#charwritez

It was never really a question. Not even for a second. Whether you’d fall for Daniela Avanzini was decided long before you’d ever learned her name. Maybe even before you stepped through those doors at Dream Academy. All you knew was that from the second you saw her that day at practice, in the room full of mirrors and polished floors and voices that tried too hard to sound certain, you were already doomed.

You think of that day like a photograph you might’ve carried in your pocket. The edges are a little softened from being taken out so often, there is a crease through the middle where you’d folded it with careless hands, and the image has that strange glow of a memory that has been retold, to yourself if no one else. Yet some parts always stayed the same. 

Her eyes came first. They burned like something that should have been forbidden, a steady, unwavering heat, the kind that carried a sinfulness could not be named and a sharpness that belonged to no one else. Her hair came next, bright and clean, a crown made of light, a halo where there should have been nothing holy at all. And then there was the air. The way it moved around her as if it had been waiting, the way it seemed to lean in. You had not known that air could choose favorites until she walked in, and you took your first breath that did not hurt. Maybe that sounded cliche, but the truth rarely bothers to be original.

You had been leaning against the far wall, half-listening to a conversation you could not repeat if asked, when she entered the room. You remember straightening without realizing it. You remember an elbow digging into you in the rush of bodies, someone asking if you were alright. You do not remember anything else. Only the way hello slipped from her mouth, too simple for what it carried, yet loud enough to cut through every other sound. And when she asked for your name, in that confident, sure way she always did, you gave it without thinking, the act feeling less like speaking and more like a confession you had never meant to give. 

In the stillness between her voice and your next breath, something quiet and irreversible took root inside you, the way a shadow claims its shape. As if the world had chosen its side, and it would never be yours again.

—

It did not end there. It never could have.

Because if Daniela’s hello had undone you, her dancing destroyed you.

You had seen people dance before, of course you had. Dream Academy was filled with bodies bending and breaking to the will of music, each of them trying to prove they belonged. But when Daniela stepped onto the floor, it was as if the world rearranged itself to follow her lead. It was not just the movement, it was something larger. Watching her was like learning a secret you were never meant to know, something that rearranged you in silence: the mirrors, the light, even the music becoming secondary. 

You remember the first time, the way the bass started low, the way her body caught it before anyone else. You remember the hush that fell over the room, though the music blared louder than ever, your chest rattling with bass. And you remember thinking that words like talent or gifted were too small for her, laughable even, struck by the certainty that she was doing something impossible and making it look easy. 

Lara swears she told you to pick your jaw back up off the floor that day, to get your sense in order before someone noticed. But she also swears she’s never stolen your clothes before, so the jury’s still out on that one. Either way, it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. You couldn’t have looked away even if you tried. 

Later, much later into the competition, when you were too tired to care and too drunk off the simple act of watching her exist, you told Daniela what you had thought that first time you saw her dance. That she had made the music look like it was chasing her, that she had turned the impossible into a loyal thing trailing behind, desperate to be enough.

She had laughed at your confession. God, she had laughed. Head thrown back, mouth open wide, hand pressed to her stomach like she could not hold herself together. And for a moment you thought she might fall over from the sheer force of it, a small part of you almost wishing she would just so you might catch her. Instead she tipped forward, hair spilling into her face, eyes alight with something you couldn’t name and wouldn’t dare to, and said between gasps, “Flatterer,” though you had not lied and “Now stop staring and come dance before one of the instructors gets you” like you might forget the way her dancing had burned itself into your eyes.

But you complied anyway. You pushed yourself to your feet, though your legs felt unfamiliar and the ground unsteady. You stumbled once, then twice: the first step slipping, the second nearly giving way, until steady hands caught you. Her fingers curled around your wrist, brushed your shoulder as if it cost nothing. But to you, it was everything. A promise almost too embarrassing to admit. Too small for her to notice, too large for you to forget.

You never took your words back, though. Not then, not ever.

—

When the two of you eventually became friends, it felt inevitable. Like the simplest thing in the world. If you were trying to be dramatic, you would say that knowing Daniela was like stepping into the sun. But the truth was gentler. Slower. You became friends the way the sun rises: first a hush, then a hint, then all at once bright and dazzling, as if it had been waiting just beneath the horizon to finally burst free.

It began with small things. A shared joke during the orientation that stretched into a conversation at lunch. A borrowed hair tie that turned into half an hour on the floor, talking about which instructors played favorites and how everyone pretended not to notice. Nights in the dorms with voices dropping to whispers because the walls were thin and your laughters were not. Mornings that came too soon yet perfectly on time, your shoulder still remembering the weight of her head.

It was easy, giddy, the kind of friendship that made your stomach twist for no good reason at all. And while Daniela might not have known you yet, not really, she said your name like it might already belong to her. 

So maybe, if she could be compared to anything, though nothing ever felt enough, Daniela Avanzini would be the sun itself. Brilliant, constant, impossible to ignore. She rose, and you rose to meet her. She rose, and everything tilted toward her light. 

—

But even the sunlight can burn. Anything can, if you get too close. And Daniela was fire disguised as warmth. People like her belonged on pedestals, untouchable, admired from afar so that no one risked the fall. But she’d never let you.

Because for all her beauty, for all her talent, Daniela was above all, unfairly kind. That was the part you never expected, the part that ruined you most. Beauty you might have resisted, talent you might have admired from a distance, but kindness is harder. It finds you where you are weakest and makes you love it all the more for noticing you at all. And Daniela’s was the sort that found you when you least deserved it.

You remember that day, the one that should have broken you. Practice had been brutal, one of those afternoons when every correction from an instructor sounded less like help and more like confirmation that you did not belong. You had stumbled through steps, forgotten counts, felt the heavy weight of your groupmates’ eyes every time you slowed them down. Like you were letting them down. You were. By the end, the shame in your chest had festered until it soured into something mean.

Your words grew sharp. You snapped at people who hadn’t earned it. Short, bitter replies slipped from your mouth before you could call them back. Even your face betrayed you, carved into a scowl you couldn’t unmake. You hated yourself for it, hated the small wounds you left in others, hated that you couldn’t stop. Sometimes failure rotted you from the inside out, and that day it had eaten through everything.

By the time you left the building, you could hardly stand to be with yourself. The sky had split open, and the rain poured down in relentless sheets, blurring the edges of the world. You let it soak you through, half hoping it might wash you away, half thinking you deserved the punishment. Your phone was dead by this point, your body leaden, and your mind snarled with voices that would not quiet. And in the hiss of the storm, one thought clung like a shadow: maybe the world would have been better with one less you.

Then you heard it: the low growl of an engine slicing through the rain. A red Mustang, bright and alive, pulling up to the curb as if conjured just for you. It did not belong there, in the gray hush of a storm that wanted to swallow everything whole. But neither did she.

Yet the window slid down, and there she was: Daniela, haloed by the storm, her hair damp, though more from the sweat of practice than from the rain that drowned you. Her smile was quick and reckless, like it had never learned the meaning of restraint, and she looked at you as if you weren’t drenched through, as if your scowl hadn’t carved hollows in your face, as if you weren’t already breaking apart from the inside.

“Need a ride?” She asked, like it was casual, like you weren’t standing there with water dripping down your spine.

“No, I’m good,” You lied, rain plastering your clothes to your skin.

She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched. “You sure? You seem like you’re getting drenched out there.”

“Oh, this?” You gestured weakly to the sheets pouring from the sky. “Just a drizzle, don’t worry about me.”

Her mouth quirked, patient in that dangerous way of hers. And then she told you to get in, voice steady in the way that left no room for protest. Said that you were going to get sick, with the same seriousness you only ever saw when she danced. Like the idea of you falling ill might matter to her. Like maybe you did too.

You still don’t know how she found you that day. You don’t know what pulled you to climb in either, when all you’d wanted was to sink deeper into the rot of your own self-deprecation. But you did. You slipped into the passenger seat of a car too fine to meet with your soaked clothes, with seats too tender, too carefully kept, with nothing but a quiet thank you to offer and an exhaustion dragging heavier through your body than pride could fight.

Daniela didn’t comment on any of it all, though. She didn’t even push. She only answered your gratitude with a wink, teasing, though carrying with it something soft enough for you to land on, and asked where you wanted to go.

Lara later told you that Daniela had to get new leather seats for the Mustang, the one she always called her baby. You had laughed, because of course she would give that roaring beast such a delicate name. She always had a way of scattering affection like seeds, letting it take root in the strangest of places. But no matter how many times the story surfaced, no matter how many voices tried to retell it as their own, she never told anyone it had been you who ruined her seats.

—

After that, every moment seemed to fall into place. You could not pinpoint the exact one. Maybe because it was not a single moment, but a slow, almost invisible accumulation of them. The kind you only notice in retrospect, when you look back and realize something irreversible has already happened.

Because somewhere along the way, you went from sitting next to each other at practice to saving seats for one another, from whispering across rooms to whispering under the same blanket. There is a particular closeness at night that cannot be imitated in the day. Daniela’s face would be right there, her breath a warm fog on your cheek, her lashes close enough to count. Some mornings you would wake up and the first thing you knew was her perfume. It would be in your hair and your clothes and the fabric of the pillowcase, and you would think that if you could smell like this forever, you would learn to be brave. It was in those hours, hushed and unguarded, that you began to share more than laughter or secrets. You began to offer each other the fragile parts, the pieces that rarely made it outside the dark. Dreams that slipped out like confessions, traded back and forth as if the act itself bound you closer.

She said she wanted the world to see her move, really see her, not in the way of numbers and views, but the kind of seeing that alters something inside the person watching. You said you wanted to become someone people would know. She snorted, which made you defensive until she explained it was not the desire itself but the way you had said it, as if fame were a coat you could buy if you found the right store. You got quiet then, embarrassed at how grand and foolish you must have sounded. She saw it immediately.

"I only mean that you don’t need fame to be known. I already know you," She said, like truth itself, and it was not casual, instead steady, almost defiant, as if she could hold the truth of you in her hands if you would only let her.

"Do you really?" You asked, trying for a challenge but landing on a plea.

She did not answer right away, instead she narrowed her eyes, doing that thing she always did where she balanced on the edge of mocking and mercy. Then, slowly, she smiled, not with her mouth but with something smaller, deeper, something in her eyes. "Okay, maybe not, but I sweat to keep learning everything there is about you until I do." The words were gentle, but they carried the weight of an oath.

You almost laughed then, but not from humor but instead disbelief. At the way her eyes did not crinkle the way they did when she was teasing, the way her lips did not pull into a grin to signal a joke. The very fact that you noticed those things at all forcing you to turn away, as if the closeness suddenly became too much to bear head-on. There was a moment of deafening silence, before: "Okay," You finally said, letting a slow breath out, her name following soon after like an exhale: half surrender, half prayer.

But you did not say the quiet part aloud. You swallowed it instead, shoved it down into the deepest part of yourself, where all the most dangerous truths went to rot. Daniela smiled beside you at your words, as if she might have been holding her breath too. You tried not to get hung up on the details. But you hoped she was telling the truth. You hoped that maybe, just maybe she would. Because even if you couldn’t say it then, every part of you was already waiting—waiting for her to know you, to see you, to learn you until there was nothing left to hide.

—

Sophia made a joke once that the two of you acted like a married couple, inseparable.

You had laughed far too hard at that, thrown your head back like it was the funniest thing you had ever heard, as if volume could disguise the truth. As if a laugh could muffle the heat that spread across your cheeks, or steady the flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with humor. 

Lara’s eyes flicked to yours at the sound, her brows rising, falling, then settling into a permanent arch that asked more questions than you were willing to answer. You ignored her, if only because by then it had already been too late. You were already in far too deep, too caught in the gravity of Daniela’s to even pretend otherwise.

Daniela, for her part, had not laughed at all. She had only smiled, the same quiet, knowing smile she had worn the first day you met and continued to ruin you every chance that it got. Then she nudged your thigh with hers, casual, careless, yet charged in a way that made you feel like there was a secret threaded between you, one that belonged to no one else. 

She had not known then how much she meant to you. She had not known how many times you had almost confessed. The words I’m in love with you living at the edge of your mouth for so long they feel like part of you, teeth and breath. Always there, waiting, always pressed just behind your tongue, ready to slip if you ever stopped holding so tightly.

The first time you nearly let them out was the week you got sick. You don’t even remember what it was now, only that it had hit hard. A splitting headache that clawed at your skull, a fever that made your body heavy and useless, eyes blurring with tears every time you tried to sit up. You were miserable, of course, wrecked, curled in on yourself and cursing your own weakness. Everyone else had gone out for the day, eager to use the rare night off to breathe air that wasn’t recycled through practice rooms. You would have gone too, if you could have lifted your head without feeling like the world was tearing in two.

But Daniela—she stayed.

She arrived at your door that day like a saint to your prayers, slipping into your room as if it had always been hers too, and lowering herself beside your pathetic, shivering body. You tried to turn toward her, just to greet her, maybe ask her what she was doing still there and not with the rest of the girls, before she stilled you with the gentlest insistence, a hand settling against your temples as though she could hush even the fever itself. You wanted to protest at the touch, to insist you were fine and didn’t need to be babied, but the coolness of her fingers stole the words from you before they could form. Until all you could do was let her hold you there, her form just barely visible under the mountain of blankets Lara had buried you under.

Then she grinned, the corners of her mouth curling in that way that dared you not to smile back, and said, in a voice almost too gentle to have been used on you, “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

You tried to laugh, it turned into a cough.

“Don’t worry, I've seen worse.”

It was her turn to laugh at that, the sound melodic even through the ringing in your ears, and you thought to yourself that maybe being sick wasn’t so bad if it meant you could still make her smile. As though she could read your mind, she suddenly turned serious, her playfulness slipping into something steadier, more intent and almost reprimanding. You straightened up instinctively. Or as much as you could have in your state. 

Daniela reached for the glass of water on your nightstand, long gone lukewarm but still necessary if the burning in your throat was any proof, and pressed it into your hands. She told you to drink before you keeled over for real and she had to explain to HYBE what happened to one of their performers. Though the words told felt more ordered, and the spirit of Sophia seemed to have possessed her in that moment. Honestly, she was terrifying in that moment, calm and commanding, but the way her fingers lingered just long enough against yours erased the fears as they came.

And then she asked you to scoot over, made herself at home on your bed, and stayed. Through all of it. Through your groaning about how you were dying, your melodramatic sighs about the unfairness of the universe, your complaints that the world had clearly conspired against you. She stayed when she didn’t have to, when every reason told her she could have left, when kindness should have had its limits and still she chose not to draw them. She stayed patient and steady, her presence soft and unshakable.

When you finally tired of complaining, she picked up the silence. She spoke to you about things that didn’t matter, then about things that did, her voice moving between the two like water, steady and gentle. She filled the room with her presence, gentle enough to hold you together when you were too weak to do it yourself, and when you at last surrendered to sleep, heavy-limbed and feverish, her voice was still there, lulling you under like a hand smoothing the edges of a dream.

When you opened your eyes again hours later, certain she had left, you were surprised to find her still there. She had moved while you were asleep, but not away like you might have expected, closer : curled at your side, fast asleep, as if you weren’t contagious, as if she would have chosen you anyway. As if, just for that night, she had decided you were worth catching.

The next week, she was the one in bed.

“I told you you’d get it,” You teased, standing over her with a bowl of soup you almost spilled from how your hands shook.

She groaned, tugged the blanket higher, and with eyes glassy but still impossibly bright, whispered, “It was worth it.”

The words were simple, tossed out as if they cost her nothing, but they cracked something open in you. The sincerity was too much, almost cruel in its gentleness. 

That was the moment the confession surged to your throat, the moment you almost let it spill into the space between you, reckless and irreversible.

But you didn’t. You weren’t even sure how you fought it down. Instead, you sat beside her, the way she had sat beside you only days before, careful not to spill the soup, pretending not to notice how she somehow made even sickness look luminous. And you stayed. You tended to her, tried to repay what could never really be repaid.

And when she finally fell asleep, you caught yourself staring, your own words still burning at the edge of your mouth.

After that, the words kept finding new places to corner you, new moments to rise in your throat until you had to bite them back, each one so close it felt like choking.

Like the time the power went out at the Katseye house. The others had groaned, cursed, lit their phones and huddled together in frustration. You had followed their lead until Daniela found you, grabbed your hand, and dragged you into the hallway. “Come on,” she whispered, her voice alive in the dark. The two of you sat on the cold floor, laughing at nothing, making shapes against the wall with the weak glow of your screens.

The game turned into “guess the shadow animal,” though calling it a game was generous. Daniela shrieked that you were cheating when you guessed hers too quickly, though in your defense, all of her animals suspiciously looked the same. “That’s a cat,” she insisted, holding her hands in a configuration that looked exactly like the dog she’d done two minutes before. You doubled over laughing until your stomach hurt, and she threw her phone at you in mock offense, only to snatch it back before it hit the ground.

Eventually, the lights flickered back on. You noticed the way she saw it first, caught the glow in her eyes, the faint buzz of her phone in her hand as a signal returned. And then you noticed how she clicked the screen dark and slipped it into her pocket, as if she had not noticed at all. As if staying there, in the dark beside you, was more important than anything waiting on the other end.

Or the night you danced together. Not in practice, not under the sharp eyes of instructors, but just the two of you, when music spilled out of someone’s speaker down the hall and she tugged you into the center of the room. She decided to teach you a Latin dance, something quick and sharp, and within thirty seconds you discovered you were spectacularly bad at it. She laughed so hard she could barely get the steps out. “You have the grace of a newborn giraffe,” She teased, steadying you when you nearly toppled sideways.

“Fine,” You challenged, out of breath, “dance off. Right now.”

Her eyebrows shot up, eyes sparkling. “Are you sure?”

You broke immediately, throwing your hands up. “No, never mind. I’m not. But only because I respect you. Not because I think I’d lose or anything.”

That made her laugh even harder, the sound spilling into the room like it belonged to no one else. She guided you anyway, spinning you until you lost track of where the floor was, until all you could focus on was the nearness of her: her breath brushing your skin, her hair catching against your jaw, your chest aching with everything you could not say.

But the closest you came, the closet, was the night she cried. You had never seen her like that before. She was not loud about it, not broken, but quiet. The kind of crying that made you feel like you were intruding on something sacred just by witnessing it. She tried to hide it, tried to wipe her cheeks quickly, keep her face turned away, but you caught the shudder in her shoulders, the way her hands curled tight into fists against her knees.

You asked nothing, said nothing. You only sat down beside her, close enough that she could lean if she wanted to, far enough that she didn’t have to. And eventually, she did. Slowly, her head finding your shoulder. Her breath trembled against your skin, uneven, fragile. You stayed completely still, afraid that moving would break the spell, afraid that speaking would shatter what little steadiness she had left.

But no matter how much you try to imagine a confession, no matter how much you replay every moment in your head, of touches that lingered and words that landed just a little too heavy, you knew better than to get lost in the details of them all.

Because there are the words like I’m in love with you that you know will never be said. And then there are the words you wish had never been spoken at all.

It was after rehearsal one evening, both of you stretched out on the floor, too tired to move. The room smelled of sweat and resin, the air heavy with exhaustion and something restless that threatened everything. The floor was cold under your back, and you remember thinking you should have brought a jacket. Then you remembered you had brought one, only it was now draped across Daniela’s shoulders, stolen hours earlier with a grin that dared you to protest.

“I have something to tell you,” Daniela said suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet.

You turned your head toward her, your chest already tightening in a way you had come to accept, “Yeah? What is it?”

She exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips, hesitation softening the edges of it in a way that didn’t quite feel like her. “I think I might like someone.”

The words caught in your throat and sank heavy to your stomach. Anticipation drumming, “Oh? Who?”

Her grin widened, brighter and lighter than you had seen it in weeks. A small, selfish part of you praying the conversation would end there, unfinished and unsaid. But it didn’t. “This guy I’ve been talking to. It’s new, but… I think you’d really like him.”

You pulled in a sharp breath. Forced out an exhale carefully. 

Because just like that, the ground dropped out from under you. Every almost-confession, every silence you had carried like a secret vow, every laugh and every touch you had folded carefully into your chest collapsing in on itself. Not because it had been rejected, but because it had been doomed from the start.

“Tell me more,” You said, and your voice didn’t break, though it should have.

“I don’t even know. It was a complete accident. I met him—”

You flinched, the word striking like a slap that did not belong. Not in this room. Not next to Daniela, who was beaming with a brightness that stung. Her eyes too bright, her smile too wide, for someone who wasn’t you. Him. Just one word, and still it hollowed you out. Burned into your chest, made you want to crawl out of your own skin, scrub yourself clean of something you could never admit aloud.

Because a part of you had always known, maybe from the start, that the hurt was the proof, not the discovery. That this ache had lived in you far longer than you wanted to believe.

And you could wait. You could watch. You could read into every little thing Daniela did. You could live inside every smile, stretch out every fleeting moment you shared until it felt like something more. But it would never be enough.

Because it was never really a question. Not whether you would fall for Daniela. Not whether you could have resisted at all. That had been written from the start, sealed into you the first time she said your name.

It was only ever a question of how long you could pretend otherwise. How long you could ignore the signs, deny what had already taken root in you. What you had always known: you were destined to love Daniela in a way she could never love you back. And it ached all the worse because even now, with her happiness spilling bright before you, with the word him, him, him striking again and again like arrows to your heart, some selfish part of you knew you would choose the ruin of loving her again and again and again.

The floor of the van buzzed faintly beneath her feet, but Manon barely felt it. Her fingers tapped against her knee in time with a rhythm only she could hear. Outside, the city blurred by in streaks of neon: old storefronts, impatient traffic, the occasional fan with a poster held high, waiting for a glimpse of their idols. But Manon wasn’t looking. 

Her mind was on the comeback.

Katseye’s second EP was everything they had fought for. Bigger budget. Sharper choreo. Real momentum. And for once, people were starting to see her, not just as a pretty face or a producer’s plant, but as someone who belonged. Someone who earned their spot.

But a moment in the spotlight didn’t guarantee anything. Not in this industry. And Manon knew better than to let herself get comfortable.

A tap on her shoulder snapped her out of it.

"Hey, where’d you go?" A voice cut through the haze. Manon blinked, pulled abruptly back into the van. She turned to catch Daniela watching her closely, brows knit with concern. "You okay?”

Realizing she’d drifted off mid-conversation, Manon straightened, twisting the rings on her finger, if only to have something to do. “Oh sorry,” she apologized, though the word escaped with a sheepish laugh. She gave a quick shake of her head, clearing away the remnants of her wandering thoughts, hoping that it didn’t show, "I was…nowhere. What were you saying?"

Daniela didn’t press, just rolled her eyes in that way that meant she absolutely knew something was wrong but was choosing to let it slide, anyway, “Our new music video director. Y/N L/N? Have you heard of her?”

Manon paused. 

Daniela gave her a small, knowing smile. And why wouldn’t she. 

It was the Y/N L/N. 

Hollywood’s buzzword of the year. Rising indie darling turned box office favorite turned walking press cycle. Though calling her “rising” felt almost disingenuous when in just two years, she had built the kind of career most spent a decade chasing.

Manon’s stomach turned inexplicably. She hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, the delay barely noticeable even to herself, before shifting in place.

Yeah,” Sophia said from the row ahead, twisting around with one arm slung over the seat. She carried with her that natural sort of disappointment that told Manon she probably zoned out on an important debrief, “You missed, like, half the conversation.”

Lara snickered from across the aisle but dropped her gaze at Sophia’s pointed glance, no doubt having not paid attention either, suddenly very interested in the seam of her sleeve.

“Oops. My bad,” Manon offered, though the grin tugging at her mouth said otherwise. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting her head tilt lazily against the seat. “But Y/N’s an actress. What do you mean by the director of our music video?”

Daniela shot her a look that said we explained that too, but let Sophia answer anyway. 

“Rumor is she’s branching out,” Sophia explained, with the kind of shrug that tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. “New chapter. Wants to prove she has range.”

Manon’s brow creased. “New chapter? Didn’t she just start acting.”

Another shrug. “Probably testing the waters before she gets stuck doing romcoms with Hollywood’s white men of the month.”

Manon let out a sigh, long and far too weary for the situation. “And we get the honor of being her test run. Great.”

The words came out sharper than she meant. The thought of being someone’s pet project — for sale, replaceable — turned her stomach.

If Sophia noticed, she didn’t say. “Basically. I think our team just wanted her name attached.”

"Can’t blame them, though." Megan chimed in, snapping her gum as she stretched her legs into the aisle, “With all the press around Y/N lately, this could be great exposure for us.”

Manon made a face. “Heard she was a bitch. Didn’t she almost get canceled last year for being difficult on set?”

Daniela nudged her sharply with an elbow. “Language. Yoonchae’s right there.”

Beside her, Yoonchae raised her hand. “I heard she was nice?”

“Yoonchae,” Sophia sighed, “you know you don’t have to raise your hand to speak, right?” 

Yoonchae gave a sheepish smile.

“I don’t think Manon is entirely wrong though,” Megan said, glancing up from her phone. “I heard Y/N’s not a total nightmare, but... intense? Crew members say she only talks when she has to. Very professional. Which the media now translates to entitled.”

Daniela rolled her eyes. “God forbid a woman takes her job seriously.”

“God forbid she talks to her crew like humans,” Manon muttered back. 

Sophia arched a brow, unimpressed, “You don’t even know this woman.”

“That’s why I’m only muttering,” Manon replied, “I’m reserving the right to be wrong.”

Sophia opened her mouth like she wanted to challenge that logic, but stopped herself, “Well, Y/N L/N is good at her job,” she said instead. “Yoonchae and I watched her newest movie last month. We both cried in the first twenty minutes.”

“I did not cry,” Yoonchae protested. 

"I saw tears." 

“I had allergies.”

“In December?”

“Well, she can be whatever the hell she wants,” Lara cut in, suddenly very interested. “Because she is so damn fine.” She tilted her screen toward the rest of the group. 

Manon leaned in to look at the Instagram page. “You… pulled that up way too fast.” It wasn’t an accusation, exactly, but it might as well have been. 

Lara grinned, unapologetic. “What? I like looking at pretty people.”

“And you followed her already?” Manon squinted at the screen, spotting the telltale icon. 

The other girl’s smile widened, "I like to move fast.”

Sophia’s brows furrowed, a new thought forming in real time. "Wait—did the team even clear that follow? It hasn’t been announced yet that Y/N’s working with us. The Eyekons might start putting pieces together."

Lara only waved her off, slipping her phone back into her bag like it wasn’t a ticking PR nightmare. “Please. Knowing them, they’ll just assume I’m flirting.”

She paused. "Which I am."

The van dissolved into laughter, but Manon couldn’t stop her smile from fading just a little as she looked out the window:

The studio building loomed ahead.

Same place. Same group. But somehow, everything looked sharper. The lights glared a little brighter. The sets loomed a little taller. And from the way all the other girls fell quiet as they stepped out, Manon could tell she wasn’t the only one feeling it now. 

—

Inside, a staff member was already waiting. The group barely had time to compose themselves before they were ushered through a maze of cordoned hallways, the kind that felt deliberately out of sight, until they reached a tucked-away meeting room just off the main wing. 

It wasn’t anything glamorous: just a folding table, half a dozen mismatched chairs, and someone’s leftover iced coffee sweating on the windowsill. Someone from Y/N’s team greeted them almost immediately. He was tall, overdressed, and already mid-apology before the door fully closed behind them.

“So sorry for the delay.” The words tumbled out in a flurry, so rushed they were nearly unintelligible. “Miss L/N is finishing up a press event downtown, there were some issues with security, but she’s on her way now. Traffic is a nightmare, though, so we thank you all for your understanding. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make all of you more comfortable. Anything—seriously.”

He offered a smile, but it barely held. It wavered at the edges, more a grimace than reassurance. 

Manon exchanged a quiet glance with Lara, half amusement, half concern. Someone stifled a laugh, probably Megan, but no one uttered another word. They didn’t have to. The man looked like he might unravel if they did.

Sophia stepped forward, “It’s fine. Don’t worry, we understand.” 

Manon was feeling less generous.

“Off to a strong start for our new director,” she murmured, just loud enough for Daniela to hear.

The other girl bumped her shoulder, “Be nice. We still haven’t met her, yet.”

Manon nodded, “You’re right, it could get worse.”

That earned her a smile as the two shared a knowing look, a grin flickering between them. Behind them, Megan began helping herself to whatever snacks had been left out, while Lara scrolled her phone with the kind of practiced disinterest that took actual effort.

Manon let her gaze drift back to the man in the suit, still nervously checking the time, still smoothing down his sleeves like they might wrinkle spontaneously. The stack of folders in his arms shifted as he fiddled with the peeling corner of a nametag, then glanced at his phone. Then the door. Then his phone again.

She couldn't help but wonder what kind of woman it took to make someone that tightly wound. He wasn’t even the one who was late, and yet here he was, sweating and apologizing on Y/N’s behalf like his entire job depended on it.

And maybe it did.

When it came to Y/N L/N, the press could never seem to quite agree. Brilliant, sure. Talented, obviously. But there were other words too depending on the day and the headline. Cold. Difficult. Impossible to read. The kind of reputation that might’ve been sexist if it didn’t come with just enough anonymous quotes to back it up.

Manon might not have known her, not really. But if Y/N was the kind of person who had her staff this jumpy before even walking into a room?

Well. Maybe the rumors weren’t completely off.

As if on cue, the door opened and a still breeze of press-ready perfection swept in.

Y/N L/N entered like she didn’t notice the room at all. Press-fit blazer, hair sleek, a small gold pin clipped to her collar. Deliberate, expensive, and wholly unnecessary. She looked every bit the headline: elegance first, humanity second. Her apology was leaving her lips before she’d even fully stepped inside.

“Hi, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said, stepping in with a crisp bow. “There was a delay downtown, and then the security here, and—anyway, thank you for your time.”

Her voice was smooth, measured in the way people learn after one too many scandals. She looked at each of them as she spoke, eyes moving down the line of Katseye like she was trying to make up for lost time. And it worked, sort of. The apology sounded genuine enough. But her smile didn’t stick. It felt rehearsed. Staged. Like a scene she was re-enacting, not a reflection of her intentions.

Manon twisted the ring on her finger, hard. 

Or maybe not. Maybe Manon was being entirely too critical of someone she didn’t even know. People had said worse about her too, once. Perhaps, Y/N deserved more grace. 

Lara leaned in, “Wow. She’s even prettier in real life.”

That shook Manon out of it, “Of course that’s all you’d have to say.” She sighed. 

The other girl grinned, “What? She is, though.”

And for a second, Manon didn’t argue, just snuck a glance at Y/N. “Doesn't it matter to you that she's insultingly late to our first meeting?”

Lara shrugged. “Hot people get away with more.”

Manon didn’t have a response for that. 

Y/N continued with her introduction, now moving down the line. “It’s really nice to meet you all,” she said, pausing in front of each girl. Making sure to shake their hands. “Sophia, right? Yoonchae? And Megan? Lara—love your recent shoot, by the way. Daniela?”

She paused slightly before each name, like she’d memorized them just that morning. Manon tried not to read too much into it, just patiently adjusted the smile on her face into something more agreeable. 

And then—

Nothing.

Y/N moved right past Manon without so much as a glance.

And for a moment, she just blinked, watching Y/N cross to the table where her agent was already pulling out papers and talking logistics. She thought to herself that maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe Y/N had just missed her. Maybe—

Manon folded her arms, mouth pulling tight at the corners. She knew better than to believe in coincidences like that.

No. That felt strangely deliberate.

Forget the benefit of the doubt. It seem her and Y/N wouldn't get along after all. 

—

Back at the house, the group’s usual post-schedule haze had set in: shoes kicked off, water bottles scattered across the floor, someone’s laptop playing muted K-dramas in the background. It was familiar and easy, the kind of comfort you only earn after months of shared dressing rooms and overnight rehearsals.

Manon was stretched across the couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on her stomach, half-watching the screen and half-scrolling her phone when Sophia wandered in.

“So,” Sophia said, dropping into the armchair across from her. “That went well.”

Manon snorted. “Sure. If you ignore the part where Y/N pretended not to know our names. Oh! Or when she completely skipped mine.”

From the kitchen, Daniela looked up, “Maybe she was just nervous.”

“Well she’s supposedly a movie star,” Manon replied, “Shouldn’t she be better at pretending?”

Yoonchae piped up from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers busy with a half-finished bracelet looped over her knee. Lara sat behind her with a slightly less impressive bracelet, “She seemed nice.”

“She seemed polite,” Manon corrected, tapping her spoon against the edge of the bowl. “There’s a difference.”

“Okay,” Megan called from the hallway, half muffled by distance “How do you already have a grudge? We’ve known her for, like, half an hour.”

Manon sat up, a little too fast, the bowl in her lap wobbled dangerously “I don’t have a grudge.”

Daniela laughed, bumping the cabinet door shut with her hip. “You absolutely do have a grudge.”

“I just…” Manon hesitated, brow furrowing like the memory physically pained her. She looked toward the blank TV screen, then away again. She couldn’t explain it herself, not really. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying. “She rubs me the wrong way.” 

Lara raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting the urge to make a joke, then dropped her gaze back to her thread.

Sophia let out a dry cough, “Because she forgot one name? Or because she’s serious about her job?”

“Because she’s acting like she’s too good for this one.”

That landed harder than intended. 

Megan reappeared in the doorway, as if summoned, “That’s not what I saw. Honestly, she looked like she was just doing her best.”

A short silence settled over the room. Not heavy, exactly. Just... full.

Manon glanced around, meeting the eyes of each of her friends, and realized this was a battle she wouldn’t win. Not when anything else she said would only make her sound petty. She sighed and finished the rest of her cereal with one exaggerated crunch. "Whatever. She’s our director, so I guess I’ll play nice."

Sophia gave her a long, suspicious look. 

“As long as she does too,” She almost forgot to add. 

Sophia only exhaled, like she’d been expecting it all along, “It might just be you in this grudge.”

Manon stirred the last bits of cereal in her bowl and decided she couldn’t hear anything over the clink of her spoon.

—

It was barely past ten when they were called back to the studio for a production meeting.

Though “meeting” was generous. It was more of a creative session. Loosely defined. Costumes were still in flux, set design barely approved, but someone in production had clearly decided it was time to get everyone in the same room, pass around some coffee, and start pretending things were under control.

Manon wasn’t expecting anything special. Maybe another round of awkward greetings, a schedule rundown, a stiff apology from Y/N if she even bothered to show.

She definitely hadn’t expected Y/N to be there before them. Already deep in conversation with a lighting director, speaking in hushed, focused tones.

She wasn’t in her press-fit blazer, anymore. No perfect collar, no polished sheen of Hollywood. Just a fitted black sweater, slouchy at the wrists, and her hair pulled back, two strands falling artfully loose around her face. Too casual to be accidental. She stood beside the folding table where the production boards were laid out, flipping through notes with one hand and sipping something iced with the other. No entourage. No makeup team. Just her.

And yet, somehow, she looked even more curated. Like she had checked this outfit twice before leaving the house, then once more at the door. She’d traded her red carpet armor for something softer, but it only made her seem sharper. More untouchable.

It was impressive, if not weirdly unsettling.

"Y/N!" Megan called out, waving as the group shuffled in.

Y/N startled, just a half-second delay, a flicker of recognition before she smiled. Polite. Practiced. The kind of smile you give to strangers when you’re trying to be liked. Or not disliked.

But it almost felt like something she was slipping into. Like she'd reached for warmth without remembering where she kept it.

Manon watched it all, her mouth tugged down at one corner.

—

The MV concept, for what it was worth, wasn’t bad.

Actually, it was good. Surprisingly good. Clean. Well-structured. Symbolic without being heavy-handed. Y/N walked them through it in broad strokes, clear and confident. She wasn’t performative. She didn’t overcompensate. She just knew what she wanted and expected them to follow.

She sounded like a director.

Which annoyed Manon more than it should have.

Every time she’d catch Y/N narrowing her eyes in thought or scribbling something in that too-neat handwriting of hers, she had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. But then she’d catch herself and wonder what the hell even was getting to her.

—

They started filming on a Thursday. The sun rose indifferently. 

The group had only shown up a few minutes late, delayed by LA traffic, but everything was already ablaze when they arrived. Someone had forgotten to update the call sheet. The costumes department hit a snag. And almost everything that could go wrong, did.

Yet somehow, through it all, Y/N remained collected. 

She moved through the chaos with an almost eerie calm, giving quiet direction, adjusting shot lists, barely reacting when the grip team blew a fuse or an intern spilled coffee on a prop couch. It was as if she'd already accounted for every possible mistake. As if she'd expected the mess and chose not to be bothered by it.

Manon tried not to be impressed, but it was hard not to notice, anyways.

Lara, of course, chose the break between takes to strike. 

“So… are you seeing anyone?” she asked, all charm and shine, leaning casually against the lighting rig as Y/N reviewed footage. Her voice was just loud enough that it didn’t sound like a real question.

Y/N glanced up from her monitor. “Not at the moment, no.”

“Looking, perhaps?”

A pause. A blink. A small, unreadable tug at Y/N mouth that might’ve been a smile, or nothing at all.

“No. Can’t say I am.”

Lara tilted her head, thoughtful. “That’s a shame.”

Y/N shrugged.  And then…silence.

Someone coughed. Sophia groaned. Manon bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

It wasn’t that Lara had been shot down. Not exactly. It was just how completely untouched Y/N was by it all. Like the words hadn’t landed. Like the question hadn’t reached her. Like she was above it all, or worse, somewhere else entirely.

Not arrogance. But close. 

She was too serious. The kind of serious that didn’t quite belong on someone her age. 

And a part of Manon, quiet and curious, wondered what it’d be like to break that composure. Just a little. To see what was underneath.

Not to be cruel. Just to see if she could.

—

It started without thinking.

They were lining up for another take. The usual mess of cables, shouts, countdowns. Someone adjusted her mic. Someone else yelled about battery levels. Y/N’s voice crackled in through the headset, clipped and neutral:

“Let’s run that again, from the top.”

Manon, already half-bored, leaned toward Megan, her voice pitched just enough to carry. “How do you think she’ll react if we just said no?”

Megan snorted, barely looking up from her dress, “Try it.” She dared.

That was all the permission Manon needed.

“Okay,” she called out, louder this time. Casual. Like she might’ve been asking for another water bottle. “No.”

Megan’s head whipped up. “Wait—I was joking—”

Too late. 

Y/N looked up from her seat.

No?” she echoed, the word soft but level. She didn’t frown. Didn’t stiffen. Just stilled.

“Yeah.” Manon tilted her head, folding her arms loosely. “No.”

There was a pause, not long, just enough for Manon to recognize she wasn’t being ignored. Then, a nod. Smooth. Effortless. Detached.

“Okay. Reset,” Y/N told the rest of the crew.

