Jungwon paused mid-step. Watched her breath hitch, her spine go rigid, like she’d been jolted back into a nightmare she’d tried to rewrite as something professional. Clean. Harmless.

He watched her freeze the way people do when they see something they tried to forget—but failed to bury deep enough.

Good. Let her remember.

He didn’t stop walking. Not completely. Just slowed enough to make it deliberate. Controlled. His gaze never left hers as he passed her office, not even for a second. Her lips parted like she was about to speak, but nothing came out.

And then his eyes dragged over her—methodically. She was dressed sharp, polished, clinical. But he could still see it—the small crack in her armor. The tremble in her fingers. The way she clutched her pen too tightly, like it could anchor her to something real.

She was unraveling.

He tilted his head, just slightly. A flicker of a smirk ghosted across his lips. How could she be so beautiful? So still, yet so undone. Like she was holding herself together just long enough to make it through the next breath.

He drank in every detail—her clenched jaw, the soft crease between her brows, the way her heels didn’t click the floor because she wasn’t moving. Couldn’t. He had that effect on her.

She looked like she wanted to run.

She looked like she wanted to stay.

He walked past her door like he had every right to be there. Like he was still hers. And as he turned the corner, he didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

He knew she was still watching.

[Y/N]

You weren’t supposed to stop.

But your feet rooted themselves to the ground the second you saw him.

Jungwon.

The name you swore you'd never let echo in your head again. And yet, there it was—sharp, intimate, and dangerously alive in your bloodstream the moment your eyes met his.

He looked the same. No—worse. He looked better. Sharper around the edges, like time had carved him into something more precise. More deliberate. He walked slower now, too, like every step was measured. Like he wanted you to watch.

And you did.

God, you did.

Your breath caught in your throat, chest locked like a cage. The hallway faded—the noise, the lights, the low murmur of another therapist talking to their patient. None of it mattered.

Just him.

He passed your office like he owned it. Like he still belonged inside these walls. Inside you.

And when his gaze slid over you—slow, unblinking—you felt it.

That thing inside you. That dark, forbidden thing you thought you’d buried the moment he said I love you. The moment you told him to leave. It flinched awake.

You clenched your pen like it could protect you from yourself. Your fingers tingled. Your jaw ached. You told your body to relax, to breathe, but it was no longer yours to command.

Because he was looking at you like he’d never stopped.

Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

You hated that you noticed the way his shirt fit a little tighter. That his smirk was slower, deeper, more dangerous than you remembered. You hated how your eyes followed the line of his jaw, down to the soft movement of his lips when he whispered something—something you couldn’t hear but felt anyway.

Your heart thudded against your ribs like it wanted out. Like it wanted him.

When he disappeared around the corner, you didn’t move.

You stared at the space where he’d been, your skin buzzing, your mind spinning, your rules—your precious, clinical rules—crumbling into ash at your feet.

You’d told yourself it was over.

But standing there, body humming with electricity, all you could think was:

He came back.

And worse— You wanted him to.

[Jungwon]

​​He knows he shouldn’t. He tells himself that more than once.

As he signs out at the front desk with that same smooth smile, as he takes the stairs instead of the elevator just in case she might be leaving early, as he steps out into the dusky evening and blends into the hum of the city.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

He follows her.

Not right away—he’s too careful for that. He waits. Watches. Blends into the crowd across the street like a shadow stitched to the sidewalk. When she finally steps out of the building, her stride is brisk, practiced. Purposeful.

But he knows her well enough to see through it.

The way her shoulders are too tight. The way she keeps her eyes forward, like she can feel him without needing to see. Like she knows he’s near.

Good.

He trails behind her at a distance that’s just short of criminal. Not close enough to be seen—just close enough to study.

She doesn’t drive. Walks three blocks before ducking into a side street. Her bag tucked tight under her arm, her coat drawn around her like armor.

Jungwon memorizes the rhythm of her steps. Counts how many times she glances over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times. Her paranoia tastes like foreplay.

He wonders if she knows it’s him. If part of her hopes it is.

The thought makes his throat go dry.

When she reaches her apartment building, she hesitates at the door. Fumbles briefly with her keys. That’s new. She used to move with confidence, always polished, always precise. Now there’s a tremble. A crack in her seamless exterior.

He likes that.

She disappears inside. A soft click of the door, a muted glow of the hallway light. He lingers across the street, half-sheltered by the overgrown ivy of a fence. Watches the third floor. Waits.

It takes two minutes. Maybe three.

Then her light flicks on.

His chest tightens.

There’s her shadow, moving across the window. Her silhouette shedding the coat. Her hand brushing back her hair. Her body unwinding in that quiet, intimate way people do when they think they’re alone.

But she isn’t. Not really.

He’s there. With her. Watching.

He should leave. He should walk away. Burn this before it becomes something he can’t put out.

But then she walks past the window again, and she pauses—just barely. Her head turns slightly, as if she feels him.

As if she knows he’s still out there.

And for a moment, the ache in his chest blooms. Violent. Vicious.

Because if she knows he’s here— And doesn’t close the blinds—

Rule Number Ten: Don’t feed the obsession. But what if you already have?

[Jungwon]

He started leaving gifts.

Not obvious ones—he wasn’t stupid.

A coffee on the bench outside her building. Her favorite.

A book she once mentioned liking, tucked into the mailbox.

Little things.

Intimate things.

She didn’t throw them away.

She never would.

He saw her once, holding the book in her hands, staring like it meant something more than it should. Her fingers brushed the pages like they were skin.

She missed him.

So he started writing again. Not letters—journal entries. For her.

Every thought, every look, every flicker of emotion she gave him. He documented everything. Because she was still his therapist in a way. Just... reversed.

She was the one unraveling now.

[Y/n] You started dreaming about him again.

Not soft, romantic dreams—raw ones. Ugly ones. His fingers around your wrist. His breath on your neck. The way he said your name like it was a curse and a prayer all at once.

You told yourself it was just your subconscious processing trauma.

You were lying.

You started looking out your window at night. Started checking behind you in the dark. But not because you were scared.

Because you were hoping.

He was inside you again. Not physically, not yet. But his presence curled in your lungs, nested behind your ribs. And you missed him.

You missed feeling seen.

You missed being someone worth watching.

Rule Eleven: Never chase the monster. What if you already are one?

[y/n]

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

That was the first lie.

You remembered the name of the new therapist he sat across from. A passing glance at the sign-in sheet. You weren’t looking, not exactly. But your eyes had always been trained to notice patterns. Details. Schedules.

Him.

You knew his sessions were on Thursdays. Late afternoon. You lingered once—accidentally, you claimed—but that wasn’t the last time. No, the last time was today. The day you followed him.

He didn’t see you. He never looked back.

But you watched as he stepped out of the office building, hood drawn over his hair, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. There was a stiffness in his frame you hadn’t seen before. A different kind of tension.

You waited two heartbeats before you followed.

Your coat was long enough to blend in. Your footsteps quiet enough to be ghosts. You told yourself you were just making sure. Just observing.

Another lie.

He walked with purpose. Through the quiet edges of the city, down streets most people passed by without thought. You imagined asking him why here? and knew he’d smirk and say something maddening. Something true.

He stopped at a corner store. Bought nothing. Just stood for a moment, fingers curled around the doorframe like he was waiting for a sign. And then he kept walking. Down a narrow alley. Up rusted steps. Into a small building that looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years.

There. That was where he lived now.

You hovered across the street, heart pounding, ears straining for sound. You shouldn’t be here. You knew that. This wasn’t what professionals did. This wasn’t what sane people did.

But watching that door close behind him felt like pulling air into your lungs for the first time in weeks.

You stepped back into the shadows, eyes trained on the third-floor window until a light flicked on.

There he was.

Moving through the small apartment, unguarded, unaware. He didn’t draw his blinds. He never had. The arrogance of it made your pulse stutter. Or maybe it wasn’t arrogance. Maybe it was... hope.

Because when he sat by the window, slouched in that way he did when he was tired or pretending to be, his gaze drifted out—toward the street. Toward you.

And for one terrifying, electrifying second, you swore he saw you.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The distance between you felt thin. Fragile. One wrong breath and it would shatter.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your coat. Your mouth was dry. You should have turned around, run, screamed at yourself for letting it come to this. For becoming what you feared.

But instead, you whispered into the night—soft, selfish, and aching:

“Miss me, Jungwon?”

And in your bones, you knew.

[Jungwon]

He did.

She wanted him to see.

She didn’t say it. She didn’t need to. He knew.

Sometimes, she’d linger by the window, framed in soft golden light like a painting only he was meant to witness. Pretending to read, fingers ghosting over the pages of a book she wasn’t absorbing. Other nights, she'd undress slowly, deliberately, her silhouette slipping from one shape to another, shadows curling along her body like hands.

Facing outward. Facing him.

She thought she was subtle. She wasn’t. He could read her body like a second language now—every flick of her eyes, every tense tilt of her spine, every breath that stalled like she was waiting for something.

For him.

He bought a burner phone. Something cheap. Disposable. Untraceable. But what he said wasn’t.

You look lonely tonight.

He watched her read it through the binocular lens, her fingers freezing mid-scroll. She didn’t block him. She didn’t scream.

Instead, she typed.

Then deleted.

Typed again. Paused.

A breathless kind of war behind her eyes.

She was already his. She just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

[You]

You met him again.

Not by coincidence. Not in the sterile, professional way that used to keep you clean.

You found him.

He was waiting in the alley near your building, half-swallowed by shadow, half-lit by the hum of the streetlamp. Like he’d always been there. Like he’d carved himself into the city just to be closer to you.

Your heart lurched, traitorous. Your feet moved before your mind caught up.

"You shouldn't be here," you whispered, words crumbling against the cold night air.

"I was always here," he said, quiet and certain, like the truth had always lived on his tongue.

He stepped forward. His hands were cold when they cupped your face, trembling and reverent. But your skin burned beneath them, like every cell remembered him before your mouth did.

You should’ve screamed. You should’ve run. You kissed him instead.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t safe. It was desperate, consuming—teeth clashing, hands grasping, breath stolen between broken gasps. Your back hit the brick wall, his fingers threading into your hair like he’d done it a thousand times in his head.

Every rule you ever believed in shattered against the heat of his mouth.

Rule Twelve: Obsession consumes. But maybe you were never meant to survive it.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

[Jungwon]

She let him in.

Not just into her home—into the quiet, forgotten corners of herself. Into the soft places no one else had been allowed to touch.

He stepped through her door like it belonged to him. Like she belonged to him. And when her eyes flickered down, her breath hitching like she was ashamed of how badly she needed this—he made sure she knew:

This was never just therapy. This wasn’t about healing. This was hunger. Feral and precise.

Fate, twisted into flesh.

He didn’t catch her when she fell. He fell too—arms wide, eyes open, smiling.

He buried himself in her days, her sheets, her skin. Watching her break every rule she used to wield like armor. Watched her unravel and loved her more with every thread that came loose.

[You]

You don’t remember when the guilt stopped whispering.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it just got quieter the longer Jungwon stayed.

He lived inside you now. Not just in your bed, but in the marrow of your bones. His voice laced between your thoughts. His touch, a phantom across your thighs when you were alone—though you never were for long.

