“Apologies are dumb, don’t you think?” the words hum out of your mouth and into the hot and humid summer air. 

You watch as Megan's brows furrow, “why do you say so? I mean… what else are people supposed to say?”

“That’s exactly what I mean!” you chuckle, “people say sorry because they have nothing else to say. People say sorry when they’re out of excuses and can’t… reason their way out anymore. Sorry’s are dumb. They’re like… a bandaid over a bullet wound. They don’t fix a thing, you know?”

The girl smiles, “well I apologize a lot.” She looks towards you, one of her iconic smiles that would usually send fans screaming plastered her lips as her head quirks, almost like she’s challenging you to a duel of the wits.

You scoff, a playful roll breezing over your eyes while a smile pulls onto your cheeks, “ugh, shut up Megan!” A shove is thrown her way as she grabs onto her arms like you fatally wounded her.

“Now you have to say sorry!”

“Oh please,” your head turns to the girl, “I’m sorry. Happy?”

“Okay sure, whatever,” Megan says, pretending to ponder your words with a faux unamused scowl. 

A weight dips onto Megan’s shoulders, her head tilts to watch yours slowly fall into place, “I’d always forgive you Megan Meiyok Skiendiel.”

“Don’t full name me!” the girl gasps as she swats at your head. Your hands flew up to cover your scalp as you retreated back into your space.

“Hey! I mean it. You’re my best friend. I’ll always forgive you,” you grin.

“You better!”

Those words didn’t age so nicely now, but you were right.

You would always forgive the girl. No matter what.

No matter what reason or logic or virtue or morals in your head it went against. 

You will always forgive Megan.

1. I’m so sorry I messed up the choreo.

Megan loved to utter those beautiful words, and you loved to watch them fall from her lips even before you realized the way they would make your heart stutter and your brain blank. You paid no mind to the wedge it pried open in your chest. The way the words sank somewhere you didn’t enjoy. Somewhere too deep to decipher at first.

The first time Megan formally apologized to you was in the dance studio. The two of you were trying to film a video for a tiktok. The girl, a perfectionist, spent her time tweaking the way her heel struck the vinyl floor or analyzing the angle her elbow bent during a beat drop. That landed the two of you here, you trying to teach Megan this so-called “sick” hand trick they did in the choreography, while the skilled dancer, who you firmly believe probably started dancing in the womb, managed to lose every ounce of her composure as her eyes followed your wrists.

“Okay Meggie,” you smiled. It was a nickname you gave the girl. One reserved only for your use. A rule only written in the fine print of your lives. An unspoken understanding. “You put your wrists together and point up, okay? Elbows perpendicular to the ground. You twist them around so both your palms face you, then do that in reverse, like a 180?” you say demonstrating the gesture with your hands moving in fluid motion. 

The girl beside you nods along, hands following the action with immaculate precision. As always. That was something you admired about Megan. Her intentionality. She always knew what to do. Where to place her hands. How to perform. What expression to make. It was like she knew the job as an idol inside and out. What to lay bare, and what to keep hidden behind the gates of her heart. 

You wish you could too.

Still, her wrist was too stiff in some aspects. That was unusual for the fluid movements and groove she was known for. Yet, you shrugged it off. You always did. Something in your mind snaked through your thoughts with perfectly pieced together lies and excuses. The stiffness must’ve been from the stress, or the pressure, or the coming performance. Nothing similar to the word that had been dangling around the two of you now. Nothing like the concept people yearned for daily, but the two of you danced around like second nature. Love. 

You’re not sure if your brain purposely ignored the way her cheeks visibly flushed bright red as you pulled her into frame after setting up the camera and pressing record. You’re not sure if your ears meant to drown out the way her breath audibly hitched at the skin on skin contact when your fingers met hers. In that moment though, from the screen you could see the way Megan’s movements began 2 beats after when she was supposed to. A mistake the girl would never usually make.

You didn’t ponder on it.

You didn’t even scold her for messing up the take.

You laughed. The throw your head back type of laughter one would do when a friend made a silly mistake that you promised to remember forever.

Yes. One of those laughs.

Megan just spirted out apologizes like her life depended on it, “shit— I’m so sorry I messed up the choreo. I promise it won’t happen again—”

“Meggie, it’s fine,” you grinned, waving her off as you picked up your phone to reset the recording.

You didn’t bother to think too hard about why. Just blaming the incident on the girl zoning out like she usually did. You didn’t think that hard in general. If you did, you would have seen the way her eyes were glued onto your figure when she fumbled her counts, or the way her jaw was slightly unclasped when you began to move your hips to the beat. You were too focused on completing the dance challenge instead. In hindsight, all probably for the better. If only it stayed that way.

2. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.

From then on, Megan’s apologies only grew in number. They piled into towers which rested on top of your chest. A heavy weight you learned to carry because love wasn’t supposed to be easy. At least that was what you were told. You could forgive this flaw. It was just who Megan was. Loud, at every function until the doors close and her voice drops to a soft whisper as if anything louder than a mouse would send you packing and out the door. Excited, about basically anything she could get her hands on. Yet, every time she saw you walk over, her fingers would begin to fiddle while her words turned to gibberish. She became a nervous wreck. It was as if she couldn’t imagine how someone like you could love someone like her. Unpolished. Rough around the edges in the most beautiful way possible. A hindrance. 

But you did.

Oh so much. 

So much you could excuse her little habit. A habit that always gets on your frayed nerves.

Her stupid apologies.

Still, how could you blame her? They’re just words. Harmless sounds which come out of her mouth.

It would always happen. You learned to live with it. Today was one of those days. 

All the girls were in the dance studio. A new comeback meant new choreography. It was routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. The stares you could feel at the side of your face were nothing out of the ordinary either. Also practically routine. You could always tell who it was.

Megan.

Who else could it even be?

You listened as Sohey explained this one dance move for the fifth time that day. His tone dripped with annoyance as he continued, “stomp and then hip. Not the other way around. Not at the same time. Just come on.” His rant continued while he demonstrated the action, stomping his foot on the ground before popping his hip to strike the desired pose.

The group of you reentered formation, running the dance from the start. The words echoed in your head. Point your toes, now straight arms, isolate the chest, kick and strut. Then, you felt your right knee bend when it shouldn’t have. Horror ripping through your body as your legs gave out beneath you, sending you straight to the floor. The vinyl flooring zoomed into view while your hands went out to try and break the fall. Within seconds you were on the floor, palms pressed against the dusty plastic. Your knee screamed at you in a dull pain. 

“Fuck!” you hear Megan blurt out beside you. Her foot was located where yours were moments ago. A trip. A simple trip that left you pushing yourself off the floor and back onto your feet because the show never stopped. The fans never waited. Megan’s apologies came tumbling, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I shouldn’t have rushed the beat and tripped you and hurt you. It was all a mistake I promise, I swear. Please. Please Y/n–”

“–it’s fine, Megan. It really is,” you say like it was nothing, dusting off your knees and returning to formation as Sohey chanted for the group to run the dance again.

Megan didn’t need anyone to call her out to know the reason for your fall. One glace. One movement out of focus, and she sent you straight to the floor. 

Apologies didn’t feel like enough for her back then.

Now, they certainly aren’t enough for you anymore.

3. Sorry.

For how unpolished Megan’s apologies were, the sounds she uttered in front of a camera was never so. Clean cut, purposeful. A talent she learned from growing up in the unforgiving claws of the entertainment industry for so long. A talent she forgot only around you.

All it took was one interview. One camera picking up on where her field of vision landed.

“Megan Skiendiel. What are you looking at?” the interviewer remarks. Her voice cut through the peaceful atmosphere of the radio station's recording booth, sending everyone’s heads snapping to the sound. 

Megan’s head whips around until she’s faced towards the interviewer, spluttering, “I— what? I— I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

The way her head turned towards you every two syllables while she stuttered didn’t help her case. The way she panicked and became redder than a tomato didn’t help either. Sophia, ever vigilant, ever composed, jumped in the way she always did, “I think what Megan meant was how you asked about pillars of support, right? Megan and Y/n have always been close. Two peas in a pod since Dream Academy days. They’re each other's biggest pillars of support. Right, Megan?”

A flustered girl swiftly grasped onto the olive branch their leader extended, “yes yes. Exactly that. I don’t know where I’d be without Y/n supporting me all this way.”

You just laugh at the scene. Something in your stomach churned at the lie. The way the intimacy of your friendship was reduced to mere companionship, like it was all luck that forged the way. It glossed over the nights the two of you spent talking on the couch after a misunderstanding. It blurred away the glances across meeting rooms when executives were ripping everyone to shreds. It wiped clean the secret brushes of the knee, hand, foot under dinner tables, when walking through the halls, in every moment possible that meant a little bit more than either of you let on. Moments that made the friendship almost feel like a little bit more. Like it could be a little bit more than just sisterly love. 

The flushed cheeks, fumbled sentences, clammy hands. Friends don’t do that. Families don’t do that. You and Megan did. That had to mean something more than what was being let on now. It must.

The interviewer gets a memo through their earpiece. No one knew what it was, just that it made them drop the topic. You watch as Megan’s breathing returns to normal. The anxiety and stress of the slip slowly escaping her. The rest of the group follows suit, but the twist in your chest doesn’t ease. It grows instead. It grows as you watch Megan force her head back in front of her every time it drifts even at the slightest angle towards you. It grows as she avoids eye contact even when the group mentioned your names together with hers in a reference to something stupid the two of you did. It never stopped growing. 

It was after the recording live sign dimmed and everyone filed out of the room that Megan finally found her way back to you. Somewhere where the camera lenses couldn’t analyze every movement of her lips. Somewhere where silence filled in the blanks of the internet's scrutiny was when she spoke, just a whisper, “sorry.” 

You didn’t need to respond. With just a link of your pinky with hers you seemed to bring life back into the girl amidst the pain which spread in your chest. It told her what she should have already known. You’re forgiven. Today. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Always. You’re forgiven.

Yet, her apologies continued. Silent. Each a needle to your aching heart. Sorry, the words slipped from her flingers as she almost flinched at your touch. Sorry, the sound drips from her eyes as she refuses to meet your gaze. Sorry, her body repeats as her nails carved crescents into her palms like a silent punishment. 

