ellinois

They used it when she packed her life into two suitcases. When she kissed her mother’s cheek goodbye and pretended not to see the way her hands shook. When she left Atlanta— the heat, the cadence of Spanish and English braided together, the echo of her grandmother’s heels on old wooden floors— and stepped onto a plane bound for a city that promised everything and owed her nothing.

Her mother had danced. Her mother’s mother had danced before that. The ballroom had always known her name before she ever spoke it aloud. She stepped onto floors like she was made for them, like the boards recognized her blood.

And still.

Sacrifice wasn’t the same as bravery.

Giving up what you knew for the possibility of something more felt less like courage and more like hunger. She had traded certainty for a sentence spoken by a man over the phone— L.A. You’re destined for something greater.

Destined.

As if destiny didn’t come with waiting rooms full of girls just like her. As if greatness wasn’t a narrow doorway everyone was trying to fit through at once.

Daniela pressed her palm to her chest, felt her heartbeat answer back. If bravery counted only when it was fearless, she wasn’t sure she qualified. She had built herself carefully, brick by brick, and left it all behind anyway.

Maybe bravery, she decided, was just learning how to live with the uncertainty you chose.

—☆

Daniela thought she should have recognized a brave soul when she saw one.

She read books. She paid attention. In her mind, bravery had a shape: kind eyes, gentle hands, something almost heavenly about the way it moved through a room. Bravery was light. It was quiet goodness. It was safe.

Then you walked in.

You didn’t look like a lesson she’d already learned.

You looked like a sin— beautiful and unapologetic, sharp where Daniela was smooth. Piercings caught the light when you moved. Ink traced stories along your skin. There was a star at your neck, unapologetic in its placement, and when you lifted your hand, she saw it— no, felt it— a heart tattooed on the back of your left hand, bold and permanent.

A heart on your hand.

No, really. You wore it there like a promise.

Daniela wasn’t supposed to notice the small things. She wasn’t supposed to catalog the way you navigated the room, the way you smiled too easily, like you had nothing to hide. She wasn’t supposed to see that you shook hands with your right when you were introduced to others— quick, practiced, polite.

But when it was her.

When you stood in front of her.

You offered your left.

The heart faced her, open and unguarded.

Daniela’s breath caught before she could stop it. She told herself it was nothing. A coincidence. A habit. She told herself she imagined the way your eyes softened, the way your thumb twitched like it wanted to say something your mouth didn’t.

She wasn’t supposed to notice.

But bravery, she realized then, didn’t always look like light.

Sometimes it looked like choosing to be seen.

—☆

Daniela didn’t know how to approach you.

Maybe that was why you approached her.

You looked… messy. Not careless—alive.

Like your thoughts ran faster than your body could keep up with. When you spoke, everything happened at once: the stammer, the slip of a word, the way you stumbled over your own sentences as if language itself couldn’t quite contain you.

You tried talking to her.

Daniela laughed— soft, awkward, a reflex more than a choice— and immediately wished she could take it back. Not because you were funny, but because you were earnest, and earnestness made her nervous. She answered when she could, nodded when she wasn’t sure what else to do, pretended her pulse wasn’t loud in her ears.

You fidgeted as you spoke. Your fingers worried at the hem of your sleeve. And then— absentminded, unconscious— you traced the outline of the heart on your left hand.

Daniela watched.

She told herself she didn’t mean to. She told herself it was just curiosity, just observation. But later, when the night settled and the walls of her apartment closed in around her, sleep refused to come.

Her mind replayed the scene like a secret.

The way your voice dipped when you got nervous. The way your eyes flicked up to hers, hopeful and afraid at the same time. The way your thumb traced that heart, over and over, like you were reminding yourself it was real.

Daniela turned onto her side, pressed her pillow close.

She had left everything she knew for uncertainty.

She hadn’t expected it to look like you.

—☆ 

Daniela was running.

Running from the rehearsal room, from the echo of criticism that clung to her skin like sweat, from the version of herself that wanted to fold inward and disappear. She didn’t know where she was supposed to go— only that her feet carried her upward, through stairwells and doors she barely registered opening.

She was supposed to call her mum.

Instead, she ran straight into your arms.

You startled the way you always did— stammered, stumbled, slipped over her name like it was something fragile. Typical. Familiar. Safe in a way she didn’t yet understand. The rooftop wind tangled her hair as she pressed her face against your shoulder, breath coming too fast, too sharp.

She wondered why she was here.

Why you.

Her mouth moved before she could stop it.

“How the fuck did you take it?”

You didn’t need to ask what she meant. You both knew. The notes delivered with smiles that cut deeper than anger. The way they looked at you— at both of you— like you were mistakes trying to pass as art.

You shrugged.

You chuckled, even.

And then your left hand found her back, warm and grounding, the heart pressed between her shoulder blades like a quiet reassurance. Daniela’s breathing slowed, settled, aligned itself with yours.

“I’m used to it, Daniela.”

The words landed heavier than comfort ever should have.

—☆

Daniela wondered how a person could look so different in the span of a day.

The girls were getting makeovers— for the show, for reinvention, for something Missy was explaining with too much enthusiasm and too many words. Daniela nodded when she was supposed to, smiled when prompted, but she didn’t really hear any of it.

She was too busy tracing the heart on your hand with her eyes.

She should have listened.

Because when you stepped back into the room, transformed, it felt like the air shifted.

The metal was gone. No piercings catching the light, no sharp edges interrupting the softness of your face. Your hair fell longer now, framing you instead of carving you into angles. You looked—

Brave.

In the way Daniela had always imagined bravery to be.

Gentle. Open. Almost holy in your stillness.

God— you looked like everything she didn’t want.

No.

She wasn’t supposed to think like that.

She wasn’t supposed to feel the ache behind her ribs, the quiet panic of recognition. This version of you fit too easily into the shape she had been taught to admire. It scared her how quickly her mind reached for relief, how badly it wanted to label this as acceptable.

She swallowed hard and looked away.

—☆

Daniela thought about peace.

About how strange it was to find it sitting beside you on the floor, legs barely touching, the city humming far below. Tomorrow, the competition would begin. She should have been stretching, drilling steps into muscle memory like the others.

Instead, she was here.

Her hand rested over your heart— your left hand, where the tattoo lay beneath her palm, steady and real. The contact felt natural, inevitable, like something her body had been waiting to do long before her mind caught up.

“Let’s debut together, okay?” she said.

She shouldn’t have noticed the way your smile faltered. The way your hand twitched beneath hers. The way your voice dropped when you answered.

“Promise.”

It sounded like surrender.

Like an offering.

Maybe it was.

Daniela took your left hand fully then, clasped it between both of hers, sealing the moment before she could think better of it.

“We’ll debut together,” she said again, firmer this time.

She didn’t see it as a vow.

Not yet.

But somewhere between your intertwined fingers and the quiet weight of the promise, something irreversible began.

—☆

Daniela would never forget the night it all began.

Not because it was loud.

Not because it was dramatic.

But because it was quiet in a way that felt dangerous.

The dorm had settled into stillness, the kind that only came after hours of relentless practice. Doors were shut, lights dimmed, the hallways emptied of laughter and ambition alike. Tomorrow would bring evaluations, rankings, the subtle cruelty of comparison— but tonight, exhaustion had won.

Daniela lingered in the lounge long after she should have gone to bed, phone glowing uselessly in her hand. She scrolled without reading, thumb moving on instinct, mind somewhere else entirely.

That was when she heard it.

Soft. Broken. Almost easy to miss.

Sniffling.

At first, she assumed someone was calling home, whispering into comfort they weren’t supposed to need anymore. But the sound didn’t stop. It trembled instead, uneven, raw.

When Daniela glanced toward the corner, her chest tightened.

You were curled up on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield that had failed. Your face was buried in your hands, shoulders shaking, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls.

You looked small.

And suddenly, everything inside Daniela moved.

She approached carefully, like one wrong step might make you vanish.

“Hey,” she whispered.

You didn’t look up.

“Are you okay?”

You shook your head before she even finished asking. When you spoke, it all came out at once, words tumbling, tripping over each other, like if you stopped talking you might fall apart entirely.

“I don’t think I’ll make it to the end, Dani. I’m not as strong as the others—not as talented. Every time I perform, I keep thinking, what if this is it? What if this is the round I get cut? What if everyone finally sees that I don’t belong here?”

Your voice cracked. You pressed your palms harder into your eyes, like you were trying to push the fear back in.

“And it terrifies me,” you continued, breath hitching. “Because I want this so badly. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted. But wanting doesn’t mean anything, does it? Wanting doesn’t make you good enough. I—”

“Y/N.”

Daniela sat beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched. Her hand found your arm, firm and grounding, like muscle memory.

“Breathe,” she said softly.

You tried.

You really did.

But the words had been waiting too long.

“If I get eliminated,” you whispered, “I’ll regret everything. Leaving home. Fighting with my parents. Pretending I wasn’t scared. And there’s this other thing—”

You stopped.

Your shoulders shook harder now. “I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I’m about to say this.”

Daniela’s heart beat louder.

“Say what?”

You lifted your head.

Your eyes were red, lashes wet, shining under the low dorm lights. Bare. Unprotected.

And then you broke.

“I like you,” you whispered.

The words sat between you, fragile and trembling.

Then, quieter—but heavier—

“No. I love you. I love you, Daniela.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Daniela felt like the floor had shifted beneath her, like gravity had changed direction. She’d been confessed to before— by boys who smiled too easily, by classmates who liked the idea of her more than the reality.

But never like this.

Never by someone who looked like the words were painful to hold.

Never by another girl.

Her chest tightened instinctively, panic reaching for something familiar, something safe.

“Y/N…” She swallowed. “I’m straight.”

You nodded immediately.

“I know,” you said, voice shaking but steady enough to survive. “I know. I’m not asking for anything. I swear. I just needed you to know. You don’t have to feel the same. Please— don’t worry. I’ll never make this harder for you than it already is.”

That was what hurt the most.

The way you were already bracing yourself to disappear.

Something inside Daniela clenched painfully, like a muscle pulled too far.

She wanted to end it. To put the words back where they belonged. To restore the shape of her life.

Instead, she heard herself say—

“…Then you can try.”

Your head snapped up.

“If you want,” she added quickly, as if that made it safer. “Pursue me.”

The second the words left her mouth, regret surged in.

Why would she do that? Why offer hope when she didn’t know how to give anything back?

But when she saw the way your lips parted, the way determination cut through your tears like something sacred, Daniela felt something unfamiliar settle deep in her chest.

She didn’t expect you to actually do it.

—☆

Daniela remembered the first date like a secret she never quite let herself unpack.

It was cold.

The kind of cold that crept into your bones, that made you press closer without admitting why. The movie played quietly on a laptop balanced on a dorm vanity, the screen too bright, the volume turned down so no one would hear.

Daniela sat beside you, tense, shoulders drawn tight, already bracing for the jumpscare she knew was coming.

Her nose brushed the star tattoo at your neck as she ducked her face instinctively, fingers tightening around your left hand. The heart beneath her palm felt warm. Solid. Real.

You laughed softly, a breath of sound, squeezing her hand back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She tried to remind herself this was normal.

Cliché, even.

A movie date.

The men before you had done this. Dark rooms. Shared screens. Awkward first closeness. Even her very first date had looked like this.

But this—

This was different.

This was you and her, hiding in the vanity of a dorm room while the other girls slept, ambition and fear breathing down the walls. Secrecy didn’t feel heavy here. It felt intimate. Chosen.

Daniela traced the heart on your hand without realizing she was doing it.

You noticed.

You always did.

Your thumb brushed against hers, gentle, unassuming.

And for a moment, she forgot to be afraid.

Somehow, impossibly, it felt more special than every first that had come before.

—☆

The finals dissolved into light and sound.

Daniela barely remembered stepping onto the stage. Her ears rang, vision narrowing, every breath tight in her chest. Names were called, applause crashing like waves.

When she heard her own name, relief hit so hard she almost folded.

She was in.

She had made it.

Her hands were shaking when she looked up—

And then your name followed.

She didn’t think.

She ran.

You ran too.

You met in the center of the stage, colliding into each other, arms wrapping tight as the crowd roared around you. Cameras flashed. Lights burned.

Pressed against you, Daniela felt your warmth, your joy vibrating through your body.

For one reckless, dangerous second, she thought—

Maybe I could give this a try.

You felt warm.

Like the sun—

No.

Like an angel.

And something more she didn’t yet have the language— or the courage— to name.

—☆

The first few days after debut felt like they were moving at double speed.

Every hour was accounted for: rehearsal, photoshoots, interviews, dance practice, vocal practice, meetings, and then somehow, more rehearsal. The world outside didn’t exist anymore— or if it did, it couldn’t reach Katseye.

And through it all, you were there.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Not like something out of a fanfiction, but in small, steady ways that went unnoticed by almost everyone else.

You left water for her in the practice room every morning. Always the same brand, always cold, condensation beading on the bottle. Some days she pretended she didn’t notice. Some days she accepted it with a soft murmur of thanks, her fingers brushing against yours when she took it. That brush lingered just a fraction of a second too long, a tiny spark that made her chest tighten.

In the van, you claimed the seat beside her like it had always belonged to you. Sometimes she hesitated, unsure whether to push herself in, until you shifted your bag onto your lap and gestured, “Sit. I saved it for you.” And she slid in, knees brushing, heart doing that traitorous thing that she refused to name.

Some nights, rehearsals ran long.

When the other members filtered out, when the lights in the hallway hummed softly and left only the two of you, you would lean against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to be casual while waiting for her. And she would pretend she didn’t notice, even though her footsteps slowed, even though her bag felt heavier, even though her heart raced just a little too fast.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” she said one night, quiet, unsure, almost afraid to hear your answer.

You shrugged, grinning softly. “I want to.”

She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

She let herself walk beside you, shoulder brushing yours, hand brushing yours sometimes in the narrow space between you without intending to.

Days bled into each other.

One afternoon, she came into the practice room late, apologizing under her breath as she wiped sweat from her forehead. You were already there, stretching quietly in the corner.

“I got you water,” you said simply, holding out a bottle.

She blinked, not because it was unusual— she had come to expect it— but because you said it with a kind of patience she wasn’t sure she deserved. She accepted it without thinking, and the brush of your fingers as she took it made her pulse leap.

At night, in the dorms, you showed up again.

Snacks in hand, “I accidentally bought too much,” you claimed.

She rolled her eyes, smiling anyway, because the bag smelled faintly of chocolate and something sweet she couldn’t name. You plopped down beside her, sharing the snacks, feet brushing, laughter spilling quietly in the corner of the room.

Sometimes you both ended up in the lounge after practice, curling into opposite ends of the couch. Phones in hand, scrolling through social media, occasionally leaning toward each other to share something funny or ridiculous.

“Look at this,” you whispered one evening, showing her a meme, your shoulders brushing.

She laughed, and the sound felt like sunlight spilling into the small space between you. Her hand hovered near yours. She didn’t pull away.

Other times, rehearsals went badly, voices snapped, choreography faltered, and everyone’s frustration built like a storm. But when she caught your eyes across the studio, something in her chest softened. You always smiled. Not too much. Not like you wanted to make anyone jealous. Just enough to anchor her in the chaos.

Even in the quiet moments, you lingered. You noticed the way her shoulders tensed, the subtle drag in her step, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. And sometimes, when she was alone, you would lean a little closer, whisper something ridiculous, just enough to make her lips twitch, just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the buildings, she found herself walking beside you on the roof, the city stretching beneath. You passed a bottle of water to her, and the two of you leaned against the railing.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, voice soft, almost accusatory.

“Maybe a little,” you said, shrugging.

“But I’m fine.”

She looked at you, squinting against the fading light. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true,” you said simply, and then added, almost too quietly, “Mostly because I want to see you.”

Her chest tightened. She didn’t answer, didn’t know how to answer. She just let the silence stretch, letting the moment breathe.

Days passed like this, ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. Lunch breaks shared on a bench behind the building, water bottles left quietly beside her bag, whispered jokes between interviews, late-night walks through empty hallways, your shoulder brushing against hers when the dorm elevators creaked.

She didn’t realize when she started leaning into it.

At first, it was subtle— a smile that lingered, a laugh that came a beat too long, a hand brushing yours in a narrow space. Later, she found herself seeking it out, looking for your face in a crowded room, counting on your presence like a secret comfort no one else could touch.

And you noticed it, too.

In the quiet, in the moments that felt like they existed outside the rest of the world, the two of you were learning each other in gestures, in silences, in the steady rhythm of everyday.

It was small. It was quiet. It was enough.

The dorm lounge was quiet that evening, everyone else gone, leaving only the soft hum of the heater and the muted city lights spilling through the windows. You sat on the couch, legs stretched out, a notebook on your lap. Daniela perched beside you, closer than usual, until there was no space between you at all. Her curls brushed against the star tattoo at the base of your neck, soft and accidental— or maybe not.

Her manicured nails trailed along your hand absentmindedly. At first, it was a gentle scratch, the kind of idle contact that made your skin tingle. But gradually, she pressed a little harder, a little deeper, as if testing the limits of her own daring.

Her mind raced.

How could you keep doing this in front of others? How could she— SHE— do this, knowing the world is always watching?

The movement became sharper, and you hissed softly. The sound snapped her out of her reverie, panic rising in her chest as her hand recoiled. She looked down— and saw the small streak of red.

“Oh God—” she whispered, eyes wide.

Without thinking, instinct took over. She pressed her lips to your hand, tasting the faint copper tang of blood, and froze.

Was she supposed to do that?

No.

Absolutely not.

She hadn’t planned this.

She wasn’t meant to cross that line.

And yet, she couldn’t stop herself.

Her face pressed into your neck, lips almost brushing the star, as she murmured apology after apology, her voice trembling.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean—God, I—”

Her lips moved against your skin again, softer this time, hesitant. Each touch was a confession she hadn’t learned how to say aloud. The warmth of her breath, the brush of her curls against your neck, the gentle insistence of her nails against your palm— it was too much, too intimate, too immediate.

You didn’t pull away.

Not even when her lips stained with your blood.

Not even when the tension hung between you like a living thing, fragile and electrified.

She buried her face deeper into your neck, letting the apology spill over in a stream of muffled murmurs. Her body pressed closer, almost desperate, almost searching for something solid to hold onto in the chaos of her own thoughts.

Her mind raced, darting between panic and something darker— something longing. What is she doing? She’s not supposed to do this… not like this… not with me.

And yet, even as she chastised herself, even as guilt flared hotter than the embarrassment or fear, the act felt inevitable. The contact, the closeness, the mingling of breath and skin— it was small and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

You finally lowered your hand slightly, letting her continue if she needed, letting her set the pace in the quiet of the room. Your eyes caught hers in the dim light, and even without words, the gravity of the moment hit: everything she had been holding back, every careful thought, every hesitation— was unravelling here.

Her lips hovered, almost brushing the star, almost pressing again to taste you, as if by doing so she could apologize, confess, beg, and seek forgiveness all at once. And you didn’t stop her, because you knew she wasn’t asking permission— she was surrendering, in her own chaotic, breathless way.

The room felt impossibly small, impossibly intimate. Every scrape of her nails, every whisper of breath, every accidental flicker of skin against skin made the world outside— the cameras, the schedules, the fans, the others— fade into nothing.

And for the first time, Daniela allowed herself to feel it all.

The desire. The guilt. The fear. The longing.

And maybe, just maybe, she knew she wasn’t going to pull away.

—☆

Daniela wasn’t delusional.

She knew the difference between dreaming and lying to herself. She’d built her entire life on that distinction— on knowing exactly how much hope she was allowed to carry before it turned reckless. And if she had let herself believe, just for a moment, that what she and you were doing could stay quiet, could stay contained—

That was not delusion.

That was care.

She had been careful.

Careful enough to pull you close only when no one was looking. Careful enough to push you away just far enough to keep control. Careful enough to keep you within reach, but never fully claim you. Careful enough to tell herself this was balance, not cruelty.

But care, she was learning, did not make her invisible.

Because everyone saw it.

Not the way she did— soft, private, threaded through ordinary moments— but in flashes, fragments, things that could be clipped and replayed and laughed at.

Manon was the first to say it out loud.

She did it lightly, over breakfast, spoon clinking against her bowl.

“You know,” she said, glancing between Daniela and you, “you two are really bad at hiding.”

Daniela laughed too fast. “Hiding what?”

Manon only raised her eyebrows, smiling.

Lara was less subtle.

She nudged Daniela’s shoulder whenever you sat too close, stage-whispering, “Your girlfriend’s here,” like it was a joke, like it didn’t land somewhere sharp and humiliating every time.

Megan pressed.

Not unkindly— but relentlessly.

She’d scroll through her phone, tilt the screen toward Daniela. “You’ve seen this one, right?”

Another clip. Another slowed-down glance. Another caption full of hearts and speculation.

“You guys are everywhere,” Megan said, grinning.

“The fans are eating it up.”

Daniela’s stomach twisted. “They’re reading into it.”

“Maybe,” Megan said.

“Or maybe you’re just not as subtle as you think.”

Yoonchae nodded once from across the room, blunt as always. “It’s obvious.”

And Sophia—

Sophia didn’t say anything.

She just watched.

Daniela felt Sophia’s gaze the way one feels a hand at the back of their neck— steady, knowing, unsettling. Like she wasn’t watching the interactions, but the unraveling beneath them. Like she could see every choice Daniela made, every time she leaned in, every time she flinched away.

It was Sophia who made Daniela feel exposed.

As if her carefulness had been an illusion all along.

That night, Daniela stood in front of the mirror in her dorm room, still in her white shirt from rehearsals. She stared at herself longer than necessary, at the way her collar sat crooked, at the faint smear of makeup she hadn’t wiped away.

The white felt wrong.

Too clean.

Too honest.

She imagined stains blooming across it— fingerprints, whispers, assumptions. Things she hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

The next day, she pulled away.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

She laughed with you— but softer. She stood beside you— but not touching. When your hand reached for hers out of habit, she shifted so only your fingers brushed, then slipped away.

You noticed.

Of course you did.

“Did I—” you started once, stopping yourself.

She shook her head quickly. “No. It’s just… a lot right now.”

You nodded, immediate, understanding. Always understanding.

And that hurt worse than if you hadn’t been.

She could let go of your proximity.

She could step back from your warmth.

She could rearrange herself to look correct again.

But she couldn’t let go of your hand.

Not entirely.

She still found it in passing, her fingers curling around your left for half a second too long before she caught herself. Still brushed the heart at the back of your hand like a reassurance she wasn’t allowed to ask for.

She pulled away from you—

—but not from the part of you that had already settled inside her.

And that, she realized with a sinking ache, was the problem.

Because everyone could see the craving she refused to name.

Except her.

—☆

Questions scared Daniela.

Not because she didn’t want answers— but because questions demanded one.

They stripped away the careful ambiguity she lived inside. They forced things into shape. Into truth. Into something she could no longer pretend not to see.

And right now, standing in front of you, she felt bare.

The hallway was quiet in that way that only came after a long day— lights dimmed, footsteps distant, the air heavy with exhaustion and things left unsaid. You stood close enough that she could feel the heat of you, close enough that her body reacted before her mind could catch up.

Your eyes were bright.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Bright like you were holding something fragile and didn’t know where to put it.

Your hand rested against your chest, fingers curled over your heart as if you were steadying it, as if it was beating too loudly and you were afraid she could hear. Maybe she could. Maybe that was what made it so unbearable.

You looked at her like you always did— open, unguarded, devastatingly sincere.

Like you were asking without asking.

Daniela’s throat tightened. Her hands hung uselessly at her sides, fingers twitching like they were searching for something to hold onto. She wanted to look away, to joke, to deflect, to do anything except stand there and let herself be seen.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something in your expression that stopped her.

Something close to pleading.

“Am I asking for too much?” you asked.

Your voice didn’t shake.

That almost made it worse.

The words landed softly, but the weight of them crushed her all the same. Too much. As if you had ever asked loudly. As if you had ever demanded. As if you hadn’t spent weeks— months— giving and waiting and understanding without complaint.

Daniela tried to shake her head.

No, she wanted to say. No, you’re not. No, it’s not you. No, please don’t look at me like that.

But her body betrayed her before the word could form.

Her foot moved.

One step.

Small. Involuntary. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like the beginning of a dance she knew by heart.

One step closer to you.

Her breath hitched as the space between you disappeared, as the world narrowed down to the warmth of your body and the steady rhythm of your breathing. She didn’t think. If she thought, she would stop.

If she stopped, she would have to answer.

So instead, she reached for you and pulled you into her.

The hug was sudden.

Tight.

Almost desperate.

Her arms wrapped around your shoulders, her forehead pressing into the side of your neck, curls spilling forward to hide her face. She breathed you in like oxygen, like relief, like a confession she wasn’t brave enough to say aloud.

This— this was her answer.

Wasn’t it?

Can actions really speak louder than words?

Because right now, her entire body was screaming yes even as her mind was drowning in fear.

For a heartbeat, you didn’t move.

She felt it immediately.

The absence.

Your hand didn’t come up to rest on her back like it always did. Didn’t trace slow, grounding circles like you had a hundred times before. Didn’t anchor her the way she’d come to expect.

Your arms hovered.

Uncertain.

And that—

That was the moment it broke her.

The hug stopped feeling like safety and started feeling like something she was stealing.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands still clutching your shirt like letting go would undo her. Your eyes were searching her face now, no longer pleading— just waiting.

Waiting for words.

Waiting for clarity.

Waiting for something she still couldn’t give.