You stopped going to work. Stopped answering calls. Stopped pretending you wanted a life outside of him.

You told yourself it was temporary. A lapse. An indulgence.

But that was another lie, wasn’t it?

Because every time he touched you—soft or brutal, desperate or deliberate—you saw it in his eyes. That deep, wrecking knowing.

And when he cupped your jaw and whispered, “You’re mine,” you didn’t flinch.

You exhaled like you’d been waiting your whole life to hear it.

You weren’t going back.

Not to the clinic. Not to the rules. Not to the quiet, measured version of yourself who used to sleep alone.

That person died the night you let Jungwon back in.

And you didn’t mourn her. You buried her with a kiss.

Final Rule: You can’t save each other. But maybe, just maybe, you can burn together instead.

BREAKING NEWS Local Therapist Reported Missing; Former Patient Named as Person of Interest

April 21, 2025 – In a developing story, Dr.L/N , a licensed therapist at the Elmwood Mental Health Center, has been reported missing after failing to appear for multiple appointments and being unreachable for days. Authorities have identified Yang Jungwon, a former patient, as a potential person of interest in the case. Surveillance footage shows the two in close proximity days before the disappearance. Neighbors report strange activity near Dr.L/N’s residence, including a figure matching Jungwon’s description seen entering the building late at night.

Jungwon paused mid-step. Watched her breath hitch, her spine go rigid, like she’d been jolted back into a nightmare she’d tried to rewrite as something professional. Clean. Harmless.

He watched her freeze the way people do when they see something they tried to forget—but failed to bury deep enough.

Good. Let her remember.

He didn’t stop walking. Not completely. Just slowed enough to make it deliberate. Controlled. His gaze never left hers as he passed her office, not even for a second. Her lips parted like she was about to speak, but nothing came out.

And then his eyes dragged over her—methodically. She was dressed sharp, polished, clinical. But he could still see it—the small crack in her armor. The tremble in her fingers. The way she clutched her pen too tightly, like it could anchor her to something real.

She was unraveling.

He tilted his head, just slightly. A flicker of a smirk ghosted across his lips. How could she be so beautiful? So still, yet so undone. Like she was holding herself together just long enough to make it through the next breath.

He drank in every detail—her clenched jaw, the soft crease between her brows, the way her heels didn’t click the floor because she wasn’t moving. Couldn’t. He had that effect on her.

She looked like she wanted to run.

She looked like she wanted to stay.

He walked past her door like he had every right to be there. Like he was still hers. And as he turned the corner, he didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

He knew she was still watching.

[Y/N]

You weren’t supposed to stop.

But your feet rooted themselves to the ground the second you saw him.

Jungwon.

The name you swore you'd never let echo in your head again. And yet, there it was—sharp, intimate, and dangerously alive in your bloodstream the moment your eyes met his.

He looked the same. No—worse. He looked better. Sharper around the edges, like time had carved him into something more precise. More deliberate. He walked slower now, too, like every step was measured. Like he wanted you to watch.

And you did.

God, you did.

Your breath caught in your throat, chest locked like a cage. The hallway faded—the noise, the lights, the low murmur of another therapist talking to their patient. None of it mattered.

Just him.

He passed your office like he owned it. Like he still belonged inside these walls. Inside you.

And when his gaze slid over you—slow, unblinking—you felt it.

That thing inside you. That dark, forbidden thing you thought you’d buried the moment he said I love you. The moment you told him to leave. It flinched awake.

You clenched your pen like it could protect you from yourself. Your fingers tingled. Your jaw ached. You told your body to relax, to breathe, but it was no longer yours to command.

Because he was looking at you like he’d never stopped.

Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

You hated that you noticed the way his shirt fit a little tighter. That his smirk was slower, deeper, more dangerous than you remembered. You hated how your eyes followed the line of his jaw, down to the soft movement of his lips when he whispered something—something you couldn’t hear but felt anyway.

Your heart thudded against your ribs like it wanted out. Like it wanted him.

When he disappeared around the corner, you didn’t move.

You stared at the space where he’d been, your skin buzzing, your mind spinning, your rules—your precious, clinical rules—crumbling into ash at your feet.

You’d told yourself it was over.

But standing there, body humming with electricity, all you could think was:

He came back.

And worse— You wanted him to.

[Jungwon]

​​He knows he shouldn’t. He tells himself that more than once.

As he signs out at the front desk with that same smooth smile, as he takes the stairs instead of the elevator just in case she might be leaving early, as he steps out into the dusky evening and blends into the hum of the city.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

He follows her.

Not right away—he’s too careful for that. He waits. Watches. Blends into the crowd across the street like a shadow stitched to the sidewalk. When she finally steps out of the building, her stride is brisk, practiced. Purposeful.

But he knows her well enough to see through it.

The way her shoulders are too tight. The way she keeps her eyes forward, like she can feel him without needing to see. Like she knows he’s near.

Good.

He trails behind her at a distance that’s just short of criminal. Not close enough to be seen—just close enough to study.

She doesn’t drive. Walks three blocks before ducking into a side street. Her bag tucked tight under her arm, her coat drawn around her like armor.

Jungwon memorizes the rhythm of her steps. Counts how many times she glances over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times. Her paranoia tastes like foreplay.

He wonders if she knows it’s him. If part of her hopes it is.

The thought makes his throat go dry.

When she reaches her apartment building, she hesitates at the door. Fumbles briefly with her keys. That’s new. She used to move with confidence, always polished, always precise. Now there’s a tremble. A crack in her seamless exterior.

He likes that.

She disappears inside. A soft click of the door, a muted glow of the hallway light. He lingers across the street, half-sheltered by the overgrown ivy of a fence. Watches the third floor. Waits.

It takes two minutes. Maybe three.

Then her light flicks on.

His chest tightens.

There’s her shadow, moving across the window. Her silhouette shedding the coat. Her hand brushing back her hair. Her body unwinding in that quiet, intimate way people do when they think they’re alone.

But she isn’t. Not really.

He’s there. With her. Watching.

He should leave. He should walk away. Burn this before it becomes something he can’t put out.

But then she walks past the window again, and she pauses—just barely. Her head turns slightly, as if she feels him.

As if she knows he’s still out there.

And for a moment, the ache in his chest blooms. Violent. Vicious.

Because if she knows he’s here— And doesn’t close the blinds—

Rule Number Ten: Don’t feed the obsession. But what if you already have?

[Jungwon]

He started leaving gifts.

Not obvious ones—he wasn’t stupid.

A coffee on the bench outside her building. Her favorite.

A book she once mentioned liking, tucked into the mailbox.

Little things.

Intimate things.

She didn’t throw them away.

She never would.

He saw her once, holding the book in her hands, staring like it meant something more than it should. Her fingers brushed the pages like they were skin.

She missed him.

So he started writing again. Not letters—journal entries. For her.

Every thought, every look, every flicker of emotion she gave him. He documented everything. Because she was still his therapist in a way. Just... reversed.

She was the one unraveling now.

[Y/n] You started dreaming about him again.

Not soft, romantic dreams—raw ones. Ugly ones. His fingers around your wrist. His breath on your neck. The way he said your name like it was a curse and a prayer all at once.

You told yourself it was just your subconscious processing trauma.

You were lying.

You started looking out your window at night. Started checking behind you in the dark. But not because you were scared.

Because you were hoping.

He was inside you again. Not physically, not yet. But his presence curled in your lungs, nested behind your ribs. And you missed him.

You missed feeling seen.

You missed being someone worth watching.

Rule Eleven: Never chase the monster. What if you already are one?

[y/n]

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

That was the first lie.

You remembered the name of the new therapist he sat across from. A passing glance at the sign-in sheet. You weren’t looking, not exactly. But your eyes had always been trained to notice patterns. Details. Schedules.

Him.

You knew his sessions were on Thursdays. Late afternoon. You lingered once—accidentally, you claimed—but that wasn’t the last time. No, the last time was today. The day you followed him.

He didn’t see you. He never looked back.

But you watched as he stepped out of the office building, hood drawn over his hair, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. There was a stiffness in his frame you hadn’t seen before. A different kind of tension.

You waited two heartbeats before you followed.

Your coat was long enough to blend in. Your footsteps quiet enough to be ghosts. You told yourself you were just making sure. Just observing.

Another lie.

He walked with purpose. Through the quiet edges of the city, down streets most people passed by without thought. You imagined asking him why here? and knew he’d smirk and say something maddening. Something true.

He stopped at a corner store. Bought nothing. Just stood for a moment, fingers curled around the doorframe like he was waiting for a sign. And then he kept walking. Down a narrow alley. Up rusted steps. Into a small building that looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years.

There. That was where he lived now.

You hovered across the street, heart pounding, ears straining for sound. You shouldn’t be here. You knew that. This wasn’t what professionals did. This wasn’t what sane people did.

But watching that door close behind him felt like pulling air into your lungs for the first time in weeks.

You stepped back into the shadows, eyes trained on the third-floor window until a light flicked on.

There he was.

Moving through the small apartment, unguarded, unaware. He didn’t draw his blinds. He never had. The arrogance of it made your pulse stutter. Or maybe it wasn’t arrogance. Maybe it was... hope.

Because when he sat by the window, slouched in that way he did when he was tired or pretending to be, his gaze drifted out—toward the street. Toward you.

And for one terrifying, electrifying second, you swore he saw you.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The distance between you felt thin. Fragile. One wrong breath and it would shatter.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your coat. Your mouth was dry. You should have turned around, run, screamed at yourself for letting it come to this. For becoming what you feared.

But instead, you whispered into the night—soft, selfish, and aching:

“Miss me, Jungwon?”

And in your bones, you knew.

[Jungwon]

He did.

She wanted him to see.

She didn’t say it. She didn’t need to. He knew.

Sometimes, she’d linger by the window, framed in soft golden light like a painting only he was meant to witness. Pretending to read, fingers ghosting over the pages of a book she wasn’t absorbing. Other nights, she'd undress slowly, deliberately, her silhouette slipping from one shape to another, shadows curling along her body like hands.

Facing outward. Facing him.

She thought she was subtle. She wasn’t. He could read her body like a second language now—every flick of her eyes, every tense tilt of her spine, every breath that stalled like she was waiting for something.

For him.

He bought a burner phone. Something cheap. Disposable. Untraceable. But what he said wasn’t.

You look lonely tonight.

He watched her read it through the binocular lens, her fingers freezing mid-scroll. She didn’t block him. She didn’t scream.

Instead, she typed.

Then deleted.

Typed again. Paused.

A breathless kind of war behind her eyes.

She was already his. She just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

[You]

You met him again.

Not by coincidence. Not in the sterile, professional way that used to keep you clean.

You found him.

He was waiting in the alley near your building, half-swallowed by shadow, half-lit by the hum of the streetlamp. Like he’d always been there. Like he’d carved himself into the city just to be closer to you.

Your heart lurched, traitorous. Your feet moved before your mind caught up.

"You shouldn't be here," you whispered, words crumbling against the cold night air.

"I was always here," he said, quiet and certain, like the truth had always lived on his tongue.

He stepped forward. His hands were cold when they cupped your face, trembling and reverent. But your skin burned beneath them, like every cell remembered him before your mouth did.

