❛ (dear god), if it will keep my heart soft, break my heart every day. ❜ give me PAIN
« status for warsan v melancholy – the poetry sentence meme » → accepting.
i. on nights when the moon’s brighter than the stars, she sits at her coffee table and writes to him. She writes to him about the times before she died, about who she really is, about the first time she met him, how much he made her feel alive even though everything was a lie, and how much he made her feel loved. in her neat and very precise handwriting, she writes everything she couldn’t say. She’s always been a better storyteller with a pen than with her mouth. But that’s because she’s always been afraid even though there was no need to be afraid.
and yet still, her fingers tremble.
and yet still, she finds herself choking on tears.
(so this is how it beginsa pen in my hand because I can’t carry a sword.)
“What are you doing up?” She glances up from the table, staring at the familiar silhouette sitting up on the bed. His eyes are still slightly closed, a yawn breaking free as he rubs away at the weariness from the corners of his eyes. it takes him a few moments to fully take in her figure, how it hides the papers on the table as though they were a secret for him to not see (but his knowing eyes take in everything she is). “It’s late. What are you reading? Wait, are you writing something?”
She wants to panic, but that would just tell Christo that something was wrong. She doesn’t need him to understand now, this is for when he was gone and she has no one to speak to but the letters she writes for him (though he’d never read a single word of it).
“Nothing. I’m just a little inspired, so I decided to write a little bit.” She doesn’t lie, but there’s little truth laced on her words. Like venom, she spills ink into the air to somehow poison his mind into thinking everything was all right. But Christo’s used to the venom she uses to protect herself from anyone and everyone. Even those she tells she loves because still, like a child, she’s afraid.
(Can you see the love in my eyes? or has it been hidden by the fear that kisses you when you’re asleep?)
“What’s really on your mind?” the weariness turns into concern, morphed by the kindness he’s always had for her. He gives and gives, but all she does is take and take. She cowers when he asks these questions, looking down at the paper on the table as she folds it neatly to save for another time. A time where he wouldn’t be able to see her shame even though she’s sure that he would love ever word she’s written though maybe it would break his heart.
But she’s broken his heart before, why wouldn’t she do it again to match hers?
“I’m thinking too much.” She doesn’t look at him. The air thickens, the candle beside her loses its flame as the sudden drift slivering its way through the crack in the window takes out its light. “That’s all, really.”
“There’s never a ‘that’s all, really’ with you. what’s wrong?” she hates how much he understands. she’s been so sure that he didn’t, but the more she tells herself he doesn’t, the more he tells her otherwise.
and it’s then that she realizes just how much more she’s fond of him than she was two hours ago.
“Well, you’re right about that.” She laughs, turning her eyes to the candle as the melted wax falls half way before it thickens once again. The air smells slightly of smoke, rotting her lungs though she knows it doesn’t really. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”
and all she can hope for is that he would forget to ask when the moon sleeps and the sun kisses her skin.
ii. She lays beside him, his warmth her only joy in the coldness of her room.
iii. she sleeps beside him, kissed by his lips that fall on her forehead as he disappears from her side and wanders to the seat that’s already forgotten her warmth.
iv. She wakes at the sound of birds chirping at her window sill, loud against her ears. She wakes up cold, her only source of warmth besides the blanket gone from her side. It’s then that she looks up, stares with her mouth open when she realizes what’s in his hands and how terribly hurt he looks.
“Christo.”
and yet still, her fingers tremble.
“What are you doing–”
“What are you doing, Jieun?”
A sorry never leaves her lips. An explanation never leaves her lips because she has none that sound right. She has none that will tell him that she’s okay because she hasn’t really been okay. She doesn’t want to tell him how afraid she is, but she’s sure by how many papers have fallen to the ground that he’s read through her fears and more.
“Can’t you believe in me more than what you say in these papers?”
