#iu x reader

Maybe it’s that millisecond of stillness that pushes more adrenaline through your nerves, all of the happiness and anger and exuberance and despair and her and the volleys of neurons firing in your head so much more faster than you can comprehend—all cut short as your clutch re-engages, the roar of six hundred horsepower demanding your attention once again. 

Pulling you back to reality as your machine pushes forward to its absolute limit. That last remaining RPM revving back down into the thousands, air and fuel merging, pistons hammering down at each concoction of it, the engine gasping for air as it returns to growling, the turbo pitching and whining at your command of returning to its apex.

You almost reach two hundred kilometers an hour. Wrenching you back in its grasp again.

“I don’t know.”

Because you didn’t. Not after your first race, your first win, first loss, first crash. Not when the mechanics maintaining your car were asking you about it. Not the others who stopped you at the gas stations. You always said the same three words.

Not until her. Until Jieun asked you that question.

You swerve, and the familiar feeling of being off balance shakes you once again.

She was never one to ask you of anything. Other than the simple things. 

“Pick me up?”

“Make sure not to forget the eggs, please?”

“Come back safe, alright?”

“For the love of god, please stop racing!”

You can still remember the tears falling down when she asked you of that. Abandoning the one thing that you’re good at. That you’re great at. That everyone was so terrified to go up against you for.

Jieun knew how much it meant of you. And yet she still demanded it of you. A tall ask, given how much you’ve spent your life doing this.

You take a right, slowing down and letting yourself breathe again. 

You brushed it off at first, thought she was simply overreacting at what happened. Close calls always happened every night you went out. She understood that, and you’ve suffered through all of it.

Bumps, crashes, accidents—you’ve seen it, lived it, patched yourself up each and every time after it. Everyone knew the risks, but she’s the only one that cared enough to tell you to stop.

You brake. Your machine dims back to one hundred kilometers an hour. And again.

“Okay.”

Perhaps that was the reason you said yes. To choose her, choose Jieun. Exchanging the thrill of watching all those beautiful machines sing at midnight for a chance of normalcy. A chance of having a peaceful life with Jieun instead of a life spent looking behind your back half the time.

And it was refreshing. Your whole world flipped upside down. The transition was rough, but Jieun made it easy.

She always did.

Go up to fifth gear. Again, letting your machine howl in the dark streets. A ghost of her laugh follows.

You stuck close to them though, even after walking away. Found a job at a car wash. Then the gas station some of your competitors frequented. Eventually got to be under one of mechanics you used to have your car maintained.

You get a few raised eyebrows when people spot you, but they don’t speak up.

Nobody ever does when it comes to you, except for Jieun.

She was a little disappointed, watching you come back to your roots, at least a little bit. Told you that you were—

“–Getting too close.”

But Jieun lets it be. She knows that she can’t make you fully ever leave that world. Tries to see the positives of it instead.

“Better you fixing them than racing them, right?”

“I guess, yeah.”

You slide through the corner, and you can hear her telling you to relax instead of the tires skidding again.

Things were looking up, for a little while. One of the older tuners took you under his wing, taught you everything you know about making a car the fastest it can be without breaking apart. Told you to trust the machine as it will you. 

“It’s your partner, not a tool, got it?”

And you got good at it. Great at it. Enough to get you to pay the bills enough for the both of you. Enough to make everyone terrified of how scary you built each car you touched.

She was happy too. At least, you thought she was. You can always see the hint of sadness in her eyes when she thinks you’re not looking hard enough.

You always focused on her more than anything else in the world.

That only made what happened all the more painful.

The bright lights almost blind you going at two hundred. You can almost see her face again.

It broke you, when you saw her name on the news.

Jieun said she’d only be gone for the weekend. 

“Sure you don’t wanna come with?”

“I don’t think your dad likes me.”

“Didn’t take you for a pussy.”

“Hey–”

Now you’ll never be able to hold her again. Never be able to kiss her, wake up next to her, tell her that you love her. 

You didn’t know what to do, the first week after you found out. You couldn’t touch any of her things without breaking down, and your home turned into a prison of memories that only served to give you pain.

So you turned to the one thing that can hold you together.

Again, your machine lets itself be known. Letting her shriek into the night sky, releasing the rage that’s been coiling in her engine, going past two hundred fifty kilometers an hour.

