Rules 1-4

Taehyung vaguely remembers it starting mid-October. Well, technically it started during a birthday, in the midst of drinks and laughter while the room glowed red, pulsating. The speakers were in full volume, blasting something he was sure he’d seen and heard Hoseok dance to before when he would visit his dance studio. Chatter filled the room and their tiny circle was mostly the reason for it; a squeal here and there, an indignant huff, a boisterous laugh, and of course, whistling.

Whistling because someone just arrived that night and joined their little bunch in the form of a figure with a mop of blonde hair, an eye smile, and definitely toned physique.

Fuck, Taehyung breathed, taking him in. He seemed to glow under the lights, looking sultry, especially with how his hands trailed down their common friend Yoongi’s back. It stayed there for a moment until he patted it and then do those eyes stray towards his.

They lock eyes.
Taehyung stills and eventually smiles, reciprocated by who he eventually got introduced to as Park Jimin, a little bit of tongue dragging across his bottom lip as he shook Taehyung’s hand.

The handshake lasted for a few seconds, and Taehyung, ever the opportunist, rubbed his thumb lightly against Jimin’s, trying to drop any hint that he was interested in knowing him better, be it in here or in bed.

Whichever works.

Jimin keeps Taehyung’s eyes locked with his and gave him a half-smirk, and whoever was paying close attention could see they were practically eye-fucking.

Who wouldn’t want to fuck a gorgeous creature clad in a plain white shirt that was too loose on him, dipping lowly in his chest, his collarbones out for display? Taehyung thinks of several ways to leave pretty little marks on them eventually if the night progressed into something more. His shirt was fully tucked in black, slim fit jeans, tied with a belt, paired with a pair of combat boots Taehyung didn’t know could turn a person on, especially if the on wearing was already a turn on in the first place.

Taehyung liked to keep his sexual endeavors as kind of a secret, whenever he could. But with the way people usually labeled him (cocky, loud, arrogant), he couldn’t sometimes keep his mouth shut. And it’s not like everyone around him acts like it’s a secret—not when everyone in his circle was practically like him. Almost like him, since some swung only one way at most.

The secret he liked to keep but never really kept was that he liked boys.

He liked fucking them over—bending over a table, sprawled over the couch, pressed against the hood of a car, or balancing over toilets (although that only happened once). Taehyung liked it loud and rough and kinky.

And Jimin was one of them.

He already made up his mind as soon as Jimin entered their little gathering, eventually laughing along with them with his head tilting back whenever he did, throwing himself onto someone else to support his fit of giggles. It intensified when he found himself clutching Park Jimin’s waist later in the night, as he whispered something into the other person’s ear and received a hooded look and, Taehyung swore he felt himself go hard just because of it, a bite of the pouty lips. And the fucking tongue that dragged across Jimin’s lips.

Jimin agreed.

It’s safe to say that Taehyung and Jimin were fuck buddies in every sense of the word. Whenever either one needed a stress reliever, an unwinding, something to quench the frequent thirst, only a text was necessary and some lube and condoms.

Which Taehyung usually had a supply of, even in his car.

Which is where they are right now, in the middle of a parking lot at the back of Jimin’s university.

Jimin was majoring in dance and whenever he could spare some time from practicing and occasional exams, they were fucking.

Kissing. Making out. But they always ended up fucking.

Jimin blows into Taehyung’s ear, nibbling on his earlobe as he rode him urgently, the need to come an overwhelming force. Taehyung grunts, fingers digging into Jimin’s waist and bucks his hips up, eliciting a breathy whimper from Jimin. He finds his lips and bites on it just as Jimin locks his hands on the nape of his neck. Taehyung drags his tongue along Jimin’s jawline and proceeds to suck on wherever he could because he liked leaving marks on Jimin. Liked looking at them whenever he could because it turned him on thinking about how he did those himself.

A shrill ring pierces through the air and Taehyung breaks away to glance at his phone, Jimin still relentlessly bouncing, sweaty, hot—just how Taehyung liked him.

It was the modeling agency and Taehyung couldn’t help but curse. He usually did freelance modeling since his looks were always on demand from companies he didn’t even really know but eventually finds his contact information anyway. Seokjin usually takes care of them, with him being a self-proclaimed manager and all, so Taehyung becomes a little confused on why the agency was calling him directly.

A dance major and a freelance model fucking inside a car at the back of a university.

He liked it.

Taehyung turns his phone off and focuses again on Jimin, rutting and grunting even more as Taehyung dragged his fingers down his body, wrapping it around the other man’s member and proceeded to jerk him off.

“Look at me baby,” he says, looking at Jimin straight in the eyes. “Look at me while you come.”

And when Jimin did, mewling and being very loud as to how Taehyung preferred it, stuttering out curses, he followed suit soon after. He presses a kiss against Jimin’s collarbones and bites, ropes of white covering their torsos and Taehyung couldn’t help but laugh a little.

This was fucking fun.

“Ow,” Taehyung flinched as the hairdresser pulled on his hair a little too hard, a stoic expression on her face as if she didn’t even hear him. “Fuck, ow.” He continues.

“What happened, hyung? Jimin pulled on it a little too hard last night?” Jungkook grins as he settles down on the chair beside him, the game on his phone momentarily forgotten.

“Shut up,” Taehyung scowls at him and reaches out to hit Jungkook in the chest, which resulted to the hairdresser grabbing his hair again to keep him still. He swallows the curse and instead, grins at Jungkook.

“Wanna join us? Jimin could grab yours too if you want.” He snickers and watches Jungkook rolls his eyes in the huge vanity mirror with light bulbs surrounding the frame.

“Ew,” Jungkook wrinkles his nose and continues, “I’m not a goddamn voyeur.”

“You never know. Have you tried it?” Taehyung liked teasing Jungkook because with a few prods, Jungkook easily becomes flustered and it almost always entertains Taehyung.

“You know what, hyung? Shut up,” and turns back to his game.

Taehyung didn’t want to push any longer because he was getting a little more irritated by the minute with the hairdresser. One more tug and he was going to flip.

And what Jungkook said was true, though. Jimin had pulled it so hard several times last night as they fucked in Jimin’s dorm, trying to keep their voices low since his roommate was in the other room, claiming to be studying.

A few moans escape from Jimin every now and then as Taehyung swirled his tongue on his cock, taking him deeper every time, and all the while, his hands are entangled in Taehyung’s hair, tugging, pulling, wrenching it with every needy thrust into his mouth.

“So fucking hot babe,” Taehyung had tried to say, “but it fucking hurts—“

Jimin pulled him by his hair to lock lips and thrust his tongue into the other’s mouth and this time, it was Taehyung who groans, voice low, as Jimin bucks his hips up and rubs their naked bodies against each other.

