“I’m fine!” I insisted though I could feel the weight of their concern, pressing down on me. “And for the record he’s six foot four. I know he’s freakishly tall, you don’t have to remind me.”?
“You’re not,” Wynter declared, and I could tell there was no arguing with him. He wasn’t even smiling at me—I knew he meant business.
“Don’t be angry at me.” I glanced to him, grabbing onto his arm, and his demeanor softened.
“I am not angry, I am just worried,” he reassured me, placing a hand on my cheek. “Always worried for you. It’s like now my being and my heart are split into two. The side that exists so that I can live and the one that beats for you, so concerned for you. Well, it’s my default setting.”
The car ride back to his apartment was mostly silent, save for the music on the radio, spinning “Stick Season” by Noah Kahan that Sydney sang at the top of her voice. I watched as the city lights begin to blur as we drove my body ached with every bump of the road, my eyelids heavy.
“On a much more serious note, do you need to stop doing this, Yesoh? There’s no way that you can be a workaholic at the age of nineteen.” Sydney scolded.
“What’s wrong with being a workaholic at nineteen? I was.” Wynter cleared his throat.
“You are not helping.” Sydney smiled.
“I can’t stop working, it’s physically impossible. This is too important. You know how competitive the industry is if I mess this up—”
“You are not going to mess it up, and you need to stop convincing yourself that this is going to be the outcome, and it’s not my intent to appear arrogant by any means, but take it from the person who holds the world record for the youngestfigure skater to strike gold. You are what you believe, and if you’re constantly feeding yourself negative sentiments, it’s going to take a toll on you. You're going to burn out if you keep this up. What’s the point of doing all this if you can’t even enjoy it in the end?” Wynter explained, glancing at me in the rear view mirror, eyes ridden with worry.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t have an answer that would satisfy them. By the time we arrived at the apartment, I could barely keep my eyes open. Sydney gave me a quick hug before heading home, leaving me alone with my boyfriend.
“Sit,” Wynter instructed, gesturing to the couch as he locked the door behind us.
“I told you I’m fine, stop fussing.”
“Fine? You look ready to pass out,” he said, opening the fridge.
“I’ll eat at the dorm,” I said weakly.
“You will eat here.” His voice left no room for argument. “You need real food not whatever granola bars you’ve been surviving on."
I sighed, leaning back against the cushions as I heard him rummaging through the kitchen. He worked quietly and efficiently, and soon enough there was the scent of something warm and familiar in the air. He returned with a steaming bowl.
“Here,” he said, setting the food on the coffee table in front of me. “Cahya made some homemade rice and chicken earlier for you.”
Wynter seemed to sense my hesitation. “Don’t make me spoon-feed you,” he said with a teasing smile.
I raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t, Kwon.”
He picked up the spoon, dipping it into the soup with exaggerated care. “I assure you that I am by no means in a joking mood, so try me.”
I laughed despite myself, the sound weak but genuine. “Fine, I’ll eat.”
Satisfied, he handed me the bowl, taking the spoon into his hands and feeding me. A part of me felt like a child by the way he was treating me, but a part of me also felt safe and warm seeing the lengths that he would go. He watched me closely as I took a few tentative bites. The warmth spread through my chest, easing the knot of tension that had been there all day.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Wyn.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “Told you. And again allow me to reiterate that I am not angry at you, I just want you to prioritize your wellbeing over potential praise. You’re a phenomenal ballerina, regardless of if you impress those pretentious critics or not.”
When I finished eating, my body felt heavier than ever, exhaustion pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.
“Stay here tonight,” Wynter said, already grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch. “You’re too tired to go home.”
I wanted to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I let him drape the blanket over me, the soft fabric warm and comforting.
“Okay,” I murmured, my eyes already closing.
