hey friends! call me cy (any/ask, 21+, gmt+8) i’m buzzing in excitement coz i can’t wait for you to meet choi wonsik, the patient dreamer, oh chanyoung, the tortured artist, and ahn minyoung, the sun summoner. i can’t wait for them to interact with everyone else, too! i’ve written a tldr (not exactly. i yapped way too much) of their bios, image/vibe, some headcanons, and possible connections, you can check them here, here, and here. i’m cool with messaging over tumblr ims or through discord (available upon request), so just reach out (or leave a ❤️ on this post) if you want to plot!
hi guys! hope everyone is doing well. just popping by to apologize to those waiting on plotting replies in both ims and discord. it was my birthday week two weeks ago (so i was awfully busy) and then i got plagued by chronic migraine during this week (i feel much better now though) i promise to get to them (slowly) in the next few days. also, if anyone that i don’t have dms with wants to plot anything with our muses, please leave a like!
9:30 AM, Outdoor painting with Oh Chanyoung (@a-mor-tage)
The cool lake breeze grazes Sora’s skin, slowly lulling her to sleep. By this time, she’d be in her cabin, long gone in dreamland and back before dinner. This time, it was different.
The world must feel small, doesn’t it? To Sora at least, though she couldn’t quite comprehend it, much less wrap her finger as to why… A book in hand and gazing at the lake before them, she turns to chanyoung, who seemed more engrossed in his canvas and paint.
Her art professor once said that colors evoke a certain emotion in us. It was a takeaway that barred her mind.
Black and whites look empty, Orange follows a dreadful perfect semblance, Red could be too violent, Blues are blues and Yellow may be a little too bright.
She found it incomprehensible… maybe because she hadn’t picked up a brush in her whole life. That was quite different from the feeling of a plastic tube in between her fingertips. Sora never quite understood how much paint and color has to go in for one single piece. All she knew was that these colors add more complexity to the piece, and interpretation was all up to her.
“hey,” she quips, sitting up just to ward off the looming sleepiness. “you’re awfully quiet. What are you working on this time? Is it another exhibit coming up?”
the canopy fluttered overhead, fabric snapping lightly in the lake breeze. brushes clinked against glass jars as the other students murmured around them, though most of the noise was swallowed by the open air. chanyoung’s easel was angled away from the crowd, canvas tilted just enough to shield it from curious glances.
he hadn’t meant to keep painting her. it was supposed to be the trees—those tall, patient pines bending over the water, the scatter of light breaking against the ripples. but his hand betrayed him, again and again, tracing the slope of her cheek instead of a shoreline, catching the shape of her lashes instead of branches.
her voice broke into the rhythm of his strokes, soft but enough to pull him back.
“you’re awfully quiet. what are you working on this time? is it another exhibit coming up?”
chanyoung stilled, brush hovering midair. he let a beat pass, then another, as if words were harder to summon than the colors beneath his hand. finally, he exhaled, not looking at her yet.
“no… just practicing.” his voice was low, even, though his heart thudded far too loudly for how simple the answer was. he dipped his brush again, dragging a streak of ochre across the canvas. “trying to get the light right. it never stays still long enough.”
the corner of his mouth curved faintly, an almost-smile, but he kept his gaze on the canvas. safer there. “besides, i think nature does it better than i ever could.”
what he didn’t say: and so do you.
he set the brush down, finally glancing at her—quick, fleeting, like the glance itself was a secret. “you’d probably find it boring if i showed you. just… colors on a page.” his hand twitched, wanting to turn the canvas away entirely, to keep the evidence hidden.
still, his words carried the faintest edge of invitation, even if he didn’t name it aloud.
“...daji?” the familiar voice rings out in the silence.
he was always right behind daji despite every stupid little thing she does. not that there was any issue with it, it’s just the mere fact that wonsik always had something to say. it was said that every rule-breaker always has the voice of reason trailing behind them, daji wasn’t exempt from it.
daji couldn’t understand how he seemed to worry about her all the time. he had been doing so since they were children. a sigh of defeat escapes her lips, swimming back to shore.