“Fuck me, Tae,” Jimin whispers, his hands no longer in his hair but tugging at the other’s cock as he guides him to his rim. “Fuck me hard like you always do.”

This is why he loves Jimin as his fuck buddy. He knows which buttons to push.

And so he did. He fucked Jimin until he could no longer keep his voice down, until they were both filling the room, the dorm, with their moans, thrusting harder every time. Taehyung’s nails scratch Jimin’s back, leaving traces of red against his skin, the other arching his back even more. Jimin clutches the headboard, the bed creaking so loud, and Taehyung (he still doesn’t know why he did it) reaches out to pry them off and intertwines his own fingers with Jimin’s.

It was supposed to be a no-strings attached kind of relationship.
#1 Don’t hold their hands.
#2 Fuck them from behind, avoid their eyes.
#3 Leave before one awoke.
#4 Never sleep over.

Taehyung realized how he never really held any of his sexual partners’ hands until Jimin. The gesture had always seemed too intimate to him, a little bit personal and too close to home.

Jimin’s hands were small and fit his easily.

As Jimin whimpered and rutted against them, Taehyung found himself pounding into him harder, harder, harder, like he always does.

And as they came, he lets go of Jimin’s hands as he slumped against him.

And leaves as Jimin falls asleep later on.

He has broken rule #1.

Taehyung has been fucking Jimin for a couple of months now. In that span of time, between his modeling gigs and exams, they’ve managed to fuck far too many times than Taehyung could count with his fingers and toes—even with Jimin’s. He doesn’t exactly remember how it became so frequent (there was even that time where they just spent the whole day together as soon as Jimin finished his dance exams and Taehyung had a day off from his photoshoots; it goes without saying that they both had tremendously sore legs and aching throats by the time Jimin left his apartment by 2 am), but what would’ve been the point to be someone’s beck and call if it only happened occasionally? He understands the intensity and the urgency, the rippling desire, even the undeniable thirst.

But what Taehyung couldn’t understand was why was Park Jimin the only thing he could think of these days?

He has always been a skeptic when it came to those stories that fall along the lines of ‘love at first sight’ because fuck that. How do you fall in love with someone as soon as you laid eyes on them? Taehyung thinks, is convinced, that it’s more of ‘wanting to fuck at first sight’. It’s much more believable.

All he could think of, as flashes of light blind him and a set of instructions were called out, was Park Jimin.

Goddamn Park Jimin whose eye smile seemed to have branded itself on the back of Taehyung’s eyes, whose cute little laugh rung itself repeatedly in his ears, whose touches have no longer made him hot with desire but of fondness as gentle caresses tickled his skin, even the soft press of his lips against his cheeks have found a new meaning in the way of what softness meant.

1, 2, 3, someone calls out before another flash of light made his vision stark white.

Park Jimin.
Taehyung sucks in a breath as Jimin rips his shirt off quite roughly, hands trailing along his chest as he pushes him against the wall of the little room they were cramped in. He was in a hurry, digging his fingers onto his waist, grinding against him in such a way that made Taehyung feel close enough to combusting with clothes on.

“Jimin-ah,” he starts, bringing Jimin’s lips close to his. He bites on it, a whimper escaping Jimin as he travels his hands lower, down south, until he rubbed against Taehyung’s erection. “You’re hungry today, aren’t you?”

Jimin hums, his eyes closed and Taehyung could see his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones. “I need you, Tae. I need you to fill me up.”

Taehyung curses under his breath, his stomach turning over and over as those words escaped Jimin’s lips. Jimin needs him.

But as much as he liked to fuck Jimin against a wall (they’ve done it), lift his legs and wrap the other’s thighs around his legs, it felt wrong now.

He couldn’t just fuck Jimin in a cramped closet with hairdressers outside, the photographer milling about, models already boring holes from the other side of the door, curious as to what’s happening although Taehyung knows they already do with the way Jimin lazily wrapped his arms as he was sitting, given a 30-minute break. He had pressed light kisses on Taehyung’s neck with dark hooded eyes, want clearly in them. When Taehyung continued to sit, Jimin sucked on it a little too hard, and that was when he Taehyung dragged the other into the closet.

“What happened today, Jimin?” Taehyung kisses Jimin lightly. 1, 2, 3. “Did something bad happen?”

Jimin grinds against him again, moaning. “Nothing special. I just missed you so fucking much. I was ready to fuck myself with a dildo.”

Jimin misses him. Fuck.

Taehyung, with his newfound conscience that came out of nowhere, grabs Jimin’s hips and flips him over so he presses against the wall, a dull thud resounding across the room.

Jimin giggles, his fingers tickling Taehyung’s nape.
Taehyung can’t do this. He realizes how Jimin deserves something better.

“I can’t fuck you here, Jimin-ah.” As Jimin whimpers in protest, Taehyung continues. “But I will fuck you nice and slow when I finish here. In bed.” Where you should be. But he doesn’t say it.

“But, Tae–”

“Now go, before I change my mind.” He kisses Jimin a little too roughly again, tongues passing over each other before he breaks apart. “I’ll see you later.”
Needless to say, he didn’t fuck Jimin nice and slow that night.

He fucked him hard until Jimin begged in between breathy gasps, his bangs bouncing up and down as a steady stream of curse words fell from his lips, his free hand going over to his own cock to jack himself off while Taehyung pounded him ruthlessly from behind.

Taehyung stopped himself from holding Jimin’s hand, even when he pushed him headfirst onto the bed, ass higher than before, Jimin’s free hand clutching the sheets tightly, face flushed while biting a pillow.

Fucking. Park. Jimin.

“Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung,” Jimin repeats, moaning so loud Taehyung was sure the other dormers could hear them beyond these four walls. “Fuck–hngg–yes, there, there–”

Taehyung looks down on Park Jimin.

He stops, and Jimin groans. “I was so fucking close–”

“Flip over.”

Jimin looks at him behind his shoulder. “What?”

“Flip over.”

And so he did and Taehyung hovers above him, taking in Jimin’s mouth and slips in a tongue, sucks on Jimin’s, feeling the other’s hands entangling into his hair.

Beautiful Park Jimin, with his red, swollen lips, cheeks a rosy pink, matted hair, breathing too hard, a rutting mess. His blonde hair was fanned across the blue sheets, and Taehyung sighs inwardly.

A mess by Kim Taehyung.

He fucks him that way then, with Jimin sprawled under him, his thighs wrapped around Taehyung with enough room to maneuver in, hands clasped together while he looks straight into the man’s eyes. Every now and then, Jimin’s eyes would flutter close, feeling every roll that Taehyung’s hips made, and when he does open them, Taehyung falls a little bit deeper.

