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Welton Academy for Young Women looked a little different from the pictures you’ve seen before. After years of quiet anonymity living with your mother in Manchester, your father had insisted on the transfer for senior year. ‘Follow your sister’s footsteps’, they said, ‘It’ll be good for you.’

The old Gothic Revival architecture of the building reminded you well enough of United Kingdom. Perhaps, it wouldn’t feel too different from home. But Welton Academy is the kind of place where the hallways echoed with footsteps that knew exactly where they were going.

You did not.

Your parents had left earlier, but the Headmistress’s words still prickled at the back of your mind, heavy with expectation. “Glad to have finally met the younger Anderson. You have big shoes to fill, young lady. Marquise was one of our best students.” The comparison felt like an invisible weight.

Your suitcase wheels now rolled awkwardly against the polished floors as you walked down the east dormitory wing, the sound too loud in the silent corridor. You tried to memorize the numbers on each door, but everything blurred — too new, too intimidating, too quiet in the wrong places. Unfamiliarity never felt safe for a socially anxious individual, much less sharing a room with a popular student.

You had met Sophia Laforteza after the infamous candlelit ceremony to welcome new Welton students. And now, your stomach twisted with nerves as you stood in front of your shared space for the next ten months. You raised your closed fist a few times before deciding to land two knocks on the wooden door.

A moment later, the door opened. Sophia looked up from tying her hair, a loose ribbon between her fingers. She was still in her Welton uniform, the gray blazer contrasting her gently flushed cheeks like she’d just laughed at something.

“Oh, Y/N! I was just about to come back for you,” then her eyes turned apologetic. “I’m so sorry you had to navigate the halls by yourself.”

“It’s fine,” You responded meekly.

Sophia, stepped aside, holding the door wider for you to come in. Two black bags with purple tags piled neatly on the floor, the beds still untouched, the curtain hanging on the singular window in the middle of the room parted to let sunlight in.

“Well, as an apology, I’ll let you take first pick on the beds.”

“I-I don’t really mind.”

“No, please,” Sophia insisted. “Take it as a welcoming gift, too, if you will.”

You mustered a smile before bringing your luggage to the left side of the room, trying not to look as stiff as you felt. Sophia noticed — of course she noticed — and offered a kind smile that didn’t demand anything.

“I hope the room’s okay,” she said. “Well, not that we have a choice, but if the heater acts up, tell me. It’s temperamental but kicks in if you talk nicely to it.”

You blinked. You weren’t exactly sure if she was joking. Was Sophia the type to joke around?

Rapid knocks came on the door before anyone could say anything else, then the door burst open.

“SO-PHIA!” A girl with a silver bindi barreled in, tossing her bag on the floor and nearly colliding with you. “You disappeared right after the ceremony, I swear—oh.”

Her eyes drifted toward you. So did four other pairs as Sophia’s friend group poured inside like a small, chaotic storm.

“New face,” A ginger-haired girl said, eyebrows raised. “New… roommate?”

Sophia gasped audibly enough to draw the room’s attention.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, face flushing pink. “I forgot to introduce— I’m so sorry.”

The girl in braids was the first to step toward you, her accent smooth and warm.

“You’ve been so quiet over there,” she said, smiling gently. “I didn’t want you to feel invisible.” She stuck her hand out, palm up. “Manon Bannerman.”

You stared at her hand before taking it to shake it softly.

Sophia rushed to your side, almost bumping into you as she gestured to each girl.

“This is Lara, the loud one obviously. Daniela — who pretends she’s mean, but she’s really a softie. This is Megan and then, our baby Yoonchae. I think you’ll get along with them well. Of course, you know Manon now.”

You lifted your hand in a small, awkward wave, “Hello.”

“Hi, new roomie,” Daniela smirked before looking at Sophia, “And just call me Dani. I don’t know why your roommate had to pull the full name out.”

Sophia laughed as she turned to you, eyes softening, her voice lowering just enough for only you to catch it:

“And this is Y/N,” she said, smiling. “She’s new, but she’s stuck with us now.”

Stuck with us.

You felt a small bloom of warmth in your chest, albeit still fragile and unexpected.

But Sophia didn’t look away as she said it, either.

For the first time that day, Welton Academy felt a little less intimidating. A little less lonely. A little safer and more welcoming.

“Oh, and she’s Marquise Anderson’s little sister,” Sophia added, smiling excitedly while walking back to sit on the windowsill.

“Marquise, huh?” Lara asked as she sat on Sophia’s bed. “Why’d we only see you now, Y/N?”

It was a harmless question, you thought. You couldn’t blame them. Marquise was a legend here, attending Welton since she started writing, graduating top of her class, and now preparing for a prestigious law program — just the kind of trajectory your father approved of. You, on the other hand, were sent across the Atlantic Ocean years ago when your parents separated. Your mother, an artist and academic, took you to Manchester, while Marquise stayed with your highly successful father in New England.

Sophia noticed it took you long to answer and looked at you softly before offering a response. “She transferred from Manchester.”

“A Mancunian!” Manon exclaimed. “I hope you don’t judge if we pull British accents randomly.”

“Please, they do it a lot,” Dani exasperated. “You have our permission to judge them if they do it and it’s bad.”

After Dani’s line, Lara snorts dramatically and slips into a faux British accent, “Wot, like this, mate?”

Manon nearly chokes laughing.

“Yeah, especially those two.”

“Oh, as if you aren’t in on it too, Mei.”

Sophia groans at the ruckus her friends were making. She hoped it wasn’t overwhelming you too much, but you managed to pull a shy smile before continuing to unpack your bag. While you appreciated the girls’ offer to help move in, Sophia shooed them out, afraid they’d all scare you into moving back to Manchester.

“Study group tonight? I almost failed Trig, so Yoonchae’s gonna help me out,” Dani asked before they went out.

Sophia says she will before glancing at you.

“Only after Y/N settles in.”

The others exchange knowing looks before exiting the room, one by one, with exaggerated winks. “You’re free to come, Anderson.”

“Please don’t mind them,” Sophia sighs, embarrassed. “But that was a genuine invitation! We all just come together in a room after dinner and study or do whatever before curfew.”

You nod before turning back to your luggage again. It would’ve been a lie if the whole thing didn’t overwhelm you, but you also felt lighter. Sophia has been nothing, but nice to you, and her friends were friendly enough to make you comfortable.

“Y/N,” Sophia sits beside your bag, legs tucked neatly under her. Her perfume was soft — like citrus and something floral — grounding enough to keep you from spiraling.

“Just so you know,” she says softly, “you don’t have to be Marquise’s sister here. You can just be you.”

You feel your throat tighten unexpectedly. It’s the first kind thing anyone’s said to you all day.

Sophia watches your expression carefully, waiting, as if giving you space to breathe. “And we’ll make this year a good one, I promise.”

The English class was held in a typical Welton classroom — bare cream-colored walls save for the cork board with announcements and random photos of Literature icons. The atmosphere was already oppressive, filled with the rustle of perfect uniforms and the hushed anxiety of dozens of girls trying to appear attentive. The room smelled like old paper and lemon polish.

The new teacher, Ms. Portman, was the complete opposite of the environment. She didn't stand behind the massive oak desk. Instead, she sat casually on the edge, swinging one foot, wearing a brightly patterned scarf that clashed joyfully with the school's austere colors.

“O Captain! My Captain! Who knows where that comes from?”

Silence. Only the faint tick of a far-off clock answered her. The girls around you avoided eye contact, trained not to speak unless absolutely certain of the answer.

Ms. Portman smiled, a slow, revolutionary smile. “It’s Walt Whitman, of course. A lament, a tribute, and a suggestion. Now, you may call me Ms. Portman.” She paused, leaning in conspiratorially. “Or, if you’re slightly more daring, ‘O Captain, My Captain’.”

A nervous ripple went through the room, quickly suppressed. Calling a teacher Captain was unthinkable in Welton.

“Now that introductions are out of the way,” she continued, pulling out a slim, well-worn volume of poetry. “Forget what you think you know about poetry. Forget the measurements, the metrics, the footnotes. Today, we are talking about life.”

She flipped the book open. “I want to read you something, a simple four-line stanza. Listen to the warning within it.”

Ms. Portman’s voice dropped to a dramatic, resonant whisper as she recited the lines:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.

You heard a few students shift uncomfortably. This wasn't the kind of disciplined analysis Welton was used to.

Ms. Portman clapped the book shut. "This idea, this urgency, it has a name. It is the single most important concept in art, in life, in taking the stage, and in following your heart, even when it’s terrified. I want you to write it down. I want you to understand it."

She turned and, with a piece of chalk, scrawled the two words across the ancient blackboard in bold, looping script:

Carpe Diem

“Anyone knows what this means?” Ms. Portman asked. “Ms. Skiendiel? That’s quite a name, I must say.”

“Seize the day.”

“Correct, thank you! Seize the day.” she announced, turning back to face the stunned class. “Because if you don’t, you will wake up one morning and find that the moment you should have reached for — the passion, the dream, the person — has passed you by. Your life will become predictable, and your dreams will turn into dust. My first assignment is: Answer this question. Are you here to write footnotes, or are you here to write life?”

You felt a hot, dizzying flush crawl up your neck. The sheer force of the teacher’s personality was overwhelming, a loud, undeniable challenge to your quiet existence. You kept your head down, desperate to shrink into the uniform.

But seated two rows behind you, Sophia was entirely different. Sophia wasn’t shrinking. She was leaning forward, her back straight, her lips slightly parted in awe. The girl who was supposed to be preparing for medical school was transfixed, her eyes bright with a spark one hadn’t seen before.

When Ms. Portman finally instructed everyone to write a short poem about an object they felt misrepresented them, Sophia caught your eye. She offered a small, electric smile, like a mixture of excitement and shared rebellion. It was the first time you felt that the pressure of the class wasn't yours alone.

Back in the relative sanctuary of your room that evening, the day’s upheaval felt miles away. You were perched on the edge of your bed, attempting to sort the few books you’d brought, still slightly rattled.

“What do you think about Ms. Portman? She’s pretty different from the other professors, huh?” Sophia asked, laughing softly as she tucked her phone into her blazer pocket.

You managed a small shrug. “She was… quite something.”

“Something is definitely a way to put it. But genuine, too. No one here is genuine. They all wear their uniforms perfectly and say such quintessential things. But she told us to seize the day.” Sophia’s voice was warm with newfound excitement.

She walked over to your side of the room and sat down beside you, the movement causing you to freeze mid-sort.

“The girls are meeting in the student lounge tonight. For the study group,” Sophia said, leaning the word sarcastically. “It's really just a few hours where we can talk like real people, away from the administration. Please come with me. It’s better than sitting alone and I hate the thought of you being here by yourself.”

You felt the familiar, crippling wave of nerves return. “I don’t know. They probably think I’m weird. I didn’t say anything today. I barely managed the handshake with Manon, I mean I had to stare at her hand for a second-”

“Shh, hey,” Sophia said immediately, turning her body fully toward you. She reached out and placed a warm, calming hand on your forearm, just above the elbow. The contact was gentle but firm.

“They don’t think you’re weird. They think you’re quiet. There’s a difference,” Sophia insisted, her eyes earnest and kind. “And anyway, if they did, I wouldn’t care. I like quiet. I’m surrounded by noise all the time. Your quiet is… soothing.”

She paused, letting the compliment settle in the tense air between you. Her thumb began to stroke small, comforting circles on your sleeve.

“You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to say anything at all. You can just sit beside me. I’ll make sure no one bothers you. Just come for me? So I have someone to roll my eyes at when Lara gets dramatic.”

Your stomach still churned with anxiety, but the warmth of Sophia’s hand and the sincerity in her eyes made the prospect of leaving the room bearable.

“Okay,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’ll come.”

Sophia’s face lit up, a genuine, joyful expression that was worth every ounce of anxiety. She squeezed your arm once more before pulling her hand back.

“Good. Now seize the day, Anderson. Or at least, seize the evening.”

You trailed Sophia out of the room, the scent of her fabric softener and a faint, sweet floral perfume filling the space between you. The corridor was dark now, bathed in the cool yellow glow of the occasional security lamp.

The walk was short, only one floor down to the communal lounge room, but it felt like a marathon. Sophia set a gentle pace, her steps rhythmic and confident. You kept your shoulder barely a millimeter from hers, nervous about being too close, but unwilling to fall too far behind. Your arms swung in sync. Once, twice, the very back of your hand brushed against the soft, warm skin of hers. The contact was brief, accidental, yet it sent a sharp, fragile spark of warmth up your arm.

“I-I’m sorry.”

As you neared the lounge, Sophia slowed, her hand lifting slightly. You saw her fingers open just a fraction — an unconscious, instinctual movement, almost as if she meant to reach out and interlace them with yours to steady you. Before she completed the gesture, she caught herself, her gaze flicking down, and she quickly dropped her hand back to her side.

“Ready?” Sophia whispered, turning her head toward you.

You managed a shaky nod.

“Good. Just stay close.”

She pushed the door open and led you inside. The room was far from empty. While most of the girls were concentrated in a loud cluster on the two main sofas, a few others were spread around the room, reading or trying to study. But the energy radiating from Sophia’s friends was impossible to ignore.

Sophia navigated the beautiful chaos effortlessly, guiding you to a forgotten corner by the unused fireplace. She settled you firmly on an antique, slightly lumpy armchair, then positioned herself immediately to your left, effectively screening you from the rest of the room. Yoonchae looked at you and smiled before taking the floor cushion on your right. You were surrounded, but safely.

