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heliads · 9 months

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HEY HEY HEY!! can u make a the darkling x reader soulmate au?? one where reader is a powerful grisha and has lived nearly as long as he has? they walked the earth and met each other a few times, not knowing they were the same people. sometimes, a romance almost happened, but because they knew they would outlive them, it never happened. How about aleks meets reader by chance in a village near fjerda and they recognize each other for the first time and realize they are each other's soulmate? ♡ U!!

HEY HEY HEY!! your au is that your scars stay on your soulmate's skin.

masterlist

You would think that the centuries would go by faster once you’d experienced enough of them. When you grow up, it’s like the years pass with greater and greater speed, but there must be a leveling point to that mad exponential curve, because you reached it a long time ago. The decades don’t fly by anymore, they drag like the heels of your boots in the soft mud connecting the Wandering Isle to Novyi Zem.

That particular sinking earth is gone, much like most of the places from your memory. The land bridge between the two nations, which was already tentative at best back when you were born, has long been pulled under the current of the True Sea. Now, the recollections of old work boots falling into dirt have just as much hold as the place itself. Everything you knew is gone, constantly replaced by newer, flashier people and cities.

It haunts you sometimes, more often than not. You lie awake at night with a melody stuck in your head, one you haven’t heard in over two hundred years. There’s no chance that anyone remembers it except you, so you hum it to yourself, wondering if the ghosts of friends past can hear you or if they, too, are just ash and dust by now. Supposedly, they would have been folded into the welcoming arms of the Making at the Heart of the World, but you still harbor a hope that they’re still looking out for you.

Hope is all you have. As if it doesn’t mess with your head to trust your footsteps through a Ravkan town you’d lived in for decades, only to find that it’s doubled in size and population since you were last there. Or, when you finally remember that you owe a neighbor a favor, only to recall that their great-great grandchildren died out a century past. Nothing in this world is yours, not in the way that it was at the start. You can keep reinventing yourself, but it’ll never make anything stick.

All that musing over places long gone, and you still can’t convince the hours of the clock to turn by any faster. You’d like nothing more than for the years to skip by, to finally bring about your end of days or at least a change in them, because if you have more centuries under your belt, it’ll mean you’ll have searched all of the lands as many times as you can, and maybe then, you just might be able to meet your soulmate.

That, of all things, might calm your restless spirit. If it were not enough to have far more centuries in which to live out your life than the rest of the Grisha, you have to do it alone, too, knowing that most everyone you pass has someone out there built for them, someone to keep them company in a way you will never understand, no matter how many generations you live.

You often wonder if your soulmate might be out there somewhere. It’s an easy matter to spiral over. They could have been alive at the very start of your life, and died centuries before you could even meet them. Maybe there were only a few days in which your lives overlapped, or maybe you were born on the exact same day and never knew it until they died and you stayed, relentlessly, alive.

Or, worst of all, they could still be out there now, forever condemned to orbit the land at the other side of you, forever crossing paths but never meeting, always one step behind or hours ahead of schedule. There is, hypothetically, a way of telling if the person before you is your soulmate, but it only works if you have the fellow in front of you and the certainty only mad love can bring you.

In this world, in a world full of pain and pleasure, power and pride, the only way that you know for certain that you are connected with your soulmate are your injuries. They’ll show up on your soulmate’s skin, exactly at the same time and the same places as you receive them. They won’t feel the sensation of hurt as you do, and the bruises and cuts will fade as yours do, but in the minutes and hours in which you are bloody and damaged, they will be, too.

Scars last. That’s how most people know. When you see a childhood injury reflected on someone else’s knee or arm, you can tell it’s them. It’s as if a hook has been pulled through both of you, tying you together in a celebration of glitter and gore. It’s horrific, and it’s love, and no one has dared to mess with the process for the millennia in which soulmates have been around.

Least of all your soulmate. They marked you a long time ago, and although you weren’t there to see it happen, you can’t help but wonder at their rationale now. A scar curls around your left hand ring finger. It looks like a burn, and it must have been a serious one too, judging by the fact that it’s lasted this long.

You can imagine your soulmate somewhere out there, forcing a white-hot band of metal around their finger and keeping it on despite the unendurable pain until they knew the scar would last forever. Imagine what that must mean to them, to you. There is a message that they’re trying to send to you, patterned in the syllables of their scorched flesh: I love you to the point of agony, and past it. What a terrible sort of devotion for a soulmate. What a devastating burden of love for you to bear.

It makes you sick to your stomach, at times, and other days, it just makes you numb. Perhaps this is what you get, the Saints’ way of evening the scales. Everyone knows that the greed of a Grisha never goes unchecked, and maybe this is your diving retribution at last. You strove for too much too quickly, and now you have an excess of time in which you can ponder your failings, all alone for all eternity. It would make a sad sort of joke were it not at your expense.

After all, you should have died a long time ago, soulmate be damned. You started out life as a Heartrender, although you left the typical roles of that particular type of Corporalki behind long ago. At first, you merely shattered bone and spilt blood, but then you learned how to do more. Why kill one man when you can end dozens of lives with just as much force? Then, why kill when you can turn your attention towards yourself, healing not just surface wounds but deeper things, erasing the signs of age and wear until you were just as strong as you were at your prime?

Some would call it immortality. Others would curse it as witchcraft. You don’t need anyone’s misguided explanations anymore, though, your power will long outlive both them and their whisperings. It is power, plain and simple, and it is yours. You don’t just transmutate flesh and bone anymore, you shape life itself. Your life. Your life, extended forever, waiting for a soulmate who can keep up with you or die trying.

At times, you hate it, this prolonged life that you’ve given yourself. At the same time, the thought of dying without accomplishing all that you could is terrifying. The easiest thing to do is to keep living, keep drawing breath and wondering when things will change. If they don’t, well, at least you were here to see it.

After all, have you ever been satisfied with your lot in life? You send a silent plea to any Saints up there, if they're still listening at all or merely content to keep pulling their strings and directing you down darker, rougher roads. Let me rest. Please. They send only one word back, after everything: No.

So you continue your journey. Ravka needs your attention for a time, then you cross the True Sea to Kerch and Novyi Zem, and another century has passed by the time you think about returning to the eastern shores. The Shadow Fold makes things more difficult, certainly, but death is no enemy of yours, so you find ways of crossing, even if they take a while.

This time, you decide to cut through Fjerda on your various journeys. The wintry landscapes take your breath away, as they always do, but it’s a little difficult to marvel at the wonders of the country when they’re so fiercely dedicated to exterminating your fellow Grisha. You take it upon yourself to take out a few branches of the witch hunters, those treacherous drüskelle, and so you have a purpose for at least a little longer.

You get to take action upon this initiative while stopping in a small town close to the Fjerdan border for the night. While attempting to book a room in a local inn, you can’t help but pick up on the uncanny sensation of racing hearts somewhere closeby. You step away from the inn, distracted, and chase the sound of blood pounding through veins until it takes you into the surrounding woods.

There, you stumble upon what had been causing you such an uncanny sensation. A young woman, a Grisha Tidemaker by the looks of it, is attempting to evade capture by two upstart drüskelle captains. She hasn’t yet mastered her gift, and they’re well armed, so the situation is not good, to say the least.

Grisha are your people, even if you’ve become somehow separated from them by your many years. You fling out an arm and the two drüskelle go flying into the distance, clutching at their hearts as they burst in their chests. One more witch hunter materializes out of the gloom, but before he can fire off a round at you, a wave of shadow cuts off his breath and he falls to the ground, choking into stillness. The Tidemaker runs off the second the coast is clear, leaving you alone with this new stranger.

You turn around slowly, but the man emerging from the woods doesn’t seem to be a threat. He’s some kind of Etherealnik, but you’ve only heard of so many Shadow Summoners in your time. Perhaps there’s another one again.

