🩻 æri 𖤐.ᐟ

ꇙ꒐꒯ꏂꃳ꒒ꄲꍌ ★ kaomoji lvr

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아무렇지 않게 웃어 봐도 버릴 수 없는 맘 ⋆˚꩜｡

ᝰ.ᐟ 오늘 끝자락에 남겨질 나의 꿈 𓏲࣪

𖧧 🍊 アエリ .ᐟ Aeri ♪ (- -ᣟ݂ ݄ : they/she ⸱࣭ intp ⸱࣭ aegoromantic ⸱࣭ ’08！all sfw ⸱࣭ 🇮🇩/🇺🇸 ᭪ ˊ˗⠀

ʅιƙҽʂ:: p1h (ult) ⸱࣭ &TEAM ⸱࣭ CORTIS ⸱࣭ AMPERS&ONE ⸱࣭ 82MAJOR ⸱࣭ LNGSHOT

🫐 Ri’s library 𖧧 Ri’s reclist 𑁯 Ri’s rules; 𓄹 > ɱαιɳႦʅσɠ 🩻

“(ノ _ <,, ) 🌀 most recent work: 朝倉穣 ๋࣭ ⭑ Bread, Berries, and Other Love Letters (&team Jo)

! ✶ I only write when i want to so consistency might not be something you'll find on my blog. ! ✶ even if P1H is my ult group, i will not be writing about them. ! ✶ Happy reading <3

𝓐bout Me ！⠀⋆ ˚｡⋆ 🌅

ᯓ Genderdoe, Aegoromantic, and Apothisexual ᯓ I love reading fics but sometimes they alter my perception of idols irl so I limit myself to just a few fandoms to write! (luneblr + coerblr) hence why P1H is out of bounds (they're family to me) ᯓ Just graduated!! = unemployment = tumblr (just until September tho) — csm major!

𝓣ag Navigation ！⠀⋆ ˚｡⋆ 🌅

ᯓ a drawer (tag: #aeri scribbles ➷) ᯓ works (tag: #aeri writes ➷) ᯓ misc (tag: #aeri yaps➷)

ᯓ #chroniccommenter #fulltimeanon #lurker

— with love, Aeri 🤍🧩🌙

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just met my uni friends for the very first time!! I'm excited and one of them was a p1ece LMAO I cannot go on one day without talking abt them ffs what a chud ^⁠_⁠^

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𖤝 : Written || ✉ : SMAU || ❦ : author's pick — 13+ : strictly sfw <3

・・・・・ CORTIS ⋆˚

[✉] Stuck on Mars ★ 박우주 ๋࣭ ⭑ 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘌𝘥𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬

You're an International Student in Japan with the opportunity to intern in Korea during your last year of College. CORTIS was just an idea on a whiteboard and your future was written in your mind in bold letters, The thing is—you weren't the only one writing it. ⌞on hold ⌝

[𖤝] GWIYEOPJANA MATJI? ★ 박우주 ๋࣭ ⭑ 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘌𝘥𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬

Juuust gonna record Martin trying out your childhood snacks from your mother country, what could go wrong? (spoiler alert: that turned into your first ever kiss) (wc; 1.6k)

・・・・・ &TEAM ⋆˚

[𖤝 ❦] Water under the Bridge + Ch. 2! ★ 王奕翔 ๋࣭ ⭑ Wang Yixiang

you were never meant to meet another soul on this bridge you made your own—yet that reality was long broken. (wc; 11.5k)

[𖤝] Bread, Berries, and Other Love Letters 𖹭 朝倉穣 ๋࣭ ⭑ Asakura Jo

Asakura Jo; who noticed a shift about you and your relationship with what you eat, decided to fix it by buying a handful of food, a woven basket, and a blanket. (wc; 1.6k)

dedlexte on tumblr © 2026 — for fictional purposes. Do not steal, translate, or plagiarise. Do not feed my work into AI.

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just updated her!! Isnt she pretty (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

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That latest work of yours the bread, berries, and other love letters one, that happened to me before with my ex huhuuuu 😭 bruhhh tbh I miss him sm

so that was NOT the intended purpose of me writing it 😭😭 get you a man like jo and then we'll talk (⁠◡⁠⁠ω⁠⁠◡⁠) in all seriousness I hope it gets better xx remember why he's an ex and not your partnerヽ(●＾､＾●)

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thinking about writing for the ampies 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 but I doubt people would see it whoops but lmk if it is a good idea to write them while I finish my teamies fic!!

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀朝倉穣 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Bread, Berries, and Other Love Letters 𖹭

ᯓ WHEREIN : Asakura Jo; who noticed a shift about you and your relationship with what you eat, decided to fix it by buying a handful of food, a woven basket, and a blanket. (wc; 1.6k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Established relationship, fluff with light angst, not eating as plot, profanity, jo being all fluttershy and cute, kissing, em-dashes and semicolons.

ᯓ A/N : wrote this IN A DAY for my beloved jo stan(s) @hironoshimura as compensation bc my upcoming fic is gnna be for another member... and a big smooch for @roryboryalis for giving me the idea for this fic <3 i hope ygs accept my apology 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Your shoulders slumped a little more than usual. That flush of rose on your cheeks looked a little more pale than usual. You yawned a little every time you rest your head on your hands. You get lightheaded every afternoon to the point where Jo had to give you his spare aspirin.

He had noticed how you've whined in his ears at least once a day about how tired you were every time the clock ticks past 12. He had noticed how your replies to dinner invitations slowly changed from "Maybe next time?" to "You guys go ahead." He had noticed the untouched lunchboxes that came back home almost as full as when you packed them, the half-finished cups of coffee collecting rings on your desk. He had noticed how you started rubbing your temples before opening your laptop, how your shoulders remained tense even after you'd shut it, and how your laughter grew quieter, shorter.

You were skipping meals.

His heart tugged into a knot when he first made the realization after the dots connected in that unsullied mind of his. In his eyes, he couldn't quite figure out how someone as picture perfect as you, believes that there's still something to chase for. In his eyes, he couldn't name someone more perfect than the pinnacle of who embodies art; the way your hair falls as graceful as a ballerina, the way your eyes are angled like oddly hung paintings at a museum, the way your cheeks dimples when you smile at him like pottery before they enter the kiln, the way your lips shine when the sunlight hits like freshly melted glass—a work of art in the form of a breathing, loving, human being.

From the minute he knew what was going on, he had done everything in his power to finish his personal mission of getting you to eat again—or at least try to find out why you weren't. Every lunch he would give you granola bars because "I was getting one anyways, might as well buy you one too.". Every now and then when he couldn't be there for you he would order snacks and send it to where you were just because "I wanted to."

And to his surprise, you didn't notice anything weird about it.

It was another evening, conveniently just right between breakfast and lunch, you sat right next to him at a small family-owned restaurant. He ordered after you; a drink, teriyaki, and of course: rice. No surprises there.

After the food had arrived, and both of you had taken your first bites, he took a glance at your food that seemed like it was untouched. He then looked at you only to find your eyes taking small peeks at his glistening-ly appetizing food. Unfortunately it smelled amazing too.

The corners of his mouths held back a smile when he knew he had the opportunity to sneakily "Do you want to try my food?" he cleared his throat and swallowed hard before speaking. With the slightest hesitation, you nod. He took the chopsticks in his hands and scooped up some rice before feeding them to you. He squinted, then his pupils slowly stretched, noticing details he hadn't before.

"Good?" he asked as you nod up and down excitedly with your eyes hung wider. He chuckled in response—an almost giggle. "Do you want more?" he asked again, the tips of his ears growing warmer and warmer until it turned a soft red since you were sharing a bowl of warm, steaming rice, with him.

"Yes please."

From there he fed you spoonful after spoonful while the clouds float away from the sun, revealing an endless expanse of cerulean silk. A soft satisfaction flooded his insides when he watched you open your mouth as his chopsticks get closer, like seeing a flower bloom long after it's in the shade—sunlight in it's absence. Truth be told, he could feed you all day until his arms grow weak if it means he'd see you full of color again.

Not even a week had passed after his first self-proclaimed success, a message popped up on your phone while you were otherwise occupied: "The weather is so nice today," then another popped, "Wanna take a walk together this afternoon?" without hesitation you grabbed your phone and replied a yes to him, it would be a waste to not watch the sunset—-especially with Jo.

What didn't occur to you was that this was a deliberately built set up. The fading light caught the scattered wispy clouds, fading into soft swirls of pink and magenta that twisted like balloons caught in an evening breeze. A warm, damp breeze rustled through the vibrant green meadow, carrying the earthy scent of rain and sweet nectar as you and Jo walked towards a park that expanded into an endless field of grass. It was the crescendo of the day, a moment of pure serenity where the boundary between sky and earth blurred into a quiet, warm evening.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he touched the back of his neck as he guided you with his free hand on your lower back—gentle as if it was naturally supposed to be there.

And there sat just right in front of you, softly lit by the soft blow the sun gave, along with a couple of candles strategically placed across the blue plaid patterned mat. The scent of sweet warm baked goods welcomed you when you saw a picnic basket slightly opened. Your mouth now hung and faintly agape, "Jo, what's all this?"

He fidgeted with his hair before licking his lips, "Tada—! Do you… do you like it?" he stammered.

You sat down to properly look at what he managed to organize in such little time, you open the basket only for you to see all your favorite foods, snacks, desserts, curated and snuggly tucked into its corner. The rigid walls around your ribs immediately gave way, collapsing into a soft, quiet sigh. Lucky is an understatement.

"I don't know what to say, Jo, I-"

"You don't have to," he smiled, "So, which one do you want first?"

That broke a laugh out of you. You haven't even said anything yet and Jo was already unboxing everything in front of you; cake boxes now discarded in one spot on the blanket while you wiped the utensils he prepared using tissues.

The blanket had long disappeared beneath a patchwork of containers and paper bags, each one filled with something you'd once mentioned liking a long time ago—not expecting him to remember your lighthearted rambles. Fresh strawberries glistened beside neatly store-cut mangoes, still cold from to the touch. Egg sandwiches wrapped in parchment sat next to warm kimbap, buttery croissants, salt-and-vinegar chips, even little fruit tarts with glossy berries on top, and a bottle of sparkling peach soda sweating in the afternoon sun he bought for you on his way here.

Jo claimed he had packed "just enough," though the evidence suggested he'd mistaken a picnic for a feast. He watched with quiet triumph as your eyes widened at the spread, nudging a container toward you before you'd even decided where to start. "I remembered you said these were your favorite," he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

You took the cake slice in your hand along with a thin wooden fork in the other, and gently pierced the sharp end of the cake to scoop it up, "open widee," your voice warm and your hand reaching out to let him take a bite of the dollop of what looks like to be mostly frosting. Jo didn't question it. He leaned in obediently, lips parting with an exaggerated, "Ah—"

At the very last second, your wrist twitched. A tiny dollop of frosting landed squarely on the tip of his nose.

"Seriously?" his reaction deadpan.

You dissolved first, a laugh escaped you and spilling out before you could even apologize. Jo blinked, displaying an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He reached up as if to wipe it away, but your hand caught his wrist before he could.

"Wait."

Still smiling, you leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla clinging to him. With the gentlest swipe of your thumb, you brushed the frosting from the bridge of his nose, only to smear a little more across his cheek by accident, "whoops."

"You're making it worse,"

"I know,"

Neither of you moved away. Your thumb lingered for just a heartbeat longer before wiping the last streak clean. He looked at you with that quiet smile you'd come to know so well, the one that reached his eyes long before it reached his lips.

"There," you murmured triumphantly. "Much better."

"Liar," he chuckled. "There's probably still frosting somewhere."

"Probably."

He reached over anyway, stealing the fork from your hand before taking a proper bite of the cake this time. "Mm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Worth the betrayal." You bumped your shoulder against his, laughing again as the two of you settled back onto the picnic blanket, the afternoon breeze carrying your laughter far beyond the patch of grass where warmth cradled your face like watercolor on water.

The breeze carried the scent of blooming wildflowers as you leaned against each other, sharing bites without asking, stealing strawberries from the same carton, and laughing whenever one of you insisted the other take the last one. Somewhere overhead, clouds drifted lazily across an impossibly orange sky, and for a little while, the world shrank to the warmth of the sun, the rustle of leaves, and the simple comfort of being known well enough that someone remembered exactly what made you smile.

And beneath all of it, Jo did a small celebration in his head that leaked into a smile while he looked at you—really looked at you, before leaning closer to give you a kiss. His fingers hovered above yours for a minute, and the next minute they're intertwined with yours.

"Thank you, Jo."

dedlexte on tumblr © 2026 — for fictional purposes. Do not steal, translate, or plagiarise. Do not feed my work into AI.

A/N: This was originally my daydream about kyrell... im so kypilled... ૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა and it was in the middle of a run too LMAOO reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated and lmk if ygs like seeing short fics like this!! or should i continue with longer and more fleshed out fics like water under the bridge hmm

Credits: @diviniyae (dividers)

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The world hates me

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀王奕翔 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Water Under the Bridge ☆

ᯓ WHEREIN : you were never meant to meet another soul on this bridge you made your own—yet that reality was long broken. (wc; 6.5k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family pressure, Kissing, Em-dashes and semicolons, university au, self-doubt, f!reader, etc.

ᯓ A/N : This one is for the eldest daughters out there!!! my &team debut and my writing-this-much debut too, a whole lotta love was poured into this fic I hope that love is reciprocated <3 anyways #spreadchalantnicoagenda

111 | 222 | mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Legs hanging down the railing-less brick bridge between a small river hidden within the forest, just barely touching the water. It’s stone sun-dried, and it’s cracks hugging the ever-growing moss. weathered by time and rain, and ivy snakes up one of the pillars like a sleeping serpent. Letting the wind dance through your hair and unnoticeably dangling your feet. The sun was warm enough to let the fall wind not freeze you to death since you accidentally left your coat unattended—now hanging against your bedroom door.

You let the charcoal from your pencil drag across your little hot-pressed sketchbook, line by line appearing without thinking as the birds chirp echoing between leaves of each tree surrounding this little “safe area” you go to every time everything feels a little too heavy to bear. And slowly, a picture of what was left unsaid reveals itself on your canvas, as the rampant thoughts in your head start to cool down a little. What was then a paragraph of discarded sentences, now just appearing as tiny glimpses of words that's no longer yelling at you. 

Maybe in some way, bottling them up would be a better way to deal with it than to manifest it to the physical world. Even if your fists yell at you to throw them against the wall, even if the door whispers to you to push it forcibly, even if vocal chords fight its way to scream your heart out. It’s better to just let your legs run to this place. Where the water remains serene and quiet no matter what happens in its world. And where no one would be there waiting for you to watch you as you steady your breath.

