I Can Never Speak The Emotions I Feel For Sharp Edges - Tumblr Posts

call from an australian phone number

part five of sharp edges | part one | part two | part three | part four | 《 masterlist 》

—hyunjin x reader (f) (other skz members (minho, jisung) are prominent in this chapter) —word count: 17.8k [ao3] (due to formatting issues, I split what was going to be the final chapter in two parts. I hope this is at least a little bit worthwhile regardless ♡) —genre: non-idol au, painter!hyunjin au, romance, explicit/adult themes. 18+ minors dni —warnings: angst/hurt. dark thoughts. hurt/comfort. explicit & adult themes. this chapter does not contain smut but it contain references to explicit sexual themes (vanilla). characters consume alcohol and eat food. → playlist on spotify!

That is all they see in you. The damage, the landmines that Hyunjin left behind when he went away. The scratches, the dents. The void that you became. The fallen angel that you became. Like a person who forgot what watermelon tastes like. Like a painter who can no longer tell the difference between blood red and strawberry red. 

You do not hurt alone. 

But you hurt. 

There is very little space in your mind for suppositions about love at first sight, whether it is true or not, whether it matters or not, or what it does to you once it strikes your heart. There is very little space in your mind for thoughts about light pink roses or jade green book covers. There is very little space in your mind for anything other than the relentless ache of the now.

People who say that living in the present moment is the key to happiness never had their body painted in red watercolor. They never had their atoms rearranged. They never had the chance of learning how someone’s brush sounds when stroking a canvas. They never had the chance of learning how to mix and blend certain colors because of someone’s mouth.

People who say that living in the present moment is the key to happiness never ate a Jeju mandarin that tasted like kisses. 

But this is all you have—the present moment. Every second is spent trying to redirect your thoughts toward anything but him, the painter, the dancer. The boy whose eyes haunt you in your sleep or when you are wide awake. The boy whose voice is as sweet as honey, whose hand always sought yours to hold. The warmth of his body and the feeling of it against you. Inside you. His mouth, his sinful mouth—the way it felt when he kissed you. Sometimes the mandarins tasted like kisses and sometimes the kisses tasted like mandarins. Or like strawberries. Or like you.

The way it felt when Hyunjin made love to you, painting you with kisses, blending touches into you, dancing his soul and his love on or under your body. The way he would not just hold your hand, how his thumb was always tracing circles on the back of it, delicately, reminding you that he was not just passively holding your hand—he was doing it to feel you. 

He would never not love you, he said. And you know he meant it. You will never not love him and you will never not see him in everything. Couples everywhere on the street, walking by, holding hands, sharing ice cream or bubble tea. A bouquet of roses. Cold mornings, warm afternoons. Raindrops. Teardrops—your tears, which you are so terribly ashamed of despite having no witnesses to them except for your pillow and the empty side of your bed. 

Every day, you think you have cried the last tear. But then, Hyunjin haunts your dreams by being painfully absent from them. 

One day, you woke up to a text message from Hyunjin. It just said ‘Going into surgery today. I will be thinking of you when they put me under.’ You had gone to work but you had not been able to work. You had barely managed to make your way back home. It was after a dinner you hadn’t managed to eat that you had gotten another text message.

‘I’m fine, my angel. They say it was a success. They fixed my hip. They fixed me. I thought of you when I woke up.’

Today, you wake up, your eyes sore from last night’s tears. You do not remember your dream but you know Hyunjin wasn’t in it, for if he had been, you would remember it.

It’s as simple as that.

The sunrise fills your room but it is still empty. The light reaches you, warming up your arms, your neck, your chest. 

But you are still empty. 

There is an unread text message waiting for you. You do not hurt alone. It was sent to you at some point during the night, after the wine and tears had lulled you to a sleep too deeply to hear the notification.

Lee Minho: Are you free tonight at 7? The school is having a showcase for our top groups. Teachers will have one too. 

He hurts, too. Minho. He’ll never admit to it, but you see it in his eyes, how Hyunjin haunts him by his absence. How Hyunjin left the both of you stranded, anchorless, stunned. 

“When I saw him on Hongdae Street,” Minho had told you one drunken night, and this is the most he had ever told you about it. “I thought I’d have him again.” 

You know better than to press Minho into talking about his feelings. Sometimes, you cry, and he holds you. He doesn’t know what to say and there is nothing to be said about it anyway, so he just holds you. But you know. You know he does it so you can hold him, too. 

You do not hurt alone. But you hurt more than you thought you ever could—and you had gone through a lot in your life already. Nothing could have prepared you for the empty void Hyunjin would leave when he left. Nothing could have prepared you for it, for the amount of hope your heart tries to give you, and how keeping it down is a full-time job with very few employee benefits. 

But you can't let your heart give it to you, this hope. That Hyunjin will be back and his body will be fixed and his soul will be fixed and he will love you the same as he did before. Nobody can go through so much and come back as they were before. Maybe he will never come back. 

It’s Saturday morning. You stretch in your bed, exhausted even after sleeping, but you shower. You do not cry, you just shower and brush your hair and get dressed. Soon, your apartment smells like coffee, but it won’t smell like anything else. You are not hungry. But you grab your phone, reading Minho’s text again. 

You: I’m free tonight. See you there. 

It’s the hardest thing you ever had to do. You let Hyunjin go, and you kept existing. It meant getting up in the morning and showering and drinking coffee and admitting you should have breakfast but knowing you won’t. Knowing you will eat anyway because you do not hurt alone. It meant going to dance showcases even if it will remind you of him, Hyunjin, but going anyway, because Minho invited you there. 

It’s Saturday morning. Soon, you will be headed to the painting class that you give. You tie your hair in a ponytail so you do not have to style it. Love, when you had it, used to look good on you. Sorrow, now that you have it, is obvious on you. 

Longing, now that you have it, is all that you do have. 

Your phone vibrates but you know it’s not Minho again—he wouldn’t text you an unnecessary response, certainly not at this hour of the day. You know exactly what to expect when you pick up the device after drinking the last sip of your coffee.

Jisung: I’m here. You ready? 

You: Yes, give me a minute. 

You set the empty mug in your sink and make sure everything is alright in your apartment before you leave. You left your purse and bag of supplies near the door last night in preparation for today, and you take one last look at the painting on the wall as you pass it—the portrait of you that Hyunjin painted. You look at it, you let your fingertips brush on the canvas, basking in the beauty he gave you, the beauty you only have in his eyes. 

That is another thing that you lost when he left, this beauty—he is no longer here to see it in you. 

Jisung is waiting for you on the sidewalk, as he does every Saturday morning. You do not hurt alone. Sometimes, you wish you did. But your friend offers you a warm smile, and you’re thankful for how persistent he is. How stubborn he is. To just not leave you alone for too long. How, so often, your phone vibrates with a notification from him and it’s little nothings, always. A picture of the sky. His dinner. Another sky photo, a song. He sends a lot of music. He sends jokes sometimes, often as audio clips. He knows that, otherwise, your apartment is dark and quiet. 

Recently, he has started sending you whole playlists of carefully picked tracks. ‘For mornings’, ‘for good days’, ‘for not good days’. You could never repay this to him—how considerate he is. This relentless kindness. How could you repay this to him?

Jisung waits for you on the sidewalk and he’s holding his bag of supplies as well as a bag of food for the two of you to share before the class begins. 

“You’re kind of Pavloving me, Ji,” you tell him as the two of you make your way towards the bus stop. “I’m never hungry on Saturday mornings because I know you’ll bring food that’ll make me hungry later.” 

“I think it’s the other way around,” Jisung points out, his smile still lingering on his face. He seems okay. Better than he was at first. “You’re Pavloving me. I know you’re not going to eat on painting class mornings, so now I get a sudden craving for gilgeori toast every Saturday when I wake up.” 

You smile back at him and it feels strange, bitter, unwelcome. But you smile anyway and by now, you’ve practiced enough that your smile looks convincing to everyone. Except to your mother. Your mother can always tell. 

But you get on the bus with him and Jisung tells you about his work week, how there has been restructuring in the company and it might affect his job, but he hopes it does so in a positive way. You nod, kind of listening to him. But the other half of your brain is trying to chase away hope again, and it is no easy feat.

You give the Thursday painting class, too. It’s the same class level, the same art studio as the Saturday class. It’s after your work hours and you are always tired when you head there but you do it to honor Mrs. Yoo, honor her wishes, honor what she gave you—she, after all, is the one who gave you Hyunjin and it was not her fault he went away. 

The class always goes smoothly. The easel that you once occupied is always taken by an old man, who is retired and likes to paint. The easel to the left of that one is occupied by a younger man who sees the older man as his mentor. 

Your gaze rarely shifts there or toward the door behind on Thursday nights.

But on Saturday mornings, it does. Your eyes shift to those two easels constantly, to the wooden table in between them. But more importantly, it’s the door that bothers you. How it stays closed during the class. How, through his absence, Hyunjin haunts that class. By not stepping through the door. 

You keep hoping that he will. You try to keep it on a leash, this fucking hope of yours. To tame it, not to let it roam too far—but just like the love you have for Hyunjin, the hope of seeing him go through that door is too big, and you can’t control it. You tried. You still try. But you can’t.

Jisung hands you your breakfast sandwich as you head out of the bus, as always. You take a few bites from it, walking in silence with your friend who comments extensively on how delicious the food is, as he always does. You nod, chewing a small bite of the sandwich, trying very hard to enjoy it. You pass through a little street market and find yourself enjoying the lively conversations around you a lot more than the food. You will eat it, though. You will.

On your left, a flash of orange catches your eye. 

It is mandarin season. 

You turn toward the street vendor—a woman behind a small but inviting stall. Her smile is as bright as the orange of the mandarins. The sign above the stall says GROWN DELICIOUSLY ON JEJU ISLAND. 

You are still holding the sandwich that Jisung brought you, but you make your way through the crowd. 

“We’ll be late!” Jisung says somewhere behind you, but you’re already too far to hear the rest of his sentence. 

