— I loved you in a time before I knew what love meant; I know now, and I love you still.
KIERAN CANNOT REMEMBER a time when he did not love the girl with the dusky eyes. He’s tried. He’s tried so hard, because perhaps if he could remember such a time, he could stop loving her now, as if he had never loved her at all. But, he despairs, as he pleads to invisible gods, how can he, when even his earliest recollection takes him back to memories of her?
He is three years old, sulking in his room with his arms crossed, grumpy because his nurse has forbidden him from playing outside in the heavy downpour. But Kieran is still a child, yet unburdened by the weight of too many secrets and obligations. So even though the sky is rumbling and dark as night, he wants nothing more than to splash in the puddles that are forming in the cobbled courtyard of the palace. He settles for pressing one small hand to the cool glass window, trying to trace the paths of different rivulets of water. One day, he’ll think back to this moment and envy the simplicity of his life before he cracked beneath the magnitude of love.
There is a noise outside his bedroom, and his mother, Hannele—Seochun’s bright-eyed queen, comes bursting through the doorway bearing an oversized bouquet of fresh flowers. “Darling!” She beams, and suddenly, Kieran doesn’t think the world is so dull and dreary after all. He holds his arms out and Hannele understands the gesture as intimately as any mother would. A handful of quick, elegant steps takes her to the oversized armchair her son is sitting in, and when she sweeps him into her arms with effortless grace, Kieran has never been so sure that his mother was an angel in another life.
Nestling himself into the crook of her neck, Kieran eyes the colorful blooms that somehow managed to remain uncrushed in Hannele’s arms. “Who are those for?” He asks curiously, doing his best to gently brush out the tangled leaves of one of the flowers.
“They’re for Miss Gracelyn and her new baby, Ki!” Excitement tinges his mother’s voice, and the young prince vaguely remembers his father’s most trusted advisor and her swollen stomach. At this, Kieran makes a face, for he doesn’t like babies much. The last one he’d seen had been his new baby brother, born three months ago with the name Ster-fry or something; no one had bothered to correct the misnomer, and it had stuck. His brother was a drooling mess, and Kieran hated drool. Besides, he also hated the hospital, where everything was too clean, too bright, too immaculate. But he has never been able to resist his mother. And so a reluctant Kieran allows himself to be carried towards the hospital wing of the palace.
Hannele pushes open the heavy wooden doors with that same easy grace from before, and upon entrance, Kieran immediately squints. He was right—it was too bright in these halls, and for a second, his world is blurry white. By the time he blinks the haze away, his mother is standing at the bedside of a cot where a woman of about thirty is lying, clutching a pink bundle in her arms. Ecstatic to see her friend, Hannele gently places Kieran on the floor and rushes forward with her offering of flowers.
More reserved, Kieran holds back, preferring to hide behind the skirt of his mother’s royal blue gown for almost fifteen minutes before his curiosity gets the better of him. He had been afraid to see spittle—stars knew how many cloths his new brother went through in a single day—but upon first glance, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that this baby is drool-free. Leaning in a little closer, he notices the moles sprinkled across her features, and though her eyes are closed, Kieran is already entranced. She has curls of brown blooming atop her head, and they look so much softer than Eliza’s wild tresses that he almost reaches out to touch the tuft of hair.
It’s then that she opens her eyes, and they shine such a brilliant umber that he thinks he can’t breathe. It’s a different brown than he’s ever seen before, velvet soft and yet, deep enough to hold a universe.
“What’s her name?” He asks Gracelyn with wide eyes. “She’s so pretty!”
The woman laughs quietly, “Gwyneira, but she’s to be called Gwen.”
“Hi, Gwen,” the little prince bends towards her like a flower to the sun, saying her name like it’s something sacred. She looks so fragile, so vulnerable in her mother’s arms, and even though he’s just met her, something akin to devotion courses through his veins like fire. “I’m Kieran. I’m going to be your protector.”
It has been twenty years since that day, and yet, the memory remains crystal clear. His heart has belonged to her from the moment they met.
When a red mark appears on his wrist when Kieran is ten years old bearing the initials of one Gwyneira Han, the crown prince is hardly surprised. He had loved Gwen before he understood what it meant to care for someone in that way. It was about time the mark proving it showed up.
It happens the day her father walks out.
