yun

Wonyoung tormented you during your trainee years.

She was only a year older and friends with your sister, but that didn't stop her from making your life hell.

Okay, maybe not hell, nothing she did was ever really vicious, just plain mean.

Like how, on your very first day, when you were lost and clueless, she directed you to a completely different floor of the building where debut idols trained. It was mortifying and almost got you kicked out of the company.

And if that wasn't bad enough, she told all the other girls that you were some crazy fan girl who was just hoping to get a glimpse of the idols.

She made fun of your dance style and the fact that you struggled to hold a note- at the time!

Thankfully, she debuted before you, which made it easier for you to focus and to debut a year later. Now you see her at every award show and occasionally at music programs if your groups have comebacks at the same time.

Oh, and also on every shopping window and billboard in the country. But, you've had little to no interaction with her in years... Until today.

Your group is on break, so you're staying with your sister.

"Just let her in, please." your sister sighs over the phone. She has plans with Wonyoung, but she's still caught up at work. "I hate her." you say, aware of the fact that you sound like a bratty child.

"You haven't spoken to her in years." You don't have to see your sister to know exactly what look of annoyance she's making.

"Yeah, but she spent 3 years hating me for no reason, so I'll hate her forever," you toe at the furry carpet in the guest bedroom that you've been staying in.

"y/n" Your sister's tone is firm. "Just let her in, she'll just chill in my room till I get there."

You refrain from stomping before you say "fine," and hang up before she can say another word.

You take your time walking to the front door, scowling when you have to eventually pull it open. Wonyoung stands with her hands in her pockets and a smug look on her face. "Done with your tantrum?" she asks before stepping around you and into what you once considered a safe place.

"Couldn't you wait at the coffee shop down the street?" Your tone has a bite to it.

Wonyoung tilts her head, scoffing, "So rude. We haven't caught up in years."

"I don't want to catch up with you," you reply, your voice monotone.

"Is this about our teenage drama?" She asks like it's an insane reason to still be mad

"You outed me to my sister."

"She already knew, I merely confirmed." She shrugs.

Your eyebrows furrow, "doesn't make it okay."

"I'll admit, it was wrong, but come on, the closest was glass."

"God, you're still a bitch."

Wonyoung smirks. "And you're still easy to mess with."

You roll your eyes and brush past her to go to your room, but you can feel Wonyoung following you, "Go away."

She ignores you and walks right into your room, dropping on your bed with a slight bounce and sigh.

She crosses her legs and watches you still standing at the doorway.

"Never thought you'd see me in your bed, huh?" She smiles. You roll your eyes but don't respond, walking over to your desk to finish reading a book. You promised yourself you'd be done with it before your hiatus is over.

You hear Wonyoung sigh, but you opt for ignoring her now.

"Do you want an apology?" She asks, and you turn back to her only to find sarcasm. "Will that make you more pleasant to be around?"

You squint at her, but instead of snapping at her like you want to, you say, "Actually, I'd like an explanation." You step forward.

Wonyoung doesn't show any reaction to you walking towards her. "Why did you make my life miserable? What did I do to you?" You stop right in front of her.

She tilts her head up, and you see her think about her reply before shrugging. "You didn't do anything."

"Then why were you so horrible to me?" You ask.

"Because I liked you," she says, like it's so simple. Your eyebrows immediately scrunch, "What?"

"I liked you, and I didn't know how to deal with that, so I made life harder. For some reason, I thought if I was only mean to you, I'd start to believe that I didn't actually like you."

You look over her features for any familiar sign that she's messing with you, but you see none. Still, you say, "I don't believe that."

You step back, turning to reorganize your bookshelf, deciding not to pay any more attention to Wonyoung's words. You don't know she has stood up till she's right behind you.

"You should believe me, because what I felt back then," she's so close to you, you feel her breath behind your neck. "I still feel it," you slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder at her. "Only this time I'm not ashamed of how I feel."

You feel her hand grab yours, but you yank it back, stepping away from her. "No. No, I don't care. I wanted to quit because of you." You frown.

"But you didn't."

"It doesn't matter! I can't just forget that."

Wonyoung walks forward slowly like a predator zeroing in on its prey. "Then take it out on me." she says, your eyebrows crease. "Huh?"

She continues, "Take it out on me, use me to get your revenge." She takes your hand, guiding it to her chest to make her innuendo very clear.

When you don't make a move or show anything besides shock, Wonyoung raises her eyebrows, "Or do you want me to make it up to you?" Her eyes rake over your body,

You push aside the shock and take a step back, "Are you fucking with me?"

Wonyoung drops her hands to her side. "I don't know how else to make my intentions clear," she sighs, like you're being difficult.

"How am I supposed to know you're being serious after everything you've done to me?" You cross your arms over your abdomen.

Wonyoung steps forward to you again, taking your hand in hers again, "I'm sorry," she says, and you're surprised at how sincere she sounds. "I was young and stupid and confused, maybe a little ashamed, and I took it out on you." Her eyes are looking into yours as she speaks.

"I've wanted to tell you for a while, actually, but you avoid me at every MCountdown" she chuckles.

"You always refuse to do dances with my members anyway," you say.

"I wouldn't if it was you asking." She tilts her head, round eyes blinking at you.

You roll your eyes but don't pull away from her again. "Did you ever feel anything for me?" She pauses before saying, "You know, besides resentment."

You look over her features, checking for any of her telltale signs of mocking, when you find none, you say. "I always thought you were beautiful, annoyingly pretty for how rude you were," you admit.

Wonyoung smiles. "Annoyingly pretty?" She leans forward, and her lips meet yours. You're shocked at first, thrown by the fact that the Jang Wonyoung has just kissed you.

When you finally pull yourself together, you're tilting your head, your hand finding the base of her scalp and deepening the kiss. Wonyoung moans into your mouth, lips moving in perfect motion with yours.

Then she pushes you back, disconnecting from your mouth. You look at yourself in confusion, and maybe slight fear that this was just another way for her to mess with you. But then she pushes you again til the back of your knees hit your bed, and you fall into a sitting position.

Wonyoung lifts her skirt to straddle your lap. "Your sister should be getting out of work soon." Her fingers work on the button of your shorts. "We have to hurry."

You nod and help her free your cock, wonyoung marvels at the length of it, hand gripping it at the base, making you gasp.

"Kiss me," you ask, but it's so soft it could be mistaken for begging. Wonyoung doesn't point it out, though; her lips find yours as she pumps your cock, wrist twisting.

You moan into her mouth, and Wonyoung giggles. "Feel good?" She tilts her head. Something in her expression reminds you of when she used to make fun of you. You force yourself to look away, instead, looking down at her delicate hand around your cock.

Wonyoung must hate that your eyes are no longer on her because she's dropping to her knees, her face in your eye view again.

Her eyes hold contact with you, and she leans toward your cock, licking up the precum that has dribbled out.

You gasp when she takes the head into her mouth, sucking on the tip as her hand pumps the shaft. Your hands grip the bed sheet beneath you.

Wonyoung closes her eyes when she takes you deeper, nearly taking you whole before she gags on it.

"Careful," you say, moving her hair out of her face, holding it back. Wonyoung hums before her eyes open to meet you again, water gathering in the corners.

When she starts bobbing up and down, it takes everything in you not to come instantly into her wet, warm mouth. "That's good," you sigh, head tilting back.

"Hm?" Wonyoung hums around your cock. You thread your fingers through her hair as she gives you head, and in this moment, if you knew all those years of Wonyoung being mean to you would lead to this- it was definitely worth it.

You hand grips her hair, taking control of her rhythm. "Won" you whine before you're yanking her off you. You were so close to cumming but you don't want this to end.

"Lay on the bed," you switch positions, Wonyoung slips down her underwear, tossing it aside, and lifting her skirt.

Your hands run up her thighs, guiding them open as you lie between them, she glistening, "You're wet from sucking me off?" You ask almost in disbelief.

"I told you, I've liked you all this time," she says with no ounce of shame or embarrassment.

You maintain eye contact, leaning forward and licking a stripe up her slit. She whines but will not be the first to look away.

With your fingers, you spread her pussy lips and expose her swollen clit and leaking hole to you. You experimentally tongue the clit, making her jolt at the over-sensitiveness.

You don't make her beg, even though you originally intended to; you can't find it in yourself to care at the moment. Not when your face is practically buried in her pussy, your nose bumping her clit.

"Uh! God." Wonyoung grinds against your face, her wetness leaking out to coat your chin.

"Don't stop," she's breathy, not whiny like you expected. You suck her clit into your mouth, releasing it and running your tongue down to her hole.

"Fingers" wonyoung breathes, and for some odd reason, all you can do is comply. You'd give Wonyoung anything she wants as long as she lets you stay between her thighs.

The noise her cunt makes as you're thrusting your fingers in and out with slipperier ease is obscene, dirty, and so fucking delicious.

"Holy fuck, you're so wet, baby," you comment as you watch your fingers disappear and reappear shiny, over and over.

"I'm gonna cum." Wonyoung arched her back as the words were forced out of her.

"Yeah?" You crawl over her, face to face with her. "Look at me while I make you cum."

Wonyoung nods, crease between her brows, and mouth open agape.

You feel her clench around your fingers, "There it is," you smirk, and that tips her over the edge. As she catches her breath, you find yourself rutting against her thigh, moaning in her ear.

But before you can get anywhere else, "wonyoung?" The sounds of your sister calling her friend has you both rushing around the room, putting on and adjusting clothes.

"Where are my underwear?" Wonyoung whispers in panic. You shrug back and look around the floor.

"Y/N did you even let her in?" Wonyoung fixes her hair in your mirror before rushing to your door, pausing and walking back to you, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"DM me," she smiles and slips out of your room.

You sigh, eyes scanning your room once again, immediately spotting the pink panties.

꒦꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦THE END꒦ꙮ꒷꒦꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦꒷꒦

A/N

melbourne in early spring smells like pavement after sun, like backyard fences, like soft dust on a windowsill. there’s a kind of warmth that doesn’t press on your skin but settles into it slowly, like it’s meant to stay. it’s a tuesday when you notice the difference—not in the temperature, but in the quiet. there’s too much of it.

your elbow is balanced on the railing of your porch, cheek resting in the bend of your arm. it’s mid-afternoon and you’ve been sitting there for nearly an hour, watching the leaves shift patterns against the cement. the sun is at that early angle where everything feels suspended. gold-tinted. thick like syrup. nothing moves for long except the shadows.

then the truck pulls up next door.

you hear it before you look—wheels crunching against the curb, a low engine hum, a squeaky brake. another new tenant. that house never keeps them long. you don’t care. you’ve stopped caring. it’s not worth the effort of remembering names when they always leave before you get to know them.

a car door slams. then another.

then—a laugh.

high and loud and completely unfiltered. not from a grown-up. not even close. someone young. and not just young—but alive.

you glance over, disinterested at first, and see her.

she’s trying to carry an armload of pillows, half-smothered under the uneven stack, with a backpack that’s practically falling off one shoulder and what looks like a bundle of cables tangled in one hand. she’s not graceful. she’s not even trying to be.

there’s dirt on the side of her shoe and a crooked smile on her face. her hair’s tied messily, sweat clinging to her temples, and when she lets out another breathless laugh—this time at the way a pillow slips out from under her arm—she doesn’t seem embarrassed at all.

you don’t move at first.

but your mom, who has just stepped out to water the basil plant on the windowsill, says, without looking up, “go help her.”

you consider ignoring her.

then you catch sight of the way the girl tries to balance the backpack again, only for a sock to come flying out of the open zipper and land in the grass.

you sigh.

you get up. shuffle down the porch steps barefoot. your feet are used to the heat of the concrete. you feel the sun against your shoulders. there’s the faint sound of the radio from someone’s open window. and when you cross the driveway and reach for the top pillow, she looks up—and smiles at you like she’s known you forever.

“hi!” she says, like the heat and the mess and the chaos don’t touch her. “don’t mind me. gravity’s just personally targeting me today.”

you raise an eyebrow. “need help?”

“wouldn’t say no,” she says brightly, and the weight in your hands shifts as she offloads two pillows into your arms. they’re warmer than you expected.

“i’m hanni,” she adds, as if it’s an afterthought. “i think we’re neighbors.”

“y/n.”

“y/n,” she repeats. “that’s nice. like… compact.”

“…thanks?”

she grins like you’ve said something funny.

“third step creaks,” you say before you can stop yourself.

her brow furrows. “what?”

“on your porch. the step you’re standing on.”

she looks down.

the second she shifts her weight, the wood groans loudly under her foot.

she yelps—jumps off—“no way, that’s cursed!”—and you laugh. you weren’t going to, but you do.

“you’ll get used to it,” you say.

“nah. gonna sue.”

by friday, she’s everywhere.

you come home from school and she’s already on your porch, cross-legged, scribbling something into a notebook that looks like it’s lived in her bag for a decade. she doesn’t look up until you’re right in front of her. then she grins—always that grin—and says,

“wanna see something cursed?” before showing you the worst drawing of a dog you’ve ever seen in your life.

“it’s supposed to be a husky,” she says solemnly. “but it became… this.”

you study it.

“…you gave it five legs.”

“five is a lucky number!”

“not for dogs.”

“not for boring dogs.”

she shows you her shoelaces next, which she’s replaced with rainbow yarn.

you don’t say much, but she doesn’t seem to care. if anything, she seems perfectly at ease with the silences. like she sees them for what they are: space. she fills them with stories. about her cousins. about a song she heard once on a plane and never forgot. about how she’s convinced there’s a secret room in her house because one of the walls sounds weird when you knock on it.

“you want to check?”

“check what?”

“the wall.”

“in your house?”

“yes.”

“…no.”

“coward.”

you don’t realize you’ve started to like her until you catch yourself waiting for her to show up the next day. and the next. and the next.

one afternoon, she brings a popsicle to share. not two—just one. she breaks it in half with her hands and gives you the bigger side.

you take it.

“you don’t talk a lot,” she says, not accusing. just curious.

“you talk enough for both of us.”

she grins, satisfied. “true.”

she falls asleep in your room for the first time that sunday.

it isn’t planned. she just shows up after dinner with a half-eaten popsicle and asks if you want to come outside. the sky is still streaked with gold, the sun dragging itself slowly out of view.

you both lie down on the patchy grass in your backyard, your backs pressed to the earth, and she talks about everything and nothing—what she misses from her old house, how her sister keeps hogging the bathroom, what kind of dog she wants when she’s older.

you listen more than you speak. you always have.

when the stars come out, you suggest heading inside. she doesn’t want to go home yet, so you let her follow you to your room.

she sits on your rug and leafs through your books, fingers brushing against spines like she’s flipping through a box of memories. she finds your old cds, laughs at the hand-drawn covers, makes you play one.

and then, somewhere between the second song and the third, she falls asleep.

she’s curled up like a cat at the foot of your bed, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her socks mismatched. her face is soft in sleep, her breathing steady. you don’t have the heart to wake her.

so you let her stay. you turn off the light, crawl beneath the blanket, and lie awake listening to the quiet sound of her breathing.

that becomes the rhythm of your days.

weekends are for long walks to the convenience store and splitting a packet of tim tams on the curb outside. after school, she sits on your porch and swings her legs as you do your homework beside her.

she draws hearts on your worksheets when she’s bored. she steals strawberries from your cereal when she sleeps over. she sings nonsense songs when she forgets the lyrics and makes up new ones just for you.

you trade music. she makes you playlists with silly titles like "songs for a rainy picnic" or "this sounds like a sunflower walking to school." you write her name in the corners of your notebooks and underline the songs she likes best.

one day she brings a disposable camera to school. takes photos of you when you're not looking. on the swings. walking home. in class, your face half-hidden behind your hand.

"you have a good face," she says casually, and you pretend not to hear how it sticks to the back of your throat.

sometimes she falls asleep in your bed without asking. sometimes she talks about dreams she hasn’t told anyone else. sometimes she holds your hand just because.

you start spending summers the same way. days stretch out like softened taffy, slow and sticky. mornings melt into afternoons at the park, the both of you sprawled out on a blanket, trading secrets and melting ice cream cones. she draws little suns on your arm in sunscreen, then laughs when you forget to wash them off before bed.

when it rains, you build forts in your living room with mismatched sheets and fairy lights. she brings snacks in the folds of her hoodie and eats chips one by one, placing the broken ones on your tongue like communion. you whisper late into the night, voices soft so no one else can hear, until one of you falls asleep mid-sentence.

everything feels infinite. the kind of life that doesn’t need to announce itself, doesn’t need to go anywhere, because it already feels like enough.

on your birthday, she gives you a little note tucked inside a friendship bracelet she made with her sister’s embroidery thread. the note just says, "thank you for being my favorite." you tape it to your wall and look at it sometimes when she isn’t around.

even when you’re not together, she finds ways to linger. a scarf she left behind, a doodle on your notebook, a crumpled receipt with her handwriting in the margins. she's woven herself into the corners of your days like thread through fabric.

and you— you don’t know what it means yet, this feeling. not fully. but it hums under your ribs whenever she laughs, whenever her hand brushes yours, whenever she says your name like it’s something soft.

the quiet before it all changes is so sweet you don’t even notice the silence getting ready to fall.

the storm hasn’t even begun to gather.

not yet.

spring leans into summer before you even realize it. one day you're both in jumpers, complaining about the wind, and the next, you're lying face-up in your backyard in mismatched shorts, sipping cold juice from a shared bottle, pretending the sky doesn’t feel so far away.

by now, hanni's laugh is something you know like your own name. so is the way she hums when she concentrates, like she’s trying to anchor herself to the moment.

you’ve learned that she eats her cereal dry when she’s too lazy to wash another bowl, and that she never finishes her iced coffee if it gets too watery. she always offers you the last few sips though, even if she knows you’ll say no.

your routines have fused together like that. not grand things—just steady ones. after school, you sit cross-legged on each other’s beds, half-studying, half-daydreaming. sometimes she reads aloud from your textbooks in ridiculous voices until you’re both breathless from laughing.

other times, you fall into a kind of quiet that only the closest people can share, headphones in the same phone, pinkies linked absentmindedly between you on the duvet.

her room always smells like her shampoo—green apple and something sweeter underneath—and the fan clicks slowly overhead while the two of you nap side by side, limbs tangled, the afternoon light slanting soft and gold across the floor.

when you wake up, she’s already awake, scrolling on her phone, humming under her breath. she looks over at you with a half-smile like she’s been waiting. you don’t need to say anything.

and then the small things start to change.

not suddenly. not with drama. just in slivers. you catch her watching dance videos more often—not just watching, but analyzing. eyes tracking movement. fingers twitching like she’s trying to memorize choreography through the screen.

she no longer just listens to music, she studies it. she leans closer to her phone, rewinds moments three, four times, lips moving silently to the beat.

“you really like them, huh?” you ask one afternoon, voice gentle, neutral.

hanni shrugs, but you see the way her shoulders rise, tense. “yeah. i guess i do.”

she says it like a secret she’s still deciding to keep.

later, when you're lying on her floor surrounded by discarded worksheets and candy wrappers, she says it again, a little more certain. "i think… i’d be good at it. maybe."

you look over. she’s fiddling with a pen cap, not meeting your eyes. her voice isn’t loud. it’s the kind of voice people use when they’re scared they might be right about themselves.

"you would," you say, without missing a beat.

she looks up then. just a flicker of a smile. barely there, but it reaches her eyes.

you go back to your homework. she goes back to her videos.

but things feel different after that.

in the days that follow, she starts asking little questions. soft ones. not urgent, not dramatic. but they stay with you.

"do you think people from here ever make it big over there?"

"how do you even audition for those companies?"

"i wonder what it’s like to live somewhere where no one knows you."

her voice always trails off at the end, like she’s afraid of the answer.

one night, you’re on the roof of her garage again. your secret place. the stars are slow to appear. your legs swing over the edge, knocking gently into hers. she’s quiet. more than usual.

she turns to you suddenly. "do you think it’s selfish to want something more?"

you don’t answer right away. your throat tightens, but not in a bad way. in a way that feels like you’re about to lose something you haven’t even had the chance to name.

"no," you say. "i think it’s brave."

she looks at you for a long time. longer than usual. then she nods.

you don’t talk about it again—not yet. but you both feel it.

like summer leaning toward autumn. not quite gone. not yet. but leaving all the same.

hanni starts coming home later.

at first, it’s little things. she takes a different bus after school, says it’s because she’s helping a classmate with a project. sometimes she misses your usual snack runs or leaves your messages on read for a couple hours before replying with a rushed apology and a blurry photo of her half-eaten dinner. you don’t mind. you tell yourself it’s nothing. maybe she’s just tired. maybe it’s just midterms.

but then, one afternoon, she shows up at your house still in her school uniform, cheeks flushed, hair sticking slightly to her forehead like she’s been running. she drops her backpack onto your carpet and stretches out on your bed with a groan, limbs loose and trembling.

you sit beside her. “where have you been?”

she cracks one eye open. “dance group,” she says, breath still catching on the edges of her words. “i joined one.”

you blink. “like… school dance?”

she shakes her head. “nah. not school. it’s this after-hours thing. some older students rent out a studio downtown. they teach choreo and stuff. mostly k-pop.” she smiles, sheepish but glowing, like it’s the first time in days she’s let herself be still. “i went to watch once. and then… they asked if i wanted to try.”

you imagine her in a dance studio, mirrors on all sides, music pulsing through the floor. you imagine her moving—sharp and clean and sure, the way she gets when she’s focused, the way her brows knit together and her lips part slightly like she’s breathing the rhythm in. it makes something twist gently in your chest.

“you didn’t tell me,” you say, quietly.

she sits up, suddenly aware. “i wanted to. i just… i don’t know. it felt small at first. like something i wasn’t sure would last.”

you don’t say anything, and she looks down at her hands.

“but it’s fun,” she adds softly. “and it makes me feel... i don’t know. like i’m doing something real.”

you nod. not because you fully understand, but because you don’t want to be the reason she stops.

the next week, she drags you along.

the studio is tucked in between a bakery and a travel agency that’s been closed for months. you climb narrow stairs that creak under your shoes, and the moment the door opens, you're hit with the thump of bass and the echo of synchronized footsteps.

inside, there’s a wall of mirrors, scuffed wooden floors, and a fan oscillating weakly in one corner. someone’s counting aloud over the music. the air smells like sweat and body spray and something electric.

hanni is different here.

not in a way that makes her unrecognizable—but like she’s shed something heavy. her eyes scan the mirror as she lines up with the others, posture straightening. and then the music starts again—an itzy song, sharp beats and glittering synths—and she’s gone.

her body moves with intention. not just mimicking the choreography but interpreting it. she hits each beat like she means it, like there’s purpose in every flick of her wrist and every stomp of her heel. she smiles without realizing. sweat gathers at her temple, but she doesn’t stop. not even when everyone else does. she keeps going. polishing, adjusting. chasing something only she can see.

you sit at the back of the room, legs pulled up to your chest, heart climbing steadily with every eight count. you’ve never seen her like this. not this confident. not this… alive.

later, when she runs to you, breathless and beaming, you hand her your water bottle without a word. she takes it gratefully and leans into your side, hair damp against your shoulder.

“was i okay?” she asks, voice low, uncertain again now that the music’s stopped.

you turn to her, meet her eyes.

“you were incredible.”

and you mean it. you’ve never meant anything more.

you start waiting for her after practice.

not because she asks. not because you’re obligated. but because you want to. because sitting cross-legged on the dusty studio floor with your headphones in and her duffel bag at your feet feels like a kind of ritual now.

because the streets feel emptier when you walk them alone. because these nights feel like they’re yours—tucked away from the rest of the world, wrapped in the thrum of tired footsteps and half-whispered conversations that belong to no one else.

some nights, you arrive a little early and watch her finish up a final run-through. the lights are harsher at night, fluorescent and unforgiving, but she doesn’t flinch beneath them. she ties her hair back tight, slips into the music like it’s second nature, and moves like she’s chasing the exact shape of a dream.

afterwards, she always finds you. her face flushed, her eyes glassy with exhaustion, but her smile — soft and tilted just for you — is unwavering.

“ready?” she’ll ask, even though you’ve been ready since before she noticed.

and you’ll nod. always.

the walk home is quiet, usually.

not silent, not really — there’s always the sound of cars in the distance, the crunch of gravel under your shoes, the occasional laughter from passing windows.

but between you and hanni, the silence is comfortable. it's filled with the static hum of something unspoken, like a sentence that doesn’t need to end out loud.

sometimes she talks. about the choreo, the struggle of memorizing details, the ache in her knees, the way one of the older girls complimented her arm angles today.

you listen closely, even when you don’t know what all the terms mean. even when she’s too tired to finish her sentences properly and just gestures vaguely with her hands, trusting that you’ll get it anyway.

and you always do.

sometimes, she’s too tired to talk at all. on those nights, she’ll lean into you ever so slightly. not fully — just enough that her sleeve brushes yours, that her shoulder drifts into your space. and you let her. you walk side by side, feet syncing without trying, the moon casting long shadows ahead of you.

you reach her gate slower than usual these days.

you both linger outside like the night might stretch forever if you don’t speak first. the porch light flickers. her front door stays closed.

she turns to you, eventually. “thanks for waiting.”

you shrug, casual. too casual. “wasn’t doing anything else.”

she smiles at that, soft and tired and fond. “you always do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re not the best part of my day.”

you blink, caught off guard, and she doesn’t wait for your response. she just nudges your arm with her knuckles and disappears into the house, leaving you there under the light, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

one night, it rains.

you don’t have an umbrella. neither does she.

you run half the way home, her hand catching yours without thinking. it’s the first time you’ve held hands in years. and somehow it feels both brand new and like something you’ve always done.

you’re both soaked by the time you reach your street, your clothes clinging to your skin, hair dripping, lungs burning from laughter. she doubles over in front of her gate, wheezing from how hard she’s laughing.

“you look like a drowned cat,” you tell her, shivering.

“you look like a wet sock,” she fires back.

you grin at each other, teeth chattering. her cheeks are flushed, whether from the cold or something else, you don’t know. neither of you moves to go inside.

“come in,” she says suddenly. “just for a bit.”

you hesitate. “won’t your mom—?”

“she’s asleep,” hanni says. “you can borrow a hoodie.”

she disappears into the dark house, and you follow.

you sit on her bedroom floor, wrapped in an oversized hoodie that smells like fabric softener and something familiar — something like her. she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, one leg pulled up, hair damp and loose around her shoulders.

she presses play on a song. soft synth, a girl’s voice layered with harmonies. you recognize it — something she practiced last week.

“we’re doing this for the next showcase,” she says, voice low.

you don’t say anything. just watch her.

she hums along to the chorus, half under her breath, and you feel something shift in the air. not a change, not yet. just the possibility of one.

and then she lies back on her bed, arms stretched over her head, eyes fluttering closed.

“don’t let me sleep too long,” she mumbles.

“okay.”

you sit there in the soft, late-night quiet, staring at the ceiling. the rain has softened into a gentle tap against the windows. her breathing evens out. one of her arms dangles off the side of the bed, fingers twitching faintly in a dream.

you don’t move. not for a long time.

it’s sunday again.

your room is dim with late afternoon light, the windows streaked faintly with the kind of rain that never quite falls — just hovers, soft and slow, like the sky is thinking about crying but hasn’t made up its mind.

you’re both on the floor, tucked against the side of your bed with a shared blanket pulled over your legs. the air smells like laundry and the faint citrus of the body spray hanni always steals from your shelf.

she's sitting beside you with her legs folded, knees knocking into yours now and then. you're lying half on your side, cheek pressed into the crook of your arm, eyes tracing the rise and fall of her breathing.

you’ve been like this for a while. no music. no talking. just the hush of rain and the steady rhythm of two people who have spent enough time together to find comfort in quiet.

“can i tell you something?”

her voice is gentle, but it cuts through the stillness.

you blink up at her.

her eyes are fixed on the carpet, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. “it’s kind of big,” she adds, softer now. “but i don’t want it to change anything.”

your stomach turns — not out of dread, but because you can already feel the shape of something shifting.

still, you nod. “always.”

she takes a breath. her lips press together, then part. she hesitates again.

“i… sent in an audition video,” she says finally, barely above a whisper. “to a company. in korea.”

your breath catches, but you stay still. she doesn’t look at you yet.

“i filmed it after practice. didn’t even tell my parents,” she continues, voice picking up, a little more nervous now. “i just… wanted to try. just to see.”

there’s something in her tone — a quiet sort of hopefulness wrapped in fear. like the dream is too fragile to hold for long.

you sit up slowly, shifting so you’re facing her properly now.

“and?” you ask.

she looks up at you then. and her eyes — they’re scared, yes, but glowing too. bright and wide and filled with something that almost makes your chest hurt.

“they emailed back,” she says. “they want me to come for the second round. next month. just a week. but if it goes well…”

she trails off.

you don’t speak right away. you’re trying to make room inside yourself for everything this means — the change of it, the distance of it, the weight of loving someone who’s about to step into a much bigger world.

but above all that, louder than anything, is pride.

“that’s incredible,” you say quietly.

her brows furrow. “you’re not… mad?”

“no,” you say, and you mean it with your whole chest. “i’m proud of you.”

she blinks.

“really?”

you nod, smiling now, even if your throat is tight. “i’ve seen how hard you work. how much this means to you. you deserve this chance.”

she looks at you like she’s trying to memorize the moment. and maybe she is.

“but… it means i’ll be gone. for real this time.”

you reach for her hand. your fingers thread through hers easily, like they’ve done it a thousand times before. because they have.

“i know,” you say. “and i’ll miss you. but i’d rather you go after the thing you love than stay and wonder what could’ve been.”

her eyes flicker. her thumb moves slowly across your knuckles. she doesn’t say it out loud, but the look on her face says everything.

thank you. i’m scared. i don’t want to leave you. i have to try.

you don’t let go.

later, she falls asleep curled beside you, the blanket half-kicked off and your shoulder pillowing her head. you stay awake a little longer, listening to the rain as it finally begins to fall for real — soft and steady against the glass.

and in the quiet, you let yourself feel it all: the ache, the pride, the fear, the love.

because you’ve always known she was meant for more.

and because even now, with everything about to change — she’s still here, in your room, in your arms, just for a little while longer.

the days after hanni tells you pass like a dream you’re trying not to wake up from.

nothing really changes — not on the surface. she still meets you at your gate in the mornings, swinging her water bottle against her thigh while she waits.

you still walk to the bus stop together, still sit side by side on the left-hand row because the right side gets too much sun. you still split lemon candy in math, still complain about group projects, still share her earbuds even though you both only ever end up listening to the same three songs.

but there’s something under it now. not sadness, exactly. not yet. more like awareness. everything is more vivid. more precious. like the clock has started ticking but neither of you is ready to count the time out loud.

she comes over more often now. not that she didn’t already — but now, she lingers longer. leaves her things scattered across your floor like little reminders. drinks half your juice, falls asleep on your bed in her hoodie with the sleeves pulled over her hands. your mom just smiles when she sees her curled up like that, like it’s always been this way.

one night, she stays past dinner. your dad drives her home while she nods off in the passenger seat. when he returns, he tells you she mumbled your name in her sleep.

you pretend not to smile.

on the third-to-last day, you bring her to your favorite spot — the tiny hill near the community center, tucked behind the chain-link fence, where the streetlights don’t reach. you used to ride bikes there when you were younger. now, you lie on the grass shoulder to shoulder, jackets zipped up against the breeze, watching the stars blur above you.

“i’ll probably cry at the airport,” you admit.

“i’ll definitely cry at the airport,” she says.

you both laugh, but there’s a weight to it. she turns her head to look at you, her cheek against the cool grass.

“you’re not scared i’ll forget you?” she asks.

you shake your head. “i’m scared i won’t know how to talk to you once you’re there.”

she’s quiet.

then, “i won’t let that happen.”

you look at her. in the dark, her features soften — her eyes round and shining, her lips parted like she wants to say more but doesn’t know how. or maybe she does. maybe she’s just afraid.

“promise?” you ask.

she reaches for your pinky and hooks it with hers.

“promise,” she whispers.

you stay like that for a long time. hands warm between you, eyes on the sky. your pinkies don’t untangle until it’s time to go home.

on the last full day, she skips dance practice.

you don't ask if she's sure — you just spend the afternoon in your backyard, music playing low from your phone, as you make a memory out of the ordinary.

she helps your mum prep vegetables for dinner, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something your dad says from the grill. when the sun begins to dip, you sit on the back steps with her, passing a popsicle between you.

“this feels like something we’ll remember,” she says, nudging your knee with hers.

“it is,” you say. “i already know.”

she rests her head on your shoulder. doesn’t move it for a while.

after dinner, the house is still.

your parents retreat to the living room. the television hums faintly in the background, but you and hanni drift upstairs, your footsteps soft on the wood.

your room welcomes her like it always does — a little messy, a little warm, her things already half-scattered across your desk from earlier visits. she drops onto your bed like she’s been waiting all day for that moment. you sit beside her, legs pulled up beneath you, the window cracked just enough to let the cool night air slip in.

“i don’t wanna pack yet,” she mumbles, face half-buried in your pillow.

“don’t,” you say. “not yet.”

you don’t need to tell her she can stay the night. she already knows. her toothbrush is still in your bathroom from the last sleepover that turned into three. her spare hoodie — the pale grey one with the small bleach stain near the cuff — hangs on the back of your chair. her phone charger’s already plugged in on your side of the bed.

time moves slower in moments like this. softer.

you pull out the box of old stickers and polaroids from under your bed — the one neither of you has opened in months — and you sift through it together. photos from your first school camp. a blurry shot of hanni grinning with half a sandwich in her mouth. ticket stubs from a concert you both pretended to like. a note she passed you in year seven, still folded in its jagged square.

“you kept this?” she says, unfolding it carefully.

you nod. “you made me laugh that day.”

“i wrote this in science class.”

“i know. you got in trouble.”

she laughs, and the sound fills the room. it makes something in your chest ache in the most familiar way.

when it’s late enough that everything feels suspended — the world gone quiet beyond your window, the air holding its breath — you lie side by side in the dark, the ceiling barely visible above you. her hand finds yours without thinking.

“do you think you’ll change?” you ask quietly.

she doesn’t answer at first. you think maybe she’s fallen asleep. but then her fingers curl tighter around yours.

“i don’t want to,” she whispers. “but i probably will. a little.”

you nod. you knew that already.

“will you still talk to me even if everything gets crazy?”

she turns on her side to face you. you can’t quite see her expression, but her voice is steady.

“i’ll try. even if it’s just a few minutes. even if i’m tired. i’ll still find a way.”

“okay.”

you roll over too, so you’re both facing each other in the dark. noses nearly touching.

she doesn’t move. neither do you.

“i’m going to miss you so much,” she says. it’s so soft you almost don’t hear it.

your throat tightens. you whisper back, “me too.”

she reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. a tender gesture that lingers longer than necessary.

