It wandered slowly at first, gliding through the frozen water with this grace that came across as a natural. Wynter's chest tightened as he strained his eyes to make out its shape. It was almost a person. A figure with long, dark hair, floating like ink in the water.
“Who’s there?” He questioned, a shiver cascaded down his spine.
The figure didn’t answer. It merely turned. Its face was pale, almost glowing in the murky depths, but it’s eyes were blackened over, bottomless and unblinking. The creature stared at him. It’smouth opening slowly and possibly wide. Then he heard another crack.
The ice beneath his feet splintered, and suddenly he was falling and freezing water, swallowed him hole, pulling him down beneath the decks. He attempted to kick and claw and fight the cold, but it paralyzed him freezing over his limbs and his mind. The figure was approaching now it’s hands reaching for him desperately it’s mouth moving silently, but it couldn’t speak. Wynter couldn’t hear the words, but he knew they were meant for him they mouth the single phrase over and over ; don’t think it don’t say it don’t think it don’t say it. ???
He glanced down at his hands, and all that was left, was a single strand of platinum white hair between his fingers. The words burned into his mind as the figures hands closed around his neck, pulling him deeper and deeper – it was then that he woke with a gasp.
He opened his eyes, distant and unfocused the memory of the creature under the ice lingering in his mind. He swallowed hard, the words catching his throat. His skin was slick with sweat the room dark, but the nightmare held onto him, nevertheless. He rushed out of bed towards the light of the bathroom, he gripped the sink, his knuckles whitening against the porcelain. He stared into the mirror, his reflection, pale and haunted. The phrase from his dream echoed in his mind like a curse; don’t think it don’t say it.
He fought the nausea that tormented him, wanting to rid him of all things painful but it never worked.
A soft knock on the door startled him, he turned and the door creaked open— it was Cahya. His expression tired and deeply concerned.
“You okay?” Cahya asked stepping into the room, beside his friend. “The nightmares again?”
Wynter attempted to open his mouth to deny it but he couldn’t, his throat raw he could only nod silently.
“They never stopped did they?” Cahya frowned,
Wynter closed his eyes his breath shallow, “Don’t.” He warned, his voice almost a whisper but it carried such weight it took Cahya aback.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t think it don’t say it right?” Wynter repeated.
“Right.” Cahya sighed his heart aching for his friend. “Bae can’t see you like this man.”
“Don’t you think— I know okay. I know…” Wynter breathed.
“I’m not saying that you need to forget because none of us ever will but just as I’m strong for my sister, you have to be for Bae.” ?Cahya reminded him of th promise they made years ago.
The silence after that was heavy with expectation. Cahya pleased his hand on his friends shoulder.
“Wynter, what are you so afraid of?” He asked,
“That perhaps it was all my fault, that I could have stopped it, that I’ll never know why it had to happen that way.” Wynter spoke truthfully shutting his eyes.
“Do you still feel sick?” Cahya questioned, his voice softer, more patient, turning on the running water at the sink in apprehension of waking Bae.
“I don’t know…” Wyn admitted though the room spun.
Cahya studied him for a long moment before standing, and helping his best friend to his feet. “Come on let’s get you some tea.”
Wynter hesitated, glancing back at the mirror, and for slight second, he thought he saw something move in the depths of the glass, something dark, and familiar. Something that looked like him, maybe even a little too much. But something that was gone now and couldn’t be brought back. but when he glanced back, it was just his own pitiful reflection once again.?
30
Yours, Excruciatingly Eternally
YESOH’S POV
The rink was a cathedral of cold, its air electric with the crisp sound of blades slicing across the ice. Even bundled in my thick coat, I felt the chill seep into my skin as I pushed through the heavy doors. Inside, the fluorescent lights reflected off the frozen surface, making it gleam like polished glass.
And there he was.
Wynter stood at the center of the rink, a figure of sharp lines and quiet authority. Dressed in black from head to toe—downto his fitted turtleneck and gloves—he looked like he belonged here, commanding the space with a natural ease.