Dani was already perched on the arm of a sofa, a textbook resting forgotten on her lap as she complained loudly. “I swear, I don’t know why they make us learn Trig. When am I ever gonna use 2πr in my life?! My brain is officially full of triangles.”

2πr doesn’t go with a triangle, you knew, but you were content to stay silent, just watching their interactions play out.

Lara, who was sprawled across the sofa, snorted. “It’s called academic rigor, Dani. Also, it’s not 2πr, that’s circumference. You’re thinking of the volume of something, probably.”

“See, this is why I need Yoonchae,” Dani huffed, throwing a cushion at Lara.

The conversation then swerved sharply back to Ms. Portman. Megan, sitting on the floor with her knees tucked to her chin, recited lines from the poem she’d written for the English assignment. Manon followed, dramatically reading a piece about her expensive, stifling boarding school shoes.

“It was about an object that misrepresents you,” Manon reminded them, earning laughs from everyone else. “Hellton, Hellton, Hellton.”

Your gaze fell to the floor, focusing on the dark wood grain. You were afraid they’d let you read yours aloud — the poem about the quiet star in a loud sky — but the idea of speaking it aloud in this charged, noisy room made your chest physically ache.

Just as the chatter spiked again — Megan and Lara arguing over the historical accuracy of a British phrase — Sophia’s attention snapped back to you. She must have seen the tension tightening your shoulders.

Without a word, she subtly shifted the cushion at her back, placing it more firmly behind your back. Then, she leaned into your space, her hip pressing gently against yours.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” she murmured, her voice lowered so only you and Yoonchae could possibly hear. She tilted her head toward the noisy group. “Just think of it as background music, Y/N. The good stuff happens later.”

Her closeness was a physical comfort, a soft boundary separating you from the noise. You felt the anxiety that had been clinging to you ease, just enough to breathe. You knew, somehow, that she was referring to more than just the end of the evening. She was talking about the secrets, the passions, the things that couldn't be spoken aloud in a room full of people.

The next day, during the noisy chaos of the lunch period, Sophia slid onto the bench beside you in the packed dining hall, placing her tray down with unusual care. She was smiling, but her eyes held a spark of mischief you hadn’t seen before.

“Look what I found,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the silverware clatter.

She slid an object across the table: a battered, burgundy-colored yearbook with "Welton Academy for Young Women: Class of '99" embossed in peeling gold.

“Ms. Portman’s senior annual,” Sophia explained, her excitement palpable. “I found it in a dusty box labeled ‘Old Faculty Archives’ when I was helping the Headmistress’ secretary.”

Lara and Dani immediately crowded closer, peering at the photo of a much younger, but instantly recognizable, Ms. Portman.

“She looked exactly the same, but with worse bangs,” Dani commented, earning a giggle and a smack on the arm from Yoonchae.

“Wait, look at the inscription under her photo,” Lara said, pointing a sharp nail at the text.

You leaned in with the rest of the group, Sophia's shoulder now pressing against yours as she focused. Underneath the list of Ms. Portman’s accomplishments was a single, defiant line:

Sic semper tyrannis. O Captain, my Captain.

“Sic semper tyrannis? Thus always to tyrants?” Megan translated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s heavy for a yearbook.”

“But the Captain part,” Sophia said, looking at you pointedly. “She knew we would get the reference, didn't she? Maybe we should ask her.”

And so, the conspiracy was born. After lunch, the group followed Ms. Portman out onto the yard.

“Captain,” Lara began dramatically, “we found your senior annual.”

“We noticed the inscription in your annual. What’s the meaning of ‘O Captain, My Captain’ in that context?” Manon asked.

Ms. Portman’s eyes lit up.

“That,” Ms. Portman said softly, drawing them into a small, tight circle, “was a tribute to a society. A group of students who met secretly, decades ago, right here at Welton. They weren't interested in law or medicine; they were interested in poetry, in truth, and in living. They called themselves the Dead Poets Society.”

She went on to describe the secret meetings, the late-night readings, the feeling of freedom found in breaking the rules just to pursue beauty. You watched Sophia’s face as Ms. Portman spoke; the light in your roommate’s eyes grew brighter with every word.

When Ms. Portman finished, she simply smiled. “It was highly frowned upon, of course. Highly illegal. But necessary, I believe.” With a brisk nod, she disappeared further into the fields.

Silence hung over the group for a beat.

“A secret society?” Yoonchae breathed, completely won over.

Sophia looked around at the faces of her friends, her excitement barely contained. Her eyes, however, stopped on you.

“We have to,” Sophia declared, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “We have to find where they met, and we have to revive it. Carpe Diem, right? This is the moment.”

The rest of the girls immediately agreed, their voices buzzing with the thrill of rebellion. The girls quickly scattered to their next classes, leaving Sophia to pull you aside.

“Meet us after dinner. We’ll find a place to convene tonight,” she said, her hands briefly clasping your shoulders in shared enthusiasm.

Later that evening, the dining hall was half-empty. You and Sophia were walking back to your room, the noise and demands of the day finally fading.

“So, tonight. After we check in with the dorm mistress, we’ll meet up with the others by the East Wing stairwell,” Sophia reminded you, her voice low. “It’s the perfect time to scope out the old cave, if it’s still there.”

Your stomach tightened, the idea of walking through the dark, old campus and breaking a significant school rule suddenly feeling far more terrifying than exciting. The anxiety you thought you’d left behind flared up.

“Sophia, I… I don’t think I can do it,” you confessed, stopping by the door of your room.

Sophia stopped instantly and turned to face you fully. She didn't press, or pout, or try to push you. She simply watched you, her expression shifting immediately from excited to protective.

“The secret thing? The breaking curfew?” she clarified, her voice soft.

You nodded miserably. “All of it. And reading. I just… I can’t do the poetry.” You quickly added, feeling the need to retreat back into your shell, “But thank you for including me, Sophia. It’s kind of you, really. But you don’t have to keep worrying about me. I can take care of myself just fine.”

Sophia’s easy smile vanished. She looked at you seriously, a rare flicker of something like stubbornness in her eyes.

“No,” she said simply.

“What do you mean, no?”

“No,” Sophia repeated, a tiny, teasing smile finally returning. “I mean no. I’m not just including you because I’m being 'kind.' And I don’t want you to take care of yourself just fine. I want you to come with me.”

She stepped closer, raising a hand to lightly cup the side of your neck, her thumb brushing gently near your jawline. The touch was soft and gentle, designed only to reassure and not to invade too much of your space.

“Look, I understand,” she murmured, her eyes dark and earnest in the dim hall light. She wasn't judging you; she was protecting you. “You don't have to read. Just listen. That’s all. Just come for me, Y/N. They won't pressure you, I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her fingers lingered on your skin for another beat before she pulled her hand back, leaving your cheek warm. With Sophia, compromising was simple: just your presence, not participation. And you were grateful it was all she asked for.

You took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay."

Sophia smiled, a genuine, private victory. "Good. Then let's seize the night."

You checked the time on your phone one last time: 11:47 PM. Curfew was over an hour ago, and the danger now felt palpable in your chest.

Sophia was ready instantly. She pulled the school overcoat out of your closet. "Wear this over your sweater, it’s freezing out there. The cave is old."

When you crept out of the room, your hand already reached for Sophia’s as you met the others near the East Wing. She immediately draped her arm through yours, a strong, grounding weight against your frantic pulse.

“Don’t worry about the reading, Anderson,” Sophia murmured, leaning in close. “Just observe. Remember all the chaos. It’s what you do best.”

The group moved like a nervous shadow, darting across the lawn toward the thick, whispering woods at the campus edge. The silence of the night was broken only by the crunch of leaves underfoot and hushed, excited giggles.

Finally, Lara pointed her beam toward a dark, low opening concealed by ivy: the mouth of the cave. The air instantly became colder, damp and smelling of wet stone. Sophia held your hand firmly, pulling you through the narrow entrance.

“Welcome, ladies,” Sophia announced in a low, reverent voice. “To the resurrection of the Dead Poets Society.”

Inside, the cave was a small chamber with a flat, smooth stone in the center. Once the candles were lit, the flickering yellow light danced across the damp walls, casting huge shadows. The space felt ancient, secretive, and utterly sacred.

Sophia squeezed your hand once more before letting go. She placed her bag next to you, effectively marking your spot in the circle, ensuring you were anchored between her and Yoonchae. You instinctively pulled your knees up to your chest, making yourself small and unobtrusive.

“Alright, captains,” Dani started, her voice suddenly respectful in the echo-filled space. “Who starts?”

Lara volunteered first, passionately reading a Byron poem from the book. One by one, they took turns, laughing and teasing each other with their deliveries.

You were watching Sophia. She was leaning forward, chin resting on her palm, her face illuminated by the candlelight. She was mesmerized, not by the poems themselves, but by the sheer, unbridled freedom in the room. When it was Sophia’s turn, she didn't read poetry. She pulled out a dog-eared script of a modern play.

“I’m going to read a monologue,” she announced, her voice ringing with natural resonance. “A character who has to choose between a life of duty and a life of passion.”

The Sophia you knew — polite and impeccable — vanished. She was transformed, a radiant, forceful performer channeling raw, aching dilemma. You watched, mesmerized by the talent she hid, acutely aware that you were one of the few who knew her secret.

When she finished, applause echoed in the chamber. “Fia, that was amazing!”

“See?” Sophia said, her gaze finding yours, her face glowing. “This is the good stuff.”

The readings ended, and the conversation flowed into a dizzying rush of unfiltered talk and sharing horror stories.

You found yourself laughing, a surprisingly easy sound, as Megan detailed her latest conspiracy theory. Sophia’s thigh was pressed warmly next to yours, and her presence was a constant, soft boundary separating you from the noise.

You realized, looking at the flickering faces and the shared shadows, that your chest no longer ached with anxiety. It was filled with a sense of buoyant, unexpected belonging. For the first time since arriving at Welton, you weren't trying to hide. You were simply present. You were safe. And it was all because Sophia had refused to let you stay behind.

“Y/N, I found it! I found it!”

You looked up from your notebook as Sophia bounced around the room, a crumpled flyer clutched in her hand.

“Found what?” You asked, setting your pen down. “Hey, can- can you calm down?”

“I finally found what I wanna do this year! Carpe diem!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, hands in the air with the unknown paper, now a little crumpled. From where you were seated, you could see ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ in big, bold letters.

“Dear Evan Hansen?”

“Yes! And it’s open auditions.” Sophia climbed off her bed and grabbed your shoulders, giving you a quick, excited shake. “Open auditions! I’ve wanted to do this for the longest time and it’s finally happening. I even tried attending theatre classes last summer, but of course, my parents wouldn’t let me. But now?”

You had never seen Sophia’s eyes shine like this. They were truly alight with stars when she talked about acting, the sight both thrilling and terrifying.

“Sophie, what about your parents?”

The light in her eyes flickered slightly. “Well, that’s a problem for future me. I just gotta get the part first then I’ll deal with all of that later.”

“Are you sure they’re not going to kill you if you audition and didn’t even tell them?”

Sophia pulled back, her excitement turning into something sharp and defensive. “They won’t have to know! Can’t I just enjoy this for a while?”

You pursed your lips in instant guilt. You hated dampening her passion. You quickly lowered your gaze, turning back to your notebook as a way of retreating. You didn't mean to question her.

The silence was sudden and heavy. You felt a wave of familiar self-reproach, your throat tightening. “I’m sorry, Sophia. I didn’t mean to…”

“I can hear you overthinking, you know?” You weren’t looking at her, but you could hear the teasing smile in her words. She walked over and gently nudged your knee with her foot.

You looked up. She was really smiling now, the sharp edge gone, replaced by that gentle, welcoming warmth. “I’m going to try out for Zoey, by the way.”

You nodded, managing a genuine smile of encouragement.

“Will you help me rehearse?” she asked, the excitement flooding back. “I need someone to run lines with. Someone who listens better than anyone I know.”

The request was a profound compliment. She needed you — your quiet presence, your unwavering attention, your ability to observe the world from the outside. You might be the anxious ‘Evan’, but to her, you were the essential audience.

“Yes,” you confirmed, feeling a renewed surge of loyalty and warmth. “Yes, I’ll help.”

The English classroom felt like an interrogation chamber that morning. Ms. Portman had a stack of notebooks on her desk, and one by one, students were called to the front to read the poem about an object that misrepresented them.

Some girls read confident, well-rhymed verses that were clearly meant to pass muster. A few were genuinely creative. You kept your eyes fixed on the empty page of your own notebook, heart hammering a frantic countdown as you stared at the tears on the spine. You had written your poem, but the thought of exposing that raw, anxious part of yourself to a room full of judging eyes felt like suffocating on dry air.

“Ms. Anderson,” Ms. Portman’s voice cut through the air, kind but firm. “Let’s end your agony. Come on.”

You looked up, freezing. Your hand, resting on your notebook, clamped down hard. You cleared your throat, focusing on a spot just over Ms. Portman’s shoulder. “I-I didn’t write anything,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash.

Ms. Portman didn’t scold you. She simply gestured for you to step up to the front of the room. “Nonsense, Anderson. Everyone here has a voice, whether it’s on paper or not. Stand here, and tell us… what do you see right now?”

You stood rigid in the center of the room. “The walls are cream. The floor is old wood.”