And that was it. No follow-up. No correction. Just the clean, quiet pivot of someone refusing to take the bait.

Manon blinked.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “I guess that’s one way to react.” Megan let out an audible sigh of relief beside her.

Sophia was already half-apologizing from across the room, but Y/N barely glanced over, just waved her hand like she was brushing something off her sleeve, and turned back to the monitor.

Manon scoffed. Not loud. Just to herself. The whole thing felt like a bust. 

She wasn’t even sure why Y/N still bugged her. Maybe it was because the woman was always so unshakable, like nothing ever got under her skin. Or maybe it was the indifference: the way Y/N hadn’t even looked at her directly, hadn’t offered the dignity of irritation. Or maybe Manon just hated the thought of losing a game she hadn’t meant to play.

Whatever it was, it stuck. 

So on the next take, she paused a beat too long before hitting her mark. Then flubbed a line she knew by heart. She pretended not to hear a direction. Missed a cue. Shrugged when Sophia gave her a look.

Subtle things. Nothing that would cause a delay. Just enough to see if she’d get a rise.

And still. Nothing.

No scolding. No direct eye contact. Just the faintest crease between Y/N’s brows. A momentary glance toward her agent or Sophia like she was checking if there was a rule against talking back.

Never a confrontation, though. Never a single word actually directed at Manon. And somehow, that felt worse.

She still didn’t know what exactly she was trying to get from Y/N, but she knew she wasn’t going to stop looking.

—

The next few weeks passed in the kind of steady state of chaos Manon had come to expect. Long hours. Back-to-back rehearsals. Constant revisions. The usual choreography of comeback season. And yet, somehow, everything felt just slightly off-tempo.

It wasn’t anything obvious. Nothing she could point to outright. Y/N was still the model of professionalism. She gave clear direction, adjusted when necessary, took notes well. But something about her didn’t sit right with Manon. Or maybe, Manon admitted privately, it sat too right. Like something she couldn’t shake off.

Y/N had been late again that morning. Just by a few minutes, but it was enough to give Manon something to feel righteous about. She’d been adjusting a mic when she spotted the director walking in, coffee in one hand, script tucked under the other. No sweater this time. Just a hoodie and joggers. Still somehow put together. Still frustratingly unbothered.

Manon didn’t plan it. The words came before the thought.

“What kept you this time? Another press conference?”

Y/N barely blinked, “Something like that.”

Manon let out a low whistle, eyes tracking her movement across the room. “Must be hard being Hollywood’s princess.”

A low blow, she knew. Too casual to sound like one. But deliberate all the same.

Y/N paused mid-step.

And Manon nearly looked away then, already braced for the usual brush-off. Some practiced, polished non-response.

If it had been anyone else, she might’ve earned a raised brow, maybe even a snide comment. But Y/N wasn’t anyone else. With her, indifference had a rhythm.

A nod, if Manon was lucky. A glance that slid right past her, if she wasn’t. Always calm, always polite. That same infuriating poise that had been quietly unraveling Manon for weeks.

Like none of it ever mattered. Like Manon didn’t either. 

But this time— something shifted. The smallest twitch at the corner of Y/N’s mouth, quick enough to miss if Manon hadn’t already been watching. So quick it might’ve been nothing. Maybe should’ve been nothing. But Manon saw it, regardless. 

“Oh, is that what they call me now?” 

And it knocked Manon off balance.

She froze. No comeback, no grin. Just a second of raw stillness. Because for one heartbeat, Manon felt it. Something slipping. Something opening.

She straightened, pulse suddenly picking up. “Well… among other things.”

Y/N turned toward her, fully now. Still not quite smiling, but not walking away either. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

It wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t even sarcastic. Just.. curious. Like she might actually want to know. And for one dizzying second, Manon thought: this. This is what she’d been trying to get to.

But the moment came too fast, and she missed it by half a breath. 

“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. Too careless. “I’ll let the internet tell you instead.”

She hated it the second it left her mouth. All that buildup, the weeks spent poking and prodding, only to flinch at the finish line.

Y/N hummed in response. Low. Maybe amused, maybe disappointed. It was hard to tell. 

Yet still, Manon couldn’t bring herself to be too upset. 

Because, yes, Y/N still walked away untouched. Yes, Manon had missed her shot. But it was the closest she’d come to being let in. 

That was enough to keep her thinking about it long after Y/N was gone.

—

It happened again a few days later. They were in the middle of a long shoot, the kind that drags so much you forget what time it was. Y/N was by the monitors, doing what she always did: adjusting lighting, calling for another take, then another. Calm. Focused. Impossible to ignore.

Manon had told herself she was just watching. Out of boredom, mostly. Curiosity, maybe. But certainly not interest. 

Definitely not that.

Still, her feet carried her forward before she’d made a conscious decision.

“So,” she started, stopping just short of Y/N’s chair. She caught the flicker of Daniela’s raised brow, Megan’s slight glance. She ignored both. “What do you do for fun?”

Y/N didn’t look up. Barely even seemed to react, “Fun?”

“Yeah. Fun. Know what that is?”

There was a pause. Then a sigh. Not annoyed, not tired, just mechanical, like she was giving Manon a moment of her time out of principle rather than interest. Y/N turned her head just slightly, enough to meet Manon’s eyes.

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Manon smiled innocently. Or tried to. Because suddenly, she couldn’t help but notice how steady that eye contact was. Couldn’t help the way her traitorous pulse kicked in for no good reason. Couldn’t stop staring at Y/N’s mouth instead of brushing off her words.

“So… no,” she managed, somehow.

A breath of something, amusement, maybe, passed through Y/N. Barely there, but it landed like more.

“Go to your mark, Manon.”

And she nearly smiled again. Just from the way Y/N said her name: quiet, certain, like she knew it well. But Manon fought the smile, held her ground for a beat longer, then tilted her head. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”

Y/N’s brows lifted, then lowered, then lifted again. “I didn’t.”

Manon didn’t bother with a response. Just winked and walked away, for once, the one to exit first. 

But her smile lingered longer than it needed to. Her victory felt a little lighter than it was supposed to. She didn’t look back. But she wanted to.

And that made everything feel less like a win and more like a retreat. 

—

Later, when the group was sprawled across the break room couch in varying stages of exhaustion, Megan spoke up.

“Okay, but seriously,” she began, voice muffled as she pulled a pillow over her face. “What is going on with you two?”

Manon, half-asleep, cracked one eye open. “With who?” 

“You and our lovely director,” Megan said, like it was obvious. And maybe it was. “Flirting or feuding? Because it’s getting hard to tell.”

Daniela chuckled, earning her a light kick from Manon. “I think Manon might have gotten a laugh out of her, today.” She grinned, a no-good traitor to the cause.

“No way!” Lara gasped. “Not possible. I couldn't even get a laugh.”

Manon pretended not to be offended. 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” she muttered. “It was a... huff.”

“She huffed at you?” Lara repeated, and yeah, it sounded more ridiculous when she said it like that.

“Forget it.”

Sophia looked up from her phone, perhaps feeling generous, perhaps simply amused, “Honestly, Manon has a better chance than the rest of us. And all she does is antagonize the poor woman.”

“Maybe she’s into that,” Megan offered. Like it might be helpful. It wasn’t. 

Manon frowned, “Yeah, maybe if she’s a masochist.”

That got a ripple of laughter, and she leaned into the noise, letting it carry the moment somewhere else. Because she wasn’t thinking about the teasing, anymore. Or the huff. Or even the raised eyebrow. 

She was thinking about the silence that had followed. The way Y/N had looked at her: steadily, like she was waiting for something else. Like she almost expected Manon to say more.

For reasons Manon couldn’t explain, that was beginning to feel like a real problem.

—

The next day felt unusually quiet. Not in a bad way, just… off-kilter.

They were running pick-ups for a dream sequence: slow tracking shots, soft lighting, the kind of heavily aesthetic scenes that required more posing than dancing. Which meant the wardrobe had full reign, and apparently, they’d decided to let the girls have more input.

Manon arrived a few minutes early to hair and makeup, half-asleep and balancing an iced americano in the crook of her arm, only to pause at the rack of outfit options.

"Are these... new?"

“Director’s request,” the stylist chirped, almost excited. “She thought it’d be nice to give each of you something a little more personal for this part. More freedom of expression.”

Manon raised a brow. “Y/N said that?”

The stylist nodded. “Verbatim.”

That alone gave her pause. She hadn’t even known Y/N believed in expression, let alone endorsed it. But she wasn't going to be the one to reject a miracle in this lifetime.  

She flipped through the hangers, fingers catching on something she didn’t recognize from her original pull. A little unexpected. Structured but dramatic. It wasn’t her usual silhouette, but it looked almost too good to not at least try on. 

She slipped on the dress. Checked the mirror.

She looked… like someone else. Not bad. Just different. Almost like the kind of girl no one would dare overlook.

It wasn't her, exactly. But it felt close enough.

She tilted her head. Adjusted the neckline.

By the time everyone was on set, the rest of the girls were fussing over their own picks: Sophia had gone for sequins, obviously, and Lara had layered something neon over something sheer just to piss off wardrobe, but the moment Manon stepped into the light, the conversations seemed to dip for a second.

“Damn, Manon,” Daniela said as she stepped into better light. “Where’d they even hide that dress?”

Manon shrugged, feigning innocence. “Stole it off your rack. Figured it was time you shared.”

Daniela scoffed, though it was playful, “I think I’d remember a dress like that.”

“I think I finally know what it's like to be the stylists’ favorite.” Daniela laughed at that.

“Okay, hold still,” one of the stylists chimed in, stepping forward to adjust a strap on Manon’s shoulder. “You’re pulling focus — in a good way. But not if you don't let me fix this.”

Manon raised a brow but didn’t argue. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daniela mouthed a quick goodbye as she gestured toward the makeup team. Manon gave her an understanding nod.

“Actually,” the stylist added, now eyeing the fabric more closely, “Can I grab your rings? The fabric is delicate, and I don’t want anything to get caught during the take.”

Manon blinked, then glanced down at her hands like she’d forgotten she was still wearing the rings at all.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

She slid them off easily, one by one, and dropped them into the stylist’s waiting hand. A soft clink of metal echoed as they landed: silver on silver, just barely audible.

Footsteps approached, measured and purposeful. Manon turned just in time to see Y/N step away from the monitor, probably reacting more to the delay than anything else. Her gaze flicked toward the commotion, searching for the holdup, then caught on Manon.

Not dramatically. Not like she’d been struck. But not entirely indifferent, either. Just a glance held long. 

“Is that…” she started, the words trailing off. 

“I made a few changes,” Manon replied, casual. Though her chin tilted, half-daring, half-defensive. Like she might have to argue if Y/N requested her to change. 

Y/N’s eyes tracked down the dress again, slow. Then back up. “Yes. I can see that.”

A beat.

“…Why? Is that going to be a problem?”

Another pause. Still short. But now thick with something else.

“No. It’s fine.”

She hesitated. Almost unsure. Then added, a little quicker, a little quieter, “You look good.” The closest thing to softness she’d shown so far.

And that? That threw Manon far more than anything else ever could have.

“Oh,” she said, voice suddenly quiet too, “Okay.”

Y/N looked away, something almost like shame dusting across her cheeks. It seemed so out of place, Manon couldn’t tell if she’d imagined it. 

The director cleared her throat. “Everyone, let’s get to our marks. We have a long day ahead.” Her voice was steady again. Back in place. Like nothing had happened at all.

But Manon couldn’t find it in her to move right away.

She just stood there, for half a second longer than she should have, watching Y/N refocus on the monitor: jaw tight, eyes too fixed. And for the first time, she caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t noticed before. 

Because it no longer looked like Y/N was in control. It looked more like she was just trying to hold it all together.

And Manon? She wasn’t so sure how she felt about it all, anymore. 

— 

The final day of filming dragged like an open wound.

Not that it was anyone’s fault, exactly. The scenes they were wrapping weren’t particularly hard. No stunt-heavy choreo, no tricky camera rigs. Just slow, wide-angled shots to stitch the narrative together. Easy in theory. Tedious in practice. And made worse by the fact that Manon could barely walk.

She hadn’t told anyone about the sprain.

It wasn’t a break, or even that serious. Just a rolled ankle during rehearsal earlier that week. But the swelling hadn’t gone down, and the dull throb was quickly becoming sharp. Every time she stepped onto the soundstage, it screamed at her. Every take made it worse.

But the clock was ticking. They were already behind schedule, and Y/N had another project lined up in a matter of days. If Manon couldn’t finish her scenes, they’d have to scrap the footage entirely; reshoots weren’t an option. And that, that wasn’t happening.

Not when she’s worked this hard. Slogged through too many months of barely being enough. Letting it go to waste now felt worse than pain. Worse than limping through the takes, worse than the shame she tried not to let herself feel when she messed up the same step for the third time in a row.

So she pushed. She gritted her teeth and pushed. All day. 

The others were exhausted, as was she. Y/N had been watching from behind the camera, notes in hand, asking for redos, alternate takes, wider coverage. Perfectionist stuff. Nothing new.

But it was during the second to last setup that everything crumbled: she missed her cue.

Not by much, just a beat. But enough. Enough that Megan, then Daniela, then the crew to all noticed. Enough that Manon’s foot dragged in a way that wasn’t just tired, but compromised. Enough that someone else had to step in.

And then, it was over.

Just like that.

“Manon,” someone from her team called after she’d limped her way into her dressing room. “You can stop getting ready. We’re done for the day.”

She blinked, not understanding, “What? But we didn’t get the shot.”

“Y/N called wrap.”

Silence.

“What do you mean, she called wrap? We were behind.”

The staff member shrugged, clearly not having been told details, “She just said she wanted to rewrite the scene. Or try something new. I don’t know, she said she had a different vision.”

Manon stared at the vanity mirror, her fingers paused on the edge of the cold counter. An uncomfortable veil casted over the silence. An even more uncomfortable truth hid beneath. As if feeling it, the staff member awkwardly asked to be excused from the room.

Manon nodded a goodbye.

She thought to herself that she should’ve been relieved. She should’ve welcomed the reprieve, taken the rewrite, let it go. Should’ve, if she were in a more generous mood, seen it as kindness. Mercy, even.

Y/N was sure to catch heat from the higher ups, maybe spark a few more headlines from the press if the "rewrites" interfered with her next project, but she also had the kind of career that could survive the damage. Manon didn’t.

Because if Y/N was tired — of pretending, of biting her tongue, of holding together whatever fragile illusion they’d been balancing between them this past month — then this would’ve been the perfect out. 

But Manon had never been good at accepting charity, and she was worse at letting people make decisions for her.

Especially not Y/N L/N. Especially not her.

The storm came before Manon knew she was moving.

Her feet carried her across the lot, fast enough to regret, hard enough to feel, anger pulsing like blood in her ears. She ignored her ankle. Ignored the throbbing in her calf. Ignored the pounding in her chest.

When she shoved open the door to the director’s room, it slammed into the wall with a crash that rattled the frame.

Y/N flinched like she’d been struck. Her eyes snapped up. And for a second, neither of them moved.

“How dare you.” Manon said, and it came out low. Almost a growl.

Y/N froze, fingers resting on the folder like she couldn’t remember what she’d been doing with it. She looked tired. Hollow around the eyes. And maybe she was. Maybe they both were: had both been for a while now. 

But Manon didn’t care.

She stepped further in, each foot-fall feeling heavier than the last. Her whole body buzzed. Each word tore out from someplace deeper than breath.

“How dare you?” she said again, louder this time, like the first hadn’t landed hard enough. Like she needed to feel the echo of it in her own chest.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“How fucking dare you.”

Y/N’s expression twisted, confusion, then guilt, then something else entirely, “Manon—”

“No,” Her voice cracked like lightning. There was a weight in her chest, one she’d been carrying for too long and it finally surged to the surface from where it had been dragging her down all this time. All while she had pretended she wasn’t struggling to stay afloat. "When will you understand? You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to decide for me and hide behind concern.”

Y/N’s voice faltered. Her hands twitched, fingers curling slightly around the folder like she wasn’t sure whether to close it or throw it, no longer the calm, collected director she was just seconds ago, “I just thought—”

“Well, I didn’t ask.”

The words dropped like stones. But they didn’t settle. They pressed in, thick and real. Threatening to tear through the fabric of lies and indifference between them.

“Meret, please.”

The name hit like a slap and landed like a blow. It cracked something inside Manon, sharp and immediate, and spilled out pieces she thought she had long buried away.

Manon flinched. Hard.

Y/N’s own voice broke on the name, like she didn’t mean to say it. Like it slipped out from a time before they’d both grown claws. Her face went pale, and her mouth opened, as if to take it back. As if she knew she had torn something open that could never be closed again.

“Wait, I’m sorry—”

“No.” Manon's voice was barely a whisper, but it still cut like steel. “Don’t you call me that.”

She was shaking. But she didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything past the roar in her chest, the way her name still echoed in the air like a wound held open.

“You don’t get to say my name like that,” she breathed. “It no longer belongs to you. Especially not that one.”

Y/N looked sick. Physically sick. And Manon almost laughed at the irony. She’d spent weeks trying to break Y/N down. Trying to get something, anything, from her. And in the end, it was Y/N’s own damn words that shattered everything.

“I could’ve done it. I would’ve done it. I didn’t need you saving me. Not now. Not ever.”

The room felt too small. Her pain suddenly too big. It spilled into every corner, thick and suffocating, like smoke in her lungs. It filled the space like a flood, swallowing reason, drowning whatever voice might have told her to stop.

“You’ve done well enough forgetting me this long,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Don’t start pretending to care now."

—

Manon’s headache started as a whisper behind her right eye, the kind that promised it could be ignored if she was careful, if she moved gently through the day like stepping around a sleeping animal. But by noon it had grown into its teeth.

It started with a simple mistake: she overslept. Her phone had died the night before, and the alarm clock had been unplugged to make room for the charger in the first place. So when Manon finally woke, the room was already bright with daylight, and the sight of the time sent an immediate, sick drop through her stomach. After that, everything became a sprint. Phone, passport, charger, deodorant, a hoodie shoved into a bag like it could be stuffed into obedience. Hair pulled back too tight, the elastic biting at her scalp, a silent addition to the ache already blooming. She checked out, checked in, checked her passport three separate times like the act of looking could make it disappear. 

To no one’s surprise, she arrived at TSA during peak hours, a line of bodies and bins and impatience awaiting her.

Manon tried to keep her breathing even throughout it. She even tried to laugh at the fact that of course, of course this would be the day she got randomly flagged. Shoes off, laptop out, arms up, a stranger’s gloved hands patting at her hoodie and waistband with practiced disinterest. When she finally gathered her things and made it to her gate, she was sweating through her shirt with one shoe untied, and a headache that pulsed like a finger tapping against the inside of her skull. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Her first flight took off late, then made up time and landed as if it had something to prove. Her second flight got cancelled completely. Mechanical issues, they said. Three hours til the next one.

She would have complained if she hadn’t been raised better. Instead, she settled her bags down and sat under fluorescent lights, doom scrolling, and trying not to feel the way her temples throbbed against the bone. She bought a bottle of water she didn’t want and a coffee she didn’t need, then paced around the gift shops like there might actually be something worth buying. When the new flight finally boarded, she stepped on with relief so sharp it almost felt like gratitude.

It was only after they landed, after the seatbelt sign pinged off and people surged up into the aisle, that she realized her headphones were no longer around her neck.

Her hand went to the familiar spot like it had a mind of its own. Empty.

She patted her pockets, the seat, the floor, her bag. Empty.

Empty again.

