intimate the silence
summary. two souls meet amid preparations for a film festival, and push the limits of language and understanding. pairing. indie film director!xu minghao x gn!translator!reader genre/tags/warnings. non-1:1 adaptation of gitling (2023) (tr. hyphen). angst, messy relationships, themes of infidelity (not between the main pairing hao is married), the inherent inadequacy of language. alcohol, profanity. alternating pov. mc has a native tongue that isn’t eng/kor/chn. wc. 10k suggested listening. young again, udd // for lovers who hesitate, jannabi // the frost, mitski // hai cheng, the8 // my heart is buried in venice, ricky montgomery // for the fickle, reese lansangan // on the drive home, niki // multo, cup of joe
note. this fic felt both inevitable and impossible: gitling (2023) worked because it was in film. it’s only fitting for such a challenge to be entirely dedicated to @studioeisa—who has pushed the boundaries of what fanfiction can be and do on caratblr. so here it is: a love letter to some other halves of our hearts: language, film, poetry, and love itself. maligayang kaarawan kae!!! thank you for making caratblr worth it ‹𝟹
This is a work that features five languages: English, Korean, Mandarin, your native tongue, and a made-up language.
The first thing Minghao notices is the humidity.
There’s no airbridge; instead, he ambles down a staircase set up by the doors for the passengers to disembark. A persistent heat sticks to his skin, and it slowly but surely dissipates the chill of the plane. The mugginess is quickly explained by the roiling stormclouds over the horizon.
Sure enough, by the time he flags a taxi to the hotel, it is already pouring.
Unlike the earlier heat, the call he shares with his wife is a cold one. Frost cuts through her words, as though she doesn’t quite believe him when he says he just needed the time away to think.
Rain patters the window, and, once big enough, fall like small pearls and dissolve into the glass run channel.
“It’s just for eight days,” he murmurs. “How’s Dowon?” The poor signal makes her answer crackle slightly over the phone. He tilts his head, resting his temple on the glass. “Tell him I’ll be back soon. I’m…I’m not running from this, alright.”
The call ends not long after that.
The hotel receptionist doesn’t know a lick of Korean or Mandarin, and he is at his wit’s end.
“No, I booked—check-in August twenty-six,” he explains in broken English, all but gritting his teeth.
His comprehension is far better than his speaking, and it shines now, much to his chagrin.
“Mr. Xu, you’re listed as August twenty-seven on our system. I can book you in for another night, but you can only check-in after around three more hours.” The lady, whose overly gelled back hair has become his current victim of mental insults, types something in her computer, before attempting stilted Mandarin with tones all over the place. “Check in only after three hours. No today—”
“Okay, Okay. I got it.” Minghao tosses her a cursory thank-you before turning around, pulling his suitcase a little harder than necessary. It makes a rather ungrateful noise on the uneven step between the sidewalk and the hotel interior.
To the rest of the city’s credit, it is beautiful. He walks along the streets with his head swiveling every few seconds.
The walls are painted with colorful murals, and the smell that wafts from the street vendors’ stalls makes his mouth water. They remind him of the dai pai dong that line the streets of the cities back in China.
“Chicken skewers! Pork skewers! Sir! Hey! Want chicken?” The stall vendor calls in a mix of both their tongue and English. He approaches her, both reluctant and intrigued. It smells delicious. Dirt cheap too, with the price she charges him with. She even gasps at the bills he holds out.
“Put that away! You’re gonna get robbed!” Her non-gloved hand plucks one of the bills he held up, before closing around his hand and thrusting it back to his chest. He blinks, uncomprehending, but nods nonetheless.
Minghao thanks her, smiling a little when she beams at him and waves him off with a, Buy again if you like it! in accented English. He sits on the steps of a nearby mall entrance, bringing up the first of the two skewers from the thin plastic bag.
The first bite is a revelation.
He comes back and buys three more, polishing off all five with relish.
Your house seems smaller than when you had last been in it.
The backpack’s straps dig into your shoulders—ergonomics means nothing when you overpack beyond even what the bag itself should hold—but you’re too busy running your fingers along the dust accumulated over the memories. An old record player. The small scratches on the desk from when you had stolen an ice prick from the forbidden tools drawer.
Along with the memories come a niggling thought, one that makes you weave through the odd mix of old furniture and packing boxes to enter your old room.
You put your bag down on the bed, and turn to face the bookshelf. Your index finger traces the spines until you find it. There.
The book opens to a hidden compartment, formed from the pages carved out and glued together. In the middle of the hollow space is a single, pocket-sized spiral notebook, with M. Spk XII written on the glossy cover in black marker.
Grinning, you grab the little notebook, and set the book on your bedside table. You lay on your bed, face up, and crack open even more memories, reacquaint yourself with more once-forgotten friends.
The first time Minghao meets you is swathed in the blue glow of the hotel swimming pool. You’re staring at the waters as though it were a scrying bowl. When he approaches, you look up, and blink, taking him in. Your gaze snags a little at the swirling purple designs on his nails, but your expression doesn’t change.
“Seo Myungho-ssi?”
“Oh good, you speak Korean.” He sighs, relaxing.
A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “I wouldn’t be a very good fit for this job if I didn’t.”
“That’s fair.”
You tilt your head, as though remembering something. “But…do you prefer Xu xiānsheng?”
Your Korean is marginally smoother than your Mandarin, but the relief of someone speaking his language in a foreign country—having a choice, even—relaxes a knot he hadn’t realized he had wound in him. “It would be nice to speak in Mandarin.”
“Alright.” You check the time on your phone, before switching to the rideshare app and pressing the call button for the driver. Beside you, Minghao steals a glance as you speak into your phone. “We’re waiting inside the hotel. Are you nearby? Okay. Thank you.”
As you hang up, you turn to him. “The driver will be here in two minutes. Shall we wait in the lobby?”
“Sounds good.”
It’s a small walk from where your ride drops you off to the venue itself. The head organizer is a jovial, full-bellied personality, also given to the easy code-switching that he’s beginning to see is common in this country.
“Director Xu!” He booms. “Thank you so much for accepting our invitation to the film festival. Everyone is so excited to meet the brilliant mind behind the film.” You step in to translate, and it goes like that for a while—him murmuring his thanks in return for both the invitation and the desire to screen Hai Cheng, and nodding awkwardly along the man’s effusive, almost theatrical praise for his work.