“yah! what are you doing here? shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”
she knows better than to yell; the man would jump out of his skin even with the littlest of scares that she does. daji waded out of the water, picking up the towel and clothes she had left on the shore after her little escape.
“you shouldn't even be here... just go back to your room, sik. i’ll be fine here.”
wonsik’s jaw tightened as he watched her gather her things, droplets still trailing down her arms like the lake refused to let her go. he pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket, restless, shifting like he was trying to ground himself.
“do you even hear yourself?” his voice came out sharper than he meant, low but edged. “you say you’ll be fine, like that’s supposed to mean anything at three in the morning, alone, in the middle of a lake.”
he took a step closer, the gravel crunching under his shoes, his breath visible in the night air. his chest felt tight, though he wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the familiar, unwelcome panic pressing down on him.
“daji, you can’t just—” he stopped himself, dragging a hand through his hair, then dropped it helplessly at his side. “you can’t keep doing this. do you know what goes through my head when i don’t... when i have to imagine…” his words broke off, too many images flashing too quickly.
his eyes found hers in the dim glow, the frustration clear but under it, unmistakable fear. “i don’t care if you think i’m overreacting. i care if you’re safe.”
he swallowed, voice quieter but still firm. “so no, i’m not going back. not until you do.”
“the shadow of someone knocking at the night’s door.” feat. tba
(tw: tba)
when the knocks echoed at 3:33 am, chanyoung stepped into the cold silence, his figure caught in someone else’s gaze as if he were more ghost than student.
the cabin had settled into uneasy silence hours ago, but chanyoung hadn’t even tried to sleep. he sat cross-legged by the window, sketchbook open though the page remained mostly blank, pencil tapping absently against the margin. his roommates had long since passed out, sprawled across bunks in the messy aftermath of swapped beds and half-hidden snacks. he could hear their breathing, slow and heavy, blending into the background noise of cicadas outside.
then came the knock.
three sharp raps against wood. not his door, but close enough to freeze his hand mid-tap. he strained to listen. a rustle. then again—this time on the cabin next door. he glanced down at his phone where the time glared back at him in white light: 3:33 am.
the air felt different, like the world was holding its breath. slowly, he pushed himself up and opened the cabin door. the cold slipped in immediately, sharp against his skin. he stepped out barefoot, sketchbook still in his hand as if it could anchor him.
across the camp, shadows stretched long, pale in the moonlight. a shape moved—maybe a student, maybe nothing at all—and someone’s eyes caught his. the look lingered only for a second, but it rooted him in place.
he didn’t speak. didn’t move. the knocks hadn’t come again, but his pulse hammered as though they might, as though something was waiting just beyond the dark tree line.
agatha is supposed to be sound asleep. and while she did get an hour of restless sleep, her minutes ticked by with her teeth clattering and the feeling of an oncoming headache due to her laying down with still-wet hair. throwing herself in the lake willingly had been a choice, one that she made while in a drunken stupor, but her choice nonetheless.
she isn't even thinking about who in her roommates are back and sleeping in their bunks or if there are those that snuck off in the middle of the night. not that she bothered turning around from facing the wall whenever the door opened and closed. the moment she was in bed at midnight, she never moved again, relying solely on the warmth of her three blankets.
she was doomscrolling quietly on her phone, noting that the time was now half-past three in the morning, minding her own business essentially. until there is a knock on their door. she didn't turn around, thinking that someone on the bottom bunk will get it. but she hears it again, a bit faint this time and her brow furrows.
whoever is doing this at three in the morning should really get a smacking, if not in the ass then in the head. she sighs, turning around and peeking her head down. reluctantly, she climbs down her bunk, taking one blanket with her and wrapping herself with it, along with her now just-damp hair. she clutches her phone in her hands as she swings the door open, but was met with no one. she peeks her head out in the hall and again, no one.
determined to find whoever it was that was knocking on the doors and turning them in to the instructors, she padded down the hall of the third floor, but upon finding no one, she heads up to the fourth floor, thinking that the culprit may be going floor to floor. she trudges upward, the train of her blanket trailing behind her. if anything this makes her more suspicious and just a bit concerning. she turns the corner, not knowing what to expect, but certainly not making eye contact with someone. she gasps, a muffled scream out her throat before she could cup her hands over her lips. agatha steps back and trips over her own blanket, her butt meeting the floor.