“I came out to help,” he says, voice relaxed despite your hands raised at him in anticipation of a strike, “It appears that you didn’t need it, though.”

He doesn’t seem inclined to attack you, but you don’t trust the way he’s still hanging back in the shadows. You can’t see much of his face, nor his demeanor. “I’m no stranger to the drüskelle. They’ve always been the same sort of fools.”

“Always?” The stranger asks, allowing a note of humor to enter his words, “Have you been around long enough to judge them, then?”

You sigh. “Longer than you’d think.”

Instead of being put off by this, the stranger just grins, moonlight flashing on his teeth. “You’d be surprised what I think. I’m older than I seem.”

You look curiously at him. The man steps out of the shadows and into a patch of moonlight. Your breath catches in your throat. “No. That’s impossible.”

He’s not lying when he talks about being older than his appearance. You’ve seen this face before. Several times, if you’re not mistaken. A rebel against the Ravkan king a few centuries ago. A scholar of the Saints. A son trying to care for his mother. He’s been here whenever you passed through Ravka, but you never dared to assume that he could be anything but a familiar face passed down through the generations.

For some reason, on this night, you stop letting yourself doubt. This is a man who has been alive quite as long as you have, if not longer. Perhaps it’s the unearthly shine of the moonlight on the Fjerdan snow, transfiguring this scene into one of your memories, or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s taken his gloves off so he could summon his shadows, and you can see the imprint of a burn around the ring finger of his left hand.

No. It couldn’t be. After all this time, your soulmate cannot be the same young man you’ve crossed paths with half a dozen times before. What a cruel joke to play.

“Y/N?” He asks slowly, eyes as wide as yours.

You told him your name in one of your lives. He trusted you enough to say his back to you. “Aleksander?”

“Show me your hand,” he tells you, voice as steady as it’s always been.

When you hesitate, he crosses the clearing in a flash, standing in front of you. One of his hands curls around your wrist, holding it still, while the other holds up your fingers to the moonlight. He looks at the burn there, his burn, and at last, he smiles. It’s a proud look, almost vicious.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I always thought I’d marry you. I was a child then, and foolish, but I find I don’t mind the idea much anymore.”

He cocks his head to the side, staring openly at the scar he’d bound to both of you. You had wondered if you would fear your soulmate when you first met him, but instead, you just feel whole. A broken half has finally been reunited with its other part.

“Do you remember when we were both in Kribirsk together?” You ask slowly, haltingly, “I got a house right by the Unsea so I could study it. I think you were there for the same reason. We were the only two people in that whole town who weren’t afraid of it.”

He nods, eyes white with moonlight. “You fascinated me even then. When you left, I didn’t know how to live with myself. I started a whole new life just so the old one wouldn’t have to figure it out.”

You’d done the same thing. It took every bit of strength in you to go. You hadn’t wanted to leave the little house with the captivating man next door, but the other townspeople were starting to ask why you hadn’t aged since you’d shown up there decades ago, and the questions are only ever the start of your downfall. You’d cursed his name and yours in turn for the next few years until the heartbreak subsided.

“Before I left, though. We were alright.” You whisper.

He takes your other hand. “We’ll be alright again. It’s us now. Just us.”

“Just us,” you repeat, and for once, you let yourself believe it. You have it, your soulmate, him.

And at last, after centuries of wandering the land and sea alone, of second-guessing every shadow, of wondering what you did to deserve so much time by yourself without love, you realize that it has come to an end. All of it. There is no more solitude for you. Here by your side stands your soulmate. The long day has passed, and the rest of a quiet night shadows your threshold. It’s time to go home, so you think, but you’re already there.

requested by @cassiecrown, i hope you enjoy!

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy

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jisungsdaydreamer · 11 months

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Love Playlist #2: UGH! (Bang Chan)

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME»

"Shut the fuck up."

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader Genre: college au, angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, forced proximity Warnings: swearing, mc has autism, misogynistic behavior (not Bang Chan), implications of ableism, bullying, short panic attack description Word Count: 11k

P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that you hate Christopher Bang’s guts. Everything about him, you hate. The utter laziness that he masks as nonchalance? The “happy-go-lucky” attitude that borders on bullheaded recklessness? The way every single time you text him about something important, he never replies? You hate it all. He’s irresponsible, aimless, completely unreliable, and you hate him.

Chris believes that the whole world revolves around him, and unfortunately, he would be correct. With dimples that rival Harry Styles’s and saccharinity biologically embedded in him, his good looks and charismatic personality blind everyone to the truth. Everyone except for you, of course.

Even if all of the supreme powers in the universe held you over an eternal chasm and forced you to find compromise, you still wouldn’t be able to stop hating him. And you hate heights— almost as much as him— so that’s saying something. Your hatred for him will never, ever waver. You hate Chris Bang, period. And you hate him even more now, as he stands next to you and accepts an honor that should solely be yours.

“Congratulations, Chris and Y/N!”

You keep clapping and plaster on a fake smile to save face, trying to ignore the rage bubbling inside of you. In your peripheral vision, you sense Christopher laughing and shooting finger guns towards people in the audience, like some kind of corrupt politician. In a way, he is one, because you should have won this election. But you didn’t.

“In all of our history, never has there been an exact voting tie between two candidates.” The sickeningly cheerful announcer bounds closer to where you are standing on the stage, gesturing towards you both. “Everyone, please give another round of applause for our new Student Co-Presidents!”

Hearing it officially made you feel nauseated. For the three years you’ve been a college student, you have worked tirelessly, day and night, so this moment could come to fruition. All of those days filled with nonsense— schmoozing to all of the seniors in the Undergraduate Student Council, attending the endless number of tedious mixers to make connections, standing in the rain trying to raise funds for the organization— were going to be worth it, because in the end, you had one goal: to be student body president.

But your dreams were dashed to the ground when he strolled in like a supermodel. While you were toiling since you were a freshman, Chris showed up at the final student council meeting at the end of last year, expressing his intentions to run for president in the following academic semester after the summer. Chris’s charm threw off the projectile of the election, compared to how although you carry yourself very well professionally, you still are very socially uncapable. Making engaging small talk about the weather or joking about frat parties on campus are unthinkable tasks for you, while that kind of conversation is exactly Chris’s forte.

You know that you’re lucky that you at least get part of the title, because while on paper you are more qualified than Chris, the game was never in your favor. And seeing it all happen by the cursed will of the one person you’ve despised more than anyone else, since you were a kid, makes it hurt more than anything.

“Great job, partner.”

You’re snapped out of your disturbed musings by the aforementioned person, who beams and stretches out his hand towards you. You’re wary of the gesture, but accept it anyway, making sure to squeeze his hand extra hard.

“Same to you, Christopher,” you retort, adding an unmistakable bite to your words.

The smile doesn’t fade off of his face as he coolly shakes his aching hand off from your death grip. “I go by Chris, you know that.”

You nearly snort, but refrain from it, because people are watching. You do not need any negative publicity right now, especially next to your co-counsel who seems to do no wrong. But that won’t stop you from being discreetly petty. “Okay, Christopher.”

You hate Chris, and he knows it. But his elated expression doesn’t budge as he merely moves away from you to spark conversation with the announcer, who looks at Chris with literal hearts in her eyes. One more thing you hate: no matter how much you try to rile him up like he does to you, he never gives you a reaction. That satisfaction solely belongs to him.

Rolling your eyes, you shove past him as gracefully as you can, eliciting a surprised grunt out of him. As Chris rubs his side behind you, you turn to the students coming closer to congratulate you, the smile on your face very much genuine now.

“He left me on read! AGAIN. Can you believe the audacity?”

The smoky, herbaceous scent of freshly brewed coffee and sugary fragrance of baking breakfast pastries does nothing to soothe your anger. Your unadulterated complaints ricochet off of the walls of Morningstar Coffee House, your go-to place when you need to feign study in order to hang out with your best friend, a devoted employee-in-training at the place.