“I—” Daniela started, then stopped.

The silence stretched.

Heavy. Expectant. Merciless.

She realized then what your question really was.

Not Am I asking for too much?

But Are you willing to choose me?

And standing there, heart racing, chest tight, hands still holding onto you even as she hesitated—

Daniela understood the cruel truth she had been avoiding all along:

Her actions spoke loudly.

But her silence was screaming louder.

—☆

Daniela sat just far enough away from you to call it professional.

Not distant.

Not cold.

Just… measured.

The camera framed the two of you neatly, shoulders angled toward each other, smiles easy, the soft glow of the ring light washing everything into something warmer than reality. You were live— laughing, reading comments aloud, reacting to eyekons with exaggerated gasps and mock offense. It felt light. Safe. Controlled.

One step further than expected.

One step closer would’ve been dangerous.

So she stayed where she could see you— but not touch.

Touch would mean rumors.

Touch would mean clips slowed down, zoomed in, dissected frame by frame. Touch would mean headlines she wasn’t ready to read. And yet her hand itched, fingers curling slightly against her thigh, aching to trace the ink etched into your skin— the star at your neck, the lines she knew by heart without ever admitting it.

She kept smiling.

Kept laughing.

Kept nodding as you spoke, her gaze drifting back to you again and again despite herself.

Your eyes caught the light when you smiled— piercing, bright, impossibly earnest. The curve of your nose, the way your lips moved when you talked, the familiar rhythm of your voice. Daniela had memorized you in pieces like this, stolen moments strung together when no one was watching.

And the star.

God.

It glittered faintly at the base of your neck every time you moved, a quiet reminder of nights she tried not to remember too clearly.

You leaned forward slightly, reading a question aloud.

“Okay, eyekons are asking about… first crushes.”

Daniela stiffened just a fraction.

You laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. “This is so embarrassing.”

She laughed too, reflexively, shaking her head. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“But I want to,” you said easily, smiling at the screen.

“She was straight. A dancer too. Had this dimpled smile—”

Daniela laughed again, sharper this time, because the description landed too close to home.

Straight. Dancer. Dimpled smile.

She glanced at you, amused, heart light in a way she hadn’t felt in days. You’re literally describing me, she thought, warmth blooming in her chest before she could stop it. For a second, she forgot about the camera, forgot about the world watching.

She missed the part where you added, casually, “—but yeah, it was just an old classmate.”

Her ears didn’t catch it.

Her eyes did catch the comments.

They were flying by too fast to read all of them, but one stuck—bold, cruel, perfectly timed.

“Daniela Avanzini you want that cookie so bad 😭”

Her smile faltered.

Just a flicker. Barely noticeable. But she felt it like a crack down her chest.

Cookie.

You.

She swallowed, breath stalling as the implication settled heavy and humiliating in her stomach. She laughed weakly, eyes darting away from you and back to the phone, suddenly hyper-aware of where she was sitting, how she was angled, how often she had been looking at you instead of the camera.

God, had it been that obvious?

Her heart thudded painfully as she forced herself to face forward, posture stiffening, hands folding neatly in her lap like they belonged to someone else. She focused on the screen now— on the scrolling comments, the hearts, the jokes— anything but your stupid, pretty face beside her.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t what she wanted. This couldn’t be what she wanted. She had been careful—so careful— to keep herself just out of reach. To laugh, not linger. To look, not touch. To want without admitting it.

But the truth sat there, undeniable, burning under her skin.

You wanted her.

That was all there was.

And worse— everyone else could see it too.

Daniela’s chest tightened as she nodded along to something you said, barely hearing the words, her mind racing with panic and guilt and something dangerously close to longing. She smiled for the camera, practiced and perfect, even as her heart splintered quietly behind her ribs.

Because wanting you was one thing.

Being seen wanting you?

That terrified her.

And sitting there, live, inches apart but worlds away, Daniela realized she wasn’t just afraid of rumors anymore.

She was afraid of how badly she didn’t want them to be wrong.

—☆

Daniela loved proving everyone right.

She told herself that as she got dressed, as she checked her reflection one last time, as she ignored the familiar ache settling in her chest. Loving it made it easier. Loving it made it feel like control instead of fear.

That was why she went out with Jonah.

A man.

Someone safe.

Someone whose presence didn’t raise eyebrows or questions or carefully worded comments from staff. Someone whose arm around her shoulders would never be slowed down and analyzed frame by frame.

Jonah’s vibe matched hers. He laughed at the right moments. Complimented her dancing without sounding threatened. Told her she was “grounded,” “focused,” “refreshing.”

Words that felt like approval, like permission.

Someone expected.

And she wanted— needed— to be expected.

Dinner was easy. Too easy. Conversation flowed without edges, without hesitation. When he reached for her hand across the table, she didn’t flinch. When he smiled at her, she smiled back. She played her role perfectly.

She even convinced herself she was enjoying it.

But later— much later— when she walked back into the building, heels quiet against the floor, she saw you.

Waiting.

You always waited.

Leaning against the wall like you’d been carved into that space, phone forgotten in your hand. Your eyes lifted when you saw her, and something in your face shifted— hope, relief, devotion so immediate it made her stomach drop.

Too much.

You took a step toward her before stopping yourself. Always so careful. Always watching her for cues.

“How was it?” you asked softly.

Her throat tightened. “Fine.”

The word tasted wrong.

Your smile faltered just a little, but you recovered quickly. You always did. You always bent yourself into something easier for her to hold.

“I’m glad,” you said, though your eyes said anything but.

She couldn’t handle the way you looked at her then.

Like she was something holy. Like she was something worth waiting for. Like no matter how many times she pulled away, you would still be there with open hands and an open heart.

Too much love.

Too much devotion.

Too much she could never return without burning everything she’d built.

You hesitated, fingers flexing at your side— your left hand.

She noticed.

She always noticed.

“Am I even changing your mind?” you asked quietly.

Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, lungs refusing to cooperate. The hallway felt too narrow, the air too thin. She stared at you, heart pounding, panic screaming in her ears.

You stepped closer— not touching, never touching unless she let you.

“Are you ready, Daniela?” you asked.

Her name on your lips had always undone her. She loved it— how you said it like it meant something, like it belonged to you.

But not like this.

Not when it was laced with weariness she had put there herself.

“Or are you just not ready for me?”

The words landed between you like a fracture.

She knew you were waiting. She was aware of every second stretching, every breath she failed to take. She knew that whatever she said now would change something forever.

But her chest locked up. Her mind screamed at her to move, to speak, to choose—choose something —and she couldn’t.

To be near you felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

Exhilarating.

Terrifying.

A death sentence she wasn’t brave enough to accept.

She had worked too hard. Sacrificed too much. Built herself brick by careful brick. She couldn’t let it all collapse because of a feeling she didn’t know how to survive.

Your shoulders sank, just barely, as the silence answered for her.

And then—

“Y/N?”

Sophia’s voice echoed down the hall.

You flinched, turning instinctively toward the sound, and Daniela inhaled again like she’d been drowning. The moment snapped apart, fragile and unresolved.

“I—” you started, then stopped.

You looked back at Daniela once more, eyes searching, hopeful in a way that hurt to witness.

She couldn’t meet your gaze.

You stepped away.

Sophia waved you over, concern written plainly across her face. You hesitated for half a second, then went to her, leaving Daniela alone with the echo of everything she hadn’t said.

As your footsteps faded, Daniela pressed a hand to her chest, nails biting into fabric.

To love you would mean ruin.

And she wasn’t ready to be ruined.

—☆

The hotel bed was too small for three people, but somehow the three of them made it work— legs tangled, shoulders pressed together, phones glowing in the dim room as the live scrolled on.

Daniela laughed easily at first.

Lara lay on her stomach, feet kicking in the air as she read comments out loud. Manon leaned back against the headboard, occasionally glancing between the screen and Daniela with that unreadable expression she’d mastered.

The chat moved fast. Too fast.

Hearts.

Inside jokes.

Clips being referenced in real time.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Lara gasped, hand flying to her mouth dramatically.

“Dani, look! They’re saying you and Y/N are—”

Rainbow emojis flooded the screen.

Ship names stacked on top of each other.

Edits Daniela had never watched but somehow already knew by heart.

Her stomach dropped.

Before she could think— before she could soften it, before she could choose her tone—

“Guys, stop with the gay allegations,” Daniela snapped.

“I’m straight.”

The room went quiet.

Just for a beat. Just long enough.

The words came out wrong.

Too fast.

Too sharp.

Like a reflex she hadn’t meant to show anyone. They burned her tongue the second they left her mouth, bitter and unmistakable.

She forced a laugh. “I mean—seriously, calm down.”

Lara blinked, smile faltering. “Oh—uh—okay.”

Manon said nothing.

The chat didn’t stop. If anything, it exploded harder.

Daniela smiled until her cheeks hurt, eyes glued to the screen so she wouldn’t have to look at either of them. The live ended minutes later, but the bitterness stayed— settling deep in her chest, heavy and nauseating.

She didn’t sleep.

Hours later, when the city outside had quieted into a low hum and the room felt too still, there was a knock at the door.

Manon was sprawled across Daniela’s bed, half-asleep, breathing slow and even. Daniela slipped on her hoodie, heart already pounding, and padded toward the door like she already knew.

She opened it.

You stood there.

Hair messy, eyes glassy, hands shoved into your pockets like you were trying to hold yourself together by force. You looked smaller somehow— wound tight, fragile in a way she had never seen before.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, flat and trembling, you said, “We need to talk.”

She stepped aside.

The door closed softly behind you, the click louder than it should’ve been. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of city lights slipping through the curtains. You didn’t sit. You stood near the desk, arms crossed like armor.

Daniela hovered by the bed, suddenly unsure where to put herself.

“Why did you say it like that?” you asked finally.

Her heart lurched. “Say what?”

Your laugh was humorless. “Don’t.”

She swallowed.

“‘I’m straight,’” you said.

“Like it was a warning. Like it was disgusting to even think otherwise.”

Your voice wavered, but your eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I didn’t mean—” Daniela started.

“Yes, you did,” you cut in. “And that’s fine, Dani. If you don’t like me. If you don’t want this. You could’ve just said so.”

You took a shaky breath.

“But you let me try.”

The words landed heavy.

“You let me keep hoping,” you continued, voice cracking now. “Do you have any idea how cruel that feels?”

Her throat burned. “I told you from the beginning. I never lied about who I am.”

You nodded slowly, like you’d expected that answer.

“You also told me to pursue you,” you said.

She flinched.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you went on. “You could’ve let me cry and move on. You could’ve shut it down that night. But you didn’t.”

Your arms tightened around yourself.

“You let me think I had a chance. And then every time I got close, you pulled away like I was poison.”

Silence stretched between you, sharp and suffocating.

“What was I supposed to think?” you asked quietly.

Daniela’s hands trembled at her sides.

She wanted to tell you everything.

That she didn’t know what she was feeling.

That fear had been making decisions for her long before she realized it.

That being seen— really seen— terrified her more than failure ever had.

That maybe— maybe— she cared far more than she’d ever let herself admit.

But the words wouldn’t come.

They stuck behind the walls she’d built so carefully, choking her.

Instead, all she could manage was, “I’m sorry.”

You closed your eyes.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

When you opened them again, something in your gaze had changed. Not anger. Not hatred.

Acceptance.

“I can’t keep chasing someone who runs every time I reach them,” you said softly.

Her chest constricted.

“I love you, Dani,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper.

“But I can’t love someone who won’t even let me try.”

The words lodged in her chest like glass.

She took a step forward— too late.

You turned away, hand already on the door. It opened quietly. Too quietly.

Before she could say your name, before she could shatter and beg and confess everything she’d buried—

The door clicked shut.

And just like that—

It was over.

Daniela stood there in the dim room, breath shallow, heart breaking in slow, irreversible pieces, realizing she had just chosen safety over truth.

And lost you anyway.

The days after were colorless.

Not dark.

Not dramatic.

Just… drained.

Daniela moved through her schedules like muscle memory had taken over her body. Wake up. Practice. Smile. Interviews. Laugh at the right moments. Nod when spoken to. Perform like nothing inside her had changed.

On camera, she was fine.

Off camera, her chest ached constantly— an unrelenting pressure that made it hard to breathe if she stopped moving for too long.

She caught herself looking for you everywhere.

In the practice room, her eyes flicked instinctively toward your usual spot before she could stop herself. In the dorm hallways, she paused when she heard footsteps, half-expecting your laugh to echo around the corner. She scanned call sheets longer than necessary, waiting— hoping— to see your name near hers.

Sometimes she reached for her phone without thinking.

Then remembered.

Every absence felt deliberate.

Like punishment.

You weren’t dramatic about it. You didn’t glare. You didn’t confront her. You simply… disappeared from her orbit. No lingering after practice. No quiet jokes. No water bottles waiting where she trained.

The space you left behind was deafening.

And the worst part— the part she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried— was realizing how much lighter everything had felt when you were near.

Rehearsals used to feel manageable. Exhaustion had edges when you were there, softened by your presence. Even stress had felt survivable, anchored by the certainty that someone saw her— not the idol, not the image, just her.

Now everything felt heavier.

Sharper.

Lonelier.

One night, when the ache became unbearable— when the dorm felt too quiet and her thoughts too loud— Daniela wandered into the kitchen.

Sophia was there, standing by the counter, stirring a cup of tea slowly, thoughtfully. The overhead light cast soft shadows across her face.

She looked up when Daniela entered.

“You look like a ghost,” Sophia said gently.

Daniela huffed a quiet, humorless laugh and slid into the chair across from her. She stared down at the table, fingers tracing invisible lines in the wood.

“I just…” Her voice faltered.

“I don’t understand why it hurts so much.”

Sophia didn’t answer right away. She finished stirring, set the spoon down, and turned fully toward her. Those sharp, kind eyes studied Daniela like she was a puzzle she already knew the answer to.

After a moment, Sophia sighed.

“Na sayo na,” she said softly.

“Pinatalo mo pa.”

The words landed strange and unfamiliar, heavy in Daniela’s ears.

She frowned, looking up. “What does that mean?”

Sophia chuckled quietly— not amused.

Almost sad.

She shook her head.

“You’ll understand one day,” she said.

But the thing was—

Daniela already did.

She didn’t need the translation.

The words settled deep in her chest, foreign yet piercing, like something ancient and true all at once. A truth she had been circling for weeks without wanting to name.

She had been given something precious.

Something open.

Patient.

Unwavering.

Your love hadn’t asked for guarantees. It hadn’t demanded certainty. It had only asked to exist— to be seen, to be allowed.

And she had crushed it with fear.

Months passed.

Schedules changed. Stages grew bigger. The world kept moving.

But the words lingered.

They echoed every time her eyes drifted toward you across a room. Every time she caught a glimpse of your profile and felt that familiar ache bloom again. Every time she remembered the way you used to look at her— like loving her was the easiest thing in the world.

Na sayo na, pinatalo mo pa.

She didn’t need the language to feel the truth.

You had been hers.

Not in a loud, claimed way— but in a fragile, quiet, precious way that required care instead of fear.

And she had let you slip through her fingers.

Not because she didn’t want you.

But because she was too afraid to keep you.

—☆

Daniela wondered, not for the first time, if she had made the right choice.

Who was she kidding.

Of course she hadn’t.

Atlanta welcomed her back with noise and warmth and familiarity— the kind that pressed into her bones whether she wanted it to or not. The concert had ended in a blur of lights and applause, sweat still clinging to her skin as the group spilled backstage, laughter overlapping, adrenaline still buzzing.

Family. Friends. Old faces.

Old worlds colliding with the new.

Jonah was there beside her, like he was supposed to be.

His hand rested on her shoulder at first— casual, possessive in a way no one questioned. Then it slid down to her waist, fingers lingering, burning a trail across her skin that made her stomach twist.

She smiled because that was expected of her.

But all she could think was how you never touched her like that.

Your hand had always stayed where she placed it— on her hands, tentative, reverent. Warm. Like touching her anywhere else would’ve been too much, like holding her hand had already felt like a privilege.

Jonah’s eyes traced her curves openly as he spoke to someone off to the side. She felt seen in a way that made her shrink.

And then—

She saw you.

You stood a few feet away, surrounded by familiar faces— old friends, laughter spilling easily from them. You looked different here. Looser. Less guarded.

Like the girl she had known in fragments was finally whole again.

And then there was her.

The girl standing in front of you.

Daniela watched, frozen, as you talked—no, tried to talk—to her. You stammered. You slipped over your words. You laughed too quickly, hands fidgeting at your sides. The way you always did when you were nervous.

Your friends snickered gently, nudging each other, clearly entertained.

Daniela’s chest tightened.

She understood it instantly.

You weren’t awkward because you were shy.

You were awkward because you cared.

The girl said something— Daniela couldn’t hear what— but she saw the way your face flushed, color blooming across your cheeks. The girl smiled, warm and open, eyes holding yours without hesitation. Her hand brushed your arm.

Daniela’s throat burned.

She wanted to shout.

Wanted to interrupt.

Wanted to step forward and claim something she had never once claimed when it mattered.

And then—

You offered your left hand.

The world tilted.

Daniela’s vision blurred as a tear slipped free, trailing down her cheek before she could stop it. Jonah noticed immediately, thumb brushing it away with practiced concern.

“You okay?” he murmured.

She nodded automatically, even as her chest caved in.

Because you were supposed to wipe her tears away.

Because you were supposed to be the one holding her hand.

She imagined it— running across the room, pulling your hand free from that girl’s grasp, pressing it into her own.

Letting you feel her tremble.

Letting you see, finally, how much she had wanted you.

For once— just once— she could be brave.

But she wasn’t.

She stood there instead. Silent. Still. Safe.

And the girl in front of you—

She was brave.

She didn’t hesitate.

She took your left hand like it belonged there.

Daniela felt something inside her break, clean and final.

She had never done that.

She had never taken your hand when you offered it.

Never held on when you asked her to stay.

Never chosen you when choosing you mattered most.

The girl smiled, fingers lacing confidently with yours, and you smiled back— soft, real, unguarded.

It was over.

Daniela stood backstage in her hometown, applause still echoing faintly through the walls, realizing the cruelest truth of all:

She hadn’t lost you to someone else.

She had lost you to her own fear.

And love— real love— had simply gone where it was welcomed.

Authors note:

HSWHASHAWHS just wanted to rub salt on the wound hihihihih 2/5 suitor! reader x kats member....who's next???

And you always kept your promises.

Always.

She fiddled with the fabric of her tote bag as the band started setting up. Her heart thumped, not with excitement— but with that soft, annoying ache of wanting someone to show up for you.

And then the guitars chimed, soft and familiar, and the first lines of Para Sa’yo (for you) slid into the air.

The crowd instantly screamed.

Sophia froze.

Of course.

Her favorite song, right now, of all moments.

She laughed under her breath, half thrilled, half annoyed at the universe’s timing.

“Where are you…” she whispered, scanning again.

And then—

“Hi, Eli”

Like the universe heard her.

She turned.

And her breath caught.

You were weaving your way toward her, mumbling polite “excuse po” to everyone you passed. The stage lights washed over you, painting your hair gold, your cheeks still pink from rushing. You looked like you had sprinted across the entire fairground.

You held her favorite flowers that's slightly crumpled from running and a mini fan that was already switched on.

When you reached her, you lifted the fan toward her face without a word.

The cool air hit her cheeks, and she almost melted on the spot.

“S-sorry,” you said, catching your breath.

“The booths were insane. Someone spilled siomai sauce on me. But—” you smiled, small and gentle, the kind reserved for moments that felt like secrets— “I told you I’d be here.”

Her chest tightened.

“You’re late,” she said, trying to sound annoyed, but her voice came out softer than she intended.

“I know,” you admitted.

“But I’m here now.”

And something in the way you said it made the whole field feel quieter.

Sophia couldn’t stop staring at you.

Your hair messy.

Your shirt clinging slightly from sweat.

Your hand gripping the flowers like you hoped she wouldn’t notice how tightly you were holding them.

“You’re… you’re supposed to be enjoying,” she said awkwardly.

“I am.”

You glanced at her.

“You’re here.”

She looked away so fast she almost strained her neck.

“Stop that,” she muttered.

“Stop what?”

“Being—” she waved her hand uselessly toward you— “like that.”

You laughed softly, the sound warm even under the noise of the crowd.

“Like what?”

“Like… you.”

You blinked.

“Is that bad?”

She didn’t answer— couldn’t answer— because the chorus hit, and the crowd jumped, and the lights flashed, and you instinctively shifted closer so she wouldn’t get pushed around.

Your arm brushed hers.

Not by accident.

Not on purpose.

Something in between =— something gentle.

“Hey,” you said again, voice low, leaning a little so she could hear you.

“I got you water too… if you need.”

“You didn’t have to,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Then you smiled, almost shy.

“But I wanted to.”

A wave of something warm and terrifying pooled in her stomach.

The song softened into its bridge, the world briefly bathed in blue light.

“Eli?” you called quietly.

She turned.

Your eyes were soft.

Almost nervous.

Almost like you were seeing her the way she always feared no one would.

“When I saw the crowd…” you began, rubbing the back of your neck, “I got scared you’d think I bailed.”

Her chest tightened painfully.

“I didn’t think that.”

“You looked like you were searching,” you said.

“You always look for people you want beside you.”

She swallowed hard.

“I was,” she whispered.

Your breath hitched— just barely— but she noticed.

The crowd sang loudly behind you, but between the two of you, the moment was quiet. Still.

You shifted the flowers into her hands gently.

“These are… for you. I know you like these.”

She stared at them.

At the petals slightly bent from your grip.

At the little fan still pointed at her.

“You didn’t have to,” she said again, because her brain had short-circuited and that was all she could manage.

You exhaled, soft.

“I know,” you repeated.

“But Eli…”

You paused, choosing your words carefully.

“I just… I like doing things for you.”

Something in her unraveled.

And then— almost automatically— she said the words she didn’t yet understand the weight of:

“Why?”

Your eyes softened.

A tiny, gentle foreshadow of years to come.

You smiled— the kind that felt like truth.

“Sophia,” you said, voice barely above the music,

“if I ever explain that to you… you’d think I’m exaggerating.”

She froze.

You continued, quieter:

“But all I know is that I want you and I'd do anything for you. Para sa'yo (for you)”

Her breath stilled.

The last chorus hit.

The lights flared golden.

The crowd swayed.

And you didn’t move away.

Not once.

Not for the rest of the night.

You stayed beside her until the last song.

Until the lights came down.

Until the crowd thinned out.

Until she forgot the world was supposed to make sense without you.

And she realized:

With you there and flowers in her hands, fan humming softly— she didn’t need anything else.

Not the band.

Not the lights.

Not the perfect moment.

Just you.

And her.

In the middle of a crowd.

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

—masterlist

Authors note:

this is inspired by how the whole parokya ni edgar performance during concert night my crush was jsut behind me.....uhm..yes!!! HSWAHSAWHSHA

Yoonchae’s always been a love skeptic. Sure, it exists or whatever but it’s not really her gig. Her idea of a good time is playing her drums without annoying distractions (a near impossible task, given the grumpy old witch her parents got saddled with for a neighbour) and maybe drinking enough soda to choke a horse while playing video games— not the strenuous task of trying to keep a girl happy at a restaurant surrounded by screaming kids and the lingering smell of burnt steak like marker on the walls.

Some would say she’s a workaholic. (A lot, actually, would call her a workaholic. She hears that word more often than she does her own name.) And yeah sure, maybe playing in a band with her much older, tax-paying friends isn’t most people’s definition of a ‘job’, but the workaholic title is one she carries with pride.

Now obviously, this story wouldn’t be happening if her heart hadn’t grown three sizes bigger thanks to the whirlpool flung into her path— i.e. you. Since you know that Yoonchae is not one to be dumb in love, you’re probably expecting her to not believe in the abstract concept of love at first sight either. And you’re fully right. Kinda.

Yoonchae’s first meeting with you wasn’t the kind of frenetic, cinematic love that sweeps you off your feet (or so they claim in the k-dramas she watches as a mode of self-indulgence). It was a simple exchange of eyes and a helping hand she extended that pulled her deeper into the spark she felt burning in her gut when she first laid eyes on you.

The morning was as boring as every other. Her friends yammering away, talking her ears off about some boy group, a new student, the most effective way to ditch class without alerting the janitor— things like that. She was slumped over like a zombie against her locker, exhaustion tugging at her eyes, a fault entirely her own given that she'd stayed up all night playing valorant till three.

Basically dead to the world, Yoonchae’s thoughts began to wander towards lunch— which was stupid of her to think about at 7 in the bloody morning. And that's when she heard it. Amongst all the watercooler chatter, a click-clack of heels reached her ears, ringing like gunshots.

She looked up on instinct, face dour, expecting to see some teacher storming toward her, red as her own tie and ready to tell her off for the creative design of tying her blazer around her waist— the only complaints her parents had ever received about her— only to have her heart skip a beat. Several, in fact. She was pretty sure she forgot how to breathe all together. Her ‘I need to look cool’ brain was holding down the fort and possibly also her feet to the ground.

The first thought that hit her scatterbrained head was how good the school uniform looked on you. The ratty white shirt Yoonchae forced herself into with gurning looks and a constant stream of complaints was just the right size on you— loose enough to be comfortable, tight enough to not get dress-coded, with not a single wrinkle in sight. The stuffy blazer that she’d tied around her own waist exactly 0.2 seconds of stepping into the school grounds was smart on you in a way that was so unfair it hurt. The black skirt all the girls were mandated to wear fell right above your knees, where your socks hugged your legs a little ways below. She couldn’t see a single hair out of place, not unlike her own silky locks, currently pulled back into a low ponytail after several complaints from annoyed teachers and jealous students alike.

