𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ༒ minho, tmr

forty-one ~ this time tomorrow

☾

The cool night air drifted through the arch, blowing softly against Londyn's face as she sat perched on the ledge of the bedroom window. One leg dangled over the side, with her back pressed against the frame.

A notebook sat in her lap, its pages already filled with messy handwriting and doodles. The pen in her hand drifted over a blank page, her fingers trembling slightly as she hesitated to write the first word. 

This had become a nightly ritual for her in the six months since Minho had been taken. Writing letters she would never send, and never knew where to send, spilling her heart onto paper because it was the only way she knew how to keep him close to her.

But, tonight, it felt harder than ever. Londyn swallowed hard and took a deep breath, her eyes locking onto the lines on the page.

"Minho," she began, her hand shaking slightly as the ink bled onto the paper.

"Six months. It's been six months, and I still can't believe you're gone. I still wake up every morning expecting to see you sitting across from me, that this has all been some kind of sick nightmare. I keep thinking I'll turn around and find you standing there, telling me to stop worrying so much, that I'm acting like a Greenie. But you're not here, and it kills me. I'd give anything to hear your voice right now."

Her breath hitched as she paused, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the tears threatening to fall. She hadn't cried in days, having fallen into the habit of choking them back whenever they tried to come. Her body was too exhausted to cry anymore. Six months of this agony had drained her in ways she couldn't put into words.

She pressed on, her pen moving faster now.

"I don't know if you're okay. I don't know if you're even still alive. But I have to believe you are, because if I don't, I don't know how I'll keep going. I miss you so much, Minho. I miss your stupid jokes. I miss the way you look at me. I miss your laugh. Do you even laugh anymore? Do you remember how to? I hope you do. I hope they haven't taken that from you too."

She blinked twice, willing the tears back as her hand stilled. Londyn exhaled sharply and tapped the pen against the paper, internally begging herself not to break again.

A knock at the door startled her. Londyn quickly closed the notebook, placing it beside her on the ledge. "Come in," she called, her voice hoarse from hours of not being used.

The door creaked open, and Newt ambled inside, balancing a tin plate of food in one hand and a cup of water in the other. He closed the door behind him with his foot, making his way over to her.

"I brought you dinner," he said softly, crossing the room and setting the plate and cup on the small table beside her bed. His gaze flicked to the notebook on the windowsill, then back to her. "Thought you might be hungry."

Londyn managed a small smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. It hadn't in six months. "Thanks, Newt. You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well, Frypan made something edible for once. Figured it'd be a shame if you missed it," he said with a faint smirk, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness. He stepped closer to the window, leaning against the frame as he studied her. "You've been quiet today. More than usual. What are you thinking?"

Londyn shrugged, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the notebook. "Just thinking, I guess."

"About him," Newt said softly, not as a question but as a certain statement.

She nodded, her throat narrowing as she looked down. "Always."

Newt sighed, crossing his arms as he gazed out the window. "It's going to happen, you know. This time tomorrow, he'll be here, with you."