Intrusive
For readers who like a visual aid, the main characters in this book are visually inspired by Cha Eunwoo and Jungkook! All characters, plotlines, and names are entirely original fictional creations.
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AKIRA
"I've been dreaming about him again for the past few nights.
Not the ordinary kind of dreams either. The kind that cling to your skin long after walking. The kind that follows you into the shower. Dreams so vivid they leave behind emotional residue.
I even dreamt about his family twice (odd, considering they were never truly mine to miss).
I don't think I'm ready to let go of him yet. I thought I was ready but I'm not, I wore my healing like a performance and spoke of growth with such certainty that I started believing it.
That's probably why I became so fixated on this guy in my class. The attractive one with the nice hands and annoyingly perfect hand tattoo.
I kept telling myself that he was exactly my type, thought by putting my attention elsewhere my heart or mind would follow suite.
But the moment he showed interest in me and started returning my glances, I was like Ew, there goes that crush. I literally get the ick when somebody reciprocates my delusions, cause that's what they are, delusions, I use to distract myself from the imminent and bigger threat, which is Atlan.
I think it's because the only person I want to reciprocate my genuine feelings with, is him, but it doesn't seem mutual. It's funny how I try avoiding him by trying to give others a bit of my attention yet he stays on my mind, comes in my dreams, and gives me chest pains.
I can't run away from him, I can't seem to run away from these feelings.
So, the day before yesterday I caved, I sent him a text and broke our 7th no contact. He responded yesterday with a beautiful email expressing his emotions
(it was the most heartfelt message I never knew I needed).
But deep down, I'm worried that the only reason he made those beautiful gestures was because once again I lead the way.
It still feels like I'm the one driving the relationship or situationship, I'm not sure.
(And all I want to do is give him the wheel and have him lead the way, but he never does).
I asked him to come over, he came over... When I saw him again, I was overwhelmed with joy, I was so so happy, I missed him so much... But shortly after he left, and at that time I was wondering whether I just made a mistake? Did I choose my feelings for him over my self-respect again? Is he with me only because of how accessible I'm making myself to him? Is he here only because he's frustrated? Is he making me his glorified side piece? All these thoughts crept in.
It's still concerning me because what if I'm just getting myself into something more painful, what if I'm just digging my own grave again? But I know how I feel, I know what I want from him, I know what I want to give him. I know that he's all I want in this world... But am I all he wants?
He's my person but I don't know if I'm his person.
If he's genuinely here because he indeed does love me as much as he says he does, then I don't understand what's stopping him from being with me? I don't understand what's stopping him from loving me openly? I don't understand why he's hiding me? I don't understand why he can't be true to himself and love me! And I can't even ask him because it's not like he'll give me an honest answer, or maybe he doesn't even know..."
Wow.
I stare at an old entry in the diary I found while rummaging through an old shoebox, hoping to find the retro claw clip I kept hidden in there because it reminded me of my ex. It's been three years since I've used a diary as a therapist.
I'm amazed by how trivial that feels now. I remember being beside myself, consumed by anguish, anxiety and hope; emotions I hardly feel anymore. It's strange how, in the moment, suffering convinces us that it is permanent. We treat unanswered prayers as punishment, closed doors as cruelty, and rejection as evidence that life has turned against us. Yet with enough distance, heartbreak begins to resemble something far less malicious.
Almost protective.
As though certain things were denied to us not to wound us, but because we could not yet recognise the danger hidden inside what we were begging to keep.
I remember crying myself to sleep every other night over him because he refused to love me in the ways I had romanticised. He wasn't tender the way male leads in k-dramas were tender. He didn't love loudly or desperately.
And still, I remained starving for him.
That was the cruel genius of breadcrumbing, never enough to satisfy, yet always enough to keep hope alive. Just enough affection to make abandonment feel temporary. Just enough warmth to convince you that if you loved harder, waited longer, became softer, prettier, easier to hold, eventually the incomplete love would transform into the kind you deserved.
But it never does.