“Dull,” Ms. Portman agreed, beginning to slowly circle you, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. You felt your chest tighten as she moved, the proximity unbearable. “Tell us about the feeling of the room. Tell us what Welton’s silence feels like on your skin.”

The pressure was mounting, overwhelming. Your gaze flickered desperately towards Sophia, then back to the floor. Words started bubbling up, unwanted and frantic, the tremor in your voice worsening.

“Uh, it-it’s like a mask,” you stammered out, trying to just appease her. “A white mask that fits too perfectly. It doesn't breathe. It… it chokes you.”

“Keep going, Anderson. Close your eyes and tell us about the mask.”

The words began to flow, tripping over each other, fueled by pure, unadulterated nerves.

“Um, I close my eyes, and all I see is the mask. It’s smiling. But the smile is painted on, and the eyes are… empty. It's pressed right up against my face, and all the time it’s whispering, ‘Fit in. Fit in. You’re not enough, so just fit in.’”

You heard a few muffled giggles from the back of the room. You instantly seized up, the flow of words snapping off. Your cheeks burned with humiliation. You had made a fool of yourself.

Before you could retreat, Ms. Portman stopped directly in front of you. She raised her hands and gently covered your eyes, plunging you into warm, immediate darkness.

“Forget them,” her voice was a low, steady instruction, spoken only for you. “They’re just trying to breathe through their own masks. Keep going. What does the mask do to you?”

The sudden darkness was an unlooked-for shield. You were no longer visible, only audible. The terror was still there, but the raw need to speak was stronger.

“The mask… i-it’s a silence that screams,” you heard yourself say, the words gaining a strange, rhythmic power. “It’s like being trapped inside ice. It’s perfect and clear on the outside, but you’re frozen stiff inside. You try to move, you try to shatter the ice, you pound on it with your fist, but the sound never gets out. And all the time, the truth is beating against the glass. It just covers your face while the real you is turning blue, waiting to be seen.”

The last word was a shaky exhale. You stopped, completely drained, listening only to your own ragged breathing in the silence.

Ms. Portman didn't move her hands immediately. “Good. Thank you, Anderson.” She slowly drew her hands away.

You blinked, the light of the classroom a sharp shock after the darkness. The students were utterly silent now. The first person you saw, the first person you looked for, was Sophia.

She was staring, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes wide with a potent mix of pride and surprise. She didn’t smile, but her expression was more supportive than any applause.

Ms. Portman put a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you back toward the class.

“Don’t you ever forget that moment, Ms. Anderson. That is what it means to write life.”

Weeks passed, and a routine settled into the hidden corners of your lives. The Dead Poets Society continued its illicit meetings in the cave, becoming a reliable source of rebellious freedom. Sophia had thrown herself completely into preparing for the auditions. You would rehearse lines together by the lake, in the quieter corners of the courtyard, or huddled in your room late at night.

Sophia's commitment to the musical was infectious. While she sang her rehearsal songs in that low, tender voice, you found the dam holding back your own words beginning to crumble. The anxious, frozen part of you started to thaw, piece by piece.

One evening, you were tucked into your bed, furiously scribbling in your notebook long after curfew. You had pulled your blanket around you and were lost in the flow, describing the particular, blinding light of a star that was too brilliant to hide.

Sophia quietly stepped into the room, pausing when she saw you, not moving to turn on the main light.

You didn't look up, but you felt her presence, her perfume wafting through the space.

“You’re writing, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice full of soft awe.

You slammed the notebook shut, your face instantly hot. You hugged the book to your chest, reverting to your shy, protective posture.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured, “The feeling when the words finally spill out.” She reached out, but only gently touched the cover of the notebook you were clutching. “You don’t have to show me until you’re ready, Y/N.”

In that moment, staring into her eyes — eyes that held no judgment, only encouragement and pride — you realized something: you wanted to show her. You weren't afraid of her seeing this part of you. You wanted her to know that she was the reason you were writing at all.

“I GOT IT! I GOT THE PART!”

Sophia was running through the halls, her blazer flying out behind her, a triumphant, blinding grin splitting her face. She had obviously just received the call. The girls immediately descended on her, cheering and grabbing her in a noisy group hug.

Sophia pulled herself free from the excited crowd and locked eyes with you. She ran the final steps and threw her arms around you, lifting you slightly off the floor.

“I got Zoey, Y/N! We did it! We seized the day!” she cried, hugging you tightly, her victory feeling intensely shared.

Later that evening, the celebration continued at the cave. The air was electric, thick with the scent of pine, rebellion, and freshly baked cookies.

Everyone was practically vibrating with happiness. You felt a quiet confidence blooming in your own chest, fueled by Sophia’s joy and the secret you were clutching. Tonight, you would read the poem you wrote, the one inspired by the star who shone too brightly for the shadows.

When it was your turn, you stood, your legs trembling, but your hands surprisingly steady. The circle of candles illuminated your face, and Sophia’s eyes were locked on yours, filled with adoration.

You didn't need Ms. Portman to cover your eyes this time. You looked directly at the flame, then at Sophia, and began to read the final, private poem:

“There is a star that has forgotten how to be small. She tried to dim herself for years, to fit into the night sky, but the pressure only made her light more honest. She talks of duty, of the straight, cold path she must follow, but when she speaks, the sound is a pure, dangerous fire. She stands at the edge of the world, afraid to leap, but she doesn't know she has already taught the rest of us how to fly.”

You looked up. Sophia was frozen, tears suddenly glistening in her eyes, her mouth open in that same expression of pride and profound surprise. The others stood and applauded, giving you hugs and pats on the back.

As you walked back to the dorms hours later, the campus was deeply silent. Sophia slowed her pace. She didn't speak a single word about the poem, but she reached out. Her hand found yours, her fingers gently interlacing with yours this time, the gesture confident and protective.

You didn't pull away. You walked the rest of the way with your fingers locked together, the most personal confession having already been made.

“Good night, Y/N,” Sophia whispered, squeezing your hand one last time before finally letting go.

“Good night.”

The last time you looked at your clock, it was 12:57 AM. You were lying perfectly still in your bed on the left side of the room, your eyes squeezed shut, desperately trying to trick your body into sleep.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint, filtered yellow light from the security lamps outside the window.

Sophia was perched on the wide windowsill, the usual spot between your two beds. The gray blazer she always wore was tossed over the back of her chair, and she was just a silhouette against the pane, a bottle of water resting on the sill beside her.

A minute earlier, she had started singing. Not the bold, resonant voice she used in the cave or the confident tone she used when talking about her plans, but a quiet, fragile murmur — her rehearsal voice.

She was singing "Only Us," one of the songs from Dear Evan Hansen.

"I don't need you to sell me on reasons to want you," she sang, the melody sweet and slightly hesitant.

You felt your throat tighten. It wasn't the voice of Zoey, the character she was auditioning for; it was purely Sophia, unguarded.

"I don't need you to search for the proof that I should."

The lyrics pierced through the darkness, hitting too close to home. You, the perpetual searcher for proof of your own worth, the girl expected to walk in her sister's shadow.

You pressed your face deeper into the pillow, acutely aware of her presence. You didn't dare move. You were terrified that if she knew you were awake, truly listening, she would stop.

"You don't have to convince me," she continued, the note trembling just slightly. "You don't have to be scared you're not enough."

You imagined she was singing it to you, your socially anxious self, offering the reassurance she had promised you since day one. But you knew she was singing it to herself, too — the girl terrified of her parents’ disapproval, the girl struggling to Carpe Diem.

"'Cause what we've got going is good."

She repeated the last line, letting the final note hang in the air, full of gentle hope and secret meaning. After, only the sound of her shifting slightly on the sill, followed by the quiet click of her phone turning off. You held your breath for another thirty seconds, waiting for her to move toward her own bed.

Instead, you heard the faint brush of her feet landing softly on the carpet next to your bed. You kept your eyes tightly shut, focusing on your breathing. You felt the slight depression of the mattress as she leaned over you, a fleeting rush of her citrus and floral scent washing over your face.

A second later, you felt the gentle pull of your blanket as she subtly adjusted it, tucking the edge neatly around your shoulder.

You didn't dare open your eyes until you heard the final, soft sigh of Sophia settling into her own mattress. The warmth from her touch lingered on your blanket, a silent affirmation that you were indeed enough, and what you both had going was already good.

You woke up with the strange, exhilarating sensation of not being entirely alone. The anxieties that usually clung to you upon waking felt lighter, pushed back by the memory of soft candlelight, shared secrets, and the undeniable press of Sophia's hand in yours.

Sophia was already awake, sitting on the edge of her bed, carefully polishing her uniform shoes until the leather gleamed. The morning light filtering through the window hit her, and you noticed she was humming softly — a tune you instantly recognized as the song from last night.

“Good morning, Captain,” you murmured, your voice raspy from sleep, using the moniker with a quiet, genuine affection reserved only for your small secret society.

Sophia’s head snapped up. She smiled immediately, a bright, unguarded expression that made your heart skip.

“Good morning, Poet,” she returned, her eyes shining with warmth. She set the shoe brush down. “Did you sleep well? You were out cold immediately when we arrived.”

The lie was a gentle offering. She knew you had been awake. You knew she had tucked you in. And you knew she had held your hand for the entire walk back. All of it was a quiet, shared understanding.

You simply nodded, pulling the blanket tighter. “It was a very good night.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, intimate. You watched her pack a few extra books into her bag, and then she paused, looking across the room at you.

“Your poem,” she started, her voice dropping, suddenly serious. “Last night, in the cave. The star, the fire… that was the most courageous thing anyone has done there. Ever.”

She didn't ask who the star was, and she didn't need to. You felt a wave of gratitude that she respected the space between the art and the artist.

You only offered the most honest thing you could say. “I couldn’t have done it if you weren’t there.”

Sophia walked over to your dresser to retrieve her watch. She leaned against the wooden edge, her gaze fixed on you. She didn't press for a deeper confession or bring up the handholding. She simply confirmed the new status quo.

“I’m always going to be there, Y/N,” she promised, her voice unwavering. “And that poem? That was just the beginning. I need more of that from you this year.”

Before you could respond, a sharp, urgent rap-rap-rap came at the door, loud enough to make you jump.

“Sophia!”

It wasn't Dani nor Lara. It wasn't the dorm mistress. It was a deep, authoritative male voice that you recognized.

Sophia’s face went pale. Every ounce of carefree joy from the previous night evaporated, replaced by cold, pure panic.

"My father," she whispered, her eyes wide. "He's not supposed to be here until Thanksgiving."

You stared at her, the sudden arrival of the ultimate antagonist shattering the safety of your small world. Her eyes darted around the room, landing desperately on the scripts spread on her bed.

"Get up," she hissed, her voice low and frantic. "Hide the script. Now."

You scrambled. As Sophia rushed to pull her blazer over the loose script and lyric sheets on her pillow, you grabbed the Dear Evan Hansen flyer from her desk and shoved it into the nearest pocket of your own school bag. Before you could sit back down, the door burst open and suddenly, the room felt smaller.

Mr. Laforteza filled the doorway. He was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, with a severe face that mirrored Sophia's but lacked all her warmth. His gaze immediately swept over the room — Sophia’s bed made, yours obviously slept in, and Sophia standing defensively by her pillow.

“Sophia,” he said, tone calm but clipped. “Were you too busy to answer your mother’s calls?”

"Father, I—"

"I had a very unpleasant meeting with the Headmistress early this morning," Mr. Laforteza cut her off, taking a deliberate step into the room. "She mentioned a sudden interest in 'extracurricular activities' that are not on your university application path. I asked her what she meant, and she mentioned a persistent interest in the arts."

Sophia swallowed. “I—”

He strode over to Sophia's desk, running a finger over the pristine surface, his disapproval filling the small space. "I did not make sacrifices to send you here just for you to waste your senior year on frivolities, Sophia. I thought we were clear on medical school.”

Sophia stood frozen, her face pale. You watched her throat bob as she swallowed, desperate to speak but unable to form a coherent defense.

Mr. Laforteza turned, his eyes landing on you then your bag. He bent down and, without asking, pulled out the crumpled Dear Evan Hansen flyer sticking out of the side pocket.

Your heart dropped as he straightened up, holding the flyer between two fingers as if it were contaminated. "And what is this? 'Open auditions.' Musical theatre? Don't tell me you are still indulging in this ridiculous fantasy."

Sophia shook her head too quickly. “No. I didn’t audition.”

"It's mine," you interrupted, the words popping out before you could think, shocking even yourself. You felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, but you couldn't figure out from what.

Sophia’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide.

Mr. Laforteza looked at you, startled, as if noticing you for the first time. "I'm sorry, and you are?”

“Y/N Anderson,” you said, hands clenched at your sides. “I transferred this year, sir.”

He nodded once. “And you’re involved in this play?”

“Yes, sir,” you said. The lie burned, but you didn’t stop. “Sophia was just helping me practice. That’s all.”

Her father’s brow furrowed. “So my daughter is not involved?”

“No, sir,” you said, meeting his gaze despite the pounding in your chest. “The Headmistress must’ve mistaken u-us. I— I-It’s just me.”

He looked back at the flyer, then at Sophia, whose stunned silence now looked like relief to his dismissive eyes. He crumpled the flyer and tossed it onto your desk.

“Very well,” he said. “Sophia, you will refrain from further involvement. And you—” his gaze returned to you, cooler now, “—will understand that Welton values discipline above indulgence.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned toward the door. Before leaving, he added, without looking back, “Sophia, we will discuss this further at home.”