You reach the stall where two clients, a couple, are already busy purchasing considerable amounts of citrus fruit. You wait, your eyes unable to focus on anything but the large crates of mandarins. Jisung joins you finally, and you hand him back his sandwich, so he just takes it to put it back in the bag—he understands. You know he does.

It is mandarin season once again, and you need to bite into a fruit that tastes like kisses. 

You buy one. Just the one, and walk away. You will not eat it now. You want to, so badly, you want to feel the supple flesh of the fruit break apart on your tongue, want to feel the sweet juice of it fill your whole mouth, you want it dripping on your chin.

You want Hyunjin to kiss your mandarin mouth, lick the juice away, you want him, him, him. 

But you put the fruit in your purse, carefully, delicately, and head towards the art studio without a word, Jisung by your side. 

Not a word is spoken between the two of you. You make it to the studio, where a little more than half of the students are already there. They greet you and you greet them, too, offering them the same smile you would have if there was not a Jeju mandarin in your purse. 

“Let’s discuss today’s class, shall we?” you tell the students. Your students. Not so long ago, it seems, you were one of them. Forever ago, it seems, you were one of them, sitting on that easel near the door, painting your broken heart away, thinking, this is the saddest I will ever be. But that was before your atoms had been rearranged. “It’s December. What do you guys like about December?” 

You like to hear them. The students. Your students. There are a few new faces, and they are always welcome to tell you whatever they wish about their lives. Sometimes, you tell them about your life. Little nothings. It distracts you. For a while, anyway.

A few weeks ago, a young woman stayed after class, much like you did the first time you went to speak with Mrs. Yoo—she took her time gathering her supplies, pretending to be really absorbed by a few of the paintings left to dry. Jisung was on his phone, waiting for you—you always get lunch with him after the Saturday classes.

So you had told Jisung to wait for you outside while you closed up, and once you had been alone with her, the young woman had spoken.

She was not happy. She had a bright future ahead of her. She was a beautiful girl, you thought, with big, dark-brown eyes and a voice infused with kindness. There was a little mole in the white of her right eye. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. But her parents didn’t believe in her the way they should. She had no one, she thought, who could support her through that bright future of hers, the future that she hoped for.

So you make a point of it now. Every week after the class, you remind her that she has paint and a canvas and that she has to pretend like it's enough. That even if it isn't, it has to be enough. 

That she shouldn’t think she is not enough even if she has no one to support her —she has herself. You see it in her dark-brown eyes, the willingness, the strength. Life can be so unfair, and, realistically, putting colors on a blank canvas cannot and will not support a person throughout their life.

But maybe it will. Maybe, just maybe, by painting one’s own sorrow, blending its complex colors, one can hope to achieve some sort of healing journey. One can hope to drain those somber colors out of their minds just by pouring them into art pieces, making something beautiful out of them, facing them day after day. Learning them by heart. This is what hurt me. This is what hurt me. This is what hurt me.

This is what keeps me alive. This is what keeps me going. 

Here is the truth: there is an entire universe between being alive and living. The two concepts are entirely different and have very little in common, except that they both involve a beating heart. One is the ocean and the other is the sky—these two elements are strikingly beautiful when put together in a photograph, a drawing, or a painting, but in reality, the ocean and the sky are thousands of miles from one another. 

Here is another truth: you keep telling this young woman that it will get better, that there will be light at the end of this dark era, that the sky will fall down upon the ocean and they will finally merge, making being alive and living synonyms of one another. And you truly believe that for her. For her.

For her.

“What about December, Miss?” a student asks politely but with curiosity in his voice. 

You truly believe that for her, for him, for Jisung, whose gaze often returns to an easel now occupied by a woman who just started her retirement, the easel where Seo-yeon used to sit at. You believe that for him too, someday, the sky and the ocean will become one.

But you do not believe that for you. Maybe you just don’t live in the same world as them. Maybe you live under a different sky, on a different ocean, in a different plane of existence. A place where hope is prohibited. A place where the relentless ache of living in the present moment is all there is.

“What does it inspire you? The month of December?” you ask your students, looking around as they suddenly become excited, almost like children, from your question. 

“Christmas!” 

“Big snowflakes!” 

“Dumplings! I always get dumplings with my dad in December, at the Christmas market.” 

“Jeju mandarins.” Your heart skips a beat. And another. And another. 

You turn to face Jisung, who just spoke out loud. He's staring at the blank canvas in front of him, his gaze emptier than the white linen. The whole class turns to him, too, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Jeju mandarins,” he goes on, finally raising his eyes in your direction, still ignoring everyone else around. “Jeju mandarins and laughter and hot chocolate.”

You know this had been his and Seo-yeon’s ritual. To go for hot chocolate after class. You wonder if he misses her soft hair, her chocolate-flavored kisses, or just her. You wonder if regret ever inhabits Seo-yeon the same way it inhabits him. You wonder if she ever misses Jisung. 

Often, you wonder if Hyunjin misses you the same way you miss him.

A few students know. They remember Hyunjin’s habits, they remember that whenever he was here, he brought with him the sweet scent of fruit. The sweet scent of love. These students turn back to look at you, expecting a tantrum, possibly, a shriek, expecting anything, everything. 

You blink, looking into Jisung’s sad eyes. Love, when he had it, looked good on him. Sorrow, now that he has it, is obvious on him. It might be even worse in his case—he seems to have decided to burden himself with your own torment as if his own wasn’t enough. 

He still hasn’t been able to escape the guilt he feels. As if it had anything to do with him, Jisung, if Hyunjin had demons in his mind he needed to run away from.

“Jeju mandarins and hot chocolate,” you echo in the silence of the art studio. “Cinnamon in the hot chocolate?” 

“Always.” Jisung’s voice doesn’t quite sound like him. He sounds choked up, frightened, like he’s on the edge of a cliff. Ready to jump. Ready to climb back up. “Vanilla, too.” 

“Warmth.” You turn to the students again, most of them confused, a few of them most likely a little uneasy and a little sad. You see that on their faces. 

You knew that there would be a day when Hyunjin would leave you. That day, you wanted to hurt alone, so that people didn’t take one glance at you, see the pain in you, and walk away. 

That is all they see in you. The damage, the landmines that Hyunjin left behind when he went away. The scratches, the dents. The void that you became. The fallen angel that you became. Like a person who forgot what watermelon tastes like. Like a painter who can no longer tell the difference between blood red and strawberry red. 

“We seek warmth in December,” you keep going, unbothered by the fact that you’re not only displaying your damage—it is also spilling out of your lips, big, heavy drops of red and black. “Warmth in December. Would you guys like it to be today’s theme?” 

A few nods, many gulps, a reasonable amount of ‘hm hms’. Good enough.

The class paints in silence today, except for the usual ‘could I borrow your extra flat brush’, ‘I’m out of green, can I have some?’, and ‘Wow, this looks amazing’. You hear but you do not listen. All that you think of is the Jeju mandarin in your purse, waiting for you. 

You could step out of the studio and eat it. Hell, you could peel it right here, right now, for everyone to see. Let them see the juice coat your lips the way you once coated Hyunjin’s beautiful mouth. Let them see the grief hit you as the flavor dances on your tongue, the way Hyunjin’s taste once danced on yours. 

There are interesting things on your students’ canvases today. A pair of fuzzy mittens, a mother putting a blanket around her child’s shoulders, a bowl of soup. A wall-mounted radiator, the portrait of a beautiful girl with a soft smile on her face, the right corner window of this very art studio.

A small wooden table with, on it, one mug of hot chocolate and one mandarin orange.

You do not hurt alone. Jisung hurts, too. 

Love at first sight? What about it? 

It might be real but it is also a myth, as in mythical. As in delusory, idealistic, seemingly out of reach. Love at first sight is much like winter—one day, it’s not there and the next day it just is, changing nothing yet everything, transforming people’s daily lives. Making them dig into a closet for a hat and a warm jacket to put on before heading out. Making them stop on their way for hot chocolate.  

It turns out that life does imitate art. It also turns out that love at first sight is the kind of love that can rearrange the fuck out of your atoms. It turns out that it is very real. 

It happens to be the kind of love that can’t seem to be washed away, not by seasons, not by an unoccupied apartment slowly filling up with art pieces, not by a door that remains closed on Saturdays. 

You did not believe in love at first sight, but you are standing here today and you are not the woman you were before Hyunjin took the seat to your left. But he did take that seat and you did fall in love with him. Love at first sight, it turns out, is the kind of love that can’t be washed away, not by a stained silk ribbon, not by gilgeori toast, not by videos of a boy that once danced like a demi-god. 

Time doesn’t help either. Time is your greatest enemy. The more time goes on, the more time has passed, the longer you have been without him, without Hyunjin. Persimmon season is over already and there is a mandarin from Jeju in your purse. It will not be that long before you bite into a ripe strawberry, the juice of it staining your mouth the same way Hyunjin once stained you with watercolor. 

“I like the orange that you mixed,” you tell Jisung, sitting at the easel you were sitting at when the atoms that make you you got rearranged for good. “It’s very lifelike.” It really is. 

“Thank you.” There is some of it on his fingers, but he makes little effort to wipe it off. “You didn’t eat your sandwich. Aren’t you hungry?”

You shake your head. “Not really, Ji.” Besides, he always takes you to lunch after class. 

The studio is quiet, so quiet that you hear the symphony of brushes gliding on canvases. You used to listen to Hyunjin when he painted, recognizing his brush strokes so clearly that you could have kept your eyes closed and guessed accurately what he was painting. 

You didn’t have a lot of time with him, but the time you did have, you learned him. Learned his ways, learned his taste, the way it felt when he sank into you, his face over yours, his big eyes in your gaze, the tip of his hair tickling your neck. Him, taking up all of the space within you. Making you forget for a few instants that there would be a day when he would leave you. 

The young woman with the dark-brown eyes comes to see you just before the end of the class. You’re standing at the back of the studio, looking at the final results of everyone’s painting session. It is so beautiful you have tears in your eyes as she approaches you, telling you that she had found strength in colors, just like you had told her she would. I think I will be okay, Miss, she tells you. You offer her a smile, but when you turn away, the tears threatening to overflow from your eyes roll onto your cheeks.