“you’ll be amazing,” you say.

you don’t say you’ll forget me, or please don’t fall in love with someone else in seoul, or i wish you weren’t leaving. you just press your forehead to hers.

she exhales slowly. her fingers drift down to rest against your wrist, light and warm and careful.

you fall asleep like that — tangled in the silence, in everything you’re both too young and too scared to say.

she wakes to warmth.

not sunlight — not yet — but something quieter. gentler. like the world is letting her have this one small grace before it all begins again.

her first instinct is to reach for her phone, to check the time, to count how many hours she has left.

but then she feels it.

your arm beside hers. the steady rise and fall of your breath, close and calm. and just like that, she forgets the clock.

you’re still asleep.

lying on your side, facing her, your face softened by sleep. your lashes flutter slightly, your lips parted just enough for a slow breath to pass through. there’s a warmth pressed between your elbows, your knees nearly touching. everything about you is still.

and all she can think is: i can’t take this with me.

she swallows hard and doesn’t let herself move.

instead, she watches the way the sunlight is starting to creep into the room. the way it paints gold into your curtains and climbs its way across the posters on your wall. the way it lands on the edge of your blanket — the one you insisted she use because you knew she ran cold at night, even though you always pretended she didn’t.

you always knew.

that’s the part that hurts the most.

you always knew her so well. and still, she’d kept this from you — not because she didn’t trust you, but because she couldn’t stand the idea of saying it out loud. because saying it would make it real. saying it would mean losing this.

she blinks. forces the sting behind her eyes to fade.

instead, she reaches, carefully, silently, fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve. just a touch. not enough to wake you. just enough to say: i’m here. just enough to ask: can i stay like this a little longer?

and somehow — even in sleep — you answer.

you shift slightly, your arm pressing against hers. not fully awake. just enough contact to let her breathe again.

she closes her eyes.

the room smells like your shampoo and the faintest trace of lemon tea. the floor creaks once — distant — like someone downstairs is beginning to move. the birds outside sing louder now, as if morning is insisting its way in.

but still, she stays.

there’s so much she should be thinking about. her flight. her suitcase. the audition. the future that feels too big for her hands to hold.

but all she can think about is you.

how this is the last morning she’ll wake up with you across from her like this. how you’ll come home to this room tonight and she won’t be here. how her leaving is going to carve out a quiet in both of you she can’t fill from anywhere else in the world.

and still — still — she wants to go. not because she wants to leave, but because this dream she’s held onto for so long is finally close enough to touch.

it hurts. but it’s hers.

you stir, finally, shifting under the covers with a quiet breath.

and hanni opens her eyes again just in time to see you blink yours open, slow and a little confused, before they settle on her.

“morning,” she whispers, softer than she meant to.

you smile, and in that moment she forgets how to breathe.

the days blur together in seoul.

she wakes before the sun most mornings — not because she has to, but because she can’t sleep. her body still aches from practice the night before, but her mind stays wired, full of things she doesn't say out loud. the sound of sneakers squeaking on practice room floors. the metallic click of doors locking behind her. the soft ping of unread messages she hasn’t found the strength to answer.

the city moves fast. faster than melbourne ever did. here, everything is built to be chased — time, perfection, debut lines.

and she runs.

she runs until her voice is raw, her limbs burning, her feet pulsing in rhythm with the music. she trains until her body forgets how to do anything else. and still, it never feels enough. there’s always more. more to fix. more to improve. more to prove.

some nights, she stares at herself in the mirror after everyone else has gone home — sweat-soaked, trembling, face flushed from overwork — and wonders if she still looks like herself.

the girl you used to know. the one who danced in your room in mismatched socks. the one who giggled so loud when you tripped over her foot during just dance that your mom told you both off.

she misses that girl. she misses you.

more than she lets herself admit.

there are photos of you on her phone — old ones. the blurry kind. the ones where you're pulling faces or laughing too hard to stay still. she scrolls through them sometimes late at night, when her roommates are asleep and the only light in the dorm comes from her screen.

she still hasn’t replied to your last message.

it's not that she doesn’t want to.

it’s just that she doesn't know what to say.

how do you explain to someone that you’re becoming the person you always dreamed of being — and yet, somehow, you’ve never felt farther from yourself?

how do you tell the person you love that you're scared they’ll stop waiting?

one night, after a long practice, she opens your message.

“do you ever get tired of it?”

it had come a week ago. she rereads it for the fourth time. not accusatory. not bitter. just… gentle. like always. like you.

she stares at the blinking cursor for a long time before she types anything.

sometimes. but it’s the kind of tired i can live with. i miss home.

then she stops. hovers over send.

deletes the last part.

rewrites:

i miss you.

and sends it before she can take it back.

then she lies down, phone tucked under her pillow like a secret. and for the first time in a long time, she falls asleep fast.

i miss you too pham. more than you could ever know.

trainee life is relentless.

wake. stretch. vocal warmups. dance. practice. monitor. again. again.

there’s a tightness in hanni’s shoulders now that never goes away. a sharpness to the way she carries herself — focused, careful, always just a little tense, like something might slip if she ever relaxes too much.

but even in the middle of all that, she finds ways to keep you with her.

in the little things.

your old playlist, quietly playing in her earbuds when she’s the last one left in the practice room. the polaroid tucked into her wallet of the two of you grinning with iced drinks in hand, your hair wet from a surprise downpour, both of you soaked and laughing. the photo’s edges are curling now. she smooths it flat when no one’s looking.

sometimes she’ll open her notes app during breaks and just start typing whatever comes to mind.

walked past a café that smelled like your shampoo. there's a girl in my vocal class who laughs like you. my roommate makes ramen like you used to, but hers sucks.

she never sends these.

but every few days, when the silence starts to ache more than usual, she’ll text you something small.

just finished practice. do you remember when we tried dancing to 'cheer up' in your garage? we were so bad lol i saw a pigeon wearing a bread necklace. reminded me of you. do you still eat 7/11 sushi? please say no. i’m worried.

and always — always — you reply.

sometimes quickly. sometimes a few hours later because of the time difference. but it never feels like you’re far, not really.

you ask questions about her classes, her dorm, the new songs she’s learning. sometimes you send voice notes, just a quick “hey” or a terrible joke or even a soft hum of a song you heard that reminded you of her. she listens to those on the bus, staring out the window, earbuds in, pretending she’s back home and you’re sitting beside her again.

there are nights when she doesn’t reply. not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s too tired to lift her fingers. but she reads your messages anyway, over and over, until the screen blurs.

and there are nights when you don’t reply either. sometimes for a day. sometimes longer.

those are the ones that hurt the most.

she doesn’t ask why. she never blames you.

instead, she types, deletes, types again.

still here.

she doesn’t send that either.

but she whispers it in the dark, quiet like a prayer. hoping maybe, across all the miles, you’ll feel it too.

sometimes, she gets half a day off.

the schedule is cruel most weeks — training stacked on top of training, evaluations tucked between classes, rehearsals bleeding into late-night practices until her limbs feel foreign and her eyes sting. but every now and then, if the stars align and the managers have mercy, she wakes up to a morning unclaimed.

she doesn’t know what to do with those hours.

the first few breaks, she tried to sleep them away. then clean, or study. but lately, she just walks.

there’s a little café three blocks down from the company building. she found it by accident one day, rain pushing her under its awning like a whisper. the windows are always fogged up, the lights always soft, and the quiet inside feels like the kind that welcomes sadness without asking questions. she goes there now whenever she can. orders the same thing — a honey latte and a single madeleine — and sits by the window with her notebook.

the notebook is new. she bought it on a whim, plain black cover, faint lines across cream paper. it’s not a journal. it’s not even neat. but it holds pieces of you. the versions of you she’s trying to keep close.

sometimes she writes things that happened years ago. sometimes, just a word that makes her think of you.

i saw two girls today laughing over instant tteokbokki. they reminded me of us. you always burned your tongue. you never waited for it to cool. i think you liked the pain a little.

her phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with your name.

a photo.

your lunch, apparently. instant noodles in a chipped bowl, two boiled eggs on top, and a coffee can turned sideways for scale. your caption reads:

dinner of champions. miss having someone to mock my meals tbh.

she laughs, quiet and real, the sound catching in her throat before it escapes.

thumbs hover over her phone. she wants to reply. wants to call. wants to see your face, hear your voice, know if you’re tired or if your cat still hates being touched behind the ears. she wants to say, i miss you, and mean it a hundred different ways.

but she hesitates.

what if you're busy? what if it’s the wrong time? what if your life is full without her now?

she stares at the screen until it fades back to black, unread, unopened.

the package comes a week later.

wrapped in brown paper, the kind that creases easily. her name and the dorm address written in your handwriting — still a little uneven, the same way you used to label your notebooks back in school.

she opens it slowly. reverently. sitting cross-legged on the floor of her dorm room, the curtain drawn shut, golden light pooling around her like warmth.

inside, a box of assorted tea bags, the kind she used to drink at your place during late-night cramming sessions. fuzzy socks with little cartoon stars embroidered along the sides. one has a loose thread already. a keychain shaped like a slice of bread, hollowed out in the middle to fit a tiny, smiling duck.

and a folded piece of notebook paper. lined. frayed on one edge.

she doesn’t open the letter right away.

she holds it first — both hands cupped around it like a prayer. your handwriting on the front says just her name, nothing else. no greeting. no end. like it doesn’t need one.

she waits until midnight to read it. after the lights are off. after the room is still.

hey. i hope everything arrived okay. i wrapped it like ten times because the last time i sent something to my cousin, the box arrived looking like it had been stomped on by a truck. this time i chose socks instead of snacks, just to be safe. and because you always complained your feet were cold. i’m sorry for not replying sometimes. it’s not that i don’t want to. i think about what to say for hours. sometimes days. but school is intense right now. i picked up a weekend shift at the café near the tram stop. it’s not glamorous but the coffee’s free and the tips aren’t bad. between lectures and shifts and trying to stay sane, i guess i just… drift sometimes. but your messages? i read them. always. sometimes more than once. sometimes right before bed when the house is quiet and i miss you most. sometimes, i don’t reply because i don’t know how to tell you how much i miss you without sounding like i’m still stuck in the past. but maybe that’s okay. maybe i am. maybe i’m still there — sitting next to you in your garage, drinking milo and swatting away mosquitos, arguing about which kpop dance cover you’d nail better. anyway. stay warm. come home when you can. love, y/n

the paper trembles in her hands.

she reads it again. and again. the words bleeding into the silence like breath, like gravity. like love that never really went anywhere.

she wipes at her eyes once. then again.

she presses the letter flat beneath her pillow like it belongs there.

she doesn’t reply right away. not because she doesn’t want to — but because she wants to say it right.

she never has the right words when it comes to you.

but when she drinks the tea the next morning, the warmth blooming in her chest feels close enough.

melbourne feels both foreign and exactly the same.

the taxi pulls away from the curb with a dusty churn of gravel and exhaust, leaving her standing at the edge of the driveway. her bag sits at her feet like a stranger. the house before her looks smaller now — not physically, maybe, but in how it fits into her memory. the same mailbox with the chipped corner. the same curtains fluttering in her mother’s window. someone is cooking. the air smells like garlic and soy and a little bit of dust, the kind that clings to the corners of every room back home.

she hasn’t stood here in nearly a year.

not since her suitcase was packed in a flurry of nerves and possibility, and she boarded that flight to seoul with too much hope and not nearly enough goodbye.

when the door opens, her mother gasps. she barely gets out her name before pulling her in, arms tight, the way only a mother can hold you when she’s been waiting for you to come home.

they don’t talk much that first night. the house is full of quiet footsteps and the hum of the electric fan, her old bedroom untouched except for a thin layer of dust. she lies on her bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, hand curled beneath her cheek. jetlag aches in her bones, but her mind stays wide open.

your street is just three blocks away.

you don’t know she’s coming home.

her family kept it quiet. she asked them to. something about it feels easier that way — softer around the edges. she wants to see you before the word gets out, before anyone else starts pulling at her time. before she has to explain who she is now and why she left.

you’re home for the holidays — a rare miracle between class schedules and your café shifts. your hair’s a bit longer, dyed at the tips like you always said you’d try. there are dark circles under your eyes, but you look like you — still in your house slippers, still scolding your cat like he understands human morality, still chewing your pen caps when you think too hard.

you don’t know she’s coming, but your mom does. and she doesn’t warn you.

so when the doorbell rings at 10:47 in the morning, you don’t think much of it. you pad to the front door with sleepy steps, expecting a delivery or a neighbor with a borrowed rake.

you don’t expect her.

but there she is. standing on your front porch in an oversized hoodie, a suitcase behind her, a nervous smile tugging at her lips.

you don’t move.

you stare at her, barefoot on the tile. your hands are slightly damp from doing dishes, a rag still tossed over your shoulder.

she’s real. she’s really here. after everything — after the texts, the silences, the almost-calls and late-night letters — she’s here. in front of you.

“hi,” she says, voice small but steady.

you swallow. “hi.”

a beat passes. another. the breeze shifts behind her, and a eucalyptus leaf skitters across the steps.

“can i come in?”

you step aside.

it takes a while to settle.

you make tea because your hands need something to do. she sits at the kitchen counter, watching you move around the space like she’s memorizing it all over again. her eyes flick to the fridge magnets, to the cracked tile by the sink, to the chipped ceramic mug you’ve always claimed as your favorite.

you set her cup down in front of her. she reaches for it, but your hands brush.

and that’s when the silence breaks.

you talk for hours. the kind of talking that doesn’t rush — the kind that winds slowly between past and present, that loops back on itself, that pauses and meanders like an old river through familiar banks.

she tells you about seoul. about early mornings and sore feet and the terrifying wonder of standing under stage lights. about the nights she wanted to quit and the days she never thought she’d make it. about how she missed home, and about how home always meant you.

you tell her about school. about cramming for exams with vending machine coffee and crying in library bathrooms. about working double shifts to make rent. about missing her so much it started to feel like background noise — like the hum of your fridge or the sound of your own breathing.

you ask her why she never called.

she looks down at her tea. steam curls around her lashes.

“i tried,” she says. “a lot of times. i just… didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me anymore. i didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

you want to be angry.

but her voice cracks a little on the last word, and that’s what finally softens you.

“i always wanted to hear from you,” you say. “even when it hurt. especially then.”

she looks up at you.

and for a moment, it’s just the two of you again — not the idol and the student, not the girl who left and the girl who stayed. just hanni and y/n, in the kitchen where everything once began.

you don’t hug right away.

you sit across from each other. you sip tea. you listen to the rain start to fall.

but your knees brush under the table.

and neither of you pulls away.

she stays for three days.

not long — not nearly long enough — but more than either of you dared hope for. and in those three days, the house begins to bend around her again. your home reshapes itself to fit her like it always used to.

she sleeps in your room.

you don’t talk about it. the first night, she stands in the doorway with her toothbrush and a blanket and asks, “is it okay if i…?”

and you say, “yeah. of course.”

she curls up under your covers like she never left — like you didn’t spend nearly two years learning how to fall asleep without her weight beside you. the ceiling looks the same as it did when you were kids, but the air between you is quieter now, steadier, full of all the things you still don’t know how to say.

you stay up talking some nights. other nights, you just lie in silence, sharing the dark.

she wears your old hoodie in the mornings.

drinks from your chipped mug. steals bites of your toast without asking, like it’s muscle memory. the cat remembers her — still swats at her lazily, still tolerates her affection more than anyone else’s. your mom smiles a lot more when she’s around. the house feels fuller somehow, like someone turned the volume back up on your life.

you walk her to the bus stop once, just to buy time.

she doesn’t need to go anywhere, but the walk gives you an excuse to linger in the late-afternoon light, shoulders brushing, quiet laughter caught between breaths. the wind’s cool on your face. jacaranda petals crunch under your feet. she tells you about a dance she’s learning and ends up showing you part of the choreo on the sidewalk, half-embarrassed but grinning. you clap dramatically and she mock bows, hand to her chest.

you take pictures — she lets you.

her head on your shoulder. the two of you mid-laugh. one blurry shot of her holding your cat like a baby. she looks happy. not tired. not polished or posed. just happy. and it makes something ache deep in your chest, because you know she has to go again soon.

she doesn’t talk about it, but you can feel the countdown hanging in the air.

the night before she leaves, you both stay up late.

you’re in your room, lights dimmed, music playing low from your phone. she’s sitting cross-legged on your bed, brushing through your hair with gentle fingers, like it calms her. her voice is soft — telling you a story from her trainee dorms, something about laundry day and how she accidentally shrank one of minji’s shirts.

you laugh. she tugs gently on your ear in retaliation. and then you fall quiet again.

“do you ever wish you didn’t go?” you ask, voice low.

she hesitates.

then, “sometimes. when it gets really hard. when i miss this.”

you nod. you can feel her breath against your neck now.

“but i don’t regret it,” she adds. “because… i needed to try. and i’m doing what i love. even when it hurts, it feels like the right kind of hurt.”

you turn to face her.

and for once, she doesn’t look away.

“and you?” she asks. “do you ever wish i stayed?”

you want to say yes. god, it would be so easy.

but instead, you tell the truth.

“i wish it didn’t have to be either-or.”

her eyes soften.

“i’m glad you went, hanni,” you whisper. “i’m proud of you.”

her throat works around a silent thank you.

then she says, quietly, “i missed you every day.”

“me too.”

the space between you crackles.

you don’t kiss her. not yet. it’s not time. the air’s too heavy with everything unspoken. but you lie down together, and this time, you fall asleep tangled in the blankets, her arm draped over your waist, your hand resting lightly over hers.

you wake up together, just like that.

and for a moment, it almost feels like nothing ever changed.

next morning, she leaves with her suitcase packed again. you walk her to the car. her mom drives. you hug her longer than you mean to, eyes shut, heart full and too heavy all at once.

she whispers something into your hair.

you don’t catch it.

it starts quietly.

not with a fight. not with a final message. not with anything loud or irreversible.

it starts with a delayed reply.

not the kind that makes your heart drop. just the kind that makes you glance at your phone one too many times, then turn it face down beside your laptop. you’re busy anyway — with school, with work, with this paper that won’t write itself and the dishes in the sink and the quiz you forgot to study for. it’s fine. she’ll reply when she can.

and she does.

just slower than usual. shorter. sometimes just a thumbs-up, or a “sorry just saw this,” or a photo with no caption — a mirror selfie of her in practice gear, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, sweat darkening her hairline.

you tell yourself she’s just tired. because she is tired.

she’s working harder than anyone you know. and she’s closer than ever to the thing she’s been dreaming of since she was just a kid dancing in the garage, laughing under fluorescent lights with you holding the speaker. she’s in the lineup now. they haven’t told her everything, but she knows what it means. more hours, stricter routines, more eyes on her every move. she’s finally standing on the edge of it — debut. and you? you want to be proud. you are proud.

you just wish it didn’t feel so much like being left behind.

because now your messages sit unread for longer. and when she does reply, it doesn’t feel like her anymore. not in the way it used to — not in the way where you could read between the lines and feel warmth tucked inside every word. now everything feels... contained. like she’s holding you at arm’s length even when she’s saying she misses you.

and then, one night, she forgets your birthday.

you don’t even realize it right away. it’s not like you expected a call — she hasn’t had time for that in months. but there’s no message either. not even a late one.

you wait until midnight anyway. and then another hour after that. refreshing, checking, closing your apps, opening them again.

nothing.

you don’t cry. not really. just sit on the floor of your room for a while, the light off, your hands cold. you pull out the letter she sent you months ago — the one that came with the package, the one you’ve read a hundred times. her handwriting looks smaller now than it did before.

sometimes it’s hard to talk. i don’t mean to disappear. i just don’t know how to explain everything. but i never stop thinking about you. i hope you know that.

you fold it again. tighter this time. until it fits into your palm like something that used to matter.

meanwhile, in seoul, hanni is unraveling in silence.

there’s no time to feel anything — not properly. not when her days bleed together like static, a blur of choreography counts, protein shakes, vocal warm-ups, costume fittings. she wakes up sore and goes to bed sore. some nights she’s too tired to take off her shoes. some nights she sleeps with her phone still clutched in her hand, screen lighting up her cheek.

she sees your messages. she always does. even when she doesn’t answer.

she opens them during water breaks. during the quiet walk back to the dorm when everyone else is too drained to talk. she reads them on the bus, pressed against the cold window, earphones in with no music playing. and then — she puts the phone down again.

not because she doesn’t want to reply. god, she wants to. but it hurts more than she knows how to put into words.

because the truth is, she’s afraid.

afraid that whatever’s left between you is too fragile now. that you’ve already learned to live without her. that if she reaches out clumsily, with tired fingers and scattered thoughts, you’ll hear it in her voice — the guilt, the longing, the way she misses you like breath.

there are nights when she almost calls.

she’ll stare at your contact, thumb hovering over the button. heart racing like she’s sixteen again and you’re about to pull her into the garage and ask her to dance like idiots to an old IU song.

but she never presses call.

instead, she writes a draft she won’t send:

i’m sorry. i don’t know how to be good at this anymore. everything’s happening so fast. and i keep thinking about you. how you laughed, how you said my name. i didn’t forget your birthday. i just didn’t know how to say i miss you without it sounding selfish.

she deletes it before she can reread it.

she doesn’t want to sound like she’s asking you to wait. she doesn’t even know what’s waiting for her on the other side of this. the company hasn’t told her anything. they’ve only told her to prepare.

so she trains. she folds herself inward. she becomes a version of herself that doesn’t flinch when someone critiques her pitch or her posture. a version that doesn’t cry when she thinks of home.

but late at night, when the lights are off and everyone else is asleep, she presses her forehead against the cool glass of the dorm window and mouths your name like a secret.

softly. quietly.

as if you might still hear it — wherever you are.

you don’t hear it from her.

you’re not even on your phone when the news comes out — just brushing your teeth, shoulders slouched over the sink, half-awake and trying to force the morning into place. there’s a buzz from the counter. a few more. muffled dings and flashes from group chats you haven’t opened in days.

you spit out the toothpaste, rinse. then you check.

a link. a thumbnail. someone’s typed her name in all caps with a string of exclamation points, as if they know her, as if they’ve always known. the music video’s already gaining views by the second.

your chest pulls tight.

your thumb hovers.

then, slowly, you press play.

and there she is.

not the hanni from late-night study calls or shared playlists, not the one who sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor talking about dreams with her cheek pressed to your pillow. not the girl who once dragged you into a k-pop dance cover group on a dare, laughing when you missed a beat, cheering you on when you finally landed one. not that hanni.

no — this hanni is something else.

she’s on screen now, and the world is watching. she moves like she’s always known how. confident. clean. dazzling. the kind of presence that turns heads and keeps them there.

you barely notice how long the video is. you just watch.

and in some distant part of you, your heart quietly breaks.

because she didn’t tell you.

and that’s the part that hurts. not the debut. not the stardom. not the way she’s different now — bigger, brighter. it’s the silence.

you reach for your phone again, like maybe the texts are just delayed, like maybe you missed one. but there’s nothing. your last message sits unread. from weeks ago. maybe months, now.

“you’ll do amazing. i’m proud of you, always.”

you wonder if she even saw it.

you don’t cry. there’s no dramatic moment where you fall to the floor or clutch your chest like the movies. it’s not like that. it’s quieter. simpler.

you just sit there, in your tiny bathroom, the sun not even fully up yet, and you let the quiet fill in the space she used to hold.

because the truth is, she was never just a friend to you.

and watching her step into this world — a world you always knew she’d reach — without you… it leaves you feeling like a chapter ended before you got to read the last line.

—

hanni doesn’t check her phone right away.

there’s too much happening. too many people pulling her in every direction. the staff smiles at her like it’s christmas morning. her members are still in disbelief. one of them is crying — she doesn’t know if it’s from joy or shock. someone hands her a phone. there are already hundreds of comments, thousands of shares. it’s everywhere.

she should be celebrating. she tries.

but underneath the rush of adrenaline and the low hum of nerves, there’s something else. something hollow.

because she didn’t tell you.

she wanted to.

she’s wanted to — a thousand times — but it always felt like the timing was off. like the space between messages had grown too wide. like maybe you didn’t want to hear from her anymore. so she told herself she’d wait. just until the right moment. just until things settled.

but the moment never came.

she checks now, though. when no one’s looking. when the others are laughing, huddled around a phone playing the mv again. she scrolls to your name, hoping — stupidly — for something.

you’ve seen it. you haven’t messaged.

she bites the inside of her cheek. the guilt comes in slow, like a tide. gentle at first, then overwhelming.

you should’ve been the first person she told.

you always were.

but now? now she doesn’t even know if you’ll pick up.

she locks the phone and sets it down, careful not to let her smile fade. cameras are still around. people are still watching. this is the moment she’s been working toward for years.

and yet… it doesn’t feel like she thought it would.

not without you.

she doesn’t tell her members she’s going home. doesn’t say anything at all when the schedule clears, when the manager reads out the five-day chuseok break like it’s any other holiday. hanni just nods, thanks them politely, and steps back into the training room like her lungs aren’t full of something thick and heavy and sudden.

she packs fast that night. lets her mind wander. doesn’t check her phone. doesn’t check yours.

if she thinks too hard, she’ll talk herself out of it. so instead she just goes. books a flight. keeps her hood up in the airport and her head down in the car. says hi to her parents. hugs them tighter than usual. listens to her dad go on about the neighborhood changes — new café on the corner, renovated basketball court — while her mom reminds her to drink more water and rest her voice.

she smiles through it all. she’s good at that now.

but the minute her suitcase hits the floor of her old room — the minute she sees the faint outline of the sticker you once slapped on her lamp, the lanyard you left behind years ago still looped around the doorknob — she’s already walking out again.

“just a walk,” she says when her mom calls after her. “i’ll be back before dark.”

her shoes are still by the door. the ones you once teased her for because the laces never matched. she slips them on without thinking.

the streets haven’t changed. maybe the paint’s more faded now, the trees taller. but the curve of the sidewalk still knows the weight of her steps, and the corner store still smells like oil and sun-dried laundry.

and when she reaches your street — your house — her heart trips.

she doesn’t knock right away. just stands there, staring up at the same window she used to shout at until you leaned out, smiling like you always did, like she was your favorite part of the day.

she presses the doorbell.

waits.

the door opens slower than she remembers.

your dad stands there in slippers and a soft shirt, blinking like he hadn’t been expecting anyone. then: a flicker of recognition, gentle and immediate.

“hanni?”

she bows quickly, head low. “hi, uncle.”

he opens the screen door the rest of the way. “look at you. it’s been a while.”

“yes, sir. i’m—i just…” she trails off, unsure how to ask. unsure if she even should.

but he sees it in her face.

his smile falters. “you were looking for her?”

her throat tightens. she nods.

he exhales softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “she’s not here.”

the words hit like a glass slipping from her hand. not breaking — not yet — just the split-second of weightlessness before the shatter.

“is she out?” she tries. “or—”

“she left,” he says, quieter this time. “a few months ago. scholarship. overseas. it happened really fast.”

hanni’s mouth parts, then closes. her lips press together, eyes darting to the edge of the doorway like maybe you’ll appear anyway, grinning, saying surprise.

“i thought she might’ve told you,” your dad adds gently. “i’m sorry you had to hear it like this.”

she shakes her head quickly. “no, it’s okay. i just…”

and she doesn’t know what to say after that. what can you say, when the person you came home for isn’t home anymore?

he watches her for a moment. then his voice softens even more. “do you want to come inside for a bit?”

she hesitates.

the light inside is warm. familiar. behind him, she catches a glimpse of the old photo frames, the one hallway rug you once tripped over in front of her.

but the quiet in her chest is too loud. the absence too fresh.

“thank you,” she says, bowing again. “but i should probably go. my mom’s waiting.”

he nods. doesn’t push. just says, “she talked about you a lot, you know. before she left.”

and that — that’s what makes her heart crack.

not the fact that you’re gone.

but that you’d still been thinking of her, even then.

“thank you,” she says again, voice quieter this time.

“we're really proud of you,” he gives her a small smile. “take care of yourself, hanni.”

she walks back slower than before.

and when she lies down in her old bed that night — still fully dressed, hoodie pulled over her head — she doesn’t cry. doesn’t move.

she just stares at the ceiling, wondering what day you left.

wondering how many times you thought of her on the way out.

the next morning, she doesn't go out.

her mom notices, of course — peeks into her room around nine, holding a tray with toast and tea, but hanni pretends to be asleep. breathes slow. face turned to the wall.

she hears the door shut gently behind her.

outside, it’s probably sunny. probably loud with neighbors cooking early, kids biking up and down the same cracked pavement, dogs barking at passersby the way they always have.

but in here, it’s quiet. too quiet.

and there’s no one texting her good morning. no you.

she finally sits up around noon, blinking at the light bleeding through her curtains. her eyes feel dry, her throat tight. she checks her phone out of habit. nothing. still nothing.

no missed calls. no new messages.

she scrolls to your name anyway.

it’s still saved the same way it’s always been.

no emoji. just your name. lowercase. steady.

she clicks on it. stares at the last message from you — months old now. something about a new show you were watching. a dumb meme you’d sent right after.

she never replied.

she types something now. a simple “where are you?”

then deletes it.

tries again. “i went to your house.”

deletes it too.

tries again. “i miss you.”

deletes.

in the end, she just stares at the blinking cursor for a long, long time before locking her phone again and tossing it face down beside her.

for the rest of the day, she doesn’t leave her bed.

even her mom only tries once more — softly knocking just before dinner — and hanni says, “i’m okay,” even though she isn’t.

she’s quiet through the rest of chuseok.

smiles when she needs to. sits through meals, laughs at stories her uncle tells, helps set the table, washes dishes. she plays the role of the daughter who came home well. who’s doing well.

but inside, there’s a bruise that won’t fade.

not angry. not even sad. just… hollow. like something slipped through her fingers and she didn’t even get the chance to hold on.

she thinks of you often now. more than before.

not just the recent you, not even the version of you who used to text her whenever a new NewJeans clip dropped.

but the you who first taught her how to braid her hair properly. the you who passed notes in class when you weren’t seatmates anymore. the you who always stole extra napkins for her during lunch because she always forgot.

and the you who, for a long time, was the only person who believed she could actually do this.

who looked at her, before the stylists, before the vocal coaches, before the casting directors — and just knew.

by the time she returns to the dorms, the weight has settled somewhere in her chest. not heavy enough to crush her, but enough to make her carry it differently. quietly. privately.

the others don’t ask. maybe they notice the way she keeps checking her phone. or how she goes to bed early now, even on break days. maybe they just think she’s tired.

hanni doesn’t tell them otherwise.

she throws herself back into practice. stays behind after dance sessions. re-records lines even when the producer says they’re already clean. smiles during meetings. bows deeper than usual.

on some days, it works. the ache quiets.

on others, she slips into the bathroom when no one’s around and just breathes against the sink until her reflection stops shaking.

she doesn’t cry. not really. not yet.

but sometimes, in the middle of a song she knows you would’ve liked — in the seconds before sleep — she wonders if you waited for her.

and if you did, how long.

she doesn’t look at the calendar when the new year rolls in.

someone counts down from ten in the dorm living room, someone else pops open a cider bottle, and someone passes around those tiny paper crowns from a convenience store party set. hanni wears hers. smiles for the photo. cheers with the rest of them.

but she doesn’t look at the date.

she doesn’t think about what last year looked like around this time — what the lead-up to debut felt like. how she was so busy, so breathless, how every day was consumed with choreography and lessons and fittings and fears.

how she didn't even notice that your replies were getting slower. how she'd just assumed you understood.

she doesn’t let herself think about it now.

but it creeps in anyway — like cold seeping into the lining of her sleeves. soft. slow. impossible to shake.

it hits her worst at night.

not every night. just the ones where she lets herself scroll back far enough to see your name in her notifications.

there’s one photo in particular — a blurry shot of you on a bus, hoodie pulled over your face, eyes squinting at the camera because of the flash. you’d captioned it with a string of question marks and a “why are you like this.”

she’d saved it. set it as your contact photo once.

she looks at it now, thumb hovering over the screen. just barely, her eyes sting.

she turns her phone face-down and lies back into her pillow.

it’s late. past 2. the dorm is quiet, the hallway lights dimmed to blue. she can hear someone’s gentle snoring through the wall.

for a long while, she just stares at the ceiling.

outside, snow is falling. she thinks of how you used to hate the cold — how you’d bring an extra scarf just to press into your pockets and keep your hands warm. she used to tease you for it. you used to pretend not to care.

a lump rises in her throat.

eventually, she opens her journal. not the official one. not the one they gave her for content — the pretty one with the embossed company logo and pages meant for goals and milestones and public gratitude.

no, this one’s different. it’s thin. spiral-bound. the kind they used to buy in middle school. she keeps it at the bottom of her drawer, tucked between old lyrics and hair ties.

she opens to a blank page. presses her pen to the paper.

“i don’t know where you are. i don’t know if you even want to hear from me. but today, i walked past someone who had your laugh. and for a second, i turned around. stupid, right? it wasn’t you. i think i knew that. but still.”

her pen stills. she reads it over.

then turns the page.

“if you ever see our debut mv, i wonder if you’ll recognize which lines are mine. if you’ll think i look too different. if you’ll laugh and say my voice got deeper.”

another pause. she draws a tiny heart in the corner. fills it in. then keeps going.

“i miss you. more than i can say. but i hope you’re okay. even if it’s not with me.”

she doesn’t sign it. she just shuts the notebook and hides it away again.

the snow falls heavier that night.

somewhere, hours away, you sleep through it — unaware of the letter, the ache behind it, or the way your name still lingers on her lips long after the lights go out.

two years later.

backstage hums with the low buzz of energy that always comes before a show — crew members speaking in clipped whispers, the occasional sound of laughter from a corner, the subtle creak of shoes shifting against the smooth floor as the girls move around, stretching and pacing in their own ways of coping with nerves.

the lights are dim here, softer than the blinding ones just outside the curtain, and in this brief hush before the storm, hanni finds herself sitting near the corner of the dressing room, her back resting lightly against the armrest of the couch. she’s already in costume — pastel colors and shimmer catching the low lighting — but her hands are fidgeting, thumbs worrying the edge of her sleeve in small, restless motions.

minji notices first.

“you’ve been weird all day,” she says, casually, as she adjusts her in-ears. her tone is playful, but there’s a glint in her eyes, and when hanni doesn’t respond right away, she leans over and pokes her knee. “you nervous?”

hanni looks up slowly. “not really.”

“hanni,” danielle says from across the room, where she’s fluffing her hair in the mirror, “you’ve performed in front of a million people by now. why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

“maybe it’s a boy,” hyein chimes in, sprawled across the rug with a handheld fan buzzing near her face. “hanni’s in love.”

the room laughs softly, but haerin glances over at hanni and doesn’t say anything for a moment. she just watches her — really watches — and then tilts her head. “no,” she says finally, voice quiet but certain, “it’s not a boy.”

that makes everyone pause.

“...oh,” danielle breathes, eyes widening a little as she turns away from the mirror. “it’s that girl, isn’t it? the one you always talk about.”

“you mean the girl,” hyein corrects, propping herself up on one elbow. “the australian one. the ‘used-to-be-my-everything-before-i-became-an-idol’ girl.”

“you talk about her in your sleep, you know,” minji adds, teasing. “it’s a little embarrassing.”

“no i don’t,” hanni mumbles, trying to shrink into herself.

“you do,” haerin says, tone neutral but teasing at the edges. her eyes soften a little as she shifts closer, dropping down beside hanni and bumping her shoulder gently against hers. “you told us about her the first night we met.”

“before we were even friends,” danielle recalls, smiling. “we were strangers lying on dorm floors and hanni was already reminiscing about someone back home.”

hanni presses her fingers against her temples. “can we not do this right before a concert?”

“you brought it on yourself,” minji shrugs. “being all mopey and sentimental.”

“i’m not mopey—”

“you’ve been staring at that empty chair on the seating chart for the past twenty minutes,” haerin says, quiet, pointed. “the one marked ‘guest of artist: hanni.’”

hanni goes silent.

because she has been staring at it. earlier that morning, when they were briefed on the venue layout, her eyes caught on the little block of seats that had been reserved for family and personal guests. she’d asked — half-hopeful, half-embarrassed — if she could save a few extra.

one for her parents. one for her sister. one for yours. and one for your parents.

just in case.

she doesn’t even know if you’d come. doesn’t even know if you still live in the same time zone. you haven’t spoken since that last stilted exchange, back when she was still too busy to explain and you were too hurt to ask. all she has now is a memory of your laugh and the way you used to say her name like it belonged to you.

“what if she shows up,” minji says after a beat, not unkindly. “what if she’s already here.”

