may ୨୧

Humans are social creatures. All of us have experienced love at some point. It's warm and makes you feel whole again. It gives you something to cling onto when you feel like you're drowning. When you need someone and they're there, it makes everything feel okay, even if it's just for a moment.

To put it lightly, love is the most common emotion alongside happiness and sadness. Love is something that keeps everything together. It's like the glue, but not just in families; it's in everything. Everything on Earth is built with love. Even the most aggressive animals, the ones who wouldn't hesitate to maul and tatter your hand, reducing it to nothing but mangled flesh and bone, have experienced love. Whether it be from a mother, a mate, or even a friend, everything experiences love once in its life.

Even in the deepest depths of the coldest oceans, darker than we can imagine, animals and plants live there, and they are made with love. They feel each other. They know they're there. They know their surroundings, and one day, they'll stumble across one of their own and feel love.

It isn't just a fairy tale. Love is real, and it's warm and safe and trusting. Love never fails.

You wish that were true.

Gosh, you were so young.

All you wanted was love. You never asked to be here. You only ever asked for parents who had time for you.

It was never your fault, you swore.

But deep down, you knew it wasn't true. You knew you were the reason they turned to drugs and drinks for comfort.

You were only 3 when all of it began.

Your parents weren't exactly arguing all the time, but they didn't really get along either. They were constantly wondering what to do with you and when they should do stuff since you weren't in school yet.

They started going to parties whenever they were invited. It was supposed to just be a couple of times. Just a bit of time away from their kid, right?

A couple of times turned into a few. Then, it was every weekend. Then, it was twice a week.

And then it had them. You knew it by the time your 4th birthday rolled around. You were young, but you weren't stupid. You saw and heard the way they acted when they returned from those stupid parties. Their words slurred, and their limbs became useless as they crashed around the house.

Moderation wasn't a thing to them. One drink always turned into four. They would always fold under no pressure whatsoever. They had no discipline, and it formed deep feelings of disgust and hatred inside of you when you were too young to even understand why they were acting the way they did.

Then, the pills and powders began.

The pills weren't as bad. Sometimes, they were just painkillers that they purposefully took one too many of. Sometimes, it was benadryl. Other times, it was something stronger.

The powders were worse. Sometimes, they went through the mouth. Others, it was through the nose. Either way, it would leave them feeling a little too giddy for their own good, leaving you, a confused and frightened 4-year-old, to bathe herself and get herself ready for bed.

By the time you were 4 and a half years old, you were incredibly independent. You learned how to bathe and dress yourself, making sure to always try and pick out the matching clothes you had.

You didn't know how to cook that well, so you still had to rely on your parents to feed you. You would always clean up afterward, though. They would take care of you, but as soon as you were fed, they didn't care and would let you do whatever you wanted.

You watched them, though, and by the time you were 5, you knew how to make yourself an average breakfast. You knew how to heat up frozen foods and even cook a few simple things such as eggs and rice.

The worst memory you had of your mother happened when you were just six years old.

You had come home from school, dropping your bag off in your room and preparing to get a little fruit for a snack before doing your homework.

But when you walked into the kitchen, instead of eyeing the fruit bowl for an apple, you eyed your mother. She was standing by the dining table just a few feet away.

You saw something in her hand. She had her arm held out, and her hand was pressed down on her inner elbow.

For some reason, even without knowing what she was doing, the sight made you uneasy. You felt a bit of nausea coil in your gut, but you swallowed down your fear and approached her anyway.

"Mama? What are you-"

That was the first time you saw her injecting herself with drugs.

You never even knew that was a thing.

"Get out, sweetie. Go back to your room," she mumbled.

Her voice held something that wasn't her. It was almost inhuman in a way. Drugs altered her perspective on things, including you, and it destroyed you. You were so young, but you already knew what these liquids and pills and powders did to your parents.

She winced as her thumb pressed fully down on the syringe, emptying the substance into her vein. She quickly yanked the needle out, rubbing the tiny bead of blood away with that same thumb.

"Mama- what is- what's that..?" you stammered, swallowing nervously when she turned to look at you.

Her eyes weren't gentle like they usually were. Usually, this stuff made her relaxed and happy. Now, she seemed... different, and it was starting to scare you.

It usually took a lot to anger her, especially when she was under the influence of alcohol or drugs, or both.

This time was different, though.

"I SAID GET OUT," she yelled, irritation quickly building.

Her eyes burned with a new unsettling passion.

You flinched back, a small, startled noise escaping you before you quickly obeyed, rushing back to your room.

You didn't slam the door. If anything, you shut it as gently and quietly as you could, hoping she wouldn't hear it. Your dad was knocked out on the sofa, so if anything happened, he wouldn't be there to witness it.

Your heart hammered. Your lungs took in the oxygen it desperately needed in order to calm your muscles. Your breathing was a bit unsteady, and tears gathered in your eyes. Your muscles felt warm. Not from exercising, but from the sudden fear that had flooded you only a few seconds prior.

You didn't cry. You didn't even tear up. You just caught your breath, staring at the window opposite of you.

The next few years weren't any better.

People thought abuse only came in certain forms, such as physical or verbal abuse.

But it was so much deeper than that in your case. For you, the abuse wasn't physical. They didn't have to be there to abuse you.

That was the point. They were never there. You weren't verbally or physically abused, but you were severely neglected for substances and alcohol. Although it hurt, you soon became incredibly independent. You knew how to do nearly everything for yourself by the time you were 12.

Whenever you went to school, people always claimed you were lucky that your parents didn't care about your grades. You never opened up to anyone about what your parents were actually like. It wasn't luck. It was laziness.

Every time you tried to tell someone about what it was actually like to have negligent parents, they'd just ignore what you were saying, only throwing in their own opinions and what they wanted to hear.

"But you don't even get in trouble for a bad grade!"

Do they not think all children need motivation and discipline, especially in a school setting?

"Oh my gosh. Your parents are so chill. I would love it if my parents were like that!"

Like what? Constantly shoving you away and claiming they didn't have time for you, only to go pop some more pills? Yeah, sure.

"Brooo I also hate my parents! They grounded me and took my phone away!"

Apparently, hate has multiple different meanings because you would have actually killed someone for parents who cared enough about you to notice when you left for school in the morning.

Nobody ever understood you, and just like that, you were entirely alone. You didn't really have anyone to call a friend. Your parents never paid attention to you. Even when you told them you'd be going out late at night in the neighborhood full of alcoholics and addicts you lived in, they'd just shout back the same response every time.

"Right. Okayyy... bye."

You tried to stay afloat. You really did. You tried so hard, and maybe that was what kept exhausting you. Every day you woke up, you were angry. You were tired. You didn't want to live anymore. It was just the same shit over and over again, day after day.

By the time you were 13, you hung out a lot with the same alcoholics and addicts that you used to be afraid of.

You soon discovered that although they weren't the most successful people, they were the most honest and realistic with you. They were wise, and they gave pretty sound advice on basically anything you asked them.

A lot of them said that since you were a pretty young lady, you had potential. You had a bright future ahead of you. You'd just have to work for it.

One older man in particular was one of the sweetest towards you.

He was a retired tattoo artist. He had kids, but they had both moved away as soon as they were done with college, and when his wife cheated on him, he turned to drugs for comfort.

Although you hated drugs with a burning passion due to what they did to your parents, you could understand where he was coming from.

"You know, kid," he began one night, sitting down next to you outside of his apartment, "I admire you a lot, even though I'm the adult."

You looked over at him with a puzzled expression, humming softly in return.

"Your sympathy... it's hard to find in the newer generations. You understand why people do the things they do."

He paused, the still night air now stirring with anticipation instead of the dullness you were used to.

"I'm not a good man. I mean, sure, I have kids. I can be nice to people, especially the younger ones... but I'm still not a good man. I chose the wrong thing for comfort," he continued, still looking up at the night sky as he spoke.

"So you know what you're doing is wrong..?" you asked softly.

He let out a breathy chuckle before nodding, eyes flickering with something you couldn't quite catch.

"Of course I do. I grew up in this neighborhood. It's never been the most friendly. Always been a real... hostile environment, you could say. I see what those pills do to people. Sometimes, they open up, and sometimes, well... sometimes, they're just not the same," he replied, letting out a sigh as he got comfortable again.

"Then why do you still do it, even if you know what it'll do to you?" you asked, curiosity replacing your prior concern.

"Because not all people are smart, sweetie. I'm as dumb as a post. Sometimes, people just hit that low, and when they do, they don't know what to do anymore. So, they let themselves go. They let everything go. Doesn't matter what they had going for them. If they can't get back what they want in life, they let something else control them. Then it's got ya."

You swallowed nervously.

You hesitated for a second, and he noticed. Then, he reached a hand out and gently shook your arm to get your attention.

"Come on. Spill it. You've been talking to me for months, and I haven't bit you yet," he teased, which made you giggle softly.

Still, you didn't know whether or not you should tell him what's been on your mind lately.

It took a few seconds for you to muster up the courage to ask, but when you did, it felt surprisingly freeing.

"Do you ever wanna die? Not be murdered, but like... just disappear? Ever wanted to kill yourself?" you asked, eyes soft.

"Wanted to? I've already tried 3 times, kid. Never worked. I guess I still have something I need to do while I'm here. But yeah, I did. Still do most of the time. I mean, hell, I've got nothing going for me. I'm a lonely, divorced dad who shoots stuff up his veins when he's upset. Why wouldn't I wanna disappear?" he responded, looking over at you during his last question.

You fell quiet, biting the inside of your cheek and letting out a small hum. You just shrugged in response.

"Why? You wanna die?" he asked, voice slightly gruff.

You were still silent, and your eyes avoided his.

He just sighed, hand meeting your shoulder.

"Listen... there's more to life than those crappy teenage years. I know your parents aren't the best, but maybe once you get away from them, you'll find yourself. Just promise me you won't try anything stupid, alright?" he went on, making you look at him so he knew you were listening.

You swallowed nervously, a shaky breath escaping you as you nodded.

You wanted to promise him that, but everything was too much. Your parents never cared about you. How can a child feel like they're worth something if the people who brought them into this world ignore them?

"I can tell you're a dad."

Your words made him pause.

He took a few long seconds of silence to gather himself before standing up, helping you up as well. He cleared his throat with a brief cough, looking at you with a soft smile.

"I say we both get some sleep. Go on home," he mumbled.

And despite wanting to stay with him, you knew he was right. You belonged at home. You didn't belong with him even if he treated you more like a father than your own father ever did.

As soon as you walked through that door, you heard slurred speech and arguing. It had been that way for years, so why did it suddenly hurt so badly this time? Was it because it was so different from the gentle words your neighbor spoke to you? Was it just because of how utterly exhausted you were, wanting everything to end at just 13 years old?

That night, everything changed for the worse. It was like a switch just suddenly flipped in you. Nothing was ever going to get better, and you knew it. You were tired of people lying to you.

You just wanted to feel something for once.

And that was when you said hello to a new addiction; not drugs, but something just as bad.

The blade caught your eye, and as soon as your eyes lingered for just a few seconds too long, you knew you were already a goner. It was all over.

You told yourself it would only be a one time thing. You'd only do it when you were upset. You'd only use it to escape when you felt like leaving this world. It would keep you here. It wouldn't become an addiction. You promised.

But promises are way easier said than done because as soon as you drew the first fresh red line on your wrist, the relief felt unreal. You felt so calm for just a second.

Was this how drugs made your parents feel?

You weren't sure. You just slouched down in front of your bedroom door in the near darkness, the only source of light being the moon pouring through your small window.

And as soon as you hit the floor, the blade dug into your flesh once more.

It was everything you needed despite knowing it would never help you. But, hey, at least it wasn't drugs, right? You weren't like your parents. You swore you weren't. You'd never be like them.

Ever.

But addiction isn't just drugs and alcohol. Sometimes, it's a blade. Sometimes, it's sabotaging yourself and making yourself believe it's self-care. Sometimes, it's just self-hatred disguised as love.

Maybe that was why you never realized how much you'd rely on it soon. Maybe that was why it was such a huge comfort for you.

You told yourself it would only be a few times.

A few times turned into every other day.

Every other day turned into every day.

Every day turned into every morning and night in order to just finally feel something.

And then you knew you were stuck. You weren't getting out anytime soon, and for some reason, it didn't scare you like it was supposed to. It brought you an odd sense of comfort. It gave you something to rely on.

But the neighbor you constantly visited didn't let it go unseen.

It was a cool spring night. You two sat next to each other near his apartment. He smoked a cigarette while you both remained silent, the stars shining brightly above.

Then, he spoke.

"Why're you wearing long sleeves? It's pretty humid out here."

You just shrugged, eyes still focused on the night sky above.

"Quit doing it. It won't help you," he mumbled, exhaling a small breath of smoke.

"What are you-"

"I'm not stupid, Y/N. Quit it."

Your heart raced for a second. You gently folded your arms despite the stinging pain of the fabric rubbing against the fresh cuts you had given yourself that morning.

"What if it's the only thing I can rely on?" you asked quietly.

You sounded so lost. It broke his heart.

"Pick up a hobby. Do some dancing, maybe. But don't hurt yourself. It doesn't do anything for you," he said softly.

You promised yourself to stop for a reason that night. Not just for yourself, but for your future; maybe for the people around you, even if you felt like you had no one. Maybe that would change in the future. All you could do was hope right now.