Love, when you had it, looked good on you. Yearning, now that you have it, is the only thing that keeps you going. 

The door stays closed until the end of the class. 

You get noodles with Jisung—something simple, something you can eat quickly. You tell him about Lee Minho’s dance showcase and Jisung admits he is also meeting people later, so it’s alright if you leave now. But you’re not quite sure you believe him. Maybe he only says that to ease your conscience, as the post-painting class lunch is quite obviously the highlight of your week for the both of you, and you don’t think he would purposefully book another gathering on the same day. 

Sometimes, after lunch, you both walk to Hyunjin’s apartment—your art studio—and he sits somewhere or takes a nap while you paint or sort through your paintings. There are so many of them. Too many of them. You paint to forget the longing, to pass the time, to stop time. So far, there are twelve portraits of Hyunjin, which you keep in the closet of what once was his bedroom. There are other things too—paintings of light pink roses or nephrite jades or baskets of strawberries. Stormy nights, sunny mornings. 

Raspberry-colored lips on a neck, so lifelike you could almost feel Hyunjin’s breath on your skin as you painted it. A cloud in a blue sky. A color study of orange and red and black. An empty dance studio. You paint, you paint because it reminds you of the pain that you have, you paint because it makes you forget. There is no other way to explain it. 

The bus leaves you near the street market. There is still a Jeju mandarin in your purse when you reach your building, and you find a letter in your mail. There are a few flyers too and a notice from your insurance that you were about to forget to renew. 

The letter has an Australian stamp on it—of course. 

There are still several hours before you have to be on your way to meet Minho at the dance school. You rarely read Hyunjin’s letters when you are sober, but you don’t think it would be a good idea to drink at this time of the day… 

So you sit on the floor of your living room, figuring that it’s best to make bad memories in a neutral place such as the floor instead of your bed. Your nights are sleepless enough as it is anyway. You also can’t read that letter in your kitchen—what if it’s a really bad letter and you never get hungry again after reading it? 

You really ought to start reading these letters outside of your home entirely. 

My angel, 

I write this letter to you from outside, on the tiny balcony of the small apartment I rented. Felix insisted that I could stay with him, that it was okay, but, I don’t know. He matters a lot to me, but I need to be alone, sometimes.

Isn’t it strange how I never felt this way with you? 

I’ve known Felix for a long time, I love him a lot. He is like a brother to me. He’s helped me in the darkest times of my life—both times. So why do I sometimes need to be alone, to be without him, just for a few moments?

Why did I never need to be without you? 

Now, I know what you are thinking, angel love. That I did move to another continent, away from you. And… you’re right. But you know what I mean, right? Do you? I hope you do. If you don’t, please try to understand. That your presence was never a burden to me. That you were, and still are, the only person with whom I could be myself, my true self. Even if I didn’t tell you about the accident, my hip, the dancing. I hope you understand what I mean. Please try to understand.

I miss him. The me I could be with you. But more than anything, I miss you. 

I am outside. The sky is blue. It reminds me of you, of the painting you painted for Chan’s parents, remember? He wanted a bright blue sky, and you spent hours looking at pictures of the sky for reference until it drove you crazy. Until I reminded you that all you had to do was to look up—the sky was right there, the real sky, not through a screen, for you to see. For you to paint. You painted such a pretty sky, my angel. I wish you’d send me more pictures of your paintings. I miss you. 

I missed painting, too. Which is partially why I rented this apartment in the first place. To set up a little corner where I can paint and draw. Since Felix’s parents helped me get a work visa, I have more money now, so I bought an easel and some supplies. It’s not that I needed a lot of money—his parents are very generous and my aunt left me everything she had, which was a lot more than I deserve. 

But. When I moved here, I brought with me the paintbrushes you gave me last Christmas. Some of them direly need replacing, but I will not throw them away. Sometimes, when I hold them, it almost feels like I’m holding your hand. Sometimes, when I miss you so badly that my heart hurts, I brush the bristles against my face. Softy. I pretend it’s your hair. When that isn’t enough, I press my fingertips to my lips. I pretend it’s you. But that doesn’t fool me. Nothing could fool me.

In your last letter, you said that your sister was pregnant. Will you please pass on to her my congratulations? I hope she and the baby are healthy. I hope she is happy. I know how much she wanted this baby, so I know this child will grow up in a home full of love like I did. Like you did. Does it matter in the end, you think? The home we grew up in? 

Are you paying attention to the world around you, my angel? Did you know that I keep the orange plushie on my bedside table, still? It’s the first thing I see every morning when I wake up. I wonder what you see when you wake up.

Felix tells me that you have become friends with Minho. Does he treat you right? Don’t let him bully you. But do let him cook you some of his chicken soup, yeah? I’m not angry at him anymore. I know I shouldn’t say this to you, I should say this to him… But it’s hard. I miss him too, you know. But he betrayed me. This unspoken promise we had—that we had to do everything we could to make it. They didn’t need me. They could have kept going, could have done the audition without me. They should have. Minho said no. Felix followed. Felix doesn’t resent him, he even says he agreed with him. I don’t. I don’t agree with him at all. Did he not realize? The burden that would fall upon me? 

The burden of their failure? Failure to even try?

But my brain doesn’t really short-circuit anymore. Not like before, anyway. It does sometimes when physical therapy doesn’t go the way I want… but when I got the surgery… they made me see many doctors. I didn’t tell you that before. I’m sorry, my love, but now I will tell you. They gave me some medicine… They said that I went through a lot of trauma with the accident and the failed first surgery and that I shouldn’t have pretended to be okay when I wasn’t. I take the medicine. I see a therapist. I think it helps. No, I know it helps. 

They told me I should have started this treatment a long while ago. I disagree. I know it’s wrong, but I disagree. If I had been alright, I wouldn’t have had the need to paint. 

I wouldn’t have met you. 

I went through all of this so that I could kiss you, my angel. I’m sure of it. This was fate. And it was worth it. If I had to choose, I’d do it all over, just so I could make love to you again. Just so I could love you again.

Are you waiting for me, still, angel? I hope you are not. If Lee Minho wants to kiss you, let him. If someone else wants to hold you, let them. If you fall in love, fall in love. You’re too striking, too bold, too beautiful, to waste yourself away like that. People will fall in love with you and you might love them back, and it is okay. You’ll always be my angel. I’ll come back someday, and if you love another when I do, I’ll be your friend if you want me around. If you don’t, I’ll understand. But you’ll still be my angel. 

I know you. I know what you think. That you will never love again. I remember that you thought this before we met. That you couldn’t fall in love, that your heart was cold and damaged. Well, you fell in love with me, didn’t you? And me with you, despite my broken heart and body and brain. 

Let your heart run free. It’s so beautiful. You can’t keep it hidden away just for me. You can’t keep a bird in a cage for too long, it will die. You have to set it free.

Be happy, I beg you.

My angel my angel. My angel,

I will never not love you.

Hyunjin 

You did not think that you could exist without Hyunjin.

But you are forced to do so. And it is the hardest thing you ever had to do.

There is still a Jeju mandarin in your purse when you enter the dance school where Lee Minho teaches. The crowd is scattered around the main room on the first floor for the pre-show party. You’ve been here many times before, but you’ve never seen this many people here—this is the first showcase you attend. 

You often end up here in the evenings, sometimes staying all night or else leaving at 2 or 3 in the morning. You do not dance, of course,—Minho does. One will text the other, checking on their sleep situation, and if both of you are unable to find rest, this dance school is where you meet. He lives closer so he leaves the back door unlocked for you, but you lock it behind you after you get in. 

By the time you make it to his favorite studio—the big one on the second floor, with the corner windows—he’s already dancing. You do not need to talk to each other and that’s not why you meet anyway. You usually bring your laptop and you do some work from there, or you have a book that you can read. Sometimes, you bring a pen and paper, and you respond to Hyunjin’s letters while Minho practices relentlessly. You do not think he needs much practicing—he is very skilled, learns choreography in a matter of minutes, and can begin teaching it immediately.

But he dances to forget, to remember. The way you paint to forget and to remember, too. 

Some nights, Minho has it in his mind to show you a few moves, so you indulge him. You really didn’t want to at first, because he moves like water, because his movements are so precise they could be considered science, mathematics. But you indulge him because sometimes, he smiles while he looks at you in the mirror, observing your attempts at replicating a dance segment. 

You are not a dancer. You are a painter. But you find colors in dancing, and the red you feel when you dance is not the same red as the one you paint. You used to paint lifelike reds, but you’ve lost your muse, your reference. But you keep painting so that you never forget the color of Hyunjin’s lips.

Tonight the first floor is crowded and you see no familiar face to keep you company, so you find an empty corner and stay there for a little while, listening to the conversations around you. You wonder how many of these people hold sorrow in their chests and are burdened by it. You can’t seem to find it obvious on anyone, not the way it is on you. 

“You’re here.” Minho appears to your right, wearing what must be his performance outfit—ripped jeans, a loose button-up white shirt, and his favorite sneakers. 

“Hello, Min.” You smile. You try to. You’re not sure what it looks like, but he nods and the corners of his mouth raise a little. In your purse, there is a Jeju mandarin and a letter from Hyunjin. “You look good. Not too nervous?”

“Not for me. My students are nervous, but I taught them well.” He reaches for you and feels the fabric of your jacket underneath his fingertips. “You look good too. Is that new?”

“My sister took me shopping yesterday,” you explain. “But really, she’s just trying to find reasons to go get more baby clothes and accessories.” 

“It’s an addiction, seems like.” Again, the corners of Minho’s mouth raise slightly into this almost-smile of his, and he looks into your eyes. “Excited to be an aunt?” 

Yes, you are. You are happy for your sister, as this child is something she deeply desired. You remember the morning she came to your apartment, confused and lost, because she was not sure that her husband wanted the same future she did at the same time she did. That day is the day you told her about Hyunjin. That day is the day you showed the world, in exact detail, how and why your heart would inevitably break.