And then her drifting eyes landed on your face, and her heart swooped into her stomach. Yoonchae could usually pick attractive people in a crowd— she hung around with five of them near every day. But she’d never considered looks the way she looked at yours.

Your eyes were exalted, smiley without your plush lips curling upwards, and every feature was set just right enough for her to jolt upright and turn up her collar as second nature— her body’s attempt to save her rather geeky appearance in front of the girl she was sure was an angel to save her from the capricious mood swings of faculty and the mystery meat at lunchtime that looked like it would crawl away at any second.

Your eyes were tinged with a hint of apprehension, scanning the halls for a friendly face to help you settle into the vast, clinically clean expanse of your new environment. ‘Please look at me’, Yoonchae found herself thinking beseechingly, her smile extending in a way she hoped reached her eyes, ‘Please.’

She nearly hit her head when your meandering gaze landed on her and then lit up like a light in the dark and she watched, practically bouncing on her toes as you ambled towards her, eyes downcast and shy. By this point, her nosy friends had noticed and possibly mentally catalogued Yoonchae’s reaction to your entrance and were now whispering and giggling in a way that had her fists itching to turn around and sock them. For fear of seeming violent in front of you, she held it in and assumed a friendly expression.

You reached about a foot away from her. The scent of perfume— a sweet, tangy thing that tickled her nose in a mildly pleasant way reached her brain and she was on cloud 4.5 before you even opened your mouth.

“Hi.” The word left your lips as a trembly whisper, honeyed in a guileful way that made Yoonchae’s palms get all sweaty. Your eyes locked onto hers. “It's my first day here. Could you help me?” You extended your palm and she wiped her clammy hand on the side of her skirt and grasped it, hoping you wouldn’t notice the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead as her fingers made contact with soft skin. You spare her that smile again, and her heartbeat swings into overdrive.

Oh she was fucked.

Yoonchae learned a lot about you very fast after successfully becoming your friend— the key detail being that you were the principal’s daughter. Which would explain why the teachers walked around eggshells on you and why the janitors practically tripped over their own boots to move out of your way to the washroom even as you smiled at them. Your popularity, however, was entirely accredited to yourself.

Natural charm, a knack for drawing in a doting crowd, a miraculous ability to make people feel better about themselves just by including them in a conversation they previously thought jejune; combined with perfect grades meant that you were surrounded by friends offering to buy you overly-priced snacks from the fancy-schmancy vending machine outside class by the end of the week.

So she was fighting for your attention sometimes. Fine, whatever. You always came back to her in the end anyway. “You're my closest friend here." You'd tell her, eyes crinkling as you smiled and she would dig her nails into her palm to keep from fainting and suffering from aura loss for the next eight generations.

And then you went and dropped the m-bomb. Namely, the man bomb. It happened on one of your maybe-dates on a random Saturday. One of those will-they, won’t-they outings where you'd loop your arm through hers and she'd carry your bag and eyes would linger for just a little too long and you'd catch each other staring before turning red and looking away and then you'd both vehemently deny dating to a confused but sweet passerby possibly wondering why Yoonchae’s jacket was draped over your shoulders if you weren't an item.

On this particular occasion, you were dragging her to an ice-cream parlour after school, insisting that their neapolitan was ‘to die for’— a poor choice of words given that it was about 15 degrees outside and Yoonchae’s feet were already frozen to the bottom of her shoes.

Still, she went along with it, letting you tote her behind you as you moved with the force of a soldier marching through ice to recover the sweet treat of the gods— because, y'know, she's a complete sucker whose spine melts into a puddle of goo around you.

She watched with a fierce affection as you went to town on the sundae placed in front of you, gorging on it so fast, there was a little pit of worry in her stomach about the choking hazards of the whole operation. Her own vanilla-bean sat in front of her, neglected and melting away into what was essentially a milkshake, her eyes tuned in to the sight of you giggling yourself silly over what she had to admit, was pretty good ice cream.

You were putting your multi-tasking skills to work, shoveling the cold dessert into your mouth with one hand and gesticulating animatedly with the other, talking about the latest happenings in the class and she was in that peaceful state where she was drowning in the quicksand of your voice, warm and content to be there when you said it.

“Do you know that guy in your class? The prefect, I mean. Adrien or whatever."

The result of the mention of that absolute prick sent Yoonchae into fits of coughing as the drippy milkshake she'd just sipped went down the wrong pipe in utter shock. A thump on the back and she wheezed back onto earth, heaving something nasty. "Adrien?” She gasped, trying her best not to sound like there was a frog doing the cha-cha in her throat. "Y-yeah, what about him?”

You mixed your sundae around indolently in your bowl, lost in thought as the metal of the spoon clanked against the glass in a rhythm that helped Yoonchae settle back into her seat, shoulders untensing. "He's been talking to me for a week or so. A big of a braggart, but he seems nice enough.”

Adrien fucking irrelevantlastname. The pebble in Yoonchae’s boot since the start of freshman year. He'd followed her around for a whole semester, pestering her to let him practice with the girls, ignoring her constant polite hints that it was a ladies-only kinda gig. When she'd finally gave the little cockroach a chance to prove himself— just to get him out of her hair, he'd flaked like she shone a flashlight on him.

The few chords he managed to strum on the uber-expensive guitar SHE had to tune for him were so ear-splittingly bad, her ears were ringing over the noise of him complaining about rejection. Ever since then, he'd gotten his father to get him into the band club through a very hefty donation— they weren't pinching pennies and a good thing too, given that she'd seen the coach coming out with earbuds in her ears. Oh yeah, and he hated her guts.

So this came as a gut-punch she wasn't sure she could recover from. Because she couldn't deny it either. She'd heard it, your name spilling from his stupid mouth in that sanctimonious way of his as he talked about how he'd managed to get your attention and how you were basically eating out the palm of his hand— she'd just chosen to tune out whatever nonsense he was spewing in the belief that he was lying through his damn teeth. Proven incorrect, of course.

“He plays guitar." You commented nonchalantly, thankfully unable to see how much Yoonchae wanted to rip all her hair out and then crawl into some alcove somewhere to just die.

Do you like musicians then? She found herself thinking desperately, fingers tapping out an anxious beat against her thighs. “I- I play the drums!" She blurted out, her jealousy overriding her rational sense. Your eyes widened a little in surprise as they started up to meet hers and she felt herself flush, heat spreading across her ears. Damn her pale skin and it's telling. “Casually. Kinda."

“You do? Really?" Your tone was one of wonder and all qualms of giving that little piece of herself to you vanished when your eyes gleamed with interest and admiration.

She nodded, still pink in the face, twirling a jet black strand of her hair around her finger, heart thudding to the beat of the world around her. “I'm…in a band. With like- friends.” Her voice got smaller and smaller with each syllable, shyness dusting her cheeks. "They're waiting for me to graduate so we can sign onto a record label…”

There was a scraping noise as your chair pushed back and you leaped out of your seat, hands clasping hers in reverence. Yoonchae leaned back slightly on instinct, eyes widening to the size of saucers. Fuck, was that really all she needed to do to get your attention. “Do you like- do gigs? At restaurants or something?” You asked, jittery and maintaining a grin so wide your face almost split in half.

"I mean yeah- we have a show next week at that new restaurant downtown….” Yoonchae said in a hushed voice, too focused on your warm hands interlocked with hers, each slight movement sending sparks of electricity shooting through her body like the best caffeine rush she'd ever had.

You huffed, sitting back into your seat with a heavy thud that garnered dirty looks from the other patrons around you. “Well?" You asked expectantly, tongue-in-cheek (literally), “aren't you gonna ask a lady there?"

She blinked hard. Once, then twice. Then she sputtered out a, “I mean- yeah- I-I can get you backstage tickets-" she was cut off by a loud squeal, the source of which she located as a smiling you.

“Great!" You clapped your hands together cheerfully, shaking a strand of stray hair out of your face. "Adrien asked me if I wanted to go somewhere fun as friends next Saturday anyway. He said he wanted to tell me something. Probably about that stupid history assignment due end of this month— i swear, it's an assassination attempt-” and you descend into a diatribe against your history teacher.

Clearly, you had some sort of immunity to reading the room or Yoonchae just had a really great poker face, because internally, everything inside you-land in her brain had just caught fire, given that she had just set up the date between you and Mr. Picture-perfect, tall, deep-voice guy she was positive was gonna confess at her own show. Her love life was one humongous cosmic joke.

Which leads her here, to present day in the extravagant practice room Sophia’s parents had gifted them— or more accurately, after her drum game was terribly off-kilter and she fucked up every single attempt at every single tune they tried to play (including, but not limited to, the Jingle Bell Rock, a last ditch attempt suggested by Sophia to save her dignity. No dice.), she's camping out in the washroom, leaning against the sink and wondering if turning on the tap and letting it run would result in a flood or pneumonia— and which one would take her first.

She has an inkling that the cause of her demise will be Lara, who's been pacing very aggressively outside the bathroom for the entire ten minutes she's been there. Can't a girl weigh out her next deathly course of action in peace anymore?

She's just about started to consider drowning herself in the toilet bowl when the raucous click of moon boots stops dead in its rampage. Then there's soft tip-taps against the wooden floor, a sure indicator of all her girls crowding around the bathroom door.

She can't help but roll her eyes as hushed whispers float through the tiniest gap under the door. Near 18 and she's still being treated like a 4th grader dab smack in the middle of their emo phase. Though, to be fair, she has not confided in her unnies about what she's sure they will dismiss (or, god forbid, gush over) as puppy love. So they do not know the blood, sweat and tears (good lord, so many tears) she has shed over this mere adolescent crush.

She shuts down her own strident thoughts to eavesdrop on their wild theories— just to wiretap what she's gonna be up against if she decides that the bathroom if a rather unsanitary place to nest.

“It's been 10 minutes……think she fell in?” Megan, of course.

"Ugh, bad visual.” Lara and her rightful distaste.

“No, guys, this could actually be serious……help…..our baby…” oh Sophia and her ever-present concern. A warm, fuzzy feeling fills her chest.

She makes a split second decision and flings the door open dramatically, nearly clipping Manon right in her nose before she has her turn to comment.

She's met with five pairs of guilty puppy eyes but their bad habit of nosing around is the least of her concerns right now. Her mind does a quick analysis of the girls and their usual motifs about love before meandering eyes lock firmly on Lara.

Megan has opened her mouth but she cuts her off. “I have….problems.” Yoonchae says flatly, stiffly, looking directly into Lara’s curious eyes. More silence. Yoonchae sighs. She can sense the ‘well, duh’ so acutely she almost tastes it.

“....girl problems."

The excited, high pitched noise that leaves Lara has Daniela taking off her glasses to make sure the lens didn't crack.

Within moments, she has been whisked off by Lara and her co-conspirator— sorry, helper, Megan, to the Raj House that is conveniently located next door and sat on the bed, being hounded for all the hot details, Megan braiding her hair, Lara doing her nails (previously a rather nice shade of black. Dark as her soul, she insists. A perfect juxtaposition to it, is what Manon says.)

So she spills. Not the pathetic, sappy parts, of course (though she suspects that might be all parts of the story, derived from the fact that she can feel Megan’s smirk burning into the back of her head), but just the general atmosphere between her and you, the dance you do around each other, the chemistry that neither of you wanna activate.

“Dude, she's obviously into you!" Lara scoffs, glancing up from where she's been drawing a little white cat on Yoonchae's ring finger. Her glinting cateyes bore into Yoonchae, sparkling with that hint of mischief and absolute truth she's come to associate with the girl in front of her.

“Yeah!" Megan butts in, tugging a little harder at a particularly stubborn knot near the base of her neck. “She's totally into you— don't be scared to shoot your shot!" Yoonchae winces, rolling her eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time this week. “That's not- it's not my main concern right now."

“Well then, do tell what is?"

“She might like a guy." She deadpans and the room errupts into a chorus of ‘tch’ and gagging noises that startles Yoonchae the cat— lounging on her lap like the queen of the kingdom.

Megan’s standing up now, brandishing her brush around furiously like it might turn into a sword and stab the perpetrator. “Oh who is this fool?" She yowls, emitting pure rage like a nightlight. Lara isn't one to go through the same five stages of dramatics but she's just as furious, hands spilling nail paint all over Yoonchae’s fingers before hastily wiping it, cursing loudly every time.

“It's my class prefect." Yoonchae announces sullenly, free hand trying to be inconspicuous as it inches towards the head of Yoonchae the cat, who's blissfully unaware (or possibly just uncaring) of the implosion happening around her. “Adrien.”

Lara makes a discontent noise, giving up on salvaging what now looks like spilt tar on Yoonchae’s fingertips, finally looking up— probably to avoid looking at the mess she made. "Isn't he the one who was accused of gerrymandering before getting the job?”

“Yeah, I thought you said he couldn't control a pet fish in a bowl." Megan chimes in, decidedly tired after completely messing up Lara's meticulously made bed, her voice a brittle glass that's holding back ungodly shrieks that would make a sailor blush.

Which, to be honest, is the state of the little control panel in Yoonchae’s head at the moment. Rather, it is on fire. And hurtling towards a blackhole at breakneck speed.

Yoonchae hunches over, whatever modicum of discipline she has leaving her body along with her decorum and Yoonchae the cat has finally had enough of her and decides that the ball game calls for every creature for themselves, graciously knocking over whatever little was left of the black nailpaint on her jeans.

“He can't." She says glumly, attempting and obviously failing to sop up the black stuff seeping into her skin like boiling tea with her palm, successfully creating a bigger mess than she started with. “The teacher left him in charge yesterday and he tipped over the desk trying to climb

onto it to lecture us." She gets a round of weak laughter for that. You count your wins.

“So what's the issue?" Lara prods gently, clearly trying to penny for her thoughts her way into an answer. “He's planning to confess to her at our gig next week." Incredulous gasps all around. It's nice to have a willing audience. Yoonchae gives a noncommittal hum of appreciation.

“No…" Megan gasps softly.

"I mean, she can't actually like her, right?” Lara hounds her like she knows jack about your feelings anymore than Lara does.

"No!” Megan says louder, swinging onto her feet now.

"But like— look at you and then think of him! You're in a class of your own!” Lara continues furiously, now shaking like a blender on crack.

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!" Megan screams in a grating voice like a chainsaw as she drops dramatically to her knees, met by impervious looks from Yoonchae and a quick side eye from Lara.

Lara grips her shoulders firmly, eyes like gemstones in the rough, redirecting Yoonchae’s diminishing attention back on her. “It's time to pull out the big guns."

She staggers giddily to the vanity table, past a dramatically fake-sobbing Megan, yanking open a drawer right off its hinges. Well, almost. It collapses a bit on her hand but she recovers like it was a feather brushing against her wrist, yanking out the target of her hunt.

Yoonchae blanches like Lara just sprung a surprise pop quiz on her. She practically invents flight as she snatches her songwriting journal and its loose pages out of clawed hands, shaking her head like a rotor blade on a helicopter. “No. No. Absolutely freaking not.”

“‘Freaking’", Megan sniggers from somewhere behind her. She's too focused on trying her best to not like her heart pop like a balloon from nervousness.

She palms through the pages of her journal frantically, checking if all the required contents are still scaffolded in the safety of their home. “How- how did you get this- I trashed this week's ago-"

Lara waves her off like she told her it was about it rain. "Oh I intercepted your waste paper basket the last time I came over, it's no biggie, you're welcome.”

Yoonchae’s half listening, half engrossed so deep in her journal she might become one with the amateur songs. Her throat jumps when she reaches the end of the book. Two pages of sheet music and lyrics— her very final draft, missing. “Lara- where's-"

She hears rustling of sheets and her head snaps up like she's been possessed, teeth gritting when she sees Lara fanning herself with the embarrassingly desperate serenade song she wrote for you on a whim one particularly yearning night. “Gimme that!" She lunges for it but Lara dodges with the agile grace of an injured bird, sending both pages and the journal scattering over the floor.

Lara dives to the floor at the same time she does— but Megan is the one to paw up the sheet music. Her eyebrows furrow as she reads the notes over, translating the tunes into something comprehensible in her head the way only a veteran musician can do.

Yoonchae watches in despair as Megan crosses the room to where Lara's piano sits, collecting dust and starts tapping out the beat on the top, pressing keys in between to get a true sense of the song. When she looks up, her eyes are sparkling in admiration.

“Yoonchae….this is like- really good!” Megan exclaims in that cartoonish tone she only does when she's really titillated, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I mean- it links up with our set perfectly and the lyrics are practically a ode to her— you have to play this!"

Yoonchae's once again in helicopter mode, head shaking so fast, her hair slips out of the half-done braid Megan had attempted. “No! This- it's the Titanic!" She snaps, taking back her now roughed up sheets which are more like balls of cotton melted into each other, barely legible. “I'm not in this boat!"

“No it isn't, Lara you're a genius!" Megan has somehow once again taken her song, waving it around like she's about to perform a jig and shout ‘eureka!’ Lara flips her perfectly silky hair out of her face like a shampoo commercial, tooth gems glinting like glass in the sun as she flashes Yoonchae a smug smile. “So I've been told."

“Yoonchae- girls love when you do romantic stuff like this! We would know— we're girls!!" Megan, ever the incorrigible force of nature, is now bouncing off the walls like she smoked something nasty, putting the paper in her hand through clammy-palm hell.

"No-no- that's so embarrassing, eugh-” Yoonchae protests, anxiety gripping her by the throat and building a nest in her throat even as the stupid, lovesick part of her brain is already half clambered into the boat the other half is convinced will grow holes and sink.

But Lara, all keyed up, shakes her by the shoulders. “No, Yoonchae, listen." Her tone is sober now, a fierce flame glinting in ember eyes. ‘Listen’ is a pretty tall ask given that she's asking her to commit love life suicide— loveicide, but Yoonchae tries her best to hone in on Lara’s face.

“You've never done this before. I haven't seen you freak out about a girl this much since the time you ran into Rosé on the streets when she was on tour. You clearly like her- like, a lot. This may be your one shot to actually get with her, given that you're clearly not gonna fess up. It's not just a silly crush that's gonna blow over— you need to atleast try before you defer to Adrien. Think about it. Mr. Probably Still Has A Nanny To Cut Up His Sandwiches Into Quarters For Him. With your crush.”

She inhales deeply, giving Yoonchae a little jiggle like she's a faulty door handle. “Is that what you want?” Yoonchae shakes her head no. The thought already has bile climbing up her raw throat. Lara pats her on her cheek, shaking her head sympathetically with her like she's a five year old. “We have two weeks. We can practice— we're all quick learners. Just focus on what you're gonna say to her post-show and let your music talk for you."

She plucks the sheets out of Megan’s hands and starts walking to the door, tugging it open as she hums the notes under her breath. She turns back to look at Yoonchae, who's still processing the fact that she just got roped into performing her own love song in front of the girl she wrote it for. “Well? We have work to do." Lara claps her hands together, grinning like a shark. “Chop chop!"

Fast forward two weeks— involving several curses, scribbled lyrics and frantic rewriting and finally taking to it like a….half fish half human taking to water. Yoonchae’s barely had time for you, juggling school, practice and trying not to throttle that nitwit made entirely from clown tent material. She kept putting you off on your offers to hangout, worried that she'd let the ragged, scrawny cat out of the bag and just blurt out her plans to you.

The restaurant's crowded tonight, like it always is. It's more of a dance venue than anything on this particular night, tables and chairs pushed to the corners of the room, blaring lights that deserve their own epilepsy warning and a throng of hyped up teens and young adults, drinking juice that's probably spiked and milling around while the band sets up backstage.

Yoonchae’s mouthing her lyrics to herself next to Megan, who's tuning her guitar, sour notes ringing out as she plucks at random strings, trial and error. Her drum set is in tiptop condition— she had her father take it for maintenance just a day before. The chatter of her excited members serve as her white noise, and a pit in her stomach eats at her even though she knows this song by heart.

“You're on in five!" Someone shouts from the mess of people rushing back and forth to do soundchecks, check on the lighting, help the girls with their instruments. Lara yanks her to her feet, leading her out onto the stage, right behind the other four.

Cheers chime out as she puts one foot in front of the other, feeling queasy like she's never been before. Sure, she's had stage fright that usually melts when she's on stage before— but the thought of being subjected to you as her audience (because let's make this clear, this particular show is one she's playing for preferably your ears and your ears only), makes her want to crash her head into the cymbals.

She's not even bothering to listen to Sophia greet and thank the crowd, twirling her drumsticks around in her hand like she's about to write a test she hasn't studied for. ‘This is stupid. You're being stupid. You've done this before.’ she tries to tell herself, giving firm affirmations that do nothing to ease the bouncing of her leg. Her eyes fall on the mic stand by her drumset that's rarely ever aimed towards her and her heart frogleaps into her throat.

Don't screw this up. One chance. She doesn't know why it's a matter of life and death to her. She bravely gives the crowd a once over, searching for your face before her courage fails her.

‘Do you even know how much I like you? I've never done this for anyone before..’ she finds herself thinking, hair covering her face like a widow’s veil. Her palms go all sweaty, grip on her drumsticks loosening and she starts feeling faint. She's wondering how bad it's gonna look if she faceplants into her drums right now when she hears it— among the incoherent cheers, a single one stands out.

Her face, stark white but sparkling, lifts as she scans the crowd for the unique voice calling her name, the only one who matters. Her lips part as her sights land on you, dressed to the nines, standing beside that boy who couldn't be more important than curtain drapes at the moment, her name rolling off your tongue in a way that makes her mouth go dry. “Yoonchae!" You call again, eyes sparkling in the reflection of the stage lights. You raise your hand to blow her a kiss. “Good luck!"

Her hollow cheeks regains its colour as her cheeks flush with pleasure, lips splintering into a dopey grin she can't hold in. She catches sight of Manon’s face, smirking and trying to hold in fits of laughter and she briefly registers that she's gonna be teased to the ends of the earth for this if she makes it out alive before she makes a show of catching your kiss. She picks up the water bottle by her feet, taking a long drag to slake her thirst and wipes her palms on her jeans.

She's smiling uncontrollably when she picks up her drumsticks again, tapping them against each other, kicking off the first song of the night.

Song after song, the girls rip through them like they're playing for their lives, every chorus perfectly curated to be as en vogue as possible, met with shrieks from throats that are bound to itch like gravel the next morning, instrumentals and vocals harmonising with each other in perfect tandem.

Yoonchae keeps her eyes on you— you, who's cheering wildly for her, you, who's completely ignoring the piece of concrete standing next to you in favour of screaming her name and it feels like her limbs are flowing with caffeine, hitting each note in muscle memory that's built into her veins, and god, she loves the rush.

She's panting by the time they near the end of the set, to the final song— not from exhaustion, but from the pure exhilaration that comes from playing for someone— music that comes from the soul. And the best part is, she hasn't seen Adrien’s stupid mouth flap even once— just stay in that pathetic moue like he's a rooster left out in the ren. Maybe she got it wrong. Maybe he's not gonna spill.

Her nerves are frayed, shot, even as Sophia clears her throat to announce the final song, but she sees the encouraging looks on the others’ faces, the shining grins of the crowd, you, bright as the sun, looking like you're having the time of your life watching her perform (since your eyes haven't moved from her since the show started— she knows because hers haven't either) and holds onto her drumsticks a little tighter, steeling herself.

“So, this song, is very special to all of us girls…” Sophia starts off, a winning smile plastered on her face like she just can't stop, sweat sheening her forehead. The girls holler with the crowd this time, all shooting surreptitious looks towards Yoonchae. “It's actually the first song written by our baby over here—" she looks back at Yoonchae, who's trying her best not to bury her face in her hands, “that we're performing anyway-" Dani pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, flicking it in Lara's direction.

Sophia turns back to the crowd, all pumped from the thrill of the last couple of songs and ready for just one more, grinning like the earth will stop rotating on its axis if she stops. " So let's show her some love if you wanna hear this one again!!”

The place nearly shakes as the crowd expresses its ecstacy. Yoonchae takes a gander at your face. Shining with admiration, glowing with the heat of a burning something she can't put her finger on, roaring twice as loud as the rest of the crowd.

She raises her drumsticks over her head and taps into the beat. The girls around her have already turned their mics off— this is a solo song for her to perform. They burst into their segments of the song with an enthusiasm like a second wind, playing fast, furious and precise. She feels a burst of warmth in her chest like a ripe fruit. They're doing everything they can to increase her chances.

She leans into the mic, taking a deep breath as her verse starts, eyes never leaving yours, praying that the message in her song is strong enough to get across what words can't convey.

“♪ 내 무심한 듯 차가운 미소

뜨겁게 쏟아지는 시선을 가볍게 흘려 넘겨 ♪”

(♪ My careless, cold smile

Lightly brushing off the burning gazes pouring down on me ♪)

Her members are doing their best to encourage her, encircling her in a safe loop, building off her beats and the lilt of her voice.

Megan’s going crazy on her electric guitar, shredding as hard as she can without breaking her pick, looking back at Yoonchae— who's been placed in the centre for this show, every now and then to vitalise her.

Dani’s bass guitar seems to catch fire under her as she plays, concentrated and tongue poking out, sweat pouring down the sides of her face even as she hits every mark like it's epoch-making.

