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taelme · 2 years

Text

enchanted

genre: regency!au (with some tweaks ofc), (not so)enemies-to-lovers!au, viscount!Jaehyun (kind of slowburn, hurt/comfort elements?, angst? mutual pining, reader is an oldest daughter guys) pairing/s: Jaehyun / Reader (ft Yuta, Johnny & other ocs)

word count: 23k+ (guys. be fr its me we’re talking abt here) tw: reader and jh both have a tense rs w their parents? brief mentions of a parent’s death (not reader/jh’s), reader doesn’t exactly look after herself very well, lmk if I missed out on anything! summary: in a world where marriage is nothing more than an economic proposition, and where a person is no more than what they can offer, you and Jaehyun rediscover what it means to be with each other, in the very essence of the word

a/n: this is really funny cause... so far the fics i have for my ‘tswift for the neos’ discourse are all johnjae.... life is like that, i guess. anyway. 3rd installment! this was a LONG time coming and i rly hope u guys enjoy it! took me a while to get back into the rhythm of writing so thank u all for bearing w my radio silence HAHHA this is based off of enchanted and gold rush (and any other easter eggs you find hehe- i’d love to hear if it reminds u of other tswift songs), reblogs are VERY appreciated!! happy reading loveys~ read this on ao3

You ached for rest. Not the kind that sleep guaranteed, no. This rest you ached for felt much deeper, much further from reach. Much like a stranger you wished to know.

“Do you remember what we discussed?”

Each inhale of yours didn’t seem to satisfy the ache in your chest, feeling as though your ribs were caving in, unsure if it was anxiety or the carriage or your clothing that was making you taste your last meal, and even that seemed like it was ages ago.

“Your posture,” the whisper of your mother brought some of your awareness back to the question she’d asked.

What did you discuss?

You tried to dismiss the impending feeling of doom that grew stronger as you noticed your surroundings, the carriage all of a sudden seeming to be moving too quickly, your grip on your gloves tightening as you tried to recall what your mother was trying to remind you of.

Right.

Be obedient. The carriage rounded the corner, jolting you from the familiar bump in the road. Don’t immediately launch into literary discourses out of panic. Your mother took your gloves out of your weak grip, slipping them onto your hands with an assertiveness that shoved you further into your seat, resisting the urge to shiver at the feeling of her cold hands on your skin. Have good manners. You could now recognise the music echoing from the building, a piece you were sure you’d heard your sister play before. Mind your facial expression. Along with the sound of music, the chatter and giggles intensified. Don’t scribble funny names onto your dance card. You thought about your little sister at home, probably sitting by the window reading a book from your father’s library as she waited for you to return home. You thought about your father who was in his study doing God knows what. As if like a trigger, a wave of clarity washed over you; you’d suddenly felt unfortunately sober.

Find a marriage partner.

“There will be many eligible suitors present. After all, it’s the first ball of the season,” she spoke, more for herself than for you.

You were treating this like a game of sorts, anything to make the process feel more distant from you. You needed to go in, find someone who had status, money and could offer protection to your family, and play your part to see it through for the rest of your life. Sure, it could be seen as a game. A very long, tedious game.

“Right,” you swallowed, still feeling as though you could hurl at any given moment, though your mother would’ve never sensed your inner turmoil. You’d become somewhat of an expert at masking it. Perhaps it was all the times you heard your parents telling you to ‘use your words’; you’d become all-too-familiar with manipulating them as you pleased.

The carriage came to an abrupt halt, your mother already preparing to alight as you followed behind her. Taking in a deep breath of (rather fresh smelling) air, you wondered momentarily if that was all you needed, feeling much better than you did in the carriage as you followed your mother up to the entrance of the ball.

You’d barely paid attention to your name and your mother’s being announced to the room upon your entrance, hyper aware of the attendees and trying your best to suppress your discomfort, hoping you could somehow mentally dissuade them from approaching you for a dance, though you knew you would never let yourself allow that. You had more pressing issues at hand.

Your relief from the fresh air was short lived. A stocky middle aged man who, according to your mother, owned an extravagant amount of land and had just gotten out of his second marriage, actively looking for a third.

Masking your discomfort, once again, you’d complied when the man had asked for a dance (though it wasn’t like you had a choice, your dance card bare as ever). Though you didn’t remember what you talked about as you danced, you were too focused on counting your steps to distract from his lack of teeth and the damp warmth that sank into your clothes where his hand was placed.

“Do you do much sewing?”

“A fair amount,” you grunted, feeling out of breath from supporting his weight with how much he was leaning into you while dancing. Sewing surely didn’t give you enough strength for this.

“That is good. It would help to dedicate yourself to such productive activities. You could contribute much more to the household with that, compared to all the folly of reading or academic learning. Unnecessary, in my opinion, when I am more than sufficiently equipped in that area.”

You couldn’t help your blank stare, hoping your tired sigh wasn’t obvious as you nodded with a hum.

“Is that so?”

The man let out a grunt, seeming to think you were speaking sarcastically, “A woman like you should use your beauty to your advantage. It is your crowning glory.”

You forced out a smile, telling yourself to take his words as flattery even though you were desperate for this dance to end.

The truth of the matter was this: you were made to do all sorts of things at the start of your day, things that were considered ‘productive’ and would aid in attracting a husband. Needlework, dancing, singing, drawing… but when the afternoon came around you were free to do your other ‘less productive’ activities.

You chose reading, naps and the occasional letter writing. These pastimes were the only form of rest you were accustomed to, though you would always end up somewhat unsatisfied, feeling as though these forms of resting didn’t satisfy the desire for rest. Perhaps it was like a writer trying to find the right word for a situation and ending up settling for one with the most similarity—it still wasn’t the right word, but there was always a thought that perhaps you were looking for one with an entirely different meaning.

Sewing? You found it all too troublesome and required all the patience that you didn’t have, leaving it for those few hours in the morning that were dedicated to building up your ‘accomplishments’. But were you proficient at it? To answer simply, you were proficient to the extent that you felt it was necessary to attract a marriage partner.

Your promise to your mother not to write random names on your dance card was growing less and less serious with each forced smile you let out to acknowledge the man’s strong beliefs.

It was by your (you weren’t sure, actually, it seemed as though you’d danced more this night than in your entire lifetime) dance that you were starting to feel lightheaded, stepping aside to find your mother for a drink. It was as your dance partner led you back to your mother that your eyes couldn’t seem to help themselves, constantly glancing at the dance card hanging from your wrist, the empty spaces and the little pencil dangling from it simply calling out to you to put them to good use.

You only had about four spaces left on your card— thank goodness for that, you didn’t think you’d be able to last any longer. Your fingers fiddled with the little pencil as you walked, careful to keep your fidgeting out of sight, overhearing giggles and murmurs about a certain viscount that was rumoured to be attending tonight’s ball.

Viscount Jung? You almost scoffed at the way they seemed as if they were talking about the Queen. Whoever he was, it was absolutely tempting you, the offer of his name that was as easily tossed around as it could be written down on your silly card.

“He’s gorgeous , you’ll have to take my word for it. Beautiful features and physique. I saw him once when he came to my estate for a meeting with my husband. He’s an architect, and a very skilled one at that.”

You purse your lips, already concocting various images in your head of what he looked like. Tall? Amicable? Perhaps he had a nice smile, you always found that to be rather charming. Perhaps his movements were slow yet precise, his moves carrying the same kind of regal elegance of the buildings he designed.

“Well, I would think he has potential marriage partners lining up for him if that’s the case, hmm?” you heard, almost nodding in agreement.

As you scanned the room, you pursed your lips at the mental image you got of how any of these girls would behave if the tall, handsome architect you pictured in your brain were to show any attempt of courting them. Maybe not even to the extent of courting… perhaps just a passing glance, a brush of his hand against yours, to feel his imposing presence just like a Midas touch as he walked past.

You let yourself wonder, just for a moment, if he would ask to be introduced to you, if you would find his personality charming while you danced, if he would take a liking to you and engage in more than just superficial conversation on your accomplishments, how you would feel to be at the receiving end of attention that was not unwanted for once.

Though it was short lived, your mind had taken the liberty of playing the rest of the sequence of events—your mother’s meddling, heightened tension between you and her because of said meddling—you cut the daydream-turned-nightmare off before you made yourself bitter for no good reason.

You were already getting too invested in this conversation, the image and elaborate backstory you’d created for him in your head. But it wasn’t exactly your fault, there was hardly any real entertainment to be found here. You held your dance card open as much as you could without going noticed, beginning to write the usual names you fell-back on when you grew tired of dancing.

“It’s near impossible to catch his attention, though,” you tuned-in to the conversation between the two mothers from before, “he wouldn’t even spare a glance at anything other than his sketches when he was visiting my home. I’d assume one would have to be nothing short of perfect to even get noticed by someone of his calibre. I can’t imagine he would settle for anything less.”

“Do you think he's coming tonight?”

“I heard he responded with his attendance, but Lord, have mercy on our daughters… I doubt he’d even cast a passing sigh their way,” you heard one of the chaperones sigh, shaking her head.

“What’s his name again?”

You tapped your pencil against the inside of your fingers absently, frustrated at the way your mind was blanking as you tried to recall another name you could use to fill the last empty space in your dance card.

“Viscount Jung Jaehyun.”

You hummed. Jung Jaehyun . You figured it was a safe bet, it wasn’t as if he’d actually ask you to dance.

You worked quickly in scribbling his name, along with many others you usually fell back on, onto the paper. The feeling of pencil against paper had never been as satisfying as it did now as your feet ached, clothes felt uncomfortable against your skin and throat feeling dry as sand.

Unfortunately for you, that victory didn’t seem to last very long.

“My dear, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you,” your mother cooed once you’d reached her, her tone making you feel as though you’d just been cued to say your next line.

You shot her a look, putting on a friendly smile as you greeted the people she was with, a few women you definitely did not recognise and a man with a very charming smile, clothes and jewellery that looked like he definitely lived… comfortably .

You were introduced to this man, addressed as Mr Nakamoto, a young-looking man who was supposedly from a reputable family from overseas, back from his travels around Europe. All of which was unimportant to your mother, of course, who simply hinted that he had money and was looking for a wife, the only things she claimed you should be caring about.

Perhaps that was true. Contrary to how it seemed, you were a lot more targeted in your search for a marriage partner. If you sifted through your mental list of men you’d danced with thus far into the night, your best potential marriage partner was either Mr Nakamoto (from what you were hearing), or the widower Baron who told you your silence was pleasing to him.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance?” He smiled, already extending a hand to reach for your dance card. In your panic, you withdrew your hand just slightly, only having it snatched away again by your mother, whose eyes zeroed in on the newly-added names.

You didn’t have time to react before the woman standing next to her had peered over as well, practically exclaiming with delight, “Oh! The viscount has asked you to dance? How fortunate! You must not dawdle, then.”

Your eyes widened, about to protest with some reason you hadn’t quite thought up yet, using that split second to contemplate the repercussions and how willing you were to deal with them if you were to confess that it was a fake name. That is, until your gaze landed on the man currently being led (or pushed) towards you.

Barely being able to protest before the both of you had been abandoned on the dance floor, the man looking nothing but irritable as he glared at you. You were assuming this was the man who was the centre of all the hushed giggles and gossip of tonight.

The image you had in your head of the mysterious Viscount Jung was almost instantly shattered and made new again, as if the previous image had never existed and this was the only one that could ever exist. How, for some reason, it made sense .

“This would all make sense if you let me explain,” you blurted out, seeing him quirk an eyebrow at you. Even his eyebrows were pretty.

He let out a huff at your expression, wondering how you could still seem so unremorseful after causing him such inconvenience . The last thing Jaehyun wanted here was for people to assume he was actually interested in somebody.

“You owe me an explanation, regardless,” the man’s voice had shocked you.

Deep and smooth, capable of lulling you into a trance if you weren’t already so on edge, even if his tone was curt and dripping with annoyance, “You’ve somehow managed to get the whole room staring at us.”

He let his gaze flicker briefly over the necklace you were wearing, back to your mother who was standing at the side looking on with evident disdain. Delicate looking Amethysts decorating your neck made Jaehyun wonder where you’d gotten them from. He only recalled Rubies to be quite popular among the girls in the other towns, according to his closest friend Johnny.

As if reminded of where you were, you tried to ignore the stares as you reached a hand up to his shoulder, swallowing the gasp that almost escaped at the feeling of his hand going to your back, tensing up visibly as your brain processed the music playing.

He let out a sigh as the both of you began to dance. It would’ve been an amusing sight if you were someone else looking on, both of you clearly not wishing to dance yet being whisked along to the upbeat tempo of the music, executing the dizzying choreography with what could only be described as trained movements.

A hint of a smile graced his features, though it definitely wasn’t directed at you.

“Anytime before my death, please,” he spoke, seeming to find his little joke amusing from the little huff of laughter he struggled to contain.

You scoffed, for some reason not feeling as inclined to offer him the same grace you would your other dance partners. Rolling your shoulders back, you kept your stare steady and refused to look down, lest he think he succeeded in making you feel small.

“That’s not a lot of time,” you quipped back, “Besides, your sour attitude is what will earn you an early death, if anything,” you muttered, audible enough for him to hear.

“Yours isn’t any better, in case you haven’t realised,” he huffed, eyebrows furrowing slightly in disdain.

“You don’t know me,” you huffed.

“And neither do you,” he was quick to reply, earning a sigh from you.

“Look, I wouldn’t be dancing with you if I had a choice,” you scoffed, figuring he was at least mildly offended from the way his eyes seemed to widen just momentarily.

“Oh, but you had a choice in writing my name on your dance card, didn’t you?” He bit back with a sarcastic smile, making you suck in a breath. That was definitely caused by your annoyance, not the dimples on his cheeks that you noticed with his smile.

“Just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t be dancing with someone as ill-mannered and arrogant as you either. Or dancing at all, for that matter. You’ve somehow seemed to spoil both of those outcomes,” he drawled, a wistful sigh that he masked with a soft smile.

Almost like a child, you’d wanted to mutter something about how you weren’t ill-mannered, but you figured what you’d shown him thus far wouldn’t exactly help your case in proving that.

You could hear girls swooning as you passed them.

“And you had the choice to show up to the ball, did you not? What did you think was going to happen here if not dancing? Did you think we’d have a canvas laid out for you to do some drawing?”

You struggled to maintain your gently pleased expression, finding your words to be quite amusing. Judging from the genuine huff of laughter you’d let out, to anyone else you two would’ve seemed to be really hitting it off.

“We could spend the entire night airing out our… grievances ,” he sighed, “but you still haven’t explained how we have ended up like this.”

You closed your eyes just briefly enough to roll them, opening them to see his jaw clenched as he glared at you.

The sigh he breathed out in annoyance succeeded in drawing your attention to your proximity. Only then noticing how differently you felt dancing with him than you did with your previous dance partners who felt as though they would collapse on you at any given moment. Somehow, the viscount felt steadier, making you unconsciously lean into him as you danced. Almost like your body recognised its ability to be dependent in this moment, no matter how minuscule the moment was. Like muscle memory.

Lifting your gaze up to his face, you tried not to let it linger for too long on his lips, their colour reminding you of a rose and hinted at the softness of a rose petal. Feeling the tap of his fingers against your back was what nudged your gaze to his eyes, understanding a little better why the gossip about him usually involved the word ‘beautiful’.

“I might be able to die and resurrect before you start explaining—”

“If I must explain,” you cut him off, earning a huff from him, “I usually write fake names on my dance card because eighteen dances are simply eighteen-too-many bouts of dancing with strange old men. Your name just happened to grace my ears when I was doing so.”

Jaehyun huffed, “And what did you think was going to happen here if not dancing?” He repeated your words back to you with an all-too-smug tone.

You let out a deep sigh, funnily enough, almost stumbling but feeling his hand on your back keep you standing upright.

He did have a point (as annoying as his execution was) but you weren’t going to admit it, of course. It was much more than just ‘dancing’. What happened in these balls could very well determine the future of yourself, your family and your unborn children, as you’ve been so generously reminded time and time again.

It was as if your mother was in your head, telepathically communicating these reminders to you whenever you were on the brink of letting yourself enjoy what you were doing. You had a responsibility to fulfil as the oldest daughter of your family. Him, however? To be able to waltz in here and expect to leave without dancing and know no one would bat an eye?

You huffed, fixing your gaze on the space between his eyebrows just so you could look as though you were deeply attentive.

“Must be nice not having to worry about your future,” you rolled your eyes.

That seemed to have struck a nerve with the Viscount, who frowned slightly at your words, an uncomfortable silence falling between the both of you.

“Was that the real reason you wrote my name down?” he finally spoke. His gaze seemed to truly hold offence now, feeling even more distant from him even though you were standing so close to him. The realisation that he truly was a stranger sinking in deeply, filling you with discomfort.

You didn’t seem to catch on to his implication at first, only realising after you’d recalled what you said to warrant such a reaction from him.

“I’m not after your money,” you told him plainly, seeing his frown grow deeper.

“You expect me to believe you?”

You glared at him, frowning slightly, his expression only mirroring yours.

“It seems I would be better off not expecting anything from you,” you huffed, “but you cannot expect anyone in this room not to be after you for your money. You’re surely smart enough to know that when you step into this room...”

You shook your head, each word seeming more for yourself than for the Viscount, a reminder that even now you were still meant to be playing your long, tedious game.

“... you are no longer viewed as yourself, only your eligibility, how well you’re able to act out your role. And if we were to go by that, I would be dancing with Mr Nakamoto there instead.”

The viscount followed the direction you had gestured in with your head, spotting the man standing next to your mother and chaperone.

“That’s Mr Nakamoto?” The viscount murmured, something almost akin to recognition in the man’s eyes as they met his own. The name seemed to ring a bell with him, though there was still a sense of unfamiliarity in his thoughtful expression. He didn’t think it was the kind of familiarity he would feel from a recent memory. Perhaps he would ask Johnny.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

There was no reply. A part of you was curious, wondering why his silence irked you so much.

At the viscount’s silence, you had only then realised the song was coming to an end. He let go of you as quickly as the song allowed, bowing out of courtesy and leading you to where your mother and Mr Nakamoto were, a certain discomfort in his expression that you could not seem to place, “By all means.”

And just as you said, he’d left the ball right after, no one batting an eye (but almost everyone running their mouths).

Still recovering from your exchange, you fixed your gloves, huffing at no one in particular, seeing Mr Nakamoto direct a rather amused smile towards you.

“Are you feeling alright? I hope dancing with the viscount wasn’t as dizzying as it looked.”

Your eyebrows raised, mustering a polite smile as you shook your head, determined to leave thoughts of the Viscount behind.

“Oh, no. Not at all. Yes, I’m perfectly fine.” Or you hoped to be in a while, at least.

Mr Nakamoto, you discovered over the rest of the evening, was nothing short of a perfect gentleman (going by your sister’s manuals). You struggled to find a flaw (and trust me, you were searching hard for it).

Beneath his extravagant clothes, confident demeanour, good dancing and how well-read he was about topics you could definitely see your father being eager to discuss over meals, you found that he was everything your mother was looking for. But other than the boxes he ticked off of her ‘Ideal son-in-law checklist’, there was nothing that compelled you to grow more acquainted with him. There wasn’t that… spark of attraction you would imagine was a non-negotiable aspect of the romance novels you read and plays you watched. The closest you’d gotten to feeling that tonight was in your sheer annoyance towards the viscount.

Unfortunately for you, there was much longer left for you to endure before you would be able to return home, but Mr Nakamoto’s company proved to be… sufficient.

Mr Nakamoto (whose first name you later heard from your mother was Yuta), kept you busy for the rest of the ball, occupied and mildly entertained with many stories about his travels (most of which you couldn’t differentiate between truth or lie). You would’ve even considered it a plus with how much he was talking, you were free to eat your supper in peace, undisturbed by other men due to Yuta’s riveting tales.

“I haven’t travelled much myself, but whatever you described does sound very lovely,” you would comment once in a while, feeling as though you were talking to the little children you would see at the market. You would smile, nod and coo at their stories without much care if they were reality or fiction. It was almost like an escape from reality, one you welcomed with open arms tonight.

“Do you have any siblings?” he asked suddenly, making you straighten up after a while of quietly enjoying your supper.

“Yes, a younger sister,” you murmured, “she’s not out yet, though.”

Yuta hummed over a mouthful of food, swallowing it with a wince before continuing, “Are you two close?”

You smiled, a small huff leaving you as you shrugged, “Well, yes, I suppose that is one way you could describe it.”

Yuta huffed, smiling as if recalling something (a story you assumed).

“Did I say something amusing?”

Yuta smiled, shaking his head, “No, it just reminded me of these siblings I met while I was in America…” setting off into yet another story about his travels.

Though you really didn’t mind, he was just giving you more stories to tell your sister once you got home.

You were at your wits end when it was time for the ball to be over, feeling as though you’d used up all your energy for the season from just dancing and listening to Yuta’s stories. You’d wanted nothing more than to simply curl into bed and sleep the rest of the week away.

Exchanging greetings as you parted ways, you tried hard to ignore the way your mother was looking at you as you returned to your carriage, head feeling heavy yet still feeling tension in your limbs, unable to fully relax with your mother in the carriage with you.

“He’s a very pleasant man,” she murmured, gaze trained outside the window as if she could see anything other than trees and empty road.

“Who?” you frowned.

“Who else? Mr Nakamoto.”

You let out a deep sigh, the breath you took in not satisfying the breathlessness you felt, nodding.

“He is,” your reply was curt, leaving no room for elaboration, though that didn’t seem to stop your mother.

“I heard from one of the ladies that he’s planning on staying here for a while. Planning to buy the estate near the park. You know, the one with the balcony that overlooks the lake. It’s an expensive property.”

You hummed.

You wanted to be interested, you really did. But the movement of the carriage was starting to make your head pound and you didn’t think you had any energy left in you to pretend to be bothered about whether Yuta’s potential estate overlooked anything .

