Sans

The streets were crowded long before noon, packed with people drifting between rows of market stalls draped in colorful fabric and strings of lanterns. The scent of grilled meat, sweet pastries, and freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, while music from street performers blended into the constant murmur of conversation.

You loved places like this.

Hwajin tolerated them.

The distinction was obvious in the way he walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, his expression carrying the same calm indifference it always did. He looked like a man accompanying someone on an errand rather than attending a festival.

"You could at least pretend to be enjoying yourself."

"I am."

You glanced at him.

"You look like you're attending a business meeting."

"I enjoy those too."

You groaned dramatically. For the first time that day, the corner of his mouth twitched.

It was a victory.

A small one, but you would take what you could get.

The crowd thickened as you approached the main street. A large group emerged from one of the intersections, forcing everyone closer together until walking became a slow, awkward shuffle.

You found yourself jostled from both sides.

Someone accidentally stepped on your shoe.

Another person cut between you and Hwajin.

Before you could lose sight of him entirely, you reached out and grabbed his hand.

The gesture happened without thought.

It was practical.

You had no desire to spend the next hour searching for him through hundreds of strangers.

Hwajin glanced down briefly at your joined hands but offered no comment.

Satisfied, you continued forward.

The issue was that you forgot all about it almost immediately.

The first distraction arrived less than two minutes later in the form of a small shop selling handmade accessories.

"Oh, look at that."

Without hesitation, you pulled Hwajin toward the stall.

The elderly woman running it greeted you enthusiastically while you examined rows of bracelets and rings displayed beneath glass cases. Several minutes passed as you admired everything and asked questions, completely oblivious to the fact that you were still holding his hand.

When you finally moved on, you simply brought him with you.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

Then came the food stalls.

Then the book vendors.

Then a booth where a local artist was sketching portraits.

Each new attraction captured your attention so completely that the hand in yours became nothing more than a comforting certainty in the background.

Hwajin remained beside you through all of it.

Occasionally, you would feel his grip tighten slightly whenever someone attempted to push through the crowd too aggressively.

Sometimes he guided you around obstacles before you even noticed them.

At one point, when you became distracted by a display of pottery and nearly walked into a cyclist, he pulled you back without a word.

The entire thing felt so natural that your brain eventually stopped registering it as unusual.

By late afternoon, the festival had settled into a pleasant rhythm.

You bought snacks.

He carried them.

You talked.

He listened.

You dragged him into every shop that caught your interest. He followed with the patience of a man who had long accepted his fate.

The realization should have occurred much sooner. Unfortunately, it arrived nearly six hours later.

The sun had already begun to set when you wandered into a bookstore tucked away from the main street. The atmosphere inside was quiet and warm, offering welcome relief from the noise outside.

You browsed leisurely through several shelves before spotting a novel you had been searching for.

Excited, you reached for it.

The movement finally drew your attention downward.

To your hand.

To his.

Still connected.

Your brain stopped functioning. For several seconds, you simply stared. Then you stared some more.

Because surely there had been a mistake. Surely you had not spent an entire day holding Na Hwajin's hand.

An entire day.

Like some lovestruck teenager. Like a person completely incapable of behaving normally.

Slowly, horrified by your own stupidity, you turned toward him.

"Hwajin."

"Hm?"

His attention remained on the book he was examining.

"We've been holding hands."

"Yes."

You blinked.

The immediate response somehow made everything worse.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

That finally earned his attention. His gaze shifted toward you, calm as ever.

"You seemed occupied."

"I've been occupied for six hours."

A faint amusement entered his eyes.

"Approximately."

Heat flooded your face. You released his hand so quickly that it felt almost violent.

"Oh my God."

The words escaped in a groan.

"I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"For this."

You gestured helplessly between the two of you.

"I grabbed your hand because of the crowd and then completely forgot about it. You must've thought I was insane."

The silence that followed lasted only a moment.

Then he closed the book in his hand and returned it to the shelf.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

You frowned.

The answer was suspiciously simple. Before you could question him further, Hwajin stepped closer.

Not enough to be overwhelming, just enough that your pulse immediately forgot how to behave.

"You don't need to apologize."

You stared.

"Why?"

For the first time all day, his expression softened completely. The change was subtle enough that most people would never notice it. Because it was reserved for very few people.

And because every time it appeared, it made your heart feel unsteady.

"I liked it."

The world ended. That was the only explanation. Civilization had collapsed. The earth had split apart.

Because Na Hwajin had just looked you directly in the eye and admitted something without being forced.

Your face became unbearably hot.

"Hwajin—"

"You were happy."

His voice remained calm... matter-of-fact, as though he were explaining something obvious.

"You kept finding things you wanted to show me. Every time you got excited about something, you forgot to let go and pulled me somewhere else."

You wished the floor would open beneath you.

Instead, he continued.

"I didn't mind."

The bookstore suddenly felt much too small.

Much too warm.

You could not look at him. You could barely look at anything.

A laugh escaped him then, quiet and rare.

The sound only made your situation worse.

When you finally managed to meet his gaze again, there was something unexpectedly gentle waiting there.

Something that made your chest ache.

Outside, the sky had darkened into shades of deep blue and gold.

People continued passing beyond the bookstore windows. The festival carried on around them. Neither of you paid much attention.

Eventually, Hwajin reached for your hand again.

This time, it was deliberate.

Your breath caught as he lifted it slightly.

Then, with the same calm certainty he brought to everything he did, he pressed a brief kiss against your knuckles.

The gesture lasted barely a second. It was enough to leave you completely speechless.

"See you tomorrow."

He released your hand, turned and walked toward the door.

Meanwhile, you remained frozen beside the bookshelf, staring after him while your entire face felt approximately the temperature of the sun.

Only when he disappeared into the evening crowd did you finally recover enough to whisper:

"...What the hell?!"

The words still rang in his ears as he walked away from your porch, the door slamming shut between him and your father's scowling face.

He couldn't blame the man, really. Martin knew what kind of person he was: a teenage delinquent that only gets himself into trouble, and would likely drag you straight into it sooner or later.

He himself still couldn't quite understand what about him had actually managed to win you over initially. You were everything he was not: a rule follower, an academic, someone with a much more promising future than the one Martin possessed. So how you found him to be anything other than a walking red flag was a mystery that kept him up at night.

He remembered the first time you'd spoken to him behind the gym in your second year of high school, his knuckles were bloody and his temper was still running hot. You'd appeared out of nowhere, holding out a crumpled napkin from the cafeteria.

"You're bleeding," you'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not your problem," he'd muttered, trying to brush past you.

But you'd grabbed his wrist before he could fully turn the corner and pressed the napkin into his palm. "Just clean it up," you'd said. "You'll get blood on your shirt."

You then walked away, leaving him standing there with a bloody napkin and a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never quite managed to shake.

Martin had tried to push you away at first. He knew what people said about him: the troublemaker, the burnout, the kid who'd end up in juvie before graduation. He'd heard your father's warnings from across the street, loud enough to carry, "Stay away from that boy, Y/N. He's nothing but trouble."

Despite all of that you kept appearing.

You showed up at the diner where he worked, sitting in his section and ordering coffee you barely touched, just so you could talk to him during his break. You showed up at the auto shop, claiming your car needed an oil change, even though it was perfectly fine. You showed up at his apartment after he got suspended the second time, bringing takeout and a stubborn expression that said you wouldn’t leave under any circumstance.

"Why?" He’d finally asked you, exhausted and confused. "Why do you keep doing this? You know what I am. You've heard what everyone says."

You'd looked at him then, really looked, and said, "I see something they don't."

"What?"

"Someone who's trying."

And that was it. That was the moment Martin knew he was a goner.

It hadn't taken long for your father to work out that you had ignored all his prior warnings, though truly he should have realised it sooner.

You had been staying out much later than before, coming home with an almost lovesick grin. Your father knew you were in love—that wasn't hard to tell. Just in his own mind, the thought of you falling in love with the one boy he had forbidden you from even talking to was a concept so foreign, so utterly incomprehensible, that he simply refused to entertain it.

But the signs were all there. You'd rush through dinner just to get to your room and stare at your phone, waiting for a message whilst also deflecting his questions about your day with vague answers and quick subject changes.

It was only when your father found the crumpled napkin in your laundry with Martin's name scrawled on it in your handwriting, surrounded by tiny hearts, that the truth finally crashed down on him.

He'd confronted you that night, voice shaking with barely contained fury.

"Are you seeing that Martin boy?"

You'd looked at him, and for a moment, he only saw defiance in your gaze. "Yes," you'd said quietly. "I am."

The argument that followed was the worst you'd ever had. Your father had shouted until his voice went hoarse, listing every reason why Martin was wrong for you: his record, his reputation, his lack of prospects. You'd shouted back, defending him with a passion that only made your father angrier.

"He's not who you think he is, Dad. He's trying so hard. He's working two jobs, he's studying for school as best he can, he's—"

"He's a delinquent, Y/N. He's always been a delinquent, and he always will be. I won't let you throw your life away for someone like him."

"He's not a delinquent. He's just... he's just someone who never had anyone believe in him. Until me."

Your father had gone silent at that. Not because he agreed, but because he realised something crucial: you were in too deep. No amount of arguing would change your mind.

So he'd done the only thing he could think of. He'd banned you from seeing Martin, forbade you from leaving the house except for school and work, and took your phone, your laptop, everything that connected you to the outside world.

For a few weeks, it seemed to work. You and Martin had never shared a class at school, so he didn’t need to worry about that. Additionally, with so much surveillance surrounding you, you had practically given up even thinking of trying to find a way around it.

That was until one night a few weeks later when you were laying under the covers of your bed, staring at the ceiling with not a thought on your mind when the sound of something knocking on your window echoed through the room.

You sat up, heart pounding, and stared at the window. The blinds were drawn, but through the slats, you could make out a familiar silhouette you knew all too well crouched on the fire escape.

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around your ankles, and yanked the blinds open. There he was—grinning like an idiot, dirt smudged on his cheek, a small bag of takeout dangling from one hand. He was wearing that worn leather jacket you loved with the torn sleeve he refused to sew back together.

"Hey, princess," he whispered through the glass. "You miss me?"

You fumbled with the lock, pushing the window open as quietly as you could. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and city streets.

"What are you doing here?" You hissed. "My dad could hear you!"

"Your dad's probably knocked out asleep right now." He climbed through the window with practiced ease, landing silently on your bedroom floor. 

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his jacket. "I thought I'd never see you again," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"Hey." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I told you. Nothing's keeping me away from you. Not your dad, not the cops, not anyone."

"Martin—"

"Three weeks, Y/N. I spent three weeks without you and I was going insane." He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I thought about calling your house, but I knew your dad would just make it worse. I had to wait until I could figure out a way to see you."

"You figured out the fire escape."

"I figured out the fire escape." He grinned, but there was something softer underneath it. "Took me two days to find the right route. Nearly fell off the third-floor landing, but hey—" He shrugged. "Worth it."

You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "You're insane."

"Only for you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled back to hold up the takeout bag. "I brought food. Your favourite dumpling place with the spicy sauce you like. Figured you probably haven't been eating much."

You hadn't. The past three weeks had been a blur of forced dinners and silent meals, your father's disapproving gaze boring into you from across the table. You'd lost weight, and Martin had noticed it the moment he climbed through your window. 

"You're too good to me," you said.

"Not possible." He set the bag on your desk and pulled you over to sit on the bed. "Now eat. I'll keep watch."

You sat together in the darkness, sharing dumplings and whispered conversations. 

"One day," he said, "I'm going to have a real place with a good job and be something your dad can't complain about."

"I don't care about any of that."

"I know." He smiled, but there was something serious in his eyes. "That's why I want to give it to you anyway. You deserve the world, Y/N. I'm going to figure out how to give it to you."

"I just want you," you said softly.

"Good." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Because you've got me. For as long as you want me."

It was reckless and dangerous and every time you heard a floorboard creak, your heart stopped. But as you sat there in the dark, wrapped in Martin's arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Your father never caught the two of you, and gradually he granted you back your privileges, though that also stemmed from your absolute refusal to even look at him until he did so.

A part of you secretly knew that your father had probably worked out you were still seeing Martin. He wasn't stupid—he'd raised you, after all. He knew the stubborn set of your jaw, the defiant glint in your eyes when you were hiding something. He'd seen the way you'd started leaving your window unlocked again, the way you'd come downstairs with pillow creases on your cheek and a sleepy smile that had nothing to do with a good night's rest.

But he never said anything and you remained in this strange stalemate situation for the following couple of years.

It was an unspoken agreement, really. Your father pretended not to notice the faint smell of motor oil that sometimes clung to your clothes in the morning. He pretended not to hear the soft thud of footsteps on the fire escape at midnight. He pretended not to see the way your eyes lit up whenever your phone buzzed. And you, in turn, pretended not to notice the way your father started leaving the back door unlocked, or the way he'd conveniently be in the living room with the TV turned up too loud whenever Martin was climbing the fire escape.

It was a strange kind of peace. Fragile, particularly tenuous. But it was peace nonetheless.

Then, finally, graduation day arrived.

You walked across the stage in your cap and gown, your father watching from the front row with a carefully neutral expression. Martin was a few students behind you, wearing his best clothes underneath the gown that you had bought for his birthday, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.

After the ceremony, you found him in the parking lot, still in your gown, your diploma clutched in your hands.

"We did it," you said, laughing. "We actually did it."

"We did." He pulled you into his arms, spinning you around. "High school graduates. Can you believe it?"

"I can't believe you didn't drop out."

"Me neither." He set you down, his hands still on your waist. "But I had a good reason to stay."

"And what was that?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "You."

You and Martin had separated before your father emerged between the cars with the promise of seeing each other tomorrow, however you failed to fully notice the strange glint in Martin’s eyes as he parted with you

The next morning, Martin showed up at your door, his hands shaking as he knocked.

You answered, still in your pajamas, your hair a mess. "Martin? What are you—"

"I'm here to ask your father for permission to marry you."

You stared at him for a few seconds. "Now? At eight in the morning?"

"Time's ticking." He tried to smile, but it came out nervous. "I've waited long enough. Three years. I'm not waiting anymore."

Your father appeared behind you, coffee mug in hand. He looked at Martin, then at the suit, then at the determined set of Martin's jaw.

"Y/N, go to your room," he said, his voice flat as you gave Martin a wary look before retreating, "you again."

"Yes, sir." Martin straightened his spine, watching you disappear into the background. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Your father set down his coffee mug, and for a long moment he just looked at Martin. "You must be out of your damn mind," he said slowly, "if you think I'd let you marry my daughter."

"Sir, I know I'm not what you wanted for her. I know I've made mistakes. I know I don't have much—"

"You've barely got a diploma, an unsecure job at an auto shop, and a reputation that makes me want to lock my daughter in her room until she's thirty-five."

"I know, sir. But I love her. I've loved her since I was fifteen, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her."

"You think that's enough?" Your father's voice was rising. "You think love is enough? You have no future, no prospects, no—"

"I'm going to marry her anyway."

Your father stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"I said I'm going to marry her anyway." Martin lifted his chin, his voice steady. "With or without your blessing. With or without your approval. I love her, and she loves me, and we're getting married. I'm just sorry you won't be there to see it."

"Get out." Your father's voice was ice. "Get out of my house before I call the cops."

Martin nodded slowly. He'd expected this. He'd prepared for this. It still stung. He turned and walked down the steps, the door slamming behind him.

Five hours later, Martin stood in front of you at the courthouse, him having snuck you out of your room through the very window he had spent years crawling through.

You'd changed into a simple white dress that you had worn a few times in the summer. Martin was in his navy suit from the graduation, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant droned, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."

Martin barely heard the words. He was too busy memorising the way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

"Martin," you whispered, "you're crying."

"Am not."

"You totally are."

"It's allergies."

"You're such a liar."

He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Fine, maybe I'm a little emotional. You're marrying me, Y/N. Me. The guy who couldn't even pass English without your help."

"I think you're pretty great," you said softly. "I always have."

The officiant cleared his throat. "The rings?"

Martin fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the simple silver bands he'd saved up for. He slid one onto your finger—it was a little too big, but you didn't seem to care, you just stared at it like it was the most expensive piece of jewelry in the world.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Martin’s lips were on yours before you could fully process the words.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. He was savouring the reality of this, you in his arms finally calling yourself his. Gradually it deepened, the years of longing and wanting pouring into every second your mouth remained on his.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless and grinning like idiots.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice rough and cracking. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you more than anything. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "I love you too. Even though you're insane."

A wet laugh escaped him, his shoulders shaking. "Especially because I'm insane?"

"Especially then." You smiled, soft and radiant. 

He kissed you again, softer this time, because he felt he had all the time in the world, and, really, he did. Nothing else mattered to him except the way your lips moved against his, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your heartbeat matched his own.

When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot, tears still tracking down his cheeks. "Mrs. Edwards," he said, testing the words. "That has a nice ring to it."

You laughed, bright and beautiful. "Mr. L/N. That would have an even nicer ring to it."

"Hey." He poked your side. "I proposed first, that means you take my name."

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "But only because I love you."

"That's the only reason I need."

The courthouse was small and dingy, the officiant was already shuffling papers, clearly eager to leave, the neon sign outside flickered and buzzed. It wasn't the wedding either of you had dreamed of. There were no flowers, no guests, no white dress with a long train.

But it was yours.

And as Martin pulled you into his arms, his lips pressed against your temple, he knew he'd never regret a single moment of it. "I'm going to give you everything," he whispered against your skin. "I don't have much now, but I will. A home, a future, a life you can be proud of. I promise."

"I already have everything I need," you whispered back. "I have you."

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his smile shaky, his heart laid bare on his sleeve. "You really mean that?"

"Every word."

He kissed you one last time: deep, slow, full of all the promises he'd spend the rest of his life keeping.

Your father was going to be absolutely livid when he found out, though Martin didn't care.

the past few days had been hell for everyone. avoiding the others wasn’t exactly difficult since you were barely home anymore. whenever practice ended, you usually disappeared with allday project and stayed out until ridiculous hours of the night. if you did return to the dorm, it was usually long after everyone had gone to sleep. you would quietly let yourself in, grab a blanket from the couch, and sleep there until morning before leaving again. the guys had tried everything to catch you long enough for a conversation, but every attempt somehow failed.

even during practice there wasn’t an opportunity. lately, you had been training like your life depended on it. the second practice started, you completely locked in. every break was spent stretching, rehearsing, or running through choreography again. if anyone tried approaching you, you always found an excuse to leave. after a few days, everyone finally realized you weren’t just busy. you were avoiding them.

nobody was taking it well. keonho had probably sent enough texts to fill an entire novel by now, and martin had already tried cornering you twice after practice. even seonghyeon had sent an apology message, which shocked everyone considering he hated talking about his feelings. none of it worked. every time you thought about that stupid prank, your stomach twisted all over again. what hurt wasn’t even the prank itself. it was the fact that they all knew exactly why it affected you so badly.

especially james.

out of everyone, james was the one you couldn’t stop thinking about.

that was how you ended up sitting on the beach late one night. the ocean stretched endlessly in front of you while the moon reflected across the water in a long silver line. the waves rolled onto the shore in a steady rhythm, and for once your thoughts felt a little quieter. you had been sitting there for nearly half an hour when you heard footsteps approaching from behind.

normally, you would’ve ignored it, but something about the pace felt familiar. a second later, someone lowered themselves into the sand beside you. you didn’t even bother looking. you already knew who it was.

james.

for several minutes, neither of you said anything. he sat beside you with his hands resting on his knees while staring out at the water. surprisingly, the silence wasn’t awkward. it never really had been between the two of you. eventually, you let out a slow breath and broke it yourself.

“out of all people, i thought you’d be the last one to do something like that.”

beside you, james lowered his gaze and nodded once. he didn’t interrupt, didn’t defend himself, and didn’t try making excuses. he simply waited. he knew you weren’t finished.

you laughed quietly to yourself, not because anything was funny, but because you genuinely didn’t know what else to do. “i mean, seriously. i understand keonho or sean. they’re idiots. i love them, but they’re idiots. half the time they don’t even realize they’re doing too much until somebody yells at them.”

that earned the smallest smile from james before it disappeared again.

“but you?” you finally turned your head toward him. “you’re supposed to be my older brother.”

james visibly winced.

“you were the first person in this group who actually saw me as me. before everyone got close to me. before all of that. it was you.” your eyes drifted back toward the ocean. “you saw how badly all that trainee stuff affected me. you saw everything.”

the words came easier now that you had started.

“that’s why i thought you’d stop them. or at least tell them it wasn’t going to be funny. you were there when i cried about that stuff. you were there when i thought nobody wanted me around. you were there when i felt like i didn’t belong here.” you swallowed hard. “so when all of that happened again, even for one day, i honestly felt like we were right back at the beginning.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the only sound was the ocean.

when james finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual.

“i know.”

you didn’t say anything.

james dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “and honestly, that’s exactly why i’ve felt like shit this entire week.” he stared down at the sand while speaking. “i’m not gonna sit here and make excuses because there really aren’t any. we thought it’d be a stupid prank. that’s the truth. we thought you’d get annoyed, we’d tell you it was a joke, everybody would laugh, and we’d move on.”

he shook his head.

“but we didn’t stop to think about what it’d actually feel like for you. especially me.”

you glanced over at him.

“i should’ve known better than anyone,” he continued. “i remember those trainee days. i remember finding you crying after practice. i remember how long it took before you finally got comfortable around everyone. the second you came home excited about seeing allday project, i already knew this was probably a bad idea. i should’ve stopped it right there.”

the guilt on his face was obvious.

“and i’m sorry.”

the apology sat between you for a few moments. you didn’t know what to say to it. part of you was still angry. part of you was still hurt. but another part of you could tell he genuinely meant every word.

james looked back out at the water and laughed quietly to himself. “also, whether you like it or not, you’re basically our little sister.”

you immediately rolled your eyes.

“there it is.”

“what?”

“the sibling speech.”

james grinned.

“it’s an important speech.”

“it’s a terrible speech.”

“still important.”

despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched slightly.

james immediately pointed at you.

“that was almost a smile.”

“shut up.”

“it was.”

“james.”

“i saw it.”

you groaned and buried your face in your hands while he laughed quietly beside you. for the first time all week, the tension between you didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

after that, neither of you said much. surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward. if anything, it reminded you of your predebut days. back when you and james weren’t particularly close yet, but somehow always ended up sitting together after practice. neither of you had known how to start conversations properly back then, so you mostly sat in comfortable silence until somebody finally thought of something worth saying.

eventually, james pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand off his clothes. then he held out a hand toward you.

you stared at it for a second.

then sighed dramatically.

“you’re annoying.”

“coming from you, that’s basically a compliment.”

rolling your eyes, you grabbed his hand and let him pull you up.

the walk back to the dorm was almost completely silent. strangely enough, it felt familiar. not because everything was fixed, because it definitely wasn’t. there were still conversations waiting for you back at the dorm and apologies you hadn’t heard yet. but for the first time in days, the distance between you and james didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.

and for now, that was enough.

the next morning, you woke up before everyone else like you had been doing for the past week. for a moment, you simply stared at the ceiling. your usual routine would be to quietly leave before anybody woke up, spend the entire day avoiding the dorm, and come back sometime after midnight. honestly, you were already halfway through convincing yourself to do exactly that.

instead, you sat up with a sigh and climbed out of bed.

the apartment was completely silent as you made your way into the living room. pale morning sunlight was peeking through the gaps in the curtains. after a moment of hesitation, you walked over and opened the blinds. sunlight immediately flooded the room, making you squint.

you stood there awkwardly for a second, then shook your head. if you were already here, you might as well do something useful.

the kitchen was exactly as disastrous as you expected. judging by the state of a frying pan sitting in the sink, somebody had attempted cooking recently and failed miserably. you didn’t even want to know who.

with a sigh, you rolled up your sleeves and got started.

despite everything that had happened, you still knew exactly how everyone liked their breakfast. james liked his eggs plain. martin liked extra cheese. juhoon hated having too much pepper. keonho somehow managed to complain about every breakfast food imaginable except bacon. seonghyeon preferred his eggs cooked longer than everyone else.

it was annoyingly easy to remember.

by the time you were done, six different plates sat neatly on the countertop. beside them were six different drinks. water for james. orange juice for martin. cherry juice for juhoon. cold milk for keonho. warm milk for seonghyeon.

you had no idea why you remembered all of that.

afterward, you grabbed your own bowl of cereal and sat at the table. you had never liked eggs much anyway. the apartment remained quiet for a while before you finally heard movement coming from one of the bedrooms.

a few seconds later, james shuffled into the living room.

his hair was sticking up in every direction imaginable and his face was still puffy from sleep. he looked half conscious at best. the moment his eyes landed on you, though, you watched something visibly relax in his expression.

like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

james simply grabbed his plate and drink before sitting down beside you. the two of you ate quietly. it wasn’t awkward. if anything, it felt surprisingly normal.

that peace lasted all of five minutes.

the next person to wake up was juhoon. he walked into the living room while rubbing his eyes, clearly still half asleep, when he noticed you sitting there.

he froze.

without saying a single word, he turned around and walked straight back to the bedroom.

“…okay.” you frowned.

james immediately started laughing into his water.

a minute later, juhoon returned, this time holding a folded piece of paper. he walked directly over to you and awkwardly shoved it into your hands before taking several steps backward.

you stared at him. slowly, you started unfolding the paper.

“no, wait.”

you paused.

juhoon looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “don’t read it now.”

you looked up. “why?”

“because it’s embarrassing.”

you immediately became interested. “how embarrassing?”

“very.”

“juhoon.”

“please.”

you grinned. “if this is too corny, i’m literally never letting you live it down.”

juhoon closed his eyes and sighed like a man accepting his fate. without another word, he grabbed his breakfast and sat down as far away from you as physically possible.

you laughed quietly and slipped the paper into your pocket. whatever was written on it could wait until practice.

a few minutes later, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by yelling.

“i’m telling you that’s not how microwaves work.”

“then explain why it started smoking.”

“because you’re stupid.”

“that’s not an explanation.”

the remaining three idiots.

their argument continued all the way down the hallway before they entered the kitchen together. the second they walked in, however, all three of them froze.

their eyes landed on you.

the silence lasted approximately two seconds.

“oh thank god.”

before you could react, keonho launched himself across the room.

you had literally just taken a bite of cereal when he wrapped his arms around you. the sudden impact made you immediately choke.

“i’m sorry y/n, i love you, you’re my baby sister, please forgive me, i’ll never do that again, i’m horrible, i’m a terrible person, you’re just a little kid—”

you awkwardly patted his back while coughing. “get him away from me.”

james took another bite of breakfast. “nah.”

eventually, martin grabbed keonho by the hoodie and physically dragged him away. keonho hit the floor dramatically and kept whining.

your relief lasted about three seconds, because then you noticed martin opening his arms. “no.”

martin ignored you. the next thing you knew, he had somehow folded himself into your lap despite being significantly larger than you.

“we don’t deserve you,” he cried dramatically. “if it wasn’t for you, we’d be dead. we’d be starving. we’d be eating drywall.”

“martin, you’re crushing me.” you coughed while trying to shove him away.

eventually, after several seconds of struggling, you managed to push him off. martin immediately collapsed onto the floor beside keonho.

both of them remained there.

your attention drifted toward seonghyeon. unlike the others, he hadn’t said much. he was already sitting at the table with his breakfast in front of him. when your eyes met, he immediately froze.

for a second, neither of you looked away. then seonghyeon lowered his gaze.

you frowned slightly. the tension was definitely still there, which was strange.

you had already forgiven keonho. honestly, the second he threw himself at you and nearly caused your death by cereal, most of your anger disappeared. martin was martin. juhoon had apparently written you some sort of emotional apology letter. james had already talked things out with you last night.

but seonghyeon felt different. he didn’t feel angry, defensive or anything like that.

he just looked nervous as hell. almost like he’d been rehearsing something in his head for days and still hadn’t figured out how to say it.

and judging by the way he kept staring down at his breakfast instead of eating it, you had a feeling that conversation was coming sooner rather than later.

practice had gone surprisingly well.

the atmosphere was completely different from how it had been a week ago. everyone was joking around again, teasing each other whenever someone messed up choreography, and arguing over things that didn’t matter. for the first time in days, things felt normal.

during break, you slipped away to the balcony with a can of cola.

the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and pink as a cool breeze drifted through the air. after making sure nobody was following you, you finally pulled the folded letter out of your pocket.

juhoon’s handwriting was terrible.

you immediately smiled.

dear y/n.

first of all, before you start making fun of my handwriting, shut up.

i know you’re already laughing.

anyway.

i’m not really good at saying stuff like this out loud, so i’m writing it instead. james told me that’s a coward move, but i’m choosing to ignore him because he’s old.

i wanted to say i’m sorry.

not just for the prank. i’m sorry for every time i’ve made you feel like you weren’t important to us. because you are.

i don’t think i tell you that enough.

actually, i don’t think i tell you that at all.

you do so many things for us that none of us even think about until they’re suddenly gone. you remember everyone’s schedules. you remind us to eat. you know exactly how everybody likes their food. you somehow always know when one of us is having a bad day before we even say anything.

and the thing is, you act like nobody notices.

but i do.

i notice how every night before bed, you stand on the balcony for a few minutes and stare outside before going to sleep.

i notice how you always leave the last piece of food for somebody else even when you’re still hungry.

i notice how you pretend you’re not tired because you don’t want anybody worrying about you.

i notice how you always check if everyone’s home before you go to bed.

i notice how every time one of us gets sick, you somehow become the most annoying person alive because you’re constantly checking on us.

i notice how you’re always the first person to congratulate us when something goes right and the first person to comfort us when something goes wrong.

you think nobody notices those things.

but i do. and i know the others do too.

i think sometimes you forget how much you’ve become part of our lives.

if i’m being honest, i can’t really remember what the dorm was like before you moved in, which is probably a problem because it definitely existed before then.

but you get what i mean.

you’re family.

you annoy me constantly. you steal my hoodies, and i steal your stupid skinny jeans. you threaten violence every other day. you insult me at least seventeen times daily.

but you’re still family. and i love you.

even if saying that makes me want to launch myself into traffic.

i’m really sorry, y/n and i hope someday you’ll forgive me completely.

please burn this letter after reading it. seriously. i’m begging.

love, juhoon.

p.s. if you show this to anyone i’ll tell everybody about that embarrassing thing you did in 2024.

p.p.s. you know exactly which thing i’m talking about.

you finished reading and immediately started laughing through the tears in your eyes. by the end of the letter, your vision had become blurry. stupid idiot.

a small smile remained on your face as you carefully folded the paper and slipped it back into your pocket.

that’s when the balcony door opened.

you looked up at seonghyeon who stood there. the second your eyes met, he looked like he wanted to run away. instead, he awkwardly walked over and sat in the chair opposite yours.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. then you sighed. “i know there’s stuff you wanna get off your chest, so just say it. you know i’ll never judge.”

seonghyeon immediately looked down. his fingers twisted together in his lap. he chewed anxiously at the inside of his cheek while trying to find the words.

you waited.

eventually, he looked up. the second he did, a tear slipped down his face.

your heart immediately dropped. “seonghyeon—”

“i was jealous.”

you froze as he laughed shakily and wiped at his eyes. “that’s it. that’s the reason.” more tears followed.