The second the door closed, Sophia collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her hands. She was shaking, a soundless mix of relief and lingering terror.

After a long minute, she lifted her head and stared at you, her eyes swimming.  “Why did you do that?” she asked, voice barely holding together. “You didn’t have to. He could’ve—he—”

You moved closer without thinking, sitting beside her. "He was going to find the script," you whispered, trying to smooth the wrinkles in her blouse. "And he was going to take you out of the school. I couldn't let him do that."

"But... you lied to him," she said, still reeling. “That could’ve gotten you in trouble.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But I couldn’t let him take it from you.”

You felt your throat tighten, the last of the adrenaline leaving you. You reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead, your gaze soft and unwavering.

“You don’t even like attention,” she whispered.

You smiled faintly. “I don’t like unfairness more.

"You don't have to show me until you're ready," she had told you when you were writing. Now it was your turn.

"Sophia," you said, meeting her gaze, the quiet intimacy of the room enveloping you both. "You need this. You need the musical and the cave and the fire and everything. Even if no one believes in you, I do."

Sophia looked at you, and the last remnants of panic dissolved, replaced by a pure, overwhelming affection. She didn't speak. She just reached up, cupped your cheek, and pulled you gently down until your foreheads rested against each other, thumb warm against your skin, as if grounding herself.

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how to say it properly, but… thank you.”

The opening night of Dear Evan Hansen felt more significant than any other ceremony you’ve been to. The theatre was off campus, a small community venue, and the air crackled with anticipation.

You sat in the front row, a large, ridiculous bouquet of red carnations and pink lilies clutched in your hands. You’d agonized over the choice for days before Dani finally dragged you to the florist and declared, “Trust me. She’ll love them.”

Suddenly, a voice cut through the pre-show chatter. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, ladies.”

You and the rest of the girls turned. Ms. Portman, wearing a dark velvet dress and her signature scarf, was sliding into the seat next to Manon. She winked at you. “We are here to support our star, Ms. Laforteza. And to celebrate courage.”

The lights dimmed.

When Sophia walked onto the stage as Zoey, it all felt different. She didn’t act like she was performing for the audience. It felt like she was telling a truth she’d been holding inside for years, finally allowed to speak it aloud. You watched, mesmerized and proud, feeling a fierce, protective love for the fire she had finally unleashed. During the final bows, the audience rose in a standing ovation. But just as the lights came up, you saw them — two figures slipping into the back row, both impeccably dressed. Mr. Laforteza and, surprisingly, Sophia’s mother. They looked stoic, stunned, and profoundly out of place amidst the cheering crowd. They had come, whether out of duty or a sudden, panicked curiosity, you didn't know.

You and the girls surged backstage, a wall of support. Sophia was already besieged by the cast, but her eyes immediately found yours.

You held the bouquet out, hands trembling just slightly. “For you,” you said. “You were… incredible.”

Sophia laughed, a bright, joyous sound, and buried her face in the bouquet. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”

She barely had time to look at the card before her father was suddenly standing stiffly in the doorway.

"Sophia," Mr. Laforteza said, his voice flat. He looked pale, beaten down by the sheer, undeniable reality of his daughter's talent.

Sophia straightened up, her victory momentarily dimmed. She placed the flowers carefully into your arms, as if entrusting you with her achievement.

Her mother stepped forward, her expression softer, but still confused. "You were... very good, darling. But perhaps now we can put this behind us, and you can focus on your applications?"

Sophia looked from her mother to her father, then back to you. She took a deep breath, standing tall in her triumph.

"No," she said, her voice clear and strong. "I can’t. I got the part. I'm doing the rest of the run."

Mr. Laforteza looked like he was about to erupt, but then he saw her face — Sophia looked so radiant, defiant, and completely happy. He looked at the circle of supportive friends, and finally, his gaze rested on you, holding the bouquet and standing firmly at Sophia's side.

He didn't fight. He just clenched his jaw. "We will discuss this when we return home for the holidays, Sophia. Do not mistake this... appearance for approval. This is temporary." He turned and left.

Her mother looked at her husband with helpless resignation. She quickly turned to Sophia and smiled, “I’m still proud of you, anak.”

You looked at Sophia’s pained smile as she watched her parents leave.

An hour later, you and Sophia were walking back to the dorms, far behind the rest of the cheering group. The night air was crisp, and the success of the evening felt like a beautiful, fragile secret wrapped around you.

Sophia’s hand found yours, just as it had that first night, but this time, the grip was loose, easy, and permanent. She didn't let go.

“He didn’t win,” Sophia murmured, leaning her head on your shoulder. “He didn’t stop me. I Carpe Diem-ed.”

“You did,” you agreed, squeezing her hand.

She laughed, then grew quiet again.

“I was terrified tonight,” she admitted. “But every time I felt like I was going to freeze, I thought about you being out there.”

“You were brave all on your own,” you said.

Sophia shook her head and stopped before stopping closer. Close enough that her sleeve brushed yours. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of her.

She looked up at you, her eyes soft in the dim light. She reached up with her free hand, gently tracing the outline of your ear, then brushing the hair away from your cheek.

“No,” she said softly. “I was brave because I knew someone believed in me.”

She let go of your hand and held your face in her hands naturally, like they’d been meant to do this all along.

“You stood up to him for me, Y/N. You lied to the most terrifying man in my life,” she whispered. “You gave me the most beautiful, dramatic bouquet of all time. And you wrote a poem about me that made me cry. What are we doing?”

You took a slow breath, releasing the anxiety, embracing the courage she had given you.

“I don't know,” you admitted, your heart pounding a furious rhythm. “But whatever it is, I don’t want to do it alone.”

Sophia’s eyes softened, turning warm and deeply earnest. She lifted her hand from your cheek and placed it against the back of your neck, pulling you in.

Her eyes flicked to your lips. Then back to your eyes.

She hesitated.

“I—” she whispered, then stopped, searching your face. “Is this okay?”

The question undid you more than any sudden kiss could have.

You nodded, barely. “Yes.”

She leaned in slowly — so slowly you could have stopped it at any second. You could feel her breath now, uneven, nervous. She smelled faintly of flowers and stage makeup and something familiar that was just her.

“Good,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath before her lips met yours — a soft, hesitant, perfect press of a first kiss.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were shining.

“Hey, lovebirds, we’ve got a curfew to catch!” Your friends were standing around the block, staring at you. Yoonchae was holding her phone, which was quickly being snatched by a grinning Lara. They had fallen silent, waited, and captured the moment.

Sophia just laughed, a sound of pure, unbothered joy. She squeezed your cheek. “Come on, my Poet.”

You chuckled and walked back toward the dorms closer than before, shoulders brushing, fingers still intertwined. The world did not feel conquered — only kinder, as if it had finally made room for you both.

The city breathed with its usual Sunday rhythm — the hum of escalators, the chatter of strangers, the faint smell of roasted coffee beans carried through the mall’s endless corridors. It was a rhythm Y/N knew, even in a place unfamiliar to her, here in Tokyo.

Y/N walked without a real destination, letting the crowd pull her along. Something about today felt charged, like there was a reason she had ended up here, in a mall she didn’t even know well. A tug in her chest whispered that she was supposed to find something. Or someone.

It was a foolish, hopeful feeling — the kind of wish she made when she tossed a coin into a fountain. She knew it was a long shot. The city was too vast, and the mall itself was a labyrinth of a thousand different paths, yet she followed the feeling anyway.

She passed a café, the glow of its warm lights spilling across the tiled floor. A barista scribbled names on paper cups, and laughter spilled from a group tucked into the corner. Y/N slowed, glancing inside, then kept walking. Just minutes later, the door opened again, and Sophia stepped in. The warm, rich scent of a matcha latte hung in the air as she approached the counter, a feeling of bright energy sparking in her chest for no reason she could name. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she scanned the menu, never knowing that the person who had just left had almost turned back. Y/N, standing just beyond the threshold, had almost done it, almost turned around to get a drink she didn't even want, a fleeting thought to prolong her stay.

Elsewhere, Y/N slipped into a small boutique, brushing past racks of clothes that smelled faintly of fabric softener. She didn’t stay long, only a few minutes — the kind of stop you make when you’re too polite to leave right away. She exited out the opposite door, footsteps fading down the hall. Moments later, Sophia lingered outside the store’s front entrance, drawn by the display in the window. She stood there, unaware that if she’d arrived just a heartbeat earlier, Y/N might’ve walked past her. Y/N's fingers had just brushed a silk scarf on a rack that she would later look at, a near-touch in a space they both shared, yet remained strangers.

The hours blurred like this: little coincidences, invisible threads stretched thin.

At one point, Y/N’s laughter echoed with a friend’s joke, bouncing off the glass walls of an atrium. Sophia walked past on the floor above, the sound floating up toward her. She paused, lips quirking at the brightness of it, though she didn’t know why. Later, her own laughter rang out in another corner of the mall, a melody Y/N almost heard as she wandered by on the other side.

Their reflections even brushed against each other once. A tall glass storefront caught Sophia’s figure in its gleam just as Y/N walked past outside. Two shapes — side by side, almost aligned — but never aware. Like shadows of each other, flickering in and out of reach. For a single, fleeting second, their outlines were a perfect match, a silent acknowledgment in the glass that was gone as soon as it appeared.

By late afternoon, Y/N’s legs ached. The hopeful anticipation she’d been carrying all day dimmed into fatigue. Maybe she had been searching for nothing. With a sigh, she decided to call it a day, heading towards the nearest escalator. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through messages, her mind already on other things, the hum of the escalator a low drone beneath her tired thoughts. She stepped onto the moving stairs, descending, absorbed in her screen.

Just as she reached the bottom, stepping off and turning towards the exit, Sophia was stepping onto the escalator Y/N had just left, ascending. She was looking up, her attention drawn to the vibrant lanterns on the floor above.

Their paths, for a fleeting moment, were perfectly aligned, moving in opposite directions on the same gleaming metal stairs. Y/N was too busy. Sophia was looking elsewhere. They were just thirty minutes, one escalator ride, and a moment of distraction apart.

Y/N stepped out into the fading light of Tokyo. The day's rhythm shifted to the rush of traffic and the murmur of the evening crowd, and she carried with her a quiet, unplaceable ache. Hours later, Sophia did the same. She stepped into the cool evening air, a feeling of bright energy lingering from her day, unaware that it had been sparked by someone she'd never met.

Two souls moving through the same space, caught in the same orbit, yet never colliding. Parallel lines drawn by an unseen hand — so close, impossibly close, but never meeting. Not today. But the ache of it, the haunting memory of that near-miss, would stay with Y/N long after the day was over.

But perhaps one day, when the universe grows tired of keeping them apart, it will fold the lines until they finally cross.

Dani could trace her life in Y/N’s laughter.

The bright, unrestrained kind from when they were kids running through sprinklers in the summer. The low, secret giggles they shared in the back of classrooms. The warm, tired chuckle she heard now, years later, over late-night ramen in a corner booth.

They’d been side by side for so long that Dani had trouble remembering a version of herself without Y/N. They had a shared history, a collection of small moments that made up the fabric of their lives. It was Y/N who had taught her how to ride a bike after a skinned knee and a lot of tears, and Y/N who had waited outside the principal's office after Dani got into trouble for defending her. Y/N was there for Dani's first crush and her first heartbreak, always ready with a pint of ice cream and a terrible movie to watch.

In all the important moments, big and small, Y/N was a constant. Which was fine — more than fine — because if there was one constant she wanted, it was her.

But it was also the problem.

The first time Dani realized something was shifting between them, they were at a rooftop bar downtown. Not on a date — never on a date, Dani reminded herself — just two best friends catching up.

Y/N was telling a story about a coworker, gesturing animatedly with her glass. Dani didn’t hear half of it, too distracted by the way the string lights overhead caught in Y/N’s hair, making it glow. Dani swore she could feel the warmth from across the table.

It was just the two of them against the city skyline, which was starting to light up as the sun set. A light breeze tousled Y/N’s hair, and she kept brushing it away from her face, a small, familiar gesture that Dani had watched countless times since they were kids. But this time, it was different. This time, Dani's hand twitched, wanting to reach out and do it for her.

“You’re not listening,” Y/N accused, narrowing her eyes.

Dani smirked, deflecting. “I am. You just talk too much.”

She didn’t admit that she’d been listening, just… not to the words. She had been listening to the way Y/N's voice changed when she got to the punchline, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she laughed. Dani had been listening to the silence between Y/N’s words, a quiet space she wanted to fill with something she couldn’t name.

It was subtle, the way her focus shifted. She noticed Y/N’s hands first — how they moved when she spoke, how they fidgeted when she was nervous. Then it was her voice, how Dani could pick it out in a crowded room without trying.

Soon, everything became an inventory.

The freckles dusting Y/N’s shoulders in the summer. The tiny scar on her knuckle from when they tried making pancakes and Y/N accidentally cut herself on the edge of the pan. The way she always hummed while tying her shoes, a habit she’d had since they were kids. It was a new kind of noticing — not just seeing, but committing to memory. The soft weight of Y/N’s head on her shoulder when they fell asleep watching movies. The exact curve of her smile when Dani made a bad joke.

Dani told herself it was just what best friends did — knowing each other inside out. She tried to bury it, telling herself that her heart didn’t skip for reasons it shouldn’t. But best friends didn’t get tongue-tied when the other leaned in too close. Best friends didn’t have to stop themselves from tucking hair behind the other’s ear. Best friends didn’t dream about kissing each other and wake up feeling like their chest might cave in.

