𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 | (𝐆)𝐈-𝐃𝐋𝐄

𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐬

The night the blackout hit, Yuqi was in the middle of editing the last sentence of her short story.

Her laptop flickered, gave a mechanical sigh, and died.

“Seriously?” she muttered into the darkness.

Across the street, Soyeon had just dipped her brush in Prussian blue. She froze as the lights above her blinked once—twice—and disappeared with a click that felt louder than it should.

Great, she thought, sighing into the void. No light. No color. No power. Just her and the dark again.

---

Both women ended up at their windows, illuminated only by the ghostly shimmer of the moon.

Soyeon noticed her first.

A girl across the street, leaning on her window frame, backlit by the soft flicker of a candle.

Yuqi met her gaze by accident—then didn’t look away.

The silence between them stretched. It should’ve been awkward.

It wasn’t.

Yuqi tilted her head, curious. Soyeon, usually shy, raised her hand in a small wave.

Yuqi blinked, then smiled.

That was enough.

—

Fifteen minutes later, Soyeon stood outside her door, sweater hastily thrown on, flashlight dead in her hand.

She took a breath. Then knocked.

Yuqi opened her door with a flickering candle in one hand and a bemused expression.

“Hi,” Soyeon said, voice soft. “Thought we could be powerless together.”

Yuqi blinked, then grinned. “You’re the painter.”

“You’re the writer.”

“You’ve read my stuff?”

“Through the window. Sometimes you talk to yourself when you write. It’s cute.”

Yuqi’s ears burned. “And here I thought I was being mysterious.”

“You were.” Soyeon smiled. “Until now.”

---

They walked through the neighborhood, guided by moonlight and curiosity.

Yuqi’s shoulder brushed Soyeon’s occasionally. Neither of them pulled away.

“How long have you lived across from me?” Yuqi asked.

“Two years.”

“Two years, and we’re just meeting because the universe decided to hit the off-switch?”

“Guess it had to get creative.”

They laughed—softly, nervously. It felt like the beginning of something they hadn’t expected but somehow always wanted.

---

They wandered past darkened homes and empty roads. Talked about small things at first—why Yuqi always writes with her blinds half-open, how Soyeon listens to jazz at 2 a.m., why they both keep odd sleeping schedules.

Then it deepened.

“Painting helps me breathe,” Soyeon said, her gaze on the stars. “When things feel heavy.”

“Same with writing,” Yuqi murmured. “I put it all on paper so it won’t drown me.”

“So we’re both just trying not to drown?”

Yuqi turned to her. “Maybe we don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

---

The blackout stretched into the next day. And the next.

They made a routine of it. Afternoons with sketchpads and scribbled poetry. Nights with melted candles, shared tea, and stories told beneath layered blankets.

One evening, Yuqi found Soyeon sketching a woman with a pen behind her ear and a coffee ring on her manuscript.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

Soyeon didn’t look up. “Maybe.”

“I’m flattered.” Yuqi stepped closer. “Though I do think my hair is a bit more chaotic than that.”

Soyeon chuckled. “I cleaned it up. Artistic license.”

“Remind me to do the same when I write about you.”

Soyeon raised a brow. “You’re writing about me?”

Yuqi leaned in, their faces inches apart.

“You’ve been in every sentence since that first knock.”

The silence between them thickened—not empty, but full. Soyeon’s breath hitched.

“Yuqi.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not just writing stories anymore.”

“No?”

“You’re writing us.”

---

When the lights finally blinked back to life, they didn’t cheer. They didn’t even flinch.

They were sitting side by side on Yuqi’s couch, Soyeon’s head resting on Yuqi’s shoulder, a half-finished sketch on the coffee table between them.

“So...” Yuqi said, watching the lights flicker above. “Do we go back to normal now?”

Soyeon turned to her, smiling.

“This is normal now.”

---

From then on, Soyeon painted walls filled with colors inspired by Yuqi’s stories, and Yuqi’s next book was dedicated to “the artist across the street who lit my world before the lights ever did.”

And in that quiet neighborhood, under streetlamps and soft music, two once-silent lives played in harmony—louder, brighter, and undeniably together.