“I do believe in you! I have a reason for writing those.” She gets out of bed, but she never makes a move to walk closer to him. She’s torn by the look in his eyes, and she knows he hasn’t read enough to know everything that she wanted him to not know. It isn’t fair, but she hasn’t been fair. So all she can do is accept her defeat though she’s sure he doesn’t believe in that either. “I was being selfish. I just wanted something to keep me alive.”
“You are alive.” His resolution dies by the end of his sentence. He knows he’s not right, but he’s not wrong either. He knows that somewhere in her small body, nearly everything’s been dead for centuries. “You’re alive to me.”
(dear god), if it will keep my heart soft, break my heart every day.
she stands broken, staring at the reflection of a person she doesn't know in the mirror. she stands unhinged, following how fingers glide through short strands of hair that fall to their chin. she doesn't make out the curves, doesn't know how to breathe until she gasps for air. the air itself gives no relief, the air is filled invisible miasma that suffocates her and blinds her from seeing. but she sees anyway. she suffocates, but she sees. the scars that form on the person's back, along their throat, and on their stomach. she sees it all, and she thinks when did this become real?
"When did this become me?" she inhales sharply, the pain in her ribs don't go away. it won't for a while, but she's got time to spare. she doesn't know whether she got her eyes from her mother or her father. she doesn't even remember what they look like, or whether the concoction of an image in her head is even accurate anymore. she looks in the mirror and sees nothing but a home broken into and beaten.
she breathes, but she suffocates.
She sees, but she’s blind.
The knock on the door crashes in on her like waves on to a shore. it grows louder with every beat of her pulse against the skin of her wrist. she paints herself a smile, but its wiped out with a single stroke of a black-stained brush.
again, the knock on the door trembles at her skin. it edges her to reveal her home, how the tornado has put everything out of place. nothing seems right, but it's been a while since things have been right. there have been too many wrongs to be undone to make things right.
she picks up the bloodied shirt that pools at her feet and throws it into the corner to hide for now. she wipes the corner of her lips clean of the blood. the bruises remain, but she hides most of them with a long-sleeved shirt that has buttons in the front.
"Jieun, there you are." His words are quick, full of concern. he wipes the dirt at the corner of his own lips, a smile on his face that she wants to think is reserved for her. He's wearing that jacket she's always liked on him. it almost makes her smile, but still she only stands.
"Here I am. in all my glory." She pauses for a moment, wincing at the stench of copper that lingers on her that the fresh air reminds her of. "I think. I'm not really glorious right now. I think."
"What's happened? what's gotten into you?"
She suffocates, but still she can smell the lingering smoke on his skin.
She's blind, but still she can see the love in his eyes.
"Is a broken home a home at all?" she speaks in riddles because that's all she can reveal. nothing more, nothing less. but she wants him to know more. she wants to spill all that she is in front of him, let him into the mess of a home she has. see that she's a stranger even inside her own skin, just so he can become a temporary home for her until hers was fixed.
-- "At least that was the plan. Plan's never seem to go my way." because she's decided she wants to stay in his home until he tells her to leave. "Can you stay?"
he pulls her into a hug and kisses her forehead. his fingers feel like the keys of a piano, playing a song as he threads them through her hair. they feel like hers, and she wants to believe he's hers.
"I'll stay with you until you want me to leave, Jieun." and maybe he is.
"At least for a little while." (he smiles).
"yeah, sure." (she smiles).