Still, Dani stayed quiet.

It was safer that way.

She’d seen how love — or whatever this was — could ruin friendships. And Y/N… she deserved someone steady, someone who wouldn’t confuse her.

So, Dani played her role. She teased. She listened. She showed up when Y/N called, no matter how late or how far.

And every time Y/N smiled at her like she was the only person in the world, Dani tucked the feeling away like a secret she could live off of.

But Dani had always known who she was. Or, she thought she did. She was Daniela, the girl who loved to dance, who sometimes got her feelings hurt too easily, and who was, for all intents and purposes, straight. She’d dated boys, had her first crush and her first heartbreak, and Y/N had been there for all of it.

Her feelings for Y/N weren’t anything like those flimsy, fleeting schoolyard crushes. This was something different, something deeper and more terrifyingly real. A feeling that had burrowed its way into her bones, making her question everything she thought was true about herself.

She was just like this. She swore it to herself like a mantra. It was just a best friend thing. Her best friend. Her girl best friend. The best friend she drove to at 3 AM just because Y/N couldn’t sleep. The best friend whose hand she held when they crossed busy streets. The best friend she dreamed about kissing. She told herself over and over that these feelings were normal, that they were just an extension of their long history. But in the quiet hours of the night, when she was alone with her thoughts, a terrifying word would whisper in her mind. Yet, Dani couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud because it was a word that threatened to unravel the neat little box she had put her life in.

When KATSEYE’s tour schedule was announced, the girls were ecstatic, Y/N included. There was a city that she’d been wanting to visit and thought, what better excuse than to go to her best friend’s concert in said city?

But Dani never liked San Francisco.

Too foggy. Too cold. Too… bland. The kind of place she’d pass through on tour without a second thought. But Y/N had wanted to come, and the girls had downtime before their concert.

As soon as Y/N said the name of the city, Dani's first instinct was to say no. It was a place she’d always associated with lonely hotels and the kind of weather that mirrored her mood. But then Y/N's smile lit up her face, a clear invitation, and Dani couldn't bring herself to refuse. So, Y/N planned a quick getaway — just a day, no real itinerary, just wandering. Dani expected to hate it. She’d never liked windy cities, the kind where your hair whipped into your mouth every time you stepped outside.

Somehow, they ended up on a hill overlooking the water, the sky bruised with sunset, and Y/N leaned against her shoulder, laughing about something trivial.

Dani didn’t expect to think much of it, but she thought maybe she could live here. Maybe she could live anywhere, as long as Y/N was there too.

She didn’t say that out loud, of course. That wasn’t how their friendship worked — or at least, that’s what she told herself.

“Still hate it?” Y/N asked, tilting her head toward the skyline. The wind tugged at her hair, sending loose strands dancing across her face. Dani’s fingers itched to brush them back.

She shrugged. “Not… as much.”

Y/N laughed, the sound threading into the wind and settling somewhere in Dani’s chest.

The memory of their San Francisco trip settled deep within her, a warm, persistent ache. It followed her back to Los Angeles, a ghost of a feeling that clung to her through a week of studio sessions, interviews, and late-night rehearsals. The tour life was relentless, a whirlwind of motion and noise that was meant to distract, to keep her too busy to think. But even when she was surrounded by people, Dani found herself replaying that quiet moment on the hill.

And then it hit her hardest, one quiet midnight in her apartment.

She was sprawled across her couch after another relentless string of schedules. Y/N was flipping through a photo album they’d started as kids, laughing at their awkward middle school phases. Dani wasn’t paying attention to the photos. She was watching Y/N’s lips move, the corners curling with amusement.

“Earth to Dani?” Y/N waved a hand in front of her face. “You’ve been staring for like… two minutes.”

“Sorry,” Dani muttered, heat crawling up her neck. She leaned back, forcing a laugh. “Guess I’m just tired.”

But that was a lie.

The truth was, she’d never whispered Y/N’s name in her head like that before — tender, careful, like it was something fragile.

It was dangerous, she knew. She’d heard too many stories about friends falling apart when lines blurred. She told herself over and over — we’re just like this. Y/N didn’t think twice about leaning against her, holding her hand when they crossed busy streets, linking arms in the grocery store.

But Dani thought about it. All the time.

She thought about it in the studio when Y/N brought her coffee and gently tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Y/N's touch was fleeting, a small gesture of care, but it sent a jolt through Dani that had her fumbling with the lyrics sheet. She thought about it when they were shoulder to shoulder at concerts, screaming lyrics they both loved. She thought about it when Y/N kissed her cheek goodbye at the airport and Dani’s heart beat stupidly fast for hours afterward.

She swore she was just like this. Just like every other girl who had a best friend she was inseparable from. A girl who was just really close with her friend. Nothing more. But every time Y/N did something so small and so normal, Dani’s carefully constructed world of denial would threaten to crack, and the terrifying whispers of something else would return, louder than before.

One night, in a rare moment of courage or exhaustion — she couldn’t tell which — Dani let herself get closer than usual.

Y/N perched on her kitchen counter, hair messy, hoodie hanging loose, humming while scrolling on her phone. Dani watched her, feeling that familiar tug in her chest. When Y/N looked up and grinned, Dani’s throat tightened.

She wanted to say it. I love you. I’ve always loved you. But instead, she leaned against the counter, letting Y/N pull her into a hug. Y/N’s arms were soft and certain around her, her voice gentle as she teased, “You’re staring again, Dani.”

Dani laughed it off, heart pounding. “You’re imagining things.”

But inside, she whispered what she couldn’t say aloud: If this is what it feels like, maybe I don’t mind. Maybe I could get used to this.

And when Y/N squeezed her tighter, Dani closed her eyes, deciding — for tonight, at least — to live in the warmth of the moment.

Later that night, they were lying in bed, Y/N half-asleep beside her. Dani shifted, brushing her fingers over Y/N’s hair, then down to her cheek, tracing the faint line of her jaw.

Y/N stirred, mumbling something incoherent. Dani smiled, whispering, “You know I’d stay, right? If you asked me to.”

Y/N’s only reply was a sleepy hum before drifting off again. Dani lay there, wide awake, committing every detail to memory — the scent of Y/N’s shampoo, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the warmth radiating between them.

The next morning, Y/N was at the kitchen counter, humming to herself while she made coffee. Dani walked up behind her and, instead of just leaning on the counter as she usually would, wrapped her arms around Y/N's waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. Y/N stilled for a moment, surprised, before she leaned back into the embrace. The humming didn't stop, but it got a little softer, a little sweeter. Dani closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of coffee and Y/N.

This wasn't a conversation. Not even a confession.

It was just a moment. A new one. And this time, Dani didn't question it at all.

She could get used to this.

Y/N had started over. New course schedule. New circle. Even a new club — something she joined on a whim, desperate for air. For the first time in what felt like months, she didn’t feel like she was suffocating.

Aeri hadn’t crossed her mind in weeks. Or maybe that was a lie. Maybe she’d just become better at shoving her into the farthest corner of her heart. She never truly left. Aeri never did.

So, when she walked into that club meeting — a guest, the president had introduced — and Y/N saw her again, standing at the back in a leather jacket and a ghost of a smirk, she felt her lungs collapse.

“Didn’t think this was your scene,” Aeri said afterward, when the meeting ended and Y/N tried to leave unnoticed.

“I didn’t think you remembered where I went to school.”

Aeri laughed. “I always remembered. You just weren’t picking up my calls.”

“You stopped calling,” Y/N corrected.

A shrug. “You blocked me.”

And just like that, the conversation spiraled. Not into shouting. That was never their game. It was the undercurrent, the invisible thread, the way Aeri looked at her like she was still hers, and the way Y/N hated that it still made her ache.

Later that week, at a study session with her new friends, the topic of the club meeting came up.

"Who was that person who kept trying to talk to you?" one of them, Yunjin, asked, a slight frown on her face. "She seemed... intense."

"Just an old acquaintance," Y/N mumbled, trying to wave it off.

Another friend, Chaewon, chimed in, "Yeah, she kept staring. Are you two okay? You seemed a little on edge."

Y/N forced a smile. "Totally fine. Just haven't seen her in a while."

But the questions, though well-meaning, felt like tiny needles, pricking at the fragile peace Y/N had built. It was a stark reminder that while she tried to move on, the past, embodied by Aeri, was a shadow others could already perceive. And a part of Y/N hated that Aeri's reappearance had already begun to isolate her, even amongst people who genuinely cared.

Weeks passed, and Aeri lingered like smoke — familiar, intoxicating, suffocating.

She was all charm at first. Showing up at events. Praising Y/N’s leadership skills. Offering her coffee on rainy afternoons. “I’m proud of you,” she’d whisper, arms brushing against hers. “You’re really doing well.”

Y/N wanted to believe her. God, she needed to. But it started again. Subtle jabs.

“You sure you trust her?” Aeri asked one day about Y/N’s new club friend. “She gives off weird vibes.”

“You looked happier last semester. You were always around me then.”

“I saw the way he looked at you. Don’t you think he’s just using you to get ahead?”

Isolated. That’s how it started. Y/N began declining invites. Ghosting group chats. And Aeri’s presence filled the silence.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Y/N said one night, her voice trembling. They were alone in her apartment. Aeri had shown up with dinner, uninvited.

“Doing what?” Aeri asked. Innocent. Always innocent.

“Crawling back into my life like nothing happened.”

Aeri tilted her head, eyes softening in mock sympathy. “You looked lonely.”

“I wasn’t,” Y/N snapped, a sharp crack in her voice. “I was fine. I was actually fine.”

Aeri stepped forward. “Then why did you let me back in?”

Because I’m weak, Y/N thought. Because I still love you.

She didn’t answer.

Later that night, they sat in suffocating silence, barely touching.

Y/N bites her lip hard, swallowing the sharp sting that rises in her throat. She knows this isn’t right. She knows how this story ends — broken glass, broken hearts, the quiet hum of regret at 3AM. But god, it’s Aeri. And when she turns to look at her, eyes soft with exhaustion and something else — something almost like vulnerability — Y/N caves.

Again.

“If I begged, would you stay?” Y/N whispered finally, voice fragile.

Aeri didn’t reply.

“Please,” Y/N breathed. “Just this one last time… pretend you still care.”

Her eyes were downcast and glassy, lips trembling as she blinked hard against tears.

“I do care,” Aeri said too quickly.

“Do you really?” Y/N said. “Because it seems like you only care when it’s convenient. When no one else answers. When you’re bored.”

Aeri’s smile is almost sad. “And yet, you always let me in.”

Y/N’s jaw clenches. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Then don’t.”

It’s a challenge. Aeri’s always been good at that — twisting honesty into games, love into manipulation.

Y/N takes a shaky breath. “I want to stop. I swear to god, I want to stop.”

“Then do it,” Aeri says.

But when she leans in, when her hand brushes Y/N’s cheek, Y/N doesn’t move.

She never does.

“I would’ve burnt the world down for you, Aeri,” Y/N whispered. “And you—”

“So would I ha—”

“Liar.” Y/N’s voice cracked, the word landing like glass against concrete.

Aeri turned away. “This again.”

“This always,” Y/N snapped.

The worst part wasn’t the fights. It was the aftermath — the pretending. The pretending they were okay. The pretending it was love.

Y/N’s hands shook when Aeri kissed her neck one morning, like nothing had happened. She didn't push her away, but her body was rigid.

“I don't miss you,” Y/N said later that afternoon when Aeri cornered her at the campus café, her eyes guarded.

“Look at me and say it,” Aeri challenged. “Then I’ll leave, Y/N.”

Y/N opened her mouth but faltered. Her throat clenched. Her eyes burned. She couldn’t look at her. Not really.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

Aeri smirked. “Thought so.”

Aeri didn’t push further. She just stepped closer, slowly, like she always did when Y/N was too raw to resist. Her hand lifted to Y/N’s cheek, her thumb brushing under her eye as if to wipe away tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“You still feel it, don’t you?” she murmured.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her body betraying her before she could find the words to deny it. And Aeri took that as permission.

One step, then another, and their bodies were flush. Aeri’s fingers skimmed down Y/N’s sides, ghosting over her hips like she still had a right to touch her like this.

"You say you want me gone," she whispered against Y/N’s jaw, her lips brushing skin, “but you keep letting me in.”

Y/N’s hands trembled at her sides. She hated this. Hated how her body responded to the heat of Aeri’s mouth against her neck, the way her pulse raced when Aeri’s hands slipped under her sweater — just barely, just enough.

“Aeri…”

“Tell me to stop,” she breathed.

Y/N didn’t. Couldn’t.

Because even now — especially now — this was how Aeri pulled her back in. With the weight of her body pressed against her, the familiar scent, the possessive grip on her waist, the breathless kisses that always left her dizzy and more alone afterward.

She tilted her head instinctively when Aeri kissed down her throat, soft gasps replacing every thought in her head.

For a moment, it felt like love again.

But only for a moment.

Because when Aeri pulled back, her eyes weren't soft — they were smug. Victorious.

And Y/N hated how it still worked.

She started losing herself.

The new friends drifted away. Invitations stopped. Y/N was quieter. Duller. Her professors asked if something was wrong.

“You’re not showing up like you used to,” one said.

Because I don’t know who I am anymore, Y/N wanted to say. Because she’s here again, and I don’t know how to be without her.

