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indieks · 6 years

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Silent Treatment 🔇 Mark Tuan || Part.1

💭 Pairing : Mark Tuan x Reader

💭 Genre : Angst, Fluff, Supernatural-ish

💭 Word count : 11k.

💭 Synopsis : Ever since his accident, he has forbidden himself from speaking ever again, as his voice hasn’t been useful the time he had needed it the most. Until he meets you, the one and only girl that could possibly help him overcome his trauma, as you make his heart and mind want to speak up again. You, who can hear his deepest thoughts through your special ability, yet still doesn’t see him as a desperate mute, but a mysterious man worthy of your care.

💭 Notice : The sentences written in bold are Mark's thoughts, and when *written like this between stars*, it means the character can hear them.

Part 01 🔇 Part 02 🔈 Part 03 🔉 Part 04 [END] 🔊

💭 A/N : I’m back!!!! Finally, I’m writing for GOT7, I’m so happy! This time, it’s a short series (normally 3 parts) that came up into my mind a long time ago but without the knowledge of where to take it nor who to choose… Until I finally opened my eyes on my own bias that suited the story too damn well, and helped it growing on its own…

I just wanted to add that I would never pretend that I know about psychology and how to treat patients! Everything comes out of my pure imagination! And please, if you ever feel bad for any reason, reach out, you matter! ♥

Thanks for ever reading this! As usual, I hope you’ll like it, and any comments, good or bad, are welcomed! I love your feedback ♥

Disclaimer : For the first time in my life, I can proudly say that the GIF is mine!

The young man was sitting lazily on the leather couch, his eyes deprived from any light or life, with his fingers gently scratching the damaged pieces of fabric that were soon going to fall to the ground.

"Hmmm I see..." the psychiatrist mumbled as he wrote down some key words on the blank sheet in front of him. "He still doesn't want to speak?"

"No, doctor. I've tried everything I could. When I'm forcing him a little or approach him too close, he pushes me away pretty brutally... I don't know what to do anymore."

"And what about his best friend, J... Jason? Jason is that it?"

The mute had been about to break his vow of never speaking ever again in order to correct that annoying error, but he bit his bottom lip right before doing so, only glancing at the doctor who gladly caught that small reaction.

"Jackson, and he's doing really fine! He keeps on telling him that he doesn't blame him... Why would he even–" his dad sighed. "They still are best friends, well, at least I hope so... They used to laugh all the time, the house was so lively whenever the whole group of friends came, but ever since Jackson got out of the hospital, each one of their visits has been them talking to a wall and leaving with an upset expression on their faces..."

"How long has it been since the accident? Two months right?" the doctor asked while swinging slowly in his black chair.

"Yes..." the father answered, his voice trembling and, anticipating the fall of heavy tears that had accumulated under his tired eyelids, he grabbed a tissue from a box on the desk in front of him. "Two months since my wife died... And two months since Mark hasn't said a word."

The eyes of the said Mark landed on his father's back, whose shoulders were so down that he could clearly see how heavy the weight he carried on them was, and his heart squeezed in his chest.

"Mark? Can you come forward for a second?" the psychiatrist and hypnotherapist, Dr. Woodam Hwang, called for him along with a motion of his fingers signaling him to sit on the empty chair across his father's.

Mark executed himself, all the while looking at the ground as he exhaled quietly, and he sat on the chair, spreading his legs nonchalantly. After the tatters of the couch, he started to play with the ones of his ripped pair of jeans, not showing a bit of interest in the man in a white blouse facing him. Everything coming from his demeanor and facial expressions could tell how annoyed he was to be here and to have those psychiatric sessions that were far from helpful, at least in his eyes. Two months and four different doctors without a concluding diagnostic had passed ; why his father still hadn't given up on him just like he himself had?

Like the previous times, the doctor would pretend he knows everything that was stepping on his mind as well as the reasons he was doing this to himself, but up till now, it only had been wrong assumptions.

Like the previous times, his father would believe in the doctor's words, as they sound pretty right when they're coming from a professional's mouth. And because he can't talk anymore, Mark won't be able to tell him how ridiculous the diagnosis was, nor to explain himself.

Like the previous times, the link between his father and him would only shatter even more, destroyed by Mark's silence and the scary names that were given to his "sickness", or "trauma" as they say.

Aphasia, check ; temporary disablement, nope ; post-traumatic syndrome, maybe… Four doctors, and none of them, after having gone around those popular medical possibilities, had saved a final solution to the main problem : Mark had made a choice. None of them, had found the key to unlock his blocking that made him aim to shut himself up, forever.

So, in the end, Mark was once again going to be everything the doctor would want him to be. Two had said it would stop "sooner or later", remaining the vaguer possible – probably to get his father's hopes up ; and the other two had somehow reached the truth, as they had concluded that no one can really do anything against the power of human's will – at least without using force.

But still, where all of them had went wrong anyway, was when they had prescribed him a psychiatric treatment in the end – to cash the check, right? Or was it really because of their duty to take care of their patients, even the lost causes like him?

And, like the previous times, this psychiatric treatment wouldn't work, because Mark wasn't sick ; he was doing this voluntarily and didn't want it to stop. And that, his father either refused to accept it, or wouldn't believe it.

"I'm not expecting you to talk when it's only our first session together, Mark. But I'm going to deliver you my first conclusion, and if you don't agree, or if there's anything you want to tell, write it down there."

Dr. Hwang slid a blank sheet of paper along with a pencil in front of the empty-looking boy who nodded without great conviction. Mark felt the hopeful look of his father on him burn his cells, but he didn't mirror it as he laid back in his chair, waiting for the fantastic diagnostic this doctor would have reached. He quickly eyed the pin on the man's blouse and almost rolled his eyes at the sight of its lettering.

A hypnotherapist? Seriously dad?

"The shock must have affected you a lot, and I totally understand that. But what I'm fearing right now, is that it is transforming into a trauma that would block you for life..." the psychiatrist started, his eyes going back and forth between the two gloomy men on the other side of his desk. "Everybody knows that the loss of a mother is really hard for the child, whatever age he or she is, but even more when it has been as brutal as what you went through. In fact, the main problem is, that you were present when it happened."