Even as you entered the bathroom the next week, searching through the medicine cabinets for something, anything, you told yourself you promised you'd be better. Things would change in the future. You wouldn't feel like this forever.

But those were all just empty, hopeful thoughts.

You didn't want to keep lying to yourself. You'd rather not feel anything at all than have to continue feeling this way.

So, you poured the benadryl into your empty, trembling palm.

And for some reason, as soon as you were about to toss your head back and take them all, you hesitated. You actually thought about it for a second.

You didn't have a lot of friends at school. Your parents didn't even care about you. The only person you could call your friend was an elderly man, who was also your neighbor. Was this all you had in life? Did you have nothing else to look forward to?

What's the point in living if you never experience anything new? You felt like an animal in a cage, pacing around and waiting for the moment somebody sticks their hand in or opens it. You wanted freedom so badly, yet life itself shackled you. Life was the best gift yet the worst pain you had ever experienced.

The small pills stared back at you, and you questioned yourself. Was this really worth it? Leaving this life behind instead of being patient like everyone told you to be? Why couldn't you just wait a bit longer? Why were you so desperate to go?

Because you had nothing. You weren't the smartest, or the prettiest, or the funniest, or anything similar. You were just Y/N. You were just a 13-year-old girl with parents who loved substances more than their own child.

So, with that, you made your decision.

You tossed your head back, hand meeting your mouth as multiple small pills made their way down your throat.

Their dry texture made it difficult to swallow all at once. You even began coughing and wondering if you should just throw them up right now, but you decided against it. Instead, you forced them down.

And for once, pills didn't scare you. Instead, they calmed you. They felt like a promise instead of a threat; a promise that everything would all be over soon.

You felt the lump travel down your throat. It felt almost scratchy, just like it always did when you took pills in a normal amount.

You knew it would take a while for them to actually work, so you decided to just wait. You never left the bathroom. You didn't want your parents to see you alive for the last time. They didn't deserve it. The only thing they deserved to see was you dead, knowing that it was their fault and that they could have prevented it if they had just loved you properly.

It sounded selfish and cruel, sure, but that's all they were towards you. You could never bond with them no matter how hard you tried, and it cut deeper than any wound you could have ever given yourself.

Your arms were marked with both fairly old and new cuts. Only a few were still red, but none were bleeding. Some were shallow, and others were deep, but in the end, they were all signs of how trapped you had and still felt for years.

No kid your age should have to cut themselves in order to feel something, but here you were.

And no kid your age should have to turn to suicide. No kid in general should ever feel so trapped and exhausted that death seems like the only peaceful way out.

But you were always different, weren't you?

Nothing happened within the first few minutes. You didn't stress about it. You just leaned back against the bathtub, head resting on the edge of it as you closed your eyes, facing the ceiling.

Another twenty minutes passed by. Still, nothing.

So, you kept waiting.

Another half hour passed by, and finally, you felt it. It didn't hit you all at once. It took its time.

First was the dizziness. Your head was spinning as your body tried to fight back against the lethal dose you had taken almost an hour ago.

You heard knocking and a voice on the other side of the door, but you didn't care anymore. You'd be dead soon anyway, so why did it matter who was on the opposite side?

The voice sounded familiar, but at the same time, the dizziness made you disoriented and confused, so you couldn't fully make it out. All you could make out were the colors on the walls and the ceiling. You could feel the tile beneath you.

You never remembered it being so cold. Everything was so intense right now. You supposed it was just part of death. Maybe you'd appreciate the cold floor against your skin. Cold was what you had known your entire life, after all. People, blades, winter, holidays, school, life... Everything was always cold towards you.

You heard your name being called from the other side, but you didn't bother getting up to open the door. You didn't even budge. Maybe it was because you physically couldn't, or maybe it was because you just didn't want to fight anymore. If this was how you went out, you'd be fine with it. You knew that you only had yourself to blame.

Your mouth felt drier than ever. Your heart jumped, and you felt like your chest was starting to tighten, as if you couldn't breathe properly.

At least it was working.

Your brain felt fuzzy. You stared at the door, face twisted with something between exhaustion and accomplishment.

When the door opened, you knew who it was just by the way they stood.

It was your dad. Usually, you would hesitate to even call him a father, your father, even, but right now, everything just felt so warm. For once, you wanted to have someone to call dad, so it registered in your mind as so.

He called your name again. His tone was off, but it was comforting. He sounded concerned, and although you weren't used to it, it felt nice. You finally felt like someone cared.

"Hey, hey, Y/N. What happened? How long have you been in here?"

His voice quivered. His words were as fragile as both of you right now.

You opened your eyes, staring at him. His face was close to yours now, and the look in his eyes was almost enough to make you snap out of it.

"Hmm..?" you hummed in response, almost drowsily.

"Shit- Y/N, baby, what did you take?" he quickly asked, checking your pulse. It was rapid.

You just shook your head.

"Sorry. I'm just... don't know- I don't know. I'm tired. I want..." you mumbled, words almost slurred in a way as you trailed off.

Your head slumped to the side, and you felt his hands cradle you like you were something precious. Maybe you were.

You briefly heard his voice before losing consciousness. Everything turned black, and you thought it was all over. You'd finally have the peace you had longed for all this time.

But when you woke up in the bright, clean hospital room, the smell of disinfectant nearly burning your nostrils, the first thing you did shocked your dad and even yourself.

You didn't ask what happened. You didn't groan or whine. You didn't speak. You didn't try to move.

All you did was cry.

It wasn't pretty. It was ugly. It was desperate.

And that alone was enough to make your dad become a better version of himself. Not just for himself, but for you, his baby.

He still got drunk, but he gave up drugs. He tried to help your mother get off of them as well, but she never listened. She was always stubborn.

So, he just focused on improving himself instead.

He saw the cuts on your arms, and the guilt he felt was nearly palpable.

But instead of making you uncomfortable, it made you feel safe. Maybe he would finally try to be a decent father.

When you were finally discharged from the hospital a couple of days later, you focused on healing. You didn't pick up the blade. You wanted a fresh beginning, but not with fresh wounds.

You took your neighbor's advice and picked up a hobby, even choosing the example he gave, which was dance.

As the months went by, you advanced, and before you knew it, you were a trainee at a nearby successful dance company. It was difficult at times, but you adapted. You always knew how to find a way out of everything. You had spent your entire childhood exploring and adjusting anyway.

You were around 13 and a half when you really began getting better. You moved quicker and smoother than before. You could sing as well, and eventually, your voice was stronger than your dance skills.

You met plenty of people, but one of them stood out to you. He was older than you for sure, but he still seemed like a kid. Maybe he was a young adult?

What you did know was that you loved his smile and personality. He was always super warm towards you.

As the cooler months approached, so did possibilities. You finally had the opportunity to make friends and be successful, and you were surprised when that same boy asked if you'd like to be one of the vocalists for his group. It was only a couple of other boys right now, but none of you minded.

Time passed by quicker than you could catch it. One second, you were 13 trying to cope with dance and singing after nearly killing yourself, and then you were 14 and a half debuting in a K-pop group with eight other boys.

When it was time to have dorms, you had the option to choose. You could either live with your parents or you could have your own dorm supplied by the company.

And although you felt selfish, you chose the dorm. You just wanted peace. Your mother wasn't getting better. She never would. You knew that.

So, instead of waiting like a dog in the rain, you chose yourself for once.

When you told your dad, he didn't mind. In fact, he praised you, claiming you were a smart girl and that you weren't being selfish. He told you he would have done the same thing. He knew how difficult your mother was to live with at times.

You noticed something, though.

Your neighbor stopped coming out of his house as much. You didn't see him as much as you used to.

You assumed the worst, but you were relieved to find out he was still perfectly healthy.

When you went over there to check on him, though, he told you the reason he kept going in and out of his house lately.

He was moving across South Korea to a different city. He wanted to be closer to his kids since he had finally gotten in contact with them. They lived fairly close, and he apparently had new grandchildren to meet for the first time.

You were happy for him, of course, but you also needed to be a bit selfish. You had basically grown up with him, and now he was leaving. You understood, but at the same time, it still hurt.

"Can you give me something before you go?"

The question was simple, but he still furrowed his brows in confusion.

"I don't have much money, Y/N. I-"

"It's not about money. I need something permanent. Please? To remember you?" you interrupted him, eyes pleading.

He gave you the same gentle smile he usually did, and you returned it.

After a few minutes, he looked at you as if you were insane.

"Y/N, you're not even 15. Are you sure? Will your new company or whatever approve of it..?"

You hesitated for a second, the blank ink and tiny needle staring back at you.

"I want to remember you somehow. Weren't you a tattoo artist? Come onnn, pleaseee!" you whined, grabbing his hand with both of yours, shaking it for dramatic effect.

"Okay, okay. But don't- nevermind," he laughed. "Anything else?"

Silence fell between you two for a few seconds.

"Think you can give me a few piercings..?"

The three piercings plus the small tattoo you got took around 30 minutes altogether. You had your stomach pierced, as well as your doubles in your ears.

Your favorite thing, though?

The new tattoo on the side of your neck, hiding just beneath and behind your right ear.

It was a small safety pin with a semicolon between the space. Such a small work of art, but such a large promise behind it. A promise to keep going, even when things got hard; no, especially when things got hard.

And he made sure you would stay true to it.

"If I find you dead on the news one day, I'm gonna come back and kill you myself," he teased.

But you heard the tone he tried to hide. He cared. He really did. He only gave you the tattoo because he wanted you to remind yourself of why you got it. Maybe it would keep you moving. He could only hope.

"Okay, okay! I promise," you said with a soft smile. "I hope you have fun wherever you go. Tell your kids and grandkids I said hi. Please?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Of course."

"I'm gonna miss you," you said quietly, eyes focused on the concrete beneath you.

"Hey, hey. Don't think about that. You got... four pieces of me with you!" he said, pointing to the fresh tattoo and piercings.

"I guess," you replied with a shrug.

"I might come back one day. Just keep your head up for now, yeah? You're a strong kid."

His words stuck with you, even as you saw him leave his house the next day. Maybe he would come back one day, just to visit.

But you had no time to focus on any of that. You had opened the door to an entirely new chapter in your life! You had new people beside you, and you could finally have your own freedom away from your parents.

So, you finished moving into your dorm. You didn't really give your mother a proper goodbye, but you did give your dad a warm hug. He deserved it, at least.

You were glad that you got a dorm all to yourself, but when it got too lonely, you'd always make yourself at home at the others' dorms. It wasn't like they minded anyway. If anything, they encouraged it.

Even as the months went by, you never told the boys anything about your home life. They didn't know anything about your family or everything you had lost, and it would stay that way.

They didn't know about the tattoo you had gotten before your neighbor moved away.

It was like that for a while until one day.

It had been around a year since you began staying with the boys at the dorms. Life was peaceful. You never heard much from your parents, but you didn't really mind. You had practically grown up without them, so it wasn't much different.

You were more worried for your dad than your mom, but you knew he would reach out if anything happened. He knew how to communicate now. Well, to an extent, at least.

You decided to go chill at Changbin and Hyunjin's dorm after practice. They invited you over, so you weren't about to turn it down.

And for the first hour or so, everything was fine. Neither of them pointed anything out.

"Hey, Y/N, can you help me get this thing? It's stuck," Hyunjin called from his bedroom.

You quickly made your way to his room, peeking in, wondering what it was. He was trying to get a piece of clothing that had snagged beneath his dresser. The sleeve would likely tear if he kept pulling.

You headed over and leaned down, helping him lift the heavy wood up. Your hair almost got caught in one of the drawers, though, so you moved it over your left shoulder without thinking.

His shirt was free, but he was pretty quiet for a second, even after you set the dresser back down and stood up.

"Binnie's stronger than me. You should've just called-" you began with a soft laugh.

It quickly died down when you saw his expression, though. He looked concerned and confused. His eyebrows were knit together. His eyes were settled on the right side of your head-

Oh.

Oh, shit.

"What?" you asked, trying to play it cool as you began covering your neck with your hair.

"Stop," he mumbled, gently moving your hair back over your shoulder again to get a better view. "What's- where did you get a tattoo? You're still a kid."

You swallowed nervously, wondering how to explain it to him. You were still underage. It was illegal for you to have a tattoo. Would he report you? Would he tell Chan and the rest of the members?

"Oh, it's uhm- it's just temporary-" you mumbled before cutting yourself off with a hiss as he harshly rubbed his thumb across your marked skin.

"Temporary, huh?" he immediately fired back, pulling his hand away from your neck.

His eyes settled on yours now instead of the tattoo.

"Listen, it's not- I got it for a reason," you mumbled, almost embarrassed.

"Yeah? And what was the reason?" he asked calmly.

"To remember someone," you began, swallowing nervously before continuing. "And to keep a promise."

He paused for a second, examining the tattoo again. He had heard of the symbolism behind the two things on your neck before, but he didn't want to believe it.

So, he asked instead, hoping he wasn't right.

"Mhm. What promise?"

His voice was hesitant. His eyes had a certain look in them. Sadness? Disappointment, maybe? You hoped not.

"A promise to stay here. I promised myself to keep going when things get hard," you answered him quietly, avoiding eye contact.

He immediately understood what you meant, and it broke his heart, to say the least. You were the youngest out of everyone, and yet you had already tried to leave this earth. You had already suffered so much, even if he never knew anything about your parents or childhood.

