Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Noémie had been to meet the person she dreamt to be, that person thriving off of their passion in their own time, but not the one she dreamt of being, she didn’t think I would cry. Not because of the pride the girl lacked, but because she would have opened my heart to them. Her, or whatever, an extension of her being in and of itself, and her heart wouldn’t have been able to hold back from pouring itself out. Whether this person be her or her soulmate, Noémie wouldn’t have wanted to be them, as messy as that sounded.

She didn’t think she would cry for that reason, meeting that someone meant for her in every way she could think of, thus the dream version of herself. A future Noémie with wealth and pride and self-sufficient workings to keep creating in this difficult world. No, she didn’t think she would cry tears of joy, that day with her soulmate.

This girl thought she would cry, though, of her young self-searching years being cut short. She didn’t want to be tied down so quickly, to whoever they were, when she wasn’t done with her studies, when she wasn’t done with discovering herself, and just living life on her own for some time. Noémie would cry for that being cut short. Because she knew, she had known since she had gotten this second mark at her eighteenth birthday, that she would meet this supposed other half when she was twenty-two. More or less.

Did she resent this person? No. But was she looking forward to getting to know them? Somehow, also no.

For many years she thought she would be able to live her life, and meet them when she had made the right steps to getting closer. Noémie thought it would be her choice, that she would get to choose when, and how.

Noémie had never been able to see red, and after many trials, she wasn’t deemed Daltonian. It was just her body choosing not to be able to see red before she met this other half. The girl had every colour captors, and she just didn’t see red. Not that her body adapted and gave her a weird colour balance, no, red was just grey. Purple was a greyish blue, and brown was a very grey and yellow. It was weird, and easily deemed nothing to worry about for her family. Just a Soul Link.

For her entire childhood, this was it, Noémie would meet that person when she had grown to be ready, and she would then see red.

But no. Life and magic had decided to fuck with her. Uni was sure to be fun, she had started her first semester there, celebrated her birthday with her classmates in October, far enough in the year to have made some friends, and short enough to not be known by everyone.

That timer had appeared like a sick joke. Not only was she linked one way that person, but twice. Two Links meant twice more luck to meet. And never did people not meet their soulmates. She was doubly sure, then, that this person would meet her four years later, whether Noémie liked it or not.

Not only was it not her choice anymore when she would meet my soulmate, but it was dictated. She would meet them at five thirty-two on a Thursday afternoon on the sixteenth of October of twenty-twenty-five. It had been written on her wrist, plain as day, ticking down every second. People rejoiced and she sombered.

She felt she was too young, that she didn’t know herself, how life worked, and magic wanted her to meet this person when she wasn’t halfway through my twenties? She had wanted time for herself, to learn about life alone, travelled the world, and not have four years… by herself. She hated being by herself. But she didn’t want this perfect other half so soon, the only thing she waited for was for them to come so that loneliness could leave. But four years? It wasn’t enough to learn yourself. It wasn’t enough to be lonely, to understand what it meant to be alone. She thought that so young, she wouldn’t have time to learn to be independent. She wanted time to learn, but she hadn’t been given it.

To say the least, Noémie was one of the few who didn’t look forward to the day.

So on that day, after having three panic attacks, worried her friends into leaving her alone, found herself in the city centre, Noémie sat down at her regular coffee shop. A seat on the little terrace, sure to know when they would be there. She had ordered a piece of cake and a hot chocolate she hadn’t touched, her notebook open on the table, and huddled her face in her hands.

Five minutes, two, and then a single one. The sixty seconds were going down too fast.

She hadn’t planned this meeting, she hadn’t been ready, she wasn’t ready, she was too young. She felt too young.

None of her friends were present, having all left for their Master’s elsewhere, and she felt lonely. So fucking lonely.

The moment the timer hit zero was when she realised her bracelet was red.

They had seen her.

The time has hit zero, and she was not in pain, they were not dead, and they were there.

-

It was unusual for a nine year old to not know their Soul Link. Most of the time it was just because they had never understood it, pointed a finger at the anomaly that had always been theirs, but for a few cases, it just arrived late. Usually names and timers came young, but sometimes they arrived late. However, Namjoon just didn’t have anything until he was just over nine, and he recognised the way his heart beat faster than it had, it wasn’t his body, his mind. He felt fine, and then liberated, or light.

His Link was just late, his parents realised, when after a few weeks he had been feeling things that didn’t come from him. He was confused, why was he crying, why did he feel betrayed? Why those feelings when he had been perfectly content at school, playing with his friends.

He was fine, he wasn’t sick, it was just a Link. An emotional link to his soulmate, who’s feelings were all over the place, ever changing even in his adolescence.

He thought this was it. He would known who his soulmate was by their feelings, and he thought it would be amazing. An emotional roller-coaster between him and them, fighting against easy Links to meet. It would be a challenge, but one he wanted to face head one, more and more as he grew.

And then he had thirteen years written on his wrist. Thirteen years before he was to meet his Soulmate.

All the images he had made in his head, the haste to meet them, to share the joys and the highs, to start a family, to be supported in his career and support them in theirs, just down the drain. He had thirteen years since he turned eighteen. He would be thirty-one. Thirty-one, assuringly having lived all of his youth on his own, having completed his military service, and having travelled the world. He hoped, he hoped he would be known, that his group would get famous, and he would get to do his craft for the years to come.

But thirteen years? He had to wait when he hadn’t been able to. He hadn’t been able to, and he was made to sit down by fate. Sit down and wait. Be patient, grow and learn life before he met them.

He already knew that he would feel a lot more were he to meet his soulmate, but to have the timer... it had dwindled his haste, his motivation for a while. And while he grew, he took care of himself, his needs first, making himself happy and learning about life. Meeting them would just start his calmer life, when he was over thirty and done with his service. It hadn’t been the plan of his younger self, but he had to go with it. He had to wait, grow himself first, and then maybe, when he was mature and poised in life, he would get to meet his other half.

Namjoon travelled, he met people, he made friends; some grew to be family, people he grew to cherish, and then he grew to love himself, faults and all. Yet he never felt whole without his soulmate. But he made do with what fate had planned for him.

When the time came to be soon, he let his gut move him about. The boys knew, his agency knew, and this was time for himself. The whole season to get ready for this meeting, come to it, and meet his soulmate. He had the time, wherever his soulmate was, to meet them.

So when a few months prior he had wanted to travel to Europe, he let it be, fate would work. When he came to a few countries and stayed in France, so it was. When he booked a train and found himself in a beautiful town in a middle of France, as it was. He was old enough to know how this pull worked, and how to do with it. He had three days, and so he booked a hotel room for the week, dressed casually, and went to see this town.

He was used to this, finding himself across the globe, slightly lonely, hoping to meet his Soulmate. This time would be the real deal, this was the time, as told by his clock shortening.

There were no questions to be asked when he found himself, that afternoon, strolling through the city centre, admiring the beautiful stone buildings, the craftsmanship, and spending the tense time walking through the arts and archaeology museum. Not big, but not huge either. It was easy to spend the three and a half hours he needed to wait in there. For once, he had nothing to worry, no meeting to attend, he didn’t need to check the time every five minute. His body knew when he had to leave. It was weird.

Between his own giddiness and their dread, he didn’t know how this meeting would go. He tried his best to fell good, something that would soothe them because of their doubtless Link.

His soulmate was tense, and he was not. That diphthong was uncomfortable so close to their meeting. Could they not feel him?

He walked out of the museum bowing politely at the desk person, and then he found his way through the small streets, unknowing of the time. But he trusted his body to go to the right place. It was peaceful despite it being a week day. There were few people out, some stranglers in certain shops as he passed, his feet not letting him stop for one, two, even three book-stores. It was time, he knew.

The old buildings with thin windows and beautiful wood covers still open were wonderful to walk through. It was relatively warm in the middle of October, he work his coat, but questioned every few steps if he should take it off. Yet he didn’t stop, and he felt too warm, from some anxious energy, and he felt too cold because of the gusts of winds that came whenever he crossed another street. And as calm as he felt, his heart felt hollow. It wasn’t him, and it hurt a bit.

So much haste, he had, for the past thirteen years (and longer) to meet this person, and they didn’t feel the want to reciprocate. Why? He would know soon enough.

Namjoon went through a side path, covered by houses, the cobblestone under his feet weren’t very stable, but did give a wondrous medieval edge to the old town. He turned a corner, and he felt himself drawn to look behind the plane tree.

His heart skipped a beat, and hers missed one. She was there, it was her. He could feel it.

He stood a distance away for a minute, looking at her, willing her to look up, but she stayed focus on her wrist, at the timer there that had come a stop. His had, he checked, and she was the only one there. Her head in her hand, fingers drawn in her hair, and undrunk beverage on the table by her side.

He finally got himself to move closer, seeing as she would not.

That weird hollow feeling was back, dread, silence, and an ache he wished not to place.

The seat beside her was empty, looking out on the small plaza as well, and he took it. She did not look up, nor did she move from her musing, moving her other hand in her hair as well. She gazed down to her feet.

Namjoon could only look at her form the side, gaze at her shoulder length silky brown hair, detached and hiding her face from him, from the jeans she wore to the woolly striped jumper. She didn’t move, he didn’t push either. He could feel her heart beating fast, irregularly, slow, and fast again. He let her get bearing while he fished for a cigarette in his jacket, taking it off at the same time.

Her fingers twitched just as he felt annoyance in him. It wasn’t him, yet again, but her. Unfiltered, raw, and uncontrolled emotions, always seeping through their bonds.

“Please don’t smoke next to me.” She said in English before she could plan her words better. She laid her face in her hands, closing her eyes and ignoring as best the presence beside her. They were warm, she could feel their presence, and she hated how aware of them she was. She had heard the packet, recognised it form her father’s sad habit, and had really uttered those first words to her soulmate? How sad of her.

“Sorry.” He gently apologised in the same language. He was a man and he had an accent. Good call for the language, but fuck! Fate had to play her dirty, they had to meddle more in her life than she had in so many of her friend’s. Noémie sighed, she had to face him at some point.

She turned to face him, firstly shocked by his age, then by his features, and then by who he was. Of course, she had someone who had their life in check, who had been able to learn their youth, and she was stuck there, at her age, not having been able to discover herself like he had. He watched her as well, wide eyes and his hand stuck in his movement to put his cigarette back in its packet.

His soulmate was young, that was what he saw, youth. Innocent eyes, a rounded face, and soft features. He had thought that after thirteen years, that he would have someone with a lived life.

No.