You let your head tilt back for a minute, resting your eyes and letting the breeze fly through you.

Until the trees shook more than it usually does. You hear a few branches crack as a sound of muttering curses gets louder and louder—and a dark-haired boy emerges out of the dense woods, seemingly furious about something. Fists clenched, hair messy, sleeves rolled up. He threw his bag that spitted out documents and multiple scribbled in loose leafs. You could hear him muttering in mandarin under his breath from a mile away in your spot, before he throws a nasty punch at a tree next to him. He closes his eyes, deep in frustration—before he sighed to the ground. 

It’s odd. You weren't scared. You weren't startled by the fact that a person just bruised his knuckles fighting a tree trunk. You were startled by the fact that somebody also goes to this place, or at least happens to stumble across it. 

He took a minute to breath by himself, hands on his hips. He opened his eyes towards the bridge only to see… somebody? You—a girl and her sketchbook by the river. His eyes widened, it was obvious he was certain nobody was there. “I– I’m sorry I didn't… wasn’t… expecting anyone to be here,” he explained, "I didn't realize anybody else would go here.” 

A beat. 

“Me neither,” you locked eyes with him before looking back down to your sketchbook. It was clear you wanted him to let out all of the things he ought to let out, so you didn't want to bother him further. Everybody deserves a time for themselves; to unwind the cork of a bottle full of intense emotions they wouldn't dare show anyone—but you were intrigued. You’re here almost five days a week, even more sometimes. Yet you never stumble across another person—not him. So naturally, you glanced back up at him. 

He was staring. Not the creepy kind despite how sharp his eyes were, but every wrinkle of expression in his face says confusion. Now suddenly what he initially wanted to let out wasn't there anymore—dissipated into something else he didn't know what to name. 

You gestured to him, patting a spot beside you—telling him there's a place to sit down if he wants to, as you looked back down and closed your sketchbook to watch the water again. 

With hesitation, he walked towards the other end of the bridge, and sat down. Legs crossed, breath heavy, and jaws clenched. He took another breath trying to slow himself down. “Sorry I’m not usually like this,” his voice barely audible. “I know,” you replied with your eyes still watching every curve the water waved. “...if you want to talk about it,” you tilted your head so it gestured ‘go for it’, “and if you don’t that's fine too,” 

Another beat.

“Do you come here often?” he asked after almost five minutes of silence.

“Too often,” 

“Yeah?,” he chuckled, "I only go here to… you know,”

You nodded in understanding, “funny how we've never met before,” you finally looked at him over your shoulders. And again he chuckled under his breath, "I think the water under the bridge had seen me at my worst state,” he let out another heavy breath. His eyes meet yours, and for some reason your heart did something inside you, something you wouldn't dare name either.  “Nicholas. By the way.” 

“y/n,” you smiled.

You knew you shouldn't say anything, not to someone when they're vulnerable at least. But there's just something about the way he smiled ever so slightly beneath all that anger, the way the sun glowed faintly on his skin, the way he sat down next to you and started to align his breathing with yours. Something so inviting about seeing a person with a broken shell—a shell which you've never seen before. Before you could stop yourself: “You know… I go here every so often when I get reminded of how numb everything feels,” he looks at you, “when… things gets too much too often, you just dont… feel much anymore,” your heart starts beating a little faster—you're finally saying how you actually function to someone—that's not something that happens every day. “You don't feel a lot but there's going to be a lot of things running through your mind, you know?” you continued, “a lot of… things not to say.”

You fidgeted around the hem of your clothes. The words started rampaging in your mind again ‘you shouldn't be saying so much’ ‘you spoke too much’ ‘You–’ 

“Then I guess the water under us is actually just a big cup of chamomile tea,” he blurted, you raise your eyebrow at him, “what?” 

“You know, It has like- calming properties,” that earned a laugh from you, he laughed back with you, now both of your legs dangle just above the water surface, “I guess,” you chuckled.

As the sun started to show its orange hues, the conversation started to flow. All the right things said at the right time, and all the right jokes aimed at the right person. You forgot how heartwarming it is to finally talk to a person again. Really talking this time, not just a small talk or a chit-chat with your friends. But an honest talk straight from your beating heart. The one that earned cheek-hurting-smiles and an endless amount of open ended curiosity that had a small consensus between the two of you. Oh how you’ve longed for this.

Seconds blurred into hours as the sun winked its last shine. “I think it's a good time to go home now,” Nicholas pointed his gaze at the stars, you nodded. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

If anyone could get past ‘too much’, then it's you. Every other day you’d feel the rush to go back onto the bridge before you blow up and mess things up for other people, so the bridge called your name again.

But there's this small part of you—a tiny one, hoping he’ll show up again. This spark of light in a dark room wants him to show up again. The bridge no longer serves the purpose of accompanying you when you're numb anymore; you hope the bridge could make you feel again. 

So you show up everyday of the week. Every Sunday afternoon turned into every afternoon. You lost count of the times you’ve gone back without a real aim, without knowing what you’ll do there but wait. Every afternoon you sit back there again, letting your back lean against a tree while your legs rested on the cold stone hard surface. You watched the sunset dip its last bow over and over again. Another day, the leaves were trembling more than it should, noises coming out of the forest, branches breaking upon weight—it was just a squirrel. I'm not being pathetic, am I?

This feeling of hope is your only string to keep going, a slight chance it might ignite something in you again. So you go there everyday now, waiting—longing. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. Yet there is still not one sign another person would emerge out of the forest and introduce themselves—definitely not Nicholas. Another small part of you is happy that he no longer felt the need to go back here, a place where his only aim was to break apart–wait–maybe he was no longer comfortable going there again after seeing you. That can’t be, right? 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

There he was. Once again standing on the very same spot he sat down next to you a month ago. His breath heavy, his eyes dark, but they were looking at you: peacefully sound asleep beneath the shade the tree provided, with a book clutched loosely in your arms, leaning reliantly on its trunk. “You’re here,” he whispered.

Nicholas stepped closer to another tree just merely inches from yours, sitting down and leaning against it. You looked so at peace with the world in your head playing whatever dream it’s projecting to you right now, how the sunshine that was peeking through the leaves hits your face like glitter, it's so… serene. And just like that, Nicholas had his eyes shut in front of you, finally resting from his world—to yours.

Hours passed before you were about to wake up and leave—after confirming nobody was coming. You opened your heavy eyelids expecting yet another feeling of hope dissipating, only to find the same boy in front of you… sleeping. The sun was awake, yet both of you managed to fall asleep as if the sun was already under a blanket, leaving no light to shine through. Your heart skipped a beat finally. Not moving an inch, you just watched him and his shoulders rhythmically dropping down and breathing in. Leaving was no longer an action in your to-do list, the moment was too much of a waste to not savor. 

“You’re staring,” Nicholas mumbled, his eyes still dropped shut. You jumped ever so slightly against the bark of your tree, “God- you scared me,” he opened his eyes to look at you. And that’s when you realize just how dark his eyes were. Not dark like your daily shot of espresso, but dark in a way where it’s storing pools of ink, the glimmer of obsidian, like the forest midnight and the reflection of every firefly telling a different story. He obviously noticed yours too, steady and unblinking, how beautifully abstract every time the sunrays hit them, yet no matter how much it tries to shine light to it, the night sky seemed to take over within the irises. So hypnotizing that when he resides to look at them, he finally knows what it means to stargaze. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, “we meet again.” 

“Seems so,” you smiled,

“What are you reading?” 

“Oh um- this?”

“No i meant my palms that you were previously reading—yes y/n the book,” a cheeky grin slowly creeps up his face,

You nudged his knees with your shoes, “well, nosy it’s just something that was given to me when I was younger.” He grabbed the book from your hands to take a look at it, “Hey!” you yelped, “who gives ‘The odyssey’ to a child? Did you even understand the 9 letter long words in here?!” Nicholas flipped over the pages, each page revealing a new doodle, an underlined word with question marks under it, and multiple ink bleeds from God knows what. “Okay you can stop now,” you take it back from him.

You both laughed together again for the second time, a soft heat settled across his face when he heard your laugh. But your eyes suddenly drop to his knuckles again, fresh bruises now covering the old one. An instant later, “Do you wanna get coffee?” he asked.

Now you're both walking and cutting through the forestation towards a small cafe not far from where the two of you just were. Side by side on a sidewalk meant for two, your eyes wander around from your feet, to him, and back to the pebble beach and it’s lake that stretches until you can only see the horizon and the trees reflecting on it—funny how the shore seemed to always keeps company its body of water, regardless of where you are and which shore you're on—they will always belong together. 

Belong. to be in the right place, to be owned by someone, or to feel connected to something. You know you shouldnt feel like you dont belong under the roof over your head you call home. Atleast there is a roof to keep raindrops from piercing your skull and fall off the tips of your hair, atleast it keeps you alive, right? But being someone everybody in the house relied on—to be the very glue holding everything and everyone together—who are you supposed to rely on?

No matter how much you’ve done and how many sacrifices you made for your family, it never felt enough to catch a glimpse of recognition. No matter how much you've achieved, it has never felt like it was enough for anyone–for you. 

Sure, there was never any direct pressure for you to be perfect. But there is a certain whisper. A whisper of how much you should be able to achieve to not break this disheveling amount of trust. So ask yourself this; where do you actually belong? Certai–

“You okay?” Nico snapped you back from your head, you nod. “Hm. If i recall correctly, you brought a sketchbook last time we met,” he pointed out. You shot a smile at him, “What about it?” both of you slowed your paces, “so you draw a lot?” 

Only when you're stuck in inertia, “yeah i do,”

“Can I see ‘em?” 

Not one soul had seen your drawings—not in that sketchbook atleast, “well i didnt have them on me right now do I?” the corners of your mouth lifted after he replied with a small laugh, “alright we’re here.”

A small family-owned cafe, small mosaic windows embezzling each wall protected and shaded by the yellow and white striped canopies. “After you,” Nicholas stretched his arm to open the door for you. The bell chirped a small ding as you entered and nodded a thank you. The two of you ordered your drinks at the front counter and sat down at a two-seater table. 

It was unsurprisingly easy to talk to him, every word you utter to him felt light and easy; you didn't have to try to think of a response before you talk. While the world around you kept going, talking to somebody made you feel… grounded—like you're actually living again—all lingering responsibilities just hide behind your eyes inside the corner of a cupboard inside your brain.

Time seems to stretch far beyond the bounds of a clock hand. And the conversation just flows so naturally for both of you to lose track of time, and for the apples of your cheeks to hurt just a little more than what you’re used to.

While on the other hand, he felt a sense of safety when he’s around you. A sense of safety he only realized when you were both exchanging words and when you were smiling ear to ear, giggling at all the stupid miserably attempted jokes he gushed. He knew from the first day he met you, connecting puzzles of assumptions created from a small glimpse of his life to build a perception—like other people do—was not a thing you do. The moment he took a sip of his coffee, his guard completely melted once he knew he could trust you even if you didnt say anything to him. He looked up from his cup, there was something warm inside of him. Something warm cradling his face. “Are you not gonna drink that?”

Nicholas pointed at your barely drunk cup of latte, “Oh I will, I love coffee.” you blinked, “no i don’t, i don’t know why i always order coffee when I've never been that fond of them.”

The now lukewarm coffee of yours swiveled around as you spun the cup around before putting it back down, “I think I just like the idea of getting it—to fit in.” His arm folded at your sudden confession, “Holding a book and now ordering coffee for the novelty of it — just how performative can you get?” he joked. The both of you continued another hour on a rotation of significantly different topics—i mean seriously, the range is insane—the sun still shining through the windows.

Nicholas thought about something for a little bit, his eyes looking straight at the table without an inch of movement on his face, “here,” he handed you the receipt. You eyebrows furrowed, “you… want me to pay for yours?” you asked puzzled on why in the world would he give you a receipt all of a sudden? But before you could question him further, he handed you yet another item: a pen.

“Whip up something,” he requested. 

“Demanding,” you teased,

“Hey can’t a guy be interested in someone’s hobby,”

“Nico why are you so eager to see my drawings anyway, it’s not like i painted the mona lisa,”

“Okay first of all,” he held up a finger, “you don’t diss yourself like that — and second, I'm somewhat of an art kid myself,” you lifted your eyebrows in response. “Kind of in school for it.” He flared his rings, all silver and nudging eachother.

Well you did what he asked for, just not particularly in front of him for him to notice. You took his pen and receipt in your hands, hiding them behind your now cold coffee cup. You continued your conversation while drawing doodles on his receipt. A conversation in which you finally get more than just a sliver of what his life looked like. Wrong is one way to put it.

Wrong in ways he couldn't digest what he feels. Wrong in ways he attempts to hide behind jokes. Wrong in a way where the world shouldn't treat someone who wouldn't harm a bug like that. Wrong in ways he never had the opportunity to show others that he—a human being—could be vulnerable too.

Along with you, Nicholas stepped out of the vanilla scented café. The air smelled faintly of salt water and wet leaves, while the ocean waves sang its song. 

A soft contrast, you swear the whole cafe could hear both of your laughters as you were talking, yet each footsteps stomped a different note that you now could listen to due to how quiet the walk was. It was comfortable. Warm.

You stop for a second — so did he. Looking through the pockets of yours, you rummaged through to try and find something. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as you finally gave him the receipt back; now crumpled and doodled. 

Where the prices were written, the letters and numbers were now covered in ink; ink that takes shapes as a small flower bouquet, an anatomically accurate heart, a cat sound-asleep, a pair of eyes, and a miniaturized version of your haven within the heart of the forest. A haven you memorize every crack in. A haven where you met Nicholas.

His mouth slightly agape, a sharp exhale laughed out of it, “this is-” he flipped the receipt around, “...is that- is that me?”

A sketch of a boy smiling, eyes tired—but a grin worth to admire. Just enough joy and content captured in ballpoint ink. 

You nod.

Awestrucked—words were the last thing he could come up with. “So?” you didn't return the silence, but he still remained word-less. 

To be recognized. To be seen. To be captured. Three mundane things that couldn't seem to be make it's way as often as it should. His gazed melted, he knew he told you to draw, but the idea of him being drawn never crossed his mind. The idea of being recognized, seen, and captured never crosses his mind. It wasn't purely because of your drawing, it was also because of your decision to draw him.

“Yeah right, I'm never drawing near you ever again,”

“wait wait no- it's- it's lovely,” 

“That's narcissistic, no?” you point at your drawing of him he was holding in his hands, he looked back at you in disagreement, face clearly saying that's not what he meant. 

