Tullia

You had carried plenty of things before.

You had carried groceries with plastic handles digging into your fingers. You had carried stacks of books pressed against your chest. You had carried sleeping toddlers from couches to beds, their heads resting on your shoulder, their weight awkward but precious. You had carried babies who could barely keep their eyes open, held close and safe, and not once had their weight felt like a burden.

Weight alone had never been what made something a burden.

A backpack full of supplies could be heavy and still be useful. A child could be exhausting to carry and still be loved. Even the most awkward, cumbersome thing could feel light when it mattered to you.

That was why the dictionary definition had always felt incomplete.

Because when people spoke about burdens, they rarely meant something that was merely carried.

They meant something that drained. Something that took and took and never gave back. Something that turned every step into a struggle.

And that was what you had been.

You felt as if you had entered every room with a problem that someone else was expected to solve. Every conversation felt like it bent around your complaints, your mistakes, your needs. You felt as if people had adjusted their plans for you, lowered their expectations for you, and carried responsibilities that should have been yours.

Unlike the sleeping baby in someone's arms, you had offered no comfort in return.

Unlike the heavy box that eventually reached its destination, you had never seemed to move forward.

You had simply remained there, an ever-present weight.

Others carried you because they felt obligated to, not because they wanted to. They supported you because they were kind, not because you made their lives easier. And with every passing day, you had become harder to justify, harder to defend, harder to lift.

If someone had asked for an example of a burden, they could have opened a dictionary and found a definition.

Or they could have pointed at you and the explanation would have been much shorter.

Burden burden burden.

Undeserving, unworthy, unlovable burden.

You had felt like an unwanted presence in everyone's life. Not hated, exactly. Hate required passion, attention, investment. You had imagined something worse—that people merely tolerated you.

You had walked into rooms convinced that your absence would improve them. You had accepted kindness with suspicion and criticism with certainty.

In your mind, worth was something other people possessed naturally. They deserved patience. They deserved comfort. They deserved gifts and second chances and understanding. You could spend hours helping someone through a bad day and never question whether they deserved your effort.

Of course they did. The question never even occurred to you.

But the moment someone offered the same care to you, your brain twisted it into something else. Obligation, pity, politeness, anything except genuine affection.

If a friend listened to your problems, you told yourself they were only being nice. If someone checked on you, you assumed they felt responsible. If someone stayed, you searched for a reason other than love.

Because love, as far as you were concerned, seemed like something that happened to other people. Not you.

Never you.

You had tried to escape that way of thinking more times than you could count.

You had promised yourself that this would be the year you learned to accept kindness. The month you stopped apologizing for existing. The week you stopped measuring your worth by how useful you were to other people.

Sometimes it even worked. For a while.

You would make progress. You would convince yourself that maybe you weren't as terrible as you thought. Maybe you deserved a seat at the table. Maybe people actually enjoyed having you around.

And then one mistake, one awkward conversation, one unanswered message, one bad day and suddenly you were right back where you started.

Back at the same stupid point, the same familiar conclusion, wondering why you had ever believed things could be different.

Then you met Yuma and for the first time in a very long time, being around someone felt easy.

He wasn't loud about it. He didn't deliver grand speeches or magically fix everything that was wrong inside your head. He simply existed in a way that made the world feel less hostile.

His presence was comforting—the kind of person who made silence feel less lonely. The kind of person who remembered things you mentioned in passing. Who checked on you without making it feel like an interrogation. Who treated your feelings as if they mattered.

And that should have changed everything. Maybe, from the outside, it looked like it did.

But underneath all that progress, underneath the smiles and the laughter and the growing trust, there was still a part of you that remained stubbornly unchanged.

The same frightened person was still living there, the same people-pleaser, the same person who measured her value by what she could give. The same person who found it easy to love others and nearly impossible to believe she could be loved in return.

You could spend hours thinking about how much Yuma deserved happiness, how much he deserved kindness, how much he deserved loyalty and patience and understanding.

But when the thought turned toward yourself, your certainty vanished. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all the healing and all the hope, you still carried the old fear that one day he would see what you saw.

And when that happened, you thought, he would realize that the person he cared about was just the same girl she had always been—still trying to earn a love that had already been given to her.

And still unable to believe she was worthy of receiving it.