That same evening, Aeri had come home again, this time with flowers in her hand and takeout in the other.

“I missed you, baby. Thought you needed a little something for how hard you’ve been working lately.”

A few hours later, they end up in bed.

Not out of love, but out of habit.

The sheets were still tangled around their legs, warm from the friction of skin against skin. Y/N’s lips were parted, breaths shaky in the aftermath. Aeri’s hand traced lazy patterns along her thigh, their bodies still slick with sweat, clinging in a way that felt too close and not close enough.

For a moment, it was quiet. Heavy. Still.

Y/N stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling — not from exhaustion, but from something else she couldn’t name. Her skin was flushed, her body humming, but her mind — her chest — felt suddenly, achingly hollow. Her throat tightened. Her stomach churned.

It started with a tremble in her lip, then a sharp breath she couldn’t control. And then the tears came, uninvited — slow at first, then harder, until she was shuddering silently beside the woman she swore she wouldn’t let back in.

She turned away instinctively, curling slightly, hoping Aeri wouldn’t notice.

But she always noticed — especially when she needed to.

“Y/N?” Aeri's voice dropped, soft and careful, fingers still ghosting over the curve of Y/N’s hip. “Hey… are you okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer, only let out a slow, uneven breath that betrayed everything. She felt the bed shift. Aeri was closer now, pulling her into her arms, lips brushing against her temple.

“Hey, no… don’t cry.” Her voice was deceptively sweet, soaked in concern. She wiped a tear with her thumb, gently tilting Y/N’s chin. “Talk to me. What’s wrong, baby? Did I hurt you?”

Hurt was an understatement, but Y/N knows Aeri didn’t mean hurt in the way she felt it. But, that nickname, so familiar, felt like a hook in her chest.

Y/N shook her head, barely able to speak. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Aeri sat up slightly, pulling Y/N into her arms, cradling her like something fragile. “You know I care about you, right? You know I don’t like seeing you like this and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

Y/N closed her eyes. She always says that. Every time. When she leaves. When she returns. Always with the same false tenderness wrapped in promises she never keeps. It always sounded real. The warmth of her touch, the gentle way she kissed the crown of Y/N’s head, the way she murmured “I’m here, okay? I’ve always been here.”

But that wasn’t true. Aeri left. Again and again. And she always came back only when the rest of her world was quiet. Only when she needed something.

Y/N knew that. She knew.

But she let her arms wrap around Aeri anyway. Let her inhale that familiar scent, let herself be touched like she still mattered.

Because this — this dizzying comfort wrapped in barbed wire — was all she knew. Her body remembered the tenderness even if her mind screamed against it. No one else looked at her like this. No one else made her feel like the only person in the room. Not like Aeri did — even if it was only temporary. Even if it came at the cost of herself.

“I’m just tired,” she whispered.

“Then sleep,” Aeri murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

But Y/N knew better. She always knew. And still, she just let herself sink into the familiar ache of arms that once promised everything, even if all they ever delivered was confusion.

And when morning came, all that remained was the indentation on the pillow beside her — and the ache she never quite got used to.

Then one night, it boiled over.

“I still love you,” Aeri confessed after a particularly tense silence, eyes wide and pleading.

“No, you don’t,” Y/N bit back. “You love using me. You hate that I’m standing up for myself now.”

“Y/N—”

“You loved me when I was quiet. When I didn’t say anything. When I let you come and go as you pleased.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you watching me rebuild my life just to tear it down again.”

Aeri scoffed. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re a fucking virus, Aeri.”

That hit. Aeri’s expression flattened, defensive. But Y/N wasn’t done.

“I look at you,” she said, her voice shaking, “and I feel miserable.”

Silence. Aeri blinked. Her face fell.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

But Y/N did.

And she didn’t.

That night, Aeri left.

But she’d be back.

She always came back.

And Y/N hated herself for knowing that she would probably open the door again.

Because love, no matter how broken, was still love.

And love was a habit Y/N didn’t know how to break.

Y/N hadn’t been to this part of the city in months, but her feet knew the way by heart. The sharp turn after the café with the blue chairs. The uneven sidewalk three blocks down. The creaky elevator that always stuttered on the fourth floor.

Everything still looked the same. But nothing felt familiar anymore.

Days had bled into weeks, and the weeks into months, each passing moment a silent testament to the chasm that had opened between them. Y/N had tried to forget the apartment's layout, the way the light fell through the kitchen window in the morning, the specific scent of Minjeong's shampoo that used to cling to her pillows. But the landlord's insistent emails about the lease, and then Minjeong's terse text, had dragged her back. It felt like tearing open a scab, but a part of her, a foolish, hopeful part, wondered if peeling it off might finally let it heal.

Her hands curled tighter around the straps of her bag as she stood in front of Minjeong’s apartment door. She could hear faint music through the wood — a song they once danced to in the kitchen, barefoot and giddy on wine and love. She remembered the feel of Minjeong's hands on her waist, the way their laughter echoed off these very walls, a sound so full it felt like it could last forever. She swallowed.

There was no reason for her heart to still ache, but it did.

She shouldn’t have come, she told herself as she stood at the doorway. She was only here to pick up her things — the ones Minjeong had texted about, months after their silence had stretched thin and unbearable. A box of clothes, a couple of records, maybe the hoodie she used to steal on cold nights.

Y/N raised her hand to knock, hesitated, then knocked twice.

The door opened too quickly, as if Minjeong had been standing right behind it.

Her hair looked longer now, tied up, wearing a faded gray shirt Y/N didn’t recognize, but her eyes — those same soft, stormy eyes — looked just like they always had. Just like they had that night.

“Hey,” Minjeong said, voice quieter than Y/N remembered. Or maybe she’d just forgotten how soft it could be when it wasn’t laughing, teasing, or fighting.

Y/N’s mouth was dry. “Hi.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. They hadn't seen each other in months. Texts had died out, calls stopped before they could even ring. And now, here they were — in the same room, breathing the same air, acting like strangers in a space that once knew every inch of them together.

“I just came to get…the stuff,” Y/N said. Her voice was too steady. Too practiced.

Finally, Minjeong stepped aside. “They’re in the box by the bed.”

Y/N walked in. The apartment smelled the same — like clean laundry and citrus candles. Like her. Same quiet beige walls. Same scuffed corner near the kitchen where they'd once danced tipsily at 1 a.m. Same low hum of a fridge that had once held half of Y/N’s favorite snacks, placed there thoughtfully by Minjeong before every visit — before Y/N moved in altogether.

Everything looked untouched, and it made something inside Y/N twist. She half expected to see her slippers by the couch, or their polaroids still pinned on the fridge. But those were gone. Each object was a silent accusation, a timestamp of a life that had been so perfectly intertwined. She half expected to hear Minjeong's humming from the bedroom, or to see their favorite show paused on the TV. It was all a cruel illusion of permanence.

Y/N’s heart clenched as she walked toward the bedroom. Her old hoodie still hung on the back of the chair, the same way she used to leave it. On the nightstand, tucked behind some old receipts, was the photo booth strip they’d taken at a beach fair two summers ago. Her eyes stung.

She spotted the box, sealed and neat. Final. Like her place in Minjeong’s life had been packed away too. Y/N moved slowly, kneeling beside the box. Some books. A few shirts. That old perfume bottle she’d always forget to take with her.

“Did you check if I left anything else?”

Minjeong nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

But as Y/N rifled a bite more, her hand froze. At the very bottom was the candle she’d bought them after their third month together — the one with the scent Minjeong used to say reminded her of Y/N’s apartment, even though it had never been lit. Said it was too pretty to ruin.

She looked up, lips parting. “You kept this?”

Minjeong’s eyes flicked to the candle. “Didn’t have the heart to throw it out.”

Silence again.

It wrapped around them like static. The kind that made your skin itch with all the things left unsaid.

Y/N stood, hugging the box to her chest. “Well. I think that’s all of it.”

Minjeong looked like she wanted to say something. Her jaw flexed. Her gaze dropped, then lifted again — hesitant.

“Do you want coffee?” she asked. “Or water?”

Y/N blinked. “I don’t want to bother—”

“It’s just coffee,” Minjeong said, already turning toward the kitchen. “You came all this way.”

Y/N hesitated. Then followed.

The kitchen was the same too. Mugs still organized the way she had insisted on. The one with the hand-painted star still sat in the rack — her favorite. She could still remember the day they went to the pottery class Minjeong had booked for their anniversary. Y/N never stepped foot in a pottery studio ever again.

Minjeong handed her a cup. Their fingers brushed, just slightly. Minjeong’s gaze, for a fleeting second, caught on Y/N's worn bracelet — a gift from Minjeong herself — before quickly darting away. The brush of their fingers was electric, a jolt of recognition in a space now defined by absence. And for a while, time folded. They were back in the mornings they used to share — sleepy smiles, sleepy kisses, and quiet coffees.

Y/N looked at Minjeong over the rim of her mug. She looked good. She always had, but there was something about her now that seemed… lonelier.

Or maybe that was just Y/N’s projection.

“You look well,” Y/N offered.

Minjeong’s lips twitched. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.”

A beat.

“You do, too,” Minjeong added.

It was nothing. A few exchanged pleasantries. But it felt like a thread being pulled — unraveling something carefully stitched shut.

Y/N placed the mug down. “I should go.”

Minjeong nodded. But didn’t move.

Y/N stepped back, then paused. “Minjeong—”

“Yeah?”

Y/N licked her lips, eyes flicking to the floor. Then back up. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“That night… when you said it didn’t work out between us,” she began, voice low, cracking. “Was that the whole truth?”

Minjeong stared. Her fingers curled around her mug tighter.

“It didn’t work out,” she repeated.

Y/N shook her head slowly. “Yeah, but… is that all?”

The question hung heavy between them. And just like that, the air shifted. Time rewound.

Three months earlier.

It was a Wednesday when it happened. Random. Uneventful. The kind of day that shouldn’t have meant anything.

Minjeong had come home late. She looked tired, distant. Y/N had cooked her favorite stew and even set the table. But something in Minjeong’s eyes that night felt far away.

They sat in silence for most of dinner. Y/N kept asking about her day. Minjeong kept answering in one-liners.

And then, out of nowhere, Minjeong said it.

“I don’t think we’re working anymore.”

Y/N dropped her spoon. “What?”

“I think... I think this isn’t working. Us.”

It didn’t make sense. Not to Y/N.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, voice already shaking. “We were fine yesterday. We were laughing. We—What changed?”

Minjeong looked down. “I’ve felt it for a while. I just didn’t say it.”

“You didn’t say anything.” Y/N stood up from her seat, panicked. “I—I know I get too attached. I know I always ask too much. But you knew that about me from the start, Minjeong. You said it was okay. You said it was okay.”

Minjeong flinched. “It was. I tried. But I don’t think I can be what you need.”

“I never asked you to be anything but here,” Y/N said, voice cracking.

Tears were already rolling down her cheeks as she took a step closer. “Just tell me what to do. Please. How can I fix it?”

“You can’t.”

“Please, Minjeong, don’t f—don’t fuck with me. Don’t say that. Tell me what to do. How can I make this work?” Her sobs broke free now, raw and trembling. “Just tell me. Please.”

Minjeong’s jaw clenched. “Y/N... I’m sorry.”

“No. No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to give up like this — just like that — and then say sorry.”

She reached out to hold her, to make her stay.

Minjeong stepped back.

That was the night Y/N learned that even love could vanish with silence. That even someone who once held her like the world could walk away without a fight.

Now

Minjeong still hadn’t answered. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then looked away.

Y/N stood by the box, hands clenched.

“I’m not here to argue,” she said. “I came for my stuff. But I need to know. Was it really just that? That we stopped working?”

Minjeong looked like she was holding something back. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said honestly. “That you miss me? That I didn’t make it all up in my head? That maybe it wasn’t one-sided?”

Minjeong hesitated. “It wasn’t.”

That one sentence broke something open.

“But I don’t know how to stay,” Minjeong added. “I never have. I always cut people off before it hurts.”

Y/N laughed bitterly. “Well, congratulations. You beat the pain to it.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

Silence.

“I still think about you,” Minjeong said. “More than I should.”

Y/N’s heart jumped. “Then why didn’t you call?”

Minjeong exhaled shakily. “Because I was scared. Because you were all in, and I didn’t know how to be. Because I didn’t know how to hold something good without crushing it. And if I let you in again, I’ll ruin you again.”

“You could’ve told me,” Y/N blinked back tears. “I asked you what I could do to fix it, Min.”

“I didn’t know how,” Minjeong said. “Every time I looked at you, I felt like I was seconds away from ruining it all.”

“So, you left before I could ruin you.”

Minjeong flinched. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You did hurt me,” Y/N said, voice trembling now. “You just didn’t stay to see it.”

The words sat between them, raw and aching.

Minjeong blinked hard, like she didn’t want to cry.

Y/N looked at her one last time. “I would’ve chosen you, again and again. Even when it got hard. Even when I got hurt. But you didn’t even let me try.”

Minjeong placed her cup down. Her eyes shimmered, but no tears fell. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I really am.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “I believe you.”

There was a pause. One last, aching breath of everything that used to be.

Minjeong looked at her. “You should go. It’ll rain soon.”

Y/N nodded. Picked up her box. Walked to the door.

But before she opened it, she turned.

“If you ever…” she hesitated. “If you ever want to try again—”

Minjeong’s gaze dropped.