Mark finally looked up to gaze at the serious doctor's face, who bent forward to lay his elbows on the desk, linking his fingers together as he was slowly reaching the heart of his analysis.

"And what I think is that... You feel guilty. For not having cried for help when you should have in your eyes, because you were the only one that was still conscious when the car crashed. I think, that you believe that you speaking is useless now, because your voice hasn't been of any help at that time. You believe that she died because of you, so overall, you feel guilty for having survived, and not her. Am I wrong?"

Shit, that bastard. He's… right?

Mark only shrugged before looking away from the doctor who smiled quickly, feeling proud to have seemingly pinpointed the problem.

"But what I believe, Mark, is that your mother surely wouldn't want you to inflict this to yourself."

He caught the angry stare of his client and it made him even prouder. He was getting closer.

"I believe you're too young to waste your life like this. Do you know that it is only normal that you didn't cry for help? You just had an accident, Mark. You were upside down when they found you that night ; you were hurt and shocked as well! Yes, people came late, but they still did, and it saved both your life and your best friend's! You shouldn't feel guilty for that, but lucky!"

Mark felt a sudden wave of rage running in his whole body. What did he even know? Was he there? He hadn't been that hurt, there was the proof : he only stayed three days at the hospital, while his best friend laid one month in a bed and his mother... His mother...

"I know. I know you're deadly mad at me right now, and you have all the rights to be. I saw how you had been about to curse at me earlier when I misspelled Jackson's name, so I know you can talk. I know you can, but you won't. And my job consists in, helping you. So I'll try to help you as much as I can. I'll help you until I've found the thing inside of you that would make you want to talk again. You're a good person Mark, I can see that, as you take all the blame for yourself. But let me help you overcome this trauma, will you?"

I'm not sick. I'm not traumatized. Leave me alone, fuck.

Unexpectedly, a quiet sob broke out, and when Mark turned his head to the left, he spotted his father hiding in his coat's sleeve, a hand up in the air to excuse himself, as he was crying. The only time Mark had seen his father cry, in his whole 21 years of existence, was no other than at his mother's funeral. Not at the hospital when the doctors had pronounced her dead, not on the first night they had spent home without her presence to lighten the mood, not at the church when they had celebrated her beautiful personality and heard touching speeches on how a good woman she was, no ; at the cemetery, when her coffin had sunk deeper and deeper into the ground. When he had finally realized that she was gone.

But there he was, the proud and strong man he had always been, crying in the doctor's cabinet because of him, again. Mark's own tears were about to come out, but he rolled his eyes in the back to prevent them to do so. Because of me. I'm the one who should've died.

"I think we should at least try, for you, but also for you and him" the doctor smiled. "You're 21, so I won't treat you like a child. I can't impose you to come. It's only up to you, Mark."

Mark hated this idea. He wanted to be left alone and live his own life as a mute ; hell, he was fine like that! He grabbed the pen in front of him and was about to write an immense "BULLSHIT!" that would have taken all the paper before crumpling it and throw the ball at the psychiatrist. Yet, as he caught his father looking at him expectantly, the tears now wiped away from his face but his eyes still shimmering with hope and something near a plead, Mark resigned himself and reluctantly wrote a small "ok.", and he heard the doctor sigh in contentment.

"Fine! I'll set you an appointment in two months. You can come, if you want to."

Two years later

He approached his face to the mirror, searching meticulously for any sign of tiredness that needed to disappear as soon as he'd went out the door, because he hadn't the right to be tired. His boss had been kind enough to accept him in spite of his disablement, so Mark felt like he had to do extremely well as a payback.

Suddenly, the bathroom's door creaked and Jackson pushed it open, the morning's mist still readable in his squinted eyes, and after having blinked a few times to get accustomed to the light, he finally recognized his best friend that was looking back at him.

"Oh, hi Mark, woken up early" his raspy voice managed to be heard and Mark chuckled before reaching out his hand, waiting for their own greeting.

A few tricks of palms and fingers later, they both were now brushing their teeth with their eyes closed, undeniably wishing they could've stayed longer in their beds.

"Why do we have to wake up and go to work or classes, huh? I'm going to collapse sooner or later" Jackson whined with his toothbrush still in his mouth, but Mark kicked him in the arm before placing a finger on his frothy lips, signaling him into the glass to make less noise. "Ah right, the boys are sleeping, them, at least."

Mark had moved out of his house seven months ago, right after he had finished his cooking distance lessons and found his job as a kitchen clerk – if he wasn't dishwashing during the worst days – in a restaurant downtown. It was the perfect job where he didn't need to talk, as he was only executing orders without questioning. The perfect job that also fitted him and his lonely character, as he was most of the time left alone while preparing the steps of one meal or dressing up the plates. That, was the only thing he was thankful for Dr. Hwang, who had come up with a great plan B when he had dropped out of college – to his father's despair.

He was now living along with his six best friends in a huge colocation that was noisier, cheerier and livelier, yet more comfortable than with his own father. Some would say he was avoiding him like a coward as well as the tensed situation he had come to build between them ; still, his true friends right here had deeply understood when he had explained in their groupchat that he felt the need to leave, persuaded it was for the better.

He hadn't expected a positive response from each one of them when he had randomly offered to move in with him, as he still was thinking he was an ultimate burden for everyone he was close to, even more now that they had to speak through messages or properly learned – yet personalized – sign language. However, here they were altogether, and Mark could really tell the difference : he could finally breathe.

No more duty to go the appointments with Dr. Hwang every two months in order to please his dad ; no sensation of guilt every time he would catch him looking at pictures of his mother, still mourning two years after that ; no need to see him desperate as he was facing the non-evolution of his son's situation. He loved his father, deeply and truly, and that's why he felt even more satisfied that he had left, as he was sure it was taking a thousand of worries out of his mind.

Also, Mark had turned 23 years old, and his young adult's aim for independence had dragged him out of his house full of sorrow. His days were no longer guided by the routine of his distance learning for the cooking diploma – sending pictures of his creations and being with people only for the final exams had truly been better than dealing with his disablement at college –, nor by his fucking psychiatric sessions – seven months he hadn't gone to one, oups.