Noémie was young, she knew it, and she hated that fact right now.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breathe in, her heart hammering in her chest, and looked at him again. Oh, fuck.

The young woman thought she would have been given a soulmate her age, with problems like hers, someone she would grow to learn life with. Not a man who had already circled the worlds seven times, who lived through things she could never dream of experiencing, and who she knew. Knew of, more like, she had never said a word to that person before.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Noémie murmured, apologising for the harsh words she had bit out.

She had fucked up. Out of everything she could have said to her soulmate upon meeting them, and she had chastised him? She was ashamed of herself. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve her.

Before he even had the time to say that’s it was alright, or anything for that matter, Noémie started talking. “I’m just- I’m sorry. There are just so many things that you were able to do that I could only dream of living through, and I hate the fact that this is the first thing that comes to my mind. Where to to not get a youthful freedom, then I had hoped my Soulmate to be in the same boat than I.” He sat back in the chair, looking at her digging her fingers in her hair, letting her speak, letting her unclench that tightness around her heart that made it hard to breathe. “And I shouldn't even get started on art, how you live and breathe art and creations. And I do to, but I’ve been feeling for years like I’ve been suffocating in this world. Life is a sea to navigate upon, and I’m washed ashore, trudging through muddy waters with no aim to head towards whilst I know that you’ve been building your boat for years, pulling out a map and sailing upstream. And I hate the fact that I envied you for it. For the freedom that you’ve had to discover the world at your own expanse.”

She had yet to look at him, tell her name, tell him who she was. To Namjoon, she was this girl that knew who he was, letting out her pains unfiltered. He could understand it, in parts, having felt her tension for weeks, years, having felt her breathlessness in life for years. Never had he thought it was about art and freedom. About her passion and her timer. Thirteen years he had, but she had less. She had too little, she wished she could have been in his shoes, without saying it, and grown up before getting fate flushed to her face.

“I love art, I truly do, I have loved and bathed in it for years, since I was a kid. But I’ve been unpassionate, as weird as it is to say it, for some time. About this hobby and about my life. I’ve been studying art, worked upon the questions it brings up, created for others, and I don’t know how to create for myself anymore. I just have been looking at art, listening to music, reading works from artists, and I’ve just felt so dull about what used to bring warmth and light to my life. I Can’t create, I can’t think, and haven’t been able to take any pleasure in simply doing for years.” She brushed her dark hair back, tucking the strands behind her ears, and he saw the tears on her face.

He thought he should say something. “Art block happens-”

“Well, it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t when you have deadlines, when you have to prove yourself to teachers who could care less about your work or your mental health, or even understand why and how you create. It shouldn’t happen, and they shouldn’t last for three years.” Noémie couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see his face of disappointment, see the rosy tint of his lips, the slight blush to his cheeks and ears form the nippy breeze. She couldn’t look at him, see him, and accept that he was there, and he was her soulmate.

“I’m a jack of few trades, master of none, and not much better than a master of one. You know. I've spread myself thin, for years, unsure of what to do with my life, with myself, with my studies. And I haven’t been able to look far, this timer stopping it. I thought about my master’s, my presentation, and then I think about how I wouldn't be on my own anymore, how there would be this presence always attached to me, that I wished I had more time without. Not that fate is wrong in these places, I haven’t seen one moment where it was wrong, but I didn’t want it so soon.” The words flew out of her mouth, breathless, heart aching in her chest, hard to breath and hard to think, she let the pain she had been holding onto just drift out of her. Mentally apologising to him for not letting him speak, not letting him comfort her, not letting him make her feel better. Other wise, she wouldn't ever find the right moment to dump her aches, there never would be a moment for such vulnerability.

At least he should knew, she thought, of what he was coming to. Her, a young woman, with no will in life, broken and depressed and unable to understand how and why she was doing what she was doing, living through the tides and never stepping up for herself.

“I should be finishing these studies, what used to make me feel alive, and now I just look at the blank page and sit tight. For the past year I’ve been sitting idle, unable to prove anything, unable to say anything, just wasting my time.”

It made a lot of sense, the pains in his heart, the tightness in his chest, for the past many years. What hadn’t been of much help for his own pains during his service, but which accompanied him and pushed him to do better for her, so she wouldn’t feel doubled down. It made sense why he knew she was sad in life. To feel it, and to understand the reasons as to why were quite different things. And slowly, in her calming silence, he thought about her feelings in the past years, since he had started to feel this Link between them. It wasn’t a simple minded person, but a child that she had been. They weren’t mentally unstable, but a teenager growing up and finding a balance between hormones and changes to their body. And then they weren’t suffering not understanding life, just depressed, feeling the weight of something they shouldn’t have.

Noémie finally leaned back, let him see her face, for more than a glimpse. Her rounds eyes, rimmed in red, and her pouting lips. She eyes him sideways but did not turn her face. She didn’t find herself strong enough to face him. She couldn’t.

What a way to meet your soulmate, she thought. Getting ignored, getting dumped with her pain, and only getting to see red (or whichever colour he had been missing). It wasn’t such a prize of joy and light-heartedness. She felt bad for him.

She fished through her bag, leaning against the small table, for tissues with which she dabbed at her sensitive skin. His soulmate had cried, and now she sat in silence. And yet he couldn’t be sweet like he was used to being with his fans, murmuring comforting words and holding onto their hands with a soft smile. He couldn’t, because she didn’t want it. He could feel it. She needed her space

It wouldn’t do her good to take her in his arms, like he wanted to comfort her, while he could feel her offset. Like she wasn’t really all there in her body, unsure of where to position herself.

His soulmate finally turned to face him, tissues tightly grasped in her hand. She looked at his face, at his understanding in his eyes, at his hands on his lap. “Right.” She muttered, thinking she had just rendered him mute, too much at once, dumping a heavy load onto his shoulders like he hadn’t asked for. Namjoon sat calmly, looking at her with soft eyes and a gentle smile on his face. She could see his skin, the warmth in the tone she hadn’t bee able to tell beforehand, or the plush of his lips, the burgundy of his top and the bright red of her book cover, which she had been sure was grey for weeks. “How does it feel to see all the colours?” She asked.

She couldn’t just ask him about what she had just dumped, instead turning the discussion to their Links. If she had this second mark, then so had he; it was a known fact that if you were tied two ways, then it was reciprocated. Usually, though, the Links were the same.

Her eyes still observed her surroundings, only now seeing the warmth that people talked about in Autumn. “I’ve always been able to see colours.” He explained instead, the pang in his chest wasn’t his own, and he realised that his answer was unexpected. She hadn’t been able to see colours, or a colour, by the way she had said it. Their Links hadn’t been the same, he came to understand. “However, I’ve long been able to feel your emotions.” He told her. She sat still.

Of course. They were part of the few that had dysfunctioning Links. Her with a lack of red since her birth, and him with her heart in his own.

Was this a sign of the universe? Trying to tell them that they had skewed ways of living life? Namjoon with putting himself in other’s shoes too often, trying to understand how others felt and how he should focus on himself? And her with a skewed vision of life, missing a fourth of what she was meant to see, never having the whole image and the right to understand the whole?

This was messed up.

“Oh.” Oh, as in that was not expected. She looked back at him. At his burgundy top, at his clear understanding of red in his cohesive outfit. She looked down at herself and sighed again. This was what it meant to not have friends when shopping. Her top was not stripped of dark and light grey but light grey and red. It clashed with her blue shorts. He never had the problem she had. He had a worse one instead. Feeling what she had felt. All throughout her life. Poor him for feeling poor her.

Feeling her pains and joys, the depression she had been coming in and out of for the past three years. She huffed a laugh. She couldn’t look at him. Not without opening her heart and dumping all of her hardships again, and feeling bad for him, not wanting him, so much ambiguity.

“I don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be closing in on myself and crying my eyes out at the change that this significantly means for the future.” Her heart was in her throat, voice still broken, eyes still red. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes.

He watched the girl in front of him- the young woman in front of him as she took reign of her bearings. He hadn't been able to say much to her, only giving her space to look over herself.

Had he ever expected to meet his soulmate and find someone much younger than him crying at a coffee shop front? No, he did not. Nor did he expect her to word-vomit her feelings of anxiety facing him, nor had he thought it would be so awkward for him. And her. The both of them. He felt himself deflate, and feel the joy that he had expected when meeting his Soulmate, feeling a sense of completion, and that tiny aching part of not being wanted.

He put his jacket on the back of his chair, and left his bag as he made his way silently inside the coffee shop, giving her space without his pressing being. He ordered a strong coffee and made to pay for the both of them, her tab still open. An unusual request that the owner made without fuss. She suspected their Link the moment she saw the girl just cry and talk in front of the quiet man without making a move to get away or call her. The raised and puckered red on his wrist explained a lot. Timers often left an itch before the countdown became the date and time it had indicated.

The owner looked through the front window at the quiet couple when he had gone back out, she would bringing the drink over. He sat straight, held himself well, albeit a bit awkwardly, and listened to her, waited for her to talk. When she didn’t he went first. She saw his lips move, tentative and soft.

“What’s your name?” He asked gently. “I’m Namjoon.”

She looked up, heart in her throat, and watched as the owner came with his coffee, and two small slices of cake for them. Namjoon watched her with wide eyes, unsure how to tell her that he hadn’t asked for the cake, but the way his Soulmate’s face lit up a little made him say nothing. “Merci, Marie.” Noémie said with a smile, thanking the woman and showing her that, despite her teary eyes, everything was alright as well.

“…but you knew that already.” He added. Of course she did, otherwise she wouldn't have immediately compared herself to his achievements. She grimaced, she did know that already.

“I was an Army.” Was her only comment. “For a few years, and then I didn’t like where the music was going and I didn’t follow much. But I did enjoy your and Suga’s solo work, resonates a bit with me. Just… Yeah.” She looked down at the cake that she had been clearly gifted, and her sick tummy couldn’t stop her from indulging in sweets. The cheesecake was amazing, and she let the spoon she took melt on her tongue before she finished her words. “My name is Noémie.”

She said nothing more as he tentatively took a bite of the cake. It was neither the time, nor had he the want for any sweets, but he was polite. The cake was nice, and the slice small enough that he didn’t have to force himself to come to its end. Noémie finished her slice, and seemed to remember that she had already ordered things before she panicked and went to enjoy the portion of Tiramisu that had melted in the plate but still tasted amazing. Marie really knew how to bake delicious deserts.

