Red @unredact3d - Tumblr Blog

Jun 27

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀王奕翔 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ Water Under the Bridge ☆

ᯓ WHEREIN : you were never meant to meet another soul on this bridge you made your own—yet that reality was long broken. (wc; 6.5k)

ᯓ CONTAINS : Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family pressure, Kissing, Em-dashes and semicolons, university au, self-doubt, f!reader, etc.

ᯓ A/N : This one is for the eldest daughters out there!!! my &team debut and my writing-this-much debut too, a whole lotta love was poured into this fic I hope that love is reciprocated <3 anyways #spreadchalantnicoagenda

111 | 222 | mlist.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Legs hanging down the railing-less brick bridge between a small river hidden within the forest, just barely touching the water. It’s stone sun-dried, and it’s cracks hugging the ever-growing moss. weathered by time and rain, and ivy snakes up one of the pillars like a sleeping serpent. Letting the wind dance through your hair and unnoticeably dangling your feet. The sun was warm enough to let the fall wind not freeze you to death since you accidentally left your coat unattended—now hanging against your bedroom door.

You let the charcoal from your pencil drag across your little hot-pressed sketchbook, line by line appearing without thinking as the birds chirp echoing between leaves of each tree surrounding this little “safe area” you go to every time everything feels a little too heavy to bear. And slowly, a picture of what was left unsaid reveals itself on your canvas, as the rampant thoughts in your head start to cool down a little. What was then a paragraph of discarded sentences, now just appearing as tiny glimpses of words that's no longer yelling at you.

Maybe in some way, bottling them up would be a better way to deal with it than to manifest it to the physical world. Even if your fists yell at you to throw them against the wall, even if the door whispers to you to push it forcibly, even if vocal chords fight its way to scream your heart out. It’s better to just let your legs run to this place. Where the water remains serene and quiet no matter what happens in its world. And where no one would be there waiting for you to watch you as you steady your breath.

You let your head tilt back for a minute, resting your eyes and letting the breeze fly through you.

Until the trees shook more than it usually does. You hear a few branches crack as a sound of muttering curses gets louder and louder—and a dark-haired boy emerges out of the dense woods, seemingly furious about something. Fists clenched, hair messy, sleeves rolled up. He threw his bag that spitted out documents and multiple scribbled in loose leafs. You could hear him muttering in mandarin under his breath from a mile away in your spot, before he throws a nasty punch at a tree next to him. He closes his eyes, deep in frustration—before he sighed to the ground.

It’s odd. You weren't scared. You weren't startled by the fact that a person just bruised his knuckles fighting a tree trunk. You were startled by the fact that somebody also goes to this place, or at least happens to stumble across it.

He took a minute to breath by himself, hands on his hips. He opened his eyes towards the bridge only to see… somebody? You—a girl and her sketchbook by the river. His eyes widened, it was obvious he was certain nobody was there. “I– I’m sorry I didn't… wasn’t… expecting anyone to be here,” he explained, "I didn't realize anybody else would go here.”

A beat.

“Me neither,” you locked eyes with him before looking back down to your sketchbook. It was clear you wanted him to let out all of the things he ought to let out, so you didn't want to bother him further. Everybody deserves a time for themselves; to unwind the cork of a bottle full of intense emotions they wouldn't dare show anyone—but you were intrigued. You’re here almost five days a week, even more sometimes. Yet you never stumble across another person—not him. So naturally, you glanced back up at him.

He was staring. Not the creepy kind despite how sharp his eyes were, but every wrinkle of expression in his face says confusion. Now suddenly what he initially wanted to let out wasn't there anymore—dissipated into something else he didn't know what to name.

You gestured to him, patting a spot beside you—telling him there's a place to sit down if he wants to, as you looked back down and closed your sketchbook to watch the water again.