"oh my god, you scared me! were you the one knocking?"
her gasp cut sharp through the corridor, followed by the soft thud of her falling. chanyoung didn’t move at first, only blinked slowly, as if her voice had pulled him out of a sketch he’d been lost in. the blanket trailed around her like a spill of fabric, her phone trembling faintly in her grip, the light casting long shadows against the wall.
he shifted then, sketchbook still under his arm, bare feet silent against the floorboards. the air felt colder here, pressing close like it wanted to listen.
“no,” he said quietly, shaking his head once. “it wasn’t me.”
his gaze didn’t stay on her for long—it flickered over her shoulder, down the hall where the dark pooled thicker at the corners. then back to her again, softer this time, as if her presence was the only thing anchoring him here.
“i heard it too.”
he crouched in front of her, the motion unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, like he was waiting for something else to happen. the pencil in his hand left a faint smear of graphite across his knuckles when he finally extended it, palm open. his hand hovered there, steady, not demanding but quietly offered.
“you shouldn’t be out here alone.” his voice lowered, not much more than a murmur. “the knocks… they don’t stop just because you open the door.”
for a moment, he held her eyes, his expression unreadable—half-shadow, half-concern. the hallway felt stretched thin, as if silence itself was listening for what she would do next.
“come on,” he added softly, hand still waiting between them. “before it happens again.”
minyoung’s light dims into solitude in the quiet of night, as she presses memories to her chest and wonders if being seen ever lasts longer than the moment.
sometimes i wonder if people only see me when i’m shining. when i’m laughing the loudest, dragging everyone to the beach at sunrise, or filling a room with chatter until even the quiet kids can’t help but smile. that’s what i do—i light things up. but the truth? the truth is that when the crowd leaves and the noise fades, i sit in the dim glow of my desk lamp and feel like a shadow of myself.
tonight is one of those nights. the dorm is hushed, my roommates already asleep. i’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, my laptop pushed aside, code for a half-finished game blinking patiently, waiting for me to finish what i started. instead, i’m scrolling through old photos on my phone. parties, picnics, late-night drives. all those smiling faces pressed close to mine, the kind that look permanent until you realize you’re not in their pictures anymore.
i press the screen against my chest and whisper, “remember me, okay?” it sounds silly, desperate even, but it’s the only prayer i know.
when i was younger, we moved so often that by the time i learned someone’s favorite color, it was already time to pack boxes. i used to write my name in the back of library books before returning them—tiny proof that i was here, that i mattered, even if no one remembered my face. maybe that’s why i work so hard now to be unforgettable. to shine so bright that no one could possibly let me slip from their memory.
but the thing about burning so brightly is that sometimes you feel like you’re only fuel for everyone else’s fire. and when the room goes quiet, you wonder if the warmth you gave will linger, or if it just evaporates into the air the second you’re gone.
i close my eyes and imagine sunlight. not the kind that blinds, but the soft kind that sticks to your skin on a lazy afternoon. that’s what i want to be. not fireworks—loud and fleeting—but light that settles, light that stays.
i tell myself out loud, “you’re more than a moment, minyoung. you have to be.” my voice cracks, but i keep saying it until it sounds almost true.
and still, in the quiet, the question lingers:
when the laughter fades, will anyone remember the girl who made the world brighter for a little while?