Namjoon watched Noémie as she seemed to lose some of her tension, sitting lower in her seat, spreading her legs in front of her and taking the lukewarm cup of hot chocolate and drinking from it. What had been meant to calm her nerves before had been ignored, but she could not, and could never, get over the feeling of the heavy warmth that travelled down her throat soothingly. Hot chocolate always had that effect on her, heavy and fat and just so good. He felt that pleasure in him just as he watched it on her.

Finally, he thought, putting an image to the feelings in his chest.

“I’m sorry, can we… can we talk tomorrow?” Noémie was tired, she had anguished for days and hours before coming here, and this was a lot. She didn’t need to pour herself out and cry any more like the tired child she felt like. He knew, in a way, of her fatigue. This had clearly been a lot. Not something that she could have planned, understood beforehand, gotten his image ad prepared herself for this moment. It was not thrown on her, rather stuffed down her throat for the last four years.

He nodded, finished his cup of coffee. “That is fine with me, I understand if you need time.” She was refusing for herself to go any deeper that day; she was tired and stressed, and it was coming to be late in the day. The coffee shop had been meant to close fifteen minutes prior, but Marie had stayed, cleaning up inside and doing some calculations she would have done at home already. Noémie felt bad, she wanted to go home and sleep like she hadn’t in days. “Can I give you my number?”

“Or maybe just your social media handle.” She told him, tired, “So I don’t have to sign some NDA or something too soon.”

Namjoon sighed, he hadn’t thought of that, but she was right. Head on her shoulders despite the heaviness in her chest, thinking straight in this situation that, instead, made his heart leap and his mind forget his celebrity status.

He took his phone, opened Instagram and gave her his private account. She was quiet as she opened her own phone out and copied his name in her search bar. He received the notification of a new follow, it was her. “Do you want to meet for coffee, breakfast, brunch, lunch, or something else?”

“Just a drink, I don’t usually have breakfast.” She bit her lip as she thought. “Cafés usually open by nine, is that okay for you?” Hopeful tired eyes.

“That’s good.” He turned his phone off and slipped it into his jacket, which he had started to put back on. “Sleep well, see you tomorrow.” He told her, turning around and leaving her.

Noémie felt a weight lifted off of her when he turned his back to her, and left for his hotel. She got their cups together and got them inside for the coffee shop owner. She thank her, saying there was no need for that, but they both knew it was both polite and practical. She only had to get the table and the chairs inside after the young woman left for her own little home.

The apprehension, the bond, meeting him, all of it had drained her and made the action of falling asleep easy.

Chapter Text

Namjoon woke up at around six in the morning, the only alarm he had was for eight, if he hadn’t gotten up by then. But he was awake early, still unsure really of what time, what place, what country he was in until he felt her in his heart. Awake at the same time. He looked down at his wrist, at the time he had met her the day before. Five thirty -two on the sixteenth of October 2025. It was clear as day, what he had known for thirteen years now. The skin puckered, red swollen, getting used to the permanent mark.

As he got ready, a quick shower and a change of clothes, he felt some kind of desolance from her side. It accompanied him as he went to the ground floor and took his breakfast. A low weight not like dread, but present in his guts. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and just because of the little lurch in his heart, he went to check the message she had sent him.

It was just the location of the café she had found for them, he trusted her for the find, he wouldn’t find much with his lacking French.

He finished his breakfast and went back upstairs, finding his book and leaving the room towards the little park he had found on his way back the previous evening. He found the secluded spot, took his seat comfortably, and started reading. The book laid on his lap, opened on the fifteenth page for an hour before he realised that he hadn’t been reading.

He tried to read, but her words churned in his head. Her age, he worries.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made to him; how he had felt every strong emotion she has since she was born, and then how the feelings of lightness, worry, and simplicity accompanied throughout his middle and high school. From the moment he was nine years and one month old. He had actually relied on the calmness of it all throughout his entire high school, and then with his music career. Black and white, simple, clear, honest but not deep in the mind; Yes, her heart had been hurt, children felt emotions sincerely, hard on the mind of colours and brightness. When he had a hard time he felt bad, so bad, because he thought she felt it. And in her simple mind, he feared it had been hard. But she had been a child, and one that didn’t reciprocate his link back.

Now that being simple minded was a bad thing, he thought it would calm him down to share life with someone who didn’t question everything as much as he did, who didn’t get complicated beliefs meddled in their heads. It was easier to enjoy life when you didn’t question the universe and the meaning of life every second of said life.

He barely read, book open with his finger marking the page, the chair digging in his back, and he thought about his entire life growing up, trying to see how old she was. Nine years younger was the first guess, one that stayed as he thought longer. A master’s degree could mean many things, at first. Noémie could have taken a break, failed classes or her Suneung equivalent (he had no idea how that worked in France) or maybe she had transferred majors and started again. But those nine years came again at the forefront of his thoughts.

Namjoon had been nine years old when he had started feeling her. Nine years younger could work in a Master’s s degree without jumping levels in any way; she had not told him her age, but he suspected she was twenty-two. Nine years his younger.

It was weird that, at the same age, they wanted two wholly different things that they both knew they couldn’t have. He had wanted to meet his soulmate then, be devoted to them and start a family; she wanted to live life, understand her meaning in the world and have space for herself. The opposite of what they were allowed to have.

Someone walked close to him when he was looking emptily towards the wall, still in his own head, when his heart shot to his throat. “Oh.” He heard her breathe. His wrist tingled, but sure enough, it was her, just a few steps away. “Good morning, Namjoon.” She said quietly. Coming in the small green space and sitting on the other side of the bench, a book in hand. “You don’t mind that I sit here? I had thought to read a little before we met up.” She glanced his way, still and quiet with his hand still keeping the pages of his book open. “Though it seemed you had the same idea as well.”

“It’s fine, I was just thinking anyway.”

“Okay.” Unlike him, she had no problem getting into her book. A book in English actually, between poems and a mémoire. He’d have to ask her about it after.

Noémie read, and he thought, head thrown back, eyes closed as he faced the sky. His book long forgotten, folded on itself, bookmark in place. He just held it, like something tethering him in the real world, away form his mind.

Noémie needed to focus, to work on this mémoire she was definitely late for. She had two weeks to finish it, make it into shape, and have it finished in five copies to be sent with the class’ lot. She needed to read, to write, and to get it done. Was she pressuring herself? A bit, a lot actually, but she did will with pressure, she couldn’t dwell on herself and her sadness, and the blank that drew itself in her heart while she waited. Pressure, a time counting down, it was what she needed to sit her ass down and get to reading, get to working on her references, and get it down.

Namjoon didn’t need to know of, but she was sure he would feel the pressure and the stress she would be in soon enough, if she understood his Soul Link to her correctly.

The book was pretty bad, there were typos quite presently, but the narrator had so much joy in talking that it was comforting. She read it because she had to, and then she would write just as well. Falling into this book, as good as it was not, Noémie forgot all about her Soulmate just sitting on the other side of the bench she had thought about for an hour and a half before deciding herself to move. He was there, she only felt it because of the tingles on her skin, but not by his body.

He sat still, calm, not making a single noise to draw her out of her focus. That was until his phone buzzed with an erratic sound she was familiar with.

He startled upright, patting his pockets until he found the flip phone and turned the Samsung alarm off, sheepishly looking towards her, hoping he hadn’t disturbed her. Though he found he had failed when he saw her looking back at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You knew you were going to snooze?” She asked, a small smile gracing her features. His heart swelled at the sight and he knew he had to immortalise this view. And the he remembered her question.

“No, it was in case I hadn’t woken up at all. Travelling is quite tiring.”

“Yeah, I get it.” She muttered, stretching her legs and closing her book. “My dad travelled a lot for work, he quit because of it. He was so tired, disoriented, and quite sad to be on his own without a real rhythm.” Namjoon held onto his book, his mind going back to the album he had released just before his military. He had had a song just about that, that loneliness making its way up his body when he was away form home, with nothing to anchor him. “I get it.” She muttered again, standing up. “Come on, let’s go.”

He mirrored her movement, removing his glasses and tucking them in their case, both this and his book in his satchel. He followed her up and out of the little nook of the park, she went through the old town streets like she knew them by heart.

On a small plaza, overlooking the riverbed, there were a few cafés. Or what eh thought were cafés. Noémie found a table by the side, she knew where she was going, she put her bag on one chair and turned to face him. “What would you like to drink, Namjoon?”

“A coffee, please.”

She pursed her lips, “What type of coffee?”

He stared, like, was he supposed to know how to answer that. “Something simple, efficient.” She nodded, like this had been the right answer, and went to the counter inside, not waiting for a waiter to come and take their order. This wasn’t a place for tourists, he realised, while he sat on his own. There were no waiters coming to you, the chairs were cheap plastic, and he was sure she had gone to order in French.

While their drinks were being prepared, she sat back down and looked in front of her. The view was beautiful, he had to agree. The morning breeze and the big plane trees over them? A beautiful sound of rustling leaves. And the mountain range on the other side of the river, green and lush and scattered with houses and fields, it was different from what eh was used to seeing.

“So, this is a café, that’s why I asked you for a coffee. They don’t do this fancy things coffee shops do.”

“There’s a difference?”

“In France? Yes. Coffee shops are recent, places where you drink fancy coffee and drinks and beverages, alcohol-free cocktails if you want, and have a nice little slice of sweet treat in a nice atmosphere. That’s mostly in cities, with a young population. It’s cosy and warm. Cafés are what people are used to, somewhere you sit down in winter for a drink or two, get drunk, have a diabolo with your kids on a warm day, or just get your morning cup of coffee with a seat before work.”

“What’s a dyabolo?”

She had forgotten how few countries had anything similar to that. “It’s fruit syrups with sparkling water. It’s sweet, fresh, and perfect to dehydrate in Summer.”

A grumbling old man came with their drinks on a platter, put them down in front of the pair and looked at him, awaiting. “Merci, mais c’est moi qui paye.” She switched to English easily, like his guide. Namjoon sat like a child, idly calm with that smile he bore when unsure what to do or say but not under pressure to utter anything. “Ca fait combien?” She took out her purse, digging through her coins already, looking at what she had.

“Trois euros vingt.”

She took out the money, counted once, gave the man the coins. He counted, gave a begrudged nod and left to the bar. Namjoon’s eyes didn’t trail on the man. “I should have paid, how much do I owe you?” He quickly said, taking out his own purse but she shut him down.

“You paid yesterday. And this is cheaper, I should pay next as well.”

They stared at each other. He had a stable job, a lot of money to spend, two coffee were nothing on his fortune. They both knew she was a student, precarious money situation and all, but she had pride. At least for now, he accepted his defeat.

