was inviting, open, warm. In that moment, you found you craved only his voice, his arms, his soul.

‘I still want to know how you know so much about this,’ you sighed, coming to nestle beside him.

‘Shh. Just trust me.’

Fingers laced with fingers, and you were silent again.

Understanding, as gradual as one might assume it is, is a sensation that demands immediate attention. You, waiting patiently in the darkness, abruptly understood what Chanyeol had meant when he said "them," and your only natural response was to stifle your amazement and channel it to your fingers in increased pressure. Chanyeol responded in kind, nuzzling into your neck as though the sky was not spectacular, as though somehow you were the majesty on display.

As long as you lived, you knew in your heart you would never forget the magnificence that can be found in a meteor shower.

When I return to my cell after each session, I feel as though I am suspended in water. Never in my life have I felt so vacant, yet I am always filled with the detached remnants of longing. What I know is that I'm missing a piece of my life, what I don't know is how much is gone - I do not know what is gone. I could recall all my remembrances but nothing ever seems amiss.

That's when I crawl to the borders of my cell. Before me are a thousand tales that seem to belong to someone else, but as long as I remember him, as long as I remember us, I can smile in the knowledge that these forgotten encounters happened. I like to run my fingers over the words and imagine I'm touching our timeline, or that he can feel the tips of my fingers tracing the curvature of his lips.

There's an innate sadness that comes with these diary entries. When I read of how he touched me, how he kissed me or loved me until I couldn't say no. In these moments, I ache for the day they happened. In an almost existential way, reading of my past self gives me distance enough to feel as though these were never my moments to remember - they happened to someone else, and therefore were not not mine. Are not mine. Not anymore. How can I be possessive over something I don't remember? I no longer have attachment, merely a misguided nostalgia. Assumptions of a life departed from me, dead and rotting.

Most days, after my therapy sessions, that's when I see him - rather, don't see him at all. I see his hands. They slip through the slat in my door with a food tray, always warmed in secret so I can have at least one hot meal a day. I rush to the door to take it from him and I'm never shy about letting my fingers hold his, if only for one second. I can always tell if they're his hands or not. Always.

I should hate him. I wish that I could. He let me go, let me take the fall for something of which he was equally guilty. His cowardice made itself known in my time of need. But the agony of punishment would have been worse for him by at least a hundred fold. When an employee of the government breaches the laws they have sworn to uphold, why should they be shown any mercy?

And besides, there's something oddly comforting about knowing he's my warden. My darling Chanyeol. Standing guard outside my door without ever allowing himself to cross the threshold. He is not valiant, I do not think this brave. I simply relish that the absence of me in his life causes him equal torment. That’s the comfort, I suppose. The knowledge that we ache alone yet, paradoxically, together.

After I slip the empty dinner try back out the door, that's when I take my makeshift chisel and start to carve the remaining pieces of our lives.

‘I want your mouth on my neck,’ you gasped, fisting strands of dark hair between your fingers.

A groan escaped Chanyeol’s throat, his lips diving onto flesh only to pause and halt their kisses. ‘I can't do this. Not again.’

Inside his chest, his heart was breaking, you could hear it in the way his voice splintered as he spoke. His forehead came to rest against yours, and you your hands held tightly to his arms, an anchor for all his lost and wayward pieces.

You ignored the pang of jealousy that burrowed in your stomach, choosing not to think of the other person Chanyeol did this with. They were nameless, and therefore nothing, an inconsequential absence. He was yours now, this was your turn. ‘You can,’ you breathed, fingers kneading crescents into his flesh. ‘I'm telling you, we can do this. I want you to.’ If permission was what he needed, you would give it endlessly.

Your bodies came together, two immovable states united in their faction of love. Skin and flesh riding tidal waves of exalted desire rhythmic, gluttonous, and sublime. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and you found clarity in that moment to focus on the feel of Chanyeol’s fingers on your spine. How he held you as though he were keeping your seams together, body breaking apart as it attempted to contain the love you felt for him.

Above you, he looked into you, deep into the trenches of your wasted heart, and loved colours back into your bloodstream. Tears pooled in his eyes, making his brow furrowed as he thrust into you, slowly, gently. He trembled, then, lips pursed as he focused on you, worried and adoring. This stillness caused you both the unsatisfied sting of pain, hears and bodies begging to merge into one.

It became a sensation you would venerate until the day you died.

‘It was always you.’ The whispered words tumbled from Chanyeol’s lips as he thrust mercilessly into your pliant body, and you could sense the fear and the reverence with which they dripped.

It would always and only ever be him. In turn, it would always be you.

And, in a brief moment of naiveté, you were sure nothing could stop you.

I can't seem to find enough air in this cell. Not anymore. I can feel the quaking of my skin, of my lips, as I inhale and exhale shaking breaths.

I've only got one memory left. Just one.

I'm frantic to find an escape. I would claw my way out of this room and leave my written words behind to live with our last day, alone only in a corporeal sense but forever existing beneath his warm touch. One final day, the most important, the most dear to my heart.

In six hours, they will rip it from me and leave me in ruins. Without it, without him, I will be half of who I am. Without the memory of this torture I will not be the person I've grown into, and I will revert to the person I have come to despise. I am everything, if nothing, but a person comprised of the scars of my experiences.

The only window is covered by a glass screen. I have grazed my knuckles to bleeding with the number of times I've tried to break it. The door has only one external lock. I am trapped in this room with the only thing I hold dear, and the only thing I have left to lose. In its absence, I will wither.

I'm not sure when I drifted to sleep, but I am woken, as usual, by the slam of the door.