Deeming your fatigue as a sort of defiance, your mother’s tongue clicked sharply as she shook her head at you.

“How can you be so… “ she scoffed, shaking her head, “need I remind you that you are doing this for the family? You need to start taking ownership of your responsibility in this whole affair.”

You sighed, shifting in your seat and directing your gaze towards her, “I know.”

Though you tried your best to remain respectful with your tone, your irritation got the better of you, “I am taking ownership. Am I not allowed to be tired after a whole night of dancing and socialising?”

“This is not just ‘ dancing and socialising ’. You need to realise the gravity of what just one dance could affect, for your family’s sake.”

Of course you knew that, but it wasn’t as if you could get her to see things from your perspective. She was your mother, and the last time she’d seen from any perspective other than that was before you were born.

You huffed, suppressing the many words you’d wished to have her hear, trying to remind yourself that words were unlikely to get you anywhere near an understanding with her. That would suffice for the night until you slept off your anger.

Nodding in hopes that it would appease her, you focused on your breathing, hoping it would somehow ease your headache that was coming on stronger than you’d wished. Unfortunately for you, you’ve come to learn that your mothers worries were only ever vented through such exchanges with you, though they weren't much of an exchange to begin with.

“Think of your father,” you couldn’t help the wave of discomfort that washed over you at the mention of him, as if you could feel his presence in the carriage at the mere mention of him, domineering and tense.

“He slaved away for his whole life to ensure his daughters could be viewed as respectable ladies in society. It is a privilege to even attend a ball like you just did. And yet you act as if we’re putting you through torture!”

Torture was one label for it; your long, tedious game.

“You are the oldest, you are to set an example for your sister. I do not wish for you to taint her innocence with your… your insolence .”

You nodded, almost wanting to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. With how much they fed her those manuals on what a respectable man and woman should be, how they kept her in the house as much as possible, allowed not even for her to paint because of how it would dirty her clothing, it was a wonder how they thought anything could possibly ‘ taint’ her at all.

Though at the same time, you would be lying if you said you didn’t wish to live as quiet and simple a life as she did, out of the loop of all the burdens and worries that seemed to follow your family for generations, growing more complex with each cycle it made.

“I know,” you stifled your sigh lest she use that as another example of your ‘insolence’, “I’m sorry,” you murmured, a foolproof way of appeasing her you’d come to learn after a lifetime of experience. Whether you meant it was an entirely separate matter.

Your words seemed to have their intended effect, allowing you to sit in the quiet tension of the carriage ride until you felt it come to a stop, hearing the rustling of the footman moving to open the carriage door, exiting with haste that only came with the feeling of a successful escape.

Your sister was quick to meet you in your bedroom as you reached your bedroom, timed with a precision you both knew came with too much time spent at home.

“I didn’t expect you to be awake,” you huffed, earning a shrug from her, a book you recognised to be from your father’s library in her hands, her finger tucked between the pages she stopped at.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she sighed, a dreamy look in her eyes that you supposed held all sorts of hope to hear stories of love and romance, “I suppose I was too excited for you.”

You sighed.

“I hope that was a good sigh,” she inched closer, dog-earing the page she was on and tossing it aside, the book thumping softly on your stool.

She shifted on your bed, making herself comfortable as you changed out of your clothes leaving just your nightgown, glancing at her through her reflection in your standing mirror.

“I hope it was too,” you huffed, allowing yourself to be amused at your own joke, even though you didn’t very well feel like making light of your horrible night.

“How was it? Did anybody catch your eye?”

Your thoughts ran first to the Viscount (and his rosy lips—this wasn’t your fault, really.) It upset you, how he of all people had left a lasting impression on you even though you’d spent hours and hours talking to Mr Nakamoto. It upset you how you just knew that even if you did tell others about his lousy manners or his condescending demeanour, no one would have wanted to believe you, everyone already believed he was what they wanted him to be; a gentleman straight out of one of your sister’s manuals.

“There were… some , I suppose,” you spoke as vaguely as you could, hoping that would be enough to satisfy her (even though you knew it wouldn’t).

“Handsome?” The lilt in her tone was awfully hopeful.

You sighed, turning to her with a knowing look, “Handsomely rich .”

Her mouth fell open, features pulling into a frown, “You know for a fact I didn’t mean money. Were they charming? Attractive?”

“I suppose one of them was… not ugly,” you felt embarrassed saying it, for some reason, as if you could anticipate the viscount’s reaction if he’d heard your words. The way the corner of his lips would curl up in a smirk, tilting his chin up at you with all the arrogance and cockiness in his being.

For some reason, you were afraid to voice out your thoughts on him. Perhaps it was the fault of the little nagging voice that persisted in your head, telling you that it truly didn’t matter if you thought he was physically attractive, because you didn’t stand a chance to begin with. Voicing it out almost seemed like a jinx, a nail in the coffin that forced you to face this reality instead of living in the hope that he could have harboured good feelings towards you too; simply for the pleasure that came with being perceived by someone like him.

You figured now wasn’t the time for you to start getting comfortable with hoping.

Turning to your sister with a shrug, you spoke, “But he had the worst demeanour.”

“I heard a Viscount asked you to dance. It couldn’t have been him, could it?”

Perhaps it was those very manuals that led her to this assumption.

Though it was for her own good, you found yourself not wanting to burst her bubble. She needed to know that it wasn’t about whether they were a Viscount or not, but that the men she would encounter in the marriage market in general weren’t as fairytale-like as they were written out to be. The likelihood of marrying someone you found even mildly attractive was rare. Yet the hope she held was important, precious almost.

Although the growing desire to find a love match was gaining popularity these days, you didn’t consider yourself to have that luxury. It seemed all too indulgent, saved for people who could afford to worry about things like love. Not a lady like you, the eldest daughter of her family carrying her parents’ burden on her weary shoulders.

“Do you think all viscounts are handsome and kind?” you laughed, beginning to undo your hair.

“Don’t know. Never met one before,” she sighed, “which is precisely why I’m asking you. ”

You hummed, “Well, the other man I spent most of the night with wasn’t exactly better. He spent most of the time talking about himself, but I suppose it was good entertainment.”

“So he wasn’t the handsome one?”

“The viscount?” you frowned.

Your sister’s eyes lit up, her smile growing, “So, you think the viscount’s handsome?”

Realising your mistake, you narrowed your eyes at her, “I think it’s best you forget about him.”

Somehow, the words left a bitter taste on your tongue, your sister’s expression of confusion making you feel almost frustrated, “I’m only saying this because I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of him after tonight.”

You made your way over to your bed, getting into bed and shifting to find a comfortable position, your sister still sitting next to you and looking at you with that same thoughtful expression.

“Are you that upset about it?” you huffed, trying to read into her emotions, “It’s nothing to worry about, really. Mother seems to have found a man that’s to her liking, you know, finances, property, intelligence and manners all included.”

She shook her head, mustering a small smile, “No, It’s not that. I was just wondering… how difficult it’s probably going to be for me to find a husband.”

You frowned.

“You have loads of accomplishments. You’re going to be fine,” you assured her, choosing gentle words that paved a way for a peaceful conclusion as always, though your words seemed to have weighed heavier on her, a small sigh leaving her as she toyed with your bedsheet under her hand. You would be lying if you said it didn’t spark some sort of competitive urge to prove that you could find better words to dissipate her worry.

She sighed, briefly glancing at you before looking away, mumbling in a way that was almost reluctant to be heard, “Love is important too, you know.”

You fell silent at her words, the ache in you growing obvious again. That ache for the kind of rest that went beyond physical things. One that seemed natural for you to forego, for everyone’s sake but yours.

You nodded, swallowing the dryness in your throat. You sifted through your archive of neutral, concluding words, words that you didn’t necessarily believe for yourself, but words that would suffice for now.

“I’m sure it will find you,” you murmured.

There was nothing but silence in the room afterwards. feeling yourself starting to get drowsy as your sister got up, walking over to your bedside stool to retrieve her book.

“What’s his name?” she murmured.

At your silence, she continued, “you know, maybe I can keep my ears open for any gossip when I go to the flower market,” she insisted, eager to have a little bit of adventure in her otherwise mundane days, clearly.

You thought about it just for a moment, wondering if your pride overpowered your curiosity on what kind of gossip she would hear. You figured that in this moment, you couldn’t deny your curiosity.

“Jung Jaehyun.”

Only after she left, you realised she hadn’t specified who she was referring to.

===

The ache did not disappear when you woke up near the afternoon, as much as you wished it did. Frankly, you didn’t manage to get much sleep at all, the sound of your door bursting open being what jolted you awake.

No words were exchanged, simply your mother rummaging through your drawers she used for storage for something she couldn’t seem to find, returning empty-handed to wherever she came from.

Figuring you could have something to eat before returning to bed, you got dressed, heading to the dining room. You saw your sister and your mother there eating breakfast, the staff clearing what you assumed to be your father’s used plates and utensils. It was almost strange how you felt yourself relax at the knowledge of not having to sit through a meal with him.

“Good morning,” your sister’s grin was on full display as you sat next to her, “there’s a surprise for you in the drawing room.”

“Surprise?” you frowned, taking a bite of your food even though you weren’t all that hungry, knowing it would set your mother off if you weren’t eating.

As if it were orchestrated by some divine power, you heard the low vibrations of what could only be a man’s voice in your otherwise female-occupied household.

Men, as in, plural?

You stared at the doorway of the dining room, a strange feeling in your gut as you heard the voices grow louder, your sister seeming to catch on as she grabbed your hand, forcing you to abandon your breakfast as she led you to the drawing room.

“A fresh one,” she smiled, her clues not giving you any idea of what awaited you in the drawing room.

“Living and breathing?” You weren’t sure why you were breathless, but you became sure when you saw the man standing next to your father, whose gaze had met yours with a certain finality and hadn’t bothered tearing itself away.

Living and breathing, right in front of your eyes.

“Roses!” your sister chipped in, “pink ones. And white clovers too.”

Viscount Jung Jaehyun, standing just a few paces away from you and your sister in your drawing room as your father talked his ear off about the renovations he wanted to make to the estate.

It irked you how your thoughts had almost instantly shifted to the rosy lips of the viscount, allowing yourself to wonder just for a moment if the flowers were from him. It gave you whiplash to think of him gifting you such romantic flowers after the exchange you both shared just hours before.

Perhaps they were meant as some sort of an apology? Perhaps the viscount had dug deep within himself to find that his behaviour was far from pleasant. Yes , if that was the case, maybe you were right to think he wasn’t as horrible as he seemed, maybe the viscount had some decency in him after all.

“The name on the card didn’t sound familiar, but I figured you would know once you see it!”

That seemed to have caught Jaehyun’s attention (as much as he tried to hide it), though he masked his curiosity well as he pretended to be fascinated with the interior of your drawing room.

Rolling your shoulders back, you fixed your posture, reaching a hand out to the little card that was perched delicately in the midst of the flowers, a simple handwritten card that read:

- To thank you for the pleasure of your company - Nakamoto Yuta

“Are they from the viscount?” your sister asked loudly, earning a sharp nudge from you that sent her stumbling, your gaze darting to the viscount and missing the smirk that had graced his lips.

You shook your head, murmuring, “The other man.”

Your sister wasn’t doing a very good job in saving your face in front of the viscount, making no move to hide her dismay as her lips parted with a sigh of disappointment, “The boring one?”

Grabbing her hand quickly, you led her back to the dining room, making sure your voice was more than audible as you walked past the viscount.

“The only man from the evening who was worth remembering,” you commented, suppressing your satisfaction when you heard the viscount clear his throat, suggesting to move to your father’s office for a more conducive discussion.

Just as you’d settled back into your seat at the dining table, feeling more of an appetite to eat now after your little success in irking the viscount, your mother spoke from where she stood by the doorway, glancing out of the window briefly as she fixed her gloves.

“Get dressed, we should be ready to entertain callers soon.”

“Callers?” you couldn’t help but frown, hearing your sister grunt from where she was beside you.

“I’ve invited Mr Nakamoto for some tea, perhaps the two of you could go for a stroll in the late afternoon.” You inhaled deeply, something about the proposal not seeming to entice you as much as your curiosity as to what was going on in your father’s office with the viscount. It was a shame even boring estate talk could seem more appealing to you than conversation and a stroll with an attractive, eligible suitor.

“Well that’s my cue to leave, then. Wouldn’t want to be caught in the crossfire of mindless talk,” amusement left your sister in hushed giggles, her chair screeching against the wooden floor loudly as she got up, making you cringe at the sound she was otherwise unaffected by.

Your mother hadn’t bothered acknowledging her departure, though you heard your sister’s footsteps bounding up the stairs, the sound of her bidding your father goodbye before the same thumping down the stairs echoed till the front door was shut.

You sighed, looking out of the window at the cloud cover that kept the sun from gracing anything beneath it, choosing once again to push your feelings behind you for the sake of your mother who wanted to ensure security for your future. For the sake of your father who longed to retire. For the sake of your sister who was still trusting that there was love and hope in her world.

You would receive Mr Nakamoto and you would do so gracefully. Another step towards the end goal in your long, tedious game.

===

The afternoon went perfectly. A little too perfectly, if you were being honest.

It was almost frustrating, how there was barely anything to complain about when it came to Yuta. He was on his best behaviour today, even managing to start and sustain a very well-developed conversation with your father when he had come down with the viscount briefly while they made their way to the other part of your estate.

And there you sat, like a jilted lover during the whole exchange, frustrated at the fact that Yuta had somehow managed to have everybody smitten for him, except yourself. A little nagging in your gut had tried to convince you that perhaps that was how Yuta wanted to go about this; winning over your family so he wouldn’t have to try so hard to win you over, as if this was his strategy in his own long, tedious game.

Even as you went out to promenade by the lake, you struggled to be present to the man next to you.

“Did you like the flowers?” he asked, earning a blank stare from you till you managed to register his question.

“Oh, yes I did. They’re lovely flowers.”

“Do you happen to have a liking for them? I saw many arrangements in your house when your mother was showing me around.”

You shook your head, the sudden recollection of your sister’s words about mindless small talk coming to mind as you dismissed them with a huff, “Not particularly. I mean, I do like them, but I wouldn’t go as far as making arrangements and whatnot. That is more of my sister’s hobby.”

Yuta hummed, “Do you have a favourite?”

Glancing up at Yuta, the way his smile was relaxed, his attention seemed to be solely focused on you. Something about it threw you off guard, wondering why he’d taken a liking to you when you were sure his smile and his charm would have any girl in your neighbourhood begging for his attention (perhaps just not yourself included).

“Lilacs.”

Yuta’s smile grew, looking somewhat pleased with your answer.

“Is first love something you hold dear to yourself?”

You let out a huff at that, impressed that he was familiar with the language of flowers, the thought of his pink roses from the morning making you feel somewhat uncomfortable at his pursuit.

You shook your head, “I’ve never actually… experienced it before.”

Yuta’s next words had stilled your fingers over your umbrella, wondering if he’d taken the words straight out of one of the romance novels in your bookshelf.

“I’d like to think it feels like this,” he sighed, a serene expression on his face as you walked together, “being able to share this with you.”

You were holding your breath, you were sure of it. But why wasn’t this feeling as heart-fluttering as you were expecting? Sure, his words were nice to hear, but was it because you were too distracted at the moment?

Now, you were frustrated. It wasn’t as if you could go back in time to ask him to repeat himself in the hope that you would feel something. Perhaps you were just tired, you told yourself (even if you knew that really wasn’t the reason behind your apathy).

“Shall we head back?”

Even as you were walking back, Yuta didn’t seem to let up as easily. His demeanour was vastly different from how it was at the ball. This time, he was asking you more questions about yourself, as if he were specifically orchestrating dialogue sequences that would allow him to insert romantic one-liners like the one before. Though they were flowery, and by the nature of the word you figured flowery would mean they were pleasant, but you were at a loss with the way they left you feeling well… not exactly pleased . You were hearing him, definitely, but you were stuck feeling like he wasn’t really hearing you.

As you were walking back, you reached your house just as the viscount’s carriage was leaving, tensing up as you saw your father standing next to the little flower garden behind the gates of your house as he saw the viscount off.

You avoided his gaze, hoping you would be able to walk past him without being stopped, but it seemed that wasn’t the case with how Yuta greeted your father with much more enthusiasm than you’d seen him bear all day.

You’d taken that as your queue to enter the house first, the sound of the piano echoing from the walls indicating your sister was home and that made you all the more eager to be in the company of someone you actually wanted to see today. Your father and Yuta followed behind you, not seeming to be affected by your absence as you drew closer to your sister, finally feeling as though you could relax slightly more in her presence.

“How was it?” she whispered, glancing not-so-subtly at Yuta, earning a small mustered smile from yourself.

“He was lovely,” you told her, (which in fact, wasn’t a lie).

She grinned.

“He’s handsome too, I must say. But even so, he can’t be compared to the man father was talking to this morning. They each have a different… air,” her shoulders lifted as she spoke, arms moving in the way your old piano tutor called ‘with emotion’ as she played, “you know, in the way they carry themselves.”

You let out a deep sigh, nodding slowly, “You do know that man is the viscount I mentioned the night before, don’t you?”

Her playing faltered abruptly (though your father and Yuta were too distracted to notice), slowly picking up where she’d left off, “ The viscount? The one named Jung Jaehyun? He was the man father was talking to?”

Her amazement was obvious, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t understand why she was so shocked.

You nodded, “The ill-mannered one.”

She frowned, “That’s unfortunate, then. He really did live up to what the townspeople were saying about him. Beauty and grace and elegance… a man that looks like everything he touches turns to gold.”

You rolled your eyes, amusement hinted in your smile, “Not everything gold is worth wanting.”

“Would you say Mr Nakamoto is the exception, then? More worth wanting than the Midas-touch-viscount himself?” She scoffed.

You didn’t have an answer for that, maybe because you weren’t convinced of the one you were going to offer her.

“We’ll see. He just might have to be.”

She giggled, seemingly satisfied with your answer as she resumed playing the piano, the lilting melody carrying you elsewhere for the moment until Yuta was done with the conversation he was having with your father, bidding you goodbye as he left.

As your father made his way over to you, you forced yourself to meet his gaze, resisting the urge to look away and fidget in your discomfort. “I’m going to be away in the afternoons for business over the next few days, so you’ll be handling the meetings with the viscount on the estate. I trust that you’re already well versed on what needs to be taken care of.”

“Will mother be joining—”

“What good will that do?” he huffed, “Do not waste your time with these silly questions. There is no need to get her or your sister involved and cause them unnecessary stress. You are capable enough of handling it on your own.”

You sighed, watching him leave in the direction of his office, leaving you to slump onto the sofa next to where your sister was, curling into a comfortable position for a nap as the gentle melody worked on lulling you to a place where your worries were far away and rest seemed within reach.

===

If Jaehyun was surprised to see you the next day, he didn’t show it, simply glancing at you as he entered the house, nodding his head as if he’d expected you to be there (even if he really didn’t).

“I trust my father has briefed you that I'll be handling the estate matters while he’s away?” you were first to break the silence, watching as one of his hands moved to touch the pads of his fingertips, looking somewhat preoccupied. Or perhaps, he was recalling his exchange with your father, looking at you curiously. Though that curiosity had left as soon as it came, replaced with a playful glint in his eyes.

“My apologies,” his tone was anything but remorseful, punctuated by the little smirk that was playing at his lips, “I figure you’d much rather be… well, handling Mr Nakamoto.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “D’you fancy yourself a comedian, my lord?”

Jaehyun had simply shrugged, showing some modesty in the small shake of his head.

“Good. Because you’d be a very poor one.”

You began to lead him to your father’s office, Jaehyun noticing the way your steps had slowed as you grew nearer to the door, the deep breath you’d taken in before your hands had met the doorknob, turning it and pushing only to be met with a smell that was unmistakably like your father.

Hints of a pipe smoked hours ago, the smell of his library books, ink on his desk, the musk and citrus and alcohol that blended together to form the imposing presence of your father even when he wasn’t here. Your posture had straightened and your steps became quiet and wary almost instinctively.

You stayed far from his desk, as you had always done, surprising Jaehyun with the way you’d simply taken the documents you needed and sat yourself on one of the chairs in the office, legs crossing uncomfortably as you gripped the papers in your hands.

Eyeing you carefully, Jaehyun made his way to the chair nearest to you, pulling out his own blueprints that he and your father had discussed the day before.

“Did my…” you began, throat feeling dry all of a sudden at the sight of the documents before you, “did my father tell you what I had to go over on his behalf?”

Jaehyun simply tilted his head at you.

“We’ve gone over it actually, he… just told me to ask you for the stamp and to clear the financial documents. He mentioned that you took care of the family’s accounts.”

You figured you shouldn’t have been surprised that your father didn’t actually want your opinion on his decisions. You’d just let yourself get carried away thinking he wanted to know what you thought about the things he made you responsible for.

“Oh, so my business here is simply for the seal, am I correct to say that—?”

“No, actually, I would appreciate it if I could go over these plans with you once before you approve them. It’s only sensible if—”

You shook your head firmly, Jaehyun stopping himself at your gesture, eyebrows furrowing as if the situation was upsetting to him.

“That won’t be necessary. I would rather not impose on his… plans,” you sighed, averting your gaze from his as you stood up, making your way over to your father’s desk for his seal.

“Impose?” he quirked an eyebrow, wondering why it was that you seemed to withdraw so easily when it came to your father, “You had no problem imposing on my plans at the ball.”

Rolling your eyes, you struggled to keep your hands steady as they sifted past the papers on your father’s desk.

“I would be sorry if your initial plans were any good to begin with,” you murmured distractedly.

It was strange, how you felt as if you were doing something you weren’t supposed to. As if you were secretly rummaging around in his desk while your heart was thrumming wildly at the thought of him walking in and catching you red-handed, feeling the disappointment that would meet you in his gaze, rendering you a little child again who had more familiarity with these belongings than she did her father.

