Summary: Adhering to the story his grandfather had often re-created for him since he was a child of five, he was determined to fold a group of one-thousand paper cranes - wholeheartedly placing his faith in the ancient Japanese legend that promised the granting of one wish in exchange for the heap of cranes. And in the wake of his sweat and tears, he hoped to be recognized by the one he deeply admired.
Pairing: Chanyeol/Sandara - ChanDara
Word Count: 5376

White Wishes

Do you ever think of us?

Adjusting the thick-framed spectacles atop the bridge of his nose to a less agitating position, he paused and scrutinized the message once more. Innately insecure and doubly anxious, he slammed the eraser to the white paper, smudging and desecrating a good 3 hours’ worth of hard work. He supposed the message was too frank and certainly too unusual for a mere acquaintance to be proclaiming.

Askew with frustration, he crumpled the potential charm and hurled it towards the trash-bin already overflowing with an assortment of colored scraps and papers. Fingers threaded through his unruly, dark locks, he sighed, pondered the words he could write that would be just fine and suitable for this project.

Mulling over the prospect of admitting something a bit more close to home, a bit more heartfelt, his gaze fell upon the small pile of decently executed cranes settled on the shelf above his desk. Grazing the nearest wing with the back of his hand, he flinched and retracted his arm upon slicing the skin.
Brushing off the freshly acquired injury as another battle scar worth priding himself over, he rested his head against the board of his desk, his sight slightly hazy from working under the heat of the lamp in these hard hours.

Drooping eyelids convinced him of sleep and he drifted to a lull, his energy depleted through the art of assembling paper cranes.

“Don’t give up. You’re amazing.”

Startled by the precious memory that chose to slip into his dreams, he knocked into the wood and slid off his chair, a few cranes clattering to the ground with him. Pain shot along his back and he groaned, gradually rearranging his limbs to proper order. Ruffling his hair, he peeked at the clock on the drawer near his bedside, the hands informing him the time was a good four in the morning. Harshly rubbing his sleep-infested eyes, he proceeded to return to the task at hand, his sentiments practically writing themselves.

For the sixty-fifth addition to his collection, he chose not to simply shower her with compliments, and noted,

I’m here because of you, so thank you.

An ache thrumming in his worn fingers had him work the muscles and tendons, routinely cracking the knuckles and corresponding joints. Distracted from diffusing the tension, he failed to notice the approach of a familiar face until she flung tattered confetti on his features.

Spitting the remnants from his mouth, he crowed, “Wha-what was that for?”

A sly glint to her impossibly feline-like irises, she a voluminous container in his wide arms. “Relax, it’s what I promised you. It just happened to have some extra barriers.”

Marveling the bottle in silence, he left her to fidget with her jewel-encrusted hands and fearing she had not acquired the necessary vessel. “It’s not too much, is it? Or, maybe it’s not enough-?”

“No,” He breathed, and emphasized his claim with a firm shake of his head. “It’s perfect.” He traced the glass outline, the shape reminiscent of a codd-neck bottle.

She heaved, “Ah, I’m so glad! Do you know what I had to do to get that? You’re lucky you’re so precious, otherwise I would have said scram.”

Eyes twinkled in their mismatched manner as they usually did when he laughed. “You wouldn’t do that, Chae. I think we all know that.”

“You think too highly of me.” Jet-black hair shook as she nodded in mocking dismay.

Toothy, he shrugged, murmured, “Well, Kris seemed to think so, I figured he was right. He was.”

With her undeniable flair, she puffed her chest and tossed her silky curls, her intent to assert the brilliant of Mr. Wu’s decision to regard her as such when the Devil himself rapt the back of her head with his knuckles.

“Don’t her ego, Chanyeol. She only gets worse.”

Flustered, she croaked, “Yah! Who asked you?”

“You wound me, Chae,” Kris crooned, clutching his chest in dramatized despair. Triumphing the Queen of Wit, he roved over the bottle in his friend’s hold and whistled, “Is that for the cranes?”

Weakly, Chanyeol nodded, his mind lost somewhere in the midst of the previous heated discussion.