With hesitation, he walked towards the other end of the bridge, and sat down. Legs crossed, breath heavy, and jaws clenched. He took another breath trying to slow himself down. “Sorry I’m not usually like this,” his voice barely audible. “I know,” you replied with your eyes still watching every curve the water waved. “...if you want to talk about it,” you tilted your head so it gestured ‘go for it’, “and if you don’t that's fine too,”

Another beat.

“Do you come here often?” he asked after almost five minutes of silence.

“Too often,”

“Yeah?,” he chuckled, "I only go here to… you know,”

You nodded in understanding, “funny how we've never met before,” you finally looked at him over your shoulders. And again he chuckled under his breath, "I think the water under the bridge had seen me at my worst state,” he let out another heavy breath. His eyes meet yours, and for some reason your heart did something inside you, something you wouldn't dare name either. “Nicholas. By the way.”

“y/n,” you smiled.

You knew you shouldn't say anything, not to someone when they're vulnerable at least. But there's just something about the way he smiled ever so slightly beneath all that anger, the way the sun glowed faintly on his skin, the way he sat down next to you and started to align his breathing with yours. Something so inviting about seeing a person with a broken shell—a shell which you've never seen before. Before you could stop yourself: “You know… I go here every so often when I get reminded of how numb everything feels,” he looks at you, “when… things gets too much too often, you just dont… feel much anymore,” your heart starts beating a little faster—you're finally saying how you actually function to someone—that's not something that happens every day. “You don't feel a lot but there's going to be a lot of things running through your mind, you know?” you continued, “a lot of… things not to say.”

You fidgeted around the hem of your clothes. The words started rampaging in your mind again ‘you shouldn't be saying so much’ ‘you spoke too much’ ‘You–’

“Then I guess the water under us is actually just a big cup of chamomile tea,” he blurted, you raise your eyebrow at him, “what?”

“You know, It has like- calming properties,” that earned a laugh from you, he laughed back with you, now both of your legs dangle just above the water surface, “I guess,” you chuckled.

As the sun started to show its orange hues, the conversation started to flow. All the right things said at the right time, and all the right jokes aimed at the right person. You forgot how heartwarming it is to finally talk to a person again. Really talking this time, not just a small talk or a chit-chat with your friends. But an honest talk straight from your beating heart. The one that earned cheek-hurting-smiles and an endless amount of open ended curiosity that had a small consensus between the two of you. Oh how you’ve longed for this.

Seconds blurred into hours as the sun winked its last shine. “I think it's a good time to go home now,” Nicholas pointed his gaze at the stars, you nodded.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

If anyone could get past ‘too much’, then it's you. Every other day you’d feel the rush to go back onto the bridge before you blow up and mess things up for other people, so the bridge called your name again.

But there's this small part of you—a tiny one, hoping he’ll show up again. This spark of light in a dark room wants him to show up again. The bridge no longer serves the purpose of accompanying you when you're numb anymore; you hope the bridge could make you feel again.

So you show up everyday of the week. Every Sunday afternoon turned into every afternoon. You lost count of the times you’ve gone back without a real aim, without knowing what you’ll do there but wait. Every afternoon you sit back there again, letting your back lean against a tree while your legs rested on the cold stone hard surface. You watched the sunset dip its last bow over and over again. Another day, the leaves were trembling more than it should, noises coming out of the forest, branches breaking upon weight—it was just a squirrel. I'm not being pathetic, am I?

This feeling of hope is your only string to keep going, a slight chance it might ignite something in you again. So you go there everyday now, waiting—longing. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. Yet there is still not one sign another person would emerge out of the forest and introduce themselves—definitely not Nicholas. Another small part of you is happy that he no longer felt the need to go back here, a place where his only aim was to break apart–wait–maybe he was no longer comfortable going there again after seeing you. That can’t be, right?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

There he was. Once again standing on the very same spot he sat down next to you a month ago. His breath heavy, his eyes dark, but they were looking at you: peacefully sound asleep beneath the shade the tree provided, with a book clutched loosely in your arms, leaning reliantly on its trunk. “You’re here,” he whispered.

