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Hyuna takes his wrist in her hand, fingers circling around it completely, pressing hard enough to bruise.
“I’ll break it,” she threatens.
Luka laughs.
It bubbles up in his throat and spills through his lips without his consent, a stream of giggles, as tears prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s hilarious. Snap his wrist, and he’ll finally have a distraction from the pain splitting his skull. He’ll finally have something else to think about, and an excuse to miss classes for a day, and a good enough reason to have painkillers pumped into his veins until everything is completely, blissfully, numb.
“Do it,” he begs. “Hyuna, do it.”
on luka, migraines, and perfection
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"He can’t even see her, really. But he knows she’s there and he’s memorized the shape of her. He’s memorized every line of her face. He can memorize anything, but only the useless knowledge returns to him in moments like this, when the pain is so sharp that he can’t stand and he can’t see and he can’t exist."