“How many do you have so far?”

The impish giant scrunched his nose in his odd, comical mannerisms and mumbled, “Seventy, I think.”

Aglow, Chaerin grinned cheekily for her devoted friend - his happiness both infectious and sensible. “That’s admirable. And sweet.” Softly, teasingly, she tapped manicured nails to her chin and affirmed her knowledge of a certain person’s whereabouts. “She’s been feeling a bit down since Sanghyun left to study abroad in the States and she’s been holed up on the fifth floor by the music room.”

Kris lauded her performance. “Music tends to soothe the soul.”

“Didn’t you meet her in such an exchange?” Chaerin winked. “Go get her.”

Choking on the mere idea of meeting her again with very few preparations, Chanyeol stubbornly protested the action. “I haven’t even reached a hundred cranes, yet!”

“You will tonight, now go. That guitar isn’t going to play itself.”

- Past -

“Just don’t hope for too much, okay?”

Thick, calloused hands reflected the time and effort he had put forth for the dream that had encroached upon his ways from his days as a youngling. Grieving the potential loss of his future, he quickly splashed water on his haggard appearance to avoid further penetration of negativity.

But, his conscience rebelled, desperately trying to make sense of this wrong.

The nicks and marks embedded in his skin were a sign of his dedication to music – he had played the guitar since he could fiddle the strings with his curled baby fingers. He had skills and experience under his belt that were more than enough to prove his talent in the field. Of course, he had to remind his weary noggin that he was no longer substituting in an underground club, or playing backup in a sparsely populated hole-in--the-wall bar. This wasn’t a one-night stint for the untrained ears of civilized, ordinary folks to ignorantly measure and applaud his performance.

Scraping the slick residue of water from his face with a rough towelette, he confronted his mirrored image, the trauma and effect of his stacking failures evident by the dark-circles marked beneath each of his eyes.

His admittance at the prestigious Academy of the Arts seemed for naught.

The toe of his shoe swiftly swung out to kick the bulky guitar case, the entrapped instrument sent crashing to the opposite wall of the hallway on the fifth floor. B with pessimism and regrets, he sank to the tiled floor, head hung low.

This wasn’t for him.

What had he been thinking, pursuing the dream of a musician in the competitive world he knew of?

He had squeezed in a few more practices in between his class schedule, tore strings, sliced fingers, and the work had amounted to nothing. He needed to get out, he needed to leave, to quit.

Lined with exhaustion, he calmly peeled himself from the ground and walked the halls, his forsaken case to be had by the next passerby.

He was done.

And then he chanced upon her, his guitar in her possession.

Drenched in multiple shades of beauty, she scanned the doors and halls, mousy, nervous. Jittery fingers comfortably fiddled with the locks and restraints plastered onto the staggering instrument container, her teeth respectfully chewing on her bottom lip. Smooth blonde strands of hair dangled in her view, jilted when she noticed him observing her, a bit startled himself.

Recalling the instrument had been a gift from his late grandmother, Chanyeol figured he had to retrieve it at some point, rather than explain its absence.

Rudely gaping, he was profusely apologized to by the petite female, her hands clasped to her sweet mouth. She mistook the boy for a member of the Student Association and she cajoled him into stalling a couple of days so as to allow the rightful owner to collect his instrument.

After her lengthy explanation and sensible reasoning, he found his jaw worked, his lips moving of their own accord. A good friend to curiosity, he had to know – why.

Almost offended by the unjust inquiry as if it were completely obvious, she pouted a moment or two, and he watched in bated breath.

Her features were suddenly creased with a smile, with sincerity and joy, and she insisted the artist had touched her heart. Although, the music had been lacking vocals or lyrics, she knew his piece had no need of words, the strum of his strings alone stirring her heart.

Throat clumped with dryness, he rasped, “What if he gave up his dream to play?”

Lowering her eyelids, she murmured, “Don’t give up. You’re amazing.” Genuinely chock full of sentiment, mirth, she lightly offered up a smile, his heart ablaze at the rapid discovery.

