synopsis: i’ll give you all my heart, take my heart! / surely we’re destiny / it shines fully tonight
or danielle invited haerin to sit in your literature class.
includes: college!au, dmd!haerin, nursing!hanni, r and dani are both education majors, slow burn!!!!, w*lliam sh*kespeare
word count: 2.2k (shortest fnzktn fic yet wow!)
a/n: this is a sneak peek of the upcoming dmd!haerin !
the classroom always smelled faintly like old paper and dry-erase markers. not strong enough to notice right away, but if you sat there long enough—long enough for the air conditioner’s quiet hum to fade into the background—you could start to separate the layers of it. dusty textbooks that had been handled by too many students, the faint sweetness of marker ink lingering in the air, and the sugary smell of someone’s bottled iced coffee sitting open somewhere behind you.
you sat somewhere in the middle of the classroom, close enough to look attentive but far enough that professor wendy wouldn’t accidentally call on you if she decided to start asking spontaneous questions. most days that balance worked perfectly. today you were actually trying to focus, though your attention kept drifting back to the printed page sitting on the desk in front of you.
the whiteboard at the front of the room had already been filled before class started.
survey on english and american literature poetry interpretation activity
beneath it was a short list of poems written in neat blue marker.
your group had been assigned sonnet 29.
the printed copy lay between you, danielle, and hanni, its edges already soft from being passed back and forth while the three of you read the same lines again and again. danielle leaned forward with her elbow on the desk, pen tapping lightly against the margin while she reread the stanza in front of her with careful concentration.
across from her, hanni looked like she was regretting every decision that had led her into this classroom.
she wasn’t even supposed to be here.
she had walked in earlier with the casual confidence of someone who knew professor wendy wouldn’t mind another student sitting in for a lecture. apparently she had a long vacant before her next nursing class and had decided this was a better way to kill time than wandering around campus.
now she stared down at the poem with open suspicion.
“i’m just saying,” she muttered eventually, nudging the paper with the end of her pen, “this guy sounds miserable.”
danielle didn’t look up. “that’s the point.”
“yeah, but like… extremely miserable.”
you glanced down at the opening lines again.
when, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, i all alone beweep my outcast state…
danielle tapped the second stanza. “he’s comparing himself to other people. look at this part—wishing me like to one more rich in hope. he wants the things other people seem to have.”
hanni squinted at the line. “so basically he’s jealous.”
“not just jealous,” you said.
both of them looked at you.
you shifted the page slightly closer and traced the stanza lightly with your finger. “it’s envy, but it’s also insecurity. the speaker isn’t just noticing that other people are doing better than him. he’s measuring his worth against them. every line is basically him listing what he thinks he lacks.”
“exactly. he starts with his reputation—disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes. then he moves to talent, friends, opportunities. everything becomes proof that he’s failing somehow.”
hanni tapped the paper again. “okay, but then the ending happens and suddenly he’s fine. that’s a huge emotional jump.”
“it’s not really sudden,” you said. “it’s a shift.”
danielle leaned closer. “how?”
you pointed to the final couplet.
“the whole poem is built on comparison. he keeps measuring his life against everyone else’s and coming up short. but when he remembers the person he loves, that comparison stops mattering.”
“because love fixes everything?” hanni asked skeptically.
“no,” you said. “because it changes what counts as success.”
before she could respond, the classroom door in the back opened quietly.
footsteps crossed the room. they were light, steady, unhurried.
danielle turned toward the door and immediately lifted her hand. “haerin! over here.”
your head turned before you could stop yourself.
haerin stood near the end of the row, scanning the room until her eyes found danielle.
then they shifted.
to you.
the pause was brief, subtle enough that anyone else might have missed it, but it still stretched slightly longer than it should have.
you hadn’t expected to see her here.
not today. not in this classroom.
she walked toward your table while danielle scooted her chair aside to make room. “this is us,” she said casually.
haerin nodded in greeting and sat down.
hanni looked between the three of you with growing confusion. “wait. another non-english major?”
danielle blinked. “oh—right. this is haerin. she’s in dental medicine.”
hanni leaned back. “why are there so many medical students here.”
danielle hesitated as realization crossed her face.
“…oh.”
she looked at you.
“…did i forget to mention she might drop by?”
you stared at her.
“yes.”
danielle winced. “my bad.”
hanni snorted. “great. now the dentistry student gets to interpret shakespeare too.”
haerin glanced down at the paper. “what poem?”
“sonnet 29,” danielle said, sliding the page toward her.
haerin lowered her gaze and began reading. the classroom gradually settled back into its low murmur of conversations as other groups continued their discussions, but your attention kept drifting back to the slow movement of her eyes across the page.
after a minute, hanni tapped the paper again. “we’re arguing about the ending,” she explained. “apparently one person can magically fix this guy’s entire life.”
haerin looked up slightly. “which line?”
you turned the page so she could see the bottom.
your finger rested beside the final couplet.
her gaze followed it.
“…it’s not really fixing his life,” she said after a moment.
hanni tilted her head. “no?”
“nothing actually changes,” haerin continued quietly. “he still believes other people are more successful than him.”
you nodded slightly. “right. the poem never says his circumstances improve. the shift is entirely internal.”
haerin glanced toward you, then back at the page.
“remembering someone interrupts the comparison,” she said.
“exactly,” you added. “the entire poem is built on comparison—talent, status, friends, everything. the moment he remembers the person he loves, that comparison stops mattering as much.”
danielle tapped her pen thoughtfully. “so the poem reframes value.”
“yeah,” you said. “earlier he measures himself against other people. at the end he measures his life by something personal instead.”
hanni crossed her arms again, though this time she looked less skeptical. “so remembering someone makes him feel rich.”
“richer,” danielle corrected.
“and it’s not just romantic,” you added. “the word ‘remembered’ is important. it suggests that even the thought of that person changes his emotional state.”
hanni blinked. “…okay, i kind of get it now.”
danielle circled the final couplet with her pen. “perfect. that’s our presentation angle.”
she looked up at the three of you. “we explain the emotional spiral first, then the shift in the final lines.”
hanni groaned softly. “why does this actually make sense now.”
“because we explained it,” you said.
she pointed at you accusingly. “you’re the one making this complicated.”
“it’s literature.”
“exactly my point.”
danielle laughed under her breath before nudging the poem toward the center of the table again.
class presentations started soon after. professor wendy clapped her hands lightly to get everyone’s attention, and the room gradually quieted as students shifted in their chairs.
“who had sonnet twenty-nine?” she asked.
danielle raised her hand. “we did.”
“perfect. go ahead.”
the four of you stood, and the shift from casual discussion to speaking in front of the room made the moment feel strangely formal.
danielle began first, explaining the speaker’s isolation and the way the poem opens with feelings of disgrace and abandonment. you followed, describing how the middle stanzas build tension through constant comparison with others.
“the speaker keeps measuring himself against people who seem more successful or more fortunate,” you said. “each comparison reinforces the idea that he’s lacking something essential. that repetition is what creates the emotional spiral we see in the middle of the poem.”
you gestured lightly toward the final lines.
“but the structure of the sonnet prepares us for a shift. after spending most of the poem focused on what he doesn’t have, the speaker suddenly remembers someone he loves.”
haerin stepped forward next.
“the important part is that his circumstances don’t change,” she said. “he still believes other people are more talented or more successful. the world around him stays exactly the same.”
her fingers rested lightly against the page.
“what changes is how he measures his own life.”
she read the final couplet softly.
for thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then i scorn to change my state with kings.
when she looked up again, her gaze landed on you.
“remembering that person interrupts the comparison. it reminds him that his life already contains something valuable enough that he wouldn’t trade places with anyone else.”
the room stayed quiet for a moment before professor son smiled. “beautiful interpretation.”
after the brief applause faded and everyone returned to their seats, hanni leaned across the table toward you and danielle.
“…wow,” she said quietly.
danielle blinked. “what?”
hanni pointed between you and haerin. “that was the most intense presentation about a love poem i’ve ever witnessed.”
danielle followed her gaze between the two of you and hummed softly.
“…interesting.”
class ended soon after that, but when you stepped into the hallway a few minutes later, haerin was still standing near the doorway as if she had been waiting.
students began packing their bags while conversations spilled into the hallway outside. hanni slung her backpack over one shoulder and glanced at you. “we’re getting food. you coming?”
“in a bit,” you said. “i need to return this.”
“okay. text us.”
hanni lingered beside the desk for a moment before flashing you one last suspicious smile. “very interesting class today.”
you sighed. “go.”
she laughed and followed danielle out the door.
the classroom emptied quickly after that. when you finally looked up again, haerin was still standing near the doorway, her bag resting against one shoulder as if she had been waiting.
you stepped into the hallway.
“you weren’t supposed to be here today,” you said.
“danielle mentioned the class.”
“she didn’t mention it to us.”
“i noticed.”
you leaned lightly against the doorframe. “so you just decided to show up to an english literature class?”
“i had time.”
“you’re a dentistry student.”
“i like listening.”
“to poetry?”
her gaze settled on you.
“…sometimes.”
“besides, i have a 3 hour vacant after my last class and i didn't want to go back to my apartment so,” she continued.
you held her eyes for a moment longer than you meant to.
“you looked surprised earlier,” she said.
“i was.”
“why?”
you exhaled softly. “because i didn’t expect to see you sitting across from me while we were analyzing a love poem.”
“you see me all the time.”
“not like that.”
the words slipped out before you could soften them.
haerin studied your expression carefully.
“you understood the poem quickly,” she said.
“i’m supposed to. it’s literally my major.” you laughed. “and it’s not a difficult sonnet.”
“it is if you’ve never felt that way.”
you frowned slightly. “felt what way?”
she glanced down the hallway briefly before answering.
“like someone changes how you see everything.”
your chest tightened slightly.
“that’s a lot to put on one person,” you said.
“it’s not about responsibility.”
“then what is it about?”
she stepped a little closer.
“recognition.”
you didn’t look away.
“the speaker doesn’t suddenly become happier,” she continued quietly. “he just remembers that someone exists who makes the rest of it feel smaller.”
you swallowed. “and the other person?”
she blinked once. “what about them?”
“do they know?”
the question lingered between you.
her eyes searched yours for a moment.
“…maybe.”
you let out a quiet breath. “that’s vague.”
“poetry is vague.”
you huffed a small laugh. “so the whole sonnet is basically someone realizing they care about someone and wondering if the other person notices.”
haerin shook her head slightly.
“not wondering.”
“then what?”
her voice dropped.
“wondering if they already do.”
for a moment neither of you moved.
then she adjusted the strap of her bag and started walking down the hallway.
“are you going to the library later?” she asked.
you fell into step beside her.
“maybe.”
a faint smile appeared on her face.
“…me too.”
you walked down the corridor together after that, not rushing and not speaking, your shoulders brushing once when the hallway narrowed near the stairs.
neither of you stepped away.
and somewhere in the back of your mind, the final lines of the poem echoed again.
for thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then i scorn to change my state with kings.
for the first time since reading them that morning, they didn’t feel distant.
synopsis: two careers. two myths. both branded as serial daters, both impossible to ignore. when a pr arrangement forces your worlds to collide, neither of you expects the act to start feeling like the truth.
minji has always been a shadow in the spotlight. not absent, never unnoticed — but elusive in a way that feels intentional, calculated. the kind of artist who refuses interviews unless the questions are about the music, who will leave a red carpet early if she doesn’t like the angle of the cameras.
her world is dim stages and hot lights, leather jackets and feedback hum from her electric guitar. the tabloids call her “the reluctant rockstar,” as if she doesn’t want the fame she keeps getting. her fans know better — they call her the storm before the rain.
she is also, according to every gossip site worth its ad revenue, a heartbreaker. not the kind who makes a spectacle of her relationships, but the kind whose dating history is whispered about like rumor and scripture. grainy photos leaving the back doors of music venues, the occasional half-smile caught in the flash of a paparazzi camera, the sly comments from other artists in interviews — it all builds the image.
she’s never confirmed a single name, and yet her reputation precedes her: women who date minji don’t keep her for long, but they never really get over her.
your career, on the other hand, has been a kaleidoscope from the start — vivid, saturated, impossible to ignore. nothing about your rise was subtle. the chart-topping debut single with its catchy chorus, the music videos dripping in glitter and confetti, the endless radio interviews where you laughed too easily and leaned into every cheeky question.
you’re known for hooks that refuse to leave people’s heads, for turning casual phrases into playful daggers. the press calls you “pop’s princess,” and even when you roll your eyes at it, you play along.
and you — unlike minji — never hide your love life. if minji’s reputation is a locked door, yours is an open window with the curtains blowing in the wind. you’ve been photographed on dinner dates, vacation getaways, award show afterparties.
you’re not careless, just unbothered. exes linger in your social media likes, inside jokes appear in your lyrics, and you’ve perfected the art of the coy post-breakup interview. the tabloids have labeled you a “serial dater” too, but in your case it reads like a compliment — another layer of your charm, proof that you’re wanted.
and so, in the strange economy of fame, you and minji have become opposites that orbit the same sphere. you’re the headline everyone reads for fun, she’s the one people read twice because they can’t tell if she’s serious.
you flood your audience with color and sound, she withholds just enough to make every rare appearance feel like a gift. and yet, you’re bound by a shared reputation — two names forever linked to the idea of fleeting romance, two careers laced with stories of lovers that burned fast and bright.
the industry notices. it’s why you’re often mentioned in the same breath despite never sharing a stage, a screen, or even a frame of film. the “what if” of it all hangs quietly in the background — in articles that compare your tour numbers, in podcasts where hosts joke about the chaos your fanbases would unleash if you ever crossed paths.
for now, it’s nothing but theory. two careers, running parallel. two brands, perfectly incompatible.
but if the industry knows anything, it’s that people will pay to see two worlds collide.
the conference room is colder than it should be, the kind of over-conditioned chill that sinks into your skin no matter how long you’ve been sitting there. the long glass table stretches between you and minji, half-finished cups of coffee and bottles of sparkling water that no one really touches. managers line the edges of the room, arms crossed, tablets balanced in their laps.
you sit in the middle of it all, posture carefully arranged, hands folded loosely in your lap like you’ve done this a hundred times before — because you have. the choreography of meetings is second nature: arrive, sit, smile just enough, let the professionals speak. but this one feels heavier, different.
minji is across from you, half-slouched in her chair, leather jacket still on like she has no intention of staying long. her manager leans toward her every so often, murmuring in low tones, but she doesn’t respond, only stares down at the polished surface of the table like she’s trying to catch her reflection in it. when her eyes do lift, briefly, you feel the shift of her gaze like a flicker of heat across your skin, there and gone again before you can make sense of it.
the room itself is too pristine. the walls are bare except for a single framed poster of some award show, the glossy smiles of other artists frozen mid-laugh. you find your focus drifting there when the silence stretches too thin, as if it’s easier to look at strangers in photographs than at the girl sitting opposite you.
the first words spoken aren’t even about the two of you — just small pleasantries between managers, updates about schedules, the way an upcoming press cycle looks “ambitious but doable.” their voices rise and fall around you like background noise, meant to soothe, but it only makes your pulse climb higher, because you know they’re circling something.
your pr rep finally leans forward, clasping her hands on the table. her tone is calm, practiced, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward you first, then to minji, then back again. “there’s an idea we’d like to put on the table,” she says, and the words hang there, suspended, daring anyone to cut through the pause that follows.
no one does. you glance up, meeting minji’s gaze for just a fraction of a second, and it’s sharp, unflinching. it makes your stomach tighten, though you’re not sure if it’s from anticipation or something else entirely.
the air feels heavy, like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting to see what comes next.
the idea doesn’t land all at once. it’s eased into the room like smoke, soft at first, a suggestion dressed up in marketable language — “synergy,” “visibility,” “cross-promotion.” your pr rep lays it out in pieces, each one polished, rehearsed, like she’s practiced this pitch in front of a mirror.
you’re meant to nod along, to let it wash over you, but every word sharpens the picture in your head. not a collaboration. not a co-written track. something louder, something stickier.
a fake relationship.
the phrase isn’t spoken outright at first. it’s circled delicately, teased at, until minji’s manager — who has the subtlety of a hammer — cuts through the polite buildup. “what they’re suggesting is simple. headlines. optics. you two become a story together.”
the silence after that feels like it crackles.
your fingers press into the fabric of your jeans under the table, nails biting through the thin layer. it’s not shock, not exactly. you’ve heard wilder ideas tossed out in this industry. but this one lands differently because of who sits across from you.
minji doesn’t react right away. she leans back in her chair, arms folding across her chest, leather creaking in the quiet. her eyes don’t leave the table, but you can tell she’s listening — the tilt of her head, the twitch of her jaw.
the managers fill the silence quickly, layering on the justifications: fans love a spectacle, the press will eat it up, it’ll sell tickets, it’ll boost streams. a calculated chaos dressed up as opportunity.
and through it all, you feel the weight of minji’s presence across from you. she hasn’t said a word, but it’s as if the entire room is waiting on her, even more than you.
finally, she lifts her gaze. dark eyes steady, unreadable, but direct. when they catch yours, the noise around you fades, just for a beat, and you’re left with the raw shape of the proposition: you, her, and the entire world watching.
“so that’s the plan,” her manager finishes, voice flat, as though it’s already decided.
but it isn’t, not yet. the choice hangs between you both, heavy as the air in the room, daring someone to be the first to speak.
you don’t answer right away. no one does. the silence stretches long enough that you start to hear the faint hum of the air conditioner above, a sterile little buzz that only makes the room feel more artificial. your pr rep clears her throat, eager to soften the weight of what’s been dropped in your laps.
“it doesn’t have to be complicated,” she says gently, almost coaxing. “think of it like… performance art. you’re both artists. you’ve both done collaborations before. this isn’t any different — except instead of a song, it’s a story. one that the world gets to follow.”
the word story makes your stomach twist. because that’s what it would be — a narrative carved out of half-truths and orchestrated sightings.
minji doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile, doesn’t give them anything. she only shifts her weight, elbows braced on the armrests of her chair, chin tilted slightly toward the ceiling like she’s weighing how long she can drag this out before someone loses their nerve.
you glance at her, careful, searching for any crack in her armor. none. she wears the same cool detachment you’ve seen in her photographs, the kind that makes journalists desperate to crack her open.
the managers keep pushing. “look — you both have projects on the horizon. y/n, your album. minji, your tour. this ties the two together. everyone wins. the press writes itself.”
you’re expected to agree, to nod along as though this isn’t absurd, as though it isn’t more intimate than anything else they could have asked for. not a duet, not a staged photo shoot — this.
your voice feels stuck in your throat, but eventually, you manage something, quiet but clear. “and people are just supposed to believe it?”
your manager smiles like you’ve asked the easiest question in the world. “oh, they’ll believe it. they want to believe it. they’re already waiting for it.”
that’s the thing about the machine you live in — it doesn’t matter what’s true. it only matters what can be spun, what can trend.
across from you, minji finally moves. she exhales, a low sound, then tips her head to the side, gaze flicking your way before returning to the table. “sounds like a joke,” she says simply. her voice is steady, flat, but there’s an edge in it that cuts through the room.
for a moment, everyone freezes — waiting, watching.
and you realize, with a slow, sinking kind of certainty, that if she says no, the whole thing crumbles. it’s not just a plan, it’s her. the leverage, the mystery, the name they want tied to yours.
the silence after her words doesn’t end. it settles heavier, thicker, like the air has been cut but not cleared. people shift in their chairs. your manager starts shuffling papers as if that could distract from the truth hanging in the room.
you keep your eyes down, tracing the seam of the conference table with your finger, the shine of the lacquer too perfect, too smooth. it feels staged in the same way this whole idea feels staged — glossy, unreal, but still solid beneath your hand.
“a joke,” minji repeats, softer this time, almost like she’s speaking to herself. but you hear it. everyone does.
your pr rep leans forward, smiling tightly. “a joke the industry will take very seriously. that’s the beauty of it.”
her gaze flicks between you and minji, expectant. you don’t move. minji doesn’t either.
so your manager tries another tactic. “no one’s asking you to actually like each other. you just… stand next to each other, let people see what they want to see. dinners, a few photos, maybe a trip or two. you control the narrative. and when it runs its course, you both walk away with the publicity boost.”
you can feel minji’s eyes on you then, not the table, not the managers. you don’t dare look back, but you can sense it — that quiet, assessing stare she’s known for. it’s heavy, like she’s peeling back the layers of your silence, waiting to see if you’ll crack first.
your throat feels dry, words stuck somewhere between your chest and your mouth. because the truth is, it’s not the logistics that scare you. it’s her. it’s the thought of standing too close, pretending in front of cameras that already capture every twitch, every glance.
“what do you think?” the question slips out before you mean for it to. your voice is steadier than you feel, directed across the table.
her chair creaks as she shifts back, finally breaking eye contact. she shrugs once, a sharp little movement. “doesn’t matter what i think. they’ve already decided.”
you should feel relieved, the weight off your shoulders, the responsibility passed. instead, the words twist tighter inside you. because she’s not wrong. the plan will happen either way — and suddenly, you realize, so will she.
the room empties one by one. chairs scrape back, papers get tucked into folders, promises of follow-up calls hover in the air until the door finally shuts behind the last manager. it leaves only you and minji, opposite sides of the long polished table, the silence between you stretching wider now that there’s no one else to fill it.
you watch her first, because she doesn’t move. arms crossed, back against the chair, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. she looks carved out of stillness. you feel the urge to break it, because if you don’t, it’ll swallow the both of you.
“so,” you start, your voice quieter in the emptiness, “how do you want to do this?”
her eyes flick to you then, sharp, deliberate. the kind of look that makes you sit straighter even though you don’t want to. she doesn’t answer right away, just tilts her head, weighing whether or not the conversation is worth her breath.
“dates,” she finally says. “they’ll stage most of them, we just have to show up. smile sometimes, hold hands if it looks natural. nothing over the top. nothing that screams… fake.”
you nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “we’ll need a rhythm. like… how often we’re seen together. too much, people will notice it’s forced. too little, and the rumors die off before they help either of us.”
she doesn’t disagree. instead, she leans forward, forearms on the table now, her gaze steady. “there should be rules.”
you tense at that word. “rules?”
“boundaries,” she corrects, though her tone doesn’t soften. “we don’t have to be friends. we just have to be convincing. so, when we’re working—when the cameras are on—we don’t fight, we don’t argue. we play the part.”
that makes sense. still, something nags at you. “and when the cameras are off?”
her mouth twitches like she almost smirks. almost. “then we don’t owe each other anything.”
you let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but she isn’t done.