“If you’re not sorry about that, you could be sorry about the fact that people seem to think I’m courting you now.”

You debated ignoring his statement, glancing at him only briefly as you arranged the papers in your hand.

Humming, it seemed your urge to cover up your nerves had shown up in snappy retorts aimed towards Jaehyun, strangely unfiltered with him even though you figured you should’ve been.

“Of course, because a man like you should be able to show up to a ball simply for the music and drink.”

Clenching and unclenching your fists, you went about the process as calmly as you could, Jaehyun’s watchful, curious eyes unnerving you even as you made the seal.

“Are you alright?” he spoke suddenly, earning a sharp inhale and a glare from you in return, your grip tightening around the seal. Whether it was because the question felt out of place, or whether it was the fact that he had caught on to your discomfort, you would rather not admit.

You shut your father’s desk drawer with a quiet click, habitual movements from many instances of sneaking in here as a child for writing materials.

“What does it matter to you?”

“No, just… does my presence here make you uncomfortable?” his eyebrows furrowed, what seemed like genuine curiosity taking over his features once again.

Trust you to be defensive, though.

A scoff left you, the thud of the beaten book that you used to keep track of your family’s accounts dropping against your father’s desk echoing through the room as if that were your form of exerting your dominance over the room and everything it represented.

“Has the thought only crossed your mind now? Besides, don’t flatter yourself,” you scoffed, “your presence doesn't have that much of an effect on me.”

That would’ve done it , you figured. You could imagine the way his lips would curl into a sarcastic smile, or how he would simply scoff and announce that it was about time for him to leave. Anything but what followed next.

“Maybe not mine, but your father’s seems to.”

Somehow, you almost wished your sister was here to defuse the tension in the room, or to crack a joke to save you from having to face such an observation. But she wasn’t, and the truth of the matter was that you were sitting here facing a stranger who seemed confident that they could read you like an open book.

And maybe, his confidence wasn’t completely unfounded.

A silence fell between the both of you, tense and ridden with an understanding both of you were aware of but neither were willing to put down their pride first to admit.

You scoffed, waving him off in dismissal as naturally as you could, “You’ve never seen us interact.”

“I don’t have to,” he huffed, speaking matter-of-factly, “you’ve been… tense ever since I suggested having our meeting in his office.”

“I just don’t like being in stuffy offices,” you shrugged again, pretending to be busy with your notebook.

Jaehyun rolled his eyes, confidence in his stare as he leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs, “ Or the person the stuffy office belongs to.”

Your sharp gaze met his almost instantly, letting out a small huff of air through your nose. You were at a loss of a witty retort, though somehow that didn’t feel as damning as you thought it would; the viscount didn’t seem to be attacking today in the same way he was before at the ball.

“It’s not a crime, you know,” he murmured, cutting you some slack from the way he averted his gaze to fiddle with his sleeve, “you’re not expected to be amiable with him all the time. At least not in my book.”

You attempted to swallow in the hopes that it would make the lump in your throat feel less suffocating, to no avail.

“Amiable,” you echoed, huffing at his choice of words. Even on good days, you don’t think you could use a word like that to describe your interactions with your father.

Jaehyun searched your expression, reading into your silence, shaking his head dismissively, “Sorry if I overstepped, I don’t usually have the habit of voicing out my observations so… carelessly.”

You didn’t believe him, strangely. Everything about what had just transpired between the both of you seemed anything but careless. Instead, it came with all the intentionality of trying to understand someone. Somehow, that knowledge made you less inclined to hold back in front of him.

When you finally felt like your voice wouldn’t give, you spoke, “Are you speaking from experience?”

His eyebrows raised in question, “My father?”

You nodded, earning a huff from him. Now it was your turn to watch him shift in his discomfort, averting his gaze and swallowing thickly. “Never really had much of a relationship with him or my mother… I uh… I lived with my aunt and uncle since I was a child.”

“Did you have much of a relationship with them, then?”

Jaehyun shrugged.

“Not as much as I did with my tutors,” he huffed, perhaps in some attempt to lighten the mood, “they were the ones I spent most of my time with.”

You hummed, hands stilling around the papers you had yet to hand over to him.

At your lack of an immediate response, he looked up, continuing, “It’s nothing to pity me for. They raised me as best as they could.”

“I don’t pity you,” you spoke.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly pity that you felt, but you weren’t sure what exactly the feeling that stirred in your chest even was. Perhaps it was a desire to be as grateful for your parents as he was? Perhaps it was an understanding of the little insistence that he didn’t want to be pitied. Perhaps it was the breathlessness that came with the way he was looking at you now, expectant for your reply.

Whatever it was, you found yourself recalling your conversation with your sister, feeling almost embarrassed at how even now, you still thought he was capable of turning things to gold.

“You don’t?” he questioned, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, unlike anything you’ve heard before.

“Do you want me to?” you weren’t sure why you were asking, simply curious how he would reply.

Jaehyun let out a huff through his nose, shaking his head. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to elicit from you. Although it was definitely something , he could say certainly that pity definitely wasn’t what it was.

“No, I don’t.”

You held his gaze, nodding. “Good, I don’t want you to pity me either.”

Before he could reply, you straightened up, handing the documents back to him with your father’s seal already in its rightful place. Taking in a deep breath, he stood up, taking you back almost immediately to what it felt like to dance with him at the ball, your proximity to him now allowing you to feel him towering over you, though strangely without the condescension that was present before.

“A lady like you shouldn’t care for my pity,” he murmured, the faintest of smiles playing at his lips.

And just like that, it was as if the exchange never happened, as if you both didn’t just bare a part of your souls to each other. Jaehyun straightened out his clothes, averting his gaze to the floor as you both allowed the façade of banter to mask the windedness that came from suddenly feeling all-too exposed.

“You won’t need to tell me twice.”

===

“You wouldn’t believe what I heard at the flower market,” your sister barged into your room as you were getting ready to attend a soiree that evening.

Your eyebrows raised, smoothing down your dress before sitting on your bed, giving her an expectant look.

“It appears Lord Jung is an anti-social man,” she began, “a few of the ladies at the flower market were talking about him, they said he’s rarely seen with people other than those he does business with. I interpreted that as the man having no friends, but that’s quite sad, isn’t it?”

You shrugged, “I figure something like that is subjective.”

Your sister didn’t seem convinced, “I think it’s lonely. Not having anyone to talk to about your life, about your struggles, about your joys… only being able to talk about your business wherever you go. I find that an awfully lonely way to live.”

Huffing, you got up from your bed, “He doesn’t seem keen on finding a marriage partner either so perhaps he’s more comfortable in this loneliness than you think.”

“I don’t believe it,” she grunted, “but it does make some sense. Maybe that’s why his manners aren’t the best, because he’s used to talking to cunning old businessmen.”

You let out a huff of laughter, “You sound like you’re defending him.”

Giving you a shrug, she hummed, “Maybe if you see him at the soirée later you can find out for yourself if he’s worth defending,” she smiled.

You could only sigh at that, glancing out the door when you heard your mother calling for you.

“That is, if Mr Nakamoto doesn’t talk my ears off before that.”

One thing about soirées, or these public events during the season in general, was that they didn’t allow for much privacy at all. It wasn’t like you were in the confines of your father’s study with the viscount’s full attention on you, no. You were in someone else’s house, with many many different eyes on you, at the receiving end of everybody’s attention except the very person who wouldn’t seem to leave your mind.

It was as if you were being shadowed by Yuta, your mother looking on with delight as your chaperone while the both of you conversed and you nursed your glass of whatever drink he’d handed to you. In such a setting, you couldn’t help but be hyper-aware of your posture, your manners, your tone of voice, the way you held your fan, even the way you would time your glances towards Yuta. All part of your tedious game, you supposed— to win the affections of a man you felt no real desire towards.

What did you desire, then? You wondered. His attention? His approval? You continued with the knowledge that even if you didn’t desire him, you wanted to feel worthy of his desire. It was messy, and it felt manipulative. But you figured those were things you’d signed up for the moment you started playing this game (however unwillingly).

You could see Jaehyun standing at the corner of the room next to the grand piano, looking intently at the multitude of sheet music next to the piano. The sight was almost amusing when you recalled your sister’s words, because indeed as you looked at him now, the sheer intent of his glare on the sheet music would be enough to intimidate anyone from initiating a conversation with him.

“Do you know how to play?” Yuta’s words had caught your attention, and you’d almost grimaced at the realisation that you’d been walking towards the piano. Stopping just a few paces away from the piano, you cast a brief glance at Jaehyun who was still glaring at the sheet music in his hands.

“No, no. I don’t, actually.”

Yuta smiled, “I would offer to play something for you, but it seems viscount Jung has beat me to it,” he murmured as you heard the melody start to sound from the piano. You knew this piece, it was the one your sister was playing when Jaehyun had visited your house the other day.

For some reason, the piece held much more melancholy than you realised, or maybe it was the way he was playing it, holding you (and all the other women in the room, you guessed) captive, unable to look elsewhere.

You weren’t even paying attention to what you were talking to Yuta about, feeling the words come out of your mouth but paying no attention to what you were actually saying. Little did you know that as focused as Jaehyun seemed on his playing, every word of yours was flitting into his mind and refusing to leave.

“I was always envious of people who could play the piano,” you sighed almost wistfully, earning a hum from Yuta.

“Were you not tutored for it?”

You shook your head, “It wasn’t something I was interested in when I was younger, but I suppose as I grew older, the music started to feel comforting to an extent. Only I was simply a listener, not the one who conveyed such comfort,” you huffed, attempting to make light of your feelings.

Yuta, as always, replied with his flowery lines, not being able to pick up on how you were really feeling and taking your words at surface level with a smile.

“Well, you certainly are an excellent conversationalist, so I would still consider myself accomplished if I were you.”

You hummed, brushing off your discomfort and mustering a smile, “Thank you.”

Jaehyun had to withhold his amusement, wondering again why it was that you were so willing to withdraw to men like Yuta, men who were all-too-familiar with manipulating their words to their advantage. If you’d simply bit back with half the amount of snark that you generously gave him, he was sure Yuta would be at a loss for words.

How frustrating. Surely, you could tell that Yuta was not a good match for you, couldn’t you?

Coming to the end of his piano piece, Jaehyun stood up, simply picking up his glass of wine that he had set on top of the piano, acting as if he wasn’t the one at the receiving end of the room’s applause.

Perhaps it was a stroke of divine timing, but one of the servants had approached Yuta, murmuring into his ear something you couldn’t quite catch. Yuta straightened up in response, casting an apologetic glance your way.

“Forgive me, I need to excuse myself for a moment,” he muttered, rushing off to somewhere you couldn’t truly be bothered to wonder about.

Jaehyun did not waste the opportunity presented to him, taking just the tiniest of steps closer to you and murmuring behind his glass, “Evening… are you alright?”

He noticed the way your shoulders were tense, your fidgety gaze around the room, the way you’d kept bringing your glass to your lips but the level of liquid in your glass was barely going down.

“Please, spare me. I am in no mood for needless bickering tonight,” you huffed, bringing your glass to your lips again to take a small sip.

Truthfully enough, the ache was back again as you stood in the room filled with chatter and music. The ache of longing for the ability to rid yourself of the façade of the perfect marriage partner that was growing more tiring to uphold. The ache that grew stronger when you conversed with Yuta, feeling as though if you were to enter a marriage with this man, the ache would only intensify. It was dangerous to entertain him in a place like this, because Jaehyun’s presence always seemed to draw you out of this façade.

“Bickering?” he scoffed, a faint smirk appearing on his lips.

“Was that not what you approached me for?” you turned to him with a frown, “I suppose the soirée was getting boring for you if you felt the need to take such a drastic measure as to approach me of all people.”

There you were , he mused.

Jaehyun shifted another step closer to you, something about his proximity making the conversation between the both of you more obvious, and you could tell from the way your mother was looking at you that it was indeed obvious that you had his attention.

“Oh, not at all. I was hoping I could be reminded what an excellent conversationalist you were,” he drawled, clearly proud of himself judging from the smile playing on his lips.

You rolled your eyes. “And you suppose you’re any better?”

“Of course, I am. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”

“You asked me a question? Must not have been worth remembering,” you sighed.

As much as you felt he annoyed you, you had to admit that it was somewhat relieving not having to be on your ‘best behaviour’ around him. You were sure any chance of marriage would be tossed out of the window if you were to speak in such a manner to Yuta (or any other suitor).

Jaehyun’s expression grew more serious, eyebrows lifting slightly in concern, “I asked if you were alright.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suddenly feeling as exposed as you did that day in the study. It was strange how easily he managed to read into your feelings. You figured you’d been doing a good job at masking it.

“What does it matter? It’s not like you to be so concerned,” you huffed.

“So, you’re not alright?” he prompted, earning a shrug from you, looking into your glass as though it held the answer you were both looking for.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m feeling alright or not, the soirée is not going to end anytime soon,” you danced around his question, hoping the mention of the soirée would redirect his line of questioning.

He noticed the Rubies that were draped around your neck, something about it feeling off. He much preferred the look of the Amethysts you were wearing before, the first time he’d met you.

“New necklace?” he quirked an eyebrow at you, earning a grunt in response.

“A gift,” you muttered, “from Mr Nakamoto.”

“I see. You still haven’t answered my question,” his tone remained firm, eyebrows furrowed and gaze intent on you.

You clenched and unclenched your fist, turning to him with your eyebrows furrowed, throat feeling dry as you tried to wrangle your voice awake when you met his gaze, uncomfortable at the way his attentiveness tempted you to pour out your feelings to him.

“Is this really the reason you approached me? Look, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. What does it matter? ”

Jaehyun was undeterred, meeting you with the same amount of stubbornness and challenge, “It matters because you’re… different. You behaved… differently when you were talking to Mr Nakamoto.”

“Compared to what? When I’m talking to you?” the words left you quicker than you could process them.

“Do you not think so?” he retorted just as quickly, tilting his head at you with the confidence that came from knowing the answer without you having to verbalise it.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

“Well… there’s no reason for me to act as though I’m trying to impress you.”

Jaehyun simply huffed in amusement, tilting his glass slightly as he contemplated uttering the thought that came to mind, going for it anyway.

“Somehow, that impresses me enough.”

Unsure what to make of his words, you shifted your gaze elsewhere, adjusting your grip on your glass because your palms had started to feel clammy. You remembered wondering what it would’ve been like at the receiving end of his attention, and now that you had it you were finding that even his words seemed capable of sprinkling gold dust on your heart.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano,” you changed the subject, your body starting to feel warm under your clothes, burning under the intensity of his gaze, wondering if this was how the sheet music must have felt under his gaze.

“I picked it up when I was younger. Out of all the instruments I've touched, I would say the piano is the one I tend to return to more.”

“It’s your favourite?”

He shook his head.

“What is your favourite, then?” You found yourself asking, genuinely curious this time instead of just a small-talk formality that you usually followed at such events.

You wouldn’t have known it, but Jaehyun was feeling the same unfamiliarity as you, feeling as though his body was moving before he could process it. He wasn’t used to holding a conversation like this with someone he barely knew, especially when it wasn’t about business or architecture. And for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about the stares he was receiving as a result of such conversation.

“The violin,” he admitted almost sheepishly, as if he was embarrassed that he could play an instrument you could only dream of playing.

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, gaze wandering to the violin that was perched nearby the piano, after being played by one of the guests when you’d first arrived.

“Why is it your favourite?”

He hummed, and by now you’d forgotten that Yuta had even promised to return, something in you not being able to find it in yourself to pretend that you were annoyed at Jaehyun’s attention, you truthfully weren’t. For someone as ‘antisocial’ as he was deemed, you found it was comfortable feeling like you didn’t have to present ‘textbook perfect wife’ answers for him. If only your sister could see you now.

“It was the first instrument I learned as a child… but I moved on to different instruments when I was older because my aunt insisted on me learning other instruments. You know, the more skills, the better. Somehow it’s…” he huffed, amused at his own willingness to share with you, the only person aside from his best friend Johnny that wasn’t keeling over begging to polish the ground he walks on.

It was refreshing, he was realising, to not be treated like he was perfect.

“It makes me very nostalgic. For that time in my life when there were no worries, you know? When all I had on my mind was the next piece I was eager to ask my tutor to teach me, waiting each day for her to retrieve the sheet music so I could play it until I knew it by heart.”

Jaehyun continued, “It’s strange, sometimes when I find myself picking up the violin again, it’s like the music just flows out naturally… and I realise I really did know it by heart.”

You hummed, nodding.

“Like muscle memory,” you offered, earning a soft smile from him unlike anything you’ve seen before. This one made you feel as though you were catching glimpses of Jaehyun as a child, the little boy whose only worry was for the day the calluses on his fingers would start to disappear.

“Can you play something now?” you weren’t sure what compelled you to ask, but the answer you were met with had surprised you even more.

“Oh, no no. It’s not… like that,” he huffed, still a hint of sheepishness in the smile that lingered on his features, “I don’t play it that often… rarely. Only when I'm really stressed, if there's too much on my mind.”

Nodding, you took a fuller sip of your drink, slightly more liberated now that your stomach wasn’t churning like how it was before.

“Your aunt must’ve really invested a lot of her fortune in your tuition, considering you were tutored for multiple instruments,” you hummed, earning a grunt from him.

“I suppose she had to, they received too much from my parents each month to not do anything with it,” he sighed, leaning against the bookshelf behind him, turning his head to look at you with tired eyes, “I still remember the way I would look forward to the letters they would send every now and then just to praise me for whatever competition I had won, or whatever certificate I'd achieved.”

“Do you think it was worth it? All the effort you put in?” you murmured, curious to how he would answer even though you knew you’d be at a loss if the same question was asked to you. Somehow, you felt like his answer would tell you more about him than small talk at balls or promenades would.

Jaehyun hummed thoughtfully, lips pursing slightly, “That was what love felt like to me back then, the love I felt for music and… their letters, so… do I think it was worth it?” he shrugged, a smile that bordered on bitterness had graced his features, “Do you?”

Perhaps it was the way you felt like you couldn’t hide under his gaze, or maybe it was the way you felt like he wouldn’t hold your grievances against you. Whatever it was, you found yourself wanting to share with him. And strangely enough, the idea of it had started to scare you less as time went by.

“My parents were like that too. You know, as the oldest daughter… no news was good news. My duty was to… to not cause worry, to be strong for the family, to take care of my sister, to perform well in all that I did for the family’s sake. For me, it was… like an instruction manual,” you huffed, finding yourself looking to him for affirmation that he understood what you meant, and the knowing smile and nod you received in return made your heart jump in your chest.

“Do all of this well and you’ll receive your parents’ love. Don’t do it and…” you trailed off, earning a hum from him.

“Tire yourself out trying and trying again,” he murmured, earning a deep sigh from you.

Did you think it was worth it? You weren’t sure, but you still found yourself trying nonetheless.

Jaehyun had succeeded in unlocking a part of you you’d never spoken to anyone about before, and like you said, something about it felt liberating, the solution to your ache starting to feel a little more within reach even if you still weren’t sure what it was.

“One of my friends, Johnny, has a pretty strong view about this… he says that people are fickle… that we can change based on the slightest of factors…”

“Your friend sounds a little bitter.”

The viscount laughed, “Quite the contrary, actually, I think he’s quite the romantic… just overly managing his expectations.”

“Is that so? What made him have such views, then?”

The viscount hummed, pressing his lips in a firm line before parting them to speak, “Money, I suppose. How people react to money, how he’s seen it change the way people treat a person. Sometimes, it’s difficult to tell whether a person is enamoured with you or the security your wealth provides. Though, with the way things are, it leaves a woman with no choice but to seek out security first, love being secondary to everything else.”

You hummed, nodding slowly as you processed his words.

“Sorry, I interrupted. You were saying?”

Jaehyun wasn’t sure why that made him smile, choosing to dismiss it and continue anyway, “anyway, his view is that when we’re constantly trying and trying to follow these instruction manuals on ‘How to earn love’... at the end of the day they can hold it over our heads and decide that there are more instructions, more requirements we haven’t met yet… he thinks it isn’t possible.”

You frowned, “What? To find love?”

Jaehyun nodded, “Genuine love, I suppose. I guess I understand what he means. Even though more people have been talking about a love match these days, it feels out of reach somehow. People still end up looking at you like a list of instructions, a list of qualifications, weighing who has a list that is easier to meet and going with that.”

“Do you think yours is difficult to meet?” you found yourself asking, earning a blank look from the viscount.

“That’s the thing,” he huffed, “People like us… who try and try and are tired of trying… we wish we didn’t have one.”

Somehow, you felt a certain conviction in your heart, shaking your head at him.

“Maybe we don’t, and we just haven’t realised that yet.”

===

You hadn’t seen Jaehyun at the next ball, or the next, and he didn’t return to your house for meetings with your father. You figured he was busy, so you tried not to wait. Though the ache persisted, coming and going like waves. With how often you felt it, you assumed you would have grown familiar with it. But in cases like these, the familiarity was unsettling, as if your body was crying out for help that you weren’t able to provide.

Yuta kept you relatively occupied, sending you flowers regularly, light and bright coloured blooms attached to meanings of affection and purity and fondness, accompanied with letters containing equally flowery words. Though it didn’t keep you occupied enough.

Time seemed to pass without much of your awareness, the only thing you were aware of being the way the flowers Yuta sent would slowly wither and your sister would replace them with the new bouquets he sent over. You were growing frustrated at Yuta’s perfection, because that demanded perfection from you as well. You would be lying if you said you didn’t miss the liberation that came with your conversations with the viscount. Those were different, demanding honesty instead of perfection, and perhaps, perfection was found in that honesty.

“I think we can start thinking about discussing marriage with Mr Nakamoto,” your mother turned to murmur as you were having tea with Yuta in the drawing room, the man busy talking to your father about whatever literary piece they found they both enjoyed.