You found it—her—being worked on by one of your coworkers. Dead end, they said. Too busted up to be repaired that the owner decided to sell it off to the shop for cheap. 

As cheap as one could sell off a gem of a car, once you took a proper look at it.

You took over the restoration. Never let a single soul other than you to touch it once you did. Gave it a new frame, rebuilt the engine from damn near scratch, got the best parts you could get and installed them. Tuned it well, made sure she can take advantage of every single thing you’ve given her. 

It was all you did, all that was in your mind instead of Jieun.

And you poured everything into her. The happiness and anger and exuberance and despair and her—imbuing it into your work. Utterly consumed by your creation, with no imperfections to see when you finished piecing her back together.

And now you’ll make her scream.

Two hundred and eighty kilometers an hour, and everything starts fading away. Only the memory of Jieun remains in your mind again.

Your first night out, everything feels so indistinguishably different. The old guard that were commonplace in your day have dwindled in numbers; the biggest crew you’ve gone up against even in a civil war of sorts. Everywhere else has been flooded with new players on the scene, wanting to make a name for themselves.

And you’re a drifter in it all. A wanderer, roaming the streets like an angry ghost. Her roars echoing along the streets, your mind barely keeping itself together.

A dark figure begins to creep its way forward, chasing you down the highway. Its headlights familiar, almost like an old friend welcoming you back into a world you’ve almost forgotten.

You can see it clearly now. The simple gray metal, the carbon spoiler keeping it grounded. Malice radiates off of it, the aura suffocating you. She keeps you together, holding you in her embrace again.

The headlights blink behind you, and you wonder what they must feel, seeing you again here after so long.

The both of you slow down to a crawl, and Jieun whispers in your ear.

“Make them know who I am.”

An agreement has been made. In a blink of an eye you’re pushing her past three hundred kilometers an hour.

You let Jieun screech into the midnight again.

“I will.”

—

“Come on, there’s gotta be a reason.”

“Seriously, Jieun, I really don’t know.”

“Everyone’s got a reason for doing anything.”

“It just happens, I guess.”

“Nothing ‘just happens’. Tell me.”

“You are a persistent little thing, aren’t you?”

“You love me for it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“...So?”

“So what?”

“Are you gonna tell me?”

“It–well–”

“Take your time.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I guess it–it feels like I’m at peace.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I get in my car, my body just relaxes. Like I can do anything when I’m inside of it going a hundred and eighty on the freeway because everything just fades away. The issues, the noise, everything just–gone. Just the feeling of it pulling me closer to the edge. Whatever that edge is. All that matters is me and the car.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“...I think I get it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.”

Still, your eyes drift to the horizon, waiting. Hopeful.

You remember once—late into a summer night, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked out the same window—she said she'd send you the glow of a firefly.

To let you know she was thinking of you.

That she loved you.

You thought she was being poetic. You didn’t think it would be the last time she said it.

Now the fireflies come without her. And you're the one sending them, in some way. Hoping one finds her. Wherever she is.

You close your eyes. The memories pull you under like waves. They’re not dramatic. Just… constant.

You remember your first kiss. Not the moment of it, but the breath before—how close you were, how she smelled faintly like citrus shampoo and midnight. How your heart kicked against your chest like it was trying to warn you that everything would change.

And it did.

Now, whenever the silence gets too deep, you close your eyes and try to go back. Back to the farthest place your memory allows. Where she still smiles without worry. Where she still hums songs into your hoodie as she dozes off.

A place untouched by grief.

But even there, she slips. Like letters on the sand. No matter how hard you try to hold her in your thoughts, time washes her away. The sharper edges of her voice, the specific way she wrinkled her nose when annoyed, the odd, half-cough laugh she made when she tried to stifle a real one—they all begin to blur.

You bite back the tears.

You hate how memory is soft. And she was never soft—not in the way grief is. She was fire and wind and eyes that made you feel seen even when you didn’t want to be.

Now she’s just…fog.

You miss her again. And again. And more. Each night.

The journal lies open beside you. The page is blank, though the ink bleeds slightly through from the other side. You don’t write much anymore. You just look.

Sometimes you trace her name at the corner of the page.

Sometimes you don’t need to.

The words you want to say crowd your chest—restless and aching—but they never make it to the page. They can’t. Because what are you supposed to write? That you’re sorry? That you love her? That every second without her feels like you're walking underwater?

No. You’ve written all that already.

It wasn’t enough then, and it certainly won’t be now.