Now, he was a full-time worker, earning his own life, and living his youth the best he could with what he allowed himself to have. He mostly had a social life thanks to the random parties his roommates would throw from time to time at the apartment with their other friends, or the late-night snacks he shared with them before TV series, or the beer-and-chicken after dinner – if there even was a dinner ; sometimes the boys were too lazy or tired to cook.

Because aside from those six dorks, Mark hadn't made any acquaintances, not even at work where colleagues remained colleagues, as even if they were all really kind, the barrier of his silence and his secretive personality were making it difficult to get close to him. And unfortunately, his will to speak again was nowhere to be seen.

Deep inside, Mark had been in perpetual suffering and blocking, his dark thoughts resurfacing more frequently than what he had expected, even if Jackson was doing more than well now, and his mom was surely resting in peace. Even if his friends were trying to reach out to him and make him talk sometimes, once he was drunk or when they had serious conversations about life, hoping their mate would break his walls and finally let go.

Mark hadn't put any efforts in his psychiatric sessions, and while Dr. Hwang clearly knew about that, he hadn't given up on him. Every two months since he had left his father's house, Mark had been receiving a small text reminding him there still was an appointment reserved for him – same time, same place – and that it would be the case until he clearly tells he doesn't want to come anymore.

Nevertheless, Mark had always left the psychiatrist on read. Not that he thought of returning anytime soon, no – maybe ? –, but because every time he had been about to turn it down once and for all, the face of his father had popped up in his mind, and he had been unable to do it. Guilt. Always that fucking guilt. His father, whom he lied to when he was telling him he had went, as the latter wasn't accompanying him anymore under the doctor's wish. For now, he had been lucky enough that Dr. Hwang hadn't said a word about it, but for how long…

Bzzt bzzt.

Is it this time of the month already?

Mark looked down on the sink where his smartphone was placed, and when the screen lit up, he indeed saw the text popping up and he swallowed a sigh. Maybe I should tell him I won't come anymore. Maybe it is time.

Jackson had looked down too from the corner of his eye, and if he had bit back his tongue for the past three sessions, this time he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Aren't you going to go?" he asked while combing his hair.

Mark looked surprised as he addressed him a curious gaze, his brows up on his forehead, so Jackson grabbed the opportunity to go on.

"I wasn't going to say anything but shit Mark, I know these appointments are doing you good bro!" he half-exclaimed half-whispered, and suddenly his friend's expression turned into a pissed one.

No they don't, Mark implicitly answered with a move of his head and index from the left to the right.

"Yes, they do."

Silence. Jackson sighed as he was searching for the right words to say now that he had opened his mouth.

"You know… Shit, I'm telling you I don't care." he muttered in a low voice at first, before looking straight into his best friend's eyes. "I heard you talk a few weeks ago, in your bedroom" he bluntly confessed as he crossed his arms on his toned chest.

***

Indeed, one night, Mark hadn't been able to sleep. He had tossed and turned in his bed, sometimes looking at the ceiling of his empty bedroom, sometimes scrolling down his social media, sometimes putting his head under the pillow. Numerous thoughts had crossed his mind, out of nowhere, from his souvenirs with his mother, to some with his friends from back then, to the work he would have to do only in a few hours. And to add to his suffering, his throat had been terribly sore. It had burned and itched, and after some clearing of it, Mark had been surprised himself when his voice had come out.

Out of curiosity, with his heart pumping in his chest to the point it felt like it would tear his ribcage apart, Mark had dived under his sheets and, once he had been hidden like a child in his hut of blankets, he had dared to talk, after two years and a few months of locking up his own instrument, of sewing his lips, of punishing himself.

"A-A-Aaah. Aaaaah. Ah. Oh shit I can talk. Shit shit shit. That's weird. Fucking… weird. Enough now. Ouch, it hurts… Oh god it's… so weird. I should stop now… They're going to hear me. Why can't I stop? Stop it Tuan. Oh… fuck."

Putting a hand on his mouth, a heavy-breathing Mark had finally stopped ranting as soon as he had felt some kind of pleasure in talking again, because if he really did, he knew he wouldn't be able to stick to his vow anymore. So he had laid back on his pillow with his mouth still covered, his eyes wide open in shock and the tone of his voice piercing his eardrums. No need to say, that he never found sleep.

***

"What?" Mark's eyes told Jackson.

"Yes I did, and because I'm smart I let you live. I was fucking shocked too you know, I just woke up to go to the bathroom and when I heard your voice in the middle of the night, I got scared at first, thinking someone was there!"

Mark blinked a few seconds more, and for the first time in their friendship, he felt uneasy under Jackson's eyes that clearly were daring him to try and lie about it into his face.

"Look, even if I still think that's nonsense, I can continue to respect that you don't want to talk. It's been two years already but well, I can try to get that. But you have to understand that it's pretty frustrating to know you actually talk to yourself, when even with us you don't..."

The fake mute quickly grabbed his phone and started typing something hastily, too irritated to think of the hands' moves he had to do to depict what was on his mind.

"It was accidental, and it only happened once! I didn't talk to myself after that! And I won't!"

He showed the memo piece right under Jackson's eyes, which he instantly rolled before sighing loudly.

"Don't tell me it didn't feel great when you did! It's been two years, you can stop now! I'm doing fine, your mom's in peace, why are you doing this to yourself?"

"You know why" Mark simply wrote after having snatched the phone from his best friend's hands which had been up in the air from frustration.

"No I don't know anymore! Let's count down the reasons you shouldn't be that way : she was the one driving, you were shocked, pretty hurt too, nobody in this situation could have cried for help, we are alive, I can walk and dance, it was an accident…"

The skinny man's hand suddenly hit the glass and the noise resounded in all the room, making Jackson jump in surprise before he took a few steps forward to firmly grab Mark's shoulder. The latter didn't shove him away, as he was busy dealing with his heart that was vibrating along with his arms because of his clenched fists. He exhaled slowly so that he wouldn't smash the mirror into million broken pieces, just like he were.

