Untitled: Musings and written ideas

Perhaps it should've been obvious… She stuck out like a sore thumb, a far cry from the hoodies and grease monkeys you knew. She screamed of too much luxury, too high fashion for the world of burnt rubber and pink slips, that’s without including the creature, but that's a story for another day. 

Still there was something about the way she walked, a cold calculated disdain akin to a hedge fund deciding which businesses to bet against, as if she could see who was up next on the chopping block. 

Every executioner draws a crowd, though you doubted they would cling to every word like they were hers. 

You hear a whistle as her eyes land on you, a smile cracks across her lips. 

“I’ve heard of you.”

Her voice drips with something ineffable. Intoxicating is probably the closest word you'll find.

In spite of her lingering gaze, you fight the urge to scoff, what would some rich kid know about you? 

She holds a hand out for an assistant, who passes her a phone as she scrolls. “A certified b.a.d.” There’s a glimmer of excitement notched in the swell of her cheeks, a raw smile held up by your digital record. “A shame your last crew dropped you.”

You catch, arguably the closest thing to anything heartfelt or genuine in the nestled corners of her eyes. 

It’s almost haunting the way she softens, like an injured wolf nursing her own wounds. 

Perhaps the rich kid had her own story. 

Still it fractures like fibreglass as that practiced, perfect, smile scarves on to her lips. “Though I suppose that means you can join mine.”

That's when you actually scoff, crossed arms and the roll of your eyes. Still you can’t help but notice the way she says that last word, it’s veiled with something more. 

Laughter rings out and her eyes snap to the noise, the barest hint of a scowl pressed against her lips. Her tongue clicks with bubbling frustration before she turns to her assistant. “Grab my gloves would you.”

There’s a flash of recognition in her assistant’s eyes, you catch the slightest quiver of her lips, as if to ask if she was really sure, but the question never comes.

“And could you please cover Boo’s ears for me?” The question is posed innocently like sweet sugar, yet you can tell it’s anything but, especially when some of her entourage move without so much as a word.

The sound of a slight scuffle echoes across the tarmac before someone is dragged before Momo. You notice the beginning of a black eye forming as flecks of blood stain his uniform, which is noticeably similar to the rest of her attendants. 

Her scowl only deepens with his appearance, tongue clicking with each passing second before finally her assistant returns, bundle of brown fur in her arms. Momo softens in its mere presence, hands delicate and practiced as she pats her dog, there’s a genuine affection that reminds of those splintered moments earlier.

Her assistant quickly offers a pair of fine leather gloves as well as a zip lock bag containing a… gun.

She makes no rush in her  movements, slowly taking her time putting her gloves on before she pauses, eyes lingering on her dog. 

There is a tremble in her assistant’s movements, as if she was co-signing someone’s death. 

And that could very much be the truth of the matter.

Her eyes linger on the man before you all before she slowly covers Boo’s ears, quickly turning away with a painful wince.

Momo pulls the gun out slowly, leveling it at the man’s head. Despite her calm, practiced movements, there is a hint of hesitation in her eyes.

“What do you think?” Her voice rings out, reminding you you’re not a mere spectator of all of this. 

Your throat runs dry, not used to the sudden responsibility.

She laughs slightly, “I’m just curious.”

Your head cocks to the side with a curious twitch of your brow. “Why?”

She lowers the gun ever so slightly, the man in front of her falters instantly from the reprieve, sinking against the concrete.

“Because, I could offer the world to you and it wouldn’t matter enough to make you join my crew,” she slowly walks towards you with soft, tentative steps. 

“But,” The word sinks against your chest like a heavy anchor. “Showing your word, your thoughts and your opinion will matter to me? I think that might matter more than the entire world.”

She stops right in front of you, “So what will it be?”

She smiles for real, as if she was a girl on a first date and not some gang leader threatening a public execution.

You gulp nervously, thinking about that poor assistant. 

“He lives.”

Her smile blooms deeper, eyes focused solely on you. She passes her gun to someone behind her, before offering her gloves to someone else. “You heard them.”

You can only watch as the man is dragged off somewhere else, though there is an overall softer touch, however before you can speak up again a hushed whisper tickles her ear. She rolls her eyes, a flare of annoyance.

“Forgive me, it would seem I have matters to attend to.” There’s the slightest hint of a frown at the corner of her lips before she whistles. Her attendants move like they were given an unspoken order quickly shuffling away.

She reaches into her coat pocket producing a business card, before smiling awkwardly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen or a marker?”

Your eyebrows knit together slightly before rifling through your pockets. It would seem she’s in luck.

“Thank you,” she says, taking it eagerly with both hands. Though you can’t help but spot a hint of pink tinge her ears.

She scrambles quickly, writing on her business card. “Uh, that has my personal number if you, uh, want to join my crew.”

Her eyes avoid yours as she offers the business card with both hands.

You take it softly, “I’ll call you later then?”

Her lips tighten as her eyes flash wider before settling. 

It’s not often you find yourself covering for Wednesday, after all it is her clinic. There are only a few instances where Playhouses resident doctor leaves her den in the care of another. 

Even fewer are the chances of you seeing someone you knew in High School, even fewer still are the chances of meeting someone you met after your life turned to shit. 

So what kind of lottery ticket is it when you manage to get all of the above. 

The beaten and tattered kind. 

She stumbles in clutching at her side, bruised and battered. Her eyes flutter to you, held on the edge of waxing confusion.

“Wait, you’re Wednesday?” her voice soft and weak, footsteps growing shaky with each step. 

You rush over in a hurry, too caught up in the heat of it all to even bother explaining the nuances. 

After all, when push comes to shove, you’re still a part of Playhouse and you're still one of the dolls. 

You catch her as her legs give out, earning a pained groan from her. 

She’s quiet as you drag her to the medical bed, eyes tracing over you like soft, svelte fingertips. 

It’s hard to ignore the way her gaze burns against your skin even as you peel off her leather jacket, caked in a crimson red. 

