Archive of Our Own

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— Caught In The Light

Seonghyeon had never liked mornings.

They were too bright, too loud — hallways filled with chatter, sneakers squeaking against polished floors, laughter echoing like it belonged to someone else’s world.

He preferred the quiet edges of the day — early enough that the classrooms were still empty, or late enough that the sunlight slanted through the windows in soft gold strips.

That was when he’d see him.

Keonho.

Always surrounded by people, but somehow … always calm in the middle of it. He laughed easily — the kind of sound that lingered in the air even after the moment passed. His friends would crowd around his desk, talking about soccer matches or class gossip, and Seonghyeon would pretend not to look while his heart did that dumb little skip it always did.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was just admiration. Just noticing how sunlight seemed to find Keonho’s hair first, how his smile reached his eyes, how—

“Seonghyeon, you’re staring again.”

His seatmate’s voice snapped him out of it.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“... Shut up.”

A snicker, then merciful silence.

It wasn’t like Seonghyeon wanted to stare. It just … happened. And every time he caught himself, he’d look away fast, cheeks warm, heart pounding, whispering the same reminder under his breath;  He doesn’t even know you exist.

And that should’ve been fine. It was safer that way.

Until one afternoon, when he realized — Keonho had been looking back.

It was after school, the classroom half-empty. Seonghyeon was packing up slowly, waiting for the rush of students to leave before heading out.

That’s when he felt it — that strange, heavy feeling of being seen.

He turned slightly, just enough to catch a pair of eyes meeting his from across the room.

Keonho.

For a second — maybe less — he thought he imagined it. But Keonho didn’t look away.

There was something unreadable in that gaze, something softer than the usual brightness. Then one of his friends called his name, and Keonho blinked, smiled that easy smile again, and left.

Seonghyeon stood frozen for a while, his bag strap half-gripped in his hand.

He told himself it meant nothing. He had to tell himself that.

Because if it didn’t mean nothing — then he’d never be able to stop falling.

— In The Same Frame

Time moved strangely around Keonho.

At least, that’s what Seonghyeon thought.

Some days he’d go hours without noticing him at all — buried in his notes, headphones on, lost in quiet corners. But then there’d be a small, fleeting moment, and suddenly it was like the world decided to slow down.

Maybe it was the way Keonho would laugh during lunch breaks, loud enough to draw a few stares. Or how he leaned his chin on his hand during class, eyes half-closed like he was somewhere else entirely.

Seonghyeon would tell himself don’t look, but his eyes betrayed him every time.

He started recognizing things he shouldn’t.

Like how Keonho’s handwriting tilted slightly to the right, neat but not perfect. How he always tied his shoelaces twice — once tight, once for luck. How he hummed softly when he thought no one was listening.

And then there were days — rare ones — when Seonghyeon thought maybe he did notice him back.

Like that one morning, when they both reached for the same book in the library.

It wasn’t dramatic — no accidental hand touches, no blushing stammer. Just a brief overlap, Keonho’s fingers brushing the edge of the spine before Seonghyeon pulled back quickly.

“Oh— you can take it,” Keonho said easily, that little half-smile already there. “You were faster.”

“Ah, no, it’s fine— you can—”

But Keonho had already handed it to him, grin widening. “I insist.”

And then he was gone, just like that — leaving Seonghyeon staring at the book like it had suddenly become the most important object in the universe.

It took him a while to realize his hands were shaking a little.

After that, it kept happening — small things that shouldn’t mean anything, but still did.

A brief nod in the hallway. A faint smile during roll call. Once, a quiet “thanks” when Seonghyeon passed along a worksheet.

Tiny fragments that stitched themselves into something dangerously like hope.

He tried not to overthink it. He failed spectacularly.

Because the truth was, these small moments were all Seonghyeon had. And he’d take them — the way some people collect stars they know they’ll never reach.

Each glance, each soft second, was enough to keep the crush alive.

But maybe, just maybe … it was enough to keep something else alive, too.

— The Rain Between Us

The announcement came on a Wednesday, right after lunch.
Ms. Kim stood in front of the whiteboard, clapping once to catch everyone’s attention.