"You've tried before?"

The question was so simple yet sat so heavily in the air.

"When I was 13. Things just weren't all that great," you replied with a small shrug. "I remember my dad crying for the first time. He was finally sober, and I guess he called an ambulance after I lost consciousness. I hated him so much when I woke up."

"Why did you hate him?" the older boy asked, voice still soft.

"For keeping me alive. For not letting me go when it was all I wanted," you mumbled, voice breaking near the end.

The two of you were silent for a few more seconds.

"Look at me," he said gently.

You hesitated for a second, but you eventually did.

And when you saw the way he stared back at you, gently, as if he truly saw you, you relaxed. You still weren't too used to warmth, but it felt good when you received it.

"I'm happy you're still here, Y/Nnie," he whispered.

He didn't smile or laugh or joke about it. He didn't turn you into a joke like people usually did. He wasn't like your mother, and you were so grateful for that, even if you couldn't fully express yourself.

"Everyone always says that," you said quietly with a shrug.

Hyunjin and the others always knew you struggled with depression. They could nearly sense it when you were around. They knew when you were lying. They knew you wanted to give up whenever things took a wrong turn.

But they also loved you.

"Does that mean they don't mean it? Because I do," he responded, a small smile creeping onto his face.

He never told anyone else about your tattoo. The rest of them found out by themselves, and it was usually an accident.

You would never forget the look on Chan's face. Not because it was funny, but because it was the opposite. It was depressing, almost. The look in his eyes was enough to tell you how much he cared about you. Even when you two had arguments, he was always gentle with you no matter what, and seeing that tattoo made him more cautious.

The small promises you made to him didn't seem like much, but when he told you he didn't want to lose someone he deemed as family, everything suddenly felt huge. They suddenly felt like true promises instead of empty words.

As the months passed by, your relationship with all of them grew.

Despite being depressed, you never acted any different. You still laughed and teased and joked around just like they did. You still smiled and loved as much as you knew how to.

Even when things got hard, the boys never left your side. For once, you weren't afraid to be vulnerable.

You stayed in contact with your dad, eventually finding out that when your 16th birthday hit, he and your mother got a divorce. He claimed he was sick and tired of her constantly complaining without the want to get better. She never put in any effort, and it eventually got so draining that he gave up on them.

And honestly, you didn't blame him. You couldn't. You knew he wasn't lying. Your mother was exhausting to be around most of the time. The only time she ever spoke rationally was when she was sober, and that by itself was as rare as discovering a new species.

Things went smoothly for a few months.

But when you began seeing signs of depression in your dad, you became worried. You didn't want him to feel the way you did.

He never showed signs before the divorce. He never even showed any during your childhood. He was never exactly happy, but he wasn't sad, either. He relied on drugs to keep him afloat, so you never really knew what he was like. You still loved him, though. You still loved both of your parents, even if you couldn't feel it back from them.

As his depression worsened, so did your concern for him. You began staying up later, offering all of the love and support you could. You never got impatient with him. You knew all too well that when you feel like you have no one, you don't need angry people; you need warmth. You need care and love.

You made sure to visit him regularly, not wanting the loneliness to overtake him. You wanted to make sure he knew he wasn't alone, even if you couldn't be by his side constantly.

And for a while, you clung onto the last bit of hope you had left. You hoped and wished he would be alright while you were gone. Maybe he could be alone for a few more days until you could visit him again.

You were nearly 17 when it happened.

It was near the holidays. The boys all planned to visit their families for nearly a week since you all had some time off before the next concert or practice.

You did everything you normally did. You packed your bags. You said your goodbyes.

If only you knew you would be saying goodbye to someone else, maybe it would have hurt less.

Maybe when you arrived at the door, cluelessly knocking for minutes on end, it would have made sense.

If you would have just known-

"Dad? Are you home?" you asked against the front door.

No answer.

You called him. It rang before disconnecting. You tried again. Yet again, it disconnected.

You messaged him and waited a few minutes, which was usually how long he took to reply.

Still no answer.

"Old bag of bones is probably asleep," you mumbled to yourself, chuckling slightly as you leaned down to take the spare key from beneath the rug.

You unlocked the door before twisting the knob, pushing the door open with a bit of force.

The smell hit you first.

It didn't smell like decay. It smelled like something more subtle. It was musty, but it wasn't pungent. You thought that maybe he had just forgotten to clean his bathroom this past weekend. Maybe the pipes were blocked up.

You closed the door, placing the key in your pocket.

"Dad, the key under the rug trick is a little too old. You'll get robbed doing that now!" you yelled, smiling to yourself.

You expected a snippy response back. Maybe a sarcastic little quote he came up with off the top of his head.

But it never came. The house was silent. The only sound was your shoes on the hardwood floor. You hadn't cared to take them off, as you were more concerned about seeing if your dad was still okay.

His messages were more heartfelt than usual. He texted you last night and then didn't answer, and although you were worried that he had done something to himself, you knew he always went to sleep early.

But with the eerie silence of his house, that thought was becoming replaced with your rational thoughts.

Did he do it?

Was I too blind to see the signs?

You made your way to his bedroom, knocking on the door.

Maybe he was just taking a nap.

Honestly, you didn't know if it was the fact that you knew or the fact that you didn't know. Maybe you were just telling yourself stupid things to ease your shock and pain.

You called his name out, and when he didn't answer, you turned the knob.

You gently opened the door.

And as soon as you did, your body ran cold. You literally stopped breathing for a few seconds. Your legs felt weak, and your arms tingled. You could barely keep your hands upright.

You knew it. You knew his cold corpse hanging from the ceiling would be staring back at you as soon as you opened that door.

So why were you still shocked?

You tried to speak, but all that came out were choked little sections of words. You couldn't even get a full word out if it was more than two syllables.

You didn't move. You couldn't.

You just stood in the doorway, staring at who you thought would get better after the divorce.

But you were so, so wrong. He had spiraled so far and so quickly that you were unable to catch any of the signs.

After around 30 seconds of just staring, you took a step forward. It didn't feel real. None of this did. There was no way your dad would have done this to himself, knowing he still had his daughter coming to visit.

You took a few more steps forward, and when you were beside his body, you gagged. Not from the smell, but from all of the emotions stirring up inside of you.

It didn't smell rancid. He had only been there since last night. But, still, your guts twisted with too many emotions that your body didn't know how to handle.

There was a note on his bed.

His goodbye letter. His final words to his baby.

You picked it up, hands trembling. Your eyes scanned the paper.

'Dear Y/N, if you find this, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, baby. I've held on for so long, and now, I feel it's my time to let go. I have nothing to live for anymore. That's not meant to insult you; you're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. But maybe I can help you see how things really are after you divorce and feel alone. Maybe you know what it's like to be surrounded by people daily, yet still feel alone. Maybe you know exactly how to fake a smile and words. Maybe you'll understand why I did it, and maybe you won't. If you think I'm selfish for this, don't worry. I do, too. But I can't keep doing this. I'm so tired of everything. I was never mentally well, but you probably knew that. After your mother divorced me, I've spiraled even further. I meant to do this months ago, but your visits kept me afloat. Our late night talks meant so much to me, and I'm sorry that I won't be here for more of them. Please realize that none of this was your fault. You couldn't have prevented this, no matter how hard you tried. I would have done it in the end anyway, so please don't blame yourself at all. Just promise me something. Promise you won't end up like me. Promise you'll remain strong, unlike me. Don't be a coward. Be brave. Be wild. Be the fiery little girl I remember you as. Just please, whatever you do, never end up like me. I know you'll do great things with that group you're with. I'm sure they're awesome. I'm so, so proud of you. I always have been. Never give up, baby. I'm so sorry. I love you more than you'll ever know. Now, it's getting late. I'm tired. I have to go now. Goodbye, Y/N.'

The note was enough to make you vomit. You set it back down on the bed and hunched over, hands hugging your sides as your guts and stomach pumped up your breakfast from a few hours ago.

You were sobbing by the time you were done. You didn't try getting his body down. You knew he was gone. The bluish-gray tone of his face told you that much.

But the one thing you didn't fail to notice?

The blood beneath his fingertips.

He regretted it at the last moment. There were signs of struggle. He had tried to escape his own death, and he wasn't able to. He wanted to still live. He wanted to see you accomplish things.

But he was unable to untie the rope quickly enough. Instead of a quick, painless death, he suffocated slowly, listening to the sound of his own neck stretching beneath his body weight.

Instead of feeling peace in his last moments, he felt regret, all alone in his sad little house.

Thinking of it too much made you hurl a second time. It was almost involuntary at this point.

You called an ambulance to come cut him down, and you were so hysterical that they had to take you outside and calm you down before removing your father from his bedroom ceiling.

You kept rambling on and on about how it was your fault, how if you had tried harder, maybe this would have never happened. Was he lying? Were you actually the reason he did it? Did you fail to make him feel loved? Did he feel alone, even when you came to visit? How would you move on from this?

You didn't know, and neither did the people sitting beside you, consoling you and mumbling soft words.

A piece of you died along with your father. You knew you'd never get it back, no matter how hard you tried.

You stayed in your dorm for the rest of the holiday.

On his trip back, Changbin decided to text you.

'Binnie 🫂💪🏻💕 : Hey, Y/Nnie!! Anything you need while I'm out? Any gifts? Lol'

'a gun'

'Binnie 🫂💪🏻💕 : What?'

He thought you were joking. You were dead serious. Maybe a gun was the only thing that would help right now.

'not trying to ruin the mood. sorry. have a good trip back. be safe'

You didn't know why you tried to play it off as a joke. You never joked like that, but you were still so out of it, even a couple of days after everything happened.

He was the first one to visit your dorm. When you opened the door, you looked awful. He could tell you had been crying. Had you been this distraught when you texted him?

"Hey, hey, wait. What's wrong?" he asked, concern washing over him.

A wave of guilt and grief hit you all over again. You couldn't even reply. All you could do was sink to your knees, face in your hands.

Changbin immediately kneeled down, hands gently wrapping around you as you sobbed. When you shook, he held you still. He let you catch your breath.

He had never seen you like this. Ever.

You were rarely the type to cry in front of anybody, especially the boys and fans. You always put up a tough front, but just like that, it had all crumbled.

"My - My dad..." you stammered, feeling your chest tighten at the mere mention of his name.

He pulled back from the hug, looking at you for an answer.

You shook your head, breaking down again.

That simple action was enough to tell him something heartbreaking: your dad was gone.

He shushed you, but you were still inconsolable. It felt like the people in the ambulance comforting you all over again.

"It's - It's all my fault. I k-killed him. I did it. I'm the- I'm the reason he's not here anymore," you sobbed.

"Shh, shh... what do you mean? What happened, Y/Nnie..?" he asked, his right hand smoothing your hair back gently.

You took a few seconds to gather yourself before speaking.

"He's- he killed himself. I - I walked in, and he was hanging-" you responded, voice shaky. "If I would have visited him more, then he w-wouldn't have- it's all my fault-"

You were panicking by now.

He probably spent a whole ten minutes trying to calm you down. He had never seen you so torn before.

You rarely ever spoke about your dad, but he knew enough. When you did speak of him, it was always kind and concerned. You always hoped he was doing well. You always hoped that he was finding something to keep him happy.

He knew enough about your dad to know that although you two weren't the closest, he still meant a lot to you. He was the closest person you had regarding family.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so, so sorry. It's not your fault. Please- no. Please don't think that. Ever. None of that was your fault," he mumbled, embracing you again.

When you had to ask Chan for a few days of practice off for a funeral, it felt fake. All of it. Your life felt fake at this point. The only parent you had some sort of a relationship with was now gone.

And as soon as you had to break the news to Chan about what happened over the holidays, you broke down all over again.

The grief hit you like a truck, and it wasn't stopping anytime soon.

He comforted you, but nothing could ease the hollowness in your heart.

The boys were patient with you for the next few weeks. Even when you got angry and snapped at them, they never acted the same way towards you. They held you and supported you. They told you what you needed to hear.

When you felt like giving up, they were there for you.

They were the reason you didn't end it during those few weeks.

It took months for you to comprehend everything. Seems a bit dramatic and lengthy, but the human mind is so complex. Emotions can be so simple, yet they can also be the most difficult thing in the world.

Grief is the worst one.

It shows itself in multiple different ways. All of your senses are affected by it. If you smell something that reminds you of them, you're reminded that they're not here for you to hug anymore. When you stumble across an old photo of them, it hits you. They're gone, and they're not coming back.

But for some reason, you felt more anger than depression after your dad died. You felt like he had abandoned you. You understood how tired he was, but at the same time, how were you supposed to feel? You had spent most of your childhood without him, and once you finally began building a relationship with him, he left you for good.

You couldn't help but feel at least a little angry. How couldn't you?

As the months passed by, your anger settled down slightly. You weren't an angry person. You never were. Something about your dad's death, though... it snapped something inside of you, and you didn't know what it was. You had lost something, and you didn't know where to search.

His grave, perhaps..?

Who knows?

It had only been 6 months since your dad's passing. You were 17 and a half by now.

The boys were so gentle with you. They never teased you for your emotions like they used to before everything happened, and although it made you feel weak, it also helped with your grief. You were able to express yourself without fearing judgment.

Seungmin and Jeongin initiated more physical affection with you. There was no telling how many times they hugged you when they saw you spacing out.