“every time you talked about allday project, you’d look so happy.” his voice cracked slightly. “like… really happy.”

you stared at him quietly.

“and i started thinking maybe that was because they were your first choice.” another tear slid down his cheek.

“and maybe we weren’t.”

your stomach twisted.

seonghyeon looked away. “i know it sounds stupid.”

“it doesn’t.”

“it does.” he laughed bitterly. “because instead of talking to you like a normal person, i got jealous.” his shoulders shook.

“i kept thinking maybe you still liked them more than us. maybe you were only here because you had to be. maybe if you could choose, you’d pick them every time.”

you felt your chest tighten. “seonghyeon…”

“and then i started thinking about how i’m probably the member you’re least close to.” his voice had gotten so quiet you could barely hear him.

“i mean… can you blame me?” he wiped at his eyes again. “i treated you like absolute shit before debut.” the bluntness of it made you flinch.

“and i know we moved past it. i know you’ve forgiven me.” he shook his head. “but part of me always thought maybe you didn’t forgive me completely.” the words seemed to physically hurt him.

“so when everyone started talking about pranks, i suggested ignoring you.” he laughed bitterly. “because i was jealous.”

another tear rolled down his face. “and because i’m an idiot.”

by now, tears were running down your own face too.

“i’m so sorry, y/n.” the guilt in his voice was unbearable. “i’m sorry for the prank. i’m sorry for being jealous. i’m sorry for everything before debut. i’m just… i’m sorry.”

for a few seconds, neither of you moved. then you grabbed your chair and dragged it closer. before seonghyeon could react, you wrapped your arms around him.

immediately, he broke. his face buried itself in your shoulder as sobs shook his entire body.

you held him tighter and before you knew it, you were crying too. “you’re so stupid,” you mumbled through your tears.

he nodded immediately. “i know.”

“you’re actually so stupid.” another nod.

“i know.”

you laughed weakly, then hugged him tighter. “i love you all equally, seonghyeon.”

his shoulders froze while you pulled back just enough to look at him. “you guys are not my last choice.”

more tears spilled down his face.

“not even close.”

he immediately buried his face back into your shoulder.

“please don’t ever think that again.”

seonghyeon nodded so fast it was almost painful. for the first time in days, you felt some of the tension finally disappear.

inside the practice room, meanwhile, absolute chaos was unfolding.

martin was standing by the door with his phone out.

“clip that, clip that!” keonho giggled from beside him

“i am clipping it.” martin whisper yelled at keonho

james looked exhausted. “guys, she literally just forgave us. let’s not make her angry again.”

neither of them listened.

juhoon, meanwhile, looked like he was experiencing genuine psychological distress.

“i need that letter back.”

nobody answered him.

“i’m serious.”

still nothing.

“i need to burn it.”

keonho immediately looked over. “was it that bad?”

“it was worse.”

“what’d you write?”

juhoon covered his face. “i said i loved her.”

the room exploded.

“no way.”

“you what?”

“thats so cute.”

“SHUT UP.”

©cortismoon all rights reserved. Please do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

taglist: CLOSED

It was all because of Riki. 

At least, that’s what you like to believe. Blaming other people for the mistakes you made yourself has always been your favorite coping mechanism. A bad one, sure—but easier than admitting fault.

It started back in high school. You were seventeen, so was Riki. So was James. You met James through Riki on a random Tuesday afternoon, when you went over to his house for the sake of his grades. It was supposed to be a normal study session. Instead, it became the day you met the rest of his band—James and Maki, and the day your life quietly began to rot. 

You didn’t realise it at first, you never read in between the lines. What you and James were about to become was always going to be destructive. More than friends, less than lovers—nothing more nothing less. 

You arrived with two textbooks in hand to get Riki through calculus. The moment you stepped into his room, you realised it wasn’t just Riki there. Three boys were scattered around the floor in various states of uselessness, instruments leaned against the wall, empty drink cans near the desk, cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

Your eyes landed on James for only a second before turning back to Riki. “What is this?” you asked.

Riki, crouched beside the ashtray, crushed the end of his cigarette into it with two fingers and grinned. “Minor change of plans…no calc today, uh sit down.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please?” You sighed like someone already regretting their own life and dropped to the floor anyway.

Maki leaned forward first. “We need a female member.”

“For what?”

“The band.”

You stared at them. “I can’t sing.”

“You don’t know that,” Riki said.

“I do know that.”

While they argued with you, James said nothing. He only watched. Later, you’d learn he’d decided the second you walked in that you were the coolest girl he’d ever seen—your hair, your clothes, the way you looked annoyed without trying. At the time, all you knew was that his silence was strangely loud.

Ten minutes later, with no calculus in sight, you stood up. “I’m leaving if none of you are doing derivatives.”

Riki laughed, Maki told you to relax. You were already halfway down the hall when footsteps came after you.

You ran purely on instinct.

“Why are you running?” a voice shouted behind you.

“Why are you chasing me?” you shouted back.

By the time James caught up, both of you were breathless. He bent forward, hands on his knees, trying to breathe.

Then he looked up and said, “Join our band.”

That was the first time you met him. The problem with people, though, is that they are not possessions. You can never keep someone entirely to yourself. Sadly, you learned that the hard way. 

You joined the band, you learned how to sing, you did it because James asked you to. That was how easy you were when it came to him. Somewhere between vocal lessons, late-night practices, and getting to know everyone besides Riki, something between you and James began to blur. 

It started simply. After one normal late-night practice, James asked if you were free. You were. So he asked you to come over. No strange intentions—he just wanted company while he drank.

Problem one: two people alone with too much time and not enough boundaries. Problem two: neither of you were very good at pretending nothing was there.

His apartment was small in the way all first apartments are—barely furnished, faintly cold, smelling like smoke and vodka. A lamp in the corner lit the room badly, leaving most of it in shadow.

You sat beside James on the couch, one knee tucked beneath you, drink balanced carefully in your hand. Music played low from somewhere behind you, half drowned by the sound of your own laughter.

“I’m serious,” you said. “Maki had three weeks to learn that chord.”

James smiled into his glass. “Three weeks isn’t enough for him. Give him a year.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m an honest one.”

You laughed again, louder this time, head tipping back against the couch. When you looked at him next, he was already looking at you. That should have embarrassed you. Instead, it made the room quieter. Somewhere in the middle of another joke, he leaned closer without either of you acknowledging it. Not enough to touch, but just enough to notice.

You could smell alcohol on his breath, something mischievous in his eyes. “What?” you asked, though your voice came out smaller than intended.

James didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked once to your lips, then back up again. “May I?” he asked softly.

You should have asked him to clarify, you should have laughed it off and fuck, you should have remembered every reason for why this was a bad idea.

Instead, you nodded and…he kissed you like he’d already thought about it too many times. Slow at first, very careful, just testing the waters.And then, there was intention in it. When he pulled away, neither of you said anything for a moment.

“Well,” you said finally, staring straight ahead. “That's…uh complicated.”

James laughed quietly beside you. “You think too much.”

That was true, but never true enough for James to care. Things became strange after that. Not dramatically, not all at once—just in small ways that were easy to ignore if you wanted to.

You started slipping away after practice together, he began asking if you were free more often. You learned the walk to his house so well you could’ve done it half asleep. He learned which window of yours to throw pebbles at when you stopped answering your phone.

And the kissing happened again, then again, then often enough that it stopped feeling shocking and started feeling routine. Nothing changed, officially, no confessions, no conversations, no labels.

He still introduced you as his friend, you still pretended that word didn’t sting. It was only kissing—against kitchen counters, in dark hallways, on his couch while some terrible movie played untouched in the background. Nothing more.

Which was convenient, because “nothing more” meant neither of you had to explain yourselves. You were just friends…friends who knew each other’s schedules, friends who got jealous for no reason, friends who belonged to each other in every way except the honest one. Right?

So that was…what you were. You and James got along well—clearly. Talking more about James, one thing that man never doubted was your voice. But you? Oh, you doubted it enough for the both of you. You still remember the first day all of you performed live, in front of real people who would give you real reactions.

It had sounded exciting when Riki first said it. A real gig. He’d announced it like it was the best news ever—which it was. Maki had nearly thrown a drumstick at the ceiling in celebration. James had only smiled that small, private smile of his, the one that suggested he expected success as naturally as weather.

You had smiled too. That was your first mistake.

Because smiling made it look like you agreed, smiling made it look like you were excited, smiling made it look like you hadn’t spent the entire car ride there imagining every possible way you could humiliate yourself with a microphone in your hand. What if you forget the lyrics? What if your voice cracks? What if you freeze up?

The venue was smaller than you expected and worse than you feared. Sticky floors—similar to those you see in dance practice rooms, very high ceilings, multiple wires running across the ground like traps—all connected to huge speakers. A stage so close to the audience it felt less like performing and more like one wrong move and your crowd surfing. There were already people there, which felt unnecessary and rude.

You had always imagined failure happening somewhere grander.

At rehearsal, mistakes were private things, missed notes disappeared into the loud bass and drums, forgotten lyrics could be restarted and racked voices could be blamed on lack of sleep, dry throats, cheap microphones, too much smoke in the air—whatever excuse seemed funniest at the time. Practice was forgiving, but the crowd? Fuck no. 

People you didn’t know had begun filing in, carrying drinks and…well, opinions. They stood in loose groups near the front, talking loudly, glancing toward the stage now and then. Some of them looked older than you, some looked cooler than you.You suddenly became aware of everything wrong with yourself.

Your outfit looked stupid, your shoes were wrong, your hair was too flat., your lipgloss felt too sticky, your hands looked awkward and your face felt unfamiliar. Your voice—your voice, the thing everyone had praised all month felt like something rented, not owned.

“What if nobody claps?” you asked no one in particular.

Riki was tuning his bass nearby. “Then we clap for ourselves.”

“That’s pathetic.”

“It’s knowing we’re good enough,” he corrected.

“It’s sad.”

“Stop being miserable.”

Usually, that would have made you laugh, but it didn’t now. You were sitting on the worn leather sofa in the green room, elbows on knees, staring at your hands as if they belonged to someone else. Around you, the room moved in casual chaos. Maki tapped rhythms against the arm of a chair. Riki kept retuning strings no one else could hear problems with and James stood by the mirror adjusting nothing, cigarette balanced between his fingers, perfectly calm in the infuriating way only he could be.

You hated him for it briefly. “How are you not nervous?” you asked.

He glanced at you in the mirror. “Who says I’m not?”

“You look like you’re used to it, used to performing, like–like this is routine.”

“Im just good at staying composed?”

“Ugh shut up.”

He smiled, you looked away first. The minutes felt like seconds, time began collapsing in on itself. Every sound sharpened unpleasantly—the buzz of the amp, footsteps in the hallway, laughter outside the door, the scrape of Maki’s shoe against the floor. Someone from staff poked their head in and said, “Five minutes.”

Five minutes. Fuck, such a small amount of time to contain a breakdown. You stood up too fast, the room was bending in unusual ways. Fuck, not now. You sat back down immediately, hoping no one noticed.

No one did, thank God.

You swallowed, your throat felt tight, you took a deep breath and it snagged halfway down. You tried again, it was worse this time, your hands felt sweaty, your vision was blurry, you couldn’t even breathe properly. Fuck this was ridiculous.

You knew what anxiety was, you knew panic attacks existed. You had, in fact, once described them confidently to someone else despite never having had one yourself. Shortness of breath, dizziness, racing thoughts. You sounded almost like a therapist.

Turns out knowledge was useless when your body decided to act up against you. You took another breath, too shallow. Another, faster. The room seemed hotter now, the air thicker–harder to inhale. Your chest tightened with the malicious efficiency of something practiced, you could hear your heartbeat in strange places—your ears, your wrists, behind your eyes.

Not now.

You stared at the floorboards. If you could just focus, if you could just count. One, two, three—the numbers kept moving, but nothing distracted you from the breaths you were unable to take.

“Yn?” Riki’s voice sounded farther away than it should have. You didn’t answer. “Yn?” Louder now. Closer. “Hey.”

A hand waved briefly in front of your face. You blinked at it, but said nothing. Your breaths came fast and shallow now, each one worse than the last. No matter how much air you dragged in, none of it felt real, none of it felt like it was going in—it was almost as if it got stuck midway and just escaped without really reaching your lungs. You felt lightheaded.

Riki crouched in front of you, concern replacing his usual grin so quickly it made him look older. “Hey… hey, look at me.” You tried, but your eyes dropped straight back to the floor. Your hands had locked around the edge of the couch so tightly your knuckles hurt.

“James.”

You hadn’t realized James was already moving until he was suddenly there beside Riki. The cigarette was gone now, left burning out alone in the ashtray. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. She just—look at her.”

James crouched in front of you. “Yn.” You couldn’t answer. “Look at me.” Your vision blurred when you tried. His face came in and out of focus, the room tilting strangely around him. “Slow breath in,” he said. “Through your nose.” You tried. It caught halfway, breaking into another sharp gasp. “Again.” You shook your head hard, panic rising faster now. Tears burned unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes. “Hey.” His voice sharpened. “Look at me.”

Another breath, too quick, too thin—it didn’t work, you couldn't breathe. Your chest felt caged, your fingers were trembling. You couldn’t even hear James anymore. His lips were moving, he was saying something. You tried. You really did—you tried to focus on him. You couldn’t. Your whole body felt numb, you were shaking, your lips trembling, you felt sweat drip down your forehead.

James stood abruptly and grabbed your wrist. “Come on.”

Before you could even try to process what was happening, he took your wrist and pulled you to your feet. The sudden movement made everything tilt again. He steadied you without comment and guided—dragged you through the green room door and into the hall.

Behind you, silence lasted half a second. Then Riki muttered, “Ah.” Maki made a noise of understanding. Neither followed.

By the time James shoved open the bathroom door, you were too busy failing at oxygen to care about the fact that  it was the men’s room. He dragged you into a stall, locking it behind you both, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You braced both hands on his shoulder bending forward, dragging air into lungs that rejected the offer.

“Hey.” You shook your head. “Hey.” Closer now. “Look at me.” You tried, but your eyes only fluttered uselessly before dropping again. Your breaths were still jagged, fast, painful things—coming in sharp pulls that gave you nothing back. Your hands trembled where they gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only stable thing left in the room.

James didn’t tell you to calm down, He didn’t ask questions, He didn’t waste time with words that would’ve bounced right off the panic anyway. Instead, his hands came up to hold your face. Firm, steady, warm. “Look at me,” he said again, softer this time. Your eyes found him for half a second. Long enough for him to know you were still there somewhere beneath it all.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t dramatic, It wasn’t greedy, It wasn’t even particularly slow. It was deliberate—the kind of kiss meant to interrupt something spiraling out of control. For one startled second, your mind blanked completely.

No fear, no noise, no crowd waiting outside, no lungs refusing to work. Your brain just stopped working.  It was just him. You and him. When he pulled back, you sucked in another breath. It still shook, but it reached deeper this time.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, dazed, chest still rising too fast, took another breath. Still uneven of sorts. He kissed you again. Shorter this time. A press of lips that felt less like affection and more like being anchored. One hand stayed at your jaw, thumb brushing absently beneath your eye where tears had gathered without permission.

By the time he leaned away, your breathing had slowed enough to count. You stared at him like he’d performed witchcraft. He smiled. “Better.”

You tried to answer, but only a weak exhale came out.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Talking’s overrated.”

Your forehead dropped against his shoulder, equal parts exhaustion and surrender. He let you stay there, one hand rubbing slowly up and down your lower back while the fluorescent and cold lights hummed overhead. Outside the stall, muffled through the bathroom door, the venue carried on without you—voices, footsteps, someone laughing too loudly.

Inside, there was only the sound of your breathing learning how to be normal again. After a moment, James tipped your chin up gently until you looked at him. “When we go out there,” he said quietly, “I want you to sing to me.”

You frowned weakly, still catching up to consciousness. “What?”

“Don’t sing to them.” He nodded vaguely toward the walls, toward the crowd beyond them, toward every stranger waiting outside. “Don’t sing to the room, don’t sing to the lights, not even the crowd. Look at me..” His thumb brushed once across your cheek. “Sing to me.”

And because your pulse had finally steadied, because your lungs had stopped trying to betray you, because it was James asking—and so, you nodded.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the hallway felt colder than before. Or maybe that was just the sweat drying against your skin. Your breathing had steadied, though not completely. It still came a little too carefully, like your lungs no longer trusted themselves. James walked beside you as if none of what had just happened required acknowledgment. As if dragging you into the men’s bathroom and kissing the panic out of you was an ordinary part of pre-show routine.

Across the hall, Riki and Maki were exactly where you’d left them, leaning against the wall with matching expressions of suspicious innocence. A cigar moved lazily between. Riki looked at you first, then at James, then back at you. His grin widened with the kind of joy only a person uninvolved in disaster can feel.

“You alive?” he asked.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered.

“Good enough.” Maki held out a half crushed bottle of water. “Try not to collapse on stage. It’s bad for our reputation.”

You took it. “Thank you for caring so much.”

“I’m famously warm.”

Riki tilted his head toward the bathroom door. “Everything sorted?”

Before you could answer, James walked past him and pushed open the green room door. “We’re on in one minute.” That was all.Riki watched him go, then turned back to you with exaggerated seriousness. “Interesting.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He smiled. “True.”

Inside the green room, everything was suddenly too fast. Someone from staff was speaking in rushed sentences no one listened to. Maki was checking drumsticks like they were sacred objects. Riki retuned strings he’d already tuned three times. James stood near the door adjusting the strap of his guitar, calm in that infuriating way he always managed to be.

You hated him briefly for being composed. Then he looked at you. Only for a second. Long enough to ask a silent question, you answered with the smallest nod.

I’m okay. Or close enough.

The stage manager shoved the door open. “Now.” No one moved immediately, then everyone did at once. It was getting realer now. The walk to the stage felt longer than it should have. The corridor narrowed around you, packed with cables, stacked speakers, peeling posters from bands no one remembered anymore. The closer you got, the louder the room became. Voices layered over one another. Anticipation from strangers who had no idea they were about to witness the most humiliating moment of your life or maybe the best?.

Your hands started trembling again, you flexed them once and then twice. Useless. The microphone was already set up when you stepped onto the stage. The lights hit first—white and blinding, hot enough to erase the edges of the room. Beyond them was only shadow and movement. For one awful second, your chest tightened again.

Not now.

Riki counted beats under his breath, Maki adjusted his stuff, someone in the crowd whistled, someone else laughed, you wrapped both hands around the microphone stand because it was the only solid thing available.

Then you remembered. Sing to me. You turned your head, James stood a few feet away, guitar slung low, fingers resting over the strings. The stage lights caught in his hair, he was already looking at you.

He gave one small nod. That was it. No grand gesture, no smile, no fucking speech about believing in yourself. Just a nod, like the rest of the room had ceased to matter. Then Riki started playing. The opening bassline rolled through the speakers, Maki came in a beat later. James followed, guitar sliding neatly into place. The song you’d rehearsed a hundred times suddenly sounded larger, sharper, alive in a way practice had never allowed.

Your cue arrived, you opened your mouth…and nothing terrible happened.

No cracked notes, no forgotten lyrics, no public collapse. Just your voice, clear and stronger than it ever sounded in cramped bedrooms and dusty practice rooms. It moved out into the crowd like it belonged there. You kept your eyes on James through the first verse. When nerves threatened to rise again, you looked at him harder. He played without missing a beat, watching you with the faintest trace of satisfaction, like this had always been inevitable.

The second verse was easier. By the chorus, you almost forgot to be afraid.

The crowd changed shape as you sang. They stopped being people with opinions and became noise, heat, movement—background to the private world you’d accidentally built at center stage. There were dozens of strangers in the room, yet it felt suspiciously like being alone with him.

You hated how much power that gave him. You loved it too.

Somewhere near the bridge, Riki grinned at you mid play, delighted you hadn’t combusted. A girl near the front began moving with the rhythm. Someone cheered when the chorus returned.

Real reactions.

You almost laughed. You’d spent hours fearing mockery only to discover people mostly wanted a good time. How embarrassing. The final note came sooner than expected. Your voice held it cleanly, then let go. Instruments rang out behind you before cutting into sudden silence.

For half a breath, no one moved. Then applause hit the room all at once. Loud, messy, genuine. You stared out at the crowd, stunned. They were clapping for you. For all of you, yes—but also for you. The girl who’d nearly died in a bathroom ten minutes ago.

Riki whoo-ed like he’d won in life, Maki screamed obnoxiously, you turned toward James before you could stop yourself. He stepped closer under the cover of noise, close enough that only you could hear him.

“Told you.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s enough.”

He reached past you to adjust the microphone height for the next song, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist in the process. Casual enough to deny, intentional enough to remember forever.

Then he glanced sideways at you, mouth curving faintly. “You think too much.”

And with the crowd still cheering around you, with adrenaline still burning bright in your blood, you realized something deeply inconvenient. You would have sung anything he asked for.

That was your first gig together, just you and them. 

The band was supposed to be permanent. At seventeen, everything was. Friendships were forever, cities were temporary, and the future was something that happened to other people. You never looked at the three boys in that room and thought one day this would end. Why would you? Back then, endings only existed in songs.

The band was never just a band either. It was where all of you kept yourselves. In between school, parents, deadlines, report cards, and every adult asking what you planned to do with your life, there was this small, loud thing that belonged only to you. A room full of amps, cheap cigarettes, tangled wires, sometimes bottles of alcohol and people who understood you better than they should have.

Some nights rehearsal was useless. Riki would play too loud on purpose, Maki would forget the same part three times and swear it was experimental, James would smoke by the window and act like none of it concerned him until he suddenly stood up, rewrote half the song, and made everyone follow.

Then there were nights when everything worked.

Those were dangerous nights. Because on nights like that, it felt impossible to imagine ever becoming anything else. The songs sounded bigger than the rooms they were trapped in. You remember how James would glance at you halfway through the song, and suddenly your voice would become something bolder than it was five seconds ago.

You lived for those glances more than you should have.

Before every performance, he always looked for you first. It was such a small thing you nearly missed it. Rooms full of people, cables snapping under shoes, strangers shouting for drinks, staff yelling nonsense—and still, somehow, his eyes found you before the lights came on.

Sometimes he’d nod once, sometimes smirk, sometimes just stare long enough—with eyes too full of adoration for your stomach to ruin your concentration. Then he’d step onstage like the room belonged to him, you used to think James loved music most. Later, you realized he loved being wanted by it.

There is a difference.

He wrote songs the way some people start fights—quickly, recklessly, and expecting everyone else to deal with the aftermath. He’d bring in half-finished lyrics on crumpled paper, melodies hummed under his breath, chord progressions he refused to explain. Then he’d hand them to the room like gifts.

But there were songs he only ever handed to you. A chorus lowered because your voice sounded warmer there. A bridge repeated because he liked the way you breathed before the third line. Notes he insisted you hold longer because “it hurts better that way.”

“What does that even mean?” you asked once.

He shrugged, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Means do it again.”

So you did.

You always did.

No one said anything about the two of you, not directly. That was the strange kindness everyone offered. Riki would raise an eyebrow when James disappeared after rehearsal and you vanished five minutes later. Maki would sigh whenever one of you snapped at the other over something that was clearly not about music. But no one asked questions.

Maybe they knew some things died when named too early. You fought often, mostly over songs…and then made up by making out but no one has to know about that part.

He’d cut your verse and call it weak, you’d accuse him of being impossible, he’d say you were too sensitive, you’d say he was arrogant. Riki would quietly unplug his bass and wait for the stormy weather to pass.

Then an hour later you’d be sitting beside James on the floor, sharing convenience store noodles, knees touching like nothing happened.

That was the problem with the two of you—nothing ever happened, everything just continued. You never confessed. He never asked. No one drew lines. No one crossed them either. You just kept slipping further into something neither of you respected enough to define. And because of that, it started to feel endless.

That is what youth does best—it makes temporary things feel permanent. You thought the band would last because how could something built from so much wanting possibly disappear? You thought James would stay because he was always there, leaning against doorframes, smoking out windows, calling you late, asking if you were free. You thought there would always be another rehearsal, another show, another song he’d look at you through.

You thought wrong in the ordinary way young people do.

Looking back, the signs were embarrassing.

Talking more about James always felt a little useless. He was the kind of person who made sense only in fragments.. You could know him for years and still feel like you were piecing together someone from smoke, late night hang(make)outs , and things he never finished saying.

He loved cigarettes first, seven star cigarettes especially—he put you on those too. He was 14 when he started and by eighteen he had preferences. He’d talk nonsense about flavor, filter quality, as if any of it mattered when all of it still ended in ash. He liked the ritual of it more than the smoking itself—you noticed that early, the flick of the lighter, the pause before the inhale and the way he’d tap the end over an ashtray with absent precision. 

Sometimes you thought he only smoked because it gave his hands something to do when he didn’t know how to be touched.

He never spoke much about his parents, which told you enough. Some people describe family in detail because they love them. Others avoid the topic because language would be too complicated for others to learn—sort of like putting a child who only spoke English in Russia, the child wouldn't understand shit. James belonged to those who avoided the topic. You learned in scraps: a father who existed mostly financially, a mother who was easier to disappoint than to know, dinners eaten alone, birthdays forgotten with such consistency they no longer counted as betrayal.

He said it all casually, which made it worse.

Once, while looking for clean glasses in his kitchen, you asked if anyone was coming home. He laughed and said, “To which house?”

That was how he treated pain—like a joke told too dryly for anyone to interrupt.

He didn’t have many friends either. Not real ones. There was the band, of course—Riki, Maki, you. A few names from Seoul he texted at odd hours, people who seemed to exist in stories more than real life. Mainly musicians—you remember hearing about some guy named Martin. Mostly, though, he kept his life narrow. Intimacy required maintenance, and James disliked owing people anything.

He slept badly—insomniac basically.

You discovered that long before he admitted it. He’d message at three in the morning asking if you were awake, then pretend it was accidental when you answered. He’d arrive to practice with the exhaustion of someone who had closed his eyes but never rested. Sometimes you’d find him lying on the studio floor after rehearsal, arm over his face, claiming he was “just thinking.”

He was always thinking. That was the problem.

At night, when the mask wore off and the room got quiet, you could see it on him—the restlessness, the dread, the strange irritation. He was terrified of wasting himself, terrified of becoming ordinary, terrified of being the kind of man who never left the city he was born in and spent the rest of his life explaining why. Maybe that's why he had to get drunk to sleep, it was a coping mechanism—a bad one but at least it helped him get sleep.

Failure haunted him in ways success never did. That was why he drank too young and too often. Not enough to become a cautionary tale, just enough to keep edges blurred. Beer after rehearsal, whiskey someone older bought him, vodka in plastic cups because it was cheap and efficient. He drank like he did everything else to relax first and deal with the consequences later.

You hated it until you understood it.

Alcohol quieted the voice in him that kept asking if he was enough. Cigarettes occupied the hands that didn’t know where to put themselves. Music gave shape to feelings he couldn’t say plainly. And you—well. You were what he reached for when none of the others worked.

That should have frightened you more than it did. The two of you were never healthy. You knew that even then, though youth has a way of renaming damage as passion. You mistook intensity for depth, confusion for mystery, dependency for love. So did he. You were drawn together by matching fractures. Both of you knew abandonment too well, both of you knew what it was to become useful so people might keep you, both of you confused being needed with being cherished.

He wanted someone who would stay no matter how badly he behaved. You wanted someone who would choose you without being asked. Neither of you knew how to request those things honestly—you both were trauma bonded.

So instead, you built a language made of almosts, almost dating, almost confessing, almost staying over, almost saying I need you and almost asking what are we?

