Work Text:
The university dorm is pretty quiet now. Or, at least, quieter.
Earlier, the evening had been rowdy in the shared living space of the quad as they settled in, ready for the start of the new term. Someone had streamed old BTS music videos on the TV, and an inside-jokey chorus of cheers (“Suuuugaaaa!”) broke out every time Min Yoongi appeared onscreen, barely past his debut haircut. A card game started, then a game of werewolf, with shouts and laughter echoing off the walls in a way that made it seem like there were far more than nine men in the room.
But most of the group has now trickled off, back to their own rooms. A few bowls still sit on the low table, smudged with sauce. The air smells faintly of reheated dumplings and someone’s lavender sleep spray. Classes start day after tomorrow, and everybody’s falling back into their old rhythms.
Yuma’s curled in the corner of the sofa, a thin blanket over his legs, notebook propped on one knee. The Lamy fountain pen he likes for list-making, a smooth black ink that doesn’t smear when he brushes it with his hand, rests along the spine.
The notebook isn’t for classes. It’s one of the little Hobonichi ones he keeps around, then stores when full, all identical except for the different quotes on the cover and the stickers he adds. He started using them two years ago, after his sister convinced him to try bullet journaling. She made it sound fun, but he found he didn’t care about colour-coding or mood trackers. Just the lists.
The night-before kind, especially. There’s something about making a plan for tomorrow that helps him close the door on today. Like: Okay. I’ve sorted the pieces. I know where I’m going. I can sleep now. He taps the pen once against the paper then uncaps it, and starts his list for tomorrow.
Across the room, the new guy, Jo, is sitting on the carpet, leaning against the foot of the other couch. His arms are around his knees. He’s watching the music videos on the television, but not really reacting. Every now and then, he glances at the others still chatting — Maki and EJ half-whispering and laughing over a phone screen, Nicholas perched like a bird on the armrest and leaning on EJ to peek at the phone, too. Jo doesn’t try to join in. He just stays where he is, head tilted slightly, face unreadable.
He’s only been here a few hours. An art history or museum-science-something student, arriving this afternoon with one rolling suitcase and a shy apology for being late for move-in hours. His previous dorm’s plumbing had caused water damage over the summer break, so some of the people from his floor had to be reassigned to new housing. Harua’s old roommate had left after the spring semester in a cloud of stress and bad habits (good riddance). The empty bed in his room was given to Jo.
Yuma had introduced himself quickly. “I guess we’re quad-mates. Let me know if you need help finding anything.” But Jo had mostly kept his head down as he unpacked, polite and quiet.
Yuma watches him now, this stranger in a fading Tokyo University tee shirt who shares his walls and his bathroom.
It’s not that Jo looks uncomfortable. It’s just, he looks alone in a way the others don’t.
And maybe, Yuma thinks, that’s on him to fix. Harua was crazy busy and sometimes a bit too focused on his own stuff. He might not notice Jo could need help settling in with the gang. And when there are this many people living this close together, you have to settle in well so life stays peaceful overall.
He looks back down at the page in front of him, neat handwriting in black ink. He adds a final line to his list.
Tuesday, September 30
- Email registration a/b seminar switch
- Buy new hoodie string
- Check campus post box & get stamps
- Spend time w/ Jo
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Yuma is on the couch again around midday, threading a new string through the eyelets of his favourite hoodie. The replacement isn’t quite the right colour — too bright a blue, but it’ll do for now. The radio is playing low from someone’s Bluetooth speaker, the kind of sappy acoustic cover Yuma always finds vaguely irritating. But he still hums along.
Jo walks past, heading for the kitchenette and its rice cooker, with a half-empty packet of something in one hand.
“Hey,” Yuma says, not looking up. “When you’re done making lunch, come eat out here with me?”
Jo pauses mid-step. “Me?”
“No, your shadow,” Yuma deadpans. Then, more gently: “Yeah. You. Haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”
Jo blinks like he’s buffering. Then: “Okay. Should I make you something too?”
“If you do, I’ll eat it. You can use some of the chicken I left in there. I labelled the box.”
He says it with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. But when Jo disappears into the kitchen, Yuma smiles faintly and pulls the string taut with a soft snick.