Noémie dropped her purse in her bag, and dragged her cup towards her, inhaling the soft aroma of her drink before picking it up and taking a sip. Again, that warmth soothing over him form inside. It was her, and a hot chocolate. It made him smile, how a simple drink like that could make her feel so much soft pleasure.

He picked up his cup, smaller, and smelling of bitterness. He took a sip and nearly chocked. His soulmate hid a smile behind the rim of her cup, but he saw it nonetheless. The drink was extremely bitter, a coffee in simple strength he hadn’t gotten in a long time. “Is this an espresso?”

“Nope.” She smiled, “That’s just a coffee here in France, expresso’s a bit more concentrated than that.” As simple and universal as coffee was, this was not what he had expected or thought to get. “But you have a glass of water, you ca dilute it if you need.” She had known, he though, that this was probable to happen. And it made her feel somewhat better, knowing that she wasn’t sitting besides an all-knowing man that had nothing to be taught. He too still had a lot to learn.

They sat in silence, side by side, at ease in this nearly empty terrace, a few people, men mostly, coming and going from the inside of the bar. They chatted loudly, laughing and waving goodbye after the watched a bit of the TV in the corner, always turned on.

This was a kind of travel he hadn’t been able to experience yet, not fully, going to places local visited and seeing people living. Not just visiting, being tourists in their own country, but living life on the daily. The café was frequented by regulars, people knew each other, and it was homey. He basked in the feeling, the cool weather of October. He was the one to break the silence, looking over at her, his Soulmate, sitting on her seat in quiet observation.

She was too scared to open conversations, guts twisted, and slightly afraid of what she was to learn of him. She might have known of him, his accomplishment, but only the public persona he put on. It was hard to be honest, and to know what a celebrity truly felt. As pure as music could be, it was still filtered and made beautiful for others to enjoy. She knew he was older, that he had lived a lot more than she ever could, and that scared her.

“I thought, for a long time, that you were simple minded.” A child was simple minded, it didn’t worry about bigger things, adult worries, or an existential crisis. “And then you felt so much it sometimes hurt, it was during the same moment that my group was getting more international recognition.” In 2017 he had been preparing Wings’ repackage album just as she was a teenager, going through a normal rough patch and moving countries on top of it, there had been a lot for her emotionally speaking, she knew. “And I thought you might just have been younger than me; I knew that when I had started being a trainee, studying for the Suneung, to follow that with debuting – I had a lot going on as well.” Younger, he though, in high school. Not in middle school. “It was with those feelings of self-consciousness, feeling how you feared being yourself and accepted for that and readying yourself for an outside and new world. It felt like that, I don’t know how that was the truth, part of it, close to it, or far form it. But I wanted to help you, in a way, and the project for Love Yourself came to be.” It was more than just his idea, but she knew that his group had, back then, a lot more influence in what was done.

She wished she had known, now, what it would have been like to be Linked by their emotions. A burden to carry, yes, but also a probable comfort. If it was true he tried his best to make her feel better, then that was sweet of him.

“It was a team effort, even Yoongi and Donghyuk were part of it, you know, Supreme Boi. We all agreed that it was a good idea, for my Soulmate who I knew was feeling bad or everybody else that would listen to us. A support to hand out with just a few songs and what we had to say with it.” He smiled as he thought back to the years prior, the talks that had surrounded the concept of the album, which, with the number of ideas thrown about, became a series from the start.

Noémie smiled, surprised that the album she had actually followed during its release was this one. She had started being a fan a bit before, and that made her stay. It was just sad that she hadn’t liked Idol and what followed. But she had heard him, unknowingly his comfort had reached her. “I actually came to know you, BTS, more with that series of album. Love Yourself Her has to be my favourite album of yours after Wings.” She shouldn’t just stay quiet beside him. He was making a lot of effort, he had been the one to move even to meet her. She should make an effort, so she opened herself, not pouring a waterfall like she had done the eve, but she was honest. “I just didn’t like the last of the series, and I slowly stopped following after that.”

“I understand.” It was when they started getting more and more international recognition, started to not get as much leeway in the creative process. “Directions aren’t always our choices, it started getting less honest, but it got us more fans and more money. It’s still a boyband in which I am apart of. Sometimes I regret not pushing more for how we had been planned, Hip-hop and rap, but others I am happy for the voice I was given. It’s my reason to be, to speak out and learn. And now that we are known, I get to do my own things by myself. Indigo, Right Person Wrong Place.”

“What about RM?”

He turned to her, confused about her question before it dawned on him. She laughed gently at his face. “That was so long ago.” He his his face in his hand, there was a reason he didn’t count it as an album.

“What? You were my age when it came out.” She dug that knife a little deeper, he made a face but she laughed it off.

“I thought you didn’t know BTS well.”

“I said I was a fan, and that I liked your lyrics. Of course I dug up your old songs.” His soulmate drank her hot chocolate. “But, yeah.” She grimaced. “I get the youth of it, you just wanted to be cool.”

He groaned. “It’s not cool, it’s cringy.” She laughed so loud at his word, completely understand it. She understood.

Being in an art school meant she skipped that phase, when you try to be cool and show your technical talent. He knew how to write, how to make music, he had a creative direction and some style. But the depth wasn’t there yet.

The quiet couple finished they drinks and found themselves walking. Noémie was glad for the nice weather, though she did have a layer more than the previous day, as well as a scarf. The wind could be a silent killer in this town. The number of colds she had caught in her first year was phenomenal. To kill the time, to busy herself, she thought about just walking around the park. Not one of the green nooks of the city, but the beautiful park with a small creek and ducks city on the banks.

Namjoon watched around, feeling, in a little way, back in Seoul. Just regulars, runners and dog walkers, a few just there to take afresh air before closing themselves in a cubicle.

“You know, age doesn’t really matter,” He said quietly, “Not that this isn’t weird as we are standing in two different moments of our lives, there is a lot of inequality here, but I meant in learning. It isn’t because you are younger that you cannot teach me anything, that you do not know more than I do.”

“Age isn’t the problem, you just said it, it’s the experience. You’ve experience work life. I’ve experienced being a student. One of those two makes independence, the other makes you lost. You know how to navigate the world, people and money.” She shoved her hands in her pockets, unable to look him in the eye. “I know how to fake passion and cry my eyes out after meetings with people who don’t know how to teach. I know how to be cheap and dependant on public transport. There is little to no balance here.”

He sighed. She reminded him of Yoongi, biting but truthful words. “You’re a bit of a pessimist.”

“No, I don’t see the bad in everything. Right now I am a realist.” She nearly got walked in by a kid on a scooter and side stepped closer to Namjoon than she had expected. He settled her with a gentle hand on her back. No, she wasn’t ready to be close to him, to anyone. “There is a dissonance here, you can’t just ignore it.”

She wasn’t easy to talk to, he realised. Not that she wasn’t making any efforts, but she had her beliefs which transpired in the way she talked. He just didn’t know how to bounce back from her comments, not as easily as he could in Korean. He hadn’t prepared for that.

“Were we not Soulmates, then this would be called predatory.

Why did she have to so right in making things awkward for him.

“Do you want me to meet your parents?” She turned to him with such a face he didn’t understand. “I know you’re not a child, but I would understand if you wanted me to.”

“Firstly, no. Secondly, that wouldn’t be very productive, unless you speak French or Arabic.” He pursed his lips. “Dad’s quite rustic in English, it wouldn’t go anywhere, Mum… she learned Russian in Uni.” She looked at him, maybe he knew that language. “Yeah, no, I get it.”

“How are you so good in English, then?”

“I learned at school, found it easy, and then it was my major in high school.” She wouldn’t tell him about all the cringy stories she had written in middle and high school for the fun of it. Cringy and so very badly spelled, her English had been terrible. “And there’s so much research to do that English makes it easier, it’s like a universal language these days.” The sun was getting high in the sky. “And, I dunno. It’s sounds nice.”

“French sounds nice.”

“I hate this point of view from foreigners, French is such a flat language; murmured syllables and too many letters for it to be intuitive. English is not much better written-wise, bit at least it has melody.”

Namjoon could see it too, the time passing, and he barely knew more about her. “What about Arabic? You said you parents spoke it.”

“It’s a different type of melody, sounds deeper in your throat, but I like it.” She smiled slowly. “My Dad’s Franco-Algerian, and he met my Mum when he moved to the continent. She learned for him the language. I just grew up with it.”

“Are there a lot of Arabic speakers in France?”

“So much, you know, with the colonisation. France is just a melting pot of so many cultures from Africa and Europe.” She smiled as she said it, like it was a subject she enjoyed. “I don’t understand how some people can say they’re so French here in the South, everybody’s part something, a lot of Spanish and pied-noirs.”

“What’s a pye-nwareu?”

“French people that lived their whole life in the French colony of Algeria before it’s independence to a country. Basically, it means black feet. It what these ethnically French people were called when they came to France. They were white, but their feet were black, it’s the ground they grew up on that made their culture, and not their looks.”

“So they speak Arabic?”

“Most of the elders so, though it must have been a hard moment in their life, I know a few who refuse to speak it. It’s too painful.”

Namjoon never had thought he would learn about French history so quickly into meeting his Soulmate, but it was interesting and right up his alley. How life, moving, and cultures shaped your being. “So, no need to meet your parents?” He joked, cracking a smile at her pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“No. Unless you have two whole days to spare, or a car we can drive four hours in.”

“Two day?”

“They live fours hours by car away, and about the same in train. But counting the preparations time, getting there on time and early, the drive form the train station to their home, and the possible delays of the French railroad agency, yeah. Two half days of travel, and one there. I can’t spare much more with school.” Noémie sighed, “I’m sorry if I sound mean. I don’t mean it like I don’t want you, it would be futile to run away form fate, but my mind is still trying to wrap this neatly up there.” She tapped her head, as if explaining why her head was not still used to this finding. That her soulmate was nine years her senior, and a superstar.

She had this look on her face when she talked, when she explained, that drew him in. A sort of seriousness. But still, that little catch of her eye, like she wasn’t sure if all she said was true, a cock of her head that told him that she would have to do some more research after. She was young, but she knew she could be wrong. It wasn’t often that people her age were so self aware.

As well as her, Namjoon was coming to terms that this was his life now. With Noémie by his side, his other half according to fate.

It was close to half past eleven when they came back round to the gates of the park, side the opening in between the three and shrubs of other greenery. It was beautiful. She turned to face him, standing frozen a few steps behind her, and waited. She let him look, take it all in, appreciate the beauty of nature.