“what if she’s not,” hanni answers. and this time her voice is barely more than a whisper. “what if i’m about to go on stage for the biggest moment of my life, and she’s not even watching.”

the room goes quiet for a second.

danielle reaches out, gently tugs at hanni’s sleeve. “then you still go out there and do it anyway. because she might be.”

hanni looks down at her hands. it’s been two years. two whole years since that last day in melbourne. since the last morning you saw each other. since the last text that went unanswered. two years of becoming someone else on camera and staying the same in her heart.

she never stopped thinking about you. not once. not during training. not during choreography. not even during recording. every lyric she liked too much, every photo she almost sent, every quiet moment in between — it always circled back to you. to home. to that little ache that grew quietly, privately, over time.

haerin doesn’t push further. she just rests her chin on her knees, sitting beside hanni in a quiet show of presence, of solidarity. the others slowly shift away, giving her space as they start doing last-minute checks. but hanni doesn’t move.

her fingers still toy with the sleeve of her outfit.

she keeps her head down.

and somewhere deep in her chest, there’s the familiar ache of a question she hasn’t dared to ask in years: did i lose you?

a knock on the door interrupts the silence. “five minutes.”

and just like that, it’s time.

minji stretches her arms over her head. hyein’s already on her feet. danielle fixes her jersey. the stylists rush around for last checks. and hanni? hanni closes her eyes for a breath. just one.

she doesn’t let herself think too hard about the crowd waiting outside. she doesn’t let herself look again for those seats. she just follows the girls toward the hallway, toward the light and the noise, the thrum of bass in her chest.

but even as the stage draws near, her eyes keep flicking sideways. just once more. maybe one more time after that.

because what if.

what if you’re here.

the lights are blinding when she first steps onto the stage.

it always hits like this — the sudden roar of the crowd, the swell of music in her chest, the glint of phones raised and waving lightsticks in perfect sync. it's the kind of moment most people dream of, and hanni, for all her nerves, slips into it like second skin. because this is what she’s trained for. this is what she’s learned to be.

an idol. a performer. someone whole on stage, even when she's unraveling inside.

they’re four songs in. halfway through the setlist. her body is moving on instinct, every count and cue etched into muscle memory by now. she spins, she smiles, she sings. she hears danielle’s harmony behind her, haerin’s breath in sync beside her. hears hyein’s laugh in the short interlude. minji’s grounding presence a few steps ahead.

and still, her eyes wander.

she told herself she wouldn’t look until later. not until it was safe. not until her hands stopped trembling, not until her voice stopped catching on the high notes. but even now, mid-chorus, mid-choreo, her gaze begins to slide — unbidden, uncertain, searching.

every seat is lit by the soft pulse of fanlights. hundreds, maybe thousands of them, all pointed toward the stage. her eyes skim past banners, bunny ears, neon signs.

row by row. section by section.

she doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath.

and then—

there you are.

you're not front row. you never liked being in the spotlight. but you’re close enough. tucked beside your siblings, your parents, her parents, all gathered in the same small cluster of seats she’d reserved without knowing if they'd be filled. and there you are, sitting with your hands folded in your lap, face half-lit by the stage glow, watching her.

you’re really here.

her breath stutters in her throat. something sharp and warm blooms in her chest, pressing tight against her ribcage.

she should be spinning again. should be stepping into the next formation. she’s off by a half beat. danielle catches her wrist as they pass and gently tugs her back into rhythm, a quiet you okay? in her eyes.

hanni nods, barely.

but her gaze doesn’t leave you.

your face is lit faintly by the glow of the screen in your hand — your lightstick, maybe. or just your phone, not recording, just holding it like something to steady you. and for a second, maybe longer, you’re looking at her. really looking.

she doesn’t know what you see. if you see the same girl from melbourne, from the neighborhood, from that last day you spent together. or if you only see the version of her who’s changed since then — the one molded by studios and mirrors and sleepless nights. the one who walked away.

but then — you smile.

soft, unsure. like you weren’t expecting her to look back. like you didn’t know she’d been searching for you all night.

something tugs in her throat.

and everything — the crowd, the music, the stage — falls away for just a second. it’s just you. just that small curve of your lips. just the echo of a thousand moments she’s kept tucked in the quiet parts of her mind for the past two years.

you’re real.

she almost forgets the next step again.

this time, haerin’s shoulder nudges against hers, steady and solid, grounding her like always. hanni doesn’t look away from you, not at first. not until she has to.

and when she finally turns back toward the lights, she’s not the same.

she sings the next verse like she means every word — because this time she does.

every lyric shaped around the ache in her chest. every note heavier, every breath stretched thinner. because this moment, this one right here, is the closest she’s been to you in two years.

and you’re watching her.

really watching.

not the way fans watch idols. not the way strangers watch performances. but the way you always watched her — like you already knew what she was going to say before she said it. like you could still hear every song she never sent.

and it’s that look — soft and steady — that stays with her through the next song, and the next. even as she dances, even as the noise rises again and the stage grows louder around her, she keeps returning to it. to you.

to that seat. to that smile. to that possibility.

the show ends in a blur.

the music fades, the confetti falls, the final bows are taken with linked hands and swelling hearts. danielle squeezes her shoulder. hyein beams so wide it looks like sunlight. haerin touches her wrist, soft and grounding, as if she’s known all along that something's been off-kilter inside hanni tonight.

they exit stage left together, glitter still stuck to their lashes, sweat clinging to their hairlines. the roar of the crowd lingers like heat on skin.

backstage is chaos — staff rushing, stylists calling out names, someone laughing too loud in the hallway. but inside the green room, it's quieter. or maybe it's just hanni who's gone quiet.

she’s standing near the water cooler, a towel draped over her shoulders, stage makeup slightly smudged from the heat. she hasn’t said anything since they walked off.

haerin nudges her side gently. “you good?”

“yeah,” hanni lies. and then softer, almost without breath, “i saw her.”

the room stills. not in shock — they already knew. they've known since rehearsals that something about tonight had shifted for hanni. the way she kept glancing at the seats. the way her hands wouldn’t stay still.

“you’re sure it was her?” danielle asks from the couch, voice low.

“it was her,” hanni says, eyes distant. “she was there.”

a beat of silence. then minji leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes searching hanni’s face.

“what now?” she asks.

hanni exhales. her hands are trembling again.

“i don’t know.”

after final checks and outfit changes and a round of thank yous to staff, she sneaks away.

not far — just a quiet corner near the exit, where the noise dulls and the hallway lights cast long shadows. she stands there with her phone in hand, screen still dark.

she hasn’t opened your last message. she doesn’t know if there is one. she doesn’t even know if you’ll stay. maybe you already left. maybe you saw her, clapped politely, and went home.

but she has to try.

her thumb hovers over the keypad. she types, erases, types again. ends up with only four words.

are you still here?

then she waits. and the hallway stretches on, and her heartbeat does too.

you feel your phone buzz before you even realize you’ve been holding it in your lap this whole time.

your fingers curl tighter around it, but you don’t move. not at first. not even when your mom leans over gently to ask if you want to go find her now, if you’re okay, if you want to leave before the crowd thickens. you shake your head without looking away from the empty stage. it’s quiet now — the kind of quiet that only feels louder after noise that big.

hanni was just there. on that stage. lit up like she was made to be seen, smiling like she hadn’t disappeared from your life two years ago.

you swallow. tilt your head back. breathe.

you don't check your phone until you’re walking — not outside with the crowds, not toward the exit, but toward the back. a hallway where staff are still gathered, and volunteers are stacking chairs, and you think maybe, maybe if you follow the right turn long enough, you’ll find something familiar.

you pause under the buzz of a flickering light. finally glance at your screen.

are you still here?

you stare at the words. you read them once. then twice. you can almost hear her voice in them. quiet. cautious. like she doesn’t quite believe she deserves the answer.

and you don’t know what it is you’re supposed to feel.

anger? you’ve tried. sadness? that one’s stayed close, clinging to your ribs for months after she left. but now — now it just feels like standing at the edge of something too big to name.

you type. stop. delete.

you don’t know what to say. how to say it. how to answer something that was never just a question in the first place.

i am. gonna head out in a few mins though.

can you meet me backstage? i'll have a staff escort you.

okay.

you find her in the hallway.

it’s quieter here — just outside the dressing rooms, where the bass from the arena still hums faintly through the walls, like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself. the crowd is still out there, cheering, calling her name, but hanni’s not looking toward the stage anymore.

she’s looking at you.

you almost stop walking. not because you’re surprised to see her — some part of you was expecting this — but because of how she’s standing. still in her jacket, mic pack clipped awkwardly at her back, hair a little out of place from the final number. she looks exactly the way you remembered her and nothing like it at all.

“hey,” she says.

you blink. “hey.”

it’s quiet. not awkward yet. just… uncertain.

hanni takes a slow step toward you. “i was wondering if you’d still be here.”

you offer a faint smile. “i was wondering if you’d look.”

she lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “i’ve been looking all night.”

you both fall silent for a second. the hallway buzzes with backstage energy — stylists rushing past, crew calling out cues — but around you, it’s like the noise dims.

“you were amazing,” you say finally. “all of you are, really.”

hanni smiles, small and quiet. “thanks.”

another beat passes.

“i kept thinking about this,” she says. “seeing you again. talking, maybe. i didn’t know if it’d happen, or how it would feel if it did, but...”

she trails off. shrugs lightly.

“but here we are,” you offer, gently.

“yeah,” she says, looking down at her shoes. “here we are.”

her voice is a little softer now when she speaks again. “it’s been two years.”

“i know.”

“since melbourne. since... that last day.”

you nod.

“i wanted to tell you,” she goes on, voice careful now. “about everything. the training, the debut, the songs we did. i’d always start typing something — a message, or a note — but it never felt right.”

you glance at her. “you could’ve.”

her smile falters. “i didn’t know if i was allowed to.”

you both go still.

and then hanni says, more quietly, “sometimes i think about us.”

you look at her.

“i think about what we were,” she continues, a little unsteady. “what we might’ve been if things were different. and maybe... maybe what we could still be.”

your heart pulls.

you shift slightly, the wall cool at your back. “hanni…”

she looks at you, eyes open and searching now. not desperate — just hoping, the way she always did when she was about to ask something she wasn’t sure she deserved to know.

“do you ever think about it too?” she asks. “about us?”

and you pause.

longer this time.

because the ache is there. because the memory of her is threaded into every summer evening, every old song, every space you used to call home. because of course you do.

but—

“hanni,” you say slowly, carefully. “can i ask you something first?”

she nods, barely.

“is this what you really want to talk about?”

she blinks, taken aback. “what do you mean?”

“tonight. this moment. right now.” you meet her gaze. “are you here because of me, or because everything else just ended and you don’t know what else to hold onto?”

her mouth opens, but no answer comes out.

“you don’t have to tell me now,” you add quickly. “i don’t want you to.”

she closes her eyes for a second.

“you’ve lived a whole other life these past two years,” you say. “you’re not the same girl i said goodbye to. and i’m not the same either.”

you step forward. not too close. just enough to be heard clearly over the backstage buzz.

“i think you should take some time to really think about it,” you tell her. “not just the version of me in your head. me. if you still want this—if it’s still something you choose—then you can tell me when you’re back in melbourne.”

her eyes open again. she looks like she might cry. she doesn’t.

“when you’re home,” you say, quieter now. “you’ll know.”

hanni bites her lip.

nods once, slow.

“okay,” she says. “okay.”

you offer a faint smile. “i’ll be there.”

you take a step back.

she doesn’t move.

and you don’t say goodbye, not really. you just hold her gaze a moment longer — something warm and careful passing between you — and then you turn.

the hallway feels longer this time.

and behind you, hanni stands still.

it’s been six months since the concert.

six months since she saw you standing in that crowd, not front row, not center, but there — and it was enough to throw her off balance in the middle of a chorus she’s sung hundreds of times. six months since she caught your gaze for barely two seconds and felt her entire heart drop out of her chest.

six months of rehearsals and tours and the endless churn of performance after performance. six months of thinking. of wondering. of deciding.

and now she’s here.

your street looks smaller than she remembers. the trees are taller. the little cracks in the sidewalk are still there, but everything feels... quieter. she holds her phone tight in her hand as she stands outside your door, breathing in the sharp, clean air that always hit different after sunset.

you open it before she even knocks.

there’s a pause — long and full of everything unspoken. she looks the same and completely different all at once. softer, maybe. or maybe it's just that her eyes find yours and don’t look away this time.

“hey,” she says first, voice small.

“hey.”

you step aside, let her in. and she does, slowly, like she isn’t sure she should.

it takes a while before either of you speaks again. she notices little things in your living room — the lamp in the same corner, the way the cushions are a little more worn. there’s something playing softly in the background, a familiar playlist, like nothing’s changed and everything has.

“i’ve been thinking about that night,” she says, finally.

you don’t ask which one. you know.

she sits down, fidgeting with her sleeves. “i thought about what you said. about choosing. about... everything.”

you stay quiet, watching her. waiting.

“i kept thinking there had to be a right answer,” she continues. “like if i just looked hard enough, thought long enough, i’d find the perfect solution. but i didn’t. because there isn’t one. because it’s messy and unfair and—”

she stops, exhales. “i didn’t come back with some big epiphany. i’m still figuring it out. but i know this much: i want to give it a chance. us. if you still want that.”

your heart thuds loud in your chest. but you don’t move. not yet.

“hanni,” you say gently. “why now?”

she blinks, caught. “because... because i miss you. because i’m tired of wondering what if. because i realized it’s not about choosing you or the idol life. it’s about whether i can carry both. whether you’re willing to let me try.”

you look at her. really look at her. “do you really think you can?”

“i don’t know,” she says. “but i want to. more than anything. i want to wake up and know that even if i have to fly back across the world tomorrow, i have you to call. to come home to, even if it’s not often. i don’t want this... space between us anymore.”

“but it’ll still be hard,” you say. not as a challenge, but as a fact.

“i know,” she replies instantly. “i know it won’t be easy. but i’m not asking for easy. i’m asking for a chance.”

you search her face. the girl you knew. the girl who left. the girl who came back. all of them are sitting here, right in front of you, waiting.

you sigh. “it still doesn’t feel fair.”

“it’s not,” she says. “but i’ll make it worth it. i swear. i’ll make time. i’ll be honest. i won’t disappear on you again. i’ll show up — for you — in every way i can.”

you let those words settle between you.

“i meant what i said that night,” you murmur. “you shouldn’t have to choose. your dream should be a no-brainer. i never wanted to be the reason you gave that up.”

“you aren’t,” she says, and this time her voice is stronger. “you never were. but i think... maybe i needed to lose you for a while to understand what it meant to have you. and if you’ll let me — i want to try again. properly. slowly. whatever you need.”

you swallow. “what if i get scared again?”

“then i’ll remind you. every time,” she whispers. “i’ll remind you why i came back.”

you nod, slowly. not quite a yes. but not a no either.

just enough.

she shifts closer on the couch, careful not to touch you. “can i stay a little longer?”

you look at her — and this time, you don’t look away.

“yeah,” you say. “you can.”

you don't talk for a while after that.

not because there’s nothing to say, but because neither of you wants to break the silence that’s finally begun to feel... safe. like it belongs to you both. like it’s not empty at all.

hanni’s sitting close now — not touching you, not reaching out — but close enough that you can feel the soft shift of air between her breaths. she’s curled in slightly, the way she always used to when you’d talk for hours on the floor of your bedroom, back when the future still felt like something you both had time to outrun.

you glance at her. “you look tired.”

she lets out a soft laugh. “i am. always, lately. but this—being here? this is the least tired i’ve felt in months.”

your chest tightens. you look away. “you really thought this through?”

“i’ve done nothing but think it through,” she says. “on flights. between rehearsals. at night in hotel rooms that don’t feel like mine. i kept wondering what i’d say to you if i ever had the chance again. and now that i do... i still don’t think it’s enough.”

you look back at her, quiet. waiting.

“but i’ll keep trying,” she continues. “i’ll keep showing up, even if it’s inconvenient. even if it’s messy. i’ll learn how to love you better than i did before.”

your voice comes out small. “you loved me before?”

she nods slowly. “i think i always did. even before i knew how to name it. but i didn’t know how to carry it while everything else was happening.”

you watch her eyes, how they don’t flinch. how her words don’t shake.

“and now?”

“now i do,” she says simply. “or at least, i’m learning. and i want to learn with you, if you’ll let me.”

you shift slightly, knees drawn up to your chest. there’s so much to say — so many pieces of you that still feel bruised from the distance. from the not-knowing. but there’s also the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s choosing this. like she’s choosing you.

“why didn’t you call?” you ask quietly. “back then. when things got hard.”

she closes her eyes, leans her head against the couch cushion. “because i was scared that hearing your voice would make me want to stop everything. and i thought... i thought if i let myself miss you too much, i’d fall apart.”

you nod slowly, but something in your chest tightens anyway.

“i was angry at you,” you say, the words soft but steady. “for a long time.”

she lifts her head again. meets your eyes.

“we were doing so well,” you go on. “even with the time zones, even with how busy you were. you’d message when you landed. i’d stay up to catch you between rehearsals. you sent voice notes at midnight just to say goodnight. and then... it just stopped.”

hanni’s expression shifts — not surprised, but aching.

“i waited days,” you say. “and then weeks. and i kept making excuses for you, kept trying to believe there was a good reason. but it hurt, hanni. because you’d proven that you could make time for me. and then, suddenly, you didn’t.”

her voice is quiet, but firm. “i know. and you’re right. you had every reason to be angry.”

you let the silence hold for a while before speaking again. “you knew i’d worry. you knew i’d overthink it.”

“i did,” she admits. “but part of me thought... maybe if i said nothing, it would hurt less. for both of us.”

“but it didn’t,” you say. “it hurt worse.”

hanni swallows. “i know.”

your voice dips even softer. “i kept wondering what i did wrong,” you admit. “whether i said something. whether i pushed too much. whether i asked for too much.”

“you didn’t,” she says quickly. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you nod, but your eyes stay on your hands, fingers loosely laced in your lap.

“and what if it happens again?”

hanni takes a breath like she’s been expecting that question.

“then i want you to call me out on it,” she says. “i want us to talk before it gets that bad. i didn’t know how to balance it all before, but i’m learning. and i promise i’ll keep learning.”

“learning how to not ghost me?” you try to say it lightly, but there’s still something tender in your tone.

“learning how to show up,” she says. “even when i’m overwhelmed. even when i’m scared. especially when i’m scared.”

you glance at her. “you were scared of me?”

“no,” she says immediately. “never of you. just... of how much i felt when it came to you. of how much i still feel.”

you let that land. you breathe through it.

“what if it gets too hard?” you ask. “what if being with me — even in whatever quiet way this is — makes everything else harder?”

“then i’d rather face the hard parts than live without you again,” she says. “i don’t want to go back to pretending i’m okay not hearing your voice. i don’t want to keep performing with that ache in my chest, wondering if i broke something i can’t fix.”

you hesitate. “but the schedule — your life — it’s still so much.”

“and it always will be,” she says. “but i want to make space for you in it. not as an afterthought. not just when i have time. but because you matter. because you make all of it feel more real.”

you blink slowly. “but if things get chaotic again…”

“then we’ll talk,” she says. “we’ll figure it out together. but i won’t disappear again. not without telling you what’s going on. not without letting you in.”

you study her — the way she’s looking at you like she means every word. like she’s been waiting to say it.

you say, more quietly now, “promise?”

“i promise,” she says. “i promise, even if it gets messy. even if i mess up again. i’ll still come back. i’ll still choose you.”

you let out a breath. not because the pain has vanished. not because everything has been neatly resolved.

but because she’s here now. and she’s not running.

you let out a breath. not because the pain has vanished. not because everything has been neatly resolved.

but because she’s here now. and she’s not running.

“i missed you,” you murmur. the words fall out before you can stop them — soft, shaky, truer than anything.

hanni’s eyes don’t leave yours.

“i missed you too,” she whispers. “so much it hurt.”

your gaze drops to her lips, then back to her eyes. you’re not sure who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s her. maybe it’s both of you at once, leaning into something that’s been waiting for years.

her hand brushes yours — not by accident this time — and when her fingers find your cheek, it’s with a reverence that makes your chest ache.

“i used to dream about this,” she says. her voice trembles. “about being able to come home to you. to say everything i never said.”

you nod, eyes stinging. “i used to wait for you,” you admit. “in every version of the future i imagined, you were always there.”

her thumb strokes your cheek, gentle and hesitant, like she’s still not sure you’ll let her.

“i loved you even then,” she says, barely louder than a breath. “before debut. before everything.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just look at her — the girl you once watched run barefoot through your childhood street, now looking at you like she’s finally stopped running.

“you made it really hard not to love you,” you say.

and then you’re kissing her.

it’s not urgent. not desperate.

it’s years of missing her packed into the space between one breath and the next. it’s your hand on her jaw and hers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer like she’s afraid this is still just another dream.

her lips are soft, familiar, and a little uncertain, like she’s relearning the shape of you — like she’s kissing not just the present, but every version of you she ever left behind.

when you pull back, her forehead rests against yours.

“i never stopped loving you,” she says, eyes still closed.

you let out a shaky laugh, something between relief and disbelief.

“you had a really weird way of showing it.”

she smiles, just barely. “i’ll spend the rest of my life making up for that.”

you tilt your head, bump your nose against hers. “you better.”

she laughs this time — really laughs — and it’s the sound you’ve missed most. full and soft and close enough to reach.

melbourne in early spring smells like pavement after sun, like backyard fences, like soft dust on a windowsill. there’s a kind of warmth that doesn’t press on your skin but settles into it slowly, like it’s meant to stay. it’s a tuesday when you notice the difference—not in the temperature, but in the quiet. there’s too much of it.

your elbow is balanced on the railing of your porch, cheek resting in the bend of your arm. it’s mid-afternoon and you’ve been sitting there for nearly an hour, watching the leaves shift patterns against the cement. the sun is at that early angle where everything feels suspended. gold-tinted. thick like syrup. nothing moves for long except the shadows.

then the truck pulls up next door.

you hear it before you look—wheels crunching against the curb, a low engine hum, a squeaky brake. another new tenant. that house never keeps them long. you don’t care. you’ve stopped caring. it’s not worth the effort of remembering names when they always leave before you get to know them.

a car door slams. then another.

then—a laugh.

high and loud and completely unfiltered. not from a grown-up. not even close. someone young. and not just young—but alive.

you glance over, disinterested at first, and see her.

she’s trying to carry an armload of pillows, half-smothered under the uneven stack, with a backpack that’s practically falling off one shoulder and what looks like a bundle of cables tangled in one hand. she’s not graceful. she’s not even trying to be.

there’s dirt on the side of her shoe and a crooked smile on her face. her hair’s tied messily, sweat clinging to her temples, and when she lets out another breathless laugh—this time at the way a pillow slips out from under her arm—she doesn’t seem embarrassed at all.

you don’t move at first.

but your mom, who has just stepped out to water the basil plant on the windowsill, says, without looking up, “go help her.”

you consider ignoring her.

then you catch sight of the way the girl tries to balance the backpack again, only for a sock to come flying out of the open zipper and land in the grass.

you sigh.

you get up. shuffle down the porch steps barefoot. your feet are used to the heat of the concrete. you feel the sun against your shoulders. there’s the faint sound of the radio from someone’s open window. and when you cross the driveway and reach for the top pillow, she looks up—and smiles at you like she’s known you forever.

“hi!” she says, like the heat and the mess and the chaos don’t touch her. “don’t mind me. gravity’s just personally targeting me today.”

you raise an eyebrow. “need help?”

“wouldn’t say no,” she says brightly, and the weight in your hands shifts as she offloads two pillows into your arms. they’re warmer than you expected.

“i’m hanni,” she adds, as if it’s an afterthought. “i think we’re neighbors.”

“y/n.”

“y/n,” she repeats. “that’s nice. like… compact.”

“…thanks?”

she grins like you’ve said something funny.

“third step creaks,” you say before you can stop yourself.

her brow furrows. “what?”

“on your porch. the step you’re standing on.”

she looks down.

the second she shifts her weight, the wood groans loudly under her foot.

she yelps—jumps off—“no way, that’s cursed!”—and you laugh. you weren’t going to, but you do.

“you’ll get used to it,” you say.

“nah. gonna sue.”

by friday, she’s everywhere.

you come home from school and she’s already on your porch, cross-legged, scribbling something into a notebook that looks like it’s lived in her bag for a decade. she doesn’t look up until you’re right in front of her. then she grins—always that grin—and says,

“wanna see something cursed?” before showing you the worst drawing of a dog you’ve ever seen in your life.

“it’s supposed to be a husky,” she says solemnly. “but it became… this.”

you study it.

“…you gave it five legs.”

“five is a lucky number!”

“not for dogs.”

“not for boring dogs.”

she shows you her shoelaces next, which she’s replaced with rainbow yarn.

you don’t say much, but she doesn’t seem to care. if anything, she seems perfectly at ease with the silences. like she sees them for what they are: space. she fills them with stories. about her cousins. about a song she heard once on a plane and never forgot. about how she’s convinced there’s a secret room in her house because one of the walls sounds weird when you knock on it.

“you want to check?”

“check what?”

“the wall.”

“in your house?”

“yes.”

“…no.”

“coward.”

you don’t realize you’ve started to like her until you catch yourself waiting for her to show up the next day. and the next. and the next.

one afternoon, she brings a popsicle to share. not two—just one. she breaks it in half with her hands and gives you the bigger side.

you take it.

“you don’t talk a lot,” she says, not accusing. just curious.

“you talk enough for both of us.”

she grins, satisfied. “true.”

she falls asleep in your room for the first time that sunday.

it isn’t planned. she just shows up after dinner with a half-eaten popsicle and asks if you want to come outside. the sky is still streaked with gold, the sun dragging itself slowly out of view.

you both lie down on the patchy grass in your backyard, your backs pressed to the earth, and she talks about everything and nothing—what she misses from her old house, how her sister keeps hogging the bathroom, what kind of dog she wants when she’s older.

you listen more than you speak. you always have.

when the stars come out, you suggest heading inside. she doesn’t want to go home yet, so you let her follow you to your room.

she sits on your rug and leafs through your books, fingers brushing against spines like she’s flipping through a box of memories. she finds your old cds, laughs at the hand-drawn covers, makes you play one.

and then, somewhere between the second song and the third, she falls asleep.

she’s curled up like a cat at the foot of your bed, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her socks mismatched. her face is soft in sleep, her breathing steady. you don’t have the heart to wake her.

so you let her stay. you turn off the light, crawl beneath the blanket, and lie awake listening to the quiet sound of her breathing.

that becomes the rhythm of your days.

weekends are for long walks to the convenience store and splitting a packet of tim tams on the curb outside. after school, she sits on your porch and swings her legs as you do your homework beside her.

she draws hearts on your worksheets when she’s bored. she steals strawberries from your cereal when she sleeps over. she sings nonsense songs when she forgets the lyrics and makes up new ones just for you.

you trade music. she makes you playlists with silly titles like "songs for a rainy picnic" or "this sounds like a sunflower walking to school." you write her name in the corners of your notebooks and underline the songs she likes best.

one day she brings a disposable camera to school. takes photos of you when you're not looking. on the swings. walking home. in class, your face half-hidden behind your hand.

"you have a good face," she says casually, and you pretend not to hear how it sticks to the back of your throat.

sometimes she falls asleep in your bed without asking. sometimes she talks about dreams she hasn’t told anyone else. sometimes she holds your hand just because.

you start spending summers the same way. days stretch out like softened taffy, slow and sticky. mornings melt into afternoons at the park, the both of you sprawled out on a blanket, trading secrets and melting ice cream cones. she draws little suns on your arm in sunscreen, then laughs when you forget to wash them off before bed.

when it rains, you build forts in your living room with mismatched sheets and fairy lights. she brings snacks in the folds of her hoodie and eats chips one by one, placing the broken ones on your tongue like communion. you whisper late into the night, voices soft so no one else can hear, until one of you falls asleep mid-sentence.

everything feels infinite. the kind of life that doesn’t need to announce itself, doesn’t need to go anywhere, because it already feels like enough.

on your birthday, she gives you a little note tucked inside a friendship bracelet she made with her sister’s embroidery thread. the note just says, "thank you for being my favorite." you tape it to your wall and look at it sometimes when she isn’t around.

even when you’re not together, she finds ways to linger. a scarf she left behind, a doodle on your notebook, a crumpled receipt with her handwriting in the margins. she's woven herself into the corners of your days like thread through fabric.

and you— you don’t know what it means yet, this feeling. not fully. but it hums under your ribs whenever she laughs, whenever her hand brushes yours, whenever she says your name like it’s something soft.

the quiet before it all changes is so sweet you don’t even notice the silence getting ready to fall.

the storm hasn’t even begun to gather.

not yet.

spring leans into summer before you even realize it. one day you're both in jumpers, complaining about the wind, and the next, you're lying face-up in your backyard in mismatched shorts, sipping cold juice from a shared bottle, pretending the sky doesn’t feel so far away.

by now, hanni's laugh is something you know like your own name. so is the way she hums when she concentrates, like she’s trying to anchor herself to the moment.

you’ve learned that she eats her cereal dry when she’s too lazy to wash another bowl, and that she never finishes her iced coffee if it gets too watery. she always offers you the last few sips though, even if she knows you’ll say no.

your routines have fused together like that. not grand things—just steady ones. after school, you sit cross-legged on each other’s beds, half-studying, half-daydreaming. sometimes she reads aloud from your textbooks in ridiculous voices until you’re both breathless from laughing.

other times, you fall into a kind of quiet that only the closest people can share, headphones in the same phone, pinkies linked absentmindedly between you on the duvet.

her room always smells like her shampoo—green apple and something sweeter underneath—and the fan clicks slowly overhead while the two of you nap side by side, limbs tangled, the afternoon light slanting soft and gold across the floor.

when you wake up, she’s already awake, scrolling on her phone, humming under her breath. she looks over at you with a half-smile like she’s been waiting. you don’t need to say anything.

and then the small things start to change.

not suddenly. not with drama. just in slivers. you catch her watching dance videos more often—not just watching, but analyzing. eyes tracking movement. fingers twitching like she’s trying to memorize choreography through the screen.

she no longer just listens to music, she studies it. she leans closer to her phone, rewinds moments three, four times, lips moving silently to the beat.

“you really like them, huh?” you ask one afternoon, voice gentle, neutral.

hanni shrugs, but you see the way her shoulders rise, tense. “yeah. i guess i do.”

she says it like a secret she’s still deciding to keep.

later, when you're lying on her floor surrounded by discarded worksheets and candy wrappers, she says it again, a little more certain. "i think… i’d be good at it. maybe."

you look over. she’s fiddling with a pen cap, not meeting your eyes. her voice isn’t loud. it’s the kind of voice people use when they’re scared they might be right about themselves.

"you would," you say, without missing a beat.

she looks up then. just a flicker of a smile. barely there, but it reaches her eyes.

you go back to your homework. she goes back to her videos.

but things feel different after that.

in the days that follow, she starts asking little questions. soft ones. not urgent, not dramatic. but they stay with you.

"do you think people from here ever make it big over there?"

"how do you even audition for those companies?"

"i wonder what it’s like to live somewhere where no one knows you."

her voice always trails off at the end, like she’s afraid of the answer.

one night, you’re on the roof of her garage again. your secret place. the stars are slow to appear. your legs swing over the edge, knocking gently into hers. she’s quiet. more than usual.

she turns to you suddenly. "do you think it’s selfish to want something more?"

you don’t answer right away. your throat tightens, but not in a bad way. in a way that feels like you’re about to lose something you haven’t even had the chance to name.

"no," you say. "i think it’s brave."

she looks at you for a long time. longer than usual. then she nods.

you don’t talk about it again—not yet. but you both feel it.

like summer leaning toward autumn. not quite gone. not yet. but leaving all the same.

hanni starts coming home later.

at first, it’s little things. she takes a different bus after school, says it’s because she’s helping a classmate with a project. sometimes she misses your usual snack runs or leaves your messages on read for a couple hours before replying with a rushed apology and a blurry photo of her half-eaten dinner. you don’t mind. you tell yourself it’s nothing. maybe she’s just tired. maybe it’s just midterms.

but then, one afternoon, she shows up at your house still in her school uniform, cheeks flushed, hair sticking slightly to her forehead like she’s been running. she drops her backpack onto your carpet and stretches out on your bed with a groan, limbs loose and trembling.

you sit beside her. “where have you been?”

she cracks one eye open. “dance group,” she says, breath still catching on the edges of her words. “i joined one.”

you blink. “like… school dance?”

she shakes her head. “nah. not school. it’s this after-hours thing. some older students rent out a studio downtown. they teach choreo and stuff. mostly k-pop.” she smiles, sheepish but glowing, like it’s the first time in days she’s let herself be still. “i went to watch once. and then… they asked if i wanted to try.”

you imagine her in a dance studio, mirrors on all sides, music pulsing through the floor. you imagine her moving—sharp and clean and sure, the way she gets when she’s focused, the way her brows knit together and her lips part slightly like she’s breathing the rhythm in. it makes something twist gently in your chest.

“you didn’t tell me,” you say, quietly.

she sits up, suddenly aware. “i wanted to. i just… i don’t know. it felt small at first. like something i wasn’t sure would last.”

you don’t say anything, and she looks down at her hands.

“but it’s fun,” she adds softly. “and it makes me feel... i don’t know. like i’m doing something real.”

you nod. not because you fully understand, but because you don’t want to be the reason she stops.

the next week, she drags you along.

the studio is tucked in between a bakery and a travel agency that’s been closed for months. you climb narrow stairs that creak under your shoes, and the moment the door opens, you're hit with the thump of bass and the echo of synchronized footsteps.

inside, there’s a wall of mirrors, scuffed wooden floors, and a fan oscillating weakly in one corner. someone’s counting aloud over the music. the air smells like sweat and body spray and something electric.

hanni is different here.

not in a way that makes her unrecognizable—but like she’s shed something heavy. her eyes scan the mirror as she lines up with the others, posture straightening. and then the music starts again—an itzy song, sharp beats and glittering synths—and she’s gone.

her body moves with intention. not just mimicking the choreography but interpreting it. she hits each beat like she means it, like there’s purpose in every flick of her wrist and every stomp of her heel. she smiles without realizing. sweat gathers at her temple, but she doesn’t stop. not even when everyone else does. she keeps going. polishing, adjusting. chasing something only she can see.

you sit at the back of the room, legs pulled up to your chest, heart climbing steadily with every eight count. you’ve never seen her like this. not this confident. not this… alive.

later, when she runs to you, breathless and beaming, you hand her your water bottle without a word. she takes it gratefully and leans into your side, hair damp against your shoulder.

“was i okay?” she asks, voice low, uncertain again now that the music’s stopped.

you turn to her, meet her eyes.

“you were incredible.”

and you mean it. you’ve never meant anything more.

you start waiting for her after practice.

not because she asks. not because you’re obligated. but because you want to. because sitting cross-legged on the dusty studio floor with your headphones in and her duffel bag at your feet feels like a kind of ritual now.

because the streets feel emptier when you walk them alone. because these nights feel like they’re yours—tucked away from the rest of the world, wrapped in the thrum of tired footsteps and half-whispered conversations that belong to no one else.

some nights, you arrive a little early and watch her finish up a final run-through. the lights are harsher at night, fluorescent and unforgiving, but she doesn’t flinch beneath them. she ties her hair back tight, slips into the music like it’s second nature, and moves like she’s chasing the exact shape of a dream.

afterwards, she always finds you. her face flushed, her eyes glassy with exhaustion, but her smile — soft and tilted just for you — is unwavering.

“ready?” she’ll ask, even though you’ve been ready since before she noticed.

and you’ll nod. always.

the walk home is quiet, usually.

not silent, not really — there’s always the sound of cars in the distance, the crunch of gravel under your shoes, the occasional laughter from passing windows.

but between you and hanni, the silence is comfortable. it's filled with the static hum of something unspoken, like a sentence that doesn’t need to end out loud.

sometimes she talks. about the choreo, the struggle of memorizing details, the ache in her knees, the way one of the older girls complimented her arm angles today.

you listen closely, even when you don’t know what all the terms mean. even when she’s too tired to finish her sentences properly and just gestures vaguely with her hands, trusting that you’ll get it anyway.

and you always do.

sometimes, she’s too tired to talk at all. on those nights, she’ll lean into you ever so slightly. not fully — just enough that her sleeve brushes yours, that her shoulder drifts into your space. and you let her. you walk side by side, feet syncing without trying, the moon casting long shadows ahead of you.

you reach her gate slower than usual these days.

you both linger outside like the night might stretch forever if you don’t speak first. the porch light flickers. her front door stays closed.

she turns to you, eventually. “thanks for waiting.”

you shrug, casual. too casual. “wasn’t doing anything else.”

she smiles at that, soft and tired and fond. “you always do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re not the best part of my day.”

you blink, caught off guard, and she doesn’t wait for your response. she just nudges your arm with her knuckles and disappears into the house, leaving you there under the light, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

one night, it rains.

you don’t have an umbrella. neither does she.

you run half the way home, her hand catching yours without thinking. it’s the first time you’ve held hands in years. and somehow it feels both brand new and like something you’ve always done.

you’re both soaked by the time you reach your street, your clothes clinging to your skin, hair dripping, lungs burning from laughter. she doubles over in front of her gate, wheezing from how hard she’s laughing.