“I'm joking,”

“I'm serious,” he said while continuing to walk with you, “they're amazing,” he continued. You thank him. “ever considered letting people see this? like a display or something,” he rambled.

Warmth climbed up your neck and reached your face in one rush, “You know that had never crossed my mind,” you tilt your head, “and besides I don't think I have the time–” 

“Hey I can hook you up if you're down,” Nicholas interrupted, “I have a friend who's having a stand at a convention in a few weeks I think.” 

“Woah, you don't have to-”

“but I want to,” 

“Nicholas. I really don't have the time, once I get home from uni, I have to take care of the house. I mean- dinner doesn't just appear out of nowhere, and the house sure does not clean itself.”

“then do it at my place,”

Silence. “You have siblings right?” his question was answered with your hesitant yes. “Then let them take care of their house too.” You hate it. You hate that he was right. But you knew how much they rely on you—you couldn't just let it go. “Ill think about it,” you muttered, “thanks though.”

You went back home that night and did your daily routine. You cooked dinner, cleaned the place up, got yelled at for not being the perfect daughter, and did your college assignments in your room with a dim-lit lamp accompanying you. But there was this lingering whisper of what Nicholas said that same day, it's their house too—why are you the only one expected to take care of it? Why are you the only one expected to balance between your life and theirs as if yours didn't exist? Now the numbers on your notebook started to blur, the answer to an equation left unfinished—to understand nothing—not just the printed words with a question mark ending them, but also what your life had become. 

The next day you were back at the bridge, sitting down with groceries and your school bag next to you, you stare down at your shoes by the water. 

Your body slumped, losing its stiff posture as a slow smile crept up your face when you saw Nicholas crouching down to sit next to you, with space barely enough to keep your shoulders from bumping into each other. You turn your head to look at him, only to be met with two cups held in his hands, “got this for ya,” he lured one cup to you. The cup’s sleeve had different colors, and a different design, and a different… logo? 

“It’s matcha,” he said as you took the cup from his hands, your fingers softly grazing his. “did you go to different places to get these?” you blow through the cup, “well you said you didn't like coffee last time,” he gestured at his cup.

“I did?”

“You did,”

“You could've just gone to one place—you didn't have to walk to two-”

“They don't sell non-coffee options apart from water,”

“You could've bought matcha for two,”

“Don't like matcha,” he shrugged, “they're green.”

That earned another laugh from you, “you're ridiculous,” you took a small sip through your smile. “Thankyou,” your voice small, almost like a confession. 

You blew gently on your matcha to cool it before taking a sip, the earthy sweetness soothing against the quiet chill in the air. The cup warmed your fingers as you stared ahead at the darkening treeline. He watched you for a second; the way your nose wrinkled slightly at the warmth—before speaking. "Your hair’s longer," he said suddenly, voice low and even.

An observation dropped into space between you like a pebble into still water. You blinked. "Yeah… I haven’t cut it in months."

He hummed a soft sound and lifted his coffee again without looking away from you entirely. After another pause, "Looks good." Simple as that. No flowery words or anything, just honest and quiet-like him. 

The two of you talked a little more—a lot more. Sip after sip, The forest breathes around you, quiet rustles of leaves stirring without wind — maybe an animal passing far off. 

He searched his bag for a small notepad of his, stickers fully covering every crevice of the cover, and passed it to you along with the same pen he gave to you at the cafe a few days back. 

“We've hung out a bunch, figured it might be nice to have your phone number.” 

You took the notepad and pen from his hands, and a page opened itself as if it was waiting to be. And between the two pages, a receipt sat beneath it—decorated by your drawings. 

“Oh- you kept it?” you asked, not expecting him to still keep it around after that day. He blinked at that—surprised maybe? “Who wouldn't?” He shrugged one shoulder, coffee cup tilting slightly as he did, “makes a nice bookmark.”

Warmth bloomed somewhere inside of you—soft, sudden, like cherry blossoms blooming beneath moonlight; the first real spring after a long winter. “I guess,” you chuckled, giving the notepad back to him — your number now etched in its pages.

For a second there was nothing but birds chirping faintly somewhere deep in the woods, just imagination filling silence that feels safe because you're here with him. Then, “Wanna walk back together? It’ll be dark soon.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The seasons had come and gone on that stone bridge. Autumn brought crisp air and amber leaves drifting over water below. Winter painted everything in hushed white silence. Spring returned with sudden greenery bursting through cracks in moss-covered stones.  

 — and every time, they were there; you and Nicholas.

You don’t talk every day. But when you do? It's this. Same stone railing. He would bring the same drinks; your matcha never changes, his coffee varies by mood. You've memorized each other’s rhythms; the way you chew your lip when stressed about deadlines, how he slouches more when exams drain him. You notice the wounds on his knuckles starting to turn bronze and pale as it fades away when he flips over pages of notes you two would discuss and help each other, despite how different your majors were.

You were sharp—a terrifyingly good student—but lately? Your shoulders carried more weight than just exams. Something behind you was messy: family dinners full of tension you never brought up here. Late-night calls from parents checking every single little thing you do for the family.

But here, on this bridge — It felt safe. Like nothing else mattered except the steam rising from your cup, and him beside you making stupid jokes to lighten things without even knowing how much you needed it.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The clock on his nightstand read 2:47 AM. Darkness pressed against the windows, no streetlights, no passing cars, just the quiet hush of a city asleep. His bedroom was cold, he hadn’t bothered turning on the heater. The blanket was tangled around his legs from tossing too much.

He stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. Thoughts spun like gears in a machine that wouldn't shut off.

Mostly it was you filling up space in his mind.

That laugh you had—soft but bright—as if joy came naturally to you despite how hard it must've been sometimes. The way your voice dropped lower when you got serious about studying, about yourself, about home. How focused your eyes became when reading, and how they’d glance up at him every now and then during your nonverbal study sessions like checking if he was still there.

A sigh slipped out into silence. Until his phone woke up with a ding: 

> Is the offer still up? > Your friend's art display > I know it's too late to ask but 

He stared at your messages with a wide smile plastered across his face like a celebration full of triumph. 

And there you are, buying a brand new canvas, charcoal, paintbrushes, fixatives—just everything you've been wanting to buy for quite a while now. Nicholas could only shake his head in endearment watching you go through five different shelves over and over again, and he would still be by your side even if it means you're going to spend the rest of your life in that store.

Doesn't matter if the sun was blinking its first rays at dawn, or if the owls were hooting you goodnight. As long as everybody in your house was asleep, anybody who would stumble upon your room would find you slouching over your canvas, headphones jacked in, concentrated and immobile. 

The day eventually came. The gallery was quiet. Sofft lighting, polished floors, the kind of hush that makes every step feel deliberate. White walls displayed art in neat rows: paintings, digital prints,  and tucked toward the back of his friends’ pieces — yours stood there.

No longer just sketches scribbled in margins or hurried doodles from the bridge—but real, finished pieces. Carefully framed charcoal studies of a peek into how you see the world. A delicate monochrome portrait of someone’s tired eyes filled with unspoken stories.

People wandered slowly between exhibits. Some pausing to look closer at your work. A couple murmured something appreciative nearby.

And there he was.

Standing slightly apart from the crowd. Not pushing anyone toward you, but attentively just watching it all unfold with this quiet intensity burning behind his calm face. Pride didn’t spill out loud or flashy on him—but it glowed. In how straight he held himself beside one wall where another tiny piece stood. The ones you’d made especially after agreeing to this show. Because yes, he had gently nudged you into creating more. And who are you to say no?

He hadn't told anyone “she's my friend,” or anything sentimental like that, but you could tell how much joy and pride he felt knowing that you were indeed—his friend.

She looked so happy. 

Peeking through your peripheral vision, your eyes accidentally locked onto his. You walked slowly towards him, hands behind your back. There was a sweet silence—a conversation made from exchanging smiles. And there was this soft laugh he loved hearing, “...thankyou” you confessed, crossing your legs. 

He nodded you're welcome. The nod didn't speak out the kind of words where he's taking his credits where it's due, not the kind to state ‘I know', but a subtle nod that spoke how it's a no-brainer—how much you deserved it.

Safe to say, the day went well. And you went home with eyes gleaming.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

Two weeks have passed since you last met him. Nicholas dropping you off at your house after the art exhibition. He became restless; he'd bite his dry lips to oblivion during lectures, fiddling the edge of his note books every late night study session. At his apartment, every song reminds him of you. During classes where he'd design something on a mannequin, how he wishes it was you he was making garments for. 

You hadn’t texted much lately. No calls either after that one awkward evening where the voices of your parents spilled over into your call with Nicholas before cutting off abruptly without explanation.

He couldn't name exactly what he was feeling. If it was love, why is it bringing him so much anxiousness? so many questions that led to no answers? and why is it that you hadn't said anything to him after that day?

One night he stayed up, phone by his side, do-not-disturbed turned off even if the clock ticked midnight, thinking you might text. His jaws tensed, contemplating a decision of whether or not he should go to the bridge and try to find you, or at least something that tells him you're still there.

That decision took less than one minute.

He took his jackets and turned on his car, rushing his way to the bridge. Maybe what he's feeling wasn't exactly love. He had his fingertips turning pale as he grips the steering wheel, his heartbeat pumping like a metronome—he was scared. He was scared of losing the person who had been there when nobody else could. Right at that bridge. He was scared of losing you.

He emerged from the forests, droplets of water from the rain, falling from the trees, waiting for him. You weren't there.

Another week had passed, a week full of Nicholas visiting the bridge every day of the week—even if it's just for one minute. He would text you every now and then, checking in:

> How's your day? > Wanna meet at the bridge tmrw? > Tough week? > How are you? please text me back > y/n?

Still, you were a ghost. A ghost of memories lingering at the back of his mind—until he saw you sitting by the railings again. Eyes barely open, breathing controlled, just… staring at your reflection. 

The sky was sleepy. A shaky smile crept up Nicholas' face, “y/n!” he exclaimed. For a second, something flickered in his expression—not sadness exactly, but recognition. Like seeing someone who used to mean everything suddenly feel distant for no clear reason.

You waved at him, “Hey Nico.” He didn’t push right away, he never did. But his shoulders tensed slightly—a quiet tell—as if he felt the shift between you two. Colder than before. Guarded where warmth used to live without effort.

The kind where everything unsaid hangs heavy between people who used to understand each other without words. Then he cleared his throat gently and broke it, “Been a while.”

“Yeah… it has,” 

“...How’ve you been?”

The way he asked ticked something in you. He asked. Not casual small talk, genuine. Not the kind to just fill the silence. Oh how you hadn’t talked to him in so long. And now here he was, asking like nothing had changed between you two.

That familiar heaviness when someone shows kindness after weeks of radio silence from your side made your throat tightened. Your eyes dropped to his knuckles for a second; they were painted crimson again.

“Okay,” your eyes darted somewhere else, “well– busy,” 

He only nodded, “still drawing?” It was such a him question; quietly observing instead of prying directly into you. He remembered that sketchbook clutched under your arm every day like armor.

The gallery exhibit flashed in his mind—and he knew it hadn’t been easy for someone as private as you to show work publicly. All because he’d encouraged it a month ago. But that glow on your face flashed brighter, there's something about not knowing what to feel and how to feel. Just another one of those questions that kept popping up unanswered.

“Not much,” Another beat passed.

He bit his tongue, a sentence at the tip of his tongue—”Did I do something wrong?” the question pierced you. That heavy, empty, and numbing feeling climbed back up to your chest. 

“What do you mean?”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“You think I've been avoiding you? I told you I've been busy,”

“Please don't lie to me,”

The air between you turned sharp, like the temperature dropped ten degrees in seconds. His question hung there, raw and quiet. It wasn’t angry. Not even frustrated. It was hurt. You could see it in his face—the subtle tension around his jaw, how his eyes had lost their usual calm softness. He's just standing there on that cold stone bridge, looking at you like he’d been waiting for a single honest word from you.

And now? Now he sounded like someone whose trust had started cracking—not broken yet—but bending dangerously under weight of silence you unfortunately created.

The wind swept through again. A gust this time, making your hair flutter against your cheeks as both of you stood frozen not by temperature — but by the heaviness pressing down between two people who used to be each other’s safe place.

So much unspoken. But you can't bear this anymore. You can't bare seeing– feeling like this anymore. Until the words spoke for themselves for you: “Don't look at me like that,”

“Then how should I? Because there's no way I'll voluntarily stop,”

“Don't be stupid,”

“Then stop making it so tempting.”

“Nicholas,” you paused. He finally looked at you, but you would risk everything falling apart just by looking back at him. Your eyes fixed to the river. Then a whisper between your lips, “It feels like I could never be enough for anyone,” for you. But you held back on that last part while Nicholas’ expression shattered into something tender, almost pained. Like he’d been waiting years to hear that confession. And now it was finally out in the open— fragile as glass, delicate as a petal.

He exhaled like he forgot that he had been holding his breath for a good while. “You’re so very welcome to test that theory with me,”

The moment stretched—fragile, tender. His words settled over you like a blanket pulled tight after being cold for too long. An offer to safety you hadn't resided in for a long time. And hey, it worked.

That numb heaviness in your chest? It cracked—not gone yet—but softer now. As if the ice melted under the morning sun because someone finally said the right thing without needing instructions on how to. 

A tiny smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it—the first real one since things got awkward, “God… I missed this place,” you muttered. He blinked back letting out a chuckle—-almost relieved.

For just one second? you were okay again on this stupid brick bridge. You felt okay to feel like this. You hate that you pushed him away, blew him off like the steam had told you it was too much to digest in one gulp. Until— bzzztt. 

The notification violently loud inside the pockets of your coat, “I have to go.”

You were once again, just a memory for him to hold on to.

© dedlexte on Tumblr — for fictional purposes. Do not steal, translate, or plagiarise. Do not feed my work into AI.

A/N: Part two will be out next week :) lmk if i did smth wrong bc its my first time writing this kind of thing but when it comes to grammar mistakes its best to ignore bc i dont have a lot of respect for this language (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated please blurt your thoughts as if you only have 20 words left

Taglist: @euijooswife (p.s. sending lots of hugs ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ)

Credits: @writersiland (writing prompt), @diviniyae (dividers)

[dedlexte]

Who would've thought this would reach 190 notes (๑-﹏-๑) 10 notes away from the big two zero zero ❤‍🩹 Thank you so much everyone for reading my first-born child it means so much ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა♡

[dedlexte]

holy shit I just got a cute fic idea !! attention all mind readers !! don't you dare look into my mind and steal the idea

[dedlexte]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀朝倉穣 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Bread, Berries, and Other Love Letters 𖹭

ᯓ WHEREIN : Asakura Jo; who noticed a shift about you and your relationship with what you eat, decided to fix it by buying a handful of food, a woven basket, and a blanket. (wc; 1.6k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Established relationship, fluff with light angst, not eating as plot, profanity, jo being all fluttershy and cute, kissing, em-dashes and semicolons.

