Han's kisses are a health hazard… yet you’re addicted.
This was his fault. He was the desperate one.
Was.
Always stealing kisses whenever he passed you, always leaning in just because he could, always pressing his mouth to yours like it was a reflex. Like affection was something he couldn’t help but give away, smiling into it like it was a habit.
Somewhere along the way, it stuck.
Now the absence of it itched. The memory lingered on your lips long after the last one ended, like your body had learned something your brain hadn’t agreed to yet. Like he’d trained you without meaning to – soft lips, familiar pressure, over and over – until wanting it felt automatic.
Addiction, disguised as affection.
And there he was, sitting on his chair, headphones on, pen tapping against his notebook while a beat looped softly from his phone. Completely in his zone. Concentrated. Focused.
Not kissing you.
Unacceptable.
You reached over and paused his track.
Han looked up immediately, blinking. “Hey Bab—”
“Kiss.”
No preamble. No negotiation.
He smiled, soft and easy, like you’d asked for something obvious. “Okay.”
He leaned up and pressed a quick, polite peck to your lips. Sweet. Respectful. Over before your brain had even caught up. He leaned back again, already satisfied, already halfway returning to his notebook.
You stared at him.
“That’s it?” you said.
Han turned back to his desk, grinning like he was proud of himself. “What? It was cute.”
“That was a notification kiss. I want a real one.”
He laughed under his breath, pushed his headphones down around his neck and rolled his chair closer. This time, he leaned in properly. His hand came up automatically, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he needed the contact to stay grounded. He paused just long enough for you to feel his breath against your lips before he closed the last inch of space.
The kiss started gentle. Normal. Sweet. Safe.
His mouth met yours slowly, deliberately, lips fitting against yours like it was something he already knew by heart. Not rushed. Not hesitant either.
You smiled into it.
Big mistake.
Because it always went like this: soft and sweet… until some invisible switch flipped. His focus tunneled. The kiss deepened without him seeming to even realize. His breathing stayed perfectly steady – unfairly steady – while yours started to disappear entirely.
Han kissed like he performed: fully committed, zero brakes and just slightly competitive. What started soft deepened fast, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world clearly stopped existing. The notebook, the lyrics, the studio. Gone.
Just you, him and the way his lips moved against yours.
The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours softly – enough to make your fingers curl in his hoodie and draw a quiet, approving sound from him against your mouth, like you’d just hit the correct note.
You tried to keep up. Tried to match him. But the same breath control he used for rapid rap verses was now apparently repurposed for maximum kissing efficiency.
Halfway through, your lungs submitted their first formal complaint about oxygen.
You ignored it.
Then they filed another one.
You squeezed his sleeve once.
He didn’t notice. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t seem to need air at all
You nudged his shoulder.
Nothing.
You nudged his shoulder again.
Still nothing.
You tried to pull back a little.
But he only followed like some kind of a magnetic pull forced him to. Still kissing you. Still not breathing like a normal human being. The man had the lungs of a marathon runner and the determination of someone trying to win Olympic gold in kissing.
You finally thumped his shoulder twice and pushed away, sucking in air like you’d just resurfaced from deep water.
Han blinked at you, stunned and dazed. Then immediately pouted.
“…why’d you stop?” he asks, genuinely confused, lips still a little swollen and hair a mess.
You stared at him, still catching your breath. “Why did I stop? Bro—do you even breathe??”
His pout dropped into scandalized betrayal. “Bro?! I was being romantic and you call me bro?! YOU demanded a real kiss!”
“I wanted a kiss,” you shot back, “not a near-death experience.”
Han laughed, full volume, absolutely thriving. “I was holding back, by the way.”
“Holding back? I just saw my ancestors!"
“Skill issue.” He sat up straighter, offended but also pleased with himself. “That just means I’m a great kisser.”
“You are,” you admitted immediately. “And you’re also a health hazard.”
His grin turned shameless. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is not.”
“It is,” he said lightly. “You’re just mad I literally took your breath away.”
“Show-off.”
You stepped back into his space, grabbed his hoodie strings and tugged him forward until his knees bumped yours. “Do it again.”
Han paused, searching your face. “You sure?” he asked, amused. “You just accused me of attempted murder.”
You shrugged, already smiling. “There are worse ways to go.”
His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “That’s a wild thing to say.”
“But not incorrect.”
His smile softened – not smug now, just warm – and his lips met yours again, slow and deliberate. The familiar softness pressed against your mouth, fitting like it always did.
Despite it being the middle of the night, Y/N couldn't sleep. She didn't understand what was happening inside her body, nor why it was happening - all she knew was that a sudden wave of loneliness had come crashing down upon her as she lay in her bed, compressing her chest in an uncomfortable manner and flooding her entire body with an icy cold that no amount of blankets could reverse.
She had blindly stumbled her way through the streets, her breaths shallow and her limbs wracked with a pulsing agony that she couldn't figure out if it was physical, or mental. Whatever it was, it was debilitating, and it caused her to let out a series of crumbling gasps that sounded foreign even to her own ears.
Tears dribbled freely down her cheeks unbeknownst to her as she fumbled for the front door with fingers so shaky that they kept slipping, the moment she let herself in and stepped into the familiar cloud of ever present, sweet smelling warmth, Y/N sagged against the door. Her fingers dug into it as she tried to hold herself up, feeling her knees beginning to buckle from the sheer emotion that thumped into the centre of her chest from the smell her soul had been craving long before she had dared to acknowledge it.
She wasn't sure how she had managed to do it, but Y/N soon found herself having been pulled away from the door and standing on the inside of Chris's bedroom. A grateful shiver rolled through her as she took in her surroundings. It wasn't entirely dark in the room; thick shadows clung to the walls and the floor like heavy cobwebs, distorted shapes floating about as the softest golden glow from one of Chris's favourite lamps brushed against the closest surfaces. His bed was illuminated with a copper gaze, being tucked further away from the lamp, and Y/N had to stifle a tearful whimper when her searching gaze finally landed on the man she had been seeking out.
His back was turned towards her, bare and smooth and muscular, his duvet pooled around his tapered waist as he laid half on his stomach, his arms curled loosely around his pillow. The grooves of his muscles looked so much deeper and darker in the honeyed lighting, and Y/N's vision blurred as the sudden urge to bury her face into it all hit her with such a force that she was nearly knocked off of her feet. Her clothes landed on a nearby chair and she padded over to the bed, kneeling down on it gently after carefully turning back a corner of the duvet. It was warm from his body heat, and her breath hitched when she closed it over herself, sliding forward until her sporadic breathing brushed his shoulder.
Humming in his sleep, Chris swallowed slowly and turned his head against the pillow. His hair had grown quickly since the last time she had seen him, locks of it falling in messy rings over his forehead, while shorter tufts of it stuck up around his head, mussed up on the pillow. His eyelashes were just as dark, kissing his under eyes like a dusting of cocoa, and his fuzzy eyebrows knit together as he swallowed again, fingers twitching in the sheets.
A second later, the sheets rustled and Chris's arm found its way to Y/N's waist. He tucked her into him with a sleepy whine, thick, incorrigible words escaping his plump lips as his nose found the crook of her neck.
“Close .. er … mm - stop run … ning … “ Chris's nonsensical words trailed off and he squeezed her tight, remarkably tight considering he was unconscious, and Y/N couldn't help the tears that spilled over her eyelashes all over again. She ducked her head and buried her face deep into the heated juncture between Chris's neck and shoulder, and her arms slipped under his, her hands splaying over his shoulder blades as she grabbed onto him for dear life.
“B … baby … ?” Chris stirred slightly a moment later, voice slurred. “Y/N?”
“‘S me,” Y/N whispered into his fragrant skin, her fingers digging into pads of thick muscle.
Breath stuttering, Chris inhaled slowly and adjusted his arms. Suddenly her entire frame was engulfed in his hold, her body safe as he locked his touch into her icy skin and his fingers sinking into her hair in a way that nearly made eyes roll into the back of her head.
“Missed … you … “ Chris breathed, squeezing her so much that it should have been painful. But it was exactly what Y/N had been pining for, and she nuzzled deeper into him with another quiet sob. “Don’ cry … ‘m here now. My baby's too … pretty to cry … “
“Channie … “ the soft version of his name slipped off of her tongue as she tried to burrow deeper into his embrace. She clenched her eyes shut, fresh, hot tears singeing her delicate skin.
“‘S okay,” Chris whispered. “‘M here. I've got you. I've got you … my baby girl.”
“I … “ she tugged at his back, unable to get her words out from the sheer overwhelming feeling of being close to him again clouding her thoughts. She rolled over slightly, the side of her back landing on the cosy mattress as her face stayed tucked into his body. “I need … “
“Shh …. “ Chris cut her off with a tender kiss to her temple. “I know. I've got you.”
She didn't need to elaborate further; he knew her too well for that, and she almost cried in relief when Chris rolled her fully onto her back before sinking himself down onto her. He lowered himself slowly, allowing her to adjust to the weight of him, before his full bodyweight secured her into the bed, his heart beating steady against her gradually slowing one.
Hands finding their way to Y/N's face, Chris wiped the wetness away from her cheeks with his thumbs, his soft lips following their paths with small, lingering kisses, each one branding their way into her skin and pushing the hollowness inside of her out. He brushed the tip of his warm nose against hers as he cradled her face in his hands, and she sniffled under him, her hands sliding around him until they loosely curled into the bare skin of his sides.
With Chris's weight crushing into her, Y/N's breathing soon regulated, and her heart stopped trying to break the walls of her ribcage in anguish. The awful fizzing in her bones dissipated, along with her earlier urge to rip her skin off of her flesh from her need to be held, and she exhaled quietly, eyes falling shut as her mind finally began to quieten.
She smiled against his shoulder after a while. His body on top of hers was always grounding for her, a miracle worker in eradicating all traces of anxiety and loneliness and sadness from her body. She had lain beneath him so many times that she had begun to notice even the smallest changes in his physique, and despite her initial frazzled state, tonight was no exception.
“You've bulked up,” Y/N whispered, curling a hand around his bicep, tucking it around her like a seatbelt.
Chris grunted sleepily, the sound tickling her neck. “I have?”
“Mhm … “ she kissed his collarbone as he tangled her legs with his own. “You have.”
“Good,” Chris breathed. “Still got … a long … long way to go … “
His chest rose and fell against her own in slowing currents, the extra pressure addictive as Y/N closed her eyes again, taking every second of his presence engulfing her. She traced her fingers slowly over the groves of his arm, dancing along the veins cording around his forearm as he sighed happily, his lips brushing up against her jaw in another loving kiss.
