“Joshua couldn’t tell if it was the last of the sleepy haze, but your eyes looked lighter, the moonlight softening their color.”
SYNOPSIS. When light passes through a prism, the rainbow is reflected in the fractures. Each color holds a different version of the same light. You are Joshua’s prism and he is yours. Where you see shame, he sees resilience. Where he sees cowardice, you see belonging. And perhaps love is as simple as that; allowing yourself to see the colors someone else sees in you.
PAIRING. Joshua Hong x f.reader
GENRE | TAGS. established relationship, dual point of view, hurt/comfort, non-linear story telling
WARNINGS. self-esteem struggles, mentions of breakup, vomit/throwing up, alcohol consumption
WORD COUNT. 3.95k
SIGNED. Learning how to receive love is just as difficult as learning how to give love. Allow yourself to be loved, even if it’s pieces you don’t believe deserve it.
Hey, it’s been a while hasn’t it? This project ended up taking way longer than expected, but I hope the extra time is reflected well in the piece. Please excuse any mistakes. As always, thanks for stopping by and I’m glad you’re here.
“I love you.”
You freeze; knife hovering above the apple on the cutting board. The words bounce off the cream walls of your kitchen.
You don’t look up. “No, you don’t.”
He doesn’t respond.
The knife plunges into the apple and strikes wood with a thud; a clean cut. You chop through the entire apple, slicing finer than you needed. Syrupy sweetness invades your nose as you toss the slices into a bowl with cinnamon, sugar, nutmeg, and flour.
A chair scrapes against the floor from the dining room as you squeeze out too much lemon juice.
You feel his gaze on your form by the threshold of the kitchen before he speaks, “Yes, I do.”
His voice is gentle. As always.
After pouring the lemon juice into the bowl, you look up at him. Clad in a white t-shirt and dark-wash jeans, Joshua Hong looks like a dream pulled straight from Teen Vogue. The soft curve of his lips forever forming a smile, and his eyes—eyes that never break contact.
You shake your head as you turn to find the allspice, “We’ve only been dating for two months, Joshua. You can’t possibly fall in love that quickly.”
He frowns, but it softens when you let out a quiet “score” once you find the allspice. Joshua crosses into the kitchen, his arms wrapping around your waist in a back hug as you add a pinch of the spice.
“Is it that hard to believe?” He mutters into your hair.
Your hands fall to the counter after you screw the bottle shut.
The two of you stand there as you lull to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest when he squeezes you tighter.
He gently turns you to face him, eyes searching your face, “Tell me then, why don’t you believe me.”
Your eyes screw shut as your head falls onto his chest. “I–…” The rest of the sentence lodges in your throat.
He says nothing, just pulls you into his embrace, tracing large circles on your back.
“I just don’t think people can fall in love that fast,” you mumble.
He stops his motion and hums, “That’s a little unfair.”
“Well…” you push off his chest and look up at him; you swallow, “people usually don’t mean it.”
He smiles, but his eyes don’t crinkle at the corners. “But I do. I mean it.”
You say nothing, gaze finding the floor instead. He sighs softly before touching his forehead against yours, “Do you trust me?”
“Yeah.” It doesn’t sound convincing, even to you.
He grabs your hands tightly. “What can I do?”
You bite your lip hard enough to taste a metallic tang; “I don’t—” You shake your head. “I don’t think you can do anything.”
“Why?” His eyes were firm. Even under the dingy kitchen light you swear you see little refractions of gold swimming in them.
You pull your hands out of his grip and secure your arms around him, melting into his body. “I trust you with my life, but not with the things you claim to see in me.”
“Tell me then.”
RED — Three Years Ago
A headache pounded at the base of your skull. A sweaty body pushed against your side as you shoved your way through the crowd, grimacing at every touch. You could barely hear your thoughts over the booming bass of the music shaking the floor. The strobing lights made the room sway as they washed the bar in deep red and purple hues.
Instead of seeking fresh air or leaving, you found your way back to the bar. You don’t remember what you ordered, probably something hard.
Raucous laughter spilled from the center of the dance floor you’d just fled. You bit your nail and slouched over the bar counter.
The bartender placed a glass in front of you. As you reached for it, he commented, “I like your rings” before slipping away.
You looked down at your hand adorned with only two rings. One on your right middle finger; vines curling around a scuffed stargazer lily.
And one on your left ring finger, a simple silver band holding an alexandrite in prongs. You had forgotten to take it off. You stared at it a little longer.
Then downed your glass like a shot.
It burned your throat raw, but you chased the feeling with the next three drinks.
Before long, you were mesmerised by the changing color of the alexandrite gem. A laugh bubbled in your chest.
You pushed up from your spot at the bar, gripping the counter as the world spun and became a blur of red and purple. You stumbled into the bathroom after tripping and crashing into everyone along the way.
Once inside, your laughter poured out. You barely made it to a stall before doubling over. Tears leaked down your face in painful sobs; you couldn’t stop.
You clutched your stomach as you inhaled shallow breaths between coughs, trying to capture as much oxygen as possible. After a couple of minutes, your breathing evened out as the tears dried.
Your lungs burned, and you leaned over the toilet.
With shaking hands, you tore the pretty alexandrite ring off your finger. It had been a promise from your ex—one unfulfilled. Even three months after you couldn’t part with it just yet for it was a reminder of what could have been had you not messed up.
You held the gem up to the light and watched it change from green to red.
It was truly beautiful.
You swung your arm down and chucked it into the bowl. Your heel smashed down on the flush as you watched the ring disappear with dull eyes.
A sigh escaped your lips, but your shoulders remained tense as you stood there in the stall, unmoving.
Then you smell it, a strange combination of urine and rotting trash that churns your stomach. You fling the stall door open and glimpse at your reflection in the scratched mirror.
Washed out in the flickering yellow light, your eyes were red, bloodshot, and swollen. Your nose was running and your cheeks tear stained.
Ugly.
A phantom grip closed around your throat as the bathroom floor wobbled. You reached for your phone and dialed the first contact you saw.
It rang four times.
“Hello?” His voice was raspy.
“Joshua.”
There’s a faint sound of rustling sheets on the other end, “Yeah?”
You bite your lip and pull the phone away from your ear.
The world was moving again.
You stare at your reflection a moment too long before speaking, “Still there?”
“Never left.” A car door clicks shut.
“Joshua—” you pause as you’re hit with a wave of the pungent bathroom odor, “I…Can I ask you a favor?”
“Mm…yeah. What’s going on?”
Your fingers rapidly tap your thigh, “Can you, um, pick me up?”
“Course. Send me your location and I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
You hang up.
For the next 10 minutes, the bathroom becomes home until your phone dings. You don’t bother reading the message. You square your shoulders and push your way through a sea of bodies as your headache returns with a vengeance. Miraculously, you make it to the door and step outside.
The cold nipped at your skin as you inhaled the midnight air like a cigarette. It still burned.
You spy Joshua’s car across the street. He rolled down the window and shouted, “Ready to go home?”
As you crossed the street, your stomach churned. With messy bed head and a throw on hoodie, it looked like you ripped him from deep sleep.
You opened the door to the passenger seat and slid in, “Thanks.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners, “Anytime.”
Seven minutes later, you threw up.
ORANGE — Three Years Ago
By the time you hang up, Joshua is already on the road. You hadn’t sent your location, but you didn’t need to.
He was waiting by the curb of the bar when you emerged. Even in the dark he could see the smudge of makeup around your eyes and lips; your hair tangled as if you had been tossing it carelessly. Yet you climbed into the car and thanked him with a steady voice, one that didn’t match your appearance.
He might have believed you were fine, but he knew you better than to assume that.
Despite your attempted efforts, Joshua saw how your hands shook while you pulled your seatbelt across your body. He was about to ask but then he noticed them.
Your rings.
The stargazer lily ring he had given you ages ago rested in its rightful place, but your ring finger was bare. It caught him off guard, even three months after you broke up with Ethan you had refused to take off the engagement ring.
He kept the car parked, “I think you lost your ring.”
You looked down at your hand as a smile tugged on your face. Joshua raised his eyebrows, “Want to go look before we leave?”
You shake your head. Joshua couldn’t tell if it was the last of the sleepy haze, but your eyes looked lighter, the moonlight softening their color.
Silence settled over the car as he waited for your answer. He was tempted to ask, to pry for the reason of the sudden call. He hated the small part of him that felt entitled to the details simply because it was 2am and he had come in a rush.
But he decided to pick up and you didn’t owe him an explanation.
He would know when you were ready to let someone know.
When it was clear you wouldn’t elaborate, he turned his attention to the road. As he went to grab the gear stick you spoke up, “I flushed it down the toilet.”
Joshua froze. You had said it so casually that he thought he’d imagined it. He whipped his head to you, letting out a slow, “What?”
“I flushed it down the toilet,” you repeated, not looking at him.
He ran his fingers through his knotted hair, “What made you do that?”
“Because it’s finally over,” a distant look crossed your face as you stared at the dingy street, “I can let go now.”
Joshua released a soft sigh, “Oh.”
Of all the things he’d conjured up on the way here he wasn’t expecting that.
Joshua knew that the engagement weighed down on you, but it was something you took pride in. Proof that not all things ended in disaster. He assumed pride kept the ring in place for so long, but maybe you had finally left everything to rest in the bathroom where you called him from.
A smile settled on his face.
You didn’t continue and he took that as a sign. He pulled out from his parking spot and cruised the streets to the highway entrance.
“So…what are you going to do now?” He asked, hands tightening on the wheel.
