“I didn’t think much of it because it was a park and there were a lot of kids my age doing normal kid stuff," You blink blankly, your voice trailing off, "Like, you know… " 

Your dirtied fingers drift to the ripped holes on your scuffed up jeans and start to pick at the blood-stained threads as you struggle to finish your sentence. 

“Hanging out with friends?” You suggest finally, although it comes out as more quizzical than intentional, “Anyways, as the sun started to set and kids started going home, I realized that maybe they really were following me.” A frown pulls the corner of your lips. 

“And then things got really strange.”

Wanting to ensure that every single detail of the unexpected incident was recounted, you close your eyes, your lashes fluttering against your skin. You recall the memory to the forefront of your mind, and in your head space, you focus on the location of the scene that happened not too long ago, a slow exhale leaving your lips.

You remember the trees, the way they were blooming with the daintiest, milk white blossoms, the rusted benches, aged by the years of spring rain, the loud laughs of friends and families, dissipating as they left one by one to their warm homes.

Your eyes snap open, and then you’re there in your body,

…thirty-two minutes and fifty-six seconds ago.

“27,” you mutter under your breath, your head low. Spotting the familiar pebble you marked in your mind, you count, for the twenty-seventh time, how many circles you’d made around Tapgol park since you realized that you were being followed.

A chilly breeze nips at your nose, and you realize that the sun has now fully set, leaving you to the mercy of the moon’s fainter glow. On any other occasion, you would have preferred the soft brilliance of the moon, but with six stalkers hot on your heels, you found yourself now begging the sun to resurge and reclaim its throne in the star-filled sky.

Finding some solace in the dim, warm glow of the lampposts lined around the park’s pathway, your strides increase in speed and length as a moth, but when the little halos of light on the cemented sidewalk in front of you suddenly disappears, you freeze.

One by one, the luster in each lamp flickers off, the shadows of the park becoming darker and darker until your only savior now is the moon above.

'A coincidence,' you convince yourself, waving off any sense of crippling fear. Taking a step forward, your eyes widen with blind terror when you’re met with a strong gust of wind forcing you three steps back.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. You take another step, a little more aggressively and a little more ready. Another blast of air follows but this time you press against it, your arm raised in front of you as a barrier for your squinting eyes as you bend for stability, your hair whipping behind you. Inching forward, you make some progress before the wind suddenly stops mid-air, the lack of force causing you to stumble and ungracefully fall onto your knees, a cry escaping your lips. 

Breathing heavily, you try to catch your breath, your hands planted on the cool pavement as if the action would protect you from being swept away. All you can think about as you stare at the floor is how that wind was anything but normal. But what else could it possibly be? you think to yourself in frustration. 

Before you can figure it out, a sudden pair of black converse enlightened by a warm glow comes into your line of vision, startling you. Lifting your gaze, you quickly stagger to your feet, ignoring the stinging of your knee and the warm, crimson liquid now trickling down your leg. 

Taking a few steps back, your eyes widen as your heart begins to race. “What the hell,” you breathe out, half in fear, half in awe, as you try to process how the tall boy in front of you was effortlessly carrying a single, burning flame in his upturned hand. 

He moves forward slowly, the flame growing in both size and heat, illuminating your face and his. You mimic him like a similar pull on a magnet. Every step he takes forward, you take one step back.

"W-what do you want?" You manage to utter out weakly, all before cursing yourself for not being stronger. The only response you got in return was his heavy-set eyes locking onto yours, almost as if demanding that your fear fuel the crackling heat. 

From the shadows, someone steps into the light provided by the warm embers. Another boy, slightly more built, yet still lean, was now in your line of view. Although the harsh lighting hides his features, you can still make out the hardened look he gives you, his lips pressed into a thin line. You find yourself more scared of him than the one carrying literal fire. 

Your fear becomes tenfold when he suddenly flicks his wrist towards the ground and you find yourself unable to move an inch. Eyes flying down, you realize that your feet are stuck, having somehow been merged with the concrete underneath you.

Just when you think that things can't get any worse, they do. A levitated stream of water, to your shock and disbelief, encircles your wrists, tossing the laws of physics and science outside the window. Your hands now behind you are bound together, and suddenly it seems that these boys were much more than just stalkers. 

"Alright, y/n," you murmur to yourself, struggling helplessly against both binds with as much strength as you could possibly muster, "Time to wake up. Any second now." 

A bead of sweat leisurely trickles down your hairline and over your cheekbones from the immense heat drawing nearer and nearer and nearer. Panic settles in, and breathing becomes more and more difficult. You need to do something. Do something. 

Gasping for air in the abandoned alley, your eyes shoot open as you break yourself out of your memory, your body now dealing with every single ounce of sheer terror that you’d felt in that moment. Your dirtied fingers fly to your chest, desperate for a reminder that you were still alive, that you'd made it.

Feeling your heartbeat— fast, yet there— you sigh, focusing on the breathing exercises you’d made for yourself. Inhaling and exhaling three times, then four, then five, your shaky breaths become more and more manageable. 

This is always your least favorite part of memory traveling. The emotions you feel in a re-lived memory lingers after it's over, and your body, no matter where it may be, goes into shock at the sudden wave of emotional intensity.

But it was important to narrate; it was important that you got every detail recorded.

Your trembling fingers enclose over the recording device you placed on the asphalt earlier and you hold it tight. Lip quivering, you will yourself to continue, recalling the rest. There wasn’t much left.

"At first I thought I was dreaming. In a minute, I’d wake up and it’d all be over." 

"But then I realized that I couldn't possibly be dreaming," you pause, voice faltering, "Dreams are supposed to be nice, aren't they?"