ᯓ A/N : wrote this IN A DAY for my beloved jo stan(s) @hironoshimura as compensation bc my upcoming fic is gnna be for another member... and a big smooch for @roryboryalis for giving me the idea for this fic <3 i hope ygs accept my apology 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Your shoulders slumped a little more than usual. That flush of rose on your cheeks looked a little more pale than usual. You yawned a little every time you rest your head on your hands. You get lightheaded every afternoon to the point where Jo had to give you his spare aspirin.

He had noticed how you've whined in his ears at least once a day about how tired you were every time the clock ticks past 12. He had noticed how your replies to dinner invitations slowly changed from "Maybe next time?" to "You guys go ahead." He had noticed the untouched lunchboxes that came back home almost as full as when you packed them, the half-finished cups of coffee collecting rings on your desk. He had noticed how you started rubbing your temples before opening your laptop, how your shoulders remained tense even after you'd shut it, and how your laughter grew quieter, shorter.

You were skipping meals.

His heart tugged into a knot when he first made the realization after the dots connected in that unsullied mind of his. In his eyes, he couldn't quite figure out how someone as picture perfect as you, believes that there's still something to chase for. In his eyes, he couldn't name someone more perfect than the pinnacle of who embodies art; the way your hair falls as graceful as a ballerina, the way your eyes are angled like oddly hung paintings at a museum, the way your cheeks dimples when you smile at him like pottery before they enter the kiln, the way your lips shine when the sunlight hits like freshly melted glass—a work of art in the form of a breathing, loving, human being.

From the minute he knew what was going on, he had done everything in his power to finish his personal mission of getting you to eat again—or at least try to find out why you weren't. Every lunch he would give you granola bars because "I was getting one anyways, might as well buy you one too.". Every now and then when he couldn't be there for you he would order snacks and send it to where you were just because "I wanted to."

And to his surprise, you didn't notice anything weird about it.

It was another evening, conveniently just right between breakfast and lunch, you sat right next to him at a small family-owned restaurant. He ordered after you; a drink, teriyaki, and of course: rice. No surprises there.

After the food had arrived, and both of you had taken your first bites, he took a glance at your food that seemed like it was untouched. He then looked at you only to find your eyes taking small peeks at his glistening-ly appetizing food. Unfortunately it smelled amazing too.

The corners of his mouths held back a smile when he knew he had the opportunity to sneakily "Do you want to try my food?" he cleared his throat and swallowed hard before speaking. With the slightest hesitation, you nod. He took the chopsticks in his hands and scooped up some rice before feeding them to you. He squinted, then his pupils slowly stretched, noticing details he hadn't before.

"Good?" he asked as you nod up and down excitedly with your eyes hung wider. He chuckled in response—an almost giggle. "Do you want more?" he asked again, the tips of his ears growing warmer and warmer until it turned a soft red since you were sharing a bowl of warm, steaming rice, with him.

"Yes please."

From there he fed you spoonful after spoonful while the clouds float away from the sun, revealing an endless expanse of cerulean silk. A soft satisfaction flooded his insides when he watched you open your mouth as his chopsticks get closer, like seeing a flower bloom long after it's in the shade—sunlight in it's absence. Truth be told, he could feed you all day until his arms grow weak if it means he'd see you full of color again.

Not even a week had passed after his first self-proclaimed success, a message popped up on your phone while you were otherwise occupied: "The weather is so nice today," then another popped, "Wanna take a walk together this afternoon?" without hesitation you grabbed your phone and replied a yes to him, it would be a waste to not watch the sunset—-especially with Jo.

What didn't occur to you was that this was a deliberately built set up. The fading light caught the scattered wispy clouds, fading into soft swirls of pink and magenta that twisted like balloons caught in an evening breeze. A warm, damp breeze rustled through the vibrant green meadow, carrying the earthy scent of rain and sweet nectar as you and Jo walked towards a park that expanded into an endless field of grass. It was the crescendo of the day, a moment of pure serenity where the boundary between sky and earth blurred into a quiet, warm evening.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he touched the back of his neck as he guided you with his free hand on your lower back—gentle as if it was naturally supposed to be there.

And there sat just right in front of you, softly lit by the soft blow the sun gave, along with a couple of candles strategically placed across the blue plaid patterned mat. The scent of sweet warm baked goods welcomed you when you saw a picnic basket slightly opened. Your mouth now hung and faintly agape, "Jo, what's all this?"

He fidgeted with his hair before licking his lips, "Tada—! Do you… do you like it?" he stammered.

You sat down to properly look at what he managed to organize in such little time, you open the basket only for you to see all your favorite foods, snacks, desserts, curated and snuggly tucked into its corner. The rigid walls around your ribs immediately gave way, collapsing into a soft, quiet sigh. Lucky is an understatement.

"I don't know what to say, Jo, I-"

"You don't have to," he smiled, "So, which one do you want first?"

That broke a laugh out of you. You haven't even said anything yet and Jo was already unboxing everything in front of you; cake boxes now discarded in one spot on the blanket while you wiped the utensils he prepared using tissues.

The blanket had long disappeared beneath a patchwork of containers and paper bags, each one filled with something you'd once mentioned liking a long time ago—not expecting him to remember your lighthearted rambles. Fresh strawberries glistened beside neatly store-cut mangoes, still cold from to the touch. Egg sandwiches wrapped in parchment sat next to warm kimbap, buttery croissants, salt-and-vinegar chips, even little fruit tarts with glossy berries on top, and a bottle of sparkling peach soda sweating in the afternoon sun he bought for you on his way here.

Jo claimed he had packed "just enough," though the evidence suggested he'd mistaken a picnic for a feast. He watched with quiet triumph as your eyes widened at the spread, nudging a container toward you before you'd even decided where to start. "I remembered you said these were your favorite," he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

You took the cake slice in your hand along with a thin wooden fork in the other, and gently pierced the sharp end of the cake to scoop it up, "open widee," your voice warm and your hand reaching out to let him take a bite of the dollop of what looks like to be mostly frosting. Jo didn't question it. He leaned in obediently, lips parting with an exaggerated, "Ah—"

At the very last second, your wrist twitched. A tiny dollop of frosting landed squarely on the tip of his nose.

"Seriously?" his reaction deadpan.

You dissolved first, a laugh escaped you and spilling out before you could even apologize. Jo blinked, displaying an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He reached up as if to wipe it away, but your hand caught his wrist before he could.

"Wait."

Still smiling, you leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla clinging to him. With the gentlest swipe of your thumb, you brushed the frosting from the bridge of his nose, only to smear a little more across his cheek by accident, "whoops."

"You're making it worse,"

"I know,"

Neither of you moved away. Your thumb lingered for just a heartbeat longer before wiping the last streak clean. He looked at you with that quiet smile you'd come to know so well, the one that reached his eyes long before it reached his lips.

"There," you murmured triumphantly. "Much better."

"Liar," he chuckled. "There's probably still frosting somewhere."

"Probably."

He reached over anyway, stealing the fork from your hand before taking a proper bite of the cake this time. "Mm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Worth the betrayal." You bumped your shoulder against his, laughing again as the two of you settled back onto the picnic blanket, the afternoon breeze carrying your laughter far beyond the patch of grass where warmth cradled your face like watercolor on water.

The breeze carried the scent of blooming wildflowers as you leaned against each other, sharing bites without asking, stealing strawberries from the same carton, and laughing whenever one of you insisted the other take the last one. Somewhere overhead, clouds drifted lazily across an impossibly orange sky, and for a little while, the world shrank to the warmth of the sun, the rustle of leaves, and the simple comfort of being known well enough that someone remembered exactly what made you smile.

And beneath all of it, Jo did a small celebration in his head that leaked into a smile while he looked at you—really looked at you, before leaning closer to give you a kiss. His fingers hovered above yours for a minute, and the next minute they're intertwined with yours.

"Thank you, Jo."

dedlexte on tumblr © 2026 — for fictional purposes. Do not steal, translate, or plagiarise. Do not feed my work into AI.

A/N: This was originally my daydream about kyrell... im so kypilled... ૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა and it was in the middle of a run too LMAOO reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated and lmk if ygs like seeing short fics like this!! or should i continue with longer and more fleshed out fics like water under the bridge hmm

Credits: @diviniyae (dividers)

[dedlexte]

If i had powers i would turn into jo and treat you with a picnic full of bread and cookies and hironos and and and anna ilysm i really really do hope you enjoy this one (˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵)(˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵)(˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵)

[dedlexte]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀朝倉穣 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Bread, Berries, and Other Love Letters 𖹭

ᯓ WHEREIN : Asakura Jo; who noticed a shift about you and your relationship with what you eat, decided to fix it by buying a handful of food, a woven basket, and a blanket. (wc; 1.6k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Established relationship, fluff with light angst, not eating as plot, profanity, jo being all fluttershy and cute, kissing, em-dashes and semicolons.

ᯓ A/N : wrote this IN A DAY for my beloved jo stan(s) @hironoshimura as compensation bc my upcoming fic is gnna be for another member... and a big smooch for @roryboryalis for giving me the idea for this fic <3 i hope ygs accept my apology 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Your shoulders slumped a little more than usual. That flush of rose on your cheeks looked a little more pale than usual. You yawned a little every time you rest your head on your hands. You get lightheaded every afternoon to the point where Jo had to give you his spare aspirin.

He had noticed how you've whined in his ears at least once a day about how tired you were every time the clock ticks past 12. He had noticed how your replies to dinner invitations slowly changed from "Maybe next time?" to "You guys go ahead." He had noticed the untouched lunchboxes that came back home almost as full as when you packed them, the half-finished cups of coffee collecting rings on your desk. He had noticed how you started rubbing your temples before opening your laptop, how your shoulders remained tense even after you'd shut it, and how your laughter grew quieter, shorter.

You were skipping meals.

His heart tugged into a knot when he first made the realization after the dots connected in that unsullied mind of his. In his eyes, he couldn't quite figure out how someone as picture perfect as you, believes that there's still something to chase for. In his eyes, he couldn't name someone more perfect than the pinnacle of who embodies art; the way your hair falls as graceful as a ballerina, the way your eyes are angled like oddly hung paintings at a museum, the way your cheeks dimples when you smile at him like pottery before they enter the kiln, the way your lips shine when the sunlight hits like freshly melted glass—a work of art in the form of a breathing, loving, human being.

From the minute he knew what was going on, he had done everything in his power to finish his personal mission of getting you to eat again—or at least try to find out why you weren't. Every lunch he would give you granola bars because "I was getting one anyways, might as well buy you one too.". Every now and then when he couldn't be there for you he would order snacks and send it to where you were just because "I wanted to."

And to his surprise, you didn't notice anything weird about it.

It was another evening, conveniently just right between breakfast and lunch, you sat right next to him at a small family-owned restaurant. He ordered after you; a drink, teriyaki, and of course: rice. No surprises there.

After the food had arrived, and both of you had taken your first bites, he took a glance at your food that seemed like it was untouched. He then looked at you only to find your eyes taking small peeks at his glistening-ly appetizing food. Unfortunately it smelled amazing too.

The corners of his mouths held back a smile when he knew he had the opportunity to sneakily "Do you want to try my food?" he cleared his throat and swallowed hard before speaking. With the slightest hesitation, you nod. He took the chopsticks in his hands and scooped up some rice before feeding them to you. He squinted, then his pupils slowly stretched, noticing details he hadn't before.

"Good?" he asked as you nod up and down excitedly with your eyes hung wider. He chuckled in response—an almost giggle. "Do you want more?" he asked again, the tips of his ears growing warmer and warmer until it turned a soft red since you were sharing a bowl of warm, steaming rice, with him.

"Yes please."

From there he fed you spoonful after spoonful while the clouds float away from the sun, revealing an endless expanse of cerulean silk. A soft satisfaction flooded his insides when he watched you open your mouth as his chopsticks get closer, like seeing a flower bloom long after it's in the shade—sunlight in it's absence. Truth be told, he could feed you all day until his arms grow weak if it means he'd see you full of color again.

Not even a week had passed after his first self-proclaimed success, a message popped up on your phone while you were otherwise occupied: "The weather is so nice today," then another popped, "Wanna take a walk together this afternoon?" without hesitation you grabbed your phone and replied a yes to him, it would be a waste to not watch the sunset—-especially with Jo.

What didn't occur to you was that this was a deliberately built set up. The fading light caught the scattered wispy clouds, fading into soft swirls of pink and magenta that twisted like balloons caught in an evening breeze. A warm, damp breeze rustled through the vibrant green meadow, carrying the earthy scent of rain and sweet nectar as you and Jo walked towards a park that expanded into an endless field of grass. It was the crescendo of the day, a moment of pure serenity where the boundary between sky and earth blurred into a quiet, warm evening.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he touched the back of his neck as he guided you with his free hand on your lower back—gentle as if it was naturally supposed to be there.

And there sat just right in front of you, softly lit by the soft blow the sun gave, along with a couple of candles strategically placed across the blue plaid patterned mat. The scent of sweet warm baked goods welcomed you when you saw a picnic basket slightly opened. Your mouth now hung and faintly agape, "Jo, what's all this?"

He fidgeted with his hair before licking his lips, "Tada—! Do you… do you like it?" he stammered.

You sat down to properly look at what he managed to organize in such little time, you open the basket only for you to see all your favorite foods, snacks, desserts, curated and snuggly tucked into its corner. The rigid walls around your ribs immediately gave way, collapsing into a soft, quiet sigh. Lucky is an understatement.

"I don't know what to say, Jo, I-"

"You don't have to," he smiled, "So, which one do you want first?"

That broke a laugh out of you. You haven't even said anything yet and Jo was already unboxing everything in front of you; cake boxes now discarded in one spot on the blanket while you wiped the utensils he prepared using tissues.

The blanket had long disappeared beneath a patchwork of containers and paper bags, each one filled with something you'd once mentioned liking a long time ago—not expecting him to remember your lighthearted rambles. Fresh strawberries glistened beside neatly store-cut mangoes, still cold from to the touch. Egg sandwiches wrapped in parchment sat next to warm kimbap, buttery croissants, salt-and-vinegar chips, even little fruit tarts with glossy berries on top, and a bottle of sparkling peach soda sweating in the afternoon sun he bought for you on his way here.