This was the first time you thought, maybe, just maybe, Megan wasn’t ever quite truly intentional in all she did. Maybe she didn’t mean to continue apologizing even after you had repeatedly told her to stop. Maybe, she simply feared making mistakes. Fearing them so badly, she would frantically try to cover them up with an essay-worth of words flowing from her mouth. Apologies on apologies, as if burying the other person alive under them could kill the guilt.

It never did, but Megan, sure as hell, still tried. 

Rapidly. Intentionally. Desperately. 

It never did, but you, sure as hell, still drowned. 

Wordlessly. Unknowingly. Willingly. 

i. I’ll always forgive you.

You’re not sure when Megan began to sneak up on you. You’re not sure when her god forsaken apologies began to sound like music to your ears. You just know they did. They became a steady rhythm in the chaos of idol life, like the thump of your heartbeat ringing between your ribs, or the underlying beat of a new song the group was working hard to record. It was yours. It was special. 

Maybe it was the interview incident that made you realize your feelings for the girl. The way your soul burned when she refused to acknowledge you until the cameras stopped rolling. It hurt. Too much for it to be platonic in your mind. The two of you couldn't have been just friends for a long time now. Not with the way she looked at you. Not with the way you threw her off balance. Not with the way the same happened to you too. Something wasn’t right. Something had to break.

You loved Megan. 

With her apologies and all.

You were sure the girl must’ve felt the same, but thoughts still nagged your mind, picking apart each of your nerves at the seems. How would management react? Could you go public? Would Megan even want to? It was a lost cause from the start. Yet your mind still dreamed of feeling the way her hand would fit snugly in yours like a missing puzzle piece to the convoluted maze of your life. You ached for it. You hope she did too.

You didn’t expect an apology today. You didn’t expect to enter the katseye dorms after spending an extra few hours in the vocal studio running warm up exercises to land you standing face to face with Megan Skiendiel. Face to face when you originally thought all the girls agreed to go out to some LA party tonight, leaving the dorms empty for you to ponder in. 

“You— Megan? Why are you here?” you murmur, setting your heavy bag down on the ground against the wall as you took your shoes off. 

The shuffles approaching were obviously the girls. You could tell from a mile away, but something was off about the sound. Too careful. Too timid for the usually hyper girl. You know this game by heart. An apology, but for what?

“I’m sorry,” the words echo from the girl's mouth. 

Your brows visibly furrow at the sound. “For what?” you hum out. Finally standing up to face her. Only now do you see her puffy eyes, her twisting fingers, the balls of her feet shifting weight from side to side. 

“I— I know we’re not supposed to do this,” she hiccups while her head tilts down and the action sends a pang to your heart.

“No no Meggie, talk to me. I… Come on. What’s the matter?” you say a little faster, worry beginning to claw on your chest. 

You watch as she presses her eyes closed like it could wake her from this nightmare before she continues, “shit y/n, I like you, okay? I like you more than bandmates should. Sorry, you’re just…  I—”

Time stops. You swear it does as the words settle in your chest. “Mean it?” you ask back, unable to believe what’s coming out of her mouth, “mean it mean it?”

“What?” the girl whispers out almost flabbergasted, “of course and I’m sorry because this is so unprofessional of me and you know, you don’t even like me back like that and well, I bring you so much trouble with my pinning and it’s just not cool or fun or endearing. It’s just annoying,” she heaves out in one breath, immediately starting on the next, “annoying as hell like these apologies I know you hate! Just— I can’t keep pretending anymore! Shit, I shouldn’t be saying any of this anyways. It’s gonna ruin the whole group dynamic and Soph is gonna be livid and management—”

A swift motion cuts off her panicked spiral. Before you could even comprehend the action, you stepped towards her. Everything in you was moving by itself at this point. Every ounce of reason spilling out of your mind like her words had opened a gate to your soul. Her eyes quickly catch up to your train of thought as her breath hitches. A breath of air croaks out of her throat while her eyes widen at you in shock. Her lips go to form a sentence. You beat her to it, pressing your mouth to hers. A quiet gasp precedes her before she kisses back. Sweet like the candy she loved and the way she grinned. 

This love-struck giddy grin graces her lips when she pulls away. “Wait… Sorry… You’re not mad at me? Like at all?” she questions almost in complete shock.

A laugh escaped you, as if she just asked an absurd question. You had quickly learned that no matter how much you hated apologies, you loved Megan Skiendiel way more. “Stop saying sorry, I’ll always forgive you. No matter what you do,” you say, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind the girl's ears.

“Mean it?”

“Gosh, I mean it so much.”

You just wish that was still true now.

4. I’m sorry.

Maybe the apologies had snuck up on you as much as the person who spoke them had done the same. You couldn’t lie and pretend the sweet apologies hadn’t begun to sound like music to your ears. Every apology was a balm over your soul, a way Megan showed she cared. It was her love language, you convinced yourself. The phrase rang in your ear like a growing melody of her love. A confession strung in teary eyes and trembling lips. A sight you wish could be framed in your mind, hung in every corner of your soul, stored in your memories for eternity. 

You wanted to stay here. A limbo you once believed was hell itself. 

The apologies had taken root in your mind. It was almost a representation of the girl herself. Her care. Her reverence. Her love. You had long forgotten all sense as you swore this was how love was supposed to feel like. Apologies that clattered upon each other in an endless pile. A lake of tears which you kissed away from her cheeks. 

You thought this was home. 

You should’ve known you had thought wrong. 

You should’ve known this was a disaster in disguise. Yet isn’t that the beauty of love? You reminisce. The gauze over bullet holes and kisses over broken bones? It mends and heals without a care in the world, like it can bend fate itself. 

You had called those apologies, love. The first time you did so was in the kitchen, like forever was a concept the two of you had won at an arcade game. Tangible. Straightforward. Permanent.

“Megan, can you check if the cookies are good? I feel like it’s been in the oven much longer than 15 minutes now!” you call out to the girl staring at her phone, endlessly scrolling through reels or posts or something you didn’t truly care much about while you washed the tower of mixing bowls and measuring cups stacked tidy on the counter. 

“Sounds good,” she hums, walking over to the oven with her phone still in her hand, thumbs scrolling endlessly.

You sigh, still scrubbing away oily residue from a spatula. The silence is eerie as you wait for the sound of a burning hot baking pan to hit the grills of the stove. Nothing. You pause your motion now, letting the water waste away into the drain, waiting for the sound to spring into your ears.

“Megan?” you ask, waiting for the emptiness to finally break.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, like anymore would break the fragile string that strung us together.

You finally stop the faucet and set the spatula down, “something happened?” Your heart barely lurches at the apology now.

A meek sound answers your question, “I think I might’ve set the timer wrong… the cookies are burnt… I’m so sorry I don’t know how I—”

You shrug in return, “just cookies Meg, no biggie.”

“You sure?”

A soft grin makes its way onto your face, “super sure, Megan.”

“So I’m forgiven?” the girl practically beams. 

“In what world would you not be?” you laugh back.

Except that phrase didn’t feel so funny anymore.

It really didn’t feel so funny anymore.

5. Sorry, sick.

It was only natural that the apologies would fade into routine as time went on. What fool would believe otherwise? You found yourself waiting for them during your day. A droplet of spoiled milk, a miscount in choreography, a step on your toes during a photoshoot. You discovered solace in the sound of those two words on her lips. A sanctuary she cut out of her soul for you. 

Over time, your heart has built a tolerance to the words. The more they were uttered, the less your chest ached at its sound. The words would slide into your ear channel and out the other without the bat of an eye. Calming even. If you dared to call it so. 

It was a quiet morning. One where the world seemed to flow in rhythm with time. A small hum on your lips as you flipped pancakes on the stove. Toast popping out of the toaster with the perfect cha-ching right as you turned to check on it. Sunlight streaming in from the windows, right onto the dining table where the house plants basked in its radiant glory. It was early enough your other members weren’t awake yet, but late enough the birds were already happily chirping, hopping from one tree branch to another. 

So peaceful, you didn’t even hear Megan’s footsteps until a small sneeze echoed in the quiet serenity. 

“Bless you,” you say, continuing to work on the pancakes. Usually, Megan would apologize. A meek sorry that’d tumble out before you could stop her, instead, a weak sniffle was heard. With a swift flick of your fingers, you shut the stove and turned around to stare at her. In front of you stood Megan. Hair tussled, the collar of her sweatshirt sliding off her left shoulder, face pale and her lips glistening as she stood there in a small pout. Within seconds, she sniffled again, grabbing a tissue to whip away at her runny nose. 

“Sorry, sick,” she mumbles into the thin sheet of paper.

The words don’t even register in your mind at the sight of her well-being. Your feet slide across the floor in seconds to cup her face, feeling her forehead for a fever. “Love, you’re burning up,” the words rush out of your lips, “god why are you up?”

“P—practice—” she quickly defends before you cut her off with a huff, “practice? In this state? No, you’re going to sleep, babes.”

“Y/n—”

“Don’t even think about it.” The words are stern with no room for negotiation. Only at the tone does Megan resign.

“Sorry I ruined your morning—”

Sorry. 

That word again. 

Yet your brain simply floated over it, filling the syllables with empty space instead. You don’t mind that she broke your hard earned peace this morning with her sickness. You don’t even dwell on the apology she uttered. 

You shush her.

You bring her back to her room.

You grab medicine from the bathroom cabinet.

You grab her a cold wet towel.

You text management then Sophia that the two of you can’t make it to practice today.

As simple as that.

6. Sorry.

You had better things to worry about than apologies now. 

Idol life. Invasive fans. Management’s demands. Performances. Brand deals. A secret relationship. Did you even have to continue? 

You don’t have time to be bothered about those two words.

It had already been a long day. Back to back rehearsals, vocal runs, filmed tiktoks, interviews. Another day, another thing pulling you in a million directions. Fatigue was a constant companion now. Rest was a foreign concept.

You had been sprawled face first on Megan’s bed. Phone thrown onto the bedside table. Megan’s body pressed over yours as she grumbled on and on about the ridiculous schedule.