You let out a bitter laugh, “I dunno.”
The silence found its way back.
You drew in a shaky breath, “It was my fault you know?”
Joshua jerked the car left as he unintentionally drifted. He swallowed, “What makes you say that?”
“He told me he felt like I wasn’t making time for him. Multiple times.”
The air conditioner kicked on with a whirling sound. Joshua opened his mouth but you cut him off, “I know. It sounds like a shitty excuse to break up, but it’s not something I haven’t heard before. Friends have told me that. You have. Mila has. Arden too.”
“Well,” Joshua trailed off, grasping for something to interrupt the spiral, “No one’s perfect. You’re being self critical.”
You stare at him and for a moment he chastises himself for saying something so cliche, but then you laugh, your head thrown back. He’s startled by your reaction as you wipe imaginary tears, “Fuck sorry, you just sounded like an NPC and I couldn’t help it.”
“I’m glad you find my concern for your well being humorous.”
You pat his shoulder lightly, “Thanks. I feel a lot better.”
Joshua smiled, “Hey, it’s not like you aren’t trying. You called me two days ago to go out to brunch with Noah,”
“Yeah, finally.” You smile down at your bare hand and hold it out to the morning sky, “Maybe that’s why I don’t need it anymore.”
Joshua chuckled as he looked at the sky behind your hand. It was pitch black, but for a second, he swore the city lights painted the clouds orange.
YELLOW — Present
Joshua shakes his head, leaning back against the counter, “I can’t believe you cut out our entire conversation in the car.”
You stand opposite to him with your arms crossed, “It wasn’t that important.”
He raises his eyebrows and you sigh, “I literally said you sounded like an NPC to your face.”
“I thought it was endearing.”
“I’m sure you found me throwing up in your car endearing too. That’s why you cut that part out.” You turn around and pull out a pie tin along with the dough you froze last night.
Joshua pushes off the counter and walks toward you with a smile. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, “It wasn’t that important.”
You stop flattening the pie crust, “I don’t think you understand how much I hated calling you that night.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off, “Not that I regret it. I just… hate feeling like a bother.”
Joshua doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at the pie crust for a while before nudging you away to finish flattening it himself. He doesn’t look at you, but he does mutter, “I get it.”
GREEN — One year ago
“And, um, so this is really random, but, um, I thought you were really cute and was wondering if I could possibly get your number?”
Joshua felt his eye twitch despite his best efforts to keep his face neutral. In his peripheral vision, he spotted a group of girls watching their interaction with the same intensity as a super fan at a sports game.
The girl in front of him was by no means unattractive, despite her stutter she had top model flair matched with cool blue eyes. Joshua internally sighed but plastered the warmest smile he could muster, “Ah, thank you for the compliment, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
The girl smiled, “Aww man. I get it. Thanks anyway.”
The amusement park was busy, but Joshua watched as she walked away towards the group of the girls, laughing as they crowded her with questions.
When he snapped out of his mindless staring, he looked around for you and your six year old niece, Kylie, who disappeared half way through the conversation. Eventually, he spotted you by the ice cream stand sitting at one of the tables nearby.
You seemed to have bought her a double scoop and were animatedly speaking about some topic. Joshua clenched his fists.
How easy would it be to walk up to you and do exactly what that girl did? To ask you out on a date?
His feet carried him to the table. As he approached, you looked up at him with a knowing smirk tugging at your lips.
He could. But he wouldn’t.
“So,” you drew out, a lilt in your voice, “What was that about?”
Joshua plopped down next to Kylie, “She just asked for my number, that’s all.”
Kylie gasped, almost dropping her ice cream cone. She stared at Joshua with wide eyes, “Another person likes Uncle Joshua?”
You leaned forward, “Seems like it.”
“Are you going to date her Uncle Joshua?”
Joshua stared at you before turning to Kylie, “Finish your ice cream before it melts.”
“Nooo,” she whined, “Aunty doesn’t let me stay and listen. How am I supposed to know if you get married?”
You laugh, but Joshua feels his throat tighten, “No, lovely, Uncle Joshua isn’t getting married anytime soon.”
“But why? Sooo many pretty people always talk to him.”
You stare at Joshua as if dragging him into the back and forth with an invisible hand.
“Well,” Joshua turned his whole body to Kylie, “it's a secret.”
Kylie fully dropped the remainder of her ice cream on the table and flung herself towards Joshua who clumsily tried to catch her. You let out a groan, “that was $13.”
She thrust her pinky out to his face, “I can keep a secret. I pinky promise not to tell.”
Joshua stared at her dead serious eyes, caught somewhere between shock and amusement. Kylie’s pinky remains firmly in place as he contemplates how to answer her. Lost in thought, he glances at you as you stand up to find napkins.
He locked his own pinky with hers, “This means you can’t tell anyone.”
“Even Aunty?”
“Even Aunty.”
Kylie huffed, but gave him an aggressive nod.
Joshua motioned for her to lean towards him. He stalled for a couple of seconds, then whispered in her ear, “it’s because I like your aunt.”
For the first time, Joshua let the words settle somewhere. Not just in his head.
Then Kylie shrieked right in his face, “Does that mean you're going to marry Aunty?”
Joshua gaped at her, “That’s not really how—”
You returned with a fist full of napkins, eyeing the melted ice cream on the table, “Woah, what was that yell?”
“Uncle Joshua told me a secret!”
“And am I privy to that information?”
Kylie scrunched up her nose, “What does privy mean?”
“Your aunt,” Joshua said, “is wondering if she can know our secret.”
You give Kylie your best smile as she wraps her arms around Joshua’s neck, “I’m sorry Aunty, but you aren’t privy to Uncle Joshua’s secret. Only I am.”
Joshua felt his muscles relax, not realizing how tense he was.
“Aw, man.” You pretend to act dejected by wiping the table, “I thought we shared everything together.”
Kylie looked between you and Joshua with narrowed eyes, but Joshua wasn’t about to find out what she was about to say, “Why don’t we get in line for another ride?”
“Yes!” Kylie’s face melted as she slid out of Joshua’s lap and started pulling him up, “I want to go on Rampage next! Melisa said it was super scary, but I don’t think I’ll be scared. Tyler cried, but Tyler always cries so— wait! We can’t forget Aunty!”
Joshua turned back as Kylie ran to get you. You were following close behind, watching. Kylie grabbed your hand then ran back to grab his. Now standing between the two of you, she skipped through the crowd dragging you both with her.
BLUE — One year ago
Kylie was acting strange. Ever since Joshua had told her a supposed “secret” she was high-energy and giddier than usual.
“No, Aunty, why can’t I be with Uncle Joshua!” Kylie complained, trying to lean out of your arms.
And clingy.
You readjust her on your hip, “Lovely, it’s because Uncle Joshua is talking to someone right now and it’s not nice to interrupt people when they are talking.”
Joshua, who ran out of line to buy water for you from a nearby cart, got pulled aside by a pretty girl. Her hair was a bold red and even from far away, you could make out green eyes.
They were laughing. You couldn’t hear their conversation, but kind of wish you could.
Kylie huffed, throwing her arms around your neck and bringing your attention back, “But this is the third time a stranger hogged Uncle Joshua.”
You ruffle her hair, “That’s just because a lot of people think Uncle Joshua looks nice.”
It was true. If being friends with Joshua has taught you anything, it was that pretty privilege was absolutely real.
Just this morning Kylie had lost her ticket in the depths of her Tiana themed backpack (you’ll take 40% of the blame for that one) and instead of rushing you, the lady at the counter was staring at Joshua as he helped calm down a near tears Kylie while you tore through her stuff.
“Does that mean you think Uncle Joshua looks nice?” Kylie asked wide eyed.
You pause, shoulders tensing.
There was no denying the fact you thought Joshua was attractive, but for some reason, the notion left a sour taste in your mouth.
Kylie continued, mainly to herself, “Because I think Uncle Joshua looks nice.”
“Oh really?” You relax your posture with a smile
“Yeah!” Kylie threw her hands up and pointed to the lemonade can in Joshua’s hand that you failed to notice, “He’s getting me lemonade.”
“Does that mean you want to marry Uncle Joshua?”
“No!” Kylie shouted, startling you, “No! I don’t want to marry Uncle Joshua.”
“Wow, okay,” you let out a strained laugh, taken aback by her reaction.
“He’s an adult and that makes him old,” Kylie hooked a finger under her chin, “But not for you aunty. You should marry Uncle Joshua!”
“Oh.”
Marry Joshua?
You wish you could say the thought hadn’t crossed your mind.
But it had.
Over the past few months you’ve caught yourself daydreaming about the scenario more than once. Unwillingly of course.
“Just because we are the same age doesn’t mean that we should get married. You have to like each other first,” you tried to reason.
“Don’t you like Uncle Joshua?”
“I mean—well, yes, but, it’s different.”
“How?”
“You see,” you pause, “Uncle Joshua and I only like each other as friends.”
“Oh.” Kylie stared at you with a goofy grin on her face.
You sigh, but you’re smiling, “It’s like you and Dylan. You like Dylan, but you wouldn’t want to marry him right?”
“Ew,” she said, pulling a face, “No.”
You laughed with her, “See, it’s like that.”
“But Dylan isn’t as nice as Uncle Joshua,” Kylie reasoned, “Uncle Joshua comes to all my dance recitals and gives me pretty flowers.”
You tap your forehead with hers, “He does, doesn’t he.”
