GREEN

i say: there is a hole in me that needs tearing open. you say: that isn’t how healing works. i say: i know. i want to be raw flesh and no hurt.

[suranchr]

hello everyone!! yeni here to introduce you guys to my spiteful little gremlin, myo suran!! essentially she is: your resident professional ballerina (currently benched, v v smad about it), fellow hannam class of ‘14 (she unfriended all of you on facebook btw), and more of the messier muses i’ve written (so, it’s gonna be fuᵘⁿⁿⁿⁿⁿⁿᵎ). her profile page is here and i will be going over the finer details under the cut! if you read all of this before clicking under the cut just know ily you have more patience than i ever could plsplspls like this for plots thanks!!

background

conceived as a (failed) last ditch effort to save a dying young and reckless marriage, suran grew up without really knowing too much about her biological dad. and her mom, who had to bear the burden of tugging a child around for the rest of her life, treated her close to indifferent, toeing the line of aggravation. 

as for mom, pretty and smart and married young with all her good looks, mom manages to remarry a short year after her first divorce.

then, intro dad #1! dad #1 who is madly in love with the woman he’s known since young. dad #1 was middle class, nice enough, and stupidly whipped. so much so that the divorce settlement three years later was hilariously put together. 

and, bit after came dad #2. dad #2, stupid rich and in love, was more or less the ideal husband. the duration of their marriage was when suran was enrolled in a private boarding school, you know—the christian kind that makes you wanna tear your hair out. and also when she first started ballet, all in the sweet year of eight.

she hated boarding school (and nuns, and mass, and sermons, and god) but in retrospect maybe it was better than staying home. but soon when shit got weird with dad #2, she and mom once again left the house. this time with a fatter settlement and even a trust fund for herself (hush money? hush money)

mom remarries again when suran transfers to hannam. and needless to say, in a bougie elite school like that one, people talk. rumors fly. girl with the mom who married 4 times is not exactly checking any boxes at school. so, we’ll say she wasn’t all too popular outside of her friend group. not like she cared about being popular anyway. though among her year, she’s generally quite spirited and loudmouthed, with a bit of temper to boot. 

then, like i said, little miss spiteful and hateful and scornful of her mom acts up. unclear as to why this was the plan, but the end result is all the same—after sleeping with her stepsibling, she successfully broke up her mom’s newfound happiness.

this time, shortly after the divorce the mother daughter pair decided to go their own ways. and suran moved into a studio nearby school for the start of junior year.

and clearly, this year was more or less the year our little bad got a little badder. stereotypical acting up with no parents around but let’s turn it up a notch. let’s act wild and live reckless. let’s date. let’s cheat. let’s fight. why the hell not? it isn’t like she’ll see any of these people after graduation.

truer words have not been spoken here. suran goes on to audition for her first ballet company after high school. gets in with ease, and begins her trek up to the stars.

she gets into the national ballet company around early 20s and works her way up to coryphée since then. this season, however, she’s been benched due to an altercation with another ballerina. and let me tell you, she is not taking it well.

which leaves her here, now, much older but still feeling as destructive and who the hell cares as she did in junior year of high school. practically regressing and making the same mistakes. sad.

personality

how do i say it—she’s a what you see is what you get type of deal. meaning, there’s a severe lack of pretenses, playing nice a tired act she’s left behind in high school. suran is generally pretty straight forward and obvious about what she likes or dislikes. nevertheless, it isn’t as if she’s a bad person. just a crude person. a spiteful person. a person that prefers bickering over compliments. a person that feels uncomfortable with a stranger’s outreached hand.

but she definitely bites. and she definitely has some mommy issues. craves affection like one wouldn’t believe. wants to smash some flat screen tvs in like you wouldn’t believe.

suran cares vey little about the social hierarchy, this was never meant to be her world anyway (and she’s not even that damn rich). snobby elites especially, just rubs her the wrong way. but since joining the ballet company, she’s had to do a bit of socializing and from there on, found a bit of growing interest in all the gossip.

ultimately the type to hold a grudge (and get even), wants to say she’s older and cooler and lets things go easier now, but that would be a complete lie. 100% she’s remembered anyone who’ve ever wronged her and will continue to for the rest of her life.