Jo claimed he had packed "just enough," though the evidence suggested he'd mistaken a picnic for a feast. He watched with quiet triumph as your eyes widened at the spread, nudging a container toward you before you'd even decided where to start. "I remembered you said these were your favorite," he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

You took the cake slice in your hand along with a thin wooden fork in the other, and gently pierced the sharp end of the cake to scoop it up, "open widee," your voice warm and your hand reaching out to let him take a bite of the dollop of what looks like to be mostly frosting. Jo didn't question it. He leaned in obediently, lips parting with an exaggerated, "Ah—"

At the very last second, your wrist twitched. A tiny dollop of frosting landed squarely on the tip of his nose.

"Seriously?" his reaction deadpan.

You dissolved first, a laugh escaped you and spilling out before you could even apologize. Jo blinked, displaying an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He reached up as if to wipe it away, but your hand caught his wrist before he could.

"Wait."

Still smiling, you leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla clinging to him. With the gentlest swipe of your thumb, you brushed the frosting from the bridge of his nose, only to smear a little more across his cheek by accident, "whoops."

"You're making it worse,"

"I know,"

Neither of you moved away. Your thumb lingered for just a heartbeat longer before wiping the last streak clean. He looked at you with that quiet smile you'd come to know so well, the one that reached his eyes long before it reached his lips.

"There," you murmured triumphantly. "Much better."

"Liar," he chuckled. "There's probably still frosting somewhere."

"Probably."

He reached over anyway, stealing the fork from your hand before taking a proper bite of the cake this time. "Mm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Worth the betrayal." You bumped your shoulder against his, laughing again as the two of you settled back onto the picnic blanket, the afternoon breeze carrying your laughter far beyond the patch of grass where warmth cradled your face like watercolor on water.

The breeze carried the scent of blooming wildflowers as you leaned against each other, sharing bites without asking, stealing strawberries from the same carton, and laughing whenever one of you insisted the other take the last one. Somewhere overhead, clouds drifted lazily across an impossibly orange sky, and for a little while, the world shrank to the warmth of the sun, the rustle of leaves, and the simple comfort of being known well enough that someone remembered exactly what made you smile.

And beneath all of it, Jo did a small celebration in his head that leaked into a smile while he looked at you—really looked at you, before leaning closer to give you a kiss. His fingers hovered above yours for a minute, and the next minute they're intertwined with yours.

"Thank you, Jo."

dedlexte on tumblr © 2026 — for fictional purposes. Do not steal, translate, or plagiarise. Do not feed my work into AI.

A/N: This was originally my daydream about kyrell... im so kypilled... ૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა and it was in the middle of a run too LMAOO reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated and lmk if ygs like seeing short fics like this!! or should i continue with longer and more fleshed out fics like water under the bridge hmm

Credits: @diviniyae (dividers)

[dedlexte]

wait I'm stupid I queued the fic at the wrong time fml 😂😂😂

[dedlexte]

What do you do when you know what the kanji means but cannot read it for shit y'all I hate kanji I think kanji should be locked up in prison and never get out until it perishes behind bars

[dedlexte]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀王奕翔 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Water Under the Bridge ☆

ᯓ WHEREIN : you were never meant to meet another soul on this bridge you made your own—yet that reality was long broken. (wc; 6.5k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family pressure, Kissing, Em-dashes and semicolons, university au, self-doubt, f!reader, etc.

ᯓ A/N : This one is for the eldest daughters out there!!! my &team debut and my writing-this-much debut too, a whole lotta love was poured into this fic I hope that love is reciprocated <3 anyways #spreadchalantnicoagenda

111 | 222 | mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Legs hanging down the railing-less brick bridge between a small river hidden within the forest, just barely touching the water. It’s stone sun-dried, and it’s cracks hugging the ever-growing moss. weathered by time and rain, and ivy snakes up one of the pillars like a sleeping serpent. Letting the wind dance through your hair and unnoticeably dangling your feet. The sun was warm enough to let the fall wind not freeze you to death since you accidentally left your coat unattended—now hanging against your bedroom door.

You let the charcoal from your pencil drag across your little hot-pressed sketchbook, line by line appearing without thinking as the birds chirp echoing between leaves of each tree surrounding this little “safe area” you go to every time everything feels a little too heavy to bear. And slowly, a picture of what was left unsaid reveals itself on your canvas, as the rampant thoughts in your head start to cool down a little. What was then a paragraph of discarded sentences, now just appearing as tiny glimpses of words that's no longer yelling at you. 

Maybe in some way, bottling them up would be a better way to deal with it than to manifest it to the physical world. Even if your fists yell at you to throw them against the wall, even if the door whispers to you to push it forcibly, even if vocal chords fight its way to scream your heart out. It’s better to just let your legs run to this place. Where the water remains serene and quiet no matter what happens in its world. And where no one would be there waiting for you to watch you as you steady your breath.

You let your head tilt back for a minute, resting your eyes and letting the breeze fly through you.

Until the trees shook more than it usually does. You hear a few branches crack as a sound of muttering curses gets louder and louder—and a dark-haired boy emerges out of the dense woods, seemingly furious about something. Fists clenched, hair messy, sleeves rolled up. He threw his bag that spitted out documents and multiple scribbled in loose leafs. You could hear him muttering in mandarin under his breath from a mile away in your spot, before he throws a nasty punch at a tree next to him. He closes his eyes, deep in frustration—before he sighed to the ground. 

It’s odd. You weren't scared. You weren't startled by the fact that a person just bruised his knuckles fighting a tree trunk. You were startled by the fact that somebody also goes to this place, or at least happens to stumble across it. 

He took a minute to breath by himself, hands on his hips. He opened his eyes towards the bridge only to see… somebody? You—a girl and her sketchbook by the river. His eyes widened, it was obvious he was certain nobody was there. “I– I’m sorry I didn't… wasn’t… expecting anyone to be here,” he explained, "I didn't realize anybody else would go here.” 

A beat. 

“Me neither,” you locked eyes with him before looking back down to your sketchbook. It was clear you wanted him to let out all of the things he ought to let out, so you didn't want to bother him further. Everybody deserves a time for themselves; to unwind the cork of a bottle full of intense emotions they wouldn't dare show anyone—but you were intrigued. You’re here almost five days a week, even more sometimes. Yet you never stumble across another person—not him. So naturally, you glanced back up at him. 

He was staring. Not the creepy kind despite how sharp his eyes were, but every wrinkle of expression in his face says confusion. Now suddenly what he initially wanted to let out wasn't there anymore—dissipated into something else he didn't know what to name. 

You gestured to him, patting a spot beside you—telling him there's a place to sit down if he wants to, as you looked back down and closed your sketchbook to watch the water again. 

With hesitation, he walked towards the other end of the bridge, and sat down. Legs crossed, breath heavy, and jaws clenched. He took another breath trying to slow himself down. “Sorry I’m not usually like this,” his voice barely audible. “I know,” you replied with your eyes still watching every curve the water waved. “...if you want to talk about it,” you tilted your head so it gestured ‘go for it’, “and if you don’t that's fine too,” 

Another beat.

“Do you come here often?” he asked after almost five minutes of silence.

“Too often,” 

“Yeah?,” he chuckled, "I only go here to… you know,”

You nodded in understanding, “funny how we've never met before,” you finally looked at him over your shoulders. And again he chuckled under his breath, "I think the water under the bridge had seen me at my worst state,” he let out another heavy breath. His eyes meet yours, and for some reason your heart did something inside you, something you wouldn't dare name either.  “Nicholas. By the way.” 

“y/n,” you smiled.

You knew you shouldn't say anything, not to someone when they're vulnerable at least. But there's just something about the way he smiled ever so slightly beneath all that anger, the way the sun glowed faintly on his skin, the way he sat down next to you and started to align his breathing with yours. Something so inviting about seeing a person with a broken shell—a shell which you've never seen before. Before you could stop yourself: “You know… I go here every so often when I get reminded of how numb everything feels,” he looks at you, “when… things gets too much too often, you just dont… feel much anymore,” your heart starts beating a little faster—you're finally saying how you actually function to someone—that's not something that happens every day. “You don't feel a lot but there's going to be a lot of things running through your mind, you know?” you continued, “a lot of… things not to say.”

You fidgeted around the hem of your clothes. The words started rampaging in your mind again ‘you shouldn't be saying so much’ ‘you spoke too much’ ‘You–’ 

“Then I guess the water under us is actually just a big cup of chamomile tea,” he blurted, you raise your eyebrow at him, “what?” 

“You know, It has like- calming properties,” that earned a laugh from you, he laughed back with you, now both of your legs dangle just above the water surface, “I guess,” you chuckled.

As the sun started to show its orange hues, the conversation started to flow. All the right things said at the right time, and all the right jokes aimed at the right person. You forgot how heartwarming it is to finally talk to a person again. Really talking this time, not just a small talk or a chit-chat with your friends. But an honest talk straight from your beating heart. The one that earned cheek-hurting-smiles and an endless amount of open ended curiosity that had a small consensus between the two of you. Oh how you’ve longed for this.

Seconds blurred into hours as the sun winked its last shine. “I think it's a good time to go home now,” Nicholas pointed his gaze at the stars, you nodded. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

If anyone could get past ‘too much’, then it's you. Every other day you’d feel the rush to go back onto the bridge before you blow up and mess things up for other people, so the bridge called your name again.

But there's this small part of you—a tiny one, hoping he’ll show up again. This spark of light in a dark room wants him to show up again. The bridge no longer serves the purpose of accompanying you when you're numb anymore; you hope the bridge could make you feel again. 

So you show up everyday of the week. Every Sunday afternoon turned into every afternoon. You lost count of the times you’ve gone back without a real aim, without knowing what you’ll do there but wait. Every afternoon you sit back there again, letting your back lean against a tree while your legs rested on the cold stone hard surface. You watched the sunset dip its last bow over and over again. Another day, the leaves were trembling more than it should, noises coming out of the forest, branches breaking upon weight—it was just a squirrel. I'm not being pathetic, am I?

This feeling of hope is your only string to keep going, a slight chance it might ignite something in you again. So you go there everyday now, waiting—longing. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. Yet there is still not one sign another person would emerge out of the forest and introduce themselves—definitely not Nicholas. Another small part of you is happy that he no longer felt the need to go back here, a place where his only aim was to break apart–wait–maybe he was no longer comfortable going there again after seeing you. That can’t be, right? 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

There he was. Once again standing on the very same spot he sat down next to you a month ago. His breath heavy, his eyes dark, but they were looking at you: peacefully sound asleep beneath the shade the tree provided, with a book clutched loosely in your arms, leaning reliantly on its trunk. “You’re here,” he whispered.

Nicholas stepped closer to another tree just merely inches from yours, sitting down and leaning against it. You looked so at peace with the world in your head playing whatever dream it’s projecting to you right now, how the sunshine that was peeking through the leaves hits your face like glitter, it's so… serene. And just like that, Nicholas had his eyes shut in front of you, finally resting from his world—to yours.

Hours passed before you were about to wake up and leave—after confirming nobody was coming. You opened your heavy eyelids expecting yet another feeling of hope dissipating, only to find the same boy in front of you… sleeping. The sun was awake, yet both of you managed to fall asleep as if the sun was already under a blanket, leaving no light to shine through. Your heart skipped a beat finally. Not moving an inch, you just watched him and his shoulders rhythmically dropping down and breathing in. Leaving was no longer an action in your to-do list, the moment was too much of a waste to not savor. 

“You’re staring,” Nicholas mumbled, his eyes still dropped shut. You jumped ever so slightly against the bark of your tree, “God- you scared me,” he opened his eyes to look at you. And that’s when you realize just how dark his eyes were. Not dark like your daily shot of espresso, but dark in a way where it’s storing pools of ink, the glimmer of obsidian, like the forest midnight and the reflection of every firefly telling a different story. He obviously noticed yours too, steady and unblinking, how beautifully abstract every time the sunrays hit them, yet no matter how much it tries to shine light to it, the night sky seemed to take over within the irises. So hypnotizing that when he resides to look at them, he finally knows what it means to stargaze. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, “we meet again.” 

“Seems so,” you smiled,

“What are you reading?” 

“Oh um- this?”

“No i meant my palms that you were previously reading—yes y/n the book,” a cheeky grin slowly creeps up his face,

You nudged his knees with your shoes, “well, nosy it’s just something that was given to me when I was younger.” He grabbed the book from your hands to take a look at it, “Hey!” you yelped, “who gives ‘The odyssey’ to a child? Did you even understand the 9 letter long words in here?!” Nicholas flipped over the pages, each page revealing a new doodle, an underlined word with question marks under it, and multiple ink bleeds from God knows what. “Okay you can stop now,” you take it back from him.

You both laughed together again for the second time, a soft heat settled across his face when he heard your laugh. But your eyes suddenly drop to his knuckles again, fresh bruises now covering the old one. An instant later, “Do you wanna get coffee?” he asked.

Now you're both walking and cutting through the forestation towards a small cafe not far from where the two of you just were. Side by side on a sidewalk meant for two, your eyes wander around from your feet, to him, and back to the pebble beach and it’s lake that stretches until you can only see the horizon and the trees reflecting on it—funny how the shore seemed to always keeps company its body of water, regardless of where you are and which shore you're on—they will always belong together. 

Belong. to be in the right place, to be owned by someone, or to feel connected to something. You know you shouldnt feel like you dont belong under the roof over your head you call home. Atleast there is a roof to keep raindrops from piercing your skull and fall off the tips of your hair, atleast it keeps you alive, right? But being someone everybody in the house relied on—to be the very glue holding everything and everyone together—who are you supposed to rely on?

No matter how much you’ve done and how many sacrifices you made for your family, it never felt enough to catch a glimpse of recognition. No matter how much you've achieved, it has never felt like it was enough for anyone–for you. 

Sure, there was never any direct pressure for you to be perfect. But there is a certain whisper. A whisper of how much you should be able to achieve to not break this disheveling amount of trust. So ask yourself this; where do you actually belong? Certai–

“You okay?” Nico snapped you back from your head, you nod. “Hm. If i recall correctly, you brought a sketchbook last time we met,” he pointed out. You shot a smile at him, “What about it?” both of you slowed your paces, “so you draw a lot?” 

Only when you're stuck in inertia, “yeah i do,”

“Can I see ‘em?” 

Not one soul had seen your drawings—not in that sketchbook atleast, “well i didnt have them on me right now do I?” the corners of your mouth lifted after he replied with a small laugh, “alright we’re here.”

A small family-owned cafe, small mosaic windows embezzling each wall protected and shaded by the yellow and white striped canopies. “After you,” Nicholas stretched his arm to open the door for you. The bell chirped a small ding as you entered and nodded a thank you. The two of you ordered your drinks at the front counter and sat down at a two-seater table. 