Because your sister and her husband had Kylie earlier than expected and worked practically non-stop, they never got a proper honeymoon. After five long years, you decided to plan one for them yourself. It just so happened that week they were gone, Kylie’s dance recital had been scheduled.
Kylie had been disappointed, so Joshua had offered to go with you as her ‘stand in parents’. He had bought her flowers and took her and her friend to ice cream after.
Ever since, Joshua has not missed a single one.
“What’s this? Talking bad about me while I was gone?”
Kylie squealed as Joshua stepped over the chain ropes joining you back in line.
You set her down as she made grabby hands towards the lemonade. He handed you a bottle of water then made Kylie say “Uncle Joshua is the best” before giving her the can.
PURPLE — Present
“Were you scared?” you ask as you pull the pie out of the oven and place it on the kitchen island.
Joshua grabs a pie server and hands it to you, “Yeah. I thought you’d reject me.”
“Huh,” you cut out two pieces, the sugary sweet smell filling the room, “I always thought it would be the other way around.”
He takes a bite of the pie and his face melts into a “this is really good” expression. You laugh and join him in the feast.
“Well,” he puts his fork down, “ it doesn’t matter because in the end we liked each other before we knew.”
“I guess you’re right.”
A silence settles as you jab your fork into the remainder of Joshua’s slice.
SYNOPSIS. Sometimes, the right person at the right time was only meant to stay in your life for a moment. Seokmin was that person. He was sweet in a gentle way; picking up your favorite coffee blend, peppering your face with kisses on a bad day, and fighting you for the bill. He had sunshine in his smile and the stars in his eyes. Five years have passed since you last saw him, yet he lingers. In the coffee blend you used to love and on the couch in your apartment when a trashy rom-com plays. Seokmin was your world, but all that’s left are traces of him.
PAIRING. Lee Seokmin (DK) x reader
GENRE | TAGS. post-relationship, five year time skip, soft melancholy, angst with hope, lovers to strangers, hurt/comfort
WARNINGS. open ending, light spoilers for The Martian, mentions of breakup, themes of moving on
WORD COUNT. 1.36 k
SIGNED. Some memories are worth reliving, even if they start a little painfully. I normally don't write this fast, but I was feeling inspired. This one was a little difficult to figure out, but I hope it turned out well in the end. Thank you for stopping by and I’m glad you’re here.
He took his belongings from your apartment; the blue hoodie in your closet, the extra toothbrush on the right side of the sink, the sparkling pink karaoke mic buried under couch pillows—all of it disappeared with him.
Hand on the doorknob, he looked back and smiled at you. It didn’t match the smile in your memory. The words were sincere but hollow as he muttered a small, “Take care.” You wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind as you listened to his footsteps echo down the hall until they faded away.
And then he was gone.
The day after Seokmin left was quiet, as if he had never been there at all.
You used the last of a custom-made coffee blend, emptying the jar labeled “My Love” and took it black.
After returning home from work you called out a greeting but one didn’t call back at you. There wasn’t an extra pair of shoes by the door or an extra coat on the rack.
Ordering pizza that night was a simple matter. You didn’t have to fight anyone or defend your favorite like it was a national treasure.
(It never really did matter; the two of you always ended up splitting it half-and-half.)
You settled on the couch, using a blanket for the first time in months—blaming the winter cold. The Martian played on the screen and you got through the entire movie without interruption. Instead of laughing when Mark Watney made it back to Earth, you cried, properly.
When you fell asleep that night, you wondered if you’d wake up to Seokmin, like you always had.
You
[0:01 AM] Happy Birthday Vernon!!
Hansol Vernon Chwe
[1:44 AM] thanks
[1:44 AM] i’m old like you
Read
You chuckle under your breath. Every year, without fail, you’re the first one to wish Vernon a happy birthday. You can’t explain why you seem to avoid sleep on this particular day…
You let out a heavy sigh and shut your phone off.
Soft moonlight replaced the harsh blue of artificial light as it spilled through your living room window.
You know exactly why you can’t sleep.
February 18th is Seokmin’s birthday; it also happened to be your anniversary.
You both knew it was the right decision to break up; your aspirations in life had outgrown one another. He wanted to chase the blinding lights of the big city; you were content in your small corner of the world. But, your heart never understood that.
The first year was difficult; he appeared like a ghost, reminding you of life with him. The second year, you made a promise to move on. Move on from trashy 90’s rom-coms with too much butter in the popcorn, the bitter smell of your regular coffee order at Spell Café, and pepperoni pizza.
And it worked. By the third, fourth, and fifth year, you were able to heal the Seokmin size hole in your heart by erasing every trace of him.
Except you never fully let him go.
February 18th was the worst and best day of the year. Every bit of pain and longing surged forward and sent you back to the day he left.
Guess you never moved on after all.
Your phone dinged as you reached over yourself to grab it.
@ lee.seokmin posted a story on Instagram
Your breath caught as your finger hovered over the notification, unmoving. You really shouldn’t. It was a bad idea. No, you needed to ignore it. You clicked your phone off and stared at the ceiling, fingers twitching.
Well, maybe—
Perhaps you were compelled to open it because you felt a sense of duty to see how he was doing or maybe you found some comfort in knowing that the person that kept you up was awake as well. Whatever the case, the distance between you and the screen felt a little smaller than it should’ve.
It was a picture of his TV—still hanging lopsided to the left when you both messed up the measurements. He was watching The Martian with the caption “I love watching this movie <3”
That wasn’t always true. The first time he watched it was with you.
On your second date, the two of you decided to surprise each other with a movie to watch. You remember stringing fairy lights behind your T.V and rearranging the knitted blankets on your couch seven times.
And the popcorn, you could never forget it. Seokmin had bought movie theater popcorn that was drenched in an unhealthy amount of butter. You could smell the salt and aroma before he even stepped through the door.
You questioned how he could stomach something that was essentially pure oil. He laughed and made you try it.
After six kernels, you physically couldn’t eat more, it was heavy and so salty you ended up chugging an entire glass of water. He gloated about having a stronger digestive system than you the rest of the night.
Eventually, you revealed the two movies to each other. He had chosen 10 Things I Hate About You and you had chosen The Martian.
“I’ve never seen The Martian before,” he commented.
“It’s science-fiction and based on Andy Weir’s novel where a man gets stranded on Mars. It’s iconic and I really like it.”
He took a few seconds to think about it, “I’m not a big science-fiction fan, but it sounds fun.”
You frown, “I can choose another movie.”
“No, if you like it, then I want to see it.” He smiled, his cheeks stretching and eyes gleaming as if his entire face could barely contain his joy, “Even if I don’t really get it, I’ll enjoy anything you enjoy.”
There was no shame or uncertainty, just happiness that couldn’t be tainted. You think that was when you fell in love with his smile.
It took four hours to fully get through the movie with Seokmin making comments and asking dozens of questions along the way.
“No! He’s alive, you can’t leave him!”
“You can grow potatoes on Mars?”
“He’s going to survive right? He has to.”
“Hold on, the actor for Mark is also in Good Will Hunting?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you retorted, pausing the movie.
“It is absolutely relevant,” he said, like it was obvious.
You tried to act annoyed, but you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face.
The same smile held its place. You stared at his story again. For four years you had refused to watch The Martian or 10 Things I Hate About You in fear of the lingering heartbreak attached to them.
With new found resolve, you sat up and opened your laptop clicking on 10 Things I Hate About You, remembering how Seokmin had gotten up and gave a full performance of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” along with Heath Ledger.
You pulled your blanket tighter around you as the opening credits played.
That morning, you drove to Spell Café and ordered a bag of a custom-made coffee blend, filling the jar labeled “My Love” hidden at the back of the pantry.
At the end of the work day there were extra shoes by the door and coats on the rack as you welcomed your friends in for karaoke.
Ordering pizza that night was not a simple matter. The four of you fought over the size, type, and quantity for 30 minutes.
(It didn’t really matter; you all conceded to pepperoni in the end.)
Hand on the doorknob, you shooed your friends out with a smile and called out a quick, “Take care.” You listened as their footsteps echoed down the hall until they faded away.
You fell onto the couch, not needing a blanket as the early spring warmth filled the room. The Martian played on the screen and you got through the entire movie without interruption.
Instead of crying when Mark Watney made it back to Earth, you laughed, properly.
When you fell asleep that night, you wondered if Seokmin was doing well, like you always had.
Maybe the traces he left behind aren’t meant to hurt. Maybe they’re meant to remind you of what bloomed.
SYNOPSIS. Every email starts with a tragedy; a messy break-up, the passing of a loved one, a painful but necessary divorce, or simply the inconveniences that come with living. Sometimes, sharing the grief makes it a little more bearable. You don’t know him, but perhaps you understand each other more than any other person on this planet; two comets in different orbits kissing, for just a moment.
PAIRING. Xu Minghao x reader
GENRE | TAGS. digital letters, long distance, soft melancholy, angst with comfort, strangers to something
WARNINGS. open ending, multiple time skips, mentions of death, mentions of divorce/break-up, self-esteem struggles, themes of grief, emotionally vulnerability
WORD COUNT. 1.01 k
SIGNED. Perhaps this is our first and last time meeting each other, like two comets passing in orbit; if so, I’m glad you’re here. I hope you enjoy this piece.
Hello, I'm new to the fic writing space, so thanks for stopping by!
Subject: Again and Again
From: You
To: Minghao
February 15th
I broke up with him…again. I really hope it's the last time.
