summary: You and Dean are still reeling from the New Year’s party and he’s willing to do whatever he can to win you back.
word count: 3.7k+
cw: hurt/comfort, Dean has a panic attack, mention of both pregnancy and abortion
Dean lies in his bed, watching his ceiling fan spin and spin around. Well, what he can make out of it. He turned out the light but a little bit of the streetlight is peeking into his window. He's been in this position since he got home from the party and he can't get himself to move. Those two words replay over and over in his head and it's making him dizzy. He's still holding your pregnancy tests in his hand so he can't exactly convince himself that this was all a dream. God, he really wishes it was.
If he had any sense, he'd run over to your apartment right now and tell you how much he loves you and that he's going to stick by your side. But he's too much of a coward to do that, so he just lies there, continuing to beat himself up about the whole situation. It all replays in his head on a torturous, continuous loop as he stares into the darkness, occasionally checking his phone to see if you've texted him even though he knows damn well you haven't.
He stays like that until the sun comes up and then he has to get ready for practice. He only had a beer at the party but he feels so hungover, a horrible headache pounding in his head as he finally sits up. He kicks off his shoes and sets the tests on his desk before he heads down the hallway to the bathroom where he intends on taking a much needed shower.
He turns on the water as gets undressed, trying to figure out how the hell he's going to make it up to you but he highly doubts that he can. He's always been the kind of guy who never takes things too seriously and this was the one time he should have done the exact opposite. He really cares about you and now he went and fucked it all up because he's a goddamn idiot.
Truth be told, he's so embarrassed about the way he acted that he's very close to holing up in his room for the semester. He can't see you and he most certainly can't be a fucking dad-not now. He's only twenty-two for crying out loud. He thought he at least had some time after law school to settle down with a wife and have children and now it's all ruined.
Dean feels everything building up as the water rains down on his back and he lets out a frustrated scream, really hoping that no one is home to hear his breakdown. How the fuck could this have happened? He thought he was being careful, but apparently not. He doesn't get it, he used a condom every-holy shit.
He's suddenly remembering that one time you hooked up in the bathroom, this bathroom. You were both so drunk and so needy for each other that a condom wasn't even on either of your minds. He just wanted to know what you felt like without a barrier and now he's paying the price. This is what he gets for breaking his own rules and he can't believe he was so fucking careless.
He doesn't know why you're so different, though. Why you're the one he fell in love with. You're not like the other he's hooked up with and he latched onto that. Of course a lot of them read, but none of them have ever read to him to help him fall asleep. None of them have ever brought over his favorite whiskey before hooking up and none of them made him laugh the way you did. You'd have him cackling early into the morning when the two of you definitely should have been asleep.
"Fuck," he screams, pulling his hands down his face before putting some shampoo into his hand, taking some deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down but it's not working. His heart is pounding in his chest as he hurries to finish his shower because now he feels like the walls are closing in on him, his chest is so tight that it feels difficult to breath. His head is spinning and he has to grab onto the wall so he doesn't fall as he turns off the water.
Pregnant.
A baby.
He's going to be a dad.
He's going to be a fucking dad.
All the words are swirling around in his head, making him dizzy as he reaches for a towel and gets out of the shower. He wraps the towel around his waist before gathering his clothes and opening the door. As he goes to head down the hallway, he sees someone who's definitely not one of his roommates but might as well be with how often she's here.
"Hannah?" She marches towards him, fire in her eyes as she does so. He's never seen her this angry before and is almost afraid of what she's capable of.
She and Allie stayed up all night with you as you cried in their arms, blaming yourself for what happened even though everyone knows that it's not your fault. When you told her what happened, she almost came over here to get out her anger. She at least expected him to be more sympathetic, not just stare like a deer in the headlights when you told him the truth.
"Oh, hey, asshole." He better start digging his grave because he's so dead right now.
"You heard."
"Yeah, I heard. Don't worry, I'm not here to beat you up. I'm just getting the book she let you borrow."
"I haven’t finished it." That's met with a glare and he just puts his hands up in defense. "It's on my desk." She pushes past him and heads into his room, making a beeline for his desk where your copy of Little Women sits and she grabs it before storming out, making sure to shoulder check him when she passes again.
"I thought you were better than this. We both know that you're not the kind of guy who does this sort of thing so what the hell happened?" Hannah likes to think that she knows Dean very well-that there's more to him than just sleeping around. He's smart and sensitive and all she wants is for him to be happy. Whatever the hell happened last night was not him.
"I don't know, I panicked! I froze and now she fucking hates me." And that fact has haunted him since you left the bathroom. He can't get the heartbroken look you gave him out of his head. You looked so hurt and disappointed and you had every right to be. And he thinks he deserved way more than just a look. If he had been in your shoes, he would have thrown a punch.
"Rightfully so. You know, you're lucky I'm here and not Allie. She would have kicked your ass. I think she still might."
"I know," he nods, nothing but fear in his eyes as he thinks about how truly scary her best friend can be. "What do I do?"
"That's for you to figure out, but I'd suggest apologizing first. You're a good guy, Dean. you just need to show her that." Her hand gives his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze accompanied by a small smile.
"Thanks, Hannah." His smile matches hers and he goes to step into his room, stopping when she speaks again.
"Beth dies, by the way," she says, an evil smirk playing on her lips. "And Laurie marries Amy." Dean just shakes his head and finally goes into his room to get dressed before he's late, thinking that maybe he does have a chance to fix this.
Malone's is busy when you clock in for your morning shift. You're planning on throwing yourself into work and forgetting all about how you could see Dean at any moment. You're still reeling from last night, letting it all replay in your head over and over. You feel so stupid for telling him the truth like that, but you just couldn't hide it anymore. You felt like he had every right to know but clearly he couldn't give less of a shit so that was your bad.
You honestly don't know why you expected any different. Maybe because all of those late nights of staying up late laughing and talking about everything and nothing but they clearly didn't mean as much to him as they did for you. You knew what this was and were stupid enough to fall for someone who you know doesn't have girlfriends.
What, did you really think that he'd drop everything to be with you after you told him the truth? If anything, this was a reality check that you clearly very much needed. You were so nervous to tell him the truth and you think that you subconsciously knew that he would respond this way.
You start a new pot of coffee since it's already out and force yourself to go out onto the floor to take care of your section. You're moving on and you don't care about Dean anymore. Well, that's not entirely true, but you're definitely moving on. You're afraid that he'll get on his knees and beg and that you'll fold. You do think that maybe you'd forgive him but how the hell can you possibly let him into your child's life if that's how he reacts to you being pregnant?
You're taking an older couple's order when Dean enters. Your back is to him but there's no doubt that it's you. He doesn't even have time to approach you because Allie has intercepted, standing right in front him. She can't believe he has the nerve to show his face around here and fully intends on telling him as such.
"Sorry," she says, pressing her hand against his chest to stop him. "No Deans allowed."
"Allie what-" Before he can finish his sentence, she points to a ‘We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone’ sign with a smug smirk on her face. "You get to hurt my friend and expect to get away with it. Now run along."
She might be angrier than you about the whole thing. She was wary when you told her that you were hooking up with Dean because she knows how easy it is for you to fall for people. She knew what would happen and she feels like this is all her fault because she didn't warn you, just letting you go along with because you're an adult and can make your own decisions. Maybe if she had put a stop to it, none of this would have happened.
"I just want to talk to her." A little late for that, she thinks.
"Yeah, not happening. You've already done enough. Now get out of here before I make you." He know that that's a threat, not a promise so he turns on his heel and heads back outside to his car. Once he gets in it, he stays there for a moment, watching you through the window, not fully accepting that this is the only way he'll be able to see you. He's going to just have to try harder and he's okay with that.
You and Dean go through your days that seem to pass by in a blur. You're both on autopilot but you're playing off that you're fine much better than he is. He's a fucking wreck according to Garrett and you're not looking forward to potentially running into him on campus.
You're not worried, though. You refuse to let some loser get you down and you're going to take care of yourself. You cut your hair and bought some new clothes and it's like you're a completely different person. You feel more confident, completely unbothered. Dean Di Laurentis in the past and now you're focused on your career-the entire reason why you even transferred in the first place.
You graduate next year and you need to stop fucking around-literally. You spent so many months thinking about and spending time with Dean when your classes have been much more important. Your grades never slipped but you need to take this more seriously if you actually want to be a journalist like you planned.
It's better this way. At least, that's what you're telling yourself to make it hurt less but it doesn't. You're sitting at your desk, working on a paper when you think about how much you miss Dean kissing the back of your neck or your shoulder to get you to come to bed. You miss the TV being on one of those dumb reality shows that he would claim to hate but be fully invested in. You just miss…him as much as you hate to admit it.
You keep trying to convince yourself that you're better off without him but are you? You wish he hadn't been so stupid and fucked it all up. Really, you wish you both hadn't been so reckless at that party and then you wouldn't be in this mess. On top of all of the shit with Dean, you still don't entirely know if you're going to keep the baby. The window to get an abortion is closing, but you're entirely not sure if you want one. You're not against it by any means, but there's something stopping you any time you think about making an appointment. You think you've made your decision but really don't want to think about the weight of it. You can't, not now.
"I think this has got to be the stupidest thing you've ever done," Garrett says as he closes his locker before adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "And that's saying something."
They've finished up yet another practice and Dean was stupid enough to ask his best friend for advice. Garrett doesn't mind giving all the answers unlike Hannah. It's been weeks and any time he tries to talk to you, he gets intercepted by either Allie or Hannah. They tell him that you need some space but how long is it going to take before he can fix his fuck up?
"You think I don't know that?" Dean asks as little too loudly as he slams his locker closed. "I'm asking for your advice here, not your opinion."
"I think you should just be honest with her, tell her how you really feel." He rolls his eyes because, obviously, but he's a little-a lot-nervous that he'll just do the same thing. He doesn't think that the script he's written will hold up when he sees you and he knows that there's a lot of riding on this to get it right.
"What if I just clam up again? I can't have her walk out on me a second time."
"What was going through your head when she gave you the news?"
"That I'm too young to be a dad?" That was clearly the wrong answer because it earns him a slap upside the head. Garrett has been really patient with him these past few weeks but he knows that he's just as angry as your friends. Garrett trusted him to take care of you and look how well that turned out.
"There you go. That's your problem." He doesn't know why he's having to spell this out for Dean when he already knows what he's done wrong. But he's been throwing a pity party for far too long and the two of you need to figure this shit out once and for all.
"What?"
"You were thinking about yourself and not how she feels. Imagine if the roles were reversed."
"I'd be pretty fuckin' pissed." He's already gone through all of this in his head, but hearing it from someone else really makes him think. You're much better than him because if the roles were reversed, he would have cussed you out and called you every name in the book for being such a coward. That's the biggest news you could have given him and just sitting there and being dismissive was such a dick move.
"Exactly my point."
"What do I do? Hannah and Allie won't even let me see her."
"Let's go there now." Garrett suggests as they exit the rink and Dean's eyes widen.
"What?" This wasn't how he wanted to do it but what could it hurt? He just wants to have you in his arms again, to finally tell you that he loves you.
"Oh, you got something better to do, like mope in your room? Nuh-uh, let's go." Garrett pulls out his keys and Dean follows him to the car reluctantly but he can't deny that he does feel like a weight has lifted from his shoulders as he thinks about finally makes amends. He's finally going to get the girl.
It's movie night with the girls but you're not even paying attention. They even agreed to watch your favorite movie (again) but you can't get yourself to focus. You told yourself that you're moving on and focusing on school, but Dean always somehow manages to worm his way back into your brain. When you got an A on the paper you pulled an all-nighter working on, the first thing you wanted to do was text him the good news.
You think you're at the point where you can forgive him for what he did. From the many times he's tried to apologize, you think it's clear that he regrets what he did. You understand that the girls are just trying to protect you, but you can do it yourself. You know what's best for you and you think that might be Dean. He may have made a stupid mistake but he's trying so hard to fix it. Considering how regretful he seems, you know that he'd never hurt you like that again. He'll be here for you no matter what and you know he wouldn't be stupid enough to do it again.
Dean's racing down the hall as soon as the elevator opens, Garrett trying his very best to catch up. He needs to do this before he chickens out and he's so anxious as he knocks on the door, Garrett appearing behind him, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
You panic when you hear the knock, immediately snapped out of your thoughts. You just know that it's him and you're honestly surprised that it took him this long to show up here but you're glad that he's taken the hint to respect your boundaries up until now. You think you're ready to face him, to have a conversation.
You almost fall to the floor as you get up from the couch, hurrying to the door and ripping it open. Sure enough, there he is, still as beautiful as ever even though it's clear he's lacking sleep. His eyes widen, a relieved look on his face as he takes you in, the t-shirt he let you keep after the first time you slept together hangs loosely on your body and he feels like you're trying to torture him even though you had no idea he was coming.
You move out of the way to let the boys in and you just stare at each other as you wait for the other to make a move. You have half a mind to tell him how badly he hurt you but know for a fact that he already knows so you just stay quiet, your mind swirling with everything you could possibly say.
The apartment is dead silent, the TV now paused and everyone is just waiting for something to happen. Tears well up in your eyes as he approaches you like he would a spooked animal. His footsteps are slow but sure as he gets closer, noticing that you're not backing away. He's surprised when you let him wipe your tears and cradle your face in his hands. He's so gentle like always and the touch makes you melt, your legs feeling like Jello.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, tears welling up in his own eyes. "So sorry."
You stare into each other's eyes, both unable to hold back your cries, completely unaware that Hannah, Allie, and Garrett have gone to Hannah's room to give the two of you some privacy.
"You really hurt me," you whisper back and his heart shatters at how much pain is in your voice.
"I know. I'm here to make it right…if you'll let me." He lets go of your face and slowly drops to his knees, burying his face in your stomach, whispering that he's sorry over and over. This feels like a manipulation tactic that other guys have pulled on you but you know that Dean would be stupid enough to make apologies that he didn't mean.
"Whatever you want, I'll do it. I just-I can't live like this anymore. I know I fucked up and you have every right to never want to see me again but I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry." His chin presses against your stomach as his blue eyes bore into yours, nothing but apologetic and filled with regret.
"I forgive you," you reply and his eyes widen, like he's completely surprised by your words. "I-I love you, Dean." A huge grin breaks out onto his face as he stands, taking your face in his hands once again.
"I love you too," he replies as he pulls you into a kiss, this one filled with a type of passion neither of you have poured your other ones. It's one that's shared between lovers, which you suppose that that's what you are to each other now.
"Wait," you say as you pull away a little too soon for your liking. "We're getting ahead of ourselves." You grab hold of his hands and pull him to sit on the couch, watching his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I want to keep it." There's a beat of silence before you speak again. "I should have told you this before I told you that I loved you, but-"
"I'm in," he cuts you off. "We're in this together, okay? I'm not going anywhere." You smile for the first time in weeks, pulling him in for another kiss, thinking that maybe, just maybe that this will all work out.
You can find the rest of the Deanverse here!
Hi! I’ve noticed the abundant messages asking for the next part— unfortunately, I am only one person and I can only work so fast. I also have other writing projects I want to work on while this ‘verse comes into fruition. The next part will be up when I’m able to get it up!
If you'd like to be added to this taglist as well as any of my others, feel free to fill out the form pinned on my blog! (I currently have my comments off because people have been asking to be tagged and the comments get buried in my notifications and I don’t want anyone to be left out! For 20+ only. Teens/ageless blogs will be blocked!)
The last show in Vegas had just been wrapped up. The boy's buzzing with adrenaline and excitement of being on stage performing with army's – and not to mention winning 'Artist of the year' at the AMA's just last night. Drinks and laughs are filling backstage.
The night is still young, vegas never sleeps and the boys took that very seriously. It's currently 2:49am. Jungkook finally slids his room key into the slot of the door and stumbles in while Namjoon guides him onto his bed. "Hyung–ah, one more!" Jungkook says giggling while he hits the bed and rolls onto his back.
"You're a mess," Joon says laughing as he throws him his phone. "Try at least getting some sleep, we're leaving early tomorrow." He says before grabbing a water bottle from the mini fridge, leaving it open on the hotel's nightstand for him to have for his hangover.
Door shuts with a light creak. The city lights shining down into the dark hotel room. His phone lights up next to him and it was a tiktok notification, nothing important. But what was, you're text from six hours ago wishing him a goodnight and prayers for tomorrow's flight.
Even in his drunk you manage to make his life a whole lot better, even if it's just from a simple message.
He doesn't think twice, doesn't care about the fact that you're asleep he misses you, and he needs to speak to someone to keep him sane from the inevitable pain that's starting to form in his head.
The phone rings, rings, rings, and on the last ring he almost hangs up and calls it a night. "Baby?" You sound like if you're rubbing your eyes from barely waking up. "Hi my love," He says softly finally considering that he just woke you up.
"It's so late, what's wrong?" You don't say it with a tone, you know he's either unable to sleep or in this case, under the influence. "Nothing...well yeah something," His voice sounded funny.
"M'mm sooooo drunk." Jungkook says with a grin on his face you could hear him giggling through the microphone of his phone.
You're now fully awake, smiling knowing how he is in his drunk state and how much trouble he probably got Namjoon with God knows how many drinks he had and how much liquor he consumed.
A little laugh leaves you without trying too, a little smile forms in your lips as you try to help him as much as you can to at least have him sober by sunrise. "Really pretty boy? Couldn't tell." The words hit him like a dagger to his heart, yet the pet name made his brain foggy.
The rest of the time is him babbling nonsense. The way he speaks amuses you, it's like talking to a toddler. "Miss you," "Yeah? Me–" "You're pussy..." Something that had been innocent turned filthy in just a moment of seconds. Theres two sides to this man when he's gone on his liquor, the needy side or "Fuck, miss your pussy s'much..." You can't even handle yourself, just by his words you feel your legs cross to keep the pulsing between your legs controled.
Just like that the energy shifted – from little silly things being said to now pure want and need. "Yeah?" Finally responding to him.
"My pants hurt, super tight." Jungkook says starting to palm himself through the denim. "...Take them off." The words fall out before you could think about what to say. Of course, he listens. His pants pulled down to his ankles kicking them off the bed like nothing.
"Pretty boy, tell me what you miss." You're almost positive he's already started without you, not wasting time you kick off your sleep shorts. "Pull down your boxers."
He's such a good listener doing everything you say as soon as it's told. It could be from the fact that he's now turned on and that's making him sober again, but he feels so desperate for friction.
His hand moves to yank off the Calvin Klein boxers, his bulge standing loud and proud. Pink tip so prominent and irritating. "Miss your voice, lips...goddamnshit-!" His fingers grazed the tip of his milking tip, the touch felt like he was on fire, edging himself the way you do when he finally decides to let you have your way with him.
"Touch yourself – however you wang baby, just finish f'me, you deserve it." As much as you wanted to instruct him you were just as needy and ready to finally be able to touch yourself since he left to tour with the boys. You needed this just as much as him.
Without warning, you slip your hand into your laced panties — trailing your fingers down into your folds to tease yourself the way he would. He does the same, his arm covered in tattoos strokes himself lazily as his breath hitches with the way his palm glides up and down his shaft. The veins of his cock making him sensitive.
"Miss your mouth full of this dick." The way he spoke to you made you weak, fuck distance you need him home to you immediately. "Keep talking kook," You pant out while slipping a finger into your already soaked cunt. "You're hips, when I hold them while you ride me." With his words you remember the bruises he would leave behind due to his grip on your hips as he'd hold you down to be able to fuck up into you.
His pase quickened with the thought making him even harder. You're now adding a second finger, trying to reach the places he does with his long slender fingers he uses to make you open up enough to take him whole. Jungkooks moans fill the mic once more, fisting himself faster while you're whimpers cry out from the phone.
His free hand comes to unzip his black hoodie — leaving it open to his grey tank top trying to calm down the heat burning his skin from how badly he needs you.