Her stomach tightened again, meaner this time. Her next flight was boarding soon. The insistent pinging of her phone proof of this very fact. She could see the gate number on her phone, could already imagine the sprint, could already hear the announcer’s voice turning her name into something final.

She patted her pockets again, her bag, the seat beside her, the floor, even the air, like the universe might hand them back if she searched hard enough. But the seats were still empty, her headphones still missing, and her flight about to take off soon.

She stared for one more heartbeat, two. Then she rushed off the plane with the bitterness of her choice lodged in her throat.

Without music, everything was louder, the engine’s hum, the scrape of plastic against plastic, the tiny dramas around her: whispered arguments, coughing, laughter that felt too bright. She tried to read, but the words drifted, her brain refusing to hold them. She tried to sleep, but her body stayed braced, as if it had learned to expect another blow.

When she landed, she felt wrung out, like the world had taken her and twisted.

And then the luggage did not come.

The carousel turned and turned. Suitcase after suitcase spilled out and got claimed, dragged away, reunited with its owner like it had never doubted it belonged. Manon watched the belt rotate empty, then empty again, the space where her bag should have been becoming a small humiliation she could not ignore.

At customer service, she waited in a line that did not seem to shorten. When she reached the desk, the agent looked at her claim number like it was written in another language.

“I’m not seeing it,” he said, and the tone was not apologetic, it was baffled, as if her suitcase had committed a personal betrayal.

Manon pinched the bridge of her nose and instantly regretted it. The headache sparked bright behind her eye. She blinked hard, steadying herself on the counter. Five hours later than planned, she walked away with a paper ticket that felt like a joke, headphonesless, luggageless, and full of a rage that couldn’t find a shape.

Then her phone buzzed.

Dad: We’re here to pick you up.

And somehow, stupidly, almost miraculously, the world softened at that.

Outside, the Swiss cold hit her like a clean hand. It stung, sharp and honest, almost burning with its force. The jacket she’d brought was nowhere near enough. Wind slipped down her collar and under her sleeves, lifting her hair off her neck and leaving quick kisses of cold in its wake. Even her fingers went numb in the brief second they left her pockets to push open the airport door. Yet despite the roughness, Manon welcomed it, because pain like this was simple. Because pain like this meant she was home. 

A car pulled up then as if on command, sudden, perfectly timed, as if the universe had remembered, at the last second, that it could still be kind.

Her dad was out before the car fully stopped, rounding the hood like a man running toward something he’d missed too much. He reached her and pulled her into a hug so tight the air left her lungs.

“Kiddo,” he said into her hair, voice too big, too grateful. “Look at you.”

“Dad,” she wheezed, laughing despite herself, her hands patting at his back like a signal for mercy.

Her mom got out next, already hitting her dad between the shoulder blades, already scolding with the authority of someone who had rehearsed this moment and refused to let it be ruined.

“You’re going to scare her away,” she said, as if Manon might bolt back into the airport just to escape his enthusiasm.

Her dad loosened his grip, reluctantly, and her mom stepped in, pulling Manon into a hug that was gentler, softer, the kind that made space for Manon to settle into it. Her mom cradled the back of her head like Manon was small again, like she could be tucked back into the safety of childhood if her mother held her right.

For a second, Manon closed her eyes and let herself be carried.

The ache in her head throbbed, yes, but beneath it, there was this other beat, steadier, familiar, the rhythm of belonging.

She smiled into her mom’s shoulder, letting out a little laugh at the difference between her parents: her dad, a storm; her mom, a blanket.

Then she felt it, a hand slipping the bag from her grip, careful, like the weight might be too much for her.

Manon looked up.

And there you stood, close enough that your warmth pushed back the wind. You wore that small, awkward smile, the one that always looked like you were worried you were intruding on something sacred, even when you had every right to be there. Your cheeks were pink with cold and the hint of having been rushed before this. Your hair was a little messy, like you’d run your fingers through it too many times while waiting. And still, your eyes found hers and held, steady, soft.

The world narrowed to the distance between you.

Manon did not remember deciding to move. She barely remembered taking you in. One moment she was standing in her mother’s arms, blinking through exhaustion, and the next she was stepping into you like she had been pulled by gravity itself.

Her mom pulled back just enough, you turned at just the right angle, and Manon’s feet left the ground.

It was so sudden she gasped, and then she was in you, lifted high enough that the cold air slipped under her, wind under her arms like she might fly. You caught her with an ease that made her throat tighten, like her body was not a burden, like it was something you had missed carrying.

Everything else became noise.

The airport, the delay, the lost luggage, the fluorescent lights, the anger, all of it smeared at the edges. What remained was your chest under her cheek, warm through layers, a steady heat that her body leaned into like thirst. Your arms were strong around her, the flex of your shoulders undeniable even through your jacket. Your grip tightened when you realized she was holding on longer than she meant to, that she was clinging, not out of drama, but out of relief.

Manon breathed you in. Deep and unshakable. 

You smelled like clean soap and winter air and that faint sweetness she could never name, the one that made her stomach loosen like it had been cinched all day. Your warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon, and her headache, for the first time in hours, felt less like a threat and more like a distant complaint.

You laughed into her hair, low and real, and the sound traveled through you into her ribs. She felt it, a second heartbeat, a reassurance made physical.

“You’re here,” she said, and her voice came out smaller than she expected.

“I’m here,” you answered, and it sounded like a promise, not a statement.

Behind you, her dad was snapping photos like a maniac, the audible click of the camera sounding every time because he had never figured out how to turn off the ringer. Her mom tried to be discreet, which for her meant holding her phone at a careful angle, and then accidentally using flash.

Manon would have been embarrassed if she didn’t already know you were used to it. If she didn’t already know you had made peace with her family’s inability to be normal around love.

When you finally set her down, you didn’t let go right away. Your hands stayed on her waist like you needed the confirmation too, like you were checking that she was solid, that she hadn’t been a hallucination conjured by missing.

Your cheeks were red from something other than the cold.

“Hey, Meret,” you said, and the grin spread, warm, reaching your eyes, pulling one side of your mouth slightly higher in the way she loved. “Welcome back.”

Manon’s hand rose without thinking. She cupped your cheek, palm flat against your skin, and felt the cold there, felt the way it would warm under her touch. Her thumb moved along your cheekbone to your mouth, slow, reverent, like she was tracing the outline of something she had been carrying in her mind.

You pressed a kiss to her palm.

It was easy, practiced, smooth like a habit long ingrained, a ritual the two of you had invented and repeated until it became language.

“I’m glad to be back,” Manon whispered, and rubbed her thumb again, as if she could erase the distance that had been between you.

You lifted your own hand and covered hers, holding it there. The gesture was quiet, but it landed hard, a wordless answer to the fear she didn’t want to admit she had.

She smiled, helplessly, and had to fight the urge to kiss you right then, because she could already hear her dad’s camera clicking in her imagination, could already see him framing the shot like it was his life’s calling.

“Why don’t we get you home,” you said instead, and bent to pick up the bag you’d dropped when she’d launched herself into you.

Manon almost protested when your hand left hers. She missed the warmth instantly, which was ridiculous, but true.

She swallowed the sound and nodded, anyway. 

The car ride back was filled with light chatter, her dad narrating the drive like he was hosting a show, her mom asking questions that were half practical, half emotional: Did you eat, did you sleep, are you warm enough. You spoke too, telling small stories about your travels, about the places you’d been, the stupid things that had happened, the way you always made even inconvenience sound like an adventure.

Someone asked about the tour, and Manon answered in short, obedient sentences, because she could not focus on anything else.

She was too busy memorizing your voice.

It had texture. It had warmth. It made the air feel softer around her. Every time you laughed, she felt it in her chest, like her body was tuning itself to you.

Your hand rested on her thigh the whole time, heavy and reassuring. Every time the car turned, your knee brushed hers, and it felt like a quiet, constant reminder: I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Manon didn’t know she needed that until you gave it to her without asking. 

When you finally pulled into the driveway, Manon’s mom had barely turned off the car before she was already listing instructions.

“Shower before dinner,” she said. “Wash off the airport air. Get into something warmer.”

Manon made a face, and tried to make her smile mischievous instead of exhausted. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her mom narrowed her eyes. “Don’t get cute with me.”

Manon laughed, soft, and trudged up the stairs, you following behind with her bag in hand. You stayed close the whole way, a steady presence at her back, like you were making sure she didn’t drift away between steps.

Her room was exactly as she’d left it. Closet door closed. Desk cleaned. Bed made, except for the one corner where the blanket was crumpled from where she’d sat charging her phone before leaving. Her stuffed animals were arranged in a line atop the bed, almost like they were welcoming her home, and the sight would have been mildly eerie if they hadn’t all been from you.

One for each year you’d been together.

You set her bag down and wrapped your arms around her from behind, hands sliding over her arms, and kissed the top of her head.

“Bed’s getting full,” you murmured. “Maybe I shouldn’t get you one this year.”

Manon spun, offended on principle. “Don’t you dare.”

You lifted your hands in surrender, face solemn with mock seriousness. “Okay. Okay. I’ll continue supplying your army.”

“They protect me,” Manon said, equally solemn.

“From what,” you asked, eyebrow raised.

“From you,” she said, and watched your mouth fall open in theatrical betrayal.

She remembered her luggage then, the way it had simply vanished into the machinery of the world, and groaned. She opened her closet, praying that there was something salvageable in there. The closet offered no mercy.

“Ugh,” she muttered, pushing hangers aside. “Who let me take all my clothes to LA. Better yet, who let me buy these atrocities?”

You stepped beside her and plucked out a sweater she hadn’t worn since freshman year of high school, ugly in a way that felt intentional, the kind of garment that looked like it had been knitted out of spite.

You held it up, perfectly serious. “I think this one’s cute.”

Manon snatched it back. “Don’t play around like that.”

You stuck your tongue out at her, and the headache pulsed, but her smile happened anyway. She picked the least humiliating outfit she could find and headed for the bathroom.

Halfway there, she stopped.

You leaned against her dresser, hands planted on either side, perfectly at home, as if you had always belonged in this room, as if you had been built into her life like a fixture. Your eyes held that look, the one that always made her forget the rest of the world, and she almost forgot about the task at hand until you spoke again.

“Any chance you want company in there?” you asked, voice smug with amusement.

Manon stared at you for a second, taking in your shape, the way your hoodie sat on your shoulders, the way your gaze stayed steady, warm and hungry in a way that felt safe. For a brief, fleeting moment, she almost said yes.

Then she pictured her mother calling her name, her father’s coming up and seeing you both gone, and the thought left her mind.

She pointed at you like a warning. “Behave.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I am behaving.”

“No, you’re flirting,” she said.

“That’s not illegal.”

“It should be.”

Your laugh was the last thing she heard.

The shower was neither hot nor long enough to make her shoulders drop. She let the water pound at her scalp and tried to massage the headache away, but it clung stubbornly anyway, a shadow that refused to leave. Still, she stepped out feeling more human, towel wrapped around her, hair dripping down her back in cold trails.

When she opened the door to her room, you were sitting on the floor by her bed like you’d been abandoned there, arms looped over your knees, chin propped, eyes fixed on her like she was the only door in the world.

The sight made her laugh, a quick, helpless sound, a sound that surprised even her.

Your face lit up instantly, like your body could not help it.

“I missed you,” you said, pouting with the kind of exaggerated tragedy that should have been embarrassing, but wasn’t, not coming from you.

“I was gone for a second,” Manon muttered, still smiling.

“Then that was the longest second of my life,” you replied, dead serious.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Manon rolled her eyes, hung her towel to dry, then reached down and pulled you up. You rose easily, as if you’d been waiting for her hands. Your arms found her waist again, immediate, certain, pulling her close. She sighed into you, the sound leaving her without permission, the relief of contact making her feel briefly weightless.

This time, she didn’t stop herself.

She leaned in and kissed you.

It stole the air out of her. She let it. She gave herself over to it, fingers fisting the fabric of your hoodie, anchoring you to her, like distance was a thing she was done allowing. Her wet hair brushed your hands and left little droplets, cold against your skin, and you didn’t seem to care. You made a small sound, pleased, and your fingers traced gentle circles at the back of her neck, right where tension had been living.

Manon melted into the touch, into the kiss, into the simple fact of you. The day had been cruel, but you were not. You never were. You were warmth. You were steadiness. You were a quiet yes to all the parts of her that had been bracing.

When she finally pulled back, it was because her lungs demanded it. She breathed hard, forehead hovering close to yours, eyes half-lidded. Gasping for air if only so that she might return back to you.

You looked at her like you were memorizing her too.

“I missed you,” you whispered again, and the joke was gone now, leaving only the truth.

Manon lifted her hand and brushed her thumb over your mouth, gentler than the world had been to her all day. “I know,” she said, voice soft. “Me too.”

She might have given in to more, might have followed the pull of the bed and your hands and the quiet room, if her mom’s voice hadn’t rung up from downstairs at the moment.

“Dinner’s ready!”

Her dad’s voice followed immediately, loud and delighted. “Better hurry down before I eat all of it, I’m starving!”

And the spell broke.

You laughed, the sound breaking the intensity into something tender. You loosened your grip, but didn’t step away. Instead, you reached up and smoothed the strands of hair stuck to Manon’s cheek, careful, intimate, like you were tucking her back into herself. She wanted to hold you there, but she knew she couldn’t.

“Guess we should go,” you said, smiling.

Manon nodded, because her parents absolutely would come upstairs if they took too long, because the world would not allow her to pretend she lived alone in this moment.

But unable to help herself anyway, she moved, leaning in for one last kiss.

It was softer, shorter, a promise more than a fire. Your fingers laced through hers as you pulled back, and you kept them laced as you walked toward the door.

Downstairs, the house smelled like dinner and warmth, like a life that did not require airports or customer service desks or delays. Manon squeezed your hand as you descended, once, twice, thrice, and each time you squeezed back, steady, answering without words.

Her headache still existed, a dull throb that would probably demand medicine later, but it no longer felt like the center of her. It felt like a small thing at the edge of something larger.

Home.

You.

Her parents’ voices rising and falling like music.

At the bottom of the stairs, you glanced over at her, and the look in your eyes was simple, almost unbearably so. Like you could see how hard the day had tried to take her, and you were silently promising to keep what it hadn’t.

Manon held your hand tighter and walked into the light with you.

__

see i can write fluff @lovelee4u

There was a time when Manon believed in love, and worse, believed in Y/N L/N. 

Back then, though, she had just been Y/N : not the actress, not the director, not the name passed around the internet like a secret. But the girl who laughed with her mouth wide open and pressed her cold feet against Manon’s calves during sleepless nights. Who made even the silence feel full with a simple smile and could kiss away wandering doubts before they had the chance to take hold.

Manon isn’t sure when things started to change. Only that they did. 

One moment, everything felt certain. The next, it didn’t.

That was the thing about endings. They never came as endings. Instead, they arrived disguised as quiet mornings, as coffee in airport lounges, as shared playlists and easy silences, and as promises that tasted like forever because you needed them to.

And Manon had really needed them to.  

She thinks, maybe, the unraveling began with the DM. 

—

Manon was in bed, one sock on, one lost somewhere in the duvet, hair still damp from a too-late shower. Her laptop hummed beside her, paused halfway through a mediocre drama she’d promised someone she’d finish. She hadn’t. The plot was too predictable. The dialogue even worse. But she liked the main actress’s face and the way her eyeliner never smudged, so she chose to keep the show on anyway, even if on pause. 

Her phone buzzed on the comforter beside her: a new Instagram notification. She thumbed it open without thinking.

The message had been buried under five others: a brand wanting to send her lip gloss, a promoter inviting her to a party she’d never attend, a fan edit with a suspicious number of star emojis in the caption. Then, one unfamiliar brand. Blue checkmark. 

Dream Academy

She clicked it.

Hi Manon. We’re reaching out on behalf of HYBE and Geffen Records in collaboration with Interscope to invite you to audition for an upcoming global girl group project. 

Manon sat up slowly. Scrolled back to the top. Reread the name.

Dream Academy is a new initiative seeking multi-talented individuals from around the world. This year we are inviting performers…

She read the message through. Then read it again. It stared back at her like it was waiting to be believed.

….if you are interested, please reach out with your earliest availability. We believe you would be a great fit for this opportunity and our team hopes to hear back from you soon…. 

There was no suspicious link. No weird font. No sketchy punctuation that might’ve otherwise screamed bot. Even so, a knot of suspicion formed in Manon's stomach, so she opened Safari and typed: dream academy kpop scam. Just to be safe.

She scrolled a little. Clicked a few Reddit threads. A news article. Nothing useful, though. But every result pointed to the same conclusion: that Dream Academy was legitimate.

Still, she let the phone slip from her hand. Let it land on the comforter like it didn’t matter. Let the absurdity of the offer linger on her mind for a second longer. Then leaned back and looked at the ceiling, like maybe it might have something more reasonable to say.

The quiet stillness of the room was broken by a light, certain knock. Manon didn’t move, though. Barely even blinked. She already knew who it was.

The door creaked open a second later. Slow. Familiar. The sound of someone who never quite waited for permission.

“Manon?” a voice she knew by heart, called out, bright and a little breathless. Already halfway into the room. “It’s me.”

Y/N stepped inside a moment later, a sight to be reckoned with. Hair windswept, cheeks flushed, like she’d jogged the last few blocks just to get there faster. Which, knowing her, she very well might have.

Manon watched her. Let the sight settle before a sound slipped out, a half-laugh, half-sigh, despite her best attempt to keep it in. Because Y/N was the only person she knew who would think to announce herself after already walking in.

“Hey.” she said softly, still laughing, still smiling, “What are you doing here?”

Y/N paused just long enough to grin, all wide and proud, like Manon’s laughter was exactly what she had come to hear. Then, without missing a beat, she kicked off her shoes and stepped further into the room.

"Just missed you. Wanted to come visit." The hallway light behind her cast a soft golden halo across her shoulders, and for a moment, Manon almost believed it. “Your mom let me up. She told me not to let you stay up too late tonight though. I told her I’d try my best.” A pause, “But we both know it won’t be up to me.”

Manon raised a brow. Not at the words, or the way they were said, but the ease of them. She didn’t comment on the quiet assumption tucked between the lines. She didn’t need to. Of course Y/N would be staying the night. That kind of certainty had stopped needing confirmation a long time ago.

"You okay?" Y/N asked, her voice softer now, like she had noticed something amiss and didn’t want to startle whatever mood she’d just walked into. Her gaze drifted across the room, sweeping from the tangled sheets to the open laptop, then to the steaming mug on the nightstand. She didn’t make a big deal of any of it. Just took it in. Quietly. Like she always did.

A slight crease appeared in her brow. Not quite concern, just… awareness. The kind that came from knowing someone a little too well. Like she had already read the quiet, sorted through the pauses, and understood exactly what they meant without needing it explained.

Manon’s fingers tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt. For a second, she considered brushing off the question, tossing out a sarcastic "yeah, of course," just to make Y/N smile. But then she thought better of it. Because with Y/N, the usual deflection felt thin. She’d see right through it anyway. So instead, Manon picked up her phone, thumbed it open, and turned the screen toward Y/N without another word. 

“Tell me this is a scam.”

Y/N blinked once, just once, then crossed the room. No hesitation. No questions. She just… moved. Like she didn’t know what was yet wrong, but she was ready for it all the same.

She stopped when her knee touched the edge of the bed. One hand found the bedframe, fingers curling around it lightly, the other stayed hovered at her side.The screen’s glow lit her face in soft blue. Shadows carved themselves beneath her cheekbones as she read, her brows drawing tighter together, not in confusion, but thought. 

