inside my heart, a hurricane
Apr. 22nd, 2022 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
paglambingfandom: the boyz
rating: gen
word count: 536
other tags: trans sunwoo, non-famous, second person POV, gender... stuff
A/N: i love projecting. it keeps my skin clear
♥︎
You grew up as normal as normal can get.
You wore skirts to school, talked about movies and TV shows and celebrities with your friends, made up codenames to talk about the boys you found cute without anyone else knowing. You liked boys. You still do.
The thing is—you wanted boys’ approval in a way your friends didn’t. Yes, you wanted to be wanted, but you also wanted them to like you the way they liked their friends. You wanted to like the same things, do the same things, talk about the same things.
You joined the football team to ease that crooked longing. You never really cared to unpack that thought.
You liked to write the ㅇ in your name like a heart. Your little sister pokes fun at you for it, a little too corny, too much aegyo for her liking. You don’t mind; you love her all the same.
Besides, you never really cared about your name—far too many people use it. It didn’t matter if they’re a girl or a boy or neither. You liked that sense of anonymity, a non-playable character in the videogame of someone else’s life.
(What’s in a name? Everything.)
Then you learned about the x and y axis, about history, about ecosystems. About understanding sentences in English. About modern literature. You found out you like to write; you started with poetry until you realized that music felt a bit more like a step in the right direction. Struck a chord with you, for that matter.
You found yourself entering hagwons for music. You liked picking songs apart, separating melodies from beats and identifying instruments. Figuring out how they make a whole, because the whole is greater than the sum of its parts or whatever. The point is—you liked how music works. You still do. Music kept (keeps) that deeply-buried longing at bay.
When you got to university, you stopped wearing skirts. You’ve been wearing them your whole life. It felt freeing, now that you think about it, letting go of something that was mandatory but now you could live without. They went into boxes labeled ‘Old school uniform (Sunwoo)’ and that was that.
You met a lot of guys. You kissed some of them. You also caught yourself wishing you looked like them: the sharp jaws, broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs. (A crooked kind of longing.)
You cut your hair short enough that you almost don’t recognize yourself. The longing settles into something recognizable, but you don’t want to acknowledge it yet. Talking about things makes them real. You don’t want this to be real; at least, not until you’ve figured it out.
You lurk on online forums that discuss identity and sexuality at great length. You find out that you’re not the only one who feels this way. Panic curls in your chest the same time relief allows you to breathe.
(Pros: You’re not alone.
Cons: You don’t know where to start looking.)
You mouth the word over and over again, letting the syllables settle neatly around your tongue. If talking about it makes it real—it might be. You realize you’re okay with that.
And at the end of the day, isn’t that what matters?
rating: gen
word count: 536
other tags: trans sunwoo, non-famous, second person POV, gender... stuff
A/N: i love projecting. it keeps my skin clear
You grew up as normal as normal can get.
You wore skirts to school, talked about movies and TV shows and celebrities with your friends, made up codenames to talk about the boys you found cute without anyone else knowing. You liked boys. You still do.
The thing is—you wanted boys’ approval in a way your friends didn’t. Yes, you wanted to be wanted, but you also wanted them to like you the way they liked their friends. You wanted to like the same things, do the same things, talk about the same things.
You joined the football team to ease that crooked longing. You never really cared to unpack that thought.
You liked to write the ㅇ in your name like a heart. Your little sister pokes fun at you for it, a little too corny, too much aegyo for her liking. You don’t mind; you love her all the same.
Besides, you never really cared about your name—far too many people use it. It didn’t matter if they’re a girl or a boy or neither. You liked that sense of anonymity, a non-playable character in the videogame of someone else’s life.
(What’s in a name? Everything.)
Then you learned about the x and y axis, about history, about ecosystems. About understanding sentences in English. About modern literature. You found out you like to write; you started with poetry until you realized that music felt a bit more like a step in the right direction. Struck a chord with you, for that matter.
You found yourself entering hagwons for music. You liked picking songs apart, separating melodies from beats and identifying instruments. Figuring out how they make a whole, because the whole is greater than the sum of its parts or whatever. The point is—you liked how music works. You still do. Music kept (keeps) that deeply-buried longing at bay.
When you got to university, you stopped wearing skirts. You’ve been wearing them your whole life. It felt freeing, now that you think about it, letting go of something that was mandatory but now you could live without. They went into boxes labeled ‘Old school uniform (Sunwoo)’ and that was that.
You met a lot of guys. You kissed some of them. You also caught yourself wishing you looked like them: the sharp jaws, broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs. (A crooked kind of longing.)
You cut your hair short enough that you almost don’t recognize yourself. The longing settles into something recognizable, but you don’t want to acknowledge it yet. Talking about things makes them real. You don’t want this to be real; at least, not until you’ve figured it out.
You lurk on online forums that discuss identity and sexuality at great length. You find out that you’re not the only one who feels this way. Panic curls in your chest the same time relief allows you to breathe.
(Pros: You’re not alone.
Cons: You don’t know where to start looking.)
You mouth the word over and over again, letting the syllables settle neatly around your tongue. If talking about it makes it real—it might be. You realize you’re okay with that.
And at the end of the day, isn’t that what matters?
