genre: angst, comfort, soft bf joonie, established relationship
Warnings
emotional distress
reader struggling with depression
feelings of worthlessness & being “left behind”
mentions of loneliness and burnout
comfort through physical closeness
(no graphic content, but emotionally heavy)
Word Count
~1,050 words
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Author’s Note:
This fic was inspired by emotions that feel very real to me, even if the story itself is fictional. I wanted to explore what it’s like to feel lost, tired, and in need of quiet reassurance.
If this story resonates with you, I hope it makes you feel a little less alone. Thank you for reading 🤍
Namjoon knew something was wrong the moment you stopped talking.
Not in the dramatic way—no tears, no shaking hands. Just the quiet. The kind that sat heavy in the room, like air that hadn’t moved in days. You were curled up beside him on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
“You don’t have to explain it perfectly,” he said softly, thumb tracing absent-minded circles against your wrist. “You can just… talk.”
You swallowed. Tried. Failed.
“I feel like I’m wasting my life,” you finally whispered, the words barely loud enough to exist. “Everyone else is moving forward and I’m just… here.”
Namjoon didn’t interrupt. He never did when you talked like this. He leaned in instead, grounding himself against you, as if proximity alone could remind you that you were real. That you mattered.
“I know people say there’s no timeline,” you continued, voice shaking now. “But that doesn’t help. It just makes me feel worse. Like the longer I stay stuck, the more invisible I become. I don’t want to be the one everyone outgrows.”
Your chest felt tight, like the words were tearing their way out instead of being spoken. You hated how honest you sounded. You hated how weak you felt for needing to say it.
Namjoon’s jaw clenched—not at you, never at you—but at the pain in your voice. He pressed his forehead to your temple, breathing you in like he could memorize the moment.
“You’re not invisible,” he said quietly.
“But I feel like I am,” you snapped, then immediately softened. “I feel like a bad friend. A bad child. A disappointment. I don’t even reply to messages anymore because I don’t have the energy, and then I hate myself for it because I know I’m hurting people. I don’t want to be like this.”
Tears blurred your vision. You wiped them away angrily.
“My brain keeps telling me I’m a burden. That if I reach out, I’m annoying. That everyone has better things to do than deal with me. And I know that’s not true—I know—but it feels true. And that scares me.”
Namjoon felt it then. That familiar helplessness. The one that came when love wasn’t enough to silence someone’s inner war. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you like something precious and fragile and unreplaceable.
“You are not weak,” he said, voice firm now. “You’re exhausted.”
You laughed weakly. “That sounds like a nice way of saying the same thing.”
“No,” he shook his head. “Weak people don’t question themselves like this. Weak people don’t care. You care too much—and you’re paying for it.”
That did it. You broke.
Your sobs were messy, unfiltered, soaked into his shirt as you buried your face against him. Namjoon held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other steady against your spine like an anchor.
“I don’t see a future,” you cried. “I don’t see hope. I don’t see a version of myself that isn’t like this.”
“I know,” he whispered, tears burning his own eyes now. “And I hate that you feel that way. I hate that I can’t take it from you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands framing your face gently but insistently.
“But listen to me,” he said. “You don’t need to see the whole future. You just need to survive this moment. And you’re doing that. Right now. With me.”
Your breath hitched.
“You’re not a failure because you’re tired. You’re not behind because you’re healing. And you are not an embarrassment for hurting.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your hair—like punctuation marks to every truth he needed you to hear.
“You don’t have to earn your place in this world,” he murmured. “You already belong. And if all you can do today is exist… then exist with me. I’ll carry the rest.”
You clung to him like he was the only solid thing left.
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--prompt from @trickstersaint "lightning" (1 April)
Lightning severs the oldest of oaks,
where do I stand the midst of the storm?
A queen is overthrown because of a lady with orange hair;
why should I continue to braid mine
day in day out?
Sparks fly from forests meant for the divine;
I only know how to decipher the morning from the night.
My friends are trying to rush to save
burning dolls and parakeets retreating from the blaze;
but I'm paralyzed where I am.
The moss supports my feet,
but I know I can't rely on it
for balance.
In Turin, Nietszche wept and threw his arms around a beaten mare.
He kissed her matted neck, stepped into the dark, and spoke no more.
Here, the horse survived the madness, inherited the silence,
and pulled the cart into the final, shivering center of the world.
The music loops, a heavy, scraping cello,
revolving like a broken wheel in the mud.
It grinds the same four notes into the stone.
It grinds the brain until the brain is dust.
The wind does not blow; it chisels.
It peels the skin from the valley,
leaving the gravel bare and white like teeth.
A daughter fetches water from a hole that is drying up.
Her fingers are the color of turnips.
She dresses her father like an old doll,
lifting his dead arm through the sleeve of a coarse shirt.
They do it today. They did it yesterday.
They will do it until the wood rots.
Inside the stone hut, the light is failing.
They sit before two wooden bowls.
The steam from the potatoes smells of dirt and heavy water.
They peel them with their thumbs,
burning the grey flesh under their nails.
There is no salt.
There is no conversation.
Only the neighbor at the table, spitting venom:
“They have debased everything. They have ruined everything.
It is not a judgment. It is simply that they have acquired everything.”
The old man barks him into silence.
The words sink into the floorboards like grease.
In the stable, the mare has stopped eating.
Her eyes are cataracts of milk and dust.
She knows what the old man refuses to say:
the road out of here leads nowhere,
and the well is already dead.
Even the gypsies who came howling at the well—
flourishing their wild, stolen wind,
shouting of America and free water—
have been swallowed by the grey horizon.
They took nothing. They left only the shadow of their cart.
The cello slows. The wheel ceases to turn.
The shadow of Friedrich’s weeping hangs over the hay.
Tomorrow there will be no potatoes.
The fire will refuse the peat.
The oil in the lamp will turn to black ice.
They will sit in the dark,
listening to the earth grow cold,
waiting for the wind to finally finish its work.
“What is this?” the daughter asks the dark.
“We must eat,” the old man says to nothing.
But there is nothing left to chew.
Ancestral Wounds and Cycles of Retributive Violence
Great works of literature, especially those dating from the archaic depths of human history, often have, at their thematic core, the recurring motif of retributive violence. Frequently, it erupts seemingly out of nowhere into a roaring conflagration that reduces civilized society to an ash heap.
Feuds and vendettas are central themes of the…