It was unsurprisingly easy to talk to him, every word you utter to him felt light and easy; you didn't have to try to think of a response before you talk. While the world around you kept going, talking to somebody made you feel… grounded—like you're actually living again—all lingering responsibilities just hide behind your eyes inside the corner of a cupboard inside your brain.

Time seems to stretch far beyond the bounds of a clock hand. And the conversation just flows so naturally for both of you to lose track of time, and for the apples of your cheeks to hurt just a little more than what you’re used to.

While on the other hand, he felt a sense of safety when he’s around you. A sense of safety he only realized when you were both exchanging words and when you were smiling ear to ear, giggling at all the stupid miserably attempted jokes he gushed. He knew from the first day he met you, connecting puzzles of assumptions created from a small glimpse of his life to build a perception—like other people do—was not a thing you do. The moment he took a sip of his coffee, his guard completely melted once he knew he could trust you even if you didnt say anything to him. He looked up from his cup, there was something warm inside of him. Something warm cradling his face. “Are you not gonna drink that?”

Nicholas pointed at your barely drunk cup of latte, “Oh I will, I love coffee.” you blinked, “no i don’t, i don’t know why i always order coffee when I've never been that fond of them.”

The now lukewarm coffee of yours swiveled around as you spun the cup around before putting it back down, “I think I just like the idea of getting it—to fit in.” His arm folded at your sudden confession, “Holding a book and now ordering coffee for the novelty of it — just how performative can you get?” he joked. The both of you continued another hour on a rotation of significantly different topics—i mean seriously, the range is insane—the sun still shining through the windows.

Nicholas thought about something for a little bit, his eyes looking straight at the table without an inch of movement on his face, “here,” he handed you the receipt. You eyebrows furrowed, “you… want me to pay for yours?” you asked puzzled on why in the world would he give you a receipt all of a sudden? But before you could question him further, he handed you yet another item: a pen.

“Whip up something,” he requested. 

“Demanding,” you teased,

“Hey can’t a guy be interested in someone’s hobby,”

“Nico why are you so eager to see my drawings anyway, it’s not like i painted the mona lisa,”

“Okay first of all,” he held up a finger, “you don’t diss yourself like that — and second, I'm somewhat of an art kid myself,” you lifted your eyebrows in response. “Kind of in school for it.” He flared his rings, all silver and nudging eachother.

Well you did what he asked for, just not particularly in front of him for him to notice. You took his pen and receipt in your hands, hiding them behind your now cold coffee cup. You continued your conversation while drawing doodles on his receipt. A conversation in which you finally get more than just a sliver of what his life looked like. Wrong is one way to put it.

Wrong in ways he couldn't digest what he feels. Wrong in ways he attempts to hide behind jokes. Wrong in a way where the world shouldn't treat someone who wouldn't harm a bug like that. Wrong in ways he never had the opportunity to show others that he—a human being—could be vulnerable too.

Along with you, Nicholas stepped out of the vanilla scented café. The air smelled faintly of salt water and wet leaves, while the ocean waves sang its song. 

A soft contrast, you swear the whole cafe could hear both of your laughters as you were talking, yet each footsteps stomped a different note that you now could listen to due to how quiet the walk was. It was comfortable. Warm.

You stop for a second — so did he. Looking through the pockets of yours, you rummaged through to try and find something. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as you finally gave him the receipt back; now crumpled and doodled. 

Where the prices were written, the letters and numbers were now covered in ink; ink that takes shapes as a small flower bouquet, an anatomically accurate heart, a cat sound-asleep, a pair of eyes, and a miniaturized version of your haven within the heart of the forest. A haven you memorize every crack in. A haven where you met Nicholas.

His mouth slightly agape, a sharp exhale laughed out of it, “this is-” he flipped the receipt around, “...is that- is that me?”

A sketch of a boy smiling, eyes tired—but a grin worth to admire. Just enough joy and content captured in ballpoint ink. 

You nod.

Awestrucked—words were the last thing he could come up with. “So?” you didn't return the silence, but he still remained word-less. 

To be recognized. To be seen. To be captured. Three mundane things that couldn't seem to be make it's way as often as it should. His gazed melted, he knew he told you to draw, but the idea of him being drawn never crossed his mind. The idea of being recognized, seen, and captured never crosses his mind. It wasn't purely because of your drawing, it was also because of your decision to draw him.

“Yeah right, I'm never drawing near you ever again,”

“wait wait no- it's- it's lovely,” 

“That's narcissistic, no?” you point at your drawing of him he was holding in his hands, he looked back at you in disagreement, face clearly saying that's not what he meant. 

“I'm joking,”

“I'm serious,” he said while continuing to walk with you, “they're amazing,” he continued. You thank him. “ever considered letting people see this? like a display or something,” he rambled.

Warmth climbed up your neck and reached your face in one rush, “You know that had never crossed my mind,” you tilt your head, “and besides I don't think I have the time–” 

“Hey I can hook you up if you're down,” Nicholas interrupted, “I have a friend who's having a stand at a convention in a few weeks I think.” 

“Woah, you don't have to-”

“but I want to,” 

“Nicholas. I really don't have the time, once I get home from uni, I have to take care of the house. I mean- dinner doesn't just appear out of nowhere, and the house sure does not clean itself.”

“then do it at my place,”

Silence. “You have siblings right?” his question was answered with your hesitant yes. “Then let them take care of their house too.” You hate it. You hate that he was right. But you knew how much they rely on you—you couldn't just let it go. “Ill think about it,” you muttered, “thanks though.”

You went back home that night and did your daily routine. You cooked dinner, cleaned the place up, got yelled at for not being the perfect daughter, and did your college assignments in your room with a dim-lit lamp accompanying you. But there was this lingering whisper of what Nicholas said that same day, it's their house too—why are you the only one expected to take care of it? Why are you the only one expected to balance between your life and theirs as if yours didn't exist? Now the numbers on your notebook started to blur, the answer to an equation left unfinished—to understand nothing—not just the printed words with a question mark ending them, but also what your life had become. 

The next day you were back at the bridge, sitting down with groceries and your school bag next to you, you stare down at your shoes by the water. 

Your body slumped, losing its stiff posture as a slow smile crept up your face when you saw Nicholas crouching down to sit next to you, with space barely enough to keep your shoulders from bumping into each other. You turn your head to look at him, only to be met with two cups held in his hands, “got this for ya,” he lured one cup to you. The cup’s sleeve had different colors, and a different design, and a different… logo? 

“It’s matcha,” he said as you took the cup from his hands, your fingers softly grazing his. “did you go to different places to get these?” you blow through the cup, “well you said you didn't like coffee last time,” he gestured at his cup.

“I did?”

“You did,”

“You could've just gone to one place—you didn't have to walk to two-”

“They don't sell non-coffee options apart from water,”

“You could've bought matcha for two,”

“Don't like matcha,” he shrugged, “they're green.”

That earned another laugh from you, “you're ridiculous,” you took a small sip through your smile. “Thankyou,” your voice small, almost like a confession. 

You blew gently on your matcha to cool it before taking a sip, the earthy sweetness soothing against the quiet chill in the air. The cup warmed your fingers as you stared ahead at the darkening treeline. He watched you for a second; the way your nose wrinkled slightly at the warmth—before speaking. "Your hair’s longer," he said suddenly, voice low and even.

An observation dropped into space between you like a pebble into still water. You blinked. "Yeah… I haven’t cut it in months."

He hummed a soft sound and lifted his coffee again without looking away from you entirely. After another pause, "Looks good." Simple as that. No flowery words or anything, just honest and quiet-like him. 

The two of you talked a little more—a lot more. Sip after sip, The forest breathes around you, quiet rustles of leaves stirring without wind — maybe an animal passing far off. 

He searched his bag for a small notepad of his, stickers fully covering every crevice of the cover, and passed it to you along with the same pen he gave to you at the cafe a few days back. 

“We've hung out a bunch, figured it might be nice to have your phone number.” 

You took the notepad and pen from his hands, and a page opened itself as if it was waiting to be. And between the two pages, a receipt sat beneath it—decorated by your drawings. 

“Oh- you kept it?” you asked, not expecting him to still keep it around after that day. He blinked at that—surprised maybe? “Who wouldn't?” He shrugged one shoulder, coffee cup tilting slightly as he did, “makes a nice bookmark.”

Warmth bloomed somewhere inside of you—soft, sudden, like cherry blossoms blooming beneath moonlight; the first real spring after a long winter. “I guess,” you chuckled, giving the notepad back to him — your number now etched in its pages.

For a second there was nothing but birds chirping faintly somewhere deep in the woods, just imagination filling silence that feels safe because you're here with him. Then, “Wanna walk back together? It’ll be dark soon.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The seasons had come and gone on that stone bridge. Autumn brought crisp air and amber leaves drifting over water below. Winter painted everything in hushed white silence. Spring returned with sudden greenery bursting through cracks in moss-covered stones.  

 — and every time, they were there; you and Nicholas.

You don’t talk every day. But when you do? It's this. Same stone railing. He would bring the same drinks; your matcha never changes, his coffee varies by mood. You've memorized each other’s rhythms; the way you chew your lip when stressed about deadlines, how he slouches more when exams drain him. You notice the wounds on his knuckles starting to turn bronze and pale as it fades away when he flips over pages of notes you two would discuss and help each other, despite how different your majors were.

You were sharp—a terrifyingly good student—but lately? Your shoulders carried more weight than just exams. Something behind you was messy: family dinners full of tension you never brought up here. Late-night calls from parents checking every single little thing you do for the family.

But here, on this bridge — It felt safe. Like nothing else mattered except the steam rising from your cup, and him beside you making stupid jokes to lighten things without even knowing how much you needed it.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

The clock on his nightstand read 2:47 AM. Darkness pressed against the windows, no streetlights, no passing cars, just the quiet hush of a city asleep. His bedroom was cold, he hadn’t bothered turning on the heater. The blanket was tangled around his legs from tossing too much.

He stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. Thoughts spun like gears in a machine that wouldn't shut off.

Mostly it was you filling up space in his mind.

That laugh you had—soft but bright—as if joy came naturally to you despite how hard it must've been sometimes. The way your voice dropped lower when you got serious about studying, about yourself, about home. How focused your eyes became when reading, and how they’d glance up at him every now and then during your nonverbal study sessions like checking if he was still there.

A sigh slipped out into silence. Until his phone woke up with a ding: 

> Is the offer still up? > Your friend's art display > I know it's too late to ask but 

He stared at your messages with a wide smile plastered across his face like a celebration full of triumph. 

And there you are, buying a brand new canvas, charcoal, paintbrushes, fixatives—just everything you've been wanting to buy for quite a while now. Nicholas could only shake his head in endearment watching you go through five different shelves over and over again, and he would still be by your side even if it means you're going to spend the rest of your life in that store.

Doesn't matter if the sun was blinking its first rays at dawn, or if the owls were hooting you goodnight. As long as everybody in your house was asleep, anybody who would stumble upon your room would find you slouching over your canvas, headphones jacked in, concentrated and immobile. 

The day eventually came. The gallery was quiet. Sofft lighting, polished floors, the kind of hush that makes every step feel deliberate. White walls displayed art in neat rows: paintings, digital prints,  and tucked toward the back of his friends’ pieces — yours stood there.

No longer just sketches scribbled in margins or hurried doodles from the bridge—but real, finished pieces. Carefully framed charcoal studies of a peek into how you see the world. A delicate monochrome portrait of someone’s tired eyes filled with unspoken stories.

People wandered slowly between exhibits. Some pausing to look closer at your work. A couple murmured something appreciative nearby.

And there he was.

Standing slightly apart from the crowd. Not pushing anyone toward you, but attentively just watching it all unfold with this quiet intensity burning behind his calm face. Pride didn’t spill out loud or flashy on him—but it glowed. In how straight he held himself beside one wall where another tiny piece stood. The ones you’d made especially after agreeing to this show. Because yes, he had gently nudged you into creating more. And who are you to say no?

He hadn't told anyone “she's my friend,” or anything sentimental like that, but you could tell how much joy and pride he felt knowing that you were indeed—his friend.

She looked so happy. 

Peeking through your peripheral vision, your eyes accidentally locked onto his. You walked slowly towards him, hands behind your back. There was a sweet silence—a conversation made from exchanging smiles. And there was this soft laugh he loved hearing, “...thankyou” you confessed, crossing your legs. 

He nodded you're welcome. The nod didn't speak out the kind of words where he's taking his credits where it's due, not the kind to state ‘I know', but a subtle nod that spoke how it's a no-brainer—how much you deserved it.

Safe to say, the day went well. And you went home with eyes gleaming.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

Two weeks have passed since you last met him. Nicholas dropping you off at your house after the art exhibition. He became restless; he'd bite his dry lips to oblivion during lectures, fiddling the edge of his note books every late night study session. At his apartment, every song reminds him of you. During classes where he'd design something on a mannequin, how he wishes it was you he was making garments for. 

You hadn’t texted much lately. No calls either after that one awkward evening where the voices of your parents spilled over into your call with Nicholas before cutting off abruptly without explanation.

He couldn't name exactly what he was feeling. If it was love, why is it bringing him so much anxiousness? so many questions that led to no answers? and why is it that you hadn't said anything to him after that day?

One night he stayed up, phone by his side, do-not-disturbed turned off even if the clock ticked midnight, thinking you might text. His jaws tensed, contemplating a decision of whether or not he should go to the bridge and try to find you, or at least something that tells him you're still there.

That decision took less than one minute.

He took his jackets and turned on his car, rushing his way to the bridge. Maybe what he's feeling wasn't exactly love. He had his fingertips turning pale as he grips the steering wheel, his heartbeat pumping like a metronome—he was scared. He was scared of losing the person who had been there when nobody else could. Right at that bridge. He was scared of losing you.

He emerged from the forests, droplets of water from the rain, falling from the trees, waiting for him. You weren't there.

Another week had passed, a week full of Nicholas visiting the bridge every day of the week—even if it's just for one minute. He would text you every now and then, checking in:

> How's your day? > Wanna meet at the bridge tmrw? > Tough week? > How are you? please text me back > y/n?

Still, you were a ghost. A ghost of memories lingering at the back of his mind—until he saw you sitting by the railings again. Eyes barely open, breathing controlled, just… staring at your reflection. 

The sky was sleepy. A shaky smile crept up Nicholas' face, “y/n!” he exclaimed. For a second, something flickered in his expression—not sadness exactly, but recognition. Like seeing someone who used to mean everything suddenly feel distant for no clear reason.

You waved at him, “Hey Nico.” He didn’t push right away, he never did. But his shoulders tensed slightly—a quiet tell—as if he felt the shift between you two. Colder than before. Guarded where warmth used to live without effort.