A short, bitter laugh, ironic and hurt, echoes off the graffiti-stained walls of the trashed alley; you realize that you don't even know the answer to your own question.

Greeted with a sound silence like always, you tighten the hold on your recorder, “I got away in the end.”

“I couldn’t get it right for weeks, but… I finally did it. ” A small, proud smile finds its way onto your lips for the first time that day, your eyes flicking fondly towards the old rectangular box in the palm of your hand, “I figured out how to teleport, Dad.”

You exhale, watching as your breath rose in visible puffs, lifting to the star-filled night sky above you. The twinkling balls of fire in the air and the pale moon's milky luminescence brings a sense of peace over your body. 

“For the longest time, I thought I was the only one with powers,” you breathe out softly, resting your head languidly behind you. You catch glimpse of a star unlike the others, shooting across the horizon.

"I know it sounds silly," you continue, your eyelids growing heavy with fatigue, "But I think that those boys could be the key to understanding my powers and who I am." 

"And maybe—," you murmur, your voice drifting into a lulled whisper, “it'll lead me back to you." 

The red light, once flickering steadily, comes to a stop, and before exhaustion begins to whisk your body into a dreamless slumber, you express the most foolish, and reckless, desire of your heart,

“I hope I see them again.”

And above you, in the tranquility of the night sky, the shooting star you glimpsed only moments ago hears your whispered wish, turning your entire world upside down.

tag list ; @chenlethelegend​ -@ncitydreamies​- @jammyjamjamss

send me an ask ; lmk what power you think each dream member has! i’d love to hear your thoughts!

the other students bustling around you also had made the same commitment. they passed through with their waxed instruments, arms full of chopin, mozart, and debussy.

like you, they avoided all eye contact.

like you, they stood tall, elegant, dignified; not just because they were taught, but because it was a way to disguise their fear.

fear, you had learned, was a vile presence in beijing’s most prestigious music conservatory. day in and day out, it lurked through those halls like a ghost, endlessly tormenting each and every passerby young and old, new and advanced.

they all felt it; you were no exception.

there was only thing that could save you, and as if right on cue, your prayers were answered.

a gentle, angelic melody, soft yet smooth, drifted through the halls, filling your ears with sweet euphony. it was a simple adagio, yet it dissipated every ounce of anxiousness in your body, leaving no room for the fear that gripped your heart.

you blindly take one step after the other, pulled as if in a trance. as if walking on clouds, you allowed the music to guide your movement and soon, you found yourself in a large room, empty except for the mahogany, grand piano and its maestro seated at the center, illuminated by the sunset’s fervent rays glistening through the stained window across from it.

the composer’s back was to you, but that didn’t matter. you already knew who it was. you knew by the first note.

it was a beautiful sight to behold. wanting to capture it forever, you quietly took a picture.

patiently, you waited for the boy at the piano, revelling in the familiar music, eyes closing as you listened to the blended collection of harmonious notes and chords, analyzing every phrase and the story it told. finally ending at a perfect pianissimo, there was silence.

“douze etudes, op. 25: no. 1 in a-flat major,” you murmured knowingly, your eyes fluttering open, “chopin.”

unaware he had an audience of one, your best friend grinned when your hushed voice reached his ears, a sound as melodious as the very instrument he was playing seconds before. chenle stood up from the piano bench, relinquishing his seat for the first time since early that morning, and turned to find your figure standing by the door. he nodded at you proudly.

“someone’s been doing their homework.”

“would you like some tea, y/n?”

mrs. zhong’s question snaps you back into the present, reminding you that you were no longer that same fifteen year old schoolgirl. your eyes glance away from the picture you were staring at, the one you took those many years ago, framed on the wall of the zhong apartment in korea; it was the last picture you ever took of chenle before he left china, left you.

“xie xie, ayi,” you quickly respond, tucked strands of your hair falling from behind your ear, cloaking your face as you bow your head respectfully in her direction, “but i’m okay.”

“y/n--” straightening your back, you meet mrs. zhong’s loving, yet knowing, motherly gaze, “he missed you too.” she pats your flushed cheek affectionately, smiling with crinkled eyes. you enclose your hand over hers, leaning into her touch with a nod you hoped was convincing enough.

“play something for me while we wait for chenle,” she says, slowly making her way into the kitchen, “i’ll make you some tea.”

you knew better than to argue with the woman who treated you as her own daughter. when he left for korea, you continued to visit her. you played her favorite pieces, helped her around the house, and in return, your loving ayi fed you, sent you presents, went to every recital, every performance you ever had, supporting you and loving you unconditionally.

sitting on the piano bench, you adjust yourself, the squeaking of the wood stopping once you center yourself. you run through the same checklist you did at fifteen: tall, elegant, dignified, back straight, chin up. you place your fingers on the smooth, cold keys before beginning to play a soft melody, one you knew well. it was a song you practiced after your best friend left, and one you hadn’t played since.

slow and somber, your fingers gracefully scaled the instrument, knowing exactly where and when to land as if the piece was embedded into your brain, or rather, your heart. you play so passionately, so fervently, that you begin to forget, and years of poise and emotional restraint begin to slip as each note passes. halfway through, tears prick at your eyes, begging to fall, yet you couldn’t quite relinquish it. not yet, not now. you had to reach the ending first.

right before the pads of your fingers can hit the final chord, you hear the sound of the front door opening behind you, a cool breeze entering the dim room, and you freeze.

everything is still.

“four pieces, op. 4 by prokofiev,” he says quietly, voice faltering before he whispers the exact movement you chose out out of the four, “despair.”

you turn, a weak smile on your quivering lips as your eyes finally meet his for the first time in four years, the tears you were holding back now streaming down your cheeks. sniffling, you wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve, a meager chuckle leaving your lips almost pathetically.