❝ 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴. ❞
Park Ye-jun was a quiet kid. Smart, but reclusive. And one in his life was his eter...
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14一 and he felt amused, if slightly
༻𖥸༺
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN HE LOOKS in the mirror and instead of fixing his appearance, all he can see is the irreversible mistakes of his past, every scathing word written upon its glassy panes and it quickly becomes too hard to keep looking.
Then days pass and he still cannot gaze upon his person, adamantly refusing to do so when the maids ask him to see if the clothes they've dressed him in are to his taste. He knows that at those times he is filling them with concern and worry, but he cannot bring himself to care.
Even now, he is fourteen, filled with the memories of a twenty-three year old who do nothing but leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
He has lived. He has died. He has been reborn.
That's all there is to it一all that should be to it, but the cold comfort of knowing the process does little to erase the scars left behind by all he's lost.
Dying changed him. He is no longer the same, and he knows it. He tries hard to not think about it, he really does, and at times he succeeds, and he forgets about the hollow feeling in his chest.
He's lost the ability to care一 or, more accurately, he cares, if only selectively. It was a change that he had a hard time coming to terms with. His newfound lack of empathy and increased apathy was concerning in so many ways, but he can't seem to be able to fix himself.
He feels so close to shattering, one slip away from completely breaking down, and that scares him.
His life as Ye-Jun is filled with regrets, filled with 'what if's and 'if only's and 'only if's and now he's just bitter, no matter how desperately he tries to change.
He looks upon himself, rarely nowadays, and he does not see the regal visage of the Imperial Heir, he does not see the son of Emperor Claude de Alger Obelia, he does not see himself as Athanasius. Instead he gazes upon the shadow of his past, upon the bespectacled tired face of Park Ye-Jun, upon every defect, every single mistake, every letdown and every opportunity that he'd missed.
He cannot see the good that he carries.
He's melancholic and lost and pathetic and he feels like crying but he cannot. Will not. Because that would mean defeat, and he is nothing if not stubborn.
He has lived. He has died. He has been reborn.
(Why can't those words make life easier?)
Ye-Jun should be but a story of the past. A fragment of who he now is, but life has never been simple, has she? Even after death, he can't bring himself to forget the life he's lived.
And this, this is not a second chance. It's not retreading old ground, nor making up for the past. It's a new path, a whole world of possibilities, and would not his sister want him to pick himself up, dust himself off, and try again?