Lara’s keeping up perfectly on her keytar, hammering the keys in a way that makes them click just satisfyingly right under her fingers, Sophia’s synth catches every note like it's a wave she has to surf over and Manon’s rhythm guitar seems to provide backing vocals to her in the clear sounds it produces.

She sings— she's always been a good singer, in her naturally low voice, and watches as you pull out the pamphlet for the show, reading the translation of the lyrics provided, eyes widening just slightly under neon lights that bounce in fluorescent shapes on your face, highlighting the slightly darker colour on your cheeks.

You're no idiot, and she's not being subtle, what with her eyes locked on you, the references to how your heels always click against the floor louder than others, the suspiciously oblivious ‘perfect’ guy with his sights set on you.

She's killing it— more than killing it, she's bringing the house down with the catchy, addictive tune that played in her head for weeks after she first befriended you before she finally conceded to her obsessive mind and penned it down— only, of course the universe throws a wrench into her plans.

Her voice falters at the end of the first chorus as she watches Adrien grab your arm and start tugging you to a more secluded corner of the place— behind a pillar where she can't see you. The brief glimpse of your faces reveals your utter confusion and his smug, flushed cheeks. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Her heart starts hollowing out immediately. She can feel her members burning gazes on her even as she sings, monotonous, robotic— a practiced script instead of the heartfelt delivery her voice had before. She strained to hit simple notes as the song reached its climax.

“♪ 일생일대의 위기 상황 ♪”

(♪ A once-in-a-lifetime crisis ♪)

Her stomach opens up into a vortex with each second passing, feeling like a hundred years go by with each strike of her drum. A lump forms in her throat and her voice shakes even as tears burn the corner of her eyes.

“♪ Ah, 포기해야 하나? ♪”

( ♪ Ah, should I just give up? ♪ )

She sure feels like giving up. She's not sure she can take the humiliation of breaking down on stage in front of essentially the only people who matter. Of course you'd pick him. Why wouldn't you? Tall, handsome, a voice that sounds like it's been ripped from a k-drama— class prefect and apparently plays guitar (though she can't confirm or deny on that). He's the epitome of everything a girl wants and she's the shy, reclusive dork who couldn't pull herself together fast enough to confess the normal way and now she was about to lose you.

Only, just as the first tear is about to fall, you re-emerge. Your face is pale but clear and set, eyes unclear but determined as you jostle your way to the front of the crowd. Adrien exits from behind the pillar and Yoonchae can practically feel the steam pouring out from his ears as he storms out into the night. She can't even believe her eyes, can't believe that the fates would smile down on her, that her lucky shoes would actually work.

But then she makes direct eye contact with you. And she watches your eyes crinkle again, sparkling like she hung the bright moon in the sky and that ice block in her gut melts into something warm and reminiscent of sitting by a fire on a winter day— comfortable, jittery— home. And the first tear does fall— a tear of happiness.

/small>

You rejected him.

You chose her.

Every grin she's ever smiled before felt useless until this moment. She's not sure she could ever get this feeling, this pure shot of joy into her veins like a medicine she didn't know she needed, a piece of happiness so great it was almost impossible to believe it wasn't a dream.

But it was true.

“♪ 그때 날 보고 네가 웃어, oh- ♪”

(♪ But then, you look at me and smile, oh- ♪)

She hits the skin of the drums so sharply, she almost ruptures her own ear drums along with her beloved drums. She knows she's ghostly pale right now but she hopes you can see past the whole ghost of closet past thing she has going on and focus on how bright her eyes are shining, the loving unspoken words of knowing that you chose her wrapping around you as warm as your smile was to her.

She peels her eyes away from you for just a moment to look at Lara, who's smiling like Christmas came early, at Dani, whose dimples are somehow more prominent now, at Sophia, whose nodding like a proud mom, at Megan, who's stringing chords so sharp, she's almost positive she heard a string snap, at Manon, who's finally laughing now, but out of pure happiness and she lets out a laugh even as the music continues to play.

“머리를 풀어 헤쳐 옷깃을 세우고

치명적 눈빛, 난 하드보일드 팜므파탈

소문 속 네가 좋아한다는

그놈 목소리는 진부하잖아

떨리는 눈동자 숨기지 말아봐

내 머릿속은 어질어질한 토네이도

내가 이끄는 대로 다가오기만 하면 돼

그래 come on, baby!"

(♪ I shake my hair loose, turn up my collar,

With a deadly gaze, I'm the hard-boiled femme fatale!

The voice of that guy you like, according to the rumors

Sounds so cliché, doesn’t it?

Don't try to hide those trembling eyes

In my head, it's a dizzying tornado

All you need to do is come closer, led by me

Yeah, come on, baby! ♪)

The last chord rings true in the air, dragged out by Megan, who was clearly feeling the music just about as much as she was, but not quite, of course. The crowd is silent for all of about two seconds before they go nuts. Flowers she hadn't noticed before land on the stage like something from a hallmark movie and whistles and calls for an encore echo behind her even as they exit backstage.

Her knees knock together and she collapses into the nearest folding chair, buzzing with adrenaline as her girls gather around her, thumping her on the back so hard that she lets out several high-pitched laughs she didn't know she had in herself.

Dani keeps yelling about how that's her girl

Sophia’s holding her hand, Lara and Manon are clutching onto each other in the undignified mannerism of a middle-schooler and Megan sidles up to her, looking like the cat that got the cream.

She nudges Yoonchae slyly, wiggling her eyebrows. “Soo….” She drawls, eyes sparked with electricity and the high of the show, "are you finally gonna tell y/n now?”

Before Yoonchae can slap that silly smirk off her face (playfully. kinda.), she hears a familiar, heartstopping voice behind her.

"Tell me what?”

She jumps to her feet and swivels around, eyes softening on instinct as they land on you. You're red in the face, backstage pass dangling around your neck, but positively beaming. You lean forward and shyly take her hand, locking her fingers with yours.Megan has just started to answer for her when Sophia interjects— “We'll give you two a moment alone" — and she's promptly hauled away by Dani and Manon, swinging her like a hammock as she mumbles something about the grave of chivalry.

Yoonchae stands stock-still for a moment, just taking you in, radiant and suddenly feeling more faint than she'd felt actually confessing on stage. You do the same until she breaks the silence with a small, mouse-like— “...so…”

You smile at her softly, squeezing her clammy palm in your warm one. "So..”

She gulps nervously, trying to find enough saliva in her to not do her dying toad impression once more. Instead of ‘did you like the show’ or ‘sorry about them’ or some other generic topic, she asks what's been eating at her. "You and Adrien…" Your smile only widens, if that's possible.

“Adrien and I." You repeat, thumb rubbing the back of her palm, eyes aimed at the joint contact. “I- uh- he confessed to me today. Said he liked me for a long time."

Yoonchae clears her throat, trying not to sound more interested than she should be (even though she totally is). “And uhm— your- your response was..?"

You know what she's trying to do. She can see it in your eyes. She's trying to make sure that she didn't get the signal wrong, that she's right about the spark— the forest fire of something dancing between you two.

You shrug. “I rejected him. He's not my type anyway." Yoonchae’s shoulders untense and her posture sinks a foot. Before she can ask the obvious, you say it for her— slowly, timidly— but sure. “I….quite happen to prefer drummer girls.”

Yoonchae feels blood rush to her ears— along with her entire heart, apparently, given that she can acutely make out each beat now. The world seems to hold its breath with her. “Really?"

The question is almost childish and incredibly dumb, but before she can kick herself for it, you nod, smiling.

“Really." She coughs a little, averting her eyes to the torn up walls.

“Hey now. I'm over here, not over by the wall." You tease, your voice holding a cadence of mischief that somehow defuses all the tension brewing inside her, the maelstrom of emotions quieting down to leave only one— happiness.

Yoonchae looks back at you and smiles— gentle, soft, a tiny wave lapping into a seashell. “Then…would you consider going out tomorrow with this drummer girl?” She asks quietly, voice so hushed she's uncertain if you'll hear.

But you do. You hear her like you've always heard her, like you heard her tonight. You reach out for her face and her cheek burns like crazy where your soft lips press a glossy kiss.

She was sixteen when it started— the kind of age where the world still felt too wide and she still thought rebellion was just another language for honesty. Her parents had sent her to a summer retreat on a remote island, the kind where the air reeked of sea salt and incense, and the mornings began with choir hymns instead of alarm clocks. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t even pack until her mother stood at the doorway, arms crossed, whispering something about needing to fix her spirit.

Daniela didn’t think she was broken. Just… unconvinced.

She knew God— the stories, the verses, the way people said His name with trembling lips. But knowing wasn’t believing.

And then there was you.

You, with your Bible tucked under your arm like a promise.

You, with your rosary bracelet glinting softly in the sunlight.

You, with your back straight and hair in a bun, every inch of you looking like you belonged here— like you were born from prayer itself.

Daniela noticed you during morning mass, kneeling in the front row while she stayed in the back. You bowed your head so low it almost touched the pew, lips moving in silent prayer. She didn’t even know your name yet, but she already hated how much she wanted to.

Something about you unsettled her— not in a bad way, but in a way that made her chest tighten, as if God Himself was daring her to look twice.

And so she did.

Every morning after that, she found herself watching.

Not the priest.

Not the altar.

You.

It was supposed to be a quiet summer— a retreat for the soul, her mother said. But nothing about it felt quiet inside her. Especially not now, not when every hymn and every whisper of prayer seemed to lead her eyes back to you.

And it wasn’t just curiosity. It was irritation, too— the kind that made her want to look away but couldn’t. You looked too composed, too certain. Like faith had never once failed you. Daniela hated that kind of certainty. It reminded her of everything she wasn’t.

Days passed in repetition: wake, pray, pretend, repeat. Until one humid afternoon, the rhythm broke.

She was on the phone with her mother, pacing the cramped wooden cabin. Her voice rose and fell in rapid Spanish, thick with frustration.

“Sí, mamá, estoy orando,” she said sharply. “Claro que sí. Estoy tratando.”

Her mother’s voice, tinny through the phone, carried that same mix of patience and pressure. “You’re there for a reason, Daniela. Maybe if you stop fighting Him, you’ll finally understand.”

Daniela laughed bitterly, rolling her eyes toward the low ceiling. “Understand what? That He’s ignoring me?”

“No blasfemes,” her mother warned.

“This is for your own good.”

“For my own good,” she echoed under her breath, jaw tightening.

She wanted to say more— to ask why faith always had to feel like a punishment— but she bit her tongue. Her silence said enough.

When the call ended, the quiet felt heavier than before. She sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, head buried in her hands. Her curls fell like a curtain around her face. Why can’t I just believe? she thought. Why can’t I feel Him the way everyone else does?

She stood abruptly, pushing her hair back and tying it into a rough bun, as if taming herself might help. She needed air— or maybe confrontation. Something real.

The church was only a short walk away, but every step she took down the dirt path felt like it carried a question she couldn’t answer. She shoved the door open, the hinges groaning in complaint.

Inside, the world was still.

Candles flickered against the stone walls. The faint smell of incense lingered, sweet and suffocating all at once. Daniela’s pulse quickened.

She wasn’t here to pray. She was here to argue— to demand.

If He was so omnipotent, then He could handle a few questions.

But then she saw you.

Three pews behind the altar, head bowed, hands folded neatly in your lap. Your lips moved softly, almost soundless. You looked like you were having a conversation with someone who actually answered back.

Daniela stopped cold. The anger that had followed her from the cabin slipped somewhere between her ribs, replaced by something gentler, something she didn’t trust.

The sunlight from the stained glass fell across your face in fractured color— blue and gold and a touch of red. Holy light. Divine accident.

And for the first time that day, Daniela forgot why she was angry.

She just stood there, watching you whisper to a God she wasn’t sure existed— and wishing, selfishly, that if He did, maybe He was listening to her too.

She didn’t notice she’d been standing there too long until you looked up.

Your eyes met hers— not with surprise, not even curiosity, but something softer. Recognition, maybe. Like you’d seen her before, not just here, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere faith lived without needing proof.

“Oh,” you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You’re the girl who always sits in the back.”

Daniela blinked, caught off guard. “What— you keep track of that?”

You shrugged, a faint laugh escaping you. “It’s hard not to notice someone who looks like she’s arguing with God in her head.”

Her cheeks warmed before she could stop it. “Maybe I am,” she said, a little too defensively. “Maybe He started it.”

You smiled again — not mocking, not amused. Just… kind. “Then you’re still talking to Him. That counts for something.”

The words landed heavier than you probably meant them to. Daniela’s mouth opened, then closed again. She wanted to say no, it doesn’t, wanted to tell you that talking didn’t mean believing. But the way you said it — so sure, so gentle — made her chest ache.

You motioned to the pew beside you. “Do you want to sit?”

She hesitated. Her first instinct was to turn away, to build back the walls your smile had just chipped through. But something in your voice, something steady and patient, made her take the step. And then another.

When she sat beside you, the silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was… holy, in a way she didn’t know silence could be.

“I don’t get it,” she finally muttered, staring at the altar.

“Everyone here talks about God like He’s right there. Like He’s something you can just—believe in. Like breathing. I try, I do. But it just feels empty. Like I’m talking to air.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just listened— really listened— and that alone felt strange.

People usually tried to fix her doubts, not hold them.

Then you said, quietly, “Maybe faith isn’t about believing perfectly. Maybe it’s about reaching out, even when you’re not sure anyone’s listening. I think that’s what He wants. The reaching.”

Daniela turned to you. You weren’t looking at her; your gaze stayed on the cross at the altar, eyes softened by something she couldn’t name.

“Reaching,” she repeated under her breath. The word felt unfamiliar, but safe. Like something she could hold without being burned.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. He reaches back, you know. Just… not always in the ways we expect.”

For the first time in a long while, Daniela didn’t want to argue.

She just sat there beside you— in the quiet, in the flickering light— and thought, maybe for a moment, believing wasn’t that hard. Not when it came from you.

—☆ 

The next morning, Daniela found herself walking toward the chapel before the bells even rang.

Her fingers were clasped tightly together, rubbing nervously as if friction could summon courage. She bit her lip, her heartbeat quick and uneven. There was no reason for her to be this nervous— it was just mass. She’d done this a thousand times. But this time felt different. You were there.

When she pushed open the doors, the cool air greeted her like a sigh, heavy with incense and the faint sound of the choir warming up. She looked up instinctively— and your eyes were already on hers.

You smiled, small and knowing, and nodded toward the pew beside you.

It was such a simple gesture, but it tugged at something deep inside her, something she didn’t know how to name yet. She walked forward, her steps echoing quietly against the marble floor until she slipped into the space beside you.

Her curly blonde hair fell in wild curls against her shoulders, a sharp contrast to your neatly tied bun. She thought, fleetingly, that the two of you looked like opposites of a prayer— one restless, one still.

The priest began. Voices rose and fell. She heard you sing.

Your voice was soft, steady— not loud, not showy— but filled with something that made Daniela’s throat tighten. She heard you pray, heard you whisper His name as though it was something precious, something you didn’t want to break.

And she expected that. She’d expected you to be faithful, to be sure, to be everything she wasn’t.

What she didn’t expect was for you to lean slightly toward her, in the middle of that sacred quiet, and whisper, “What’s your name?”

Daniela turned, startled.

“Daniela,” she said before she could think, her voice small, like it wasn’t used to being heard here.

You smiled again.

“Daniela,” you repeated, as if tasting it, soft and certain.

“That’s beautiful.”

She chuckled under her breath, a little awkward, a little amused. “You’re the first person here who’s said it like that.”

But then you bowed your head— and started to pray.

For her.

“Please,” you whispered, eyes closed, voice trembling just slightly, “be patient with her. She’s trying. She really is. Just… wait for her. Wait for Daniela, please”

Daniela froze. The sound of your voice, the quiet plea in it, made something inside her break open. It was so intimate, so unguarded, she almost couldn’t breathe.

She stared at you— your lashes trembling as you prayed, your hands folded tightly— and in that moment, she realized she had never heard anything more holy than your name leaving her own lips.

The rest of the mass blurred. The hymns, the readings, the kneeling— all of it slipped into the background, drowned by the echo of your voice asking heaven to wait for her.

And for the first time in her life, Daniela wished it would.

When the mass ended, the church emptied slowly— a blur of white uniforms and soft chatter fading into the sunlight outside. Daniela stayed seated for a moment longer, pretending to fix the hem of her sleeve just to delay the leaving.

But then you stood, turning to her with that same gentle certainty she’d begun to associate with you.

“Come on,” you said softly, as if afraid to break the quiet between you.

She followed you out, blinking against the brightness. The air smelled of salt and candle smoke, of something clean and heavy all at once. The path outside the church was narrow, lined with wildflowers and uneven stones, and she walked beside you, her steps unsure next to your calm ones.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of cicadas and the wind rustling through the palm trees. Daniela’s hands fidgeted at her sides until finally, the question slipped out.

“Why?” she asked. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

“Why did you… pray for me?”

You looked at her, eyes soft, unreadable.

“Because,” you said, simply, “I have trust in you.”

She blinked, confused. “Trust in me for what?”

You smiled— that same kind, patient smile that always seemed to see through her. “To put your trust in Him. Maybe not today. Maybe not soon. But someday.”

You said it like it was fact.

Like you’d seen the future and it was written there.

And then you added, almost like an afterthought, “He’s waiting. And so am I.”

Then you walked ahead, leaving her in the sunlight and the silence that followed you.

Daniela stood there, unmoving, her breath caught somewhere in her chest. She wanted to call out, to ask how you could trust her like that when she couldn’t even trust herself. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she felt her throat tighten. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, stinging before she could blink them away. And then they fell— soft, unsteady, unexpected.

She laughed through them, a bitter little sound swallowed by the wind. How ironic, she thought. I’ve been trying to believe in Him my whole life and felt nothing.

And yet you, someone she barely knew— someone who prayed with her name on your lips only once— managed to make her believe in something for the first time.

You had trusted her, without proof, without reason.

Trusted her like you’d known her longer than God ever had.

And in that moment, for reasons she couldn’t understand, that felt like faith.

That night, Daniela couldn’t sleep.

The cabin was quiet except for the soft hum of waves outside, brushing against the shore like a heartbeat. The others were asleep, their breathing slow and even, but her eyes stayed open— fixed on the faint outline of the cross above her bed.

It hung there on the wooden wall, the silver glint catching what little moonlight slipped through the window. It should have been comforting, she thought. Reassuring. But under its gaze, she felt exposed— like He was watching her, waiting for her to speak.

And maybe He was.

Daniela turned onto her back, staring up at the cross until her vision blurred.

She’s trying. She really is. Just… wait for her. Wait for Daniela, please.

Your voice echoed in her mind, looping in the stillness until it became prayer itself.

Her chest tightened. She pressed a hand against it, as if to quiet something restless there.

“She’s trying,” she whispered, repeating your words.

“I’m trying.” The words sounded strange in her mouth— fragile, like glass she was afraid to drop.

She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. The moonlight caught in her curls, turning them into a mess of pale gold. Her eyes flicked back to the cross.

“Are You listening now?” she murmured.

“Because I’m not sure what You want from me.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

She hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears came anyway— slow at first, then steady, sliding down her cheeks like a confession she couldn’t stop. She covered her face with her hands, laughing quietly through it, the sound raw and uneven.

“It’s funny,” she said, voice trembling.

“I’ve been here for a week, and You haven’t said a word to me. But then she—” She stopped, breath catching. Even saying your name felt like a kind of sin.

“Then she talks to me, and suddenly I feel like maybe You’re real. Is that how this works?”

The cross gleamed faintly above her, silent. Watching.

Daniela stared back at it, her tears still falling.

“She trusts me,” she whispered.

“Even when I don’t. Why would You let someone like her believe in someone like me?”

No answer came, of course. Just the sound of waves and her quiet breathing.

But somehow, in that silence, Daniela felt something loosen inside her— a warmth she couldn’t name, spreading slowly beneath her ribs. Maybe it was faith. Maybe it was you. Maybe it didn’t matter.

She lay back down, eyes still on the cross. Her lashes were wet, her heart heavy and strange.

For the first time in years, she whispered a prayer that wasn’t forced.

“Please,” she murmured. “Be patient with me, too.”

And beneath that cross, with the sea whispering outside and your voice echoing in her memory, Daniela finally drifted to sleep— feeling, for the first time, like someone was listening.

—☆ 

When Daniela woke the next morning, the air felt different.

The first light of dawn spilled through the cabin window, warm and gold, cutting across the small room in thin, sacred lines. It fell on her face, soft and unassuming, and for a second she just lay there, breathing it in— the sea breeze, the quiet, the faint scent of salt and candle wax that clung to her hair.

The cross above her was still there, casting its shadow on the wall. But it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

It felt like it was watching, not judging. Listening.

She rose slowly, slipping on her cardigan, her curls messy and half-tamed. There was something steady in her chest that hadn’t been there last night— not peace exactly, but something close enough to pretend. Maybe your prayer had reached somewhere hers couldn’t.

When she stepped outside, the morning air was bright with the sound of birds and the rustle of waves against the shore. Campers were beginning their chores— some sweeping, some setting up breakfast tables near the chapel.

And then there you were.

You stood by the well, sleeves rolled up, drawing water into a metal pail. The early light caught in your hair, making the edges of your bun glow like a halo. You looked up and saw her, and smiled as if you’d been expecting her all along.

“Good morning,” you called out, voice soft, light.

Daniela hesitated, a flutter in her chest she tried to ignore.

“Morning,” she managed, walking closer.

“Need help?”

You nodded, motioning for her to take the other handle. The pail was heavier than she expected, and their hands brushed— just barely, but enough to send a quiet shock through her.

You both carried it toward the garden, the sound of sloshing water filling the silence between you.

“You came early,” you said, glancing sideways at her.

Daniela shrugged, eyes on the ground. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Then, softer: “Thought maybe I should… try again.”

“Try what?”

“Believing,” she said. The word felt strange in her mouth— delicate, unsteady.

“Or at least, showing up for it.”

You smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t need words to mean I’m proud of you.

When you reached the garden, you set the pail down and dipped a tin cup into it. You poured water over the small plants, careful not to drown them. Daniela watched in silence— the way your hands moved, gentle but sure, as if even this small act was a prayer.

“Do you ever feel like He’s far away?” she asked quietly.

You looked at her for a long moment.

“Sometimes,” you admitted.

“But that’s when I look for Him in small things. The light. The sea. People.”

You glanced at her, eyes soft. “You’d be surprised where He hides.”

Daniela wanted to say I think I found Him already.

But the words caught in her throat.

Instead, she knelt beside you, helping water the last of the plants. The sun climbed higher, wrapping everything in gold. The air was thick with salt and warmth, and for a fleeting moment, she thought— this is what grace must feel like.

When you stood, brushing your hands on your skirt, Daniela followed. You turned to her, eyes bright.

“He’s closer than you think,” you said simply.

And as you walked away, your steps light against the dirt path, Daniela stayed behind— heart full, hands damp, eyes lifted toward the sky.

For the first time, she didn’t just know Him.

She felt Him.

And somehow, He looked a little like you.

Later that day, the chapel was almost empty.

The last of the volunteers had drifted out after evening prayers, their chatter echoing softly against the wooden walls. Candles flickered low, their wax pooling at the base, their light trembling like breaths. Daniela lingered near the back pew, her gaze drawn to the crucifix above the altar.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

But not empty.

She sat down, elbows resting on her knees, fingers threading together. The words came haltingly at first, soft enough that only the candle flames could hear.

“I don’t know how to start,” she murmured.

“It’s been… years since I spoke to You without trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.”

Her voice cracked. She smiled faintly at the irony.

“Someone prayed for me yesterday. She said she trusted me to put my trust in You.”

A pause.

“I don’t even trust myself most days. But somehow, she did.”

Her hands curled tighter.

“Why does that mean more to me than any sermon I’ve heard?”

The silence pressed against her like a question.

Daniela exhaled, a shaky, unsteady breath— the kind that carries a confession more than words ever could.

She let her mind wander— to the sound of your voice, soft but unwavering when you told her that you prayed for her. The way your eyes caught the light of the candles when you said it. The strange, quiet certainty in the way you walked away— like you had given her something sacred and didn’t need to see what she’d do with it.

Then she realized something.

She didn’t know your name.

You had asked for hers— smiling when she said “Daniela.”

But she never asked for yours.

She pressed her palms together, whispering, “God, I don’t even know her name…”

The thought made her chest tighten.

Someone had looked her in the eye, had believed in her when she didn’t believe in herself— and she didn’t even know what to call her.

The next morning, when you passed her by the breakfast table, your usual soft smile in place, Daniela gathered the courage to ask.

“Wait,” she said.

“I… never asked. What’s your name?”

You turned to her, surprised, then laughed quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Y/N,” you said.

“It’s Y/N.”

She repeated it under her breath— once, then again, letting it settle into her like something she wanted to remember.

“Y/N.”

You smiled at her again before heading out toward the garden.

And later that evening, when she knelt by her bed again, eyes on the cross that watched over her, she whispered—

“God,” she said softly, “thank You for sending… Y/N.”

Her lips trembled, the name catching like a small flame in her chest.

“I don’t know if she’s a sign or just someone passing through, but… it felt like You were there. In her. In the way she spoke. The way she saw me.”

The wind brushed past the curtains, cool and slow, making the candlelight waver.

Daniela looked up at the cross again. For the first time, she didn’t flinch.

She smiled, tears clinging to her lashes.

“She trusted me to trust You,” she whispered.

“And I think… maybe I do.”

The days that followed felt lighter.

Not perfect. Not miraculously redeemed. Just… lighter.