“Love you so much … “ he breathed, the same heaviness from sleep creeping into his voice again. His hand slipped around her neck, and cradled the back of Y/N's head to his shoulder, his thumb sweeping tenderly over her skull, making her breath falter against him. “My baby. I … ‘ve gotchu always … always, always, al … ways … “
His lips were stamped onto Y/N's jaw and his hand still hugged her head as he fell asleep again, and with her chest feeling as though it would explode from comfort and love due to the man on top of her, Y/N smiled sleepily into his shoulder. She pressed a gentle kiss of her own to mole above his collarbone before closing her eyes once more, and allowing her mind to finally believe that it was safe.
hyunjin x reader. f2l. (un)requited love. angry love confession, nye’s setting and a pinch (or three) of angst because well it’s me!!!!!! also hyunjin is down bad as he should be! bring back men that YEARN! 🔥
a.n: i haven’t written anything in an eternity so this is rusty and not much. but i rlly rlly wanted to post still. i really am trying to be back so please leave me your thoughts because that’s the biggest motivation ever. i love you guys. thank you to those of you who waited ❣️also thank YOU to @hwajin FOR GIVING ME THIS IDEA,,,, U ALREADY KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE U!!!!!!!!!!
the lights are dim.
dim enough for hyunjin not to recognize the blur of people passing by after his sixth shot into the night. he isn’t a heavy drinker, usually. but it’s new year’s eve—the marker of a new year and the closing of one already slipping away. hyunjin has never dealt well with the passage of time. nostalgia always finds him when the clock strikes midnight, fingers tightening around his throat like thorny vines.
it doesn’t help that he struggles to remember the details of his days– hours melding into one another like abstract paintstrokes. and that is precisely why he writes—everything, every small and mundane moment. they’re all pressed between the pages of his leather notebook. every word a screaming proof that he was here, that he existed.
hyunjin has commemorated two hundred and eighty-five additional days in the passing year. and somehow, in all of them, he found something to write about you.
the lights are dim, and hyunjin is tipsy now, swaying gently with the music as he leans against the kitchen counter. his white shirt hangs open at the collar, his cross necklace an oasis against his burning skin. sweat beads roll down his temple, heat pooling in his chest before spilling everywhere at once. he’s sure jisung has the heater turned up too high in his tiny apartment. or maybe it’s the rush of blood that swells at the mere symphony of you. maybe it’s his heart thudding to the memory of your perfume—the nerves, the damp palms that only ever betray him when you’re near.
and you are always near.
near, but never close. unattainable—like a mirage to a parched man, there only to taunt him, to remind him of what he craves and cannot have. you are hyunjin’s friend, but he wants more. no, needs more. no, yearns, dies, and is reborn for more.
the lights are dim, but somehow he can still see you. your silhouette, your shadow stretched against the white walls. the curve of your body, silk fabric moving like water when you walk. gold necklaces resting against your skin, fingers curling around the rim of your glass, eyeshadow glittering like scattered stars.
you’re here, yes, but you’re not looking at him. you’re smiling at jeongin instead, your hand dangerously close to his. hyunjin likes jeongin, he does, but the sight of him beside you feels like a knife lodged deep in the hollows of his ribs.
“come on, we’re playing truth and dare.”
hyunjin doesn’t know who grabs his hand, who pushes him into a makeshift circle on the floor. he scrunches his brows, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to quiet the buzzing in his head. an impossible task, it seems, that is until he opens his eyes and he finds you right across from him.
everything goes quiet for a moment.
you hold his gaze as you adjust your legs, draping someone’s sweater over your lap. you smile softly, saccharine, almost imperceptible, like a shared secret between the both of you. then you blink away, and the moment is gone, yet seared into hyunjin’s very atoms. he feels it then, the sudden, overwhelming urge to sob at your feet—to beg for a few seconds more. a minute, if he’s allowed to be greedy. just a little longer of you looking at him.
hyunjin doesn’t pay attention to who the bottle lands on. he sees from the side of his eye a blur of people laughing, then kissing, someone taking off their shirt, hollers and whistles at questions too outrageous if not for the alcohol streaming through everyone’s bloodstream. he cracks a smile here and then, half-heartedly laughs at jisung’s raunchy comment, but that is all he can muster in his state. not because he’s tipsy, drunk rather, but because his heart is bleeding, staining the eggshell tiles with a crimson that cannot be scrubbed away. and no one seems to notice.
then, the bottle lands on you.
and a millisecond later, it finds him.
hyunjin feels like he’s been electrocuted– jolted awake by a force grander than life. you meet his eyes and the noise of the room zeroes down to one sound– the air sucked away from his chest, the slight exhale you release in tandem.
fuck.
“kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!”
hyunjin moves on autopilot, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the closest empty room. he can hear screams trailing behind him, but he pays them no mind. you don’t seem to protest either, your hand never wilting in his.
“it’s quieter here,” he says as he closes the door.
“they’re childish,” you chuckle lowly, and he nods.
“yeah, it’s a stupid game.”
stupid. so stupid. because now, all hyunjin can think of is your lips on his, you inhaling his soul with every kiss, shattering his heart and stitching it all over again. pulling away only to meet, again, and again, and again, until he learns your taste, memorizes the sound of your breaths and their cadence.
stupid. stupid. stupid.
“what are you thinking of?” you ask, giggling slightly.
he’s too dumbfounded to respond. too drunk for this. he shouldn’t have had that last shot, or the three ones that preceded it. maybe then he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself in front of you. maybe then, he’d be able to tell you that he has fantasized about kissing you for months on end. of holding your hands. of painting you. of taking walks with you. and living. he has fantasized a lot about finally living, with you. for you.
his lips part to speak, yet close again. he moves one foot towards you, then backs up against the door. he’s hesitant, his hands are itching, his vocal cords unfolding and tightening to the shape of your name.
“you know, we don’t have to do this.” you suddenly say. your voice is high-pitched, and your next words come out in a sped-up manner, as if someone is chasing after you and you’re trying to run away.
from him, perhaps.
“here,” you hastily run your hands through his hair, ruffling his blonde strands. he’s motionless as your thumb smudges your ruby lipstick, then trails over the corner of his mouth. “it looks like we kissed, right? this will save us the teasing! ready to go?” you say, too hurried to even wait for his answer.
and then you leave.
the room is suddenly freezing. he should ask jisung to turn up the heater.
hyunjin has loved you the moment he saw you, exactly a year ago. it wasn’t love, per se. but his soul had recognized you. a blind man seeing the light for the first time, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon– a succession of irreversible acts, ones that time cannot take back, cannot erode. he has known you and he couldn't possibly go back to a world where he hasn’t.
he couldn’t understand your reaction, as he stood before the door left ajar, waiting for him to follow. did you hate the thought of kissing him so much? did you want to kiss someone else? were you cursed? like the ebb and flow of the sea, the rise and setting of the sun, the sea and sky, to exist so painstakingly close yet never meet as one.
the ensuing hour passes through hyunjin in silence. his mind is a raging battlefield, every thought of you akin to stepping on an unsuspecting mine. Midnight strikes then, and along it, his death, pronounced by your lips and jeongin’s moving against one another.
you’re kissing jeongin. or he is kissing you. he doesn’t know, doesn’t dare to think of it for a minute more. it’s a short kiss. it did not last for more than three seconds. but it was three seconds too long, enough to strip hyunjin from the very act of breathing, for his being to be held up not by a spine but a blazing fire.
perhaps he looks as distraught as he feels because when your eyes meet his, your eyebrows scrunch in worry. and you look so beautiful, as your eyes soften, as the light catches against your pupils. he’s jealous of it, jealous of whatever reflects upon you, touches you, becomes one with you. he’s jealous as you pull away from jeongin. he’s jealous as you step towards him and he retracts back– as if in a dance where the only outcome is you him away from you.
it’s too much.
hyunjin finds himself outside in a shirt that is too thin and dread coiled at the pit of his stomach. he wishes to run away from this feverish skin that has entrapped him, from this heart that has turned you into a home and refuses to vacate.
“hyunjin!” you shout, and he freezes in place, unaware of what to do, what to say, how to act. he doesn’t dare turn back to face you, nor does he wish to speak to you. because to speak would mean to pretend that he wasn’t hurt, and he was far too exhausted for that charade to keep up.
“hyunjin, what’s wrong?”
your voice speaking his name acts like a spell, forcing his body to tilt towards you, like a flower searching for the sun. even in the blaze of his sadness, he still closes his eyes for a second, savors the way his name drips from your tongue. it always feels different when you speak of it, sweeter, sacred even, as if you’re infusing a piece of your soul into the syllables.
“i…” he trails off, eyes darting everywhere but at you. how can one confess a year-long secret? how can he speak of a love that has taken root within his soul, entwined so deeply with his being? where flowers bloom at the mention of your name, wilt at your absence, follow the seasons of you.
“hyunjin, i’m worried about you,” you speak softly, searching his eyes. “you’ve been acting distant all night, did you... did you have too much to drink?”
“no, I…” his voice chokes up, and his hands dart to his face, shielding himself away from you, and your kind gaze that will never turn into a loving one. he feels so pathetic, tearing up in front of you and not being able to speak of it. he wants to blame it on the alcohol, he wants the earth to split in half and swallow him whole. he thinks it’s cruel– that he loves you so much, and yet you do not know of it. he’ll give you some of his love if that’s what it takes. he’ll survive off of scraps of your adoration.
“hyune… come on,” you smile sweetly, your hands softly sliding against his. “you know you can tell me anything.”
“can you really be this blind?” he chuckles dryly, his eyes watering as he gazes at you. he sees you through a blurry haze, your eyes widening, your cheeks blushing like a blossoming rose.
“can i really tell you everything? would you really stomach it if i told you how much i think about you? how much i long for you? that all my waking thoughts are about you? would you look at me then? would you still say my name? would you?” he’s growing frantic, searching your eyes, perched at the precipice of your soul, waiting for something, anything.
“because i love you. i love you. god, i love you so much and it’s killing me and breathing life into me at once.” he takes your hand and places it atop his wildly beating heart. “here. i feel it all here. do you understand? do you feel it? my heart beating, it’s doing it all for you.”
he waits for the earth to fold on itself, for lightning to strike, for you to leave, and for his world to end with your retreating steps.
but you stay. and his hand is suddenly on top of your heart. and it is beating just as wildly as his.
“hyunjin, you idiot,” you grin like the sun through your tears, “i know, of course i know, because that is what i feel too.”
“what… what are you saying?”
“i love you. god, of course i love you. but i never-” your voice breaks, “i never dared to imagine you’d feel the same about me.”
“you love me?” he asks incredulously. he couldn’t believe it. did the universe wake up and decide that it would hand him his salvation on a golden platter?
“yes.”
“say it again.”
“i love you.”
he’s smiling like a fool, the ache in his heart fades away like darkness before morning’s light.
“again.”
“i love you hyunjin. it’s you, i’ve always loved you.”
“god,” he suddenly grabs you, twirling you around as his giggles scatter everywhere like the stars twinkling above him. his wounds are carried away by the wind, stitched by the sound of your laughter. his soul is but a supernova— reborn again at your hands.
“why.. why wouldn’t you tell me before?” he breathes out, forehead softly pressed against yours.
“because you are… you. this unattainable galaxy that a little star cannot possibly impress.”
“me? who am i but someone who loves you?” he asks so earnestly, so truthfully, his entire heart brought bare to you, that your feet can only waver, knees buckling down at the weight of what was in front of you all along. your only anchor is found in his hands cupping your cheeks, in his eyes that seem to only have space for your reflection.
“oh, what about.. what about jeongin?” he suddenly asks, voice soft, almost guilty for still daring to think of the flicker of a candlelight before the sun.
“jeongin likes seungmin.” you giggle sheepishly, “we just did it because none of us got the kiss we wanted tonight.”
“oh?” he grows cheeky, his hand sliding down your jaw, thumb caressing the corner of your lips with a tenderness that makes you dizzy. “whose kiss did you want?”
“yours.”
he’s a breath away from you. his nose nearly brushing yours. you speak of your love so softly, so assuredly, that every word melts away all of his doubts, like seafoam surrendering to rocky shore. “can i give you what you wanted, then?”
“please,” you exhale and he brushes his lips against yours. tentatively, as if testing the waters knowing that the current would pull him underneath anyway. his patience burns thin then. he imagines that this is what Icarus felt before the sun— the aching, unbearable urge to surrender himself to the warmth, even if it scathes his skin and bones in the end. but you don’t. your lips only grow sweeter beneath his, a constellation of everything he has ever loved, your hands on the nape of his neck driving him to the edge of derilium. he grows urgent and pressing, not with hunger, but a desire to be as close to you as physically possible. to be sucked into your orbit with no way out.
but you are mere mortals, a truth that hyunjin resents in the moment as he is forced to part from you. yet you are still there, cheeks ablaze and eyes glossed over. “i’ve never felt this alive before,” you confess with a light giggle.
his smile grows shier. “me too.”
“you are freezing,” you grin, rubbing your nose against his. “let’s go inside.”