"Mark. I'm sorry but you leave me no choice. I won't repeat it twice. It's either you go to this session and the ones that will follow and try a little bit harder to overcome whatever is blocking you, either I go myself and tell what I heard to the doctor. And I might tell the boys as well, and they won't leave you alone, especially Jinyoung and you know it, he's still actively searching for a way to make you talk after two years."

Mark straightened himself and he turned around to face Jackson who gulped in anticipation, because even if he was being straightforward right now, deep down he knew the risk he had taken by digging up the past to finally let it all out.

"You gotta be kidding me right now" Mark carefully wrote this time before showing up the screen, his eyes darkening with annoyance second by second as he watched Jackson's next moves.

How could his closest friend do this to him? He felt betrayed at the highest point, and the Chinese boy in front of him could read it in his turned off eyes that targeted him.

"No, I'm not. I want you to feel better. Don't tell me you're fine as it is, I'm done with this bullshit. Go. To. This. Session. Or I'm waking them up right now."

Mark didn't want to. He hated being treated as a mentally ill patient. He was fine. He had a job, he had true friends, and he had a nice flat, what else did he need? Yes, this memory still tortured him, but how talking again would do him any good? It wouldn't change what happened, would it?

However, now that he was facing this ultimatum that was more challenging than what he had expected, now that he could decipher on Jackson's traits how worried but determined he was, Mark's weaker side took the best of him and he was about to give in.

"C'mon. Grant me like, five sessions, where you actually make an effort. And if in the end I am wrong, I'll let you live as I always have" Jackson's raspy voice pierced through the thick silence that had settled for long seconds after his threat, and slowly, Mark nodded with his brows furrowing, showing his reluctance as he did. "Yes! You'll thank me later!"

And with that, Jackson left the bathroom in a dancing pace to go change, leaving a numb Mark that couldn't think about anything else but the session that was tomorrow. Not even about the fact that the clock had been ticking with all this mess going on, and that now he was almost late.

Grey. The sky was just grey. A light tint of grey with a glimpse of gold, the one that could hurt your pupils and burn your eyelids if you stared at it for too long. But still, it was a pretty grey. The sun's rays shined right above the accumulated clouds who luckily hadn't cried yet, making the overall light outside so bright, and leaving a calm veil over the town in the streets of which you were now walking with a smile on your lips.

The only thing you were hearing was the loud music in your earphones, its volume almost turned to its maximum, but you needed to make sure your eardrums were focusing on the singer's voice and that only. Not on the million concerned speeches of the people buzzing around you – like it had done lately, to the point it had given you headaches. Well, now that you were thinking of it, it had been a while since you hadn't heard a single unfamiliar voice infiltrating your head before those constant hummings, another one than your own that is.

Your godfather, who was a talented psychiatrist and hypnotherapist you were really close to, had told you that you were gifted once he had acknowledged that you weren't crazy. Because as crazy as it sounds, ever since you were little and without you being able to explain why, you could read minds. No, more specifically, you could hear the negative thoughts of people you came to know personally, without them wording it to you.

It seemingly depended on two things : either you had a sufficient bond with the person – a classmate you saw each day, a friend, a lover…–, either they had so many bad thoughts that you couldn't help but hear it. So sometimes, just talking to them or greeting them shortly once made their worries, their pain, their boredom, their anger flood through your ears.

At first, your parents hadn't believed you when you had told them you could "hear voices" while everybody in the class was quiet, and that it was disturbing you so much you couldn't concentrate on the lesson. You didn't have any idea of whose voices it was or what they were saying, as you were too young to master your power and focus on it yet. However, firstly when they had seen your grades dropping from your lack of understanding of the teaching ; and secondly when they had witnessed themselves your ability the day you had repeated word for word what they had thought deep down after you had complained another time, they finally had let go of their rational side in order to help out their daughter.

They did a great job at protecting you, not even talking about it to their closest friends, too scared that anyone could become a greedy enemy once they got to know that the supernatural did exist, or that, even while being of good faith, they would spread the news so that soon enough you would have been under the spotlight, exposed as an alien or whatever gifted child the medias would have labeled you, stealing your childhood and putting you at risk of scientific experiments.

But in the middle of all that implicit protection you hadn't seen, you yourself still had to deal with those non-stopping rantings into your head. And as a young and innocent child, you couldn’t know the harm it would do to you once you tried to help the others. You couldn't understand the concept of privacy, nor the one of family's secrets, nor the idea that you alone couldn't find a solution to everyone's problems.

Still, you tried to, with your school's friends and their own little concerns – not that being hungry and craving for something to eat was difficult to solve –, but when it had come to really mean yet childish comments about someone into their heads or more serious problems, you quickly had started to feel depressed to know of the dark side of this life and world, moreover because you couldn't do anything about it.

You still remembered that friend and classmate of yours back when you were in 3rd year of primary school, who had constantly been complaining to herself about how bad her arms hurt and how much she didn't like her father when he hit her and her mom and yelled at them ; and every time she had been watching other's loving dads at the school's gates, you had heard her envious comments. So one day, as you had finally seen him coming to pick her up, not a smile to curl his lips as you had approached him along with her who had been looking at the ground, you had blurted out :

"Why are you hurting Myeoli, mister? She's hurting, why?"

Your own father that had been standing next to him had suddenly grabbed you by the shoulders and pulled you closer, apologizing on your behalf with his heart beating loud as he had quickly gotten a hold of what you had been insinuating. It had been innocent, a true and thoughtless question from a kid who couldn't quite understand what domestic violence was at that age, and while your friend had looked at you with surprise and fear pulling her traits, the scary man's face had decomposed itself for a second before it turned into something unreadable.

And unexpectedly, you had caught only one of his thoughts : "So you're talking about it to your friends, huh? Let's see if you would want to after we go home". Little did you know what it had meant back then ; but the next day, you had caught her covering some blue bruises while changing for the sports lesson, and overnight, she had started ignoring you and never talked to you again, because she would have been "beaten to death" if she did, as you heard.

And then, with the bond being broken, with her striking you out of her life, you had stopped hearing about her concerns, while the situation the little-you couldn't have saved anyway, never ceased. It was another aspect of your weird power, its capacity to turn off as unexpectedly as it had turned on with someone. It looked like you only had one shot to repair the person's situation, and with her, you had missed the target.

