“Not gonna lie, I half expected to have to drag you from your run,” Jinu huffs a laugh, breath fogging faintly in the air as he shoves his hands deeper into his jacket’s pockets.
Rumi rolls her eyes and nudges a loose stone with the toe of her shoe, watching it skitter along the pavement. “I said I wasn’t going to.”
“And you’re known for your honesty in these things,” Jinu deadpans, only to grunt when Rumi elbows him in the side, not hard, but enough to make him laugh again.
“Did you ask to walk with me just to annoy me?” she asks, one brow raised. The path they’ve taken winds wide across campus, the long route, where the early chill still lingers between the buildings. It’s not as early as her runs, yet the air bites the same, sharp enough that her breath escapes in pale clouds. Around them, campus stirs awake, the hum of a vending machine, the clatter of a coffee cup lid, the shuffle of tired feet and hushed voices. A pair of students slip past, clutching steaming takeaway cups, their laughter thin and weightless in the cold. Somewhere, the smell of toast drifts from an open dorm window.
“That was half the reason, yes,” Jinu admits, grinning that easy, lopsided grin that never quite grew up with the rest of him.
Rumi snorts. “And the other half?”
He opens his mouth to answer — and then hisses, stumbling as his foot catches on a slab of uneven pavement.
Rumi reacts before she can think, her hand catching his elbow, the other hovering just shy of his back. The sound that leaves him is small, contained, tight and bitten off before it can become anything larger. the kind that’s more grit than pain but it ripples through her all the same.
It takes her a moment to understand what she’s hearing. At first she thinks it’s surprise, maybe irritation at tripping over the cracked pavement. But then she sees it, the way his hand drops to his thigh, fingers pressing just above the knee as if to steady something that won’t quite hold. The breath that slips between his teeth.
And suddenly it isn’t a stumble anymore.
Something cold settles beneath her ribs. It always does, whenever this happens, that sharp awareness that it’s that knee, the one wrapped, braced, rebuilt. The one that still remembers.
The one she broke.
The guilt doesn’t strike so much as bloom, slow and acidic, curling around her lungs until even her breath feels borrowed.
He straightens before she can speak, before she can steady him further, brushes her off with that same lopsided smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says and maybe he is, but she hates that she can’t believe him. The limp is barely there, just a shift in weight, a hesitation between steps. But she sees the ghost of what she took from him walking right beside her.
“I’m fine,” Jinu repeats and it almost convinces her. Almost.
“It still hurts?” she asks, her voice quieter than she means it to be.
His smile falters, just a fraction, before he pins it back into place. It’s a good smile. Practised. If she hadn’t known him as long as she has, she might’ve believed it.
They’re both good at that — holding their masks where the world can see them, pretending the weight beneath is lighter than it is.
And yet, in moments like this, it feels like punishment more than protection.
If they hadn’t known each other for this long, she wouldn’t recognise the tiny hitch in his gait, the faint tension pulling at his jaw.
If they hadn’t known each other at all, she wouldn’t have learnt to read him this easily.
Wouldn’t have to.
Rumi forces the thought back down where it belongs. Deep, quiet, somewhere it can’t snag on her ribs. The sound of Jinu’s sigh follows, soft and unbothered, as if to steady the air again. He gives a small, lazy flick of his wrist, palm tilting side to side.
“Comes and goes,” he says. His tone is breezy, but the motion of his hand is not. “Whatever’s left is chronic, I guess?” A shrug, light enough to sound dismissive but heavy enough that Rumi feels the weight behind it. He glances her way, clearly reading the worry that’s already gathered between her brows, and adds quickly — deflecting, as he always does, as they both do, “How are classes?”
Rumi presses her lips together, draws in a slow breath that fogs faintly in the cold, and shrugs. “Okay.”
“Wow,” Jinu deadpans, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Riveting stuff.”
That earns him an eye roll, though it’s gentler this time, softened by the faint tug of a smile threatening the edge of her mouth. “They’re fine,” she says, a little more firmly, as though repeating it will make it true. “I usually have to catch up on notes in the evenings and go over everything again on weekends, along with whatever extra work they give us, but…” she exhales, a quiet gust of air that drifts between them, “I’m managing.”
The words sound steadier than they feel. She pauses, kicks at a pale leaf caught in a crack of the pavement, watches it spin once before it falls still again. “The reading takes forever,” she admits, “and the work’s starting to feel a bit… much, sometimes. But I’m managing.” She says it again, slower this time, as if repetition will make it sink in, will convince her lungs to believe it. She’s not sure if she’s trying to reassure Jinu or herself.
There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the distant hum of a bike bell and the soft thud of their shoes against the path. Rumi can feel his gaze on her even without looking. Steady and knowing, the same way it’s always been since the day he decided she was worth watching out for.
“If you need help—” he starts.
“Yeah, I know.” Her voice is quick to cut him off, quicker than she means it to be. She sighs, then peeks sideways at him, catching the curve of concern that’s still etched between his brows. “Thanks.”
Jinu hums, the sound somewhere between acknowledgment and understanding. The morning breathes around them again — crisp and slow — and Rumi focuses on it. The crunch of gravel underfoot, the faint sweetness of roasted coffee drifting from a nearby café. Anything to keep her thoughts at bay.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Ihr Weiber versteht in der Regel ein Wort in der deutschen Sprache nicht, es heißt Ehrgeiz" has got to be one of the worst sentences written in any breakup letter ever, soviel muss man Kleist lassen
okay, so i'm between here and work in the work first/here second sense. the plan is to get the multimuse conversion finished today, and then ( hopefully ) get to some writing later this evening
for pre-existing threads : i'm probably going to drop a few just to clean up a little and make space. those i'm going to keep are : 1) plotted threads, 2) starters written by others, 3) longer threads, and 4) requested kept
so cleared threads will largely be meme-origin and from starters i've written, unless otherwise requested
i'll probably make a starter call for xvi muses later this evening - as i oh man narrow down non-xvi ones. the possibilities are endless