“That’s what I would tell him.”

He choked on the boiling passion and swelling tears within.

Since the day he was born, he had been a boy aloft with dreams and hopes, the mood-maker of his generation and he still had not been quite as touched as he had that day with her. She set fire to his heart, she set motion to his flickering dream.

Once more commanding the strings and rhythm of his guitar, he poured his all into his recitals, earned the steady approval of his mentors and peers alike. And yet, he looked to her, for her, but met with little to no success on numerous occasions. She had entered and left his life – just like that.

Still, he pursued the career he had drawn out for himself as a youthful lad, earning a few friends on this path.

Outstanding, critical protégé, Kris Wu, had lathered him with advice, tips, and notes for live stages and handling instruments, and Lee Chaerin had been a member of his Digital Animation class, her cool, relaxed demeanor attracting him instantly. Finally, he had a shoulder to lean on, to deter him from the slumps of cruel reality.

White teeth tore into the red core of the apple, attention dismally focused on the newspaper discarded on the dinner table. Chanyeol leaned over the pages, scanned the headlines to land on a riveting coverage on hibernation, when his flow of concentration was disrupted by shrill cries. Suspecting his bratty cousins were responsible of the commotion, he followed the shouts, confused of the excitement that filled them.

In the living room, his two darling cousins of ages four and six were planted at the feet of his grandfather, the brittle old man defying his health in his dramatic display of oral story-telling. Efficiently utilizing gesticulation, projection, details, he enacted the finest of stories, the present tale emitting from cracked lips that of a classic in Japan – Sadako and the Thousand Cranes. Memory committed to every line of the story, Chanyeol somehow found himself listening and nodding to each word his grandfather presented.

“In the immense desire to live, she chose to follow the guidelines set by the Ancient Gods of Japan.” Grandfather Park stalled, permitted the choice of words and actions to sink in the minds of his young relatives. “For one thousand cranes in or under one year, she would be granted a wish of her choosing. A powerful charm of luck, if anything, she pushed her frail body to limits to birth the origami paper cranes.”

Thudding her feet against the ground, the oldest quivered, “And did she make one thousand, papa? Did she live?”

His strong façade of a committed storyteller faltered, he ruffled her hair, and answered the curious child. “Despite the pain she had to brace through every day of her life, she managed to make six-hundred-and-forty-four cranes till she became too weak to fold anymore.”

Hushing the miserable cries of his audience, he continued, “But she had believed, and she had outlived the years that confined her to death. Maybe the gods had listened.”

Previously tottering in between bites of his apple, Chanyeol removed himself from their presence, weaved his way to his room in silence. Flinging the marred apple to the bin by the doorway, he stumbled, found solace in the sheets and pillows of his bed. He clutched and burrowed into the covers, a fresh idea festering in the hollow of his battered mind. Pondering his options and outcomes, he wasn’t sure what exactly was preventing him from testing out the theory.

With nothing left to lose or spare, he decided to try to placate his uneasy heart  with paper cranes of his own.

The first few twenty he had attempted to fold and crease into proper cranes were distasteful and grotesque in shape, but that disaster could not hold him back from trying again and again. Demoting the unappealing cranes as mere practice, he kept at the game until he approved of one, the sheet a sliver of blue and wrinkled twice the amount it should have been.

Proudly, he flashed his smile down on the creation, and concluded the masterpiece with a note under the wings, expressing the emotions and thoughts he hoped to have unleashed with his one wish.

‘You saved me. I owe you more than just a life or token.’

He scribbled his initials of ‘C.P’ in the crook of the blank, skewered wing.

‘Please, don’t ever stop smiling.’

Unsure if she approached the arms of death or the warmth of life, Sadako kept her faith in the legend, lived far longer than she should have, and made cranes till her body could not coordinate and fold.

He would place his energy and hope into this legend, and perhaps, he could know her. 