Y/N nodded, the rest of the sentence dying in her throat. “Right. Never mind.”

She opened the door and left.

Outside, the first drops of rain hit her coat.

Y/N stood there, clutching the box tighter, tears now slipping freely. Not loud or messy — just quiet, aching grief. The kind reserved for almosts and maybes.

Minjeong hadn’t chased after her. She hadn’t expected her to.

Because some things weren’t meant to be held again.

And Yizhuo — Yizhuo loved in flashes. Intense, bright, addictive. She’d show up at Y/N’s door with late-night takeout and sleepy eyes, or send her songs that reminded her of the way Y/N laughed. She’d kiss Y/N like she meant it. She’d say things like, “I like you way too much, it’s annoying,” and Y/N would pretend her heart didn’t stumble over itself every single time.

But just as quickly, she’d fade out.

And it was always without warning.

She left, and then she came back. And somehow, each return felt softer and more cruel than the last.

She’d never come back with apologies, not even promises. Just a message at 1:27 a.m., vague and familiar — “Are you up?” And somehow, Y/N always was.

She shouldn’t be. She knew that. She knew the pattern: late-night texts, tentative conversations that slowly bled into mornings spent tangled up in sheets and silences. Then, one day, the messages would stop. No explanation. No closure. Just gone.

Then weeks — sometimes months — of nothing.

And then, she’d come back again.

Because she always came back to Y/N.

And that used to mean something. Maybe it still did. But lately, Y/N wasn’t so sure.

Still, this time wasn’t any different.

Y/N stared at her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. She didn’t even have to ask who it was. No one else texted her like that. No one else had that brand of casual gravity, like a black hole in the shape of a girl.

She typed, “yeah. come over if you want,” and hit send before she could stop herself.

The knock was heard twenty minutes later. Y/N opened the door to find Yizhuo standing there in an oversized hoodie and messy hair, eyes red but not from crying — more like exhaustion. Maybe regret. Though that was wishful thinking.

“Hey,” Yizhuo said, voice too soft for someone who’d left so loud. “Can I come in?”

Of course she could.

She always could.

Y/N stepped aside without a word, watching as Yizhuo slid past her and into the apartment like she’d never left.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be up,” Yizhuo murmured, not meeting her gaze.

Y/N closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, trying to breathe past the familiar ache in her chest. “I figured you'd come back eventually.”

That made Yizhuo pause. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

After that, they didn’t talk much. They never really did when it started this way. A hesitant touch, a brush of the hand, and then suddenly it was Yizhuo curled up on Y/N’s bed again like she belonged there. Like she hadn’t ghosted her for six weeks.

Morning came with silence. It always did. And as Y/N stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, she felt it—the weight of pretending this was fine.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Yizhuo murmured, walking up beside her, rubbing her eyes. “Have you been okay?”

Y/N handed her a mug. “Why do you ask that like you didn’t vanish again?”

Yizhuo blinked, taking the cup but avoiding her gaze. “I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Life.”

It wasn’t the answer Y/N wanted. It never was.

“You could’ve said something,” she whispered. “You could’ve said anything.”

Yizhuo leaned against the counter, sipping. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“That you didn’t want to talk to me anymore?” Y/N asked, sharper than she intended. “That you got bored of me again?”

Yizhuo flinched. “I didn’t get bored.”

“You always leave,” Y/N said softly. “And you always come back when there’s no one else left.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“I don’t come back because I have no one else,” Yizhuo finally whispered. “I come back because it’s you.”

And maybe that was supposed to be a comfort. But it wasn’t.

Not anymore. But that was the truth of it, raw and bleeding between them. Y/N, with her full heart and open hands, always waiting. Yizhuo, with her walls, her vanishing acts, and her inability to stay.

Y/N stepped away, rubbing her temple. “It’s like I’m the only one who tries. Every time.”

“I didn’t ask you to wait for me,” Yizhuo said.

“But you keep coming back, Yizhuo. I don’t understand.”

That landed.

“I don’t know how to stay,” Yizhuo admitted after a long moment, her voice smaller than usual. “I don’t think I’m built for it.”

Y/N looked at her. Really looked at her.

And still — still — there was a part of her that loved her. That remembered laughter on the fire escape, Yizhuo singing under her breath while folding Y/N’s laundry, their fingertips brushing under dim cafe lights. It wasn’t that she hadn’t felt anything. Y/N was sure of it.

But maybe feeling wasn’t enough.

Later that night, they found themselves lying side by side in Y/N’s bed. It was familiar — almost muscle memory. The lights were off, the rain had stopped, and Yizhuo had changed into one of Y/N’s oversized shirts like she always did.

They weren’t touching, but the space between them buzzed with everything they weren’t saying.

“You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?” Y/N asked quietly into the dark.

Yizhuo didn’t respond.

And that, more than anything, was the answer.

The next morning, Y/N woke up alone.

She wasn’t surprised.

What surprised her was the sound of the front door opening again an hour later. Yizhuo stood there with two cups of coffee and a hesitant smile.

“I thought you might want something warm.”

Y/N stared. “So, you didn’t leave.”

“I almost did.”

Y/N didn’t know what to do with that.

But that night, things finally broke.

They were in the kitchen. Y/N had been chopping vegetables, trying to distract herself from the gnawing ache in her chest, when Yizhuo came up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist.

“I missed this,” she murmured against her shoulder.

“You always say that,” Y/N said without turning around. Her voice was sharp. Tired.

Yizhuo pulled back slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/N set the knife down. She turned to face her, eyes flashing. “You say you miss me, but you always leave. You come back when you're lonely, when you’re tired, when it’s convenient. And every time, I let you in.”

“I’m not using you,” Yizhuo said, jaw clenched. “Don’t say that.”

“Aren’t you?” Y/N challenged. “You want connection when it suits you, but the second it gets too real, you disappear. And I’m the idiot who keeps letting it happen.”

Yizhuo looked like she wanted to argue. But she didn’t.

“Why do you keep coming back?” Y/N asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yizhuo looked away. “Because... you feel like home.”

That made something in Y/N crack.

“Then why can’t you stay?” she asked, voice trembling. “Why am I never enough to make you stay?”

The silence stretched long between them.

Finally, Yizhuo spoke. “I don’t know how to stay. I don’t think I’m built for forever.”

“Then don’t promise it,” Y/N said. “Don’t come back if you’re only going to leave again. I’m tired, Yizhuo. I’m so tired of hoping you’ll choose me.”

Yizhuo’s eyes shimmered. She stepped forward, hesitated, then stopped. “I do choose you.”

“No, you don’t,” Y/N said softly. “You choose comfort. You choose safety. But not me. Not really.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

When Y/N went to bed, Yizhuo stayed on the couch. Curled into herself, silent.

In the morning, Y/N woke up to an empty apartment.

No coffee cups. No folded blankets. No note.

This time, Y/N didn’t cry. She cleaned the sheets. Watered her plants. Folded the laundry. She even deleted their text thread. Muted Yizhuo’s Instagram stories. Went about her day like it didn’t matter.

But the ache didn’t go away.

Minjeong noticed first. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N lied.

“You still letting her come back whenever she wants?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“Y/N,” Minjeong said gently, “you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“She doesn’t mean to hurt me.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t. I know you’re smarter than that, wake up.”

Two weeks passed. Then three.

Then came the knock.

Y/N didn’t answer it this time.

But the knock came again. Louder.

She opened the door.

Yizhuo stood there, hood up, eyes wary. “Hey.”

Y/N said nothing.

Yizhuo stepped forward. “Can we talk?”

Y/N folded her arms. “What’s left to say?”

“I miss you.”

“You miss having someone to come back to.”

“I’m really not trying to hurt you,” Yizhuo had said quietly. “Sometimes I just need space.”

“Space doesn’t mean cutting someone off,” Y/N replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “Do you even miss me when you’re gone?”

Yizhuo hesitated. “Of course I do.”

“But not enough to check in? To reply?”

Silence.

Y/N looked down. Her hands were trembling slightly, fingers curling around the edge of her sweatshirt. “You leave like I don’t exist. And then you come back like nothing happened.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“But you do it anyway.”

“That’s not fair. I just—”

“No?” Y/N’s voice cracked. “Then tell me what this is. What we are.”

Yizhuo hesitated.

“You can’t, right?” Y/N laughed, bitter and exhausted. “Because every time I think we’re getting somewhere, you run.”

“I’m scared,” Yizhuo admitted. “I’ve never known how to do this. Look, I’m sorry I’m not built like you. I can’t... I don’t cling to people.”

Y/N flinched. “You make it sound pathetic. I wasn’t asking you to be perfect, Ning. I was asking you to try.”

“I was trying—”

“No, don't even. You were taking. I was the only one giving.”

The silence stretched thin. Yizhuo stepped back slightly, shoulders tense.

“You don’t understand,” she muttered.

“No,” Y/N said, voice low. “You don’t.”

And she closed the door.

And it stayed closed for a long time.

Then came the message.

Not a midnight “are you up?” this time. Not a breadcrumb or a backtrack.

Just three words.

“I’m really sorry.”

Y/N stared at the screen, fingers shaking.

She didn’t reply.

She still loved her. God, she did.

If Yizhuo had come knocking again, would she let her in?

Y/N hated that despite everything, she’d still do it. Again.

Because that’s what you do when you love someone who doesn’t know how to stay — you make a home in yourself and offer it up every time they’re lost.

Even if they don’t unpack their bags.

Even if they don’t intend to stay.

But love isn’t a home when it only shelters one person. Maybe this time, love wasn’t enough. Maybe this time, silence was the only answer she had left to give.

The ache crept in like it always did — subtle, then sharp. It wasn’t just about missing her. It was the not-knowing. The silence that echoed like a punishment.

What did I do wrong? Was I too much again? Did I say something? Was I not enough?

Y/N sat in her bed, staring at their last photo together — Yizhuo asleep on her shoulder, soft and peaceful, the sun catching in her hair. Y/N had taken it quietly, not wanting to wake her.

She’d looked so... safe.

And yet, here she was. Gone. Again.

Maybe she was too much.

Maybe she wasn’t enough.

Or maybe — just maybe — Yizhuo was never meant to stay.

Jimin needed people. She needed noise, presence, warmth. She didn’t say it out loud — never did — but it showed in the way she stayed just a little longer during goodbyes, in how she reached out to touch someone mid-conversation, even just their sleeve, just enough to remind herself they were there. It was in her Instagram posts and bubble updates, her overflowing energy during performances, the way her smile seemed like it was holding everything together.

Y/N, on the other hand, didn’t need much. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. Give her silence, her books, a warm drink, and a closed window on a rainy day. She could disappear into herself and feel perfectly fine, like solitude was her secret language and the world didn’t need to understand.

So maybe it was foolish of them to try. But they did.

And for a while, it worked.

It worked because they tried hard. Jimin would wait patiently for Y/N to open up, to lean in. And Y/N would step out of her bubble, just far enough to meet Jimin halfway. They found quiet nights where Jimin would lie in Y/N’s lap while she read, or mornings when Y/N would wake up early just to cook Jimin’s favorite breakfast before she headed to practice. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

For some time, it was enough. Until it wasn’t.

The decline wasn’t sudden. It came in slow bruises, little aches neither of them noticed until it hurt too much to ignore.

Missed texts. Unread messages. A “sorry, I’ve just been out of it” from Y/N, paired with a tired smile and an even more tired heart from Jimin. A canceled dinner. A promise to call, left unfulfilled.

Jimin started to shrink. She didn’t mean to. But she could feel herself folding inward, smaller and smaller, like making herself less would be easier for Y/N to handle.

And Y/N… she wasn’t malicious. Just used to being alone. So, when she didn't hear from Jimin for two days, she assumed she needed space. She gave it to her. And Jimin, hurting in silence, mistook that space for indifference.

One night, Jimin had a breakdown in the dance studio. It was late, everyone else had gone home, and her body just… stopped. Mid-count. She dropped to the floor, chest heaving, and cried into the sleeves of her hoodie. She didn’t text Y/N. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But she was tired of being the one who always reached first.

A week passed before they saw each other again.

Jimin was back at her dorm, scrolling blankly through her phone, when she heard the door open. It was past midnight, and she was curled up on the couch in one of Y/N’s old shirts.

Y/N stepped in, looking worn but soft. Her eyes lit up faintly at the sight of Jimin.

“Hey,” she said gently, setting down her bag. “I brought your favorite — those banana muffins from the bakery near your studio.”

Jimin didn’t say anything.

Y/N walked closer, placing the small paper bag on the coffee table before kneeling in front of her.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, eyes searching Jimin’s face. “I know I’ve been quiet. I just needed to reset.”

Jimin tried to understand. To be calm. She really did. But something in her snapped.

“You needed to reset,” she echoed. “Y/N, I needed you.”

The weight of her words landed like a stone between them.

Jimin’s voice shook. “I had the worst week of my life, and you didn’t even check in. You didn’t ask. You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t know,” Y/N whispered. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Because I’m always the one who tells you!” Jimin’s voice cracked. “I’m always the one who reaches out first. Who gives more. Who needs more. And I’m starting to think you just… you don’t care as much as I do.”

“That’s not true,” Y/N said quickly, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her panic. “Jimin, that’s not fair. Just because I don’t show it the same way doesn’t mean—”

“But I needed you,” Jimin interrupted, tears now sliding down her cheeks. “We— I can’t do this anymore. Sometimes, I really need you, and you’re just not there.”