[chrseoha-deactivated20211209]

@suranchr / 2012

there was no explanation for her unruly actions other than her excessive need to save face. there really was nothing else that she could attribute as the reason, other than an overwhelming urge to win at anything and absolutely everything, for abandoning her extra study time during their lunch break and using that golden period, instead, to rather impolitely stuff her stomach. and there was nothing, nothing at all, more important to her in that heated moment than beating this punk sophomore in this god be damned eating contest. 

red ddeokbokki sauce dripped down her chin as eyes started to water from the spice. she wanted to win—she wanted to win so goddamn badly—but lo and behold, unbeknownst to most students in the audience, seoha was absolute trash at consuming spicy foods. they made her insides churn, set her throat on fire. it was as if she could literally feel the hotness of the chili searing the walls of her esophagus, rippling waves through the insides of her gut, and her brain screamed for water. she needed water. or ice cream. something cold and not spicy to put out the flames that were making her ears pink. god, this was so stupid! this entire match was just pointless; it wasn’t like someone was going to get her a certified award that said “best ddeokbokki eater!” and put it on her resume. the worst part of this situation was that seoha knew all aspects about it were completely fruitless. 

and yet, somehow she just couldn’t stop pushing herself. in mid-chew, eyes glanced to the left to see myo suran, a feisty girl from the grade below, shoveling food into her mouth, which was moving at an alarmingly fierce pace. it wasn’t everyday seoha found someone to match her level of competitiveness, the almost dumb need to be the best in every circumstance, but at hannam, she had met her foe. and a fitting one too. the underclassman was not easy.

she couldn’t remember exactly how many bets she had gone through with suran. their little ambitious fiascos had been endless, from seeing who was quicker to run a full five laps around the soccer field to going to a cafe and asking for the numbers of other guys just to make certain who was more liked by the other gender; their pettiness knew of no end and was, at least in her schedule, only now getting started. foot was on the accelerator, brake left unpressed. a spark had already been ignited. soon, they’d be ablaze, just like the one alight in suran’s eyes as she began to finish yet another bowl of the korean snack. 

“is it just me or is the ddeokbokki getting spicier,” seoha barely uttered through busy bites. it was just her luck that on their first eating contest, the designated food was something red and something hot. “seriously, i feel like i’m gonna snort fire out of my nose.” 

[suranchr]

     it’s not the worst decision she’s ever made. suran swears on this. swears on the back of high schoolers all over that it can’t possibly be. that at some point in time, someone has done this before. that someone had been equally foolish, easily filled to the brim with unfounded confidence and possessing an enforced spine (unwilling to back down). she doesn’t doubt that the phenomenon of being hilariously bigheaded and thinking yourself invincible is something that every teenager is cursed with. including the girl by her side.

     still. her eyes flick over to the side of seoha’s face in between bites of deok, lips twitching at the sight of red hot ears. maybe it’s not the worst idea she’s ever come up with. 

     though, her gaze returns to the seemingly endless bowl of ddeokbokki placed in front of her and she exhales past the numbing of her tongue, maybe it is. it wasn’t as if she was particularly good with spice either—or at the least, judging by how things are going on the flip side—maybe suran’s just a slim margin better than the upperclassman. not that it had been good enough reason to continue going with this stupid-and-pointless-yet-more-important-than-today’s-english-test eating contest. but if she didn’t call it quits on the track earlier last week when she was swallowing her own vomit, she definitely wasn’t going to throw in the towel now.

     which, one might ask, why? why would you do this to yourself?       and the answer she’d give, almost laughably stupid, is obvious. 

     it’s for bragging rights. for establishing dominance. for sating the competitive thing that’s wearing her girl skin. for pride, for her ego. for what else? having purpose while throwing herself into the inane. passing the time. fostering ‘good relations’ for a fucked up camaraderie in each and every way. and at the very end of it—for fun, damn.

     it certainly is fun, after all, to see kang seoha looking this pathetic. not that she should talk, suran could tell by the burning at the back of her neck and cold sweat down her back that she’s probably not much better. but still, a pettier side of her is enjoying this immensely. gleefully. 

     “so?” she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, hissing between closed teeth as she stabs a fishcake, takng moment’s pause to consider her words. no good is going to come out of this, suran knows. yet she can’t help the way her mouth twists into a jeer regardless, expression smug even with sauce on the corners of her mouth. “you gonna give in then? ready to take your rightful place as the loser?”

[minuchr-deactivated20211115]

Purple for @suranchr.

Static. It’s static, despite the noise that surrounds him, pulsing off of the speakers and weaving itself through the locale, akin to magic mesmerizing those it passes by. It’s static noise and it drives him insane, just existing there doing nothing; it makes him feel bored, as if he does not belong. He doesn’t even drink anymore, as it only makes him feel worse; more empty, alone, just further alienated. Another night spent without a purpose, yet trying to find it where he shouldn’t.