But you do not know if you will ever be able to hold this not-even-born-yet-baby and not wonder what if. What if he had not left you. What if Hyunjin’s brain had stopped short-circuiting at some point, and he would still be here?

You will never not see Hyunjin in everything. In the things that he liked, the things he didn’t like, in all of the forevers he couldn’t give you. You don’t think you will ever be able to hold your sister’s baby and not think, I wish Hyunjin were here, I wish I were holding our baby, I wish Hyunjin were here. 

“Yes, very excited, I bet I’ll be a cool aunt,” you tell Minho. But you know he sees the truth in your eyes. You know longing is obvious on you, and it is all that you do have. 

His almost-smile is gone, and soon he is gone too, as the show will begin in just a few minutes. You follow the crowd’s movement as everyone is guided toward the biggest studio, the one used for small concerts. You find a comfortable spot to hang out, leaning against the wall, and you watch. 

For about forty-five minutes, you don’t have to think about anything. You can’t help but wish Hyunjin were here too, commenting on the way the little ones execute their choreography, putting his hand on your lower back, reminding you that he is in love with you and you with him. 

The teacher’s performance is kept for last. You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket, and decide to have a look at it just to make sure it’s nothing urgent. 

Lee Minho: do you think you could film me, please? Lee Minho: the performance 

You look at the stage where the owner of the dance school is giving a speech about the great work of his teachers and their students. 

You: you mean, like a fan cam? 

You can practically see it, his almost-smile. Maybe a little more than almost, even. 

Lee Minho: yeah, like a fan cam. of course. if it pleases you to say so. Can you, please? 

You: of course, Min Oppa. Don’t worry. I’ll go at the front and get the best angle for you

You swear you hear laughter from backstage, but you make your way through the crowd as respectfully as you can and find a good spot from which you can record the performance. 

The song is very upbeat but has a few slower points which offer an interesting contrast in the choreography. You’ve seen Minho rehearse it a dozen times, if not more—hell, even you know parts of it—so it’s very easy to follow him with your phone camera, capturing the way he makes it look so effortless. He is the best dancer in the group. 

He dances to forget. He dances to remember. Sorrow is obvious on him, too. 

They get a lot of applause, especially from their own students. You see it now. That Minho was meant to be an instructor. He was meant to share this talent—not every person who has a skill is meant to teach it. But he really is. 

You wait for him outside after, to congratulate him and thank him for the invitation. The night is cold, but for once you feel in your element. You don’t wait for him too long. 

Minho finds you leaning against the large storefront window of the school. He says nothing at first, but when you straighten up to face him, he pulls you against him. Sometimes, Minho holds you so that you hold him, too. 

So you wrap your arms around his body. He’s warm. 

“I’ll send him the video,” Minho says, his mouth in your hair. “Through Felix.” 

You stay in Minho’s arms, but you know that in your purse there is a letter that has the power to unmake him, to make him whole again. It scares you—if you tell him the words on this piece of paper, Minho will not need you to hold him anymore. 

But that is selfish. And you are not selfish. 

“Do you want a ride home?” Minho offers. “Or do you want to come over for dinner? It’s late, but—”

You hold him tighter. While you can. “Dinner.” You twist your neck to look into Minho’s cat-like eyes. “Will you cook it for me? The chicken soup?” 

He smiles, for real, not almost, and nods slowly. “Of course. Let’s go, my car is at the back.”

Minho’s apartment is small but welcoming, and cozy. The living room is tiny—just enough space for a wall-mounted TV, a nice couch, and a coffee table—but it’s your favorite room. There is a window, there, and in front of it, there is a gray and white cat tree for a gray and white cat.

“Jellybean!” She’s the first thing you notice when Minho lets you in first. The feline, who had been asleep in her cat tree, opens her eyes and stares at the both of you with disgust. 

“Did we wake you up, sweetheart?” Minho says with a soft laugh, making his way to his cat to pet her gently. She brushes her face on his hand before laying back down, closing her eyes. “That’s it, go back to sleep, baby.” 

You join Minho in the kitchen. He adds kibble to Jellybean’s food bowl and washes his hands before going to the fridge. He changed back into casual clothes after the performance—comfortable trousers and a t-shirt. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, but you know what he’ll say. 

“No, you’re my guest. You can go watch TV if you want. Keep Jellybean company.” 

So you do that. You sit on the couch and the small cat joins you, stretching her whole body before rolling into a ball of cat on your lap. You caress her soft fur, white and pale gray, making a point of feeling her breathing patterns. The warmth of her, in this gloomy December. 

When she is not asleep, she has curious blue eyes and a bad habit of chewing on shoes. But she is Jellybean, so her flaws are forgiven. In Minho's eyes, she is a perfect little angel, anyway.  

You watch TV. There is not much on TV, but halfway through the cooking, Minho brings into the living room a glass of white wine for you and wet food for Jellybean. You take that opportunity to get up and grab your purse, just to hold the Jeju mandarin in your hand. 

This is the best soup you’ve ever had, hands down. You eat it in the living room, on the couch, getting tipsy on wine, exchanging stories. Minho talks a lot more when he drinks wine. In your purse, there are words that will change him. 

But you honor his cooking by finishing your meal, even if you are not really hungry. You really wanted to taste this soup, and now you have. You rarely get what you want and when you do, it is usually taken away from you soon after. Such is your life. Your luck. Your curse. 

After dinner, Minho asks you to please transfer the performance video to him so he can send it to Felix. It happens very naturally, but you finish your third glass of wine before handing him the envelope with an Australian stamp on it. 

“What?” Minho takes a look inside, at the carefully folded sheets of paper with neat handwriting on them. “Why are you showing me this?”

That’s a good question. You don’t need him to read the whole thing—you could show him just the paragraph where he is mentioned. But you want him to witness it. This love. This watercolor-saturated love. This oil paint stained love. You want him to witness it, to make it real again. To make you remember. To make you forget. 

“Just… read, Min.” Jellybean lets out a soft snore from her cat tree. 

You watch him as he reads the letter. You watch his brows stitch together, his lips sometimes mouthing a few words here and there. He doesn’t want to let it show, but sometimes he takes a break from reading, just a few seconds. In the same way you want to do just that when you read Hyunjin’s letters, but you can’t. You’ll never have enough of him. 

But Minho doesn’t even make it to the end. 

He hands you the letter back after folding the sheets again and meticulously putting them back in their envelope. He, too, finishes his glass of wine, turned away from you, staring at his cat who is peacefully asleep by the window. 

Tonight, Lee Minho’s eyes are glistening with tears. Sorrow, when he had it, was obvious on him.

Hope, now that he has it, looks good on him. 

After a while, he holds you, not because he wants you to hold him back, but because he needs something to do. Something to anchor him. You just unmade him. You just made him again. He holds you close, and you feel his lips graze your temple, you feel his hands on your skin. 

“I’m sorry,” is all that Minho manages, holding you tighter. You’re not sure what it is that he’s sorry about. “I’m sorry.”

When he pulls away from you, he gathers the empty plates, offering you to spend the night. This is not the first night you spend on Lee Minho’s couch. You’re tipsy, tired, heartbroken. You see Hyunjin in everything. The taste of his kisses is waiting for you in your purse. 

When you lie down on the couch, Jellybean joins you, curling up near your head. You scratch the top of her head and close your eyes. 

You sleep. You rarely sleep but that night, you do, for a little while, until Jellybean decides it’s time to walk on your face to get off the couch on her way to her food bowl. 

You hear Minho’s voice, low, but unmistakable. He’s in his bedroom with the door closed so you can’t make out the words, except for one word that you’d recognize even if you were deaf—Hyunjin. Is he speaking with him?

You get up, listening more closely. It’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations, but you can’t help it. 

In any case, he isn’t speaking to Hyunjin—he’s on the phone with Felix, talking at a fast pace, obviously excited. Hope sounds good on him, it really does. 

You return to the couch, looking at your phone to check the time. It is 2 AM. You see Hyunjin in this, too. Some nights, he would make love to you until morning, both of you insatiable. You could never have enough of him, his tongue on your body. How he would take his time tasting you, his face disappearing between your legs for what might have been forever, or a minute, or a hundred lifetimes. How he responded to your sighs, your moans. 

You always felt it in his mouth—you felt him exhale in your pussy, moan into it, whisper his love into you then eat it out of you. They made you cum. The words he would speak into you, like secrets, like prayers. But it would not stop him. It never stopped Hyunjin—he used to make you scream in orange and red, make you moan in blue, make you see in black and yellow and purple and teal and pink and green. His fist in your hair. His voice in your ear. His cock inside of you, painting you white. Making and unmaking you, over and over. 

It is 2 AM and you are empty, filled with multiple voids, chasing for something you can’t have. But you grab your phone.

You: Are you asleep, Hyun? 

The answer doesn’t take very long. You haven’t called Hyunjin since he left, and texted rarely. But still, he responds.

Hyunjin: Angel love. Is everything alright? 

Is everything alright? You want to throw your phone by the window. Is everything alright? Nothing has been alright since he left. Nothing. Not you, not your life. No one sees beauty in you anymore, you are alone, alone, alone. It is mandarin season once more, and there is a single mandarin in your purse, no one you want to share it with. No one to kiss you, to paint your body, to fuck you hard or slowly all night. 

You: Yes

I miss you, you want to type, but you don’t. He knows that you do. He doesn’t need to read it tonight. 

You: How are you? Physical therapy? The.. other therapy?

Hyunjin: Good. Better.  Hyunjin: Minho is on the phone with Felix and I Hyunjin: He wants to come teach me dancing. I have to learn again. Seems fitting that if he taught me the first time, he should teach me the second time too. 

You knew. You knew that showing that letter to Minho would make him and unmake you. 

You knew that one day, Hyunjin would leave. That day, you wanted to hurt alone, but you had not been granted that. But it looked like you were on your way to this goal of yours now. 

Hyunjin: How is life treating you, my angel?