“you look like a drowned cat,” you tell her, shivering.

“you look like a wet sock,” she fires back.

you grin at each other, teeth chattering. her cheeks are flushed, whether from the cold or something else, you don’t know. neither of you moves to go inside.

“come in,” she says suddenly. “just for a bit.”

you hesitate. “won’t your mom—?”

“she’s asleep,” hanni says. “you can borrow a hoodie.”

she disappears into the dark house, and you follow.

you sit on her bedroom floor, wrapped in an oversized hoodie that smells like fabric softener and something familiar — something like her. she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, one leg pulled up, hair damp and loose around her shoulders.

she presses play on a song. soft synth, a girl’s voice layered with harmonies. you recognize it — something she practiced last week.

“we’re doing this for the next showcase,” she says, voice low.

you don’t say anything. just watch her.

she hums along to the chorus, half under her breath, and you feel something shift in the air. not a change, not yet. just the possibility of one.

and then she lies back on her bed, arms stretched over her head, eyes fluttering closed.

“don’t let me sleep too long,” she mumbles.

“okay.”

you sit there in the soft, late-night quiet, staring at the ceiling. the rain has softened into a gentle tap against the windows. her breathing evens out. one of her arms dangles off the side of the bed, fingers twitching faintly in a dream.

you don’t move. not for a long time.

it’s sunday again.

your room is dim with late afternoon light, the windows streaked faintly with the kind of rain that never quite falls — just hovers, soft and slow, like the sky is thinking about crying but hasn’t made up its mind.

you’re both on the floor, tucked against the side of your bed with a shared blanket pulled over your legs. the air smells like laundry and the faint citrus of the body spray hanni always steals from your shelf.

she's sitting beside you with her legs folded, knees knocking into yours now and then. you're lying half on your side, cheek pressed into the crook of your arm, eyes tracing the rise and fall of her breathing.

you’ve been like this for a while. no music. no talking. just the hush of rain and the steady rhythm of two people who have spent enough time together to find comfort in quiet.

“can i tell you something?”

her voice is gentle, but it cuts through the stillness.

you blink up at her.

her eyes are fixed on the carpet, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. “it’s kind of big,” she adds, softer now. “but i don’t want it to change anything.”

your stomach turns — not out of dread, but because you can already feel the shape of something shifting.

still, you nod. “always.”

she takes a breath. her lips press together, then part. she hesitates again.

“i… sent in an audition video,” she says finally, barely above a whisper. “to a company. in korea.”

your breath catches, but you stay still. she doesn’t look at you yet.

“i filmed it after practice. didn’t even tell my parents,” she continues, voice picking up, a little more nervous now. “i just… wanted to try. just to see.”

there’s something in her tone — a quiet sort of hopefulness wrapped in fear. like the dream is too fragile to hold for long.

you sit up slowly, shifting so you’re facing her properly now.

“and?” you ask.

she looks up at you then. and her eyes — they’re scared, yes, but glowing too. bright and wide and filled with something that almost makes your chest hurt.

“they emailed back,” she says. “they want me to come for the second round. next month. just a week. but if it goes well…”

she trails off.

you don’t speak right away. you’re trying to make room inside yourself for everything this means — the change of it, the distance of it, the weight of loving someone who’s about to step into a much bigger world.

but above all that, louder than anything, is pride.

“that’s incredible,” you say quietly.

her brows furrow. “you’re not… mad?”

“no,” you say, and you mean it with your whole chest. “i’m proud of you.”

she blinks.

“really?”

you nod, smiling now, even if your throat is tight. “i’ve seen how hard you work. how much this means to you. you deserve this chance.”

she looks at you like she’s trying to memorize the moment. and maybe she is.

“but… it means i’ll be gone. for real this time.”

you reach for her hand. your fingers thread through hers easily, like they’ve done it a thousand times before. because they have.

“i know,” you say. “and i’ll miss you. but i’d rather you go after the thing you love than stay and wonder what could’ve been.”

her eyes flicker. her thumb moves slowly across your knuckles. she doesn’t say it out loud, but the look on her face says everything.

thank you. i’m scared. i don’t want to leave you. i have to try.

you don’t let go.

later, she falls asleep curled beside you, the blanket half-kicked off and your shoulder pillowing her head. you stay awake a little longer, listening to the rain as it finally begins to fall for real — soft and steady against the glass.

and in the quiet, you let yourself feel it all: the ache, the pride, the fear, the love.

because you’ve always known she was meant for more.

and because even now, with everything about to change — she’s still here, in your room, in your arms, just for a little while longer.

the days after hanni tells you pass like a dream you’re trying not to wake up from.

nothing really changes — not on the surface. she still meets you at your gate in the mornings, swinging her water bottle against her thigh while she waits.

you still walk to the bus stop together, still sit side by side on the left-hand row because the right side gets too much sun. you still split lemon candy in math, still complain about group projects, still share her earbuds even though you both only ever end up listening to the same three songs.

but there’s something under it now. not sadness, exactly. not yet. more like awareness. everything is more vivid. more precious. like the clock has started ticking but neither of you is ready to count the time out loud.

she comes over more often now. not that she didn’t already — but now, she lingers longer. leaves her things scattered across your floor like little reminders. drinks half your juice, falls asleep on your bed in her hoodie with the sleeves pulled over her hands. your mom just smiles when she sees her curled up like that, like it’s always been this way.

one night, she stays past dinner. your dad drives her home while she nods off in the passenger seat. when he returns, he tells you she mumbled your name in her sleep.

you pretend not to smile.

on the third-to-last day, you bring her to your favorite spot — the tiny hill near the community center, tucked behind the chain-link fence, where the streetlights don’t reach. you used to ride bikes there when you were younger. now, you lie on the grass shoulder to shoulder, jackets zipped up against the breeze, watching the stars blur above you.

“i’ll probably cry at the airport,” you admit.

“i’ll definitely cry at the airport,” she says.

you both laugh, but there’s a weight to it. she turns her head to look at you, her cheek against the cool grass.

“you’re not scared i’ll forget you?” she asks.

you shake your head. “i’m scared i won’t know how to talk to you once you’re there.”

she’s quiet.

then, “i won’t let that happen.”

you look at her. in the dark, her features soften — her eyes round and shining, her lips parted like she wants to say more but doesn’t know how. or maybe she does. maybe she’s just afraid.

“promise?” you ask.

she reaches for your pinky and hooks it with hers.

“promise,” she whispers.

you stay like that for a long time. hands warm between you, eyes on the sky. your pinkies don’t untangle until it’s time to go home.

on the last full day, she skips dance practice.

you don't ask if she's sure — you just spend the afternoon in your backyard, music playing low from your phone, as you make a memory out of the ordinary.

she helps your mum prep vegetables for dinner, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something your dad says from the grill. when the sun begins to dip, you sit on the back steps with her, passing a popsicle between you.

“this feels like something we’ll remember,” she says, nudging your knee with hers.

“it is,” you say. “i already know.”

she rests her head on your shoulder. doesn’t move it for a while.

after dinner, the house is still.

your parents retreat to the living room. the television hums faintly in the background, but you and hanni drift upstairs, your footsteps soft on the wood.

your room welcomes her like it always does — a little messy, a little warm, her things already half-scattered across your desk from earlier visits. she drops onto your bed like she’s been waiting all day for that moment. you sit beside her, legs pulled up beneath you, the window cracked just enough to let the cool night air slip in.

“i don’t wanna pack yet,” she mumbles, face half-buried in your pillow.

“don’t,” you say. “not yet.”

you don’t need to tell her she can stay the night. she already knows. her toothbrush is still in your bathroom from the last sleepover that turned into three. her spare hoodie — the pale grey one with the small bleach stain near the cuff — hangs on the back of your chair. her phone charger’s already plugged in on your side of the bed.

time moves slower in moments like this. softer.

you pull out the box of old stickers and polaroids from under your bed — the one neither of you has opened in months — and you sift through it together. photos from your first school camp. a blurry shot of hanni grinning with half a sandwich in her mouth. ticket stubs from a concert you both pretended to like. a note she passed you in year seven, still folded in its jagged square.

“you kept this?” she says, unfolding it carefully.

you nod. “you made me laugh that day.”

“i wrote this in science class.”

“i know. you got in trouble.”

she laughs, and the sound fills the room. it makes something in your chest ache in the most familiar way.

when it’s late enough that everything feels suspended — the world gone quiet beyond your window, the air holding its breath — you lie side by side in the dark, the ceiling barely visible above you. her hand finds yours without thinking.

“do you think you’ll change?” you ask quietly.

she doesn’t answer at first. you think maybe she’s fallen asleep. but then her fingers curl tighter around yours.

“i don’t want to,” she whispers. “but i probably will. a little.”

you nod. you knew that already.

“will you still talk to me even if everything gets crazy?”

she turns on her side to face you. you can’t quite see her expression, but her voice is steady.

“i’ll try. even if it’s just a few minutes. even if i’m tired. i’ll still find a way.”

“okay.”

you roll over too, so you’re both facing each other in the dark. noses nearly touching.

she doesn’t move. neither do you.

“i’m going to miss you so much,” she says. it’s so soft you almost don’t hear it.

your throat tightens. you whisper back, “me too.”

she reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. a tender gesture that lingers longer than necessary.

“you’ll be amazing,” you say.

you don’t say you’ll forget me, or please don’t fall in love with someone else in seoul, or i wish you weren’t leaving. you just press your forehead to hers.

she exhales slowly. her fingers drift down to rest against your wrist, light and warm and careful.

you fall asleep like that — tangled in the silence, in everything you’re both too young and too scared to say.

she wakes to warmth.

not sunlight — not yet — but something quieter. gentler. like the world is letting her have this one small grace before it all begins again.

her first instinct is to reach for her phone, to check the time, to count how many hours she has left.

but then she feels it.

your arm beside hers. the steady rise and fall of your breath, close and calm. and just like that, she forgets the clock.

you’re still asleep.

lying on your side, facing her, your face softened by sleep. your lashes flutter slightly, your lips parted just enough for a slow breath to pass through. there’s a warmth pressed between your elbows, your knees nearly touching. everything about you is still.

and all she can think is: i can’t take this with me.

she swallows hard and doesn’t let herself move.

instead, she watches the way the sunlight is starting to creep into the room. the way it paints gold into your curtains and climbs its way across the posters on your wall. the way it lands on the edge of your blanket — the one you insisted she use because you knew she ran cold at night, even though you always pretended she didn’t.

you always knew.

that’s the part that hurts the most.

you always knew her so well. and still, she’d kept this from you — not because she didn’t trust you, but because she couldn’t stand the idea of saying it out loud. because saying it would make it real. saying it would mean losing this.

she blinks. forces the sting behind her eyes to fade.

instead, she reaches, carefully, silently, fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve. just a touch. not enough to wake you. just enough to say: i’m here. just enough to ask: can i stay like this a little longer?

and somehow — even in sleep — you answer.

you shift slightly, your arm pressing against hers. not fully awake. just enough contact to let her breathe again.

she closes her eyes.

the room smells like your shampoo and the faintest trace of lemon tea. the floor creaks once — distant — like someone downstairs is beginning to move. the birds outside sing louder now, as if morning is insisting its way in.

but still, she stays.

there’s so much she should be thinking about. her flight. her suitcase. the audition. the future that feels too big for her hands to hold.

but all she can think about is you.

how this is the last morning she’ll wake up with you across from her like this. how you’ll come home to this room tonight and she won’t be here. how her leaving is going to carve out a quiet in both of you she can’t fill from anywhere else in the world.

and still — still — she wants to go. not because she wants to leave, but because this dream she’s held onto for so long is finally close enough to touch.

it hurts. but it’s hers.

you stir, finally, shifting under the covers with a quiet breath.

and hanni opens her eyes again just in time to see you blink yours open, slow and a little confused, before they settle on her.

“morning,” she whispers, softer than she meant to.

you smile, and in that moment she forgets how to breathe.

the days blur together in seoul.

she wakes before the sun most mornings — not because she has to, but because she can’t sleep. her body still aches from practice the night before, but her mind stays wired, full of things she doesn't say out loud. the sound of sneakers squeaking on practice room floors. the metallic click of doors locking behind her. the soft ping of unread messages she hasn’t found the strength to answer.

the city moves fast. faster than melbourne ever did. here, everything is built to be chased — time, perfection, debut lines.

and she runs.

she runs until her voice is raw, her limbs burning, her feet pulsing in rhythm with the music. she trains until her body forgets how to do anything else. and still, it never feels enough. there’s always more. more to fix. more to improve. more to prove.

some nights, she stares at herself in the mirror after everyone else has gone home — sweat-soaked, trembling, face flushed from overwork — and wonders if she still looks like herself.

the girl you used to know. the one who danced in your room in mismatched socks. the one who giggled so loud when you tripped over her foot during just dance that your mom told you both off.

she misses that girl. she misses you.

more than she lets herself admit.

there are photos of you on her phone — old ones. the blurry kind. the ones where you're pulling faces or laughing too hard to stay still. she scrolls through them sometimes late at night, when her roommates are asleep and the only light in the dorm comes from her screen.

she still hasn’t replied to your last message.

it's not that she doesn’t want to.

it’s just that she doesn't know what to say.

how do you explain to someone that you’re becoming the person you always dreamed of being — and yet, somehow, you’ve never felt farther from yourself?

how do you tell the person you love that you're scared they’ll stop waiting?

one night, after a long practice, she opens your message.

“do you ever get tired of it?”

it had come a week ago. she rereads it for the fourth time. not accusatory. not bitter. just… gentle. like always. like you.

she stares at the blinking cursor for a long time before she types anything.

sometimes. but it’s the kind of tired i can live with. i miss home.

then she stops. hovers over send.

deletes the last part.

rewrites:

i miss you.

and sends it before she can take it back.

then she lies down, phone tucked under her pillow like a secret. and for the first time in a long time, she falls asleep fast.

i miss you too pham. more than you could ever know.

trainee life is relentless.

wake. stretch. vocal warmups. dance. practice. monitor. again. again.

there’s a tightness in hanni’s shoulders now that never goes away. a sharpness to the way she carries herself — focused, careful, always just a little tense, like something might slip if she ever relaxes too much.

but even in the middle of all that, she finds ways to keep you with her.

in the little things.

your old playlist, quietly playing in her earbuds when she’s the last one left in the practice room. the polaroid tucked into her wallet of the two of you grinning with iced drinks in hand, your hair wet from a surprise downpour, both of you soaked and laughing. the photo’s edges are curling now. she smooths it flat when no one’s looking.

sometimes she’ll open her notes app during breaks and just start typing whatever comes to mind.

walked past a café that smelled like your shampoo. there's a girl in my vocal class who laughs like you. my roommate makes ramen like you used to, but hers sucks.

she never sends these.

but every few days, when the silence starts to ache more than usual, she’ll text you something small.

just finished practice. do you remember when we tried dancing to 'cheer up' in your garage? we were so bad lol i saw a pigeon wearing a bread necklace. reminded me of you. do you still eat 7/11 sushi? please say no. i’m worried.

and always — always — you reply.

sometimes quickly. sometimes a few hours later because of the time difference. but it never feels like you’re far, not really.

you ask questions about her classes, her dorm, the new songs she’s learning. sometimes you send voice notes, just a quick “hey” or a terrible joke or even a soft hum of a song you heard that reminded you of her. she listens to those on the bus, staring out the window, earbuds in, pretending she’s back home and you’re sitting beside her again.

there are nights when she doesn’t reply. not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s too tired to lift her fingers. but she reads your messages anyway, over and over, until the screen blurs.

and there are nights when you don’t reply either. sometimes for a day. sometimes longer.

those are the ones that hurt the most.

she doesn’t ask why. she never blames you.

instead, she types, deletes, types again.

still here.

she doesn’t send that either.

but she whispers it in the dark, quiet like a prayer. hoping maybe, across all the miles, you’ll feel it too.

sometimes, she gets half a day off.

the schedule is cruel most weeks — training stacked on top of training, evaluations tucked between classes, rehearsals bleeding into late-night practices until her limbs feel foreign and her eyes sting. but every now and then, if the stars align and the managers have mercy, she wakes up to a morning unclaimed.

she doesn’t know what to do with those hours.

the first few breaks, she tried to sleep them away. then clean, or study. but lately, she just walks.

there’s a little café three blocks down from the company building. she found it by accident one day, rain pushing her under its awning like a whisper. the windows are always fogged up, the lights always soft, and the quiet inside feels like the kind that welcomes sadness without asking questions. she goes there now whenever she can. orders the same thing — a honey latte and a single madeleine — and sits by the window with her notebook.

the notebook is new. she bought it on a whim, plain black cover, faint lines across cream paper. it’s not a journal. it’s not even neat. but it holds pieces of you. the versions of you she’s trying to keep close.

sometimes she writes things that happened years ago. sometimes, just a word that makes her think of you.

i saw two girls today laughing over instant tteokbokki. they reminded me of us. you always burned your tongue. you never waited for it to cool. i think you liked the pain a little.

her phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with your name.

a photo.

your lunch, apparently. instant noodles in a chipped bowl, two boiled eggs on top, and a coffee can turned sideways for scale. your caption reads:

dinner of champions. miss having someone to mock my meals tbh.

she laughs, quiet and real, the sound catching in her throat before it escapes.

thumbs hover over her phone. she wants to reply. wants to call. wants to see your face, hear your voice, know if you’re tired or if your cat still hates being touched behind the ears. she wants to say, i miss you, and mean it a hundred different ways.

but she hesitates.

what if you're busy? what if it’s the wrong time? what if your life is full without her now?

she stares at the screen until it fades back to black, unread, unopened.

the package comes a week later.

wrapped in brown paper, the kind that creases easily. her name and the dorm address written in your handwriting — still a little uneven, the same way you used to label your notebooks back in school.

she opens it slowly. reverently. sitting cross-legged on the floor of her dorm room, the curtain drawn shut, golden light pooling around her like warmth.

inside, a box of assorted tea bags, the kind she used to drink at your place during late-night cramming sessions. fuzzy socks with little cartoon stars embroidered along the sides. one has a loose thread already. a keychain shaped like a slice of bread, hollowed out in the middle to fit a tiny, smiling duck.

and a folded piece of notebook paper. lined. frayed on one edge.

she doesn’t open the letter right away.

she holds it first — both hands cupped around it like a prayer. your handwriting on the front says just her name, nothing else. no greeting. no end. like it doesn’t need one.

she waits until midnight to read it. after the lights are off. after the room is still.

hey. i hope everything arrived okay. i wrapped it like ten times because the last time i sent something to my cousin, the box arrived looking like it had been stomped on by a truck. this time i chose socks instead of snacks, just to be safe. and because you always complained your feet were cold. i’m sorry for not replying sometimes. it’s not that i don’t want to. i think about what to say for hours. sometimes days. but school is intense right now. i picked up a weekend shift at the café near the tram stop. it’s not glamorous but the coffee’s free and the tips aren’t bad. between lectures and shifts and trying to stay sane, i guess i just… drift sometimes. but your messages? i read them. always. sometimes more than once. sometimes right before bed when the house is quiet and i miss you most. sometimes, i don’t reply because i don’t know how to tell you how much i miss you without sounding like i’m still stuck in the past. but maybe that’s okay. maybe i am. maybe i’m still there — sitting next to you in your garage, drinking milo and swatting away mosquitos, arguing about which kpop dance cover you’d nail better. anyway. stay warm. come home when you can. love, y/n

the paper trembles in her hands.

she reads it again. and again. the words bleeding into the silence like breath, like gravity. like love that never really went anywhere.

she wipes at her eyes once. then again.

she presses the letter flat beneath her pillow like it belongs there.

she doesn’t reply right away. not because she doesn’t want to — but because she wants to say it right.

she never has the right words when it comes to you.

but when she drinks the tea the next morning, the warmth blooming in her chest feels close enough.

melbourne feels both foreign and exactly the same.

the taxi pulls away from the curb with a dusty churn of gravel and exhaust, leaving her standing at the edge of the driveway. her bag sits at her feet like a stranger. the house before her looks smaller now — not physically, maybe, but in how it fits into her memory. the same mailbox with the chipped corner. the same curtains fluttering in her mother’s window. someone is cooking. the air smells like garlic and soy and a little bit of dust, the kind that clings to the corners of every room back home.

she hasn’t stood here in nearly a year.

not since her suitcase was packed in a flurry of nerves and possibility, and she boarded that flight to seoul with too much hope and not nearly enough goodbye.

when the door opens, her mother gasps. she barely gets out her name before pulling her in, arms tight, the way only a mother can hold you when she’s been waiting for you to come home.

they don’t talk much that first night. the house is full of quiet footsteps and the hum of the electric fan, her old bedroom untouched except for a thin layer of dust. she lies on her bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, hand curled beneath her cheek. jetlag aches in her bones, but her mind stays wide open.

your street is just three blocks away.

you don’t know she’s coming home.

her family kept it quiet. she asked them to. something about it feels easier that way — softer around the edges. she wants to see you before the word gets out, before anyone else starts pulling at her time. before she has to explain who she is now and why she left.

you’re home for the holidays — a rare miracle between class schedules and your café shifts. your hair’s a bit longer, dyed at the tips like you always said you’d try. there are dark circles under your eyes, but you look like you — still in your house slippers, still scolding your cat like he understands human morality, still chewing your pen caps when you think too hard.

you don’t know she’s coming, but your mom does. and she doesn’t warn you.

so when the doorbell rings at 10:47 in the morning, you don’t think much of it. you pad to the front door with sleepy steps, expecting a delivery or a neighbor with a borrowed rake.

you don’t expect her.

but there she is. standing on your front porch in an oversized hoodie, a suitcase behind her, a nervous smile tugging at her lips.

you don’t move.

you stare at her, barefoot on the tile. your hands are slightly damp from doing dishes, a rag still tossed over your shoulder.

she’s real. she’s really here. after everything — after the texts, the silences, the almost-calls and late-night letters — she’s here. in front of you.

“hi,” she says, voice small but steady.

you swallow. “hi.”

a beat passes. another. the breeze shifts behind her, and a eucalyptus leaf skitters across the steps.

“can i come in?”

you step aside.

it takes a while to settle.

you make tea because your hands need something to do. she sits at the kitchen counter, watching you move around the space like she’s memorizing it all over again. her eyes flick to the fridge magnets, to the cracked tile by the sink, to the chipped ceramic mug you’ve always claimed as your favorite.

you set her cup down in front of her. she reaches for it, but your hands brush.

and that’s when the silence breaks.

you talk for hours. the kind of talking that doesn’t rush — the kind that winds slowly between past and present, that loops back on itself, that pauses and meanders like an old river through familiar banks.

she tells you about seoul. about early mornings and sore feet and the terrifying wonder of standing under stage lights. about the nights she wanted to quit and the days she never thought she’d make it. about how she missed home, and about how home always meant you.

you tell her about school. about cramming for exams with vending machine coffee and crying in library bathrooms. about working double shifts to make rent. about missing her so much it started to feel like background noise — like the hum of your fridge or the sound of your own breathing.

you ask her why she never called.

she looks down at her tea. steam curls around her lashes.

“i tried,” she says. “a lot of times. i just… didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me anymore. i didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

you want to be angry.

but her voice cracks a little on the last word, and that’s what finally softens you.

“i always wanted to hear from you,” you say. “even when it hurt. especially then.”

she looks up at you.

and for a moment, it’s just the two of you again — not the idol and the student, not the girl who left and the girl who stayed. just hanni and y/n, in the kitchen where everything once began.

you don’t hug right away.

you sit across from each other. you sip tea. you listen to the rain start to fall.

but your knees brush under the table.

and neither of you pulls away.

she stays for three days.

not long — not nearly long enough — but more than either of you dared hope for. and in those three days, the house begins to bend around her again. your home reshapes itself to fit her like it always used to.

she sleeps in your room.

you don’t talk about it. the first night, she stands in the doorway with her toothbrush and a blanket and asks, “is it okay if i…?”

and you say, “yeah. of course.”

she curls up under your covers like she never left — like you didn’t spend nearly two years learning how to fall asleep without her weight beside you. the ceiling looks the same as it did when you were kids, but the air between you is quieter now, steadier, full of all the things you still don’t know how to say.

you stay up talking some nights. other nights, you just lie in silence, sharing the dark.

she wears your old hoodie in the mornings.

drinks from your chipped mug. steals bites of your toast without asking, like it’s muscle memory. the cat remembers her — still swats at her lazily, still tolerates her affection more than anyone else’s. your mom smiles a lot more when she’s around. the house feels fuller somehow, like someone turned the volume back up on your life.

you walk her to the bus stop once, just to buy time.

she doesn’t need to go anywhere, but the walk gives you an excuse to linger in the late-afternoon light, shoulders brushing, quiet laughter caught between breaths. the wind’s cool on your face. jacaranda petals crunch under your feet. she tells you about a dance she’s learning and ends up showing you part of the choreo on the sidewalk, half-embarrassed but grinning. you clap dramatically and she mock bows, hand to her chest.

you take pictures — she lets you.

her head on your shoulder. the two of you mid-laugh. one blurry shot of her holding your cat like a baby. she looks happy. not tired. not polished or posed. just happy. and it makes something ache deep in your chest, because you know she has to go again soon.

she doesn’t talk about it, but you can feel the countdown hanging in the air.

the night before she leaves, you both stay up late.

you’re in your room, lights dimmed, music playing low from your phone. she’s sitting cross-legged on your bed, brushing through your hair with gentle fingers, like it calms her. her voice is soft — telling you a story from her trainee dorms, something about laundry day and how she accidentally shrank one of minji’s shirts.

you laugh. she tugs gently on your ear in retaliation. and then you fall quiet again.

“do you ever wish you didn’t go?” you ask, voice low.

she hesitates.

then, “sometimes. when it gets really hard. when i miss this.”

you nod. you can feel her breath against your neck now.

“but i don’t regret it,” she adds. “because… i needed to try. and i’m doing what i love. even when it hurts, it feels like the right kind of hurt.”

you turn to face her.

and for once, she doesn’t look away.

“and you?” she asks. “do you ever wish i stayed?”

you want to say yes. god, it would be so easy.

but instead, you tell the truth.

“i wish it didn’t have to be either-or.”

her eyes soften.

“i’m glad you went, hanni,” you whisper. “i’m proud of you.”

her throat works around a silent thank you.

then she says, quietly, “i missed you every day.”

“me too.”

the space between you crackles.

you don’t kiss her. not yet. it’s not time. the air’s too heavy with everything unspoken. but you lie down together, and this time, you fall asleep tangled in the blankets, her arm draped over your waist, your hand resting lightly over hers.

you wake up together, just like that.

and for a moment, it almost feels like nothing ever changed.

next morning, she leaves with her suitcase packed again. you walk her to the car. her mom drives. you hug her longer than you mean to, eyes shut, heart full and too heavy all at once.

she whispers something into your hair.

you don’t catch it.

it starts quietly.

not with a fight. not with a final message. not with anything loud or irreversible.

it starts with a delayed reply.

not the kind that makes your heart drop. just the kind that makes you glance at your phone one too many times, then turn it face down beside your laptop. you’re busy anyway — with school, with work, with this paper that won’t write itself and the dishes in the sink and the quiz you forgot to study for. it’s fine. she’ll reply when she can.

and she does.

just slower than usual. shorter. sometimes just a thumbs-up, or a “sorry just saw this,” or a photo with no caption — a mirror selfie of her in practice gear, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, sweat darkening her hairline.

you tell yourself she’s just tired. because she is tired.

she’s working harder than anyone you know. and she’s closer than ever to the thing she’s been dreaming of since she was just a kid dancing in the garage, laughing under fluorescent lights with you holding the speaker. she’s in the lineup now. they haven’t told her everything, but she knows what it means. more hours, stricter routines, more eyes on her every move. she’s finally standing on the edge of it — debut. and you? you want to be proud. you are proud.

you just wish it didn’t feel so much like being left behind.

because now your messages sit unread for longer. and when she does reply, it doesn’t feel like her anymore. not in the way it used to — not in the way where you could read between the lines and feel warmth tucked inside every word. now everything feels... contained. like she’s holding you at arm’s length even when she’s saying she misses you.

and then, one night, she forgets your birthday.

you don’t even realize it right away. it’s not like you expected a call — she hasn’t had time for that in months. but there’s no message either. not even a late one.

you wait until midnight anyway. and then another hour after that. refreshing, checking, closing your apps, opening them again.

nothing.

you don’t cry. not really. just sit on the floor of your room for a while, the light off, your hands cold. you pull out the letter she sent you months ago — the one that came with the package, the one you’ve read a hundred times. her handwriting looks smaller now than it did before.

sometimes it’s hard to talk. i don’t mean to disappear. i just don’t know how to explain everything. but i never stop thinking about you. i hope you know that.

you fold it again. tighter this time. until it fits into your palm like something that used to matter.

meanwhile, in seoul, hanni is unraveling in silence.

there’s no time to feel anything — not properly. not when her days bleed together like static, a blur of choreography counts, protein shakes, vocal warm-ups, costume fittings. she wakes up sore and goes to bed sore. some nights she’s too tired to take off her shoes. some nights she sleeps with her phone still clutched in her hand, screen lighting up her cheek.

she sees your messages. she always does. even when she doesn’t answer.

she opens them during water breaks. during the quiet walk back to the dorm when everyone else is too drained to talk. she reads them on the bus, pressed against the cold window, earphones in with no music playing. and then — she puts the phone down again.

not because she doesn’t want to reply. god, she wants to. but it hurts more than she knows how to put into words.

because the truth is, she’s afraid.

afraid that whatever’s left between you is too fragile now. that you’ve already learned to live without her. that if she reaches out clumsily, with tired fingers and scattered thoughts, you’ll hear it in her voice — the guilt, the longing, the way she misses you like breath.

there are nights when she almost calls.

she’ll stare at your contact, thumb hovering over the button. heart racing like she’s sixteen again and you’re about to pull her into the garage and ask her to dance like idiots to an old IU song.

but she never presses call.

instead, she writes a draft she won’t send:

i’m sorry. i don’t know how to be good at this anymore. everything’s happening so fast. and i keep thinking about you. how you laughed, how you said my name. i didn’t forget your birthday. i just didn’t know how to say i miss you without it sounding selfish.

she deletes it before she can reread it.

she doesn’t want to sound like she’s asking you to wait. she doesn’t even know what’s waiting for her on the other side of this. the company hasn’t told her anything. they’ve only told her to prepare.

so she trains. she folds herself inward. she becomes a version of herself that doesn’t flinch when someone critiques her pitch or her posture. a version that doesn’t cry when she thinks of home.

but late at night, when the lights are off and everyone else is asleep, she presses her forehead against the cool glass of the dorm window and mouths your name like a secret.

softly. quietly.

as if you might still hear it — wherever you are.

you don’t hear it from her.

you’re not even on your phone when the news comes out — just brushing your teeth, shoulders slouched over the sink, half-awake and trying to force the morning into place. there’s a buzz from the counter. a few more. muffled dings and flashes from group chats you haven’t opened in days.

you spit out the toothpaste, rinse. then you check.

a link. a thumbnail. someone’s typed her name in all caps with a string of exclamation points, as if they know her, as if they’ve always known. the music video’s already gaining views by the second.

your chest pulls tight.

your thumb hovers.

then, slowly, you press play.

and there she is.

not the hanni from late-night study calls or shared playlists, not the one who sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor talking about dreams with her cheek pressed to your pillow. not the girl who once dragged you into a k-pop dance cover group on a dare, laughing when you missed a beat, cheering you on when you finally landed one. not that hanni.

no — this hanni is something else.

she’s on screen now, and the world is watching. she moves like she’s always known how. confident. clean. dazzling. the kind of presence that turns heads and keeps them there.

you barely notice how long the video is. you just watch.

and in some distant part of you, your heart quietly breaks.

because she didn’t tell you.

and that’s the part that hurts. not the debut. not the stardom. not the way she’s different now — bigger, brighter. it’s the silence.

you reach for your phone again, like maybe the texts are just delayed, like maybe you missed one. but there’s nothing. your last message sits unread. from weeks ago. maybe months, now.

“you’ll do amazing. i’m proud of you, always.”

you wonder if she even saw it.

you don’t cry. there’s no dramatic moment where you fall to the floor or clutch your chest like the movies. it’s not like that. it’s quieter. simpler.

you just sit there, in your tiny bathroom, the sun not even fully up yet, and you let the quiet fill in the space she used to hold.

because the truth is, she was never just a friend to you.

and watching her step into this world — a world you always knew she’d reach — without you… it leaves you feeling like a chapter ended before you got to read the last line.

—

hanni doesn’t check her phone right away.

there’s too much happening. too many people pulling her in every direction. the staff smiles at her like it’s christmas morning. her members are still in disbelief. one of them is crying — she doesn’t know if it’s from joy or shock. someone hands her a phone. there are already hundreds of comments, thousands of shares. it’s everywhere.

she should be celebrating. she tries.

but underneath the rush of adrenaline and the low hum of nerves, there’s something else. something hollow.

because she didn’t tell you.

she wanted to.

she’s wanted to — a thousand times — but it always felt like the timing was off. like the space between messages had grown too wide. like maybe you didn’t want to hear from her anymore. so she told herself she’d wait. just until the right moment. just until things settled.

but the moment never came.

she checks now, though. when no one’s looking. when the others are laughing, huddled around a phone playing the mv again. she scrolls to your name, hoping — stupidly — for something.

you’ve seen it. you haven’t messaged.

she bites the inside of her cheek. the guilt comes in slow, like a tide. gentle at first, then overwhelming.

you should’ve been the first person she told.

you always were.

but now? now she doesn’t even know if you’ll pick up.

she locks the phone and sets it down, careful not to let her smile fade. cameras are still around. people are still watching. this is the moment she’s been working toward for years.

and yet… it doesn’t feel like she thought it would.

not without you.

she doesn’t tell her members she’s going home. doesn’t say anything at all when the schedule clears, when the manager reads out the five-day chuseok break like it’s any other holiday. hanni just nods, thanks them politely, and steps back into the training room like her lungs aren’t full of something thick and heavy and sudden.

she packs fast that night. lets her mind wander. doesn’t check her phone. doesn’t check yours.

if she thinks too hard, she’ll talk herself out of it. so instead she just goes. books a flight. keeps her hood up in the airport and her head down in the car. says hi to her parents. hugs them tighter than usual. listens to her dad go on about the neighborhood changes — new café on the corner, renovated basketball court — while her mom reminds her to drink more water and rest her voice.

she smiles through it all. she’s good at that now.

but the minute her suitcase hits the floor of her old room — the minute she sees the faint outline of the sticker you once slapped on her lamp, the lanyard you left behind years ago still looped around the doorknob — she’s already walking out again.

“just a walk,” she says when her mom calls after her. “i’ll be back before dark.”

her shoes are still by the door. the ones you once teased her for because the laces never matched. she slips them on without thinking.

the streets haven’t changed. maybe the paint’s more faded now, the trees taller. but the curve of the sidewalk still knows the weight of her steps, and the corner store still smells like oil and sun-dried laundry.

and when she reaches your street — your house — her heart trips.

she doesn’t knock right away. just stands there, staring up at the same window she used to shout at until you leaned out, smiling like you always did, like she was your favorite part of the day.

she presses the doorbell.

waits.

the door opens slower than she remembers.

your dad stands there in slippers and a soft shirt, blinking like he hadn’t been expecting anyone. then: a flicker of recognition, gentle and immediate.