“Marriage?” you weren’t sure why the prospect seemed so daunting now that your mother had mentioned it, something about her words making you realise that her plans were solidifying and you couldn’t simply continue to play ‘tea party’ with Yuta much longer.

Your attention was diverted when your sister had entered with a stack of letters in her hand (presumably taken from the staff), her excited gaze meeting yours as she waved a single letter in your direction.

“Are those my letters?” your mother asked, earning a grunt from your sister.

“They’re father’s letters,” she informed tersely, making her way over to you and dropping a single letter into your lap, shoving the rest towards your mother in an attempt to distract her.

The dismayed expression on your mother showed it was somewhat successful, “You know, you really have to fix your manners when it’s your turn to debut,” she began, seeming ready to launch into a tirade of nit-picking towards your sister but you knew nothing could very well escape her watchful eyes when it came to you, eyeing the letter in your hands curiously.

“What’s that?”

“Sister’s letter.”

Your mother’s hand reached out quickly, grasping the letter in your hand and peering over your shoulder to look at it, seeing no indication of a sender other than an elaborate letter ‘J’ imprinted on the seal.

“J? Do we know anyone with that initial?”

Your thoughts ran first to Jaehyun, and the look you exchanged with your sister only proved your suspicions correct, though she was quick to cover for you.

“Johnson, remember? Betty Johnson? Sister’s old friend that moved overseas,” it almost surprised you how smoothly she lied through her teeth when she was never a good liar. You never had a friend with the surname Johnson.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have remembered her. I used to play with her and sister outside the church grounds when we were younger,” you added, pleased with how your mother had bought your lie, shrugging as she turned her attention back to her cup of tea.

“If you’re going to start exchanging letters, don’t expect the money to come from your father and I. We’re already putting more than we can into your dowry,” she muttered, earning a sigh from you as Yuta and your father returned from his study.

“Shall we promenade?” he offered, and you glanced at your sister before looking back at him, rolled your shoulders back and gave him your sweetest smile.

Your sister leaned over, pretending to fix your hair so she could lean in to murmur softly, “I’ll put the letter in your notebook.”

And so you left to promenade with Yuta.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” he smiled, squinting his eyes as he looked up at the sky, with you holding your parasol above your head, simply giving him a small hum.

“Have any other suitors declared their pursuit of you?” Yuta spoke abruptly, earning a frown from you.

Shaking your head, you couldn’t find it in yourself to speak, something about your anxiousness swallowing your words. You could almost hear your mother’s voice in your head now, telling you once again to ‘ use your words ’.

“No, they haven’t,” you managed to force out, earning a solemn nod from Yuta.

“Really? Not even viscount Jung?”

Your frown deepened, “What makes you say that?”

“Nothing in particular… just figured he was the only other person that could have caught your attention this season.”

You huffed, even Yuta thought of Jaehyun highly. You, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to get the image of the little boy playing the violin out of your mind when you thought of him, something about it was endearing.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but… do you know the viscount personally by any chance?”

Somehow your words seemed to have struck a chord with Yuta, his expression turning stoic and his gaze shifting elsewhere. He shook his head, “No, I don’t.”

“Are you sure? He seemed to find you familiar at the ball—”

“He must be mistaking me for someone else,” Yuta turned to you with a smile, though the firmness of his tone contrasted the gentleness of his smile. It was enough to deter you from asking any further. With Yuta, you needed to be careful, knowing something as simple as behaving in an ill-mannered way would be enough to make your family’s plans for security and stability fall through. It wasn’t as simple as it seemed with Jaehyun, who was always game for whatever you threw his way.

The mood had turned sour afterwards, the both of you remaining in relative silence (well, other than Yuta’s occasional utterances of praise for your parents) until you were both back at your house, the servant who chaperoned behind the both of you helping to take the parasol from your hands as Yuta got ready to bid you goodbye.

After he left, it was like your body moved faster than you could process. It was embarrassing , the way you felt like an excited child running up to your room and grabbing the book sitting on your desk, flipping it open and letting Jaehyun’s letter drop out onto your bed.

Tearing the little envelope open with your finger, you unfolded the letter, catching a whiff of something so unmistakably like Jaehyun that it almost felt like he was in the same room.

‘Ms Y/N Y/L/N,

My apologies for disappearing without a word. I needed to leave urgently because of my friend, the one we talked about the other day. His father passed and I’m aiding him with the handover of his father’s business and some of the family property to him, since I was previously closely working with his father for their family’s winery. Perhaps I should be more apologetic for the fact that now social events are sure to be dreadful for you without my presence.’

You scoffed, you could almost picture the smirk on his face as he wrote that.

‘I am unsure when I am to return, but I am sure it will be before the season ends. I suppose now that my friend’s father has passed, he is to be looking for a wife as well, though I doubt it would be easy to convince him to come back with me. With his status now as a Marquess, I suppose many would be eager to coerce him into marrying their daughters if he were to arrive in town. Something he seems very opposed to.

Again, I hope I have not needlessly worried you with my sudden absence. Though, I suppose my absence would be something that gains rejoicing from you rather than disappointment. Nonetheless, things are rather hectic here. I hoped that in writing to you I could gain some form of entertainment hearing about the progress in the marriage mart that I am unfortunately missing out on. You can write to me, but it will be addressed to my friend’s estate as I am staying here until I leave. I look forward to hearing from you. Do keep safe and in good health.

-J’

“I’d keep that locked up, if I were you,” you jumped at the sound of your sister’s voice behind you, a mischievous smile on her face as she shut the door behind her, crawling onto your bed and making herself comfortable there.

“So is it official? That he’s courting you seriously?” she asked, and you could see the way her smile fell as you pursed your lips, shaking your head at her.

Now that you heard her words for yourself, it made you wonder. You expected Jaehyun to be someone meticulous, someone careful, someone who knew exactly what the implications of sending a lady a letter was in this day and age. It made you wonder about the intimacy hidden behind his otherwise mundane updates, and for some reason, it made you long for more.

“I’m going to write back,” you spoke, more for yourself than for her.

Her smile grew, “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, sister. I suppose you found he’s worth defending after all?”

You hummed absently, already pulling out your writing materials to begin writing your response to him.

“Not quite yet, but something tells me this will be worth it.”

‘Dear J,

My condolences for your friend’s father, I can only imagine how overwhelming it is to have all sorts of responsibility thrown at you before you can even process your own grief. Truthfully, I hadn’t noticed your absence’ (you were lying, obviously)

‘Perhaps because things have been hectic here as well. Each day seems to be filled with entertaining Mr Nakamoto and going for promenades. I’m quite tired of all the walking, to be very honest.

The mention of your friend made me think of what you said that day at the soirée, about finding genuine love in a world where marriage is an economic proposition. I find myself searching sometimes, even though I know my efforts are probably in vain. I know the reason I have been entertaining Mr Nakamoto is not because I’m attracted to him. It is like what you said, I find myself seeing him more as his list of instructions, and what that demands of mine. Then, I find myself drawn back to my duty as the first daughter of my family, drawn back to the need to secure some sort of relief or security for my family. By then, there is no thought of finding love in a marriage partner, only the transaction of it all. Still, there is a part of me that wonders how different the whole process would be if I truly loved my partner, how much less it would feel like a game and more like life.

I am only asking because I have not seen you dance with anyone at the events so far. I suppose you are either picky or disinterested. But just out of curiosity, do you think it’s possible? For you, I mean, to find genuine love this season?

I hope this proves as entertaining as you wished for it to be, I won’t apologise even if it ends up disappointing you.

From, me’

===

‘Ms Y/N Y/L/N,

Thank you for your concern. My friend is doing much better now, and I hope this means the chances of him returning with me have increased. I would like for you to meet him, something tells me he would get along well with your sister, they both seem to have a penchant for the arts.

To answer your question, I believe it is possible. Whether it is wise of me to think so, or whether it is wishful thinking… that remains undecided. But I cannot be sure. Personally, I have not come across such love where you are seen for all that you are and still loved, but I would like to believe it exists. Whether I am able to find it this season or not, believing it exists makes it feel more like life, like you said.

With that being said, I do wish the same for you, as much as you may not believe me. More than just promenades, answers from manuals, accomplishments and duties, but life. Sure, duties are important, family is important. But in my honest opinion, I don’t think fulfilling your duties should mean sacrificing your happiness, especially when it isn’t very well your duty at all, but that of others projected onto you. Perhaps I would get stoned by your mother if I said so, but I mean it.

I have to be going now, but I can guarantee that I will be back soon. Perhaps in less than a month’s time you will find yourself bickering with me at the corner of a rich woman’s house again. Do keep safe and in good health.

-J’

You should’ve trusted the nauseous feeling in your gut when you saw Yuta arrive at your house that morning, having arranged a private meeting with your parents and leaving promptly after. There could have only been one reason behind it, and it worried you. Again, the ache intensified, feeling as though it would only solidify if your suspicions were proved correct.

It was during teatime when your mother finally addressed the elephant in the room.

“Your father and I are keen on you proceeding with Mr Nakamoto,” she spoke plainly, your hand halting around the handle of your teacup.

“Huh?” as pathetic as it was, was all you could muster.

“Weighing your potential suitors, Mr Nakamoto brings the most stability. He has property, he is of a suitable age, he has wealth, he is personable. He seems prudent,” she lifted her gaze from her teacup to glance at you, just the slightest of frowns as she met your wide-eyed expression.

You knew this, yet you weren’t sure why it shocked you to hear it verbalised so forwardly.

“I’m sure you have no complaints,” it came more as a warning instead of an assumption, enough to make your throat feel dry and your voice start to retreat, “you can expect him to propose soon, so I expect you to be on your best behaviour. The family’s reputation depends on your response.”

You thought back to Jaehyun’s words. If you were to reject Yuta’s proposal, would that make you wise or foolish? You knew what was riding on this decision. If you were to reject him, you would retain a little bit of your freedom, but you would damage your reputation. It wasn’t exactly ideal to be regarded as a jilt, much less to a man like Mr Nakamoto, who had many women in your town lining up for him. Weighing your other potential suitors, you weren’t sure if being married to a man older than your father was a better option.

Almost unconsciously, your thoughts wandered to Jaehyun, the feelings you associated with him— or more accurately, how different these feelings were from the ones you associated with Yuta.

It was starting to make you anxious, you realised that as you exchanged letters with him for a while now, he had grown on you more than you realised. The way you felt at the receiving end of his attentiveness. The way he seemed to read into your signals and cues and meet you where you were without expecting you to be perfect. The way he made you hopeful that you could find love… and perhaps wishful that you could find it in him.

You were anxious, because when you thought of Jaehyun, what was coming to mind wasn’t his credentials, his wealth, his family, or his status. But rather, it was him , the blunt yet gentle, aloof yet attentive, hardened yet tender-hearted person that he was.

You were anxious, because even as you were being told about your perfect prospect of marriage, you found that you only ached for him ; the man who was maybe a stranger to your textbook gentleman, but not a stranger to you.

You took in a deep breath, setting your teacup down with shaky hands, standing up and letting out the breath you were holding.

Use your words.

“I’m not feeling too well,” you murmured softly enough that you knew your voice wouldn’t give way, “please, excuse me.”

You struggled up the stairs, finding it difficult to focus on anything other than the way your heart was pounding and your head was starting to spin. Eventually, you found yourself at your desk, writing materials ready and already finding yourself addressing the only person you could think of at this moment.

‘Dear J,

My parents have been talking to me about pursuing a marriage with Mr Nakamoto, and in the position that I am, I am inclined to accept.’

===

This time, you didn’t receive a reply from Jaehyun. Previous times, you could always be sure that his reply would not take longer than a week. But this time was different, as the flowers Yuta continued to send withered and were replaced, there was no news of any mail for you. Even your sister was starting to grow concerned at the way things were going, starting to display Yuta’s flowers in places you wouldn’t pass as often when you were going about your daily routine. But you noticed, the flowers Yuta gave you were always light, bright colours in delicate blooms; nothing like the bigger blooms your sister tended to get.

The waiting was the worst this time, and you knew why. It was different this time, knowing you were anticipating his reply for different reasons. You couldn’t hide behind boredom, or curiosity as to how he would respond to your questions and words. This time your anticipation lay in hope, in your ache, and that was the worst kind of anticipation for you. Girls like you couldn’t hope, you had far too many responsibilities. You needed to be pragmatic, realistic, practical. There was no room for hope in your heart, yet you found that it was all you were doing these days.

Hoping that wherever he was, he was safe. Hoping that wherever he was, there wasn’t a perfect girl who was discovering if his touch could turn her worries into gold. Hoping that wherever he was, he was thinking of you.

You hoped it wasn’t too late.

The longer you waited, the more foolish you felt. Pouring your heart out to him in your letters like that when there was no real guarantee that he would feel the same way, when there was no real guarantee that he would take Yuta’s place.

As conversations about responsibilities, about being a good wife to Yuta had started to intensify, you gave yourself no choice but to bottle up the anxiety you felt, directing it inwards till you felt it start to take a toll on your mind.

There was a knock at your door before the door opened with a soft click, seeing your sister walk in carrying a vase containing new flowers, white lilies that filled your room with a scent that comforted you just slightly in your fatigue.

Setting the vase down carefully, your sister turned, stopping in her tracks when she realised you were awake, the slightest of frowns on her features, “Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

You shook your head, a sigh leaving you as you stretched your arms over your head, “I was already awake a long time ago, don’t worry.”

Padding over to your bed to take a seat next to your legs, her body angled towards you and her hand smoothing over the blanket that covered you, her gaze scanned your appearance.

“Still nothing?” You asked, earning a small sigh from her.

“Nothing,” she shook her head. Pausing, she shook her head, “maybe the letters just got lost in the mail?”

You let out a sigh through your nose, shifting your gaze to the Lilies perched next to your window, the light seeping through the glass making you almost dread the day that was to come. Another day spent waiting.

“I would like to believe that, but I've sent far too many letters to him to believe that,” you murmured, “perhaps it was foolish of me, you know?”

Her frown deepened, “What was?”

“Thinking that I could actually find a love match. Thinking that I could develop an affection for the viscount and remain unscathed,” you huffed, bitterness laced in your words that left an unpleasant aftertaste in your mouth.

Your sister hummed, “Do you think it is the affection you feel for him that is what is hurting you? Or the absence of this affection for Mr Nakamoto?”

There it was again, the wave that washed over you and forced you into sobriety, the ache for the rest that went beyond physical things that you were starting to give up trying to satisfy. You supposed when push comes to shove, you would find something to love in Yuta, you would simply have to.

“It’s been more than a month, sister. I cannot… I cannot afford to wait for him much longer. I cannot afford to keep avoiding Mr Nakamoto.”

She sighed, “I know. Father has been meeting him to discuss your marriage arrangement for a while now.”

Somehow, that was enough to solidify your decision for you, as reluctant as you were. Saying yes to Yuta’s proposal… perhaps it would be a wise decision in your trying and trying to earn the affections of your father. It would be wise for you to do what is pleasing to your family. It would be wise for you to be obedient, to continue to be dependable for them.

You heard the click of the lock, the door opening to reveal your mother, “Mr Nakamoto is here, dear. He has requested a private audience with you.”

Exchanging a knowing look with your sister, you nodded.

“Give me a moment to make myself presentable. I shall be down shortly,” you murmured, seeing your sister still wearing that same look of concern as you got out of bed, your mother leaving and shutting the door.

Getting ready, you stared yourself down in the mirror, glancing between yourself and the sight of your sister behind you on your bed, a now unreadable expression on her face.

“I’m not going to refuse when he asks,” you murmured, more for yourself than for her.

Perhaps she knew this, because the nod she gave you was all you needed to give you the little bit of conviction that you would go through with this, for your family’s sake.

===

Perfection was subjective, you knew this now. You knew it for a fact as you lay in bed, your head spinning and your heart feeling heavy, a week since Yuta had left town for business after your engagement.

The stress of it all was getting to you, the ache in your heart for rest, the ache to not have to be ‘on’ and be present to all the people and things that demanded your attention, the pressure you were putting on yourself to be the person your parents expected you to be, or maybe who you expected yourself to be, the ache to be able to depend on someone other than yourself.

You couldn’t even shake the fact that you were still wondering about Jaehyun, the last bit of desperation in you used to hope that he would return soon. It was amusing, considering that his return would probably be worse because you were already betrothed to another man. Somehow, you were still eager to write to him, asking your sister to help to pen down your messages because you were too weak to get out of bed. At least when you did this, you could say you still tried at the end of the day, because trying was what you were familiar with.

You could barely get yourself out of bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep away your days as you waited for Yuta to return, for him to seal your fate with your marriage. Each day, your sister would come in and attempt to get you to eat, but you couldn’t find it in you to have an appetite, simply eating a few bites to appease her before you were allowed to sleep the time away before your next meal.

Little did you know that your waiting for Yuta was in vain.

Jaehyun almost thought he was hallucinating when he heard the sound of a familiar laughter echoing a few tables away from him at the bar he was at with Johnny. “Do you recognise him?” Johnny asked, evident disdain in his tone and the pointedness of his glare, earning a confused look from Jaehyun.

“Who?”

“That man over there, the conman, Nakamoto Yuta? was his name if i recall correctly,” Johnny gestured with his head to the source of the laughter, Jaehyun’s eyes narrowing when he realised that the man sitting at that table was very much familiar, and very much Yuta.

“Conman?” Jaehyun murmured, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he observed the woman next to him, the Rubies she adorned on her neck identical to the ones he saw you wearing at the soirée.

Johnny nodded, using his finger to trace the mouth of his glass, “I recognise him from my time in Paris. You see the woman next to him? Remember how I told you Rubies were popular among the women there?” Johnny gestured to his neck, “It took me a while, but I realised it was only because that was his trademark. Like a branding for the women he was set on cheating for their money in exchange for his affection.”

Jaehyun frowned. Did that make you one of Yuta’s targets, then?

“Are you familiar with his methods?”

“Too familiar, I wish I wasn’t,” Johnny sighed, “He tried the same thing on my cousin. You know, all these young girls looking for the perfect husband. He paints himself out to be little less than a saint, and they eat it up. The prince charming that came to sweep them off their feet when in actual fact his occupation is never revealed, his life is a series of carefully constructed lies that differ depending on who he’s talking to… he strung my cousin along for ages, doing ‘business dealings’ with my uncle that landed him in debt that my father had to pay off.”

“And your cousin?”

Johnny knocked back the rest of the alcohol in his glass, “Heartbroken, obviously. Once he had his fill of her and her family’s money he left without a single warning.”

“Couldn’t you file a suit against him for that?” Jaehyun’s mind was racing with questions, with a growing worry for you, especially since the last letter he’d received from you was talking about your likely marriage to Yuta.

“And what about the women? Wouldn’t they have warned each other by now? Isn’t it obvious when everyone’s receiving the same thing—the Rubies and flowers and all—from him?” Jaehyun continued, earning a deep sigh from Johnny.

“That’s the thing. She was too in love with him by then, she insisted that we couldn’t go after him. Plus, by the time he was done with them, they didn’t have enough money to file a suit even if they wanted to.”

“I mean, who wouldn’t want to be the centre of attention of a doting, romantic, young , attractive young man?” Johnny let out a bitter laugh, “You of all people should know it’s all business. When someone like Yuta comes along, he brings the fantasy of a desirable love match with him. It was never about what they were receiving, but who they were receiving it from. The perfect prince charming he made himself out to be.”

Johnny glanced over at Yuta with a sigh before raising his hand to catch the server’s attention to order another drink.

At Jaehyun’s lack of a response, Johnny noticed his friend’s face paling, his gaze fixed on the table looking deep in thought, “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”

“The girl,” Jaehyun rasped, clearing his throat and blinking his eyes harshly, “the one I sent the letter to…”

“Yeah? Didn’t you say she was getting engaged?” Johnny hummed, earning a grim nod from Jaehyun.

“It was supposed to be to him .”

Johnny’s lips parted, exchanging a knowing look with Jaehyun. He wasn’t daft, he knew Jaehyun’s affections for this girl ran deep, deeper than he let on.

“I… I need to go back,” he said finally, “I hope you can understand.”

At this, Johnny let out a laugh, an incredulous look on his face.

“Finally! I was wondering when you’d come to your senses.”

“Huh?” Jaehyun’s stare was blank, confusion written all over his face.

“ I’m not the one keeping you here… I think we both know that,” Johnny spoke slowly, nodding at Jaehyun, the latter who was already trying to form a mental estimate of how long it would take him to get to you.

“God, I feel so…”

“Foolish?” Johnny offered with a smile, earning a glare from Jaehyun.

“I can’t believe I was going to sit here and do nothing while she gets cheated by that man,” Jaehyun brought a hand up to wipe his face harshly.

Taking a sip of his drink, Johnny huffed, “Want me to hit him for you?”

Jaehyun scoffed, “Not if I get to him first.”

“I’ll tell them to prepare your carriage for tomorrow morning, you’ll be back in three days at most,” Johnny spoke calmly, amusement still lingering in his smile as he observed Jaehyun’s lost expression, the viscount seeming too blinded by the rage he felt towards Yuta to think clearly.

Johnny grunted, waving his hands in dismissal, “Don’t waste your time with him, go to your girl first.”

Jaehyun wasn’t sure what he was picturing when he imagined returning to you. He got your letters, every single one of them. He read every word to the point where he was sure he knew them by heart. Your letters told him about the town, about who had gotten engaged, gossip from the flower market, about the weather, the balls you attended. From the letters alone, he would have figured you were doing perfectly fine.

What he hadn’t expected was to have your sister answer the door and look at him as though he’d grown a second head.

“My parents aren’t here,” you informed before he could greet you, earning a huff from him.

“Sorry for uh… for paying such an unexpected visit, but… I was wondering if I could see your sister?”

Your sister thought to you, lying in bed grieving the loss of a future she dreamed of, wondering if the viscount’s presence here would put an end to that grief.