You try your best to ignore the memories that linger in the eves, a warm touch on a cold night. 

“Bite down on this,” you produce a wooden block as you fish for disinfectant. Part of you hates the ease in which you find it, too many nights spent in her exact position. 

She takes it wordlessly, teeth clamping taut. 

Still it does nothing for the pain that sears into her eyes. Her knuckles flare white as her hands clamp tight against the mattress. 

You can't help but think this is her penance. 

It’s quiet as you continue your work, stitching her deep wounds and bandaging the shallow ones. 

For a moment you forget it’s even her. 

“You know, I thought Mattel got to you.” Her voice is coarse, caught against the roughened sand-like edge of pain. 

You hate the scowl that flickers across your lips for the briefest of seconds, or the way you tighten her bandages a little too much. 

“She did.” 

It hurts more than when Mattel caught you, even as you trace every fibre of fear that snaps under her might. It still echoes through your mind on some nights, a reminder that it’s still fresh in some parts of your brain. 

The beautiful what-ifs, the kind that only the young and dumb can make. Before they realise how lucky they were. 

You can still remember the smile that lingered on your lips as the two of you danced, snapping to the melody of her sweet iridescent laughter. 

Caught against the fabric of her worn sweater, you pulled her closer. 

And she left you in the dust, the pain never truly recedes for those left behind, after all it is that painful absence that cuts deeper. 

Only made deeper when you realise what's lost. 

There's something unspoken in her eyes as she gazes up at you and your brain can't help but harkens back to dumb jokes and witty banter. You hate the part of you that just wants to click back into place like nothing ever changed. 

Because everything did. 

“You look healthier,” she says, as if she doesn't know how loaded those words are. But she means it in a good way, surely, not as a vile twist of the knife - a poignant reminder, that even when you were roughing it on the streets you still had her. 

She falters slightly in your silence, after all what can you say? That you missed her with every breath before it was consumed by an ashen fire - that you hated her for leaving you behind. 

Why was she like everyone else, why didn’t she look for you. 

But even underneath the dying pulses of anger, you know. 

Her breath hitches slightly, caught against the edge of what you can only assume is a raggard sob. Her eyes are misty and glassy, shifting her gaze against the ceiling. 

You offer her some semblance of modesty, turning away from her, ever so slightly. A soft sniffle echoes through the air, as her breath hitches again, more violent and hewn. 

You’re surprised when her hand latches against you like a death grip as she sobs violently. 

You collapse into place like a house of cards, try as you might to break the mold - but you can't. 

You pull her close like old times sake and for a moment, you can pretend you deserve good things, that you're allowed. 

It’s habitual the way your thumb rides the edge of her temple, combing through her pain with a soft touch. It all cascades in a soft, wistful way. 

You manage to catch yourself before you seal it molten, decadent gold - The soft echo of your breath, brushing against her forehead. 

Her grip tightens in that missed beat, as it begets a rougher muffled cry, gone is your rhythm in the dance of two. 

She looks up at you, as tears cascade her porcelain skin, lip quivering on the edge of shattering. 

“Yizhuo,” you barely manage. It’s hard to tell as your voice cracks at the hinges, everything brews tumultuously below the surface - you can’t quite articulate everything, not when she whispers your name with her velvet lips.

And it tastes foreign, foreign against the bygone years lost between the two of you. A tombstone, an epithet, by any other name. 

Yet your name doesn’t taste like brimstone and ash, instead it tastes like strawberry and watermelon as she does what a thief does best.

It’s wistful and melancholic, even as her lips dance against your lips with a familiar grace - like two puzzle pieces meant for each other. 

It lingers, much like the last one shared between the two of you - A honeyed promise, a prayer for luck and a guilty pleasure.

It’s only when the paint dries, do you realise she’s gone. A roll of bills stuffed in your jacket.

The world lacks nuance, a thought that can't help but be held when it confronts you like a sledgehammer. It’s a sudden pang of grief unannounced like a Google memory of a long distant lover. 

Except the pain would be more bearable if it was digital. Still, at least you can nurse yourself with a cold drink from the bar. 

Cheers echo and ring through soft sapphire light as you signal the bartender. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, pouring a vessel of your chosen poison. 

You sigh and there's a faint look of recognition from him. “Something like that, she’s been haunting me for months.”

He offers a small sympathetic smile, there’s a slight twinge at the corner of his eye, a grimace of familiar pain. 

He waves your card away before you can offer it before he slides your drink over. “It’s on the house, you’re gonna need it.”

His eyes gesture to the stage as it begins to bubble and froth with excitement as cheers and scream sail through the air. 

That's when you see her, caught adrift among a sea of adulation as she takes to the stage, a fervent blonde with a beaming smile. 

The hair colour was new, or perhaps old by this point, you’d done your best to keep some distance away from her. 

From her and her cult of personality. 

As if she could ever be a bad person. 

Regardless, the moment is bitter, more than any liquor you could muster. 

If life was a simulation, you had words for whatever algorithm created this moment. 

“Now before we get this show on the road, we have some general housekeeping to stick to…” Her eyes linger on the crowd and you’re thankful you’re not in the thick of it. “But before that, there's a small announcement I have to make.”

Your heart drops as the world threatens to spin around. Cheers erupt with excitement but you can't but linger on thoughts better left un-had… Did she spot you? Did she think you were stalking her hoping for another go around? Worse yet, what if she had good news? What if she just got engaged? Or found someone new?

You desperately try to cover yourself up, finding recluse in a nearby booth by the fire exit, an eager escape once you settle down. 

“Our ever so talented drummer Shin Ryujin will be performing her very own song next week.” The crowd erupts once again and despite her standoffish nature you can see a light pink dusting over the drummer's cheeks. “The rest of us will be there helping her out, so I expect to see you guys there. I’m personally looking forward to resting my voice though.”

She smiles that charming soft smile you’d just barely forgotten, and you can't help the soft pang in your chest. 

She slowly waits for the cheering to subside, “now announcement aside, we're here for a good time right?” 

She offers the mic to the crowd as they cheer once again. 