“can we stay here for a minute more? please. i just need a moment more with you.”
you nod, and his lips find your forehead, pressing a lingering kiss there, his lips still tingling from when he last kissed you. his hands slide around your back, drawing you in for a hug, shielding you from the cold. thought he doesn't need to. you are warmth incarnate, a small sun cupped in human form, light glowing from your soul, bathing everything around you.
it is thanks to you that the night is no longer dim.
Chris was almost half asleep, head lolling back onto the sofa, body sinking further and further into the plush cushions when a pair of energetic arms suddenly locked around his shoulders. The man jumped and his face split into a sleepy grin before his mind even registered where he was, and he turned to see Sky's face parallel to his own, giggles immediately exploding around her.
“Made you jump,” Sky babbled, tightening her arms around her father. She pressed a fat kiss to Chris's cheek and the man groaned before suddenly grabbing for her, his grip firm but gentle as he pulled her over the back of the sofa. The nine year old squealed as she landed on the large seats beside him, and she wriggled around when Chris scrabbled at her sides with his fingers, tickling her arms, her neck, everywhere he could until she was breathless with laughter.
“You cheeky little rascal,” Chris laughed, tickling under her chin. “Always trying to scare me … I'm not as brave as you are, you know?”
Sky's giggles increased and she kicked out at him, feet landing in his lap. “I know.”
“Hey!” Chris gasped, lips quirking up into a deeper smile.
“You said it! Not me.”
“So rude,” Chris tutted and sat up again, slowly shaking his head at his daughter. His eyes danced with mischief, however, and Sky sat up with him, giggling again in a way that made her chubby cheeks look like cherries, her eyes crinkling so much like his own. Chris placed his hands on either side of Sky's face and leaned close to kiss her forehead, one of his hands smoothing down the unruly waves of her hair with his tender touch.
Sky immediately melted. She sank into her father's side, completely boneless, and Chris chuckled, patting her shoulder.
“Whatcha want, hmm?” Chris peered down at her. “You have that look in your eyes.”
Looking up at him, Sky smiled sweetly. “What look?”
“That look,” Chris laughed, cupping her cheeks and squishing them playfully in his fingers. “The one you get from your mother.”
“I look like mama?” Sky tipped her head to the side, perking up. “Really?”
“Mhm,” Chris nodded. “Pretty girl.”
Sky's entire face lit up, and Chris's heart bloomed almost painfully in the centre of his chest. He kept combing his fingers through Sky's hair, almost automatically, like he couldn't help himself. A few moments passed before Sky's hand sank into her father's hair; she copied his movements, and it made Chris burst into laughter, the tiniest of squeaks following his chuckles as he looked at his daughter.
“You copying me?” Chris grinned, pulling her into his lap. “Huh?”
“Can't help it,” Sky wrinkled her nose and tugged at the curls at Chris's temples. “I like your hair.”
Chris's eyes softened. Then he clocked the spark bursting in Sky's pupils, and he sighed. “What?”
Sky blinked innocently.
“Tell me,” Chris chuckled.
Kneeling up a little, Sky raked the both of her hands through her father's hair. It had grown out much more than he usually let; it kissed the lower portion of his neck, coiling over his ears, and spilling back onto the sofa when he moved his head. They almost looked like the waves of the sea, the silky texture liquid-like and shining under the soft living room lighting. She pushed his hair back away from her father's forehead, exposing the soft vein at his temple, and she grinned, tugging at his hair again.
“Can I do your hair?” Sky asked.
“My hair?” Chris repeated, reaching up to pat it. “Why mine?”
“Because … “ Sky stretched the word out playfully, tipping her head completely to the side in a way that made Chris snort with more laughter. “It's pretty. And I want to braid it. I want to practice … it's harder practicing on my own hair.”
“You want to braid it?” Chris choked, a little taken aback. “It's not that long, is it?”
Sky wordlessly pulled at one of his curls. It stretched to three times its length, and Sky looked pointedly at her father.
Chris rubbed his face with his hands. “Will it make you happy?”
Sky nodded enthusiastically.
“Go on then,” Chris smiled. “Go nuts. Make your daddy look pretty.”
“You already are pretty, silly daddy,” Sky said as she clambered off of the sofa. Her footsteps were heavy when she ran away towards her bedroom, and just then Y/N came into the room, eyebrows raised in question.
“Where's she running off to?” Y/N asked Chris as she dived into Chris's open arms. “She had a massive smile on her face.”
Chris's lips turned up at the corners as she squeezed his wife. “She wants to braid my hair, apparently. Think she's gone to go get some hair ties or whatever.”
At that, Y/N started to laugh. “This is going to be good.”
“She's just like you,” Chris rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, though his arms tightened their embrace around her.
“She just appreciates a good bit of curly hair. Unlike someone I know.”
Chris sighed. Sky clattered back in a second later, and approaching the sofa, she dumped a handful of fancy clips, hair pins, and ruffled hair ties into her mother's lap.
“Oopsies,” Sky giggled when she saw where they landed. “Sorry mama. Meant to put them next to you.”
“That's okay,” Y/N grinned. “I'll keep them safe for you.”
“You're gonna use all of these?” Chris's mouth dropped open. He picked up one of the pins; it was gold, and had a pearlescent star on the end. “I like this.”
“Not all of them, silly daddy,” Sky shook her head. “You can choose the ones you like. And I'll choose some too because I want to put bows in your hair and I know you won't choose them.”
From beside her husband, Y/N snickered with laughter.
“Daddy put your head back,” Sky instructed her father.
“Yes ma'am,” Chris cleared his throat. He did as she asked and tilted his head back against the top of the sofa, Sky standing behind it with a small wooden hairbrush in her hand. “Don't pull my hair out, will you? Already balding … “
“You are not,” Y/N was quick to say, smacking his chest. “I think your hair's thicker now than it was a decade ago.”
Chris moved a little and looked at his wife with a questionable stare.
“Head back, daddy,” Sky huffed, and Chris giggled as he hastily tipped his head back again.
“Sorry, sorry,” Chris grinned. “No more moving.”
“I won't pull your hair out,” Sky answered his previous question as she gently pulled her brush through the ends of his hair. “I'm good at brushing hair. Aren't I, mama?”
“Mhm, very good,” Y/N agreed. She was rifling through the accessories on her lap, absent mindedly sorting them out into tiny little piles … hair ties on one end, clips on the other, bows in a different one. She picked up two tiny bows in pale pink, and held them up to Sky with a giggle. “You should clip these onto the end of daddy's braids.”
“That's what I wanted to do!” Sky exclaimed, using her fingers to gently part her father's springy curls into two halves. “Mama, I need a hair tie.”
She tied up one side of her father's hair loosely to keep it out of the way, and then she peered down at Chris's face, completely upside down.
“Daddy I need your hair back some more,” Sky said.
Chris shifted his shoulders and sunk further down the sofa, tipping his head back some more. “Better?”
“Better,” Sky nodded. She kissed Chris's forehead before trailing her fingers through the very front of his hair and scooping back a small section that she split into three.
When Sky finished tying her second Dutch braid on the other side of Chris's head, she started giggling. “Daddy you look like a dragon.”
“A dragon?” Chris laughed. “How?”
“It looks like you have those prickly scales,” Sky said, poking the two braids. She had left pieces of his fringe out at the front, and when she turned to look at his face, she couldn't help but grin wider. “Daddy … you have to wear your hair like this everyday. You look cute.”
Chris turned to look at his wife, eyes pleading. All Y/N could do was nod, as if to say he did somehow look ridiculously handsome with his two short braids, the ends hovering over the collar of his t-shirt. Chris shook his head in mild disbelief, and he looked up at his daughter with a crooked grin.
“Pins? Clips?” He asked.
Sky nodded, reaching for the bows from her mother. “Which ones are you choosing, daddy?”
Chris lingered the pins in Y/N's lap. He picked out a handful of tiny stars, a strawberry, and a peach, and he held them up like he was a little stand.
When Sky was done, Chris looked much like a jewellery stand. Pink bows at the end of his braids, star pins screwed into the strands of the braids, and the two fruits on either side of his head - she had even drawn two starts on the centre of Chris's cheeks afterwards with one of her mother's lip liners, and Chris just sighed, though he couldn't keep the smile off of his face when he saw himself in a mirror.
“What am I gonna do with you?” Chris asked, reaching for Sky and engulfing her in a tight, playful hug. He gently ran his fingers over his braids and raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you wanted to practice? I mean … these are really neat, Ky. You did such a good job baby.”
Sky grinned widely. “I lied. Didn't want to practice … just wanted to do your hair because I like it.”
She shrieked with laughter and suddenly jumped out of her father's arms, narrowly escaping another tickle attack. She ran to her mother instead and brandished her brush up at her.
“Mama … your turn!”
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"rough one today?" chris pulls you into his arms all too easily when he finds you crying on the couch, face buried in your hands as you try to push through this. all it takes is a single nod from you for him to lean in, pressing kisses onto the top of your head. "it's okay. i'm here now."
you manage to pull yourself together for a few seconds. long enough for you to turn, curling up closer to him as you hide your face in his shoulder. it's nothing serious, not really: everything's just getting stressful all over again, and all of it is coming out in tears rather than anything else. you just hold onto chris a little tighter, and he rubs circles onto your back as he holds you for a little.
"i've got you," he says again. "just let it out." chris presses another few kisses against the side of your face, and then tucks your head underneath his chin. "i've got you."
notes: this was supposed to be a drabble but it got a little longer lmao. also!! i mentioned before that i'm traveling in a couple weeks so i wont rlly be posting much if at all. would u guys be down for some scheduled posts? maybe some skzotel content too?
You wake up tangled in warmth.
The sheets are a mess, kicked down and half-hanging off the mattress, twisted around your legs like vines. The room smells faintly of sweat, salt, and something sweeter—something distinctly him. A leftover echo of last night, still clinging to your skin.
Felix is sprawled beside you, face turned into the crook of your neck, arm heavy over your waist. His breath is slow and deep, lips parted against your shoulder, lashes soft and fanned across flushed cheeks. He’s always pretty, but there’s something devastating about him like this—unguarded, sleep-warmed, bare.
You shift a little, just enough to ease the pressure on your hip, and the movement stirs him.
A quiet groan slips from his throat, low and raspy with sleep. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, tucking you deeper against his chest like he can’t stand even an inch of distance.
“Mmm… morning,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and syrup-slow.
“You’re crushing me,” you whisper, smiling into the pillow.
He hums in mock apology but doesn’t move, just noses at your neck, lips brushing lazily over your skin. “You smell like sex,” he mumbles, grinning against your collarbone.
“You made me smell like sex.”
He chuckles—soft and breathy, the kind that curls low in your stomach. “I should do it again, then.”
His hand drifts, tracing the curve of your waist beneath the covers, down to your hip, where his fingertips linger. He’s not quite awake enough to mean it—not yet—but not sleepy enough to stop. And when you press your hips back just a little, testing, teasing, his breath catches.
You feel him stir against you—hardening slowly, lazily, like the thought of you has started the engine before the rest of him is even conscious.
“You’re the worst,” you murmur, but you’re already tilting your hips, already letting your thighs part just enough to cradle him.
He slots against you easily, your bodies fitting together in that messy, practiced way that comes from nights like the one before—where hands roamed and limbs tangled and breath stuttered and moaned confessions into dark.
Felix kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then just under your ear.
“Let me stay here,” he whispers, grinding softly against you through the thin barrier of his boxers and your panties. “Just like this. Don’t wanna move.”
It’s barely anything—just lazy, slow friction. His cock pressed against your ass, trapped between your bodies, rocking into you like he’s more in love with the motion than the goal. Your panties are damp already, your thighs squeezing together on instinct, but neither of you tries to hurry.
He’s warm. He’s slow. He’s soft—not in desire, not in the way his hips roll or the sound he makes when you arch into him—but in everything else. In the way his arm wraps around you. In the way he hides his face in your shoulder like it’s too early to exist without touching you.
“You gonna fuck me or just tease me forever?” you mumble, breath hitching when he nudges your clit through the damp fabric.