That was the problem with never believing good things belonged to you. You couldn't simply enjoy them when they arrived. You interrogated them, doubted them and picked them apart like splinters from a finger.

So you kept most of it to yourself. You swallowed the insecurity when it surfaced. Smiled when people asked if you were okay. Changed the subject when conversations drifted too close to the things you were afraid to say out loud.

You told yourself you were protecting everyone. You told yourself nobody wanted to hear it. You told yourself you were being reasonable.

But feelings don't disappear just because you refuse to acknowledge them. They accumulate.

One bad thought became ten. Ten became a hundred. And eventually they stacked on top of each other until the smallest thing could knock the whole unstable tower over. Some days you managed to keep it together. Some days you didn't.

Today had been one of those days.

You had been sitting on the couch with some show playing in the background. You weren't paying much attention to it. It was just noise filling the apartment while you scrolled through your phone and tried not to think too much.

Then the front door opened, Yuma coming home from work. The familiar sound comforted you, seeping in like warm butter on cinammon rolls. Your beloved never failed to make your chest feel a bit cosier.

You looked up when he stepped into the living room. And there they were.

Your favorite flowers.

Held carefully in one hand while he shrugged off his jacket with the other. For a moment, you just stared.

It was just a random day. He had been out living his life, working, dealing with whatever stress came with his job, and somewhere in the middle of all that he had seen your favorite flowers and thought of you.

A normal person probably would have smiled.

Instead, your stomach dropped. The first thought arrived so quickly you barely noticed it.

Why would he do that for me?

Then another.

I didn't do anything to deserve that.

And another.

He's too good to you.

The floodgates opened and suddenly your brain was dragging up every mistake you had ever made. Every conversation you wished you could take back, every time you had been needy, every time you had overreacted, every awkward moment, every insecurity, every flaw, as if you yourself weren't a big flaw (burden, burden, burden).

It was as if your mind had been waiting for an excuse.

You looked at those flowers and somehow ended up staring directly at everything you hated about yourself.

Yuma was smiling as he walked over. And all you could think was that he was wasting his kindness, that there had to be people more deserving of it. People easier to love, people less exhausting, people who weren't a hassle.

The flowers sat in his hands like evidence that he cared, that he thought about you, that you mattered.

And the thought sat at the bottom of your throat like a stubborn dust-bunny that if he cared this much, then one day he was going to be disappointed.

One day he was going to realize you weren't the person he thought you were. One day he was going to see all the things you saw.

"Hey," Your boyfriend said, holding the flowers out toward you. His smile was warm as the sun on a winter afternoon. "I saw these on the way home." His smile was every sweetness in the world combined to make big beautful thing even poetry couldnt describe.

You took them carefully. Your hands felt strangely unsteady.

"They're beautiful," you managed.

And they were.

But as you looked down at them, all you could think was that beautiful things never seemed to belong in your hands.

Yuma sat beside you on the couch, his shoulder brushing yours, close enough that you could feel the familiar comfort of his presence. The venomous moth that sat on your lungs unfurled its wings and made the pressure on your ribs even more evident.

He was being kind for no reason other than wanting to be and you didn't know what to do with that.

The moth kept buzzing inside of you, listing all your flaws like a declaration and reminding you of every reason you supposedly didn't deserve to be sitting beside someone who cared about you this much.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Yuma hummed, tapping your thigh with his finger.

You looked at him, taking a shuddering breath and then looking back to the flowers. You ran a finger along one of the petals, feeling the softness of it. Though you'd given up everything other than numbness a long time ago, still, it was comforting to feel like softness. The petal bent beneath your fingertip, delicate enough that you worried you might damage it if you pressed too hard.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The television continued murmuring in the background, some half-forgotten show neither of you were really watching. Beside you, Yuma shifted.

"Are you okay?" he asked, quieter this time.

The question settled between you. You stared at the flowers. The moth beat its wings.

"No," would have been the honest answer.

Instead, you smiled faintly. "Thank you for the flowers."

Yuma's expression softened. "You're welcome."

"They were really sweet."

"They made me think of you."

The moth dug its claws deeper. You swallowed. "Which is still kind of crazy."

His eyebrow lifted. "Why?"