“Megan, is that your phone?” you sigh with your eyes closed as vibrations swim through your body from the rectangular shaped warmth buzzing over your lower back. 

The girl groans, “fine,” before she pushes herself up and takes out her phone to put it on do not disturb mode. You wait for her to set it aside and drape back over you, but cool air is all that awaits for moments on end.

Slowly, vision returns to you once you peel your eyelids apart. “What’s the matter?” you rasp out, eager to return to the rest you had been desperately craving.

“Management wants us to do a live, babe,” Megan says, voice soft, careful.

Immediately your face falls back into the sheets of her bed, “tell me you're kidding me.” Still, after a few moments you pull yourself together, roll onto your back and sit up to Megan already setting the phone camera up.

It doesn’t take long for the fans to file in once your girlfriend pressed the livestream button.

@/luluvrs: ARE WE FINALLY GETTING A MEGY/N LIVE? @/hereagain4u: this is historic?? @/miagamegirl: Missed you guys a lot <33

It didn’t take long for conversation to flow. It was the reason why everyone loved your livestreams with Megan anyways. It just made sense. 

Megan hummed as she leaned in closer to the screen in order to read a comment. The live felt so natural. That’s probably the reason why the following words flowed out of her mouth before she could stop it.

@/lovelee4u: someone pls drop a fun question :D @/manzix: is this a Q&A? @/ongoingchaos: who is your celebrity crush?

“Ooo, easy question! My girlfriend y/n of course!” Megan blurts out without a second thought before the realization dawns on her. In an instant, her already tired face somehow manages to pale even more. 

@/hermslore: UH IS THAT A HARD LAUNCH? @/lafortezasboy: I’m not sure if this is good… @/vivilvr: SO MEGY/N IS REAL?? WAIT WHAT??

You feel your eyes widen. Your eardrums boom at the side of your face. There wasn’t even a chance for you to stop her before she unveiled the secret even management was unaware of. The feeling of your blood draining from your face was instant as both Megan and you sat there in shock.

Comments flew by in seconds as the world zeroed in on Megan’s sentence. There was no backtracking available. The words were out. Their meaning was undeniable.

@/mayzini: they’re gagged rn @/emdashofficial: PR NIGHTMARE? @/g7rlcrush: um so… I don’t think this live is staying up after this

Once Megan snapped out of her daze, her hand flew in lighting speed to the end live button. 

But the damage was done. 

Both your phones were blowing up with messages from your fellow members and management, yet all you hear is Megan’s whispered apology.

“Sorry.”

You’re not sure if sorry will cut it this time.

ii. You’re forgiven, you know you always will be.

Once the live ended. You knew this day would come. Every breath you took hung mid air inside your chest as you waited for the pin to drop.

You ran through every probable consequence in your mind. You prepared yourself for every worst case scenario. Maybe some executive will pull Megan out of a rehearsal and give her a long winded speech, say something like, “Megan Skiendiel. We get it. You're young, you want to fall in love, but with someone in the group? Do you understand how big of a scandal this is? You need to break it off. You could be with anyone in the world, HYBE x Geffen can be lenient with that, but someone in the group with you is too far. Especially with you explicitly stating it.” Perhaps they’d say it softer, “Megan… You need to understand that this is bad PR. You and y/n must break it off for the sake of the group.” Maybe there was even a chance that the whole ordeal would blow over swiftly and silently though text, with Megan getting a message like “Megan Skiendiel. End it.”

That was until it finally happened.

That was when you realized it was nothing like what you envisioned. It was worse, because it was raw, it hurt, and it visibly tore her apart and you in relation. Because at the end of the day, what else could you expect? It just had to contain those two words.

I’m sorry.

And she meant it. 

It wasn’t the throwaway apology you detested.

Megan meant it.

Megan Meiyok Skiendiel was deathly apologetic.

Maybe to a flaw.

It was a quiet night. One where all the other members left to go hang out with friends or their lovers while you were too anxious to go anywhere. Thus, you settled on keeping yourself cooped up inside the dorms.

That was when Megan Skiendiel found you.

Legs to your chest, feet on the sofa, chin on your knees. It was almost a sorry sight. 

She didn’t mean to, but she peeled the bandaid off slowly. Tediously. Too gentle. 

“Y/n—” she began but you cut her off before she could finish.

“Just don’t Megan,” you whisper, already knowing where the conversation was headed.

Megan paused before she restarted, “you know I don’t want to—”

“But you’re still doing it so what’s the difference?” you retort back, head finally lifting off your knees to stare back at her.

You watch the tears churn in her eye socket, the way those big brown orbs glistened under the soft living room lighting. The girl had to physically peel her lips apart to mutter the next phrase, “we have to break up…”

A bitter laugh leaves your mouth, “have to? Of course we have to Megan. Are you kidding me? What else could even possibly occur now? Lose it all?”

The words shoot out sharper than usual, making Megan shrink back a little, forcing the tears to finally ease out onto her cheeks, dripping onto the sofa, leaving salty marks in its wake. Her mouth opens and you can almost predict what she’s going to say next. “Don’t,” you warn.

Megan doesn’t listen.

“Megan, just don’t,” you repeat, voice stern before fading. A sinking feeling pulling your stomach underwater while an indescribable itch clawed up your esophagus. You tried to hide the tears that brimmed your eyes by looking away from the girl.

Megan’s brows furrowed. You knew she never intended on making you cry. “Y/n, please. This can be temporary. After a while longer maybe they’ll let us, I—”

“Oh who are you kidding?” you laugh, choking down on a sob, “who are you fooling, Megan? You know what? Just don’t say it… please don’t say it,” your voice finally breaks. 

“But—”

“Stop Megan…” her name hung in the empty cabinet of your chest, the only thing that now remains as you continue to beg and plead the girl to swallow her following sentence, “please just no-–”

“I still love you… I’m sorry…”

A delicate, broken, wreaked scoff escapes your lips, “I told you to stop, Megan. Don’t make it any more real than needed…” You finally turn back to look at her. Your own tear streaked face mirroring hers, “why did you say it knowing it’d hurt me?”

“I’m sorry I—” Megan fumbles over her words.

Again, those three syllables. You just wished that sound would die on her tongue, stick to the roof of her mouth like superglue and never be able to escape again. Yet, you continued, “you’re forgiven, you know you always will be.”

Because that was the truth. You’d always forgive Megan Meiyok Skiendiel. At the end of the day, you still remember your promise to her all those summers ago. You remember it all so vividly now. Why the lighthearted hatred for the word now ran so deep in your veins.

All because of Megan.

You hated how that phrase dangled off her tongue like a sweet candy. How it had burrowed under your skin to the extent where you forgot the pain. It burned you. Every. Single. Time, but she never stopped. No. She always continued.

For apologies were her love language.

And Megan loved you.

Oh, just why did you have to love Megan Meiyok Skiendiel back?

7. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry.

You’d been avoiding Megan ever since, putting Lara or Sophia between the two of you in every interview, leaving a room the second she showed up, refusing to meet her eyes. It was evident to everyone that something had broken after that live. 

Yet, the world is a funny thing.

It only made sense for fate to play a cruel joke on you with a around the circle moment. 

It only made sense the next time the memories came flooding back it would be another livestream.

Thankfully, this one was with the whole group instead.

@/edamameiyok: ot7 the group is back! @/charlvr: lowkey miss seeing everyone @/av4nzini: my girls <33

Before the stream started, you had taken meticulous measures to make sure Megan and you were seated on opposite ends of the couch. A remark to Sophia to keep the two of you apart. A drag to pull Yoonchae right next to you on the edge. Insisting Megan should sit on the furthest end from you, beside Lara, so it was easier to grab her bag on the table though the extra step genuinely made no difference. You didn’t want this live to go astray again. It couldn’t. You’re not sure if you could handle it if it did.

It was a simple livestream. Everyone hops on and promotes the new album coming out. Quick Q&A. Show the fans nothing was wrong. It was supposed to be straightforward, but of course, nothing was ever straightforward with Megan Skiendiel.

It didn’t take long before you felt a stare boring into the side of your head. You tried to ignore it, you really did, turning to Yoonchae to talk about your favorite lyrics, teasing the fans with potential spoilers, helping Lara freestyle a song. Nothing worked.

You felt it. The silent apology. The wave of silent apologies for ruining the special thing the two of you had.

@/raspberridani: Why is megan staring so hard @/angelwings-fly: this feels awkward as hell… @/modanisgf: uh did we miss a chapter?

It didn’t take long for fans to catch on either.

@/coolwyous: 1-800-yearner? @/katseyeluv: is she okay?? @/theosanctuary: the side eye Megan got is insane

You watched as Lara quickly nudged Megan, and how your leader had shot the girl a glare to knock it off. It didn’t work. Megan's eyes stayed locked on you, the whole entire livestream.

After the live, it didn’t take long for Megan to come find you in the dorm kitchen to utter those horrendous words.

“I just wanted to say I’m really sorry—”

“Knock it off Megan,” you bite with no regret for the harsh words when the version of you from mere weeks ago would have profusely apologized for such a tone.

The pitiful apology irritated you now. It reminded you of every reason that you hated those words. Every reason the words sounded like nails on a chalkboard to your eardrums.

They only came when it was already too late.

They only came to mend a wound that was already bound to leave a scar. 

They only came when everything was beyond salvageable.

They only came now.

8. I just wanted to say I'm sorry I slipped like that.

Every time someone would mutter the darn word, you were reminded of her again. You wanted to curse the girl for ruining such a simple phrase. Somehow, leaving your hatred for the phrase deeper than before, something you didn’t even think was possible.

You can still recall when you looked forward to the tour. A chance to be around your girlfriend more. A chance for lingering touches and carefully placed eye contact to be acceptable, mere fan service. A dream that was now crushed. A mere infatuation with a simple what if. 

Now every time at a tour stop, you had to hear her stupid apologies everywhere. From a worker who accidentally stepped on your foot, to a fan that apologized for bothering you before asking for an autograph. You swear the world was haunting you at this rate, keeping the wound fresh, making it ache so you would remember how painful love is, so you’ll avoid it for eternity now. 