You look at the screen, at the words on it, not knowing how to respond. Life, on a daily basis, treats you alright. You’re fortunate. You have a job—no, two, even—a roof over your head, food on the table, a family. You’re going to be an aunt. You’re healthy, you don’t struggle financially. You’re alright. So why is your world so dark?

Is your brain short-circuiting? Is it what that feels like? 

You remain like that for a long time, sitting with your legs underneath you on Minho’s couch. In the dark. It’s cold, and you see snowflakes through the window. 

You jump when your phone rings. 

It’s Hyunjin calling from his Australian number. You haven’t spoken to him in months. He sends you a lot of letters, and you send him a few. He texts you once in a while and you respond—but that’s it. Somehow, it made it all easier. You haven’t heard his voice in months.

You stare at the device in your hand for what might have been forever, or a minute, or a hundred lifetimes. But you pick up. It is one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but you pick up the phone. 

“Angel love—” Hyunjin’s voice cracks immediately, cutting his sentence short.

You swallow a sob, then another. It is one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but you speak to him.

“Hyun—” your voice cracks, too. And you can no longer repress the sobs, the tears. 

He is crying as well, softly. But you listen to it, to him, his breathing. The muffled sounds his mouth makes when he gulps. His voice when he tries to speak to you. 

Before this phone call, your longing felt like a dream, a nightmare—not quite real, despite it leaving very real impressions on your life. But now that you are hearing Hyunjin cry, now that you’ve heard his voice and that it called from an Australian phone number—it became very real. Like ink spilling from your heart all throughout your insides, staining you black. The ink tastes bitter. The ink unmakes you. 

“Angel, I—” more cries, away from the phone, this time. You cry, too. 

“It’s okay—” you manage, your voice rendered ugly by the sobs and the cries and the pain. “Keep getting better, Hyun.” You hesitate, but ultimately can’t help but add: “I miss you.”

A choked sob. “I miss you too.” He has written you these words countless times, but to hear him speak them out loud is different. Hearing it absorbs some of the ink away, making that reality a lot more tangible. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. But it’s real. You are in love with Hyunjin and he is in love with you.

You are an ocean, he is the sky—nothing else needs to be said. You both hang up at the same time. 

Jellybean comes to the rescue, quickly followed by Minho—he finds you with his cat in your arms, crying silently on the couch, watching snowflakes twirl in the window of his living room. 

“I know you’re leaving,” you tell him, but you don’t look at him. Not yet—you need a few more moments to gather yourself. 

“You should come with me.” A pause. From the corner of your eye, you notice that Minho is also looking outside. “Why can’t you come with me?”

“He won’t heal the same if I’m there.” You can’t explain it. Hyunjin can’t explain it. But it is true. Not all truths are meant to be understood. You look down at the fuzzy creature on your lap. “I’ll take care of Jellybean while you’re gone. She’ll come live with me” 

You look at him then, Minho, and he looks at you, biting his lower lip, reaching to Jellybean to pet her softly.

“I’ll bring him back to you.” This, he says with his eyes directly in yours, staring at you like you are an ocean and he is a mountain. “Hyunjin. I’ll make him the dancer he once was—no, better than before, even—and I’ll bring him back to you. I promise you. I promise.” 

You want to believe him. Hope looks good on Minho, but it does not transfer to you when he holds you, when he kisses the top of your head, when he parts from you, grabbing his laptop so he can request a visa for his travels. 

You do not know if Hyunjin will ever come back and if he does, he may not love you anymore. Maybe he only loved you because his brain had short-circuited too many times, because it was too dark in his life, because he couldn’t see in the dark, and he stumbled upon you by accident. 

For so long, you had to keep hope on a leash. To make sure it stayed away from you. But it had escaped, and it had not gone to you—it had run away from you. Just like Hyunjin.

You thought you would be enough for him. For Hyunjin. You know you’re not much. You work, you paint. You smile when the sky is blue and when it rains, too. You laugh and you cry when you watch TV, you get over-excited at the most mundane things. You like coffee, your father collects minerals. You’re not much, but you thought you would be enough for Hyunjin—you thought that the love you had for him would suffice.

For you, there is nothing bigger in this world. The multi-colored, atom-rearranging love you have for him. 

But, turns out, it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

When Minho’s bedroom door closes behind him, you gently put Jellybean back on her cat bed, grab the Jeju mandarin in your purse, and peel it slowly while watching the snow through the window. The scent is enough to make you dizzy—as if you’ve jumped through a portal that brought to the moment when, a year ago, he sat to your left. He had a single mandarin with him that day, but its smell filled the room when he peeled it. The juice trickled on his chin when he bit into it. After that day, mandarins never tasted the same to you.

You leave the peels with your empty wine glass and return to the window to taste it. The Jeju mandarin. As if it meant everything. As if it would bring Hyunjin back. As if it would make you become enough for him. 

But you take one slice in your fingers, deposit it gently on your tongue, and close your mouth around it. 

The orange bursts with flavor, with juice, with sunshine. It bleeds yellows and reds, it tastes like love, like kisses, like a woman that once had it all. The juice coats your lips, and you go for another slice. This one tastes like when Hyunjin pulled you on top of him to fuck you from below while you sank onto him, this one tastes like sleepless nights and a bedroom that smells like sweat and sex and forevers. 

The third slice tastes like a light pink rose and chocolate cake. Like a portrait of you with so much beauty painted on you that you see it, too. Like a warm hand on the small of your back. It tastes like uncontrollable laughter at one in the morning with no apparent cause for it apart from the fact that you are in love with Hyunjin and he is in love with you.

In this Jeju mandarin, you taste your first kiss with Hyunjin, the first time he made love to you, you taste the crescent-shaped scar on his upper thigh. You taste the time he painted you red just to see himself on you, in you. You taste his cock, feel his smooth skin under your tongue, you taste him the way you did when you swallowed him all. After the pulses of his cock in your mouth unmade and made you. 

The last slice of the mandarin tastes like the day you said goodbye to him. The tears on his lips, both yours and his, when you kissed him for the last time. It was the hardest thing you ever did. You let him go, and you kept existing.

But you hurt. You hurt. You hurt. 

It snows all night. You do not even cry. But you do not sleep either. You just stare at the snow. Only love can hurt like this.

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Turns out, it is very real and nothing can wash it away. Not the ocean of black ink inside of you, not the hand-written letters that are accumulating in a box in your apartment, not the purrs of a gentle and cuddly cat. 

And not time either.

It is strawberry season once more. Time is a peculiar thing. Once upon a time, you did not believe in love at first sight. You thought that it was a man-made concept, you thought that someone couldn't fall in love with another without knowing them. You had no idea that someone’s atoms might need another person’s atoms close by so that they could be rearranged and fall in the right order. 

But now, time is a mystery. You’ve been hurting for so long that you got used to it, but the passage of time eludes you. Or you elude it. You’ve been hurting for so long but always in the same amount, the same way—so does it really matter if that sorrow has been with you forever, for an hour, or for a hundred lifetimes? 

Today is Friday night, and there is no painting class tomorrow as there is maintenance to be done in the building where the studio is located. You’ve known for two weeks. For two weeks, you’ve wondered what you will do that day, that empty Saturday. That day is tomorrow and you still don’t know, but you assume you will be painting.

Soon, there will be very little space left in Hyunjin’s apartment to stock your paintings. You accumulate them and sometimes you give one away. To your parents, your sister. You gave her a few, actually—a series of flower paintings to decorate her little girl’s bedroom. She is not born yet, but this baby is loved deeply already. Already, she is enough.

Were you enough, back then? When you were still in your mother’s belly? When your father was painting your bedroom walls a lovely shade of yellow? 

Were you enough, back then? When did you stop being enough? 

The young woman with beautiful dark-brown eyes texts you in the afternoon, to let you know that she is doing alright, that she is painting a lot and working on her studies to make sure her future would be as bright as what you told her she deserved. You smile at your phone. You don’t often smile, but you do when you see hope flourish in others. It looks good on them. 

While you’re on your phone, you check Lee Minho’s Instagram page, as he had messaged you earlier and you forgot to look at it. You are in your office, on your own, and feel comfortable enough to use your phone as your boss left for a meeting on the other side of town after lunch. He even told you to finish the report you were working on, and leave after—no extra work for today, he said. But you don’t mind work. You never have enough of it. It occupies your mind, so you don’t have to remember. So you don’t have to forget. 

Minho: he doesn’t know I’m sending you this Minho: but… I thought you’d like to see.

It’s a video. From the thumbnail alone you can guess what you are about to watch—the still image shows the dance studio where Danceracha has been practicing for the past few weeks. Just above Minho’s message is a picture you sent him—it shows Jellybean comfortably asleep on your pillow, basking in the morning light. 

Maybe you shouldn’t watch this here. Much like Hyunjin’s letters, some things are better ingested in a neutral location. The bathroom of a restaurant you will never return to. Randomly generated coordinates that end up being a small park that you’ve never been in, and will never look for again.

But this is not the kind of thing that can wait, you don’t think. So you click on the video, and you watch. 

It’s just him. Hyunjin. But it's more than enough. He makes sure the phone is recording and backs away. He looks different, but you can’t tell how exactly. You’ve seen pictures of him from his time in Australia—sun-kissed skin, sun-kissed hair, sun-kissed eyes. He looks healthier. But he is still Hyunjin, his hair tied up at the back of his head, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, wiping sweat off his forehead as a popular pop song begins playing in the studio. 

And he dances. 

He hurts, but sometimes, pain is just pain. He hurts when he stretches his body a little too much—you see it in his eyes, the pain. But you see fire too. You see life. 

Elation looks good on Hyunjin—and it is what keeps him going. 

As he is dancing, his eyes never leave the mirror he's facing. He calculates every single movement he does, he lets the music cradle him into this dancer’s euphoria that you’d seen on him in the footage you have from before the accident. He hurts when he moves his hips too suddenly, too widely, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it over and over again, the undulations of them hypnotizing, mesmerizing, sinful, and each time on beat with the song. He dances the same way he used to make love to you—every motion is saturated with purpose, with color, with love.