“hanni?”

she bows quickly, head low. “hi, uncle.”

he opens the screen door the rest of the way. “look at you. it’s been a while.”

“yes, sir. i’m—i just…” she trails off, unsure how to ask. unsure if she even should.

but he sees it in her face.

his smile falters. “you were looking for her?”

her throat tightens. she nods.

he exhales softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “she’s not here.”

the words hit like a glass slipping from her hand. not breaking — not yet — just the split-second of weightlessness before the shatter.

“is she out?” she tries. “or—”

“she left,” he says, quieter this time. “a few months ago. scholarship. overseas. it happened really fast.”

hanni’s mouth parts, then closes. her lips press together, eyes darting to the edge of the doorway like maybe you’ll appear anyway, grinning, saying surprise.

“i thought she might’ve told you,” your dad adds gently. “i’m sorry you had to hear it like this.”

she shakes her head quickly. “no, it’s okay. i just…”

and she doesn’t know what to say after that. what can you say, when the person you came home for isn’t home anymore?

he watches her for a moment. then his voice softens even more. “do you want to come inside for a bit?”

she hesitates.

the light inside is warm. familiar. behind him, she catches a glimpse of the old photo frames, the one hallway rug you once tripped over in front of her.

but the quiet in her chest is too loud. the absence too fresh.

“thank you,” she says, bowing again. “but i should probably go. my mom’s waiting.”

he nods. doesn’t push. just says, “she talked about you a lot, you know. before she left.”

and that — that’s what makes her heart crack.

not the fact that you’re gone.

but that you’d still been thinking of her, even then.

“thank you,” she says again, voice quieter this time.

“we're really proud of you,” he gives her a small smile. “take care of yourself, hanni.”

she walks back slower than before.

and when she lies down in her old bed that night — still fully dressed, hoodie pulled over her head — she doesn’t cry. doesn’t move.

she just stares at the ceiling, wondering what day you left.

wondering how many times you thought of her on the way out.

the next morning, she doesn't go out.

her mom notices, of course — peeks into her room around nine, holding a tray with toast and tea, but hanni pretends to be asleep. breathes slow. face turned to the wall.

she hears the door shut gently behind her.

outside, it’s probably sunny. probably loud with neighbors cooking early, kids biking up and down the same cracked pavement, dogs barking at passersby the way they always have.

but in here, it’s quiet. too quiet.

and there’s no one texting her good morning. no you.

she finally sits up around noon, blinking at the light bleeding through her curtains. her eyes feel dry, her throat tight. she checks her phone out of habit. nothing. still nothing.

no missed calls. no new messages.

she scrolls to your name anyway.

it’s still saved the same way it’s always been.

no emoji. just your name. lowercase. steady.

she clicks on it. stares at the last message from you — months old now. something about a new show you were watching. a dumb meme you’d sent right after.

she never replied.

she types something now. a simple “where are you?”

then deletes it.

tries again. “i went to your house.”

deletes it too.

tries again. “i miss you.”

deletes.

in the end, she just stares at the blinking cursor for a long, long time before locking her phone again and tossing it face down beside her.

for the rest of the day, she doesn’t leave her bed.

even her mom only tries once more — softly knocking just before dinner — and hanni says, “i’m okay,” even though she isn’t.

she’s quiet through the rest of chuseok.

smiles when she needs to. sits through meals, laughs at stories her uncle tells, helps set the table, washes dishes. she plays the role of the daughter who came home well. who’s doing well.

but inside, there’s a bruise that won’t fade.

not angry. not even sad. just… hollow. like something slipped through her fingers and she didn’t even get the chance to hold on.

she thinks of you often now. more than before.

not just the recent you, not even the version of you who used to text her whenever a new NewJeans clip dropped.

but the you who first taught her how to braid her hair properly. the you who passed notes in class when you weren’t seatmates anymore. the you who always stole extra napkins for her during lunch because she always forgot.

and the you who, for a long time, was the only person who believed she could actually do this.

who looked at her, before the stylists, before the vocal coaches, before the casting directors — and just knew.

by the time she returns to the dorms, the weight has settled somewhere in her chest. not heavy enough to crush her, but enough to make her carry it differently. quietly. privately.

the others don’t ask. maybe they notice the way she keeps checking her phone. or how she goes to bed early now, even on break days. maybe they just think she’s tired.

hanni doesn’t tell them otherwise.

she throws herself back into practice. stays behind after dance sessions. re-records lines even when the producer says they’re already clean. smiles during meetings. bows deeper than usual.

on some days, it works. the ache quiets.

on others, she slips into the bathroom when no one’s around and just breathes against the sink until her reflection stops shaking.

she doesn’t cry. not really. not yet.

but sometimes, in the middle of a song she knows you would’ve liked — in the seconds before sleep — she wonders if you waited for her.

and if you did, how long.

she doesn’t look at the calendar when the new year rolls in.

someone counts down from ten in the dorm living room, someone else pops open a cider bottle, and someone passes around those tiny paper crowns from a convenience store party set. hanni wears hers. smiles for the photo. cheers with the rest of them.

but she doesn’t look at the date.

she doesn’t think about what last year looked like around this time — what the lead-up to debut felt like. how she was so busy, so breathless, how every day was consumed with choreography and lessons and fittings and fears.

how she didn't even notice that your replies were getting slower. how she'd just assumed you understood.

she doesn’t let herself think about it now.

but it creeps in anyway — like cold seeping into the lining of her sleeves. soft. slow. impossible to shake.

it hits her worst at night.

not every night. just the ones where she lets herself scroll back far enough to see your name in her notifications.

there’s one photo in particular — a blurry shot of you on a bus, hoodie pulled over your face, eyes squinting at the camera because of the flash. you’d captioned it with a string of question marks and a “why are you like this.”

she’d saved it. set it as your contact photo once.

she looks at it now, thumb hovering over the screen. just barely, her eyes sting.

she turns her phone face-down and lies back into her pillow.

it’s late. past 2. the dorm is quiet, the hallway lights dimmed to blue. she can hear someone’s gentle snoring through the wall.

for a long while, she just stares at the ceiling.

outside, snow is falling. she thinks of how you used to hate the cold — how you’d bring an extra scarf just to press into your pockets and keep your hands warm. she used to tease you for it. you used to pretend not to care.

a lump rises in her throat.

eventually, she opens her journal. not the official one. not the one they gave her for content — the pretty one with the embossed company logo and pages meant for goals and milestones and public gratitude.

no, this one’s different. it’s thin. spiral-bound. the kind they used to buy in middle school. she keeps it at the bottom of her drawer, tucked between old lyrics and hair ties.

she opens to a blank page. presses her pen to the paper.

“i don’t know where you are. i don’t know if you even want to hear from me. but today, i walked past someone who had your laugh. and for a second, i turned around. stupid, right? it wasn’t you. i think i knew that. but still.”

her pen stills. she reads it over.

then turns the page.

“if you ever see our debut mv, i wonder if you’ll recognize which lines are mine. if you’ll think i look too different. if you’ll laugh and say my voice got deeper.”

another pause. she draws a tiny heart in the corner. fills it in. then keeps going.

“i miss you. more than i can say. but i hope you’re okay. even if it’s not with me.”

she doesn’t sign it. she just shuts the notebook and hides it away again.

the snow falls heavier that night.

somewhere, hours away, you sleep through it — unaware of the letter, the ache behind it, or the way your name still lingers on her lips long after the lights go out.

two years later.

backstage hums with the low buzz of energy that always comes before a show — crew members speaking in clipped whispers, the occasional sound of laughter from a corner, the subtle creak of shoes shifting against the smooth floor as the girls move around, stretching and pacing in their own ways of coping with nerves.

the lights are dim here, softer than the blinding ones just outside the curtain, and in this brief hush before the storm, hanni finds herself sitting near the corner of the dressing room, her back resting lightly against the armrest of the couch. she’s already in costume — pastel colors and shimmer catching the low lighting — but her hands are fidgeting, thumbs worrying the edge of her sleeve in small, restless motions.

minji notices first.

“you’ve been weird all day,” she says, casually, as she adjusts her in-ears. her tone is playful, but there’s a glint in her eyes, and when hanni doesn’t respond right away, she leans over and pokes her knee. “you nervous?”

hanni looks up slowly. “not really.”

“hanni,” danielle says from across the room, where she’s fluffing her hair in the mirror, “you’ve performed in front of a million people by now. why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

“maybe it’s a boy,” hyein chimes in, sprawled across the rug with a handheld fan buzzing near her face. “hanni’s in love.”

the room laughs softly, but haerin glances over at hanni and doesn’t say anything for a moment. she just watches her — really watches — and then tilts her head. “no,” she says finally, voice quiet but certain, “it’s not a boy.”

that makes everyone pause.

“...oh,” danielle breathes, eyes widening a little as she turns away from the mirror. “it’s that girl, isn’t it? the one you always talk about.”

“you mean the girl,” hyein corrects, propping herself up on one elbow. “the australian one. the ‘used-to-be-my-everything-before-i-became-an-idol’ girl.”

“you talk about her in your sleep, you know,” minji adds, teasing. “it’s a little embarrassing.”

“no i don’t,” hanni mumbles, trying to shrink into herself.

“you do,” haerin says, tone neutral but teasing at the edges. her eyes soften a little as she shifts closer, dropping down beside hanni and bumping her shoulder gently against hers. “you told us about her the first night we met.”

“before we were even friends,” danielle recalls, smiling. “we were strangers lying on dorm floors and hanni was already reminiscing about someone back home.”

hanni presses her fingers against her temples. “can we not do this right before a concert?”

“you brought it on yourself,” minji shrugs. “being all mopey and sentimental.”

“i’m not mopey—”

“you’ve been staring at that empty chair on the seating chart for the past twenty minutes,” haerin says, quiet, pointed. “the one marked ‘guest of artist: hanni.’”

hanni goes silent.

because she has been staring at it. earlier that morning, when they were briefed on the venue layout, her eyes caught on the little block of seats that had been reserved for family and personal guests. she’d asked — half-hopeful, half-embarrassed — if she could save a few extra.

one for her parents. one for her sister. one for yours. and one for your parents.

just in case.

she doesn’t even know if you’d come. doesn’t even know if you still live in the same time zone. you haven’t spoken since that last stilted exchange, back when she was still too busy to explain and you were too hurt to ask. all she has now is a memory of your laugh and the way you used to say her name like it belonged to you.

“what if she shows up,” minji says after a beat, not unkindly. “what if she’s already here.”

“what if she’s not,” hanni answers. and this time her voice is barely more than a whisper. “what if i’m about to go on stage for the biggest moment of my life, and she’s not even watching.”

the room goes quiet for a second.

danielle reaches out, gently tugs at hanni’s sleeve. “then you still go out there and do it anyway. because she might be.”

hanni looks down at her hands. it’s been two years. two whole years since that last day in melbourne. since the last morning you saw each other. since the last text that went unanswered. two years of becoming someone else on camera and staying the same in her heart.

she never stopped thinking about you. not once. not during training. not during choreography. not even during recording. every lyric she liked too much, every photo she almost sent, every quiet moment in between — it always circled back to you. to home. to that little ache that grew quietly, privately, over time.

haerin doesn’t push further. she just rests her chin on her knees, sitting beside hanni in a quiet show of presence, of solidarity. the others slowly shift away, giving her space as they start doing last-minute checks. but hanni doesn’t move.

her fingers still toy with the sleeve of her outfit.

she keeps her head down.

and somewhere deep in her chest, there’s the familiar ache of a question she hasn’t dared to ask in years: did i lose you?

a knock on the door interrupts the silence. “five minutes.”

and just like that, it’s time.

minji stretches her arms over her head. hyein’s already on her feet. danielle fixes her jersey. the stylists rush around for last checks. and hanni? hanni closes her eyes for a breath. just one.

she doesn’t let herself think too hard about the crowd waiting outside. she doesn’t let herself look again for those seats. she just follows the girls toward the hallway, toward the light and the noise, the thrum of bass in her chest.

but even as the stage draws near, her eyes keep flicking sideways. just once more. maybe one more time after that.

because what if.

what if you’re here.

the lights are blinding when she first steps onto the stage.

it always hits like this — the sudden roar of the crowd, the swell of music in her chest, the glint of phones raised and waving lightsticks in perfect sync. it's the kind of moment most people dream of, and hanni, for all her nerves, slips into it like second skin. because this is what she’s trained for. this is what she’s learned to be.

an idol. a performer. someone whole on stage, even when she's unraveling inside.

they’re four songs in. halfway through the setlist. her body is moving on instinct, every count and cue etched into muscle memory by now. she spins, she smiles, she sings. she hears danielle’s harmony behind her, haerin’s breath in sync beside her. hears hyein’s laugh in the short interlude. minji’s grounding presence a few steps ahead.

and still, her eyes wander.

she told herself she wouldn’t look until later. not until it was safe. not until her hands stopped trembling, not until her voice stopped catching on the high notes. but even now, mid-chorus, mid-choreo, her gaze begins to slide — unbidden, uncertain, searching.

every seat is lit by the soft pulse of fanlights. hundreds, maybe thousands of them, all pointed toward the stage. her eyes skim past banners, bunny ears, neon signs.

row by row. section by section.

she doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath.

and then—

there you are.

you're not front row. you never liked being in the spotlight. but you’re close enough. tucked beside your siblings, your parents, her parents, all gathered in the same small cluster of seats she’d reserved without knowing if they'd be filled. and there you are, sitting with your hands folded in your lap, face half-lit by the stage glow, watching her.

you’re really here.

her breath stutters in her throat. something sharp and warm blooms in her chest, pressing tight against her ribcage.

she should be spinning again. should be stepping into the next formation. she’s off by a half beat. danielle catches her wrist as they pass and gently tugs her back into rhythm, a quiet you okay? in her eyes.

hanni nods, barely.

but her gaze doesn’t leave you.

your face is lit faintly by the glow of the screen in your hand — your lightstick, maybe. or just your phone, not recording, just holding it like something to steady you. and for a second, maybe longer, you’re looking at her. really looking.

she doesn’t know what you see. if you see the same girl from melbourne, from the neighborhood, from that last day you spent together. or if you only see the version of her who’s changed since then — the one molded by studios and mirrors and sleepless nights. the one who walked away.

but then — you smile.

soft, unsure. like you weren’t expecting her to look back. like you didn’t know she’d been searching for you all night.

something tugs in her throat.

and everything — the crowd, the music, the stage — falls away for just a second. it’s just you. just that small curve of your lips. just the echo of a thousand moments she’s kept tucked in the quiet parts of her mind for the past two years.

you’re real.

she almost forgets the next step again.

this time, haerin’s shoulder nudges against hers, steady and solid, grounding her like always. hanni doesn’t look away from you, not at first. not until she has to.

and when she finally turns back toward the lights, she’s not the same.

she sings the next verse like she means every word — because this time she does.

every lyric shaped around the ache in her chest. every note heavier, every breath stretched thinner. because this moment, this one right here, is the closest she’s been to you in two years.

and you’re watching her.

really watching.

not the way fans watch idols. not the way strangers watch performances. but the way you always watched her — like you already knew what she was going to say before she said it. like you could still hear every song she never sent.

and it’s that look — soft and steady — that stays with her through the next song, and the next. even as she dances, even as the noise rises again and the stage grows louder around her, she keeps returning to it. to you.

to that seat. to that smile. to that possibility.

the show ends in a blur.

the music fades, the confetti falls, the final bows are taken with linked hands and swelling hearts. danielle squeezes her shoulder. hyein beams so wide it looks like sunlight. haerin touches her wrist, soft and grounding, as if she’s known all along that something's been off-kilter inside hanni tonight.

they exit stage left together, glitter still stuck to their lashes, sweat clinging to their hairlines. the roar of the crowd lingers like heat on skin.

backstage is chaos — staff rushing, stylists calling out names, someone laughing too loud in the hallway. but inside the green room, it's quieter. or maybe it's just hanni who's gone quiet.

she’s standing near the water cooler, a towel draped over her shoulders, stage makeup slightly smudged from the heat. she hasn’t said anything since they walked off.

haerin nudges her side gently. “you good?”

“yeah,” hanni lies. and then softer, almost without breath, “i saw her.”

the room stills. not in shock — they already knew. they've known since rehearsals that something about tonight had shifted for hanni. the way she kept glancing at the seats. the way her hands wouldn’t stay still.

“you’re sure it was her?” danielle asks from the couch, voice low.

“it was her,” hanni says, eyes distant. “she was there.”

a beat of silence. then minji leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes searching hanni’s face.

“what now?” she asks.

hanni exhales. her hands are trembling again.

“i don’t know.”

after final checks and outfit changes and a round of thank yous to staff, she sneaks away.

not far — just a quiet corner near the exit, where the noise dulls and the hallway lights cast long shadows. she stands there with her phone in hand, screen still dark.

she hasn’t opened your last message. she doesn’t know if there is one. she doesn’t even know if you’ll stay. maybe you already left. maybe you saw her, clapped politely, and went home.

but she has to try.

her thumb hovers over the keypad. she types, erases, types again. ends up with only four words.

are you still here?

then she waits. and the hallway stretches on, and her heartbeat does too.

you feel your phone buzz before you even realize you’ve been holding it in your lap this whole time.

your fingers curl tighter around it, but you don’t move. not at first. not even when your mom leans over gently to ask if you want to go find her now, if you’re okay, if you want to leave before the crowd thickens. you shake your head without looking away from the empty stage. it’s quiet now — the kind of quiet that only feels louder after noise that big.

hanni was just there. on that stage. lit up like she was made to be seen, smiling like she hadn’t disappeared from your life two years ago.

you swallow. tilt your head back. breathe.

you don't check your phone until you’re walking — not outside with the crowds, not toward the exit, but toward the back. a hallway where staff are still gathered, and volunteers are stacking chairs, and you think maybe, maybe if you follow the right turn long enough, you’ll find something familiar.

you pause under the buzz of a flickering light. finally glance at your screen.

are you still here?

you stare at the words. you read them once. then twice. you can almost hear her voice in them. quiet. cautious. like she doesn’t quite believe she deserves the answer.

and you don’t know what it is you’re supposed to feel.

anger? you’ve tried. sadness? that one’s stayed close, clinging to your ribs for months after she left. but now — now it just feels like standing at the edge of something too big to name.

you type. stop. delete.

you don’t know what to say. how to say it. how to answer something that was never just a question in the first place.

i am. gonna head out in a few mins though.

can you meet me backstage? i'll have a staff escort you.

okay.

you find her in the hallway.

it’s quieter here — just outside the dressing rooms, where the bass from the arena still hums faintly through the walls, like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself. the crowd is still out there, cheering, calling her name, but hanni’s not looking toward the stage anymore.

she’s looking at you.

you almost stop walking. not because you’re surprised to see her — some part of you was expecting this — but because of how she’s standing. still in her jacket, mic pack clipped awkwardly at her back, hair a little out of place from the final number. she looks exactly the way you remembered her and nothing like it at all.

“hey,” she says.

you blink. “hey.”

it’s quiet. not awkward yet. just… uncertain.

hanni takes a slow step toward you. “i was wondering if you’d still be here.”

you offer a faint smile. “i was wondering if you’d look.”

she lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “i’ve been looking all night.”

you both fall silent for a second. the hallway buzzes with backstage energy — stylists rushing past, crew calling out cues — but around you, it’s like the noise dims.

“you were amazing,” you say finally. “all of you are, really.”

hanni smiles, small and quiet. “thanks.”

another beat passes.

“i kept thinking about this,” she says. “seeing you again. talking, maybe. i didn’t know if it’d happen, or how it would feel if it did, but...”

she trails off. shrugs lightly.

“but here we are,” you offer, gently.

“yeah,” she says, looking down at her shoes. “here we are.”

her voice is a little softer now when she speaks again. “it’s been two years.”

“i know.”

“since melbourne. since... that last day.”

you nod.

“i wanted to tell you,” she goes on, voice careful now. “about everything. the training, the debut, the songs we did. i’d always start typing something — a message, or a note — but it never felt right.”

you glance at her. “you could’ve.”

her smile falters. “i didn’t know if i was allowed to.”

you both go still.

and then hanni says, more quietly, “sometimes i think about us.”

you look at her.

“i think about what we were,” she continues, a little unsteady. “what we might’ve been if things were different. and maybe... maybe what we could still be.”

your heart pulls.

you shift slightly, the wall cool at your back. “hanni…”

she looks at you, eyes open and searching now. not desperate — just hoping, the way she always did when she was about to ask something she wasn’t sure she deserved to know.

“do you ever think about it too?” she asks. “about us?”

and you pause.

longer this time.

because the ache is there. because the memory of her is threaded into every summer evening, every old song, every space you used to call home. because of course you do.

but—

“hanni,” you say slowly, carefully. “can i ask you something first?”

she nods, barely.

“is this what you really want to talk about?”

she blinks, taken aback. “what do you mean?”

“tonight. this moment. right now.” you meet her gaze. “are you here because of me, or because everything else just ended and you don’t know what else to hold onto?”

her mouth opens, but no answer comes out.

“you don’t have to tell me now,” you add quickly. “i don’t want you to.”

she closes her eyes for a second.

“you’ve lived a whole other life these past two years,” you say. “you’re not the same girl i said goodbye to. and i’m not the same either.”

you step forward. not too close. just enough to be heard clearly over the backstage buzz.

“i think you should take some time to really think about it,” you tell her. “not just the version of me in your head. me. if you still want this—if it’s still something you choose—then you can tell me when you’re back in melbourne.”

her eyes open again. she looks like she might cry. she doesn’t.

“when you’re home,” you say, quieter now. “you’ll know.”

hanni bites her lip.

nods once, slow.

“okay,” she says. “okay.”

you offer a faint smile. “i’ll be there.”

you take a step back.

she doesn’t move.

and you don’t say goodbye, not really. you just hold her gaze a moment longer — something warm and careful passing between you — and then you turn.

the hallway feels longer this time.

and behind you, hanni stands still.

it’s been six months since the concert.

six months since she saw you standing in that crowd, not front row, not center, but there — and it was enough to throw her off balance in the middle of a chorus she’s sung hundreds of times. six months since she caught your gaze for barely two seconds and felt her entire heart drop out of her chest.

six months of rehearsals and tours and the endless churn of performance after performance. six months of thinking. of wondering. of deciding.

and now she’s here.

your street looks smaller than she remembers. the trees are taller. the little cracks in the sidewalk are still there, but everything feels... quieter. she holds her phone tight in her hand as she stands outside your door, breathing in the sharp, clean air that always hit different after sunset.

you open it before she even knocks.

there’s a pause — long and full of everything unspoken. she looks the same and completely different all at once. softer, maybe. or maybe it's just that her eyes find yours and don’t look away this time.

“hey,” she says first, voice small.

“hey.”

you step aside, let her in. and she does, slowly, like she isn’t sure she should.

it takes a while before either of you speaks again. she notices little things in your living room — the lamp in the same corner, the way the cushions are a little more worn. there’s something playing softly in the background, a familiar playlist, like nothing’s changed and everything has.

“i’ve been thinking about that night,” she says, finally.

you don’t ask which one. you know.

she sits down, fidgeting with her sleeves. “i thought about what you said. about choosing. about... everything.”

you stay quiet, watching her. waiting.

“i kept thinking there had to be a right answer,” she continues. “like if i just looked hard enough, thought long enough, i’d find the perfect solution. but i didn’t. because there isn’t one. because it’s messy and unfair and—”

she stops, exhales. “i didn’t come back with some big epiphany. i’m still figuring it out. but i know this much: i want to give it a chance. us. if you still want that.”

your heart thuds loud in your chest. but you don’t move. not yet.

“hanni,” you say gently. “why now?”

she blinks, caught. “because... because i miss you. because i’m tired of wondering what if. because i realized it’s not about choosing you or the idol life. it’s about whether i can carry both. whether you’re willing to let me try.”

you look at her. really look at her. “do you really think you can?”

“i don’t know,” she says. “but i want to. more than anything. i want to wake up and know that even if i have to fly back across the world tomorrow, i have you to call. to come home to, even if it’s not often. i don’t want this... space between us anymore.”

“but it’ll still be hard,” you say. not as a challenge, but as a fact.

“i know,” she replies instantly. “i know it won’t be easy. but i’m not asking for easy. i’m asking for a chance.”

you search her face. the girl you knew. the girl who left. the girl who came back. all of them are sitting here, right in front of you, waiting.

you sigh. “it still doesn’t feel fair.”

“it’s not,” she says. “but i’ll make it worth it. i swear. i’ll make time. i’ll be honest. i won’t disappear on you again. i’ll show up — for you — in every way i can.”

you let those words settle between you.

“i meant what i said that night,” you murmur. “you shouldn’t have to choose. your dream should be a no-brainer. i never wanted to be the reason you gave that up.”

“you aren’t,” she says, and this time her voice is stronger. “you never were. but i think... maybe i needed to lose you for a while to understand what it meant to have you. and if you’ll let me — i want to try again. properly. slowly. whatever you need.”

you swallow. “what if i get scared again?”

“then i’ll remind you. every time,” she whispers. “i’ll remind you why i came back.”

you nod, slowly. not quite a yes. but not a no either.

just enough.

she shifts closer on the couch, careful not to touch you. “can i stay a little longer?”

you look at her — and this time, you don’t look away.

“yeah,” you say. “you can.”

you don't talk for a while after that.

not because there’s nothing to say, but because neither of you wants to break the silence that’s finally begun to feel... safe. like it belongs to you both. like it’s not empty at all.

hanni’s sitting close now — not touching you, not reaching out — but close enough that you can feel the soft shift of air between her breaths. she’s curled in slightly, the way she always used to when you’d talk for hours on the floor of your bedroom, back when the future still felt like something you both had time to outrun.

you glance at her. “you look tired.”

she lets out a soft laugh. “i am. always, lately. but this—being here? this is the least tired i’ve felt in months.”

your chest tightens. you look away. “you really thought this through?”

“i’ve done nothing but think it through,” she says. “on flights. between rehearsals. at night in hotel rooms that don’t feel like mine. i kept wondering what i’d say to you if i ever had the chance again. and now that i do... i still don’t think it’s enough.”

you look back at her, quiet. waiting.

“but i’ll keep trying,” she continues. “i’ll keep showing up, even if it’s inconvenient. even if it’s messy. i’ll learn how to love you better than i did before.”

your voice comes out small. “you loved me before?”

she nods slowly. “i think i always did. even before i knew how to name it. but i didn’t know how to carry it while everything else was happening.”

you watch her eyes, how they don’t flinch. how her words don’t shake.

“and now?”

“now i do,” she says simply. “or at least, i’m learning. and i want to learn with you, if you’ll let me.”

you shift slightly, knees drawn up to your chest. there’s so much to say — so many pieces of you that still feel bruised from the distance. from the not-knowing. but there’s also the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s choosing this. like she’s choosing you.

“why didn’t you call?” you ask quietly. “back then. when things got hard.”

she closes her eyes, leans her head against the couch cushion. “because i was scared that hearing your voice would make me want to stop everything. and i thought... i thought if i let myself miss you too much, i’d fall apart.”

you nod slowly, but something in your chest tightens anyway.

“i was angry at you,” you say, the words soft but steady. “for a long time.”

she lifts her head again. meets your eyes.

“we were doing so well,” you go on. “even with the time zones, even with how busy you were. you’d message when you landed. i’d stay up to catch you between rehearsals. you sent voice notes at midnight just to say goodnight. and then... it just stopped.”

hanni’s expression shifts — not surprised, but aching.

“i waited days,” you say. “and then weeks. and i kept making excuses for you, kept trying to believe there was a good reason. but it hurt, hanni. because you’d proven that you could make time for me. and then, suddenly, you didn’t.”

her voice is quiet, but firm. “i know. and you’re right. you had every reason to be angry.”

you let the silence hold for a while before speaking again. “you knew i’d worry. you knew i’d overthink it.”

“i did,” she admits. “but part of me thought... maybe if i said nothing, it would hurt less. for both of us.”

“but it didn’t,” you say. “it hurt worse.”

hanni swallows. “i know.”

your voice dips even softer. “i kept wondering what i did wrong,” you admit. “whether i said something. whether i pushed too much. whether i asked for too much.”

“you didn’t,” she says quickly. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you nod, but your eyes stay on your hands, fingers loosely laced in your lap.

“and what if it happens again?”

hanni takes a breath like she’s been expecting that question.

“then i want you to call me out on it,” she says. “i want us to talk before it gets that bad. i didn’t know how to balance it all before, but i’m learning. and i promise i’ll keep learning.”

“learning how to not ghost me?” you try to say it lightly, but there’s still something tender in your tone.

“learning how to show up,” she says. “even when i’m overwhelmed. even when i’m scared. especially when i’m scared.”

you glance at her. “you were scared of me?”

“no,” she says immediately. “never of you. just... of how much i felt when it came to you. of how much i still feel.”

you let that land. you breathe through it.

“what if it gets too hard?” you ask. “what if being with me — even in whatever quiet way this is — makes everything else harder?”

“then i’d rather face the hard parts than live without you again,” she says. “i don’t want to go back to pretending i’m okay not hearing your voice. i don’t want to keep performing with that ache in my chest, wondering if i broke something i can’t fix.”

you hesitate. “but the schedule — your life — it’s still so much.”

“and it always will be,” she says. “but i want to make space for you in it. not as an afterthought. not just when i have time. but because you matter. because you make all of it feel more real.”

you blink slowly. “but if things get chaotic again…”

“then we’ll talk,” she says. “we’ll figure it out together. but i won’t disappear again. not without telling you what’s going on. not without letting you in.”

you study her — the way she’s looking at you like she means every word. like she’s been waiting to say it.

you say, more quietly now, “promise?”

“i promise,” she says. “i promise, even if it gets messy. even if i mess up again. i’ll still come back. i’ll still choose you.”

you let out a breath. not because the pain has vanished. not because everything has been neatly resolved.

but because she’s here now. and she’s not running.

you let out a breath. not because the pain has vanished. not because everything has been neatly resolved.

but because she’s here now. and she’s not running.

“i missed you,” you murmur. the words fall out before you can stop them — soft, shaky, truer than anything.

hanni’s eyes don’t leave yours.

“i missed you too,” she whispers. “so much it hurt.”

your gaze drops to her lips, then back to her eyes. you’re not sure who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s her. maybe it’s both of you at once, leaning into something that’s been waiting for years.

her hand brushes yours — not by accident this time — and when her fingers find your cheek, it’s with a reverence that makes your chest ache.

“i used to dream about this,” she says. her voice trembles. “about being able to come home to you. to say everything i never said.”

you nod, eyes stinging. “i used to wait for you,” you admit. “in every version of the future i imagined, you were always there.”

her thumb strokes your cheek, gentle and hesitant, like she’s still not sure you’ll let her.

“i loved you even then,” she says, barely louder than a breath. “before debut. before everything.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just look at her — the girl you once watched run barefoot through your childhood street, now looking at you like she’s finally stopped running.

“you made it really hard not to love you,” you say.

and then you’re kissing her.

it’s not urgent. not desperate.

it’s years of missing her packed into the space between one breath and the next. it’s your hand on her jaw and hers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer like she’s afraid this is still just another dream.

her lips are soft, familiar, and a little uncertain, like she’s relearning the shape of you — like she’s kissing not just the present, but every version of you she ever left behind.

when you pull back, her forehead rests against yours.

“i never stopped loving you,” she says, eyes still closed.

you let out a shaky laugh, something between relief and disbelief.

“you had a really weird way of showing it.”

she smiles, just barely. “i’ll spend the rest of my life making up for that.”

you tilt your head, bump your nose against hers. “you better.”

she laughs this time — really laughs — and it’s the sound you’ve missed most. full and soft and close enough to reach.

you both had grown up attached at the hip, living right next door to each other it was bound to happen. hanni was shy as a child, hiding behind her mom when you had first moved in. your parents chatting happily with hers as you picked flowers from the front of your lawn. 

hanni had peeked her head out from behind her moms leg, catching your attention before quickly hiding back. you didn’t have a good read on social cues, something you never quite got a hang of as you grew older but hanni argued that was part of your charm. 

you practically started beaming when you noticed her, running over and going right up to her face. 

“my name’s y/n!” you shouted way too loud. 

hanni stood there in shock while your mother grabbed you by your underarms, lifting you into the air. 

“y/n! you can’t scare people like that” she scolded, but you didn't listen, too busy trying to weasel your way out of her grip while shouting, “no mom i found a new friend please i want to play let me go!” you swung your arms and legs around as your mother kept a tight grip on you. 

hanni stepped out from behind her moms leg, looking up at your struggling form before letting out a giggle. 

“hey stop laughing you uhh you… you otter, it's not funny!” you screamed as your face turned more red from embarrassment. 

“hi y/n, my name is hanni, otter works too i guess” she said in a soft voice. 

the rest was history. you and hanni became best friends. always doing things together. 

if hanni wanted to play video games? you were right there next to her yelling at how bowser threw a red shell at you.

if you wanted to join the volleyball team? hanni would be right there jumping as high as she could to block the incoming spikes, with you cackling like a witch in the background at her height before she'd spike a ball right in your face. 

hanni was everything to you from the moment she stepped into your life. you often thought about hanni more than you did so yourself but,

how do you tell your best friend you are hopelessly in love with her?

hanni would understand right? she wouldn’t push you away, maybe just a simple rejection and things would go back to normal. right? 

no… no you couldn't risk it, there was too much at stake. hanni was worth everything, were you willing to throw away everything all based on a chance? 

fuck no. 

but maybe if you hadn’t spent so much time thinking about what you felt, you might’ve noticed how she felt. the way she’d blush at every compliment, or make time out of her busy day just to go to the local superstore for some yogurt you mentioned you wanted. 

hanni loved you as much as you did her. 

so of course hanni couldn’t refuse the offer. a day at the amusement park sounded fun with the added bonus that you were practically begging to go. 

your eyebrows had furrowed inwards, your pupils dilated bigger to give her the most deadly puppy dog eyes. 

“please my princess hanni, i will be eternally indebted to you and shall serve you for the remainder of my inferior life!” you said on your knees, bowing down pleading with her as if she had held your family hostage. 

hanni couldn’t help but laugh, “fine! but you better buy me anything i ask for got it?” 

you didn’t hear anything past the “fine” as you had already gotten up and started jumping and raiding hanni’s closet for clothes to wear. you practically had half your clothes in her closet and vice versa from how often you both were over at each others houses. 

she wished she didn’t agree and instead told you that a night in sounded better. that a movie would be enough, that you didn’t have to drive and that a bus would’ve done fine. 

maybe then the car wouldn’t have charged forward on the red light into oncoming traffic, into you. 

three days later, hanni found herself waking up at the very beginning all over again. 

it was always three days after your death that time would loop, over and over again.

just enough time to notice your absence but never to accept it.

when it first looped, it was like a relief washed over her. she would wake up the same day you had moved in next door, except this time she remembered everything from her past life. 

this was her chance, her chance to stop you. to save you. 

but no matter what she did, the numerous times she’d try, you kept dying. it was like god was taunting her. keeping her trapped in this endless loop, just to watch you die each time. 

when hanni had first discovered the time loop, she spent the whole time coddling you. instead of the shy meeting you first had with her, she practically ran towards you as you were collecting flowers from the field. 

“hanni slow down you just met! don’t overwhelm her so quick” her mom had said, surprised her usually reserved daughter was so excited to meet someone for once. 

your face had gone red from how hanni had held your face in her hands, looking at every freckle on your face as if trying to memorize them. 

“hi…” you said, looking everywhere but her eyes. 

“hi…” hanni said, her eyes beginning to tear a little. 

maybe she should've held you tighter, told you she loved you, and admitted that she didn’t want to be ‘just friends’. 

because how do you tell a cold body that. 

it never stopped hurting. no matter how many times she had seen you die, it always hurt the same. 

by the 7th loop through, hanni was a straight A student even though she skipped class half the time, claiming that she had more “important things” to attend to. 

you’d laugh at her silliness and say, “i’m still saving you a seat if you decide to show up my princess.” 

back then she used to fold, attend school just to be next to you. she didn’t mind wasting a bit of time, she could always plan ways to save you while in class. being next to you, that was all that mattered. 

that was all before she noticed the little things. the way you’d show up from your previous class with red marks on your skin, the way you were more quiet at school, the way your eyes didn’t seem as bright anymore. 

hanni didn’t understand what was so different about this loop that you were being bullied. nothing had changed, had it?  it wasn’t until she heard the murmurs herself. 