You should’ve known Megan would slip up during the tour. Forget the careful balance the two of you were keeping and return to before, the version of the two of you that didn’t tip toe around each other or read into each other's words. A version of the pair of you that held trust like it was a given, instead of something fragile to protect and shield.

It was the last stop on the tour, you were almost certain that Megan would remember to leave you alone for the full duration. 

You were wrong.

Soundcheck.

A microphone in your hands as you waved to the fans and read their personalized signs. You made hearts to cameras and blew kisses to eager eyes. You barely felt the pair of arms slide around your waist. 

That was until you felt the familiar feeling of Megan’s chin resting on your shoulder. The way she used to, with a slight quirk of her head and a calm breath.

You could feel your world freeze.

You swear you stopped breathing for a second before the world zeroed back in. Before Megan felt your body pause and immediately let go like the memories of the breakup only just arrived in her brain. 

The fans were too ecstatic to notice, and your feet moved at lightning speed so you could run across the stage to a corner far away from her.

You spent the rest of your night avoiding the girl.

You spent the rest of the night avoiding the one person who had once made the thought of going on tour a fever dream in your mind. 

The show had ended, you were backstage. You were desperately hoping she’d keep her distance, but of course, how could she resist.

Those three syllables begged to be let out, and those three syllables found its way to you.

“Wait!” you heard her exclaim, stopping you in your path, “I just wanted to say I'm sorry I slipped like that. I didn’t mean to, it just… happened and I—”

“Cut it out, Megan. It’s fine. It’s whatever.”

9. Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.

You genuinely hoped that would be the last time you’d hear her say those words back to you. You were wrong. Of course you were.

An award show where everything had dragged on for too long. A seating arrangement you didn’t choose but had to abide by, and of course, a girl you had too much history with sitting right next to you. 

Katseye was nominated for many awards tonight. You were hoping that fact would keep her occupied enough to forget your presence beside her. It didn’t.

You felt naive for thinking it could’ve. 

You watched as glitter danced off of Megan’s skin. If it had been a few months ago, you would’ve thought she looked ethereal. Now, you just feel like she’s a battered and bruised siren wearing angel wings, luring you into her depths. Begging for you to drown in her wake, as she was drowning too. What a fitting dynamic. Her dress hugged her figure perfectly. Truly a sight to behold, while the lace trim danced in the chilly venue air, fluttering against the air conditioning. 

You hope you look as good as Megan did right now. You hope your own outfit made it just as hard for her to take her eyes off you as it was for you to take yours off her. It felt almost petty, but pettiness wasn’t an emotion you strayed away from anymore.

It had become a companion to the unknown pain that always lurked in your chest.

It almost made everything almost bearable. 

The whole ceremony had continued without a hitch until the group was announced as one of the nominees for a major award. That was when you felt the touch. That was the second you felt Megan’s fingers find yours. 

You could almost curse her for the action on the spot, but you let the anger simmer. It was an award show after all. The two of you were groupmates at the end of the day, right?

Nothing more. 

You felt her finger curl around yours as all of you held your breath waiting for the winner to be announced. The silence between words were too loud to be ignored, yet you couldn’t tell if it was from the anticipation of a trophy, or the silent battle happening in Megan and your heart. 

It didn’t matter at the end of the day, as when all seven of you returned back to your hotel rooms that night, your worst nightmare found its way back to you.

You listened as Megan paused, tapped your shoulder, then apologized for interlocking your fingers together before the awards were announced. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Even though we were sitting beside each other, that was out of line,” the girl spoke, fiddling with her fingers and picking at her acrylic nails.

For some reason, you just replied back, “and I’m sorry for letting you. We should stop blurring the line.”

For the first time ever. You apologized. You apologized the exact way Megan did.

The girl who had once been your world nodded back.

You did too. 

And somehow, that was the end of that dreaded exchange where apologies were uttered too fast, too informally. For you had caught onto the game now, apologies were easy to say.

Apologies, said more than what the word itself meant.

It enveloped a lot more. 

Words that couldn’t be said. Not anymore.

iii. Then stop.

You thought that was the end of it all. A silent truce. A silent agreement that apologies were just a norm between the two of you now. Megan would swallow down her pride and guilt and you would swallow down your own hatred for the word. 

It should’ve been enough.

But of course it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t when Megan felt the silence between the two of you eat away at her soul every moment it could. 

That’s why she stopped you. A quiet morning where you expected tranquil peace. That’s when she planned her attack. A day you thought would be reserved just for you. 

“Y/n, can we just talk quickly?” she blurts out the second you leave your solo dorm room.

You blink in response, still slightly groggy from the night's sleep before responding, “sure?” The uncertainty in your tone was clear. Megan should’ve taken it as a sign to back down. You let her enter your room. You let the door shut. You let her speak, and she did. 

“I’m sorry I never tried to make it work. I just… I never should have outed us. I should have fought when they tried to break us up. I… I’ve apologized so much in this relationship and I’ve done nothing to change, and… I’m sorry about that…” Megan says, the words rumbling out of her throat desperately as she tries to understand her own mind.

Megan Skiendiel spoke words that should have mended your soul, but they didn’t. They came a little too late.

“I never wanted to hurt you—” she added.

That phrase was your last straw, because at the end of the day… “You did,” you responded, “you hurt me—”

“I know,” the girl sighed back, and before another excuse would make its way out of her lips, you said something unexpected.

“Then stop.”

Because in every world you were supposed to forgive her. In every world where the sky is blue and the grass is green you were supposed to stand in front of Megan Skiendiel and forgive her. Tell her it was all okay. That at the end of the day you couldn’t care less because you had promised her, you’d always forgive her. You loved her. Forgiveness was a guarantee. Until now, where it no longer was one. 

Instead, you stood there, your eyes met hers, and you asked her in opposition, “do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had chosen differently?”

Then you watched. You watched as Megan’s face morphed into emotions you didn’t know existed, before it landed into something pained. Guilty and pained. Guilty, regretful, and pained. “All the time,” she whispered back.

“Do you think in every one of those, in every one of those what if’s,  we'd still be together?” the words hum out delicately into the still air.

“Yea… I think we would.”

A small smile grazed your lips, “I think we would too.”

In that moment you knew, apologies were her. Megan Skiendiel was a puzzle pieced together by small apologies, and you were a candle, where every match was a simple sorry. In any other world, the candle would brighten up a dimly lit room, but in this one, it fell, and the puzzle caught flame instead. 

Apologizes no longer seemed so bad. They just seemed like Megan, the girl who spoke them into song like a sun's rays and quiet companionship. 

The both of you had tried too hard. She had tried to stop her habit of apologizing, while you had tried to stop your hatred for them. Both of you were trying to change yourselves and each other into people you weren’t. Megan into someone who didn’t feel every little mistake to the biggest degree, and you, someone who was willing to push aside small mistakes as long as you got to hold her in your arms. 

Megan had rooted herself in every sorry, while you had rooted yourself into every I forgive you.

The two of you followed each other around like shadows. 

Ever so close, but also so far away. 

Now, every time you hear an apology, all that comes to mind is Megan Skiendiel.

Her laugh, her dimples, her puppy dog eyes. 

Her apologies. 

That's when it hit you.

You never stopped loving Megan Skiendiel.

You just stopped remembering that love wasn’t perfect. 

Maybe in a different world it’d still be you and her. 

She’d admit to herself that she has little to no fun in and out of class.

But Y/N?

They have far too much of it.

—

As class begins, the professor starts preaching about sins as if he’s never committed one himself. Sophia likes to think she’s rational, grounded, and maybe too logical that she likes to admit. Yet she can’t erase the quiet fact that her faith still exists for reasons she can’t properly dissect.

She is logical, just not when it comes to emotions.

“Can I borrow a pen?”

Sophia sighs the moment she hears Y/N’s whisper while Mr. Paul continues droning on.

“Why can’t you just buy your own pen, Y/N? You’re old enough to attend class but not old enough to buy a pen?”

“Jesus, I just need a pen. Besides, remember Romans 15:2? ‘Each of us should please our neighbours for their good, to build them up.’ It means that—”

“Whatever. Just take this pen.” Sophia then handed them a black biro pen that she always gives to people who she knows won’t return the pen. 

“I knew I could count on you. May the Lord—”

“Just shut up. Oh my God, you talk too much.”

“Ha! Do not use the Lord’s name in vain, Sophia,” Y/N says sarcastically as she takes the pen. 

Not even a minute has passed before your mouth starts moving again, producing nothing but noise to annoy Sophia.

“Also nice colour-coded notes. Do you have a certain purple highlighter for random educational thoughts or that’s a yellow highlighter job?”

“Can you like shut up or something?”

“I’ll choose ‘or something’, so is it a yellow highlighter type of job? Honestly, I don’t blame you. Yellow seems to be the right colour for thoughts. Wait, do you know about those trends about yellow fonts? I honestly think it’s supposed to be called yellow helvetica, cause you know that’s the name of the font they usually used. But like, I think I could be wrong to because I think—”

“Oh my God, do you not shut up? I don’t care about the yellow font trend, and no I don’t use yellow highlighter for thoughts, I used blue. Now shut up.”

“Ok…

…but blue seems kinda dumb. Because when you think about it, blue isn’t—”

Sophia closed her eyes as she sighs. May all the Gods that everyone worship come down and help her shut you up. She can’t help but rethink all her life choices and how she ended up in this very specific moment. Her thoughts filled with “God, I’ve been nothing but faithful. What have I done for this to happen to me?”

It’s an unspoken understanding that Mr. Paul paired them together for this exact reason. What that reason is, Sophia doesn’t know. Maybe he believes opposites sharpen each other.

Or maybe he just enjoys watching her suffer.

—

Sophia is everywhere and she knows it. From theatre performances, student council campaigns, academic decathlons, and school-wide assemblies where microphones somehow always end up in her hand. The lists are always printed the same way, pinned to cork boards with careless thumbtacks:

Sophia Laforteza

Hanni Pham

Jennifer Huh

The order hasn’t changed in three years. At this point, people don’t even look at the board anymore. They’ve basically memorized it. The same women leading the school, which makes Y/N wonder how after academia, men suddenly lead mostly everything. It was understandable how Sophia remains at the top. You never really question it since the answer is painfully obvious. But it becomes more apparent when you start seeing it first hand. 