“Alright, everyone. Midterm projects will be done in pairs this time. I’ll be assigning them randomly, so no complaints.”

Groans echoed around the classroom, followed by a few dramatic sighs.
Seonghyeon didn’t mind much—he was used to working alone anyway. Random meant he’d probably end up with someone who wouldn’t notice him much. That was fine. Easy. Safe.

At least, it should have been.

“Seonghyeon with …” Ms. Kim scanned her list, paused, then smiled faintly.
“—Keonho.”

The pen in Seonghyeon’s hand slipped.

A few heads turned. Even Keonho looked mildly surprised, though his expression softened quickly into that easy smile that made Seonghyeon’s stomach twist.

“Looks like we’re partners,” he said when the bell rang, catching up with him before he could flee the room. “You okay with that?”

“Y-yeah,” Seonghyeon managed, clutching his notebook like it could hide his nerves. “Of course. It’s fine.”

“Cool.”
And just like that, Keonho grinned—bright, uncomplicated—and the world tilted again.

Their first meeting was awkward in that quiet, polite way.

They sat in the library, sunlight slanting through the windows, the only sound the rustle of pages and the occasional tap of Keonho’s pencil.
He talked easily, his words soft but steady; Seonghyeon mostly listened, nodding, writing things down that didn’t matter.

But Keonho didn’t seem to mind the silence.
In fact, he seemed comfortable in it—like he knew how to fill it without speaking.

“You’re really focused,” Keonho said after a while, a small laugh under his breath. “That’s nice. Most people can’t stand quiet like this.”

Seonghyeon’s pen stopped. “I … like it. Quiet’s easy.”

“Yeah?”
Keonho leaned back in his chair, watching him. “Then maybe I should try being quiet more often.”

Seonghyeon didn’t know how to reply to that—especially not with the way Keonho was looking at him. That soft, unreadable gaze again.
It made his chest ache in a way he was getting used to hating and loving at the same time.

By their third meeting, it felt different.
Not comfortable yet, but less awkward.

Keonho would bring snacks. Seonghyeon would bring extra pens. They started talking a little more—about the project, about music, about things that didn’t matter but still somehow did.

Sometimes Seonghyeon caught himself laughing quietly at something Keonho said, and Keonho would light up like it was a rare victory.

And then, one Friday, the rain came.

They were finishing up late, the library already closing when the first thunder rolled outside.

“Ah, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” Keonho stood by the window, staring at the sudden downpour. “Of course it rains when I forget my umbrella.”

Seonghyeon blinked, then hesitated before whispering, “I … I have one.”

Keonho turned, smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a lifesaver.”

They ran under the single umbrella, shoulders brushing, laughter swallowed by the sound of rain.
It wasn’t that far to the bus stop, but it felt longer somehow—each second stretched by the rhythm of their steps, the closeness, the quiet.

At one point, Keonho tilted the umbrella slightly toward him.
“You’re getting wet,” he said.

“You too,” Seonghyeon murmured.

Keonho chuckled. “Guess we’re bad at sharing.”

But neither of them stepped away.

When they reached the awning near the gate, breathless and damp, they just stood there for a moment—watching the rain blur the lights outside.

The silence wasn’t awkward anymore.
It was full. Heavy. Warm.

“Hey, Seonghyeon.”

“Hm?”

Keonho’s voice was softer now. “I like working with you. You’re … easy to be around.”

Seonghyeon’s heart stumbled. He swallowed. “I—yeah. You too.”

For a moment, Keonho just looked at him, really looked, the corners of his mouth curling up—not in amusement, but something gentler.
Something that made Seonghyeon forget how to breathe.

And then, quietly, almost too soft to hear—
“See? You do talk when you want to.”

— Little Moments 

After the rain, something changed.

It wasn’t loud or obvious — no sudden confessions or lingering touches. Just small, quiet shifts that lived between their everyday routines.

Like how Seonghyeon started catching Keonho’s eyes more often, and this time, instead of looking away, he’d manage to hold the gaze for a heartbeat longer.
Or how Keonho, who used to leave right after class, now somehow always ended up walking out at the same time as him.