The kind where everything unsaid hangs heavy between people who used to understand each other without words. Then he cleared his throat gently and broke it, “Been a while.”

“Yeah… it has,” 

“...How’ve you been?”

The way he asked ticked something in you. He asked. Not casual small talk, genuine. Not the kind to just fill the silence. Oh how you hadn’t talked to him in so long. And now here he was, asking like nothing had changed between you two.

That familiar heaviness when someone shows kindness after weeks of radio silence from your side made your throat tightened. Your eyes dropped to his knuckles for a second; they were painted crimson again.

“Okay,” your eyes darted somewhere else, “well– busy,” 

He only nodded, “still drawing?” It was such a him question; quietly observing instead of prying directly into you. He remembered that sketchbook clutched under your arm every day like armor.

The gallery exhibit flashed in his mind—and he knew it hadn’t been easy for someone as private as you to show work publicly. All because he’d encouraged it a month ago. But that glow on your face flashed brighter, there's something about not knowing what to feel and how to feel. Just another one of those questions that kept popping up unanswered.

“Not much,” Another beat passed.

He bit his tongue, a sentence at the tip of his tongue—”Did I do something wrong?” the question pierced you. That heavy, empty, and numbing feeling climbed back up to your chest. 

“What do you mean?”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“You think I've been avoiding you? I told you I've been busy,”

“Please don't lie to me,”

The air between you turned sharp, like the temperature dropped ten degrees in seconds. His question hung there, raw and quiet. It wasn’t angry. Not even frustrated. It was hurt. You could see it in his face—the subtle tension around his jaw, how his eyes had lost their usual calm softness. He's just standing there on that cold stone bridge, looking at you like he’d been waiting for a single honest word from you.

And now? Now he sounded like someone whose trust had started cracking—not broken yet—but bending dangerously under weight of silence you unfortunately created.

The wind swept through again. A gust this time, making your hair flutter against your cheeks as both of you stood frozen not by temperature — but by the heaviness pressing down between two people who used to be each other’s safe place.

So much unspoken. But you can't bear this anymore. You can't bare seeing– feeling like this anymore. Until the words spoke for themselves for you: “Don't look at me like that,”

“Then how should I? Because there's no way I'll voluntarily stop,”

“Don't be stupid,”

“Then stop making it so tempting.”

“Nicholas,” you paused. He finally looked at you, but you would risk everything falling apart just by looking back at him. Your eyes fixed to the river. Then a whisper between your lips, “It feels like I could never be enough for anyone,” for you. But you held back on that last part while Nicholas’ expression shattered into something tender, almost pained. Like he’d been waiting years to hear that confession. And now it was finally out in the open— fragile as glass, delicate as a petal.

He exhaled like he forgot that he had been holding his breath for a good while. “You’re so very welcome to test that theory with me,”

The moment stretched—fragile, tender. His words settled over you like a blanket pulled tight after being cold for too long. An offer to safety you hadn't resided in for a long time. And hey, it worked.

That numb heaviness in your chest? It cracked—not gone yet—but softer now. As if the ice melted under the morning sun because someone finally said the right thing without needing instructions on how to. 

A tiny smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it—the first real one since things got awkward, “God… I missed this place,” you muttered. He blinked back letting out a chuckle—-almost relieved.

For just one second? you were okay again on this stupid brick bridge. You felt okay to feel like this. You hate that you pushed him away, blew him off like the steam had told you it was too much to digest in one gulp. Until— bzzztt. 

The notification violently loud inside the pockets of your coat, “I have to go.”

You were once again, just a memory for him to hold on to.

© dedlexte on Tumblr — for fictional purposes. Do not steal, translate, or plagiarise. Do not feed my work into AI.

A/N: Part two will be out next week :) lmk if i did smth wrong bc its my first time writing this kind of thing but when it comes to grammar mistakes its best to ignore bc i dont have a lot of respect for this language (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated please blurt your thoughts as if you only have 20 words left

Taglist: @euijooswife (p.s. sending lots of hugs ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ)

Credits: @writersiland (writing prompt), @diviniyae (dividers)

[dedlexte]

A miracle happened.

I made a fic with the wc being under 2k (+_+) and get this... it's finished IN A DAY (cue standing ovation) anyways cut the chitchat JO FLUFF OUT TMRW!!!!!!

contains:

[dedlexte]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀王奕翔 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 2 | Water Under the Bridge ☆

ᯓ WHEREIN : you were never meant to meet another soul on this bridge you made your own—yet that reality was long broken. (wc; 5k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family pressure, Kissing, Em-dashes and semicolons, university au, self-doubt, f!reader, etc.

ᯓ A/N : She's finally here + happy weno day!!! I was struggling with the pacing here I hope it's not too iffy jiffy but thankyou for all the love for the first part; I loved writing this 11k bad boy I hope you love it as much as I do (⁠⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠⁠)

111 | 222 | mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

As per usual, before heading back to your feather light pillows on your bed, and feeling the warmth of your blanket touch your skin, the checking routine returns every night.

Open your phone's calendar to see if there's a deadline waiting for your demise, or if there's another two hour meeting this week with your study group, or if there's someone's birthday coming up. Then, messages—not that you'd reply to things your mind registers as unimportant. And lastly, e-mails.

Four assignments, one meet up in two days. You were sitting on your bedroom floor, laptop open on your knees. The glow of the screen lit up your face as you scrolled through emails. Mostly spam “Win a free vacation!”, uni announcements about library closures… nothing important but this one email about you getting a scholarship—wait what.

“Scholarship Opportunity – Academic Excellence + Artistic Merit” Clicking it open revealed an official-looking email from Kyoto University. They’d reviewed art exhibits submitted to regional galleries — including yours at Nicholas’ friend’s show and cross-referenced academic records with transfer applications for international students. 

It covered tuition entirely, down to housing stipend. You rub your eyes vigorously trying to reread what you're seeing right now. Yet your name still stood there frozen in time, not caring about whether or not you've scrubbed off your eyes or not. They specifically mentioned your name after seeing sketches titled under gallery submissions.

“Holy shit,” both hands now covering your mouth, “Holy shit.” 

You rechecked everything; the website, the university, the funds, everything. They even received a confirmation ask from you on the same day, that basically translates to “Don't toy with my heartstrings”. 

It was real. It was a real chance for you. A chance to take a break from all of this. To experience the life you should've experienced all this time. 

The sun woke up before you did. All thanks to your body keeping you awake way past 3AM after opening one e-mail, and suddenly life crept back up to your eyelids, every joint decided they needed movement, and the thought of seeing birds chirping out of your window to wake you up instead of the chirps of your parents telling you to do things you don't look forward to jolted a little more energy in you.

You got out of your bed, took a shower, reverified the email to break the news to your parents before finally heading downstairs towards where everybody was having their morning sandwiches they made on their own from yesterday's leftovers. Unsurprisingly, you saw your younger brother putting together last night's fried rice with a slice of cheese in his sandwich.

“Mom… dad…” you sat down on a stool in front of them, “I have something to tell you guys,”

Their attention now fully on you, “You got a boyfriend?” your mom joked. “Haha—no,” you replied, deadpan.

“Remember that art show I went to a couple months ago?”

“What art show?” your dad looked at your mom,

“The one where I had this huge canvas sitting in our garage so it blocked the powerbox??

“Oh right. The venue was near your brother's school, right?”

You nodded in approval, “Well… one of the people who saw it was apparently someone who could offer students a full coverage scholarship abroad,” and when that sentence left your mouth, one of your dad's eyebrows lifted. 

“Are you saying…” his tone looking for an answer for a rhetorical. Both corners of your mouth lifted into a grin that eventually turned into you nodding like a peckingbird, “I got in!” 

“Oh my god!” both of your parents are now standing up, “are you serious?” 

You showed them the e-mail, and they read it out loud, just under their breath, line by line—eyes widening every new sentence, “oh y/n this is amazing!” your dad excitedly exclaimed, giving you a small squeeze from the side with his free hand while the other was holding your laptop. For a second, it felt good. Like they were proud of you for getting noticed like this after all those late nights drawing when no one asked or cared about art before.

Then came the shift. Their smiles softened into something quieter. Not quite sad yet, but not far from the gloom sadness usually brought. Your mom suddenly said, “So… two years?”. Nothing accusatory but this hard to unnoticed tone heavy with implication underneath simple words. And your dad added calmly while sipping tea, “We’ll have to figure things out around here if you’re gone.”

Then came the other you dread, “then you'll have to learn how to take care of yourself,” then another, “you know it won’t be easy,” then another, "What will you even do there? Study and draw all day?" then another, “What if things don’t work out over there?” already assuming failure would happen “You’re always busy with art or school… now you’re leaving too?" So your ambition is at fault here?, "We didn’t even know you were submitting art anywhere."

“Okay i get it,” you finally broke their string of comments and remarks, both hands on the table yet you're still looking down, “but ill figure it out… like i always do,”

Hesitantly, they smiled.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

You haven't slept properly since Monday night. Maybe even longer than that. The world was spinning a little too fast for your liking. 

University deadlines piled up: three essays due in two weeks, a midterm exam on Thursday that you hadn’t studied for yet because every free minute had been stolen by your family or you're just too emotionally exhausted and the only thing accompanying you was executive dysfunction. Your inbox was flooded with emails. Nicholas would pop into your notifications every now and then, and you would do the same if given the time—despite it being limited. Lecturers reminding students of submission dates, your notebooks were covered in sticky notes with scribbled reminders that looked more like panic than planning. The kind of scribbles only you would understand.

At home, tension lived in the pauses between sentences, settled into the walls like humidity. Dinner became less about eating and more about saying the right things in the right order. It felt like a performance review where every bite could be misinterpreted as attitude if you didn’t smile right or answer questions quickly enough about grades and future plans and "what are you doing with your life?” Eventually, every meal circled back to the same old familiar: grades, university, the future, and the question that always seemed too large for the dining table "What are you doing with your life?" As if you didn't have a life of your own. As if you were given the time to think about your future.

Not to mention how much you needed to prepare before transferring

The clock ticked, you just got home—leaning against the doorframe, slouching for support. Your siblings were still at school, your father was somewhere between work and more work. Your mother was tidying herself up to go somewhere, purse lightly hung on her right shoulder, “Don't forget to do the laundry! gotta go!” as she left the door.

Without wasting another minute immersed in your thoughts, you ran to your cupboard to grab your coat, bag, and a pair of socks before dashing to the front door to put on your evidently loved, worn-down boots. 

The walk there was easy—apart from the mandated detours you had to take; dropping down to the town market where you met the lovely lady who would always give you a small discount off your vegetables in honor of your loyalty to keep her stand alive. Then a reroute to your local supermarket finishing the rest of your grocery shopping list. Then another visit to the bank to handle account issues.

Unfortunately, you had two hours killed for you because the person behind the bank counter took their sweet sweet time. You're about half an hour late to pick up your youngest sibling and bring him home. Don't forget about the pile of assignments waiting at your desk. 

Fortunately, you knew a shortcut: the bridge. 

Shopping bags in both of your hands, and your bag lazily slung around your shoulder. You made your way through the woods and into the familiar pathway towards the bridge. Crunching leaves underfoot, sunlight dappled in gold and shadow from the bare trees. 

You walked while checking inside the bags, two cartons of milk since your mom had sent another text about “forgetting milk again” typical, some stationary supplies you'd been meaning to buy, and a new scarf you’d splurged on impulsively. Your shoulders ached just slightly from carrying everything at once as it bounces every step you take. 

The air smelled like damp earth and pine. Quiet—peaceful. A rare moment of not being pulled in five different directions all at once. A shortcut that was not only practical, but therapeutic, or in other words: needed.

In your steps you stop right in the middle of the bridge, “wait did I miss something,” you muttered to yourself. You were halfway across the bridge, adjusting one of the grocery bags in your arm when you heard footsteps approaching from behind.

Then a voice, “Hey.” He sounded warm and calm. You turned slightly and there he was, in his usual hoodie with sleeves rolled up. The slight rush in his breathing showed he had been walking the other way, coming from campus, backpack slung over one shoulder. Without waiting for a reply—or even saying another word—he stepped forward and gently took two heavy bags right out of your arms before you could protest.

"Here," he said simply. Then added after seeing how full you still were, “And give me another one too.” He wasn’t even asking permission anymore, just acting. 

“Nico it's fine-” you responded. Nico only pursed his lips into that cat-like smile of his in disagreement as he shakes his head. 

Until he stopped to look at you—really look at you. How your eyelids flinched when the sun pulsed brighter, how they're unfocused and shadowed, your lips dry and cracked crimson, hair slightly unkempt. Then unpromptedly, “Can I hug you?”

You didn't give a clear answer but a slight nod, nothing makes a lot of sense to you right now, but he wouldn't take that as a no. 

Nicholas dropped the bags gently on the ground and wrapped you in his arms—you could hear his heartbeat growing louder, feel how soft his hoodie was, how much warmth of his he's letting you have. You froze for a second—yet your body betrayed you when you instantly sunk into the hug, your arms now clinging to his back under his arms, face completely buried. Your fingers curled into the back of his hoodie, clutching him closer without thinking. The soft fabric of his hoodie absorbed the faint tremble in your shoulders—the one you hadn’t even realized was there.

His chest rising and falling against yours, rhythmic as tide against shore. You melted completely into him. Arms locking around his back like an anchor finding its mooring; face pressed deep into the curve of his shoulder where it smelled faintly of laundry soap. 

At this point you knew nothing could stop your eyes from welling up. You didn't say anything. You couldn't say anything.

It was nothing but a muffled sniffle—almost inaudible if it weren't for the silence the forest gave—that broke him. “I'm here,” he felt your fingers resisting itself from gnawing for closure, “You're okay.”

You were too busy trying not to completely shatter in front of somebody, in front of Nicholas; that held you like a shelter in a storm—to notice it. If you hadn't been so wrapped up in your own exhaustion, if it hadn't been for the blur in your eyes, that you would notice it sooner.

He pressed his cheek gently against the top of your hair without thinking. A small gesture full of tenderness and stayed there longer than necessary. His chest rose slower now; deeper breaths than before, as if absorbing every bit of comfort this hug offered him too, because yes,

He needed it as much as you did.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

It was a normal evening, just like any other week. But the deep, heavy snows melted into muddy puddles along the roads and sidewalks. The ice on tree branches cracked under morning sun, falling in delicate shards like broken glass glittering on pavement. Daffodils poked through the earth near your house; tiny green shoots pushing up through frozen soil despite everything trying to keep them down. You'd walk your way to the stone bridge to wait for him, each step towards the place feels a little lighter and lighter. 