We know it sounds repetitive at this point, but when we first opened we never imagined the community would grow into what it is today. Thank you for your continued support, creativity, and dedication to making this space thrive. We’re so grateful to everyone who has been with us since the very beginning, and to all the new faces who have joined along the way.
For the three month anniversary, we’re introducing the Scrapbook Meme. Think of it as a keepsake for your muse: fragments, doodles, and little memories gathered from their time at Yeonhwa so far. By reblogging this post, you’re opening the door for others to send you emojis from the prompt list, and you can answer however you’d like: through writing, headcanons, edits, moodboards, whichever way you’d like. It’s open-ended and meant to be as creative as you want!
This meme will run from September 20th to October 4th, which will give you about 3 weeks to reblog. If you choose to participate, please ensure that you send a question to everyone who has reblogged the post as well, whether this be on your character’s account or on anon. Once again, thank you so much for the amazing three months and we hope you have fun with this meme!
📸 — A candid photo or photos.
🧸 — A doodle or margin note they’d make.
🍜 — A favorite food memory worth recording.
💌 — A letter to your “day one” self.
🖇️ — A receipt, object, or little thing you’d keep as a memento.
🌙 — A late-night moment you’d scribble down.
📝 — A secret written and then crossed out.
📷 — A snapshot of your favorite campus spot.
🎂 — A wish written for the next three months.
☕ — A drink order that defines you right now.
💡 — A random idea or half-thought scribbled down.
✨ — A memory that feels like a movie scene.
🐇 — A superstition, ritual, or lucky charm.
💤 — A dream or daydream you’d jot down.
🔮 — A prediction for what’s next.
🕊️ — A page that feels blank. Describe why.
✈️ — Something that made you feel far from home.
🏠 — Something that made you feel at home.
🥂 — A celebration.
📂 — Something you’d want to hide between the pages.
🧷 — A messy scrap, something torn or crumpled.
🍭 — A small indulgence or guilty pleasure.
📍 — A map, doodle, or set of directions to somewhere important.
📮 — A letter you’d never send.
🎁 — A gift from someone.
💭 — A freeform slot. Sender can come up with their own prompt!
aha... heey... i’m back womp womp meet my girliepop ahn minyoung, the sun summoner. i realized i needed an outgoing and extroverted muse as wonsik and chanyoung are both pretty closed off, so here we are. click here for more info about her, and as always, leave a ❤️ for plotting connections and more!
AKA The Sun Summoner — Someone whose presence feels like sunlight, who thrives on love and community, but fears fading from memory when they're not around.
Please refer to our student handbook for any questions!
Introduction
minyoung is a third-year game development major whose world is always buzzing with color, noise, and laughter. where others build walls, she builds bridges—her wide social circle stretches from club leaders to freshmen still learning their way around campus, and it seems like there isn’t a face on campus she doesn’t know. to most, she’s extroverted, magnetic, the kind of person who turns even ordinary afternoons into memories worth keeping.
but behind her warmth is a quiet fear of being forgotten. minyoung grew up in a family that moved often—different schools, different friends, always having to start over. she learned early how to win people over quickly, how to make herself unforgettable in rooms where she was always the new face. that habit became instinct, shaping her into someone who shines easily, even when she’s exhausted by her own brightness.
as an enfp, minyoung thrives on connection and possibility. she’s impulsive, often chasing inspiration wherever it appears—whether that’s a half-finished coding project at 3 a.m. or convincing her friends to drive out to the coast just to watch the sunrise. her heart is enormous, and she pours it into people as much as she does into her work, sometimes to the point of stretching herself thin.
what makes minyoung stand out isn’t just her social presence, but the way she makes others feel like the best versions of themselves. people gravitate to her light, the way she listens without judgment and laughs with her whole chest. still, when the crowd disperses and she’s left alone in her dorm, she wonders if her glow will hold when no one’s watching.
at the end of the day, minyoung wants something simple: to love and be remembered in return. to know that her presence mattered—that the sunlight she gave didn’t just warm people in passing, but lingered long after she was gone.