After that girl, you assumed the thing you had was a serious deal. After that, your parents took you to your dad's best friend who also was your godfather, a psychiatrist and hypnotherapist who then was eccentric enough to believe into psyche and any mystic thing that could explain your ability. After having listened to the whole story and without even using his hypno tricks, he confidently told you he would help you deal with it thanks to the bit he knew about it.

And he did. Thanks to him, you learned to focus on some voices only, but also to shut every one of them up whenever you didn't want to know. Because the more you grew up, the less you wanted to know. Indeed, when you finally understood the notion of intimacy, you felt awful for trespassing it even involuntarily, mostly because it was with your own friends. You felt as if you were a traitor only building unhealthy relationships where the person couldn't help but getting naked in front of you, and that even before she had legitimately granted you the right to see her wholly.

On top of that, hearing all the misery of the world pulled your own moral down, because the sensation of being powerless while facing the worst situations ate you. And even when you tried to help, it only resulted in you being hurt because you had given too much of yourself doing so, either as some people took advantage of your kindness, or as you got way too implicated.

However, at some point, you had had enough. Enough of being kind and understanding, enough of having headaches by trying hard to ignore the constant white noise in your ears, enough of dealing with people's shit and whines when you had your own to begin with. This angry state of mind along with the will to throw your Mother Teresa's costume out the door once and for all made it harder and challenging for your godfather's helping words to reach you. Still, he didn't give up and kept on telling you how and when you could use it in a way that would make you proud because, as he loved to remind you, you were gifted.

And in the end, you had been left with no choice but to grab his hand, and you learned to use it more than to duct it. You learned to feel things. To feel when your friends truly needed your help and support, so that you could permit yourself to open your ears and, instead of bluntly revealing what you knew, you threw clues at them that you were getting the problem and were here for them.

To feel when you definitely had to shut the voices up, mostly when it came to acquaintances or the people you cherished so much that it killed you to violate their intimacy – you first had tried it on your godfather himself, successfully. And when you caught something bad but not on purpose, just because of your loss of focus, you learned not to feel guilty, nor to take it to heart or too seriously.

"We have over 60 000 thoughts going on our minds per day, Y/N. How can you believe each one of them is accurate, is full of sincerity, or is actually what's the person's thinking?" your godfather had said once, leaving you speechless, as always.

And when college time came along with the choice of your main course, you picked yours without hesitating, the one leading you to become like your role model : your godfather himself. You decided you'd help people every day but through your job – "without cheating" like he would say – as you had now developed some true psychologic and understanding skills without even using your power, and you liked it. No, you loved it, helping people, finding solutions, removing some burden off their shoulders and seeing their faces lit up.

So right now, your 23 year-old self was on its way to Dr. Hwang Woodam's cabinet with pressed strides, as it was the first session of many more he had proposed you to attend after classes, in order to build yourself a better idea of the job. Many sessions which would lead you, hopefully, to being a well-prepared and irreproachable psychiatrist at the end of your diploma.

The second you slid your headphones from your skull to your neck, murmurs joined the sounds of the busy town you were in and you frowned. It was really weird. How come you were hearing random voices now? Or had you met every single human being in this huge town? Impossible. You knew your power was constantly evolving, changing its characteristics whenever it wanted to, but what you couldn't stand was the fact that you felt like all your hard work to control it was in vain. You sure would share a word about it to your godfather at the end of the day.

You pushed his cabinet's door at 1:59pm precisely and, the second he saw you come in, a smile lit up his face.

"Y/N! My lovely niece, come here!" he called for you as you hurried yourself before him, and he held you in his arms. "We don't have the time to chat as the first client of this afternoon is already here, but let's have dinner together after that, okay?"

You nodded as you retreated, and you thanked him a thousand times when you saw he had prepared your own little desk next to his, with some files waiting for you to go through, an empty notebook with a beautiful cover, pencils in a little pot and a mug waiting to be filled with whatever would help you stay awake throughout the afternoon.

You immediately started to read the first patient's folder, and its seriousness instantly plunged you into the intensity of the job. If sometimes you had thought you were having a hard life hearing negative thoughts all the time, you once again reminded yourself that if your godfather had been that helpful with you, it was because he too had a hard time dealing with this, yet he still did, without failing or complaining. It was so fascinating, but you could already guess how tiring it should be.

Because hypnotherapy had become a trend nowadays, some patients that came by merely had problems, or ones you didn't consider as really serious psychologically speaking, so you allowed yourself to stop taking notes of the sessions in order to read further the upcoming cases. And one particularly grabbed your attention, because of the number of missed rendezvous – already three? –, as well as the question marks next to a list of the patient's "potential syndromes" on the front cover.

You discretely put it in front of you and, after having tied your hair up in whatever hairdo that would keep them from your face, you started your lecture of the first page, slower than with the previous ones as your godfather's notes were really intriguing. First of all, the man – named Mark Yi En Tuan – was the same age as yours, so his case interested you even more : maybe you would be able to understand it a little bit better and suggest something this time…?

Wait a minute. Mark Tuan. You definitely knew this name. Where had you heard it? Where did it come from? You kept your right index on the name printed in bold characters before closing your eyes as you searched through your memory, and some bell finally rang into your messy head, making you gasp. You suddenly put both of your hands on your mouth to smother the exclamation of shock that had been about to follow. Mark Tuan, of course you knew him! He had been your crush a little more than 2 years ago at the university!

He was a guy with some crazily handsome features, and you had come to know, while digging facts about him back then, that he could spin swiftly in the air like a ninja and that he was able to speak English, Korean, Chinese and Japanese fluently, without languages studies being his major – what had been his major already...? You had never talked to him, only luckily sharing one English class with him during your 3rd year, where you had first spotted him and slowly went head over heels for his looks, his sexy English accent and his quiet aura that made him even more attractive somehow.

Simply looking at him from afar during a semester, too focused on your studies and your friends to even think of approaching a guy, you still had remarked when he had suddenly been absent from classes during the second part of school year, depriving you from your weekly daydream spent at eyeing him. And later, you had heard the boy had dropped out of college, for a reason you never got to know. Some of his friends were still attending the same university as yours this year, yet they had never shared a word about it to anyone. Not even Park Jinyoung who you knew quite well and talked a lot to, as you shared a few classes with him since he majored in contemporary literature.