Daniela began to wake up before the bells rang for morning mass. The sun would spill gently through the window, brushing gold over her messy curls. She’d stretch, breathe in the air that smelled faintly of salt and candles, and for the first time— whisper a small prayer before stepping out of bed.

At first, her prayers were clumsy. Half-whispered, half-doubted.

But each time she saw you— head bowed, fingers turning your rosary with quiet patience— she felt something steady build inside her.

Sometimes, you’d catch her watching you during choir practice.

You’d smile, and she’d look away quickly, cheeks warm, pretending to reread her hymnal.

Other times, you’d sit together by the chapel steps, your voice soft as you talked about faith like it wasn’t a rulebook, but a rhythm. A relationship.

You said things like:

“Faith isn’t about never doubting. It’s about holding on through the doubt.”

And Daniela would listen— not because she needed convincing, but because she loved the way you believed.

Each day, she found herself saying His name more gently.

Each prayer, less like an obligation, more like a conversation.

Each look at you, more like a revelation.

She laughed easier now. Sang louder during mass.

And at night, she’d write small verses in her notebook— half addressed to Him, half to you— unsure anymore where one ended and the other began.

One afternoon, the phone rang in the cabin.

Her mother’s voice filled the room, sharp at first, asking if she was doing better— if the retreat had “fixed” her yet.

Daniela almost rolled her eyes, like she always did.

But this time, something in her softened.

“Sí, mamá,” she said quietly.

“I’m better.”

Her mother hesitated on the other end. Daniela could almost hear the disbelief, the cautious hope.

And then, in a breath that surprised even herself, Daniela said— “Gracias, mamá.”

A pause.

“Por qué?” her mother asked, confused.

Daniela smiled, eyes glassy.

“Por traerme aquí.”

Thank you for bringing me here.

She looked toward the small wooden cross above her bed.

“Por presentarme a Él… otra vez.”

For introducing me to Him again.

She swallowed, voice trembling.

“Y por dejarme encontrarla también.”

And for letting me find her too.

Her mother didn’t understand what she meant, not fully. But she heard the sincerity, the weight of a daughter’s heart finally unburdening itself.

When Daniela hung up, she stayed still for a long time. The cabin was quiet again— only the sound of the wind moving through the leaves, and the soft hum of the sea somewhere beyond the trees.

She turned to the cross above her bed. The candlelight flickered just enough to make the shadow of it stretch across her walls— vast, reaching, alive.

She closed her eyes.

“Thank You,” she whispered.

“For her. For You. For all of it.”

And that night, as she drifted off, she felt something she hadn’t in years— not guilt, not fear, not confusion— but presence.

Warm. Steady.

Like being held.

Because maybe that was the miracle after all— not that she had found God, but that He had been finding her all along, through you.

The next morning, the chapel was full— sunlight spilling through the stained glass, painting everyone in shades of gold and rose. The air hummed with hymns, the kind that linger long after the music stops. Daniela sat beside you again, like always, hands clasped too tightly, heart too loud in her chest.

The priest’s voice carried over the pews, deep and deliberate.

“Remove everything that distracts you from God,” he began.

“God put you as His first— and so should you.”

Daniela swallowed hard, the words heavy, almost sharp. She could feel her pulse in her wrists.

“Temptations are everywhere,” the priest continued, pacing slowly before the altar.

“Money can be greed. Food can be greed. Anything can be greed.”

He paused — and then his voice rose.

“Even a person can be greed!”

Her chest tightened like someone had tied a knot there. The echo of his words filled the space between her and you.

She didn’t mean to, but she looked at you—

at the way your fingers turned the rosary between them,

at the soft curve of your mouth mouthing a silent prayer,

at the way you seemed to glow in the colored light like faith itself had chosen you.

And just like that, guilt pressed heavy against her ribs.

Because wasn’t that what she was doing?

Loving someone more than she was supposed to?

Loving someone who wasn’t Him?

But before she could look away, the priest’s tone softened, a new rhythm breaking through the air:

“But—” he said, raising a finger, “don’t put that person away if they led you right back to Him.”

Daniela froze.

“Because to love,” the priest said, voice ringing with warmth now, “means to love in the eyes of God. To see God in them.”

The chapel went quiet— save for the sound of the wind brushing through the open door, the faint rustle of pages, and your soft exhale beside her.

And that was when she knew.

Not in a thunderbolt or a divine whisper.

Not in scripture or sermon.

But in the simple, trembling silence of that moment.

She turned her head just slightly, enough to see you smile— that gentle, familiar smile that had cracked something open in her days ago.

You didn’t even notice the way she was looking at you.

But she did.

She felt it all— the warmth blooming beneath her skin, the ache curling through her chest, the holy quiet of realization settling deep inside her.

Because right there, she understood what it meant— to see God in someone.

To love someone so much that it felt like worship.

To finally believe because of them.

And in the softest breath, almost inaudible against the choir’s final “Amen,” Daniela whispered the truth she couldn’t hold back anymore:

“I love You,” she said—

but this time, she wasn’t sure if she meant you or Him.

And maybe that was the point.

—☆

Laughter echoed across the open field where long tables were laid out, the smell of roasted meat and sweet bread mixing with the salt of the sea breeze. It was loud and human and full of life, a kind of joy Daniela hadn’t realized she’d missed.

She found herself sitting next to you again, as if the world always conspired to put you beside her. You were laughing, crumbs of bread dusting your fingertips, eyes sparkling like the summer sun had chosen you as its reflection.

Someone cracked a joke about the future— about what everyone wanted to be after this.

A boy said he wanted to be a doctor. Another said a teacher.

Then someone turned to you, teasingly, “And you, Miss Rosary Bracelet? Don’t tell us you’re gonna be a nun!”

You laughed, light and sure, but instead of denying it, you just smiled and said,

“Actually, yeah. I think I want to.”

The table groaned in exaggerated disbelief.

“Of course you do!” one of them said. “We could’ve guessed that day one.”

Daniela laughed too— but her chest felt tight in a way she couldn’t explain.

The thought of you as a nun felt right, too right.

Of course you’d dedicate yourself to Him. Of course you’d belong to faith.

Still, a quiet, selfish thought whispered somewhere deep inside her— I wish I met you before He did.

Your hand brushed against her knee under the table— soft, unthinking, maybe just to keep her still from laughing too hard. But it lingered there, warm and grounding.

Then someone turned to her.

“What about you, Daniela?”

She froze, caught mid-breath.

What about her?

She could feel every gaze waiting, expectant. She didn’t have an answer ready— not one that fit neatly in a sentence, not one that didn’t sound like confusion.

You must’ve felt it too, the sudden stiffness in her shoulders, because your hand gave her knee the faintest squeeze— a small, wordless encouragement.

Daniela glanced at you.

And for a second, it was like the world blurred around the edges— only your face in focus, patient, steady, safe.

She turned back to them, forcing out a small laugh.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, voice quieter now.

Then, almost instinctively, she added, “But… I’ll go where He takes me.”

There was a murmur of approval, a few smiles, someone patting her on the back— but Daniela barely heard any of it.

Because when she looked back at you, you were already watching her.

And you smiled— that same gentle, reverent smile that felt like prayer.

Something in her chest burned.

Not the kind of fire that destroys, but the kind that purifies— the kind that makes you aware you’re alive, painfully, beautifully alive.

God, she loved you.

In a month and a half, you had carved yourself into her— into every prayer, every hymn, every whispered Amen.

You were everywhere now.

And maybe that was what scared her most— that you had become the holiest thing she’d ever known.

The chapel was quiet that afternoon, empty except for the hum of wind through the open windows. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeams slanting across the floor. Daniela had stayed behind after everyone left, helping you tidy up the altar— rearranging candles, folding the white cloth, straightening hymn books that never stayed aligned.

You hummed as you worked, the same hymn you always sang when you prayed. It was gentle and unhurried, as if you were singing only for Him— or maybe, she hoped, a little for her too.

Daniela was reaching for a candle when she heard you cough— harsh and sudden, breaking through the quiet. She turned just as you pressed a hand to your mouth, your shoulders trembling.

“Hey—” she started, moving toward you.

But you were already straightening up, quick and careful, swiping your hand against your skirt before she could see. When you looked at her again, there it was— that same soft smile, small and shining, like nothing had happened.

It broke something open in her.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” she said, voice cracking more than she wanted.

You blinked, surprised, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re fine,” Daniela muttered, crossing her arms though her hands were trembling.

“You’re not.”

You laughed quietly, the sound so familiar it almost hurt. “You worry too much.”

“I don’t,” she shot back, but the words didn’t sound convincing, even to her.

“Yes, you do,” you said, stepping closer, voice gentle now.

“And that’s okay. It’s part of what makes you—” You hesitated, eyes softening.

“—you.”

Daniela’s heart went haywire.

The space between you felt charged, fragile. She wanted to reach for your hand, to hold it still, to make sure you weren’t fading from her fingertips.

Instead, she tried to cover the tremor in her voice with teasing.

“You know,” she said, “if you keep saying things like that, I might start believing you like me or something.”

You smiled again— tired this time, but real. “Maybe I do.”

She laughed, shaking her head, though the sound that came out was a little too shaky.

“God,” she whispered, half under her breath. “You’re impossible.”

“He’s impossible,” you corrected gently, looking toward the cross.

“We’re just… trying to keep up.”

Daniela followed your gaze, her laughter fading into a sigh.

For a moment, it was just the two of you kneeling there— the flicker of candlelight between you, the weight of quiet devotion filling the air.

And she thought— if this is faith, I understand it now.

Because right here, beside you, she’d give everything.

Every fear, every doubt, every piece of herself she’d tried to keep untouched.

If He asked her to let go, she would.

If He asked her to love, she already did.

And if loving Him meant kneeling beside you, shoulder to shoulder before the altar,

then maybe— just maybe— she could believe that heaven wasn’t somewhere else.

Maybe it was right here.

The days grew quieter after that.

You still smiled the same— gentle, unshaken— but Daniela saw it now, the slight tremor in your hands when you turned a page of your Bible, the way your breaths came shorter when you sang. You’d brush it off with a laugh, tell her it was the island air, that the humidity made your lungs complain.

But she wasn’t stupid.

She saw the pale beneath your skin, the fading warmth in your cheeks.

And she hated that you wouldn’t let her worry.

At night, when everyone else was asleep, Daniela would stay awake in her bunk, hands clasped, whispering prayers she didn’t know how to finish.

“Please,” she’d murmur to the cross above her.

“Please, not her. Not yet.”

Every morning, she’d find you already at the chapel— kneeling, head bowed, as if you were bargaining for your remaining days. You always smiled when she entered, always told her, ‘He listens more when you smile back.’

So she smiled, even when her chest ached with fear.

One afternoon, during choir practice, your voice cracked mid-hymn. It wasn’t much— a single note breaking, a cough caught too late.

The choir went on singing. Daniela didn’t.

She turned, saw you hiding another cough in your sleeve, a faint smear of red staining the white linen. Her stomach turned to ice.

After mass, she followed you outside, the air thick with heat and salt.

“You’re sick,” she said, not asking.

You turned to her with that same maddening calm. “Everyone gets sick sometimes.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You didn’t argue, just smiled— small, weary, knowing.

“Then what did you mean, mi amor?”

The words hit her like a confession.

She hadn’t realized you’d started calling her that until then— soft, playful, half-whispered between jokes or prayers.

Now it felt like both a blessing and a curse.

“I meant—” she faltered, looking at your hands, the thinness of your wrists, the way the sunlight passed through your hair like it was already part of something holy.

“I meant I can’t lose you. Not when I just started believing.”

Your expression softened, eyes shimmering in that way that made everything in her chest ache.

“Then believe harder,” you said.

And you laughed— not mockingly, but tenderly, like faith itself was a secret you were handing her.

That night, Daniela couldn’t sleep.

The candle by her bed burned low, shadows stretching across the walls.

She prayed again, harder than she ever had before— words tumbling out between tears.

“Take anything, por favor, anything but her,” she whispered.

“She showed me You. Please, don’t take her away.”

She pressed her palms together until her knuckles went white, eyes locked on the cross above her.

But for the first time, the silence that followed wasn’t comforting.

It was deafening.

It happened at dusk.

The air was heavy that evening— thick with rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The island seemed to hold its breath, everything too still, too quiet. Daniela had gone to the chapel again, instinct guiding her steps like it always did when she needed to breathe.

You weren’t there.

You were always there. Kneeling, humming, praying— always.

But that night, the pews were empty. The candles flickered low, shadows dancing against the altar.

Something inside her twisted.

She searched for you first in the dining hall, then by the cliffs where you sometimes read scripture, then by the garden where the nuns dried flowers for the sacristy.

And then she saw the priest, standing by the infirmary door, his face drawn, his eyes saying everything he didn’t dare put into words.

Her heart stopped.

The world turned hollow. She pushed past him before he could speak, her breath breaking, feet hitting the cold floor as she ran inside.

You were there— pale against the sheets, a cross hanging above your bed. The air smelled like candle wax and rain-soaked fabric.

Your hands, always warm before, were trembling faintly, lips parted as if mid-prayer.

“Don’t—” Daniela choked out, falling to her knees beside you.

“Don’t you dare.”

You smiled. Of course you smiled.

It was small, weak, but still the same one that had ruined her, saved her, reshaped her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said through her tears.

“You— you’re supposed to—”

“To what?” you whispered.

“Stay.”

You blinked slowly, the light in your eyes dimming just a little.

“I am,” you said.

“Just… not here.”

Something inside her cracked— a soundless shatter she felt in every bone.

“You can’t say that,” she breathed.

“You can’t smile like that.”

You reached out, your hand trembling as you brushed away a tear on her cheek. “You always were dramatic.”

Daniela let out a wet, broken laugh that sounded like pleading.

“Shut up.”

You grinned faintly. “Pray with me.”

And so she did. Kneeling beside your bed, fingers twined with yours, her voice quivering through the prayer.

But halfway through, the words stopped sounding like words. They turned into sobs. Into a plea. Into something between a confession and a collapse.

“Why?” she whispered between breaths, eyes on the crucifix above you. “Why show me You through her— through this— only to take her away?”

Her voice broke.

“Why give me something holy if You’re just going to break it?”

The candles flickered.

The rain outside finally began to fall.

She buried her face against your hand, shaking.

And for the first time in her life, Daniela wasn’t sure who she was praying to anymore.

You.

Him.

Both.

Because in that moment, as thunder rolled across the island and her sobs filled the quiet between prayers—

she realized that maybe love and faith had never been separate things.

Maybe they were one and the same.

And maybe that was the cruelest kind of miracle of all.

Daniela’s pulse was thunder in her ears.

You coughed again, softer this time, and for a terrifying heartbeat she thought you’d stop breathing. But then you smiled, breath shaky but eyes still so full of light it broke her in half.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” she said, the words coming out harsher than she meant.

You blinked, amused, your voice weak but playful. “Like what? Holy?”

“Like you’re—” she swallowed hard, fingers clutching the edge of your blanket, “—like you’re leaving.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Not yet. He still has me on duty.”

Daniela let out a breath somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “You think this is funny?”

You grinned faintly. “A little.”

“God, I hate you,” she muttered— but her hand was already reaching for yours, trembling.

“Liar,” you teased softly.

Her throat burned.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

“I am.”

Silence fell between you, gentle but heavy, filled with the faint crackle of the candle at the altar. You watched her with that same look that always made her forget where she ended and where you began— like your gaze could strip her of every wall she’d ever built.

“You should rest,” she finally said.

You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Will you stay?”

She hesitated, then moved closer, sitting by your bed, her fingers brushing yours.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

“I’ll stay.”

The storm outside grew louder, but inside the chapel, everything felt still— like time itself had folded around the two of you.

Daniela watched your chest rise and fall, the rhythm uneven but steady enough to anchor her. For the first time, she prayed not with words, but with breath— every inhale a plea, every exhale a thank you.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, didn’t know if you’d get better or if this was just another borrowed night— but right here, right now, with you resting and the crucifix watching over both of you, she knew she’d give everything.

To love you.

To serve Him.

To kneel beside you, even if the world fell apart around her.

Her hand stayed on yours until she felt your grip loosen in sleep.

And for the first time in years, Daniela smiled— not out of faith, or fear, but something deeper.

Something she couldn’t name without breaking it.

The rain had swallowed the streets whole.

Daniela didn’t remember running— only the sound of her shoes slapping against the pavement, the air burning in her lungs, and your voice echoing faintly in her head.

When she finally pushed open the church doors, the wind followed her in, cold and merciless. The candle flames near the altar flickered wildly, like even they were afraid of her grief.

She was soaked to the bone.

Her curls clung to her face, her clothes heavy with rainwater and fear.

The same old pews. The same smell of incense. The same cross hanging above the altar— the one she used to glare at when she was younger, daring Him to make her believe.

Now she glared again— but this time, her voice cracked with something else entirely.

“Why?”

It echoed, sharp and hollow, swallowed by the hollow dome of the church.

“Why her?” she choked, clutching the wooden edge of the pew until her knuckles turned white.

“She made me believe in You! Isn’t that what You wanted?!”

Her voice broke, shattering against the stained glass.

“She—” she sobbed, words dissolving into wet breaths, “—she prayed for me! She brought me here! She showed me You!”

She staggered forward, knees hitting the marble floor hard enough to bruise. The pain barely registered. Rainwater pooled around her, her reflection blurring under the crucifix’s shadow.

“Please,” she whispered, head bowed, hair dripping onto the tiles.

“Please don’t take her.”

Her fingers dug into her palms until she felt her nails break skin.

“Take me. Take anything. Just… not her.”

Her voice trembled, small and helpless, echoing in the vast silence.

“I’ll do it. I’ll believe. I’ll pray every night, I’ll love You like she does, I’ll never question You again—just please.”

Her body shook, tears and rain indistinguishable.

“Save her,” she cried, voice raw and breaking open like a wound.

“Save her and I’ll be Yours.”

She pressed her forehead to the cold floor, breath hitching.

“Please,” she whispered again, softer now, almost like a prayer.

“I’ll be Yours. Please.”

The church fell silent. Only the rain answered— soft, relentless, as though Heaven itself was weeping with her.

Daniela stayed there for a long time, hands clasped tight, trembling between faith and fear. Somewhere in the storm’s noise, she thought she heard your laughter— faint, gentle, like sunlight trying to break through the clouds.

She didn’t know if it was you or Him.

Maybe both.

Maybe that was the point.

—☆

The phone camera balanced shakily on a small tripod between them.

They sat on a wooden bench outside the convent, the ocean just visible in the distance— a soft shimmer of blue.

“She was out of the infirmary the next day,” Daniela continued, her voice trembling between a laugh and a prayer.

“And I remember thanking God again, and again, and again, while I held her hand. And then suddenly… the words I love you just fell out of my mouth.”

She laughed— a broken, gentle laugh. “After two months of silence, I just said it.”

Her gaze softened, her eyes reflecting the sunlight.

“She smiled — so soft, so fragile. She raised her hand to my cheek and said, ‘I love you too.’”

The man behind the camera didn’t speak. He didn’t even move. The faint sound of waves filled the pause between her words.

“I got to love her for such a short moment,” Daniela said, almost in a whisper now.

“I forgot I had a deal with Him. And He reminded me— using the person who made me believe in Him.”

Her eyes watered; she laughed quietly through it.

“He used my Y/n.”

The man reached for a tissue from his pocket and offered it, but she shook her head, smiling.

“Y/n will wipe my tears, dear. Don’t worry.”

She breathed deeply before continuing.

“Apparently she had Hanahaki. I read about it once in a book — said it was fictional.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “Guess it wasn’t.”

Her voice cracked but she pressed on, staring at the lens as if it were you.

“She told me it was because of me. Because she loved me too much.”

Daniela looked down at her trembling hands. “Then we found out she had another illness— something her body had been hiding for years. I remember, on her deathbed, she said she really wanted to be a nun. Then she laughed and said, ‘Guess that’ll have to wait for the next lifetime.’”

The old nun smiled faintly, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“And then she looked at me and said, ‘I’m sorry you have to wait for the next lifetime.’”

Daniela bowed her head. Her voice grew smaller, like she was confessing to the wind.

“I told her, ‘I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I told Him I’d offer myself to save you that day, and I didn’t. And now He’s taking you away from me again.’”

A pause. The waves hummed faintly in the distance.

“He took her away from me,” Daniela whispered.

She looked at the young man’s phone— not into the lens, but through it, as if she was looking beyond it, to you.

“But all she said was, ‘Pray. Pray with me.’ And I remember holding her hand again, because this time…”

Her voice faltered.

“…this time she wasn’t saved.”

Her shoulders shook once. Then silence.

The man behind the phone wiped his own eyes quickly, embarrassed.

But Daniela just smiled, the kind that comes after grief has worn itself out into grace.

“I still pray for her,” she said quietly.

“Not because she needs it… but because I do.”

The man swallowed hard, whispering, “That was… beautiful, Sister.”

Daniela looked down, fingers brushing the small wooden cross at her chest.

“She always said beauty is just another word for faith,” she said.

“And she was right. She always was.”

The phone stopped recording with a soft click.

But Daniela didn’t notice. She was already gazing past him, toward the fading light, lips moving in a silent prayer—

a prayer with your name in it.

Authors note:

this is inspired by the guy on tiktok, his content contains of people leaving notes of whatever his prompts was

this fic is also inspired by the filipino movie I love lizzy

and @hiraizyo quote on her pinned post "you've got a heart from heaven, but you're burning like hell" is also one of the many inspos for this fic 😋

and this fic is also inspired with my situation of faith

i hope this fic brings comfort to everyone who's struggling with their relationship with God right now and i hope you'll find the person who'll lead you right back to Him

The sermon used in one of the scenes is actually based on a real life experience from me :))

You’d always had a heart of ambition, but you didn’t think this would be the way you achieved your dreams.

Getting kicked out of Katseye wasn’t exactly on your five year plan- but contracts have clauses, and emotions have limits, and somewhere between the sleepless nights and the silence from upper management, something snapped.

Missy had tried to help, bless her terrifyingly efficient soul and ever present too-tight bun, but it was too late for you. Too many “discussions” behind glass doors, too many polite smiles hiding knives. Eventually, someone just decided it would be easier if you weren’t there anymore.

So you left.

No, scratch that- you ghosted.

The kind of ghosting where you change your number, disappear from group chats, and pretend you don’t see the unread messages piling up under the “KA7SEYE” thread. You told yourself it was self-preservation, not cowardice- that if you didn’t look back, maybe you could move forward faster.

And somehow, you did.

You built a solo career out of the ashes- late nights, new producers, a thousand tiny reinventions. Your songs charted, your face was on screens again, and people stopped introducing you as “the one who left Katseye.”

You were finally, officially, you.

And now here you were, twenty years old, standing backstage at the VMAs- nominated for Best New Artist.

The irony was not lost on you, especially since Katseye was also here. Nominated for the Push Performance award for Touch.

The song you co-sang. The one with your harmonies still layered in the chorus.

You leaned against a wall near the dressing rooms, trying to steady your breathing as a production assistant sprinted past with a clipboard. The air smelled faintly of hairspray, coffee, and stress. Everywhere you looked, there were sequins and smiles- and yet somehow, you felt like an intruder in a party you weren’t invited to.

You weren’t sure if it was the nerves or the ghosts.

Your name glowed on the schedule sheet tacked to the wall, right next to Katseye. Seeing it there- side by side- made your stomach twist in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You told yourself it was fine. You’d done harder things. Red carpets, interviews, performing live without backup vocals- all child’s play compared to this. But standing here, a few meters away from six girls you used to share a dorm, a dream, and a dozen inside jokes with? That felt like walking barefoot through glass.

You’d watched them from afar, of course. You weren’t heartless. When Touch hit a hundred million streams, you let yourself smile- just a small one. You even added it to your workout playlist once. (Then promptly deleted it when your voice came in during the bridge.)

The worst part wasn’t the fame or the fallout; it was the knowing. Knowing that they were probably fine without you. That maybe you’d been the problem all along.

You adjusted your mic pack, mostly to give your hands something to do, and tried to shake it off. You were here as an artist, not a cautionary tale. Smile. Shoulders back. Pretend you belong.

“Three minutes to standby,” someone called.

You nodded at no one, pushing off the wall and heading down the narrow hallway lined with mirrors and cables. Each reflection you passed caught a flash of the old you- tired eyes, stage makeup, that relentless drive.

You wanted this, you reminded yourself. You earned this.

Still, your chest ached with that uninvited cocktail of pride and regret. Maybe that was the price of ambition: you got what you wanted, just not the way you wanted it.

You turned a corner, lost in the thought- and slammed straight into someone.

“Fuck!, I’m so-”

You look up frantically, and in an instant the rest of your apology dies right there- on your tongue- because of all the people you could have bumped into tonight, it just had to be Sophia fucking Laforteza.

The Filipino beauty glows in front of you, all gentle lines and soft perfume, wearing that same shade of pinkish lipstick she’d always worn before a show. Her dress looked expensive enough to buy back your old contract, her expression unreadable in that perfect, practiced way you remembered too well. For a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all- except everything had.

For a moment, the two of you just stare.

You can’t tell whether the sound in your chest is your pulse or the echo of all the things you never said before you disappeared.

Naturally, she was the one to break the silence.

“Of course it’d be you,” she breathes, her voice smooth but edged- like a note struck just off-key. “You always did have terrible timing.”

You manage a laugh- weak, more of a choked breath.