“the shadow of someone knocking at the night’s door.” feat. agatha zhou ( @stagedown )
(tw: tba)
when the knocks echoed at 3:33 am, chanyoung stepped into the cold silence, his figure caught in someone else’s gaze as if he were more ghost than student.
the cabin had settled into uneasy silence hours ago, but chanyoung hadn’t even tried to sleep. he sat cross-legged by the window, sketchbook open though the page remained mostly blank, pencil tapping absently against the margin. his roommates had long since passed out, sprawled across bunks in the messy aftermath of swapped beds and half-hidden snacks. he could hear their breathing, slow and heavy, blending into the background noise of cicadas outside.
then came the knock.
three sharp raps against wood. not his door, but close enough to freeze his hand mid-tap. he strained to listen. a rustle. then again—this time on the cabin next door. he glanced down at his phone where the time glared back at him in white light: 3:33 am.
the air felt different, like the world was holding its breath. slowly, he pushed himself up and opened the cabin door. the cold slipped in immediately, sharp against his skin. he stepped out barefoot, sketchbook still in his hand as if it could anchor him.
across the hallway, shadows stretched long, pale in the moonlight. a shape moved—maybe a student, maybe nothing at all—and someone’s eyes caught his. the look lingered only for a second, but it rooted him in place.
he didn’t speak. didn’t move. the knocks hadn’t come again, but his pulse hammered as though they might, as though something was waiting just beyond the next corner of the stairwell, hidden in the dark.
“swift is the dusk. stars wake above the water.” feat. xu daji ( @009wav )
(tw: tba)
in the still midnight by the crystalline lake, wonsik stumbles upon a figure moving against moonlit ripples, the forbidden quiet pressing heavier than any rulebook.
the cabin was too warm, the air heavy with the sound of four other bodies breathing in uneven rhythm. wonsik lay awake on the bottom bunk, staring at the slats above until the itch to move finally pushed him out of bed. he slipped on a hoodie, careful not to wake anyone, and stepped into the chill night air.
the trail to the lake was easy in the daytime, but at night every crunch of gravel under his shoes sounded too loud, every shift of the trees felt like it carried a secret. he told himself he was only walking, clearing his head—but really, he was thinking about daji. someone had said she hadn’t gone back with her group.
when the trees broke open, the lake shimmered in moonlight, glassy and still except for one ripple moving across the surface. wonsik stopped, breath caught in his chest. there—a figure in the water. dark against silver.
his throat felt tight before he even spoke.
“...daji?”
the word carried out into the night, too fragile, too revealing. the rule signs flashed in his mind—no one allowed after nine, no swimming unsupervised—but none of that mattered when he was staring at the silhouette moving through the lake like it belonged there.
he stayed rooted at the edge, torn between calling again and waiting in silence, heart stumbling in a way that had nothing to do with his condition.
in the quiet of yeonhwa’s library, wonsik wrestles with the patience of a dreamer whose heart has always felt too fragile for the future he wants.
the library was nearly empty, save for the faint hum of the vending machine and the scratch of a pen against paper. wonsik sat in his usual corner, bent over a stack of notes, the glow of his laptop screen reflecting faintly against his glasses. his phone buzzed once on the desk. he glanced at it, saw daji’s name, and smiled before quickly flipping it over, as though even acknowledging the smile might betray too much.
“you live here now?” a voice teased from the aisle. it was a fellow pre-med student, leaned against the shelf, clutching a textbook.
wonsik exhaled softly. “studying for finals. you should too.”
