haz

you read the note once. then again.

you take out your phone, beginning to type before you remember that she is at work.

[16:41] i saw it

the response comes several minutes later.

[mami; 16:46] you were not supposed to look

[16:46] it was inside my prospectus

[mami; 16:47] then you were supposed to look less

[16:47] congratulations

[mami; 16:49] i only applied

you touch your thumb to the edge of the paper.

[16:50] i know

you do not tell her she will do well. you do not ask whether she has prepared or offer to help with the interview. you fold the notice again and return it to the envelope exactly as you found it. when your phone vibrates once more, you expect another message from her.

it is a photograph from jeongguk. the tiger key ring lies in the centre of his palm, its painted face slightly crooked and malaysia printed across its stomach.

[jeongguk; 16:53] do you want this

you enlarge the photograph.

[16:54] did you buy me an ugly tiger

[jeongguk; 16:54] no

[16:54] then whose is it

[jeongguk; 16:55] nobody’s

[16:55] why are you offering it to me

the three dots appear, vanish, then appear again.

[jeongguk; 16:56] i don’t want it

you smile.

[16:56] then throw it away

[jeongguk; 16:56] okay

you place the phone down. less than a minute later, it vibrates again.

[jeongguk; 16:57] you can have it tomorrow

you do not answer.

the apartment around you is still, but no longer waiting. your application has been sent. your mother has chosen the interview. a box of books from a university sits beside your desk, and somewhere across the city, jeongguk has returned with an ugly tiger he insists he did not buy for you.

for the first time since october, the future does not appear as one road you must keep clear. it moves in several directions at once.you stand in the kitchen between them, holding your glass of water, while none of them asks your permission.

----

the tiger is worse in person - you had not thought that it would be possible.

its head is slightly too large for its body, one ear folded permanently towards the back as though damaged during the production, and the yellow rubber has been painted with orange stripes that do not quite meet where they are supposed to. malaysia stretches across its stomach in red letters, the final a disappearing beneath one of its feet.

jeongguk places it on your desk the following morning without ceremony, "here."

you turn it over. there is a small black mark on the back. "it's ugly" you note, fighting off the pull on the corner of you mouth.

he nods, "I know." then, he walks away. that is all.

you had expected him to hover, perhaps. to manufacture some explanation why he had it bought it after spending the previous afternoon insisting that he had not bought for you at all. instead, he returns to his own desk and begins digging through his back with the distracted urgency of someone already looking for something else. perhaps that is better.

you attach the tiger to the zip of you bag before the first lesson. not because you particularly like it - you don't. the thing is objectively unfortunate to look at. but throwing it into a drawer would be rude, and leaving it loose inside your back would mean losing it eventually, and attaching a key ring to something is, fundamentally, what one does with a key ring. there is no reason to make the decision more meaningful than that.

when you look up, jeongguk is no longer searching through his bag. his eyes drop from you to the tiger, then back again. he bites his bottom lip to prevent a smile from escaping, though have you seen him fail countless times, just as he is now. you look away first. beside you, jaemin turns a page, not saying anything. somehow, this is more irritating.

---

you mother's interview is on Monday. you discover quickly that keeping a promise not to interfere is considerably harder when interference has been your primary method of loving people for most of your adult life.

by eight in the morning, you have noticed that the collar of her blouse is sitting incorrectly, that she has printed two copies of her documents when three would be safer, that the bus she intends to take passes through an intersection prone ti morning congestion and that she has not eaten enough breakfast. you say none of this., instead concentrate on your breakfast as your mother sips her coffee. you look at the clock three times and manage, heroically, not to mention the time.

"stop that."

your eyes move back to her, hand stilling, "huh?"

"whatever you are doing."

you swipe your tongue across your teeth once, sitting up, "I'm eating."

"you're worrying at me."

"I haven't even said anything!"

"exactly." she gathers her documents before you can defend yourself and pushed them into her bag. there is something almost offensive about how capable she looks doing it without you.

you wonder, briefly, whether children are supposed to feel this way about their parents rather the reverse. then you remember that you are technically both. the thought becomes less funny over the months. your mother leaves at eight forty-seven. you know because you check. you do not follow her downstairs. you do not remind her about the bus, do not send a message once she has gone. instead, you remain at the table with the remains of breakfast and experience the peculiar discomfort of allowing someone you love walk towards a future you cannot inspect first.

this, you decide, is probably good for you- you hate it. by nine thirty, you are at school. by ten, you have checked your phone four times. by eleven, jaemin takes it from beneath your hands and places it in the other side of his desk. you let him. mostly because asking for it back would require admitting that he is right. you would never admit that.

your mother messages at 11:26. you do not see it until lunch.

finished.

nothing else. no assessment. no prediction. no convenient indication of whether the interview has altered the shape of the coming years. you type three different questions and delete all of them. I the end, you send a thumbs-up. your mother sends one back. it feels grotesquely inadequate. it is also, you think, progress.

the call comes three days later and you are nor there for it. that becomes important afterwards, although you cannot have known it at the time.

you are sitting with jaemin on the low wall behind. the school gymnasium, dividing a packet of something too salty to qualify as lunch, when your mother answers a phone in an empty apartment and is offered a position she did not take the first time. you know this- or you think you do. the distinction begins to matter.

the first life exists inside you in fragments so complete you have mistaken them for a record; your mother's hands at the kitchen sink, the coat she wore for years, complaints about a supervisor whose name you still remember. the tired way she used to say that perhaps things would have been different if she made certain decisions earlier. but memory is not a documentation. you do not remember every vacancy she ignored, do not know every interview she never told you about, cannot prove that this particular opportunity had existed at all. still, when you come home and find her standing in the kitchen with one hand pressed over her mouth, your first thought is not she got it.

it is: this didn't happen.

the thought is so immediate that everything after it arrives late; your mother's wet eyes, the piece of paper on the counter, the laugh that escapes her when you understand. you cross the kitchen before either of you can say anything and she catches you against her with enough force to make your shoulders hurt.

for several seconds, you are very young. not seventeen - younger. young enough that your mother's happiness is still something enormous and uncomplicated, something you can enter without wondering what it costs.

then she pulls away and begins telling; the start date, the training, the money. she speaks quickly, doubling back whenever she thinks she has forgotten something. and you listen whole a second voice beneath your thoughts begins spring a history that no longer answers correctly. the hours and the workplace are different. you, you do not remember this, you would remember this. wouldn't you?

"are you happy?" your mother asks, catching her breath.

you realize you have been quiet too long and blink a few times before answering, "of course." and you are. that is what makes the fear feel shameful.

you hug her again and decide, while your face is hidden against her shoulder that it does not count. there is no reason to should. you changed your university application. your mother responded differently. one decision touched another and produced an outcome you had not lived before.

cause and effect. ordinary - jeongguk is still seventeen. bangtan are still seven. the album came out when it was supposed to. the first win happened when it was supposed to. Malaysia happened. history has not changed. your mother - and god, are you happy that in this dimension, she finally has been granted this opportunity. those are different things, you believe this, and for the moment, you need to.

---

the first win does not change everything - at least, not immediately.

the streets remain where they were. your mother still leaves damp towels over the backs of chairs, jaemin continues treating homework like an administrative error somebody else should correct, and the tiger attached to your schoolbag remains just as ugly as it had been before seven boys stood beneath falling co fete and discovered that wanting something long enough does not always make receiving it feel real.

for several weeks, you almost convince yourself that this is proof. not of anything as dramatic as fate - you have become cautious with words like that, having discovered how quickly the human mind will promote coincidence when desperate enough for reassurance. but the important things still happen; I need u wins. jeongguk leaves the country and returns. stage you remember appear online in slightly different clothes, from angles your memory had not preserved, but their endings reman largely intact.

the future, apparently, tolerates small disturbances. you do not know whether this should comfort you. it does anyway. then June becomes July, and the changes begin arriving in form too ordinary to fear.

people recognize him more often. not everywhere - not yet. he can still enter school through the side gate with a cap pulled low and cross the courtyard without causing anything larger than a few heads turning, but students who once knew him only as the boy who missed classes fr some entertainment-company thing now know the group's name. girls gather around somebody's phone during lunch to watch the newest performance. boys imitate parts of the choreography badly enough that even you, committed as you are to allowing young people their dignity, have to look away.

the first time somebody asks whether you are close to him, you say no before the question has properly ended. the lie is instinctive it also feels responsible.

"you talk to him," the girl beside you says, pouting. "sometimes." "he gave you that." her finger points towards the tiger hanging fro your bag.

you look down at it as though its presence has surprised you too. one pained eye sits slightly higher than the other, giving it the appearance of having recently suffered a neurological event. "you brought it back for me." you admit.

the girl's expression changes. you recognize the change because you have worn it yourself in another lifetime: the sudden attention, the harmless curiosity sharpening into something more organized. a piece of information being placed beside many others.

"from Malaysia?"

"I think so." you know so. you know the market, the message and the photograph of jeongguk holding it between two fingers as though it might be contagious. you know he had remembered you while standing in a country you have never visited, surrounded by things more beautiful than a cheap rubber tiger. you had attached it to your bag beaus leaving it in a drawer seemed unnecessarily cruel. that is all.

"are you friends?"

the question is simple. you glance towards the empty seat near the window. jeongguk has not been at school for nine days. last night, he sent you a photograph of a hotel carpet because the pattern looked, according to him, like jaemin's hair after physical education. friendship, you are beginning to understand, is an embarrassingly inadequate word for the amount of access one person can gain to another's ordinary life.

"we know each other." you shrug, playing it off.

the girl nods, disappointed by an answer that offers nothing worth passing along. later, while leaving school. jaemin reaches for the rager and puts unto the strap of your bag catches against your shoulder. "you little friend is becoming famous."

"stop calling him little." "still the important part, apparently."

you slap his hand away. "he was already famous." "not here."

the distinction follows you home. jeongguk had been famous where you came from. so famous that his face occupied buildings and his voice entered rooms before he did, his existence translated into numbers large enough to stop describing people properly. here, fame is still happening to him. it moves gradually, through additional security outside venues and strangers beginning to wait near familiar entrances. it changes schedules before it changes faces. it shortens phone calls. delays answers.

sometimes his messages remain unread for hours. sometimes yours do. you tell yourself you prefer it that way. balance is healthy. distance is sensible. both of you have lives that existed before the other entered them and should, ideally, continue doing so.

then three days pass without him sending anything, and you begin carrying your phone from room to room. not waiting, only refusing to miss something that may occur. there is a difference.

—

he returns near the end of august with darker skin, heavier shoulders and a tiredness that makeup would usually prevent strangers from noticing. you notice it before anything else.

he notices the tiger. his hand catches the key ring as you pass his desk, stopping both it and you. “you still have it.”

“unfortunately.”

he turns it between his fingers. the cheap paint has begun rubbing away near one ear. “you like it.”

“i tolerate it.”

“you put it on your bag.”

“so i wouldn’t have to look at it in my room.”

jeongguk smiles without lifting his head. it is smaller than the expressions he gives cameras now, though somehow less careful. “you missed me.”

“you sent me a photograph of a floor.”

“and you answered.” his laugh comes quietly, breath passing through his nose. he releases the tiger but not before flicking it once, sending it swinging against the side of your bag. “my birthday is next week,” he says, a sit it was a date you'd ever forget.

you look at him. “congratulations.”

“that’s all?”

“it hasn’t happened yet.”

“you could prepare.”

“for what?”

“a present.”

“i thought your continued survival was the present.” his eyebrows rise. you realise the sentence has escaped in the wrong shape. “because of your schedule,” you add. “you look terrible.”

“you’re very rude after missing someone.” his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“i did not miss you.”

“you carried me around all summer.” he points towards the tiger.

heat crawls upwards beneath your collar. “that is not you.”

“you just said it was ugly.”

“exactly.” the satisfaction on his face is unbearable.

jaemin arrives before you can respond, dropping his books onto the neighbouring desk with enough force to make both of you look at him. his eyes move from jeongguk’s hand near your bag to your face. “am i interrupting?”

“yes,” jeongguk says. - “no,” you say.

jaemin pulls out his chair. “great. then he can move.”

“this isn’t your seat.”

“it is today.”

“why?”

“because i said so.” jeongguk stares at him. jaemin stares back. you stand between them with the sudden, exhausting understanding that neither intends to behave like a normal person without being physically forced.

“i’m leaving,” you announce.

both look towards you. “class starts in three minutes,” jaemin says.

“then i’ll enjoy them.”

you take your bag and move to the empty desk at the front. the tiger knocks against your hip with every step. behind you, their argument continues in whispers until the teacher enters.

—

you do buy him something. nothing expensive. nothing that could become evidence of an emotion you have not agreed to possess. a packet of banana milk, a small cake from the bakery near the station and candles you forget to bring matches for. you give them to him behind the school building during lunch, where the concrete steps remain warm from the sun and nobody usually goes unless attempting to smoke badly.

jeongguk looks inside the plastic bag. “this is my present?”

“you asked me to prepare.”

he lifts the cake. “it’s small.”

“so are you.” you roll your eyes.

“i’m taller than you.” his mouth folds into that familiar, reluctant smile “where are the candles?”

you show him.

“how do we light them?”

you look at the unlit candles in your palm. “symbolically.”

“you forgot matches.”

“the symbolism is important.”

he laughs and sits beside you on the step, knees spreading until one presses briefly against yours. you move neither closer nor farther away.

eventually, he sticks one candle into the cake anyway. “sing.”

you narrow your eyes at his cheeky grin. “absolutely not.”

“it’s my birthday.”

“not until tomorrow.”

“then why are you giving me this now?”

“because you’re leaving tonight.”

his fingers pause around the plastic fork. there it is again, the shape of his life entering the space between you. planes, practice rooms, concerts; dates decided by people neither of you has met. you have always known about the schedule. knowing does not prevent resentment from arriving in small, unreasonable amounts.

“sing quietly,” he says.

“no.”

“just the first part.”

“eat your cake.” he does, though not before holding the unlit candle between two fingers and closing his eyes.

you watch despite yourself, wondering what he'd wish for and if that wish includes the future you already know. “did you make a wish?”

“yes.”

jeongguk opens one eye. “don’t you want to know?”

“no.” this is a lie. possibly he can tell. he has become irritatingly familiar with the minor movements of your face, the places your eyes go when your mouth is attempting to protect you.

he does not tell you. you think about his wish several times after he leaves.

—

you meet the girl in september.

there is no announcement. no dramatic confession delivered beneath autumn leaves, no guilty pause before jeongguk admits he has been hiding something. you simply leave school one afternoon and find them standing near the wall beyond the main gate.

she is pretty. not in the polished, unreachable manner of the women whose photographs will one day be placed beside his by people searching for patterns, but plainly and immediately. her hair is tied back. she holds two drinks from the convenience store, one of which jeongguk accepts without asking what it is.

the familiarity of the movement tells you enough. your body stops before you decide to.

jaemin, walking beside you, takes another two steps before noticing.“what?”

you shake your head.

jeongguk looks up. surprise crosses his face, followed by something you cannot identify quickly enough before he lifts one hand. the girl turns to follow his attention.

you could continue walking - instead, because adulthood has apparently taught you nothing useful, you cross the street.

jeongguk introduces her with a stiffness that almost makes you feel sorry for him. she attends a nearby school. they met through somebody he trained with before debut. she smiles when you greet her and bows slightly, kind without performing kindness. you like her immediately. this feels important. it feels safe.

“you’re the friend from school,” she says.

you glance at jeongguk. “apparently.”

“he told me about the muffins.”

“those have caused permanent damage to my reputation.”

“they were wet,” jeongguk says.

“one was wet.”

“the one you gave your mother,” jaemin adds.

you turn towards him. “whose side are you on?”

“the side of food safety.”

the girl laughs. nothing about her demands resistance. she does not look at you suspiciously or hold jeongguk’s arm more tightly when he speaks to you. if anything, she appears relieved that you and jaemin have arrived, as though being alone with him had placed both of them under a pressure they were not yet prepared to name.

good, you think. the word comes easily. good.

jeongguk is seventeen. he likes someone. someone likes him in a manner appropriate to the life he is presently living, without grief or foreknowledge or the impossible weight of having once watched his death reported beneath a photograph. this is what should happen. perhaps it always happened. perhaps she is evidence that you have not displaced anything important after all.

you smile at her again, and this time it is not difficult. only later, when jaemin and you have left them behind, do you notice that you are still holding your phone despite having no reason to.

“she’s nice,” you say.

jaemin hums.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“you did not make a nothing sound.”

“i don’t have a nothing sound.”

“you have several.”

he adjusts the strap of his bag. “you’re walking quickly.”

you slow down. “am i?”

“yes.”

“i want to go home.”

“you never want to go home.”

“that is not true.”

“yesterday, you made us walk around the same block three times because you said the weather was ‘temporally pleasant.’”

you give him a tired look. jaemin returns it without amusement.

“she is nice,” you repeat.

“i heard you.”

“i think it’s good.”

“i heard that too.”

“then stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like you know something.”

his gaze remains on you for another second before moving towards the road. “i don’t know anything,” he says. the words should reassure you. they do not.

—

the difference is not dramatic. jeongguk still messages you. he sends photographs from rehearsal rooms and complains about bruises with an enthusiasm suggesting he considers them evidence of productivity. he asks whether you have submitted your university applications, then criticises two of your choices despite knowing almost nothing about either programme. when you tell him this, he spends twenty minutes reading about them online and returns with new, slightly better-informed criticism.

but the spaces between conversations widen. some evenings, he disappears halfway through an argument and answers the following morning without explaining where he went. sometimes you see his name appear online without a message following. once, you begin typing something about your mother’s training only to stop because you remember he is probably speaking to someone else.

you delete it. this is normal. you have other people.

jaemin remains beside you with the stubborn consistency of an object the universe forgot to make temporary. your mother receives the promotion in october and begins returning home after dark twice a week, leaving handwritten instructions for meals you already know how to prepare. university responses begin arriving. one rejects you. another invites you for an interview. life continues filling the spaces jeongguk leaves behind.

still, when your phone vibrates, you look. it is not jealousy. you know jealousy. you have taught texts built around it, watched it disguised as devotion often enough to recognise its architecture. jealousy wants possession. it turns another person into territory and affection into proof of ownership.

you do not want to own him. you only miss being chosen first. the distinction is morally superior enough that you allow yourself to believe it.

—

on the twenty-third of october, you do not sleep. you tell your mother that you have an assignment. she accepts this because the lie contains enough truth to resemble your recent habits. at eleven, you sit at your desk with the old notebook open before you. the earliest pages look frantic now.

arrows. dates. rules written in capital letters by a hand that had still believed survival could be organised if given sufficient stationery.

24.10.2014. you touch the date with one finger.

a year. the word does not fit inside you. you had once thought of this life as a place you had fallen into. temporary, however long temporary became. a waiting room built from somebody else’s bedroom, somebody else’s mother and a body that did not ache in the familiar places.

now the desk carries scratches you remember making. your clothes hang in the wardrobe. your university applications sit in a folder beside the window. there is a tiger attached to the bag on the floor and a photograph jeongguk sent you saved beneath a name only you understand. the life has learned you.

at eleven fifty-eight, you lie down fully dressed. you place the notebook beside your head because apparently humiliation loses its authority after repetition. you switch off the light and close your eyes.

you reconstruct the night as carefully as memory allows. the headline. the burning behind your eyes. four seconds in. hold for seven. eight seconds out. you think of home. your real home, you insist, though the phrase has become less obedient than it used to be. you think of your office, the books along the wall, the cup left beside your computer. you think of your mother’s older hands and try to remember every line around her mouth. you think of the life waiting in 2029, paused or continuing without you. then, because thought rarely respects instruction, you think of the headline again.

jeon jeongguk, thirty-two. dead.

your chest tightens. the clock changes. midnight. nothing happens. you remain inside the narrow bed, in the room that smells like your shampoo, listening to your mother cough once behind the wall.

your phone begins vibrating, you open your eyes. jeongguk’s name illuminates the dark. for several seconds, you cannot touch it.

the call almost ends before you answer. “hello?”

“were you asleep?” his voice carries noise behind it. a car, perhaps. somebody speaks near him before a door shuts and the sound becomes duller.

“no.”

“you sound strange.”

“thank you.”

“not like that.”

you turn onto your side, pulling the blanket beneath your chin. “why are you calling?”

“you didn’t answer.” you look at the time. there are two unread messages from him, both sent within the last ten minutes. “i was busy.”

“doing what?”

waiting to stop existing here. “an assignment.”

“at midnight?”

“some of us pursue education.”

“some of us work.”

“you dance.”

“that’s work.”

“debatable.”

his offended breath passes through the speaker, and something inside your chest loosens despite you. “are you okay?” he asks.

the question is too direct. your throat closes up and a shiver runs down your spine. “yes.”

“you’re lying.”

“you cannot tell that over the phone.”

“i can.”

you close your eyes again. perhaps it would be easy to tell him something small. not the truth, never that, but a shape close enough to relieve the pressure. a bad anniversary. a difficult memory. a day that belongs to something he does not have to understand. instead, you ask, “do you ever think about waking up somewhere else?”

silence follows. “like where?”

“i don’t know.”

“then no.”

“very philosophical.”

“you asked badly.”

you almost laugh. “if you could,” you try again, “wake up tomorrow and everything was different, would you?”

jeongguk takes long enough that you hear the car begin moving. “is everybody different?”

“maybe.”

“are the members there?”

“if you want them to be.”

“my family?”

“yes.”

“then it isn’t everything.”

your fingers tighten around the blanket. seventeen, you think. then, immediately after: jeongguk. not young. not old. only himself, answering the question you asked rather than the one hidden beneath it.

“what about you?” he asks.

a year ago, the answer would have been immediate. and you detest yourself for hesitating, for questioning. you look around the dark room. “i don’t know.” saying it aloud frightens you more than certainty ever did.

jeongguk does not respond for several seconds. “then stay until you know.”

your breath catches quietly enough that you hope the phone does not carry it - the urge to cry your soul out has never been bigger than it is now. he could mean stay awake. stay on the call. remain inside whatever strange mood he assumes has found you after midnight.

you allow the sentence to mean more. this is what you do now: collect accidents and call them permission. “where are you?” you ask.

“going back to the dorm.”

“how was your schedule?”

“long.”

“did you eat?”

“yes.”

“properly?”

“yes.”

“that pause was suspicious.”

“i ate.”

“what?” another pause. “jeongguk.”

“there were snacks.”

“snacks are not a meal.”

“you sound like seokjin hyung.”

“he is probably right often.”

“don’t tell him that.” the conversation changes shape after that. nothing important is said. he complains about rehearsal, you tell him about the university rejection and pretend it did not bother you. he becomes more offended on your behalf than you had allowed yourself to be. when the call ends, it is nearly one. you remain where you are, phone warm against your cheek.

the date at the top of the screen reads 24 october 2015. you have been here for one year. somewhere far ahead, another twenty-fourth of october waits. fourteen years now, not fifteen.

you open the notebook. beneath the original date, you write:

24.10.2015 — still here. your pen pauses. then you add: not yet sure whether that is failure.

—

three weeks later, jaemin calls you in a group call shortly before eleven at night. you almost ignore it. not because you are asleep. sleep has become something you postpone until your body makes the decision without consulting you, especially now that university applications, final examinations and your mother’s new working hours have developed the unfortunate habit of occupying the same twenty-four hours.

still, jaemin rarely calls. he sends photographs without context. he delivers threats through excessive punctuation and once communicated an entire disagreement using six increasingly offensive stickers, but he does not call unless explaining something in writing would require more effort than he considers friendship worth.

your hand stops above the page. the phone continues vibrating across your desk, moving slowly towards the edge with every repetition.

you catch it before it falls. “what?”

there is silence on the other end. not actual silence. you hear the faint movement of fabric, somebody breathing and what might be traffic passing somewhere farther away. still, jaemin does not answer.

you sit straighter. “jaemin?”

“hello.” the voice is not his.

your fingers tighten around the phone. there are several people whose voices you would recognize after a single word. you had not intended for jeongguk to become one of them.

“why are you two group calling me?”

another pause. “I didn't.”

you pull the phone away from your ear long enough to check the screen. jaemin’s name remains there. “then why are you here?”

“i’m not.”

“jeongguk.” somewhere behind him, a car passes over wet road. the sound rises, hisses and disappears.

“he called me,” jaemin says suddenly. his voice arrives farther from the phone, then closer, chewing sounds emerging. “hwy aren't you saying anything, little one?”

“i was.”

“breathing is not a conversation.”

“hang up.”

“you called me.”

“by mistake.”

“you asked where she was.” silence.

your attention moves towards the window. rain has been falling since evening, softly at first, then with enough determination to erase the opposite apartment building behind a grey sheet. water gathers against the glass and divides the city lights into long, trembling lines.

something cold begins forming beneath your ribs.

“jaemin,” you say carefully, “what happened?”

“your idiot is lost.”

“i’m not lost.”

“he does not know where he is.”

“i know where i am.”

“where are you?” jeongguk does not answer. jaemin makes a sound of vindication. “see?”

you close the notebook still open beneath your hand. the sentence written three weeks ago disappears between its pages. not yet sure whether that is failure. “why did he call you?”

“excellent question.”

“i already told you,” jeongguk mutters. “it was a mistake.”

“you said my name before i answered.”

“i thought you were somebody else.”

“somebody with the same name?”

“can both of you stop?” the irritation in your voice sounds more severe than you intend. perhaps because neither of them sounds right. jaemin is speaking too lightly, stretching humour over something he does not understand, while jeongguk’s words are slow around the edges.

not slurred. wet, somehow. you rise from your chair. “jeongguk, where were you before you got lost?”

“i’m not-”

“answer.”

he breathes into the phone. “practice.”

“which building?”

he tells you. you move towards the wardrobe, pulling a sweatshirt from its hanger with one hand. “how long have you been walking?”

“i don’t know.”

“what can you see?”

“a road.”

you close your eyes. “extremely useful.”

“there’s a bus stop.”

“what number?”

his answer is followed by the rustle of movement. you imagine him turning, searching through rain with his phone pressed against one ear.“i can’t see it.”

“go closer.”

“it’s raining.”

“i had not noticed.” you pull the sweatshirt over your head, briefly losing the phone inside the fabric. by the time you find your way out, jaemin is speaking again.

“there’s a pharmacy,” he says. “red sign. and he said the bus shelter has a green roof.”

“blue.”

“you said green.”

“it looked green before.”

“before what?”

“before i got closer.”

you stop with one arm halfway through the sleeve. a red pharmacy sign. an old bus shelter whose blue plastic roof turns green beneath the streetlamp. the route sits somewhere inside your memory, not the older one you have spent a year trying to preserve, but the newer kind, accumulated through missed buses and afternoons spent walking beside jaemin because neither of you wanted to go home yet.

“is there a laundromat across the road?” you ask.

jeongguk becomes quiet. then, “yes.”

you know where he is. of course you do. the recognition should relieve you. instead, something else moves beneath it; rain, a practice room. jeongguk lost somewhere between the company building and the dorm, calling after a fight he had been too young and too angry to finish properly.

the memory arrives imperfectly, reconstructed from an evening years in the future when seven men sat together and laughed about pain that had become harmless through survival. you remember jimin’s smile while telling it. jeongguk interrupting to correct details. somebody comparing the entire thing to a drama. you do not remember the year.

only the rain. your hand stills around the sleeve. “stay there,” you say.

“why?”

“because i’m coming.”

“no.” the answer is immediate enough to stop you.

“what do you mean, no?”

“don’t come.”

“you called jaemin because you needed help.”

“i called him by mistake.”

“right. the famous accidental conversation.”

“i can take a taxi.”

“to where?”

silence again. you push your second arm into the sleeve. “stay beneath the shelter.”

“I said-”

“and charge your phone if there is somewhere nearby. how much battery do you have?”

“eight.”

“of course you do.” you find the larger umbrella near the front door. beside it sits the small plastic one your mother carries to work, still dripping into the stand. taking the larger one leaves her with something for the morning. you step into your shoes.

jaemin speaks before you can end the call. “text me when you find him.”

“why?”

“because if you don’t, i’ll have to worry.”

“how emotionally inconvenient for you.”

“exactly.”

jeongguk mutters something neither of you catches.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing.”

“stay there.”

“stop telling me what to do.”

“then stop requiring instructions.” you end the call before he can answer.

—

the rain has emptied most of the streets. people still move beneath umbrellas, heads lowered, hurrying towards buses and apartment buildings whose illuminated windows promise dry clothes. water slips immediately through the thin material of your trainers. by the time you reach the convenience store near your building, your socks have begun clinging unpleasantly to your toes.

you buy two banana milks, a packet of hotteok that has probably been warm at some point in its existence and the least offensive-looking triangle of kimbap left in the refrigerator.

the cashier places everything into a plastic bag. you hesitate before adding tissues, this feels too deliberate. you buy them anyway. the bus takes eleven minutes. you spend all of them attempting not to remember a story that has not happened yet.

or is happening now. the distinction should matter more than it does. you remember the ending. jimin waiting outside in the rain. jeongguk arriving in a taxi. an embrace exaggerated through retelling, made funny by the years separating the men who remember it from the boys who survived it. but you do not remember yourself.

obviously. you had not been there. the thought should produce the familiar panic, the fear of finding your fingerprints across something that once existed without you. instead, you look down at the plastic bag resting between your shoes. perhaps you are not part of the story. perhaps you are merely carrying snacks through the rain. you have become talented at reducing impossible things into manageable sentences.

the bus drops you two streets away. you see him before he sees you.

jeongguk sits at the far end of the shelter with his elbows resting on his knees and both hands around his phone. the roof protects very little. rain blows through the open side, darkening one shoulder of his jacket and collecting in the hair over his forehead. his clothes cling damply to his body, suggesting he found shelter only after the weather had already done what it wanted with him.

there is nobody else at the stop. for a moment, you remain beneath your umbrella on the opposite side of the road. the person waiting there does not resemble the boy from the comeback photographs. there is no wine-coloured light to sharpen his features, no camera deciding what part of him should remain after the moment has passed. only a seventeen-year-old folded forward beneath a leaking shelter, attempting to make himself smaller than his own anger.

you cross when the light changes. jeongguk lifts his head at the sound of your steps. his eyes are red. you pretend not to notice.

“you came.”

“unfortunately.” you close the umbrella only after stepping beneath the shelter. water falls from its edges and collects beside your shoes.

jeongguk looks towards the plastic bag in your hand. “what’s that?”

“nothing for you.”

“then why did you bring it?”

“i became hungry during my rescue mission.”

“i didn’t ask you to rescue me.”

“good. because that would require competence from both of us.” you sit beside him, leaving enough space that your shoulders do not touch, then place the bag between you. he stares at it for another second before looking down at his phone. a crack travels across one corner of the screen. you do not remember whether it was there before.

“jaemin called you,” he says.

“clearly.”

“i told him not to.”

“you called the wrong person.”

“i didn’t mean to call him.”

