Fire Side Story Time

Word count: 3425

Summary: Hongjoong comes home exhausted after work so you offer to take care of him. Use of babyboy/mommy.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, mild sub/dom dynamic, swearing (let me know if I missed any)

A/N: Inspired by this Wooyoung and Hongjoong VLive. Holy shit Hongjoong giggling when Wooyoung touches his faces took years off my life. This fic is so filthy and so soft at the same time I was really in my feelings guys.

The Town Out of Time

Summary:

During the heat of the summer in a small country town, you find meaning and belonging with a group of eight friends. But, no matter how determined you are to ignore it, something in this town is very, very wrong.

Author's note:

So this is kind of a weird idea for a fic. I read Pirate King by chaseatinydream (incredible) and it gave me the idea of doing a kind of choose-your-own adventure story with the members. The gist is that as you go to these different universes, you lose your memory and have to start over, finding the members and falling for them all over again.

If I actually go through with this, there will be three more canon universes, with the final universe being the culmination of the overarching plot, if that makes sense. Then if I really want to waste my life, I'll write universes for all eight of them.

As for the lore, I just kind of picked and chose which elements I wanted to include or exclude, so if it’s not mentioned, assume it’s not part of the story, and I also just made stuff up that isn't cannon like with the Cromer for example.

Warnings:

Pretty tame as fics go. Lots of angst and f e e l i n g s, some suggestive content, brief mentions of blood, implications of mental health issues and bullying.

Word Count: 28215

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

You’re alone, more than physically. You can feel the absence of people around you like you’ve been plunged into a cold bath. There’s nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

Then color, sound, sensation.

You pick yourself off the floor, rubbing at your nose, the back of your hand coming away bloody. 

“You alright, miss?”

It’s just some kid, looking more interested than concerned as she kneels in front of you. Her clothes are ragged, her hair matted and greasy, face splotched with grime with cheeks that are too sunken in to be healthy. 

“Miss?”

You haul yourself up, uneven cobblestones digging into your feet. 

“What are you wearing, miss? Where’re you from? What’s that?”

You look at what she’s pointing at, realizing you have a bag over one shoulder, and in your left hand, an hourglass with blue-tinted glass and a golden frame. 

A bell sounds, deep and thundering. The girl squeals and scurries away. You follow her retreat until you lose her in a side street. You’re in a town square, standing next to a moss-covered water fountain. The buildings around you are stout and weather beaten, the wooden sidings half-rotted and falling apart, covered in a white, crystalline substance that must be salt. You sniff, smelling sea air and among the other scents- too strong to be a cookfire- is smoke. 

When someone shoulders you in their attempt to flee, you realize that the square is quickling clearing. It occurs to you that it must have been a warning bell, but a warning for what?

“Oi, kid!” someone whispers through a gap in their door. “You soft in the head? Hide!”

All you can manage is an inarticulate, “Why?”

You can hardly bear to look at them as you follow them backstage. How can you possibly provide comfort? What words could you say to make this better?

“It’s worse than we thought,” Hongjoong says, eyes shining. 

San wraps his arms around himself. “It’s all falling apart too quickly. How are we supposed to fix this?”

“Mono, it all started with you,” Jongho says, fury and pain in his eyes, and you flinch back as he approaches. “You have to know something!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Anything! Just think.”

“Stop it,” Hongjoong says. “We need to keep calm.”

Wooyoung suddenly begins to march away, the others calling after him. “The only thing left to do is leave the city,” he explains. “My dad has a motorcycle. I’m going.”

“Wooyoung!” Hongjoong shouts.

“You have a better idea?”

“Take someone with you, idiot. We don’t know if it’s safe.”

Wooyoung looks at the group.

“You and me,” Yunho says, slapping his palm against Wooyoung’s. “I’m not going to sit around.”

You ask, “How long does it take to get to the city?” There’s a moment of silence before you understand why they don’t answer: they can’t remember.

“It doesn’t matter.” Wooyoung pulls Yunho along. “The second we see something different, we’ll come back.”

“We’ll wait for you at the factory,” Hongjoong says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

It feels overwhelmingly like defeat to help them out of the uniforms you helped dress them in, having never had the chance to be used. Conversation is attempted, but every attempt falls flat. San sits on one of the armchairs, hugging his knees while Jongho picks at a hole in his shirt. Seonghwa bounces his knee, watching Hongjoong as he paces back and forth.

“I shouldn’t have let them go,” he mutters. “I should have gone with them or… agh!”

With your knees held tight to your chest, you sit beside Yeosang on the couch, going over and over the few clues you have in your notebook. You add to it:

The group’s memories are getting even worse. Don’t know how long they have left

Your tears blot the page. You can’t remember your past, but everything else is clear in your head; are you going to be the only one left in this world? More alone than you ever thought possible?

Why am I different?

You underline it over and over until Yeosang’s stops you, rubbing his thumb over your skin. 

The hourglass on the table mocks you. What else could you do with it other than turn it? What else is it for?

As the others start to drift off, exhausted from the stress, you stare at the blue-tinged glass and the sand inside. Should you break it open? Scatter the sand to the wind?

“Mono!”

You jump, searching for the voice and coming to meet Yeosang’s eyes. “Who was that?” he asks. The others blink awake.

“Mono!”

Your head snaps to find the source, seizing the small radio. “Hello? Who are you?”

“There isn’t any time.” The voice crackles as if you aren’t tuned into the right frequency, but you don’t dare turn the dials for fear of losing it. 

Jongho tries to take it from you. “What the hell is-”

You snatch it out of his reach. “Quiet!”

“What’s going on? Why aren’t you back yet?”

“What? Who are you?”

“Shit…” There’s a pause. It’s too garbled to make out, but you think you hear others talking in the background. “This is why I wanted you to wait, Mono.”

“Just tell me what I have to do!”

“Are all eight of them with you?”

“No?”

“Then get them. Do you see the eight rings on the base of the hourglass?”

You glance at it, and a quick count proves there are in fact eight of them. “Yes.”

“All of them have to be touching them for it to work.”

You want to scream. “That’s what I had to do? Why- what will happen once we do?”

The man on the other end is quiet again. You’re about to shout at him when he says, “Oh, Mono, what happened to you? Look, you don’t have any time. If you stay in that place, you’ll be erased from existence. Find the others and turn the hourglass. I’ll find a way to help you afterward.”

“Did he say ‘erased from existence’?” Jongho says quietly, staring at the radio like it had grown a head. 

You shake it again. “Tell me what turning the hourglass will do!”

“It’ll take you where you all need to be. Please, trust me. And Mono, know that I believe in you. Always. And I’m with you, even if we’re not together.”

Radio static replaces his voice, and for a moment, all anyone can do is stare at it.

“Who the hell was that?” San finally says. 

“Wasn’t it…” Hongjoong swallows. “Wasn’t that my voice?”

You scoff at the absurdity, but… hadn’t you thought the voice was familiar?

San laughs without humor. “No way. There’s no way.”

“There’s two of me,” you argue.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Hongjoong takes a breath. “Right now, I think we should do what he says."

“What if we can’t trust him?” Seonghwa says. 

“Can we afford not to? We have to find the others.”

“They could be miles away by now!” Jongho says.

“Are we really going to be erased from existence?”

“How is that even possible?”

“What if Yunho and Wooyoung have forgotten what they need to do?”

“Enough!” Hongjoong slams his fit on the table, making the hourglass lose balance and topple. You and Yeosang catch it each with one hand, your heart in your throat. Hongjoong doesn’t lose his momentum. “There’s only one road leading out of town. We’ll leave a note for them here, and we’re going to follow that road until we find them.”

“And then what?” Jongho says.

“Mono is going to turn that hourglass.”

Reluctantly, you stand, packing your notebook, the radio, and the hourglass safely wrapped in your jumper into your bag. The group travels quickly on their feet, forcing you to almost run to keep up.

“He sounded like he knew you, like you were close,” Yeosang says. “More than that, he made it sound like you really are from somewhere else.”

You don’t know what to say, having no memory of it, so you just nod. 

“I don’t trust him.”

“It’s like Hongjoong said, we don’t have a choice.”

It goes unsaid as you get close to the outskirts of town: strange things are happening. You walk and walk, but never seem to get anywhere. The clouds in the distance stay in the same place, never moving. There’s no wind, no birdsong, even the sun has frozen in sunset. 

“Wait!”

The group skids to a halt, looking back. Jongho is pulling on Seonghwa’s arm several meters behind. 

“He just stopped!” Jongho says. 

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong barely stops himself from tackling his friend in his rush to reach him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Hongjoong? What are we doing here?”

Jongho drops his arm, but their leader shakes Seonghwa’s shoulders. “We’re finding Yunho and Wooyoung and we don’t have time to waste. Come on.”

“That’s right… How did I forget?”

“It doesn't matter. Come on.”

But barely a minute passes before another question stops the group. “Where’s Wooyoung?” Mingi says. “And Yunho? Why are we…?”

You grip Yeosang’s hand as if it will tether his memory to you. “It’s getting so much worse… We have to find them.”

You look to Hongjoong for support, but his face has crumpled with confusion. A sob escapes your lips, the only sound in a world that has become deathly silent, until the rumble of a motorcycle vibrates through the air. 

Wooyoung, Yunho sitting behind him, appears from a side road, almost crashing into Seonghwa before he leaps out of the way. At the sudden stop, the bike loses balance and Yunho and Wooyoung spill out over the street, getting covered in dust, clouds of it getting in your eyes and mouth. 

You help them up, making sure they aren’t injured, but Wooyoung draws away with unnecessary force. 

“What are you doing here?” Yunho asks, brushing the dust from his clothes. “Never mind. We- we…”

“It’s all over,” Wooyoung says and kicks the wheels of the bike. 

“What did you find?” 

“Ah, we- we-” Yunho looks down at his hand and you see he’s written: Find the others. The world is falling apart. “Ah! Just let me remember!” He hits his head in frustration and speaks quickly, a deep line between his brows as he struggles to keep his thoughts straight. “We followed the road out of town but there was this, this thing! It was like a mirage or something, I don’t know how to explain it, but it was getting closer so we headed right back into town.”

You’ll be erased from existence.

“How far away?” you ask.

Yunho and Wooyoung look at each other. “I can’t remember!” Wooyoung moans, holding his head. 

You tear the hourglass from your bag, ripping away the jumper it’s wrapped in. “Come on!”

No one responds. You let out another sob, hopelessness crushing your chest.

Yeosang squeezes your hand. “The hourglass, what was it for..?”

Looking at their faces again, it’s obvious none of them can remember either. You doubt they can even recall why they’re standing in the lane. How can you make them do what you ask?

As you kneel in the soil, you hear a sharp intake of breath. 

“Guys. look.”

You raise your head and follow Jongho’s gaze. He’s looking over the landscape. The sky shifts and roils, clouds twitching like dying animals. What should be trees and hedgerows undulate and twist, the houses and other buildings are nothing but color and shape. No matter what you focus on, the second you blink, it’s changed into something unrecognizable. It reminds you of the way heat rises off the ground when it's hot enough, blurring the air. Only a small area around the nine of you remains untouched.

“Falling apart.” Wooyoung stands frozen, the whites of his eyes catching the static light of the afternoon sun. “We’re going to disappear.”

You rush to Hongjoong, hoping his influence as their leader will have some effect, and shake him. “Tell everyone to come to me.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Hongjoong, please!”

“What’s wrong, Mono?” 

You whip your head around. Yeosang cocks his head as if he’s concerned about you. He remembered me, you realize. He’s still there.

“We need to try the hourglass.”

“Right…” he shakes his head. “Right… But why?”

“Yeah, why?” Wooyoung asks, prodding the glass. “What’s so special about it?”

You stand in the center of the group, unable to stop the tears. “Because I’m asking you. Please. Please!” You hold it out in front of you. “Everyone, take one of the rings on the base and hold on.”

Yeosang, hesitantly, comes forward. Then, as if remembering a fond memory as he looks at you, he smiles. “If it’s important to you, I’ll do it.”

The world around you crumbles. Your ears pop from a sudden change in pressure. Inches from your feet, the ground swirls like water. 

The others haven’t moved.

“You said you wouldn’t forget even if the world falls apart!” you shout at Hongjoong. “We promised that we wouldn’t let anyone forget us? Was that all a lie?”

“The hourglass,” he says dreamily, coming forward. 

“Hongjoong!”

His gaze focuses when his finger curls around one of the metal rings. “The hourglass! Everyone, come here!”

Your first instinct was right; Hongjoong’s voice commands the others forward, even if they can’t remember why they feel the need to listen to him. 

“That’s right! Everyone, the rings!”

They each touch the hourglass and you cry out in relief. There’s a dragging feeling against your entire body, as if you’re being pulled into a whirlpool.

You put your hand on the top of the hourglass, tears flowing down your cheeks. “You remembered me, Yeosang,” you say, and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

You wake as you feel Yeosang move away, carefully tugging his arm that is trapped underneath your side. You lift yourself to help him, chuckling groggily. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mm… What time is it?”

“Morning. The others should be here soon.”

Yawning, you kick your feet onto the floor, wincing as a shaft of light catches your eyes. “I suppose we need to tell them everything we talked about last night.”

Yeosang smirks shyly, leaning in to kiss your neck. “Everything?”

You shiver. “Not everything.”

Yeosang helps you work on their stage outfits, the act of focusing hard on a task making the hours pass waiting for the others to turn up more bearable. You don’t let yourself think about how pointless completing your work might be, it’s too painful. When they do arrive, there is none of their usual energy, replaced by an atmosphere of fatigue and anxiety. They too, seem to sense something is different as they come to arrange themselves in the seating to wait for you and Yeosang to speak. 

“We have a lot to talk about.”

With Yeosang, you explain your discoveries, witnessing the shock and confusion in each of them as they realize something as simple as their age had been misunderstood, assumed, and with that, the eventual understanding that none of this is explainable by normal standards. 

“The festival is in a few days,” Jongho says to no one in particular. “Are we still doing it?”

“Can I say something first?” Wooyoung raises his hand. “I got a call from the city. They want me to visit the company in a few days.”

“Are you going to go?” Seonghwa asks.

“I don’t know… With everything going on, how can I trust that any of it’s real, or that they’ll even remember me?”

“I don’t think we should be splitting up,” San offers. “Not now.”

“No. Wooyoung, you should go because of everything that’s going on.” Hongjoong rubs his thumb over his lower lip, thinking. “Is this happening everywhere else? I’ve been thinking about that recently. If we find out, we might get closer to answers.”

The group agrees on that logic, though no one is happy about the decision as it leaves Wooyoung to handle things on his own.