Not long after, you’re separated, some auntie whisking you off in a chatter that he doesn’t understand. Meanwhile, Minghao gets caught by a gaggle of local film critics, each debating the strong and weak points of film movements and approaches, before turning to him expectantly for his own insight.
It’s exhausting, and perhaps a little performative—Minghao stumbles along with what little he can glean from the rapid English being thrown back and forth. To their credit, they make an effort to avoid code-switching, and one person steps in to translate should when necessary.
“What do you think, though, Mr. Xu? Surely with films like Hai Cheng under your belt, you see the merit of minimalist direction over the avant-garde.”
Before he can answer, a familiar voice sidles in beside him. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the boss is calling Mr. Xu.”
“Oh, of course! Go ahead.”
“It was lovely talking to you, Mr. Xu.”
You excuse him with an apologetic nod to the others, most of whom return the gesture in commiseration. One of them, however, squints at you.
“Dear, is your dad not coming this time?”
Your expression shifts into something slightly darker. The smile you give the man is all teeth. “I wouldn’t be here if he were.”
You steer the both of you away without waiting for a response. As you guide him along, he catches a whiff of your perfume; Minghao knows the scent of sandalwood enough to recognize it instantly, though it’s layered under something faintly flowery, and some other, faintly leathery smell.
Minghao falls into step beside you, and you both step out onto the balcony. The architecture is clearly old, with intricate leaf-like carvings on the upper entablature above the columns. The head organizer is nowhere to be found.
He shoots you a grateful glance once the realization hits. A corner of your mouth picks up.
“You don’t enjoy this, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
You gesture a hand toward the noise inside. “The fame. Meeting people. Networking.”
“I wouldn’t call myself famous…but no, I don’t enjoy it.” He rests his forearms on the handrail, leaning forward.
Meanwhile, you lean back, eyes focused on the shifting lights on the other side of the doors.
“Let’s go somewhere to eat. I’ll treat you.” He blinks, looking at you.“What do you say?”
He hesitates, but the chicken from earlier invades his thoughts. Minghao nods. A small grin stretches across your face, and it renders your face so much lighter than before.
You lead him to a rather dingy-looking place, compared to earlier’s fanfare. There’s no server waiting on you hand and foot; instead, you lead him to one of the tables with two seats across from each other. The plastic chair scrapes a little against the floor as he takes a seat.
You call the lone server, calling something and holding up two fingers. From the front, the girl manning the order slips nods. Once you turn back, Minghao is already looking at you. You tilt your head, questioning.
He asks, “Doesn’t it get tiring to switch between languages?”
“Hm?”
“English, Mandarin, Korean, and your native tongue…”
You ponder it for a moment. “I stopped thinking about it that way, since it’s my job, but I don’t mind. Languages are interesting to me.”
“You could reply to me in English, if you like.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Would you like me to?”
“I could use the listening practice,” he reasons. “Especially in case something like earlier happens again.”
“I am sorry about that,” you murmur, pursing your lips. He shakes his head.
“It’s alright, I managed in the end. But, English?”
You regard him with an inscrutable glance for a moment before nodding. “Sure. I can do that.”
“Great.” He fidgets a little with his fork. After a beat, he speaks again. “I hope you’re getting paid well to translate my film.”
At those words, you snort. “Oh, yeah, if there’s anything good about these people, it’s that they’re all filthy rich.” You lean forward, looking at him a little eagerly. “Speaking of, I know I’m translating your film, but I want to hear it from you: what is it about?”
Across you, Minghao looks down, still fiddling with his fork. He turns it over, letting the tines rest on the plastic cover set over the tablecloth.
“It’s…” he trails off. “It’s about a man who makes his own dictionary of the words his family uses. He notes how the words can differ, depending on the person, context, situation—things like that.”
Your expression shifts into something that feels both rueful and sardonic. “Could have used a dictionary like that.” At his questioning stare, you just shrug. “I almost got married, is all.” The bitterness is palpable in your voice.
Minghao was spared the need to respond to that by the arrival of the food. The server sets two piping hot bowls in front of you. Minghao examines the bowl, fascinated. It’s quite a large bowl for an order listed as small, but the toppings are plentiful.
“Noodle soup,” you quickly explain. “There some meatballs, egg, and liver too.”
“It looks Chinese,” he hums. “It’s my first time to eat noodle soup with a fork.”
In front of him, you dig into your bowl, scooping up a heaping forkful of egg noodles. Minghao follows suit; as he blows, steam billows quickly, and a smile flits across his face before he takes a bite. The starchy soup sticks to it quite well; each bite practically drips with flavour.
From the seat across, you gaze at him, eyes attentive. “Good?” You ask. He nods through a mouthful of noodles. You respond with a relieved grin.
After a few minutes of eating, you break the silence.
“I actually—made a dictionary of my own. Well, no,” you correct yourself. “I made a language.”
“A language?” He looks up, eyes alight with interest.
“Yes. I watched The Lord of the Rings as a kid—honestly, I liked Narnia better, and the Hobbit, but I was captivated by Elvish.”
“What did you name it?”
“It’s…well it’s a little embarrassing, actually.” You duck your head down, examining the tendrils of wispy egg in the soup. As you look up, you meet Minghao’s expression. Still curious.
“I called it MySpeak,” you admit. “After…MySpace, and all that.”
The joke doesn’t land, not really—he’s heard of MySpace in China, but nothing else rings a bell. Still, Minghao processes the wordplay with sincere attentiveness.
“It’s witty,” he eventually comments. “‘My’ as in,” he places a hand to his chest, “and speak, as in to talk, right?” At your nod, a grin pulls at his features, there-and-gone-again. “I like it,” he concludes.
“I worked on it on and off during high school and college, but…yeah.”
“Could you try to say something in your language?”
“Hmm…” You set the fork down, and avert your eyes for a moment, pondering, before meeting his gaze again. “Kae…tyap go he shéfu.”
His eyes grow marginally wider at that, mouth forming an o. He can’t deny the intrigue that sparks in his chest.
“What did you say?”
“I like food and language,” you grin, switching momentarily to Mandarin. He huffs, more like a breath than a laugh.
“Can anyone speak it, aside from yourself?”
“No. I did try to teach people though—family, friends, old partners…” you trail off. “I even made a beginner’s guide and everything.”