"I-I won't last, oh fuck-!" Jungkook says gritting out, his moans are pathetic. The sound of the bed creaking under him at how fast he's fucking himself makes you spread your legs wider and shove a third finger to match his pase. "You got it—ha, let go."
With his head thrown back snd biting down on his bottom lip, sucking on his piercing as his face contorts from the pleasure. His wrist reaches down to his base as he squeezes himself. "Oh, m'mm. Sh-shit!" His head rolls back into the pillow as his cum shoots out milking his palm and now splurged onto his stomach right above his happy trail.
You're fingers speed up. Fingering yourself like you're life depends on it. Huffing out the name of your boyfriend repeatedly as your face smoothers down into his side of the bed that still smells like him. Humping you're fingers to the scent of him still left behind.
"You're so close, c'mon baby." He's still recovering from his high, not carrying if he just came. His priority is you even from cities away. "Curl them, just like you love it." And you do, curling your fingers making your back off arch the bed. You're legs twitch and threaten to shut. Yet you keep going, pumping them in and out.
After reaching your climax the two of you stay on the phone. Silence filled both separate rooms but the air changed and that spoke for itself. Cum still coating your fingers as the phone rest on your stomach. "You gonna wash up?" You say.
"Still so tired." Jungkook says with a yawn exhausted from everything and from cumming all over himself just a minute ago. "You have to be ready for tomorrow though, joon's going to kill you."
Before grunting again in annoyance he considered it once more realizing he should take your advice.
"Fine, can we atleast shower together?" He's dead serious, that's the funny part. "Anddd how would we do that?" You question. "Facetime me naked and we virtually shower together." He immediately knows you're shaking your head — knowing you're going to say no.
"Okay then," With that you're phone props up and you begin to get off your bed and undress for him. "Yeah you're touching yourself in the shower." He's says as he does the same.
「pairing」 : childhoodbestfriend!yeosang x artist!femreader
「word count」 : 22.2k
「genre」 : extreme angst with some fluff elements, childhood best friends to lovers, non!idol au
「summary」 : when childhood best friends harbor secret feelings for each other, one's silent battle with depression and self-harm reaches a devastating breaking point. after a near-fatal suicide attempt, they must navigate trauma, healing, and the complicated journey of learning to love themselves before they can love each other
「warnings」 : slow burn, mutual pining (years), emotional hurt/comfort, living together, kissing, it's genuinely such a beautiful story. PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING this story includes mental health crisis, panic attacks, suicidal ideation, PTSD and trauma responses, depression, anxiety, prescription drug abuse, self harm involving cutting, suicide attempt with graphic depiction of blood loss and overdose, psychiatric hospitalization, therapy, concealing self harm scars. if ANY of these topics are triggering, please do not read. like seriously.
「author's note」 : god i cried so much while writing this. there is definitely big potential for a sequel of you guys are interested. please take the warnings seriously , and my dms are always open if you need someone to talk to. love you guys<3
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ACT I - DISCOVERY
The pill bottle rattles in my hand like a promise - or maybe a threat. I can't tell the difference anymore.
I twist the cap off, shake two tablets into my palm. The prescription label is worn from my thumb rubbing over it obsessively: Take one tablet daily as needed for anxiety. Do not exceed recommended dosage. I've gotten very good at exceeding recommended dosages. I've gotten even better at hiding it. Two more. That makes four today. Or is it six? I've lost count.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, and his name lights up the screen. Yeosang: Still on for tonight? Been craving that Thai place all week.
My chest constricts - that familiar combination of warmth and guilt that comes every time he reaches out. Which is often. Which is always. Fifteen years of friendship means he texts me about everything: the weird customer at his architecture firm, the new coffee shop he found, the way the sunset looked from his apartment window. Things normal people tell their best friends.
Things I stopped deserving somewhere along the way.
I swallow the pills dry, chase them with water from the tap, and stare at my reflection. The girl looking back knows how to put on a show. Foundation to cover the shadows under her eyes. Long sleeves even though it's August and the heat is suffocating, a tinge of a burning sensation on her arms. A smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes but gets close enough that most people don't notice.
Me: Wouldn't miss it. 7?
Yeosang: Perfect. I'll pick you up. Wear something comfortable, I'm thinking we might walk by the river after if you're up for it.
The river. Where we used to go as kids, before everything got complicated. Before I realized I was in love with my best friend. Before the weight of existing became too much to carry.
Me: Sounds good.
I set the phone down and pull my sleeve up, examining the fresh lines on my forearm. Three days old, still pink and raised. I've been doing this for eight months now, and I still can't articulate why. My therapist - the one I stopped seeing two months ago because I couldn't stand the concerned look in her eyes - would probably say it's about control. About making the internal pain external, visible, real. I think it's simpler than that. I think I just deserve to hurt. I would much rather focus on physical pain than emotional.
The sleeve goes back down. The bracelets go on - three of them, stacked, a precaution. The smile gets practiced in the mirror one more time. Showtime.
-
My apartment is a study in careful maintenance. To anyone else, it looks normal: books arranged on shelves, plants that are somehow still alive, art prints on the walls. What they don't see is the empty vodka bottle hidden in the back of the cleaning supply cabinet. The blade tucked inside the tampon box under the sink. The old pill bottles from prescriptions I told my doctor I'd finished, stashed in a shoebox in my closet.
I'm a functional disaster. The best kind, really. The kind no one suspects.
I met Yeosang when we were seven. He moved in next door with his mom after his parents' divorce, this skinny kid with dark hair and eyes too serious for his age. I'd been building a fort in my backyard - something elaborate involving bedsheets, clothespins, and an optimism about engineering I definitely didn't earn. The whole thing collapsed on me.
He climbed over the fence without asking, helped me untangle myself from floral-print cotton, and said, "You need better structural support. And probably duct tape." We rebuilt it together. It stood for three weeks, survived two rainstorms, and became our headquarters for an entire summer of adventures. We were inseparable after that.
Childhood with Yeosang was easy. Uncomplicated. We were the kids who did everything together: same classes when we could manage it, same lunch table, same group of friends. He taught me how to kick a soccer ball properly. I taught him how to french braid hair after his mom asked if I could help with his little sister. We had sleepovers where we'd stay up too late watching movies and talking about nothing and everything.
Somewhere around sophomore year of high school, I realized I'd stopped seeing him as just my best friend. It was gradual, then sudden - the way his laugh made my stomach flip, how I started noticing the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the flutter I'd get when his hand would brush mine.
I never said anything. Neither did he.
We went to different colleges - him to the state school for architecture, me to a small liberal arts college two hours away for art and design. We kept in touch, visited when we could, maintained the friendship even as we built separate lives. Then we both ended up back here in the city, like gravity pulling us back to each other.
That was three years ago.
Three years of grabbing coffee between work meetings. Three years of movie nights and inside jokes and the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from knowing someone more than half your life. Three years of me pretending I don't notice the way he looks at me sometimes - like he's trying to solve a puzzle he doesn't have all the pieces to. Three years of falling more in love with him while simultaneously falling apart.
-
The first time I took too many pills, it was almost an accident. Bad day at work, my anxiety ratcheting up to the point where I couldn't breathe, and I just... kept taking them. One, then another twenty minutes later, then another. The floating feeling was immediate. The panic receded. Everything got soft around the edges. I liked it too much.
The cutting started later. Four months ago, after a particularly brutal week where everything felt like too much - my job demanding creativity I was unable to scrape together, my parents calling to check in with voices full of expectation, Yeosang asking if I was okay with eyes that saw too much.
I'd been standing in my kitchen, washing a glass, when it slipped and shattered in the sink. A shard caught my palm, drew blood, and instead of the panic I expected, I felt... clarity. The sharp, bright pain cut through the fog. Made everything real again. I cleaned the cut, bandaged it, and thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn't.
Now I do it when the numbness gets too thick. When the pills make everything fuzzy but don't make anything better. When I need to feel something, anything, even if it's pain. Especially if it's pain.
My phone buzzes again. Yeosang: You better not be working. It's after 5. I know you.
A genuine smile tugs at my lips despite everything. He does know me. Or at least, he knows the version of me I've let him see.
Me: Caught me. Finishing up now. Promise.
Yeosang: Liar. I'm coming up.
My heart stops. He can't come up. The apartment is fine, but I'm not. I haven't put myself together yet, and he's gotten too good at reading me. One look and he'll know something's wrong. He always knows.
Me: No need! I'll come down. Give me 10.
Yeosang: Too late. Already in the lobby.
Shit. I scramble, shoving the pill bottle into my makeup bag, checking my sleeves, practicing my expression. The knock comes exactly two minutes later - his signature three quick taps.
When I open the door, Yeosang fills the doorway in that way he's always done, all five-feet-nine of him in a faded blue henley that makes his eyes look impossibly warm. His dark hair is slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and there's a coffee stain on his sleeve that he definitely doesn't know about yet.
"You're early," I say, stepping back to let him in.
"You're deflecting." He studies my face with that too-perceptive gaze. "Bad day?"
"Just tired." The lie comes easily now. "Work was a lot."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he moves into my living room like he belongs here - because he does. He's been in this apartment a hundred times, knows where I keep the good snacks, which cabinet has the coffee mugs, that the third floorboard from the window creaks.
"Give me ten minutes to change?" I say, already backing toward my bedroom.
"Take your time." He's already settling onto my couch, grabbing the remote. "I'll queue up that show you won't admit you're obsessed with."
I flip him off, which just makes him laugh - that easy, genuine sound that makes my chest ache. I retreat to my bedroom before he can see my expression crack. In the safety of my room, I press my back against the door and close my eyes. I can hear him through the thin walls, humming absently to himself. The knowledge that he's here, solid and real and caring, should be comforting. Instead, it makes me feel like I'm drowning.
Because I know what's going to happen. I can feel it building under my skin, the way I've felt it building for weeks now. The pills aren't working the way they used to. The cutting brings less relief. Everything is getting dimmer, more distant, like I'm watching my life through a foggy window.
And Yeosang - my beautiful, kind, patient Yeosang - keeps looking at me like I hung the stars. Keeps showing up. Keeps caring. I don't know how to tell him I'm not worth it. That the girl he thinks he knows is just a carefully constructed facade, and underneath there's nothing but static and emptiness and the overwhelming desire to just... stop.
I change into jeans and a lightweight long-sleeved shirt, reapply my makeup, check my reflection one more time. The girl in the mirror looks fine. Normal. Maybe a little tired, but who isn't? When I come back out, Yeosang's expression does something complicated - a flash of something heated before it smooths into his usual easy smile. "Ready?"
"Ready."
He stands, and for a moment we're too close in my small living room. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean. Close enough to see the cute birthmark that blooms next to his eye.Close enough that when his hand comes up, presumably to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I forget how to breathe.
But he stops himself, hand dropping back to his side. "Let's go before they run out of pad thai."
The moment breaks. I can breathe again. Or maybe I can't. I've forgotten the difference.
-
Dinner is good because Yeosang makes everything good. He tells me about the nightmare client who keeps changing their mind about the design for their house, does an impression of his boss that has me genuinely laughing, asks about my work with actual interest. He orders my favorite dishes without asking, remembers I hate cilantro, splits the mango sticky rice with me even though I know he doesn't like it that much. He's thoughtful in the way that comes from years of knowing someone. From caring about someone.
And I'm sitting across from him, smiling and laughing and participating, while my mind catalogues all the pills in my bathroom cabinet. While my forearm itches under my sleeve. While the voice in my head whispers that this - this ease, this comfort, this love - is something I'm about to destroy. God, why do I keep thinking about the pills?
"Sweetheart, you're doing it again," Yeosang says softly.
I blink back to the present. "Doing what?"
"Going somewhere I can't follow." His eyes are searching mine, concerned. "You've been... different lately. Distant."
My heart rate picks up. "I'm fine."
"You say that a lot."
"Because it's true."
He reaches across the table, and his hand covers mine before I can pull away. His palm is warm, calloused from his weekend woodworking hobby. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. I'm not just here for the good stuff." The sincerity in his voice makes me want to scream. Makes me want to tell him everything. Makes me want to run. I do what I've gotten best at: I deflect.
"I know," I say, squeezing his hand before extracting mine to grab my water. "I'm just tired. Work has been insane, and I haven't been sleeping great. Nothing major."
He looks like he wants to push, but he doesn't. He never does. Yeosang has always given me space, respected my boundaries, waited for me to come to him.
He doesn't know he's running out of time. We walk by the river after dinner, just like he suggested. The city lights reflect off the water, and there are couples scattered along the path, holding hands and stealing kisses. We maintain a careful distance, not quite touching but aware of every inch of space between us.
"Remember when we used to come here as kids?" Yeosang says, hands in his pockets. "You were convinced there were fish big enough to eat us."
"There were! I saw one!"
"You saw a stick."
"A very large, predatory stick."
He laughs, and the sound settles something in my chest momentarily. "You made me check the water before you'd put your feet in."
"And you did it every single time without complaining."
"Well, yeah." His voice goes softer. "That's what you do for people you - " He cuts himself off, clears his throat. "For your best friend."
The unfinished sentence hangs between us, heavy with everything we don't say. We walk in silence for a bit, and I try to memorize this. The way the lights shimmer on the water. The sound of his breathing beside me. The way the late summer air feels against my skin. I try to hold onto it because some part of me knows these are the last normal moments we'll have.
"Can I ask you something?" Yeosang says eventually.
"Always."
He stops walking, turns to face me. His expression is serious in a way that makes my stomach drop. "Are you happy?"
The question catches me completely off guard. "What?"
"Happy. Are you happy?" He's watching me carefully, and I realize this isn't a casual question. This is the question he's been building up to, maybe for weeks.
I should lie. I'm so good at lying now. But it's Yeosang, and it's late, and I'm so tired of pretending. "I don't remember what that feels like anymore," I admit quietly.
His face crumples, just for a second, before he schools it. "How long?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." His voice is fierce. "It matters. You matter. Talk to me. Please."
And I want to. God, I want to. I want to tell him everything - about the pills and the cutting and the way I wake up every morning wishing I hadn't. About how I'm in love with him and how that makes everything worse because I can't give him what he deserves. About how I'm so tired of fighting and I don't think I can do it anymore. But the words stick in my throat, tangled up with fear and shame and the certainty that if I say them out loud, it'll make them too real.
"I'm just going through something," I say instead. "I'll be okay."
"Let me help."
"You can't."
"Try me."
I shake my head, force a smile. "I'm fine, Yeosang. Really."
He looks like he wants to argue, but something in my expression must convince him to let it go for now. "Okay," he says quietly. "But I'm here. Whenever you're ready." The walk back to his car is quieter. He drives me home, and when he pulls up to my building, he turns to me with an expression I can't quite read. "I meant what I said," he tells me. "I'm here. Whatever you need. Even if it's just sitting with you in silence. Even if it's three in the morning. I'm here." The kindness in his voice is going to break me.
"I know," I whisper. "Thank you."
For a moment, it looks like he's going to say something else. His hand reaches out, cups my cheek gently, and his thumb brushes across my trembling bottom lip to my cheekbone. The touch is electric, devastating, everything I want and can't have.
"Goodnight," he says softly.
"Goodnight."
I get out of the car before I do something stupid like kiss him or confess or beg him to save me. I wave from the building entrance, watch him drive away, and then I stand there in the lobby until my legs stop shaking. By the time I make it back to my apartment, the fog has settled back in, thick and suffocating.
-
I don't remember making the decision. That's the thing about this moment that I'll replay in therapy later, in the hospital, in the quiet moments when I'm trying to understand how I got here. I don't remember a concrete choice. Just the slow inevitability of it, like walking toward a cliff edge you've always known was there. Yeosang texted me this morning about getting dinner tomorrow night. Some new burger place he wants to try. I told him yes, already knowing I wouldn't be there.
My apartment is quiet. I put on music - something instrumental, no lyrics to get caught in my head. I've already called in sick to work for tomorrow, vague excuses about a stomach bug. I've typed out texts to my parents, to my coworkers, to Yeosang, and saved them in my drafts folder. The one to Yeosang is the hardest. I've rewritten it six times.
I'm sorry. This isn't your fault. You've been the best thing in my life, and I'm sorry I couldn't be better for you. I love you. I've always loved you. I'm sorry that's not enough to make me stay.
My hands are shaking as I delete it again. What's the point? He'll know anyway.
I've laid everything out on my bathroom counter with a precision that would be funny if it wasn't so devastating. The pill bottle - three different prescriptions I've been hoarding. The blade. A glass of water. A towel. I'm thorough, if nothing else.
The pills first. I take them methodically, one after another, chasing them with water. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. I lose count. The bottles are half-empty by the time I set them down, and I can already feel the floating sensation starting, that detachment I've been chasing for months.The blade next. I don't even feel it anymore, just watch the blood well up in neat lines. More than usual. Deeper. The red is vivid against my skin, almost pretty in a terrible way. I sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, and wait.
The world starts to blur. My phone buzzes somewhere in the distance - probably Yeosang, probably texting about something mundane and sweet. I should have turned it off. I don't want his voice to be the last thing I hear. But I'm too tired to move now. My wrists were bloodied and damned. The pills are pulling me under, and the blood loss is making everything hazy. My apartment tilts sideways, or maybe I do.
It's peaceful, in a way. Quiet. The music has stopped, or maybe I just can't hear it anymore. I think about Him. His beautiful face. About the way he laughed at dinner last night, the way his hand felt on my cheek, the way he's been trying so hard to reach me through the walls I built. I think about our fort in the backyard, about summers by the river, about all the moments of my life that have been better because he was in them. I'm sorry, I think. I'm so sorry.
The darkness creeps in at the edges, and I let it.
-
Time stops meaning anything. I float in and out, aware of nothing and everything at once. But then there's noise. Knocking. Distant at first, then insistent. Pounding.
"Open up! Come on, this isn't funny!" Yeosang's voice. He sounds... wrong. Panicked. More pounding. "I know you're in there!"
I try to move, try to call out, but my body won't respond. The pills have me in their grip, and everything is so heavy. The pounding stops. A moment of terrible silence. Then the crash of the door breaking in. "No. No, no, no, no"
His voice breaks on the last no, and then he's there, in the bathroom doorway, and the sound he makes is inhuman. Raw. Destroyed.
"What did you - oh God, my baby, what did you do?" He's on the floor beside me, hands shaking as they hover over me like he's afraid to touch and break me further. His face swims in and out of focus above me, and his eyes are so wide, so terrified.
"Stay with me," he's saying, over and over like a prayer. "Please stay with me. I've got you. I've got you."His hands press against my arm, trying to stop the bleeding. One hand fumbles for his phone. "I need an ambulance. Now. My friend - she's - there's blood, so much blood, and pills, I think she took pills-" His voice cracks completely. I've never heard him cry before. In fifteen years, I've never heard him sound like this. "Please hurry. Please. She's barely conscious. I can't - I can't lose her." His hand finds mine, grips it so tight it almost hurts. Almost. I can barely feel anything now. "Look at me," he demands, and his face is so close to mine, streaked with tears. "Look at me. Stay awake. You have to stay awake."
I try. For him, I try.
"That's it. That's good. Keep looking at me." His thumb rubs circles on my hand. "Help is coming. Just keep your eyes open. Just a little longer."
I want to tell him I'm sorry. Want to tell him I love him. Want to tell him all the things I should have said before I made this choice. But my lips won't move. Nothing will move.
"I should have known," he's saying, almost to himself. "I should have pushed harder. I could see you slipping away and I just - I gave you space when I should have-"
The sirens are getting closer. I can hear them now, or maybe I'm imagining them.
"They're almost here. Stay with me. Please don't leave. I can't-" His voice drops to a whisper. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I've loved you for years. So you have to stay. You have to."
The confession I've waited forever to hear, and I'm dying as he says it. The irony would be funny if everything wasn't so tragic.