“And what about this hourglass thing?” Yunho says. “It’s too out of place to be meaningless.”

“Here.” You pull it from your bag and the eight of them stare at it. It’s about a foot tall, the delicate glass hinged to a ring of metal attached to a gold stand decorated with further, small metal rings. Fine golden sand trickles into the bottom section after Yeosang turns it, but nothing happens. Turning it, shaking it, rubbing it, has no effect.

“And ideas?” you ask.

No one does.

Seonghwa takes a turn spinning it. “If this was a storybook, turning it would do something magical. Maybe it’s just a normal hourglass?”

“It can’t be,” Yunho says. “It’s too strange.”

Hongjoong nods. “Keep thinking about it, everyone. And as for the festival, I say we do it.” You see the determination burning in his eyes, drawing in the rest of the members. “I don’t care if the whole world is falling apart.”

He turns to look at every member of the group, smiling at their expressions of determination. 

Rather than letting the fear get to them, the desperation makes them dance even more captivatingly and you have a hard time keeping your attention on your work. But, there is another reason your eyes keep being drawn to their formations: what if they start forgetting that too? As the days pass, you notice little things that tell you that the progress of their memory loss isn’t slowing down. They forget what time you’re supposed to meet, the name of their siblings, pets, they’re late to practice, forget what they’re saying mid-sentence. It happens so often that eventually, no one has the strength to bring it up. As a group, you’ve accepted that it’s happening, and you carry on regardless. 

Again, without having to discuss it, you’ve taken to spending your nights in the factory with Yeosang. You feel the hurt deep within your chest when, every so often, he looks at you like he can’t remember you. The expression always clears after a moment, but you know the day when it won’t. 

The day before the festival, you make the final adjustments to their costumes. You call them in between practice breaks to fuss over the details until everything is ready for a full dress rehearsal. With you as their sole audience, you watch from start to finish, keeping an eye on how comfortable everyone is, what needs to be adjusted, what’s working and not working. They all look incredible, and for the first time, you come to appreciate the unique beauty of each of them individually, but, as always, it’s Yeosang you can’t take your eyes off. It almost feels unfair to the others as you know they’ll ask for your feedback, but you don’t want to look at anything else. The way he keeps his eyes on you as he dances, sweat beading over his skin, mouth open in a pant, makes anything else impossible. 

As you predicted, they rush over to you when they finish, though the comments you give fall flat. Lingering between the nine of you is the knowledge that it probably doesn’t matter how perfect they are, or how beautiful the costumes if you’re doomed to be forgotten. But, somehow that knowledge only makes you more determined to see this performance through. Like Hongjoong said, even if the world is falling apart around you, you’re going to face it on your terms. 

Another night is spent in each other's arms, tangled together in the limited space of the couch. It seems like hours before you fall asleep, however, as every time you think of the festival, your heart races as if you’ve come to the edge of a cliff and looked down. 

The hourglass sits on the coffee table, glinting blue as the light of the moon shines through a hole in the roof. 

“Talk to me,” you whisper, wishing with your whole heart. That voice has to know more than you. It has to have answers. “Please, find a way to talk to me again.”

Of course, that voice might not have meant you well, but something about the way he sounded has you convinced that’s not the case. It was the voice of someone who had been shouting your name over and over, and then realized you’d finally heard them. You have to believe they want to help you. 

The day of the festival, the world is quiet.

The others arrive, wearing strained expressions, trying and failing to muster some enthusiasm. You think it’s a miracle that they’ve all showed up on time, that they’ve remembered the festival at all. Perhaps because it’s been the only thing in their heads for days, it’ll be one of the last things to be forgotten.

Your stomach is churning with nerves as you approach the school, holding Yeosang’s hand as tight as you can. Yunho and Wooyoung try to recreate the usual banter, but their jokes fall flat. Even Hongjoong has no words of encouragement, though the determination hasn’t left his eyes for a moment. 

The roads are busier than usual with families and students heading to the school, but you can’t help but feel that the atmosphere is wrong. This should be a day of celebration and fun, but it’s as if the town is sleepwalking through it.

You feel encouraged when you see that the schoolyard is decorated for the festival with a huge yellow banner over the gates, food stalls and stands offering carnival games creating a walkway to the main stage. Already, people are walking around, buying snacks from the stalls, playing games, or chatting in small groups. 

“Come on, come on,” Wooyoung says. “We need to get ready.”

He leads the way behind the stage. The students and volunteering staff greet you politely and continue with their preparations. Hongjoong gives one of the volunteers the cassette tape with their songs, and a note with instructions about when to play them. All that’s left is to help them all into their stage outfits, giving each of them words of praise and encouragement. As you make last-minute repairs to San’s first stage outfit, he keeps his eyes on the floor. “My mom didn’t recognize me yesterday,” he says. “She didn’t scream like you would if you saw a stranger in the house, she just looked confused that I was there at all.”

“Oh, San…”

“And on the way here, I got lost. I don’t mean that I got turned around or anything, but I was heading in the right direction and then suddenly I was at the start of the street I had just walked down. I had to use a different route altogether.”

“We’ll find a way to stop it.”

He looks at you, tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to disappear, Mono.”

“Me neither, San. We’re going to stop this.”

“Is everyone ready?” Hongjoong says, standing on his tiptoes to do a headcount. The group comes to stand in front of him. You hang back, but Yeosang pulls you forward with him. 

“Alright,” Hongjoong says, showing his teeth in a grin. “You guys don’t look half bad. Well done, Mono.”

You incline your head, cheeks flushed while the boys pat your back and echo Hongjoong’s praise. 

“We’re going to kill it,” Hongjoong says. “Have fun out there, I’m proud that I get to perform with such a talented group.” His eyes fall on Yeosang. “And thank you for forcing us off our asses. You and Mono are the reason we’re here.”

One of the volunteers appears, telling them they have thirty seconds until they have to go on. You think you’re probably the most nervous, unable to understand how they can be smiling at a time like this. You make one final check of their outfits, leaving Yeosang for last. 

“Wish me good luck?” he asks, putting his hands on your waist.

You smile as he pulls you in for a kiss, ignoring the others' over-the-top reactions. “Good luck.”

At their cue, they walk up the stairs to the main stage and you run out to the yard so you can find a space in the crowd. Maybe because you’re so nervous for them, but you don’t notice how quiet the crowd is until the boys’ have got into formation, waiting for the music to start. You feel yourself getting angry at the lack of reaction; aren’t you supposed to cheer when someone comes on stage? You look at the face of the person to your right, and a shiver grips you at the sight of his expression. He’s blank as a canvas, and as he notices you watching him, he asks, “Is it the school festival today? Who’s that on stage?”

The music still hasn’t come on. 

The school’s bell chimes from the clock tower, making you yelp in surprise. As you run backstage, it occurs to you that it shouldn’t have gone off at all: it’s well past midday. Something is very wrong.

You find students and staff wandering around the backstage tent, or just staring blankly at their half-finished tasks. The sound system is close by, the volunteer Hongjoong gave the cassette to hovering with her finger over the button. She doesn’t react when you press it.

The first song starts and you run back out into the crowd, but you stop in your tracks. The energetic music plays, but again, the crowd is motionless, expressionless. You look to the stage and see the group grind to a halt, looking at one another in confusion. 

You grip your stomach, thinking you might be sick: they’ve forgotten, haven’t they? The routines they’ve practiced so hard- they’ve all been forgotten. Pushing past the gormless people in the crowd, you come to the foot of the stage. Yunho sees you first, staring down with tears in his eyes. “I can’t remember it. Why?” The second song starts and you watch his thoughts play out in his head. Hope that he’ll be able to remember, then despair when he realizes he can’t. “This can’t be possible.”

The atmosphere inside the factory is feverish with desperation. As the day comes to an end, the building is lit with lamps scattered around the place, making it hard to see your stitching in the low light. The same sections of music play over and over as the boys drill the routines into their heads, and debate changing the smallest details to make them perfect. Intermittently, you call them over to try the outfits on, appreciating their words of encouragement as you wonder how you will ever manage to finish. 

None of you leave that night feeling satisfied, but Hongjoong insists that you should all rest to regain your energy, and you have to be at home to take Yeosang’s call. 

You leave the factory with the others, the sudden chill of the night catching you by surprise. The stillness of the town at night unnerves you, and you wish you had Yeosang to walk you home, even though it damages your pride somewhat. 

You touch Mingi’s arm, knowing that he lives in the same direction as you. You feel the need to whisper as you say his name.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry to ask, but could you walk home with me?”

His large hand pats the top of your head. “Of course.”

Perhaps it’s the acceptance that something unbelievable is taking place in this town, but the quiet ambiance and locations of the countryside you’re so used to have taken on a sinister energy, and you’re glad to have Mingi with you even if he seems to be just as unnerved as you are. 

At the entrance of your house, he gives you a quick hug and wishes you goodnight, hesitating before continuing down the lane. 

“Be safe!” you call after him, making him jump.

Eating your dinner, you sit on the floor of the hallway, waiting for Yeosang’s call. You set the plate down, barely touched as your stomach roils with anxiety. Is it really your fault this is happening to the boys? Is there anything you can do to stop it? You couldn’t say it at the time, but you doubt that the summer festival will solve anything, but how could you shoot them down like that? They’re already fighting against it, and you can’t take that from them. 

And what San said, that everyone was happy to ignore… Could they really be forgetting like everyone else in the town? What made him think that? And, if it is the case, isn’t your proximity to them slowing down the process instead of hastening it?

Everything has changed, just like you had feared, you just hadn’t thought this would be the way it would happen. 

Yeosang still hasn’t called you an hour after he said he would, worry bubbling inside your chest until you can’t take it anymore, ripping the phone off the hook and dialing his number. It rings for a few moments before a man’s voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hello,” you say politely, assuming this is Yeosang’s father. “I’m Yeosang’s friend, is he home?”

When he takes several seconds to answer, you think the connection must have been lost, when finally, “Yes. Yes, he’s here. Do you want to speak to him?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sorry, who are you again?”

“A friend from school.”

“Oh, yes. One moment.”

You hear movement on the other end, then a muffled, brief conversation. 

“Mono?”

“Yeosang.” You sigh and collapse against the wall in relief. “Where have you been?”

“Me? Oh! I’m so sorry.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I think the heat has cooked my brain, I keep messing up today.”

Your heart sinks like a stone, but you swallow down the feeling of dread. “How was dinner?”

“Dinner? Oh, fine. Did you get home okay?”

“Yeah, Mingi took me. Hey, Wooyoung sent his reply letter today.”

“Really?” Yeosang chuckles, and you can just imagine how the corners of his mouth turn up, how his eyes wrinkle. “I’m happy for him.”

“It’s a shame you couldn’t be there.”

“We’ll have to throw him a party or something so we can all be there.”

“I think he’d like that.” You pull on the phone cord. “Yeosang?”

“Yes?”

“Can I talk to you about something important tomorrow?” You know you should talk to him about it all right now, but is it so wrong to want normalcy to last a little longer? 

“Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly, but it is important.”

“Okay…”

“Meet me at the factory in the morning then?”

“I will. Are you sure you can’t tell me now? I’m only going to worry.”

“Please, don’t make me say it now. I promise, tomorrow, I’ll tell you everything. Just… let me have today.”

Yeosang is quiet for a few moments, then, “Okay, Mono. Tomorrow.”

After he hangs up, you stay with the phone at your ear for several minutes, listening to the dial tone. You’ll have to tell them about that voice too, though that might finally be the thing that makes them think you’re crazy. You’re half convinced you imagined it yourself.

With nothing else left to do, you pull a blanket around yourself and lie on your bed, but sleep won’t come. In your head echo the voices of your friends, the memory of their laughter bittersweet. Now that you’ve experienced being a part of them, the loneliness of your house is unbearable, as if you’ve been plunged into an ice bath after steaming in a sauna. You can’t ignore it any longer, the mystery of who you are, where your parents are, why it’s as if they moved away, taking all but the furniture with them, and leaving you behind. 

You swing your legs out of bed and throw a change of clothes and your blanket into your bag, dressing warmly in a jumper and sweatpants. There isn’t anything else to pack other than the school record, still in the wardrobe of the master bedroom where you left it. And then, on a whim, the hourglass.

It’s a cold, dark walk back to the factory with nothing but the moon and a wind-up torch to light the way. Maybe because you’re alone and you aren’t used to the country roads at night, but it’s as if you keep getting turned around, streets you think you recognize shifting until you feel like you’ve never seen them before in your life. It takes twice as long as you thought before you finally see the factory towering over the stout country houses in the distance. 

As soon as you enter, you feel comforted. It smells like the tea you all had before leaving for the day, and Yunho has forgotten his jacket over the arm of the couch. With these little reminders of their presence, even alone, you don’t feel like you are. It might not be smart to sleep in this place on your own, but at this moment, anything feels better than another night in that house that’s empty even of ghosts. 

You cross your legs on the couch, pulling your blanket around your shoulders. The wind-up lamp sits on the table, casting a warm light in a small radius around you. Already, you feel sleep tugging you further into the cushions.

“Who’s there?”

You yelp, eyes tearing open as you have just been drifting off. You pick up the lamp and wield it like a weapon. 

“Mono?”

You squint through the darkness. “Yeosang?”

He approaches, a bemused smile on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I-” He shakes his head. “You first.”

Coming down from the adrenaline spike, you fall onto the couch. “I just didn’t want to be at home. I couldn’t sleep.”

Yeosang joins you. “Don’t tell me you came here by yourself.”

“Well, so did you.”

“That’s true, I suppose.”

“See? I told you we were both idiots.”

He chuckles, resting his head on the back of the couch, looking at the ceiling. “I guess I might as well tell you why I’m here then. I didn’t want to be at home either.”

“Why not?”

“If I tell you, would you believe me?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” Yeosang takes a breath. “When I went home for that family dinner, they were strange. I got in and I shouted that I was home, but no one answered, so I went to look for them. I found my mom and dad already having dinner without me. I asked them why, since I wasn’t late, but…” You wait for Yeosang to gather his thoughts, though you already have an idea about what happened. You gently take his hand, grateful beyond words when he interlocks his fingers with yours. “For a second, it was like they didn’t know who I was, like it didn’t occur to them to make enough food for three, or to set another place at the table. They apologized, but when I kept asking them about it, they couldn’t understand what was so strange. Then dad noticed that my clothes were wet and he asked me where I’d been. I didn’t say, but he figured out I’d been messing around with everyone. He doesn’t really approve of my friends, you could say. We fought, and, here I am.” He looks at you with wide, expectant eyes.