It’s when he sees her in crowd, a familiar face and perhaps the only face that is discernible within his mind, memory ingrained and thus recollected from years ago. Yet she’s standing with someone and Minwoo almost decides to just move on, until the person she is with turns for just enough light to shine on his face and for him to see it: slimy, repugnant, ugly, in a manner that not even a thousand of plastic surgeries can fix. He twists his lips and looks at her in a way at which Minwoo does not like. In fact, seeing them sets a feeling akin to a sharp knife through his stomach, cold and leaving him nauseated once it passes through his body.

“Hey, leave my girl alone,” emerges from behind them —— from behind the guy, his hand perched on his shoulder in a temperament that poses itself as overly friendly, though hostile fire crackles within Minwoo’s black eyes. He shoots a wink at Suran, casual. However, what he says isn’t really convincing, perhaps due to the booze coursing through his body and making him appear somewhat wobbly, or maybe because this saying never really felt natural or innate to him, despite the courageous quality such an intention carries. The fact that his guy just ignores him exasperates him further. He mouths something that — if it were audible instead of slurred, would sound such as: ’you horny sleazy fuckface’ — which is then followed by a a side-given headbutt. Now, he has to be noticed —— and he is, because the guy finally moves; or is rather forced to, because he stumbles away.

He smiles widely at her again, feeling at his head where impact makes his skin swell with redness already, both contusing and a droplet of blood he isn’t sure who it belongs to. The guy’s face was boney. “Hey, Suran ——— long time no see. I think he’s gone off to get security… And I think I’m hungry.”

[suranchr]

     a note before we start: myo suran was never meant to succeed. years of neglect has nurtured a creature disjointed. discombobulated. creature slave to her inhibitions, her temperament, the folly that is the her pride. that is not to imply that she is not capable nor qualified. but simply that she is crippled, excellent in form but somehow lacking in practice; incapacitated by her irrationality. 

     that the her that occupies her flesh now—a vindictive and vicious little thing—keeps her from further advancing her career. 

     in other words, till the day myo suran figures out the best way to slaughter the wicked creature dubbed pride, she’s stuck—living dead in the 48″ x 48″ x 96″ cage she’s built herself. what good is a flightless bird? bird who cannot reach for the skies, despite devoting years honing the strength in her wings. same with a ballerina who can’t—isn’t allowed to—dance. no good at all. and yet suran, no matter how much she recognizes the looming future (doomed career, broken dreams) if she continues to indulge in ugly thing that wears her skin, cannot for the life of her pry her mouth open in front of the director to say what she needs to say.

                                                                     that is to say, myo suran, you? you’re fucked.

     who said life gets easier after finding the source of your problems? what if she was the source of her problems? what if it’s the mom sized hole in her that’s acting up? stupid, you know damn well this is all you. well, whatever. she has wasted enough time pondering over this, hunched over her desk writing and revising and ripping the “reflection letter” that would save her career for days now. should she ever find the nerve(? is it nerve? or is it humility?) to hand it over. tonight, much like any other night since she was forced into her little ‘hiatus’, suran rather spend it not thinking.

     so naturally, naturally, we find our rotten ballerina tucked away in the innermost corners of itaewon, slumming it with the rest of the degenerates clinging like ticks to the soft underbelly of seoul. to be with her own kind, so to say, since ‘high society’ has long spat her out and left her in the dust. 

     now, to properly introduce today’s protagonist—we first require a catalyst. and as luck would have it, per the usual universal trope that transcends novellas and dramas and plays, a pretty girl by her lonesome will always exist to be some sort of glorified prey for some sort of inebriated creep on the prowl and a distressed damsel/prize for any ‘decent’ lead (the bar is low here folks, all you have to do is not be scum!). even if everything about suran to her core, spells otherwise; it doesn’t matter. this is how the story goes, tonight, last night, and however many nights prior, this is fact.

     this is myo suran, damsel with a glass of gin and tonic held precariously in her grasp. before her is tonight’s villain, looking as if he was bore on this earth to be casted into small-time sleazy asshole roles in dramas and from his mouth sprouts a cacophony of slurred syllables she can’t quite catch over the booming bass reverberating in her ears. not does it matter, men like him only want one thing or another. and nor the dead look in her eyes or the visible disdain on her face seems to deter him.

     but of course, we all saw that coming—no? this is, very much so, an intro for a hero.

     to his credit, though suran expected some sort of righteous paragon with a savior complex, she hadn’t really expected the way he announced himself. or even more so, the collision of his head against said villain’s—and then, even more so when he name drops her. and with his greeting, carries the implication that they’ve known each other prior. shot in the dark? it’s got to be high school. from there, there’s a significant pause, mouth agape as she struggles to find a name to stick to the face of her ‘hero’.