You laughed softly. The sound came out wrong. "I don't know." You traced another petal. "I just don't think I deserve things like this."

The words escaped before you could stop them. The moment they did, you regretted them. So you immediately tried to smooth them over.

"You know. Because I'm obviously a terrible flower owner." You held up the bouquet slightly. "These poor things have no idea what they've gotten themselves into."

Yuma didn't laugh. He knew you from head to toe and he knew exactly what you were doing.

"Pretending that was a joke doesn't make it one."

You groaned quietly. "Wow. Harsh."

"You know I'm right."

Unfortunately, he was. You focused very hard on a flower that suddenly seemed fascinating. The moth continued buzzing, listing, accumulating.

You felt Yuma move beside you. Then his hand slipped into yours. His fingers threaded between yours and squeezed gently.

"Why do you feel like that?" he asked.

You stared at your joined hands. "I don't know."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You sighed. "I genuinely don't know."

"You do."

The annoying thing about Yuma was that he always said things softly, patient enough that lying felt like an impossible task. You looked away—the television, the coffee table, the wall, anywhere but him.

"I think you're giving me way too much credit."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "That's not an answer."

"It kind of is."

"It isn't."

You huffed a laugh. "You're very persistent."

"I learned from the best."

You rolled your eyes. The gesture lacked any real annoyance. The silence stretched again.

The moth fluttered violently against your ribs.

You hated how vulnerable this felt, how difficult it was to say something that had lived inside your head for years. Your fingers tightened around his.

"I don't think I deserve you."

Your voice was barely a whisper. The confession sat in the air, small and fragile like a child in a church that had no idea what god it worshiped.

You laughed nervously. "There." You gestured vaguely. "Now we've identified the world's most pathetic thought."

Yuma's hand squeezed yours..

You risked a glance at him. There was no disappointment on his face, or frustration or exasperation. Just…..sadness.

"Baby."

Your eyes immediately dropped again. "I know."

His voice was gentle. "So do I."

You blinked. "What?"

"I know all the reasons you think that."

The moth went still, for the first time all evening.

"You've told yourself the same story for years." His thumb moved slowly across the back of your hand. "That everyone else deserves kindness more than you do."

Your throat tightened. "Yuma—"

"That if somebody helps you, they're doing it out of obligation." You looked away. "That if somebody stays, eventually they'll realize they shouldn't have."

The pressure behind your eyes became difficult to ignore. That was it. That was exactly it—the ugly thing you'd spent years trying to hide. Yuma looked down at your intertwined hands. Then back at you.

"And I think you've repeated that story so many times that it feels true." His smile was small and tender.

"But you've never stopped to consider that maybe you're just wrong."

"And what if I'm not?" You said, feeling a stupid tear roll down your cheek, the moth stirred again, "And what if I'm not wrong Yuma? What then?"

Silence stretched again, taut like mesh stockings. Yuma took a breath and just assessed you. He smiled again and chuckled.

Yuma huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. "It's funny."

"What is?"

"I was actually going to suggest we go to the beach tomorrow."

You blinked. "The beach?"

"Yeah." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "The beach." Yuma shifted closer on the couch. "Can I tell you my favorite thing about the ocean?"

You shrugged. "Sure."

He glanced toward the flowers in your lap before looking back at you. "Have you ever noticed how the waves keep coming back to the shore?"

You tilted your head and nodded, unsure where he was going with this. If this was a distraction mechanism, then damn was it working.

"The waves." His voice was soft. "They keep returning." He traced absent patterns against the back of your hand. "Again and again and again." You stared at him. "The shore pushes them away every single time." A lump formed in your throat. "But they come back anyway."

Yuma's gaze never left yours. "They know exactly what's going to happen." You looked down. The moth had gone strangely quiet. "They know the shore isn't going to leave with them."

His fingers squeezed yours gently. "They know they're going to be sent back." Another tear rolled down your face. "They even leave little gifts sometimes." His eyes flicked toward the flowers. "Shells, sea glass, little pieces of themselves."

Your vision blurred. "Yuma..."

"But they still come back."

His voice remained steady. "Again." The tears spilled freely now. "And again." You looked away. "And again." The bouquet trembled in your hands.