“Teasing’s more fun,” he says, but there’s a whimper on the edge of his voice now, like he’s close to losing the game he started. “Wanna see how needy I can make you before I even take these off.”
You whine, bucking back into him, and he groans—low and broken—his cock twitching through the thin cotton.
“You’re already soaked,” he breathes, fingers slipping between your legs to feel for himself. “Fuck, baby—how are you this wet from just dry humping?”
“Maybe I like it,” you whisper. “Maybe I like it when you’re soft and slow and stupid with sleep. Maybe I like when you fuck me without even waking up properly.”
His breath shudders out of him—wrecked, reverent. You feel it ghost along your shoulder, hot and shaky, right before he kisses you there again. A tender thing. An anchor. Like he’s scared he might disappear into the sheets if he doesn’t keep reminding himself you’re real and right here.
“I’m gonna die,” he mumbles, voice thick and trembling with it, like he’s never been this turned on this fast. “Gonna fucking die right here with my cock in your panties and your pretty little voice in my ear.”
His hips roll again, firmer this time—just once, deep and unhurried, dragging the thick line of him right against your soaked core. Your breath catches. Your toes curl. There’s nothing in the world except the heat where you’re joined and the desperate, heavy want pooling between your legs.
You reach back blindly, fingers curling around the back of his thigh to pull him closer. Deeper. You don’t even care if it’s still over your clothes. You just need him pressed against you, need more of that sweet friction, the way his cock drags against your clit like it knows exactly where to hurt you best.
“Feel that?” he whispers, grinding in tighter. “Feel what you do to me, baby?”
You nod, too breathless to speak, too far gone to pretend it isn’t unraveling you already. Your panties are a useless scrap by now—soaked straight through, clinging to you like a second skin—and every slow, lazy thrust makes you twitch.
“Felix,” you gasp, “please—”
“Mmm, I like when you beg,” he murmurs, hand sliding up to cup your breast beneath the shirt you slept in. He palms you gently, thumb circling your nipple through the thin cotton until it peaks against his touch. “You sound so sweet in the morning. All soft and needy and still half-asleep.”
You whimper, hips stuttering against his. His cock is thick and leaking, boxers soaked now too, and the only thing separating you is too flimsy to matter. You could probably come just like this—rubbing against him slow and steady until you fall apart in his arms. You almost want to.
But then he tugs your panties to the side.
Just a little.
Just enough to bare the slick mess between your thighs, just enough for the swollen head of his cock to press directly into your entrance—not inside, not yet, but there, hot and heavy and real.
You both freeze. The moment stretches, electric.
Then he pushes in.
Slow. So fucking slow.
He doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t even breathe for a second. Just slides into you like he’s sinking into the sheets, like your body was made to hold him, made to cradle him on a quiet morning like this.
You whine—high and thin, overwhelmed by the stretch, the burn, the fullness. He’s thick, and your body’s tight with sleep and overstimulation, still aching from last night, but god—it’s perfect. You clench around him instinctively, and he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Fuck—don’t do that,” he chokes out. “I’ll come.”
You laugh—breathless, broken. “Isn’t that the point?”
He makes a wounded sound—somewhere between a moan and a laugh—and nips softly at your shoulder, like he wants to punish you for teasing but can’t muster the strength. Not like this. Not when his cock is buried inside you, throbbing, twitching with the effort it takes to hold still.
“No,” he breathes. “Wanna make it last.”
And he does. He tries.
But it’s a losing battle—every slow, shallow grind pulls a gasp from your lips, tightens your thighs, makes your walls flutter around him like you’re coaxing him closer to the edge with every lazy pulse of your body. You’re so warm around him. So wet. And so soft in the way you melt into the mattress and let him take his time with you.
His hand slips down to your hip again, then lower—fingertips skating over the slick mess between your thighs, gathering it, spreading it higher. He swipes your clit once—just once—and your body jolts, your breath catching so hard it punches the air from your lungs.
You twitch beneath him—hips stuttering, breath snagging—and he stills, soothing the tremble with a kiss to your shoulder, a quiet shhh breathed into your skin like he’s trying to keep the morning from breaking too loud around you.
“Too much?” he murmurs, lips grazing the curve of your neck.
You shake your head. It’s not too much. It’s perfect. It’s just—
Last night had been hungry—messy kisses and aching moans and Felix panting into your mouth while he fucked you into the mattress like he couldn’t get close enough, fast enough, hard enough. You’d come twice on his tongue, once on his cock. He’d collapsed on top of you after, sweaty and breathless and stunned, and you both passed out like that—limb-heavy, completely undone.
Now he moves like he’s savoring you. Like he knows he’s already had you in every desperate way and now he’s craving all the quiet ones. He’s still inside you, warm and thick and stretching you sweetly, but he’s not chasing anything. Not really. He’s just there—rocking into you so slowly it doesn’t even feel like thrusting. Just pressure. Just presence.
His cock drags through you in shallow, teasing rolls, never quite pulling out, just nudging deeper every time your hips meet in that sleepy rhythm. You stay loose and pliant beneath him, thighs parted lazily, body boneless with trust.
Your cunt clenches around him instinctively, greedily, and he chokes on a laugh.
“Don’t do that,” he says, and now the teasing is more obvious—sleepy and affectionate. “I’m trying to be good.”
“You’re not very good at it,” you murmur.
“I was last night,” he says smugly, and he’s right. “You couldn’t even speak after.”
You flush, the memory blooming hot between your thighs. “Felix—”
“You were so loud,” he whispers, dragging his lips along the back of your neck. “Letting me fuck you open like I was the only thing in your head. You remember? How you begged me not to stop?”
You nod. Breathe in hard.
“‘Please, Lix,’” he mimics gently, voice pitched in a quiet moan, lips pulled into a grin, hips grinding in deep and slow again. “‘Please, just like that, please, please—’”
You gasp—clench around him—and he groans, deep and breathless.
“Ohh, there it is. Thought you’d remember.”
Your breath stutters—catches on the edge of a whimper—and Felix moans softly in response, like the sound of you falling apart is enough to wreck him all over again.
His hips keep moving, lazy and deep, every roll a quiet exhale of want. There’s nothing rushed about it—just the slow, molten slide of his cock stretching you open with maddening patience, the wet pull of your cunt echoing soft and obscene in the stillness of the room.
You’re so full. You can feel every inch of him, thick and pulsing inside you, slick with the mess he left in you last night and the new one building between you now. He shifts just slightly—enough to press against that spot that makes you tremble—and you let out a breathy, broken sound that could almost be his name.
He stills.
“Say that again,” he whispers, mouth close to your ear. “Sounded so pretty.”
You try to stay quiet. Really, you do.
But it’s impossible when he’s talking to you like that—voice all hushed and honey-thick, teasing every filthy memory into the morning like he’s unspooling it from between your legs. Every word rolls through you like silk, warm and dangerous, curling low in your belly until you’re aching all over again.
The soft slap of skin-on-skin is barely audible under the covers, muffled by cotton and heat and the lazy drag of his hips. He never fully pulls out—never has to. He just stays buried deep, rocking slow and snug inside your soaked cunt, like he knows your body will do the rest.
Your breath stutters with every grind. You try to bury your moans in the pillow, but they slip out anyway—tiny, broken sounds, punched out of you with every sweet, perfect thrust.
He hears them. Of course he does.
“Baby,” he coos, breath ghosting over your neck, “Don’t hide those pretty noises from me.” His voice is velvet—low and lilting, soft enough to soothe and filthy enough to ruin. You feel it more than you hear it, the way it sinks into your skin, warms the shell of your ear, wraps around your spine like smoke.
You whimper. Can’t help it. He kisses the sound right out of your throat—lips dragging slow and open-mouthed over the curve of your neck, tongue flicking where your pulse flutters wild. And his hips… god, his hips—still moving in that gentle, devastating rhythm, never rushing, just grinding into you with the kind of sleepy patience that makes your whole body ache.
“I like it when you get like this,” he murmurs, words slurring slightly, sticky with sleep and lust. “All soft and messy. All mine.”
You gasp as his hand slides under your shirt, palm splaying across your chest to cradle one breast, thumb brushing lazy circles around your nipple. He doesn’t pinch. Doesn’t grope. Just touches—like you’re something sacred, something to be held, not handled. It makes you tremble.
Your cunt clenches around him again, and he groans into your skin—quiet and breathless, like it hurts to feel that good.
“You gonna come for me again?” he whispers. “Just like this? So slow and so sweet?”
You nod, a desperate little motion into the pillow, and he smiles—you can feel it.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”
His praise sinks into you like honey, thick and warm and cloying, sticking to your ribs. You feel it everywhere—between your legs, in your lungs, in the flush blooming across your cheeks and down your chest.
That’s my girl.
You moan—quiet, broken—your hips twitching helplessly against his. His cock pulses inside you in answer, thick and hot and so deep it feels like you’re made to hold him. He’s barely moving anymore, just rocking in these small, indulgent circles, dragging the head of his cock against every oversensitive spot inside you until your breath comes in shaky little pants and your thighs start to tremble.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice husky and frayed at the edges. “You gonna come just from me being inside you? From me talking to you?”
You nod again. Pathetic. Pressed into the pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. His hand is still on your chest, thumbing your nipple in soft, sleepy circles, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Like he’s just touching because he can.
The room is filled with the wet sounds of him gliding through you—slow and sticky, your slick and his precome making it effortless. There’s something obscene about how quiet it is, how intimate. Like you’re not even fucking. Like you’re just existing together like this—tangled and trembling and joined.
Felix moans—quiet and broken, the sound muffled against your skin. It vibrates where his lips press to the back of your shoulder, low and guttural, like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep inside him. He’s trying to hold it together, trying to keep it soft for you—but he’s losing. You can feel it in the way his rhythm falters, the way his cock throbs deep inside you like he’s on the edge and barely holding.
“Shit, baby,” he pants, hips stuttering against yours. “You feel so good—fuck, so warm—so wet—I can’t—”
His voice cracks, ruined and breathless. His fingers twitch where they rest on your breast, and he buries his face further into the crook of your neck like he can hide from the pleasure rattling through him. Like he’s ashamed of how much he feels you.
You clench around him again—just to feel him gasp—and he whimpers, a high, desperate little sound that he never lets anyone else hear. But here, like this, you get everything. You always do.
“I’m so close,” he chokes out. “Baby, please—please tell me you’re gonna come.”
“I’m gonna,” you breathe, voice shaking. “I’m right there, Lix—just don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You feel him nod—frantic, needy—his nose still pressed to your neck, lips parting against your skin like he wants to say something else but can’t. His hips stutter forward, that perfect little grind he’s been giving you turning just a little rougher, a little more desperate, as if his body is chasing the end even if his mind’s still trying to savor the in-between.
His cock drags through your soaked cunt in slow, trembling strokes, hitting just right with every pass—slipping so easily, so deep, it makes your whole body tighten in response. And you do clench, without thinking, because he’s there and he’s throbbing and he’s saying your name like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“Please,” he whines again, almost inaudible, like he’s begging without knowing he is. “I wanna come with you—need to feel it—need you to come, baby, please—”
It’s the need in his voice that breaks you.
That soft, sacred edge—like he’s not trying to fuck you, not really. Like he’s trying to stay inside you, to stay wrapped in the heat of you just a little longer. Like coming is less a release and more a surrender.
You press your hips back into him, seeking friction, needing it, chasing that warmth curling tight and hot in your belly. “I’m there,” you gasp. “I’m there, I’m gonna—”
And then you're coming—slow, aching, drawn-out, your body trembling beneath him as your walls flutter tight around his cock, pulling him in, holding him close. You moan into the pillow, helpless and shaking, and Felix falls with you.
“Oh fuck—fuck—baby—”
He gasps against your neck, hips grinding forward once, twice, and then he’s coming too—deep inside you, cock jerking, spilling thick and warm into the slick mess already dripping from between your legs. He moans with it, quiet and raw and wrecked, each breath trembling out of him like he’s never felt anything this good.