                                                                                     fuck. you don’t know him at all.    

     “hah, you’re fucking crazy.” suran speaks once she gathers herself, temporarily setting aside the notion of stressing over something silly like a name. (in the back of her mind, she dredges up the syllables and tests seungwoo? jungwoo? kyungwoo? behind closed teeth, finding distaste in the unfamiliarity of it all. what the fuck was it? it’s something-woo, she knows that much.) “no shit he went to get security.” she sighs around her frustration (why was it that she can’t remember a single thing?), hand snaking out for his wrist to tug him away from the crowd of moving bodies. where, off by the side of the bar and under red and purple strobe lights, suran takes the chance to eye the damage.

     but—is it fucked up? that memories only start to surface at the sight of ruby red on skin?

     “i’m clearly not sober,” she starts (warns?), dipping her fingers into her glass to pull out a cube of ice and somehow rationalizes that yeah, it’s a twofer—ice and alcohol (disinfectant?)—this’ll fucking work before pressing it against the side of his head. “and it’s been a minute,” suran flicks her gaze over his face, reconfirming the name floating in her head once more before settling on meeting his eyes, “but i don’t remember being particularly close, seo minwoo—so much so that you’d smash your head into a stranger’s for me.”

     “you on some kind of vigilante kick lately?”

[jdandchi]

NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT A GOD DAMN RELATIONSHIP AND LOSING WEIGHT AND BEING BEAUTIFUL FOR GODS SAKE GO OUTSIDE AND ROB A STORE AND FEEL ALIVE AS YOU RUN AWAY FROM SECURITY 

[suranchr]

𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 (please god do not reply for another week im serious move me to the back of the queue forget suran exists ill be ok promise)

@sunghochr, (x)

@chrwoohyun, (x)

@chrwoohyun​, @chryuhwan (x)

𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆

@minuchr, (x)

@chrminseok, (x)

@chrseoha, (x)

@sungheechr, starter​

@chryuhwan, (x)

@chrwoohyun, (x)

@chrjaehoon, (x)

[suranchr]

sunghochr​:

mother knows best, except it’s a lie — @suranchr​​

“it’s an upscale restaurant, surely you have something better than that.” 

“mother, this is a dormeuil vanquish suit. what more could you possibly want from me?” 

sungho replays the conversation in his head as he is seated at the back of one of seoul’s best steakhouses, a carefully curated private setting that his mother explicitly ordered the restaurant to create. only the best for his son, she had said. he thinks she is going overboard but allegedly his dinner date for the evening is someone who his mother is sure he will like and she is hardly ever this sure of something. his eyes wander around the open area of the restaurant, waiters bustling back and forth and tables chattering amongst themselves as they enjoy their lavish meal. surely he isn’t under-dressed in the sea of other suits that he can very quickly tell cost far less than his own. typical, worrisome for nothing. he thinks, a shake of his head and a light chuckle as he turns his attention to his phone that lies face down on the white tablecloth. 

picking the device up, he takes note of the time and takes a quick look around for a visual of his date for the night. his mother described her as a lean figure, auburn locks that go past modest shoulders, slightly above average in height with delicate facial features. the description would have been helpful, had he not been in this setting where just about anyone could have been his date for the night. he wonders why his mother never showed him a picture so he could at least spot the woman in a crowd but it’s a bit late for that now. he supposes she will arrive when she does and he shifts his focus to the device in his hand in the meanwhile, replying to messages and scrolling social media, taking intermittent sips of water as he does so. 

the minutes pass by but he barely notices, only being disturbed when he notes the appearance of sudden shadow over the table he occupies, looking up from his phone only to be faced with potentially the last person he wants to see in a situation like this. myo suran is an old classmate at best, definitely nowhere near a friend and barely scratching the surface of acquaintanceship; a little more than a stranger, though he wishes she could be one. the only thing they could possibly have in common is surviving hannam high school but if that’s his mother’s new basis of arranging dates for him, he would be going on dates with half of seoul at this rate. but nonetheless, he has an image of the yoo family to keep up so despite his burning desire to roll his eyes and walk away, he bares a stiff smile to the hostess, thanking her for bringing over his “date” and dismissing her before he turns to the female, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

“seriously? you of all people?”