You should’ve screamed. You should’ve run. You kissed him instead.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t safe. It was desperate, consuming—teeth clashing, hands grasping, breath stolen between broken gasps. Your back hit the brick wall, his fingers threading into your hair like he’d done it a thousand times in his head.

Every rule you ever believed in shattered against the heat of his mouth.

Rule Twelve: Obsession consumes. But maybe you were never meant to survive it.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

[Jungwon]

She let him in.

Not just into her home—into the quiet, forgotten corners of herself. Into the soft places no one else had been allowed to touch.

He stepped through her door like it belonged to him. Like she belonged to him. And when her eyes flickered down, her breath hitching like she was ashamed of how badly she needed this—he made sure she knew:

This was never just therapy. This wasn’t about healing. This was hunger. Feral and precise.

Fate, twisted into flesh.

He didn’t catch her when she fell. He fell too—arms wide, eyes open, smiling.

He buried himself in her days, her sheets, her skin. Watching her break every rule she used to wield like armor. Watched her unravel and loved her more with every thread that came loose.

[You]

You don’t remember when the guilt stopped whispering.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it just got quieter the longer Jungwon stayed.

He lived inside you now. Not just in your bed, but in the marrow of your bones. His voice laced between your thoughts. His touch, a phantom across your thighs when you were alone—though you never were for long.

You stopped going to work. Stopped answering calls. Stopped pretending you wanted a life outside of him.

You told yourself it was temporary. A lapse. An indulgence.

But that was another lie, wasn’t it?

Because every time he touched you—soft or brutal, desperate or deliberate—you saw it in his eyes. That deep, wrecking knowing.

And when he cupped your jaw and whispered, “You’re mine,” you didn’t flinch.

You exhaled like you’d been waiting your whole life to hear it.

You weren’t going back.

Not to the clinic. Not to the rules. Not to the quiet, measured version of yourself who used to sleep alone.

That person died the night you let Jungwon back in.

And you didn’t mourn her. You buried her with a kiss.

Final Rule: You can’t save each other. But maybe, just maybe, you can burn together instead.

BREAKING NEWS Local Therapist Reported Missing; Former Patient Named as Person of Interest

April 21, 2025 – In a developing story, Dr.L/N , a licensed therapist at the Elmwood Mental Health Center, has been reported missing after failing to appear for multiple appointments and being unreachable for days. Authorities have identified Yang Jungwon, a former patient, as a potential person of interest in the case. Surveillance footage shows the two in close proximity days before the disappearance. Neighbors report strange activity near Dr.L/N’s residence, including a figure matching Jungwon’s description seen entering the building late at night.

Your father.

Fuck.

It's been years — so many years that you'd barely let yourself remember what he even looked like. Faint, blurred memories of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, of him storming out the front door without ever looking back. You'd always told yourself you'd forget him completely — that if he wanted to disappear, you'd let him. But now he's here. Older, gaunter, eyes sunken like he's spent every night since he left trying to drink himself into oblivion.

"You gotta be kidding me," you mutter, voice cracked and shaky.

"I didn't want to come here," he says flatly. "Your mother called me. Said she didn't know what else to do."

That hits you harder than anything else.

Your mother. Calling him. After everything.

Your heart clenches in your chest — because if she had to reach out to him, things must really be that bad. But the anger bubbles up quicker than the hurt.

"She always did have a knack for asking the wrong people for help."

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying not to let the comment get to him.

"I know I messed up," he says, voice softer. "I know I left. But I'm here now."

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes. The tears just keep coming, hot and endless.

"Yeah? Well, congratulations. You're only about ten years too late."

He doesn't reply, and just sits beside you in the grass, something he would have scoffed at

The silence stretches out between you, thick and suffocating. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel so small. Like you're nine years old again, standing on the front porch watching his taillights disappear down the street.

The ache in your chest twists deeper. You want to hate him. You want to scream at him, tell him to fuck off and never come back — but there's something about this moment, about the way he's sitting there quietly taking everything you throw at him, that makes you wonder if maybe he's just as broken as you are.

The truth hits you like a gut punch.

Everything that's happened — everything you've done — you've been seeing it through a tunnel. Like the whole world revolved around your pain, your chaos. But maybe you weren't the only one falling apart.

Maybe everybody's just doing their best to survive.

You press your forehead back against the window, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Maybe it's not too late to put the pieces back together.

Maybe you need to try.

"Take me home," you whisper.

Your father glances at you — surprised, almost — but he doesn't say anything.

As the sun rises, you realize, maybe growing up wasn't a waste after all.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself hope.

Your father drops you off, muttering about how he has to take care of work, you smile at yourself, knowing he's still afraid of seeing your mother.

You step into your house, the sun gleaming in as you take it in- you havent been at home in the daytime for a while now

Your mother steps out from the hallway — hair messy, face drawn. There's something different about her now. The sharp edges you've always seen in her are dulled, softened by exhaustion. For the first time, you see how much the years have worn her down — how much of a toll you've taken on her these past few years.

You've always seen her as haughty and cruel — just a drunken mess with a sharp tongue. But now, as her tired eyes flick over you — scanning for signs you're still alive — you realize maybe she's been drowning too. Maybe she's been trying in her own broken way. And maybe... you've been so caught up in your own wreckage that you never noticed.

Neither of you say anything. The air between you is thick with everything you've never talked about.

She opens her mouth like she's about to speak — then closes it again, biting back whatever words were about to spill out.

You don't know what to say either.

So you just stand there — two ghosts in the same house, trying to find a way back to each other.

You don't know what to say either.

So you just stand there — two ghosts in the same house, trying to find a way back to each other.

The clock ticks faintly in the background. The sun shifts through the blinds, casting slanted lines across the floor.

Finally, she lights a cigarette with shaky fingers. The flame flickers, and she exhales slow, the smoke curling in the space between you.

"You look like shit," she mutters — but there's no bite to it. Just tired honesty.

You almost laugh — almost — but the lump in your throat holds it down.

"I know," you murmur back.

Another long silence stretches out. Then, softer this time — like she's scared of the answer — she asks, "You staying?"

You don't know if she means for the night or forever. Maybe she doesn't know either.

You nod anyway.

She flicks ash into the tray, her eyes glassy as she stares at the wall. "Good."

It's not an apology. It's not forgiveness. But it's something.

Maybe it's enough — for now.

You drop your bag by the couch, the weight of everything you've been carrying slipping from your shoulders. The silence between you stretches, but it doesn't feel as suffocating as before.

She glances at you, cigarette trembling between her fingers. "Coffee?"

You nod, throat too tight to speak.

The clinking of mugs, the hiss of the kettle — it's the closest thing to peace this house has seen in years. You watch her hands — lined and shaking — as she pours, and for the first time, you wonder what her life looked like before everything fell apart.

What she could've been.

What the two of you could've been.

The coffee tastes bitter, but you drink it anyway — letting the heat settle deep in your chest.

"You hungry?" she asks, her back facing you in the kitchen, almost like she doesn't expect an answer.

You shake your head.

She nods once, like she understands, like she's not really asking if you're hungry — she's asking if you're still here.

You're not sure if you'll ever be able to forgive her. You're not sure if she'll ever be able to forgive you either.

But you're both still here — two broken people trying to figure out how to keep going.

You step out the door, letting the sunlight hit your face for the first time in what feels like forever. The park ahead is bright, different from how you remember it — the grass green and vibrant under the sun, the trees alive with the sounds of birds and squirrels, kids running around. It’s like everything’s been going on without you, and you’ve just now decided to rejoin the world.

As you drag your feet along the cracked pavement, the afternoon sun casts long, sleepy shadows across the sidewalk. 

From the corner of your eye, you see a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall of the convenience store—Riki, half-slouched, a can of soda in one hand, the other tugging at the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve. Your eyes meet for a second, and the world stops.

You quickly avert your eyes, pretending to check your phone, thumb swiping across the screen like a message just came in. The sunlight glares off the screen, and you squint, heart skipping. Without missing a beat, you pivot slightly, steering your steps toward the park instead, leaving Riki behind, who had somehow managed to spill his soda on his hoodie.

There, the world softens. A line of bicycles is parked beside the iron fence, and a few kids are gathered near the swings, their laughter drifting through the air. The grass glows golden in the sunlight, dotted with dandelions. It’s the kind of day that feels caught between nostalgia and unease—something about it tugs at your chest, like a memory you can’t quite place. Thirteen vibes. Everything is a little too bright, a little too quiet, and you can't help but feel like you're walking through the edges of a dream.

"Yo!"

You don’t have to look up to know who it is. You hear the laugh before you see her — that airy, almost clueless sound that’s so familiar, it’s like a warning bell.

It’s Liz.

She’s standing by the swings, waving her arms like she’s trying to land a plane, her blonde hair bouncing with every movement. Her smile is wide and all teeth, the kind of smile that doesn’t know how to hide the fact that she’s spent too many nights with a bottle in hand, too many days with nothing to do.

"Y/n!" She jogs over, those clunky sneakers hitting the ground too loudly, but she doesn't care. "Look at you, all... alive and shit."

You try not to roll your eyes. Liz is always like this — loud, too cheerful, like nothing’s ever really wrong in her world. You don’t know how she does it.

"You look like shit, too," you mutter, glancing her up and down. Her outfit’s just as ridiculous as ever: scuffed jeans a little too long dragging along the dirt, a tank top that’s a little too small for her, and a hoodie that's seen better days. She smells like cheap perfume and weed, just like you remembered.

Liz giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I know, right? Like, I’ve been living off candy and Red Bull. Been too busy to sleep, you know?" She takes a drag from the joint between her fingers and hands it over to you. "But, like, I met this guy. He’s so cute. I think he might be, like, a little obsessed with me."

You raise an eyebrow but take the joint anyway. You’re not here to judge her — not today. You bring it to your lips, inhaling the smoke deeply, and hand it back.

"So, who is this dude?" you ask, leaning back against the park bench. The sun feels good on your skin, but you’re not sure why it feels like you’re pretending to enjoy it.

Her eyes get wide, and she clutches her chest dramatically. "Okay, so like, his name is wooyoung, right? But get this — he’s, like, way older than me. Like, not, like, creepy old, but, like, older than any of the guys I usually go for. He has a car and everything." She grins, her eyes flickering with something that looks like excitement, or maybe just desperation.

You can’t help but laugh at how seriously she takes everything. "How old are we talkin' here?" you ask, leaning forward to take another hit, the smoke filling your lungs.

Liz pauses for a second, eyes darting around like she's trying to figure out how to phrase it. "Uhh... like, he’s gotta be at least... twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three? But, like, he’s so fine, I don’t care. He took me to this, like, super cute diner, and I swear to god, he knew exactly what to say." She’s practically swooning, and you can’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

"Yeah, because that’s what makes a guy cool, huh?" you murmur, fiddling with your sleeves as you try not to cough.  You almost feel bad for her, but then again, it’s Liz. She’s always been like this.

"You don’t get it!" she says, pouting, "He was so sweet, though. Like, he didn’t even care that I was, like, so fucking high, and I told him I was... like, I was super into astrology, and he just nodded and pretended to care. It was so cute."