Restless fingers mimicked the creases and patterns of a crane in the still air as he sat in the remainder of his period, his eyelids drooping often due in his grossly sleep-deprived state. Coerced into the spell of peaceful rest, he closed his eyes and his head slammed against the hard-wood of his desk. Upon impact, he immediately sputtered, pulled back, and scattered the experimental cranes in his school-bag, the wings and heads rolling on the ground. Slightly flushed, he hurried to reclaim his charms, but a pair of wedges entered his view and he froze.

Crouching to his level, she quietly recovered his brittle trinkets, the black of her hair soothing his frantic nerves.

Chaerin whispered that he had some explaining to do, a torn wing in the grip of her index and forefinger.

Although, he hadn’t been entirely against the idea of clarifying his recent hobby or his late-night workshops, he hadn’t been entirely certain his friends would care. Rectifying the situation, Chanyeol informed both Chaerin and Kris of what he presumed to be a silly objective, his heart in command of his actions. Chaerin smacked him and Kris reprimanded him, the two clearly in favor of his stance and ideal goal.

“We can’t physically aid you in making them,” She began, bothered by the regulations set by the Ancient Gods. “However, we can help you in other ways. I think I might know of who you’re talking of, but there’s no guarantee.”

Kris cocked his head. “A thousand white birds in one year and it’s already March. You sure you can do it?”

“I want to do it.”

“Then rely on us a little more. If there’s something you need help in, besides folding the damned things, tell us – don’t hide from us.”

Sniffling, the impish giant of a man smiled, glad to know he had the support of the people he had come to cherish the most.

- Present -

He flexed the digits of his hands, the flesh taut, swollen and scathed from the constant switching between folding cranes and playing guitar. The damage inflicted prevented him from freely jumping cords and strings, pain flaring at the brush of contact. This had been a part of his daily life for the past few weeks, two-hundred-and-thirty-five cranes stuffed in his codd-neck bottle.

It was the middle of May and the sole information he had managed to scrounge up had been her name and status. Sandara Park. A teacher in the making at the age of twenty-nine, she had attended the Academy of the Arts as a substitute, her younger sibling’s attendance the main reason for accepting the position.

But she was here, now.

Becalmed on the surface, a torrent of terror underneath, his steps pushed forthright to the fifth floor of months past, his guitar slung over his shoulder. Outside the music room, knees clasped to her chest, she mewled and sniffed, her soul trampled by her sorrow.

Feeling his spirit waver, he hid to the other end of the room, his sore joints screaming for him to let them be. Bracing himself for the worst to come, he swallowed the surging bile in his throat and carefully adjusted the instrument.

He selected a piece she had become accustomed with.

Notes danced in the atmosphere, his slim appendages expertly plucking and thrumming the strings, his foot in tune with the beat. And mild vocals floated in the air, a significant improvement to the time she had been exposed to his guitar skills.

Blood began to decorate the tethered strings, his features began to strain and grimace, but he pressed on, tolerating the pain to distract her from her woes. In the midst of his performance, she had come to approach him, inquisitive of the man behind the talent that fondly held her heart so.

Recognizing the wiry threadlike bristles of his brown locks, she shoved forth and halted his presentation, the woman breathless in wonder. “It was you.”

Scratching behind the protruding tips of his ears, he grinned in shy respect. 

Needless to say, the relationship betwixt the two flourished, as did the number of cranes. Gradual, cautious, Sandara and Chanyeol crossed the bridge of acquaintances, evolving into a pair of friends, the love and beauty of music intertwining them.
Instead of moping with his pack of brutes, he joined her on simple excursions and luncheons, the maternal instincts in Dara compelling her to feed him with her home-cooked meals. His only complaint was towards the incessant teasing Chaerin and Kris laced their comments with in regards to him.

Ah, but he was jubilant, ecstatic, almost euphoric during these days. A similar blanket of such happiness had been cast on him when he touched and held his first string instrument.

“Are you ever going to ask her out?” Kris drawled, proceeding to sip from his milk tea. “It’s already the end of July.”

Chanyeol waggled his clean brows. “When you ask out Chaerin.” Clapping like a fool, he roared in laughter, his friend’s pale skin flushed and blotched with shades of pink quite the amusing sight.