Minghao wars with himself for a moment—he debates his request with his lips pursed, eyes fixed on some spot on the rim of his bowl. After a long beat, he makes his decision. “If it’s alright, may I see one of your dictionaries? Or the beginner guide, if you have it?”
You blink several times, watching his intent expression remain, even at your silence. “I…yeah, sure. I mean, if you’re sure, then of course!” You stammer.
The huff he lets out after your flustered yes sounds more like a laugh than a breath now, and it seems that you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth in response.
excerpt from: Hai Cheng (2025)
INT. DINING ROOM - THE MARRIED COUPLE’S HOUSE - BREAKFAST The couple sits alone on a table that feels too large for just the two of them. Instead of reaching for shared larger plates of dishes, they each have small bowls of dishes and rice in front of them. Both pick at their food without speaking. It’s quickly obvious that they did nothing to resolve their fight last night. The dining room feels almost frosty. WIFE Hey. Didn’t I ask you to get carrots and eggs yesterday? HUSBAND Sorry. I forgot. She scoffs. WIFE Yeah, well, it’s always like that with you, isn’t it? God. Do I have to do everything myself? There’s nothing but the faint sound of utensils clacking against the plates. The husband doesn’t speak. She takes a sip of her coffee. For a beat, it’s silent. WIFE (CONT’D) We’ve been married for three years, but you don’t even know how I have my coffee every morning. Seriously? Beat. WIFE (CONT’D) (resigned) You know what? Never mind. Have fun at work. Just leave your dishes there.
The testing of the sound configurations for Minghao’s film happens, blessedly, in the theater itself. It’s not a film that needs an exact kind of sound design, anyway, but it was nice to get a taste of what it would actually feel like once screened on the film festival.
When the end credits roll, you slip outside, finding Minghao leaning against a column, watching a magpie hopping around on a tree branch. He turns, and you offer him a small smile.
“Are you sure you don’t need to supervise what’s going on in there?”
He just shrugs. “I already gave them my specifications, and it’s the third round of checks. They’re just being paranoid, at this point.”
“Well, better paranoid than make it all flop, I guess.” He just hums.
In this diffused sunlight, the color of his blazer almost precisely matches the leaves of the tree behind him. “Did you like it?”
“The film?” He nods. “I did. But I knew I’d like it even after reading the summary.”
He looks at you, cocking his head to the side. His gaze is a touch too piercing to face after a film like that—something that stretches a person, like dough, just until it’s transparent enough to see through. “Something’s bothering you, and I have a feeling I know what it is.”
Caught. You smile, though it, too, feels a little thin. “It’s two things, really. One, it’s amazing that you directed a film fully in Korean. And two…why did you make the last twenty minutes silent?”
“It’s a film about family, and I speak Korean with mine back at home. I live in Korea, too. It seemed common sense to me. As for the question…” Minghao fidgets, his fingers running over the raised patterns on his nails. “I thought I could make the film speak for itself, I suppose.”
“Something like, not spoonfeeding the audience?”
“Spoonfeeding?” His accent lilts the word into a melodic little set of sounds.
You ponder the translation. “Hm…Sháozǐ wèishí?”
“Ah.” He nods. “Yes, something like that. It was a gamble, but I’m not sure if it worked.”
“I liked it, though.”
Minghao looks up at the tree again; the magpie hops for a few times, before taking flight, leaving a gently swaying branch. The leaves rustle slightly in its wake. His next words are spoken in Korean, but you can’t tell if he had intented the shift or not. “I wanted people to feel what I felt about my family. And maybe hope what I hope for, too.”
“Too bad you can’t add subtitles to the silent parts, huh?” You murmur jokingly.
He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. It’s as close to a laugh as you’ll probably get from him; his eyes are still so far away.
You suddenly remember something, and shift your bag to your front. It’s somewhere in there, shoved between your laptop and the book you’re currently reading. Finally, your fingers feel a curving wire, and you pull out the small spiral notebook. M. Spk III.
“Here you go, by the way.” You hold it out for him. “One of the dictionaries. If I find other ones, and the beginner’s guide, I’ll bring them too.”
Minghao accepts the dictionary. He flips through it with interest, and you can’t help the faint pang of embarrassment—it was one of the earlier ones, from high school, back when you only had the kind of terrible black ballpens that had thick, viscous ink, and had to be pressed quite hard on the thin paper for it to show. Your handwriting, too, must look atrocious.
“I’m excited to read this more,” he finally says, looking up at you with a gentle smile.
“If you’d like,” you say haltingly. “We can do some lessons. Or something like that. I could use practice with it too.”
His smile widens. “I’d like that.”
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”
You look up, meeting Minghao’s gaze. He approaches you, one hand holding a bound black notebook at his side. Your eyes dart down for a moment before returning to his face.
“Hi. Did you try the nail tech I recommended?”
“Oh, yes. They were good.” A bit too chatty for him, and perhaps the cuticle work could be improved, but she had copied Minghao’s requested design to a t. “The subtitles look great, by the way. Thank you for your hard work.”
Your eyes sparkle a little. “I’m glad. It was a hard script to work with, but very rewarding.”
“Translation work is different from interpreting work, isn’t it? How’d you come to do both?”
“Ha!—it was really more like, they contacted me because they knew my dad, and knew I worked as an interpreter. They just banked on me doing translation work too. Good thing I do.” You shrug a little. Something dark flits through your expression, before it dissolves, fast as it had appeared.
Minghao, wisely, ignores this.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “I don’t want to give this film festival a bad rep.”
“No, it’s alright. It was also a sudden acceptance on my part, and I hadn’t really prepared for this film to be screened outside of Korea and China.”
You laugh a little. “The existing Korean and Chinese subtitles helped a lot, honestly. I personally like translating a little bit more. It was even a dream of mine to be able to translate a poetry book.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” A soft smile tugs at your features. “There’s this poet I like. I follow him on Twitter. For the twentienth anniversary of his first poetry collection, he posted all the translations he could find of one of his poems. He even asked people to tag him if they make their own. I saved a lot of the ones in the languages I know.”
“Can I see?”
“Yeah, hold on. There’s a Mandarin one.” You pull out your phone, tapping something in. It takes a minute, but you hand it to him with a picture of a page pulled up. He reads it slowly, sometimes aloud, softly. He turns over the words in his mouth, feeling its texture alongside the strange imagery of the poem.
It’s a difficult one—he’s sure that even after the twentieth read, he wouldn’t know what it meant. That doesn’t make it any less beautiful.