You laugh. It’s one of those sounds that’s a little sadder than you want it to be, but it’s too easy not to laugh at her.

"Yeah, well, I’m sure he pretended to care. He’s got a car, doesn’t he?" you say, passing the blunt back to her. "Maybe that’s what he really wanted."

Liz scoffs, not offended, just... oblivious. "Nah, he’s just a little shy. But like, I can totally see us, like, hanging out more. He could be my boyfriend or whatever. I’d be okay with that. He said I was, like, different from all the other girls."

You snicker, taking the blunt back and exhaling the smoke slowly. "Right. Sure. I’m sure he’s got a list of girls just like you."

She shrugs, unfazed. "Maybe. But, like, I think he really likes me. He said my hair was cute."

You can’t stop yourself from laughing now, the sound echoing around the park. Liz’s innocence, her complete obliviousness to anything real, is like a breath of fresh air in a place you’ve been stuck in too long.

"I swear, Liz, you’re gonna be the death of me," you say, finally relaxing into the conversation. You can’t help but enjoy this, even if it’s stupid. Even if Liz’s life is a whirlwind of stupid mistakes, it’s kind of nice to be reminded that someone’s out here living without the weight of everything.

She grins, tossing her hair again. "Hey, it’s all about having fun, right? We’re young! Who cares if it’s dumb, as long as it feels good?" She’s too high to notice how empty her words sound.

You don’t reply. Instead, you just lean back, eyes closed, letting the moment settle into something quieter. Maybe it’s not too late to start over. Maybe there’s still time to figure out where you’re going next.

For now, you sit there with Liz, sharing a blunt and talking about boys who don’t know shit. And for the first time in a while, it feels like things might just be okay.

It’s been a few days since you came back.

At first, it was quiet. Not peaceful—just quiet, in that heavy way, like something waiting to collapse. You and your mother moving around each other like ghosts, existing in the same space but never really looking at each other. Like neither of you knew how to start.

The house still smells like cigarette smoke and cheap wine, but there’s something else now, too—something tired. Like the walls have finally given up on holding everything in.

The kitchen light flickers. A slow, dragging kind of flicker, like it's struggling to stay alive. It casts shadows that jump and stretch against the walls, disappearing and reappearing with every sputter. You sit at the table, watching the way the glow stutters over the scratched-up wood. There’s a deep groove near the edge, from when you stabbed a pencil into it years ago, frustrated over some dumb math homework she was supposed to help with but never did. The mark is still there. The light catches on it, making it look deeper than it really is.

"You gonna keep looking at that table like it owes you something, or you gonna eat?"

You blink up at her. She’s standing by the stove, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, the ash too long at the tip. The light overhead flickers again, making her face strobe between shadow and dull yellow. She looks older like this. More worn.

She hasn’t looked at you yet. Just gestures at the plate she set down a few minutes ago. Scrambled eggs and toast. Dry. Plain.

Something in you clenches.

That was her thing, wasn’t it? The offhanded comments. The sharp little digs disguised as nothing. The kind of words that made you feel stupid for reacting, for thinking there was something deeper when there wasn’t. It was just how she talked. She wasn’t trying to hurt you. She wasn’t trying at all.

But then—she made you food.

And you know she doesn’t do things for people.

So maybe she is trying.

But she didn’t ask if you were hungry. She just put it down in front of you, like feeding a stray cat. Like expecting you to take it without question.

So maybe she isn’t.

The light flickers. It almost goes out completely before buzzing back to life.

She notices you hesitating.

"Jesus, kid, I ain’t poisoning you."

You snort. "Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done."

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t take the bait. Just exhales smoke, the cherry of her cigarette flaring bright in the dim light before she stubs it out in the overflowing ashtray by the sink.

The silence drags. The only sound is the hum of the fridge and the occasional buzz from the light.

Then, softer—like she doesn’t want to say it, but can’t help herself—"You eatin' at all?"

You shrug. "Here and there."

She sighs through her nose, rubbing at her temple. "You always were dramatic."

Your fingers curl against your knee.

There it is. That same old bite. Like she never got tired of digging in, of making your feelings sound ridiculous. Like everything had to be exaggerated with you, like you didn’t know how to just be normal. Like you weren’t starving yourself half the time without realizing it.

But—she asked.

She noticed.

And that doesn’t make sense, because she never noticed before.

She doesn’t care, you remind yourself. She just wants to make sure you don’t pass out in her house.

That’s all it is.

The wind outside picks up, rattling the window above the sink. The streetlight outside throws shadows across the walls, moving like shifting ghosts every time a car passes. She finally sits down across from you, the chair creaking under her weight. For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then, she asks, "So… how bad did it get?"

You know what she means.

Your fingers twitch. You think about the nights you don’t remember, the mornings that started with shaking hands and a dry throat. You think about Riki, pressing a lollipop into your palm like it was supposed to fix something. About the way you used to dig your nails into your skin just to feel something solid underneath.

You shrug. "Does it matter?"

She exhales, looking down at the table. The overhead light flickers again, and for a split second, she looks lost.

"Guess not."

Another silence. This one heavier.

Then—softer, like she’s scared of the answer—"Why'd you come back?"

You don’t know. Maybe you just got tired. Maybe you realized the world out there wasn’t any kinder than the one in here. Maybe you saw your father’s face and realized running didn’t make him any less pathetic.

Or maybe, deep down, you just wanted to see if she’d even care.

But you don’t say any of that. You just pick up the toast, take a bite. It’s cold. Dry. But you swallow it down anyway.

"Didn’t have anywhere else to go."

She watches you. Not like she used to, with that sharp-edged disappointment. This time, it’s something else. Something you can’t place.

The light flickers.

"You always had somewhere to go," she mutters, almost to herself.

You don’t know what that means. And you don’t think she’s gonna explain.

Outside, a car’s headlights sweep through the kitchen, casting long shadows across the floor.

Then, without looking at you, she pulls out another cigarette, rolling it between her fingers. Her nails are chipped. The skin around them is raw, like she’s been picking at it again.

She hesitates—just for a second—then slides the pack across the table toward you.

You blink at it.

"You tryna kill me or something?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

She lets out a short, breathy laugh. "Figure you already done worse to yourself."

The words land somewhere deep, sharp enough to sting, but not in the way they used to. Not a weapon—just the truth.

She doesn’t take the cigarette back. Just leaves it there, watching the smoke curl from the tip of hers, waiting to see what you do.

You stare at it for a long moment. You don’t take the cigarette. You don’t push it away, either. Just let it sit there between you and her, a quiet offering, an unspoken question.

You’re not ready to answer it yet.

Instead, you shift in your seat, clearing your throat. “I’m going out.”

Your mother exhales, smoke curling around her face. “Where?”

You shrug. “Just out.”

She taps the ash from her cigarette, watching it fall into an old coffee mug she’s been using as an ashtray. “You comin’ back?”

The way she says it—low, cautious—makes something in your chest twist.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just takes another drag, staring at you through the smoke like she’s trying to figure out if she believes you.

And then, just as you reach the door—

“You need money?”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so absurd, her asking now, after everything. After all the times you’ve gone without.

“Nah,” you say, stepping outside. “I’m good.”

And this time, she doesn’t argue.

The night air is thick with grease and city fumes, the kind of smell that clings to your clothes long after you’ve left. You stand in the alley behind some fast-food joint, the buzz of a neon sign overhead casting a sickly green glow against the damp pavement. A trash bag’s split open near the dumpster, fries spilled out onto the concrete like someone dumped a whole meal just to watch it rot.

Yujin’s already there, leaning against the brick wall, picking at the label of her soda cup.

It’s weird seeing her again. You hadn’t planned on it, but she texted, and maybe some part of you was curious. Maybe you wanted to see if she’d changed, or if she’d still look at you the same way.

She glances up when you step closer. "Hey."

"Hey."

There’s a beat of silence. It’s awkward. You don’t remember the last time it was awkward between you two. It used to be easy—late-night drives, whispered secrets, laughter that could cut through anything. But now? Now it’s this. The empty space where all the things you haven’t said hang between you like ghosts.

You shove your hands into your hoodie pockets, shifting your weight. She looks away, twisting the straw in her drink.

Then—like slipping into an old habit—she grins. "You look like shit."

You snort. "So do you."

And just like that, you’re pretending nothing happened. She kicks at the ground. "You still got that fake ID?"

"You tryna get me arrested?"

"Relax, I was just gonna get some beer."

"That's all you ever think about?"

She smirks, taking a sip of her drink. "Nah. Sometimes I think about food, too."

It’s easy, this part. The banter. The bullshit. But underneath it, you feel it—that thin, wavering thread of something heavier, something neither of you are really touching.

Then, almost like she can’t hold it in anymore, she speaks up. "You kinda disappeared."

You don’t answer right away. Just look at the neon reflection in the puddle by your foot, the way it shivers with every gust of wind.

"You didn’t exactly come looking," you say, finally.

She exhales through her nose, pressing the cup against her lips without drinking. "Yeah," she admits. "Guess I didn’t."

Another pause.

Then, quieter—like it costs her something to say it—"I’m sorry."

You glance at her. She’s not looking at you, just staring down at her soda like it has all the answers.

You don’t know what to do with that. Yujin never apologizes. And maybe that should mean something. Maybe it should make this easier, make you feel better, but all it does is leave a strange ache in your chest.

"Yeah," you mutter. "Me too."

She finally looks up, meeting your gaze. Something unspoken passes between you, something that doesn’t need words. It’s not forgiveness, not yet. Maybe not ever. But it’s something.

You sit in silence, letting the weight of everything hang there.

Then, without warning, she adds, "Look, I know things are... messed between us. But you gotta know, Riki's not okay."

You blink, caught off guard. "What do you mean?”

Yujin shakes her head, her eyes darting away like she’s not sure if she should be telling you this. "He’s been going through something—he’s... not the same, okay? And I get that you’re all caught up in your own stuff, but I need you to understand, he’s not just some guy to play with. He’s not gonna sit around waiting for you to figure it out."

You swallow hard, confusion and something else—something sharper, like fear—sweeping through you in a sudden rush. The air feels heavier now, like the warmth of the day has thickened into something oppressive.

"What are you saying? What’s he going through?" you ask, your voice cracking. Your fingers instinctively tug at the ends of your sleeves, trying to anchor yourself, to hold back the rising unease. You bite your lip, eyes flicking to the ground, watching as a trail of ants winds its way across a crack in the concrete.

Yujin hesitates, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment. "I don’t know everything," she admits. "But he’s been different lately. Pulling away. And maybe you’ve noticed that too."

You try to speak, but your throat feels tight, like the words are stuck in your chest. You don’t want to admit it—don’t want to even think it—but part of you already knows. Something’s off. 

Yujin’s eyes soften, but only for a moment, before they harden again. "I’m not saying you have to fix him, y/n. But maybe... maybe you shouldn’t ignore it."

Her words hang in the air, like a warning you’re not sure you’re ready to hear. But deep down, you know. It’s not just about him anymore. It’s about everything—you, him, her—everything that’s gotten lost in the mess of it all.