“Alright, now this is your reminder to stay hydrated, water is always free at the bar, don’t want you guys missing out right?”

It seems despite the new look, punk rock and all, things haven’t changed much. At least when it comes to her earnest core, still the whole rock life itself seems a far cry from the girl you knew. 

Still you catch the slight click of her tongue as if she’s trying to shake something once forgotten. 

“Now, in case of an emergency like a fire, please use the appropriate exit,” you quickly sink into your chair as she points to the fire exit. 

She pauses for a moment before taking a deep breath. If she notices you, she doesn't say anything. 

“With that out of the way,” she turns to her bandmates, “we’re Infamous, so let’s fucking rock!”

-

You had intended to leave, really you did. 

But there was something soul enamouring about watching her, seeing her live her dreams. Like the desperate pull of a dead star you can't help but wait for your death in the beauty of it all, you can only hope it stretches out infinitesimally before your end. 

But it doesn't end in agonising beauty, it instead ends with a drink sliding across your table as death sits down opposite you. 

Her hair a muddy black and her makeup mostly washed off as she straightens out an old familiar apron. She picks at it, as if your gaze could make her nervous. 

“Is that still your favourite or?” 

Your eyes return to the drink, frankly forgotten in the wake of the ephemeral. 

Your poison of choice… Or at the very least it's what you ordered earlier. 

You bite back whatever bile threatens to come up, swallow whatever venom that dares to lie. 

You take a swig, anything to dull the thumping of your heart. You can't help the smile that comes with a familiar taste. 

That's when she finally looks at you, fingers no longer picking, and she smiles, a softer smaller smile but beautiful nonetheless. 

Somehow, despite it all, your heart relaxes. 

“Did they finally give you the morning shift at the bakery?” The question surprises even you. 

She laughs, a bold hearty laugh as if caught off guard by your suddenness. She crumples into herself as her head threatens to hit the table. 

Yet your hand slots in just in time, softening the blow. 

You swear you catch the briefest hitch of her breath as she continues to laugh. 

It’s a small, inconsequential moment, perhaps a taste of what could've been. 

Finally her laughter subsides, replaced with the slightest pout. 

“No, they still don’t trust me by myself after I burnt the bread.”

It’s your turn to laugh as a memory flashes through your skull, you can still taste the burnt edges as you tried to scarf it all down, anything to impress the pretty girl at the bakery. 

Still you don’t dare to share the moment, even as a smile trails your lips. 

At least the owner's face will always make you laugh. 

Her eyes linger on you and you swear you catch the edge of a smile, hooked on the cusp of something forlorn. 

She yawns, eyes hazy and heavy, only then do you realize how late it is. She keeps herself propped up with one arm, barely so. 

Questions prod the edge of your teeth, but you can already guess the answers to most except one. 

You offer a hand, “Take a nap at mine?”

-

She nuzzles into you as you both collapse into your coach, the heavy weight of slumber teetering you close to the edge. 

Still even in your tired haze, you pull a familiar blanket from the side of the coach, draping her in the warmest fineries you can manage.

You catch the hot edge of her breath as she tries to muster whatever energy she can, placing a kiss on the edge of your jaw. 

Her voice borders on I coherence as she slumps back against you, grip tightening as if you were sand caught against a wave. 

You didn’t mean to, it was an accident. 

Yet any apologies, any excuses are silenced against the flow of blood against your fingers. The flow of life drains with every second, you didn’t know blood could be so vivid.

Your hands tremble and shake against the hilt of a knife as your throat runs tight, dry like the soon to be corpse in front of you. Your heart threatens to pounce into your throat, daring to collapse into a freefall of a panic attack.

You almost can’t hear the small crackle of wood in the fireplace.

With bloody hands, you draw your phone, brain bouncing between an admission of guilt or the dream of help.

But who would dare to help you?

It’s soft and unexpected the way her voice traces your name, no hitch of venom or sharp barb replaced only with worry. It makes your breath shudder, hitched against the seriousness of it all. The abyss threatens to tug your forward into freefall.

“Where are you?” you can already hear the clamor of rushed movement, shoes against pavement as wind whips against her phone. It’s a far cry from the teasing rivalry you shared… or perhaps once shared.

Your voice croaks as you speak, dry and barely audible, “the Magister’s office.”

She huffs, a flare of annoyance you had come used to over the years, it’s a small comfort from a simpler time. “Lock the door, I’ll knock three times so you know it’s me.”

-

Blood clings to you like filth and it’s hard not to be dragged down by it all. The shakes never quite stop, even as you hear those soft three knocks. 

It’s like dragging a corpse to unlock the door. 

Her eyes flare wide as she takes you in, hands grasping at your wrists. Either she’s careless in her approach or she doesn't notice the blood that clings to your skin. 

Still her face is pocked full of worry, “Are you okay?” it’s hard to miss the quiver in her voice, even harder to miss the way her eyes linger against your face as if a single blemish would shatter you. 

“I… killed him.” your voice creaks like old worn wood, as she follows your gaze to the now cold magister. 

Her breath hitches as her grip tightens. If the discovery rattles her she does well to hide it, eyes snapping back over you with an almost frenetic pace. “But you're not hurt though right?”

It’s in the quiet eves of her words that you realise, she's never, ever been the serious type. 

You gulp dryly, “uh, no, I’m fine… I

I think?”

She smiles ever so softly, releasing a sigh of relief held so deep you would think she killed him. She tugs you close, pulling you into a tight embrace. 

It's a rare moment of shelter held against cast against the warmth of sweet tender fire light. You can't help the way you melt into her, to feel safe in amongst the cloistered mess of academia and politics. 

You nearly break against her, forgetting all your sordid shared history. 

To think you would find comfort in someone you once thought a demon. 

Your hands drag against as she dares to pull away, yet you can help but notice her coy smile, a flare of the person you had grown used to. 

She tugs at your hands, her touch soft and svelte as she places them against her cheeks, you can feel the soft swell of a smile before she kisses you. 

