Amidst a city that never sleeps, two souls with evident troubles forge an unforeseen affinity. She carries the weight of scars that tell stories of pain, while he sees beauty where others look away. Under the night sky, their stories interlace, reve...
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09 | 06 | 2022
The fairground's bustle faded into the background as the carousel lights flickered on, casting soft glows over the crowd. Iseul led Aaron through the stalls, past the laughter and shouts, her hand guiding him effortlessly between clusters of people. They moved with an ease that only familiarity could bring, a silence that didn't need filling. The air was cool, the evening deepening into a purplish dusk, and somewhere far above, the giant wheel loomed against the sky.
Without hesitation, Iseul tugged him toward the ride. The line was short, and the hum of the motor was almost drowned out by the surrounding noise. They boarded quickly, and the cabin creaked slightly as they settled in, rising slowly above the fair. The ground dropped away beneath them, leaving the chaos of the fair far below, and Iseul let herself breathe for a moment, feeling quiet.
Aaron tilted his head as if sensing the stillness. "What's it like tonight?" he asked, the question soft, almost absent.
Iseul glanced at him, her gaze drifting to the sky beyond.
The colors of the setting sun had started to blend, a slow fade from gold into muted purples and grays. She could feel the chill of the evening air, a kind of melancholy settling with it. "It's quiet," she said after a pause.
"The sky's turning dark, but there's still this line of light at the horizon. It's soft. Faded."
He nodded, lips pressed together, but there was no need for more. His hand rested on the seat beside him, fingers brushing lightly against the worn leather.
They rocked gently as the wheel continued its ascent. Iseul's eyes flitted between the sky and him, wondering when — or if — she would say what had been bubbling inside her for so long. They had been meeting for months, slipping into each other's lives with such ease it scared her. But tonight, something gnawed at her insides, a heaviness she could no longer ignore.
"Aaron," The words slipped out before she could stop them.
He shifted, just a little, his attention moving in her direction, though his gaze remained unfocused. His hand twitched slightly, the motion so small it might've been nothing.
She hesitated, her heart beating louder in her ears. "I think I... feel something." She swallowed, the words heavy on her tongue. "More than just this."
He didn't speak, but his posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. His hand, once relaxed, curled into a loose fist on the seat between them. She couldn't tell if he was bracing for something or if it was just a reflex.
"I mean," she stammered, trying to find her footing again, "I think about you. All the time. And—"
The wheel jerked slightly as it slowed near the top, leaving them suspended high above the fair. Below, the distant murmur of life continued, but here, in the quiet space between them, the weight of her words hung in the air.
She glanced at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but Aaron's face remained unreadable, calm in the way he always was, his sightless eyes fixed forward. His breath had slowed, though — just barely, almost undetectable, but she could feel it. There was a distance now, in the stillness between them. A distance she hadn't expected.
His hand clenched tighter, knuckles paling, and then he slowly unclenched it, as if deliberately willing himself to relax. The tension was palpable, though nothing was spoken.
Iseul turned away, her gaze trailing over the fairground lights below. The silence was stretching, unbearable now. Her chest tightened, her stomach twisting into knots. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She had imagined something different — a confession that felt easy, a response that made sense. But this? This was something else entirely.
The wheel moved again, slow and deliberate, and Aaron shifted beside her. His mouth opened, but no words came out at first. Then, quietly, like a sigh, he said, "Iseul... you don't know."
Her heart skipped. "Don't know what?"
He was still facing forward, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his shoulders tensed. His fingers lightly tapped against the edge of the seat, as if trying to ground himself in the moment.
"Whatever you're thinking. I don't know how it feels to be you, you don't know how it feels to be me. We cannot complement each other but only stand by the sidelines of each other's lives," he finally said. The words came out heavy, layered with things unspoken. He kept his voice calm, but there was a restraint in it, a struggle to keep something contained.
She swallowed; her throat tight. "That doesn't change how I feel."
Aaron's fingers stilled, resting on the seat once more. "It changes everything." His voice was firmer now, but he wasn't looking at her. He didn't need to.
The wheel stopped again, halfway down, leaving them suspended just above the crowd. The lights from the booths cast long shadows, and somewhere in the distance, music played faintly. But none of it reached them.
"I can't give you what you want," he said finally, quieter this time. "I don't see the world like you do."
Her chest constricted. She wanted to reach for him, to shake him out of whatever wall he was putting between them, but she couldn't move. Not here, not like this.
"But I'm here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Isn't that enough?"
His hand, once so still, twitched again. She saw the small movement, the hesitation in his body. For a moment, she thought he might reach back, that he might say something, anything, that would make sense of all of this.
But then his hand fell back into his lap, and his face turned away slightly his brow furrowing.