“we’re not exclusive,” she says, voice cool, final. “we both have… lives. people. whatever. if you want to mess around, do it. i don’t care. just—” her eyes lock onto yours, pinning you in place, “don’t be stupid about it. don’t let them catch you.”
the words hit sharper than you expect. you should feel relieved—she’s offering freedom, not chains—but there’s something in the way she says it, in the calm dismissal, that lands heavier.
you force yourself to nod, fingers tightening against your armrest. “same goes for you. i don’t care what you do when i’m not there. just be careful.”
there’s a beat of silence, and then she leans back again, the moment loosening. “good. then we understand each other.”
you sit in the stillness that follows, the agreement set between you like a line neither of you will admit you’re already tempted to cross.
the first outing is carefully arranged–an afternoon coffee run, somewhere busy enough to guarantee cameras but casual enough to look unplanned.
you’re already nervous before you step out of the hand, sunglasses sliding down your nose, a hand clutching your cup tighter than necessary. you know the flashes are waiting, even before you hear the faint clicks from across the street. what you don’t expect is minji’s hand brushing against yours the moment you fall into step beside her.
you glance at her, startled, but she doesn’t look at you. her gaze is straight ahead, dark glasses hiding whatever might flicker in her eyes. her fingers curl, just enough, and suddenly her hand slips into yours–firm, natural, like it was always supposed to be there.
your pulse jumps. you weren’t supposed to start this soon. the managers said build up to it. but minji? she doesn’t seem to care.
she even laughs at something you say– a low, short sound that makes you blink because it feels real, or at least convincing enough that your brain can’t tell the difference. the sound lingers in your chest long after she cuts it off.
when you reach the crosswalk, she doest it again: leans in juist slightly, close enough that you catch the faintest trace of leather and smoke clinging to her jacket. she murmurs something about the timing of the lights, but her lips brush near your ear, and you know the angle looks perfect for the cameras.
you try to focus, to remember this is strategy, but the warmth of her hand, the way she stands just a little closer than necessary, keeps rattling you.
later, at dinner–another staged appearance– she ups the game without warning. the cameras outside are waiting, of course, so when you step out of the restaurant, minji pulls the door open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. she places a hand at the small of your back, steady and unyielding, guiding you forward as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
your breath stutters. it’s subtle, easy to dismiss as politeness, but you feel it linger longer than it should, her palm pressing just enough to be noticed.
you try not to show it, but you know your reaction betrays you–the quick dart of your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. and minji? she notices.
you catch the faintest smirk tugging at her lips as she angles you toward the flashing cameras. she knows she’s getting to you. she’s doing it on purpose.
and yet, you don’t pull away.
the world reacts exactly the way your teams wanted—and in ways no one expected.
the photos aren’t staged, not exactly. they were meant to be a soft launch—subtle enough to spark curiosity, casual enough to be brushed off if it didn’t land. just a few candid shots slipped to the right photographers: you and minji leaving a restaurant together late at night, your hand brushing her arm as you ducked into a car. her leather jacket draped over your shoulders because the air was cold. another set shows her leaning close, saying something into your ear, and your smile caught mid-burst—wide, unguarded, not the polished kind you usually reserve for cameras.
by dawn, they’re everywhere. twitter trends collapse under your names. minji climbs to #1 worldwide, y/n follows at #2, and power couple hangs stubbornly at #3.
the comments flood in fast:
“holy shit holy shit holy shit are we SEEING THIS??”
“look at her FACE. that’s not fake. that’s not PR. that’s someone in love.”
“the jacket. THE JACKET.”
“ngl they look good together but i can’t tell if i’m being manipulated rn.”
“idc if it’s PR, it’s working. i’m fed.”
social media turns feral overnight. fan edits appear within hours, threads dissect every angle of every frame, strangers online circling the exact millimeters of space between your bodies as if the truth could be measured by pixels. gifs loop endlessly: minji leaning in, you laughing too wide, her eyes fixed not on cameras but on you.
what unnerves you most are the whispers that slip beneath the surface noise. people don’t just talk about the idea of you together anymore—they start to believe it. fans swear they see something different in your smile, something softer in minji’s eyes. threads pile up with captions like they’re not acting here or this isn’t PR anymore, this is real.
and though you tell yourself it’s all smoke and mirrors, your pulse betrays you each time you scroll through another viral clip. because sometimes—when you watch closely, too closely—you wonder if they’re seeing something you’ve been trying not to.
minji doesn’t make it easier. she stays quiet as ever in interviews, letting speculation grow without confirming or denying. she looks at you in ways that cameras can’t quite catch head-on, only in the margins, only when you’re not supposed to notice. and somehow, the absence of her words becomes louder than any statement.
the plan was working—more than working. your names in every mouth, your faces everywhere. but it feels like the story is running away from you, like the world is stitching its own narrative on top of yours.
and the part you can’t ignore: you don’t always want to correct them.
the restaurant your teams chose sits tucked in the corner of an old city street, dimly lit with candles on every table, the kind of place where the walls themselves seem to hum with secrets. the press had already been tipped off, so you knew the moment you stepped out of the car that lenses would be waiting—still, the sight of the flashing lights as you slid your hand into minji’s arm made your stomach lurch, the sound a metallic storm against the night.
she wore black again, of course. leather jacket, boots, hair loose and framing her face in a way that made her look both untouchable and devastatingly present. you played your part well—bright, bold, a splash of color against her darkness. your dress caught the glow of every camera, your smile glittered like you had nothing to hide, and when you leaned into her on the short walk to the entrance, you tilted your head just enough to make it look intimate.
the moment the door shut behind you, the noise dimmed. a hostess guided you to a booth at the back, deliberately secluded but not too hidden—enough for the paparazzi outside to imagine what might be happening, not enough to kill the story.
you slid into the booth first, legs crossed, your elbow propped against the table. minji sat across from you, posture perfect, face unreadable.
“so,” you said, voice low, playful, like you were already letting her in on something. “do we talk about the plan the whole night? or do we pretend to be normal people?”
her eyes flicked up from the menu, steady, assessing. “normal people?”
you smirked. “you know, small talk. hobbies. childhood trauma. favorite color.” you leaned closer across the table, chin resting on your hand. “what do you think, minji? wanna play along?”
she should’ve brushed you off—you expected her to. instead, she surprised you. “favorite color’s red,” she said simply.
you blinked, then laughed, soft but genuine. “oh. so you do want to play.”
“you started it,” she murmured, her mouth quirking just barely at the corner.
and that was the first crack—the tiniest shift in the armor she wore like a second skin.
you seized it. “red suits you. but i figured you for a black-or-nothing kind of girl.”
she arched a brow. “you figured me?”
your grin widened at the deliberate phrasing. “don’t sound so scandalized. i’ve done my research.”
“research,” she echoed, skeptical.
“of course. if i’m going to date the brooding rockstar, even a fake one, i need to know what i’m working with.” you let the word date linger just a little too long, a glimmer of heat under your teasing.
she shook her head faintly, as though she wanted to be annoyed but wasn’t. “and what did your research tell you?”
you leaned back, stretching lazily against the booth, letting your gaze sweep over her like you were appraising something rare. “that you’re a mystery people can’t stop trying to solve. that you hate interviews but somehow give the best soundbites. that you’re too cool for half the people you’ve been seen with.”
you paused, letting the weight of your words hang. “and that you don’t smile often. not unless you mean it.”
her expression didn’t change much, but her eyes did—something softer flickered there, just for a moment. “and what about you?” she asked quietly.
“me?” you teased. “i’m an open book.”
“no,” she said, firm enough to cut through your act. “you’re not.”
the air shifted between you, just slightly. the candle on the table flickered, throwing shadows across her cheekbones. for the first time tonight, you felt a prickle under your skin—like she was peeling back your layers in a way the cameras outside never could.
so you laughed again, light and flirty, retreating into your armor of charm. “careful, minji. if you actually get to know me, this might stop being fake.”
her gaze lingered on you, unreadable. and for one dizzying second, you weren’t sure if that possibility terrified her—or thrilled her.
the food barely mattered. menus sat between you like set dressing, a prop neither of you seemed interested in, though every now and then minji glanced at hers like she was trying to play the part. you, on the other hand, leaned all the way in. the performance didn’t end with the cameras outside—you carried it into the booth, into the way your voice dipped and rose like the world was hanging on your words, into the way you laughed a little too freely, making the people two tables over turn their heads.
you swirled the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “so, red,” you said again, playful. “i bet it’s not just your favorite color. i bet it means something.”
“it’s a color,” minji replied flatly, but her eyes didn’t leave yours.
“uh-uh,” you countered, wagging your finger. “see, with you, nothing’s ever just what it is. you wear black because it’s safe. you like red because it’s dangerous.” you tilted your head, letting your grin curl sharp. “am i wrong?”
her silence wasn’t dismissive—it was calculating. like she was deciding how much of herself she was willing to offer. eventually, she exhaled, almost a laugh. “maybe not wrong.”
“ha.” you leaned back. “i knew it. you’ve got this whole femme fatale thing going. mysterious, untouchable, dangerous. but secretly you’ve got a soft spot for something bold. something loud.” you tapped the table between you. “like me.”
the corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t give you the satisfaction of a real smile. “you’re loud, that’s for sure.”
you pressed your palm dramatically to your chest. “ouch. cutting me down already.”
“you make it too easy.”
you laughed, the sound bright enough to make the candle flame tremble. for all the banter, something about the exchange settled into you differently than you expected. this wasn’t the stiff, awkward script you thought you’d be stuck with for months. she was engaging you, even if she didn’t mean to. and you wanted more.
so you kept pushing.
“tell me something real,” you said suddenly, leaning forward. your eyes glinted mischievously, but your tone softened. “not the favorite color thing. something people wouldn’t know. something not in a headline.”
her hand stilled on her glass. she didn’t look away, but you felt the beat of hesitation.
“you first,” she said.
you smirked. “fine. i hate mornings. like, hate them. interviews at ten a.m.? torture. i don’t care how much makeup they put on me, i’m not human until noon.”
“i could’ve guessed that,” she muttered.
“oh?” you leaned in, challenging. “and what makes you think you know me that well already?”
“you talk too much to be a morning person.”
you blinked, then broke into laughter, head tipping back. “god, you’re mean. i like it.”
her lips curved—just a little. not a full smile, not yet, but enough to make your pulse skip.
“your turn,” you pressed, recovering quickly. “something real.”
she looked down at the candle, the way the flame swayed with the faintest draft, before finally answering. “i don’t like birthday parties.”
you tilted your head. “because?”
“too loud. too many people.” she lifted her gaze back to you, steady and unflinching. “i’d rather disappear.”
it wasn’t what you expected. not even close. the honesty of it threw you off balance, just for a breath.
“…that’s kinda sad,” you said softly.
“it’s just the truth.”
and for a moment, the performance dropped. the restaurant faded, the cameras outside forgotten. it was just her across the table, leather jacket brushing the booth, candlelight catching in her dark hair, telling you something no one else probably knew.
so, naturally, you ruined it with a grin. “guess i’ll just have to throw you a fake birthday party then. quiet, just the two of us. cake optional.”
she gave you a look, somewhere between disbelief and exasperation, but she didn’t shut it down. she didn’t tell you to stop.
and that, more than anything, told you she was letting you in—just a bit.
the party was already half a blur when you felt their hand brush yours. not minji’s—your friend’s, the one you hadn’t seen in months, someone familiar enough to lean close to without thinking.
the air was hot with sweat and perfume, laughter spilling too easily in the pockets of sound where the bass dropped. you bent toward them, mouth close to their ear to be heard over the noise, your smile wide in the dim light.
minji noticed before she even meant to. from across the room, she saw the shape of your body tilting inward, saw the grin crack across your face like it had been waiting for this exact moment. your friend leaned closer, whispering something quick, something only for you, and you laughed again—louder this time, head tipping back, one hand catching their arm for balance.
the sight hit her like static in her veins. sharp. irritating. impossible to shake.
she told herself it didn’t matter. you’d both been clear about the arrangement—fake for the cameras, free when the lights went out. no one owed anyone anything. and yet.
her grip around the glass in her hand tightened until the condensation slid between her fingers. she set it down, slower than she wanted, careful enough not to draw attention. her gaze lingered on you for one more beat, then another, each one burning longer than it should.
the room swirled around her—the perfume, the champagne, the shrieks of someone’s victory at a drinking game in the corner. but it all dimmed against the single, sharp image of you, lips close to your friend’s ear, your fingers still resting light against their arm.
her chest pulled tight.
and before she’d even thought it through, she was moving.
not hurried. not storming. each step was measured, deliberate, her presence cutting through the crush of people like a knife through gauze. she slipped between clusters of partygoers, the room bending around her until she stood behind you.
“we’re leaving,” she said quietly, her voice steady enough to pass for casual but lined with something harder.
you turned at once, eyes wide, caught off guard by her sudden nearness. the party’s neon lights flickered across her face, casting her expression in shadows you couldn’t quite read.
“already?” you asked, a playful lilt to soften the question, though your heart picked up at the way she didn’t look at your friend, didn’t look at anyone but you.
her gaze held yours for a fraction too long before she tilted her head toward the exit. “the car’s waiting.”
it wasn’t a demand, not exactly. but there was no room in her tone for argument either.
your friend raised their brows, gave you a teasing little smile like they knew exactly what they were seeing, though they didn’t understand it at all.
you offered them a quick, “later,” your hand brushing their arm one last time before you let minji guide you out.
the car door shut behind you. the air inside was cool, filtered, carrying none of the noise or perfume or champagne-sour laughter that clung to the party. it should have been a relief. instead, it pressed down heavier than the chaos you’d just left behind.
minji slid in beside you, the faintest rustle of fabric as she settled into her corner of the seat. she didn’t look at you. her gaze was turned toward the window, fixed on the smear of neon lights and passing headlights outside, her reflection faint and ghostlike in the glass.
you leaned back, exhaling a laugh that came out lighter than you felt. “well, that was abrupt,” you said, hoping to break the weight in the air. “didn’t even let me finish my drink.”
she didn’t answer. her posture stayed composed, spine straight, hands resting neatly in her lap. the kind of stillness that looked effortless from the outside but felt, in here, like a wall.
you tilted your head, studying her profile in the dim light. “okay,” you said, softer now, “what’s going on with you?”
a pause. then, without turning her head, she said, “nothing.”
you laughed again, a little sharper, trying to slice through her calm. “you’re not very good at lying, you know.”
her jaw shifted, the faintest clench, and you caught it. she knew you caught it.
you leaned in just slightly, enough to test the air between you. “is this about my friend?” your tone was teasing, sing-song almost, like you were daring her to say it out loud.
her eyes flicked toward you then, quick, sharp, before darting back to the window. “you’re not subtle,” she murmured, quiet enough you might have missed it if you weren’t listening so hard.
that sent a thrill through you—half satisfaction, half something heavier you couldn’t quite name.
“so you were watching,” you said, smiling slow, like it was a secret you’d both just agreed to keep.
her silence deepened. not empty—never empty—but thick with all the things she wouldn’t give voice to.
you shifted closer, just an inch, your knee brushing hers lightly. “you know we said it was fine. you do your thing, i do mine.”
you tilted your head, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. “unless you’ve changed your mind about that.”
finally, she turned to you, her gaze steady, unreadable in the dark. she didn’t flinch at the closeness, didn’t move away.
“you make it very hard to remember the rules,” she said, her voice low, almost too honest.
the words landed heavier than you expected. heavier than either of you seemed ready for.
you tried to play it off, lips curving into a grin. “maybe that’s my job. keep things interesting.”
but she didn’t smile. she just kept looking at you, as if trying to decide whether the joke was worth believing.
the city lights slid over her face in fleeting glances, painting her in shadows and sharp lines. and for the rest of the ride, neither of you spoke again—your silence filling the car, thick and humming, alive with something neither of you wanted to name yet.
the first moment came in the car, just after landing. the tinted windows couldn’t hide the swarm of cameras waiting beyond the terminal, a wall of black lenses and flashing lights.
you sat scrolling through your phone, watching edits of your staged smiles from the last event, when minji’s hand brushed against yours. at first, it was nothing—an accidental touch, the kind that could be ignored.
but then her fingers shifted deliberately, sliding between yours with quiet certainty. you froze, head turning slightly, but she didn’t look at you. her gaze was fixed on the blurred silhouettes beyond the glass. the driver opened the door, and minji stepped out first, still holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
the cameras went wild, screaming and flashing, but you were stuck on the way her grip felt—solid, grounding, nothing like performance.
the rooftop dinner was worse. you’d been seated across from one another. it was a setup, pure and simple, meant for perfect photographs. so you leaned in, your voice low and teasing, just enough to draw the smallest twitch of annoyance from her lips.
“we look like a movie poster right now,” you whispered, smiling as you swirled the wine in your glass. you expected her usual dry remark, maybe even a dismissive scoff.
instead, her hand slipped beneath the tablecloth, warm fingers settling on your knee with quiet weight. your laugh faltered, caught in your throat. she didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge what she’d done.
she just kept talking to the waiter, her voice calm, while her touch anchored you in place. and when you finally glanced at her, she let the silence stretch, daring you to be the one to break it first.
the beach shoot was supposed to be playful. the photographers had asked for something light, so you obliged—splashing water at her ankles, teasing her with reckless energy. she stood still at first, leather jacket swapped for something deceptively casual, her expression as composed as ever.
but then you stumbled forward, tripping on the pull of the tide. her arm was around your waist before you even realized it, pulling you tight against her chest.
the photographers erupted in delighted shouts, flashes firing endlessly, convinced they’d captured pure chemistry. maybe they had—but you felt more than they could see.
her grip was firm, fingers pressing into your side just a fraction too tightly, holding you there long enough that it didn’t feel like an accident. long enough for your breath to stutter, for your smile to come out just a little too real.
the afterparty should have been easy. music hummed low, glasses clinked, executives in tailored suits surrounded you with praise about your “effortless dynamic.”
you smiled, laughed when needed, your champagne glass raised at just the right angle. minji, as always, stood a careful half-step behind you, her silence working in her favor.
but then you felt it—her palm at the small of your back. she leaned in when someone else tried to steal your attention, her lips barely brushing your ear as she murmured, “you’re overperforming.” it was said so quietly no one else could hear.
you tilted your head, playful even now. “and you’re underperforming,” you whispered back, a smirk tugging at your lips. but she didn’t answer. her hand remained exactly where it was, her touch reminding you with every second that this wasn’t just for them anymore.
the studio was always supposed to be safe. it smelled faintly of stale coffee and pencil shavings, the floor scattered with empty water bottles, lyric sheets, and cables that curled like restless veins across the ground. the hour was late enough that the city outside had softened into a quieter hum, and inside, the only light came from the glowing boards and a dim lamp shoved into the corner.
you were perched on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, notebook balanced on your knee. your friend sat across from you with a guitar, idly strumming chords as you hummed along, tossing half-joking lines into the air just to see if they’d stick. you laughed when one of them did, doubling over, hand brushing against your friend’s knee in the kind of casual way that only came from long familiarity.
the door opened without warning.
you glanced up, still mid-laugh, and there she was—minji. leather jacket, hair tucked behind her ears, the kind of expression that made the temperature of the room shift even before she spoke. she didn’t announce herself, didn’t offer a greeting. her gaze swept over the space—first to you, then to your friend, then to the way you were leaning a little too close on the couch.
“didn’t know you had company,” minji said finally, voice smooth, but clipped at the edges.
you blinked, caught off guard, and straightened. “yeah—just working on something. it’s nothing serious.”
your friend, oblivious or pretending to be, smiled politely. “hey. we’re just messing around with ideas.”
minji’s lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a smile. she didn’t move from the doorway, hands shoved in her pockets, shoulders tense. “right. ideas.” her eyes flicked back to you, unreadable, heavy enough that your grin faltered for the first time that night.
you tried to defuse it, teasing. “don’t tell me you’re here to supervise. my team didn’t put that in the fine print.”
her gaze lingered on you another beat before she finally stepped further into the room, each footstep quiet but deliberate. she didn’t look at your friend again—only at you, as if the two of you were the only ones in the space.
“can we talk?” she asked, but it didn’t sound like a question.
you hesitated, eyes darting to your friend. “now?”
“now,” she repeated.
the weight in her tone left no room for argument.
you sighed, closing your notebook, muttering an apology as you rose. your friend waved it off easily, strumming a chord as if nothing strange was unfolding. but when you followed minji out into the hall, the shift was immediate. the door shut behind you with a muted thud, cutting off the easy hum of guitar strings.
minji didn’t face you right away. she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at some fixed point on the opposite side of the corridor. for a moment, it was just silence, the kind that pressed down on your ribs.
“you didn’t have to drag me out here if you weren’t going to say anything,” you said finally, letting your voice carry a playful lilt. “kind of dramatic, don’t you think?”
her eyes lifted then—slowly, deliberately—and locked onto yours. the look wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry. it was worse. it was heavy, steady, like she was holding something back that you weren’t supposed to see.
“you think everything’s a joke,” she murmured, not loud enough for it to echo.
you tilted your head, masking the sudden tug in your chest with a smirk. “well, if you wanted me to take you seriously, you should’ve said that when we signed up for this.”
her mouth twitched, not into a smile, but into the ghost of one that never quite arrived. she shifted her stance, uncrossing her arms, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. still, she didn’t look away.
the silence pressed harder. you found yourself fidgeting with the edge of your notebook, tapping it against your thigh just to give your hands something to do.
“minji,” you tried again, softer this time, “why did you pull me out?”
her throat worked as she swallowed. for a moment, it seemed like she might not answer at all. then, slowly, carefully, she said, “i didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
you blinked. then, before you could stop yourself, you laughed—quiet, disbelieving. “that’s it? you don’t like how someone looked at me?”
her eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of irritation flashing through them. “you were letting him,” she said. the words weren’t harsh, but the weight behind them landed hard.
you shifted against the wall, the playful veneer cracking just slightly under her stare. “you know this is nothing. he’s my friend. that’s all.”
her gaze dipped briefly—to your mouth, then back up. quick, almost unnoticeable, but you caught it.
“didn’t look like nothing,” she said quietly.
the air between you thickened. you could almost hear the rhythm of her breathing, uneven in the hush of the hallway. your smirk faltered, replaced by something smaller, more fragile.
“minji,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t teasing. it was careful, a test.
she took a step closer—not enough to touch, but enough to make the space feel suddenly claustrophobic. “don’t make me spell it out,” she whispered.
you tilted your head against the wall, trying to summon your usual grin, the one that always worked as armor. but her stare pinned you in place, made your mouth feel dry.
