Archive of Our Own ^beta

There are so many firsts after his return. His first exhale. His first words. Their first shared tears. Their first conversation.  Their first shared eye contact. His first sentence. Her first inhale without the air feeling like glass.

The first version of his name leaving her lips without it tasting like battery acid, without the claws of grief carving a new hole it can find warmth in. The first held gaze without it coming from a YouTube video on loop of stolen glances and speculations of what could have been, but never quite.

The first ghost of a touch that does not feel ghostly, but more like a promise, a vow that becomes so. The first beat of a heart that is reflected, mirrored in ways that it is honest, but also divine. The first embrace that feels like a warm blanket that eases all the chill that exists, and spares warmth to encompass the ones to come, leaving no place for gelidity or the promise of such. The first joke that sounds more like a vow, a prologue to a pocketbook more. The first eye roll that is meant to express vexation, but only speaks fondness and yearning in calligraphy.

Rumi reaches like she is reaching for the stars, closes the space between them as if the distance is an affront, and cups his jaw as if she is afraid that if she does not, he will fade. Jinu exhales – the first true one in months in the in between, in being here, but never there, in somewhere, but also nowhere. He leans into her touch as if this is the first time he has known kindness; lets her fingers draw warmth in planes that have only known the cold caress of cruelty in an eternity of emptiness. She shares his gaze – tries to find the jape, the illusion in the flecks of gold, but only sees the adoration, the realness she had tirelessly wished for, lamented on in the space of triumph and loss.

“You are here.” She says the first words that came after exhaling his name – an exhale warranted, wanted, after months holding in her breath. A shudder escapes, makes itself known, but she does not quiet it. Rumi has lost shame when it comes to mourning, when it comes to trying to carve a life in the hollowness that was left of her when he vanished, disappeared like a star losing its shine. “Am I,” she pauses as doubt creeps in like a friend forgotten, reminding her of its existence, “dead?” The question lands like the answer is accepted, as if the truth of it is something she already knows and has come to peace with.

Jinu closes his eyes, savoring her touch, her breath that feels like the wind’s gentle caress against his skin before allowing himself to smile – the first real one in a while, the first after his death. “No,” he says, the word shaping his lips in a whisper that echoes, that warms the chill that has settled in her resolve as if it is the only acceptable truth. “I am here. I am with you.” He adds because it needs to be said, because she needs to hear it, because he needs to hear it for the first time.

The truth of it echoes – dangles like wind chimes softly singing under the wind’s gentle caresses. It reverberates, ebbs and flows, and eases itself like comfort, like fleece over a shoulder that has only known how to tremble under the weight of gelidity. The two of them find themselves drawing to it closer as if the truth is never enough, as if they need to chase towards it in order to believe that somehow they ended up underneath each other’s touch, in between limbs that have gotten used to loss, in the hearts that have only known compromise and letting go.

Rumi draws a breath – the first that does not feel tight, restricted like a coil wedged in between her ribs and lets herself melt against him even when the doubt is still clinging heavily like an incessant child that wants attention. “How?” Because it does not make sense, because kindness always comes with a price, with an ask that can never be returned – or so, she has been made to believe. She has never known kindness without sacrifice, and has carried the belief that it is limited, fleeting.

“I do not know.” Because he does not, truly, know; because this is the first time that he has been given something without asking for a piece of himself in return. A kindness that does not feel like a threat, but settles wrinkles, smoothens edges even when the cause of it is jagged. “But,” because it needs to be added, it needs to be said, “maybe it is an early Christmas gift.” He chuckles, and it is rich, full of life like coffee with the bitterness balanced, and its warmth feeling like an embrace than an assault.

Rumi drinks it in like she is chasing away a hangover that has lingered too long, and allows herself to get lost in the sincerity that twinkles underneath the brown in his eyes that are entirely human, entirely his. She draws herself closer, closest against him and feels the outline of him that once slipped away from her fingers, that once evaded her before they can ever be.

She chuckles because laughter is easy now, because laughter does not feel like a knife against her ribs. “It is September. It is not Christmas yet, Jinu.” She jokes now, and her eyes are starlight after an evening of rain and clouds.

Jinu finds himself looking on, stargazing in the constellations of her; and the tears come, but they are not storms, but drizzles as the heavens open in appreciation, in a happiness that used to be a stranger. “It is an advance Christmas gift then.” He says because it feels like it, because coming back to life, coming back to her does not feel mundane, should not be. He is not one for grandiose gestures or loud announcements, but for the first time, he wants to be. Jinu will hang the stars and the moon himself if that will mean that he can hold her even after the universe tried to pry them apart.