“She’s… sick.”

Jaehyun’s eyebrows furrowed, “Sick? With what?”

“Heartbreak, I suppose,” your sister replied tersely, giving him a pointed stare, unsure what to make of Jaehyun’s intentions.

Jaehyun’s eyebrows lifted, his thoughts immediately going to Yuta and feeling himself start to bubble with the same rage and concern that brought him here. Most of all, love.

“You can stay here, I’ll check if she’s willing to see you,” she spoke, still eyeing him cautiously as she led Jaehyun into the house, stopping him at the stairwell as she made her way to your room.

“Sister,” she knocked on the door, opening it and peeping her head in, whispering harshly with wild eyes, “The viscount is here!”

Your head snapped up from your pillow abruptly, only to fall back onto your pillow in immediate regret as it throbbed and pounded. Your headache was torturing you, but for Jaehyun, you supposed you were willing to brave through it.

“Okay. He can come up, but you have to stay in the room with us,” you said as firmly as you could.

Your sister hummed, turning to leave the room.

“Not unless he requests a private audience…” she murmured lowly, earning a glare from you (futile as it was, since she’d already left the room).

Jaehyun was more than impatient to see you, but the sight of you tucked under the covers of your bed, a cloth and small basin next to your bedside and the cold sweat on your face made his heart ache.

He wasn’t sure how to place himself as he entered the room, choosing to stand in front of the side of your bed you were facing, his lips curling ever so slightly in amusement when you had turned your body to face away from him.

“What happened to you?” his voice came out almost breathless, with traces of exasperation.

You didn’t want to open your eyes and look at him, you didn’t think your resolve would last if you could see the look of concern and frustration on his face he held now.

“Nothing,” you murmured. So much for ‘using your words’.

“Stress,” your sister cut in, earning a sigh from Jaehyun.

“I came because… I wanted to warn you,” Jaehyun almost winced, his words not coming out how he’d planned.

“ To warn me? ” your tone was strong even in your weakness, “not because you promised you would come back?”

Jaehyun shook his head, “I… look, you can’t go ahead with the engagement with Mr Nakamoto.”

You frowned.

“And what makes you think you can tell me what to do about my future?”

Jaehyun was growing frustrated now, “I’m not, but even if I was, I wouldn’t be the first one telling you what to do with your future,” he said pointedly.

“Why are you meddling? I never asked you to get involved,” you felt like a stubborn child, but you were more upset at the fact that it was him of all people, advising you not to marry Yuta.

You supposed that was what you wanted when you’d sent him that letter, but a very belated form of it, showing up in front of you now.

“My apologies, I did not ask for your permission,” he scoffed, “that isn’t the issue here, Ms Y/L/N, you cannot proceed with this engagement.”

“Perhaps your warning would be of more use if you’d sent it sooner in a letter,” you huffed.

You knew this was the sulky side of you speaking now, but it was the truth. Did he think he could simply waltz into your bedroom after months of silence, tell you not to marry the man you were engaged to and expect you to comply graciously?

“I don’t need your help with my marriage.”

“Marriage?”

Your sister wanted to avert her gaze, the tension in the room growing thicker by the minute, but it was impossible to look away, with the viscount looking unlike she could ever imagine seeing him. Desperate, frustrated, emotional . Nothing like anyone knew him to be.

“We’re already engaged,” you murmured, as if reluctant to solidify the truth by speaking it into existence.

“Besides, like I said. If I needed your… interference—”

“Help,” he corrected, earning an eye roll from you (not that he could see it, your eyes still being closed).

“Fine, help. If I needed it, I would have asked.”

“Is help only given when it is needed?”

You huffed, the bubbling of frustration within your chest growing stronger as you called to mind your emotions for the past few months.

“It definitely seems to be otherwise when it’s coming from you. Needed or not, I’d rather not have your help at all,” you forced your eyes open, immediately regretting it when you turned your head to meet his gaze.

Desperate, frustrated, emotional.

“You don’t mean that, I’m trying to warn you. You don’t know what kind of man he truly is.”

"Consider me warned,” your gaze was as firm as you could muster, not finding any reason to withdraw when it came to Jaehyun. This was yourself, in all that you were feeling.

“Don't patronise me. You don’t know what he’s capable of.” You almost faltered, almost . A small nagging fear started to creep up on you, telling you that you’ve made a grave mistake with Yuta.

“And you do?” you asked, slowly shifting yourself so you could see him better, unsure if you were being spiteful or curious now, maybe both.

“Better than you, it seems,” he huffed, taking a step closer to your bed, your sister pressing herself against the wall as if that would help the tension in the room, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she watched the dynamic between you and Jaehyun unfold.

It was nothing compared to how she saw you and Yuta interact, but something about this was interesting. It was like the both of you were simply hiding behind your true feelings, masking it with frustration and beating around the bush, focusing on unimportant details because you were both too afraid to be the first one to reveal your heart.

“And where is this understanding coming from?"

Jaehyun visibly hesitated, sighing before he told you the truth, "Johnny and I saw him when we were travelling."

“Johnny?” you frowned, “Oh, you mean the marquess that dares not show his face in this town?”

Again, the focus on unnecessary details to prolong the time before you had to finally face up to what you really wanted to hear and say.

“His title is not who he is,” was all Jaehyun could muster, feeling the tension in the room as he continued to hold your gaze.

“And by that same logic, I can say you don’t know my partner any better than I do,” you shrugged, the words sounding unfamiliar even as you said it.

That seemed to strike a nerve with Jaehyun, his tone rising slightly in his urgency and frustration.

“Would you stop calling him that? He’s not going to come back! You know why—?”

“What would you rather me call him then? My husband-to-be ?”

“—he’s too busy conning and cheating people like your parents in other towns for money now. Your family is going to be left in debt because of that man.” Though Jaehyun wasn’t shouting, his tone was filled with such urgency, such firmness, that he might as well have been. The implication of his words echoed louder than anything, louder than the sound of your heart picking up speed.

Your silence spoke for you, feeling as though a large wave had just washed over you and pulled you under. Your heart continued to thump quickly as you struggled to regain your bearings, as you struggled to gain control over yourself. Only one thought rang in your head, your mother had already given Yuta your dowry before he disappeared.

You glanced at your sister, her debut would need to be delayed now. Your family couldn’t afford to muster up another dowry so soon, not when you hadn’t gotten married yet.

“Now do you understand why I needed to come and warn you?” his tone softened, and without realising he began to make his way closer to you, daring himself to look closely at you in your shock, processing what he was feeling at the sight of it. Which, at the moment, could only be described as wanting to pull you out from under the waves, to dive in and look for you so he could bring you to the surface.

“I cannot—” he stopped himself, shaking his head, “I will not watch you let yourself be humiliated, waiting for that… that liar ."

Something in your gaze was hurt, vulnerable as you looked at him, wondering how he could say such words with such confidence when he was the one you were waiting for this whole time.

“I am not a stranger to waiting, you of all people should know that very well,” you said.

Jaehyun’s expression softened, still brushing aside what he wanted to say to you, his thoughts focused on how you must be feeling to find out you’ve just been conned by your fiancé.

“Why do you think I came here?” he asked, and the reminder that his purpose here was to warn you and not for other reasons was a bitter pill to swallow, so this bitterness showed in your response.

“In hopes to annoy me to death, perhaps.”

At his lack of a response, you frowned, “…. Why aren’t you saying anything? I expected a witty remark by now.”

What you didn’t expect was for Jaehyun to sigh, something in his expression akin to tenderness, which didn’t make sense to you at the moment. But it was a very tenderness that you always wondered about, what he reserved it for, how it would show, how it would feel. It seems all of those questions were answered now as you looked at him.

“Where do you think that man is? Right now, while you’re in this condition. Where do you think this man that you’re set on marrying will be after hearing of your sickness?” His tongue peeked out to wet his lips, though even if your attention was momentarily diverted, nothing could tear it away from his gaze. As though he had a million things to say to you, hidden inside of him, and you were only catching glimpses of it through his eyes. Yet they still managed to be gleaming, twinkling, pulling you out from under the waves.

“Yet here you are… destroying yourself for somebody who is incapable of loving you in the way you deserve,” he spoke almost bitterly, and the (not so) little hope within you had begun to surface again. Courage to make your feelings known, and hope that they would be received.

Jaehyun let his gaze shift to the way your hand lay on top of your covers, holding the fabric close to yourself for some sense of comfort. It surprised him, the way he wished he could hold you, to embrace you in his own comfort. The thought came naturally to him, as if that was his body’s natural response, to want you to be able to receive that from him and for him to give his love and affection freely to you.

“I’m sorry, I know it must be a lot to process. He had me believing his act too, I… should’ve asked Johnny sooner, if I did then you would not have to face such grief now—”

“It’s not about him,” you spoke, hoping your voice wasn’t quivering with how you were on the brink of tears, frustrated that you couldn’t tell what he felt for you even now, but filled with hope that you were sure you couldn’t hold your feelings within you much longer, “it was never about waiting for him, or… grieving for the loss of him .”

Jaehyun fell silent, lips parted slightly in shock as he held your gaze, your pleading eyes meeting his.

“Do you really think all these months have been for that man?”

“I wrote to you endlessly ,” your frown deepened, the ache in your heart worsening when you saw the way Jaehyun’s gaze softened, moving closer to you but stopping himself with evident restraint before he could get too close, “even when I could barely move myself out of my room the only thought on my mind was that I needed my words to reach you somehow, I needed some part of me to reach you… somehow.”

Your vision blurred, making you blink harshly. The fact that you couldn’t see him clearly behind your tears disconcerted you, “What else was I supposed to think when I didn’t hear back? What other choice did I have?”

Jaehyun paused, remembering your sister’s presence in the room, deciding that now would be the time where he stops dancing around the reason why he truly came back to see you.

“May I…” he turned to face your sister, “have the honour of a private audience with your sister?”

Her eyes widened, fighting the smile that threatened to show on her face as she gave you a knowing look, averting her gaze as her hand came up to cover her mouth, nodding. Gesturing a hand to you, she already began leaving the room, “Of course, of course. By all means.”

“As much as you may think I hate you, or… am here to meddle in your life or annoy you… I don’t like seeing you like this. I do not wish to see you in pain,” he let out a sigh through his nose, taking another step closer to your bed, daring himself to take a seat next to your legs, his body moving naturally as though this was what it meant to simply allow himself to be. Like muscle memory.

You huffed, “I’ve always been good at masking it, I suppose.”

He shook his head, displeased, “Or nobody has bothered asking if you needed to be relieved.”

“I’m sorry I did not write back to you. I just… in retrospect now I realise it was foolish of me but… from all your letters I just assumed,” he brought a hand up to run through his hair in frustration, “I assumed you were perfectly fine with Yuta. I had no right coming back and disrupting that, as much as I wanted to.”

“Believe me, I wanted to,” he huffed, “and it surprised me because, well, it was strange. It felt like you were seeing me for who I was… as if I was known for more than my wealth, my appearance, for everything in myself that was not perfect. But with you, it wasn't a matter of having to try to earn love, but to re-learn what love is, what it feels like.”

Your throat felt dry, something about his honesty making the ache in your heart grow, feeling as though what you sought to satisfy this ache was within reach, yet still at a loss for what it was that you desired.

"I did not know how to convey that in my letters. No words were enough, nothing... nothing was quite satisfying enough in expressing what I wanted to say to you. The thought of hiding what I felt beneath enquiries about the weather or about Mr Nakamoto made me sick to my stomach. That kind of intimacy that I felt when I was with you... It scared me because it only made me wish for more. I didn't think it was what you wanted."

“I thought that I could just separate myself from the situation, to resolve it that way before it could hurt me, but it was only when I saw that man when I was with Johnny that I realised,” his gaze flickered between your eyes and his hands, returning to your eyes and meeting you with that same hope.

Hope that gleamed, twinkled, that was not rooted in fear but in love.

“You deserved more than him, the love that you allowed me to discover was very much possible… the love you deserve. It would hurt me more if I had to watch you forgo that for the sake of others.”

Use your words.

“What do you suppose is this love that I deserve?” you dared to ask, somehow the use of your words did not feel as manipulative as it always did, it did not feel like you were trying to hide behind them this time, but to let your heart be known through them.

Jaehyun remained firm, and this conviction was enough to make you feel like you were slowly being lifted up to the surface of the water, the light seeping through the water making your surroundings feel brighter.

“... a love that remains forever.”

You weren’t sure if you were breathing, feeling the water get lighter as you followed the light from his eyes.

“And you suppose that is within reach for me?” your voice was barely above a murmur.

Jaehyun nodded, the hint of desperation lingering in his tone, “I promise you, it is within reach.”

“You cannot promise me a forever and not give it to me.”

There was a hint of amusement in Jaehyun’s gaze, the slightest of smiles on his face at your response. He wished you would remain this way, unafraid to use your voice with him, unafraid to assert yourself, to allow him to see, know and love you for who you are.

“I would not have mentioned it if I were not ready to give it to you at this very moment.”

Your lips parted slightly, “How do you suppose you will do that?”

Jaehyun wore the tell-tale expression that let you know he thought of something that either pleased or amused him, as if waiting for the right timing to say his smart line with a smug tone.

“By… asking you to marry me.”

If you thought his eyes gleamed and twinkled before, the smile that he wore when he saw the sheer relief grace your features. The feeling of being pulled above the surface of the water.

“It’s not too much to ask, just… be with me. Depend on someone other than yourself for a change.”

“My Lord, you know—” you began, turning your head abruptly and immediately regretting your sudden movements, your head beginning to throb even more. Jaehyun shocked you with the way he adjusted your pillow, helping you to lower your head back down onto the pillow carefully, smoothing your hair away from where it stuck to your face from your cold sweat.

“I want you to,” he nodded.

It was strange, being told that someone wanted you to depend on them when you were always used to being the one who was depended on. Instead of promising you gold, he was promising you the warmth of it, the value of it. Not the ‘Midas touch’ that took life away from things, but one that brought light and hope.

You wanted this . Not your long, tedious game, but the life he was offering you, a life of love, love even in imperfection, love that brought with it rest, love that was a state and not something to earn.

You nodded, “I want to…” your body felt warm under his touch, your gaze following his movements as he picked up the cloth draped over the small basin next to your bedside, wringing the cloth after wetting it and using it to dab the sweat from your face and neck.

You felt as though you weren’t breathing, a wave of emotion rushing through you at the feeling of being under his care. It was as though he was removing the little bandage you used to cover the ache that you felt, replacing it with a bandage that fit, one that wrapped around the ache instead of just trying to suppress it.

“I want to marry you,” was all you could muster, Jaehyun letting out a huff of amusement as he set the cloth aside, his left hand moving to your face, letting the pads of his fingertips trace the side of your face before letting his thumb smooth over your cheek gently. It was unmistakable, the feel of the calluses on his fingertips from what you assumed was his recent playing of the violin.

“Does my presence have that much of an effect on you?” he drawled, smugness laced in his tone as he brought you back to your exchange in your father’s study. His gaze flickering to your lips just briefly, making your heart skip in a way you’d never experienced before.

You rolled your eyes with affection, this time not feeling the need to ‘use your words’ to hide once again.

“Perhaps it does.”

===

‘My forever only, Time and time again, I am reminded that I was foolish to think I could live the rest of my life without you when a day that passes by when I am not with you is filled with a longing I cannot imagine I could ever grow comfortable with, much less befriend.

Back then, I was used to being all alone. I found this solitude to be a companion, though loneliness is never a good lover. The sky gets ethereal for the things no longer living in chains. You allowed me to come to know what that truly meant, what it truly felt like. Love given freely is all I have to offer you, so I hope you’ll have me.

My love, I have not stopped thinking of the way you look at me, and each time I awake I find myself waiting for when I may be under your gaze again. The thought lingers before I am with you, filling me with an inexplicable feeling of love that refuses to leave even when we part. Forever sounds daunting but when I envision a forever of this love that you meet me with in your eyes, your smile, your presence, it becomes a boundless sea I wish to swim in for as long as my spirit exists.

All I ask of you, all I want is having you in my day. To keep you in safety, health, and love.

- J, your forever only.’

“Do you remember what was discussed?”

You were drawn from your thoughts, your sister handing you the bouquet of dark red roses as you started walking.

What did you discuss?

Right.

Be yourself. You felt the crunch of cobblestone beneath your feet as you made your way with your sister to the church. You are allowed to launch into unrelated discourses out of panic. You fixed your gloves so they fit comfortably around your hands and arms. Have good manners, unless provoked. You could hear your sister humming to the piano piece she’d been practising that morning. You are safe to express yourself. With the sound of her humming, the rustling of the big trees overhead and the wind caressing your face gently comforted you.

Reaching the doors of the chapel, you spotted your father who awaited you, though you couldn’t focus on anything else once the doors opened, your gaze immediately finding the man who stood at the altar, a smile adorning his face once he met your gaze. A wave of clarity washed over you; you felt peaceful.

There he was, not a marriage partner, not an economic proposer .

Jaehyun, your love match.

1K notes · View notes

choerrypuffs · 2 years

Text

fast times.

pairing: co-worker!donghyuck x reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.6k

synopsis: throughout the snapshots of your life, lee donghyuck is always there. (or, you realize that you’re in love with the bane of your existence.)

author’s note: i started grad school and it’s literally eating me alive so i wanted to write something short and sweet to de-stress and then it ended up being almost 8k words 😭

warning(s): excessive drinking, family tension

playlist: fast times by sabrina carpenter ― the bottom by gracie abrams ― stress by taeyeon ― ruin my life by zara larsson ― cruel summer by taylor swift

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

Liquid courage, as the poets say.

Well, don’t fact check that, but surely Wordsworth or Coleridge or whichever poet that Taylor Swift talks about in the lakes mentioned something about getting shitfaced during a St. Patrick’s Day office party.

Regardless, you’re going to pretend like they did because it’s a lot less romantic (lowercase r, not capital like the movement) if you’re just drunk off your ass at an office party without an artsy-fartsy literary reference to back you up.

You’re one too many shots of tequila deep, swaying to the shitty techno music that someone is blasting from their pretentious Spotify playlist while stumbling past the office cubicles, including yours and He Who Shall Not Be Named’s, on your wobbly trip to the bathroom.

Despite the copious amounts of alcohol in your system, the remaining coherent part of your brain is sounding the alarms that you’re probably going to throw up soon. You wish that part of your brain would just shut the hell up because you don’t want to think rationally right now.

You don’t want to think about He Who Shall Not Be Named and how he’s in love with your best friend. You don’t want to think about how his eyes found her the moment she walked into the office, how his gaze melted into a pool of honey, his head swiveling towards every direction she went like a stupid bobblehead. Not that you blame him; everyone is in love with Karina. It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyways.

Ugh, see? You’re thinking about him again.

Anyways, you’re also grateful for that part of your brain because the poets definitely do not write about spewing chunks in front of your co-workers. You just want to hurl in peace and wallow in your misery with the porcelain toilet bowl by your side.

The poets probably wrote about that.

You finally make it to the hall where the bathrooms are, having steady yourself against the wall as you make your way down because walking in a straight line has become a luxury. However, you only get about five steps (at least you think it’s five, numbers are hard) when someone grabs your arm. You don’t even realize your legs are in the process of buckling until there’s a pair of hands supporting your waist to keep you upright.

“Jesus, Y/N,” someone breathes in relief, exhaling loudly.

You’d recognize that condescending tone anywhere.

He Who Shall Not Be Named carefully leans you against the wall, one hand still on your waist while the other removes the bottle of Jack Daniels that you didn’t even know you were clinging onto from the nook of your arm. With one smooth motion, he tosses the bottle into the trashcan and doesn’t even flinch when the bottle very audibly shatters inside.

“I know you’re a loyal worshiper of mine, but just Y/N is fine,” you slur, not sounding nearly as cool as you’d hope, “though it’d be pretty fucking funny if you washed my feet.”

He huffs and pauses, like he’s debating on whether or not he should say what he wants to say next. And because he’s a piece of shit, he says it:

“For the record, Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. Not the other way around.”

You groan, shoving him hard. He barely budges, so most of the force in your shove kicks back to you. Feeling yourself tip forward, you grab his shoulders out of instinct to avoid busting your head open against the hard tile. In the process, your forehead slams into his chest, and he lets out a soft grunt. His hands grip your elbows, fingertips warm against your even warmer skin.

“I hate you,” you sniffle, burying your face in his shirt. He smells exactly like a fluffy towel that just came out of the dryer. “You’re tactless and you never let me win and you have shitty taste in movies.”

“And you’re drunk,” he replies nonchalantly, “Why do you drink so much when you’re such a lightweight?”

“You don’t deserve Karina,” you continue angrily.

He actually laughs at that. “Okay, young lady. I’m going to drive you home now. Come on.”

You lift your head so fast that you nearly slam it into his jaw; luckily, he sees it coming and steps back before you can knock his teeth out.

“Don’t,” you hiss, poking his chest. “I don’t want you to drive me home. Don’t drive me home unless…”

He raises an eyebrow. “Unless what?”

“Pretty boys can never be trusted,” you hiccup.

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, but let’s continue this discussion when you’ve sobered up,” he sighs, crossing his arms. “And when you are sober and realize that you don’t want to talk about this anymore, like I suspect you’ll do, I’ll even pretend like this conversation never happened because I am a gentleman.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?” you whisper blearily.

You’re wearing a green t-shirt that has “Kiss me, I’m Irish” plastered across the chest in big, bold white letters. You borrowed it from Karina when you realized you didn’t have any green in your closet. Of course, only Karina would look good in something like this, but you really didn’t want to be pinched the entire night. Someone had plastered four-leaf clover stickers all over your face, though you’re not sure how many of them are still on at this point. Your makeup should be intact since you haven’t been sweating, even if you probably have mascara residue under your eyes. You’ve certainly looked better, but this definitely isn’t the worst state you’ve been in.