Paramedics flood into my apartment, their voices professional and urgent. Yeosang is pulled away from me, still trying to hold my hand, still saying my name. They're asking him questions. What did she take? How much? When did he find her? His voice answering, broken: "I don't know. The bottles are there. Maybe twenty minutes? I don't - she wasn't answering her phone, and she always answers, so I came over and-"
Hands on me now, checking vitals, applying pressure to my arm, inserting an IV. Everything is happening so fast and so slow at once. "We need to move her. Now."
They lift me onto a stretcher. The apartment ceiling passes above me in a blur. Yeosang's face appears again, keeping pace as they wheel me out. "I'm coming with you," he tells the paramedics. It's not a question.
In the ambulance, he holds my hand. His thumb traces patterns on my palm, grounding and gentle. "You're going to be okay," he says, but he sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "You're going to be fine. We're almost there. Just hold on."
I want to hold on. For the first time in months, I desperately want to hold on. My eyes are so heavy. The darkness keeps trying to pull me under.
"No," Yeosang says sharply, squeezing my hand. "No, don't close your eyes. Look at me. Stay with me."
I try. I try so hard.
His face is the last thing I see before everything goes black - tears streaming down his cheeks, terror in his eyes, and something that looks an awful lot like love. "Don't leave me," his voice follows me down into the dark. "Please don't leave me."
And then there's nothing at all.
ACT II - HOSPITAL
The first thing I'm aware of is the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, proof that my heart is still beating even though I didn't want it to. The second thing is the weight - not physical, but crushing nonetheless. Shame. It hits me before I even open my eyes, before I remember where I am or what I did. My body knows. My body is screaming at me with every ache, every IV pull, every restricted movement. I failed at the one thing I thought I could control.
When I finally manage to open my eyes, the ceiling is unfamiliar. White tiles, fluorescent lights, the kind of sterile cleanliness that can only mean hospital. My throat is raw - from the tube they must have used, from screaming, from something. Everything hurts in a distant, muted way that tells me I'm heavily medicated.
I turn my head slowly, and that's when I see him. Yeosang is asleep in the chair beside my bed, his body folded at an uncomfortable angle, his hand stretched out on the mattress near mine like he'd been holding it before exhaustion claimed him. His face is pale, dark circles under his eyes, dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He's still wearing the same clothes from… How long ago was it? A day? Two days?
The memory crashes over me. The pills. The blade. His face above mine, destroyed. The ambulance. His confession. I love you. I've loved you for years. Oh God. Oh God, what have I done to him?
I must make some sound - a whimper, a gasp, something - because his eyes fly open immediately. For a second, he just stares at me like he's afraid I'm not real. Then his face crumples, and he's leaning forward, both hands reaching for mine. “You're awake." His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "You're awake. Oh thank God, you're awake." I try to speak, but my throat won't cooperate. He's already reaching for the water cup on the side table, helping me take small sips through a straw. The care in his movements - so gentle, so careful - how he has always been..
"I'm sorry," I manage finally, the words barely audible. "Yeosang, I'm so-"
"Don't." He cuts me off, and there's something fierce in his eyes now, mixed with the exhaustion and relief. "Don't apologize to me right now. Just. just be here. Be alive. That's all I need."But I can see it in his face. The trauma. The way his hands are shaking slightly as they hold the cup. The way he can't seem to stop looking at me, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he blinks. I did this to him.
"How long?" I whisper.
"Two days. You've been in and out, but this is the first time you've really been... present." He sets the cup down carefully. "They had to pump your stomach. You lost a lot of blood. They said..." His voice breaks. "They said another twenty minutes and you wouldn't have made it."
The guilt is suffocating. "You saved me."
"I almost didn't." His jaw clenches. "If I hadn't… if I'd waited even a little longer…"
"But you didn't."
"But I could have." Now the anger is there, simmering beneath the relief. Not at me, I realize. At himself. "I knew something was wrong. For weeks, I knew. And I just kept giving you space, kept waiting for you to come to me, kept thinking I was doing the right thing by not pushing. And you almost died because I was too afraid to-"
"This isn't your fault." I force the words out even though my throat protests. "Yeosang, none of this is your fault. This is all me. My choices. My-"
"Don't say mistakes." His eyes are fierce now. "Don't you dare call your pain a mistake. Whatever you're going through, whatever made you feel like this was the only option, that's not a mistake. But God, I wish you'd let me help. I wish you'd told me before it got to this."
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
Because I love you. Because I'm not enough. Because you deserve better than someone who's broken beyond repair. But I can't say any of that. Not now. Not when he's looking at me like this. The door opens before I can attempt an answer. A woman in scrubs enters, a nurse I realize, followed by a man in a white coat. The doctor. They both smile at me, but it's the kind of professional smile that doesn't quite reach their eyes. They've seen this before. They know what I tried to do.
"Good to see you awake," the doctor says, checking the monitors. "I'm Dr. Kim. You gave us quite a scare."
Yeosang stands, giving them space to work, but he doesn't leave the room. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time they check my vitals, examine my bandaged arms, ask me questions I answer in monosyllables.
"Your physical recovery is going well," Dr. Kim says finally. "But as I'm sure you understand, what happens next isn't just about your body healing. We need to talk about your mental health care."
And that's when the full reality hits me. I'm in a psychiatric ward. I'm not going home.
-
They explain it gently but firmly. A mandatory hold, thirty days minimum. Psychiatric evaluation. Therapy, both individual and group. Medication adjustments under supervision. Safety protocols. I'm a danger to myself. That's the official terminology. Yeosang sits through the entire explanation, his face carefully neutral, but I can see his hands gripping the arms of his chair white-knuckled.
When the doctor and nurse finally leave, silence settles over the room like a heavy blanket. "Thirty days," I say finally.
"Thirty days," he echoes. Then, quieter: "I'll visit. As often as they let me."
"You don't have to…"
"Stop." The word comes out sharp. "Stop trying to push me away. I'm not going anywhere."
"You should." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "You should forget about me and move on and find someone who isn't," Broken. Damaged. Worthless. "someone who isn't me."
He stares at me for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is very quiet but very steady. "I've known you for fifteen years. Fifteen years of watching you laugh and cry and be brilliant and stubborn and kind. Fifteen years of being your best friend. And you think I'm going to walk away now? You think I'm that person?"
"I think you deserve better than this."
"I think you don't get to decide what I deserve." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I'm okay. I'm not. Finding you like that," His voice catches. "I can't unsee it. I can't unhear the sound you made when you were trying to breathe. I can't forget the feel of your blood on my hands. So no, I'm not okay. But that doesn't mean I'm leaving."
The tears come then, hot and fast and unstoppable. "I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think…I wasn't thinking about what it would do to you. I just wanted it to stop hurting." In an instant, he's beside me on the bed, carefully avoiding the IVs as he pulls me into his arms. I cry into his chest, and he holds me through it, one hand stroking my hair, murmuring things I can't quite hear but that sound like promises. When the tears finally slow, I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are red-rimmed too.
"I meant what I said," he whispers. "In the ambulance. I love you. I've been in love with you since we were probably sixteen years old. And I know this isn't the time, and I know we need to focus on getting you better, but I need you to know that. You're not alone in this. You've never been alone."
My heart breaks and heals simultaneously. "I love you too," I admit, the words feeling like both freedom and agony. "But Yeosang, I can't - we can't - I'm not in any place to-"
"I know." He cups my face gently. "I know. And I'm not asking for anything. I'm just telling you the truth. So you know. So you have something to hold onto when it gets hard. Because it's going to get hard."
"It's already hard."
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
-
My parents arrive an hour later.
They're exactly what I expected. Worried, devastated, confused. My mom cries the moment she sees me. My dad looks like he's aged ten years. They hug me carefully, like I'm made of glass, and I suppose in a way, I am. The questions come gently. Why didn't we know? What signs did we miss? Why didn't you tell us? I don't have good answers. Or maybe I do, but they're not the ones they want to hear. How do you tell your parents that you've been drowning in front of them for months and got so good at smiling that nobody noticed?
Yeosang excuses himself to give us privacy, but not before squeezing my hand one more time. My mom watches him go with an expression I can't quite read. "He's barely left your side," she says softly once we're alone. "The first night, they tried to make him go home. He refused. Slept in that chair. He was there when they brought you in, covered in-" Her voice breaks. "They said if he hadn't found you when he did..."
"I know."
My dad clears his throat. "We need to understand what happened. What's been happening. Because we clearly missed something, and that's on us."
So I tell them. Not everything. I'm not ready for everything, but enough. About the depression that's been creeping in for years. The anxiety that became unmanageable. The therapist I stopped seeing. The pills I'd been misusing. The cutting.
My mom's hand goes to her mouth when I mention the cutting. My dad's jaw works like he's trying to hold back words. "Why didn't you tell us?" my mom asks again, tears streaming down her face.
"Because I didn't want to disappoint you. Because I thought I could handle it. Because I was ashamed." I take a shaky breath. "Because by the time I realized I couldn't handle it, I'd already decided I didn't want to try anymore."
The words hang in the air, brutal and honest.
"We're going to do better," my dad says finally, his voice rough. "We're going to be better. Whatever you need, whatever it takes. We're here."
"I know." And I do. They've always loved me, I've never doubted that. But love doesn't always translate to understanding, and sometimes the gap between the two is where people get lost.
They stay for another hour, asking about the treatment plan, talking to the doctors, making sure I know they're not going anywhere. When they finally leave, my mom kisses my forehead and whispers, "We love you. Please don't forget that."
"I won't," I promise, hoping it's true.
-
The first three days blur together.
I meet my roommate, a girl named Sofia who's here for the second time after a suicide attempt. She's nineteen, art student, sharp tongue that hides a gentleness she probably doesn't want anyone to see. We don't talk much at first, just exist in the same space, both of us navigating the strange reality of being here. The schedule is rigid: Wake-up at seven. Breakfast. Medications. Individual therapy. Group therapy. Lunch. Recreation time. More therapy. Dinner. Evening group. Lights out at ten. Everything is structured, supervised, safe. It's suffocating and necessary in equal measure.
My therapist here is Dr. Reeves, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense approach. Our first session is uncomfortable, all the questions I've been avoiding, all the truths I've been hiding. "Tell me about the days before your attempt," she says.
So I do. The building numbness. The intrusive thoughts. The way everything felt like too much effort. The pills that stopped working. The cutting that brought less and less relief.
"And Yeosang?" she asks gently. "Tell me about him."
"He's my best friend."
"He's in love with you."
It's not a question. "How did you-"
"I've spoken with him. He signed a release to be involved in your care, with your permission. He's worried about you." She leans forward slightly. "He's also traumatized by what he witnessed. You understand that, yes?"
The guilt crashes over me again. "Yes."
"Good. Because part of your healing is going to be understanding the impact of your actions on the people who love you. Not to shame you," she adds quickly, seeing my expression. "But because relationships are part of recovery. Understanding how mental illness affects not just us, but the people around us, helps us build better support systems."
I nod, throat tight.
"Now," she continues. "Let's talk about why you didn't want to live anymore."
-
Yeosang texts every day. Multiple times a day.
Yeosang: Morning. Hope you slept okay. Breakfast better than hospital food usually is? Yeosang: Client meeting today. Wish you were here to talk me through it. You always know what to say. Yeosang: Saw a dog that looked exactly like the one from that movie we watched. Made me think of you. Everything makes me think of you. Yeosang: Visiting hours are tomorrow. I'll be there. Promise.
I don't answer most of them. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know what to say. How do you text someone who saved your life? How do you make small talk when you can't forget the sound of their voice breaking as they begged you to stay alive? But he keeps sending them. Little windows into his life, little reminders that the world is still turning outside these walls. On the fourth day, I finally respond.
Me: The dog thing is a lie. You're thinking of me because you're you.
His response is immediate.
Yeosang: SHE LIVES. And fine, maybe. Is it working?
Me: Is what working?
Yeosang: Making you remember there are things worth sticking around for. Even if one of those things is just my terrible jokes and dog sightings.
My eyes burn with tears.
Me: It's working.
Yeosang: Good. See you tomorrow. Can I bring you anything?
Me: Just need you.
-
I spend all morning anxious about seeing him.
Sofia notices. "First visitor day?"
"Yeah."
"Boyfriend?"
"Best friend."
She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me but isn't going to push. "Word of advice? Don't try to be okay for them. They can handle your not okay. What they can't handle is you pretending."
It's good advice. I'm not sure I can follow it.
When visiting hours start, I'm in the common room. It's a space that tries too hard to feel normal, comfortable chairs, board games, a TV that only plays pre-approved content. There are a few other patients with visitors, quiet conversations happening in pockets around the room.
And then Yeosang walks in. He's wearing a soft grey sweater and jeans, his hair styled differently like he made an effort. His eyes scan the room until they land on me, and the relief that washes over his face is palpable. I stand on shaky legs, and then we're moving toward each other, meeting in the middle. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Taking inventory. Confirming we're both real, both here. Then he pulls me into his arms, and I break.
I sob into his chest while he holds me tight, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapped around my back. He's murmuring things against my hair, "I've got you" and "I'm here" and "You're okay" and I cling to him like he's the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning.
"I'm sorry," I gasp out between sobs. "I'm so sorry."
"I know," he says softly. "I know you are."
When I finally pull back, his eyes are wet too. We must look like a mess, but nobody's staring. In here, everybody understands. We sit together on one of the couches, maintaining the required space between us but close enough that our knees touch.
"How are you?" he asks, and it's such a loaded question I almost laugh.
"Alive," I say instead. "Which is something."
"It's everything."
"How are you?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "I'm... managing. Work helps. Keeping busy helps. But I'm not sleeping great. And I keep," He stops, jaw clenching.
"Keep what?"
"Having nightmares. About finding you. About not getting there in time." He looks at his hands. "I know it's not about me. I know you're the one who's really struggling. But I can't... I can't get the image out of my head."
The guilt is crushing. "Yeosang"
"I'm not telling you to make you feel worse," he says quickly, looking up at me. "I'm telling you because you asked, and because we're supposed to be honest with each other. My therapist - yeah, I'm seeing someone now - she says it's PTSD. Trauma response from witnessing something traumatic. And it's okay. I'm dealing with it. But I need you to know that this affected me too. Not as a guilt trip, but because... because I think we both need to be real with each other now. No more hiding."
I nod slowly. "No more hiding."
"So tell me. Really tell me. How are you?"
And so I do. I tell him about the rigid schedule, about Dr. Reeves and the uncomfortable therapy sessions, about Sofia and the other patients I'm slowly getting to know. About how the medications are being adjusted and how everything feels foggy but at least I'm not actively wanting to die anymore, which is apparently progress.
I tell him about the group therapy sessions where everyone shares their rock bottom moments, and how hearing other people's stories makes me feel less alone and more ashamed simultaneously. About how I'm learning that depression lies, that the voice telling me I'm worthless isn't actually me, it's the illness. "It's hard," I admit. "Everything is hard. Getting out of bed is hard. Eating is hard. Talking is hard. Believing I deserve to get better is the hardest part."
He takes my hand carefully, mindful of the bandages still wrapped around my wrists. "You do, though. Deserve it."
"I'm trying to believe that."
"That's all anyone can ask."
We sit in silence for a bit, just being together. The common room hums with quiet conversations around us, but it feels like we're in our own little bubble. "I need to tell you something," I say finally. "And it's probably going to sound crazy, but I need you to hear it."
"Okay."
I take a deep breath. "When you said, in the ambulance, when you told me you loved me…that was the first time in months that I actually wanted to live. Not because I think love can fix me or because I'm putting that pressure on you. But because for the first time, I had proof that maybe I'm not as worthless as I thought I was. Maybe someone sees something in me worth saving."
His eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Sweetheart"
"But I also know," I continue, needing to get it all out, "that I can't be with you right now. I can't be anyone's girlfriend when I can't even be a functional person. And that's not fair to you, to expect you to wait around while I figure out how to be okay again. So if you need to move on, if you need space, I understand. I won't,"
"No."
The word is firm, final. "No?"
"No, I'm not moving on. No, I don't need space. No, you don't get to make that decision for me." He shifts to face me more fully. "I'm not asking you to be my girlfriend right now. I'm not asking for anything except to be here, to support you, to be your friend like I've always been. Everything else, all the other stuff, that can wait. However long it takes."
"That's not fair to you."
"Let me decide what's fair to me."
"Yeosang"
"Do you love me?" The question is direct, his eyes searching mine.
"Yes," I whisper. "So much it scares me."
"Then let me love you back. Even if it's just as your best friend right now. Even if it takes years before you're ready for more. I'm not going anywhere." He squeezes my hand gently. "You don't have to protect me from your mess. I'm already in it. And I'm choosing to stay."
The tears come again, but softer this time. "You're too good."
"I'm really not. I'm just in love with you. And contrary to what your depression is telling you, you're very easy to love."
-
The visit ends too soon. An hour feels like both forever and no time at all. When he leaves, I watch him walk out, and the absence is immediate and painful. But there's something else too, a tiny spark of something that might be hope.
Sofia finds me in our room later, staring at the ceiling.
"That was your best friend?" she asks, settling onto her own bed.
"Yeah."
"He's in love with you."
"I know."
"You're in love with him."
"I know that too."
"So what's the problem?"
I turn to look at her. "The problem is I tried to kill myself four days ago, and I can't figure out how to love him when I can't even figure out how to love myself enough to stay alive."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Fair point. But counterpoint, maybe learning to love yourself is easier when you remember that you're already loved. Just a thought." It's such simple wisdom, and it hits harder than any therapy session.
"How'd you get so smart?" I ask.
"Second attempt teaches you things the first one doesn't." She shrugs. "Besides, I've had more time to think about this stuff than you have. Give it a few weeks. You'll figure it out."
"What if I don't?"
"Then you keep trying. That's kind of the whole point of being here."
-
Days bleed into weeks.
The routine becomes familiar: morning meds, breakfast, therapy, group, lunch, recreation, more therapy, dinner, evening programming, sleep. Repeat. I learn the names of the other patients. Mark, who's here for the third time and talks about recovery like a war he keeps losing. Karina, fresh out of college, who took pills after a breakup and is still trying to understand that depression doesn't need a reason. James, older, quieter, whose kids don't visit. We're all here because we wanted to stop existing, and now we're learning how to exist again. It's strange and sad and occasionally beautiful in the way shared trauma can be.
Dr. Reeves and I dig deeper in our sessions. We talk about my childhood, not traumatic in the traditional sense, but heavy with expectations I couldn't meet. We talk about anxiety that morphed into depression, about feeling like a disappointment, about the perfectionism that made any failure feel catastrophic.
We talk about Yeosang.
"You said you fell in love with him in high school," she prompts one session.
"Sophomore year, yeah."
"And you never told him."
"No."
"Why?"
I fidget with the sleeve of my shirt, long sleeves still, even though the bandages are off now and the scars are visible. "Because I was afraid of losing him. If I told him and he didn't feel the same way, everything would change. Our friendship would be ruined. And he was the one good thing I had, so I couldn't risk it."
"So you protected the friendship at the cost of your own happiness."
"I guess."
"And when the depression got worse, when you started struggling, did you tell him then?"
"No."
"Same reason?"
"Similar." I take a breath. "I didn't want him to see me as broken. I didn't want to be a burden. And I thought... I thought if I could just push through it, if I could just fix myself, then maybe someday I'd be good enough for him. But I just kept getting worse, and the gap between who I was and who I thought I needed to be kept getting bigger."
"So you were trying to be perfect for him."
"For everyone. But especially for him."
Dr. Reeves leans back in her chair. "And how did that work out?"
The question is gentle but pointed. I let out a bitter laugh. "Obviously great. Hence why I'm here."
"Hence why you're here," she agrees. "So let me ask you this: Do you think Yeosang wants you to be perfect?"
"No. But he deserves someone who is."