Whenever you enter theology class, Sophia is already there, sitting upright as if she’s the professor herself. She arrives before class starts, a purple water bottle and pencil pouch already occupying more than half the desk. It’s annoying, almost territorial, but you never complain — mostly because you bring nothing useful to class aside from yourself. Her handwriting looks almost printed. Like it could be turned into a font. She also claims there is nothing logical about theology classes, yet she aces every assignment.

One thing you know is that Sophia always tries. And somehow, she always succeeds. Which you can’t help but admire the woman even more.

—

By the fourth week of class, Sophia’s schedule becomes heavier. Theatre rehearsals stretch longer. Student council meetings multiply. Group projects demand more structure. She had formed an almost perfect routine. Almost because it somehow unsettles her when she starts seeing the same face outside theology.

Y/N.

At first, it’s easy to dismiss. They’re in the hallway handing out flyers for an upcoming fundraiser. They grin when they spot her but say nothing. She thought it’s nothing but a coincidence. But suddenly, they’re backstage during theatre rehearsal, crouched beside the sound system, fiddling with wires like they apparently know what they are doing.

Sophia pauses mid-line when she notices.

“What are you doing here?” she asks during break.

“Volunteering,” Y/N shrugs. “Hanni mentioned that you guys need help with the audio system.”

“We have a sound team.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s just Hanni has a lot on her plate now. I want to help out.”

“Well, as I said we have a sound team. So we’ll be fine.”

—

Every time the class finishes, you always wait outside the class as if waiting for someone. Sophia assumes you just have a question for the professor about the current lecture but she notices that you only continue to walk away from the door right after the student leaders left the class, which definitely includes her. And if that isn’t enough of a suspicion, you started volunteering everywhere. And Sophia means it when she says everywhere. She can’t help but wonder how you, Y/N, someone who rarely cares or participated or better yet volunteers in school events suddenly gets involved in all of it, all together? Sophia’s not egotistical, but she’s logical so pattern is something she’s good at recognising. So when you started appearing in whatever she’s in, she recognised it immediately. 

Later that week, at a student council event, she spots you again — carrying boxes, adjusting banners, laughing with committee members like you’ve always been part of it. But what unsettles her more than their presence is the pattern. The events she attends, the meetings she leads, the rehearsals she looks after. You are there. Not beside her, thankfully, but there. Always watching, and Sophia, who has always been the centre of attention without asking for it, assumes what has always been true. 

People admire excellence, people orbit excellence. So she knows why Y/N suddenly orbits her.

And by the end of the month, Sophia has compiled a mental file. 

“Since Y/N’s everywhere, Y/N probably likes me.” 

She smiles at the thought, rolling her eyes at herself. It’s ridiculous honestly. Of course you like her. Who wouldn’t like her? The absurdity is almost fun. Almost. She catches herself imagining the worst, like what if you start to make a move on her? She doesn't know what she’ll do. She never thought of actually being with you, but the thought doesn’t seem so bad after weeks of interacting with you. And in all honesty, you aren’t too bad yourself. You’re attractive, she’ll give you that but academic wise, that’s a different story.

—

As the class continued, it was apparent to Sophia that Y/N liked her. With the progression of the class, Sophia notices how Y/N suddenly always attends the class, how they always smile at her softly, how they always arrive in class on time, and most importantly how they never bring their own pen. Sophia thought that it was Y/N’s way of interacting with Sophia on a daily basis, which Sophia didn't mind. She actually thought it’s cute how you find small ways to at least interact with her, like right now.

“Hey sorry, but can I borrow your pen real quick?” you whispered, silently trying to grab her attention. 

Sophia didn’t say anything. She just took out one of her rollerball pens from her purple pen pouch and handed it to you. And you noticed it immediately, the upgrade from a standard biro to a rollerball pen makes you smile. 

“Thank you, I’ll definitely give this back after class.”

“You don’t have to. Just make sure not to lose it.”

“Yeah, for sure. Like Ruth 2:12 from the New International Version, “May the Lord repay you for—”

Sophia rolls her eyes as she smiles at you. “Shut up. I don’t need to hear about it.”

“I’m just blessing you with verses as you always bless me with your presence. I genuinely enjoy this class because of you.”

Sophia blushed as she shook her head. “Whatever, just shut up. That’s the best thing you can do for me.”

You nodded as you both continued to listen to whatever Mr. Paul preach about. 

—

The theatre rehearsal has been going on for weeks and Sophia hates to admit it but you do know what you’re doing with the sound and the light system. She can’t help but personally ask for your help before rehearsals begin, in which you always answer with a big grin and a yes. In fact, you started becoming part of the theatre team, not only that but you have started helping around more in school events preparation. And in every rehearsal or event, you always give her a cup of strawberry matcha, always accompanied by a drink carrier. She never really questions why it’s always in a drink carrier as she’s too joyous at the thought of receiving a drink from you. 

This went unnoticed to everyone, except Yunjin. During one of their rehearsal breaks, she stopped fixing the script and went over to Sophia with a teasing grin.

“So… You and Y/N, what about it?”

“What about it?”

“Stop this nonsense, they have been helping around… which is unusual for someone who has been in this school for years yet didn’t bat an eye on the previous events that we had?”

Sophia shrugged as she muttered. “I don’t know, they’ve been a huge help so why not bring them in more.”

“And theology class? You do know that we are all in the same class right? I see you two all the time.”

“They’ve been less annoying. That’s it.”

Yunjin gave her a quick smirk, as she went back to fixing the scripts. Sophia’s eyes searched around the theatre hall searching for a figure until it fell on you. You were scratching your head with a soft smile, casually talking to Hanni about whatever topic you two had. And Sophia knows — if God were watching you right now, there would be a verse written just for you. Not just a passing line, but something deliberate and tender, something inked with such aching devotion that even a skeptic would pause and feel it. And that is what frightens her most because if heaven itself could justify loving you, what excuse does she have left to pretend she doesn’t?

She then shook her head. It’s probably the stress of everything that’s happening. There is no way she’s thinking all that just because she saw you. 

—

As the school year progressed, you and Sophia grew closer in and out of theology class. You noticed how Sophia excelled in English, which never really occurred to you even if she’s a theatre person herself. You’ve been around her in every other event there could have been and you couldn’t help but gift all three women that lead the school with something every time you are present. Specifically, two strawberry matcha for Sophia and Yunjin, two ice cold coffee for you and Hanni, and a bread for Hanni too. You always give a piece or more of bread to Hanni, as she once mentioned loving bread and because she’s the reason why you are helping around. 

—

It was a random Thursday after rehearsals when you were left in the theatre hall with the other student leaders. As you sit beside Sophia, she can’t help but look at you as your eyes gaze upon the stage with a soft look and a timid smile. Your eyes then met hers, your smile never leaving your face. 

“The play is happening in a few days.”

Sophia hummed as she smiled back. “Yeah, are you excited about it?”

“Honestly? I am. I’ve seen almost all the rehearsals and it’s great. Have you seen the light and the way the audio just sounds absolutely phenomenal?” You softly teased.

“Not too much on the audio system. I personally think that’s going to be the worst part.”

“Well, you got a sound team for that right?”

“Oh my God, you’re too much.”

“Hey, don’t use God's name in vain.”

“I didn’t even do such thing!”

Both of your laughs filled the hall as you shook your head. “On a serious note, I’m sure you guys would do so well. I’ve also read the script which is apparently mostly written by Miss Laforteza herself. It’s genuinely amazing Sophia.”

You continue, “It’s so beautifully written and I just… I hope you don’t mind me asking for a favour.”

Sophia’s eyes linger on you for a while — the way your smile curves, timid yet unbearably endearing, now directed at her instead of the stage.

She tells herself it’s ridiculous, almost sacrilegious, but when you look at her like that, she can’t help but think that if the Bible were still being written, there would be a verse about this moment — about the way you look at someone as if they are worth believing in.

And that is what terrifies her most, because she’s beginning to understand how devotion starts. Sophia’s beginning to look at you the same way believers look at something holy.

“Uh sure. What is it about?”

“I just want to write a love letter. Well, not entirely a love letter but you know something actually nice. I have actually written something for the past few weeks and I just need some help polishing it up.”

Sophia looks at the paper handed, her smile starts to widen as she reads the letter. A logical mind like hers starts to make connections, but she needs to make sure her assumptions are right first. 

“I think you need more adjectives or something like metaphors. Tell me more about this girl.”

You smile at her as you look around the room, checking to see if someone sees you two being this close. You clear your throat, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the paper.

“Okay, first — she’s really smart. Like, genuinely smart. I admire how she tries and somehow always succeeds, like excellence is just her default setting. She may look a little unapproachable at first, but when you actually talk to her…” You hesitate, smiling to yourself. “She’s soft and kind. She listens like your words matter.”

Sophia keeps her expression neutral but her pulse betrays her.

“She’s responsible. Steady. She’s the kind of person people rely on without even realising they do.” You exhale softly. “God, it’s like… if wisdom were a person, it would borrow her voice.”

Sophia’s fingers tighten slightly on the paper.

“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding dramatic,” you continue, quieter now. “But admiring her feels theological. Like the way people study scripture — not because they’re forced to, unfortunately unlike us, but because they’re convinced there’s something sacred hidden between the lines. She’s not loud about who she is. You just… discover it slowly. And the more you do, the more you realise she was extraordinary all along.”

You glance at her, unaware of the storm you’re causing.

“She’s the kind of person that makes you want to be better. God, it’s not even out of fear nor out of obligation. But because standing next to her feels like standing near something holy and you don’t want to be careless with that.”

Sophia swallows.

You laugh softly, almost embarrassed. “I know that sounds insane.”

It doesn’t. Because to Sophia, it feels dangerously accurate.

And what terrifies her most is this. She has spent her life believing admiration was a rational response to merit. Like it’s earned, it’s measured, and it needs to be explained.