You could almost hear the hum of old memories between you- rehearsal rooms at midnight, the sound of rain on dorm windows, whispered harmonies when the others were asleep.

Sophia’s gaze flicked down and back up again, her mouth pressing into a soft, unreadable line. Then, so quietly you almost missed it:

“You look good.”

It wasn’t said with jealousy or spite- just honesty. A little stunned, maybe. Like she hadn’t prepared herself to see you in the flesh again.

Maybe none of them had. You couldn’t say you had, either.

You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of her words. You’d honestly expected… more. More fury? More anger? More indifference? You weren’t even sure what you wanted her reaction to be.

You barely manage to nod in time to her words, stammering out your response, “Oh. Uh- thanks.”

Her expression softened- barely, but enough for you to see the cracks in her composure. “I saw your performance last month,” she shuffled on her feet, words a little tentative- like she wasn’t sure if this was a subject she should… could broach. “The live one. You were… different. In a good way.”

You shifted your weight, pretending to adjust your mic pack again, just to have somewhere to look at- somewhere that wasn’t directly at her. “Yeah, I, uh- guess solo work does that to you. Forces you to grow.”

Sophia tilted her head slightly. “Or maybe you just finally let yourself.”

That landed heavier than you expected. She always had a way of seeing through you- slicing past the polish and getting right to the raw.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she murmured, almost too quickly. Then, softer, almost to herself: “Of course I noticed.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, not exactly- just… dense. The kind that feels like it could tip either toward a laugh or a confession, if someone dared to move first.

And for a brief, fleeting second, you wondered what would happen if you reached out- if you let yourself bridge that tiny, electric space between you- but before you could, someone called Sophia’s name from down the hall.

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at you- eyes full of everything she didn’t have time to say. “You should get ready,” she sighed. “You’ve got a big night ahead.”

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “You too.”

Sophia hesitated for just a heartbeat more, lips parting like she wanted to add something- then stopped. Her fingers brushed lightly against your arm as she passed, a fleeting touch, warm and gone too soon.

You stood there for a long moment after she disappeared into the noise, your pulse still catching up.

Somehow, her compliment hurt more than any confrontation ever could.

You were still standing there, pulse drumming somewhere in your throat, when the spell shattered.

“-THERE you are!”

The voice sliced through the noise like a fork through expensive fondant. Before you could even turn around, a flash of neon pink and an overpowering cloud of perfume came barreling toward you.

Your manager.

Nadia Vale. 5’6 feet of pure attitude, 1957 Chanel perfume, and an impatience that could match that of the greek god Zeus. You didn’t even get a full breath in before she had a hand on your shoulder, steering you down the hall like a particularly annoying shopping cart- the ones that you pay $2 to use only to find out one of the wheels were broken or jammed.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she hissed- though, in true manager fashion, it came out like a stage whisper that still managed to turn three heads. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve lied to in the past ten minutes? I told the press you were in the bathroom, I told the stage manager you were praying, and I told your stylist you were having a mental breakdown. Which, honestly, was the closest to the truth.”

“I was- uh-”

“Don’t even start,” she snapped, waving a manicured hand. “I don’t care if you were crying, meditating, or rewriting the bible itself- your category is up in six minutes.”

You blinked. “Wait, six-?”

“Five now,” she said, checking her phone, scrolling, frowning. In that order. “God, why are they letting him present again? If I have to watch that man pretend to read off a teleprompter one more time, I’m walking into the Pacific Ocean.”

You leaned over her shoulder, stifling a laugh once you realised who she was talking about. Howard- such a fucking douchebag. He’d called you, and you quote, a “walking existential crisis”, when the announcements of you leaving Katseye came out. That, and an “attention-seeker”- which might have just been the worst out of the two insults.

Yeah, you smile bitterly, fuck him.

Nadia caught the smile- because of course she did. “Don’t grin at me, superstar, you’re lucky I like you. Barely. You know you stress me out so much my therapist asked for your name?”

You mumbled an apology, which she ignored completely as she spun you around and started fixing your hair with the focus of a bomb defuser.

“Hold still. Christ, how is your skin so good? I’ve been running on oat milk and spite for fourteen years and I look like a leather handbag. Who did your makeup? They deserve a raise. Unless it was you, in which case, of course it was you- because you’re you.”

“Thanks… I think?”

She hummed, squinting at you. “You know, I was just telling someone that you’ve really come into your own lately. And by someone, I mean that useless PR intern who thought you were a finalist for Best Pop Duo. I mean seriously, why do they always flock to me? do I look like I raise idiots?” she pauses, noticing the way your mouth actually parted to respond. “Don’t answer that.”

You tried not to laugh- mostly because she’d definitely hear it and start a new rant.

She didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop talking- one moment pinning your mic wire in place, the next taking verbal shots at random celebrities in your proximity.

“God, I swear if I see that influencer again- the one who thinks a granny sweater counts as an outfit- I’ll commit a crime. It’s the VMA’s honey- not the fucking SSA. And don’t make that face, you know which one I’m talking about.”

You nodded, because yes, yes you did.

Then, mid-sentence, she turned that sharp focus back on you. “But listen- seriously- whatever you just did, keep doing it. You look like a million bucks, and not in the usual fake-Hollywood way. You look… happy. Ish. Well-rested, maybe. Slightly haunted, but in a sexy way.”

“Thanks, that’s exactly the vibe I was going for,” you deadpanned.

“Good,” she chirped, patting your cheek lightly before stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Now, go win something. Or at least lose gracefully. No crying. Unless you’re a pretty crier- then we can work with that.”

You couldn’t help it this time- you laughed, full and unguarded.

She smirked, satisfied, and handed you your lipgloss. “Let’s go. And for the love of God, try not to bump into anyone else. You’re a headline waiting to happen.”

Too late, you thought, but didn’t say it.

The stage lights burned like miniature suns, spilling through the cracks in the curtains. You could hear the crowd- that restless, electric roar that only existed in moments like this. Every cheer, every synth-heavy transition between presenters felt like the world holding its breath.

You now stood just offstage, blinking into the golden wash of it all. Cameras swooped overhead like hawks. Stagehands whispered cues into headsets. Your manager gave your shoulder one last dramatic squeeze before vanishing into the wings, muttering something about finding champagne “in advance of either outcome.”

“Best New Artist,” you repeated under your breath, as if the words might feel less unreal if you said them yourself. Like you could physically manifest the title into existence if you said it enough.

The stage manager pointed you toward your seat in the front section, the kind that looked close enough to touch fame itself. As you moved through the crowd, you caught flashes of sequins, chrome jewelry, gloved hands waving to unseen fans. The air was a mix of perfume, spotlights, and adrenaline.

You slipped into your seat just as the category graphics exploded across the massive screen: five names, five faces. Yours among them- the photo from your debut era, the one where your eyes looked steadier than you ever actually felt.

And then, just one row over- Katseye.

All remaining 6 members.

Your stomach flipped at that.

Sophia sat second from the aisle, legs crossed, a soft-focus goddess in black. The others were chatting among themselves, the kind of relaxed chaos that only comes from shared success- but Sophia wasn’t laughing- not right then. Her eyes caught yours through the low haze of stage light, and for a fleeting moment, the noise around you dissolved.

It was strange- seeing her like that, all perfect poise and polished grace, when you still remembered her half-asleep on rehearsal room floors, mumbling harmonies into her phone mic. The contrast hit harder than you expected.

“-and now, to present the award for Best New Artist…”

The presenter’s voice thundered through the venue, jolting you back. The camera’s red light blinked somewhere nearby. You sat a little straighter, smiled the way you’d practiced. A thousand lenses stared right back.

Your category played in montage- snippets of choruses, stage clips, your own shaky debut footage cut together with cheers. The crowd reacted with polite applause, and somewhere behind you, your manager was probably praying to whatever deity handled career milestones.

The envelope rustled.

You exhaled slowly, trying not to look nervous- which was, ironically, the most obvious thing you could do.

The presenter smiled that too-wide, TV-perfect smile, the gold envelope gleaming under the stage lights like it held the secrets of the universe.

You could hear everything.

The hum of the crowd. The click of cameras adjusting their lenses. Someone in the row behind you whispering a prediction. The faint buzz of your own heartbeat in your ears.

It was funny- you’d imagined this moment a hundred times before. You thought you’d feel powerful, invincible, maybe even detached. But sitting there, with your name and face still flickering on the giant LED screens, all you felt was small. Small and human and very, very alive.

The presenter held the envelope up like a priest about to perform a ritual.

“Big year for this category,” he drawled, dragging the words out with professional cruelty. “Incredible new voices, record-breaking numbers…”

Your mouth went dry.

You tried to smile, but your face felt like it was made of porcelain. Every instinct in you screamed to look away, but your eyes were glued to the stage- to that shining rectangle of paper that could flip your life in a single second.

In your periphery, Sophia shifted- a soft movement, but somehow loud enough to pull your attention. She was watching you again, chin tilted just slightly, the kind of quiet, steady gaze that felt like both a challenge and a prayer. They were all watching you- but Sophia’s gaze was more prominent. More heated. More intense.

You forced yourself to breathe.

Once. Twice.

“-and the VMA for Best New Artist goes to…”

The presenter slid a finger under the seal. The paper crackled like thunder.

Time stretched.

You could see your reflection in one of the camera lenses- wide eyes, hands pressed together too tightly, the image of someone pretending not to care. Somewhere behind you, your friends muttered a half-whispered “Come on, come on,” like they could will the universe into cooperation.

The presenter opened the card. Squinted for drama.

You could feel your pulse in your throat.

A thousand invisible threads pulled taut across the air- all the rehearsals, the crying, the quiet mornings where you doubted everything, the way Sophia’s voice still lingered in your memory like smoke.

A pause. A beat of silence that stretched like taffy.

Then the name hit the speakers like a flare.

You blinked, barely processing the sound of your own name echoing through the arena.

The crowd erupted. Lights exploded into motion. Someone touched your arm, urging you to stand, but your legs didn’t quite get the message at first.

Then applause- real, thunderous, yours.

For a moment, you didn’t move. The sound hit you, but it didn’t land- not really. You blinked once, twice, like the syllables had come from underwater. When you finally got a sense of your bearings- you rose, stunned, as cameras caught every frame of your reaction. You managed to laugh, dazed and bright, brushing at invisible wrinkles on your outfit as you made your way toward the stage.

Just before you climbed the steps, you glanced back -almost involuntarily. Towards them.

Sophia was clapping. Slow, deliberate, a real smile tugging at her mouth this time. The kind that wasn’t for the cameras. The look in her eyes wasn’t envy or even surprise. It was something heavier. Something like pride, tangled with a hundred things she couldn’t say.

Something unknotted in your chest- small, but real.

As you started toward the stage, the camera caught your face- wide-eyed, teary, half-smiling. You forced yourself to breathe, but the air felt too thin, too bright.

Passing their row, you felt the moment stretch-Daniela giving you a thumbs-up, Lara mouthing go, Manon bouncing in her seat, Megan and Yoonchae clapping over their heads like they were trying to lift you there themselves.

Sophia was saying something- something you couldn’t make out over the ringing in your ears.

You didn’t have time to figure it out.

The lights swallowed you whole as you stepped onto the stage.

The stage felt unreal- too bright, too loud, too big.

You could barely see past the haze of light, but you could feel them- thousands of eyes, hundreds of cameras, every flashbulb capturing the precise moment your life split neatly into “before” and “after.”

A VMA.

Your VMA.

You took the heavy, glass-edged trophy from the presenter with both hands, half-afraid it would slip through your fingers. The applause blurred into one long, shimmering sound. You leaned into the mic, heart still sprinting.

“Um- wow.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. The crowd laughed softly with you- or maybe at you- but it didn’t matter. The sound grounded you.

“I, uh- this doesn’t feel real,” you began, glancing down at the award like it might start talking back. “When I started… I just wanted to make something that mattered. Something that could outlast the noise.”

You took a breath, voice steadier now. “There were a lot of times I thought I’d never even make it here. Times I didn’t really believe in myself- or, honestly, even like myself that much.”

The audience went quiet, that respectful hush that means they’re actually listening.

You smiled, soft and a little shaky. “But the people around me- even the ones who aren’t anymore- they taught me a lot. About patience. About strength. About what it means to fight for something you love, even when it hurts.”

You didn’t look at the girls directly. Not yet. But your throat tightened anyway.

“So… thank you. To everyone who ever told me I couldn’t do this- you made me try harder. And to the ones who believed I could, even when I didn’t-”

You hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward that familiar row.

Sophia’s gaze met yours again, steady, unreadable, glimmering faintly under the stage lights.

“-thank you. Really.”

The applause rose again, soft at first, then building. You laughed through it, breath hitching, eyes stinging just enough for the cameras to catch the glimmer.

You lifted the trophy slightly, as if it weighed less now. Cheers broke out- scattered at first, then swelling, filling the space like a tide.

You stepped back from the mic, heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Then the lights dimmed. The cameras cut away. The crowd shifted.

And you, trophy in hand, just stood there under the gold haze- beaming, shining, and trying not to fall apart.

After the ceremonies were over and awards were handed out- you barely had time to step back stage before your manager was on you.

“Holy shit.”

You glance up, half-laughing, half-shrinking away. You lift the award like it’s a peace offering- or a shield. Maybe both.

“I survived.” You croak out, unable to believe it yourself.

“Survived?” she repeated incredulously. “You won a VMA! A VMA! Look at you! Standing there with that trophy like it’s no big deal. You know people are going to obsess over every outfit change, every camera angle, and yes, your hair, which, by the way, looks amazing.”

You snorted.

“Don’t snort at me,” she snapped sharply, then sighed dramatically. “But also, I’m proud. Very proud. And slightly terrified. Mostly proud. Okay, mostly terrified, too.”

You laughed at that, just a little, catching your breath from the adrenaline.

“And let me tell you,” she continued, lowering her voice as if sharing state secrets, “some of those other celebrities- oh, honey, they are outdone. Completely outdone. Not even close. I mean, they’re cute, I guess. But compared to you? Please. They might as well be holding balloons and calling it a performance.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Pep talk? This is me managing reality, okay? Reality is brutal, and you just went up there and owned it. Just don’t trip when you get back to the dressing room. People will die if the VMA’s newest icon eats shit.”

You laughed, but it was easier this time- part relief, part disbelief. She shook her head and muttered something about needing a drink, already racing ahead down the hallway, leaving you holding the trophy and trying to calm your still-thudding heart.

Your thoughts drifted back to the girls- to Katseye. They’d won the award they were nominated for- which, you didn’t doubt them one bit, but watching them get on stage… laughing, smiling, celebrating- together- almost made bile rise in your throat. In another life you would have been up there with them- should have been up there with them.

It felt almost poetic- that despite the fact that you were no longer together, all 7 of you had still won an award at the same time.

You didn’t let yourself dwell on that thought for too long though- lest you end up in your room, sobbing into your pillow and clutching your trophy to your chest as you chugged down a bottle of fireball.

No- the night wasn’t over. In fact, it only just begun. The after parties were always the main event- the pearl of the awards ceremony. You’d be shooting yourself in the foot if you missed it- especially when your career was still so fresh.

Besides, Nadia would kill you herself if you missed it.

By the time you arrived at the first party, the air was already thick with the scent of expensive perfume and expensive alcohol. The venue itself was decadent, a sprawling rooftop terrace overlooking the glittering city skyline. DJs spun tracks that vibrated through the floor, and the crowd roared in time, glasses spilling in celebration, obnoxious laughter ricocheting off the walls.

You scanned the crowd of mostly C-listers, refraining from rolling your eyes at the sight of some of them in particular. There was only a handful of people here that you actually respected. People that weren’t assholes.

You moved through the crowd like a ghost at first, letting others approach you- industry contacts, journalists, influencers- but taking mental notes of everything. Each handshake, each smile, each forced “Congratulations” felt like currency you were banking for later. You sipped your champagne slowly, letting the bubbles chase down the knots of tension in your chest, all while keeping your eyes peeled for familiar faces.

The energy was intoxicating. Groups of people clustered around tables heavy with bottles of champagne and vodka, while smaller pockets of conversation hummed in quieter corners. You watched the dancers on the balcony, swirling effortlessly to the music, envying their freedom, their lightness.

Somewhere in the chaos, the thought of the girls crept back in, uninvited. Katseye, celebrating together, laughter like a melody you used to know by heart. You forced the thought away, focusing instead on the immediate thrill: being here, surrounded by people who now recognized you, who would soon remember your name. Tonight was yours.

You were just turning away from the balcony railing when someone gently tapped your shoulder.

“Congratulations,” a smooth, confident voice spoke.

You turned, and almost choked on your champagne. The person was tall- a little lanky- with shaggy dark hair and eyes so brown you almost though you were staring into the gaze of a newborn calf.

You were standing in front of the Malcolm Todd. Of all the people here, him.

“Holy shit,” you managed, failing to sound casual while internally doing backflips.

He smiled, a warm, genuine one that immediately put you at ease. “You were incredible tonight. Honestly. Your stage presence… it’s electric.”

Your cheeks heated. You had rehearsed so many thank-you speeches in your head, and none of them had sounded like this. “That… really means a lot coming from you- fuck, I swear I was just listening to your song on the way here-”

He let out a laugh, leaning closer with an awkward shuffle. He almost looked bashful in this light. “Seriously? I was listening to yours!”

You can’t help the flutter that settles in your stomach at that. Him, listening to you? God- maybe you passed out during the awards ceremony and this is all a dream.

You were so lost in your thoughts you didn’t even hear his next words- but based on the smile and little wave of his hand, just assumed he was telling you to follow him.

You did- no questions asked- following him through the crowd, careful not to spill your drink. Outside, the music was still heavy, but the hum of the city air made it feel… different. Cleaner, quieter, intimate even.

“So,” he drawled, turning to you with a playful grin, “how does it feel, officially being a VMA-winning new artist? Still pinching yourself?”

You laughed softly. “Pinching myself would leave bruises. I’m still trying to figure out if this is real.”

“Good,” he murmured, leaning casually against the railing beside you. “You deserve to enjoy it. Everyone else can wait.”

His tone had a teasing edge that made your chest warm. You couldn’t tell if it was the champagne or him, but either way, you weren’t complaining.

“You know,” you breathe, feeling a little light-headed, “I thought I’d be nervous around people like you. But… you’re not intimidating at all.”

Malcolm laughed, a rich, contagious sound. “Maybe I’m just saving the intimidating stuff for later. But don’t worry- I promise, no awards ceremony scariness tonight.”

You smirked, leaning against the railing. “So… you really think I didn’t trip on stage? Because I feel like someone would’ve caught that on camera.”

Malcolm laughed, shaking his head. “No way. You were smooth as hell. Honestly, I was impressed- and slightly jealous. I’d still be doing some awkward interpretive dance trying to hold a trophy like that.”

You grinned, nudging him lightly. “Glad to hear it. I’d hate to think my award came with embarrassing viral moments.”

“Trust me,” he scoffed, leaning a little closer, “if anything goes viral, it’s only because people are jealous of how effortlessly cool you are. And maybe your outfit.”

You laughed, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Effortlessly cool? I was basically sweating glitter and praying no one noticed.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Hey, if you were sweating glitter, it’s probably the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done on a stage. I’d definitely be fanboying right now.”

Your eyes widened a little, grinning. “Fanboying? About me?”

“Absolutely,” he quipped, pretending to straighten an imaginary tie. “And not the embarrassing kind. The, like, ‘wow, I need to get to know this person before they disappear into superstar territory’ kind.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “Okay, wow. That’s… actually really flattering.”

He shrugged, grinning. “I call it like I see it. Also… you seem like way too much fun to take seriously all the time. Which is rare, honestly.”

You felt the excitement buzzing in your chest- this was different from the usual press interviews or fan encounters. Here, it was like you were just… talking to someone who got it.

Your chat wrapped up pretty quick- it wasn’t like you could spend the entire party with only one person. You waved and slipped away, weaving back through the crowd, letting the sounds of the party wash over you. The music was loud, the chatter endless, but somehow your steps felt purposeful, urgent even.

Rounding a corner toward the restroom, you almost bumped into someone- again.

“Sorr- oh, Sophia?”

Well, this moment was pretty full circle.

She froze for a second before looking up at you. There was no cheerful smile this time. No easy warmth. Just a quiet intensity, her gaze sharp and almost unreadable.

“Hey,” you murmured softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Hey,” she replied, her tone clipped, almost careful. She wasn’t angry exactly, but something was simmering beneath the surface. Her arms were crossed loosely, and her eyes held a focus that made you suddenly hyper-aware of yourself.

You swallowed, noticing the way her presence made the room feel smaller, heavier somehow. The glow of the city outside didn’t touch her the same way it touched you. She was… brooding.

That was strange- to say the least. She’d been cordial with you back at the venue- even cheered you on when you won your award. Besides, shouldn’t she be celebrating about her own award?

“Are you- okay?” you asked, a little hesitantly, not sure what else to say.

She hesitated, then looked past you, out toward the action, her jaw tightening slightly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

There was a pause, thick with unspoken history, and you felt your pulse quicken. This wasn’t the cheerful, easy Sophia from before. This was someone guarded, intense- someone you knew from experience you’d have to navigate carefully around.

And yet, even like this, you couldn’t look away.

She looked like she had stepped out of a noir film rewritten for the twenty-first century. You hadn’t adequately appreciated her look before- but now, seeing her after the high of winning your award? You couldn’t help but go weak at the knees. Her dress was midnight black, sharply tailored, hugging her form with a precision that suggested power and intention. Her ponytail was slick and gelled back- not one strand out of place- smoothened to perfection.

Perfection. The only word you could ever use to describe a woman like Sophia.

Her gaze flicked past you for a moment, and you followed it, realizing she’d likely noticed you earlier, laughing and leaning close to Malcolm Todd on the terrace.

“So,” she hummed finally, voice low and almost casual, but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Is that how you left the group? Secured your career using connections and just… abandoned ship?”

Your stomach tightened. There was no accusation in her tone- well, not exactly- but there was something heavier beneath it. Pain? Jealousy? Resentment? You couldn’t tell, and the uncertainty made the air between you feel sharp.

You opened your mouth, but no words came immediately. Malcolm wasn’t here- this was just you and her- and suddenly all the history, the laughter, the fights, the late nights rehearsing together, felt like it was pressing down on your chest.

“I… didn’t leave like that,” you mumbled finally, careful, measured, though your voice wavered a little too much. “I left because I had to… because it wasn’t right for me anymore. You know that.”

Sophia’s eyes didn’t leave yours. Her expression softened ever so slightly, but the intensity didn’t fade. “Yeah, I know,” she said quietly, almost too quietly. “Doesn’t make it any easier to watch, though. Especially seeing you… cozy with someone like that.”

You blinked, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt, how much old wounds were resurfacing, how much you’d missed her. And maybe- just maybe- how much you still cared.

The city skyline shimmered behind her, distant and cold, but the air between the two of you felt suddenly impossible to ignore.

You shifted slightly, hyper-aware of how close you were standing. The music from the party drifted through the walls, distant enough to be background noise, but it only made the silence between you feel heavier.

“I… I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’m flaunting anything,” you sighed. “He’s just… someone I met tonight. That’s it.”

Sophia’s gaze didn’t waver. Her arms were still crossed, but there was a tension in her shoulders, a storm barely contained. “Right,” she drawled slowly. “Just someone. That’s how it looked from where I was standing.”

You bit your lip, wanting to reach out, to explain more, but the words tangled in your throat. The truth was complicated- your pride, your need to be independent, and… maybe a little annoyance over the fact that she still had this pull over you.

Sophia took a step closer, and the energy between you skyrocketed. “You know,” she breathed, her voice quieter now, almost vulnerable, “it’s hard… seeing you here, doing everything you said you wanted, while… we’re still over there. Still together, still…” Her words faltered, and she glanced away briefly, jaw tight.

“Still what?” you asked softly, heart thudding.

“Still… me. Still here.” She looked back at you, eyes sharp, but something else lingered there- pain, longing, frustration. “It’s hard not to wonder if you ever… cared about any of it, about us, the group… the people you left behind.”

You swallowed, the past and present colliding in a way that left you breathless. “I did care,” you whispered. “I still… care, Sophia. About all of it. About you.”

Her expression flickered, the storm behind her eyes softening for a heartbeat, then hardening again. “Yeah?” she scoffed, a little wry, a little bitter. “Funny how it didn’t stop you from walking away.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air felt electric, heavy with everything left unsaid. You wanted to bridge the distance, to close it, but the history between you made every move tentative, dangerous, thrilling.

You exhaled slowly, but the air still felt too heavy to breathe. “You think it was easy?” you hissed, your voice low but trembling. “Walking away from all of that- from you- like it meant nothing?”

Sophia’s jaw flexed. “Didn’t really look hard from the outside,” she shot back. “One week you were there, the next, gone. No warning, no call, nothing. Just a note from management and a PR statement.”

You flinched. “You think I had control over that? You think I wanted to disappear like that?”

Her laugh was soft but bitter. “You sure didn’t fight it very hard.”

That hit deeper than you wanted it to. You took a step closer before you could stop yourself, the words spilling out faster than you meant. “I fought everything, Sophia. I fought to keep my head above water in that place. You all were my family, and I still felt like a stranger every damn day.”

For a second, her face cracked- just a flicker of something raw- then she looked away, muttering derisively, “We were all drowning, you weren’t the only one.”

“I know that,” you croaked, voice tightening. “But you had each other. I didn’t. The second I started slipping, it was like no one even-” You stopped yourself, swallowing hard.