“I believe you, Yeosang.” You raise yourself on your knees so you can lean over to embrace him. “But, I need you to listen to me for a second.”

“Okay?”

“You forgot to call me, remember? I had to call you, and when I did, your dad answered.”

Realization widens his eyes. “Right... Right, I got confused. I got home, they’d had dinner without me, we fought… Then you called and I came here.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “What’s going on with me? I keep getting things mixed up.”

You pull him towards you, dreading having to say what San had realized before everyone else. He buries his face into your shoulder, making you tingle pleasantly at the feeling of his skin against yours. “It’s all connected, isn’t it,” he mumbles, “the way people treat you, what’s happening to my family.”

“It’s what I needed to talk to you about,” you say, drawing back.

Taking a steadying breath of your own, you explain the events that transpired when you entered the school alone, then, everything that happened after Wooyoung posted his letter.

“But, what’s so special about the nine of us?” he asks once you’re finished. “Why aren’t we forgetting as quickly as the rest of the town?”

You shake your head, clueless. “Yeosang, does your life make sense?”

“What do you mean?”

From your bag, you bring out your school record. “For me, it’s more than just being forgotten. My life doesn’t make sense. I can’t remember things that should be obvious. I lied about my last name, Yeosang. It’s Seo, not Kim. I only found that out after I looked for my school record.” You tap the file. “I’ve been too scared to read it until now; I’ve been running away from it, but I know that I can’t anymore.”

He looks at the file. “So, you think there'll be things in there that you have no idea about? That you can’t remember?”

“Yes. And if there is, then there’s proof that I had a life before that I’ve completely forgotten. Honestly… I have no memory of my parents, or growing up here. Everything began a few weeks ago on the first day of school.”

“How is that possible? How can you not have questioned it?”

“I didn’t realize anything was wrong.” You squeeze your eyes shut, remembering the morning of that first day. “I woke up on the floor of the kitchen with this strange hourglass next to me. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I didn’t think twice about why I was there, what had happened. I found a school uniform hung up in the closet with ‘Mono’ embroidered on the collar, so I put it on and followed all the students walking to school, thinking that was what I was supposed to do, assuming 'Mono' was my name. 

“It was the same even then- everyone treated me like I wasn’t there, but I went home that day after school ended with a new life. Until just recently, I didn’t question anything, not why I can’t remember my life, not why my parents left me here, not why I’m treated like I’m invisible. It was just the way things were.”

Yeosang shakes his head in disbelief. “What changed?”

You hold his hands between your own. “You looked at me.”

“I looked at you?”

“Mhm. No one had held my gaze like you had before. Not once. Since then, it was like something in me snapped, and I started to realize how unnatural everything was. I started to question what I had taken in stride before.”

“This is crazy. How can this be real?”

You flip open the front page of the file. “Seo Mono…” You scan the introduction page with all of your basic information. That date of birth is unfamiliar to you, your parent’s names, and even the place you were born doesn’t spark any memory. 

“You’re seventeen?” Yeosang almost chokes on his shock.

You stare at the numbers. “I’m a high school student, aren’t I? What’s with that reaction?

“There’s no way you’re seventeen.”

“Well, how old are you? You look as old as I do at least.”

“I’m seventeen!”

A beat passes between you and you both run to the mirror to pull and prod your features. 

“Why the hell did I think I was sixteen?” Yeosang pulls the skin of his cheeks back. “We look like we could be in our early twenties- why didn’t I notice that before? But our classmates are all the right age... Why on earth are we going to high school? How did we not notice earlier?”

With Yeosang, you slide your back down the mirror until you’re sitting on the floor. “Something happened on that first day of school, or I suppose it would have been a little before then. Maybe something so crazy happened that we all came up with lives that do make sense to cope with it."

“But I remember my life before that,” Yeosang insists.

“What’s your name?”

“Kang Yeosang.”

“Your parents?”

“I remember them too."

“When did you meet the others?”

“I moved here a few years ago. I was much more shy back then so I tried to join some clubs to make friends. It didn’t really work, but the guys took pity on me, I guess, and let me into theirs.”

“What primary school did you go to? What’s the name of this town?”

Yeosang frowns. “I remember going to primary school but… what was it called? This town as well… I should know.” The look on his face breaks your heart. “I’m forgetting everything, aren’t I, Mono?”

“I won’t let that happen. I won’t.”

He shakes his head. “What else does your file say?”

You quickly fetch it and sit back down next to Yeosang, skipping through the pages about your test results and behavioral assessments. Finally, you come across a page of notes that confirm what you had feared. 

“Student ceased enrollment at the school upon the completion of her 2nd year to relocate with her family.” There are more notes about the logistics of transferring your school records, but you don’t bother to read them. Then you notice what again, should have been obvious. “This is from years ago…”

“So,” Yeosang says slowly, “doesn’t that mean…”

“There’s two of me. One that belongs in this world, that moved away with her parents years ago, and me.”

“Wait, did you say there was an hourglass next to you when you ‘woke up’?”

Your eyes widen, realizing that hourglass is yet another thing your confused mind has glazed over. Its presence stands out more than anything, but you had thought it was nothing more than a trinket. 

“Maybe it’s significant somehow?”

“But how? It’s just an hourglass.”

“Have you turned it? Maybe it’s magic.”

You want to laugh at the absurdity, but you can’t rule anything out. “I have. Nothing happens.”

You lapse into silence as you both try and puzzle through all the clues. Finally, frustrated, you tear another page from your notebook. “Let’s go through everything we know and see if anything stands out.”

Together, you create a timeline of events, starting with you waking up, and ending, for the moment, with you and Yeosang in the factory. Underneath that, you create a list of clues.

Hourglass: purpose unknown

Memory loss getting worse- how bad will it get?

We aren’t high schoolers

There might be two of me. The original moved away

I can't remember my past, but Yeosang can

Voice on the phone. Knew my name

Yeosang stares at you. “What voice?” Then, after you explain, “It sounds like someone was trying to communicate with you, but was cut off somehow. You didn’t recognize the voice at all?”

“I did, but I don’t know from where. The connection changed it too much to be sure.”

Yeosang takes your pen and adds to the last bullet point.

Voice on the phone. Knew my name. Voice was familiar.

“This supports the idea that you aren’t ‘from’ here. Maybe this person knows this version of you, and is trying to reach you?”

You shake your head in confusion.

"And the rest of us, why are we older than we thought?"

"I have no idea, Yeosang."

“This is exhausting.” He collapses backward against the mirror. “Maybe we should stop for now. I can’t think anymore.”

“Mm. We should sleep. We might have better ideas in the morning with the others.”

When you make a move to stand, he takes your hand to keep you in place. “I have a really bad feeling, Mono.”

“We’ll be okay. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Don’t say that; you’ll jinx us.”

“I won’t let anything bad happen, how about that? All of this,” you gesture around the factory, at Yeosang, “means too much to me to lose.”

Yeosang flushes red, and you aren’t sure why until he raises your hand in his to press your knuckles against his lips. “You too,” he says haltingly. “You mean too much to me too.”

“Even though I don’t belong here?” you say quietly. 

“You belong here.”

When he leans closer, you slide your arms around his neck. The feeling of his lips on your knuckles couldn’t have prepared you for how they would feel against your mouth. You can’t know if you have any experience with this kind of thing, or if you just can’t remember, either way, you both allow the intensity to increase with a careful touch here, a soft noise there. You wait for him to change his mind, to come to his senses, but he only pulls you into his lap.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, unable to express how much more you want, and how badly. 

“Have you… done this before?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Me either.”

You fall into a new, comfortable routine, spending your days at school in empty art classrooms, cursing at the sewing machine and pricking your fingers with needles. But, slowly, the work gets done.

You spend your lunches in the canteen with the group and meet them again after school to head to the factory, watching them improve each routine under Yunho’s detailed eye. 

The next weekend arrives quickly and you’re the first to arrive at the factory, jumping straight back into your project. Dawn has barely broken and you’re sure the others will be sleeping in for hours more, but you would much prefer to be alone here than alone at home. 

The rhythmic thud of the sewing machine echoes throughout the factory for hours, until eventually, you have to take a break to rest your fingers and uncurl your back. You stand, stretching as you wander about the floor until you come to stop in front of the mirror.

Eight makes one team!

You find yourself smiling at the jealousy you feel. What would it be like, if you were one of them? Feeling foolish, you try to recreate a few of the moves. Your shoulder still aches a little, but you suppose you deserve it for doing something so reckless. “How did it go..?” you mutter, trying to twist your legs as San had done and laughing at your poor attempt.

The doors open suddenly, startling you so much that you scream, something you seem to be doing a lot lately. 

Mingi freezes in the doorway, one foot in, one foot out. “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

You scamper away from the mirror. “It’s fine! You just startled me.”

Mingi hesitates a moment longer before coming inside. He throws his bag on one of the chairs. “Why are you here so early?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Hm.” 

“I can go if I’ll distract you.”

“No, no, you don’t have to leave.” Mingi presses his lips together and sighs. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole. I didn’t mean to make you think I hated you or anything.”

“Then, why?” 

“Hah, you know what? Maybe I am just an asshole.” He laughs without humor. “You can stay, but I’m going to practice- that okay with you?”

You nod, but he’s already turned away from you, leaving you more confused than before. “Mingi?”

You thought he would be irritated, but he looks more nervous than anything. “Yeah?”

“Can you help me for a second? I want to see how this looks.” You hold up the silky material you had been working on and Mingi’s eyes widen.

“You made that?” 

You shrug and help him put it on, pulling the delicate fabric around his shoulders. It hardly works with his sweatpants and t-shirt, but you have faith that the item will come together paired with the other pieces you have in mind. 

“It’s really cool.”

“You think?” You gesture for him to spin for you so you can see all the details. From up close, you can see your poor sewing skills, but you suppose it will be fine for a performance seen from afar.

“Which song is this for?”

“The second.” You show him your notebook, realizing he hadn’t taken a look when it was passed around at lunch the day before. “Since the first song is quite informal and playful, I think just wearing your normal clothes would work. It would all have to be easy to change in and out of though… Which I’m still working on. Then for the last song, I’m going to make your blazers look more military-like since it fits the lyrics.

Mingi gives your notebook back and slides the material off his shoulders. “It’s really good.”

You frown at him. “Mingi? Are you okay?”

His hands tremble from how hard he grips the jacket. “Why did you have to get involved, Mono? Why are you here?”

His words are an arrow piercing straight through your heart. You can’t respond.

“I could have just walked away from everything; it was all falling apart anyway.” Tears drip onto the fabric. “Wooyoung would go off to the city, Yeosang would get a job with his dad, Hongjoong would find some high-flying job far away from here, and the rest of us would make do, and we’d all forget about this stupid dream that was never going to happen.”

“You don’t know that, Mingi.”

“I do.”

“You talking nonsense again?” You both jump at the new voice, finding Wooyoung entering the factory, hands in his pockets. “How selfish are you? You want the group to disband? What about Jongho, he’s finally passionate about something again. Either give up completely or stop complaining, but don’t drag us down with you.”

You press the jacket into Mingi’s hands. “You say it’s a stupid dream, but you’re here, aren’t you? You must believe in it at least a little.”

“Why is it always you giving me advice?” Mingi tells Wooyoung. “What the hell do you know about me, or Jongho for that matter? You’re a bigger hypocrite than I am.”

“Would you two stop fighting?” You snatch the clothing back and throw it on the couch. “You’re both here, why don’t you just talk it out right now and get it over with?”

Mingi looks between you both. “Screw that, I’m not-”

Wooyoung marches up to Mingi and points a finger in his face. “You’re one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. Better than me. Who cares if this stupid dream is doomed to fail- don’t you want to at least try? Don’t you want to give it your all before you throw in the towel?”

Mingi’s eyes narrow at Wooyoung’s speech, pointing his own finger at him. “That right? Well, you say I’m a better dancer than you? Then why was it you that got the offer from the city? If you believe a word of what you’re saying you would have accepted weeks ago. It feels like you’re making fun of us, waving it in front of our faces. Isn’t it you who should think about Jongho? You two are in the same situation, but he said yes immediately, if he didn’t get hurt, he’d be doing the best out of all of us.”

“I’m not-” Wooyoung’s jaw tightens. “Can you really not think of a single reason why I wouldn’t want to accept?”

“What reason could there be! It’s everything any of us wanted!”

You step back, wondering if they’re about to start fighting. 

“You’re scaring her!” Wooyoung pulls you in front of him.

“You’re scaring her!”

“Wooyoung!” You detach yourself from him. “Can I say something?”

“Oh, oh… yeah.”

“I have two guesses why you don’t want to leave, can I tell you?”

Eyes wide with surprise, he nods. You flip over the pages of your notebook until you find a blank one, writing two sentences in hurried handwriting. 

You show him, and his face softens from irritation into something like defeat. 

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“Can I tell Mingi?”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“What the hell is going on?” Mingi asks, running his hand over his face.

“Look, I was too embarrassed to say it before, but I guess all I’ve done is made things more awkward.” Wooyoung groans suddenly, ruffling his hair. “This is so embarrassing. Ugh, okay, the first reason I haven’t said yes is because I’m just… not as confident as I come across. Sure, I was the one that got the offer, but every single one of you guys is just as good as me in my opinion and Mingi, you’re just better, period. Do you know how guilty that makes me feel? I’m grateful, but at the same time, it hurts. I don’t deserve it.”

“Wooyoung-”

“Let me finish, and then make fun of me.” He pauses again, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Okay, and the second is a bit more simple. Don’t get me wrong, I want to leave this nowhere town more than anything, but don’t you remember the day that Yeosang joined us? When we came up with our motto? How can I just… leave that all behind? How can I leave all of you?” Tears spill from Wooyoung’s eyes but he doesn’t hide his face. “I want to leave, but I don’t want to leave all of you…”

You break first, tackling Wooyoung into a hug that he easily accepts. You’re surprised when Mingi joins so quickly, his warm arms draping over yours and Wooyoung’s shoulders, dwarfing you both in height. 

“You dumbass,” he mumbles in his low voice, more gravelly than ever as he holds back tears, “we don’t want you to go either.”

“Then I won’t go!”

“No.” Mingi shakes Wooyoung so hard his head snaps back. “We don’t want you to go, but you have to. Even if it’s just you that makes it, we’d all be okay. We’d be proud of you.”

“You wouldn’t hate me?”

“No, dumbass.”

“You wouldn’t forget me?”

“No.” Mingi chokes on his words. “Dumbass.”

Wooyoung drags his arm across his face, smearing snot and tears. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Promise me right here and now you’ll send that letter today.”

“I promise I’ll send it today.”

“Mono is a witness- right?”