"Or maybe he deserves to make that choice for himself. Maybe he deserves honesty instead of protection." She pauses. "You took away his choice by not telling him about your struggles. You decided for him that he couldn't handle it, that he wouldn't want to deal with it. But when he found you, he didn't leave. He stayed. He's still staying. What does that tell you?"
"That he's stubborn."
"Or that he loves you exactly as you are. Mess and all."
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I'm not ready to examine yet.
-
"Do you think you're broken?"
"I know I am."
Dr. Reeve leans forward, her expression intent. "What if I told you that you're not broken? That you're someone who's been struggling with depression and anxiety, who developed unhealthy coping mechanisms, but who is fundamentally whole?"
"I'd say you're wrong."
"Why?"
"Because whole people don't do what I did." My voice is rising now, anger bleeding through the tears. "Whole people don't hide razor blades and hoard pills. Whole people don't make the person they love most in the world find them bleeding out on a bathroom floor. Whole people don't,,,"
"Whole people struggle," Dr. Morrison interrupts firmly. "Whole people have mental illness. Whole people make mistakes, even devastating ones, and they're still deserving of love and recovery and life."
I'm sobbing now, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and primal. "I hurt him so much. You should have seen his face. He was terrified, and it's my fault."
"You were in crisis."
"That's not an excuse."
"No," she agrees. "It's not an excuse. It's an explanation. And you're allowed to hold both truths, that your actions had consequences for people you love, and that you were drowning and couldn't see another way out." We sit in that for a long moment, me crying, her waiting patiently with a box of tissues. "Here's what I want you to consider," she finally says. "You've spent three weeks here doing the work. Taking your medication, going to groups, talking in therapy. You've been honest about your struggles. You've started to build healthier coping mechanisms. That's not the behavior of someone who wants to die. That's someone fighting to live."
"I don't know if I'm fighting or just... going through the motions."
"What if they're the same thing right now? What if going through the motions is how you fight when you don't have the energy for anything more?"
Something about that lands. The idea that I don't have to feel hope or motivation or any of the big emotions. That just showing up, just getting through each day, is enough.
"I don't want to feel like this forever," I admit. "I don't want to be the person who did this."
"You're not that person anymore. You're becoming someone new, someone who's learning to ask for help, to be honest about their pain, to choose recovery one day at a time."
"What if I mess up again?"
"Then you'll have the tools to reach out instead of reaching for pills or blades. Recovery isn't linear. But you're building a foundation now."
We talk for another twenty minutes, and by the end of the session, something has shifted. Not everything - I'm not magically cured, not suddenly optimistic about life. But there's a small, fragile thing taking root in my chest that might be the beginning of wanting to stay.
-
That evening, I'm in the common room when Yeosang arrives. He wasn't supposed to visit today, he was here just two days ago, but the nurse tells me he called ahead, asked if it was okay to come. When he walks in, there's something different about him too. He looks less exhausted, less haunted. His shoulders aren't quite as tense.
"Hey," he says, settling into the chair across from me. "Hope it's okay I came."
"Always okay." And I mean it. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. "Dr. Reeves asked me if going through the motions of recovery counts as fighting, even if I don't feel hopeful yet. And I think... I think maybe it does."
Something in Yeosang's expression softens. "I think so too."
"I don't know if I'm ready to say I want to be alive," I continue, the words coming slowly. "But I think I'm ready to try to want it. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense."
And then, because we're both apparently feeling brave or maybe just tired of not saying things, I add, "I got your letter. The one you wrote after I tried to push you away."
His cheeks color slightly. "That was probably too intense."
"No. It was..." I search for the right word. "It was exactly what I needed to hear. That you weren't going anywhere. That I didn't get to make that choice for you."
"I meant it."
"I know." I take a breath. "And I need you to know something. What I did, it wasn't about you. It wasn't because you weren't enough or because I didn't care. It was because I couldn't see any other way out of my own head."
"I know that now. My therapist has said it about fifty times." He attempts a smile. "But thank you for saying it."
"What if I'm never fully healed? What if I always have bad days?"
"Then we'll deal with them together." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "I don't need you to be perfect. I just need you to stay. To keep choosing to stay, one day at a time."
The tears are falling freely now, but they feel different than the ones from this morning. Less like grief and more like release. "I have three more days here," I tell him. "Then I'm discharged."
"Where will you go?"
"My parents wanted me to come home, but..." I hesitate. "Dr. Reeves thinks I need my own space, my own routine. That going backwards won't help."
"What do you think?"
"I think she's right. But the idea of going back to my apartment..." I trail off. The scene of the crime. The place where I almost ended everything.
Yeosang is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him thinking, weighing something. "Stay with me."
"What?"
"After you're discharged. Stay at my place." He rushes on before I can protest. "I have a spare room. You'd have your own space, but you wouldn't be alone. I could make sure you're getting to your outpatient appointments, eating meals, taking your meds. Just until you're steady enough to be on your own."
Every instinct tells me to say no. That I've already taken too much from him, asked too much, damaged too much. But Dr. Morrison's words echo again: Learning to ask for help. Learning to let people in.
"I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not. You couldn't be." His grip on my hand tightens. "Please. Let me do this. Not because I'm trying to fix you or save you, but because I love you and I want to help."
I study his face, the sincerity there, the hope, the love he's not trying to hide anymore. And I think about being alone in my apartment, about the bathroom where it happened, about trying to build a new life in the same space where I tried to end the old one.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Thank you."
His smile is radiant, and he brings our joined hands up to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "We're going to figure this out. Together."
"Together," I echo, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I almost believe it.
-
The last three days pass in a blur of discharge planning and final therapy sessions. Dr. Reeves and I create an outpatient care plan: therapy twice a week, psychiatrist appointments monthly, a crisis plan for when I'm struggling. We talk about warning signs, about healthy coping mechanisms, about what to do when the darkness starts creeping back in.
"Recovery is going to have setbacks," she tells me during our last session. "Days where you want to give up, moments where the old thoughts come back. That doesn't mean you've failed. It means you're human."
"How will I know if I'm really getting better?"
"You'll notice small things. Moments where you laugh and mean it. Days where you don't think about hurting yourself. Nights where you sleep through without nightmares." She smiles. "Don't look for giant leaps. Look for tiny steps forward."
My parents visit on the last day. Mom cries the entire time, and Dad keeps clearing his throat like he's trying not to. They're hurt that I'm not coming home, but they're trying to understand. "We just want you safe," Mom says, gripping my hands.
"I know. And I will be. Yeosang's place is good. It's safe."
"He's a good man," Dad says gruffly. "Always has been."
-
On the morning of my discharge, I wake up early and take stock of the person I am now versus the person I was four weeks ago. Four weeks ago, I was drowning. Four weeks ago, I couldn't see a future. Four weeks ago, I made a choice that nearly destroyed me and everyone who loves me. Now, I'm standing in a hospital room with a bag of medications and a folder full of resources and a phone full of concerned texts from people who care. I'm not healed, not even close. But I'm here. I'm alive. And somewhere in the fog, there's a tiny, fragile spark of something that might eventually become the desire to stay that way.
Yeosang arrives at 10 AM sharp, exactly when visiting hours start. He's carrying a duffel bag, and when he opens it, I see clothes from my apartment, comfortable things, soft things, things that don't carry memories of that night.
"I hope it's okay," he says. "I got your keys from your parents and grabbed some essentials. If you need anything else, we can go back together when you're ready." The thought of walking back into that apartment makes my stomach turn, but I push it aside. One thing at a time.
"Thank you," I say, taking the bag.
"Also, I cleared out the spare room at my place. Put fresh sheets on the bed, stocked the bathroom with stuff I thought you might need. Made space in the kitchen for your decaf tea obsession."
"You didn't have to"
"I wanted to." His eyes are soft. "I want you to feel comfortable there. Like it's your space too."
The discharge process takes another hour, final check-ins with nurses, signing paperwork, getting my prescription filled at the hospital pharmacy. Dr. Morrison stops by one last time.
"Remember," she says. "This is the beginning, not the end. You're going to have hard days. On those days, use your tools. Call your support people. Don't isolate."
"I'll try."
"Don't try. Do." But she's smiling. "You've got this. And if you don't some days, that's what the rest of us are here for."
Finally, mercifully, I'm being wheeled out of the psychiatric unit. Hospital policy requires a wheelchair even though I can walk. Yeosang walks beside me, carrying my bag, occasionally glancing over like he's making sure I'm still there.
When we step outside, the late September air hits me like a gift. It's been a month since I've been outside without bars on the windows. The sun is warm, the sky impossibly blue, and there are leaves starting to turn gold and red on the trees lining the parking lot.
"Okay?" Yeosang asks softly.
I breathe in deep, let it fill my lungs. "Yeah. Okay."
He helps me into his car, a careful hand on my elbow, making sure I'm settled before closing the door. When he gets in the driver's seat, he doesn't start the car right away.
"I need to say something before we go," he says, turning to face me. "What happened, it changed everything. Changed me, changed you, changed us. And I need you to know that I'm scared too. Scared of doing the wrong thing, scared of making it worse, scared of..."
"Losing me again," I finish.
"Yeah."
"I'm scared too. Of disappointing you. Of relapsing. Of being too broken to fix."
"You're not broken," he says fiercely. "You're healing. And I promise you, we're going to figure this out. One day at a time."
One day at a time. I can do that. Maybe. "Okay," I say. "Let's go home."
He starts the car, and as we pull out of the hospital parking lot, I watch the building get smaller in the side mirror. A month of my life in those walls. A month of breaking down and starting to build back up. The city passes by the windows as Yeosang drives, familiar streets and landmarks I've seen a thousand times. Everything looks the same but different, sharper somehow. More real. More here. When we pull up to his apartment building, a brick complex in a quieter part of the city, my heart starts racing. New space. New routines. New way of existing in the world.
"Ready?" Yeosang asks.
No. Yes. Maybe.
"Ready," I say.
And together, we walk inside to whatever comes next.
ACT III - APARTMENT
Yeosang's apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined at the same time. I've been here before, countless times over the years. Game nights, movie marathons, the time his kitchen sink exploded and I helped him clean up the mess. But walking through the door now, with my duffel bag in hand and the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on me, it feels completely foreign.
"So, um," Yeosang sets my bag down by the door, suddenly awkward in a way he never is with me. "Let me show you your room." He leads me down the short hallway past his bedroom to the spare room at the end. When he opens the door, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. The room is simple but thoughtful. Fresh white sheets on the bed, so clean they still have the package creases. A small vase of sunflowers on the nightstand, my favorite, though I don't remember ever explicitly telling him that. The curtains are drawn back to let in the afternoon light, and there's a stack of books on the dresser, novels I'd mentioned wanting to read months ago.
"I wasn't sure what you'd need," he says, hovering in the doorway. "But there are extra blankets in the closet, and I cleared out the top two drawers of the dresser for your clothes. The bathroom is right across the hall andI put some stuff in there for you. Toothbrush, shampoo, those face wash things you like."
"Yeosang." My voice cracks. "You didn't have to do all this."
He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking vulnerable in a way that makes my heart ache. "I just... I wanted you to feel comfortable here. Like it's your space."
I set my bag down and turn to face him properly. "Thank you. Really. This is..."
"Too much?"
"Perfect," I finish. "It's perfect."
Relief washes over his face. "Good. Okay. Good." He clears his throat. "So, uh, house rules. Or I guess, not rules, just... things?"
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. "Things?"
"Yeah. Things." He counts on his fingers. "One: You have complete privacy. This is your space, and I won't come in unless you invite me. Two: Kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself to anything, anytime. I usually cook dinner around seven, but if you're not up for eating with me, that's completely fine. Three: No pressure to hang out or talk or do anything you don't want to do. If you need space, take it."
"What if I need the opposite of space?"
His expression softens. "Then I'm right down the hall. Always."
We stand there for a moment, and I'm acutely aware of how close we are, of how easy it would be to close the distance between us, to let him hold me the way he did in the hospital. But Dr. Reeves' voice echoes in my head: You need to learn to be okay on your own before you can be okay with someone else. "I should unpack," I say, taking a step back.
"Right. Yeah." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Hey, if you need anything, even if it's the middle of the night, just knock. Or text. Or yell. Whatever works."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He lingers for another second, like there's more he wants to say, then nods and disappears down the hallway. I hear his bedroom door close softly, and then I'm alone. I sink down onto the bed, and that's when the reality of it all crashes over me. I'm here. I'm out of the hospital. I'm alive, and I have to figure out how to stay that way. The weight of it is crushing.
-
Unpacking takes longer than it should because I keep getting distracted, staring at the walls, at the window, at my hands. The scars on my wrists are still visible. Physical evidence of the worst decision I've ever made. I trace one with my finger, remembering the night. The pills, the blade, the feeling of everything slipping away. Then Yeosang's face above mine, destroyed. The confession I'd waited years to hear, delivered as I was dying.
My phone buzzes, pulling me from the spiral.
Mom: Just checking in. How's the apartment? Do you need anything?
Me: It's good. Yeosang set up a really nice room for me.
Mom: He's so good to you. Call me later?
Me: Will do.
I wander out into the living room. Yeosang is on his laptop at the dining table, probably working. He looks up when he hears me. "Hey. All settled?"
"Yeah." I hover awkwardly by the hallway. "What are you doing?"
"Just finishing up some emails. Client wants to make changes to a design we already approved." He closes the laptop. "Want to watch something? Or we could go for a walk? Or"
"Can we just... sit?" I interrupt. "Like normal. Like we used to."
Understanding crosses his face. "Yeah. Of course."
So we settle onto his couch, that same worn brown leather couch where we've watched a hundred movies, where we've fallen asleep during marathons, where everything was easy before it got complicated. I curl up on one end, and he takes the other, and we put on a show neither of us are really watching. It's comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. Familiar but different. We're both hyperaware of each other in a way we never were before, both careful not to get too close, both pretending everything is normal when it's anything but.
"This is weird, isn't it?" I say finally.
He lets out a breath that might be a laugh. "So weird."
"I don't know how to be around you anymore."
"I don't know how to be around you either." He turns to face me. "But maybe that's okay? Maybe we just figure it out as we go?"
"What if we can't figure it out? What if everything is different now?"
"Then everything is different." He says it simply, like it's not terrifying. "And we learn this new version of us."
"What if I mess up? What if I-"
"Hey." He reaches over and takes my hand, careful and gentle. "One day at a time, remember? Let's just focus on today. On right now. Everything else can wait." I nod, throat tight. His hand in mine feels like an anchor, grounding me when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control. We sit like that for a while, hands linked, watching TV. And slowly, incrementally, some of the tension eases. Not all of it, maybe not even most of it. But enough that I can breathe a little easier.
-
Dinner is a quiet affair.
Yeosang makes pasta, something simple but good, and we eat at his small dining table. He tells me about his day, about the difficult client and the coworker who keeps microwaving fish in the office. Normal things. Regular conversation.I try to participate, try to be present, but my mind keeps drifting. To the hospital. To the routine I left behind. To the medication bottles lined up in my room that I need to take before bed.
"You okay?" Yeosang asks, and I realize I've been staring at my plate for who knows how long.
"Sorry. Yeah. Just distracted."
"Want to talk about it?"
Do I? I don't know. The therapist part of my brain, the part that's been trained over the last month, says yes. Communication is important. Don't isolate. But the rest of me wants to keep it in, to not burden him more than I already have. "It's weird being out," I say finally. "In the hospital, everything was structured. I knew what I was supposed to do every minute of every day. Here, it's just... open. And I don't know what to do with that."
He nods thoughtfully. "Do you want structure? We could make a schedule if that would help."
"Maybe. I don't know." I push pasta around my plate. "I have my first outpatient appointment tomorrow. Dr. Reeves set it up."
"What time?"
"Ten."
"I can drive you if you want."
"You don't have to"
"I want to," he interrupts gently. "Unless you'd rather go alone. Which is also completely fine." I think about it. The idea of going alone is terrifying, but the idea of him sitting in a waiting room because of me feels wrong too.
"Could you drive me? But you don't have to wait. I can take a cab back."
"Deal."
We finish dinner in companionable silence, and when I try to help with dishes, he waves me off. "You cooked," I protest.
"And you just got out of the hospital. Go relax. I've got this."
I want to argue, but I'm exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical. So I retreat to my room, take my evening medications, and sit on the edge of the bed trying to figure out what to do next. In the hospital, this would be evening group time. We'd sit in a circle and talk about our days, our struggles, our small victories. Here, there's just silence and the sound of Yeosang doing dishes in the other room.I pull out my phone and text Sofia.
Me: First night out. It's weird.
Sofia: Weird how?
Me: Too much freedom. Don't know what to do with myself.
Sofia: Welcome to real life, babe. It's fucking terrifying.
Me: Helpful.
Sofia: You want helpful? Go talk to your not-boyfriend. Stop hiding in your room.
Me: He's not my boyfriend.
Sofia: Sure,
Despite everything, I smile. Sofia's bluntness is oddly comforting. I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling. In the hospital, lights out was at ten. It's only eight-thirty now. Too early to sleep, too late to start anything new. There's a soft knock on my door.
"Yeah?"
Yeosang pokes his head in. "Hey. I'm about to watch a movie. Want to join? No pressure if you'd rather be alone."I should say no. I should establish boundaries, create space, protect both of us from getting too tangled up before I'm ready. But I'm so tired of being alone.
"What movie?" I ask.
"I was thinking something mindless. Action or comedy. Nothing heavy."
"Okay. Yeah. Give me a minute."
He disappears, and I take a moment to collect myself. Change into comfortable clothes, sweatpants and one of my oversized hoodies, long sleeves still. Check my face in the mirror. Practice breathing. You can do this. It's just a movie. It's just Yeosang. When I come out, he's already settled on the couch with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn. The TV is queued up to some superhero movie I vaguely recognize.
"Popcorn?" he offers.
"Sure."
I settle next to him, with my head on his shoulder, and he covers me with the blanket without comment. The movie starts, and for a while, I manage to lose myself in it. Explosions and quips and CGI fights that require zero emotional investment. But about halfway through, my eyelids start to droop. The exhaustion of the day, of the whole month, really, catches up with me all at once. I try to fight it, try to stay awake, but it's a losing battle. The last thing I remember is Yeosang's voice, soft and close: "Sleep, sweetheart. I've got you."
-
I wake up in my bed with no memory of getting there.For a moment, I panic, disoriented, confused about where I am and how I got here. Then the memories filter back. The movie. Falling asleep. Yeosang must have carried me to bed. The thought should probably embarrass me, but instead, it just makes me feel... safe.
My phone says it's 7 AM. Early, but I'm awake and there's no point in trying to go back to sleep. I take my morning medications, shower, and venture out into the apartment. Yeosang is already up, dressed for work, making coffee in the kitchen.
"Morning," he says when he sees me. "Coffee?"
"Please."
He pours me a cup, adds cream and sugar the way I like it without asking, and hands it over.
"Thanks for, um, putting me to bed last night," I say.
"You fell asleep during the best fight scene. I couldn't just leave you on the couch." His expression is soft. "You looked peaceful. It was nice to see."
We drink our coffee in comfortable silence, and then he glances at the clock.
"Your appointment is at ten, right? I can leave work a little early, pick you up around nine-thirty?"
"That works."
"Good." He rinses his mug in the sink. "There's food in the fridge for breakfast and lunch. Help yourself to anything. I'll probably be home around six."
"Yeosang?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For all of this."
He crosses the kitchen and pulls me into a hug, quick and warm and careful. "Always," he murmurs against my hair. Then he's pulling back, grabbing his keys, heading for the door. "Text me if you need anything."
And then I'm alone.
-
The hours before my appointment crawl by. I try to eat breakfast but only manage half a piece of toast. I try to watch TV but can't focus. I try to read one of the books Yeosang left for me but the words blur together. Finally, mercifully, Yeosang comes back to pick me up.
The drive to the outpatient clinic is quiet. He doesn't push conversation, just lets me sit with my nerves, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand when we stop at red lights.