He’d kiss you like certainty, then disappear emotionally for three days. You’d punish him with silence, then show up the second he asked if you were free. He’d write songs no one could mistake as being about you, then introduce you publicly as “my friend.” You’d laugh it off, then cry about it alone where pride could survive.

It was ugly sometimes, tender too. Usually both at once. There were nights he’d hold you like the world was ending and mornings he’d act like nothing had happened. There were fights that began over setlists and ended with old wounds neither of you had named. There were apologies delivered through acts of service because neither of you trusted direct language.

If you were sick, he’d appear with medicine and no explanation. If he was spiraling, he’d ask if you were free. That was your entire relationship in two sentences. And yet, it would be dishonest to call it worthless just because it was unhealthy. There was love there, real love, even if poorly handled. You understood each other in the places other people rarely reached. He saw through your sarcasm to the girl terrified of being forgettable. You saw through his arrogance to the boy convinced love was temporary.

The tragedy was not that you loved each other. The tragedy was that you loved each other at the wrong time. A phase full of substances, hurt and just fucked up stuff. Back then though, it felt romantic that he needed you so much. Later, you’d realize people can drown while holding each other.

Still, when James looked at you from the stage, cigarette smell still clinging to his jacket, eyes tired from another sleepless night, guitar hanging low like it belonged there, it was easy to believe love alone could save two broken people.

Youth believes many beautiful lies.

You weren’t innocent either. That would have been easier—if James had been the damage and you had simply received it. But people rarely come to each other whole.

Your mother left early enough that memory could not make her real. She existed more as an outline than a person—old stories, half kept photos, the kind of absence that sits quietly in a room for years. Your father was worse in some ways. Still alive, still somewhere, still technically yours, yet distant enough to feel fictional.

So you were raised by your grandmother, who loved you the way some older women do: through food, rules, sharp words, and sacrifices never spoken aloud. She kept you alive, kept you decent, kept a roof over your head. You learned early not to need much. Need made people leave. Need made you a burden. Better to be useful, easy, amusing. Better to become the girl who laughed first, who helped everyone else, who acted like nothing touched her deeply enough to matter.

You knew how to be wanted. Helpful girls are always wanted. You had no idea how to be loved. That was why James got under your skin so badly. He was damaged in familiar ways, distant in familiar ways, hungry in familiar ways. Loving him felt less like falling and more like repeating something old.

And fuck, did you love him. 

Just never enough to admit it aloud.

Somehow, without discussion and with no real decision made by either of you, you began living together. That was how most things happened between you and James—gradually enough to deny, seriously enough to matter.

At first it was practical. You stayed over because practice ended late and the trains had stopped. Then you stayed because you already had clothes there. Then because your charger lived beside his bed. Then because his kitchen had tea you liked and your grandmother had begun asking too many careful questions.

One morning you realized your toothbrush was in his bathroom cup beside his. Another morning you realized half your sweaters were hanging in his closet. By the time anyone else pointed it out, you had been living there for months. Neither of you mentioned it. Naming things made them vulnerable.

His apartment was still small and badly heated, still smelled faintly of smoke and whatever cheap alcohol he’d bought last. But it changed around you. There were books stacked by the bed now, hair ties on the sink, your rings beside his ashtray, groceries that hinted someone actually cared whether nutrients were consumed, blankets folded properly and plants you insisted would survive and he insisted would not.

You turned his place into something survivable. He turned it into yours. Mornings became their own private addiction. You’d wake first sometimes, half tangled in sheets, the pale light coming through the curtains in weak stripes across the room. James slept badly even in sleep—restless, shifting, brow faintly furrowed like he was arguing with dreams. But when he felt you moving, he’d reach without opening his eyes and drag you back against him with sleepy entitlement.

“Five more minutes,” he’d mumble.

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Then clearly I mean ten.”

You’d laugh, and he’d kiss you before the sound fully left your mouth. Slow, warm, lazy kisses that belonged only to mornings. Nothing dramatic. No hunger, no performance. Just familiarity. Lips meeting because they had learned to begin the day that way.

Sometimes he’d tuck his face into your neck after, breathing you in like something medicinal. Sometimes he’d keep one hand at your waist while scrolling through messages with the other. Sometimes he’d refuse to let you get up at all until you threatened to walk out.

It was domestic in the most dangerous sense. Because it felt normal. You cooked badly together, he smoked out the kitchen window while pretending to help, you stole his shirts, he complained when you reorganized drawers, then asked where everything was after, you fought over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper with the intensity of a married couple, you waited for him after late studio nights and pretended you had only stayed awake accidentally, he learned which tea to make when your moods turned sour, you learned how to tell, from the way he unlocked the door, whether the day had been harsh on him.

People who visited assumed you were together—a reasonable mistake.

You sat in each other’s laps during rehearsals. He kissed your forehead absentmindedly while tuning his guitar. You fixed his collar before interviews. He carried your bag without asking. In public, he reached for your hand the way some people check their pockets for keys—pure instinct.

After shows, he’d pull you into him backstage like applause belonged to both of you. At bars, he’d rest his chin on your shoulder while talking to other people. When strangers flirted with him, his eyes searched the room for your reaction before he answered. When men tried their luck with you, he became cold in a way only you recognized.

Even your little audience noticed.

Two thousand listeners online, maybe less in person on good nights, and still they noticed. Fans made edits of glances caught on camera, comment sections argued whether the chemistry was real, people slowed down videos of him looking at you during choruses like they were studying evidence. Someone once uploaded a compilation titled James forgetting real life exists whenever Yn sings.

Riki laughed for ten straight minutes.

“What?” you said. “It’s weird.”

“It’s accurate,” he replied.

Whenever anyone asked, though, the answer never changed. “We’re just friends.”

Sometimes you said it. Sometimes James did. Sometimes both of you in the same interview, with matching expressions too practiced to be innocent.

Just friends.

Friends who shared rent, friends who slept in the same bed, friends who madeout in elevators, friend who kissed like lovers, friends who fought like spouses and reconciled like lovers, friends who knew each other’s passwords, scars, tempers, and pulse points.

The lie became so routine it almost felt true.

Almost.

Because underneath all that devotion lived resentment neither of you knew how to bury properly. James resented being hidden. He would never say it plainly, but it came out elsewhere. In the way he went silent after interviews, in the harshness of his jokes when someone called you single and in how hard he kissed you after public denials, as if trying to recover something stolen.

He resented that he was good enough to come home to, but never important enough to name, he resented being emotionally useful while remaining officially nothing, he resented always being almost chosen.

You saw it most on nights after events, when you’d both come home dressed too well and too tired. He’d loosen his tie, light a cigarette, and stand by the window in that dangerous quiet of his.

“What?” you’d ask.

“Nothing.”

“James.”

He’d exhale smoke. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy what?”

“Acting surprised every time people think you’re available.”

Then the fight would begin somewhere small and end somewhere ancient.

You resented him too, deeply and often. You resented his unpredictability—the way one week he was tender and attentive, the next unreachable inside the same apartment. You resented how moods ruled the room. How everyone adjusted around him when he was dark, tired, angry, distant. You resented that his pain always arrived louder than yours.

Most of all, you resented how much power he had over you.

How a text from him could change your day? How one withdrawn glance could ruin your appetite and how praise from strangers meant less than approval from the man currently ignoring you on the couch.

Loving him often felt like losing arguments you never agreed to have.

There were nights you’d watch him sleeping beside you and feel such tenderness it hurt, there were mornings you’d hear him humming in the kitchen and want to marry him, there were afternoons you’d consider leaving forever because he’d said “fine” in the wrong tone.

That was the shape of your life together: adoration interrupted by emotional warfare and the fear of commitment. And yet, it was not miserable. That was the confusing part.

For every ugly fight, there were ten moments so soft they made you doubt your own complaints. He still kissed you every morning, still saved the last bite of food he knew you liked, still rewrote songs around your voice, still remembered the date your mother left though you’d only mentioned it once, still sat outside the bathroom door when sadness locked you inside it.

For every time he hurt you through cowardice, he loved you through instinct. Which made leaving impossible.

One summer evening, after a rooftop show, the two of you walked home through streets still warm from daylight. You were carrying flowers some fan had handed you. He was carrying your heels because you’d complained for six blocks.

“We look pathetic,” you said.

“We look married,” he corrected.

You laughed. “That’s worse.”

He stopped walking. “Would it be?”

You turned to him, waiting for the joke that would save you both. It never came. Traffic moved below. Somewhere nearby someone was singing badly through an open window. James’s face was unreadable in the streetlight.

Then he shrugged and kept walking. “Forget it.”

You hated him for that for weeks. Because that was another thing he did—opened doors emotionally only to leave you standing outside them.

Still, you followed him home. Still, you slept in his bed. Still, the next morning he kissed you awake like nothing in the world was broken.

Your listeners continued to speculate, friends continued not to ask, the band continued rising in slow, uneven steps. And through all of it, the two of you remained suspended in that ridiculous unnamed state—more intimate than most marriages, less honest than most affairs. More than friends but less than lovers but also too much like lovers to not be lovers—doesn’t make sense right? exactly.

People think disaster arrives with noise. Usually it arrives quietly, disguised as routine. By the time Seoul entered the conversation, you and James had already built a whole life on top of things neither of you were brave enough to say.

So when the whole Seoul thing arrived, it arrived as betrayal.

You noticed it first in the details. James started taking calls in the hallway with the door half shut, started showering before meetings he never mentioned, started wearing the black coat you liked because it made him look put together and started smoking at the window instead of beside you in bed—almost as if it hurt to look at you while smoking to get his mind off of things.

He slept less, smiled less and surprisingly thought more. That was always dangerous. James only ever became soft right before he was about to do something cruel.

The band felt it too. Rehearsals ended in silences instead of laughter. Cigarettes burned quicker, songs sounded sharper…everyone knew a storm was coming. No one wanted to be the first to name it.

It happened on a Thursday after practice. Riki had stormed outside after fighting with James over tempo, Maki followed because someone had to keep him from setting something on fire.

You were left alone in the studio with James. You were coiling cables with unnecessary violence. He was pretending to tune a guitar that was already in tune.

“Yn.” You ignored him. “Yn.”

“What?”

“I need to tell you something.”

You laughed once. “That sentence has never improved anyone’s life.”

He did not laugh back.

Your hands slowed.

“I got offered a contract.”

You looked at him. “Okay.”

“In Seoul.”

The cable slipped from your hands and hit the floor with a flat sound, silence flooded the room. “For what?”

“A new band, with real connections.”

“Connections.”

“Real ones.”

You blinked. “Real ones.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” you said quietly. “Say it properly.”

His jaw tightened the way it always did when feelings demanded precision. “I mean chances that aren’t trapped in this city.”

You stared at him like he had become a stranger in your favorite jacket. The couch was the same, the posters were the same, the ashtray you hated was still full beside the amp, his coffee cup was still on the windowsill with your lipstick mark on it from that morning. Yet somehow the whole room had moved one inch to the left. Enough to make you dizzy. “So you’re leaving.”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I have to think about my future.”

The cruelty of that sentence was how fair it sounded. You laughed again, and this time it broke halfway through. “Your future.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m evil because I don’t want to rot here.”

There he was. That version of James who struck first whenever fear cornered him. “Rot here?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” you said. “Apparently I only know what you mean when it helps you.”

He swore under his breath and stood up.

“Riki thinks this band lasts forever because he needs something to believe in. Maki’s going to law school and barely pretends otherwise. This was never permanent.”

“And me?”

He hesitated…that hurt more than words. “And me?” you repeated.

He dragged a hand through his hair. “yn , I-.”

The room went still, because that was not just about the band.

You nodded slowly. “What I am to you?”

“You’re well, a friend…I-.” He hesitated more, “I don't mean that..”

“It’s what you really mean.”

“No.” He stepped closer, frustration and panic fighting in his face. “I meant whatever this is between us was never enough to hold everything together.”

Your chest tightened. “This?”

He looked away. Coward. You laughed, then started crying in the middle of it. Not elegantly, not one cinematic tear sliding down your cheek. Real crying, ugly crying. The kind of crying that makes your heart physically hurt.  You hated him for seeing it. His face changed instantly. The hesitation gone so fast it almost looked like panic. 

“Hey.”

You turned away.

“Baby.”

“Don’t.”

He crossed the room anyway. When you stepped back, he caught your wrists, then pulled you into him with the same certainty he used for everything that mattered. Your forehead hit his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I’m sorry, baby.”

That word nearly killed you. Then he said the one thing he had denied both of you for years. “I love you.”

You froze. Then cried harder than before, because how dare he? How dare he spend years calling you friend, years touching you like devotion and speaking of you like convenience, years building a home with you out of unnamed things—only to become honest at the exact moment honesty could do nothing. How deep was his love?

How dare he love you and still go. “I really do,” he said, voice shaking now. “I just—” He stopped there. Because there was nothing after I just that could save either of you.

You cried into him until your ribs hurt. He held you all night on the studio couch. Neither of you went home. Sometimes he kissed your forehead, sometimes he brushed tears from your face with trembling thumbs. Once, around four in the morning, you felt his chest jerk once under your cheek, sharp and silent. Even crying had to happen secretly for him.

No plan was made, no promises helped. Morning came anyway and when he woke, you were gone.

You took your toothbrush, two sweaters, your notebook, and whatever pride fit into a canvas tote from his apartment.

He called seven times, you answered none.

The next time you saw him was at the station. Of course Maki came. He already knew about it. He always knew about James and Seoul. He never told anyone. Riki came too, he had too, he accepted it—he had to.

You came because not coming would have confessed too much.

The station was loud. Announcements overhead as James stood near the platform edge with a duffel bag and his guitar case over one shoulder.

He looked like every dream he had ever had. He looked like every problem you had ever loved.

When he saw the three of you, he smiled automatically. It died the second his eyes found yours. Riki hugged him first, hard enough to count as violence. “Don’t become annoying,” he muttered into his shoulder. Maki shook his hand, then hugged him too quickly to be commented on.

Then it was your turn, neither of you moved.

The train doors slid open with a soft chime, passengers stepped out, others stepped in around you, annoyed by your tragedy.

Finally he said your name. Not loudly though, more like a prayer, like an apology and like a punishment. You followed him inside. Riki and Maki stayed on the platform. 

Inside the carriage, he led you to the space near the connecting door, half hidden from the aisle. For a second neither of you spoke, then he grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you. Hard, desperate and fucking furious. Like he could force memory to survive distance. Like if he kissed you enough now, leaving later might become survivable. His mouth tasted like seven star cigarettes—his favourite and the bitter coffee he drank when he was nervous. Your hands clutched his collars so tightly your fingers hurt. He kissed you until breathing became secondary.

When he pulled back, both of you were shaking. “Come with me,” he said.

You almost laughed. “To what?” you whispered. “To become what? Your secret in another country?”

Pain crossed his face so quickly it was almost beautiful. “I would’ve made it right.”

“You had 2 years.”

That silenced him, the warning chime sounded. Doors closing soon.

He pulled you into one last hug so tight it bordered on cruelty. Your cheek pressed against his chest. His heart was racing.

“I love you,” he said again, smaller this time.

You shut your eyes. “I know.”

Then you pushed away first. Because if he let go first again, it would destroy whatever was left of you. You stepped onto the platform just as the doors slid shut between you. For one suspended second, you were separated only by glass.

He lifted a hand, You couldn’t move yours. The train began to pull away. You walked beside it for two steps and then stopped. He remained visible through passing windows until distance turned him into shape, then shadow, then nothing.

Your legs gave out beside a pillar, you sank to the ground, knees pulled to your chest, forehead buried against them, sobbing so hard no sound came out properly. Your shoulders shook. Your hands clawed uselessly at denim.

People passed around you in practiced arcs. Cities are merciful that way—they let strangers break privately in public. Down the platform, Riki stood rigid with his jaw clenched. Maki looked away to give you dignity. As the last carriage curved out of sight, they caught one final glimpse through the rear window.

James had collapsed into a seat, elbows on knees, face buried in both hands. He was leaving, and he was crying where no one could hold him.

perm tags: @amb4rluvs / @beatbymarzz / @sailuvsu / @lcvehyeon / @frizzyyo / @09zpzkeonns / @yunjiiin / @hyuneskkami / @one-chance-pls / @rickyshensgirlfriend / @snowzxki / @yuu-kizx / @myen2rude / @meowchness / @jjuhyeons / @6rei-ji / @luffyloving / @w0narchy

The lack of sleep recently must be making you hear things, and you set a mental reminder to ask for an increase in your melatonin dosage when you get back home from this town. From Forks. Washington’s Olympic Peninsula; a place you’d never voluntarily step foot in if it weren’t for the paper desperately needing something fresh to publish. 

You press your lips into a thin line and shake your head, willing yourself to wake up and focus.

When you turn back, a figure is standing before you.

You can’t help but let out the gasp that escapes you this time, taking a step back, trying to calm yourself. 

“Sorry.” He says, raising his eyebrows in an almost taunting-like way. “Did I scare you?”

“Maybe.” You offer a small chuckle, easing tension, and clear your throat. “I didn’t see you come up.”

He’s taller than you, though his rugged cap planted over his messy hair might have something to do with it. You do a quick intake; sharp bone structure, onyx dark eyes, and hollow, pale cheeks. So, so pale, he looks almost deathly. 

“Not much sun around here.” He says, as if offering an answer for your thoughts.

Your breath hitches. “What?”

“It messes with the light. Why you didn’t see me.” His eyes are burning into yours, willing you to accept his explanation.

“Oh,” you force out, nodding. “Right.” 

He simply watches as you swallow and force yourself to steady your thrumming pulse. A task that’s not as easy when he’s looking at you like he has intentions if you move even a muscle. 

Your intuition–one that’s never been wrong before–is yelling at you to back away even more; to run until you see someone else; to flee this scene because you know all too well about strangers and solitude.

“Like I said, you shouldn’t be here.” He echoes.

Finally, something on script. Something you can work with. 

Your investigative days have led you on strange pathways before; places you legally shouldn’t have been, but over the years of experience, you’ve learnt how to sweet-talk your way out of trouble. You straighten your back–Forks will not make you another statistic. 

“Right! I’m so sorry. Is this private property? I had no idea…” Feigning innocence, eyebrows furrowing in distress. “I tried following the main river.”

The boy–if you can even call him that–is quiet for a moment. Something is gleaming in his eyes, as if he has you exactly where he wants. 

“You’re alright. No, it’s not private property, but the woods aren’t safe for a girl like you.”

You let a humourless scoff. He’s playing into your act a bit too much. 

Using the opportunity to eye him down properly, your gaze doesn’t miss a single detail. You’ve seen him before. You realise. Though you can’t recall where, or when, you know his face. You wouldn’t forget one like his. 

The vague familiarity calms you down. You’re really grasping onto straws here, but it’s a slight relief knowing he’s a little less harmless. 

The edge of his lips twitch.

“The woods wouldn’t be safe for a guy like you, either.” You finally respond. “You can’t be that much older than me.”

A slow, deliberate, smile spreads across his face. His features were almost too perfect, that the expression makes him look more real. 

“I’ve been twenty.” 

The way people talk here is so strange. 

You wait for anything further, and he offers none. 

“Not much older than me,” You confirm. 

He only hums. 

He turns his attention to a long, fallen log covered in fern, wildflowers sticking out messily. Bending down gracefully to pluck one out of the bunch, the boy gently dangles it in front of your fisted hand at the side of your hip. 

If this was his way of pleading trust, you hate how it works. 

Opening your palm, you let him drop the light pink wildflower into it, fingers curling around it to flex your body into moving again. You hadn’t realised how still you’ve been since he appeared. 

The boy begins to walk in the opposite direction you were heading. 

Without meaning to, you walk with him. 

“I haven’t seen you before.” His voice is softer now. Curious. Itching to get you to keep talking.

You recognise the path he’s taking you down–you’re retracing your steps. 

You didn’t want to leave the forest too early, given this morning was practically spent settling into your motel room, but the endless branches of hanging canopy weren’t giving you much to work with either. 

“I only just arrived.” Your answer is plain. You’ve got to start asking questions too, the boy could be of use, after all.

“The tourists usually skip this part of Washington.”

“Not a tourist.”

“Then what are you here for, Miss…?”

You state your name, followed by “SBS,” with a fiddle of your lanyard. Your bright photo identification plastered across it. 

“A reporter!” The boy marvels, “We don’t get many of those. I’m surprised our police haven’t reassured you away.” 

“Oh, they tried.” Memories of Martin–the scrawny, blonde intern at the station–flash in your mind. He had to have been freshly graduated from high school with the way he stuttered in attempts of refusing an interview. “But my boss–she says there’s something sinister going on over here. So, I’m not leaving until I have a story.”

“Do you believe her?” But his tone is off, as if there’s a right or wrong answer to this question, and not one of opinion.

He faces you, and you feel the spotlight burning your cheeks. “Two seventeen-year-old boys missing in the span of a month? I’d say that’s pretty sinister.”

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but then closes it again. After a pause; 

“The logic is there.” 

“You…” The sentence can’t come out. He turns to look at you again, tilting his head to implore you to go on. “You don’t seem to agree?” 

A clench of his jaw. “Live long enough, you tend to get used to how small towns work.” 

He looks away now, taking in the vastness of green surrounding the two of you.

“You’re a Forks local, then?”

His head rocks side to side, as if weighing the answer. “Something like that.” 

“Local enough for a statement, at least?” 

“I’ll give you one, if you let me see you again before you leave town.”

For the second time since meeting this boy, you’re taken aback. The shock even makes you stop walking. “That is an extremely unprofessional deal.” 

“You’re writing about a retired case.” He chuckles, commanding you with his hand to keep moving forwards. “I hate to break it to you, but the Ahns and Eoms don’t want to cry to the media about their boys anymore. I think I’m the best chance you’ve got.”

You simply shake your head, and in a trance-like state, you continue to follow him. “Families of victims are always looking to get the word out there. If I don’t get something from them, I’m sure there are others who will talk.” 

“None as good-looking as me, though.” He grins, teeth flashing your way. His face snaps back frontwards though, hiding it as quickly as it came. 

Though you feel the urge to scoff again, you technically can’t disagree. 

He’s unbelievably gorgeous; an alluring way about him that you’ve never found in the city boys you’ve dated in the past. His cologne even, the way it’s breathing off his heavy coat, is enough to make you dizzy.

A satisfied expression forms on his face at your silence. 

Before you know it, you’ve nearly stepped out of the alienating forest of Forks. 

You can tell, because at the very first sight of a building, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN AHN KEONHO?’ posters are plastered across the walls.

The reminder of the disappearances settles down any attempts of flirtation and humour that were about to surface. The boy watches as you stare, and lets the weight of it all sink onto a moment of silence between the two of you. 

“Off the record?”

You turn this time, ears piqued in interest, but he’s not next to you anymore. You’ve realised you’ve kept walking ahead a few steps, as if getting closer to the pictures of the lost boy will give you a clue on where he’s gone–where they’ve all gone. 

“Yes?” You pry, especially as you watch him slightly chew on the inside of his cheeks. 

“You were right to go into the woods to investigate. There’s a reason no one has published anything about Forks.” He says this in a rush, a slight octave above a whisper–like he shouldn’t reveal this to you. Like he shouldn’t be talking to you at all. “But if you’re smart, you really won’t come back here. You won’t stay for long, either.” 

You slowly read between his lines, half comprehending what’s trying to say. Your chest steadily rises in increasing bursts at his warning. 

You try to remind yourself that you’re safe now–you can hear the bustle of the streets much up ahead, indicating there are more people around on the other side, if need be. Such safety produces bravery, you’ve come to find out. 

“You know something, don’t you?” The plant in your palm, almost crushed. 

You seem to catch a dip in his head, but you’re not certain. 

“What is it?” Your eyes frantically searching his now, “An animal? Some sort of voodoo ritual?”

You trace back to all you’ve read about the history of Forks. 

It’d be impossible not to do research for the case of this town; generations of boys slipping from existence every few decades, no questions asked, no pleas answered. 

You remember how many speculated beasts that roam in the night, or how other sources simply passed down folktales; history coming into fruition. Though you didn’t believe them entirely, the isolating experience of the forest makes you rewire your beliefs on what could rationally be happening in a town that’s left off the maps. 

His eyes are narrowing down to look at you through them. He’s about to respond, until a branch nearby snaps. A noise–a warning–made by someone who knows how to stay quiet. 

Then the crunching of leaves as heavy boots make their way closer.

“James, you’re frightening the poor girl.” A different voice says, and you whip your head to another boy stepping out from behind the trunks covered in moss. “I can hear her heartbeat from here.”

He’s slightly taller. His voice is slightly deeper too. A multitude of differences between him and the first boy, James, with the exception of his complexion also being ghost-like. 

“Hello,” He dips his head low, like a bow. “I apologise on his behalf. James doesn’t know what he’s saying, really. He likes to play with his fo-”

“Friends!” James finishes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” 

His eyes haven’t separated from yours this whole time, and they brighten when you nod. 

Pleased, he turns to the boy standing next to him now. “Juhoon,” James sighs. “You’re interrupting my time with my new friend.” 

Juhoon’s face is stonecold. “Carlisle sent me. He could tell you were up to no good again.” 

James rolls his eyes. “Not a single moment of peace or privacy with you around,” He mumbles to himself. 

You can’t help but revel in this dynamic; you don’t even care where this Juhoon came from, you’re relieved to see James acting like a real person. For a second, he almost didn’t seem like one. 

James blinks in your direction. 

He keeps doing this, you note to yourself. As if you’re saying all of this out loud, and he’s reacting like second-nature. It’s odd to find yourself in proximity with someone as perceptive as you consider yourself to be. 

“Hello, Juhoon.” You greet, finally taking your gaze off of James. 

The seemingly younger boy doesn’t take your late attention to heart. “You’ll have to excuse us, friend of James, our father wants us home.” 

You can’t help but smile at his childish antics, and send another nod his way, outlining understanding. 

Then, to James, “I want my statement.” 

It’s unspoken you’ve consented to what comes with it. 

Juhoon watches at how James’ smirk is forced to the ground; as if he’s guilty, as if he’s caught. 

He can only sigh at his older brother.

“Carlisle’s right. You are up to no good again.” Juhoon disrupts the moment, glancing between the two of you.

Your eyebrows rise at this. “You walk girls out of the woods often, James?” 

Hearing him say your name isn’t helping him wipe the smug expression off of his face, even though he knows he has to. “Only the pretty-”

A slight breeze picks up from your direction, and you can feel your hair lift off your shoulders. You grumble at this cursed weather, even if the wind only lasts for just a moment.

It’s enough for Juhoon. 

It’s enough for James. 

It’s enough for something to shift.

In the split-second you took to pat down your hair-do, your instincts have spiked up, something suddenly stirring inside of you to run. 

Looking back at James, his eyes have gone impossibly darker. His nose slightly flares from impulse, his dry lips part from want, his nails dig beds into his flesh from restraint. 

You almost feel like prey, and when James hears this thought–because you can feel him react to it with the quirk of his mouth, you’re not sure if you want to agree to his deal anymore. 

“Hey!” Another voice calls from behind. The three of you, disrupted from the bubbling tension, look across the field to see a lanky boy, six foot three, waving both arms in the air with glee. 

Do the boys in this town just not know how to approach social situations properly?

With the biggest grin on his face, Martin-from-the-station is huffing and puffing when he finally reaches you. “There you are!” 

The shift in the air is gone–you feel like you can breathe again.

“Hi?” You grimace, but he puts up a finger, indicating he needs another minute to catch his breath. 

“I was meant to tell you earlier, you’re not supposed to go into the woods.” He manages, through shortness of gasps. When he can stand up right, his eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Bad place.”

“I got the message,” You’re about to point at James and Juhoon, but when you look behind you, they’ve been replaced with the silence of Fork’s lush again. 

Even their absence startles you, they were just there.

Were they ever with you at all?

Martin, ignorant to your internal turmoil, takes your arm and drags you closer to the town. His warm hand grounding you, as you make it back to the centre of the graveyard of a city.

You hate admitting James was right. 

The Ahn girl had slammed the door in your face, and the parents of the second boy who disappeared, Eom Seonghyeon, only stared blankly in disbelief. The people around town had completely avoided you too; picking up their things when you sat at a table near them, crossing the street when you began to walk their way. 

Small towns keep their secrets like no other.

Hours later after leaving, you’re drawn to take a wander in the forest again, to see if you could find something this time. Or to see if James would come find you again. The more you pondered on your interaction, the more you knew both options were really an individual one. 

You never got his statement, and so you’re back to square one. 

Martin, the young boy who had been eager to get you back into town according to the wishes of Chief Swan, was at least useful by directing you to the town’s (one, and only) library. You guessed a historical report was better than going home tomorrow empty-handed. 

Which is how you got into this position: crouched on the floor in between bookshelves, one table-lamp dragged to your corner, it being your only source of light, as you flip through the volumes of social and political notes of Washington State. 

Forks: A History, is keeping you company tonight. 

It could really be considered an antique, how it had been collecting dust for what seems like a millennia the way it made you sneeze when you first pulled it out.  

Most of the information is a bore; records of architectural developments taking up the majority of pages, but you continue to seamlessly turn the page regardless. 

Your mind swirls back to James again. 

His scent. 

His voice. 

The way he looked at you. 

You kept his wildflower in the back pocket of your pants, tucked away for when you want to remember him after you leave Forks. You decide it’s such a shame a pretty boy like him is stuck here, in this peculiar, rainy place. Even if he was peculiar, himself.