You feel every throb, every twitch, every desperate little sound he tries to muffle in your skin. He stays there, buried deep, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chest heaving against your back.
It takes a long time for either of you to move.
The room is still hazy with it—sex and sunlight, sleep and sweat. The sheets are damp and tangled around your legs, and Felix is still tucked inside you, softening slowly, the heat of his release seeping out of you in lazy, sticky trickles. But he doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even try. Just keeps breathing against your neck like the world might tilt if he lets you go.
Eventually, he hums. Quiet and dreamy. You feel the vibration in your spine before you hear the sound.
“That,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and sweet and full of awe, “was the nicest way I’ve ever been ruined.”
You huff a laugh, too wrung out to offer anything smarter. “You’re such a sap.”
“I am,” he agrees easily, mouth brushing soft against your shoulder. “I’m your sap. The mess in love with your pussy. And your pillow voice. And your—mm—” he grinds just a little, teasing, “—very persuasive hips.”
You let out a soft whimper at the overstimulation, shifting your leg with a sleepy wince. “Felix.”
He stills immediately, the apology already in his breath.
“Okay, okay,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I’ll behave. For now.”
You hum something noncommittal, too blissed-out and tender to argue. His arms tighten around your waist as if he’s worried you might float away, like the weight of him is the only thing keeping you tethered to the mattress. He noses at your hair, pressing the softest, most absentminded kiss into the crown of your head.
Then: “You know, I think I blacked out a little.”
You laugh, breathy and tired. “That good, huh?”
“That stupidly good,” he says, voice still thick with sleep and affection. “Like I’m gonna be useless for the rest of the day. Can’t walk. Can’t think. Might have to file for emotional support cuddles.”
You shift back into him, content and wrecked and already boneless beneath the sheets. “Bold of you to assume I’m letting you leave this bed.”
Felix grins—so big you feel it before you see it. “That a threat or a promise?”
“Both.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh, sinking even further into the mattress, his limbs winding around yours like vines. “Guess I’m trapped with my sexy captor. Poor me.”
You nudge him with your elbow, barely. “Your sexy captor needs a warm rag and maybe an IV drip.”
Felix chuckles, low and lazy, the sound more breath than voice. “Noted. Medical attention. Add that to the post-orgasm care plan.”
You close your eyes again, lulled by the steady beat of his heart at your back and the soft drag of his fingertips over your skin—tracing nothing in particular, just moving like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you.
“I could get the rag,” he says after a moment, tone mock-serious. “Heroically crawl to the bathroom. Risk my life. Bring it back warm and folded like a gentleman.”
You smile into the pillow. “You could. But that would mean leaving me.”
He goes quiet. His nose bumps against the back of your shoulder as he nestles closer, and then: “Yeah, see, that’s the thing. I can’t do that.”
You hum in satisfaction, twisting your fingers around his where they rest against your stomach.
“Might die of separation anxiety,” he adds, voice soft again. Teasing, but not entirely joking.
You shift your hips a little, wincing at the tenderness between your legs, and his hand is there immediately—gentle, soothing—pressing against your hip like an instinct.
“Sorry, angel,” he murmurs, kissing the spot where he touched. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, letting your eyes fall closed again. “Just… really full.”
Felix groans softly against your neck, burying his smile in your skin like he’s embarrassed by how much he loves that. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he murmurs, voice thick and drowsy. “I’ll never leave this bed.”
You nudge your heel against his shin. “You weren’t planning on it anyway.”
“Exactly,” he says proudly. “And now I have an excuse.”
You feel him shift, just enough to press a slow kiss to the back of your shoulder, then another higher up, near your neck. His hand slips over your stomach, thumb drawing little half-circles against the dip just below your ribs. It’s not sexual. Not anymore. Just soft. Familiar. The way you touch something when it already belongs to you.
There’s a long stretch of quiet after that, broken only by the hum of the morning outside the window—distant birdsong, the faint rattle of leaves, the hush of a world just beginning to stir. But here, in this little bubble of tangled limbs and shared heat, time doesn’t feel real.
Felix shifts again, forehead resting against the back of your head.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hmm?”
“I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”
Your throat goes tight.
You squeeze his hand around your waist and let out a breath that trembles a little.
“Me too.”
He kisses you once more—slow and sure, like a promise—and lets his weight settle over you again, warm and safe and close.
You fall asleep like that.
Still a little sore. Still a little messy.
Still joined in every way that matters.
☆ Genre: Angst, fluff, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort
☆ Warnings: Slght trauma, touch starvation?
☆ Characters: Chris, Y/N
☆ Word Count: 4.8k
☆ Synopsis: Y/N accepts she doesn't have to be so strong infront of Chris and lets him love her after years of pushing him away
Perhaps idly walking through the city while she teetered precariously on the edge of a mental precipice wasn't exactly the smartest idea Y/N had ever had. Not when she had constantly been battling back with such a fragile state of mind, every hour worse than the last, each thought like a sharp throwing knife thunking against her skull, turning her into a life sized pin cushion.
Her hands were tucked deep into her coat pockets as her footsteps slowly trailed through the winding streets. Y/N's subconscious lingered on the people who walked and stumbled past her with all manners of varying paces; the nightly drunks crashed into each other with rugged cheeks and slurred speech, while crowded groups of friends shrieked with laughter, the chaotic but joyous sounds being carried along with the chilly breeze that swept past Y/N's cheeks in a biting kiss. She couldn't help but feel a little wistful - the woman couldn't remember the last time she laughed in such a carefree manner with someone.
Deep down, it was all she longed for, all she craved, more than she was ever willing to admit to herself. On most days, it was like a heavy boulder was situated on top of her emotions, squishing them down into paper thin slivers of nothingness; she couldn't get them free, couldn't tug them out from from the substantial weight on her shoulders, and her body and her mind were left almost completely numb. It had been that way for as long as she could remember - agony, followed by a bleakness that was almost worse than the former.
Y/N had decided she had needed a ‘breath of fresh air’ over three hours ago now. Three hours ago, she told herself that five minutes beyond the suffocating walls of her house was all that she needed, and that she would be completely fine afterwards. She hadn't entirely believed herself then, and she was reluctant to do so now, even though her short stroll wouldn't have turned into a three hour long trek if that had been true. She was beyond exhausted, and yet, the middle of nowhere with its abrasive wind was over a hundred times more appealing than going back there.
Y/N leaned against a small barrier on the side of the street, exhaling slowly. A small cloud of white formed in front of her; the metal was cool beneath her fingertips and she shivered as she looked out with tired eyes onto the world moving in front of her. It was shrouded in a blanket of red and gold, lights twinkling at her from every corner in a way that usually would have instantly cheered her up. But that wasn't the case tonight; tonight, they filled her with a deeper sense of loneliness, the colours bright yet doing nothing to lighten the darkness that had its sharp talons digging into her mind.
She sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. Her skin was frozen yet felt hot to her touch, and she folded her arms around herself, trying to ignite even the smallest spark of heat within herself. It was fruitless - but she kept her limbs tucked in close regardless as her gaze continued to lightly follow the people walking past her. They mostly wore easy smiles, their laughter avid; but Y/N wondered if any of them felt the way she did. She wondered just how many of them were smiling outwardly, while their insides contorted and tangled together uncomfortably like hers were.
In such a picturesque looking city with its cheerful lights and immaculate decorations, just how many of its people truly had emotions to match?
Was everyone truly as happy as they seemed?
Or were they all at war with themselves too?
Y/N flinched, blinking rapidly; something had landed on her eyelashes. Her face scrunched up at the contact, and a trickle of icy water kissed the delicate skin beneath her eye. She tilted her head up to the navy sky, and her lips parted in wonder as tiny flutters of snow continued to land upon her skin, the railing she was holding onto, and the ground upon which she stood.
Something about the first snow of the year always caused Y/N's eyes to prickle. The serenity of it all momentarily through the heaviness that had been suffocating her; her eyelids fluttered shut as the backs of her eyes burned, and when she opened them again, the world was blurry.
A passerby suddenly rushed past her in a hurry: he brushed faintly against her arm, and much like the world around her was beginning to,Y/N froze. The contact had been minimal, almost nondescript, like the brush of a feather that perhaps the average person wouldn't have even bat an eye at; but Y/N did. She noticed everything. Years of constantly pushing people away and avoiding all forms of contact from others had made her hyper awareness skyrocket, and she was able to pick up on the smallest of movements from the people in her vicinity. Even the most miniscule of touches from the wrong person was enough to make Y/N spiral, her breath quickening and her chest tightening. Perhaps trauma had done this to her. Perhaps she would have truly believed that the intricate wiring that made up her person was altered and destroyed permanently, if it wasn’t for the extensive time she spent within the privacy of her mind imagining being tucked up in the comfort of his arms, imagining not having to pretend around him, day after day, night after night …
He was all she wanted.
And because of that, she had always pushed him away.
Y/N curled a trembling hand around her arm as she stared down at the gravel beneath her. The snow tainted shadows spilling across the pavement warped as tears swam in the pits of Y/N's eyes, and it took all of her remaining willpower to not break down in the middle of the wide street. She inhaled deeply, her fingers pressing into the curve of her arm hard enough to bruise. But it was what she needed; the pressure grounded her, the slight sting pulling her back to reality, if for only a moment. She found herself squeezing her eyes shut once more, trying to repress a fresh wave of tears as the moments passed by in a slow haze.
Her pocket vibrated at her hip, and her eyes snapped open again. Y/N slipped her fingers into it and reached for her phone as another notification bloomed across her screen and stacked on top of the previous one.
Chris: Are you home?
Chris: Doing okay? Door's open if you need me … like always.
Y/N clutched her phone tighter in her hand. The edges of the device squished the soft flesh of her fingers as his words branded themselves into the depths of her mind's eye.
She didn't understand him. She had known him for so long, and she still didn't understand the mechanics of his brain. Well … perhaps, deep down, she did understand - she just couldn't bring herself to accept it. It could have been self destructive tendencies, it could have been fear - Y/N refused to accept such simple kindness existed in the world, even when it was all that he had ever shown her.
Besides. She didn't even understand what they were. To the untrained eye, they appeared to be the closest of friends - and had been for years; but surely even the friends as tight knit as they were didn't care as much as he cared for her. Surely they didn't look at each other the way he did, with such a tenderness floating about the stars in his eyes that she refused to look into them for more than a second at a time, for fear that her bones would melt from the intensity of it, from the sheer emotion that spilled from those gloriously rich irises …
Y/N had brushed his care away more times than she could count, from the day she had first met him, and every day since. And yet, for some reason he was still there.
He was always there. Waiting. Reassuring her that she could always lean on him no matter what. It frustrated him sometimes - she knew that. She couldn't blame him for it either; Chris was always patient with her, always giving her the freedom to come to him when she wanted to, when she was ready. But even Y/N could see when he was fighting the urge to explode. She exasperated him beyond measure, the only telltale sign being the twitch of the muscle in his cheek, or the taut set of his jaw.
That was exactly why Y/N didn't understand him. Why would he keep sticking beside her, when she so often drove him to the brink of madness?
It was entirely possible that Chris was already insane. After all … no sane person would continue to care for another if they treated them the way she treated him. In Y/N's eyes, Chris deserved the entire universe and everything beyond it … and oh, how she ached to give it to him. If it wasn't for the fear of being hurt by him, she might have already done so. She couldn't bear being hurt by him, out of all people. She had been crushed by so many others in the past, been trampled on repeatedly as though she was but a patch of grass. The ache had turned into something else, and somewhere along the way she had started to feel indifferent about it. She had been forced to become independent, forced to rely on no one other than herself, to the point where the idea of letting someone else in after so many years felt completely impossible. The idea of it made her feel weak - she didn't need anyone else. Not when she was the one who had put herself together time and time again, when it was others who had broken her in the first place.