But the way you speak about this girl — about her — sounds less like logic and more like reverence. And she is starting to understand that love, at its core, has always been a form of worship.

“Ok sorry, is that too much? I guess I do talk too much.”

“No…I—wow that’s actually beautiful. You should write more about that.”

Your eyes start to wander around the room again, checking to see if eyes are on you two before you nod. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking but… do you think someone like you would like someone like me?”

Sophia pauses, mind sharpening out of instinct. She has studied logic, probabilities, even theology with all its careful doctrines and tidy conclusions — yet none of them prepared her for a question that feels less like inquiry and more like confession.

She exhales softly.

“If I were to answer that logically,” she begins, voice steady despite the quiet riot in her chest, “I’d say admiration isn’t a hierarchy. It’s not something reserved for equals on paper.”

Her fingers tighten slightly in her lap.

“And if we’re speaking theologically… Scripture is full of unlikely pairings. The whole point, I think, is that worth isn’t measured the way we measure it.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“So yes,” she says, almost clinical in tone, though her gaze gives her away. “I think someone like me could.”

She then muttered softly, afraid you’ll hear it.

“Especially if someone like you keeps looking at me as if I’m something worth believing in.”

You softly smile at her, giving her a small nod, like she’s just confirmed something you wished you knew all along. 

“People like you,” you say softly, “are easy to worship. People who are quiet, unassuming ones who undo you without trying — the kind of people who don’t ask for reverence, yet somehow make even the faithless learn how to kneel.”

“Anyway, thank you. I appreciate the help.”

—

The theatre play is nearing, but Sophia’s mind is occupied with things that are not related to the play. Specifically, related to you. She can’t help but think when will you ever give the letter to her and what she should do when you give it to her. It’s numbing actually but she can’t help—

“Sophia”

“Y/N, hey”

“I’ve finished the letter, I just want to thank you for helping me write it. Everything just started flowing once you mentioned metaphors and all that stuff. You’re such a great help.”

“That’s great to hear. I’m sure the person who will receive it will love it.”

“Jesus, I sure do hope Hanni would love it.”

“Hanni?”

Sophia’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. The realisation hit her like a cold, physical weight, shattering the careful logic she had used to build her own pedestal. In an instant, the “mental file” she had meticulously compiled over the last few months didn’t just close, it got shredded. She realised with a sharp, stinging clarity that she hadn't been the destination of your devotion, but merely a bystander to it. The strawberry matchas, the sudden volunteering, and the tireless help weren't offerings to her excellence — they were labors of love performed solely to lighten Hanni’s burden. It was the ultimate theological error: she had mistaken a servant's work for a believer’s worship, assuming she was the deity when she was only the witness. She had mistaken the intercessor for the deity, assuming all this worship was directed at her when she was simply the one standing in the way of the altar. Every word of "reverence" she’d felt from you wasn't a mirror reflecting her own worth, but a prayer you were breathing for someone else entirely. She wasn’t the "something holy" you were afraid to be careless with; she was just the person holding and providing the pen while you wrote a psalm for another woman. 

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

She’d admit to herself that she has little to no fun in and out of class.

But Y/N?

They have far too much of it.

—

As class begins, the professor starts preaching about sins as if he’s never committed one himself. Sophia likes to think she’s rational, grounded, and maybe too logical that she likes to admit. Yet she can’t erase the quiet fact that her faith still exists for reasons she can’t properly dissect.

She is logical, just not when it comes to emotions.

“Can I borrow a pen?”

Sophia sighs the moment she hears Y/N’s whisper while Mr. Paul continues droning on.

“Why can’t you just buy your own pen, Y/N? You’re old enough to attend class but not old enough to buy a pen?”

“Jesus, I just need a pen. Besides, remember Romans 15:2? ‘Each of us should please our neighbours for their good, to build them up.’ It means that—”

“Whatever. Just take this pen.” Sophia then handed them a black biro pen that she always gives to people who she knows won’t return the pen. 

“I knew I could count on you. May the Lord—”

“Just shut up. Oh my God, you talk too much.”

“Ha! Do not use the Lord’s name in vain, Sophia,” Y/N says sarcastically as she takes the pen. 

Not even a minute has passed before your mouth starts moving again, producing nothing but noise to annoy Sophia.

“Also nice colour-coded notes. Do you have a certain purple highlighter for random educational thoughts or that’s a yellow highlighter job?”

“Can you like shut up or something?”

“I’ll choose ‘or something’, so is it a yellow highlighter type of job? Honestly, I don’t blame you. Yellow seems to be the right colour for thoughts. Wait, do you know about those trends about yellow fonts? I honestly think it’s supposed to be called yellow helvetica, cause you know that’s the name of the font they usually used. But like, I think I could be wrong to because I think—”

“Oh my God, do you not shut up? I don’t care about the yellow font trend, and no I don’t use yellow highlighter for thoughts, I used blue. Now shut up.”

“Ok…

…but blue seems kinda dumb. Because when you think about it, blue isn’t—”

Sophia closed her eyes as she sighs. May all the Gods that everyone worship come down and help her shut you up. She can’t help but rethink all her life choices and how she ended up in this very specific moment. Her thoughts filled with “God, I’ve been nothing but faithful. What have I done for this to happen to me?”

It’s an unspoken understanding that Mr. Paul paired them together for this exact reason. What that reason is, Sophia doesn’t know. Maybe he believes opposites sharpen each other.

Or maybe he just enjoys watching her suffer.

—

Sophia is everywhere and she knows it. From theatre performances, student council campaigns, academic decathlons, and school-wide assemblies where microphones somehow always end up in her hand. The lists are always printed the same way, pinned to cork boards with careless thumbtacks:

Sophia Laforteza

Hanni Pham

Jennifer Huh

The order hasn’t changed in three years. At this point, people don’t even look at the board anymore. They’ve basically memorized it. The same women leading the school, which makes Y/N wonder how after academia, men suddenly lead mostly everything. It was understandable how Sophia remains at the top. You never really question it since the answer is painfully obvious. But it becomes more apparent when you start seeing it first hand. 

Whenever you enter theology class, Sophia is already there, sitting upright as if she’s the professor herself. She arrives before class starts, a purple water bottle and pencil pouch already occupying more than half the desk. It’s annoying, almost territorial, but you never complain — mostly because you bring nothing useful to class aside from yourself. Her handwriting looks almost printed. Like it could be turned into a font. She also claims there is nothing logical about theology classes, yet she aces every assignment.

One thing you know is that Sophia always tries. And somehow, she always succeeds. Which you can’t help but admire the woman even more.

—

By the fourth week of class, Sophia’s schedule becomes heavier. Theatre rehearsals stretch longer. Student council meetings multiply. Group projects demand more structure. She had formed an almost perfect routine. Almost because it somehow unsettles her when she starts seeing the same face outside theology.

Y/N.

At first, it’s easy to dismiss. They’re in the hallway handing out flyers for an upcoming fundraiser. They grin when they spot her but say nothing. She thought it’s nothing but a coincidence. But suddenly, they’re backstage during theatre rehearsal, crouched beside the sound system, fiddling with wires like they apparently know what they are doing.

Sophia pauses mid-line when she notices.

“What are you doing here?” she asks during break.

“Volunteering,” Y/N shrugs. “Hanni mentioned that you guys need help with the audio system.”

“We have a sound team.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s just Hanni has a lot on her plate now. I want to help out.”

“Well, as I said we have a sound team. So we’ll be fine.”

—

Every time the class finishes, you always wait outside the class as if waiting for someone. Sophia assumes you just have a question for the professor about the current lecture but she notices that you only continue to walk away from the door right after the student leaders left the class, which definitely includes her. And if that isn’t enough of a suspicion, you started volunteering everywhere. And Sophia means it when she says everywhere. She can’t help but wonder how you, Y/N, someone who rarely cares or participated or better yet volunteers in school events suddenly gets involved in all of it, all together? Sophia’s not egotistical, but she’s logical so pattern is something she’s good at recognising. So when you started appearing in whatever she’s in, she recognised it immediately. 

Later that week, at a student council event, she spots you again — carrying boxes, adjusting banners, laughing with committee members like you’ve always been part of it. But what unsettles her more than their presence is the pattern. The events she attends, the meetings she leads, the rehearsals she looks after. You are there. Not beside her, thankfully, but there. Always watching, and Sophia, who has always been the centre of attention without asking for it, assumes what has always been true. 

People admire excellence, people orbit excellence. So she knows why Y/N suddenly orbits her.

And by the end of the month, Sophia has compiled a mental file. 

“Since Y/N’s everywhere, Y/N probably likes me.” 

She smiles at the thought, rolling her eyes at herself. It’s ridiculous honestly. Of course you like her. Who wouldn’t like her? The absurdity is almost fun. Almost. She catches herself imagining the worst, like what if you start to make a move on her? She doesn't know what she’ll do. She never thought of actually being with you, but the thought doesn’t seem so bad after weeks of interacting with you. And in all honesty, you aren’t too bad yourself. You’re attractive, she’ll give you that but academic wise, that’s a different story.

—

As the class continued, it was apparent to Sophia that Y/N liked her. With the progression of the class, Sophia notices how Y/N suddenly always attends the class, how they always smile at her softly, how they always arrive in class on time, and most importantly how they never bring their own pen. Sophia thought that it was Y/N’s way of interacting with Sophia on a daily basis, which Sophia didn't mind. She actually thought it’s cute how you find small ways to at least interact with her, like right now.

“Hey sorry, but can I borrow your pen real quick?” you whispered, silently trying to grab her attention. 

Sophia didn’t say anything. She just took out one of her rollerball pens from her purple pen pouch and handed it to you. And you noticed it immediately, the upgrade from a standard biro to a rollerball pen makes you smile. 

“Thank you, I’ll definitely give this back after class.”

“You don’t have to. Just make sure not to lose it.”

“Yeah, for sure. Like Ruth 2:12 from the New International Version, “May the Lord repay you for—”

Sophia rolls her eyes as she smiles at you. “Shut up. I don’t need to hear about it.”

“I’m just blessing you with verses as you always bless me with your presence. I genuinely enjoy this class because of you.”