The bed feels too big, too empty, even with the weight of the covers pressing down on you. You stare at the ceiling, the shadows from the fan’s lazy spin stretching across the room like something alive, creeping. The soft hum of the fan is a low lullaby, but it does nothing to drown out the thoughts—those constant whispers swirling in your head. Tomorrow. School. Year 12. Again.

It’s been over a year since you stepped foot on that campus. A year since you let yourself get swallowed by the mess of everything. A year since you’d lost the routine, the noise, the mundane heartbeat of school life. And now, here you were, on the edge of it all again. You hadn’t meant to go back. You thought you were done with it, done with pretending that it all mattered, that you could still be part of that world..

You were supposed to repeat with Yujin - It wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy, this overwhelming, but somehow it did. You weren’t sure if you were going because you had to, or because maybe, just maybe, it was the only thing left to do.

You close your eyes, try to push away the sick feeling in your stomach. You’d been here before—feeling like you were standing on the edge of something, waiting to either fall or fly. But all you could hear was the weight of the past dragging you down. Every decision you’d made up until now felt like a chain, holding you back. School. Yujin. Riki. Everything tangled in one big mess.

Tomorrow would come, whether you were ready or not. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were ready. But maybe that’s just how life goes—nothing’s ever clean, nothing’s ever certain. You’d face it when you had to.

For now, all you could do was try to drown out the chaos in your mind and find a way to sleep.

The hallways feel tighter than you remember. The walls press in, the air thick with whispers—soft, sharp, all of them curling around you like smoke.

You keep your head down, gripping the strap of your bag so tight your knuckles ache. Every step feels like walking into a spotlight. They’re staring. Of course, they are.

You weren’t supposed to come back.

A group by the lockers goes quiet as you pass. Someone mutters your name like a ghost story, like you’re some urban legend they didn’t think they’d ever see again. Your skin prickles, but you keep walking.

Yujin is somewhere in this school. She said she’d meet you, but you haven’t seen her yet. You don’t want to stand still long enough for someone to work up the courage to talk to you, to ask where you’ve been, why you’re back, if you’re still the same person who disappeared last year.

Then, just as you turn the corner, you see him.

Riki.

Leaning against the lockers, head tilted down as he scrolls through his phone. Same uniform, same messy hair, same quiet pull that makes your stomach twist. He looks up just as you pass, and for a second, everything stops.

His eyes flicker with something—surprise, maybe. Or something heavier. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t make this a moment.

But the problem with Riki is that everything with him feels like a moment.

And now you’re standing there, waiting for him to say something, to acknowledge you, to give you something to hold onto.

But he just exhales, pushing off the locker.

"You’re actually here," he says, voice unreadable.

"Guess so," you murmur.

Another pause. The weight of the past months hang between you, unspoken.

Then, he huffs out a laugh—not amused, not really. Just… tired.

"Good luck," he mutters before walking past you.

And just like that, he’s gone.

You should’ve known better than to expect anything more.

The day drags. Every second stretches, thick and unbearable, like wading through wet cement. The classrooms are too bright, too loud, too full of things you don’t remember how to deal with. Teachers glance at you like they’re trying to piece together a story they never got the ending to.

You don’t talk. Don’t raise your hand. Don’t even pretend to take notes. You just sit there, feeling the weight of all those eyes—not always on you, but close enough that it doesn’t matter.

Every bell makes your stomach twist. Every shift in the room feels like it’s aimed at you. The world had moved on without you, and now you were trying to wedge yourself back in, but everything felt off. The desks are smaller than you remember. The air, heavier. The clock, impossibly slow.

You hear your name whispered twice in the span of third period. You don’t turn around.

By the time lunch rolls around, your hands are clammy, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. You don’t even know where to go. 

You hesitate in the hallway, stuck between choices that all feel wrong. The cafeteria? Too many people. The courtyard? Too open. The bathrooms? Too obvious.

You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag, trying to keep your breathing steady. You just have to get through today. That’s it. Just one day.

But even as you think it, you can’t shake the feeling that you don’t belong here. Not anymore.

Then—just as you’re about to give up and bolt, just as your ribs feel too tight around your lungs—Yujin finds you.

She slides up beside you like she never left, like there isn’t an ocean of time and silence between now and the last time you really spoke. "You look like you're about to pass out," she mutters, barely moving her lips.

You exhale, sharp and shaky. "Feel like it too."

She tilts her head toward the hallway. "Come on."

You don’t ask where you’re going. You just follow.

The bathroom is empty when you slip inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly. Yujin locks the stall behind you, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her skirt pocket. The smell of cheap perfume and industrial cleaner clings to the air, but the moment she flicks the lighter, all of it gets swallowed up by the familiar burn of nicotine.

She takes the first drag, leaning against the wall like she’s done this a million times. Probably has. She passes it to you, and you take it without thinking, pressing the filter between your lips, inhaling until the smoke curls warm in your lungs.

The silence sits between you, not uncomfortable, but not quite easy either.

"You surviving?" she asks finally.

You breathe out a slow stream of smoke, watching it twist up toward the ceiling. "Barely."

She snorts, flicking ash into the toilet. "Yeah, well. What else is new?"

You pass the cigarette back and let your head tip against the wall. For the first time all day, the tightness in your chest loosens just a little.

Maybe you can survive this. Maybe.

The peace doesn’t last.

You hear the door creak open, the sharp click of heels against the tile, and then—

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Yujin shoves the cigarette behind her back, but it’s useless. The smoke still lingers, thick and incriminating, curling in the air like a signature to your crime.

Ms. Lee stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression tight with disappointment. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t need to. The look she gives you is enough to make your stomach drop.

"Both of you. Principal’s office. Now."

The walk there is silent, the weight of your fate pressing against your shoulders with every step. You can feel the stares, the hushed whispers as you pass. They probably think it’s funny. The girl who disappeared, back for a day and already getting sent home.

You and Yujin don’t talk while you sit outside the office. She just picks at her nail polish, smirking like she doesn’t care, like this is just another Tuesday for her. Maybe it is.

But for you? It feels like the beginning of the end.

Your mom is waiting for you when you get home.

You barely step inside before she starts.

"Three day suspension."

Her voice is soft, but it slices through the stale air of the apartment. She stands in the kitchen, arms braced against the counter like she needs the support to keep herself from coming at you full force.

"One day. You couldn’t even last one damn day before screwing up again?"

You don’t say anything. Just toe off your shoes, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

She lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "I should’ve known. Should’ve never let them convince me you could handle it."

Something in your chest twists, hot and humiliating. "Its not even a big deal.” you mutter, avoiding her sharp gaze.

She narrows her eyes. "Don’t you start with that attitude—"

"What attitude?" You snap, dropping your bag onto the floor with a thud. "The one where I already know what you’re gonna say? Where I already know I’m a disappointment? Save your breath, I’ve heard it all before."

Your mom exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s tired of you, like you’re some burden she got stuck with. "Jesus Christ, y/n. Do you even care? About school, about your life? Or are you just gonna keep throwing it all away?"

You don’t wait for her to say anything else. You just turn and walk away, your vision blurring at the edges, your throat so tight it feels like you might choke on all the things you want to say but can’t.

The bathroom door slams behind you, the sound echoing off the tiles. You grip the edges of the sink, knuckles white, chest heaving. The mirror in front of you reflects back a version of yourself you barely recognize—red-rimmed eyes, a face twisted with something you don’t want to name.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It doesn’t help.

The first sob rips through you before you can stop it, raw and sudden, and your shoulders start to shake as the weight of everything—today, this house, yourself—comes crashing down all at once. It’s like a wave hitting before you even see it coming, and you’re too tired to stand against it.

You press a trembling hand over your mouth, like that might somehow keep it all inside, but it’s useless. The sound escapes anyway—choked and broken—and your breath catches on the edges of it.

You crouch down where you are, knees to your chest, mind racing in frantic loops that go nowhere. The room feels too quiet now, too still. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The tick of the clock on the wall. All of it feels like it's pressing in, reminding you you're here, you're stuck, and there's no one to stop the spiral.

when will it stop?

when will i be better?

Through the window, the dim streetlamp casts a cold, eerie blue across the floor, stretching long shadows across the room like fingers reaching toward you. It makes everything look unreal—like you're watching yourself from outside your own body. The walls seem to pulse with memories you don't want to remember, and in that strange, flickering light, the silence feels alive.

You wake up in your bed, disoriented, your mind slow to catch up with your body. The sheets are tangled around your legs, and the pillow beneath your head is damp. You’re not sure how you got here.

The sunlight streams through the curtains in soft, golden shafts, too bright, too gentle for the way you feel. You sit up slowly, your limbs heavy and uncooperative, like they belong to someone else. Your legs tremble slightly as you swing them over the side of the bed—jello.

You shuffle down the hall to the bathroom, dragging your feet along the wood floor, the air cool against your skin. Flicking on the light, you squint at your reflection. Your eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, shadowed by the night before. Mascara is smudged beneath them, like bruises blooming out of nowhere.

You sigh, quietly. The sound echoes too loud in the tiled room. Reaching for the concealer, you dab it on with practiced fingers—like that might smooth everything over, like it might erase the cracks beneath your skin. You run a hand through your hair, trying to tame the knots and flyaways, but it feels pointless.

Your phone buzzes silently on the dresser, screen lighting up just enough to catch your eye as you shuffle back into your room. You grab it instinctively, not even checking the caller ID before pressing it to your ear.

“Hello?” you mutter, voice hoarse, still thick with sleep and the remnants of everything you felt last night.

For a moment, there's only silence—then a low grunt, muffled like someone shifting the phone against their shoulder.

“We need to talk. I’ll pick you up in 20,” Riki mumbles, voice low, like he’s half-distracted, half-determined. You hear the dull thump of footsteps, a door slamming shut, and then nothing.

“O-okay,” you whisper, trying to make sense of what’s just happened. But before the word is even fully out of your mouth, the line goes dead.

You stand there for a second, phone still pressed to your ear, heartbeat beginning to pick up.

Then you move.

Rushing back into the bathroom, you scrub away the concealer you had just lazily patted on and start over. You even curl your lashes this time, trying not to poke yourself in the eye as your hands tremble slightly. You brush your hair more carefully now, pulling it back and then letting it fall again, unsure what feels more like you. Or at least, the version of you he might be expecting.

When you check the time again, you curse under your breath—you’ve only got five minutes left.

You yank open your closet and grab the first outfit that feels wrong for school—something you’d never dare to wear in the halls with all those eyes watching. But today? Who cares. You pull it on fast, not even bothering to second-guess yourself. There’s no time for that.

You grab your phone, your keys, and one last breath before stepping toward whatever’s waiting outside.

Your fingers fumble as you slip your phone into your pocket, pulse ticking fast under your skin. You catch your reflection in the mirror one last time—eyes still a little tired, but sharper now, guarded. There's a part of you that wants to crawl back under the covers, pretend none of this is happening. But the louder part—the one tugging at your ribs like a thread unraveling—needs to know what Riki meant.

You rush downstairs, skipping the last two steps, landing with a soft thud. The house is quiet. No one’s home. It’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s watching you. You glance toward the kitchen, consider grabbing something to eat, then don’t. Your stomach twists at the thought.

Outside, the sun is still bright, but the world feels dimmer than it should. You pull your jacket tighter around you even though it’s not cold. There's a faint breeze that carries the scent of pavement, fresh grass, and something warmer—exhaust, maybe, or summer.