Chan, Minho, and Changbin were the oldest. They took it as their job to make sure you constantly had someone to talk to. Changbin was surprisingly more understanding than the other two men. Not because they didn't care, but because he was the one you broke down in front of only two days after you had found your father's body.

Hyunjin distracted you a lot with positive life talks. He never mentioned anything negative. He wanted your mind to be clear of that day.

Felix did more livestreams with you, always showering you with affection. Smiles, hugs, compliments, soft words... you name it, he gave it.

Han was there when you were too tired to even speak. You were there physically, but not emotionally. He never rushed you, though. He never forced you to talk. He just sat there with you, your head resting on his shoulder. You always opened up in the end, no matter how hard you tried to avoid it.

Their efforts were so, so appreciated.

Too bad they would have to do it all again soon.

It was just one of your off days. A sunny Friday afternoon.

You stared back down at the paper, the boys' names staring back at you. They all had small hearts drawn next to them.

The paragraphs were too long for you to comprehend. How long had you been writing for?

Your phone buzzing snapped you out of it, though. You set your pen down, silently taking your phone out and staring at it to see who was calling you.

It was an unfamiliar number.

Then, you read the name.

It was the hospital in the city your mom moved to, around 30 minutes away.

You stared at the screen, expression blank. Then, confusion seeped in.

Why was the hospital calling you..? You hadn't visited there in years. You hadn't even been to the doctor in a year or two since you rarely got sick.

You answered it anyway.

"Hello?" you asked, putting the voice on the other side on speaker.

"Hello. Is this Y/N L/N?"

You paused, puzzled.

"Yes, it is. Why? Is everything alright? Did something happen?" you asked, your concern a bit too obvious in the way you spoke.

"Well, kind of... Now, are you the daughter of-"

When the woman on the other side said your mother's name, you swore your heart actually stopped beating for a second.

"Yes, ma'am, I am," you mumbled.

"Ah, great. You were the only contact she had in her files, aside from her ex-husband. I'm sorry for your loss," she began. "But your mother seems to have overdosed on some sort of painkiller or different medication. We can't seem to figure out exactly what it is, but she's unresponsive right now. I just wanted to call and see if you'd like to come visit her for an hour or so."

Your guts twisted. Your chest tightened.

Overdosed?

You knew it would happen eventually, but why so soon? How? Although she was extreme, she was also always safe with how much she took.

You agreed, hanging up almost immediately after.

As you made your way to the hospital, you received numerous texts and calls from the boys. They were probably asking if you were down to have a sleepover with them or something.

You didn't answer any of them, even as you sat in the waiting room. The only thing on your mind was your mother.

You checked in and immediately went towards your mother's room. A nurse was in there already, measuring her vitals.

Her heart rate and blood pressure weren't looking too good, and her breaths per minute were also becoming a bit too slow.

Still, you only focused on her.

You became more distant with the boys for the next few days. You just needed some time to focus on everything that life kept throwing at you. No matter what you did, you couldn't catch up.

You thought that maybe your mother would be okay. Maybe she could pull through, even though she didn't look so good last time you visited. Maybe your last parent would be spared from death.

It's nice to want things, isn't it?

Apparently, because only four days later, you received a phone call from the hospital. As soon as they told you what you had been dreading all week, you didn't even reply. Even as they gave you soft condolences over the phone, you hung up.

Maybe if you said you needed her, she could have stayed. Maybe death wouldn't have been selfish.

But is he really selfish if this was all your mother's fault? Was it both of their faults?

It didn't matter anymore.

What mattered was knowing how truly lonely you were now.

No actual, blood-related family. No friends aside from the boys. No purpose. No identity. Nobody to truly call home.

You never really had many memories with your mother. She wasn't ever really a good person. She definitely wasn't a good mother, either.

So why did it still hurt so bad?

Was it the fact that she was still your family, or was it because you knew that now, you were officially alone? Was it both? Was it a different reason?

Why were you so afraid of being alone? You grew up that way. You were used to it.

But maybe that was the problem.

Maybe constantly being alone made you afraid of it. Maybe it was the reason that those notes you had been writing when the hospital called didn't seem so irrational after all.

You rarely answered the boys for the next few days.

But they could all tell something was wrong. You weren't just in an episode. Something had definitely happened. They just didn't know what, especially since you were avoiding them. It wasn't intentional. It wasn't to hurt them. It was to prevent yourself from lashing out at them.

You thought that maybe if you distanced yourself from them for a few weeks, it'd hurt less when you went. They wouldn't miss you as much if there was never a voice to fill your absence in the first place.

But you were wrong, and you didn't know if you were supposed to be angry or happy about that.

Felix still checked up on you. Chan still made sure you were sleeping and taking care of yourself, which became less and less common after what had happened earlier that week. Han still asked if you needed to talk, no matter what time it was.

And gosh, you hated it so much. You hated that they still cared despite your efforts to push them away and make them dislike you.

At the same time, though, it opened your eyes and made you realize something.

You hadn't lost all of your family. Deep down, you had eight young men to call your brothers. They had and would always be your best friends, even when things weren't the prettiest. When things were dark, they were your light.

You didn't think of that while making a mental note of the date you were planning, though. You already knew when you were leaving, and you were a bit relieved to know that this time, you wouldn't mess it up. You had everything planned out. You wouldn't take pills and hope for the best again like an idiot.

You finished the notes within two extra days, leaving yourself with five days left.

And for once, you felt little pain. You felt almost free. Sure, having both of your parents taken away from you by only 6 months apart hurt, but you'd be gone soon anyway, so what did it matter?

Nothing mattered anymore, and it brought an unexplainable weight off of your chest. You felt lighter than ever, and for the first time in years, you didn't feel guilty. You didn't regret being happy.

The boys were happy, too, but not for the same reason as you.

They thought that maybe you had finally gotten better, especially since you never told them that the hospital had called you around a week ago.

You were more bubbly. You still remained distant with the boys, but you began giving signs that you designed as kindness.

You had no use for the expensive bracelet that Felix claimed he loved. You bought the last one, and the company wouldn't be making more until next year since it was a seasonal thing, so why not give it to him?

The first day, you gave a bunch of things away. When the boys asked why, you just claimed you were decluttering and knew what they liked and would want to keep.

You had four days left, and as each day passed by, you felt more and more free.

You did more livestreams, ignoring the guilt and ache tugging at your heart every time a fan exclaimed that you were their bias in the chat.

You talked a lot about how you had been feeling better lately, especially because fans had been worrying a bunch. You tried to tell them that nothing was going on, but some of STAY was clever enough to know that this wasn't some sudden miracle-like change. You didn't just magically get better. Your depression didn't just leave.

Soon, you had three days left. You counted them down like you used to do with the holidays when you were a kid.

You spent more time with the boys. You were extremely affectionate, constantly hugging them and telling them how much you loved them. Nobody suspected anything. They were just grateful that you were finally back to your old self after years of living in a hole of regret and sorrow.

Well, you thought nobody noticed.

Chan did. He was just quiet about it.

He knew that whatever was going on with you lately wasn't normal.

So, he tried to open your eyes and show you that you still had a purpose; you still deserved to live.

You were just chilling with him before practice. It was only you two in the room together, as you wanted to be a bit earlier. You were busy tying your hair up when suddenly, Chan looked over. You locked eyes with him, smiling. He smiled back, but his eyes brought you more comfort.

They were so gentle; so soft and truthful. They held something that you couldn't ignore, even if you didn't know what it was yet.

"You know," he began, walking over to you, abandoning the music on his laptop.

You hummed curiously in response, still keeping your hands occupied with your hair and hair tie.

When he stopped in front of you, you definitely didn't expect him to tap the tattoo beneath your ear gently.

"I'm really glad you're still here. Glad you made that promise when you were younger."

His tone was sweet, so why did his words pierce your heart like an arrow? Why did they suddenly hold so much weight?

You just smiled and let out a soft, awkward giggle, nodding.

When you woke up in the morning, relief flooded over you. You only had two days left.

And you spent those two days repeating the past three days. Donating more of your valuable and expensive items to the boys, showering them with the love and affection they deserved, and talking with fans on your Bubble lives.

On your last day, you decided to go live a few hours beforehand. You might as well have something fun to remember before you go out.

One particular comment caught your eye, though, and you read it out loud.

"Y/N, what's one thing that STAY and the other members have in common?"

You thought for a second, biting the inside of your cheek and looking anywhere but the camera.

"The fact that they all made me stay longer than I thought I would," you replied with a warm smile.

Fans thought it was sweet and innocent. The fact that you kept going simply for the boys and your fans said a lot about you.

But you meant it seriously. You wouldn't have been here for as long as you had been if it weren't for them. If it weren't for them, you would have killed yourself right after your dad did, no questions asked.

Felix was watching your live since he had been trying to find something to do ever since practice had ended.

He thought your words were sweet, but at the same time, he caught the unfamiliar glint in your eyes. The eyes he thought had looked bright and happy for the past few days now looked dull and exhausted.

As soon as you ended your livestream, he called you to make sure you were alright.

You lied, claiming you were fine and that you were just grateful for everyone who had been by your side all these years.

He was skeptical, but he let it go. He took your answer and didn't argue.

Something inside of you hurt when you lied so casually to him. You never felt the need to lie to him, so why now? Were you seriously that desperate to go?

Even if you were, who would care? You had everything planned out already. It wasn't like they could stop you now.

It was around 11 P.M. now. The hours ticked by slowly, but you surprisingly weren't impatient.

Instead, you were relieved.

You stared at the blade on your nightstand. Besides the small glinting object were eight letters spread out, each one dedicated to a certain member.

You finally felt at peace. You knew you could leave without having to explain why. The letters would do the talking for you.

Everything was ready, and so were you.

But you couldn't leave without saying goodbye. That would just be rude.

You turned your phone on, the bright screen making you squint as you found the group chat with all nine of you in it.

You typed your message, then deleted it. Then, you retyped it. You stared at it a second time, heart starting to race as you tried to make up your mind.

The next second, you hit the send button.

'I love you guys so much. Please don't think any of this was your fault, and don't miss me too much. I know I've been acting weird, but I just wanted to make it hurt less. I'm tired of everything. I never told you guys, but I lost my mom around a week ago. I have nothing left to live for. Having nobody to call home hurts more than I thought it would, but you guys made me stay longer. Thank you. I have to go now. Goodnight. Ily guys'

Your room was clean, your letters were written, you had said your goodbyes... all of it was done. It was all perfect. Now all you had to do was act on it.

You didn't give yourself the quick route out. You knew you didn't deserve it; not after being such a disgusting liar to the ones who trusted you most. Maybe you did deserve this after all. Maybe the old scars on your body were reminders of how pathetic you were.

But they were old. You needed some new ones. You needed to feel how much pain you'd cause to other people.

So, you reached for the skinny scrap of metal and got to work.

The feeling of your flesh popping and ripping was familiar and even comforting to an extent.

You remembered the nights you'd do this in your early teens, and although it wasn't the best memory, it was something to remind you how fucked up you had always been. You couldn't be fixed like everyone thought.

You began on your thighs, and although there weren't any major blood vessels, you still dug deep. The exposed white and yellow tissues of your thigh meat burned and stung as the air hit them. They didn't even bleed for a good second or two. You had already cut too deep.

That didn't mean you were done, though. You were just warming up. The real targets were your brachial arteries, snug and deep in your inner elbows.

You were already getting a bit light-headed, though. The cuts on your thighs alone were stinging so badly that you questioned if this was all worth it.

Of course it was. You knew it was.

The loneliness and constant reminder of your dead parents was enough to keep you motivated.

But as soon as you were about to move to your arms, you heard your phone go off. You had received a text.

You winced as you reached for it, turning it on and checking.

It was Chan.

Blood quickly began surfacing the fresh cuts. They were wider and deeper than you thought apparently because the fresh red liquid didn't take long to begin bubbling out, trickling down your sore thighs.

You forgot about the message for a second, looking down and almost feeling queasy. Blood was never a problem for you, but the fact that it wasn't stopping made you a bit nauseous.

Red stained your gray sheets beneath you in a small puddle. Your hands began trembling as you took in everything you had done to yourself.

It wasn't enough.

The blood, slick and still fresh, made your fingers slip on the blade.

You tightened your thumb and pointer finger back on it, looking down at your messy thighs.

You made a few more deep cuts, the blade slicing through your precious flesh. It felt good, but at the same time, you wanted to stop.

Blood smeared across your thighs, painting the skin that wasn't injured.

You suddenly remembered that Chan had texted you, so despite your state, you reached out and grabbed your phone again. The screen was still on. He had already sent three new messages.

'Chan 🫂🫶🏻 : Y/N, I saw your message in the group chat. Wtf'

'Chan 🫂🫶🏻 : Are you okay?? What's going on? You can talk to me'

'Chan 🫂🫶🏻 : I'm not angry. I'm just worried. Please answer me, Y/N. Are you hurting yourself? Are you already gone?'

As soon as you were about to reply, he messaged you again.

'Chan 🫂🫶🏻 : I'm coming over to your dorm'

Then, he called you.

You were becoming a bit more confused by the second. You were already losing blood, and the additional deep cuts didn't help.

You were still able to answer, though.

As soon as you answered, he immediately began asking questions.