Nicholas stepped closer to another tree just merely inches from yours, sitting down and leaning against it. You looked so at peace with the world in your head playing whatever dream it’s projecting to you right now, how the sunshine that was peeking through the leaves hits your face like glitter, it's so… serene. And just like that, Nicholas had his eyes shut in front of you, finally resting from his world—to yours.

Hours passed before you were about to wake up and leave—after confirming nobody was coming. You opened your heavy eyelids expecting yet another feeling of hope dissipating, only to find the same boy in front of you… sleeping. The sun was awake, yet both of you managed to fall asleep as if the sun was already under a blanket, leaving no light to shine through. Your heart skipped a beat finally. Not moving an inch, you just watched him and his shoulders rhythmically dropping down and breathing in. Leaving was no longer an action in your to-do list, the moment was too much of a waste to not savor.

“You’re staring,” Nicholas mumbled, his eyes still dropped shut. You jumped ever so slightly against the bark of your tree, “God- you scared me,” he opened his eyes to look at you. And that’s when you realize just how dark his eyes were. Not dark like your daily shot of espresso, but dark in a way where it’s storing pools of ink, the glimmer of obsidian, like the forest midnight and the reflection of every firefly telling a different story. He obviously noticed yours too, steady and unblinking, how beautifully abstract every time the sunrays hit them, yet no matter how much it tries to shine light to it, the night sky seemed to take over within the irises. So hypnotizing that when he resides to look at them, he finally knows what it means to stargaze.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “we meet again.”

“Seems so,” you smiled,

“What are you reading?”

“Oh um- this?”

“No i meant my palms that you were previously reading—yes y/n the book,” a cheeky grin slowly creeps up his face,

You nudged his knees with your shoes, “well, nosy it’s just something that was given to me when I was younger.” He grabbed the book from your hands to take a look at it, “Hey!” you yelped, “who gives ‘The odyssey’ to a child? Did you even understand the 9 letter long words in here?!” Nicholas flipped over the pages, each page revealing a new doodle, an underlined word with question marks under it, and multiple ink bleeds from God knows what. “Okay you can stop now,” you take it back from him.

You both laughed together again for the second time, a soft heat settled across his face when he heard your laugh. But your eyes suddenly drop to his knuckles again, fresh bruises now covering the old one. An instant later, “Do you wanna get coffee?” he asked.

Now you're both walking and cutting through the forestation towards a small cafe not far from where the two of you just were. Side by side on a sidewalk meant for two, your eyes wander around from your feet, to him, and back to the pebble beach and it’s lake that stretches until you can only see the horizon and the trees reflecting on it—funny how the shore seemed to always keeps company its body of water, regardless of where you are and which shore you're on—they will always belong together.

Belong. to be in the right place, to be owned by someone, or to feel connected to something. You know you shouldnt feel like you dont belong under the roof over your head you call home. Atleast there is a roof to keep raindrops from piercing your skull and fall off the tips of your hair, atleast it keeps you alive, right? But being someone everybody in the house relied on—to be the very glue holding everything and everyone together—who are you supposed to rely on?

No matter how much you’ve done and how many sacrifices you made for your family, it never felt enough to catch a glimpse of recognition. No matter how much you've achieved, it has never felt like it was enough for anyone–for you.

Sure, there was never any direct pressure for you to be perfect. But there is a certain whisper. A whisper of how much you should be able to achieve to not break this disheveling amount of trust. So ask yourself this; where do you actually belong? Certai–

“You okay?” Nico snapped you back from your head, you nod. “Hm. If i recall correctly, you brought a sketchbook last time we met,” he pointed out. You shot a smile at him, “What about it?” both of you slowed your paces, “so you draw a lot?”

Only when you're stuck in inertia, “yeah i do,”

“Can I see ‘em?”