Jimin was beautiful.

Taehyung breaks rules #1 and #2 that night, the moon hanging high in the sky, illuminating the whole city and them as it shone through the window, watching them.
Six vodka shots in and Taehyung felt as if the world has completely flipped upside down. Hoseok looks at him with concern as he tries to look for a slice of lemon, fumbling with a pinch of salt, licking them carelessly from his forefinger and sucked.

Happy birthday to me, Taehyung greets himself quite numbly.

Jungkook laughed at the spectacle right in front of him, taking a video of what he knows would be a good blackmail for the other man.

This downtown club wasn’t too full, too crowded, and Taehyung liked it that way. They just finished their end of the year photo shoot, along with Jungkook and his self-proclaimed manager, Seokjin. Yoongi, their photographer for this shoot and Hoseok’s new boyfriend, eyes him with distaste from across the table. Thank the heavens they managed to get a table in a secluded corner where the music was less probing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He scrunches his nose in disgust.

“It’s my fucking birthday, what did you expect?” Taehyung bites back and downs another shot, making it seven.

“He’s just moping because Jimin isn’t here.” Jungkook laughs and downs a shot. “Ugh, I’ll stop with this one. It’s gross.”

Taehyung glares at Jungkook. “I. Am. Not.”

Seokjin points at him with his beer bottle. “Of course he is.”

Hoseok leans in. “Do you like him now, Tae?”

Taehyung could feel everyone listening closely despite the roar of the music. He doesn’t know what to say, though. Does he like Jimin? Fuck yeah, he does. But does he like him in the way the others were implying? He doesn’t know, he’s not sure, he’s not certain, he doesn’t fucking have the slightest idea if this was real or not.

Maybe it was since despite Taehyung feeling like the world was ending and swallowing him up from drinking too much, he was partly moping around because Jimin wasn’t here. He was going to some goddamn town for the holidays and although they fucked a few times before he left, Taehyung felt like it wasn’t quite right. He felt it was too rough, too in a hurry, too…detached.

Or maybe that was just him.

He fucking misses smelling him, burying his head into the crook of Jimin’s neck where he would lick the skin just to tease him.

Taehyung looks at them one by one. “Do I?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Guy’s fucking whipped. Knew this would happen.”

Taehyung stands up, before toppling over because he was too dizzy, and says, “No one could’ve known.”

“I wouldn’t have imagined it but with the pace you two were on, it should’ve been expected.” Seokjin laughs, tilting his head back to finish his beer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call someone.”

Hoseok looks at him quite apologetically and reaches over to hold his hand. “Don’t worry Tae, if things go right tonight, we’ll know both of your answers.”

And since Taehyung was too drunk to even process what it meant, he simply nods, now in a somber mood. He wanted to kick Jungkook’s phone out the kid’s hands so bad, annoyed at how carefree the other looked. Why can’t he be like him? Why did he have to get stuck in this messy pit of feelings?

Jimin is supposed to be his fuck body. No strings attached.

Now, Taehyung didn’t want Jimin to solely be a fuck buddy. He wanted more.
He couldn’t quite believe his eyes when sparkling lights started to dance right before his own eyes. They were too bright and so he squints at them, holding a hand up to partially cover the glow, and only then did he notice they were candles.

On a cake.

A cake held by Park fucking Jimin.

They surprised him.

Taehyung, body laden with too much alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, tries to sit up quickly, heart beating erratically.

Jimin was here.

On his birthday. Fuck.

Jimin was wearing his eye smile, partly hidden behind the bright glow of the candles, clearly amused at the mess that went by the name of Kim Taehyung. Taehyung has sprawled on the club’s couch a second ago, suddenly falling asleep as if his eyes were hung with dozens of weights.

It was probably the vodka.

Not probably. Definitely was more like it.

“Jimin!” He breathes, clearly surprised and happy. Fucking happy.

“Happy birthday, Tae!” He giggles and sets the cake down on the table, sitting close to him right then, pursing his lips and looking at him expectantly.

Taehyung could’ve kissed him then and there, but with the others excitedly milling about, he stops himself and smiles at Jimin instead, heart soaring, hands shaking.

Wow, was this even Taehyung or drunk Taehyung?

“You’re here? I thought you had to go someplace else?” Taehyung was careful not to move too much. He could feel his stomach churning and now wasn’t the time. Not when Jimin was sitting right beside him, looking as beautiful as ever, bundled up in a scarf and a coat.

Jimin grins at him. “I had to come back and celebrate your birthday. You’re my friend, I couldn’t leave you hanging.” He gestures at the cake. “Strawberry cake, just how you like it.”

Friend. Strawberries. Jimin knows he fucking loves strawberries. Friend. He is Jimin’s friend.

Just a friend?

Taehyung composes himself. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Hoseok claps his hands loudly and beckons everyone in the circle over. “You too, Namjoon.” Namjoon slides closer to Seokjin, head down, too quiet.

“Now, you better make a really great goddamn wish to give justification of how much time Jimin has wasted in just coming over for your birthday,” Seokjin takes his phone out. “In 1, 2, 3.”

Taehyung, with an erratically beating heart, wishes for Park Jimin.
As midnight drew closer, the club starts to fill up, the crowd thickening and the music getting even louder than earlier. Taehyung wasn’t going to make a fool out of himself and stay away from the party, despite being totally drunk now after four more shots.

Could he die this way? Possibly.

His hands crawl over onto Jimin’s thighs and squeeze. The other man eyed him curiously before reaching over to the salt on the table.

He makes a line on Taehyung’s collarbones, dabbing at the skin lightly, his tongue darting in and out, expression intent. It took a whole lot of Taehyung’s willpower not to grab Jimin by his hair just to get a taste of the vodka flavored lips.

“A body shot for the birthday boy.” Jimin grins at him mischievously and retrieves a lemon.

Taehyung couldn’t see the other anymore, not because he was drunk, but because they had literally gone downstairs to dance and order more drinks.

Probably to give the both of them some space, too.

Jimin locks eyes with him as he straddles his hips, shotglass in one hand and the lemon on the other. Even when Jimin takes the shot, a little of the liquor dribbling down his chin that Taehyung would’ve licked if he wasn’t too entranced with the show Jimin was putting on, he maintained the intensity of their gazes. He brings his head down, towards Taehyung’s collarbones, and licks, and sucks, and soon enough, he was biting.