Maybe the reason was lying right under your eyes? You were torn between contrary emotions, the embarrassment of being about to read something so personal about someone you "knew", the familiar sensation of guilt you were fighting every single day because of your power suddenly submerging you ; but at the same time, excitement and curiosity were bubbling in your stomach, preventing it from knotting harder and harder under your discomfort. Anyway though, you would eventually come to know about it if he ever passed the cabinet's door so…

… So you opened the file. And the more you were going down the lines, the darker his story was becoming and you felt as lost as your godfather – who was busy transcribing in his own notebook the last session at the moment. Your brows furrowed as you discovered the testimony of Mark's father, telling about an accident in which the wife and mother died. It had happened a little more than two years ago… Mark and his best friend called Jackson – oh my God Jackson Wang? The student council vice-president?! – had been coming back from a trip to China, their flight landing at 2 in the morning, and Mark's mom had been kind enough to come and pick them up before driving them home.

However, the boys soon fell asleep because of the travel, and the mother, from the lack of something to keep her awake, had found her eyelids closing for longer and longer as the miles went by, also tired from this round trip in the middle of the night. And unfortunately, her car had went out of the road, making tons of rolls down to the side to end upside down in the middle of nowhere, at night. Being the only one conscious, Mark had been too weak to come out of the car and crawl up to stop a driver for help.

He had witnessed his mother's last breath, he had seen she was dying under his eyes, and he hadn't been able to do anything, neither his body nor his voice responding. And… What?! He felt guilty for that?

Your eyes almost popped out of their holes as you read, reread, and rereread those last words your godfather had underlined. Ever since, he had been refusing to speak because, according to the diagnosis, he considered that his voice hadn't been useful when he had needed it to be, so it was its punishment. Mark was punishing himself… for an accident.

Why hasn't he come to the last three sessions…?

You flipped the pages that always concluded the same thing : "No progress". It seemed like Mark was really out of reach, but it somehow made you eager to try yourself. You took it as your own personal challenge, and you couldn't wait to see if, today, you would be lucky enough to sit once again in the same room as him. Deep down too, you were eager to see his beautiful face again after all this time.

Your eyes started to look up at the door on your left every two seconds after you had finished, waiting impatiently for his frame to appear. And under the table, you kept your fingers crossed, wishing he wouldn't recognize you nor accept the proposition of you leaving that your godfather had made with every patient up till now.

You were lucky, because Mark did come. At 6:00pm, a really deep, low, and masculine voice resounded into your ears, even if you had successfully suppressed the ones of every single client you had met today.

*What am I doing here… Jackson I'm going to kill you. Why did I oblige? I shouldn't have. Shit.*

Jackson? Jackson… Oh my God! The best friend! It must be Mark!

You bit back a smile and a giggle of excitement as you needed to remain silent during the session going on, still you bounced a little on your chair as you put his file on the top of your pile once again. He had a really pleasant voice ; such a shame he was hiding it from everyone's ears, but it made you even gladder that you had caught at least a glimpse of it. Yet, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, focusing in order to stop hearing him as you had promised yourself you wouldn't use your power if you were willing to be professional. However…

*Great, he's late now. I have the time to go, shouldn't I? It's even more embarrassing now that I skipped 3… Fuck my life.*

As you still could hear him, you realized he should be of the category of people that had so many bad thoughts that you couldn't help but hear them. It alarmed you about his true lack of well-being, because three years earlier, you had never heard his voice inside your head, not a single time. Well, now that you were thinking of it, it only made sense as he presently never let them out, so they surely kept buzzing again and again into his mind.

The patient before him left the room, and if your godfather had been about to sigh in defeat at the sight of his next appointment, when you lightly tapped his shoulder, it was as if you instantly shared your thrill with him before you even had announced the great news, as he felt some chills go down his arm under your touch.

"He's there" you smiled, and Woodam almost jumped out of his chair, his brows up on his wrinkling forehead as he smacked his hands together.

"You must be kidding me?!" he exclaimed a little bit louder than expected, and you eyed the door with concern, worried that it would make the angel-like boy fly away before you even got the chance to watch him land into the room.

"I can hear him. And he's pretty stressed out right now" you chuckled and in no time, your godfather was in front of the door frame, greeting that particular someone with a bright smile.

You stood up, drying your palms that had grown sweaty from anticipation on your thighs and, for the first time in your life, you suddenly stopped hearing Mark's ceaseless ranting voice, but not because you had chosen to ; because it got covered by the loud beatings of your excited heart that sped crazily its tempo the second he entered the room.

Handsome. He still was so handsome, as depressed as he was supposed to be, as affected as he should be, as fragile as he must be. Mark walked quietly in the room at a lazy pace, targeting the leather chair on which he naturally seated, not even greeting you with his eyes that were stuck to the ground – well, no sound had come out from your mouth anyway, as your crush for him was resurfacing and oppressing every single one of your muscles.

He was wearing a black trench coat which length almost reached his ankles, with a black turtleneck under it, and a navy blue pair of skinny jeans suiting his thin legs, ended by a pair of black sneakers that seemed huge on his feet. His deep brown and shiny hair wasn't styled in any way, parting naturally in two after he had combed it with his ringed fingers, and when he sighed discretely, your eyes went down on his face that had dug with time and probably depression, and you almost could decipher the small dots of a beard above his plump lips.

The question was : for how long had you been staring at him to be able to see even those small details?

Too long, obviously, and you realized it when you had to shake yourself out of your trance to notice that the boy was now looking at you with his brows furrowed, while your godfather was smiling at you awkwardly.

"He's okay with you staying, Y/N, you can sit now…?" Woodam tried and you jumped in surprise, looking at him with doe-like eyes before you executed yourself, your head becoming a hot-air balloon about to pop under the pressure and embarrassment.

Woodam has already asked the question? Why didn't I hear it? Y/N, focus!