But Chris … he was the one person who she felt something so deep for, that terror wracked every inch of her being when she imagined what might happen if he turned on her too. He was the one person who could truly shatter her, if he so wanted to, leaving the tiny pieces of her to float away with the wind as if she had never really existed at all.
Y/N's phone buzzed against her hand again, and she looked down again, sniffling in the cold night air.
Chris: Your location's off … where are you???
Chris: Just tell me where you are and I can come get you. It's freezing tonight. Don't want you getting sick.
Y/N didn't respond. Snow had already begun to settle on her person in a sparse blanket of ivory, and she blinked away the flakes from her eyelashes.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her lightly damp cheeks; her skin was so cold now that she could barely feel it. She longed for warmth, for a sweet drink to thaw the ice that was building up inside her. She knew that she would only find the solace she craved so deeply with him - she certainly wouldn't find it in the confinement of her own house.
After another long moment of chewing on her chapped lip and staring into the abyss, even though everything in her screamed at her not to give in, not to let her walls down, Y/N found her feet working of their own accord as they began to carry her down the street and across the road.
Her heart had accepted where she was going long before her mind did. The familiarity of Chris's door appeared in front of her before she could process it; the windows of his home hosted a dim glow, and it was warm and comforting to her sore eyes. They prickled once more as she stood frozen in her spot, staring at the exterior of his home with her trembling breaths leaving her in shallow, cloudy puffs. It was completely quiet and dark in the street, the atmosphere enhancing the chill that was running down Y/N's back, and she wrapped her arms around herself, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she continued to drill her gaze into his front door.
A short while later, a muffled jangle made Y/N's heart skip a beat. A hushed curse followed, and the door opened, revealing Chris on the door stop. His gaze immediately landed on Y/N and he paused, his eyes widening as he blinked at her. A dark jacket concealed his built frame, and a matching cap was pulled down over his unruly curls; he looked as though he had haphazardly slung them on over his sweatpants and t-shirt, and Y/N's eyes slowly trailed from his clothes to his face as she swallowed thickly.
Chris tutted in mild annoyance, the sound loud in the night. He folded his arms across his broad chest, narrowing his eyes at her. “I was coming to get you.”
Y/N's brow creased. “But … you don't know where I was.”
“I don't care. I would have searched the whole city for you if I had to,” Chris responded firmly, his voice full of authority but also laced with the care he always showed her. His words softened then, the shadows that had darkened his eyes lightening. “Why didn't you tell me where you were? I told you I'd come get you.”
Y/N avoided his stare. She looked down at her boots, trying to wiggle her frozen toes to no avail. “I … didn't want to disturb you.”
With his dark eyes fixed on her, Chris stepped forward and reached out to gently curl his fingers around Y/N's wrist. The woman's breath hitched at the instant surge of heat that blossomed against her skin where his fingers rested, and she stared at the contact, not knowing what else to do.
“Come inside,” Chris said, his tone low, smooth. He carefully tugged her towards him and pulled her into his house before shutting the door behind her, leaving the chill locked outside. “Go on … go sit in front of the fireplace. You're freezing, baby girl.”
Slightly dizzy from the heady combination of the sudden warmth and the sweet muskiness of Chris's intoxicating scent that had welcomed her in a large embrace as soon as she set foot into his space, Y/N barely acknowledged her body shuffling into the front room. She stood in the middle of the room, her breath trembling as one of her hands clamped down around her arm, holding it against herself. Everything was suddenly too much; the immediate safety that came with seeing Chris and being in his neat living room rushed at her in an overwhelming crash of waves. She looked up a little; Chris had removed his jacket and shoes and was padding into the room, and his gaze landed on Y/N who was standing awkwardly in front of the fire
Something about the way Chris was looking at her made something inside of Y/N snap; her head dropped, and the tiniest of whimpers escaped her mouth as she hastily pressed over her lips in hopes of suppressing the sound. Her shoulders started to shake violently, and eyes widening, Chris slowly moved towards her. The apex of the man's throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, and his delicate hands fluttered like restless bird wings at his sides as he acknowledged the thick silence as Y/N cried. His heart lurched - Chris couldn't hold himself back anymore, he didn't want to; he reached out his arms gently, giving her enough time to move away if she wanted to. But when she didn't, Chris curled his hands around Y/N's shoulders and tugged her towards him in one smooth movement. Her forehead landed against the hollow of his throat, and his touch transitioned from light to possessive as she sank slowly into his embrace, the tears that had been spilling from her eyes now like twin waterfalls against his skin.
“There we go … “ Chris whispered with a discreet exhale, his own eyes falling shut as he cupped his warm fingers around the back of Y/N's head. “Shh … it's okay baby. I'm right here.”
His words made her cry harder; Y/N's sobs were muffled against the fabric of his t-shirt, yet they were so violent, so erratic, that the entirety of her body shook uncontrollably against his. Chris continued to stroke his fingers down the back of her hair, sweeping against the curve of her neck, his touch soft as her tears trickled down his skin and seeped into the neckline of his t-shirt. Chris initially thought her cries would subside soon; but when the sobs got worse, completely robbing her of her uneven breaths, Chris tightened his hold on her, tucking his fingers around her arms as his mouth pressed to the top of her head.
He pulled away slightly when his lips brushed something cold. Chris's eyes softened, and he started to smile.
“Hey … there's snow in your hair,” Chris's voice was a low hum that vibrated through his chest, kissing the flushed skin of Y/N's cheek. It made her tilt her head up towards him, and her heart skipped a beat when her eyes landed on the tender smile brushing across Chris's face.
His fingers were gentle as they swept through the slightly damp strands of her hair. “Look,” he lowered his hand, the smallest of snowflakes glistening against his skin. It immediately disappeared with the warmth of his fingertip, and his face fell in dismay. “Oh. It melted.”
He chuckled at the look on her face, and he tried to pick up another tiny snowflake. “You're so cold that they're staying frozen in your hair. My little Ice Queen.”
Y/N's throat felt completely clogged from all of her crying. Her whisper was a broken one when she responded to him. “They're melting because you're so warm.”
Laughing under his breath, Chris brushed away the flecks of ice from her hair before sliding both of his arms around her waist, locking them in place before lifting a surprised Y/N off of the floor. He tucked her shivering frame into his secure hold as he carried her to the sofa, and with one of his hands rubbing soothing circles into her back, Chris sat down with Y/N rigidly curled up on his lap.
He leaned back into the plush seat, guiding her with him. Y/N felt his hand cradling the side of her head as it fell against his chest; his touch was so, so gentle - almost as though he was afraid the pressure of his fingers would cause her to disintegrate in his arms if he wasn't careful.
“It's okay, baby,” Chris hummed, his voice reverberating through his chest again in a comforting lull. “Lean into me … let me hold you, yeah?”
Y/N's breath shuddered as a fresh wave of tears bloomed in the pits of her eyes. Truthfully, she wanted nothing more than just that; but she didn't know how to lean into him. She didn't know how to give herself up to him, nor did she know just how to position herself … where to put her arms, or her head, or how to even allow her body to be held by him …
With a pang, Y/N realised that she felt just as out of place as she felt at home with Chris. His touch was already making her feel dizzy and incredibly warm, each gentle press of his fingers against the small of her back threatening her walls to crumble completely.
“What's the matter?” Chris asked her quietly, sensing her hesitation. “Am I uncomfy?”
Y/N shook her head, more tears spilling down her cheeks. “I … just … “
Chris's eyes were soft. The tip of his index finger found its way to the underside of her chin and he gently tilted her face up to look at him. “Just what, pretty girl?”
“I … don't know how,” Y/N whispered, her words tangling together. “I don't know what to … how to … where to put my … arms … and … “
Her words broke off, and even though Chris's heart constricted a little painfully at her words, he couldn't help but smile at her confession. His hand cupped her wet cheek gently, and he leaned forward, his lips brushing away her tear tracks.
“Let me teach you then,” Chris whispered as he traced the backs of his knuckles across her flushed skin. “Do you trust me, baby?”
Y/N's breath hitched. She nodded slightly, and she was met with the cushion of Chris's lips travelling to her temple.
“Good girl,” Chris said, his hand sliding down to his arms. “Here … put your arms here … your head here … just like that.“
Chris's touch ignited a strong fire beneath Y/N's skin as he slowly adjusted the placement of her limbs. He draped her lightly trembling arms loose around his torso, and Y/N's head was next to be guided to the upper portion of his chest. Chris's fingers cradled the back of her neck with such fragility that her eyes blurred again. She turned her face of its own accord, clenching her eyes shut as her forehead sank into the exposed skin just beneath his collarbone.
“Just like that,” Chris whispered again, gently hoisting her legs up against his thighs. His hand patted softly over her hip, his other fingers threading through her slightly damp hair. “Feeling okay? You're not cold, are you?”
Y/N shook her head against the smooth grain of his skin. “You're … so warm.”
Chris's lips curved up into an affectionate smile. He still turned his head a little to the side, and he reached for the weighted blanket draped over the back of his sofa. With nimble movements, Chris gently draped it over them both, the sudden enclosure only heightening the comfort that was seeping into Y/N's bones, and she shivered in response, her fingers curling into the sturdiness of Chris's sides.
It was remarkable how quickly his touch affected her body; her eyes were drooping at an alarming rate, and the shard-like breaths that had been constantly stabbing the inner walls of her chest had miraculously disappeared. The cold that had earlier weaved its way through the webbing of her veins had ebbed away, and all that remained was the steady current of heat that radiated from Chris's body, permeating the flush of her skin. Just as she was overly aware of the world around her, Chris's presence was magnified, each subtle pat of his fingers against the curve of her head making her body loosen further, each brush of his lips against her temple making her breathing easier.
“You have no idea how long I've waited for this … “ Chris breathed after a while. His words buzzed through her and she looked up at him slightly, her brows furrowed in question. “You have no idea how long I've wanted to hold you like this.”
Y/N stared at him. She had wanted this for so very long, she had known that … but … him?
For the first time, Y/N wondered if perhaps her actions hadn't only stunted her chance at comfort, but the man before her too.
“What … ?” Y/N exhaled shakily.
Chris's hands tightened on her under the blanket, and dropped his forehead against her shoulder. “Every time I saw you in pain … every time you pushed me away, acting all strong and like you didn't need anyone … it just made me want to pull you into my arms and not let go,” Chris’s voice cracked, and Y/N's stomach flipped. “But I couldn't, because I thought you'd hate me for it, and the idea of that … “
He shuddered then, pulling back slightly so he could rest his forehead against Y/N's. He was so close, closer than either of them had been before … Y/N didn't look away when he locked his gaze on hers, his pupils flooding his irises with starry black that glimmered with an ethereal light in the dim lighting between them. “I love you, Y/N. I can't keep pretending that it doesn't kill me … that every time you push me away feels like I've been stabbed, right here.”
He reached for her hand, and he laid her fingers over the sturdiness of his chest. The beat against her skin was strong, rhythmic, and as Chris's hand lay atop hers, she could feel her own heartbeat changing to match his.
“Let me love you, Y/N,” Chris's voice was quiet, so quiet that she'd have missed it if the wind outside had howled. His eyes fell shut, and his nose brushed hers, his lips barely half an inch from her mouth. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you happy … you deserve to be happy, baby.”
Whether it was his tears, or her own that she felt on her cheek, Y/N didn't know. Her eyes had fallen shut too as his words sank into her, like tiny little seeds burying themselves in the midst of her heart.
“Chris … “ was all she could manage, and the fragility of his name one her tongue made Chris groan, his hands tightening on her waist.
“I love you,” he repeated. “I love you. I love you so much.”
Tears, hot and fast, spilled down her chin. With a tremor to her fingers, Y/N slowly braced her fingertips at the side of the man's hot face, and she brushed them over his temple, tracing the constellations of moles dotting his cheekbones. There was so much she wanted to say to him … so much on her heart that she yearned to spill. But she couldn't - not right now. Something about the way he was looking at her made her mind go quiet, and for the first time, an unfamiliar bud of peace bloomed inside her.