Sophia blushed as she shook her head. “Whatever, just shut up. That’s the best thing you can do for me.”

You nodded as you both continued to listen to whatever Mr. Paul preach about. 

—

The theatre rehearsal has been going on for weeks and Sophia hates to admit it but you do know what you’re doing with the sound and the light system. She can’t help but personally ask for your help before rehearsals begin, in which you always answer with a big grin and a yes. In fact, you started becoming part of the theatre team, not only that but you have started helping around more in school events preparation. And in every rehearsal or event, you always give her a cup of strawberry matcha, always accompanied by a drink carrier. She never really questions why it’s always in a drink carrier as she’s too joyous at the thought of receiving a drink from you. 

This went unnoticed to everyone, except Yunjin. During one of their rehearsal breaks, she stopped fixing the script and went over to Sophia with a teasing grin.

“So… You and Y/N, what about it?”

“What about it?”

“Stop this nonsense, they have been helping around… which is unusual for someone who has been in this school for years yet didn’t bat an eye on the previous events that we had?”

Sophia shrugged as she muttered. “I don’t know, they’ve been a huge help so why not bring them in more.”

“And theology class? You do know that we are all in the same class right? I see you two all the time.”

“They’ve been less annoying. That’s it.”

Yunjin gave her a quick smirk, as she went back to fixing the scripts. Sophia’s eyes searched around the theatre hall searching for a figure until it fell on you. You were scratching your head with a soft smile, casually talking to Hanni about whatever topic you two had. And Sophia knows — if God were watching you right now, there would be a verse written just for you. Not just a passing line, but something deliberate and tender, something inked with such aching devotion that even a skeptic would pause and feel it. And that is what frightens her most because if heaven itself could justify loving you, what excuse does she have left to pretend she doesn’t?

She then shook her head. It’s probably the stress of everything that’s happening. There is no way she’s thinking all that just because she saw you. 

—

As the school year progressed, you and Sophia grew closer in and out of theology class. You noticed how Sophia excelled in English, which never really occurred to you even if she’s a theatre person herself. You’ve been around her in every other event there could have been and you couldn’t help but gift all three women that lead the school with something every time you are present. Specifically, two strawberry matcha for Sophia and Yunjin, two ice cold coffee for you and Hanni, and a bread for Hanni too. You always give a piece or more of bread to Hanni, as she once mentioned loving bread and because she’s the reason why you are helping around. 

—

It was a random Thursday after rehearsals when you were left in the theatre hall with the other student leaders. As you sit beside Sophia, she can’t help but look at you as your eyes gaze upon the stage with a soft look and a timid smile. Your eyes then met hers, your smile never leaving your face. 

“The play is happening in a few days.”

Sophia hummed as she smiled back. “Yeah, are you excited about it?”

“Honestly? I am. I’ve seen almost all the rehearsals and it’s great. Have you seen the light and the way the audio just sounds absolutely phenomenal?” You softly teased.

“Not too much on the audio system. I personally think that’s going to be the worst part.”

“Well, you got a sound team for that right?”

“Oh my God, you’re too much.”

“Hey, don’t use God's name in vain.”

“I didn’t even do such thing!”

Both of your laughs filled the hall as you shook your head. “On a serious note, I’m sure you guys would do so well. I’ve also read the script which is apparently mostly written by Miss Laforteza herself. It’s genuinely amazing Sophia.”

You continue, “It’s so beautifully written and I just… I hope you don’t mind me asking for a favour.”

Sophia’s eyes linger on you for a while — the way your smile curves, timid yet unbearably endearing, now directed at her instead of the stage.

She tells herself it’s ridiculous, almost sacrilegious, but when you look at her like that, she can’t help but think that if the Bible were still being written, there would be a verse about this moment — about the way you look at someone as if they are worth believing in.

And that is what terrifies her most, because she’s beginning to understand how devotion starts. Sophia’s beginning to look at you the same way believers look at something holy.

“Uh sure. What is it about?”

“I just want to write a love letter. Well, not entirely a love letter but you know something actually nice. I have actually written something for the past few weeks and I just need some help polishing it up.”

Sophia looks at the paper handed, her smile starts to widen as she reads the letter. A logical mind like hers starts to make connections, but she needs to make sure her assumptions are right first. 

“I think you need more adjectives or something like metaphors. Tell me more about this girl.”

You smile at her as you look around the room, checking to see if someone sees you two being this close. You clear your throat, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the paper.

“Okay, first — she’s really smart. Like, genuinely smart. I admire how she tries and somehow always succeeds, like excellence is just her default setting. She may look a little unapproachable at first, but when you actually talk to her…” You hesitate, smiling to yourself. “She’s soft and kind. She listens like your words matter.”

Sophia keeps her expression neutral but her pulse betrays her.

“She’s responsible. Steady. She’s the kind of person people rely on without even realising they do.” You exhale softly. “God, it’s like… if wisdom were a person, it would borrow her voice.”

Sophia’s fingers tighten slightly on the paper.

“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding dramatic,” you continue, quieter now. “But admiring her feels theological. Like the way people study scripture — not because they’re forced to, unfortunately unlike us, but because they’re convinced there’s something sacred hidden between the lines. She’s not loud about who she is. You just… discover it slowly. And the more you do, the more you realise she was extraordinary all along.”

You glance at her, unaware of the storm you’re causing.

“She’s the kind of person that makes you want to be better. God, it’s not even out of fear nor out of obligation. But because standing next to her feels like standing near something holy and you don’t want to be careless with that.”

Sophia swallows.

You laugh softly, almost embarrassed. “I know that sounds insane.”

It doesn’t. Because to Sophia, it feels dangerously accurate.

And what terrifies her most is this. She has spent her life believing admiration was a rational response to merit. Like it’s earned, it’s measured, and it needs to be explained.

But the way you speak about this girl — about her — sounds less like logic and more like reverence. And she is starting to understand that love, at its core, has always been a form of worship.

“Ok sorry, is that too much? I guess I do talk too much.”

“No…I—wow that’s actually beautiful. You should write more about that.”

Your eyes start to wander around the room again, checking to see if eyes are on you two before you nod. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking but… do you think someone like you would like someone like me?”

Sophia pauses, mind sharpening out of instinct. She has studied logic, probabilities, even theology with all its careful doctrines and tidy conclusions — yet none of them prepared her for a question that feels less like inquiry and more like confession.

She exhales softly.

“If I were to answer that logically,” she begins, voice steady despite the quiet riot in her chest, “I’d say admiration isn’t a hierarchy. It’s not something reserved for equals on paper.”

Her fingers tighten slightly in her lap.

“And if we’re speaking theologically… Scripture is full of unlikely pairings. The whole point, I think, is that worth isn’t measured the way we measure it.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“So yes,” she says, almost clinical in tone, though her gaze gives her away. “I think someone like me could.”

She then muttered softly, afraid you’ll hear it.

“Especially if someone like you keeps looking at me as if I’m something worth believing in.”

You softly smile at her, giving her a small nod, like she’s just confirmed something you wished you knew all along. 

“People like you,” you say softly, “are easy to worship. People who are quiet, unassuming ones who undo you without trying — the kind of people who don’t ask for reverence, yet somehow make even the faithless learn how to kneel.”

“Anyway, thank you. I appreciate the help.”

—

The theatre play is nearing, but Sophia’s mind is occupied with things that are not related to the play. Specifically, related to you. She can’t help but think when will you ever give the letter to her and what she should do when you give it to her. It’s numbing actually but she can’t help—

“Sophia”

“Y/N, hey”

“I’ve finished the letter, I just want to thank you for helping me write it. Everything just started flowing once you mentioned metaphors and all that stuff. You’re such a great help.”

“That’s great to hear. I’m sure the person who will receive it will love it.”

“Jesus, I sure do hope Hanni would love it.”

“Hanni?”

Sophia’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. The realisation hit her like a cold, physical weight, shattering the careful logic she had used to build her own pedestal. In an instant, the “mental file” she had meticulously compiled over the last few months didn’t just close, it got shredded. She realised with a sharp, stinging clarity that she hadn't been the destination of your devotion, but merely a bystander to it. The strawberry matchas, the sudden volunteering, and the tireless help weren't offerings to her excellence — they were labors of love performed solely to lighten Hanni’s burden. It was the ultimate theological error: she had mistaken a servant's work for a believer’s worship, assuming she was the deity when she was only the witness. She had mistaken the intercessor for the deity, assuming all this worship was directed at her when she was simply the one standing in the way of the altar. Every word of "reverence" she’d felt from you wasn't a mirror reflecting her own worth, but a prayer you were breathing for someone else entirely. She wasn’t the "something holy" you were afraid to be careless with; she was just the person holding and providing the pen while you wrote a psalm for another woman. 

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

The way your throat would close up at any given second was no longer a foreign sensation. Instead, it followed you everywhere like a shadow. Into the cafeteria in the middle of lunch, behind the school grounds where you sat and wondered when fate had timed its attack, into hidden garbage bags and party bathrooms. The burn had become a part of you. Still, you pretended. Parties, classes, your extracurriculars. You pretended like the burn was just a part of a bad cough, that all the times you needed to sprint to the washroom were unintentional. People didn’t notice. They never did.

It was merely high school, afterall.

Today was one of those days, getting dragged by your friends to some house party at a stupidly big mansion you had never seen before. Manon Bannerman, they told you, the host. Hair so long and face so perfect she had boys and girls falling head over heels for her at first sight. You laughed, then coughed a little, then wiped away the blood at the corner of your lips. “I’m immune okay?” you smile, trying to steer the conversation back towards them. 

“Uh huh, you’ll be too busy admiring her bathroom to be fawning over her. I get it,” one of them teases. 

You let their joy ring. You had stopped hoping for miracles. 

You followed them into the mansion, weaving through the crowds of people. Bumping shoulders and tipping over drinks. The smell of substances in the air was palpable, it sent your nose churning and made your breath shallow. You waved your hand, trying to escape the heavy air that dared to suffocate you alive as your chest fought for control. Sweat, sex, alcohol, smoke, it was intertwined into one and drove itself straight into your lungs. Your head spun, your vision blurred. Quickly, you aimed for the balcony, fighting back the tears that seeped out of your eyes from the contaminated air. 