"They don't stop because the shore can't love them the way they love the shore." You sucked in a shaky breath. "They don't stop because it's difficult." The moth felt smaller now. "They don't stop because it would be easier to stay away." Your chest hurt. "They come back because that's where they want to be."

The room had become impossibly quiet. Only the television murmured somewhere in the distance. You stared down at the flowers.

The shore.

The sea.

You.

Yuma.

The realization hit with enough force to make your chest ache.

"Yuma..." Your voice broke completely.

His expression softened instantly. "Oh, sweetheart."

You covered your face. A sob escaped before you could stop it. The moth unfolded completely, and, for the first time in years, it stopped fighting.

Because you were exhausted. Exhausted from carrying it. Exhausted from arguing with every act of kindness. Exhausted from trying to earn things that had already been freely given.

"I don't understand why," you choked out.

"Why what?"

"Why you stay." The words came out through tears. "Why you're still here."

Yuma's eyes widened with heartbreak. He carefully took the flowers from your lap and set them on the coffee table. Then he turned back toward you.

"As if there's anywhere else I'd rather be."

You shook your head. "You don't get it."

"I do."

"No." Your shoulders trembled. "I'm a burden." The word tasted poisonous. "I am."

Yuma sighed. Then he reached up and gently brushed tears from your cheeks.

"Okay."

You blinked. "Okay?"

"If that's what you think." His hand cupped your face. "If you genuinely think you're a burden." His smile returned. "Then I'd still carry you."

Fresh tears spilled over immediately. Yuma laughed softly at your expression. "I mean it." His forehead rested against yours. "If you're a burden, then you're my burden."

"Yuma—"

"I'd carry you tomorrow." His nose brushed yours. "The day after that." Another tear slipped free. "Next year." You made a wounded sound. He smiled. "When we're old." Your eyes squeezed shut. "When we're grey." His voice dropped to a whisper. "When we're sitting on some beach somewhere complaining about our backs and arguing over what to have for dinner."

A laugh escaped through your sobs. "And if you're still convinced you're a burden then..." He kissed your forehead.

"I'll carry you then too."

The last of your defenses finally collapsed. You buried your face in his shoulder. Yuma immediately wrapped both arms around you, ho;ding you close as he always did. His hand moved slowly through your hair.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the pressure in your chest loosened enough to let you breathe.

The waves really didn't know when to give up did they?

For a long time neither of you spoke. You simply sat there in his arms, the flowers resting nearby, the television forgotten, the moth finally quiet.

Maybe the dictionary had been right after all.

Here, wrapped safely in Yuma's arms, you realized something important.

Being carried and being loved had never been opposites. Sometimes they were the very same thing.

And if Yuma were to carry you?

He'd be carrying the weight of his entire world.

fin.

A/N: hahaha nooo this is totally not based off of irl experiences lmao wdym lol yes it is anyways wow we're on quite the fluff run nowadays is this a minhosimthings record

divider by @chrisssiren

@eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710 + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

you were the light of his life, keeping him afloat when he felt like drowning - especially when he was stressed about monthly evaluations, those endless hours of critiqued practice. when he needed as much support as he could get, you were there to give it to him and more. always.

his parents adored you, constantly questioning the two of you about future weddings, light-hearted jokes on what they’d want the grandkids to be called, offering financial support for when you would buy your own place for just the two of you. nicholas would simply smile at their suggestions, eyes fixed on you, mind drifting to what his future with you would look like. the two of you together forever.

with nicholas being a trainee, he was stressed 24/7, but you were there for him when he came home late into the night, limbs sore, throat dry and body exhausted. you’d hold him with all the warmth in your being, whispering encouragement into his hair whilst he dozed off. most of your nights were spent like this.

life with nicholas was absolutely perfect, and neither of you wanted to change it for the world.

---

the comfortable, steady rhythm of life hit a speed bump when nicholas was selected to partake in an overseas audition show. a one-way flight to south korea to pursue his dream of being an idol meant he had to leave his home country behind. he had to leave his family behind. he had to leave you behind.

and when he was put into the final lineup, his debut confirmed and sealed, you knew that your story with nicholas was starting to be cut short. a long, heartbreaking facetime call heavy with tears was the last of your relationship, but it was seemingly for the best. nicholas would be far too busy, and long-distance was too unfair on you, too painful. the two of you promised to stay in contact however, nicholas wanting to make you proud in return for your support. so that’s what happened.