"I'll be right here when you're done," he says as we pull up.
"You really don't have to wait."
"I know. But I want to." He turns to face me. "Go. I'll be here."
The clinic is in a nondescript building that could be anything,medical office, insurance company, accounting firm. Nothing that screams "mental health facility." I check in at the front desk, fill out paperwork, and wait. My new therapist is Dr. Park, a woman in her forties with warm eyes and an easy smile. Her office is comfortable, soft lighting, plants in the corners, a couch that's actually comfortable to sit on.
The appointment went by as expected.
Yeosang is waiting in the parking lot, just like he promised.
"How'd it go?" he asks as I buckle in.
"Okay, I think. She seems nice. Not as scary as Dr. Reeves."
He laughs. "Dr. Reeves was scary?"
"Terrifying. In a good way. She didn't let me get away with anything."
We grab lunch at a cafe near his apartment, sandwiches and soup, easy and comfortable. I manage to eat most of mine, which feels like a victory.
"I need to go back to work for a few hours," he says after. "Will you be okay alone?"
The question makes me feel like a child, but I know he has to ask. "Yeah. I'll be fine."
"Text me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
Back at the apartment, I force myself to do normal things. I read for a while. I sketch in the journal Dr. Park gave me. I take a short walk around the block, just to prove to myself I can.The world feels both too big and too small. Every person I pass feels like they can see what I did, like it's written across my forehead: Suicide attempt. Failed. Broken. But I make it back to the apartment without falling apart, which feels like another small victory.
-
The days start to develop a rhythm. Mornings: medication, breakfast, coffee with Yeosang before he leaves for work. Afternoons: therapy appointments, walks, reading, trying to fill the hours. Evenings: dinner with Yeosang, movies or TV, pretending everything is normal. Nights: lying awake, battling the thoughts, counting down the hours until I can take my sleeping medication. It's not easy. Some days are harder than others. There are moments when the urge to hurt myself comes roaring back, when the pills in my medication organizer look less like treatment and more like temptation.But I'm learning to use my tools. To call Dr. Park when it gets bad. To text Sofia when I need a reality check. To knock on Yeosang's door when the isolation gets too heavy.
He's always there. Always patient. Always willing to sit with me in silence or distract me with stories from work or just exist in the same space until the worst of it passes. "You don't have to do this," I tell him one night, after a particularly bad episode where I'd spent an hour crying on the bathroom floor while he sat outside the door, talking me through it.
"I know," he says simply. "I want to."
"Why?"
"Because I love you." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Because you matter to me. Because everyone deserves support when they're struggling, and I get to be that person for you."
"Even when I'm a mess?"
"Especially when you're a mess."
-
Two weeks into living with him, we have our first real fight. It's my fault, really. I've been pushing him away, trying to create distance because I'm scared of needing him too much. I've been short with him, dismissive of his care, insisting I'm fine when I'm clearly not. It comes to a head over something stupid, he offers to make dinner and I snap at him that I'm not a child who needs to be taken care of.
"I never said you were," he says, his voice tight.
"But that's how you're treating me."
"I'm trying to help!"
"I don't need help! I need space!"
"Fine. You want space? Take it." He grabs his keys and heads for the door. "I'm going for a drive."
The door closes, and I'm left alone with the echoing silence and the guilt.
I call Dr. Park in tears.
"What's really going on?" she asks after I've explained the fight.
"I'm scared," I admit. "I'm scared of needing him. I'm scared that if I let myself depend on him, I'll never learn to stand on my own."
"Or maybe," she says gently, "you're scared that if you let him in completely, you'll have to face the fact that you're worthy of love and care."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"I don't know how to accept that," I whisper.
"Then start small. Start by accepting that he wants to make you dinner. That he wants to check on you. That he loves you and wants to show it in whatever ways he can."
When Yeosang comes back an hour later, I'm waiting on the couch.
"I'm sorry," I say before he can speak. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm sorry I keep pushing you away. I'm just, I'm so scared of being too much, of taking too much, of needing you so much that I forget how to need myself."
He sits down next to me, careful to leave space between us. "I get it. And I'm sorry too. I've been hovering, probably too much. I'm just, I'm scared too. Scared of doing something wrong, scared of not being enough, scared of losing you again."
"You're not going to lose me."
"You can't promise that."
"No," I agree. "But I can promise I'll try. I can promise that when it gets bad, I'll reach out instead of reaching for-" I can't finish the sentence, but I don't need to.
He understands.
"That's all I'm asking for," he says. "Just try. And let me try too. Let me help in the ways I can." We sit there for a moment, and then he says, "For what it's worth, I don't think you're too much. I've never thought you were too much." The tears come again, but softer this time. He opens his arms, and I let myself fall into them, let myself be held.
-
The moment happens on a random Thursday, three weeks into living with him. I'm in the kitchen making tea when he comes home from work. He's had a rough day, I can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Bad day?" I ask.
"Client from hell. Don't want to talk about it." He drops his bag by the door and runs a hand through his hair. "I just need-" He stops, and I realize he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"What?"
"Can I hug you?" he asks quietly.
It's such a simple question, but it hits me square in the chest. He's asking. He's not assuming, not taking, just asking if he can have this one thing.
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, of course."
He crosses the kitchen in two steps and pulls me into his arms. Not careful this time, not gentle, just holding me tight like I'm the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning. I hug him back just as fiercely, and we stand there in the kitchen for a long time, holding each other up. When we finally pull back, his eyes are wet.
"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to"
"Don't apologize." I cup his face the way he's done for me so many times. "You're allowed to need comfort too. You're allowed to struggle."
"I'm supposed to be the strong one."
"Says who?” Something in his expression cracks, and then he's really crying. Not the quiet tears I've seen before, but real, gut-wrenching sobs that shake his whole body. I hold him through it, the way he's held me. I don't try to fix it or make it better, just let him feel it.
When he finally calms down, he laughs shakily. "Well, that was embarrassing."
"No it wasn't. It was human."
"I'm supposed to be taking care of you."
"Maybe we can take care of each other."
He looks at me for a long moment, and something shifts between us. Something important.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I'd like that."
-
That night, after dinner and a movie and our usual routine, I find myself standing in his doorway.
"Can't sleep?" he asks, setting his book aside.
"Not really. Keep thinking too much."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really. I just" I hesitate. "Can I stay here? Just to sleep. I don't want to be alone."
I expect him to say no, to remind me about boundaries and space and all the reasons why this is a bad idea. Instead, he just lifts the blanket in invitation. I climb into bed beside him, and he turns off the light. We lie there in the darkness, not touching but aware of every inch of space between us.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For not leaving. For staying. For letting me be a mess."
"Thank you for letting me be a mess too."
I roll over to face him, and even in the darkness, I can make out his features. "Yeosang?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you found me. That night. I'm glad I'm still here."
His hand finds mine under the blankets, fingers interlacing. "Me too, sweetheart. Me too."
I fall asleep like that, holding his hand, and for the first time in months, I don't have nightmares.
ACT IV - SEPERATION
It happens six weeks after moving in with Yeosang, during a session with Dr. Park. We're talking about progress, and there has been progress. I'm taking my medications consistently. I haven't hurt myself. I'm eating regularly, sleeping better, even laughing sometimes. The suicidal thoughts still come, but they're quieter now, easier to manage with the tools I've learned. But there's something else. Something I've been avoiding talking about.
"You seem distracted today," Dr. Park observes.
I am. I've been distracted for days now, caught in a loop of thoughts I can't quite untangle.
"I think I need to move out," I say suddenly.
She doesn't look surprised. "Tell me more about that."
"I've been living with Yeosang for almost two months now. And it's been good, really good. He's been amazing. But I'm starting to realize that I'm..." I search for the right words. "I'm using him as a crutch. Every time I have a bad moment, I go to him. Every time I'm anxious, he's there. And I'm grateful, but I'm also... not learning how to handle things on my own."
"Do you think you need to handle things entirely on your own?"
"I need to know that I can." I twist my hands in my lap. "Right now, I don't know if I'm getting better or if I'm just leaning on him so hard that I don't have to face my own stuff."
"What does Yeosang think?"
"I haven't told him yet." The admission feels heavy. "I don't know how to. He's going to think I'm pushing him away again, or that I'm not grateful, or-"
"Or he's going to understand," Dr. Park interrupts gently. "Because from everything you've told me, he's been very supportive of your recovery. And part of recovery is building independence."
"But what if I'm not ready? What if I move out and everything falls apart?"
"Then you'll have the tools to ask for help. You'll have your support system, me, your parents, Sofia, Yeosang. Moving out doesn't mean cutting yourself off. It means learning to stand on your own two feet while still staying connected to the people who care about you."
I know she's right. I've known it for days, maybe weeks. But knowing it and doing it are different things.
"There's something else," I admit quietly. "Living with him... it's getting harder. Not in a bad way. In a complicated way."
"Because of your feelings for each other."
"Yeah." I look down at my hands. "We sleep in the same bed most nights now. Just sleeping, nothing else. But it's... intimate. And every morning I wake up next to him, and I want-" My voice catches. "I want things I can't have yet. Things I'm not ready for. And it's starting to feel like torture."
"What kinds of things?"
"A real relationship. Not this limbo we're in where we love each other but can't be together. I want to kiss him. I want to tell him I'm his and he's mine. But I made myself a promise, that I wouldn't be with him until I could stand on my own. Until I wasn't just surviving but actually living." The tears start falling. "And I can't do that while I'm living in his apartment, depending on him for everything."
Dr. Park hands me the tissue box. "It sounds like you've already made your decision."
"I'm terrified."
"That's okay. You can be terrified and still do it."
-
I wait three days before telling him. Three days of rehearsing what I'll say, of watching him make me breakfast and help me with my medications and hold me when the nightmares come. Three days of memorizing every detail of this borrowed time, knowing it's about to end. It's a Saturday morning. We're sitting on the couch with coffee, the lazy kind of morning where neither of us are fully awake yet. He's scrolling through his phone, and I'm pretending to read a book.
"Yeosang?"
"Mm?"
"I need to talk to you about something."
The tone of my voice makes him look up immediately, phone forgotten. "Okay. What's up?"
"I've been thinking about... about living arrangements."
His expression shifts, becomes carefully neutral. "Okay."
"I think I need to get my own place."
Silence. He sets his coffee down slowly, deliberately, like he needs to focus on something concrete.
"Okay," he says again, but his voice is different now. Tight.
"It's not" I start, then stop. "I'm not trying to push you away. I promise this isn't that. It's just... I've been here for almost two months, and I'm so grateful for everything you've done, but I'm starting to realize that I'm not learning how to be okay on my own. Every time something gets hard, I come to you. And I need to know that I can handle things by myself."
He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his coffee cup. "When were you thinking?"
"I don't know. Soon, maybe? I need to find a place first, obviously. And I'm not, I don't want to go back to my old apartment. Too many bad memories. But something small. Something that's mine."
"Makes sense." His voice is still carefully controlled, and I hate it. I hate that I'm hurting him again.
"Yeosang, look at me."
He does, and the pain in his eyes nearly breaks me. "This isn't me leaving you," I say urgently. "This is me trying to become someone who can actually be with you. Someone who's not just surviving but living. I can't do that while I'm here, while I'm depending on you for everything."
"I never made you feel like you were depending on me."
"I know. This isn't about you. It's about me. About what I need for my recovery." I reach for his hand. "Dr. Park thinks it's the right move. And I think... I think she's right."
He turns his hand over, interlacing our fingers. "I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to go either. But I think I need to."
"What if you're not ready? What if something happens?"
"Then I'll call you. Or Dr. Park. Or my parents. Or Sofia. I have people now. I have support. But I need to prove to myself that I can exist in my own space without falling apart."
He's quiet again, and I can see him thinking, processing. Finally, he says, "There's more to it than that, isn't there?"
My heart stutters. "What do you mean?"
"Living here. Being close but not... being together. It's getting harder." It's not a question.
"Yeah," I whisper. "It's getting harder."
"For me too." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "I wake up next to you every morning, and I have to remind myself that I can't kiss you. That I can't hold you the way I want to. That we're not - that we can't-" He breaks off, jaw clenching. "It's killing me. But I told you I'd wait. However long it takes."
"And I'm asking you to keep waiting. Just... from a little further away." The tears are falling now. "I need space to figure out who I am outside of my depression, outside of my dependence on you. And then, when I'm ready, when I'm actually ready,"
"We can try for real," he finishes.
"Yeah."
He pulls me into his arms, and I let myself have this. Let myself be held one more time before everything changes.
"Okay," he says against my hair. "Okay. We'll find you a place. But you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"You have to promise you'll let me help. Not with everything, but with the move. With getting settled. I can't- " His voice cracks. "I can't just watch you walk out the door and not know if you're okay."
"I promise. And I'll text you every day. And we can still see each other, still hang out. This isn't goodbye. It's just... different."
"Different," he echoes, like he's trying to convince himself. We sit like that for a long time, holding each other, both of us trying to be brave about something that feels like breaking.
-
Apartment hunting is surreal.
Yeosang insists on coming with me to viewings, and I let him because I need his practical eye. He asks all the questions I don't think of, about water pressure and heating costs and whether the locks are secure. He checks under sinks for leaks and tests the windows and makes sure there's good lighting.
"You're very thorough," the realtor comments after the third viewing.
"She deserves a safe space," Yeosang replies simply, and my heart aches.
We find it on the second week of searching: a small one-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood, third floor of an old building with good bones. It has hardwood floors and big windows and a kitchen that's tiny but functional. The bathroom is updated, and there's a small balcony that overlooks a tree-lined street.
"What do you think?" Yeosang asks as we stand in the empty living room.
I turn in a slow circle, taking it in. It feels... right. Safe but not suffocating. Small but not confining. Mine.
"I think it's perfect."
He smiles, but there's sadness in it. "Yeah. It is."
I sign the lease that afternoon. Move-in date: two weeks.
-
Those two weeks are strange. We're both trying to act normal, but there's a countdown hanging over everything. Last dinner at the dining table. Last movie night on the couch. Last time falling asleep to the sound of his breathing in the dark. I start packing slowly, gathering my things from where they've spread throughout his apartment. It's surprising how much space I've taken up in two months, my books on his shelves, my tea in his kitchen, my toothbrush in his bathroom.
"I'm going to miss this," I say one night, folding clothes into a box.
He's leaning in my doorway, watching. "Me too."
"Will you visit? Once I'm settled?"
"If you want me to."
"I'll always want you to." I set down the shirt I'm folding and cross to him. "Yeosang, this doesn't change how I feel about you. You know that, right?"
"I know." But he sounds uncertain.
"I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for years. That's not going away just because I'm moving into my own place."
"Then why does it feel like you're leaving me?"
The rawness in his voice breaks something in me. "Because it's scary. For both of us. But I'm not leaving you. I'm leaving this-" I gesture around the apartment. "This borrowed space where I've been healing. I need my own space now. But you," I cup his face in my hands. "You're not borrowed. You're not temporary. You're the person I'm doing all of this for."
"I thought you were doing it for yourself."
"I'm doing it for both. So I can be the kind of person who deserves you. Who can stand beside you instead of constantly leaning on you."
He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. "I don't need you to be perfect."
"I know. But I need to be whole. Or at least, working toward it." I kiss his forehead softly. "Thank you for understanding. Even when it hurts."
"Even when it hurts," he echoes.
-
Moving day comes too quickly. Yeosang takes the day off work to help. So do my parents and Sofia, who was discharged from the hospital three weeks ago and is doing remarkably well. We make a strange crew, all of us handling each other carefully, like we're made of glass. There isn't much to move. Most of my furniture is still in my old apartment, which I'm going to return to eventually to pack up properly. For now, I just have clothes, books, and some basics Yeosang and I picked up at IKEA.
"You're going to need a better mattress," my mom frets, eyeing the cheap frame we just assembled.
"It's fine for now," I assure her.
"And curtains. You need curtains. And more dishes. And-"
"Mom." I squeeze her hand. "It's okay. I'll get everything eventually. Right now, this is enough."
She looks like she wants to argue but just pulls me into a hug instead. "I'm proud of you," she whispers. "For doing this. For being brave." My dad hugs me too, gruff and quick. "You call if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
Sofia helps me arrange my books on the small shelf in the living room. "Not bad," she says, surveying the space. "Very 'recovering millennial.' All you need is some inspirational posters."
I laugh despite myself. "Absolutely not."
"Come on. 'Live, Laugh, Love' would look great over there."
"I will kick you out."
She grins. "There she is. The girl with a sense of humor. I was wondering when she'd show up."
After a few hours, the apartment is as set up as it's going to get. My parents leave with promises to visit soon. Sofia hugs me hard before she goes. "You've got this," she says. "And if you don't, you call me. Day or night."
"Same to you."
"Deal."
And then it's just me and Yeosang. He's been quiet most of the day, helping where needed but not saying much. Now we're standing in my new living room, and the silence is heavy.
"So," I say.
"So."
"This is it."
"Yeah." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You've got everything you need? Food, basics, medications?"
"All set."
"And you have Dr. Park's number programmed in your phone? And the crisis line?"
"Yes, Yeosang."
"And you'll text me when you wake up tomorrow, so I know you're okay?"
"I promise."
He nods, but he doesn't move toward the door. Neither do I.
"I don't know how to leave," he admits finally.
"I don't know how to let you."
We stand there for a moment, and then we're moving toward each other simultaneously, crashing together in a hug that's almost desperate. I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in, trying to memorize the feeling of his arms around me.
"I'm going to miss you so much," I say, muffled against his shirt.
"I'm going to miss you too. Every single day."
"Will you still text me random stuff? About dogs and sunsets and terrible clients?"
"Every single thing."
"Good."
We hold on for another long moment, and then he pulls back just enough to look at me. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"I'm so proud of you," he says quietly. "For doing this. For choosing yourself."
"I'm choosing us," I correct. "The long way around."
"The long way around," he agrees.
And then, before I can overthink it, I lean up and press my lips to his cheek. It's brief, chaste, but it feels monumental. A promise of later. Of someday.
When I pull back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"Okay," he says, voice rough. "Okay, I should go. Before I do something stupid like beg you to come back with me."
"It's not stupid."
"But you'd say no."
"But I'd say no."
He nods, stepping toward the door. Then he pauses, turns back. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"When you're ready, when you really feel ready, I'm still going to be here. Waiting."
"I know."
"However long it takes."
"I know."
One more long look, and then he's gone. The door closes behind him, and I'm alone.
I sink down onto my new couch, secondhand but comfortable, and let myself cry. Not because I'm sad, exactly. But because this is real. This is me, choosing recovery, choosing growth, even when it's hard. Even when it means being apart from the person I love most.
My phone buzzes.
Yeosang: Made it home. Apartment feels empty without you.
Me: Mine feels empty too. But it's a good kind of empty. Room to grow kind of empty.
Yeosang: Yeah. I get that.
Yeosang: Sleep well tonight, okay? And text me in the morning.
Me: I will. Thank you for everything. For understanding.
Yeosang: Always. I love you.
Me: I love you too.
I set my phone down and look around my new space. My space. It's quiet and small and a little lonely, but it's mine. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
-
The first night alone is hard. Not in the way I feared, no overwhelming urges to hurt myself, no spiraling into darkness. Just... hard. The apartment makes unfamiliar sounds. The shadows fall differently. There's no one down the hall if I need them. But I make it through. Take my medications, text Yeosang goodnight, and fall asleep with my phone clutched in my hand just in case. I wake up in the morning alive and intact, and that feels like a victory.
Me: Morning. Still alive. Apartment didn't kill me in the night.
Yeosang: That's the bare minimum, but I'll take it. How'd you sleep?
Me: Okay. Weird being alone but okay.