You can feel yourself getting so distracted–you almost jump in fright when James’ face appears in front of you as you flip the page. 

Delusional girl. Saw a nice face once and now he’s apparently everywhere. The sleep deprivation really is getting to you. You almost chuckle out loud to yourself.

You let yourself take a miniature break from reading–it’s not like you were comprehending any of the literature anyways–and rub your eyes. When you look back down at the page though, James’ face is still there. 

You have to take several blinks, press the book up in front of you, and illuminate the lamp right onto the centre of the page because you truly cannot believe your eyes.

James.

It was really James.

A splitting image of him, standing behind a woman sitting down, and next to a man, both just as beautiful as him. 

A family portrait, with ‘1908’ stamped in a faded, red, onto the paragraph right next to them. 

This chapter is dedicated to Dr. Carlisle Cullen, his beloved wife, Dr. Esme Cullen, and their only son, Yufan Cullen. In establishing Forks’ first public hospital, we thank the medical developments that have been brought to our town from the family’s arrival. The Cullens, who volunteered their time preaching aid and wellness to our patients, have immortalised their well-wishes in their generous donations before their departure from Forks, ten years after Forks Hospital opened in 1908. The funding for the public healthcare of Forks’ citizens will be felt, centuries from today. Though the Cullen family may never read these words, the people of Forks dedicate their lives to their munificence.

1908?

You know this is mathematically impossible–that this boy printed in a historical volume is the same as the one you talked to in the forest only a mere hours ago–but you could draw his nose, his eyes, his cheekbones, the curve of his neck’s apple blindfolded, and you’d have a replica of the image before you. 

And Carlisle. That had been the name Juhoon referred to as his father earlier today, too. That was too much of a coincidence to ignore either. This was him. This was James–of this, you’re absolutely sure. 

You slam the volume closed. Specs of dust fly about, but you can hardly bring yourself to care. You knew something was off with him, with this town, with these people.

You had to go home. Now. 

Though the library hall felt huge when you first stepped in, it’s suddenly claustrophobic. You can’t stand being here anymore, willing yourself to gain enough mobility to crawl up and push the cursed book back to where you found it. 

“Hello, again,” a familiar voice says.

You go still. Leaning on the bookcase for support, as you linger your fingertips on the volume.

“How long have you been there?” Your voice is weak, hoarse from dehydration. You’re still facing the bookshelf, too anxious to turn around.

“I only just arrived.” James says simply. He whispers your name, a command for you to look his way. “Will you let me see you? That was our deal, was it not?”

“I don’t need your statement anymore.” You somehow breathe out.

You’ve memorised the escape route from when you walked in, a habit you’ve picked up since childhood. 

“You’re leaving already?” He asks. If you could see him, you’d see the pout painting James’ lips too. “But we’re only starting to have fun.” 

You close your eyes in defeat.

It’s impossible to resist. It’s intoxicating how his voice coaxes you to abandon all ideas of exiting, and instead, face him.

“There she is.” James almost sighs, as he steps closer. “You look pretty, in this light.” 

He stops right in front of you, and you press your spine further into the bookshelf. 

James looks divine, too. His features are even sharper against the shadows, with only his eyes changed–a stark difference you notice only because you were staring at them so intently earlier. They’re topaz now, and as he watches you take him in, you can feel your heart bursting in your ribcage. 

You’re scared, oh, you’re so scared. 

You’ve never given thought to how you would die, coming to Forks has changed this in the span of a day.

“Yep. I still look scary if I don’t smile.” James tells you. His grins will be earned though. He can’t seem to stop them from appearing every time he’s with you–his dimples coming out from hiding, the way he steps out from the dark.

“Yufan,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

His head flickers back; in surprise, in disbelief, in awe–neither of you know. He’s quiet for a beat. Glancing between your eyes, dangerously close to you. And then, slowly; 

“No one has called me that name in a long time.”

James is silent again, and you realise he’s listening. You force yourself to not think of the portrait, but of course, trying to not think of something, makes it flash in your head like a screen just for his eyes.

A small curl at the tip of his lips again, “I knew you were a smart girl.” 

“That’s all you have to say?” You swallow. 

“I didn’t know they printed that.” He says more to himself than in response to you. “I should probably get rid of it when I’m done with you. Would be a problem if others connected the dots, don't you think?”

You can only nod. You’re still fearing for your life–you don’t want to question what his middle phrase means, because something has fused within this feeling; pure want. 

Having him so impossibly close, the tip of his nose nudges yours. 

You pull your face back, head now hitting the volumes of books. 

“James, you’re freezing.” You say astonished, reaching one hand to cautiously place it on his cheek. It stings you to touch. 

Your palm isn’t as warm as he wishes it was. 

“You too, it seems.” James mumbles.

“What?”

Before you can blink, his jacket is slipping off of his broad frame. James brings you forward by the waist, only by a step, to pull it over your shoulders.

His scent hits you even harder, and you feel your knees buckle slightly. The jacket doesn’t provide any warmth, given it was on him this whole time, but the way it envelopes you, and how his arms find their way on either side of you to push you back up against the bookshelf again is making your body heat up uncontrollably. 

“James,” You start, shaking your head as if denying this as reality. “Or Yufan. Who are you? What are you?” 

“We don’t need to say it out loud.”

These dismissals are only making you think more rationally, which you’re grateful for. 

“Those boys,” You feel something forming in your throat. You will yourself not to struggle as you ask, “Were you the ones behind their disappearances?” 

James only sighs. His newest younger brothers were the last thing he wanted to think about, but he’s swimming through your thoughts and the posters are magnified on all of them right now. 

“They’re okay,” He attempts at reassuring. 

The confirmation that he really did have something to do with them makes your blood cold. Your mind is going back and forth: run away from him, get closer, run away, get close.

All you can make out now is his name, chanting in your mind like a mantra. 

This he likes.

“Are you going to do to me, what you did to them?” You ask.

His eyes look away from yours for the first time since he arrived, looking up to think. “Women don’t deserve to hurt like this,” He states plainly. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to take care of you tonight. Alright?” 

You can’t wrap your head around the things he’s saying. Something about hurt, or something about care. To you, the two were the same.

James’ eyes are back on you now–not your eyes though, only your lips. The sight, makes you look at his. If you tipped forward just slightly, they’d touch. 

You’d be kissing him–this creature, this monster, this boy. 

A chuckle at the nicknames, all of them heard endlessly before. He likes your suggestions though, in fact, he has to answer it directly; 

“Do it.”

James?

“I’m here,” He coos. 

Get out of my head.

“You first,” is the last thing you hear, before he closes the short distance and plants his mouth onto yours. 

James immediately takes your bottom lip as his, claiming ownership, kissing it as if he has millions of times before. 

One of his hands moves from gripping the bookshelf, his pointer finger tracing the outline of your ear, the other fingers following in suit. His hands drag all the way down across your jaw, until he places it on the base of your neck to tilt your head up. 

The cold makes you shiver into his mouth, and the small opening allows him to deepen the kiss, all parts of him, aligning with every part of you.

Your hands are delicately scrunched on the edges of his shirt, pulling him closer, no doubt leaving crinkles into the fabric. Your head is spinning as you kiss him back, you can’t even focus on any specific detail, he’s all too consuming. 

James demands attention by tilting his head the other way now, swapping positions with you, tasting you from the other side. It’s a state of bliss, the two of you have found, and in doing so, you’ve both lost track of time. 

How long has passed?

Minutes? 

Hours? 

You don’t care. You don’t want it to end, even if your breathing is getting heavy as James doesn’t let you break for even a second. 

You feel his teeth graze your bottom lip. You mirror, following his lead, doing the same to him. It tickles at first and you take pleasure in this new, unexplored sensation. 

That is until, the tips of a sharp one pierces through your tender flesh. 

You gasp in white, hot, pain. 

You try to pull away, but James has one hand on your neck, the other moving to your waist, locking you in place.

His name comes out of your mouth as a beg, tears brimming your eyes at the sting of how the canine sinks in. His tongue is quick to go over the mark, soothing it, before his lips pucker at the familiar taste, on instinct swallowing what melts out. 

James smells metal, and the gravity of what he’s done finally hits. His eyes fly open, stepping away from you immediately, moving impossibly quick, he hits the bookshelf you’re standing across. 

The impact of his body is so hard, a few books come crashing down. 

James’ expression is one of shock, and his hand reaches up to wipe his mouth–the drips of blood, mixed with saliva that shine on the back of his palm is enough to fill him with dread. What has he done?

“No,” he repeats in whispers, over and over. “That wasn’t meant to happen.”

James was only meant to kiss you. He was only meant to be close enough to get a dose of your scent. To touch you, if you’d let him. He was never meant to do this. 

In a panic, James spills your name out, profusely apologising for his actions–his actions you haven’t even understood completely, too focused on how red is trickling down your bottom lip, almost reaching your chin.

“James?” You call out, as a way to calm both yourself, and him down, but it doesn’t work. You want to tell him it’s okay, to comfort him into explaining why he looks so distraught. 

James can’t stay here, he can’t look at you knowing his poison is pulsing through your veins. You won’t feel it now, just the initial sting, but you’ll feel it soon enough, and he can’t be around to watch. 

His head is shaking and your fear earlier is nothing compared to how he has you now. You’re confused, and you’re anxious, you just want him to hold you again. 

You know he knows you’re thinking this.

It’s why him vanishing in the next passing heartbeat hurts even more. 

The light from the lampshade stutters, and you have to train your eyes to stay on the fallen books, and wrap his jacket around you even tighter, to convince yourself he was real. 

You leave the library in the state James left it in too; the workers tomorrow will be concerned at the drops of crimson staining the carpet. 

You don’t remember the short walk back to the motel room, the hours you laid wide awake in the hard bed, or the girl who somehow manages to functionally wipe away last night’s mess and force food down her throat as the sun rises above Forks.

It’ll be the last time you see the sun. You don’t know it for certain, but you can feel it—your intuition, saying its farewell, as it leaves you now, too.

You only gain back a sliver of human consciousness when Chief Swan pins a new poster to the community board of the motel’s breakfast diner. You wonder how long it’ll be until you have a matching one too—it seems James got to work after he left you stranded. The poster, a confirmation of it. Five words peek out from the boy’s printed photograph.

‘HAVE YOU SEEN EDWARDS MARTIN?’

YOU ONCE HAD A friend who hated airports. When you’d asked him, thoroughly perplexed and half in disbelief, he’d told you that it was because it meant departure. People left, and wouldn’t be able to see their loved ones until they returned. It reminded him of his mother leaving, he said, whenever she went to her home country and couldn’t bring him along. 

You saw things differently. You saw them with the eyes of someone who wished to travel to lands of new opportunity, to places where you could leave your old self behind and start anew. A new place meant new people, new experiences, new sights, new outlooks on life. It reminded you of when you arrived in your new home country, young and naive and full of dreams. 

It was in this way and many others that you and Chao Yufan differed.

Funnily enough, the first time you met him was in an airport. Or, well, close to one.

北京 BEIJING

2022

You were beat. While the flight from Taipei to Beijing wasn’t far, or long, or truly anything that warranted your current exhaustion, your endless training of the past week certainly was. Your limbs ached with overexertion as you climbed off the aeroplane, hauling your carry-on with you while your coach, Peiling, walked purposefully several paces in front of you.

The airport was busy as you made your way to the baggage claim area, filled to the brim with families and couples on their way to and from different places in the world. The energy was overwhelming in a manner that made your words fail you. The atmosphere was emotionally charged, charged with the weight of families separating for the holidays, or a couple reunited after a business trip. Teenagers leaving home, adults returning. It made the air smell sweet with emotion, tears and smiles and laughs and sobs all to be heard and experienced in scenes within mere metres of one another.

You, like several other athletes on your flight, had travelled to Beijing for the Junior Asian Winter Games to represent their country on an international scale. It wasn’t too big of an event, featuring only competitors from a few countries across the continent, but for someone of your calibre—who’d only ever performed locally—it was like landing on Mars. More important, in fact. All Mars had was craters and buggies. Beijing had everything.

It had been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity given to you by a bored sponsor who had nowhere better to spend their money, but you didn’t care what it was that brought you here. All that mattered was that you’d made it, and you wouldn’t let the opportunity to make the best of it pass you by.

Baggage claim was as busy as the rest of the airport, filled to the brim with people fighting over who deserved to take their luggage first, who deserved to wait, and who deserved to lose an eye for the Louis Vitton suitcase that had made its tenth rotation without any sign of its owner stepping forward to claim it. You paused at the sight; the crowd, moving like one angry, sleep-deprived entity, and in a split second decided it would be physically safer for you to give up taking your luggage before you even started trying.

Unfortunately, you were travelling with an even angrier, even more sleep-deprived middle aged coach who was not about to waste her precious dollars simply because of your crippling anxiety, and so, you ventured into the storm. 

As you made your way to the mechanical spiral which rotated everyone’s bags like a silent urge for them to step up and claim what was theirs, your shoulders continuously bumped by nainais out for blood, you thought to yourself that whoever said the eye of the storm was the calmest bit was a dirty liar and a certain cheat. You yelped when an older gentleman pushed you cleanly out of the way, your hard-earned strength failing you in the moment of shock. Peiling yelled something at him in her Northern drawl and he backed off immediately. After that terrifying interaction, you simply kept to the sides, the areas where people didn’t bother to wait, your gaze fixed on the moving conveyor belt, on the lookout for a large suitcase with a bright, shiny pink shell.

It was after a few moments of staring and zoning out that you spotted it, pointing towards it with a victorious sound as if your newfound powers of voice-activated telekinesis would make the thing levitate towards you. Alas, it did not, and you had to use your hands and arms like the rest of the world.

You picked it up with quite a bit of effort, less because you’d overpacked and more because whatever equipment you couldn’t fit in your carry-on had been thrown into your suitcase, which, given Beijing’s tight policies on carry-on weight, was most of it. You nodded to Peiling, widening your eyes as if to say, I’ve got it. We can go. She gave you a quick thumbs up and turned to leave, and you followed shortly after. 

Sunset had inched over the horizon by the time you made it outside, the cold November air hitting your face and freezing your cheeks. Peiling raised her one free hand to hail a cab, pushing you into the open backseat once it arrived. You took a heavy seat while she loaded your luggage into the boot before finally joining you, sighing like an old man with joint issues. You watched in silent amusement as she got settled, noticed your stare, and smacked your arm, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Aiya, you’re such a badly behaved child. Don’t laugh at your elders like that.”

“I wasn’t laughing!” you objected, though the giggle that you fought said differently.

She tsked. “Whatever. You and the rest of the athletes from Taiwan will be staying in the same hotel for the week that we’re here. Lights are out at nine, and you will be awake by six. I will not wake you up. Understood?”

“Yes, coach,” you said, still grinning like an idiot.

“Ai,” came the voice of your driver, fast-paced and slurred as you’d been told the Beijingers spoke. “You going to tell me where you want to go, or what?”

Peiling made a noise of irritation, but supplied nonetheless, “The Starlight Five Star, shifu. By Wonder Ice Sports Centre.”

He input the location in his GPS, asking, “You here for the Games?”

Peiling nodded. “Mm.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but you could see him nodding to himself as he drove off. Peiling leaned back in her seat, muttering something about Mainlanders before she asked you, “By the way, when did you add those stickers to your suitcase?”

You’d stolen someone’s suitcase.

This, you realised after you’d flopped unceremoniously onto your bed as Peiling made herself comfortable in her joint bedroom, zipping it open and finding it chock full of men’s clothes. Now, you weren’t necessarily the most outwardly feminine girl in the world, but you’d never gone as far as shopping in the men’s section, so you knew there was no way these clothes could’ve possibly been yours. Furthermore, the likelihood that you’d taken someone else’s luggage by mistake was only a bit higher than that of someone stealing all your clothes and replacing it with men’s clothes in some sort of sick act of villainy.

You sat up straight, a small, confused noise leaving your mouth as you rummaged through the stranger’s luggage in growing panic. Where you’d stored your signature leg warmers now were a pair of basketball shorts big enough to fit someone three times your size; where you’d packed a variety of hair products and creams for competition day, someone had carelessly chucked in a pair of shin guards and stocky gloves. And most importantly, where you’d neatly folded up the custom-made leotard your coach had spent half her life savings on, was simply a copy of some sort of anime film on DVD.

“What the hell is this?” you muttered, tossing more tubes of chapstick than was necessary for a man behind you, searching as if you’d find the contents of your suitcase beneath the layers and layers of his things. “How in the hell did this happen?”

“…When did you add those stickers to your suitcase?”

Your eyes widened, falling back onto your heels as a wave of realisation swept over you like the salty sea rollers on Fulong Beach. This wasn’t your suitcase. You’d taken someone else’s luggage, and were now armed with all the wrong equipment one day before the biggest competition of your career so far.

Ah, crap.

You groaned in frustration, dragging a hand over your face as you flopped onto your back, head falling against the soft, heavenly hotel pillows you’d be sleeping on for the night. Unfortunately, you were far too stressed to even be able to enjoy them. 

From somewhere on the other side of your room, behind the door that joined Peiling’s with yours, you heard her shout, “What happened now?”

When you didn’t answer, she pestered, “Tell me why you sound like you’re dying, la!”

“I took someone else’s luggage at the airport!” you yelled back, screwing your eyes shut in embarrassment and exhaustion at your own uselessness. Maybe if you’d glanced at it more than once, or waited for another rotation you’d see that it clearly wasn’t your suitcase despite the uncanny resemblance it bore to it. For starters, it looked more worn, with chips and scratch marks yours didn’t have. The owner had customised it as well, with stickers and tags and his name and number in permanent ink and—

You sat up again, this time with more purpose as you recognised the familiar traditional characters jump in front of your eyes. Even after all these years, it took some time for you to be able to decipher every letter, but after a moment or two, you could fully read what was in front of you, murmuring the words as you went.

“If lost, please return to…” you narrowed your eyes, squinting to read the handwritten scrawl in the low light of your hotel room, “…please return to James Chao.” Then, beneath the message, the ten digits that would lead you to him.

Your one-eighty reaction must’ve given Peiling quite the scare, because when you yelped in victory and started shoving the stranger’s belongings back into his suitcase, slamming the pink shell shut and already reaching to your bedside table for your phone, she opened the door and rushed into your room, stormy eyes widened in an expression of shock. “What is it? Why are you making such noise so late at night?”

She looked a bit ridiculous, her dewy, done-up skin and fuzzy robe doing little to add to the shock and growing frustration in her voice.

“I stole someone else’s suitcase,” you said, rehashing the previous moments’ occurrences to her, “but then I saw that the owner wrote his name and number on the front, so I can call him and find him and get my suitcase back because, you know, since we have the same suitcase, it’s only right to assume he’d taken mine—anyway, I can find him and get my suitcase back as well, hopefully before the competition tomorrow.”

She gave you a long stare, before nodding in the way that told you she’d believe what you said, but that whatever you did was your responsibility. “Alright,” she murmured. “But you can’t rely on hope. You better pray to Mother Guanyin that this pans out, because if not, I’ll have you compete in sweatpants and borrowed skates. Understood?”

You shivered in equal parts horror and disgust. “Yes, coach.”

Peiling shook her head in obvious disappointment, while you made a mission of dialling the stranger’s number to call him. The phone rang for several moments before he picked up—chrrr… chrrr… chrrr…

“Yes?” came the voice of a very irritated James Chao. You could imagine him, the stranger, his face a blur of what his voice brought to mind, his brow furrowed in frustration. His voice was gentle, but persistent, raspy, a bit nasally in a way that wasn’t too annoying just yet.

What a bad time to be an introvert. And what an even worse time to be someone who performed badly socially under even the slightest bit of pressure. “Um, hi. I, uh… I’m…” You paused, giving him your name, and then, “I think I may have something of yours.”

The other line was silent for a moment. Then, “You better be the person who has my suitcase.”

“I am,” you said. “It’s a pink Louis Vitton with stickers and shit all over it, right? And it has, like, I don’t know what kind of equipment—”

“Hockey equipment,” he answered for you, with more snark than was truly necessary. “And yours has a bunch of sparkly tutus and, like, a shit ton of lip gloss. And… footless socks?”

“Leg warmers,” you corrected, more defensive than you’d meant to be. “They’re leg warmers. I’m a figure skater. I use leg warmers. My socks have feet.”

“Alright, okay,” he acquiesced. “Where are you?”

“The Starlight Five Star,” you said. “Right by—”

“Wonder Ice in Beijing,” he interrupted, a seconds’ realisation spoken into existence. You could imagine him furrowing his brows as he further grasped, “You’re Taiwanese.”

“I grew up there,” you corrected, brain on autopilot. You were used to pointing out the difference to people. “Not Taiwanese Taiwanese, but—”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re in Beijing to compete, right?” You nodded like he could see you, and he continued, “All of us are on the seventh floor. Find me in front of the elevator in fifteen minutes, and we can swap our bags. Got it?”

“Okay,” you said, nodding definitively. The longer you spoke to James, the more eager you were to hang up and get the interaction over and done with. “See you then.”

His final words to you were, “Yeah, whatever.”

Once you’d told Peiling what you’d arranged with James, and she let you go with a firm nod and an encouraging smack on your shoulder, you pulled on a jumper over your pyjamas and lugged the stolen suitcase out of your room and down the carpeted hallway. The elevator was several paces to the right of your room—because the event organisers loved you so much, they’d stuck you in the furthest corner of the seventh floor, meaning you had to walk past the skiing and curling teams who, in spite of the nine o’clock cutoffs for all athletes, were all still hooting and hollering like they were at a house party.

Your feet thumped gently on the carpeted floor as you made your way down the hall, James’ suitcase rolling silently behind you. You stopped at the elevator, as discussed, turning your head this way and that in search of someone to match your current state: tired, pyjama’d, and in the mood for business.

James Chao first appeared before you that night you’d accidentally taken his suitcase and he yours, long after the athletes’ curfew and only a few hours before both of you would be competing the following morning. Black hair swept over a pair of dark eyes narrowed in apparent frustration, smooth, tanned skin glowing under the warm lights of the hotel as he frowned like he’d been personally wronged. Which, if he was nearly as dramatic as he’d sounded on the phone, may or may not have been his personal truth. A baggy graphic shirt and basketball shorts swallowed the lean figure beneath, and just as you were about to get a proper look at him, he said,

“You scratched it.”

You paused. “What?”

“My suitcase. You scratched it.”

Frowning, you looked down at the hard shell in your hold, looking no less damaged than it had when you’d taken it from baggage claim. “Um, sorry,” you said anyway, because you weren’t in the mood to prove your innocence currently. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s whatever,” he dismissed. His voice was clearer in real life. I mean, of course it was, but, you know. He shook his head, looking as eager to get back to his hotel room as you were. “Anyway, uh, here’s your suitcase back.”

He rolled it out from behind him, and you did the same. For a moment or two, you both stood there in virtual silence, staring down at the other’s suitcase. You swore you heard crickets once the silence stretched to thirty seconds. Then, with just as many words as you’d exchanged beforehand, which is to say, none, you switched bags, and balance was restored to the universe once more.

James looked up at you, sent you a firm, definitive nod. You did the same. Despite the moments leading up to the interaction being less than desirable, you completed what needed to be done, and did so without that much of an issue.

Or so you thought.

As you turned to make your way back to your room, your suitcase rolling behind you, footsteps joined by the sound of James’ own, you heard him stop, slipper-clad feet skidding to a halt on the carpeted floor. Stop. Pause. Turn.

“You went through my stuff.”

You stopped. Paused. Turned. “Yeah,” you admitted, eyes narrowed in that same way that people who are in an outlandishly drawn out and overdone interaction do, the same way someone who shouldn’t have to be explaining themselves does. “I thought it was my bag, so I opened it up.”

“And, what, you just mess up your entire suitcase the moment you open it?” he asked. Oh, he was getting far too bratty for your liking. 

You stepped forward, the movement like an accusation. “How do you even notice something like that?” you asked nonsensically. “Something so… so minute, so minuscule—”

“Big words for someone of your size,” he spat, equally as nonsensical. 

“What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means!”

You threw up your hands in a gesture that you were sure conveyed your frustration, exhaustion, and impending insanity all at once. “What is your problem?!”

“What’s yours?”

You pointed at him frantically, as if he were the obvious answer. “You! You’re my problem!”

He pointed right back, index finger in your face and all. “And you’re mine! I have a game at seven tomorrow morning and I’m standing here arguing with you!”

“Oh, trust me, I do not want to be stuck defending myself against a diva with a competition only a few hours ahead of me,” you said. “The feeling is horridly mutual.”

He scoffed. “You’re such a pain.”

Before you got a chance to retort at all, much less properly, James turned on his heel and left, walking with the conviction of a man scorned. The last you saw of him was him walking down the hall, hips swaying this way and that with more sass than you felt was fit for a man.

And because you were so very mature, such an emotionally intelligent young woman who knew when to walk away from a confrontation, you turned and left once you grew sick of staring at his departing form, muttering to yourself, “Stupidhead.”

You hoped you never had to see his dumb face again.

台北 TAIPEI

TWO WEEKS LATER

It was only you in the rink before he arrived.

You swept across the ice, legs moving as if by their own will. The cold stung your cheeks and creeped in through your tights, the sort of cold that sat in the back of your mind while the rest of your body burnt with exertion, limbs starting to ache from the push and pull of temperatures. Music drifted from the speaker you’d placed somewhere outside the rink, possibly in the stands where you’d left your personal belongings, slow and melodic and not at all matching your current mood.

You huffed in frustration as yet another Salchow failed to come to fruition, the edge of your skate blade as uncooperative as it had been for the past several training sessions. Something about the way you moved, or the angle of your foot, or the ice—something had to be wrong, and you needed to find out what it was and fix it. 

Peiling had told you that your second place performance in Beijing was good enough, which was rather uncharacteristic for her. She’d always been the one to push you to the edge, to test the limits of your abilities and patience. Her simply throwing in the towel and saying your performance in an international competition was good enough meant something. It meant she thought you were tired. Losing your edge. In a rut.

You were determined to prove her wrong.

Minutes turned into hours that you’d spent at the rink back in Taipei after your usual practice session; the rink where you’d first put on skates, where you’d spent birthdays and Christmases and good days and bad days on the ice. Where you’d found your purpose. 

It seemed the longer you tried to perfect your moves, to swivel your body or sweep your skates a certain way, the more you seemed to be failing. Shinya Kiyozuka and his upbeat, romantic masterpieces weren’t exactly helping your mood, either, though you weren’t sure if anything else would. Maybe you were just being impossible today.

You knew every athlete had their off days. Days where nothing seemed to stick, where they seemed to forget everything they’d learnt until that point. Days where the universe didn’t seem to be ruling in their favour, where their coaches and teammates patted them on the back and said, “Maybe next time.” But you weren’t that sort of athlete, the sort that could afford to be bad for a day.

In between the jump and twists and the growing cold and the flakes of ice floating through the air you failed to notice the double doors of the rink swinging open languidly, nor the set of footsteps that came afterwards. You bent your knee deeply, gliding backwards with your leg raised, before planting it into the ice, twirling into the air, one, two, three times, arms raised high above your head. A simple triple flip, but it was more than you’d been able to achieve all day.

A sharp sound rang through the air. Once, twice, thrice before it gave way to a neverending cacophony that made you turn your head. Someone was clapping, approaching with their hands set in a lazy position of applause. It echoed throughout the entire rink, travelling across the ice and straight to your ears; piercing, the sort of sound that made people flinch.

James walked towards the ice with an undeniable swagger in his step, not unlike his gait when you first met him. Though, could you say met, when the whole interaction lasted less than five minutes? He looked different this time, more put together, standing taller, like he owned the world and it owed him everything. A jacket hung loosely around his frame, opening just enough to show the graphic tee he’d most likely hand-selected, silky black hair in meticulous tousles. 

“What are you doing here?” were your first words to him since Beijing.

He didn’t say anything, hopping down the steps that led to the rink in silence, hands still braced for applause. Only until he reached the ice, leaning against the barrier separating you from normal ground did he say anything. He smiled, and it was difficult to deduce if it was friendly or not. “You’re pretty good, ice queen.”

You stayed planted in the middle of the ice that reflected white on your black stockings, matched your white leg warmers. You crossed your arms over your chest, not caring if the action made you appear petulant. “You say that like it’s a surprise. What are you doing here?”

While you couldn’t confidently assert that his face fell, there was a loss of amusement in his expression when it became clear you wouldn’t play ball with him. “I’m just here for some solo practice,” he explained, lifting the large duffel bag he’d slung across his front.

You paused. “You skate here, too?”

“Not during the week, usually,” he admitted. “But today’s a special day, it seems like. Practice got cancelled and my usual roller hockey rink is booked right now. So—” he grinned again, quick and sly— “here I am. And here you are. My problem.”

You were sure he meant it jokingly; as you could tell by the obvious switch from serious to sarcastic in his tone of voice. He was simply referencing the last time you met, when you called him your problem and he called you his. But there was something about the way he said it this time, snarkier and perhaps even more arrogant than before, derision in place of anger, that made you want to roll your eyes to the back of your head. What about him, exactly, enraged you so?

You’d find out soon enough.

Turning your back to him, you continued your desperate swipes and turns to try and mimic someone who knew what the hell they were doing. You weren’t convinced that you succeeded. 