“Coincidence,” Keonho would say whenever Seonghyeon raised an eyebrow.
And maybe it was.
But maybe it wasn’t.

They kept meeting to work on their project — but somehow, they talked more than they worked.

“Why did you choose literature?” Keonho asked one afternoon, sprawled over the library table like he owned the place.

Seonghyeon shrugged, keeping his eyes on the notebook. “It’s quiet.”

“That’s it?”

He hesitated, then murmured, “Words are … easier than people.”

Keonho hummed thoughtfully. “Then I’m honored you talk to me at all.”

That made Seonghyeon look up — and there it was again. That gentle smile, not teasing, not bright — just warm.

“Don’t say things like that,” Seonghyeon muttered, looking away. “It sounds like you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” Keonho replied, softly enough that it almost disappeared into the quiet.

And Seonghyeon didn’t have an answer for that.

Days started blending together after that.
Morning classes, quiet lunches, project notes passed back and forth with doodles in the corners — Keonho’s small sketches, Seonghyeon’s half-embarrassed comments.

One afternoon, Seonghyeon found a doodle of two stick figures under an umbrella in his notebook margin.
He stared at it for a long time before smiling just a little.

When he looked up, Keonho was already watching him from across the room.

Sometimes they’d meet on the school rooftop during breaks — Keonho liked the open air, and Seonghyeon … well, he followed, telling himself it was just easier to discuss the project there.

But they didn’t always talk about school anymore.
Sometimes Keonho would hum random songs. Sometimes Seonghyeon would listen in silence, pretending to study.

It felt peaceful.
Too peaceful, maybe.

Because peace could make you forget what you were afraid of — and Seonghyeon had always been afraid of wanting too much.

One day, as they were leaving the rooftop, Keonho suddenly said,
“You know, you’re different than I thought.”

Seonghyeon blinked. “Different?”

“Yeah. I used to think you were cold. But you’re just quiet. There’s a difference.”

Seonghyeon wasn’t sure what to do with that — especially not with the way Keonho was smiling at him, like he’d just said something important.

So he did the only thing he could — looked away, heart racing, and mumbled,
“You notice too much.”

Keonho laughed softly. “Maybe I just notice you.”

And just like that, Seonghyeon forgot how to breathe again.

That night, lying in bed with the sound of rain still faintly in his memory, Seonghyeon thought about all the little moments between them — the laughter, the silence, the closeness that didn’t need words.

And for the first time, he didn’t tell himself to stop falling.

He just let it happen.

— Memory & Meaning

It started long before the rain.
He just hadn’t realized it yet.

Keonho had always noticed Seonghyeon.

Not in the obvious way — not like the way people noticed who was the top of the class, or who was loudest during breaks. Seonghyeon wasn’t loud. He moved through the halls like a quiet note in a noisy song, easy to miss if you weren’t listening.

But Keonho had always listened.

He’d noticed the way Seonghyeon would tuck his hair behind his ear when he read, or how he sometimes smiled at something no one else saw. The kind of smile that appeared and disappeared too fast, like a secret only the sunlight got to keep.

Back then, it didn’t mean anything.
Or maybe it already did — he just didn’t have a name for it yet.

He remembered the first time Seonghyeon’s eyes met his.

It was after class, when most people had already left. Keonho was half-zoning out, head full of homework and the sound of rain against the windows. He’d looked up — and there Seonghyeon was, standing near the back, looking at him like he wasn’t supposed to.

And in that second — quiet, fragile, too short — Keonho had felt something shift.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even clear. Just … something. A pull, maybe.

Then his name was called, and Seonghyeon looked away, fast — but the moment stayed.

He hadn’t expected to get paired with him.

When Ms. Kim read the names, Keonho almost laughed out loud — not because it was funny, but because it felt like something was aligning in a way he didn’t understand.

And then there was that first library session.
The way Seonghyeon sat, careful and quiet, shoulders slightly tense like he was always ready to apologize.

At first, Keonho thought maybe he didn’t like him. But then he saw the way Seonghyeon’s fingers fidgeted when their hands brushed over the same paper, how his voice softened when he answered.