Not one soul had seen your drawings—not in that sketchbook atleast, “well i didnt have them on me right now do I?” the corners of your mouth lifted after he replied with a small laugh, “alright we’re here.”

A small family-owned cafe, small mosaic windows embezzling each wall protected and shaded by the yellow and white striped canopies. “After you,” Nicholas stretched his arm to open the door for you. The bell chirped a small ding as you entered and nodded a thank you. The two of you ordered your drinks at the front counter and sat down at a two-seater table.

It was unsurprisingly easy to talk to him, every word you utter to him felt light and easy; you didn't have to try to think of a response before you talk. While the world around you kept going, talking to somebody made you feel… grounded—like you're actually living again—all lingering responsibilities just hide behind your eyes inside the corner of a cupboard inside your brain.

Time seems to stretch far beyond the bounds of a clock hand. And the conversation just flows so naturally for both of you to lose track of time, and for the apples of your cheeks to hurt just a little more than what you’re used to.

While on the other hand, he felt a sense of safety when he’s around you. A sense of safety he only realized when you were both exchanging words and when you were smiling ear to ear, giggling at all the stupid miserably attempted jokes he gushed. He knew from the first day he met you, connecting puzzles of assumptions created from a small glimpse of his life to build a perception—like other people do—was not a thing you do. The moment he took a sip of his coffee, his guard completely melted once he knew he could trust you even if you didnt say anything to him. He looked up from his cup, there was something warm inside of him. Something warm cradling his face. “Are you not gonna drink that?”

Nicholas pointed at your barely drunk cup of latte, “Oh I will, I love coffee.” you blinked, “no i don’t, i don’t know why i always order coffee when I've never been that fond of them.”

The now lukewarm coffee of yours swiveled around as you spun the cup around before putting it back down, “I think I just like the idea of getting it—to fit in.” His arm folded at your sudden confession, “Holding a book and now ordering coffee for the novelty of it — just how performative can you get?” he joked. The both of you continued another hour on a rotation of significantly different topics—i mean seriously, the range is insane—the sun still shining through the windows.

Nicholas thought about something for a little bit, his eyes looking straight at the table without an inch of movement on his face, “here,” he handed you the receipt. You eyebrows furrowed, “you… want me to pay for yours?” you asked puzzled on why in the world would he give you a receipt all of a sudden? But before you could question him further, he handed you yet another item: a pen.

“Whip up something,” he requested.

“Demanding,” you teased,

“Hey can’t a guy be interested in someone’s hobby,”

“Nico why are you so eager to see my drawings anyway, it’s not like i painted the mona lisa,”

“Okay first of all,” he held up a finger, “you don’t diss yourself like that — and second, I'm somewhat of an art kid myself,” you lifted your eyebrows in response. “Kind of in school for it.” He flared his rings, all silver and nudging eachother.

Well you did what he asked for, just not particularly in front of him for him to notice. You took his pen and receipt in your hands, hiding them behind your now cold coffee cup. You continued your conversation while drawing doodles on his receipt. A conversation in which you finally get more than just a sliver of what his life looked like. Wrong is one way to put it.

Wrong in ways he couldn't digest what he feels. Wrong in ways he attempts to hide behind jokes. Wrong in a way where the world shouldn't treat someone who wouldn't harm a bug like that. Wrong in ways he never had the opportunity to show others that he—a human being—could be vulnerable too.

Along with you, Nicholas stepped out of the vanilla scented café. The air smelled faintly of salt water and wet leaves, while the ocean waves sang its song.

A soft contrast, you swear the whole cafe could hear both of your laughters as you were talking, yet each footsteps stomped a different note that you now could listen to due to how quiet the walk was. It was comfortable. Warm.

You stop for a second — so did he. Looking through the pockets of yours, you rummaged through to try and find something. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as you finally gave him the receipt back; now crumpled and doodled.