"Y/Nnie, are you okay? You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

That was his main concern. You were still alive, but were you injured? Were you bleeding? Had you overdosed? Were you planning to take after your dad and do it with a rope?

You hesitated for a second, staring at your arms. The blade tightened between your fingers again.

All he heard was your soft breathing on the other side.

You heard wind rushing through his phone, but it wasn't windy outside. He was running. He didn't speak. He just quickly made his way to your dorm. Maybe he'd make it in time.

As soon as he was around a minute away, you made the first cut on your arm. You aimed for the artery, digging the blade deep. You weren't able to hit it, but blood still surfaced, covering the edge of the blade and your fingertips.

"I broke my promise. I couldn't- couldn't do it, Chan," you mumbled back, breath shallow and hurried.

"Just keep talking to me," he replied, voice unsteady as he continued rushing to your dorm.

"Are you mad at me?" you asked, voice meek.

And with that question, you dug the blade into your arm again. You really dug. You tried to make sure you'd hit it.

And, surprisingly, it worked. You were able to go through the pain, and before you knew it, blood was spurting out of your inner elbow. It was bright red, and you gritted your teeth as you quickly dropped the blade.

"No, no, no. Don't focus on that. Are you safe?" he asked.

You didn't reply. Your thighs had stopped bleeding, but there was a pool dried into your sheets by now. It was still in a semi-liquid form, and it stuck to the backs of your thighs and knees.

Weakness washed over you. Your breathing was short and shallow. Any air you managed to gulp down went to your lungs as they desperately tried to supply oxygen to the blood being pumped to your heart and injury sites.

"Y/N? Y/N, I'm almost there. Answer me," he continued.

Before you could reply, you heard keys on his side before he hung up.

You looked down at your arm as it kept bleeding. It wouldn't be stopping anytime soon.

You were so out of it that you barely registered your front door opening. It slammed shut, but the noise didn't startle you. Instead, you leaned back and looked up at the ceiling before closing your eyes.

Then, your bedroom door opened.

Chan had made it.

He was horrified. He was expecting you to overdose or take a quicker way out.

But the blood smeared across your sheets, blankets, hands, and body were all clear signs that you wanted to suffer.

It made him sick, but his body reacted before he could. He immediately rushed over to you. His hands moved, but his mind was hazy. His vision was instantly blurred by the tears that formed.

He immediately reached in your closet, grabbing the first long-sleeve he saw and pressing it against your arm and thighs. He pressed down hard, and you groaned and stirred, looking down.

"You're okay, Y/Nnie. It's okay, sweetheart. You're fine," he whispered. You didn't know if he was trying to comfort you or himself.

There were cuts everywhere. Old scars were hidden by the new ones you had just given yourself.

"Channie, 'm sorry. 'M so sorry," you slurred, voice weak.

"Shh- It's okay. You're okay," he immediately replied, almost absentmindedly.

He quickly tied the long-sleeve around your arm to apply pressure and prevent more blood from spilling out. Then, he took out his phone and called the ambulance.

He explained through tears, and guilt ripped through your entire body. Your bones ached. You shivered and felt as the same hollow ache in your chest came back.

As soon as he hung up, he quickly sat you on the edge of the bed. He steadied you with his hands. He was so gentle you could cry.

You almost did.

"Just let me die," you mumbled.

The only emotion he picked up in your voice was desperation. You weren't even sad. You were just empty. You weren't even 18 years old yet, and you wanted to die. You wanted him to leave you to bleed out in your dorm.

"What?- Y/Nnie, no. Why - Why would you-"

"I'm worthless, Chan. I have nothing left to live for anymore," you replied instantly.

Although you were out of it, you could still speak fairly well.

"'M useless. Don't know why you still care," you continued, getting weaker by the second.

"No, no, no. Don't - Don't say that," he choked out, tears spilling.

You just hummed, leaning against him. He held you close, constantly checking on you until the ambulance arrived.

Within those 10 minutes it took, you nearly died due to going into shock from all of the blood loss.

You had passed out four times back-to-back, but the paramedics were able to give you fluids and slow the bleeding until you arrived at the hospital.

You didn't remember anything. You were out for most of the night.

Chan was able to stay for the first few hours, but the doctors eventually told him that he had to leave. You had to rest. Plus, there were other patients trying to sleep, so he had to respect them and go back to his own dorm.

He didn't go back to his dorm, though. He went back to yours.

He headed back into your room, albeit hesitantly. The smell of blood still lingered faintly in the air, and it nearly made him sick just thinking about it. The fact that you had lost so much before he was even able to get to you made him feel like the most worthless leader in the world. He knew he should have taken the signs more seriously, but at the same time, you'd just push him and the others away.

But that was when he realized that your distance was the main sign that you were going to do this. You probably wanted them to care less so that it didn't hurt as badly when it happened, but it only made it hurt more.

The letters on your nightstand lay there in an inviting manner. He felt like maybe if he read the one you wrote him, he would understand where you were coming from.

So, he swallowed nervously before heading over to the folded piece of paper.

He took it between his hands, looking down at it and taking in the front of it.

'To Channie ♡'

He already knew that this was a bad idea, but you had written them for a reason. He would have had to read this anyway, even if he wasn't able to save you a few hours ago.

He slowly unfolded the piece of paper, a huge paragraph staring back at him.

His eyes settled on the first sentence, and he got to work.

Dear Channie, I hope you don't mind the nickname. If you're reading this, I'm gone. Just wanted to let you know I'm sorry for being distant lately. I've never been the best mentally, but you probably knew that already, especially ever since my dad took his own life. He told me never to be like him, but I'm always the odd one out. I never listen, but maybe this time, it's for the better. I never meant to hurt you and the others by being reclusive. If anything, I wanted it to hurt less. I know that this is probably selfish, but I'm so tired. My heart hurts so badly. First, I lost my dad, and now, my mom is gone. I have nothing left to live for, and although I love you and the boys, I don't want to keep being a burden. I'm constantly moping around and acting depressed, although I am. I know it's tiring to deal with me, so let me take that weight off of your shoulders. It'll be better for both of us. My life means less than you think it does, no matter how much you love me. So, please, let me go and know that none of this was ever your fault. If you blame yourself for not seeing the signs, don't. I never wanted you to see them. I didn't want anyone worrying about me. I want you to keep being the great, caring, loving leader that you are. The boys need you. Don't leave them like I am. I'm selfish. You're not. You're stronger than me, so don't be afraid to show it. Sorry for the mess. I used to cut myself when I was younger, too, but I stopped. Now, the urges are unbearable. I can't take it anymore. I can't take any of this anymore. I'm sorry for the mess when you find me. Again, please don't think any of this is your fault. You and the others were the reason I stayed longer. I should have died a few months ago, but the way you all loved me so gently made me rethink everything. But now, with no true family left to fall back on, I'm lonely. I'm worthless. I'm useless. I'm nothing but a liar. I promised I would never do this, but honestly, I want to cut that tattoo out now. The guilt is eating me alive. Every time I look at the old scars on my body, I'm reminded of how pathetic I really am. Anyways, it's getting late. I'm running out of space to write. I love you so, so much more than you'll ever imagine. Stay strong for me, okay? I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye. ♡ - Y/N

He felt sick. He couldn't prevent the tears that burned his eyes. He gripped the paper, staring at it for longer than he needed. This couldn't be real. You had planned everything out for months. If he hadn't found you, he would have lost you.

He knew that the other letters weren't for him, but he still decided to open them. He didn't read them, but he wanted to see if you wrote the same amount for everybody.

You did.

You really did love them. That, he could never doubt.

But you just needed it more right now.

Chan stayed up for the rest of the night. He didn't even feel tired. He almost felt like he didn't exist. Everything felt so fake. The way he held you as you bled out, the look in your eyes, your words, the letters, the way you apologized when he found you; it made him sick to his stomach and easily kept him up.

He canceled practice that day and grabbed all of the letters, handing each individual one to its rightful member.

He didn't allow them to go to your dorm. Not until he could buy a new bed set and replace the sheets and blankets stained with dark crimson.

They all had the same reactions. None of them tried to act tough about it. Everybody cried when they read theirs.

Felix was destroyed. Han felt as if he had failed as a member. Seungmin knew something had been off with you lately, but he blamed himself for letting it go. Hyunjin also blamed himself for making you feel so alone. Jeongin had to stop reading his for a bit when you mentioned how you had been thinking about this for a while. Changbin teared up when you told him in the letter about your old scars and how weak you felt because of them. Minho's hands trembled as he read, a lump forming in his throat.

To put it in simple terms, they didn't take it lightly. At all.

When you were discharged from the hospital, you were prescribed with antidepressants to help balance out your mood and prevent you from attempting to do this again.

You felt sick. You couldn't face them; not after Chan told you that he and the others all read the letters you wrote. You felt so weak and pathetic. What kind of person promises herself she's going to finally drop some dead weight and then can't even do it properly?

The healing wounds on your arm and thighs were so noticeable that you hated looking at yourself.

But they all knew you would feel like that when you got out, so they did their best to show you that you shouldn't be ashamed that you survived. Your scars weren't a sign of weakness. They were signs of strength and endurance.

They gave you so much love that sometimes, you didn't even know what to do with it.

When you cried, they let you. They comforted you in the best ways they knew how, and it was almost relieving in a way. You didn't have to put on a strong front around them. You could be vulnerable.

Something that Chan recommended you really did help, though. He told you to write down your feelings instead of taking them out on yourself by harming yourself.

So, you did. It became your new therapy.

It felt much better than dragging a blade across your skin, as weird as that felt to say.

You wrote a lot about your parents. The grief still followed you, even as you continued healing in the months that passed.

Sometimes, you could only write one sentence to describe how you felt.

That was the case today.

It had been a long, exhausting day. You had already showered and eaten a good dinner, but you still felt so many emotions bundled up inside of you.

So, you went to your room, hopped into bed, and grabbed your journal and favorite pen, flipping to the next fresh page.

You hesitated for a second, your fingers squeezing the plastic of the pen as you carefully decided what to write.

But something stuck out to you. It felt right.

So, you jotted it down.

Your silence still haunts me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

this is actually so ass LMFAOOO

I HAVEN'T PROOFREAD AND I WON'T EITHER BECAUSE THIS THING IS SO LONG IT'S LITERALLY LAGGING/DELAYING WHEN I JUST TRY TO WRITE

anyways 🥹🥹

THANK YOU SOSO MUCH FOR READING!! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT! <3

PLEASE MAKE SURE TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES, AND AGAIN, I'M SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING LATELY :( I'LL GET BACK TO IT I SWEAR GUYSSS

I LOVE YOU ALL SMMMM

HAVE A DAY/NIGHT AS AMAZING AS YOURSELVES, LOVELIES!!

MWAH!!! 🫶🏻

Taglist :

@iconicallyher @galaxy4489 @written-by-music @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @straystar-8 @hanasdigitaldiary @skrach84 @mar1511 @heartsfromuknown @skz43ver @bbokarismeow @hyuneskkami @afkjade @goquokkaa @cerisevivii @eeorrrr @gabsdostraykids @ofcourse-not-ari @iloveyunjin @alondra6011

A reluctant groan escapes you as you glance down at your attire—a loosely hanging oversized hoodie, a testament to the numerous times it has been tugged down, and a pair of pajama pants whose matching top has mysteriously vanished. Clearly, you don't feel presentable enough to welcome anyone at this late hour. So, you remain motionless, futilely lowering the TV volume in hopes that whoever’s behind the door will just continue with their night. But the knocks persist against your wish, so, with a resigned sigh, you rise from your seat, your blanket cascading to the ground.

“What–” the words dissolve in your mouth like a sweet nectar as you open the door, your eyes beholding no one in your periphery. A slight tug at your pants draws your attention downward, only to find the most adorable child your eyes have ever laid on. She’s clad in Rapunzel-themed pajamas, wolf slippers bumping into your plain ones, and, to your surprise, a whisk cradled in her small hand. 

“Hey there,” your voice softens as you crouch to meet her warm gaze. You find an innocent happiness gleaming in her eyes, a radiant spark shining even beneath the corridor’s muted light. Two dimples adorn her cheeks as she smiles at you. 

“Hi, my dad wants to tell you something,” she says, pointing with her whisk to the very end of the hallway. You crane your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive figure. 

“Your dad?”

“Mm. He’s a bit shy, that’s why he’s hiding,” she confides in a whisper. But, despite her earnest attempt, her words still resound loudly in the vacant space, causing giggles to spill out of your mouth. 

“And you aren’t shy?” you inquire, tilting your head. 

“Nu-uh,” she shakes her head with conviction as someone emerges behind her. She instinctively wraps an arm around their leg, nestling her cheek against their thigh. 

She isn’t shy because she feels protected.

You rise from your place, eyes locking with a familiar shade of brown. Only these hold a mesmerizing quality to them making your very breath catch in your throat. Kindness pours from his gaze as it travels down your face, a sentiment that further materializes as delicate smile lines stitch around the corner of his eyes.  

He’s beautiful. 

Your eyes trail down to two pairs of dimples, mirroring the ones of his daughter perfectly. She is his living portrait, sharing his eyes, lips, and smile. Yet, his cheeks blush in a hue she does not possess, while his left hand fiddles with his earlobe, in an unspoken, timid gesture. For some odd reason, it pierces straight through your heart.