“You are impossible.” Because he is; because this is, entirely, impossible and yet, possible in ways she cannot fathom but will not question.

He smiles because it is the only thing he knows now, and a tear escapes like a pearl wanting to glint under the weight of sunshine. “Merry Christmas, Rumi.”

And for the first time, he drinks her in, and she chases for it.

The next months are for discovery, for first times that echoed and indented themselves in the shape of Rumi and Jinu – shapes that crested and replaced scars, hovered above to intertwine with bruises of pasts that shaped them into who they are, what they are.

First conversations that opened wounds that were sewn shut terribly, wounds that never healed, but festered after neglect. They talked. They resolved. They persevered because they have to, they need to. There has been too much pain to dwell on what was done and how it was done. Forgiveness should not be past its ripening in order to be said, and blame should not be placed in places where they have no business in being.

Conversations happened, but they did not circle on pity nor did they settle on anger – they had teeth, yes, but for the first time, the bite did not injure nor scar, it quieted something that needed to be chewed and swallowed even when it is difficult. A tide of emotions that quieted as it rolled its first wave that is broken into something softer before it touched the shore.

There have been tears, but not of sadness and an anguish that is never ending. Some pierced through words that are too hard to breathe, but need to be exhaled; most by a happiness that is terrifying and can never be contained.

The conversations never ended, only evolved in ways where there is love wedged in between words, where there is a certain care without needing to be too careful, where every word spoken is a vow to keep, to live on. Conversations that, for the first time, never needed words, only touch, only a quiet understanding that speaks volumes when silence is needed or when it happens. A love and forgiveness that thrived in observation after years of only knowing to observe what did not matter.

The months came and went, and with them have been festivities, of evolutions of themselves that are too far, but never quite from the versions of themselves they started with. Birthdays happened and so did celebrations, and before long, September eclipsed, and has become December.

The television is background noise – a stuttering mess of comedy and the typical Korean drama subplot for the second leads trying to figure out how to speak each other’s language without getting too tongue tied – while the room burst into an asymmetrical noise of life that made up of conversations that lost its axis and the loud sizzling of garlic on top of scalding oil. Mira is sprawled on the carpeted floor with tape clinging onto one pink strand, and acting as a bridge between hair and cheek while Zoey worries her lip, whispering the days left and trying to reassure herself that she has enough time to wrap her packages up once they arrive.

Rumi, on the other hand, has made a chair out of the kitchen table, legs dangling by the edge as if she is by a river bank, lips shaped into words she has been humming. Her mind is elsewhere, somewhere, in between here and there, juggling the present and the checklist she has been writing up absentmindedly. Jinu, with all his seriousness, busies himself with sizzling garlic, green chili peppers, potatoes, mushrooms, and onions as if he is their personal chef.

It is not the first time they seemed domestic, where they existed, and there is no fight in their bones, but it is the first December together where there is their shared laughter and the silence that learned to become comfort. There is something sacred about it, something special, like the fact itself is akin to opening presents after Christmas day, and getting what you never thought anyone knew you wanted so loudly.

Rumi hums again before she jumps to her feet, and abandons her river of thoughts that has become a grocery and gift list she has not had the time to fulfill. She pads over to Jinu, who seems to be immersed in the art of perfecting a meal no one can ever quite replicate. She wraps her arms around his waist without preamble, presses her cheek against the length of his spine just as she hears him exhale into a sigh that sounds more like one exhaled after a day when comfort is given at last.

“Hungry?” He asks, even though he knows that is not what she is hungry for, that she is chasing for touch, for comfort when her mind becomes too restless and she needs to ease it like a wrinkle under iron.

Rumi hums in answer as if words are never needed – they never usually are. “We should go Christmas shopping.” She says after a beat, after Jinu has shifted to reach for the chicken she helped chop while he laughed at her skills.

The chicken meets the pan in the sizzle that quiets, but with a scent loud enough to pique the interest of the two. Mira perks up from her struggle with wrapping up her gifts for Bobby, and Zoey tries to fight the urge to saunter and taste what is not yet ready.

“We should.” He says as he looks outside, and sees winter tease the cerulean sky with the promise of snow.

Jinu threads their fingers together as if he is crocheting himself into her existence in loops of imperfection that is entirely them, and pulls her to him with hurried steps that echo promises he has been keeping. They weave through the crowd nameless, their breaths caught underneath the shelter of black facemasks that do little to hide their laughter and smiles.

