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The VMAs 2025 - Artist of the Year revealed
The glitter and gold of the hall you sit in screams luxury. Every floor tile shines with diamond specks, every seat covered with the softest silk, and every meal is cooked to perfection. Even the butlers hired are impeccable, each one flawlessly attending to the absurd demands of the highly recognised celebrities sitting together with you in this very hall. The airconditioning, annoyingly set to the perfect temperature, brushes your bare shoulder with a chilling breeze, reminding you to plaster on yet another smile to appease the older gentleman conversing with you.
If he complimented your navy dress tonight, or commented about the weather, you don’t care for it. You’ve long zoned out. Neither do you really taste the fruity champagne on your painted lips, despite liking sweet drinks yourself.
You’re a woman on a mission. There’s only one thing you came here for, one title to claim in front of these powerhungry businessmen and self-absorbed celebrities.
For about four years now, you’re neither a fresh new face nor a wisened veteran in the pop industry, but you started your career strong with a debut album boasting a handful of popular hits among the youth. It earned you a spotlight in the mainstream centre stage of music, and you’ve only been growing since, if the ever-rising statistics on your streaming services and album sales have anything to say for themselves. You’re plenty decorated yourself, so not winning Artist of the Year this year would not pose a big threat to your empire; you’d still get to return to your penthouse and wake up to a scrumptious breakfast feast tomorrow.
The main problem behind your unwillingness to lose, however, lay behind ruby red eyes that have been staring your way for the past hour.
Ayn Alwyn’s gaze is so striking, so loud, so blunt that you can feel it through the back of your head. But you refuse to give him your time, let alone a speck of attention. You feel his stare prickling at your skin as you gingerly raise your champagne glass to your lips, intentionally leaving behind a dulled lipstick stain that you know he’ll pay close attention to.
For a fellow mainstream artist known for his impassivity to everyone, you’ll never understand the way he stares at you like he demands for something more. Or, maybe you do. Maybe you understand, and you’re choosing not to.
Another half hour goes by with mindless, performative chatter. Your feet are burning, your dress is slipping, and minutes are ticking by like hours. But a raging fire still burns in your chest (adrenaline or pure spite, you can’t tell), keeping you alive. Because the main event is coming soon, just around the corner; evident in how the chatter begins to dim, and the cameras come back on. Ayn’s heavy gaze subsides, reluctantly turning away from you, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.
Then finally, finally, the emcee walks on stage to begin his introduction.
When the emcee pulls out the card, ready to announce the Artist of the Year, you close your eyes, squeezing your hands deathly tight together, your sweat settling uncomfortably between.
The hall falls into silence, tension dense in the air. Slowly, painstakingly, the emcee raises the microphone to his mouth, face unreadable for seconds. Until he breaks out into a wide smile, loudly announcing a name that has the crowd around you erupting into boisterous cheer, fellow celebrities jumping up and down for joy.
It’s not yours.
-
Summer Interview 2022: Ayn Alwyn on Huajia’s career
“Yes. We’ve been friends for a long while now, since we were classmates in college.
Of course. I’m truly happy for her. I always believed in her talent, and I’m glad that the world can finally see it during her debut too.
Yes. She’s always been this dedicated. I hope you’ll enjoy the album as much as I did when she sent me some of the demos. No, she wrote everything herself. No, I promised her I won’t leak anything.
Once the album releases, well… I’ll treat her to lunch out. She deserves at least that much, with all the work she puts in behind the scenes. What else? That’s between the two of us.
Some of the songs were inspired by me? …I didn’t know that. How did you? She teased it on Twitter? …Hm.
A collaboration… that’s for both of us to decide. We’ll work on one only if she wants it.
…For the last time, we’re not dating.”
-
Midnight finds the accomplished Ayn Alwyn standing outside your door like a sopping wet cat.
You look up at the man before you, half annoyed, half amused. For an accomplished musician who was up on stage receiving the Artist of the Year award with quiet pride three hours ago, he certainly looks quite pathetic by your doorstep now; rainwater dripping down his black hair, red eyes sadder than you’ve seen in a long while. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his gala clothing— did he just leave the afterparty, or did he choose to not attend, knowing you hadn’t either?
Regardless, he’s already here at your door, and you’re honestly slightly infuriated at how handsome he looks even when drenched. “You came running in the rain, didn’t you? You’ll get sick.”
“Mm,” he replies, stoic, with an underlying sadness you don’t address.
