paint me fragile;

there’s nothing wrong with her mandarin, qian had understood perfectly. except the offhanded words somehow dislodges something in her mind, like a small breeze that tips a hanging book off the shelf. “s-sorry,” she says. “what did you say?” “I said,” the other replies slowly, like she’s choosing her words. “that you are very brave for coming here alone. if I went to korea by myself, I would've been terrified, I wouldn't know what to do.” though she still smiles brilliantly there's a hint of worry if she had offended her. now that she’s had time to compose herself, qian ducks her head. “thank you, it's all thanks to everyone who's been so kind to me and looking after me.” it’s not a lie, but it’s not quite the truth either. conversation is easy again after that. but when she walks out from the shop, something weighs even heavier on her than the few new products in the bag in her hand. ~~~ the elevator ride up to the seventeenth floor seems disproportionately long. even though she lives on the sixth floor, it felt like all the blood from her heart suddenly pumped into her finger and she was pressing the 17 button before her mind could even register the impulse. it’s okay at first, but the walls seem to collapse on itself a little the higher it goes, as if it can’t handle the weight of height and crumples under pressure. and the more she stares at the scratches and smears of ghost fingers on the slate-gray metal, the more it looks like something caged had tried to get out, to no avail or not. so she holds her breath and stares fixedly on the glowing orange numbers – the only sign that anything changes at all. though the numbers are increasing, it feels too much like a countdown. ~~~ she breathes easy on the rooftop when the first whip of wind hits her lungs. the view is so expansive and, as she leans over the stone balcony, it almost threatens to suck her into the sheer enormity of it all. it’s almost comforting how it promises to soak her in, like a raindrop to return to the sea and forget. the cold granite beneath jab into her palms and the sensation grounds her. but then the suffocation comes back again, stealing back all the air she had drawn in and traps her. gripping the edge, she looks down and regrets it. but she can’t look away. losing sight of the sky makes everything else seem so small. and makes everything so disappointing. the skyscrapers from this height are toy buildings and all the people filing about miniscule. even the patchwork of garden to her right is barely enough to hold a handful. she doesn't know this city or love it. everything’s a clash of mismatched color washed out with gray of the streets and there's too much noise. those iron gates across the way are sharp but from this far up, they could just be closely knit lamp posts. strange how distance seems to soften the sharpest of things. just like time. retreating back behind the granite's stronghold, she turns her back to the scene, chest fluttering. the buildings on the other side aren’t high enough to see. not that she wants to either, since those dirt-ivory structures bring to mind storybook stories of elephant graveyards. so instead she just gazes up into the overcast sky. her thumb skims something smooth, unlike the bumpy roughness of the granite. there’s a flower sitting there, its petals withered at the edges but the red so brilliant even in death. before she can think any more, there's a gust of wind and takes it away up, up, up then suspended for a heartbeat before dropping below. she doesn’t watch where it falls. how it's like when she left, being swept away without a say in the matter and trying to grasp at something stable as it slips through her fingers. hoping to make something of herself of where she lands. that night, sleep evades her until the sun rises to mock her. ~~~ it’s a month later when she comes back to the rooftop again. dawn is chasing away another night she lost thinking about home instead of studying. but she couldn’t help it, not when there is an emptiness that shortens her breath and turns her ribcage into ropes constricting. the city is full of scattered lights, blurred by the rain in her eyes. each of cluster of glow belongs to someone or some people. maybe their owners are like her, through some twist of fate, are alone now. or maybe they are happy families or couples, blissfully unaware of the pain of solidarity. there are so many opportunities, so many things to offer... “ah, I knew you would here.” she barely turns around when he slips in beside her, tugging his beanie down against the wind and following the trajectory of her gaze into the lit silhouettes below. even though he’s younger than her, yixing carries with him an air of maturity, something that’s only deepened over the years in the entertainment industry. she remembers the naiveté he had had when they first met in bright dance rooms and amongst formalities. those bright eyes full of wonder, dreams, and excitement lingered in her memory far longer than it did in his eyes. now he’s mellowed out to something more child-like yet ages old and it shows past the gaunter cheekbones and restless lips. his eyes twinkle when he sees her looking at him, maybe seeing her unasked question, and he tugs a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “you've always liked high places.” he doesn’t offer one because he knows she wants to protect her voice and she’s grateful. the flame of the lighter flicks into being, orange and oddly vibrant even as the neon lights flash in the distance. his presence had distracted for a little, but then the sensation of hopelessness drowns her again, pulling her beneath the waves without mercy or care. she