i. she chases her demons with slight mockeries to the moon, hoping that perhaps one day the voice inside her head will stop speaking and the heart in her chest will start beating. it's an unfair game, and she knows she will lose each time. but she gambles away at it if it means she can look him in the eye and tell him she loves him over and over again without a pang of guilt that sweeps in each time. ii. she doesn't understsand it. how one moment he can be the world and all of the sudden become the darkness that engulfs her entire being into the void she swore she would never fall into again. but she believes that perhaps it's her own undoing, that she finds all the reasons to run away from the only thing that's been good in her life for a long time. that she finds poison misplaced in the entirety of his being.iii. there are times when she speaks to him in black and white, and he responds with a colorful mess of words that she's unsure how to paint with. he laughs at her, gliding his hand into her own and holding her close to him. somehow the smallness of her palms fits perfectly with his, and she's unsure if she can stop the flustered pink that riddles her cheeks when he makes her dance with him. "relax, Jieun." He whispers in her hair, breathing in her everything as though it's the very air that keeps him alive. with one hand in hers and the other on the curve of her back, she trusts him to guide her into the colors of his world. iv. she stays awake at night, long enough to kiss the sorrows from his eyelashes and feel his warmth against her skin. she longs to tell him she's sorry for all the heartaches she's caused, but when the moon disappears and the sun finds its place in the sky, she's forgotten why she's sorry. because when he opens his eyes, he never lets a sorry slip away. instead, he kisses the 'it's okay' on the surface of her eyelids and she believes him.v. When he tells her she's alive to him, a part of her ruptured. as if those were the exact words she's been waiting to hear to finally believe that she's not just here to do His bidding, but instead, she's here at this exact moment to wrap her arms around him and tell him she's sorry. "Sorry for what?" he laughs, but the way her shoulders shake takes the laugh away and he exchanges it for a smile. he holds her close, kisses the top of her head and just smiles. "I'm sorry too." she doesn't understand it. how he can be sorry when he's done nothing wrong to her. She kisses the surface of his chin, tears slidding down her cheeks far too quickly for her liking. she doesn't know how he does it. he easily he can cause her undoing, but he apologizes for it again. "I'm sorry, for being both your poison and antidote." "You've been nothing but cure the ache in my heart," she confesses to him, trying her best to steady the sobs that break through. "It's the guilt that holds me back, but you're helping me learn to deal with it. So Christo, if you will, stay with me longer."
Can I just say that igniso is an amazing rper and person? Because they are. Shoutout to them for having such a consistent and interesting muse and also for their beautiful writing. I am honored to be able to interact with you and I hope you know that someone here adores you!
« status for send me a symbol for… » → not accepting !
★ five times my muse thought yours looked breath-taking, and the one time they voice it.one. He is nothing like she’s used to. She calls for him in the dead of night, silent whispers hoping for him to greet her with a hello but she hears nothing except a silence that breaks her heart. He clouds her in color, masking the pain she feels with momentary bliss. He tells her there’s no one else like her, and she plays along because time with him is finite. Time with him will end. But she keeps him close when she can, melting in the way his knuckle lingers on the surface of her arm when he passes by. “Christo,” His name is like honey on her tongue, but there’s something like poison that lingers. It doesn’t come from her, and she’s becoming more aware that he knows more than he lets on. He turns to look at her with half-lidded eyes, a sleepy smile on his face as he reaches out to touch her arm. His knuckles caress her arm, and she’s comforted in knowing that he understands her best. “What’s on your mind, Ji?”Fear shakes her, riddles her bones with black and the color from his light suddenly becomes too bright for her to look at. So she turns away, pulling away from his touch as if it burned her skin. “Nothing, I forgot.”two. There’s a painting she’s always liked, but it doesn’t exist. It’s a painting that has died from being forgotten, neglected by the very people that once adored it. But she remembers it though it doesn’t exist in history. She turns to look at Christo as he admires the work of art in front of him, and she begins to wonder if one day everyone forgets the man who brings joy to people through his music. she clutches onto the ring around her neck, closing her eyes shut because there are too many words she wants to say to him before they part ways. “Ji, what are you doing? You feelin’ okay?”“What do you think about beautiful paintings forgotten in time?” He looks at her quizzically, as though she’s grown a second head on her shoulders. She pouts, looking down at her feet as she twirls the ring between her fingers. “It’s a serious question.”“Even if people forget, a beautiful painting is still beautiful.” He says the right words, giving her confidence to stare at him again with a smile that she’s sure he won’t figure out entirely. Not until she tells him.“Yeah, I think so too.”
three. She stares in a drunken haze, eyes mesmerized by the light that flickers through her window. They’re soft reminders that everything does not still despite everything that’s happened. Time continues, and it drifts forward while she fights to keep up.