Aran Han leaves the palace a little after noon under the innocent enough pretense of buying roses for his wife and daughter. An hour passes. Then two, then three, then four. By the fifth, Aran’s farewell note is discovered on the bedside table in what was his and his wife’s bedroom. The walk-in closet appears as if a hurricane has whipped through, garments strewn haphazardly across the carpet, hangers askew, bags half-opened and bags half-filled before they’d been discarded in favor of another. His note says he’s booked a one-way ticket to the Feidrynne Isles. He’s not coming back. He’s sorry. Not sorry enough to stay, is all Kieran can think when he is the one left behind to piece together the broken shards of his best friend.
He discovers her as he walks out from his last lesson of the day, reveling in the golden light streaming through the glass windows when he catches sight of her crumpled form. He recognizes her immediately—he could probably spot her from a mile away if he was being honest—and the shock of seeing Gwyneira Han cry causes him to drop everything at once so he can rush to her side.
“Gwen?” Kieran asks quietly, kneeling in front of her. He’s about to ask her if she’s okay—and it’s a stupid question, she obviously isn’t—when she lifts her head, and he can clearly see the red lining her eyes, the dried streaks of salt on her cheeks, and instinct causes him to open his arms to her. She falls into his embrace as a fresh round of sobs wracked her body.
“He’s gone, Ki, he’s gone,” she chokes out, and she doesn’t have to say who. He knows. Aran had always only been half-there for his family, never fully present, but disappearing? That was cowardly. Anger clenches its hot iron fist around his heart, and he wants to storm out of there, find Aran, show him the damage he’s done. But Gwen needs him more, more than Aran needs to be brought to justice, so he simply pulls her close. And though they stay like that for a good long while, never does he let her go. Not even once.
When the last glimpse of sun dips behind the horizon, leaving behind an evening sky too beautiful for a day like this, he stumbles back up, knees almost giving way after hours of sitting. Gwen, his precious Gwen, looks up at him with eyes that reflect a betrayal that threatens to shatter his own heart—how could she think he would ever leave her? Wordlessly, he bends down and scoops her up, notices that she fits in his arms a little too perfectly, and then he’s aching all over again. “Where’re we going?” She murmurs, voice hoarse and words slurring together.
“To get you some food,” is his prompt reply, and then he begins the trek to the kitchen. He’s careful to walk slowly, afraid that if he jars her she’ll crumble. He’s not as graceful as his mother when he pushes the metal doors to the scullery open, but he’s doing his best. A flick of his hand, and the cooks are sent out, and with the semblance of privacy, he sets his best friend down on the edge of a counter before busying himself with spooning out two bowls of the stew that’s simmering on one of the stovetops.
“Here,” he says to Gwen as he hands her one of the scarlet bowls, a curved spoon tucked beneath the sea of creamy soup. “Eat,” his voice is stern, but his tone is kind. Her movements are sluggish, tired, and Kieran can’t help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief when she finally takes a bite. He eats, but he’s only half-focused on the task at hand, making sure to keep a watchful eye on his best friend.
In the yellow light of the kitchen, her skin has taken on a similar coloring and it makes her look sickly. Her hair and gown are rumpled, black smudged around her eyes. It’s so unlike Gwen to be anything less than impeccable and immaculate that the sight is disconcerting. He still thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.
It’s a quiet affair, the only sounds being the gentle whistling of the kettle, but there is comfort in her presence. Kieran makes sure Gwen finishes her bowl, then takes a small silk kerchief out of his pocket to rub away a stray smudge of food from her cheek. Gwen smiles in gratitude, and even if it’s just a small curve of her mouth, it still warms his chest in a way only she can.
“I’m going to change my last name,” she announces abruptly as he’s rinsing their dishes. He pauses, turns around. Notices the hard set of her jaw, the fierce glint in those umber eyes. They don’t need to be orange for him to know that there is a fire burning behind them.
“I think that’s a good idea,” he says slowly. They are treading on delicately thin ice.
“We’re going to use mom’s maiden name. Park.” Kieran thinks of Gracelyn, of how sad her eyes must look now. His heart hurts for the woman he’s considered family for so long, feels the same hot anger from earlier wrapping itself around his heart. It rises in his chest, threatening to spill over and out. But Gwen doesn’t need that right now, doesn’t need another verbal reminder that she got left behind.
So instead, he tries out her new name. “Gwyneira Marilyse Park.” It rolls off his tongue like music. “I like it.”
It’s all the confirmation she needs. “I’ll make sure the paperwork is filed tomorrow.”
And that’s that.