Taehyung grunts, his head tilting back at the pleasure. Jimin doesn’t even suck on the lemon anymore and tosses them aside, before swooping in to take Taehyung’s lips into his own. Taehyung, being partially aware of what was happening, grasps Jimin’s eyes, kneading them and pulling the other man flush against him, clothed cocks in friction and Jimin flutters his eyes open, pleasure resounding all throughout his body and he bites his own lips, a moan escaping despite trying to play it down.

Taehyung kisses each of Jimin’s eyelids, his hands traveling up and under Jimin’s shirt where he feels him up, dragging his fingers across the hard planes of Jimin’s abs, his back, where it stays. Jimin encloses Taehyung’s head with his hands and pulls, tongues lapping at each other, a mixture of each other’s spit, an urgency that wasn’t quite like before.

Taehyung was still drunk and so he doesn’t even surprise himself when he says,

“Jimin, I have to say something.”

Jimin continues to kiss Taehyung’s neck and chest, popping one button open, leaving trails of his him planted on his skin.


He stops and slowly looks at Taehyung with a sultry look.

Taehyung was drunk but he needed to say it. Taehyung felt like the world was upside down, despite the rush of pleasure that coursed through him. Taehyung knew he was gonna puke any moment now, but he holds it in.

This is too sudden but he goes,

“I fucking like you so much, Park Jimin. I don’t know where it started but I fucking do. I don’t know why this happened, or how it happened, but I do. And as much as I want to fuck you on this couch, in public, because we’re both frisky, I can’t. You deserve better than that.”

Taehyung looks at Jimin in the eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Everything has started to become about you, Jimin. And it just doesn’t stop. I just don’t want to fuck you hard as much as you want me to. I wanna take you in slowly, carefully because it’s you Jimin. It’s just not anyone else. It’s fucking you.”

He exhales deeply, starting to get embarrassed. He literally just stopped the two of them from going down on each other and out of nowhere, Taehyung decides to drop a confession. He wouldn’t even blame Jimin if he gets weirded out.

I mean, fuck buddies right?

He knows what he said doesn’t make sense, that it was the vodka talking, and so when Jimin starts to giggle, pressing his forehead against Taehyung’s, he looks at him confused.

Jimin bites his own lips.

“God, me too, Tae. Me, too.” He gives him a peck on his lips. “I fucking like you, too.”

Taehyung, even though the entire moment had to be serious, laughs because he knows Jimin had tried to mock him somehow with the intensity of how he cursed.

“You do?” Taehyung asks, and this time, the blood that rushed to his cheeks heats them up and suddenly, the world didn’t seem to tilt anymore.

“I don’t know how I fell either but I do. And besides, the sex was great. I’m an opportunist. How could I not like you?” Jimin giggles and Taehyung’s heart soars.

He kisses Jimin softly; on his lips, his jawline, his earlobe, down to the column of his neck, and ends on his collarbones. Jimin exposes his neck a bit more and says,

“Now, should we go home to get things started?”
He lays Jimin down carefully, hovering over him, eyes locked with each other. Taehyung leans in to press a kiss, Jimin taking him in, every part of him, and locks the both of them with his arms around Taehyung’s neck, pulling him closer than what was even possible.
All of their clothes were on the floor, scattered, the desire proving to be too much. As soon as they had entered Taehyung’s apartment, it was hard to say which one of them jumped on the other first. All Taehyung remembers, despite being fuzzy, was that Jimin had him pressed on the other side of his door, his pants down. Jimin planted kisses on the inside of his thighs and Taehyung lets out a low growl, pleasure coming in in waves he only always felt around Jimin.

As Jimin took him in, right to the hilt, he ruts shamelessly, fucks Jimin’s mouth, his own fingers in Jimin’s hair and when he looks up at Taehyung, the threat of coming undone right before the reached the bed was too much. Seeing Jimin’s swollen lips wrapped around him was too much of a sight and so he lifts the other up from the ground and strips him off, desire coursing through him, unable to hold it in any longer.

“Take it off, everything off. I need you, Jimin. I fucking need you so much.”

Jimin helps him then and so here they are in bed, Taehyung inserting 1, 2, 3 fingers into Jimin’s hole, eliciting a moan so loudly he could feel it with his own chest. He was so fucking tight and so fucking good.

“Open up for me, Jimin-ah. Open up, baby,” Taehyung kisses the insides of Jimin’s thighs. “So beautiful.”

Jimin is wracked with pleasure as soon as Taehyung inserts himself, after lathering his cock with lube, and breathes out a series of profanity, toes digging into the sheets. He moves slowly, sliding himself in and out carefully, afraid of hurting Jimin although it was quite stupid since he’s been ruthless before.

Jimin holds onto Taehyung’s biceps, legs spread out, mouth open. Taehyung rocks into him, a little faster this time, starting to fall into a steady rhythm. He does it a couple of time before prying Jimin’s hands off him and instead, pins them over his head, locked together.

His eyes never part from Jimin’s, not even until both of them are rutting against each other too hard, the rhythm of two souls being too loud even in the midst of silence. Not even until Jimin finds his own release first, Taehyung swallowing every bit of his noise into his mouth, soothing him from his high. He comes after, unable to hold it in any longer, and as soon as he finishes, he presses his lips against Jimin’s matted hair.

“God, Park Jimin. The things you make me feel.”

Jimin smiles, a satisfied look on his face. “God, Taehyungie. The things you make me do.”

They went for a few more rounds until the sun started to rise and until the bustling city woke up. He swears he could hear the birds chirping.
He doesn’t even fuck anymore.

But the word ‘making love’ makes him cringe.

Maybe he was somewhere in between.

As the sun’s rays filtered in, he wishes for better days to come with Jimin and he hopes for the near future.

It’s safe to say, he broke all the rules that night, that day, as he wrapped Jimin in his arms, spooning him, pulling him closer, as the sun started to shine on them, watching them.



Kim Taehyung (1st Drabble)

He picked up the pieces of paper that have fallen to the floor, his coffee almost spilling as he bent over, his tie swinging away from his body. A ray of sunlight touched his hair, turning it into a caramel brown, and you reach out a hand to run your fingers through it.

“I missed you.” You breathed out.

You did. You missed his boxy smile, so wide you could see his teeth when he laughed too hard. The way his eyes would become completely smaller every time he grinned, and you remember how much you loved that about him, even when he adamantly says that his eyes are huge and that no, it doesn’t disappear whenever he smiled. You even missed his touch; his hands on your thighs, on the small of your back, on the nape of your neck, even the slightest graze when he pushes your hair behind your ear. The thought of being able to intertwine your hands with him again made you giddy because it’s been so long.

And now he’s here.

He chuckles, and it was like music to your ears because God knows how unsatisfying it was to merely hear it when you’re on Skype with the shitty connection that breaks the flow.