You look out the window again. The sky is thick and dark. The air is unmoving. But one small light glows and dances near the trees. A firefly.

You blink slowly, your head leaning against the cold glass.

You hope it finds her…or at least brushes against the memory of her.

Because if she can’t hear your heart now, then maybe she can see this.

A small, flickering light.

Sent from someone who still thinks of her before sleep. Every night.

And you don’t say it aloud. You don’t need to.

But inside—beneath all the things you can’t show her anymore, it’s that you love her.

Still.

-

It started with a bus ticket.

You hadn’t planned it. Not really. But the morning came, dull and grey, and something inside you refused to stay home—refused to sit by that same window and watch another firefly pass by with no promise of where it might land.

So you packed lightly. Her scarf, folded and pressed close to your chest. One change of clothes. Your journal, though you still hadn’t written in it. And the old film camera she used to mock because it took "too much effort for one photo."

You boarded the bus heading south.

The city fell behind like a memory you didn’t want to keep. Ahead: roads she loved. Streets she’d stuck her head out the window for, pretending the wind could carry her away. Trees she used to point at, wondering aloud how old they were. You remembered each place—not through landmarks, but through her voice echoing between buildings.

The first stop was the train station in the small town.

It looked the same. Maybe a little more faded, maybe the paint was peeling in more places than you remembered. But the platform… it still stretched out beneath the hazy sky like the day you got stranded there together.

That time, the rain came suddenly. A summer downpour so violent it drenched you both before you could even look for shelter. You panicked—typical, flustered, pacing and checking train times that had all been delayed. But she hadn’t. She’d laughed, calmly pulled you under a crooked awning near the far end of the station, and bought two cans of hot coffee from a humming vending machine with her last coins.

You sat there again—under that same crooked awning—this time without the warmth of her laugh, or her hands wrapping yours around the can to warm them.

Your fingers hovered in your lap. The space beside you was empty, but you turned your body slightly anyway, like muscle memory still believed she’d plop down beside you, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, and tease you for overreacting.

You stayed there for a long time, staring out at the tracks that didn’t seem to end.

No rain. No vending machine coffee. Just a memory warm enough to sting.

-

Next came the hill by the sunflower fields.

It wasn’t blooming season. You knew that. You’d checked before leaving. Still, something inside you needed to see it again. To see the slope where she used to pull you along, always a few steps ahead, always with that barely-contained excitement in her stride, like the flowers were waiting just for her.

She’d wear a straw hat too big for her head and hum songs you never recognized. You’d try to match her pace but fall behind, weighed down by heat and by her relentless enthusiasm. She’d look over her shoulder, grin, and shout at you to hurry, always ending her words with laughter.

The hill was bare now. Just rows of green stems not yet ready to bloom. The breeze tugged gently at your sleeves. The air still held that earthy scent you both loved—the scent she once said reminded her of home, even though she never explained why.

You climbed slowly, letting the wind guide you, your shoes brushing against brittle grass. At the top, you stood in the middle of nothing and everything.

No sunflowers.

No laughter.

Just the sky above and the wind across your face.

At the top of the hill, you took the disposable camera out of your bag. The same one she used to complain about, even though she secretly loved when you took photos of her when she wasn’t looking.

You lifted it and snapped a shot of the empty field. It wasn’t much. Just light, wind, and memory. But maybe that was enough. Maybe it was your way of tracing her shadow through the places she once touched.

Finally, you whispered her name there. Just once. Lee Jieun.

It didn’t echo back, but you kept moving anyway.

-

Each place carved out its own ache. A bench by a lake. A stone wall where she once carved her initials beside yours, saying it was cheesy but she liked the permanence of it. A seaside café where she once spilled her entire iced latte and laughed until she cried.

You didn't take more pictures. You didn’t need to. The moments weren’t yours to share anymore. They were yours to carry.

And then the final stop.

It was a quiet field, just outside the city. She picked it herself—years ago, when the thought of needing a place to rest wasn’t anything more than a far-off random conversation at 1 a.m., whispered between gulps of water and exhausted laughter.

"If I had to go,” she had said “…let it be here. Somewhere the wind can find me. Somewhere small and forgotten. Somewhere quiet."

You still remembered how soft her voice was when she said it….and now you stand at the edge of that field.