It is not perfect. The dancing. You are not a dancer, you are just a painter. It is not enough, but you have spent enough time with Minho to know that Hyunjin’s speed was lacking a little, as well as his footwork. 

But he is dancing. He is dancing. He is dancing. 

And your heart may be black and cold and damaged, but it beats in your chest and swells with pride after witnessing this accomplishment. You almost cry but you don’t. You wish you could cry, but you can no longer do that, it seems.

You: Thank you for this, Min You: he's doing really good.

He responds immediately. 

Minho: Of course he is. I’m his teacher Minho: Don’t let Jellybean take up all the space in your bed. You’re spoiling her. She'll forget about me!

You are spoiling her a little. But she is the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning, her big blue eyes, her soft gray and white fur. She is always warm. She likes to lick the corner of your eyes as if she was always expecting you to cry. But you do not cry anymore. Is it possible to cry so much for a while, that you no longer have tears? 

Jisung texts you as you send Minho a goodbye text, wishing him a good Friday night. 

Jisung: Are you busy tonight? Jisung: Do you want to have dinner with me? Jisung: I won’t cook, promise. Pizza? 

You: Yes, pizza's good. I’ll be there at 7:30 

You don’t particularly want pizza, but you don’t want to be alone. Tomorrow will be empty enough as it is, it’s best if you spend some time with Ji today. You don’t have much that keeps you going—the painting class is one of the things that do.

It’s 7:26 when you get to Jisung’s place. The weather shifted suddenly as you went home from work, the evening shaping up to be warm and humid. It is only strawberry season, however, warm days and nights can happen at this time of the year, so you simply showered quickly, put your hair into a bun, put on a comfortable sage green midi dress, and left. But not without showering Jellybean with love. And giving her plenty of wet food—you’ll miss her when Minho returns. 

If he ever does. 

Somedays, it feels like they’re all going to stay out there in Australia, leaving you here to mark the passage of time with the fruit you eat. 

These days, your lips are often red with the juice of strawberries. You are a painter and you know color intimately. You are in love with another painter who blends colors like no living being ever did. But these days, red is just red.

“Pizza just got here,” Jisung informs you, letting you in. “Glad you made it before the storm.”

“Me too,” you admit, offering your best approximation of a smile to your friend. “I brought beer, though. Bought it just around the corner, so it’s still cold.”

“Awesome.” He, too, pretends to smile for you, and you follow him into the kitchen. 

You help him put food on plates, and soon enough the both of you are sitting at the dinner table to eat. Jisung turns on the radio to put some background noise. He doesn’t watch TV a lot, but if tonight is like the other nights, you will end up on the couch anyway to watch a blockbuster movie. Something dumb but entertaining enough to captivate and keep your minds busy for about two hours. 

“How’s your sister?” Jisung asks over pizza after drinking most of his beer in three big gulps. He seems nervous. 

“She’s alright.” You take a deep breath. “She’s scheduled to give birth in three weeks, so she’s a little on edge… but that’s normal, right?”

“Must be.” Jisung nods, understanding. “I’d freak the hell out if I was about to have a baby, honestly. Like… I’m the baby.” 

You chuckle, and the chuckle turns into a laugh. Jisung looks at you with wide eyes—he must think you are becoming crazy. You haven’t laughed in a long time, not like this. But he joins you, he laughs too. He laughs in periwinkle blue and you in creamsicle orange. A little desaturated, but laughing still. Still. 

“You’re too funny, Ji,” you say with a sigh after the laughter subsided. But it left a pleasant aftertaste in your mouth, that your next gulp of beer doesn’t wash away. 

“I wasn’t even joking!” But he laughs again a little, and so do you.

You finish the beers, and Jisung goes to get more. You quickly drink that one too, and you ask him about his mother, who had unfortunately broken her arm two weeks ago in a minor car accident. 

“She’s fine,” he assures. “It drives her crazy to stay home and do nothing, though. But at least it’s not her dominant arm.” He pauses. “I brought her some painting supplies. Just watercolor. To pass the time.” 

Time is so peculiar. 

Jisung watches you in silence for a while, chewing his pizza. Normally he’s the kind of guy to finish his food while you’re still halfway through yours. But something is different in him tonight, and you can’t quite figure out what. He has worse days than others—maybe today is one of those days. Maybe he just has a different way to have it worse today. Maybe his guilt is taking up too much space in his heart.

So you wipe your hands, and you slide your chair to sit right next to Jisung, pulling out your phone.

“Another Jellybean video?” Jisung asks, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He has grown rather fond of the cat even though he won’t admit it.

“No.” You open Instagram and immediately go to the video Minho sent you. “He’s dancing again.” 

Nothing else needs to be said. Jisung watches in silence, his hands under the table, his gaze never leaving the screen, his irises following Hyunjin’s wide movements across it.

“He’s good,” is all he says at first when the video is over. “He’s really good. Does that mean he’ll come back, now?” 

You take a deep breath. “No, Ji. Not yet.” You gulp. “Maybe not ever, you know?” 

He knows, and nothing else needs to be said.

You eat dinner. You eat pizza and drink beer, and talk about your work. But you see the hesitation in Jisung’s eyes, you feel it in him, smell it on him. As soon as he’s done eating, you’re the one to grab the empty plates and bring them to the sink to rinse them up, but Jisung quickly follows you.

“Don’t do that, come on, your pretty dress.” You feel his hand brush the fabric of it, gently, on your back. “Let me do it.” 

There is a window above the sink in Jisung’s kitchen. You put down the plates, rinse your fingers and stand, watching the storm unfold in the window. Lightning flashes all over the black sky, and you hear the thunder better than you did a moment ago. You feel it. 

Jisung’s hand is still on your back. You think about your heart and how Hyunjin compared it to a caged bird. You wonder what would happen if you did set it free, but you do not think it would fall in love with Jisung. Or with anyone. But you do wonder where the bird would fly to. 

You turn around and see the reflection of lightning in Jisung’s eyes. You see ghosts, you see blue paint spilled on a black canvas. You see the kiss he is about to give you. 

You do not stop him. You do not think you could fall in love with him, but when Jisung pulls you close, when he puts his hand on your face and kisses your lips, you let him do so. You kiss him back, even, expecting tears, expecting to scream, expecting to die. But it does not unmake you. It does not make you. It just is.

Jisung’s lips are cool from the beer, and he parts yours open gently. This kiss is long overdue. But you have failed him. You have failed him as a friend—you only seem to get close to him when Hyunjin is away. This is wrong, so wrong. Jisung deserves better.

But you kiss him back, cocking your head to the side, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close. Your ass hits the counter behind you and Jisung moans softly in your mouth, his hands traveling on your back, feeling you, touching you. 

You are an ocean and Hyunjin is the sky. Jisung is the cliffed coast you crash up against—your waves unpredictable, uncontrollable—when the high tides come in. 

“Wait—” Jisung pulls away from you, just a little, his forehead pressed against yours. “It’s wrong,” he whispers, his lips so close to your mouth that you feel them, still. Soft, warm. Nice. 

It is wrong. He is right. 

“Remember when I told you about work? How they're restructuring,” Jisung goes on. A strange conversation to have mid-kiss, you think. “They’ve offered me a better position in Busan.” 

You had prepared for the day Hyunjin would leave you, but you had not prepared for this. You had failed Jisung in so many ways and you had even failed to anticipate losing him, your friend whose soul is bluer than the sky. 

“Ji—that’s great news, why aren’t you happy?” Why did you kiss me? You want to ask him, but you owe him that at least. A kiss. “Busan is so pretty, too.” 

He nods slowly, pulling away from you a little more, but keeping you in his arms, and you keep him in yours. “I… It feels wrong to leave you, after everything. I don’t want to go. I’d rather stay here. I don't want to leave you alone.” 

But you cannot let him do that. All that you are doing is waiting for a painter, a dancer, that may never come back. You’ve failed Jisung in many ways, but you cannot fail him this time around. 

“Jisung, that’s nonsense.” You shake your head. Somewhere over you, thunder rolls louder than ever, as if to underline your point. “It’s your career, it’s everything. You… I’ll be fine. We’ll still call each other. I have Jellybean. And my sister is giving birth in three weeks. I’ll be busy for a while.” This isn’t quite true—your mother will temporarily move in with your sister to help her and her husband. But Jisung doesn’t need to know that. 

“They want me to transfer in two, three weeks, yeah…” Jisung lets the end of his sentence stop there, but it’s okay. Nothing else needs to be said. 

“There’s a sky in Busan,” you go on. “You’ll still send me pictures, right?”

“Of course.” The ghost of another, different smile haunts Jisung’s lips. “I’ll miss you.. and the painting class… I’ll visit though, sometimes. Will you let me into the class if I visit on Saturdays?” 

You smile. You haven’t been able to cry in so long, but you wish you could today. You wish you could. But maybe it’s better this way. Maybe Jisung can remember you the way you are tonight, your sage green dress, and your almost honest smile. It’s better than remembering you with tears on your face.

“Always.” You squeeze his shirt in your closed fists. “You’re a VIP, Ji.” 

He smiles, for real, but not for long. 

“It feels wrong,” he says again, his voice low, his eyes on your lips. 

You pull him close again, kiss him again. Kissing him feels right. It doesn’t mean it means anything other than that, just that, a kiss. His tongue brushes against yours, exploring your mouth, chills spreading all over your body as Jisung leans on you, his body warm, warm, warm. 

Jisung is kind. His kisses are soft and gentle, like his hands and the way he touches you. The way he touched your heart, too, and the ones of everybody around him. The way he would always notice if someone in the painting class wasn’t doing too well, offering them a few extra jokes and a hug. 

He has not been okay since the day Hyunjin left. Guilt, now that he has it, is all that he does have.

And soon after Hyunjin, Seo-yeon left too. Because she only wanted Jisung when he was happy. She did not know how to handle a heart that hurts. Maybe she wasn’t that nice after all—but maybe her own heart hurt in its own way. The hows and whys do not matter here. 

Jisung has been hurting for a while. You feel it in the way he kisses you, his mouth open, warm, wet. It makes you wet a little. You are not in love with him and it is just a kiss, but you feel Jisung’s longing for happiness in this kiss. Nothing else needs to be said. 