Soobin groans, dumping out the latest batch of long macchiato into the sink. “I keep messing it up.”

“Are you even listening, Soobin?” You lean against the counter that he’s behind, wiping up the small drops of milk that escaped the carton in his hasty panic to master the art of being a barista.

“Yes, yes, I am, sorry. Please continue.” Soobin sets aside his blender and folds his hands on the granite, looking at you earnestly.

You pick at the chipped dark purple polish on your nails. “I can work with him. I can. Because I’m a professional. But he makes it so hard when I’m trying to communicate with him.”

Soobin shrugs. “Maybe he’s just not using his phone right now.”

With a frustrated sigh, you shake your head. If only everyone could be as sweet and guileless as Soobin. He always sees the best in people, and while you’re not a pessimist, it’s hard for you to find the good in Chris’s character.

“It’s not just the text thing, even though I really do need him to tell me if he’s finished the nominations for the ethics board. It’s like, he doesn’t give a crap about anything, especially when it comes from me.”

Soobin nods slowly, wrinkling his nose in thought. “I know he’s difficult. But just keep rising above. Getting upset hurts you, not him.”

As always, Soobin remains the voice of reason behind your storms, your eternal complement. When you need to cry your emotions out, he welcomes you with open arms. When he’s too shy to ask for the dessert menu at restaurants, you will signal for the waiter. When you make your displeasure apparent, he induces a degree of rationality into your vexed mind. That said, fundamentally, both of you are introverts. At the end of the day, you love nothing more than to curl up on the couch and watch knitting tutorials on Youtube with Soobin. Opposites or not, you fit each other like a glove.

“I love you, cucumber,” you say, affectionately poking fun at your best friend’s towering height.

Soobin’s cheeks turn light pink, and he swats your hands away. “You’re weird.”

You tip your head back and laugh, while Soobin grins and resumes his duties in trying to figure out how to work the cash register. You can feel the worries already lifting in your chest, because who cares about Chris, anyway? Certainly not you.

But as if you had spoken of the devil, you hear the jingle of the shopkeeper’s doorbell, followed by that familiar boisterous guffaw. The sound makes you whirl around, the tension soaring back into your shoulders. And there he is, sauntering into the café with his trusty entourage trailing.

Your narrowed eyes meet Chris’s, and he pauses in the middle of whatever obnoxious joke he must have been sharing. For a brief moment, a telepathic duel sparks between you both, a challenge to see which one of you will be the first to crack. You win, when he breaks eye contact to go and find a seat with his friends in the lounge area. But once more, it doesn’t feel that way, because while he’s resumed his own activities, you’re still thinking about him. So much for rising above. Damn it.

“Soobin, you need to scan your employee ID first or else sales won’t be attributed to you. We already went over this.”

The voice of Seungmin, the son of Morningstar’s owners and your fellow university student, halts your deliberations and thankfully pulls your thoughts away from Chris. Seungmin is inside from his break and stands there besides Soobin, scolding him for making another mistake in his practice transaction before the evening rush.

“Right! Sorry about that.” Soobin shakes his head and exhales, grabbing a towel to wipe his sweaty hands.

“You’ll be fine. Just keep at it.” Seungmin softens, patting Soobin on the back before making his way over to where Chris is sitting. Because of course, Chris is friends with every single person in existence.

Another person enters the building, prompting the telltale ring to go off. Soobin’s perpetual flush morphs into a crimson, and you immediately turn to see which newcomer has got your best friend so hot and bothered. You’re met by the sight of a very pretty girl who you recognize, but whose name escapes you. However, you know the boy she has walked into the coffee house with— her best friend, Han Jisung, who is unsurprisingly another member of Chris’s glorified posse.

“You have got to be kidding me.” You raise your eyebrow at Soobin, who is still watching the girl with a lovelorn look in his eyes.

“What?”

“You can’t like her. She and Jisung have a thing.”

“They’re just friends,” Soobin says, frowning, but you can see the contradicting doubt written across his face. “Maybe I’ll talk to Seungmin and see what’s up.”

You take his hand and resign, because other times, both of you have to learn your lessons on your own. “You’ll make someone’s heart beat as fast as they do your own. Whether it’s her or not.”

Soobin swallows, fully directing his attention back to you. “The same to you as well. ”

You let out a playful snort, thinking of your one short-lived romance from freshman year. You haven’t dated since, deciding to set relationships aside so you can focus better on your studies. You cannot take the chance of losing precious time, time that can only be allotted to your favorite person, work, and nothing else. Besides, you’ve never been very good at flirting— let alone finding friends— anyway.

“But I think Chris raises your pulse rate enough, so maybe you’ve got your plate full for now.”

“Don’t start,” you warn, the annoyance picking up again. Soobin sends you a cheeky smile, before he attends to his peckish customers.

You take the opportunity to make your way back to your table in the front of the cafe, your favorite little spot that overlooks the lush campus lawn, and then past the historic buildings of your university, the faint city skyline. The trees have begun happily shedding their leaves like multicolored tears that dot the outdoor expanse, embracing Autumn like a long-lost lover. Today is gorgeous, a day that should feel like a blessing, and yet, you feel blue.

The reason for your melancholy approaches your carefully curated bubble and pops it, sitting down at the table, uninvited.

“Hey, I didn’t see you at the election after-party the other day.”

Chris’s voice is calm, so you merely clench your jaw and keep from saying anything too unintelligible. “Hey, you read my text and didn’t reply today.”

He doesn’t let the sheepishness cross his features, but has the decency for it to manifest in a light red at the tips of his ears. “I was going to, sorry. I’ve been busy.”

You just can’t help the venom that laces your next words. “You always are.”

Chris shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t get why you always have a problem with me.”

You allow yourself a sharp intake of breath before divulging your current frustrations with him. “I really, really need you to answer me when I ask you something. We represent all of the students in our college. We can’t afford to mess this up.”

Chris rolls his eyes at your words, which makes you even more irritated. “I know.”

“Great. Then we have nothing else to discuss.” You slip your laptop back into your carrier and zip up your backpack, grabbing your phone and pushing your chair in. You don’t spare Chris a glance as you walk towards the door.

“Why can’t we just be friends like before?”

You tense at Chris calling out, but don’t look back to face him. “You should know the answer to that.”

“I really don’t.”

With a scoff, you leave him hanging, pushing open the door and finding somewhere you can actually study without distraction.

It’s only the second day of fourth grade and you already feel so out of place. You moved here over a month and a half ago, in the middle of summer, so you had a lot of time to get used to the town and explore your new home. You enjoyed biking around the neighborhood cul-de-sac all day and discovered a clearing in the woods behind your house, immediately claiming it as your personal hideout. After your parents hosted some of your neighbors’ families for dinner, you even established friendly relations with Soobin, the impossibly shy son of the couple next door.

But your expeditions in school haven’t been as successful. As soon as you stepped into the classroom, it seemed like everyone already had their own friend groups, less than willing to take on a newbie like you. Because all of the seemingly “cool” kids have claimed all of the seats in the back, you sit up front, the desk next to you empty. And although Soobin also attends the same school, he’s in a different homeroom than you, so your in-school interactions are limited to hallway waves and nothing else. To top it all off, your teacher is already talking about long division. What in the world is that?

“Would you like a pudding?”

You turn around to pinpoint the hushed voice that has interrupted the independent classwork time that your teacher allotted. The owner sits right behind you, this kid with dimples and mischievous eyes. You can’t recall his name from when your teacher took attendance in the morning, but you remember him singing a little rhyme to his friends during lunch yesterday. It was cheesy.

The boy holds out a small cup of what looks like Jell-O snack pudding towards you. You accept it, slightly confused at the random gesture. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He folds his hands on his desk, math practice discarded to the side. “You looked hungry.”