“Will … will you still love me if I'm sick?” she blurted out before she could help herself.
The delicate arch of his eyebrows curved upwards.
“You know … you said you didn't want me getting sick … earlier … “ Y/N said. She could feel the back of her head tickling. “But … well … “
She couldn't hold it in any longer; turning her head to the side, Y/N let out a loud sneeze, her body jumping in Chris's lap. She sniffled before turning sheepishly to Chris again, and there was a brief pause before he burst into laughter.
“Oh, baby … “ Chris leaned forward again and cupped her face in his hands. “Such an aggressive sneeze, and yet you're still the most adorable thing I've ever laid eyes on.”
Y/N blushed furiously. She looked away, but he brought her gaze back to him, his eyes dancing with mirth.
“Yes, I'll still love you,” Chan chuckled, and he kissed her nose. “But … do you love me?”
Her lips curved up at the corners. “Since a very, very long time ago.”
Chris's eyes lit up. She could feel the heat swimming off his ears, rather than see it, and it made her smile.
“I love you,” she whispered to him, her breath grazing his lips. “I've always loved you, Christopher.”
He was about to respond when a familiar bubble rose up inside of Y/N; she erupted with another sneeze, and Chris's laughter danced around her as he scooped her into his arms, holding her so tight that Y/N vaguely wondered if perhaps her bones would snap.
She didn't really care. She didn't want to be out of his hold ever again.
“You need a hot shower,” Chris grinned, threading his fingers through her slightly damp hair. “How about you go shower, and I'll make you some hot chocolate … and then we can watch a movie or something. How does that sound?”
“Mmm … “ Y/N hummed in satisfaction as she dropped her face against the crook of his neck. “Are you going to cuddle me too?”
Chan's laughter was a soft caress against her. “Baby … have you met me? What else do you think I'm gonna do?”
Y/N started to giggle.
“Get ready, baby girl … because I'm not letting go of you ever again. You're mine. All mine.”
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You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.
pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.
genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.
warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.
word count: 21.8k
author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU
Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.
But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact.
Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too.
You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.
Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault.
You don’t know the person they’re mourning.
You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after.
Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe.
She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest.
That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind.
You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be?
The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you.
You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven.
And she loved ballet.
So, you had to love ballet too.
You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.
Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone.
Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.
It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.
How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?
Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face.
Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.
And she’s the only person who believes in you.
She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth.
You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.
In you.
You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.
You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe.
Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque.
But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.
“I got into Julliard”
That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow.
Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.
But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”
You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents.
You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life.
You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.
It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”
A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.
For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?
For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead?
You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried.
You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave.
Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.
“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt.
You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.
“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin.
You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.
“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record.
“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone.
You feel so horrible, for a millisecond.
She was only seven.
Her grave is too small compared to your body.
But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.
“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing.
“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?”
“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.
He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin.
But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?
“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you.
“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.”
He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too.
Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face?
The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful.
“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel.
He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you.
“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard.
What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go.
He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks.
“Thank you.”
His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment.
“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole.
“I don’t want to burden you.”
“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”
You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow.
You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.
You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh.
You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers.
But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet.
He looks like a good person.
You wish to tell your good news to a good person.
“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession.
A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features.
“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”
“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.”
It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold.
This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear.
“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.”
“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.”
Four years later.
“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”
“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses.
His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.
“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”
“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”
Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself.
A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face.
When does he ever?
But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to.
With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.
“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.
Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there.
Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.
It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.
“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.
Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.
“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.
“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.
“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.
“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.
In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating.
“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.
“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.
“Really? That’s amazing!”
“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met.
“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”
“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.
“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away.
He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.
“Hyunjin!”
His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then.
“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.
“No,” he admits.
“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken.
“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you.
Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.
“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.
“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”
…
Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him.
Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.
You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.
The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.
Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you.
He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.
It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen.
His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.
That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.
Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more.
“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment.
“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says.
“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding.
“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.
“I’m okay.”
The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”
You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.
“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.”
Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.
Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too.
“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.”
“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.”
The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.
But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table.
“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.
“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”
Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.
Far more beautiful, too.
“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.
His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.
Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company.
…
The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.
You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?
Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.
The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.
For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.
But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.
“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.
“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.
“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”
Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.
As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there.
“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.
“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.
No one, except Hyunjin.
“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.
“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.
“Okay. Wait for me.”
…
Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple.
He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.
For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.
There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.
But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.
It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio.
He hopes it is you dancing there.
With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence.
When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.
You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door.
He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you?
He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”
The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.
“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze.
Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor.
Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.
“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.
You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.”
He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.
“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”
You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”
He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.
“Barbie?”
“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.”
“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm.
“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.
“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg.
You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit.
You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell.
You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.
As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.
“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”
He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”
Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.
…
You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.
You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.
Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.
But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.
The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.
Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this.
You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home.
At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.
“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly.
“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks.
“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.
“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic.
“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.
“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.”
And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.
You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.
And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.
But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask?
Has she ever cared to?
…
The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.
You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.
He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response.
“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow.
Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.
But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak.
“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.
“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about?
Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”
His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”
Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.”
He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”
“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.
“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”
“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises.
“She was. She is.”
“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter.
He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together.
When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.
His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his.
It is his very soul that twitched at your touch.
“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps.
Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.
“Comforting you.”
“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his.
“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.
“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?”
“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.”
Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy.
He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart.
He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.
What does that mean?
…
Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality.
He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.
He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him.
But something within him was shifting—unraveling.
His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio.
“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.
“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly.
“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too?
That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.
He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past.
Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely?
“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.
“Don’t worry about me.”
Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.
It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place.
What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?
Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.
“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.
“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.
“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him
“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics.
His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.
This isn’t normal.
“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?”
“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win.
Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.
“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.”
You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together.
“There, sealed forever.”
You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both.
“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.”
“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?”
“I’ll be there to catch you.”
A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”
“Yeah, i do.”
“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink.
Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.
“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”
And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.
He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice.
He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.
You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent.
He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume.
It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.
“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.
Until you.
“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.
But to no avail.
He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.
He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.
He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.
Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.
But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.
He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.
He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.
But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.
That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.
He sees you in a whole different light, now.
Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.
Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.
Is his soul drawn to yours?
Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.
Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?
It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.
…
There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.
But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight.
It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.
You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.
The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs.
Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.
Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here.
Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy.
You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.
“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them.
Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small.
And then, a note.
Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands.
Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now.
You’ve never had words that she addressed to you.
The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening.
The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.
Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.
I would love to dance ballet with you.
The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.
You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.
How horrible are you?
Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart.
“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her.
“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils.
“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.
“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?”
“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment.
“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!”
“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?”
“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”
You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.”
Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little.
You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.
“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.
It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance.
Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off.
“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind.
His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you
He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?
“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.
“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”
His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.
“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.
“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.
But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.
Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.
With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.
“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?”
“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.”
Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine.
“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”
Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.
“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”
He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”
Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.
He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.
“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.
He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.
Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.
It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”
“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.
“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.
And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.
You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.
You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.
You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.
Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten.
The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.
…
Hyunjin is beautiful.
This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen.
But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you.
You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole.
But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.
There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.
He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place.
His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.
You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.”
Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”
He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”
“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.”
You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new.
Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells.
Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees.
He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise.
You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first.
Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.
He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.
“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question.
How could he be anything but extraordinary?
“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.
“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows.
Oh god.
The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.
“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.
“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”
“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave?
How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name?
“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.
You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.
You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.
It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater.
His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?
His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.
He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.
Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree.
A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.
Please, not again.
His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet.
He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.
Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.
“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.
In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.
“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.
“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.
He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close.
His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.
“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”
It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of.
“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.
Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.
Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality.
The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.
“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce.
“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch.
“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”
He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”
“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”
He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.
“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.
Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.
But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?
His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins.
Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for.
You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms.
“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”
“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.
…
“So, how do we do this?”
Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.
“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red.
He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess.
“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower.
In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.
“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”
“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).
Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.
“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”
“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?”
“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”
Your sweet Hyunjin.
“I want that too, Hyune.”
Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom.
He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall.
“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you.
“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.”
“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses.
“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious.
Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching.
And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now.
“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.”
“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”
Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life?
But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.
You want to stay.
It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him.
And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after?
…
Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids.
But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart.
Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp.
He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once.
Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher.
In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness.
He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.
You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.
It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.
In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both.
“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?”
“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.”
His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”
Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand.
“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.
That truth felt easier to confront with you near.
“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”
The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go.
He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.
You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.
He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.
“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”
In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.
Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.
Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.
Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him.
When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all.
Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner.
There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.
How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.
You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone.
That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.
You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.
“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.”
Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.
Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing.
You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him.
And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other.
“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you.
He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint.
Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.
But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.
…
“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”
It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore.
Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.
“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.
But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.
You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water.
Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?
“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”
“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”
Oh.
You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.
You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.
“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.”
You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.
“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”
He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.
“Of course, we will.”
It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin.
“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.
“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.
Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans.
He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.
Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.
…
You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.
Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.
Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.
It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.
You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.
But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls.
You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.
There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin.
And you couldn’t afford that.
You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.
The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.
There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?
You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.
With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.
“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.
You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”
“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”
“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.
“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.
“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.
“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you.
“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.
“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.
“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.
“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”
“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.
You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”
You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.
“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”
“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.
“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”
And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.
“I love you too, my Hyune.”
“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”
You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything.
“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”
The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.
Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him?
…
You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.
You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.
But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.
It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.
You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.
You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.
Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.
But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.
After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.
The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.
Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.
But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best.
“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”
You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.
Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.
You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.
You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound?
Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”
Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself.
“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”
“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”
You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.
You now had an excuse to be there.
You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?
Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.
It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.
Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones.
He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too.
Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being.
He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him.
You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?
It has always been his face for you.
The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.
Then, he launches into the air.
The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth.
Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock.
Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.
Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.
And then he does it.
His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.
You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths.
But not on yours.
Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would.
Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater.
Hyunjin’s name comes first.
He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.
You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours.
The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.
Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”
“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you.
No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.
As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last.
Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment.
“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more.
Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.
“Congratulations on your win,” you say.
“Congratulations on your graduation.”
He knows.
In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.
Or, you could speak now.
“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”
Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”
You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.
“For what?”
“For stealing you away.”
His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”
The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.
For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.
He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.
“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain.
He yields first.
“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.
“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”
“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”
“I’m here tonight.”
Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.
Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.
Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation.
You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.
When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”
“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”
A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.
“I was always ever yours to love.”
Epilogue.
Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin.
But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there.
And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now.
And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore.
You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight.
It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”
You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave.
pairing: minho x reader
genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, kinda angsty idk?; unedited bc we live just to suffer, erhm i don't think there's a lot of warnings here, open to interpretation if oc is depressed 🤔; basically “it's rotten work,” “not to me. not if it’s you,” + that one scene in nobody wants this (if you’ve watched the show you’ll know what i’m talking about)
word count: 0.6k
listen to 🎧: risk - gracie abrams
as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡
navigation / masterlist / ko-fi
“i think i’m starting to hate myself again.”
your voice is casual when you say it, indifferent, nonchalant, as if you’re merely bringing up the weather or reading from a shopping list. you’re used to it by now — the fact that it comes and goes, that if there are highs then there must be lows too. that sometimes, there are no good days, just better ones.
you know minho hasn’t fallen asleep because you still feel him playing with your hair while you lay on his chest, his index finger twisting a lock around before letting it fall over your back. he doesn’t falter, not even once. no change in his calming breathing, no sign that he’s all too surprised by your sudden announcement. you suppose he’s used to it as much as you are.
he’s quiet for a while, like the night outside the comfort of your bedroom. the weather forecast warned you of thunderstorms, but everything remained still and safe. there wasn’t even a spark of lightning to be found.
when minho finally speaks, only a simple “okay,” comes out, followed by a question. “then i’ll love you more to make up for it. how much time do you need? couple weeks?”
you shake your head. “longer,” you say.