     mothers love her. it’s almost ironic to think about. especially if you take into consideration exactly how much her own didn’t, how their relationship toed the fine line of outright loathing, how suran is sure her mother exists somewhere now, aged honeypot cursing the day she ever birthed the little parasite to begin with. but, that’s not the point here. the point is that mothers love her. the point is that, despite the growing up with no small amount of disdain towards her mother, suran did indeed spend every waking moment of girlhood striving for her good side. and in return, mother’s indifference aside, comes an abundance of “skills” that mothers in general, more or less, love in an ideal daughter-in-law. 

     but most mothers are stupid. they’ll look at the pretty face and ballerina career and hannam diploma and think she’s perfect. they won’t care for possibly misdemeanors nor the sharp words that seeps through a closed teeth smile. or at least, it wouldn’t have mattered till something more serious of relationship is formed. at the least, they’d try to pawn their sons off on her first.

     though, if anything she’s used to it. accustomed to the point of being able expertly swerve her way out of any propositions. curse of the baby face—or whatever the fuck it was that made mothers think she was of the demure and kind variant when she was evidently, everything but. in today’s case, the particulars that led to this situation at hand—where myo suran stands, just an elevator ride up from an upcoming train wreck—has to do entirely with the fact that she recognized the familiar features on that particular mother’s, and all that is further cemented by the image of her son that the woman had eagerly shown her prior. and, dun dun dun, as luck would have it, it’s yoo sungho of all people. a distant, but still very much so unpleasant memory of school days past. 

     perfect, she was just aching to ruin someone’s day. hell—week, if she feels like it.

     she’s dressed appropriately so for the occasion, knowing sungho (which, she really doesn’t. but the snobbish rich of hannam come a dime a dozen and he wouldn’t be any different) it’s better to cover over as much surface flaws as possible—if only to keep his mouth shut. still, suran can’t help the grin that cracks along her face when he takes note of her, widening further once his demeanor shifts. as expected, the king of fakes.

     “no wonder your mom was pushing like she was selling the last rotten fruit in the basket,” her lips quirk with the unspoken jibe, gesturing with her eyes at the chair before her, “well? aren’t you going to be a gentleman and get the chair, yoo sungho?” 

[suranchr]

                                            𝙞 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙩. 𝙞𝙩 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚. 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩                            𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙨, 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨, 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.                                                                                          ━━  m. hornbacher / @chrjaehoon

                                                                         \\

     𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙤𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚. as if. if anything suran is more so a spectator to the sport. a hungry pair of inquisitive eyes peering over the bastardized scrapbook rendition also known as mother’s dating (dating? wedding?) history. suran’s own has pages ripped, names crossed, corners singed, coffee stains, water damage, and question marks in farcical circus font that makes one wonder—what the hell are you doing? she’d like to know too. but what twenty-something didn’t have a fucked up ledger and a trail of fractured hearts and burned bridges? suran wouldn’t have considered it abnormal of her, knowing how people are, how she is, how ‘love’ (fickle and flighty) tends to be.

     all this, as one would imagine, is a popular conversation topic among ballerinas during early morning smoke breaks. love. dating. etcetera etcetera.

     and usually, a nosier ballerina, bony fingers struggling with a neon pink bic lighter would say: you just haven’t met the right person yet.      in which she, head swirling with nicotine and eyes sharp would spit: i’m not the right person [for that shit] ever thought of that?

     though, statistically, she isn’t far off. let’s recap. the last few years had been a case of cheating followed a case of fucking imploding into oneself (hers and hers, there’s no longer any way in telling where her issues ended and another’s started) followed by... well, nothing. did she need more? is she not two for two in shitty outcomes? is it not tantamount to the mess her mother left behind already? three broken hearts, two broken homes, and one mind-bogglingly corroded daughter? yeah, she’s not trying to top that.

     instead, suran sates the pathetic, quivering thing inside her with something else. raw, like a nerve, the thing we speak of is omnipresent, yanks at her hair and prickles the tips of her fingers. it presents itself at night as a crushing pressure on the sternum, a crawling up the spine that seeps into bone, a hollowed out crater in the crux of her hearth. it? it. loneliness. neediness. desolation. does a monster really need a name? 

     whatever it is, when it gets to be too much, she’s thankful for the likes of bang jaehoon. 

     it’s nothing special. the arrangement itself is purely for the sake of fiction. he, who needs some type of inspiration for his latest so and so (suran honestly didn’t hear a word past help and i’ll pay.) and she, who craves the occasional palliative touch in misplaced and utterly fabricated affection to quell her unease. 

     so, here she stands today. myo suran, girlfriend for hire. kinda.

     to her credit, she’s dressed according to part. like a freak, jaehoon had specifically detailed what his “type” entailed, from hairstyle down to the type of socks to pair with her shoes. all of which is the best ensemble she could put together based on the reference pictures he sent her prior. like i said, he’s a freak. but all of that prep is naught, if he doesn’t show up in the first place. and suran stands in front of the cafe a vision, like some sort of too pretty to be a piano teacher or a untainted demure sheltered flower or mother fucking lizzy bennet like he wanted. albeit, one with an unlit cig tucked in her frowning mouth.