He realized it wasn’t dislike.
It was fear — or maybe something gentler, something shy.

And that made Keonho want to be even softer with him.

He thought about the rain more often than he’d admit.

How Seonghyeon had offered the umbrella without hesitation, eyes avoiding his but voice steady.
How their shoulders touched as they ran, and how every drop that hit them felt like something waking up.

He remembered the way Seonghyeon’s hair stuck to his forehead, the faint laugh that slipped out when they almost tripped over the curb, and the warmth that lingered even after they stopped under the awning.

Keonho still wasn’t sure what that moment was supposed to mean.
But every time he thought about it, his chest felt too full — like the rain had never really stopped.

Now, weeks later, he found himself noticing too much.

The way Seonghyeon chewed on his pen when he was thinking.
The way he tilted his head when reading something quietly funny.
The way he listened — really listened — when Keonho talked, even if it was nonsense.

Sometimes, Keonho would look at him and wonder what it would take to be someone he didn’t have to hide from.
Sometimes, he’d catch Seonghyeon looking back, and that wonder would turn into hope.

He didn’t know when the line between noticing and wanting had blurred.
Maybe it was when Seonghyeon laughed for the first time — really laughed — during one of their meetings, soft and surprised, as if he’d forgotten how.
Maybe it was when Keonho realized he wanted to be the reason it happened again.

Either way, it was too late now.

Because every moment had become a memory — and every memory, a quiet confession he hadn’t said out loud yet.

That night, lying in bed, Keonho closed his eyes and thought of Seonghyeon’s name like a secret prayer.

He didn’t know if Seonghyeon would ever understand just how much meaning Keonho had found in the smallest things — in every silence, in every look, in the spaces between words.

But maybe one day, he’d tell him.

Maybe one day, he’d stop pretending these moments were coincidences.

— The Festival Lights

The air smelled like roasted sweet potatoes and sugar.

Laughter spilled through the courtyard, tangled with the sound of music from the main stage. Lanterns floated overhead, warm and gold, swaying just enough to make the world feel softer than usual.

Seonghyeon hadn’t planned on going to the festival.
He’d told himself it wasn’t his thing — too loud, too crowded, too full of people pretending to be someone they weren’t. But then Keonho had asked, voice light and casual,

“We should at least check our class booth, right?”

And before he could stop himself, Seonghyeon had nodded.

Now they were walking side by side through the sea of color.

Keonho’s sleeves were rolled up, a half-smile on his face as he pointed out random stalls. Every time he leaned close to talk over the noise, Seonghyeon could feel his heartbeat somewhere near his throat.

“Try this,” Keonho said, handing him a small skewer of fishcakes from one of the stands.

Seonghyeon hesitated. “You didn’t have to—”

Keonho grinned. “Just eat before it gets cold.”

And Seonghyeon did. It was too salty, maybe a little spicy — but Keonho’s smile made it taste like something worth remembering.

Later, when the fireworks started, they somehow ended up away from the crowd — behind the gym, near the back field.

The noise was distant there. The lights from the stalls only reached them in little blurs. Fireworks painted the sky above, colors blooming and fading faster than their hearts could catch up.

Seonghyeon hugged his arms against the chill. “It’s quieter here.”

“Yeah,” Keonho said. “Better view too.”

They stood close enough for their shoulders to almost touch. Keonho wanted to say something — anything — but the words tangled up somewhere between his chest and his throat.

He looked at Seonghyeon, at how the light of the fireworks reflected off his eyes, and suddenly the whole world felt unfair — that he could feel this much and not be allowed to say it.

“You know …” Keonho started, voice soft, almost lost under the next burst of color. “I’m … really glad we got paired for that project.”

Seonghyeon turned, surprised, lips parting slightly. “Oh. Me too, I—”

Another firework bloomed above them — gold and white, dazzling.
The light flickered across Seonghyeon’s face, and Keonho’s breath caught.

This was it.
He could say it now.
He wanted to.

But Seonghyeon looked back at the sky just then, smiling softly — a small, unguarded smile that made something in Keonho’s chest ache.