Where the prices were written, the letters and numbers were now covered in ink; ink that takes shapes as a small flower bouquet, an anatomically accurate heart, a cat sound-asleep, a pair of eyes, and a miniaturized version of your haven within the heart of the forest. A haven you memorize every crack in. A haven where you met Nicholas.

His mouth slightly agape, a sharp exhale laughed out of it, “this is-” he flipped the receipt around, “...is that- is that me?”

A sketch of a boy smiling, eyes tired—but a grin worth to admire. Just enough joy and content captured in ballpoint ink.

You nod.

Awestrucked—words were the last thing he could come up with. “So?” you didn't return the silence, but he still remained word-less.

To be recognized. To be seen. To be captured. Three mundane things that couldn't seem to be make it's way as often as it should. His gazed melted, he knew he told you to draw, but the idea of him being drawn never crossed his mind. The idea of being recognized, seen, and captured never crosses his mind. It wasn't purely because of your drawing, it was also because of your decision to draw him.

“Yeah right, I'm never drawing near you ever again,”

“wait wait no- it's- it's lovely,”

“That's narcissistic, no?” you point at your drawing of him he was holding in his hands, he looked back at you in disagreement, face clearly saying that's not what he meant.

“I'm joking,”

“I'm serious,” he said while continuing to walk with you, “they're amazing,” he continued. You thank him. “ever considered letting people see this? like a display or something,” he rambled.

Warmth climbed up your neck and reached your face in one rush, “You know that had never crossed my mind,” you tilt your head, “and besides I don't think I have the time–”

“Hey I can hook you up if you're down,” Nicholas interrupted, “I have a friend who's having a stand at a convention in a few weeks I think.”

“Woah, you don't have to-”

“but I want to,”

“Nicholas. I really don't have the time, once I get home from uni, I have to take care of the house. I mean- dinner doesn't just appear out of nowhere, and the house sure does not clean itself.”

“then do it at my place,”

Silence. “You have siblings right?” his question was answered with your hesitant yes. “Then let them take care of their house too.” You hate it. You hate that he was right. But you knew how much they rely on you—you couldn't just let it go. “Ill think about it,” you muttered, “thanks though.”

You went back home that night and did your daily routine. You cooked dinner, cleaned the place up, got yelled at for not being the perfect daughter, and did your college assignments in your room with a dim-lit lamp accompanying you. But there was this lingering whisper of what Nicholas said that same day, it's their house too—why are you the only one expected to take care of it? Why are you the only one expected to balance between your life and theirs as if yours didn't exist? Now the numbers on your notebook started to blur, the answer to an equation left unfinished—to understand nothing—not just the printed words with a question mark ending them, but also what your life had become.

The next day you were back at the bridge, sitting down with groceries and your school bag next to you, you stare down at your shoes by the water.

Your body slumped, losing its stiff posture as a slow smile crept up your face when you saw Nicholas crouching down to sit next to you, with space barely enough to keep your shoulders from bumping into each other. You turn your head to look at him, only to be met with two cups held in his hands, “got this for ya,” he lured one cup to you. The cup’s sleeve had different colors, and a different design, and a different… logo?

“It’s matcha,” he said as you took the cup from his hands, your fingers softly grazing his. “did you go to different places to get these?” you blow through the cup, “well you said you didn't like coffee last time,” he gestured at his cup.

“I did?”

“You did,”

“You could've just gone to one place—you didn't have to walk to two-”

“They don't sell non-coffee options apart from water,”

“You could've bought matcha for two,”

“Don't like matcha,” he shrugged, “they're green.”

That earned another laugh from you, “you're ridiculous,” you took a small sip through your smile. “Thankyou,” your voice small, almost like a confession.

You blew gently on your matcha to cool it before taking a sip, the earthy sweetness soothing against the quiet chill in the air. The cup warmed your fingers as you stared ahead at the darkening treeline. He watched you for a second; the way your nose wrinkled slightly at the warmth—before speaking. "Your hair’s longer," he said suddenly, voice low and even.