He’s watching you intently, waiting for you to eat the pudding. With a sigh, you open and try it, because you are kind of hungry. As soon as your lips gingerly close around the tiny spoon, you grin, because it’s chocolate— your favorite.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Chris,” he replies, obviously delighted by your reaction to the pudding. “Are you new?”

You smile, relieved to finally see a friendly face in your class. “Yeah, I am. Thanks for the pudding.”

“I don’t go anywhere without my trusty pudding cups.”

You don’t say anything, just quietly observing him while savoring the pudding. Chris is a little weird, and maybe too friendly. You're usually careful about this kind of socialization, but he doesn’t seem like a bad person. Chris takes your silence as an opportunity to keep chattering away.

“I notice you sit alone at lunch. You should eat with my friends and me today!” Chris exclaims, earning him a look from your teacher, but he doesn’t notice.

You pretend to contemplate his offer, although you’re secretly elated at the invitation. “Maybe if there’s more pudding.”

“Deal.”

“It looks like the faculty advising problem is sorted. Anything else?”

The Dean of the college closes his laptop and pushes the pair of glasses perched on his nose for the hundredth time in the past hour. The lenses are huge, magnifying his eyes and making them look bugged-out, adding a comical element to his otherwise stony face.

“I was thinking—” You start, taking out your notepad, but the Dean cuts you off, looking at Chris.

“Chris, did you have anything you wanted to say?”

Your cheeks as you avert your gaze shamefully, and all of the other students in the conference room awkwardly stare down at the table. The Dean doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort, however, just intently staring at Chris. For the entire board meeting, you actively participated and made your voice heard, while taking into account others’ concerns and viewpoints.

Meanwhile, Chris had done nothing but squint at the papers in front of him and pretend he knew what was happening. But you’ve always been underestimated just because you’re a woman, and the fact that you’re the only female student body president in the entire history of your university doesn’t help. Of course the Dean would value Chris’s thoughts more. Anyone would.

“Actually, Y/N was saying something. We should let her finish,” Chris replies firmly, shocking you. You thought Chris would just take the opportunity to shine for himself, not hand it to you.

The Dean looks taken aback as well, but he nods slowly. “Very well then.”

Everyone’s attention snaps to you, but you quickly recover and recollect yourself, turning on the professionalism you reserved for moments like this. “Yes. Thank you.”

You open your computer and quickly login, plugging it into the projector so everyone can view your screen. You had already pulled up your presentation and graphics, ready to present your idea.

“What is all of this, Miss Y/L/N?”

You take a deep breath. “A prevailing issue that has come to the board’s attention is the food insecurity on campus. To solve this issue, I propose the University Food Pantry, to relieve hunger through the acquisition and distribution of food to those students who most need it. We need to lead our campus community in the fight against hunger.”

The rest of your audience looks intrigued, but the Dean doesn’t seem convinced. “And how does this concern me? I oversee educational affairs at the college, not what’s cooking for dinner.”

“Our university is, above everything else, a community. The difficulty of higher education is further compounded when hunger is a constant presence.” You try your best to keep your suave composure, ignoring the smug condescension in the Dean’s voice. “As a result, the Food Pantry will envision a campus in which every student, regardless of their socioeconomic status, has sufficient access to nutritious food. No one should have to make financial and dietary decisions in pursuit of a good education.”

“It all sounds expensive. Where would you even get the money from?”

You know that the Dean expects you to be thrown off by his question, but you’re ready. You switch through the slides of your presentation, showcasing the several charts and graphs you stayed up all night drawing. “The Dean’s Assistance Fund, through which the Pantry can provide flex allowances to undergrad recipients of Financial Aid.”

The Dean leans back in his chair, brooding silently while you wait for his answer with bated breath. But Chris speaks up instead.

“This is really good, Y/N,” Chris says, astonishing you even further. “The fund could finance other initiatives in collaboration with the pantry as well, like the university Meal Share app that my friend Jisung coded. He’s in the computer science department.”

“Thanks,” you say warily, still in disbelief that you have both his support and enthusiasm. The other students murmur in agreement, but it doesn’t feel real, getting along with Chris.

Immediately, the Dean sits up, directing his gaze to match Chris’s. “A wonderful idea, Chris. We must talk further about this. Perhaps—”

It’s Chris’s turn to cut the Dean off. “It wasn’t my idea, it was Y/N’s, if you were listening to her at all, sir.”

The Dean looks embarrassed after being put into his place by the very student he was chatting up to, but you don’t give him time to say anything else, taking the chance to continue speaking.

“Of course, we can’t be fully financed by the Dean’s fund, so I think the university board should put forth a collective effort to apply for the Park Grant, an international system that funds programs that address student reform.”

“You’ve put so much thought into this, Y/N,” Mina, one of the board members, says with a smile.

You light up, forgetting the Dean’s less-than-enthused demeanor. “Thank you so much!”

The Dean sighs, staring up at the ceiling, but shrugs, inclining his head in reluctant approval. “The Park Grant deadline is in two days. You’ll have to write up the proposal and present it to the panel.”

You nod vigorously, already mentally adding it to your calendar. “Thank you sir, I know. I won’t disappoint you.”

The Dean points his pretentiously expensive fountain pen at Chris, directing your gaze to his. “But you’ll be presenting with Chris. You’ll oversee this endeavor together.”

Your soaring heart crashes, and you sit up in indignation, because of course there’s a catch. After undermining all of your efforts, the Dean would never trust you to do something like this on your own. And out of everyone, it has to be with Chris.

“Sir, I truly believe I can finish this on my own.” You can barely contain the anger quaking in your throat, but you give it one last attempt.

Chris glances at you and dips his head in accord. “I agree, sir. Y/N is perfectly capable. This is her project, after all.”

“Let’s not go near what our capabilities are. I am very well aware of what your abilities are.” The Dean’s words jab you in the chest one by one, making you wonder if he could go any lower. “You both are co-presidents. Do it together or don’t do it all.”

“Sir—”

“Please give me a chance—”

Both you and Chris are cut off by the Dean’s cold sneer. “That will be all.”

With the wave of his gnarled hands, the meeting is over, and the rest of the students exit as fast as they can to escape the tension, while you just sit there, staring at your black computer screen blankly. A moment later, you collect yourself, grab your belongings, cramming them into your arms, and run out of the room, trying not to cry all of your frustrations out, right then and there.

“Y/N, stop!” Chris calls out from behind you, and you groan inwardly. And of course he has to be there. You can’t even fall apart in peace.

“What do you want, Chris?” You sigh exasperatedly, turning to face him, even though all you really want to do is give him the finger and run back to your room.

The tension is palpable, and you see Chris’s concern. You don’t want it, though. You don’t want his concern, his sympathy, or his friendship. You just want to never see him again, but unfortunately, the universe will not let that happen. You should have accepted that when it put you through elementary, middle, and high school, and even college with him.

“I’m sorry. I- I tried,” he says, running his fingers through his hair, combing through it before the soft, blond locks flop back into place on his forehead. He looks more beautiful than ever, the sorrow in his deep brown eyes and painted into the pout on his perfect lips. But God, you hate him.

You swallow, taking a step forward. Chris’s eyes widen in surprise, but he stays still as you proceed in an eerily calm voice. “Outside of work, don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even think about me. I hate you, Chris, and I wish you never existed.”

For the first time, Chris is speechless, but you walk away, feeling anything but triumphant. You don’t want to see the hurt splayed across his face. And you don’t want Chris to see your own pain, the ugly root that digs deep into your heart and surges through your fingertips, the pain that has been there since the moment he took something from you. You hate Chris, and that will never, ever change.

“Come on, Soobin, tell me,” you whine, lightly kicking your legs at Soobin’s, where they hang over the edge of the treehouse you both built with your dads a few summers ago. The June weather is hot and sticky, and on days like this, you both like to climb up here and try to catch the faintest breeze that may come your way, ice creams in your hands and stories to trade on your lips.