And Keonho realized — maybe not yet.
Not when the moment was already this perfect, already theirs.

He let the words stay in his throat, heavy but warm.

Instead, he said quietly,

“You’ve got fireworks in your eyes.”

Seonghyeon blinked, startled — then laughed, soft and shy. “That’s … a weird thing to say.”

“Maybe,” Keonho murmured, smiling faintly. “But it’s true.”

They stayed there until the last firework faded, leaving only the glow of lanterns and the sound of distant cheers.

As they walked back, their hands brushed — once, twice — and neither of them moved away.

— Where We Fell Silent

The rain came back two days after the festival.
Soft at first — the kind that barely made a sound against the windows, like the sky was too tired to pour.

Seonghyeon watched it fall from his desk by the window.
His classmates were talking about the festival, laughing, trading pictures. He smiled when someone mentioned fireworks, but his chest felt heavy — like he’d left something behind in that night he couldn’t name.

He hadn’t really spoken to Keonho since then.

It wasn’t like they’d fought.
It was just… quieter.

The morning after the festival, Seonghyeon had walked into class and caught sight of Keonho talking with one of the girls from their year.
They were laughing. She’d leaned close to show him something on her phone, and he’d smiled — that easy, bright smile that made people stop and stare.

Seonghyeon had looked away before he could think too much.

It wasn’t like Keonho was his. It wasn’t even like he had the right to feel anything at all. But the ache in his chest didn’t care about logic. It just hurt.

By the time they had their next project meeting, the air between them felt different.

Keonho noticed immediately.
Seonghyeon’s words were shorter, his smile smaller. He didn’t look up much. Didn’t tease him about his messy notes or offer quiet little comments the way he used to.

“Did I … do something?” Keonho asked finally, after the silence stretched too long.

Seonghyeon blinked, startled. “What? No, I just— I’m tired, that’s all.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Keonho wanted to believe him. He really did.
But something about the way Seonghyeon said it — soft, distant — made his stomach twist.

The rain grew heavier outside.
Drops streaked across the glass, and the sound filled the room like a heartbeat.

Keonho wanted to reach out, to close the space between them, but his hands stayed still.
He didn’t know how to ask why are you pulling away? without sounding selfish.

Instead, he said quietly, “You don’t have to force yourself to hang out, you know.”

That made Seonghyeon look up, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“I mean … if you’re tired of this. Of me.” Keonho tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the rain.

Seonghyeon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to say that’s not it, wanted to explain that the problem wasn’t Keonho — it was him, it was how much he felt when he shouldn’t. But the words stuck, tangled with fear.

So instead he said the safest thing.

“Yeah. Maybe we should take a break from the project for a while.”

Keonho nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
His voice was steady, but something cracked underneath it.

He gathered his things, said a quiet goodbye, and left.

When the door clicked shut, Seonghyeon exhaled shakily, pressing his palms to his eyes.
Outside, the rain blurred everything — the world, the sky, the line between right and wrong.

He told himself it was better this way.
That maybe, if he let the distance grow, the feelings would fade.

But that night, when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Keonho under the fireworks — smiling, warm, close enough to touch.

And he realized the space between them wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything he couldn’t say.

— The Rain Confession

The rain hadn’t stopped all afternoon.
It poured in sheets, steady and unrelenting, blurring the city into smudges of gray and silver.

Seonghyeon stayed inside the empty classroom long after the final bell, pretending to tidy up his notes. Really, he was just hiding — from the noise, from himself, from the feeling that had been clawing at his chest since that day.

He told himself he’d done the right thing.
That stepping away was safer — for both of them.

But then why did it feel like something had been carved out of him?

He stared out the window, watching the rain roll down the glass. It looked like the world was crying for him.

He didn’t notice the footsteps at first.

“Seonghyeon.”

The sound of his name — quiet, breathless — made him turn.

Keonho stood by the door, drenched from the rain. His hair was plastered to his forehead, uniform clinging to him, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You’ll get sick,” Seonghyeon said before he could stop himself.

Keonho laughed softly — a shaky, tired sound. “Maybe. But you weren’t answering my messages.”