And it stings, as if your aching weary heart was bleeding for a deal with the devil in front of you. 

As if she was a demon of any kind. 

You know better, even as pain throbs in your side. 

She offers a whispered apology as your lips leave hers, the slight quiver of her lips and the glassy gleam of her eyes tells you she takes no joy in your pain. 

You falter quickly in her grasp as your vision darkens. You can feel the slightest hum of euphoria flood your veins as the pain slowly subsides. 

She lets you down slowly, with a calm even grace as her hands crest through your hair. 

Slowly she uses your hands to paint herself the villain. 

“A shame really, you actually made classes fun.” her lips falter and shake, “promise you won't slack on your classes because I’m not around to challenge you anymore.”

After all, there has to be some vague vignette that explains why he feels the need to be called doctor. 

Your eyes catch against the hooked arch of her eyebrow, it'll be the strangest people who'll provide you with a modicum of relief. 

Kim Jungeun, you’ve never had any real interaction with her, you live too far away from the lavish shores of popularity and talent that flocks to her mere existence. 

Instead you crest on the edge of remarkability. 

Her gaze holds against yours, chilling with detached, graceful coolness. Perhaps that's what you taste on the edge of your tongue as you peer at her over the ridge of your crossed arms, a defense perimeter around your guarded paper soul. 

“...Yeah, something like that,” despite any reluctance that clings to your skin like the slick wet moisture of wet socks, her mere gaze coaxes your voice ashore. 

Still, it’s half grumbled, malformed and unpracticed. 

She says nothing as she takes a seat in the desk next to you and you’re thankful for the study period far from the cloistered of a regular class and its marked murmurings. 

She leans and stretches under the warm drift of sunlight and you can't help but wonder if she's a cat or a dog person. 

Still, you can't help but notice the soft trail of old school earphones as she tucks her hair behind an ear. 

-

Her presence is habitual, a soft comfort despite the silence. 

Perhaps that's what makes it shocking. 

“What are you trying to write anyway?” There’s a roughness to the way she speaks, in spite of her detached coolness. 

It’s no secret that you get no writing done during your shared period, oftentimes staring at a blank page or worse yet into space. 

Your brain bubbles with a retort that never quite boils. 

“...well, Dr. T wants me to finish up my creative writing assignment and…” You can't help but feel like you're explaining too much without actually answering the question, a thought that's only exacerbated by the shake of your voice and the sudden dryness of your throat. 

Her gaze holds you with a soft precocious touch and you almost feel like the only person in the room (you are in fact the only person in the room).

“It’s about mourning and the process of finding something to cherish in spite of it. But also the wonder of if you deserve it and if you do, if you're willing to open yourself up to the kind of pain.” Somehow your hand finds itself against the back of your neck, clammy as you lay your soul bare. “But I don't know if I can actually deliver on it and, and I’ve lost so much momentum asking myself that questi-”

You’re too lost in your inner monologue, caught against the whipping winds of your doubts that you don’t feel the soft caress of her hand against your wrist plucking it away from your nervousness. 

There's the slightest twinkle in her eye, cast against the fluttering warmth of the sun, you swear you catch the mirage of a smile in that sweet sunlight. 

Her voice is low and soft as she hushes you, placing your clammy hand against your desk. 

“Sounds like you're putting too much pressure on yourself.” There’s a straightforward plainess to her tone, an obviousness. 

A laugh hitches against your lips burdens on the edge of a scoff, but you’re not quite that comfortable around her. There’s a weird tang inside of your mouth, the type that begs for more, but you bite it back, held against the rough edge of a forced smile. 

“Right,” is all you can manage, your tongue clicking on the edge of viciousness, but maybe that’s because she’s right? The frustration bubbles and simmers underneath it all, like a kettle that doesn’t know how to stop.

How long before it spilled over?

Still, she’s the one who careens closer to you eyes trailing from your book to back to you in the deadliest avalanche. Her eyes hold against yours with that cool, liquid calmness and part of you wonders what it’s like behind the veil.

“What’s it about?” There’s a callousness to the way she slouches against her hand, propped up by her elbow. Despite her sloven almost careless disregard, there’s a grace to her, the kind that belies her genuine interest.

Or maybe you were just looking for an excuse not to drown?

A sigh drags and crawls past your lips like an inverted breath of fresh air.

Take two.

Your hands become your would be actors, well, more like stand ins for expression and ideas. 

“Character A and Character B are both friends with C, when C dies under mysterious circumstances, they ask A to look out for their friend B.” She nods along wordlessly, eyes trailing along each and every word, dancing along to every svelte movement of your hands.

It’s easier to put your tongue on her unspoken qualities when you think back to this particular moment. 

Detached and cold is far from right, at least below the surface. She’s tranquil and serene, like the slow lapping waves that brush against your toes in the sand.

You swear you catch the smallest twitch of a smile.

“A and B are totally different types of people, A is a delinquent by nature with an older sibling who is suggested to be a loan shark, while B is more meek, sweet by nature and oftentimes trodden on, they’re also the child of the local preacher.” 

She finally pipes up, lifting her head from its resting place. “I suppose there’s more to it?”

Your throat catches, but you can’t help the smile that finds its place. 

It’s weird to be seen–correction, it's weird to be perceived and not feel unsightly, like a cryptid trying to mind their business. It’s easy to feel wrong, as if you’re breathing wrong, thinking wrong or just existing wrong.

But despite her restrained, balanced expression, you feel that pulse. It’s not romantic in nature, far from it–though you wouldn’t deny she’s pretty. 

It’s the pulse of life, of fun, the excitement of two creatives and the energy it provides.

Or as some of your peers would say, someone matching your freak.

Her lips barely crease beyond the slightest curve as she catches your excitement or maybe you’re just imagining it.

“Well, I mean there’s supposed to be a whole mystery plot about what happened to C, it’s supposed to put strain on-”

She puts two fingers to your lips,”Shush, I don’t want spoilers.”

-

That evening had been the exception rather than the rule. Still, the empty classroom had become something of a respite between the crashing waves of life. 