He sets the papers on the table and only then did you realize how much of a mess you’ve become. Coffee cups were left strewn all over the place, pencils on the floor, unfinished sketches lying around, clothes haphazardly thrown over chairs–and you, on your bed, wearing a shirt you’ve worn for days, feeling unlike yourself.

You cry, because you’ve been holding it in. You cry over the events for the past few days, how everything just fell apart within what felt like seconds; and then you felt yourself being carried, until he sits you on his lap, your head buried under his chin, his fingers slowly running through your hair and you cry harder because he remembered how that always calms you down. He slowly rocks you back and forth.

“Don’t cry. Stop crying. I’m here now,” he lifts your head, looking straight into your eyes, “I will never leave you alone, again, I promise you that.”

“And you realize, nothing else comes close when you’re with Kim Taehyung.

Fast Food Frustrations (Pt. 1)

Warning: Grammarly tried to help me but I was too tired to edit everything out. It’s a rant, you know. ~

When I was younger, at an age where I thought I could be anything without having to do much work, I never thought I’d work in a fast food restaurant. Three things that cross my mind about fast foods when I was young: food, toy, and playground.  Come to think of it, it was only when I grew older did I start to think about what it would be like to work in a service-based industry. And I did.

First things first, working at Mcdonald’s opened my eyes to a whole new perspective. Not only did I discover new things about others but I also learned a dozen more about myself (which I never deemed was possible to actually come from my self-proclaimed introvert self). Yep, working at Mcdonald’s as an introvert has quite a lot of challenges wherein I was forced to interact and talk non-stop for one 8-hour shift. And if that wasn’t enough, sometimes it lasts for a 10-hour one (without overtime, sadly).

Now the thing about working in an environment that required you to talk and interact with hundreds of people a day, you can never guarantee of getting a decent human being after decent human being. There will always be the crudest and probably the most uncivilized neanderthals that could ever walk this Earth. Some start off as okay, apathetic (which in my opinion can be the worst of the bunch, too) but some are just awfully rude, you’d wonder how they’ve managed to live in this world without at least getting punched in the face at least five times a day (cause I would if I was violent). You could greet them with the most courteous smile you’ve mustered despite only having 5 hours of sleep, ask them about their well-being in a slightly higher pitch than usual, or hand them their receipts gently–and they’d still glare at you, barely nod, stare apathetically and then grab the paper right from your fingertips and drive away. Cue the part where I just wish they’d hit a car on the road or bad luck, generally. Others even draw their hand back like you’ve just handed them a vial of the most contagious disease in the entire universe and tell you, “I don’t need that”. Well, you could’ve just told me properly before I stuck my hand out in the cold only to have been rejected.

If I was talking out loud, my voice was probably rising by the middle of the above paragraph.

There could be so much frustration in working in a fast-food place and most of the times, there’s nothing you can do. No matter how nice you appear to them, there will always be a bunch of customers you could wish you can throw against the wall. But of course, I won’t forget about the ones who are actually decent enough to never make you feel so inferior about your minimum wage work. Although it always cracks me up when they react about how nice I am to them, which also gets me thinking, “Have we come to a time where basic human courtesy and decency has become so shocking because rarely anyone does it nowadays?” Which is true, right? Right.

Basically, the whole point of what I’m trying to say is that having to work in an environment such as Mcdonald’s taught me the principles of being patient (and also, how high my patience-o-meter actually is). I could feel like throwing a fit but I can’t very well likely in the middle of a shift. I keep tiring myself over having to weigh choices on whether I should be rude right back or should I (sounds easier than most) just gather my wits and keep myself sane by ignoring them and continue being civil.

Basically #2 (and the shorter version): There’s just no peace of mind when working in a fast food restaurant. Especially when it’s a busy day. Hello, hell hole.

List Of My Own

Mistake no. 1
I believed in him. In every fucking word he said. I believed his 5,000 word essay on how everything would be better if Sanders sat on the presidential seat, or how he explained, with perfect accuracy, the differences of psychology and ethics–hell, I even believed in him when he told me–well, not exactly told me–there was always a chance for everybody. Even in love.

Mistake no. 2
I fell for the little things. The opening of doors, the pulling up of seats, the late night conversations, the stay safe and take cares, the covering up of each other’s mistakes so we both could get away with it, even the tiny nudges on the shoulders, the pull on the elbows, the tap on the knees, the brushing of arms, the ruffling of hair–fuck, even the hugs that seemed to only last for a few damned seconds.

Mistake no. 3
I wouldn’t open my eyes. Not even when everything was practically shoved into my face. Not even when everyone was basically pushing me to stay away from you, telling me I was far too precious and deserving for someone else greater than you. That I could meet and have anyone I wanted if I simply accepted the fact that it can’t ever be you. But i couldn’t.

Mistake no. 4
My hands held on for too fucking long. The bruises, the scrapes, the blisters–they were all there, hurting every second, every minute, every day I refused to let go. My heart clenched, pounded, hurt, squeezed, everytime I saw you, everytime i touched you, even everytime I simply remembered you. I guess i found the love i thought I had in pain. That in its reccesses there was something to fix, to turn, to make into something. But I had to learn the hard way that pain will always be pain and that hardly anything nice will come out of it. I don’t know why I’ve always tried to convince myself otherwise.

Mistake no. 5
I loved you a little too less and a little too much. Less when I didn’t give two cents on who the hell you always talked to, laughed with, spent most of your hours on and too much when I tried taking in any means possible what I thought was mine–you.

Mistake no. 6
It took too long to realize.

Mistake no. 7
I still reminisce, you know. About those little moments we’ve shared, topics we’ve tackled, arguments we’ve had, awkwardness we’ve gone through, opinions we’ve debated on–i still remember the twinkle in your eyes whenever i said something you found witty, or the shake of your head when you got too disappointed, or how you used to shut everyone out when you weren’t in the mood, or even, even when you simply smiled–at me, at her, at him, at everyone you knew. I found that quality quite endearing, along with how much of a gentleman you will always be.

Mistake no. 8
I hoped. Too fucking much, i’ll have to admit. I clung to the hope, to the idea of us, never realizing in the first place that it was all a figment of my imagination. That everything I’ve built, everything I wanted, was only there to protect me from myself–from the reality that i was always pushing away. And it hurt when everything crumbled. It really did.

Mistake no. 9
I tried to stay. I tried to patch everything up as if it were some kind of paper that could be fixed with tape but we both knew it was deeper than that. The wound ran so much wider, so much deeper, that it could never be fixed with simple small talks and 45-minute phone calls. This was something that had to take its time. And distance. Fucking distance. I could never quite give that to you or to myself.