“Yah, this is serious!”

Simmering down, Chanyeol met the concerned gaze of his best-friend and considered the prospect. “Do you think she’d refuse me?”

“As a friend, no. As something more, who’s to say?”

He had to try to unravel the answer.

Fumbling with courage, he awkwardly made his way to her after class and stammered through his genteel request, terrified of rejection in spite of what the pair had accomplished.

She, however, smiled, consented, her soft response spawning seven cranes.

Glittering with fragile beauty, Sandara, somehow, found herself anxious, uncertain of her attire or choice of powder and gloss. He wanted to acknowledge her aesthetic appeal, her personal charm, her ravishing appearance, but the sentiments and values died on his hesitant tongue.

 Confident and swipes of his arm and he held her, swayed to the resonating music on the dance floor in the homely restaurant, urging her mind to clear and embrace the night.

It was the most he could do – her smiles and laughter satisfying the discontentment of his heart.

Prepared to depart, she stopped him, planted a kiss to his cheek and prayed for his safe return home. Discombobulated, he merely waved to her, his conscience and senses fried beyond repair so much so that only one crane was born in that night.

‘Don’t think so little of yourself.’

Stifling her giggles, she squeezed his hand again, thoroughly entertained by his rattled, disheveled appearance. He might have loved that she initiated physical contact, but she was well aware of the power she had and she was hell-bent on abusing it.

Tugging his scarf, he jumped and crushed her in the wide expanse of his arms, her squeals and cries drowning his senses.

“Chanyeol-ah! I promise I’ll stop, I promise!”

Eventually, begrudgingly, he rearranged himself off of her person, and she held onto him, swung their arms to and fro as they walked.

“Would you like to attend a dinner with me, Chanyeol? It’s an annual event for the Teacher Association unit and while they can be a bit dreary,” She murmured, looked to him. “I think if you go it won’t be as bad.”

Soaring through the cool September clouds, he exhaled, “Of course.”

The red hands of fate had other ideas in store and interfered, incited a mini-heart-attack in the bloody organ of his beloved, robust grandfather. His heart and mind warred with the decision to either attend to his relative or Sandara’s event, his ultimate move a scramble to rush to the side of the man that had profoundly impacted his future.

Torn apart by reality, he briskly notified Kris and Chaerin of the predicament, relying on them to relay the message to Dara.

Acquiring the woman’s cell number by word of mouth from Sanghyun, Chaerin texted and voice-mailed the unfortunate cancelation and prayed she received it in time. A second wrench in fate had the message lose direction and never reach her phone, the blistering outcome that of Sandara awaiting Chanyeol’s presence by the front door of the scheduled dinner.

Heckled, she scanned left to right, right to left, further discouraged by the couples chattering and walking past her.

Assuming he would have shown up ahead of her, she was perturbed by the result, tightening her coat about her shoulders. Scolding herself for inviting and trusting him when she had yet to truly know him, she swiveled to the nearest source, baffled by the handsome, mundane features.
A sly tilt to his head, he allowed nostalgia to wash over her in waves and she propelled herself into his arms, careless of wrinkling his neatly-pressed suit. Tears filled her unsteady vision and she gasped, burrowed into the warmth of his arms she had become accustomed to all those years ago. “Don-Donghae, how?”

He kissed the top of her quivering blonde head. “Does it matter right now? I’m back, Dara. I’m back for good.”

Chanyeol shoved deep into the recesses of her mind, she sobbed against the sturdy man and vowed to hold on tight.

“I’m so sorry for leaving you alone.”

Just barely audible, he hummed into the night, adept hands crafting and prepping a fresh batch of cranes, his process minutely disrupted by the stirring of his grandfather. Inspecting the vitals, he leaned on the edge of the white bed on his elbows, brows furrowed in worry. His grandfather shooed him off, preferring the comfort of the beige walls to his grandson’s forlorn impression.
Brown hues noticed the beaks that peaked from the boy’s bag and he gestured for the object. Gently, Chanyeol presented the best crane he could find to him, tentative of the outburst.