You find yourself with an extra moment of respite, you're thankful for the many inadequacies that public schooling affords (not that you even know what private school is like). Still, you don't think the school nurse would suggest you skive off somewhere quiet to avoid triggering your totally real headache. 

Jungeun had been as aloof as ever in your shared classes, barely acknowledging your existence unless it was mandated by the teacher and even then it left you wanting. 

Maybe hanging out with you during study period was her form of community service? 

You crack open a soda, crisp and cool as you imbibe in its fresh fizz. You’d heard her popularity and her overall talent at sports had afforded her some leeway with the authorities thanks to the school's intervention. 

Still you didn’t actually know how true that actually was. 

Your footsteps echo through the forgotten school block, remnants of a forgotten era left to stand as the school's refurbishment dried, at least until next year. 

But you'll be long gone by then, assuming Doctor T doesn't fail you. Still, you don't think you’d want to be around when they demolish this, home to your vending machine, the only place on campus where you can get your favorite soda and a dear secret of yours. 

Your fingers trace and trail over stored walls, old posters and notices worn into old cork boards and as your eyes linger on the old, you hear something new. 

You hear the soft saunter of music, plucked with what you can only assume are an angel's fingers. 

It calls to you, or at the very least your curiosity, beckoning you to your other nestled treasure in the old block, the abandoned classroom. 

That's when you catch her, caught against the foggy bloom of the effervescent sun, fingers dancing along a deep red guitar, her voice lost against your hallowed halls but your eyes still gleam the most forbidden treasure. 

Her twisted shut as she smiles with all heart, piercing and radiant. There's an unspoken decadence to watching her just have fun, living in the few speckled moments of uncambered joy. 

You can't help but smile, choosing to let her have her own moment of peace. 

-

She’s there when you finally make another appearance in the break of a week between crashing waves. The dying embers of summer pervade through the cracks of an open window, her hands grip tight against a notepad. 

It’s weird to be the late one out of the two of you, as if you can even be late to slacking off. 

She writes words you can't quite make out as her eyes trail against the hallowed warmth of the sun. 

Part of you wants to disturb her reverie, to pluck her off the distant cliffs of wanderlust. 

But you know better, choosing to find your seat. Yet even as you settle into a familiar groove, you can't help the stray glances that linger on her. 

You trace over her familiar earphones, always by her side or plugged into her ears. There's something inherently interesting about them, a hallmark of a different time. 

You don't know too much about music, outside of vague remarks or locutions shared by a friend. Something about wired being better than wireless because of latency? 

She turns towards you, as if feeling your gaze, as her notepad covers half of her face. You catch the edge of an almost teasing smile caught in the edges of her eyes as she glances back at you. 

It all fades aways as she closes her notepad and tucks away her phone before slowly walking to your desk, choosing to set on the corner. 

It’s easy to feel small as she peers down at you, her features caught against that ridge of detached coolness everyone had come to know. 

In spite of the intimidation of it all, she looks beautiful, cast in a halo of warm dewy sunlight as her hand tucks loose strands of her hair behind her ear. 

You catch the slightest hitch of a smile, a small crack as her lips part, eyes fluttering down at your book before snapping to you. 

“You know I was starting to think I scared you off nerd.” There’s a certain callous grace in her tone, that chews and bites at you. 

Perhaps that’s why you catch the flare of white curving into the barest smile before it crinkles away. 

“Haven’t been feeling well lately,” you muster, cautious that she doesn't catch your words for what they really are. You bide your time as it floats through the air, tracing the arc of her raised eyebrow. 

She doesn't say anything. 

Instead choosing to place the back of her hand against your forehead. You can feel the slightest brush of her breath as she lingers closer. 

Yet, as quickly as it happens she pulls back. 

If she has anything to say, she doesn't. 

Her eyes return to your book, “how's the writing?”

“It’s been?” A dead crawl and overall monument to your talents (or lack thereof?) “Something?”

Her head tilts to the side, “something?”

You sigh under her lingering gaze, like the slow release of a pressure valve. “It’s not been happening at all in the slightest.”

It’s hard not to crumple underneath it all. Everyone tells you have this potential and you're just squandering it, as if each second not spent playing catch up doesn't multiply the guilty burden. 

A finger traces the edge of your jaw, beckoning your sunken gaze upward away from that sinking feeling. 

Her fingers dance across your skin with a frail softness, you can feel the worn callouses of her finger as her gaze lingers, as if inspecting each speckle, sparkle and refraction. 

A gemologist by any other name. 

You can feel the graze of her breathy smile, barely held back despite the glitter in her eyes. Your skin tingles as she leans closer, fingers trailing closer to your ear.

The moment shatters like a pane of glass, the shriek of the fire alarm, a visceral sledgehammer.

-

Your head slams against your desk, a tired dribble of a yawn limps past your lips. Penance for an all nighter.

Anxiety is a hell beast and your lack of sleep does nothing to mollify it. 

It burdens your chest, drags like an anchor against a cesspit of stress. 

Presentations tend to do that, let alone writing assignments, there’s something unequivocally foreboding about laying your soul bare. 

Dr T, calls your name and harkens the toll of a bell. Your fingers grip tight against the weathered surface of your desk, threatening to carve grooves into the old wood. 

Yet, before you can drag yourself away from your desk, you hear the shuffle of a chair not your own as your heart thumps loudly in your ears. Still, you pull yourself up, trying your best to fight back the crushing waves of your own mind with a dry gulp. 

Your anxious grip threatens to rip your book apart as you take a deep shaky breath, it does nothing to dull the deep thud of your heart as it races. It pulses with a sickening quickness as you feel your classmates eyes bore into you with a searing heat. Your hands run clammy under the attention of numerous eyes, as your heart echoes louder and louder. 

You swear everyone can hear it too as their eyes threaten to peel back your skin and-then suddenly it’s gone, replaced with the soft gentle caress of calloused hands as she slots her earphones into your ears. 