But at some point, her legs stop working and she’s too tired to run.
“Walk tall, Jieun.” she hears his voice, and it’s clear as the look he gives her. She listens for more, yearns for more because his voice drowns out the demons that swim in her veins. “Sleep, or you’ll end up thinking too much.”
“Will you be here?” His figure is blurry, and she’s not sure if he was here in the first place. There’s no reply. She looks away from the window to see her home as empty as she feels. She closes her eyes, and her thoughts drift.
How can a ghost be beautiful when all it leaves is a shiver behind?
four. She wonders how someone can be like how Christo is. His eyes are as clear as the blue sky, the corners crinkling whenever he laughs at his own mess up. It’s strange, and she finds herself staring at him more than the page with a rich story of adventure for her to read. Her hand gravitates toward his cheek, placing a light tap against his skin. somehow the surreal air around him disappears, and he becomes real and she’s suddenly swept off her feet.
How can a ghost be beautiful when all it leaves is a shiver behind?
“What was that for?” He questions, a light smile on his face like he’s got everything figured out but not really. Her gasp turns into a hum, and she’s smiling at him like he’s the only person in the world she can see.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re real this time. I also realized something, but I’m not going to tell you.”
He flicks her forehead. “Why can’t I know?”
She looks at him with a contemplative look and grins. “Maybe later.”
five. She enters the building as though she’s always belonged there. It’s not what it used to be, the storage room is now a large music room. Her hands hover over the piano keys, playing an invisible melody that she’s somehow remembered after all these years.She almost doesn’t remember that she’s not alone in the room, Christo rummaging through his things to take out his guitar to practice. She wants to thank him for bringing her here, but the thank you is quieted by the sound of his fingers creating melodies that makes her wonder why its taken her so long to hear them.
“That sounds lovely.” She whispers, and she knows he hears it above his music because somehow he’s always managed to hear words he’s never meant to hear. But he doesn’t stop playing, instead, he plays with more passion, lifting a burden off her shoulders that she never knew was there. She sits on the bench, her head tilted to the side as she focuses on the way he scowls but smiles to himself. When it’s done, she feels full to the brim on a musical high.
“Christo?” He looks up from his guitar, a small ‘yeah?’ escapes his lips. “You know you look beautiful when you play your guitar like that.”
❤ five times my muse says they don’t love yours, and the one time they admit it.one. She writes poetry on his arm, fingers gliding across the surface of his skin as though he had always belonged to her. She knows he doesn’t, but the quiet lull of his breathing lets her know that he won’t wake up to stop her. Even with the wind coming in from the perched window, she feels warmth from being at his side. Suddenly there’s a sound that breaks the silence, and she pauses in her endeavors. He whispers her name in slumber, his hand encloses in on itself and she feels like a stranger in her own home. She pushes herself off the bed, walking over to sit on the worn down couch. It’s too cold here, and her skin burns with frost. Discomfort layers itself on her skin, but she refuses to return to him. There’s fear that lingers in her. If she takes too much from him, all that would be left would be a shell of fragments and apologies that never slipped off her stubborn tongue. “I can’t,” she curls up, falling to her side on the couch. Her vision blurs with the memories that flash too brightly for her to see. She remembers nothing, and her nightmare becomes her reality. She sinks deeper into black, and she presses the heels of her palm on her eyelids. “I can’t keep loving you. I shouldn’t.” (behind her is a man woken up by the cold that sleeps beside him. He cowers in his place on her bed and pretends that his dream is his reality) two. There’s beauty in the aftermath of a storm, but what if she was a storm that never ended? There is constant danger in the way she breathes life, and yet takes away life as well.