“i will. just… not tonight.” he tilted his head at him. “you ever wonder if this is worth it? the constant grind?”
wonsik didn’t answer right away. his pen hovered over his notes. worth it. he’d asked himself the same question too many times. instead, he said quietly, “it has to be.”
what he didn’t say was that he wasn’t chasing medicine only for the prestige or the paycheck. it was the unspoken memory of hospital rooms, of monitors beeping steadily beside his bed. it was the thought that maybe, just maybe, if he kept going, he could learn to control the frailty that had always lingered in his chest.
his gaze drifted to the window. the night sky spilled stars across the dark campus, constellations barely visible through the city haze. he pulled out his phone, swiped to the folder labeled “astronomy,” and opened the star chart he’d saved last week. “patience,” he muttered under his breath. “it’s all timing.”
he frowned. “what?”
“nothing.” wonsik forced a smile, shaking his head.
wonsik’s longing was never dramatic. it was the quiet ache of wanting a life where his condition didn’t dictate every choice. where he could love without fear of time running out, where he could be seen not as the perfect student or the capable leader, but as someone soft and breakable and still worth holding onto.
when his friend left, the library fell silent again. wonsik leaned back, staring at the ceiling. he pressed a hand briefly to his chest, as if reminding himself the rhythm was still steady. then, with the faintest of sighs, he whispered into the emptiness: “just a little longer. just enough to make it matter.”
“i belong every place. i belong no place. i belong to myself.”
on the rooftop, caught between past and present, chanyoung confesses that belonging has always felt just out of reach.
the rooftop of yeonhwa’s art building was quiet, wind carrying the faint smell of turpentine up from the studios below. chanyoung leaned against the railing, cigarette unlit between his fingers, just something to hold. the city sprawled beneath him, lights blurring like one of his canvases—bright, unfocused, impossible to pin down.
“found you,” a familiar voice broke the silence. she stepped onto the rooftop, camera slung across her shoulder.
chanyoung didn’t turn. “you’re stalking me now?”
“just documenting a rare sighting of yeonhwa’s ghost,” she teased, lifting the camera. he raised a hand to block her lens, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward.
they stood together in silence for a while. she fiddled with her camera; chanyoung kept his eyes on the skyline. finally, she asked, “why you always up here?”
he exhaled slowly. “it’s the only place that feels… in between. not ground, not sky. like me.”
“always so dramatic.” she rolled her eyes, but her tone was gentle.
he flicked the unlit cigarette between his fingers, gaze distant. “i thought if i came back here… to korea… i’d feel closer to something. my parents. my past. but it’s just noise. faces i don’t know, expectations i never asked for.” he paused, then added softly, “i don’t know where i belong.”
the admission hung heavy in the air.
she leaned against the railing beside him. “you don’t have to belong everywhere. just… somewhere. with someone.”
he glanced at her then, eyes searching. the rooftop lights painted shadows across his face, the kind that made him look both older and younger all at once. “and what if that somewhere doesn’t exist?”
“then you make it,” she said firmly.
chanyoung fell quiet, turning back toward the city. his longing wasn’t loud—it didn’t scream, it didn’t demand. it was a constant pull, a quiet ache. he wanted a place where grief wasn’t a wall, where he wasn’t the boy caught between france and korea, between memory and the present.
he set the cigarette down on the ledge, hands curling around the railing instead. “maybe,” he murmured, almost to himself, “i’ll paint it. and if it’s real enough, maybe i’ll believe it.”
the city lights flickered below. she didn’t answer, just lifted her camera and snapped the picture.
a sleek samsung galaxy z flip 6 in lavender, always immaculately clean. he has a thin transparent case with one small pressed astronomy club sticker on the back—the only “decoration.” no charms, no mess. his phone is his planner, his lifeline, his shield.
are they lurkers or actively engaging?
always a lurker. he reads everything in group chats but rarely responds—when he does, it’s either a perfectly timed fact, a dry one-liner, or a slightly passive-aggressive reminder about a deadline. he doesn’t like talking online because it feels like leaving evidence of himself behind.
what is your muse’s favorite and least favorite app?
favorite: none. he doesn’t form attachments to apps—to him, they’re tools, not hobbies.
least favorite: tiktok. he finds it noisy, shallow, and overwhelming, though he’ll occasionally scroll when insomnia keeps him up. he never admits it.