RE: Again and Again
From: Minghao
To: You
March 2nd
Look at the stars tonight. I don’t know where in the world you are, but here, the sky is clear for the first time in weeks. On nights like these, I like to search for constellations.
One of my favorites is Corona Borealis or The Northern Crown. It belongs to Ariadne, princess of Crete. She was abandoned by Theseus before finding love in Dionysus. The Northern Crown was a wedding gift he placed in the stars to honor her. The story reminds me that happiness can bloom from endings too.
The apartment’s empty now. Seven years, a ring on the counter, and she’s gone, just like that. Tonight’s a little colder than it should be.
I didn't expect it to hurt this much.
Maybe you don’t celebrate Christmas, but I always like to decorate early. There is something magical about the holiday season; blasting Christmas music without shame (October was close enough), putting up a tree, marathoning through iconic movies like Home Alone and Love Actually, and making hot chocolate and gingerbread.
It wasn't always like this. When I was teenager, I thought I grew out of the feeling. The holiday's felt disappointing. But, one year a little kid asked if Santa was real. I spent so long convincing her that he was that I almost convinced myself too.
I realized then, that the magic of the holidays is a choice you make.
Sure, all Christmases aren’t magical. There are missing pieces of a favorite tradition forgotten or a song I can’t quite remember the lyrics to anymore. But even when something was missing, it didn’t make it any less meaningful. Over time, I made new traditions and found new songs to sing. The joy is still there, I just have to change my perspective.
Wishing you a warm holiday season.
I stopped crying and I feel a lot better. I’ve just been so stressed lately. I haven’t been able to sleep well and I’ve skipped more meals than I would have liked.
Here’s a list of my current anxieties and stressors:
1. The intern is a bitch who thinks he is all-knowing and such a slob. He is working under my friend, yet he acts like he’s in charge. She’ll ask him to review a drawing to verify the dimensions before sending it to the next team and he’ll make a snide comment that if he did it, they wouldn’t need to conduct reviews because it would be “perfect”. He gets on my nerves.
2. The shrimp in my garlic butter pasta was cold. It tasted bad.
3. I started seeing someone. I haven’t dated since my last relationship and I’m scared. It’s been over a year and I don’t know if I’m fully ready yet. I can’t tell if I’m just using it as an excuse, but I really hope this time is different. That I’m ready and finally free.
4. Groceries are too expensive. Maybe that’s why I’ve been skipping meals lately.
5. It’s hard to look in the mirror right now. Logically I know that I am a healthy weight and an absolutely normal looking person, but sometimes it’s hard to not compare yourself to everything you see online.
I cried this morning too. Life is a lot sometimes, but maybe it feels lighter to let the frustrations spill somewhere.
1. I care about what other people think a little too much. I keep crafting a version of myself to be what others want. Even if I dislike the person I become, I am too scared to stop.
2. It took me over two hours to choose an outfit today.
3. Someone told me to try a new art style and I refused immediately. Maybe it’s perfectionism. I’m too afraid to fail and for that failure to be permanent.
4. Someone stepped on my toe when I was buying tea leaves. It hurt. A lot.
5. And yes, it is hard to look in the mirror sometimes.
I recommend meditation. I don’t think I’d get through some days without it.
Subject: Missing Someone
From: You
To: Minghao
December 24th
It’s only been a couple of days and I already miss her, my best friend since elementary school. I call every day dreading for when I’ll no longer hear her voice mail.
She was beautiful, you know? So full of life and energy that you couldn't help but ask yourself “what adventure will she come back to tell me next?”
We had met up once, after going separate ways for university. She had told me about her 3 month backpacking trip in Europe. I remember feeling so lame in comparison. I told her as much, maybe out of jealousy. She just laughed and said:
“True. It does feel lame just sitting here talking. But if I had to choose, I’d do this for the rest of my life.”
Only now do I understand what she meant.
I don't want to forget her.
RE: Missing Someone
From: Minghao
To: You
January 1st
It’s New Year’s again. Did you watch the fireworks? I did. They were loud, but no one seemed to mind.
Normally, I don’t take the time to see the firework shows in January. I prefer celebrating during Lunar New Year. But something compelled me to stay up and watch them. I’m glad I did.
They were beautiful, but brief; painting and lighting the dark sky. Even if they lasted only seconds, there’s a hope tied to them. I’ll probably see them again next year. The memories are worth repeating.
When I think about the universe, I feel like a speck of dust. Maybe all I’ve done is all I’ll ever achieve. Maybe this will be as far as I was meant to go. Maybe… this is all I have.
SYNOPSIS. You’d rather shotgun beers until you die of alcohol poisoning than direct one more shitty movie. Unfortunately, your pride won’t allow you to quit. Especially when Vernon, a godforsaken film critic, can’t stop telling you what he thinks. Whatever, like you’re listening anyway.
PAIRING. Vernon Chwe x reader
GENRE | TAGS. director reader, film critic Vernon, artist x critic, rivals to lovers (kind of), slow burn, arguing about art as a love language, idiots in love, reader has anger issues (lovingly), text messages, flaskbacks
WARNINGS. miscommunication, I know nothing about the film/movie industry, does this even count as romance, vulgar language (reader swears a lot), artistic insecurity, creative burn out
WORD COUNT. 8.62k
SIGNED YU. Every piece of art has two creators, the artist and the audience.
Good news: I found out I can write a fic over eight thousand words. Bad news: it took over three months to do and I am flabbergasted. I don't think I truly understood the power of writer's block until now 😀 Please excuses any mistakes I missed. Anyways, thanks for stopping by and I’m glad you’re here.
“What’s up with these ratings?” your manager, Dayeon, asks.
A blaring red 5/10 stares at you as reviews from film critics and audiences denounce your latest film Fine Shyt as one of the worst films of this year.
“I dunno,” you say, picking at your nails, “Must not have resonated with the public.”
Dayeon shuts off the projector and pitches the bridge of his nose, “Well you better figure out what resonates with the public because projects aren’t just going to drop out of the sky anymore.”
You give a non-committal hum.
Dayeon sighs and collects his stuff, “Once is fine, twice is a different story.”
The door to the office shuts with a quiet click.
And you’re alone.
You sigh and scroll through some of the comments on social media.
@ wonwoosglasses: The cast was great! Wonwoo was so hot. But the script did not do him justice.
↳ @ babyshark93: Stop complaining about the script, it’s just
because he can’t act lol
The actors had no chemistry whatsoever
↳ @ 13heartstoppers: Shut up. No one asked for your opinion and
actors can only do so much within a script
@ joy_fullee: I’m just waiting for it to come out on streaming, doesn't seem like a movie to see in theaters tbh
↳ @ sallysellseashells: Yeah, it’s only running for a week. Why
bother?
↳ @ hungry-hippos: Type of movie to do the dishes too
@ apple314: The protagonist sucks
@ gemma.holten: I thought it was fine, you guys are just haters
↳ @ pumpkinspicelatte: And folks I present to you the American
literary crisis
You drag your hands down your face. The comments weren’t wrong, in fact most of them were spot on. The project you picked up had been a romcom. The producers wanted to emulate the golden age of the late 90s and early 2000s capturing the push and pull of two people finding their place in the world beside each other. It seemed like a solid plan.
Until it wasn’t.
You lean back in your chair, twirling a pen around your fingers.
The producers lured you in with the promise of creating a movie to revive the romance comedy genre only to impose quick restrictions on what can and can’t make the cut. Under the sugar coating and bullshitting it basically boiled down to three things:
Make it easy enough to follow for second screen viewing. (Why don’t we just put fucking Subway Surfers in the corner of every movie while we’re at it?)
It’s going to end up on streaming services, so your budget is getting cut. (Great, absolutely wonderful)
Keep it open ended in case people want a sequel. (How to Make Straight Trash Even Worse: A Step By Step Guide)
Your grip tightens around the pen and you're sure you look murderous to anyone that catches a glance through the glass window.
After staring at the ceiling for far too long, you take a deep breath and you slowly rise from the chair. Your ass is sore from the cheap plastic material and you’ll be sure to complain about it next time you see Dayeon. Only a few people are still at the office this late as you trek through the building to the garage.
The sound of your car door slamming shut echoes through the empty space.
The ride to your apartment is silent with only the static of the radio accompanying you.
Once you get home, your shoes are thrown off at the door and your keys clatter on the kitchen island. The film festival awards that are strung across your fridge quiver as you yank open the freezer. It’s mostly empty, per usual.
You make yourself some random Trader Joe’s microwave meal.
The clatter of the plate on the microwave dish is loud and you stare directly into the window as it buzzes and hums with artificial life.
Maybe your next film should be a sci-fi thriller about a woman that dies of shame and radiation.
You laugh. Clenching your stomach when you can’t stop.
Goddamnit.
Now your name was on another shitty movie you didn’t even want to make.
@ holdmytears: I used to like this director, but honestly not my cup of tea anymore
@ movieholic18: I saw Paradigm at a film festival and it was SO GOOD, but now its all… eh
↳ @ fightingdemonsrn: Bro Paradigm was pure cinema
The microwave beeps. And you wipe your face, trying to rid yourself of any trace of tears.
The tikka masala is cold as you shovel in each bite.
Your phone lights up.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [11:41 PM]
[link] [Cinema Weekly— We Killed Romance: The Tragedy of Fine Shyt by Vernon Chwe…]
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Vernon.
You stare at the notification until your phone times out. You don’t turn it back on as you drift off to a dreamless sleep, listening to the city below.
When morning comes, filling your kitchen with light, you stretch, cursing yourself for falling asleep on the counter.