“who did you mean to call?”

jeongguk’s thumb moves across the dark screen. “nobody.”

the answer comes quietly. you look towards the road. a bus passes without stopping, its illuminated windows briefly throwing both your reflections across the wet pavement. in the glass of the shelter, you can see the side of his face. rain or something else remains caught beneath his lower lashes.

you open the plastic bag and remove one of the banana milks. “drink.”

“i’m not hungry.”

“that is not what i said.”

“i don’t want it.”

“then hold it.”

he gives you a tired, irritated look. you place the bottle against his arm until he takes it simply to make you stop. the cold plastic disappears between his hands. “do you want to tell me what happened?”

“no.”

“okay.” you reach for your own drink.

jeongguk glances at you, as though the absence of another question is more suspicious than interrogation would have been. you insert the straw. the rain continues striking the plastic roof with enough force to fill the silence for you. somewhere across the road, a washing machine turns behind the laundromat window, clothes rising and falling against the glass in slow repetition.

“why aren’t you asking?”

you take a sip. “you said you don’t want to tell me.”

“you normally keep asking.”

“you normally complain about it.”

“that doesn’t mean you should stop.” the familiarity of the argument nearly makes you smile.

you do not. “fine,” you say. “what happened?”

jeongguk pulls one knee closer, the sole of his shoe scraping against wet concrete. “nothing.”

“excellent. i’m glad we resolved that.”

“we had a fight.”

you wait.

his fingers tighten around the unopened bottle. “at practice.”

rain. the word sits somewhere at the back of your mind, followed by fragments that do not belong to you.

“with one of the members?”

he nods. you could say jimin’s name. you do not.

“it was stupid,” jeongguk continues. “he kept-” the sentence stops. his mouth tightens as though even explaining the argument would require choosing a version of it, and he has not yet decided which one makes him look least wrong. “he kept treating me like i’m a kid.”

you look at him. there are several unhelpful things you could say. you choose none of them.

“and i said something.”

“what?”

“something.”

“was it bad?”

“no.”

you continue looking at him.

jeongguk lowers his eyes. “maybe.”

“did you mean it?”

his answer takes longer. “i was angry.”

“that wasn’t my question.”

“why do you always say that?”

“because you answer questions nobody asked.”

he turns the bottle between his palms. the label begins separating where the rain has soaked it. “he got angry too,” he says. “he told me to do whatever i wanted and left.”

“so you left.”

“i wasn’t going to stay there.”

“and now you’re here.”

“i know.” the final word cracks slightly. jeongguk presses his lips together, turning his face towards the road before anything else can escape through them.

you look away too. there are kinds of dignity that can only survive when nobody witnesses their protection.

you open the packet of hotteok and place it on top of the plastic bag between you. the sweet smell rises faintly despite the cold. “eat.”

“i said i’m not hungry.”

“you also said you weren’t lost.”

he wipes beneath one eye with the heel of his hand, rough enough to redden the skin further. “i’m not crying.”

“i didn’t say you were.”

“you bought tissues.”

“i have allergies.”

“in november?”

“very committed allergies.” a sound catches in his throat. not quite a laugh, though close enough that some of the tension leaves his shoulders. he takes one piece of hotteok.

you allow several minutes to pass before asking, “did you call him?”

jeongguk stops chewing. “who?”

“the person you fought with.”

“no.” the answer is too fast.

you think of jimin walking through rain towards the dorm, anger carrying him forward until worry inevitably begins travelling behind it. you know where this night is meant to end.

knowledge is not the same as permission. still, you ask, “why not?”

“he told me to do whatever i want.”

“is this what you want?” jeongguk looks at you. you gesture towards the empty road, the leaking shelter and his wet clothes. “sitting at a bus stop with me while pretending banana milk is offensive.”

his eyes fall towards the bottle. “no.”

“then what do you want?” he does not answer. you wait.

“i want to go home,” he says eventually.

home. not the dorm. not the apartment. home. you do not know whether jeongguk notices the difference.

“then call him.”

his jaw tightens. “no.”

“okay.”

he turns towards you, apparently prepared to resist an argument you have chosen not to offer. “okay?”

“you don’t have to call anybody.”

“you think i should.”

“yes.”

“then why aren’t you saying it?”

“i did.”

“you’re supposed to convince me.”

“i came here with an umbrella and food. i have completed my portion of the emotional labour.”

“you’re annoying.”

“you called jaemin.”

“by mistake.”

“and he called me.”

jeongguk looks down again. the chain sits plainly between you. he had refused to call the person he wanted, called somebody he claimed not to need, and still somehow arranged for you to cross half the neighbourhood carrying banana milk through the rain.

young people rarely ask for comfort directly - perhaps nobody does.

“what if he doesn’t answer?” he asks.

“then you call again.”

“what if he’s still angry?”

“he probably is.” jeongguk’s expression tightens. “that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to know where you are.”

“you don’t know him.” the words are defensive, but not cruel.

“no,” you say. “you do.”

he becomes still. you watch water travel down the edge of the shelter and fall in an uneven stream beside the bench. “being angry with someone doesn’t mean you stop caring whether they get home,” you add. “usually it makes the caring more irritating.”

jeongguk lets out a damp breath. “you sound old.”

“and you are sitting at an unidentified bus stop because you walked away without checking where you were going.”

“i know which bus stop it is now.”

“because i told you.”

“still counts.”

“call him.” for once, he does not argue. jeongguk looks at his phone. the battery symbol in the corner has turned red. his thumb hovers above the screen before pressing against a name you cannot see.

he stands and walks several steps away. not far enough that the rain cannot reach him. you pick up the umbrella and hold it in his direction, covering most of his back while leaving yourself near the edge of the shelter.

the call connects. “hyung.”

his voice changes around the word. everything hard inside it loosens at once.

you look away. the conversation comes to you only in pieces, several words swallowed by rain and passing cars.

sorry.

no, i—

i don’t know.

jeongguk glances towards the bus-stop sign. you pull a receipt from the plastic bag and write the stop’s name across the back, adding the nearest street. when you hold it out, his fingers brush yours before closing around the paper.

he reads it into the phone. another pause follows. “okay,” he says. “i’ll take a taxi.” his voice is smaller now. “okay.” when the call ends, he remains standing with the phone pressed against his ear. rain darkens the fringe above his eyes.

you extend the umbrella farther. “did he answer?”

jeongguk lowers the phone. “obviously.”

“is he still angry?”

“yes.”

“are you?”

he considers it. “yes.”

“good.”

his eyebrows pull together. “good?”

“it would be concerning if one phone call solved everything.”

“you give horrible advice.”

“you keep asking me.”

he sits again. the taxi takes eleven minutes to arrive. during that time, jeongguk finishes the hotteok and drinks half the banana milk, though he continues insisting he is not hungry. you do not ask what he said to jimin. he does not tell you.

when headlights finally slow beside the shelter, jeongguk stands.

you hold the umbrella towards him. “take it.”

“then what will you use?”

“the bus.”

“you’ll get wet walking home.”

“i’m already wet.”

“that’s different.”

“how?”

“because-” he stops, apparently unable to locate a reason that would not expose more than he intends. “you brought it.”

“excellent observation.”

he does not take it. you push the handle against his chest. “jimin is waiting outside.”

jeongguk’s hand closes around the umbrella.

you do not know whether he told you this during the call or whether memory supplied it in advance. something in his expression changes, but exhaustion prevents the suspicion from becoming complete.

“he said that?”

you correct yourself quickly. “he’s waiting for you, isn’t he?”

“yes.” the answer is quiet.

you nod towards the taxi. “then go.”

jeongguk takes one step before stopping. “are you going home?”

“eventually.”

“wait until i leave.”

you look at him.

it is not come with me. not even stay.

only a request not to be the first person who leaves him tonight.

“okay.”

he opens the taxi door, then turns back. rain taps against the umbrella now raised above his head. it is too large for him, the dark fabric making his face look smaller beneath it.

“why did you come?”

“jaemin called.”

“that isn’t what i asked.”

you hate when your own words are returned to you. the driver glances impatiently through the window. somewhere farther down the road, the next bus appears as two distant lights.

you could tell him that you remembered. that years from now, he will sit beside jimin and laugh while telling this story, proof that tonight does not destroy anything. you could tell him you came because knowing he survives has never stopped you from fearing every smaller way a person can be hurt.

instead, you push the plastic bag into his free hand. “you were lost.”

jeongguk looks down at the remaining banana milk, then back at you.“you still came.” the sentence settles more gently than it should.

before you can answer, he gets into the taxi. you remain beneath the shelter until the car disappears around the corner, carrying your umbrella, the snacks and one boy back towards another.

only then do you call jaemin. he answers immediately. “did you find him?”

“no. i’ve been standing in the rain for entertainment.”

jaemin exhales. you realise he had been worried. “he’s going home,” you add.

“what happened?”

“he fought with one of the members.”

“badly?”

you watch the road where the taxi vanished. “they’ll be fine.”

the certainty leaves your mouth before you can stop it. jaemin is quiet.

“how do you know?”

your grip tightens around the phone. rainwater travels from your hair into the collar of your sweatshirt. you had moved too far beyond the shelter while watching jeongguk leave.

“because he called,” you say. it is not the whole truth. perhaps it is enough.

jeongguk messages you shortly after midnight.

—

[jeongguk; 00:17] home

you are sitting on the floor beside your bed, attempting to dry your hair with a towel while your mother complains from the hallway that you will catch a cold.

[00:18] did you apologise

the message is read immediately.

[jeongguk; 00:18] yes

[00:18] properly

three dots appear.

[jeongguk; 00:19] he hugged me

your hands stop. there it is. not exactly as you remembered. perhaps nothing ever is. the story has not flattened yet into something seven men can laugh about around a table. tonight, jimin’s anger is still real. jeongguk’s eyes are probably still swollen, and your umbrella is dripping somewhere near the dorm entrance. but the ending remains.

[00:19] that wasn’t my question

[jeongguk; 00:19] yes properly

[00:20] good

a photograph follows. it shows your umbrella lying open on the floor, one bent spoke casting an uneven shadow across the tiles. beside it sit two pairs of wet shoes.

[jeongguk; 00:20] it broke

[00:20] you had it for twenty minutes

[jeongguk; 00:21] the rain was strong

[00:21] you are a destructive person

[jeongguk; 00:21] i’ll buy you another

[00:21] you already owe me a birthday present

[jeongguk; 00:22] it was my birthday

[00:22] exactly. you failed to give me anything

[jeongguk; 00:22] that’s not how birthdays work

you smile into the towel. another message appears.

[jeongguk; 00:23] thank you

your fingers still above the screen.

[00:24] thank jaemin

[jeongguk; 00:24] no

[00:24] you called him

[jeongguk; 00:24] mistake

[00:25] of course

you expect another argument. none arrives. instead:

[jeongguk; 00:26] don’t tell anyone i cried

you look towards the dark window. your reflection sits faintly inside it, hair damp around your face and the towel gathered over your shoulders.

[00:27] you said you weren’t crying

several seconds pass.

[jeongguk; 00:27] right

[00:27] then there is nothing to tell

the message remains read without an answer. you place the phone beside you.

years from now, millions of people will watch them run through tunnels, fight inside rooms and find one another again beneath artificial rain. strangers will examine the images for meaning, turning every bruise and outstretched hand into evidence of something larger. nobody watching will know how ordinary the real thing had been. a leaking bus shelter. an unopened bottle of banana milk. your umbrella disappearing inside a taxi while two boys remained angry enough to hurt and close enough to return.

perhaps that is youth too. not the beautiful part preserved by cameras.

the wet, humiliating middle, when nobody knows where they are and home is still a person waiting outside in the rain.

—

by the end of november, jeongguk’s hair has changed again. the colour is darker beneath ordinary light, though cameras pull red from it, wine-deep whenever he moves beneath the stage lamps. it should not matter. hair grows, fades and gets cut. you know this better than most things.

still, the first photograph unsettles you. not because he looks older.

because you remember him looking like this.

hyyh pt. 2 approaches with the quiet violence of a season you once believed belonged to your youth. teaser photographs appear. track names follow. the world begins reconstructing something you have carried inside yourself for years, except now each familiar image arrives with new information attached. you know how exhausted he was. you know which member lost a shoe in the practice room. you know jeongguk called you at midnight on the anniversary of the day you entered his life and told you to remain somewhere neither of you could name.

the songs no longer belong entirely to memory. when run is released, you wait until evening to watch it. not because you are avoiding it. you have simply learned that anticipation and fear often wear the same clothes.

the video begins. youth arrives in flames, water, laughter and destruction. boys run through tunnels and across streets as though movement itself might prevent the world from catching them. you recognise every important frame. namjoon at the petrol station. taehyung in the water. the party collapsing around itself.

then jeongguk appears. his face carries a hardness it did not have at the beginning of the year. some of it is performance. some of it is makeup, lighting and your own willingness to assign meaning where none was intended. some of it is time.

you watch until the final image disappears. your phone remains silent. once, this would have surprised you. he had called after i need u, impatient for your opinion before the screen had properly gone dark.

now you know he is busy. there will be interviews, rehearsals, messages from family, from members, from the girl he may or may not still be seeing. their relationship has faded from conversation without explanation. you do not ask. he does not owe you a report simply because you noticed its beginning. you replay the video. during the second viewing, you stop comparing it to what you remember.

during the third, you stop watching for evidence that the future remains intact. your phone vibrates near the end.

[jeongguk; 21:18] well?

you look at the message.

[21:19] you look different

three dots appear.

[jeongguk; 21:19] bad?

[21:19] no

[jeongguk; 21:19] then what

you consider several answers; older, familiar. alive.

[21:20] just different

[jeongguk; 21:20] do you like it

you look back at the frozen screen.

[21:21] i think i do

[jeongguk; 21:21] you think?

[21:21] the hair is dramatic

[jeongguk; 21:21] it looks good

[21:22] you asked me

[jeongguk; 21:22] because you’re supposed to agree

you smile.

[21:22] then yes. it looks good

his answer takes almost a minute.

[jeongguk; 21:23] i knew you’d like it

you could ask how. instead, another photograph arrives. it has been taken inside a waiting room. jeongguk sits close enough to the camera that only one eye and part of his newly coloured fringe fit inside the frame. behind him, somebody is asleep beneath a coat.

[jeongguk; 21:24] new

you enlarge it.

[21:24] still ugly

[jeongguk; 21:24] save it

[21:25] no

you save it.

—

the year ends without asking whether you are prepared.

your mother completes her training and begins the new position before christmas. she complains about the additional paperwork while standing straighter in the mornings. you learn three meals she never taught you and ruin two others beyond repair.

jaemin receives an acceptance letter before you do and carries it folded inside his pocket for half a day, pretending he has forgotten about it until you threaten to search him physically.

jeongguk spends december moving between stages. his face appears more often now. on television screens in restaurants, on advertisements near stations, held inside the phones of students who still turn to look at you when he misses school. you become skilled at pretending not to notice. your own letter arrives on the final morning of the year.

your mother opens it accidentally. this is the explanation she gives, although the envelope has your name printed across the front in letters large enough to be read without optical assistance.

when you enter the kitchen, she is crying over the sink. “what happened?”

she turns too quickly and attempts to hide the paper behind her back.

you stare at her. “mom.”

“nothing.”

“you’re crying.”

“i am not.”

“your face is wet.”

“i was washing it.”

“over the sink?”

“where else would i wash it?”

you hold out your hand. she refuses for another three seconds before passing you the letter. you read the first line. then again. the words remain where they are.

accepted.

the future opens quietly. not the future you left. not the one whose shape you already know, organised through qualifications, jobs and decisions made by a woman with an entirely different face.

this one.

your mother makes a sound between a laugh and a sob before pulling you against her. the paper crumples between your bodies. you stand there with your chin above her shoulder, staring at the pale winter light entering through the window. you should feel only happiness.

instead, grief rises beside it.

they do not cancel each other. this has become the most inconvenient thing about living: emotions refuse to wait their turn. joy does not remove loss, just as missing your old life has not prevented this one from becoming yours.

later, you photograph the letter.

jaemin answers first.

[jae-theman; 10:14] unfortunately they have accepted the wrong person

[10:14] i hope your letter gets lost

[jae-theman; 10:15] too late

[jae-theman; 10:15] proud of you though

you read the final message twice before locking the screen. jeongguk answers forty minutes later.

[jeongguk; 10:53] you got in?

[10:53] apparently

[jeongguk; 10:54] i told you

[10:54] you said they would be stupid not to accept me

[jeongguk; 10:54] same thing

[10:55] it is not

[jeongguk; 10:55] call me

you do. he answers from somewhere loud, and for the next several minutes you hear more congratulations than coherent sentences. somebody takes the phone from him. hoseok, you think, though the shouting makes certainty impossible. another voice tells you to study hard. jeongguk has told you that he told the members about you a few times, though the thought that bts actually knows of your existence feels like a joke, something that isn't actually real, never will be. jeongguk demands the phone back.

you stand beside the kitchen window while he speaks. outside, the final day of 2015 continues without ceremony. people carry shopping bags through the cold. a bus stops, releases three passengers and moves on.

“so you’re staying,” jeongguk says.

your attention returns to the call. “what?”

“the university. it’s here.”

“yes.”

“so you’re staying.” he says it as though the university has answered a different question.

you look towards your schoolbag hanging near the door. the tiger remains attached to it, paint worn further from one ear. “for now,” you say.

silence follows. you nearly take it back.

then jeongguk breathes out, the sound almost lost beneath the noise around him. “good.”

someone calls his name.

you recognise how quickly he turns towards it now, attention splitting without disappearing completely. “i have to go.”

“i know.”

“i’ll call later.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.” the answer sits warmly against your ear.mthen the line ends.

that night, you place the old notebook on the desk. the page containing october remains open. beneath the sentence about still being here, you add one final date.

31.12.2015.

you wait for the familiar need to document what has changed.

your mother’s job.nthe university. the first win. the girl. the anniversary.

jeongguk, increasingly visible to everybody and somehow no less ordinary to you. there is too much now. life has stopped allowing itself to be reduced into arrows.

you close the notebook. outside, somebody begins setting off fireworks too early. colour flashes briefly against the window, reflected inside the dark glass. tomorrow, you will wake in a year you have already lived once. the thought should frighten you.

it does, a little. but when you lie down, you do not place the notebook beside your head. you do not recreate the breathing exercise or hold the image of your old apartment behind your eyes until sleep comes. you feel empty, you guess. normally, talking to jeongguk would help you forget about this feeling, the need to finally go home. though you have no idea what home is anymore. back then, you would have given an answer based win one of the many theories you have learned, simply because that was all your reality included. now, you are here, somewhere far away yet so close.

you leave your phone within reach. not because jeongguk might call. only because you always do now.

not empty. there were already gold carts moving between buildings, lights on behind the narrow windows of prodcution offices, people crossing from one soundstage to another with coffees balanced against stacks of papers, but none of it possessed the particular urgency he'd somehow associated with making a film this large. nobody ran. a man in a cap stood beside one of the loafing bays eating a banana while somebody drove an entire artificial tree past him on a trolley.

jeongguk watched it disappear behind the next building. his manager looked up from his phone. "what?"

"nothing." it was definitely too early.

"you've been staring outside since we entered."

"'m lookin'."

"ah," the manager shifts in his seat, "at the tree?"

"it looked real."

he nodded, glancing back at his phone, "it probably is."

jeongguk considered that, "then why are they moving it?"

his manager only managed to sigh. the car continued for another hundred meters before turning toward the row of the soundstages he'd already memorized from the documents production had sent over. stage eleven, twelve. several trailers parked beside one another. temporary fencing, a security station where a man is wearing an earpiece checked them in without reacting to the same on jeongguk's pass.

it had been several months since the casting announcement and siderably longer since the first audition, but seeing PETER PARKER / SPIDER-MAN printed beneath his name still produced a small disconnect somewhere behind his ribs. he'd stopped photographing it, at least [mostly because his manager had caught him doing it twice].

the car stopped outside stage twelve. "call me if the schedule changes." his manager leans forward, eyes stern.

jeongguk was already opening the door, "I know."

"and eat."

he narrowed his eyes, lips pursed. "I eat."

"properly. coffee isn't breakfast."

jeongguk scoffed, "yes, mother."

his manager looked at him and jeongguk wasted no time returning the look. neither bothered pretending this conversation hadn't happened hundreds of times before.

"I'll eat."

"good."

the door shut behind him and for the first time in that morning, he was alone. it lasted approximately twelve seconds.

"jeongguk?" a production assistant approached from the entrance, headset resting around her neck and two laminated sheets tucked beneath one arm. "mornin'. 'm lucy."

he bowed slightly before remembering where he was and converting the movement halfway into something closer to a nod. "morning."

she either didn't notice or was polite enough not to. "hair and make-up are expecting you. wardrobe after that, then you're on stage twelve for blocking at eight-fifteen. they changed the order slightly form yesterday's call sheet."

"camera test before rehearsal?"

her eyebrows rose, "yeah."

he nodded, "I saw the revision."

"oh." she smiled. "perfect. you're easier than most of them already."

that made him laugh quietly. years of being handed schedules that changed three times between breakfast and rehearsal had apparently translated into a marketable skill. lucy pointed him toward the trailers and hurried off again before he could ask anything else.

that part - at least - felt familiar. a production was a production. different country, different scale, different terminology, but underneath it all there were still people arriving before sunrise so that somebody else could stand beneath a light several hours later and make something look effortless.

he knew how to do that. it helped.

---

hair and makeup smelled almost exactly like every hair and makeup room he'd ever sat in. products he couldn't identify. hot styling tools. coffee. someone's half eaten breakfast.

three stations were already occupied, although only one person seemed properly awake. a man in the far right chair had his eyes closed whole somebody worked beneath them with a sponge. another was reading something on a tablet.

"jeongguk?"

he turned. a woman waved him over with a comb between two fingers, "I'm claire. come save my morning."

"already?"

"you're my easiest appointment." she sighed, hands on her hips.

"I haven't sat down."

"exactly."

he smiled and took the chair. there was something comforting about the immediacy if it. no ceremony, no discussion about the casting. nobody needed him to explain how he felt about taking on one of the most recognizable characters in film history before seven in the morning. claire touched his hair, frowned thoughtfully, pushed it in another direction and asked product he usually used.

within five minutes, his phone was resting face-down beside the mirror ands eyes and wandered towards the day's side instead. he'd worked through them the night before. there wasn't much dialogue scheduled today. mostly camera sets, blocking and a short rehearsal opposite his co-worker - you - before they moved into proper shooting later in the week. you two had already met already, technically - chemistry reads, rehearsals, one production dinner during which they'd been seated far enough apart that their conversation had consisted primarily of hello and goodbye.

he knew considerably more about her work than he knew about her. that was normal. probably.

when they'd told him about who was being considered for gwen, he'd recognized the name immediately. then the face. then several roles at once. you'd been working since you were young enough for interviews to still occasionally bring up films you'd made as a child, despite the fact the fact that you'd spent the better part of the last decade proving that you weren't one anymore.

good actress, quiet.

that had been the extent of his assessment after their screen test.

extremely good actress, actually. still quiet.

you'd smiled at him afterwards, told him he'd done well, and then disappeared with somebody from production before he'd managed to decide whether conversation was supposed to continue beyond that.

claire moved his chin gently, "look down."

he did.

the door opened behind them, though nobody looked particularly interested. jeongguk only glanced toward the mirror because movement caught there first.

you came in carrying a canvas bag against your side and a coffee with both hands. for a second, you remained near the entrance, looking around as though checking where you were meant to be despite being one of the stations having your name taped beneath the mirror.

then, you saw him. there was the smallest hesitation, not discomfort, but recognition recalibrating.

"morning." your voice is softer than he remembered.

"morning."

you smiled, small but real. then you crossed toward the empty station beside his. there was nothing cinematic about seeing his co-star for the first time that morning. no costume yet, no styled hair. no gwen.

you wore loose black trousers, trainers and a zip-up sweatshirt that swallowed most of your hands when you put the coffee down. your hair had been tied back badly enough that several pieces had already escaped around your face. you placed your bag beneath the counter before sitting.

"morning, sweetheart." your makeup artist appeared from somewhere behind. your own makeup artist.

your smile immediately warmed. "hi."

you two carried on with your familiar routine of checking with each other, granting jeongguk to avert his eyes to look at the script on the counter.

"are you nervous?" the makeup artists question made him look back at you, his eyes met yours through the mirror.

you looked down, humming, "a little, I guess?"

this time, he couldn't hold back, "oh?"

you looked back at him, shrugging with a tiny smile on your lips. "first days."

"yeah, me too." jeongguk didn't know why he wanted to share this piece of information with you. "especially if I want to do well."

an airy laughter escaped your lips, "same."

it was odd, seeing your shoulders relax after agreeing with him. be he understood it.

claire tapped his forehead with a brush, "you two can have your existential crisis after 'm done."

you couldn't help but giggle, and jeongguk did too. and then the room returned to what it had been before you came in. brushes against skin, pages turning. somebody asking for setting spray, the low murmur of conversation at the opposite station.

the two of you didn't talk again, and somehow jeongguk really liked it. not because he didn't want to speak to you. because there was no pressure to.

----

by seven-thirty, jeongguk had already changed twice. the first camera test was simple enough: peter's everyday clothing, three lighting setups, several lenses. stand on the mark, turn slightly, look toward camera. look past camera. adjust his shoulders - again.

this, too, he knew well. different instructions, same language. he'd spent enough of his life being told to find a piece of colored tape on the floor that he could probably do it without looking.

the cinematographer watched the monitor. "can we lose the jacket?"

as wardrobe stepped forward, jeongguk has already shrugged off the jacket and handed it over.

"hair, tiny adjustments." someone stepped in, moved two strands near his forehead and disappeared.

"jeongguk, chin down." he moved. "good." click. another. "look camera-left." click. "perfect."

you watched from just outside the setup, waiting for your turn. you also had changed, though it was nothing dramatic. just jeans, a soft blue sweater, coated folded over one arm. they hadn't transformed either of you into characters so much as nudged them toward people who could could plausibly exist somewhere in queens.

jeongguk stepped away from the mark, you stepped forward. as you passed one another , you speak up gently, "you're good at that."

he glanced back, head tilted. "what?"

wetting your lips, you repeated yourself. "good at finding the light." you sounded genuinely impressed.

jeongguk couldn't help but smile in gratitude at her kind words, bashingly raising a shoulder, "I practiced."

your mouth pulled slightly at one corner. "right."

he almost asked what you'd expected. then somebody called your name and you turned immediately. the change was subtle - that was the first thing he noticed about watching you work.

you outside the fame seemed to conserve yourself well. you stood with your shoulders rounded when nobody needed anything from you, hands usually occupied with whatever happened to be nearby - coffee, script, the cuff of your sleeves. when crew spoke to you, you listened properly. when you answered, it was rarely more than necessary. jeongguk had seen you in the stories from other actors and previous co-stars of yours. you seemed more open, lighter in a way. he guessed that it took time for you to warm up to a new crew.

then the camera found you and nothing dramatic happened. you simply became easier to look at. not bigger. not louder - but more precise.

jeongguk understood that too. he watched the monitor for a few seconds before deciding he was probably standing somewhere she shouldn't and moving out the way.

"chin lightly left." you adjusted. "eyes to me." you did. "beautiful." click.

jeongguk took a sip of water. interesting.

----

the first blocking rehearsal came nearly an hour later. the set had changed since is last visit. or perhaps he'd simply had mire time to look at it now.

part of a manhattan street had been built inside the soundstage, complete from the right angle to make the unfinished edges stranger. a bus to, graffiti deliberately painted onto brick walls. a newspaper box bolted to pavement that ended ten meters later in bare studio floor.

jeongguk stepped onto the curb and looked down. heh, concrete. he bent slightly and tapped it with one knuckle. wood?

"disappointing?" you stood behind him with a script tucked under your arm.

he straightened. "I knew it wasn't real."

you tilted your head, "you checked."

he pursed his lips, "I was confirming."

you nodded solemnly, "of course." it was the closest you'd come to teasing him.

he noticed, but before he could answer, the director called you two over. you stood beside the other while the scene was explained.

simple. peter crossed from the opposite pavement. gwen was already waiting near the bus stop. they met, started walking together ´, exchanged several lines and stopped when a bicycle courier passed between them. no stunt. no effects. nothing particularly complicated.

which meant you spent nearly forty minutes doing so. the first attempt established the distance, the second changed your mark, the third changed his. the fourth lasted five seconds before someone for lighting stepped in. the sound, then camera. then somebody discovered that the artificial streetlight reflected strangely bin one of the windows.

you two waited next to the other, not bothered by it, after a few minutes, you shifted your weight. "how many times do you think we're going to all this street today?"

he looked toward the set, "twenty."

"only?"

"thirty?"

you hummed, "better."

"you think more?" jeongguk looked back at you.

"I've spent an entire day opening a door."

jeongguk laughed, "just opening it?"

"opening it, entering, closing it." you nodded, shifting your weight once more. "I stopped counting after forty."

he looked at the fake shop entrance beside you, jerking his head to the side. "I could do forty."

you turned toward him. something in your expression suggested you'd learned a piece of information you intended to remember. "I believe you."

jeongguk could only scoff before he could decide whether that had been praise, though somebody already called you to reset. you returned to your marks.

the next take went smoothly until you accidentally stopped half an inch in front of your mark. "sorry." you moved back immediately.

"no worries. again."

you reset. this time, jeongguk missed his mark. you said nothing, only looked down at his show, then up at him. his show sat nearly beside the strip of the blue tape rather than on it.

"don't."

your mouth twitched. "I didn't say anything?"

he narrowed his eyes, "you were going to."

"nuh uh."

"you looked!"

"i have eyes."

"places!"

you turn away from each other. jeongguk smiled as he walked back. there you were - not quite yet. but somewhere beneath the quietness, there was clearly something else.

---

lunch came late. not disastrously late, merely late, which meant everyone had spent the previous half-hour pretending they weren't checking the time.

jeongguk took his plate outside. there were tables arranged beneath temporary awing between the stages, most already occupied by crew. he recognized serval members of the stand department and nearly headed their before spotting an empty chair further down.

you sat at the table beside it. alone, although the remains of somebody else's coffee suggested you hadn't been alone long. you were reading. not the script, but an actual book. jeongguk slowed as you looked up. for a moment neither of you spoke. then you moved your bag from the empty chair without him asking and he took that as permission.

"thanks."

"mhm."

he sat and you went back to your pages. that was all - there was something unexpectedly comfortable about it. jeongguk usually dealt horribly with silence, though he also didn't speak up until spoken to. but this time, he just ate and you read. people passed you, someone from wardrobe stopped briefly to tell you they needed you after lunch. you thanked them. another crew member jeongguk had met that morning waved and he returned it. after a few minutes, you put a bookmark between the pages.

jeongguk looked at the cover. "you read during lunch?"

you glanced down, "sometimes."

"doesnt that make you tired?"

"talking makes me tired." at your words, jeongguk paused his fork halfway to his mouth. your eyes widen slightly. "not- I didn't mean you-"

jeongguk laughed, "I know."

you groaned, "that sounded horrible."

"a little."