The Namsan Tower stands tall before them – a figure of the scars and the mistakes they have made, but also a tangible proof of acceptance and a love that only knows sacrifice. It looks down at them in a knowing that makes both their hearts thrum in a different beat that lacks the ache that is trenches deep. The pain is still there, ignited, but the flame is low like a candle offering comfort in the midst of a blackout.

The afternoon is now folded in a quiet hum, the blue in it light like a gentle stroke of a brush as clouds form and hover in a way that does not diminish the sunlight flowing through in slants. The cold comes in a rush with a promise that rustles coats, and permeates through fleece, a prologue to what will become the rest of the days now that winter has finally come.

Their steps echo through each step they take, and with it is the sound of their laughter that is entirely excitement. Jinu looks over at Rumi with a secret he has been holding onto, the sparkle in his eyes speaking volumes that she wants to listen in on to. Beside them, a few strangers watch in parts curiosity and a happiness mirrored, coming from theirs that bled out in vibrant shades too strong to ignore.

“Where are we going?” Rumi asks as they settle by the area where the sky touches the edges of each skyscraper in a kiss that is gentle, welcoming. The right question was why, but she does not verbalize it, settles for the ask for location instead.

Jinu stops by a booth that sells locks and keys, and turns to her with a smile that has never faded. She sees the sparkle underneath each gold and the intent in them, and Rumi realizes how well she has learned his language in such a short span of time. “Here.”

“Why?”

“I want to be at the highest point in Seoul once the first snowfall comes.” He says, suddenly sheepish, but underneath each word is a careful meaning woven in pride and a desire to pass down a tradition and a belief he has heard, but never believed he would have the chance to live through.

“Cheotnun,” Rumi whispers, her heart suddenly full. She feels a certain heaviness settle, a heaviness where the weight is welcome, where it blossoms with warmth that reaches each corner of her body, of her soul. Tears prick the corner of her eyes, but she blinks them away just as Jinu nods to confirm what she just said. She tries to find the words to deflect as he shares her gaze, as he holds it in a way that it is an embrace. “You are so old.”

Jinu chuckles, shakes his head as he pulls her closer to him, and gestures over to the booth. “And yet, you are not running away.”

“Would not dream of it.” Because she would not – would never. If Rumi will run, it will be towards him or with him.

He chuckles again because laughter is the only thing he knows when he is with her, because it is easy, because it is with her. “Come on, pick a lock.”

“Cheotnun and love locks.” Rumi feigns a gasp as she turns to him, eyes bright. “Who knew you would be such a romantic?” She asks, voice teasing, but with a softness is entirely for him, forever will be his. She points at an indigo lock shaped in a heart nonetheless, and tries to contain that terrifying feeling of love that fizzles, desperate to be let out.

“Only for you.” He says it, and the honesty is raw because it is true. His life before her felt like an eternity of emptiness, and it is only now that there is a fullness that does not feel like a threat or a kindness that is asking for something in return. “I have learned about the virgin snow since I was a child.” He adds just as the shopkeeper hands them the lock and a pen to inscribe it with.

There is a joke that wants to be said, a remark about his age that fights to be named, but Rumi ignores this and offers him her ear as they near the fence with the rest of the locks with strangers’ loves sealed. They greet them like a promise, and she feels her heart thrum in a careful song that reminds her of a violin.

“My mother,” he adds as he looks on, and for a moment, the constellations in his eyes are weathered, obscured by the cloud of grief that never really goes away. Rumi squeezes his hand – once, twice, thrice – in the beat of her own heart as reassurance, and he skims the pad of his thumb over her knuckles to let her know he is present. “She told us all about it when I was a kid, and then again when my sister was born. She told me about the tradition – how she always spent it with my father.” He pauses, and the twitch in the corner of his lip is a cry that wants to be let out, but one he quiets. “She would hurry us out the moment the wind changed, when the sun is too gentle, and the sky is more white than blue. She said, that despite life being unkind, there is still hope for a fresh start, a new beginning and for as long as the first snowflake still exists, so will hope, so will the opportunity to begin again.

I never quite believed in it, but even after I…” He trails off, runs a gloved hand through his hair. “Even after I left, I would still stand and wait for the first snow, and imagine they are doing just the same, hoping, waiting. I stood and waited to honor them even after centuries when they are no longer flesh and bone, but ashes.”