An observation dropped into space between you like a pebble into still water. You blinked. "Yeah… I haven’t cut it in months."

He hummed a soft sound and lifted his coffee again without looking away from you entirely. After another pause, "Looks good." Simple as that. No flowery words or anything, just honest and quiet-like him.

The two of you talked a little more—a lot more. Sip after sip, The forest breathes around you, quiet rustles of leaves stirring without wind — maybe an animal passing far off.

He searched his bag for a small notepad of his, stickers fully covering every crevice of the cover, and passed it to you along with the same pen he gave to you at the cafe a few days back.

“We've hung out a bunch, figured it might be nice to have your phone number.”

You took the notepad and pen from his hands, and a page opened itself as if it was waiting to be. And between the two pages, a receipt sat beneath it—decorated by your drawings.

“Oh- you kept it?” you asked, not expecting him to still keep it around after that day. He blinked at that—surprised maybe? “Who wouldn't?” He shrugged one shoulder, coffee cup tilting slightly as he did, “makes a nice bookmark.”

Warmth bloomed somewhere inside of you—soft, sudden, like cherry blossoms blooming beneath moonlight; the first real spring after a long winter. “I guess,” you chuckled, giving the notepad back to him — your number now etched in its pages.

For a second there was nothing but birds chirping faintly somewhere deep in the woods, just imagination filling silence that feels safe because you're here with him. Then, “Wanna walk back together? It’ll be dark soon.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The seasons had come and gone on that stone bridge. Autumn brought crisp air and amber leaves drifting over water below. Winter painted everything in hushed white silence. Spring returned with sudden greenery bursting through cracks in moss-covered stones.

— and every time, they were there; you and Nicholas.

You don’t talk every day. But when you do? It's this. Same stone railing. He would bring the same drinks; your matcha never changes, his coffee varies by mood. You've memorized each other’s rhythms; the way you chew your lip when stressed about deadlines, how he slouches more when exams drain him. You notice the wounds on his knuckles starting to turn bronze and pale as it fades away when he flips over pages of notes you two would discuss and help each other, despite how different your majors were.

You were sharp—a terrifyingly good student—but lately? Your shoulders carried more weight than just exams. Something behind you was messy: family dinners full of tension you never brought up here. Late-night calls from parents checking every single little thing you do for the family.

But here, on this bridge — It felt safe. Like nothing else mattered except the steam rising from your cup, and him beside you making stupid jokes to lighten things without even knowing how much you needed it.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The clock on his nightstand read 2:47 AM. Darkness pressed against the windows, no streetlights, no passing cars, just the quiet hush of a city asleep. His bedroom was cold, he hadn’t bothered turning on the heater. The blanket was tangled around his legs from tossing too much.

He stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. Thoughts spun like gears in a machine that wouldn't shut off.

Mostly it was you filling up space in his mind.

That laugh you had—soft but bright—as if joy came naturally to you despite how hard it must've been sometimes. The way your voice dropped lower when you got serious about studying, about yourself, about home. How focused your eyes became when reading, and how they’d glance up at him every now and then during your nonverbal study sessions like checking if he was still there.

A sigh slipped out into silence. Until his phone woke up with a ding:

> Is the offer still up? > Your friend's art display > I know it's too late to ask but

He stared at your messages with a wide smile plastered across his face like a celebration full of triumph.

And there you are, buying a brand new canvas, charcoal, paintbrushes, fixatives—just everything you've been wanting to buy for quite a while now. Nicholas could only shake his head in endearment watching you go through five different shelves over and over again, and he would still be by your side even if it means you're going to spend the rest of your life in that store.

Doesn't matter if the sun was blinking its first rays at dawn, or if the owls were hooting you goodnight. As long as everybody in your house was asleep, anybody who would stumble upon your room would find you slouching over your canvas, headphones jacked in, concentrated and immobile.