"'m sorry."

now he laughed properly, so much that his ears were turning pink. that made it worse.

you felt the heat creep up your neck. "I really didn't mean-"

jeongguk calmed down, "I know."

you opened the book again, hoping to distract yourself. "kay."

jeongguk looked at you for a second, then returned back to his food. a minuted passed.

from behind the book, "I like talking to you."

he looked over. only your eyes that were cautiously watching him were visible above the top edge now. it seemed the admission had coster her considerably more than the sentence warranted.

jeongguk smiled. "good."

you waited. "that's all?" you want to kick yourself for sounding so disappointed.

"what do you want me to say?" he couldn't help but grin at your state. the way you had lowered the book only to reveal the gentle pouts on your lips.

"don't know." you mumble.

"I like talking to you too."

a bright smile graced your face, book lifting up. "okay."

"okay." jeongguk continued eating, although the side remained for longer than necessary.

----

the first week of filming did very little to either of you to help understand the film in the order anyone would eventually watch it. by wednesday, jeongguk had already apologized to gwen for something peter had not even done yet, filmed the aftermath of an argument scheduled for the end of the month, and spent an hour being told exactly how much he was supposed to know in a scene that came directly after one they had not shot. you seemed to find this less confusing than he did, it simply wasn’t something he had gotten used to over the past years he had been part of this branch. he suspected that you already had long accepted that filmmaking required you to emotionally time-travel for a living.

he found you that morning sitting outside the set with your script folded open over one knee, already in costume, one ankle under the other. your hair had been styled into something deliberately effortless, which meant it had taken about thirty minutes. jeongguk dropped into the chair next to yours.

you looked over, eyes still slightly swollen. “mornin’.”

“morning.” he lifted the sides in his hands. “what are we angry about this time?”

you glanced down at your own pages. “you disappeared for three days. no contact.”

“ouh, was that me?” jeongguk tilted his head to the side, scratching something off his nail.”

“peter.”

he raised one eyebrow, “good.”

your mouth twitched. “you seem relieved, huh?”

“i have a good alibi.”

“which is?”

“spider man.”

you looked at him for a second, then lowered your eyes again, smile only appearing when you had already turned away. this was how you tended to laugh with him at first. quietly. like you had yet not decided whether you wanted him to know he was funny. jeongguk noticed anyway.

—

the set was a school hallway built only as far as the camera needed it to exist. the lockers opened, the classroom doors did not. you discovered this a bit too late, only during rehearsal when you leaned your weight against one and already vanished backwards through the frame.

jeongguk caught you by the elbow before you got too far.

you straighten immediately, clearing your throat. “i- i knew that.”

he bit down on the inside of his cheek, “oh you so didn’t.”

you raised your hand to playfully slap his shoulder, mouth opened to defend yourself when someone from crew called you back to the marks. the scene itself was simple on paper; Gwen was annoyed, Peter was defensive and neither of them was meant to say what they were actually upset about.

on the first take, you came in slightly too sharp, whereas on the second jeongguk held back to much. he believes that the two of you still have to get used to the rhythm of the other, understand how to read the cues and signs. and with the help of the director, it all slowly fell into its place.

peter crossed the hallway toward her, a tiny skip in his steps as he was eager to settle the tension between them. he bumped shoulders with another student, hands now settled on the straps of his very used bag pack. from her peripheral vision, Gwen had already seen Peter approach her and crossed her arms in front of her chest, though the movement looked less defensive now and more like she'd done it because she had been standing there too long waiting for him.

his voice was airy, almost breathless as he tried to calm his nerves. "hey."

she did not answer, looking at him once before turning away. Peter stopped, unsure how to proceed.

you can't help but snort at the long silence. "uhm, aren't you supposed to say something?"

jeongguks nose scrunched as he bit back a laugh, turning toward the camera with an apologetic bow, "ah, I forgot, let- I'll come back once more." he started walking back to his first mark, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for his signal. he looked at you, getting back into your annoyed stance.

"c'mon, Spiderman." you rolled your eyes playfully, "your girlfriend is pretty pissed at you!"

jeongguk exhaled once, easing the tension in his shoulders, "just leave it to me, I got this."

the director gave him his cue, and Peter once again walked toward Gwen, her back turned to him as she tried her best to ignore his presence. this time, he dodged the shoulder of the student coming at him, steps hurried. "hey."

Gwen stayed quiet, arms crossed in front of her chest. she didn't move away, granting Peter the chance to move even closer to her, "you've been avoiding me."

Gwen look at him, eyebrows drawn together. "I have been avoiding you?"

Peter turned his head away, eyes dancing around the dirty floor to gather his best excuses, "I- yeah- I've been busy."

"for three days?"

Peter hesitated, mumbling out whatever he could, "somethingcameup."

shaking her head, Gwen scoffed at the lame excuse. she stepped away, creating some distance between their bodies. "something always comes up."

there was a pause. not because jeongguk forgot his lines, simply because he believed that Peter would need it. "wha- what do you want me to say?" he lifted a shoulder, eyes never leaving Gwens face.

"the truth would be nice." she ran a hand through her hair, stopping at the side of her neck to scratch away her nerves. something in her expression shifted just enough for jeongguk to understand where you wanted to take it. not anger, no. disappointment.

that changed everything. with a softer voice, Peter slumped his shoulder to make himself appear smaller. "you know I can't."

"and I can't trust you, Peter." nobody moved, the silence went one beat longer than planned. the director called cut.

someone stepped in to smooth your hair where it had caught against the collar of your sweater. sound came over to adjust jeongguks mic, and a prop assistant fixed the angle of a backpack that had not moved more than two centimeters.

you looked at him through the small crowd that grew between you two. "that was good, but she is still pretty pissed."

jeongguk couldn't help but smile. "oh, yeah?"

"mhm."

"just wait, I'll show you." and jeongguk knew that it would be awesome. he had talked to the director about a little tweak he really wanted to add to the story. he bet that you would also love it.

then, makeup moved between them and the moment disappeared, as most of their first week happened to be like that. briefly.

--

by Thursday, jeongguk knew which cup belonged to you before you did. you had three coffees lined up along the counter in hair and makeup, two of them dead, one still warm. you came in with a fourth, and jeongguk couldn't help but snort as he nodded toward the other cups.

"you know those are yours, right?" he looked at you as your gaze shifted to the three cups, stopping right next to his chair.

you nodded, "yeah, this one's for you." you held the cup towards him, careful to not disturb Claire as she worked with fake blood along his face and neck.

"oh." he took the cup from your hands, wetting his lips as he looked at it. "thank you."

he should have known, jeongguk thinks to himself as he watched you take your third cup and sit down at your own station. he should have known that you were a kind and attentive person, never shying away from helping those around you. he continued to watch you through the mirror as you search through your handbag, lips pursed. "you good?"

you glanced up, "yeah, 'm lookin' for my lip balm, actually." he continued to move your hand inside the full bag, grumbling to yourself.

jeongguk looked toward the counter. there was one beside the first dead coffee, and another one on the far end, next to the mirror. he cleared his throat, prompting you to first look at him before your gaze followed his, eyes finally landing at the one next to the coffee. you then looked back at him, biting your lip.

"heh."

he smiled to himself as he watched you take the balm and then get up from your chair, waving him and Claire goodbye.

that afternoon was the first time you saw him properly in the suit. not the final reveal, not some dramatic entrance designed for reaction footage. he simply came out of wardrobe while two people were still arguing about the fit on one shoulder and another adjusted the web-shooter at his wrist. you didn't waste time taking out your phone to film him, making him strike a pose when he saw the camera pointed at him.

jeongguk squatted down in classic spider man fashion, one hand forming the iconic web shooting style as the other supported his weight against the floor. "whatcha think, gwen?"

you put your phone down and got up from your seat, circling around jeongguk who now stood tall. "oh man." you shook your head, "I- woah. like, I don't even know what to say."

jeongguk looked down at his covered hands and flexed his fingers, also in disbelief. "I can't wait to work with it."

something in your expression cracked at his words, the reserved little smile you had been offering him all week becoming fuller before you could stop it. jeongguk liked it more than he expected. not because he needed your approval, because it felt earned. another person from crew appeared in front of you two, a vlogging camera pointed at you.

"say jaykay, what do you think?"

you took a step back to give him more room to move, making a small wave at the camera.

jeongguk gave it a full three-sixty, presenting the suit from all angles. "I have never seen myself from that many angles during fitting. my ass looks incredible in this suit!" he glanced up excitedly, flexing his biceps this time.

you laughed at his words, wordlessly nodding as you continued to eye him up. the camera panned toward you this time, the same question following.

"I can't believe I am standing next to spider man!" your eyes looked like they held the universe inside them, "actually, I always wanted to be spider man, but working with him is just as cool."

sharing a laughter with the crew member, jeongguk and you answered a few more questions before he was called to test the wires for the next scene. waving at the camera, you two moved towards the next stage, eager to test out the suit.

--

the scene that followed involved neither webs nor fighting [much to his dismay]. instead, Peter stood outside Gwens window. that was pretty much all. the window belonged to a set that ended immediately beyond the frame., which meant jeongguk spent the first rehearsal climbing onto a ledge no higher than his knew and pretending he had reached it from several stories up.

you stood inside the room, one hand resting on the curtain. "you're late."

Peter looked at her, wetting his lips. "I, eh, was busy."

Gwen rolled her eyes, opening the window wider. "you always say that."

peter places his hands onto the windows frame, weight on his arms. "never busy enough for you, though." he is breathless, given all the stories he had climbed up [yeah, sure.].

Gwen lost the fight and let her lips stretch into a smile. it was impossible winning against Peter Parker. that much she knew.

they share a small moment of silence before the director called cut. one the second take, jeongguk leaned against the frame differently. on the third, you changed the pause before opening the window. by the fifth, you stopped discussing it between takes, something that started happening in the way the both of you read each other. you would shift and jeongguk knew to move with you. he would hold a line back and you would give him the space he needed - it made acting opposite you feel less like memorizing and more like catching. he enjoyed that, more than he said.

--

night shoots changed everybody - that it what he had learned by Friday. somewhere around midnight, the careful professionalism of the day loosened by many degrees. crew still worked - nobody would ever become careless. but jokes lasted longer, coffee got stronger, and people stopped pretending they weren't exhausted.

you, wrapped in a long production coat over Gwen's costume, sat on the curb outside the stage with a box of fries balanced on one knee. jeongguk came over still wearing the bottom half of the spider man suit, hoodie pulled over the top. his glasses sat comfortably on the bridge of his nose, his bangs falling out of the hood pulled over his head.

you looked at him, snorting. "you look ridiculous." still, you didn't waste time opening the camera app to take a picture of him as he sat down, a tiny groan leaving his lips.

"'m getting old."

you moved the fries as much as you could, a silent offer he would never pass. jeongguk took one, then multiple squeezed between his thumb and pointer finger. you looked down. "those were mine."

"you moved them." he shrugged, chewing the remains. neither of you cared how many he ate.

around you, the lot had gone strangely quiet between setups. a generator hummed nearby, someone pushed equipment past you two. the fake rain rig was being reset for the next take.

you leaned back on your palms. "'m tired." you puffed your cheeks to hold back your yawn.

it was his first time hearing you say it without immediately covering the admission with a joke. "me too."

you sat without talking for a while, and jeongguk realized at some point that this had become normal. not the silence, but the two of you sharing a comfortable space.

---

your first wired scene together happened the following Monday. you had done wire work before, which meant you knew enough to dislike the waiting more than the actual drop. the platform stood a few meters above the mats, surrounded by green screen and crew. you were already clipped in when jeongguk came over in costume, mask pulled back, the suit catching every light in the room.

you flexed your fingers, and he noticed. "you good?"

"mhm." the answer came too quickly. he looked at you, looked at the tension in your jaw crawling dow to your shoulders. you looked away and let out a quiet sigh when he did not ask again.

instead, he glanced toward the green wall. "do you think pigeons understand glass?"

your head turned, "what?"

"if they're flying toward a window, do they know it's there?" he put his hands on his hips, "I've seen so many of them just crash against it."

your snort immediately made him smile, happy at the fact that he could relieve some of the tension around you. your expression changed, even if only slightly. he looked away before you cold decide whether to be embarrassed by the fact he'd notice, but are saved when someone called for the final checks.

your hardness was adjusted one last time while jeongguk stood below where he needed to catch you. before taking his mark, he looked up and you met his eyes. he raised two fingers, tiny. you nodded, then the rig was released.

the first take was late, not dangerously, but just enough that the words carried more of your weight than his arms did.

"cut!"

you were lowered. jeongguk looked at the coordinator. "I missed."

they shook their head, "the release was early."

"i was still late." "by half a beat." jeongguk nodded once, "again."

you watched him while the rig reset. there was no frustration in the dramatic sense, no bruised ego, no performance of perfectionism. just attention to the right timing he aimed at. that was all. the second take was better, the third cleaner.

on the fourth, it finally clicked. you dropped and jeongguk moved instantly, one arm caught around your waist, the other behind your shoulders, and the rig carried the rest of the motion into a controlled swing that looked far more dramatic than it felt. your hand went to the back of his neck automatically, body pressed against his. you stopped close, very close. and for a second, neither of you moved. Peter was supposed to look frightened, his arms tightening their hold around Gwens shaken figure. the strange part was that neither expression required much effort.

then, the director called cut and the spell dissolved. your feet reached the mat as jeongguk let you go. "you okay?"

you swallowed a dry spit and nodded, "yeah, you?"

he nodded, stepping away as someone came to unclip her. jeongguk rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze.

---

the days began blurring after that, not because they became repetitive, but because repetition was what made you comfortable.

there were earl mornings in makeup where yo barely spoke until someone put a glass of ice cold water into your hands. there were afternoons spent running lines in whichever corner of the set happened to be quiet. jeongguk learned that you hated reheating your coffee and would rather drink it cold, grumbling about being an alpha. you learned that he stretched without noticing he was faint it whenever he had been sitting too long. he also started leaving his Spiderman water bottle in your trailer. the first time, accidentally. the second time? eh, maybe not.

"you forgot this." you held it out when he appeared at your door.

jeongguk looked at the bottle, smacking his lips. "I knew where it was."

you rolled your eyes, "you didn't. you came back for your script." his gaze shifted to the script in your other hand.

he felt his ears turn pink, voice tiny. "oh."

shaking your head, you stepped out your trailer. "how do you even survive?"

"very well, thank you very much."

you handed both over. jeongguk took the bottle first. "eh, debatable."

he jerked his head to the side, brows furrowed. "why do you have my script?"

"you left it on my couch last night?"

jeongguk smiled, making your eyes narrow and question what he wanted. he just shrugged, moving along. you called his name after him, jaw slack at the audacity of him ignoring you.

---

production eventually developed a rhythm around you two. crew stopped introducing you to departments they already knew. your favorite tea began appearing in the makeup trailer without anyone asking, someone from wardrobe kept extra socks for jeongguk because he somehow never had enough. you even began eating together more often than not.

sometimes with the stunt team, sometimes surrounded by crew, other times alone because everyone else had already got back to set. no one announced the change, which jeongguk seemed to like the most. he had simply stopped asking whether the seat next to you was taken. you just moved your bag before he could even utter a single word.

somewhere along the way, even your silence changed, as it was no longer the silence of someone deciding how much to offer of themself. sometimes you leaned against the chair and complained about a costume seam ridding into your side. sometimes you told him about something stupid you had seen online - even rumors about you two that made no sense.

the strangest part was how quickly work followed both of you home without intending it to.

you returned to your hotel room most nights and took gwen off piece by piece. makeup first, hairpins next. costume long gone by then, replaced by whatever you had thrown on in your trailer before leaving. some nights, you still heard jeongguk's awkward delivery of a line while brushing your teeth. not because it was ground breaking, but because you had heard it for almost two hours by then.

jeongguk reviewed scene before bed when he had enough energy - which was almost every night. on nights he didn't, he lay there and let the day replay badly in fragments, focus on how he could have had a better delivery of certain lines or made a better position when landing after a backflip. sometimes he even thought of you and how you hid your laugh behind your script when he purposely messed up. sometime about what you said during lunch, how you looked at him during take four on stage eight. nothing important.

by the end of the second week, the two of you had started to appear in the evening routines of the other, not really noticing, not really caring.

--

monday morning, you had opened the door to your trailer and sound a coffee sitting on the step, making you halt in your steps abruptly. you looked down, then around to see if anyone was close by. nobody. taking a sip, you nodded to yourself. the order was right - exactly right. you turned the cup around search for a name, fully expecting it to be at least yours. what you did not expect however was-

WET CAT you felt you eye twitch, inhaling deeply as you turned toward the line of trailers. his door was closed. that, however, did not stop you from walking over and ripping is door open.

inside, jeongguk sat on the couch, script open on one knee and glasses pushing his long hair off his face. you held out the cup, voice eerie. "what is this, Parker."

his face stayed neutral, "coffee."

"and what, my dearest friend, does it say?"

he leaned forward as though he didn't know the answer, eyes squinting at the dark scribble on the side of the plastic cup. his mouth twitched, he tried to cover it with a cough. "oh."

"oh?"

he puts his script away, legs now crossed. "that, of course, is unfortunate."

"you did this," you bent down a bit, "I told you that in confidence!"

"can you prove that, though?"

you stepped inside fully now, closing the door behind you. his eyebrows rose as you set the coffee carefully on the counter. "you have five seconds."

he smiled innocently, head tilted. "for what, dearest friend?"

you copied his sweet smile. "to run."

"you wouldn't hit spider man." he tensed, legs spreading as he got ready to jump off the couch if necessary.

you reached for one of the stray extra scripts on the counter, rolling it together. jeongguk stood immediately, pupils blown. "wait."

"four."

he called your name, one hand stretched out in hopes to calm you.

"three."

he started laughing before you even threw it. and somewhere outside, a production assistant passed jeongguks trailer, heard the cushion hit something followed a high pitched scream, heard you call his name in a voice considerably louder than the one you used during your first week, heard jeongguk laughing hard enough to make whatever defense he was attempting completely useless-

-and kept walking.

nobody questioned it anymore.

--

the coffee incident, as it would go down in history by that name, unfortunately, did not teach jeongguk anything. if anything, it seemed to encourage him.

two days later, you found a packet of gummy worms balanced on top of your script with FOR THE CAT written across the plastic with black marker. Friday brought a bottle of water with whiskers drawn around your name. by the following Monday, Claire had somehow become involved, meaning you walked into hair and makeup at six-thirty in the morning to find a pair of cheap black cat ears resting neatly on your chair.

you stopped in the doorway. Claire kept her eyes suspiciously focused on the brushes she was cleaning. jeongguk sat two chairs over, face almost hidden behind the pages of his script. nobody spoke, making your eyes narrow. "you guys are fucking horrible."

Claire broke first, with jeongguk following perhaps half a second later, lowering the script as laughter shook through his shoulder, his mouth wide open and eyes barely open to look at your deadpan expression. you had barely finished dropping your bag before snatching the ears from the chair and throwing then in his direction; his hand came up easily enough o catch them before they hit his face [sadly.].

you huff. "good reflexes."

"thank you." he didn't waste time to put the ears on. that hadn't be the response you expected.

you stared at him and he stared right back through the mirror, entirely too pleased with himself as Claire reached around the plastic headband to continue working on his hair.

you spoke before you had the chance to think about it. "take them off."

"why?" "they're mine." "you threw them at me?" "was attacking you, actually."

"and now they're mine." there was no point arguing with him before seven in the morning, you had learned this much already. instead, you took your seat as the ears remained on his head until wardrobe came to collect him twenty minutes later.

--

it wasn't until the third week that you started seeing each other outside of work. again, nobody had really planned it.

there had been no careful exchange of we should hang out sometime, followed by several days finding a date that worked around filming. the production simply wrapped earlier than expected one evening, and the two of you stood beside the trailers looking vaguely confused by the sight of daylight. you checked your phone. five-thirty-two.

you made a face. "that is disgusting."

jeongguk looked over while pulling over his hoodie. "huh?"

your hand rose ahead. "it is still bright."

"usually is at five."

"not for us."

he laughed, pushing his glasses higher onto his nose. somebody from costume walked past with the upper half of the spider man suit hanging inside a garment bag and you instinctively stepped aside to give them room. there was something strange about finishing early. neither of you seems to know what to do with the extra hours that had suddenly been returned.

you glanced towards the parking area. "what are you doin'?"

jeongguk shrugged. "gym."

you stared at him, "you literally wrestled a man in spandex just a few hours ago."

"that's not the gym." "your body doesn't know that." "mine does." "psychopath."

he smiled, the expression disappearing briefly when he checked his phone. "you?"

you didn't have an answer ready. normally, you went back to the hotel, showered, ordered something, and read whatever pages had been sent for the next day. mostly ignored at least one messages asking whether you wanted to go somewhere, then slept embarrassingly early whenever production allowed it. "suppose I'll go home."

"that's depressing."

your jaw dropped, "you just said you're going to the gym."

"that is productive."

you opened your mouth to counter, though closed it right after as you could not think of anything to throw at him. jeongguk waited, shit eating grin inviting you to smack him across the head.

"whatever." you shrugged off.

"so, you don't have anything." "you don't know my life." "tell me then."

you didn't. instead, you adjusted the strap of your bag and started walking towards the lot.

jeongguk fell into step beside you. "come eat." you looked at him. he said it so casually that it took a moment for the invitation to settle properly.

"now?" "that's normally when people eat." "you're very annoying today." "you keep saying that and still spend all day with me."

your mouth opened again - nothing. jeongguk glanced sideways, visibly pleased with whatever conclusion he had reached. you pushed his shoulder, "where?"

--

the place he chose was almost aggressively ordinary. no rooftop restaurant hidden above the city, no industry plan with dim lighting and tables spaced far enough apart that nobody could overhear you. it was a small Korean restaurant wedged between a pharmacy and a laundromat, the windows fogged slightly from eh heat inside and menus laminated badly enough that one corner of yours had already started peeling away.

you loved it instantly, which jeongguk seemed to notice. "good?"

you nodded, reading through the menu. "very."

"you haven't eaten yet." "the vibes tell me that they make a mean japchae." "the vibes?" "important." he hummed, accepting this.

outside the studio, he somehow looked younger. not because anything about his face had changed. maybe because there was no Peter around him anymore, no wardrobe assistant checking his sleeves, no camera waiting for his mark, no one calling him Parker from across a soundstage. just jeongguk in a dark hoodie with his glasses slipping down his nose as he read through the menu he'd probably already memorized.

you realized then that you had actually never spent time alone with him without work sitting somewhere within reach. lunch didn't count, neither did your trailer sessions. even the nights outside stage twelve with fries between you had existed beneath the knowledge that somebody would eventually call you back inside. here, nobody needed you anywhere. the thought made you strangely nervous. perhaps he noticed, perhaps not.

jeongguk merely set the menu down and poured you water before filling his own glass. "how long have you been acting?"

you blinked. "that's what you want to ask?" "yeah." "you could google that." "I did."

your eyebrows rose and you couldn't hold back the snort as he froze for half a second. "not- not like that."

the laugh finally slipped past your lips." "like what?" "I looked you up before chemistry read." "you researched me?" "anyone researches who they're working with."

“I didn’t.” his face fell just enough to make you laugh harder. “I’m joking. I did.”

he straightened his spine. “see?”

“but I didn’t watch interviews.” you think back when you searched his name on google. two series here, a few small movies there. respectable work.

he cleared his throat. “I watched one.”

“oh?”

“maybe three.” your smile widened. jeongguk looked down at the table, rubbing the back of his neck, "I wanted to know what you were like."

something about he confession made you quieter. you swallowed and shifted in your seat, hands warming up. "and?"

"and what?"

“what am I like?”

he looked at you properly then. not in the quick way he’d become accustomed to looking at you on set, checking whether you’d understood a joke or caught whatever he was silently trying to communicate during a take. his attention stayed long enough that you suddenly became aware of your hands resting on the table. “quieter.”

you frowned. "than the interviews?"

"than I expected."

"like, bad?" you didn't understand why something in your stomach dropped.

"no." the answer came too easily for you to doubt it. jeongguk leaned back, fingers settling around his glass. "I thought maybe you wouldn't like me."

your face softened before you could control it. "why?"

“you barely spoke to me during the chemistry test.” he looked around the small restaurant, "kinda disappeared on me right after."

“I was nervous.”

his eyes shot back to you. “you?”

“why does everyone react like that?” you couldn't help but feel offended, hands placed on your lap underneath the table.

“because you’ve been doing this forever.”

you scoffed lightly. “that’s exactly why.”

he didn’t understand. you could see it. so, for once, you tried to explain “when you’re a kid, people expect you to be nervous. they help you, you know? they tell you where to stand, they tell you it’s okay if you don’t get something. then you grow up and suddenly everybody assumes that because you’ve done it for years, you don’t get scared anymore.” jeongguk stayed quiet. you traced the condensation running down your glass. “I still do.”

"first days."

your eyes lifted at the familiar words. especially if I want to do well. your smile came slower this time. "first days."

he nodded, and because jeongguk was somehow good at knowing when something had reached its natural end, he didn't push. instead, he waved down a young waiter, ordered your food in Korean and let your conversation drift elsewhere.

--

this became a problem. not the dinner itself. the fact that there was a second one, then a third.

sometimes food after work, sometimes coffee before either of you had to be on set, once a late trip to a convenience store because Reader had mentioned wanting ice cream and jeongguk had apparently taken that as an emergency requiring immediate intervention. the studio still remained the centre of everything. it was simply no longer the only place where you knew each other.

jeongguk learned about your family in fragments rather than one grand conversation. names came first, then stories, then the odd photograph shoved beneath his nose because you needed him to understand exactly what your mother looked like when she was angry. you learned that he called his own mother more often than he admitted. that he hated people worrying about him despite being particularly talented at giving them reasons to. that he had wanted to act before he’d been brave enough to say it out loud. that the first rejection had bothered him considerably more than the tenth. you talked about childhood fame once.

only once. it was late and you were both tired enough that the truth seemed less embarrassing.

“do you ever feel like people know you already?” jeongguk’s question came from beside you.

you sat in the backseat of the car production had sent, shoulder pressed against the window while the city moved past outside. “all the time.”

“does it annoy you?”

you thought. “not annoy.”

“what then?”

“I don’t know.” your eyes stayed on the lights outside. “sometimes I meet someone and they’ve watched me grow up. they know what I looked like when I was eight, what my voice sounded like at twelve, which movie I cried in at sixteen. and I know nothing about them.”

jeongguk didn’t answer immediately. “that’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“do you wish you hadn’t done it?”

this time, the answer came quickly. “no.”

he looked towards you, you just shrugged, sinking a little further into the seat. "I love my job. doesn't mean every part has to be easy."

that seemed to settle something. "fair."

there was something comforting about the fact that he didn't pry any more, granting you the opportunity to shift the weight of your conversation onto other days, in portions you could digest.

--

the kiss came from jeongguk. or, well, the idea did. you were not present when it happened - that fact would later feel vaguely unfair.

the scene had been discussed for several days already: Peter arriving at Gwen's fore escape after stopping a robbery a few blocks away, his suit soaked from the rain, mask still on as he he had not meant to stay. gwen would know anyway. there would be a short conversation, something quiet before he disappeared again.

originally, that was all. then jeongguk looked at the storyboard - really looked. "can he be upside down?"

the director glanced over. "for the conversation?"

"maybe." jeongguk tired the page around, finger marking the rough position of Peter beside the fire escape. "we already have the rig. of he comes down here instead-" the sound coordinator leaned closer, jeongguk continued, increasingly convinced by his own idea "-it'd be cool."

"that is your argument?"

"ve-very strong argument!"

the director laughed, "and gwen does what?"

jeongguk looked back at the storyboard, his finger moved - stopped. "...kisses him." silence. one of the producers looked over from the other side of the table.

jeongguk wet his lips. "not like a big kiss." that didn't help.

"peter is hanging upside down outside her apartment in the rain and gwen kisses him."

he nodded, breathless even though he was sitting. "yeah."

"you've seen spider man before, right?"

his smile widened, "exactly."

you only found out hours later, which, again, was unfair. you had been sitting in your trailer trying to remove a knot from one of Gwen's necklaces when somebody knocked once and entered before you could answer.

jeongguk, of course. you didn't bother looking up. "you knock like you pay rent."

"i have news." he sat down beside you, too close to be normal considering the amount of empty couch available. his knee brushed against yours, warmth curling around you. you continued fighting the necklace. "we changed Friday."

"what changed?" the tip of your tongue poked out the corner of your lip.

"fire escape." "mhm." "'m- peter's upside down. now."

your fingers stopped and you looked over, lips pursed. "why?" and when jeongguk only smiled at you, you instantly understood. "what did you do?"

he raised a shoulder, fighting off a grin. "I just suggested something."

"what?"

his expression changed into something innocent as he exaggerated the pout of his lip and slightly turned his body away. "the- the kiss."

your lips parted as you stared at him. he stared right back. the chain slipped from your clammy fingers. "huh? what kiss?"

"ours." the word landed horribly. your brain, traitorous thing it was, heard ours several seconds before remembering the far more reasonable interpretation. the film - gwen, Peter, acting.

you cleared your throat, shifting in your seat, you knee brushing against his sending a shiver down your spine. "there is no kiss in this."

"there is now!" "why?" "'cause it looks good."

your mouth opened, jeongguk seemed almost amused by whatever was happening to your face. "you're upside down?"

"yeah," he breathed out, "jus' like the good old times."

"and 'm supposed to kiss you?" "yeah."

you blinked once. then again. he raised an eyebrow. "you're an actress."

your hand slapped his thigh before you could stop it. "fuck off."

his laughter filled your trailer, and you decide to pick up the fallen necklace. at least it was a good excuse to not look at him. "I just meant that you have kissed people on camera before!"

yeah, you had. even more; break-ups, marriages, love confessions, and so much more than an tiny weeny kiss between two teenagers. "well," you tried to save yourself, "not people hanging from ceiling!"

"technically," he pointed a finger up, "I'll be hanging from a wire."

"oh! thank god! completely normal then." jeongguk laughed harder at your deadpan expression, bending sideways to lay down on the empty space of your couch.

your face felt warm, annoyingly warm. this is all so stupid, not understanding why you had such strong reaction to a little change. jeongguk was your friend. Peter liked gwen, gwen liked Peter. it was just a kiss between them. simple.

behind you, the laughter slowly quietened. "you don't have to." you watched him get up, "I can jus' tell 'em that we don't want to do that."

you shifted, the change in his tone caught you. he wasn't smiling anymore, and something inside you immediately switched. "no, I like it."

"you sure?"

you get up and place the necklace onto the tiny desk in front of the couch. "'m just giving you shit. that is iconic, y'know?"

jeongguks grin returned immediately, "see?"

not in the mood for his teasing, you rolled your eyes and kicked your shoe against his, "leave, Parker."

he did, though not after giving you one last shit eating grin as he closed the door behind himself. you waited for a second longer before exhaling deeply. "...fuck."