You don’t have it in you to turn him away.
It takes twenty minutes for him to wipe the rain out of his hair, shower, and change into clothes his size conveniently found in your penthouse. It takes much less than that for him to settle himself on your couch, like he lives here himself, like the rivalry between the two of you as competing music artists doesn’t exist.
Not wanting to hold a proper conversation with him tonight, you let the TV play in the background, accompanying the rain in drowning out the silence. It doesn’t stop Ayn from glancing your way ever so often, striking red eyes expectant and longing.
Finally, you cave. You’ve never been good at refusing this man.
“Congratulations on the win,” you say, hoping bitterness doesn’t lace your tone too much.
He lifts his head to you, quietly observing your features, until he whispers slowly, hesitantly, “It should’ve been you,”
“Don’t piss me off,” you sneer. A tightness knots in your chest, for the nth time tonight. Because what does he know? What does he know of worthiness, when all he does is win and all you do is watch? How could someone born in the industry with a silver spoon in his mouth possibly understand someone who climbed from the bottom?
Much to your chagrin, he wisely chooses to keep quiet, instead of indulging your itch for a fight.
Outside, the rain beats down harder on your penthouse windows. The raindrops roll down, each forming a unique zigzag trail, as if racing with each other.
You wipe away the tear tracks on your own cheeks resembling them.
-
“When I first met you
It just felt right
It's like I met a copy of myself that night
I don't believe in fate as such
But we were meant to be together, that's my hunch”
— Huajia, “Illustration”
-
The VMAs 2022 - List of Winners
“Stop that.”
Before you can fully peel the skin off your thumbs, Ayn gently grabs hold of your hands, separating them with his own one. The way he smoothly intertwines your fingers brings a rush of heat to your ears.
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, your shoulder touching his. “I’m so nervous.”
“I know,” he whispers back, brushing the back of your hand with his thumb.
Both of you turn your attention back to the stage, waiting in anticipation for Album of the Year to finally be announced. You’re aware that you’re already privileged enough, as a fresh new artist, to be nominated for multiple awards within your first year of debuting in the industry. And precisely because you’ve already made it this far, starting from the bottom with your blood, sweat and tears, you aren’t willing to walk away now.
Compared to you, Ayn’s more familiar with the industry, for the reasons that he’s been doing music a little longer than you along with the fact that he’s practically music royalty. His father is the head of a conglomerate that owns many, many music labels, but he manages to impress the world by forming his own identity completely unrelated to his father, building his empire as independently as a nepo baby possibly can.
“I know better than everyone just how hard you worked on your debut album,” he squeezes your hand, showing you a small smile meant only for your eyes. “If you don’t win, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”
“Please don’t,” you half giggle, half sigh. “I don’t want to see my nepo baby boyfriend on the news for fraud.”
Ayn keeps you engaged in small banter, easily taking your nerves away, replacing it with the warmth of his presence by your side. His words, quiet yet firm, remind you of his eternal support. And then, when he leans in to ground you with a gentle kiss, the world around you both dissolves to nothing.
The announcer makes his way up on stage, and with Ayn’s hand clasped in yours, you feel more than ready to accept your soon-to-be award.
-
Pop Crave
@popcrave
[image]
Ayn Alwyn’s 3rd album wins Best Album in the VMAs, and Album of the Year in the GRAMMYs. (2022)
(5k Reposts, 121k Likes, 700 Comments)
-
Your manager sometimes jokes that your biggest enemy is yourself. You sometimes believe her.
In an industry that is inherently competitive, abusive and moneyminded, there is no place on stage for the weak or ordinary. Just like any other thriving artist, you’ve done your very best to cement a solid brand for yourself and an adoring fanbase, at the cost of sleepless nights and mental breakdowns.
So for what it’s worth, you feel genuinely grateful to be under a label that puts less pressure on you than you do yourself.
Come the morning after the 2025 VMAs, your manager is the first contact you call— choosing to ignore the countless messages of faux pity from celebrity acquaintances on your recent loss.
“You already know what I want to say,” she opens when she picks up, the exasperated smile on her side seeping through the line. It gives you a minimal amount of comfort, but comfort nonetheless. “So I won’t. Album sales are still climbing. Streaming is at an all time high. If there’s no rush to prove a point, why don’t you take a break for a week?”
“And drown myself in my thoughts, dear Naledi? Cruel.”