“告訴我這一切，和愛，將如何毁滅你我。這些，我們，光侵噬的身體。That’s lovely. What’s the original English of these?”
“‘Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light.’” Your voice takes on a different cadence—trance-like, almost, when you recite the poem excerpt. He can’t help but be enthralled.
“Would you ever try translating it in MySpeak? The poem, I mean.”
The question obviously catches you off-guard. You blink at him owlishly. “In MySpeak? Well,” you stumble a little over your words, “I probably could, but I’m ridiculously out of practice now.”
“Aren’t we eventually going to? Practice?”
“That’s—I—” You cut yourself off and mutter what sounds like an expletive in your language. A giggle bubbles up his throat, one he doesn’t bother suppressing. “No one’s going to read it.”
The amusement dies down, replaced by a furrowed brow. “No,” he says firmly. “The right person will.”
You give him a faint smile and a thank you, but he refuses to say any more than that. It’s a dangerous line he wouldn’t cross, most certainly on principle alone, if not out of something like love, which has become so nebulous a concept in his life. If you catch on to his restraint, you make an impressive go at not making it obvious.
Minghao, instead, changes the topic.
“Did you always have a love for words?”
“I think I did. They’re made-up sounds, and weird lines on a page, but they can mean different things to so many different people. I grew up speaking my native tongue, but then when I moved to study in the capital, I had to adapt to the ways people used language differently compared to here. And then I picked a few other languages, tried to make one of my own…”
You trail off, and shrug, as though it were nothing. As though you didn’t speak, however obliquely, to a truth of his own—one where the language in his first home is different from his current one. Like how the act of crossing a border also meant leaving that part of his self behind.
He focuses, instead, on your language. It’s what he wanted to talk to you about, after all.
“That reminds me. I wanted to ask about this.” He opens the notebook he had brought, flipping through the pages of notes he made last night.
You watch him in amazement. “Oh my god,” you say faintly. “You’re actually studying it?”
For a moment, Minghao feels almost offended—did you truly think so little of him? But he looks up, and sees the unexpectedly fragile expression on your face, you yourself disbelieving.
He ducks his head back down. Heat creeps up his neck, and he feels how his ears burn, as though he saw something he hadn’t meant to. Like the window looking inward shifted from frosted to clear glass with no notice.
Minghao clears his throat. “Here, this is the word for book, while this is the word for door.” He flips to the pages of your little notebook, pointing at the words as he speaks. “But here,” he turns to a different page, one he marked beforehand with a little flag, “You combined both with a hyphen, and now it means imagination. There are more examples of that, but I was just curious about why. And what you were thinking about when coming up with them.”
“That was…huh. I think that was the time I was going through a breakup. I realized that me as myself, and me with my partner were two different people. You can become a different person with someone else, as compared to when you’re just yourself. The hyphen is a connector, right? So…I thought about how it can stand in for the connections between people, and between words. How new things can form from that.”
You’ve switched to Mandarin to explain, possibly a kindness on your part. Minghao simply sits quietly, allowing your words to wash over him.
Minghao couldn’t help but think back to last night—running the pads of his fingers over the crinkling pages, feeling the divots from where your handwriting had pressed hard enough to emboss raised letters on the backs of the pages, noting where you had lifted from Mandarin and Korean to form your words (神; Shén; rice).
(Language, formed through language itself—we learn to express through the means already with us.)
“By the way,” you say, switching back to English, “I brought you some more dictionaries.” You hold out an array of spiral notebooks—all that same pocket size, but each with differing patterns. They almost look as though they could have been bought as a set.
He thanks you, accepting the gift with both hands. It’s small enough that he can tuck them all into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The notebooks, like the one you had first handed to him, were not an expensive variety by any means; he imagines a young high school student sandwiching this purchase in between lunch and other necessities, and cannot help the warm rush of fondness at the thought.
“I’ll be back with more notes,” he promises.
INT - MINGHAO’S HOTEL ROOM - YOUR HOMETOWN - EVENING MINGHAO sits on the bed, holding his phone to his ear. It’s a call from his wife, who is checking in on him in the few days leading up to the festival. The light from outside is barely present, yet he does not turn on any other lights save for the lamps on both the desk and his bed. We don’t hear what his wife, EUNMI, is saying on the other line. MINGHAO (in Korean) The film festival starts soon. Beat. MINGHAO (CONT’D) (in Korean) I’ll be leaving after they show my own film. I won’t stay ’til the end. Beat. MINGHAO (CONT’D) (in Korean) No, I don’t think it’s rude.
A longer beat, as though his wife was speaking at length on the other side. Minghao shifts, from sitting on the edge of the bed to a more comfortable cross-legged position. MINGHAO (CONT’D) (in Korean, more softly) I want to see you too. It’s the closest they’ve gotten to an outright ‘I love you’. The call lasts for a few minutes, in total. When Minghao ends the call, there’s nothing but silence. There’s barely any light left outside. He stands, and goes to the jacket he wore earlier that day. It’s easy to find what he’s looking for; his hands emerge from the jacket pocket with the set of pocket-sized notebooks. He ruffles around again, shifting the jacket in his hold so that he can access the other pocket. From there, he brings out his pen. He nestles himself against his pillows, and grabs the notebook lying on the bedside table.
“Soup, again?”
“Hey, it warms the soul. And I promise this one is good.”
Minghao brings a spoon to his mouth. “Jal meokgesseumnida,” he murmurs, before taking a sip. You can see the moment his eyes begin to sparkle.
“Good?” He nods, already scooping another spoonful of soup, this time with a sliced portion of meat.
“Try it with a little fish sauce.” You nudge the bottle toward him, and he shakes it onto his small dipping sauce dish. The small nozzle deposits it in small increments. “You can crush some chilies too, if you want it spicy. Oh, and I usually take out the corn, so that I can pick it up and eat it later.”
The service had placed an extra dipping sauce dish, stacked with fresh red chilies. Minghao plucks one, crushing it with the edge of his spoon. When he tries it, you can’t help but chuckle at the unconscious smile that blooms on his features.
“You eating…reminds me a lot of those food scenes in Studio Ghibli.”
“How so?”
“They just…animate the food so well, y’know? It looks delicious to eat.”
He hums, bringing out the carrot onto his plate to cut into it. “Do you have a favourite Studio Ghibli film?”