Yeosang: Proud of you <3
The days start to develop a new rhythm. Different from the hospital, different from Yeosang's apartment. This rhythm is mine. Mornings: I wake up, take my meds, make coffee the way I like it. Sometimes I sit on my little balcony and watch the street wake up below. It's peaceful in a way I'd forgotten existed. I go to therapy twice a week still. Dr. Park and I work on building independence, on recognizing my triggers, on developing coping mechanisms that don't involve other people. It's hard work. Some sessions I leave feeling lighter, and others I leave feeling like I've been cracked open and exposed. "How's living alone going?" she asks during one session.
"Better than I thought. Harder than I hoped." I twist my hands in my lap. "I miss him. All the time. But I'm also... proud? That I'm doing this?"
"You should be proud. This is a big step."
"Sometimes I almost call him. When something small happens, I see a funny dog, or I make dinner that actually turns out good, or I have a bad moment. My first instinct is still to reach for my phone."
"And do you call him?"
"Sometimes. But not always. That's progress, right?"
"That's absolutely progress."
I start to build my own life, piece by small piece. I get a library card and spend hours browsing the stacks. I join a virtual art class, something low-pressure where I can explore creativity without expectation. I start cooking actual meals instead of living on toast and takeout. Some days are better than others. There are still mornings where getting out of bed feels impossible. Still nights where the thoughts creep in, whispering that I'm not worth this effort, that I should just give up. But I'm learning to recognize those thoughts for what they are: symptoms, not truth.
On bad days, I use my tools. I call Dr. Park or text Sofia or sometimes, yes, I call Yeosang. But I also learn to sit with the discomfort. To ride out the waves of anxiety or depression without immediately reaching for someone else to save me. I'm learning that I can save myself.
We don't see each other for the first two weeks. It's intentional, I need to establish my independence, need to prove to myself that I can exist without him. But God, I miss him. I miss his laugh. I miss the way he hums while he cooks. I miss falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. I miss everything about him with an ache that's physical. But I don't go back. Because I know that if I do, I'll never leave again. And I need this. We need this.
-
The first time we see each other after the move, it's at a coffee shop halfway between our apartments. My heart is racing the entire walk there. What if it's awkward? What if we've lost the ease we had? What if this distance has changed everything? But then I see him through the window, already sitting at a table with two coffee cups, and the relief is overwhelming. He looks up, sees me, and his whole face lights up in that way that's always been just for me. I walk in, and he stands, and for a second we just look at each other. "Hi," I say.
"Hi." And then we're hugging, and it's not awkward at all. It's like coming home.
"I missed you," I mumble into his chest.
"I missed you too. So much."
We sit, and it's like no time has passed at all. He tells me about work, about his mom asking about me, about the weird neighbor who keeps leaving notes on his door. I tell him about my apartment, about the art class, about Sofia's recent visit. "You look good," he says at one point.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Lighter somehow. Like you're carrying less."
"I am. Slowly. I'm figuring out how to put some of it down."
"I'm glad."
We talk for two hours, and when we finally part ways, it's with promises to do this again soon.
-
The weeks blur together. Good days and bad days, steps forward and occasional steps back. But the trajectory is upward, even if it's not a straight line. I start volunteering at a crisis hotline, putting my experience to use helping others. It's hard but meaningful. Each call reminds me why I chose to stay, why I keep choosing to stay.
Sofia and I get coffee regularly. We talk about recovery and relapse and the strange reality of rebuilding a life after trying to end it. She gets it in a way no one else does. "Do you still think about it?" she asks during one visit. "The attempt?"
"Every day," I admit. "But not in the way I used to. Now it's more like... it's part of my story, but it's not the ending."
"Yeah. Same."
"Does it ever stop feeling surreal? That we're here, alive, having coffee?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe it's supposed to feel surreal. Maybe that's how we remember to be grateful for it."
I see my parents weekly. We're rebuilding trust slowly, learning how to be honest with each other. They're trying to understand, and I'm trying to let them in.
And Yeosang. I see Yeosang once a week, sometimes twice. Coffee dates and walks in the park and movie nights at his place or mine. We're learning how to be best friends again, but with all our cards on the table now. No more hiding, no more pretending. It's different from before, but it's also better. More honest. More real.
"I'm thinking about going back to my old apartment soon," I tell him during one of our walks. "To pack it up properly. I need to face it."
"Want company?"
"Yeah. I think I do."
"Just tell me when."
The following weekend, we go together. Standing in front of my old building, I feel my heart racing, my palms sweating. The last time I was here, I walked out thinking I'd never return. "We can turn around," Yeosang offers. "If you're not ready."
"I'm ready."
The apartment looks the same but feels different. Smaller somehow. Less significant. We pack methodically, clothes, books, dishes, memories. When we get to the bathroom, I freeze.
"I'll do this part," Yeosang says quietly, but I shake my head.
"No. I need to."
I pack up the bathroom, including the cabinet where I kept my pills, where the blade was hidden. It's just a cabinet now. Just a space. It doesn't have power over me anymore. We pack everything into boxes, label them, arrange for movers. By the end of the day, the apartment is empty. Just bare walls and clean floors, all evidence of my life here erased.
"How do you feel?" Yeosang asks as we stand in the doorway one last time.
"Free," I say. "I feel free."
-
Three months after moving out, I realize something.
I'm happy. Not the frantic, desperate kind of happiness that's really just masking pain. Not the numb, medicated kind that's really just absence of feeling. Real, genuine, solid happiness. I'm sitting on my balcony with my morning coffee, watching the leaves turn golden and red, and I realize: I want to be here. I want to see what happens next. I want to be alive. The thought is so powerful it brings tears to my eyes.
I text Sofia first.
Me: I think I'm actually happy.
Sofia: FUCK YEAH YOU ARE.
Me: Like really happy. Not just okay. Actually happy.
Sofia: Tell me everything. How does it feel?
Me: Like spring after a really long winter.
Then I text Yeosang.
Me: I figured something out today.
Yeosang: Yeah?
Me: I'm ready.
Yeosang: Ready for what?
Me: For everything. For life. For us.
The phone rings immediately.
"Hi," I say, smiling.
"Hi." His voice is breathless. "Are you - do you mean-"
"I mean I'm ready. Really ready. To be with you, to try for real. I'm not just surviving anymore, Yeosang. I'm living. And I want to live with you in it. As more than friends."
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"When?"
"Soon. I don't know exactly. But soon. I needed you to know that it's coming. That we're close now."
I can hear the smile in his voice. "How close?"
"Close enough that I can see it. Spring is coming, Yeosang. I can feel it."
"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."
ACT V - SPRING
The gallery is small, tucked into a corner of the city I've only recently started exploring. Exposed brick walls, track lighting, hardwood floors that creak in all the right places. It's the kind of space that feels intimate rather than intimidating, which is exactly why I chose it. It's been a year since the attempt. Three hundred and sixty-five days of learning how to be alive again. And tonight, I'm celebrating that in the only way that feels right: by showing the world what that journey looked like.
"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Sofia observes from where she's arranging wine glasses on a table near the entrance. She's been here for the past two hours, helping me set up, occasionally making inappropriate jokes to ease my nerves.
"I'm not nervous," I lie.
"You've adjusted that painting four times in the last ten minutes."
I look down at my hands, realize I'm reaching for the frame again, and force myself to step back. The painting in question is titled "Descent" - all dark blues and blacks, swirling chaos, a figure drowning in color. It's the first in the series, the beginning of the story.
"It needs to be perfect," I say.
"It is perfect. They all are." Sofia crosses to me, puts both hands on my shoulders. "Breathe. You've got this."
I breathe. The gallery is filled with twelve paintings, each one a chapter in my recovery. From the darkness of "Descent" to the cautious light of "Emergence" to the hopeful bright colors of "Spring." They're abstract, not literal representations, but anyone who knows my story will understand what they're seeing. Anyone like Yeosang.
He hasn't seen any of these. I've kept them secret for months, working on them in my apartment late at night, pouring everything I couldn't say out loud onto canvas. This is my way of showing him, of showing everyone, where I've been and where I am now. "What time is it?" I ask.
"Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes until official start time." Sofia squeezes my shoulders. "But people will probably start arriving early. Are you ready?"
Am I? I'm wearing a simple black dress, nothing fancy, but it feels right. My hair is down, and I'm not wearing long sleeves. The scars on my wrists are visible, thin white lines that I've stopped trying to hide. They're part of my story too. "Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."
The first guests arrive at six fifty-five. My parents, punctual as always, followed quickly by a handful of friends from my art class. Dr. Park comes, which surprises and touches me in equal measure. Even a few people from the crisis hotline where I volunteer show up, offering quiet congratulations. But Yeosang isn't here yet.I try not to watch the door. Try to focus on the people who are here, accepting their compliments about the paintings, explaining the concept behind the series. But my eyes keep drifting to the entrance, waiting.
Seven fifteen. Seven thirty. Seven forty-five. "He'll be here," Sofia murmurs, appearing at my elbow with a glass of wine I don't remember her getting for me.
"I know."
"Traffic is probably terrible. You know how the city gets on Friday nights."
"I know."
But doubt creeps in anyway. What if he changed his mind? What if the distance has been too much? What if he's realized he doesn't want to wait anymore? At eight o'clock, I'm talking to one of my art instructors about the piece titled "Hospital Blues" when I feel it. That shift in the air that only happens when he walks into a room. I turn, and there he is. Yeosang stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath like he ran here, his hair windswept and his tie slightly crooked. Our eyes meet across the gallery, and everything else falls away. The other guests, the conversation, all of it just... dissolves.
He crosses the room slowly, his gaze never leaving mine, and I meet him halfway. "Hi," I say, and my voice comes out softer than intended.
"Hi." He's looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "Sorry I'm late. Client emergency that turned into a whole thing, and then traffic was a nightmare, and I tried to text but my phone died-"
"It's okay. You're here now."
"I'm here." His eyes search my face. "You look beautiful."
Heat rises in my cheeks. "Thank you. You look... frazzled."
He laughs, running a hand through his hair and somehow making it worse. "Yeah, probably. Can I-" He gestures to the paintings. "Can I look?"
"That's why you're here."
I watch him move through the gallery, stopping at each painting, taking his time. I can see the moment he understands what he's looking at, the way his shoulders tense, the way his hand comes up to press against his chest. He spends a long time in front of "The Discovery" - the one that's all harsh red lines and shattered white space and a single point of light breaking through the darkness. I didn't plan to make it about him finding me, but that's what came out. The moment everything changed.
When he gets to "The Hospital," he turns to look at me across the room, his eyes wet, and I have to look away. The series progresses through the paintings: the struggle, the slow healing, the setbacks and small victories. And then he reaches the last one.
"Spring" is different from all the others. It's the only one with clearly defined figures - two of them, abstract but recognizable, reaching for each other across a field of flowers in every shade of yellow and pink and green and gold. Their hands are almost touching, fingers stretching across the canvas, so close to connection it almost hurts to look at. But they're not quite there yet. Almost, but not quite.
Yeosang stands in front of it for what feels like an eternity. When he finally turns back to me, there are tears on his cheeks. I excuse myself from the conversation I was pretending to be part of and cross to him.
"That's us," he says quietly. It's not a question.
"Yeah."
"We're reaching for each other."
"We have been. For a long time now."
He looks at the painting again, then back at me. "When did you paint this?"
"Three weeks ago. It was the last one I finished." I take a breath. "I knew then. That I was ready. That it was time."
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing carefully, like he's afraid I might pull away. I don't.
"You said soon," he says. "That day on the phone. You said soon."
"I did."
"How soon is soon?"
I look up at him, at this man who found me dying and refused to let me go. Who sat with me in hospitals and helped me pack up my old life and gave me space to build a new one. Who has been patient and kind and present through every step of this impossible journey. "What are you doing after this?" I ask.
His breath catches. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"Good. Because I have something I need to show you."
-
We leave the gallery at nine thirty, after I've thanked everyone for coming and promised to keep in touch. Sofia gives me a knowing look and a thumbs up as we slip out. My parents hug me tight and tell me they're proud, and I realize I actually believe them now.
The walk to my apartment is quiet. Our hands stay linked, and every so often, one of us will squeeze - a reminder, a promise, a question we're both too nervous to ask out loud. "The paintings were incredible," Yeosang says as we climb the stairs to my third-floor walk-up. "Seriously. I don't have the words for what they made me feel."
"You don't have to have words."
"But I want to. I want to tell you-" He stops on the landing, turns to face me. "Watching your journey through those paintings, seeing the progression, seeing where you were and where you are now... I'm so fucking proud of you. You did that. You fought for that."
"We did that," I correct gently. "I couldn't have done it alone."
"But you learned how to do it alone. That was the whole point."
"No," I unlock my door, push it open. "The point was learning that I could stand on my own. But that doesn't mean I have to."
My apartment has changed since he last saw it. More lived in now, more personalized. Art supplies scattered across the kitchen table. Books stacked on every surface. Plants in various stages of thriving on the windowsills. Evidence of a life being actively lived. "It looks good in here," he says, taking it in.
"Thanks. I've been working on making it feel like home."
"You've succeeded."
I drop my keys on the counter and suddenly feel nervous in a way I haven't all night. This is it. This is the moment I've been building toward for months. "So," I say.
"So," he echoes, and he looks just as nervous as I feel.
"I need to tell you something. Actually, several things. And I need you to let me get through all of it before you say anything, okay?"
He nods, moving to sit on my couch. I stay standing, needing the space, needing to move.
"When I tried to kill myself, I genuinely believed I was doing everyone a favor. I thought I was too broken to fix, too damaged to love, too much of a burden to deserve to stay. And I know now that all of that was the depression talking, but at the time, it felt like absolute truth."
I pace to the window, look out at the street below. "You saved my life that night. Literally. But you also saved it in every day that came after. You sat with me in the hospital. You gave me a place to stay. You were patient when I pushed you away. You let me go when I needed to leave."
"Of course I did," he says quietly.
"Let me finish." I turn to face him. "The thing is, for a long time, I thought I needed to be completely healed before I could be with you. I thought I needed to be this perfect, whole person who never struggled or had bad days or needed support. And I was wrong."
I cross to the couch, sit down next to him but don't touch him yet. "Recovery isn't linear. I still have bad days. I still have moments where the thoughts creep in, where I have to actively choose to stay. I still see Dr. Park twice a week. I still take my medications every morning and night. And I'm learning that's okay. That I don't have to be perfect or completely healed to deserve love. To deserve you."
His eyes are bright with tears, but he stays quiet, letting me speak.
"Moving out was the right choice. I needed to prove to myself that I could exist independently, that I could stand on my own two feet. And I can now. I pay my own rent. I feed myself. I manage my own medications and appointments. I've built a life that's mine. But," My voice cracks. "But I don't want to live that life alone anymore. Not completely alone. I want you in it. Fully in it. As more than my best friend. As my partner. As my person."
"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough. "Because I need you to be sure. I can't - I can't do this halfway. I've been in love with you for too long to do this halfway."
"I'm sure." I take his hands in mine. "I'm so sure. I'm not saying I'm going to be easy to love. I'm still going to have hard days. I'm still going to need support sometimes. But I can also give support now. I can be a partner, not just someone who needs to be taken care of. And I want to be that. With you. For however long you'll have me."
For a moment, he just stares at me, like he's trying to memorize my face, like he's afraid this is a dream he'll wake up from. Then he's pulling me into his lap, his hands framing my face, and I can feel him shaking.
"However long I'll have you?" he repeats, voice breaking. "Sweetheart, I want forever. I want every single day you're willing to give me. Good days and bad days and everything in between."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, wiping away tears I didn't realize were falling. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for years, and I'm going to be for years more. Decades more. The rest of my life more."
"I love you too," I whisper. "So much. For so long."
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, and the question is so gentle, so careful, that it makes me want to cry all over again.
"Please."
He kisses me like I'm something precious. Like I'm something he's been waiting for his entire life. His lips are soft against mine, tentative at first, then deeper as I press closer. My hands slide into his hair, and his arms wrap around me, and it feels like coming home and jumping off a cliff all at once.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, both crying, both smiling.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," he says back, and then he's laughing, pressing kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. "God, I've wanted to do that for so long."
"Me too."
"Worth the wait?"
"So worth the wait."
We kiss again, slower this time, learning the shape of each other's mouths, the taste of each other's smiles. When we finally settle, I'm curled against his chest, his arms around me, and it feels impossibly right.
"So what now?" he asks eventually.
"Now we figure it out as we go," I say. "We take it slow. We communicate. We're honest with each other. We remember that I'm still in recovery and probably will be for a long time."
"I can do all of that."
"And we have fun. We go on actual dates. We do normal couple things. We build something real."
"I really like the sound of that."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, just existing together in this new reality we've finally stepped into.
"Can I tell you something?" Yeosang says eventually.
"Always."
"That night, when I found you..." He pauses, gathering himself. "I was on my way to tell you how I felt. I'd finally worked up the courage. I was going to show up at your door and confess everything, consequences be damned. And then"
"Then you found me dying instead."
"Yeah." His arms tighten around me. "And I thought I'd lost my chance forever. I thought I'd waited too long and I'd never get to tell you how much you meant to me."
I turn to look at him. "But you did get to tell me. In the ambulance."
"You remember that?"
"Every word. It was the first time in months I'd actually wanted to live. Because I realized maybe I was worth something after all. If you could love me, maybe I wasn't as broken as I thought."
"You were never broken. Just hurt. There's a difference."
"I'm learning that."
He kisses my forehead. "I'm so glad you stayed. I'm so glad you fought. I'm so glad I get to be here with you now."
"Me too."
-
Six months later, I'm standing in Yeosang's apartment - our apartment now, technically, though I still keep my place for the studio space - making breakfast while he's in the shower. It's a Saturday morning, lazy and slow, the kind of morning I used to think I'd never have again.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Sofia's name lights up the screen.
Sofia: Coffee date next week? I'm bringing my new girlfriend.
Me: You have a girlfriend??
Sofia: Three weeks now. Try to contain your excitement.
Me: I'm thrilled! Yes to coffee. Wednesday work?
Sofia: Perfect. Love you, bitch.
Me: Love you too.
I set the phone down, smiling. Sofia's doing well. Really well. We still check in on each other regularly, still understand each other in a way most people don't. But we're both building lives now, not just surviving.
Yeosang emerges from the bedroom, hair still damp, wearing sweatpants and my favorite t-shirt of his.
"Morning," he says, wrapping his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
"Morning. I made your favorite."
"You spoil me."
"You deserve to be spoiled."
We eat breakfast on the couch, legs tangled together, some mindless TV show playing in the background. It's domestic and easy and exactly what I needed.
"Hey," Yeosang says after a while. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous."
He pinches my side gently. "Rude. I was thinking we should take a trip. Maybe for your anniversary."
My anniversary. That's what we call it now - not the day I tried to die, but the day I chose to live. One year and six months ago, I woke up in a hospital bed and started fighting. And I've been fighting ever since, one day at a time.
"Where were you thinking?" I ask.
"Somewhere with water. Maybe the ocean? You've always talked about wanting to see the Pacific."
"The Pacific is pretty far."
"We have time." He pulls me closer. "We have all the time in the world now."
And he's right. We do. There will be hard days ahead - days where I struggle, days where the depression creeps back in, days where I have to actively choose to stay alive. But there will also be good days. Days like this one, full of coffee and laughter and the person I love most in the world. Days that make all the hard ones worth it.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Dr. Park, a reminder about my appointment on Tuesday.
"Therapy?" Yeosang asks, seeing the notification.
"Yeah. Tuesday at two."
"Want me to drive you?"
I think about it. Six months ago, I would have said no automatically, afraid of being too dependent. But I've learned now that accepting help isn't weakness. It's just love in action.
"That would be nice," I say. "If you're free."
"I'll make sure I'm free."
We settle back into comfortable silence, and I think about that painting. The one of two figures reaching for each other across a field of flowers, their fingers almost touching. We're touching now. We made it across the distance. And while I know there will be days when we feel far apart again, when my demons get loud and his trauma resurfaces, I also know we'll find our way back to each other. We always do.