Mistake no. 10
I was sorry for myself. But I realized that I could only be sorry for the things I have unintentionally done, for the things I had no control over, for the things that were never quite in my hands. And everything that happened? I knew what I was doing. Every move, every step, every thought, every moment–i knew where I was going. I just refused to see otherwise.

2 Bottles Down

You took a swig of beer, grimacing. I simply watched you in fascination, my arms crossed over my chest, limp, with my head pounding, my vision spinning.

“You.” You said, pointing at me. “You know how it feels like.”

I tilt my head to the right, my head feeling like it weighed tons. “What?”

“What does it feel like? Loving me, I mean? You’ve been doing it for what, 3 years?” You squint, almost jeering.

I straightened up, shrugged and said, “You wouldn’t want me to describe it.”

Your head bobbed up and down, your eyes never leaving mine. “Yes I would. I trust your judgments.”

“Okay. So.”

You waited for a few minutes, your bottle of beer forgotten.

I wanted to tell you that loving you felt like I was underwater, but I didn’t know how I got there. I refused to resurface, believing there was still something left to save, something to salvage, and something that could be for us. I was using every bit of oxygen I had in store, blinded that I was slowly dying in the process. And my lungs felt like they were about to burst, bubbles escaped my lips, floating over me, beckoning, but instead of pushing against the pressure of the current, I let it push me even deeper down, down, down. And I close my eyes because I can’t resurface just yet.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I told you that loving you felt like a fresh breath of air when you’ve been in the city for too long. It was refreshing, like water on a scalding burn, like sunshine on a gloomy day, like the excitement you feel when you received a letter from a friend who lived far away, or like you just topped your exams. It was familiar, like eating your favorite candy when you were a child, or running along the meadow with a kite in tow, or holding your best friend’s hand when the world turned its back on you. It was satisfying, like a pint of ice cream when you just had a bad day, like finishing a book you never thought you would, or a mother’s hug when you needed it most.

When I finished, you looked astounded, shocked into silence.

I pursed my lips. “I told you so.”

“You know,” you straightened up, “You’ve always been a poet when asked about these kinds of stuff, yeah?” You paused, shaking your bottle a little. “But you’re my poet. Always will be.”

And I smiled, wishing that were true.


Do not sweep me inside an embrace that can only last as for how long, I am not certain, and neither are you. If you choose to keep me, tighten your clasp around me and never let go; no matter how hard, how rough, how painful it will be. The warmth you radiate is enough to keep me going, the protective stance you have built is what I truly need. This is a world where realists are bittersweet towards everything in their way and where dreamers are wanderlust, soaring among the clouds in their own bubbles. I do not belong anywhere, I do not choose to stay in one place but I am no drifter, either; I am simply caught in a riptide that crashes between two kinds.

Do not tell me sweet words that tend to linger like fingertips grazing my skin. I am gullible, vulnerable to anything, especially if those are the exact things I long so much to hear. I will assume, I will hope for things that aren’t meant to be. If you truly appreciate me, please do not leave me hanging where I am dangling by the edge of the cliff and thorny bushes are spread below me. If you let me go, at least tell me so. If you do, it will help me cushion my fall and I might be able to stand again despite the scars not only visible on the outside, but also in the inside.

Do not give me material things that I will have such a hard time to let go of. They are pieces of you that will remind me of what we used to be, of what I hoped we would be. There will always be memoirs that will be dear to both of us, and when we let them go…we will do it with open arms and we will look at each other and say our “good-byes”. 

Do not tell me to stay because you simply need me. I need you so much that it hurts with every breath I take and even when I close my eyes, I can only see your outstretched hand. I have invested so much for you. So much heartache, so much pain, so much tears; and yet, there is still the faint beat of happiness that the memories tend to pulsate around me. And I am thankful for that. But do not expect me to be always there for you, to always be the beacon of light in the midst of darkness. I love you, but I need to try letting go of things that bring me down.

I am trapped in a riptide where cold water drenches me from both sides. My emotions are a whirlpool, sucking everything and everyone in. 

So, I’m sorry if I step out of line. I really am. 

But I am in a riptide. And I can’t get out on my own. 

Confessions In Ink

You should know that I’ve longed to intertwine my hands with yours; fingers interlocked, palms pressed to close the distance. That even though it will get clammier by the second, sweat running and creating a humid feeling, I will never let go. Instead, I’ll hold on with the determination you won’t expect, with excitement pulsing through me in irregular beats. We could walk through corridors, alleys, streets and people will see, but I’ll hold it up like a trophy; I won’t be ashamed. I’ll grip your hand tighter, my heart beating in a faster pace.

You should know that your hugs comfort me in a way that blankets do at night and I’m all alone. That the warmth you radiate bounce off in waves and I snuggle against it. Your chest becomes a sudden pillow and when I wrap my arms around you, trying to nonchalantly tap you in the back like it was some sort of bro code so as not to betray the growing feelings inside me, I pray for it to last—even for 0.01 milliseconds. But I pull back anyway and the sun shines in your eyes and I see the color in them, glinting mischievously. And after that, do not wonder why I would shy away—but it is to calm my pounding heart and slow down the rush of blood as it colors my cheeks.

You should know that our secret smiles and stolen glances are enough to keep me going for a day. That those decoded messages and unspoken understandings are ours alone to be passed back and forth, two words colliding in swirl of emotions. Thoughts slip in and out of us; debates over petty things, comparisons over ridiculous discoveries, and agreement over various realizations. If literal speech bubbles existed, ours would be filled with haphazardly placed conversations, written by the exploding mind. But those tiny fragments of the moments we shared would still fit snugly side by side, like missing pieces in a puzzle.

You should know that when people talk about you, my heart skips a beat, my ears perk up in anticipation and my focus sways from what I was originally doing. And when they are two seats or two tables away from me, I will still strive to listen and find a way to hear more. It may be eavesdropping but I’ll still pass by casually, straining to listen about you, flitting descriptions filling my head. And they will giggle about you, laugh at you, fawn over you and I envelope myself in the vulnerability of the matter. I will talk about you too, dropping hints of our memories into my conversations with others and I might smile unknowingly and my stomach will do somersaults and tiny little flutters inside of me will begin.

But there are times that knowing too much is a curse and I might end up sitting in a corner, my thoughts dilly dallying in a world not of my own making. And like the wind passing through my fingers, you slip through my mind as well.