Manon watched her closely. Watched the way her lips parted slightly, then pressed together again. Watched her thumb twitch once near the edge of the phone and then still. She fought the small urge to smooth out the crease between Y/N’s brows.

“No,” Y/N said finally. “That… looks real.”  

Manon let her head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. “God. That almost makes it worse.”

Y/N raised a brow, “How do you mean?”

Manon gestured vaguely at the screen. “Well…if it had been fake, I could just block it, chalk it up to a scam. But if it's real…” she paused, waited, as if the silence spoke for her, “well, then someone seriously thinks I belong in a girl group, and I’m the punchline in their joke.”

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. Less amused, now. More…knowing. “The punchline?” 

Manon let out a sigh. Loud. Too loud for how quiet the room had been a second ago. “I mean, come on. A global girl group? An audition? You’re telling me this doesn’t feel a little….absurd?”

The word hung there between them. Lopsided. Maybe even a little defensive. Like Manon was daring Y/N to disagree, though even she wasn’t sure why.

But Y/N didn’t argue. She didn’t take the bait. She just looked at Manon for a moment. Then, softly, almost like she’d only just figured it out, “I don’t think it’s absurd at all.”

Manon scoffed, “Right. Because I totally scream global pop sensation.”

Y/N’s brows rose, then fell, “You kind of do.”

Manon narrowed her eyes.

“Please be serious.”

“I am.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You move like you could.”

“I can’t sing.”

“Only because you don’t really try.”

“I have no media training.”

"You're hot!" 

That made Manon pause. She shot Y/N a look, attempting a glare, something that said not the time, but the small tug at the corner of her mouth gave her away. It always did, around Y/N.

"That's... not a skill." She grumbled. 

Y/N grinned, then let out a laugh. "It's definitely a selling point, though."

Manon looked away, but not fast enough to keep Y/N from catching the flush rising up her neck.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, letting herself fall back onto the bed. Her arms sprawled across the blankets like she was physically giving in.

“I shouldn’t want this, right?” The words came quickly, bringing with them the weight of her desire. And whether they were meant for Y/N or herself, she couldn’t say.

“I already have a whole life in front of me. A good following. A stable-ish career. I shouldn’t want to add getting screamed at on Korean television to that list.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Not at first.

Instead, she moved, slow and certain, until the bed dipped beside Manon. She sat close enough that their knees brushed, and that slight contact, that easy press of warmth, sent something steady and alive through Manon’s chest.

“You don’t know that there’ll be screaming,” she offered, lips twitching. Amusement flickering at the edge of her voice. 

“There’s always screaming.” Manon deadpanned. “I’ve seen clips.” 

That got Y/N to laugh, warm and close and musical in the way Manon couldn’t help but get lost in every time. The kind of sound that wrapped around you before you even had the chance to resist it. 

Y/N leaned back on one palm, then let herself ease down until she was lying beside Manon. Manon felt the heat of her arms first, then the soft imprint of Y/N’s scent settling in the air between them. 

“Just… think about it,” Y/N said, like it was easy. Even though it wasn't. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Manon thought:

I could fail. 

Prove that I’m nowhere as great as you think I am. 

And then you’ll leave.

But what she said instead was, “I’ll humiliate myself on camera and die in a viral edit with ten million views.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, just barely. “And you’d look incredible while doing it.” She said it like she meant every word.

This time, it was Manon’s turn to laugh. Sharp and sudden. It startled her with how real it sounded, like it had shaken something loose in her chest she hadn’t even known she was holding. And for the first time in minutes, she turned to face Y/N fully.

“You really think I could do this?” 

Y/N didn’t even blink, “I know you could.”

And maybe the words started as comfort, but they landed like truths. Spoken like something Y/N

had always believed, and had just been waiting for Manon to catch up to.

Manon studied Y/N features. The eyes she’d stared into through too many sleepless nights. The lips that always seemed one second away from a grin. And really, without thinking, like her body had made up its mind before her thoughts caught up, she reached for Y/N hand. Found in the dark, without needing to search. 

Their fingers slipped together easily, instinctively, like they had done it a thousand times before. 

“Thank you.” she whispered, never quite understanding how Y/N always managed to know what she needed, even when she didn’t say it out loud.

Y/N leaned in, and Manon met her halfway. Whatever space had been left between them vanished, quiet and certain.

“Of course,” she murmured against Manon’s lips.

And maybe that was why Manon said yes that day. Lying there, held in the quiet certainty of someone who believed in her completely.

“Does this read well?” she asked, twisting the screen toward Y/N.

“Absolutely perfect,” Y/N said, nestling even closer, like she still hadn’t gotten close enough.

Manon would later tell her parents it was for the experience. Tell her friends it was on a whim.

But when she said yes to Dream Academy that day, she hadn’t been chasing a dream. She had been simply following the girl who made everything feel a little more possible.

—

The Dream Academy team took so long to respond that Manon nearly forgot the whole thing entirely.

Between the steady stream of brand deals and the low-hum of being a small-scale influencer, her days filled themselves with enough distraction to push the audition results into the background. She still wanted it, of course she did, but not with the same ache she'd once carried for recognition at sixteen. She had work now, consistency, a soft rhythm that kept her afloat. The waiting, the wondering, the what-ifs, they all settled into quiet instead.

Then Y/N showed up, sunlight in her smile and good news practically spilling from her hands.

“I booked it,” she grinned, holding up her phone like a trophy. “Lead role. First indie gig. Can you believe it?”

Manon blinked over the top of her laptop, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Wait, you’re acting now?” She could never keep up with Y/N’s ever-changing ambitions.

“No,” Y/N said, practically vibrating, like her answer made sense. It did not, “But I figured when we’re rich and old and have six kids and a dog, I should at least have one cool story to tell the children.”

Manon nearly choked on air. “Sorry—what?”

“Okay, fine,” Y/N amended, shrugging slightly like she was making a concession, “Seven kids. But we better start getting busy.”

Manon shut her laptop with a soft click, the email she had been working on long forgotten, “Yeah, that’s not the part I was objecting to,” she muttered.

Y/N just laughed, already stepping in like she always did: shoes kicked off at the door, half-zipped hooding sliding off one shoulder. She crossed the space between them, reached for Manon’s hand mid-protest, and tugged her up with the kind of ease that made it feel like second nature. 

Manon swore she could feel her heartbeat right through her fingers.

“Come on… say you’re proud of me.” Y/N prompted, softly, almost teasing, but not entirely without something earnest underneath.

Manon sighed, not because she wasn’t, but because Y/N already knew she was. “Of course I’m proud of you.”

Y/N beamed at her words, nevertheless, like they held the world, “Good. Because when I inevitably win a Grammy, I’m definitely mentioning you.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from Manon. She tilted her head, one brow lifting. “You know Grammys aren’t for acting, right? It’s important to me that you do.”

“Not yet they’re not.” Y/N clicked her tongue, wiggling her fingers theatrically.

A puff of amusement escaped Manon, “What does that even mean?”

Y/N only shrugged, a sheepish smile playing on their lips, “I don’t know, I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t ask. ”

Manon smiled, softer this time. She reached up and cupped Y/N’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her skin. Y/N’s eyes fluttered briefly at the contact, “Well if you do manage to win a Grammy, you better make sure to mention our six kids too, then.”

Y/N turned her head and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the center of Manon’s palm. “Seven now, Manon.”

The moment slipped, “Oh, God help me.”

—

That night, they both went out. Half for Y/N’s good news, half for their friend’s birthday.

“I can’t believe you’re turning 23,” Manon said, raising her glass. “To Grandma, I guess.”

Their friend, Celeste, narrowed her eyes from across the table, then tipped her head with a mock threat. “Don’t test me on my birthday, Bannerman. I brought you and Y/N together. I can break you apart just as fast.”

Y/N gasped from beside Manon, clutching her chest in exaggerated horror. “Over my dead body.” Then she turned to Manon with a glint in her eye, like, See? Acting.

Manon snorted but didn’t argue.

By the time the cake came out, Manon had taken her usual place half-seated on Y/N’s lap, one leg curled beneath her and the other pressed against the living room couch. It was a posture that made no anatomical sense, but always seemed to happen anyway. It was just comfier that way, she’d tell people. But in truth, she just liked the way it let her stay close. The kind of close that made her forget where she ended and Y/N began.

The party continued to hum around them in a blur of music, laughter, and flickering candlelight.

Manon let herself sink into the moment, into the rhythm of everything. The easy joy of familiar voices, the warmth of Y/N’s arms around her, the steady comfort of being surrounded by people who felt like home. And in the moment, nothing felt uncertain or out of reach. It was all just… right.

Until her phone buzzed with a notification, and she stilled.

Y/N noticed it immediately. Her hand, which had been tracing slow, absent-minded circles on Manon’s back, paused.

“What is it?”

Manon didn’t answer. Couldn’t. So, she just turned the screen toward Y/N so she could see it herself.

The message was short, with one line bolded in the center:

Congratulations! We are excited to welcome you to the Dream Academy Pre-Show Program.

Y/N didn’t wait to read the rest. A breathless laugh escaped her as she pulled Manon into a hug so sudden it knocked the air right out of Manon’s lungs, “That’s my girl!” she exclaimed between laughs, her voice full of something like pride, maybe even awe. 

Her arms wrapped tightly around Manon, like she was trying to anchor them both in that moment. And for a second, it worked. The room faded, and the noise, the party, and everything else slipped out of focus. Until it became just the two of them. Suspended in joy.

“Put me down!” Manon wheezed. “You’re embarrassing me.”

But she was laughing too hard to mean it.

“You’re going to wear sparkly outfits and have a lightstick. I can already see it.” Y/N rattled off. How she already knew what a lightstick was, Manon didn’t want to know.

She thumped Y/N on the shoulders. “Put me down, Y/N L/N,” she warned again. 

Y/N L/N did not.

The others soon started to crowd around, drawn in by the commotion. Manon tried to explain between breathless giggles and Y/N’s overly proud interruptions, all too happy to brag that her girlfriend was basically a pop star now. Before long, the whole mood had lifted into something else entirely. Celeste loudly declared the night a triple celebration, insisting that it meant they all had to party harder as well. Glasses clinked. Music turned up. Someone called for more shots. 

But even as laughter rang around her, the message still lingered in Manon’s hand. Someone asked when she was leaving, so she scrolled, slower this time, finally catching what she had missed before.

To accommodate your experience, we invite you to join us for individualized training this spring. This program will be focused around preparing you to transition smoothly into the full competition and help bridge any gaps in your portfolio. If you are interested in attending, the pre-show training will begin in Los Angeles two days from now. Let us know your attendance and plan your travel accordingly.

Manon felt her breath catch in her throat. 

Los Angeles. Two days from now. 

The room spun without her for a moment, everything suddenly pressing in a little too fast, a little too real.

Dream Academy was happening. Not someday. Not eventually. Now. 

Manon gripped the phone in her hand, watching her knuckles turn pale. 

Someone glanced her way, concern flickering behind the smile, a question in their eyes. Someone else asked if everything was alright, though the words barely cut through the ringing.

Then—

“LA won’t know what to do with you,” Y/N called over the music, loud enough for everyone to hear. A little dramatic, sure, but it did its job. Their friends’ worried looks turned into laughter, and the tension hanging in the room eased, loosened, drifted elsewhere.

Then, quieter. Softer. Just for Manon. Y/N leaned in, her voice warm against Manon’s ear, “Hey, you’re okay. Don’t stress yourself out. You’re more than ready.” Said like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was fact.

And in that moment, Manon knew she had been seen. Not just heard, but seen. And with anyone else, that might’ve felt like exposure. Like too much.

But with Y/N, it just felt like living. 

Manon turned toward her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. There was no need to say thank you.

Y/N had already heard it.

—

At the airport, two days later, Manon’s hands held steadier than she had expected.

Her mom had kissed her forehead at the security check and made her promise to call the second she landed. Her dad had wept quietly into Y/N’s shoulder while Y/N mouthed help me over his back.

Manon had just smiled. It was awful. And funny. And perfect in just the way she liked.

And then it was just her and Y/N. 

“You’ll call?” Y/N asked, nudging the handle of Manon’s suitcase like she needed something to do with her hands.

“I’ll call.” Manon said, reaching out to steady Y/N’s fidgeting fingers with her own.

Behind them, her dad mumbled something into her mom’s neck about his baby girl growing up. Manon pretended not to hear it.

Y/N hesitated. Then pulled something from her pocket and slipped it into Manon’s hand. A small folded note.

Manon looked down. Almost opened it.

Y/N stopped her.

“Don’t. Not until you get on the plane.”

Manon nodded, curiosity flickering but held back, then pulled Y/N into a hug.

Their goodbye wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even long. Just a kiss. Short. Certain. The kind you give when you expect another one soon.

And when Manon finally settled into her seat, the hum of the plane already lulling her toward sleep, she unfolded the slip of paper Y/N had given her.

Just a scribble. Five words. Nothing else.

I believe in you, Meret.

The name landed softly.

It wasn’t one people used. Not really. Not anymore. Not since she’d declared herself a Manon back in the first grade and demanded the rest of the world adjust accordingly. Her parents caught on quickly. Her teachers soon followed suit. But somehow, Y/N had charmed it out of Manon’s mother one slow weekend over brunch and decided, then and there, it was hers to use.

Only for moments like this, though. Only when she needed Manon to hear something she wasn’t ready to believe on her own.

Because even though Manon hadn’t said a word, barely even let herself name the fear, Y/N had already answered it. 

Manon fell asleep with the note still clutched in her hands. 

—

The pre-show training was hard.

Not that Manon hadn’t expected it. She’d known it would be hard; the long hours, sore muscles, choreography that made your body forget how to breathe kind of hard.

But what she hadn’t expected was how quickly the confidence bled out of her.

The first morning, she’d woken up early, hair half-styled and her playlist already queued. A shared playlist Y/N had made for their one-year anniversary, completed with a corny and absolutely atrocious photo of Manon that Y/N had insisted was her favorite.

She’d done a warmup she found on YouTube, chugged a green juice that tasted like mint and punishment, then double-knotted her sneakers with the kind of optimism only someone wildly unprepared could have mustered.

By noon, she’d nearly thrown up during vocal drills.

By two, the choreographer had asked if she’d ever danced in front of a mirror before. 

By the end of day one, she was curled on the edge of her bunk with a heating pad against her spine and her pride freshly scraped raw.

No one had yelled at her. No one had even scolded. They had just corrected. And corrected. And corrected. Each “again” felt heavier than the last, and each “not quite” felt like they were waiting for her to reach her limit. 

Manon knew she was unpolished. Untrained. A mess, by anyone’s standard.

But worse than all of that? She was tired. Not the satisfying kind of tired, either, not the earned kind. But the kind that sunk into your bones and whispered, you don’t belong here over and over again until your head spun and your vision blurred.

And it had only been her first day.

—

Day two and three didn’t hit any harder. But they didn’t get any easier, either. 

Manon flinched every time the choreographer clapped. Her chest burned all through warmups. Her high notes broke early, even in scales. And by mid-week, she couldn’t look the vocal coach in the eye without feeling like a walking apology.

The mirror in the practice room soon stopped feeling like a reflection and more like a dare. One that turned her into a stranger with stiff arms and a messy center of gravity.  Like it was waiting to catch her in the act of trying to believe in herself. 

None of the trainers ever said anything cruel, though. Not they had to. Their faces said enough. Every strained smile, every sigh before another round of corrections. The way their pens hovered for half a beat longer before marking her clipboard. Manon saw it all. 

She started apologizing out of habit. A Sorry. Sorry. Got it. Sorry again, leaving her lips more often than her own name.

But apologizing didn’t make her a better singer, and it certainly didn’t make her a better dancer. And every time she did it, she felt the words chipped at something a little deeper.

—

The days blurred fast after, but the soreness never left. 

Some nights, she had to brace herself against the dresser just to lower herself into bed. She learned to ice her knees while reviewing recordings of her worst takes, trying to figure out if she looked as stiff as she felt. 

She did.

She heard it in the staff’s notes. In their wordless nods. In the way praise never came, even on the days she improved. Good job didn’t seem to be in their vocabulary. She didn’t even realize she was waiting for it until she caught herself scanning the room after each round, hoping someone would just say she was getting better.

No one ever did.

By the end of week two, Manon had learned to stop waiting for the silence to mean something else.

And maybe, she thought, that should’ve wrecked her more than it did.

But it didn’t.

Because Y/N never let it.

—

The first few weeks, they didn’t talk much. Y/N had fittings, or reshoots, or some all-night disaster involving a busted camera rig and two missing costumes. Budget movie things, she had told Manon. She texted when she could, though. Sent updates. Memes. A blurry picture of her lunch with the caption: “food poisoning waiting to happen but make it cute.”

It wasn’t enough to fill the silence, the ache of missing Y/N’s touch, the soft comfort of her own bed, or her mother’s cooking, but it was something.

Then came the voice memo.

It was a Wednesday. Nearly two month into the program now. Manon had just finished her fourth rehearsal of the day, fourth, tripped over her own feet, and muttered fuck’s sake into the studio floor loud enough for the interns to wince. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off when she checked her phone and saw the recording.

It was two minutes long.

She played it anyway.

“Okay, first of all—yes, you can do this. Yes, you’re tired. Yes, you feel like a disaster. That’s because you are a disaster. But you’re a capable one, and I’m not about to let you start spiraling just because some overpaid choreographer gave you the same note five times. You’ll get it on the sixth. Or the seventh. Or I’ll come down there myself and throw hands, whichever happens first.”

Manon let her head drop back against the wall. The smile crept in without permission.

“Also? Just for the record? You looked good in that clip you sent. Like, not good-for-you good, but good good. So maybe the world’s just slow to catch up.”

There was a pause. A breath. Then—

“Besides. I need you to make it. For, um, selfish reasons. Because I’ve decided acting’s not working out, and we have seven fictional kids to support now. They’re all hungry. They all want to go to college. One of them is allergic to soy. If you quit, they die. Do you want that, Manon? Do you want blood on your hands?”

It ended with a rustle and a muffled, “Okay I gotta go, the lighting guy slash mic guy slash costume guy is yelling at me again—I love you, say it back.”

Manon listened to the message twice that day. Just in that one moment. 

She didn’t cry, but she did stay seated on the floor a little longer than she needed to.

And when she finally gathered the strength to stand back up again, the thought maybe I don’t belong here quieted just enough for her to breathe.

—

Y/N showed up three weeks later. 

Manon didn’t even know she was in LA. She came home from rehearsal, hoodie damp with sweat and half a protein bar stuck to the wrapper in her pocket, and there Y/N was, barefoot on the couch, hair pinned up, sorting through three takeout bags like she’d just moved in.

“Hope you still like dumplings,” Y/N said without looking up, like they hadn’t seen each other in years, not months. Though it certainly felt like years. “I got three kinds because I forgot which ones you liked. Also, I ate two of them on the way. Sorry.”

Manon froze in the doorway.

Her fingers found the hook by the door on instinct, and she hung her keys there slowly, like if she moved too fast, the whole thing might vanish. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice thin around the edges.

“The producer dropped a scene. My schedule opened up. I hopped a flight,” Y/N answered, as if that were something normal people did. She shrugged. Casual. Unbothered.

Manon opened her mouth to ask what exactly “dropped a scene” meant in an indie film with $50 to its name, but then thought better of it. She decided she didn’t really care.

“You didn’t even text.” She said instead. Like that was the issue at hand here.

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, a smile already tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I wanted to see your face when you realized I got here first.” She grinned. Then, her voice dipped, soft but steady. “Also, you weren’t picking up, so I got worried.”