“couple months?”
a beat of silence. another shake. “longer.”
“couple years?” he asked. no hesitation. “couple decades?”
minho can’t see you from this position, but you can hear the sound of his heart. he’s steady and secure and you’re nothing more than a fickle flame that’s always on the verge of going out.
“you can’t handle it,” you tell him. “better to quit while you’re ahead.”
it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? for him to pack up before he realizes somewhere down the line that he’s wasted his time and effort on a lost cause?
“i know what you’re doing, by the way. stop that.”
you pretend to ask, “what am i doing?”
before you know it, he’s already managed to flip the both of you over. he’s hovering over you with his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you in, chest to chest, and his hips pressed flush against yours.
“i told you i’m not going anywhere,” minho says, brushing some hair away from your face. “stop trying to get me to leave.”
you blink. he’s so close and oh so warm, so beautiful as he stares down at you, so patient and kind when you’re telling him that you need him to love the parts that even you can’t bring yourself to love.
your hands settle on his shoulders. “don’t blame me when you regret it.”
“i won’t regret it. not if it’s you.”
then he’s kissing you, soft and slow, and that’s when you finally hear the first roar of thunder that should’ve arrived hours ago. he kisses you like he was made for you — or you for him, you’re not really sure, but it can’t possibly matter that much.
“so?” minho prompts after he’s pulled away, “how long?”
his eyes are sparkling and you’re still a little dazed. lightheaded but you know that you’ll always love him the most, know that you’re pushing it, know that you’re asking for what many would never be willing to give. “what if i say i’ll need you for the rest of my life?”
his lips curl into a tender smile, one that he presses to your mouth once again. you taste devotion in the kiss, in the way one of his hands crosses the short distance to hold your face so delicately it makes your heart hurt.
“i’ll love you more for the rest of our lives then.”
kim seungmin x gn!reader — if seungmin wanted to be loved like a planet being discovered, he wanted to love you like the snow melted during the cusp of spring.
GENRE/S — fluff, maybe kinda emotional (or is that just me), slight college au mentioned in passing, he fell first trope • 1.1k words
WARNING/S — nothing really unless you're not into lovesick pining, story told in seungmin's pov, slightly unedited cz idk
( ✒️ ) happy seungmin day !! i think i dissociated while writing this fic cause man... i barely remember shit 😭 i originally had a plan going into writing this but it just got thrown out the window by my brain apparently (also this fic is inspired by one of the results in this quiz cause i loved the prompt i got so much) this fic is a bit short but i hope yall like it <3
2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.
Seungmin’s eyes love to rest on you.
That was an undoubtable fact in his life—one that he, himself, doesn’t even know how it started. Yet, the acknowledgement of this unknown didn’t bother him at all. If anything, it was a source of comfort for him; a way of reminding himself of the joy in living. To Seungmin, one thing was for certain: He was given the gift of sight to experience you in your entire beauty.
He first met you in a university lecture, where you simply happened to frequent the seat just a row behind and two chairs away from where he usually sat. Perhaps he was enamored from the very beginning. It was like his gaze would always find a way back to you whenever you were in his immediate vicinity, reminiscent of a magnet longing to cling to metal.
That was also the way he took in your presence as a whole. Seungmin was a man starved for knowledge, desperately clawing for anything he could get to broaden his desired expertise that was you. He particularly loved the way your eyes drooped whenever the lecture of the day bore you, as well as your tendency to make origami on available paper during the times you could care less to listen. The latter always ended up with you blinking endearingly after a successful craft, glancing around the people near you to figure out who to present it to.
Oh, how he wished he had been over there instead, happily receiving a paper star to keep. However, it was your friends that surrounded you on a daily, barely giving you time to be alone. And maybe you didn’t want to be alone—another thing about you that he’d like to discover the truth to. But he thought that until the day he somehow found himself stumbling into your life, he’d have to be grateful to your friends for making you shine the way you deserved every step of the way.
So, imagine his surprise when he finally got the chance to make a mark in the vast expanse of your world.
The opportunity came in the form of a group project with you; the catalyst in which his whole life began to change. Friendly introductions of obligation quickly turned into incessant strings of conversation, bringing the two of you closer. The sheer pace of the development was overwhelming. Seungmin never thought his presence bore enough weight for gravity to grab him by the neck and lock him in the system of the star that was you.
It was a trip and a half, consisting of countless miles to lap around with seemingly no end. So much, that he feared falling out of your grace—to be like a passing asteroid who foolishly dreamt of becoming a planet. Seungmin was endlessly yearning to solidify his place in your world, just like he always wanted. And still, despite that all, he didn’t show it. He merely laughed when you laughed, stayed silent when you needed silence, and experienced anger on your behalf when you couldn’t show it for yourself.
Because Kim Seungmin knew that you needed to be loved patiently.
Even throughout the tightrope of uncertainty he walked months on like his life depended on it, he never once made it seem like he was waiting on a move from you. If Seungmin wanted to be loved like a planet being discovered, he wanted to love you like the snow melted during the cusp of spring.
Seungmin knew that even with the shows of your cheery demeanor, your heart still remained frosted over from your previous winters. That even when your fingers danced their way to intertwine with his, there was still that moment of hesitation. He was forever thankful that you caught him from falling when he did, refusing to let him disappear into the abyss. Yet, who was lighting up the skies of which you lay under to stare at each day?
He longed to give you a love that was true. One where he showed you how warmth creeped in with small trickles of heat, giving you enough time to decide whether you truly wanted it or not. Love that was considerate in the way that it willingly warned you of its presence, but in a way that cupped your cheeks and sang you lullabies. To love you gently as to not sully your shoes with messy, muddy soil of the ground peeking out from beneath the snow.
To Seungmin, there was no greater gift than being able to be the sign of your spring.
“Baby?” You called out to him softly, a flash of concern twinkling behind your gaze. “Is anything wrong?”
Seungmin feels like he was just coaxed out of a trance, previously being too occupied studying the details of that very moment, as if he hadn’t already spent the past hour doing just that. A string of golden celebration banners made its presence known in the corner of his eye, briefly acknowledging the once-a-year greeting printed on them. The slight smell of smoke fully brought him back to his senses, finally glancing down towards the cake with a small lit-up candle you were presenting him.
Right. It was his birthday today.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No,” he replies truthfully. “Everything is perfect.” Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion, having trouble making sense of the situation. Seungmin has half a mind to think if you would forgive him if he tried to straighten it out with his thumbs as a tease.
“But, you’re not blowing out your candles,” you purse your lips in contemplation. He feels an unstoppable force creeping up to turn the corners of his mouth upwards. Did you even know just how much he loves you?
“I was just enjoying the view, that’s all.”
Your demeanor visibly brightens up. “Is the cake that pretty?” Was your smug question, clearly feeling proud of yourself. “I worked hard on that, you know?”
Seungmin only smiles. Like he always does whenever it concerns you. That warm boyish grin he had paired with a certain fond look in his eyes that his friends never failed to point out just to fluster him into oblivion. But he lets them anyway. There was no way he could ever deny the truth of how strongly he felt for you.
“I know.”
Because he always does.
And as he leaned forward to feel the last heat of the flickering candle before it went out, he couldn’t help but think that the snow had finally melted. His wish had already come true.
your first draft is going to suck. And that’s okay. It’s supposed to suck. Your first draft isn’t about writing something good, it’s about writing something. You’re just shoveling sand into the sandbox so you can build castles later. Get the words on the page, even if they’re clumsy, even if you cringe while writing them. The magic happens in the revision, but you can’t revise a blank page. So let the first draft be messy. Let it be flawed. Just get it down, because that’s where the real work begins.
howl and sophie — han jisung x reader ; he realizes he’s in love with you (0.8k words)
advance happy bday hanji!
“Do you guys ever think about how Howl spent his whole life—“
“Is Chan coming back already?” Jeongin questions, unknowingly cutting Jisung off as he impatiently checks the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist.
He’d lost a bet earlier and had promised to get the kids ice cream, and if you were to ask the youngest how long the boy’s been gone, it’s been around 23 minutes and 24 seconds, but he’d never admit to his impatience.
“Howl spent his life looking—“
“Sorry, I’m late.” Chan comes rushing through the door, crouched down to his knees the moment he’s inside with his dominant hand gripping a plastic bag from the convenience store.
He’s still panting when the boys swarm him, the youngest managing to catch the bag and veering off to the direction of the kitchen.
“Hyung!” Jisung calls out the eldest’s attention, and you notice your best friend’s features drop when Chan moves to break the fight in the kitchen as to who has which flavor.
“Hyung, don’t ignore me.”
He’s whining now, arms crossed and body unmoving from the space he’s occupying on the couch. Jisung has his tells when he’s getting sulky, his lips form a pout and his eyebrows furrow just a little—all tells so blatantly obvious on his face at the very moment.
Jisung should know better than to expect his friends to listen to him when there’s free ice cream and a limited stock of flavors up for grabs in the kitchen. They might be good friends most of the time, but they are not below putting their entire attention to making sure they do not have the worst flavor.
He’s still sulking, and you can hear his breathing getting a little louder, but their attention is still glued on the kitchen table.
You place a hand on his arm gently, shifting closer to the pouting boy. You know exactly what he wants to say, but you choose to ask him anyway.
“What is it?”
It’s comedic the way the pout instantly washes away from his features, instead replaced with a giddy smile as he angles his body to look at you properly.
Jisung’s always been cute in the way he could never hide how wide his smile gets.
Howl spent his entire life looking for his Sophie.
“Howl spent his entire life looking for his Sophie. Don’t you think that’s the most romantic thing ever? Especially when he tells her she might as well take a piece of his heart.”
You’ve heard him talk about Howl’s Moving Castle a thousand times now, but you let him ramble anyway. You’d lose nothing but your time, but it’s easily compensated with the way he’s smiling at you.
“Are you talking about that movie again?”
It’s Changbin who butts in the conversation when Jisung takes a deep breath in between his spoken 1000-word essay about Howl and Sophie. The older boy is seated on the bean bag in front of the pair of you, ice cream in hand as he monstrously takes a bite off.
“How he spent his entire life searching for Sophie?”
“(Name), what ice cream flavor do you want?” There’s a call from the kitchen, and Jisung’s starting to pout again.
“Don’t worry, they just don’t understand the movie like you do.” You whisper in his ear, enough to solicit a laugh from the boy.
Then, when you expect him to continue, he grows quiet.
In all honesty, even Han Jisung doesn’t understand why. He thinks about this all the time, and he’s never had a problem talking to you, but now his head is blanking.
It isn’t until you take his hands in yours and encourage him to keep talking that he realizes oh—is this how Howl feels about Sophie?
This is a dilemma.
Jisung’s always known he’s had a crush on you, but the way you’d listened to him with a sweet and gentle smile on your face, with your attention unwavering, he’s suddenly painfully self-conscious about how much more he feels about you and how his hands are probably sweating from the sudden realization.
“Jisung?”
“Hey, I know another topic he never shuts up about.” Seungmin hums, having gone back from the kitchen. “His big fat crush on—“
“Chan was asking you what flavor you wanted, right?” Jisung suddenly interrupts, eyes flickering between you and Seungmin, the kitchen, then back on you.
“Come on, (name). Let’s get some ice cream.” Then, he abruptly gets up from his seat and pulls you to the direction of where there’s only two pieces of ice cream in the plastic bag.
“What was Seungmin say—“
“Here. Take this.” He all but shoves the ice cream in your hands, smiling a little too sheepishly before hurrying to shut Seungmin up.
I hope you are well. I am reaching out to ask for your help in sharing and reblogging my story and struggles. I have faced many hardships and need your generous support. By sharing my story, you can significantly impact my life and help me through these difficult times.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your understanding and generosity.♥️🙏
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