“spell what out?” you asked, voice low, almost coaxing.
minji’s jaw tightened, and for a long beat, she didn’t answer. you watched her fingers shift inside her jacket pockets, restless, as though her body betrayed what she was working so hard to swallow down.
finally, she let out a slow exhale. “you can laugh all you want,” she said, her voice quieter now, frayed at the edges. “but i don’t like seeing you with him.”
you blinked. “you don’t like…?”
“the way he looks at you,” she cut in, sharper this time. “the way you laugh with him, the way you lean in like he’s the only one who matters in the room. i hate it.”
the admission hung in the cold air, a fracture in the careful facade she always carried.
you laughed softly, but it wasn’t mocking—it was startled, unsure. “minji,” you murmured, stepping just slightly closer, “we made rules. you’re the one who wanted them. no strings. no—”
“i know what i said.” her voice broke across yours, firm but cracking underneath. “and i meant it when i thought i could handle this. but i can’t.”
you froze, the words catching you off guard. she had never said anything like this—not in the rehearsed moments in front of cameras, not in the quiet car rides where you both avoided looking at each other too long.
her gaze flickered, and for a split second, you swore you saw something raw and unguarded flicker in her eyes.
“because every time i see you with someone else, it feels like you’re slipping out of my hands before i’ve even had the chance to hold you.”
your breath hitched. the teasing quip you always kept ready burned away on your tongue.
instead, you whispered, “minji…”
she shook her head slightly, as if trying to steady herself. “don’t—don’t say it’s nothing. don’t tell me this is all performance. i can fake a lot of things, but not this. not how i feel when i see you with him.”
you hadn’t moved, not really, but the gap between you suddenly felt unbearable. you leaned forward, ever so slightly, the tension snapping like a stretched string.
“so what are you saying?” your voice was soft.
her lips parted, but no words came for a moment. she just looked at you, like the truth had already slipped out and there was no way to reel it back in.
“i’m saying i don’t want to share you,” she finally admitted, voice low, raw.
the silence after was deafening, thick enough to press against your ribs.
you let it sit there, let it sink deep. then, with a faint, almost dangerous smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, you asked quietly, “then what are you going to do about it?”
minji didn’t answer right away. her breath was shallow, her chest rising and falling like she had run here instead of walked.
her hands stayed buried in her jacket pockets, but you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she shifted her weight like standing still was impossible.
when she finally spoke, her voice was low. “i’m saying i can’t keep pretending this is just business. not when i feel like this.”
your heartbeat tripped. “feel like what?” you pressed, half teasing, half desperate.
she stepped closer, closing the space between you. the hallway lights caught in her hair, in the hard line of her jaw. “like i’ve been lying every time i touched you in front of a camera. like it stopped being fake the second you looked at me like you knew it was fake.”
her eyes—her eyes were soft, trembling with something that made your throat tighten. “like i’m losing my mind when someone else gets to stand too close to you, and i can’t say a damn word about it because we agreed not to.”
you swallowed hard, every syllable dragging you deeper. she wasn’t supposed to say this. you weren’t supposed to hear it. but now it was out in the open, heavy and impossible to ignore.
“minji…” you started, softer, uncertain.
“don’t,” she cut in, shaking her head. “don’t tell me i’m imagining it. don’t tell me you don’t feel it too. because i see it—the way you look at me when no one’s watching, the way your smile changes. it’s not the same one you give everyone else.”
your smirk faltered completely. she’d caught you, stripped the game bare.
you let the silence drag, heart hammering, then finally asked, almost in a whisper, “and if i do feel it too?”
her hand left her pocket at last. she hesitated, the smallest pause, then reached out—her fingers brushing against yours, not performative, not careful, but slow, deliberate, like she was terrified you’d pull away.
“then we’re already breaking the rules,” she breathed, eyes locked on yours. “and i don’t care anymore.”
the words sank deep, raw enough to leave you dizzy.
for once, you didn’t reach for the easy joke. instead, you stepped into her space fully, letting her hand catch yours, letting the air crackle with the truth that had been circling you both for weeks.
her fingers tightened around yours like she’d been holding back for too long. there was no audience here, no cameras, no carefully positioned lenses waiting to capture a headline. just the two of you in the empty hallway, hearts rattling against ribcages like they wanted out.
you tilted your chin up, only slightly, testing her, daring her. “so what now?” you murmured, voice laced with something that wasn’t quite teasing anymore, though it carried the shape of it.
minji’s jaw flexed, her gaze flicking down to your mouth before she caught herself. “don’t ask me that unless you’re ready for the answer.”
“try me.”
for a long second, she didn’t move. the air between you tightened, heavy, charged—like the entire world was holding its breath, waiting. then her other hand came up, slow, tentative at first, brushing against your jaw with a touch softer than you thought she was capable of.
your breath stilled. her fingers traced along your cheekbone, settling just beneath your ear, grounding you in the smallest, surest way.
and then she kissed you.
not the way you’d rehearsed in front of cameras. not the careful, calculated brush of lips for the sake of spectacle. this was something else entirely. it was unsteady at first, raw, the kind of kiss that tasted like restraint snapping all at once. she pressed into you as though she was afraid you’d vanish, her hand sliding into your hair, holding you there like she couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.
you melted into it, your smirk giving way to something softer, deeper. your hands lifted, finding the edge of her jacket, pulling her closer until your body pressed into hers. the hallway tilted, spinning, the noise of the world slipping away.
she kissed you like confession, like she’d been swallowing every word she shouldn’t say until this moment forced it out.
when you finally broke apart, it wasn’t clean. your breaths tangled, foreheads nearly touching. her thumb lingered at your jaw, her chest rising and falling too fast.
“this isn’t fake anymore,” she whispered, like it was the only truth she had left.
you smiled—small, real, unguarded. “good,” you whispered back, brushing your lips against hers once more, softer this time, deliberate. “because i was starting to get tired of pretending.”
GUYS HELLO???? THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH FOR 200 MILLI VANILLI FOLLOWERS HOLY CRAP
i know i haven’t been posting much lately im really sorry :( theres no big reason, just life getting a little more hectic than expected. ive missed being here with you all </3
but to celebrate 200 million (still can’t believe it) — since im already doing a little series — here’s me doing a 10-second guitar cover of hanni's darling darling!! its a small thank you bundled up with rings reveal, hand reveal, and a peek at my (broken) guitar too :’)
THANK YOU GUYS AGAIN I LOVE YOU ALL FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART MWA MWA MWA
synopsis: every time the shutter clicks, time resets. every version, she finds you.
includes: angst with happy ending, slow burn, time loops, alternate timelines, quiet longing, strangers with history, loosely based on this song!
word count: 14.8k
you weren’t planning to be out this long. you’d walked without much direction—past rows of sun-warmed fences, cracked sidewalks that buckled slightly beneath your steps, and laundry lines that swayed with patterned cloth like flags from another life. the city always felt quieter in this part of town, like the air had thickened just enough to trap sound before it reached your ears.
it was only by chance that you noticed the sign. taped to a lamppost with what looked like packing tape, the corners of the paper had curled from age, one side flapping gently against the pole each time the breeze passed through. the handwriting was uneven, scrawled in black marker that had faded to a washed-out gray garage sale – this way.
you didn’t have a reason to follow it. but something about the way the arrow tilted downward, like it was inviting you specifically, made your feet turn the corner before you’d made a decision. the street narrowed into something quieter still.
houses were spaced farther apart here, their windows half-shadowed by thick-leafed trees that bent over the road like they were tired of holding up the sky. you passed a house with a cracked birdbath, another with a rusting bicycle slumped against its gate. somewhere, you could hear a sprinkler hissing.
the house came into view suddenly—two stories, pale yellow paint sun-faded into beige, with a sagging porch and a driveway that sloped unevenly toward the curb. there were no other shoppers in sight. just a few mismatched folding tables arranged beneath the overhang, each one sagging beneath the weight of someone’s discarded life.
the items were strange in their own way. chipped mugs with faded logos, an old electric fan that turned in slow circles despite being unplugged, a plastic tub full of tangled cords and mystery chargers. a stack of books leaned precariously beside a broken mirror that reflected only slivers of your body as you passed.
you moved slowly between the tables, not really searching, not really expecting. it felt like the kind of place where time folded in on itself a little, where even the air moved at a different rhythm. somewhere inside the house, a radio played something soft and distant, muffled by walls and the weight of years. the voice of the seller—older, distracted—drifted from behind the screen door, offering you a half-hearted “take your time.”
you nodded, even though they couldn’t see you, and crouched beside a box that hadn’t been opened. it sat apart from the rest of the clutter, half-tucked behind a table leg, its cardboard flaps loosely taped shut like someone had changed their mind about including it at the last second. the edges were water-damaged, one side marked with a faint sticker that had long since peeled away.
and somehow, without knowing why, you reached for it.
your fingers hovered over the tape, not quite ready to pull it back. the cardboard was soft to the touch, the way paper gets after too many seasons tucked in storage, its corners sagging under the weight of air and forgetting. there wasn’t a label, no price tag, nothing to say what it once held or who had left it there. just a blank, uneven surface that gave off the faint smell of mildew and dust-warmed plastic.
for a second, you hesitated—not out of caution, exactly, but something quieter than that. it was the feeling you got before flipping to the last page of a book you didn’t want to end. or the split second before stepping into water deeper than it looked. that gentle, internal pull that whispered not don’t—but not yet.
you rested your hand flat across the top of the box. the warmth of the sun had been caught in the cardboard, radiating into your skin like a held breath. you didn’t know what you expected to find inside. maybe old chargers. maybe nothing at all. but a part of you—deep, wordless, tucked behind your ribs—was waiting.
as if it already knew.
the tape peeled away with a soft tearing sound, thin and dry like brittle skin. it didn’t resist much. like it had been waiting, too.
you folded back the flaps.
inside, there wasn’t much. just a nest of crumpled newspaper and one object tucked carefully in the center, wrapped loosely in a yellowing dish towel. you reached in slowly, brushing the edge of something hard beneath the layers, your fingertips catching on the fabric before curling around the weight beneath it.
you lifted it out, cradling it in both hands.
a camera.
it was square, a little boxy, with thick plastic casing dulled from years of use. the once-yellow surface had faded into a sort of dark tan, the corners scuffed, a faint crack running along the top edge like an old scar. the viewfinder was cloudy, the flash cover smudged, and the strap hung limp and twisted, the fabric stiff with time.
but it felt solid. real. heavier than you expected.
your thumbs slid over the surface as if reading something in the scratches, tracing the faint ridge where the brand name used to be. there was no film pack inside—just the gentle rattle of a loose piece inside the body. something that might’ve broken off. maybe it didn’t work anymore. maybe it never would again.
but even so, you couldn’t look away from it.
holding it felt strange in a quiet way—not wrong, exactly, but too familiar. like picking up a sweater you didn’t remember owning but that still fit perfectly. like muscle memory your mind hadn’t caught up with yet. your pulse thudded a little harder in your wrist. you told yourself it was nothing.
and then—your fingers brushed a switch near the base.
you didn’t mean to press it. but you did.
and the camera whirred.
just once—soft, mechanical, like something waking up from a very long sleep.
then, with a faint click, a photo slid out from the top.
you froze.
the camera had gone still again, silent in your hands, as if nothing had happened at all. the whirring sound—so brief, so out of place—seemed to echo longer than it should have, as though it had moved through more than just air.
you stared at the slot where the photo had appeared, heart ticking a little faster now. you hadn’t loaded it with anything. and yet there it was—halfway out, the edge catching the light, curled slightly at one corner like it had been waiting just below the surface.
you hesitated before pulling it free. the plastic was cool to the touch, the film a little tacky with age. it didn’t feel like something freshly made. didn’t smell like chemical ink or heated plastic the way newer photos did. it felt… old. like it had been here for a while. like the camera had been holding it, not printing it. you turned it over slowly.
the photo was blurry, colors washed out from time or light or both. the exposure was imperfect—the kind of fading that happened when something was left in a drawer too long or carried around too much—but the image was still clear enough to see.
a girl, mid-laugh, her head tilted back slightly, hair caught in motion, blurred by the speed of it. one hand lifted, as if reaching out toward whoever was taking the picture. sunlight poured in behind her, glowing gold around her edges, softening the lines of her face. she wasn’t posing. it was the kind of photo that only happened in real moments—unguarded, full of something light and real.
her other hand was holding someone else’s. you leaned closer. you couldn’t see the other person, not really. they were mostly out of frame—only part of their arm, a corner of their shoulder, and a shadow stretched across the bottom of the image.
you stared at it for longer than you meant to—not because it was strange, not because it didn’t make sense, but because the girl felt familiar. painfully so. you didn’t know her. you couldn’t name her. you were sure of that. but the second you looked into the curve of her smile, the crinkle at the corner of her eye—something tugged behind your ribs. like remembering a dream before it slips. like missing someone you haven’t met yet.
you glanced up then—half-expecting, for reasons you couldn’t explain, to see her there. on the porch. behind the table. somewhere. but there was only the air, and the stillness, and the soft creak of tree branches overhead. you looked back down at the photo. and the longer you stared, the more certain you were.
you’d seen her before. even if you didn’t know where. even if it didn’t make sense. you had.
you didn’t notice them come out at first. your focus had stayed on the photo, fingers still resting at its edges as if afraid it might vanish if you let go. but then a voice cut gently into the stillness, not loud, not sharp—just there, like a door creaking open you hadn’t realized was closed.
“didn’t know anyone’d dig that out.”
you looked up. the seller had stepped just past the screen door, leaning one shoulder against the frame like they’d only half-committed to joining you. their face was hard to place—somewhere between sixty and seventy, maybe older, maybe younger, depending on how the light caught them. they squinted toward you with a kind of vague disinterest, like they weren’t entirely sure whether you were real or part of a dream they’d been having on the couch.
you stood, camera in one hand, the photo tucked carefully against your palm. the seller tilted their head slightly, eyeing the camera, then blinked as though they’d forgotten it existed.
“thought that box got tossed last summer,” they muttered, more to themself than to you. “guess not.”
you cleared your throat. “how much?”
they shrugged, pushing the screen door open with their shoulder and stepping out onto the porch. the boards creaked beneath their weight.
“doesn’t work,” they said flatly. “just taking up space. five?”
you nodded before you even knew you were doing it. your wallet felt heavier than usual, as if it already knew you’d be giving something away. you handed over the bill, and they took them without looking too closely. folded them once. slid them into their back pocket. no further questions, no small talk.
you thought to ask about the photo—how long the camera had been there, who’d owned it before, if maybe it had belonged to someone in the house—but the words felt stuck in your throat. the moment felt too thin to press against. like asking anything would make it collapse.
instead, you thanked them quietly, and they nodded in return. when you glanced back toward the table where the box had been, it was already gone. maybe the seller had pulled it inside. maybe you’d just lost track of it. maybe it had never really been there at all.
you left with the camera in your hand and the photo tucked into the inside pocket of your jacket. you didn’t look back.
the walk the rest of the way home felt softer than before, like the edges of everything had rounded out. cars passed, a dog barked somewhere in the distance, someone’s wind chime stirred against the sky—but it all felt slightly muffled, as if the world had dipped below water. nothing had changed visibly, and yet something inside your chest wouldn’t sit still. your keys jingled when you reached the gate, but even that sound felt thinner than usual.
you didn’t turn on any lights when you stepped inside. the sun had already begun to slip beneath the rooftops, casting long gold through the window above the sink. your room was still holding the last of that light—warm and low and gentle, spilling across the floorboards, touching your desk and part of your blanket in a soft, uneven wash.
you set the camera down first. carefully. not like something fragile exactly, but like something old that shouldn’t be disturbed more than necessary. it looked small on your desk, squat and silent and strange in the dim.
then, without fully knowing why, you pulled the photo out again.
you sat on the edge of your bed, holding it between your fingers. her smile looked softer in this light—less blurred, somehow. less accidental. like maybe she hadn’t been caught off guard at all. like she’d meant for someone to see her like this. her fingers were still curled gently around the unseen hand. and that laugh—god, it looked like a laugh you knew. not from memory, but from feeling. from somewhere deep inside your body where recognition lives without needing words.
you leaned back against your pillows, still holding the photo, thumb brushing faintly across its edge. the sky outside was the kind of fading blue that never lasted long. in a few minutes, it would be gone completely. your room had gone quiet, save for the faint hum of the ceiling fan above you. everything around you had fallen into stillness.
and yet you couldn’t stop looking at her.
eventually, you reached for a small clip and pinned the photo to the edge of your corkboard. not quite in the center, not tucked away either. somewhere where your eyes could land on it without trying. where it would stay, for now.
you didn’t know who she was.
you didn’t know where the photo had come from.
morning came gently, the light was already creeping past the curtains when you opened your eyes, soft and steady and warm across your sheets. you’d left the window open just a crack, and the breeze that slipped through smelled faintly of sunlight and cut grass, like the kind of day that was already trying to be good before you even asked it to be.
you stretched without sitting up, eyes half-lidded as you turned toward your desk.
the photo was still there.
pinned where you left it, catching the light along one blurred edge. you hadn’t dreamt about her—not exactly. but something about your sleep had felt strange, like your mind had been moving around quietly in the background, trying to remember something it couldn’t quite touch. you hadn’t woken with a jolt. just that same feeling in your chest. like something unfinished.
you got up eventually. went through the motions. shower. toast. your bag slung over one shoulder. but the photo stayed with you, tucked beneath every step. not heavy. just… present.
the day unfolded with the same rhythm as always. familiar streets. familiar buildings. faces you passed often enough to recognize but not enough to greet. you didn’t know what you were expecting—maybe nothing. maybe something you wouldn’t recognize until it was right in front of you.
but then she was.
you saw her at the cafe just past the bookstore, standing at the corner counter with one hand wrapped around a paper cup and the other tugging gently at the end of her sleeve. she looked exactly like the photo and nothing like it at all—sharper here, realer, the blur replaced by the slow motion of someone very much alive. her hair was tucked behind one ear, a few strands falling forward as she glanced at something on her phone. you stopped walking without meaning to.
for a moment, all you could do was watch.
she was humming to herself. you couldn’t hear it clearly, but the sound moved in the shape of a song. familiar. low. warm. and when she looked up, just briefly—eyes scanning past the window like she felt someone watching—her gaze brushed yours.
only for a second.
and still, something in your stomach turned over. not panic. not surprise. not quite recognition. but close. your hand twitched where it hung by your side, like it thought you might wave.
she tilted her head slightly, like she was about to smile.
and then the moment passed. the door opened behind you. someone stepped out. you blinked, and she was turning away, tossing a glance over her shoulder toward the barista, the hum on her lips drifting into a laugh.
you didn’t speak. not yet. you just stood there, heart ticking a little louder in your ears than it should’ve.
it couldn’t be her.
you didn’t know her.
and yet.
you reached into your pocket, fingertips brushing the smooth curve of the photo’s edge.
she looked even more like it now.
you didn’t plan to go inside. your feet just moved.
the bell above the door gave a small chime as you stepped in, and for a second you thought she might turn again—look at you, remember something she had no reason to remember. but she didn’t. she was leaning over the counter now, thanking the barista for the extra shot, her voice a little brighter than you expected. like light spilling into a room that had been closed for a while.
you stood near the pastry case, pretending to scan the rows of cookies and croissants as your eyes kept flicking toward her. it wasn’t a decision, really. it just was.
she turned at the exact moment you looked up.
and this time, she saw you.
you don’t know what expression you were wearing—maybe something halfway between startled and unsure—but she smiled anyway. small. easy. like it came naturally to her.
“sorry,” she said, stepping to the side, cup in hand. “was i in your way?”
you shook your head, too quickly. “no. not at all.”
she tilted her head, that small smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. “you looked like you were about to ask something.”
you blinked. “have we met before?”
she paused—not in the startled kind of way, but like she was running the question through something softer in her mind. “no,” she said slowly, “i don’t think so.”
you nodded. your fingers curled around the strap of your bag. “you just… look really familiar.”
“hm.” she sipped her drink, eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicious, just thoughtful. “i get that sometimes. maybe i just have one of those faces.”
you almost said no. almost said you’re in a photo i found in a broken camera that printed it by itself. but the words stuck somewhere between your throat and your sense of what would sound completely insane.
she laughed, lightly. “do i remind you of someone? old friend? ex?”
you swallowed. “maybe someone from a dream.”
at that, her smile shifted—slightly, not unkindly. something thoughtful flickered there, like you’d said something more personal than you meant to. she looked at you for a moment longer than necessary.
“i’ll take that as a compliment,” she said finally, and her voice was soft around the edges.
you didn’t know what else to say. not yet. so you nodded, managed a smile, and stepped aside to let her pass.
she didn’t leave right away. instead, she lingered by the door, adjusting the sleeve of her jacket, her fingers slow and absent. then, as the bell chimed again and the wind stirred through the open door, she looked back over her shoulder.
“maybe we’ve met in another life,” she said, like it was nothing. like it was a joke.
but her eyes stayed on yours just a second longer.
and then she was gone.
you didn’t follow her. not at first.
the door closed behind her with a soft jingle of the bell, and for a long moment you just stood there, still holding the shape of the encounter like it was something breakable. the barista didn’t look at you. the couple near the window kept talking softly over their cups. nothing had shifted visibly—but everything inside you felt like it had tilted, just slightly off balance.
your hand drifted into your jacket pocket almost without thinking. the photo was there, edges smooth from how often you’d touched it, the corners starting to curl faintly. you pulled it out slowly, carefully, and made your way to the empty table near the window.
the seat was warm. the light was soft and angled low, brushing across the wood grain and catching along the ridges of the paper. you laid the photo flat and stared.
it was still her. the same girl—caught mid-laugh, light curling around her, hair lifting slightly like she was turning toward something just out of frame. she looked freer here. almost unreal. and the version of her you’d just met… she was sharper. quieter. more grounded in the moment. and yet, the more you looked, the harder it became to separate the two.
your thumb drifted over the photo’s edge. she had looked right at you. twice.
you didn’t know what you were waiting for, exactly. maybe a memory to surface. maybe the sound of her voice to echo again. maybe something impossible, something that would tell you you weren’t imagining this. but none of that came. just the quiet. just the photo. just you, sitting alone in the place where she had been.
after a few minutes, you folded the photo gently back into your pocket, stood, and walked to the door.
you weren’t planning to go after her. not really. you didn’t even know where she was going. but your feet carried you outside anyway, slow and quiet, like maybe a part of you already knew where she’d be.
the sun had shifted while you sat inside. it slanted lower now, catching on window glass and street corners, turning everything a little more gold. you spotted her just as she was turning the corner, her jacket catching the breeze, her steps unhurried. she wasn’t far.
you followed.
not in a rush. not calling out.
just enough to stay within reach.
you didn’t know what you were going to say yet, or if you’d say anything at all. maybe you’d let her walk. maybe you’d catch up. maybe she’d stop again and look over her shoulder the way she did in the photo. or maybe none of that would happen. maybe you’d just keep walking. a little closer now.
but whatever this was—
it had already started.
you didn’t expect her to stop walking. but she did.
it happened just before the street turned into something quieter—a small patch of green tucked behind a row of old apartment buildings, half park, half clearing. the kind of place people walked their dogs in early mornings, or sat with coffee when they didn’t want to go home just yet. she paused there, beneath a tree that still held most of its leaves, and glanced up at the shifting light between the branches.
you slowed.
she sat down on the bench without looking behind her, pulling her sleeves down over her palms and resting both hands in her lap. there was no phone in her hand now. no distraction. she just sat there for a moment, quiet, like someone waiting for their thoughts to catch up with them.
and then—without turning—she said, “you’re still following me.”
your feet stopped. warmth rushed to your face before you could stop it. “sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”
“no,” she said softly, finally turning. “it’s okay.”
her gaze met yours again. there was no surprise in it now. not even curiosity. just a kind of calm. like she'd already figured something out before you had.