Her dulcet voice floods your ears, blooming with a tranquil softness like an ice bath on a particularly hot day. 

Your brain melts away as she coaxes you to sit down, you don’t quite catch a glimpse of her expression, too caught up in the low murmuring of your class. Still there's a firmness in her touch, that reassures you. 

You're only able to lip read, unable to hear anything over the soft swell of music. 

There's a pang of annoyance that lingers on your teacher's face, held taut by Jungeun's aloof expression, you catch the way her words bite and gnaw as your teacher relents caught on the hook of their own words. 

Something about Jungeun being allowed to do a book report on any piece of writing given her engagements to various extracurricular activities at the school's behest. 

Wait. 

-

It doesn't quite click until it’s over, her fingers plucking the ear bud from your right ear. Your ears burn thinking about the way she talked, lingering on every small detail in your work.

The sound of the school bell washes over you both like a crashing wave. 

There's a decadence in the soft swell of her smile, hand gripping her phone that had come to rest in your palm. 

You stand up, leveling your eyes at her. There's a twinkle in her eye as she shows you her phone. It’s incandescent the way it threatens to burn a beautiful. 

She shows a playlist just for you. You can barely hear her over all clammer and murmurings of your classmates as they gossip, slowly spilling into the hallway through the bustle of it all. 

But you can feel her excitement as it threatens to crack through her facade, still there is an enamouring confidence that you don’t think you could quite manage. 

The slight hitch of a smile revealing the briefest peak at her teeth makes your chest flutter. 

Yet before you can manage even a word, you watch the slightest quiver echo across her features as her smile drops. You feel the firm tug of one of your friends against your shoulder. 

The sad look on her face freezes in your mind, you doubt anyone is used to seeing her so… Vulnerable. 

“Let’s go, school's over.”

Her eyes dart between you and your oblivious friend. Questions quiver on the tip of your tongue locked under her gaze. 

Your friend's hand shakes you once again, growing impatient. It’s enough for you to break from your enrapture, at least long enough for you to attempt to tell them to give you a minute. 

But it’s too late. 

Winter, the complete package. 

Snowflakes dance and twist with the grace of a ballerina, beautiful yet frighteningly impermanent. Frost creeps along every surface, marring windows into a frosty frigid embrace caked with ice. 

For some people it’s their favorite time of year, the holiday season, a time for family and friends, for merriment to be had and for-

Death and loss, as nature bleeds and fades against the coldest touch. 

But as her fingers grip tight against whatever soft hallowed warmth she can cling to, she also realizes it’s also the season of absence. 

A thought that smolders against the dying embers of a dream, a memory and her throat clamps up, dragged over the sharp edge of jagged ice. 

Pain rends true, as her teeth clench, tears claw at her eyes with an icy frost. It’s like trying to see through foggy, frozen glass as her hands reach desperately against the embers of memory. 

The embers of summer, of love and life, the taste of heated tarmac on concrete as the air scorches or the embrace of cold beer as the air finally chills.

Embers of you, tangled in her embrace. 

Her tears are icy trails, freezing against her skin with a frosty burn. 

It was months ago. 

So, why does it feel like yesterday? 

Her smile is sunlit in spite of the tangled mess of her blanket, iridescent in spite of her irritated dry skin and bedhead.

 She preens against the morning sunlight, clambering forward with a languid, cat-like yawn. 

Her eyes remain nestled against the edge of sleep, barely brimming against the warmth. She presses her cheek against the neck of pocketed heat. 

“I was thinking~” she churns with the idea of breakfast, arms snaking around with a soft gentle touch and-

You're gone. Her hands claw at sheets, desperation reeks into every motion staining her hands, as if the pain that sinks, poisons her heart can change fate or reality. A choked scream rings in her throat, hollow and pained as tears well at her eyes with a stabbing pain.

It unravels at her touch.

Her blood runs cold, even the sun is a candle that is snuffed out, replaced with the infinite cold void. 

Her eyes snap open, clambering to her feet in a smoldering rush. Her own words ring with a screech. 

“We can’t.”

Blood rushes to her head at the suddenness, the world spins, she stumbles, latching onto the door frame. There’s a nascent hope, primal and barely alive.

Maybe you were having a shower or making breakfast like so many lost nights before?

Silence bristles against her skin, it’s cruel in its touch, pitiless in your absence.

Her words ring through her head, dangerous like a caustic smoke. Her mind lingers on Minjeong; the reason.

A knock rings, her door lacks the warmth of summer, it’s gone, painted a pale blue; locked with cold. 

It thrums again with a familiar pattern, your knuckles crest her brain and her breath hitches. She claws for her phone as she unlatches the deadbolt. 

Her phone is dismissive, no response. 

Like everyday since. 

Her lips purse, curling into the slightest frown. 

It’s been months. 

Her fist clenches, fighting the urge to crumple against the floor like discarded paper. 

Perhaps that is all she was, all she'll be. 

A hand waves in front of her face, ringing with the clinking of keys. 

“Hello, earth to stupid cheese cat.”

She’s all smiles ramshackled in a trench coat that almost looks too big on her, too bad the ginger twinge of her hair makes her look flawless. 

Minjeong. 

She makes a show of plastic bags filled to the brim with takeout, her eyes linger against Jimin’s, wincing when she does. 

“Stupid, depressed cheese cat?” she offers a hopeful twitch of a smile. 

Jimin rolls her eyes, crosses her arms. It’s always her. 

Minjeong strides in without missing a beat; like she does every week. As if the sun hasn't shriveled up and the world hasn't gone dark and she's freezing in the cold. 

Because she isn't, even on twisted winter nights, she's warm. 

She hates the part of her that thinks about punching her in the face. 

How warm is blood? 

“Jeongie,” the nickname lingers like bile, corroding against her taste buds like acid. “Why are you here?”

Why do you keep coming? The words are unwritten on her tongue, too scared of the venom that would sink in. Her mouth hangs for a moment, but she can see the patient flicker in Minjeong’s eyes. 

A tentative candle. 