Rumi nods in silence, keeps her hand in his because there is nothing to be said, nothing to be comforted.

“I would wait, but would never hope, but since you,” he laughs again, but not in humor, not in tragic comedy, but in the reality of the situation in a disbelief that cannot be contained by a simple curve of his lips. “I found that I can still hope, that I want to, that I want new beginnings, new firsts with you, and a long-lasting relationship for as long as you will have me.” He pauses. “And while it hurts and it is weird, standing here in the place where I… betrayed you and clinging onto a tradition I do not think I have every right to, I think, I am – we are allowed to exist in places where grief used to lie and make new ones not to cover it, but to intertwine this, to live on in spite of.”

Rumi turns to him, stunned into a silence that is comforting, that has touched places in her soul that she has not come to terms with. The words ease, and they settle like it is something that does not want to cover, but to heal spaces, wounds that she keeps telling herself are for later. There is always something about Jinu, about the way he weaves his words that touches her in places she does not even want to explore. It terrifies her, but at the same time, it allows her to set sail without fearing the waves that will pull her under. Eventually, she knows, she will be able to surface, and he will be there by the buoy.

“Then, let’s begin again, not to erase the past, but to exist with it without being burdened by it.” She says after a while, after a beat, after the skies open and the first snow falls on her cheek.

December’s days melt and pile into one another the way snow does – quick and unrelenting, and before you know it, the carols are starting to fade in a careful murmur to make way for something sacred.

Lights in their merrily bright red, green, yellow, and blue still stand, illuminating pathways covered in white dust, but they are softer as if the rush of the days are making way for a silence, for a certain slowness. People who litter the streets, and thrive in it have dissolved, and the bustle that came along with it loosened as if the footfalls never existed, as if the prints of shoes on snow are nothing but phantoms of life lived outside in the cold than in warmth. The line to Santa has quieted for a while, in a way that it waits for afternoon and the evening to fold in a way where everyone is desperate to be outside, and to seek places where delayed wishes spoken still have weight.

The penthouse is quiet in the morning, the morning light soft as it slants and lands in places where traces of yesterday’s festivities are strewn. The television is set to a hush that echoes, but never lands. My Demon plays its final episode, the minutes waning as it speaks the joys of reunion to its viewers in a way that it touches, it speaks what loss is and the after. Jinu glances at it from time to time as he finishes preparing Christmas breakfast with a reverence reserved for the people he has chosen to love, and allowed to. On the couch, Derpy purrs with sleep in each snore whilst Sussie sifts through the Christmas tree for an ornament.

He finishes placing the utensils by the side of each plate with a silence he is fluent with, and carries himself towards the door to Rumi’s bedroom with a plan that burns in his pocket. His lips are curved in a mischievous smile, one that never ceases to exist as he reaches for the mistletoe he bought after finding out about it from Zoey. He places it on top of her door easily, and as if fate has plans in fulfilling this for him almost immediately, the door opens to Rumi with sleep woven into her eyes.

“Um,” she whispers as she stops herself short in front of him, a few inches shy from colliding against his chest. “What are you doing?” She asks, peers through her purple hair with one eye open.

“Good morning.” Jinu says as he brings his hand down after successfully placing the mistletoe. He grins widely at her as if he is the sun himself, and Rumi finds herself blinded. “Merry Christmas, Rumi.”

“Merry Christmas, Jinu.” She says without pause as she rubs the sleep off her eyes. “But, what are you doing?” She asks again, and Jinu tucks her hair behind her ears so she can see better. She blinks the sleep away from her eyes rapidly, and sees him pointing up as if that will answer her question. It does. “Let me guess – Zoey?”

He grins, and leans in, but only enough so she can smell the mint in his breath that indicates that he has thought this through to perfection. She wants to frown, wants to reply something sarcastic, but it dies on her tongue at the thought that he went all this way again just for her, just to love her so loudly. Rumi’s heart aches in that gentleness she has known to be love, and she tilts her face up to brush her lips with his.

“Mhm,” he hums in answer just as he seals the space between them – their first kiss (the first of many today, and many more Christmases to come) underneath the mistletoe.

Later, when morning sits still in that in between of its ending and the start of afternoon, they gather around the living room with stomachs full of laughter, love, and Jinu’s homecooked meal. The television is changed, set to a random Netflix movie dissolved into a fireplace log, Christmas songs in instrumental playing in loop without exhaustion.