Later that night after he’s tucked her into bed, Kieran leans against her open doorway, finding comfort in the way the blankets rise and fall in an even pattern. She’d fallen asleep in his arms as they walked into the hallway that housed Gwen and Gracelyn’s rooms, by now, all trace of Aran having been removed from the palace premises. But his presence still lingers with the scent of his cologne and past memories, hanging over everything like an unwanted ghost. Kieran reminds himself to light new candles tomorrow and thinks of ways to make the palace feel like home again.
There is a rustle of fabric, and Gwen turns to her side so that he can see the outlines of her face from the dim light of the hallway. In her sleep, she looks so peaceful, so untroubled. There is no sign of today’s pain. His lips twist in a sad smile, and his heart physically aches with the knowledge that the first person to break her heart had not been a boy, but her own father. He’s tempted to perch himself by her bedside under the excuse that it’s his job to look out for her, always has been since that very first day, and the sudden yearning of wishing she had asked him to stay knocks the breath out of him.
He doesn’t entertain the thought—cannot afford to—but still, he absently traces the single scarlet mark he bears on his wrist, the one he keeps hidden from prying eyes.
It’s then that he feels searing pain.
Kieran has to bite the inside of his cheek so that he doesn’t let out a sudden cry, and he grimaces as he lifts the silken sleeve of his shirt with every measure of caution. All the blood drains from his face when he realizes that his only red mark…is no longer red.
It’s white.
And then he’s stumbling away from the doorway, almost forgetting to pull the door shut behind him in his panic. He’s hyperventilating, face paling as it gets harder to breathe, and his head spins. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening.
Kieran had heard stories about this sort of phenomenon, where red and yellow marks occasionally turn white, an indication that someone you already knew and loved was your soulmate. He just never thought it would happen to him, even though he thinks part of him always knew Gwen meant more to him than as his best friend and some silly childhood crush.
But this? This was his demise.
With a groan, the crown prince slumps against the wall, suddenly, overwhelmingly, exhausted. Well this is absolutely fantastic, he thinks sardonically as he rubs at his eyes. He was in love with a girl who has absolutely no idea how he feels, and to add insult to injury, he knew for certain she had no matching marks. He’s seen her wrists before, seen his initials written in his stoic handwriting on a strip of warm yellow on her arm. It’s then that he vows never to tell Gwen about the bond that now ties him to her, because he doesn’t want to burden her like that, not when she’s only fourteen and her dream is to see the world in its entirety.
He gathers himself and his resolve, straightens his shoulders and smooths the wrinkles from his shirt and combs his hair with his fingers. When he stands up again, he is the picture of princely perfection, if just a little rogue. Then he begins walking down the hall, pretending as if each step that takes him further and further away from his soulmate isn’t tearing his heart in two different directions.
After that fateful night, Kieran purposely avoids everyone in the palace for a whole week, and since he’s seventeen, most of his family simply chalks it up to teenage angst.
Gwen, to her credit, does not believe any of it for even a second.
When she finally manages to corner him in his office, she places her hands on her hips and glares at him. The sight makes him want to laugh, because standing in her pastel pink gown and flowers adorning her head, she looks more adorable than she does scary. He forces himself to swallow down the laughter though, and refuses to meet her gaze. He can’t look her in the eyes, because she knows him too well, and she would be able to see so clearly the love that he carries for her like an eternal torch.
"Why are you avoiding me?" Gwen is pouting and petulant, lower lip out and eyes so wide he can see the tears glimmering, ready to fall. She steps towards him, eliciting a nervous sort of laugh from her best friend. Kieran tries to put some distance between them, only to find himself cornered into the back of his desk.
"I-I’m not," he retorts, desperately trying to pull himself together. He sweeps a hand through his hair, hoping she doesn’t notice the sallow bags lining the corners of his eyes. “I’ve just been...” he’s thinking quickly, trying to scrap together an excuse, and the next words to come out of his mouth are said in a rush, the tail ends of the letters blurring together. “I’ve been looking for your father.” It wasn’t a complete lie, he had been looking for Aran Han, just without much success.