Sophia’s gaze snapped back to you, sharp again. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is standing here pretending you didn’t see me falling apart,” you snapped. The words came out before you could catch them, too loud, too honest.

The silence that followed was a live wire- bright, dangerous. You could almost hear both of your hearts racing.

Her expression softened for half a second, then she shook her head, a humorless laugh escaping her. “You always do that,” she murmured. “Make it sound like you were the only one hurting. Like none of us bled too.”

You felt something twist in your chest. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she murmured, stepping closer now, eyes flashing. “You just walked out and left the rest of us to pick up the pieces. And then tonight-seeing you up there, smiling like none of it mattered…”

Her voice caught, breaking through the anger for just a heartbeat.

“…It’s like it never even happened, you know? Like we never happened.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The city noise below blurred into static, and for a moment all you could see was the look in her eyes- furious, hurt, familiar.

“I didn’t forget,” you breathed finally, your voice quieter, rougher. “Not for a second.”

Sophia’s breath hitched- just enough to betray something beneath the fury- and for the first time tonight, neither of you knew which one of you was about to walk away.

The silence stretched, vibrating with everything unsaid. The party noise behind the wall had dulled to a throb, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Sophia took a slow step closer, close enough that you caught the faint scent of her perfume- something soft and sharp that hit like déjà vu. “I think about it every day,” she whispered. “All those nights when it was just us- no cameras, no rules, no pretending we weren’t…” Her voice trailed off, the rest swallowed by the space between you.

Your breath hitched. The distance between you was barely a breath now, and her eyes- furious, glassy, searching- found yours and stilled.

“Don’t,” you whisper quietly, though you weren’t even sure what you meant.

Sophia’s lips curved into something- something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You left, and I still can’t walk into a rehearsal room without hearing your voice. You think that goes away?”

You shook your head, trying to hold yourself steady. “Then why are you so angry?”

“Because,” she snapped, the word sharp, almost breaking, “you got to leave. And I’m still there, still trying to unlearn you.”

The air between you cracked open- anger and longing tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell which one was winning.

You wanted to speak, to reach out, to apologize or to argue or to pull her closer- anything but stand there and feel every memory flood back through the inches between you.

Sophia’s eyes flicked down, just once, before snapping back to yours. “You drive me insane,” she whispered, the words trembling, half-plea, half-confession.

“So stop looking at me like that,” you breathed back.

“I can’t.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious. One heartbeat. Two. You could feel the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor in her breath. The air seemed to pull tight around you, the kind of silence that only breaks one way or the other.

For a second, the world tilted- music thumping distantly below, champagne laughter spilling through the hall- but here, it was just you and her, every memory collapsing into now.

Then, almost at the same moment, you both moved- closer, not quite touching, but close enough that it felt inevitable. The kind of nearness that erased all the noise, all the years, until there was only the pulse of what neither of you could undo.

Her hands were up before you could register the movement, not pushing you away, but cupping your face- a sudden, fierce tenderness that shattered the careful tension. The touch was an electric current, a memory made real, the soft skin of her palm against your jaw, warm and slightly shaky, just the way you remembered from a thousand forgotten moments.

The breath you’d been holding escaped, ragged and silent, and then there was no more air, only the brush of lips.

It wasn't a gentle press, nor a slow, hesitant return. It was a collision, a reckless, hungry, necessary crash of lips and teeth and shared, desperate need. All the pent-up fury, the aching longing, the months of separation- it all poured out in that instant.

It tasted like the forbidden promise of a mistake, like the expensive champagne and a deep, grounding memory of rain on pavement. There was a raw, bruising quality to it, the kind of kiss that wasn't about sweetness but about reclamation. Her mouth moved against yours with an almost violent certainty, a silent scream of, I told you I couldn't stop looking.

You didn't hesitate. You were already past the point of no return. One hand shot to the small of her back, pulling her flush against you, erasing the last few inches of air and formality. The other cupped her jaw, tilting her head back, deepening the kiss until the world narrowed to the sound of your combined breath and the frantic rhythm of your own heart hammering against your ribs.

The distant music and the laughter from the hall faded to a dull, unimportant drone. There was nothing but the heat of her, the urgent pressure of her lips, the way her body molded perfectly to yours- a terrifying, exhilarating proof that some connections don't die, they just lie in wait.

You drove her backward until her back hit the cool, textured wallpaper and a gasp cut through the silence of the secluded hallway. Her right hand reached up to entangle itself in your hair and she practically melted into your touch in an instant, kissing you back with just as much fervor.

Your lips broke apart with a soft sound- both of you desperate to catch your breaths. Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, giving you full access. You were driven by a sudden, primal need to mark her, to taste the skin you’d spent months only dreaming of. Your kisses became a shower of hot, desperate pecks- a trail of apologies- working their way down her elegant, exposed throat.

She was arching into the pressure, her hands now abandoning your face to grip the back of your dress, bunching the expensive fabric in her fists. A faint, shuddering noise, half-whimper, half-pleasure, escaped her as you reached the delicate hollow of her collarbone.

You felt the fragile bones there, just beneath the skin, and paused for a second- a breath of reverence escaping before the rush took over again. The low-cut neckline of her dress made it easy, and you didn't miss any chance, leaning down to press a burning kiss to the smooth skin just above her heart. The silence of the hall was now broken only by your ragged breathing and the soft, insistent friction of your dress against hers.

You glance up momentarily, voice nothing more than a soft whisper in the fragile moment. “Right here?”

The Filipino goddess bites her lip, glancing around tentatively before two hands moved to your shoulders- pushing down.

You got the message and promptly sunk down onto your knees. Tilting your head up, you gazed at Sophia through thick lashes and heavy-lidded eyes. You wouldn’t- couldn’t do anything without permission.

Without her permission.

A shiver ran through Sophia at your obedience- at the fact that still, all these months later, you knew your place. She reached down, running her sharp nails through your hair and lightly scratching at your scalp- drawing a low whimper from the back of your throat.

Taking that as a nonverbal ‘yes’, you eagerly bunch up Sophia’s skirt with one hand- pulling down her black laced panties with the other. You almost let out laugh when you feel just how soaked the fabric was.

"God, you’re already so wet," you murmur, pressing your cheek lightly against her thigh before looking back up fondly.

Sophia closed her eyes, biting back a groan. She was going to combust right there if you kept up this combination of apologetic adoration and devastating focus. It took every scrap of her considerable will not to just grab your hair and grind down until she found oblivion, but she knew that move would only break the tension.

Whether you sensed her restraint or the universe decided to reward her forbearance, you finally, finally started kissing and nuzzling up her inner thigh. The first touch of your mouth on her cunt was an electric jolt.

Sophia's hands shot out and tangled instantly in your hair, the dark strands a perfect, velvety anchor against the relentless waves of sensation. You fucked her with your tongue, your fingers sliding deeper inside her as you sucked and licked at her clit with the same focused, relentless fervour you’d shown the rest of her skin.

She didn't know how long she stood there, the world narrowed down to those two points of burning contact- her hands in your hair, your mouth on her core- encouragement and begging (or maybe a little bit of just straight-up whimpering) spilling from her lips. She didn't care, so long as you kept on doing that. But eventually, it was too much. Her knees buckled, and she tumbled forward.

Luckily, you were there, breaking her fall, your shoulders a soft, warm support.

You didn't seem inclined to push her off, either. So Sophia stretched out, prodding and twisting around until she was comfortable, her thighs propped up over your shoulders.

You didn’t stop there- eating her out like you were stranded on a deserted island and her cunt was the only source of water. She let out a whine, hands tugging at your hair to draw your attention. “My legs are giving out” she whimpered, yet her hips didn’t stop rolling against your mouth.

You ignored her, instead running your tongue flat against her clit. This time, she nearly doubled over- yanking your head off of her.

You let out a whimper- both in pain and at the loss of contact (though it was mostly due to the latter)- but Sophia just shakes her head, pulling you up onto her level until she can crash her lips back onto yours.

A moan tears through her mouth and vibrates into yours as she tastes herself on your lips. You let out a whine- breaking the kiss and pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes.

Sophia almost coo’s at the soft, pleading look in your eyes. She reaches a hand up to cradle your face gently, words a soft purr against your cheek, “Tell me what you need, Mahal.”

You let out a shuddering breath- one single word spilling from your lips unbridled. “You.”

Sophia smiles, hands dragging down your body until she can firmly grasp your hips and pull you down onto her thigh. You gasp- hands reaching down to bunch up your dress. You’re so wet now- that your panties have stuck to you, the rough fabric rubbing against your clit deliciously everytime Sophia pulls your hip back and forth.

You thrust back with just as much fervour- practically falling into Sophia as you clutch and scratch at her clothed back. Your chests were perfectly moulded together, and you could feel her warm breath brush against the side of your throat every-time she breathed.

She didn’t bother to quieten your moans- in fact, they only spurred her on. Her grip tightened and her thigh flexed up into you, drawing a particularly sharp gasp from your throat. Your voice was getting sharper, higher, whinier- a telltale sign that you were close.

She thought of teasing you- of punishing you for all the shit she went through dealing with your sudden absence- but the moment was too fragile- too soft for her to ruin. So she kept going- kept dragging you back and forth and flexing her thigh sporadically until you buried your face into the crook of her neck and trembled against her.

She held you through it all while murmuring sweet-nothings into your hair. All while you came apart in her arms, a shuddering, breathless wreck against her neck. She didn’t move at all until your body had completely stilled.

Sophia kept one arm locked securely around your waist, using the other to gently guide your head from her neck, pushing you back just enough to look at your face. Her eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were soft, filled with a deep, consuming tenderness.

"You okay, pretty girl?" she murmured, her voice rough, a low texture you felt more than heard. She didn't wait for a verbal answer, though. Her thumb, surprisingly careful, wiped a stray tear from your cheekbone- a tear you hadn't even realized you’d shed.

You could only manage a nod, your breathing still too shallow and fast for words.

The atmosphere in the secluded hallway had completely changed. The reckless heat was replaced by a gentle, languid warmth. She didn't press you, didn't ask for a repeat performance or even an apology. Instead, she slowly, deliberately, reached down with her free hand and smoothed the fabric of your skirt back into place, tucking it down around your hips to cover the exposed skin.

With that, she drew you back into her embrace- leaning back against the wall and running a soothing hand through your hair.

It was like that for a while, just silent comfort in the still-secluded hallway until her voice rang out once more. It was small, unsure, and croaky- barely a whisper.

“Why’d you leave?”

You swallowed, hard. You didn’t know what to say- how to respond without making yourself look shitty, without making their management look shitty. You settled for a quiet truth- one that involved her but didn’t quite tell the whole story. “I… I didn’t know how to stay,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared, Sophia. Scared I’d hurt you, scared I’d get lost in all of this… and scared I’d never find my way back to myself.”

Her grip on you tightened just slightly, not in restraint but in reassurance, as if she could absorb your fear into herself. “You could’ve told me,” she shot back, a faint tremor betraying how much she had restrained herself over the months. “You didn’t have to go alone.”

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I thought… maybe you’d be better off without me.”

Her lips hovered near your forehead, brushing it lightly in a tender, almost apologetic gesture. “Better off without you?” she echoed, voice thick. “Do you have any idea how wrong that is? You’ve always been a part of my heart, even when I couldn’t have you.”

Your chest tightened, and you leaned into her embrace, letting the vulnerability you’d buried for months finally spill over. “I missed you,” you whispered. “Every day, Sophia. I tried to keep busy, tried to forget… but I couldn’t.”

Sophia’s shoulders sagged slightly, a weight you hadn’t seen in months finally breaking through her usually unshakable poise. She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and you could see it there- the raw exhaustion, the quiet storm she’d been holding in.

“It was… so fucking hard,” she admitted, her voice tight, ragged at the edges. “Being the leader when every day I was unraveling because you weren’t there. I had to be strong, to hold everything together, smile, keep the group from noticing I was falling apart inside.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity, by the admission that she’d been breaking quietly while keeping everything afloat. “I… I didn’t know,” you murmured. “I thought you were fine. I thought you… had it all.”

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, small and fractured. “Fine? No. I smiled, I joked, I performed… but inside? Every rehearsal, every meeting, every stage- I was holding on by my fingernails. I kept looking at the empty space where you should have been, and it tore me apart. I couldn’t show weakness to them, not to Katseye, not to anyone. And it hurt- God, it hurt like hell- that you weren’t there to hold me while I tried to hold everything else together.”

You reached up, cupping her face again, needing to anchor her, needing her to feel that she wasn’t alone anymore. “Im sorry. I’m so, so sorry-“

Her lips trembled as she pressed a brief kiss to your forehead, a gesture of both relief and lingering pain. “I just… I didn’t know if you’d ever come back. Every day, I thought maybe you’d forgotten me, or that you’d decided I wasn’t worth it. And that thought- it was unbearable.”

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. “I could never forget you. You’re… you’re my heart, Sophia. Always.”

She let out a shuddering breath, letting herself collapse into your arms again. “I needed you, and I hate that I had to survive without you for so long,” she admitted, voice breaking. “I hate that it took this long for us to find each other again.”

You hugged her tightly, pressing your forehead against hers.

Sophia lifted her head slightly, eyes shining with something like awe as she stared at you. “And… and I have to say this,” she said, voice thick with emotion, “seeing you win that VMA… tonight… I don’t even have words. You… you were incredible. Absolutely incredible,” She cupped your cheek again, thumb brushing softly over your skin. “I hope you know, I’ve been carrying that pride with me all day. That was my girl up there, shining, and I… I couldn’t be prouder, even if I tried.”

You swallow down the lump that had formed in your throat- and quietly leaned further into her embrace. Only when the music had started to dull and the cheers got louder did the two of you pull away- you sheepishly, Sophia bashfully.

“I should go rejoin the girls…” She murmured softly, busying herself with brushing out her dress.

You nod mutely, stepping back to give her space. You needed to go fix your makeup anyway- since it was no doubt ruined from earlier.

You turn, about to leave, when your legs suddenly still. Sophia’s voice comes out shaky, but the words are firm- steady. “You… You still have my number, right?”

You were quiet for a moment, before a soft smile bloomed across your face. “Yeah, I do,”

she reached out, gently tugging you around and closer to her before leaning forward to press a quick, tender kiss to your lips. “Call me tonight, okay?”

You blink, before nodding mutely. She squeezes your hands and with that- turns and disappears down the hallway.

Once you’re sure she’s gone- you lean back against a nearby wall.

Holy shit.

A whirlwind of emotions settle in your chest. Fear, awe, disbelief, regret- but most of all? Hope.

Hope to rekindle your relationship.

Hope to be something real- something real with Sophia.

Hope to finally let yourself believe that maybe this time, it could last.

you’ve always been more of a citrus scent girl. cinnamon wasn't you

everyone was perfectly capable of filling the puzzles in the group, it wasn't that hard to get along with the girls— after everything you've all been through in the program. sophia easily established herself as the leader, the rest followed suit. manon as the visual, lara as the vocalist, yoonchae as the youngest (none of the girls understood why the youngest is a position, but apparently it’s a thing), megan as the all rounder, daniela as the dancer, and you as the rapper.

spitfire, they all say. maybe that's why your lungs started feeling warm as time with the group went by.

“y/n, you good?” a soft voice snapped you to reality as you looked down on your cereal, now soggy from being left unnoticed for a while. 

daniela stood behind your sitting frame, leaning down as she wrapped her arms around your neck. she was wearing a black hoodie with a matching beanie, you leaned your head in her arms and caught a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla. a cough almost escapes your lips, but you manage to pull through.

“i’m gonna explode,” you joked to lighten up the mood, quickly finishing off the rest of your deteriorating fruit loops. “who knew the lives of pop stars started at three in the morning?”

a light chuckle escapes from the latina’s lips, softly rocking you side to side as she kept her position behind you. “good thing you haven't exploded, i don't think we’d survive without your fire.”

if only she knew you were burning from the inside out, gasoline aflame and nearly gutting you whole sooner or later. 

you couldn't exactly pinpoint where your heart started beating for daniela avanzini. maybe it was the way she danced gracefully even during intense training, or when she bought you convenient store snacks unprompted when you left your money in the dorms, maybe it was even when she took you and manon to washington once during your training breaks (it was to see the sparkling magic of forks, washington. you and manon went back with matching cullen crest bracelets that week).

winning the competition just heightened the emotion that was apparently there all along. you were in close proximity with her basically 24/7, seeing her figure even in the corner of your eyes. good thing you had sophia and yoonchae as roommates, the youngest would learn so much english from the two yappers and you didn't have to start sleeping on the couch from the overwhelming sensation of petals blooming from your lungs.

how unfortunate, you're literally just starting out your dreams.

that afternoon, katseye had an interview to promote ‘beautiful chaos’. you find yourself sitting between daniela and manon in the back as the questions progressed into a rather unhinged commotion. 

“what is one song that makes you feel understood?” 

it started off serious, not until megan’s ‘lunch by billie eilish’ goes around the group in chaos, lara and manon’s giggles echoing the room. you had a song in mind, but decided against answering as laughter progressed in the room. you turn your head to see daniela’s head shaking no and denying the song. that was kinda expected, but it didn't hurt any less.

you didn't join everyone else in saying lunch, opting to smile and nod slowly as if you didn't understand the implications of a dirty and gay minded group. your windpipe clogs up in orange and red petals, and you had to sit through the rest of the promotion without choking.

breathing wasn't always that hard.

the flowers started back in may the year before, just six months after the finale. while the sensation started way earlier, it popped out unexpectedly. you felt sick for a couple of days but looked perfectly normal on the outside. it was when you caught yourself staring at daniela as she practiced the dance moves of debut for the nth time with megan and yoonchae that a cough pushed you out of your trance. you ran out the studio in a panic, thinking that it was a demon phlegm climbing out your throat. 

you stared at the comfort room sink for what felt like hours, flowers coated in watery blood glaring back at you. you were going crazy that's for sure— not until it happened again that night, and maybe it was the world who was crazy enough to play this trick on you.

you got a splotch of blood in your favorite hoodie too, damn the world. you hoped that bleach could save it.

looking it up on the internet felt absurd. if google was human, ‘coughing up bloody flowers’ would be such a concerning idea. the people of the internet were semi-helpful though, and you went down the path of a fictional disease that usually starts with love and ends in death, flowers in between the two.

well, it wasn't really fictional anymore if it was happening to you.

you then had the courage to look up what flower is growing out of you, feeling stupid as you washed the blood out of crumbling petals and using the camera search feature to look up its name and meaning. 

oncidium; also known as dancing-lady orchids. how poetic.

it vaguely reminded you of daniela’s old video from america’s got talent years prior, the young dani already looking fierce with her yellow samba dress. if you squint hard enough, the flowers resembled her... you really are going crazy.

“here’s your lemon soda, i made sure it has extra jelly.” daniela’s smile entered your view, and you couldn't help but stare at her tiny dimples as she sat in front of you. ‘lunch by billie eilish’ was quickly forgotten after a few days, though the fans are still eating up the fact that dani is done with these lesbians. even so, you still lo—

what was supposed to be citrus in your tongue quickly turned into cinnamon, but you kept going even if it leaves you all scratched up and groggy. the jelly pops in your mouth just the way you liked it, and of course daniela remembers this fact.

living with six girls who are unapologetically nosy, it was a surprise that it took someone more than a year to notice that you've been hacking up flowers in your alone time. even more surprising, it all happened by accident. 

you really should lock the bathroom door when you use it, especially when you live with the kats.

“how long has this been going on?” the leader stands towering over you as you quietly sat on your bed, shameful for being found out.

it took a moment to count down all the months that have passed by where you locked yourself in a random room to shove petals into a trash bag right after you pulled it out, or all the hours you spent kneeling in front of the toilet and gagging on stuck leaves and saps dragging on your uvula. 

“since… last last may.” hesitantly, you look up to see sophia’s concerned glare, the usual glossy lips pressed together. she has never looked so composedly uncomposed till this moment. 

it looked like she was calculating in her head, maybe already thinking of telling you to take a hiatus and arranging all the group schedules so you didn't have to work while dry heaving at midnight. she might even be thinking of shoving more vitamins down megan and manon’s throats just so there won't be two or three members absent unexpectedly. it would look so bad if half the group just suddenly disintegrated a year into their career. sophia would be ready to face the stone cold expressions of management, taking the blame for your indefinite absence due to a very horrible case of flu (and maybe a broken ankle to make it reasonable).

“is it dani? is she the reason you're coughing flowers?”

or maybe she wasn't thinking about your careers at the moment... it seems as if she knew every move you've done in your whole life to conclude your hurting feelings towards the dancer, and she knows about hanakiki or whatever disease you've been infected by, even though it is actually fictional. 

this would make a really good fanfic and eyekons would definitely eat it up. though lara would probably laugh, flabbergasted if she read it.

the filipina sighs, shoulders easing in tension as she takes a seat beside you. “don’t think about lying to me, y/n. is it her?”

you try to answer her, maybe even deny everything even with her warning. but a cough untimely emerges from you, your hand quickly covering your mouth as flowers bloomed. pulling away, the normal oncidium is now accompanied by roses. some even dripped from the corners of your mouth as you stared. 

it confirmed everything sophia had to know, and you couldn't help but cry on her shoulder as she whispered sweet nothings to calm you down. her shirt started staining in tears and blood, the room being filled with a scent that is both flowery but also spicy. it shouldn't work, but it does, and your heart beats harsher than before.

good thing her shirt was red, but maybe it could be bleached?

yoonchae knocks on the door after a while, wondering why she was locked out of her own room and if there was someone dressing up inside. you were thankful that unlike some flower coughing idiot, sophia had the wonderful idea to lock the door. 

yes, the flower coughing idiot is you.

there was a time you wanted to be a poet, a time where poems are spoken and not rapped. you wanted to be authentic, staying away from other poetry as it might influence your own. you were young and stupid, and as you grew older and entered dream academy, you realized that the mentality was stupid. 

in that enlightenment, you impulsively bought a tiny black booklet copy of ‘come close by sappho’ from a random small bookstore in the corners of los angeles that no one really notices. the only thing you knew about the author was that the word ‘sapphic’ originated from her name and that she lived on the island of lesbos. your bar was that low for poetry, but you didn't regret it one bit.

there was one page that stuck to you, even if it was translated and would probably hit harder in its original script, it scratched a nerve in your brain you didn't know was itching.

‘in all honesty, i want to die.’

how true it was now that you were suffering greatly from love.

sophia tried convincing you to tell her, hoping she’ll realize her love for you and the flowers would soon stop growing. but you knew it was a lost cause, that the feelings you deeply wanted to seek will never surface beyond the reality that she's not gay. she said so herself. 

you weren’t suicidal, but you would rather die than lose her— albeit still having her alive. its how every single one sided love tragically went, and yet you still craved for it.

having hanahaki was hard because it was a constant reminder of what could never be, but it was beautiful in a sense that your body can't handle the unrequited love so it resorts to destroying itself just to show its true blooming feelings. 

throwing up thorns and vines felt like losing half a lung, maybe you already did. 

“you and unnie are keeping a secret from me.” yoonchae sat on the floor beside you, her knees pulled up to her chest as she stared through the mirror. both your reflection bounces back and you notice how pale you have become due to the white blinding studio lights, and maybe the youngest has too. “i… i don't like being left out in the room i’m in.”

you think of apologizing, promising that it was nothing and comforting her. but you couldn't handle any more lies. you lied to manon that you were okay, you lied to lara that you were just tired, and you lied to megan that you didn't steal her ‘gay in dyslexic’ shirt. everyone was bound to notice at some point, but the only person you would love to give a heads up to was yoonchae.

“unnie… are you dying?”

her question made you wince, and your pained expression must have been really visible for her to throw herself towards you and cry. you've only seen her cry this hard when she missed her family back in seoul, you’d never really think that she'll see you as family too.

when the rest of the members walked back into the room with lunch and drinks, they quickly fussed over yoonchae crying and wondered why the maknae was suddenly sad. you and sophia shared a gloomy knowing look, and you don't notice manon and daniela looking your way and looking at each other in curiosity and confusion. 

that night, you took yoonchae and sophia out to eat dinner at the local korean hole in a wall restaurant and ordered all of the youngest’s favorites that she frequently ordered when visiting. she gave you all of the rice cake in her bowl, you enjoyed it even when it started tasting like iron. 

“will you really not tell dani you like her?” yoonchae slowly brought up, chopsticks slowly moving food around even though it was visibly mixed already. “will you just die without saying goodbye to them?”

it was selfish on your behalf, you already admitted it to the two. but you didn’t want to leave katseye. you knew you were going to bring the group down but also felt like you owed it to the child version of you who dreamt of being famous in art. you could already see the headlines, ‘katseye’s spitfire rapper y/n l/n dies of unknown disease’ or ‘y/n l/n, dead at 20’. 

that would surely leave a mark in the group. 

“it’s hard to say goodbye.” you mutter, and yoonchae accepts the answer as if it's a perfectly understandable reason to stay till your ultimate demise.

it didn't click in your mind that the youngest nodded not because she accepted, but because it felt easier than fighting back.

‘gabriela’ rolled around, and with the song comes daniela with her spanish verse that always left you speechless— she was on a whole other level when it came to her mother tongue.