You think about it for a moment. “It sometimes changes with the day, but I suppose right now, I’d pick Castle in the Sky,” you say eventually. “It’s not the first one people would say, I think, but there’s just…so much heart in it.”
Minghao tilts his head. “I haven’t watched that yet. Tiānkōng zhī chéng?”
“Yes.”
He hums. “I watched…Hā ěr de yí dòng chéng bǎo?”
“Howl’s Moving Castle?”
“Yes. The one with the fire demon and the romance.”
You grin a little. “That’s one way to summarize it. Do you mostly gravitate toward those kinds of movies?”
“What, romance?”
“Yes.”
“I like a mix of fantasy, too. And things that play a lot with time. The Classic, Five Centimeters per Second, About Time…things like that.”
“The Classic? I havent heard of it before. I’ll note it down. Do you,” you cut yourself off, hesitating, but soldier on anyway. “Sorry, it’s a cliché, but In The Mood For Love has the romance and time aspect, so I was wondering…”
He just raises an eyebrow. “It’s a bit tired, honestly.” You laugh at his honest response. “Of course I’ve seen it as a director, but it’s something like, people talk about it so much that it’s gotten grating.”
“I see.”
“How about you? What kinds of films do you like?”
“I found The Truman Show really interesting,” you muse. “But I also like Your Name and Spirited Away. It’s not a movie, but there’s this musical called Maybe Happy Ending—어쩌면 해피엔딩—and I really loved it. Cried thrice and everything.”
“I’ve heard of 어쩌면 해피엔딩. My friend, Seokmin, is a bit of a musical nerd.” Minghao picks up the corn that he had taken out from the soup earlier to let cool. “It seems we both enjoy romance, but not the easy kind.” Minghao resumes eating at that; he doesn’t see the way you subtly reel back at his words. You stare at the bowl in front of you, feeling a little hollowed out.
“Not the easy kind,” you echo. If he hears you speak, he doesn’t say anything.
That night, you head to a bar. It’s a little more on the high-end, pretentious side: where some drinks probably have too high of a markup for how watered-down they are. Still, the lighting is nice, and there seems to be, of all things, an open mic going on, which Minghao is curious about.
The buzz of everyone minding their own business is also perfect cover to start practicing MySpeak.
“How’s the study going along?” You prompt him.
“It’s…going well,” it feels a little new to hear Minghao stumbling through words, yet the fact that he is speaking your language makes your heart jump a little. He lilts his words more than you do; you assured him that you didn’t make your language tonal, but he still instinctively follows the melodies he had grown up speaking. “The drinks are pretty bad.”
You laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that. But maybe we could just get the bottled stuff, not their cocktails?”
“I prefer wine. Red, if they have.” He pauses. “You don’t have a word for cocktails?”
“I made most of it in high school.”
“Oh, you were a good kid.” It takes a moment, but you catch the beginnings of a mischievous smile curl at the sides of his mouth. You swat the side of his shoulder, and he giggles.
“And you weren’t!?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t follow all the rules, but I did it with good people, so it’s okay.”
You gape. Just a little. “Whoa. You’re really good at it now.”
“This is your language,” he says dryly. “Don’t say it as though I’m better than you.”
“Guess I need to step up, then.”
“What if…” Minghao leans in, pitching his voice low. You have to strain to hear him. “You quiz me on MySpeak, and if I pass, you have to volunteer in the open mic. And if I fail, I’ll sing something.”
Now, you gape in earnest. “You’ll sing something? You sing?”
“Not very well. I don’t want to, but the point of the bet is to do something embarrassing, right?”
“You’re that confident?”
He grins a little, and the shockingly boyish expression sends a jolt of attraction down your spine. Heat crawls its way up your neck.
“I’ll take my chances.”
Minghao can tell something’s wrong.
It started off fine. You introduced yourself rather shyly, before nodding at the keyboardist, who, apparently knowing the song you wanted to sing, began playing a mellow tune.
But at some point, you begin bouncing your knee as you sit on the stool. Your eyes shift between darting around and staying glued to the floor. Even the voice you croon into the mic, though sweet, seems to be fighting to stay steady. The hand resting on your leg is gripping your knee tightly. Minghao doesn’t know what happened.
He feels terrible. You could have told him you didn’t like performing, or that your aversion had been this bad; he’d have called off the bet without blinking. Watching you brave through your performance induced more pain than admiration.
Then, it happens. A female voice rings through the crowd, absolutely dripping with contempt. She shouts something he can’t understand, but it must be pretty bad, if the table beside him begins to whisper among themselves. Unease crawls up his throat.
Still, you continue singing. The voice shouts again, louder this time, spitting what he recognized, by now, to be an expletive in your native tongue.
Onstage, he catches you barely blink back your tears. After you’re done, you scuttle down to muted applause, and sag onto the chair beside him.
Later, he has to drag you off your nth round of drinks and into a taxi he flagged from the street. Outside the bar, you lift a middle finger to a poster of some movie, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like fuck that old man.
The taxi ride is quiet. Your head lolls, leaning against the window.
“Are you awake?” He asks quietly.
After a long beat, he hears your groan. “Unfortunately.”
“Why did that girl heckle you?”
You huff. He watches you shift your position—still leaning against the window, but facing him, this time.
“She’s…the cousin of my old fiancé.” Your eyes look like that day all over again: the frosted glass, now transparent. “It was a matter of…complicated timing. It was falling apart, by that point. But their mom is sick. Very sick. I was waiting for her to get better before I broke up with them. But I got found out. Can’t remember if my ex found out first, or if she did and then told them. But no one was happy.”
You turn away, facing the window again.
“I’d be angry at me too. Wouldn’t you?” Light and shadow flit across your face as the streetlights pass by.
“…Yes.” He doesn’t quite know if he saying it because it’s how he feels, or it’s what he thinks you want to hear.
“See?” You sniffle. “A lot of people are mad at me. But…it’s okay.”
“She still shouldn’t have heckled you, not in front of all those people. It’s not right.” He feels his grow louder with the flare of his temper, and tamps it down. More softly, he adds, “And you really did sing well.”
You sniffle again. “Thank you.”
Outside, the stark white streetlights fade into a blur.
He barely catches you whisper in Mandarin, “I’m just…so tired.”
Minghao doesn’t speak to you about what you had said to him drunk, that night. Perhaps it’s his own way of being kind. The last few days before the film festival pass by in a blur of tweaking translations
“I think,” you raise your arms overhead for a stretch, voice straining a little as you do, “we’re finally done.”