“We can come with you, if you like?” 

“I would like that.” Wooyoung smiles. “But Mingi, you have to promise too: you’re going to give this school festival everything you’ve got, and you’re going to pursue this dream with everything you’ve got too. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for us.”

Mingi nods, his gaze on the ground.

Wooyoung slaps his cheeks, shakes his head. “Right, enough of all that emotional stuff- want to practice?”

A few at a time, the rest of the group arrives, greeting you and admiring your work before joining the others in front of the mirror. Yeosang comes just before midday, weighed down by a blue cooler. Seeing him, you rush to help, taking one of the handles and setting it down on the coffee table. 

“How’s your hand?”

He shows his palm, showing how the graze has mostly healed already. “It really wasn’t as bad as it looked, promise. I feel fine. What about you?”

You touch your shoulder. “Just a bruise. We really did get lucky, didn’t we?”

“I’ll take you home the normal route today,” he says with a laugh. “Have you eaten?”

You’ve been so focused on your work that you hadn’t noticed your empty stomach. Yeosang opens the cooler, revealing that it’s stuffed full of homemade snacks and dewy bottles of lemonade and juice.

“Woah, Yeosang!” San slaps him on the back. “You came through!”

You take a break with the group, clearing away the mess you’ve created on the coffee table. Seonghwa tunes the radio to play grainy music quietly over the meal, but the conversation soon drowns it out. Like you, however, Yeosang doesn’t say much from his place at your side. Your shoulders are pressed tightly together to allow San and Hongjoong a seat too.

With the meal finished, the boys sink into their seats, full and happy as house cats. The midday sun has cooked the concrete of the factory, making it almost unbearable to do anything other than lay still. 

“What do you wanna do now?” Yunho asks the group as he lies across the carpet, one hand on his stomach. 

Jongho flaps his shirt. “It’s too hot to do anything.”

San and Wooyoung spring up simultaneously, and say, “The pool.”

“What pool? The school’s pool?” Hongjoong asks.

“We’re not breaking into the school,” Seonghwa says. “No way.”

Wooyoung is already throwing his bag over his shoulder, grinning. “You stay here and melt then. Me and San are going swimming.”

“Screw that.” Mingi joins them, quickly followed by Jonho and Yunho. 

“The custodian might be there,” Hongjoong reasons, “and sometimes teachers come in on weekends.”

“And,” Seonghwa says, “if we get caught, they might ban us from the festival.”

That stops the boys in their tracks.

“I think I can make sure we don’t get caught.”

All eight look at you. 

“I- I know where they keep the keys for the gym.” You don’t, but you have some ideas, and by using your ability to be ignored, you suspect you’ll be able to come up with some way of not getting caught. 

“That doesn’t mean you won’t get seen,” Seonghwa points out.

“That part… just trust me. I can do it.”

San and Wooyoung pull you to your feet. “Let’s go then!”

Somehow, you end up hiding around the corner of the lane just before the school. The gates are locked, but easily climbable. 

“Okay. You guys wait here, and when I give the signal-”

“Mono…”

You turn your attention to Yeosang.

“What are you going to do?”

“Just trust me.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble for us.”

"I promise I won’t. Everything will be fine; just wait for my signal, and when I give it, climb over the fence and run to the gym.”

Yunho, as the tallest, gives you a hand over the fence. You wave to them before running straight to the school. It won’t matter if anyone sees you; it won’t cross their minds to care. 

You circle to the rear of the building, find the fire escape stairs that lead all the way up to the third floor, and start to climb, trying the fire escape door at each level: all locked. At the top, you’re sweating so much that it stings your eyes, but you’re determined to be useful, and so you wipe your brow and try the last fire escape door. Again, it’s locked. You try the window next to it and almost stumble when it shifts. You pull again, opening it all the way. With more than enough room to accommodate you, you lift one leg, then the other, over the ledge until you're standing in the third-year hallway. The faculty office (your first guess as to where to find a set of keys) is a short walk to the end, but the door is, of course, locked. You let out a noise of frustration, shaking the handle. Your next guess is the custodian’s office on the first floor, but when you turn to walk toward the stairwell, the door to the office clicks open.

Miss Lee stares at you, adjusting her glasses with a blank expression.

You speak first, mastering your surprise in hopes of taking control of the situation. “Is-Is there anyone else here today?” 

“Why?”

“Please answer the question.”

“There’s no one else. Why are you here?”

“Do you have keys to the other buildings in the school?”

“No. Why are you here?”

“Do you know where I can find them?”

“The custodian has a set in his office.”

“How do I get into his office?”

“You aren’t allowed.”

“I am. How do I get in?”

Miss Lee’s frown deepens. “I have a key for that room.”

“Could you give it to me, please?”

Slowly, she reaches into her pocket and retrieves a keyring. Your heart pounds in your ears as she gives it to you. You slide the one with the right label from the hook and give the rest back.

“Thank you. You should continue with what you were doing.” But, a thought occurs to you. Don’t schools keep records of their students? Their dates of birth, home addresses, parents’ names, wouldn’t all of that be in yours? And wouldn’t they be kept somewhere like the faculty office?

What do you have to lose? “Do you keep student records here?”

“Why?”

You don’t see any reason in making up an excuse. “I can’t remember my last name.”

The teacher frowns with the same expression you’ve seen on so many people, so many times, as if they’re looking at you, but they don’t understand what they see. Finally, she asks, “What’s your name?”

“My name? I just said- never mind. It’s Mono.”

Again, that confused frown. “Should be in the cabinet there.” She jerks her head in the direction of a row of alphabetically labeled filing cabinets. 

“I can look?”

The teacher blinks at you before nodding. 

You don’t find your name in the first place you look: under M, which means you have to check every file in every draw. Opening and shutting the squealing metal makes a lot of noise, but Miss Lee simply watches you with vague curiosity. 

Then, there is it. Seo Mono typed in simple black font. As if might suddenly combust in your hands, you gently slip the file out from between the others. Seo Mono. Is that me? You stare at the closed front page of the file for so long that your name blurs in front of your eyes. The name doesn’t stir any memories. Not one. You fish a pen from your bag and try writing the letters in your notebook, hoping the muscle memory will come to you, but again, no recognition sparks in your brain. 

“Seo Mono,” you say out loud. It doesn’t sound wrong, but it doesn’t sound right either. It might as well be someone else’s name. Unease building, you shove the file underneath the nose of Miss Lee. “Could you read this for me?”

“Seo Mono.”

You take the file away. “Look at me.” She looks, confusion wrinkling her brow. “What’s my name?”

She doesn’t answer. The file crumples as your fist tightens. No... it’s not that she won’t answer, she can’t. You can see from her expression that the knowledge simply isn’t there, like it wasn’t there for you moments ago. 

You’ve already taken too long here- everyone’s waiting for you outside, but when you thank the teacher and start to leave, her hand darts out and grabs you. The touch sends a shiver of fear through your body. Her eyes are suddenly lucid. “What’s going on?”

“What?”

“Seo Mono? You… you aren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t you leave? Years ago…”

You snatch your hand away. “Just forget that I was here, okay?”

You run to the other end of the hallway and hide behind the corner, waiting for her to come after you.

“What was I…” Miss Lee rubs her forehead before going inside the faculty office. 

What was that? It was as if she remembered me for a moment, but, what did she mean I ‘left’? When? 

Convinced that she won’t be following you, you run down all three flights of stairs, conscious that the others are waiting for you. 

The custodian’s office is a small room close to the front entrance, and through its window, you see a small desk with drawers, messy with tools and papers, an empty coat rack, and a stool. To your relief, the key unlocks the door, and it's a short search through the drawers until you find the ring of keys. This shouldn’t be so easy, you think, how am I going to explain any of this?

You shove your file in your bag before heading outside. You can see Hongjoong’s head poking around the gate to watch for your signal so you hurry outside, ducking behind a row of rose bushes that border the entrance. Like Hongjoong, you poke your head around the corner. When he spots you waving your hand, he grins. Like trained soldiers, the eight of them run single-file across the yard, leaving you to catch up when they reach the doors of the gym.

“The back entrance!” you whisper, maintaining the illusion that you managed this with stealth, not… whatever strange influence you have. 

“It’s locked!” Mingi tugs the padlock linking the handles of the backdoors. “You got the key?”

You hold it up like a trophy. “Of course I have the key.”

San catches the chain before it falls on the dirt, evidently trying to minimize the noise, and you push the door open.

It’s pitch dark until you find the light switch on the wall, illuminating the white tiles on the floor and ceiling, and the blue water of the indoor pool.

“Ah, smell that chlorine,” Yunho says, already removing his shirt. 

“Uh-uh.” Wooyoung walks towards the other end of the large room, where another set of doors leads to the outdoor pool. “I didn’t come all this way for that.”

“We’ll get caught!” Seonghwa whispers. 

The others look at you to answer.

“There’s only one teacher in the faculty office,” you say. “We’ll have to be quiet, but we won’t be seen.”

Seonghwa clenches his teeth but finally loosens up after Hongjoong shakes him. “Come on, you big baby, have some fun for once.”

His face scrunches up in a reluctant grin, letting Hongjoong and San pull him along. 

You and Yeosang are left walking behind as the other waste no tip sliding into the cool blue water of the outside pool.

“What happened in there?”

“Just trust me this once, Yeosang. I promise it was nothing bad.”

“But how did you get that key? Did you steal it?”

“I’m not telling you!” You dart away from him, becoming infected with the energy of the others. “Come on!”

You don’t wait to see his reaction, instead kicking off your shoes and throwing your outer-shirt next to them. In just your t-shirt and jeans, you lower yourself into the pool having barely resisted the urge to dive. The others cheer quietly as you join them in the water. You shiver at the cold touch against your skin, and can’t help but groan. “This is the best.”

Mingi, floating on his back like a starfish, hums in agreement. The others are all dowsing themselves with water to cool off, trying to suppress the excitement and instinct to play. 

“We’re going to get caught…” Seonghwa sinks down until only his head breaches the surface, his hair floating around him. “This is such a bad idea.”

He is firmly ignored.

Feeling proud of yourself, you take in the scene of the members enjoying themselves, suddenly realizing Yeosang hadn’t joined you. 

You find him with only his feet in the water, sitting on the edge of the pool, and walk through the water to him. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“I feel like I should keep a lookout.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Of course I would.” His eyes snap away from you suddenly and he shades them against the sun. You follow his gaze and notice the open front entrance that must have caught Yeosang’s attention. Miss Lee walks outside. 

Without thinking, you pull Yeosang into the water, using your body to lessen the splash. “Everyone, get down!” you say as loud as you dare. 

They react quickly, ducking below the water, leaving only their eyes above the surface so that no one can be seen looking over the pool. 

“Sorry,” you whisper to Yeosang, slowly releasing him from your grip.

When he grunts irritably, you feel the need to see his expression to know if he’s actually angry at you. He’s smiling, of course, and his hair has soaked up some of the water from the splash, sticking it to his cheeks and forehead. Single drops trickle over his skin, giving you the urge to wipe them away. You give into this urge, seeing the strand of hair stuck close to his mouth. The corner of your thumb brushes his lip by mistake, and you suddenly notice how close the two of you are. For the first time since you met, you let yourself have this thought: you want to kiss him.

“She’s gone!” Jongho hisses. He alone had the courage to peer over the edge of the pool. Vaguely, you remember hearing the gates open and close, but your attention had been elsewhere. You and Yeosang draw away from each other. Though the moment has been broken, the desire to kiss him hasn’t gone anywhere. 

“Didn’t you say she was the only one here?” Wooyoung says, swimming over to you.

“Yeah. We have the whole place to ourselves now.”

He shouts with happiness and lifts you out of the water by the waist, your scream of surprise joined by more shouts of joy and excitement as chaos takes over the pool. You see Yeosang scrambling to escape Mingi before Wooyoung blurs your vision by spinning you in a circle. When he tries to throw you, you hold deathly tight to his shirt and take him with you. All sound is swallowed by the water and you open your eyes, seeing Wooyoung’s scrunched-up face as he swims to the surface, and half a dozen pairs of legs kicking and running beneath the water. 

“Wooyoung!” you call once you're above water. 

He only cackles, taking off to cause trouble for one of the others. 

You rub your stinging eyes, smiling to yourself, proud that you were the one that made this happen.

You don’t know how long the nine of you play like kids under the summer sun, but even their energy runs out eventually, leaving you drifting on the surface of the water like dried-up leaves. San finds some float aids inside the gym, distributing them to the others. A foam noodle props you up as you rest your head and arms on it, eyes closed. Every few minutes, you’ll bump into one of the others, laughing sluggishly, half asleep, before pushing off each other to continue the aimless journey. 

“Mm… What time is it?” Yeosang mumbles. 

You chuckle, checking the clock tower he must be too relaxed to remember is there. “Almost five thirty,” you tell him, turning your head in the direction of his voice. 

“Mhm.”

You almost sigh when you see him. His eyes are closed, head, like yours, resting on a pool noodle. His t-shirt is sticking to his skin, translucent enough to show a little of the muscle underneath. Wet strands of blond hair trail along in the water around his ears, and the sun makes the moisture on his skin glow. 

It doesn’t seem fair that eventually this moment will have to end, but it does, abruptly, with Yeosang’s eyes snapping open. “I’m going to be late.” He hauls himself out of the pool, disturbing the calm of the rest of you.

“Where you going?” Mingi asks, almost slurring.

“I completely forgot I have a family dinner tonight."

You doggy-paddle to the edge of the pool, watching Yeosang squeeze the water out of his clothes. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine- just- we do the same thing every week, how did I forget?” He slips his feet into his shoes. “I’m sorry, I can’t walk you home today.”

You cross your arms on the ledge of the pool, resting your chin on them. “It’s no problem. I’m a big girl.”

Still, Yeosang’s expression is troubled. “I know that, it just worries me that you’re in that house alone. Shall I ask one of the others to walk you?”

“Yeosang, I’m fine. Go home and don’t worry about me. If I need someone to walk me home, I’ll ask.”

He crouches in front of you and ruffles your hair. “Okay, okay. Can I call you tonight?”

“Me? Why?”

“To make sure you got home okay.”

Seriously, he doesn’t play fair, you think, gazing up at his worried face. 

Yeosang leaves, and the rest of you try to get back to your sunbathing, but now the sun is lowering, you’re shivering in the water, your skin wrinkled and sunburned.

Hongjoong is the first to suggest that it’s time to leave.

“How did you get the keys?” Jongho asks, giving you a hand out of the pool.

“The custodian left the office open. I found them there.”

He frowns. “But how did you know they would be? You were so certain you’d be able to get us in.”