Mark hadn't recognized you, and it was the only thought that came to soothe your internal lecture and make you dare to look at him once again. However, you hadn't expected for him to be staring at you in return, a curious light in his dark eyes that quickly avoided yours when it reached more than two seconds. He tilted his head to the side and you gulped, scared that he was about to change his mind, because it now looked like your face was familiar to him. Had he paid attention to you back then? Stop it Y/N, you're raving and giving yourself too much credit.

I've seen her before. Where? Where… Where?

Luckily for him, it wasn't a bad thought, so you didn't catch it. Unfortunately for you, though, but you probably would have succumbed to the shock. You needed to suit yourself back into your professional skin, not the one of a ridiculous and immature girl in front of an old crush she should have forgotten about by now. But why did it inch at every end of your tensed body to have him in the same room as you after all this time?

"Well, Mark, I'm really happy to see you today. I must confess that I thought I'd never see you again at this point, but looks like my persistence has won! Here" your godfather finally spoke up as he slid a pen and a few sheets of blank paper along with a book as a hard surface to easy the writing to his patient, who put them on his knees before actually starting to write something.

"Thanks for not telling my father."

You eyed Woodam who smiled warmly and nodded, his chin resting on his hands he had joined.

"I've told you since the beginning that I won't treat you like a child. The only adult I'm doing this to is my niece right here, she's still a baby sometimes even though you're the same age!" he chuckled and you frowned as you felt embarrassed that he was making fun of you before Mark.

This time, Mark clearly squinted his eyes while looking at you, and you read in his pupils that he was analyzing your face in order to picture it somewhere into his memory. Don't recognize me please, I'm a nobody, I swear…

Who the hell is she? *God why am I not good at remembering like Jinyoung or Jackson seriously!*

You gulped and your eyes grew big at the hearing of such a thought, indicating he was indeed investigating his memory because you were familiar. Mark knew your face, a face he was sure he had already commented himself about its prettiness, but why couldn't he bring his memories back together? Somewhere in the mist of his confusion and his deep thoughts, he could picture those two eyes that were looking back at him, still he didn't know which was the right landscape he should be drawing them in. Had it been at the uni? At one of his friends’ party? At a random café?

"And may I ask you why you decided to come back, out of a sudden?" the psychiatrist interrupted his torments and Mark finally stopped staring at you intensely, helping you breathe again as you had started to feel smaller and smaller under his gaze.

As far as you could remember, he already had seemed to be this kind of straightforward and nonchalant guy that was doing whatever he wanted to do and how he wanted to do, not slightly disturbed by the fact that he had been staring at you without blinking, contrary to normal people who wouldn't dare to do the same with strangers, unless they'd feel embarrassed, just as you had been earlier.

Mark drew a line under his first answer, concentrating to make it the straighter possible with his fingers displayed on the sheet to prevent it from moving, and you admired his taste for perfection. While his face was down, you permitted yourself to look him over one more time, changing your cosplay back for the young student with hearts in your eyes before the beautiful guy at school, but you couldn't care less. You loved being a teenager for the last semester you could allow yourself to, before you officially could become an active women, a psychiatrist with her own patients under responsibility and no time for those kind of daydreams anymore.

"Jackson blackmailed me this morning." Mark wrote honestly with a neat writing he showed your godfather, before drawing another line in anticipation for the next question.

You could see it wasn't their first session together, as they had their own codes for communicating, and as Mark was laid back really lazily in the chair that looked like his own.

"Oh he did? I guess you'll have to thank him for me! What was so challenging that you said yes? I'm sorry but I can't help being curious" Woodam pursued in a lighter tone, a smile never leaving his lips.

Mark hesitated an instant, his hair falling before his eyes that hadn't left the paper under them, and he sighed once again.

*He can be so intrusive sometimes…*

You caught that. You clenched your fists, your natural instinct of a niece feeling attacked by this poor remark about your godfather who was nothing but caring, not intrusive.

"He threatened me to tell something to the others at home" Mark showed, and your brows furrowed, wondering what kind of secret he was refusing to unveil fully.

"Oh a secret? A secret between best friends?" Woodam joked and Mark only shrugged, his facial expression telling him he could qualify it as whatever he'd like to. "Looks like it was kind of personal or embarrassing for you to take the deal" your godfather then concluded and you read quietly Mark's face, which changed into an annoyed frown.

The session begun with a few asks/replies that you took note of diligently, yet you quickly got disturbed by an intrusive voice murmuring in your head so many harsh things that became crucial, at least for you. It froze you into your seat, however you were burning with frustration.

Indeed, while Woodam was busy trying to ask him some accurate questions, Mark was literally not putting any effort in the session, keeping every single bit of his true self deep inside, when he should be giving in return for things to progress. When he wrote yes, he meant no, and the reverse. At every assumption Woodam made, he shrugged it off while thinking how right it was and how bad that upset him ; at every proposition Woodam offered, he wrote he'd think about it when deep inside he was already convinced that he wouldn't even give it a try.

In your eyes, what Mark couldn't bear, was the fact that your godfather was seeing a little bit more through him at each session when he didn't want anyone to know, inducing him to close his ears and laugh it off every time Woodam would point out what he had been thinking deep inside. Meanwhile, his voice kept on flooding into your eardrums, filling them to the fullest, with his real pain, his suffering, his self-curses that should have pained you too ; but damn, their roleplay pissed you off so much you couldn't think straight or listen to your kind heart anymore.

Two years had passed since the accident and he still thought he could trick your godfather? Speaking of the latter, why hadn't he broken this dead-point situation already? What ridiculous duet were you witnessing right now? Why was Woodam being way too cautious around Mark when he obviously knew he was faking to be an honest and mysterious man on the outside, making them turning round and round endlessly?

If you could understand the fact that Mark was "traumatized" and would naturally refuse the help from anyone, you couldn't stand him choosing to lie again and again instead of simply having the guts of telling he didn't want it and hated it. However, it went on, this laughable masquerade that did nothing but irritate you more and more as the two men seemed satisfied to be playing the hypocrites.

*What does she want, looking at me like that?*

"Can I ask a question?" you suddenly spoke up after having blocked a scoff, looking straight into Mark's pupils that eyed your figure, and the quick light of surprise that passed through them helped you gain confidence.

"Do you mind?" Woodam asked him without questioning your attempt, his trust in you limitless.