“What are you wishing for?”

“To earn her recognition, papa.”

The elderly man broke out into a smile, insisting his boy recite the story he had frequently woven for his child-like ears. Beckoning to his haste, Chanyeol resumed his task, retelling the story he had ever committed to heart to the distant conscious of his guardian.

He finished the tale with the completion of his six-hundredth bird, a grin writ across his face in achievement.

‘You’re lovelier when you laugh. Are you laughing now?’                                

In accordance with the doctor’s request for his grandfather to lie low a couple of days in the confines of the hospital, Chanyeol dutifully remained with him, spending the time strengthening the relationship with the man and hoping for another chance with the woman that had him smitten beyond relief.

He was absent for one week, a few days alone capable of repairing and re-establishing her union to Donghae, his insistent courtship swaying her control and rationale. Having shared a span of six years together, their reconciliation was inevitable, their history easily overcoming this potential fling or route she could have had with Chanyeol - if she so wished to have him as more than a friend. 

Upon his return the following week, a sliver of foreboding haunted him, chilled him to his very bones. Aware of Sandara’s true beau, Kris and Chaerin badgered him, tried to keep him from reuniting with Sandara in hopes they could spare his heart.

Irritated, he demanded the reason for their bizarre behavior, especially when he had explicitly stated he needed support, not obstacles.

Chaerin held his arm, pleaded for him to avoid the woman. “She’s no good for you Chanyeol!”

Stricken with disgust, he ripped his arm from her grasp and sent her body sprawling to the ground. Spurred by her shrieks, Kris scurried to Chaerin, his hands cradling her horrified body in his protective hold. Spiteful, he turned his menacing gaze on his friend and hissed, “Did you really think you had a chance with her?”

Gripping his bag, Chanyeol fled the scene and hurried to the fifth floor, sure she would be there as she often had. His feet had not reached the ascending staircase to the fourth level, Sandara courted and romanced on the third block, her waist fondly secured by a man he had never had the pleasure of meeting.

And she was cooing, giggling, speaking ever so sweetly to her budding companion. Perhaps, the soft love etched in the depth of her irises was the source of his undoing.

Appalled, he heaved, clutched his crowing mouth, and ran blindly from the hallways his happiness defiled by her own.

An anguished heart prompted him to trash the cranes stashed in his school-bag, the medium-sized, portable codd-neck bottle smoothly flying and colliding against the bin in front of the restroom, glass shattering and decorating the tiled ground.

On his maddening dash home, he secured his solitude in his room with a click of the lock, and rolled out the voluminous container Chaerin had gifted him. Distressing tears flooded his sight and he swung his leg out, the crane vessel a quick mess of jagged glass shards and scraps. Loathing the time spent, the time wasted, he savagely stomped on his work, swatting and tearing apart wings, beaks, bodies.

His lacerated heart thrummed with grief and misery, and he wasn’t sure how to stem the flow of pain. It was devouring him from the inside-out and he couldn’t quite express his agony other than violence and destruction.

Emotionally spent, he sunk to the floor, gripped his shaggy head.

, it hurt so much.

Six-hundred-and-twenty-four cranes, two bruised hands, ten swollen, injured fingers and one wounded heart solidified his stupidity in placing his faith in an archaic legend of which not been proven to be true.

Somber irises stared aimlessly at the white ceiling of his room that emerged as his newfound companion in the days he chose to be absent from school. Listlessly, he checked the date, partially sorry that he would miss out on Chaerin’s ceremony, but she understood, she promised.

Presuming any movement would exert his body, he ducked under the covers, found solace in the dark.

The gaping hole in his chest served as a reminder that he had rightfully played the fool, that he had obscured her feelings in place of his own, and that he had received what he had earned.

He pushed aside the misplaced curls from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “Are you sure?”

Chaerin snapped, “He said he wasn’t going to come, Kris! God, I didn’t think I needed to hear his ing wilted voice, again.” Her voice cracked and her fingers curled in his jacket in momentary rage.