James watched, thankfully silent, leaned all the while against the barrier. Somewhere in between your several flutzes, he’d pulled on his gear; knee pads and skates and silver chains that dangled as he hopped over onto the ice, floundering a bit from the extravagant entrance.  

“I watched you at the Games.”

This made you stop and, once again, turn towards the boy. You could guess he was a year or two older than you—not from how he spoke or composed himself, but from something deeper that told you things about him he didn’t even need to say himself. It was that same something that had told you to trust him down the line, the same something everyone has, telling them things they know about people they don’t. It’s important to remember that you can’t always trust when that something speaks.

“Oh, yeah?” you asked with feigned disinterest he’d never catch onto. “Thought you had a match at seven.”

“I did,” he said. “And your performance was at nine.” He skated towards you, gliding easily. “The rink you performed in was a five minute walk from ours.” He shrugged then, adding, “A few friends and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about after we won our match.”

“And?” you prodded. “Was it worth your time?”

“I’d say so, yeah.” He shifted one leg in front of the other, movements calm and effortless. “You’re pretty good.”

You preened at the compliment despite it being from someone you weren’t too fond of at that moment, because, like any teenager, you were a bit full of yourself when it came to the things you were good at.

James tilted his head. “But you’re too gentle.”

You scoffed. Too gentle. There was no such thing in a sport as graceful as figure skating. It didn’t matter that Peiling had told you the same thing three sessions ago, that your attempts at poise had made your art lacking. James didn’t need to know that. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t let up. “I see what you try to do in your moves, it just translates wrong on the ice. Your gracefulness comes across as hesitance; that’s why you only got second place.”

You scowled, ignoring the pinch in your heart. He was a stranger who knew nothing about your craft, not even the simplest thing. Why would you need to listen to him? “I don’t need you to explain skating to me,” you snapped. His unwanted presence and unneeded commentary had become too much to bear. “I got in second because I slipped. Not because of anything you might’ve convinced yourself is relevant.”

“Listen, all I wanna do is help,” he tried, nearing you. In turn, you glided backwards, intent on keeping your distance. “You wanna win, don’t you?”

“What’s it to you?” you muttered.

“Nothing,” he confessed. “It’s not important to me. But it could be important to you.”

A long stretch of silence followed. You stayed where you were, James only a few paces ahead. From what you could see, he meant nothing ill by his words, though there was still something that kept you from replying just yet. Maybe it was your own scepticism. It was an odd scene, an odd interaction; the sort that comes so unexpectedly that you don’t even have the slightest idea of how to continue, so all you really can do is just that.

“You don’t look Taiwanese.”

“I’m not,” he said, “technically. Dad’s from Hong Kong and my mom is Thai.”

“Yet you play in the national youth league?” you asked.

“Yep.”

“Must be nice.”

He nodded, the action softer compared to his previous ones. While Taiwan had many excellent foreign athletes to represent the country, it took a lot of exceptional skill—more so than the locals required, many cried—for them to make it out of the foreign leagues they were so kindly sorted into. James could only imagine how hard it must’ve been on foreign kids, when he himself worked so hard to keep his place in the league as a local.

Then, with the finesse of a newborn fawn walking on solid ground for the first time, you switched the subject. “I saw a few of your highlight reels from the Games. You’re not bad.”

Good to know that twelve years of practice got him a compliment like that. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “I try my best.”

If you were to take him up on his offer—which you weren’t even sure you would just yet, it was just a silly, fleeting thought—you were, in essence, rolling a dice you had no idea even had numbers on. It would be a shot in the dark, a complete leap of faith towards someone you’d met once and were sure you held a great amount of contempt for. 

But then, how would you know if the outcome would be bad? In short, you wouldn’t. You had just as much of a chance of learning something meaningful from him than you did wasting your time on him and vice versa. Like he’d said, it wouldn’t be important to him, but it could be important to you.

“The only thing is,” you started, grabbing his attention, “you’re like an elephant on the ice.”

James made a noise in the back of his throat, the crassness of your comment catching him off-guard. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have any tact when you skate,” you pressed, “especially in handling the puck. It’s like you’ve got cement for hands.”

“What would you know about ice hockey?” he asked, snippy.

“As much as you’d know about figure skating,” you said.

He froze, mouth clamped shut in shock.

And checkmate.

You narrowed your eyes, watching him carefully. To an outsider it would’ve looked like a glance with reservations and its own opinions; maybe even to you. But what it really was was a look of assessment, a look that acted as the buffer between your thoughts and the answer they’d give you, the answer you’d soon give James.

“James is a pretty weird name for a Taiwanese kid,” you said. Half and half the truth and a fabrication, really. Most Taiwanese children answered to their Mandarin names, while some went on to choose English names as they expanded their professional horizons. “Is it your real name, or a Hong Kong thing?”

He didn’t answer your question, not fully. “My friends call me Yufan. Everyone else calls me James.”

“And what can I call you?” you asked.

“It depends. What would you like to call me?”

The statement in and of itself didn’t betray any deeper meaning, though you knew what he meant. Would you keep your distance from him, tell him that you didn’t need his help, remain professional, or would you say yes, accept his help, and become his mentee—even more, perhaps even his friend.

Maybe he’s lonely, you thought. Lonely and clueless on how to ask someone to be his friend. Or maybe he was just some prick on a power trip trying to make you feel bad about your skills.

You wouldn’t know unless you took a chance on him.

“Alright, how about this.” You clasped your hands together, earnest. “You give me pointers on how to improve my figure skating, and I’ll help you become better at ice hockey. It only seems fair,” you added as he went to protest, “since we’d only be assisting each other in specific elements. You good with that?”

He seemed to mull over your proposal, though he seemed unhappy to learn that you were not impressed with his own skill. “Fine,” he said begrudgingly. He stuck out his hand for you to shake, wriggling his lean, ringed fingers. “Training buddies?”

You took it, your palm cold against his warm skin. “Training buddies.”

Before you knew it, weeks had passed.

James became a regular feature in your life since he’d rather rudely inserted himself into it, squeezing himself in between your Tuesday cram school and your Thursday solo training. He always arrived with a smile on his face, though the contents of it always differed; some days he was smug, impatiently tapping your legs as he waited for you to get a manoeuvre right; other days he was soft, assuring you that not having the strength you needed to do a certain drill wasn’t the end of the world, even when you acted like it was.

Similarly, you’d been able to whip him into shape with the mindset of a ballet teacher in skates, stern and precise and never in the mood for the endless nonsense he dished out. You balanced each other’s energy like that. Where you were rigid schedules and languid, flowing movements, James was pure, unfiltered bursts of creativity and crashes into barriers. He showed you how to colour outside the lines, and you taught him how to outline the sketches he needed to play.

But before all that happened, more than a few things went wrong.

Before you learnt how to trust him, you’d hit him over the head with his own hockey stick.

The air was tense, alight with the anger and frustration you shared. James glared at you with the fire of a thousand suns burning in his eyes, jaw set in a scowl that made your blood curdle. “You’re a little brat, you know that? A brat who refuses to cooperate the moment she has to do something she doesn’t want to—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” you snapped. 

“I’ll talk to you however I want,” he shot back. “As long as you keep being useless—”

Right, said the reasonable part of your brain. Enough is enough. So, in a split-second decision, you grabbed the stick he’d been holding—the old but sturdy taped-up contraption he’d been using to correct your posture that didn’t need correcting—and reared your arms back, coming down hard on his back as he ducked for safety.

You didn’t hurt him that badly, you could see afterwards. But he made sure to milk the shit out of your sympathy once you realised what you’d done.

Before he learnt how to take you seriously, he told you stipid things like,

“You know, you shouldn’t act so haughty all the time. You and I both learnt the same things in beginners skating lessons.” He glanced you up and down in a way that you weren’t sure if it was judgemental or merely observant. “You’re not teaching me anything new, here.”

You paused, your arms still braced in the elegant position you’d been in to demonstrate the gentler movements that would help him during matches. You placed your hands on your hips in a very unladylike fashion, scowling. “Last I checked, I’m not a beginner figure skater, and last I checked, I don’t constantly injure myself because of my poor form.”

He scoffed. “Pfft—okay, my form is not that bad—”

“You skate like a fucking pensioner.”

“—defence players are literally the best skaters on the ice. And we play two different sports! You can’t compare the styles of the two.”

You raised a brow. “I thought you just said we learnt the same basics.”

He froze. “Shit, yeah. Okay. That— that was on me, this time.”

Before you learnt to work together like a well-oiled machine, you’d bruised yourselves bumping heads like bulls.

“If you think, for even one second, I’m going to skate laps around this rink while you sit on your ass and time me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“And if you think I’m just going to stand here and argue with you all afternoon instead of getting shit done, you’ve got an even bigger thing coming. Put on your skates.”

You threw him a filthy look, still stubbornly in your worn trainers. “Make me, princess.”

“I’ll make you eat your hands, is what I’ll make you do,” he replied, pressing his index finger halfway to your face.

However, after several gruelling hours and unproductive days, you realised that it was in both your best interests to simply pretend like you got along. And it worked.

You watched with bated breath as James glided across the ice, parroting the moves you’d shown him earlier. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, turn, and repeat. Since you’d given him your begrudging, hard-handed guidance, he’d become more graceful in his skating, more careful in his movements. He no longer moved with the tact of a baby elephant, and he’d even gotten better at handling his puck, though you had nothing in particular to do with that.

James looked back at you from over his shoulder, eyes expectant and awaiting your praise. “How’s this? Am I doing it?”

Manoeuvring your soft expression into a manner of nonchalance, you leaned your arms against the barrier, shrugging your shoulders. Your leg raised behind you in a subconscious movement, a stretching exercise Peiling had drilled into you so effectively that you did it without thinking. “You’re getting there,” you admitted, watching as he perfected the exercises you’d told him to work on in his downtime.

James’ face fell to an unimpressed scowl at the impartial remark, but he could easily fool himself into thinking he saw, if just for a moment, a glimmer of pride in your eyes when he first turned to you. It was a quick, fleeting look you’d given him when you thought he couldn’t see, but he caught on. He always did. After all, he was a defenceman. He needed to keep a keen eye. 

And before you fell apart, Chao Yufan showed you a part of him that he hadn’t shown anyone else.

“You know, it’s kind of difficult to believe you don’t like Yufan.”

Those were the first words that your senior and longtime comrade spoke to you since returning from a training camp in China.

Lin Shihan was one of the most renowned Taiwanese figure skaters in the world of winter sports, Peiling’s first prodigy and, most importantly, the girl you’d been calling ‘big sister’ for as long as you could remember. She entered the rink with a look on her face, because that seemed to be the way everyone you knew was greeting you these days, and crossed her arms over her chest. She was dressed in her civvies, a stark contrast to your fitted black training gear—tights, skirt, top, leg warmers and all—her hair done up in its usual tight bun.

She’d met James in passing a few times, even though their schedules almost never overlapped. The interactions had been friendly enough, from what you could deduct. All you knew she thought of him was that he had too much attitude and that she refused to call him James on account of being older than him. Not that she had any knowledge of your dynamic, much less persuasions or opinions of it.

You turned to her with wide eyes, because you were used to her greeting you with a little more than a wild accusation that you liked your training buddy. Usually she gave you a, “Hey, how was your week?” Sometimes you were even lucky enough to get, “I missed you while I was gone.” Not today, it seemed.

“What… is that supposed to mean?” you asked dumbly. 

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me,” she scoffed, motioning for you to skate closer. You did, stopping only a few centimetres short of where she stood, leaning your elbows against the barrier as you came closer for some serious girl talk, because that’s what her expression told you you were in for. She quirked a brow, as if challenging you to tell her differently from what she believed. “I’ve seen you two training together. You’re soooo yunlan.”

“Nuh-uh,” you scoffed petulantly. “Am not.”

“He definitely likes you,” she added quickly. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, for her—you caught it. Her brown eyes shifted from somewhere in the middle distance to you, like she was trying to be nonchalant and failing on purpose, like people do in the movies when they want someone to realise something. And you did.

You gasped. “He does not!” 

“Say what you want,” she sang, “but the proof is all there.”

“He literally hates me,” you said, perhaps a bit dramatically. “We only train together because we need each other’s help, you know that. Outside of that, we practically never talk. And he’s always so rude to me! Remember that time he wanted to trip me just because he felt like it? That’s so not yunlan behaviour.”

She shrugged. “He’s pulling on your pigtails.”

You pointed an accusatory finger in her face. “You do not exist to plant doubt about my training buddy in my brain, okay? That is not your purpose in the plot.”

“I kind of do,” she said. “Isn’t that what big sisters are for? Making you doubt yourself? No,” she corrected herself, tilting her head. “That’s what coaches are for.” She turned back to you, smug. “I’m just here to annoy you.”

“Why are you even here to talk about James?” you whined. “You just came back from Harbin, and the first thing you do instead of telling me about the competition is tease me about a crush I don’t have.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes like you asking about her trip was the last thing she wanted to talk about. “Fine. What do you want to know about the trip? I went, I won. I remain the undefeated champion in Asia for women’s singles in the senior division.”

“Well… what was your hotel like?” you enquired innocently.

“Big.”

“And Harbin? What’s it like this time of year?” you tried again.

“Cold.”

You threw up your hands in a hopeless gesture. “You’re doing that on purpose!” you accused. “You’re trying to make me less interested in Harbin so you can bother me about my nonexistent crush on James. And don’t say it’s not nonexistent,” you said, catching her look. “Because it’s not. Not nonexistent. It’s not— it doesn’t exist.”

“Ugh, why are you so opposed to a little romance?” she asked. “You’re a teenager. Shouldn’t you be all over a cute older guy like him?”

“I’m not opposed to it,” you said. “It’s just not the most important thing to me right now.”

“And, what? Skating is?” Shihan shook her head. “You can’t live your whole life like that.”

An uncharacteristically solemn silence followed. 

You deflated, your posture growing sloppy where it once had been stilted, standing at attention. Her statement hung in the air, blunt and unsoftened by a joke or jest as it usually would’ve been. The air was cold, more so than before, and you felt the tips of your fingers beginning to numb.

You knew she was right. She hadn’t even affirmed her position outright; all she’d done was ask you a question and tell you that you couldn’t live your life a certain way. But you knew well enough what she meant—your whole life, short-lived as it had been until that point, could not revolve around one thing and one thing only. You were a teenager with all the time and opportunity in the world. Why didn’t you take a break every now and then?

You knew, and so did Shihan, that there was no such thing as a break when it came to this sport. Figure skaters started young, competed young, dominated young, and spent the rest of their lives either still competing or training other young ones. You started when you were five, competed from the age of ten, dominated from thirteen up until now, and would probably spend the rest of your life doing the same. 

You couldn’t—wouldn’t—start resting, kicking back, enjoying life now. Or ever, for that matter. You weren’t destined for a life of joy and relaxation. You were destined for greatness. And that came at the price of your childhood; a price you were already paying; a price you wouldn’t stop paying until you were standing on that first place podium at the Winter Olympics. Who cares what you wanted out of life? It wasn’t about you, or being yourself, but what you owed to everyone who helped you in getting to where you were now; too far along to be able to give up, too privileged to be able to complain about something as small as freedom.

“I know you think so,” you said, and she took careful note of your word choice. Then, mustering up a small smile, you added, “I’ll try to have some fun this year. How’s that sound?”

Good enough for me, her expression seemed to say. Keenly looking into your doleful eyes, your empty smile. You tried. You really did. You tried to be positive for her. But she knew, she’d been where you were. She was where you were. There was no positivity for anyone or anything that did not get you to where you needed to be, which was in first place. You wouldn’t let anything get in your way. Not friends, not family, not cram school, and certainly not a boy.

Though, in hindsight, you didn’t much mind letting James get in your way, did you?

The city of Taipei was busiest at night, when the streets were filled with people and the night sky was lit up by street lamps and neon signs. Marketplaces were especially crowded, with tourists and locals alike bumping elbows to try and get to their favourite stalls, nainais and ahyis yelling to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the vendors. You steered James through the teeming streets, his bigger hand fitting snugly in yours as you tried to locate the stall you’d been telling him about all week. You moved with the purpose of a girl on a mission, ready to prove yourself correct.

It all started one afternoon after training, when Peiling and James’ coach, Chen Yuhsuan—a man in his forties who seemed to have an oddly extensive, tense history with your own coach—had let you go for the day and you were left to your own devices. It had become something of a routine for the two of you to get lunch together, at a small place just a hop, skip and a jump away from the train station you parted ways at in the evenings, when it was high time for you to return home. You’d been sitting across from him at your usual table, a low, rickety wooden thing that cramped your legs together, making your knees knock each other’s, when James had casually mentioned being a street food connoisseur, and that, in his highest opinion, you were wrong about which street food was the best.

“I’m sorry?” you’d said, pitch picking up at the end as an indication of incredulous question. “What do you mean gua bao isn’t the reigning champ of Asian street food?”

“I mean just that,” he replied, taking a nonchalant spoonful of his congee. “Pad kee mao is undoubtedly the best of the best. You’ll never get anything better, like—” he shrugged, as if the truth were out of his hands— “anywhere.”

“Okay, that… is just objectively wrong,” you said. “Gua bao is a classic that no food in the world can compare to. That’s just a fact.”

He pouted, as if sympathetic. “I can’t blame you for thinking that way. Taiwan doesn’t have the best Thai cuisine, so you’ve probably never tasted pad kee mao in its native excellence. You’ve only got a limited scope of the best food in the world.”

You scowled, jabbing your chopsticks threateningly in his direction. “Don’t speak so definitively, prettyboy. Soon enough, you’ll be proven wrong.”

He raised a singular, dark brow. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

“I’ll take you to the best gua bao spot in Taiwan,” you promised. “Next week, after practice, at this night market by the station.”

He leaned back in his seat, the tips of his fingers playing with the rim of his glass, the plum-coloured and flavoured drink casting a pinkish glow over his hand, smiling in amusement. “…Fine. It’s a date.”

You’d balked. “It is?”

He tilted his head. “If you’d like for it to be.”

Which brought you here, a week later, on your not-a-date date, ready to prove him wrong and change his perspective on the world and food as he knew it.

You found the stall easily enough, if not for its bright lighting and in-your-face advertising, then certainly for the heavenly smell of braised pork belly and fluffy white steamed bread. You let go of James’ hand, showing it off with a flourish and a tada~! he seemed to find adorable. He glanced blankly up at the sign, the warm lights from the overhead lanterns casting a white glow over his glasses, like a character from those mangas he read religiously.

He didn’t say anything as you ordered two of your usual, the classic, the timeless, the unforgettable gua bao as made by Nainai Chen, who’d been making them the same way since before either of you were born. You waited with thinly-veiled anticipation threatening to spill over at even the slightest indication from James’ side that he was anything other than neutral towards what was happening in front of him. A small part of you hoped he knew you’d never done something like this for anyone before. Taken someone out to one of your favourite stalls, the place you kept hidden away from everyone you knew for fear that they would make it their own place.

Yeah. You gatekept your favourite things. So what?

A bigger, more rational part of you knew he probably just thought of this as a friendly outing. A platonic hangout with his younger friend whom he terrorised sometimes. He’d joked about it being a date, but, of course, that’s all it had been—a joke. James Chao was a professional joker, no one to take seriously. Sure, he made jokes, and sure, he was handsome in his own unique way… with nice hair, and tanned skin, and plump lips that were accentuated out by his adorable yet very faint overbite. Why were you thinking of him romantically, again? You weren’t. Didn’t. You didn’t.

Once she finished wrapping up your food, you gave Nainai Chen a grateful bow, paying her several dollars more than you were supposed to, like you always did. She’d learnt to stop refusing your extra money, merely taking it with a kind smile on her weathered face. 

You turned to James with your hand already outstretched. He accepted his bao, and you waited in trembling anticipation for his final verdict as he took his first bite. And then his second. And his third. And his—

You threw up your hands, starting, “Oh, come on—!”

“It’s good,” he nodded, chewing thoughtfully. Then, noticing your look, he grinned. “Still not better than pad kee mao, though.”

You deadpanned. “You’re kidding.”

“I maintain that you just haven’t had good drunken noodles yet,” James asserted, while you took an angry bite of your gua bao. “I’ll take you for some proper ones sometime. Promise.”

“Thought you said Taiwan doesn’t do Thai cuisine justice,” you pointed out. “You gonna book us tickets to Bangkok after playoffs, or something?”

“I actually know someone who makes pretty good pad kee mao in Taipei,” he said. He glanced at you, catching onto your questioning look, and said simply, “Mama Chao.”

Your eyes widened. “Your mom?”

“Yep. She’s no chef, but you wouldn’t know that if you only knew her from her cooking. She makes some of the best noodles this side of the world,” he boasted, while you were still trying to process the fact that he wanted you to meet his mother and, by extension, his father, as well.

Meeting the parents had never been such a big deal between friends, so the fact that you were freaking out was perhaps a bit dramatic. But it was different for pairings like you and James. Girls and boys. Even if you were friends, strictly and only ever friends, there’d still always be that added element your biological differences brought to the equation. People still expected most friendships like yours to end in romance, especially parents. What would they think when James brought you home, the girl he’d been training with since November? And for dinner, no less?

He didn’t mention his mother again that night. Not after you drifted from Nainai Chen’s legendary gu bao stall, nor when you walked further into the marketplace in search of something sweet. Not after you’d given up halfway through your mission and opted for convenience store ice cream, nor when you took a seat at a bus stop situated under the stars.

He did say something else, though. When you were halfway through your caramel-flavoured treat, your lips swollen from the chill and covered in sugar, his voice, softer than usual, rang through the air like church bells.

“Why did you agree to be my training buddy?”

You turned to him. You’d been waiting for the moment he’d ask that inevitable question, for the day those words left his plush lips. 

“Hockey players always have something to learn from you guys,” he continued, “but figure skaters… you were already talented enough. So why did you even… I don’t know. Why’d you even give me the time of day?”

You squinted up at the moon, bright and pale and silently basking in its glow. “Why did you ask me if you could give me pointers?”

“Honest?” You nodded, and he said, “Because I didn’t know how else to catch or keep your attention.” His eyes flicked to yours, and briefly, swept over your lips. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty bad at making friends.”

You smiled softly, exhaling through your nose. Not a laugh, not nothing. “Honest?” He nodded, and you said, “Because I wasn’t sure of myself. I mean, I know it sounds stupid. A figure skater not being confident in herself. Crazy, right?”

“Not crazy,” he said softly. “Stupid, maybe. But not crazy.”

You sighed. “Yeah, well.” A grin picked at your mouth. “I know how to do everything. I know how to throw my weight around and to twirl seventy times without puking. But after a while, doing the same routine— the same moves, to the same music, in the same glittery tutu… it gets old, and I lose myself a little bit. When you came around, I’d been in a slump for months. I was consistently placing second in all my competitions, and nothing I did could fix it.”

You remembered when you’d first told Peiling about your plan, she took it surprisingly well. In fact, she—and don’t fall out of your chair when I say this—agreed with what you suggested.

You’d been standing across from her on the ice before one of your usual training sessions, hands floating through the air as you gesticulated, when she nodded in understanding. “Cross-training isn’t too out of the ordinary,” she mentioned, laying a thoughtful hand on her hip. “It’s usually hockey players that train like figure skaters to improve their skating skills, but it’s not unheard of to go the other way around. I didn’t suggest it to you because you’d been performing perfectly until now. Though after Beijing…”

She tilted her head, her face already telling you before she even needed to say a word.

Coming in second wasn’t bad in itself. Silvers were better than nothing in any sport. However, when you went from winning gold at every competition to consistently placing second as you supposedly progressed, well, that was a different story altogether.  You knew you were gold medal material; you knew you had the makings of a star in you. That’s what made your silver medals so humiliating. You were so close, you came so close, to winning every competition you qualified for, but you lacked that little bit that separated you from proper winners.

And you couldn’t have that, not for one second.

You tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your gut at her words, wringing your hands in anticipation. “So… would it be possible for us to train together?”

Her face softened. “Of course. We’ll just need to get his coach’s contact details, and set up a training schedule that doesn’t interfere with either of your plans during the week. After that, we can get down to the specifics of what you need to improve on, and what he can learn from you.”

“I didn’t need to improve,” you said. “But I needed inspiration again. And you…”

“I’d suggest that we switch out Tchaikovsky for some Arctic Monkeys, maybe?”

“Mm. How about you try that one combination… the spinny one and the one that has something to do with toes? Like you did that other time.”

“Let’s just throw shit around and see what sticks, okay?”

You chuckled. “You helped a lot.”

“Oh, yeah?” Yufan grinned. “I’m an inspiration to you, huh?”

“Shut up,” you murmured, shoving his shoulder. But you didn’t say no.

The sound of your skates gliding against the ice filled the air as you and Yufan did a few laps around the rink, legs moving languidly behind you, your gaze trained over your shoulder to see where you were going.

“Remember to keep those knees bent!” you called, turning to look in front of you where Yufan was very earnestly focusing on your command, easily dropping lower on his knees, switching more weight onto the outer edges of his skates as you rounded a corner.

“You know, I find it very interesting how, in the three weeks we’ve trained together, you haven’t once picked up a hockey stick,” he said. “Except for that time you hit me with one.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, running a hand over your warming face. “I told you I was sorry about that.”

“I deserved it,” he conceded. “But that’s not my point. I’ve been learning all these fancy figure skating moves—and for a good reason, of course… I just— I’d like to… I dunno.” He sped up, inner edges taking the brunt of the acceleration. “I’d like to maybe, if you’d like, teach you sometime.”

You smiled as he stuttered his way through the proposal. “What, to play ice hockey?”

“Or roller hockey,” he added, shrugging. “Whichever one you’re more interested in.”

“I’m not really interested in either of them, if I’m gonna be honest with you,” you said. “The idea of me playing hockey sounds terrifying. I’d, like, take someone’s eye out.”

“It would probably be mine,” Yufan said. “And I wouldn’t be opposed to that. It gets me one step closer to my true dream: being a pirate.”

You shook your head, fitting in a quick toe loop before gliding to a halt. “You’ve got your heart set on this, don’t you?”

He stopped in front of you, only a metre and a bit between your bodies. “As a matter of fact, I do, yeah.”

Ever since that night at the marketplace, Yufan had been acting differently. Not oddly, per se—or, perhaps, any more odd than he did usually—but not close to normal, either. He’d been friendlier, softer, uncharacteristically gentle towards you. He gave you nothing but encouraging smiles and sure words, it almost made you suspicious. And, God, the way he looked at you… with such tenderness, with affection so unlike him. It made your knees weak in all the best and worst ways.

You narrowed your eyes then, your suspicion finally reaching its boiling point when he gave you another one of those damn smiles. “Okay, what is it with you, these days? You’re all cheesy, and now you’re suddenly asking me if I want to learn hockey from you? What’s wrong? Are you dying, or something?”

He scoffed. “No. I— I just…” Hanging his head, he gave a tiny, adorable sigh. “Can’t a guy ask a pretty girl out?”

“Well, yeah, but— wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

You stared at him. Hard and long. “Yeah, I did. Clear as damn day. What I’m asking is, like— are you sure? Are you sure you have the right girl?”

He tapped his chin, his gaze turning heavenwards as he pretended to think. All the while, he floated closer to you, his warmth entering your sphere. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“You… want to take me out,” you said.

“That’s the gist of it, yeah,” he replied.

“Is that allowed?”

He snorted. “What?”

“Like— I don’t know.” You made a vague shape in the air with your free hand, the other coming up to press against your hip, the aching joint throbbing beneath your palm. “I just— I don’t know! You’re asking me out and you’re standing right there and you’re, like, really pretty and you’re making me nervous!”

He frowned. “Sorry,” he apologised, though you could see the faintest hint of a smile creeping through his expression. “I mean, it’s a pretty easy question to answer. Just— say yes or no.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, caught in his expression the slightest bit of hesitation. That’s when you realised this was as much of a risk for him as it was a surprise for you. And that made deciding just a little bit easier.

“I, um… I’d love to play out hockey with you.” Your eyes widened. “I— What I mean to say is that I’d love to take you out for hockey. Or you— I’d love for you to take me out to play hockey… Jeez! Sorry. I don’t know what happened there.”

That got a laugh out of him, breaking the bright beam he’d worn the entire time you stuttered through your acceptance. “It’s fine. I understood you the first time.”

You smiled breathlessly. 

And that was all Yufan needed.

You didn’t play hockey for your first date. Or your second. Or third, or… any of them. In fact, you didn’t even near the ice until you became familiar enough with one another to know your something unnamed had become something quietly expected. Something implied.

He promised to take it slow with you, not only because neither of you had ever been in a relationship before, but because you had so many external engagements that, well, proper dating wasn’t exactly an option just yet. One of these many engagements, of course, was game season.

Out of all the winter sports, ice hockey was reputed as being one of the most invigorating amongst athletes, and once you started going to Yufan’s games, you understood why. The rink was cold, filled to the brim with people sitting in the stands, cheering as the players swept across the ice, blurs of blue and red and black and yellow. The air was alight with the glimmering of ice shavings from how quickly the players raced over the ice, like glitter under the harsh lights.

You sat back in your uncomfortable plastic seat, knees to your chest as you watched with a keen eye what occurred only a few metres below you. Yufan rushed along the ice, no more than a smudge of colour. Yet you spotted him as if it were second nature, eyes catching onto the bright lettering on the back of his jersey. Taipei Polar Bears. Number 16.