The day eventually came. The gallery was quiet. Sofft lighting, polished floors, the kind of hush that makes every step feel deliberate. White walls displayed art in neat rows: paintings, digital prints, and tucked toward the back of his friends’ pieces — yours stood there.

No longer just sketches scribbled in margins or hurried doodles from the bridge—but real, finished pieces. Carefully framed charcoal studies of a peek into how you see the world. A delicate monochrome portrait of someone’s tired eyes filled with unspoken stories.

People wandered slowly between exhibits. Some pausing to look closer at your work. A couple murmured something appreciative nearby.

And there he was.

Standing slightly apart from the crowd. Not pushing anyone toward you, but attentively just watching it all unfold with this quiet intensity burning behind his calm face. Pride didn’t spill out loud or flashy on him—but it glowed. In how straight he held himself beside one wall where another tiny piece stood. The ones you’d made especially after agreeing to this show. Because yes, he had gently nudged you into creating more. And who are you to say no?

He hadn't told anyone “she's my friend,” or anything sentimental like that, but you could tell how much joy and pride he felt knowing that you were indeed—his friend.

She looked so happy.

Peeking through your peripheral vision, your eyes accidentally locked onto his. You walked slowly towards him, hands behind your back. There was a sweet silence—a conversation made from exchanging smiles. And there was this soft laugh he loved hearing, “...thankyou” you confessed, crossing your legs.

He nodded you're welcome. The nod didn't speak out the kind of words where he's taking his credits where it's due, not the kind to state ‘I know', but a subtle nod that spoke how it's a no-brainer—how much you deserved it.

Safe to say, the day went well. And you went home with eyes gleaming.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Two weeks have passed since you last met him. Nicholas dropping you off at your house after the art exhibition. He became restless; he'd bite his dry lips to oblivion during lectures, fiddling the edge of his note books every late night study session. At his apartment, every song reminds him of you. During classes where he'd design something on a mannequin, how he wishes it was you he was making garments for.

You hadn’t texted much lately. No calls either after that one awkward evening where the voices of your parents spilled over into your call with Nicholas before cutting off abruptly without explanation.

He couldn't name exactly what he was feeling. If it was love, why is it bringing him so much anxiousness? so many questions that led to no answers? and why is it that you hadn't said anything to him after that day?

One night he stayed up, phone by his side, do-not-disturbed turned off even if the clock ticked midnight, thinking you might text. His jaws tensed, contemplating a decision of whether or not he should go to the bridge and try to find you, or at least something that tells him you're still there.

That decision took less than one minute.

He took his jackets and turned on his car, rushing his way to the bridge. Maybe what he's feeling wasn't exactly love. He had his fingertips turning pale as he grips the steering wheel, his heartbeat pumping like a metronome—he was scared. He was scared of losing the person who had been there when nobody else could. Right at that bridge. He was scared of losing you.

He emerged from the forests, droplets of water from the rain, falling from the trees, waiting for him. You weren't there.

Another week had passed, a week full of Nicholas visiting the bridge every day of the week—even if it's just for one minute. He would text you every now and then, checking in:

> How's your day? > Wanna meet at the bridge tmrw? > Tough week? > How are you? please text me back > y/n?

Still, you were a ghost. A ghost of memories lingering at the back of his mind—until he saw you sitting by the railings again. Eyes barely open, breathing controlled, just… staring at your reflection.

The sky was sleepy. A shaky smile crept up Nicholas' face, “y/n!” he exclaimed. For a second, something flickered in his expression—not sadness exactly, but recognition. Like seeing someone who used to mean everything suddenly feel distant for no clear reason.

You waved at him, “Hey Nico.” He didn’t push right away, he never did. But his shoulders tensed slightly—a quiet tell—as if he felt the shift between you two. Colder than before. Guarded where warmth used to live without effort.