“Take a walk!” she cheerfully supplies. “I won’t totally ban you from working if inspiration strikes. But that’s all you’ve been doing non-stop; even the CEO herself is worried about you.”
You let out a snort, the closest to a real laugh in days. “Madam Liore would never, you’re joking.”
It’s the healthiest back and forth banter you’ve had in a while, emphasis on ‘healthiest’; you had shut yourself in your room last night after that brief talk with Ayn, and he had left your house before you woke, gone like a barely-there breeze, the only evidence of his existence being the breakfast left on your kitchen counter. Which you didn’t eat.
“Anyway, I’ll let you know if there’s anything important,” Naledi hums, reassuring, “Madam Liore chastised everyone in office today to not give you anything to do for the week— really, not joking! I swear you’re her golden child. Enjoy your week off!”
She hangs up before you can argue. Your tummy rumbles at that exact moment, and you remember that you hadn’t eaten, but you’re not in the mood to leave the house right now, nor whip up something from your empty fridge. That only leaves…
Begrudgingly, you make your way to the paper bag on the counter, convincing yourself that you’re just checking out what the bastard bought for you so you know what you’re passing to your elderly neighbours. But when you open the bag and actually see the contents, you’re left utterly speechless and a small flutter in your stomach.
Your favourite breakfast sandwiches from the store across your apartment building stare back at you, with extra cheese and no tomatoes— exactly how you like them. And by some otherworldly magic, they’re still warm and toasty when you touch them.
Inside the bag, along with the sandwiches and a bottled fruit tea, is a note.
Don’t eat late. Heat up well before eating.
When your fingers ghost over the cursive scrawl of his handwriting, an ache makes a home in your chest.
It worsens when you bite into the sandwich, the feeling of Ayn’s unspoken care flooding your senses.
-
Harp Island Times: Pop stars Ayn Alwyn, Huajia have ‘decided to take a break’ from two-year-long relationship
Chen Zihan, Feb 2024
A source confirms to Harp Island Times that the pair have gone their separate ways.
While not publicly known, the pair was speculated to have started dating back in early 2022. Prior to that, Alwyn and Huajia had been close friends from the same college, St. Shelter Institution, years ago. Their romantic friends-to-lovers story awed many fans and fellow celebrities alike, and generally received positive reception.
Users on TikTok and Twitter speculate that the reason for the breakup was building animosity between the pair over Alwyn winning Album of the Year twice in a row, along with Artist of the Year 2023 — titles that were highly expected, by both social media and critics, to be awarded to Huajia, whose debut pop album ‘Godheim’ consisted of four songs with at least 100 million streams on Spotify.
Others go on to further speculate that Ayn Alwyn’s consistent success might be backed by his father, the head of a powerful music conglomerate…
(Read more)
-
Two days before your week-long break ends, a phone call from Ayn shatters the slow peace you’d attempted to build for yourself.
To be honest, it might’ve been on you for picking it up in the first place. But you know that when Ayn calls, it’s because he urgently wants to hear your voice, and if you decline his calls, he would spam you with texts anyway. You never truly win when it comes to him. A gut feeling tells you that today won’t be different, if not worse.
When you answer, his breath comes through in slow puffs, heavy with the weight of an impending decision.
“The cats outside my hideout keep returning,” he begins, almost like a casual conversation, “but this time they won’t leave. I’m running out of treats to feed them.”
“Bann and Madu?” you snort, a wry smile on your lips as you make your way to the balcony. The night breeze brushes your hair, and you look up at the moon, the same one Ayn is under. “Don’t overfeed them. They’re almost overweight, last I saw.”
“You haven’t been here in nearly a year, though.” It sounds teasing, but his tone reveals more melancholy than it should, and your breath hitches, not sure if you’re ready to enter that territory of thought.
He moves on mindlessly from topic to topic, describing everyday activities, just like the night of the VMAs when he crashed your place. Like he’s pretending that everything is fine and normal between the both of you, and there is no strained rivalry, and you are still in love, and you would run back into his arms the moment he asked you to. You’re pretending there isn’t truth to any of that.
And honestly, you want everything to be fine and normal. You want to be in love with him. You love him. You truly do, even with your spite and dignity on the line. Because you’re tired of pretending your love has faded, pretending every love song you write isn’t about him, pretending it’s not him consuming your every waking thought. Ayn Alwyn has been written into the pages of your story in permanent ink from the moment you met him in St. Shelter Institution. His ghost haunts you in everything you do, everywhere you go, and you’ve never cried nor yearned for anyone else as much as him.