“sit?”
you hesitated, then crossed the last few steps and lowered yourself to the bench beside her. not too close. but close enough to feel that you’d crossed into something. the air between you didn’t feel like a stranger’s anymore.
for a long minute, neither of you said anything.
birds moved somewhere in the branches. a child laughed distantly down the path. wind tugged gently at the hem of her coat, and she pressed it down with one hand, eyes still on the horizon.
then she spoke.
“so who do you think i am?”
you blinked. “…sorry?”
she tilted her head slightly, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. “you said i looked familiar.”
“you do.”
“but not from here, right?” she paused. “not from this life.”
you looked at her. really looked at her. and something in your chest turned over.
“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “it’s like i’ve seen you before. but not in a way i can explain.”
she smiled faintly. “people don’t usually say that out loud.”
you opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled. instead, you reached slowly into your jacket pocket. your fingers brushed the photo again. you hesitated for just a breath, then pulled it out and handed it to her.
her fingers closed over it gently.
she didn’t react the way you thought she might. no startled gasp. no look of confusion. she just stared down at it for a long time, her expression unreadable. her thumb traced the edge once, then again.
“where’d you get this?” she asked, quietly now.
“garage sale,” you said. “an old camera. it printed that all on its own. i didn’t take it. i don’t even think it works.”
she nodded slowly. still staring at the photo. still quiet.
then—softly, with something fragile behind the words—she said, “i don’t remember this being taken.”
you felt something catch in your throat.
she handed it back without looking at you. her fingers lingered for just a moment too long.
and then she said, “maybe we were meant to meet like this.”
you didn’t speak right away. you were still watching her—not in the way you might look at a stranger, but in that quiet, searching way people look when they know there’s something they’re not being told. her expression was calm, unreadable, but her fingers had lingered on the photo like it meant more than she was willing to explain.
you thought she might leave it at that. let the moment hang. let the stillness stretch into the next thing.
but then she said, almost absently, almost too softly, “you always ask me that.”
your head turned. “what?”
she blinked like she hadn’t realized she’d said anything at all. then smiled, small and unreadable, the kind of smile people wear when they’ve already learned not to say too much.
“nothing,” she said. “just felt familiar.”
your mouth opened, but the words caught somewhere between breath and doubt. the back of your neck prickled—not with fear, but with something else. like déjà vu that stayed too long.
she stood up then, brushing her hands against her coat. “i should go,” she said, voice light again. “but—maybe i’ll see you around.”
you nodded slowly, heart beating too loud for how little had happened. she took a few steps away, then paused. turned slightly. met your gaze one more time.
“you never keep the photo for long,” she added, just before walking away.
you didn’t go home right away.
you walked for a while first, letting the streets unspool beneath your feet, unsure of what you were looking for. the city felt ordinary, still holding onto the last gold strands of the afternoon. shops glowed faintly through dusty windows. a bike passed by, tires whispering against pavement. the wind carried the sound of music from someone’s open apartment—half a melody, familiar but wrong, like hearing a song from a dream you can’t name.
her words stayed with you.
you never keep the photo for long.
what did she mean by that?
your fingers brushed your pocket just to check. still there. you hadn’t let go of it since she handed it back. you pressed your palm against it, like that could anchor you somehow.
by the time you reached your building, the sky was dimming. the stairwell lights buzzed faintly overhead as you climbed. every step felt heavier than it should.
you went straight to your room. didn’t bother with the light. set the photo gently on your desk and stared at it for a while.
same girl. same moment. same flicker of movement caught in time. her hand outstretched toward someone unseen. her eyes almost closed, her mouth mid-laugh, like the world had made sense in that second.
you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.
after a while, you tacked the photo to your corkboard—soft, careful, like it might tear if you weren’t gentle. two pins this time. you stepped back. looked at it from across the room. stared until the edges of it blurred into the wall.
and then, just to be sure, you took a picture of it on your phone.
you zoomed in. checked the details. saved it twice.
when you turned in for the night, the photo was still there. pinned, steady, unmoved.
you left your phone face-down on the nightstand. you didn’t fall asleep right away.
the words kept repeating, even in the dark.
you never keep the photo for long.
and somewhere between thinking and dreaming, your mind offered you a memory that didn’t exist.
her voice, saying your name like she’d said it many times before.
you woke up hours later.
the room was cold. the sky outside still blue with the edge of morning.
you sat up slowly, rubbed your eyes, and turned toward the corkboard.
your breath stilled.
the photo was gone.
the pins were still there, stuck firm. the strip of paper where it had rested still curled upward like it remembered being held. but the photo itself—the girl, the laugh, the moment—was gone.
you turned slowly.
it was on your desk.
not fallen. not crooked.
laid flat. perfectly centered. waiting.
you didn’t touch it right away.
the photo sat exactly where you’d left it on your desk the night before—still, untouched, too perfectly placed. it didn’t hum or glow or shift in the light. it was just there. but even from across the room, something about it felt different now.
you stood for a long while beside it, arms folded, letting the quiet hold you. your room was still—the window slightly cracked, the curtain stirring every few seconds in the breeze. a slow morning kind of silence, too fragile to break. you watched the photo without moving.
when you finally stepped closer, you kept your movements slow.
it looked the same at first glance: the same laugh caught mid-breath, the same light brushing over her cheek, the same outline of someone just out of frame. but now the shadows seemed deeper. the light a little warmer. her smile — softer? — like the camera had captured a different second altogether.
you leaned in, just to be sure.
no — not different, exactly. not changed.
just… closer.
you picked it up carefully, turning it over in your hands. the back was still blank. no timestamp, no writing, no way to know when or where. you held it a moment longer, then slid it back into its sleeve and tucked it inside your drawer, beneath a layer of old receipts and birthday cards. somewhere safe. somewhere out of sight.
then you got dressed. made coffee. tried to move on.
but the world felt misaligned, somehow. like it was remembering something you hadn’t lived yet.
—
you noticed the first thing just after breakfast.
your phone buzzed with a notification, and when you clicked the screen on, you paused. your lock screen had changed.
it was still the park photo you’d taken two weeks ago—the one you liked so much you’d made it your background. only now, the colors were warmer than you remembered. softer around the edges. the sunlight almost too golden, the trees leaning a little differently.
you stared at it for a full minute before unlocking your phone and pulling up the original in your gallery.
there was only one version of it now.
the bench in the distance—empty. the couple you remembered sitting there were gone. no shadows, no trace. you zoomed in, checked the corners, scrolled back through the date. just the one file, untouched.
you didn’t remember editing it. you never edited that photo.
still, you told yourself it was nothing. a fluke. memory playing tricks. you locked your phone again, screen returning to black.
but the unease had already begun to settle somewhere in your ribs.
—
a few hours later, your roommate knocked on your door, still half-asleep, hair sticking up at odd angles.
“hey,” she said, yawning. “did you already feed the cat?”
you blinked. “what cat?”
she looked at you like you were joking. “your cat?”
you frowned. “i don’t… have a cat.”
her eyes flicked away, then back again. her smile faltered.
“shit. sorry. weird dream, i guess.” she scratched the side of his head. “must’ve been thinking of something else.”
you nodded, but the silence that followed stretched too long for comfort. she turned to head back toward the kitchen, muttering something under her breath. you listened to the sound of the fridge opening, a spoon clinking against ceramic, the shift of ordinary life resuming.
you sat down at your desk and opened the drawer again.
the photo was still there.
this time, you didn’t take it out.
—
you tried going for a walk to clear your head.
it was late afternoon by then. the light had changed—softened, thinned out across the pavement, the sky veined with pale clouds. the streets looked the same as always, but your steps felt heavier. slower. like your body knew something the rest of you hadn’t caught up to yet.
you followed the usual path: past the bakery, down the side alley where ivy clung to the brick, through the shortcut that opened up beside the florist. everything looked right. and yet—
the mural on the alley wall, the one with the two foxes and the red moon, was gone.
in its place, there was nothing but bare concrete.
you stopped. turned. walked back a few steps. still gone.
you remembered taking a photo of it months ago. you opened your gallery, scrolled, found the picture. it was still there. two foxes, curling around a red-painted moon. your thumb hovered over the screen.
you glanced up.
nothing but gray.
the wind shifted gently, pulling your coat tighter around your sides.
you kept walking.
—
you weren’t planning to go to the bookstore.
but your feet carried you there without asking.
and when you reached it, you hesitated.
something about the windows didn’t sit right. not wrong, just… off. you stood outside for a moment, trying to name the feeling. the shadows inside were stretched a little longer than they should’ve been. the display table had moved.
you pushed the door open.
the bell chimed.
and the layout was different.
not wildly—just enough that you knew, without question, something had changed. the poetry section was gone from the back wall, replaced by a run of travel books you didn’t recognize. the children’s shelf was taller. the armchair by the window—the one you always sat in—was missing. or maybe it had never been there.
you walked in slowly, heart pulling tight.
the store was quiet. the same soft music played from somewhere near the ceiling. someone coughed near the front. pages turned.
you moved through the aisles like a stranger in your own memory.
and then you saw her.
danielle.
sitting on the floor in the middle of the fiction section, one leg crossed beneath her, a book open in her lap. she wasn’t looking around. wasn’t browsing. just… reading.
you stopped when you reached her, unsure whether to speak. unsure whether she’d look up.
but she beat you to it.
without lifting her eyes from the page, she said, “you’re late.”
you froze.
“…you knew i’d come?”
“you always do.”
her voice was soft. not surprised. not teasing. just certain.
you lowered yourself to the floor beside her, slow, careful.
she didn’t look up for another few seconds. when she did, there was something behind her gaze you hadn’t seen before—not warmth exactly. not sadness. something quieter. something that had been waiting.
she closed the book and placed it gently on the floor.
“have you used it yet?” she asked.
you stared at her. “the camera?”
she nodded.
“no. it doesn’t work.”
danielle tilted her head slightly, like she was listening to something far away. her voice was quieter now.
“that’s what you always say.”
you opened your mouth to respond—but the words didn’t come.
she looked at you like she knew that part too.
and then, very softly, she smiled. not like before. not like someone smiling at a stranger. this one was different. familiar.
“you’ll see,” she said.
and the way she said it made it feel less like a promise—
and more like a memory.
you left the bookstore with her voice still lingering in your head.
you always do.
it had sounded casual coming from her—gentle, offhand, almost playful. but the more you walked, the more the words began to stretch out in your mind, threading themselves through your thoughts like something familiar that hadn’t quite surfaced yet. you took the long way home without meaning to, moving slower than usual. the sky had already begun its shift toward evening, turning the edges of everything gold and gray.
the streets were quiet in that in-between hour, when people had already finished what they needed to do but hadn’t yet decided where else to be. a man swept the front of a bakery without looking up. a dog barked from a balcony above you. a car passed slowly, windows down, playing a song you didn’t know but couldn’t stop humming under your breath.
by the time you reached your door, the air felt heavier somehow. not heavy in the physical sense—more like the weight of a feeling that hadn’t fully announced itself yet. you stepped inside, flicked on the hallway light, and paused near the threshold of your room. everything looked as it should have. your bed a little unmade, your lamp still glowing faintly in the corner, the desk littered with yesterday’s notes. but the silence felt... held. like something in the room had been waiting for you to return.
you moved toward your desk and opened the drawer without really thinking. the photo was still there, tucked neatly in its paper sleeve, just where you’d left it. your fingers brushed the top edge, then hesitated for a moment. but it wasn’t the photo you reached for this time. you lifted the camera instead.
it still looked the same—scuffed along the sides, its surface dull with age, the kind of plastic that felt warm from years of use. there was a tiny crack near the hinge, and one of the buttons stuck a little when pressed. you’d tried it before, days ago, and it hadn’t worked. not even a sound. but something had changed now. or maybe not the camera itself, but you. the air felt thicker with possibility.
you sat on the edge of your bed and held the camera in your lap, running your fingers along its ridges. your room was quiet, the only sound the slow hum of your laptop screen still turned on in the background. you glanced toward the soft lamplight near the window, how it washed the room in amber. then you raised the camera.
there wasn’t anything special in front of you. just your desk, the curtain swaying slightly with the breeze from the cracked window, your coat draped over the back of the chair. still, you adjusted the frame, fitting it all into the viewfinder.
you didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you clicked the shutter.
it wasn’t loud, but the sound startled you anyway—a low, mechanical whirr you hadn’t expected, followed by the faintest vibration under your palms. the camera stirred like something waking up. you felt it as much as you heard it. then, slowly, a square of film emerged from the top.
you stared down at it. still blank.
you waited.
it took longer than you thought it would. but slowly, the image began to surface, faint outlines coming into focus beneath the glossy surface. you held it carefully by the edges, letting the photo breathe in the soft light of your room.
your heart skipped when the shapes fully developed.
it was a picture of your room—yes. the same angle you’d seen through the viewfinder. but already, there were differences. your desk lamp, which had been on when you took the photo, was off in the image. the curtain that had been drifting lazily in the breeze now appeared tied neatly to the side. and your notebook, which had been closed and untouched for days, was now open to a page you didn’t remember writing.
you looked at the photo for a long time, lips parted, breath shallow. then, slowly, you brought your gaze up to the actual desk.
the lamp was still on. the curtain still loose. the notebook still closed.
your eyes flicked back down.
there was one more detail.
in the window’s reflection—barely visible, half-shadowed and distorted by the glass—there was the shape of someone standing behind you.
you turned before you could stop yourself. fast. sharply.
the room was empty.
the chair was still. the walls unchanged. your own shadow stretched across the rug, trembling slightly with your breath.
you stood up slowly, then moved toward the door, checking the hallway, listening for movement. nothing. no sound but the refrigerator clicking on somewhere down the corridor.
when you returned to your bed, the photo had fully dried.
the figure was still there.
fainter now. edged in shadow. like it had taken a step back into the reflection just before disappearing.
you flipped the photo over, but the back was blank—no timestamp, no words. you slid it into your notebook and closed the cover softly. your hands were colder than they should’ve been.
you didn’t go to bed right away after that.
you stayed up for a while, sitting near the window with your knees pulled to your chest, letting the air move in and out of the room while your thoughts slowly quieted. you opened your music app and played one of your old playlists, just to fill the silence. most of the songs felt like old memories—familiar, comforting. you let them play quietly while you curled beneath your blanket.
eventually, without realizing, you drifted off.
and sometime in the early hours, you woke up again. the room was still. your phone’s screen glowed faintly from the nightstand, the music paused. you reached for it, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and tapped the screen.
a song you didn’t recognize filled the display. no artist name. no album art. just a title you couldn’t remember adding.
you hit play.
it was soft, slow, wordless. the kind of melody that felt like it had been stitched together from half-remembered feelings. it made you feel safe and untethered all at once, like something warm you hadn’t realized you’d lost.
when the song ended, you searched for it in the app.
nothing.
it wasn’t there.
not in the playlist. not in your downloads. not in the search results.
the name was gone too.
you stared at the screen, trying to remember what it had sounded like. the exact shape of it. but it was already slipping from your mind, like water through your hands.
you looked toward the drawer, still closed. the camera tucked quietly inside. you could feel its presence even through the wood.
you said her name, once, just above a whisper.
not because you expected her to hear you.
but because something in you knew—
she already did.
the morning arrived without color.
not gray, not gloomy—just still. you woke slowly, blinking against the faint light crawling across your wall, feeling the world unfold in that half-dreaming quiet before thought fully returns. your limbs felt heavier than usual. not tired, exactly. just… full. like you'd been walking somewhere in your sleep.
you reached for your phone without thinking. the playlist was paused where you left it. the unfamiliar song—the one that had played and vanished—was gone now, no trace left in the app. just a blank space between songs you knew too well. you stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering, before finally locking it and setting it back down.
in the corner of your room, the camera sat on your desk like it had always been there. like it hadn’t changed anything at all.
you didn’t touch it.
not yet.
instead, you moved through your morning like someone playing a version of themselves. you brushed your teeth, poured coffee, folded a sweater over your arm even though the sun hadn’t made up its mind about staying. everything felt slightly out of rhythm, as if the day had started a few seconds too early and was waiting for you to catch up.
you passed a mirror in the hallway and paused.
for just a breath, your reflection didn’t move with you.
you blinked. stepped back. normal.
but your hands lingered on the edge of the frame, and you didn’t look away right away.
—
you found danielle again near the station.
not where you expected her to be. not where she was supposed to be. but somehow, she was there—perched on the low wall near the entrance, ankles crossed, jacket pulled tight against the wind. she was eating something from a paper bag, humming softly to herself like she didn’t notice the rest of the world moving around her.
you hadn’t texted her. hadn’t said anything. she hadn’t asked.
but when she saw you, she smiled like she’d been waiting.
you sat beside her, the wall cool beneath you. neither of you said anything at first.
she offered you a piece of bread. warm, soft. you took it without asking what it was.
birds passed overhead. someone’s bicycle chain clicked as they turned the corner behind you.
you glanced at her.
she was watching the street, eyes calm, unreadable. and then, without looking at you, she said, “you used it.”
your breath caught in your throat.
“…yes.”
she nodded once, slow. not surprised.
for a while, the only sound was the traffic murmuring behind you, the bag crinkling softly in her lap.
then she said, quieter now, “i always know when you do. not right away. not clearly. just… something shifts.”
you turned to her fully. “what do you mean?”
her gaze flicked down. her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the paper bag. the wind played with the loose strands of her hair, pushing them into her face.
then she looked at you.
really looked.
“this isn’t the first time we’ve met,” she said softly. “not for me.”
you didn’t move. you weren’t sure if you could.
she went on, slowly, carefully, like peeling something open that had been kept sealed too long.
“the first time, i didn’t remember anything. not even the photo. i thought it was a dream. just flashes. a feeling. then the second time, it came sooner. and then again. and again.”
you tried to speak, but your voice didn’t come out.
she smiled faintly, eyes full of something that wasn’t sadness but sat close to it.
“each time you use the camera, things change. little things at first. names. streets. the time we meet. but i always find you. or you find me.” she paused. “you’ve never remembered me before. not like this. but you always look at me like you want to.”
your hands were cold in your lap. you stared down at your shoes, the sidewalk beneath them. sunlight flickered between passing clouds, warming your shoulder, then pulling away again.
you managed, finally, “why me?”
her answer came without hesitation.
“because it’s always been you.”
your chest tightened. you looked at her again, and she was watching you the way she had in the park—the way people look at something they’ve seen before in a dream and never expected to see again.
“you’ve said my name in your sleep before,” she added, barely above a whisper. “once, you wrote it down on a napkin and didn’t know why. another time, you gave me a birthday gift two days before i told you when it was.”
your throat felt thick. none of it made sense. but it did. somehow.
you wanted to ask how long she’d known. how many versions she’d lived through. how many times you’d forgotten her. but all that came out was, “how do you remember?”
her lips pressed together. she glanced down again.
“i don’t. not always. not fully. just... pieces. sometimes it’s a smell. or a song. sometimes i’ll see you standing somewhere and know i’ve loved you before.” she exhaled slowly. “i write things down now. in a notebook. things that feel like they don’t belong to this version. things that feel like truth.”
you didn’t realize you’d leaned closer until your knees touched.
“you said something to me,” she murmured, “once—before everything reset. you said, ‘please don’t let me forget.’” she paused. “so i didn’t.”
you closed your eyes.
the noise of the city pulled away for a moment. all that remained was her voice, and the space between you that no longer felt like chance.
when you opened them again, she was still looking at you. not like a stranger. not even like a friend.
like something older. quieter. patient.
you whispered, “what happens now?”
her smile was small. quiet. full of weight.
“we try again.”
you didn’t speak for a while after that. the world around you moved on, unfazed by what she’d just said. the bus still hissed to a stop at the corner. a pair of teenagers passed behind you, laughing at something you didn’t catch. a child tugged at their mother’s sleeve across the street, pointing at the pastry in danielle’s hand. and yet, it all felt a little out of focus now, like you were sitting just slightly outside of time—tethered only to the sound of her voice and the shape of what she’d just given you.
you looked down at your hands. they were still. your fingers brushed against the fraying edge of your sleeve, grounding you.
danielle had gone quiet again too, but it didn’t feel like silence anymore. it felt like space. a kind of trust.
“how long,” you asked finally, “have we been doing this?”
she let out a breath through her nose. not quite a laugh. not quite a sigh.
“i don’t know. it’s not linear. not clean. sometimes i think it’s only been a handful of loops. sometimes i swear i’ve lived a hundred versions of this.”
you turned slightly to face her. “and i’ve never remembered?”
her gaze flicked toward yours, soft and steady. “you remember pieces. moments. you feel things. i think... part of you always knows. but something always pulls you back before it settles. and every time, we start over.”
your chest ached in a way that didn’t quite feel like pain. “that must be lonely.”
she didn’t answer right away. her thumb idly smoothed the seam of the paper bag in her lap, slow and repetitive, like a motion she didn’t realize she was doing. then she said, “it used to be. it still is, sometimes. especially when i can feel you slipping. like when we’re laughing about something and suddenly your eyes go distant, and i know you're forgetting before it even happens.”
you swallowed. it felt like you were trying to hold something inside you that had no shape yet. something that hurt in its gentleness.