Dayeon had sent you a text at four in the morning. Something about a meeting and scheduling. You don’t bother to read the rest of the message.
You don’t bother to open the article Vernon sent you either.
You already know exactly what each says.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
“You’ve been given a project,” Dayeon says, “So clear your calendar for the next several months.”
“Excuse me? Given?”
You're back in the dingy office space you sat in less than 24 hours ago, same plastic chairs and off yellow light you hate. However, instead of Dayeon yelling at you about ratings, he’s forcefully gifting you a project to lead.
“Yes, I’ve already accepted it on your behalf,” Dayeon states as he connects his laptop to the office projector.
“Dayeon, you can’t just do that,” you lean back in your seat, “I don’t even know what the project’s about.”
Dayeon doesn’t spare you a glance, “I don’t know what it is either.”
The lights flicker. “What.”
“Trust me. You’ll thank me later,” he says as he pulls up a slide show, “This isn’t your typical project, so we’ll start here.”
You physically recoil when Vernon’s face gets blown up on the wall of the projector.
What the fuck does he have to do with this?
Dayeon points to his face, “I assume you know Vernon Chwe correct?”
Like a vision from a film, you see it all again. Notebooks crammed with messy handwriting and stickfigure storyboarding. Scripts with red ink dyeing every margin. A boy in the corner of the university library, headphones blocking out the world as he stared out the window as if admiring a picture he could never save.
You grimace, “Unfortunately.”
“Don’t give me that face,” Dayeon points to his lips, “Smile.”
“Yes ma’am,” you mutter out with forced joy.
He glares at you when you flash him a fake smile, “As I was saying, Vernon Chwe is a renowned film critic and has served on panels for various festivals and awards such as the Llapis International Film Festival.”
“Yes, I know. Thank you for that very clear and precise breakdown of his career Dayeon,” you say with a roll of your eyes.
Dayeon looks like he wants to punch you into next Tuesday but you pay no mind and continue playing with the hair tie on your wrist, “He wants to produce a film and has extended an invitation for your help.”
You scoff, “What does he know about making movies? I don’t care, I don’t want to.”
“Stop whining and listen to me,” Dayeon says, clicking to the next slide, “As I said before this isn’t a typical project. He’s offering you a substantial budget and complete creative control.”
Call you petty, but the moment Vernon’s name came into play, you were sold. However, when the words “complete creative control” left Dayeon’s mouth you couldn’t help but let the idea excite you— just a little bit.
Still, drumming your finger on the table, you had to ask, “What’s the catch?”
Dayeon smiles, the first one you’ve seen in years, “No catch, just a challenge.”
You kind of hate how much your heart flutters as the words sink in.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [11:29 AM]
What the fuck?
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [12:01 PM]
she's alive
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Sol Cafe was a dingy hole in the wall coffee shop where some of your best ideas spawned. It was moody, with dim yellow lights and warehouse furniture. The window seat you had chosen overlooked a shady alleyway as graffiti decorated surrounding building walls. You inhale, taking in the bitter smell of freshly ground beans.
This had been your home once; during art school. Every day without fail, you’d sit in this booth with your friends and map out story boards and shots until the owners kicked you out.
Once upon a lifetime ago, when you actually enjoyed Vernon’s presence, the two of you convinced the sweet elderly lady to let you stay the night determined to finish your presentation analyzing the evolution of romantic comedies from 1980 onward through the lens of storytelling and stylistic choices. You had racked up about 100 hours of director interviews at that point and Vernon’s Letterboxd looked like it got hacked considering the 25+ new movies that were added in the past two weeks alone.
Despite it, you never wanted to leave.
Six years later, however, you're tapping your fingers against the beat up metal table as you obsessively check your phone.
Where the heck is Vernon?
He had told you to meet him here at 10 am, yet 15 minutes had passed and there was no Vernon in sight.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [10:14 AM]
Where are you?
Read
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You click your phone off and decide that if he doesn’t arrive in the next 5, you’re leaving with or without the movie deal.
You sigh and rest your head in your palm as you gaze out the window. Outside, you spot an elderly man at the corner of the street. He has an easel set up across from what you assume to be a couple. He takes long strokes, forming a picture of them in his image.
It’s a classic caricature style from what you can tell, but something about an elderly man and a couple on the side of the street capturing a moment in time, no matter how distorted, made your finger twitch, itching to open your notes app.
The man drew one of the women’s eyes large like saucers while the other had her jawline sharpen like a triangle, but they both smiled when they saw the picture. Each one gave the glowing man a hug as they left a tip. You slowly rise from your seat.
You want to meet this artist.
A cough cuts you off mid motion.
Vernon is sitting in front of you in all his smug glory. He smiles, his gums showing as you slam back down in your seat.
“How long have you been here?”
“Two minutes,” he responds blankly, “You looked busy.”
You cross your arms and huff, “No shit Sherlock.”
He just stares in the direction you were lost in, “It’s been a while since I saw a caricature artist.”
“Yeah, yeah, cool artist,” you wave your hand back and forth, “Let’s cut to the chase. What’s your deal? A movie? Seriously?”
He doesn’t respond, still gazing out the window as if admiring a picture he could never save.
It pisses you off.
“Hey,” you snap your fingers in front of his face, “You gonna stay in la la land or come back down to reality?”
He blinks at your motion. He says slowly, “back in university, we went to a carnival after the filming of Paradigm. We had a caricature drawing done too… I wonder if I still have the print.”
You lean back into the booth throwing both hands on your thighs, “oh my god, I forgot how frustrating it is to work with you.”
His lips tug at a smile, “Some would say. But, I’d argue that Paradigm did well.”
“You barely contributed.”
“Well, my name is in the credits.”
You roll your eyes, “Please, just because your name is on the film doesn’t mean you put effort into it.”
“Right…” he pauses, staring down at the coffee in his hands you don’t remember being there minutes ago.
“I’m assuming this is coming from experience.”
Your eyes shoot up to meet Vernon’s unwavering stare, it looks like the light in them died years ago.
You're no doctor, but you swear a vein in your forehead pops.
Oh.
If that’s how he wants to fucking play, you can bury the bar down to hell.
“Says the guy that didn’t even make it in the industry.”
He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to fill in the blank.
You don’t.
“I’m a film critic,” he sighs out.
You lean forward, “Exactly Vernon. You don’t make shit.”
It’s barely noticeable, but his jaw ticks and his lips press in a thin line. Maybe it’s disturbing how such a small and, frankly, sad gesture makes you so happy.
You relax back into your seat. Vernon doesn’t say anything, gaze fixating on a point behind you.
You’ll count your victories when you can.
The bell to the cafe jingles as the door opens and the couple that was with the caricature artist before walks through.
“I want to.”
Your eyes snap back to Vernon.
He said it with such conviction that it feels as if he can see into your very soul.
He’s staring at you.
And you hate how small it makes you feel.
“I want to make this movie,” he pauses, “and I want it to be with you.”
At this point he’s not asking anymore, just telling you.
You glare, but if he feels it he pays no attention to it, “I don’t think you’ve made your best movie yet.”
You scoff, “Who are you to judge?”
He deadpans.
You roll your eyes and grit your teeth in response, “Whatever.”
His eyes catch light as he looks out the window to the caricature artist cleaning up. He chuckles, “I guess you're on board then.”
“I never said that.”
“Good,” he smiles and looks at you, “I knew you would.”
An unpleasant feeling creeps its way up your spine. You immediately gather your things and slide out of the booth, shoving all the trash towards him, “Lunatic.”
He hums, swirling the last of his drink, “Right.”
As you storm out of the cafe he calls out one last remark, “See you soon.”
You slam the door shut.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [11:02 AM]
🖕
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [11:02 AM]
“👍” to a message
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[1 year and 6 months until release]
“Shut up, I have everything under control.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
You and Vernon are currently knee deep in clothing designs, scripts, empty coffee cups, story boards, and whatever other shit you decided to just throw on your office floor.
You bite your lip as you examine a foot tall stack of… well, you're not entirely sure. “It’s organized chaos.”
“Right…” Vernon pulls a face as he flips through a notebook that vacillates between casting ideas, blocking recommendations, and scribbled out scripts…and is that storyboard? “Organized chaos.”
“Why are you even here?” you ask, moving onto another pile.
“Because you asked for help?” He flips the page of the notebook, “The Golden Gate Bridge?”
You let out a heavy sigh, not looking up from your precious pile (which you’ve now identified as your inspiration pile), "Architecture is art too, duh.”
Vernon just blinks, “I thought you were going to use the idea about the painter.”
“Well yes,” you say, “but, art inspires art. Why do we keep paintings of things that exist in real life?”
“Am I supposed to answer or is that a rhetorical question?”
You shrug, “I don’t know? Both?”
He hums, closing the notebook.
You sigh, “I think it’s a perspective thing. A painting and the source material manifest into two separate things because one is a reflection of the artist's perspective.”
“But isn’t that basically criticism?”
You pause, handing over a picture of the Nine Muses. You slowly turn towards him, glaring at him with a scandalized look as he grabs the picture. “Excuse me? What?”
He looks up at you blankly, “Well, the bridge inspires the artist. The artist interprets what the bridge looks like to them. Isn’t that just criticism?”
You choke on your words, “You and I have very different ideas of what criticism is because what the fuck.”
“What do you think criticism is?” he asks, catching another notebook you threw his way.
Your hand brushes against a crumpled up college-ruled paper with a crayon drawing of goldfish scribbled on it. It had been a gift from your younger sister when she was four.