You laugh. “I was just trying to seem cool, Jongho. I was making it up as I went along.”

That seems to satisfy him, but your heart is pounding at the lies you’re having to tell. It isn’t that you think they’d reject you if you explained yourself properly, but that everything would change if you did. You want these lazy days drifting in pools and practicing in the factory to last as long as possible. 

Without fear of being caught, the eight of you walk across the yard to the gates, chatting about nothing, making plans for the next day. Yunho again helps you climb over the fence and you land with a thud and a cloud of dust on the other side, quickly followed by the rest of them.

On the route back to the factory, you enjoy the feeling of the mild sun drying your clothes and hair, content to let the others chat so you can listen to their voices. Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? You almost can’t believe how fast everything changed. 

“Mono.” Wooyoung comes up next to you and links his arm with yours.

“What’s up?”

“Should I tell everyone I’m going to accept the offer now?”

You grin at him, which is all the answer he needs.

He breaks away from you, running to the front of the group and then walking backward so he can look at them all. “Guys! I have an announcement.”

“They’ve found a cure for being loud and annoying-”

Seonghwa smacks Jongho on the back of the head. 

“Close! But no. Here it is:” he rolls his tongue in an imitation of a drum roll, “I’m accepting the offer from the city!”

The group erupts into whoops and cheers, Jongho the first to tackle Wooyoung and wrestle him into a headlock. “Finally!”

“Well done, Wooyoung,” Hongjoong says. “I’m happy for you.”

“When are you heading out there?” Seonghwa asks.

“Well, I haven’t actually sent the reply yet. I wanted to do it now… With you guys.”

Jongho tightens his arm around Wooyoung’s neck, rubbing his knuckles against his head, apparently unable to express himself in a more gentle way. After a few more slaps on the back and manly hugs, Wooyoung retrieves the letter from his bag. “Let’s do this.”

Wooyoung must have thought carefully about his moment because there is a postbox only a few minutes walk from where you are. With him standing in front of it, you and the others gathered around him in a semicircle, you cheer as he slides the letter through the opening. 

Seonghwa whines, crushing Wooyoung against his chest. “You can’t forget about us when you become rich and famous, okay?”

“Never.”

“And don’t forget where you came from,” Hongjoong adds. “Stay humble and grateful, always.”

“I will.”

“He’s not gone yet!” San says, holding Wooyoung against him protectively. “What changed your mind anyway?”

Wooyoung smiles at you. “Mono forced me to acknowledge what a coward I was being.” He hugs you so tightly your bones creak. “Thank you.”

“Don’t say it like that! I didn’t say anything about being a coward.”

Mingi puts his arm around you with a wink. “Whatever you said, thank you for saying it.” 

But as you continue the journey to the factory, you can’t help the guilt that seeps through the cracks of your happiness, like the mold in the corners of your ceilings. You know you’re a hypocrite, but it has never been so obvious as now. Why can’t you take your own advice and admit that you're a coward yourself? Why can’t you trust your friends enough to tell them everything? Why can’t you face the strange things that are happening to you, rather than pretending they aren’t there? 

You turn a corner and come face to face with Miss Lee. She studies you, that confused, vacant expression clouding her features. 

“Who… Why are you here?”

The boys look at each other in confusion, waiting for someone else to answer. You take a step forward. “We’re just going for a walk.”

She blinks, scanning her eyes across the others as if she had just noticed them. “Why are you here? And why are you soaking wet?” 

“We’re sorry Miss Lee,” Seonghwa says quickly. “It was so hot and we-”

“Shush!” you say. “Why are you here?” 

“I left my house keys in the office… Didn’t I see you there too? Or… But you’d left?”

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to worry about us, just go and get your things.” Miss Lee takes a step around the bend. You back away as well, flapping your hands to tell the others to do the same. She turns away briefly to look in the direction of the school, and when she looks at you again, she’s more confused than ever. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry, Miss Lee. We were just on a walk and happened to come past.”

“You’re soaking wet.”

“We jumped in the lake. It was so hot today.”

“Oh… I see. Then, enjoy your weekend.”

With the others, you run until your lungs begin to ache, and only stop when Yunho grabs your elbow. “What the hell was that?”

“We’re going to get banned from the festival now- what did I tell you?” Seonghwa complains. “She definitely knows we used the school pool.”

“How could she? She didn’t see us,” San says.

Yunho scoffs. “Who cares about that right now? Mono, how did you do that?”

“I don’t know. Really!” you say when his brows furrow. “It’s always been this way. People in this town have this weird reaction to me, like they only see me when I’m right in front of them. Like I don’t exist until then.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jongho says. “Why did she have the same reaction to us? I’ve had classes with Miss Lee and she’s never been like that.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen it happen to someone else.”

“No.” All look to Hongjoong, who paces the lane in thought. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”

“He’s right,” says Mingi, slapping Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Yesterday, my mom didn’t make me dinner.”

“What?” the rest of you say in unison.

“No, listen, why would she forget? I’ve lived with her my whole life, and eaten her cooking every evening for years. Why would she suddenly forget she has a son to feed? And the way she looked at me… it was the same as Miss Lee. It was as if she couldn’t remember me for a moment.”

“Now that I think about it, my friends from other classes have been ignoring me,” Wooyoung adds. “I thought I’d done something to annoy them, but maybe not?”

“What the hell is going on,” Yunho repeats. 

“I don’t know,” you say again. “But… If it’s starting to happen to you too, then doesn’t that mean it’s getting worse?”

Hongjoong lowers his hand from his mouth. “Worse? As in, if it keeps going, we’ll start forgetting too?”

“I don’t know .” You chew your lip. “Honestly, the reason I asked to join you guys was because you were different from. When everyone else couldn’t look me in the eye, Yeosang- you all saw me, and kept seeing me. So, judging by that, I think either we all have something strange about us that means we’re being forgotten, or, it’s my fault.”

“Why would it be your fault?” Hongjoong says. “How could any of this be your fault?”

“Because it started happening to you after I forced myself into your lives? I don’t know, it’s just an idea.”

“Guys…” San holds his shirt in his fist. “Are you sure we’re not forgetting?”

A moment of silence passes before Hongjoong says, “What?”

“No, never mind.”

Seonghwa shakes his head. “This is crazy. This isn’t a science-fiction story, we’re normal kids in a normal town. There has to be an explanation.”

Jongho shakes his head. “We’re being forgotten…”

“No. I won’t let that happen.” Hongjoong’s voice commands all to look at him. “The festival is a week away. We’re going to show everyone that it’s impossible to forget us, we’ll make them remember.”

“There’s nothing else we can do,” Seonghwa agrees. “I won’t let myself be forgotten.”

The same sentiment is echoed throughout the group. Hongjoong nods proudly, presenting his hand so that the others, including you, meet it with your own.

“No matter what happens,” he says, looking each of the members in the eyes, making you shiver at their intensity when they land on you, “I promise I will never forget a single one of you. We will always be a team.”

You raise your hands and shout in solidarity, but you can all feel the lack of one of your number. 

“What about Yeosang?” San says.

“He said he would call me tonight,” you say. “I’ll explain everything to him then.”

“What if he doesn’t believe you?”

“I'll make him."

“Okay, then we’ll trust you,” Hongjoong says. 

Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair. “What do we do now, then?”

Yunho grins. “Practice?”

“Right now? You want to practice?”

During class the next day, you make no attempt to appear interested in the teacher’s lecture, instead going through your notes and highlighting your best ideas. The time passes quickly this way, and by the time you’ve come up with several concept ideas for each song, the clock tower chimes to mark the arrival of midday. Is it really okay if I sit with them? you wonder, packing your materials into your bag, but with express permission from Yeosang, you muster the courage to do so. 

But your courage only extends so far.

Since they aren't there yet when you arrive, you hide in the bathrooms until you suppose they must have had time to reach the canteen and sit down, unwilling to test whether they would be willing to gather around you at an empty table. You find them at the same table a few minutes later as you peek around the door, trading lunch items and desperately completing assignments before the break is over. 

Yunho spots you first and to your surprise, waves you over and makes a space for you. Covering his mouth, half-full with lunch, he says, “Yeosang says he took you to our place?”

“What did you think?” Wooyoung adds excitedly.

“It was so cool,” you say. “Do you guys really practice there?”

“Well, Wooyoung goes off on his own sometimes,” Seongwha says. “The dance studio he’s part of doesn’t let non-members in.”

Mingi grunts. “And once he’s off in the city, he won’t have to keep practicing in a shitty factory. Ow!”

Wooyoung quirks an eyebrow, unapologetic for the kick he just landed against Mingi’s shin. 

“You’re going to the city?” you ask. “How come?”

Some of the energy leaves Wooyoung’s eyes “I got an offer from a company to be a dancer. I haven’t said yes yet…”

Mingi scoffs again. 

The mood threatens to turn sour until you blurt out, “I’ve been working on some ideas, do you want to see them?”

“Working hard already,” Hongjoong says, taking the notebook you hand him, “I like it.”

“Oh, this is good.” San taps the page. “The colors would fit perfectly. You really thought hard about it, didn’t you?”

His expression is so sincere that you’re forced to look away, muttering thanks. “Are we still going to meet there after school today?” 

The group nods.

“Can you still make it?” Yeosang asks, and you almost laugh at the implication that you have anything better to do. 

“Of course I can. I’m one hundred percent on board.”

“Hey, I just realized,” Hongjoong says, leaning across the table with a grin, “Mono is going to be our first real audience as a group.” 

A ripple passes over them that you can’t distinguish between excitement or nerves. 

“I’ll.. look forward to it.”

Sitting through your evening classes, you wonder if you’re more excited to see the performance than they are to give it. Due to that feeling, and the boredom of ignoring lessons you couldn’t understand anyway, you start thinking about how you’re going to start turning your ideas from words on a page to reality. You don’t really have any experience in this kind of thing, but it was the best offer you could make that you might actually have a shot at doing well. You’re going to need a sewing machine for starters, fabric, fastenings, jewelry, simple pieces of clothing that you can modify to save time, and you only have one idea where to get them.

Motivated by your desire to impress, you leave your seat, heading downstairs to the art classrooms. You choose one that isn’t being used, creeping through the door despite knowing that no one would question you too much anyway. Beyond the paint-stained tables and the canvases drying from the previous lesson, are cabinets and draws each labeled with what they contain. You help yourself to one of the large portfolio files and start loading it with anything you might need to realize the designs in your head. In your school bag, you shove as many rolls of sellotape, bottles of glue, needles and thread, and colored pens as it can physically hold. Then there's the sewing machine helpfully stored already in a box with a handle, the manual inside. 

You wonder if you should feel guilty for taking these things without permission. A part of you does, but a stronger, larger part feels that this is the least you deserve for the treatment you’ve endured.

Before heading to your final destination, you stash your spoils in the art classroom for later. The custodian’s office is close to the front entrance of the school and when you knock on the door, an old man, wrinkled and browned by the town’s hot summers, looks you up and down.

“Yes?”

“Do you have any lost property, sir?”

“Who are you?”

“Mono. I’m a student.”

He blinks at you.

“Sir, please, could I see the lost property?”

He blinks again, turning inside his office to retrieve a large cardboard box. When he hands it to you, his wrinkled face is drawn into confusion. Before he can say anything, however, you take the box and thank him for his help. You go through it in the empty art classroom, disheartened by the lack of anything interesting- it’s all just gym uniforms and shirts.

Suddenly, an idea comes to you. You count ten white shirts, realizing that you could easily modify these to fit with several of your ideas, and start to get excited. 

You spend the rest of the school day bent over your notes on one of the art classroom desks, planning and replanning your designs until something concrete emerges and you have the start of a plan. When the bell rings for the end of the day, you're sitting back in your chair, pleased with yourself.

The portfolio and boxes heavy in your arms, you rush to the shade of the tree you met Yeosang under the day before. The mysteries accumulating in your life finally feel far away enough not to matter. 

“Ready to go?” Yeosang wheels his bike towards you and turns his head when he sees what you’re carrying. “What’s all this?”

“I thought I could get started on the costumes today,” you say, “although it might be a little awkward to carry everything over to the factory.”

“It’s no problem.” Yeosang takes the portfolio under one arm and balances the box of clothes on the saddle. “I’ll just walk today.”

“Sorry… I wasn’t thinking.”

He shakes his head and starts to move toward the gates. “The others will meet us there. Let’s go.”

Your pace is slow, weighed down by your bag as you walk the route to the factory. “So, ah, how was class?”

“Class? Oh, you know, fine.”

“Is third year difficult?”

A sardonic smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Studying is about the only thing I’m good at."

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“I wonder. What about you? Do you study much?”

You laugh. “Nah, not really.”

“You and Wooyoung have that in common then.” Yeosang exhales, hand tightening around his handlebars. “If only he’d commit to that offer, I wouldn’t worry about what he’ll do once he graduates.”

“Why has he not accepted?”

Yeosang shakes his head. “Not for any reason I can understand, that’s for sure.”

You drop the subject, unwilling to pry further into Wooyoung’s personal life without his knowledge. “What do you want to do after school then?”

“You’ll think it’s dumb.”

“I promise I won’t.”

You both walk a few paces before he answers. “Well, it’s always been my dream to be a performer, but these days I can’t see myself doing that without the rest of the group. I know that I’m wishing for too much, but I just want all of us to be able to perform together forever. I think that the others want that too, even if they can’t admit it.”

“Is that why the festival is so important?” you ask. 

“Exactly.” Yeosang stops suddenly, eyes shining “That’s exactly why I feel so desperate. Even though it’s just a dumb school festival, I just know that this is my only chance to do what I love with the people I want to do it with. If I miss this chance, I’ll be closing that door forever.”

You smile. “Then I’ll do my best to help you convince them.”

Without the breeze from the speed of Yeosang’s bike, you’re sweating by the time you reach the factory. Summer beats down on you relentlessly, and you gladly accept the cold drink of water San offers you once you walk through the doors. A few minutes later, Mingi and Wooyoung arrive, completing the group. 

“I’m kinda nervous,” Seongwha admits. He stands in front of the mirror, fiddling with his clothing.

“Don’t be, I’m nothing to be scared of.”

“You have to be honest though,” Jongho says, tapping his finger on the coffee table. “You have to tell us if it’s bad, or, like, tell us how to improve.”

“But I don’t know anything about dancing.”

Hongjoong waves a hand dismissively “But everyone can tell a good performance from a bad one. Just tell us which parts you liked and which parts could be better.” 

You nod, a flutter in your chest emerging as you absorb some of the group’s trepidation. 