A car pulls up.

It’s Riki.

He’s behind the wheel of Sunghoon’s beat-up sedan, one hand draped over the wheel, the other flicking ash from a half-burnt cigarette out the window. His hoodie is pulled over messy dark hair, his face half-hidden by the shadow of the visor. The setting sun bleeds through the windshield, tinting everything in a hazy, burnt orange. 

You hesitate, tongue running over your teeth, fingers tightening around the hem of your hoodie. Then, without thinking too hard, you walk over. The gravel crunches under your sneakers. You yank open the passenger door, slide in.

Riki doesn’t look at you. Just keeps his gaze on the road, jaw tight. The air inside smells like old fast food, cheap cologne, the sharp sting of cigarette smoke.

Neither of you speak. The silence sits heavy, pressing down on your ribs.

Then—finally—he exhales, voice rough. “I’m sorry.”

It takes you a second to process the words. You blink, staring at the dashboard.

“For what?” Your voice is flat, but you already know the answer.

 For leaving you to drown. For disappearing. For acting like it never happened.

“For not being there like you were for me.”

You suck in a sharp breath, pressing your nails into your palms. You should say something, scream at him, hit him, do something, but you just sit there.

The silence stretches, thick as smoke.

You inhale sharply, then - "Why didn’t you call?”

Your voice cracks. Pathetic. You hate it.

Riki shifts, fingers tightening around the wheel. He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know.” His voice is quieter now, barely there. “I wanted to. So many times. I just…” He trails off.

“But you didn’t.”

His grip on the wheel tightens. “No.”

You press your knuckles against your lips, trying to stop the burning behind your eyes. “I hated you for that.”

Riki flinches. His jaw clenches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just nods. “I know.”

The car slows at a red light, the glow staining his skin blood-red. Outside, people exist in a different world—laughing, walking, breathing, living. You watch them, your pulse pounding in your throat.

You swallow hard. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Riki nods again, his fingers twitching against the wheel. “I know.”

The light turns green.

The car moves forward, but you don’t. You stay right there, stuck in the wreckage of everything unsaid.

Riki sighs, voice barely holding together. “That night—”

“What?” you cut him off, voice rising sharp and broken. “Seriously? There’s nothing else to explain. It’s been months, Riki. You left me fucking alone.” The tears are hot now, falling fast, burning down your cheeks like acid. “Do you know how frustrating that was? Do you even care?”

He flinches, but says nothing.

“I lost everyone, and I needed you—” Your voice catches, the sob hitting before you can stop it. You press your sleeve to your face, shaking now, the tears soaking through the fabric.

Riki stares straight ahead, jaw clenched.

“We barely knew each other—” he blurts suddenly, too loud, too fast. His grip tightens around the steering wheel, knuckles going pale.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “Three weeks,” you hiss, voice raw. “Three fucking weeks I lived with you. I told you everything—everything—about my life. And yeah, maybe that was stupid. Maybe I trusted you too much. But you know what?” You point at him, finger trembling. “That’s on you. That’s your fault for letting me.”

Riki’s eyes narrow. “I never fucking asked you to tell me that shit.” His voice is harsh now, like gravel. “You were just there. Lounging around my house, following me and my friends like you belonged. And then you tried to crawl into my business—”

“You mean care about you?” you shoot back. “I cared, and you made me feel like shit for it.”

“I don’t let people tell me what the fuck to do with my life,” he snaps. “You think just because you were hurting, I was supposed to fix it? You dumped your problems on me and then got pissed when I didn’t save you.”

The words hit you like a slap. You’re breathing hard now, heart in your throat.

Let me out.”

Your voice trembles, quieter than before, almost hollow. The tears have stopped, but the aftermath clings to your skin—tight and cold.

Riki’s eyes flick over to you, softer now, desperate. “Y/n—c’mon…”

“Let me out.” The words hit harder this time, sharp like glass. You’ve picked the wound raw, and now it’s bleeding—metaphorically, maybe literally. You pull your sleeves down over your hands, trying to hide the shaking, the damage.

“Please… we can talk this out. I’m sorry, okay? I mean it,” he says, his voice cracking around the edges.

Your hand curls into a fist. “Let me the fuck out before I make you crash this fucking car.”

That does it. He sighs—this broken, bitter thing—and pulls over, tires crunching against the shoulder gravel. The car jerks slightly as it slows to a stop.

You fumble with the seatbelt, fingers trembling, breath uneven. His voice is still reaching for you, pleading behind you, but it’s all muffled, like your ears are underwater. You push the door open and stumble out, the rush of fresh air hitting you like a slap.

Leaning back in, you grab your stuff—your bag, your hoodie, whatever you came with. He watches, silent now, like he knows there's nothing left to say.

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he murmurs.

You don’t even flinch. You just slam the door shut.

Then you're walking, fast, like you can outrun all of it—the words, the pain, him. The sunlight is blinding, almost cruel in how bright it is, like the world is still spinning when yours has cracked open and caved in.

Tears pool again, stinging behind your eyes. You blink them away. You’re done crying.

You just keep walking.

She found you by a bridge.

It wasn’t what she thought—it never was. You were just trying to clear your head, though even that felt like a lie lately.

The first thing Yujin noticed were the pills—half-crushed, scattered like confessions you never meant to speak—and the beer cans, some still rolling lazily on the concrete as if they hadn’t decided whether to stay or leave. The air was heavy with something unspoken, sharp and metallic, like the tail end of a storm.

You didn’t move when she approached. Just glanced up, the dim streetlight above flickering like it couldn’t quite stay awake. It cast long shadows across your face, turning your features hollow, your eyes unreadable. You looked… off. Not sad, not angry—just far away. Like you’d already left and left your body behind.

“We’ve grown apart,” Yujin said softly, sitting beside you with a careful space in between. She didn’t reach for you. Maybe she didn’t know how anymore.

There was a silence thick enough to drown in. Then, finally: “I miss you, Y/N.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Maybe because you were trying to find the right words. Maybe because there weren’t any. Or maybe because you didn’t know if you missed her, or if you just missed feeling something at all.

Did you really grow apart from Yujin?

Or did you just grow apart from the world?

But she didn’t leave. She stayed—quiet, still. Not just in that moment, but in all the moments before it too. You realized, in some strange way, that she’d never left at all.

Maybe being a teenager isn’t about figuring everything out. Maybe it’s just about learning how to stay. Or maybe it’s about accepting that some people do.

So sometime in those minutes—or maybe it was hours—you let your shoulders soften, the knot in your chest loosen just a little. You didn’t say a word. Just leaned your head against her shoulder as the sun melted into the horizon, painting the world in amber and rust.

And she let you. 

You don’t remember who stood up first. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was you. But at some point, your legs carried you both home—slowly, like you were trying not to scare the moment away.

The streets were almost empty. The kind of quiet that only exists between dusk and full nightfall, when everything holds its breath and waits. Yujin didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. Her presence was enough. It always had been. Somewhere along the way, her hand brushed yours—not by accident, but not quite on purpose either. Just… there.

Yujin slept over that night. She laid on one side, and you on the other, both staring up at the ceiling like it might tell you something important if you looked long enough.

Then, slowly, without a word, you turned toward her. Her eyes were already on you.

“It’s weird,” you whispered, voice rough. “I didn’t think I could still feel this okay.”

Yujin smiled—not a big one, just a soft, sleepy curve of her lips. “That’s not weird. That’s what I’m here for.”

You laughed under your breath. A real one. Small, but real.

Eventually, you shifted closer, tucked yourself into the space between her arm and her shoulder. Her warmth bled into yours, and it didn’t feel forced or awkward. It felt right. Like breathing. Like something you forgot you needed.

No one said anything else after that. There was no need to. The TV played something in the background—some dumb romcom you’d both already seen—but your eyes were already closing. For the first time in a long while, your chest didn’t feel like it was caving in. The sadness was still there, sure, but quieter now. Dull around the edges.

And as sleep pulled you under, all you could think was:

I feel okay.

I feel okay, and I’m not alone.

And that was enough.

It was sometime after midnight when your phone buzzed against the nightstand. One sharp vibration, then nothing.

You stirred, barely awake, the soft hum of the TV still playing in the background. Yujin was asleep beside you, her breathing slow and steady. Her presence wrapped around you like a blanket—comforting, grounding. For a second, you considered ignoring it. Whatever it was could wait.

But something tugged at you.

You reached over, screen lighting up the dark room.

Riki [12:12am] come outside.

Just two words. No explanation, no emojis, not even a period. Typical.

You stared at the message, heart ticking a little faster. You hadn’t heard from him in a while. Not really. There were periods of silence, vague Instagram likes, the occasional hallway glance that lingered just a second too long. But this felt different. Immediate. Like something was waiting.

You glanced at Yujin.

She didn’t stir.

Quietly, carefully, you slipped out from the warmth of the blankets, grabbing your hoodie off the floor. The night air hit you the moment you opened the front door—cool and sharp, like it knew a secret you didn’t.

He was there. Leaning under the streetlamp at the corner, hoodie pulled low, a hand tucked into his pocket. His head lifted as you approached, face shadowed but familiar.

"Hey," you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a second—long enough to make your stomach twist with something you couldn’t quite name. Then he nodded toward the sidewalk.

“Walk with me?”

You hesitated, just a second. But then your feet were already moving.

Maybe it was the way the night felt like it belonged to just the two of you.

Maybe it was the way he didn’t explain, and you didn’t ask.

Maybe it was because some people, no matter how far you drift, always find their way back to you.

Or maybe it was just Riki.

You walked in silence for what felt like hours—feet moving instinctively, hands buried deep in your sleeves. The streets were quiet, the world wrapped in that strange kind of stillness that only existed when it was too late to be early and too early to be late.

Riki stayed just a step ahead of you, never too far, but never quite close enough either. You could hear the scuff of his shoes on the pavement, the rhythm of his breathing. You hated how familiar it still was.

And you hated even more how much you missed it.

The words burned your throat before you let them out. “What did you need to say to me?” It came out softer than you'd meant. He had hurt you, after all. Not just once. Not in loud, dramatic ways—but in the slow, silent ones that linger long after the door’s closed.

He stopped walking. You nearly bumped into him.

“Y/N—” he said, voice thick as he turned toward you. “I’m sorry.”

Two words. Nothing poetic. Nothing rehearsed.

But they hit you like a sucker punch.

Even in the dim, flickering light of the lamppost above, you could see the weight he carried in his eyes. The way they glassed over like he wasn’t just saying it for your forgiveness—he was saying it because it had been rotting in his chest, waiting to be said.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. The silence rushed back in, louder this time.

“I didn’t know how to fix it,” he continued, voice lower now. “So I did nothing. Which was worse. I know that.”

You stood there, frozen under the dull glow of the streetlight. The wind stirred gently around you, catching the loose strands of your hair and brushing them across your face like the night itself was holding its breath.

Riki looked at you like he was afraid you might vanish. Like if he blinked, you’d dissolve into the guilt he’d been carrying since everything fell apart.

“I meant it,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You didn’t say anything. Not at first.