“Ji—” It almost pains you to break the kiss, but you must. You must let him go. He has always deserved better anyway. 

He stares at you, his eyes full of tears. Full of uncertainty and certainty. Like he knows everything that should happen, that will happen, but he needs to hear it from you. 

“Go, Ji,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your palm and brushing your thumb under his eye. “Your heart is beautiful. Like a bird. You can’t keep a bird caged up for too long, it will die. You have to set it free. You have to go, Jisung. Maybe it will heal you. You will send me pictures of the sky and I will send you pictures of my paintings. But you will heal. You will forget your guilt. You just have to set your heart free.” 

“You keep telling me this, but I can’t forget that. Fuck, I can’t. What if I hadn’t taken you guys to the arcade. I’m sure Hyun—”

“Ji.” You sigh, locking eyes with him. “That’s what I mean. No matter the number of times I’ve told you, or the words I choose to explain this to you… you still don’t believe me, almost a year later. But he would have left anyway. For another reason. Another time. I’m sorry that you can’t help being burdened by this, Jisung. I wish you weren’t. But it’s not your fault. It’s Hyunjin’s brain.”

A nod. “The short circuits.”

“The short circuits.” You nod, too. 

He clicks his tongue softly, the tongue that just kissed you. He knew all of that, he just needed to hear it from you. He kisses you again, deeply, but not for long. It's okay. It is enough.

You owe that to him—to let him go. You thank him for the pizza. You tell him to keep the beer, you make him promise to call you if he needs help packing boxes. He obviously doesn’t want you to leave, not right now, but he needs you gone. Still, he insists—says he will call a taxi for you because it’s raining and there is a storm. But no. It has to be now. You have to let him go.

“Goodbye, Ji.” Your hand finds his face once more, and his yours. “Allow yourself to be happy, yeah?” 

He gives you another kiss, and you kiss him back again. But you turn away and exit the apartment, closing the door behind you. You feel him through the door, the walls, and feel Jisung’s urge to pull the door open again. So you walk faster, running down the staircase, putting as much distance between the two of you as you can. 

There is a sky over Busan, too. He will look at it from there and you will look at it from here. It will be the same sky. It will comfort you—maybe not as much as Jisung’s actual presence did, but it will comfort you. The blue of it, the clouds. Sunrises, sunsets. You’ll have to get your own gilgeori toast on Saturday mornings, but the breakfast sandwiches will taste like the color blue from now on. 

The rain is relentless, but you walk to the nearest bus stop, just to get away from here. Who will heal you now? Who will keep your mind busy so that you do not think about all of the ways that you hurt? What will you do tomorrow if there is no painting class?

It is one of the hardest things you ever did. Letting others see the damage, the scratches, the dents in your soul. Letting others see your sharp edges. But it was through this courageous act that they were allowed to support you. It was the only thing that kept you together. 

Love, when you had it, looked good on you.

And now, what do you have?

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Love is extensive—you fall in love with one person but they come with baggage. Sometimes, baggage is a crescent-shaped scar. Sometimes, it’s red on a white silk ribbon. Baggage isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, it’s people. Good people.

You do not hurt alone.

Jeongin: You probably took a wrong turn! Did you go left or right after the park?

Jeongin: You were supposed to go left! I can go pick you up

You: No, no, I got it. I’m almost there. 

You carefully negotiate the turn that you so fatally missed earlier—but you are extra careful because, after all, you did borrow your sister’s car for this—and find yourself on your way, finally, to Bang Chan’s backyard party.

It is peach season, and last week, Yang Jeongin called you after your painting class to invite you to his boss’ party on his behalf. The guys all miss you, he had said. Well, you missed them too. But then, you miss a lot of people. Love, when you had it, looked good on you. Longing, now that you have it, is all that you remember. 

You find Chan’s house—it’s nice but humble—and hear the music in the backyard as soon as you get out of the car. You grab the gift you brought for Chan and his wife—a basket of Gyeongsang peaches as well as a bottle of wine and some chocolates. 

You think that, maybe, you will cry when Chan’s wife guides you to the backyard and you find them there. Jeongin’s face lights up with joy at your sight and he pulls you in for a hug as if it hadn’t been over a year since you last saw him. Chan thanks you for the gift and mentions he’d really like to speak with you about another commission—but another time. Because today is all about celebrating the end of summer, all about fun. Or so he says, at least.

Time is so peculiar. When you hurt and all you do is hurt, time no longer matters. In the same way that it does not matter whether you fell in love at first sight or at third sight or much later. Because in the end, you did fall in love, and it did rearrange the atoms that make you you. 

You think that, maybe, you will cry after you’ve said hello to everyone, and you follow Jeongin at the tables with all the drinks. He wants you to taste something. The something in question is a mandarin liqueur that was apparently sent from Australia to Chan, as a congratulatory gift from Hyunjin when Chan got a big promotion. 

But you do not cry. 

You watch Jeongin pour you a shot of it while he lists some of the cocktails that are apparently very good with it. 

It tastes a little bitter, but it warms you up in this already very warm August afternoon. You do not cry, but you do not smile either. 

“How is he?” Jeongin asks you after pouring himself a gin and juice, and just juice for you. 

How is Hyunjin? 

Today is Saturday. You came here after the painting class. But today, you woke up a little late because you drank yourself to sleep last night. You showered quickly but you almost didn’t make it in time for the class. You’re not the kind of person to be late to places, but the past few months have been a lot. After all, Jisung isn’t there to motivate you to get up anymore. 

You have to do it yourself. It is one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but you do it—every morning you wake up, and you exist.  

Last night, you were scrolling your phone with one hand—the other hand was petting Miss Jellybean who has made herself quite comfortable in your life. And, you let her. Hyunjin doesn’t use social media that often, but you saw that he had been tagged by Felix in a series of pictures. The pictures were all taken at some sort of bar or restaurant and showed a group of about 7-8 people. 

The whole setting doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that Hyunjin was sitting next to a girl, and he had his arm over her shoulders in one of the photos. And in another one, she was speaking to him in his ear with her hand on his thigh. 

The rest doesn’t matter. Nothing else needs to be said. 

You pour yourself another shot of the mandarin liqueur. It must be quite expensive, considering it was sent directly from Australia. Hyunjin seems to like Australia quite a lot—the dance studios, the beaches, the food. The girls. With pretty hair and a pretty face, and with his arm around their shoulders. The mandarin liqueur must be expensive but apparently, Hyunjin has a good amount of money that he inherited from his aunt—you’ve recently been notified that the lease on his apartment is continuing and is fully paid for. For another year. 

So you pour yourself another shot. And another.

“Didn’t you drive here?” Jeongin asks, his voice low, turning to you. 

You ignore that. “Hyunjin is doing well,” you reply, making yourself smile. Most people are fooled by your smile, but it doesn’t seem that Jeongin is one of them. “I’m sure he misses you, guys.” 

You look at the small crowd around the yard. A lot of people you don’t really know with some that are familiar. Chan and Changbin are having a conversation, but you wonder if you should try to have someone’s arm around your shoulders, too. If it would feel good. You kissed Jisung but it didn’t make anything better. 

“We miss him too,” you hear Jeongin say in your back. There’s a long pause, during which you are trying to decide whether Changbin is the kind of mistake worth making. “I’m sorry I suggested to Chan… that he should invite you. I’m sorry. Maybe it wasn’t a very good idea…” 

Here is the truth: Hyunjin is healing—away from you, apart from you. He is growing, he is sending mandarin liqueur to his former manager and to you, he sends letters. His absence takes up all of the space in your life. You will never not see him in everything and he will never not love you, and you, him. 

Here is another truth: the sky is blue, summer is ending, and you are healing, too. Because you are hurting doesn’t mean you aren’t healing—in fact, you’ve come to realize it was quite the opposite. You do not cry anymore. Jellybean makes you laugh when she does little things like eating your shoes or curling up in your neck at night. Your sister is glowing. She is a wonderful mother, and she is teaching you how to be a wonderful aunt. You love her little girl. You will never not see Hyunjin in everything. 

He will always be a part of you. No matter where he is in the world. No matter whose hand is on his thigh. 

Love, when you had it, looked good on you. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips red from strawberry juice, lips red from kisses.

Sorrow, now that you have it, isn’t all that you have. 

You’re not much. You work, you paint. You smile when the sky is blue and when it rains, too. You feel true emotions when you watch TV. You like coffee, your father collects minerals, and you could hold your niece in your arms for hours and hours. You’re not much, and you weren’t enough for Hyunjin, his brain that short-circuits, his atom-rearranging heart. You’re not much, but you thought you would be enough for Hyunjin—you thought that the love you had for him would suffice.

Maybe it was a mistake that night after he gave you the rose. To let him tell you why he bought it for you. To let him tell you he fell in love with you at first sight. To let him kiss you and make love to you. To let his atoms touch yours, to let him in.

But some mistakes are worth making. 

Letting him go was the hardest thing you ever had to do. You were not enough for Hyunjin, maybe. But everything else—the sky, the feeling of a brush smearing paint on a canvas, biting into a ripe peach, existing, existing, existing—

it has to be enough for you. 

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Turns out, you can fall in love with someone based on the way their hair frames their face, based on the color and shape of their lips, based on the way they hold their bag, based on the fact that the seat next to yours was always empty. Turns out, you can fall in love with someone before they finish speaking their first sentence to you. And it can be the best, or worst, kind of love. 

But it is real. 

It is persimmon season. Again. It is also Saturday, and you are sitting in the empty studio after the painting class, sharing persimmons with the young woman who has beautiful dark-brown eyes. She has moved away from her parents and their inability to love her right, to believe in her. She tells you she will be a doctor someday, and you believe her. The persimmons are perfectly ripe and juicy, filling your mouth with their unique flavor. These ones leave a cinnamon aftertaste. You wonder why Hyunjin doesn’t like them.

You see him in everything. It used to drive you crazy. Now, you’re just grateful—if it is the only way you can feel him, remember him, you’ll take that over nothing.