Still, for performances’ sake, you choose self preservation. “Why did you really call, Ayn?”
As expected, he goes quiet, and the familiar jingle of the windchime in his hideout is the only sound you hear from the other side of the line. Then, quietly but firmly, like an anchor in deep sea, he whispers something that sends your stomach plummeting to the ground.
“I love you.”
Clear as a musical note, sincere as a melody. He says it softly, but so loudly in that determined tone of his, leaving your ears ringing and your head spinning. “I love you. I adore you so much. I miss you.”
“Ayn,” you let out a strangled whine, tears dotting the corners of your eyes. “Don’t do this to me.”
“All I want is you here with me,” he only continues, a single crack in his voice being the only indicator of any emotion. “My Huajia. Won’t you come home to me? I love you. I want you so, so much.”
“That’s the problem!” you scream, crumpling to the floor. “All you do is want, want, want. What you want, you get. What you don’t want, you get anyway! You win everything you want and more, and all I do is watch from below you. I tried to save myself, choose myself when I broke up with you, but now you want my autonomy too? Are the awards you’ve taken from me not good enough for you, Alwyn?!”
“No, that’s not what I—”
You suck in a harsh breath, schooling yourself out of your brief moment of hysteria. Nonetheless, you can’t prevent the despair from seeping into your voice, “Ayn, I’m begging you. I’ve already lost too much to you; I can’t lose myself too.”
He doesn’t have a reply for that. The jingle of the windchime fills up the silence on his end, stretching, waiting.
“Then,” he murmurs, slow and resolutely, but not without bitterness, “I won’t tell you I love you anymore. Sweet dreams, Huajia.”
He hangs up before you can get the satisfaction to. Immediately, you lose all remaining feeling in your legs, the world around you dropping into a blur. Your phone clatters loudly onto the balcony floor, and a neighbour is probably looking at you in concern, but all you’re preoccupied with is wailing into your hands.
In an industry that is inherently competitive, abusive and moneyminded, there is no place on stage for the weak or ordinary. Even though your pity party isn’t over yet, adrenaline and pure rage pulls you off the floor, and you’re ringing up your manager before you register it.
“Forget the break, Naledi,” you seeth through your teeth, angry tears blurring your vision, “I’ve got inspiration for a new single.”
-
“Come rest your bones next to me
And toss all your thoughts to the sea
I'll pull up each of our anchors
So we can get lost, you and me”
— Ayn Alwyn, “Buried With You”
-
It’s a random Tuesday when you decide to drop your new single, ‘Dreamscape’. No advertising, no prior announcement, no promotional buildup. Fans are curious. Critics are skeptical. Regardless, many people give it an experimental listen. The result? Everyone is shocked.
“I hate it when you think you're reassuring
'Cause it don't make me feel like I
Can tell you I'm over always hurting
You can't live with a heart like mine”
Neater than a diss track, angrier than a breakup song. Your new single is absolutely nothing like you’ve ever done. From the instrumentals to the layering of your voice, it’s a complete 180 from your typical style. It is raw, unadulterated, and full of pure spite.
And the cherry on top? The cover is a candid picture of you raising an uncensored middle finger, with the words “FUCK YOU AYN” messily scribbled in red marker ink at the corner.
The world goes a little nuts, to say the least.
Despite the uncharacteristic crudeness and the direct diss to a prominent fellow celebrity, responses to your new single are surprisingly well received. Streaming statistics jump high, higher than they’ve ever been. The media praises it as your most critically acclaimed work yet. Hell, the song is booming across TikTok and Instagram, with teenagers and adults alike syncing the chorus to videos of them cursing out their toxic exes.
Some are even predicting it to be 2026’s Song of the Year. And with the GRAMMYs’ submission deadline fast approaching and no new musical projects from Ayn Alwyn, there’s higher optimism that you’ll finally get your deserved recognition long overdue.
-
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE
@lovebrushedworlds
BRO???? THE NEW HUAJIA SINGLE IS SOO?? UNHINGED???? 😭😭
Most relevant replies
katsudon @hotricebowlsoup
the way she released it on his birthday too IJBOLLL
cloud ☁️ stream dreamscape! @huajiaverse
Im saying like… Ayn had to have wronged her in that relationship for the crashout to be this bad :shrug:
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
and it’s cos that nepo baby stole her awards for years… we been knew [gif]
Savannah @savannahhh
Bro sybau literally no one confirmed it.