Zoey’s the first to distribute her gifts wrapped in recycled paper to maintain sustainability, to save the turtles – an act she is most proud of because apparently, the earnings from the wrapping paper are going to be used to rescue endangered turtles. The gifts are entirely them, and also entirely Zoey – touches of themselves intertwined in the way she has chosen what they love or what she is sure they will love. Mira received a pair of boots that are strikingly for her – loud pink with a stiletto that screams danger. Bobby received a sweater that said, “Best Dad”. Rumi received a blouse that boasts all the right places she tried hiding before. And Jinu? Jinu received a notebook, part book where the first pages were littered with Zoey’s handwriting. It reminded him of the ilgi his sister made for him, and he tries to hide the tears with a whispered thank you as he runs his hand over the norigae.

Mira’s gifts were masterpieces as if the wrapping papers are origami disciplined to protect what is hidden underneath. Jinu compliments it, and Mira hides the pride in her face with a roll of her shoulders. The gifts are exactly what she thinks the wanted – Zoey with a plushie of turtles, Rumi with a brand new acoustic guitar, Bobby with a mug and tumbler to compliment Zoey’s gift, and Jinu with a ladle that has his name etched in the handle. He tries to feign offense in it, which she returns with a retort about how he would not let anyone in hiskitchen when he is cooking.

Bobby’s gifts were simpler, but with a careful touch of a father. He gifted Zoey a new bundle of notebooks after hearing she has run out. He bought Mira new gloves for her motorcycle after finding out she rides without any. Rumi received new hair ties after learning hers are starting to fray and she is too stubborn and sentimental to buy new ones. He gifted Jinu the chance to debut as a solo artist or the choice to be a producer if he wants to be.

Rumi and Jinu’s gifts spoke like they ran their checklist with one another and collaborated with the way they seemed to compliment the ones they bought for the rest of the group. Rumi gave Zoey a turtle shirt; Jinu gave her a set of pajamas to pair it with. Rumi gifted Mira a leather bracelet adorned with spikes; Jinu gave her a set of earrings to match it. Bobby received a coat from Rumi that accentuates his shoulders; Jinu gave him a shirt with all his girls (and him, Derpy, and Sussie in it) to match it.

“Are you sure you guys did not plan this?” Zoey asks as she fixes them with a look that tells them that whatever denial they will answer, she will not believe it.

The two of them shake their heads before Jinu hands Rumi hers with a small smile in his face. The box is small, wrapped in purple silk, and a blue ribbon. Her fingers tremble by just feeling it – anticipation and a warmth that only belongs to a love that never quiets sitting loudly and wildly in between her ribs. She looks at Jinu as if he has brought her the whole galaxy, and made them into jewelry, and for a moment she hesitates.

“Go on,” he says, whispers, and in the words is a reverence that she has never heard from anyone but him.

She catches her lip under her teeth, and worries it for a while. It is not what is in it that scares her, but its symbolism. This is the first gift he is giving her – their first exchange that marks the first of many. She carefully reaches for the blue ribbon, and pulls to release the knot. The purple silk falls away delicately like a petal, and it reveals a rectangular wooden box. Intricate patterns are etched on the surface – patterns that are iridescent, and looks entirely like theirs curling around a phrase that reads, “내 인생에서 내가 제대로 한 일이 있다면, 그것은 당신에게 내 마음과 영혼을 바친 것이었습니다. (If I did anything right in my life, it was when I gave my heart and soul to you).”

Rumi’s breath catches in her throat, and the tears come, but this time it feels like a cleanse than releasing an ache that is too much to bear. She presses her lips against each other to quiet the sob as Jinu urges her to open the box. With trembling fingers, she does, and the sight of a purple binyeo and hair brush welcomes her. Rumi looks up at Jinu, and he shrugs as if he had not just given her air to breathe in her lungs.

“The brush is more for me. I love brushing your hair, and braiding it.” He says, his smile sheepish, and Mira mutters something about boyfriends who actually listen enough to rewrite the terms of devotion. “The binyeo is a promise.”

Rumi nods as her fingers run against the two items that have the same inscriptions as the box, the weight of it a welcome ache that she savors. She takes them in for a while before she closes the lid, and places them beside her delicately, reverently. She gives Jinu a glance before she reaches for his gift and hands it to him.

It is long – heavy with the weight of what is inside, and what carries it. Jinu fixes her an inquisitive look before he tears the wrapping paper. A soft casing greets him with blue undertones underneath the leather with an inscription written in small strokes that are undeniably Rumi’s.

