NƗNƗ

I wish I wasn't so rude. 

But rude is the only language 

you taught me that works.

I am the daughter who talks back 

because if I don't 

there is nothing left of me.

The one who speaks before she thinks — 

no. 

I think everything. 

Every word. Every consequence. 

And then I set the fire anyway.

The one who says things 

I choke on later in the shower. 

The one who wishes you cared 

but wouldn't believe you if you did.

It's my crime: 

not being worth the softness.

But god, I am so soft inside. 

I am soft in places you never touch. 

I am soft where his laugh lives. 

I am soft where your voice used to live. 

And I hate it. 

I hate that I'm still soft for you.

I wish I wasn't so materialistic. 

But the camera isn't for things. 

It's for proof. 

Proof I existed in this house. 

Proof you once looked at me before your eyes moved to him.

The music isn't just escape. 

It's a wall. 

So I don't have to hear you,

laughing with him. 

So I don't have to hear 

how easy it is to love, 

when it's not me.

You're the happiest with the younger one. 

I know. I watch. 

I hate that I watch. 

I hate that I can't stop watching. 

Like if I look away long enough, 

you might finally notice I'm gone.

You smile at him like he hung the moon. 

You look at me like you're tired. 

Not angry. Just tired. 

Like I'm a door you keep having to close.

The last time you looked at me like that— 

with that warmth, that stupid, beautiful warmth— 

I was small enough to hold. 

Before I learned 

that love has conditions. 

Now you only smile, truly smile, 

when I perform. 

Good grades. Med school. Future. 

For your own good, you say.

Liar.

For your own good, you say. 

But whose good? 

Whose life? 

Whose throat is so full of what you wanted 

that I can barely breathe anymore?

My present is a graveyard. 

I buried everything in it for you. 

And you don't even see the dirt on my hands.

You don't see me crying in the bathroom 

with the water running so you won't hear. 

You don't see me practicing being softer 

in the mirror until my face hurts. 

You don't see me write your name 

and cross it out 

and write it again 

and cross it out harder.

I am so tired of being angry. 

But I am terrified of what's underneath. 

Underneath is just a girl 

who wants her mom to hold her 

without a reason. 

Underneath is just a daughter 

who wants her dad to say "I'm proud of you" 

and mean it for nothing in return. 

Underneath is just me. 

And I killed her years ago 

so I could become this— 

the rude one. 

The loud one. 

The one who doesn't need anyone.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

I need you so much it makes me sick. 

And that's why I'm so mean. 

That's why I slam the door. 

That's why I say the thing that makes you flinch. 

Because if I don't push you away first— 

if I let you see how small I actually am— 

you might still leave. Still hate me.

And that would kill me.

So I'll keep being rude. 

I'll keep being the daughter who talks back. 

I'll keep setting fires 

and standing in them 

and telling myself I'm not cold.

The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the living room floor, catching in the soft, cream-colored fur of Taesan's ears. He was curled at one end of the couch, a book open in his lap, but his nose— pink and twitching— gave him away. He wasn't reading. He was listening to you hum in the kitchen.

You appeared in the doorway, a plate of grapes in hand. His ears swiveled toward you instantly, one flattening slightly in that bashful way he did when he was caught paying attention.

"You're staring," he murmured, not looking up from his book.

"You're adorable," you countered, setting the plate on the cushion between you as you settled in beside him. "There's a difference."

He finally lifted his gaze, a slow, deadpan blink that was his version of an eye roll. "I'm a grown man."

"Who thumps his foot when the Wi-Fi goes out."

His cheek twitched. He hated that you noticed everything.

Before he could retort, you leaned over and plucked a single, plump grape, holding it up to his lips. He glanced at it, then at you, a flicker of warmth in his dark eyes.

"I can feed myself," he said flatly.

"I know." You didn't lower your hand.

A beat. Then he sighed— a soft, defeated huff that made his ears droop just a little. He leaned forward and took a delicate bite from your fingers, his nose briefly brushing your knuckles. He chewed, swallowed, and his expression never softened from its usual stoic mask.

Except for the quiet, involuntary crinkle at the bridge of his nose. The one he only got when something was reallygood.

"See?" you whispered, grinning.

He snatched the plate and pulled it onto his own lap, turning a page of his book with pointed focus. But when you snuggled into his side, tucking your head under his chin, he didn't push you away. His arm came around your shoulders, careful and certain, and one of his long ears curved down to rest lightly against your hair— a silent, private touch only you would understand.

"You're still a menace," he muttered into your temple.

"Your menace," you corrected, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart beneath his hoodie.

His lips brushed the top of your head. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The soft, pleased flick of his tail against your leg said it all.

creds: bunny by @issysh3ll, lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @tsanho ⸝⸝ @pupillary ⸝⸝ @taestulipss ⸝⸝ @leehanaholic ⸝⸝ @beomtomie ⸝⸝ @mwotgata ⸝⸝ @kaixlix ⸝⸝ @haede-shi ⸝⸝ @ivehan ⸝⸝ @angelwings-fly ⸝⸝ @kjunebuggie ⸝⸝ @niiqv ⸝⸝ @haniipie [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]