Ten minutes later, they’re sitting on the floor with two bowls of rice, a plate of steaming seasoned greens, and thin strips of grilled chicken. Jo eats intently, eyes focused on his food unless Yuma says something — which of course he does: light critical commentary on the acoustic music that has continued to play (“It’s like they sand off the jagged parts that make the original song interesting!”), a brief overview of their quad-mates, all of whom Jo met last night in the shared living room.
Jo listens, nods, and eventually smiles as Yuma tells him about his own roommate Taki’s habit of waking him up to ask about crossword clues. But Taki is one of his best friends, so it’s okay.
Yuma asks about his old dorm — whether he left any friends behind — but Jo just shakes his head while scooping rice into his mouth.
“Didn’t have any.”
Yuma wonders if that’s because of Jo’s quiet nature, or something else. “What about your roommate?”
“I had a single room.”
Once, Jo looks up mid-bite and just watches Yuma for a second. Not quite shy. But looking unsure what to say.
Yuma catches his gaze. A loner, or a watcher, like me?
“It’s nice, right? Eating here like this instead of the loud cafeteria.”
Jo swallows. “Yeah. It is.”
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Friday, October 3
- Pick up laundry detergent
- Call Mom (wish her luck on Monday!)
- Bookstore — take reading list
- Ask Jo if he wants to try the new coffee place
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
It’s one of those cool, overcast autumn days that feels like it might rain but never quite does. The new cafe sits at the edge of a quiet shopping street just off-campus, tucked between a stationery shop and a used clothing store that’s always blasting city pop out its open windows.
Jo’s already waiting outside when Yuma arrives, arms hanging loosely, eyes on the chalkboard sign out front. Yuma clocks the subtle tell — Jo has one foot tucked behind the other, like he’s ready to step backwards at any second.
“You came,” Yuma says, smiling. “I was half-convinced I’d get a ‘sorry, can’t make it’ text at the last minute.”
Jo looks up, startled. “Why?”
“You seem like the type to get cold feet about casual plans with near-strangers.” Like me.
Jo opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s clearly unsure whether to confirm or deny.
“I’m kidding,” Yuma says as he holds the door open for Jo and motions for him to head inside. Inwardly, Yuma thinks he likes keeping Jo a little off-balance. “Mostly.” He watches Jo begin to pass him in the doorway. “I’m like that, too.”
At this, Jo pauses on the threshold, his gaze swinging up from the floor to meet Yuma’s eyes, his mouth a small surprised “oh”that is quickly replaced by a shy smile. Jo faintly nods his head in thanks — for the door? for the confession? — and walks forward.
The café has soft lighting and faux-distressed wooden tables. A mismatched pair of couches and a lumpy wingback chair sit by the window, a low, scuffed coffee table at the centre of the arrangement. At the back of the room, a small stage, freshly painted a theatrical black, holds a microphone and a stool pushed to one side, waiting. They order drinks — Jo gets a fizzy juice, Yuma some seasonal boba thing that looks like autumn in a cup. While they wait for the drinks, they lightly bob their heads to the soft music from the wall speakers. They don’t really look at one another.
They sit across from each other at a small blue-stained table meant for laptops and quiet work. For a while, they’re silent. Yuma peels the paper sleeve off his straw in slow spirals. Jo watches Yuma’s hands as if expecting the paper to do something interesting.
Yuma decides to talk first. “You can relax, you know.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re sitting like you’re about to apologise to the king.”
Jo laughs softly. “I’m just not used to this.”
“This?”
“Being…invited.”
They sip.
“I like this place,” Jo says eventually. “It’s peaceful.”
“Yeah. And the bookstore I like is two doors down. I was just there to grab a few things for class, but I forgot to get a new notebook. I think I need a large one for projects.”
Jo glances at Yuma. “Another one?”
“You say that like I have a problem.” Mock offence, with no sting in the accusation.
Jo shrugs, but there’s the ghost of a smile. “I mean. I see you write in one every night. And I saw the shelf in your room. With lots of them.”
Yuma lets that sit for a moment. Then, casually: “Come with me, after this.”
Jo looks up.