----

Friday had sounded very far away when jeongguk told you about the kiss. it was considerably less far away the following morning when you walked onto stage fourteen and found him hanging upside down six feet above a crash mat. you stopped.

he turned his head - or tried to, considering gravity had already pulled most of his thick hair toward the floor. "mornin'."

you greeted him back and placed your hands on your hips. one of the coordinators laughed from beside the rig while adjusting something on the control panel. jeongguk had been fittet into the harness beneath the suit already, suspended low enough that his shoulders were roughly level with yours, though apparently nobody had considered what gravity would do to the rest of him.

his cheeks looked different. you stepped closer, jeongguk just watched you. then, you did the worst possible thing - you laughed. not politely either, your hand flew to your mouth as he stared at you in betrayal. "what?"

"you look-" you couldn't finish.

"what?" another laugh escaped, and jeongguk tried to lift himself slightly against the harness as though dignity might be somewhere above him.

"you look so, like, weird?" "I'm literally spider man." "it looks like all your blood is in your forehead." "that because it is." that only made it worse.

"can we lower him?" you asked through laughter, "he's dying. looks purple."

the coordinator glanced between you two, nodding at your observation. "he's a little purple."

eventually, they lowered him, though only enough that his head hovered several inches above the mat. jeongguk reached toward the mask.

"don't touch it," wardrobe called immediately, pulling a sigh from his lips.

You crouched down instead, suddenly face-to-face with him again. That was a mistake. Your smile faded by degrees. This was roughly where you would have to stand, maybe closer. The thought arrived without invitation.

jeongguk seemed to reach the same conclusion because his eyes moved briefly - not dramatically, barely enough to qualify - from yours toward your mouth, then back. neither said anything. someone behind you started explaining the blocking. you stood quickly, like the professional you were. yeah, professional. Completely professional.

“Okay,” you said, smoothing your hands over your trousers. “So how exactly are we doing this?”

“Well,” the coordinator began, “first we need to see where you naturally reach.”

jeongguk smiled upside down. You immediately pointed at him. "behave."

you stared at him for a second longer. he stared back, upside down and visibly trying to look normal about the fact that the two of you were expected to kiss in less than forty-eight hours.

it was almost comforting. almost.

someone from the behind-the-scenes team stood a few metres away with a camera already rolling. you hadn’t noticed until she stepped closer, grinning as she pointed it at jeongguk. “so, how are you feeling about the scene?”

his entire expression changed, not dramatically, but enough. he smiled, then looked away, then back again. "excited."

you snorted, turning your head to crew, "can someone please get him down?" the camera swung to you.

"i am good." jeongguk protested, not yet wanting to let go of his dream, "'m jus'-" he paused.

you lifted an eyebrow. "just what?"

he shfited in his harness, "excited." the camera moved closer to him. jeongguk looked at it then, his smile turning easier when he had something safer to talk about. "t's just cool, y'know? I watched that scene when I was really young. like, everybody did. and now I get my own version of it." his voice warmed as he said it, something al sot boyish slipping through without making him look childish. it was simply there, underneath it all.

"that's crazy." you smiled despite yourself.

he kept going, gesturing with one hand even though he was still upside down. "like, I remember thinking it was the coolest thing ever. the rain, the mash, the way he was hanging there. and now, I'm the one handing here."

"poorly."

he turned his head to you, badly parroting what you had just said. then, he earned a jab against his side, making him groan. he stared at you, though just returned it with a sweet smile. he sighed, "cut this part."

"never."

--

they started with positioning. that should have been easy. it was not. you stood beneath him while the stunt coordinator explained where he would be lowered, where the camera would sit, where your feet needed to stop. nothing about it was especially complicated until somebody said, “okay, now find where your hands naturally go.”

you froze. jeongguk froze too.

there was a beat of silence. the coordinator looked between you. “guys.”

“yeah.” jeongguk cleared his throat. “yeah, sure.”

you stepped closer. too close. or maybe exactly as close as you were meant to be. that was somehow worse. his face was directly in front of yours now, inverted, his hair hanging toward the ground beneath the edge of the mask. you could see the tiny crease beside his mouth from where the fabric had been pressed against his skin.

your hands hovered uselessly. “where?”

“where what?” jeongguk asked.

“my hands.”

“how would i know?”

“you came up with this.”

“i came up with the kiss, not your hands.” you stared.

he immediately regretted the wording. “not- i mean, i didn’t mean-” your mouth opened. he closed his eyes. “fuck.”

you laughed before you could stop yourself, taking a step back. “oh my god.”

“i know.”

“you are so bad at this.”

“i’m upside down!”

“that’s not an excuse.”

“it kind of is.”

the coordinator rubbed his forehead. “can we just try shoulders first?”

you nodded.

jeongguk nodded too, still upside down. you stepped back in and placed your hands carefully against his shoulders.

wrong.

camera couldn’t see enough. one hand moved to his jaw instead - too stiff. you tried the other side, somebody adjusted you by three inches. jeongguk shifted. your forehead nearly hit his chin. you both pulled away.

“okay,” you muttered, “this is incredibly sexy.”

jeongguk’s laugh came out strangled. “shut up.”

the actual kiss was not rehearsed. not fully. that had been your decision.

the director had asked whether you wanted to block the motion once before shooting and you had answered no quickly enough for jeongguk to glance at you. you refused to look back. there was absolutely no need. you knew how to kiss someone. he knew how to kiss someone. this was ridiculous.

the first take proved otherwise. rain fell from the rig in a perfect sheet, soaking the fire escape and darkening the shoulders of Gwen’s coat almost immediately. Peter came down from above, suspended exactly where they had planned it, body turning slightly until he was facing you upside down.

the camera moved in. you stepped forward, lifted the mask. and bonked your nose against his.

“cut.” there was silence.

then jeongguk burst out laughing. you closed your eyes. “don’t.”

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t.”

“i didn’t know where your nose was going.”

“where did you think it was going?”

“i don’t know!”

you stepped away while makeup rushed in to fix the rain running beneath your eyes. jeongguk was still laughing, shoulders shaking in the harness. “this was your idea.”

“i know.”

“and you can’t even do it.”

“again.”

“you sound too excited.”

“because i got it now.”

“you absolutely do not.”

--

he did not have it. take two lasted longer. this time the positioning worked, but jeongguk forgot to stop talking.

not in character. literally. you had pulled the mask up, hands placed correctly, your face already close enough to his that you could feel his breath against your mouth when he suddenly whispered, “wait.”

you pulled back. “what?”

“which way are you going?”

you stared. “what do you mean which way am i going?”

“like- left or right?”

“jeongguk.”

“i don’t wanna hit you again.”

“we’re already rolling.”

his eyes widened beneath the mask. “oh.”

“cut!”

you walked away. the crew laughed. jeongguk remained suspended behind you, mortified. “i was being responsible!”

take three got ruined by the rain, and take four by the mask slipping too far. take five by you, you had no defense for that one.

Peter came down slowly, as gwen stepped closer, careful, hesitant. she lifted the mask and the second she saw his mouth, actually saw it, you only blinked once. you forgot your line. nothing profound happened, no lighting, no great realization - your brain simply, well, stopped. jeongguk waited, still upside down as you stared at him. he stared right back, at least you guessed he did under the mask.

"cut!" you blinked once more, stepping back.

a grin immediately graced his lips, "now who's bad at this?"

you pointed at him, "say one more word." he only laughed.

though by take six, neither of you laughed. maybe because everybody else had stopped making jokes, maybe because the novel had worn down enough for the scene to become work again. or maybe because the two of you were tired of messing it up.

the rain started as Peter slowly dropped into frame. gwen waited, he slowly stopped in front of her. "you came back." his voice was softer now.

she looked up at him. “you always do.”

he did not answer. that was not the line, it worked anyway. she stepped forward, her fingers caught the edge of his mask and pulled it upward slowly, enough to reveal his mouth, his nose, the sharp line of his jaw. the fabric resisted slightly from the rain, sticking to his skin.

she laughed under her breath. Peter smiled at the soft sound of it.

she placed one hand against his cheek, the other rested carefully beneath his jaw. then you kissed him. softly at first. just enough to make contact, and for one small second, that was all it was. a scene; a shot, something the camera needed.

then jeongguk kissed you back, breathing you in as if he had been holding his breath the entire time, as if he finally was granted the opportunity to do so.

not dramatically, not enough for anybody to call it improvisation. just a natural response, his mouth moving against yours in the same quiet way Peter’s would have. your fingers tightened slightly. his breath caught. or yours did, you weren’t sure.

the rain continued falling around you, louder than you had expected it to be this close, tapping against metal and fabric and the floor beneath your feet.

you kissed him once more, then pulled away.

“cut.” neither moved, not immediately. someone called something from behind camera., you couldn't hear it.

jeongguk was still hanging there, his mouth parted slightly as he breathed. "did we get it?" his voice is barely above a whisper.

you stared at him, laugh escaping before you could stop it. the director called back, "yeah, we got it."

jeongguk smiled at that, still upside down and still looking as ridiculous as ever. your hand was still resting against his face, you pulled it away before it would be weird. "good."

"yeah, good."

they did four more takes - of course they did.

wide shot. close-up. another angle. one where your hand lifted the mask. one where the rain hit differently. by the end of it, the kiss had become almost mechanical again. almost.

that was easier. you knew where to stand now. he knew which way to tilt his head. you stopped bumping noses. the crew stopped laughing. the whole thing became something that could eventually be cut into fifteen perfect seconds. that was filmmaking. two hours of work for something people would watch once and immediately replay.

the behind-the-scenes camera found jeongguk immediately after they lowered him. he was still in the suit, hair wet and pushed badly away from his face while somebody loosened the harness beneath the fabric.“so?”

he looked at the camera. "so what?"

"iconic moment, yeah?"

he smiled, then looked away, watching how you walked off to the side to wrap a fluffy blanket around yourself immediately, shoulders shivering. he looked back at the camera, rubbing his neck, "yeah, it was good- I- I mean it was, kinda weird?"

his gaze jumped back at you surrounded by makeup working beneath your eyes. the person behind the camera dug deeper, "why?"

"behause I watched stuff like that when I was a kid. and now I just..." his hand moved vaguely, "...did it." the person behind the camera laughed and mentioned that he had done so with you as his partner.

his ears went pink, even more so even after having spent the past few minutes hanging upside down. you watched him across the set, saw how he turned bashful and cleared his throat. "uhm, yeah."

"how was that?"

he stared into the lens, leaning closer until he almost bumped into it. "next question."

you laughed loudly enough that he heard you, his head snapped toward you in an instant. you gave him a thumbs-up and he couldn't help but just shook his head.

---

the strange part was that nothing really changed after - not immediately. you still ate together. he still came into your trailer without waiting for permission. you still stole his hoodies when wardrobe made you cold and he still complained about it despite never asking for them back. you still sat beside each other during breaks, shoulders occasionally touching because neither of you cared enough to move.

except now, sometimes, you noticed. that was all. his hand brushing yours when reaching for the same bottle. noticed. his knee pressing against yours beneath a table. noticed. him leaning over your shoulder to read something on your phone. noticed.

annoying. very annoying.

jeongguk was no better. he discovered this on a tuesday afternoon when you leaned into him during a playback because there was not enough room around the monitor. your shoulder pressed against his chest. normal. happened before. then you laughed at something on screen and turned your head slightly.

his eyes dropped to your mouth, for absolutely no reason. he looked away so quickly that the stunt coordinator beside him asked whether he was okay. “yeah.”

you glanced up. “what happened?”

“nothing.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you look weird.”

“i’m fine.”

“you sure?”

“yeah.” you shrugged and turned back toward the monitor, jeongguk exhaled quietly. this was stupid.

filming continued and that was perhaps the easiest part. there was always something else waiting - another costume, another scene, another call time.

one morning Peter and Gwen were fighting. that afternoon they were meeting for the first time. two days later you filmed a scene where Gwen already knew his identity, followed immediately by one where Peter was still lying to her face.

the movie kept moving, so did you.

and whatever had happened beneath the rain rig was easy enough to tuck somewhere between scenes. well, most of the time.

weeks later, the behind-the-scenes team asked the two of you to watch the footage back. you sat beside jeongguk in front of a small monitor, shoulder pressed against his while somebody loaded the clip.

“this is the kiss.”

you immediately looked at him. “why?”

“for reactions.”

“no.”

jeongguk laughed. “c’mon.”

“i was there.”

“me too.”

“then why do we need to watch it?”

“because it’s cool.”

“you’re so annoying.”

the footage played anyway. Peter dropped into frame. Gwen stepped toward him. you watched yourself lift the mask. beside you, jeongguk went strangely quiet. the kiss happened.

on screen, it looked nothing like how it had felt; clean, easy, romantic, and only fifteen seconds.

you blinked. “oh.”

jeongguk looked over. “what?”

you kept staring at the screen. “that actually looks really good.”

his smile came slowly. “told you.”

you turned. “don’t.”

“my idea.”

“yes, jeongguk.”

“iconic.” you rolled your eyes. “iconic.” he looked far too pleased with himself.

the crew member behind camera laughed. “so, who kissed who better?”

you both froze, then spoke at the same time. “next question.”

the room erupted.

you covered your face. jeongguk bent forward laughing. and that was probably how people would remember it later.

the laughter. the rain. the footage. the chemistry everyone would eventually analyze frame by frame.

not the quiet moments between takes. not the coffees, not the late dinners. not the way he knew when you needed silence. not the way you started moving your bag before he even reached the table.

those belonged to the two of you. for now, that was enough.

----------------------

attached is a photograph of the trophy resting between somebody’s knees. the picture is slightly blurred, taken close enough for the metal to throw the flash back towards the camera, and a hand appears along the bottom edge with its fingers spread proudly against the base. you zoom in without meaning to.

[07:04] is that your hand

his reply arrives while you are brushing your teeth.

[jeongguk; 07:05] how did you know

foam gathers in the corner of your mouth as you look between the phone and your own reflection. you know his hands. the thought settles so naturally that it takes several seconds for its strangeness to reach you. you know the small scar along his cheek, the way one eye closes farther than the other when he laughs and the habit his mouth has of disappearing whenever he is trying not to smile. before october, these had been facts collected through a screen, small observations shared by millions of people who had loved him from the same careful distance. now you know that he bites the skin around his thumb when he is worried. that he becomes quieter before important performances and louder after them. that he calls when he does not know how to say he wants somebody near him.

you spit into the sink and rinse your mouth before answering. your hand tingles as your fingers move across the screen. maybe because you still cannot believe that you are texting him - maybe because you can’t remember what it felt like not to text him. you do it anyway.

[07:08] your hand is blocking half the trophy

[jeongguk; 07:08] you’re just jealous

[07:09] of your hand?

[jeongguk; 07:09] because i got to hold it

[07:09] i’m devastated

[jeongguk; 07:10] i knew it

you place the phone face-down beside the tap before he can continue, though it vibrates twice more while you wash your face. by the time you leave the apartment, the night already feels strangely distant. people move towards work with coffee in their hands, buses stop and release crowds onto the pavement, and a woman argues into her phone near the crossing while her small dog examines the same patch of concrete for longer than seems reasonable. nobody looks as though history has shifted during the night. nobody looks as though they have noticed that seven boys somewhere across the city woke up with the word winner attached to them for the first time. 

jaemin is waiting outside the building. his headphones rest around his neck and his hair has been pulled away from his face, though several strands have already escaped. he glances up when the entrance door closes behind you, then looks deliberately at the phone in your hand.

you roll your eyes, “good morning to you too.”

“i didn’t say anything.” he smirks.

“your face did.”

“my face asked why you’re smiling at seven in the morning.”

you stop beside him. “i’m not smiling.”

jaemin watches you for another moment, his expression carrying the patience of someone willing to let you arrive at the truth on your own.

“you look terrible,” he says eventually.

“oh! thank you.” the sarcasm sits deeply in your voice. 

“but!” he raises a finger, “less terrible than yesterday.”

you nod, “thank you again.”

he begins walking, leaving you to catch up. the weather has warmed enough that neither of you needs a proper jacket, although the morning air still finds its way beneath the sleeves of your cardigan. jaemin kicks a bottle cap away from the curb and watches it disappear beneath a parked car.

“so,” he says, “the little one won, huh.”

you knew they would. but having jaemin say it out loud seems to seal the deal in some way. “the group won.” 

“that is what i said.” “you said the little one.” “is he not in the group?” “that isn’t the point.”

“i don’t think you know what the point is.” you turn your head to glare at him, only to find that he is already looking at you. there is amusement in his face, but not enough to hide the attention beneath it.

“you’re different today,” he says.

your steps lose their rhythm for half a second. “because i’m tired?”

he hums, “you’re always tired.”

“then what?”

jaemin shrugs and faces the street again. “you look like somebody cancelled an execution.”

huh, has he always been this eloquent? 

a car passes before you can respond, its tyres cutting through a shallow puddle left behind by the night. the sound fills the space between you, giving you enough time to arrange your expression into something safer. “that is a very dramatic way of saying my friend won an award.”

“is it?”

“yes.”

“okay.” the ease with which he accepts your answer unsettles you more than an argument would have. jaemin does not ask what execution you had expected or why a music programme had frightened you badly enough for him to notice it. he simply places his hands inside his pockets and continues beside you, matching his pace to yours without looking down. you wonder, not for the first time, how much of you he has already understood incorrectly. the possibility that he might have understood correctly is worse.

“they worked hard,” you say, although he has not asked.

he raises one shoulder, “i know.” “you don’t even listen to them.” “you tell me enough.” “i barely talk about them.”

jaemin releases a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “you don’t have to talk about something for it to be obvious.”

you look at him, but he is watching the traffic light change. before you can decide whether the sentence means anything at all, he reaches across and catches the strap of your bag, pulling you backwards as a bicycle passes too closely in front of you.

“try surviving the morning first,” he says. “then you can analyse me.”

the pedestrian light turns green. jaemin lets go, walking across the street as though he has not left something cold behind your ribs.

—

the second trophy frightens you less. by the third, you are able to watch without holding your breath through the entire announcement. jeongguk still messages before the result whenever he can get hold of his phone, sometimes sending nothing but the names of the other nominees followed by a row of question marks, as though you have been secretly placed in charge of determining the winner.

you never tell him that, sometimes, you are. not in the way he thinks. you cannot influence voting numbers or broadcast scores, cannot climb through the screen and place the trophy into their hands. still, you know which stage will end in tears and which one will end with the members throwing themselves against one another. you know the clothing, the speeches and the grainy photographs that will one day be arranged into timelines by people attempting to explain how success happened.

the first win had felt like a door surviving a storm. the others begin to feel like footsteps through it.

your fear does not disappear, but it becomes quieter, learning to live beneath phone calls and homework and the final weeks of school. time moves forward - bts continue promoting. jeongguk complains about sleeping too little, sends you photographs of food after you accuse him of forgetting to eat and develops the irritating habit of responding to your concern as though it is a challenge he has won.

[jeongguk; 23:42] ate

the photograph beneath the message contains an empty bowl.

[23:44] that proves there was once food near you

[jeongguk; 23:44] why would i have an empty bowl

[23:45] decoration

[jeongguk; 23:45] you think i carry bowls for decoration?

well, knowing his future self, you wouldn‘t put it past him. 

[23:45] i don’t know what famous people do

[jeongguk; 23:46] i’m not famous

you stare at the sentence. it would be easy to laugh. the boy whose face has appeared across your laptop for weeks, whose group has now stood beneath confetti more than once, insists upon his own obscurity with complete seriousness. yet from where he is standing, perhaps he is right. his world has grown, but not enough for him to recognise its eventual size. fame still means being stopped occasionally outside a broadcast station, not airports filling with bodies because he is expected to walk through one. success is a trophy passed around a small room, food bought by staff members and his parents answering the phone with voices that make him leave the others for a moment.

you know what waits beyond that - he does not.

[23:48] no, not yet

the words remain on the screen long enough for regret to reach your fingers.

[jeongguk; 23:48] yet?

you close your eyes.

[23:49] is that what you chose to focus on

[jeongguk; 23:49] what do you know

[23:49] that you carry decorative bowls

he calls immediately. you reject it. he calls again. annoying little gremlin. 

you reject that one too and turn the phone to silent, placing it beneath a book as though the additional weight might prevent him from reaching you. when you look across the table, jaemin has stopped working. he sits opposite you with one hand still resting over his notes. the library has begun emptying around you, chairs pushed carefully beneath tables and voices lowered near the entrance, but the silence between you feels separate from the silence expected of the room.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing.”

“you’re staring.” you point out the obvious, shifiting in your seat. 

he licks his lips and nods towards the book. “you threw your phone under a book.”

“i placed it there.”

“violently.”

“it was vibrating.”

“phones do that.”

you lower your gaze to the paragraph in front of you. “thank you, jaemin.”

“was it him?”

“who?”

“your very large friend.”

despite yourself, you look up, groan slipping before you can hold it back. “you are so childish.”

“you understood me.” he smiles, happy with your reaction. 

“unfortunately.”

he returns to his notes, crossing out a sentence with unnecessary force. “why don’t you answer?”

“because he’s annoying.”

“you always answer when he’s annoying.” the pen stills between his fingers. you wait for him to continue, but he does not. he has become skilled at leaving observations between you like objects he does not expect you to pick up, and you have become equally skilled at stepping around them.

your phone begins vibrating beneath the book again. jaemin’s eyes move towards it.

“persistent,” he says.

“unemployed,” you correct.

“didn’t he just win several awards?”

“apparently that has left him with too much confidence.”

jaemin leans back in his chair. “answer it.”

“why?”

“because i want to go home before the library closes and he reports you missing.”

“he does not do that.”

“he called me last week.”

you stare at him, jaw slacking. “what?”

jaemin’s mouth moves slightly, not quite reaching a smile. “you didn’t answer for three hours.”

“i was taking an exam!” you whisper-shout, suddenly aware of your location.

jaemin nods, a pretentious sigh leaving his lips, “i told him that.”

“why does he have your number?”

“you gave it to him.”

“i absolutely did not?” 

“not intentionally.”

the memory returns in pieces: the charity festival, your phone on speaker between bags of flour and muffin cases, jaemin taking it from you with hands covered in batter because jeongguk had refused to stop calling after you nearly dropped the device into the sink. names exchanged as insults, each of them apparently deciding that one unpleasant conversation entitled them to permanent access to the other.

you shake the memory away, body warming up. “block him.”

he kisses his teeth, “he hasn’t done anything.”

“you just said he called you.”

“that isn’t a crime.”

“it should be.”

jaemin laughs beneath his breath. “you’re the one who befriended him.”

the accusation is light, hardly an accusation at all, but it leaves you without an answer. you had not intended to befriend jeongguk. intention had very little to do with what occurred between you. he had simply continued appearing - beside your desk, on your phone, in convenience stores and empty corridors - until avoiding him required more effort than allowing him to stay. somewhere along the way, staying had become something you expected from him. you reach beneath the book and look at the screen. seven missed calls. isn‘t he supposed to be busy, or, whatever? anything but be on his phone? 

[jeongguk; 23:52] answer

[jeongguk; 23:52] what do you mean yet

[jeongguk; 23:53] are you ignoring me

[jeongguk; 23:53] jaemin

[jeongguk; 23:54] tell her to answer me !

you turn the phone towards the boy sitting opposite you, eyes not believing the content of the message. “excuse me?“

jaemin studies the messages before raising his eyebrows. “he spelt my name correctly.”

“is that what matters?”

he nods, biting his bottom lip to prevent a smile from appearing, “progress should be acknowledged.”

another message appears while both of you are looking.

[jeongguk; 23:55] i know you’re with her

jaemin reaches for the phone. you pull it towards your chest. “nuh-uh! absolutely not.”

he makes a motion of grabbing your phone, “he asked for me.”

“he did not.” oh, he so did.  “my name is right there.” “he is using you.” “maybe i like feeling useful.” “find a healthier outlet.”

you should leave it there. you should gather your books, walk home with jaemin and send jeongguk some dismissive explanation once enough time has passed for your words to lose their significance. instead, you answer the next call, hoping to end it as soon as possible and erase this entire moment from your memory. 

“what?” it comes out sharper than intented, though you can‘t help yourself. 

“what do you mean, not yet?” his voice is louder than necessary, carrying the slight breathlessness of someone who has left one place for another in order to speak without being overheard.

“hello to you too.”

“you said i’m not famous yet.” ugh, why is this boy so stubborn?

“well, you aren’t.”

“but you said yet.”

though he can’t see it, you roll your eyes and tilt your head with a sigh, “it is a common adverb. i guessed you’d be famous one day.”

“don’t act smart.”

“i am smart.” across the table, jaemin closes his notebook and begins placing his pens inside the case one at a time. oh, he is enjyoing this way too much that noisy idiot. 

“what do you know?” jeongguk asks again. the question is playful, but there is something beneath it. curiosity, perhaps, sharpened by all the moments in which you have reacted too early or looked at him as though he has already become someone he does not recognise. you look towards the windows. night has pressed your reflection against the glass, placing you inside the library and outside it at once.

“i know you work hard,” you say.

“that isn’t what i asked.”

“and i know that you’ve won several times now, so it would be strange to assume this is the highest point of your career.”

a beat. “you think we’ll become more successful?”

jaemin’s hands stop moving. you can feel his eyes on you without turning around.

“i think,” you begin carefully, clearing your throat, “that people do not usually reach the best part of their lives at seventeen.”

jeongguk becomes quiet. the answer should have been harmless. encouragement spoken by one friend to another, nothing more. still, the words sit heavily against your tongue. you had once believed the same thing about thirty-two. that no matter how tired or lonely life became, the best part could not possibly have already happened without you noticing. perhaps everybody believes youth is waiting somewhere ahead of them until they turn around and find it preserved behind glass.

“what if this is the highest?” he asks.

you lower your voice. “then it would still have happened.”

“that’s depressing.” you can practically feel his shoulders sacking in his usual dramatic manner.

you bite the inside of your cheek. “it is realistic.”

“you’re bad at encouraging people.” he reminds you once more.

“you called me.” - “because you made it sound like you know something.”

“i know many things.”

“about me.” the words are quieter than the question deserves.

jaemin zips his bag closed. this time, when he looks at you, there is no teasing left in his expression. you turn slightly away from him, pressing the phone closer to your ear, as if it would be of any help.

“i know you are going on tour soon,” you say. “which means you should be packing instead of harassing me.”

“we have people who help with that.”

“famous-person behaviour.” you point out, somehow feeling quite smug. 

“you just said i’m not famous!”

“goodbye, jeongguk.”

“wait.” you do. “will you watch the videos?”

your gaze returns to the darkened window. you have already seen them. fragments of the tour live inside your memory beside university train rides, sleepless nights and essays written with his voice passing through cheap headphones. you remember stages more clearly than certain rooms from your childhood. you remember the clothes he wears, the songs performed and jokes repeated years later, polished by nostalgia until even exhaustion begins to look beautiful.

“if you send them,” you say.

“i’ll send everything.” the ease with which he promises it almost makes you smile.

“please don’t.” you say instead, knowing that he wont take you serious anyway.

“every video.” his smile is evident in the lightness of his voice.

“i have a life.”

“doing what?”

jaemin holds out his hand for your phone. you look at it, then at him. “apparently defending it.”

before jeongguk can ask what you mean, jaemin takes the device from you.

“she has exams,” he says into it. the response is loud enough that you hear the shape of your name, followed by something that makes jaemin’s expression flatten.

“yes, me again.” you reach for the phone. he shifts it out of range. “no, she does not want to speak to you. i am watching her face.”

“jaemin.” you threaten him  - or, well, try to.

he raises one finger towards you. “she looks tired,” he continues. “because some people call seven times while others are trying to study.”

jeongguk says something else. jaemin staays in this deadpan tone throughout their conversation. “some of us attend school.”

“give it back!” keeping your voice down has never been harder.

jaemin stands, lifting the phone above his head when you attempt to take it. several remaining students look in your direction. heat moves into your face as you rise after him, reaching for his wrist. “stop acting like a child.”

“i am protecting your academic future.” “you copied my notes ten minutes ago.” “that was cooperation.”

jeongguk’s voice bursts from the speaker. “why is he still there?”

jaemin freezes. you close your eyes. there it is. not jealousy exactly; the word would be too simple for whatever sharp little thing has begun moving between them. jeongguk does not know enough about jaemin to dislike him properly, and jaemin insists far too often that he does not care. yet each seems offended by the other’s access to you, as though friendship is a seat assigned to only one person and both have arrived carrying the same ticket.

“because,” jaemin replies slowly, “we have lives outside of waiting for you to call.”

“you’re in a library.” “correct.” “at midnight.” “some of us can read.”

“give me the phone,” you hiss. jaemin looks down at you. there is victory in his face for precisely one second before you step on his foot. biting his lips to prevent a cry from escaping, his arm lowers. you don‘t wait another second to take the phone. “i am ending this call before both of you lose the few social skills you possess.”

“he started it,” jeongguk says, pout visible through his voice.

jaemin recovers quickly to talk back, never daring to miss the chance as he leans towards the speaker. “you called.”

“goodnight.” you end the call before either can respond.

for several seconds, neither you nor jaemin moves. then he looks down at his shoe. “you stepped on me.”

“i’ll do it again.” you look at your bag as you place your phone inside its front pocket.

“violent.” - “annoying.”

“your strange little friend likes me.” he cant help but smirk, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust the straps of your bag, “he despises you.”

“strong feelings either way.”

you gather the final book from the table and hold it in your arms, but jaemin remains beside you, watching with an expression you cannot read. “what?”

“nothing.”

“you keep saying that.”

“and you keep believing me.” the answer comes too softly to be teasing. he lifts his bag onto one shoulder and begins walking towards the exit. you follow, though the unease from the morning returns, faint enough that you might have mistaken it for tiredness if you had not already learned the shape of it. outside, the air has cooled. jaemin waits while you adjust the strap digging into your shoulder once more, and then takes the bag from you without asking, ignoring your protest as he carries it alongside his own.

“you don’t have to do that.” Your voice is quiet, eyes soft as you look at your friends hand holding your back.

“i know.”

you know he wont do it, yet still move to grab your bag from his hand, “then give it back.”

“no.” he leans away, arm holding you off from taking what is yours. you walk beside him towards the bus stop, close enough for your sleeves to brush whenever one of you moves too far towards the other. above the buildings, the sky has turned the colour of watered ink. windows shine in uneven rows, each holding a life you will never know enough to miss.

soon, jeongguk will leave again. this time, not for a few days of rehearsals or a schedule elsewhere in the city. the tour will stretch across countries and weeks, carrying him farther from the streets that have made his presence feel strangely manageable. while you and jaemin complete exams, complain about the heat and wait for university decisions, jeongguk will move through airports, hotels and stages that already exist inside your memory. you know what the distance used to feel like - you do not yet know what it will become now that he is real.

beside you, jaemin adjusts your bag higher against his shoulder. “what did you mean,” he asks, gaze still directed ahead, “when you told him people don’t reach the best part of their lives at seventeen?”

your stomach tightens. why is it that they try to pick apart whatever you say? “exactly what i said.” you try to play it casual, and to be honest; it is. you guess you came to that realization back then, in your old life [you hate calling it that]. after that one guy broke your heart at eighteen even though you believed that he was end game. it took a while, but yeah, you finally understood. sometimes, life starts after thirty. other times, it ends shortly after. 