Love, when you had it, looked so good on you. A delicate smile on your face, a warm hand on the small of your back, fresh flowers in your apartment. 

And now, what do you have? 

You wouldn’t call it hope. You wouldn’t give it a name, this new thing that has taken up residence in your ribcage. You don’t know why it’s there and who let it in, but you know better than to question its presence. You let it be. You think it must be a little bit of everything, scraps left there to rot that became something new. Sorrow, longing. Laughter, blue skies, roses, and a baby’s hand on your cheek. 

Sorrow. Longing. 

The young woman hugs you tightly before she leaves the studio, closing the door behind her. Once upon a time, it was you hugging Mrs. Yoo like that after class. Sometimes, life does imitate art. Art also imitates life. And it’s enough. It has to be. 

Time is peculiar. You feel older, everyone around you is older. But when you hurt long enough, the passage of time no longer matters, the same way it does not matter if you fell in love with someone immediately or later. When you look in the mirror, you see the woman you once were and the woman you are now. Her hair is a little shorter, barely brushing on her shoulders, but it shines under the sun. 

You still feel it. What it was like. When Hyunjin’s fist closed in your hair, when he fucked you, made love to you. You still feel it, his lips on your neck, between your legs, his tongue planting sins all over your body. How it felt when he looked at you over his cup of coffee in the morning. Like he was a dying man and you were his absolution. 

Except you weren’t. You’re not much. You work, you paint. You smile when the sky is blue and when it rains, too. You’re a fun aunt, you give your time to your family, your students, your coworkers. You’re not much, and you weren’t enough. 

This is what will follow you until the end of you. Until you are unmade for good. 

You hear it first—the handle, the slight creak—when the door opens. You don’t even want to look up from the persimmon you were slicing. 

Love, when you had it, used to look good on you. 

Hope, you never really had it. You knew there would be a day when Hyunjin would leave you. That day, you wanted to hurt alone. And you did. You still do. You hurt. You hurt. You hurt. 

Hope, you never really had it until today. That door always stays closed during class—but today, someone pushed it open. 

So you lift your head, your eyes immediately finding the newcomer, standing in the frame of the door. Just there. 

Hope, when you had it—

You didn’t have it for long.

“Who are you?” you ask the stranger in the frame of the door that was supposed to stay closed until Hyunjin decided to come back. “Why are you here? Class is over.”

“I know.” The stranger looks nervous, but he makes his way to you. The more you look at him, the less of a stranger he is. “I’m sorry if this isn’t a good time I can always come back, I, uh—I was looking for the woman who painted the golden tree, about two years ago.” 

A long time ago it seems, you were that woman. You painted a golden tree once. Hyunjin did the background—teal and pink. Bold brush strokes, perfect blending. 

“It’s you,” the stranger goes on, and you suddenly remember who he is. “I recognize you.”

“I went to your exhibition. At the art gallery,” you recall. That night, Hyunjin left you for the first time. You were wearing his fleece jacket. He was crying. His brain short-circuited that night. “I remember.” How could you not?

The man nods, visibly nervous. He looks mostly the same as he did back then, you think. Clean haircut, pleasant face. A few years older than you. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so you push the plate with the persimmon toward him. He takes a slice and eats it in silence. 

“Why are you here?” You eat a slice of persimmon too. “I don’t think you need painting classes.” 

He chuckles, nodding slowly. “No, I came to speak with you.” He wipes his fingertips on his black trousers and leans against the wall next to your desk. “I’ve never forgotten that painting.”

“My partner painted the background,” you state, doing your best to remember, to forget. To keep a straight face. “It was a team effort.” 

“Mr. Hwang is a talented painter, indeed.” The man sighs, eyeing the peeled and sliced persimmon. You nudge the plate toward him again—you’re not hungry anymore. “He’s the reason I’m here today, to meet with you.” The man fumbles in his jacket for a while before handing you a business card and taking some more of the persimmon. 

The man’s name is Chun Min-jun. His business card is clean and simple. You take it between your fingers.

“Mr. Chun.” You dip your head politely and give him your name in return, but you can’t manage a smile. He doesn’t seem to mind. He just takes another piece of persimmon. “How can I help you? The painting of the golden tree isn’t for sale.” The painting of the golden tree is in Hyunjin’s apartment, with all of the other paintings that you can’t let go of.

“Oh, I don’t want to buy it.” He takes the time to swallow the last of the fruit in his mouth, really letting the flavor hit his soul. “I have another kind of offer for you.”

This is the offer he has for you—Chun Min-jun is part of an artist collective who, together, can get more visibility for their art. They promote healing and soothing themes and organize exhibitions and events. Most of the profits they make go to children who wouldn’t otherwise be able to experience art in any way—they buy supplies for them and provide safe studios for them to paint and draw. The exhibition where you met him, two years ago already, was one of those events. 

“Unfortunately, one of the artists who was supposed to be in this year’s December exhibition won’t be able to make it. They backed off at the last minute because of family issues,” Min-jun explains. There is only one slice of persimmon left, and you wave it away, offering it to him, but he finishes his speech before biting into it. “I… While I don’t know him too well, I am aware of Mr. Hwang’s work, I am particularly fond of his blending technique… So I approached him to be part of the exhibition instead.” 

“He’s in Australia,” you point out, wondering what any of this has to do with you. “He’s dancing.”

“Yes, I was told about this…” the man takes his time eating the last of the persimmon. “I’m sorry, I—I know it may come off as ungrateful, but I promise you that your golden tree hasn’t left my mind since I saw it. Miss, would you like to be a part of the exhibition?” 

You look at him, the way he bites his bottom lip—he is visibly uncomfortable.

“Why me?” you ask. “You’ve only seen the golden tree, which I didn’t even do the background for, I hardly qualify to have my stuff shown in an art gallery, I—”

“Actually, no.” He cuts you off, quickly pulling his phone out only to show you that he has a small collection of pictures of your work. You know these pictures. You know who took them, making sure they were always shown in the best lighting, in their best angles.

“Hyunjin sent you these.” You received the blow but you are waiting to see how it feels. For now, you just feel empty. You often feel empty, these days. 

“He said you would be a perfect candidate for the exhibition and he immediately sent me these, yes.” Min-jun takes a deep breath, walking the few steps that separate you from him, standing right in front of your desk. “When I saw your work, I fell in love with it at first sight.”

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Some time ago, you wouldn’t have believed him, Min-jun, if he had spoken these words to you. But your atoms have been rearranged. But you’ve been given a light pink rose. But you’ve been kissed by lips that are dusty pink and all of the other shades of pink at once, too. But you’ve been given one or a hundred Jeju mandarins. 

“I know what it seems like,” Min-jun goes on. “That you’re my third choice, my last resort—we do have to send our final lineup tomorrow before midnight. But I promise you, Miss, that if I had seen your work before, you would have been my first choice. Especially considering the theme of this year’s exhibition.”

There are voices in your head, reds and blacks spilling in your heart but you try to even your breath and lick your lips slowly. They taste like persimmons. God, you miss the time of your life when they tasted like Hyunjin—like love. 

“The theme?”

“I found that a lot of your works resonated with this year’s theme, and are beautifully painted. Exquisitely, even. Has anybody ever told you how delicate your brush strokes are? Your colors, your lighting? Has anybody ever commented on how lifelike your reds are?” 

Lifelike reds. Delicate strokes. Hyunjin’s painting style was—still is—bold strokes, strong blendings, and vivid scenes. No, actually, nobody really ever calls your art delicate. They say it’s beautiful, or pretty. No one has ever used words like these to talk about your art.

Except for Hyunjin. The way he would sometimes stare at your paintings for so long that you would wonder if he had fallen asleep, but really, he was studying it. I’m learning from you, he would say, squinting, his face just inches away from the canvas. One time, you had painted his favorite mug, half-full of coffee, with his hand around it. On his wrist you had painted your fingers, holding him gently. As if saying goodbye. As if saying no, stay. This was a while before he left for Australia, but he had cried looking at the painting. And then he had fucked you hard against the wall. 

God, you miss him. Love, when you had it, looked good on you. 

You haven’t looked good in a while. 

“What’s the theme?” You find yourself asking, your voice trembling almost as much as your hands. Remembering Hyunjin like that is too much. It’s almost as if you can sense his presence in the room. Why couldn’t it have been him who pushed the door open? 

Min-jun offers you a soft smile, a sad smile. “The theme is love languages.” 

Love languages.

Sometimes, love looks like a mandarin shared with a person you met last week. Sometimes, love looks like sharing more mandarins with her until you become acquainted. Until one asks the other out for lunch. And another lunch. And dinner. 

Sometimes love is a fleece jacket on a cold night, a small orange-shaped plushie and expensive paint brushes. Sometimes love looks like a light pink rose and a white silk ribbon, like a first kiss. Sometimes, love is introducing him to your family because you trust him enough with your future and with your heart to do so. Sometimes, love looks like pain. 

Sometimes, love looks like demons dancing in his eyes. Sometimes, love looks like a photo album put together to make sure you would never forget him. Love looks like handwritten letters. Dozens and dozens of them. Portraits painted. More paintings. Red on skin, red in the eyes, in the soul. Love is red, red like Hyunjin. Love looks like Hyunjin. Hyunjin Hyunjin Hyunjin. 

Love looks like letting Hyunjin go, allowing it to unmake you.

You lock eyes with Min-jun. You don’t know what kind of facial expression you’re making but judging by his, it must be something. 

“Love languages,” you echo, taking a deep breath. “I’ll do it.” Saying this to Min-jun, it was one of the hardest things you ever did—but you do not cry. 

a/n: hello!! ♡ again, I apologize that I had to split the chapter in two parts, but I hope there were moments that you enjoyed in it! as always, i wish to thank my faithful readers. the ones that reblog my works, the ones that slide into my DMs or my askbox to let me know if I did anything right. ♡ your support is greatly appreciated and makes a huge difference ♡ ps: I am aware that a lot of this chapter is... dark. if you ever need to talk about anything, please know I am available to chat through DMs.

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