Yuma meets his eyes. “I mean — if you don’t have to be back right away.”
“I don’t,” Jo says quietly.
“Good.”
They don’t talk about much that’s important — just music they’ve been listening to, how Jo accidentally started walking toward his old dorm twice in the past few days before remembering, childhood nicknames.
But there’s a thread between them now.
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Monday, October 14
- Student union — ID card
- Prep notes for group project check-in
- Find charger (Yudai’s room?) or order new
- Use “Jojo” — see how he reacts
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The rice cooker clicks off with a soft series of beeps. Jo lifts the lid carefully, steam curling up around his face that he inhales deeply as he gives the rice a gentle stir. Behind him, Yuma leans against the counter, sleeves pushed up, opening a plastic container of leftover grilled eggplant Harua had labelled with pink ink: not spicy. Someone else wrote in blue: probably. Taki, most likely.
They move easily around each other now. Not fluid exactly, but comfortable — small shoulder turns, a duck of the head, unspoken awareness of space. They’ve shared enough dinners by now that it’s become a rhythm. They only go to the cafeteria if their quad-mates are going as a group.
After Jo dishes up the rice, Yuma adds a spoonful of eggplant to each bowl.
“Jojo,” Yuma says casually over his shoulder, as he carries both bowls to the small kitchen table. “Can you grab the chopsticks?”
Jo pauses mid-reach into the drawer. Then he laughs, a small, surprised sound. “My mom used to call me that. When I was small.”
“I know,” Yuma says, grinning. “You told me. It suits you.”
Jo hands him a pair of chopsticks. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“I remember.” Yuma nudges him gently with one elbow. “Especially because you talked about yourself. Doesn’t seem to happen often.”
Jo ducks his head, but he’s smiling again. It lingers, even after he sits down and starts eating.
They chat calmly, slowly, for the rest of the meal — the uneven pressure of the quad’s shower water, Taki’s weirdly intense devotion to the puzzle pages in the newspaper, how the seasonal drinks in the lobby vending machine changed from melon to chestnut.
At least once during the meal, Jo calls him by his own childhood nickname. It seems he also remembers.
They talk about maybe joining the film club together.
But the names continue to hover between them.
Jojo.
Yuma-chu.
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Sunday, October 19
- Submit film club RSVP (shortlist screenings!)
- Read units for midterm: New Historicism, cultural materialism
- Return umbrella to Nicholas
- Plants: move closer to window, dead leaves, water
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Yuma is tucked into the far end of the couch, one leg curled under him, notebook open on the armrest beside a mug of toasted rice tea gone cold. The TV is on low — some nature documentary, mostly birds and wind noise — but he isn’t really watching. He’s flipping through pages, checking off a few boxes with his pen and drawing a soft underline under return umbrella to Nicholas like it’s more meaningful than it is. He’s made a bullet for the next item on the list, but hasn’t decided what to write yet. He’s been hesitating over it for several minutes.
Jo wanders in with a bag of snack mix and sits down without a word, leaving a respectful cushion of space between them. For a minute, he just eats quietly, eyes on the screen. Then:
“You write in those every night?”
Yuma doesn’t look up. “Pretty much.”
Jo shifts a little closer, angling toward the notebook. “Is it, like... a diary?”
“God, no,” Yuma says, laughing. “I’d rather chew glass than reread my own feelings. If I even know what those are.”
Jo smiles at that, but waits.
“They’re lists,” Yuma says, nudging the notebook slightly toward him. “Just... what I need to do tomorrow. It helps me sleep. Like, I’ve already figured out tomorrow. So I don’t have to think about it again.”
Jo leans forward enough to peek at the page. His eyes scan the entry slowly.
“Umbrella return,” he reads. “Underlined. Important.” He glances at Yuma with a teasing smile.
“That’s Nicholas’s favourite one. Apparently it’s lucky or something.”
Jo nods, then looks at the margins. “You decorate them?”
Yuma shrugs. “Sometimes. Depends on how tired I am. Sometimes I just do checkboxes. Sometimes I get fancy.”
Jo goes quiet for a second. Then, gently: “Do I ever make the list?”
Yuma looks up sharply.