His stomach churned and he saw her biting her lips, cheeks slightly redder than before. She was debating something inside of herself. “Would you...” She trailed off, “Would you like to come eat at mine?” Stomach heavy at his coming answer. She wanted him to say yes just as much as she wanted him to say no.

Would he want to spend more time with his Soulmate in her private space? Meaning, in a place that was just them and nobody could disturb them? He did want to let himself be more vulnerable, go deeper with her, get to know her before he had to go back to work. “That would be nice, yes.” He answered. She sighed, knot loosening, this was fine. He was her soulmate, they were destined for each other or something. Yet she still feared his knowledge, as sweet as he was about her own wise-ness. She would hate for it to feel like he was her teacher or, worse, her own parent.

She was bright, yes, but she wasn’t intelligent, she wasn’t well-rounded, she didn’t have knowledge pouring out of her like she knew Namjoon had. He had that blessed IQ anyway, she could barely be above average.

Yet she had taught him so much already, in her softness, her gentle laugher at his expanse.

If she had just a passing knowledge of BTS and this was how much she remembered, he questioned actually how much she knew, how much she could store in her head. She had answers to a lot of his questions, regarding cultures and art in France, her studies, her worries. It was interesting to talk with her, he was pleasantly surprised by her attitude as well.

She was so open, so closed, vulnerable and unmovable. A weird mix he suspected was happening because of their bond, Soulmates and all. There was a reason they were tied together. He felt like he could be deeply honest with her, though he could control the urge to dump his life on her, she seemed to have a harder time discerning between her want, the urge, and her own need.

He had never been in a student dorm building, not in Korea, and not here in France. She was at ease, of course she was, while she used her badge to open the gate, then the front door of the building, holding them open for him to follow. The building was beautiful outside, with stone wall and an archway that was part of the previous built, smoothly incorporated in the modern building he entered. She had him sign a guest sheet. That, he hadn’t thought about. “Do people actually fill it?” He asked when they rode in the elevator.

“Not really, but I prefer following the rules of the building well. It doesn’t do anything bad to follow protocol in these case.” The corridor reminded him of the old dorm building, just a unit apartment not far form the old BigHit building. Slightly dark, a timed light you had to punch before the corridor, and many doors. Some with doormats, most without.

“You don’t have a doormat?”

She looked at him, down at the ground below her feet, and shrugged. “No, I don’t really need one.” She told him.

Noémie was quiet as she entered, held the door for him, and removed her shoes. She quietly padded to her fridge, seeing what was inside, making a face as she thought, and turned to face him. “Just sit at the desk, we’ll turn it later.” She showed him the desk with its chair neatly tucked under.

He felt too big in this small studio apartment and he didn’t know how young men his height would be comfortable here, but as he sat, stretched his legs in the space and looked around, he realised that it was just the entrance that was cramped, and the fact that they were two in a space clearly designed for one.

“Namjoon?”

He didn’t know why hearing her say his name made him feel so light. “Yes?”

“Two questions.” Sh stood from her crouched position in front of her cupboard. “Firstly, do you have any allergies or food you would rather steer clear of?” He shook his head, eyes set on her. “Good. Secondly, what would you like to drink? I have cold water, tap water, or...” She trailed off, looking at the space in front of her, door open. “apricot juice.” It was a regional product, the valley bearing so many orchards and delicious fruits, but for a meal? She didn’t think so. Nor did he, because he was calm as he answered.

“Just tap water will be fine.” She served him that in one of her small canteen glasses and went to work, finding her biggest pot (just a litre big actually) and preparing the sauce and meat to cook. He watched her as she pulled cooking utensils like she was Jin in the kitchen, easing herself on one leg as she cut the onion and started searing it. She moved in front of her bench, opening and closing the fridge, picking up things without having to look at them. She knew everything was, and she was comfortable standing there. She liked cooking.

It was clear, with the precision she cut the onion, cleaned her hands and dropped she knife and cutting board in her sink, turning around and picking to jars and a spoon, turning to the golden onions in the pan and dropping both spices and condiments with a calculating gaze. She put the lid on the whole, and went to sit down on the stool that came with the studio. Took one sip of her drink and got him to move the table around so it was more practical. Less space to move around, but easier to eat and talk.

“What is it that you are cooking?” He asked after she had dumped most of what laid on her desk atop her bed and was now cooking some red sausages. “Do you need any help?”

She smiled sneakily at him, “Am I to trust your cooking skills?” He laughed.

“I’ve grown since then, and I do cook for myself.” Did he, like she visibly did, enjoy cooking? No, but he had grown his skills from the time he was an awkward twenty year old idol rapper with brothers who liked spending time in the kitchen more than he did.

“I’m cooking some Couscous.” He had no idea what that was. “It’s from North Africa, but so many people eat it here in France. It’s basically semolina with a beautiful spicy tomato broth, usually without meat, but, like, I gotta do with what I have. Less vegetables, more meat. Closer to a Tajine, but with semolina. This is just a fusion of good stuff.” She brought over the pan, sitting on a tea towel, was a warm sauce that smelled heavenly. And then on a small plate the red sausages. “These are Merguez, spicy lamb sausages.” He never had couscous, it wasn’t really a meal people had in the countries he visited, where he took the time to look around.

He had a lot to learn about France and its mixed cultures.

They ate in silence, it was good, not what he had thought of getting. Namjoon also got to see a more controlled version of her, feeling her calm and composed. He felt the ease they shared inside of him, she was starting to not overthink this meeting, as weird as it was for her. Kim Namjoon was eating Couscous with her, in her little studio apartment, talking to her like she wasn’t just any fan. Well, she wasn’t, she was his Soulmate. With all that it entailed as well, the fear, the feeling of inadequacy, and so much awe.

He went back for seconds and she waited as he ate. He was bigger than her, taller and did sport for fun, and needed quite a bit more nutrients than she did. She was just average, a girl who forgot to drink most days, and who cooked only once for the whole day. But he had gone back for more, that at east meant that he liked what she made. A little pride trailed through her. Like a shiver of warmth that raked up her back and into her heart.

He wasn’t a stranger in front of her, he would never become a stranger either. He was here to stay, in any way he could, and she would be attached to his person in just the same manner.

They didn’t really talk during the meal, it was just a way to share a moment together without it being productive. Useful in its own way, for the both of them to get used to the other, to get to know their manners. “Would you like a cup of tea?” She asked him, standing up to get their plates put away to the sink to wash later. “I don’t have any coffee here.”

“Tea will be fine, thank you.” He stood as well while she prepared the water to boil, aiming to help with the washing up.

“You sit back down.” She told him, as if already knowing what he wanted to do. “I will do the dishes, and you prepare your questions.” He sunk in the chair, admonished by her, but also unsure of actually how to act with her. He was right, he had a lot of questions he wanted to ask but didn’t know how to, or when, or if it was polite to ask her in any ways. Social norms were different according to each country, and he knew he was a Korean man at heart, some things he didn’t know how to let go.

She stood just a meter away from him, standing in front of the stove, two mugs out and tea bags dropped in there. She was busy preparing the rest, taking out a little plate for the tea when seeped enough, and the box of sugar. His phone buzzed, Namjoon looked down at the few messages he had received from his brothers, not hasty, just wanting to know how it was going. He was the only one with a set date out of all of them. They each had the date saved in their calendars, when their leader would meet his Soulmate.

He would answer them later, they knew what his silence meant. It wasn’t going badly, but he needed to get to know this person, a lot more than for an interview or scheduled talk. It was scheduled, but not the talk. Noémie didn’t seem like a social person, ready to ramble on and on about any and every subject like Jungkook might. She, for the fourth time in less than a day, reminded him of Yoongi. Calm and collected, and happy with the distance people gave him.

He let his mind wander, let his eyes stray, and his body turn to look at her room. Not at the blank walls she couldn’t punch holes through, nor the pile of papers on her bed deposited from her desk, but everything in the nooks and crannies.

In between the books in the shelves laid art supplied, pencil cases, and a few small artistic projects. At the top, books that were clearly handmade. At the bottom, on the larger spaces, he recognised paintings.

She was still busy watching the water start to simmer. He looked back at the few papers and postcards which were taped to her window frame and he could see a few from friends and others by her. He recognised the drawing of hers, a certain calculated lack of red. He hadn’t asked, but he just knew that had been the colour missing from her sight. She was talented.

He could only judge as someone who couldn’t draw to save his life, but an avid lover of the arts, one who basked in museums and creations.

Namjoon was more interested in modern and contemporary art of Korean artists, but he enjoyed monochromes, big pieces that drew one into them, sculptures which you could see from every angle and objects of historical value. She wasn’t in any of that. Just like his music wasn’t close to his interests either. He liked abstract, but her figures drew him in.

It was just like music, she may be more into disco and traditional chants for all he knew but she created something more niche and modern. He may write and perform rap, maybe poetry if some said it, yet he could enjoy jazz. So just like he was drawn to abstract, he could be honest and attest to her talent in drawing. Her palette was evidently restricted, he could not see much of red in any of her drawing, those which littered around the space, like the ones stacked behind her headboard. He wasn’t snooping, just looking close from afar. There was no denying how they were beautiful, they had emotions. And even if it wasn’t a style he was particularly drawn to, he could stand for some time in front of the images, to see what was told behind it. Right now he couldn’t, there wasn’t the space nor the time to.

He liked art because it drew many in, without a language, and shared a feeling that many could compare to. Noémie knew his songs and, like she had told him, she was interested in his and Yoongi’s lyrics, yet that didn’t mean she liked rap. It was just a style, and she resonated with the feelings, the pain, the desperation, the loneliness that transpired in the works.

Art was all about relativity, to be felt by others, whether it be in the same way of differently than the artist did. Art was all about sharing and making others feel understood, heard. Writing was for that, music was for that, drawings were for that. Life was shared by everyone, differently felt, but still to be shared and matched and overlapped. Experiences looked like others, differed but resembled. This was what art was about. Making the image, and letting people see the resemblance in them.

“Why are you so tense?” She was quiet as she brought the two cups over, handing him one with a print of a black cat. He looked at the faded picture with a little smile before staring back at her. “Nobody’s here to watch you. Let go of that tightness in your back.” She brought the sugar and some lemon juice as well, doing her tea without gazing at him. “Makes you look slightly constipated.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” He bit out instinctly, like if she had been Yoongi and his passing remark. She just smiled, no pain in his heart to tell him that she took it badly.

