Where are we—” Kyungsoo yelps as Jongin practically throws him over the window pane of a filthy-rich looking convertible, a treacherous little thing parked up against the curb, all black exteriors and plush white interiors, not even bothering to ...
Still, it’s almost too natural to rekindle Jongin’s smile with a tiny “Hello,” and somehow the syllables are perfect on his tongue, perhaps because he’s said it a thousand times already. Perhaps because they’re meant to be.
Thick pulse and dizziness make his head light and stomach turn. He really can’t feel his fingers, or knees for that matter. But everything settles down again—almost as if it were always meant to—when his eyes graze a dumb grin and a pair of gli...
You sound so miserable.” “All novelists are.
There are questions Kyungsoo doesn’t ask Jongin. He doesn’t ask Jongin if they can stay together forever, or how many tomorrows are really left, because sometimes the truth is too bright. He can only hold onto the seconds, each gesture, each cont...