“To Jinu – may your songs carry the love that you have for me.” Jinu reads it aloud as he traces it with the pad of his finger in wonder. He looks at Rumi with parted lips, and she nods, urging him to continue.

“Open it.” She says, her smile wide, and Jinu does just as.

The zipper is loud in the silence as everyone holds their breath, including the television that has run its course. He lifts the cover delicately as if she handed him her heart, and he is afraid to break it, and reveals a bipa. The air stills just as his sight blurs. It is his turn to forget how to breathe.

“I do not know what your bipa looked like, but I am hoping I got this right.” Rumi says, suddenly sheepish, apologetic.

Jinu blinks away the tears, and tests the strings with a strum that echoes and delights the Honmoon. The other three sit in a silence that tells them they are holding their hearts in their sleeves for the two.  “It is perfect. You are perfect. Thank you.”  

There is that ache again, but it is unwrapped in a way that it is fragile, but not heavy.

The days after are slowed, as if they exist to pause, to wedge what is left of the past in between a future that is days away. Rumi stands by the Christmas tree that is singing in careful instrumentals, the lights glimmering in time for each harmony it stitches. Jinu has his chin resting in the space between her shoulder and neck, arms wrapped around her waist that is pillowed by her own.

“Should we bring down the tree?” Rumi asks as the silence settles like a quiet hum, a warm blanket that cocoons than heats. She watches the skyline from the corner of her eye; the sky wild with starlight, drones, and a few fireworks that mark the new year minutes early.

Jinu hums as he turns his face to graze his lips on her temple, breathing her in, grounding himself in a way that reassures him that this reality is solid, entirely real. “I do not want to.”

Rumi hums as she watches the clock tick carefully, minute sounds announcing the impending new year five minutes away. “Why not?”

“Does not feel right.” He chuckles, low and silent, but in a way that is resigned to contentment, to a joy that never existed until then.

A firework bursts in shades of purple and red, and Jinu looks on in awe, in the promise of another year to add to his many centuries without the weight he carried before.

“Then we will keep it.” She says, affirms, as she feels his hold grow tighter around her. She turns, angles herself so she is facing him, smiling at him with the twinkle in her eye. “Thank you, Jinu.”

“For?”

“For coming back to me.” She whispers as if thanking him will break the spell, and this is just a cruel dream induced by hospitalization. Grief momentarily catches up to her, the clouds crowing the amber in tears she had not shed since then. She feels the claws, and tries to temper it. “The world was so empty without you.”

“I know.” He says as he kisses her lips – chaste, soft enough to erase the fear, the grief he has seen in her eyes. It is in his, too. “My world was empty without you, too. I was in limbo;  where you were there, but I could never quite reach you.”

“Let’s not do that again.”

“Do what?” Jinu asks with an arched brow just as the clock edges closer to twelve – two minutes, a breath away from another year.

“Exist without one another.” Rumi says, speaking the fear into existence. “I cannot, will not do that again.”

Jinu nods as he holds her close, as he brushes his lips on her temple. “I promise. I am not going anywhere.”

“Good.” She adds because she has to. “I refuse to welcome another morning without you.”

Silence settles for a while before it is broken by the sound of collective fireworks announcing the new year. The world suddenly feels possible, kind, and both of them hold onto one another as if it is the only thing they know.

“Another year,” Jinu says, whispers like he cannot believe it, like the weight of years is suddenly too light, though not non-existent. “And it does not seem so bad – not with you. Thank you for letting me breathe again, Rumi. I do not think I have thanked you enough for making me believe that I can have this, that I can return to you and begin again.”

“It is another year to your belt.” She jokes because she has not joked enough, because she refuses for old wounds to determine this homecoming, this new year.

He chuckles, nudges her with his nose before he kisses her. “I would add all the years I can if it means that I get to spend them with you.”

“Stop turning my jokes into something romantic,” there is no bite to it, only a certain type of calm that does not erase, but accompanies a grief that is learning to become acceptance and a foot forward with the right person holding her hand. “But, that aside, here is to many more years with us, with you.”  She cheers, speaks it to existence, toasts the promise with a kiss that she starts slow with warmth and the promise of surrender, of a future she never thought possible. Jinu returns it with reverence, with the hope that he mourned and buried before, but now gets to live; with a beginning that used to be oceans away that he can now swim to with ease, with her.

As the new year starts, unfurls in minutes, they both sigh acquiescence – here’s to firsts.