                                                                                                                     he’s late. men.

[suranchr]

truth - if you could go one place in the world with one person in the world, where would it be and who would you take?

"probably @chrwoohyun." left unsaid: i owe him. out of everyone, i want to show him the world the most. "as for where, well, not sure." she fingers through the options in her head, "might not make sense, seeing as i'm more city girl than anything—but i'm thinking somewhere scenic, yanno? wide skies, endless horizons—looking like you can be swallowed up any given moment by sky or sea." she laughs, the sound like a wind chime from another room, warmth seeping out an open window. "i think he'd like that as much as me."

[suranchr]

          i miss you the most the moment before we part / all desire mimics that brink                                                        ━━  r. stockton / @chrwoohyun, FIVE MONTHS AGO

     𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙖𝙮. only, in her dreams, the sky is grey, convoluted with varying blotches of baleful grey clouds heavy as the weight on bony shoulders. in her dreams she is clad in a grey hoodie, yellow tshirt, and light wash jeans. tucked over the crook of her arm is a bouquet of yellow daffodils. worn on her face is a smile that fool the hardiest of men; a smile that says: welcome back, i missed you, you never left my mind. in her dreams, this very specific dream, reoccurring to the point of haunting, shin woohyun is always smiling. taller, older, but warm like she remembers. then, he approaches and naturally, she walks into his arms. heartfelt and raw is the long awaited reunion.

     then, he opens his mouth and the deep timbre of his voice shakes her to the core.

                                                       have you made well of the five years you took from me?

     but all that is merely a dream. reality, however, reality is much crueler. in reality, shin woohyun has never and would never ask of anything from her. nor does he hold any semblance of blame. anything akin to vexation or frustration or hurt. that’s what makes it so cruel. it wouldn’t have mattered if she did or didn’t ask him to take the fall years prior or if she hadn’t visited in months leading up to his release, woohyun would never blame her. would never fault her. would never hold anything beyond appreciation for just existing in his proximity. in fact all this and more is likely something he thinks he should do for her. 

                                                                                                                           and it’s cruel.              it’s cruel and gut wrenching, because suran isn’t sure she could do the same.                                                         because she isn’t sure she is deserving of any of it.

     nevertheless, she has to face reality all the same. and reality is just this: it is clear skies and shining sun, a notably blessed day in spring. it is her adorned from head to toe in mourning layers of black, tresses pulled into a sleek ponytail. it is the small plastic bag that hangs from lithe fingers, in it a block of fresh tofu. it is the grim that’s settled onto her face, soft lips twisted into a thin frown. reality has always been cruel and even liberation days like these are not an exception; never anything like it is to be romanticized in dramas or novels. at least, not for them. not for woohyun. not when the death of his only real family was but two days prior. 

     honestly, the timing of it all was sick. 

                       but what could she do? what could you do other than show up for once?                                                       mouthful of lies and bones heavy with guilt as you are.

     she spots him with ease amongst others. from afar stands the man she had been waiting for. shin woohyun, who she’s known for ten years now—five of which they spent conversing with double paned glass between them, and when she’s run out of the nerve to lie to his face (’how’s life as a big shot ballerina, huh?’ ‘well as principal dancer i...’) suran would write letters, posing to be overseas and “busy”.  she had always imagined this day from time to time, things she’d say, things she wouldn’t and things he would say. suran had even gone as far as to rehearse in her mind, in her dreams, in the cab just now. but to say she was prepared for the real thing, would’ve been a lie. 

    otherwise, she wouldn’t just be standing here, mind blank and heart racing when woohyun approaches. it’s one thing to be happy for his release, but suran knows fully well he would’ve rather five more years than lose his grandfather. “you got tall.” she finally relents, speaking around the unease in her throat, tone soft and rich with enough fondness that she hopes he can pick up on. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? congratulations? he’s watching you from heaven so don’t be sad? he doesn’t want to hear that. “here,” she moves after a second delay, hands lifting to peel back the bag and present the block of beancurd, white and unblemished as intended for all it’s supposed to represent. all that she isn’t.