Soobin coughs awkwardly. “Absolutely not, Y/N.”

Tomorrow is the last day of middle school, and you’re determined to guess Soobin’s crush. You smirk at him, elbowing him in the side. Today, you suck on a blueberry popsicle, deliberating while trying not to let the dessert drip down your arms.

“It’s the girl in your history class, isn’t it?”

“Nope.” Soobin side eyes you curiously, biting down on his own fudge ice cream cone. “Well, maybe I’ll tell you if you tell me yours.”

You blush, your mind immediately going to Chris, the boy you’ve liked since forever. Although you’re best friends with Soobin, Chris is also one of your good friends at school. And not to mention, the cutest boy in your entire school.

Besides Soobin, Chris is also the only other person you’ve told about your autism. You were always shy and awkward growing up, and Chris pulled you out of that shell.

It’s also why you get so nervous before tests. Since the time you nearly dropped your computer before a science quiz in fifth grade, Chris always brings you pudding before class assessments. You were scared to tell him at first, because you have been bullied in the past about it, but he had been nothing but kind and understanding. He’s never forgotten to bring you a pudding cup, and he specifically brings chocolate-flavored ones only, because you once told him you liked them.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you swallow the last chunk of your popsicle, crunching down on the sugary ice.

“I promise.” Soobin sits forward eagerly, his melting ice cream cone forgotten.

“It’s Chris,” you say dreamily, a lovesick smile playing upon your lips.

Soobin burst out laughing, elbowing you in the side teasingly. “I knew it!”

You and Soobin start arguing about who was more obvious about their respective crushes, but the thought of Chris stays lingering in your mind and clouding your thoughts. His devilishly handsome looks but angelic personality. The way he brings you those damn chocolate puddings, unaware of how you got sick of the flavor a long time ago but keep eating them anyway, just to see the beaming smile on his face.

“Tomorrow,” you exclaim randomly, right after Soobin finishes telling you about all of the teachers he will miss over the summer, the perfect student he is.

“What’s tomorrow?”

“I’m going to tell Chris that I like him. Tomorrow,” you declare, trying to keep your voice strong and purposeful.

Soobin just stares at you with his jaw hanging open, because while you aren’t as soft-spoken as him, neither of you are particularly forward. Especially not in regard to your romantic lives. You both are the duo that watches your lost loves from afar, not confronting them up close. You’re surprised at your uncharacteristic behavior too, because you pledged to never give a teenage boy the satisfaction of knowing the power they have over you, especially not someone popular like Chris. But then again, Chris is different. You know it.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Soobin asks, still in shock. “Like, are you joking?”

“I’m serious, Soobin. I really like him.” You toy with your stained popsicle stick. “If he doesn’t feel the same, then I can just move on.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

He reaches over and gently pats you on the back, as if to comfort your nerves. “He’d be really dumb to not like you.”

You groan and flop onto your back, looking up at the dusty ceiling of the treehouse. Both of you just stay quiet for a moment, as you observe the soft cobwebs in the corners and the sunlight pouring through the cracks in the wooden rafters. You’re really going to do this.

“I’m still hungry.”

Soobin holds out his half-finished cone, little droplets of ice cream dripping onto the wood. “You can have the rest of this.”

“Thanks, Soob.” You accept his ice cream and both of you continue to reminisce about the school year and plan out everything you probably will never do during the summer, because both of you are master procrastinators.

But one thing you can’t put off is your revelation to Chris, and it’s going to happen. Which is why you find yourself trying to ignore the impending feeling of dread as you walk through the school hallways. Classes are over for both the day and the entire academic year itself, and there’s no better time to confess to your crush on the last day of school. That way, if something goes wrong, you can take the summer to recuperate and wallow in your humiliation.

You weave through the students excited to trade their homework assignments for sunny days at the beach, with only one thought in your mind. Chris, Chris, Chris. You saw him in math class in the morning, and he looked so cute in his new Hawaiian-print shorts while he signed your yearbook for you. Now, you try to find him in the crowd, before he leaves and you’ll be unable to see him for another three months.

As you search, you’re momentarily snapped out of your Chris-induced daze when you bump into Jessi Ho in the congested hall. Knowing your luck, of course you would crash into the loser who constantly picks on Soobin for being shy.

“Watch it, dumbass.” Jessi crosses her arms and flips her hair over her shoulder. Jay, her wannabe sidekick, gets up in your face, threateningly flashing the tattoos he got without his parents knowing. Although they look like a classic pair of bullies straight out of Mean Girls, you’re more irritated than intimidated right now.

“I don’t have time for this.” You try to move past the terrible twosome, but Jay grasps your forearm roughly and pulls you back. You wrench your arm free and look at him in both disgust and confusion. “What the hell?”

“I’ll get to the point.” Jessi smirks, bringing her finger up to her head and pointing to her temple. “We know you’re impaired. Up here.”

Your blood freezes over like a river of ice, when Jessie emphasizes that specific word. Even though you’re not impaired, because autism isn’t an intellectual disability, you know what she means. She says it like an insult, like you’re the most useless of garbage, not worth a human being’s basic dignity. Jay bursts out laughing when he sees the horror on your face, slapping his distressed denim thigh like it’s the funniest joke he’s heard in the fifteen miserable years of his life. You just stumble back, shock and panic rising like a tidal wave in your chest.

“W-what?”

Jessi cackles, clinging onto Jay like he’s her own walking cane. “How cute. She looks so lost.”

You shake your head, the tears building and your throat seizing in alarm. “How…?”

“A little birdie told me.” Jessi steps closer to you, and while every other time you are able to stand up to her, you can barely look her in the eye right now. “It all makes so much sense. Why do you barely talk to anyone but your pathetic bestie? You’re too scared. Why can you never sit still in class? You're just stupid.”

“That- that’s not how it works.”

You’re grasping at straws, at a loss for words. Any other time, you’d have a snappy comeback ready. You know you struggle with social interactions, but you never thought of yourself as someone disruptive, or weird. You’re one of the highest achievers in your entire school, because sometimes, books make more sense than people. But now? You do feel stupid, exactly like Jessi said. And not because you’re autistic, but because you weren’t careful enough. You’ve been underestimated your entire life because you’re a girl, but now, you know you’ll also be an autistic girl to everyone else. Not who you are. And that’s why you tried your best to keep it on the down low, not because you felt embarrassed, but because this was a part of yourself that was entitled to you. Not anyone else.

“Sure, okay.” Jessi looks bored already, her eyes unfocused roaming the hallway, looking for her next target. “Whatever, stupid.”

Jessi slinks off without a second glance, and Jay follows suit, but not before doing a disgustingly inaccurate impression of autists, speaking gibberish slowly and exaggeratedly. You actually speak faster than other people, because you always say whatever is on your mind. But you don’t give a crap about them right now. Bullies like them will always have the worst to talk about others, and you would rather die than have them be the cause of your tears, ever. What’s really bothering you is who told them about your autism, and how that mystery person found out.

Swallowing roughly, you run over to the bathrooms, forgetting anything else. The only thing on your mind is not losing it in front of everyone. You will not give any of these people the satisfaction. Trying to keep your breathing even, you’re about to enter the bathrooms and relieve your emotions when you hear someone say your name. It doesn’t sound deliberate however, like you weren’t supposed to hear it.

You turn slowly, searching through the swaths of people walking, when your gaze lands on a small group of people gathered at the end of the hallway, a few lockers away from where you’re standing. And his back facing you, but you immediately recognize the person speaking. After the previous year of sitting behind him in Geometry class, you would recognize his curly locks perpetually dyed a soft blond and preppy polo shirt anywhere. Your ears perk up in interest, and while you feel horrible, you know one of Chris’s dimpled smiles would immediately brighten your stormy day, as they always did.