“Sorry for bothering you,” a smooth Australian accent rolls off his tongue, similar to rich butter spread on warm bread- it infuses your being with tingles pulsating from the base of your toes. You suddenly no longer miss your blanket.

“I’m your next-door neighbor. We were just making cookies and we realized we actually  don’t have flour,” he explains, a bashful smile imprinted onto his lips. 

“You didn’t check beforehand?” you ask, laughter tinting your voice. 

“I forgot,” he admits, but his tone sounds almost sad as if beating himself over it. A fleeting shadow veils his face briefly, dissipating like a passing cloud grazing the sun.

“Can we borrow some from you? I told Sowon that we could go to the store but she said it’s too cold out,” he asks, his hand resting on his daughter’s shoulder soothingly. 

“It is too cold out,” you agree with a frown, looking down at Sowon to which she smiles brightly, happy to have your support. 

“And of course, I'll bring you flour. Don’t worry about it. Do you want to come in meanwhile?”

“It's okay, we'll wait here. Don’t want to intrude.” 

“Thank you!” Sowon beams, her missing tooth in full display. 

“Yeah, thank you so much…” he trails out, tilting his head as if to silently inquire about your name.

“Yn. And you?”

“Chris.”

“Nice to meet you, Chris,” you smile, shaking his extended hand. His fingers wrap around your palm, and it feels as if you’re grasping thunder, crackling with an electricity that your eyes can’t behold, yet your soul does, suddenly illuminated from within. 

Your smile grows as you detach yourself from his hold, before bending forward to bop Sowon’s nose. “And nice to meet you too Rapunzel.” 

Your words make her hide behind her father’s leg, peeking out slightly to look at you. 

“See I’m not the only one who gets shy,” Chan chuckles, and Sowon whines in complaint, further burying her face in her dad’s grey sweatpants. 

Adorable, so much it stirs a long-forgotten melancholy within your being. 

“She gets a pass, she’s still young, right Sowon?”

“Are you calling me old then?” Chan fakes outrage, bringing one hand to his chest while the other cradles Sowon’s back. 

“Old enough to forget about flour,” you wink and he laughs, looking down at your slippers. 

“Touché.” 

A few minutes go by before you come back, a recipient full of flour in your hands. The sight before you makes you pause in your tracks– Chris, leaning against the wall, Sowon propped on his hip, her arms loosely hanging around his neck, her eyes closed. 

“Did she…” you whisper and he turns to you. 

“Yeah, fell asleep,” he smiles fondly, tucking a few strands of her hair behind the curve of her ear. “She’ll be disappointed when she wakes up to no cookies. She wanted us to have a baking holiday tradition.”

“You don’t know how to make them?” 

“No, I was counting on a six-year-old to assist me,” he chuckles quietly, prompting a snort from you. 

“Well, keep the flour, in case you need it again.” 

“Thank you, Yn,” he grins, the smile taking over his entire face, grabbing the recipient from you. 

“You’re welcome Chris,” you say, as you both linger around the door still, not making any attempt to move. 

Your eyes refuse to peel away from his, as if there were a magnetic force drawing you to him, telling you that your gaze belonged to rest on him.

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, leaning away from the wall. “I'll get going.”

“Yeah, sleep well, Chris.”

“Thank you,” he smiles before turning around. 

An idea brews in your head, a germ sprouted by the clear adoration in which Sowon gazed at her dad, and the disappointment in his face as he said he would no longer be making cookies. Had you wished to dig a little deeper, you would’ve also found a long-buried feeling of a little girl who would have loved holiday traditions as well. You close the door before heading straight to your kitchen. 

One hour later 

You knock softly on Chris’ door, fidgeting from one foot to another. You almost retract back to your apartment after your fourth knock, when the door finally opens, Chris coming into your line of sight. 

“Hi,” you greet, hands behind your back. 

“Hey,” he smiles, leaning his arm on the doorway, right above your head. He tilts his head to the side, silently wondering what you want. The words dissolve in your mouth at the way his eyes fixate on you as if trying to peer behind your irises onto your mind. 

“Cookies,” you bring the plate before him, as his eyes grow wide, an incredulous smile drawn on his lips. 

“You made them?” 

“Yeah, didn't want Sowon to be disappointed,” you shrug and his eyes grow wild, racking all over your face in disbelief. 

“You didn't have to do this,” he finally says, tone softening, syllables ringing like a sweet sonnet in your ears. 

“I know. I wanted to. and I’m a baker so making cookies comes easily to me, don’t worry about it,” you shrug sheepishly, biting your lower lip slightly. You felt scrutinized by him in ways you haven't felt before. 

“Thank you, Yn, I don’t even know what to say,” he says, his smile resembling a beam of light. A surge of pride courses through you at managing to bring it forth. 

“No need to say anything. I hope I didn't wake you up,” you smile sheepishly and he shakes his head. 

“No, I- I was working in my studio and Sowon is asleep. It's just us two. Always has been,” he adds, tone slightly changing, air growing heavier between you both. It’s just them two. 

“Studio?” you inquire, hoping to dispel the tension latching around you both. 

“I’m a music producer,” he clarifies. “I made a studio here so I could stay the night with Sowon.” 

“I’m sure she appreciates that,” you say as you hand the plate to him. His fingertips brush against your own, and a slight electricity courses through you at the touch, the hallway suddenly brighter from the fireworks ricocheting off of you both.

“I…. I'll get going.”

“Yeah, yeah, don't want to take more of your time.”

“I'll see you around.” 

“Yeah, I'll see you,” he says, words not ringing carelessly into the air, sounding more like a promise. He'll see you, he'll make sure of it. 

ii. 

“Can you wait!” a voice echoes near the building entrance, and you prevent the elevator doors from closing as hurried steps near you. 

You recognize the voice easily by the light tingles running down your spine, the Australian accent shooting straight through your heart. Its owner materializes, Chris— leather jacket hugging his muscles snuggly, black t-shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans, cap nestled on his head, rebellious strands of ebony hair peeking behind it.

You find the breath knocked out of you once again at his sight. He's beautiful, even more so in broad daylight, where every feature of his comes to life, beckoning, demanding your sole attention. 

“Hey, Yn,” he smiles in delight, uttering your name in a familiarity that infuses your being with warmth. Even though you've only talked once, two days ago. 

“Hey, Chris,” you greet back, pressing the fourth elevator button again. you face the mirror to find Chris already looking at you, his eyes instantly locking with yours. 

“The cookies were good,” he smiles softly and you grin. “I'm glad you think so.” 

“Where is your bakery? I need to taste more of your baking.” 

The butterflies in your stomach tone down at his words, your attraction momentarily forgotten as gratitude coats your heart instead.

“I can text you the address?” you propose. 

“Yeah, here,” he takes out his phone, a picture of him and Sowon set as his lock screen— their cheeks are pressed tightly to one another, messily done eyeliner on both their eyes. you giggle to yourself as you grab the device.

“Cute picture,” you muse and he brings an arm to his neck, scratching the side of it timidly. 

“She insists on trying her makeup on me.” 

“She makes you look better,” you giggle and he rolls his eyes, tongue poking against his cheek. 

“She wants to become a stylist,” he explains, as the elevator doors open. He lets you out first, arm stretched forward.

“I find her passion really cute so I buy her anything she asks for,” he shrugs and you chuckle, pointing to the bag of pink ribbons he is carrying. 

“Let me guess, she wants to use these on you?”

“Yeah. She also said that I quote ‘need to learn new hairstyles because her friends always come to class with intricate braids, and she can't go to class with a simple one.’” He repeats, tone growing slightly high-pitched as he mimics his daughter's words. Yet, the fond smile on his face is louder, screaming of his love for her. 

“She has you wrapped around your finger,” you muse, leaning against your door. The keys in your bag are long forgotten. 

“She can be very scary for such a little girl.” 

“What does she threaten you with?” you ask, feigning horror. 

“No goodnight kisses,” he whispers, as if scared she'd hear him beyond the wooden door. 

“Torture,” you gasp, placing your hand on his shoulder reassuringly. Yet, the smiles slip out of your face instantly. Was it normal for clothes to dissolve under your touch, layers of cotton and leather doing nothing to stop the warmth of his skin from seeping through you? Was it normal to be so affected by such an innocent touch? 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat, “I can help you. with her hair, I mean.” 

“You don't have to. I already took too much from your time with the cookies,” he seems truly apologetic, his tone sobering as if despising others doing things for him. You see yourself in him, in the way he wants to carry the world’s burden on his shoulders. It is a reflection you wish to mend. 

“I don't mind, I remember feeling jealous of the other girls in my school so I made myself learn all the braids.” 

And then you see his gratefulness, the twinkle in his eyes that you can only grasp for a millisecond before they disappear into moon crescents. Happiness looks grand on him, overtaking his entire face, brightening his features with a glow too ethereal to be of mankind, as if they were carved to translate joy. You find yourself willing to give up more of your time to see it.

“Thank you,” he breathes out and you nod, a grin taking over your face as well. 

“You’re welcome. Let me just change my clothes.” 

☃︎⋆꙳•❅

“And then, you pull the right strand all over to the middle one. Then you repeat, this way the ribbon is braided into the hair,” you explain to a very concentrated Chris, his eyebrows furrowed as he follows your movements. 

“It looks easy when you do it,” he frowns and you giggle, handing the mirror to Sowon so she'd be able to look at her hair. 

“Do you like it,” you ask, a tad apprehensive and she beams, dimples that almost swallow her chubby cheeks surging forth. 

“Pretty!” she exclaims and you giggle, bopping her nose. “You are pretty.”

“And you are pretty too. right, daddy?”

You turn back to find Chris watching you, a smile so fond on his face that it renders your insides putty, coats your cheek in the palest shade of pink.

“Very much so,” he says, tone quieter, his eyes never leaving yours. 

Sowon suddenly climbs on her dad’s lap, star and moon stickers in hand. She places them all over his face, and he sits there diligently, arms wrapped around her midriff so she won't slip away. Every carefully placed sticker is punctuated by a soft gasp from him and a small giggle from her. You could feel the love radiating from both of them, a feeling so strong it made your heart twist in your chest. 

Were there red neon exits you weren’t aware of in your being? Ones through which love trickled away all these years ago? Were the spaces between your fingers carved to hold someone’s hand, or to make everything you’ve ever wanted slip from your grasp like fallen sand?

“What do you think?” Sowon startles you and you force a smile on your face, willing the heaviness in your heart to dissipate. There were questions you'd never find the answers to, you had to make peace with that.

“I love it!” you grin and Sowon nods, satisfied. You look down at your lap as Chris fixates his eyes on you, a worried crease growing between his eyebrows. 

“Fun is over, you need to do your homework, Miss Bang,” he scolds and you snort, as Sowon rolls her eyes slightly. 

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” he fakes offense and you giggle as Sowon huffs slightly. “Dad, I told you I have no homework. I already did it with uncle Felix.” 

“Oh, right,” he deflates slightly before brightening up once again, “then, you should put away all these hairbrushes and ribbons, okay?”

“Will you watch a movie later with me?”

“Of course, baby.”

“Okay then,” she grins, quickly standing up to start putting away her things. you smile, getting up your turn to leave. Chris understands and stands with you on cue. 

“You can stay and watch the movie with us.”

“It's okay, I have some things to work on,” you turn around, but then you feel his fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, hand still burning straight through your skin, igniting a million nerve ends with a simple touch. You avoid his eyes, looking down at the ground. It seems to be response enough for him. 

“We’re conditioned to say yes even when we aren’t, right?” he speaks softly, his words travel through your veins in a rapid course against the current of your blood— which one will reach your heart first and flood it? 

Your facade cracks. His voice wins. 

“So, you don't have to reply now,” his thumb swipes once across your pulse. “But I'll be here if you ever wish to tell the truth.” 

iii.

You’ve grown exceptionally fond of Chris in the span of mere months, more than you would like to admit to yourself. It was an easy task, as natural as the current of a waterfall. Yet, you did not plan for it, for a new emotion to settle on top of your lungs, to make you more aware of your heart and how it beats, slightly faster, around Chris. But it happened serendipitously, against all odds, when he knocked on your door at 10 p.m. asking for salt.

“Should I start buying groceries for you?” you joked, and it took Chris a millisecond longer to respond, his gaze wandering across your face, as if discovering the world’s eighth wonder, hidden in plain sight all these years. 

“For my defense, I have a daughter that likes experimenting with cooking,” he smiled, and you raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Just with salt?”

“She added four teaspoons of it in an omelet. Then forced me to eat it because I always tell her food shouldn't go to waste,” he shudders at the memory and you chuckle loudly. 

Chris knocks on the doors of your heart, once.

It happened when you spotted a cockroach the size of your palm on your bedroom wall. You would’ve killed it, you were going to, except it started flying towards you and you let out a loud shriek you didn’t know your vocal chords were capable of conjuring. So, you called Chris. 

“Can you please come over,” you murmured, crouching near the entrance door, a pair of slippers in your hand.

“Why are you whispering? are you okay?” he sounded worried, and you heard the turning of a lock as he opened the door to his apartment. He didn’t ask questions, instantly coming to your aid. A sudden urge to weep filled your being at his gesture. 

“There is a cockroach. a flying one,” you precised, horror dripping from your tongue and his laugh flooded your ear, tiny squeaks that made your hold on the slipper grow limp. 