Despite having played it a few times, you weren’t one hundred percent sure how ice hockey worked. Or, honestly, even ten percent. Zero would be the closest estimate, in this scenario. Your eyes flicked continuously from the rink to your phone screen, which was open on a Wikipedia page on the rules and play-by-play of ice hockey, for whenever the announcers spewed some nonsense over the intercom like,

“Our local Taipei Polar Bears are far behind at only three points midway, while Les Champions de Marseille stay true to their names and dominate with double that.”

I won’t go too in-depth into what happened in the game, not only because you weren’t a hockey player and therefore had no idea what was going on, but because I, the author, have even less idea of what was going on.

Long story short, things happened, good and bad. Yufan whizzed past other players, stole the puck from them, did everything in his power to stop the other team from scoring. From what you heard, defencemen could have either constant or nonexistent contribution to scoring; Yufan seemed to be somewhere in the middle, switching between offensive and defensive play dependent on what he deemed necessary in that particular moment. All you could do was watch, perhaps with small hearts thumping where your irises would’ve been, perhaps not.

Players pushed each other into the barrier, the audience yelled obscenities, and so went the spirit of ice hockey. For all your lack of knowledge on the game, you could feel that there was an undeniable tension in the air. The team’s captain and Coach Chen seemed to be butting heads every other intermission, while things escalated between the two teams. The French skaters seemed to think significantly less of the Polar Bears, and it was clear in how they spoke of them to the referee. Every now and then they’d skate over to the short, weathered man, and rapid fire what looked to be enraged French when a mistake had been made on the referee’s side. Even the translator didn’t look happy.

If this game had a soundtrack, the song to set the scene playing out in front of you probably would’ve been something off of Verdi’s Requiem. Skaters yelling expletives at one another, pushing each other against the barriers, blood spattering the ice as those with authority tried to keep things civil to no avail. Pucks being chucked from one end of the ice to the other, sticks breaking, skates skidding. 

Two of the Polar Bears’ forwards had turned to one another, yelling something about the centre focusing too much on flair and too little on actual play, exchanging curses back and forth in Mandarin and Hokkien. Yufan stood between them, hands braced on both of their chests, holding them apart with growing annoyance. He said something, the words too soft to travel across the ice and through the chaos, but they didn’t let up in their argument, skating away while pointing fingers at one another.

You’d asked Peiling what to expect of a game of ice hockey, and she’d told you to prepare yourself for anything. You wondered how she knew, why her eyes became misty when she said, “All I can tell you from the hockey games I’ve been to…” Regardless of her past with the sport, she was right. You had to prepare yourself for anything. The only downside?

You hadn’t. 

You sucked in a sharp breath as the intermission was over, and the game was on again. Something about sitting there in the stands, surrounded by strangers who shared your interest and perhaps misguided passion in ice hockey—it invigorated you. And something about watching Yufan as he rushed across the ice, skating with the finesse of a professional dancer, made your heart thump harder than you thought possible.

After the game, you found Yufan at the entrance of the teams’ locker rooms, sweaty and breathless and starry-eyed like no other. You caught each other’s eyes across the hall, people passing by you in a haze, and you asked a silent question. Shall we? And he nodded without hesitation.

One of your many after-game rituals was going out for hotpot at one of your regular spots. No parents, no friends, no teammates. Just the two of you. It was something that had begun as a way to connect when you started training together, and it had just stuck and stayed strong till now. He sat across from you in the crowded restaurant, fingers deftly clasped around his chopsticks as he ate. He said nothing; you knew he wouldn’t, not for the first few minutes. It always took him a moment to regain his breath, get his brain out of the game and back to you.

“You did well out there,” you spoke into the silence, over the sound of the bubbling soup between you.

He glanced at you, hooded eyes clear in their question, in their understanding. “Even when we lost six-four?”

You shrugged. “I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is how good you did for yourself in the game, and… you did.”

A nod from his side, eyes set in a pensive stare. He’d confided in you before that this particular season had been hard on the team, what with all their consistent losses and all the fights that broke out amongst them. You thought, maybe, that he was in a similar position to you a few months ago. Coming so close to victory, the tips of your fingers brushing a gold trophy, and making it just not far enough.

It affected him; at the very least, his morale when playing. And you, noticing as you did everything, tried to lighten up the mood whenever he started brooding.

“And don’t call me ‘Ice Queen’. It’s stupid.”

Yufan smiled. “Nice to know you see my solo potential in a team sport.” He adjusted his posture, sitting further back in his chair. “What else am I supposed to call you, then? Would you like to be demoted to ‘Ice Princess’?”

You scoffed softly. “I’d just like it if you called me something normal guys called their…” You paused, because your words had, for lack of a better term, utterly failed you. What were you? Were you boyfriend and girlfriend? Were you training buddies who went on dates? Were you too young to try and label whatever romantically-charged relationship you had with a boy who was how many years your senior?

He quirked a brow. “…Girlfriend?” he wondered gently, doing nothing to hide his amusement at your hesitation. “You seem like you’d be my girlfriend by now.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t go on dates with just anyone.”

You pretended to give the statement an ounce of thought, when in reality, you’d be thinking about those nine words for years to come. “Well, then, what would you call your girlfriend?”

He mimicked your expression, cocking his head to the side as if in thought. “Lots of things. Pretty girl, for one. Babe. Stupid… Ice Queen.”

“No fair! You’re not allowed to reuse shit ones just ‘cause you think it’s funny to make me mad!”

He laughed this time, loud and true, the sound bursting through the thick air that hung between you. It was a nice thing to hear; a rare thing to witness. Chao Yufan was not someone who laughed easily—he was too serious for that. Or so he would like to have you believe. You knew, though. You felt it. There was something in you that told you he was happier than he let on.

You didn’t know then not to trust that fickle, unreliable something. 

Yufan was three things when he was in love. 

First, he was gentle. All soft smiles and laughs you could barely hear over the chatter of whatever place you’d found yourselves in. He placed loving hands on your face when he squeezed your cheeks between his fingers, murmuring something about how you looked like a flower, in that voice reserved for you, and only you.

He still teased you, of course. That seemed to be something he would never be able to let up. His childishness; his mischievous nature. It was unrelenting in its intensity and recurrence, neverending tongue-in-cheek comments meant anywhere between endearing and straight up mocking.

One afternoon, you’d been sitting together on the pavement outside his family home, arms tucked under your legs as you waited for either one of you to gain the confidence to say it was time for you to go home. Time for you to part, time for you to say goodbye, to say, “Until next time.”

The sun had already begun to set, sunk below the high rises and apartment buildings dotting the city, yet the air was alight with activity, with sound, with sights. It was as if Taipei itself was telling you, Not yet. Taunting, Look, I’m still awake. What reason is there for you to leave now?

Yufan looked at you, if he hadn’t already been looking. You sat next to him, eyes fixed on something in front of you, something he couldn’t see, bathed in the glow of the setting sun. Hues of purple and pink and orange and red covered the patchy, imperfect surface of your skin, your silver jewellery glinting like stars next to your full cheeks. You were so pretty, like something straight out of an old film. That, he decided, was a face worth pining for. And he did, quietly, whenever you weren’t looking, weren’t listening as intently as you always did. Weren’t ready to ruin the moment with your stupid humour, your unnecessary little quips.

Like now, when you noticed him staring, and a wide, shit-eating grin spread across your plump lips. “What’re you looking at?” you asked, accent exaggerated like those cute girls in dramas from the Mainland.

He rolled his eyes, because he’d been caught out. Again. Said, “Not you, that’s for sure,” because he had no other appropriate response. Because he was a teenager who wasn’t used to the feelings swirling in his heart at that moment, and being cruel is easier than being honest.

You stuck your tongue out at him, blowing a raspberry while your eyes screwed shut. “Boo, you ass.”

He mimicked your expression, giving you a light shove with his weaker hand. The one that wouldn’t be able to pack as much of a punch as it usually would’ve, because he’d hurt it trying to show you a cool trick with his hockey stick earlier. “You’re so much prettier when you shut that big mouth of yours.”

And you smiled, because you knew, or you thought, beneath all those layers of defensiveness and snippy jokes, Yufan really did like you. After all, what else would he keep you around for?

Second, he was reverent. Not a day went by where he didn’t admire your skill, or your tact, or your beauty, or that little scar you had on your cheek from when you fell on your face as a toddler, and didn’t make it completely obvious to everyone around him. As a rising star in the sports world, he was meant to keep his personal life secret, yet when it came to you, he couldn’t be bothered to hide what people insisted needed to be hidden.

Whenever you completed a trick, a well-placed Axel or something close to it, he’d skate over to you with his mouth hanging open in exaggerated awe; whenever you were walking next to him and he got a glimpse of you standing in a certain light, the shadows and contours of your body displayed just right; whenever you helped him with his stupid twelfth grade homework, explained functions to him like you were the older one—scenes and moments where all he could really do was lean back, drink you in, and say, “You’re amazing.”

Like when he tried to teach you how to play hockey on ice, and you skated circles around him. Granted, he was going easier on you than he would normal beginners, but you still played like you’d been in the game longer than him.

The rink was dark, only the harsh glow from the overhead lights rendering you sight. Music drifted from the speakers, something you’d picked out, or perhaps something you’d forced Yufan to listen to that he just got used to and started loving the way he loved you. Steadily, patiently, neverendingly. You swept past him, holding his stick—his newest one, the one that he hadn’t had to tape back together for this game, like the one he was playing with—in your hands as you dealt with the puck, shuffling it over the icy surface beneath your feet with grace, speed that he assumed came from your many years of training.

“Aaannnddd here she comes, the Polar Bears’ newest addition, sweeping the opposition off their feet with her mad skills!” you narrated, head down, trained on the puck. “She crosses over the, uh… the blue line, and passes by the opposing team’s very handsome defencemen before she comes to the goal to shoot—” you reared your stick back, the flat coming down to strike the puck straight into the open, unattended goal— “and score!”

Yufan watched as you skated around the rink, pumping your fists in the air and whisper-shouting praises to yourself, playing as the crowd, with sound effects and all. If, like the cartoons, there could’ve been hearts in his eyes, there would’ve been. “You’re doing so well, pretty girl,” he praised. “You’re basically a pro already.”

“I know that’s right,” you gloated, trying—and failing—to do a dorky little victory dance that made you look incredibly stupid. Really, genuinely like an idiot.

And Yufan loved every second of it.

Third, he was kind. Not just to you, or to his friends, but to everyone he felt, and even didn’t feel, deserved it. His family—the Chaos—were all kind, inviting people, enough so that you could pinpoint exactly where Yufan had gotten in from. Kind, in the sense that they were accepting of you, their son’s very different, very eccentric girlfriend. Kind, in the sense that they treated you as though you were one of their own, already married into the family. Kind, in the sense that it made your heart ache to wonder why such a family, such a boy, would ever have to struggle.

He introduced you to his family shortly after officially asking you to be his girlfriend. It was rather in order for him to, given the fact that you’d nearly crossed paths with them at the games of his you’d gone to. Your first meeting had been unexpected, because they’d anticipated for him to bring home a local girl, born and bred in Taipei with her own traditions and opinions to counter their own. What they hadn’t expected was you, just as local, with just as many traditions, but something that bound you to them in a way no one else would truly understand. Your bond, of foreigners who’d found their home, who’d lived their lives in it, yet felt like outsiders, felt like they had more to prove than was truly necessary.

Yufan was a lot like his mom, you realised one night, the first night he’d invited you over for dinner at his house. It was a small, cozy place, really only enough for three people, the architecture reminiscent of old-school Japanese homes with their sliding doors and cool wooden floors. You all sat around the dinner table, plates stacked up with all the different delights Yufan’s parents had made in preparation for your arrival—from his father’s side, dishes like beef brisket noodles, and his mother’s side, dishes like tom yum soup, and her famed pad kee mao.

She was Thai, you’d been told, and spoke with the sweetest accent curling around her words. Don’t be mistaken, she spoke rapid fire Mandarin while conversing with her husband, but there was something undeniably gentle, perhaps hesitant about the way she spoke, the way she enunciated. You wondered if you sounded like that to other people. She insisted that you just call her Mama, because, in her words, “Yufan probably won’t bring home another girl since we already like you so much.” However the comment terrified you, it was just as flattering.

Your boyfriend and his mother shared a sense of humour, loud and obvious where his father preferred to stay silent, and smile in gentle amusement. They spoke a lot—really, you thought that maybe you got in five or so words that night—and never ran out of things to comment on. It was like watching a real-life variety show. 

They also shared a temperament, it seemed, their patience something fickle and short that could run out at any moment, and their gentleness neverending, not even when their partners were annoying the living daylights of them. The kind of temperament that had him flicking your temple after you’d said something stupid, that had his mother chiding her husband for his attitude. The kind of temperament that made him help you up from your seat and open doors for you, that had his mother taking her husband’s dishes and calling him handsome out of nowhere. The kind of temperament that made her expose his deepest secrets to you while priding himself on doing the same to you.

“You know, darling,” Mama began, turning to face you, “Yufan told us all about you before you even started dating.”

Your boyfriend’s face dropped, fell slack in shock. Conversely, a smile crept its way onto your face, and you looked at Mama Chao with newfound interest. “Oh, really?” you prompted, wanting nothing than to hear more about it.

She nodded sweetly, though you could see that familiar glimmer of mischief in her eyes, the one you so often saw in Yufan’s. “Oh, yes. I think it was in December, wasn’t it? that he came home with stories about you. I could imagine that he’s been rather taken with you since then.”

Yufan tried, “I wouldn’t exactly say—”

“I would,” his father spoke up, the first thing he’d said in ages. “I could see it in your eyes.”

Yufan, like his family, was kind in love, but incredibly, unrelentingly teasing all the same.

Once the new year rolled around, it was far more difficult to follow Shihan’s well-meaning advice and have fun. Not only because you had newfound obligations to your family, but because you had old obligations to your passion, old obligations that you’d put on the back burner since deciding that having fun was more important than committing to something that had cost your parents a fortune to finance.

Practice would need to become an even more regular feature in your daily life than it already had been. That meant no more cram school, and no more joint training sessions with Yufan. You’d have to commit, mind, body, and soul to this sport, to figure skating, or you’d have lost your window for everything. You’d go to competitions, and dominate as you had before, and that left little to no space for a social life.

When you first told him this, he was disappointed. Predictably so, because no teen boy liked having to spend less time with their girlfriend, especially one as dedicated to you as Yufan was. He didn’t talk to you for a few days following the announcement, but you didn’t really have time to coddle him into forgiving you. It was a harsh thought, but if Yufan wanted to end everything you had over something like this, he could go ahead and do it. You didn’t have time to stop him.

You went on a training camp in China without so much as a goodbye to him while he, similarly, travelled to Hong Kong with his team without looking back. After all, you had more important commitments now. Did this mean you wanted to break up? No. But if he was going to be a child about it, there was no need for you to be your usual understanding self (which has been hiding where, exactly?) and try to make amends.

You lasted precisely five days before you caved and called him. It had been a particularly rough day, with yours and the other skaters’ coaches having been unforgiving in their routines; you’d been up hellish heights in roller skates, done laps upon laps around the facility’s rink, and been pushed onto the ice in soccer cleats for whatever nonsense reason they could give you, probably something to do with strengthening your balance on the ice. Tensions had run high between the local and Taiwanese skaters, with you and your peers choosing to spend your evening hiding away in your shared dorms while the locals went and played a game of hockey in the rink… which was what led you to think of Yufan, and be unable to stop thinking of him until the next thing you knew, you were dialling his number and staring at your own reflection in the outgoing video call.

Yufan lasted approximately five seconds before he caved and answered your call. Like you, he’d been sentenced to two weeks of training hell, the likes of which were incomparable to even the worst torture anyone could survive. Mostly because he didn’t survive; not really, not when every one of his limbs ached and his joints screamed whenever he moved too quickly. 

His face appeared on your screen like a blessing from the heavens, and all you could do was stare into his dark brown eyes too embarrassed to say anything. His hair had gotten a bit longer since you’d last seen him, his face a bit more mature. Oh, who were you kidding? He looked exactly the same, you were just being dramatic again. He was still your Yufan, all smooth, tanned skin, and plump, pink lips that you desperately wished you’d could kiss.

When you looked deep into his eyes, looked past the droopy, hooded lids, and the feigned indifference, you could see the same embarrassment you felt. But he still spoke first. “Hi, pretty girl.”

The sound of his voice, light and airy like you hadn’t heard in nearly a week, would’ve made your knees buckle if you hadn’t been sitting cross-legged on your bed, lifted a weight you hadn’t realised was resting on your shoulders until it dissipated. Like tension resolved without words. Like wounds eased with the wind. He still liked you. He still called you his pretty girl. He didn’t hate you. 

“Hi, Yufan,” you said. Stupid, stupid you. Could you not come up with something better than that? ‘Hi’?! “How… how’s the training camp been?”

He nodded imperceptibly. “Fine. Or, well— no. Not fine. I hurt myself pretty bad during a scrimmage a while ago. But it’s whatever,” he dismissed. You noticed a bruise on his neck, and on his shoulder, where his loose sleeping shirt exposed the skin. “How’s it been in China?”

“Oh.” You gave him a meek shrug. “Not too bad. There are, um… some political tensions rising, but that’s about it.”

He managed a snicker. “Oh, yeah? The coaches fighting about the same old stuff?”

“Yep.” You smiled softly. Yufan thought you looked really pretty when you did that.

“…I saw you guys at the airport before we left,” he told you, ducking his head to avoid your gaze. His nose scrunched, and he added, “I wanted to say goodbye to you.”

Your face fell. “Oh. I’m— you could’ve, if you really wanted to. I would’ve let you.”

“No, it’s fine,” he assured you. “You needed your time to cool off. It just reminded me a little why I hate airports.”

“You do?” Still?

“Yeah.”

This was a conversation you’d had before, the feeling airports gave you. It first came up while you were laying together on the floor of your bedroom, staring at the glow in the dark stars pressed into the ceiling. You loved airports, because it meant you got to go somewhere new. Got to explore, got to see new places and learn new things. Yufan hated them, because,

“It reminds me that the people I love are leaving,” he said. “That… that I won’t be able to see them until they come back. Like my mom, when she goes to visit family in Thailand and I can’t come along. My dad, when he goes to Hong Kong for business and doesn’t come back for a month.” He paused, then, “Like you, when you go to Beijing or Seoul for competitions and I’m not sure when I’ll see you next.”

You sighed, the action more of a sad, rueful exhale. “Oh, Yufan…”

Another pause. Yufan looked into his phone camera, eyes on you still. You couldn’t detect any malice in his stare. Then, why would there be any? “Listen, pretty… I’m sorry about last week,” his soft voice came over the speaker. “About how I acted. That— it was stupid. I shouldn’t have behaved like that. It’s… your career is important. More important than I am.”

You frowned, your brow creasing as your heart ached. You were young, too young to be having these sorts of conversations. Too young to be talking of careers, of your importance in each other’s lives. You both understood that there was nothing to be done about it, but just for a moment, you had the fleeting thought that it wasn’t fair.

Fair. What an odd word to use, to try and define. Nothing was fair. Ever.

“That’s not true,” you said, “and you know it. I’ll always have time for you.” You wouldn’t. “If I don’t, I’ll make time.” Wrong again. 

He smiled gently. “It’s alright, stupid.” It wasn’t. “I know why you need to focus more these days. I can wait.” He couldn’t. “Or, maybe… I could help you out a little?” When you raised a sceptical brow, he eagerly continued, “We don’t do cross-training anymore, which I get, but what if I help you with your routines, and stuff? I could help you practice choreography, and you wouldn’t need to do everything alone. I— the hockey season’s quieting down, anyway, so I’ll have plenty of free time.”

You paused. “You wouldn’t mind doing that for me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Baby, do I ever?”

You found yourself smiling, uncontrollable only in the fact that you physically couldn’t help reacting to his words the way you did. Couldn’t help accepting his proposal, missing the way the light in his eyes dimmed with every word, missing the way his smile seemed pained where yours wasn’t. Missing the way he looked at you, like you were something he’d already lost.

There were many technicalities that came with being a foreign athlete in Taiwan. There were many technicalities that came with being a foreign athlete anywhere, you were sure, but Taiwan was heart-piercingly clear in how it viewed non-natives. Though you could compete on an international scale, you were given a specific category to perform in. You didn’t represent Taiwan. You represented foreigners in Taiwan.

Which, considering the fact that you’d lived there for more than half of your life, considering the fact that you were a Taiwanese citizen, hurt. Especially considering the fact that there was little separating you from your local, same-aged peers besides a name that sounded a bit different, proportions that didn’t fit with what society deemed as appropriate for young girls your age.

It put you at odds with your friends, your fellow athletes; everyone you knew who trained the same way you did, did the same routines, faced the same struggles, but who could confidently say they represented their home country. Could you even say you had one, really, when you felt your birthplace was not yours to claim, and your home country separated you from its locals?

The Taiwan Figure Skating Championships were an annual competition that gathered several up and coming figure skaters to choose the lucky athlete that would represent Taiwan at the World Championships, and other such international competitions. It was an honour to any skater who entered to even make the top three, but that wasn’t what you were aiming for.

You’d entered your name with an intention, not hidden or concealed in any way. You’d filled out the application with confidence, confidence that they’d look at your portfolio, your history, your skill set, and consider you as one of the few options that would be able to compete. 

You’d sat at your desk at home, finger hovering over the email you’d received in the hours after you returned from cram school, filled with anticipation and fear and impending regret as you contemplated the results to come.

Did you even open the email? Did you brace yourself, for equal parts victory and failure, or did you just throw your hat in and leave it unopened, convinced you didn’t deserve a spot, anyway?

I mean, think about it this way. You’d been training for Nationals before registrations had even opened. Even before you’d met Yufan in Beijing all those months ago, you’d already choreographed and practiced both your short program and free skate. You’d spent all your time in the off-season following the previous Championships training, and exercising, and choreographing, and slaving away in that dark, lonely rink. All that time would, if you didn’t open the email and face your fate, be wasted.

But all that time would also, if you hadn’t been accepted, be wasted, anyway. So, how exactly were you supposed to choose what to do next?

It seemed you didn’t need to, because one of your parents would. You’d been sitting at your desk, your mother and your stepfather, Chihming, crouching anxiously behind you. Shihan and Peiling were waiting for you over the phone, and Yufan had already sent you his own words of encouragement.

雨 you’re going to do great, pretty girl

i just know it

After five minutes of you deliberating, procrastinating, prolonging—every word that could describe you doing everything in your power to avoid opening the email, the pressure seemed to become too much for Chihming, so he reached forward and took over. Predictably, chaos erupted. Your mother yelled for him to back off, while Peiling and Shihan screamed confused obscenities at the ruckus, and all you could do was smack a hand over your eyes so you wouldn’t have to face the inevitable rejection.

Silence. Then, Chihming tapped you on the shoulder. With great reluctance, you opened your fingers just that little bit to read the opening lines.

Dear athlete, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to compete at the—

“Holy crap!” you exclaimed, your voice rising impossibly high.

Your mother, bless her soul, frowned in confusion. “What?”

Chihming pointed frantically at the screen. “Look!”

She deadpanned. “I can’t read that, peh bak.”

“Neither can we!” Peiling and Shihan chimed in.

“I got in,” you said quickly. Then, jumping up from your seat, effectively clearing the space as your mother and stepfather took a careful step back, “I got in! Oh, my GOD, I got in! I’m competing at Nationals! I’m gonna be a star!”

And that’s where things went south. 

Yufan was someone who was used to pretending that everything was fine when his life was falling apart. Perhaps it was an unfortunate side effect that came with being an only child to immigrants, always putting on a brave face for your parents in times of trouble, which later became putting on a brave face in front of friends, other family members, teammates, and eventually, your neurotic girlfriend. 

You’d been going at it for hours by the time he arrived at the rink to help you, just like he’d promised he would. You, however, were not supposed to have been busy when he came, and yet here you were, spent and not looking like you were going to give up whatever you were trying to perfect very soon. It was something he noticed when you trained together; your obsession with perfection, almost comparable to his.

Your approaches differed in two main ways. Where Yufan became unhealthily devoted to whichever task he’d set out to do, you threw yourself into the process blind, unsure of whether you’d emerge in one piece. Where he was cold and calculated, you were hot and reckless, not stopping until your limbs trembled and you couldn’t see straight. Both of you felt things intensely, but there was something about the way your emotions took hold of you, kept you in a vice, that Yufan couldn’t imagine feeling like that, ever.

From what he’d seen, though, it was your approach that got you places. Your sheer dedication not to routine, but to repetition was something to behold. If you couldn’t do something, you’d do it over and over and over again until the soles of your skates were stained with blood and you had no choice but to take a step back. Between the two of you, you were the one who consistently placed first in your competitions, you were the one who was on her way to Nationals. You weren’t the one who was tied to a shitty team and an even shittier self worth hiding behind layers of sarcasm and feigned charm. You were yourself, through and through.

And he wouldn’t be lying if he said he was a little jealous of it. Of you. Not in a predatory, competitive sense, in a way that meant he wanted exactly what you had, felt entitled to it. No, rather, in a way that had him wishing he had your confidence, your self-assurance in your skill. He didn’t have that, and it showed in his games.

Which is where the saving face came in. He’d come straight from a gruelling practice that had ended in Coach Chen asking him an impossible question, weathered face contorted with something like hopeless rage. Do you even want to be here? When you play like that, who could be able to tell that you’re passionate about all of this, and not just wasting our time?

But that didn’t matter. Not now, anyway, when he had you in front of him. You, his wonderful girlfriend, who was not afraid to get snippy with him, who hugged him whenever he got off the ice after a game, who said he was doing just fine for himself, and that that was all you really cared about. You, his talented girlfriend, who was on her way to Nationals, World Championships, and who knows what else, who was better than he was in any regard, who was leaving him behind in Taiwan to become an international star. Who deserved nothing less from the world.

You didn’t notice him at first, and he wasn’t surprised, with how lost you were in your own dark little world. Music blasted from the speakers—probably something from that one English indie band you never stopped talking about. Peiling was sitting in the stands, eyes narrowed as if in disapproval. Yufan knew her to be quite the strict coach; perhaps not as bad as Coach Chen, but certainly a nightmare in her own right. In her hands she held a clipboard, and when Yufan sat down next to her to pull on his skates, she angled it away from him. Not that he was planning on looking, but now that she’d hidden it, he felt his suspicion growing.

He knew she didn’t like him—for whatever reason, he wasn’t too sure. Maybe she didn’t like hockey players. Actually, now that he thought of it, remembered how she and Coach Chen had beheld one another with more scepticism than was necessary when they first met, that seemed to be the exact case. 

She didn’t greet him, rather opening the conversation with, “You’re here to help again, I assume.”

The sound of your skates sliding against the ice drifted through the air. “I am,” he confirmed.

She hummed, clearly still unhappy.

Yufan pulled his laces tighter, extending his leg further from him to get the most out of it. He said, without looking her in the eye, “Something tells me you don’t like me, shifu. Why?”

She tsked, almost as if she didn’t want to respond. Then, “Hockey men are bad luck for my girls. My first student had a boyfriend just like you, and he almost ruined her career.”

Well, that was one reference point, the audience might be thinking. Right? That hypothesis is totally flawed. “Trust me, I want nothing more than to help,” he said earnestly, because it was the truth. He wanted you to succeed, and if he could make your path to destiny more bearable, why wouldn’t he?

“Hmph.” She glanced at him, through the corner of her eye. “We’ll see about that.” Before he could retort, or dig himself deeper into the hole she’d made for him, a sharp sound echoed from inside the rink, the sound of skin and bone thumping against the ice. Peiling turned, eyes narrowing as she rushed to the barrier, shouting, “What happened? What did you do now?”

“Nothing,” you wheezed, holding up a hand to signal that you were alright. “Just a triple toe loop gone wrong.”

Yufan shook his head in mild amusement, opening up the barrier door and getting onto the ice after following after your coach, skating over to where you’d fallen to help you up. “You alright?” he asked, glancing at you with badly disguised concern. “That looked pretty bad.”

“It’s fine,” you assured him, squeezing your hip—where he’d assumed you’d fallen. “I’ll probably just have some bruising; it’s nothing that’ll keep me from practicing. Speaking of…”

And so, the rest of his afternoon was lost to your training. You went over your programs, the moves you’d planned, the music you’d picked out. For your short program, you were planning on a triple flip and toeloop, a double Axel, fly camel spin, triple Lutz, change combo spin, step sequence, and a layback spin, all to On the hills of Manchuria. You flowed through the practice session easily, moving through the routine, through the music, as if it were second nature.

Your free skate was a different monster. Triple Lutz, triple loop, triple toeloop, and double Axel that transitioned into a quadruple fly camel spin, a choreography sequence that made way for another double Axel, single Euler, and triple flip. Again, triple Lutz, double toeloop, triple flip, quadruple layback spin, and at the swell of the music, a quadruple Salchow. You’d finish with a triple step sequence, and a quadruple change combo spin, to none other than a shortened version of Tchaikovsky’s The Sleeping Beauty’s Valse.

Only two other female figure skaters in the history of the sport had ever attempted a quad Salchow—while the jump on its own was one of the easier ones, completing it in four rotations was virtually unheard of. For you to attempt it at your age… It was a high-risk, high-reward move. You’d been practicing it since you were introduced to quads, you’d told him, though there was something about the Salchow, some sort of mental or physical block, that had made it nearly impossible for you to complete twice in a row.