“Tell us the truth Chris!” You hear someone screech like an eager toddler, and you stop in your tracks like a deer in a traffic jam. It can’t be.

“Fine, Y/N is autistic...”

Everyone around Chris bursts into uproarious laughter, and while you can’t see his expression, Chris begins saying something else that’s drowned out by all of the noise. It was Chris. He told everyone about your autism. Chris, the sweetheart who brings you pudding. Chris, the pretty boy who you have a hopeless crush on. Chris, your friend.

You stumble back and are pushed back into the after-school hallway rush, losing sight of Chris. But you already saw everything you needed to. It would have hurt less if it was anyone but Chris. But it wasn’t. You liked him. You trusted him. And he took that trust and stomped on it, shattering it forever. He took something from you.

Your heart hardens as you blink away your tears. You mindlessly make your way outside, just in time to catch your bus home. Looking out of the window, with your time and your spirit petrified, you resolve to never, ever make the same mistake again. You will never again put your faith in someone who does not deserve it.

“You look hungry.”

You momentarily glance away from your laptop screen to shoot Chris a withering look that could scare a bear. Things are back to normal since your emotional confrontation after the Dean’s meeting. Your rude remarks and his annoyingly cooperative advances are both back for good.

“Shut the fuck up.”

The blistering ice in your voice doesn’t stop Chris from unzipping his backpack and pulling out one of his damn puddings. With a scoff, you turn back to your spreadsheet, taking care to shoot disgusting looks at Chris periodically. Chris just takes his time savoring his pudding, innocently watching your reactions like you’re a goddamn television set.

The hours pass by quickly; you get a good amount of work done, while Chris tries to be helpful by asking useless questions and doing nothing else. Typical. After finishing up a final follow-up email to the Dean’s much more tolerable secretary, you stretch out your arms with a yawn. The library will be closing in a few minutes.

“Where are you going?” Chris’s voice is interrogative as you stand up, like you owe him an answer, which makes you see red. If anything, he is the one who should be giving you an explanation, perhaps why he has to be such a two-faced monstrosity who wants to pretend everything is fine and in the past.

Screw civility.

“Oh, I’m sorry, your royal dopiness. I didn’t know I needed your permission to go home.” Your words are filled with a sickening sarcasm, and fortunately, it’s enough to shut Chris up.

You grab your belongings and stalk out of the personal meeting room that you reserved, barely noticing that everyone else sitting at the previously crowded study spaces has already left. Once in the security of the library bathrooms, you exhale all of the tension you’ve held inside of you and splash cool water onto your heated face.

You stare into the mirror, seeing the same girl you’ve been trying to leave behind all of this time. You feel like that lost little girl trying to clutch the thought of someone who should be forgotten. You hate that you still have hope in you, that you’ve had it all of these years, that things can be fixed. You’ve tried, you really have. You’ve tried to leave the past behind you, to look forward and do exactly what needs to be done for your success. Here’s the truth: you act like a bitch towards Chris because he sucks and you hate him. Here’s another truth: you act like a bitch towards Chris because… you’re hurt.

Especially because of your autism, you’ve had a more difficult run at making meaningful relationships. Your friendship with Chris meant that there was hope for you, and you truly believed that. But then he betrayed you, making you doubt yourself and your abilities. And following the incident, it felt like the world was working against you, and it still does. Maybe you could have healed with time, but the universe had other plans, taking care to put you through high school and college with Chris. And with your rotten luck, he’ll probably end up going to the same law school as you.

But you don’t have the time to worry about that right now. Your future depends on the present, and you’ll do your best to remember that. Your productivity mantra will keep you going, and nothing can stop you, from Christopher Bang to misogynistic old deans to… a locked bathroom door?

“What the hell?” You tug on the handle, but the door won’t budge.

Fuck.

You were so occupied with Chris that you forgot that after hours, all of the doors automatically lock to preserve campus security. Screw modern technology. You’re about to pull out your phone to try and call someone, but when your fingers meet an empty pocket, you realize you left it in your apartment. With an exasperated groan, you bang against the door as hard as you can and shout for help, even though you know it’s impossible for anyone to hear you and open the door from outside, the only way to free you. After a few minutes, you give up and slide down onto the floor, knowing you’ll have to spend the rest of this godforsaken night in this stuffy bathroom. Even if you somehow eventually gain the strength to bust this stupid door down, there was no getting past the padlocked main library doors. But seriously, which genius had the idea to lock the freaking bathroom doors?

You close your eyes and place your hand over your heart, trying to calm yourself down. You’re perfectly safe. Alone in a big, empty library. Soon, the bathroom lights will shut down, probably. You wouldn’t know for sure, though. You’ve never been locked in the damn library bathroom before. Perhaps you’ll make friends with the old campus ghosts rumored to haunt this building. And maybe—

The click and turn of the door handle startles you, and you immediately jump out of the way, so your designated savior can let you out. And you’re not even surprised when your eyes meet Chris’s own confused ones. Because of course it’s Chris.

“Why are you still here?” You ask him in a slightly accusing tone, even though he literally has just helped you. You don’t even know why you feel the need to be so pointed, but you are nevertheless.

“I was waiting for you to come back and didn’t realize the library was closed.” Chris lets out a sigh, rubbing his forehead as if it aches. You hope it does. “I have a question about the proposal.”

“Did you try calling someone? I forgot my phone.”

“Well, my phone doesn’t have any service.”

“Awesome.”

You don’t say anything further as you both exit the cramped corridor outside of the bathroom. In your hurry, you hadn’t even noticed how the librarians had turned off the lights, shrouding the building in darkness. Shivering, you subconsciously move closer to Chris, before you realize yourself and make sure to maintain a six-feet distance between your body and his.

“You can come closer if you’re scared,” Chris teases, noticing your discomfort. “We’re both stuck in this library together.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. You’re the one who’s scared of the dark.”

Both of you fall silent as the remembrance sinks in. The day you confided in Chris about your autism, he had shared a secret about himself in return, albeit a less serious one. He had an irrational fear of the dark since he was a small child, and you knew any other fourth grader would have made fun of him for it. You had felt happy, then, that he could confide in you.

The inadvertent memory feels unwelcome, uncomfortable. Chris clears his throat and looks away. “Not anymore.”

You and Chris decide to make camp in the library common room, since although the main building lights wouldn’t work, there were a few soft table lamps you could turn on for some clarity. You set your backpack down on the carpeted ground and snuggle into the large armchair by one of the bigger lamps. You glance at the decorative grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and it’s just past midnight. At that moment, you really just want to go home, put on your favorite pajamas, and fall asleep while watching your list of comfort anime films. Definitely not being locked in the damn library with Chris Bang, of all people. Since when was your life an episode of Arthur?

“So, you wanted to ask me something?”

Chris fiddles with his hands for a minute, before looking away. “Never mind.”

You don’t even have it in you to be annoyed at this point. You’re just exhausted. You fall back against the tough cushion of the chair. It feels like you’re sitting on a clothed bag of sawdust. But it’s better than being out there, in the dark. And you hate to admit it, but you’re glad that you have someone to share the company of an empty library with, even if it’s Chris.

“God, I’m hungry.” You touch your stomach, feeling the gnawing emptiness there.

“Would you like a—”

“No, I would not like a pudding, Chris.”

The minutes eventually tick by, and you feel yourself nodding off. You had told yourself earlier that you would stay alert, but the drowsiness drapes over you like a blanket, lulling you into reluctant sleep.

The menacing roll of thunder snaps you out of your uneasy slumber like the sound of a car crash. Immediately, you double over and tuck your head into your arms, trying to breathe. Your hands, warmed from being pressed under your thighs, go clammy with a cold sweat, and you can feel the tears well, barely keeping them at bay. When your go-to breathing technique doesn’t work, you gasp for air, jerking in your seat at every new crack of thunder invading your perception.