Jo’s still studying the notebook, not quite meeting his eyes.
Yuma considers saying something else, considers deflecting.
He doesn’t.
“Sometimes,” he says, carefully. “But not, like, capital letters. Just things like... ‘ask Jo about the cafe,’ or ‘spend time with Jo.’ Little stuff.” His eyes find Jo’s face, subconsciously looking for the small dot of a beauty mark beside his nose before looking at the dark eyes he’s started to notice more lately.
Jo nods again. The bag crinkles softly in his hands as his gaze drifts back to the television screen. A rocky coastline, white birds with tawny yellow heads diving into a foamy sea. Gannets, says a soothing voiceover, plunge into the sea from heights of up to forty metres. Air sacs under their skin protect them as they impact the water.
Then: “That’s kind of nice.”
Yuma’s not sure if Jo means being on the nightly list or about the birds having protection.
Either way, he doesn’t stop looking at Jo’s profile until he recalls the notebook beside him. He lifts his pen with a small smile.
- Birds
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Wednesday, October 29
- Read for lit seminar: Greenblatt, Lever, Montrose
- Pick up order from bookstore — ask JJ to join
- Reply to advisor
- Clean bathroom shelf
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The bookstore has narrow aisles and music just loud enough to keep things from feeling too quiet. It always smells like paper and hand lotion, and someone’s left an open coffee on the corner of the help desk, mostly foam by now. It’s not the shop Yuma invited Jo to last time. This one is in the heart of Jimbocho, far from campus and near an arts enclave.
Yuma picks up his order at the service desk — a used book of critical essays on 18th-century English poetry and a clean new copy of Mori Ogai’s Gan to replace his dog-eared one — then heads straight to the shelf where the notebooks live. He picks up a softcover in a shade of powdery blue, runs a thumb across the edge.
Jo follows a few steps behind, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He’s looking at everything and nothing — scanning the titles, brushing past staff picks without reading them.
“You’re allowed to wander, you know,” Yuma says, glancing back.
Jo stops. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to just get what you needed.”
“I mean, I do. But I also brought you here on purpose. Thought you might like it.”
Jo glances around again, slower this time. “It’s nice. Kind of warm.”
“Exactly,” Yuma says, dropping the notebook into his basket with a soft thunk. “Warm and full of possibility. Dangerous combination.”
They drift for a while — Yuma pausing to flip through a table of cookbooks, Jo skimming through a rack of local zines. At some point, they end up back in the stationery section. Jo stops at a display of blank journals and picks up a pale orange one without opening it.
“I never really used these,” he says with a shrug. “I used to try. It never stuck. Writing felt hard.”
“Maybe you just need a good reason.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward, just still.
Jo sets the journal down, but his fingers linger on its front. “Maybe.” His hand doesn’t move, but a sly smile begins to build itself cautiously across his face. “Lists are a good reason, right?”
Another smile joined his, this one pinched up at one side in an approximation of a smirk.
“The best reason.”
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Friday, November 14
- Clean desk
- Check tickets
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The quad is unusually quiet for a Saturday night. No clatter from the kitchen, no Fuma grunting through a mini workout in the living room. Saturday nights are usually when Yuma drifts into Jo’s room and they study together.
Yuma lies on the floor, chin in hand. Jo sits on his bed, back to the wall, eyes closed, a book resting shut on his lap. Yuma reads the spine: Museum Registration Methods. It sounds boring, but Jo doesn’t usually doze off while reading.
“I’m almost done. Then I’ll head back and let you sleep.”
Jo’s eyes open immediately. “Oh — no, don’t. I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Yuma says, half-teasing. There’s warmth behind the scold.
“We walked a lot today. I’m just… resting.”
“And I’m saying I’ll let you rest.” Yuma glances down at his notebook — the list half-finished, ink pooled at the last bullet. He’d watched Jo sleep while trying to decide if he really wanted to tackle laundry on Sunday or spend the day reading with no interruptions.
“Thanks, by the way,” Jo says softly. “For the bird park. You should’ve let me pay.”
“Nope.” The pen cap clicks shut — a quiet period at the end of the day. “I told you, it was my treat.”