Gingerly prying her fingers off of the lapels of his coat, he smoothed her pleated blouse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, the outcome is pretty clear, isn’t it?”

She wept. “Will he be okay?”

Kris firmly secured her trembling form in his arms, offering up nothing else, except for silence.

The grand ceremony was in honor of the various members of the student body that strove to inspire art, creativity, and dreams in the younger generations of the world – of which Chaerin had achieved. Invitations to her family, Kris, Chanyeol, and Sandara had been mailed, one of whom could not survive the trip. Two hours in total length, the few awarded pupils presented snippets of words to speeches, an intermission by an administrator here and there.

Towards the conclusion of the celebration, the admirable students were lined up in front of the audience and directed to bow to their family and friends, a roar of applause ringing in their ears. Confetti and an array of trinkets and charms were unleashed on the participants and audience members, unnecessarily prodding and poking.

An unsettling craft of a mangled butterfly tangled in her black curls and she swiftly made to the remove the scrap, the glint of a name retracting her hand. Flipping and turning the creation, she realized the true form of the paper was a crane and she whirled to Kris, the bulge of her eyes startling him. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “Kris, they’re his!”

Extending his palm to the spiraling crumpled paper, he shifted the item and felt for the flaps and scanned for the words. Upon his examination, surprise eclipsed his physical attributes, thereby affirming Chaerin’s suspicions.

The crowd a mixture of awe and confusion, Sandara looked to Donghae, unsure if this was a part of the event. He smiled in wonder himself, the mutterings of her name captivating them both.

“Dara?”

“Are they supposed to be directed to a specific student? Maybe the others have the rest of their names?”

“Who’s Dara?”

Befuddled by the mass of people calling her name, she relinquished Donghae from her grip, and approached the storm of cranes drifting to the ground. Cradling the closest to her arm’s reach, she reveled in the design, scrutinized the beak and feathers for print. Peering into the underarms, she found her nickname, Dara, inked in the span of the wing and hunted for more unvoiced words under the opposing limb.

 ‘…don’t ever stop smiling.’

A heavily damaged crane flittered by and she snatched the white bird, her eyes immediately reading the smudged, scrawled statement.

‘Don’t think so little of yourself...’

She caught another.

‘You’re lovelier when you laugh…’

And another.

“I’m here because of you…”

She soon found herself sifting through the heap of cranes littered on the ground.

‘I’m sorry if I ever made you feel lonely.’

She plucked and pulled.

‘You’re irreplaceable....’

Paper-cuts covered her small fingers in her uneasy search.

‘I’m so glad I met you.’

Messages piled on messages, the sentiments he had expressed the very thoughts and words he could never communicate to her.

‘...don't worry so much - you are beautiful…’

‘I’m here for you if you need me…’

‘I’ve never met a more wonderful person…’

‘You’re even special to the stars...’

Arms hoarded the cranes in a mound – they were hers, weren’t they?

The tiny ink blotch of his initials filled her sight, the last message she could bear to read toppling her emotional restraints.

‘…I love you…’

Glistening with tears, she supposed she had cast him aside fairly quick, still so very hurt he had abandoned her and cruelly severed their bond. The loss of such a connection had probably been detrimental to his health and she had kept ignorant of the fact, the charms he made in her honor needlessly stacking.

White, black, blue, red, and every raw color he could get his hands on and crease into a crane swirled in her view.

“Chanyeol-ah…”

Do you ever think you could love me, too?

A/N: ohmygod, that took forever to write/edit. I'm fairly satisfied with the result. I hope you enjoyed! I don't think the other stories will be as lengthy, but who knows. An author can never guarantee, ya know.

ALSO, thank you guys so much for subscribing/commenting/upvoting! Like wow! I didn't expect such a response when there had yet to be a chapter posted.

Thank you guys. ;u;

 Note: Chanyeol had discarded his cranes within school grounds & committee members had discovered the cranes, mistaking them as trinkets for the celebration that had accidentally been dropped/lost. I didn't want to integrate that in the story as it didn't flow as smooth/too cheesy imo, so I implied the act. Just to avoid confusion.