“you know she’s friends with that nerd that doesn’t show up, i bet she pays her to do her homework.” 

“she only smiles when her one friend shows up, fucking loser can’t even socialise with other people” 

“her friend probably thinks she's a deadweight, that's why she stopped showing up to school.” 

kids were cruel. she just didn’t know they would be this cruel. 

that they would lock you in a closet, bloodied and bruised, while you fought to stay conscious. but there was no one there to hear your cries. 

out of all the deaths you had, that one hurt the most. especially when it was her who found your body. 

after that loop hanni never left your side. ever. 

she changed her classes to be in yours, would sleep over or have you sleep over, never letting you leave her sight. 

and you? 

you didn’t notice anything wrong. how could you? in every lifetime, you would always light up at the mention of hanni, you’d do anything for her, drop anything to go to her. 

which is why it killed hanni to ignore you. maybe if she wasn’t in your life you wouldn’t die. 

instead of the both of you meeting as kids, hanni cried and wailed to her mom that she wasn’t feeling good. disrupting the time line. 

for you, it felt like there was something missing in your life. 

you’d go to school, maybe attend a club or two, but always found yourself looking back. towards something, someone maybe? 

but there was never anyone there. 

there was something that was supposed to be there, but it was just empty space. maybe you needed to get a pet dog or something? something to stop the weird feeling in your heart. 

your mom had asked you to bring over some fruit to the neighbours, by then you were in your last year of highschool. you didn’t really know the neighbours kid, how could you? she practically lived in her house, never stepping foot outside. 

so then why did it feel like your stomach was doing flips when she answered the door.

“y/n…” hanni said, not expecting you. 

“oh um… i’m sorry i don’t know your name,” you said feeling embarrassed. maybe you should’ve asked your mom before you came delivering fruit. 

“oh right… yeah that’s okay, i’m hanni” she replied, but for some reason it looked like it hurt. 

“i’m really sorry, here my mom wanted your family to have this!” you scrambled to get the plate of fruit in her hand before running back to your house.

in each lifetime, there was always something pulling you towards hanni. like a little string that would beckon you to follow it, which is how you ended up falling for your neighbour. the one that seemed to avoid you like the plague. 

that one interaction ruined your life. you couldn’t stop thinking about her, but if only she would give you the time of day. 

“hey hanni!” you shouted jogging up to her as she left her house. “i was thinking maybe you and me go to school together. i mean we take the same bus but i never see you, and i just thought because we-“ 

“i’m not interested.” she cut you off. 

“oh. i’m sorry if i overstepped. um i hope you have a good day at school,” you backed away, wow you are a loser. 

it’s okay one rejection is nothing compared to eternity without your sweet hanni! next time you’ll definitely make some progress! 

you caught her at school while passing the hallway, it was after the day had ended and you were about to go home already with your books in hand and a cup of coffee you had bought in hopes of giving it to a special someone. 

“hanni! hey, i was hoping to run into you,” you said holding the coffee out as a peace offering. you both had just gotten off on the wrong foot, and this was your redemption. 

but then why was her face doing that thing…

the mean thing. the thing that makes it look like she was going to cry. that it was all your fault. 

it was like she hated the idea of seeing you but couldn’t bear to say it out loud. 

“why are you so persistent,” she muttered in a tone somewhere between trying to actually sound annoyed and a bit of amusement. 

“i feel like we got off on the wrong foot, um i just wanted to apologize if i was overstepping my boundaries and i’d love to get to know you more.”

hanni looked at you, really looked at you this time. 

“why can’t you just leave me alone.” she said, her tone had shifted from amusement to pure disgust. 

well, second time was a bust but no worries! there’s always next time.

“fuck off y/n,” she spat out after the 9th time of you trying to have a conversation with her. 

maybe she did hate you.

you weren’t completely wrong. hanni did hate you. she hated you because you kept dying, even when she cast herself away from you, you kept fucking dying every goddamn time.

“fucking hell y/n, what are you thinking!” she shouted at you. 

you sat on the edge of the residency roof of your university, 18 floors up. 

“i keep thinking how it’s funny you keep following me around everywhere when it’s so obvious you hate me,” you whispered with anger. 

hanni paused her steps, “what are you talking about?”

“you happened to be in every single one of my classes. you showed up to all my volleyball games. fuck, you even go to the same university as me.” 

she didn’t say anything for a while, “it’s just a coincidence.” 

“do you think i’m stupid? that it’s fun to taunt me every single moment of my life. i get it, you don’t like me but take your own advice and just leave me alone,” you begged as it continued to rain. 

“i’ll leave you alone when you get off that ledge you idiot.” she said.

you turned to face her, but with the ledge slippery due to the water, you lost your grip, and down you went. 

“fuck… what even is that 37 lifetimes now?” hanni grumbled to herself. “fuck fuck fuck fuck, i can’t do this anymore.” 

she crouched down with her hand over her face, gripping onto her own hair, seemingly screaming at no one. 

when that lifetime ended, hanni vowed to never make you upset again. 

ever.

hanni tried begging, begging to the gods to stop this, to let you live just this once. 

they never listened. 

“n/n… please stop dying.” hanni whispered into your chest, it was the 482nd loop, or was it the 483rd? who cares, the lifetimes were blurring together. 

confusion ran through you, was this some type of strange death wish? 

“what are you going on about pham?” 

“you keep dying, I don't know if i can take it anymore.” 

you still weren’t sure what she was upset about, maybe she had nightmares. yeah that sounded the most probable. you held her closer. “i’m not planning on dying anytime soon, don’t worry i’ll be here to serve my princess forever.” 

something about being with hanni made your chest feel full, like you had accomplished everything you ever wanted to do. there was a certain warmness about her that you never forgot, that only she had. you’d cherish it for as long as you could. 

even when you were pulled out of the river, the last thing you thought of was how warm hanni’s hands felt on your cheeks. everything sounded muffled, you couldn’t make out what she was saying. 

her face was red, tears streaming from her eyes, maybe you shouldn’t have insisted on surfing. but she said no to all the ideas you had, she couldn’t risk losing you. 

in a lifetime you had asked hanni why she was so attached to you all the time. 

“i just miss you in the way that every moment without you feels dull in comparison,” she said, as if it meant nothing.

you liked hanni, no scratch that, you loved her. you just never had the chance to tell her.

in all the lifetimes hanni looped through, neither of you ever confessed. 

maybe that’s why this one felt… different.

after 722 loops, hanni was tired. she tried and failed over and over again. so she gave up, stopped worrying about your inevitable death and decided to savour the time she had with you. 

for the 722nd time, she was a toddler again, hiding behind her moms leg as you picked flowers. 

for the 722nd time, you met. 

for the 722nd time you… didn’t die?

wait what.

you never made it past 20, stuck as a teenager forever, so hanni decided to risk it, she confessed her feelings. granted she was a toddler but you didn’t seem to mind getting married at 3.

“hi i’m y/n!” you shouted into hanni’s face, before your mother could grab you, hanni took your hand and smiled. 

“hi y/n, i’m hanni please don’t forget me this time,” she said scanning your face. 

“this time? i won’t forget anytime! i’m the best don’t worry you’re safe with me,” you said holding her hand back. 

“let’s get married then, okay?” 

“oh okay!” you said as she took your hand and ran to the field of flowers you were picking earlier, creating a poorly made flower crown as her hands weren’t quite used to doing complicated tasks yet.

“woah how'd you do that? my wife is so smart!” you admired as you planted a kiss on her cheek.

hanni doesnt think her face ever got as red as it was now in all of her lifetimes spent around you.

the rest of your early childhood was spent complimenting your ‘wife’, being way too invested in the fake title you had given her when you were 4.

“wifey come here, i got these little blind boxes from the store!”

“wifey! i’m home, let’s go out to eat!”

“nooooo, wifey help! i’m scared i don’t want to get my blood drawn!” 

and each time she’d listen to you, all your little complaints and clinginess. it was the first time that it was you being clingy and not her. 

“n/n come here and i’ll open them with you.”

“oh the new place down the street seemed good!”

“stop being such a baby, i’ll give you a kiss if you behave.” 

something felt different about this loop, maybe it was because instead of bottled water hanni drank water from a reusable water bottle, or maybe it was because she didn't waste all her money on energy drinks. 

or maybe it was because there was love. 

you officially mustered the courage to ask hanni out on a real date, not the silly ones you’d go on when you were children, but a real one. 

because you had real feelings. 

of course you were sweating the whole time, drinking water from the glass each time you felt your face heating up. which was everytime. this led you to make several bathroom trips throughout the dinner, eventually making hanni revoke your water privileges. 

“stop people are going to think you have issues!” hanni whisper shouted while laughing, taking away your cup of water. 

“it's just hot in here! i can’t control it, i think i’m sweating through this jacket,” you said as you lifted an arm up to show her. 

hanni swatted at your arm, “oh put it down!” 

the first date was perfect, not in that you had a romantic evening but in the way that you didn't need to pretend that you weren't a loser. that you didn't need to tell her that she meant everything to you when you looked at her as if she put the stars in the sky. 

you blurted it out somewhere between eating a fry and trying to reach for your water again.

“i think i’ve loved you since i was four.”

hanni blinked, as you shakily held the glass of water. 

“like real love,” you added, a little more nervous from her lack of response. “like when you made me a flower crown and i kissed your cheek, i think it imprinted on me like a duck and now i can’t see a future without you.”

she burst into laughter first. and then cried. then laughed again.

“you really are the dumbest person i’ve ever loved.”

“but you love me!”

“so much.”

years passed, you got married, moved in together. until one day she told you. 

“i had a dream that i lived 722 lives with you,” hanni said, picking up the books from the table to place onto the shelf. 

“oh really? was i as sexy and charming in all of them as i am in this one?” you teased. 

“yes dear, ever so amazing and beautiful,” she replied, pausing her movements.

you turned and noticed your wife had stopped moving, “eh is something wrong? are the books too heavy? i can do it.” 

hanni snapped back to reality from her thoughts, giggling at your comment. 

“no honey, it was just… each lifetime you died. and i couldn’t do anything to stop it.” she had tears running down her cheeks, shaking her head gently. 

you sprang into action, taking the books out of her hands and placing them back on the table and bringing her into a hug. 

“im not dead this time, i would never leave you. i’d look for you in every lifetime and i’d love you and cherish you forever.” 

“i know honey, and you did. you really did.” 

some nights, you still call her “wifey” just to make her roll her eyes.

some mornings, you wake up to find she’s staring at you like she’s afraid to blink.

so you decided that every morning, you'd hold her and never let go. 

well that was until she’d hit you in the face claiming she had ‘work’ and that you also had a ‘job’, what a bummer. 

even when you ran out the door with your mismatched socks while checking your watch, she made sure to give you kiss on your forehead before you left. 

you sigh as you look in the mirror. the reflection staring back is a masterpiece of someone else’s design. your stylist, mina, puts the final pin in the intricate updo, a cascade of dark hair woven with threads of delicate, shimmering crystals that catch the light like captured starlight. the dress—a column of liquid midnight silk—hugs your frame before pooling elegantly at your feet. it’s beautiful, severe, and makes you feel like a stranger. another stylist dabs a last bit of highlighter on your cheekbones, and you force a smile. the preparations for tonight’s mnet asian music awards have been relentless, a five–hour marathon of primping that has left your skin feeling tight and your patience thin.

yet, beneath the fatigue, a fierce, fluttering excitement thrums in your veins. you’ve been waiting for this all year. it’s more than an awards show; it’s a coronation, a validation of the sweat, tears, and silent prayers you and your members have poured into every practice room dawn. you can hear them now, the familiar, comforting chaos from the adjoining suite. chaewon’s clear, steady scales warm up against the hum of the air conditioner. yunjin is softly counting beats, her body moving through the sharp, precise lines of your latest choreography even in her casual clothes. kazuha is doing gentle stretches by the window, her face a mask of serene concentration, while eunchae and sakura debate the merits of various red carpet poses, their laughter a bright, nervous melody.

they’re all feeling it—the delicious, terrifying cocktail of nerves and anticipation. you catch chaewon’s eye in the mirror’s reflection from the doorway, and she gives you a small, firm nod. your leader’s quiet confidence is a balm. you’re in this together. you’ve conquered debut jitters, music show wins, and exhausting tours. tonight is just another stage, albeit the brightest one.

the journey to the venue is a blur of tinted windows and the distant roar of crowds. but as your van edges toward the red carpet, the reality of the night solidifies. the noise becomes a physical wall. flashes from hundreds of cameras explode like silent supernovas beyond the glass, painting the world in stark, staccato white. your manager gives you all a final, brisk pep talk. “smile, be gracious, stick to the script. you look impeccable. now go show them why you’re le sserafim.”

you step out into the sensory overload, the cacophony of screaming fans and shouting photographers hitting you like a wave. you link arms with sakura, the six of you moving as one luminous unit, a synchronized constellation in your coordinated gowns. you smile, you wave, you pause for photos, the routine familiar yet always dizzying. this is the game, and you are playing your part flawlessly.

then, you see him.

sunghoon stands ahead, a calm eddy in the chaotic river of the red carpet. dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it, he is a study in elegant composure. he’s finishing an interview, his profile sharp against the glare of the camera lights. just the sight of him sends a traitorous, familiar jolt through your carefully constructed calm. the rumors—those whispered, baseless, yet persistent things—have woven an invisible thread between you for months. it started with a single, accidental backstage glance caught on a fan’s cellphone, fueled by a few overly polite interactions at year–end shows, and exploded into a wildfire of fan theories and shipper edits after you were seen leaving the same restaurant on the same night (different parties, different floors, but facts never matter in the face of a good story).

the internet adores it. #enhyfim trends monthly. the tension isn’t entirely fabricated, though. there’s a charge in the air when your paths cross, a silent acknowledgment of the narrative you’re both trapped in, a hint of something like shared amusement and shared burden. as his group moves and yours advances, your trajectories align at the main media wall.

his eyes find yours as you approach. a micro–expression flickers across his face—not a smile, but a subtle softening around his eyes, a barely–there tilt of his head. it’s a secret handshake in a room full of shouting strangers. the interviewer, a sharp–eyed woman who clearly reads gossip columns, pounces on the proximity.

“sunghoon–ssi! over here! and look, we have le sserafim! sakura, chaewon, everyone, come on over!”

you’re ushered together. the questions are standard at first: expectations for the night, feelings about your nominations. sunghoon answers with his usual quiet poise, his voice calm. when the microphone is passed to you, you speak about your sisterhood, your gratitude. then the interviewer’s grin turns conspiratorial.

“now, i have to ask. the fans love seeing you two in the same frame. any special greetings for each other tonight on this big stage?”

it’s a landmine, clumsily laid. you feel your members subtly shift closer around you, a protective phalanx. sunghoon merely offers a polite, professional smile. “all the artists here are colleagues i respect and admire. we’re all just happy to celebrate music tonight.”

it’s a perfect, diplomatic dodge. you’re about to echo the sentiment, to deflect with grace, when a new presence materializes at sunghoon’s elbow, as if summoned by the awkward question.

“oh, is this the interview spot? sorry, the crowd is just crazy!” jang wonyoung’s voice is sweet as honey, her smile blindingly perfect. she seems to glide into the frame, a vision in a cloud of blush–pink tulle that makes her look like a fairy princess who just descended from a gossamer moonbeam. the cameras immediately swivel, the shutter–fire intensifying. she touches sunghoon’s arm lightly, a casual, friendly gesture. “sunghoon–oppa, your interview ran long! they’re waiting for us for the group photo.”

her words are innocent, but their effect is surgical. the ‘us’. the gentle pull on his arm. it seamlessly shifts the focus, repositioning sunghoon within her narrative, not yours. you see it—the way his attention, which had been a quiet, shared space amidst the chaos, fractures and redirects. he gives a polite nod to you and your members. “excuse us. good luck tonight. i’ll cheer for you.”

and just like that, they’re swept away, wonyoung laughing at something he didn’t say, the pink tulle flag claiming its territory. the interviewer, now more interested in the retreating duo, quickly wraps up. you’re left standing there, your moment punctured, the carefully managed tension dissipated by a sunnier, more powerful force.

the rest of the red carpet is a haze. you smile, you pose, but inside, a cold, frustrated knot tightens. it’s not about competing for a man. you’re not some pawn in a petty drama. it’s the principle. it’s the way wonyoung, your personal friday the 13th wrapped in a bow, has a gravitational pull that seems to warp reality around her, making your genuine moments feel staged and her calculated ones feel effortless. every interaction, every potential connection, gets complicated, overshadowed, ruined. you know the rules. dating within the industry is a high–wire act over a pit of toxic fandom and career suicide. a part of you tries to cling to the logical high ground: you are here for your music, for your team. but another, quieter part, the part that remembers the shared, weary smile backstage at a music show months ago, feels a pang of loss. you’ve worked too hard to have your narrative, professional or otherwise, constantly rewritten by someone else’s spotlight.

the ceremony itself is a glittering, interminable dream. your group’ category is announced, and you guys lose. the sting is professional, sharp, but shared. your members squeeze your hands under the table. you watch other performances, you applaud politely. and you see them. sunghoon and wonyoung, seated in different sections but somehow always in the same camera shot during reactions, laughing at an award show skit, their faces illuminated on the giant screens. each shared screen moment feels like a tiny paper cut.

the real test comes during the intermission. you slip away from the table, heading towards the quieter hallways backstage to find a bathroom and steal a moment to breathe. the corridor is dim, a respite from the arena’s glare. and there, leaning against a wall, checking his phone under the low light, is sunghoon. alone.

he looks up as you round the corner. for a long second, you both just stare. the noise from the arena is a distant thrum here. it’s just the two of you in the semi–darkness, the weight of the unspoken rumors and the night’s frustrations hanging thick in the air.

he straightens slightly when he realizes it’s you. not startled—never startled—but subtly more aware. his phone lowers an inch. the blue light fades from his face as the screen times out, leaving him in the softer, dim hallway glow.

for a heartbeat, neither of you speak.

you can hear the faint hum of the overhead lights. the distant bass from the arena stage pulses through the walls like a second heartbeat. somewhere far down the corridor, a door shuts and muffled laughter follows.

“hey.” you say first. your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to. it echoes faintly in the empty space.

“hey.” his reply is even. polite. controlled. the same tone he uses in interviews. the same tone he used at the media wall. carefully leveled, like he’s setting it down between you instead of offering it.

for a second you wonder if you imagined the earlier moment—the softened eyes, the almost–smile. maybe it was just camera flashes and adrenaline and wishful thinking stitching meaning into neutral gestures.

you take another step forward anyway. “congratulations on your stage,” you add, because it’s safe. because it’s neutral territory. because if you don’t start somewhere simple, you might say something reckless.

he nods once. “thanks. yours was good too.”

good.

not amazing. not powerful. not “i couldn’t stop watching.”

just good.

your fingers curl into the silk at your sides. the fabric is cool and smooth, grounding you. the crystals in your hair feel suddenly heavier, like they’re anchoring you in place.

“you watched it?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

his gaze flickers back to you, brief but direct. “i always watch.”

it’s a small sentence. almost nothing. but it lands heavier than “good” did.

he glances down the corridor again. not at you. down the corridor. like he’s expecting someone to round the corner at any second.

you follow his line of sight instinctively. the hallway stretches toward the elevators that lead back to the main floor. staff members move in bursts—stylists clutching garment bags, managers whispering into headsets. but no cloud of blush–pink tulle. no honey–sweet laugh.

“are you heading somewhere?” you ask, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to fragile.

“hm?” his eyes flick back to you. “oh. yeah. i was just… waiting.”

waiting. the word feels heavier than it should.

“for your group?” you press gently.

he shrugs. effortless. rehearsed nonchalance. “yeah. we have to regroup before the next segment.”

another glance down the hallway. it’s subtle, but it’s there. the way his shoulders angle toward the corner. the way his weight shifts like he’s ready to move the second he spots whoever he’s expecting.

you force a soft laugh. “the cameras really love you tonight.”

“they love everyone,” he replies automatically.

you tilt your head. “that’s not true.”

this time he actually looks at you fully. the crease between his brows deepens slightly, like he didn’t expect resistance.

“you and wonyoung,” you continue, the name leaving your mouth before you can censor it. “you’re in every reaction shot.”

there. it’s out.

the air changes almost imperceptibly. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t smile. just exhales softly through his nose.

“that’s just seating,” he says. neutral. measured. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

“i know.” you do. logically. but logic doesn’t explain the tiny ache in your chest every time the giant screens frame them together like a perfectly curated still.

a staff member rushes past, murmuring apologies. the noise from the arena swells briefly as a side door opens—cheers cresting like a wave—before it shuts again, plunging the hallway back into muted quiet.

“i wanted to say something,” you admit.

he straightens slightly at that. cautious now. “about?”

“about earlier. the interview.”

his jaw shifts. “what about it?”

“it just felt…” you search for the right word. not jealous. not petty. not dramatic. “unfinished.”

his gaze drifts down the hallway again. “it’s always like that,” he says lightly. “they ask, we dodge. that’s how it works.”

“that’s not what i mean.” you step closer before you can second-guess yourself. the scent of his cologne—clean, faintly woodsy—reaches you. subtle. not overpowering.

“it felt like we were in the middle of something,” you say carefully. “and then it just—shifted.” you snap your fingers softly.

he goes still. for the first time since you walked in, he doesn’t immediately look away. “it wasn’t anything,” he says. flat. controlled. smoothing the surface.

“it didn’t feel like nothing,” you whisper. the confession slips out before pride can stop it.

his expression changes—just slightly. something flickers there. conflict, maybe. or recognition.

and then, his gaze shifts over your shoulder.

your stomach drops. you don’t even have to turn to know who he’s checking for.

“they’re probably calling us soon,” he says. his posture has subtly shifted again—alert, prepared.

“sunghoon.” you say his name softly. it makes him pause. but just barely. “are you looking for her?” you ask.

there’s no accusation in your tone. no sharp edge. just tired honesty.

silence stretches between you.

he doesn’t answer immediately. but his eyes meet yours. really meet them. “we have to go on together later,” he says finally. “for the special stage.”

together. the word echoes louder than it should.

“right,” you murmur.

he leans back against the wall again, but it feels different now. less relaxed. more guarded. “you know how this works,” he says quietly. “anything that looks… off becomes a headline.”

“so you look for what’s expected,” you say.

his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “i look for what keeps things simple.”

“is it simple?” you ask. that makes him hesitate.

another door opens in the distance. footsteps approach, then fade the other direction. you step even closer. close enough that if someone turned the corner right now, it would look intentional. intimate. “do you ever get tired of it?” you ask softly. “of feeling like you’re always part of someone else’s storyline?”

his composure slips for a fraction of a second. “we all are,” he replies.

“but sometimes it feels like you’re choosing it.” the words hang heavier than you expected.

his eyes darken—not angry. not hurt. just protective. “it’s not about choosing,” he says. “it’s about not making things harder than they already are.”

and you understand. nonchalance isn’t indifference. it’s armor.

his phone buzzes faintly in his hand. he doesn’t look at it yet.

you exhale slowly. “i didn’t come here to fight.”

“i know.”

“i just… didn’t want tonight to end like that.” your voice wavers, just slightly.

he looks at you longer now. long enough that the silence stops feeling empty and starts feeling charged. “it doesn’t have to,” he says..but he doesn’t step closer. doesn’t bridge the final inch of space.

the phone buzzes again. and this time, he glances down. you see the screen light up. a name illuminated in bold. but when he feels your gaze, he turns it away instinctively.

“i have to go,” he says quietly.

of course he does.

you nod, because dignity is all you have left to hold onto. “good luck,” you manage.

he hesitates. his fingers tighten slightly around his phone. his gaze flickers down the hallway one last time—still empty.

then back to you. “you too,” he says, softer than before.

and for a fleeting, fragile second, it feels real again. unscripted. unfiltered. just two people in a dim corridor, balancing on the thin line between what they want and what they’re allowed to reach for.

he steps past you. his shoulder brushes yours—barely. the contact is light, but it lingers in your skin like static.

you don’t turn around immediately.

you hear his footsteps fade down the hallway. a few seconds later, you hear another set of footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

a familiar, bright laugh.

you close your eyes briefly. and when you finally turn, the corridor is empty in front of you.

but for the first time tonight, you can’t tell if he was ever really looking for her—or if he was just looking for the safest way out.

you don’t remember deciding to move. your feet just… do. one step. then another. the crystals woven into your updo catch the hallway lights as you walk, scattering small fragments of silver across the walls. each step feels heavier than the last, the silk of your dress whispering against the floor in soft, expensive sighs.

your reflection flashes past in a darkened glass panel along the corridor. perfect. untouched. untrembling. you look nothing like how you feel.

the bass from the arena pulses faintly through the walls, applause rising and falling like a distant tide. your heartbeat struggles to match it. you keep your chin lifted, shoulders squared, posture still idol–perfect even though there’s no camera here.

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. it was just a conversation. just a hallway. just timing. but your chest aches in that quiet, humiliating way that only happens when you try not to want something.

you round the corner toward your dressing room—and collide with someone. it happens fast. a soft gasp. a cold splash.

your body jolts back slightly as something icy hits your collarbone, seeps through silk: iced coffee. dark. bitter. sticky.

“oh!” the voice is bright and startled.

jang wonyoung stands in front of you, one manicured hand still wrapped around a half–crushed plastic cup, condensation dripping down her fingers. the pale blush–pink tulle of her dress blooms around her like spun sugar.

except now—there’s a streak of brown across it. from where the coffee splashed when you bumped into each other.

for a split second, everything freezes. the hallway lights hum overhead. ice cubes clatter to the floor. coffee trickles slowly down the front of your midnight silk gown, soaking into the fabric like ink spreading through water.

it’s cold. shockingly cold. but you barely react.

wonyoung’s eyes widen—not dramatically, not angrily. just surprised. her lips part slightly. “i’m so sorry—” she starts, but she doesn’t get to finish because staff descend immediately.

“oh my god, what happened?” “careful!” “napkins, quickly!”

hands are everywhere; someone gently grips your elbow. another presses soft cloth against your chest. a third fusses over the crystals in your hair to make sure none have loosened. “it’s okay, it’s okay,” a stylist murmurs, voice brisk but soothing. “it’s mostly surface. we can fix it.”

you look down slowly. the dark stain blooms across your dress like a bruise. it almost looks intentional. almost artistic.

wonyoung steps back half a pace as staff create a wall around you. someone from her team quickly dabs at the faint splash on her tulle, whispering reassurances. her stain is lighter. barely noticeable. gone within seconds. your dress absorbs everything.

“head up,” your stylist instructs gently, lifting your chin with careful fingers. “don’t let it crease.”

you obey automatically. you always do.

someone presses a warm towel against your collarbone, trying to blot the chill. the contrast between cold fabric and heated cloth makes your skin prickle.

“she looks pale,” another staff member whispers. “but it’s just the shock.”

your reflection catches in a nearby mirror someone’s holding up to check the damage. your face… it’s composed. too composed. your eyes look distant. unfocused. like you’re staring at something miles beyond this hallway.

wonyoung is still there. you can feel her presence, even if you’re not looking at her directly. soft perfume. the faint sound of ice shifting in the crushed cup she still holds awkwardly. “i really am sorry,” she says again, softer this time.

you lift your gaze to her finally. she looks… genuine. not smug. not triumphant. just startled. and somehow that hurts more. because this wasn’t some dramatic rivalry moment. it was just clumsy timing. just collision. just another thing happening at the exact wrong second.

“it’s okay,” you say. your voice is quiet. too quiet.

one of your staff quickly answers for you, smiling tightly. “no harm done! these things happen.”

more blotting. more adjusting. someone carefully unpins one crystal from your hair that’s come loose and slides it back into place with surgical precision. another reapplies powder to your collarbone, trying to mattify the damp shine.

“we’ll need to steam the lower half,” a coordinator mutters. “can she change?” “no time. next segment in ten.”

ten minutes. ten minutes to erase the evidence. ten minutes to turn a stain into nothing.

your stylist crouches slightly, inspecting the hem. “walk for me.”

“it’ll dry darker,” someone says. “but under stage lights, no one will see.”

wonyoung stands to the side now, staff adjusting the last of her skirt. she watches you for a moment longer. her expression shifts. and something flickers there. concern? guilt? maybe she sees it—the way your eyes aren’t really here. the way your mouth curves politely but doesn’t quite move. “are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, quieter.

your staff answer again before you can. “of course she is. just startled.”

you give a small smile. practiced. automatic. “i’m fine.” the words feel hollow. like tapping on porcelain. inside, something feels fragile. cracked.

you don’t even realize you’re shaking until someone wraps a hand around yours. “cold?” your stylist asks gently, and you shake your head.

for a split second—just a split second—you remember the way sunghoon looked down the hallway. the way his phone lit up. the way he said “i have to go.” and suddenly the coffee soaking into your dress feels symbolic. like something warm turning cold against your skin. like something sweet staining something dark.

“okay,” your manager says briskly. “we’re good. let’s move.”

wonyoung gives you one last small nod. soft. almost apologetic. then she’s swept away in a cloud of pink and staff and movement. you’re left standing still for half a second longer than everyone else.

“come on,” your stylist urges gently. you walk. each step careful. measured. the fabric of your dress has begun to dry now, stiff where it was soaked. it brushes against your legs differently. heavier.

in the mirror outside your dressing room, you catch yourself again; hair immaculate. makeup flawless. collarbone shimmering under fresh highlighter. lips re–glossed to perfection. but your eyes—your eyes look like they’re still in that hallway. still waiting. still asking a question that never got answered.

“smile,” someone says softly as they open the dressing room door. you try. your lips lift. but it doesn’t quite reach. and for the first time tonight, the weight of everything—the rumors, the cameras, the hallway, the almost—settles fully in your chest.

you sit down as staff make final adjustments. hands smooth your skirt. fingers pat powder beneath your eyes. a brush sweeps gently across your cheekbones. “there,” your stylist says. “back to perfect.”

the ceremony ends in a blur of applause and controlled smiles. you bow. you clap. you hug your members when the cameras pan. you keep your expression composed when the final confetti cannons explode overhead like artificial snowfall.

the cold night air hits your skin the moment you step outside the venue. it smells faintly like smoke machines and winter pavement. staff hurry you into the van quickly—heads down, heels careful, security forming a loose wall around you.

the door slides shut. and suddenly it’s quiet. not silent—never silent with five other girls—but private. the van’s interior lights are warm and dim. the seats are soft, familiar. safe.

“ahhh i’m exhausted,” sakura groans dramatically, already slipping off her heels with a relieved sigh.

“we should go live!” eunchae chirps immediately, energy somehow still at 100%. “fearnot are definitely waiting.”

“you’re insane,” yunjin laughs, but she’s already pulling her phone out.

chaewon leans her head back against the seat, eyes closed for a second. “just five minutes,” she says softly. “then we rest.”

kazuha adjusts the hem of her dress carefully before sitting, posture still elegant even in exhaustion.

you sit by the window. the city lights smear across the glass as the van starts moving.

someone opens weverse and suddenly the van fills with cheerful chaos.

“fearnot~” eunchae sings into the camera.

“did you watch the stage?” yunjin leans into frame, hair slightly messy now, smile bright.

sakura throws up a peace sign. kazuha tilts her head gracefully. chaewon gives a small tired wave.

their laughter fills the space. you smile faintly. but you don’t lean in. you keep your gaze on the window, watching neon signs flicker past in streaks of pink and blue.

“where is she?” eunchae asks suddenly, angling the camera around.

before you can react, the phone swings toward you. you blink at the sudden brightness of the screen. “look at her,” yunjin coos softly. “our baby is just tired.”

“she’s been up since, like, four in the morning,” sakura adds quickly.

“biggest boba eyes,” eunchae says, zooming in playfully. “look at her!” the comments explode in hearts and crying emojis.

you give a small wave. “i’m okay,” you murmur softly.

kazuha reaches over and gently squeezes your knee. “she just needs sleep, guys.”

they don’t see it. they don’t see the way your smile doesn’t quite lift fully. the way your eyes look glossy under the van lights. the way your hands are folded too neatly in your lap.

the camera turns away again, back to the louder energy.

you exhale slowly. your phone buzzes in your palm and you look down; instagram notification. your stomach drops before you even open it.

sunghoon has updated. your thumb hesitates. then taps: first photo. him in his black tuxedo under bright venue lights. sharp jawline. hands in pockets. caption simple, clean. second photo. closer shot. slight smile, fangs faintly visible. third photo—your breath stutters. him and jang wonyoung. standing side by side backstage. her pink tulle glowing even brighter under flash. his shoulder angled slightly toward hers. not touching. not intimate. but close. close enough that the internet will explode.

the caption: “mc night.” with a red heart emoji.

in the background, your members are laughing at something a fan commented. “fearnot said yunjin looks like she’s about to fall asleep,” kazuha reads softly.

“i am,” yunjin protests dramatically.

you stare at the photo again. zoom in his expression; it’s the same controlled calm. the same soft professionalism. but there’s something easy about it. something unguarded. your throat burns. you don’t want to be the girl who spirals over a photo. you don’t want to be fragile over pixels. but tonight everything feels raw.

you open your messages. his name is near the top. you stare at it for a long moment. then you type: “you looked really good tonight. ❤️” you stare at the message. too simple? too obvious? but you add: “mc suited you.”

no, delete it. and rewrite. “i liked your fit.”

too casual. you delete again. your heart pounds.

you type: “you did well today. i’m so proud of you.” too much? your thumb hovers. then, before you can overthink further—send.

the message flies off. your stomach flips immediately. you lock your phone, unlock it again, and no reply.

“say hi,” eunchae suddenly leans toward you again with the camera.

you blink slowly, trying to be calm and casual. “hi,” you whisper softly, waving again.

“she’s literally falling asleep,” sakura laughs.

“let her rest,” chaewon says gently.

your phone buzzes. your heart leaps into your throat. you look down. his reply, just a “thanks.” that’s it. no emoji. no punctuation. no warmth. just thanks.

your chest caves in slightly. you type again before you can stop yourself. “you and wonyoung looked good together on stage.”

why did you say that? why?

three dots appear almost immediately and makes you hold your breath. they disappear. then reappear. disappear again. but finally: “it’s just work.”

“i know. still. you guys did a good job.”

no reply. one minute. two. three. outside, streetlights flash across your face in intervals. your reflection in the window looks even more tired now.

your members are wrapping up the live. “we’re going to sleep now!” eunchae announces brightly. “thank you for watching!”

the van feels smaller suddenly. quieter.

you check your phone again. still nothing. the “read” indicator sits beneath your last message like a quiet confirmation. he saw it. but he chose not to answer—you lock your phone gently and press your forehead against the cool window glass. the city lights smear beneath your lashes.

chaewon notices first. she shifts closer slightly, her shoulder brushing yours. “really okay?” she asks softly, so only you can hear.

you nod. “just tired.” it’s not a lie. you are tired. tired of almosts. tired of timing. tired of feeling like you’re reaching toward something that keeps stepping half an inch away.

your phone buzzes one last time, and your heart jumps again. you look down; a notification. he added another story. but you don’t open it. instead, you slide your phone face down on your lap.

outside, the city keeps moving. inside, your members chatter softly about food they want to eat when they get back. you sit between them. surrounded. loved. safe. and somehow… still feeling a little alone.

the dorm is quiet when you get back. not silent — never silent — but softer. lived–in. warm; the familiar scent of laundry detergent and leftover ramyeon lingers faintly in the air. shoes are kicked off near the entrance in a messy row. someone’s hoodie is draped over the couch. the overhead lights are dim, yellow and comforting.

“i’m showering first!” eunchae announces, already half down the hallway.