The subtitles have been fully integrated into the film, with correct timestamps and all—you had even done the color-coding you had promised to illustrate the switches between Korean and Mandarin.
Minghao doesn’t speak much, but he does reach out and tap your wrist—a brief thing, and so innocent, too, but the utter rarity of anything to do with his touch in all the time you’ve known him makes the contact feel like a blow.
“Can I treat you to something? We should celebrate, after all.”
“Oh—But—You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he hums. “And besides, I found this interesting hotpot place nearby, and I wanted to take you. Please?”
He taps your wrist again. This, with the head tilt that makes him look like a weary puppy, folds you like a wet papier-mâché.
“Okay.”
The hotpot place is good—it’s an honest-to-goodness surprise, and even Minghao comments on the authenticity. After a brief thank-you, for both the food and the hard work the past few days, you eat. You dip thin slices of beef in the spicy soup, then cool it briefly in the dipping sauce before taking a manageably-hot bite. The dipping sauce blend was courtesy of Minghao, who had mixed it for you according to his recommendation.
“It finished quicker than I thought,” you say, in between bites of food.
“Yeah, because we didn’t need anything for the last parts.” Minghao murmurs.
“Are you heading home soon after this?”
“Yes.”
You knew he’d say it, but it doesn’t stop the pang of sadness within you, aching and sharp. The smile you offer him, in response, doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
INT. YOUR CHILDHOOD HOUSE - YOUR HOMETOWN - NIGHT No dialogue for this part. YOU are seated on the couch, flipping through the dictionaries MINGHAO had already returned, which are all scattered on the table. You sift through them, slowly growing more frustrated, wondering what it is you’re looking for. On the screen below, subtitles flash as you gaze at words that don’t seem to fit. SUBTITLE: [regret] SUBTITLE: [love] SUBTITLE: [friendship] SUBTITLE: [loss] SUBTITLE: [best friend] CUT TO: INT. MINGHAO’S HOTEL ROOM - YOUR HOMETOWN - NIGHT, SAME TIME Minghao stares at the ceiling, listless. The nightly call he makes to his wife took more out of him than usual. He hasn’t yet even bothered to tuck himself under the covers. Usually, he’d also have his lamp at its dimmest right now, but it is still at its full brightness. SUBTITLE: [Minghao looks up at nothing. He wonders if you can miss something that was never there.]
The head organizer doesn’t look any different, but somehow, in Minghao’s eyes, he is.
Beside him, you fidget a little, and he feels the shift of the cushion under your combined weight.
“Director Xu, I must admit that I’m a little surprised that you requested this meeting. Is there anything we can do to help you?”
“First of all,” he begins. “I just wanted to thank you for the very warm welcome you and your team gave me throughout my stay here. The preparations must have been much more difficult due to the heavy rain, and I appreciated how you all still made an effort for guests such as myself. Your dedication to the art form, too, was quite inspiring.
“I wanted to do something for this festival. As you know, the last twenty minutes of the work you are screening are silent. But if it’s alright, we, er, that is, my translator and myself, thought it could be interesting to add subtitles to the silent portions of the film, and give voice to the things that had been left unsaid.”
You translate this to the man, who flicks open the rather large fan he’s holding halfway through your explanation.
“It’s sounds wonderful! But how will you manage? The festival opens tomorrow. Are you sure you have the time?”
Here, you step in. “Sir, we thought of working throughout the festival, and announce that we can have a special screening at midnight on the last day—as a limited, never-yet-seen edition of Hai Cheng.” As you speak, the head organizer’s fanning grows faster and faster. The moment you finish, he claps it closed with a exuberant cheer.
“Wonderful! Simply splendid! We can make the preparations at once.” At this, both of you sag, almost simultaneously, in relief. “Do you have a space? To work?”
He blinks, lost. At his lack of response, you step in. “Well, sir, we were just thinking of finding places around the area—”
“Nonsense! I have a bed and breakast up in the mountains. My driver can take you there, and I’ll let the custodian know that you’ll be staying for a few days.”
Minghao can’t help it; his mouth drops open. You must feel the same—you stammer, “Oh, sir, it’s really alright—”
“No, no! No expense will be spared for art, especially for a film as splendid as Mr. Xu’s! Just pack your bags and be here before sunrise tomorrow—it’s a long ride, so be warned—and I’ll handle the rest! I’ll let the reception know that you’ll have an early checkout too, director.”
Everything is moving forward too quickly for either of you two to keep up. Minghao steals a glance, only to find you already looking at him, just as lost as he feels.
(“It’s just for a few more days,” he reasons. His phone is tucked between his chin and shoulder as he packs his folded clothes into his suitcase. “I know, it’s longer than the original plan. I’m sorry about that. But I promise, I’m coming back.”)
The car did, indeed, leave at sunrise.
Minghao meets you, bleary-eyed, a hoodie thrown over a shirt and joggers—the most relaxed you’ve ever seen of his outfits. A leather satchel is slung on his shoulder, while one hand rests on his suitcase.
Both your bags are loaded into the back—you only needed your laptop, thankfully, as you only needed to give the updated SRT file for the final version to be screened at midnight.
The first hour of the ride is spent in silence, both of you opting to catch up on the sleep you had initially planned to enjoy. But by the time the sun peeks over the horizon, you begin to converse softly.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been up here,” you comment softly.
“I’m excited too,” he replies. “You’ve been up here before?”
“As a kid, yeah,” you exhale. “I asked the driver where we’re headed. It’s quite the popular summer holiday place. When we get there, let’s have some Hizon’s. I have it in the back.”
He nods, tilting his head. “What’s Hizon’s? I don’t remember reading that.”
You grin. “Sorry. It’s a cakeshop.”
“Cake?” You nod at his correct translation. “Sounds good.”
After around another two hours, the car pulls to a stop—not at a small bungalow, but a veritable manor. You’re both surrounded by a grassy hillside, and distantly, he manages to spot what looks to be a horse grazing the grounds.
“This is all ours?” He whispers to you, mouth agape.
“Apparently,” you whisper back.
Upon greeting the custodian, Mara, and settling down in your respective rooms, you both meet to explore the surrounding grounds.A metal barricade separates both of you from the grazing area of the horses. And, apparently, the lone cow.