Y/N froze.

The living room fell silent, except for the dull hum of the air conditioner and the sound of Jimin’s uneven breathing.

Y/N moved to sit beside her. “Jimin…”

But Jimin pulled away.

“I’m tired,” she whispered. “Of having to explain why I’m hurting. Of loving you out loud while you stay silent.”

It wasn’t angry, not even cruel. It was heartbreaking in its honesty.

Y/N sat still for a long time. The guilt was a slow burn in her chest. She thought back to every missed moment, every time she chose space over presence. She had thought she was giving Jimin breathing room. But what she was really giving her was loneliness.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Y/N said quietly.

“Then show up,” Jimin said. “Be here. Not just when it’s easy for you. But when I need you. Even if I don’t say it.”

Y/N nodded. She wanted to say a thousand things. That she’d try harder. That she’d change. But she knew that wouldn’t mean anything right now.

So instead, she reached out and took Jimin’s hand in both of hers. She didn’t say anything. She just held it tightly — because for once, Jimin wasn’t the one reaching first.

Y/N shows up at Jimin’s apartment with a bag of pastries and trembling hands.

They hadn’t talked since the fight. Not like before. A few exchanged texts, short and stilted, like two strangers dancing around familiarity. But the air between them still buzzed with unsaid things, and when Jimin opens the door — still in her oversized hoodie, hair tied back messily, lips pressed tight — Y/N almost turns back.

But she doesn’t. Because she’s trying.

“Hi,” she says, voice small. “I brought those custard buns you like.”

Jimin stares for a second, unreadable. Then she steps aside, wordlessly letting her in.

The apartment is quiet. Lived-in. Dim. Not cold, but not warm either. It mirrors the distance between them perfectly.

Y/N sets the bag down on the kitchen counter like it’s the only thing tethering her to this moment. She turns to find Jimin watching her, guarded, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N blurts.

Jimin says nothing.

Y/N breathes in. “I should’ve said something sooner. I know I shut down a lot. I know it’s not fair to you when you’re always… reaching for me.”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. “You weren’t just shutting down, Y/N. You were disappearing. For days. Weeks. I didn’t even know if I mattered to you sometimes.”

“You do,” Y/N says quickly. “God, Jimin. Of course you do.”

The words hang in the air, soft and honest, and Y/N takes a tentative step forward.

“I just… I’m not good with people,” she says. “I wasn’t raised to need much. I’ve always had to handle things alone, and I thought I was doing okay like that. But then you came along and suddenly I—”

She breaks off, struggling.

Jimin’s voice is quiet. “Suddenly what?”

Y/N meets her eyes. “Suddenly I wanted to do better. For you.”

A flicker of something passes through Jimin’s expression — pain? Hope?

“I get overwhelmed,” Y/N admits. “Sometimes it’s easier to shut everything out than say something wrong. But I never meant to shut you out.”

Jimin exhales, slow. Her shoulders drop just a little. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to sound like an excuse.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Jimin’s voice is softer now, and she looks at Y/N with that same gentleness that always made her feel seen. “I just wanted you to let me in. Even a little.”

Y/N nods, guilt carving through her. She steps closer.

And for a moment, it feels like maybe they’re okay.

They share a quiet dinner, side by side on the couch, legs brushing. Jimin plays with Y/N’s fingers absentmindedly, tracing her knuckles, letting herself lean into the touch. Y/N presses a kiss to Jimin’s temple and murmurs, “I missed you,” and Jimin closes her eyes at the tenderness of it all.

Later, when Y/N dozes off against her shoulder, Jimin brushes a hand through her hair, smiling faintly.

It almost feels like peace.

Almost.

But things don’t stay soft for long.

Y/N keeps trying. She texts good morning. She checks in. She sends photos of sunsets or cats she passes on the way home. She shows up more.

And Jimin notices. Of course she does.

But the thing about effort is — it doesn’t erase time.

Time spent in silence. Time where Jimin cried alone after long days and long nights, wondering if Y/N cared. Time she begged the universe for even a little piece of the girl she loved — and got nothing but echoes.

The more Y/N tries to patch the cracks, the more Jimin realizes some things already bled out through them.

There’s one night, quiet and ordinary, where it all unravels again.

They’re lying in bed, side by side, hands touching but not quite held.

Y/N’s talking about something — a new café that opened, maybe — when she notices Jimin’s eyes are distant.

“Hey,” she says gently, “you okay?”

Jimin nods, but it’s a lie. Y/N sees it.

“You can tell me.”

Jimin stays quiet for a long time. Then, in a voice that’s too calm, she asks, “What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Jimin gestures between them. “You. Now. What made you start trying?”

Y/N pauses. “You said you were done. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Jimin looks at her. “You almost did.”

“I know. I’m trying to make it up to you.”

“I know you are,” Jimin says softly. Then, with more weight: “But what if I don’t have anything left to give you back?”

Y/N’s heart cracks. “Don’t say that.”

“I loved you through all your silences,” Jimin whispers, “through every unanswered message, every time I wondered if I was just… too much for you.”

“You’re not.”

“But I needed you. And you weren’t there.”

The room is silent.

Y/N feels the ache rising again. The kind of ache that comes when you know you’re too late.

“I’m here now,” she says quietly.

Jimin gives a sad smile. “But I’m not.”

And that’s when Y/N knows.

She can try and try. She can love with every fiber of her being now. But sometimes, even love isn’t enough. Not when you waited too long to speak it.

Jimin turns away, curling into herself, and Y/N doesn’t follow. She just lies there, staring at the ceiling.

Two people, inches apart, galaxies away. And nothing but silence between them again.

It’s been months since the last time they spoke, but the memory still plays in Y/N’s chest like a bruise that never fully healed.

She remembers the night like a freeze-frame — too quiet, too fragile, the air tense between them like glass threatening to crack. Jimin had looked tired. Not just physically, but also soul-deep. The kind of tired that came from reaching and reaching and never quite being held the way she needed.

And Y/N… she had always been the quiet one. The one who loved in pauses, in late-night playlists and packed lunches, in sitting silently beside someone for hours without needing to speak. Her love was gentle. Careful. Barely there unless you knew where to look.

But Jimin needed noise. Reassurance. Attention she could touch.

That night, they sat at opposite ends of the bed— not far in distance, but worlds apart in need.

“I just don’t know how to keep showing up for someone who disappears when I need them most,” Jimin had said, voice steady, but her eyes already glassy.

Y/N had opened her mouth to explain — to say “I don’t mean to disappear,” to confess how crowded everything felt in her head when someone needed too much. How she wasn’t wired to keep up with emotional expectations that hung in the air like unspoken ultimatums.

But she said nothing. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Even when Jimin begged for something real, something vulnerable — she said nothing.

Now, weeks later, Y/N sits on her bedroom floor, staring at an old polaroid Jimin once stuck on her bookshelf. It’s a blurry photo of the two of them from last spring — Jimin’s arm slung around her shoulders, Y/N’s head tucked against her chest, both of them smiling like they didn’t know how it would end.

She traces the curve of Jimin’s smile in the photo.

She remembers how Jimin always tucked her into the safe parts of herself. How she kissed Y/N’s forehead before bed even when they weren’t speaking. How she waited — god, she waited — for Y/N to say anything that sounded like, I need you too.

But the words always got caught in Y/N’s throat, stuck somewhere between fear and the only version of love she knew — the quiet kind. The kind Jimin could never feel fully wrapped in.

And she doesn’t blame her. She could never.

Y/N places the photo face down.

This wasn’t some fiery breakup. There were no slammed doors, no screaming matches. Just two people who tried. One who loved loudly. And one who loved quietly — too quietly.

And maybe, in another lifetime, she would’ve known how to be better.

But in this one?

She only hopes Jimin finds someone who listens without her needing to ask. Someone who shows up without needing a reason. Someone who stays — not just beside her, but with her.

The moment Yujin spotted Y/N at the check-in counter, she knew she was in trouble. It was the kind of trouble that made her heartbeat stutter for just a second longer than normal, the kind that had her sneaking glances while pretending to check the flight manifest. Y/N wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary — just speaking to the agent at the counter, passport in hand, a carry-on resting against her leg — but there was something about her. Maybe it was the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while listening intently, or how she smiled politely even while waiting.

Yujin swallowed, forcing herself to focus as she made her way toward the gate where passengers were beginning to board.

When Y/N finally stepped onto the plane, Yujin straightened her uniform and took a deep breath. "Welcome aboard," she greeted with a warm smile, her signature dimples making an appearance.

Y/N returned the smile, a little shy but polite. “Thank you.”

Yujin wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip by. As Y/N made her way down the aisle, struggling to lift her carry-on into the overhead compartment, Yujin was quick to step in.

“Let me help you with that.”

“Oh, I got it—” Y/N started, but Yujin was already reaching up, effortlessly slotting the bag into place.

“There we go,” Yujin said, brushing her hands off dramatically before flashing another dimpled grin. “No need to strain those arms.”

Y/N chuckled. “That was smooth. Thanks.”

Yujin winked, not missing the way Y/N’s ears turned a little pink before she settled into her seat.

Throughout the flight, Yujin found herself glancing in Y/N’s direction whenever she passed by. Her fellow flight attendants teased her about it, but she didn’t care. When the meal service began, she saw her chance.

As she placed the tray in front of Y/N, she subtly slipped a small napkin underneath, upon which she had scribbled her number. It wasn’t something she did often (she’s never done it before), but Y/N was special — she could feel it.

Yujin sent her one last knowing smile before walking away, hoping — praying — that Y/N would see the note.

Except she didn’t.

Y/N, entirely unaware, used the napkin to wipe her hands and then casually tucked it onto the tray with the rest of the used items.

Yujin, who had been waiting for any sign of acknowledgment, was met with absolutely nothing. She bit her lip, confused but hopeful. Maybe Y/N was just playing it cool? Maybe she’d text later?

When it was time for passengers to disembark, Yujin made sure to be near the exit, greeting each traveler with a smile. And when Y/N walked past her, she offered her brightest one yet.

“Have a great day,” she said, hoping that Y/N had indeed found her note.

“You too,” Y/N replied, her voice sweet as ever, but there was no extra glance, no hidden smile, nothing that suggested she had seen the message. Yujin’s heart sank just a little.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

Yujin checked her phone more times than she’d like to admit, waiting for an unknown number to pop up with a message. Nothing.

At first, she thought Y/N was just taking her time. Then doubt started creeping in. Maybe she had lost the napkin? Maybe she wasn’t interested at all? Maybe she had a boyfriend—

“Still no text?” Yuna, another flight attendant, asked during a layover.

Yujin groaned, flopping onto the hotel bed dramatically. “Nothing. Maybe I should’ve just been upfront instead of doing the whole mysterious note thing.”

“Or maybe she just didn’t see it,” Yuna suggested.

That thought kept Yujin going.

Whenever she had a flight, she found herself looking out for Y/N. It was a ridiculous hope, but she couldn’t help it. She scanned the boarding passengers, checked every coffee shop in airports, and even peeked into bookstores when she had time between flights. And then, as if fate had finally decided to take pity on her, Yujin found her again.

Yujin had just landed back home and, as was her habit, she stopped by her favorite café to grab a much-needed coffee. She stepped inside, rubbing the back of her neck, and was about to pull out her phone when—

There she was.

Y/N, standing behind the counter, adjusting her apron as she laughed at something a coworker said.

Yujin nearly walked into a chair.

Regaining her composure, she strode up to the counter, heart hammering in her chest. Y/N turned around, ready to take the next order, and the moment her eyes landed on Yujin, they widened in surprise.

“Oh,” Y/N said, blinking. “It’s you.”

Yujin raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “You remember me.”

“Of course,” Y/N said, a small laugh escaping her lips. “You were the flight attendant who helped me with my luggage.”

“That’s all?” Yujin feigned offense. “I thought I made more of an impression than that.”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to think. “Hmm… You did smile a lot. Dimples. Very cute.”

Yujin grinned, resting her arms on the counter. “Well, I also left you my number. But you never texted.”

Y/N frowned, clearly confused. “You did?”

Yujin sighed dramatically, but she was smiling. “I slipped it under your napkin during the flight.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, realization dawning on her. “Oh my God.” She covered her mouth, looking horrified. “I—I didn’t see it. I must have thrown it away!”

Yujin let out a laugh, shaking her head. “That explains a lot. I thought I got rejected.”

Y/N groaned, looking genuinely regretful. “I’m so sorry. I swear, if I had seen it, I would’ve texted.”

Yujin leaned in slightly. “Then how about I fix that mistake right now?”

Y/N blinked, then her lips curled into a smirk. “Are you asking for my number this time?”

Yujin grinned. “No, I’m asking for a date. You can give me your number after you say yes.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head, but there was a warmth in her eyes. “You really don’t give up, huh?”

“Not when it comes to someone who caught my eye at check-in,” Yujin said smoothly.

Y/N pretended to think for a moment before finally sighing dramatically. “Fine. I suppose I owe you after accidentally ignoring you for weeks.”

Yujin pumped a fist in victory. “Finally! Took me long enough.”

Y/N giggled, reaching for a napkin and scribbling something on it before sliding it across the counter. “Here. My number. Just don’t throw it away like I did.”

Yujin took it, holding it up triumphantly. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m keeping this one safe.”

As she walked out of the café, a new spring in her step, she glanced at the napkin in her hand, smiling to herself.

Maybe fate really was on her side after all.