“Do you think anyone will ever love me?” She asks him, staring at the wall as he stops what he’s doing. He is hesitant to speak. “Of course. who wouldn’t?” She winces at the softness of his voice, turning to look at him like he said everything she didn’t want to hear. “I don’t know. If I were someone else, I wouldn’t love me.” “How would you know what others feel?” She turns to look at him then, but he’s no longer looking at her. His eyes are fixated on the colored cube in his hands. “That’s true. Maybe it’s just better for me to be alone and not love anyone. That way, I would make sure no one would be able to love me.”three. She blinks away the noise in her head, returning her attention back at the male who speaks of lions and seals. His voice is the sound of chimes, you can only hear it when the wind blows. He is an accessory that is made to be heard, made to be loved. But the more she thinks about loving him, the more she begins to hate the sound of chimes. “I hate chimes.” She comments, interrupting his story like a knife cuts through the air. “Did you know that?” The wind stops blowing, and the sound is silenced.four. She follows each day like the last. (Today is different.) She wakes up to the sound of Christo arriving to eat breakfast, a sleepy smile on his face because he stays up too long after the sun departs from the sky. Making breakfast together had become the start to their weekends together, sharing in mistakes made and confiding loneliness. (She sits at the breakfast table with a bowl of cereal in front of her, staring at the empty seat across from her with a heaviness she thought she would never feel.) Breakfast leads into the creation of songs with him strumming on the guitar while she holds a pencil in her hand and a sheet of paper in the other. (She strums the guitar and sings softly, stopping quickly after when the sobs break her voice.) Dinner is much too large for two people to eat, and all that’s ever left in the fridge is a carton of forgotten milk. (she starts to pour the milk into her bowl, startled and slightly grossed out at the chunks of milk that fall into her bowl.) They buy groceries together and compete to pick the brand they like best to buy. (She picks out his favorite cereal, pausing as she pulls it out of the shelf before putting it back. She tells herself there’s no need to buy it anymore.) “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” She nods her head, smiling up at him behind her muffler. The winter air is crisp and colder than it was the night before. They stand in front of her door as he waves goodbye. “Stay warm, Ji.” “Wait,” She catches him with her hand, holding onto his hand. “I just wanted to say…”He turns to look at her, a hopeful look on his face. “Yeah, Ji?” “Whatever is going between us, we’re…I just…” He flicks her forehead, chuckling as she stumbles over her words. He smiles to reassure her that everything is okay. She looks down, too ashamed to look him in the eye. “I don’t think I can love you. I can’t explain it, but that’s it.” His silence lingers before he slips his hand away from hers. “See you, Ji.” (she crouches in front of her door, her groceries spilling out of the bag when she remembers just how wrong she was. She clutches at her chest, whimpering apologies he’ll never get to hear.) five. She wakes up cold. Her blanket provides no escape from the cold that seeps through the cracks on the walls. She doesn’t even remember what his warmth feels like anymore, and she sometimes wonders if he was ever truly there. She shifts her weight on the bed, lying on her side with her arm stretched off the side of the bed. She stares at her wooden floor, eyes gazing at the shattered glass and spilled liquid on the floor. In her drunken sorrow, the glass in her hand slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. But that had been two hours ago, and she wonders why the drumming in her head wouldn’t go away. Her phone blinks alive, a message appearing on her screen before her vision fades. Darkness takes hold of her, and her loneliness becomes her nightmare and reality. In her hazy state, she is unaware of the presence in her home as shes tries to focus and control her throbbing head. She sits up, a hand clutching at the side of her head when a pair of hands grab hold of her arms. “Why didn’t you text or call me back?” She sobers enough to open her eyes, staring at a face she had almost forgotten. He kneels beside her bed, letting his knees hit the wooden floor that causes a small sound to echo. “Did you forget how to use your phone altogether? I was worried!” She says nothing, mouthing slightly opened as she takes in the beauty of everything he was. His hold on her is strong and would have bruised her if not for the mind that lingered in her own. “I’m sorry,” Her voice cracks, and it is enough to cause tears to well up in her eyes. She looks down, tears falling onto the sheets as she tries to muffle to the sobs that seem to come out all on their own. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “Ji, listen—“ “I love you,” the words spill out of her lips in a continuous string that doesn’t stop until he wraps his arms around her, his hand holding the back of her head. She gasps at the final words of adoration, taking a heavy breath before she’s able to wrap her arms him. “I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t. I was scared. I’m sorry for being a coward. But I’m a coward who loves you, no matter what I say.” ♫ five times my muse swears it’s not a date, and the one time it maybe is.one. She listens to him speak, the lull of his voice echoes through the small space of her home. Her rests her head in her arms, leaning against the wooden surface of her dining table. Her eyes are closed as she immerses herself in the story of ill-fated lovers. It’s one of the very few love stories she’s ever enjoyed, the hurt of the couple resonating in her deeper than the story of her own life. He pauses for a moment, calling out her name. “Keep going,” she says. “I want to hear the ending before morning comes.”two. She tucks her hair behind her ear, walking beside him in slow tempo as though they were dancing to a song only they could hear. He points to the music store across the street and before she knows it, they’re rummaging through the racks of old CDs while singing lines of songs of their favorite songs. He brings out his own guitar, strumming the first notes of the song as she sings. There’s a soft smile on her face, and he’s smiling too as he sings with her. Their voices blend together more than the when red and blue combine to make purple.three. She holds the birthday cake in her hands, the candles lit and music playing from her phone as she sings to him happy birthday. He’s sitting at her dining table when she places it in front of him, ending the song a little after the music has stopped playing. It’s not awkward though, and she’s sure he’s surprised that she’s even remembered his birthday. Even if it is a month late.
“Happy birthday, Christo!” She chimes, pulling the string of the party popper. “Well, happy belated birthday. You know I’m not good with dates.”
four. She’s cutting vegetables on the board while the water boils on the stove. Christo’s reading the recipe from his phone, murmuring that they should’ve gotten take out instead because it’s faster. She ignores him for a moment, finishing up the vegetables before she turns around to see him resting against the counter. There’s no reason for them to be cooking. He never liked doing so anyway, but she hoped that today would be different. She wants today to be a little special compared to what they do everyday, but she doesn’t want to say why.
“Homemade food will taste better with wine.” She reminds him. “And also your company’s nice too. But don’t forget that you have to season the chicken. Now that’s your job.”
five. She walks beside him as though she’s right where she should be. There’s a small space between them, and each time he nudges her arm to show her something, he gets a little bit closer. It’s almost picturesque with the way the snow falls down in Seoul. The city’s never looked more beautiful than it does now, or perhaps it’s because she’s happier than she’s been. The best part’s the fact that they had no destination in mind, simply wanting to be in each other’s company during the holiday season. It’s then that she musters up the courage to hold his hand, and for a second he’s caught off guard, but gives her hand a small squeeze.
“It’s like we’re on a date now.” He teases, a grin on his face like he’s said something coy.
She smiles back, squeezing his hand. “That’s because we are on a date.”
☁ five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it.
one. She rummages through the books in storage, stacking them in the order that they’re to be placed on the ancient shelves of the small space she calls an old soul. Dust fills the air and gets trapped in her lungs, a cough demanding to escape her lips. She stretches her limbs forward, easing the aches of her bones from bending to reach the books. Her eyes gaze at the novels on the top of each stack, most of them unread by her and she takes note to read them during her breaks. She begins to turn away, only to stare back at a title she’s seen before. It’s familiar, only newer than the condition of her own copy as she picks it up from the stack. She’s reminded of the time he finally speaks to her uninterrupted, and she falls into a blanket of warmth.
two. “He’s not going to stay forever.” He speaks in her head, but she ignores the ache she’s grown used to feeling. He bothers her when the rain pours outside, and she’s alone in her home with a cup of tea in her hands. “He doesn’t love you, like the way you do.” She hums at this, tuning in for a second before tuning out and soon she’s left to her own devices. She’s left to think of the way he holds her hand when he thinks she’s fast asleep and gives her a kiss on the tip of her nose.