You rest your elbows on the barricade, before slowly hunching to lay your chin on your forearms. Minghao follows suit, but he keeps just his elbows on the fence, opting instead to lace his fingers together and sweep his eyes over the view.
Something about it—the sprawling fields and the silence away from the city, settles something in him. “When I made that film,” he begins, “I did it for my family.”
“I remember,” you hum. “Would you call it a cry for help?”
“Maybe not. More like…a call for attention.”
“You said…the quiet parts were there because you wanted the viewer to feel what you felt about your family.”
“I really just—didn’t know what to say. While making those parts, I kept changing the script.” He runs the pads of his fingers over his nails. He got a shade of lime green that was a more muted version of the first dictionary you gave him, with both index fingers having a raised design of the flowers in the hotel pavilion.
“Eventually, the timeline got too tight. So I just went with this version, and justified it to everyone with whatever they wanted to hear. For art. Cinema.” The noise he let’s out is bitter, derisive; he feels sorry to have the trees hear it. “I tried to write the film in Korean, in a bid to make my family understand, but I went and made the last twenty minutes silent, anyway. Really, the film is just proof that I didn’t know what I was thinking.”
He keeps his eyes forward, but he senses your gaze. At some point, you had shifted, and rested your cheek on your forearms instead so that you could angle yourself to look at him.
“Marriage is hard, huh?”
He exhales. “All human relations are. But yes, marriage especially.”
“It’s so final.”
“Maybe that’s why they call it a ball and chain?”
“Doesn’t help with the appeal.” You huff a small laugh, and from the corner of his eye, he sees you shift to face back forward. “Scary.”
“It’s not all bad, though.”
“Is it different now, then? For you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He steps a little closer, just until he can jostle you lightly with his elbow. “You’ll need wine for me to open up about that.”
You grin. “Actually, that can be arranged.”
How do you tell someone that they’re a weight?
Not a burden, but a weight nonetheless.
And because of the weight, you needed to rest, take time away. But now you’re ready to take on that weight again.
There’s a thatched roof a little ways by the pool—nothing under it but a large, square table, and benches on three of the four sides. On the table, there is a bottle of red, and two wineglasses.
Minghao spins you around, teaching you the basics of partnered dance. A spin there, a hand here. Step out, and trust that he’ll follow. And he does.
Your laugh rings clearly across the pool, and for a moment, there is joy beyond translation.
The last of the wine has been polished away.
Minghao sits on the ledge of the pool, calves and feet submerged. He’s folded up his pants. Beside him, you’re similarly adjusted. The pale blue light from the pool ripples as his feet move and displace the water.
“Why did you decide to get married?”
“I mean…It was love.”
“Was?”
“I’m still not sure.” He inhales. “She cheated on me.”
You turn your head to face him, startled. He doesn’t react, just keeps tracing lazy patterns in the pool.
“It’s okay. It happened two years ago.”
“This…isn’t to excuse anything,” you say tentatively, “but did she ever tell you why?”
“No. And I never asked.” He huffs a small breath of air. “Maybe it got hard. Maybe she got tired. I know I did.”
“That’s…normal, isn’t it? That marriage can be hard?”
“Sure.” He quiets for a while, as though gathering his thoughts. He doesn’t seem drunk, but there is a markedly different openness to him—one you aren’t sure is due to the alcohol, or something else.“I like to think I never lied to her. I could be quite…blunt, with my words, I know, but I just never felt she understood me, even when I was being direct.
“Who knows though,” he continues. “Maybe I’m right, and she’s wrong. Or she’s right, and I’m wrong. Or we’re both right. Or we’re both wrong…who knows,” he repeats. “But I still want to try.”
“For your son?”
“Yes. But also…for us, even a little bit. And for me. After I go back, we’ll talk about it.”
“Have you forgiven her? For cheating?”
“I never had a straight answer for that, but…I guess I wouldn’t be thinking of coming back if I haven’t.”
You kick your leg out lightly, watching the newfound ripples distort the image of the tiled poolbed. “I thought about cheating. More than once. I never did it, though. But I also never figured out if it was just an intrusive thought, or a genuine consideration on my part.
“It’s just…we would be having breakfast, and I’d say something and he’d just…not get it. And all I could think about were the people who would. You know what’s sadder, though?”
Minghao doesn’t reply, but you know that he is listening. Waiting.
“I think he honestly thought he did. He thought he understood me. In his head, we were perfect. And I hated it.
“I mean really, we’ve been together for so fucking long and it feels like I’m the only one who knows him. I’m the only one who puts the effort, day in and day out, and…fuck! One-way street. A waste of goddamn time.” You’ve switched to your own tongue without realizing, the anger so visceral it couldn’t find a home anywhere else.
You let a noise somewhere between a scream and a sigh, and kick the pool violently. Water sprays everywhere.
“Fuck!”
Minghao doesn’t move, doesn’t comment on the sprays of water that had gotten on his shirt and pants. He just looks at you, gaze unwavering. Steady, as though there was nothing about your anger to apologize for.
He’s just waiting.
“You know what I’m really scared of, though?”
“What?”
“What if he tried, and I just didn’t let him? What if he saw things I didn’t see? What if he knew the parts of me that I never noticed? That’s a thing too, right? The details i didn’t care about, but mattered still. And I just…didn’t care. Or…or that his attempts to be empathetic to whatever I was going through just never matched up to what I wanted, and I dismissed it purely because of that?
“It scares me. Doesn’t it scare you?”
Minghao doesn’t answer. Not with words. But he reaches a hand out, and tangles his fingers with yours.
You explore a different part of the grounds this time, one with more sloping fields. Mara had found out that Minghao enjoyed skewered chicken barbecue, and promised to get some ready for lunch.
“It’s a wonderful view,” Minghao says. The words flow more easily now, as though he weren’t mentally scanning through his notes to remember what to speak.
“It is.”
“The air is fresh, too. I’m glad we got to stay here for a few days.”
You look at him with genuine amazement. “You’ve gotten so good.”
Minghao simply hums. “It’s fun. And everyone deserves someone who can speak their language.”
I always did like editing.
What did you like about it?
I guess…it felt like entering a timeslip. I could arrange the parts the way I wanted to. Play the past. Decide if the past would actually be the present, and the future actually the past. When I first started, I’d try playing footage backwards, or putting it into fast forward.
So playing God?
Something like that.
…
How do you want this to end?
…
…
I don’t want it to end.
Neither do I.
The car ride back is silent.
