Tarped over in a blanket of shade, Doyeon met her at the sandbox.

Lopsided grin of missing baby teeth, wounded knees in neon dipped bandages, Yoojung spiraled in clumsy footing—they called her butterfingers. Doyeon remembered her from class, her navy blue overalls and pristine white sneakers as she’d trip her way over to the monkey bars.

Doyeon watched her lean in closer, sand on her knees as it dirtied the surface of her clothes.

“I'm Yoojung, and I'm six.” Pride slipped out without a mistake.

“I know,” Doyeon buried her hands in beige, “I'm in your class.”

Array of pink blue hues, Doyeon's reminded of a warm summer haze from the look in Yoojung’s eyes. A bright cherry pop, sickly sweet, still lovable to the taste, that was what she was. Too hard to give up.

With tricks up her sleeves, sorcery at the tip of her fingers, Yoojung was the living normal—Doyeon was the living abnormal. Breathing in scents of roses, chamomiles, hints of strawberries, Yoojung merely exhaled the epitome of life. She brought crippled flowers alive, fixed the crooked, sealed back the little cuts on skin. Born with a given gift she belonged to hero deemed parents, stricken with abilities, man made in power.

Doyeon was simply enchanted.

But when Yoojung asked ever so innocently what Doyeon’s ability was, she answered in pieces of blue sadness. In a whisper, “nothing,” came by.

There weren't any spells Doyeon would cast, no supernatural drifts, no captivating ability, no spellbinding power to allure those over. She bared empty handed without gifts, veiled disappointment in herself, envious of one’s who stood chest out, chin up in delight.

(Soft grey reveries, her glacé coated dreams drowned in the unreachable depths).

Blinded by white walls, catching the distasteful aroma within the office, she felt the room spin. Her mother’s words murmured in one ear, the doctor’s buzzed in the other like static. Turned seven, still absent with qualities of a hero, still missing inherited powers, Doyeon grimaced at the grip of her mom’s hand tightening on her arm. Breath held in, sweat slicked on fabric, anxiety shriveled noticeably at the pit of the stomach.

“There's still hope.” His voice, the doctor’s voice ed through in an opening, a welcome comfort for the parent.

Doyeon was flung in unexplainable aspirations, optimistic drawled smile perked on her lips as a loving embrace captured her. She had time to develop her abilities from the doctor’s believable words. She bounded in her mother's sigh of joy, a child’s dream becoming a hero once more redeemed.

With the littlest pinch of hope, Doyeon wanted to believe.

Coincidentally, or not, Yoojung tailed by her side always seated in desks in front of her or across from her, never behind. Doyeon picked seats in the corner of classrooms, far enough, but close enough for Yoojung to pass notes, patch up her papercuts, and whisper in linings of cheat sheets. (Of course Doyeon returned the favor). She'd toss her back lollipops, lavender spheres on a stick, addictive artificial plum at the tongue—Yoojung’s favorite. Sometimes, an answer to a question dabbled out under her breath, evident to Yoojung ears along with finger curled puns hidden beneath.

Never apart, glued hip to hip, age of fifteen, never once was there a stray.

It's a mystery how Doyeon was accepted to this academy for future heroes, regardless that her parents were heroes. The same enigma why her abilities never came to her. No power, no reason, no idea why she sat livid amongst others bathed in a saviour’s light.

Yeonjung let fire crackle from the palm of her hand. Flickered flames danced along her fingertips, wondrous magic ablaze in her control. She drew crowds as students peered over shoulders, eyes drawn to watch blows of red hues spew.

There was a gaping hole in the classroom too, the time Mina accidentally swung her elbow to wall behind her or had it been Dani’s glyphs, sewn in golden flares. Doyeon doesn't quite remember, it probably must've been Soyeon’s false talk in facades, conversations topped in nonsense.

She’d ask Yoojung, but she wouldn't know either.

Yoojung is saccharine, a given toothache, sweetness burning at the back of your throat. Blush on her cheeks, embarrassed pink, she buried in damask roses. Though she'd yell too much when excited, caught things a little late, and squeal over beauty, she was everyone’s favorite.  

So Doyeon understood when her smiles deepened as Yoojung intertwined their fingers in messy knots.

Thickly she swallowed, her teeth bared. The green on her mother’s plant wilted dry, the very life of it out from the core. At the contact of her skin it withered dead, fallen leaves scattered. She left the room suffocated, frustration in her eyes.

Doyeon blamed her drunken stupor dad, her mom who strived for a better life, and the existence of herself. She ran to the kitchen burst in tears, a shock to her mother as she rushed over. Hands of comfort tried to reach for hers, but her mom immediately jerked away, hiss of pain between her lips. Doyeon watched wide eyed as her mother’s hand bubbled, sizzled in burns. The same place where she attempted to hold her hand.

(This wasn't what she wanted. This wasn't the power she wanted granted).

Immediately there was another call back to the doctor.

Anything living she touched squirmed, withered, and wilted. Just a graze of her fingers across skin singed, crimson ripped through wounds. Even when she’s the one touched their skin fizzed like carbonated pop. Doyeon was the living entity of reincarnated death blowing no flowery smoke.

Everything hurt.

Yoojung doesn't know yet—Doyeon planned to keep it that way. She's filled with meek sorrys and I'm busy interchanged every so often. Refused to be touched in any way possible, she diverged and escaped. She parted in silence, absolutely untouchable. Back turned and eyes averted, Yoojung’s left astray.

That's until Yeonjung’s sent to the infirmary, a look of horror bestowed upon all faces. Doyeon met Yoojung halfway, her hushed secrets spilled.

Inevitable death lingered from her every touch.