You went through the motions of your free skate, Yufan keeping a reasonable distance behind you as you circled the ice. “Tell me if you need me,” he’d told you, though he knew you didn’t. “Just look back, and I’ll be there.”

You got all the way through the first half without a hitch; after your closing move, you landed on your left foot, rushing backwards with your arms spread, body swaying to the music as if you were dancing. Yufan watched as you bowed, lifted yourself up in one languid movement, gliding across the ice in one consuming sweep. You turned, readying yourself for the triple Lutz; as you spun through the air, thinking of your next move, Yufan found himself entranced with the way you landed and swept yourself straight into it, placing the pick of your skate behind the other, vaulting yourself into the air. You wheeled around, legs moving back and forth over the smooth surface beneath you, before twisting to launch yourself into a triple flip, sweeping your leg out from behind you and spinning like a top, your hands coming up from behind you, above you, around you, moving in time to the up and down of the string instruments; the jaunty tune playing perfectly to your ministrations.

For a moment you didn’t look like a girl who had too many ear piercings or an attitude; you looked like a proper lady, who spoke clearly and gently. It was odd, seeing that part of your personality, even though Yufan knew it was there. The music only added to your grace, to your impossible elegance. The violins and piccolos all layered over one another… it felt like falling in love.

That was when you stumbled, just as you were about to take off, your arms braced around your front and all. You cursed as you landed oddly, skidding to a halt at the edge of the rink. Yufan followed soon after, stopping a few metres behind you, waiting for you to say something.

You took a moment to regain your composure, before you turned to the barrier, where Peiling had been observing your practice with a stony face. You gave her a thumbs up, silver rings glimmering in the harsh rink light, and said, “I’ll try again!”

And, boy, did you try. And try, and try, and try, until the sun had set and there was no way within human limits that you were not exhausted yet. The music did not stop, not Tchaikovsky, nor Ilya Shatrov, and neither did you. It got to the point where you’d done so many loops, so many spins, that Yufan was beginning to get nauseous on your behalf. When you dared to try and practice your quad Salchow a fourth time, and doing so by starting your routine from the very top, Yufan skated towards you, laying gentle, sure hands on your shoulders, and looking into your eyes with the intensity of a man who wanted to be in bed yesterday.

“Pretty girl,” he said, voice hushed from exhaustion. “Babe. Baby. Ice Queen. Please… no more.”

You exhaled, struggling to catch your breath. Still, you didn’t seem to catch on to the signals your own body was sending your way. “You can go home if you’d like, Yu. I didn’t expect you to stay all the way through for all of my practices.”

He chuckled breathlessly, because who were you to be so disgustingly devoted to your work? “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact that we have been here for hours, and that, I’m sure, your feet are going to start bleeding if you don’t go home in the next thirty seconds.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the ground. “But… I feel like I could practice my Salchow more.”

He raised a brow. “How long has it been part of your routine?”

“Since I was introduced to quads,” you answered immediately, the words sending you into inspirational autopilot.

“Right. And you’ve been practicing it for just as long. So, what I’m trying to say is,” he added, because he noticed you wanting to protest yet again, “you’ve got this.”

“What if I don’t?” you asked. “What if I try it, and I fail?” Your eyes widened, pupils shaking as more questions piled into your mind. “What if I fall in front of all of those judges, and I have to go into early retirement from the embarrassment? Wh— what if I make a complete fool of myself in front of the whole panel of judges?” You huffed, growing agitated in the face of his silence. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Yu—”

“You’re a talented girl,” Yufan interrupted firmly, giving your shoulders a little shake. “I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that. But what you need to realise is that whether or not you succeed, whether or not you become the star you want to be, is completely up to you. And you know what you’re doing.”

There was something about you, standing in front of him, full cheeks and dreamy eyes, that made his heart hurt. That made him wonder where all his talent, all his tact had gone. He’d been on top of the world when he met you, and since then, he’d just been going backwards. You, however, did the opposite. You’d been placing second and winning silver when you met him, and since meeting him, you’d been invited to prestigious events, been on training camps out of the country, gone further than he ever would. 

It wasn’t fair. That you had the ability to work as hard as you did, but once Yufan reached a certain point, his body simply refused to cooperate. Why couldn’t he be pushed to your extremes, the kind that kept your posture upright, that kept your body fit, that kept your mind sharp? Why couldn’t he be more like you?

“Thanks, Yufan, but will all due respect, I think I know my abilities better than you do,” you murmured, taking a step back from him.

Okay. What the fuck? “All I said was that you know what you’re doing,” he pointed out lightly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You didn’t take it as lightly as he presented it. “My technique has been slipping for the past week, so, no, I wouldn’t. I’ve still got a lot of headway to make, and your patronising comments aren’t helping in the least.”

“I’m not trying to be patronising,” he laughed, in growing disbelief. 

“Oh, really? Whether or not I succeed is completely up to me? I already know that, genius, and you saying anything about it isn’t going to help me become a better skater,” you snapped.

Yufan could see in your eyes that you were tired. That’s why you were being like this. Difficult. Yet still, he bothered to respond like you were in your right mind, “I’m just lifting you up a little, babe. It’s not a big deal. You should be more confident in yourself. A quad Salchow should be nothing to you.”

That was not the right thing to say.

“Nothing?” you spat. “Only two women in the history of figure skating have executed it in competition, and it should be nothing for me?”

He tried, “That’s not what I meant—”

“How could you know what you’re talking about?! You’re a hockey player, Yufan. We’re not on the same level.”

Silence. He took a step back, face hardening with something like anger. A deep, shuddering breath escaped his lips, and when he looked up at you, his jaw twitched. “You don’t mean that,” he tried lowly.

You stubbornly stood your ground. “Don’t I?”

He didn’t want to believe you did, no. Not when he’d spent so much time with you by his side, helping him, teasing him, loving him. How heartbroken was he supposed to be if it turned out to be the truth? If the girl he’d unknowingly idolised for so long didn’t even respect him enough to hear him out on something he was so sure of?

Then again, why would he have to compromise himself for you when you’d shown time and time again you wouldn’t ever do the same for him. Why waste that time? Why take that risk? He chuckled, the sound dark and brittle, shrugging. “I don’t need this,” he announced. “You don’t want me here? I’ll leave. I’ll leave you to roll in self-pity, because you seem to like your own company a hell of a lot more than mine.”

You froze. For a moment, he could imagine traces of disappointment in your features. But just like the seasons, just like your love, it was gone as soon as it had come. “Door’s that way,” you chirped, indicating the exit.

“Right,” he said. And then he was gone. You were alone all over again.

As you watched him leave, something in your gut told you to take off your skates and run after him. Fix things, tell him you were sorry about what you said. You didn’t think he was stupid, or worth less just because he played a different sport. Why would you even say something like that? There were a million reasons, none of them good enough for Yufan. It wasn’t the heat of the moment; it wasn’t stress, or fatigue, or fear. It was nothing more than your own selfishness, your own ill temper.

You sighed, shoulders sagging as you reluctantly threw in the towel and called it a night, skating to the edge of the barrier and opening up the short swing door, climbing off the ice with wobbly legs.

THAT SAME NIGHT

The locker room was, from what you could see after practice, deserted. Peiling hadn’t been in the stands for a while, though when you’d jogged outside the check if she’d gone home for the night, you came face to face with her beat up Prius in the parking lot; she was probably still in the rink somewhere, out of the sight from you, doing her odd coach things.

You strode back inside and to the locker rooms, tugging at the next of your top, which had begun to feel far too tight near the end of training. You approached the door, which was open only a crack, stopping once you heard voices, the sound of shoes pacing around the room. It sounded like someone, a woman and a man, talking over the phone.

“I don’t understand what you mean by that,” the woman said, disbelief staining her words. Your blood ran cold when you recognised Peiling’s voice. “She qualified just like everyone else.”

“But the board are looking to review her qualifications,” the man replied calmly. He sounded old, perhaps your grandparents’ age, or a bit younger, if you had to think about it. “We’ve considered that perhaps some of her competition points could be below the standard for skaters of her… her origin.”

“I cannot believe my ears. You are insinuating that because she is a foreigner, she cannot represent Taiwan, when all of our country’s biggest stars in this sport were born overseas?!”

“That is a different case altogether—”

“No, it is not. I built her up from nothing. I made her the skater that qualified, and I say she’s just as good as anyone else in her position, if not better, because she has to deal with old-fashioned folks like you constantly bringing her down. She deserves just as much as anyone else to represent her home country.”

“Not when the topic of foreign representatives has already stirred up controversy and feelings of inferiority in local skaters.”

A beat. Then, “She’s going to compete at Nationals, whether you like it or not. Got it? I didn’t waste ten years of my life on this girl for you to tell me she can’t perform.”

What a nice thing to hear from your coach.

You woke up on the morning of Nationals with a knot in your stomach. Everything felt off, from the moment you stepped out of bed and onto a floor that was too cold to bear, to the moment your parents drove you to the rink, and you met Peiling at the entrance, the sun looking wrong in the sky; its rays too pale, its heat too sparse.

In all regards, you looked ready. You were dressed in your costume—a glittering black ensemble that spoke of maturity and grace you didn’t feel you possessed, hair neat and completely out of the way. There was not a rip or a draw in your stockings, the blades of your skates shimmered as you hoisted them up to show to her, but nothing felt right.

Peiling grasped your shoulders, looking into your eyes with nothing but pride swimming in hers. Pride, and expectation. The neverending, unrelenting expectation of someone who had waged all their money, time, and dignity on a young girl with a dream. How cruel of her to believe in you.

Your parents made their way to the stands, but not without your mother crouching down to press a kiss to your forehead, Chihming giving you a gentle pat on the back, their actions speaking louder than words ever would. Good luck, their smiles seemed to say. We believe in you. You’re going to do great. Don’t mess this up. Please don’t mess this up. Shihan had texted you earlier that she’d already saved seats for your parents and for Yufan, right next to where she’d booked her seat, proclaiming having gotten the best view of the rink. Their eyes would be on you the whole time, she boasted. They’d get to see everything.

The locker room was eerily quiet, and at the very same time, a cacophony played over and over in your ears. Something mechanical—a fan, or a massage gun—buzzed to the right of you; someone knocked their skate guards against the floor as the hard plastic slipped out of their hands; someone was talking over the phone; someone else was praying. And you sat on your designated bench, your shaking legs braced in front of you. 

Yufan hadn’t spoken to you all morning, save for the minimal texts you’d exchanged when talking about his and his parents’ seating arrangements. He’d barely even spoken to you since your last training session, since you’d stormed out on him and told him that he didn’t know what he was talking about. Just thinking about it made your insides churn. You were wrong for that. So, so wrong. You’d agreed, however, before all of that had happened, to meet each other, just for a moment, in the locker room, long before you were due to start. You hadn’t spoken of a time—you’d just told him that he could come whenever he wanted to. You felt now like you shouldn’t have told him to come at all.

You didn’t hear the door open, and only when a pair of familiar sneakers came into view did you realise that Yufan was already there. No avoiding him now. You looked up at him, eyes settling on his face—pretty, angered, worried—and stood up. He didn’t greet you; he knew he didn’t need to. You’d say all you needed to say right now, as you stood in front of him, if you were brave enough.

“I hope you and your parents didn’t have any problems finding your seats,” you began. He simply nodded. Somewhere in the far corners of the room, you could hear Peiling speaking with one of the other skaters’ coaches.

“She deserves just as much as anyone else to represent her home country.”

Yufan looked at you—really looked at you, attention as unwavering as his affection had been. “We didn’t,” he said. He paused then, though a silent question hung in the air. Why am I even here? Good question. Why was he even there? When you’d already told him that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he wouldn’t be useful to you going forward? If you wouldn’t, he’d bite. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Not when the topic of foreign representatives has already stirred up controversy and feelings of inferiority in local skaters.”

If you were brave enough, you could tell him. Tell him exactly what was on your mind. If you were brave enough. If only you were brave enough. “I’m thinking of cutting the quadruple Salchow from my routine.”

You’d wondered what his reaction would be to that in the days leading up to the competition. Would he be disappointed? Would he sigh to himself and say he’d expected you to chicken out? Would he be relieved? Would he say he was hoping that you would because of how dangerous it was, given the fact that you’d only accomplished it a handful of times? Would he be indifferent? Would he act normally and say what you did in your routine was your business, he was merely a spectator? Nothing you thought could’ve prepared you for the real thing.

“What do you mean?” he asked, brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “Wh— what do you mean you’re dropping it?”

“Well, I figured that since I’d only actually executed it a few times, I shouldn’t necessarily take the risk of trying it right now,” you explained. “I rather wouldn’t do it than do it badly.”

“You can’t do it badly, though,” he pointed out. “You’ve practiced it enough times to be able to do it right.”

“Okay, I’m just not confident enough just yet,” you replied, words quick. “I don’t want to take that risk.”

“How can you not be confident enough when you’ve been practicing this routine for years?” he asked, and the words came out harder than he’d meant for them to. Or maybe they landed just as he’d intended. “This sport is all about risks.”

You paused. “Figure skating isn’t the same as hockey, Yufan. I can’t just get onto the ice and do as I please. I need to be fully assured that I’m capable—”

“The thing is, you are,” he interrupted, “and you’re being ridiculous by suggesting that you aren’t.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” you said sternly. “Losing confidence is normal in this sport, okay? I’m not like you.”

He narrowed his eyes, mouth set in a thin line of question. “You know what? I’m not even going to ask you to expand on that disgustingly elitist comment, because I’m more concerned with the fact that, all of a sudden, you can’t do what you’ve been doing for the past ten years.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you tried.

“Well, it sounds a lot like it! It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve executed it perfectly; you’ve been practicing the quad Salchow for years. You’re thinking too much about this. Just go out there and do your thing, and you’ll see, you’re capable.”

“Yufan, I’m trying to tell you that I’m not, okay? I can’t do it! It’s not me!”

“What is ‘you’, then? What are you, who are you, if not someone who can do this? When did you become such a coward?!”

Silence.

You took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“I asked, since when were you such a coward?” he repeated, unapologetic. “Since when do you think too much and act too little?”

“I’m not a coward,” you spat.

“Prove it,” he challenged. “Trust your skill and do the quad Salchow when it’s your time to perform.”

“That’s not how these things work, okay? I can’t just make up my mind not to do something, and change plans the day of a competition! It’s not like—”

“I swear to God, if you say something about hockey again—”

“You know what?” you asked, voice raising. “I’ll say what I want about your stupid sport. You don’t get to belittle me and call me names just because it’s what you’re used to as an athlete. If you want to treat me like one of your teammates, you can leave.”

He scoffed. “What, you’re telling me to leave because you can’t handle tough love?”

“This is all tough!” you said. “Where’s the love?” You shook your head, and when your eyes landed on him again, you beheld him with something akin to acceptance. “Get out.”

This seemed to sober him up. “What?”

“I said, get out. Walk away, and don’t look back. I wouldn’t want you to. We’re done.”

The first thing you noticed about the rink at Nationals was how bright it was. All ice skating rinks had to, according to the rules of the sport, be well-lit so as to ensure safe skating for any athlete, but there was something different about a rink that hosted the country’s best skaters. The ice was whiter than white, cold, and crisp, with the detailed swirls and twirls of blades engraved into its surface. The crowd was massive, a darkened mob surrounding your stage, the lights nearly blinding as you stepped onto the ice for your warmups.

You shared the space with one other skater; a girl by the name of Nana, who looked more familiar than she should have. She skated well, though you noted a slight hesitation in her movements whenever she readied herself for a spin. You failed to notice the tremble in your own hands, those moments between loops and twirls where you could’ve stumbled.

Your short program was a success, racking up a total of 78.45 points—42.43 in technical elements, and 36.02 in components. You’d done as you were told and moved in time with the music, losing yourself in the unfamiliarity of the sounds, of the sort of song you could only bear when your career depended on it. You were serenaded with a shower of gifts; flowers, teddy bears, and the approving nod of Peiling on the other side of the ice. Your parents cheered for you, whistling and clapping and waving the poster they’d made specially for you.

You’d smiled from your spot on the ice, grinning like a madwoman in the midst of all the praise, your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as you tried to compose yourself. Your makeup, bold and bright and completely unlike you, glimmered under the lights, shimmering like the mist that separated fantasy from reality.

When you glanced at the leaderboard, you saw that you’d come steadily in second. You couldn’t reason that it was only because all the other skaters before you had fallen, or because they hadn’t executed their moves correctly. You had faith that you would win. You had to. Otherwise, what would it all have been for?

There was a small intermission that allowed you to catch your breath, while Peiling reviewed your routine from where she was seated next to you. She didn’t look at you as she spoke, rather at the judge’s panel, where she glared at one of the older men sitting at the very end. “You’ve dropped the quad Salchow from your routine, correct?” she asked.

“That’s what I’d planned on,” you said, voice trembling.

She hummed. “Mm. Alright. Then just make sure you do your other moves well enough. Skate like you didn’t even need it in the first place.”

You nodded. “I’ll try.”

“You won’t try,” she said. “You will.”

And before you could delay fate, it was your time.

You stepped onto the ice with shaking legs, your fingers trembling from where they rested at your sides as you glided to the centre, twisting and turning your body every which way to loosen your aching muscles. You looked down at your leading leg, exhaling deeply. Bruises and sore spots littered the joint, and surely many other areas of your body. You could barely hold yourself together.

Your routine started off well, with you sliding backwards across the ice, bracing yourself, lifting your arms in a gentle dance. You took a deep bow, twisting yourself up into the air, spinning once, twice, thrice, blades barely touching the ice before you were back in the air again, landing with little effort. After that, a backwards glide that ended in you pole vaulting into the air, assisted by the pick of your skate. The music drifted through the air, the bass reverberating through your body. You pulled your lips into a tight smile, facing the crowd as you rushed forward, lifting your knee for a double Axel. You turned, once, twice, and stuck the landing.

You moved easily through the single Euler and triple flip, and the crowd cheered briefly when you executed a particularly impressive triple Lutz. As you moved across the ice, your blades scraping against its freezing surface, you counted down in your head the numbers you had left before you could be blessed with a completed routine—double toeloop, triple flip, quadruple layback spin, and…

You hoped no one noticed you falter as your brain listed the quadruple Salchow as an automatic addition. Did you do it, and surprise everyone with an unexpected twist, or did you continue as everyone had anticipated, and complete your routine without taking any real risks?

You turned, readying yourself for the quadruple Salchow. As you bent your knee, arms lowering with the rest of you, you thought of Miki Ando. The first and only girl to land the move you were about to attempt. She’d been your age, performing on a much higher level, for a much larger audience. How were you supposed to feel, knowing that the one move you’d spent your entire career practicing had already been done before? Maybe Yufan was right. Maybe you did think too much, act too little. Maybe you were a coward. You sucked in a sharp breath as you flew into the air, the world around you spinning like a top. One, two, three…

Four. Your right foot made contact with the ice, its cold, hard, unforgiving surface. And then you spun again.

Except, you weren’t supposed to. You were supposed to glide seamlessly back into your routine, basking in the audience’s applause. Instead you turned, and now the ground was rapidly approaching.

Snap!

When people get injured, they often describe it as an out of body experience. Something that seems faraway, as if they weren’t present to witness the moment. Your injury was nothing like that.

You cried out as you came down, your shoulder hitting the ice. The pain travelled up at an alarming rate, the joint becoming dead weight.

In an instant, your senses sharpened. You became hyperaware of the pain shooting up your arm, not stopping until it seemed to throb inside your head, your temples burning with the ache. Of the harsh lights cast above you, next to you, behind you, shining even from under your closed eyelids. You heard people, voices cutting through the sound of your own ragged breathing. Skates rushing along the ice, faint sharp lines barely visible through your narrowed eyes. You weren’t sure if you screamed, or if you stayed silent. If you cried, or if the wetness on your cheeks was because of something else.

Whenever you finished a program, there was a moment of silence before the audience erupted in cheers. Before the bouquets were thrown and your name was called, over and over until even you believed you’d made first place. That never came. Instead, you were faced with the deafening silence of a shocked crowd, covering their mouths in horror.

And all you could do was stand up.

The medics tried to help you, but you brushed them off, shakily getting to your feet. You knew what happened next—you’d smile, bow to the crowd while wiping your tears, and they’d all let out a sigh of relief as you stepped off the ice and took a seat. That didn’t happen. Because when you attempted to bow, it was as if every muscle in your body screamed for you to stop, for you to stand upright and try to support your shoulder. It sagged forward, the bone bent at an odd angle.

“Fuck,” you swore, the word out before you could stop it. A medic rushed forward, and this time, you didn’t refuse his help. You let him, and several others of the medical team, help you off the ice, their hands braced firmly against your back. 

Peiling was waiting for you at the barrier, her hands desperately grabbing onto you as she half hoisted you up, lifting your numb legs to sheathe your skates. You let her guide you to the kiss and cry, where you sat down with a heavy heart and medics fussed over you until they reached their final conclusion.

They said many things as they examined you; your body, your current state of being. A shock, murmured one, testing to see if she could pop the joint back into place. You teared up and told her to stop, and she did. Totally unexpected, murmured another in Hokkien. Other words and terms were also thrown around. Bad injury. Bone. Joint. Fractured collarbone. Broken clavicle. 

“We’ll have to take her to the hospital,” said one of the medics, an older woman who turned to Peiling as she spoke. As if you weren’t even there. “This fracture requires immediate intervention that we can’t give her.”

“You think?” asked the younger man, the one who spoke Hokkien. Probably a medical student. Not much older than you.

“I know,” she said gravely.

All your coach did—all she could do—was nod, accepting the fate that had befallen you. There was nothing to be done about your routine, or what of it you were able to perform. As they carried you out of the rink on a stretcher they’d practically pushed you onto, you realised that you wouldn’t win. An incomplete set didn’t even get you second place. You’d done all that, all those jumps, those twirls, those nights you’d spent at the rink instead of being with your family, those fights you had with Yufan about your courage—all of it in vain.

Your parents made an appearance after all was said and done, when the ambulance had been called and activity in the competition had been halted as thousands of people awaited the outcome of your failure. Just before you were forcefully helped onto the stretcher, they came barrelling through a crowd of security guards, shouting obscenities as they tried to hold them back.

“Let them through,” Peiling barked. “They’re family.”

Your mother rushed to your side, taking your cold face in her warm palms. “Are you alright? Oh, my darling—what’s… what happened?” Then, before you could respond, to the young medic who’d practically carried you off the ice, “Will she be alright?”

He hesitated. “She—”

“My collarbone,” you said, your voice an unfamiliar drawl, a moan of pain, “clavicle. It’s broken.”

She gasped, Chihming’s hands coming up to keep her steady as she began to cry. You felt pity for her, you really did, but when you were the one who’d been injured, a wailing mother was not exactly a nice backing track to your pain.

You waved a hand in Peiling’s direction, and she seemed to understand your signal. Please make it stop. I love her, but please make it stop. Chihming did, as well, because when your coach approached your parents to gently urge your mother into silence, he just nodded and said he’d bring their car around so they could follow the ambulance to the hospital.

“Let us know if anything else happens,” he said, both to you and to Peiling. “Drive safe.”

Then came Shihan, her beautiful face taut with worry and panic. You’d been carried out by that time, and she’d jogged after the medics before you could get to the ambulance from where it wailed on the pavement outside the rink. You could hear the music of another skater’s set through the faint thrum of your own heartbeat. No surprise, they continued despite your absence. That was one of the things you’d loved about figure skating; no matter how bad something seems, no matter how many hits you take, you’d always have to get back up and let the show go on. 

And your show couldn’t go on for much longer.

“Are you okay?” was the first thing she asked after pushing herself past the medics crowding you. Her hair fell over her shoulders in inky cascades. “Are you alright? Don’t tell me it’s a broken shoulder, or— or something bad like—”

“Han-eh,” Peiling said, voice low. “Calm down. We’re taking her to the hospital now. She’ll be fine.”

She glanced at your coach, then back at you, taking in the way your face was contorted in pain, the tears streaming down your cheeks. She reached up to wipe them away, saying, “Your— Yufan’s looking for you. He’s here. He wants to see you.”

Then a call of your name, in that sweet, high voice that once warmed you to your core, distressed and frenzied with fear. Now all it did was make your blood run cold.

You grabbed at Shihan’s wrist, shaking your head. You wanted to speak, wanted to scream, Get him away, but all you could do was say, with more acidity than she deserved, “I don’t want to see him.” Desperately, spitefully.

Her brow creased in confusion. Right. She wasn’t there, before the competition. “Not now?”

“Not ever,” you whispered.

It was all a disparaging blur once the ambulance doors shut. You were escorted to the emergency room, where you were immediately assisted by a doctor who spoke like the Osaka businessmen you’d met on training camps in Japan. Your parents stood by your side, each clutching one hand, braced for the worst despite already learning what everyone else knew of your injury.

The elderly medic had been correct in her assumption that you’d suffered a broken collarbone. The bone had shifted, nearly shattered during your fall. Your doctor told you that you’d been unlucky to fall from such a height, at such an impossible speed. You could only grimace as he pulled up an X-ray of your front, talking about the possible paths you could take in your healing. If you were careful, and took it terribly seriously not to move too much, and received a plentiful blessing from the gods, it would heal completely in four to six months.

Half a year. That was how long you’d have to wait to start training seriously again—who knew about how long it would take you to be restored to your full strength and health. Waste. Waste. Waste. That was all you could hear. Failure. The end of times. The worst of the worst.

You cried more times than you’d like to admit. Grieved harder for something you weren’t even sure was lost yet, that you were sure you’d never be able to get back. Your doctor merely glanced at you like you were something to pity, some sort of distressed child that was crying over nothing. Peiling had disappeared out of the room somewhere in the midst of everything, keeping her phone tucked between her shoulder and her cheek as she answered a call. Shihan sat at the edge of your bed while the doctor walked out, your parents following behind him.

She crossed her legs easily over the thin mattress, observing your surroundings. You’d been hastily given a scratchy grey blanket to wear over your costume, and were constantly readjusting your posture, frowning in discomfort. The emergency room was busy, despite it being the middle of the day. Perhaps more peoples’ lives fell apart than you thought every day. Perhaps you’d just never noticed them because you’d never been one of them. Conversations floated through the air, bits and pieces of patients’ personal lives revealed to you, laid bare under the flickering fluorescent lights.

When she spoke, she didn’t say what people had been telling you since you’d arrived. She didn’t tell you that everything was going to be alright, that you were sure to make a speedy recovery if you just rested enough and listened to the doctor’s advice. She didn’t hastily assure you that your career was over, or that this would all be a wonderful story to tell when you won the Olympics, or some anxious, sentimental drivel like that. She said,

“I used to have a Yufan, you know.”

Her tone of voice—soft, saccharine, thick with emotion—caught you off guard. She’d never sounded like that before. “What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes, swollen from crying.

“Yeah. He was a hockey player, and he was a year or two older than me. We met when I was around your age,” she told you. “He’d always let me sit at the very front of his games, and even gave me a signed hockey stick.” She frowned, smiling. “Not that I know who Wayne Gretzky is, but he did. And he cared, so I did, too.” She tilted her head, nodding to you, “Then we broke up… right before one of my competitions. That’s where I got this.”

She pulled up the left leg of her jeans, where you could see stitch marks on her knee, the skin raised where she’d been cut. Your eyes widened. When you glanced up at her, her gaze was still focused on the spot. “Is this why you took that break a few years ago? Because you got hurt?”

“Mm,” she nodded. “It took me months to even get back on the ice. Peiling’s hated hockey players ever since.”

Perhaps it was that single, throwaway comment, or the pain, or the absurdity of it all, but you laughed. For the first time in a while, you laughed; genuinely, and without scorn. It was a light sound, unfamiliar in how loud it was, how it tore through your body like it had been waiting to escape. Shihan laughed, too, and when you heard it, you realised you hadn’t ever heard her genuine laugh. It was a nice sound to hear.

“You know,” she said, when silence had finally settled over you again. “It’s not the end of the world that you got injured. And I’m going to spare you the motivational speech, because I know you’re probably sick of it by now.” She looked at you, long and hard. “Just know that you’re stronger than you think, and that your fate is in your hands. Not anyone else’s.”

Before you could continue your conversation, your very own coach rushed into the room, face drained of colour. You both glanced up at her, brows furrowing in confusion at her expression. “What is it, shifu?” Shihan wondered.

“What happened?” you echoed, concern etched into your pretty features.

Her voice was hoarse when she answered, as if she’d been screaming. Or crying. “The judges have made their decision… and we are expected to make an appearance at the stadium as soon as possible.”

东京 TOKYO

2024

Long story short, you got first place at Nationals. And again two months later at the World Championships, representing your country.

It was a momentous occasion, when you were called up to the podium by the announcer, her American accent sounding harsh pronouncing the gentler tones of your name. But you didn’t care how it sounded, or how badly she butchered it, because you’d won. After all your hard work, you’d finally won, and you had something worthwhile to prove it.

The work didn’t end there for you, unfortunately, not considering your injury.

It still hung in the air like a foul smell after your wins, after you became the Taiwanese public’s darling, after the world learnt your name. News outlets covered your fall at Nationals extensively, thought out excellent and horrible names for it, for what it meant for you as an athlete. A major setback, some called it, something that would permanently impact your career for years to come. A reminder that everyone, even the most talented skaters, are human, said another publication. You liked that one, though it left a bad taste in your mouth regardless.