"I'm happy," I say suddenly.
Yeosang looks down at me, smiling. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Really, genuinely happy. Not just okay or managing or surviving. Actually happy."
"Good." He kisses my forehead. "You deserve to be happy."
"We both do."
"We both do," he agrees.
Later, after breakfast and showers and the lazy kind of morning that stretches into early afternoon, we go for a walk by the river. The same river where we used to play as kids, where we walked the night before my attempt, where everything has always seemed to circle back to.
It's spring now, really spring. The trees are green and full, flowers blooming along the path, the air warm and alive with possibility. We walk hand in hand, not saying much, just being together.
"Can I tell you something?" I ask eventually.
"Always."
"That night, when I took the pills and used the blade... I thought I was ending my story. But I was really just starting a new chapter."
"The best chapter," Yeosang says.
"Maybe not the best. But definitely the most important." I squeeze his hand. "Because it's the one where I learned that I'm worth saving. That I deserve love and happiness and a future. That recovery is possible, even when it feels impossible."
"You did that. You saved yourself."
"We saved each other," I correct. "You saved me that night. But then I had to choose, every day, to stay saved. And you've been there for all of it."
We stop walking, and he turns to face me fully, taking both my hands in his.
"I'm going to be there for all the days that come after too," he says. "The good ones and the hard ones and the ordinary ones. Every single one you'll let me be part of."
"That's a long time."
"I'm counting on it."
I stand on my toes and kiss him, there on the river path with spring blooming all around us. And I think about how close I came to missing this. Missing him. Missing the chance to be happy, to be loved, to be alive.
But I didn't miss it. I'm here. I stayed. And spring came again, just like I knew it would.
"Come on," I say, tugging his hand. "Let's go home."
"Home," he agrees, smiling. "I like the sound of that."
We walk back the way we came, past the flowers and the trees and the river that's seen every version of us. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not afraid of what comes next. Because whatever it is, we'll face it together.
One day at a time.
Forever.
I really hope you guys enjoyed ! I can definitely see myself writing a sequel for her anniversary that could explore... other... aspects of their relationship. feedback is always appreciated!
synopsis: the worst thing about hope is how easily it disguises itself as possibility. ellie hears something that makes her question everything she thought she knew.
content warnings: kinda pervy ellie, suggestive content, ellie’s pov, informal style, loser!ellie, lowkey oblivious reader, obsessive themes, nerdy ellie, she is down bad, stalking? high school au (characters are eighteen). next part
entry: the planetarium incident continues to haunt me
it has been three days. THREE. and i am still thinking about her tying my shoelace. i wish i was joking. i wish i could tell you i've spent the last three days thinking about important things, like idk school maybe, my future? the inevitable heat death of the universe. But no. instead my brain keeps replaying the image of her crouching down in front of me, like girl PLEASE. lord have mercy. okay and of course she'd take care of me, remind me again why she isn't my girlfriend??? too many fucking reasons. It's messing me up, she always does stuff like that. and its always the little things that get me every single time… like d'you know she always brings me snacks along with her lunch, because she knows sometimes i forget? She also sends me notes when i'm sick (hand written ones i'm not that easy yes i am), she also texts me after every single one of my tests, to let me talk her head off about every detailed answer.
god.
and she remembers EVERYTHING.
i mentioned once that i liked those stupid astronaut ice cream things they sell at science museums, y'know those ones that are shaped like different space objects- you get it. i mentioned it ONCE. fucking months ago. this morning she just dropped it on my desk and kept walking right on to her class, shit she winked at me too, my nipples got hard immediately. so like she had to have gone all the way to the museum during her free period (i was in a class which is why i wasn't glued to her side), then come all the way back… just to get me some ice cream and not say anything. what on earth is the protocol. someone really needs to write a handbook.
entry: i stared at her for an entire class period
so later in class she sat by the window. the sun was right behind her so she looked all glowy and i spent most of biology trying not to stare. keyword: trying. i failed so, so miserably. and then she caught me, should've ended me honestly, except instead of looking weirded out she just smiled. again. SHE ALWAYS SMILES. why why why why why why why? every single time she smiles at me i feel like a bobblehead. idk the comparison makes sense to me, head empty. just wobbling around. i'm pathetic.
entry: concerning developments
i think she's gotten clingier. or maybe i've finally lost my mind. both options are possible, only one is believable. she showed up at my locker before first period, not unusual i guess. except she didn't actually need anything… she just stood there. talking. about nothing. and everything. some story about her weekend, her neighbour did something funny apparently, i can't remember my brain was spiraling cause i was so nervous and confused- just completely random stuff.
okaaayy so it it posible she just wanted to talk to me? yes or no yes or no yes or no. what the fuck is my fucking problem, this shouldn’t even be that big of a deal, and i'm almost one hundred percent sure she meant nothing by it. a girl can dream though…
hmmm but like she could've talked to anyone — not that i'm everrrr complaining, If her voice were a frequency, my mind would literally be tuned to it constantly — but there were people everywhere, and she chose to be leaning against the locker next to mine, talking to me for twenty minutes before class.
i'm very aware of how hella insane i sound at the moment (or always?), no one can ever read this they seriously won't understand, fuck i don't know. it felt nice.
entry: worst day of my life contender #47
i got paired with him. HIM. out of every person in the mother fucking class. out of the hundreds of students wandering around this school like confused livestock, i — the unlucky ellie williams — got paired with the one person i've been trying my hardest to avoid. Haven't i suffered enough already universe?
so there i was. sitting across from him (he’s not that good looking), trying to focus on the assignment. trying to act normal. trying not to think about how i've spent the last month secretly resenting a guy whose greatest crime is existing near a girl i like.
i was actually prepared to hate every second of it too. i sat down fully committed to being the least helpful project partner in recorded human history, not enough to get a bad grade though because unfortunately i care too much about school, but enough to make my displeasure known.
except this man had the fucking audacity to act like a decent guy, actually fuck off. i would've sooo preferred it if he was an asshole, because then i could've continued hating him totally guilt-free. instead he's just like an actual human being. i know shocker.
we were working for a while and then he asked how long i've known her and immediately my brain went into fight-or-flight response, keep my wifes name out yo mouth. The conversation was so unbareable, he actually knew her more than i thought he would. when he started talking, i was like okayy?? actually get the fuck outta my face right now. but turns out i'm a idiot, who's surprised at this point? not me.
apparently she tutors him in math.
math. apparently he's awful at math, he’s horrible. which i absolutely did not expect by the way — he looks like somebody who understands taxes. told me he begged her not to tell a soul cause he was embarrassed (I mean I would be too, except I’m great at math so), which explains EVERYTHING.
all those times i saw them together… after class, at luch, while i was sitting alone rotting from jealousy, they were doing algebra. yep. algebra. i was losing sleep over algebra. just took the idiot test and got a whopping 100% yayy. should we include that on my gravestone:
"here lies ellie. spent three weeks emotionally devastated by a quadratic equation." i still hate his ass.
As embarrassing as that whole thing was, it's not even half of what's occupying my mind now. because he mentioned that she talks about me a lot. and i laughed initially because obviously that's ridiculous. and he was like no, and that he really wanted to speak with me cause of it and blah blah blah.
then he started listing the things. stuff she'd allegedly said about me. how i'm funny, how i know random facts about everything, how i always pretend not to care when i actually care a lot (she knows me so well it’s scary). i have goosebumps all over my body writing this, cause this is literally exactly what he told me. I swear i can't fucking sleep i don't even know how to begin processing any of these emotions. all these feelings i have for her. she talks about me when i'm not there… like enough that somebody noticed. do you know how much you’d have to talk about someone for that to happen? it feels insane, god.
there's something weirdly intimate about that, not even in a romantic way. just... she thinks about me when i'm not around.
oof that's a dangerous piece of information for somebody like me to have, i already started being ellie about it, where i take one tiny thing and immediately start building entire civilizations out of it. i keep imagining her mentioning me in random conversations. the thought of that is making me feel weird. good weird. bad weird? definitely both.
DON'T FUCK UP YOUR FREINDSHIP WITH HER ELLIE !!
gahhh! and then the conversation got even worse cause his ass admitted he likes her — which yeah, obviously. join the fucking club. take a number we meet on thursdays.
it actually felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest having to sit there, listening to him describe all the reasons he likes her and i couldn't even disagree. every single thing he said was true. she does make people feel important. i hate how easy it is to love her, i really do.
he told me he doesn't think she likes him back. should've made me happy, and it kind of did. fuck am i a terrible person? he's literally in the exact same situation i'm in, i know how bad it hurts, trust me i KNOW. I just… selfishly felt relieved that she didn't want him. but then he said he thinks she likes someone else. thank you for giving me a whole four seconds to bask in it before pulling the rug from under my feet. very generous. so now i'm sitting there listening to this guy talk about how great the woman I’m in love with is, who apparently has been noticing things… like there was someone specific she likes. and he said she gets distracted sometimes. like lights up when she gets a text from, what looks like the luckiest person in the world from where I’m standing. while he was talking i just sat there nodding, pretending i didn’t want to crawl into a hole or gutter or something and die.
i haven't stopped thinking about that since. somebody else. some random guy probably. some nice normal guy with nice normal guy hobbies and functioning social skills.
not me.
definitely not me.
because i'm currently sitting here at 1:13 in the morning already four tear stained pages in of my diary fuckin' journal, because a girl i'm secretly in love with apparently talks about me when i'm not around. it's never fucking over is it.
and y'know what makes me geniunely the biggest pathetic loser? after allll that, spending hours listening to a guy rave about how amazing she is, hearing that she probably has feelings for someone else, and feeling like absolute garbage all because of this one woman.. she texted me asking if i wanted to bake cookies with her tomorrow, and I’ve already forgotten about all the pain. She’s my favorite notification — my favorite everything, actually.
i'm going to sleep now, and definitely not to reread all our texts first. unrequited final boss.
aka… an old flame blazing to life, only to diminish and light all over again
warnings ~ allusions/mentions of sex, probs a lil ooc, lowkenuinely ass, also mentions of real world events (I hate it as much as you do forgive me), sucky writing rip
w/c ~ 2700+
── .✦ a/n ~ jesus christ this is long but oh well :P
The autumnal breeze of November sends a chill down your spine
You hadn’t expected things to go this far, but here you are. About to meet up with an ex-flame nearly seven years after you’ve last seen one another. You’re in a very low-key town; somewhere you know neither of you will get recognized.
You really don’t need paparazzi ruining this for you.
Nerves eat at your stomach, and for a moment, you wish you’d never emailed him about this. That is, until you see his face.
A sharp jawline, captivating brown eyes, shiny lip piercing and black braids – undeniably, it’s him.
God, he’s hot.
You notice him before he notices you, but you don't point it out.
When he does see you, however, he’s just as speechless.
Everything about you radiates beauty: your hair, your eyes, your clothes, all of it.
Absolutely stunning.
He approaches you with a blank expression, masking the way you still make him feel. You smile as he gets close.
“Hey, Tom.” You clutch your purse tightly.
“Hey. Been a while, huh?” He can’t help giving you that signature smirk of his.
“Yeah. How long exactly – six years? No calls or emails?” You poke fun at his lack of communication since high school. He truly was busy – being a rockstar, making music and being on tour – you don’t blame him for the lack of contact.
“Salty much?” He teases back.
“Lets just go inside,” You say with a small giggle.
The two of you step inside the coffee shop; it’s quaint, small and sweet. You like it. Your next three and a half hours are spent catching up over coffee gone cold from how much you’ve been speaking.
He talks about the band, how Bill, Gustav and Georg are doing, how it’s been making music, how the fame has been in general.
You, in turn, tell him about your own rise to fame; how fun acting is and the friends you’ve made because of it.
By the end, you’re already planning your next meeting for the following Saturday. And after that? You’re planning the next.
Soon, it becomes a weekly thing.
Until it isn’t.
One night, four weeks after your initial day of catching-up, you find yourself aimlessly scrolling on your computer.
That’s when you find an article. The headline?
“Famous guitarist Tom Kaulitz spotted getting intimately close with a woman at a nightclub in Berlin; is she a new girlfriend, or just a fling? Continue reading for more information!”
Under it?
Images of Tom, beneath the dim lights of a club, groping some girl’s ass with his lips close to her ear and on her neck.
Your heart sinks.
You feel like you might throw up.
It’s the same exact thing you experienced six years ago, with the same exact boy.
Just when you’d begun to feel that fluttering in your stomach again, when you’d begun to get your hopes up on the notion that maybe – just maybe – he didn’t forget what you had all those years ago, it’s all crushed into dust quicker than it began.
You’ve never shut your laptop quicker.
That night, you sleep very little and wake up with red-rimmed eyes.
You don’t answer his texts. Or his calls. Or his emails. You don’t show for what was supposed to be your fifth three-hour meeting.
It’s not like it matters to him.
He never did take anything seriously, did he?
This goes on for two weeks.
Two weeks of unread messages.
Two weeks of missed calls.
Two weeks of Bill having to deal with a frantic, emotional twin brother.
Two weeks of hell for Tom.
He doesn’t understand – can't understand – why you’re suddenly radio silent. Was it something he said? Pressure from your manager? Or did you realize how much of a loser he truly is and decide you wanted someone better?
Really, his anxieties couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Not that you even know. Or care.
You don’t let your manager schedule any new interviews or events. You're far too busy crying in your bedroom to care. Ironically, however, the one day you end up out of bed and at a grocery store, you run into none other than Bill Kaulitz himself – in the candy aisle, no less.
“ *Oh mein Gott, du bist es! Scheiße, du bist es wirklich – und zwar leibhaftig!” You’d know that voice anywhere. You did go to school with him for 15 years, after all. *Oh my god, it's you! Shit, it's really you – in the flesh, no less!
Your head whips around, coming face-to-face with a rather lazily disguised Bill Kaulitz.
“My goodness, Bill! You scared me...” You gasp, despite the grin on your face.
“Ah, my beautiful girl! How long’s it been again?” He beams, pulling you into a hug.
“Don’t even start with me, Bill–” She laughs, smiling up at him.
“Hasn’t been that long, has it? We spoke a couple months ago, did we not?” Bill’s attitude makes you grin.
Admittedly, you kept in touch with him a hell of a lot better than you did Tom. You’re surprised he hadn’t found out.
“We literally went shopping two weeks ago?” You elbow him playfully.
He laughs loudly at that.
“So, what are you doing at a grocery store? Shouldn't you be posing for Vogue or something?” You tease.
“No, that’s next week. I actually came here to get, uh, Tom some stuff. He’s been…”
Bill pauses. He knows what went down between you two, and he finds himself unsure of whether to bring it up or not.
“Rough, to say the least.”
You sigh.
After spending two weeks trying (and failing) to not think of him here you are; wondering if he actually cares or not–
No.
You can’t feel anything for him. You don't feel anything for him. Not after the way he behaved.
“Is he really, now?” You grumble, grabbing a bag of gummy bears from the shelf.
Bill’s brows furrow, sympathy filling his gaze.
“Y’know… he really likes you. Like, a lot.” He places a hand on your shoulder.
“Doesn’t seem to act like it.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that. You’re practically all he talks about anymore–!”
“Then why did he seem so utterly mad for some woman who isn’t me?” You snap, shoving his hand off your shoulder.
“I’ve seen the pictures, Bill. He doesn’t care enough about me to turn down other girls – or at all. I’m not enough for him.”
All Bill wants is to shake you until you realize that he does care – more than you’ll probably ever realize. But he knows this isn’t his battle to fight.
It’s Tom’s.
He sighs, before pulling you into a small hug.
“I hope you feel better, sweetheart. You know I’m always in your corner.”
You nod against his chest.
He leaves the grocery store with a basket full of gummy bears and cola, but also a newfound determination. If he doesn’t knock some sense into his brother, he knows Tom will regret it for the rest of his life.
Three more weeks pass, and you enter the spotlight once again. This time, for a red carpet event. You're attending the premiere a movie of your co-star's — something stupid that tries too hard to be philosophical — and you'd admittedly rather not go. It isn't just about him being pretentious either.
It's because Tom is going to be there.
The thought makes you cringe.
But you push it aside.
You won't let some silly boy take over your life. After all, that's all he is. A silly boy. One who doesn't deserve you, your kindness, your anything. He is just a silly, stupid boy, you think to yourself over and over.
He is just a silly, stupid boy.
A silly, stupid boy with a beautiful face.
A silly, stupid boy with an amazing heart.
A silly, stupid boy who you can't quit thinking about—
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?
When the day of the event finally comes, you feel… calm. At ease. Like our normal, typical self.
You spend your morning getting your hair and makeup done, doing so to ensure it'll make you look your best. The color of your eyeshadow brings out your eyes and your hair frames your features perfectly.
And the moment your step into your dress?
The room stills.
It's floor length, dark, and made of silk, with a ribbed corset bust and sleeves that droop down your arms.
You look unreal.
Staring at yourself in the mirror, looking so good, makes you forget all about Tom.
Who needs him anyways? Not you, that's for sure.
After nearly six hours of getting ready, an hour-long car ride, and struggling to go unseen by paparazzi, you make it to the venue.
You have approximately five minutes before you're meant to go out.
And when you do, you're met with the intense flashes of hundreds of cameras.
A mask almost immediately goes up.
You're smiling and posing like it's second nature — not thinking, just doing. For a while, that's all you do. You become almost engrossed in it.
So much so, that you don't even notice the presence of Tom just a few feet behind here.
There, he stands with his band, posing for the cameras just like you.
Except he isn't as poised.
In fact, he seems quite distracted to those keeping an eye on him.
Why?
Because every other second, he's glancing at you.
Not at cameras. Not at Bill. Not at anyone else in the room.
You.
And you don't notice. At least, not for a while.
It isn't until you turn slightly to keep walking that you see him out of the corner of your eye. But you don't spare him so much as a full glance.
You don't need him.
He's just a silly, stupid boy.
This apparent tension is quickly picked up on by the cameras and various other media people.
And when the event is over and you're at home, in bed, you discover the affects of your indifferent behavior. The media had taken the mere looks and ran, conjuring up a plethora of stories about what may or may not have happened.
"Two beloved European stars seen giving each other looks at red carpet event — did he cheat? Did she? Many questions answered in this article!."
"To be, or not to be? That is the question posed against famed actress and German guitarist after some interesting interactions at recent events."
"Europe's newly fawned upon 'couple' spotted glaring at one another at a movie premiere in Paris yesterday."
You scoff at your laptop screen before slamming it shut.
Your sleep isn't the most peaceful that night.
After that event, Tom finally manages to get a grip.
Well…
More like after Bill knocked some sense into him and made him realize you're pissed at him for a reason. A good reason. All it took was your indifference to make him desperate for a chance to speak to you.
But when? How??
So, being the genius he is, he waits.
For what exactly?
The Golden Globes, of course.
He knows you're both going and it'll be the perfect opportunity to finally speak with you face-to-face. That way, you can't ignore him.
It sounds flawless in his head.
When the time comes for the show — nearly a month after your last little ordeal — he spends his morning constantly on edge. As the rest of the band is getting ready, he's pacing, laying out exactly what he wants to say to you when you meet.
"Dude— you've been pacing like that for, like, two hours! Calm down!" Georg exclaims from the nearby couch, gesturing to Tom's frantic behavior with a grin.
"Yeah, man! It'll go fine, get that stick out of your ass!" Bill comments from the bathroom.
"But what if it doesn't?! What if she decides she hates my guts and never wants to see me again?!"
"She probably already decided that when—"
"Shut it, Georg, you're making it worse!" Bill cuts in.
Tom just keeps on pacing and muttering.
When they inevitably take their seats, he's never been more nervous. He doesn't even care if they win their stupid award or not. He just wants to see you.
The night goes by in a blur.
He doesn't pay attention to who wins or doesn't win awards. Even when they win a stupid award for some stupid song, he's out of it. All he can think of is how much he misses you.
