#amf

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

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

then the truck pulls up next door.

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

a car door slams. then another.

then—a laugh.

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

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

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

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

you don’t move at first.

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

you consider ignoring her.

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

you sigh.

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

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

you raise an eyebrow. “need help?”

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

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

“y/n.”

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

“…thanks?”

she grins like you’ve said something funny.

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

her brow furrows. “what?”

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

she looks down.

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

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

“you’ll get used to it,” you say.

“nah. gonna sue.”

by friday, she’s everywhere.

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

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

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

you study it.

“…you gave it five legs.”

“five is a lucky number!”

“not for dogs.”

“not for boring dogs.”

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

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

“you want to check?”

“check what?”

“the wall.”

“in your house?”

“yes.”

“…no.”

“coward.”

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

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

you take it.

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

“you talk enough for both of us.”

she grins, satisfied. “true.”

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

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

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

you listen more than you speak. you always have.

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

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

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

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

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

that becomes the rhythm of your days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the storm hasn’t even begun to gather.

not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then the small things start to change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but things feel different after that.

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

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

"how do you even audition for those companies?"

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

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

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

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

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

"no," you say. "i think it’s brave."

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

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

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

hanni starts coming home later.

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

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

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

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

you blink. “like… school dance?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next week, she drags you along.

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

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

hanni is different here.

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

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

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

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

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

you turn to her, meet her eyes.

“you were incredible.”

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

you start waiting for her after practice.

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

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

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

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

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

and you’ll nod. always.

the walk home is quiet, usually.

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

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

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

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

and you always do.

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

you reach her gate slower than usual these days.

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

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

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

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

“do what?”

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

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

one night, it rains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you hesitate. “won’t your mom—?”

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

she disappears into the dark house, and you follow.

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

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

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

you don’t say anything. just watch her.

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

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

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

“okay.”

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

you don’t move. not for a long time.

it’s sunday again.

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

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

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

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

“can i tell you something?”

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

you blink up at her.

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

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

still, you nod. “always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“and?” you ask.

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

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

she trails off.

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

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

“that’s incredible,” you say quietly.

her brows furrow. “you’re not… mad?”

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

she blinks.

“really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you pretend not to smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

she’s quiet.

then, “i won’t let that happen.”

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

“promise?” you ask.

she reaches for your pinky and hooks it with hers.

“promise,” she whispers.

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

on the last full day, she skips dance practice.

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

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

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

“it is,” you say. “i already know.”

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

after dinner, the house is still.

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

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

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

“don’t,” you say. “not yet.”

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

time moves slower in moments like this. softer.

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

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

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

“i wrote this in science class.”

“i know. you got in trouble.”

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

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

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

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

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

you nod. you knew that already.

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

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

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

“okay.”

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

she doesn’t move. neither do you.

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

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

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

“you’ll be amazing,” you say.

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

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

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

she wakes to warmth.

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

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

but then she feels it.

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

you’re still asleep.

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

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

she swallows hard and doesn’t let herself move.

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

you always knew.

that’s the part that hurts the most.

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

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

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

and somehow — even in sleep — you answer.

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

she closes her eyes.

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

but still, she stays.

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

but all she can think about is you.

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

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

it hurts. but it’s hers.

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

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

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

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

the days blur together in seoul.

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

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

and she runs.

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

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

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

she misses that girl. she misses you.

more than she lets herself admit.

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

she still hasn’t replied to your last message.

it's not that she doesn’t want to.

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

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

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

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

“do you ever get tired of it?”

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

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

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

then she stops. hovers over send.

deletes the last part.

rewrites:

i miss you.

and sends it before she can take it back.

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

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

trainee life is relentless.

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

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

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

in the little things.

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

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

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

she never sends these.

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

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

and always — always — you reply.

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

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

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

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

those are the ones that hurt the most.

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

instead, she types, deletes, types again.

still here.

she doesn’t send that either.

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

sometimes, she gets half a day off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a photo.

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

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

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

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

but she hesitates.

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

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

the package comes a week later.

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

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

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

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

she doesn’t open the letter right away.

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

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

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

the paper trembles in her hands.

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

she wipes at her eyes once. then again.

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

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

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

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

melbourne feels both foreign and exactly the same.

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

she hasn’t stood here in nearly a year.

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

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

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

your street is just three blocks away.

you don’t know she’s coming home.

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

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

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

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

you don’t expect her.

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

you don’t move.

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

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

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

you swallow. “hi.”

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

“can i come in?”

you step aside.

it takes a while to settle.

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

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

and that’s when the silence breaks.

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

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

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

you ask her why she never called.

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

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

you want to be angry.

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

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

she looks up at you.

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

you don’t hug right away.

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

but your knees brush under the table.

and neither of you pulls away.

she stays for three days.

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

she sleeps in your room.

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

and you say, “yeah. of course.”

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

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

she wears your old hoodie in the mornings.

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

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

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

you take pictures — she lets you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

she hesitates.

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

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

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

you turn to face her.

and for once, she doesn’t look away.

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

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

but instead, you tell the truth.

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

her eyes soften.

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

her throat works around a silent thank you.

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

“me too.”

the space between you crackles.

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

you wake up together, just like that.