Immediately, Chris crosses the space between your chairs and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hold. Sometimes, thunderstorms cause you to have a sensory overload, and you can’t cope. Chris knows this about you, after you got severely spooked after one particularly bad storm in the middle of class in sixth grade. Chris continues to rock your body slowly with his, whispering calming nothings into your ear. Your breathing slows and returns to a normal pace, but Chris just keeps rubbing slow, comforting circles on your back.

Soon, the sound of the thunder dissipates, but you’re not entirely sure if it’s actually because the storm ended or if it’s because the overwhelming scent of Chris’s fresh, minty cologne has taken over your senses.

You look up at Chris, the boy you hate more than anything, and whisper the very last thing that you ever thought you would say to him. “Thank you.”

Chris just nods his head slowly while you untangle yourself from his hold. He gets the hint and lets you scoot away from him, but it’s not far enough. Mere inches separate you from Chris, Chris who helped you without second thought because you were having a panic attack. Forget every ounce of hostility you have shown him, he hugged you like he was your lifeline, which he nearly could have been.

He looks at you intently, his eyes glistening with emotion. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He’s asked this question multiple times before. The first time was back on the very first day of high school, when you both had English class together, and you staunchly ignored him. He continued to ask you the same thing over and over again, until your lack of acknowledgement made him finally stop and accept your new attitude towards him. But even though you’ve heard this question before, this time feels different. There is a certain vulnerability to his words, like he’s given up and is pleading for one last chance.

A part of you still wants to try and maintain the animosity you use as a protective barrier, so people can’t tell what you’re really feeling. But you’re just tired of it all, and the question tugs at you too. Maybe you need to reply out loud for both of you to hear, not just him. Maybe you need to affirm your hatred for the dumb boy who waited for you to come back from the bathroom and then held you during a thunderstorm. Or maybe you need to affirm the fact that you may not hate him as much as you think, but you still do. You don’t know. You hate him the most because you don’t know. So, for the first time, you answer him.

“You broke my trust, Chris.”

“When?” Chris looks genuinely perplexed, like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

With a scoff, you glare up at the ceiling, unable to look him in the eye. “You told everyone about my autism. When I specifically said that I wanted to keep it a secret.”

He shakes his head in a vigorous panic. “I didn’t tell anyone. I promise I didn’t. I promise it wasn’t me.”

Then who was it?

As if he hears your thoughts, Chris sighs and indulges them. “Jessi. She saw your aide and followed him to his office. She was telling everyone about it, I swear.”

And it makes sense. His explanation checks out, and this all could have been a grand misunderstanding on your part, because of course Jessi would have snooped into your business. You couldn’t save your privacy for long with someone like Jessi hovering. And the thing is, you’re not even surprised. You knew in your heart the entire time that you could have been mistaken, that it was strange that Chris would have violated you like that, but it was just easier to blame him for your pain instead of confronting it. Or so you thought.

“And when everyone found out, I tried defending you. I never, ever would want to hurt you. Please believe me.”

Chris’s eyes are shining with earnesty, and you know he’s telling the truth. But that doesn’t erase all of the years you were hurting. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“It didn’t even occur to me that it was the reason you stopped talking to me. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder.”

You close your eyes and lean back. “Chris, you don’t have anything to be sorry about. This is on me.”

You feel your hatred towards Chris fade, and all there is left in you is a deflated pocket of sorrow. Your whole goal was to stay focused, but in reality, you’ve put so much time and energy into despising Chris. And that wasn’t the only way you hurt yourself. You also deprived yourself of what could have been a wonderful friendship.

“I do,” Chris insists, interrupting your thoughts. “I was stupid. I gave up so quickly. It hurt me too, not just you.”

You raise your head and tiredly gaze at him. Even in the dark, he looks beautiful. And it’s not merely his looks, but truly his character that shines through. You spent hours picking apart his personality, trying to find flaws and reasons to demonize him, not knowing that in the process, you were the monster yourself. You constantly complained about his lack of initiative and response, when in reality, you never let him actually do anything. You can’t even fathom why he’s being so understanding, or all of his attempts to work with you, even after your cold treatment of him.

“What do you mean, Chris?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Chris groans. “I used to like you. There.”

You perk up. Well, now you’re shocked. “Wait, really? I used to like you, too!”

There’s disbelief written all over Chris’s face. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Both of you burst into laughter, like you weren’t having a heart-to-heart five minutes ago about hating the other. It feels good to laugh, and for a second, you’re transported back into fourth grade, when you first met Chris.

When you were a kid, you barely laughed, which worried the crap out of your parents. The doctors said it was common among individuals with autism, but it didn’t seem that way when you walked around, unsmiling and unfeeling. You weren’t completely socially inept, or exactly shy, but you preferred to keep to yourself. And then Chris had offered you a pudding. You felt like friendship was worth something, then. You felt seen. And maybe that scared you a little bit, being on the edge with someone who made you feel so deliciously raw. Maybe that’s why you didn’t fight back for Chris, because you would rather leave than be left.

Chris rakes his fingers through his hair, the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. “You know, I still like you.”

“Very funny.”

“I do.”

“You’re crazy. Stop that.”

“Maybe.” Chris throws his hands up and then lets them fall back down. “I like you and don’t want to stop.”

“After how I treated you for the past eight years?” You nearly laugh with how ridiculous he’s being. Hell, if you were in his place, you’d hate yourself.

“But you were hurt. A lot.” Chris shrugs. “You’ve become this amazing woman. You’re… incredible. Hardworking, talented, smart. Keeping in mind how you truly believed I was the cause for your pain, you excelled in spite of the fact that the universe kept pulling us together.”

You shake your head. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s okay. I’ll say it for you.” Chris looks down at his palms. “I like you, and that’s why I became co-president and faked having no service on my phone so we would be stuck in a library together.”

“Chris—”

“Please. Don’t say no. Not after eight years of me pining for you, knowing you’d never look at me again. Knowing I was falling deeper every time you cursed at me. Please, Y/N. I want to know you again, and you to know me. Please.” Chris’s expression is begging, and it pains you even more.

You still hurt, but it’s a different kind of torture. It’s the kind of hurt that’s the result of yearning, the kind of yearning that stems from hatred, subjugated love, and uncertain acceptance. It’s the kind of hurt that tells you that you don’t deserve him. He deserves someone who isn’t a complete and utter coward. Someone who hasn’t been completely and utterly in love with him all this time, but too stubborn and too pained to admit it. Someone who isn’t completely and utterly awed by the magnificent man he is, but too bitter to say it.

Chris reaches out his hand and places it on the side of your face, imploring you with his hesitant palm. You melt into his touch, when a mere few hours ago, you would have slapped it off of you. His skin is warm against yours, and the softness radiating from him pulls at you. You want to say yes. You want to open a blank page in the book. You want to start fresh with this beautiful boy in front of you.

“I’m sorry.” And you’re not just apologizing for pushing him away before, but now too. You don’t get to have him.

“Just… why?”

“I can’t. I’m so sorry.” The repeated dialogue from you has a note of finality that even Chris’s insolence can’t break through.

And just like that, all of the bridges you both repaired come crumbling down, but this time, it’s on purpose. You’ve always been quick to make decisions, never mulling over a choice for too long. You loved Chris. You hated Chris. You still love Chris. But you reject Chris. It’s easy to do, like one computer command after the other. But then Chris retracts his touch and wordlessly gets up from the armchair, curling up into his original position in the other chair. He’s facing away from you, you feel like you’ve struck an error message. The hours pass, and the softly snoring form of Chris reminds you of a blaring bad request, a pile of code that just won’t compile. Eventually, your computer shuts down too, and you share a temporary commonality with Chris when you fall asleep.

“Wake up dear.”