shudders and hopes he doesn’t notice. but, perceptive as always, he does. “you're shivering,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing below his bangs. “are you cold—?” she shakes her head without looking away and lets out a quivering breath. soft brown eyes now black somehow darken when understanding floods its depths. “you're afraid.” it would have been accusatory from anyone’s mouth but his. “terrified,” she whispers. “but it reminds me how easy it is to fall, how far I’d fall, if I don't keep flying.” her nails dig into the concrete beneath her palms. “reminds me how insignificant my worries are compared to it all…” “but it matters to you.” letting out a hollow laugh that mirrors the low wind, she replies, “what good has it done for anyone?” he lets these words sink in. when he does speak, it’s not the words she expects. “maybe the ones it does matters for,” he murmurs, “won't tell.” surprised, she meets his eyes. he’s leaning against the concrete and there is no anger. just gentle understanding… at a loss for words, she averts her eyes, but his fingers catch her chin, pulling her back to meet his eyes. “keep smiling,” he says, his own lips curling up in encouragement. “it suits you better.” then he’s walking away and, despite the cooler winds, she feels warm. ~~~ she doesn't love this city, and she never could as much as her home. but maybe she could find something here that she'd never find elsewhere. ~~~ “how do you keep doing it?” it’s almost sunrise this time they are up on the rooftop together, though it’s too cloudy to see right now. they both had just escaped a formal dinner that goes on too long, meeting each other’s eyes over glasses of wine and sneaking out before anyone had noticed. his tie is loose from him tugging it and she hooks her fingers through the thin straps of her heels. he glances over mid-drag of his second cigarette before considering her question. she watches, curious how he’ll take the question because, in all honestly, she doesn’t even quite know what she’s asking. how do you keep from it all affecting you? how do you keep smiling? how do you keep afloat? how… “they say,” he says finally, “birds born in cages think flying is an illness.” at first, she doesn’t understand and she’s about to open her mouth to ask, when he suddenly opens his mouth and shouts into the exposed air, “I am alive!” immediately, a flock of startled birds take flight from below and race together up, up, up until they are just specks in the sweeping sky. but they leave more than silence in their wake. she’s a bird born outside a cage, she’s always meant to fly, and nothing – her company, the anti-fans, even her own mind – nothing can take that from her. a warm hand envelopes hers. yixing’s eyes are something so warm and fills in the empty cracks, where her revelation doesn’t. “you shouldn't fight yourself so much.” she laughs. really laughs. a weight leaves her shoulders and she returns with a squeeze back. “when did you become so wise?” “I learned from the best.” something almost sad touches the corners of his eyes and she’s leaning in across their age differences and space and rests her forehead against his, breathing in his companionship and presense. in this moment in time, they understand each other and themselves and it’s all they need. he pulls away first a long, long time later with a quiet murmur, and he stretches towards the heavens before going down the stairs first, leaving her alone with her own thoughts for a bit. the sky is still a muted wash of gray except now the sun is peeking through a gap in the clouds and it glows orange-pink among a sliver of blue. something about the understated comforts her. even the wind is subdued now, almost waiting for her to make the next move. so she tugs the pale pink ribbon from her hair and holds it against her chest for a moment, feeling the softness of it against her own skin. then she’s moving on and leaving a small piece of herself behind on the balcony without another look back. courage isn't always flashy or loud. just acts of surviving, taking a lungful of breath, putting one step in front of the other and walking until you've left whatever it is behind - that's also courage. ~~~ she doesn't love this city, and she never could as much as her home. but she finds something here that she'd never find elsewhere

It’s a different kind of letting go than her singing. When she sings, she is melting her soul into liquid notes that fill every space around her until their overflow and flow right back into her. Her voice is what postponed dreams sounds like, a wonderfully heart-breaking sound. She once told him that he was the only one who had ever noticed and he wonders how no one else did. How they could not see the chasm that tore across her middle, ripping itself apart, tattered. All her edges so jagged that it seemed as if a child with scissors had cut her from the canvas. No, she wasn’t a Faberge egg. Rather she was a fruit so delicate, clear blood-juices overflowing like a water droplet itself encased in purple paper-mâché. So, maybe when she cried, she really was just turning herself inside out. But was she sketchy silhouettes on white surfaces tearing herself open to reveal black moths? Or was she glowing outlines against black backdrops clawing herself free to release white butterflies? In the end, it doesn’t matter. As the song inside her head comes to a close, he can see her withdrawing back into herself. Her eyes sad and bullet-holes peppering the plains of her complexion with damage that rung much deeper. (she closes but the edges never fit quite right again)

(and dylan will never know that he is the reason why kaiden began to smoke)

Or cares.