“do i—” you started, then stopped. the words were too heavy to push through all at once. “do i ever say anything else? before it resets?”
danielle tilted her head, considering.
“you say a lot of things. sometimes you don’t even realize what they mean. once, you told me my laugh felt like home. another time, you asked if we’d ever slow-danced before—like your body remembered but your mind didn’t.”
you tried to picture it. tried to hear your voice in those moments, tried to reach through the fog between versions and touch the memories she held for both of you. but there was nothing. only the soft weight of her words.
“do you write those down too?” you asked quietly.
she nodded. “i write down everything i can. i used to be afraid it made me sound crazy. now it just helps me remember who you are.”
a beat passed.
“and who i am, when i’m with you.”
your breath hitched. she hadn’t said it with any kind of drama. no swell of music. no cinematic pause. she said it like a fact. like something you should’ve known all along.
the sunlight shifted again, breaking through the clouds just long enough to brush her cheek in gold.
you looked at her.
not the way you had in the beginning, when she was just a stranger with a melody in her voice and a familiar tilt to her smile.
but like someone you had missed without knowing. someone who had been waiting on the other side of every version of you. someone who had kept loving even when you didn’t remember how to love her back.
you wanted to say something. anything.
but all you could do was whisper her name.
danielle.
she smiled, eyes crinkling softly. “that’s usually when i know i still have time.”
“time for what?”
she looked down. fiddled with the corner of the paper bag again.
“to make you fall in love with me again.”
you didn’t say it—i think i already am—but it stayed thick in your throat anyway.
and she must’ve felt it, because she bumped her shoulder lightly against yours and said, “you’re always easy, you know. even when you pretend you’re not.”
and then, like nothing had happened at all, she offered you the last piece of bread from the bag.
you took it with both hands.
not because you were hungry.
but because you didn’t want to let go of anything she gave you.
not this time.
it started with the sleeves of her jacket.
you were sitting together in your room, legs stretched out across the floor, her back against your bookshelf. the photo lay between you, face-up on the rug like something sacred. the soft yellow glow of your lamp pooled over the image, revealing every grain, every faded edge, every blurred suggestion of a moment that still hadn’t happened yet.
you’d looked at it so many times by now, you could probably sketch it from memory. danielle laughing, head tipped slightly back, sunlight streaking down through the top left corner of the frame. her hand outstretched, holding someone’s—yours, you were starting to believe—with that same mix of joy and surprise she wore when something delighted her unexpectedly.
but this time, sitting next to her, everything felt different.
“that jacket,” you said, leaning closer. “you still have it.”
she glanced down at her arms. “yeah. thrifted it years ago.” then, quietly: “i think i wore it the first time we met. the real first time.”
you looked at the photo again. the sleeve was partially rolled up, caught in the breeze. “it’s the same one.”
she leaned in with you. your shoulders brushed gently. “that’s a start.”
and so began the quiet investigation.
you moved slow, like you were sifting through something delicate, something that might break if you reached too quickly. the two of you studied the photo for what felt like hours, speaking in soft observations that built slowly into something more.
“the shadows are short,” she said at one point. “sun must be overhead. maybe early afternoon?”
“the reflection in the glass behind you,” you murmured, “there’s lettering. backwards, but—it looks like a shop sign.”
she tilted her head, squinting. “...‘milk’? or maybe ‘market’?”
you nodded. “there’s a field near seventh that has little cafés on one side. big windows like that.”
“i think i remember that place,” she said. “we sat on the grass. you brought a weird drink and made me try it.”
you glanced at her. “did you like it?”
“not even a little,” she said, but her grin gave it away. “but you laughed so hard when i spit it back in the cup that i pretended i did.”
you smiled too, soft and involuntary.
something flickered in the space between you. not quite memory. not quite new.
she rested her hand on the rug near yours.
not touching. just close.
“we can go there,” she said, watching you. “we can try.”
you looked at the photo again. the idea had started as curiosity. but now, seeing her beside you, her fingers so near, her face lit in the same way as the girl in the image—it felt like something more.
a map. a chance. a thread that could lead you to the center of all this.
“if we find the exact moment,” she said, “i think it might hold the loop still. like a pin in the fabric.”
you didn’t ask how she knew. not this time.
you just nodded.
because you were ready to believe her.
that weekend, you went to the field.
it was a soft afternoon, sun low but steady, light pooling gently over the grass and dusting the tops of the hedges. people had gathered in scattered pockets—small groups on blankets, a couple walking their dog, someone sketching quietly near the fence.
you both walked slow, camera tucked safely in your bag, the photo folded into danielle’s pocket.
you found a spot near the center—open sky above, soft slope behind. it didn’t feel quite right yet, but close. almost. she adjusted the sleeves of her jacket, rolling them to match the photo. you helped smooth the collar, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“there’s music playing in the background,” she said suddenly, looking up. “i think in the original moment. someone had a speaker.”
you listened.
a faint melody drifted from the other side of the park. a soft acoustic track, unfamiliar but warm.
“close enough?” you asked.
she shrugged. “close as we’ve ever been.”
you pulled the camera out, hands steady. she turned toward you, sunlight catching the edges of her hair, lifting slightly in the breeze.
“hold your hand out,” you said.
she did.
you raised the camera slowly.
and then she smiled.
not for the photo. not for the plan.
for you.
a real smile. like something inside her recognized something inside you again.
you clicked the shutter.
the camera hummed softly.
a photo slid out.
you didn’t look right away.
you sat with her on the grass instead, passing the photo between you only once it had fully developed.
you both stared down at it.
not the same.
not yet.
her expression was a little off. the light came from the wrong side. the window reflection was missing.
but the feeling—
the feeling was there.
like a memory leaning forward.
danielle sighed gently, then tucked the photo into her notebook beside the original.
you didn’t speak much on the way home.
but she held your hand the entire walk.
and you let her.
like maybe you’d done it before.
you stayed in the field longer than you meant to.
the grass was still warm beneath your legs, flattened in soft patches where you’d both leaned back, jackets half-unzipped, shoes kicked off without realizing. your bag sat beside hers, camera tucked neatly inside like it hadn’t just rewritten the air around you. a breeze threaded through the open space, catching the ends of danielle’s hair and brushing them lightly across your cheek whenever she turned too close.
she didn’t seem in a hurry to go.
you lay on your back, hands folded behind your head, watching the sky shift in slow gradients. pale blue to honeyed yellow, then softer, dustier shades. danielle sat cross-legged beside you, sketching absent shapes into the dirt with the edge of a twig, pausing every now and then just to look at you like she was checking if you were still real.
you turned your head, resting your temple against the grass. “what if we never get it exactly right?”
she didn’t answer right away. just tossed the twig aside and leaned back on her hands, eyes tracing something in the clouds.
“then maybe,” she said, “it was never really about the photo.”
you watched her in profile—lips parted slightly, lashes catching the last of the light. she looked younger in this hour. or maybe just softer. not worn by memory, not burdened by the weight of knowing more than she said. just… here. with you.
you sat up slowly, brushing bits of grass from your sleeve.
“but you said recreating it might stop the loop.”
“i did,” she murmured. “and i think it might.” then she turned to you, eyes steady. “but sometimes i wonder if the point of all this was never to break it. just to get us here.”
you blinked. “here?”
“this version of us,” she said. “where you remember just enough. where i don’t have to wait so long. where we’re not rushing to find the ending before the middle even starts.”
you didn’t realize your fingers had found hers again until she gave them a small, slow squeeze.
the grass rustled quietly around you. a child’s kite drifted in the distance. someone played guitar under a tree.
“we don’t have to keep chasing it tonight,” she said. “we can just be here.”
and somehow, that felt more important than anything the photo could show you.
you leaned into her shoulder, felt her lean back just enough.
you both stayed that way until the field emptied around you, until the shadows stretched long, until the first stars began to show themselves.
not trying to find something.
just letting yourselves be found.
you tried again a week later.
not because the photo told you to. not because danielle asked.
but because something inside you whispered it might be time. a quiet pressure behind your ribs that pulsed every time you looked at her and thought, we’re almost there.
she didn’t say much when you brought it up. just nodded once, then pulled the old notebook from her bag and started flipping pages. you watched her fingers move—gentle, practiced, underlined with dates that didn’t always match the calendar. some of the pages were stained. others torn along the edge, like they’d been carried through more versions than she wanted to count.
“we’ll need the same shirt,” she murmured, tapping a sketch of the photo. “same time of day. weather doesn’t need to match exactly, but the lighting helps.”
you nodded, even if you didn’t fully understand why the specifics mattered. you trusted her. more now than you did before. more than you ever had in any version you could remember.
the next day, you returned to the field.
it wasn’t the same.
the sun was softer this time, hiding behind a screen of clouds. danielle stood in the same spot, wore the same jacket, reached for you the same way—but her smile was quieter. more fragile around the edges. when you raised the camera, she held your gaze just a second longer than she had last time.
click.
the photo printed.
you waited for it to develop in the quiet between you.
this time, the window was there.
the jacket, right.
her hand—outstretched.
but she wasn’t laughing.
she was looking at you.
like she knew this wasn’t the one.
she didn’t say it out loud. she didn’t have to.
you tried again the following weekend.
then again.
and again.
every time, something shifted.
the light changed. her shirt buttoned wrong. a child in the background waved when they hadn’t before. once, the photo developed blank. just the outline of the sky. danielle stared at it for a long time, then quietly folded it into her notebook without a word.
the resets came softer now.
more frequent.
you began to notice them in the smallest places first.
your bookshelf rearranged itself while you were asleep—titles vanishing, spines you didn’t remember ever owning. your calendar updated with dates that hadn’t happened yet. you bumped into an old friend at the train station who looked at you like they’d never seen you before in their life.
you kept forgetting what day it was.
once, you woke up with the photo pinned to your chest like a memory that didn’t want to leave. danielle called you before you could even brush your teeth.
“you okay?” she asked, voice low, still wrapped in sleep.
“i think i forgot who i was for a second.”
she didn’t say anything. but you heard the inhale, the pause, the steadying.
“i’ve had days like that,” she said.
you met her later at the bench under the tree. the same one from the first time she asked if you were following her.
this time, she didn’t wait for you to speak.
“you forgot my birthday yesterday,” she said gently, watching the leaves shift above you.
your stomach dropped. “what?”
“it’s okay,” she said quickly. “i think it reset in the middle of the day. we had cake. you lit the candle.” her voice trailed off, almost wistful. “you told me it tasted like childhood.”
you stared at her.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered.
she shook her head. “you always remember eventually. just not always in time.”
she reached into her bag, pulled out the notebook, and flipped to a page you hadn’t seen before.
on it, in your handwriting: i’m still here. even when i’m not.
she handed it to you.
“you wrote that two loops ago,” she said. “when you knew one was coming.”
your throat tightened. you didn’t remember writing it. but the words felt like yours. like something only you could’ve said.
danielle rested her head on your shoulder, eyes closed.
“you always try,” she whispered. “even when you forget me. even when the world changes. you always try.”
you stayed like that for a long time.
birds moving above. the wind tugging gently at your sleeves. her fingers laced loosely with yours.
you didn’t talk about the next attempt.
not that day.
not with her weight leaning against you like something human and fragile and warm.
you just held her hand, and whispered her name again, softly.
just in case.
you could feel it before she said anything.
the way her laughter didn’t land the same. the way her hands were quieter in her lap, how she looked at the photo that afternoon like it was someone else’s memory entirely. you’d made another attempt that morning—shirt right, sun right, even the same music playing from a phone tucked into someone’s bag nearby.
but the photo came out wrong again.
close.
closer than ever.
but wrong.
and you felt it in her silence.
you sat together at your kitchen table now, both of you nursing cups of tea that had long since gone cold. the photo sat between you, still developing even though it had already settled. she hadn’t looked at it since you handed it to her.
outside, the light was growing soft. the windowpane held the sunset like it didn’t want to let go of it just yet.
she was the first to break the silence.
“you kissed me,” she said.
you blinked, not quite sure you’d heard her right.
“what?”
her eyes didn’t leave the tabletop. her fingers ran absently along the grain of the wood, as though she was tracing something only she could see.
“in another version,” she said, quieter this time. “you kissed me. we were sitting by the fountain outside the station. i think it was autumn. the leaves had just started turning.”
you didn’t speak. your hands curled around the mug, holding onto it like it could steady you.
she went on.
“you said you weren’t sure why, but you felt like you’d been meaning to do it for a long time. and i—i told you i’d been waiting.”
you swallowed hard.
“i don’t remember,” you said, softly. “i want to. but i don’t.”
she nodded. not like she was disappointed—just like she’d known.
“you never do.”
the room fell quiet again.
you looked down at the photo. your own face blurred in the corner. her eyes catching the edge of something just out of frame.
“how many times?” you asked. “how many versions have there been?”
she was quiet for so long you thought she might not answer.
then—still not looking at you—she said, “more than i can count. fewer than i thought there would be.”
you frowned. “what does that mean?”
she smiled, just barely. but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“i used to think i could live with the loops forever. that as long as i got to see you again, even for a little while, it would be enough. but lately... i don’t know. lately it feels heavier. like the world’s starting to fray at the edges. like i’m running out of versions where we still find each other.”
you wanted to reach for her hand. you almost did.
but her voice was shaking now, and you didn’t want to interrupt it.
“i’m scared,” she admitted. “not of the loops. not even of starting over. i’m scared of getting it right. of finally reaching the day in the photo—finally stopping the resets—and having you wake up the next morning and not love me anymore.”
you looked at her then. really looked.
and she was still danielle—still soft around the edges, still steady in the quiet, still holding the notebook full of your names written in margins, still carrying every version of you you’d ever forgotten.
but she wasn’t untouchable.
she was human. afraid. tired.
you reached across the table and took her hand.
this time, she let you.
“i don’t think i ever stopped,” you said.
she didn’t speak. didn’t cry. didn’t move.
but her fingers tightened slightly around yours.
as if to say i remember for the both of us.
and that was enough—for now.
you didn’t let go of her hand.
not when the sky went dark outside your window. not when the silence between you thickened into something neither of you could name. not even when she gently shifted in her chair, as if to pull away. your fingers remained around hers—light, but certain.
she didn’t fight it.
instead, she looked up at you. her eyes were glassy in the low light, but not with tears. just tired. like someone who’d been holding her breath for too many versions.
“do you remember,” she said softly, “the night we stayed up until morning? we sat on the rooftop of that apartment you swore wasn’t yours, even though your books were inside.”
you shook your head. “i don’t think that was me.”
“you brought blankets,” she said anyway. “you pointed out fake constellations. said one of them looked like a pigeon with a sword.”
a laugh caught in your throat. “what?”
“you said it was majestic.”
you let your head fall forward a little, grinning. “okay. maybe that does sound like me.”
“you fell asleep first,” she went on. “i remember because i wanted to watch the sunrise with you. but when the sky turned pale, i looked over and you were already gone.”
your chest ached at that.
not in a dramatic, crashing kind of way.
just quiet.
like the kind of ache that comes when you miss someone you don’t even remember loving.
“i’m here now,” you said, voice almost a whisper.
she didn’t say anything. just nodded once, then let her head rest on your shoulder. the contact was soft. careful. like she wasn’t sure if it would last.
you tilted your head gently against hers.
outside, the wind shifted through the trees. someone walked past your building humming a tune you couldn’t place. your tea had long since gone cold, but neither of you moved to reheat it.
it wasn’t silence anymore.
it was presence.
you stayed that way for a long time. your cheek resting against her hair. her fingers curled lightly into the sleeve of your sweater. her breath slow and steady against your collarbone.
at some point, you said, “you can tell me more, if you want.”
she didn’t lift her head. just whispered, “not tonight.”
you nodded.
and then you whispered, “okay.”
the weight between you didn’t leave. it wasn’t meant to. but it changed shape—settled into something quieter, something less afraid. not hope. not yet. but something close. something like the promise of it.
and when she eventually drifted off there, leaning against you at the kitchen table, her notebook still open in front of her, her name still written in your handwriting from a version you didn’t remember—
you didn’t wake her.
you just sat there, still.
and stayed.
you wake up before the sun.
not out of urgency. not because of a reset. but because something feels different in your chest—like the world has finally stopped shifting beneath your feet.
outside, the sky is still pale, the kind of early morning gray that doesn’t belong to any one hour. you sit at the edge of your bed, feeling the weight of the day ahead settle gently on your shoulders. it’s quiet in your apartment. still. you can hear the hum of something faint and constant—maybe the fridge, maybe the city breathing through the walls. the camera rests on your desk by the window, already waiting.
you don’t rush.
you move slowly through the morning—each action deliberate. you fold danielle’s shirt carefully, smoothing out the sleeves like it matters. you check the film cartridge twice. the camera feels heavier today, but not in a burdensome way. it feels solid. real. like it’s carrying something with you. like it knows.
you meet danielle at the place you always seem to return to. the bench. the one under the tree, the one from the start. she’s already there, sitting quietly with her notebook in her lap, fingers pressed lightly into the spine like she’s holding a memory closed between the pages.
she turns when she hears your steps. and when she sees you, she smiles—not wide, not bright, but full. like someone who’s been waiting for this version of you. like someone who’s seen too many of you come and go, and still decided to stay.
“you look like yourself today,” she says.
you don’t ask what she means. you think you already know.
you offer her your hand.
she takes it without a word.
the field is further than you remember. or maybe you’re just walking slower. not because either of you are afraid, but because there’s no longer a reason to rush. golden hour hasn’t arrived yet, but you can feel it coming—hovering just beneath the sky, waiting for the right moment to slip in.
the grass is taller this time. there are fewer people. the world feels hushed, like it’s holding space around you. the clouds shift gently overhead. you don’t talk as you walk. her hand in yours says enough.
when you reach the clearing, she stops. turns to face you.
the light isn’t perfect yet. it’s still soft, still settling.
you wait with her.
neither of you move much. you stand close enough that your shoulders brush. a breeze pulls at the hem of her shirt, the one you folded just this morning. it fits differently now. not because anything has changed—but because everything has. you can feel it in your chest. your bones. in the silence between breaths.
somewhere behind you, a soft melody rises—barely audible. someone’s phone. someone’s speaker. you don’t recognize the tune. but danielle does. you can tell by the way her expression shifts, something caught between memory and surprise.
she laughs.
quiet. instinctive.
the kind of laugh that feels like the moment just aligned.
you reach for her hand. she’s already reaching for yours.
you lift the camera.
she smiles again—this time with all of it. the same tilt of her head. the same angle of the sun brushing the side of her face. you don’t think. you don’t hesitate.
you click the shutter.
the camera hums. soft. steady. not loud, not sudden. the sound settles around you like it’s always belonged there.
and then the photo prints.
you both watch it slide out slowly, the edges curling slightly in the air.
you don’t reach for it. not yet.
you sit with her in the grass, just like that. legs crossed. her hand still warm in yours. you let the moment hold you, unbroken. she leans into your side without asking, and you tilt toward her without needing to explain.
the photo rests between you.
you both wait as it begins to develop.
neither of you rush it.
you could’ve looked sooner. you don’t. you don’t need to.
because the moment is already here.
you know it.
you feel it in her breath against your shoulder. in the way the sun touches the grass like a blessing. in the stillness that has finally arrived and isn’t trying to pass through. this is it.
when you finally look—together—at the image, neither of you speak.
it’s the same.
the same frame. the same light. the same smile that had only ever existed in memory, now caught in the present. her laughter frozen mid-breath. your hand in hers. the sun painting both your silhouettes in gold.
you don’t ask if it’s right.
you don’t have to.
she exhales beside you. her head still against your shoulder. you hear the quiet in her body shift—like something has let go.
she doesn’t cry.
you don’t say anything.
you just sit there, grounded in it.
this version of the world—the one that stayed.
and when she finally slips the photo gently into the front page of her notebook, she presses it there with both hands like she’s sealing something sacred.
you didn’t leave the field right away.
even after the sun dipped behind the far edge of the trees. even after the wind began to cool and the light shifted into that blue hour softness that made everything look like it belonged in a memory. you just stayed there, sitting shoulder to shoulder, the photo resting between you in the grass—no longer trembling. no longer fading.
danielle was the first to speak.
“it didn’t glitch,” she said quietly, as if naming it too quickly might break it.
you looked down at the photo again. still warm from the sun. still whole.
“no,” you said. “it didn’t.”
and somehow, that was enough.
she leaned into you slowly. not with urgency. not even for comfort. just the kind of closeness people fall into when there’s no longer a reason to be afraid of time running out.
you let her.
you watched the sky turn.
the sounds around you changed with the light—birds giving way to crickets, the occasional hum of a far-off car slipping past the main road. someone in a nearby apartment must’ve opened a window; music drifted faintly into the open space, muffled and soft, like it was arriving from another version altogether.
danielle traced the edge of the photo again.
“do you feel different?” she asked, not looking up.
you thought about it.
“i don’t know,” you said. “i feel… still.”
she smiled. “that’s what it feels like. when it stops.”
“how do you know it won’t happen again?”
“i don’t.” she turned to you, her eyes steady. “but i’ve never been in a moment that lasted this long without resetting.”
you nodded, letting that settle.
then—after a pause—you said, “i didn’t realize how loud it all was. the not-knowing.”
her gaze softened. “it always is. you just learn to live over it.”
she reached for your hand again. her fingers found yours easily now, like muscle memory. like something she’d done before, in other versions, and now didn’t have to hide anymore.
you didn’t ask her to explain what happened next. or what it meant. or whether it was really over.
none of it mattered right now.
what mattered was that you were still here. that the camera hadn’t reset. that the field hadn’t turned into something else. that she was still leaning into you, eyes half-closed, letting her breath match yours.
for once, the story wasn’t slipping.
it was staying.
you let the silence stretch between you, long and whole and uninterrupted.
not waiting for the next version to begin.
just existing in this one, because it finally let you.
you woke to light on your face and the sound of the kettle already boiling.
not the dizzy kind of light you’d grown used to—the loop light, too soft, too fast, too clean. this one felt different. warmer. real. you blinked slowly, letting it stretch over your eyes, and for the first time in what felt like weeks—maybe longer—you didn’t reach for the camera.
it was still there, resting on the table by your bed.
but you didn’t need to check it.
you remembered.
everything.
the field, the laughter, the way her hand curled around yours just before the shutter clicked. the exact shape of the photo when it slipped from the camera—edges trembling, sun-bleached and perfect. the way danielle looked at you after, not with relief, but with recognition.
like she’d been waiting for that moment to arrive for a very long time.
you sat up slowly.
your sweater still smelled faintly of grass and late-day sun.
when you stepped out into the hallway, your apartment felt unchanged. not rewritten. not rearranged. just ordinary. coffee mug in the sink. two jackets by the door. her shoes beside yours.
she was in the kitchen, back turned, humming something under her breath.
you didn’t know the tune.
but you’d heard it before—on that first day in the station, in the version of her who paused like she knew you.
only now you knew her, too.
danielle turned as you entered.