Mark shook his head from the left to the right and with that, you stood up from your seat, your legs surprisingly trembling but still guiding you to lean against the windows behind the desks. You felt thrilled at yourself for being that bold, however it was nothing compared to the flames of anger flaring your guts.

"Could you tell me, would your friends and family describe you as a good or a bad liar?" you asked precisely, on your way to a provocation that would hopefully earn at least a grunt from him.

*What the hell is this question?*

Woodam eyed you curiously, while Mark, the second he saw the proud smirk on your face, lost his composure he had worked on up till now so that people couldn't decipher when he was lying.

"Good liar, I guess, they used to call me poker face" he briefly wrote on his paper, his brows furrowing as he waited for your reply, and Woodam voiced the answer to you.

Weirdly though, Mark's heart started to beat a bit louder and his hands turned moist, as if you actually were putting some kind of pressure on him. He had tried his best not to pay attention to you during the whole session, or else his mind would've lost it from the countless "Who is she?" he would've asked himself. But right now, he wished he had accommodated himself to your presence a little bit more, as the more he was watching you, comfortably leaned back with your arms crossed and your chin up in defiance, the more he felt some powerful aura coming from you, with your eyes clearly lightened by something dangerously passionate, and giving him some chills he had failed to feel since quite a long time. You had such a presence even when your mouth was shut, and unexpectedly, his own turned dry as he started to anticipate what your point could be.

"Oh is it true? Because I wouldn't, truthfully. You're such a bad liar, Mr. Tuan, sorry if you're disappointed" you half joked, stepping to your chair to put both of your hands on its back. "I've met you only a few minutes ago, and I already can tell that you keep on lying. You know, we're only doing our job, and our job, is to help you. And from what I see, either you don't want to be helped at all, either you're scared of being helped. But let me tell you one thing : if you keep on saying the reverse of what's on your mind whenever you step in here, it's not necessary to come at all, we won't go anywhere. I can tell you're lying, Dr. Hwang can also tell you're lying, still you're thinking we're not aware of it? So what is it that you want from us? What's the purpose of all of this?"

Before you even knew it, words had flooded from your burning lips, the annoyance clear in your tone that you still kept as firm as possible so that he would get how serious you were about the issue. You couldn't help anyone who wasn't willing to get helped, that was a matter of fact, even if you hardly could admit it on a daily basis as you still were learning how to let go. But hearing too much of Mark Tuan for non-stopping 30 minutes and getting to know more than your godfather would ever reach even after two years because of his seemingly lack of guts to confront the boy, had made you greedy to be the one to wake him up.

Mark opened his mouth for a short time as if he had been about to protest but he quickly closed it, his lips forming a thin line, yet you caught the beginning of an eye-roll his pupils had been willing to do. Was he pissed at you right now? Was he offended? You'd be glad he could be if that ensured your words had an impact, yet, surprisingly, nothing came to your ears this time. Because, your raw ranting had somehow rang a bell inside of him and if, usually, he could quickly go over the truths Dr. Hwang pointed out about him, yours were resounding into his mind right now, making it turn blank.

However, the backfire of your boldness manifested itself quicker than what you would have thought, since now that the heavy words you had rummaged in your head had come out, the unexpected trance you had been in and that had given you the confidence to talk disappeared as soon as it had bloomed.

"E-Excuse me for a second" you suddenly said, and you rushed to the exit under two pair of eyes that watched you curiously.

Once you reached the empty waiting room, you collapsed on the first chair you saw before letting a long sigh escape your lips as you grasped your hair to get yourself straight. Mark's voice in your head became a distant humming, letting instantly place to a headache you hadn't really acknowledged as you had been too submerged by your frustration, but it was as if your thoughts were finally getting in order. What had you just said?! Mark wasn't the only one who would be lying in front of you later when you'll be seating right behind this desk, so why had you taken it to heart immediately?

"Y/N? What's wrong with you?" Woodam unexpectedly spoke up a few moments later, his tone calm. "Mark's gone now, you can come back."

You lifted your head up to see he was standing in the door frame, his eyes full of worry while yours became veiled by a deep red filter the second they landed on him.

"What's wrong is that I've heard every single thing inside his head, and that he just keeps on lying to you! And you? Why don't you say anything? You know he's lying but still you're not doing anything? I've been quite disgusted by your merry-go-round! If he doesn't want to be helped that badly, why waste your time, both of you? You know we can't do anything for someone that doesn't want to be helped at first!"

Y/N, BREATHE!

"Y/N, you know really well that a lot of patients express their disagreement to get helped because something's blocking them, right?" Woodam answered and some guilt dressed your pupils up, then when he suddenly smiled, you felt your tensed hands on your skull finally relax. "I'm not able to force him to open up to me, still I don't want to give up on him. It's our job Y/N, it's to still reach out to them whenever they need it, whatever time it takes, and even when they can't or won't express it. Mark came today, and even if it was because of Jackson, I had the feeling he was going to come back anyway."

A wave of self-deception crashed against your whole body as Woodam's wise words made you realize how wrong you had been to flare up in the first place. Whatever your reasons had been, as good as they had sounded, you needed to canalize your greed to be helpful that had made you implode like a bomb.

What had disturbed you was one thing : Mark had chosen to stop talking, and he was choosing to lie. No blocking, no post-traumatic syndrome you could treat with the methods they taught you, simply a choice. What he was doing, only him could undo it just by the power of his own will. What could you do against it? Once again, you had felt so powerless, and you hated it ; surely that had been the reason why you got overwhelmed to begin with. You were 23, still you had acted like when you used to be so affected whenever you couldn't decipher a way to help someone as fast as you wished. Bravo.

"I'm going home, I want to reflect back on myself because right now, I'm doubting my capacity to do this job, at all. It seems like I can't be as patient and understanding as you" you mumbled, tears prickling at the corner of your eyelids, and without letting your godfather reassure you as he always did, you walked to the cabinet, grasped your things with a mechanical but strong hand and within a minute, you were outside the building.

To be continued...

A/N : I’m actively working on Part 2 right now, I hope you’ll like me to post it! Let me know? Thanks for ever reading my work, once again!

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