Immediately, Gwen’s expression simultaneously both softens and hardens. “You don’t have to do that, Ki,” she murmurs, dropping her gaze. “I know he’s not coming back.” She places a gentle hand on his arm, and meets his gaze with startling defiance. And like every other time it’s happened, Kieran is electrified by the way her eyes shine like liquid moonlight. “We don’t need him. I don’t need him. I’m tired of mourning a man who didn’t think I was worth fighting for.” Her voice is steely, resolute, mind made up. That was something else he’s always liked about her, that resilience, that fighting spirit, the way she’d trip when they were kids and dust off her knees and continue walking with perfect posture. Gwen barrels on, and this time, her voice is near pleading. “So stop looking for him, please. I just—I just want my best friend back.” She’s now adopted her signature puppy dog look, and damn the heavens, he could never deny her anything.
“Okay,” he replies, and Gwen’s smile blossoms into a full-fledged grin. With a cry of delight, she launches forward and wraps him in a crushing embrace.
He’s surprised at how much he’s missed this, missed her. His chin fits perfectly into the crook of her neck when he leans down, and it’s as if their arms were made to hold each other.
Kieran swallows. He was going to have to be so very careful from now on.
Months later, when Gwen tells him she likes Sterling, Kieran feels what is left of his heart shatter like glass. Whatever remaining hope he dared to hold on to has dissipated, dashed to fine powder before blowing away, and it’s gone, gone, gone. He thinks he’s always known that Gwen had never seen him as anything more than her best friend, the older brother she never had. Still, the confirmation aches like an old wound, and that damned white mark on his wrist throbs.
“That’s great,” he manages to rasp when she tells him the big news with that adorable rosy blush staining her cheeks. “You two would make a perfect couple.” The most painful part of it all perhaps, is the fact that he isn’t lying. His brother is a far better match for Gwen than he is: they’re closer in age, and Sterling is the star of Seochun and the royal family. He was charming and kind and would surely sweep her off her feet like she deserved to be. They would be beautiful and picturesque, and he hates himself for being so upset about it. She isn’t yours, he reminds himself, you promised you’d let her be free. She’d never know how much he adored her, and he would have to find a way to make peace with that, even if every beat of his heart cried her name like an anthem.
He’s brought back to the present when his soulmate beams at his words, and for a moment, Kieran can’t breathe. He loves it when she smiles, for it could rival the brightness of the sun. “You think so?” She asks shyly, blush darkening. “Oh, I’m so glad you approve, Ki! You’re the greatest friend a girl could ask for!” With that, Gwen presses a kiss to his cheek and spins giddily out of the room, a whirlwind of lace and silk that unknowingly leaves a devastated boy behind in her wake.
Over the course of time, it becomes easier for Kieran to believe that Gwen isn’t meant for him, that she never was. The mark was a mistake, a fluke of fate. It had to be. How could he be her perfect match when it was so obvious that it was his brother who was her soulmate? Besides, Kieran rationalized, he was the crown prince, and when it came time for him to ascend to the throne, his wife would have to become queen. And Gwen had made it clear that she had no intention of living in Seochun for the rest of her life, and he loved her too much to deny her anything—he would not tie her down. So he began to do anything and everything in an effort to forget her, hoping that in time, the awful white mark marring his wrist would disappear.
The first time he goes out, he wears a pullover over a collared shirt, and subconsciously tugs the sleeves down to ensure that his soulmate mark stays hidden. The nightclub is packed, but the sea of people part a way for him as he makes his way to the bar and orders a shot of their strongest drink. He doesn’t particularly care what it is, but he relishes the way the liquid burns on its way down. It’s not even close to half as painful as his state of eternal heartbreak, but it’ll do for now.
Leaning against cool wood, Kieran scans the crowd, and a girl catches his eye. He doesn’t do anything but stand there as she makes his way over to him, a smirk curving her startling red lips. He orders two more shots, and he’s not sure how they end up as they do, but before he knows it, she’s in his lap kissing the air out of his lungs and his mark burns. It’s not at all how he imagines kissing Gwen would be, but perhaps that was a good thing. He was trying to forget her, was he not? Forcing himself to wipe all thoughts of the dusky-eyed girl from his mind, Kieran swallows hard and pretends that kissing this stranger isn’t killing part of his soul.
He goes home past midnight, hair mussed and collar turned inside out. And he is alone. When it came time, he found that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take the girl home, it wouldn’t be fair to either her or to himself. She deserves someone who was consumed with her, and Kieran couldn’t give her that. And though Gwen was not his in the slightest, his heart was heavy with the guilt of betrayal. How much worse would it be if he went any further than he had tonight?
But despite it all, the pain, the remorse, the shame, he sleeps better that night than he has in a long time.
He wakes to all the tabloids of Seochun reporting his escapades of the prior night, pictures of him and the unnamed girl entwined plastered over every front page. Breakfast is a fiasco.