“Just take up a position that is comfortable for your body, one that might leave your joints aching were you to sleep in it.” She shrugged, easing herself into her seat, dumping two sugars and some lemon juice in her herbal tea with a candied expression. “You shouldn’t care all the time about how you seem.” He came to see how she hated silence most of the times, if Noémie wanted him to talk, she would talk first, dump a bit of her own personal lore, and wait for him to fill in the rest. “I couldn’t care less, just – imagine I’m blind, that could help. Even I can’t see your persona. Just, ease. I cried in front of you, bloody hell, the least you could do is relax, I ain’t gonna bite.”

Her voice was soft, words slow and comforting yet her vocabulary was straight to the point. It had been like that since they had met. Since she had told him not to smoke, polite but brutally honest.

She made herself comfortable, bringing her two legs to her chest and laying her chin on top of her knees, just watching him do his tea, do nothing to it but bring the tea up to his nose. It smelled sweet, and definitely a rich red colour. “Yeah, sorry for the herbal tea, I finished my peppermint blend just this weekend. I only had red berries left.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She nodded, just before she thought of something and stood up, bringing out the little tin of biscuits she had and, just like an old lady, encouraged him to pick up a Langue de chat to dip in his tea. She did so, dipping the biscuit, letting it get just the right amount of moist, and bit off the soft side. “My great-grandmother made them.”

He sat neatly in his chair, getting used to seeing her. This was his Soulmate after-all, he would see a lot more of her in the future than just this week he had in France.

Noémie leaned forward when he still hadn’t said a thing, hands straight to his shirt’s collar. She folded it correctly, neatening his appearance. Though not yet touching his skin, not yet closing their bond. She didn’t want to close it, not yet. Not when she still had a lot on her plate, her Master’s to finish, and he absolutely had plans with his band coming up.

He understood, he wouldn’t have wanted either. It would mean for them to be physically close for the coming months. And that was not really possible.

With her candy-sweet drink, Noémie looked at him, at her room, and sighed. “I’m studying art,” she told him, “It’s a bit of a struggle currently, even if it’s like the last year before I have to graduate. Just eight months and I’ll be good.” November, December, January, February, March, April, May, and June. Her smile was small, her eyebrows tense; struggle seemed to be a soft word for what she felt. “So I do have to stay here for that. And then it’s up to fate how things go, but with the work and passion I’m putting in, I won’t be going very far.” It was as if she was telling him, wit a curve, that she was slacking and had no passion. To him, with everything he had felt for the past years, it was more like she dragged her depression and found herself buried under the lack of motivation.

He didn’t know how to tell her, hold her, get her up from the down she had been in for a while. He felt the pangs in his chest, the slow bites of pain that eased themselves in her daily routine. Ever so slowly keeping her chained down. Noémie was standing in front of him, capable of finding small joy sin her daily life, doing her routine, working, doing her school work, but none of her heart was in it. It felt dull, empty. She did, but not with her signature. She did like anybody else would, like a ghostwriter of her own story. It lacked any personality.

“Why is it a struggle?” Namjoon asked instead. A current struggle he knew had been attached to her person for the last three years, through his military service, her feelings above his, painfully sad. She gave a half smile to her cup, unable to look at his warm brown eyes.

“Have you ever thought about your passion getting smothered?” She asked to start her train of thought. It helped her get centred, asking herself the question differently, one question she knew how to answer without panicking about her words and thoughts and her entire life problems. “It’s been like this since I started Art school. My parents pushed me to go into arts and for that I a glad; I would have been sad and bad at natural sciences, even though that my major from high school. It was fun, I was okay, and that was it. But art had always been at the side, in the middle of class, of breaks, all the time. I wrote, stories, I drew, I painted.” It felt gentle the ways sh reminisced about her days in high-school, about the all-encompassing passion she used to harbour in her youth. “And I went to art school, and I continued to create, they didn’t like my drawings or my paintings, or much of anything that was personal on my part.”

That was the first problem, having risen very quickly. She had been young, naive maybe, and so hopeful. She had thought she would have been getting guidance, pushes towards what was asked, what would help her grow in art and life. But no, she had gotten nothing positive. Hackneyed wrongdoings.

“So I did them for myself at home, happiness came from those drawings and writing for me. And then I lost joy when drawing, feeling like they could never be good or liked by others, it ended up just being doodles, and I never knew how to use them. They just don’t like illustrations at my school, the entire staff body, but never will they say it out loud. It’s left unsaid, but agreed upon.” She stirred her tea, eyes on her desk. “Painting followed suit, you know. And then writing became a need as an artistic support, and that came to be dismissed by my professors, and the joy I had from those hobbies, the energy I had used to push them further, it’s all gone. Diminished into dust. There’s no joy in creating in any way” She looked at him, eyes sad, glistening with tears she didn’t want to let fall. She drank some tea. “And now I have to write a thesis, one year and not a single page.”

As if to explain more without words, she looked at the numerous post-it notes on her wall, all plans and wishes for her Thesis, yet none completed. He looked at the papers as well, the detailed notes still hanging there.

“What about the art around here?” What about the paintings he could see? The drawings piled in her bookshelf… everything he could see?

“They’re old, ages old, and I haven’t done anything since I got back from Erasmus. I thought that surrounding myself with what I had done happily would be helpful. It has not.”

“How is it that, if you are struggling, you are knowing of your graduation?”

“I’ve always passed.” Like that wasn’t an accomplishment already. It had been long since Namjoon had talked with someone in that mindset, especially someone he wasn’t closed to. Yet his heart sang to her, it brimmed form her pain, trying to help her like he had for years. Yet knowing that as much warmth as he felt, she wouldn’t receive any of it. “Slowly but surely, grades okay overall. I’m good when I choose the classes, and the classes that are assigned to me are the ones I struggle in. I help others in them, but I, myself, struggle to make it relevant to my own creation. It’s like there is a veil between my art, and what others create worthy of attention.”

“If your work is not treasured at your school, why did you not choose to leave?”

“My friends all knew this school wasn’t for them, and they made the effort to transfer, to stop, to look elsewhere. It was hard, they got rejected, they had to wait a year, but they’re okay now. And I stayed.” She blinked, tears leaving her eyes just as he felt that hollowness in him. “Because it was easier to stay and hurt than leave and possibly hurt more. I’m basically torturing myself.” She brushed her eyes, standing to find some tissues for her tears, Namjoon had already given her his packet the day before. She didn’t sit back down on the stood in front of him, cup empty, but rearranged her bed like a couch. “I stayed because I was scared.”

“Are you still scared?” He asked gently, turning his chair to face her again, to see how she bit her lip and glanced at him with glassy brown eyes. She curled in on herself, head to the wall, like she was drained of energy. “It’s understandable, Noémie, to feel drained, to be scared in life. I am still scared of things, I fear failure and disappointment. Sometimes the pressure to do good is too much for me and I cry my eyes out, and I call a friend of a member of my family for the support.”

“I isolate.” She told him. “When I fear, I isolate. When I am stuck, I isolate. When I feel like I am slipping down a hole, I cut myself off from others.” She dabbed at her eyes. “When I am scared, I curl in on myself and try to ignore the world, the pressures and the object of my fear.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I know.”

“What are you afraid of?” Noémie curled on her bed, glanced at him, at her cup of tea in hands, and back at him again.

“Of not doing good, of not being enough.” He watched her take a breath, not fully bring her cup to her mouth, watched her not take a sip and lay her hands back down. “Failure, novelty, change, not understanding, being naive. I fail at school because I don’t understand the assignment, what the teachers want. I am scared of living, moving, growing up, because there is change involved. Change makes me panic, I fear people I don’t know, spaces I don’t know. I can’t plan myself if there is only foreign objects, foreign space, things I don’t know. If things aren’t clear, I am scared, so I panic, and I close myself, I distance myself form my body, and I end up missing the probable words of comfort people tell me. They’re so hasty to help that they don’t give space and time.”

“Do I give you enough space?”

Noémie sniffed and looked at his earnest face. He really was worried about that? “Nearly too much.” She tried to joke, only to choke on a sob. “It’s just, I’m already not enough for myself, I don’t know how I can be any good for you.”

Namjoon drank from his own cup the candy-sweet berry infusion, holding in his grimace from his Soulmate, even without sugar it wasn’t his cup of tea (pardon the pun). “You don’t have to be anything for me.” He put the cup down, “Never should you try to be something for someone else. I know that sometime the only answer is to leave if the pressure to change is too much, and it’s hard. But, just know inside of you, you are doing good. You are living, and you are surviving society.”

“But I want to thrive, deep down.”

“You won’t thrive where you are being boxed, or where you feel like it.”

Chapter Text

That night, Namjoon sat down in the armchair in his hotel room, he thought about the week. He had been giddy before, in haste to meet his soulmate after waiting over thirteen years, he had had those expectations in his head. Expectations, he thought, that he shouldn’t have had. He would have this person to have by his side as he travelled, someone who loved change and experienced a drive from it. He was tied to a girl who, calm in nature, needed stability in her daily routine. He could see it, the ease she had with things she was used to, she had planned to face and change.

They had talked about her semester abroad, and he had felt the joy in had brought her, but also the anguish it had started with. He knew he could not ask her to uproot herself for his needs. A particular need that they would share when bonded.

While in his twenties, he had expected a lot, he supposed, from her. He had wanted to be abel to settle down, to start a family, to feel normal and have them to come back to. He didn’t know how much of this image he could have right now. It would have to wait, to change, to morph with her. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

His soulmate, with a timeline, had been the one thing he had thought of constantly throughout his career.

He curled in on himself, looking out the window, his phone beside the book he had wanted to read on the small table. It buzzed, a message from his close friends. He thought it was better to look at it than dwell on Noémie.

Namjoon looked at Yoongi’s message, and the ones before that. Between asking how his travels were going and music, there sat a question about his Soulmate, hoping to know when he and the boys could meet them. He sighed, fiddled with the pack of cigarettes in his jacket’s pocket, and just called his friend.

It rang once, then twice. A groan from his friend and a ceramic touching another hard surface. “Ah, Hyung…” Yoongi was making himself coffee, Namjoon recognised the sound.

“Doesn’t seem like everything’s alright, Namjoon-ah.” Yoongi spoke, moving around his home with his cup of coffee in hand. The younger stood as well, picking up his own drink and going towards the balcony. He picked his packet of cigarette and lit on up as he found a seat on the outdoor chair, zipping up his jacket. “I was going to talk about the music, but seems like you need a pep talk. Did it not go well?”

He hummed, neither good nor bad. “I had not thought to be expecting much.”

“So she’s not what you had in mind. Does that mean we won’t meet her soon?”