Fuck she hates I-she’s thankful a snarl never makes it’s way across her lips. 

Minjeong smiles, soothing like the soft touch of winter, a drizzle of rain in a drought. 

“Because,” she offers a container of takeout, chopsticks at the ready. 

“You’re my best friend.”

… 

Her brain coils, snapping around those words with a vice grip. 

Was she… a good friend? 

She snatches the container with a huff, dragging her feet to her table. Street lights slowly flicker to life outside her window, her eyes linger against foggy condensation. 

Minjeong’s container clatters to the table with a tossed smile, she practically sinks into your spot. 

“You know, you're not the type to get so hung up on some guy.” Her words prod and poke like her chopsticks. 

It strikes a nerve. 

“I never said it was a guy,” she can hear the echo of her own laughter, cast in the warmth of your company. The words trace across her lips with a ghostly touch. 

This time. 

“What was that?”

A frown freezes across her lips, tightening ever so slightly as she avoids Minjeong’s gaze. 

There's the slightest flicker of a smile, haunted by the taste of half cold takeout. She can still remember your disapproving look as it melted, caught in the flame of an honest confession. 

She grumbles, “I never said it was a guy.”

Minjeong’s hand traces the outline of Jimin’s, it’s tender and caring like fresh snowfall. 

“Right, that's my bad.” Her eyes linger for a second, head clocking to the side, twisting over a thought. “What was the nickname you settle-”

“Firefly.”

It’s sudden, gripping like spontaneous combustion, caught awash in waves of memories. She hates the way it saunters with warmth, trickling through the cold, cutting air. 

There's a flicker of acknowledgement, of recognition cast in the hum of phone light. 

“Have you tol-'' her words are diced by another notification, caught on the hook of a surprised arch of her brow. 

Your face burns into her mind. It weighs heavy against her shoulders, a lingering guilt and a hateful resentment. 

The worst part is she didn't know if it was meant for her or Minjeong. 

“No…” the word freezes solid in the air, choking at the rational explanation. 

Lies aren't her forte, aren't her thing. 

…Still, all this pretense, all this dancing around the whole thing is not technically a lie. 

But it feels like a sin all the same. 

To deny herself of her feelings, to pretend like she didn't fuck things up–It hurts the way, the edge of the knife cuts at her tongue, a double edged sword because what did she actually fuck up? 

Her friendship with Minjeong?

She may not notice the creak of wood, but the foundation of their friendship is built on rotten wood. 

… Or maybe it’s the fact, she screwed up her chance to be with you? 

Even if it was only for a moment. 

Her teeth clench, eyes faltering against Minjeong. She can trace the small smoky wisps of frost that puff past her lips, eyes unfocused, distracted thankfully. 

Minjeong’s phone grinds against the table with a call. 

She rolls her eyes, “jeez, I don't respond to a text straight away and she's already calling me.”

Her lips tighten, pursing into a fine edge. Though, Jimin can still pluck out the fragments of a smile. 

“Sorry,” Minjeong whispers, holding her phone between her fingers. 

She puts the receiver to her ear, a smile blooming across her lips. “Geez, Aeri give a girl a seco-”

Her eyebrows crimp together, a familiar confusion lingers in her eyes. 

“Where am I?” Her eyes trace a watch she doesn't own. “I’m at Jimin’s…”

Her words putter and fade, drowned against the waves of a pained wince, she wasn't supposed to say that. One of the few conditions Jimin had laid down, to avoid questions from the rest of her friends.

Her eyes clamp shut as she takes a sharp breath, even Jimin can pick out the excited chatter on the other end. 

“Did I say Jimin? I meant… Jaemin,” her gaze shifts tentatively, daring a look at Jimin. 

It’s in that small bitter moment that she realises… 

It’s impossible to hate Minjeong, each word is heartfelt, every lingering glance is sincere. 

Perhaps that's what truly twists the knife she buried herself. It coils, catches against her skin, yet it’s the way Minjeong offers a mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, that nicks an artery. 

It bleeds profusely with a tar-like hatred, it burns and seethes against the skin of her heart. It blisters and crawls with a primal disgust.

She is everything she hates.

A bad friend.

“It’s okay,” she offers, her smile tentative, small, but real.

Minjeong hushes her cell phone, cradling it in the crook of her neck. There's a plushyness to her smile, an almost cocky, yet daring coyness. An idea stands on the precipice of her tongue, yet her eyes remain, shaky and uncertain. 

Should she dare? 

“It’s been awhile since you've come to girl's night.”

Too caught with dates in the past, too caught up on icy bruises in the present. 

It’s a statement, not a question. 

A hallmark of Minjeong. 

Jimin rolls her eyes, lingering on her fridge. How was her stash holding up? 

Her eyes flit back to Jimin. 

“Who’s paying?”

Try as Minjeong might, even the Martians on Mars can see her barely restrained giddiness as if she’d burrow a hole through Jimin’s kitchen floor otherwise. 

Her smile peeks through tightened lips, as she holds the phone to her ear. 

“Jimin wants to know if you're paying.”

She can't already imagine Aeri’s Oscar worthy groan, as if she didn’t miss the company of her dear friend. 

Minjeong’s smile bursts through its chains, her hand grasping against Jimin’s with a vibrant eagerness. 

“This is gonna be so fun!”

…Your night is going well.

 Correction, it was going well is a more apt statement. 

The marr of sleep crusts your mind, calcified with echoes of brooklyn nine nine reruns. 

Your phone screen burns with the time.

3am and an ignored number, texts washed away by the seasons, frozen by the frigid cold. It wails incessantly, stoking your brain.

Looks like an early night wasn’t on the table.

You think about tossing it to the wayside, along with any of the texts that always dared the edge of your mind.

You know better… it has to be important, why else would she ring?

Still you’re hesitant even as you accept the call, an awkward silence hangs in the air, choking at any response that forms.

You wonder, if you’ve even answered it in time.

 Perhaps god had taken the wheel and deemed the interaction unnecessary.