“i’ll love you, always.” he whispered over the phone that night, voice shaky as he held back his tears.

“always?” you whispered back, desperate, quiet sobs escaping before you could hold them back.

“and forever.” nicholas said, his tone pained but honest. his phone went blank after that.

neither of you slept that night.

---

for the first few months it was smooth sailing. nicholas’ debut was a success, gaining a lot of traction from around the world. you were so proud of him, how he shined alongside his 8 members. the two of you would text practically everyday, with nicholas sending you behind the scene pictures of photoshoots he wasn’t supposed to share, snippets from unreleased tracks he was working on. cuts of your paycheck would go towards his albums, posters, everything. anything that convinced you he was closer than he really was.

slowly but surely, texts became shorter and less frequent, nicholas no longer sending his pictures and songs, and you stopped buying the band’s merchandise. eventually, there was no contact between you at all. it hurt you. deeply.

nicholas, the love of your life who had promised to marry you, promised to be the best father to your children, was gone - and he’d left a crack in your heart that nothing else had the shape to fill.

you no longer kept up with his music, instead focusing on your own career as a substitute teacher. shifts were long and tiring anyway, and there was no energy left in your body to search up his name, his band, dig online about what he’s up to. you blamed the exhaustion, but deep down you knew it was the heartache that truly held you back.

---

years later, your mind barely ever wandered to nicholas, too busy with work and life to stop and check in. you’d been promoted recently, so your pay had a hefty increase, but so did the work load. piles upon piles of tests to mark, assignments to set for your students.

you had no clue what nicholas was up to, if he was even still active in his band, what country he was in, nothing. frankly it didn’t matter to you anymore. nicholas was once a huge part of your life, but things changed so quickly for both of you, and life moves faster than you can keep up with. you were older now, you didn’t have time to mope about past feelings, past memories. even if, deep down, you missed it. missed him. admittance would be pathetic, immature. so you ignored the ache, as much as it hurt.

---

it was another late finish to work today, and you had trudged through town to the convenience store by your street, the iridescent lights of the ‘open’ sign glowing overhead as you step inside. the owner greets you briefly and you walk down the aisles, searching for cheap, filling snacks.

unbeknownst to you, nicholas’ band had actually landed in his hometown a few hours ago, a quick visit before heading to the concert venue the next day. his schedule was hectic, but him and his members had managed to convince the staff for just one night.

you hear a group of people walk in, obnoxiously loud for 9PM, and you roll your eyes. probably tourists or stupid teenagers, you thought. you adjust your grip on the items and head to the next row of shelves.

even with your head pointed down, you could see in your peripheral a man was stood in the aisle just a few feet away. your eyes don’t flicker to him, instead looking at the discounted prices of the drinks. you could feel the cool breeze of the air conditioning on the back of your neck.

“y/n?”

a voice calls out. a voice you recognised anywhere. a voice you’d heard hundreds of times before.

your head darts up immediately, and there he was, stood in front of you - nicholas.

he looked different from the last time you saw him, which was on your phone screen years ago. he looked more grown now, more mature. and more buff, but that’s not relevant right now.

nicholas was here. in front of you. home.

“hyung, what does this say-” his bandmate, who you recognised to be maki, began to ask as he held up a snack covered in mandarin text. he was cut off quickly by nicholas nudging him back out of the aisle.

“sorry about him. i, um.. i haven’t seen you in a while.” he says, awkwardly, as if you were meeting for the first time. you were practically speechless at the sight of him.

“yeah, me too.” you managed to mutter, nodding. the unspoken tension due to the lack of communication these past few years was heavy, and you could tell that nicholas felt it too. you could see it in his face, hear it in the way he spoke.

“i’m really sorry about ghosting you, i just…i got crazy busy with work.” he began, taking another step towards you. he lets out a sigh. “can we.. go somewhere a little quieter? i need to explain myself.”

you accepted before you fully processed what was happening.

---

carrying your small plastic bag of snacks, the two of you walk down the park walkway; a familiar path you’ve walked with nicholas hundreds of times before, hand in hand. but it was different this time. very different.

“remember when i tripped on this?” he says, foot tapping an exposed tree root on the side of the path. you giggle as you recalled the memory. the two of you had drank a lot that evening. it was one of your favourite memories with nicholas.