“I'm from Australia,” he knocked on your door, and you stood up promptly. “I've seen worse,” he said once you finally opened it, his eyes softening incredibly when they met yours. 

He did kill the cockroach, by spraying your insect repellent enough times to asphyxiate you too. “I don't think I can sleep in there tonight,” you sighed, gulping down ice cold water, “why does it feel like we went through war?” 

“We? You were behind my back all the time.”

 “I was cheering you on, from afar. Spiritually.”

 “I can’t believe a cockroach scares you this much.”

 “You literally screamed when it flied towards you too.”

 “I didn't scream! I made a very manly, non-terrified sound.”

 “Mm, sure,” you giggled, voice softening at the blushing of the tip of his ears. Chris didn't have to force the door down to your heart, you willingly opened it for him. 

And after that, it was a race to find the silliest excuses to see one another. Chris suddenly taking up an inkling for baking, you manifesting a newfound interest in music, Sowon needing her makeup done for a dance, Chris visiting you in your bakery, Sowon craving your cookies and you teaching her the recipe, Chris knocking on your door and you knocking on his. The same giddy smiles on your faces as you usher each other in. And it always, always ending with a movie night. 

“Let's watch Tangled,” Sowon exclaims, clapping her hands excitedly. 

“Baby, we watched this movie for the past…” he looks at you for support. “Three,” you whisper, a bashful smile on your face. “Yeah, for the past three movie nights,” he whines slightly.

“But I love it,” she says, her pout morphing into a huge grin. “Again! Again! Again!”

“Fine,” he concedes, mouthing “save me,” from afar to you. You giggle softly while Sowon cozies up to your side, your arm draping across her body while her legs stretch atop Chris’ lap, naturally, as if having you both by her side was the way things have always been. The only reality she’s ever known.

It is a fleeting fifty minutes as the three of you watch the movie, Sowon reciting excitedly the lines that she seems to remember. But then the quiet is replaced by her soft snores, her body growing light against you.

“She fell asleep,” you whisper, tapping Chris’ shoulder to catch his attention. He tilts his head to the side, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his eyes land on his daughter. 

“I'm sorry you have to watch the same movie every time,” he says apologetically and you shake your head. 

“I don't mind. Tangled is a good movie.” 

“Are you here just because of the movie?” he smiles, dimples peeking through. The juxtaposition between the weight of his words and the soft expression on his face makes a buzzing warmth spread through you. He’s cold and hot, in and out, yours but not. 

“What do you want me to be here for?” you throw back, squeezing his shoulder slightly. 

“The company.”

“I do find Sowon entertaining.”

“Just her?” he pouts and you giggle, tipping your head back. 

“And you too, I suppose, by extension.”

“By extension, mm,” he hums, as he gathers Sowon in his arms, freeing her from your hold. “Then I guess I shouldn't come visit you in your bakery anymore. Since you only enjoy my presence by extension.”

“So sassy,” you shout-whisper as you both walk to Sowon's bedroom, “I like your company too, idiot.” 

“Yeah?” he turns back to look at you, tone a tad bit too hopeful. He doesn’t care that he sounds eager for your approval, not when he feels as if he can only truly breathe when you're near. 

“Yeah, Chris, I really do,” you speak earnestly, and Chris bites his lower lip slightly, suddenly overwhelmed by the gentleness of your tone. Your eyes follow his action instantly. 

He lowers Sowon gently onto the bed and she stirs awake, blinking repeatedly at the both of you. “Yn,” she calls out quietly once her eyes land on yours and you kneel before her bed. Chris watches from the door entrance as Sowon cups her hand near your ear, before whispering something to you. He notices your body stiffening, your gaze fleeting to him before you relax, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

He wishes he could freeze time, stitch this moment into his eyelids until it is the only thing he sees when he goes to sleep. Loneliness is too big of an enemy for one person to fight off, but it seems more harmless when you are near. 

Chris sees you right here, every night, not forcing your place into his family, but falling seamlessly into place. Perhaps you were the missing piece that’ll soothe the burn in his heart. Perhaps he’d let you in, even as fear paralyzes his being at the mere thought of asking you to stay. 

One week later. 

You've grown used to the knocks on your door at ungodly hours of the night, Chris seeking your company each time you both fail to fall asleep. Except this time, there is a chilling premonition in your heart as you walk to your home’s entrance, anxiety coiling like a steel ball in your throat. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask upon opening the door, locking eyes with Chris's bloodshot gaze.

“Sowon,” he heaves, tone laden with fear, so different from how he usually pronounces her name. The syllables pierce through your heart like an arrowhead. 

“Sowon?” you question, peering behind him to his slightly ajar apartment door.

“Yes, she has a high fever, and it won’t come down. I tried everything, and I-I don’t know what to do anymore. She’s shaking, but I can’t—”He trembles, his quivers akin to delicate chinaware on the precipice of an earthquake, poised to shatter at your feet. You'd plunge to the ground first, anything to soften his impending collapse.  

“It’s okay,” you soothe, your voice soft as you grasp his wrist. “Let’s go see her, okay?”

“It's her first time being this sick,” he whispers, clearly distraught, one hand running through his freshly dyed blonde hair. 

“It's okay. Don’t panic, it happens. Did you give her medicine?”

“Yes, a few minutes ago,” he replies as you guide him towards her room.

“Good, it'll start working soon,” you reassure, opening the door and crouching before Sowon.

“Hey, Rapunzel,” you coo softly, and Sowon attempts to muster a smile. Her cheeks flush, eyes dim like withered petals.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, pressing your hand to her feverish forehead. You cast a wary glance at Chan, who's anxiously biting his thumb.

“Cold,” she whispers, and you nod, peeling off her blanket. “I know you are, but you have a high fever. We need to let it cool down, okay?”

“I-I’m shaking,” Sowon sighs, lower lip protruding and trembling, both from the iciness clawing at her frail being, and the tears welling in her waterline, like a cup on the brink of overflowing. 

“Shh, don't cry. It will pass, it's okay,” you murmur soothingly, cradling her face on your lap, gently moving damp strands of her hair behind her ear.

“Chris, can you bring me a towel and a bowl with cold water?” you ask softly, and the man startles, painfully peeling his eyes away from his daughter, as if doing so would consign her to a dark fate.

“Sure. Sure,” he repeats, scurrying out of the room.

Sowon buries her cheek in your thigh, small hands clinging tightly to yours. You tie her hair up into a loose bun as Chan hurriedly comes back, a bassinet in his hand.

“Thank you,” you smile, as he kneels beside the bed, his hand resting on Sowon’s knee gently.

“Hey sweetheart,” he coos softly, and Sowon blinks at him, light spilling over her face. 

“Hey daddy,” she replies as you dip the towel into the water, before squeezing the fabric to remove any liquid excess. 

“You're being so strong. I love you so much my pretty girl,” he says, bringing her small hand to rest upon his cheek, bestowing a gentle kiss on her palm. 

The moment feels so intimate, so tender, that you almost feel like an intruder. You imagine this is what thorns on roses must feel like, so out of place amid delicate petals and stems. 

“I love you too,” she grins, and you remain silent, diligently wiping her face and neck with the dampened towel. You soon lose track of the number of times you've repeated this motion, but Sowon’s eyes are now closed and her body is no longer trembling. 

You rest your palm upon her forehead, a sigh of relief escaping your body as you realize that her fever has gone down noticeably- the medicine finally taking effect.

“It's better now,” you smile reassuringly and Chris’s eyes widen, irises shaking as he looks back to his daughter. 

“Will she be okay?” 

“She will be. She just needs to sleep a bit.” 

“Okay, thank you.” 

“Can we prepare her something to eat meanwhile?” 

“Mm,” he absentmindedly nods, his fingers trailing down Sowon’s features delicately, resting upon her round cheeks. 

“She looks just like you,” you softly smile.

“I know,” he admits, not with pride but in surrender, as if his reflection was nothing but a cursed fate. His voice tastes like ocean water, salty, acid, suffocating.

“Chris…” you trail off and he shakes his head, abruptly standing up. 

“Let's make her chicken noodle soup. She loves it,” he says and you nod. A ticking bomb resides in his veins, devoid of a countdown, leaving you unsure of when he'll finally explode. 

You get your answer soon after—it takes two minutes and thirty-three seconds for the first tear to roll down Chris’s cheek. You spot it as you retrieve carrots from the fridge, averting your gaze as Chan angrily wipes it away.

A few seconds later, five tears follow the same agonizing trail, and now the knife is shaking in Chris’ hands. He squeezes his eyes shut as if frustrated by his pain, by the emotions escaping through the cracks in his heart.

You stay silent, bringing the water to a simmer.

The clank of metal against the counter snaps your attention, and you see Chris with his head lowered down, his hands tightly clutching the counter.

Your tongue moves before you can order it to speak. 

“Chris,” you call out, your hand finding its place on his back. An ugly sob escapes his lips, a raw cry unearthed from the depths of the soil where he buried his feelings, never allowing himself the grace of grieving, then moving on. 

“I'm a horrible father,” he utters so brokenly as if this idea were cemented into his head, woven into every thought of himself—an adjective that lingers like a phantom each time Sowon calls him dad.

“You're not, what are you saying?” you gently turn him around so he'd face you. But his eyes remain downcast, as if ashamed to meet your gaze. 

“I didn't know what to do. I panicked. I-I wasn't enough to help her.”

“It's okay, you can't know everything, you are trying your best-”

“No, no, no, it's not just about this!” he snaps,  despair clinging to his eyes as he finally looks at you. “It’s hard. It’s so hard to be here alone, and I- I try but it's not enough, I can't do everything and I'm not a good enough parent for her, there will a-always be something missing.” 

“You're wrong,” you say but he shakes his head in disagreement. “Chris, you're wrong,” you cradle his face, taking you both by surprise. Your thumb swipes gently underneath the skin of his eyes, wiping his cascading tears. 

“You love Sowon. And she can feel it, she can see it, she can hear it. Everyone can. A parent can't be perfect, but they should love. And you love her.” 

“What if I can't even love her enough for a father? How will I ever fill the role of two parents?” he's leaning onto your palm, hanging onto your every word. You'd sit for hours and untangle every thread of his mind if you have to, until you single out the infested one and burn it away. 

“She loves you Chris. She looks at you as if you hang every star in the sky. As if you're responsible for every good thing that happens in our world. She loves you and you love her.”

You gaze up at the ceiling, tears welling in your eyes. Chan notices the subtle tremble in your hand against his cheek.

“If I had someone who loved me as much as you love Sowon when I was a child, I would've turned out so differently,” you smile bitterly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. 

“You won't be a perfect dad. You can't be. But she won't grow up with a throbbing heart, pulsating because of a void that cannot be filled. Her veins won't be poisoned by hate and abandonment. Because she knows what it's like to be loved,” you pause, as your voice breaks, traitorous tears rolling down your cheeks. “To be cared for.” 

Your eyes hold his in a silent conversation, secretly telling him what your tongue cannot speak of— Sowon, an untarnished blossom, won't unfurl into a solitary flower the way you did.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers after a while, eyes softening in understanding. His knuckles brush gently against your cheek. 

“Why are you apologizing?” 

“So you'd find a reason within you to forgive,” he says, as he leans forward to press a tender kiss on your forehead. And somehow it feels more intimate than any way you've been touched before. 

Five days later.

chris [11:32 p.m.]: you up?

yn [11:32 p.m.]: i just got bad flashbacks to my college years

chris [11:33 p.m.]: ajaksjsbsbbs

chris [11:33 p.m.]: i didn’t mean it like that ㅠㅠ 

chris [11:33 p.m.]: wanna come over? i'm in the studio but im not feeling inspired 

yn [11:34 p.m.]: and how will i help? 

chris [11:34 p.m.]: i find your presence inspiring 

You don’t reply, instead putting on your slippers and walking over to his apartment. He opens the door before you even have the chance to knock. 

“What are you working on?” you ask once you’re settled atop his chair, spinning around slightly. He looks down at the pillow on his lap, lightly plucking its pink fur. “A song for Sowon,” he admits softly and your eyes grow a little wide. 

“That is so sweet,” you pout, inching closer to him. “How is it going?”

“I've finished the melody and now I'm working on the lyrics. There is just.. so much i want to tell her, i'm unsure if ill be able to express it well.” 

“Can I read what you wrote?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he searches through his papers. “Here.”

May these words be the first to find your ears

The world is brighter than the sun now that you're here

I'll give you everything I have

I'll teach you everything I know

I promise I'll do better

I will soften every edge

I'll hold the world to its best

And I'll do better

Tears spring to your eyes unexpectedly, you try to stop their flow but they fall upon the paper, splattering like a broken mosaic, mimicking the brokenness of your own heart. 

“I'm sorry,” you spin around, your back to him as you attempt to dry your tears, and yet they show no desire to stop. Chris is in your heart and he’s kicking every other emotion out, forcing you to make amends with your sadness, the one you buried years, years ago. 

Chris gently grabs the back of the chair, pulling you back to him before spinning your chair once again until you are facing him. You bury your face in your hands and his rests reassuringly on your knee, squeezing it slightly. “Is it so bad it made you sob?” 

“Shut up, you know this isn’t the case.” 

His hand delicately traces up your arm, gently lifting your fingers from your face. He kneels before you, his thumb tenderly wiping away the traces of tears on your cheeks.

“Talk to me?” 