“you sounded very certain.”

“i’m older than him.” jaemin turns his head, eyebrows raised. only by several months, you remember too late, biting the inside your cheek. ugh. you and your loud mouth.

his gaze remains on your face, quiet and measuring, before he looks away again. “right,” he says. 

the bus appears at the end of the street. its headlights move towards you, growing brighter against the road, and jaemin raises one hand to signal the driver. he does not ask anything else. somehow, that is becoming the part that frightens you most.

--

the cursor has been blinking beside the same empty box for eleven minutes.

intended field of study.

beneath it, the university has provided several lines in which you are expected to explain your decision. the question is phrased as though there must have been a moment: a book placed into your hands by the correct teacher, perhaps, or a sentence that altered the direction of your life before you had properly begun living it.

the first time, you had written almost two pages. you had been eighteen and sincere enough to believe that loving literature was an explanation in itself. you had written about language preserving what time could not, about stories making it possible to enter lives beyond your own. there had probably been something about empathy. everybody wrote something about empathy when they were eighteen.

the admissions committee had accepted it. fifteen years later, you had taught students how to make the same answers sound less rehearsed.

beside the application, your phone plays a performance with the sound turned low. the video has already reached its second chorus. you do not need to look at it to know when the camera will move towards jeongguk. the audience will become louder just before he reaches the centre. his hair will fall into his eyes. he will push it away a fraction too late and glance towards the left side of the stage before the formation changes.

the audience becomes louder and you look up. his hair is in his eyes. the camera moves. for a second, the accuracy of your memory gives you the familiar sense of relief. then the moment passes, leaving nothing behind except the blinking cursor and the faint sound of cheering through your phone.

you pause the video. the apartment has grown warm despite the open window. somewhere below, a child is repeatedly bouncing a ball against concrete while an older woman calls for him to stop. he does not. a bus sighs at the end of the street. the rice cooker clicks behind you and switches itself to warm. your phone vibrates.

[jeongguk; 18:12] did you watch it

you look at the frozen image on the screen. his mouth is open halfway through a word, one arm raised above his head.

[18:13] i’m watching it now

[jeongguk; 18:13] you’re texting me

[18:13] i am capable of doing two things

[jeongguk; 18:14] watch properly

you press play again.

[18:14] bossy

[jeongguk; 18:14] you said you wanted to see

you do not remember saying that. it is possible you had. lately, your conversations have left behind phrases you cannot place properly, small promises made while half-asleep or distracted by homework you technically completed more than a decade ago. send it to me later. call when you arrive. yes, i’ll watch.

ordinary things, offered because that is what people say when somebody they care about is excited.

the front door opens before you can answer. your mother enters with her handbag caught beneath one arm and several envelopes held between her teeth. she kicks the door shut behind her, sees you watching and removes them.

“you could help.”

you stand, phone long forgotten. “i was going to.” you take the envelopes from her and follow her into the kitchen. “how was work?”

“long.” you can tell by her tone that it was indeed long. 

you place the envelops beside your phone, wetting your lips before speaking up once more. “did you eat?”

she looks over her shoulder while removing her shoes. “hello to you too.”

your shoulders tense up, “i said hello.”

“you asked whether i ate.”

“after saying hello.” you pull your lips into a straight line. your mother does not notice. she has already turned towards the sink, pulling the pins from her hair one at a time. it falls around her shoulders with less grey than you remember and more impatience, getting caught beneath the strap of her blouse until she frees it with a quiet sound of annoyance.

“there’s rice,” you say. “and the soup from yesterday.”

“i know. i live here.”

you move towards the fridge, “i could heat it.”

before you can even take two steps, your mother waves you off, “sit down before you start paying the electricity bill too.”

you return to the table. the envelopes consist mostly of advertisements and one bill. beneath them is a folded sheet of paper printed with the name of your mother’s company. you recognise the blue mark at the top before you recognise the words beneath it.

internal recruitment. team leader, regional administration. for a moment, the kitchen changes around you. your mother is older again, standing at a different counter with her sleeves pushed to her elbows. you are home from university for the weekend. she is complaining about a woman at work who received a promotion despite having less experience.

they asked me to apply for something like that once, she had said. you had looked up from your phone. why didn’t you? your mother had shrugged before returning to the vegetables. it wasn’t the right time.

you had been twenty-one. old enough to recognise regret, perhaps, but still young enough to accept the explanations parents offered when they did not want their children examining the cost of raising them.

“where did you get this?”

your mother glances at the paper. “work.”

“i know it’s from work.” your eyes feel heavy. 

“then why did you ask?”

“are you applying?”

she opens the refrigerator. “no.” the answer comes so easily that it frightens you more than hesitation would have.

“why not?”

“because i’m not.”

you turn the paper over. the back lists the required experience, the training period and the branch to which the successful applicant would be transferred. it is farther from the apartment but not impossibly so. the salary increase is printed near the bottom. “you’re qualified.”

“thank you, hiring manager.”

“mom.”

she closes the refrigerator with her hip. “what?”

“why won’t you apply?”

“because i don’t want to.” she says it while facing away from you. the lie is not especially convincing. you wonder whether it had always been this obvious or whether thirty-two years of knowing her have given you an unfair advantage.

“you wanted it before.”

your mother becomes still. the silence lasts only a second, but it is enough. “before what?”

your fingers tighten slightly around the paper. “before they posted the position,” you say. “you must have thought about it.”

“must i?”

“you complain that your supervisor makes you correct his reports.”

“i complain about many things. yesterday i complained about the price of onions. that does not mean i want to manage a supermarket.”

“this is different.”

“how?”

“because you’d be good at it.”

her expression changes, irritation giving way to something more cautious. “you don’t know what i do all day.”

“you coordinate the schedules whenever mr kim is absent. you trained both new employees this year. they already ask you to check the monthly reports, even though it isn’t part of your position, and-”

“how do you know that?” you stop. your mother leans one hand against the counter. she is not accusing you of anything. that would be easier. she only looks confused.

“you tell me things,” you say, eyes looking around the room. 

“not all of that.”

“you do,“ you insist, kissing your teeth, “sometimes.”

“when?”

“at dinner.”

“you barely listened to me at dinner six months ago.” the words are not cruel. your mother says them plainly, with the faint bewilderment she has carried around you since october.

you look down at the advertisement. six months ago, the girl whose place you occupy had still been here. she had apparently been bad at listening. “maybe i listen now.”

“yes,” your mother says. “you do many things now.” she turns back towards the stove and lifts the lid from the pot. steam rises between you.

your skin burns. “what does that mean?”

“nothing.” 

“mami.”

“i am tired.” she reaches for a bowl. “Can we not turn my job into one of your projects tonight?”

“i’m only trying to help.”

“i didn’t ask for help.” the answer lands more sharply than either of you expects. your mother closes her eyes for a moment. when she opens them, some of the exhaustion has left her face, replaced by regret. “i didn’t mean-”

you swallow, “it’s fine.”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“say something is fine when you mean you don’t want to talk anymore.”

“maybe i don’t want to talk anymore.”

“then say that.”

you look at each other across the kitchen. something almost ridiculous threatens to happen to your face. you lower your eyes before it can. you are thirty-two years old. you have defended research in front of people who seemed to consider human warmth a failure of academic rigour. you have led seminars full of students who had not completed the reading and still wanted to argue about it.

none of this has made you immune to being told off by your mother.

“i don’t want to talk anymore,” you say quietly.

“fine.”

“you just said not to say that.”

“i’m allowed. i’m your mother.” despite yourself, you let out a short breath that could almost be a laugh.

your mother’s mouth softens. she places a second bowl beside the first. “come eat.”

“i’m not hungry.”

“that was not a question.”

“you complain when i do that.”

“because you’re seventeen.”

you follow her to the table without correcting her. the recruitment notice remains beneath your hand.

—

your phone vibrates three times during dinner. your mother looks at it after the third. “is somebody dying?”

your spoon pauses. “no.”

“then they can wait until you finish eating.” you turn the phone face-down, shifitng in your seat.

“is it jaemin?”

“no.”

“the other one?”

you look up. “what other one?”

“the one who calls at strange hours and apparently has no parents to tell him people sleep at night.”

you roll your eyes, somehow amused at how accurate she is, “he has parents.”

“then i should call them.”

“you don’t have their number.”

“give me time.” the phone vibrates again. she points towards it. “answer before he comes through the wall.”

you pick it up, sighing. you can already feel the content of his messages. 

[jeongguk; 18:19] did you finish it

[jeongguk; 18:22] what did you think

[jeongguk; 18:24] you disappeared

[jeongguk; 18:27] ?

[18:28] i’m eating with my mother

the response arrives immediately.

[jeongguk; 18:28] oh

[jeongguk; 18:28] tell her i said hello

“he says hello.”

your mother does not look away from her food. “tell him to let you eat.”

[18:29] she says stop bothering me

[jeongguk; 18:29] i’m not bothering you

[18:29] her words

[jeongguk; 18:29] you agree with her

[18:30] i didn’t say that

[jeongguk; 18:30] what did you think of the stage

you glance at the paused video.

[18:31] it was good

the three dots appear.

[jeongguk; 18:31] which part

you could tell him the second chorus. the dance break. his expression during the final close-up. any answer would probably satisfy him. instead, you place the phone beside your bowl.

“you aren’t eating,” your mother says.

“i am.”

“moving the food around is not eating.” you take a bite. the phone begins to ring. your mother looks at the ceiling as though addressing a patient god. “go.”

“i can call him later.”

“if you call him later, he’ll keep calling until later arrives.”

you take the phone and stand, sheepishly smiling at her tired expression. “i’ll finish eating.”

“today, preferably.”

you answer on the way to your room. “hello?”

“you didn’t watch it.” there is no greeting. only the accusation, immediate and seventeen.  you close your bedroom door behind you. “i did.”

“no, you didn’t.”

“i watched most of it.”

“most?”

“i was doing something.”

“you said you were watching.”

“i was watching.”

“you just said most.”

“those two things are not opposites.”

“they are if i sent you the whole video.”

you sit on the edge of your bed and rub the space between your eyebrows. “jeongguk.”

“what?”

“it was good.”

“you already said that.”

“because it was.”

“which part?” the question is more serious aloud than it looked in the message. you lie back and stare at the ceiling. the faint shadow from the curtains moves across it whenever a car passes outside. “the second chorus.”

“what happened?”

“you were in the centre.”

“i’m always in the centre then.”

“not always.”

“almost always.”

“fine. almost always.” there is a short silence.

“you didn’t see it,” he says, voice dropping. you can feel the way his shoulders follow, how his chest deflates and his eyes look down. ugh. 

“i have seen you perform that song before.” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“not there.”

“what?”

“you didn’t see me perform it there before.”

“i didn’t mean-”

“and we changed part of it.”

you close your eyes. you had noticed the formation was not exactly as you remembered. you had assumed your memory was wrong. “i know.”

“which part?”

you say nothing. from the other end comes the sound of movement, fabric shifting and a door closing. when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “why did you say you watched it?”

“because i did watch some of it.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

“does it matter?” another silence follows. this one is worse.

“no,” he sniffles a bit. he is lying badly. you can hear it in the careful flatness of his voice, the way he tries to mask his emotions.

“jeongguk.”

“what?”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“pretend you don’t care because you’re upset.”

“i’m not upset.”

“you called me to argue about a four-minute video.”

“it’s three minutes and forty-eight seconds.”

you press your lips together. “that does not help your case.”

for a moment, neither of you speaks. you hear somebody laughing in the distance near him, followed by a voice calling a name you cannot make out. “we worked on it all day,” he says eventually. “the changed part.”

your hand falls from your forehead. “i didn’t know.”

“i sent it so you would know.” there is no accusation in the sentence now. that makes it worse.

you sit up. “i’m sorry.”

he does not rescue you from it. “okay.”

“i should have watched it properly.”

“okay.”

“are you going to say anything else?”

“you said i pretend i’m not upset when i’m upset.”

“yes.”

“now i’m not pretending.”

“you are very irritating.”

“you lied.”

“i didn’t-” you stop, because you did. not enormously, perhaps, but enough. “fine. i lied.”

“i knew it!” your confession seems to excite him, sullen voice now replaced with passion.

you cant help but scoff. “do you want an apology or do you want to win?”

“both.”

“you can have one.”

“then i want to win.” a laugh escapes you before you can prevent it. typical.

jeongguk is quiet. “what?”

“nothing.” you calm down, quiet sigh leaving your lips. 

“you laughed.”

“yeah, people do that sometimes.”

“not you.” asshole.

“i laugh.” You dont know why it triggers you so much. 

“not much.” the certainty with which he says it unsettles you. it is the sort of observation that requires attention, and you are not sure when he began paying enough to make it.

“you haven’t known me long enough to decide that.” the words alter something between you. not drastically. there is no sudden silence heavy with injury, no breath drawn sharply enough to announce that you have gone too far. only a small pause in which the truth settles where neither of you had placed it before.

he has not known you long. you know the shape his face will take as he grows older. you know the tattoos that will cover his hand, the piercings he will acquire and remove, the habits strangers will analyse through screens. you know what his voice sounds like at thirty-two. he does not know what subject you intend to study.

“i know you laugh when jaemin says things,” he says, his sulking seeping through the phones speaker.

“jaemin is funny.” you nod.

“not that funny.”

“you’re biased.”

“he told me he hoped my next performance went badly.” he complains.

“you told him you hoped our muffins sank.”

“they didn’t.”

“that is not the point.”

“did you apply?” the question arrives so abruptly that you take a moment to follow it.

“apply for what?”

“university.”

“not yet.”

“why?”

“i haven’t finished the form.”

“you’ve had it for weeks.”

you frown. “how do you know that?”

“you told me.”

“when?”

“on the phone.”

“i did not.”

“you did.”

“what did i say?”

“you said the question was stupid.” you look towards your desk, where the application remains open beside the frozen performance.

apparently you had told him. “it is stupid.”

“what question?”

“why i want to study the subject.”

“what subject?”

you become quiet. “you don’t know?”

“you never told me.”

“you never asked.”

“i’m asking now.” somewhere beyond your room, a cupboard closes. water runs briefly through the kitchen pipes.

“literature,” you say.

“really?”

“why do you sound surprised?”

“i don’t.”

“you do.”

“i thought maybe law.”

“law?” you purse your lips, head turing away from the speaker.

you hear him shift, “you argue a lot.”

you frown, “that is not a reason to become a lawyer?”

“you also talk like an old person.”

you stare ahead. “that is even less of a reason.”

“my grandmother likes books.”

“wonderful. i’ll ask where she studied.”

he laughs, the sound briefly muffled as though he has turned his face into his sleeve. the ease of it irritates you less than it should.

“why literature?” he asks.

the empty box waits on your screen. you could give him the first answer. language, preservation, empathy. you could offer him the version refined through lectures and conferences, the one about narratives serving as contested sites of cultural memory and ideological formation. instead, you say, “i was good at it.”

“that’s all?”

“is that not enough?”

“you don’t sound like you like it.”

“i do.” you feel this weird pit forming in your stomach. 

“then why didn’t you say that?”

“because liking something is not always enough.”

“for what?”

“for building a life.”

he makes a small sound, dissatisfied rather than confused. “you can still try.”

you stand and walk towards the desk, touching one finger to the corner of the application. “i wanted to teach at a university,” you say.

“wanted?”

there it is again. one careless tense. one life exposed by grammar “want,” you correct.

“you said wanted.”

“i know what i said.”

“then why-”

“because people say the wrong word sometimes, jeongguk.” he goes quiet. you regret the sharpness immediately, but the apology catches somewhere behind your teeth. you are tired of explaining mistakes that are not mistakes. tired of forcing every sentence into the correct age.

“okay,” he says.

you sit down in front of the application. “i’m sorry.”

“you apologise a lot.”

“only because you’re difficult.”

“you lied to me.”

“once.”

“today.”

“are we returning to that?”

“i haven’t decided.” you can hear the smile trying to enter his voice now. he is still hurt, but not enough to end the call. at seventeen, injury and attention seem able to exist beside one another without either becoming less sincere.

“watch it again,” he says.

“now?”

“yes.”

“my food is getting cold.”

“after you eat.”

“i have an application to finish.”

“after that.”

“and if i don’t?”

“i’ll ask jaemin.”

you narrow your eyes. “ask him what?”

“if you watched it.”

“how would he know?”

“he knows things.” the casual acceptance of this is new. a month ago, jeongguk would have sounded offended by the very idea.

“you two have been speaking.”

the answer comes too quickly. “no.”

“jeongguk.” you cant believe that those who used to have a piss contest now talk behind your back. is this what betrayal feels like? 

“what?”

“do you have jaemin’s number?”

“he called me first.”

you sit straighter. “when?”

“the muffins.”

“that was weeks ago.”

“yes.”

“and you still have it?”

“he has mine.”

“that was not my question.”

“it’s the same thing.”

“it is not remotely the same thing.”

somebody calls for him again, closer this time. jeongguk answers without moving the phone far enough from his mouth. you hear only the informal shape of the response before he returns. “i have to go.”

“you avoided the question.”

“watch the video.”

“answer me.”

“eat your dinner.”

“stop telling me what to do.”

“then do it before i tell you.” the call ends. you remain with the phone against your ear for several seconds. then you lower it and look at the application, the paused performance and the recruitment notice you have carried from the kitchen without noticing. three futures occupy the desk. jeongguk’s is already moving, impatient and loud enough to call when you fail to look at it properly.

your mother’s has been folded twice and pushed beneath a gas bill. your own is waiting for you to explain why you want it. you open the performance again. this time, you turn up the sound.

the change happens two minutes and thirteen seconds into the video. it is small. the formation separates earlier than it had during the previous stage, allowing jeongguk to cross behind hoseok before returning to the centre. the camera nearly misses it. most people watching probably would not understand why it required an entire day.

you replay it. once, then again. during the fourth viewing, you stop watching the choreography and begin watching him. the tension in his shoulders before the transition. the quick glance towards the member beside him. the fraction of relief when they complete it without colliding. it is not the performance you remember. perhaps no performance ever had been. your memory has compressed dozens of stages into a few clean images: the best camera angle, the clearest upload, the moment preserved in compilations years after everybody involved had forgotten how tired they were that day.

you pick up your phone.

[19:46] the change before the final chorus was better

the message is read immediately.

[jeongguk; 19:46] you saw it

[19:47] eventually

[jeongguk; 19:47] i almost ran into hoseok hyung the first time

[19:47] i noticed you looking at him

[jeongguk; 19:48] i wasn’t looking

[19:48] there is video evidence

[jeongguk; 19:48] the camera angle makes it look like that

[19:49] of course

[jeongguk; 19:49] it does

[19:49] you did well

this time, the words do not feel automatic. several seconds pass.

[jeongguk; 19:50] i know

you smile despite yourself. another message arrives.

[jeongguk; 19:50] image attached

the photograph has been taken in a practice-room mirror. only half of jeongguk’s face is visible in one corner. taehyung is lying on the floor behind him with an arm over his eyes, and somebody’s abandoned shoe rests in the centre of the room. the fluorescent lighting has turned everybody faintly grey.

[jeongguk; 19:51] this one you haven’t seen before

your smile disappears. not because the message hurts, exactly. because he is right. you enlarge the photograph. there is no stage, no carefully selected angle and nothing your memory can reach ahead of you to retrieve. only a badly framed room at the end of a day that has never belonged to anybody except the people inside it.

[19:52] whose shoe is that

[jeongguk; 19:52] jimin hyung’s

[19:52] why is there only one

[jeongguk; 19:53] we don’t know

[19:53] did you ask him

[jeongguk; 19:53] he doesn’t know either

[19:54] concerning

[jeongguk; 19:54] do you like this picture better

you hesitate.

[19:55] yes

[jeongguk; 19:55] why

you look at the frozen performance on the computer, then back at the photograph.

[19:57] because nobody else has already told me what to remember about it

the message remains unread for nearly a minute. when the three dots finally appear, they stay long enough that you expect more than one sentence.

[jeongguk; 19:59] i don’t understand

a laugh catches softly in your throat. seventeen, you think. not unkindly.

[20:00] it means send me more ugly pictures

[jeongguk; 20:00] it’s not ugly

[20:00] there is a foot in the corner

[jeongguk; 20:01] that’s namjoon hyung

[20:01] that does not improve it

he sends three more before you have finished your dinner. none of them are good. you save all of them.

---

the recruitment notice is gone when you return to the kitchen. your mother has washed both bowls and left yours upside down beside the sink. the company paper is no longer beneath the bill, though the rest of the post remains where you left it. you find her in the living room, sitting cross-legged at one end of the sofa with the notice unfolded across her lap. she looks up when you enter. neither of you speaks at first.

“the training is six weeks,” she says eventually.

you stay near the doorway. “i saw.”

“some of it is on saturdays.”

“okay.”

“and the other branch is almost an hour away.”

“there’s a direct bus.”

your mother’s eyes narrow. “you checked?”

“no.”

“you answered quickly.”

“i know the area.”

“since when?”

you should stop doing that. “since i looked at universities.”

this appears to satisfy her, though not completely. “if i got it,” she says, “i would come home later.” she looks down at the paper. your mother traces one finger beneath the listed hours. “what about university?”

“what about it?”

“you haven’t chosen.”

you shrug, “i can choose one nearby.”

“that is not what i asked.”

“it would make things easier.”

“for whom?”

you look at her. “for us.”

her expression tightens. “no.”

“what?”

“you don’t get to do that.”

“do what?”

“turn seventeen and decide you are responsible for both of us.”

heat moves beneath your skin. “i’m trying to help you.”

she sighs, “i know.”

“then why are you angry?”

“because you are my daughter.”

“that doesn’t mean i can’t-”

“it means you do not choose your university around my working hours.”

“why not?”

“because i said so.” the answer is parental, blunt and insufficient. it angers something equally young in you before the older part can intervene.

“that isn’t a reason.”

“it is when you’re seventeen.”

“you keep saying that like it means i can’t understand anything.” you know that you are being irrational right now. because to her, you don't understand. don't understand what it is like to run an entire household, take care of bills and much more. it pains you that you can't tell her everything.

“and you keep speaking as though understanding something makes it yours to fix.” you become still. your mother’s voice has not risen. she is watching you with an exhaustion different from the one she brought home, one sharpened by worry.

“i did not put that paper on the table because i wanted you to solve it,” she says. “i put it there because my hands were full.”

“you weren’t going to apply.”

“maybe not.”

“you’ll regret it.” the words leave you with too much certainty.

your mother studies your face. “how do you know?”

because you told me. because one day you will stand in another kitchen and say it was not the right time. because i will hear what you mean and understand it fifteen years too late.

your throat tightens. “because you kept the paper.”

her gaze drops towards it. “that doesn’t mean anything.”

“it means you haven’t thrown it away.” for several seconds, the only sound comes from the television in the neighbouring apartment, muffled laughter passing through the wall.

then your mother folds the notice along its existing crease. “i’ll think about it.”

relief moves through you too quickly. “the deadline is friday.”

“i can read.”

“you need a statement from your supervisor.”

“i know.”

“and your certificates are probably still in the-”

“stop.” you close your mouth. she places the folded paper on the table beside her. “thinking about it means i think about it. not you. me.”

you nod once, pursing your lips.

your mother gives you a long, doubtful look. you almost smile. your mother pats the empty place beside her. after a moment, you leave the armchair and sit down. she does not embrace you or tell you that everything will be fine. she only picks up the remote and lowers the volume, then reaches across to smooth a strand of hair away from your cheek. the gesture is so familiar that you have to look towards the television.

“you know,” she says, “most girls your age are asking their mothers for money.”

“do you want me to ask for money?”

“sometimes.”

“why?”

“it would be normal.” the word settles between you. normal.

you have spent months trying to behave like the daughter she remembers. you go to school, complete your assignments and leave your shoes where the other pair had apparently left them. you answer when she calls. you complain when complaining is expected and hide the notebook beneath your mattress before she enters your room. still, she notices. not what happened. not who you are. only the shape of the absence.

“can i have money?” you ask.

your mother turns towards you. “for what?”

you had not prepared that far. “something.”

“what something?”

“a seventeen-year-old something.”

she stares at you for a second before laughing, the sound tired but real. “absolutely not.”

you throw your head back, “you just told me to ask.”

“and now i have said no. this is parenting.”

you lean back against the sofa. the folded recruitment notice remains on the table. you do not touch it again. not that night.

----

the following morning, you find your university application beneath your bowl at breakfast. your phone vibrates beside the bowl.

[jeongguk; 06:42] we leave next week

you already know. kuala lumpur first. then the weeks after will divide him between rehearsal rooms, airports and stages in cities that still exist in your memory as upload dates and fancams watched long after midnight.

[06:43] are you excited

[jeongguk; 06:43] yes

[jeongguk; 06:44] tired

[jeongguk; 06:44] but yes

[06:44] you’ll do well

the answer comes after a pause.

[jeongguk; 06:45] watch properly

you smile faintly.

[06:45] i will

[jeongguk; 06:45] promise?

your eyes move towards the application. the box is still empty. your mother’s handwriting rests above it. outside, the city has already begun its morning, every person moving towards a day they have not lived before. you place your fingers on the keyboard.

[06:46] i’ll try

jeongguk responds with a photograph of the ceiling above his bed. it is badly lit and almost entirely black.

[jeongguk; 06:47] this one is new too

[06:47] groundbreaking

[jeongguk; 06:47] you said ugly pictures

[06:48] go back to sleep

[jeongguk; 06:48] call me when i come back

you stare at the wording. not can i call. not will you be free. he has placed you at the end of the journey without asking whether you will remain where he left you.

[06:49] i might be busy

[jeongguk; 06:49] with what

your hand hovers over the application.

[06:50] my life

the message is read immediately. the three dots appear, disappear and return.

[jeongguk; 06:51] okay

another message follows before you can decide whether the first sounded hurt.

[jeongguk; 06:51] call me after

you shake your head. seventeen, you think again. then you turn the phone face-down and begin to write.

you submit the application three days later. there is no moment of certainty. no sudden conviction that the second version of your life has found its proper direction. the website only asks you to confirm that the information provided is correct, then warns that changes cannot be made after submission. you read your name twice. your date of birth once. the statement takes longer. you have removed anything that sounds too knowledgeable, too tired or too much like somebody who has already defended the usefulness of literature before people determined not to find it useful. what remains is simpler than the answer you wrote the first time. less beautiful, perhaps, but more honest. you want to study literature because it has already shaped how you understand the world. you do not mention that it did so once before. the cursor hovers over submit until your mother calls from the kitchen to ask whether you want the last boiled egg.

“no.”

“then i’m eating it.”

“okay.”

“you cannot change your mind.”

“i won’t.”

“you always want it after i eat it.”

you click before she can say anything else. the page takes several seconds to load. when it does, your future is reduced to a reference number and a sentence thanking you for your application. you wait for relief. none comes.

“did you hear me?” your mother calls.

“yes.”

“what did i say?”

you stare at the confirmation page. “something about an egg.”

“i ate it.”

you close the laptop. “congratulations.” 

the recruitment notice has not returned to the kitchen table. you have checked only twice, which you consider admirable restraint. your mother has not mentioned the position again, and you have kept your promise not to interfere unless moving her handbag away from a coffee stain counts as interference. it probably does not. probably. your phone vibrates beneath a stack of printed admission requirements.

[jeongguk; 21:14] did you finish it

you look at the confirmation number.

[21:15] yes

[jeongguk; 21:15] really?

[21:15] no i forged a confirmation page for attention

[jeongguk; 21:16] show me

you send him a photograph with the identifying information covered by your thumb.

[jeongguk; 21:16] your thumb is in the way

[21:17] intentionally

[jeongguk; 21:17] how do i know that’s yours

[21:17] you don’t

the three dots appear, but your mother calls you again before he answers. “do you want tea?”

your voice cracks when you speak up, “yes.”

“make me one too.” you leave the phone on the desk. you should have known. when you return, there are two messages waiting.

[jeongguk; 21:18] congratulations

[jeongguk; 21:22] literature student

you read the second one longer than necessary. then you lock the screen and carry both cups into the living room.

—

jeongguk leaves four days later.

the journey reaches you in pieces. a photograph of an airport window at an angle sharp enough to make the aeroplane outside appear as though it is sliding from the earth. a bottle of water somebody has balanced on yoongi’s sleeping shoulder.

three messages complaining that the airport food is too expensive, followed by a fourth admitting that namjoon paid for it. you answer some of them. others remain unread until the small hours of the morning, when he is either asleep or too busy to notice that you have returned. on friday, he calls while you are standing in the school office, waiting for a secretary to find a document she insists you never submitted.

you decline the call.

[jeongguk; 11:06] why did you hang up

[11:08] i’m at school

[jeongguk; 11:08] so am i sometimes

[11:09] inspiring

[jeongguk; 11:09] call me

[11:09] later

he sends a photograph of himself looking personally offended by the concept. you do not save that one. you only forget to delete it.

on saturday, the day of the concert, you travel across the city with jaemin to attend an information programme at one of the universities you selected. the campus is larger than it appeared online. students in coloured vests stand beside temporary signs, directing visitors towards different buildings while parents gather beneath the shade of the trees and compare brochures as though the correct future might be identified by paper quality. jaemin takes one look at the map you have been given and turns it upside down.

you look up in confusion, “it was already right.”

“i know.” he shrugs, hands back in his pockets. 

“then why did you turn it?”

“checking.” 

“checking what?” you mumble, already feeling exhausted.

he studies it for another second. “whether you knew.”

you take the map from him. the literature presentation begins in nineteen minutes, in a building on the opposite side of the campus. you know this because you have already marked the route in blue pen. jaemin follows without asking where you are going, one hand hooked through the strap of his bag.

your phone rings halfway across the courtyard. jeongguk’s name appears on the screen, the time beneath it reads 14:47.

“aren’t they performing today?” jaemin asks.

you kiss your teeth, “later.”

“answer.”

“the presentation starts soon.”

“you have nineteen minutes.”

you glance at him. “were you reading over my shoulder?”

“you hold things where people can see them.”

the phone continues ringing. for one irrational second, you imagine jeongguk somewhere beneath the stage, surrounded by staff and cables, calling because something has happened. something you did not remember. something history neglected to record.

then the call ends. nothing changes around you. students continue crossing the courtyard. a volunteer is struggling to tape one corner of a sign to a wall. somewhere nearby, somebody drops a metal bottle and several people turn towards the sound. your phone remains silent.

“important?” jaemin asks.

“i don’t know.”

“helpful.”

you put the phone into your bag. “he probably wants to complain about something.”

“also important.”

“to him.”

jaemin looks towards the building ahead. “you’re smiling.”

you relax your face. you didnt notice the tension in your cheeks.. “i’m not.”

“okay.”

“i’m literally not.”

“and you keep believing me.” he walks on before you can answer.

by the time you enter the lecture hall, the phone has begun vibrating again. not a call this time. several messages arrive in quick succession, muted against the inside of your bag.

you do not look. the professor at the front welcomes everybody and begins speaking about intellectual curiosity, critical thought and the unique opportunities offered by the department. you have given versions of this speech yourself. not this exact one, but close enough that you begin anticipating the transitions.

literature teaches us to understand perspectives beyond our own. the programme encourages independent research. graduates pursue careers in publishing, education, media and-

“you hate it,” jaemin whispers.

you look at him. he has chosen the seat beside you despite insisting on the bus that he would wait outside. his brochure remains closed on his lap. “no.”