“Okay!” Hongjoong claps his hands together and motions from the group to form in front of the mirror. “Treat this like a normal practice run. We’ve done this enough times to do it in our sleep, so don’t worry about making mistakes. Just have fun with it. 

Yunho pushes Jongho playfully. “What the captain said, but remember the formation for once, will you?” 

Jongho sneers, but when the group laughs, you get the impression that this is a running joke.

Since the couch faces away from the mirror, you sit on your knees, arms crossed over the backrest so you can watch them. Yeosang, fitting from what you know of his personality, is the most nervous of them all, hopping from one foot to the other. He claimed to only be good at studying, and you wonder if he’s nervous because that’s true, or because you're his first audience. 

“Mono, would you start the track for us?” Hongjoong asks.

Your finger hovers over the button and Hongjoong gives you a thumbs-up once they’re all in position. 

The music starts and their bodies jolt into fluid movement. It’s the energetic track first, the group executing impressive footwork to the rhythm of the song, somehow managing to appear controlled and wild at the same time. You can tell instantly how hard they’ve worked on each move, as while each member performs them with their own style, no one is off-beat, and certainly no one misses a step. 

With what now feels like a habit, you can’t help but focus more on Yeosang. You see the power in each of his movements and recall the way his body felt against you when you rode behind him on his bike. Despite having a delicate beauty, he is not without strength. 

As the song comes to a climactic end, you cheer loudly, then louder still when the several in the group avoid your eyes in embarrassment. Yunho, Wooyoung, and Hongjoong, however, thrive off your enthusiasm. Wooyoung bounds over as if the difficult routine he just completed did not affect his stamina in the least. “So? So?”

“Do you want my review now, or all at once at the end?”

“Now!” they say, but Mingi stands apart from them, arms crossed over his chest. Though you can tell he gave it his all, it felt as if he was dancing on his own. 

You give them your honest opinion, grinning with them as they absorb your praise. Then, with the ice broken, they begin to come forward with questions about their individual parts. 

“Do you think I should have done it like this, or this?” San asks, twisting his body in ways you couldn’t begin to replicate. 

“I mean, I feel like I don’t have the experience to answer that properly. But both look great-”

“What about this part,” Wooyoung demands, demonstrating. “Is it too much? Not enough?”

Seongwha sits beside you, stealing your attention. “I’ve been working on my expressions but I feel like I can’t pull it off as well as Hongjoong. What did you think?”

“Alright, alright, give her a second,” Hongjoong says, sparing you from further showing your ignorance.

Eight faces stare at you as if all their hopes rest on your next words. After a breath, you give them your honest verdict, praising what deserves to be praised, and gently mentioning the few parts you thought needed something different, despite being unsure how to express what needed to change. 

The boys listen to you seriously, nodding and humming in agreement.

“But, that’s just my opinion,” you feel the need to clarify. “I really don’t have the right to tell you what’s good or not.”

Hongjoong smirks. “Stop justifying yourself. Even just telling us what you liked is a huge help.”

“I feel so much calmer now that we’ve finally shown someone,” Jongho says. “It was killing me not knowing if we were just kidding ourselves with this.”

Hongjoong rolls up his sleeves, seemingly brimming with energy. “Ready to keep going?”

They head back to their places, but Yeosang hangs back for a moment, crouching behind the couch so that he is eye-to-eye with you. 

“Was it really okay? You can tell me the truth,” he whispers. 

You lean forward. “The truth?” He nods desperately. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole time. You were incredible."

The flush that spreads over his cheeks surprises you. You had been expecting a smug grin, a chuckle at the obvious boost to his ego, but you should know that isn’t who Yeosang is by now. 

He blinks, clears his throat, and stands. His mouth opens and closes, but he is unable to form a response before Hongjoong tells him to hurry up.

When the next song begins, Yeosang misses his queue. 

The boys tease him goodnaturedly as you rewind the cassette, feeling sorry if it was your comment that threw him off. 

On the second attempt, the opening goes perfectly, but you feel shy watching the boys move so sensually. You hadn’t thought bodies could look like that, create those kinds of lines, but it’s mesmerizing to watch even if you have the urge to cover your eyes. Wooyoung in particular suits this kind of dance, if only because he comes across as the most comfortable expressing himself this way. Of course, they all show their own styles and quirks with each move, but it’s Yeosang again you can’t stop watching, though you resolve not to reveal this to him a second time having embarrassed yourself enough. You admire how his style of dance subtly changes with the theme, how he adapts his movements, even his stance, to the song. 

The song ends and the same series of events unfolds: Wooyoung bounds over, and the members crowd around you, asking questions about their individual performances until Hongjoong tells them to let you think. Again, you give them your honest opinions, grateful that they are able to take the feedback without becoming defensive or egotistical. 

You begin to worry about their stamina as they take their places for the last track. The heat has seeped into the factory all day, and though the sun is no longer at its strongest, it lingers in the metal and concrete around you. You’re sweating just sitting down, and it's pouring off the boys. 

“Are you guys okay? Do you want to rest for a bit longer?”

They stare at you like you’re insane. Their smiles tell you that nothing matters to them at that moment: not the heat, not the sweat, not the need for a long, cool drink. All that matters is the performance. 

You start the track. 

It’s another explosive start, with the choreography never giving them a moment to rest. Different from the playful energy of the first track, and the sensual atmosphere of the second, this one feels like a congratulations to themselves due to the unapologetic lyrics, and the striking, difficult moves that compliment them. You admire their athletic ability to be able to complete such a physical routine after having already done two more.

In your mind, you try to place your ideas around their formation, your motivation to get started increasing as you allow yourself to believe you may really be able to help their performance after all, if you can pull it off, that is. 

Sweating, panting, smiling, the boys break their ending pose, collapsing to the ground and leaning on their knees. 

“Argh!” Wooyoung jumps to his feet to stand back in front of the mirror. You recognize a slower version of a move from the third track you remember thinking looked difficult. “It’s always this part. Why can’t I do it?”

Yunho comes to stand beside him. “You’re doing it perfectly, what are you talking about?”

“It’s not perfect,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth, dripping sweat onto the concrete as he tries again. 

“Wooyoung.” Hongjoong’s voice snaps him out of it. “Come on, we need to hear Mono’s thoughts.”

Your back straightens at the sound of your name. After collecting a towel and a bottle of water, the boys settle into the chairs around you, Yunho, eager and smiling on your left, Hongjoong, calm but expectant on your right. You wonder if Yeosang chose the farthest seat from you on purpose. He still won’t meet your eyes. 

Once you’ve given your opinion of the final track, you feel it’s only right to compliment each of them individually, starting with the leader.  

“Hongjoong, you’re facial expressions are great.”

“Really? It’s not too much?”

“Not at all- and you have a really expressive style of dance that fits you perfectly.” He wrestles with his features, but his proud grin wins out. “Seonghwa too, your expressions kept grabbing my attention, but more than that you looked really graceful, especially during the second song.” Seongwha has an easier time accepting the compliment than their leader, nodding his head with similar pride. You continue to deliver your compliments: San for his impressive strength, flexibility, and enthusiasm, Yunho and Jongho for their precise execution of the choreography, and Wooyoung for his passion and unique style. Mingi grunts at your kind words for his sense of rhythm and strong movements, and Wooyoung’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes.

Finally, you reach Yeosang, who is tapping his foot against the floor. Your mouth opens and closes. You had been about to say how captivating he is again, but you’re suddenly overtaken by shyness. Somehow, it feels too honest to say in front of everyone else. “You were great,” you say to buy time as you think of something else. “You hit every beat perfectly as far as I could tell, and I thought it was impressive how you changed your style with each song. I thought I was watching a different dancer each time.”

San laughs. “I think Mono has a favorite.”

“Thanks…” Yeosang mumbles. “I’ll work hard to do even better next time.”

“So, you still want to be in the group?” Hongjoong asks, smiling as if he already knows the answer.

You push him gently. “Of course I do. I can’t wait to get started on all my ideas.”

“I saw all that art stuff you brought. I love the enthusiasm.”

“Can I work on it in here?” you ask Yeosang.

“Here? I guess so.” 

You hear the question he didn’t ask in his tone. Why don't you want to work on it at home? “Your dad won’t mind?”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Wooyoung says. He stands, throwing his towel over the back of his chair. “I’m gonna keep practicing.”

You hope you haven’t said something to upset him.

Yunho jumps up to join Wooyoung and the other members groan. “Do you guys ever stop?” Seongwha moans. Yunho shoots him a mischievous expression, but Wooyoung is focused on his reflection. 

“Well, I think they have the right idea,” Hongjoong says. “We should start thinking about how to improve from Mono’s feedback.”

Unable to argue with their leader, the rest of the boys drag themselves to their feet, spilling half-hearted words of complaint.

“Is it okay-” you flinch when they all turn to look at you. “Is it okay if I start making the costumes?”

“Feeling inspired?” San asks. 

“Very.”

While retrieving the cassette player he forgot on the coffee table, Hongjoong ruffles your hair. “Knock yourself out.”

As the sun sinks lower in the sky, the heat lessens to a pleasant warmth that saps your ability to stay awake. You fight the heaviness of your eyes as you puzzle over turning your ambitious ideas into reality.

Behind you, the boys seem to be led more by Yunho than Hongjoong with regard to the choreography, and you realize that it must have been him that came up with most of it. Between breaks in the music, they come together to talk, demonstrate and teach, and you come to anticipate the soft sounds of their voices each time the cassette clicks off. It’s much more soothing than the music to you as you start to recognize the differences in the way they speak to one another, with more respect being given to Hongjoong and Seongwha as the oldest, and their unique laughs as they joke amongst themselves. Of course, you can barely consider yourself to be ‘one of them’, sitting hunched over the table by yourself, but you enjoy pretending, and hoping that one day soon you’ll be able to talk amongst them as if you’ve always been one of their number. This thought makes you recall what Yeosang said about needing to belong, how he had felt the same way, and your heart softens as you realize how perceptive he was to recognize this within you, and how truly kind for trying to do something about it. 

“Mono.” You jump, the sewing machine choking on fabric. Yeosang leans over the back of the couch, face close to yours. “We’re all done for the day, did you want me to walk you home again?”

You cast your eyes to the others who are all in the middle of wiping their sweat and gathering their things. “Wow, how long has it been? And yes, if it’s no trouble.” Is it okay for you to be selfish like this? Is it wrong to want to spend as much time with him as you can? 

“Okay, let me grab my bike.” He pauses, noticing the delicate silky fabric you’ve been working on as a test. “That’s looking good. I can’t wait to try them on.” 

“Oh, well, you know, it’s not nearly finished, and I’m thinking I need to change how I’m doing the-” You cut yourself off, seeing Yeosang’s amused expression. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m taking Mono home,” Yeosang tells the others. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“We’re coming again tomorrow?” you ask. “Isn’t it the weekend?”

“Oh, do you have something else you need to do?” Yeosang asks, frowning. “Sorry, we shouldn’t have assumed-”

“No! No, I don’t have anything. I’m just impressed you work so hard on the weekends too.”

“There’s nowhere else to hang out in this piece of shit town,” Mingi says. “Here is as good as it gets.”

Wooyoung jumps to hook the taller boy around the neck with one arm, forcing his head to lower. “Thanks for that, Mingi, you’re always a ray of sunshine.”

“You’re one to talk-”

“Come on, you’re walking me home too. I’m feeling romantic.”

Mingi complains the whole way down the overgrown path and through the gate. The rest of you follow until you reach the road, Yeosang steadying the bike so you can stand on the spurs. 

“See you tomorrow, guys,” you say, memorizing each of their faces as they smile at you, and tell you goodbye, such a simple response promising you that this day wasn’t a dream and that you can be this happy again. 

Yeosang pushes off and a laugh bubbles from your throat as you almost lose your balance. He takes the extra strain of you pulling back on him with ease, once again reaching back instinctively to grab you. 

“Sit down!” he says, laughing with you.

You regain your balance, hands on his shoulders, turning your face up to the sky as the wind blows against your hair. “I don’t want to!”

Yeosang lets go of your hip to put both hands on the bars before standing up on the pedals. “Yeosang!” You hold him around the middle, too flooded with adrenaline and happiness to fear falling. 

He peddles faster and faster, both of you adapting your balance as the bike shifts left and right. You feel his chest rise and fall with the effort of carrying you both, using the excuse of maintaining your balance to hold him to you tighter. The wind whips past you both now, the draping branches of trees and bushes dragging against your clothes, gravel and dust kicking up behind the wheels. 

“Where are we going?” you shout, not recognizing your usual route.

“Wait and see!” You reach a short hill and realize his plan. 

Before he starts to attempt the climb, you jump off the back of the bike. “Let’s walk this bit, aren’t you tired?”

He flashes you a grin before taking off running, holding his bike to his side.

A laugh bursts out of you. “Yeosang, wait!”

With the handicap of his bike, you catch up quickly and overtake him, reaching the top of the hill first. You leap about in victory while Yeosang gives up, panting hard and walking the rest of the way.

“Yeah, yeah, you win.”

“You let me win,” you say, half-skidding back down the dirt path to help him with the bike.

Finally both at the top, you take in the view of the town. Everything is bathed golden in the sunset, turning even the dreaded school into a picturesque viewpoint. Flocks of birds fly about the treetops of the woods to the east, and sheep graze on the green grass of the tallest hill in the middle of town, bordered by unused pastures. In front of you, the hill drops in a steep decline and you trace the road until you find the brown tile roof of your house. 

You turn to Yeosang, about to ask if you can linger here for a while, but he’s already climbing back on his bike. 

“Shall we?”

You glance at the decline again and bite your lip; you can’t deny him. “We shall.”

This time, you don’t stand, but you do hold as tightly to Yeosang as you can. “You scared?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

With that, he takes his feet off the ground, gravity giving the bike speed without the need to peddle. You feel the wind whipping at your face as you rest your chin on Yeosang’s shoulder and you almost bite your tongue as he begins to laugh.

“Faster!” 

“Faster? If you say so!”

Yeosang leans low over the handlebars and begins to pump his legs. You both scream from the rush, Yeosang’s deep voice cracking and making you laugh all over again. Pieces of gravel ping against your body and your eyes are watering from the wind, but you can’t even think of asking Yeosang to stop. 

The bottom of the hill approaches, and with it, a sharp bend around. “Lean to the right!” Yeosang tells you, “or we’ll crash into the hedge!”

Using his body as a counterbalance, you do as he asks, dipping your body to the right while he does the same in the other direction. It’s merely a single moment of effort, your fingers white-knuckled within the fabric of his shirt, teeth gritted, arm muscles working harder than they ever have, but your heart is pounding by the time Yeosang tells you to sit back up properly. 