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
ok *yn defender
katsudon @hotricebowlsoup
HELPPP HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE ENOUGH LETTERS IN HIS NAME TO PROPERLY CENSOR
cael’s wifey ⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆ @mrsanselm
no cos it’s literally a masterpiece fr??? even tho you can feel the pain and rage in her voice her lyricism is still top tier oh queenjia we never doubted u
Ayn Alwyn ✅ @aynalwynofficial
You’re right. It’s exceptionally well done.
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
??????????? AYN ALWYN??????????????????? [gif]
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Harp Island Times: CEO of Alwyn Conglomerates involved in vote-rigging power abuse
O’Connor, Jan 2026
The head of Alwyn Conglomerates, which owns multiple notable music labels, was revealed to be heavily involved in the rigging of votes in multiple prestigious awards such as the VMAs and GRAMMYs.
His only son, Ayn Alwyn, is an acclaimed music artist with many of said awards under his belt. This has led to the younger Alwyn being the subject of multiple rumors and theories over the years regarding his father’s involvement in his success.
The issue was first brought to light when Twitter user @lovebrushedworlds posted a call-out thread linking evidence of Mr Alwyn’s alleged fraud, which went viral and incurred a large movement from social media, pushing for authorities to further any investigation in this matter.
Surprisingly enough, Ayn Alwyn himself played a big part in the advocacy, being among the loudest voices in uncovering his father’s crimes…
(Read more)
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The GRAMMYs 2026 - Live Performances
The glitter and gold of the hall you sit in screams luxury. Every floor tile shines with diamond specks, every seat covered with the softest silk, and every meal is cooked to perfection. Tonight, you’ve changed up your style a little, just to match the trending hot single that earned you a nominee and a well deserved spot in this hall.
If anyone complimented your different look tonight, you don’t really remember it. You’ve long zoned out. Neither do you really taste the heavy wine on your painted lips, only grimacing at the bitterness ever so often.
You’re a woman on a mission. There’s only one thing you came here for, one title to claim in front of one person.
Unfortunately, right before the event to announce Song of the Year, is a live performance; by none other than the bane of your existence, the muse of your magnum opus. Ayn Alwyn makes his way on stage, heading to the standing microphone instead of his usual seat on his beloved piano.
You’re just as confused as everyone else. The crowd is wondering what he’ll do next— a PR stunt, to save his reputation before it crashes to the ground like his father’s? A desperate speech, to defend himself right before you claim the award you earned from writing a song lamenting about him?
None of you expect soft, composed Ayn to be backed up by a whole rock band on stage, electric guitarists and drummers taking their spot behind him.
Apparently, you’re not the only one changing up your musicality here. You almost find it funny. You almost find it cute.
Silence washes over the hall in anticipation as the lights dim. Then, Ayn starts to sing, and the crowd is taken aback. Because where soft, composed Ayn should’ve been, stood a young man, desperate and genuine, belting out lyrics that sounded like a teenage dirtbag garage band’s song.
But you knew it wasn’t. This isn’t a rock cover. It’s Ayn’s brand new single, ‘Eden With You’, performed live for the very first time on the GRAMMYs stage. And it’s so, so… different, so jarring. Gone are his skillful symbolisms and meticulous metaphors, which are prominent traits of his lyric writing; in their place, tonight on stage, are simple words so unfiltered and full of longing you can’t help but choke up badly.
“I hate your touch, I hate your mouth
I can't stand every single word that falls out
But you're all that I've been dreaming of
This is not another song about love”
It’s so corny. It’s so raw. It’s a replica of the 2010s love songs you grew up with, screaming in your childhood bedroom like you were the only person in the world.
The crowd around you fades to nothing when he makes direct eye contact with you throughout the chorus, striking red eyes daring you to break away first. You don’t. Like a sailor to a siren, you’re utterly hypnotised, hook, line, sinker. He’s never looked more desperate, but he’s never looked more beautiful.
The most infuriating part? He never says “I love you” directly.
“The sky fades from blue to gray
Inside she's just like an ocean, still I'm drowning
How bad I wanna sink and let it take me away
I don't know why I come back, I do every time
We get close to the end, it's a finish line
Sing these words for the girl I've been dreaming of
Is this just another song about love?”