“you look miserable.”

“i’m listening.”

“you look like you already heard it.” your attention returns to the front. the professor has moved to a slide showing the programme structure. introductory modules. historical surveys. literary theory. academic writing. once, these titles had made the future feel enormous. now they resemble rooms you have already left.

“it’s fine,” you whisper.

jaemin leans closer. “that bad?”

“i said it’s fine.”

“exactly.”

the people seated in front of you glance back. you lower your voice. “can we talk about this later?”

jaemin studies you for a moment, then settles into his seat. “sure.” he does not mention it again. that should make it easier to concentrate. it does not.

—

jeongguk’s voice message is eleven seconds long.

you listen to it after the presentation while jaemin buys two cans of coffee from a vending machine. there is noise behind him - several people talking, a door opening and closing, music faint enough that you recognise only the rhythm.

“they gave us these straws,” he says. “they’re too small. look.” the message ends.

you stare at the screen. a photograph follows. jeongguk is holding a plastic cup beside a straw that is, in fact, too small to reach properly through the lid. behind it, barely visible, is part of a dressing-room mirror.

that is all. no emergency. no change in history. only a badly designed straw on the other side of the world.

jaemin returns and holds one of the coffee cans towards you. “what did he want?”

“his straw is too short.” 

his hand remains extended. “what?”

“apparently there’s a problem with his straw.”

“is that a metaphor?”

“no.”

“good.” you take the coffee from him.

he looks at the photograph when you hold it up, his expression unchanged. “devastating.”

“he called internationally for this.”

“maybe straws are different in malaysia.”

“they aren’t.”

“you sound certain.”

“i’ve used a straw before.”

jaemin opens his coffee. “you know what i mean.”

you do. you begin typing a response, then stop.

[16:03] turn the lid around

jeongguk reads it almost immediately.

[jeongguk; 16:03] what

[16:04] the opening is off-centre. turn the lid

there is no response for nearly a minute. then:

[jeongguk; 16:05] oh

a photograph arrives showing the straw now reaching the bottom of the cup.

[jeongguk; 16:05] fixed it

[16:05] congratulations

[jeongguk; 16:06] what are you doing

you look around the campus. groups have begun spreading themselves across the grass. a girl is photographing her mother beside the university sign while her father holds three bags and looks into the wrong camera.

[16:07] university thing

[jeongguk; 16:07] now?

[16:07] yes

[jeongguk; 16:08] with who

you do not need to ask what he means.

[16:08] jaemin

the message is read. no answer follows.

“did the straw defeat him again?” jaemin asks.

you lock the screen. “maybe.”

“tragic.” he begins walking towards the humanities building without checking whether you follow. you slip the phone into your pocket and go after him. it vibrates once more before you reach the steps.

[jeongguk; 16:10] i have to go

you type good luck, delete it, then type it again.

this time, you send it.

—

you watch the concert the following morning. not all of it. there are only scattered recordings so far, uploaded in uneven quality by people whose hands shake whenever the members cross their side of the stage.

you watch enough. the venue is smaller than it became in your memory. the lights less precise. jeongguk disappears into the darkness whenever the camera struggles to adjust, then returns in pieces - an arm, the side of his face, the red of his jacket. you remember the tour through photographs and carefully edited videos. the boy on your screen experienced it through sweat, missed cues, sore muscles and a straw that did not fit into his drink.

when he sends a message asking whether you watched, you tell him the truth.

[09:31] some of it

[jeongguk; 09:32] was it good

[09:32] yes

[jeongguk; 09:32] which part

you wait.

[09:33] when you nearly slipped after the second song

[jeongguk; 09:33] i didn’t slip

[09:33] your arms moved like this

you send a badly drawn figure with both arms flung sideways.

[jeongguk; 09:34] delete that

[09:34] no

[jeongguk; 09:34] i hate you

[09:34] congratulations on the concert

he does not answer for six minutes. then he sends the same drawing back with hair added to it. you save that too.

—

when jeongguk returns to school, your desk is empty. he notices before he has properly entered the classroom. it is wednesday morning. the room smells of damp uniforms and the citrus cleaner used on the floors. rain has gathered on the outside of the windows, turning the buildings beyond them pale and indistinct.

jaemin is sitting in his usual place with one earphone in, copying something from a textbook. he does not look up when jeongguk stops beside the desk across from him. “where is she?”

jaemin finishes the sentence he is writing. “hello to you too.”

“hello. where is she?”

“not here.” jeongguk looks at the empty chair as though it might contradict him. your bag is gone. so are the pens you usually leave beside the window and the folded packet of tissues you once told him not to use before handing him one. “is she sick?”

“no.”

“then where is she?”

jaemin removes the earphone. “university.”

the answer takes a second to settle. “today?”

“usually that’s what people mean when they say where someone is.”

jeongguk looks at him. “why?”

“an appointment.”

“what appointment?”

jaemin turns a page. “ask her.”

“i’m asking you.”

“i noticed.”

jeongguk pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket. one closes around the small object he has carried since the airport: a cheap rubber key ring shaped like a tiger, bought quickly because somebody had announced that they were leaving and because malaysia was printed across its stomach.

he had not decided it was for you. he had only not given it to anybody else. “she didn’t tell me,” he says.

jaemin glances up then, not mocking him exactly. that would have been easier. “maybe she forgot.”

“she told you.”

“i’m going with her after lunch.”

“why?”

“because she asked.”

something unpleasant and embarrassingly immediate moves through jeongguk’s chest. “she asked you to go to her appointment?”

“no. i’m breaking into the university while she distracts security.”

jeongguk does not smile. jaemin closes the textbook. “she needs help carrying some things back. it’s not a big deal.”

“i didn’t say it was.”

“you look like it is.”

“that’s my face.”

“ouh.”

“we got back late.”

“okay.”

“and my phone died.”

“i didn’t ask.”

the rain presses softly against the windows. jeongguk looks at your desk again. he had imagined you sitting there. not deliberately. the image had simply accompanied the return journey: the classroom, your face lifting when he entered, the opportunity to place the stupid key ring on your desk and behave as though he had bought it without thinking.

he has been gone for less than a week. still, the empty chair feels like evidence of something. “when will she be back?”

jaemin puts the earphone in again. “tomorrow, probably.”

“probably?”

“she doesn’t report to me.” the answer should satisfy him. instead, jeongguk remains beside the desk.

jaemin looks up once more. “what?”

“nothing.”

“then stop standing there.”

“i can stand where i want.”

“stand quietly.”

jeongguk takes his hand out of his pocket. the tiger key ring remains inside. he turns away before jaemin can see it and drops into the chair behind yours.

“that isn’t your seat,” jaemin says.

“i know.”

“then why are you sitting there?”

jeongguk folds his arms across the desk and lowers his head onto them. “tired.”

jaemin watches him for a moment. then he opens his textbook again. neither of them mentions that the chair gives jeongguk a clear view of the classroom door.

—

your appointment ends earlier than expected. the woman responsible for admissions speaks quickly, checks your documents twice and tells you that your application is unusually strong. you thank her without explaining that some of the phrasing has been refined across fifteen years of academic work.

when you leave the building, the rain has stopped. water still drips from the trees, striking the pavement in slow, heavy drops. you wait beneath the entrance while the other applicants call their parents or unfold umbrellas that are no longer necessary.

your phone shows one missed call from your mother. nothing from jeongguk.

you call your mother first. “how did it go?” she asks instead of hello.

“fine.”

“fine good or fine bad?”

“fine good.”

“did they say when you’ll know?”

“in a few weeks.”

“did you ask questions?”

“yes.”

“which questions?”

“relevant ones.”

“that means you didn’t.”

“i did.” a bus passes beyond the gates, spraying water onto the curb.

“are you coming home?” she asks.

“jaemin is meeting me.”

“why?”

“i have books.”

“how many?”

you look down at the box beside your feet. it had seemed smaller inside the office. “some.”

“did you eat?” you hesitate.

your mother sighs directly into the receiver. “come home before you faint somewhere. i’m not collecting you from a university before you even attend it.”

“i’m not going to faint.”

“you also said there were only some books.” the call ends before you can defend yourself.

jaemin arrives eight minutes later, sees the box and stops several paces away. “no.”

you hide your hands behind your back and smile at your dear friend. “hello.”

“absolutely not.” he scoffs, taking a step back.

“you said you would help.” you pout, biting back the villainious laugh biting along your throat. 

he shakes his ehad, “you said there were books. that’s a building.”

“it isn’t heavy.”

“then carry it.”

you place both hands beneath the box and lift it approximately three centimetres before setting it down again. jaemin stares at you. “i’m tired.”

“you’re a liar.”

“are you helping me or not?” he walks towards you, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. while he crouches to take one side of the box, your phone vibrates.

[jeongguk; 15:26] jaemin said you’re at university

you glance across at him. “why are you telling jeongguk where i am?”

jaemin straightens slowly. “i didn’t.”

“he says you did.”

“he asked.”

“that is telling him.”

“then yes.”

“why?”

“was it classified?”

“that isn’t the point.”

“what is the point?”

you open your mouth, then close it. the message waits on the screen.

“he came to school,” jaemin says. “you weren’t there. he asked.”

“and you answered.”

“most people do when somebody asks where their friend is.”

your attention shifts from the phone. “friend?”

jaemin bends to grip the box again. “is that the problem?”

“no.”

“good. take the other side.” you do, though most of the weight remains suspiciously with him. the two of you begin moving towards the gates.

[15:28] yes

jeongguk responds before you have managed five steps.

[jeongguk; 15:28] why didn’t you tell me

you stop walking. the box tilts.

“yah,” jaemin says. “either carry it or marry it. don’t just stand there.”

“wait.”

“it’s heavy.”

“you said it wasn’t.”

“you said it wasn’t.” you adjust your grip and continue towards the bus stop, the phone balanced awkwardly against the top of the books.

[15:29] you were in malaysia

[jeongguk; 15:29] i came back

[15:29] i know

[jeongguk; 15:30] you didn’t say anything

you read the message twice. nothing about it is openly unreasonable. people tell their friends about appointments. they mention where they will be. they ask how journeys went and whether flights landed safely. but there is something inside the sentence that troubles you. not accusation exactly. expectation.

“are you fighting?” jaemin asks.

“no.”

“you’re making the face.”

“what face?”

“the one where you decide whether someone is stupid.”

your fingers become still. jaemin is looking ahead, concentrating on avoiding a puddle. if he notices what he has said, he gives no sign. “i don’t have a face for that.”

“you do.”

“and which one are you?”

“handsome.”

“that wasn’t an option.”

“limited question.” you reach the shelter and lower the box onto the bench between you. your arms ache. jaemin flexes his fingers once, then sits on the edge of the bench. you return to the message.

[15:32] it was only an appointment

[jeongguk; 15:32] how was it

[15:33] fine

[jeongguk; 15:33] fine good or fine bad

you stare at the words. your mother has asked you the same thing less than fifteen minutes ago. from her, the question felt automatic, worn smooth by years of knowing which answers required further inspection.

from jeongguk, it feels stranger. newer.

[15:34] fine good

[jeongguk; 15:34] okay

the conversation could end there. perhaps it should. then another message appears.

[jeongguk; 15:35] are you coming back to school tomorrow

you look towards the road. the bus is not yet visible.

[15:35] yes

the three dots appear immediately.

[jeongguk; 15:35] good

you wait, but he does not explain. 

“resolved?” jaemin asks.

“there was nothing to resolve.”

“right.”

“why do you say things like that?”

“because you make that face too.”

“i hate you.”

“tell your friend. maybe you can bond over it.” you push his shoulder. not hard, but enough that he has to catch himself against the side of the shelter.

he looks at you in open offence. “i carried your library.”

“half of it.”

“most of it.”

“you survived.”

“barely.”

the bus turns onto the street ahead. you put your phone away and stand.

there are mornings in which you still keep your eyes closed for several minutes after your alarm goes off, not because you are tired - though you are, constantly, perhaps being seventeen for the second time around requires more energy than anyone bothered warning you about - but because there is always that short, pathetic stretch of time in which you can pretend that you don’t know what will be waiting for you once you look.

the mattress has stopped feeling too small. that bothers you.

you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket closer underneath your chin as the phone beside your pillow vibrates for what must be the third time. you ignore it.

the pillow smells like your shampoo now. that bothers you too.

there had been a time, not even that long ago, when everything in this room had smelled like somebody else. the perfume sitting on the shelf, the detergent your mother buys, the wood of the desk, even the blankets had belonged to a girl whose photographs covered the walls but whose memories seemed to have been locked somewhere your consciousness could not reach.

now there are your books stacked beside the bed.

not hers. yours. you had bought them. you know where and you know how much you paid.

one of them still has the receipt folded between page forty-three and forty-four because you needed something to mark the passage and were too lazy to stand up.

you hate that you know that.

your phone vibrates again.

“oh my god.” by now, your mother must now that you are awake. 

your hand emerges from underneath the blanket and blindly searches across the mattress until your fingers close around the stupidly small device.

the screen illuminates.

jeongguk

of course.

you don’t open it immediately, squinting against the light instead. according to the little numbers at the top of the screen, it is barely past seven in the morning. you halt, debating whether you should just block his number or try to keep the goodness of your heart intact for just one more day.

you choose the latter. he is in japan, there is a time difference, at least not enough of one to justify this. sighing, you open the conversation.

[jeongguk; 06:58] yo wake up

sent six minutes ago.

[jeongguk; 06:59] wake upppp

[jeongguk; 07:01] are you dead

you stare at the final message, your thumb stills against the screen. maybe you should just block him.  though for a second, only a second, something cold brushes along the inside of your ribs.

he doesn’t know. obviously he doesn’t know.

to him, death is still something that happens to grandparents, strangers, tragic figures on the news; something distant enough to throw casually into a message when your friend refuses to answer before breakfast.

you breathe out through your nose. it passes, as most things do now. that may be the worst part, but you just swallow the lump in your throat and move on. life goes on, it doesn’t care that you aren’t ready for it yet. 

you type.

[07:08] unfortunately alive

the answer comes so quickly you suspect he has been staring at the conversation.

[jeongguk; 07:08] ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

[jeongguk; 07:09] look

a photograph follows.

it takes several seconds to load, which gives you enough time to become annoyed at technology all over again, though when the picture finally appears you find yourself staring at what seems to be a badly framed poster somewhere backstage.

half of jeongguk’s thumb covers the bottom corner. the lighting is horrible. the photograph is tilted.

you would expect nothing less. and printed across the center, in letters large enough that even his photographic crimes cannot hide them:

WAKE UP: OPEN YOUR EYES

you stare longer than you should, suddenly hyper aware of where you are and what you are doing. 

wake up.

open your eyes.

your jaw tightens. “fuck off.”

another message appears.

[jeongguk; 07:10] cool right

you let your head fall back onto the pillow. of course he would send you that. not because he knows, because he doesn’t. because to jeongguk, wake up is the name of an album, a tour, another thing they have worked themselves half to death for and are now taking across japan; another step forward in a career he still speaks about with an odd mixture of pride and embarrassment, as though admitting how badly he wants it might somehow make wanting it dangerous.

to you, waking up has become an act of losing something. every morning you open your eyes and your old apartment does not return. your university does not return. your office remains fifteen years away, if it exists at all.

your mother is still young enough that the lines you remember around her mouth have disappeared, and you atart to forget what the roughness of her hands caressing your cheek feels like.

you stop. no. not now.

your phone vibrates in your hand. your black screen, which at first showed you the reflection of your double chin and crusty eyes, now brightens up with his message. the wallpaper of the previous owner unchanged. looking away from the selfie of jaemin and you, your eyes now focus on his message.

[jeongguk; 07:11] ???

[jeongguk; 07:11] you hate it

you blink, thumbs pressing onto the wrong letter far too many times than you would like to admit.

[07:12] what

[jeongguk; 07:12] the poster

[jeongguk; 07:13]you didn’t say anything

a laugh leaves your nose before you can stop it.

there it is.

jeon jeongguk, future global superstar, currently offended because you have failed to praise a photograph he did not even take properly.

normal. somehow he has become frighteningly normal.

you zoom in on the picture despite yourself.

[07:14] it looks good

you hesitate. then add:

[07:14] your photography does not

three dots appear.

[jeongguk; 07:14] mean

[07:14] your thumb is covering the title

[jeongguk; 07:14] you can still read it

[07:14] that is not the point

[jeongguk; 07:15] you understood it though

one eye twitches as you stare at the screen. annoying little shit.

[07:15] go prepare for your concert

there is a pause this time. long enough that you assume he finally listened.

you place the phone beside you and sit up slowly, pushing your hair away from your face. the room is cold. february has turned the window into something almost hostile, and you can already hear your mother moving around the apartment, cupboard doors opening and closing, water running somewhere in the kitchen.

three months. the thought appears quietly. not with panic anymore. that’s new. three months have passed since you woke up here.

october had become november before you understood what happened. november became december while you were still trying to reproduce the conditions of that night like some desperate scientist with absolutely no ethical approval.

you slept on the couch. nothing. you tried the breathing exercise. nothing. you stayed awake until exhaustion dragged you under. nothing. you fell asleep thinking about home. nothing.

once, embarrassingly, you even placed the notebook beside your head as though detailed documentation might somehow convince the universe to review your case.

nothing.

january arrived anyway, you had celebrated a new year you had already lived once. it was weird, still is. you mother still has made the same wish when she blew out the candles of your traditional new years cake, still hugged you with so much love and adoration. youn needed it, but still felt bad. you aren’t her real daughter, you think. 

and now it is february, it is still cold, more ao than back home. maybe the emotional coldness adds to the temperature outside, you’re not sure.

your phone vibrates against the mattress. you lazily turn your head to where you put it.

[jeongguk;07:18] nervous

the word is so simple that it takes you a moment to understand what he is actually saying. no joke, no excessive punctuation. no terrible photograph.

just: nervous

rolling over to lay on your side, you pull your knees toward your chest. some of your bones pop gently as you shift in your place, trying your best to get comfortable. this is another thing that has changed. months ago, every message from him made you remember a dead man. now, sometimes, a message is simply a message.

you don’t know exactly when that happened - you aren’t sure you want to know. your fingers move.

[07:19] good

three dots appear immediately.

[jeongguk; 07:19] ???? tf

[07:19] means you care

you think for a moment, lip pushed between your teeth.

[07:20] would be more concerning if you weren’t nervous

nothing. then:

[jeongguk; 07:20] that’s horrible advice??

you smile.

[07:20] i never said i was good at this

you look around your room, unsure about what you should do next. a minute passes.

[07:21] you’ll do fine

you stare at what you have written before sending it. there are a thousand other things you could say. you know pieces of what lies ahead. you know that the venues will become bigger.

that there will come a time when japan will not be some frightening foreign market they are trying to prove themselves in but one of many countries waiting for them.

you know he will someday stand underneath lights so bright that photographs of this tour will look impossibly small beside what comes later. but telling him any of that would be cruel in its own way.

this matters now; these stages, these nerves, followed by doubt and hope. it all matters now. so you don’t tell him that he will become bigger. you don’t tell him that this is only the beginning.

[07:22] you worked hard. enjoy this one first.

the response takes longer. by the time your phone vibrates again, you have already gotten out of bed and did some of your morning stretches.  when it comes, you are already gulping down your entire water bottle, stray drops rolling down your jaw to your neck.

[jeongguk; 07:41] okay

[jeongguk; 07:41] eat breakfast

you wipe away the water with a silent rise of your eyebrow, phone in your left hand.

[07:42] excuse me

[jeongguk; 07:42] you forget when you study

your jaw slacks a bit. when did he learn that? he hasn’t even been to school that much after their comeback, barely even finding time to leave the practice room.

your eyes move toward the books beside your bed. then toward the dark notebook hidden beneath them.

three months.

apparently long enough for people to learn things about you too. you place the phone face-down onto the mattress. for a moment, you simply sit there.

the room is quiet again, save for the muffled sounds drifting in from the kitchen. a cupboard closes. something sizzles faintly in a pan. the familiar melody of the morning news seeps through the apartment walls, low enough that you cannot make out the words anymore, only the cadence.

funny.

there had been a time when every sound inside this apartment felt foreign, like you were breaking into somebody else’s life and desperately trying not to leave fingerprints behind. now you know exactly which cupboard your mother keeps the tea in. you know that she hums whenever she cooks eggs.

you know the bathroom mirror fogs over before you even finish brushing your teeth because the ventilation has always been terrible.

you wish you didn’t. the thought comes and goes so quickly that you almost miss it. or maybe…

maybe you don’t. your gaze wanders toward the bookshelf beside your bed.

the notebook remains hidden beneath a stack of lecture books you technically should not own yet. its spine peeks out just enough for you to know it is still there.

waiting. always waiting.

you haven’t written in it for almost two weeks, not because there is nothing left to remember. because remembering has become- 

different? less frantic… less desperate.

there are still things you force yourself to record whenever they appear unexpectedly - your father’s laugh, the layout of your university office, the route between your apartment and campus back home - but they arrive less often now.

sometimes you have to chase them. that terrifies you more than anything.

⸻

“who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

back then, this would have terrified you. but now, as you have grown to know and actually understand your friend, his dramatic exclaims pull an amused huff from your lips.

you roll your eyes and continue to walk, knowing that jaemin would follow immediately. “c’mon, we promised.”

never in your sevente- eh, thrity-two years of your life could you have imagined that back to school shopping will have you feeling this excited. you guess it is because this time, you are in a whole different cultural environment, their focus and celebration of new starts a stark contrast to what you are used to.

and in addition to that, you also promised to partake in the charity campaign. meaning that jaemin and you [much to his dismay] will bake some muffins for the volunteers to sell at the spring festival. 

you missed it - being a part of something. 

you have also come to the conclusion that there are few things more dangerous than placing two seventeen-year-olds in front of a bookstore with spending money.

the first twenty minutes had gone surprisingly well. suspiciously well, even.

you had crossed three items off the list your mother handed you before leaving the apartment - muffin liners, flour and vanilla extract - without either of you getting distracted by something entirely unrelated, which, considering jaemin’s attention span whenever technology or discounted snacks were involved, should probably qualify as some sort of personal achievement.

it lasts exactly twenty-three minutes.

“…absolutely not.” you don’t even have to turn around.

the sentence leaves your mouth on instinct, years of friendship apparently capable of predicting disaster before your eyes have even located its source.

behind you comes an exaggerated gasp. “how dare you?”

back then, perhaps, that question would have lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs. now, after three months of slowly replacing the idea of jaemin with the actual person standing behind you, dramatic enough to mourn the loss of somebody who very much continues to exist, it merely earns a quiet breath of amusement through your nose. you continue walking and he simply follows, shoes sliding across the polished floor. 

of course he does. 

“c’mon,” he complains. “we said we’d each get one unnecessary thing.”

“we absolutely did not.”

“we implied it.”

“you implied it.”

“same difference.”

you glance over your shoulder. he is still holding the ridiculous plush keychain he found near the entrance, staring at you with an expression usually reserved for national tragedies.

“…put the chicken down.”

he kisses his teeth, mock offended, “his name is harold.”

“put harold down.” rolling your eyes, you just start walking again. 

he eventually returns harold to his family with considerably more dignity than the situation deserves. the shopping basket between you grows heavier.

flour? check. sugar? check. paper cups? they aren’t that cute, but oh, well. check.  a bag of chocolate chips that had somehow become your responsibility after jaemin declared himself morally opposed to baking? also check.

however, you don’t remember agreeing to that arrangement. you hadn’t realised he’d stopped walking until you notice him still standing several steps behind you, until you stopped the sound of his shoes craping along the floor. 

turning around, you ask, “what?”

he shakes his head, hand running through his hair. “nothing.”

both of you continue to stand there, silently looking at each other. “…you keep doing that.”

“doing what?”

“looking like you’re about to remember something.”

the words settle between you far more gently than they should.

you blink. “uh, well… i am.”

“does it ever come back?”

your fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the paper handles digging into your palms. “…sometimes.” what a weirdo.

he nods once, then again. “must be annoying.”

he starts walking again before you have the chance to answer. you don’t even know what to answer. he does that sometimes, you think to yourself. asking weird questions, getting for an answer that is not exactly what he hoped it would be, and then just move on.

whatever. Men are weird, a fact that does not seem to change no matter which dimension you are in.

it tastes weird – calling this place a dimension even though you seem to fit so perfectly. You have to find a better name, you decide. A name that would do all these people, these personalities and memories justice.

“oh, man,” jaemin groans as he stretches his arms above his head, bones popping one by one, “no wonder mom comes back pissed after shopping. This is too exhausting.”

you roll your eyes, pushing the heavy bag into his hands, “maybe thank her more often for the meals, then?” 

he parrots you with a high pitched voice, earning a slap on his back.

“ow! when did you turn out to be so aggressive?!”

“ever since you decided that your sole personality trait is to be annoying.”

before he can counter, your phone rings loudly, its standard ringtone sending shivers down your spine. ugh, you hate calls.

fishing your phone out of your jackets pocket, you cant help but choke on your spit when your eyes stumble upon the callers id.

jeongguk  

looking over your shoulder, his chest brushes against your arm, “ugh, what does he want?”

you elbow his torso and step away from his pained cries, finger swiping across the screen to pick up the call.

you automatically put him on speaker, a habit that developed across your many years in academia and the need to balance more in your hands than any normal human would.

“hello?” jeongguks voice comes out washed, though his polite tone barely hides the shyness dancing in his voice.

You look back at jaemin, his hand still holding his torso. “you called?” 

“uh- yeah! What- how are you?” you can hear him shift in his place, something in the background falling onto the floor.

“where are you?” you ask instead, tongue swiping across your lips. 

He must be in Japan still, you think. And if you look at the time, the concert wont start for the next two hours.

“backstage,” he confirms, followed by another dull thud. “we finished rehearsing.” 

“and now you’re destroying the venue?”

a small laugh brushes against the speaker. “no. that was taehyung-hyung.”

“of course it was.”

beside you, jaemin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. you turn your head just in time to see him adjust the shopping bag in his hand, his face carefully arranged into an expression of complete disinterest. it would perhaps be more convincing if he had not moved closer to the phone.

there is a short pause on the other end. “is that jaemin?”

jaemin leans towards the device before you can answer. “no.”

you close your eyes.

jeongguk seems to consider this. “i can hear you.”

“then why did you ask?”

another pause. it is fascinating, really, how quickly the atmosphere changes. jeongguk had called sounding almost timid, his voice softened by distance and whatever nerves continue to eat at him backstage. now, there is something firmer underneath it. not anger, exactly. irritation perhaps, the childish kind that only appears when one person has decided they do not like another and no longer requires an actual reason to maintain it.

you look between the phone in your hand and jaemin beside you. wonderful, really.

“why are you with her?” jeongguk asks. your eyebrows rise.

jaemin’s do too, though for an entirely different reason. “because she begged me.”

Your head snaps to him, clicking your tongue. “i did not?”

“you literally cried.”

“i elbowed you.” You brush your elbow against his arm in a threat. He shrugs you off, scoffing.

“violently,” he adds, rubbing his side again as though you have punctured one of his organs rather than lightly pushed him away. “there were tears.”

jeongguk laughs. it is barely more than a breath, slightly distorted by the speaker, but jaemin’s entire face changes upon hearing it. his mouth presses into a thin line, eyes narrowing at the phone as if jeongguk has personally delivered an insult to his family.

“what’s funny?”

“nothing.”

“then stop laughing.”

“what if i don‘t.”

“i’ll make you.”

“good luck, jaehyun.”

you stare ahead. seventeen, you remind yourself. You look at the couple passing by, the mother carrying her twins. Anything, trust, anything is worth more than listening to these two bickering at any given chance.

they are both seventeen. their brains are not fully developed and you should therefore practise patience, compassion and, if necessary, physical restraint. Be the wonderful lecturer every student would want. Be the kind person kids look up to. 

Though you must admit that being thirty-two has never felt more exhausting.

“we’re buying things for the spring festival,” you explain before either of them can find another single-syllable word to weaponise. “we promised to bake something for the charity stand.”

“you’re baking?” the surprise in jeongguk’s voice offends you more than it should.

“why does everyone say it like that?”

“because she can’t bake,” jaemin answers.

“i can bake.”

“you can read instructions.”

“that is what baking is.”

“no, baking requires instinct.”

you turn to look at him properly. “you wanted to put four bags of chocolate chips into twelve muffins.”

“people like chocolate.”

“people also like having functioning arteries.”

jeongguk laughs again, louder this time. jaemin’s grip tightens around the bag. you try to bite back a laugh. 

“shouldn’t you be practising?” he asks, directing the question towards the phone with all the sweetness of somebody politely requesting another person’s immediate removal.

“i already practised.”

“do it again.”

“shouldn’t you be carrying the bags?”

jaemin looks down at the bags currently hanging from both of his hands. you follow his gaze, then look back at the phone.

“…he is,” you admit.

“then why is he complaining?”

“i wasn’t complaining.”

“you always complain.”

jaemin halts. because you had continued walking, you are forced to stop several steps ahead of him. when you turn around, his eyes are fixed on the phone with something close to personal betrayal.

“you don’t even know me.”

“i know enough.”

“you met me three times.”

“four.”

“the fourth time you didn’t even speak to me.”

“because you were annoying.”

you bite down on the inside of your cheek. perhaps this is what raising children feels like. not the love or sacrifice or quiet pride people usually speak of, but standing outside a shop with too many groceries while two boys attempt to reconstruct several months of mutual dislike through a phone speaker.

“alright,” you interrupt. “that’s enough.”

“i didn’t do anything,” they answer at the same time.

silence follows. jaemin looks vaguely disgusted by the accidental harmony. somewhere in japan, you imagine jeongguk wearing a similar expression.

Biting back that laugh gets harder with each second. Man, you wish you had your old hone back to record and post it on tiktok.

You almost slip. 

“did you eat?” jeongguk asks after a moment.

the question is directed at you this time. you know because his voice changes again, some of its sharpness retreating as though jaemin’s existence has been temporarily pushed out of the conversation.

temporarily.

“yes.”

“she stole half of my breakfast,” jaemin says.

“you said you weren’t hungry.” 

“that doesn’t mean you can take it.”

“you pushed the plate towards me.”

“out of kindness.”

“you called the eggs depressing.”

“they were.”

“how can eggs be depressing?”

You scoff, your hand now holding your wrist to support the weight of the phone you have held up to jaemins level,  “you should have seen them.”

another quiet laugh leaves the speaker. jaemin kisses his teeth. “stop encouraging her.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you laughed.” “because you’re not funny.”

“that doesn’t even make sense.” “it does to me.”

you begin walking again before the two of them can drag you into another trial, shifting the phone into your other hand when the paper handles start digging too deeply into your skin. jaemin follows, of course. he always does, even when he makes a performance out of not wanting to.

for several seconds, all that can be heard is the sound of your steps against the pavement and the muffled chaos behind jeongguk. voices pass somewhere near him, followed by a door opening and somebody calling his name.

he answers them quickly before returning to you.