But you catch the way her breath hitches, imagine the smile that must dot her lips. 

No matter how long it’s been you can still taste her lips against yours, an abandoned luxury.

There’s a familiar, soft, beautiful, snowflake-like giggle. It’s fleeting in its touch to your ear, but even though it’s been so long, you know she’s drunk. 

Still, you can pluck out the edge, the deep inhale, the focus. The cold bite that is simply business.

It kills the questions that dare the edge of your tongue, to ask her how she’s been, to apologize despite it all.

Even if it isn’t really your fault.

There’s a huff and you simply wish it’s something else, like she’d forgotten her phone was even on.

The silence aches.

“Your girl is drunk.”

Her fingers trace over cool sapphire hues, snow pirouettes in her somber presence. A scowl dots her lips. 

It snags, coils against fresh annoyance. It isn’t like Minjeong to drink too much. To get lost in the midst of it all. 

She isn’t one to talk, caught in the solace of loneliness. 

A rooftop, all to herself. 

Away from Aeri’s prying questions and how she was definitely better off.

If only she knew who she was talking about. 

Her brain trails over the spark that started it all, just a simple phone call. 

The world spins as she adjusts herself, it’s a whirlwind blur. 

How the fuck was she getting home? 

Did you ask the same question many months ago? 

… She wouldn't dare to ask Minjeong, your incidental company would be suffocating, like drowning in a coffin. 

A coffin she deserves.

“Jesus christ, you’re sloshed.”

A phone is hardly an olive branch, you know that much. But you're caught on the indulgence of it all, the way she smiles lost on the rim of a glass bottle. 

At first, she doesn't even spare you a glance, lost against the sweet succor of Ambrosia. 

Her eyes are hazy, drowning in the thick of it. She traces the sky like fluttering butterflies, her smile sinks, fading into the snow. 

She's drunk, you were told as much. 

You can't help the smile that burns across your lips as her head cocks to the side. 

She's lost on the details. Your blurry silhouette cast in the limelight of it all. 

She stumbles as she stands up, trudging with the uneven grace of someone who is well and truly sloshed. 

It’s not until her hand claws against your shoulder - as she nearly slips - that she can strain the details. She flutters so desperately close, you can taste each hop on her breath and you nearly lose yourself in her. 

But she stops you, eyebrows knotting together as she snaps away from you.

She nearly slips again, but you catch her, your arm looping around her waist. 

Confusion lingers on her features with the softest smile. 

Though you wouldn't exactly call it gentle, like a snowflake. 

“What are you doing here?” 

There’s something in the way that her voice saunters - plucked at the edges of angelic harp - that reminds you, she glows in her own way.

You smile, you try to at least. But a chuckle snags at the edges of practiced porcelain and she brims with warmth.

It’s hard to fight the way she just coils around you in the slightest ways. She preens under your gaze, dulcet and sweet.

You offer her phone.

This isn’t how you expected everything to go. There should be fire and anger, caught against the torrid slow slip of a secret. 

But Minjeong isn’t here.

Though you suppose she always knew.

“You called me,” you have to fight the bark of laughter that bites at your throat. Her hands pat her pockets, clambering through rifled pockets. 

“Technically, at least.”

Her eyebrow quirks as her lips quiver and twitch. The words are lost to her as her mouth hangs agape. You can hear the slightest curl of her voice as it claws across the snow dusted floor. 

You see it in her brow first. It cascades to the bridge of her nose as it scrunches and her lips tighten. 

There are no fireflies in winter, there is no warmth in the cold clutches of snow. 

But she glows nonetheless. She burns, a magma hot red as her hand tangles against your collar. 

She tugs violently, leveling a scorching glare at your soul. Her phone clatters and cracks against the concrete pavement. 

You would happily ignite yourself in her sunlight. 

“What about Minjeong?” 

You bite back a smirk, devilish and annoying. There is no point to unnecessary evil. 

Your touch is delicate, soft like fresh morning dew after frost. Your hands graze her cheeks, she's a moron. 

“God, you really are a stupid cheese cat.”

There's a flare of a nostril, an arch of a brow and a flash of annoyance that sears into her features. You can't help the smile that settles on your lips; as she melts, softening ever so slightly into your touch. 

Her eyes linger on you with a glassy softness and you swear you can see the hazy flicker of her thoughts. Her gaze catches against your lips for the briefest of moments. 

To give into temptation on her second chance. 

She takes a deep breath, refocusing. Even if it is like dragging an anchor through the desert. 

She rolls her eyes, as if the insult was just spoken. Her grip tightens, tangles deeper against your collar. 

She's picturesque cast in sapphire, the air that lingers between you, ripe with the taste of beer and other ill begottens. 

The seasons may be different and the roles may be reversed, but did she feel as you do now? 

Is that why she asked about Minjeong? 

It is such a her mistake to make. 

Words cut like the cold bite of the winter night air.

“We broke up nearly a year ago.”

It’s messy and torrid, you half expect the sting of pain against your cheek as her eyes flare. It crackles in her eyes like looming thunder on a humid summer night.

Her teeth clench tight, twisting into a scowl. The haze of alcohol curls through her thoughts like a murky smoke.

She explodes.

Lips spark against yours, sizzling with a frenetic, desperate edge. You’re caught in the storm of it all, her lips are messy and drunk.

She threatens to drown you as her fingers curl through your hair, to rub your lips raw with swelt. 

Snow clings to you both in that moment, fluttering and fleeting; they soak into every stray crevice. There’s the slightest bite of teeth against your lower lip, awkward and unintentional.

You can’t help the smile that blisters and burns.

But she’s hungry, ravenous, daring to eat you alive like an all consuming flame. Still, she pulls away, fights against her very nature to consume you, forehead pressed against yours. 

It’s cute the way she pouts, nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Though even the small flame of a candle is cute, compared to the emblazoned heat of a forest fire.

She smiles, snowflakes and stars, glisten and sparkle almost as if by her command, caught in the sea of sapphire blue light.

“We’re both stupid,” she offers.