A scar came to carve itself on Yeonjung’s arm clear to the sight. She drifted, broken along Doyeon’s circle without a word.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I don't know.” Fumes of wandering rumors clouded her thoughts. “I don't know.”

Fumbled fingers spread across the pleats of Doyeon’s shirt, her sleeve rubbing off the excruciating sting in her eyes. Placid huffs piled on one another, echoes of their voices in the empty lot.

“You should've told me.” Airy breaths left Yoojung, the soles of her shoes scraped the asphalt. Indents of worry dug as a crevice on her forehead, furrowed brows brought together.

“If I told you, what use would it have done?”

She sighed. “I just thought you'd tell because, y’know, we’re friends and all.”

“We are.”

“Then why didn't you?”

Doyeon wavered a bit, eyes strained to the side.

“I didn't want you to be scared of me.”

There was subtle fear in everyone's eyes as she deemed more dangerous

She watched scarred tissue on her mother’s hand, Yeunjung’s arm, hesitant movements of others. Piqued interest of those around her, they'd go on as if she's normal, but of course, they never got too close. Her capabilities sheen dominance, the only problem was she wasn't able to control it.

Nerve wreck pulled along as she tugged her hair, the whole premise of the situation stressful. Being cautious engraved in the back of her head as she made sure there was no brush of contact, no accidental touch of skin, and remembered to wear enough to cover. She was exhausted, mentally drained.

Doyeon wondered if Yoojung felt death at the tip of her nose, lungs charred from the inside out when she whiffed up a scent of her fragrance, harmed by her very existence.

“Aren't you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Just–aren't you afraid that I might hurt you?”

Yoojung popped open a can of soda. “It's not like you mean to hurt me.” She paused to take a sip. “I can always heal myself up, remember? I'm a superhero with a superpower.”

“You're right.”

Addictively sugary, her giggles cased in funfetti and glazed honey. She smiled, all wide and toothy.

Naturally, Doyeon laughed along, shared carbonated drinks in hand. Lime lemon and orange.

How many times have I'm sorry slipped out— definitely too many times to count.

Dinner sat cold on a plate. Forks and spoons clattered against each other, glass shifted across the table. Doyeon’s chair slid back, scraped the wood burnished floor, hands on her lap. threw in an inferno, an apology stained on her tongue, bitter and vile. She spoke ever so softly in trembles.

“I'm sorry.”

There it was again, the same thing over and over. But instead, this time she started crying. Her face buried in her hands as she battered wet with matted hair. She coughed up tears and maybe if she cried hard enough she'd cough up her organs too.

Her mom could only do so much. There were no hugs, no motherly embraces, no kisses on her cheeks, nothing but weak comfort in words as despair laced her in voice.

“It’s okay.”

It's not.

Yoojung’s backyard was evergreen.

Crushed boxes of chocolate milk and half eaten strawberries littered on the steps. Their legs sunk onto the grass, meaningless wishes on dim lit stars at every exhale, admiration at inhales. Doyeon loved it; Yoojung probably did too.

“Who do you think you got it from?”

“Got what,” Doyeon mumbled.

“Your abilities.”

She clicked her tongue. “My dad, most certainly my dad. Not my mom though, since gravity is her thing.”

“Ever wonder where he is now?”

“Dunno.” She shrugged.

Offered a juice box, she ended with a decline.

Doyeon kicked remaining aluminum cans in the vacant parking lot, bathed in its reverberations for company. She adjusted on sensitively warm asphalt as her sunlight coated legs laid outstretched. She'd be getting an uneven tan.

Familiar hands placed down another can, distasteful grape, but Doyeon took it regardless.

“Yoojung, why am I so unlucky?” A question slipped with no reason, something Doyeon should’ve hidden longer.

Unhealthy carbonates spluttered open. “People are unlucky time to time.” Left cold, the drink moved to the opposite side. “You shouldn't worry about.”

Doyeon’s eyes flickered over. “But I don't get it.” A fiery surge welled up in a rupture of tears. They drop pit-a-pat on her red powdered cheeks, the taste of salt on the tip of her tongue.

“Why are you—”

“I don't get it,” she whimpered.

“Doyeon,” Yoojung whispered, eyes widened in shock. “Why are you crying?” Her hands raised to drag her thumb across her cheeks, but Doyeon immediately jerked away in panic.

“Don't touch me.”

The phrase escaped out of habit, sloppy and slurred.

(Doyeon liked a lot things about Yoojung to the point where she didn't dislike anything about her, but when hurt radiated off Yoojung, new to Doyeon’s sight, she hated it).

“No.” For once Yoojung refused, pulled Doyeon in and enveloped her in her arms. She grimaced at the contact of their skin, small burns to form, but she could care less. She held on tighter the more Doyeon squirmed, seething as she spoke. “Stop, your feelings matter too.”

And finally, there was a constant overflow of tears and blurred vision.

Fireworks of warm hugs, sparks of lively touches, Doyeon wanted to fall into her embrace a thousand times more, wanted to hold her hand, graze her fingers across her skin without a mark. She wanted to tell her that she loved her—how much she loved her. Either platonic or romantic, it didn't matter.

It's best not to. Doyeon knew.

So she sat quiet, still of breath she kept in as she sank in devastation. Upturned in misfortune, the uncontrollable misfits of her ability was the ultimate imperfection.

Curiously, she let her fingers wander, find themselves closer Yoojung’s hand. She quickly traced them back to her side, stopped when her name was called.

“Doyeon?”

A quiet hum escaped her lips. “What is it?”

Gentle spill of Yoojung's voice picked up, her chin dipped deeper into her jacket.

“You okay now?”

Doyeon cracked a smile. “All okay.”

Filled with impossible nature, Yoojung made things bloom without the inevitable death lingered from her touch.

She was her constant infinity, all that she needed.