“i should go soon.”

“fianlly,” jaemin mutters.

you glare at him. he just looks away, entirely unrepentant.

“are you still nervous?” you ask.

jeongguk hums. it is not quite an answer, though you understand it anyway.

“he called you before a concert just to ask whether you ate?” jaemin asks.

there is something strange about his tone. the mockery remains, but it has quietened around the edges. his gaze moves from the phone to your face, lingering there long enough to make you straighten.

“i didn’t call just for that,” jeongguk protests.

“then why did you call?”

silence. you glance down at the screen as if the answer might appear there.

nothing does. jaemin waits. when jeongguk does not respond, the corner of his mouth lifts with the slow satisfaction of somebody who believes he has finally won something.

“that’s what i thought.”

“i didn’t call you,” jeongguk says.

“you called my morning.”

“it’s afternoon here.”

“that sounds like a personal problem.”

“jaemin,” you warn. he raises one shoulder and continues walking, the bags rustling against his legs.

“i just wanted to talk before we started,” jeongguk finally admits. the words are quiet enough that you almost lose them beneath the sounds surrounding him.

jaemin hears them too. you know because his steps slow for half a second.

something inside your chest shifts. not painfully, not in the sharp way it once did whenever jeongguk unknowingly placed another piece of himself into your hands. it is softer now, which might somehow be worse. pain was at least easy to recognise. this has no name you are willing to give it.

“well,” you clear your throat, looking towards the crossing ahead, “you talked.”

“that’s all?”

“what else do you want?”

“something helpful.”

“i told you that you’ll do fine.”

“you also said being nervous is good.”

“it is.”

“horrible advice,” he repeats, tone amused. 

“and yet you called for more.”

jaemin snorts beside you.

“don’t start,” jeongguk immediately says.

Jaemin rolls is eyes, bending down to talk into the speaker in a smug tone. “i didn’t say anything.”

“you made a sound.”

“am i not allowed to breathe anymore?”

“preferably not that loudly.”

you press your lips together, though the laugh escapes through your nose anyway. both of them fall quiet. it takes you a moment to realise why.

“did she laugh?” jeongguk asks.

“no,” jaemin answers immediately.

“i heard her.”

“must have been the traffic.” there is barely any traffic.

you turn towards him. “why are you lying?”

“i’m protecting your reputation.”

“from what?”

“him.”

“i can still hear you,” jeongguk reminds him.

“tragic.”

“do you always answer for her?”

jaemin’s eyes flicker towards you. the question should be harmless. annoying, perhaps, but harmless. still, something changes in his expression so briefly that you almost convince yourself you imagined it. his lips part, then close again. the amusement leaves his face before returning a moment later, carefully placed.

“someone has to,” he says.

your steps falter. only slightly. jaemin continues forward as though he has said nothing strange at all. as though the words have not found their way beneath your skin, pressing against every question you have tried not to ask during the past three months.

someone has to. you stare at the back of his head.

then he glances over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “are you coming or do you plan on standing there until next year?”

next year.

your fingers tighten around the phone. jeongguk says your name from the speaker, the irritation in his voice immediately replaced by concern. “what happened?”

“nothing.” you force your feet to move. “jaemin is being dramatic.”

“i am carrying your entire bakery.”

“two bags.”

“my entire future is in these hands.”

“your future is very cheap.”

“see?” jaemin says towards the phone. “violent and cruel. you can have her.”

Jeongguk smacks his lips, the sound sounds almost robotic, “i didn’t ask you.”

“good, because i wasn’t offering.” 

“both of you,” you groan. 

a voice calls jeongguk again, louder this time. he exhales. “i really have to go.”

“then go,” jaemin says.

“you first.”

“how would that even work?”

“i don’t know. just go somewhere else.”

“i am somewhere else.”

you rub your thumb against your your temple. “jeongguk.”

“right. sorry.”

“don’t apologise to her,” jaemin mutters. “apologise to me.”

Jeongguks voice rises in suspicion “for what?”

“existing loudly.”

you lower the phone before they can begin again, twisting your body away.

“do well,” you say, directing the words towards jeongguk and attempting to press everything else you cannot say into them. “and try to enjoy it. at least a little.”

the other end remains quiet for a moment.

“okay,” he says eventually. “i’ll call you after.”

“it will be late.”

“you’ll still be awake.”

“you don’t know that.” You bite the inside of your cheek, shifting in your place. 

“you always are.”

beside you, jaemin looks over. not at the phone. at you.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “lately, she is.”

something cold moves along your spine. before you can determine whether there is anything hidden beneath the sentence, jaemin lifts the bags and peers inside one of them.

“we forgot the butter.”

you blink. “what?”

“the butter,” he repeats, already turning back towards the shop. “your mother put it on the list.”

the moment closes as easily as that. perhaps there had never been one.

“good luck,” you tell jeongguk, your attention still caught on jaemin as he walks away. “call me later.”

“not on speaker,” he says quickly.

jaemin turns around despite already being several metres ahead. “i heard that!”

“good.”

the line goes dead.

---

the muffins survive.

not elegantly, and certainly not without sacrifice. three remain welded to their paper cases, one is missing most of its top because jaemin insists on testing whether it has cooled with his finger, and an entire row leans slightly to the left for reasons neither of you can explain. still, they are edible. more importantly, they are no longer your responsibility.

four days after you buy the ingredients, jaemin carries both containers into the school courtyard and places them on the charity stand with the solemn care of somebody surrendering his firstborn children.

“be gentle with them,” he tells the girl arranging the baked goods. she stares at him.

“they’ve been through a lot.” “they’re muffins.”

his expression hardens, coated with the pain of a person that has seen too miuch, perhaps against theri will, but nevertheless seen it. “you weren’t there.”

you catch the sleeve of his jacket and pull him away before he can begin explaining the structural difficulties of chocolate-chip distribution to someone who very clearly has somewhere else to be.

behind you, the girl lifts one of the lids.

“don’t judge them by appearance,” jaemin calls over his shoulder.

you flex your jaw, trying your best to appear as civilized as can “keep walking.”

“they have character.” jaemin tries to defend himself, to no avail.

“they’re concave.”

“they’re humble.”

“they collapsed!” you huff, grip around his sleeve tightening.

he shrugs, “aesthetic differences.”

you release his sleeve once there is enough of the courtyard between him and the muffins to prevent further emotional interference. jaemin looks back twice anyway.

the festival has consumed most of the school grounds. paper flowers hang from the windows, their colours made almost painfully bright beneath the afternoon sun, and handwritten signs have been taped over every available surface. music travels from somewhere near the gymnasium, repeatedly interrupted whenever the speakers lose connection. students move between the stalls in loose groups, carrying paper cups and plastic bags, liberated from their uniforms for one afternoon and therefore behaving as though they have escaped institutional oppression entirely.

you stand among them without quite belonging to the movement. it is not an unfamiliar feeling anymore. perhaps that should concern you more than it does.

“are we getting food?” jaemin asks, pupils blown out. you don’t ave enough patience for this. 

you shake your head, sighing. “we just delivered thirty-six muffins.”

“that wasn’t my question.” “you ate three while we were packing them.”

jaemin licks his lip in remembrance, “quality control.”

“you said the first one tasted fine.”

“i had to check for consistency.”

“the second one was from the same tray.”

“and yet you still refuse to thank me for my service.” he huffs, nose pointing up.

you look at him. he looks back with the unearned dignity of a man who had spent most of the previous evening sitting on your kitchen counter and dropping chocolate chips directly into his mouth.

“i saved lives,” he concludes, chest lifted with pride. you should smack him.

“you stole ingredients.” you deadpan instead, hands now resting on your hips.

“same profession, different methodology.”

despite yourself, something small pulls at the corner of your mouth.

jaemin notices. he does not mention it. he only nudges your shoulder with his and begins walking towards the row of food stalls, apparently trusting that you will follow. you do, because this is the shape your friendship has taken: one of you moving first, the other complaining while falling into step. you make it halfway across the courtyard before a burst of laughter rises somewhere to your right.

the sound catches your attention before the people do. they are gathered beside one of the game stalls, five girls pressed together while one of them attempts to throw a ring over the neck of a glass bottle. another covers her mouth as she laughs. a third is filming the entire failure on her phone, promising loudly that she will delete it later.

you recognize them. recognition is no longer the correct word, perhaps. you know their names. you know which of them used to lend you lip balm beneath the desk and which one cried in the bathroom after receiving a poor mathematics grade. you know the songs they listened to on the bus home and the particular bench behind the sports hall where all of you used to eat whenever the weather allowed it.

you remember them. they no longer remember you in quite the same way.

one of the girls manages to land the ring. the others scream as though she has won something greater than a cheap stuffed rabbit. for a moment, you can almost locate the space in which you would have stood among them. not at the centre. never there. perhaps beside soojin, leaning away when she shouted too close to your ear. perhaps holding somebody’s bag while they played. perhaps laughing despite yourself when they accused the stall owner of moving the bottles.

there had been a place for you, or well, someone like you, once. it simply belongs to someone else now. never to you. They would never know you.

“are you planning to challenge them to a fight?” jaemin’s voice pulls you back.

you glance at him. “what?”

“you’ve been staring at them for nearly a minute.” “i have not.” You feel the heat creep up your face, fingers tingling.

“forty-seven seconds, then.”

“you weren’t counting.”

“I became concerned after thirty.” There it is, the time in which the two of you simply refuse to back down and would rather throw meaningless phrases at each other. 

“you should find better things to do with your time.” you say this time, sticking out our tongue.  

“i tried.“ jaemin lifts his hand to grab the tip of your nose, you swat his hand away, “you refused to buy me food.”

“i am not responsible for feeding you.”

he smirks. “your mother would disagree.”

“my mother thinks you’re malnourished because you make yourself look tragic whenever she enters the room.”

“it works.” “that doesn’t make it less shameful.” “it makes it efficient.”

he steps in front of you when you attempt to walk past him, forcing you to stop. there is still amusement in his face, though his eyes briefly move towards the group behind you.

“you don’t talk to them anymore.” it is not phrased as a question.

you slide your hands into the pockets of your jacket. “we talk.”

“you said hello to soojin last week and then escaped into the library.”

“are you stalking me now, loser?“

“answer my question.” he looks serious like this head tilting to the side, eyes darting across your face. you feel seen, too much of it.

“i had to find a book.” you look past his shoulders, can’t bear the weight of his gaze any longer.

“that isn’t how returning things works.” “you understood what i meant.” “i genuinely didn’t.”

you try to step around him again. he moves with you. “jaemin.”

“what?” his tone drops.

“you’re standing in my way.”

“i’m standing normally. you keep choosing the wrong direction.”

you groan, foot hitting his in protest, “you’re impossible!”

“and yet i’m your only friend.” the words are light. deliberately so. they still settle somewhere uncomfortable. jaemin appears to hear them only after they have left him. something small shifts in his expression, but before he can take them back, you lift an eyebrow.

“bold of you to assume we’re friends.”

relief moves quickly across his face. “your mother invited me for dinner yesterday.”

you know. she has started cooking his favorite meal this morning, her gentle smile gracing her bbeautiful face. she is a nive person like that. “she feeds the neighbourhood cats too.”

“then she has excellent taste.” he brushes a stray strand of hair off his face.

“one of them has fleas.” “that comparison says more about you than it does about me.”

you finally manage to move past him. jaemin follows, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushes yours every few steps. the noise of the festival folds around you again. someone calls his name from across the courtyard, but he only raises a hand in acknowledgement without stopping.

“what happened?” he asks eventually.

“to what?”

“you and them.” you do not need to look to know where he means.

you decide to tell him the truth. “nothing happened.”

“that’s usually what people say when something happened.”

you sigh, getting tired of his endless questions. “sometimes people simply stop being close.”

“why?” you shrug. the movement feels unnaturally deliberate. “we outgrew each other.”

jaemin is quiet for several steps. it is the easiest explanation because it is not entirely a lie. you have outgrown them, only not in the gradual, harmless manner the sentence suggests. they continued forward while you woke one morning carrying years they had never lived. they remained seventeen. you returned to it.

there had been no argument. no betrayal. nothing you could point towards and call an ending. only the quiet realisation that sitting among them now required a performance you no longer had the energy to maintain.

“you outgrew all of them at once?” jaemin his voice is light. he has this habit in which he bends his spine slightly to shove his face ito yours. 

you turn your head away, breathing through your nose,  “do you need a schedule?”

“yes, actually. i’d like advance notice before you outgrow me.” he straightens up, hands now in the pocket of his school uniform. it is still in that ugly yellowish color. yellow never looked that good on you. 

you hum, hands clapsed behind your back, “you should have received it already.”

“i knew you’d say that.”

“then why did you ask?”

“i wanted to see whether you had developed new material.” he sighs, “it’s hard being the only original person left.“

you roll your eyes, not even hiding your amusement anymore “and?”

“disappointing.”

“you’re still here.”

“i’m charitable.”

“you forced me to pay for your drink this morning.”

“emotionally charitable.” “that means nothing.”

“it means i provide companionship while remaining financially unavailable.”

you let out a breath that comes dangerously close to a laugh. he smiles, though it fades before it fully settles. for once, he does not use your amusement as evidence of his own brilliance. instead, he watches the path ahead, nudging a loose stone with the side of his shoe.

“you know you can tell me if it wasn’t just that.” the gentleness of it catches you more effectively than suspicion would have.

you keep your eyes ahead. “it was.”

jaemin nods. he does not say that he believes you. he does not say that he does not.

“fine,” he replies. “i never liked them anyway.”

you cant help bt laugh, head thrown into your neck, “you spent two years trying to impress soojin.”

“i was young.” he waves his hands in the air, “i was young and wild. wanted to see what the hype was about.“

“that was last year.” you decide to remind him, grinning at his groan.

“a dark period.”

“you wrote her a poem.” “it was not a poem!” he fastens his steps.

 you continue with your own pace, too happy to change anything, “it rhymed.”

“coincidentally.” “you rhymed ‘eyes’ with ‘skies.’” “i was under pressure.” “you gave it to her on pink paper.” “i had limited resources.”

“she showed it to everyone.”

his face tightens. “and this is why people should allow friendships to die peacefully.”

this time, the laugh escapes you before you can stop it. jaemin points at you as though you have proven something important. “cruel.”

“you wrote four lines about her hair.” “five.” “that’s worse!”

“the fifth line provided thematic closure.”

you laugh again, quieter now, and the strange weight inside your chest loosens enough to let you breathe around it.

jaemin bumps his shoulder into yours. you return it immediately.

he stumbles a step to the side with insulting theatricality, clutching his upper arm. “violence. in public.”

“you survived.” “physically.”

you shrug, “unfortunately.”

there is no sharpness beneath it. no question of where either of you stands. the insult travels between you and returns harmlessly, softened by years of repetition. across the courtyard, soojin wins the stuffed rabbit. her friends surround her, laughing as she holds it above her head. you watch for one moment longer. then you turn away.

“come on,” you say. “i’ll buy you something.”

jaemin straightens immediately. “i knew emotional manipulation would work.”

“you’re paying me back.”

“i don’t have any money.” he argues, already walking toward the stand he has been eyeing for the past ten minutes. 

you follow. of course you do. “you told me you did.”

“i lied.”

you know. 

---

by the time you see jeongguk again, the festival has already begun disappearing.

the paper flowers are the first to go, taken down from the windows before the tape can leave permanent marks against the glass. then the handwritten signs vanish from the corridors, followed by the folding tables and the last paper cup somebody discovers beneath a bench several days later. for a while, the pale strip of paint jaemin had accidentally pulled from the courtyard wall remains as the only evidence that anything happened there at all.

after that, even the weather changes.

the cold retreats without announcement, loosening its grip upon the mornings until you no longer need to bury your hands inside your sleeves on the walk to school. trees that had appeared dead only weeks ago begin producing colour with almost offensive confidence. students carry their jackets instead of wearing them and complain about examinations with the careless certainty of people who believe this spring belongs to them.

you envy them occasionally; not enough to wish yourself seventeen again. you have learned that youth, when experienced from the inside, contains significantly less poetry than people assign to it afterward. mostly, it consists of poor sleep, fluorescent classrooms and adults asking what you intend to do with the rest of your life before allowing you to use the bathroom.

still, there are moments when you watch the people around you occupy their age so naturally that something inside you aches. then, one thursday afternoon, jeongguk sends you a message while you are waiting for the bus.

[jeongguk; 16:08] are you still at school

you stare at the screen for several seconds before responding. [16:09] no

three dots appear almost immediately. [jeongguk; 16:09] liar

oh, you wish you could just smack that rude boy across the face. 

your head lifts. the road ahead is crowded with students making their way towards the station, their uniforms dark against the soft colours beginning to collect along the pavement. buses move through the traffic with exhausted groans, swallowing people at one end and releasing them somewhere else. nothing appears unusual until your gaze reaches the convenience store opposite the bus stop.

jeongguk stands beside the drinks refrigerator outside it, half-hidden beneath a black cap and a jacket much too large for him. The sleeves are way too long; he has folded them sloppily.

from this distance, he could be anyone. another student waiting for somebody, perhaps, although the mask pulled over his mouth and the way he repeatedly glances towards the road make subtlety increasingly unlikely.

your phone vibrates again. You don’t hesitate this time. [jeongguk; 16:10] you looked directly at me

[16:10] then why did you ask where i was

[jeongguk; 16:10] wanted to see if you would lie

[16:10] congratulations

[jeongguk; 16:11] come here

you look towards the approaching bus, then back at him. You roll your eyes. Demanding much, huh.

jeongguk follows your gaze. even from across the road, you see his shoulders sink. it is such an unnecessarily dramatic display of disappointment that you remain where you are out of principle. he takes his phone from his pocket again.

[jeongguk; 16:12] i bought you something

[16:12] bribery is a crime

[jeongguk; 16:13] then stay there

he reaches into the plastic bag beside him and removes something wrapped in silver packaging. you cannot make out what it is before he deliberately returns it to the bag.

the bus stops in front of you.

people begin pressing towards its doors while you stand perfectly still, caught between sensible public transport and whatever deeply unimpressive snack jeongguk has apparently purchased as leverage. somebody bumps your shoulder on the way past. by the time the bus pulls away again, you are still on the pavement.

across the road, jeongguk’s eyes crease above his mask. insufferable.

you wait for the crossing light before joining him, refusing to hurry despite the way he rocks impatiently from one foot to the other. he has been back in korea for some time already, though being in the same country has made surprisingly little difference. rehearsals became concerts, concerts became recordings, and recordings turned into late-night messages he was usually too tired to finish. there had always been something else waiting for him.

today, apparently, there is you.

“you missed your bus,” he says when you reach him.

You shrug, hands in your pocket. “you made me miss it.”

His eyes begin to twinkle in that, well you know. In his own way. “i told you to stay there.”

“after showing me food.” “i didn’t know that would work.”

You tilt your head, “then why did you do it?”

he considers the question while lifting the plastic bag from the ground. “hope.”

you hold out your hand.

He turns aay, shielding the plastic bag with his body. “hello to you too.”

“give it to me.” You make a open and close your hand rapidly, growing impatient.

Jeongguk huffs, voice careful, “you- you haven’t even asked how i am!”

“i can see how you are.” the answer quietens him for reasons you had not intended.

up close, the weeks are more visible. tiredness sits beneath his eyes despite the cap shadowing most of his face, and the skin around his knuckles is rough, one of them marked by a small healing cut. he appears thinner than he had before japan, although it may only be the oversized jacket swallowing the width of his shoulders.

then he reaches up to pull the mask beneath his chin, nudging the brim of his cap in the process, and you see his hair. the warmth has been taken out of it.

what had appeared brown beneath the lights in japan is now nearly black, the colour cool enough to turn faintly blue where the afternoon reaches the strands near his ears. it has been shortened too, though not by much. the same heavy fringe remains trapped beneath his cap, threatening to fall into his eyes.

the change is almost laughably small. your body recognises it before your mind has time to protect you.

wet pavement. white shirts. flower petals scattered across the ground. a motel room lit in colours too beautiful for what happens inside it. seven boys running towards a future none of them can see, preserved forever at the edge of adulthood because millions of people will eventually learn how to miss a youth they never shared. 

and later, a trophy.

jeongguk lifts a hand towards the back of his head, eyes now looking down at his own feet. He shifts again, then clears his throat. “it isn’t permanent.”

you blink. “what?”

“the colour.” his fingers disappear beneath the cap, scratching awkwardly at his scalp. “you keep staring at it.”

you had not realised you were. “i’m looking at you.” the words leave before you can reconsider them.

his hand stops moving. somewhere behind you, the convenience-store door opens with a bright electronic melody. a woman steps outside carrying a coffee and moves between you without looking at either of you. the interruption should make the moment smaller.

it does not.

“why?” jeongguk asks.

there is no answer you can give him. not one that will not tear the afternoon apart and leave eighteen years scattered across the pavement between you.

“it makes you look older,” you settle on.

his entire posture changes. his shoulders straighten beneath the jacket, and the uncertainty leaves his eyes so quickly that you almost regret speaking.

“really?” you bite back a groan at how happy he sounds.

Your shoulders sink, “slightly.”

“how much?” “that isn’t measurable.” “eighteen?”

You almost laugh. “no.”

“nineteen?” “you still look seventeen.”

he clicks his tongue, turning towards the narrow row of tables beside the store as though personally offended by the failure of hair dye to accelerate time. you follow him, watching as he chooses the table furthest from the road and lowers himself into the plastic chair.

“you’ll appreciate that eventually,” you tell him, fighting off the urge to pat his shoulder. Your hand tingles inside your pocket. You roll it into a fist, nails pressed into the soft flesh.

An airy laugh escapes his lips, “you sound old again.”

Well, You are. “i am older than you.”

“by three months.” by fifteen years, you think.

eighteen, if the life waiting ahead of him is included. you sit opposite him before either calculation can settle too deeply. jeongguk places the plastic bag between you and begins removing its contents: two bottles of banana milk, a triangle of kimbap and the silver packet he had used to lure you across the road.

you pick it up. “hotteok?”

“you like it.”

Your disappointment sinks deeper, “i missed a bus for this?”

“give it back.” his hand moves across the table, but you pull the packet against your chest before he can reach it.

“i didn’t say i don’t want it.”

“you looked disappointed.” Well, at least now you can confidently say that he is an attentive person. 

“this is my normal face.”

“that explains a lot.”

you tear open the packaging while he leans back, satisfaction returning once it becomes clear that you intend to eat what he bought. the hotteok has already cooled, the dough slightly tougher around the edges, though the syrup inside remains warm enough to collect against your thumb when you break off the first piece.

jeongguk watches you chew. His own food is left untouched, eyes solely focusing on you and the way you rreact to his gift.  “well?”

“it’s food.” You swallow. It warms your inside, maybe not your stomach, but definitely your heart. 

He throws his head back, “you’re horrible at compliments.”

“thank you for the food.”

He huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “forced.”

“i could give it back.” You suggest, holding it up. 

“you already bit it.” “then stop complaining.”

he smiles despite himself and reaches for the kimbap, peeling the plastic apart with more concentration than the task requires. for several minutes, the conversation becomes unnecessary. traffic moves steadily beyond the low railing, and a delivery truck blocks most of the street while its driver carries boxes into the store. jeongguk eats as though nobody has fed him since japan, finishing half the kimbap before remembering the banana milk beside him.

“have you been practising all day?” you ask. You already know the answer. Know why he oh so desperately wanted some company while he ate his lunch. Who knows when he had his last.

He nods, cheeks full. “since the morning.”

“for the comeback?”

his eyes lift.

the movement is small, but you see the caution enter them.

so, you decide to ease his mind. you break another piece from the hotteok. “you told me there was a comeback.”

“i did?” he pronounces each syllable slower than before, careful.

You nod, eyes looking at the piece of dough in your hand. You turn it a bit, inspecting the piece from different angles. “several times.”

“did i tell you anything else?” he sounds upset, at who, you have no idea.

“mostly that your legs hurt.”

“they do.” He sighs, tension leaving his shoulders.

“and that taehyung fell asleep while sitting upright.”

jeongguk’s mouth twitches. “he said he was resting his eyes.”

“for forty minutes?” “he was very tired.”

You hum.

the suspicion leaves him, though not entirely. it has begun happening more often: these brief moments in which you step too close to information he does not remember giving you. each time, you find some ordinary explanation and watch him accept it because the alternative would be impossible. you wonder how many impossible things a person can overlook before they begin forming a pattern.

“we filmed something too,” he says, lowering his voice although nobody nearby is listening. “but i can’t tell you what.”

“then don’t.”

his eyebrows draw together. “what?”

you swallow. “nothing.”

“you look annoyed.” He places his kimbap down, fingers twitching. 

“i’m not annoyed.”

“you always ask questions!”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back against the plastic stool. “you complain when i ask questions.”

“well- tha- that doesn’t mean you should stop!”

you study him across the table. “what would you like me to ask?”

jeongguk looks down at the remains of his kimbap, apparently unprepared for the responsibility of directing the interrogation himself. “you could ask where we filmed.”

“where did you film?” you parrot, already knowing his answer.

“i can’t tell you.” He grins at you sheepishly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek gently.

“this has been incredibly productive.”

his laugh is muffled behind the back of his hand. it is quieter than it had been over the phone with jaemin, stripped of the deliberate provocation the two of them seem to inspire in one another.

“outside,” he offers.

“most places are outside.” “at night.”

you glance towards his knuckles again. there is dirt caught in the pale stitching of one shoe, and a faint purple mark disappears beneath the sleeve around his wrist. “was it cold?”

his eyes widen as he nods, clearly affected. “very.”

“did you get hurt?”

his thumb passes over the cut on his hand before curling into his palm. “not really.”

the lie is not convincing, but neither is it serious enough to challenge. filming an era remembered for its beauty had apparently required the real boy inside it to stand outside at night until his hands split open from the cold. it should not surprise you.

beautiful things have always been particularly skilled at concealing the labour that creates them.

“will you watch it?” he asks.

you raise your eyes to his.

“when it comes out,” he adds. “the video.”

“of course.” Maybe you should be a bit more enthusiastic. For some reason you can’t bring yourself to pretend.

“immediately?”

“eh, i will probably be at school.” You tilt your head and look up, mentally checking your schedule and compare it to the release time.

Though jeongguk does not give up. “after school, then.”

“are you assigning me homework?”  “you have to tell me if it’s good.”

“what if it isn’t?”

he appears genuinely disturbed by the possibility. “lie.”

It kinda annoys you. Maybe because his desperation makes your heart sting. His want, his need for his hard work to be perceived as good. 

“you just complained that my compliments sound forced.” You remind him.

“practise before then.”

you fold the empty wrapper into increasingly smaller squares while he continues eating. the wind moves between the buildings, lifting the hair that has escaped beneath his cap. for one moment, with his cheeks full and one hand wrapped around a bottle of banana milk, he looks nothing like the figure your memory attempted to place over him.

relief moves through you so suddenly that it almost resembles grief. he is still here. not in an old video. not frozen inside the age from which you came. simply here, occupying a cheap plastic chair and stealing glances at the bus schedule because he knows you missed one for him.

“when is the next bus?” he asks.

You look at the analog clock on the wall of the store. “twelve minutes.”

“i can wait.” He suggests, more like demands.

“don’t you have to go back?”

“not for twenty.” he says it casually, as though eight spare minutes are nothing. you know better now.

you slide the unopened banana milk towards him. “take this one too.”

“i bought it for you.” 

“i don’t like banana milk.”

“you drank it last time.” “because you bought it.”

his fingers settle around the bottle without lifting it. something in his face becomes still. “then drink it again.”

you stare at him. jeongguk nudges it back towards you, using enough force that it crosses the table and bumps against your wrist. when you do not move, he places two fingers against the cap and pushes once more.

“you’re annoying,” you tell him.

“you missed your bus.” as though that explains anything. you open the bottle. his smile remains even after he looks away.

—

april moves differently after that.

perhaps time has always been uneven, and you only notice because you already know which date waits at the end of it. school days drag beneath the weight of application meetings and mock examinations, while entire weeks disappear from your phone whenever jeongguk becomes too busy to answer.

your homeroom teacher gives everyone a sheet on which to list three possible universities and two intended fields of study. around you, decisions are made with varying degrees of panic. somebody behind you announces that his parents will disown him if he applies for music. another student chooses business administration because she cannot think of anything else and suspects money might compensate for the absence of conviction.

you stare at the empty boxes until the lines begin to blur. in your first life, the decision had felt like an opening. literature had promised language for all the things you could sense but did not yet know how to explain. you had entered university believing that understanding stories might help you understand people, only to discover that people were significantly less cooperative about being interpreted. You still stayed, you always do. 

choosing the same path now would be easy. that is precisely what frightens you.

“ever heard of relaxing?” jaemin lowers himself into the chair beside yours, turning it backwards before sitting so his arms can rest across its back. his own form has already been folded twice and shoved into his pocket.

“what did you write?” you ask.

He shrugs, head nodding to his seat across the room. “things.”

“which things?” “future things.” “inspiring.” “thank you.”

you reach for the paper protruding from his pocket. he twists away before you can catch it, nearly tipping the chair in the process.

“why are you being secretive?”

“i’m not.” A light blush covers his cheeks. That idiot. 

But you won’t back down. Not with him. “then show me.”

“you’ll judge me.” “i judge you without documentation.”

“exactly. imagine what you could accomplish with evidence.”

the teacher calls for everyone to return to their places before you can attempt another theft. jaemin rights his chair and rises, but his attention falls to your still-empty form.

“you’re writing literature, aren’t you?” the certainty with which he says it unsettles you more than the question should.

“maybe.”

“you’ve wanted to since middle school.”

someone squeezes between the desks behind him, forcing jaemin closer until his hand braces against the corner of your table. he does not appear to notice the movement. he is still looking at the sheet before you, at the future he assumes has remained where you left it.

“people change their minds,” you say.

“you didn’t.”

“how do you know?”

his expression shifts, amusement softening into something you cannot immediately read. “because you still look like that whenever you read.”

“like what?”

“stupid. Bye.”

you shove his arm away from your desk. jaemin grins, retreating towards his seat before you can reach him again. the moment passes, yet the question remains long after the teacher begins speaking.

is repeating a choice the same as choosing it? you write nothing before the bell rings.

—

jeongguk’s messages arrive in the spaces between everything else. sometimes they come shortly after midnight, when you are attempting to study and he is travelling back from the company.

[jeongguk; 22:31] my knees are broken

[22:33] both?

[jeongguk; 22:34] yes

[22:34] unfortunate

[jeongguk; 22:34] you’re supposed to be concerned

[22:34] have you tried turning them off and on again

he does not answer for nine minutes.

[jeongguk; 22:49] i asked namjoon hyung [jeongguk; 22:50] he said stop talking to you

other times, he disappears for two days and returns by sending you a photograph of a ceiling with no explanation. you learn to recognise his exhaustion through the deterioration of his spelling, the way complete sentences become fragments before collapsing into photographs, complaints and voice messages in which somebody is usually shouting behind him.

once, shortly before three in the morning, he asks whether something can be good even if nobody notices it. you read the question until the screen dims in your hand. there are too many possible answers and only one that will not betray you.