Manon blinked once, then again. The room grew warmer, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the heater or her own pulse.

“I missed you.” Y/N said between bites. 

She didn’t look up. She just reached for another dumpling like it wasn’t a confession, like she hadn’t just unstrung something in Manon’s chest with three quiet words.

And just like that, the shock ebbed. Relief took its place.

The softness of it settled low and sure, threading into Manon’s ribs like warmth that had been waiting there all along.

They sat on the floor after, with a half-unpacked dinner spread between them, Manon still in her training clothes, Y/N in sweats, leaning back on one arm and talking with her mouth full.

Manon didn’t say much. Not like she usually did. She didn’t need to.

Y/N filled the silence with updates about script rewrites and petty co-stars and a director who kept mispronouncing her name. Then she stole a bite of Manon’s rice, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and said, “By the way, you look stronger. Your form’s better. Less tension.”

Manon stared at her. “How would you know?”

Y/N rolled her eyes like it was obvious. “You think I didn’t watch every clip you sent? I had notes.”

There was no compliment in it. Not really. Just recognition. But that was somehow better. More honest, more them. 

It lingered between them in the quiet that followed, in the warmth of Y/N’s hand’s brushing hers and not moving away, and the steadiness of her touch as she held Manon against her chest. 

They dozed off around eleven, still on the floor, limbs tangled, backs against the couch, empty containers scattered around them like proof that the night had happened. Manon’s head tucked lightly against Y/N’s shoulder, Y/N’s hand resting at the hem of her hoodie like it had landed there by accident and simply stayed. No goodnight needed. 

Manon fell asleep without even setting an alarm, reckless perhaps, but she didn’t care. Because for the first time since arriving, she didn’t dream about failing. She dreamt of living. Of rising above it all. Of winning. With Y/N right by her side.

—

Training ended quietly.

No ceremony. No farewell speech. Just a final checklist, a printed schedule, and a reminder that contestants would be flown out in groups the following week. Rest well. Contact will be limited during filming. Thank you for your effort these last few months. 

Effort. Manon had nearly laughed at that. Effort was a funny word for what it took to survive.

Back home, everything felt strange.

Not bad. Just… softer. Like her body couldn’t quite remember how to relax inside familiar things.

The house looked the same. Her bedroom still smelled faintly like lavender detergent and old textbooks. Her mother had even left a plate of cut fruit in the fridge. But the air felt too still, and her mattress too forgiving. She lay flat on it the first night, arms crossed on her stomach, staring at the ceiling like she was afraid it might disappear.

She kept reaching for her phone, forgetting there was no next call, no countdown, no schedule to triple-check. Just hours and hours of… stillness.

Y/N wasn’t in town. That part shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

They’d been talking more regularly since the visit, late night voice memos, dumb memes, more blurry photos from set, but now, even that was about to disappear. Once the show began, outside contact would be nearly impossible. No phones. No unsupervised messages. No escape routes.

Manon didn’t say it out loud, but the idea of going radio silent, of going through all of this without Y/N in her ear, rattled her.

She hadn’t realized how much of her survival had been built on someone else’s voice.

Her mom noticed something was off by day two.

“You’ve been sitting in that same spot for an hour,” she said, walking past the kitchen with a laundry basket. “Are you meditating or just dissociating?”

Manon didn’t look up from her tea. “Bit of both.”

Her mother didn’t press. Just hummed and disappeared into the hallway. Then called out, casually, like it wasn’t pointed at all:  “Y/N always has a habit of showing up when you need her.”

Manon narrowed her eyes at the mug, pretended not to be bothered by the fact her mother had clearly been paying more attention than she let on. “You make it sound like she’s a witch.”

“Not a witch,” her mom replied. “Just inconveniently good at timing.”

—

The night before she was set to leave, Manon couldn’t sleep.

Too much quiet. Too many thoughts. She sat cross-legged on her bed with the lamp turned low, a pen in one hand and a sheet of paper she’d restarted three times already. The first draft had been too emotional. The second too vague. The third sounded like a thank-you card from a dentist’s office.

She didn’t even know if she’d be allowed to send it.

Still, she kept writing. Something about the weight of it made her feel less suspended.

Then came the knock.

Not at the door.

At the window.

Manon paused mid-sentence.

She looked up slowly and her brows drew together. Another knock. This time paired with a familiar face, pressed up against the glass and grinning like a menace.

Manon climbed off the bed and opened the window with a hiss. “What are you doing up here? You know we have a front door right? You’re going to make my mother think we’re delinquents.”

“Don’t worry, she already knows,” Y/N whispered back. Because of course her mother had known… and probably approved of this idea, “Also—this was more romantic.”

“You still could’ve taken the stairs.”

“I could’ve. But then I wouldn’t get points for effort.” 

Manon rolled her eyes at the general stupidity of the response, but still stepped aside to let Y/N in. It was still a dumb reason, yes, but Y/N was cute enough to soften it into the endearing kind of dumb.

Y/N swung a leg easily over the ledge like she’d done it a dozen times. Her feet hit the floor with a soft thud. She wore the hoodie Manon liked, the one that looked stolen from a movie set and smelled vaguely like clove shampoo and night air, and Manon made a mental note to steal it for herself later.

“You planned this with her, didn’t you,” Manon accused, squinting at her girlfriend.

Y/N looked just smug enough to confirm it.

“Come on,” she said, holding up a brown paper bag. “Let’s sneak out before your mom makes us take something ‘for the road.’”

—

They ended up parked in the middle of an empty hill just outside town.

It wasn’t anything special. Just a patch of open sky, a blanket thrown over the hood of the car, and a half-warm box of noodles between them. But it made sense in a way nothing else had in weeks. Like her body had finally stopped bracing for impact. Like her thoughts had finally gone quiet without having to fight for it.

Manon took a bite of her food, let the silence swell between them, then nudged Y/N’s shoulder with her own. “I should’ve asked earlier, but… how’s the shoot going? You never complain anymore unless it’s about fake blood or your co-star’s beard.”

Y/N stretched out her legs, then glanced up at the stars. “Shoot’s fine. Editing wraps in two weeks. Then we’re off touring to find distributors.”

Manon waited for more, but nothing came.

“That’s it?” she asked, unable to help her frown. “No trauma? No onset disasters? No diva breakdowns?”

Y/N twisted her mouth, like she was debating how much to admit. Then looked over, “Honestly, my biggest problem the last few months was you.”

Manon turned. Tried not to get preemptively offended. Failed. “Excuse me?”

Y/N shrugged, but it wasn’t careless, not paired with the way she smiled. “It's hard to focus when your girlfriend’s halfway across the world and you’re wondering if she’s eating real food or just chewing gum for dinner.” She explained.

Manon let out a dry laugh and nudged her again. Enjoyed the way Y/N leaned into it, “Wow. Touching.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Yeah, well… I guess I have been a little preoccupied.” Manon’s voice dipped, quiet at the edges. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Y/N shifted, turning toward her fully. She reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind Manon’s ear, and let her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, “I know. You don’t have to explain.”

Manon didn’t reply right away. She wasn’t sure she could. Her eyes dropped to her hands.

Then, quietly, like the words might break if she spoke too loud:

“I’m scared, Y/N.”

Y/N’s expression didn’t change, but her body softened around the words.

“Not of the show,” Manon went on. “Or—well, yeah, that too—but mostly… of going quiet. Of not having you. I think I only made it through training because I had you in my ear, telling me to try again. I don’t know what is going to happen when that’s gone, too.”

The words sat heavy between them. 

Y/N reached into her jacket pocket.

“Before you panic,” she started, pulling out a small, worn ring box, “this is not an engagement ring. Your dad would kill me.”

Manon blinked. Her gaze focused on the box. Her heart skipped once, then again, like it couldn’t decide whether to brace or settle.

Y/N cracked the box open and held it out.

“It just means—wherever you go, I’ll find my way there too. That you’ll never really be alone.” She tapped the box absentmindedly against her palm, a nervous tic she never outgrew, “And as long as you’re still wearing it, I’ll know you still want me there too.”

Manon stared at the ring. Simple. Silver. Already familiar in a way that made no real sense. 

It caught her off guard, then, how much she wanted something like this. Not the ring, exactly, just the certainty surrounding it. The promise tucked inside.

Then, flatly, like she couldn’t help herself: “You’re a sap, you know.”

Y/N groaned, loud, almost in disbelief, like Manon had just wrecked the perfect moment she’d so carefully crafted. But her eyes never lost their focus, her gaze never drifted away from Manon’s. 

Manon held out her hand. She didn’t make a show of it. Just rested it on the space between them, palm up, fingers slightly curled. Like she was offering something without saying it aloud.

Y/N smiled, soft, and took the ring from the box. She turned it once between her fingers, just to catch a feel, then slid it onto Manon’s hand, slowly, carefully, like she’d done it in her head a hundred times before. 

The metal was cool against Manon’s skin. 

“And scene,” Y/N murmured, almost to herself more than anything. 

Manon laughed, soft but sharp.

“Say that again and I’m taking it off,” she warned, but with no real heat behind it.

Y/N smiled again, but there was something steadier behind it this time. “Sorry. Sorry. Dully noted.” Manon leaned in to rest her head on Y/N shoulders. Admired the new glint on her hand.

Above them, the stars held steady. Below, the night began to press in close. But neither of them seemed to notice.

Not when everything else in that moment felt so…right.

—

Manon moved into the Dream Academy dorms with two bags, a ring on her finger, and a pit in her stomach.

The dorms were nicer than she expected. Not glamorous, not exactly cozy either, but clean. Polished. White walls, quiet halls, and a single laminated welcome letter waiting on the bed she’d be sleeping in for the next year and a half. And now with the actual contestants in it, the Dream Academy building felt all the more lived in than the sterile, jail-cell room she’d been given during individualized training.

Manon hadn’t even finished reading her welcome letter before they took away her phone.

“You’ll get it back on scheduled days. Otherwise, emergencies only.”

The staff had said kindly, like they were doing her a favor. Like being cut off from the outside world would somehow help her find herself. 

Manon smiled, nodded, and handed it over.

She didn’t let them see the way her fingers curled the second it left her hand.

—

Training didn’t start the next morning. It started that night.

Hours of drills. Floor routines. Vocal exercises with timers that beeped too loud and cut too sharp. She collapsed into bed past midnight, sore and starving, only to be yanked awake at six for morning stretches. No one coddled. No one slowed.

She had trained like hell to get here. But somehow, this was worse.

Because now, everyone else was good.

Not just good, next level. They hit every note, nailed every step. The kind of talented that made good look bad and perfect look expected.

Manon watched the others move with the kind of precision she couldn’t begin to fake. Watched them sing with resonance she could barely manage on her best days. She didn’t hate them, not exactly, but every time one of them breezed through a routine she had spent hours trying to crack, her stomach twisted. 

She thought, Jesus, this is terrible so often it bordered on blasphemy. Some days, she’d catch her reflection in the mirror and wonder if any of this was worth it.

But then she’d catch a glimpse of the ring.

She wore it on a thin chain now, tucked beneath her hoodie, close enough to feel when her breath hitched or her resolve began to crack. And the thought that if Y/N believed in her, she had to make it... kept her going.

By the end of week one, Manon had bruises on her knees and an ice pack permanently assigned to her ankle. Her confidence dropped. Then dropped again. Week by week. Month by month.

But still,  she kept going.

—

Month 1–2

Month one passed in a haze of early mornings and late nights. There were twenty girls in her dorm group, and by day five, Manon knew the exact sound of all their footsteps. She knew who cried in the shower stall three doors down. Knew who ran scales while brushing their teeth. Knew who never messed up, not once.

They trained from dawn to night, drills bleeding into feedback sessions, group critiques folding into individual evaluations. It was intimidating. Humiliating. And incredible, in a horrible sort of way.

Y/N’s presence helped. Even without a phone, she found ways to feel close. On call nights, she always picked up. Always followed up, even from the road.

Manon would open the cracked dorm laptop to find blurry selfies captioned “Can’t feel my face but I look cute, right?” or voice memos that said, “Missing my bed right now, but missing my beautiful, talented, stunning, gorgeous, jaw-dropping, mind-blowingly ethereal, heavenly…”—until she ran out of breath.

Once, Manon opened her phone to a fifteen-second audio clip of Y/N singing badly on purpose, ending with: “I’ve decided to audition too. I’ll be joining your company next year. Hope that’s okay.”

She laughed so hard she nearly got a warning that day.

But it helped. All of it. She was tired and sore and overwhelmed, but she felt remembered. And she couldn’t have asked for more.

Still, somewhere deep down, Manon quietly wondered how long they could keep it up.

—

Month 3–4

Then came the festival.

Y/N’s indie film got in. Manon found out during one of their rare breaks, scrolling through the one news site they were allowed to check. She screamed. Not loud, of course, but sharp enough to draw eyes anyways. 

When Y/N officially told her on their weekly call, her voice had been bright with disbelief. 

“They said it was original and grounded and risky in a way that worked. One of the judges even said they were still thinking about it the next morning. Isn’t that insane?”

She laughed like she couldn’t quite believe it, like she was still waiting to wake up.

Manon had grinned so hard her cheeks began to hurt.

“Of course they loved the film,” she said. “You’re in it!”

That stopped Y/N mid-laugh. Just for a beat. Her smile didn’t fall, exactly, but it shifted. Softened. Slowed. Like Manon’s words had landed somewhere deeper than any judge’s praise ever could. Like it was the one thing she hadn’t realized she needed to hear.

Then, softly: “I miss you.” Almost too quiet to catch. But Manon caught it.

She smiled at the screen. Reached out, fingers grazing the glass like she could somehow close the distance. “I miss you too,” she whispered. “And I’m so proud of you.”

And she was. Stretched thin. One mistake away from unraveling. But still, undeniably, fiercely proud.

Y/N looked at her like she wanted to reach back. Like she might not want to let go.

But they traded soft encouragements. I love yous. Quick reminders of what they were building toward. And said their goodbyes.

—

Month 5–7

Things started to change around month six.

Y/N looked tired on their next call. Not just sleepy. Not makeup tired. Bone tired.

Her voice was slower. Her face thinner. Her eyes shadowed in a way that hadn’t been there before.

Manon felt a quiet jolt of worry settle in her ribs.

“Hey. Are you okay?” she asked gently.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Y/N answered too quickly, expression flickering with something unreadable. 

She blamed the stress. Said she’d been losing some sleep over the new movie. Its reception. That it wasn’t anything serious or worth worrying about. But her voice lacked its usual warmth, and the look in her eyes no longer matched the words coming out of her mouth.

Manon sensed that there was something off. Something unspoken. Something Y/N wasn’t quite telling her. But Y/N still kept the mood light. Still cracked jokes. Still said, “This acting thing was supposed to be a side quest. But if my girlfriend’s going to be a megastar, I guess I’ve gotta keep up,” with a laugh that sounded close enough to real.

Close enough that Manon let the worry pass. Even as something else settled in her chest, tight and uneasy.

The call ended shortly after. And for a little while, Manon let herself believe things really were okay. That maybe exhaustion was just exhaustion. That the “I’m fine” meant just that. 

But texts slowed. So did the voice memos. Calls grew shorter. Replies came later. 

On some nights, they didn’t come at all.

Then Manon heard from her mom—casually, offhanded—that Y/N’s film had been picked up by a major distributor. It was huge. A game changer. 

But Y/N hadn’t told her, and that bothered Manon more than it should.

She waited for Y/N to mention it. On their next call. The one after that. But she never did.

And when Manon finally brought it up, Y/N blinked, like she genuinely didn’t see the problem. “Oh. I must’ve forgotten.”

Forgotten. Said like that should have been answer enough. 

But between the dwindling texts and the shorter calls, it didn’t quite feel like forgetfulness anymore. It felt more like distance. Like something slipping between them, quiet and steady.

Manon didn’t call it out. Not that night.

But she almost wished she had.

—

Month 8–10

Month eight was quieter.

Y/N got cast in something new. She downplayed it during their call, but her voice gave her away: bright, animated, thrilled. She sounded alive in a way that caught Manon off guard. Alive in a way she hadn’t sounded in weeks. And it stung, more than Manon wanted to admit, especially after all the half-asleep, barely-there conversations they’d had lately.

Still, Manon smiled. Said all the right things. Told Y/N to go kill it.

But it hurt. Not just missing the celebration in person, but how the congratulations had started to feel less like a hug and more like a postcard. Polite. Distant. Disconnected.

It wasn’t jealousy. Manon was proud, incredibly proud. But each time Y/N had great news, all Manon had to offer were stories of routines she had stumbled through or critiques that left her shaken. She began wanting Y/N to be proud of her too. The way she was proud of Y/N. But more and more, it felt like Y/N was pulling ahead while she stayed stuck in place, struggling just to keep up.

Like she was being left behind.

One night, after a long practice, Manon whispered, almost without meaning to, “I’m starting to feel like a ghost.”

Y/N’s eyes had widened. Asked what she meant. But it felt almost stupid to say out loud, especially when Y/N was doing so well. Still, she tried. Tossed out a vague explanation. How hard it has been to flag Y/N down lately. How it felt like she was being forgotten. Faded out of frame.

Y/N listened. More attentively than she had in weeks and promised she’d do better. Said quietly, “You could never disappear for me, Meret.”

Then, even softer: “Remember the ring. Even if I forget to show it, or if it starts to feel like you’re alone, I am right there with you.”

And it helped. Sometimes. Especially during rehearsals, when everything else felt like heat and noise and panic.

But even the ring couldn’t hold back the ache when their calls got cut short. Or when Y/N answered with a yawn instead of a hello.

And each time Y/N missed a call completely, the ring started to feel less like comfort and more like a reminder. Something cold and mocking against her skin.

—

Month 10–12

By month ten, Manon stopped waiting by the phone. Stopped watching the clock.

She still hoped. But not like before.

Y/N started showing up late to their scheduled calls, so Manon stopped marking them on her calendar.

She told herself it was fine. Everyone was tired. Everyone was doing their best. She was busy too. Mission prep had started. The stakes were higher. The first pair contestants were about to be cut. 

Still, one night, on a quiet call, when her voice was raw and her feet blistered from back-to-back choreography, Manon let it slipped. 

“I’m nervous,” she said, eyes on the ring rather than the screen. “For the missions. For what’s next.”

Y/N’s voice came clear over the speaker, “You’re more than ready.”

Manon hesitated, then sighed. "You’re not just saying that, right?"

Y/N smiled. The room behind her was dark, and Manon could barely make out the expression on her face, but she heard the smile, “Of course I’m not. You’ve got this.”

That steadied something in Manon. Not everything. But enough.

So feeling braver than usual, she let herself ask, soft, careful, like she didn’t want to scare the answer away. “I know we’ve talked about this before… but it’s been hard to reach you again lately.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Not loud, but enough to hear the shift. Guilt, maybe. Or something close.“I know,” she said. “Since then, I’ve been trying to frontload everything so I can actually be present when things calm down. But clearly things are not working out too well.” A chuckle, one that didn’t feel quite real, “Once the show airs. I’ll be more present. I promise.”

Manon nodded and didn’t press further. She reassured Y/N that she believed her. Or at the very least, that she wanted to.

Then she tucked the ring back beneath her collar and tried to convince herself that wanting to believe was the same as knowing it was true.

—

The show began filming on a Friday.