“I …” Seonghyeon hesitated. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Then just say what you mean.”
There was no anger in Keonho’s voice — just something raw. Something close to breaking.

The room felt smaller suddenly, filled with the sound of rain and the space between them.

Keonho took a step closer. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Then look at me.”

Seonghyeon did — reluctantly, trembling. And the moment he met Keonho’s eyes, he knew he couldn’t lie anymore.

There was hurt there, but also something else — something warm and terrified and desperate all at once.

“I thought you …” Seonghyeon’s voice cracked. “I thought maybe you were just being nice. That I made it all up in my head.”

Keonho blinked, startled. “Made what up?”

Seonghyeon swallowed hard. “That maybe you … liked being around me. That maybe you looked at me the way I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

But Keonho was already moving — another step, then another, until he was close enough that Seonghyeon could feel the warmth beneath the rain.

“I did,” Keonho whispered. “I do.”

The words hit him harder than the thunder outside.

“I thought you were pulling away because you didn’t feel the same,” Keonho continued, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to make things harder for you. But, god, Seonghyeon—”

He let out a shaky laugh, eyes glistening. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even when you weren’t there, it felt like you were.”

Seonghyeon’s breath caught. “You’re serious?”

“I’m soaked and freezing,” Keonho said, smiling through it all, “but yeah. I’m serious.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Seonghyeon took one small, uncertain step forward — and another.

Their foreheads touched, rain dripping from their hair, breaths mingling in the cold air between them.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghyeon whispered. “For running away.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Keonho replied, just as soft.

And that was enough.

When their lips met, it wasn’t dramatic — it was quiet, hesitant, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer to a question they’d both been too scared to ask.

Outside, the rain kept falling — steady, endless — but for once, it didn’t feel cold.

— The Morning After

Seonghyeon woke to the sound of birds and the faint scent of wet earth drifting through the window. He blinked against the light, disoriented for a moment — then remembered.

The classroom.
The rain.
Keonho.

And the way everything had finally, finally made sense.

He smiled without meaning to.

When he walked to school that morning, the streets shimmered with puddles catching pieces of the sky.
He half-expected it all to feel awkward — that maybe they’d both pretend it hadn’t happened, that they’d quietly fold last night away like something too delicate to touch.

But the moment he stepped into the courtyard, Keonho was already there.

Leaning against the gate, headphones hanging around his neck, hair still a little messy from the morning.
When he saw Seonghyeon, his whole face softened — that same bright, genuine warmth that always made Seonghyeon’s chest flutter.

“You’re early,” Keonho said, smiling.

“You too.”

They stood there for a second, unsure of what to do next — until Keonho reached out, fingers brushing Seonghyeon’s wrist like a question.

Seonghyeon didn’t pull away. He turned his hand instead, letting their fingers fit together easily, naturally — like they’d always known how.

The world felt quieter suddenly, but not empty. Just full.

They walked together, not talking much.
Didn’t need to.

The sunlight was soft, the ground still damp, their shadows stretched side by side.

At one point, Keonho said, “You know … I was gonna say it that night at the festival.”

Seonghyeon glanced at him, amused. “The fireworks?”

“Yeah.” Keonho laughed, rubbing his neck. “But you looked too happy. I didn’t wanna ruin it if I was wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Seonghyeon said quietly.

Keonho stopped walking, turning toward him — eyes warm, steady. “Yeah. I know that now.”

For a moment, everything else faded — the noise of the morning, the students walking by, the sound of the city waking up.
It was just them.

And Seonghyeon thought, so this is what peace feels like.

Later, when they reached the classroom, their hands brushed again as they sat down. This time, Seonghyeon didn’t hesitate — he just let his fingers rest against Keonho’s for a second longer than necessary.

Keonho smiled, quiet and sure, and whispered,

“Hey. You’ve still got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you get when you’re about to fall for me all over again.”

Seonghyeon laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Keonho grinned. “Good thing you don’t mind.”

Outside, sunlight broke through the last thin layer of cloud, scattering gold across their desks.

The world went on — same halls, same chatter, same pages turning — but somewhere between them, something had changed.

Something real.
Something that didn’t need words anymore.