Some people do not love you in halves because they are wounded or confused. Some simply love in portions because they know you will continue surviving on crumbs.
After being reminded of what the end of my world once looked like, intrusive thoughts swarmed in almost immediately. Many of them questioning whether I had been a good girlfriend to him at all, or whether that shallow, inconsistent love had permanently distorted my understanding of what deep love is supposed to look like.
Because perhaps that's the most dangerous thing about emotionally incomplete love, not the heartbreak itself, but the way it recalibrates your standards. How easily suffering disguises itself as passion. How waiting begins to feel romantic. How confusion starts masquerading as depth simply because it consumes you.
For a moment, I could feel myself slipping toward that familiar abyss, the one where self-blame disguises itself as reflection. But I stopped myself before I could fall too far into it.
I've worked too hard to heal.
Too hard to become someone softer, wiser, and more whole for my own sake, not for a man who could only love me in fragments.
And perhaps real growth is not the absence of those thoughts, but the ability to recognise that not every wound deserves to be reopened simply because it still remembers how to ache.
I place the diary back into the shoebox, and immediately grab the claw clip before putting the box back where my visible eye can't see it.
Perfect.
My hair is perfectly sleeked back, the cutesy retro claw clip bringing such a plain look together.
Total Eclipse of The Heart-Bonnie Tyler plays while Akira gets ready for work.
"You are the knife I turn inside myself," a famous line by Mr. Kafka. A line I consistently find myself pondering on time and time again.
How can a mere person become the blade one willingly presses inward? What kind of love allows another to exist not as peace or comfort but as incision? How deep must one feel to let devotion wound so fiercely and still choose it?
Because I know that such vastness is possible, I find myself quietly envious of Milena; so profoundly herself that another could fall not for her beauty, nor her presentation, but for her very essence.
She did not need perfection or a mask. She did not have to succumb to the world's expectations nor did she have to soften her edges to be seen.
Her existence alone was enough. And for someone like me, whose most naked self is often mistaken for weakness, I struggle to comprehend the idea of being loved so intensely, so wholly, without having to become someone else.
"Therefore the actus reus combined with the mens rea would prove he's criminally liable," I faintly hear my fellow senior colleague say, her words pulling me back just enough to make me realise that I've once again zoned out mid conversation.
Also, who zones out during an important one on one discussion about a case they're prosecuting just to spiral over a Kafka line?
If my absent mindedness were ever revealed, I doubt I'd be trusted with criminal cases ever again.
Its 15:58.
That's all that matters now.
Two minutes until I clock out.
I can already taste the sushi, the cool rice, the sharp green wasabi, the soy sauce soaking into the edges.
Focus, Akira! You're almost there.
"What are your thoughts, Akira?.. Akira Moon, are you listening to me?!"
Ah.
I've been caught.
Or maybe not. She's still rambling. She always is.
"My apologies, Emy," I hear myself say, the words coming out practiced and calm, as if I've been present the entire time. "Let me sit with it until tomorrow. then I'll be able to tell you which route I deem most appropriate."
It sounds reasonable. Convincing. Good enough.
I'm already halfway to the exit.
The walk to my car feels like an escape. I move quickly, as though the building might realise I'm leaving and pull me back in.
Sushi.
That's the reward.
I've been thinking about it all afternoon, threading it through legal jargon and Kafka and criminal liability like a secret promise.
I picture the rest of the evening unfolding perfectly, as it always does in my head.
Rupert, my male Bichon dog, trotting toward me in pure excitement.
The heat of the shower melting the day off my skin.
A scented candle flickering softly in my bedroom.
Then throwing myself into the warm embrace of my BTS themed sheets, awkwardly adjusting into an upright position, hands cradling the sushi bowl as I settle it between my crossed legs.
The tv glows in front of me, playing a new k-drama called Dear x.
Wow.
I just described my everyday version of a perfect day.
Predictable. Quiet. Complete.
At least until 22:00.
Because when cases get heavy, when they crawl under my skin the way today's has, the real work begins after 22:00.
That's when I think best.
One would say I have night owl tendencies.