“hey,” she said softly. “you’re up.”
“you made tea,” you said, like it was the most astonishing thing in the world.
she smiled. “you always say that when I do.”
you crossed the kitchen in a few quiet steps. didn’t rush. didn’t reach for anything. just leaned against the counter and looked at her.
she poured a second mug and handed it to you without asking how you took it.
your fingers brushed, and nothing flickered.
no hum. no reset. just touch. just now.
you both stood there a while, warm cups in your hands, silence resting gently between you like something well-worn and safe.
eventually, she broke it.
“i dreamt last night,” she said. “i never do. not in the loops.”
you tilted your head. “what about?”
she took a sip of her tea. then another.
“us,” she said, eyes lifting to meet yours. “but we were old.”
you smiled. “what were we doing?”
“arguing about how to hang the photo.”
your chest warmed in a quiet, heavy way.
“who won?”
she grinned. “me.”
“figures.”
danielle sat curled in the chair across from you, her legs tucked beneath her, one hand resting on the side of her face. her hair fell messily over her shoulder, still damp from the quick shower she’d taken while you were washing the mugs. you hadn’t spoken much since. you didn’t need to.
this was the kind of silence that felt lived in.
the kind you sink into.
she looked at you like she’d been doing so every morning for years. not with wonder, not even with surprise—just with something settled. something that didn’t need explanation.
“you’re quiet,” she said, not accusing. just noticing.
you looked at her, really looked, and for a moment it hit you all over again—she’s still here. not a version. not a ghost of a memory trying to reach you. just her.
just danielle.
“i’m listening,” you said.
to the kettle cooling. to the sound of her thumb tapping rhythmically against her mug. to the soft creak of the building around you as it adjusted to the weight of a world still turning.
“to what?” she asked, resting her chin on her palm.
you shrugged. “everything. nothing. it all feels different now.”
“because it stayed.”
you nodded.
her eyes dropped to the table for a moment. when she looked back at you, there was a faint smile on her lips—tired, maybe, but real.
“do you feel it too?” she asked.
you knew what she meant.
the way the air didn’t hum anymore. the way you didn’t wake with a version of yourself erased. the way your thoughts felt fully yours now—not borrowed, not stitched together from glimpses and almosts.
“yeah,” you said. “i do.”
she reached across the table, not in a rush, not even deliberately—just instinctively. her hand found yours, palm to palm, and when her thumb brushed your knuckles, it wasn’t a test. it was a reminder.
you didn’t speak for a while after that.
she traced faint lines across the back of your hand like she was still mapping a version of you only she remembered. and maybe she was. but this time, you could feel it too. this time, your body remembered something your mind didn’t have to chase.
“what do we do now?” you asked softly.
danielle’s eyes crinkled gently at the corners, like she’d been waiting for the question.
“we live,” she said. “we let this be enough.”
you nodded.
not in agreement, but in understanding.
and then she added—almost shyly, almost teasing—“and maybe… we hang the photo.”
you laughed, the sound breaking gently through the quiet like sunlight through fog.
“you said we’d argue about it.”
“we might,” she said. “but at least now, you’ll be able to remember why.”
you took another photo of her.
not because you had to. not to remember. not to hold time still.
just because you could.
it was a wednesday, though it didn’t feel like one. late afternoon light spilled softly through the windows, low and gold-tinged, brushing over the shelves and scattering dust in the air. the window was open just enough to let in the faint smell of rain that hadn’t yet arrived. everything felt still in the way ordinary moments do when you’re paying close attention.
danielle sat on the floor by the couch, legs tucked beneath her, hair damp from a shower, wearing the hoodie she’d stolen from your closet and never returned. her focus was on a book—an old poetry collection she'd found buried under a stack of forgotten paperbacks. she flipped through it slowly, page by page, her fingers dragging gently across the paper like the poems were something she'd once lived.
you were on the couch, elbow resting on the armrest, watching her with the kind of quiet that didn’t ask to be broken. you didn’t think about the loops anymore. they didn’t haunt the corners of your mind the way they used to. no sense of countdown, no ache of what-if. just her, here, now, in the same version of time you were in.
you reached for the camera out of instinct more than intention. it still sat where it always did—on the windowsill, mostly forgotten. you lifted it, focused it on her, and pressed the shutter. no hesitation. no ceremony.
she looked up at the sound, her gaze meeting yours immediately.
“hey,” she said, voice low, a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. “you took another?”
you nodded. “just now.”
“no warning?”
“didn’t need one.”
she closed the book and crawled toward you, settling between your knees, her arms resting lightly on your thighs as she looked up at you. you held the photo between your fingers as it developed, both of you watching the image slowly emerge. this one was quieter than the others. no smile, no sunlight caught mid-motion. just her face, turned toward you exactly as she was now—calm, steady, eyes soft and full of something that didn’t need to be named.
“is it okay?” she asked.
“it’s perfect.”
she tilted her head slightly, still watching you, and you could tell she believed you. not because of the way you said it, but because of how long you looked at her afterward.
her hand slid to your cheek. her thumb brushed your skin. you leaned in first, and she met you there, her lips warm and slow against yours. it wasn’t sharp or sudden—it felt like arriving. like you’d already been living in the closeness for weeks, and now it simply had a name.
when you pulled back, she stayed close, her breath on your skin, her smile quietly blooming again.
“i think we can take another,” she said, teasing.
you rested your forehead against hers. “you’re just fishing for compliments.”
“maybe. maybe i just like being seen.”
you reached for the photo again and set it down beside the first one—the blurred one, the one that started everything. they didn’t match. not in composition. not in color. not even in feeling.
includes: HEAVY ANGST, unrequited, one-sided, masakit na mga tuhod kailangan bang lumuhod?
word count: 12.1k
you meet her in early spring.
the air is cool but not unfriendly. it slips into your sleeves when the sun dips behind buildings, but there’s light everywhere — soft on sidewalks, caught in windows, glinting on the metal lids of coffee cups. the days are getting longer. the cold doesn’t bite like it used to.
you’re sitting by the window, headphones in but not playing anything. you’ve been coming here more often lately. you like how quiet it is in the mornings — the way the floor creaks when someone walks too fast, the way the barista remembers you like your drinks a little too hot.
when she walks in, you don’t look up right away.
she orders something you can’t hear and glances around once before settling at the table across from yours. not directly across — just close enough to see the side of her face when she exhales into her cup.
you glance once. then again. she doesn’t notice.
her hair is tucked behind one ear. she has headphones in too. her fingers rest lightly on the edge of the saucer, tapping now and then, not to a beat — just to pass the time.
there’s no moment that makes it happen. no spark. no shift. just the slow realization that you keep looking up from your screen to see if she’s still there.
she stays for a while.
at some point, she glances at you. meets your eyes for half a second, then looks down again with the smallest smile — almost shy, but not quite. like she’s letting you in on something without saying anything out loud.
when she leaves, she walks slowly past your table, cup in hand, eyes flicking to yours just briefly enough that you almost miss it.
the bell above the door rings. the breeze follows her out.
you stare at the space she left behind for a little longer than you mean to.
you don’t know her name yet. you don’t even know her voice.
but something in the room feels warmer after she’s gone.
she comes back the next week.
it’s later in the afternoon this time. outside, the sky is a soft gray, not quite heavy, but full. the kind of sky that makes sound feel quieter. the wind pushes faintly through the open door when someone walks in. it carries the smell of something clean — cold stone, pavement, distant rain.
you’re already there, sitting at your usual table near the corner, the one tucked against the wall with the chipped paint. you’ve been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes. your drink is almost gone. the light’s starting to change.
when the bell above the door rings, you don’t look up right away.
but then you hear it — the soft shuffle of feet on wood, the familiar rhythm of someone hesitating by the counter — and something in you stirs. your eyes lift just as she steps in.
her hair’s a little messier today. tucked into a loose cap. she’s wearing a thicker sweater, sleeves pulled past her knuckles. she’s holding her phone in one hand, reading something off it as she murmurs her order.
you watch without realizing you are.
she turns, scanning the room.
her gaze pauses on you. not a double take — just a small, steady kind of recognition. like she remembers. like she was hoping, just a little, that you’d be here.
she doesn’t walk over right away. she waits for her drink first, fingers tapping against the counter. her other hand is tucked into her pocket. she doesn’t fidget. she doesn’t glance at her reflection in the glass. she just waits, quietly, the same way she carries herself — like she knows how to make space without asking for it.
when her name is called, she thanks the barista softly. then she walks toward you.
she stops at the edge of the table. lifts her drink slightly, as if in greeting.
“is this seat okay?”
you nod before your mouth catches up. “yeah. of course.”
she slides into the chair across from you, careful with how she sets her things down. her elbows rest lightly on the edge of the table, not quite leaning in, not quite settled back. her cup is pressed between her palms, fingers wrapped around it like she’s trying to warm them.
neither of you speaks for a while.
she takes a sip. glances out the window. the wind shifts. her hair moves slightly where it escapes her cap. you try not to stare. you don’t know why your chest feels a little too full, but it does.
eventually, she sets her drink down and asks, quietly, “what did you get last time?”
you look up, surprised she remembers.
you tell her.
“hm,” she says. not disapproving — just thinking. “you always drink the same thing?”
you shrug. “i like it.”
she nods. that’s all. no teasing, no pressing.
after a while, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small notebook. not a school one. something personal. the cover’s soft and worn. she flips to the middle and starts writing in small, even strokes, her head tilted slightly to the side.
you go back to your book.
or try to.
you don’t get much further than where you left off. not because you’re distracted — just because it feels nicer to look up now and then, to see her still there, still quietly writing, the two of you folded into the same corner of the world for no reason at all.
you don’t talk again that day.
but when she leaves, she taps the table gently with her fingers. a small rhythm. not quite goodbye. just… a presence.
and when she walks out the door, your eyes linger in the space where she sat. not because something big happened.
just because it was easy. and quiet. and good.
it just happens slowly, the way some things do when you’re not trying to make them anything. you see her again the week after. and then the week after that. and then suddenly it’s not about seeing her at all — it’s just knowing she’ll be there.
sometimes she gets there first and saves the seat without asking. sometimes you order her drink before she arrives. it’s always something new. you always take the first sip before handing it over. she never comments on it.
one afternoon, it’s raining too hard to leave, so you sit near the window and watch the world blur. she leans forward and asks if you want to split something sweet. you point at a pastry neither of you can pronounce. she tears it in half with her hands and dusts powdered sugar from her thumb.
you stay until they start wiping down tables.
neither of you really says it, but you walk home together.
you don’t live near each other — not exactly — but she never minds the detour. sometimes you take the long way, past the bookstore with the soft yellow light, down the back street with all the tiny plants in tin cans. sometimes she stops to show you a window display she likes or a cat sleeping under a bench or a sign that made her laugh. you listen. sometimes she listens too, when you point things out just to have something to say.
she’s quiet most of the time, but not in a way that feels closed off. just thoughtful. sometimes you think you could walk next to her for an hour without saying anything and it would still feel like the best part of your day.
you learn that she always keeps gum in her bag, but never remembers a pen. that she has a playlist for walking and another for staring out the bus window. that she takes photos of puddles and sidewalks and overhead wires and says they calm her down.
you tell her you never noticed the shape of shadows before.
she just smiles. “they change everything.”
one evening, she texts you a picture of the sky.
not the sun. not the clouds. just the soft blue before everything goes dark.
no caption. just that.
you reply, you always look up at the right time.
she doesn’t answer right away. a few hours later, she sends back a voice note — three seconds long. no words. just a soft sound, maybe laughter, maybe breath, maybe just the shape of her thinking of you.
you listen to it three times.
you don’t save it. but you remember it.
after that, the messages start coming more often. not all the time. not constant. just enough that your phone lights up a little more than it used to. a song. a picture. a sentence that doesn’t make sense unless you know how her brain works.
sometimes she types out something long, then deletes it before sending. you can tell — the typing bubble, the pause, then nothing. sometimes you do the same. it’s not hesitation. just care. just trying to hold something gently, not too tight.
you don’t call this anything.
it doesn’t need a name.
it’s just the feeling you get when you see her name on your screen and your chest goes warm without asking.
the way her shoulder brushes yours when you walk and neither of you pulls away.
the way time feels slower, but never still, when she’s nearby.
you never say you miss her.
you never have to.
she just keeps showing up.
it’s late when you both realize how long you’ve been sitting there.
the café emptied out an hour ago. the lights have been dimmed slightly. someone’s sweeping in the back, but they don’t tell you to leave. maybe they recognize you two by now — the quiet ones in the corner who always linger.
her drink’s long gone. just a few half-melted ice cubes in a cup she’s been turning in slow circles. you’re picking at the last crumbs of something sweet on a napkin between you. there’s music playing low through the speakers — something with gentle piano and no words.
she leans back in her chair, arms crossed loosely. her head tilts toward the window, eyes following something outside — maybe a passing car, maybe nothing at all.
“feels later than it is,” she murmurs.
you nod. “or maybe it’s just quiet.”
she smiles, not quite looking at you. “yeah. that too.”
you think about going home. about the things waiting for you there — laundry, unread messages, the lamp that flickers sometimes when it’s too cold. but you don’t move.
she doesn’t either.
you watch her pull her sleeves over her hands, fingers curling in. she does this a lot — holds her own hands like she’s grounding herself. not nervously. just absentmindedly. like it makes her feel safe.
you ask, softly, “want to walk a bit?”
she looks at you then. not surprised. just thoughtful.
“yeah,” she says after a beat. “i’d like that.”
you both gather your things slowly. there’s no rush in the way she stands, no urgency in the way she shrugs on her coat. you hold the door open for her and she ducks her head slightly as she passes, murmuring a quiet thanks.
outside, the air is cool but not harsh. the rain’s stopped, but the pavement still glistens, reflecting the warm streetlights in broken gold. everything smells faintly of wet leaves and the last traces of someone’s perfume.
you fall into step beside her without thinking.
your shoulders brush once. neither of you pulls away.
it’s a short walk — no real direction. just down the block, past the closed flower stall and the bookstore with the display still half-lit. you pass by a cat curled in a corner and she points at it with her chin, murmuring, “that one’s always here.”
like she’s walked this exact path before. maybe with you. maybe on her own.
either way, it feels familiar.
you pause near the intersection. not to cross — just to stand.
the breeze slips between you both, slow and soft, like it doesn’t want to disturb anything.
she looks up at the sky. no stars — just cloud cover, orange-lit and still.
“do you ever think about how weird it is,” she says, voice low, “that people can just… find each other?”
you glance at her. “what do you mean?”
she shrugs, a hand still tucked in her sleeve. “i don’t know. like… out of all the people in the world. somehow you end up sitting across from someone in a café, and then suddenly they’re part of your week.”
you smile, small. “and now you’re just stuck with me.”
she doesn’t laugh, but she grins a little, looks down at her shoes, then back at you.
“it’s not a bad thing.”
you don’t say anything to that. you don’t need to.
you stay there a little longer, in that pool of quiet, neither moving.
and when you both finally turn back toward your own ways home, it’s without saying goodbye. just a small nod. a look that says, same time next time.
and maybe a part of you starts hoping the nights stay warm for a little longer.
it’s not a special day. not a holiday. not a weekend. just a thursday morning that feels like it doesn’t mind taking its time.
you didn’t sleep all that well — not bad dreams, just too many thoughts pressed against the edges of your sleep. you wake up groggy, not quite ready to be awake, and for a while you just lie there, listening to the faint hum of the street outside your window.
you check your phone without thinking.
no new messages.
then, a minute later, one appears.
minji
are you awake?
you stare at it, unsure if she sent it earlier or if she just knew somehow.
you reply,
just now. why?
a pause. then:
minji
i have coffee. open your door.
you blink, still half-asleep, but you swing your legs over the side of the bed and shuffle to the door anyway. you open it slowly.
she’s standing there with two paper cups, a hoodie pulled halfway over her face and her hair a little tangled like she got ready in five minutes. one of the sleeves of her jacket is tucked into the opposite cuff.
“hi,” she says, holding out one of the drinks.
you take it automatically. it’s warm. she remembered how you like it — not too sweet, extra strong.
“what are you doing here?” you ask, voice scratchy from sleep.
she shrugs, leans her shoulder against the doorframe. “i was getting one for me, and it felt weird not to get one for you too.”
you don’t say anything. just look at her standing there like it’s the most normal thing in the world — like the space between your lives has already quietly disappeared.
“you’re not busy?” you ask.
she shakes her head. “not yet.”
you gesture inside. “you can come in. if you want.”
she does.
she kicks her shoes off gently by the door and walks in like she’s done it a hundred times before — even though this is only the second. you both sit on the floor beside your bed because you haven’t had time to fix the chair that broke last week.
she pulls her knees to her chest and holds her cup with both hands.
you sip yours slowly. it’s exactly right.
for a while, you don’t speak.
the room is quiet, except for the sound of city traffic rising faintly through the window and the occasional clink of the cup lid when you set it down. there’s a sliver of sunlight stretched across the wooden floor. it hits the side of her face, catches in the curve of her cheekbone, the edge of her lashes.
she notices you looking and tilts her head slightly. “what?”
you shake your head. “nothing.”
she hums. leans her head back against the wall.
and for a long time, neither of you move.
no plans are made. no questions are asked. no words are needed to name what this is.
it’s just the kind of quiet that only exists when someone already understands how to be near you.
you think, maybe, this is your favorite kind of morning.
you don’t have plans.
it’s one of those afternoons that slips in without warning — not sunny, not rainy, not anything you can describe. the air feels still, like everything outside is waiting for something that hasn’t happened yet.
you’re at her place this time.
she left the door unlocked because she knew you were coming. you let yourself in, kicked your shoes off in the same spot as last time, and mumbled a hello you weren’t sure she heard. she was already in the living room, curled up on the floor with a blanket pulled half over her legs, headphones on, a half-eaten sandwich on a paper towel beside her.
she looked up, smiled — small, lazy, soft — and patted the space beside her.
you sat down without a word.
it’s been an hour now. maybe longer.
the only sounds are the low murmur of music from her speaker and the occasional creak of the ceiling when someone upstairs moves. the window’s cracked just enough to let in the faintest breeze, brushing your ankles now and then.
minji’s on her stomach, scrolling through something on her phone, one earbud in, the other dangling down her shoulder. her hair’s tied up loosely with a pen stuck through it like a makeshift pin. the pen keeps slipping. she fixes it without looking.
you’re lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift when the clouds outside pass too slowly.
you don’t talk.
not because there’s nothing to say — just because there’s no need to fill anything.
you stretch your arm out. she taps her fingers against your wrist, absentminded. not holding. not quite touching. just there.
you close your eyes for a bit. drift in and out. at some point she gets up to grab snacks and tosses a bag toward you without warning. it hits your stomach and makes you exhale too loudly, but she doesn’t laugh. she just smirks and sits back down beside you, legs crossed, already chewing something with too much salt.
the light shifts slowly, slipping across the walls.
outside, a siren passes. a child yells once, far away.
inside, everything stays still.
she turns to you at one point, halfway through whatever song is playing, and asks quietly, “do you want me to turn it off?”
you shake your head.
“okay.”
and that’s it.
she doesn’t ask if you’re okay. you don’t ask her either. you both just exist in the same room, with your thoughts nearby but not too close, your bodies near but not touching, your time shared but not rushed.
and somehow, when you leave later — when the sky starts to deepen into that soft indigo that comes just before evening — it feels like something happened.
even though it didn’t.
even though it didn’t need to.
you don’t notice it right away.
a charger left in her wall socket. a hair tie she forgets to take back. one of her paperbacks — the one with the creased spine and the blue cover — ends up on your nightstand, tucked between a pen you borrowed and a receipt you don’t remember keeping.
your jacket finds its way over the back of her chair. not because she asked you to leave it, but because you took it off one afternoon and never thought to bring it home. a week later, it’s still there. she hasn’t moved it. sometimes she wears it when she goes downstairs to get the mail.
she never says it’s yours. you never ask for it back.
her handwriting shows up in the margins of your notebooks. not a lot — just one or two words scribbled on the side of a page you left out, something like yes or pretty or what does this mean? with a small arrow pointing to your half-finished sentence.
you start keeping an extra mug for her. it wasn’t intentional. it just sort of became hers — the pale ceramic one with the chipped lip and the faint outline of a flower fading near the handle. she always reaches for it first.
your fridge has a drink you never bought. your playlist has a song you’ve never heard until she hummed it under her breath. your calendar has a mark next friday that doesn’t mean anything to you until you remember she’s free that day.
none of it is on purpose.
it just begins to happen.
the folding of one life into another.
she shows up with food sometimes, without warning. leaves your shoes by the door, rearranged neatly beside hers. when you’re working, she brings you water and doesn’t speak, just sets it down beside your laptop with the softest glance. when she’s reading, you sit at the end of the couch with your legs over hers, and neither of you minds when they fall asleep that way.
one morning, you wake up and realize the smell of her shampoo is faintly on your pillow. she hadn’t even stayed over. she must’ve hugged you for longer than usual. or maybe she leaned her head on your shoulder without you noticing. either way, it lingers.
later that day, you open your drawer and find a folded note in her handwriting.
thought this line sounded like you. don’t overthink it.
beneath the note is a printed page from a book you haven’t read. a single paragraph underlined. a sentence that sits in your chest for the rest of the day like something left behind on purpose.
and still — neither of you says anything about it.
you just keep going. keep meeting in the middle. keep leaving things behind, not because you forget, but because they already belong there.
and slowly, it starts to feel like there’s no need to separate yours from hers.
it’s not that anything’s been decided.
it’s just that, now, your world has started to arrange itself around her.
and hers, around you.
you meet again on a thursday.
she texts you in the late afternoon — if i bring snacks, will you let me sit on your floor again?
you reply before you finish reading it.
you never have to ask.
it’s barely dark when she shows up.
a paper bag in one hand, hoodie sleeves pushed past her wrists, headphones around her neck. her hair’s a little messy from the wind. she smiles when you open the door, soft and small, like it’s just nice to see you.
