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i never hated driving - just the fact that i can’t have you in my passenger seat, singing off-key with me, or holding my hand as we wait for red lights to turn green. i never hated driving, or traffic, or potholes in roads - just the fact that every bump i face is a bump i face alone. i never hated driving - just the gas running low, the tail lights sometimes too far to follow in the fog and rain. i never hated driving - at night, i chase stars, my eyes not always on the road, and i wish on the brightest one for you (and me) to safely make it home.

the philosophic musings of a six year old

When I was little, I used to think stars were spaceships. That if I looked at one for long enough, I would get beamed up into the galaxy.

And it scared me — to think that I would be a part of something so big.

And it still scares me — because even after all these years, I can’t tear my eyes away from the night sky.

(I can’t fight the guilt for having dreamed for so long.)

Paper Heart

On two separate trains, speeding towards two opposing directions, two pairs of ears are listening to the same song. Two lonely people are awash with the same nostalgia.

One pair of lips mouths lyrics, seemingly unheard:

“I’ve got a pa-pa-pa-paper heart.”

Another hums the second half of the same refrain:

“I’ve got a pa-pa-pa-paper heart.”

Also, seemingly heard by no one.

And yet they hear the same words, at the same time. They sing (albeit unknowingly), to each other.

On two separate trains, speeding towards two opposing directions, one boyish redhead and one introverted blonde are listening to the same song. One bites her lip, pensive, and the other lets out a sigh.

"Your name’s still written on the side of my heart."


A mess of red peeks out from under the covers atop a bed in a New York City studio apartment. It seems to be disheveled hair, attached to a groaning twenty two year-old who does not want to wake up. Much to her chagrin, however, her alarm clock rings – again – and forces her out of her slumber. She drags her feet to the kitchen, flips on the switch to her water boiler, and in a half-dead stupor, watches bubbles begin to form.

The redhead yawns very, very audibly, her sounds drowning the gurgle of warming water. It’s Monday, unfortunately, which means her mundane life “at the office” must begin once again. She remembers random highlights of her college days while she steeps her tea – all memories complete with a familiar pair of hazel eyes, pert lips, and princess-like wisps of blonde. And at some point between the fifth and sixth steep, she wonders if her heart is still blowing in the wind somewhere, like the flimsy looseleaf that it is.

Hoping for a hurricane to blow it back where it belongs.


In another studio apartment not too far away, a girl with princess-like hair is singing in the shower. She sings about acting strong and being secretly fragile, about not wanting to be crumpled and wanting to be shielded from life’s storms. She recalls a time when she was not alone like this, in a studio loft that was homey but nevertheless – not home.

To her, “home” was always a place filled with laughter of a certain redhead and warmed by that same redhead’s hands. Her past homes took many shapes – dorm room couches, beach blankets on damp grass. Always nestled in the arms of her beloved. Always enshrined in a heart that was bruised and still loved – a heart that was bruised and still brave enough to love. A heart that, unlike hers, wasn’t (too) afraid.

And although there are no stars in the morning sky, the princess still makes a wish: that she would be given just one more chance to choose between fear and happiness.

She swears she won’t make the same mistake twice.


On two separate trains, speeding towards two opposing directions, two pairs of ears are listening to the same song. Two lonely people are awash with the same nostalgia.

One pair of lips mouths lyrics, seemingly unheard:

“I seem strong on the outside, but my heart is like paper.”

Another hums the second half of the same refrain:

“I like you so much that I’m actually afraid.”

Also, seemingly heard by no one.

And yet they hear the same words, at the same time. They sing (albeit unknowingly) to each other.

One train stops at a platform, facing south. The other train, facing north, comes to a halt on the opposite side. A girl combs through her princess-like locks as she exits the train, and at the exact same moment, a yawning redhead steps out onto the platform. And, like a wish fulfilled, their eyes lock, and their feet take hesitant steps toward one another.

The redhead stutters and soon turns speechless. The princess’ brown doe eyes start to water. Hands claim hands and lips sing (at last, knowingly) to each other.