“how was that?” she’d turn to you, grinning from ear to ear like she didn't just shake her ass so beautifully. 

all you could say was “wow.” because you didn't have that talent nor that ass. but with the way she lit up, it's like you swam across the whole world just to compliment her. you’d wonder if she would ever feel the same way, but then the flowers would prick on your chest and it reminds you of how you were suffering because she didn't hold the same feelings. 

the roses were a nice touch though, and you could say that you met jessica alba and happily die in peace now. 

you’ve already planned out what happens once you die. handwritten letters were hidden in your desk drawer, you've already chosen to be cremated and sent back to your hometown, you even had a whole spotify playlist ready for the funeral— ‘my way’ was the last song, because you did it your way.

unfortunately, you never realized how megan could be so analytical. 

the hawaiian girl took the liberty of lurking around like her life depended on it, even catching the attention of lara who also wanted to know what was going on. she noticed how little you started eating when group dinners rolled around, noticed how your roommates looked at you like you were going to disappear in a second, and noticed how your eyes always glossed over when daniela danced or sang or spoke or even just breathed. 

on the other hand, lara was big on hugging and latching onto the members in any way possible. she was also big on perfume and the distinct smell of each said member. the indian noticed how your usual citrus scent was now replaced with cinnamon, moist flowers, and iron. your usual fiery rap now ends with you wheezing, which never really happened because you had such a great technique that always got you praised in the program.

that didn't explain all that was happening, so they decided to straight up just ask you what the hell was going on.

too bad they picked the wrong time, and you vomit and vomit and vomit till a whole bouquet is bunched up on your feet that they understood how worse the situation actually is. you really couldn't deflect, not when the proof is literally slapping them in the face.

so much for saying nothing.

“are you sure this isn't just some wattpad voodoo?” lara asked with such a serious expression that you couldn't help but laugh so hard you ended up choking on vines, of course lara would say that.

megan slaps her arm, accompanied by a “shut the fuck up, bro.” while staring directly at the laptop screen in front of her like it would magically burst under pressure just to give her answers on how to ‘cure you’. you already told her it was a lost cause because you've already looked, but she insisted that you didn't look hard enough and even debated going to the dark web just to keep you alive.

“do you think she'll recover once she finds out that she's the reason?” lara pressed on, because she cares and she always does. “do you think we’ll recover without you?”

you just hum, because you didn't really have an answer. its too late anyways, you're already way too far to be saved.

it was actually touching that they wanted you alive, but it also made sense because maybe they didn't want a member who could actually drop dead on stage at any given second.

you sat out on interviews from time to time as the disease progressed, everyone aside from manon and daniela understood why. it’s been so long since you stepped foot in their room as you didn't want it to start smelling like cinnamon and blood too, though sophia and yoonchae never complained. 

and if you did join in promo videos, you'd usually sit in between lara, megan, or sophia. with those three, you could always blend in between them and the audience would never notice that you hardly spoke a word.

the girls had been subtly hinting your ‘new vibe’, which was being grungy and nonchalant. weverse dms and tiktok filmings show your thick black eyeshadow (to blend your sunken eyes), dark baggy tops (to hide the weight you're losing), and even your raps which started to become more raspy was just brushed off as part of the aesthetic. 

the two remaining members noticed, of course. but the rest were being so good at deflection and protecting you that they just never got close to finding out. you were still in close contact with manon, laughter here and there. but there has been a tiny drift between you and daniela, and while it hurts to breathe when she's around, it also hurts to swallow when she's far away. 

you kinda expected that your last moments to be so dramatic, maybe trying to push through a performance and collapsing by the end of it, or walking on the sidewalks of the city and just dropping dead without any warning. this… was anticlimactic. 

it was the girls who made it so much more dramatic than it really was. 

you've locked yourself in the bathroom, oncidium, roses, and chrysanthemums (which was new) have been hurled out by your collapsing lung over and over again. strings of vines and thorns coated in your crimson gore spread out against the tiles, and you realize that you've never seen this much blood in your lifetime till now. 

you felt sorry for whoever has to clean this up when you die, but maybe its best the girls just move out the home you'll start haunting.

you could hear the girls having fun in the living room. it was nice to hear their laughter and excitement as you drown, and you knew it was all for them. for her.

but then you hear your room opening, someone going through the drawers, and a confused gasp.

‘where… y/n?’ you hear faintly through your deafening ears, and fuck, someone who sounds too much like daniela is looking for you.

‘...this in… drawer…!’ ‘dani… no…’ ‘aren’t… telling…?!’ ‘calm… please…!’ ‘y/n…?!’ ‘stop… wai—’ 

the bathroom door jiggles, and you panic because this isn't how it was supposed to go. you had your peace with it and now they're still trying to save you.

‘break…door…!’ ‘you’ll…hurt…!’ ‘don't…me…meg…!’ ‘manu…stop…!’

the hinges burst and you look up to see daniela, distraught and sobbing and still so beautiful. your position while leaning on the wall adjacent to the toilet looked probably worse than it is because she panics, and kneels in front of you. her hands messily wipes the blood on your mouth but gives up after a second because there's just too much of it to clean.

her white long sleeve would stain… maybe it could be saved with bleach…

in the corner of your eye, you make sense of sophia and manon trying to stop yoonchae and megan from entering the bathroom, lara nowhere to be seen. manon looked horrified as she took glances at you, and you just smile. 

‘sorry…’ you thought. ‘i am so sorry…’

“why didn’t you tell me?!” daniela rasps through wet breaths, latching onto you and pleading to whichever deity who could hear to just save you. “i could’ve… we could’ve—!”

‘could’ve what…?’ your head mutters, but you realize she won't hear you till you speak up.. 

“i love you, i can’t…” you manage to mutter, memorizing every angle of her face and her curls and all that she is. she understood, of course she did. she always does, and so she'd understand that there was nothing anyone could've done.

the last memory of your life was dani trying to keep you awake, reassuring you that everything was going to be okay.

‘in all honesty, i want to die.’

leaving for good after a good long cry,

she said: ‘we both have suffered terribly,

but sappho, it is hard to say goodbye.’

i said: 'go with my blessing if you go

always remembering what we did. to me

you have meant everything, as you well know.

yet lest it slip your mind, i shall review

everything we have shared—the good times, too:

you culled violets and roses, bloom and stem,

often in spring and i looked on you as you

wove a bouquet into a diadem.

time and time again we plucked lush flowers, wed

spray after spray in strands and fastened them

around your soft neck; you perfumed your head

of glossy curls with myrrh—lavish infusions

in queenly quantities—then on a bed

prepared with fleecy sheets and yielding cushions,

sated your craving…’

You were just kids in the same street, living under the same restless sky. But affection has a way of growing quietly— like vines creeping along a wall, slow and unstoppable.

Then came the day you found out she was leaving, “Training under HYBE × Geffen!” her brother announced, proud.

You didn’t really understand what it meant— just that she was going far away, and the space she left would be bigger than the few steps between your gates.

You found her outside that night, the streetlamps flickering orange. She was checking her luggage, wearing an oversized hoodie and that calm, determined look that always scared you a little.

Your hands were trembling.

“Ate Piya,” you said, voice small.

She looked up, surprised to see you there. “Hey, it’s late. What are you doing?”

You took a breath that scraped your throat raw. “I like you.”

It came out too fast, too loud. The words rushed like a confession escaping years of hesitation.

“I mean it,” you added, chest heaving.

“I— I love you.”

For a heartbeat, she said nothing.

Then her lips curved into the kindest smile you’d ever seen.

“You’re still in high school.” she whispered, not unkindly.

“So what?” you shot back, reckless.

“That doesn’t make it less real.”

Her gaze softened. She reached out, ruffling your hair like she always did when you beat her brother in a game.

“Pag pwede na, okay?” (When it's possible, okay?) she said.

And that was it.

No promises, no big scene— just the quiet hum of the streetlight and the memory of her hand lingering for a moment before she walked away.

You grew up with her absence as background noise.

When Dream Academy premiered, you watched every episode from your cracked phone screen, half-hidden under your blanket so no one would hear you crying when eliminations came. You cheered through buffering streams, replayed fancams, and learned how to spell KATSEYE before anyone in your class even knew what it was.

Each time her name trended, you felt that old ache swell— not jealousy, not even longing, just pride that tasted a little like homesickness.

You finished high school. Took entrance exams. Made friends who didn’t understand why you’d freeze whenever a KATSEYE song played in a café.

You told them you just liked the group; you never said that one of them used to put a bandage on your wound.

Sometimes you’d scroll through her interviews. The way she spoke— gentle, thoughtful— was still the same. But her eyes looked different now: steadier, polished by the kind of growing that happens under stage lights instead of sunlight.

You learned patience.

You stopped waiting for miracles and just lived. But on quiet nights, when the neighborhood grew still, you’d catch yourself glancing at her old gate, remembering that promise.

The KATSEYE fanmeet in Manila was chaos. Lightsticks painted the air pink and silver; the crowd moved like a single heartbeat. You weren’t sure what you were doing there, only that the moment you saw the announcement, you bought the ticket.

When she stepped onstage, it felt like the world stopped pretending to move. Sophia stood there— older, radiant, but still with the same calm grace that used to anchor your summers.

She spoke in Tagalog for the fans, voice trembling with emotion.

“It feels good to be home,” she said, eyes shining.

You clapped, cheered, tried to look like every other fan in the crowd. But when her gaze swept across the sea of faces, something in it paused. Froze.

Found you.

For a second, you thought you imagined it. But then her smile faltered— softly, like recognition blooming beneath surprise.

After the fanmeet, the crowd began to thin. The venue lights dimmed into gold. You waited near the barricade, unsure what you were hoping for until she turned, walking closer to greet the last few lingering fans.

When she saw you again, the air seemed to shift.

“Hey,” she said, the word catching somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“Ikaw ’to?” (Is this you?)

You nodded.

“Yeah.” Your throat tightened.

“It’s been a while.”

She blinked, eyes tracing your face like she was measuring the years between then and now. “You grew up.”

“So did you,” you answered.

Then, quieter, “More than anyone I know.”

She smiled at that— small, tired, but real. “How have you been?”

“Still here,” you said simply.

Then, before the fear could stop you, you asked:

“Pwede na po ba?” (Is it okay now?)

The question came out barely above a whisper, but you knew she heard it.

Her breath hitched, just a little.

For a moment, she looked away toward the crowd, the cameras, the glowing banners that carried her name. Then back at you.

There was warmth in her eyes— surprise, nostalgia, something unnamed.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she smiled.

Not the practiced idol smile she gave to reporters, but the same one you saw when she threw the basketball back at you years ago— bright, teasing, familiar.

And in that small, impossible moment, it felt like the years folded in on themselves, like every waiting hour led only here.

You didn’t get an answer.

Maybe you never would.

But standing there, surrounded by noise, you felt something settle quietly in your chest.

Peace.

The lights dimmed again as the next segment began. Staff called her name. She waved one last time, eyes finding yours through the blur of movement.

“See you around,” she mouthed.

You smiled, heart steady, finally understanding what she meant that night under the streetlamp.

“Pag pwede na,” (When it's allowed) she’d said.

Maybe now wasn’t yet.

But almost.

You squeezed onto the seat beside her, damp hair clinging to your forehead, maroon UP shirt clinging to your back.

Megan tried to look unfazed, eyes fixed on the jeepney’s scratched window, but her heart thudded like she’d just been caught cheating on an exam.

The jeepney jolted forward.

Your thigh brushed hers.

“San ka bababa?” (Where's your stop?) you asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“Diliman,” she muttered, almost too soft.

You smiled— eyes crinkling, boyish, easy. “Pareho pala tayo.” (Oh, we're the same)

The words weren’t special.

But in that second, Megan knew she’d remember them forever.

She thought it was over.

Just a fleeting ride, just a stranger.

But fate had other plans.

At Maginhawa, she was awkwardly waiting in line at a crowded stall when you appeared beside her, holding skewers of isaw like you’d been waiting just for her.

“Jeepney seatmate,” you teased.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting corndog?”

She groaned, hiding her face, but her lips tugged upward. “And if I am?”

You shook your head, laughing, before handing her a stick of isaw anyway.

“Fine. But next time, you’re trying kwek-kwek.”

Next time.

The way you said it, like it was guaranteed, made her stomach flip.

Then at UPTC, she panicked over which milk tea to order, staring too long at the menu.

“Medium Wintermelon, 50% sugar,” you told the cashier.

Megan spun around, wide-eyed. You were already smirking.

“Told you we’d see each other again,” you said, taking your drink.

Her heart was a mess the rest of the day.

From there, it became a pattern.

She saw you sprawled on the Sunken Garden grass, highlighters and readings spread everywhere, patting the spot beside you like you’d been saving it. She saw you at the Main Library, slouched and fighting sleep, and you grinned when you noticed her watching. She saw you at the Academic Oval, walking together under flickering streetlamps, the silence between you warmer than any conversation.

Everywhere she turned, you were there.

And every time, you smiled like she was the only person worth finding in a city this big.

One afternoon, the skies broke open.

Rain poured hard, drenching Katipunan in seconds. Megan found herself under a broken umbrella with you, pressed shoulder to shoulder, sneakers squelching in puddles.

“The first time I saw you in that jeepney,” she blurted, her voice trembling, “I thought it was just… a one-time thing. A stranger I’d never see again.”

You tilted your head, rain dripping from your lashes. “And now?”

Megan’s cheeks burned.

She laughed nervously, trying to keep her voice steady. “Now… I don’t ever want the ride to end. Not if it’s with you.”

You stared at her for a heartbeat, then reached for her hand without hesitation. Your fingers laced with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Megan felt it— that dizzy, unbearable happiness that made her want to hide her face in her palms, that made her smile so wide it almost hurt.

Weeks later, another jeepney ride. Same route, same chaos.

Except this time, Megan didn’t sit alone.

You were beside her, shoulders brushing, your pinky hooked around hers under the rattling seat.

You yelled “Bayad po!” (Payment!), you passed your coins together, laughing when your hands fumbled.

“See?” you whispered, leaning close so only she could hear.

“Told you we’d always end up on the same ride.”

Megan bit her lip, grinning so hard her face hurt.

She would never tell you how hard she manifested that you two would always end up on the same ride.

And as the jeepney roared through Katipunan, crowded and loud and alive, Megan realized— home wasn’t abroad, or Manila, or even UP.

Kids at school laughed, but you didn’t care. The possibility of Gems being real mattered more than fitting in.

When you got older, it didn’t fade.

If anything, the obsession sharpened. You stopped doodling, started reading. Dug through libraries for books no one borrowed anymore, combed online archives for scraps of information.

You argued with teachers who brushed off Gem history as “irrelevant.” You wrote essays about them even when the assignment was supposed to be about literature or politics.

At home, your parents tried to be patient. “It’s just a phase,” they said when you were thirteen.

By sixteen, when you still carried your scrapbook everywhere, they sighed and started asking if you couldn’t write about something else for once.

But by then, fascination had already turned into purpose.

You didn’t want to be the kid chasing myths anymore.

You wanted to be the person who proved they weren’t myths at all.

So you chose journalism.

It wasn’t the practical choice— not when your friends were taking business, medicine, engineering— but it was the only one that made sense.

Journalism was research, interviewing, storytelling. It was the discipline of chasing things people forgot about and dragging them back into light.

In college, professors raised eyebrows when you pitched Gems as your focus. Some laughed outright, others tried to steer you toward “more viable” topics.

But one professor— Morales, old and sharp, with a voice like sandpaper— leaned back in his chair during your sophomore year presentation and said:

“If you’re going to waste your youth on this, at least waste it well. Go find something no one else has. Make it undeniable.”

So you did.

You spent nights hunched over your laptop, combing digital archives, transcribing old interviews, piecing together timelines that never matched up. Your dorm wall became a patchwork of sticky notes and pinned articles, a conspiracy board without the string. Your friends teased you for being married to your work. You didn’t bother correcting them.

By the time senior year rolled around, you were restless.

You’d written dozens of papers, interviewed a handful of “witnesses,” but you were starving for something real.

For proof.

And then your final project assignment came in.

Gem Island. Three months. Document “cultural integration” between humans and Gems.

Everyone else in class groaned— it was remote, inconvenient, too niche.

But you? Your hands shook as you held the slip of paper.

This was it.

The thing you’d been waiting for since you were seven years old, hunched over your scrapbook with a glue stick and a dream.

That night, you pulled the scrapbook out of the box under your bed. The cover was peeling, pages threatening to fall out, your childhood handwriting crooked and uneven.

You smoothed your palm over the first page, where you’d written in blue marker:

“GEMS ARE REAL.”

And for the first time in years, you believed you might actually prove it.

—☆

The ferry cut through the water with the weight of inevitability.

Three months.

Ninety days.

That was all the time you had to unravel a lifetime’s obsession and turn it into something concrete, something publishable.

You stood at the deck rail, notebook already in hand even though the island wasn’t yet in sight. The sea wind snapped at your jacket, ruffled the papers you’d stuffed between the pages.

Somewhere inside your backpack, the old scrapbook rested, worn edges pressing against your textbooks as if it were still reminding you why you were here.

When the island finally came into view, it wasn’t what you’d imagined.

No glowing spires or alien ruins.

Just a coastline dotted with houses, docks stretching out into the waves, narrow streets weaving upward into a green hill. Human voices carried over the water, mingled with something softer— notes of music drifting faintly, like the island itself was humming.

The moment your shoes touched the dock, you felt it.

Not magic exactly, but a charge, as if the air was denser here, threaded with a history the rest of the world had forgotten.

People bustled past you— tourists, locals— but every now and then you caught a glimpse of something different.

A tall figure with a gem set in her temple lifting crates onto a boat. A man with skin faintly luminescent selling fish by the basket. Gems, casually woven into the fabric of daily life.

It stole your breath.

For years they had been clippings, half-legends, footnotes. Here, they were real enough to brush shoulders with.

You checked into the little rented room the university had arranged, but you couldn’t sit still. Posters plastered the narrow streets, bold letters announcing:

Moonlight Gathering — Songs & Stories Tonight, Town Square

You knew where you’d be.

The square glowed when you arrived. Lanterns hung from wires strung between Gem spires and modern lampposts, throwing warm light across the crowd.

Children darted between legs clutching skewers of grilled food, elders sat in folding chairs fanning themselves. The stage was simple— a wooden platform raised just enough for the performers to be seen.

The square dimmed as the lanterns softened, shadows rippling across the crowd. You were already scribbling notes about the ambience when her name slipped from the host’s mouth— casual, familiar, as though no introduction was needed.

“Megan.”

She stepped into the light, and the entire square seemed to draw breath.

Her gem gleamed faintly on the back of her hand, as if it had been waiting for this moment to announce itself.

The glow was subtle, not blinding, but enough to make her skin look like it was woven from starlight. She didn’t rush to the microphone; she moved with the patience of someone who understood gravity bent toward her.

And when she finally sang, the world hushed.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It carried in a way sound shouldn’t— threading through lanterns and over rooftops, curling into your bones. Each note shimmered with something ageless, like water remembering the moon, like wind remembering the shape of mountains.

You couldn’t tell if it was magic or just her, but you knew, without doubt, you were hearing something eternal.

People swayed, smiled, closed their eyes. To them, maybe it was beautiful. To you, it was revelation. This was what you’d been searching for since childhood— not just proof Gems were real, but proof that beauty itself could live in a person.

Megan wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to impress. She was simply being, and somehow that was enough to eclipse everything else in the square.

By the time the last note faded, you couldn’t breathe.

When she bowed, it was barely a dip of her head, her expression unchanged, as if all that magic hadn’t just poured through her throat.

And then she stepped offstage, slipping back into the shadows as though the night hadn’t just belonged to her.

But for you, it always would.

The applause hadn’t even faded when she slipped into the shadows. No lingering for praise, no small talk with the crowd. Just a quiet departure, as if she’d sung not for them, but because the night had asked her to.

Your heart was a drum against your ribs, louder than the music that followed onstage.

You should’ve been writing— capturing every detail for your project— but your pen had frozen uselessly in your hand the moment she’d opened her mouth.

Now your notebook was pressed against your chest like a shield, though no shield could possibly steady you.

You told yourself you were moving for research. That this was just another interview subject. But the truth was simpler, rawer: you couldn’t let her vanish from your sight.

You found her behind the stage, lit by a single crooked lantern. She was coiling the microphone cord with unhurried precision, fingers deft, gem on the back of her hand catching stray flickers of light. It was dim, but still she seemed to glow— like the lantern’s flame bent closer to her just to be near.

Up close, the effect was worse— no, devastating.

She wasn’t just beautiful.

She was impossible.

Every line of her posture carried weight, every glance suggested entire histories you’d never touch. You had studied Gems your whole life, read archives, watched grainy clips of their powers— but none of it prepared you for this.

For her.

Your mouth was dry. Your knees weak. Still, you forced the words out.

“Excuse me,” you said, the syllables cracked and trembling.

“Megan, right?”

She looked up. Just one glance, and your breath stilled.

Her eyes were brown— plain, maybe, if you’d written it in a description. But up close, in the lantern glow, they weren’t plain at all.

They were endless shades of earth and warmth, flecks of honey hidden in the depth. They looked lived-in, steady, like they carried stories she’d never bother telling.

Not the glitter of gems. Not the shimmer of stars. Something rarer. Something human.

And that, somehow, made her more devastating than all the legends you’d grown up chasing.

You clutched your notebook tighter, half for the words you were supposed to collect, half for the heart already slipping from your chest.

She looked up. Brown eyes caught you, steady and unflinching.

And for a beat, you forgot the words you’d prepared, forgot the questions you’d scribbled, forgot even why you were standing there.

Her gaze wasn’t sharp, but it was heavy— like being measured and found wanting. Like she could see every childish scrapbook page you’d ever taped together, every late-night article you’d devoured, every silly dream that had carried you here.

The silence stretched, and you panicked.

“I—I’m sorry,” you blurted, voice cracking like glass.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just—wow. You were—” You caught yourself, biting back the word perfect, fumbling for something less humiliating.

“—amazing. I mean, the song. Your voice. I’ve read so much about Gems but hearing it—hearing you—it’s just—”

You stopped, heat flooding your face.

This wasn’t an interview, this was worship.

She tilted her head, expression unreadable.

“You’re not from here.” Not a question, just an observation.

“No. Uh—no, I’m a student. Journalism.” You hugged your notebook tighter, as if the word student could make you sound less like a starstruck fool.

“It’s my final year, and I’m… I’m doing my project on Gem culture. How Gems live now, after… well, everything. I’ve studied you—uh, not you specifically, I mean Gems, like the history, the wars, the—”

You realized you were rambling and snapped your mouth shut.

Megan’s brow lifted ever so slightly. Her fingers tapped against the gem on the back of her hand, not glowing now, just resting.

“You’ve studied,” she echoed, voice calm, even, like she was weighing the word.

“Yes,” you said quickly.

“My whole life, really. I grew up reading everything I could get my hands on. And now— I’m here.”

The silence that followed made you want to shrink into the floorboards. But then she gave the faintest shrug, as if to say your awe neither surprised nor particularly impressed her.

“Research, then,” she said at last.

You nodded, clutching your pen tight. “Yeah. Just… research.”

Her gaze lingered, unreadable. Then, with a small motion, she set the coiled cord aside and slipped her hands into her jacket pockets. The glow of her gem disappeared into shadow.

“Good luck with it,” Megan said simply, already turning away.

That was all. No invitation, no smile, just words dropped like a stone in water. But you felt the ripples spread through you anyway.

You stood there, notebook heavy in your arms, heart hammering like you’d just survived something monumental.

For her, it was nothing.

For you, it was everything.

The walk back to your dorm felt unreal. 

The festival still buzzed behind you— music, laughter, the smell of grilled fish curling through the air— but you drifted through it like a ghost, clutching your notebook though not a single useful word had made it onto the page.

By the time you closed the door to your tiny room, your chest was aching. You dropped the notebook onto the desk, but your hands didn’t want to leave it, fingertips pressed against the cover like maybe her voice had seeped into the paper somehow.

You sat on the bed, then lay down, staring at the ceiling while the island’s hum seeped through the window. It should’ve been a night like any other. Instead, you felt suspended, your whole body still ringing from the moment she looked at you.

Brown eyes. A glow in her hand. A song that cracked the world open.

You thought about the child version of yourself— the one who clipped pictures from old magazines, who stayed up late replaying fuzzy documentaries, desperate for a glimpse of the extraordinary.

That child would never have believed this: that you’d stand in front of a Crystal Gem, hear her voice, stumble your way through speaking her name.

And not just any Gem.

Megan.

You pressed your palms over your face, heat rushing up even in the dark. This wasn’t just research anymore.

Maybe it never had been.

These three months were going to be the best of your life— not just unearthing the history you’d spent years chasing, but piecing together the mystery that was her.

You turned on your side, eyes drifting shut, her voice still echoing in the space between waking and sleep.

Three months. 

Ninety days.

Enough time to learn what the world never told you. 

Enough time, maybe, to learn her.

—☆ 

Morning came too fast.

The dreamlike haze of last night still clung to you, but your notebook sat accusingly on the desk, blank where there should’ve been pages. You reminded yourself—again— that you were here for a reason. Research first.

Megan… well, Megan would have to be an afterthought.

The next day, you found Manon.

She was nothing like Megan.

Manon’s gem rested at her belly button, glowing faintly like a second sun beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

There was something about it— about her— that felt rooted, steady, impossible to ignore. Where Megan had been all sharp lines and distance, Manon radiated warmth.

When you asked your questions, she didn’t guard herself. She smiled, eyes bright with amusement, and leaned closer as if letting you in on secrets.

“You’re not the first human to come here curious,” she said, her hand brushing absently across the gem at her center, like it was second nature.

“But you— you’ve been waiting your whole life for this, haven’t you?”