“hi,” she says, like she means it.
you step aside. “hi.”
she walks in like she always does now — without pause, without hesitation. her steps know where your rug starts and where the floor creaks. she sets the bag down on the table, peeks inside it, then slides it toward you.
“don’t yell,” she says, opening it for the reveal. “i got the weird chips you hate.”
you blink. “you mean the ones that taste like sadness and regret?”
“exactly.” she smiles wider. “but they had your soda, so i had to.”
you sit on the floor again. like always. like it’s tradition. like it’s where things just feel easier.
the window is open slightly. the breeze is gentle. her knee brushes yours as she settles beside you, and neither of you adjusts. she opens the chips. you open the soda. her hair falls into her face when she leans forward to reach something, and without thinking, you reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
your fingers graze her skin.
you feel her still — just slightly.
you freeze. pull your hand back slowly. your eyes meet for a breath too long.
she doesn’t move away. just watches you, head tilted a little.
soft. unreadable. but not uncertain.
you don’t say anything. she doesn’t either.
it’s not a moment full of tension. it’s not sharp. it’s just quiet — like a held breath that doesn’t need to be exhaled yet.
the chips crinkle when she shifts her weight again. she looks down. smiles again, but it’s smaller now. different.
“you’re quieter than usual,” she murmurs.
you swallow. “so are you.”
her eyes flick back to yours, but she doesn’t challenge it. just leans her head lightly against your shoulder — barely touching, just enough to count.
“not in a bad way,” she says softly. “it’s a nice kind of quiet.”
you want to say something. anything.
but the words feel too large in your mouth. too heavy for how light this moment feels.
instead, you shift your arm a little — just enough to brush your pinky against hers.
and she… doesn’t move.
she presses back. barely. like a whisper against your skin.
not a confession. not a promise. just a yes, i’m here.
and that’s it.
just the warmth of her next to you.
the air between you filled with all the things neither of you says.
the silence not empty, not lacking — just full of almost.
it starts late.
you’d both finished your snacks. the blanket was half-pulled between your legs, the overhead light switched off, only the lamp near the window still glowing — soft and golden, casting shadows you didn’t want to break.
she’d glanced toward the clock and said, “it’s too early to go home.”
you’d said, “then don’t.”
she didn’t.
but eventually, you both ended up at the door anyway — not leaving, just stepping out.
the night air meets your skin like a hush.
the sky above is low and dark, not quite black, but deep with something that feels still. the sidewalk’s cool beneath your shoes. the neighborhood’s quiet — porch lights flickering here and there, a lone dog barking in the distance, wind brushing past a plastic bag caught on a gate.
she walks beside you, hoodie pulled up, hands stuffed in the front pocket. you don’t talk. there’s no need.
you take the longer path — down the side street lined with low fences and cracked pavement, past the tiny bench someone painted blue, past the flower shop with its gate drawn halfway and a paper sign taped to the glass: closed today. thank you for your kindness.
you pass a puddle that reflects a streetlight perfectly. she pauses. you do too.
“that one’s clean,” she murmurs. “like a perfect mirror.”
you nod. “like it knows how to be still.”
she glances at you then. and smiles. just a little.
you keep walking.
at some point, your fingers brush. not on purpose — just the natural way two people fall into step when they’ve walked together long enough. it happens again. again.
the third time, you don’t move your hand.
neither does she.
you don’t hold hands — not fully. not yet.
but your pinkies are linked, soft and barely there, like a secret you’re both sharing without needing to speak it.
you reach a corner and stop beneath a tree that’s half-bloomed, petals scattered across the sidewalk like someone left them there on purpose. the wind picks up slightly, and a few of them drift into the air, brushing past her shoulder.
she tilts her head up and watches one fall.
“it’s weird,” she says. “sometimes i feel like i’ve done this before. with you.”
you turn to her. “this walk?”
“no,” she says, voice softer. “just… this feeling. like you were already here. and now i’m just catching up to it.”
you don’t answer.
instead, you look at the curve of her mouth, the slope of her jaw, the way her hand is still not-quite-holding yours. everything about her looks like a memory you haven’t lived yet.
and still, you don’t name it.
don’t reach. don’t speak.
you just stand there in the middle of the quiet street, shoulder to shoulder, breath slow, her hand warm against yours in the gentlest way.
and maybe that’s enough.
she’s already outside the café when you get there.
not leaning forward or checking her phone — just standing there, her back against the wall, hands tucked into her hoodie sleeves, one ankle crossed over the other like she’s used to waiting but doesn’t mind it.
you pause for a second before walking over. not because you’re unsure — just to watch her.
there’s something about the way she exists in stillness. she doesn’t fidget. she doesn’t pace. she just... is. like the quiet suits her. like the air makes space for her in a way that feels natural.
her gaze flicks up as you approach, and when her eyes find yours, she smiles — not wide, not expectant, just soft. familiar. like she’s glad you came, even if she already knew you would.
“you’re late,” she says, but it’s not teasing. just a fact softened by the way she tilts her head slightly, like she’s been keeping time without needing to look at the clock.
you glance at the sky. “a little.”
“mm,” she hums, turning toward the door. “i was still going to wait.”
you hold it open for her, and she slips past you without a word about it, though her shoulder brushes yours lightly as she does. not by accident. just gently.
inside, you fall into routine — the kind you never talked about, just stepped into naturally. she slides into the seat by the window, curls her legs under her, opens the menu even though she always orders the same thing. you stand in line, already pulling out your wallet, already mouthing her order before the barista finishes asking.
you sip from her drink first before handing it over. you always do.
she doesn’t react. she never does. but she always takes the cup from your hand in that same way — fingers brushing yours, eyes meeting yours just briefly, a blink too long to ignore.
you sit across from her. the window glass is warm behind her, catching little flecks of sun, casting light onto the collar of her hoodie, into the curve of her cheek. the table between you holds two cups, a shared slice of something you’ll pretend to split evenly, and the slow, humming rhythm of presence.
you don’t talk much. you don’t have to. there’s something in the quiet — full, not empty. gentle. like a song you both know the words to but don’t need to sing.
her hand rests on the table sometimes, fingers tapping lightly to music only she can hear. sometimes you reach out and still them. she lets you.
you catch her looking at you in the reflection of the glass. she pretends she wasn’t.
you smile. so does she.
at your place later, she leaves her shoes by the door in the same spot as always — the left one slightly turned, the laces of the right one still knotted tight. she shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the back of your chair without looking. it lands the same way every time, slouched and familiar.
there’s a sweater of hers in your laundry pile. a pen she left on your desk. her charger, plugged into your wall.
she never says, i’m staying longer this time.
she just moves through your space like it remembers her.
she grabs a glass from your cabinet without asking. she knows where the spoons are now. she tugs your blanket over herself and complains it’s too warm, then doesn’t give it back.
you sit beside her, and she leans into your side without thinking. you adjust to make room. neither of you speak.
on the coffee table, your drinks sit side by side. her mug is chipped at the rim. yours still has the little crease in the paper sleeve from where she pressed it too hard earlier.
outside, the streetlamp flickers once and stays on. the world is quiet. inside, your chest feels full in the way that has nothing to do with breath.
sometimes, in the middle of the night, she shifts in her sleep and mumbles something into your shoulder. you don’t catch the words. you don’t ask. you just keep still, letting the moment pass like a slow wave over sand.
in the mornings, she brushes her teeth beside you. two people facing the mirror, bleary-eyed and quiet. she spits first, reaches over to turn off the tap for you. you pretend not to notice. but your cheeks flush every time.
on your fridge, there’s a sticky note with her handwriting.
eat today.
stretch your back.
you don’t know when she left it there. you don’t take it down.
you never say what this is.
never sit across from her with your heart in your hands asking, what do we mean to each other?
but every day, your lives fold further in.
every hour she’s in your space, something else of hers lingers.
a shape. a sound. a shadow.
and none of it is loud.
none of it needs to be.
it was never planned.
none of it ever is with her.
the sky was already dark when she asked if she could come by — voice soft over the phone, a little quieter than usual. not tired exactly, but not loud.
can i just… be there tonight? i won’t talk if you don’t want to talk.
you didn’t need a reason.
you just said, come in. i’ll leave the door unlocked.
by the time she arrived, the lights in your apartment had softened into a single lamp by the bookshelf. the rest of the space held a kind of stillness that didn’t feel heavy — just hushed. the windows cracked slightly. warm air brushing the curtains. your socks soft against the floor.
she stepped in without knocking. didn’t even say hello. just kicked off her shoes, set her bag down with the gentlest thud, and slipped out of her jacket like she already knew where it went.
you didn’t speak.
you just met her eyes for a second and gave her the kind of look that meant: you don’t have to explain anything.
she gave you one back — the kind that answered: thank you.
she moved like she always did in your space. deliberately, calmly. dropped her phone on the corner of your desk, pulled your softest blanket off the back of the couch, and tucked herself into the corner of it without asking. her legs curled beneath her. hair pulled loose at the nape of her neck.
you didn’t sit beside her yet.
you made tea instead. the kind she doesn’t even ask for anymore, because you already know the ratio of honey to water she likes. her cup’s still the same — that white one with the faint blue line near the rim and the barely-visible crack you keep meaning to fix. she always holds it with both hands.
you brought it to her wordlessly.
her fingers brushed yours. a quiet thank you left her mouth without sound.
when you finally sat down, it wasn’t beside her. not right away.
you chose the floor. close. near enough to hear her breathing change as the warmth from the tea reached her chest.
you both stayed that way for a while.
just letting the room settle around you.
somewhere outside, someone honked twice. a neighbor’s television hummed through the wall. a soft wind stirred the dried leaves near the window. you heard her shift behind you — her knees pressing against the cushions, the blanket rustling as she pulled it higher.
then, her voice. low. steady.
“can i sleep here?”
you turned, met her eyes, saw the edge of hesitation she was trying not to show.
“of course,” you said. “you don’t have to ask.”
“i know,” she murmured. “but i still wanted to.”
you didn’t change the sheets. she liked the way they smelled already — like you. like faint lavender and laundry you’d forgotten to fold. she lay down without fuss, her socks still on, her hoodie loose, her fingers curling into the pillow you usually use.
you watched her for a moment before turning off the light.
the darkness wrapped around you gently — not thick, not suffocating, just soft.
there was a tiny strip of glow from the hallway. enough to see her silhouette.
you lay there beside her. not touching. not even close, at first.
but the space between you felt less like a line and more like a bridge.
you weren’t sure who crossed first.
her hand found your wrist. not tightly. just enough.
you let her hold it.
and after a while, with the sound of her breathing steadying against the hush of the room, she whispered something so quiet you almost missed it.
“this feels safe.”
you blinked up at the ceiling, then turned your head to look at her.
“good,” you whispered. “it is.”
she didn’t say anything after that.
you didn’t fall asleep quickly, but you didn’t feel restless either. just… aware. of the shape of her beside you. of the comfort in the silence. of the way your room, so small and so ordinary, felt like it had finally filled with something weightless.
and in the morning, when the light came in low and warm, she was still there.
not because she had nowhere else to be.
but because this — this quiet, this closeness, this belonging — had become a place she knew how to return to.
your room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of your desk lamp and the flicker of minji’s laptop screen. she’s curled up on your bed, lying on her side, scrolling through something — nothing serious. her mouth moves silently to a song playing low from your bluetooth speaker, but you can’t tell if she knows the words or just likes how they sound.
it’s late. too late for either of you to still be awake, but neither of you seems in a rush to end the night. outside, the wind taps at the window. a streetlight hums. the candle you lit hours ago has long since melted to a stub, but the room still smells like citrus and something warmer — maybe her shampoo, maybe the blanket draped around her legs. it’s all soft, lived-in, familiar.
you sit at the edge of your bed, legs folded, watching her scroll lazily. you’ve been sitting in silence for a while now. not awkward silence — just the kind that stretches gently, like an old sweatshirt. the kind that says: we’ve done this before. we’ll do it again.
minji glances at you, eyes tired but soft. “you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“i am,” you say, voice rough with sleep. “but i’m too lazy to get up.”
“tragic.”
you make a face at her, then push yourself up with a groan and shuffle to the bathroom. your limbs feel heavy. there’s the quiet sting of a long day in your shoulders, your back, the soles of your feet. you flick on the bathroom light, squinting into the mirror as you reach for your toothbrush.
you barely get the toothpaste uncapped when you hear her behind you.
she doesn’t say anything. just steps into the small space, toothbrush in hand, hoodie sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
she nudges you gently with her hip.
you move over without thinking.
the mirror fogs a little from the warmth of the room. minji stands close, the sleeve of her hoodie brushing your arm as she begins brushing her teeth beside you. you catch her reflection beside yours — messy bun, flushed cheeks, eyes sleepy and amused.
she makes a face at you mid-brushing. toothpaste foam puffs out a little from the corners of her mouth.
you both start laughing, muffled and ridiculous.
there’s something about the way you fit here — shoulder to shoulder, eyes half-closed, matching rhythms of brushing and rinsing — that settles too easily into your chest. she doesn’t pull away when her head leans briefly against your shoulder. it’s just the weight of her. warm. comfortable.
“this feels like something married people do,” she mumbles once she spits, not even looking at you.
you freeze.
your hand is still under the tap, water running cold over your toothbrush.
you don’t know if she’s joking. you don’t know if she even realizes what she said.
but her head is still leaning against you. just for a second longer.
your mouth tastes like mint, but your chest tastes like hope. stupid, fragile hope.
you rinse. say nothing.
the moment passes.
but it stays with you. for days.
you’re walking back from the convenience store together, hands full of snacks and drinks and too many things you didn’t need. the night is sharp and quiet — no cars, no people, just the soft crush of gravel beneath your steps and the low thrum of distant wind. minji walks close beside you, her hoodie pulled up, cheeks pink from the cold.
your pinkies keep brushing. once. then again. and again.
you keep waiting for her to stop. she doesn’t.
eventually, she links her pinky with yours. just that. no big gestures. no words. your hands don’t fully hold, but they’re there — knotted in the smallest, most deliberate way. your skin burns where it touches hers.
you glance at her.
she’s looking forward, not at you. her expression is unreadable, but her hand doesn’t let go.
and then, quietly — so quietly you almost miss it — she says, “sometimes i think about what it would be like…”
you wait.
she doesn’t finish.
you stop walking. “what what would be like?”
minji looks at you. not nervously. not teasingly. just soft. a little unsure.
“if we,” she starts. and then her voice falters. “never mind.”
you try to laugh. light, casual, deflecting. “if we what, moved in together? finally started a bakery?”
she smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “something like that.”
she lets go of your pinky. shifts the snacks in her hands. keeps walking.
you stare at her back for a second longer before catching up.
you don’t bring it up again.
but all night, all week, longer, you wonder: was she going to say it? was she going to choose me?
and somehow, the not knowing hurts more than if she had said no.
you wake to quiet.
not the sharp kind that comes after noise, but the kind that’s always been there, patient and steady, like the inside of a seashell. you don’t open your eyes right away. the air is cool on your arms, the blanket pushed down to your hips sometime in the night. the pillow beneath your cheek is warm. her breathing is close.
and for a moment, that’s enough.
you stay still, eyes closed, body soft, like you’re trying to hold the shape of this morning without disturbing it. her presence beside you is quiet but full — not loud in any physical way, not overwhelming. just… undeniably there. it presses against the space around you like a weightless thing. like something settled. something familiar.
when you finally open your eyes, the light is barely there — thin streaks from between the blinds, pale and cold, turning everything in your room into faint outlines. your ceiling. the curve of her shoulder. the shadow of her knees under the blanket. the loose fall of her hair against your pillow.
she’s still sleeping.
her back is to you, but not distant. she’s close enough that your knees brush lightly under the covers when either of you shifts. her hand rests in the narrow space between your pillows, relaxed, open, like she’d maybe reached for something in the dark and forgotten to close her fingers around it.
you watch her breathe.
slow, even, the kind of rhythm that makes you want to stay in bed longer. it’s the kind of morning you used to think only existed in movies. soft light. slow hours. a person you care about still tangled in sleep beside you.
it should feel perfect.
but something twists in your chest.
you can’t name it at first. it’s not dread. not jealousy. not even fear. just a sudden, slow ache — dull at the edges, like the start of a headache you don’t want to acknowledge. like something fragile pressing at the walls of something sacred.
you think about the way she looked last night, curled up under your blanket, tea in both hands. how easily she existed in your space. how it felt like something she’s done a hundred times, even if neither of you ever said anything about it.
and you realize you don’t know if this means anything.
you don’t know if this is something she does just with you.
you don’t know if she’s staying because she wants to, or because it’s easier than being alone, or because you’ve never given her a reason to leave.
your chest tightens, slow and sharp. not enough to make you gasp — just enough to make you blink hard and look away.
your eyes fall to her hand again. still open. still reaching for something in her sleep.
you wonder if it’s you.
you wonder if she’ll still be here next week. next morning. next time you forget to ask her to stay.
you wonder if she even knows you’re wondering.
because you haven’t said anything. not really.
neither has she.
and maybe that’s been fine — maybe the quiet between you has always been full of meaning, not absence. but now, in this sliver of morning light, it suddenly feels like a risk. like the silence could break the moment you look at it too hard.
like it already is.
you shift slightly, careful not to wake her. press your fingers to your own collarbone, as if that might ground you. as if that might help the feeling settle.
it doesn’t.
you sit up slowly. move like a ghost. your feet find the floor. the cold hits your skin like a whisper. you don’t look back.
in the kitchen, the light is colder. the windows are fogged slightly at the edges. everything feels a little too quiet, like the silence is paying attention now.
you go through the motions. reach for the kettle. pull out her mug. the chipped one. your hands know the routine better than your head does. honey, then hot water. you remember without thinking — because remembering is something you do with her.
the kettle clicks off.
you pour. stir. place the cup on the table even though she’s still in bed.
your own mug sits beside it, steam curling between them. the warmth should comfort you. it doesn’t. you look at the two cups and think about how she never reacts when you sip from hers first. how she always lets your fingers brush hers when you pass it to her. how none of that has ever been defined.
maybe that’s what’s starting to hurt.
because you don’t know if you’re allowed to need her. not like this.
you don’t know if she wants you to.
and when she finally steps into the room — hair messy, hoodie sleeves pulled past her knuckles, sleep still tucked beneath her eyes — she doesn’t say good morning.
she just sees the tea. sees you. gives you a soft, tired smile like it’s any other day.
like everything’s fine.
and you smile back. because what else can you do?
the moment stretches. warm, familiar. her mug in her hands. your shoulder brushing hers when you sit down. a silence that should be comforting.
but something inside you whispers,
oo nga pala. hindi nga pala tayo.
and suddenly, the warmth doesn’t reach all the way through.
she still comes over. still takes her shoes off the same way, one foot hooked behind the other, socked toes curling against the floor as she balances. still shrugs her jacket off halfway through the hallway, lets it fall onto the hook without checking if it lands right. still greets your apartment like it belongs to her in the smallest ways — the way she taps the light switch twice, the way she exhales like she’s been holding her breath all day and only remembers to let go once she’s here.
you still make her tea. the chipped white mug. the same brand of honey. the same way she always hands it back when it’s too hot, just for you to blow into it for a few seconds before giving it back. it all still happens. everything still happens.
but lately it feels like you’re watching it from somewhere else.
not far. not detached. just slightly out of sync. like you’re half a step behind the warmth that used to wrap around your days with her.
you notice more now. not because she’s changed, but because the weight of not knowing is heavier than it used to be. her laughter still rings through your apartment, but you listen for what comes after — the silence that follows, the quiet pause where she looks away. her hands still reach for yours sometimes, but you notice the pull in your chest every time they don’t. she still falls asleep on your couch, but the ache builds when she doesn’t ask you to join her.
you start wondering when the comfort became confusion.
when the softness became something you had to study, like a language you thought you were fluent in but now second-guess. you catch yourself looking for proof in things that never asked to be proof. her fork on your plate. her hair tie on your desk. the book she left on your shelf, still folded at the chapter you never asked her about. you look for signs. for answers. for anything that says you aren’t making this up.
you want to ask.
you want to say something.
but the words sit heavy at the back of your throat, thick and shapeless, afraid of what they’ll ruin just by existing. so instead, you fold her blanket when she leaves. you send her photos of stupid things. you let your hand linger a little longer when you hand her her drink. and when she smiles — warm, tired, unaware — you let yourself believe it still means something.
you don’t know how to tell her you’re starting to ache.
not from distance. not from absence.
from presence that doesn’t have a name.
and it gets worse in the quieter hours. at night, when she curls beside you with her back to your chest and your hand hovers for a second too long before settling at your side. in the mornings, when she stands barefoot in your kitchen and says, “i love this tea,” and you wonder if that’s the closest you’ll ever get to hearing her say she loves something you made. in the space between her “i’ll see you soon” and your “take care,” when neither of you say what you mean.
you don’t know what you are to her.
and the longer it stays unspoken, the more it starts to hurt.
not loudly. not all at once. just steadily. like slow pressure behind your eyes. like a weight gathering at the base of your chest. like nausea you can’t quite shake. like a migraine coming in through the light.
you stare at your phone more than you text her now.
you draft messages that you delete.
you walk past your own mirror and avoid your reflection.
you look at the couch and remember her curled up in your hoodie, asking if you wanted to watch something together, and wonder if she only does that when it’s easy. when it’s safe. when she knows you’ll never ask for more than what she’s already giving.
you start to wonder if you’ve mistaken safety for something else.
and still — she shows up.
still presses her hand to your back when you look tired. still leans her head on your shoulder during movies. still asks, “can i sleep over?” like she doesn’t already know the answer will always be yes.
you say nothing.
and the silence, once soft, now sits sharp against your teeth.
it used to feel like enough.
the sky was still pale when you got there. light not yet warm, the kind of late morning that made everything feel faded. cars passed every so often outside, but you weren’t really listening. you were already at the back of the shop, leaning against the same shelf where you always waited for her. fiction, third aisle, left side. she always found you here. even when you didn’t say anything beforehand, she knew to look.
you kept your phone in your hand, even though she wasn’t late enough to check the time. you weren’t nervous — not yet. you weren’t anything, really. just still.
you scanned the spines on the shelf. same titles. same creases. same ones you ran your fingers across every time you waited. nothing had changed. not in the books. not in the shop. not in the quiet.
and then the bell above the door rang, and she was there.
hair a little tangled from the wind, cheeks flushed. thin hoodie zipped only halfway, sleeves half-pulled over her hands. she didn’t look cold. she looked soft. she looked like herself.
she didn’t wave. didn’t smile wide. just met your eyes and gave you that look you always liked — the one where her lips barely curved, and something about it still reached you all the way across the room.
you didn’t say anything when she joined you. she didn’t say much either. she just nudged your arm and stood close. it was the kind of day where that felt like enough.
you ended up on the floor eventually, between shelves. backs to the wood, knees bent, books you hadn’t read open in your laps. her shoulder brushed yours. your arms didn’t touch. it felt familiar, but not identical. something about it was looser today. lighter, maybe. like her thoughts were far ahead of her words.
she was tracing the corner of a page when she said it.