Not that it mattered. Days stopped meaning anything after a while. Time blurred into a loop of call times, camera tests, dress rehearsals, and feedback sessions that always ran long. Everything buzzed a little louder, moved a little faster. The cameras weren’t exactly hidden, but they didn’t need to be. Manon could feel them in the way her voice started to sound like a performance even when she wasn’t trying. In the way her skin prickled before she even realized they were rolling.

Everyone was tense. Even the girls who had coasted through training with flawless execution now moved with a stiffness they hadn’t before. Manon tried to keep her head down. Focus. Remember her training. Remember her breath.

It’s just a performance, she told herself. You can breathe through it. Hit your mark. Keep going.

And she did. She danced. She sang. She hit every step and didn’t choke. Her vocals didn’t falter and her hands didn’t shake. 

When she got up on stage, she simply gave the judges everything she had. 

It might not have been perfect. But it felt good. It felt like hers.

The judges were tough. Of course they were. This was Dream Academy, and this was the first mission; everyone got notes. Still, they hadn’t torn her completely apart. They’d had corrections, yes. But no scathing critique. Nothing personal that would have lingered on Manon’s mind. 

So when the rankings dropped and she saw her name higher than expected, a part of her surged. Just for a second.

Pride. Quiet and breathless. Finally, proof that her efforts had meant something.

And then it started.

Not from the staff. Not from the mentors. From the others.

The glances came first. Then the subtle hesitations in conversation. The extra beat before someone responded. The way a few girls exchanged looks when her name was called.

It wasn’t cruelty, wasn’t even dislike.

It was confusion, wrapped in something pricklier. 

How did she rank so high?

Manon didn’t let it get to her. Not at first. Her own pride outweighed the barely-there whispers around her. She had earned it, after all. She had fought tooth and nail to get this recognition. 

She raced back to the dorms after dinner that night, heart still buzzing, legs sore from the day’s rehearsals but mind sharp with anticipation. For once, she didn’t feel like she had something to prove. She had something to share.

She wanted to tell Y/N. Wanted to watch her reaction. Wanted to feel it reflected back. To hear it in her voice. To be seen not just as someone trying, but as someone succeeding.

Y/N answered five minutes late.

It probably shouldn’t have mattered. Five minutes meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Y/N was probably on set. Probably just getting to a quiet corner. 

But by the time the screen lit up, Manon’s excitement had already begun to cool.

Y/N was breathless when she answered. “Sorry! I had to find a quiet spot. Everything’s chaos here.” 

Manon smiled. She’d already predicted this. But it didn’t bring her any satisfaction. Still, she didn’t want it to dampen her mood. She pushed forward, told Y/N everything. How she hadn’t missed a note. How she’d placed way higher than anyone expected. How one of the vocal coaches even nodded during her bridge.

Y/N lit up. She tugged her hood off and leaned closer to the camera. “That’s huge, Manon. I’m so proud of you. That cover is going triple platinum in my car. I’m serious. I’m burning it to a CD and playing it until they come after me for copyright infringement.”

Manon laughed. Waited.

Waited for the pride to settle in. For the moment to feel full.

But it didn’t.

The words were right. The tone was light. But something about it felt distant. Like she was hearing it through glass.  Like she was being told what she wanted to hear, rather than what someone actually felt.

And from Y/N, that was worse.

When the call ended, Manon sat still in the dark, the screen fading to black. Her reflection stared back, just barely visible in the glare. 

She didn’t look proud. She didn’t look accomplished.

She looked like someone trying to believe it mattered.

Y/N had said she was proud.

So why did it feel like no one was? Not even her.

—

Mission two came with a twist: group dynamics.

It was a teamwork-based performance this time. Coordinated vocals. Synchronized movement. Shared lines and shared pressure. Every member had to shine just enough without stepping on anyone else’s spotlight. It wasn’t just about being good. It was about being good together.

Manon could already hear the whispers before her name was even called for the team lineup.

“She’s lucky she ranked high last time.”

“Probably got a nice edit.”

“Someone must like her.”

They never said it outright. Or to her face. They didn’t have to. Whispers always found their way into the quiet parts of the room.

She wanted to complain, sometimes. To roll her eyes and text Y/N the snarkiest version of “you won’t believe what they’re saying now.” But her phone was locked away like everything else. So no calls. No messages. No distractions. Just practice, practice, practice.

And maybe, if she was being honest, even if she could reach Y/N, she wasn’t so sure anymore that she would. Not right away.

Not when the thought crossed her mind, quick and mean and unwanted: Would Y/N even care?

Manon didn’t let herself dwell on it. She filed it away instead. Somewhere deep. Somewhere behind the part of her that still believed this was worth it.

Because it was irritating. The whispers, the looks that said too much. But irritation was easier than insecurity. Irritation gave her something to prove.

The training was brutal this time. Singing and dancing at the same time wasn’t just hard. It was humbling in a way she hadn’t expected. Manon knew the choreography. She could sing the harmonies. But doing both while keeping up with the rhythm of four other girls? It made her voice tremble and her lungs burn. It made her feel like she was always half a beat behind and half a breath short.

When the mission ended, she didn’t feel good.

It hadn’t been awful. Not collapse-on-stage level bad. But it also hadn’t been enough.

She didn’t need a mentor to tell her. Or the buzzing silence that settled after rehearsals. She heard it in her own voice, in the way her chest tightened during the final chorus. She felt it in her footing, in the places where she overcorrected and under-delivered.

Later that night, she watched the performance back in her room and sat with the taste of almost in her mouth. That murky space where your best effort still didn’t translate. Where you did the work, but the work didn’t show. And that sucked.

Luckily, her team won. Somehow. Not because of her, though, despite her. 

Then came the elimination.

Four girls sent home. Just like that. Their beds stripped clean before the lights even dimmed.

That night, when her phone was finally returned, Manon’s hands trembled a little too hard around it.

She didn’t have anything specific she wanted to say to Y/N. Not at first. She just needed to hear her. Needed to exist in a space where she didn’t feel like she was sinking.

To her surprise, Y/N answered almost immediately. Her face was up-close to the camera, eyes wide, whispering loudly like a kid sneaking a call past bedtime.

“I’m backstage between takes,” she whispered, smile already curling. “But I couldn’t miss a call from my superstar.”

Manon smiled, soft and automatic.

“I voted for you like a bajillion times,” Y/N continued, lowering her voice dramatically. “You basically owe me an extra-special kiss when I get back.”

Manon laughed. It came out light, but frayed at the edges.

She told Y/N the basics. That her team won. That she was safe. 

She didn’t mention how disappointed she felt. How off she’d been. How her whole body still felt too heavy from a performance that hadn’t landed.

She wanted to. But she didn’t.

Y/N was still talking, something about the lobby crowd and how someone mistook her for another actress entirely, when Manon’s mind slipped sideways.

If they had lost…

If one more thing had gone wrong…

It could’ve been me tonight. 

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt. Her gaze dropped to the floor. She didn’t even realize she was slipping until she heard Y/N’s voice through the phone again, calling her back. 

“Hey, did you hear what I said?”

Manon blinked, shook away her wandering thoughts. “Huh? Sorry.”

She opened her mouth to apologize. To admit she’d spaced out. To ask if they could talk, really talk. But the moment never came.

Somewhere off-screen, a voice called Y/N’s name. 

Y/N glanced back, then turned to the camera with a rushed smiled. “Oh, shoot. Sorry, I gotta go.” There was a muted rustling, followed by a distant laugh. A girl’s, maybe. Manon wasn’t sure. “You did amazing, though. I’ll call again soon, okay? I love you.”

The screen went black before Manon could say it back, and she was left staring at her own reflection again. 

Her stomach knotted. 

The words she hadn’t said pressed heavy against her ribs.

She’d been lucky this time. That was the truth of it. Luck had kept her safe. But it wouldn’t last forever.

And she hadn’t even had the chance to say it out loud.

—

Mission Three started before Manon had even registered the end of Mission Two. There was no breather, no room to decompress. Just a new assignment and a reminder from the staff that the stakes were only going up from here. “Step up or step out,” someone had said during prep. No one laughed.

The shift was immediate. Everyone moved differently now. Sharper, tighter, less forgiving. Gone were the playful glances between routines, the shared snacks in hallways, the light taps of encouragement. Mission Two had trimmed the roster. Four beds were stripped clean. Another when someone had quit.  It had sunk in for all of them: this wasn’t a training program anymore. This was survival.

And then Manon got sick.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. A scratch in the throat, a heaviness in her limbs. She thought it was just exhaustion, until it wasn’t. Until the fever came. Until her cough kept her up at night and her body gave out halfway through practice on day three. The staff sent her to the medic, clipped her schedule, and told her to rest.

Rest. As if that was an option.

Every hour in bed was another hour her team kept training without her. Another block of choreography she didn’t learn, harmonies she didn’t tighten, formations she couldn’t drill. She pushed herself to practice anyway, late at night, after lights out. Her voice was hoarse. Her muscles ached. Her head spun. She didn’t care.

She couldn’t afford to care.

Because she heard it. Loud now. Not whispers. Not hints. Just voices in the open.

“She’s a producer pick.”

“They’re trying to manufacture an underdog.”

“Girl can’t keep up and she still gets pushed through.”

It wasn’t even behind her back anymore. She’d walk into a room and conversations wouldn’t stop. They just shifted tone. She’d look up and see eyes that used to be neutral, now watching, waiting, judging.

And maybe it would’ve hurt less if she’d had something soft to land on. A hug from her mom. A call from Y/N. Anything.

But when her phone was returned at the end of the week, she unlocked it to nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. Not even a voice memo.

She waited.

She rationalized.

Maybe there was an emergency on set. Maybe the signal was bad. Maybe Y/N had tried, and the call just didn’t go through.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t need Y/N to survive this. That she was fine on her own.

But the truth was, she wasn’t.

She needed that call. Just one damn call. She would’ve settled for thirty seconds. A joke. A dumb nickname. Anything.

She tried to text. Just to get something out. Just to say she was tired, that things were getting hard, that she missed home. The message sat unsent on her screen until her phone was taken again.

She didn’t even try the next week, but she waited anyway.

She stared at the ceiling, too sick to train and too wired to sleep, rehearsing what she would say. How she’d joke about her immune system being a traitor. How she’d tease Y/N about missing another call.

But the call never came. And worse, neither did the text. No apology. No nothing.

And that was what broke something open.

Not the delay. Not the missed timing. But the complete silence. Not even a heads-up. Not even a sorry.

If Y/N couldn’t call, she could’ve just said so. Then Manon could’ve used her one weekly call on her parents instead. Could’ve heard her dad’s laugh or her mom’s voice instead of another dial tone.

She stared down at the phone, breath short, chest tight, and all that built-up bitterness rose like a tide.

One call a week. One. And she had wasted it. Again.

Her fingers clenched around the phone so tight it might’ve cracked. She almost threw it. Almost hurled it across the room, into the mirror, into the wall, into anything. Just to feel something. Just to regain some semblance of agency in her life. Withing these sterile walls.

But instead, it slipped. Caught on her sleeve, bounced off her collarbone, and landed face-down on the mattress with a dull thud. Her hand dropped beside it.

Manon didn’t cry. She just went quiet.

—

Mission Three came anyway.

Her team covered for her in rehearsals. Helped her drill formations between water breaks. Fed her cough drops like contraband behind the camera crew’s backs. They tried. But it wasn’t enough.

Manon stepped on stage hollowed out and underprepared.

She hit the moves. Mostly. Her voice didn’t crack, but it wavered. Her eyes were trained on her marks instead of the crowd. Her smile was two seconds behind the music.

She knew it the moment she walked off.

She hadn’t bombed.

But she hadn’t soared either.

And the worst part? It was starting to feel normal.

After the performance, three more girls went home. Three more faces gone from the dorms, just like that. Girls who were better than her. Girls who got things right the first time. Girls who didn’t miss steps or forget formations.

She lay awake that night, ring pressed to her palm, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t think about winning.

She thought about leaving.

Not because she wanted to.

But because maybe everyone else was right.

And when she unlocked her phone, just to check, just to see—

Still nothing.

She didn’t even feel surprised anymore.

She didn’t call that week. Or the next. Didn’t text. Didn’t even try.

Not out of punishment. Just because she didn’t think Y/N would notice if she did.

—

Mission Four was the final stretch. Everyone knew it.

The prep lasted longer than anything before it. They were told it was to give the final ten a fair chance, a polished performance, a showstopping finale. But Manon knew the truth. It was to weed out whoever didn’t have enough left in them.

She wanted to believe she was pushing herself because she loved the work. Because she had something to say. But it wasn’t conviction that drove her anymore.

It was vindication.

She was tired of people questioning how she got here. Tired of being treated like the exception instead of the rule. Tired of wanting one person to see her and never knowing if she did.

Things with Y/N had deteriorated.

That’s what happened when someone missed three calls in a row.

On the third one, Manon had waited. Her phone rested on her pillow as she changed into her clothes. She even curled up by the window with a blanket, watching the dorm lights flicker out one by one.

She texted her parents an update. Just enough to let them know she was alive.

Then she stared at the screen.

Y/N had to remember this one. She had to.

Manon told herself if the phone rang in the next few seconds, she’d let it go. All of it. Every missed call, every silence, every almost-sincere promise.

She waited.

The phone stayed quiet.

And for the first time in months, Manon cried.

Not the tired kind she’d done in the shower after Mission Two. Not the silent, slow-burning tears that came with headaches, missed calls, and cold dorm beds.

This one was ugly. The kind that made her whole body shake, her chest ache, her eyes burn in time with the rhythmic patter of rain against the window. She didn’t try to stop it.

Because she couldn’t even pretend anymore. Couldn’t lie to herself, couldn’t play the part. She just didn’t understand.

Why everyone seemed out to get her. 

Why everything kept slipping through her fingers. 

Why Y/N hadn’t turned cold exactly, but distant. Like the warmth was still there, just aimed somewhere else.

And that hurt worse. Because there was no answer. Only the ache of not knowing. Of being in love with someone who might already be halfway out the door.

—

The next morning, Daniela knocked on her door.

“Get dressed. You’re coming with me,” was all she said.

No producers. No cameras. ust an off-site breather. Manon didn’t ask why. Or how. Daniela didn’t offer to explain.

They drove into the city and ate noodles on a rooftop. Manon didn’t talk much. Daniela didn’t force her to. 

Daniela never asked why her eyes looked puffy. Never ask why she hadn’t touched her broth. She just kept talking about unrelated things. Random things. Things that filled up the silence and made Manon feel the closest to steady she had in weeks.

Until the television in the restaurant corner lit up, and a headline scrolled across the screen. Grainy paparazzi footage, grainier audio. It wasn’t even a full segment. Just filler. Background noise.

But Manon’s attention snapped into focus at the name.

Y/N L/N Spotted Out With Co-Star After Late Night Shoots

And there it was.

A still image of Y/N stepping out of a car with someone else beside her. A girl. Her co-star, the voiceover said.

Y/N was laughing.

Laughing in a way Manon hadn’t seen in months. Head tossed back, eyes lit up, shoulders relaxed. The kind of laughter that doesn’t hide anything. That doesn’t come with a delay or a crack in the voice.

Manon didn’t realize she’d stopped eating until Daniela looked at her.

“Everything okay?”

Manon tried to say yes. Couldn’t.

She didn’t know how to explain that everything suddenly hurt.

Not because Y/N was laughing. Not even because she was with someone else. But because Manon couldn’t remember the last time Y/N had looked at her like that. 

Or when she had looked at Y/N like that either.

—

That night, she stormed back to the dorms and demanded her phone.

The producers pushed back, annoyed. “You know the rules,” they reminded her. “This isn’t a social hour.” She didn’t care.

They told her to wait until the weekend. She didn’t care.

They told her this would go on record. She didn’t care.

“It’s an emergency,” she said. “Now, give me the phone.”

The other girls watched from their corners, whispering. Calling it a tantrum. Entitlement. A girl who couldn’t take the pressure.

Manon let them talk. They would’ve found something to say anyway.

She took the phone and went to the farthest stairwell in the building, where the signal was best and no one could overhear her come undone.

Y/N answered on the third ring.

Her voice was low, sleepy and slightly muffled. Like she’d just been woken up, “Hello. What’s going on?”

Not hey, not Manon, not I’m sorry. Just a what’s going on.

Manon sat on the stairwell floor, cold concrete pressing into her spine. Her phone felt heavier than usual in her hand. Her throat was dry, but her voice came out sharp anyway. “Why are you whispering? Is your other girlfriend asleep next to you?”

A beat of silence.

Then a confused and groggy: “What?”

Manon didn’t flinch. Didn’t dare to back down, “You heard me. Or should I pull up the photos? The headlines? ‘New couple of the season.’ You and your co-star, walking out of some bar in Paris.”

There was a shuffle on the other end of the line. The kind that sounded like someone sitting up too fast. “Manon—what are you even talking about?”

“The photos,” she repeated. “The headlines. The ones I shouldn’t have to find out about from strangers online.” Her breath hitched, but she pushed forward, unable to stop. “And don’t act like I’m crazy. You know what I mean.”

Y/N exhaled. Not guilty. Just tired. “I told you. Didn’t I? The shoot got added last-minute. The pickup happened so fast. There were interviews, panels, press—”

“But Paris?” Manon’s voice cracked at the edge. “Really? You couldn’t have dropped me a text? One sentence? Any insight into your life at all?”

“I didn’t think it would make a difference.”

That hit harder than anything else could have.

“Oh,” Manon said, voice going cold. “So now I’m supposed to keep track of your life through strangers on Twitter? Oh wait! I can’t. I only get my phone for one hour each week.”

“Manon,” Y/N sighed. “Come on.”

“No. Don’t come on me. I waited, Y/N. For three weeks. One call. For three week. That’s all I asked for.”

“I wanted to,” Y/N said quickly. “I was trying to wait for a moment when I could actually talk. I didn’t want to just half-ass it.”

“Well, you didn’t even quarter-ass it. So congratu-fucking-lations, I guess.”

There was a pause. Then: “Can I please explain?”

“Please, go ahead” Manon said flatly. “Tell me how busy you were. How your time is just so much more valuable than mine.”

“I was busy,” Y/N snapped. “But not because I wanted to be. I’ve been getting shredded in PR meetings for missing scheduled appearances. For ducking out every week to call you. Apparently, disappearing every week to call my secret girlfriend in the middle of my mainstream debate doesn’t look very good on a press tour.”

Manon scoffed. “So I’m bad for your image now. That’s what you’re saying.”

“No. I’m saying the press is watching me. Watching us. You think I wanted to be in Paris posing for fake romance headlines? You think I asked for that?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t even tell me about it. So yeah, I think maybe you didn’t care.”

Y/N’s voice dropped. “I was trying to protect something. Maybe badly. But it was with good intentions. I just didn’t think it was worth bringing up and causing trouble.”

The gut punch was something Manon didn’t see coming.

“Oh,” she said. “So I’m trouble now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, it’s fine,” Manon cut in. “I get it. I should’ve smiled and nodded. Let you show up when you wanted and disappear when it got hard.”

“That’s not fair, Manon.”

“You know what else is not fair?” Manon’s voice cracked. “Working myself to death and still feeling like I’m losing you. Convincing myself that if I held on just a little longer, you’d somehow come back.”

Y/N’s tone softened, then hardened again, “I never left.”

“Well you didn’t exactly stay, either.”

“I was staying up until 3 a.m. to make those calls,” Y/N protested. “I was skipping press, lying to my team just to talk to you. I was doing my best!”

“Then maybe your best isn’t enough.”

Silence.

A long, wide silence. Not begging. Not forgiving. Just... cold.

Y/N’s voice came quieter. “Do you really believe that? Do you really think I hadn’t even tried.”