It’s a stupid question though, really. No matter how pretty you are, he’s already chosen Karina.

When you glance back up at him, he looks like one of those cartoon characters that have two perfect red circles on their cheeks when they blush.

You haven’t seen him this flustered in a long time. He’s always had this smug, impenetrable mask of an expression that you want to punch off his face―like he’s constantly one step ahead of you in something.

You want to take out your phone and take a picture of his expression so badly.

Instead, you hunch over and throw up on his expensive shoes.

VALENTINE’S DAY 2018 my feelings used to be serrated, but you speak in such a perfect cadence

Pretty boys should never be trusted.

That is your ultimate mantra in life.

Especially pretty boys that claim to be “nerdy.” The ones that smell nice and aren’t misogynistic but also like games and anime and know how to code. The ones that wear indie band t-shirts and actually enjoy the band but don't care if you wear the same t-shirt just because you like the aesthetic. The ones that wear rings on their fingers and metal-rimmed glasses on the tip of their noses.

The ones that other girls would claim were “written by women.”

It’s all a trap.

If anything, they’re worse than the obnoxious frat boy chads. At least those are straightforward about what they want. Nerdy pretty boys are professional manipulators, meticulously slicing your heart into thin little pieces to use as a garnish for their own ego.

So when the new intern swaggers into the office, hands tucked into the pockets of his designer slacks, your Pretty Boy senses start to tingle.

He’s wearing a crisp white button-up (not a band tee since he’s at work), and he’s got rings on his fingers and metal-rimmed glasses right on the tip of his nose. His hair is a little curly and falls into his eyes in that messy but charming look. He’s got a round face and pouty lips, looking just sweet enough to disarm someone.

After he walks in, the CEO of the company follows, and now everything makes sense.

“Everyone, this is my grandson, Donghyuck,” Mr. Lee explains, smiling warmly.

Nepo baby, you realize, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

“I want you all to know he won’t be getting any special treatment,” Mr. Lee says firmly, “He will have to work his way from the bottom, just like everyone else.”

Right, that’s why you’re personally introducing him to us, you think wryly.

After receiving a load of ass kissing from the employees, Mr. Lee finally leaves, and your team leader points Donghyuck to the empty cubicle right next to yours. He strolls over with an ease as if he owns the building (he technically does) and takes a seat. He smiles at you, though it reads as more of a smirk than a good-natured smile.

“Hi, I’m Donghyuck.”

When he looks at you, he does so with his whole body. His lanky frame is completely angled towards you as he unabashedly drinks in your side profile with his mischievous, twinkly eyes. The way he stares at you with such intrigue makes you jittery, and you keep your line of sight glued to your computer screen, refusing to indulge him even through your peripheral.

He’s deploying his Pretty Boy tactics, you warn.

“I know,” you snap back. You don’t mean to come off that aggressively, but you just know he’s trouble. In an attempt to remedy your curt response, you softly tack on, “I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” Donghyuck asks, the quirked grin on his face growing.

You blink in surprise. You were not expecting him to say it so straightforwardly. “I…just met you.”

“You’re not answering the question.” He tilts his head, though he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Rather, he probably already knows the answer.

You’re not sure what to say to that, and Donghyuck doesn’t try to continue the conversation either. Instead, he begins to unpack his stuff and set up his work space. When he turns on his personal laptop, you see League of Legends downloaded onto it.

Yikes.

Like the standard pretty boy, he starts hanging up an indie band poster, along with some anime ones you don’t recognize and―a Twilight poster.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you see it. Men, even the pretty boys who are trying to make themselves as appealing to girls as possible, rarely ever admit to watching, much less enjoying, Twilight.

Okay, so maybe your Pretty Boy tingle got one thing wrong, but it doesn’t change the fact that he checks most of the Pretty Boy boxes―

“Are you Team Edward or Jacob?” Donghyuck asks, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

You have no one else to blame but yourself for snooping, but you still grow hot from your face to the tips of your ears and all the way down your neck.

“I’m Team Charlie,” you reply breezily, sounding pretty calm for someone who’s screaming on the inside.

His eyebrows slightly raise, and he just laughs quietly to himself.

You relish in that tiny victory.

As it turns out, Donghyuck is an extremely fast learner.

And despite being a nepo baby, he puts his money where his mouth is. He picks things up extremely quickly and utilizes everything he has learned efficiently. In fact, he’s doing so well that he’s starting to threaten your position as the office’s favorite intern.

And of course, on today of all days, you fuck up.

Another intern messed up the report, and you somehow overlooked it while you were checking. However, the responsibility falls on your shoulders because it was your job to make sure the report was correct. You get viciously chewed out by your team leader, and you’re guaranteed to have to work overtime to fix everything.

Ultimately, it is your mistake, and you’re not disputing that; you just know that you’re being made an example of so the office can look good in front of the CEO’s grandson.

So, while everyone is gathering their stuff to leave, you’re the only one still at your cubicle, fingers clicking away on the keyboard. Your eyelids are already starting to droop, despite the fact that you have at least a couple hours left of work. Giving yourself a couple of smacks on the cheeks, you try to shake away the brain fog and keep going.

You’re so immersed that you almost don’t notice Donghyuck set down a cup of coffee on your desk.

“I bought two for myself, but I think you need it more than me,” he admits, actually seeming a little sympathetic.

“Thanks,” you say, a little wary but still appreciative. You’re too tired to even question his motives.

He gives you a wave before leaving. Once he’s gone, you turn back to your computer and start to work again. You nearly forget about the coffee until you pause to take a big stretch, noticing it in your peripheral. Picking it up, you notice there’s a message scrawled on it.

happy valentine’s day! maybe i’ll grow on you :)

You smile, but only a little bit. Only because he’s a little cute.

When you finally take a sip, you nearly spit it all over your computer screen.

It’s so bitter that it sends a shudder throughout your whole body. You start to cough, feeling like even a single drop of that coffee getting in your system is going to make your short circuit. You’re not even sure if this poison could be considered black coffee. It might be actual black tar. Frantically digging through your drawers to find some candy or gum to offset the bitterness, you begin to curse Donghyuck in your head.

When you finally find a half-melted caramel cube and pop it into your mouth, it occurs to you that Donghyuck didn’t even have a cup of coffee in his hands even though he said he bought two.

“That asshole,” you whisper.

Cracking your knuckles and rolling your neck, you start to type again with a renewed vigor, thinking of all the ways you were going to make Donghyuck pay to power you through the rest of the night.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

You’re not sure how He Who Shall Not Be Named manages to clean himself up and wrangle you into his car in such a short timespan, but he does it. Most of it is a blur to you, though you do recall him throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying you through the parking garage after you started trying to fistfight him.

Now, you’re leaning your head against the cool window, watching all the buildings whizz by, as he drives in silence. Well, not complete silence. Music is being softly played on the radio. It’s that stupid indie band he likes, and you hate that you know exactly what song it is. You remember it from last time.

I’ve only been in his car twice, including now, you think groggily to yourself.

He must really like this song.

APRIL FOOLS 2019 three stories up here contemplating, but what the fuck is patience?

“Is this some sort of sick April Fools’ joke?” you demand.

“Come on, Y/N. Surely, you don’t think a prank of mine would be this lame,” Donghyuck retorts, offended.

The two of you are fighting again. At this point, it’s a daily occurrence in the office. In fact, Karina likes to say that the official work day doesn’t really start until you and Donghyuck start going at each other’s throats. You feel bad that everyone has to constantly deal with your bickering, but Donghyuck asks for it every time.

“You can’t just take someone else’s client,” you say through gritted teeth, wanting to smack that insufferable look right off his face.

“I didn’t take anything,” he corrects haughtily, “I was assigned your client, who is now my client. Take it up with the team leader.”

“The team leader would suck a fart out of your ass if you asked him to,” you hiss back.

He shrugs like you have a point.

“Fine,” you snap, grabbing your bag. “I’ll go talk to my client myself. I’ll get them to request to be transferred back to me.”

Before marching out, you grab the coffee on your desk and down it all in one go. It’s been sitting there for a couple hours, so it’s ice cold. The cold temperature in combination with the extreme bitterness is just the right mixture to light a fire in you.

Unfortunately, that fire is dimmed when you step foot outside and realize it’s thunderstorming heavily. The wind howls so piercingly that it almost hurts your ears, and the onslaught of rain is so strong that you can barely see the cars on the streets. You weigh your options: you have no car, there’s no way you can wait for a bus, and there sure as hell aren’t going to be any available taxis.

Just as you begrudgingly decide to do the walk of shame back into the office and wait out the storm, you hear a loud honk and see an obnoxiously red Ferrari pull up. The tinted window rolls down, and you find yourself staring at nepo baby Lee Donghyuck.

“Need a ride?” he shouts over the pouring rain.

“Not with you!” you holler back, turning to go back inside.

“Are you really going to wait it out?” he teases. “Their office closes in twenty minutes.”

You want to keep walking and ignore him, but your traitorous feet plant themselves on the concrete and refuse to let you take another step.

“Thanks for the new client, I guess!” he continues in a sing-song voice. A car behind him beeps, and you hear his window roll back up as he slowly starts to drive away.

“Damn it,” you mutter. Not giving yourself to think, you whirl around and dash out into the rain. Luckily, he decided to leave at a snail’s pace, so you have time to fling his car door open and slip inside.

Even though you were only in the rain for a few seconds, you’re soaked to the bone. Your pants make a squish noise when you settle yourself into his expensive leather seat. You want to make a joke about ruining his seats, but your teeth are chattering too hard for you to even speak.

Donghyuck reaches over and turns your seat warmer on before also blasting the heater. Your thin blouse has become see-through, and you awkwardly cross your arms over your chest, hoping he hasn’t noticed. Unfortunately, he has noticed, judging by the way he loudly clears his throat and reaches into the backseat to give you his hoodie.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, pulling it over your head before slipping your arms through. The sleeves are too long, so you roll them up to your wrists. His hoodie smells like fabric softener.

“No problem.” His voice cracks.

Neither of you say anything after that, only the sound of the rain pitter-pattering against his car filling in the silence. Eventually, he turns on the radio.

It’s a song you don’t recognize, but you deduce it’s from one of his indie bands when he starts humming along. You’re not even sure he’s aware that he’s doing it, though you don’t really mind. He’s not a bad singer, and you actually enjoy the song.

The two of you spend the remainder of the drive just listening to music, neither of you really feeling the need to speak. It’s a calm, comfortable silence―something that you never thought would be achievable between you and him. Rather, you wish you had more moments like this.

By the time you arrive at your client’s office, the rain has stopped. You assume he’s going to leave after dropping you off because it’s not raining anymore, and especially since the meeting ends up lasting way past the office’s closing, but you see his Ferrari still there when you come back out.

Walking over to him, you knock on the window.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” you say when he rolls it down, slightly touched.

“You have my hoodie,” Donghyuck states plainly.

Well, there goes the moment. You can always count on him to say something to piss you off.

“Right.” Rolling your eyes, you start to take off the hoodie in the street.

“I’m just kidding, Y/N,” he grins, “Come on.”

You let out a small huff, even though you’re smiling too, and you climb in. He turns the radio on again, and the two of you fall back into the ambiance. It occurs to you that Donghyuck’s car smells overwhelmingly like rain and leather and him. When you cross your arms, the scent of the fresh fabric softener from his hoodie wafts back up to you. You feel warm―the kind of warmth that blooms in the pit of your stomach and then melts throughout your body, like when you take a sip of hot chocolate on a cold day.

“How was it?” he finally asks after the song ends.

“Who do you think I am?” you scoff. “Of course I got them back.”

He smiles, and it makes you feel proud.

“You can tell the team leader to suck the fart out of my ass,” you retort.

This gets a laugh from him before he hesitantly adds, “I really didn’t want to take your client.”

You’ve never heard him sound so serious and so…vulnerable before. He says it with a slight desperation, like he doesn’t think you’ll believe him.

“I know.”

And much to your own surprise, you do know.

Now that’s a sick April Fools’ joke.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

“You don’t deserve Karina,” you mumble, coming in and out of sleep.

He Who Shall Not Be Named laughs again at that, though he sounds a lot more exhausted. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Don’t think I didn’t see it,” you slur. “You were making those stupid moon eyes at her all night long. Looking like some lovesick puppy. Gross.”

He laughs for a second time, but there’s not a hint of humor in it.

What if it had been me, you want to ask him.

NEW YEARS EVE 2019 tiptoeing past so many stages, but what the fuck is patience?

You’re not sure what possessed Mr. Lee, probably the fact that his grandson works for the company, but he randomly announced one day that the entire office was getting an all expenses paid trip to a fancy ski resort as a New Years present. Needless to say, everyone was absolutely ecstatic.

But you should’ve known something was going to go wrong when Karina suggested that the two of you leave the bunny slope and move straight into the advanced slope, despite the fact that neither of you have ever skied in your lives until now.

You’d like to think that Karina’s sudden bravery was due to the adrenaline of being on such a luxurious trip. You’re going to blame your lack of judgment on the adrenaline rush as well because you actually agreed to it.

Of course, things derailed almost immediately and literally because the two of you ended up veering off the course due to your lack of steering abilities and somehow found yourselves in a random, remote wooded area off the edge of the slope. Karina also twisted her ankle after landing incorrectly, so there’s that too.

Oh, and there’s a snowstorm.

Well, it’s not really a snowstorm. It’s more of a flurry, but it’s terrifying nonetheless because of your current situation. Karina can barely move, and neither of you have any clue where you are nor do you have any sort of communication device since you left it all at the resort. It’s not like you can leave Karina by herself to get help either. You can really only hope that someone finds you before the frostbite starts settling.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Karina sniffles, her nose redder than Rudolph’s.

You hug her tightly, both to comfort her and to keep the two of you as warm as possible. “Stop crying, you’re going to dehydrate yourself. You can apologize when we get out of here.”

She chokes back a sob.

You want to cry too, but you bite down on your lower lip and just cling onto Karina harder.

“Damn, and I was finally going to follow through with my New Year's resolution of fixing my sleep schedule,” you joke, voice trembling.

Karina laughs weakly at that too. “You say that every year.”

“I know,” you admit sheepishly, “but I really am going to this time. I need to make sure I’m in tip-top condition because there’s no way in hell I’m letting Lee Donghyuck get that promotion over me.”

That’s right, you tell yourself. I can’t die here. Not before that dumbass.

You’re not sure why you’re suddenly thinking about him again, but it makes you feel a lot less scared when you picture his dumb smirk and that sly glint in his eyes when he’s gearing up to say something to piss you off. He always knows which buttons to press on the exact wrong day to press them.

You kind of wish he was here now. He would probably be cracking stupid jokes and distracting you―

“Y/N!”

Blinking the snowflakes out of your eyes, you squint past the sheet of snow and tall trees, trying to make sure you aren’t hallucinating. You see a blurry figure running towards you and Karina, the beam of their flashlight peeking through the darkness. When did the sun start setting?

Speak of the pretty boy, and he shall come, you suppose, because Lee Donghyuck is suddenly kneeling in front of you.

The smug look he always dons is wiped clean from his face, instead, his eyes are wide like two saucers and his hands are trembling. You can feel how tightly he’s clutching your arms even through the thick material of your parka. His hair is damp against his forehead; whether it’s from snow or sweat or both, you’re not sure. His face is flushed, and his nose is red like Karina’s, but you want to reach out and boop it for some reason. You can see his labored breath come out in white puffs due to the temperature.

“I found them!” Donghyuck calls out, turning behind him. A couple of your other colleagues emerge from the trees, all holding flashlights. Then, he reverts his attention back to you. His face is all furrowed up, like he isn’t sure whether to be mad at you for being reckless or collapse with relief.

“Are you hurt?” he eventually asks, voice strained as he helps you to your feet. He brushes the snow out of your hair and lifts your ski goggles from your eyes, scanning your face.

“Karina twisted her ankle,” you reply numbly, unable to feel your lips.

He glances over at Karina, who’s being helped by your other co-workers, before looking at you again. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head.

Donghyuck exhales loudly, and you watch his shoulders relax. Then he says, “What the hell were you thinking?”

You flinch at his sharp tone. He’s never raised his voice at you before. You’ve always been the one yelling at him.

“You can’t even drive a car, so what on Earth possessed you to try and ski on the advanced slope?” he continues to reprimand you. “What’s the point in being this smart if you’re not going to use common sense―”

You burst into tears.

You cry for many reasons: the sheer terror you’d been trying to keep at bay finally catches up to you, you’re grateful to be alive, you’re upset that Donghyuck is scolding you, you’re happy that Donghyuck is scolding you, and most of all, you know he’s right. He’s right, and you’re glad he’s right. You’re glad that he’s standing in front of you.

“You’re such a dick,” you wail, “I can’t believe you’re yelling at me when I almost died. Why can’t you just comfort me like a normal human with empathy?”

Donghyuck grows quiet, and you see his expression soften. Sighing, he reaches over and swipes the tears from your face. When you sniffle, he takes his expensive cashmere scarf and wipes your nose with it. He doesn’t even blink at the snot on it as he cups your frozen cheeks with his gloved hands. Grinning evilly, he squishes your face together, a mush of tears, snot, and puffiness.

“I’ve never wanted you more,” he teases.

“I’m going to kill you,” you grumble, shoving his hands away. Though you do find solace in the fact that he’s making fun of you again.

Your colleagues call the two of you over for help, and you make your way to Karina, who’s still unable to get up.

“Hyuck, do you mind carrying her back to the resort?” One of them asks, their hands too full with Karina’s skis and their own emergency supplies that they brought.

Donghyuck hesitates for a moment, his eyes inadvertently flashing towards you, before he kneels down and turns his back to Karina as he prepares to give her a piggy-back ride.

“I’m heavy,” Karina warns as she carefully climbs on.

“Don’t worry, I do five pushups a week,” he replies breezily, and despite his joking, he stands to his feet without a problem.

She laughs at that, sounding like an angel descending from the heavens.

He adjusts her thighs in his arms slightly, pausing to ask, “That didn’t hurt your ankle, did it?”

She shakes her head, and he says something else that makes her laugh again.

It’s not that you’re jealous that he’s carrying Karina. After all, she’s injured, so it would be a bit obnoxious to be upset over something that isn’t anyone’s fault. And it’s not like you’re any more special to him than Karina.

No, this feeling isn’t jealousy. It’s…uncertainty.

You’re uncertain that he would do the same for you if you were in Karina’s position. Has he ever reassured you with such ease like he did with her? Has he ever treated you like you were made of glass? Has he ever spoken to you so tenderly like that?

You suddenly feel so cold.

Three.

When you get back to the resort, there’s an ambulance waiting to take you and Karina to the hospital for a checkup. You try to tell everyone that you don’t need to go to the hospital, but your colleagues, Karina, and the paramedics insist on you doing so.

“Your glove is torn.”

Before you can even register his words, Donghyuck is holding your hand and flipping your palm over. The fabric of your right glove is ripped, exposing the tip of your pointer finger. You must’ve scraped it against something in the middle of all the chaos because there’s some dried blood caked around your nail.

“You should go,” he says softly, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze before letting go.

Once Karina is properly settled on the gurney, you’re ushered into the ambulance after her. As the doors close behind you, you catch Donghyuck’s eyes one last time. You don’t get to see what his expression is because you look away almost immediately, focusing your gaze on your finger.

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, it does sting a little.

Two.

Once the hospital finally discharges you and Karina in the middle of the night, the two of you call an Uber back to the resort and clumsily stumble up to your room like two people that just came home after a long night of partying, completely exhausted.

You’re so busy fumbling with your room key and nearly miss the gift that someone has set in front of your door. Picking it up, you realize it’s one of those hot chocolate sets that come with a cute little mug and are wrapped in holographic plastic. There’s also a separate bag of marshmallows beside it.

You don’t really examine it that much, simply handing it off to Karina.

“Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

One.

Karina doesn’t notice the note tucked into the holographic plastic until she’s hobbling to the trashcan to throw it away.

happy new year! maybe i’ll grow on you :)

She turns to you to ask you about it, but you’re already tucked in bed fast asleep. Shrugging, she crumples the note up and tosses it away without another thought.

“Happy New Year,” she whispers to you before crawling in bed herself.

It’s a shame you didn’t get to see the fireworks.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

“I’m hungry,” you whine, jolting awake and hitting your head against the hard leather headrest on your seat.

“Probably because you emptied out the contents of your stomach onto my Air Jordans,” He Who Shall Not Be Named says wryly.

You ignore him, getting distracted by the hot dog vendor that you drive by.

“I like hot dogs,” you say absentmindedly.

HALLOWEEN 2021 picturing us in all these places, ahead of myself’s an understatement

You just wanted to get away from the crowd, really.

The party was getting a little stuffy, and it’s pretty easy to get overheated when you’re in a thick Teletubby onesie. You and Karina had the bright idea of dressing as the purple and red Teletubby, but neither of you considered just how hot it would get.

So, that’s why you’re wandering around the dim hallways of the office, munching on a handful of candy―only to end up hearing a conversation you shouldn’t have.

“You are my biggest failure.” That’s Mr. Lee’s voice, hushed but angry.

“More than my mom? I’m honored.” It’s Donghyuck this time. He laughs, a bitter and choked sound.

You nearly yelp when the sound of a loud slap echoes down the hallway. No one else talks after that, and you only hear the sound of footsteps walking away.

Actually, walking away sounds like an absolutely amazing idea, so you turn on your heel to make a quick escape―

And of course, on today of all days, you fuck up.

All of the candy that you had been clutching to your chest slips from your sweaty palms, clattering to the floor. Every single clatter makes you shrink further and further into yourself, and you have no choice but to step out from the corner you were hiding in.

In probably one of the most poorly-timed situations of all time, you have to face Donghyuck while dressed as the purple Teletubby, and he has to face you while dressed as a hot dog―right after you just involuntarily witnessed a glimpse of his strained familial relationships.