The only moment he finds himself not in his own head is when he hears your name called out from the stage.
You're nominated for the "Best New Actress" category.
And you win.
Tom watches with wide eyes as you walk onto the stage — teary eyed and smiling — and accept the award. You give a speech.
He hardly catches a word of it.
All he does for the next three hours is stare at nothing.
As soon as he gets the chance, he's finding his way to your dressing room.
Christ, he's desperate.
When you entered your dressing room after the award show, you were anticipating being able to cry over winning in peace.
You weren't expecting to almost immediately hear four loud bangs on your door.
But you open it, assuming it to be your manager or some other person wanting to congratulate you.
Not Tom.
Anyone but Tom.
"Wh— What are you doing here?" You ask, though you immediately regret it.
You should just slam the door in his face, you think.
You don't.
"I just wanna talk. That's it." He breathes.
"About what?" There's that anger. That familiar, comforting anger. "About how you lead me on? Made me think we had something for weeks??"
"That's… that's not what happened, I—"
"What bullshit excuse are you gonna give me? That you didn't care about her? That it 'meant nothing?'"
You hate being so hostile. But you hate wanting him just as much.
It's a fine and often blurred line.
"'Cause I've heard it all before."
He stares at you for a full minute.
Then, he speaks.
"Just let me speak. Please."
Now, you're the one staring.
You nod.
He steps inside and closes the door before he begins.
"I didn't do anything with anyone after we started talking."
You scoff. He keeps going.
"The moment you re-entered my life, I—"
"Oh, don't get all poetic on me! Just say whatever you need to and get the hell out!" You snap, rolling your eyes at him. Of course he'd say that — act all sad and shit. You can feel how fake it is.
And Tom? He suddenly forgets every word of the speech he had been planning out the entire morning.
So he comes up with something new on the spot.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ— let me talk!" He interrupts. "I'm trying to have a whole romantic moment, and you're messing it up!"
He takes a step forward.
"What I was trying to say was that I couldn't get you out of my goddamn head for one second for entire month straight!"
And suddenly, every pre-conceived notion you had of him is shattered. At least, the ones you made up in your head as an excuse to be angry.
"I couldn't physically fathom being with any other woman aside from you. So, no, I didn't lead you on, I didn't 'play you,' and I most certainly did not sleep with some random fuckin' girl from a club!"
Once again, you find yourself staring at him.
He stares back.
It takes you far too long to think of what to say.
"I— what?"
He steps even closer.
"I have been in love with you since I was sixteen years old. You think I'd be stupid enough to send my only chance down the drain for one night of half-assed sex?"
You stare even more.
He stares right back.
And he's about to start begging — pleading, even — for you to stay something, when you cut him off… in a rather unconventional way.
You kiss him.
Years of built up desire, years of yearning for something you knew would never happen, gets poured into the kiss.
One kiss, and you lose yourself.
As does he.
Tom's hands grip your hips with bruising force, unwilling to let you slip from his grasp again. Your lips are hot against one another, but the kisses themself are anything but. They're deep, slow — filled with emotions they've both been hiding for years and years.
When he pulls back, you're both breathless.
You can't help laughing.
"So you're not mad at me?" He asks, eyes boring into yours.
"No. No, I'm not mad at you."
[ 🏷️ : (lit everyone who commented on the first part) @chaiennerose @cynical-ghost @rainbow-sheep @eliotmustdie @il0vetokiohotelx0 ]
It hasnt been too long since you first joined the server.. Everyone was very Nice to you, really, but you couldnt help But to feel.. Insecure. You had secrets, being a writer was Just one of them, the other one was more.. Well.. Complicated.
Your ears twiched upon a sound you knew Very well, a message, a message right from your dear serial Killer server, you sat down in front of your computer while a notification shined bright on your screen 'Goreboy has sent you a message'
<3:12>
Goreboy: sup' Loser
you busy?
<3:13>
[username]: Good morning for you too, Ronin.
And nop, im not busy, what's up?
<3:15>
Goreboy: you see darling.. Its just has been weeks since you joined the server
but nobody saw your face not even once, how funny..
<3:17>
Goreboy: even.. A bit suspicious one might say, inst that Right, [Username]?
Goreboy: so I was thinking.. how about, Hop in a call with The devil?Just me and You and me... put an end to this little enigma of yours, wha'd you say?
Goreboy would like to vídeo call you
| Yes please | No thank you..|
You stare at screen in discontentment as you feel your heartbeat faster and faster, you could feel anxiety taking over your body, your tail going back and forth on a vicious rithym.. You need to think fast, Just Another excuse will Just Make things worse.
You know what. Fuck this.
You press the accept button. Ronin's face shine on your screen, He stares at you and You stare at him.. And.. For you surprise he stays quiet.. He opened and closed His mouth a few times like Thinking About what to say, But.. nothing.
"What? Dont Tell a rat — No, better.. Did the *cat* ate your tongue, goreboy?"
He bursts Into laughing "Aw, you wound me darling, almost got the Devil spechless"
....
• Keeps pushing your ears down With His finger Non stop Just to piss you off. Will stop If you are uncomfortable With them being touched tho.
• Whenever Blackjack hides inside your hoodies pocket he teases about "Keeping the lunch for later", But seriously dont eat His rat for real.. No you can't steal Blackjack either.
• Is Very much respectfull of your boundaries and *tries* to keep His house the cleaneast as possible Whenever you come to visit him, he knows How much you hate getting yourself dirty.
• If you are noise sensitive he Will try His Best not to make loud noises around you.
• He would think It the coolest thing If you decorate your huge cat ears With a lot of earrings. Might even share some of His collection With you.
• He cooks you the nicest carnivore meals.
• ° . ☆ — Misaki
You were new here, But still loved Talking to the Server's silliest assassin either way. Their fursona fur pattern looked exactly the same as your ears and tails one, and They were overral a very talented artist, Even If They didnt do It as much.
<13:04>
[Username]: *Break dances* How Is my favorite monarch doing😎
You text them, and they answer almost at the Same Instant, you giggle About It to yourself.
<13:05>
Hittmeupp: OMG HIIIIIIIIIIIII HOMIE, OMG HOW ARE **YOU** DOING?????
<13:06>
[Username]: Feeling even better now that in talking to you;)
<13:07>
Hittmeupp: UFDGKGKGSOGSTSOOTAR
Okay okay
Do youuuu wanna talk About anything???👀👀
You know, you and me, Just to kill time
Pretty pleaseeee??
<13:07>
[Username]: HELL YEAH🔥🔥🔥
..
You spent a lot of time Yapping About the most different topics, cats, the New anime she Just watched, gossip, assasinations and stuff.. Most of your days With Misaki were like that, until you decided to reveal yourself to them..
..
You never Heard someone gasp that loud when you opened your camera.
"OH. MY. GOD. ARE THOSE **REAL**??? LIKE REAL *REAL*?????"
You tilted One of your ears slightly to the side
"Yep. Pretty much."
"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO CUTE WTF??? HOLY SHIT WERE YOU HIDING THIS FROM ME THIS WHOLE TIME????"
...
• They are absolutely OBSSESED (not in a creepy way) like, They Loves cats and they love YOU.. But you are Both the person They love and partially a cat??? Thats literally paradise.
• They LOVE touching your ears With your consent, They are Just so cute and fluffy.
• Wears matching Kitty socks With you.
• Whenever you Leave the house together Misaki wears a cosplay of some sort so people wont question too much About your ears and tails (If you can't Hide then) and Also to be matching With you.
• Cats almost Always follow you around, Misaki pets EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. OF. THEM. You love It, its so cute to see them All excited.
• Misaki adores cuddling With you, They would crawl under your skin If they could/lh
• ° . ☆ — V
Well, here Is The thing.. You told V your Secret From the start.. Because its hilarious How he wont believe you no matter what you do. Damn, he couldnt even believe that you arent a serial killer despite All the proofs, But a cat person?! Impossible.
You texted him About It? Liar.
You sent him a Photo or video of your ears? Fake.
You VIDEO called him? Must be a costume.
So here you are standing outside a cafe while waiting for your boyfriend to show up, you Just had started dating recently and You insisted that you could proof yourself If he Just Saw you in person, This would be your first time Meeting eachother irl.
Soon enough you Heard the sturdy sound of His combat boots against the floor, he smelled like musk and a cologne you didnt know but smells fancy. He smiled gently at you as soon as he spotted you and approached you.
"Oh.. Am I late?" He Said while nevoursly staring at a watch on His wrist.
"Nop! You are about uuh.. 30 minutes earlier..? In fact. I needed to buy some stuff in a nearby store, so I Just thought that I might as well Just wait here already" You giggled as your ears twiched excitedly to the sides.
"Oh.. That's a.. Very realistic costume, my love. Its that what you wanted to show me?" He speaked to you in a gentle yet confused manner.
"I already told you, dummie! Its no costume, here you see? Its literally attached to my body!" You grabbed His hand and shoved It Into your Head.
"And I already told you, my Dear.. It Is Impossible for us humans to have such a sort of.. of.." — His Voice becoming more and more of a desperate whisper as he realizes It Is glued to your Head. — "I.. I.. How.. How Is that even possible? I.. mean.. You are wonderfully beautiful, my love, But.. That shoudlnt.."
He spents the rest of the day asking you questions non stop. Well, I guess you had It coming from your resident animal lover.
...
• Adapts His whole fridge based on your eating habits, Also incentivate you to eat ethically sourced meat since you are a carnivore and its good for you health, despite being vegan himself.
"My love.. Its okay If ask you something? Are you lactose intolerant Just like the majority of adult cats? Or perhaps It affects you differently considering you are a person?"
• The ONE time he accidently treated you like one of His pet cats, you stared at him in such immense judgment that he imediately realized he had overstepped a boundarie. He apologized and that Never happened again.
• His cats LOVE you, They follow you everywhere inside His bunker, snuggle Into your lap to take a nap and some even show you their favorite toys! V honestly thinks its the most adorable thing in the world.
• His dogs are okay With you and in fact appreciate your presence since They are used to live With cats and other Animals.. But some dogs you find while walking on the streets? Oh boy.. They run After you like crazy, V Lost the count It times He had to chase after you and the dogs hunting you before anyone gets hurt.
• Absolutely Loves brushing your tail for you.
• His phone's wallpaper Is a Silly Photo he took From you sleeping With His cats cuddling around you.
• Sometimes he Wonders If you can loaf, but Never Mentions It to you, guess he'll Never know.
• Pets your ears frequently If you let him to.
• Is Very careful so other people dont find out about what you are. Eventually the server folks do figure It out tho since They are trustworthy Even If he wont Ever admit It.
• Praises you a lot, you are the most beautiful person for him, he loves everything About you.. Your personality, your manneirisms, your ears, your tail..
• Sleeps cuddling With you every night + has lots of pillows and blankets since he figured out you like them.
• ° . ☆ — Angel
(HCs Only, Sorry angel fans, I couldnt figure It out How to write her Mini fic--)
• Gives you lots of cute bows and acessories for you ears and tail.
• Thinks you are the most adorable thing in the universe, and If She sees you kneading a blanket? She nearly explodes, you Just are so damn cute!
• Kills creepy man for you.
• She loves helping you accessorize your claws/nails, ears, tails, etc.. If you let her.
• Like V, she praises you constantly! Maria Loves Seeing her sweet kitty Looking partner happy.
• Has a whole cat themed shoot.
• If you have no interest in Having/adopting kids someday, you two Adopt a whole litter of stray cats instead.
• Wears matching clothes with you
— Author's note: Sorry for How long It has taken me! I Hope It Is of your liking, If anything let me know:3
Thanks for the request! I Very much enjoyed writing This/gen
That aside hello! I was so so happy to see your reply, and even happier knowing you're taking requests 😻!
Could you please, please, please do Teru with someone who has terrible social anxiety:( ?
Like cries after having to speak in public, has to literally whisper into someone's ear, can't text in gcs, doesn't really approach others first type socially anxious.
I'm trying super hard to get over it! And I think in the past 3 years I've really improved, but I do wish I was more bolder- so I'm here for comfort </3
(I try public speaking even though it terrifies me, absolutely butchered my last competition. I literally whispered 'I'm so cooked' into the mic twice. In school )
Thank you so much for reading!
Take caree ^^
˚.🎀༘⋆ i usually yap at the end of my posts but oh my god nonnie this is actually SUCH a cute req .ᐟ ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა i honestly can’t say i’m all that good at public speaking ノsocializing either (╥﹏╥) you’re seriously so strong for putting yourself out there though, don’t stop the good work ❕
teru’s cute socially awkward girlfriend
﹙❕﹚ . fluff. hurt/comfort :: social anxiety :: panic attack ( brief ノ alluded ) :: pure comfort :: i wanna give reader a hug so baaaad.
sometimes, you wonder if everyone’s lives are plagued with muscle-freezing mortification at just the thought of opening their mouth; voicing thoughts aloud to more than the void constructed by your own presence alone.
you genuinely wonder some days how it is you managed to get in this position— dating the student council president, teru minamoto— because with just a glance everyone deems you polar opposites who’d lack chemistry— and though not true, the words never fail to etch doubt inside that cloudy mind of yours.
this, of course, infuriates teru. especially because he knows how whispers affect you; wilting blossoming courage with no remorse.
his poor beautiful girl, he croons mentally when you crumble in his arms after a particularly bad presentation. you’d been so confident you wouldn’t do so bad, especially because you’d rehearsed with him so many times, but first step in front of your class and you froze up.
his calloused palms rub circles on your lower back, arms wrapped around your trembling body holding you against his firm chest. shaky hiccups and harsh ragged breaths leave you, voice wobbly as you retell the story, embarrassment threatening to drown you in sorrow.
“it’s okay,” he murmurs beside your ear, lips brushing your temple.
it’s even worse when your thoughts stray— you never get a chance to reply to conversations in group chats, the jokes always glossed over too fast and topics changed like a girl whose underwear needs to match her outfit— what if someone doesn’t want you there? what if it’s pity instead? what if what if what if—
he wishes at times, though disturbing if thought of too long, he could pluck these weeds from the garden of your mind; rotten fruits undeserving a place in such haven. a dissection too harshly put, maybe a.. much needed separation, maybe? yeah, sure. that works.
murmured whispers into his ear when you go out with friends— akane namely, who you’re still getting accustomed to hanging around— asking if you could please leave yet after nearly two hours, socializing making your brain spin faster than a weaving spindle.
adoring you to bits and pieces, teru’s patience for you is only rivalled by his patience for his siblings, his affection a gift you feel undeserving of; unconditional love utmost deserving in his eyes.
boyfriend!teru whose hands are rougher than most guys his age, calloused from his sword, yet they’re always unbelievably gentle when they cup your face, thumbs wiping the tears threatening to spill from your eyes.
boyfriend!teru is equally as inexperienced as you, but he makes up for it in boldness. asking you out; kissing your forehead; holding your hand. it makes it all the more endearing when porcelain skin flushes a rising pretty pink in surprise at the simplest actions— a brief peck to his lips before you leave, fingertips trailing down his neck absentmindedly when you stare too long, when confessions like ‘i care about you’ and ‘cuz i love you teru’ escape you so thoughtlessly— combusting for half a minute before burying his face into his hands and sighing shakily.
boyfriend!teru isn’t as opposite to you as most would think. he’s not as big a fan of people as most would think, much preferring a close group of people to be around. you both struggle to voice what goes on in your thoughts, circumstances aside. your undeniable tendencies to lie straight through your teeth. that, among other things, prove how you aren’t as different as people say— and yes, this is part of a much longer list he helped you compose once when whispered gossip got to you.
boyfriend!teru has the cutest siblings ever! you can’t help but gush to him about the most bizarre adventures (aka cooking and baking mishaps) you’ve had when he’s away, scrolling through your pictures to show him the pictures you’d taken at that moment.
boyfriend!teru is a sweetheart, and the biggest baby there is. he hides it well, but he’ll often disguise his touch starvation with your own— not out of malice, but because of his struggle with letting himself want. just how he’ll coax you to vocalize your wants and needs, you do the same with his refusal to tell you when he’s the one in need of physical comfort.
꒰ doe’s notes ꒱ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ couldn’t tell if you wanted more of story format or headcanons format & i’m in a biiig writing mood sooooooooo i tried a little bit of both (｡Ó﹏Ò｡) i hope that’s alright. i enjoyed writing this sm, hope you enjoy this nonnie .ᐟ ❤︎
Summary : Your phone dies just when you lied to your father about where you are. How does he react when he finds you?
Warnings : Being chased by somebody
A/N : woo woo! First Beau fic, thanks to @dreamerbouquet 🪷🪷 alsooooooooo, i'm so angry at how my writing is so repetitive yall 😭 i hate it i need a change.
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-- Your phone dies before you get to send that last text..
Fucking hell. You just lied too-you weren't right...quite on Ousel Falls, you're still in the woods near by, limping your way out as you dragged your bicycle through the mud.
You SOMEHOW trip over something and fly forward, landing over a broken branch that brushes your skin just enough to remove it.
Fuckking hell..
Thankfully, you know your way through the vast space and so you walk...and walk, spinning around when a creaking sounds behind you..."Hello?" You say, frantically looking around. Dear god...
Another creak sounds and a figure appears from afar, seemingly running towards you. A gasp escapes your lips and you push away the bicycle before spriting forward, in spite of your aching foot. You run and hop over branches, looking over your shoulder at the person running after you.
You didn't have time to back down, you thought of your father, what he'd do-Thankfully you're only a little under a mile away from the entrance of the woods, and so your feet spring faster-and as you look back once more, you bump into something-which you push away.
"N-No." You push agaisnt it-
"I'ts me, it's me-it's dad."
"We have to go they're com-"
"Calm down, calm down honey-it's just a bunch of kids" Your dad shakes your body gently, leaning close to you to get your attention. "They ran away already, just a bunch of kids."
You take a breather, processing as your heatbeat starts slowing down...
"Come here." He says, pulling you into his chest, one hand envelopping your back and the other resting over the back of your head. "Dear god...you scared me-i thought-" He shut himself up, proceeding with a long sigh.
You pull away from him, biting your lip in an attempt to dtop your quivering chin. "I'm sorry...i-" a sob escapes your throat and you lean back into his chest- Relief has finally hit you and your muscles relaxed... "i'm sorry i didn't mean to scare you-or for my phone to die i-"
He interrupts you, pulling you away firmly. And when your eyes meet, a wave of emotions travels through his eyes. He looks worried and sad and relieved and angry, all of which overwhelm you.
"What did i say about going to the woods alone?" His voice is firm. But the tenderness in his furrowed eyebrows isn't. "What did i say about that?" He demands a response and you just don't have one.
"I-i m-i don't know-I I didn't take it that seriously-" you stop yourself, hell..you just exposed yourself-you shouldn't have.. "i'm sorry."
Your dad rubs your back "It's okay.." He rests his chin over your head, temporarily planting kisses on it.
"It's okay...i'm here now." Your dad reassures you one last time before stepping back. "Do we need to go to the hospital?" He kneels down when his attention lands on your bleeding leg.
"No, no need for that." You reassure him back, staggering back when he held your leg up a little high. You rested your hand on his shoulder, balancing yourself. "I'm okkay."
You're not-You wince as your father examines what turns out to be an open cut.
"Can you walk?"
You roll your eyes. "Dad, it's not that serious it's just a c-"
"Can you or can you not?" He cuts you off.
"I caaaan..." You groan in annoyance. It's a lie but-he's already tired enough
"Okay....let's go then. If i notice you're limping i'm carrying you back." He orders and a smile appears on your face.
"Okay" You can't fight that. "Thank you."
"I'm...i'm just glad you're okay, honey."
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I wish i could've made this one longer. But i'm too tired. Anyway, kissies yall, i hope you enjoyed reading this 🥀🥀🥀❤️❤️❤️