                                                                 “eat.”

[suranchr]

UMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

[suranchr]

[suranchr]

                                          you perhaps now know that desire reduces us to pulp.                                                                    ━━  g. bataille / @chrwoohyun, circa ‘12

     𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩. for others, for herself. pitiful is the cursed thing that’s never learned to self soothe. that’s never been taught the how-tos to ease her demons. instead, suran carries under her belt a myriad of other set skills. how to lie to everyone. how to fool yourself. how to weaponize your teen angst. and, the more popularly regarded: best way to cope for a teenager. ignore it. swallow it. pretend it doesn’t exist till you can’t any longer. and if that fails? lash out. drag the rest of the world down with you. if you’re not allowed rest, not allowed reprieve, not allowed a flicker of warmth—why should anyone else? 

     like this, our wicked creature thrives off the virulent black tar that oozes from the crown. drenched in teen turmoil that gradually seeps into skin, between bone ligaments. utilizes it to strengthen her resolve and sharpen her teeth. in short, bitingly bitter as she is, myo suran is generally not the one to seek out for any kind of succor; for revenge or something of the sort, perhaps—but never this. 

     though, it isn’t exactly like he’s asking. 

     but—nonetheless, how is she supposed to deal with this? 

     the silence between them is unnatural. teeters on the edge of uncomfortable. knowing fully well by now what woohyun’s day to day demeanor is like or rather, what he was like just this morning, this afternoon’s version of him is especially unnerving. suran’s discomfort is evident, yet found only in the impatient tapping of her pen against her notebook, eyes locked on the downturned corners of his lips. it’s because they’re friends—because shin woohyun is the way that he is—that she’s more or less developed a sense of responsibility for him; that she’s this bothered by it. so much so she wants to swear at him for the unease settling in her gut. 

     “so?” suran is first to break the silence, fingers flexing around her pen; purposefully obtuse with the question she poses. what with how quickly gossip is passed from mouth to mouth in their class, it isn’t like she doesn’t already know. or at least, have some kind of inkling. but times like this, it’s better to hear it from the horse’s mouth. “what happened?”

[suranchr]

on an unrelated note: i finally made a discord! pls dm for it if it’s more convenient to plot on there than on ims ^^ pls also like f you’re interested in plotting...  👉👈

[suranchr]

truth - how do you sleep at night?

"with melatonin and some white noise," her eyes roll back, thinking back to her normal sleep routine. "though usually if there's practice prior i knock out easy." but that's not the actual answer you're looking for are you? "anything else, well, if i had a properly working conscience—" if i were a perfectly able human being with no rotting flesh and festering holes and a need for everyone to match the depth of my misery. "i wouldn't have done any of that in the first place, no?"

[suranchr]

truth ; do you believe in love at first sight?

"no, are you kidding? attraction maybe—but love?" she snorts, arms working to pull wayward tresses into a tight bun. "how gullible of a person do you have to be to believe in first impressions like that? can. not. be. me."

[saddeus]

The most horrifying moment in high school was when the boy I liked asked me if I was seeing anyone and I said, “no, why?” And he said, “Idk I just really think it would help if u saw like a therapist or something like that”

[suranchr]

@chryuhwan

[chryuhwan]

, LIFE’S NOT COMPLETE WITHOUT SOME KIND OF HAUNTING ”

       “christ on a fucking stick.” 

       the stairwell’s winding; not the good kind, either, but the dizzying kind. and the smell of cigarette smoke and something acrid feels especially strong the second the door closes behind him. there was a DO NOT ENTER sign abandoned somewhere in yuhwan’s wake, but he can’t bring himself to care. there’s an itch in his teeth, after all. he can’t get any work done at this rate. 

       three steps from the top and he stumbles. his tennis shoes are worn down. come to think of it, they were a gift from his parents, weren’t they? haven’t they heard? give a man a pair of shoes and he’ll walk straight the hell out of your lives! then again—maybe that’s what they wanted.

       hey man, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. focus. this isn’t the time to unpack. granted, it’s never the time to unpack. but right now, right this second, it’s especially not the time for letting his thoughts wander. mental olympics are his forte and in the summer, winter, fall, and spring, all he brings home are golds when it comes to running cyclical hypotheticals—but not now. not when there’s money on the line.

       the door to the rooftop’s unsecured, a broken chain dangling from pristine handles. he doesn’t think much about it when he shoves it open, and the humid air of seoul’s summers is hardly refreshing or crisp (sometimes, he pretends he can taste the light pollution—he imagines it’s what la croix tastes like) but it’s one hundred times better than trying to navigate a conversation with a bunch of two-faced people trying to curry favor with his pen and paper. 