“For sure, no.” He thought about how they had not bonded, how she had three two thirds of a year to go through before she could take a turn in life. How they had not yet touched. “Noémie is a student.”

“Philosophy?”

“Art.” He breathed out some of the smoke, watching it rise in the sky and dissipating in the breeze.

“That’s cool.” Yoongi let his younger speak as he laid quietly on his couch like a cat, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

To him, it felt like his leader had had a lot on his mind, maybe he was just seeking his solace more than the niceties he could muster. So he stayed silence, drank his coffee, and went to note down what he had wanted to discuss with his friend on a piece of paper, that would be for later.

Namjoon was nearly done with his cigarette when he finally talked, breathing out the last of smoke. “She’s nine years younger than me and has just started her fifth and final year for a Master’s degree.” What else did he know about her that he could tell his Hyung. “She’s half French, living and studying in France, and she’s very good at English.”

“That’s better than nothing.”

“And she quite reminds me of you.”

“Lovely, ain’t it.” Both chuckled calmly, “How should I take it? I’m like a cute young student who knows how to speak English?”

“You are both like cats, calm and agreeable, and then you bite.” The eldest stayed quite, thinking about what his friend had said.

“Do they hurt?”

The bites, did they hurt? Or were they playful? Or, just like any real cats, they were reactions to not having been touched in the right place. “Most don’t, the rest I don’t know how to feel about them.” Namjoon said quietly, “I think it’s pretty clear that she had wished for longer without a Soulmate, just like at her age I had wished to meet them soon.”

“She’s not happy to have met you?”

“I think she has hopes that she won’t word. She seemed relieved, in a way, that I am who I am.”

“So she’s a fan who recognised you and thought – Oh, great, a genius with money.”

Namjoon sighed, “Yoongi.” He admonished, but he understood where his elder came from. That had happened to other idols around them, especially with Korean fans, but international ARMYs were sometimes just as crazy as home ones. But no, Noémie hadn’t even said much about her knowledge of his group.

“She’s not the crazy type of fan, I’m not even sure she follows what we do, just listened in the past. One of the first things she told me, though, was that she found our lyrics touching.”

“The depressing shit about feeling inadequate?”

He had meant it as a joke, but when he heard the gentle sigh of his friend, he guessed he had bit slightly too hard. “…yeah.”

“She’s feeling pretty bad, isn’t she?” He murmured into the microphone, mentally seeing his friends wide eyes, begging for some help, not knowing what to do for once.

“I just-” He hadn’t expected all these emotions to surface up in him just then, all he had wanted to do, to say in the last two days. “I wanted to hold her close, to hug her and tell her everything would be alright. That I could there for her, that we could talk about what she would need to get better. I wanted to be there for her, like I hadn’t been able to for years. But she held me at arm’s length, and, I know why. It’s just… it was hard.”

“But she didn’t want to close the bond because she has to finish her diploma.”

“That, yes.” Namjoon held the phone close to his chest, speaking lowly, eyes blurry and watching the trees move around in the wind. “And the fact that she told me, honestly, that when things get hard she calms up. She told me she needed some space before being able to open up again, but I fear I give her too much, I don’t know how to react.”

“You’ll know with time, Namjoon. It’s only been a day and a half.” Yoongi said, “You cannot know everything about her, you cannot understand her yet either. You may be Linked, but learning still takes time.” He finished his drink, put the cup down on his coffee table and laid down on his back. His couch was comfortable, the room bright, and he wanted to relax. “Depression cannot be cure miraculously, it’s a slow process, it comes back sometimes, it worsen at moments. You know that. I believe that if you continue what you have been doing for years, through you first Link, and she knows it’s you, will help in some way.”

“That’s the other thing, Hyung.” Namjoon hadn’t thought about how their Link, again, was the wrong way round for the both of them. “She doesn’t feel me like I feel her. She thought that I, like her, couldn’t see one colour.”

“Oh shit, you’re doubly part of the unusual.”

“She does art and she couldn’t see red.” He leaned back in his chair, fiddled with his lighter in hand. “It’s like being a musician and not hearing bass.”

“With disabilities you create differently.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing anyway?”

“Smoking.”

Yoongi hummed, stretching in place. “It’s bad for your health.”

“You’re one to talk.” He bit back. “But, yeah, I should. She doesn’t like it either.” His elder smiled on his side of the call. Namjoon wasn’t one to be pushed around, or to make choices hastily. He knew his friend had wanted to stop for a while, but there wasn’t much support when more than half of the team smoked as well, as did many in their industry. Had his soulmate smoked as well, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself, he knew, and everybody knew, they wouldn’t stop that easily. It was hard to cut off an addiction from one’s life.

He looked down at the coordinates etched on his skin, and thought about his Soulmate. Were they to hate smoking, he would stop immediately as well.

Namjoon was going to look at his phone, thank his friend, and hung up, but the clock app looked straight at him. He blinked.“Why even are you drinking coffee at eleven at night?”

“You didn’t read my messages; in the work groove.”

“You’re in the living room.”

“I’m not.” He grumbled, corners of his lips lifting as he knew he couldn’t lie to his friend.

“You are, I didn’t hear the door.” Of course he knew how his apartment sounded, “And don’t tell me you fixed it, I would have received a message from your part on that subject.”

Yoongi was happy his friend wasn’t dwelling on his situation, as complicated as it was, he should be enjoying his time alone, his time abroad, his travels and having finally given a shape, a face, a voice, to the heart that had beat alongside his since he was nine. “Take care, Namjoon-ah.”

“You too, Hyung.”

Do you want to go for a walk? She had asked him by DM, to which he had answered positively. That was why Namjoon found himself on that Saturday afternoon, after having bought some pastries for Noémie and himself, at the bottom of a hill after taking the bus. She had told him which one to take, how much it would cost him, and she was there already.

“Did you take the previous bus?” He asked her when she stood by his side.

“No, I took another line, one that’s faster from my studio.” She adjusted her jacket and turned to face him. Assessing his outfit, form the trainers on his feet, the casual pants and a jacket that had seen better days. She nodded, that was a good outfit, she hadn’t wanted him to arrive in fancy clothes that could get damaged. “See that,” She pointed towards the top of the hill, small mountain he rectified, and to the rock face up there. “That’s a castle, we’re going up there.” She adjusted her bag, with water and some other necessities, and started up a street.”

“Wait, what?” He jogged to catch up to her, careful not to shake the food too much. “A castle?”

“Well, the ruins of one, but yes. A castle, there are many in France. I don’t want to exaggerate, but there’s like a castle for every town, or something.” How did she know all that?

Namjoon followed her up the steep hill, but the top was coming quickly. She kept his pace, but breathed hard. “Do you need me to slow down?”

“Nope.” She had breathed out in between pants. “I just don’t know how to breathe, fast or slow, I falter.” He smiled at her determined expression. She kept up, breathed hard, not on rhythm, but continued at a steady pace until they reached the top.

It wasn’t more than forty minutes, but it was beautiful. There weren’t many people, the weather windy and snippy, and the ruins were tall. Some rooms he could even visit, observe the craftsmanship on the shaped window sills. They didn’t have this kind of architecture in Korea. Quite a random thing from Noémie’s part, but he was happy to have come here. He wouldn’t have thought to on his own. “Medieval castle, from the twelfth or thirteenth century, and overlooks the riverbed and the roads following the nourishing valleys.”

He followed her as she became his guide tour, explaining what she knew of the castle, translating some of the placards around the site. It was a beautiful breath of fresh air up there.

“There’s a table around the corner, if you want to sit down for a moment.” She sipped from water bottle, gaze set on her city on the other side of the valley, a beautiful sight of the habitations and the fields spreading around it, she could even see the railroads further back. The view never stopped being beautiful each time she came here.

“I actually bought some pastries.” He told her, “I read online that French people eat Goûter around this time, and I thought it would be nice.”

Noémie had turned around the face him when he said the word pastries, and she pouted happily when she heard the rest of his sentence. “That’s so thoughtful.” She murmured.

She walked with him to the picnic table, empty of any body elsewhere. She dropped her bottle on the table, seemingly eager to see what he had bought. He was calm as he opened his bag, took out the cardboard box. He had bought Pastries, not pastries. The kind that were delicate and beautiful, not the ones that you bought for breakfast on Sunday and holidays. This was some fancy quatre-heure he had invested in. And she hadn’t thought about taking some candies with herself. She only had one in case anybody needed sugar, the emergency kind of candy, not the indulgent ones.

Namjoon slowly opened the box, making sure the desserts were still upright and neatly packed. They were, though one side of the Paris-breast had been squished to the side. It didn’t matter, it was beautiful. He had looked at the showcase window for a long time in the shop, finding each and every dessert to be beautiful, choosing had been hard for him. He sat down on the other side of the table, pink dusting his cheeks as he flattened the box out. Only to realise that the pastries were uncut, and they were two. There were no spoons or forks given with it. Right, this wasn’t the same as in Asia, culture was different.

His Soulmate looked at the two desserts, eyes lingering on the other one. “They said it was chestnut and vanilla. I had asked for something local.” She smiled gently.

“That’s so nice, I love chestnuts. If you had come in Winter, they have these roasted chestnut standies in town, and it’s just so good.”

He sat still for a second, realising that he really had nothing to cut with, he didn’t know how to say it. But she had other plans, she shuffled through her jacket, pulling out a nice wooden handle, and opened the knife up. He blinked.

“Why do you have a knife?”

“Countryside girl,” She told him, as if that answered everything. She smiled at his face. “My French grandpa gave it to me when I turned ten, so I could cut string and wooden branches when adventuring in the forest. Now it’s more used for Saucisson.”

“Aren’t blades considered a weapon?”

“Yeah, they are, this could be a weapon. But it’s common in farmers and people form the region.” She gently cut the two desserts in two, then looked at the sizes and went to cut into fours, it would be more practical to eat. She took out, as well, some tissues to use as hand towels and cleaned up the blade of her knife, folding it back into her pocket. “Of course, more people in the countryside have those, more useful over there than here in cities, but it means a lot to me.” He would not ask any more questions, as cute as her story was, he wasn’t sure what to think about having a knife in his pocket at all times. “Don’t think too much about it.” She cut his thoughts off, “It’s like an author having a pencil on them at all times.”

For a farmer, he had no doubt. But for the child of an author to have a pen as well? Her image was too practical, pens were useful for everybody. And it seemed, like for this instance, that knifes were as well.

He suspected it to be their Link, the attachment he already had with seeing her smile, feeling her heart smile, and some pride behind her joy. He wanted to be the reason she smiled like that, carefree, candidly. He wanted to be let into her soft heart, not just skimming her hard shell.