Nicholas was already sitting there waiting for you. A tiny dainty flower he picked up along the way at the tips of his fingers, pirouette-ing about. Then, you sat next to him.

He glanced upwards to look at you. Somehow he noticed something. Your smile lines leaving evidence of being in use, your eyes batting more than usual, your eyebrows untwisted, and a tint of rose along your cheeks—a glimmer of something he'd only seen in you when you're laughing with him.

He also noticed you brought a separate bag with you, carried between your fingers. “Here’s your sweater,” you pulled out a sweater from said bag; already clean and ironed, yet his scent still remains. He took the sweater while you thanked him. Since yesterday Nicholas had insisted you take his sweater after he knew your hands were cold when you were randomly arm wrestling him. The flower twirled another time in his grasp before he gave it to you. Just a wild little thing he’d probably spotted growing by the side of the road on his walk here, maybe a cherry blossom sapling gone rogue? Or something else equally fragile and pretty?

“It kinda looks like you,” he simpered.

“Like a roadside plant? Yeah I don't think so,”

"Yeah," he insisted, still holding the flower out stubbornly. "It's delicate but kinda strong? Like… it literally grew through concrete." he shrugged, then with zero shame he added: "It’s also pink. You’re pink when you blush."

He took the flower from your hands and gently tucked the flower behind your ear—the petals resting softly against messy hair—and stepped back to admire his work. You snorted despite yourself, "Okay okay," you waved him off playfully, "Thanks for this random plant I’ll probably kill by tomorrow."

“Anywho,” you reach inside the bag once again, now pulling out a small bento box that’s usually used to store leftovers. “Here’s something from this morning,” you open the container as it exhales steam, the smell taking over the space; it was still warm and ridiculously tasty-smelling for something that was made hours ago. 

“Am I, Nicholas Wang, finally worthy of tasting y/n’s infamous cooking?” 

“Infamous?! What rumours have you heard about them?” you audibly fake-gasped.

“So this is why you texted me if I had allergies or not.” He lifted an eyebrow.

Homemade sauce with tomatoes, onions, herbs from your windowsill… and a sprinkle of chili flakes because you remembered him liking spice—-despite the meal being made for your family. With your chopsticks, you told him to open his mouth as you fed him the pasta. His eyebrows dropped, like looking for something to say about what’s currently making his mouth salivate. “You’re amazing,” he looked at you, “This- this is amazing.” 

Nicholas kept eating, taking another bite without pause like he wasn’t just being polite when you suddenly darted the chopsticks at his mouth every time he tried to speak. The pasta was simple, maybe a little messy in texture, but warm and comforting. Exactly the kind of food you make when you’re tired but still want to do something nice for someone. He sat cross-legged on the stone railing now, the container balanced carefully on his lap, as he ate quietly beside you after you gave up and let him eat by himself instead. Every few bites, he’d glance at your face like checking if you were okay, because this was new. 

Your legs were bouncing against the cold hard cobble contacting your skin. Attentively, you tucked in a stray hair that was then dancing around your field of vision. You swallowed, throat tightening as the words caught. “Nico, I can finally get out.” you mentioned, catching him off guard. 

“What do you mean get out?”

“Move out,”

He blinked, stiffly leaning closer to you, “Where to?” 

“Kyoto,” you paused to look at him.

“Let me guess, you got an e-mail with the word scholarship plastered on it?” 

You jolted, shoulders jumping with your head, “How'd–” he cuts you off, “Relax, my friend almost got it too, I wouldn't be too surprised to find out you got in as well.” He explained,“almost?” your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “It's a long story.” Then a chuckle came out of him.

The water under the bridge caught your gaze again when a sharp exhale quit your mouth. Your eyelashes flutter, and before he gives you the chance to tease him until he explains what ‘almost' means—“took you long enough to tell me,” he paused, “you deserved it, really deserved it.”

A slight close lipped smile reached his eyes when he looked at you again, a tiny piece of joy that started deep in his chest and radiated outward; eyes crinkling at the corners, cheeks lifting, even the way he sat straightening himself. 

He slowly reached out and gently took both your hands into his warm ones. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles once, twice, making sure this moment was real.

“Kyoto,” he repeated softly, savoring it on his tongue like something sweet and important had just landed right here between you two under the blue sky above cold bridge stones. Suddenly the leaves looked noticeably greener, the air a little warmer, and the sun a little friendlier.

“Wait, you're not pranking me are you?” he laughed. “What if I am?” 

“You wouldn't,”

“Maybe I would,”

“Sure.” His tone sarcastic.

He pulled you into him from the side without warning and wrapped his arm around your shoulders tightly, both of you still sitting side by side but this time the distance never existed. Pulling you close until your forehead rested against his collarbone as warmth from him enveloped everything cold around. Then under your breath you muttered, “Thank you.”

But he wouldn't lie to himself about this, wouldn't he? About the fact that under how much he's proud of you, a gnawing feeling climbing and eating him up from the inside. You're leaving, and there's nothing he can do about it. The rings around his fingers turn around as he fidgets with it. A quiet ache had settled in, a dull throb behind ribs where love lived alongside loss.

But he knew you were content. Your smile was back. That in itself was enough. “Just… be safe, alright?”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

Two months after the news was broken, the air hugged your body a little warmer. Cocktail-blue skies, the heat shimmering and dancing on asphalt roads, blinding midday glares bouncing off of greenhouses, and the downy warm grass moving along. 

In this case, the grass wasn't the only thing moving around. You were swamped with errand-filled afternoons. From afar, your room was cluttered; cardboard lint sticking to every surface, tape residue left on your walls, along with ripped out sticky notes that used to remind you of what the internet tells you to buy before departure, hairfall gripped against the carpet in your room. 

But giving it a closer look, no breeze dared to enter, golden slats of afternoon sunlight sliced through the bay window, illuminating a solitary dead houseplant on an otherwise messy floor. The room was a hollow shell, but the air still held the faint, sweet ghost of vanilla, belying the abandonment of the space. You could count the things inhabiting your room with just your fingers.

And now the days you lean onto each other's shoulders seem to go by faster. You didn’t talk about the world’s sharp edges. You talked about music he played too loud in his car, about painting you hid underneath another layer of a fresh painting because the nose didn't look right, about constellations you couldn't name but liked pretending to know. 

Nicholas showed up earlier now—no more waiting for sunset, he arrived when the sky was still pale with afternoon light. His eyes darted to you differently—sharper, like he sensed the clock ticking and ticking. Yet on the other side, he was the perfect way to slow down, to feel the breeze in the air once again.

Afternoons dissolved into evenings without either of you noticing. Some days you drove with every window rolled down, letting warm air whip through the car until conversation became impossible and silence felt sufficient. Other days you wandered aimlessly through neighborhoods neither of you had reason to be in, convincing yourselves that unfamiliar streets somehow stretched the hours longer.

And hey, sometimes, he helped you pack. He'd fold a sweater terribly on purpose, earning an exasperated laugh before you'd snatch it away and redo it yourself. He'd pick up an old trinket—a movie ticket, a dried flower pressed between notebook pages, a fraying bracelet, and ask for the story behind it as though he hadn't lived through most of them beside you. 

Each object disappeared into another cardboard box and each box made your room echo a little louder. One evening, you found yourselves lying on the dry cold stone of the bridge. The moss scratched against your sleeves while cicadas stitched the silence together. Below, the streets slowly awakened into ribbons of amber light.

“I still can't find Orion,” he murmured. 

You smiled without looking over. “That's because you're looking in the wrong season.”

“Oh.”

“...Can you still see it over there?” You knew he wasn't talking about the stars anymore. "I don't know."

Neither of you tried to fill the silence after that. The wind did it for you instead, carrying the scent of sun-warmed earth and someone's distant late-day barbecue, rustling through the trees with the careless certainty that seasons would change whether people were ready or not. When you finally glanced sideways, his profile was outlined in the last gold of daylight. Familiar enough that you could have traced it from memory. Familiar enough that you wondered if memory alone would someday have to suffice.

The sun slipped beneath the horizon almost apologetically. Tomorrow would come. Then another. Then another. Until one morning, tomorrow would become nothing.

For now, though, the evening held its breath, and so did you. Because sometimes solace wasn't measured by promises made beneath the stars. Sometimes, it was measured by how quietly two people sat beside each other while the sky changed colors. Trying, for just a little longer to convince the daylight not to leave first.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

fine silver mist, water beaded on glass, hazy outlines of distant trees. You were pushing heavy boxes that were scattered around your room, now snuggling comfortably in a corner beside your desk. Checking everything to make sure you only have less than ten items to purchase. Sitting at the ledge of your bed, “An adapter… check,” you muttered. Before—

The door rambled a knock loud enough to wake a whole neighborhood, “y/n! get the door!” your mom screamed from upstairs, you closed your eyes and sighed, “who the fuck is knocking like I have an extra door,” your brows now furrowed. You ran and headed downstairs to get the door only for the banging to get louder and louder, even the deadbolts started shaking. “Calm down!” you spoke behind the door before opening it.

It was Nicholas.

Beads of sweat and light misty rainfall on his forehead, his breathing audible and uncontrolled, along with how rapid his shoulders were moving beneath his unbuttoned flannel revealing a white shirt underneath. “y/n i need to talk to—” you grabbed his wrist and sprinted further outside pulling him with you, now behind the tall wooden fences surrounding your home.

“You can't just knock on my door out of nowhere uninvited, especially when my parents are home—are you nuts?!” 

“Look, okay, please just let me talk and explain everything,”

“You can't do it on the phone? text me you're coming at least!?”

“y/n.” he paused, “let me talk.”

His eyes searched yours frantically, switching from left to right. Everything around you breathing faster; the bushes trembled, the songbirds quiet, the rainfall slowly finding its pace. 

He looked down and fidgeted with his rings that moved from one finger to the other. You tilt your head, “Nicholas, what's wrong?”. 

His head snapped forward to look at you again, his hair now a little flatter and shinier from the rain. He licked his lips in nervousness, still looking for the right words to say in the midst of a hurricane in him. Stirring in his chest, loud in his head. 

With hesitation, his palms found the sides of your arms, grounding you—grounding himself from breaking apart. “It's you,” his gaze locked onto yours, “it had always been you.”

“I thought the only way I could find myself again in this world was to work on myself—by myself. I- I had to fix myself; fix my emotions, drown in them on our bridge before I could swim back up again.” Shallow breaths, “But the bridge couldn't heal me the way you did.” 

Silence fell heavy, the rain grew heavier and louder. “And now… now we only have two weeks left — I can't fathom the idea of my life without you in it.”

The words laid heavily on your chest, clinging onto something unnamed. It didn’t feel like you stepped on a live wire, shocking every cell in your core—it whispered more of a gentle spark, dancing across their skin with the same grace of a ballet dancer. Your heart groaned upon seeing him in a time where he’s visibly tender and unguarded. Rain fell in slow, silver threads; soft and endless like the sky was crying memories it held in its water. 

Drops clung to his lashes when he looked at you, his face bare of defenses for once. Everything but the quiet drumming on wood and water below stopped talking. The air smelled of wet earth and memory; cold copper coins kissed by storm clouds, as if time had paused to listen. Nothing else existed. Not the distant hum of city lights beyond trees, not the cars passing far away, not time either. Minutes blurred into seconds that stretched too long to count. A single droplet traced down his temple as he looked at you. The rain became sacred.

If only you knew how loud his heart pounded, trying to break out of the confinements of his body when the storm drowned its volume. And if only he knew how much yours were cracking your ribs. Butterfly’s wings fluttering its wings on the inner lining of your stomach—if you were to open their mouth, one might escape. 

The damp air held its breath once again, “Please say something,” he murmured.

“Nicholas,” your fingers now finding its way to cradle his face, “It was never the bridge for me either.” 

His eyes flickered to your lips before crashing to yours. Nothing yet everything left unsaid and never voiced poured into it. Every sleepless night spent alone on that bridge dissolving between shared breaths. Every quiet pain they never named but somehow understood without words. A kind of healing no medicine or poem could give. 

Years of being misunderstood dissolving into this single point where your mouths met under falling water and fading light. He held your jaw closer, your hands now interlocked behind his neck as the kiss grew deeper between exchanged exhales. His hand gently tightened at your back, pulling you a little closer until there was barely any space left between the two of you when the kiss finally broke apart.

Neither of you opened your eyes—foreheads now touching like the moment was too precious to not savor. A moment where each second was more valuable than diamonds who glistened under the moonlight. His breath piercing yours lightly amidst the rainpour. Your lips brushed each other again before meeting once more; momentarily tender like you're scared that it'll be the last time.

You opened your eyes when he noticed them blooming like midnight flowers in the dim light. Loneliness healed by presence alone, just looking at each other in each other’s hold were enough to warm up what the rainwater continued to soak in your clothes. Nicholas exhaled shakily—a tiny sound full of disbelief and relief—and you didn’t let go. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, then one arm curled loosely around you as if checking if this was really happening. Holding each other quietly while rain washed everything else clean.

Something from the way the water fell down your cheeks prompted him to take off his flannel and hover it above you, “Can I steal you for tonight?” he breathed. The corners of your mouth curled before you gave a soft nod. “And let me do this properly tomorrow.” he beamed before a laugh escaped your mouth. And now you were walking back with him away from your house with a wet flannel shielding the both of you. Because you knew now, he felt more like home than yours ever did; unguarded and welcoming.

Home, you realized, wasn’t the place you spent most of your living hours in, wasn’t the place where you find yourself waking up in, wasn’t the place promised to you by someone else. Home was where you had no fear letting your guard down, to breathe again when the world didn't. 

And somehow? Without either realizing it yet? Your hearts were mending each other. 

Maybe love was never meant to be understood at all. Maybe it was simply the strange miracle of becoming someone’s quiet place. Someone’s shoulder to lean on — to rely on. And love wasn't the thunder that announced itself to the world and demanded it, but the warmth that lingered long after the storm had passed; the certainty that even if tomorrow arrived too quickly, this moment had existed completely.

The rain continued to fall, soft enough to blur the edges of the world until there was only the sound of water, two steady breaths, and fluttering hearts that had long forgotten where one heartbeat ended and the other began.

A/N: its 1AM when i finished this but we're finally back!!! it was supposed to be a bday release too but life finds a way to postpone it when you couldnt (ᴗ_ᴗ͈) reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated and let me say this again #spreadchalantnicoagenda 🗣️🗣️🗣️

Taglist: @euijooswife @tayl28 @jjellyouss @sunsoomi @kpoplover-00005 @kjjupilled

Credits: @diviniyae (dividers)

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SCRATCH THE POLL WE ARE WRITING JO!!!! APPLAUD!!!!

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wait but juju..... the Boulder is conflicted....