“You did it!” he shouts, touching your clasped hands around his middle. “We-”

“Yeosang!” You point over his shoulder. 

His head snaps around, finally noticing the vehicle heading your way. It isn’t a car, but a tractor, each one of its rear wheels twice the size of Yeosang’s bike. The driver blares his horn at you, but even if they both break, you’re going too fast to stop in time. 

“Hold on!” Yeosang steers the bike to the very edge of the narrow country lane, the wheels jumping over the rocks and uneven ground of the verge. The tractor does the same, its left wheels ripping leaves off the hedges on the opposite side. Even with this, there is barely enough space for you to pass through.

With the tractor almost upon you, you close your eyes and press your forehead against Yeosang’s back, feeling him tense just as hard as you. A moment passes before the roar of the tractor’s engines fills your ears and the smell of diesel fills your nose. Something hard and unyielding rips passed your arm.

Then, all of a sudden, it’s over, the roar of the engine at your back. 

“Oh my God,” Yeosang sucks in a breath, “I-”

The bike jolts hard and you realize that your cheek is no longer touching the soft material of Yeosang’s shirt, but the gravel of the path. Pain flares through the right side of your body as you finally process the force of falling off the bike and lift yourself off the ground. You search for Yeosang, finding him next to the spinning rear wheel of the bike. He’s sitting with his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his arms with a dazed look on his face. “What just happened?”

You crouch beside him, wincing at the pain in your side, but the blood seeping into the dirt under Yeosang’s right palm has you more concerned. “You tell me! Show me your hand.”

He lifts it but you can’t see the extent of the damage with all the blood and dirt in the way. Reaching into your bag, you retrieve a half-empty water bottle apologizing before pouring it over the wound. Yeosang barely flinches, but you can feel him watching you.

“It doesn’t look too bad. Does it hurt?” you say, examining his palm. When he doesn’t answer, you look up, finding that he still has his gaze on you, his mouth pulling up at the corners.

“Yeosang?”

He throws his head back as he starts to laugh in earnest. The sound is catching and you can’t help but be smiling when call his name again.

“I’m sorry.” With his uninjured hand, he removes yours, but continues to hold it. “It’s just, I was so scared. I thought we were going to die.”

“And that’s funny?” you say, but you’re laughing too now that the danger is gone and the adrenaline in your systems is making you feel giddy. 

“It’s not, it’s not.” He sighs and examines his hand, shakes it slightly. “And yeah, it does hurt a little.”

“Is it broken?”

“Nah, just a graze. What about you?” He touches the shoulder you landed on gently. 

Not thinking, you pull down the side of your shirt to inspect the skin. Yeosang looks away quickly.

“Sorry,” you squeak, pulling the sleeve back up. “I didn’t- yes, I’m fine. I’ll probably bruise, but no broken skin.

“Man,” he says, allowing himself to look at you again, “that was so stupid.”

“It was. But it was fun too, right?”

Yeosang helps you to your feet with his good hand. “Fun enough to make almost dying worth it?”

“Probably not.”

You offer to wheel his bike the rest of the way, insisting until he accepts. You both walk slowly, the aches in your bodies becoming more pronounced with each step until you can’t wait to lie down to take the strain away.

“You don’t need to walk me home the whole way. You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

"What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?”

“A smart one?”

You exchange a look and laugh. 

“Seriously though, you don’t-”

Yeosang takes his bike from you, increasing his pace until you have to hurry to catch up. “No arguing, okay? Let’s just get you home.”

While you chat, the day grows dark, until, when you reach your house, the only thing lighting your way is the moon, its great silver face bearing down on you both. You want to ask Yeosang to come inside so you can properly clean his hand, but you have neither the medical supplies, nor the courage to let him see how you live. Don’t be a coward, you tell yourself while he says his goodbyes outside your gate. He won’t reject you.

But you just can’t bear it. If he sees that empty hallway, shoe rack with only one other pair of shoes, the master bedroom with its bare mattress and moth-eaten curtains, your bedroom, hardly slept in, void of personality and life, the kitchen you’ve never used and its barren pantry and humming fridge freezer that contains nothing more than milk and microwaves meals from the corner shop, it would be too much for you to bear. You can’t let Yeosang see that kind of sadness. You can’t let him know what an empty person he’s let into his life. 

“Mono?”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay getting home?”

“Don’t worry about me, I feel fine.” Your face crumples with worry. “How about this? Give me your landline and I’ll call you once I’m home.”

You rack your brain. Yes, I do have a phone. “One second, I don’t know the number off by heart.”

You dash inside, finding it hanging on the wall of the hallway. A layer of dust coats the keypad, but you can’t find any hint as to what the phone number would be. You aren’t even sure how you would go about finding it. You put the receiver to your ear, hearing the dial tone, confirming that you at least have a service provider and therefore a phone number. 

You search the small hallway table, but the drawers are empty. You check your room, the master bedroom, even flip through your notebook. Nothing. 

You kick the hallway table in frustration. It jumps back revealing a small yellow square of paper hiding underneath the table leg. You pick it up and yelp in relief as you read the words Our number: XXXX XXX XXX. You tear a page from your notebook and copy the number before hurrying back out to Yeosang.

“Here,” you say, out of breath as you hand it to him.

“Thanks.” He rubs the back of his neck, then winces when he uses his injured palm by mistake. “So, I should probably go. I’ll call you.”

“Yeosang.”

“Hm?”

You pull him towards you gently, wary of any injuries he may have hidden from you. “Thank you for today.”

Movements stilted and awkward, he pats your back. “I didn’t do anything, really…”

“You did. So, just let me thank you, okay?”

He settles into the embrace. “Okay. Then, you’re welcome.”

At home, you feel restless. The stillness of the night, rather than calming you, makes your skin crawl. 

You hold the note with the phone number under lamp light, reading and rereading the words. 

Our number. 

Just to be sure, you hold your notebook with your own writing next to it. No, it’s definitely not yours, but it’s similar. So, who does it belong to? Your mom or dad? Why had you never used the phone before today?

Curious, you take the receiver off the hook and hold it to your ear. You want to try calling someone before Yeosang gets home, to make sure that it works, and you’re wondering who you could possibly call when a voice comes through the speaker. 

“Mono!”

The receiver smacks against the wall as you scream, leaping back until you thump against the wall opposite. The voice was male, but the distorted connection made it impossible to distinguish anything else about him. 

But, no, there was one thing you noticed: he sounded desperate, or maybe relieved, surprised? Again, it was hard to tell, but he definitely said your name, and he was definitely not in a state of calm. 

Breathing hard, you pick up the receiver again and hold it to your ear. 

Nothing but the dial tone.

You replace it on the hook, only for it to ring, painfully loud in the silence of the house. You’re almost too scared to answer, but since it’s probably Yeosang, you force yourself.

“Yeosang?”

“Mono?” You recognize his voice instantly and slide down the wall to sit on the floor. 

“Yeosang.”

“Are you okay? You sound freaked out.”

“I just heard a fox scream and it scared me.”

Yeosang hums down the line. “I guess even things like that are scary when you live alone. Are you alright?”

“What about you? Your hand?”

“I treated it before I called you, don’t worry.” He coughs. “And I'm sorry for causing that whole thing. I was being reckless.”

“I was being reckless with you, don’t take all the credit.”

A pleasant silence extends between you, and somehow, you can feel that he’s smiling. 

“Alright. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Have you eaten?” you blurt out. You don’t want him to go and leave you here on your own.

He chuckles. “I forgot, but I will after this.”

“That’s good…”

“What about you?”

“No, not yet, but I will.” You force down the selfish desire to keep him with you forever, gripping your shirt as you say, “Then, I’ll let you eat. Thank you again for today and… And sleep well.”

“Good night, Mono.”

“Night.”

The house is empty again when you wake, and the road to school is quiet and still. The hill at the center of town ripples in the wind, the hedgerows crowd over you, dust gets into your eyes. It’s all the same, but you are determined to make this day different.

The school itself is as intimidating as ever with pillars of strong sand-colored stone and an enormous clock tower that chimes every day at noon. First lesson passes, then the second. You wonder which class that boy and his friends are in. The school body isn’t large, but still, you hadn’t noticed them before. Couldn’t you just go and look for him? Would the teacher do anything? You snap out of your daze and focus your eyes on the man at the front of the class. He hasn’t called on you once, didn’t say a word when you didn’t hand in your assignments. 

You stand.

He continues to scratch his chalk against the board. Your peers keep their heads down, scribbling notes.

You walk to the door, turn the handle, and close it behind you. Looking through the window in the door, you wait a moment, heart pounding, to see if anyone will react. Not a single aspect of the scene inside the classroom has changed with your departure. 

Maybe it’s your family that’s the problem, otherwise, why would the teachers be in on it too? Your parents have been out of town for months now. Does everyone know something you don’t? Nothing makes any sense, but once again, you latch onto that boy from the day before; he was different, wasn’t he?

The corridor branches off into different classrooms, the sounds of chalk scraping and a low drone of chatter coming from each. You peer through the windows on your tiptoes, searching for him, but as you check the last classroom, you haven’t found him or his friends. Trying not to feel disheartened, you decide he must simply be in the year above or below instead. From looks alone, you decide to head up one floor to search the seniors’ rooms, when the bell from the clocktower chimes for noon, the vibrations traveling through your bones. In orderly lines, the classrooms empty, students smiling, making light-hearted conversations about lunchtime clubs and the previous lesson. You back up against the wall, worried someone will question why you’re there, but only the first wave of students glances at you until you're lost in the crowd.

“Is there a boy with blond hair in this year?” you ask one of the girls.

She looks at you, startled, and her brows furrow, then she is dragged away by her friends and you are forgotten. 

“Excuse me-” you try again, grabbing onto the sleeve of another boy so as not to lose him, when your eyes travel up higher, your attention caught by the looming figures of two of the tallest people you’ve ever seen in this small town. They walk a few meters in front of you, their heads popping out of the crowd. The taller one, a boy with coal-black hair, turns his head slightly and you recognize him as one of that boy’s friends who had been sitting with him the day before. 

“Wait!” 

Your voice is erased by the conversations of the students and you have no choice but to push your way through them, unsure of what you will say or do when you reach the two boys. On their long legs, they reach the stairwell quickly, disappearing around the corner and leaving you searching for them at the top. You turn around to face the window overlooking the yard to wait for them to come out at the bottom. When they finally appear, you notice that all eight of them have gathered. They maintain a relaxed pace as they cross the yard to the canteen. 

“Wait for me!” You’re unsure why you feel so desperate, but, unwilling to examine the feeling, you take the stairs two at a time to catch up. 

The smells from the canteen reach you before you open the doors, and the noise hits you like a brick when you do. As you stand against the wall to keep out of the way while looking for the boy, you realize that you should probably think about eating too since you rarely have food at home. Usually, you’d take as much as you can, keeping some for later before finding somewhere quiet outside to eat. You know you wouldn’t be bothered if you sat in the canteen with the rest of the students, but that’s exactly the issue: there’s something too painful to bear being alone in a room full of people. 

Would he find it strange if you came to sit next to him? Worse still, would he ignore you?

Your eyes scan rapidly over dozens of heads until finally, you see him in the corner of the room with his friends. Look at me, you plead inside your head. Just look at me again one more time and I’ll know you’re different. But it’s you that looks away first, unable to take the disappointment if his eyes never find you again. Instead, chest tight with anxiety, you wait in line for your meal, using the time to make a plan. When you receive your tray, you know you won’t be able to eat a thing on it with the panic you’ve worked yourself into. 

Stop being pathetic.

You march over to their table with the intention of asking to sit with them, but at the last moment your resolve crumbles and you join the very end of the bench as if you had just been looking for a spare seat. 

“It’ll suck,” the second tallest member of the group says, voice a deep, rasping baritone. “What’s the point?”

“Then we’ll make it not suck,” says another about the same height as you. You wonder how he hasn’t gotten in trouble for wearing his hair long, let alone having the front of his bangs bleached. 

“Don’t you have more important things to worry about?” 

The boy with the ponytail shuts his mouth tight.

The blond boy speaks, his voice not as deep as the first’s, but much more soothing instead. “Wooyoung can handle it. It’s not like he has to make time for studying like the rest of us.”

From across the table, Wooyoung shoves his friend playfully. “I study.”

“And Mingi has the voice of an angel,” another jokes.

“Just say you’ll do it. Please,” the blond boy says. “I don’t ask for much.”

A long sigh comes from another boy around the same height as you. He fans himself with his hand, wavy chestnut hair shifting out of his face. “But a school festival? We were made for better than that.”

“That’s where we start. Think of it as practice.”

“You got something to say?”

You realize with a start that Wooyoung is looking at you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” You drop your fork. “You’re talking to me?”

The rest of the boys peer down the length of the table at you, the pressure of so many eyes making you want to hide underneath it. 

“Well?”

“I-I…” The blond boy looks at you, head cocked. It’s not just him, you realize, they’re all different. “I was wondering if you needed any help preparing for the festival?”

Wooyoung frowns deeper. “What’s your name? We don’t have any classes together, do we?”

“No…” You swallow and grip the hem of your skirt. You’ve never given anyone your name before. “Mono.”

“Your name’s Mono?” another of the group says, a boy with tan skin and rough, strong hands. “That’s unique, I guess. Is it foreign?”

“Don’t be rude,” says the boy with chestnut hair, digging an elbow into the other. 

“Sorry.”

“We don’t need any help.”

“You don’t even want to do it, Mingi,” Wooyoung says before turning back to you. “Can you perform? You know, sing or dance or anything?”

Can I? “I was thinking more along the lines of making decorations or costumes, actually…”

Wooyoung looks at his friends. The familiar weight of rejection sinks into your stomach when you see their faces. But before the rest can speak, the blond boy says, “Okay.” The others stare at him, but he continues before they can interject. “We can’t just wear our regular clothes or our uniforms.” His voice is halting, as if unused to voicing his opinion so openly. “I honestly hadn’t even thought of it. It’ll make the show even more impressive, r-right?”

Wooyoung laughs, high-pitched and unrestrained. “Yeosang, you’re adorable. What do you think, Hongjoong?”

“It’s a group decision.” He surveys the table, each person nodding in agreement, or shrugging with indifference. “Alright then. Welcome aboard, Mono.”

“Thank you,” you say breathlessly. 

“We should introduce ourselves properly then,” Hongjoong says. He stands and reaches over Mingi’s broad shoulders to shake your hand. “Kim Hongjoong.”

“The club leader,” Wooyoung finishes for him, a statement that makes Hongjoong roll his eyes. “I’m Jung Wooyoung.”