Her fingers were delicate as she separated the two desserts, moved his half to his side, and then pulled the other dessert’s half to her side. Not touching him as he gave her space. Attentive yet distant.

Namjoon really wanted to talk to her up here, in this beautiful setting, really get to know her and not the shell she was projecting. He looked at her, with a gentle smile as she dug into the first dessert, liking some of the cream from her lips. She looked young, joyous, like she had no care in the world. She was young, he knew, but the lack of care came and went. He knew. It overwhelmed her at times, and others she didn’t pay any attention to her surroundings, like it was while they walked back down, aware of the sun setting and the last buses running. She was concentrated on her path, on herself, silent. She hadn’t answered any of his questions, barely recognising that he had talked until four steps later. He politely just said that eh was thinking out loud. He gave her the space she seemed to need.

Near the end, when the path flattened, that there were less gravels and it was soon to be the tarmac down to the bus stop, she had a renew skip in her step and started talking.

“You know, I hadn’t actually wanted to meet you on Thursday.” She told him with a light voice, no pang in his chest. “I had thought continuously of just closing myself into my room and not answering were you drawn to. Hoping that the timer would run out and I wouldn’t have met you.” Just the thought of not meeting her hurt him.

“If you didn’t want to meet me that much, why didn’t you actually do it?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe in fate, I know when not to run away. You cannot run from a timer, whatever I would have done, you would have changed your mind and followed me. You would have found me, and I wouldn’t have been able to escape, to refuse it. This, I know not to fight.” She shrugged her shoulders, “However, that doesn’t mean fate does everything and works everything. You have to work for what you want, you have to drive yourself. If we hadn’t had these timers, then I cannot tell you when we would have met. You might have made an effort, but it might have taken me ten more years. And you wouldn’t have been able to get to me before I chose to let you. That kind of fate, I could have belated. But a counter? Time doesn’t lie.”

“But you didn’t try.”

“Why try fight the inevitable?” She didn’t feel anything saying that to him, no remorse for even the thought passing through her mind. Noémie gazed straight at him. “You’re not a fatalist, are you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to answer. It was neither an insult, nor an accusation. It was flat, but clearly an accusation. Like she didn’t want him to be one. But he was, in a way, inclined to such belief. To him, there was a reason for everything he did, there was something that pushed him to do, and he followed it diligently. He followed that voice he had become, he shouted it, and he had repeated it when coming to Europe, to France, and to this town.

Fate did have, for him, a hand in everything. Things that were meant to be, came to be. He had been meant to be a rapper, someone who said their truth out loud, someone to lead the youth of the world towards a positive future. He had been meant for that, and he had followed that drive in him.

When he had his answer, the question had been asked too long before. They had waited at the stop, the bus had come, and he was in the vehicle, driving back to the city.

“I don’t want us to bond on what we fear, I mean, for us to get to know on the basis of the negative aspect of our lives” He told her earnestly, looking straight at her, coming back over his choice of word, “I would want to know more about your own hardships later, as you will know about mine. But I want something positive to remember you by. I want to know about your passion, about how you see art, what drew you to it, what made you stay, why do you create… all of that.”

She leaned her head onto the window, tired eyes looking at him. Noémie said nothing for a while, letting the bus take the roundabout on its own. “For me, art is all about sharing, without a single word, what you want to say but cannot. It sharing an emotion, a feeling, thoughts and beliefs, all throughout an object, may it be flat or in volume, may it be colourful or not. The choice of medium really depends on the feeling to be shared. As for conceptual art, the kind that need a placard, I am not attracted to it. Art shouldn’t need a translator, it should speak on its own, may the message be disformed through each person it is viewed by.”

“What about music?”

“Most music doesn’t have lyrics, you know that.” She started with, solemn in her wording. “But the music that does is accompanied by instruments most times, or the voice becomes one, and it is the tones and tempo that give off the colours, the hues, and shape of it all. People listen to music, like people observe art, like people read books, like people live installations. Each has their own ways of being interpreted.” Namjoon had heard this kind of discourse often, but not with her softness. Like what she said was her belief, but one that could change, that could morph, that could be influenced. “There is a part of contemporary art that interest me, the way that people mix those together, using different palettes you could say, and making a hybrid art piece. A painting with its poem, adorned into the artwork or by its side, an installation that music is apart of. All of these things are a point of renewal in our days.”

“What about your artworks?”

Noémie smiled, “You know, this feels likes an interview. His eyes widened, he hadn’t realised that he had been the one asking the questions, and her giving him beautiful explanations of her thoughts. “It’s okay. It feels nice to be heard.” She added.

“I think I created a lot of painting, drawing, things to watch from afar and from close. To feel something with the colours, those I could see, and find what story I could be telling through those. It’s a lot about storytelling.” She looked outside, at the setting sun, and the at Namjoon, basking in golden light. “For my Master’s, I had been going more of an objective route. Using the book as a starting point, the object you open to read the story. That kind of interaction with the work, manipulation.” She closed her eyes, just feeling the sun warm her skin. “Where you discover what has to be told my touching, opening, pulling. And each person gets to touch like they want, differently. They don’t all get the same story, not in the same order. And that’s what I love. How people can take one artwork, an get so many different things from it. But I calculate it, I know what people can and cannot get, I know the nuances that could be brought. I like having control. But also leaving a part of hazard to one’s own choices while opening and closing, or not, the book they picked up.”

“That’s somehow kind of wicked.”

Noémie cracked one eye open, seeing where they were on the ride, seeing his intrigued face, and went to rest again. Just hearing the rumble of the bus, the distant chatter of an old man on the phone, and Namjoon’s soft voice.

“How so?”

“You give an object to someone, and they feel like they have the liberty of seeing it how they wish. But it is still a book, with an order. And you’re telling me that you even planned the disorder?”

“People are predictable, even in their unpredictability.” She smiled, “How do you think magicians can do their tricks?”

“Calculations. Manipulating the object they hold.”

“I’m a magician.” She chuckled to herself, hands out like she had been doing a trick to him. Poof, glitter. He smiled at her, she was endearing.

“It’s all about giving freedom to people, but keeping them enthralled enough so that your message comes across.”

“Each part of the puzzle can work on its own. A drawing, an extract of a text, the font even plays in these games, all of that, the size of the object, the paper, the way it unfolds. All of these are elements that make people act a certain way. With a big book, they will lay it down, with thin paper as well, fearing they will damage it. Smaller object are more fun, people cradle them, yet they don’t expect those to open up big, or long, or anything. I like playing with those, making people hold these objects differently. You could say I manipulate them into doing what I want them to with the book.”

“I don’t know whether to be amazed or repulsed.”

“Please, just be amazed.” She sat up, opened her eyes when building started to build up and the sun disappeared. She missed the gentle warmth it gave her. “Though I would have shown you some of them were they in my apartment, but they’re all at school in my atelier.”

“It’s okay, there will be other opportunities.”

The bus ride continued in relative calmness. The old man left at a stop, a corner away from his home, just as a woman and her two kids went on. Noémie had already seen her before, she knew she would be stopping at the same stop, the station in the middle of town where most buses transferred from each other. Two stops later, a man on his own with a work bag.

“There aren’t many people on the bus.” Namjoon remarked, he was used to more people out and about at this time, it wasn’t even seven yet.

His Soulmate looked up, raised eyebrow. Before she found an answer herself, this was just a different style of living. She had living in this small city of a while, and he had living in Seoul for over ten years. “The rush is between five and half past six. These are the times people get off work and students finish classes. After that, it’s pretty calm.” She gazed around Namjoon to the old woman who had just gotten on the bus. “Though in this town, the buses have their last round at eight in the evening, so that’s something to know as well.”

Namjoon watched her, he couldn’t look at anything else either, he had his back to the front of the bus and there was nobody behind Noémie, just a pair of seat and the back wall of the bus. Outside it was getting a bit dark.

He had to tell her, it would do no good to let it go on its own. Even if she suspected, he wouldn’t let things be unsaid. “I will be leaving next week, my flight is already scheduled. He told her once they were on the way back.” He broke the silence that had fallen between them, not unpleasant, just present.

“Which day?”

“On Tuesday.” She nodded, assimilating the information for herself.

“Do you also have you train ticket ready?”

“Yes, you don’t have to worry on that part.” He fiddled with his fingers on the seat in front of her. She sat with her legs tucked neatly under the seat, her bag tightly grasped on her lap. She watched him unblinkingly. “When would you like us to meet again?” He asked finally. “I do want to keep in contact with you, to get to know you better, as the days go by, slowly but surely.”

He was thoughtful, eyes set on the future when she was still struggling with knowing how she would be able to balance her studies and trying to go get the train in two weeks to see her parents furing the holidays. “You know, when my diploma is over. I will have time then.”

“When is that?”

“That would be after June, so July.””

“No, I meant you diploma.” He said gently, “When is it?”

“Oh.” She took her phone out, searching through her documents for the outline of the year, frowning as she couldn’t seem to find it where it was supposed to be. And then she found the calendar, and the dates. “Between the tenth and thirteenth of June.” He wrote those in his notebook, clicking the pen and slipping it through the elastic band.

Time was running; he would leave, and she would stay. Three days had flown by and she would have to go back to school, he would have to go back to work. But he was right, they should see each other again. And Noémie, with her student funds, wouldn’t be the one paying for long international flights. It was a good thing that he had money.

“I just wanted to ask you,” He started while the bus came close to their stop. “Would it be okay if I send you messages when I feel like you are low?”

She looked at him, at his chest where she knew his heart was beating, and let her gaze go down to his feet. It was weird, still, to get it inside her head that he could still feel her like he had been able to for over twenty years. She hadn’t been able to see red, and now she could. Like that bond had never existed. Yet he still felt her. She could only fathom how that was. Like having a second heart beat beside his own? Her own discomfort washing over his limbs? Could he tell what was his and what was hers?

“I mean, you can.” She would like that, having someone check in on her without having to say it out loud, without having to word her unrest, her sadness, her fear. He would know. “If you want.” He had lived with her depression for years, and he now knew that just feeling at ease himself wouldn’t do her any good. Did he really want to spend time and energy reaching out to her? If he wanted, he could.

“I don’t want to crowd you with messages.”

Noémie looked up towards her Soulmate, visibly wanting to hold her hand and squeeze it. She held her hand herself. “You won’t.”

That gentle smile again, the one that was sincere and vulnerable. Open but scared of letting him in.

“Let’s meet in eight months, then.” She told him as they were separating. “This is a goodbye, not a farewell.”