Your shoulders slump down as you let out a breath, “To me…criticism has always been weird. I get that feedback is necessary for any craft, but like, we create to create. It’s not like there’s an objective truth to art.”
He hums thoughtfully as his eyes scan over the crayon drawing, “But is it really art without an audience to interpret it?”
You pause, looking at Vernon as he turns the page of the book. The question lingers in the air a beat too long as it dies with the silence. You swallow and mutter out a quick, “I don’t know.”
“Then I guess,” he snaps the notebook shut and glances up to you, “that’s what this film is going to answer.”
You smile, “Something like that.”
─────────────────────────────────────────────
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [8:28 PM]
found the caricature art
[see image attached]
You [12:02 AM]
Congrats, want a gold star?
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [3:14 AM]
yes
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[1 year and 3 months until release]
“Remind me again, what your ‘grand vision’ is?" Vernon asks, swiveling on your office chair, grabbing your half finished coffee from your desk.
You sigh, pushing yourself off the floor to stand in front of a white board with scribbles that no longer look like human language.
“Basically,” you start, “it’s a coming of age story disguised as a romance between a painter and a gallery curator.”
“Unusual…” he takes a sip of your coffee, “I like it.”
You roll your eyes, “Something fresh for this oversaturated genre.”
Vernon gives you a look.
“Whatever,” you turn your attention back to the board, “Anyway, it follows a simple plot. The painter is looking to break into the art industry and finds out her childhood friend is a gallery curator. With high hopes she contacts him and brings her portfolio. Unfortunately, he rejects her pieces and she falls into an obsession creating painting after painting trying to find the missing element he keeps explaining.”
“Right.”
“She keeps getting rejected and ends up going to fourteen other galleries, not to submit art, but to observe the pieces that do make it onto the walls. She’ll encounter a piece at one of them that makes her realize what she wants to say with her art.”
Vernon stops swiveling and leans forward, “Does it end with her painting a piece that finally gets accepted by the curator?”
“Give or take,” you shrug, “The details will add nuance, but that’s pretty much the gist.”
He leans back into the chair, “Eh…”
You deadpan, “What.”
“In my opinion, it can have a stronger resolution,” Vernon gets up from his slouched position and walks over to the white board with a red marker in hand, “One, it’s predictable. Two, it feels too much like the curator is winning.”
“It’s not a battle,” you say, judgment written over your face, “Art doesn’t have winners.”
“Exactly my point,” he circles the falling action and taps the marker to it, “right here, is where the painter loses and the curator wins.”
You drag yourself to stand next to him and stare at the plot point.
“Her art shouldn’t become full by fulfilling the expectation of the curator,” he adds, “that diminishes her artistic vision.”
A solid five minutes pass as both of you drill holes into the story board. Your mind wanders back to the photo Vernon sent you of the caricature art he found. The artist seemed to like his smile as his gums and teeth were drawn huge. You remember making him hold it up next to his face and giving the same smile to compare. It looked like a fun house mirror…
You slap his shoulder with a gasp and he lets out a quiet “ow” as he rubs the spot you hit looking at you confused.
“What if…what if the painter makes the curator paint something with her?” Your eyes gleam as you uncap the blue whiteboard marker in your hand, “Like they have the same model or painting the same thing. Then when it’s displayed in the gallery the pieces are facing each with a mirror frame in between?”
“Oh and it’s like a reflection that…” Vernon grabs your hand and smiles, his gums showing through, “Now we’re talking.”
You and him spent the next four hours scribbling ideas on the white board. Blue words barely passing for cursive covered the entire board with notes of red underlining, circling, starring, and commenting on the important parts.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [10:43 PM]
[link] [Location: 8 Star Gallery, 17135 Sky Boulevard S, New York, NY,…]
You [11:06 PM]
Do you realize how expensive filming there is going to be?
“So what do you think of the final script?” you ask after absolutely destroying the milkshake in front of you.
You had the bright idea of meeting Vernon at 3 in the morning in some obscene 24 hour diner to go over the final version of the script one more time.
Was it necessary?
Probably not.
But it was 3am on Valentine's Day and this specific diner offered complimentary milkshakes for anyone on a date. And for two broke university students, it was basically free food. It somehow developed into a tradition where the two of you would come at an ungodly hour in the morning just because you could.
He thoughtfully looked over the last page before reaching for your unfinished fries, “I mean I read it two weeks ago. But yeah, it’s solid.”
“Good, because we’ve already submitted it to the casting director and a team is location hunting as we speak.”
He lets out a laugh and hands you back the thick stack of papers barely staying together by the biggest staple you own.
You finish your milkshake before Vernon says anything else.
“Why is her name Calliope?”
“Why is your name Vernon?”
He gives you an unimpressed look.
You laugh, then take a piece of pepperoni for his slice of pizza, “She’s a painter and you know, Calliope is a muse. The ones that inspired the Greeks or whatever.”
Vernon taps the table thoughtfully, “You should change Edmund’s name to Ethan.”
“What? Why?” you ask, wiping the grease off your fingers.
“It means long-lived.”
“Long-lived? Oh, because he’s a…” you pout as the realization washes over you, “I hate your annoying ass brain sometimes.”
“All the time.”
“You said it, not me!”
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [6:30 AM]
Happy birthday old man
Bonon [8:29 AM]
thanks
You [9:41 AM]
Love the enthusiasm
Bonon [11:03 AM]
THANKS SO MUCH
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[8 months until release]
“Told you it’d be worth the money.”
You shrug, gliding your hands along the smooth white walls, “You're handling the budget.”
His face contorts, “Don’t remind me.”
You laugh as you and Vernon continue touring around 8 Star Gallery. The owner, a famous art curator under the alias The8, had given you a discount for using his space for filming in exchange for “product placement”.
The design was modern and minimal with a monochrome color palette that allowed the bright hues of the artwork to pop. It fit Ethan’s character perfectly.
Vernon grabbing your wrist brought you back down to reality.
“Look,” he points at a lone painting on the wall, “Seems like they forgot to take everything down.”
You hum in agreement, leaning in to get a better look. It was a gorgeous oil painting of the view of Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was divided into abstract sections, each representing a different time of day.
“Kim Mingyu,” you murmur out, “Sounds familiar.”
Vernon tilts his head back as if thinking, “Wasn’t he the artist that got criticized by the media for switching from his signature still lifes for more abstract concepts?”
“Uh,” you furrow your brows, “Maybe? It feels right.”
“It was a big deal apparently,” Vernon ghosts his fingers over the canvas.
You snort, “Why? Because he wanted to try something new?”
“Yeah,” he says blankly, “A lot of collectors wanted an original still life and his sales plummeted when he stopped.”
You roll your eyes, “Is everyone in the art world such pricks? Let him create what he wants to create. No one’s forcing them to like it.”
Vernon doesn’t respond, he just examines the painting as if looking at a precious artifact. You stare at him for a moment before leaning against his shoulder to try and see what he’s seeing.
As the staff come by moments later to gently remove the painting from the wall, you look back at Vernon, his narrowed eyes, the quirk of a smile at the edge of his lips, and the flare of his nose.
You have a sneaking suspicion you didn’t come to the same conclusion.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [12:37 PM]
Dragon
[see image attached]
Bonon [12:59 PM]
actually thats a wyvern
a dragon has four legs and two wings while a wyvern has two legs and two wings that are like their forearms
so technically all wyverns are dragons but not all dragons are wyverns
i wonder if wyverns experience discrimination
You [1:01 PM]
…
I was literally just going to ask if you like seven year old me’s drawing
And if you think it deserves to be in a gallery
Bonon [1:02 PM]
oh
well i don’t know if minghao would put it in his
but i’d put it mine
You [1:02 PM]
Wait, that actually sweet
Bonon [1:03 PPM]
yeah
its a cute wyvern
You [1:03 PM]
Please shut up
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[4 months until release]
“I’m so glad filming is done,” you say, lying down in the middle of the art gallery.
Vernon chuckles beside you, sitting cross-legged, "Stressful?"
You groan, rolling over to sit up properly, “I never want to direct another movie ever again.”
He shakes his head, “You’re so dramatic. It was only 7 weeks of filming including the fact that we had to fly to New York.”
“Even if it was the cleanest and fastest filming I’ve ever done, I don’t have to enjoy it,” you snort.
“Are you sure you want to be a director?”
You laugh, “Yeah, maybe we should switch.” Your laughter dies down as you bring your knees to your chest, “I bet you would make great movies.”
Vernon leans back on his hand, his voice shifting with the mood, “I don’t think I could.”
A silence settled as you picked at your fingernails. You don’t know what compelled you to ask, but you ask anyway, “Why are you a film critic?”
He tenses slightly, but it doesn’t escape your eye, “Well… I guess I just like talking about movies more than making them.”
You hum in response, “Do you send every director their review or am I just special?”
“You’re just special,” he looks up at the ceiling, “I could rant about your movies for hours.”
You stiffen, “What? Why?”
He looks down at his shoes as if embarrassed, “I guess… I find everything interesting. I want to know why you used a certain cut or approved of a piece of dialogue.”
He looked so gentle, saying such mean things. Your hands clench into fists,“Why? Because it’s questionable?”
He leans his head to the side thoughtfully, “I mean… yeah sometimes.”
You scoff, “It’s not like I’m trying to make movies for other people. I just do what feels right.”
“Sure,” he says, “but people are still going to watch it regardless of intention.”
“And you want to understand that intention?”
He smiles, “Yeah. I do. Because sometimes it doesn’t feel like a decision you would make.”