“Well, thank you again. I’ll buy your coffee and mochi next time we’re in Jimbocho.” Jo puts his textbook aside and scoots to the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress edge as he leans forward a bit to look down at the open notebook and pen — the unfinished list. “Giving up?”
“Yeah. I think I’m tired, too. We did walk a lot.”
“Going to bed?” Jo’s fingers rasped lightly against the taut sheet.
“I’m going to grab a snack first.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jo says, already standing. By the time Yuma pushes himself up, Jo’s halfway to the kitchen.
The hum of voices reaches them before they step in. A few of the others are leaning against the counter or each other, passing around a bag of crisps and a packet of seasoned seaweed. Harua has two long strips of dried octopus hanging from his mouth, which Taki keeps tugging at like a puppy’s toy rope.
Yuma grabs a handful of string cheese packets from the fridge and passes them backward to Jo without looking. He stretches on tiptoe for a box of crackers on the shelf over the fridge — until Jo’s hand appears above his, reaching easily.
They join the others in the living room, settling among the couches and floor cushions. The conversation drifts from winter break travel plans to final term assignments, laughter rising and falling like waves. Maki tells a strange story about a tree spirit from a book he just finished reading. Harua follows with one about teaching Fuma the difference between a vinaigrette and an emulsion as part of his project to civilise the rest of his dorm-mates.
Jo doesn’t say much, but he listens well. When he does speak, he’s surprisingly thoughtful. He watches the group quietly, less like an outsider this time. Yuma bites into a stick of cheese, smiling around it when those dark eyes turn to find him — steady, amused, a quiet question there.
Yuma stops chewing. Simply looks back. Those dark eyes. Looking at him, only at him. The whole world could stop right now and—
“Where were you today, Yuma?” Yudai’s voice cuts into the moment. “I thought you were writing a paper this weekend.”
“He dragged me to the wild bird park,” Jo says, still looking at him. His voice is soft, teasing, with a quiet bubble of humour — the kind of joke meant for two. Dragged. Yuma knew that Jo had been practically hopping on his toes on the train, excited to see the birds at the end of their journey.
“Yeah,” Yuma starts. His voice sounds too loud in his own ears. His face feels warm. He hadn’t watched the birds much at all; he’d been watching Jo. “I wanted to see the seabirds.” He gropes for a fact to hide behind and recalls what Jo had been watching on television a few weeks ago. “Did you know gannets have air sacs under their skin?” he blurts out, then gulps. “Like big cushions. They protect them when they dive into the water.” His voice is quieter, but it squeaks on the last word.
He realises he sounds unhinged.
The rest of the group looks at him curiously.
Jo reaches over and pats his knee, as if soothing someone on the brink of a meltdown.
“That’s kind of nice.” That velvet voice again, the joke, the bubble.
The same thing he’d said before. But now, with his hand patting Yuma’s knee.
Oh. Yuma blinks, hard. It hadn’t been about the birds after all.
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Friday, December 5
- Bookshop — Hobonichi orange + Lamy fine nib
The sky curls in on itself, pearl clouds fold into darkly shadowed layers that hang low. It is cold out, and Yuma ducks his chin into the neck of his jacket as he walks. It feels strange to be in Jimbocho alone now, like he’s forgotten something back at the dorm. He thinks about what this means as he crosses the street, what it means personally and what it means in the larger scheme of things. He stands for an indecisive moment outside the door. Maybe this is too much. Maybe I misunderstood.
He knows he hadn’t. It’s been over two weeks, long past time for him to make a decision or formulate a response. They had all been so focused on exam week that it was okay to be a little late. But exams are over, and now it’s time to act.
The ting of the bell over the shop door sounds like a benediction as he steps into the bookshop. He quickly finds the items he came for, and purchases them quickly, without dawdling in his usual corners and before he can chicken out.
Anyways. That’s one thing off today’s list.
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Wednesday, December 24
- Finish packing
- Fill water bulbs for plants
- JJ
The wrapping paper crinkles slightly as he adjusts his grip. Yuma didn’t anticipate that Jo’s door would be closed, so he stands there, unsure what to do. It had taken him nearly half an hour to force himself to do this, and he’d only managed to get this far because it seemed pretty straightforward. Now he’s forgotten what he wanted to say in the first place. He stands with his nose nearly brushing the wood grain of the door, listening to his own deep breaths as he tries to keep his courage up.