Despite all that, despite your well-placed hatred for it, despite your family’s fear of it, despite your coach’s grief towards it, you did your best to treat it as gently as you would any life-altering injury, to give yourself the time to recover while refusing to atrophy, refusing to give in to the temptation of premature retirement. You simply couldn’t, was your reasoning, throw all your hard work away because of a fractured collarbone. It was only an injury; you were only a person. It could heal. You could heal. You would heal.

You practiced as frequently usual, though took it undeniably easier on yourself in terms of exercises. You listened to your doctor, took her advice in stride and applied it diligently, determined to get yourself back to the way you were before you could change too much. You went on training camps, focused on rehabilitation, did everything you could in your position.

You did, however, take an indefinite hiatus from competing. You wouldn’t return to the beloved sport until you’d healed, physically and mentally. You wouldn’t return to the rink until you did so on your terms, no one else’s. 

It was on one of these training camps, in the wonderful city of Tokyo, that you found, after hearing from a friend of a friend who’d been travelling with you, that there would be a series of hockey games in the area. The local team, the Tokyo Snow Leopards, playing against several smaller, less well-known teams. One of them being the Taipei Eagles.

“You know one of the players, right?” Lili, one of the girls you’d been training with since arriving in Tokyo, asked you one night. She’d signed herself up after suffering a nasty cut to the face that her teammate gave her during pairs training. “Um… what’s his name?” She turned to your other roommate, Jingxue, a girl from Shanghai who’d come after an ACL injury, and snapped her fingers as if searching for the answer. “He’s the cute defenceman?”

Jingxue shrugged hopelessly. She didn’t say much, you’d noticed.

You butted in, eager to get Lili to stop talking. “Yeah, I, uh… I don’t remember his name, but I know who you’re talking about. Yeah, we used to train together, a while ago. Not sure how he’s been these days.”

Lili rolled her eyes at her own forgetfulness, waving it off dismissively. “I’ll remember his name soon, but, yeah, you know who I’m talking about. Have you seen him since… I dunno, since?”

You shook your head. “Nope,” you denied, popping the ‘p’.

It’s what brought you here, at the nearest ice skating rink, sitting in the stands, caught between a roaring crowd around you and a deteriorating game in front of you. The Taipei Eagles uniform was different from the old team’s—or, could you really say old, when this was simply the senior league, and the Polar Bears had been the junior league? Regardless, where their uniforms had been red, white, and blue, the Eagles went for an undeniably mature look, opting rather for black, white, and navy blue.

James was as easy to spot as he had been two years ago, still the quickest player on the ice, still a large, bold 16 on the back of his jersey. You couldn’t see much else of him; couldn’t see much else of anyone besides the crowd members around you, really. Hockey was certainly a spirit- and personality-forward sport where the audience couldn’t judge anyone by appearances. That’s how you knew you wouldn’t ever be able to play the sport—you liked appearances far too much. 

The air was as stale and electric as the air at any other hockey game would’ve been, lit up with the sounds of players’ skates slicing against the ice, with the smell of snow in your nostrils, with the heat of the moment creeping up your neck. It was undeniably addictive, and just as dangerous.

The game progressed well, or, perhaps, as well as you could perceive it did, because for all the changes you’d gone through since you’d last been in a place like this, you’d learnt nothing new about hockey. And just as well, really. You had far more important things to worry about. You wondered, then, how much James had changed, if at all. Looking down at him, it seemed he’d grown at least a bit. Perhaps a centimetre or five, something that could elevate him from a teen boy to a young adult. You wondered if he was still a clown. Still bitter inside. Still obsessive, still mean. Still your Yufan.

You knew he wouldn’t be. Yours in the literal sense, you mean. It had been nearly one and a half years since you’d last seen him, and you’d made it clear how you felt about each other that day. That last, all-too fateful day. But you wondered if he was still yours in the sense that he was still the same James you’d known. Still funny. Still passionate. Still kind. Still your Yufan.

Time passed, and eventually the first intermission became the second, then the third, and people were starting to get impatient waiting for the outcome of the game. It was a close one so far, Snow Leopards, six, Eagles, five. Only one or two more goals to determine who would be taking home this game’s trophy, this audience’s hearts.

The players were moving in a way that didn’t completely make sense to you. Agitation hung in the air, and it translated into their jerky movements, their sudden, reckless decision-making. At one point, one of his teammates threw James against the barrier, yelling in his face about a some kind of mistake he’d made. He’d simply shrugged him off, rolling his eyes like he would have years ago. The game continued, but you, and you were sure everyone else, could tell that something was off.

It was odd, how much it reminded you of your first performance at Nationals, despite the two having no correlation. But something in the air was the same; the prickling of nerves, the expectations hanging like heavy clouds threatening rain. The light was the same, the rink too bright, the stands too dark. You could only imagine what it looked like to the skaters on the ice—the looming darkness circling them, giving them tunnel vision. A loud, mechanical buzz cut through the pop music booming from the arena speakers that hadn’t done much to help the growing tension, the agitation you felt. The Snow Leopards had scored another point. Seven, five.

Buzz! Eight, five.

Buzz! Eight, six. A Japanese player was showed to the penalty box, face sour.

Buzz! Eight, seven. One of his teammates joined him, the Taiwanese skaters jeering in glee. That earned them a stern look from the referee, a young woman, and they shut up soon after that.

It was in the final minutes of the game that everything fell apart. The Snow Leopards had been spread thin, half of the team in the penalty box, the other half a mixture of their lacklustre and bench players. And yet, they still seemed to be sweeping the floor with their opponents. Tensions rose, and the Eagles were getting desperate for the win. 

Two players had collided, fists and sticks flying. Somewhere in the midst of their scuffle, the puck had been stolen, and the crowd held unanimously their breath. Below, James raced across the ice eyes, alight with opportunity. This was his chance. His I made it moment. He’d make it. He would score, he thought, he knew, as he passed by the commotion, moving with all the grace of a trained figure skater, with the determination of a man who’d committed his life to a sport that would repay him now. All those evenings after school, all those training camps that nearly bankrupted his parents, all those fights, all that pain, it would all be worth it if he just made this one goal. His third of the game, his last of the season. He was close. So, so close.

A small sound, so quiet, so internal that no one but James could hear it. Small, nonthreatening, as he twisted his leg, just that little bit too far, too hard, too desperate, to make a turn. Snap!

You shot up from your seat.

He stopped. In the middle of the ice. Dead in his tracks, flat on his side. The scuffle stopped, players hovered around him with taut faces, expressions contorted with tension. Silence swept over the stadium like a hushed storm; some people stood up, their hands clutched to their chests; others stayed where they were, clamping their mouths shut in shock. What would’ve happened if this were a normal fall was this: the crowd would wait in anticipation for James to get back to his feet, to bow and show that he was fine, he was unharmed. That never happened. They’d wait for the okay, before erupting into applause, cheering for a diligent, passionate athlete taking a chance. That didn’t come.

Instead, he stayed where he was, curling into a foetal position, gloved hands encircling against his knee. His coach, a younger man, perhaps a decade or so older than James himself, rushed from beyond the barrier, slipping onto the ice in nothing but his sneakers, struggling until he reached him. They exchanged a few words, and the two teams skated closer, hiding them from the crowd. It was all a blur of activity from there; medics rushing the ice, James pushing them away and insisting that he was fine, that he didn’t need their help to stand up. Teammates exchanging worried glances, opponents bowing in respect as he finally took his leave, wincing in pain with every move. 

“Apologies, everyone, but we will need to take an emergency intermission on account of the Taipei Eagles’ defenceman’s injury. We will back in fifteen minutes with an update, and the game will resume shortly thereafter. Thank you for your patience.”

It seems to be so that, when the gods bring together two people as competitive and desperate as yourself and James, they throw a dice to decide who would win. And winning, well, that looks different to everyone. Sometimes it is literal—they beat their opponent; their opponent is their love, and their prize could be physical. Sometimes it refers to something larger than any two people—life, how it beats them; they are in a match against fate, in a fight against life and death, and their lives depend on the outcome of the game.

Other times it’s a mixture of both. The competitors—lovers, friends, family, enemies, all four at once—are thrown into the game of life, and each trial they face, they live through together, on opposite sides of the net, or the glass, or the field, is a period in the match. There are intermissions, inbetween moments where the tensions ease, where you could love one another. These don’t last too long, not usually. Not when you are as competitive as you are. Once they are over, once the whistle has been blown, it is as if you are nothing and everything to each other.

You forget this, that love isn’t really supposed to be a game, that fate does not favour those that adhere to its ridiculous fancies with the simple belief that it will lead them to where they belong. You forget that humans connect by cooperating, by listening, by compromising. You forget that you are not pieces on a chess board, the outcome of your game dependent on anyone besides yourselves, athletes standing in front of judges and spectators, waiting for someone else to decide how they should continue.

There is a winner. Of course there is—in these games, there always is. But this win, it’s bitter. It leaves a sour taste in your mouth, leaves tears brimming in your eyes. It makes you remember that the path to victory is paved with heartbreak and betrayal. It reminds you that there can only be one winner that takes it all. 

You were the one unlucky enough to win. You returned from the hospital after Judge Liu had called Peiling to tell her that you’d won, that you’d placed first in the 2023 Taiwan Figure Skating Championships, and you were helped onto the podium by the two skaters who’d placed in the positions below you, bronze and silver. You turned to the cameraman in front of you, holding your gold medal with trembling fingers, smiling as widely as you could will yourself to. Cameras flashed all around you, blinding you, burning into your retinas. The cheers of the judges and spectators were deafening, though their voices all faded away when all was said and done, when you’d looked at your peers, and realised you were all alone on that podium.

Wen Jiyi, a figure skating prodigy from Kaohsiung, the girl who’d come second place to you, turned to find her family all rushing towards her with large smiles on their faces, thanking Buddha for his kindness towards them, towards their daughter, who not only made it to Nationals, but made it this far. You could hear her friends cheering for her from the stands, chanting her name like a carol.

Hsu Nana, one of your old classmates, the girl who’d come in last, was embraced by her father, his strong arms enveloping her in a strong hug. They’d only had each other, you remembered; her mother was out of the picture before she could get any siblings, and her father had never remarried. And still, with what little they had, with her coming in third overall, her father murmured into her hair, “You’ll always be a winner in my book.”

And you? You were alone. Your family was at a private hospital, filling out forms for you, listening to your doctor explain your healing plan to them. Your friends had fallen away over the years because you’d chosen to focus on the one thing that would repay you more graciously than any relationships would. Your coach watched fretfully from the barrier, holding your new crutches in her hands. And your boyfriend’s parents were watching you, clapping for you, unaware that you’d left their son behind simply because he’d questioned your confidence.

You’d won. You’d made it. All that lay ahead was success; some healing would get in the way, yes, but after those quick four, five months, you’d be free to become the star you’d always been meant to be. Nationals, World Championships, Grand Prix, the Olympics. The world was an oyster you’d wrenched open, and you could do what you pleased with it. But all that, at what cost?

The spotlight shone brighter on those without anything to hold them back, but did it keep you warm when night fell, and people forgot about the stars in the sky?

“What are you doing here?” were James’ first words to you since Nationals.

You stood in front of him, a gentle, contemplative expression on your face. Behind you, the nurse had closed the curtains so that you could have some privacy, though it did nothing to drown out the sounds of the emergency room. You could faintly hear the conversation of a couple in the bed next to you, and tried to pay no mind to the fact that it sounded as if the patient’s boyfriend were accusing her of arson.

James had changed in the time you were apart; neither for better or for worse, just… naturally, as all humans change. Your suspicion that he’d grown taller was proven correct as your eyes swept over his form, over the plains of his lean body. His hair was longer, bleached and coloured to a light brown that looked like autumn. His face was the same, if not more mature, the twist of his lips dissatisfied where it had always been content. His eyes were still as kind as you remembered them, yet undeniably morose. Like something had broken him, and he hadn’t gotten to healing it yet.

You could only imagine how different you looked from the last time you saw James; taller, more mature, stronger, yet carrying yourself with that familiar attitude that dared anyone to doubt you. It was more steadfast than before, perhaps. There were wounds, and tears, and breaks, but that didn’t make you any less yourself.

“I was worried about you,” was your response.

He stared at you like he’d been staring at you for the past ten minutes. “That’s not what I mean,” he said, as if you were supposed to know. “I mean, what are you doing in Japan?”

You smiled softly, the realisation shifting your demeanour. “Oh. I was here on a training camp, just for some rehab. I hurt my ankle pretty badly in a competition a few weeks ago, and Peiling insisted I come to Tokyo for treatment and practice.”

He nodded, not gracing you with a response just yet. His gaze drifted from you, dropped somewhere below him, surveying the brace around your ankle. “So nothing’s changed,” he spoke, voice empty. “You’re still as clumsy as ever.” He remembered all the bruises, all the accidental falls when you failed to adjust to being off the ice, the cases of wobbly legs where he needed to brace you against him, his arm winding over your shoulder, keeping you close to him.

“I guess so,” you agreed. The silence that followed wasn’t natural; it was one that came only to people who’d once in their lives meant everything to each other, and met again when they were completely different people. Except, you weren’t that different from before, were you? “What’s the diagnosis?”

He sighed. “A severe lateral meniscus tear. I’m out for the season.”

You had anticipated something like that. But no amount of anticipation could’ve prepared you for the pain falling over his handsome face. There was something about it that made you feel as if you weren’t meant to see it—the tremble of his bottom lip, the way he tried to keep his tears at bay, the sheer, charged emotion of the scene, humanity in its rawest form. Yet, here he was, James Chao, letting you see, not for the first time in your lives, a part of him he’d hidden from anyone else.

No, the first time had been much happier. It had been when he’d introduced you to his parents, then again when he’d indirectly hinted that he loved you as much as he loved his own friends and family. Then it had been in every fight you had where he didn’t yell, where he didn’t disagree simply to prove a point, where he let you humiliate him like he never would’ve allowed anyone else to. 

He tried to keep a brave face; of course he did. That was his forté, pretending as if he were unaffected by anything that happened around him, to him. You wished he hadn’t built up those walls around you, but this time around, you couldn’t fault him for it. He’d let them down and you’d selfishly exploited that. You didn’t deserve to see him any more vulnerable than he was already allowing you.

You took a seat at the end of his bed, next to where he’d braced himself on the heels of his palms, his legs swung over the edge, not because he’d invited you, but because you could feel something in you telling you to sit down. To brush your clothed knee with his bandaged one, to press your shoulder against his arm. The gods, high above, sitting along their great panel, moving another piece on the playing mat which was your intertwined fates. Taking pity. Thinking, Maybe?

James let you, ducking his head until he was almost level with you, where he was usually a head taller. He let you touch him, if only briefly, let himself bask in your unfamiliar warmth. You felt differently from how you did, once, when you were younger. Not bad. Just natural. Like all people are different as they grow.

“I’m sorry,” you said, when the silence became too much for you to bear. Your voice was hushed, and you felt like a criminal standing before a judge, eager to keep the attention off you, to fill the silences in which you could be accused, or asked questions. “For not…”

What? For not visiting? For not apologising sooner? For not being a better person to you? For behaving awfully when all you were trying to do was help? For being a scared, misguided, dogged teenager? For taking advantage of your kindness? For not kissing you after that last practice we had together, after you moved closer and told me you wanted to?

“…for everything,” you sighed. “You deserved better. You deserve better than what I can give you.” Than what the world’s given you, you thought, but couldn’t say.

He smiled breathlessly, wiping harshly at his eyes as if to clean tears that hadn’t yet fallen. “What am I going to do, now?” he asked, perhaps to no one in particular, perhaps to you specifically. After all, you’d dealt with a career-altering injury before. You’d know how to go about it, what he should do next, which steps he should take to get himself back on track. But the path that works for one may not work for the other. 

You knew what he was thinking: what he’d been thinking for the longest time. That hockey was his only option, the only thing he was good at, the only future he saw for himself.

You exhaled gently, hands twitching as if they longed to reach out and grasp onto his ringed fingers, feel his warmth. And you told him the words that could’ve helped you once, if you’d been more grateful then, “You’re a talented boy, Yufan. I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that. But what you need to realise is that your talent doesn’t only lie in one thing.”

“But what if it does?”

You shrugged. “How are you supposed to know if you never try something new?”

If you never give yourself a second chance?

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

When he cried, when he broke down in tears next to you, burying his face in his hands as sobs racked his body, you acted against your better judgement and curled an arm around his shoulder. He responded to the touch like it was second nature, leaning into your chest like you were a lifeline who’d left him when he’d needed you most. Your hands froze, stayed millimetres from his skin, only a breath away from actually touching him like you wanted to. Needed to.

In that moment, there were a million things you could say. A million things you wanted to say. But all those words, those sentiments, those apologies, those proclamations and confessions, died in your throat; because nothing could mend the wound you’d caused. Not even you cradling him to your chest could fix it, could fix the hurt you’d inflicted on him, not even the way his lips pressed against your healed collarbone could erase the words he’d said, the things he’d done in his anger and jealousy towards you. Nothing could change what you’d said when you were nothing more than two terrified teenagers who didn’t know the difference between competition and love.

Could they ever be erased, or fixed, or mended, or healed, if a second chance came along? Or would that simply be something you were left to ponder as you grew?

香港 HONG KONG

2025

“Okay, so, our flight is in two hours, which means we’ll need to be at the boarding gate in fifteen minutes—”

“In what world should we have to wait at the boarding gate for over an hour? We’ve got plenty of time to explore and pass the time until at least half an hour before we need to board.”

Your friend gave you an unimpressed look, like, Really? Kim Juhoon, despite being a world-famous, overachieving figure skater at the ripe age of seventeen, was somehow one of the most neurotic, perpetually unsure people you’d ever met. So much so that, on his way back from competing at the World Championships as one of the two youngest athletes, where he would be hopping on a plane to Taipei so that you could show him where you’d grown up, he insisted that you wait at the boarding gate for more than an hour and a half, just to be safe. His words, not yours.

“Don’t make that face at me,” you said, shaking your head like a dismissive elder sibling. “I know what I’m talking about. You need to relax, Jju. Nothing bad is going to happen if we’re not a million hours early for our flight.”

He pointed a perfectly manicured and terribly accusatory finger at you. “You’re exaggerating to make me look stupid, and I won’t let you do it. I just won’t.”

“You already did,” you teased, grinning.

Even in all these years, airports had never lost their charm to you. The fluorescent lights beat down on the polished white floors, the night sky countering it like the moon did the sun. People filled up the place, walking to and fro, making arrivals and departures, saying goodbye to their families, kissing their spouses in greeting. The air smelled fresh, like air freshener and new beginnings. Old memories, new places. The good, and the unexpected.

Your coaches looked at you from where they strode at an alarming pace several metres ahead, before turning to each other, like, These kids. Meanwhile, you and Juhoon marvelled at the sight of a couple dragging their very fussy toddler out of a nearby takeout spot, the baby a screaming, wailing mess.

“That’s kind of how I feel right now,” Juhoon noted calmly.

You chuckled softly. Both of you were still reeling from your competition—the annual World Championships, this time held worlds away in Boston, had left you fatigued and a little bit out of sorts. Like, on a different plane of existence out of sorts. Still, you’d qualified, and secured spots at the September Qualifiers in Beijing, so it would all pay off in time.

“Same,” you agreed, bobbing your head.

Since Juhoon had insisted on being at the boarding gates two hours early, you’d made your way through the airport without much consideration for ogling at the great building, though Hong Kong International Airport was, in your opinion, a true beauty to behold. You did, however, stop at a few of the digital advertisements, displayed on larger than life boards and featuring some of your friends promoting products from their various sponsors. Juhoon snapped a selfie of the two of you in front of an Adidas board, sending it to one of his school friends—a swimmer on his way to the 2028 Olympics—with a particularly cheeky caption; the two of you posed in front of one of Shihan’s Dior adverts, pulling faces and mimicking her own, and so on and so forth you went until you actually came across an ad with your face on it.

It was one of your more recent campaigns for an energy drink—the audience is open to decide which, depending on how they view you. You were posed on the ice, in your training outfit, jewellery glimmering in the grainy film shot. There was some sort of quirky caption written in the air next to you, something that convinced the audience you actually got your energy from their product. It seemed like a candid scene, poised as if you’d been caught in a mundane moment in the middle of training, though the way you appeared more photogenic than you knew you were let you, and only you, know that it was staged. You tended to look a bit less human when you’d been exercising for two hours straight.

“Wah,” said Juhoon, mouth open in feigned shock. “Looking good, ttangkong.”

“Pfft— shut up,” you said, shoving his shoulder. “I didn’t say anything about your Louis Vitton ad, wugui.”

“I saw you snap that sneaky picture,” he shot back. He turned to you, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you posting it, either.”

You rolled your eyes, raising your hands in a gesture of surrender. “So I posted a picture of my talented, handsome friend,” you said. “Sue me.”

He shook his head, yawning. He stretched his arms over his head, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, his shirt riding up to expose the too-low waistband of his jeans. “I’m too tired to call my lawyer right now. You’ll have to settle for a formal complaint.”

You shrugged. “Fine by me. Now—” you picked up your shoulders, pulling your pink suitcase behind you— “we going to the boarding gate, or what?”

Juhoon smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Leggo, or I’ll have an anxiety attack.”

“Jjinja?” you teased, the world rolling uneasily off your tongue.

“Ni hen fan ei,” he sighed, swift and easy.

You scoffed, landing a faint punch to his shoulder. “So annoying,” you muttered. “Let’s go.”

On your way to the boarding gate, you were distracted for a second time by something catching your eye. You stopped; Peiling, Juhoon, and his coach kept walking, not noticing that you’d halted, and were now staring at the double doors of the airport’s gift shop, gaze trained on whatever was behind the thick glass. 

Something churned in your stomach, told you to go inside, to see what the tiny tourist trap had to offer. You turned to them, speaking absently over your shoulder, “Uh, you guys go ahead. I just want to check something out, here.”

“Hmm?” Juhoon hummed in question.

“I’ll be with you now,” you said, your feet already carrying you to the entrance. And that was the last any of them saw of you for the next fifteen minutes.

You wandered into the shop, your entrance signalled by the chime of a bell above the door, and realised relatively quickly that it certainly wasn’t its charm that had pulled you in. It was chock full of tacky tchotchkes, red and yellow lanterns hung all over, with rows upon rows of magazines and T-shirts that said ‘I HEART HK’ all over the front. You wrinkled your nose in distaste, wilfully ignoring the fact that you were wearing a shirt with the same print on it, though the smell of incense was a welcome sensation.

The shop seemed to be empty save for you and the elderly owner, who was ducked behind the counter, seemingly in search of something. Music drifted through the air from an old record player, the quality as dusty and old-fashioned as the tunes themselves, reminiscent to the Cantopop you knew James’ father listened to. 

You found James Chao among the racks of tasteless souvenirs, perusing the shelves as if he were actually thinking of buying something. You stopped in your tracks when you saw him, your boots scuffing against the grainy floor. That something. It had always been that something.

He looked different from the last time you’d seen him in Tokyo. Of course he did—people changed. You’d changed. Your parents had changed. Taipei had changed. Why wouldn’t James? He couldn’t be your emotionally constipated older boyfriend forever.

It seemed he’d finally finished growing, standing nearly a head taller than you still; that hadn’t changed, at least. His hair was shorter, spikier, blonde highlights peeking out from between his natural roots. He wore a fitted denim jacket, tufts of fur lining the collar; his jeans hung low on his slim hips, and for a moment, you wondered when he’d become so fashionable. So grown up. You supposed it needed to happen sometime. He was due to turn twenty this year, after all.

A few things hadn’t changed, as well, perhaps to ease your heart out of the assumption that the boy you’d loved had become a man you knew nothing of. A pair of tinted, frameless glasses were tucked into his T-shirt, and when he slid them onto his face to examine the price of a snowglobe with a miniature Buddha in it, he looked almost identical to how he did on the nights he brought his homework to the skating rink, solving complex Calculus equations while you skated frenzied laps around the ice. A pair of silver earrings dangled from his earlobes, the same you’d gotten him for your one month anniversary. Odd to think you’d even made it that far when you fucked it up immediately afterwards.

Again, you wondered what he would think if he’d turned to see you staring at him. You’d grown up quite a bit since Tokyo, since Nationals. You now wore the glasses you’d dreaded to in place of those tricky contact lenses; your eyes still didn’t work. You had more jewellery, earrings lining your lobes and cartilage, rings encircling your fingers; they were all still silver. Your hair had grown; it was still unruly. Your shoes were still dirty. Your smile was the same. 

He did notice you eventually, with the fear and reluctance of someone who had noticed, through the corner of their eye, the intense stare of a stranger. And when his gaze landed on you, still shorter than him, still with that wild kindness in your eyes, still with those lips he’d wished he’d gotten to kiss before it was too late, he couldn’t help but soften.

“Hi,” he breathed, and you swore your knees would give out.

“Hi,” you replied, obviously suave and cool and not awkward at all. “How— are you—? Are you good? Well? Are you well?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“As well as I could be,” you said. 

He raised his chin, as if to nod again, but simply kept it there. His eyes flicked somewhere to the right of him, and he said, “Tired from the competition?”

Your eyes widened. “Wha—? How did you—?” You turned to where he was looking outside the shop’s window, and came face to face with a large screen replaying the highlight reels from your routine in Boston. “Oh. That’s— it’s— yeah. A little. Sorry, that’s…” You wrinkled your nose at the sight. “I could’ve gone without seeing that. Again.”

You turned back to look at James, but his eyes were still locked on you. On the screen; a larger than life figure he’d once held securely in his arms, picked up like you’d weighed nothing. A small smile was etched into his features, appearing on his handsome face like watercolour on a canvas. Soft, bleeding through the edges.

“I saw it on the television earlier,” he said. “You did well.”

You couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah? You think?”

“I know. So, what are you in Hong Kong for?”

“Oh, my friend and I are on our way back to Taipei, but we just wanted to make a quick stop here for a day or two. I had to show him where Chungking Express was filmed.”

James chuckled softly. Something that hadn’t changed, he noted. Your obsession with niche films. 

“And you?” you asked.

He shut one eye, as if in thought. “I came to visit some family. It was my grandma’s eightieth, so I stayed for the month.”

“Oh, really? That’s great!”

It was a bit of an odd scene, to be honest. Talking to the man you’d had a very passionate, unhealthy, short-lived relationship with as a teenager like you were two friends catching up over coffee. But that’s what you and James were, before everything else. Friends. Begrudging, snappish, eye-rolling friends. Training buddies who spent too much time together. You practically hadn’t seen each other properly for two years, but it was easy to fall back into that dynamic with him.

He nodded, though he didn’t grace you with a direct reply. Instead he said, “Yeah. I’ve been trying to figure things out recently, so I decided staying overseas for a bit would help.”

You paused. “You’re not playing for the Eagles anymore?”

He shook his head.

“You retired?”

“Yeah. I figured I didn’t want to waste my life trying to make something of a sport I didn’t even like that much.”

“But you had the talent for it,” you tried, attempting an encouraging smile.

He returned it in all its gentleness and beauty. “I know. But I’m not you. I can’t lose myself in my passion the way you do. Doesn’t make me any less committed, I just… I guess I realised my talent doesn’t lie in only one thing.”

You hummed softly. “You did? I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s helped a lot.”

The silence that enveloped you reminded you of the hospital in Tokyo. It was thick, and filled with the feeling of your guilt. It was your own guilt, of course, nothing projected onto you, nothing brought upon you by anyone by yourself. It was the self-aware sort, the kind people felt when they knew they had sins to answer for, mistakes they’d made, bad decisions they’d left in the gods’ hands.

Your second apology was different from your first one in that you didn’t try to cover all your fronts in one sentence. Instead, you stepped closer to James, effectively grabbing his attention, and said, “I’m sorry I thought less of you because you played hockey.” Then, “I’m sorry I treated you like shit just because I was scared.” And, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the love you deserved when you so readily gave it to me. I’m sorry I was a bad friend, and a bad girlfriend, and a bad person. I know I was younger, and I was dumber, but that doesn’t make what I did any less… shitty. I was a little asshole, and I deserved your anger for all those years.”

Instead of agreeing with you, curling his lip in anger and telling you off for your wrongdoings, James looked at you like you hung the moon and the stars, wrote the code he lived and loved by. “It’s okay,” he said. “We were just kids.”

“Kids do fucked up shit sometimes,” you protested. “And I did.”

“Still okay.” He noticed the look you were giving him, and added, “That doesn’t mean I’m forgiving you immediately. I’m still furious with you. But, I got my second chance. I’d say it’s only fair you get yours.”

Your brow furrowed in a frown. “Are you saying we should… try again?”

Yufan shrugged. “Why not? Love is more fun the second time round, anyway.” He stepped forward, face inching closer to yours. “As long as I get to have you as my first kiss, because I’ve been waiting for three damn years.”

And who were you to deny him that luxury?

Your first ever kiss happened in a tacky souvenir shop in Hong Kong International Airport, with reels of you playing on a television in the background, and Cantopop drifting through the air as you moulded your body to his, lips slotted together in an embrace that said please don’t let go. Yufan pulled you impossibly closer, his soft lips pressed against yours like a whisper of encouragement for you to get lost in him. Years and years of tension, pent up frustrations, and wishes leaked into the kiss, years of history and years of love that you hadn’t had the heart to receive before you were ready.

“I’m not going to admit it right now,” Yufan said, breaking the kiss only enough that he was murmuring against your lips, though he was going to do just that in the next ten seconds, “but I’ve had the fattest crush on you since I saw you three years ago when you stole my suitcase.”

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