“Hi,” you greet awkwardly, gesturing to all the candy that just fell on the floor. “You, uh, want some candy?”

When he looks at you, all the words die in your throat. There’s a red mark on his cheek, and he looks like a little boy again. He stares at you like a deer in headlights, a mixture of horror, embarrassment, and frustration all over his face. He seems so lost and alone, and you don’t know what to do to help him.

“No thanks, Tinky Winky,” he finally replies. He gives you a half-smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What?” You blink.

“You’re dressed as the purple Teletubby, and you don’t even know his name?” He raises an eyebrow as he sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“I think it’s weirder that you do know his name,” you try to tease.

He doesn’t react to that, and you just stand there. Not wanting to leave him alone, you squat down and start to pick up the candy on the floor to keep yourself busy.

“You should go back to the party,” Donghyuck says quietly.

“It’s too hot,” you complain.

“Y/N.”

“Wanna watch Twilight?” you suddenly ask.

He stares at you for what seems like forever, his expression unreadable as he searches your face. After a bit longer, he just says, “Okay.”

You gather up the rest of the candy before taking a seat on the floor right next to him, brushing your shoulder against his. Pulling out your phone, you open the Netflix app and start to play Twilight.

You pretend you don’t feel him trembling, and you tell yourself he’s crying because he knows Bella will eventually choose Edward over Jacob. The two of you watch in complete silence; he doesn’t explain, and you don’t ask.

Instead, you push your hood off so you don’t poke him in the face with your triangle antenna and lean your head against his shoulder. Then, you lace your fingers through his and hold his hand without a word.

A hot dog and Tinky Winky the purple Teletubby watching Twilight, who would’ve thought?

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

“I hate you, Lee Donghyuck.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

CHRISTMAS 2021 outlines on bedsides, give me a second to forget i ever really meant it

It happened on the last day of work before Christmas break.

You gawk at the opened box in your hands, a pair of fluffy white angora gloves wrapped in fancy wrapping paper staring back up at you. Even though there’s no receipt included, you already know that these gloves cost more than three month’s worth of rent for your apartment.

“Did you steal these? Is that why you’re giving them to me? So you can frame me for your crime?” you ask suspiciously.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes, “as if I’d let you take the credit for any one of my crimes.”

You carefully take the gloves out before tossing the box at him. Catching it deftly and handing it back to you, he pretends to wipe away a tear dramatically.

“I went through the trouble of remembering how your gloves were ripped during the ski trip, so I meticulously picked these out for you,” he whines. “And I can’t believe you’re now questioning my goodwill.”

That makes you pause.

Is he talking about those cheap gloves that you used only once for that disastrous ski trip and then threw out immediately afterwards? The gloves that you haven’t thought about once since then? The gloves that you had to rack your brain to recall when he started talking about them just moments before? You can’t believe he remembered something so random.

Why did he remember?

It’s a question that haunts you on the entire plane ride back to your hometown and follows you throughout all of your family dinners and even when you’re lying awake on your cramped childhood bed.

It’s a question that both baffles and angers you at the same time. You wish he didn’t remember, and you wish he never gave you those gloves in the first place. The company is always generous to their employees around the holidays, and you know that this isn’t anything special, but it makes you feel special. It makes you want to be special. To him.

He is just a pretty boy. A pretty boy that likes indie bands and wears rings on his fingers and metal-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose. A pretty boy that likes League of Legends and Studio Ghibli and Twilight and that one Hallmark movie you once caught him watching in the break room. A pretty boy that drinks black coffee. A pretty boy that drives a red Ferrari. A pretty boy that gave you a ride in that red Ferrari when it was raining. A pretty boy that looked for you for an hour during a snowstorm. A pretty boy that dressed as a hot dog for Halloween. A pretty boy that gave you expensive gloves because he remembered.

When did he go from Pretty Boy to Donghyuck?

But he can’t be Donghyuck. He can’t just be Donghyuck to you. Because that would be too real, too unrestrained. Because Donghyuck makes Karina laugh, so he can’t make you laugh. There needs to be decorum, after all. If he’s just Donghyuck, then what happens after?

That’s right. He can’t be Donghyuck. From now on, you won’t say his name. You’ll only know him as He Who Shall Not Be Named.

It happens when your mom tells you to take the casserole out of the fridge.

You see it, that traitorous pack of hot dog sausages.

You think back to Halloween, and then―

Oh my God, I like him.

“What the fuck,” you groan loudly.

That gets you a couple of gasps from your elderly relatives and an asswhooping from your mom.

ONE DAY AFTER ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 ― PRESENT fast times and fast nights, no time for rewrites

For the record, Donghyuck was not looking at Karina.

And if you’d stop avoiding him like the plague, he would be able to explain that to you.

He honestly applauds your ability to ignore the elephant in the room, considering that his cubicle is right next to yours. You’ve continuously managed to give yourself more work or conveniently slip away to the bathroom during any moment of down time. His patience is honestly starting to grow thin, but you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t wear it down to the wire.

Donghyuck finally manages to hunt you down in the same hallway where you threw up on his shoes. It’s hilariously ironic, and he would normally make a joke about it, but he’s in a bit of a time crunch. You look like a spooked cat, preparing to dart away the moment there’s an opening.

“Surely, someone as smart as you is aware that you can’t just avoid me forever.” He tilts his head.

“Well, if you move, we can find out if I can or not,” you reply, refusing to look at him and trying to walk past him.

“How’s your hangover?” he asks cheerfully, stepping to the side and blocking your way.

“Awful.”

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

“No,” you say instantly. You’re such a terrible liar.

“You said you hated me,” he starts softly. He isn’t sure why he’s saying this. This isn’t what he wanted to talk about first. The order is getting jumbled in his head. “Do you?”

You suck in a wobbly breath. “No.”

It doesn’t hit him until after your answer how deathly afraid he was of you hating him. He has grown so desensitized to the word “hate,” yet it’s only when it comes to the person he cares about the most that the gravity of that word becomes so apparent.

“I like you, Y/N.”

This isn’t exactly the grand declaration of love that he was imagining; he was thinking more along the lines of The Notebook or any romcom from the early to mid-2000s, but it felt like the right time to just say it now.

Your reaction isn’t exactly what he had in mind either.

You’re gawking at him like he just grew another head. He isn’t sure why you’re so surprised; he hasn’t exactly been subtle about his crush on you.

“No, you don’t,” you say in an accusatory tone. Leave it up to you to even argue with him on his own feelings.

Now it’s his turn to gawk. “What?”

“You don’t like me,” you state firmly, but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. “How could you like me?”

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow, and he starts listing off reasons with his fingers. “I start a fight with you every morning because I want to have an excuse to talk to you, I bring you coffee everyday, I drove you to my client’s office in the middle of a storm so you could take back said client, I nearly shat my pants when they said you were missing at the ski resort and also bought you hot chocolate and a huge bag of marshmallows for New Years, and you were the only one I gave a Christmas present to last year.”

“You bought the hot chocolate and marshmallows?” You blink in surprise.

“Is that all you got from what I just said?”

“But Karina―”

Oh, right. He wanted to say this first.

“I wasn’t looking at Karina,” Donghyuck finally confesses, “I was looking at you. It’s always been you.”

That’s right, it’s only ever been you.

The stupid green “Kiss me, I’m Irish” shirt. Your smeared lip gloss that he wanted to kiss right off. The sparkly stickers all over your cheeks that made you look absolutely adorable. The way you buried your face into his shirt. How you fit right into his arms. Even when you threw up all over his favorite pair of shoes, there was no place Donghyuck would rather be.

Do you think I’m pretty? you had asked him.

Yes, you’re pretty. You’re so pretty that he feels like his heart will stop every time he lays his eyes on you. You’re so pretty that he can’t even think about the seasons without thinking about you and how you’re so much more beautiful than autumn, winter, spring and summer and anything in between. There’s never been a moment when you weren’t stunningly, breathtakingly, and heart-stoppingly pretty in his eyes.

“But―But that doesn’t make any sense,” you sputter, “You can’t like me!”

“Why not?”

“Because you just can’t.”

“Do you like me?”

“Yes―no! Regardless, you can’t just suddenly decide you like me―” you begin to explain.

“I’ve always liked you,” he points out.

“We’ve spent four years hating each other, and now all of sudden, we like each other? It’s too abrupt―”

“Y/N.” Donghyuck reaches over and grasps your wrist, his warm fingers against your even warmer skin as his thumb traces circles against the back of your hand. “Will you go out with me?”

When he looks at you, you have the same expression on your face as when he first met you and caught you staring at his Twilight poster. Your eyes dart around nervously, your pulse pounding against his fingertips, and he knows he has his answer.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He sighs, coiling an arm around your waist and pulling your body flush against his. Leaning his forehead against yours, he whispers, “Now was that so fucking hard?”

He kisses you, and you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of and more.

#neowritingsnet #cznnet #NCT-WRITERS #nct imagines #nct scenarios #haechan fluff #haechan angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct dream imagines #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #nct 127 imagines #haechan #nct #choerrypuffs

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souryogurt64 · 1 year

Text

About a decade ago, Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy (and James Montgomery of MTV) published a novel, Gray. It is my favorite book of all time. It is— for lack of a better term— “a freeze-dried wet dream.”

People are usually appalled when I tell them this; they think I must be the dumbest fangirl alive. It's understandable. After all, Gray is the vanity project of a runner-up for 2007’s Sexiest Vegetarian, and has been referred to as “an insult to book readers everywhere."

But truthfully, this is not my favorite book because I like Fall Out Boy— rather, I like Pete Wentz's band because I fell in love with his book. From the moment I first picked Gray up, I felt—very strongly— that there was something inside of it, something that went beyond the veneer of "pseudo-artistic" misanthropy it put up. It was a carefully crafted puzzle. It was so advanced that no one understood it. I was sure of it— even if nobody ever believed me.

But over the last ten years, I grew from an emo teenager into a professional writer. So now, I can prove that I've been right along; Gray is an incredible work of literary showmanship. It's just misunderstood. So, in honor of its big anniversary, this love-dissertation seeks to dissect and defend my favorite book of all time.

In this essay, I begin by fully contextualizing the creation of Pete Wentz and James Montgomery's Gray. Then, I explain the novel's identity as a "roman-a-clef," and thus, its place on the spectrum between fiction and reality. Finally, I argue my thesis. Which is: Gray deliberately masquerades as exactly what people expect it to be: the rant of a narcissistic rock star “so shallow an ant would struggle to drown." But a reader with a little faith will understand that things are not always what they seem. Rather, Gray brilliantly executes its stated intention by blending paradoxes like irony / authenticity, reality / fantasy, truth / lies, and satire / sincerity, into a narrative so ambiguous it “defies understanding, let alone a solution.”

But only if you're in on it.

Read the full piece here.

Incredible art by @gebtoons.

#gray #gray pete wentz #fall out boy #pete wentz gray #fob

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zynart · 2 years

Text

“book lovers” don’t love anything about books and it’s weird (or, defending classic novels)

kevin durant is talking about basketball fans but you’ll understand exactly what he means in a much broader sense if you’re on the basketball side of twitter and immediately recognize the mindset he’s describing — that it’s a sentiment that isn’t really about basketball fans at all, but about how we engage with all sorts of things especially in the social media era. but this tweet is just table-setting. the important thing here is that the rest of this post, about many writers and english teachers and book bloggers and overall people who describe themselves as book-lovers on the internet, can be summed up as a caption to this screenshot that just says “same energy”.

same energy. many writers and supposed booklovers on the internet actively dislike and disparage most literature. and actively dislike and disparage the entire literary tradition of the novel, and the novel as a form, and all the tools or frames of engaging with art, and many of the writers or novels known for beautiful writing, and the books that made up the history and development of the medium and inspired so many more of its writers and inspired stylistic shifts, so much fundamental context for any kind of novel… i’m losing my thread here but the point is, many people who describe themselves as book-lovers, many of them authors themselves or english teachers, will proudly and vocally announce their dislike and hatred of so many classic novels. often what seems like almost all of them.

and will not just proudly say so, but won’t shut up about it. and will bring it up constantly among themselves. it’s not a one-off thing either, this comes up con-fucking-stantly in what feels like almost any conversation about literature. often fully unprompted. and will somehow pretend it's an original insight and that they're being bold and brave and controversial and starting a conversation for saying it, when it's all been discourse every two months for as long as an online commons has existed, and when we all know they got that take from endless cycles of online discourse, and when the reason they say it is because they know people will agree with them, because we've seen how that plays out a million times already, b e c a u s e so many other people who like to imagine themselves as brave bold original thinkers for having picked up that opinion in a previous online cycle themselves will respond enthusiastically through some kind of collective pretense that it's a new conversation.

that's part of it too, everyone involved in that discussion collectively performs some kind of amnesia where this is a take they're hearing for the very first time, and speaking a truth they've always thought but never felt like it was socially acceptable to say. because that way, you get to feel like an original critical thinker without having to do any critical thinking, or to feel like you have a superior understanding of a piece of media without having any media literacy. and you get to feel some self-flattery about your superior insight for having the originality and courage to believe what is now a pretty mainstream view — maybe not mainstream among literati, but absolutely mainstream in the online commons, enough that you know many people agree with you already because you've seen the same agreement and mutual self-congratulation play out in a million online cycles already.

(it feels very disingenuous. maybe it's not consciously and intentionally disingenuous, maybe it's just a lack of self-awareness, but it's like.. you know how we could say a great joke at a family function that we once read on the internet, and they wouldn't know and would just think you're just that witty for coming up wiht it? like that, except we're all on the same internet and we'd all read the same joke already but we all have to pretend we'd never heard it before so we don't break kayfabe, because that way you can convince yourself that nobody else had seen it before and they all thought you were witty. everyone just performs the exact same roles every time discourse about any given book happens every 2-6 months on the internet. next time, can we all at least not pretend like this isn't the 26th time we've seen this conversation and spare all the "FINALLY someone said it!" "someone needed to start this conversation!" schtick? is that too harsh?)

but anyway. the thing is, alright. if you think jane austen is boring. and that the great gatsby is overrated. and also that the bronte sisters' books were super problematic (bc heathcliff and rochester with mad wife in the attic are both kinda misogynistic). and also that hemingway is boring posturing. and catcher in the rye is overrated (because the abused kid processing his brother's death is "annoying"). and that shakespeare is too old english style to be worth reading.

and that only pretentious wannabes read tolstoy or dostoevsky. and as for ursula k le guin or isaac asimov or philip k dick, sci-fi is a boring genre. and that nabokov is weird and kinda suss, and kundera seems like he has an ego and philosophizes too much (will claim to have liked one hundred years of solitude tho bc that’s still seen as fashionable). and only pretentious hipsters read david foster wallace or pynchon or franzen. none of them seem to remember that edith wharton exists. some quote george eliot as another white man, or just don’t mention her at all.

and never even mention chinua achebe or toni morrison or james baldwin or arundhati roy. and — this is something i actually saw being said on twitter in conversations between english teachers, authors, and people who call themselves book bloggers — say "kazuo ishiguro is only read by white people who want to feel smart but is actually full of weird stuff" while including a screenshot from a haruki murakami novel. even though ishiguro and murakami write very different books in very different styles, one has lived in the uk his whole life and his best known books are all set in the uk while the other is a japanese pop writer, and they have very little in common aside from a kinda sparse prose style and being ethnically asian…

at that point, do you even like literature?

having a few or couple of those opinions is one thing, people’s tastes vary and i don’t expect everyone to love every supposed literary classic, i’ll admit to not enjoying ‘a separate peace’ at all — but so many writers online proudly announce pretty much all of this. and it’s usually not even with specific justification about the specific author or book, just broad strokes commentary. a lot of it seems to be half-remembered from bored high school years, books where they barely remember what even happened during them but retained their opinions on them with full unwavering confidence, a lot of the comments that sound like someone who’s only vaguely heard of the book and not even to the level of reading the wikipedia page to check, who misunderstood the main themes and seems to not have tried to critically engage with it at all.

honestly, i know most people online's clever opinions about books are just regurgitated from the internet. i’m pretty convinced this applies to 80% of all mentions of the catcher in the rye online, for example. fuck it, here’s the screenshot of the ishiguro/murakami incident i mentioned a couple paragraphs back:

how is this not, really, just the hardcore marvel-only fan types of the book world? people who aren’t happy with their movies basically being so dominant they’ve outcompeted every other kind of movie in cinemas and make a trillion dollars, but also demand they get the critical appraisal of the godfather, and that martin scorsese praises them without reservation as high art, and also that they should get the same kind of respect and cachet among film artsy types as people who love all the classics of cinema or whatever. it’s the exact same mindset.

in a way, i feel like a lot of how gen x-millennial-zoomers are about art is like a relatively harmless version of how maga boomers are about society, in the sense of.. having the smallest expectation made of you or the smallest amount of effort/inconvenience asked or anything that isn’t super familiar exactly the way things were unchallenging or anyone not praising you for all of it is some kind of horrific thing that shouldn’t be allowed. i think this is a pretty terrible cultural development, as those go. its some kind of social collective self-infantilizing, all propped up by a whole circle of mutual reflexive defensiveness at any criticism of this way of being. and it’s a bit stressful saying all this knowing that there’s a pretty good chance that if the shoe fits, the response is likely not going to be a careful consideration — i mean, why would this somewhat incoherent and sloppily edited rant by some random on the internet warrant a level of careful consideration that people are proud of denying f scott fitzgerald or toni morrison?

its normal to have to put in a little tiny bit of effort and accommodation to access great things, like good art or a functional society. it’s good, even. it’s part of what makes life beautiful. there’s so much beauty to be found in art that you have to sit with and dwell on and read criticism of and analyze to find more and more layers of beauty, to find complexity, to develop a personal relationship between yourself and the art that’s so much deeper than just superficial infatuation because it’s something you built. you cant be mad about that expectation and demand praise for not following it. it’s fine to enjoy art on a simple and escapist level, but that’s not all that art is meant to be. insisting that it’s all that art has to be, or that expecting art to also be more is somehow morally wrong or elitist, is just philistinism and i’m only being a little bit hyperbolic when i say the normalization of that understanding of art is detrimental to society.

art is also meant to be something where you understand and respect the amount of craft and learning and attention to detail and thought and transcendent talent goes into making beautiful things, and you want to engage with it to the level that it deserves, to peel through the layers. to see how you interpret and find meaning and emotion in it based on the person you are at that moment in time, the most salient experiences and thoughts as you encountered that piece of art, the setting, the memories, an understanding that you can look back on and see change as you yourself change. to create an emotional correspondence with a mind you’ve never met, one that might have died decades ago and that lived in a world unimaginably different from your own but shared so many familiar thoughts and feelings and hopes and fears.

that carried the torch of a beautiful tradition of the form — the novel from miguel de cervantes through flaubert and tolstoy into the novels of the lost generation, the development of internal life as an art form in a way that’s unique to the medium and that can’t be shown in a play or film, the transition from novels as storytelling similar to a play in its earliest days to novels coming into its own as a unique art form that allows the reader to truly inhabit someone else’s mind, to think their thoughts and feel their feelings, in a way you can’t get from anything else. not from visual mediums, where you can see the action but can’t inhabit the inner minds of characters, only infer it. not from short stories, which even at their most introspective and internally oriented still don’t give you enough time.

i'll quote milan kundera from the art of the novel here, about what i mean when i talk about the development and tradition of the novel, and what only the novel can do: "Since its very beginnings, the novel has always tried to escape the unilinear, to open rifts in the continuous narration of a story ... Through its own logic, the novel discovered the various dimensions of existence one by one: with Cervantes and his contemporaries, it inquires into the nature of adventure; with Richardson, it begins to examine "what happens inside," to unmask the secret life of the feelings; with Balzac, it discovers man's rootedness in history; with Flaubert, it explores the terra previously incognita of the everyday; with Tolstoy, it focuses on the intrusion of the irrational in human behavior and decisions. It probes time: the elusive past with Proust, the elusive present with Joyce. With Thomas Mann, it examines the role of the myths from the remote past that control our present actions. Et cetera ..."