“i think i like someone.”
you looked up from the sentence you weren’t really reading.
her head was still tilted down, eyes fixed on the book like it had told her something important. her fingers curled a little tighter around the paper. she blinked, slowly, and then added, quietly, “she’s in my lit class.”
you didn’t move. not right away.
there was a pause. not between her words, but inside you — a slow freezing over. it didn’t hurt yet. it just stopped something. the kind of stillness that comes before a storm, when the air changes and you know it’ll rain but the clouds haven’t broken open.
you adjusted your hand on the book. tried to clear your throat but didn’t. something about your tongue felt too thick. you weren’t sure where to look.
“that’s nice,” you said, and you heard your own voice from a distance — calm, almost warm, like it belonged to someone else.
she nodded. said the girl’s name. it floated past you without landing.
you watched her smile a little as she talked — not too much, not obvious, but enough. the kind of smile she gave when she was remembering something real. something good. her eyes softened. her voice dropped a little, like she was guarding something fragile. like she was trying not to seem too hopeful, and failing.
you nodded along. made a sound in the back of your throat when she paused, like you understood. like you were happy for her.
you said things you didn’t feel. not because you wanted to lie — but because anything else felt dangerous.
you didn’t ask how long she’d liked her. you didn’t ask if she’d told anyone else. you didn’t ask if this meant anything about the way she’d looked at you last week, when she fell asleep in your bed and whispered, this feels safe.
you just nodded.
and somewhere, deep in the center of your chest, something gave way. not loudly. not all at once. just a small shift — like something folding in on itself. a corner turning. a warmth leaving.
you thought of the quiet mornings. the shared hoodies. the movies you never finished. the tea you made without asking. the way her laugh always pulled your name out like a promise. the way she knew how you liked your silence. the way she never said anything about the way you looked at her.
and you thought — maybe she never noticed.
or worse — maybe she did.
but maybe it was just never meant to be you.
she bumped your shoulder again when she stood up. offered a hand. her fingers wrapped around yours like nothing had changed.
you let her pull you up.
you smiled when she asked if you wanted coffee. said yes when she suggested the place down the block. walked beside her with your hands in your pockets so you wouldn’t brush against her by mistake.
you nodded when she asked if you were okay.
you lied when you said you were.
and you laughed — not because anything was funny, but because it kept your voice from breaking.
you walked through the door she held open for you and told yourself this wasn’t the end of anything.
but it was.
not because you lost her. you never had her.
just because, for the first time, you realized you wouldn’t.
and for the first time, you didn’t know where to go from here.
minji remembers how cold your hands felt when she held them that afternoon.
not freezing, not shivering — just a little too still. she thought maybe you’d been waiting outside too long. or maybe you hadn’t warmed them yet in your pockets. she didn’t think too much of it at the time. just squeezed your fingers lightly and smiled, hoping that was enough.
she doesn’t know when she started watching for your smile a little more carefully.
maybe it started that day. or maybe earlier, when your answers began getting a second slower. when your laughter softened into something quieter. when your eyes started looking past her before returning to meet her gaze.
but the moment she told you about the girl — the one from class, the one who made her nervous in a way she hadn’t felt since high school — something shifted.
not in what you said. your words were gentle. supportive, even. you nodded, like always. you asked the right questions. smiled at the right time.
but the space between your words had changed.
she couldn’t describe it exactly — just that something about the way you said that’s nice didn’t feel like it used to. like the warmth was still there, but had pulled just a little further back into you.
she told herself she was imagining it. that you were just tired. maybe distracted. she knew you’d had a long week. she didn’t want to read too much into it. you were always soft. always steady. always there.
you still walked with her to the café. still ordered her usual drink. still pulled out a chair before sitting across from her. your hands stayed in your sleeves the whole time. you didn’t sip from her cup like you sometimes did. you didn’t reach over the table to steal her pastry.
but you smiled. and she believed it.
or she let herself believe it.
because you’ve always made space for her without needing anything in return. and maybe she started taking that for granted. maybe she didn’t realize that all the little things — the tea, the silence, the hoodie she always borrowed — had started meaning more to you than they did to her.
or maybe they meant the same. just not in the same direction.
she thinks about this now, days later, lying in bed with her phone on her chest. your name lights up her notifications every so often, like normal. photos. links. jokes. small things. but the warmth feels thinner through the screen. like the distance between you has grown without either of you moving.
she rereads your last message. it’s not cold. not distant. just simple.
she types a reply. deletes it. rewrites it. sends a sticker instead.
she wishes she could ask if something’s wrong. but she doesn’t know how to, not without sounding like she’s naming something she can’t see.
she scrolls back to a picture of you from weeks ago — a blurry one you didn’t know she took, of you laughing on the couch, hair messy, hand covering your face like you were embarrassed. she liked that version of you. still does.
she thinks maybe she’s been selfish.
not on purpose. just by letting things be what they were without wondering if you needed more.
she wonders if it’s too late to ask.
she wonders if it would hurt you more if she did.
so she presses her phone to her chest. closes her eyes. tells herself everything is okay. and hopes — quietly, maybe too late — that she hasn’t already lost something she didn’t know she had.
you don’t cry.
you don’t slam doors. don’t send messages you’ll regret. don’t ask the questions you’ve been holding in your chest since that day in the bookstore. you don’t do anything loud. it’s not that kind of grief.
it’s quieter than that.
it settles under your skin like fog.
you still see her, sometimes. not as often — not like before. but enough that it feels worse. because it’s still familiar. still soft. still good, in the way a memory is good even while it’s hurting you.
she still texts you. still sends photos. a coffee cup with your name misspelled. a video of a cat in a sweater. a playlist you’d probably like. and you respond. always. you don’t know how not to. her presence still draws something out of you, even if it doesn’t feel safe anymore.
you meet once, a few days later, in a cafe you used to go to after class. she’s already there when you arrive. her hoodie is too big, sleeves falling past her hands, hair pulled back messily. she looks tired. but not sad.
you sit down. your drink arrives before hers. she jokes about you finally beating her to it. you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
she doesn’t notice. or if she does, she doesn’t say anything.
you talk about little things. a show you both stopped watching. a new professor she’s annoyed at. she leans across the table when she’s excited about something, the way she always does. and you lean back without meaning to.
your hand stays curled in your lap the whole time.
she doesn’t reach for it.
you listen to her talk about her weekend plans — something about a group project, something about a movie night — and you know, without her saying it, that the girl from her class will be there.
you don’t ask. of course you don’t.
you nod when you’re supposed to. smile in all the right places. your laugh sounds normal. your posture is fine. your eyes don’t sting, because you won’t let them.
and when she asks if you’re okay, between sips of her tea, voice soft but passing, you say, “yeah, just tired.” and she believes you.
or she chooses to.
and you wish — god, you wish — that you could go back to when that answer wasn’t a lie.
you walk home alone. she doesn’t offer to come with you. you don’t invite her. the silence stretches between you, even after you part. even after your phone lights up with her name and a message that just says, get home safe.
you type will do and send it. you don’t say more.
in your room, the blanket she used last week is still folded over your desk chair. the mug she left sits rinsed on the drying rack. her laugh lingers in the corners of the room. you sit on the edge of your bed and hold your breath.
you think, again, she never lied.
she never promised anything.
you just wanted.
you just hoped.
you just held your breath for too long, and now there’s no air left in your lungs.
you lay back, stare at the ceiling, and realize it was never yours to grieve. never yours to ask for. never yours to lose.
because she was never yours.
not really.
just close enough to hurt.
it’s always hardest in the evening.
that strange hour before night, when the sky turns a kind of pale orange-gray that makes everything feel older. the light sits differently in your apartment. gentler. quieter. it hits the shelves, the chipped mug, the folded hoodie in the corner — like it’s naming every piece of her that’s still here without her being here.
you don’t know what to do with yourself anymore.
you used to move with ease between moments. the day passed gently — school, small errands, a message from her, dinner, something on tv, her head on your shoulder, her laughter tucked beneath your chin. even when she wasn’t physically with you, she was near. her voice lingered. her rhythms shaped your day.
now there’s only silence.
not complete silence. just the kind that makes everything echo more than it should. the kind that makes your own footsteps feel too loud in your kitchen. the kind that makes music sound thinner, your bed feel colder, time feel longer.
you clean. not because you need to. just to fill the air.
you fold your sheets. wash the mugs. rearrange the pillows on your couch. it doesn’t matter. the room still feels like it’s waiting for something.
you scroll through your phone and see her name more often than you expect. it’s in pinned threads. in saved photos. in voice notes you forgot to delete. you don’t open them. you just stare at the thumbnails. your finger hovers. it’s a kind of mourning. one that doesn’t get a ceremony.
you tell yourself you don’t love her anymore.
you say it out loud once, just to hear it in the room. just to see if your body will believe it.
it doesn’t.
you sleep with your back to the door now. just in case.
you don’t stop talking to her.
you just start saying less.
it’s not on purpose at first. you still reply. still check your phone when it buzzes. still laugh when she sends something ridiculous. but the replies come slower. the sentences shorter. you don’t mean to pull back. not really. you just… can’t give her the same pieces of yourself anymore.
you don’t have the language for this kind of sadness. it doesn’t burn. it doesn’t bleed. it just lives under your skin, soft and steady, like breath you keep forgetting to take.
you think about telling her — gently. honestly. just enough to explain. not to make her feel bad. not to make her stay. just so she knows.
but every time the moment comes, it feels too small. too fragile. like saying it would only turn all of this into something heavier. something neither of you asked for.
so instead, you shift slowly.
you stop initiating the late-night calls. you stop sending her photos of every small thing that reminds you of her. you stop offering to share your hoodies, your leftovers, your weekends. you let the spaces between messages stretch wider.
she notices.
you can tell.
but she doesn’t ask.
she thinks maybe you’re busy. maybe tired. maybe you’re slipping into some other season of your life, the way people sometimes do.
she doesn’t know she’s the reason.
and maybe it’s better that way.
you see her one last time before the semester ends. nothing special — just coffee, a bookstore, the same steps you’ve walked together so many times before. she reaches for a book and jokes that it reminds her of you. your smile is soft, but it doesn’t last.
she doesn’t press.
you walk her to the bus stop. her shoulder brushes yours. she thanks you for the drink. you hug her goodbye. it’s quick. easy. like always.
you watch the bus pull away and let the weight settle in your chest.
this is how you leave someone without leaving.
you just stop holding on.
you just stop hoping.
you just start living around the space where they used to fit.
quietly.
carefully.
without ever saying the words.
and she never even knows.
minji doesn’t think about you every day. not anymore. not like she used to — when your name still lived in the corners of her phone screen, in playlists, in the soft worn sleeves of a borrowed hoodie. when your memory came with color and sound and warmth. when forgetting wasn’t an option because forgetting would have felt like betrayal.
now, you exist differently. not gone. not faded. just... quieter.
you come back to her in moments. in fragments. never the whole thing at once. a laugh that sounds a little like yours from across the room. a half-drunk cup of tea, gone cold on someone’s desk. the way someone holds a book in one hand and stares past the window like the world is a little too heavy to carry that day. things like that.
she’s still with her. the girl from class — the one she used to talk about in passing, cheeks warm, voice shy. the one who’d been just an idea at first. a possibility. a maybe. and then, slowly, someone real. someone she kissed first. someone who kissed her back.
they’ve been together a while now. long enough that their routines are steady. their arguments predictable. their dinners familiar. there are framed photos on the wall. toothbrushes in the same cup. playlists they’ve made together. text threads that stretch back far enough to feel like something permanent.
and for the most part, minji is content.
it’s not fireworks. not heartbreak. not breathlessness. it’s warmth. companionship. the kind of love that shows up on time. that makes room for her. that says “good morning” before she opens her eyes and rubs the sleep out of her lashes.
but every once in a while, when the sun is just starting to dip behind the buildings and the world is quiet in a way that feels almost too still, she remembers what it felt like to sit beside you. not because she wants to. just because her body hasn’t forgotten.
you never sat too close. never demanded anything. but your presence was full. grounding. and in the hush between conversations, in the pauses between your words, minji used to feel something she didn’t have words for. she thought it was peace. she knows now it was love.
not the kind that asked. not the kind that confessed. just the kind that stayed.
she didn’t recognize it then. didn’t know how to hold it. she thought love had to be loud. had to be chased. had to be declared. but you never asked her to chase. you never asked for anything. and so, she never thought to give.
she thinks about that more lately.
she doesn’t mean to. but it’s always in the smallest moments — like this one. a thursday evening. late autumn. the windows fogged from the heat inside. her girlfriend curled up on the far end of the couch, scrolling quietly. a movie playing on low volume, ignored. her own hands wrapped around a cup of tea.
honey. a familiar kind.
not exactly the same brand you used to buy, but close. close enough that the first sip makes her pause.
her eyes blur for half a second, but she doesn’t cry. there’s no breaking point here. just the soft collapse of something inside her that never quite healed.
she turns her head toward the window. watches the streetlights flicker on. her reflection stares back at her — half-shadow, half-memory. and just like that, you’re there again.
laughing quietly from the other end of the room. arms crossed, socks mismatched, a mug in your hand. that look on your face — half fondness, half knowing.
it was always you.
she blinks. the tea cools in her hands. a voice calls her name from the couch. asks if she wants to order food.
she says yes. she says it gently. but the ache in her chest remains. soft. permanent. a knowing she carries now, too late to change anything.
you’re probably okay. she tells herself that sometimes. maybe you’re seeing someone. maybe you’re studying somewhere new. maybe you’ve moved on completely.
she hopes so. even if part of her doesn’t.
she never meant to lose you. but she did. not with cruelty. not with intention. just… quietly. like misplacing something small but essential. like forgetting to lock a door, and finding it open too late.
it’s not regret that keeps her still now. it’s recognition. the kind that wraps around the ribs and doesn’t let go.
and she doesn’t need to say it out loud. there’s no one to hear it, anyway.
but if you asked her — now, after all this time — she would say,
synopsis you let your thoughts be spilled onto a piece of paper that you’ll probably never give her. or you write a letter to danielle almost a year after your break up. [a multiverse of eyes on you/only you].
warnings none (?)
a/n fuckk ok i got so into it while i was writing this i don't even know if this makes sense to anyone that isn't me :/ also the song is honestly unrelated but i've had it on loop while i was writing this
now playing halik sa hangin by ebe dancel
1,982 words.
being within the four walls of your room has felt like torture for the past year.
what was once considered as a safe and free of judgement space has now felt like being inside an inescapable trap, your misery written all over the walls to remind you of how everything’s been going for you. if you were given the chance to, you’d go back in time and take everything back, do everything differently, whatever it takes to prevent any of this from unfolding to whatever it is now.
the last few days leading up to your break up with danielle are some days you never wanted to look back on. though sometimes, you don’t even choose to. they just appear back into your head when you’re all alone. countless of baseless and petty arguments ensued, resulting in both of you throwing words around without meaning them. you don’t know what happened, but the eyes that always looked at you full of love turned hostile, glaring and rolling at you. your touch was something she always longed for. she always liked to hold hands and link arms while walking, but even that changed. she kept pushing you away whenever you got near, as if she’d catch a deadly disease if she ever touched you.
it was all so stupid and immature, but the damage it did to your relationship was irreparable. you always looked back at these memories with a heavy feeling in your chest.
as much as you wanted to, you could never bring yourself to hate her. even when she called you names time and time again, you let her be. you never said anything back, because you didn’t have the heart to. you were in disbelief. you never thought you’d live to see the day where danielle marsh herself is calling you a big disappointment, but it happened. now you’re here, replaying the event in your head over and over again, down to the tone of her voice when those words left her mouth.
it hurts every time you remember. the best you could do now is to try and forget about everything by going out to distract yourself. but then again, going for a walk every morning only heals you so much that you forget about everything during the day, only to go back and cry yourself to sleep every night when you’re alone in your room again.
you tried everything. you tried to read books, drive to places you’ve always wanted to go to, drink copious amounts of alcohol, everything. none of them worked. it’s like danielle has burned herself into the back of your mind that you’re always reminded of her every corner you turn.
it’s like everything went downhill since she left you, the exact opposite of how things used to be when you first confessed to her. one thing goes right, two other things go wrong. it felt as if the universe was playing some sick joke on you, dragging you by your ankles each time you tried running away from your sorrows.
you’ve spent so much of your time being alone, that being around others made you feel uncomfortable. you pushed everyone away. you liked the comfort of being alone anyway, or that’s what you’ve been telling yourself since she left you.
tonight was no different from the other nights that have passed by. cold, dark, and lonely. as you try to tuck yourself in to finally get some rest, your mind goes to the place it’s grown accustomed to at this time of the night like its second nature.
you tried twisting and turning to see which position would help you sleep the fastest, but none of them worked. your mind was still working overtime, reminiscing all those memories you had with her. all those memories from when you were still happy. it was no secret that you missed her. you missed her voice, her scent, her kisses, her hugs, her presence. you wanted nothing more than to have everything back, including the part of yourself that you lost from constantly grieving over her.
you sat up quickly. one thing that you really disliked was crying while laying down, hence why you always opted to sit outside your balcony during times like this.
what you expected to be a moment of calmness quickly turns into your mind going all over the place. the cool gust of wind hitting your skin doesn’t even bring you peace anymore like it used to. and it terrified you. it felt as though you were slowly running out of things that made you happy. the things that used to help you back then have all pretty much gone ineffective after the day you saw her with somebody else.
you got up from your seat and went through your backpack to pull out a sheet of paper and a pen. as soon as the tip of the pen landed on the paper, you let your thoughts take the wheel from then on.
june 30, 2025
mon 10:53 pm
hey dani, how are you? it’s been a while since we last talked.
the night’s cold and it’s been raining a lot lately so i figured, why not down some cola spiked with hard liquor to warm me up? looking at the reflection of the lit lamp post on the puddles outside reminded me of you.
i’m sitting out here on my balcony as i write this. i still remember you saying this was your favorite part of my apartment. every time you slept over you’d always go here after waking up, basking in the sun and getting some fresh air while you waited for me to finish preparing breakfast. i cherished those moments with every bit of my heart because it gave me a glimpse of what my future would’ve looked like with you after we graduated.
seeing you was always the best part of my day. i can still remember everything so vividly, it haunts me. ninth of september, year 2023. that’s when we went to myeongdong together. you said you felt the world stop for us right at that moment, was that true? if it was, then that’s beautiful. i’m pretty sure i felt it too.
the places we went to a lot, like the lake and the night market, they still hold a lot of meaning to me. back then, i remember i’d smile to myself whenever i drove past them. when that happened, i’d usually just give you a call and tell you i’m missing you. but i can’t really do that now, can i? you’d probably kill me if i tried to. but whenever i walk past those places now, it gets hard for me to breathe. it’s so hard to hold your tears back when you’re in public. sometimes i wonder if you still go to the places we went to together, or if those places still remind you of me. i was just at the lake earlier, by the way. i saw those yellow flowers again while i was walking and much like our love, it’s all dry and wilted now. dead.
i was sitting at the edge of the platform right by the water. if you were there with me, you’d probably be nagging me about possibly falling into the lake. though your nagging was such an earful at times (i’m sorry), i still miss it. it showed me how much you cared about me at the time.
i really miss those days when you’d search for me whenever we walked from building to building on our campus. the way we’d always smile whenever we saw each other. where did that dani go? because whenever i see you now, you’re always avoiding me. always trying to walk as far away from me as possible. can’t even look me in the eye. i never thought this day would come, but here we are.
what we had was beautiful. we were both so young, innocent, inexperienced, and most importantly, happy. i’m glad we ended up together. you taught me so many things that i’ll make sure to bring with me as i grow older. it just sucks that we ended the way we did. we were given such a short amount of time to love each other.
though we both had our own faults that caused us to end everything, i still can’t help but put all the blame on myself. i could never talk badly about you every time my friends asked about what happened between us, so i just end up lying to cover for you. i know i don’t have to, but i want to. i can’t stand it when people are being mean to you.
it’s been almost a year since we stopped talking to each other, but i’m still here. right where you left me. i don’t think i’ll go away any time soon to be honest. i still feel that weird feeling in my throat whenever i think of you, that feeling when you’re about to cry. even now as i write this, i still can’t help but let a few tears out. i don’t know how many months i’ve been like this, but i’m getting sick of it.
the nights i used to spend all cuddled up with you, or on the phone with you at the very least, have now been completely replaced with me sobbing to myself on my bed.
all my unhealthy coping mechanisms are slowly coming back, danielle. i don’t know what to do with myself. while i’m in the worst state i’ve ever been, it seems like you’re still out there having fun. i’m not against it at all, but it does pain me to see that you’ve already found someone else just a month after we broke up. i don’t know why i’m still actively keeping up, but i saw you have a highlight for him on your public instagram account, one that you started adding stories to literally just a month after things ended between us. did he also do the things i did for you in the seven months i courted you? i hope he did. i hope he takes great care of you because he has no idea how hard i fucking worked to get half the things he’s getting from you.
while it’s so easy to hate you for doing this, i still really can’t bring myself to do it. so now i’m always wondering where i went wrong. what was i lacking for you to leave me the way you did? what did i do so wrong for you to throw away everything we had that easily? i’ve hit myself in the head over and over again just to try and find the answers to my own questions but it never worked for me. i’m still stuck here thinking about it. whatever it might’ve been, i’m sorry.
i didn’t even try and sound all poetic because my mind is all over the place. it’s been like this since you left me. there are dried tears on my face and i can’t even see what i’m writing properly. i dont even know if i’m actually going to give this to you, but i wanted to write everything down in hopes that it would help ease my mind a bit.
you were my everything, danielle. you still are. i thought i would’ve gotten over you by now, but i’m far from that. so far. i still spend most of my nights thinking about you, i still lock myself in my room to cry after holding my tears back all day, i still dream of you. i know i’m not gonna magically move on after writing this letter, but here’s to the start of me letting you go. bye for now, modani!
theartofmadeline
kianamaiart
annaxmalina
pixelskylines
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