three. She wanders the street with her hands in her pockets, and she’s astounded by the amount of people still lingering outside when the temperatures cold enough to make ice out of water left on the sidewalk. these were the times she find it most difficult to be comfortable, still adjusting to the way Seoul has grown from a small plot of land to this incredible city of lights and fixed opportunities. She stops in front of her favorite music store, staring at the display the store manager has put together to create a love story out of the instruments. She looks upon the messy, handwritten composition on the music sheet and she’s reminded of a male whose handwriting goes from being better than hers to chicken scratches in almost the same breath.
four. She’s reading her favorite manga while sitting on her couch. It’s probably the third time she’s read this volume, but she loves it nonetheless. When she’s done, she settles it on the table and lays down with a plop. There’s a feeling she always gets after finishing a romance manga, and she’s reminded of the way a certain male teases her for the grin that’s plastered on her face.
“Too bad he’s not here now.”
five. She rolls in her bed, waking up to the sound of the kettle heating on the stove. She muffles her yawn with her hand, sitting up when she realizes that she never put the kettle on the stove and there’s no one home with her. Her concern dissipates when she remembers that a rather tall male ventures into her home whenever he wants to. as if on cue, he walks out from he bathroom and heads over to the kitchen, shouting a loud good morning over his shoulders.
“You’re making breakfast?”
“More like making tea. You know I don’t cook.” He corrects her. “Three sugar cubes?”
She gets up to stand by his side, watching as he stirs the tea with a spoon that seems small because he’s holding it. “Just the way I like it.”
She smiles up at him, quickly standing on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, and good morning to you too.”
( she speaks to you in rhymes, and you speak back with a song ) // @igniso
She sees him in the midst of her days, in the very heartbeat she wants to feel. There is cruelty in the way she thinks of him because somewhere between her hushed truths and loud lies, she wants to sink with him.
Sink, sink until she can no longer see the light.
“Christo,” she whispers with her chin on the pillow and arms held out. There’s a book in her hands so old that the writing on the cover has faded. “What do you think of love?”
She’s asked him before, and he knows it. There’s an answer that plays on his lips, but something holds him back from telling her everything. She knows he’s afraid, and she would be too. She’s lived her entire life a coward, only now taking flight like the wingless bird she is. but that was better, somehow. At least she could tell her mother that she tried.
flightless bird, why do you hope?
There’s a hum that leaves her mouth, and she’s quick to look away and not stare too long in his eyes. A melody lingers in the air, and she’s left thinking what do I think of love?
“Loves funny,” She says. She doesn’t have the courage to look at him yet, but she knows she eventually has to. “It’s tragic and beautiful. Bright and dark. but most importantly, it can make you feel like you’re a silent film before turning your whole world into something greater than ourselves.”
It’s romantic. Love is supposed to be like that, isn’t it? But not like the movies. Her parents had shown her what love is. It’s tranquil like the quiet whisper of a moving stream. It’s understanding like the way he takes in her flaws and makes it his own. It’s patient like how a mother waits for her children to grow old. But most importantly, it is raw.
"Christo, you know don’t you?”
(Something’s not right about me, she whispers.
Something’s not right about the both of us, he says back.)
He pauses for a moment, not knowing what to say. A reluctant “yes” escapes his lips and she closes her eyes. Her mind whirls, and a voice to her speaks in a language she cannot comprehend. Not entirely, at least. she hushes it, tells it that it is okay because it’s different this time.
Because Christo had known and stayed.
“I’m glad it’s you.” She says, looking at him in the eye to see that he’s smiling at her with the same smile she’s giving him. “I’m glad you stayed.”
"All my life I’ve wanted to become a summoner, and to help everyone who needed my help.” Her voice was soft, calming as she spoke to the elderly lady. The woman wept for the loss of her granddaughter, her hands clutching onto Jieun’s forearm for support. Her cries echoed; her wails louder than anyone else’s.
She watched with saddened eyes. It felt as though the cries of the grief-stricken were in her hands, and if she wasn’t careful, each person would crumble from their pain and fear. It was all because of Sin the people wept and mourned. Sin was a monster that appeared as punishment for Spira’s wrongdoings, and there was nothing she could do but continue on with her pilgrimage in order to soothe the pain.