[my note: interrupting kundera here to note that all that's just up to pre-war early 20th century. there's still novels by the lost generation shaped by world wars and the great depression attending gertrude stein's salons in paris, the influence of fitzgerald and hemingway as branches of prose style, william faulkner and southern gothic, stream-of-consciousness and feminism with virginia woolf, chinua achebe and jean rhys with postcolonial inversions of older classics, magical realism with gabriel garcia marquez and salman rushdie and the like, big self-referential playful intertextual postmodern novels like david foster wallace through the weirdness of the 1990s, to this day there's still evolutions in form like jennifer egan with 'a visit from the goon squad', which such a great book by the way but i digress.. all that came after what kundera described here! and so much more that i'm likely forgetting right now]

but anyway, continuing kundera: "The characters in my novels are my own unrealized possibilities. The novel is not the author’s confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become ... The novel has an extraordinary power of incorporation: whereas neither poetry nor philosophy can incorporate the novel, the novel can incorporate both poetry and philosophy without losing anything of its identity ... it can blend philosophy, narrative, and dream into one music ... it has [the ability to] marshall all intellectual means and all poetic forms to illuminate “what the novel alone can discover”: man’s being. ... I’ll never tire of repeating: The novel’s sole raison d’être is to say what only the novel can say."

i think that's very cool. i love thinking about what the novel can do and all the possibilities offered to me by its presence and what only the novel can do. when you’re reading a novel, the same little voice in your head that speaks out your own thoughts are speaking out someone else’s thoughts; the same body where you feel sadness or tension or excitement at events in your life, through the power of imagination, replicates those same feelings in you as you read someone else experience them. you get to understand situations and develop insights that you never could’ve if you’d only had your own experiences to rely on, because you could briefly borrow the direct experiences and emotional responses and realizations of others. having that lightbulb moment as you piece together some insight that the writer had laid out the breadcrumbs and guided you to discover. where things that wouldn’t have gotten through if you’d just been told it in bullet points become things you understand intimately because on some mini scale, in that brain-in-a-vat that’s your mind inside your skull inside your body, a book gave you the same experiential stimuli as being someone else and living a different life. that shit is fucking magical. learning about the journey, tracing that development, witnessing writers over the year gradually understand the full power and capabilities of the novel as a medium and experiment in finding ways to use the medium, is just fascinating to me.

reading classic novels to me is discovering a whole parallel history. not just events, not just ideas, but the way we think about stories. aren’t you interested in that? if you’re an english teacher, don’t your students deserve to experience that with your guidance? if you’re a writer, doesn’t taking your work seriously call for a more intimate knowledge of the clay you’re molding?

i think people give a lot of excuses for their reading choices where they can’t just admit it’s a simple choice with trade-offs, or a preference where what you value in the moment is just different. that’s fine. there’s no need to be ashamed of that and to try to make it out to be anything deeper than that. nobody has to act like a certain type of book is the only kind that’s sufficiently accessible or that has characters of a relevant age or certain background. i mean, there's just straight up books. all kinds of books, a whole wide world of them. i understand being unable to read out of attention span or language level or whatever, but if you can read and its just about needing the book to be unchallenging, there's many many books. relatively short books, readable books, even books with characters in their 20s.

and i would argue that even if there aren’t, its still valuable to read about people with different lives and experiences. marshall mcluhan has a point about how what we call narcissism is a misunderstanding of the actual myth of narcissus from which we get the word. i'll include the quote here first: "The Greek myth of Narcissus is directly concerned with a fact of human experience, as the word Narcissus indicates. It is from the Greek word narcosis, or numbness. The youth Narcissus mistook his own reflection in the water for another person. Now the point of this myth is the fact that men at once become fascinated by any extension of themselves in any material other than themselves... the wisdom of the Narcissus myth does not convey any idea that Narcissus fell in love with anything he regarded as himself. Obviously he would have had very different feelings about the image had he known it was [literally] himself. It is indicative of the bias of our intensely technological and, therefore, narcotic culture that we have long interpreted the Narcissus story to mean that he fell in love with himself, that he imagined the reflection to be Narcissus."

and i think this was really prescient about the state of a lot of modern online criticism and discussion of art. the organizing principle of how some "book lover" communities, whether on YA twitter or fandom tumblr or at your local library reading group, judge the value of media: by their "relatability", whether you can see yourself within the book and setting and characters being the ultimate arbiter of whether a piece of fiction is good or bad. i don't want to call it narcissistic per se, but it does mirror (pun intended...) the myth of narcissus, in that falling in love with a piece of fiction is about whether it's relatable, whether you can see yourself in it.

i'm going to head off a likely response here by emphasizing that this is different from the broader phrase of "feeling seen", which conflates "relatability" and "representation". i'm not here to quell the power of feeling seen, especially for people who have traditionally been surrounded by media where they haven't felt seen, but i think it'd be disingenuous to claim what mcluhan says here is referring to representation. representation is about seeing people *like* you, finding a sense of community in seeing someone who experiences the world in similar ways and would understand how you experience the world as a result. where the myth of narcissus would be applicable is about falling in love with media, even judging the objective value of media and whether it's good or bad as a work of art, based on how much you see yourself in it.

which i think kind of defeats the point of books, the reason why books and reading got this semi-mystical reputation in the first place. the concept of the empathy machine was coined, to my knowledge, by roger ebert referring to movies. art forms in general have the power to be empathy machines, compassion machines, tenderness machines, sympathy machines. empathy as feeling what it's actually like to be someone else, compassion as understanding that someone else also feels things you feel, tenderness as feeling seen and empathised with, sympathy as sorrow and commiseration because you see someone else, maybe the exact way you'd define them might be different but let's phrase them clumsily like this. the machine doesn't operate by itself, it needs you to plug directly into it, and the machine works differently based on your own nature and what you put into it and how you engage with it. most art has the capability to be empathy machines for someone empathetic willing to engage enough, but the barrier of entry is different

the magic of books is that they are a special kind of empathy machine that puts you directly inside the mind of another human being, almost like an other-selves simulator. other-interiority simulator, other-inner-self simulator, whatever you'd like to call it. which makes them uniquely powerful as an empathy machine, even compared to other types of art. how it feels to be someone else is the most unbreakable, most fundamental barrier in existence. it's the AT fields from evangelion and the argument for the human instrumentality project, the impenetrability of that barrier is the reason for wallfacers in the three-body problem, its how sufis and ascetics fall in love with god when nobody else but the omniscient can ever ever truly know what it's like to be you and feel what you feel

this can't be conveyed in the same way in mediums like movies or plays where the medium itself is from an external point of view and is viewed through this barrier of the mind, and is harder to convey in structured forms like poetry which may not be able to capture the endless variety of form and expression within our thoughts and feelings and experiences (or, going back to kundera, the freedom of form within the novel as enabling polyphony). i think the closest art forms in that sense may be music, which also has a relative freedom of form and the ability to express depths of feeling both individually and through the interaction of music with words and even the sequencing of tracks across an album, and video games, which may not directly put you in the mind of someone else the way books do and which may at first glance seem like they belong alongside movies in being seen through the AT field but where the difference is that in a video game your character makes *choices* and you feel how it feels to make those choices as an agent — even if you're not inhabiting someone else's thoughts, you're feeling how it feels to be someone who experienced and did certain things and made certain choices. but i think there's still plenty about books that is unique. the empathy machine has to be collaborative, your imagination is a necessary creative or generative aspect for it to be a novel and not just a report of events

"book lovers" often act like books have some kind of sacred and mystical power but don't seem to be able to justify this idea in how they engage with books as a whole, beyond this sense of books as an identity signifier or aesthetic or accessory. but books do have a certain sacred and mystical power — that they are invitations, almost portals, you could call them pensieves even, where someone gives you a window into another mind. (not necessarily their own mind — the mirror of books as an empathy machine is how even writing itself is an empathy machine of an activity that asks the writer to empathize up a creation — which is also partly why i think that to be a good writer you should also be a good reader).

in much of online, the idea that any book or piece of media that isn't personally relatable would naturally be boring and impossible to connect with is so widely accepted that it's never even really a point of dispute. i want to say it should be, and that we should start disputing it. because i think the magic of books and fiction in general is that it's a way for you to exercise your empathy muscles. the characters or settings don't have to be "relatable" for you to be able to relate to it: it's just about stretching your capacity for empathy a little bit, inhabiting someone different from you with a life different from yours, seeing the world through their eyes, and ultimately learning something about yourself, the world, and humanity as a result. i think it's important to make this argument forcefully and not let this narcotic view of art — that it's natural and expected for us to only be able to enjoy art that is relatable, that relatability is a merit and unrelatability is a flaw in itself — not become even more hegemonic.

but ultimately, prioritizing enjoyment or relatability is fine. there's no harm to the preference. life is short and exhausting, free time is limited, and what we do for leisure can just be about having a fun time, or about getting a guaranteed emotional hit from a genre or medium that you know will fill whatever you need emotionally from reading right now. it's fine to read romance because it's fun or sexy, or fanfic because it'll make you cry. even "narcotic" isn't an inherently bad thing to be: even in a very literal sense, we all accept that it's perfectly normal to unwind with a glass of wine or a joint. it’s fine to prioritize other things. but for people who make their whole brand being about books specifically, i think it deserves far more harsh criticism that so many are so wilfully against engaging with the majority of books. a lot of it is an echo chamber where everyone else in the same circles feels the same way, i guess, but society in general has given this obviously ridiculous state of affairs a free pass for so long.

maybe the internet just isn’t real life and i’m seeing an unrepresentative subset of people. but at least going from “book lover” twitter, which is a loose amalgam of authors and english teachers and people who run wordpress blogs with book reviews, it feels like a lot of it is a whole generation of people who got into writing through fanfic and exclusively read YA or fanfic and felt embarrassed about it being seen as dorky, so they made their whole identity and personality and mission to be about validating kids like their imagined younger selves, without ever really growing up in that aspect of their personalities, and without doing any further developing/exploration of their tastes.

you know what i really don’t understand coming from an author, or even an amateur writer? having zero interest in reading the classics, even just to see if there's anything worth learning from great prose stylists to improve your own craft. i mean, if you think there's nothing in classic novels worth learning from, not even like 5% of it to try find what details or specifics you might find from widely respected prose stylists or lauded writing, like that its not worth reading it even to find just a few points you can use to develop your own writing — let alone that whole thing about all that art has to teach us about the human experience, which is so much more than the ground covered by contemporary YA and fanfiction, and what value that could add to the actual lives of yourself or your students —

if you're blinkered enough to think that your subset of writing is all there is to take value from, and you're basically just doing the reverse of all your "people who respect the classics don’t bother to see that there is insight and value and quality to be found and learnt from within pop fiction like YA and fanfic!", and arrogant enough to believe that you don’t need any more than that —

clearly you don’t actually love writing, or language, in that case. and that’s the truth. none of it was ever about a love for literature or writing or language as much as it was about validating the child version of themselves by coddling it and saying it’s actually fine to feel superior about it. what’s missing is any process of validating what does bring them out further, for getting into writing/reading in the first place being a starting point for growing and branching out and discovering how much more there is to art, rather than using it as a reason to just double down and shut out anything else.

i may not be able to do some critical meta-analysis of all new literature but look, a generation of writers filling a whole genre not actually wanting to learn from all the lauded writers before them to improve their prose style or get ideas or insights isn’t going to be doing the best job they can. it’s a mindset that is actively damaging to the genres you claim to love, one that’s going to lead to stagnancy and decay, and one that disrespects an audience of voracious readers who want to get the best art they can. i don’t think this should be all that controversial. people might try to argue with me about whether old books are better than new books or whatever, but that’s not a point i’m interested in arguing — survival bias does mean that often only the very best from the past is what makes it through the decades to still be widely known to us, and i’m not qualified to compare the absolute very best of modern literature to that of the past and i’m not even sure that’s possible — but that’s not a point i’m interested in arguing.

thing is, it doesn’t matter which were better, what matters is that there’s definitely unquestionably indisputably a lot to be learned from books that have connected with millions across generations, and inspired movements and moved critics, and led literature lovers to their spark of love, and that passing up all of that is a cynical, nihilistically arrogant, aggressively anti-intellectual approach to art. if i tried to build a plane engine without ever really studying, i might wing something that gets you off the ground by watching some youtube videos, but it's likely not going to run a plane as well as something built by engineers who've spent years learning from the lessons of masters and geniuses before them honed through the mistakes of thousands before them.

and if i respected the craft, i’d bother learning. and when i pick up those textbooks, they’re going to be boring or hard if i never bother doing much study, or doing any complementary readings, or doing the exercises or discussions of the material, or even doing any close reading at all. i can’t slack on all of that and then say the textbooks or lectures are just impenetrable and too hard to bother with. that would be an asinine way to approach any other craft or skill. and i think authors and english teachers and people who love books should respect the art enough to take it seriously, and not just blow it off as “who needs to study or learn or read up on it? anyone can write, it’s just putting some words down!”. we shouldn’t be saying that. that’s for my parents to say

work with me here. at least try put aside your prejudices about some of those classics, or what you vaguely remember as your first impressions, and actually engage with them in good faith. reading commentary or discussions and critics' views on them, paying attention to spot the metaphors and turns of phrase and motifs and how the sentences are structured to make something sound beautiful or how something is set up to come together later. you don’t have to love it, but you can at least engage with it in good faith first, with an approach of respect and seriousness. it’s a fun way of socializing with like-minded people when you can make it an identity signifier thing, where you have an imagined view of classic novel lovers as aloof opponents making fun of you in class and you stake out an identity as being anti-that and pro-ya or fanfic, like a fanfic or YA protagonist who learns to embrace their differences and acknowledge their specialness against the world or whatever.

where it genuinely depresses me is to see it coming from english teachers. from anyone who influences what young people get to read, really, but especially coming from english teachers who take pride in denying their students the opportunity to learn many of the great novels that they could be learning, and that they could be finding beauty in and enjoying if you could bring that same passion and approach to teaching them instead of letting your dislike show. i understand that the way those english teachers may have initially been introduced to the classics in their high school years was probably not pedagogically ideal, but it's really not an excuse for an adult making a career out of it. at that point you have a responsibility to your students and sometimes that responsibility requires you to get over yourself and do right by your students. no copouts here. no avoiding responsibility. it's an understandable excuse for why any random adult might not be a fan of the classics. if that same random adult claims to be a book lover literature fan i may find them a bit of a fraud for it, but they aren't doing wrong by anyone. an author who does it should think their readers deserve better. an english teacher doing it is self-centered and malpractice.

if what you’re modeling for your students is that they should also feel comfortable or even empowered flippantly dismissing the books they’ve been told make up part of a great education, you’re not all that far removed from the people in school telling kids that books are lame and for nerds and that they should just watch a movie. it’s only different in degree, but it still communicates the exact same concept to students. what an english teacher is meant to do is to at least try inculcate a love of books in students, a sense of awe and respect for the power of the written word. that books are amazing and that there’s so many kinds of books out there that they should give a real chance to and that they’ll find some book they love and that it’ll open up whole new worlds. don’t you think that out of all your students, the book which makes some of your students fall in love with reading might be one of those great novels of history?

i’m not saying that assigning books that kids will find easier to read and engage with isn’t a perfectly fine approach to involving students, especially if other approaches aren’t getting them as involved. but anyone reading this essay in good faith already knows that thinking that’s what i’m criticizing is defensively propping up a strawman, because i’m not talking about the english teacher who clearly loves novels and goes with a book at the class’s overall level while still encouraging students to go seek out more and pointing them toward the wide world of great novels out there that they can try read and engage with in their own time if they want. i’m talking about this very common attitude and phenomenon of people disparaging most novels, this often being english teachers who discuss this mindset informing how they teach their students. who proudly tweet about how they shut down some kid’s curious question about the catcher in the rye or the great gatsby or the grapes of wrath with some soundbite from the internet detritus that’d do great for clout, telling their students something like “ugh, those books are so boring”. which i think is something that an english teacher should feel embarrassed to admit.

at that point, it’s not really about those kids’ education at all, its about the teacher themselves. or it’s not about their young readers, it’s about the author’s need for personal validation in their tastes and choices, and seeking that validation from people who are influenced by and take cues from them in the first place because that’s a way to receive uncritical validation without much pushback. it's just a kind of self-laudatory narcissism that claims to be supporting kids, when it’s really just about those teachers or authors themselves in some ways never having moved on from childhood. not saying they're immature or childish as a whole in their lives but in this specific aspect, it is absolutely an immature and childish approach that casts themselves and their students/readers as characters in a high school setting fanfiction or YA story. just people congratulating themselves for teaching their students that a lot of reading is lame and uncool and boring and elitist beyond an entertaining subset of it. which, to clarify, is something which i think should be considered malpractice for an english teacher.

that’s just doing the kids they're teaching (or writing for) a disservice. it’s basically making them just a prop in your exercise of validating your aggrieved younger self, while dismissing the possibility of actual real kids' intelligence or interest in expanding their tastes or intellectual curiosity — a perspective where you can look down on everyone else, including those other kids who want more from class, as somehow being snobby villains in your life story or in the life story of an imagined self-insert high school version of yourself that you're projecting on some poor kids you identify with in class. i think this is something people who do this to their students need to sit with and be introspective about, because personal psychodrama shouldn’t be taken out on students.

you can’t dismiss the classic novel or literary canon like that. that dismissal is either a bad-faith argument or an unserious and ignorant one. there is so much literature that has so much to say about actual cultural evolution from gender repression in victorian times (jane austen, bronte sisters) or the force of tradition in 19th century russia (tolstoy) to the world wars (elie wiesel, erich maria remarque) to the despair of the lost generation after the world wars (fitzgerald, hemingway) to 60s counterculture (hunter thompson, kerouac, ginsberg) to life through postcolonial revolutions (achebe, rushdie, camus) to socialist republics and revolutions (kundera) and latin american corporatist coups (gabriel garcia marquez) and indian caste conflict (arundhati roy) and postmodern disillusionment and absurdism (david foster wallace, delillo, pynchon, etc) and warnings of futures like theocratic conservatism or authoritarianism or classifications (atwood, orwell, huxley, ishiguro, philip k dick)…

and i do think calling the overall literary canon of classic novels "straight white male" (notably, a claim often made by straight white people) is often just a crutch to moralize their own personal dislike of something for aesthetic reasons. and i often find that just fundamentally dishonest, because its not like they're replacing hemingway with chinua achebe or james baldwin or allen ginsberg or ralph ellison or toni morrison or edith wharton or arundhati roy or gabriel garcia marquez or salman rushdie or kazuo ishiguro or ursula k le guin or margaret atwood, all of whom are either people of color or gay or women or some combination of the three. they're dumping all of those out too as distaste of classic novels and replacing it with diverse YA novels.

the real truth is that it’s not about straight white maleness at all. there’s plenty of novels universally considered ‘great novels’, ranked in lists of the great novels, available for teaching in schools, subject of plenty of critical praise, with huge legacies in the development of the medium and of culture as a whole. it’s not about that. its about genre and about the idea that literature should just be a rollicking read that is nice for the imagination and feels fun, and this continued idea that any art being challenging is bad.

and thing is, ironically enough, this is actually erasing the contributions of those famous and respected and influential non-white/straight/male literary figures, and the art that they created engaging with and in reaction to their circumstances, while doing so. because discarding the classic novel or literary fiction or whatever you want to call it, swapping out influential classic novels for ya, is just throwing out all of their work and their legacies. you can’t pretend that that recognizing diversity is your actual justification when you're throwing out the study of classic novels alongside their historical and cultural context, which includes a ton of the contributions of non-white/straight/male people.

and the charitable interpretation of that for me is that it’s just a bullshit excuse and lying to themselves. that a lot of it is just people working out their own personal insecurities about not being taken seriously, by digging in the trenches real pre-emptively and casting themselves in the role of righteous rebels overturning an establishment that propped up bad things while suppressing the good things they liked. none of this is to be dismissive of either the young adult genre or fanfiction, which i’m fully sympathetic to as genres that have put out a lot of great art that shouldn’t be summarily dismissed but often have been. but at this point, all of it begins to feels like a whole psychological mess that's making childhood resentments and aggrieved persecution complex about not having your tastes be universally praised no matter how mainstream or popular or successful they become.

i compared it to maga boomers or marvel fans before. to paraphrase dril, i’m not going to “hand it to” maga boomers and have no reason to. but at least marvel fans who act like that have much less weird psychodrama going on, because most of them don’t go on to become filmmakers or film studies teachers themselves and aren’t producing art where they imagine themselves in the position of the superhero. they're just occasionally annoying fans, who don’t really have much negative impact beyond their dollars dictating what gets made. which i don’t really blame ppl for because its individual tastes driving their individual ticket purchases that adds up to a lot of money and makes it profitable. but your average marvel fan doesn’t themselves either teach or create content where they can perpetuate it within culture. and at least marvel fans just call themselves marvel fans, they don’t insist they're the true actual film fans while shitting on the godfather and proudly announcing how they won’t watch anything from before 2008. many “book lovers” and “literature fans” who actually hate pretty much most literature and great novels could do with that level of specificity, without trying to take on the mantle of being so in love with books and the english language and the written word. it’s not true. it’s denial. it’s a cope.

and that’s the charitable interpretation. because the alternative is just being too ignorant of the presence of all those writers and their contributions within the canon in the first place. in which case, why do people talk so confidently disparaging classic novels if they don’t actually know anything about them beyond recognizing maybe the great gatsby and moby dick, and don’t actually know enough to even know about all these non-straight/white/male writers of classic novels and their role in the evolution of the novel as a medium? it’s just a fully unjustified level of confidence in that situation. and neither one of ignorance about their subject or uninformed confidence, let alone both, paints a great picture of people who've supposedly made a career out of writing or literature or the english language.

i don’t love getting into neat little psychological explanations for things but then again, fuck it. all the “essays” on here are just ruminations on culture and whatever psychology it feels like is driving that culture, after all. it’s not like that’s out of the overall scope of what’s going on here so why not. the reason i hesitate here is because there’s a lot of reflexive thin-skinned defensiveness that seems to be part and parcel with this attitude, given that i think a lot of it is birthed in a sort of understandable insecurity anyway — and i don’t say insecurity as an insult, i think insecurity is a very understandable and pretty universal aspect of being human — but the rest of this is going to be pretty harsh. and maybe that harshness isn’t the right approach to persuade people who i’d hope would be persuaded, but i don’t know, honestly i think we’re long overdue to start being harsh about it and i’m going to give that a little nudge. at this point, my visceral reaction to seeing this is just thinking “grow up”, and that they've been indulged and welcomed and catered to enough already now.

that’s my screed. me to classic novels, the most dickish love letter in the world

update, now that people have discovered this post and are actually reading it: i don't mind any of this being shared or reprinted anywhere if it's with attribution. whatever gets people to read it to change the conversation works for me. i hope it reaches enough of an audience to make the right people mad, to be honest.

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other 'essays' on internet/pop culture stuff on my homepage. here's a selection:

· humanity is worth loving, humans are worth saving

· there are things we owe to each other

· i trained a neural net on 10,000 irony-poisoned tweets and it just gave me cringe?

· what makes someone good, bad, cancelled, or redeemed? i don't know either!

· please tell me if you have a definitive answer on what makes someone a bad person

· ok, fine, my social justice politics feel a bit like religion sometimes and that’s ok

· after the deluge (short story) (dispatch from an island state post climate apocalypse)

#literature #books #novels #english #teaching #fiction #literary fiction #writing #lit #booktok #booktwt #god every time there's discourse about #the catcher in the rye #catcher in the rye #holden caulfield #its always the same lazy as fuck take thats been brought up every week for the past 12 years #that people pretend is a bold brave thing to say when they got it from the internet and already know the internet will agree

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