You should know that I like to bask in your attention, laugh at your jokes and even sport a frown when you’re being too tactless. Know that I send group messages about you and about us, but they are hidden between the lines of my favorite quotes and heartbreaking poetry. You live in my world as the knight who will not be in a shining armor, but as a knight whose armor is dented and dirty because he has gone through several quests to reach the tower that is mine. I think of you as the boy who will continue to live on as I describe you as much as I can through pens and papers, forever sealed in ink, in letters of calligraphy or ugly scrawls.

And when you can’t organize your feelings into paper, I’ll present you with ways that are different than the ordinary; you set the pace and I’ll follow closely behind, cautiously leaving our marks on the ground, a reminder of you and I—us.

Lastly, you should know that the struggle of refusing to nurture my feelings for you can be as hard as climbing the cliffside without my own harness. I know about the probability of falling into the depths of sorrows and the current of its ocean engulfing me, waves bobbing up and down, pushing me deeper and farther from the surface. Warning bells go off, followed by the shrill of an unmistakable alarm and flashing signs would greet me face-to-face, glaring neon lights blinding my eyes.

But I am like the moth and you are the flame, the attraction a growing bond that becomes harder to sever.

Note that I will try to stop myself from looking for you in the sea of students, an outstanding figure in the midst of them all. I will try to stop myself from thinking about you in the middle of class, conjuring situations that I long for to exist and happen, daydreams flying in and out of my mind. I will try to lessen the curiosity bubbling inside of me, the longing that led Romeo and Juliet to the end of their tragic story, their ultimate demise.

But I ask for one thing and one thing only.

Listen to my words.

Look into my eyes.

Find me in between these lines and you will know.

Hypnotic Neuroticism

Fragments of me are scribbled on paper, thoughts lined up structurally in ink. Words flit around my mind, a disarrayed combination of phrases and sentences that I want to write down but am too disorganized to do so.

For a writer can have neurotic days and nights, and long before you know it, their brains have exploded into activity that cannot be controlled, tamed. An endless stream of ideas will cautiously climb on top of another, piling up and turn into senseless thoughts that can no longer be filtered for too much is going on. A writer will try to keep up with the pace; pen sliding across the paper and fingers flying over the keyboard in a manner that one does not wish to destroy the buttons too hard but excitement has long ridden one into giddiness to seal ideas forever in ink. Vocabulary battles will always be there; a struggle for definitions and satisfaction over synonyms and antonyms that can be further used into describing rich details with lighted illumination.

A writer may have the gift to juggle metaphors into existence and present them in ways that are understandable to the readers but the process itself has thrown one into throes of unending comparison.

How do I get my message across when I, myself, am struggling to cross my ocean of confusion?

I am a girl with no concrete beliefs, whose spoken verdicts sway like the bamboos in the wind, whose convictions shake and tremble like the hanging bridge, and whose stand for certainty can be as fragile as porcelain. I am a girl who is constantly in a tug-of-war, my decisions weighed thoroughly and surely even in mere subjects of which shirt to wear, bag to use, and book to read. I can be as confusing as a labyrinth, as moody as the weather, and as vulnerable as eggshells.

I traipse through undiscovered worlds in my imagination, locked away in a jail of my own making, never seeming to be free in the inside, deceiving the people who I see everyday. I am a prisoner of my own thoughts, delving further into the depths of words and skylines of ideas, never really reaching them no matter how much I stretch my hands towards them. My lips never really seem to move and my unspoken stories are long being latched with chains.

The problem with knowing too much is knowing how to differentiate anything from fantasy to reality. Different versions of the truth will fry the brain. The mind becomes a neurotic storage without seemingly any chance of getting better. Grappling with sentences and structures become a daily routine, a substantial satisfaction but never seeming to be enough. And if you rip them apart, blood wouldn’t be the only thing bleeding out, but unspoken and unheard thoughts will drip onto the floor, too. A writer’s block can feel like the apocalypse; everything trapped in abyss and no matter how much you try to squeeze it all out, nothing will come, nothing will save you from the despair of frustration as you helplessly swipe at anything. But nothing presents itself.

I become bipolar. Writers become bipolar.

But I am a writer.

I will continue to be a writer.

For they can have so many dreams they would want to wove together in a tangle of colors, stories turned into written entertainment, or information to be passed onto the curious.

The struggle remains, and it thrives within.

But the pleasure of stringing the words into a single thought, a whirlwind of meanings and a cornucopia of emotions, is what keeps me going.


Isn’t it ironic how a person can love someone, yet hate him at the same time?

The world has long been filled with irony in every single one of its nook and cranny, crevices that have crawled among the surfaces, and even the gaping holes that people long to ignore. Even the people are bathed in it; christened to be a walking paradox that strolls among the grasslands, runs across roads to buildings, and even swims in the oceans that are as vast and colossal as the sky.

I tell myself that I’ll be alright. I whisper it to the wind first thing in the morning and even before I go to sleep. But no matter how much I try to convince myself, answers keep on piling on top of me, seen yet never noticed.

And now, the time has come where I have started to hate things about you.

I hate your brown eyes and the spark of passion that dwells in it. The way it lights up to things you tell me about, you share about, you care about. Even its tiny glances and relentless flickering to drink in any observations around you have started to annoy me in ways that I understand but still, a tiny voice inside tells me not to. I see your whirlwind of emotions in those eyes, the true mirror to your soul.

And I’ve wished on dandelions that you’ll look at me with passion and happiness as if you were a blind man who has just seen the sun. But that’s not the case.

I hate the way you talk about the things that matter to you. The way you describe them in rich details makes me feel as if you’ve stripped them naked until vulnerability and have gone to convincing people to believe in everything that you’re saying. Your words are filled with so much sincerity that even the simplest vocabulary begin to sound impressive. The way you speak the truth makes it seem as if the facts have their own branches to spread all over in a reach that an be as high as the Empire State Building and as wide as Russia.

I do not see you as a manipulator but someone I wanted to be described by. I am curious. How do you see me?

I hate the way you act as if nothing happens. A private chat and a personal message can mean so much for a person like me who has grown up needing the love and attention of the others. And yet, when I see you, when I remember all those lengthy conversations, my hesitation heightens because of the gut feeling that you might not even remember all the tiny facts I have been dropping as hints. I am not afraid to admit that may I not remember every single detail, I still remember most.

Do you even know me at all? Or is it all different from what I think this is?

I hate the fact that you’re oblivious about me. I see you and talk to you everyday, and the change may be gradual but it’s there. A lingering fact seems to hover among you and yet you keep your head low in oblivion, unaware of my feelings and maybe too afraid to even look up.

I thought the tables could turn. I thought you could flip. Maybe I was wrong.