“It's so beautiful, so warm, so loving. Everything a parent should think of their child,” a traitorous hiccup escapes your lips. “Everything my parents never felt for me.” 

Chris’ mouth morphs into a pout, eyebrows scrunching tightly. You shake your head, smoothing down the worried crease between his eyes. 

“I don't feel sad over things I can't control and I love myself enough now to compensate for what I didn't have, but sometimes-'' your voice breaks, Chan’s hold on your hands tightens. “It stings to remember what could’ve been.” 

Stings was an understatement, it is rather a pulsating void, throbbing in ache every day, calling out for its missing piece. How can I fill you with what was lost when it chose to walk away? 

“Come here,” he whispers, coaxing you to your feet, his arms enveloping your body as he guides your head to the crook of his neck. His body runs warm, the material of his sweatshirt soft, and he smells nice too, the contours of his muscles tailor-made to complement the ridges of your own. 

“You grew up well, Yn. You did well.”

You clutch his shirt, tightening your grip as you fist the fabric in your palm. He's patting your back, and time slows down to match the rhythm of his touch. 

“Love can be hard, I know. Especially when the people who left are the ones supposed to be staying.” 

He understands, more than anyone you know. He missed out on a different kind of love too, two facets of the same coin. 

“You’re doing well too, Chris. You shouldn’t doubt yourself as much,” your arms trail up to encircle his neck, as his nose tickles your hair. You're the one hugging him now. “Sowon is really smart, she told me that she loves you a lot. She can feel it. She sees everything you do for her.”

“Is that what she told you that movie night?”

“Partly,” you whisper, and Chris leans away slightly, his warm palms still pressed to your waist, holding you close. 

“What else did she tell you?” he asks, curiosity barely hidden in his tone.

You pause for a while, eyes going over the entire room before finally locking on him.

“She thanked me, said that I make you smile more.” You suck in a deep breath, gathering your courage. “Do I?” 

“There are smile lines that don’t show on my face until you're near.” 

“Oh.” That is the only coherent response you can formulate, and Chris giggles, a tiny squeak escaping his lips in a huff. “Cute,” he murmurs, planting a tender kiss on your temple. His lips linger, holding onto the moment a beat longer than necessary, causing your eyes to close in delight. Both of you find yourselves blushing as he leans away, a shared warmth coloring the space between you.

“Sorry, didn't mean to make the mood somber,” you say sheepishly as you sit back down, eyeing Chris’s laptop. “I wanna hear this,” you quickly point to a random track on his screen before he can reply, hoping to make the sadness flee away.

“This one? It’s not really good, let's listen to something else,” his rambling and eagerness to change the track pique your curiosity and you quickly click on the song before he can stop you.

connected.mp3 starts playing. 

Sultry beats inundate your ears, weaving through your veins and whisking you away to the pulsating rhythm of a dance club. You knew Chris produced good music, yet you never fathomed that his voice could be so luxuriously rich, cascading over you like molten wax. You feel a blush rise to your cheeks at the suggestive lyrics, the innuendos peeking behind every word. And then, a sudden jealousy claws at your heart, at the thought of Chris hunched in his studio, fantasizing about connecting with someone who isn’t you. 

You wished to be the only one Chris liked. 

“It’s a- a demo for one of my clients,” he explains through a stutter once the song is done, and you nod meekly, willing your body’s temperature to go down, for the possessivity crinkling in you to fizzle out. 

So, you put on your best taunting smirk.

“I know you want me don’t crumble.. No need to be desperate we’re just getting started,” you sing-song back. “You were feeling so cocky when you wrote this, right?” you grin, inching your chair closer to his. “Feeling yourself, Mr. Bang?”

He chuckles with a hint of annoyance, running his tongue along the expanse of his lower lip. Leaning back into his chair, he casually spreads his legs a bit wider, a gesture that suddenly leaves you feeling dizzy, on him.

“It’s cute how affected you seem by it,” he throws nonchalantly, crossing his arms before his chest.

“I'm not,” you smile, although your erratic heartbeat spoke of a different tale, you just didn't need to voice it to him. “I think you were the one getting all hot and bothered in your studio,” you stand between his legs, hovering over him as he leans back fully in his chair. 

“I was thinking of a pretty girl.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” he suddenly grabs your waist, you feel like your entire body is ablaze. “The prettiest.”

“Who is she?” you exhale, teetering on the edge of crashing your lips onto his, like an incoherent love poem, hastily scrambled on a notebook in a fit of passion.

“y–” The door suddenly opens, Sowon’s small frame standing by the door, she’s rubbing her eyes tiredly, her chick plushie dangling from her hand (a gift from her uncle Felix as she explained to you). You quickly scramble away from Chris as he clears his throat loudly.

“Daddy, I can't sleep,” she says faintly, a tiny pout drawn on her lips, and you can see Chris physically melt at her words, at the way she paddles to his chair, and tries her best to climb up his legs. She fails to do so, so he quickly scopes her up his arms until she’s buried in his hold. Her small hands wound up around his neck, and he tenderly pats down her hair, his gaze never wavering from her frame.

“Want me to sing to you, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she whispers, before making grabby hands at you, your heart softens like clay dough as you scoot closer, enclosing her fingers in your hold. 

“Sleep well, Sowonnie,” you whisper. 

“Can’t you stay with us?” she asks and you feel your blood freeze in your veins, your heart skipping three beats at once.

To stay. What a frightening concept. Even more scary when you realize that you aren’t opposed to it. 

You yearn to stay, for the first time in years, you wish you could. 

You swallow the growing lump in your throat, before smiling reassuringly. “I'll stay till you fall asleep.” 

Conditions, it is the way it has always been for you. staying till you’re no longer useful, staying till you're no longer wanted. Staying, but always with a time limit, always with an expiration date. 

iv. 

You’re avoiding him. 

Chris knows you are, since you no longer come over to his house, claiming that you’re tired, or that you have an important order to bake for the next day. He would have believed you had he not seen you only once in the past three weeks. 

Those were excuses, and each one of them weighed heavily on Chris’ heart, on his home too, his studio particularly, the one that got used to the sound of your laugh. 

He misses you. He never thought he’d miss someone again, craving you presence as if every breath leaving his body depended on you. He wasn’t a stranger to intimacy, fleeting hookups every now and then. Strangers invited him to their bed, knowing what they were signing up for– one night of pleasure, never to be seen again, their faces blurring into an indistinct mass in his mind, like an impressionist painting where no features stand out. Yet, with you, every detail is etched in his memory. 

He could pick you out of a crowded room, recognize the delicate curve of your neck, the fullness of your lips, and the way your nose scrunches when you smile.

He could draw the moles scattered on your body from memory alone, recognize your scent from miles away– your cotton shampoo and the specific laundry detergent you love to use and a hint of vanilla that never truly leaves you. 

He’d remember the curve of your lashes and the cascading of your hair, the airy giggles you leave across like a trail for him to follow everywhere, and your eyes– the way they gazed at him, softening slightly around the edges, shining brightly as if crafted from stardust, the way they softened even more when you looked at Sowon, voice growing slightly high pitched as you listened to his daughter’s rambles.

How did you manage to make his home yours without ever living in it?

“Dad?” Sowon calls out and he snaps his head up, locking eyes with his little girl. She’s sitting on a high stool, munching on her pizza, a pensive look on her face.

“Yes, sweetheart?” he asks, walking over to her side.

“Where is Ynnie?” she asks in a small voice and he freezes, mulling over his response. He settles for the truth.

“I don't know, baby.”

“Does she not want to play with me anymore?” Sowon whispers, and he doesn’t remember his daughter ever being this tentative about voicing a question. 

“No!” he's quick to reassure, cradling Sowon’s face between his much larger hands. “Of course not baby she loves you a lot.”

“Okay…” she nods, a small pout drawn on her lips still. Chris senses his heart physically crack in his chest.

“Do you wanna work in the studio with me?” he says in a joyful tone, and she instantly cheers up, the twinkle in her eyes found again. “Yes!” 

“Finish your food first, okay Wonnie?” 

“Okay!” 

In Chris's life, regrets have been scarce, and certainly not in the form of Sowon, his beacon of hope, as he named her. Having her was beholding a sun wherever he went. However, a fear lingers, a whisper in his heart, suggesting that letting you go might be his one true regret.

So when his daughter falls asleep, he knocks on your door once again. He's suddenly transported into that cold night, months ago, where he asked you for flour. Had he known you were behind it he would’ve knocked much sooner. 

“Hi,” you greet softly once you open the door. He takes a step forward, his wolf slippers matching with Sowon’s bump into your plain ones. You avert your gaze, finding anything but him to fixate on.

“You're avoiding me,” he says matter-of-factly, voice soft, resigning to you.

“I'm not,” you contradict, even as your eyes remain on the ground. He finds himself missing the color of your irises.

“Look at me, hm?” he implores, and you stay rooted in place. A soft sigh escapes him as he cradles your right cheek with his warm hand, his thumb gently sweeping across your cheekbone. “Yn, please, I want to look at you.”

Maybe it is the pleading tone of his voice or the way his thumb tenderly grazes your skin, but something about Chris makes your resolve unravel, threads of fear unknotting before your eyes. So, you finally look at him. An exhale of relief escapes him. 

And then you speak.

“You asked me if I was okay, and I didn't reply, back then,” you say, leaning your head further against his palm as tears well up in your waterline. “Do you still want to know my answer?”

“Of course, always.”

“I'm happy. With you, with sowon. I feel this warmth that I have never known before when I'm with you. It was almost easy to forget I've known you during winter,” you chuckle dryly, “but it is all an illusion, I lie to myself thinking I could stay, I… I can't, I-“

“What if I ask you to stay?” he brings your hand to his heart, where it beats erratically, pulse seeping through your skin.

He’s as scared as you are.

“Chris…”

“What if I told you, Yn, please stay with me,” he breathes out, guiding your hand to gently cup his cheek. “Would you? Would you stay?”

“I'm terrified,” you whisper, as he tilts his head, bestowing a tender kiss on your palm. 

“I know, so am I. But, you make me believe that even my bruised parts are worthy of love.”

He wins, before years of skeletons and piled up doubts, he wins. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I'm staying.”

“You are?”

“I am,” you giggle lightly and he staggers back, the sun pouring into his smile. 

“Um, wow, okay. Thank you for staying,” his voice sounds airy, happiness floating in his tone, and you find it contagious, imprinting into your own.

“Thank you for asking me to stay.”

“You made it less daunting,” he pats your head, smoothing your hair down. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

He giggles in response and you can't help but mirror the sound. “Why are you so nervous?”

“Whaaat? I'm not,” his tone grows high-pitched and you roll your eyes amusedly. 

“What happened to connected Chris?” 

“He is flustered by the girl he wrote about.”

Your cheeks tint red as he places a hand above your head, caging you in place. 

“I think the girl should get paid for being the muse.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirks, “I'll think about it.” His grin softens, as a content expression washes over his face. You know you must look the same. “Let's talk more tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” you grin, before placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Good night, Chris.”

“Good night, yn.”

You quietly watch as he walks to his apartment door, his hand settling on the door knob. He pauses, for a few seconds where the air around you stills, before swiveling around and walking over to you again. 

you win. 

“I forgot something,” he breathes out, before crashing his lips onto yours, furiously, as if needing to imprint his essence onto you, tainting your soul the way you have tainted him, permanently altering the composition of his being. His lips move on yours as if they've done this before, a dance they have rehearsed countless times, perhaps in all the dreams Chris visited you in. Yet, nothing compares to how it feels to have him touch you, lick your lower lip and drag his hand up your hips, press you against your apartment door, and nibble at your neck. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the passion he shows you, for how delicious it feels to be pressed against him, for the storm that your lips conjure, swirling in your heart in vibrant shades of red. Then, for the softness of his lips as they slow down their course, plump and rosy as they meet your own, tenderly, more gently, one kiss after the other. “My hope,” he whispers, as his lips find yours again, “my missing piece.”

He’s hot and cold, in yet seeking no out, finally yours.

bonus (one year later). 

“So I brought the eggs, milk, sugar,” Chris enumerates as he takes out the groceries, and you turn to look at Sowon to find her already gazing at you, a mischievous look on her face. 

“How much do you wanna bet he forgot flour?” you whisper and she giggles, burying her face in her hands to stifle her laugh.

“And… Wait, where is the flour?” he trails off and you burst out laughing, as you and Sowon high-five each other excitedly. 

“Daddy, you are really bad at groceries.”

“Am I?” he smiles sheepishly, fiddling with his earlobe in a manner that still makes your heart melt, renders your insides butterflies speaking of Chris’ name.

“Yes, it’s good Mom bought it,” she says naturally, looking down at her iPad. You and Chris freeze in your tracks, eyes instantly locking with one another, yours and his, glossy with emotion, a loving tide enveloping you both. 

It's her first time calling you mom. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat, crafted not by thorns but by petals, not by ache but with love, before placing your chin on the small of her shoulder, murmuring softly. "Mm, will you help me bake, baby?"

“Yes! I wanna be a baker when I grow up, just like you.”

“What happened to being a stylist?”

“I can't be both?” she frowns innocently. 

“You can be anything you want, princess.” you bop her nose and she giggles, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek. 

In the grip of winter, Chris discovers a warmth that defies the season, casting off years of cold from the recesses of his bones. A soft smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, his hopes, his girls, the three of you clad in wolf slippers.