The whole situation is so laughable. You, the writer of a song detailing every single moment you hated Ayn Alwyn; Ayn Alwyn, the writer of a song detailing every single moment he loved you. Both blunt and unadulterated in their own way. One a critically acclaimed masterpiece, the other arguably the worst work in their discography.
Is this Ayn’s revenge? For the poisonous words you spoke to him that night, or for the song you wrote? But where you expected yourself to feel humiliated, bare, you feel… full. Warmth overtakes you, searing across every inch of your skin, even in the chilling airconditioned hall. You feel seen. You feel worthy.
And then, it hits you: that just as much Ayn Alwyn haunts your every living moment, your ghost haunts him back too. Your essence lies in every single handwritten lyric of his, your voice the only music that plays in his head, your touch never unremembered by his skin. You are his salvation as much as you are his ruin, and he knows how to shatter you as much as he knows to piece you back together.
“I need your voice, I need your lips
I need you bad, I wanna steal your kiss
'Cause you're all that I've been dreaming of
This is just another song about
Another song about love”
The song comes to a close. The crowd cheers like crazy, but you can’t hear any of it, far too consumed by the heavy gaze he gives you before walking off stage.
You’re so caught up in a daze, you don’t even register how you make it back to your assigned seat. Even when the Song of the Year event begins, even when your name is called out, even when you finally receive your most anticipated and well deserved award in your entire career — none of it washes out the memory of striking red eyes piercing right through you.
-
Fall Interview 2022: Huajia on her relationship with Ayn Alwyn
“Ah, well, we were just classmates back in St. Shelter. I didn’t know anything about his family back then, so we became friends like normal people do.
Eh…? I mean, he was really attractive back then… maybe I did have a crush and refused to admit it to myself, haha.
I can’t tell you that! It’s too private, he’ll get mad at me.
Of course we compete with each other! It was practically the basis of our friendship back in college. He’s really talented though, even without his connections; he makes it hard for me to win.
Yes, I’m incredibly proud of his recent win in both the VMAs and the GRAMMYs. Sure, I did hope for myself to win… who wouldn’t? But I’m happy it was Ayn.
My favourite trait of his? Mm… his attentiveness. To me. Haha! No, really, he remembers so many things about me, and it makes me feel so seen and loved.
Yes, of course I’ll write more songs about him! Don’t worry, he’s not finished being my muse.”
-
Pop Crave
@popcrave
[image]
Ayn Alwyn posts a stunning picture of Huajia on his Instagram Story.
Most relevant replies
cael’s wifey ⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆ @mrsanselm
OMG hard launch???? my parents are back tgt 🥹
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
MOVE AYN IT SHOULDVE BEEN MEEE [gif]
cloud ☁️ dreamscape with you! @huajiaverse
Soo… we agree that Grammys live performance did something? Lmao
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
it defo did bro look at her she’s GLOWINGG they actually kissed and made up,, is the 24th floor high enough
Savannah @savannahhh
It’s literally a PR stunt to ignore his correlation to CEO Alwyn’s corruption.
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
??? i’ve had it with your bs bro come over and SQUARE UP
Savannah @savannahhh
Yes, babe. Check your dms
katsudon @hotricebowlsoup
woaw… e2l yuri……… [gif]
-
Your phone, after last night’s shenanigans, understandably blows up in the morning.
As always, the first contact you call back is your beloved Naledi, whom you gently reassure of your physical and mental wellbeing. It takes multiple rounds of convincing, but eventually she relents and suggests you rest up for the next few days. You make a mental note to bribe Madam Liore into raising your manager’s pay for all the hard work she’s done for you.
“So, what of the smitten guy?”
“What about him?” you feign confusion.
“Huajia, please. Ayn Alwyn basically serenaded you on live TV yesterday, going all out on the teen angst, right before you received an award for a song you wrote about him! Huge congratulations by the way, everyone’s so proud of you— but that’s not the point! What did you do with loverboy afterwards? Surely you talked it out?”
You sit up in bed, stretching your muscles, only to deliver a resounding “Nope.” The line goes dead silent, and you expect Naledi to either (1) let out a giant sigh or (2) chastise you for leaving the “poor loverboy” hanging after his grand confession in front of millions of viewers.