But most of all, I hate how I still like you after all of this time. I hate the fact that I still care and I still feel the flutters in my heart, the somersaults in my stomach and the rush of blood in my ears whenever you’re near. I hate how you would casually sling your arm over my shoulders and pull me near, or even the times wherein you tell me secrets and I feel the burden of carrying it alone, the moon too far away to have listened and the stars too many to confide in.

Hearts will break, eyes will cry, noses will sniffle, and lips may dry. But believe me I know that. And I hate that I do and yet I ignore it.

You’re my friend. I’m your confidante.

I’ve been pondering on this so much and I’ve come to a conclusion that maybe there will be a “someday” that I’ll get over you. That there would be a time where my hate would subside and my feelings will fade.

And as ironic as it may seem, for now, let’s stay this way, yeah?

Four Seasons + You

When I first saw you, you were twirling your pen between your index and middle finger, deep in thought and might as well have been contemplating on what the future held. Maybe you were.

I was sitting two tables away, my chair facing your direction and a book laid open in front of me: Inorganic Chemistry with its colorful graphics of molecules dotting the cover, connected. Maybe I wanted to connect with you then, but I shook my head, thought I was too pathetic and carried on reading.

I saw you again after quite some time. It was just the start of spring and the flowers have just blossomed open, the leaves have become greener, and the sun shining warmly as it crept into the window of my favorite coffee shop. It was probably yours too since the cashier asked whether it was the usual or you’d like to try something new. You’ve been hanging out here since, bringing the same old black notebook and still, you twirled your pen, lost in thought. The rays turned your hair brown as you sat by the window in the red ottoman and you squinted as you peeked out the window. Were you waiting for someone?

Spring became livelier by the day, the bermudas growing taller in my front yard, the orchids that my mom has been nurturing turned lovelier even more and as they continued to blossom, my curiosity did too. You sat by the same space everyday and by the hour, I had to order the same old thing so I could act like I was studying too when really, I was just building the courage to approach you and strike up a conversation. It’s never easy when you’re the girl. But the chance never came. We came and went, just like the spring.

Summer arrived quickly. I haven’t been inside the coffee shop for a month since. I wondered if you would be there but I also wished you weren’t. I was trying to drown the curiosity that was bubbling continuously inside me; it bugged me between study periods, raced across my mind during lunch time and even danced around my thoughts when I prepared myself for bed. I haven’t seen you around in school, too.

The soft rattle of the wind chimes above the door got your attention. You looked up and our eyes met for about half a second and then I looked away. I approached the counter and smiled, flattered, when the cashier asked me where I had been all this time. As I tried to answer her questions, I threw casual glances at your table and faltered when I saw another girl directly beside you. Funny that I didn’t notice her before. Was she your girlfriend? Surely…

As quick as I could, I paid for my iced coffee and bolted out the door and under the rays of the sun that scalded my bare skin. The pavement was hot and my shoes were wearing thin on the soles. The shop windows were presenting their annual summer sale and as much as I would have wanted to look through those racks, I just wanted to get home. Summer became dreary yet bright, rainfall missing in action. The air became humid yet stale, and I could feel my plants starting to die. And just like that, so did my curiosity for you.

It has been 2 months since the start of my college year. Studying in an Ivy League had a lot of pressure; more than I thought I could bargain with. Sleepless nights ensued, endless flipping of pages, and jotting down notes that filled half of my notebook (and it was only after 2 weeks that I had to buy a new one). Autumn has come, turning the trees and its leaves inside the campus into an array of golden brown, yellow, red, and even green. The fallen ones were strewn around, littering the pathways from building to building. The wind became stronger every day until I couldn’t stand to be out too long without a hoodie to protect myself with.

Flitting thoughts of you continued to crowd my head. I didn’t know you personally, you were just a boy from school, and yet your presence had greatly affected me. Maybe it was the kindness I saw in you that day you helped an elderly woman cross the road. Or the time you dropped a particularly huge bill inside the jar for UNICEF. Or yet, it was that time that you saved me from a bad fall with the teacher in journalism class when you answered the question with wit and humor, taking the attention away from me (I was too embarrassed to even say thanks). Perhaps, I was yet to discover.

Autumn continued to come in a shower of color, and when I began to decide that I was most definitely over you, I stopped myself, thought I was too pathetic, and carried on with my academics instead of also wondering where you could be.

Winter, ah, my favorite season. The white, fluffy stuff always captured my attention. It reminded me of a vague memory of spilling slush all over my shirt when I was young and having my father wipe the front of my blouse with his handkerchief, and I having to step over the fallen drink, listening to its crunch under the heels of my shoes. The icy breeze made my teeth chatter, my hands shake, and my knees lock that it takes me a long time to cross from one building to the other. And yet, I still love its uniqueness.

It’s almost a year wherein I would have to celebrate my infatuation or cry over it as I try to bury it six feet under the ground. I remember you being aloof in some classes, with a demeanor that was like ice; hard to break yet you looked fragile as you focused and zeroed in on everything that was discussed. In a way, as I trudged down the walkway with the snow that continued to fall, I am reminded of you. I didn’t even know your name since we only had one elective that didn’t even require a whole lot of discussions; just basic instructions and we were off to write a creative output. True, I’ve wasted dozens of opportunities in that little coffee shop. My heart squeezed a little when I remembered your smile, like it had become a secret between you and I because you rarely did that outside that shop; or when you brushed past me by the entrance, I on my way in and you on your way out.

We have become very much like the four seasons. Our lives have continuously shifted in a pattern that we had no choice but to be accustomed with. We were totally different, and yet we cross paths and exchanged places for some time without the acknowledgment of one another. We came and we went.

Suddenly, I slip and land on my back. Air whooshed out of my lungs in a pace that left me coughing so hard as I sat up and tried to brush off the cold snow that were starting to melt and drenching my clothes, my rear. I could have cussed in frustration but a hand stretched towards me and I pull on it without hesitation.

“Thanks–” I had started to say when you cleared your throat and I had to look up. And stared.

After three months, it’s you.

“I remember you,” you said, “The girl I always saw hanging around in the coffee shop, yeah?”

I remembered nodding but I was frozen with giddiness. Who would have thought I would see you again?

You smiled and my heart squeezed; not in pain but with joy because after all this time, you finally had it directed at me.

“Oh yeah. By the way, my name’s Dean.” You said and offered a hand. “You okay now?”

I shook it. Despite the woolen gloves I wore, I felt the warmth of your hand. The same hand that twirled the pen over and over, having me locked in a trance most of the time, back at the coffee shop.

Talk about serendipity. Was this even destiny?

“Thanks,” I said. “My name’s Jean.”

In that briefest moment, I saw the sincerity of your smile and the interest in your eyes.

The snow continued to fall. And so did I.