Your eyes fly open, and you sit up. Natural light pours in through the big windows, and you can feel your skin drinking in the sunshine. The librarian’s kind eyes are watching you with worry, but all you can think of is the night before. Perhaps it was all a dream. You were angry at Chris and then fell asleep after coming back from the bathroom. End of story. But then you feel that familiar ache in your heart, and you know you weren’t hallucinating everything that transpired between you both.

You turn to look at the librarian, who still seems immensely concerned, especially with your disoriented morning look. “I’m sorry, where is Chris?”

“He just left a few minutes ago, sweetheart. I was opening up for the day, when I saw him waiting to be let out at the front entrance. Nearly scared the life out of me.” The librarian places her hand on your shoulder. “He told me you were here.”

The librarian rushes off to her personal office to make you some tea, and you’re left alone in the common room. And no one else is here either, because today is Saturday and your university is supposed to be hosting a football game against a rival school. You look down at your body and notice a jacket wrapped around your body, one that definitely isn’t yours. You don’t have an expensive leather jacket that smells like Tom Ford cologne. It was freezing last night because the library doesn’t have heating, and Chris must have woken up in the middle of the night and draped it on you. You feel another pang in your heart as you think of Chris leaving without speaking to you. You deserve it, though.

As you sadly walk out of the library, you decide to skip the game even though as student body president, you should be there, representing the school. You reach your off-campus apartment, the one that you were so excited to finally lease a few months ago, and sprawl onto your couch, already feeling weary of the day. Nevertheless, you fish your phone out of the jumble of couch pillows and call Soobin, because he must be worried sick. You always text him goodnight before you sleep, and yesterday must have been the first time you didn’t.

“How could you?” He’s angry, a new color on him.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. The library—” You start, but Soobin doesn’t let you finish.

“Forget the library! I’m talking about Chris. He’s stepping down from the president role because of you, Y/N!” Soobin screeches into the phone, making you shoot up in alarm.

“What?!”

“I overheard him tell everything to Jisung. Y/N, this is wrong.” Soobin sounds calmer, but nonetheless distressed. “I know you love him. You shouldn’t let this happen.”

Your face heats up in surprise. “How—”

You hear Soobin tsk, and you just know he’s shaking his head, disappointed. “I didn’t even have to hear him talk to know that. There’s a fine line between love and hate. You can never stop talking about him!”

There’s no denying it now. You shouldn’t have underestimated Soobin; no matter how silly he can be, he is your best friend in the whole world after all. And maybe all the time, the only one you were lying to was yourself.

You grab a pillow and cradle it, just wanting to cry it all out. You always have more intense feelings than others, but right now, your heart hurts so much that you doubt you can blame being emotional on your autism.

“Soobin, what do I do? I don’t want to hurt him, but…” You sniffle. “I didn’t even give him a chance to explain himself. For eight years, I made my whole personality hate Chris. And now, he forgives me and I accept it? I’m so stupid, God.”

“I agree you’re stupid.”

“You’re not making me feel better!”

“Sorry.” Soobin sighs. “But you need to get over yourself and your drama. Stop making this harder for both of you, and just be grateful that you haven’t lost him. Yet.”

And with that, he cuts the call in a way very unlike Soobin, making you groan out loud in frustration. Now you want to punch your pillow, because your best friend is absolutely right.

It doesn’t take long for you to find Chris in the packed stadium. Through the throngs of students eager to trade their homework for a good home game, you see him standing with one of his friends in an upper corner of the stands. When you were younger, you were obsessed with Greek mythology and thought that Chris looked like Apollo, the god of the sun, with his golden curls and sunny disposition. Today, his light seems to have dimmed, as he watches the ongoing game with his hands shoved into his pockets and a forlorn look marking his gaze.

“Chris!” You shout to try and get his attention, but it’s to no avail. The cheering crowd is ear-splitting, and you have no other choice but to climb up to the top.

Grunting, you hoist yourself up the steep stairs and try not to look behind you. If you do, you’ll fall off the stands with dizziness, which would be slightly undesirable compared to what you have to do next. Slightly. With the final step, you haul into Chris’s row, catching your breath and a first glimpse at how high up you really are. The players on the field look like tiny ants, and you feel your stomach drop. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

But it’s too late to turn back now, because Chris has already spotted you and hurries over. You tense and lose your footing, stumbling over someone as they kick their legs in anticipation. Great.

“What are you doing here?” Chan places a toned arm around your shoulders and pulls you up, leading you to his seat. You clumsily collapse into the solid, curved plastic of the chair, and Chris follows next to you.

You then notice Chris’s friend, a heartbreakingly handsome man who you vaguely remember as Minho from your sophomore year literature class. He’s wistfully gazing at a very pretty girl who is chatting with Terry, Soobin’s old roommate, a few rows down. Minho then becomes aware of your presence and hurriedly excuses himself, rushing out of the aisle and disappearing into the crowd. You turn to Chris.

“Is he okay?”

Chris exhales, running his fingers through his hair, combing through it before the soft locks flop back into place on his forehead. “I… Minho’s just going through some stuff right now.”

“Seems like he’s not the only one.” You toy with your ring, twisting it around your finger. “I heard you’re resigning.”

“Who told you that?”

“Soobin. He was eavesdropping on you and Jisung today in Morningstar,” you respond. “Why are you leaving the role?”

Chris looks away from you and out at the field. Your university’s football team still hasn’t scored. “I’d just be in your way. This is for the best, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Please don’t. I need you.”

“You’ll be fine.”

This is what you thought you wanted all along, a world without Chris in it. Besides Student Council, neither of you share any classes or activities this year. If he left, you wouldn’t have to cross paths with him again. You could run the council well on your own, you know that. But you don't want to. You don’t ever want to imagine a world without Chris. He’s been by your side for so long now, and now when he’s about to step away do you truly realize how much you need him.

“Maybe. But I won’t be happy.” Against your better judgment, you reach over and grasp his hand, making Chris start in surprise.

Chris shakes his head, still skeptical. “All I’ve ever done is make you unhappy, Y/N. You don’t want me to be around.”

You sigh, knowing he’s not going to come around, not without the right kind of persuasion. “I was dreading having to do this.”

“Do what?”

You reach into the small purse hanging off of your shoulder and pull what you had scoured the entire city for in the past few hours. “Would you like a pudding?”

Chris looks bemused, staring down at the small cup of chocolatey goodness in the delicate palm of your hand.

“Or do you want a kiss?” You stare at Chris intently, trying to ignore the whammering beat of your heart. “What will it take for you to stay in your position?”

“W-what?”

“Or I could be your girlfriend. Because I really want to see where this goes.” You take a deep breath. “A bunny once told me that I just need to get out of the past. I’ve left it behind, and I’m looking forward, Chris.”

“Fine.” Chris swallows roughly and bites back the slow smile spreading on his features. “Can I have all three?”

“You never make it easy, do you, Chris?”

Before he can quip back at you, you grasp the collar of his t-shirt and tug him to you, your lips meeting just as the home team finally scores a touchdown and the crowd erupts in applause. You couldn’t care less though, because although the preteen you is jumping up and down like the rest of the cheering fans, the adult you is smiling into the lips of the man you definitely do not hate. Actually, you love him.

Chris slings his arms around your waist and pulls your body closer to his, sweetly laughing into your ear when you both come up for air. “Am I a good kisser, or what?”

“Shut up.”

And you’re kissing him again. Warmth blossoms in your chest, sparks igniting as you lean into each other after years of loving, hating, and longing. Your arms roving over each other coax all and any remaining hesitation left in you both, and it feels so right. You treasure the soft sighs of pleasure and elation spilling from Chris’s lips, his sounds more deafening than any overzealous football fan’s rally cry.

“So, do I not get the pudding, or…?” Dimples cut across Chris’s cheeks as he pulls away from your lips once more just to shoot you a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes playfully and reach into your lap, tearing open the foil wrapper on top of the pudding cup before handing it to him. “You and your pudding.”

“You know you love it.”

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