I become a small, petulant child, screaming my pleas and twisting my ribs so I can take one last look at my live-in diary. This is the last time these words will matter, the last time I will read them and feel the loss of him coat the linings of my atoms.

I have nothing to hold on to as I am pulled from the room, my fingers digging and sliding for purchase along the floor. Tears begin to sting my eyes, and I am briefly detached from my body as I hear the sound of my own gasping sobs echo off the high ceilings. A strong hand thrusts itself into my chest and I am winded, quickly silencing my vocal chords.

Before I have time to process what's happened, I find myself thrown into the chair. With what little oxygen I can get into my lungs, I force myself to find energy and thrust myself out to run away. Immediately I'm caught and returned, strapped in tightly while powerful hands on my shoulders force me to remain seated. Hot things burn my cheeks, turn my flesh into fire. Tears, I assume. It appears I still have it in me to cry.

The only thing I can do is postpone the loss. I will give them anything.

Memories of my time in nursery school.

The day I failed a history exam.

My triumph when I beat James Dellary in the game station.

These things are meaningless. I don't need them.

Take them all. Take everything. Leave me alone with the only moment that matters. The only thing I will ever need.

The only thing I can never have.

‘I love you.’

Chanyeol whispered the words slowly, in time with his thrusts into you, eyes shining with affection. He glistened with it, let the words help him shimmer.

A shiver rippled through your muscles, a quake of romantic intention, and you held on tightly to the skin of Chanyeol’s strong back. Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you felt your eyes begin to water as your heart brimmed with love and need.

‘I love you,’ you whispered in return, lips gliding over the tendons beneath his skin. You kissed them, if only to keep yourself from weeping.

You both fell quiet, and you clenched your eyes shut as you listened to Chanyeol’s gasped breath so close to your ear. The whine in his throat told you he was was unsure how long he could hold back, your hips thrusting up to meet his in an uneven pace. You were craving speed, and he was craving you.

It took several moments for Chanyeol to growl and pull you into a sitting position, your legs wrapped gingerly around his lower spine.

‘Look at me,’ he breathed. ‘I want your eyes on me as you come.’

You obeyed, keeping your eyes wide open as his deft thumb found your clit and began to move in circles. His touch unmade you, pulled you apart and wove you back together, your muscles tightening around him as he brought you to the edge. Soon, your world was falling off its axis, but Chanyeol held you fast and held you hard. In his eyes, you learned to swim, in his soul you learned to breathe. There was warmth here, unmarred by the concrete skeleton of the city and turning the surface of your skin into oil, sweet and slick, gasoline for the bed upon which he loved you.  

The strength and power of your orgasm nearly crippled your senses, a cry erupting from your lips as you clutched to him. But still, you looked at him. Still, you saw him.

‘My love for you could make the world,’ he muttered against your lips as you trembled around him, his own heart racing beneath your palm.

And then, a door was shut.

Everything shattered.

Today is the day I can go home. I have never felt such relief in my life.

No one has told me what my crime was, but they assure me that I have been a most excellent prisoner. My good behavior has offered me a full cure and I have been promised I will never be here again.

Sitting up on my bed, I stretch the tension out of my shoulders. I can't remember the last time I slept in my own bed, and I'm eager to return home. Though I have to admit, I have grown quite accustomed to the sterile white walls of my cell.

I gather my civilian clothes and change quickly out of my prison fatigues. The rough fabric of the blue uniform will not be missed, and I am relieved I will no longer feel so itchy.

In what feels like no time, I am being collected from my cell and handed a glass board that displays a release form. I run the stylus over the glass and sign my name. Everything should be processed before I even step out of the prison. I’m eager to smell fresh air, eager for the grey and the routine of my life.

In a moment of nostalgia, I glance back one last time at the cell that has been my home for six weeks. It's only then that I notice something is wrong, but I can't place it. I furrow my brow, trying to quell the sensation that is flooding my veins. It's akin to the fear that one has left the faucet running. But I know this cell. There is no change. As long as I can recall, it has always been white. Perhaps I am just too attached.

I'm led out the door by a grim looking man, thin lips and a receding hairline. He flanks me to my right and I wonder momentarily if he has ever smiled. He takes me to a man behind a desk and hands him my prison card. Within seconds, the few possessions I entered with are returned to me and the weight of my house key in my hand has never felt more welcome.

With downcast eyes, I turn to exit the door, ready to return to my old life. It's then that I bump into someone dressed in a warden uniform.

"I'm sorry, sir!" I exclaim raising my eyes to meet his. "I wasn't looking, I -"

I'm drowning in compassionate brown, chocolate right and sweet. Warm and….home. My heart seems to stop for a second, and the gravity in my stomach disappears, leaving me in a moment of sheer weightlessness.

I have never seen anyone so beautiful or so familiar. I have never felt like someone belonged to me. At my sides, my fingers tremble and twitch, desperate to have him and take hold of him. I want to pull him to me, pull him into me, and for one passing second I think he yearns the same.

But, in a flash, the sensation is gone. And I blink.

"It's fine," the stranger says. "I see you're going home! Good for you. It's about time."

"Yes," I nod slowly. "Six weeks is a long time."

"Perhaps I'll see you on the outside?"

There is a wave of hope in this man's voice, and I want to affirm his wishes.

"Yes. Perhaps."

He takes my hand, and it feels like it belongs there. "My name is Chanyeol." He smiles brightly and I'm blinded.

"Y/N."

He nods as if he knows.

Of course he does. He works here. I assure myself I'm being silly.

I turn to leave and, for some reason, I feel his eyes burning a hole into my back.

I'm positive I'll see those eyes again.