“No,” you sigh, burying your face into your knees, “They are all my decisions.”
“Really…” He trails off and you can hear the tinge of disappointment lingering in what he refused to say next.
You push yourself off the floor.
“If you think my movies are crap, then why the fuck are we doing this?” You turn to him, eyes hardening.
He rushes to get up from the floor, “I’ve never said your movies are crap.”
You scoff, “Right, and that’s why you send me your fancy ass Cinema Weekly shit every single fucking film and nobody else!”
“You don’t read them?” His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs slightly ajar.
You ignore it, “You literally called my last movie the death of romantic comedies, what’s there to read!”
“Oh my god,” he drags his hands over his face then clicks his tongue, “you realize I sent those articles to you because I want you to read them. I don’t just write crap about your movie and send it to you. I’m not an asshole!”
You throw your hands in the air, “Might as well be!”
“So I titled the article that way, doesn’t mean everything I said about it is horrible,” he takes a step towards you, “The quality just wasn’t there because—”
“I know Vernon! Trust me I know! The quality is shit, the writing is shit, the cuts are shit, it’s all shit!” You scream the last part, releasing something deep and raw from the bottom of the abyss.
Vernon hesitates before a hardness overcomes his face again,“You’re not listening. I’m saying that I know you can do better.”
“And I’m hearing you crystal fucking clear. You just don’t understand. There are budget restrictions, script limitations, and producer requirements that I need to fulfill if I so much as want to see a trailer released!”
“Yeah, but–”
“I’m doing my best!”
The sound rings around the empty set, accompanied only by your quivering breaths. Vernon doesn’t say anything, but his fists clench and he stares at his shoes refusing to look you in the eye.
“This is my fucking best Vernon.” The words were a whisper, a soft plea as they held back a flood.
His head snaps up, searching your eyes. Maybe there’s nothing there because mutters, “No it’s not… It can’t be.”
You grit your teeth, “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
You glare at him, burning a hole into his face as if daring him to say anything.
He opens and closes his mouth as if debating his next words carefully, finally, he says, “I don’t… but I want to believe it.”
His voice was small, almost childlike as it trembled.
You’ve never heard his voice unsteady before.
The room shrinks as the two of you become the center of the stage.
You lick your lips, “You should have believed in yourself too. Maybe then you’d understand.”
With those final words, you turn your back on him, storming out the door, slamming it shut with a loud thud.
Vernon’s hands curl into fists as he stares at the door, as if sneering at a picture he wishes he could erase.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [1:43 AM]
I’m sorry
You have deleted a message
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[3 months until release]
Shit.
You’re a horrible person. Scum of the Earth dipshit. Genuine flaming pile of trash.
But your pride refuses to let up, refuses to let you talk to him.
Shit.
You’re currently working with one of the editors in post production, leaning over her seat as you work through a shot, but nothing looks or feels right anymore.
Especially with him standing there.
“Can we up the saturation on this shot? Something’s throwing me off.”
Your editor, Lana, plays around with the saturation and contrast showing you three different versions of the same shot. You groan in frustration, “I’m sorry… I don’t like it.”
She opens her mouth as if to suggest something before Vernon pipes up from his corner, “I don’t think saturation is the problem, I think it needs more blue tones to match the emotional pacing.”
Lana automatically begins playing with the blue tones, “Hey, wait, I think this is working—”
You grab her shoulder, cutting her off. Through gritted teeth, not even turning to him, you say, “Vernon… Please leave, I’m trying to work with Lana here and you’re throwing me off.”
“I thought we were working on this together.”
You ignore the bitterness that seeps through his voice.
“Well,” you grip the back of Lana’s chair hard enough for her to notice, she looks up at you and you give her a wobbly smile, “Not today.”
He scoffs, “You said that yesterday too.”
Lana glances between you two as you stay steadfast in gluing your eyes to the monitor. She sighs and looks over her shoulder, “Hey Vernon, I’ll finish up this shot with the director and then I can run it by you later.”
You can feel his eyes burning into the back of your head as he mutters out a quiet “fine”. You don’t relax until you hear the door slam shut.
Slowly, Lana turns to you, “Is something going on?”
“He’s just making useless suggestions.”
Lana gives you a look, “I don’t know, seemed pretty helpful to me.”
You take a sharp inhale, leaning away from the screen, “I don’t want him to win.”
She just smiles, patting your shoulder and turning back to her setup, “Who was it that said art had no winners?”
She doesn’t notice, but you bite the inside of your cheek until you can taste metal.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
143-257-8024 (Add number?) [3:29 AM]
why are you ignoring me
143-257-8024 has deleted a message
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[2 months until release]
Everything’s going downhill and you don’t know if you have the will to try and stop it anymore. Editing, which is normally your forte, is eating you alive. You and Vernon aren’t allowed to be in the same studio anymore, not after you grabbed him by the shirt and he cussed you out.
You stare at the ceiling of your apartment as you wait for your Trader Joe’s dumplings to boil.
The film doesn’t even look like a film anymore. It’s more like a Frankenstein monstrosity of two different editing styles competing with each other.
You slump over the cold kitchen counter and robotically stuffing your mouth, not even tasting the dumplings.
Your phone dings, but you hesitate for a moment.
What if it’s Vernon?
You reach for your phone and can’t tell if you’re relieved or disappointed it’s Dayeon.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Dayeon (Manager) [9:37 PM]
By some miracle, the ratings of Fine Shyt went up, two years later at that
[Link] [tiktok.com/reel/…]
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Curiously, you tap on the link, taking you to some influencers page.
“So, I know I told you guys years ago that I wasn’t going to be watching or reviewing the film Fine Shyt, but after reading an article by Vernon Chwe, hopefully I’m pronouncing that correctly, I decided to give it a shot. So today’s episode of 365 films in 365 days is about Fine Shyt…”
Your hands turn numb as you hover over the comment section.
@ summersue29: OMG same, wasn’t going to watch it but my friend who follows Cinema Weekly said I had too
↳ @ sundaymornin: lol I’m that friend
↳ @ ilikepizza: I actually understood the movie better
@ trianglekimbap: I agree, it was a lot more nuanced than people gave it credit for
↳ @ sunkissed: Pacing still sucked, but yeah, much more enjoyable
↳ @ nightmarefuel: I still hated it
@ harper_lee: I always thought it was good, glad to see Fine Shyt getting the recognition it deserves
The influencer’s voice rings out once again, “I know that this director and Vernon are coming out with a new movie in the next few months, so I’ll definitely be checking it out when it’s released! That’s all for today, stay tuned as I marathon through your favorite movies.”
The video had over 10M views.
As if compelled by a demonic force, you scroll up to your conversation with Vernon.
You hesitate.
Then click on the review link.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Cinema Weekly— We Killed Romance: The Tragedy of Fine Shyt by Vernon Chwe
Frankly, Fine Shyt was a disappointing film. Albeit harsh, I can only describe the film as cheap, both in character depth and plot.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You cringe and are tempted to shut your phone off right then and there, but you force yourself to continue.
─────────────────────────────────────────────While there was a clear thematic throughline, the delivery suffers heavily as a result of the poor execution. Fine Shyt seems to ask the audience whether or not we should capitalize on pretty privilege and use it to our advantage at the expense of our merit.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Holy shit. He hit the nail on the head.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Although an admirable throughline, the lack of character depth in both Chase and Hailey’s motivations and beliefs undermine that message by creating a shallow imitation of complex conflict. Neither one seems to understand their own argument making their grand declarations feel hollow.
Chase, the one receiving a classic 90s make over, is conflicted over two opposing versions of his identity. This concept is the perfect set up for a rich psychological reflection and being torn between ideals, yet the film doesn’t get the chance to explore it as the plot moves rapidly towards the outcomes of this transformation highlighting the character’s new attractive features instead of his shifting perspective.
…
Despite my reservations about the film, I can tell it has heart hidden underneath. Moments, although few and far in between, that built a connection bridging the audience to Chase and Hailey through conscious decisions that were beautifully executed by the director. With the evidence of those sparse scenes, I have faith in this director, to create a film where we can truly feel that heart.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You just stare at your phone, letting the words wash over you as you try to comprehend… just everything.
Fuck.
Fuck him.
Fuck you.
Fuck the movie industry.
Fuck critics.
Fuck—you can’t believe it.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [2:26 AM]
[Location Sharing] [Pin Drop: Space Diner, 42516 Ruby Street N, Los Angeles, CA,...]
Read
─────────────────────────────────────────────
He arrives quicker than you expected (especially considering the fact that you didn’t expect him to come at all).
Wordlessly, he slips into the metal seat across from you. He doesn’t say anything.
He’s waiting for you to say something first.
Man, you hate him sometimes.
You fidget with your hands under the table, “Uh, I didn’t think you’d come.”
He raises his eyebrows, “Usually, when someone sends you their location with no context it’s because it’s an emergency.”
“Oh.”
The door bell rings as an employee walks through, filling the empty space with rushed foot steps.
You swallow the lump in your throat.
“I– um,” you shudder out, “I don’t really know what to say. I guess—”
“Excuse me,” a waiter materializes out of thin air beside you and it releases you from your stupor, “I’m Joshua and I’ll be your server this fine morning. Can I get you started on any drinks or do you need a second?”
“Uh,” you glance at Vernon.
He responds blankly, “I’ll just have water.”
The server jots it down as Vernon says a small “thank you”.
“And you miss?”