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

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

she whispers something into your hair.

you don’t catch it.

it starts quietly.

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

it starts with a delayed reply.

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

and she does.

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

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

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

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

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

and then, one night, she forgets your birthday.

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

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

nothing.

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

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

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

meanwhile, in seoul, hanni is unraveling in silence.

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

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

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

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

because the truth is, she’s afraid.

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

there are nights when she almost calls.

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

but she never presses call.

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

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

she deletes it before she can reread it.

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

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

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

softly. quietly.

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

you don’t hear it from her.

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

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

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

your chest pulls tight.

your thumb hovers.

then, slowly, you press play.

and there she is.

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

no — this hanni is something else.

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

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

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

because she didn’t tell you.

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

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

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

you wonder if she even saw it.

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

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

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

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

—

hanni doesn’t check her phone right away.

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

she should be celebrating. she tries.

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

because she didn’t tell you.

she wanted to.

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

but the moment never came.

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

you’ve seen it. you haven’t messaged.

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

you should’ve been the first person she told.

you always were.

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

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

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

not without you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she presses the doorbell.

waits.

the door opens slower than she remembers.

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

“hanni?”

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

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

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

but he sees it in her face.

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

her throat tightens. she nods.

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

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

“is she out?” she tries. “or—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

she hesitates.

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

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

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

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

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

not the fact that you’re gone.

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

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

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

she walks back slower than before.

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

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

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

the next morning, she doesn't go out.

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

she hears the door shut gently behind her.

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

but in here, it’s quiet. too quiet.

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

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

no missed calls. no new messages.

she scrolls to your name anyway.

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

no emoji. just your name. lowercase. steady.

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

she never replied.

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

then deletes it.

tries again. “i went to your house.”

deletes it too.

tries again. “i miss you.”

deletes.

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

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

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

she’s quiet through the rest of chuseok.

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

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

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

she thinks of you often now. more than before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

hanni doesn’t tell them otherwise.

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

on some days, it works. the ache quiets.

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

she doesn’t cry. not really. not yet.

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

and if you did, how long.

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

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

but she doesn’t look at the date.

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

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

she doesn’t let herself think about it now.

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

it hits her worst at night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a lump rises in her throat.

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

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

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

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

her pen stills. she reads it over.

then turns the page.

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

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

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

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

the snow falls heavier that night.

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

two years later.

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

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

minji notices first.

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

hanni looks up slowly. “not really.”

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

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

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

that makes everyone pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m not mopey—”

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

hanni goes silent.

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

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

just in case.

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

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

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

the room goes quiet for a second.

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

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

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

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

her fingers still toy with the sleeve of her outfit.

she keeps her head down.

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

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

and just like that, it’s time.

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

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

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

because what if.

what if you’re here.

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

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

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

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

and still, her eyes wander.

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

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

row by row. section by section.

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

and then—

there you are.

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

you’re really here.

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

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

hanni nods, barely.

but her gaze doesn’t leave you.

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

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

but then — you smile.

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

something tugs in her throat.

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

you’re real.

she almost forgets the next step again.

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

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

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

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

and you’re watching her.

really watching.

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

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

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

the show ends in a blur.

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

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

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

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

haerin nudges her side gently. “you good?”

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

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

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

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

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

“what now?” she asks.

hanni exhales. her hands are trembling again.

“i don’t know.”

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

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

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

but she has to try.

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

are you still here?

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

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

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

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

you swallow. tilt your head back. breathe.

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

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

are you still here?

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

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

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

you type. stop. delete.

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

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

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

okay.

you find her in the hallway.

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

she’s looking at you.

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

“hey,” she says.

you blink. “hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

hanni smiles, small and quiet. “thanks.”

another beat passes.

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

she trails off. shrugs lightly.

“but here we are,” you offer, gently.

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

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

“i know.”

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

you nod.

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

you glance at her. “you could’ve.”

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

you both go still.

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

you look at her.

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

your heart pulls.

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

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

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

and you pause.

longer this time.

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

but—

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

she nods, barely.

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

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

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

her mouth opens, but no answer comes out.

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

she closes her eyes for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

hanni bites her lip.

nods once, slow.

“okay,” she says. “okay.”

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

you take a step back.

she doesn’t move.

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

the hallway feels longer this time.

and behind you, hanni stands still.

it’s been six months since the concert.

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

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

and now she’s here.

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

you open it before she even knocks.

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

“hey,” she says first, voice small.

“hey.”

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

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

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

you don’t ask which one. you know.

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

you stay quiet, watching her. waiting.

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

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

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

“hanni,” you say gently. “why now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you let those words settle between you.

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

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

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

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

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

just enough.

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

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

“yeah,” you say. “you can.”

you don't talk for a while after that.

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

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

you glance at her. “you look tired.”

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

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

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

you look back at her, quiet. waiting.

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

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

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

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

“and now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

she lifts her head again. meets your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hanni swallows. “i know.”

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

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

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

“and what if it happens again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

you let that land. you breathe through it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you say, more quietly now, “promise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

hanni’s eyes don’t leave yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then you’re kissing her.

it’s not urgent. not desperate.

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

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

when you pull back, her forehead rests against yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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