“and you almost cried because you scraped your knee.” you add, and the two of you laugh again. “you were pouting and everything.”

an eruption of laughter reduced the awkwardness.

eventually, you slip into a comfortable silence, simply walking beside each other, arms occasionally brushing. you ignored the buzz that the contact gave you.

a few minutes of walking, and nicholas slows to a stop, next to the lake’s dock. you stop too, just watching him with quiet curiosity.

“this is where we had our first kiss. do you.. do you remember that?” he asks, his voice less alive now. like the memory hurt him.

“…yeah, i remember. of course i do.”

nicholas seems to relax at your remembrance, gesturing for you to follow him as he walks onto the dock, sitting down with his legs hanging off the edge.

“come, let’s sit for a while.”

---

sitting side by side, the cool air from the water hitting your legs, you felt the tension between you building again. like you knew he was about to bring it up.

“y/n.. i just wanna start with how sorry i am.” nicholas finally says, his voice solemn and serious. “i’m sorry that i disappeared out of nowhere, that i stopped calling, that i forgot about you.”

his words stung, hitting you rather hard. you recall how sad you were, how angry you felt. nicholas, the once love of your life, forgot about you. taking a deep, slow breath, you could feel your emotions simmering at the surface. a part of you wanted to cry, scream, shout at him. the other half also wanted to cry, but in his arms, with both his scent and arms surrounding you.

nicholas being the great observer he is, noticed, of course. his hand founds yours, palm resting on top of yours tentatively. you flinch at the contact, but don’t pull away. not like you could anyway.

“you should know that i regretted it everyday. breaking up with you. it hurt me so much.” he admitted, his gaze stuck on the moon’s reflection in the water. “so much.”

he let out a small scoff, the type of scoff he makes when he’s holding back tears. he’d made that noise over the phone when he broke up with you.

“i missed you a lot. especially after we stopped talking. but i was just..” nicholas glances away from you briefly, and you hear him sniffle. he turns back a moment later. “i was afraid you hated me for what i did.”

your head shake was almost instant, small hand squeezing his.

“i didn’t hate you, nicho. i was angry, yes, but i didn’t hate you.”

hearing your soft voice calling him ‘nicho’ pulled on his heartstrings. he hadn’t heard you say that in years.

“fuck… i missed you so bad, y/n.” he whispered, his hand gripped yours tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. because last time he let go, you did.

your eyes welled with tears at his admittance, how raw and real it felt.

“i missed you too, nicholas. so much.” you whispered back, your eyes connecting with his. a few seconds pass, and his arms wrapped around you, face buried in your shoulder.

the two of you held each other, quiet sobs escaping both of you. it felt like a huge, built-up dam had finally been broken, and the floodgates of relief, hurt, and heartbreak had crashed over you.

time had seemingly stopped as you had nicholas in your arms, and you didn’t want to let go ever again.

you were both pulled from the moment when nicholas’ pocket buzzed. he pulls back, grabbing his phone. he sighs, and glances up at you.

“it’s euijoo. says i have to head back to the hotel.” he says, using the back of his sleeve to wipe his tears.

“i don’t want you to go,” you whisper, hand finding his. this couldn’t be the end. not when it had barely started. you couldn’t lose him again so easily. nicholas could see the panic building in your expression.

“i know, baby. i don’t wanna go either. but i have to.”

“please don’t leave me.”

nicholas frowns, guilt and regret washing over him. he didn’t want to leave you. not when he’d just found you again.

he picks up your phone from your lap, unlocking it with the passcode he knew you still had - his birthday - 20020708.

nicholas types something onto your phone, before turning it off and placing it in your hands.

“i put my new phone number in, alright? call me. please.” he says, standing up and offering his hands to help you up. you stand too.

“you won’t forget me again, right?”

“never again. i’ll always remember.”

nicholas steps off the dock, eyes still glued to yours.

“always?” you ask.

“and forever.” nicholas answers. and with that, he was gone.

you stand on the dock, alone, your thoughts running a million miles a minute. one thought was bigger than the rest.

nicholas and you were once perfect.

could this be your chance to rekindle? to reach those dreams you once had wished for? you desperately hoped so.

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