What you don’t expect is for her to softly weigh in her own opinion, “I don’t know, Huajia. It’s no secret that all his love songs were written with you in mind. Forget last night’s live performance; if the countless interviews of him talking about you mean anything? Then he clearly adores you so much. I don’t want to influence your personal life, because you’re a grown adult and my good friend who’s capable of making the right decisions, but… if you have yet to, I strongly suggest you hear him out, just the two of you.
I never told you this, especially because I didn’t think you wanted to hear it after your breakup with him, but… did you know he sent letters to your studio? In those letters he writes lyric after lyric, different from the style he markets, but overflowing with his devotion nonetheless. I’ll apologise for peeking another day, but the letters were so heartfelt, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You truly don’t.
“Anyway, are you at home? I’m making my way over to your penthouse. Liore’s got a gift for you.”
Finally, you shake yourself out of your reverie. “Oh, no, I’m not at home. I won’t be for… the entire morning?”
You can hear Naledi come to an abrupt halt, slowly processing your words. “What do you mean you’re not home? It’s only 8, you never leave your house this… Wait. Oh my god. Huajia, where are you? Huajia? Huajia—”
Quickly hanging up before she can finish her train of thought, you toss the phone to the side, telepathically sending an apology over to Naledi’s mental state. Then, you turn over to your left, poking the warm body sprawled next to you.
Ayn Alwyn buries his face in his pillow, only revealing one eye to give you a death glare you can’t help but giggle at. Together with the mess in his hair, the wrinkles in his clothes, and the golden rays of sunlight splashed all across his bed, he looks like everything home is and more.
“You sent me letters?” you tease, leaning in to poke his cheek with your nose. He grumbles and tightens the arm around your waist, but he fails to hide the redness on his ears, so you take it as confirmation.
The next few moments are quiet, but for the first time in many years, it’s a peaceful silence you share with Ayn. There are words you can choose to say. There are words you want to say. But when he glances at you through the corner of his eye so soft and unguarded, your tongue goes completely numb. So instead, you choose to stroke his hair, gentle with the strands you help him untangle. He returns the favor, drawing something unintelligible with his thumb on your hip, protecting the silence with you.
When the birds chirp, a melody of their own filling the calm, you lean further down to kiss his jaw. A quiet hum from him, a soft exhale from you. He turns to reveal more of his face, bringing his free hand up to your cheek, holding you close; his every breath falls on your lips, light as a butterfly’s kiss.
“I really liked the song you wrote about me.”
“Is that so? I won an award for that.”
“I know,” his smile widens, just slightly. “It was very much deserved. Congratulations, my Huajia.”
“I cursed your name over and over.”
“I liked it. You wrote about the true me. Only you know who that is.”
You regard him with as much seriousness as you can while laying down on his bed with him. “I still don’t quite forgive you.”
“I know. I’m not expecting forgiveness.”
“I think some part of me still hates you.”
“That’s okay.” He grabs my wrist, bringing it to his mouth to bite it as well. “Love or hate, I don’t care… as long as you think only of me.”
“I hate you so much,” you spill out, just as vulnerable as you did in ‘Dreamscape’, but with a slight difference. Every feeling of affection you’d been holding back for the past two years comes tumbling out of your mouth, bleeding out of your chest, and you’re off rambling on a tangent and repeating the same words over and over out of pure frustration.
And Ayn, godforsaken Ayn, your Ayn listens attentively, reacting to every curse and cry of his name from your mouth. When you admit his most attractive traits, he bites your fingers and leaves you stinging, and when you lament all his fatal flaws, he kisses the soreness in lieu of an apology.
You fall, and you rise. You break, and you build. The push and pull of destiny, the ups and downs of life are inevitable to everyone including you.
But this time, in the quiet bedroom of Ayn’s isolated hideout, he’s your terminator, the bringer of your ruin; he’s your saviour, the one who quietly pieces you back together. He sends the unignorable message that regardless of where you are, what you go through, he wants to be part of it all, beside you. Yes, he’s greedy — he wants, and he wants, and he wants. What he wants, what he wins. And when he wins, he always, always shares the win with you. It means nothing if you’re not there.
The whole morning passes by in a blur of regretful kisses and tearful closure. The whole morning, Ayn never outright says “I love you.”
He sings it, with his actions and his eyes.
-
“I just need to know that you're safe
Given that I'm miles away
On the first flight, back to your side
I don't care how long it takes
I know you'll be worth the wait
On the first flight, back to your side”
— Ayn Alwyn, Huajia, “Location Unknown”