The other tall boy introduces himself as Jeong Yunho, smiling with full cheeks and large eyes, making height the only physical similarity between himself and Mingi. The next to tell you his name is Park Seonghwa, with a soft voice that suits his feminine features and softly curled black hair. Choi Jongho is the boy with the rough, strong hands, and Choi San smiles as he shakes your hands, making you feel guilty for thinking his sharp, handsome features were intimidating. Song Mingi grunts out his introduction, but you're too elated at this sudden change of fortune to mind his obvious dislike for you. 

“Kang Yeosang,” says the boy with blond hair. You take his hand across the table and shake. Now that you’re looking directly at him, you notice the red blemish that colors the top of his left cheekbone and eyelid. If he notices you looking, it doesn’t appear to bother him. Of course, he has nothing to be embarrassed about; Yeosang’s beauty is striking, otherworldly, so much so that you break eye contact first. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” You feel the need to introduce yourself again, properly this time, as they have. You’re so unused to saying your name that your words come out stuttered and awkward. “And my name is Mono. Thank you for letting me join. I promise I will work hard.”

“What’s your family name?” Wooyoung asks, resting his chin on his hand.

“It’s-” Like a fool, your mouth hovers open. Why is something so simple escaping your head? “It’s Kim.”

A sickly feeling of unease settles into your stomach while the boys descend into conversation about the festival. No matter how hard you try, you can’t think of your family name. You’ve only ever used your given name to sign your homework, you’ve never received any mail with it displayed on the front, and no teachers have ever addressed you at all, let alone by your last name. It must be written at home on a bank statement or bill somewhere, right? Or the school would have it on record. There’s no way you don’t have a last name.

Unable to answer any of these questions, you take out your notebook and focus on the conversation, copying down dates, names of songs, and anything you might need to know. The school summer festival (that had previously escaped your attention) is only two weeks away. Preparations are almost finished in terms of the boys’ routines, but Hongjoong emphasizes the need to be perfect at every junction. 

“We aren’t content to be small-town celebrities, right?” he says, the group answering in the negative. “Then we treat this seriously, we work hard, and we show everyone that we refuse to be forgotten as if we never existed.”

The bell rings to signal the end of lunch and the boys groan, dragging themselves from their seats and hauling their bags over their shoulders. 

“Mono.” Yeosang touches your arm. “Could you meet me after school?”

You master your shock with difficulty “Why?”

“There’s more to talk about, and I need to show you where we practice.”

You nod and stare dumbly after him as he catches up to his friends.

For the rest of the day, you sit under the shade of the oak tree in the schoolyard, running your fingers over the short, warm grass between its roots. Your class is in the middle of a gym lesson, swimming in the school’s outdoor pool that’s attached to the building. No one told you about the rotation of sports, so you didn’t bring a swimsuit, not that you think you have one. You find yourself staring at them in jealousy, but the promise of meeting Yeosang after school comforts you a little.

Things are changing. 

When the school day comes to an end, you leap to your feet, and snatch up your things, standing on the roots of the tree to get a better view of the students leaving the building. You know Yeosang will be one of the last people out since he’s on the third floor, but you can’t help craning your neck the second the doors spill open. The excitement you feel is a welcome distraction. You would give anything to worry about nothing but school festivals and dreams of being a performer for a while. Anything other than acknowledging that something very wrong is going on in this place. 

“You waited,” Yeosang says as if pleasantly surprised. 

“I did. What did you want to talk about?”

“Come with me, we can talk on the way.”

“Is it far?”

“Not too far.” He gestures for you to follow him to the bike shelter where he fishes his own from the rows of others. “It’ll be faster if you sit on the back.”

“Oh, okay.” You lower yourself as gently as you can manage onto the cargo rack over the back wheel. “Yeosang, I think I’m going to fall off.”

He chuckles, swinging his leg over the seat. “No, you won’t. You can hold onto my shoulders.” He coughs. “If you want.”

Necessity overrides embarrassment at this moment, so you allow your hands to take hold of Yeosang’s shoulders. 

He’s warm. Real. 

“I’m going to push off, so hold on.”

The sudden jolt forces you to hold tighter. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, just make sure you don’t fall.”

You nod, realizing you’ve fallen against his back, arms around his neck. When Yeosang leaves the busy traffic of the yard and the lane outside the school, you manage to find your balance, gaining enough confidence to go back to simply having your hands on his shoulders. 

“So,” you say clumsily, unused to maintaining a conversation, “are we going to the place you guys practice in?”

“We are. I’m sorry for being vague, it’s just that I’m a little proud of it, so I want it to be a surprise.”

“Ah, I see. Then I won’t ask any more questions.”

“Can I ask you a question?” His shoulders tense under your hands.

“Of course.”

“Why- I’m sorry if this comes across as rude- why does everyone treat you so strangely?”

It’s your turn to tense up. “Strange?”

“I’m sorry, I’m being rude-”

“No please, what do you mean by treating me strangely?”

“I’m not sure. I only recently noticed it when you came to talk to us, but everyone else treats you like… well, like you aren’t there.” He looks over his shoulder, causing the bike to swerve momentarily before he regains control. “But I’m not- I mean- I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just wondered if you were being bullied or something-”

“I don’t know, Yeosang. It’s always been like this. It’s not a big deal, really.”

“Of course it is. If you’re being bullied, me and the others can help.”

Coming from his mouth, it seems obvious now that it’s more than bullying or a vendetta against your family, but how do you explain? 

You shake your head and hear Yeosang sigh quietly.

The brakes squeal as the bike draws to a stop. “We’re here.”

You look up. In front of you is a tall iron gate, the green paint flaking off and littering the dirt underneath. One side of it has come off the hinges, lying against the fence in a bed of grass so that you can see all the way inside the compound. Tracing the path of crushed grass, you see the single building housed within the fence. Given the industrial look of the place with its concrete walls, the steel girders piled to the side of the entrance, and the ancient, rusted van far to the right, you think it must have been a factory. 

The waist-high grass licks against your forearms as you are drawn down the path by the desire to explore. 

Yeosang unlocks the doors and gestures for you to enter. The inside of the factory is cavernous, with ceilings at least three stories high. Indecipherable systems of pulleys and cranes occupy the space, and a set of stairs leads to a single cube of a room in the corner of the factory, one wall taken up by an enormous window that must once have allowed a supervisor to look over the work being done. However, it is not all hard concrete and metal. There is a corner of the floor taken up by a beaten-up couch and a few armchairs, a similarly abused Persian rug sits under a coffee table laden with mugs, empty food containers, and a forgotten hoodie. You find other touches of the presence of the group- a pair of shoes, a radio, a cassette player, a kitchenette that must have once been used for break time messy with dishes and trash. And finally, against the east wall, is a mirror so large it displays the entire floor. It’s webbed with cracks and marred by black splotches, but, coming closer, you see eight names written in the corner. 

Hongjoong

Seonghwa

Yunho

Yeosang

San

Mingi

Wooyoung 

Jongho

Eight makes one team!

“I love it,” you say, reaching out to touch the glass. “How did you find this place?”

“It’s my dad’s.”

“Your dad’s?”

“Mm.” Yeosang lowers himself into one of the couches, but he can’t seem to make himself comfortable. “He’s probably forgotten about it, though. No one comes here but us.”

“What does he do?”

“Property development. Or was it real estate? I can’t remember.” You come to sit opposite him in one of the armchairs, tucking your legs underneath you. “What about your parents?”

“Sales,” you throw out vaguely, no longer jarred by the fact you can’t remember such basic details when such questions arise. 

“Do you see them much?”

“Not really."

Yeosang nods. “Why have kids if you never bother to see them, right?” He clears his throat. “Anyway, do you want to hear the songs we’ll be performing?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

Yeosang hurries to place a cassette in the cassette player and starts the track. It’s music you’ve never heard before, but it’s fast and upbeat, and even to someone as inexperienced as you, you can tell that it would be easy to dance to. As you listen, you write down whatever words or concepts that come into your head that suit the themes of the lyrics.

“Well, anyway…” Yeosang says shyly once the song is over, “that’s one of them.”

“It’s good. Can I see the dance too?”

“The- but I can’t- on my own… It’s too embarrassing.”

It’s strange to witness such a handsome person acting so shyly, but you’re growing to find his habits endearing. “It’s okay, I’ll see it later.”

He nods, relieved. “We’ll all be here after school tomorrow for practice. You can see it then.”

In companionable silence, you listen to the next two songs one after the other, making notes as you do. The second is more sensual, slower, and darker, and the third is aggressive and rough, but almost desperate too. You can’t help but notice movement in the corner of your vision. Yeosang seems to be unaware that his body is moving to the music. You smile down at your notes. 

“Thank you for bringing me here today,” you say once the last track ends, standing before the doors of the factory. “And thank you for letting me join the group, if you didn’t say anything, I think the others would have said no.”

Yeosang chews on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry about them. They aren’t bad guys, and they don’t have anything against you personally, we've all just been going through a lot lately. Jongho got injured a while ago, and Mingi and Wooyoung keep fighting… Hongjoong’s trying to keep us all together but…”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“That’s partly why I want to do this festival, even if it’s silly. We need something to keep us going, you know? A goal. Or a purpose.”

“Belonging,” you say quietly. “Yeosang, why did you let me into the group?”

His smile is sad. “I know what it feels like to not belong. The guys gave that to me, so I wanted to give it to you, too.” 

Seeing your eyes fill with tears, Yeosang panics. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

When he puts his hands on your shoulders, you lean forward against his chest, unable to resist the warmth of another human being. It’s like taking a warm bath after weeks of walking in the desert. His heartbeat against your cheek, his breath moving your hair, his voice rumbling through his body as he asks if you’re okay- this is human life, human touch. He is real and he is holding you as tightly as you’re holding him. 

“I’m sorry, Yeosang,” you whisper, “I’ve been going through a lot too.”

He pats the top of your hair awkwardly. “It’s okay.”

You disentangle yourself from him and rub your face. “I got your shirt wet. I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. Hey, do you live far away? It’s getting dark so I’ll take you home.”

You accept gratefully and climb on the back of his bicycle. The country roads feel different traveling them with Yeosang, his weight steadying you over the bumps and around the bends, his hair turning golden as the sun sets. Though you don’t speak other than to give him directions, the silence is far from uncomfortable.

“We’re here.”

Yeosang drags his feet against the dirt to slow the bike, reaching back with one arm to make sure you don’t fall off. Your single-story house sits beyond a short wooden fence, looking as tired and uncared for as it does on the inside. Suddenly, the sight of it fills you with shame and you almost trip over yourself in your haste to climb off the bike. You don’t want Yeosang to see such a sad place. He’s already shown you so much kindness, you don’t think you could take his pity. 

“Thank you so much,” you say quickly. “I’ll see you after school tomorrow?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, sure. Same place?”

You nod, already lifting the latch for the gate.

“Mono?”

“Yes?”

“Just in case you weren’t sure, you can sit with us at lunch.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If you like.”

You undress for bed, throwing your uniform over the back of a chair, sighing when you remember the load of laundry you have to do. 

You throw everything inside the drum, checking the worn pockets of your shirt to make sure there is nothing inside when you remember: there’s a name tag sewed into the collar of it. You saw it on the first day of school when you dressed. There’s no last name, just ‘MONO’ written in red thread on the label.

Your empty house opens onto an empty stretch of a road, deep summer heat beats down on your head, cicadas fill the air with their buzzing songs, and soft white clouds drift across the sky. It hasn’t rained for as long as you can remember, leaving the roads so cracked and dry that you kick up dust. Walking the usual route takes no more than ten minutes, but each step is heavy as you think of those tall gates prying open when the morning bell rings, and of the town's collection of students filtering inside the only school for miles.

Because inside that school, in this town, life continues whether you’re there or not. 

You lean back in your chair, feeling it creak under your weight, and close your eyes. The teacher is speaking, but he won’t notice that you aren’t paying attention no matter how obvious you make it. Maybe he has noticed but simply doesn’t care. 

You wonder when you last had a conversation with someone, or when you last had someone look you in the eyes, say your name. You can’t recall what it would feel like. 

The student in front of you catches your attention when he finds his seat, back from the restroom. He doesn’t seem real. You feel as if you could close your eyes, reach out your hand to touch his shoulder and feel nothing but empty air. Curious, you try it, but of course, your fingers touch the back of his shirt. Startled, your eyes snap open. The boy turns around in his chair, but when he meets your eyes, he frowns and turns away without a word. 

There has to be something wrong with you. There has to be a reason you're so invisible to these people. You’re desperate for some kind of explanation, even if it’s a painful one, because at least then you would be able to do something about it. 

The slow, fragrant heat of the summer doesn’t match the desperation. you feel. The beautiful green hills in the village, the tallest of which you can see from outside the classroom window, the hedgerows bulging over the sides of the country lanes, the meadow brimming with wildflowers. None of it feels right. 

You walk across the sandy dirt of the schoolyard once the day ends, your bag heavy with the homework you used to complete because you thought you had to, and now only do as something to occupy yourself. You pass by the gym, the walls of the old building also seeming to sweat in the heat, thinking nothing of the group of boys sitting at the edge of the raised platform the structure rests on. Until something makes you stop.

You look back at the group to find that a blond boy has done the same thing as you: a double take of the person they accidentally made eye contact with. He looks away as if embarrassed, but you’re so shocked that you can’t help but continue to stare. 

Finally, you stand there for so long that his friends notice, nudging him and pointing in your direction. His friends merely seem curious while he squirms as if he can’t stand the tension until he finally looks at you and waves with a single, quick movement. He has already looked away, but you wave back, your mouth hanging open. 

Who was that?

At home, you sit at the kitchen table, listening to the windchimes outside and the hollow thrum of the bones of the house. You have things to do, but there doesn’t seem to be any reason to start. All that seems to matter is the fact that someone had looked at you, seen you. He’d just been messing with you, right? Or could it be that he was too kind to participate in the school-wide exclusion the other pupils put you through? 

Not for the first time, you think about simply getting to your feet and leaving, walking until you find somewhere where your presence matters and the world would be different if you didn’t occupy space within it. But whenever you find yourself facing the countryside through your open door, you can’t help but think that no matter how far you walk, it would all be the same.

You push yourself up and reach for the cupboard under the sink. It’s empty but for the strangest thing you own: an hourglass. Blue-tinted glass sits in a frame of golden metal, small rings decorating the base. You can’t remember where you got it, but it provides comfort as another item that doesn’t fit with the world around it. You’ve got into the habit of turning it every night before you fall asleep, if only because the slow trickle of the sand is relaxing to watch. 

You sit back at the kitchen table and lay your head on your arms.