what’s on your muse’s camera roll?
alarmingly tidy. folders for everything: lecture notes captured from whiteboards, neatly labeled photos from red cross events, carefully categorized astronomy night sky shots, and archery team practice photos arranged by date. his gallery looks like the phone of someone who’s got it all together—clinical, efficient, and almost too organized.
but hidden among the practical shots are his small indulgences:
mirror selfies he retook five, sometimes ten times before saving one, always picking the angle that makes him look just a little taller, a little sharper.
countless photos of daji, his “best friend” always labeled vaguely, as if he’s hiding them even from himself. some candid (her asleep on a bus ride, laughing with snacks in her hand), some group shots where he cropped her out later, and even photos she asked him to take that he never deleted.
occasional screenshots of star charts or constellations that he finds strangely comforting, sometimes with notes attached about “patience,” “timing,” or “distance.”
a private folder locked with a passcode: inside, photos of his hospital bracelets and ecg results. he never looks at them, but he never deletes them either.
(on the surface, his gallery looks like the perfect pre-med student’s—orderly, purposeful. but the quiet contradictions inside it reveal who he really is: someone who wants to control what he can, while keeping safe the things that feel most fragile.)
what’s in their notes app?
detailed to-do lists separated into categories: “school,” “clubs,” “personal.” each with deadlines, checkboxes, and reminders.
lecture notes rewritten in clean bullet points, sometimes more polished than his official class notes.
medication reminders and health logs—times, side effects, and occasional frustrated notes like “felt faint again.”
unsent drafts to his parents: some short and sharp, others long paragraphs he never sends.
a note simply titled “daji” lists of her favorite foods, random facts, and important details (like her brother’s birthday). half of it looks practical, but the other half is borderline sentimental.
a black samsung galaxy a6+ (galaxy jean) from 2019. the phone is scratched and faintly cracked at the corner of the screen. its matte black case is old, edges peeling, and now splattered with dried paint—green, yellow, and occasional streaks of red from countless late-night studio sessions. he never cleans it off, calling it “just another canvas.” inside the case is a pressed four-leaf clover and a metro ticket from lyon—keepsakes more than decorations.
(why he still uses it: it’s stubbornness mixed with sentimentality. he got this phone the year he returned from france, and he clings to it like an anchor to his past. to him, replacing it feels like discarding years of memory, paint stains included.)
are they lurkers or actively engaging?
chanyoung is chronically online in the sense that he’s always scrolling, but rarely participating. he’ll consume everything—long reddit threads, obscure film analyses, niche art forums, old tumblr blogs—but when he does engage, it’s either a blunt one-liner that sparks debate, or a vague half-poetic comment that only makes sense if you know him.
what is your muse’s favorite and least favorite app?
favorite: spotify. his playlists are moodboards in disguise—entire stories told through music, with titles like “december air feels like memory” or “people i’ll never paint again.” he spends hours curating them.
least favorite: instagram. he hates the performative side of it, though he reluctantly posts his work there when professors insist. the feed makes him feel fake, but he keeps it because it’s also where galleries and peers find him.
what does their camera roll look like?
a graveyard of half-finished canvases, badly lit café tables, blurry film club screenshots, and hundreds of candid shots of strangers he swears he’ll paint someday. interspersed with random memes his french cousin still sends him on whatsapp, the occasional photos of a book page with cryptic meaning, and nature when he can’t find words.
what’s in their notes app?
disjointed lines he insists are “not poems” (but they are).
quick sketches of composition ideas written in words (“light / window / chair empty”).
french grocery lists mixed with korean reminders.
a single list titled “things i should have said” with nothing written under it.
poems he wrote for a girl he met in paris. some are half-finished, some in french, some in korean—all tucked away like confessions he’ll never send. titles like “pont neuf, december” and “her hair smelled like cigarettes and lavender.” he never looks at them anymore, but he also never deletes them.