“don’t use all the hot water,” yunjin calls after her.

sakura stretches her arms above her head with a groan. kazuha disappears into the kitchen for water. chaewon lingers a second longer, watching you.

you’re already slipping off your heels. “i’m just… really tired,” you say quickly, not meeting her eyes. “i’ll go to my room first.”

chaewon studies you for a fraction of a second. then she nods gently. “okay. rest.”

you smile. it’s small. controlled. you turn before it can fall. your bedroom door clicks shut behind you. and the silence hits differently in here. your room is dim except for the soft glow of your bedside lamp. your bed is neatly made, sheets cool and untouched. a hoodie is folded at the end. your vanity mirror reflects your perfectly styled hair, still pinned in place, makeup immaculate under artificial light.

you stand there for a moment. just breathing. your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t dramatic enough to cry over — just heavy. like something pressing quietly from the inside.

you sit at your vanity and stare at yourself; the crystals in your hair glimmer faintly. you look beautiful. but you don’t feel beautiful. you feel… off. not heartbroken. not angry. just misaligned. like you stepped slightly out of your own rhythm tonight and never quite found it again.

your phone buzzes softly beside you. group chat notifications. fan posts. more tags.

you flip it face down. you don’t want to scroll. you don’t want to see anything else. instead, you open weverse. your thumb hovers. you don’t even fully think it through before pressing “start live.”

the screen counts down. 3… 2… 1…suddenly, it’s just you and a tiny camera lens

“hi,” you say softly, and your voice sounds smaller in your quiet room.

comments flood instantly: “she’s live!!!” “you look so pretty.” “are you tired? 🥺” “how was tonight??”

you smile faintly. “i’m going to take off my makeup,” you explain gently, reaching for a cotton pad. “i feel kind of… heavy.” but you don’t clarify what you mean.

you soak the pad with remover and press it against your cheek. the first swipe leaves a faint streak of foundation on white cotton. you watch it for a second longer than necessary.

“did you eat?” someone comments.

“yeah,” you nod softly. “i did. don’t worry.”

you work slowly. methodically. cotton pad. wipe. another pad. wipe. your lipstick fades first. the deep red dissolves into a faint pink stain before disappearing completely. your lips look smaller without it.

more comments scroll. “you did amazing tonight.” “we’re so proud of you.” “your eyes look tired baby ;(”

you laugh softly. “i always look like this after schedules.” you don’t. but you say it anyway.

you remove your false lashes carefully, placing them neatly on the vanity. without them, your eyes look rounder. bigger. softer. vulnerable.

“how was your night?”

your hand pauses mid–wipe. just for a second. your eyes flick down to the words again. how was your night?

you inhale quietly. “it was good,” you say automatically. your smile comes quickly — almost too quickly. “really good. i’m just tired.” you lower your gaze to the cotton pad so they won’t notice the way your expression faltered for half a heartbeat.

wipe. wipe. wipe. the shimmer on your collarbone disappears. the contour fades. the sharp angles soften. you look younger now. more like yourself.

another comment scrolls by: “you seem a little sad 🥺”

you let out a soft chuckle. “i’m not sad,” you reply gently. “i promise.” you tilt your head slightly closer to the camera, eyes widening a little in reassurance. “just sleepy.”

your phone buzzes on the desk beside you. but you don’t look at it. you focus on removing the last of the eyeliner instead. but your mind drifts anyway. to a dim hallway. to a phone lighting up in someone else’s hand. to a photo posted twenty minutes ago.

you press the cotton pad a little too firmly against your eyelid. “ow,” you murmur softly to yourself. you finish cleansing your face and rinse with a soft towel. when you look up again, your bare skin reflects back at you. no shimmer. no sharpness. no stage light illusion. just you.

“thank you for watching tonight,” you say softly. your voice is calmer now. quieter. “even if we didn’t win… it still means a lot.” your eyes flick down again as comments continue to stream.

for a second, you almost say more. almost admit that tonight felt strange. that you felt small in a hallway. that something simple hurt more than it should have. but you don’t. instead, you offer one last small smile. “goodnight, fearnot. thanks for being here with me.”

you end the live. the screen goes dark. your room returns to quiet. you sit there for a long moment, staring at your reflection in the black screen; without makeup. without stage lights. without anyone watching.

your phone buzzes again on the desk. slowly, you turn it over. you hesitate before unlocking it. and for a brief, fragile second—you wish you didn’t care enough to check. but you couldn’t lie to yourself because you were really waiting for an answer. and well, it’s humiliating to admit that you got excited beforehand for nothing because it was just a simple notification and not something about him.

morning schedules come too quickly after award nights. the dorm lights flick on before the sun is fully up, stylists arriving with garment racks and garment steamers and quiet efficiency. the air smells like hairspray and coffee. someone yawns in the kitchen. someone else is already warming up vocals under their breath.

you slept. technically. but it wasn’t deep. it was the kind of sleep where your mind keeps replaying moments like short clips on loop — a hallway, a glance, a notification, a single dry “thanks.”

“music bank today,” chaewon reminds everyone softly as she scrolls through the schedule. her voice is steady as always. grounding.

you nod. of course. music bank. weekly stage. promotions. smiles. interviews. and the mcs this season are— no, you don’t need to finish the thought.

the drive to the broadcasting station is quieter than usual. eunchae hums softly to herself. yunjin scrolls through memes. sakura reads comments under last night’s performance clips with calm curiosity. kazuha stretches her neck carefully.

you stare at your reflection in the van window. you practiced this face in the mirror this morning; neutral. professional. not cold. not warm. just composed.

the broadcasting station buzzes with familiar chaos when you arrive. staff clip microphones to your outfits. makeup artists do quick touch–ups. cue cards are handed around. the hallway smells like fresh paint and electrical heat. “we’ll do the interview first before your stage,” a coordinator explains briskly.

you nod again, but your palms feel slightly damp. so you wipe them subtly against the side of your skirt.

when you step onto the bright stage lights of the interview area, the air changes instantly. cameras roll. staff signals. audience murmurs hush.

and there they are: sunghoon stands tall in a light blue suit today, softer than the tux from last night. his hair is styled neatly, fringe resting perfectly above his brows—beside him, jang wonyoung looks ethereal in a pale cream dress, hair falling in glossy waves over her shoulders.

“welcome to music bank!” wonyoung beams toward the camera, voice smooth as silk. sunghoon just nods slightly, offering his steady greeting.

you step into formation with your members. your group lines up naturally, choreography even in stillness. “it’s le sserafim!” wonyoung announces cheerfully. an applause. and then you bow together.

when you rise, your eyes meet his for half a second. just half. he gives you the same polite micro–nod he gives all guests. nothing more. nothing less.

the interview begins. questions about your comeback concept. about rehearsals. about last night’s award show. “you worked so hard recently,” sunghoon says evenly, glancing down at his cue card. “how are you feeling today?”

“we’re grateful to perform again,” you say. your voice is clear. steady. you practiced that too. you don’t smile widely. you don’t frown. you simply exist. to anyone watching casually, it’s normal. to anyone looking too closely, it’s different.

wonyoung laughs lightly at something eunchae says. sunghoon nods along. the energy between them flows smoothly — the practiced rhythm of co–hosts who’ve stood side by side for months now.

you stand just to sunghoon’s left. close enough that the cameras frame you together often. far enough that your shoulders never brush.

you keep your gaze forward when he speaks. you nod politely when he directs a question toward you. you don’t lean in. you don’t tease. you don’t soften. and it’s not intentional, it’s just that your chest still feels slightly guarded, like if you relax even a little, something vulnerable might slip out.

“please look forward to their stage!” wonyoung concludes brightly.

you bow again. when you straighten, your face is composed. almost too composed.

backstage, your members chatter lightly about the interview. “that went smoothly,” kazuha says softly.

“yeah,” yunjin nods.

chaewon glances at you once, but you just give her a small nod.

the stage performance goes well. sharp, powerful, synchronized. when the broadcast ends and you finally get a moment alone in the waiting room, you collapse onto the couch with a small sigh.

eunchae is already scrolling through her phone. “…uh,” she murmurs.

yunjin leans over. “what?”

eunchae turns her screen slightly. “people are… talking.”

you don’t need to ask what about. hashtags are already trending. clips from the interview are circulating online. slow–motion edits of your expression when sunghoon spoke. screenshots zoomed into your face.

“why is she glaring?” “she looks jealous.” “just because your group didn’t win last night doesn’t mean you can be rude.” “why is she acting cold toward the mcs?” “so unprofessional.” “she’s mad about sunghoon and wonyoung.”

you stare at the screen: your face in the paused video looks serious. too serious. your lips pressed in a straight line. your eyes focused forward. you don’t look jealous, you look guarded, but the internet doesn’t do nuance.

“people are ridiculous,” yunjin mutters.

chaewon gently takes the phone from eunchae. “don’t read too much,” she says quietly, but the damage is already done.

another clip circulates — you standing beside sunghoon while he reads from the cue card. the caption: “the tension?? or is she just salty?”

you feel heat crawl up your neck. it’s absurd. you weren’t glaring. you weren’t trying to send a message. you were just… protecting yourself.

“hey,” sakura says softly, noticing your silence.

you shrug lightly. “it’s fine.” your voice is even. almost detached. but inside, though, something twists. not because strangers are being cruel, you’ve dealt with that before. but because the narrative is being written again. without your permission.

you pick up your own phone slowly, against your better judgment. you open instagram, his latest post is still up. thousands of comments under the photo with wonyoung; “best mc duo.” “visual couple.” “they match so well.”

your chest tightens again.

and now—your name is being dragged into it too; “she was glaring at him lol.” “she’s jealous.” “focus on your group.”

“don’t let it get to you,” chaewon says gently, sitting beside you.

you nod. you wish it didn’t. but it’s not just the comments. it’s the fact that you know he’ll see them too—and he won’t say anything, he’ll stay neutral. professional. untouched. and you’ll be the one painted dramatic for having a serious face on a 7–minute broadcast segment.

you lean back against the couch. you think about how careful you were. how controlled. how composed. and somehow—that became evidence against you.

outside, staff call for your next schedule. you stand. smooth your outfit. lift your chin. you’ve learned this part well; if they want serious, you’ll be poised. if they want soft, you’ll be gentle. if they want unbothered—you’ll try.

but as you step back into the hallway lights, you can’t help wondering how long you can keep pretending that none of it touches you—when clearly, it already does.

night settles over the dorm slowly, the kind of quiet that feels heavier after a long public day. the living room lights are dimmed, the hallway lamp left on low, the distant hum of the city leaking faintly through cracked windows. eunchae is laughing at something on her phone in her room, yunjin’s music plays softly through a closed door, sakura’s voice murmurs from the kitchen while she makes tea, kazuha’s footsteps pass once down the hallway and then fade. it’s normal. safe. lived–in. and yet your chest feels like it’s suspended in a different atmosphere entirely.

you’re lying on your bed, still in an oversized hoodie, hair loose around your shoulders, face bare from earlier. your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen resting against your pillow. and there it is. that tiny, cruel word beneath your last message: read. hours ago — it shouldn’t matter this much. it’s just a feature. just confirmation. just technology doing what it was built to do. but it feels personal. like a door you knocked on that someone opened, looked at you through, and then quietly shut again without answering. you replay your last text in your mind for the hundredth time. “i know. still.” it wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t accusatory. it was soft. almost shy. and yet it’s been sitting there all day like an exposed nerve.

you flip your phone face down. pick it up again thirty seconds later. still nothing. you open instagram against your better judgment. more edits from music bank. slow–motion zooms of your serious face. captions speculating about jealousy. your stomach tightens. you exit quickly and return to your messages. the read receipt glows back at you like it’s mocking your patience.

why doesn’t he just say something? anything. even “busy.” even “later.”

the silence feels louder because you know he’s online. you saw his story update earlier. he posted rehearsal clips. a mirror selfie. nothing dramatic. nothing controversial. just normal. calm. composed. untouched by the narrative swirling around both of you.

you hug your pillow closer to your chest and stare at the ceiling. maybe this is your sign. maybe this is where you step back. maybe this is where you learn how to want less. your thumb hovers over the chat again. you type “ignore what people are saying today.” you delete it. you type “are you okay?” delete. you type nothing.

the screen suddenly lights up in your hand. and your heart leaps so violently it almost hurts. his name. you freeze for half a second before opening it.

“long day today.” that’s the first message. “music bank was hectic.” is the second.

your chest tightens in confusion. he’s… talking. voluntarily. more than one sentence. your fingers tremble slightly as you type back.

“yeah. it was.”

“i saw the comments. don’t pay attention to them.” it’s not warm. it’s not comforting. it reads more like instruction than concern. but it’s something. it’s engagement.

“i’m used to it,” you reply, trying to sound lighter than you feel.

then: “still. it’s unnecessary.” you stare at the screen. today he’s more talkative, yes. but every sentence feels measured. clipped. like he’s carefully stepping around something invisible.

“you looked serious,” he adds.

“was i?” you type before you can stop yourself.

a longer pause this time. you can almost picture him somewhere else — maybe in his own dorm, sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand, expression unreadable. “a little.” just that. not accusatory. not teasing. just observational.

you swallow. your fingers hover over the keyboard. you want to explain. you want to say “i was trying not to look at you too much. i was trying not to care too much. i was trying to keep it together.”

instead you type, “i was just tired.”

he replies quickly this time. “you should rest more.” you stare at the message. something about it feels distant. practical. like advice you’d give a coworker.

“you seemed fine,” you type carefully.

“it’s part of the job.” your chest tightens at that. part of the job. you can’t tell if he’s talking about hosting. about smiling. about standing beside wonyoung. about all of it.

a minute passes. then another message appears. “don’t let it affect your performance.” it lands heavier than he probably intends. like he thinks your expression today was a crack in your professionalism. like he thinks your emotions are something that might spill over and damage things.

“i won’t,” you type back quickly.

“good.”

good. it shouldn’t hurt. it’s neutral. it’s fine. but it feels like a period at the end of something you weren’t ready to finish.

you hesitate. then, carefully: “are you okay?”

there’s a longer silence this time. you watch the screen. no typing indicator. you almost think he’s left again. then— “i’m fine.” another pause. “just tired.” the same words you used earlier on live. the same shield.

you stare at the chat. you want him to say more. you want him to acknowledge the hallway. the photo. the tension. you want something unguarded. instead, another message comes. “get some sleep.” it’s softer than the others. but still distant. still slightly removed.

“goodnight,” you type.

he replies after a few seconds. “night.”

no emoji. no heart. no softness. but at least the read receipt is gone now, replaced by something tangible. words, even if they aren’t the ones you wanted—you lock your phone slowly and set it on your bedside table. the room feels quieter than before, but not as suffocating. he answered. he spoke. he wasn’t silent.

you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin. your chest still feels slightly hollow. because he talked, yes. more than usual. but every message felt like it was wrapped in careful distance. like he was present, but standing just out of reach. at least tonight you’re not staring at “read.” but somehow, the space between his words feels just as loud.

paris greets you with gray skies and a kind of quiet luxury that feels almost cinematic. the moment the plane lands, everything becomes choreography — security, stylists, managers, cars waiting outside. even the air smells expensive, like rain hitting stone and perfume trailing behind strangers in tailored coats.

you and wonyoung step out of the airport side by side, sunglasses on despite the clouds. cameras are already there. flashes start immediately. your name blends with hers in the crowd, shouted together like a single headline.

you smile automatically. you always do.

but the car ride to the hotel is quieter. your reflection in the tinted window looks composed — soft hair, minimal makeup, oversized sweater that looks effortless but was picked with intention. across from you, wonyoung scrolls through her phone, posture straight even when relaxed. she looks ethereal without trying.

you hate that a tiny part of you notices that. you hate even more that a tiny part of you compares.

it’s not her fault. you repeat that in your head like a mantra. she didn’t create the edits pairing her with sunghoon. she didn’t write the comments. she didn’t ask people to analyze every glance on music bank like it was a scripted drama. she just stands there and does her job — the same way you do. still, when her name trends next to his, something in your chest tightens before you can stop it.

the hotel suite is flooded with natural light. racks of clothing line one wall, garment bags unzipped to reveal structured silhouettes, delicate fabrics, shimmering details. stylists move around you both in synchronized chaos. curling irons hiss. foundation brushes glide.

you sit in the makeup chair while someone adjusts your hair, fingers gentle at your scalp. in the mirror, you catch a glimpse of wonyoung across the room. her stylist fastens a necklace around her neck, brushing her collarbone lightly. she looks calm. practiced. perfect.

you look away quickly. the jealousy isn’t loud. it doesn’t scream. it whispers. it asks quiet questions like: does he text her differently? does he sound warmer? does he hesitate less? you push the thoughts down. this weekend is work. this brand chose both of you. this is about image, elegance, unity.

by the time the car pulls up to the venue that evening, the sky has darkened into deep blue. golden lights spill from the building’s entrance. photographers crowd behind barriers, shouting directions in french and english.

“together! together!” “look here!” “one more!”

you step out first, then turn slightly so wonyoung can join you. your hands brush briefly as you align yourselves for photos. the contact is light. neutral. professional.

click click click.

you tilt your chin. she angles her shoulder. you both know exactly which side photographs best under flash. you lean slightly toward each other when instructed. you laugh softly when someone makes a comment about your height difference. it’s seamless.

front row is brighter than you expect. the runway glows in warm gold tones, reflecting off polished floors. you and wonyoung are guided to your seats — center, perfectly placed for cameras. knees angled in the same direction. backs straight. ankles crossed elegantly. your shoulders nearly touch.

the show begins with a deep bass that vibrates faintly through your heels. models glide past like living art. the fabrics catch the light in slow motion. you clap at the right moments. you lean toward her once to murmur something safe about the tailoring. she nods, lips curved in a subtle smile.

from the outside, you look harmonious. effortless. inside, you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you — you wonder if she ever feels the same quiet comparison you do. you wonder if she’s ever scrolled through edits and felt reduced to half of a narrative. you wonder if she notices how fans pit you against each other without even meaning to.

between looks, the lighting softens slightly. cameras pivot toward the runway as a transition begins. for once, no one is shouting your names.

wonyoung shifts closer. not dramatically. just enough that you feel her presence more clearly. “you look really beautiful tonight.” her voice is gentle. not the sparkling, broadcast version she uses on stage. this is lower. steadier.

you smile automatically. “you too. obviously.” reflex. defense. safe.

she shakes her head faintly. a strand of her hair slips over her shoulder. “no,” she says quietly. “i mean it. you are beautiful.”

you turn to look at her fully this time. her expression isn’t posed. her eyes aren’t scanning for lenses. they’re focused only on you.

“the dress suits you,” she continues. “and your makeup. it’s softer than usual.” she pauses, studying your face for a second. “you look… comfortable.”

the word catches you off guard. comfortable. you almost laugh because you don’t feel comfortable at all. you feel stretched thin between expectations and unspoken feelings. “do i?” you ask lightly.

“yeah,” she says. “you usually look strong. like you’re holding everything perfectly in place.” her lips curve into a small, private smile. “tonight you look softer. it’s nice.”

for a second you assume this is strategy. image building. supportive–ambassador narrative. but no cameras are pointed at your faces right now. the runway commands attention. no one is recording this angle.

her voice lowers further. “don’t let people make you shrink.” she doesn’t say sunghoon’s name. she doesn’t mention edits or comments or music bank. but the meaning threads quietly between you.

you search her expression for competitiveness. for superiority. for anything sharp. but there’s none. instead there’s something almost protective.

“i’m fine,” you reply softly, but it comes out thinner than you intend.

wonyoung’s gaze doesn’t waver. “i know you are,” she says. “i just know how loud people can be.”

your heart pounds once, heavy. does she read them too? does she see the comparisons? does she see your name next to his the same way you see hers?

“it’s not your fault,” you blurt before thinking.

she tilts her head slightly. “what isn’t?”

you hesitate. “any of it.”

her expression softens even more. “i know,” she says gently. “and it’s not yours either.”

the music swells again as the next model steps onto the runway. applause rises. instinctively, both of you straighten. ambassador mode slides back into place like muscle memory. cameras swing toward the front row. you pose. she mirrors you. your smiles return, dazzling and composed.

but something inside you has shifted. the jealousy that had been sitting quietly in your chest all weekend doesn’t flare under her kindness. it doesn’t sharpen. it loosens. because she isn’t your competition. she’s just standing beside you in the same storm.

when the show ends and everyone stands for final photos, the crowd surges forward again. flashes erupt. someone yells for you both to pose together one last time.

this time, when your hands link, it isn’t because someone instructed it. it isn’t calculated. it’s steady. natural. your fingers curl around hers briefly, and she squeezes back — small, grounding.

for the first time since sunghoon’s name became something that hovered awkwardly between headlines, standing next to wonyoung doesn’t feel like standing next to a rival. it feels like standing next to someone who chose softness instead of distance. and under the bright paris lights, that kindness feels brighter than any flash.

the hotel room is quiet in a way only luxury suites can be — thick curtains drawn halfway over the tall windows, the faint golden glow of paris filtering through the gaps. somewhere far below, traffic hums softly. inside, everything feels plush. muted carpet under your bare feet. the faint scent of fresh linens and expensive shampoo lingering in the air.

you and wonyoung ended up sharing the suite because of scheduling — two ambassadors, one floor, easier security. it made sense logistically. but emotionally? you didn’t think that far.

the bathroom door opens first. steam rolls out slowly, warm against your skin. wonyoung steps into the room in a white hotel robe, hair damp and falling over her shoulders, skin glowing from the shower. she looks unreal in the most unfair way — fresh–faced, comfortable, completely at ease in her own space. “i’m going to take a few pictures before i sleep,” she says casually, already reaching for her phone.

you nod quickly. “okay.” you’re sitting on the edge of your bed in an oversized t–shirt and soft shorts, knees tucked slightly inward without meaning to. suddenly you’re hyperaware of everything — your bare legs, your damp hair frizzing slightly at the ends, the way your collarbone looks under the room lighting. you weren’t thinking about it two seconds ago. now it feels like a spotlight is on you.

wonyoung stands near the window where the light hits best. she tilts her phone, checks the angle, adjusts the robe slightly so it sits perfectly on her shoulders. it’s not forced. she’s done this a hundred times. she knows exactly which side catches the glow, exactly how to lift her chin so it looks effortless.

click. she checks the photo. click again.

you pretend to scroll on your phone but you’re not reading anything. your heart feels strangely loud in your chest. not jealous this time — just… small. it’s ridiculous. you’ve posed in front of thousands of cameras. you’ve stood on stages with blinding lights. you’ve worn outfits far more revealing than a simple oversized shirt. and yet here, in this quiet room, watching her move confidently in nothing but a robe, you feel shy. timid. like you don’t quite know where to put your eyes.

“the lighting here is really pretty,” she says, almost to herself.

you glance up. she catches you looking and smiles softly. not teasing. just warm.

“do you want some too?” she asks.

you blink. “what?”

“pictures. the light looks good on you right now.”

your brain short–circuits. “i— no, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “i look messy.”

she lowers her phone slightly. studies you. “you don’t,” she replies simply.

you shrug, hugging your arms around yourself unconsciously. “i just got out of the shower.”

“so did i.”

that makes you laugh under your breath.

she walks a little closer, still holding her phone but no longer in photo–mode energy. her tone shifts — softer, like earlier at the show. “you always get shy off-stage,” she says gently.

you look down at your hands. “i don’t.”

“you do,” she insists, but there’s no edge to it. “on stage you’re confident. here you hide.” and that hits more accurately than you’d like.

“it’s different,” you mumble.

she tilts her head. “how?”

you hesitate. it feels stupid to say it out loud. “because there’s no concept here. no styling. no… performance.” your voice gets quieter. “it’s just me.”

there’s a small pause. wonyoung steps closer to the bed, sitting lightly at the edge across from you. the mattress dips slightly. “that’s not a bad thing,” she says.

you let out a tiny breath. “it doesn’t feel as polished.”

she looks at you — really looks at you — damp hair, oversized shirt, bare face, slightly nervous hands. “it feels real,” she lifts her phone again but doesn’t immediately take a picture. instead she adjusts the angle gently, careful, almost hesitant. “can i?” she asks quietly. and the fact that she asks makes something in your chest loosen.

she doesn’t make you stand. doesn’t reposition you dramatically. she just captures you as you are — sitting cross–legged on the bed, hair still damp, light brushing your cheek.

click.

she checks the screen. a small smile spreads across her face. not the dazzling public one. the private one. “see?” she says, turning the phone toward you; the photo doesn’t look messy. it doesn’t look awkward. you look soft. warm. your eyes slightly reflective under the low light. like someone caught in a quiet moment.

“that’s… not bad,” you admit softly.

“it’s more than not bad.” she hesitates just a fraction before speaking again. “you don’t have to compete with anyone in a room like this.”

your breath stills. she doesn’t say his name. she doesn’t have to.

the room feels warmer suddenly, quieter. you swallow. “i’m not competing.”

“i know,” she says gently. “but sometimes you act like you are.” there’s no accusation in it. just observation.

you look down at your lap. “i don’t mean to.”

“i don’t think you do.”

the moment we step into the university’s backyard, the first thing that hits you is the noise. it’s loud—maybe even louder than you expected. music pulses from massive speakers positioned haphazardly, the bass rattling your ribcage with every beat. the air is thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and the occasional burst of lighter fluid from someone’s cigarette. laughter, shouting, the clink of glasses—everything is layered on top of one another in a chaotic symphony that makes it impossible to think clearly. you had half a hope that this party was just a low-key gathering of students celebrating their football team’s win, but this is something else entirely.

ryujin, on the other hand, seems completely at ease. she moves through the crowd with the confidence of someone who belongs here—someone who is used to this kind of noise, this kind of life. you struggle to match her pace as she weaves through clusters of half-dressed students, some yelling over the music, others dancing in the middle of the yard or sprawled out on lawn chairs and picnic tables. the contrast between you and her has never felt more pronounced. she radiates comfort and familiarity, while you feel like a foreigner in a world that doesn’t know your language.

as you follow her, your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting. the party seems endlessly populated with bodies, all moving, all laughing, all oblivious to you. you catch yourself edging closer to her, hoping that proximity will ground you in this unfamiliar territory. but even as she pulls you into a small group of people, you feel like an outsider, a curiosity who doesn’t belong.

the temperature is stifling, and the combination of sweat and the humid air makes your skin prickle uncomfortably. you don’t mind the cold, and this—this is something else entirely. you try to focus your attention, but it's impossible to ignore the way ryujin’s friends are watching you. not just the one who goes by the name winter, but also minji and kazuha. they don't smile, but they don't have to. their stares are enough to make you self-conscious. you tuck your hands into your pockets and hope they’ll stop. but they don’t. instead, they lean in, just a little. and it’s enough.

you can’t shake the feeling that their interest in you is more than just casual. winter—minjeong, but you’ve heard her go by that nickname often enough now to use it yourself—has always had this way of looking at you like she’s trying to read something that isn’t there. she’s not shy in her curiosity, and tonight is no different. from the moment you arrived, her gaze has been locked on you, sharp and calculating, like she’s measuring whether you’re worth the trouble of knowing. she’s built like a dancer, all long limbs and effortless posture, and when she lifts a hand to brush a loose strand of dark hair from her face, it’s the kind of movement that makes you wonder if she does it just to catch your attention.

beside her, minji smirks—just slightly, just enough for it to be noticeable but not overtly flirtatious. she's the kind of person who thrives in groups, always laughing, always in the middle of the action. her presence is electric, even now, despite the fact that she's standing completely still. her eyes flick to yours, the amusement in them impossible to miss, and for a moment, you're not sure whether she’s looking at you like a challenge or like you're part of the joke. she's already half-swaying to the music, one arm loosely draped around kazuha’s shoulder, as if their bodies are already conspiring in this silent little game.

kazuha, though—that's the one who unsettles you the most. she doesn’t move as much as the others, doesn’t laugh with the same effortless confidence. instead, she’s quiet, leaning against the wall with a drink in hand, her expression unreadable beneath the dim light of the string bulbs overhead. but if you know anything about people, you know that the ones who seem the most composed are often the most dangerous. kazuha is elegant, all measured steps and carefully placed gestures, and when she shifts her weight just slightly, tilting her head as if she’s considering something, it feels like she’s deciding whether or not to test the waters with you.

together, they make a striking trio. winter, the bold one who would rather see the worst than live in ignorance. minji, the flirt who plays everything off with a laugh but never really forgets anything. kazuha, the quiet observer who watches everything and waits for the right moment to act. and now, they’re all watching you. not just with idle curiosity, but with something closer to intent.

you’ve spent years with ryujin, and while you’ve caught glimpses of her past—stories of her friends, the way they move through life with such ease—you’ve never been confronted with it like this. they’re not just watching you because you're her girlfriend. they're watching you because they want to see what you're made of. and for some reason, that thought makes your skin heat, even as you try to convince yourself that it shouldn’t.

ryujin’s group of friends is an inseparable force in their own right. they’re always together, their presence a defining feature of her social world. there’s haeun, loud and unapologetic, who dominates any conversation with her booming laughter and even louder opinions. then there’s yuna, a quiet observer who says little but listens everything, her sharp gaze always catching details the rest of the group might miss. and seulgi, who’s soft-spoken but effortlessly charming, her warmth drawing people in like an open door. together, they form ryujin’s inner circle, and they all seem to orbit around her like planets pulled by the same gravitational pull.

the group is tightly knit, surrounded by an atmosphere of familiarity and trust. they’re not just friends; they’re family. their banter is easy, their laughter frequent, and the way they move together feels rehearsed, like they’ve spent years refining their rhythm. but even within that circle, winter, minji, and kazuha stand apart. they’re part of the group, yes, but there’s a distinct edge to their dynamic, a sharpness that sets them apart from the others. where the rest of ryujin’s friends are content to simply exist in the orbit of her life, winter, minji, and kazuha seem to push against its boundaries, testing the limits of what that orbit can contain.

it’s hard to explain, but watching them now feels like watching something that’s always been just beneath the surface finally bubble up. they’re not just part of ryujin’s life—they’re part of your life too. and it’s not that you feel excluded; rather, it’s that their attention is too intentional, too focused. winter’s eyes follow you as if charting a course, minji’s smirk sharpens with every glance in your direction, and kazuha remains calm but unyielding, her gaze as still and steady as the surface of a lake. you can feel their energy building, a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your skin tingle.

you’d thought they might be content to play the role of ryujin’s best friends, their attention reserved for her and not spilling over into anything more. but you were wrong. they’re not just ryujin’s friends—they’re yours too, and that realization is both confusing and oddly thrilling. you can’t help but wonder if it was always like this, if their presence in ryujin’s life was always an invitation to know more about her, to see her world through a different lens. but you weren’t expecting the way they seem to look at you, as if you’re something they want to taste.

and ryujin, of course, is completely unaware. she’s standing in the middle of the group, laughing at something haeun has just said, completely at ease with the world around her. she’s not noticing the way winter’s fingers toy with the string of her jacket, or how minji’s shoulder brushes against yours just a little too long. she’s not seeing the way kazuha’s eyes flick between her and you, as if weighing something in her mind. and for some reason, that makes the situation even more surreal. you’re here, in the center of it all, caught between ryujin’s world and the unspoken tension that radiates from her three best friends. it’s a strange place to be, and you can’t help but wonder how long it will last before something changes.

ryujin excuses herself with a gentle pat on your arm, her smile warm and unguarded as she says she'll just be a minute. you watch as she weaves through the crowd, her voice barely audible over the music as she calls out to winter, minji, and kazuha. the space between you feels immediately expansive, the weight of the music and the crowd pressing in. you’re alone now, and you can feel the shift in the air. the tension that had been simmering in the background—those lingering glances, the knowing smirks—suddenly becomes the center of your attention.

the three of them drift closer, the music and laughter of the party muffled by the quiet moment that wraps around you. you try to look away, to focus on the flashing lights above or the bottles of beer abandoned on a nearby table, but it’s no use. winter is the first to speak, her voice smooth and deliberate as she leans in just enough for her words to feel like a secret.

“you know,” she says, her eyes locking onto yours, “i always wondered what it would be like to see you in her place.”

before you can respond, minji lets out a soft laugh and steps in beside her. her tone is playful but edged with something else—something close to a dare. “and here we all thought you were the one holding her hand tonight. guess that makes you the backup, huh?”

kazuha, ever silent in her own ways, just watches for a moment before stepping forward with the measured grace of someone who knows exactly how the game is played. she takes one step closer, just enough to fill the space between them, and you feel the heat of her presence like a slow burn. “she has no idea,” she says, her voice a deep murmur barely audible over the party. “but you do.”

it hits you then—how easy this is for them. how effortless it must be to move through the world like this, to claim your attention even as ryujin stands only a few feet away. they don’t ask for permission. they don’t need it. and somehow, that makes your pulse quicken.

you feel the heat from them radiating in waves, each step they take bringing them closer, pressing you into the world they control so effortlessly. winter’s voice is low, deliberate, as if she’s already decided how this will end. her presence is magnetic, the kind of boldness that makes you want to both bolt and stand your ground. she steps so close now that you can catch the faint scent of her perfume—something crisp and clean, like she’s trying to mask something more dangerous under layers of subtlety. her fingers brush against your wrist as she leans in, and you have to steady yourself.

minji is next, her laughter soft and low, the kind of sound that makes you want to laugh along even if you don’t know why. she brushes against your side with the kind of casual familiarity that should feel innocent but instead feels like a test. “what if we played a game?” she asks, her voice a lilting tease. “just between us, while ryujin’s not looking. no cheating, no rules—just you and us.”

you open your mouth to say something, to pretend you don’t know what she means, but you’re already sinking into it. ryujin is only a few feet away, laughing and smiling with her friends, completely oblivious to the shift in the air. the thought that you could be caught—should be caught—adds an electricity that you can’t ignore.

kazuha steps into the space between you and her friends, her presence slower, more deliberate. she doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. she just watches, her dark eyes unreadable as they flick between the two of you. her silence speaks louder than any words. you know exactly what this is—the kind of game where you can’t look away, even if you want to.

and suddenly, it’s not just a party anymore.

the game has begun, and you feel every move like a brush against your skin. winter, minji, and kazuha don’t need to speak much—words are more of a formality now, while the dance between them and you is silent but deliberate. you can feel the weight of their attention pressing in, their confidence a quiet storm that you can’t seem to escape, even when your mind is screaming at you to push back. ryujin is only a few feet away, her laughter drifting faintly to your ears, but her presence feels distant now, like it's being filtered through a fog of something else entirely.

winter is the first to make her move. her hand glides up your arm, fingers grazing the edge of your sleeve like she’s testing the water. her voice is smooth and low, a whisper against your ear as she murmurs, “you don’t have to fight it. not yet.” her gaze is sharp, deliberate, like an artist studying the brushstrokes of her canvas. she doesn’t blink, doesn’t wait for a response, and it’s that confidence that unsettles you the most. you’re torn between wanting to pull away and being drawn deeper into the current she’s setting the course for.

minji follows, her laughter bubbling up like a playful melody as she steps closer. her smile is bright but laced with a challenge, her eyes sparkling with mischief. she leans against you, her shoulder brushing yours with just enough weight to feel intentional. “you’re not used to this, are you?” she teases, her voice a lilting lilt of amusement. “let me guess—the thought of you and us makes your heart race. admit it.” she’s not asking for confirmation—she already knows, and that realization makes your breath hitch. she tilts her head, her expression one of pure curiosity, like she’s waiting for you to break under the pressure of her words.

kazuha, however, moves like a shadow compared to the bright flashes of winter and minji. her presence is quieter but no less commanding. she steps into the space between them, her body coiled like a spring waiting to release. her eyes lock onto yours, and there’s something in them that makes you feel like she’s seeing directly into your thoughts. she doesn’t speak, but her silence is a language of its own. when her hand lands lightly on your shoulder, it’s like a seal on the game. you feel the air shift, the tension rising as each of them takes a position around you, their energy radiating like a heat–seeking missile.

this is not a game you can win—or even understand. it’s too fluid, too unpredictable, and far too intimate for you to simply walk away. you can feel them pulling at different threads of your resolve, each one feeding off the other’s energy. winter pushes you, her boldness a sharp contrast to the softness of minji’s teasing, while kazuha watches, her calm presence a reminder of what could happen if you give in completely. the three of them are a perfect storm, and you’re caught in the eye of it.

and yet, you don’t want to stop. even as your mind rebels, your body betrays you, responding to the way they move, the way they look at you like you’re the center of their world. you can feel your pulse quickening, your breath slowing, your thoughts dissolving into fragments that don’t make sense. winter’s hand lingers on your arm, minji’s laughter vibrates in your chest, and kazuha’s gaze holds you in place. you don’t know how long it will last—or if ryujin will ever know what happened here. but in this moment, it doesn’t matter. because the game has already started, and you’re playing to win.

when ryujin returns, it’s like the world snaps back into focus. she greets you with a soft smile, dragging in a deep breath of cigarette smoke before flicking her lighter shut with a sharp click. you try to steady your expression, to compose yourself, but the imprint of winter’s hand on your arm, minji’s whisper in your ear, and kazuha’s unreadable gaze still lingers. you feel like you’re standing in the aftermath of something that should have been impossible—something that still doesn’t have a name.

the three of them don’t pretend like nothing happened. their glances are too knowing, their presence too deliberate as they fall back into the rhythm of the party. you can’t decide if they expect you to chase them now, to say something, to do anything at all. you haven’t had time to process, to figure out what just happened. you only know this is far from over.

as the night went on and the alcohol flowed freely, you found yourself getting more and more tipsy. suddenly, you felt a group of hands grabbing you, pulling you up from the couch. before you could react, winter, minji, and kazuha had dragged you into an empty bedroom down the hall, slamming and locking the door behind them.

in the darkness of the room, you could make out their silhouettes, surrounded by the faint glow of the party still happening outside. your heart raced as you realized you were now alone with ryujin’s friends, completely at their mercy.

kazuha, the tallest among them, stepped forward. you could see her eyes glinting with a hungry, predatory look as she circled around you like a shark. “finally, we have you all to ourselves.” she said, her voice low and seductive. “ryu has been keeping you all to herself, but now it’s our turn to play with you.”

winter and minji exchanged wicked grins, their eyes roaming over your curves, undressing you with their gazes. they advanced on you, cornering you between them and the wall. you could feel the heat of their bodies, the anticipation of what was to come.

minji grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her as she crashed her lips against yours in a rough, dominating kiss. her tongue invaded your mouth, claiming it as her own. she bit your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste flooding your mouth. when she broke the kiss, allowing you to gasp for air before attacking your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.

kazuha didn’t waste any time, her hands already under your shirt, groping and squeezing your tits. she pinched your nipples hard, rolling the sensitive buds between her fingers until they hardened into stiff peaks.

winter watched the show, rubbing her cunt through her jeans as she enjoyed seeing her friends ravish your body. she couldn’t wait to get her turn with you. she wanted to see you fall apart, to hear you scream and beg for more as they used you like a toy. “that’s it, you perfect little slut. you’re ours now.” she growled, ready to pounce.

winter grabbed your hair, yanking your head back as she crashed her lips against yours in a brutal, dominating kiss. her tongue forced its way into your mouth, claiming every inch of it as her own. she explored you ruthlessly, tasting every corner, every crevice, leaving no part of your mouth unexplored.

the three friends continued their relentless assault on your body, touching and groping every inch of you. they tore at your clothes, ripping fabric in their haste to expose your bare skin. winter’s hands roamed your curves, squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts, while kazuha groped your ass, kneading the round globes like dough.

minji pushed you down onto the bed, climbing on top of you. she straddled your waist, her core grinding against yours as she pinned your wrists above your head. she leaned down, her breasts pressing against yours as she captured your lips in another searing kiss. her tongue dominated yours, swirling and tangling, as she swallowed your whimpers and moans.

winter and kazuha took the opportunity to explore more of your body. they lavished attention on your breasts, suckling and biting at the sensitive flesh. teeth and tongues marked your skin, leaving reddened bites and dark hickeys in their wake. winter moved lower, her mouth trailing down your stomach, her tongue dipping into your navel.

minji broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting her lips to yours. she sat back, taking in the debauched sight of your naked body splayed out beneath her and her friends. your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your nipples hard and aching, just begging to be touched. your pussy was dripping wet, your juices coating your inner thighs.