“Could I have the signature milkshake?” you ask, then add on, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” the server looks back up at you two, “Will that be all?”
“Yeah–”
“Actually,” Vernon cuts you off, “could we get a second straw for that milkshake?”
You turn towards him trying really hard to suppress a smile. It seems like you failed because when he looks back at you, he smiles too.
“Got it,” Joshua notes before disappearing behind the counter.
You and Vernon stare at each other for a solid three seconds before bursting out into laughter. The sound blankets the diner in a warm haze as you finally take note of the old 90’s music playing in the background.
“I don’t know why I’m laughing,” you say between gasps.
Vernon takes six deep inhales and exhales, trying to regulate his breathing, but when your eyes lock all his work goes to waste.
You don’t know how long it took you to calm down. But Joshua had come back around with your water and milkshake.
Two straws too.
You move at the same time. You dive in to grab both straws while Vernon moves to steal the glass. Neither of you say anything, silently daring the other person to surrender first.
“It was very considerate of you to get me two straws,” you say with a lilt in your voice, “If you give me my drink back, maybe I’ll be nice and let you have some.”
“Right,” he pulls the drink closer to him, “Considerate.”
You lift an eyebrow and he gets the message.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”
In an unfortunate turn of events, Vernon’s paper beats your rock. He reaches out, palm up, as you reluctantly hand over the straws. He unwraps them one at a time, dropping them in the glass and then takes a long sip from both.
“Gross,” you comment with fake disgust.
He passes back the drink to you as you do the same, “Sure, gross.”
You tear your gaze away from him and take the liberty to look around the diner. The bright teals, reds, and yellows popping with life in the middle of the night. The saturation was overkill in your opinion, but it fit the vibe.
Vernon coughs.
Right, you were here for a reason.
Slowly, you sink your hand into your bag pulling out your laptop.
“I want to talk about a film.”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about Art with me,” he says, taking your milkshake back.
You shake your head as you boot up your computer, “Not Art.” It takes a few seconds as you open up the file.
“Paradigm.”
His hand stills on the glass.
You take a deep breath before, looking him in the eye, “I want to watch Paradigm and uh… well, review it. Together.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, making you a little antsy. Eventually he simply states, “Okay.”
You didn’t realize how tense you were until your shoulders relaxed, “Yeah, okay, let’s do it.”
You hit play.
The screen fades into a familiar setting, the main library at your university’s campus. The shot zoomed in on a boy sitting by the window, headphones in. He simply stared out, looking at the people rushing to classes or meeting with friends, taking in the scene around him.
He must have zoned out because he didn’t realize someone had been right outside until she tapped on the glass.
She smiled when she caught his attention. She held up a camera and gave it a little shake before gesturing to the library exit. He looked at the exit then looked back at her. He paused for only a second before sliding his headphones off and rushing out the door.
“How uninspired,” you mutter.
Vernon smiles, “I doubt many people met the same way we did.”
You just make some more grumbling noises before tuning back in.
Paradigm was filmed in a static 1980’s retro style with muted, but full colors. It was a short film, under 15 minutes, that spanned the characters’ entire university experience. Although both Ellie and Dylan met their freshman year, their lives could not have been more different.
Ellie was a photography student while Dylan was a STEM major. Ellie liked adventure and took risks no matter the odds while Dylan preferred routine and planning ahead.
Paradigm follows the two as different parallels to university life and how each is not better or worse than the other.
That there is no paradigm to life.
You watch the entire thing in one run. Vernon stays mostly silent, but you can’t say the same about yourself. As hard as you try, you can’t quite quell the mortification that rises every time you see a sloppy cut or transition.
If you could back and shake yourself by the collar you would.
When the film ends, you look at Vernon expecting… well, really anything. But he simply reaches over and presses down on the replay button.
You cringe.
How you hate him.
“I don’t think we need to watch that again,” you say, trying to close the laptop.
“But it’s good,” he says, moving it out of reach.
“No it’s really not,” you lunge over the table, but he’s quicker in keeping it away.
For a solid three minutes you and Vernon are caught in a stalemate as you fight over your laptop. Eventually you give up with a huff, falling back into your seat.
Once he was able to safely place the device on the table, he scrolled to the end, where you edited in the nominations and awards, “It won three awards.”
“It shouldn’t have,” you say slumping over your milkshake, “I wish I could redo the entire thing.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters,” you sit up straighter, “I don’t know what we were thinking by using a lower quality camera. Yeah, I get that it was supposed to feel ‘nostalgic’ or whatever, but it was seriously messing with the finer details we wanted to highlight on the set. Same goes for the color grading. Not a fan of bright but kind of muted look we had going on. It just made it look like we ran out of ink. Also—”
And you ranted. You hadn’t realized you rant for fifteen minutes straight. Until Vernon started laughing out of nowhere.
“Why are you laughing?” you ask as you nudge his leg under the table.
“If I transcribed everything you said, I bet I could submit it as a piece under my name.”
Your hand stills on the glass.
Vernon takes the opportunity to steal it from you as he finishes off whatever was remaining in one long slurp.
You feel your eyebrows furrow as your jaw goes slightly slack.
Vernon makes eye contact with Joshua as the waiter makes his way over with the bill.
You blink slowly as you stare at the checked floor tiles.
Vernon pays, then shoves your laptop into your bag before slinging it over his shoulder.
You make eye contact with him, you face conveying every ounce of distress.
Vernon laughs, taking your hand and guiding you out into the cool morning air toward your car.
You stand by your car for a couple of seconds, completely zoned out.
Vernon waves a hand in front of your face.
You finally unfreeze, then immediately cringe, “No.”
Vernon laughs, “I know. My job sucks.”
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [6:09 AM]
Hi
Bonon [6:11 AM]
hi
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[1 month until release]
“Lana, I’m so sorry, I know we planned for a fade, but I’m not feeling it anymore,” you bite your nail leaning over Lana’s chair once again as you go over the final edits of the movie.
Lana sighs, “We’ve gone through pretty much every transition possible, I think it looks fine.”
“I know but,” you cut yourself off. Something just doesn’t feel right, “Vernon?”
He had been quiet in the corner of the room, scrolling on his phone before looking up when you called his name.
You nod your head towards the screen.
He pockets his phone and walks over the monitor. He places a hand on your shoulder before leaning over, “Yeah?”
“Look,” you say as Lana plays the clip again.
Vernon hums to himself, thinking for a moment, “Honestly, I think you’re over thinking it. It looks good to me, but if you want to change it, maybe try a hard cut.”
“Can we try that Lana?”
Lana clicks around and then plays the two clips again.
You and Vernon look at each other.
“No.”
He shakes his head in agreement.
Lana drags her hands down her face.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Bonon [5:37 PM]
would you rather always leave a restaurant still hungry or always forget to turn the lights off
You [5:48 PM]
What the fuck?
Those aren’t even remotely related
Bonon [5:49 PM]
Hi this is Seungkwan
Please answer I need to win an argument
You [5:49 PM]
Restaurant still hungry ig
Bonon [5:50 PM]
no
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[Premier]
Flashing lights flood the red carpet as people crowd towards the actors making their way down.
“Jeonghan!” a reporter calls out to the actor, “Do you have a second for a quick interview?”
Dressed to the nines, the actor breaks from his cast members and walks over the reporter.
“Maybe one or two questions,” he winks, “just for you.”
The reporter laughs, “Thank you. Now, you play the character of Ethan Sterling, the famous art curator. Tell us something you and him have in common.”
Jeonghan takes a thoughtful second before responding, “Well, Ethan is an elusive character who, without spoiling too much, wants to display the pinnacle of the art world. He has a passion and drive that I admire.”
“So is that what you relate to most? His ambition?”
Jeonghan chuckles, “Haha, no. I’m just inspired by him to do the best I can do as an actor.”
─────────────────────────────────────────────
[1 week after release]
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Bonon [9:41 PM]
[link] [Cinema Weekly— The Curator, the Creator, and the Muse: In the Defense of Art by Vernon Chew…]
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You glance up from your phone to Vernon sitting across the table at the dimly lit Sol Cafe. You raise an eyebrow tilting your phone towards him, “I’m literally next to you.”
He doesn’t even look up from his laptop, “I know”
You scoff, “Why don’t you just say it to my face?”
He hums, looking up to gaze at you as if admiring a picture he already committed to memory.
“Because I want you to read it.”
You groan, stealing the rest of his latte, “You’re such a sap.”
He just laughs, his gummy smile making you smile back.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
Cinema Weekly— The Curator, the Creator, and the Muse: In the Defense of Art by Vernon Chew
Art was not the polished movie I had come to expect. Yet it delivered exactly what it had promised us. Through the eyes of both Ethan and Calliope, we as an audience are introduced to the perspectives of the art world in an atypical fashion. Each protagonist holds strong beliefs that are prominent within the first ten minutes of viewing, creating a strong clash of ideals that question the purpose of art to society as well as to the artist themselves. The narrative is captivating as the story is unafraid to challenge its own preconceived notions regarding the role of a curator or critic.
While the structure of the film itself follows linear chronology, the ending is ambiguous. A creative choice that lets the audience sit with themselves and has become somewhat of a signature of this particular director as a nod to their first film Paradigm.
The use of Ethan intrigued me…
…
This film is not the greatest I’ve ever encountered, in fact, I don’t think it’s the greatest film I’ve seen this year; but, Art invites its viewers to feel and to question, which I believe is the greatest thing a film can do.
─────────────────────────────────────────────
You [10:56 PM]
6/10
Could have cut the fifth paragraph