“What were you thinking?” His father blusters, and his face is turning a magnificent shade of red, Kieran thinks absently. He only wishes he had a camera to document it. The rest of his siblings stare down at their plates, eyes wide. His mother only looks sad, maybe disappointed, and it cuts his heart a little.
“I wasn’t,” is Kieran’s simple, morose reply as he cuts his maple toast in half.
“And therein lies the problem,” King Rian snaps, “Act like a man of your status, son. Pull yourself together, you are the inheritor of the Yeong dynasty.”
Kieran smiles grimly. “Aren’t I allowed to have a bit of fun before my ascent to the throne, father?”
“You are disgracing our family name!” He snarls, and appears to have a desire to speak other things on his mind when his wife places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Rian immediately deflates, though his face is still red. The rest of breakfast passes silently, but without further incident.
After that morning, a pattern emerges. Almost every weekend finds the crown prince of Seochun out at some sort of party or club; he’s addicted to the way their overwhelming nature can make him forget the heartbreak. Surrounded by alcohol, pretty girls, and blaring music that was almost loud enough to eclipse the steady rhythm of her name echoing through his mind, it was easy to pretend as if his heart was untethered and belonged to none. The paparazzi always catches him kissing some new girl every week, but Kieran still does not take any of them home. That line has been drawn firmly in the ground, though it does not stop his father from lashing out every morning after. Kieran has a new weapon, however, and wields it with careless ease.
“You’re ruining your image,” his father tells him once.
“It’s what I have to do,” Kieran shrugs. He’s a bit too hungover to think straight. “I’m looking for my soulmate. Not everyone can have you and mother’s fairytale romance, you know. Love is always worth a try, isn’t that what you both told me growing up?” It silences his father every time, though Kieran has to force himself to ignore how heavy the lie feels on his tongue, how his cursed mark burns every time he repeats those words.
And even then, as the years pass and he watches Gwen love Sterling and he kisses countless other girls, the white mark on his left wrist never so much as loses its pearly sheen.
Kieran doesn’t think to cover up his mark until he’s nineteen. He had never considered it to be an option, for as much as he hated it most times, being a constant reminder of everything he could never have, it was still a part of him. But even so, there were days when the white mark seemed to cause a physical heartache, likely due to the fact it was tied to his soul or some other explanation he doesn’t care too much to understand.
All he knows is that he is hurting, and the root of it is that damned mark.
So one overcast afternoon, when the clouds cast shadows and hide things from the light, Kieran dons his best disguise and slips out of the palace, a handful of gold coins weighing down the pockets of his wool coat. He knows where to go—he’s accompanied his sisters to the beauty boutique more than enough times.
The shop is painted a pale blue, and the inside is so fluorescently bright that it hurts his eyes. There are hundreds of different products lining the shelves, and it’s so overwhelming he doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never actually been the one shopping. It leaves him staring confusedly at a row of skin-colored bottles until an attendant walks up to him and asks him if he needs any help. “That would be great, actually,” he says quietly, a bit embarrassed.
“What complexion is the lucky girl?” She chirps, and Kieran manages to stammer out that they share the same skin tone. She holds up various bottles of the thick liquid to his face, his neck, his hands, and he tries not to shy away from her touch when her fingers graze his wrist. “This one looks just right,” she finally says after what feels like an eternity, and he takes it alongside the matching powder she hands him. He pays with too many coins, tells the attendant to keep the change, and slips out of the store, leaving her open-mouthed in his wake.
Kieran is eager to hurry back to the palace to test out the efficacy of his new product, but he’s careful to avoid detection. The last thing he needs is yet another ‘scandal’ perpetrated by the media. Keeping his head low, he manages to make it back home without anyone recognizing him, and no one at the palace seems to have realized he disappeared for a bit. He silently makes his way up the spiral staircase and chalks up the outing as a success.
In the privacy of his suite, Kieran takes out the bottle and power, setting the items down carefully on the cherrywood dresser. He stares at them for a moment—if he’s being honest with himself, he has only the faintest idea of how to use the concealing liquid. He knows Elizabella and Celestine use the same sort of products to even out their skin and cover up the occasional blemish, but the application process is lost on him.
Heart pounding and hesitance permeating every movement, he picks up the bottle and twists off the cap. Then, with a deep shuddering breath, he pushes his sleeve up, now fully ready to dip his fingers into the skin-colored liquid to paint over his mark.