The midnight screening is held inside a historical site. Minghao’s never quite seen anything like it. The outside is a splendid display of arches; once he enters, it’s easier to catch sight of the sea motifs that decorate the stones.
It was, apparently, based on whispers, an old mansion of one of the great local landlords some centuries ago, but had been burned down purposefully during the war.
Instead of a true theater, they had a projector setup. It kept the screening to a more intimate audience, as they also anticipated that less people would be willing to join a midnight screening, especially on short notice.
Minghao didn’t really mind.
Admittedly, the blazer was probably a bad idea—the humidity never really let up, and even the ventilation setup, however valiant, couldn’t stop him from sweating under his clothes.
Still, he steps forward, speaking into the podium mic. He senses your presence beside him, with a handheld mic of your own.
“Thank you all for coming tonight. This screening must have come as a surprise to everyone, so I am truly grateful for all of you here with us. I will keep my words brief.
“Since coming here, it is not a stretch to say that both the film and I have changed. The first one is, after all, why we’re all here.” Laughs ripple across the audience. “The film and I have changed because the people I have met. And I couldn’t have been more thankful.
“The last twenty minutes were silent because I thought there were things better left in the silence. Now, I still think not everything has to be said, but it would be nice if more people understood you. I hope that sentiment is conveyed with this new version of Hai Cheng. Thank you very much.”
INT. MINI-THEATRE - THE RUINS - MIDNIGHT Hai Cheng (2025) plays on the screen. It’s down to the last five minutes of the film; there’s an image of crashing waves, and a couple submerged in the sea. MINGHAO, at the back, slips away, unnoticed. He glances at YOU before he leaves. You keep your gaze fixed on the screen. Eventually, however, you follow suit. EXT. OUTSIDE BALCONY - THE RUINS - MIDNIGHT No audio here. You join Minghao near the series of arches that form the skeleton of the Ruins. He listens as you tell him a fuller version of the story of the ruins. You speak of the love story before the war, how it grew from a love that had nowhere else to go. Then, the war and the necessity of its destruction. As time did its work, for the people who lived in its shadow, it stood as a testament to a love lost—more meaningful burnt and surviving than when it had been whole and perfect. You both stand there, looking over the gardens lit by the amber lamps. SUBTITLE: [He wants to look, but can’t steal a glance] SUBTITLE: [You feel like you might dissolve if he does] Silence stretches between you. There is a precipice neither of you will jump from. Eventually… YOU (in Mandarin) We should head back. Minghao doesn’t answer, but he looks at you as you turn around to return inside. CUT TO: INT. MINGHAO’S HOTEL ROOM - YOUR HOMETOWN - AROUND 3AM The duvet cover remains untouched; still fully tucked in from the last time maintenance passed by to clean his room. There are two pairs of shoes on the carpet. Atop the bed, two bodies, fully clothed, sleep facing each other.
Hi Mom.
Hey. Is everything alright? How was the film festival?
Fine. It was fine. I just…wanted to ask something.
Okay.
Why did you marry Dad?
What’s this all of a sudden?
I don’t know…I’m just curious.
It’s Minghao’s last stroll through the city, and your last, until you come back again. Your phone pings with something, and you check it quickly.
“Oh, reviews of your film are beginning to come in.”
Minghao just hums noncommittally. “I don’t like reading the reviews, honestly.”
“Really? Did you get a lot of negative ones before?”
“Mm…no. There were a lot of good ones. Four stars, five stars, things like that. I didn’t even mind the one-star ratings. It just meant that a person who didn’t align with how I see the world watched my film. There’s no problem with that. But some of the reviews…I don’t know. It was like I laid bare a part of myself, and all I got was a bunch of words from someone who didn’t get it. My friends send me reviews they found interesting—it’s a mix, at least. I don’t mind reading reviews if it came from someone who tried to understand.”
You enter a small tunnel—one colored in vibrant red paint.
“I see. And how would you rate me?”
Minghao tilts his head. “You?”
“This, you know…Your experience of the city with me.”
“Hm…ten. No. Nine out of ten.”
“Nine? Why nine? You just said ten!”
“Timing.”
“Ah.” You emerge from the tunnel, watching a bunch of kids play on the nearby swings. Looking down, you kick a pebble. “It really was too bad.”
“I wish we had more time. But somehow, I have a bit too much time to kill before I get to the airport.”
“Really?” He nods.
You ponder this for a moment. “I think I know a place where we can kill time.”
It’s one of the last few cinemas that isn’t in a mall. You hold out some bills, asking the lady for two tickets.
“Are you sure? The movie’s more than halfway through.”
“It’s fine.”
Tickets secured, you enter, finding a seat somewhere at the back.
INT. CINEMA - YOUR HOMETOWN - AFTERNOON From the back, only YOURS and MINGHAO’S silhouettes are visible as you both duck in to take your seats. The cinema is screening an Audrey Hepburn film, though neither of you recognize which one. Another love story. You’ve both seen all kinds. For many, long beats, there is only the sound of the film. Then, the two silhouettes’ heads turn to each other, and begin to whisper in MySpeak. There are no subtitles. The moment is theirs alone. Eventually, Minghao switches back to Mandarin. Somehow, his voice feels louder, even as the volume of his whisper remains the same. MINGHAO (in Mandarin) I should go. YOU (in English) Okay. I think I’ll just stay here. MINGHAO (in Mandarin) Goodbye. He doesn’t leave for a few beats. After a long moment, his silhouette turns to look at you. Your silhouette does not move. Eventually, Minghao stands, and leaves. Onscreen, the movie plays out a dramatic confession, and then a passionate kiss between Audrey Hepburn and her male lead. You continue to watch, alone. END.
note. title is from we have not long to love, by tennessee williams. traditional chinese (?) translation of scheherazade from here. full poem here. there’s a reference to the august preoccupations by catherine barnett, if you squint. for an outtake of this story, see 有緣無分. in the original, jamie sings young again in the bar (and gets heckled). any and all parts originally in the movie belong to jopy arnaldo and the wonderful team behind gitling.
fun fact: as a valentine’s day special, there were back-to-back screenings of gitling and past lives in the philippines. if you want to recreate the experience with a caratblr flavour, head over to the cities in which next (my past lives au, ft. seokmin and vernon). and then, listen to multo (eng tr. here) to round out the pain train. ty for coming to my ted talk (aka, thank you for reading ‹𝟹).