But then your feet were moving. Not away—toward him. And before your head could catch up, before your fears could pull you back—you reached for him. Your hands curled into the front of his hoodie, and his breath hitched.

Then you kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t practiced or clean or anything you’d seen in the movies. It was messy, like the way you’d both fallen apart. Hesitant, like you were still learning each other again. But it was real.

His hands hovered at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Then they found your waist, gently, almost reverent. He kissed you like he was afraid this would be the last time. You kissed him like you needed it to be a beginning.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you still catching your breath.

You didn’t know what came next—if this would last, or if you’d both fall apart all over again. But in that moment, none of it mattered.

Because for the first time in a long time, the past wasn’t choking you. The future wasn’t terrifying.

There was only now.

And now felt like enough.

He walked you home, your hands brushing now and then, your steps slow and a little uneven, like neither of you really wanted to say goodbye just yet. The streets were quiet, but your heart wasn’t—it was loud, still thudding with everything you hadn’t fully processed yet. The kiss, his apology, the way it all felt like something you could finally breathe inside of.

When you finally reached your front door, Riki gave you one last soft smile, eyes lingering like he wanted to say something more—but didn’t need to.

You slipped inside, shut the door behind you, and then—

“Yujin!!!” you burst into your room, voice high and wild with joy.

She stirred in bed, blinking blearily as you jumped beside her like a kid hopped up on sugar and adrenaline.

“He kissed me! He kissed me!”

You flopped back onto the bed dramatically, a goofy grin stretched across your face, giggling in that dizzy, breathless kind of way you hadn’t felt in so long it almost startled you.

Yujin groaned, rolling over with one eye open. “Wait—what? Who kissed you? What time is it?” Her voice was raspy with sleep, but she was already sitting up halfway, her brain doing the math. Then her jaw dropped. “Riki?!”

You nodded so fast your hair whipped your face. “Yes! Yes yes yes!”

Yujin blinked again, then let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “Oh my god—you’re glowing. You’re literally glowing right now.”

“I know,” you squealed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to your chest. “It was just… perfect. Not in a movie-perfect way but… like, real.”

Yujin smiled, fully awake now, her eyes softening as she watched you. “You look the happiest you’ve been in forever.”

You paused, biting your lip. “I think I am.”

And maybe you didn’t know what came next. But in that moment—with your best friend beside you, and your heart still racing with something that felt like hope—you didn’t need to.

You don’t quite remember how you ended up here. In his bed. On his lap.

The smoke from the blunt swirled up, weaving through the stillness of the room, mixing with the soft moonlight spilling in through the window. There’s something slow about the way the world feels right now, like time is stretching and snapping back in pieces. You can almost taste the air—thick with that sweet, hazy scent.

Riki takes a hit, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, the faint glow of the blunt casting shadows over his face. His eyes—half-closed, heavy with something you can’t quite name—fall to your lips. He leans in, just barely, his breath warm against your skin. The exhale comes soft, a whisper of smoke that touches your lips just as lightly as his fingers might.

Everything feels slow—but it’s not a bad kind of slow. It’s the kind of slow that makes you lean in, that pulls the edge of your consciousness just a little closer to something that might break. His face is close now, just enough to make your heart skip a beat. That space between you both is charged, electric, and the words seem to hover, waiting for permission.

“Can I kiss you?”

His voice is rough, like it’s been waiting for that question to leave his mouth. It feels like a dare. A quiet challenge. But it’s also something more—something tender, hidden behind the boldness. You can see it in the way his eyes flicker to yours, then back to your lips, the way his fingers twitch just below your waist like he’s waiting for you to decide.

And for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. Everything is blurred—your thoughts, your emotions, the space between you. But then his hand moves just a little closer, his thumb brushing against the skin of your side, and you realize, you do know.

You nod, just once, so small, but enough for him to catch. It’s all you need to say, and everything in the room shifts when you do. You can feel the tension snapping between you like a wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t wait any longer.

His lips are gentle at first, brushing against yours with the care of someone who’s afraid to break something precious. The kiss is soft, almost too soft, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you let him in—his breath mixing with yours, his lips warm and just a little too hesitant.

But then it deepens. It’s slow. It’s real. The world outside his room doesn’t matter anymore. All that exists is the way his fingers press into your skin, the heat of his body beneath yours, and the way he holds you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. The kiss speaks louder than words, louder than anything you’ve said to each other all night.

He sat back against the headboard, one hand holding the blunt to his lips, the other tangling in your hair as you knelt between his legs. The room was filled with the scent of weed, making your head spin

You looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes dark with desire. He took another drag of the blunt, his eyes never leaving yours as you pulled down his boxers. You didn't hesitate. You leaned forward, running your tongue along the length of him, from base to tip. He groaned, his grip on your hair tightening. You took him into your mouth, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat.

You bobbed your head up and down, taking him deeper each time. Your hand came up to stroke what you couldn't fit in your mouth, twisting and turning as you worked him over. His soft groans filled the room,  your eyes watered, your mascara running down your face

"Fuck, I'm going to cum," he warned, his voice strained

You didn't pull away. Instead, you took him as deep as you could, wanting to taste him, to feel him pulse in your throat. He let out a guttural groan as he came, his cum spilling down your throat. You swallowed every drop, licking him clean as he shuddered through his orgasm.

He reached for you, pulling you up on his lap.  "Fuck you’re so beautiful" he murmured, his thumb brushing along your cheek, wiping off the mascara streaking down.

He took another hit, the smoke passing into your mouth before the kiss — slow and reckless, like the world could end right there and you'd still go back for more. His lips were ash and apologies he’d never say, and yours were cracked from all the things you couldn’t swallow.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

The morning is soft — not golden, not loud with birdsong or sunbeams slicing through the curtains — just soft, like the world remembered to breathe for once. You wake to warmth before awareness, to the quiet sound of his breathing steady against your back. His arm is draped over your waist, his fingers twitching slightly like he’s still dreaming, still reaching.

The sheets smell like him — laundry detergent, faint smoke, something citrusy he’d deny wearing if you asked. You shift slightly and feel him stir, his grip tightening just a little, like he thought you might vanish if he let go.

"Morning," comes his voice, rasped and barely awake, pressed into your hair. It's the kind of sound that makes your ribs ache in the best way.

You don’t turn around yet. You just hum, let your hand trace lazy lines over the back of his, tangled with yours. His thumb brushes over your skin in return, like it’s saying what he can’t.

"You drool," he mutters, teasing, but the grin you can hear in his voice is laced with something softer, something almost shy.

You finally twist in his arms, nose to nose, and he blinks at you — messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, that boy who never lets anyone see past his walls. But here he is. Bare. Honest.

"I only drool when I’m comfortable," you murmur.

"So... you’re comfortable?"

"Yeah," you say, voice quieter now. "With you."

The morning spills into noon like honey — slow, golden, and just a little bit sticky.

Eventually, your stomach grumbles loud enough to make Riki laugh against your neck, muffled and amused. He pulls away from the cocoon of warmth, hair a mess and throws on a shirt that was draped over a chair, stretching like a cat before tossing you one of his hoodies without a word. It’s huge, draping over your thighs, swallowing you whole — and you swear he smirks just a little too long when he sees you in it.

"Come on," he says, tugging your hand. "Let’s feed that monster in your stomach before it starts talking in tongues."

The floor creaks beneath your feet as you follow Riki into the kitchen, hoodie swallowing your frame, socks collecting dust and God-knows-what from the cold tile. There’s a busted speaker still whispering someone’s playlist from last night, all chopped and screwed, the bass low like a heartbeat under the floorboards. The air tastes like leftover smoke, burnt edges, and cheap liquor no one finished.

The kitchen’s barely a kitchen — cracked counters, and dishes piled high like a sculpture of regret. Still, Riki moves like he owns it, like he’s memorized every broken drawer and flickering lightbulb. He grabs a pan with one hand, nudges a beer can off the stove with the other.

You sit on the counter beside an old ashtray and somebody’s leftover blunt. "You sure it’s safe to cook in here?"

Riki smirks, already lighting the burner. "Safe? No. But you trust me, right?"

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move. The gas hisses to life and the pan heats with a vengeance. He starts cracking eggs into a pot like it’s therapy, tossing in cold rice and whatever’s not expired. He finds some spam and a half-empty bottle of soy sauce, mixing it all together like this was the plan all along.

"Aight, stir this," he tells you, passing over the spatula, his fingers brushing yours. The moment stretches, then snaps like a rubber band when you hear the front door slam open.

In stumbles Sunghoon, shirt wrinkled, pants halfway zipped, and a girl clinging to his arm like she doesn't even remember how she got here. Her lashes are smudged, heels in hand, and she gives the room a once-over like she’s seen better and worse all in the same night.

"Why is it always smellin’ like regret in here?" Riki mutters without looking up.

"Because you live here," Sunghoon fires back, slumping into a kitchen chair like gravity personally hates him. "And because I’m God’s favorite mistake."

Riki snorts. "You’re not even in His top five."

The girl disappears into the bathroom, and Sunghoon finally notices you — his eyes narrow, then widen, like he’s tryna solve a riddle without all the clues.

"Yo," he says, smirking. "You stayed?"

You nod slowly, tossing the rice mixture in the pan. "I guess I did."

He whistles low, glancing at Riki. "Damn. You let her see the kitchen? That’s basically a marriage proposal in this house."

"Shut the fuck up," Riki grumbles, but there’s no bite in it. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s tryna hide something warm behind his usual sharp edges.

Sunghoon leans back, stretching. "You makin’ enough for three?"

"Nah," Riki says. "You can starve."

You slide a plate toward Sunghoon anyway. "Don’t be dramatic. We got enough for a last meal."

He grins. "That’s sweet. Hope I die by lunch."

“Does your girlfriend want some?”

“Nah. she's boutta leave anyway”

You all eat out of chipped bowls, legs tucked up on busted chairs, the sunlight leaking through grime-smeared blinds like it’s trying to purify the place and failing gloriously. Riki sits beside you, knees brushing, his thigh warm against yours, eyes low and calm. His hoodie still hangs off your frame like it belongs there.

And even though the house is falling apart around the edges, even though every surface tells a story you probably shouldn’t hear — right here, right now?

It feels a little like home.

“We should probably get to school,” Riki mutters, like it’s an afterthought, like reality’s something he keeps trying to forget but it keeps knocking anyway. He chucks his bowl into the sink — not rinsed, just tossed, landing with a hollow clank against a tower of dishes no one’s gonna touch anytime soon.

You blink. School? That word feel foreign in your mouth now. Like a language you haven’t spoken in days.

Sunghoon groans from the floor where he’s now sprawled out dramatically, a dish towel over his face like it’s a funeral shroud. “What is school, even? Is that a drug? Can I snort it?”

“You snorted school spirit once,” Riki deadpans, grabbing a half-dead pack of gum off the counter and stuffing two pieces in his mouth. He offers you one with a nudge.

You take it, chewing slow as the weight of his words catches up. School. That hallway hellscape of fluorescent lights, fake smiles, and teachers who don’t ask if you’re okay — just why your assignments are late.

“Do we have to?” you ask, your voice quiet like a dare. “We could stay here. Watch the ceiling peel. Count the cracks in the walls. Kiss again.”