But perhaps he is not as ready as he believes himself to be, however, because Kieran finds himself distracted with tracing the outline of the mark with his index finger, silently wishing—and not for the first time—that he didn’t have to hide it from the rest of the world. He’d yell I’m in love with Gwyneira Park from every rooftop, if he could.
The light catches on the mark, and the way it shines reminds him of the way Gwen’s eyes sparkle whenever she’s happy, and he’s pulled out of his thoughts. He has to—needs to—forget her.
With a sudden surge of determination, Kieran dips his fingers into the makeup. He streaks it across half of the mark, watching in sick satisfaction as the white of his mark is smothered. But in his intense focus, he makes a dire mistake: he fails to hear the three knocks rapped on the door, or the maid announcing herself right as she pushes her way in with a cleaning cart.
By the time Kieran realizes what’s happened, it’s too late.
The girl is gasping, stumbling backward at the sight of the crown prince and apologizing profusely for her intrusion when the light refracts perfectly off his wrist. Her eyes flick towards it, and with the way they widen, he knows his secret is no longer safe.
Reblog this if it’s completely okay for me to tag you in tag games! :)
I’ve been here for a while (I guess) but I still need to get to know more writers!! Reblog this or let me know if it’s okay to tag you in writing games or regular games! I’ll take a look at your blog as well :)
disclaimer: from a girl who spent the first twenty years of her life being extremely shy , and has now almost overcome it completely . so the girl got experience
There is a difference between being shy, and being quiet. A shy person can be talkative, a quiet person is not.
Just because somebody is shy, does not mean they don’t like talking to people! They’re most of the time, simply just afraid of being judged.
SHY PEOPLE ARE NOT WITHOUT PERSONALITIES! Shy people have wants, needs and feelings, and a personality that is much bigger than their shyness! Just because they don’t talk much, doesn’t mean that you can’t give them a rich personality! They might be afraid to show the world who they really are, but that doesn’t mean that under the surface, there’s not a person! Shy people are still real people, even though they sometimes may convince themselves they’re not!
Being QUIET is a personality trait. Being SHY is not. At least, it shouldn’t be normalized as one, or considered to be one. Most shy people have a desire to change their ways and engage more in the conversation. They are not happy with their current situation. A quiet person, is probably more content with their life, and doesn’t wish to be more talkative.
Most shy people are capable of holding a proper conversation over the internet, but when they meet this person in real life, no matter how good friends and comfortable this shy person feels with them, the conversation will turn awkward, and they’ll be quiet, and not say much.
Shy people actually has a lot to say, and a lot to contribute to the conversation. They’re just not sure how to say it out loud, thinking that their opinion doesn’t matter that much.
A shy person does not have to be an introvert. They can be extroverts, because, again, one is an emotion, the other is a personality trait.
No one chooses to be shy. If they’re quiet ‘’by choice’’, they’re naturally quiet. There’s a fine line, but it’s there.
A shy person will try to contribute to the conversation, they want to talk, but they can’t. As a result, they’ll beat themselves up over it, thinking they’ve embarrassed themselves.
Shy people are not push-overs. You might be able to make them an easy target, but the second that person gains some confidence and starts believing in themselves, trust be given, you’re not going to research them.
And no, they don’t hate you. An old classmate of mine once asked me if I hated my class, because I never spoke a word to anyone. So here’s the thing, no, most shy people aren’t quiet because they hate everyone, or think they’re better than you. It’s the complete opposite, actually.
There is always a reason as to why somebody is shy, and a lot of the times, it boils down to insecurities, bullying, thinking they’re not good enough… there’s a lot of reasons.
two characters who loves each other endlessly, and resolves their issues by talking to each other. who respects each other enough to be honest with each other. who doesn't need to scream their lungs out at each other to get their point across.
a healthy relationship is not boring. if it's boring, it's a writing problem. it's not the relationship in itself that's boring, it's how the writer chooses to write it.
a healthy relationship, if written properly, can be just as intriguing to write about as a relationship between two enemies. a healthy relationship doesn't mean that there can't be angst, or that they can't argue. it just means that two people love each other endlessly, and will treat each other with respect no matter the obstacle they face.
this is for authors who worry that your stories aren’t “big enough”, who don’t have a plots that spark rebellions or save the world, for contemporary writers who write about simply being: quiet stories sell. the publishing world wants to hear your small stories too.
titsay
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
kaledo-art