[02:57] yes

his reply comes several minutes later.

[jeongguk; 03:10] how do you know

you lie on your back, listening to the silence of a house whose future inhabitants are sleeping around you.

[03:11] being noticed and being good are two different things

this time, he does not respond at all. in the morning, there is a message waiting beneath the question.

[jeongguk; 04:39] i hope people notice this one

you close your eyes.

“they will,” you whisper into the empty room. you do not type it.

—

on the nineteenth of april, the comeback trailer appears.

you watch it alone, seated on the floor beside your bed with your schoolbooks still unopened across the desk. yoongi’s voice fills the room while water moves beneath a basketball court and the title you have been avoiding finally appears on the screen.

화양연화.

the most beautiful moment in life.

the characters should be familiar. you had seen them printed across albums, merchandise and banners; had watched them become shorthand for an entire generation’s relationship with youth. now they seem almost intrusive, as though something that had once belonged safely to memory has followed you here. a moment can only be called beautiful after it has begun to end.

perhaps that is the cruelty hidden inside the title. nobody standing within the most beautiful moment of their life knows to name it. they are too occupied by the ordinary discomfort of living through it. jeongguk does not know. he is probably practising while you sit on the floor mourning a period that has not yet happened to him.

your phone lights beside your knee.

[jeongguk; 17:45] did you see it

you consider pretending you have not.

[17:46] yes

[jeongguk17:46] and?

your fingers remain above the keyboard.

[17:46] it’s beautiful

the response appears almost immediately.

[jeongguk; 17:47] that sounds sad

you look back towards the final image frozen on your laptop.

[17:47] beautiful things often are

[jeongguk; 17:52]] you really do sound old

the laugh that leaves you is small, but real enough to loosen something inside your chest.

[17:53] go practise

[jeongguk; 17:54] how do you know i’m practising

you look at the message. then at the time.

[17:55] aren’t you always?

the three dots appear, disappear and return.

[jeongguk; 17:57] lately

you do not ask whether he is happy. you are beginning to understand that happiness is too blunt a word for what this means to him.

—

the album is released on the twenty-ninth. despite your promise, you do not watch the music video immediately.

you carry the knowledge of it through the entire school day instead, beneath conversations you only half hear and lessons that end without leaving anything behind. by lunch, clips have begun circulating between students. somebody plays the song from a phone near the windows, the volume too low for the teacher to identify where it is coming from.

the first notes reach you anyway. your hand stills above your notebook. you had forgotten how fragile the beginning sounds.

not because the song itself has changed, but because the people inside it have. the voice you once heard through headphones now belongs to somebody who sends you photographs of ceilings when he is too tired to speak. you know how his laughter catches when jaemin irritates him and how he eats faster when he believes he has only a few minutes left. you know he bought two bottles of banana milk despite already knowing he would try to make you drink both.

distance had once made loving them simple. proximity has made it unbearable.

“isn’t that your friend?”

jaemin’s question is quiet enough that nobody else hears it.

you close the notebook. “what?”

he tips his head towards the music leaking from the other side of the classroom. his own lunch remains untouched on the desk between his elbows.

“jeongguk.”

you look towards the phone, though the student holding it is hidden behind several people. You don’t know if you are supposed to be surprised that he said his name so, well, less with spite?

“yes.”

“it’s good.” the lack of mockery makes you turn back.

jaemin lifts one shoulder. “what? i’m capable of recognising music.”

“you listened to the same song for four months.”

“it was a good song.”

“it was the ringtone that came with your phone.”

“a classic.”

you expect him to continue. instead, he studies your face with the same quiet attention he has begun giving you whenever he believes you are somewhere else.

“have you watched the video?” he asks.

You shiver. “not yet.”

A confused sound leaves his throat, “why?”

“i’m at school.” You wave your hand to emphasize your point. 

“that has never stopped anyone.”

you place your pen inside the notebook and align it carefully with the spine. “i said i would watch it later.”

jaemin remains still for a moment, then reaches for his chopsticks.

“right,” he says. “later.” he does not ask why you look frightened of something you have been waiting for.

—

you watch it after sunset.

there is no ceremonial reason for waiting so long. your mother asks you to help with dinner, and afterward there are dishes to dry and an assignment you pretend to begin before accepting that none of the words will remain inside your head. only once the house has quietened do you place your laptop on the bed and close the door.

the video begins. memory meets reality imperfectly.

you recognise the petrol station, the bathtub, the flickering motel sign. you remember namjoon’s lollipop and the expression on yoongi’s face before the room burns around him. some images arrive exactly as you expect them to, while others seem newly sharpened, disturbed by details your mind had discarded over the years.

then jeongguk appears. he is younger than memory allowed him to remain.

there had always been makeup, editing, choreography and the distance of a screen between you. now those protections fail. you see the boy from the convenience store standing beneath artificial light, carrying emotions created for the camera while still somehow looking more vulnerable than the role demands.

you wonder whether the bruise beneath his sleeve came from this. whether his hands had been cold. whether somebody gave him something warm to drink afterward.

the music continues while your thoughts drift beyond it, towards things the video will never preserve. the hours of repetition. the waiting rooms. seven boys checking charts and refreshing pages, attempting to measure whether years of work have finally become visible.

your phone begins vibrating before the video has fully ended. jeongguk’s name fills the screen.

for one irrational second, you consider allowing it to ring. you do not know how to speak to the person you have just watched without letting the weight of everything else enter your voice. the call almost ends before you answer.

“hello?” “you watched it.”

it is not a question. you pause the video on a black screen. “how do you know?”

“you weren’t answering.” “i was busy.” 

“watching it.” you hear movement around him, then the scrape of a chair and somebody laughing far enough away that you cannot identify them. jeongguk seems to be searching for somewhere quieter. a door opens, closes, and the noise dulls.

“well?” he asks.

you shift higher against the wall, drawing one knee towards your chest. “you already know it’s good.”

“i want to know what you think.”

“i think it’s good.”

“that’s all?”

“the song is good. the video is beautiful. you worked hard.” the last sentence changes something.

his breathing, perhaps. it becomes quieter against the speaker. “could you tell?”

you look at the frozen screen.“yes, Of course.”

“how?” his voice pierces through you. The way he sounds so relieved, scared, hopeful, and much more you can’t even put into words. Wouldn’t dare to. 

you could tell him you saw the tiredness he had attempted to hide beneath his cap. that his knuckles had been split and his knees hurt badly enough for him to complain to you after midnight. you could say that being familiar with the finished product has made you more aware of every human thing sacrificed outside the frame.

instead, you rest your cheek against your knee. Your voice is softer than you want it to be. “because i know you.”

silence follows. not the empty kind. this one seems to gather around the words, making them larger than you intended.

you straighten, clearing your throat. “a little,” you add.

“right.” you can hear the smile in his voice.

“don’t sound so pleased.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“you said you know me.” “i’m reconsidering.” “too late.”

another door opens near him. somebody calls his name, and jeongguk answers without moving the phone far enough away.

“we have our first stage tomorrow,” he tells you when the interruption passes. “will you watch that too?”

“don’t you think you’re becoming demanding?”

He groans, and you can already imagine how he throws his head back. “you said you would support me.”

You hum as if deep in thought, “when?”

“before japan.”

“i told you not to fall off the stage.”

“same thing.”

“that is an extremely loose interpretation.”

“so you’ll watch?”

you allow your head to fall back against the wall. “yes.”

“immediately?”

“jeongguk.” his laugh reaches you before the line fills with movement again.

“i have to go.”

“then go.”

“you sound like jaemin.”

“hang up.”

“you really sound like him.” you end the call before he can make the comparison worse.

the screen returns to the paused video. your own reflection is faintly visible across the darkness, interrupted by the white progress bar near the bottom. for years, you had remembered the twenty-ninth of april as the beginning of something. sitting here now, you understand that beginnings only look clean from far away. up close, they are made of missed buses and bruised wrists, unanswered messages, cold food eaten between rehearsals. they begin long before anybody thinks to record the date.

—

on the fifth of may, you wake before your alarm. the knowledge is already there.

it follows you through breakfast and sits beside you in every lesson, growing heavier as the hours pass. you remember the outcome. the date has survived inside you with the strange clarity reserved for events that once seemed important enough to become collective memory.

bts’s first music-show win.

i need u.

the show.

you know the footage: their disbelief, their tears, the way the trophy passes between unsteady hands as if nobody quite trusts themselves to hold it. you remember jeongguk’s face. at least, you remember what the camera preserved of it.

that should comfort you. it does not. certainty had been easier before you began interfering with the past. before you crossed a classroom to speak to him. before he began calling you from backstage and wasting twenty minutes beside a convenience store because you missed your bus. perhaps history is fixed. perhaps every choice you make has already been folded inside it, invisible but necessary.

or perhaps the smallest alteration only becomes visible when something fails to happen. by the final lesson, you have read the same sentence seven times.

jaemin reaches across the narrow space between your desks and presses the end of his pen against your page.

“you’ve been staring at that paragraph for ten minutes.”

“i’m thinking.”

“about the paragraph?” his breathing irritates you. You stay calm. Try to. 

“among other things.”

he follows your gaze towards the clock above the board. “are you waiting for something?”

“no.” the answer comes too quickly. Amybe you should shove him away. 

jaemin turns the pen between his fingers. he has become better at recognising your lies, though whether that is because you have grown worse at telling them or because he has begun looking more carefully remains unclear.

“you’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“what thing?”

“where you look stupid. you always do, but this time its worse.”

you ignore him. zen. zen. zen. you are a composed woman. zen. “maybe i’m tired.”

“you’re always tired.”

“then you’ve solved it.”

his pen remains on your desk until the teacher looks in your direction. only then does he withdraw it, bending over his own work with an obedience convincing enough to last precisely thirty seconds.

the moment the teacher turns around, a folded piece of paper lands beside your wrist.

you open it beneath the table.

did something happen to him?

the question strips the irritation from you.

you look at jaemin. he does not return the glance, though the tension in his jaw tells you he is waiting.

for all his bickering with jeongguk, he has never treated what exists between you as trivial. perhaps he does not understand it. you are not certain that you do either. still, somewhere between the interrupted calls and late messages, jaemin has learned that when your attention disappears like this, it usually travels towards the same person.

you write beneath his question. no. something might happen today.

the paper returns to him. he reads it, frowns and writes again.

good or bad?

your pen hovers. good. i think.

jaemin studies the answer for longer than necessary. then why do you look ill?

you fold the note without responding.

—

the hours after school refuse to pass normally. you complete your chores before anyone asks and carry your books upstairs, though studying is never a serious possibility. at seven, you open the broadcast on your laptop. at seven fifteen, you close it because nothing has begun. at seven twenty, you open it again.

your phone remains face-up beside you. jeongguk has not messaged since morning.

that, at least, makes sense. he will be surrounded by staff, cameras and six other people attempting to appear less nervous than they are. perhaps he does not know. perhaps none of them have allowed themselves to consider winning when being nominated is already more than they expected. at seven forty-three, jaemin sends you a photograph of his mathematics homework.

[jae-theman; 19:43] number six

[19:44] what about it

[jae-theman; 19:44] answer

[19:44] do it yourself

[jae-theman; 19:44] i tried

[19:44] try correctly

three dots appear.

[jae-theman; 19:45] whatever is happening today has made you cruel

[19:45] liar

[jae-theman; 19:45] am not! [jae-theman; 19:46] good luck to your strange little friend

you stare at the message. [19:46] he isn’t little

the response arrives before you can put the phone down. [jae-theman; 19:46] that’s what offended you?

despite the pressure lodged beneath your ribs, your mouth almost curves. you mute the conversation and return your attention to the broadcast.

the programme begins. performances pass in bursts of colour and sound. presenters smile into the camera, moving through scripts they have rehearsed while numbers continue accumulating somewhere beyond the stage. you attempt to watch without checking the time. it does not work.

when bts finally appear, your body reacts before thought can intervene. suddenly, your feet tingle, your jaw tenses and you can feel your bladder sit uncomfortably inside you. you never dare looking away, though.

there, jeongguk stands beneath the lights with his dark fringe separated over his forehead, dressed in white and black. makeup has sharpened the eyes you watched crease above a convenience-store mask less than a month ago. he looks composed until the camera moves close enough for you to see the tension in his mouth, corners pulled into a straight line. he had asked whether you would watch. you wonder if he believes you kept the promise. your phone vibrates against the blanket.

for one terrible moment, you are afraid to look. then the screen lights.

[jeongguk; 20:07] we’re nominated

another message follows before you can answer. How is he able to text there anyway? 

[jeongguk; 20:07] for first place

you read the words twice.

on the laptop, the presenters are still speaking. graphics move across the bottom of the screen while three names prepare to appear. you have known this date for years.

you know the result. you know the trophy, the tears and the speech. you know that people in the life you left behind will one day celebrate this moment every may, passing the same photographs between them as proof that impossible things occasionally happen to those who survive long enough to reach them. but the future has never felt less certain than it does with jeongguk’s message open beneath your hand.

[jeongguk; 20:09] are you watching

your fingers tremble against the keyboard. you know the results, know that bts are only moving up from that point on. but you guess it isn’t only about jung kook of bts anymore; it is jeongguk and his annoying habit of whining at any and everything, his big eyes that seem to look at things in a way you could have never imagined. a whole new someone who has silently intertwined into your life and refuses to go away.

[20:10] yes

the first-place candidates appear on the screen, and there they are. they should be your focus, the way the tension leaves their shoulders, their eyes widen and some of the members even fall into each other’s arms, the only thing you truly notice the way a relieved sigh leaves your lips.

you fall back onto the soft cushion, the pounding in your head slowly creeping away.

they won. they still won. nothing has changed; everything is the same. having tried your best to ignore it, you only realize now how much the fear you carried around has burdened you. the fear of being an obstacle; the fear of influencing anything negatively in a way that would harm the group.

it had followed you quietly since the day you arrived, hiding beneath every conversation you ended too early and every question you swallowed before it could leave your mouth. it sat beside you whenever jeongguk appeared at school after several days of absence and climbed onto the bus with him whenever he left again. you had treated your distance like a form of protection, as though keeping your hands close to your own body could prevent you from leaving fingerprints on the past.

yet here they are.

the trophy is placed into shaking hands. music rises around them, partly swallowed by the cheering inside the studio, and the members bow before falling into one another with expressions that do not yet seem to understand what has happened. one of them begins to cry almost immediately. another stands frozen, mouth parted, while confetti catches in his hair.

you know these images. you have watched them in compilations uploaded years after the fact, accompanied by sad piano music and captions about perseverance. you have seen the photographs reposted every fifth of may, have read translated fragments of the speech and watched people point towards this exact moment as the place where the incline began. before tonight, the footage had belonged to the category of memory despite never having been yours. something already completed, safely flattened beneath dates and numbers.

now the confetti is still falling. the camera moves across their faces and finds jeongguk near the edge of the group, blinking beneath the lights as though somebody has turned them brighter without warning. his lips move, but you cannot hear what he says. one of the members reaches for the back of his neck and pulls him closer.

your phone vibrates again.

[jeongguk; 20:14] we won

a laugh escapes your mouth before you can stop it, small and slightly wet. you wipe beneath your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, although you cannot remember beginning to cry. how did that idiot even manage to sneak in his phone and text in front of the others?

[20:14] i can see that

three dots appear almost immediately.

[jeongguk; 20:14] we really won

[20:15] i can still see that

[jeongguk; 20:15] you don’t understand

perhaps you do not. you understand the shape this moment will eventually take, the importance strangers will assign to it after time has supplied them with an ending. you know what comes next and what comes after that, can name albums he has not recorded yet and cities he has never visited. but you do not know what it feels like to stand beneath those lights after years of being told that effort does not necessarily produce reward. you do not know how heavy the trophy is or whose hand is trembling around it. you do not know what the members said to one another in the seconds before the camera returned, or whether jeongguk had eaten properly before going onstage.

knowledge, you are beginning to understand, has very little to do with knowing.

[20:16] no, i probably don’t

your thumb hovers over the screen, doing a little dance before moving again. your lower lip now stuck bewteen your teeth.

[20:16] but you did well

you want to write more. congratulations feels too small, while anything larger threatens to split open beneath your fingers and reveal all the things you have no right to know. that this is only the first. that one day they will stand on stages so large tonight’s audience would fit into a single corner. that he will become someone whose name can cross countries before he does.

that he lives long enough to do all of it. your throat closes around the thought.

[20:17] try to enjoy it. at least a little

the message is read, though no response follows. on the laptop, the broadcast moves on without consideration for the fact that something has changed. presenters return to their marks, cameras shift and the song continues beneath voices too unsteady to follow it properly. the members attempt to perform their encore while wiping at their faces and laughing at one another’s inability to sing. you remain where you are until the stage empties. even after the programme ends, you do not close the window. the frozen screen illuminates the room in pale blue while you stare at your own faint reflection over it, face drained of the panic that had occupied it less than an hour earlier.

they won. the words no longer bring the same violent relief. once repeated enough, they begin to raise questions of their own.

perhaps the future cannot be changed. perhaps it corrects itself whenever you push against it, quietly returning every important piece to where it belongs. or perhaps your presence has already altered a hundred smaller things and tonight simply happened despite them. one trophy cannot tell you whether time is fixed any more than one warm day can prove winter has ended.

still, for the first time since october, the future has given something back instead of taking. you close the laptop before the thought can become hope. your phone remains silent for another forty-three minutes.

you attempt to fill them with ordinary things. you carry the empty mug from your desk to the kitchen, rinse it, wipe down a counter that does not need wiping and return to your room only to realise you have left the phone beside the sink. by the time you retrieve it, there are three messages from jaemin.

[jae-theman; 20:31] did they win

[jae-theman; 20:34] should i assume your silence means no

[jae-theman; 20:35] do i need to prepare a speech

you lean against the kitchen counter, chuckling.

[20:36] they won

his response takes longer than usual.

[jae-theman; 20:38] good

that is all. no insult concerning your strange little friend, no claim that his well wishes were responsible for the result. only good, sitting alone on the screen with a sincerity that makes you look at it for longer than necessary.

[jae-theman; 20:39] you can breathe again now

your fingers still.

you tell yourself there is nothing strange about the message. he had seen you before the broadcast, had watched you check the time and insulted the way your leg bounced beneath the table. jaemin notices things because that is what he does, storing your habits somewhere behind the careless expression he wears whenever you catch him looking.

even then, a faint unease moves along the back of your neck. before you can answer, jeongguk’s name replaces the conversation.

the phone nearly slips from your hand. you accept the call and lift it to your ear, only to pull it away again when noise bursts through the speaker. several voices overlap in the background, somebody shouts close enough to the phone to distort the sound and jeongguk laughs - a full, breathless laugh you have never heard from him before.

“hello?”

“we won!”

you press the volume button twice. “yes, i gathered that from the broadcast, the photographs and your four separate announcements.”

“i only told you twice.”

“you told me once before it happened.”

“that doesn’t count.”

“why?”

“because we hadn’t won then.”

you return to your room with the phone against your ear, closing the door behind you while another cheer erupts on his side. there is movement in every sound he makes, the rustle of fabric and a door opening before the noise dulls slightly.

“where are you?”

“hallway.”

“are you allowed to disappear?”

“i didn’t disappear.”

“you left the room without telling anyone.”

“i told hyung.”

“which one?”

jeongguk pauses. “one of them.”

you sigh, “very convincing.”

“why are you interrogating me?” he asks, though amusement continues to soften his voice. “i called to tell you we won.”

“you already told me.”

“not like this.”

your hand tightens around the phone. he is right. the messages had carried the fact, but not this: the unevenness of his breathing, the smile stretching certain words and the disbelief that still catches whenever he says won. somewhere behind him, a door opens and somebody calls his name. jeongguk answers that he will be back in a minute before moving farther away.

“did you cry?” you ask.

he exhales shakily, “no.”

“liar.”

“i didn’t!”

“your voice sounds strange.”

“we were singing.”

“you are a singer. that should not injure you.”

he makes an offended sound. “i called you first and you’re making fun of me.”

“i doubt you called me first.”

there is a pause, brief enough that somebody else might have missed it.

“after my parents,” he says.

something shifts beneath your ribs. you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, pushing one of the cushions out of the way with your free hand. “you should go back. they’re celebrating.”

“i am celebrating.”

“in a hallway?”

“i wanted to call you.” his answer arrives without hesitation, too simple to defend yourself against. you look towards the laptop, its dark screen now reflecting only the room you have somehow begun to recognise as your own.

“why?”

“because you watched.”

“millions of people watched.”

“i didn’t ask millions of people.” a door slams somewhere on his side, followed by footsteps and a voice shouting something you cannot make out. jeongguk covers the speaker, though his laugh still reaches you in softened fragments. when he returns, he is breathing harder.

“i have to go soon.”

“then go.”

“you always tell me to leave.”

“and you never listen.”

“i listen sometimes.”

“name one occasion.” silence follows. you wait, lips pressing together when it stretches long enough to become an answer of its own. “see?” you say.

“you told me to enjoy it.” the humour leaves his voice so gently that it takes you a moment to notice.

“i did.” outside your window, somebody drags a chair across a balcony. traffic moves below in brief flashes of white and red, ordinary life continuing several floors beneath a night that people will remember for years.

“a little?” you ask.

“a lot.”

“good.”

“were you worried?” the question strikes too closely. you bend forward, resting your elbow against your knee while your gaze settles on the floor.

“about whether you would win?”

“yes.”

you consider lying. the strange thing is that both answers would be true. “a little.”

“but you knew we could.”

“that isn’t the same as knowing you would.”

“you looked like you knew when we talked.”

“i was trying to make you less annoying.”

“it didn’t work.”

“clearly.”

he laughs again, quieter now. you close your eyes and allow yourself to listen. years from now, after the accident, people will circulate recordings of his laughter as if sound can preserve a person. they will collect clips, interviews and songs, gathering every remaining piece of him into enormous digital monuments nobody knows how to leave. you had believed you understood the cruelty of that until now. the recordings never contained the warmth of a phone against your ear. they never paused to breathe.

“jeongguk,” you begin, though you do not know what is supposed to follow.

“hm?”

congratulations. i am proud of you. you are going to be fine. please do not die. each sentence presses against the back of your teeth.

“you did well,” you settle on. “all of you did.”

for once, he does not ruin the moment with a joke. “thank you.” his voice is so soft that the celebration behind him almost swallows it.

“go back before somebody finds you and confiscates your phone.”

“they can try.”

“terrifying.” you cant help but roll your eyes.

“i’m serious.”

“so am i. go.”

another voice calls him, closer this time. “i’ll message you later,” he says, a sigh escaping his lips.

“you should sleep later.”

“i’ll message you before sleeping.”

“that was not permission.”

“bye.”

“jeongguk-”

the call ends.

you lower the phone and stare at his name until the screen goes dark. the apartment falls quiet around you, but it is no longer the same quiet that had met you in your own living room months - or years - from now. this one contains the faint ringing left behind by his voice. it contains seven people celebrating somewhere across the city, a trophy being passed between hands and tomorrow waiting to turn tonight into history.

before arriving here, you had thought history was made from events. dates, releases, victories, losses; points arranged neatly enough that a person could move through them without touching anything. you know better now. history is also a boy leaving his own celebration to stand in a hallway because he wants to call you. it is jaemin asking whether he needs to prepare a speech and your mother complaining about the kitchen light being left on. it is sweat beneath stage makeup, unread messages and all the ordinary minutes cut away before the footage reaches the future.

and now, somehow, you are inside those minutes. your phone vibrates once more.

[jae-theman; 21:04] are you breathing or did the little one kill you

your thumb moves over the keyboard, smile already gracing your lips. 

[21:04] he isn’t little

the response arrives almost immediately.

[jae-theman; 21:04] still what offended you?

you stare at it, an odd laugh pressing against the soreness inside your throat. nothing has changed. the thought comes more gently this time. then, before you can stop it, another follows.

not yet.

there are mornings in which you still keep your eyes closed for several minutes after your alarm goes off, not because you are tired - though you are, constantly, perhaps being seventeen for the second time around requires more energy than anyone bothered warning you about - but because there is always that short, pathetic stretch of time in which you can pretend that you don’t know what will be waiting for you once you look.

the mattress has stopped feeling too small. that bothers you.

you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket closer underneath your chin as the phone beside your pillow vibrates for what must be the third time. you ignore it.

the pillow smells like your shampoo now. that bothers you too.

there had been a time, not even that long ago, when everything in this room had smelled like somebody else. the perfume sitting on the shelf, the detergent your mother buys, the wood of the desk, even the blankets had belonged to a girl whose photographs covered the walls but whose memories seemed to have been locked somewhere your consciousness could not reach.

now there are your books stacked beside the bed.

not hers. yours. you had bought them. you know where and you know how much you paid.

one of them still has the receipt folded between page forty-three and forty-four because you needed something to mark the passage and were too lazy to stand up.

you hate that you know that.

your phone vibrates again.

“oh my god.” by now, your mother must now that you are awake. 

your hand emerges from underneath the blanket and blindly searches across the mattress until your fingers close around the stupidly small device.

the screen illuminates.

jeongguk

of course.

you don’t open it immediately, squinting against the light instead. according to the little numbers at the top of the screen, it is barely past seven in the morning. you halt, debating whether you should just block his number or try to keep the goodness of your heart intact for just one more day.

you choose the latter. he is in japan, there is a time difference, at least not enough of one to justify this. sighing, you open the conversation.

[jeongguk; 06:58] yo wake up

sent six minutes ago.

[jeongguk; 06:59] wake upppp

[jeongguk; 07:01] are you dead

you stare at the final message, your thumb stills against the screen. maybe you should just block him.  though for a second, only a second, something cold brushes along the inside of your ribs.

he doesn’t know. obviously he doesn’t know.

to him, death is still something that happens to grandparents, strangers, tragic figures on the news; something distant enough to throw casually into a message when your friend refuses to answer before breakfast.

you breathe out through your nose. it passes, as most things do now. that may be the worst part, but you just swallow the lump in your throat and move on. life goes on, it doesn’t care that you aren’t ready for it yet. 

you type.

[07:08] unfortunately alive

the answer comes so quickly you suspect he has been staring at the conversation.

[jeongguk; 07:08] ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

[jeongguk; 07:09] look

a photograph follows.

it takes several seconds to load, which gives you enough time to become annoyed at technology all over again, though when the picture finally appears you find yourself staring at what seems to be a badly framed poster somewhere backstage.

half of jeongguk’s thumb covers the bottom corner. the lighting is horrible. the photograph is tilted.

you would expect nothing less. and printed across the center, in letters large enough that even his photographic crimes cannot hide them:

WAKE UP: OPEN YOUR EYES

you stare longer than you should, suddenly hyper aware of where you are and what you are doing. 

wake up.

open your eyes.

your jaw tightens. “fuck off.”

another message appears.

[jeongguk; 07:10] cool right

you let your head fall back onto the pillow. of course he would send you that. not because he knows, because he doesn’t. because to jeongguk, wake up is the name of an album, a tour, another thing they have worked themselves half to death for and are now taking across japan; another step forward in a career he still speaks about with an odd mixture of pride and embarrassment, as though admitting how badly he wants it might somehow make wanting it dangerous.

to you, waking up has become an act of losing something. every morning you open your eyes and your old apartment does not return. your university does not return. your office remains fifteen years away, if it exists at all.

your mother is still young enough that the lines you remember around her mouth have disappeared, and you atart to forget what the roughness of her hands caressing your cheek feels like.

you stop. no. not now.

your phone vibrates in your hand. your black screen, which at first showed you the reflection of your double chin and crusty eyes, now brightens up with his message. the wallpaper of the previous owner unchanged. looking away from the selfie of jaemin and you, your eyes now focus on his message.

[jeongguk; 07:11] ???

[jeongguk; 07:11] you hate it

you blink, thumbs pressing onto the wrong letter far too many times than you would like to admit.

[07:12] what

[jeongguk; 07:12] the poster

[jeongguk; 07:13]you didn’t say anything

a laugh leaves your nose before you can stop it.

there it is.

jeon jeongguk, future global superstar, currently offended because you have failed to praise a photograph he did not even take properly.

normal. somehow he has become frighteningly normal.

you zoom in on the picture despite yourself.

[07:14] it looks good

you hesitate. then add:

[07:14] your photography does not

three dots appear.

[jeongguk; 07:14] mean

[07:14] your thumb is covering the title

[jeongguk; 07:14] you can still read it

[07:14] that is not the point

[jeongguk; 07:15] you understood it though

one eye twitches as you stare at the screen. annoying little shit.

[07:15] go prepare for your concert

there is a pause this time. long enough that you assume he finally listened.

you place the phone beside you and sit up slowly, pushing your hair away from your face. the room is cold. february has turned the window into something almost hostile, and you can already hear your mother moving around the apartment, cupboard doors opening and closing, water running somewhere in the kitchen.

three months. the thought appears quietly. not with panic anymore. that’s new. three months have passed since you woke up here.

october had become november before you understood what happened. november became december while you were still trying to reproduce the conditions of that night like some desperate scientist with absolutely no ethical approval.

you slept on the couch. nothing. you tried the breathing exercise. nothing. you stayed awake until exhaustion dragged you under. nothing. you fell asleep thinking about home. nothing.

once, embarrassingly, you even placed the notebook beside your head as though detailed documentation might somehow convince the universe to review your case.

nothing.

january arrived anyway, you had celebrated a new year you had already lived once. it was weird, still is. you mother still has made the same wish when she blew out the candles of your traditional new years cake, still hugged you with so much love and adoration. youn needed it, but still felt bad. you aren’t her real daughter, you think. 

and now it is february, it is still cold, more ao than back home. maybe the emotional coldness adds to the temperature outside, you’re not sure.

your phone vibrates against the mattress. you lazily turn your head to where you put it.

[jeongguk;07:18] nervous

the word is so simple that it takes you a moment to understand what he is actually saying. no joke, no excessive punctuation. no terrible photograph.

just: nervous

rolling over to lay on your side, you pull your knees toward your chest. some of your bones pop gently as you shift in your place, trying your best to get comfortable. this is another thing that has changed. months ago, every message from him made you remember a dead man. now, sometimes, a message is simply a message.

you don’t know exactly when that happened - you aren’t sure you want to know. your fingers move.

[07:19] good

three dots appear immediately.

[jeongguk; 07:19] ???? tf

[07:19] means you care

you think for a moment, lip pushed between your teeth.

[07:20] would be more concerning if you weren’t nervous

nothing. then:

[jeongguk; 07:20] that’s horrible advice??

you smile.

[07:20] i never said i was good at this

you look around your room, unsure about what you should do next. a minute passes.

[07:21] you’ll do fine

you stare at what you have written before sending it. there are a thousand other things you could say. you know pieces of what lies ahead. you know that the venues will become bigger.

that there will come a time when japan will not be some frightening foreign market they are trying to prove themselves in but one of many countries waiting for them.