Even though many understood the role of what a summoner must do, there were some who were oblivious to the end and those who tried to stop her. People begged for her to stay, to stay home and forget because if not her then someone else would take her place. However, that was the exact thought that pushed her to become the summoner she was today. Because if not her then who? Someone younger than her, or perhaps someone who looked like her brothers or sister? If not her then someone else would have to die, and that was not an answer she was satisfied with.
“I want to help you as best I can, so please watch the sending and pray with me. For your granddaughter and everyone lost today. We all grieve today, but we will all raise our heads and keep moving forward. Because The Calm will come.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she stared at her indifferent companion she’d known from her childhood. “Christo, you look kind of tense. Don’t look so scary, or you’ll frighten the kids.”
Gazing at him then, she took in his form and clothing before looking at her own appearance. His attire was different from hers and the rest of the islanders. While she wore a salmon colored kimono with a skirt that ended just above her knees and a white-patterned obi tied in a butterfly knot, he wore black with even more black protective gear just as any 1st class soldier would. While she continued to wear the silver necklace with her mother’s ring, his wrist was bare of the bracelet she’d given him.
“Hey, did you throw away the charm I gave you when you left the village?” She frowned at him, but somehow she understood that maybe it was something that didn’t pass his protocols. Still she hoped he kept it with him to show her that despite the stark contrast in their appearance, he was still the same boy she once knew and not some robot following orders.
“I guess I’ll make you a new one. I’m about to start, so keep my sandals safe, would ya? Watch from here, and don’t leave either!” She placed her sandals beside his feet, turning around after one last look at his face. He regarded her with a gaze she was unfamiliar with as if he himself was trying to understand the meaning of everything around him. He knew Sin had destroyed the island, knew that the people were grieving, but would he understand the true meaning behind the dance she would perform? There, inside a book of him that she never completely finished nor understood, were her answers. However, would she have the time to complete his story or would Sin take them away before she could complete her pilgrimage?
She had to be prepared for that.
She had to be strong. For the both of them.
She took her first step on top of the water, and everything was clear as the thumping of her heartbeat.
She had only seen the dance once before she started her training. The island was attacked by Sin shortly after Christo left, wrecking their homes and killing her parents. She watched, eyes wide with tears mixed with grief and curiosity, as the summoner then had danced upon the water. Pyreflies flew through the air, some dancing beside her and others dancing around the bodies of what she assumed to be their loved ones before flying up into the sky. She remembered that day so well, remembered the young blonde boy who wept beside her and the remorse across the faces of everyone she knew. Some hid it better than others, but everyone had the thought: though we grieve now, The Calm will come.
Step after step, she danced across the water as it lifted her up for all to see. The pyreflies surrounded the water as though gushing up with it before spreading outward and toward the sky. Her long, black hair that was kept in a high ponytail flowed with her twirls, never hitting her in the face and always gracefully behind her shoulders. The blue shaft of her summoner’s staff was light in her hands, flowing along with her movements as it helped guide the spirits to where they needed to go. She completed the dance with a pose as she extended her staff outward, standing parallel to it while standing on her tips of her toes. Once the water lowered, she walked off with a vice grip on her staff.
“They never tell you,” she whispered, returning to Christo’s side, her back toward the people as she gripped the wooden railing in front of her with her free hand. She slid her sandals back on, one foot at a time.“They never tell you how painful a sending can be. It’s like...feeling everyone’s emotions, but not. You just know. And it hurts to know that they left this world so soon.”
She turned to gaze at Christo, wiping the tears that never fell but blurred her vision and a bright smile on her face. “Well, how was my dancing? The teachers at the temple always said I was the best, but I think it’d mean more coming from you.”
(SMS: That One Guy) Unfortunately I realised a little too late that he was talking about the last slice of pizza. (SMS) I'm embarrassed. I want to go home.
[msg sent]
poor you. I say grab the pizza box when he’s not looking and take it home for yourself. win-win situation for you right there, champ.