Riki stops, gum halfway chewed, eyes flicking up to yours like you just reached into his chest and rearranged something.

A beat. Then a breath.

He leans in, thumb brushing your jaw, voice low. “If you ask me like that again, I swear to God I’ll skip the whole week.”

"Then skip."

But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he pulls back, rubbing at his neck with that familiar nervous energy, that boy-always-on-the-edge energy.

“I got a quiz in second period,” he mumbles.

“Since when do you care about quizzes?”

He shrugs. “Since you started sittin’ next to me in class.”

You blink at him, heart doing that annoying skip-step, and Sunghoon groans again from the floor like he’s physically ill from the tension.

“Jesus Christ, get a room. Not this one, though. I live here.”

Riki throws a dishrag at his face, then looks back at you, softer now. “Come with me?”

You look up at him, groaning. “Fine!!” The word stretches into a giggle before you can swallow it, breathless and sweet, and that’s all the permission he needs.

Riki grins — wide, wolfish, like a dare — then scoops you up with no warning. Your arms fly around his neck on instinct, laughter tumbling out as your legs dangle, the hallway a blur of peeling paint and flickering light as he carries you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You're insane," you mutter into his shoulder.

"And you stayed the night," he fires back, kicking open his bedroom door with the heel of his foot. "So what does that make you?"

"Hopeless," you say, not even trying to deny it.

His room’s a war zone — hoodies draped over speakers, socks that may or may not be alive, a mattress barely clinging to its frame. The sheets are still twisted from where you both crashed last night, the echo of shared warmth still lingering in the folds.

He drops you on the bed like a sack of sin and chaos, and you bounce with a yelp, grinning as you scramble to throw on the sweatpants you abandoned somewhere around midnight. You swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, using the corner of your sleeve as a mirror substitute, while Riki’s zipping around the room like a storm with a deadline — shoving notebooks, chargers, probably a lighter, into his half-broken school bag.

"Where’s my—" he mumbles, digging under a hoodie.

"In your shoe," you call out, already knowing what he’s looking for.

He blinks. "How do you know that?"

You shrug. "I watch you. You’re a mess."

"And yet..." He tosses you a hoodie that smells like yesterday’s cologne and cigarettes. "You like me anyway."

You tug it over your head, the collar still warm from him. "Don’t push it, Nishimura."

He smirks, slinging the bag over his shoulder, watching you fix your hair in his cracked mirror, like he's committing this version of you to memory — barefaced, wrapped in his clothes, unfiltered by the world outside.

Days later, you were on Yujin’s bed, legs tangled in a mess of her throw blankets and cigarette-scented sweaters, half-scrolling through your phone like you were waiting for something—maybe a reason to leave, maybe a reason to stay.

Then her phone lit up. She tapped it once, twice. Eyes skimming the screen, lips curling like she was trying not to smile too hard.

“Jay just texted,” she said, tossing her phone toward you like it was no big deal, like her heart didn’t just skip. “He wants us to come out. Downtown. Says Riki’s gonna be there.”

You tried to act normal, but your breath caught like it always did when his name slid into the room.

“Are we going?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

Yujin giggled. “Obviously!!” she shrieked

The city hit different at night — smelled like gasoline and cheap perfume and something almost holy. The kind of holy that don’t forgive.

You and Yujin found them leaning outside a liquor store, lit under a flickering sign that read OPEN in dying red. Jay spotted you first, lifting two fingers in a lazy wave.

Riki didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t read his face — not in the half-light, not ever, really — but something in your chest tugged like a thread being pulled loose.

“You showed,” he said finally, voice low, a small smile on his face, as you stepped in front of him.

Jay was crouching on the pavement, cough syrup in one hand, a bottle of sprite in another. You glanced down at him giggling, before turning back to riki. 

“Of course I came.” you smiled up at him, your body dangerously close to his. 

Your words curled in the air between you, soft and slow, like honey dripping off the edge of a spoon — sticky, sweet, impossible to ignore.

Riki’s eyes flicked down to your mouth for a fraction of a second too long. The kind of look that said he noticed everything, even the things you didn’t mean to give away.

“Didn’t think you would,” he murmured, like it was some quiet confession he hadn’t meant to say out loud. But it hung there anyway, thick with something unspoken.

Jay popped up between you like a devil on your shoulder, eyes glazed, smile all teeth.

“Y’all done eye-fucking or what?” he said, laughing like he knew exactly what kind of fire he was throwing gasoline on. He shoved the bottle toward Riki. “Here. Pass it around. Let’s get lit.”

Riki took the lean without looking at Jay — eyes still locked on you, like you were the only one here that mattered. He tilted the bottle back, took a sip, tongue darting out after like he was tasting it, weighing it. Then another. Slow. Deliberate. Eyes dragging down your face like he was looking for a crack to slip into.

He handed it to you next.

“Your turn,” he said, voice just above the hum of passing cars.

You drank, one sip, then two — the syrup clinging to your lips like violet honey, sweet and dangerous. You didn’t break eye contact either. Wouldn’t give him that power.

Riki reached for it again, fingers brushing yours when he took it back. The touch was brief, but your skin sparked like static beneath it. He drank again, and then—

“C’mere,” he murmured, stepping closer, bottle in one hand, the other brushing your waist like an afterthought that wasn’t.

You tilted your head back without asking.

He poured it slow, a thin stream of purple slipping past your lips. You swallowed, throat working around the warmth of it, the burn. His eyes dropped, watching you like you were something divine and destructive all at once.

“Another?” he asked, voice low, breath catching somewhere between curiosity and challenge.

You nodded.

He poured again. Slower this time. Lazier. And when it slipped down your throat, his gaze followed like he could feel it too.

“Damn,” Jay muttered somewhere behind y’all, but it felt like the city had gone quiet. Like it was just you and Riki, tethered by syrup and silence.

He finally leaned in, breath brushing your ear. “You keep drinkin’ like that, I’ma start thinkin’ you like me.”

You smiled, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb, tongue catching the last of the flavor.

“Maybe I do.”

He laughed — low, surprised, like he didn’t expect you to say it out loud. But he didn’t pull away.

And neither did you.

Downtown spread out in front of you like a playground built for the damned. Streetlights flickered like dying stars, and everything buzzed — the pavement, the power lines, the blood in your veins.

Yujin hooked her arm through yours, giggling so hard she almost tripped on the curb. “I swear to God, the sidewalk just moved.”

Jay was ahead, dancing in the middle of the street like he was performing for a crowd that wasn’t there, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, still sipping from the half-empty bottle like it was his baby. “This city loves us!” he shouted, spinning with his arms wide open. “We’re the fuckin’ main characters, bro!”

“Main characters with liver damage,” Riki muttered beside you, but there was a smirk on his lips — lazy and crooked, eyes soft and heavy under the streetlight glow.

You were all high as hell. Everything felt slow and fast at once — like running underwater, like laughing mid-fall.

Yujin pulled you into a corner store with the OPEN sign blinking erratically, grabbing a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and a pair of $3 sunglasses shaped like stars. She put them on backwards, looked in the security mirror and gasped.

“I’m God.”

You both collapsed into laughter, nearly knocking over a rack of off-brand energy drinks. The cashier didn’t even blink — just waved you all out with a deadpan “y’all be safe” as Jay tried to buy a single gumdrop with pocket lint and two paper clips.

Outside, Riki kicked an empty can down the sidewalk like it wronged him personally. “Bet I can hit that trash can before you,” he challenged, slurring just a bit.

“You got baby legs,” you shot back, snatching the can before he could, winding up like it mattered.

You missed.

Terribly.

Jay wheezed. “Main character arc just collapsed, bruh.”

“Shut up,” you laughed, flipping him off while Riki jogged up behind you and ruffled your hair, grinning like you were the funniest thing he’d seen all year.

“Let’s climb something,” Yujin suddenly said, pointing at the sketchy scaffolding behind a pawn shop. “I wanna be above the world.”

“No,” Riki said. “Yes,” you said at the same time.

So of course, you climbed.

The four of you ended up on a low rooftop, cheap tarpaper under your sneakers and the city yawning wide in front of you. The air smelled like grease and summer rain, and someone was blasting old Frank Ocean from a cracked car stereo down the block.

Jay lay back with his hands behind his head. “If I die tonight, bury me in my slides.”

Yujin tossed a Cheeto at him. “Ain’t nobody coming to your funeral dressed like that.”

You and Riki sat on the ledge, your legs dangling over the edge. His shoulder brushed yours, heavy and warm, and neither of you moved.

He glanced over at you, eyes slow and syrup-sweet.

“This night’s fucked,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Kinda perfect though.”

He didn’t answer — just smiled, barely, and looked back out at the city like he was scared to look at you too long.

You don't know how you ended up on a roof.

The city hummed beneath you, its pulse steady, like a heartbeat you could almost feel through your bones. The skyline stretched out, dark and jagged, and the stars barely showed themselves behind the haze of light pollution. It was all so alive, so loud in the quietest way.

Jay, still sprawled out with his arms behind his head, was in his own world, making jokes to no one in particular. Yujin, perched beside him, threw another Cheeto in his direction — this time, a direct hit.

"You really gonna die like that?" she asked, half-smirking, half-concerned. "You're gonna slip on your slides, and we're all gonna watch your face meet concrete."

Jay's laugh echoed, too loud in the open air, and then he shot up like a lightning bolt. "I'm immortal, bitch! Ain't no roof gonna take me down."

You couldn't help but laugh, but there was something in the back of your mind, some gnawing feeling that this moment was too perfect, too full of nothing, and nothing ever stayed perfect.

Riki, still leaning against the ledge, cocked an eyebrow. "Bet I could take you in a race to the edge."

“Bet I could take you in a race to my death,” Jay grinned, standing up now and balancing dangerously close to the roof's edge, arms wide like he was going to fly. "Catch me if you can!"

And just like that, in the blink of an eye, he was flying — or at least, it felt like it. You could hear the air rip past his body, a sound so sharp it almost made your ears bleed, but it wasn’t until you saw him really falling, limbs scrambling like a ragdoll tossed by the wind, that your heart took a leap into your throat.

“Jay!” Yujin screamed, scrambling to her feet. But the words were too late. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, like a bag of bones dropped from too high.

Everything froze.

The city held its breath, as did the four of you, as your feet numbed to the rooftop beneath you. The world felt wrong in that instant — like it was shifting too quickly, like it was bending in on itself and it couldn’t quite hold the weight of the moment.

Riki was the first to move, jumping down from the roof with a grace that made it look like he belonged in the air. Yujin followed, her feet stumbling, but her eyes locked in terror.

You were left there, knees shaking, your heart rattling in your chest like a bird trying to escape its cage. The laughter, the warmth, the haze of your high... all of it gone in an instant, replaced by the sharp, chilling reality of what you just witnessed.

You thought you’d known reckless. Thought you understood the weight of the night, the edge of your own life. But that—that was something else entirely.

"Shit," you whispered, but there was no one left to hear. The city, the stars, the world—everything had shifted. Everything had broken.

And you didn't know if you'd ever be able to pick up the pieces.

You laid there for hours, unmoving.

This did not happen.

This did not happen.

This did not happen.

part 3 soon.

@hazelira <3

@androgynouscrownorbit

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