With a slam, you pushed open the door. 

Silence. 

The smell of the dewy atmosphere pierced through the fog that clouded your brain as you finally let out a breath. 

Still, the faint smell of smoke lingered. 

“What? Didn’t enjoy the party?” a girl hums to you from behind. Her arms were draped around one of those fancy balcony seats with linen cushions and her elbow propped up on the side. She hummed like she owned the place, like the world made space for her without command.

One would have to be a fool to not be aware of Manon Bannerman. 

Designer watches clattered around her wrist. Haute Couture dresses that hugged her figure perfectly. Hair always perfectly done no matter the occasion or hour. It was a sight people would usually beg to see. Yet here you stood, stumbling upon art herself, and all you wanted to do was wish her away as another tingle inched up your throat. All you could see was the cigarette perfectly positioned between her fingers. All you could see was the way it inched to her lips and back as smoke replaced its void. Then, all you could feel was the heavy air hit your face, sending a grimace onto your features before a cough wracked through you.

“Not a fan of the smoke?” the girl poses the question like she couldn’t see the answer right in front of her.

You hit your chest twice trying to catch some air, “does it look like I am?” you gasp the words out.

Manon laughed. Not one of those polite laughs she sent people who came to her parties. One of those hearty laughs someone makes when they think you’ve said something genuinely hilarious.

“You’re funny,” she chuckles.

The burn in your chest didn’t think so. The pain of your throat closing up didn’t leave time for you to respond. 

Manon’s brows furrowed like she realized your presence on the balcony was more than just needing air, she set her hand down, then pressed the cigarette head flat into the small circular glass coffee table without a care, watching it die out. “Better?” she mumbles, tone somewhere between concerned and exasperated and annoyed.

Your head moved before you could, nodding as you fought to catch your breath, too busy trying to restore the balance of your lungs to be concerned about her attitude towards you in the first place. 

“You should quit, you know?” you rasp out as the swelling subsided. 

Manon laughed again, hands hitting the arm rest of her chair in good nature, “gosh you really are funny.”

“Is that what you say to every girl who shows up on your balcony heaving?”

“So far, yes. I mean, I've only had one,” she grins. A little smug, a little cocky, but she doesn’t reach for another cigarette in the box laid out on the glass table next to her. 

For the rest of the night, Manon Bannerman didn’t touch another cigarette. She didn’t let smoke wrap around her and claw its way down your throat. She just patted the seat beside her before you sat down and waited for the party to end in silence. The serene peace was only disturbed by your occasional cough or clear of your throat. Manon didn’t ask about it though. That you were thankful for. 

Somewhere along the way, exhaustion eased its way onto you. Somehow along the way, your head found its way onto her shoulder. The distance between the two chairs seemingly forgotten. Manon didn’t shift towards you, neither did she move away. Your eyes fluttering in and out of consciousness didn’t care though, nor did the ache in your chest. At some point, they closed and didn’t open back up that night. At some point, Manon chose to not care about that.

At some point, Manon must have realized, some people were better than nicotine and tar wrapped in a cylindrical bundle. 

At some point, she must’ve realized that the weight of you on her shoulder meant more than drugs could. 

But she was Manon Bannerman. She was made of smoke and ashes. 

The two things were synonymous. 

The parties craved her breath and her mind craved these functions, but perhaps just for tonight, her mind craved something else. 

Your peace.

You found yourself next to Manon more often than not, and Manon still found her fingers wrapped around a cigarette for more hours than she could ever count on her hands in one day. You avoided her like the plague, not for any reason whatsoever, more so because your lungs couldn’t find strength in itself to survive in her air. In the air that screamed ash and a scent that begged for something to cling onto. Your skin. 

No one with a faulty lung should be gravitating towards the smoke, yet you voluntarily walked towards the back of campus with your bag in one hand, flung over your shoulder. That’s where you see Manon, propped up against the old brick wall with a cigarette between her lips. Again.

“Came here to tell me to quit?” 

Your mind snaps out of the haze while your eyes meet hers, “you guessed it.”

“Not happening,” she grins. Yet her fingers reach for the cylinder pressed between her lips and she pulls it away from the smoke. The sound of the joint falling to the concrete ground was infinitely small, yet you heard it. Loud as day.

Crunch.

The sole of her shoe grinds the paper into fine ash before her eyes find yours again, with an undeniable glint. She knew exactly what she was doing. 

Still, a cough shook right through you. 

You swear the world stops for a second. A gust of wild blows by behind you shaking leaves off the trees. The flowers on the other side of the fence bend to the air. Manon’s face morphs into something quieter. You don’t know her well enough from one night at a party, but you’re sure her face doesn’t usually look so solemn at all, not when there’s a box of cigarettes in her back pocket. Not when that cocky grin was threatening to reach her face just seconds before.

Her lips press together as she takes a step towards you. Your elbows are already in front of your mouth as you heave, trying to catch your breath, “I’m fine,” you gasp.

Manon stops, like if she got any closer the smoke that clings to her clothes would suddenly infiltrate yours. “Are you serious? The cough sounds bad, there’s no way you’re fine–” she says before you cut her off.

“I said I’m fine,” you bite. Quickly straightening yourself up and dusting your clothes to give your hands something to do. 

“Be careful,” Manon whispers.

You almost scoff as you retort, “then you should stop smoking.”

“Feisty today,” she says, tilting her head.

That word sends a tingle down your spine. Feisty. Sure, pretty feisty as you choke down coughs that threaten to wrack your chest in the middle of a classroom, or when you down gulps and gulps of water to sooth the itch that never seems to fade in your throat. 

Feisty.

“Seriously, you should consider quitting,” you murmur, trying to shift the topic.

Manon doesn’t object. Her voice was softer than usual, “one day, okay?”

You chuckle, “sure. One day.”

One day turned into weeks behind the school, pressed together in the chilly air as Manon breathed smoke into her chest and you pretended like every breath you took didn’t send pins and needles straight into your lungs. A few puffs, then she’d smother out the barely used cigarette like it was just an itch she needed to scratch before focusing on you.

It was a sight to behold.

Manon without smoke wrapped around her.

You wanted to bottle it up and breathe it in every morning and night.

You’re not sure when Manon started to seek out parks over parties. You’re not sure when she started to value the cleanliness of air over the smell of teenage fun. You’re not quite sure whether you should be concerned or happy about that. You didn’t have time when each breath grew heavy and every movement felt ten times harder by the day. You just followed. 

That led you here, under a random park tree on a Saturday night, sitting on a patch of grass, leaning against the cloud of smoke beside you. The air was cold, your feet were frozen and your fingers had retreated into your sleeves to preserve warmth. Maybe it was smoke beside you that kept the blood pumping. You didn’t bother to ask her to quit tonight. Manon loved the smoke, who were you to take it away from her. 

Maybe if you grew to love the smoke, she could love you too.

“I’ll quit soon,” Manon mutters from beside you like she could read your thoughts.

You didn’t answer. Just released a soft nod against her shoulder. “Good,” you whisper into the air, more into the sky than Manon herself you presume. The smoke wrapping around you didn’t feel so bad anymore. Just soft. Welcome even as it stole the oxygen from your chest one molecule at a time. A slow torture. A fond one. 

As the quiet peace lingers, an itch inches up your esophagus, threatening to consume you. You gulp, trying to bite it down. It just crawls back up with more desperation. It’s jagged claws digging into your flesh as it clings on for control. You try to gag it back to no avail.

A hearty cough breaks the bubble.

Manon’s head snaps to you as she smothers the blunt in seconds. Her eyes widening in concern while her hand flew to your back. Her lips form shapes your mind can’t keep up with, trying to calm you in her panicked frenzy. 

Words you can’t hear as the sting threatens to consume you.

When did it get so bad?

Tears brim your eyes as your body begs for air. Air untouched by the ash and sweat. Untouched by Manon Bannerman. 

Clean air.

You don’t find it.

You don’t really want to find it.

That was the last time Manon saw you for a little while. 

A long while.

Manon knew she should’ve quit the second those words left your lips on her balcony. She should've listened the moment her heart skipped at the sound of your voice. She should’ve known when the words which many had muttered before suddenly sounded so enticing when coming out of your throat. 

She didn’t.

She didn’t think she loved the smoke as much as she did.

She didn’t think she loved you as much as she thought she could.

Her eyes search for you at her parties. She weaves through crowds of people to look for your face. The bar. Nothing. The dance floor. Nothing. She sits on the balcony for hours until her limbs are frozen and the music booming inside her own house fades into nothing. Until her friends open the door and ask her what she’s still doing. She just sits, and waits, and keeps waiting like if she sits alone for long enough, it’ll beckon you to join her. No cigarette between her fingers or lighter on the glass table. Just Manon, the air and the silence you left behind. 

Her body searches for you behind the school building. She sprints through the door and immediately plops down against the brick wall and waits. No lunch. No smoke. No music or friends. Just her and the air you used to inhibit. She waits for you every lunch hour like it’ll change reality. Lunch fades into classes and classes fades into the ringing of the bell signally the end of the day. Manon is still sitting there. She’s still waiting. The smoke is a distant thought now. The packet of cigarettes she once carried in her back pocket for ease of use lived at the bottom of her bag now. If she knew you’d be gone so soon, she swears she would have ditched the ash as soon as she found them.

Her eyes search for you under the trees in the park. Her ears snap to attention at every cough ringing out in the lush green space like if she listens hard enough one of them will be from you. Just her, her legs tucked under her chin and the wind gushing behind her. The sun sets and the stars and moon rise. She stays tucked there under the tree like its lush foliage could provide her shelter. She misses the way your head would weigh heavy against her shoulder, the way your coughs would echo through the blades of grass, the way you’d nag her about quitting to the point where she continued just to spite you. 

Manon wondered how bad your lungs were. How much the coughs had stolen from you. If she knew, maybe she would’ve come to this conclusion much faster.

Manon was sure of this now. 

Manon Bannerman loves the smoke, but perhaps, she might just like you more.

Much much more.