The kind where everything unsaid hangs heavy between people who used to understand each other without words. Then he cleared his throat gently and broke it, “Been a while.”

“Yeah… it has,”

“...How’ve you been?”

The way he asked ticked something in you. He asked. Not casual small talk, genuine. Not the kind to just fill the silence. Oh how you hadn’t talked to him in so long. And now here he was, asking like nothing had changed between you two.

That familiar heaviness when someone shows kindness after weeks of radio silence from your side made your throat tightened. Your eyes dropped to his knuckles for a second; they were painted crimson again.

“Okay,” your eyes darted somewhere else, “well– busy,”

He only nodded, “still drawing?” It was such a him question; quietly observing instead of prying directly into you. He remembered that sketchbook clutched under your arm every day like armor.

The gallery exhibit flashed in his mind—and he knew it hadn’t been easy for someone as private as you to show work publicly. All because he’d encouraged it a month ago. But that glow on your face flashed brighter, there's something about not knowing what to feel and how to feel. Just another one of those questions that kept popping up unanswered.

“Not much,” Another beat passed.

He bit his tongue, a sentence at the tip of his tongue—”Did I do something wrong?” the question pierced you. That heavy, empty, and numbing feeling climbed back up to your chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“You think I've been avoiding you? I told you I've been busy,”

“Please don't lie to me,”

The air between you turned sharp, like the temperature dropped ten degrees in seconds. His question hung there, raw and quiet. It wasn’t angry. Not even frustrated. It was hurt. You could see it in his face—the subtle tension around his jaw, how his eyes had lost their usual calm softness. He's just standing there on that cold stone bridge, looking at you like he’d been waiting for a single honest word from you.

And now? Now he sounded like someone whose trust had started cracking—not broken yet—but bending dangerously under weight of silence you unfortunately created.

The wind swept through again. A gust this time, making your hair flutter against your cheeks as both of you stood frozen not by temperature — but by the heaviness pressing down between two people who used to be each other’s safe place.

So much unspoken. But you can't bear this anymore. You can't bare seeing– feeling like this anymore. Until the words spoke for themselves for you: “Don't look at me like that,”

“Then how should I? Because there's no way I'll voluntarily stop,”

“Don't be stupid,”

“Then stop making it so tempting.”

“Nicholas,” you paused. He finally looked at you, but you would risk everything falling apart just by looking back at him. Your eyes fixed to the river. Then a whisper between your lips, “It feels like I could never be enough for anyone,” for you. But you held back on that last part while Nicholas’ expression shattered into something tender, almost pained. Like he’d been waiting years to hear that confession. And now it was finally out in the open— fragile as glass, delicate as a petal.

He exhaled like he forgot that he had been holding his breath for a good while. “You’re so very welcome to test that theory with me,”

The moment stretched—fragile, tender. His words settled over you like a blanket pulled tight after being cold for too long. An offer to safety you hadn't resided in for a long time. And hey, it worked.

That numb heaviness in your chest? It cracked—not gone yet—but softer now. As if the ice melted under the morning sun because someone finally said the right thing without needing instructions on how to.

A tiny smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it—the first real one since things got awkward, “God… I missed this place,” you muttered. He blinked back letting out a chuckle—-almost relieved.

For just one second? you were okay again on this stupid brick bridge. You felt okay to feel like this. You hate that you pushed him away, blew him off like the steam had told you it was too much to digest in one gulp. Until— bzzztt.

The notification violently loud inside the pockets of your coat, “I have to go.”

You were once again, just a memory for him to hold on to.

A/N: Part two will be out next week :) lmk if i did smth wrong bc its my first time writing this kind of thing but when it comes to grammar mistakes its best to ignore bc i dont have a lot of respect for this language (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated please blurt your thoughts as if you only have 20 words left

Taglist: @euijooswife (p.s. sending lots of hugs ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ)

Credits: @writersiland (writing prompt), @diviniyae (dividers)

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