The sun had set an hour ago. The grass sways gently beneath your feet, as if the ground itself is breathing. The stars have crept into the sky, soft and diffused. You don’t bring flowers. You never do. She didn’t like them. Said they were too sad, too ceremonial.

Instead, you bring yourself. And every piece of her you still carry.

You stop at the foot of the small stone. No other words etched in gold, no flower vases or carved angels. Just her name, understated and soft. Like she always was in moments no one else saw. The date beneath it still feels impossible. As if time had no right to stamp itself on her life.

You lower yourself into the earth, knees brushing the wild grass, elbows sinking into your thighs. The air is cool. Damp from a day that flirted with rain but never followed through. Overhead, the sky deepens into blue-black velvet, thick and humming with the quiet pulse of night.

You don't cry. You don't speak. Muttering her name might break every pieces you have been holding back.

Grief has changed its shape. It no longer claws or shouts. It lingers like mist, curling in the corners of your ribs, asking nothing. It sits with you now, like an old friend. Familiar. Heavy. But bearable.

For a long while, there is only you and the wind.

And then a flicker. Then another. And another two.

Tiny golden glows begin to rise from the grass, hesitant at first, then gathering with soft confidence. Dozens. Then more. Fireflies, dotting the field like the stars decided to descend and hover closer to the ground tonight. They move slowly, weightlessly, swaying like they’re dancing to something you can’t hear.

You don’t move.

Your breath is shallow. Almost reverent.

In that light—subtle and shimmering—you feel something soften in the dark. Not a presence. Not exactly. But warmth. The kind of warmth she used to bring with her when she curled up beside you at night, breath steady and arms looped lazily around your waist.

You let the thought come, without shame.

That maybe Jieun’s here.

Maybe she saw the places you visited. Maybe she followed. Maybe she never really left.

The fireflies pulse brighter, rising into the air like lanterns let go without a wish. And for the first time in a long while, something in you begins to lift with them.

Not all the way. Not yet. But just enough to breathe without it hurting.

And as the night folds around you, soft and vast, the words surface—quiet, private, like a promise meant only for her:

"Tonight, I'll send the glow of a firefly to you.”

You don't know if she’ll see it…but you send it anyway.

And in that gentle glow, you imagine she might send one back. From wherever she is.

Your heels clacked, as you walked down the corridors. You’d just about searched every inch of the house, looking for your girlfriend. A faint giggle echoing around you, making you turn back frantically, only to see no one there. Sighing, you continued walking, rounding the corner, heart pounding slightly faster when the lights flickered.

“Jang Manwol, I swear if you’re trying to scare me again!” You shouted out in hopes of it all being one of your girlfriends silly pranks. As expected, you received no response, only hearing a loud creak. Your heart was now beating rapidly, looking over your shoulder at every turn.

Looking over to the nearest door, you huffed. A flurry of whispers coming from behind it, making you squeeze your eyes tightly shut. Holding your breath, you re-opened them, taking a step closer to the mysterious door. Hands shaking as you reach out to the handle, twisting it, you burst through the door.

All you were met with was darkness, so you decided to venture further. The voice in the back of your head telling you that this was a terrible idea, and that now was the time to turn back. Deciding to ignore it, you squint your eyes, trying to find a light switch. The glow of the moon shone through an open window. It illuminated a small lamp, placed atop a table covered in cobwebs.

Rushing towards it, you flicked the switch happily. You smile dropping as soon as you hear a thump from behind you. Spinning around, you came face-to-face with a deathly pale face, eyes white. A shrill scream escaped your lips, as you jumped back in fear. Inching closer to you, the person growled lowly, making your shake with terror.

You desperately tried to run away, colliding with another figure. Collapsing to the floor, you looked up, eyes meeting with your Manwol’s. She burst into a fit of laughter, pointing at you, then to the ghost. “You should’ve seen your face!” She exclaimed, hunched over and clutching at her stomach at how funny it was.

Sat on the floor, you didn’t seem as happy, deep frown on your face, as your hand was pressed to your chest. “It’s not funny!” You whined, heart still beating a mile a minute. Your worry was fading, turning into something else, annoyance. Glaring up at your girlfriend, you huffed, standing up. Not bothering to cast her another glance, you stormed out of the room, bumping your shoulder against hers.

Manwol, still unable to rid herself of the giggles, only replays the scene over and over again in her head. When she realised you were no longer there, she looked at the ghost in confusion. The ghost shrugged her shoulders, grunting. Calming herself down, your girlfriend strolled towards your bedroom.