He raises his hand to knock just as the door opens with no warning. Harua is brought up short, nearly colliding with Yuma’s raised fist. He has a towel on his shoulder and a basket over one arm, clearly on his way to the shower. The two men look at one another in surprise, then Harua quirks an eyebrow. “You’d better put me down with the first punch,” he grins.
“Oh, ha ha. Yeah, sorry.” Yuma quickly lowers his arm, moving the other one to hide the package behind his back. “Is Joj— uh, is Jo here?”
“Not in here, anyway. This morning he said he had to run an errand in the city, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh, uh—” Yuma’s voice trails off. “Yeah. No big deal. I’ll look for him later.” He spins in place and starts back to his own door, then stops. He turns around again. “Hey, Harua.”
“Mm?”
“Don’t tell him I was looking for him.”
“Yeah, okay.” Harua gives a little wave over his head, already walking toward the shower room.
Back in his own room, Yuma drops the package on his desk and collapses onto his chair, the anxiety drained from him. He sits in silence for a few minutes, looking at his hand on the desk next to the pale blue wrapping paper. He’s gone back and forth on this so many times, it’s no wonder he’s worked himself up. It really doesn’t have to be this big a deal, he thinks. It’s simple. It’s just a friend giving a friend a gift. Happens every—
A soft knock at his doorframe, then Jo enters.
Yuma promises himself to find Harua and give him a thumping. “Did you just get back?” He turns his chair, trying to keep Jo from seeing the gift on the desk behind him. He knows it’s pointless, but at this point he’s mostly panic in a hoodie. He feels like laughing for no reason.
“Mm.” Jo sits on Yuma’s bed, phone in hand. He’s looking at it with a slight frown, as if deciding what to say. Yuma waits. When Jo finally does speak, it’s hesitant, halting, as if he’s waiting for Yuma to react with every word.
“The winter break is coming up.” Jo’s long fingers start turning the phone over and over in his hand. Yuma watches, fascinated as the overhead light glints across the screen. “It’s almost…” Jo stops and finally looks Yuma directly in the face. “We’ll all be going home for a couple of weeks.” He pauses, then taps his phone screen a few times, looking for something. He lifts the phone to hand it to Yuma. “I don’t have your phone number.”
Yuma takes the offered phone. A mostly blank contact card is on the screen, ready to fill in. The contact name reads Chu-Chu.
“I know we’re all in the group chat,” Jo continues, sounding like he is gearing up for a defence. “For the quad…”
“Yeah, but it’s good to have actual phone numbers.” Yuma tapps in his number, then clicks on the blank contact photo. The camera opens up, and before Jo can say anything, he raises his arm over his head and snaps a photo. He looks at it for a second, crops a little off one side, then saves the card. He hands the phone back to Jo with a sideways grin. “In case you have a short-term memory issue. Wouldn’t be good to have you come back and not recognise me.”
While Jo stares at the contact card and its photo, Yuma reaches behind him to grab the package.
“I, uh. Here you go. Happy Christmas.” He’d felt like laughing only moments ago, but now he’s terrified as the image of a diving gannet flashed across his memory. He’s in freefall, heading for the water, too fast to stop or turn aside. He wonders what will cushion him from the impact.
His grip is so tight on the wrapped parcel that Jo has to tug it a bit before he remembers to loosen his fingers and let it go.
Later that night, while lying in bed, Yuma thinks about Jo’s face when he got his phone back and looked at the photo. Jo’s eyes had sparkled when he’d seen it.
Yuma couldn’t have missed it if he’d tried.
Yuma sleeps knowing that he hasn’t misunderstood anything and that, subcutaneous air sacs or not, he’s survived his plunge.
‧₊˚ ⋅ ✎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
In his own bed, in the room next door, Jo re-reads the inscription inside his new journal:
Hope I make the list someday. — Y
Jo uncaps his new pen, and writes.
Wednesday, December 24
- Kiss Chu-Chu