The blonde unclasps their hands to reveal two paper hearts. One is undoubtedly the redhead’s own weathered looseleaf she had given away years ago, and the other unmistakeably belongs to the girl in front of her.

The blonde motions to the redhead to take what had actually been hers all along.

"Hold me tight," whispers the blonde. "In case I fly away again."

The redhead sees her named etched along the lines of the paper heart in her hands and somehow, knows with absolute certainty what the letters encased in the blonde’s own gentle grasp spell out.

A gust of wind bellows, trying the same tricks of the past that separated them once before. But it doesn’t work this time. The tomboyish redhead holds tight, and the introverted princess, finally unafraid, doesn’t let go.


Short little drabble inspired by this song off of f(x)’s newest album, Red Light. Lyrics slightly altered to better fit the story.

All that aside, this song is easily my favorite song these days. :)

Honey BBQ

"I can never eat wings with other people," I confessed one night while we were eating dinner.

You looked up from your plate, and licked your digits as you thought. My fork poked nervously at my order of boneless buffalo bites. You pursed your lips as you searched for the right words to say.

It didn’t take very long — probably because you wanted to keep eating.

"Me too," you said. "But because it’s you, I don’t mind."

Who knew someone could look so beautiful wielding a chicken bone and a bottle of Tabasco?

this is for you.

from the naretsuku project (retired).

Muting Snow

Over time, I learned to love body heat.

Yours, to be exact.

It was comforting — like finally, I knew what it felt like to not be alone. I used to believe that people were ultimately separate entities, forever isolated by the boundaries of our own bodies. But when we were together, when our bodies would rest on top of each other in train cars, bar stools, college dorm couches, and apartment floors — I began to understand what it meant to coexist.

On cold days — when classes were canceled and we were snowed in — I would trek over to the apartment complex next door just to have hot cocoa with you. My mornings would start with a text message from you, complaining of boredom and fatigue, my replies delayed because I can never catch a breath to check my phone during Jillian Michael’s 30-Day Shred. I would laugh to myself and tell you to get your lazy butt moving, all the time imagining you rolled up in bed, “burrito-style,” scanning Tumblr and Twitter while barraging me with frowny-faced emotes.

I would never tell you, but I loved how I was the person you would greet first thing in the morning. I loved how I was the one you would break your slumber for. How you would be doing “nothing” but talking to me.

I felt like your world.

And I would never tell you, but for that one year we were together, for that one year circumstances allowed you to be unhinged enough to find your way to me, you were everything to me.

Sometimes, you still are.

this is for you.

from the naretsuku project (retired).

Thirsty Thursdays

Some girls make out with each other when they get piss drunk at bars. We, on the other hand, would regress into child-like stupors and giggle, push each other, and you — without fail — would always, always slap me.

It usually went like this: I would make fun of you — for something stupid you’d say, or some inane way you’d behave — and then you’d slap me. Not hard, but tap me — somewhat forcefully — on the face.

You’d cup my face with your left hand, reel back your right. Our eyes would lock in a drunken haze, cheeks flushed. My lips would part slightly and my breathing would hitch. And then —


"What? What was that for? You slapped me!"
"No, I didn’t. I tapped you."
"You said that last time, too! You slapped me! She slapped me!"

I would wail and whine to whoever was with us that night, but everyone knew I actually like it when you “hit” me.

Because it really wasn’t hard at all. Because you wouldn’t do it to anyone but me. Because it meant that I was special — that even though I wouldn’t be the one you’d kiss or lie with in bed, I would be the only cheek you touched on the nights of our bar-hopping rendezvous.

On the ride home, you would always get sleepy. Your body would sway all-too easily from the rocking of the train car. Your forehead would redden, feel slightly feverish. And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you would rest on my shoulder, and I, on the top of your head.

We would split a pair of earphones and let tango music lull us to sleep. Invierno Porteno, Resurreccion Del Angel, Ensuenos, and — for some reason — Zum. My hands would hold our pair of tickets for the conductor to check while we slept.

And I would always feel content. Because in the end, I’d always found train cars more romantic than beds.

this is for you.

from the naretsuku project (retired).

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