“Y/n?” She called out, opening the door to see you laying on the bed, back turned to her. Pouting slightly, she made her way over to you, crawling onto the mattress. “Jagiya,” She said cutely, poking your shoulder. You didn’t give into her though, only scooting further away from her.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” she said smiling. “You don’t mean it,” you huffed out, making her sigh. Placing her hand on your shoulder, she forcibly turned you over, making your face her. “I won’t do it again,” she suggested. “That’s what you said last time!” You complained, trying to turn around again, but she kept you in place.

“I know baby, but it’s just so funny,” she reasoned, making you frown. “No kisses for a week,” you said, making her eyes bulge out of her head. “A week?! Wait no, baby, I really am sorry,” she pleaded with you, pout evident on her face. You smiled slightly at that, “too bad, that’s what you get.” Her jaw dropped, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m kidding,” you whispered to her, smirk tugging at your lips. “Yah, not funny, you can’t joke about that stuff.” She spoke, a disapproving look on her face. “Pay back,” was all you said, unable to stop yourself from pressing a kiss to her pouting lips. You felt her smile into the kiss, hands coming to cup your jaw, trying to deepen the kiss.

Pulling back, you cuddled into her side, laying your head on her chest. Her steady breaths and the way she stroked your hair calmed you. She was gentle, planting a lingering kiss to your forehead. “You couldn’t have gone a week without kissing me,” she mumbled, making you chuckle.

“Wanna try it,” you proposed, making her grip around you tighten. “No,” she whispered under her breath, but you heard it loud and clear. “Though so,” you looked up, pecking her lips. “Shh, go to sleep,” she said, pushing your head back down to her chest. Humming quietly to herself, the soft vibrations of her voice lulling you into a deep sleep.

ᴀ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ ꜱᴇʟꜰɪꜱʜ ᴀʀʀᴏɢᴀɴᴛ ᴊᴇʀᴋ ʏᴇᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴘᴜꜱ.

ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ, ᴀᴛ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ʜᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴀᴡɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴇʀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ.

ᴍᴇᴀɴᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ʜᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀᴛᴛɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɪʀ. ꜱʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴀɴɴᴏʏɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʀᴜʟᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ꜰʀɪᴄᴋɪɴ ᴄᴀᴍᴘᴜꜱ.

ꜱᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴡᴏ ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀꜱꜱ. ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ꜰʟʏɪɴɢ ᴋɪᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ.

ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ. ᴡɪʟʟ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ, ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟᴏᴛ.

ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ᴛᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɴᴀʀᴋʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅʟʏ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴄᴋʏ ᴀɴɴᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴀꜱꜱʜᴏʟᴇ'ꜱ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ɢʀᴇᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ.

ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɴᴏᴡ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴄᴀᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ. ꜱᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴀ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴡᴀʏ.

ɪɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴡɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴅɪɴɴᴇʀꜱ, ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʜᴇʀ ꜰʟᴜᴛᴛᴇʀ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʟʏɪɴɢ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴜɴꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ. ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴏʀ ꜱʜᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴀɴʏ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍꜰʀᴏɴᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ.

ꜱᴏ ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ, ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ʙʏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴏʟʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴋ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴜᴅᴅᴇɴʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴍᴇ ɴᴇʀᴠᴏᴜꜱ, ɴᴇʀᴠᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ꜰɪᴅɢᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴍ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛ.

ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜᴇʀꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʟᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ, ꜱᴍɪʟɪɴɢ ꜱᴏꜰᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇ.

"ɪʟɪᴋᴇʏᴏᴜ"

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇʙʀᴏᴡꜱ ꜰᴜʀʀᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ɢᴀᴢᴇ. "ᴡʜᴀᴛ?"

"ᴅᴏ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ?", ꜱʜᴇ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ, ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜʀᴜɢɢᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀꜱ, "ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ?"

"ɪʟɪᴋᴇʏᴏᴜ", ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ɪᴛ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ, ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴜɴꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴜʀʀᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇʙʀᴏᴡꜱ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

ᴊɪᴇᴜɴ ᴘʟᴀʏꜰᴜʟʟʏ ʀᴏʟʟᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, "ᴏᴋᴀʏ, ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ?"

ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜɪᴘ. ᴏʙᴠɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ɪᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.