*minji looked over at her friends, a wicked grin on her face. “look at this perfect little fucktoy, all ready for us to ruin… so fucking cute.” she said, giving your nipple a sharp twist. “i can’t wait to feel this tight cunt wrapped around my fingers, my tongue, my dick…”

kazuha licked her lips, her eyes dark with lust. “me neither. i want to see her fall apart on our dicks, begging for more.” she said, giving your ass a hard smack. “let’s fuck her until she can’t even remember her own name.”

winter licked her lips, her hand moving down to rub her dripping cunt through her jeans. “sounds like a plan. but first, i want to taste her. i bet she’s fucking delicious.” she said, moving between your legs. she pushed them apart, exposing your glistening folds to their hungry gazes and mouths.

winter dove between your legs without any hesitation, burying her face in your dripping cunt. her tongue delved into your folds, lapping up your juices like a woman starved. she moaned against your flesh, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

at the same time, minji and kazuha descended upon your heaving breasts. they took a nipple each into their mouths, sucking and biting at the hard nubs. their tongues swirled around the sensitive flesh, teasing you mercilessly as they laved your tits with attention.

the triple assault on your senses was overwhelming. you could only throw your head back, a silent scream tearing from your throat as the pleasure consumed you. your fingers tangled in their hair, holding them close as they ravaged your body with their mouths.

winter’s tongue delved deeper, pushing into your tight channel. she fucked you with her tongue, her lips sealed around your clit as she sucked hard. the obscene slurping sounds filled the room, mingling with your wanton moans and cries.

minji and kazuha’s hands roamed your body, squeezing and groping every inch of you. they pinched and pulled at your nipples, twisting them just hard enough to ride the line between pleasure and pain. their fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, leaving reddened marks in their wake.

the pleasure built rapidly, your body tensing as your orgasm approached. winter could feel your walls fluttering around her tongue, your juices flooding her mouth. whe doubled her efforts, sucking harder, fucking you deeper with her tongue as she chased your release.

with a final, keening cry, your body convulsed, your back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashed over you. your cunt clenched and spasmed, gushing your release into winter’s waiting mouth. she swallowed every drop, moaning in delight at the taste of your essence.

as you came down from your high, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your intense orgasm, minji and kazuha tightened their grips on your thighs. they held you in place, spreading your legs wide open, fully exposing your sensitive, dripping cunt to winter’s hungry gaze.

winter licked her lips, taking in the glorious sight of your twitching, swollen folds. without warning, she plunged two fingers deep into your tight channel, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace. the wet, obscene sounds of her fingers fucking your cunt filled the air, mingling with your whimpers and moans.

minji and kazuha continued their assault on your breasts, sucking and biting harder, leaving dark, angry hickeys on the soft flesh. their hands roamed lower, squeezing and kneading the globes of your ass, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your tight, puckered hole.

winter added a third finger, stretching you wider, filling you up so deliciously. her thumb rubbed hard circles around your clit, the rough pad stimulating the sensitive nub. she could feel your walls clenching around her invading fingers, trying to suck them deeper inside you.

*kazuha looked up at you with a wicked grin, her teeth still latched onto your nipple. “that’s it, you perfect little fucktoy. take winter’s fingers like the cock–hungry slut you are.” she growled, giving your nipple a sharp bite.

minji chuckled darkly, her hand moving down to squeeze your ass harder. “i can’t wait to feel this tight asshole wrapped around my dick. i’m going to ruin all your holes, make you forget your own name.” she promised, her voice dripping with lust and depravity.

winter’s fingers never stopped their relentless assault on your cunt, plunging in and out, curling to hit that special spot inside you with every thrust. she could feel your body tensing again, your walls starting to flutter around her invading digits. she knew you were close to another explosive orgasm.

“that’s it, cum slut. cum all over my fingers like the desperate whore you are.” winter growled, pounding into you harder, faster, determined to make you fall apart completely.

minji and kazuha redoubled their efforts on your tits, sucking and biting with wild abandon. they pinched and pulled at your nipples, twisting the sensitive buds until they were painfully hard and throbbing. their hands kneaded and squeezed your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

suddenly, winter plunged a fourth finger into your dripping cunt, stretching you impossibly wide. at the same time, she sucked hard on your clit, her teeth grazing the sensitive nub. that was the final push you needed. your body convulsed violently, back arching off the bed as your second orgasm ripped through you like a tidal wave.

you screamed, a high–pitched, almost animalistic sound tearing from your throat as your cunt clamped down around sinter’s fingers. your juices gushed out, flooding her hand, dripping down onto the bed. your breasts heaved, your chest flushed a deep, rosy red as minji and kazuha continued their ruthless assault, pushing you to ride out every last second of your intense climax.

as your orgasm finally started to subside, leaving you a shaking, drooling mess beneath them, winter slowly withdrew her soaked fingers from your fluttering cunt. she brought them up to her mouth, making a show of licking your juices off, savoring your taste with a wicked grin.

minji and kazuha finally released your abused nipples, leaving them throbbing and glistening with their saliva. they sat back, taking in the debauched sight of your naked, marked body, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

winter looked at your trembling, fucked–out body splayed across the bed, a wicked gleam in her eyes. she could see the way your pussy was still twitching and dripping with each aftershock, your juices painting obscene streaks on the sheets beneath you. nut she wasn’t satisfied yet. no, this greedy bitch wanted more.

she grabbed your thighs, pushing them back towards your chest until your knees were practically touching your shoulders. this left your ass and cunt completely exposed and vulnerable to her, your holes winking and clenching in the cool air. winter licked her lips, a feral grin spreading across her face.

“one more for me, you filthy slut. just one more.” she growled, before diving back between your legs. she buried her face in your cunt, her tongue delving deep, lapping up the leftover juices like a starving animal. her hands gripped your ass cheeks, kneading and spreading them apart as she ate you out.

minji and kazuha watched with dark, lust-filled eyes as winter tongue–fucked your pussy. they could see how swollen and puffy your lips were, how red and angry the flesh looked from winter’s relentless assault. It was clear that she was determined to make you squirt again, to wring out every last drop of your pleasure and leave you a completely fucked–out mess.

winter’s tongue swirled around your clit, flicking and suckling the sensitive bud as she pushed two fingers back inside your tight channel. she pumped them slowly at first, curling them to rub that special spot inside you with every thrust. at the same time, she sealed her lips around your clit, sucking hard as she flicked the tip of her tongue rapidly over the nerve–packed flesh.

your body was so sensitive from the two orgasms already, and winter’s skilled ministrations quickly pushed you towards the edge again. you could feel the pressure building in your core, your walls starting to flutter and clench around her invading fingers. your thighs trembled, your toes curling as your pleasure mounted.

winter could feel your body tensing, your cunt gripping her fingers like a vice. she knew you were close. determined to make you squirt for her, she doubled her efforts, sucking harder on your clit as she pounded three fingers in and out of your dripping pussy.

your body seized up, back arching clean off the bed as your third orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. winter moaned against your cunt as she felt your pussy clench and spasm around her fingers, your juices gushing out in a powerful squirt. she aimed your twitching hole towards her open mouth, greedily drinking down your release as it poured out of you.

minji and kazuha watched in awe, their cocks straining against their pants at the erotic sight of you coming undone once again. winter’s face was glazed with your essence, your squirting pussy painting her cheeks, chin, and lips with your arousal. she licked and slurped, determined not to waste a single drop of your sweet nectar.

as your intense orgasm finally started to subside, your body went limp, collapsing back onto the bed. you were completely fucked out, your mind blank and your body spent. your chest heaved as you gasped for air, your skin flushed and slick with sweat. winter sat back with a triumphant grin, licking her lips and savoring the taste of your cum.

“fuck, look at you. you’re a complete mess.” kazuha said with a dark chuckle, giving your ass a hard spank. “i love seeing this perfect body marked up and ruined for us.”

minji smirked, rubbing herself through her jeans. “now that we’ve warmed you up, it’s time for the main event. get ready, slut, because we're going to fuck you senseless and paint your insides with our cum.”

ss your body recovered from the intense orgasm winter had forced upon you, minji decided it was her turn to have some fun. with a wicked grin, she crawled up the bed, her eyes fixated on your gorgeous, rounded ass. she licked her lips, eager to taste your most intimate area.

without warning, she buried her face between your ass cheeks, her tongue immediately starting to explore your tight, puckered hole. she dragged the flat of her tongue over your ass crack, tracing the curve of your ass before flicking the tip against your tight hole. your body shuddered at the new sensation, your hole clenching instinctively.

minji groaned in appreciation as she lapped at your ass, her hands squeezing and kneading the plump flesh. she spread your cheeks wider, exposing you even more to her hungry mouth. her tongue circled your puckered entrance, teasing you mercilessly before plunging inside.

she pushed her tongue deep into your asshole, fucking you with the slick muscle. her nose pressed against your ass crack as she tongue–fucked you, her hands gripping your cheeks hard enough to leave reddened marks. minji ate your ass like a woman possessed, her lust and hunger for you palpable in every lick and suck.

winter and kazuha watched the lewd display, their cocks rock hard and straining against their pants. they could see minji’s tongue plunging in and out of your tight hole, your body jiggling with the force of her licks. the sight of your ass being devoured was incredibly erotic, and they knew they wouldn’t last much longer.

kazuha licked her lips, her hand moving to palm her hard cock through her jeans. “fuck, look at her eating that perfect ass. i can’t wait to shove my dick in there and make her scream.” she said, her voice low and rough with lust.

winter nodded, rubbing herself through her pants as well. “me neither. i want to see her face when we finally split her open and fill her with our cum.” she growled, her eyes dark and hungry as she watched minji feast on your ass.

minji continued to eat you out, her tongue plunging deep and hard into your asshole. She could feel your body tensing, your ass clenching and unclenching around her invading

your body started to tremble, a mix of pleasure and anticipation coursing through you as minji’s skilled tongue worked your asshole. she could feel the pressure building, your walls starting to quiver and clench around the slick invader plundering your most intimate depths. Just as she was about to reach her peak, minji pulled back, leaving your asshole empty and aching for more. she gave it one last hard suck, her lips sealing around your puckered hole as she inhaled deeply, savoring your musky scent before releasing you with a wet pop.

minji licked her lips, a sinful grin spreading across her face as she took in your debauched state — chest heaving, face flushed, and your ass still raised and presented, glistening with her spit. she could see how swollen and puffy your asshole was from her oral attentions, clenching desperately around nothing. it was clear that your body was more than ready for what came next.

winter and kazuha had already shed their clothes, their hard, thick cocks springing free, flushed a deep red and leaking with arousal. they stroked themselves as they took in the erotic sight of you, their eyes filled with dark promise and unchecked lust. It was clear that they were going to use your holes for their pleasure, to fuck you until you were a drooling, cum–drunk mess.

the three friends looked at each other, a silent agreement passing between them. they wanted to push your limits, to see how much you could take before breaking. winter nodded at kazuha and minji, a wicked grin on her face.

“let’s put that pretty mouth to good use, shall we?” she said, her voice dripping with lust and dark promise. “i want to feel those lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me off until i paint your throat with my cum.”

minji and kazuha smirked, stroking their hard, throbbing dicks as they waited for their turns. they wanted to use your mouth just as thoroughly, to fuck your face until tears streamed down your cheeks and your jaw ached from the brutal pace.

winter stepped forward first, grabbing your hair and forcing you to your knees. she pressed the swollen head of her cock against your lips, smearing her leaking pre–cum across the soft flesh. the musky scent of her arousal filled your nostrils, making your head spin with desire.

“open up, you cock–hungry slut.” winter growled, pushing her hips forward to force her thick shaft past your lips. she groaned as your mouth stretched around her, taking her inch by inch until she hit the back of your throat.

as winter started to fuck your face, minji and kazuha circled around, their hard cocks bobbing and twitching with each movement. they stroked themselves in time with winter’s thrusts, their eyes glued to the erotic sight of your lips stretched around her girthy dick.

winter set a brutal pace, gripping your hair tightly as she slammed her hips forward again and again. she used your mouth like a fleshy cock sleeve, her heavy balls slapping against your chin with each thrust. drool leaked from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your heaving tits as she fucked your face with wild abandon.

winter grunted and growled above you, her grip on your hair tightening as she chased her pleasure. she could feel your throat constricting around her, your muscles fluttering and massaging her sensitive cock with each brutal thrust. the wet, obscene sounds of her fucking your face filled the room, mixing with here harsh pants and groans.

just as she was about to reach her peak, winter pulled out abruptly, her cock slick with your spit. strings of drool connected your lips to his shaft, and your jaw ached from the intense face–fucking.

winter smirked down at you, taking in your disheveled state — hair mussed, face flushed, and spit dripping down your chin. she could see the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your tits bouncing slightly with the movement. it was clear that your body was already overwhelmed with pleasure and stimulation, but winter was far from done with you.

without warning, winter raised her hand and brought it down hard across your cheek, the sharp slap echoing in the room. your face jerked to the side from the force of it, a red handprint blooming across your skin. before you could even think to protest, winter had grabbed your hair and shoved her spit–slick cock back into your mouth, hilting herself deep in your throat.

you gagged around the thick intrusion, your throat convulsing as you struggled to accommodate her girth. drool poured from your stretched lips, pooling on your tits and dripping down your stomach. winter held you in place, your nose pressed against her pelvis as she ground her hips against your face, painting your tongue and throat with her musky essence.

as suddenly as she had shoved her cock back into your mouth, winter pulled out, allowing you a moment to gasp for air. she stroked herself rapidly, her hand flying over her spit-slick shaft. Her other hand gripped your hair tightly, holding your head in place as she loomed over you.

minji and kazuha watched with dark, lust-filled eyes, their own cocks pumping in their fists as they took in the brutal display. they could see the way winter’s thick cock stretched your lips obscenely, the way your throat bulged with each thrust. the sight of her slapping you, using your face like a fuck toy, only turned them on more.

winter’s strokes became erratic, her grip on your hair tightening as she chased her rapidly approaching orgasm. Her balls drew up tight, her shaft pulsing and throbbing in her hand. with a guttural groan, she shoved her cock back into your mouth, slamming her hips forward one last time before pulling out completely.

winter aimed her cock at your face, stroking herself furiously. her other hand gripped your hair, holding you in place as she let out a low, animalistic growl. your eyes widened as thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from the swollen head of her cock, painting your face with thick and heavy cum.

your face was instantly drenched in winter’s hot, sticky seed. thick ropes of cum splattered across your cheeks, your forehead, your chin, and your lips. some of it even landed in your hair, matting the strands together. you could feel the heavy spurts of jizz dripping down your skin, pooling in the hollow of your neck and the valley between your breasts.

as winter finished marking you with her release, minji and kazuha stepped up, their cocks rock hard and leaking with arousal. they had watched the brutal face–fucking and facial with bated breath, their dicks throbbing with the need for the same treatment.

minji stepped forward, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she took in the sight of you - face glazed with winter’s cum, chest heaving, and eyes glazed over with lust and exhaustion. She could see the way your tits glistened with the sticky essence, the red handprint still blazing across your cheek. it only spurred on her own desire, making her want to mark you as thoroughly as her friends had.

without any preamble, inji grabbed your hair, forcing you to your knees once more. She pressed the swollen, leaking head of her cock against your cum-splattered cheek, smearing the mess across your skin. the musky scent of her arousal filled your nostrils, making your head spin with need.

“open up, you cum–drunk slut.” minji growled, her voice rough with lust. “i’m going to fuck your pretty little mouth until you choke on my cock. i want to see those slutty eyes roll back in your head as i ruin your throat.”

she didn’t wait for a response, simply gripping your hair tighter and forcing her thick shaft past your lips. your jaw stretched obscenely around her girth, your mouth struggling to accommodate the sudden intrusion. minji groaned as your wet heat enveloped her, her hips jerking forward to bury herself deeper in your throat.

minji set a brutal pace, slamming her hips against your face with each thrust. she used your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking your face with wild abandon. drool poured from your stretched lips, dripping down your chin and onto your tits, mixing with the cum already painting your skin. the wet, obscene sounds of minji’s cock plunging in and out of your mouth filled the room, mingling with her harsh pants and grunts.

just like winter, minji wasn’t gentle. she gripped your hair tightly, holding your head in place as she fucked your face with everything she had. She could feel your throat constricting around her, your muscles fluttering and massaging her sensitive flesh. it only spurred her on more, making her thrusts harder and more erratic.

winter and kazuha watched intently as Minji used your mouth, their own cocks throbbing with the need for their turn. rhey could see the way your throat bulged with each brutal thrust, the way your tits bounced and jiggled from the force of Minji's hips slamming against your face. the sight was incredibly erotic, and they knew they wouldn't last much longer before they needed to bury their own dicks in your hot, willing mouth.

minji’s balls slammed against your chin with each thrust, your skin growing slick with spit and pre–cum. she could feel her orgasm building quickly, her cock pulsing and twitching inside the tight clutch of your throat. with a harsh groan, she shoved her hips forward one last time, burying herself to the hilt in your mouth as she started to come.

thick, hot spurts of cum erupted from Minji's cock, flooding your mouth and painting your tongue white. she held your head in place, forcing you to swallow every drop of her release as it poured down your throat. you could feel it sloshing in your belly, adding to the growing puddle of jizz already coating your skin.

as minji pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, a strand of cum and drool connecting your lips to her softening cock, kazuha wasted no time in taking her place.

kazuha wasted no time in grabbing your hair, forcing you back onto your knees as minji stepped aside. she could see the way your throat worked to swallow the load of cum she had just fed you, the way your belly was starting to swell slightly from the sheer volume of jizz pumped into your mouth and throat. it was a debauched sight that only served to inflame her own lust and desire.

kazuha pressed the leaking tip of her cock against your lips, smearing the mix of winter’s and minji’s cum across your face. the musky scent of her arousal was thick in the air, making your head spin with need. she could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath. it was clear that your body was overwhelmed with pleasure, but she had no intention of stopping until she had her own release.

“such a good little cum dump,” kazuha purred, her voice dripping with dark promise. “i bet you can’t wait to choke on my cock, can you? i bet you want to feel me painting your insides white, marking you as mine."

she didn’t wait for a response, simply gripping your hair tighter and forcing her thick shaft past your lips. your jaw stretched obscenely around her girth, your mouth struggling to accommodate the sudden intrusion. kazuha groaned as your wet heat enveloped her, her hips jerking forward to bury herself deeper in your throat.

kazuha set a brutal pace, slamming her hips against your face with each thrust. she used your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking your face with wild abandon. drool poured from your stretched lips, dripping down your chin and onto your tits, mixing with the cum already painting your skin. the wet, obscene sounds of kazuha’s cock plunging in and out of your mouth filled the room, mingling with her harsh pants and grunts.

just like winter and minji before her, kazuha wasn’t gentle. she gripped your hair tightly, holding your head in place as she fucked your face with everything she had. she could feel your throat constricting around her, your muscles fluttering and massaging her sensitive flesh. it only spurred her on more, making her thrusts harder and more erratic.

kazuha’s strokes became frantic, her grip on your hair tightening as she chased her rapidly approaching orgasm. she could feel her balls drawing up tight, her shaft pulsing and throbbing in your mouth. with a loud, guttural moan, she slammed her hips forward one last time before pulling out completely.

kazuha aimed her cock at your face, stroking herself furiously. thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from her swollen tip, splattering across your cheeks and forehead. she painted your face with her release, marking you as thoroughly as her friends had. some of it even landed in your hair, matting the strands together.

as kazuha finished, she stepped back, leaving you kneeling on the floor, your face and tits glazed with three different loads of cum. your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your skin slick and shiny with the sticky essence. your jaw ached from the brutal face–fucking, and your belly was slightly distended from the sheer volume of jizz pumped into your mouth and throat.

the three friends looked down at your debauched state, their cocks still hard and leaking. they could see the way your eyes were glazed over, your mind fucked stupid from the intense experience. it was clear that you were completely overwhelmed, drowning in a sea of pleasure and exhaustion. and yet, they knew they could still push you further, could still make you take more of their cocks, more of their cum.

kazuha smirked down at your cum–soaked, exhausted form kneeling before her. she could see the way your chest heaved with each labored breath, the way your skin glistened with the sticky essence of three intense facials. despite your clear state of overload, kazuha wasn’t done with you yet. she wanted to feel your tight, wet cunt wrapped around her throbbing cock, wanted to make you scream on her dick until you were hoarse.

“get up and sit on my cock, slut.” kazuha ordered, her voice rough with lust. “i want to feel that perfect pussy squeezing me as i split you open on my fat dick. i’m going to fuck you so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

kazuha grabbed your arms, hauling you to your feet. she pulled you towards the bed, forcing you to straddle her hips. she grabbed your hips, gripping them tightly as she positioned you above her straining erection. she rubbed the swollen head of her cock up and down your dripping slit, coating herself in your slick arousal. the sensation made her groan, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass.

“that’s it, you dirty girl. sit on my cock like the desperate little slut you are,” kazuha growled. “i’m going to ruin your tight cunt, make you scream so loud the neighbors will hear you.”

with that, she pulled you down, the thick head of her shaft popping past your entrance and sinking into your hot, clutching depths. kazuha threw her head back with a guttural moan as your walls stretched around her, gripping her like a vice. she could feel your slick, velvety heat enveloping her, your body welcoming her intrusion.

kazuha started to bounce you on her lap, using your hips to drive you up and down her thick shaft. each downward motion sank her deeper into your core, stretching you wider, filling you more completely. her hips surged up to meet yours, slamming her cock into you with bruising force, determined to ruin you for all other men.

“yes, fuck! your cunt feels so fucking good around my dick.” kazuha snarled, her eyes dark and wild as she watched your tits bounce and jiggle with each thrust. “i’m going to fuck this pussy so hard, you'll be feeling me for days. i’ll make sure this cunt remembers the shape of my cock, the way i split you open on my thick meat.”

the wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room as kazuha fucked up into you, each thrust shaking the bed. her balls slapped against your ass, heavy and full, ready to paint your insides with her seed. kazuha wanted to fill you, to pump you so full of her cum that you would be dripping for hours after she was done with you.

kazuha’s hands roamed your body as she fucked up into you, squeezing and kneading every inch of exposed skin. she tweaked your nipples roughly, pinching and rolling the hardened buds between her fingers until you cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain. her other hand slid down to your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in harsh, fast circles, determined to make you come undone on her cock.

“that’s it, scream for me! let everyone know who this pussy belongs to.” kazuha demanded, her voice a low, rough growl. she could feel your walls starting to flutter and clench around her, your body tensing as your orgasm approached. kazuha wanted to feel you come apart, wanted to watch your face as you surrendered to the pleasure utterly.

she redoubled her efforts, slamming her hips up harder, driving her cock deeper into your core with each brutal thrust. at the same time, she pinched your clit hard, rolling the sensitive bud between her fingers until your vision nearly whites out from the intense sensation.

kazuha could feel her own release fast approaching, her balls drawing up tight as she chased her rapidly building climax. she wanted to come deep inside you, to pump your tight cunt full of her hot, thick seed. she wanted to mark you as hers, to claim you in the most primal way possible.

“fuck, i’m going to come! i’m going to fill this pussy up, paint your insides white with my cum!” kazuha roared, slamming her hips up one last time. she buried herself to the hilt inside you, the head of her cock kissing your cervix as she exploded.

at the same time, she felt your pussy clamp down around her like a vice, your walls rippling and squeezing her shaft as your own intense orgasm overtook you. kazuha threw her head back with a guttural moan, a string of curses falling from her lips as she pumped your clenching cunt full of her hot, sticky release.

as kazuha slammed her hips up one final time, burying her throbbing cock deep inside your spasming cunt, she didn't pull out. Instead, she gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as she started to grind her pelvis against yours. her cock twitched and pulsed inside you, pumping thick ropes of hot cum directly into your womb as your pussy milked her for every last drop.

just as the intense waves of your shared orgasm began to subside, you felt the bed dip behind you. you turned your head to see minji positioning herself, a wicked gleam in her eye and a sadistic smirk on her face. before you could react, she pressed the slick tip of her own hard cock against your tight, puckered asshole.

minji wasted no time, pushing forward and sinking into your ass with one smooth, relentless thrust. your eyes widened and you let out a choked moan as she speared you open on her thick shaft, your back arching as your body struggled to adjust to the sudden intrusion. the sensation of having both your holes filled at the same time was overwhelming, pushing you to the brink of overload.

“fuck, her ass is so goddamn tight–” minji groaned, starting to roll her hips and fuck into you with deep, purposeful strokes. her hands gripped your ass cheeks hard, kneading the plump flesh as she used your hole like a cock sleeve.

kazuha matched her thrusts, slamming her own hips up to meet minji’s downward movements. together, they sandwiched you between them, their combined weight and the force of their thrusts shaking the bed. the wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with your wants and the grunts of the two women using your holes so thoroughly.

“take it, you filthy slut,” kazuha snarled, her eyes dark with lust and hunger. “take our cocks like the desperate whore you are. i’m going to fuck this tight ass until you're screaming for more.”

“and i’ll pump this greedy asshole full of my hot cum.” minji added, punctuating her words with a sharp thrust of her hips. ahe could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around her invading shaft, your body instinctively trying to push her out even as you were trying to get used to her size.

minji leaned over you, her tits pressing against your back as she bit down hard on your shoulder, marking you as her own. her hips slammed against your ass with brutal force, each thrust shaking your entire body and forcing kazuha’s cock even deeper into your cunt. the dual stimulation of having your pussy stretched around kazuha’s throbbing shaft and your asshole speared open on minji’s thick meat was almost too much to bear.

“scream for us, you cock–hungry slut!” kazuha demanded, her voice a low, rough growl. ahe pinched and rolled your nipples roughly, sending jolts of pleasurable pain straight to your core. at the same time, she rubbed your clit in fast, harsh circles, pushing you closer to the edge of another mind–blowing orgasm.

winter watched with dark, lust-filled eyes as minji and kazuha used your holes with wild abandon. the sight of you sandwiched between them, your face twisted in a mix of pleasure and overload, only fueled her own desires. she wanted a piece of the action, wanted to add her own brand of brutal passion to the depraved scene.

without warning, winter grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look up at her. her other hand groped and squeezed your tits roughly, kneading the soft flesh and tweaking your nipples until you cried out. winter’s eyes were wild and hungry as she drank in the sight of your face, flushed and contorted with ecstasy.

”i want your mouth on my cock, slut.” winter growled, her voice dripping with dark promise. “i want to feel that pretty little mouth wrapped around my shaft while these two bitches ruin your holes. suck me off like the desperate whore you are.”

with that, she forced your head down, shoving your face into her crotch. the musky scent of her arousal filled your nostrils, making your head spin with need. winter gripped your hair tightly, holding your head in place as she rubbed her leaking cock against your lips, smearing them with her pre–cum.

at the same time, minji and kazuha redoubled their efforts, slamming into you with renewed fervor. they gripped your hips and ass tightly, using your body like a fuck toy for their pleasure. the bed creaked and groaned beneath the force of their thrusts, the headboard slamming against the wall with each brutal surge of their hips.

“fuck, look at her taking all three of us…” minji panted, her voice rough with exertion and lust. she could feel your asshole clenching and fluttering around her shaft, your body desperate for more even as it strained to take the intense double penetration.

“she’s a natural born cock sleeve,” kazuha agreed, slamming her hips up harder, driving her own shaft deeper into your spasming cunt. she could feel winter’s cock throbbing against your lips, the heat of it searing your skin even through the fabric of her pants.

winter shoved her hips forward, forcing her hard, thick shaft past your lips and into the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. your jaw stretched obscenely around her girth, your tongue instinctively wrapping around the invading flesh. winter groaned at the feeling of your mouth enveloping her, her fingers tightening in your hair.

“that’s it, you cock–hungry slut,” winter snarled, starting to roll her hips and fuck your face with deep, purposeful strokes. “take my fucking cock like the dirty whore you are. i want to feel the back of your throat as i use your mouth.”

as winter started to face–fuck you, minji and kazuha matched her rhythm, slamming their own hips against yours in brutal unison. the triple assault on your senses was overwhelming, pushing you to the brink of blacking out from the intense pleasure and lack of air.

your mind reeled as your body was used for their pleasure, your holes stretched and filled, your mouth stuffed full of hard, throbbing cock. drool poured from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your heaving tits as winter fucked your face with wild abandon. the wet, guttural sounds of her hips slapping against your face filled the room, mingling with the obscene slap of flesh on flesh as kazuha and Minji continued to pound your cunt and ass.

your body started to shake and convulse, a scream muffled by winter’s pistoning cock as another mind–shattering orgasm ripped through you. your pussy clenched and spasmed around kazuha’s shaft, your asshole gripping minji’s in a vice–like hold as your release crashed over you like a tidal wave. the sensation of coming on three cocks at once was almost too intense to bear, pushing you to the very limits of what your body could take.

through it all, winter, minji, and kazuha didn’t let up, continuing to use your holes with brutal, animalistic fervor. they fucked you through your orgasm, their strokes never faltering as they chased their own impending releases. the room filled with the debauched sounds of your screams, the wet slap of flesh on flesh, and the grunts and moans of the three women as they raced towards their own climaxes.

winter slammed her hips forward one last time, burying her cock deep in your throat as she threw her head back with a roar. thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from her shaft, painting your throat and filling your belly with her bitter essence. At the same time, minji and kazuha hilted themselves inside you, their own cocks pulsing and throbbing as they pumped your cunt and ass full of their releasing seed.

tou could feel their shafts pulsing and twitching inside you as they emptied their heavy balls, flooding your holes with what felt like gallons of hot, sticky cum. it was an overwhelming sensation, being pumped so full of their releases that you could feel it sloshing heavily in your belly and leaking out around their shafts.

as their orgasms subsided, the three friends slowly pulled out, their softening cocks slipping from your thoroughly used holes with obscene wet sounds. you collapsed forward onto the bed, your body limp and spent, completely fucked out from the intense triple assault on your senses. your skin glistened with sweat and cum, your hair a wild mess, and your holes gaping and dripping with their combined releases.

as the three friends caught their breath and basked in the afterglow of their intense, depraved session, they looked down at your absolutely wrecked form sprawled out on the bed. your skin was slick with sweat, cum, and other fluids, your holes gaping and leaking their releases, and your hair a wild, tangled mess. they could see the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your body completely fucked out and overwhelmed.

winter, minji, and kazuha exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. they wanted to give you one last reward, one final act to seal your initiation into their group of friends. with a wicked grin, winter spoke up, her voice still rough from her recent orgasm.

“i think our little slut deserves a proper send-off, don’t you?” she said, looking at her friends with a gleam of lust in her eyes. “let’s give her a facial to remember."

minji and kazuha nodded in agreement, their own cocks already starting to stir and harden at the thought. they gathered around the bed, stroking themselves to full mast once more. Winter grabbed your hair, forcing you to sit up and kneel in the middle of the bed. the other two positioned themselves on either side of you, their hard shafts bobbing and twitching with arousal.

“open wide, you cum–hungry whore,” kazuha growled, fisting her shaft and aiming it at your face. “we’re going to paint you like a canvas, mark you as our bitch for good.”

minji did the same, gripping her own cock and rubbing the swollen head against your cheek, smearing your skin with her pre–cum. winter grabbed your hair tighter, forcing your head back and exposing your face to their combined assault.

together, the three friends started to stroke themselves furiously, their grips tight and their movements fast and rough. they wanted to come hard and fast, to give you a facial like no other. the room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of their stroking, their grunts and moans growing louder and more urgent as they approached their climax.

“fuck, i’m going to come!” winter roared, her voice echoing off the walls. at the same time, minji and kazuha let out their own cries of release, their shafts pulsing and thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from the tips, splattering across your face and hair in heavy streams. winter, minji, and kazuha stroked themselves to completion, pumping load after load of their thick, pungent seed all over you. your face and hair were quickly glazed with a thick layer of their combined releases, droplets dripping down your chin and onto your chest.

by the time they finished, you were completely drenched in their essences, your skin and hair matted with the sticky evidence of their lust. the sheer volume of cum painted on your face was a testament to their intense, depraved session and your initiation into their exclusive group of friends.