       ah, well. he’s two-faced too. but two’s a crowd. three might as well be an apocalypse.

       behind him, the door clatters to a close. yuhwan presses his back to it and shuts his eyes again. breathes in. out. he mutters the national anthem under his breath like a mantra. meditation. zen. he’s doing this for money. never mind the fact that sometimes, when work sends him to report on real news, it feels like he’s navigating hannam all over again. he prefers the sensationalism; prefers speculating about whether person A did fucked up thing B or why person C screwed person D and all of their ancestors over. when he’s forced to show up somewhere with only the truth to confront—only the truth, raw and unadulterated—it’s too boring, too stifling, and he’s not into it.

       “fuck,” he sighs out again. the tip of his shoe feels worn, but the dull pain kind of draws him back into himself. god, this blows. and when he reaches, blindly, for a pack of cigarettes only to find he doesn’t have a lighter, he thinks, well, at least things can only look up from here.

       and looking up from here happens in a one-two step:

       first, he opens his eyes.

       second, he realizes he’s not alone.

       and because one’s lonely, two’s company, and three’s so contrary it might as well be right—

       third, he locks gazes with someone all-too familiar. and he really shouldn’t be so simple-minded, but the way the sun’s setting casts an orange curtain on ( SURAN )’s face—timed so perfectly that it almost feels so cinematic. 

       an unlit cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. he’d laugh, but he doesn’t want to waste a perfectly good cigarette. 

       “sorry,” he says, the curl of his lips too easy. “didn’t mean to interrupt. pretend i’m not here?”

[suranchr]

     𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩. a walking caricature of what she hates the most: prideful and temperamental and shameless. our ungrateful creature, despite avid denial, is a walking talking and fully functioning (in all things beyond emotional) replica of her mother. which, fuck, she gets it now. she gets why mom hated the sight of her now—who in the world would fancy looking into a mirror that so obviously shown each and every rotted fault? not mom. and not her, either. 

    instead, what suran does do—and this, dear readers, is done in equal hilarity, because whereas pride keeps her from bowing her head and admitting her wrongs, an innate hunger controls her, stubbornly so, and has her showing up for a practice she’s no longer invited to. and this our bitter ballerina knows well, but she can’t stop herself—she’s never properly tried—still, while suran had been initially filled to the brim with confidence when she stepped into the building, duffel bag in tow, she steadily lost all nerve by the time she neared the studio, swerving instead for the stairs—tell-tale shame hot on her coattails. 

    every step taken then is a stone cast at the impenetrable fortress encaging her heart, is a slow mount to a growing ire, is a prickle to the festering of bone deep malignancy. is her face hot and throat tight, is nails dug into the soft of her palm. the door to the roof is a welcoming sight, once kicked open, suran greets the muggy summer air with a greedy inhale and nearly chokes, bag slipping off bony shoulder and onto concrete with a dull thud. much like her career, as of late.

    but this, this too is also routine. location doesn’t matter, time doesn’t matter, suran is a creature of habit through and through—prone to the same mistakes through and through, cope the very same way through and through. all this, force of habit since the early days of high school, starts and ends the same way. 

    it starts with 32 fouettés. 64. 96. without music, all there is is the hustle and bustle of seoul accompany her; as is the quick thrum of her heart in her ears, the slow ticking looming in the near far back of her head; the million dollar question on everybody and hers’ mind: how long till myo suran collapses into herself? from there, it’s quicker, faster, more and more and more. till she can’t think. till she can’t breathe.

    today, however, spells for something different. spells for the presence of another to disturb our spiraling dancer. for a pair of brown eyes, equally surprised, that locks with hers—here, for the briefest of moments, she feels like she can breathe—and suran stops without meaning to, breath caught in her throat. 

    then, he speaks. from curled lips falls a short but sweet locution that dredges distinct familiarity beyond the deep depths of long forgotten that prompts a scoff, partially of disbelief, out of her. “and how do you suppose i do that? i’ve already seen you." suran plays along, iterating word for word with stark clarity; the first ever conversation between upperclassman nam yuhwan and her—she remembers all too clearly.

    though, right here and now, from her mouth to her ears it sounded more like a greeting than anything. a it’s been a while, it feels like. a i can’t believe you’re here, left unsaid, yet evident all the same with the matching curve of her lips. 

    “you can’t possibly tell me you’re here to avoid people.” you shouldn’t even be here in the first place.