Manon wanted to say no. But she didn’t.

“Do you think any of this is easy for me?” Y/N asked. “That it hasn’t killed me every time I saw you cry on my screen and couldn’t do anything about it? That every time we talked, I didn’t already feel like I was failing you? That every time I picked up, I enjoyed feeling like I was getting yelled at for not being enough.”

Manon’s hands trembled and the ring on her necklace dangled into view. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t think I had the right to.”

There it was. The guilt. It hit, but Manon didn’t let it stick.

She went for the ring next.

"Then maybe you shouldn’t have given me this stupid ring," she snapped, tearing it off the necklace. The chain broke and bit into Manon’s skin, but the sting was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. "Or made some stupid promise about always being here. Maybe you should’ve just stayed on your little movie set with your perfect little fake relationship and stopped pretending you knew what it meant to show up."

Y/N’s voice shook. Her words began to loop, as if saying them again might make them true. “That’s not fair!”

Manon didn’t flinch. Her voice just stayed low, bitter. “Nothing about this is fair.”

A pause, then, quietly, almost in defeat, “I’ve always been in your corner, Meret.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

There was no silence. Not even a pause. Yet it felt like there should’ve been.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said quietly. Manon knew she meant it, “And I wish I did.”

It was honest, and raw, and exactly the kind of truth Manon had needed just a little earlier. But it wasn’t enough.

“Do you know what it’s like to feel like an afterthought in someone else’s story? Like the person who used to know you just... doesn’t anymore?”

Y/N barely whispered, but it came out loud, “Yeah, I think I do.”

Another pause. One that should’ve given Manon the clarity she needed to know that she should stop. That anything else she said could very well be something she could never take back. 

But Manon said it, anyway. The one line that would stay with her long after the call ended. 

“Try wondering if your person is just waiting for you to fall apart so they have an excuse to stop calling.”

Y/N’s voice trembled. There was a soft breath, a pause too long, like she was trying hard not to cry. But Manon could hear it anyway, in the way the word cracked when it finally came out. “I don’t know what else to say. I feel like I’ve already said everything I could.”

And the worst part? Manon had seen Y/N cry for her before. Plenty of times. In cars, on sidewalks, in airport terminals. In moments of goodbye, or love, or both. But this was the first time it had been because of her.

And for a second, Manon wished she could undo it. Take it all back.

But the damage was already done.

“Then I guess there’s nothing else for us to talk about.”

Y/N bristled from her end, alarmed, “Wait—”

Click.

The call ended before either of them could stop it.

Manon stared at the screen. She thought about calling back. But the producer was already at her side, reaching for the phone.

So, she let it go.

From that point forward, Manon’s heartbreak calcified into something colder. Sharper. Something that wouldn’t fall apart again.

Not when people doubted her. Not when the schedule broke her down to the bone. Not even when the cameras rolled and the pressure hit its peak.

She trained. Rehearsed. Took every correction and folded it into the next run-through. No crying. No complaining. No checking her phone.

When the guilt surfaced, quiet and unwelcome, whispering about the last call, about the way her words had landed, she shoved it down. Told herself she had no room for doubt. Not now. Not when everything was on the line.

And when the final mission came, she gave them everything. Every last ounce of discipline and effort and fight.

She crushed it.

The crowd roared. Her family cried. Her name was called.

She had made it. She was in Katseye.

Everyone around her celebrated like it was the end of something. A finish line, a victory. Daniela threw her arms around her, laughing and shouting that they were going to be famous. Manon hugged her back. Meant it. Thanked her quietly for having her side these past few weeks, when it had really counted.

But the win didn’t feel like it should’ve.

Because when the crowd thinned and the flashes died down, Manon looked out into the blur of faces and searched just for one.

It wasn’t there.

Her mother must’ve seen the way her eyes lingered, scanning past cameras and crew and confetti, because she hesitated before saying it. “She didn’t come. I’m sorry.”

Manon nodded like she’d already known. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

That night, long after the lights dimmed and the clamor faded, she stepped onto the rooftop alone.

The city buzzed somewhere below, distant and unreachable.

She turned on her phone. Finally hers again. Completely hers.

There were a few missed calls. A couple from family, one from a number she didn’t recognize.

But not the one she was hoping for. Not even a text.

And the absence hit harder than she’d let herself imagine all those weeks ago.  Because for all the things she’d said, and all the ways she’d tried to convince herself it didn’t matter: 

She had still looked. She had still hoped. And she still loved Y/N more than anything in the world.

She sat down against the ledge and opened her voice recorder. Lifted the phone to her mouth. Just her voice. Just the night.

“Hey. I don’t know if you saw, but I won. I got into Katseye.”

A pause. Her breath caught in the wind.

“Um. So yeah.”

Her voice cracked. “And I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have taken it all out on you.”

She drew in a shaky breath. The silence around her was louder than anything.

“I just… I just want to talk. I don’t even know what I’d say. But please.”

A whisper now.

“Please call me when you get this.”

She didn’t say the rest. She didn’t have to. The quiet answered for her.

Or leave me if you don’t.

—

You like to believe the universe has a plan.

Not in some big, cinematic way. Not fate with a capital F. But something smaller. Quieter. The belief that things move with purpose. That even when you feel lost or stuck, something will eventually shift. That the right thing, the right person, the right moment will arrive. Maybe not how you expect it, but exactly how you need it. 

That belief is how you’ve always made sense of your life. Trusting that something was nudging you forward, piece by piece.

You hadn’t always known you wanted to be an idol. That came with time. At first, you were just a quiet kid, too full of feelings and too short on ways to say them out loud. You tried everything, searching for something that would make you feel understood. Drawing. Piano. A brief, delusional summer where you were convinced you’d write a bestselling novel before high school (Spoiler alert: you did not). But nothing ever stuck.

Then one night, you crept out of bed past curfew, not even sure why. Just that you couldn’t sit still in your bedroom a second longer. The house was silent in that rare way it only could be when everyone else was asleep. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world might finally let you breathe. You ended up in the living room without even realizing that’s where you’d been heading, already curled up on the couch with a blanket and your tablet in hand.

You clicked on a random video. Background noise, nothing more. Behind-the-scenes footage of some girl group you’d never heard of rehearsing. They weren’t polished. They weren’t glowing under stage lights. They were drenched in sweat, shouting counts over the music, laughing when they messed up, groaning when they had to restart. One of them tied another’s shoelaces mid-combo and nearly missed a beat.

And yet, something in you caught. Just caught.

You didn’t have the words for it then, but your chest had ached in a way that felt too specific to ignore. It wasn't admiration. It was recognition. Belonging. A rhythm that made sense for once: real and imperfect and alive. And that night, for the first time, you whispered to yourself, I want this. I don’t know how, but I want this. And somehow, that was enough to start.

Later, at Dream Academy, you found out what this really meant. Not just the music videos and stage lights and curated applause, but the other side. The exhaustion that seeped into your bones. The doubts that whispered louder than your instructors. The nights you cried quietly into your towel because that was the only way not to wake anyone.

And yet, every time you were ready to quit, something would happen. A rehearsal that finally clicked. A voice message from home that made you laugh. A warm hand finding yours during a major elimination. Small things. Quiet things. Things that they kept you going. That reminded you that maybe, just maybe, the universe hadn’t forgotten about you. 

All you had to do was trust it. Hold on. Wait for its plan. 

A rustle of sheets broke the stillness and startled you out of your thoughts. You glanced over your shoulder toward the movement. The soft glow of the rising sun washed gently across the dorm room. And there she was. Daniela shifted in her bed, her curls spilling across the pillow, one arm draped over her eyes to block the light. She was in a sweater, yours, you recognized. Something you had let her borrow ages ago, and she had simply never returned. Even in sleep, she looked composed. Like perfection was second nature to her. Like it had been stitched into her bones.

Your breath caught. 

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid, how soft your heart still went over Daniela Avanzini. Like it was all it knew how to do. And it wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was, in that frustrating, celestial way that never felt fair. It was how she remembered your coffee order without being asked. How she always saved you a seat, even if it meant sitting in the back. How she made you feel like the only person in the room when she smiled at you, even when you were surrounded by five other girls who were technically just as important.

She steadied you. When you were frantic, she was calm. When you crumbled, she helped you rebuild. And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had started orbiting her like she was a fixed star. Something to measure yourself against. Something to move toward.

And that was the problem now.

Because when everything felt too loud, Daniela had been the person you went to. The one who helped you make sense of things. But now, she was part of the confusion.

You sighed the kind of sigh that belonged seemingly anywhere else: long, dramatic, and almost entirely completely unnecessary. You weren’t even sure what you were feeling anymore. 

Your phone buzzed, and you reached towards the sound. 

Megan: good morning :)  we still on for breakfast?

You stared at the message longer than you needed to. Then read it again.

Simple. Straightforward. But it landed differently than it would have a month ago.

Because lately, Megan has started creeping into your thoughts too. Not like Daniela. Megan didn’t glow in the dark. She wasn’t soft or dreamy or made of whatever wistful magic you used to associate with love.

Megan was different. Sharper. Louder. Full of unexpected laughter and badly timed jokes that still made you smile even when you didn’t want to. She spoke in sarcasm and stubborn silences, her eyes always revealing more than she meant them. She wore her heart openly, never bothering to hide it, never seeming afraid of what it might cost her.

Being around her felt like being pulled out of your own head and dropped straight into the present. Like she could snap the world into focus just by being in it. With her, everything felt immediate. Urgent. Like the world stilled for a breath, and all that existed was now, now, now.

She wasn’t a star in the sky. She was real. 

And it was unsettling, how much it felt like betrayal. How Megan’s smile would slip into your thoughts when you least expected it, tugging at something bright and unfamiliar. How her laughter lingered like a song you couldn’t stop humming. How, little by little, she was settling into a space you’d once believed was meant for someone else.

And how, suddenly, the voice in your head started asking questions you weren’t ready to answer:

Had anyone ever really lived in that space?

Or had you only kept it open, hoping someday Daniela would?

With a sigh, you turned your phone face down on the mattress and rubbed your palms over your eyes, hard enough to see stars. You wanted the universe to send you a sign. Something obvious. Something that said, Here. This is the right path. This is who you’re supposed to love.

But the room stayed quiet. And your heart stayed loud.

You flipped the phone back over, knowing there would be no greater force intervening today.

You: yeah. still on. see you in 30

Sent.

Behind you, Daniela shifted in her sleep. Ahead of you, Megan waited.

And you? You were still somewhere in the middle, waiting for a sign that might never come. 

—

By the time you made it to the café, Megan was already there, tucked into a corner booth with two cups in front of her and a spoon sticking out of her mouth like she’d forgotten it was there. 

The irony wasn’t lost on you. A café again. You being late again. But Megan was always fifteen minutes early. It was practically part of her brand. Which meant even when you were on time, you were already late.

The place was busier than you had expected: small tables pressed too close together, conversations bubbling over the clatter of mugs, the hiss of one too many espresso machines pushed to their limit. People streamed in and out, jackets half-zipped, phones in hand, earbuds in. It was the kind of place you could disappear in if you weren’t careful.

You texted Megan and watched her glance at her phone. Then her head lifted. 

Her eyes swept the café slowly, scanning the crowd with a slight furrow in her brow. She looked over the tables, over the heads of strangers, not quite tense but focused, until her gaze finally landed on you, and her expression shifted instantly. The tension eased, her mouth curved up, and a smile bloomed across her face, bright and a little lopsided, like she hadn’t expected to be happy to see you, but was anyway.

And before you could stop yourself, the corners of your mouth tugged upward too. Small. Involuntary. Like her smile had reached across the room and pulled one out of you in return.

It wasn’t your fault that she had such a pretty smile. 

You made your way over and slid into the seat across from her, shrugging off your jacket and setting your phone facedown on the table. Megan was still smiling when she pushed one of the cups toward you.

“You finally made it,” Megan said, her tone easy, almost teasing. “What took you so long?”

You rubbed at your eyes and gave her a tired smile, as if you could communicate everything with just one look, “Daniela and I went on a late drive last night, and this morning she realized she’d misplaced the keys. I had to dig around before I could leave.”

Megan raised a brow, slow and deliberate. “Oh. Misplaced, huh?”

You blinked, unsure what else it could be, “Yeah?”

Megan picked up her drink, bringing it halfway to her mouth but not quite taking a sip. Her fingers lingered around the cup, tapping once, like she was buying time. Her voice came a second later, casual, a little dry. “No, totally. I’m sure it was a complete accident.”

You nodded like that had been a given, already distracted as you reached for your own cup and took a sip. The taste hit immediately, but not in a good way.

You made a face. “Ew. What is this?”

“Oh, right.” Megan winced, like she was only just remembering, “While I was waiting, I ordered. They were out of oat milk, so I panicked and got coconut.”

You took another sip, more out of hope than belief, and it somehow tasted worse the second time.

“This is like a crime against beverages,” you muttered, pushing the cup away with an exaggerated shudder. 

Megan laughed, quick and bright. It echoed off the rim of her cup, and settled somewhere beneath your ribs. “But…,” she added, straightening a little, “the real crime would’ve been standing in line during this morning rush. So really, I saved us both. Who knew how long you’d be?”

You smiled, amused. “Fair enough.”

Then, without thinking, you added, “She actually offered to give me a ride. Daniela, I mean. After I couldn’t find the keys.”

That… brought Megan’s smile down a notch. Her fingers paused against the cup. Then she set it down gently. 

“Good thing you found your keys then,” she said, a polite smile stretching across her face,  “Three would’ve been a crowd.”

You blinked, confused again. “Well. You did get us a booth, I’m sure we all could have fit.”

Megan let out a laugh, though it sounded more like a strained warning than amusement. You took the hint and clamped your mouth shut.

“Anyway,” she said after a beat, shifting gears so smoothly it barely felt like a change, “Lara was looking for you yesterday. Asked if I’d replaced her as your favorite.”

You raised a brow. “Lara said that?”

“She came back from training, threw her bag across the room, and went, ‘Has Y/N finally ditched me for you, or is she just hiding somewhere away again?’ Very calm. Very normal.”

You snorted, the image vivid and immediate. “That definitely sounds like her.”

“I told her it was only a matter of time before I took her place as number one,” Megan said, fingers tapping against the side of her drink like she was thinking about taking a sip, but never did.

You grinned. “And who said Lara was my favorite?”

Megan tilted her head, mock-offended but smiling. “Not me. Because I already know I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that crept up anyway. “You’re lucky you are one of my favorites.”

She looked at you for a beat. Like she was waiting for something, maybe for you to take it back, or finish the sentence. But when she realized you that there was nothing more: she beamed, all sunlight and mischief, and proud, like she’d won something you didn’t know was a game.

She didn’t mention the one of part. Didn’t ask who else you meant. Didn’t press.

Just reached for her cup again, the one she hadn’t touched in minutes, and finally took a sip. Coconut milk and all.

“I’ll let Lara know you said that, then.”

Your smile faltered. “Wait — hold on—”

But Megan was already laughing into her cup, shoulders shaking as she tried to hide her grin behind the ceramic. And this time, even the coconut couldn’t ruin the taste.

—

After breakfast, the two of you left the café together, stepping out into the gentle swell of late morning traffic. The air had warmed up slightly, the sidewalks already filling with people heading somewhere or nowhere at all. 

Megan mentioned something about stopping by a few shops before heading back. Something about needing socks. Or maybe a candle. Or maybe socks that smelled like candles. You were never quite sure when she was joking, which probably meant she always was.

At the corner, just before your paths split, she pulled you into a hug. No warning, no lead-in. Just her arms looping around your shoulders and the brush of her cheek against your, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. 

You froze for half a second, surprised. Then you melted into it.

She always caught you off guard like that. With her timing. With her ease. You never saw her coming, but when she arrived, it was like the world made room for her. And lately, you’ve found yourself doing the same. 

The hug wasn’t long. Just a blink. But it stayed. Left behind a flutter in your chest, soft and sudden, the kind that had been growing more familiar around Megan. Her touch lingered like the burn after a spark, gentle but impossible to ignore. And you weren’t sure what unsettled you more: that it made you feel breathless, or that part of you didn’t really mind.

She pulled back with a crooked grin, all casual mischief, like she hadn’t just rewired your entire internal operating system. “Don’t be late to the interview,” she said, already turning to go. “I want to look prettier than you on camera.”

“You won’t,” you called after her, voice lighter than you felt. You already do, you thought. But you didn’t say that part out loud. You just stood there a second longer than you needed to, watching the space she left behind like it still held her shape.

Then you turned and headed home.

—

The front door creaked as you stepped back inside the house. The scent of dry shampoo and reheated dumplings greeted you faintly. Somewhere down the hall, a hairdryer roared to life. Music thumped behind a closed bathroom door. You padded upstairs, already familiar with the rhythm of this late-morning lull: half the house still getting ready, the other half pretending not to be awake yet.

Your room was cracked open. You nudged it wider with your foot.

Inside, Daniela and Manon were both perched on Manon’s bed, stretched out in lazy angles like they'd gotten halfway through the process of getting ready before collectively deciding to give up. Manon had her hoodie hood up, sleeves pulled over her hands, her sock-clad foot tapping lazily against the headboard as she scrolled through her phone. Daniela was cross-legged beside her, a half-zipped sweater shrugged off one shoulder, a notebook balanced on her thigh, and a highlighter uncapped and tucked behind her ear like she might actually use it at some point. She wouldn’t. You knew.

But what caught you first was the way Daniela was already looking up. Not startled. Not distracted. Just quietly watching the door, like she had known you were coming before you even stepped into the room. 

And suddenly, Megan’s hug came back to you. Not her arms, exactly, just the feeling. That flutter, too bright and too real, still tucked behind your ribs. It lingered in the space between you and Daniela. Not a comparison. Just a presence. Like your heart was trying to calibrate something without the right tools.

Daniela shifted, her thumb dragging absentmindedly over the spine of her notebook. You noticed it in passing, but it struck you wrong. Not bored. Not restless. Like she was trying to ground herself. Her eyes didn’t lift until you looked away, but you felt it anyway, the weight of her gaze, like she was trying to memorize you without permission.

“How was breakfast?” Daniela finally asked, her voice smooth. Light. But there was something in her eyes. Something that didn’t quite match her tone.

Before you could answer, Manon sat up like she’d been launched, tossing her phone aside with a gasp so dramatic it practically echoed.

"Breakfast? Without us?"

Daniela clicked her pen closed, eyes still on you. "Well. Apparently it was just Megan and Y/N’s exclusive little date."

Your stomach flipped. The word date hung heavier than it should’ve. Her tone was casual, even amused, but it landed like a stone skipping too close to the truth.

"One, it wasn’t a date. Two, you were invited," you said, stepping into the room and dropping your bag beside the dresser. "I just figured you’d want to sleep in after we stayed out so late."

"Another thing I wasn’t invited to?" Manon gasped, clutching her chest. “Fake ass friends. I can’t believe this.”

Daniela didn’t even blink. She just reached over and jabbed Manon in the shin with her foot. Quick, precise, and unmistakably deliberate.

Manon let out a shriek. "Did you just—Dani, did you just touch me with your hobbit toes?"

“Don’t complain,” Daniela muttered, not even looking at her. Her eyes were on you again, steady and unreadable. “You’re never here anyway.”

"Excuse you," Manon huffed, dramatically scrambling to her knees. "I am the emotional glue of this room. The people’s princess."

Daniela glanced at her, unimpressed. “You’re the noise pollution, maybe.”

“Y/N!” Manon whirled toward you, wild-eyed and genuinely scandalized. “Your girlfriend is being mean to me!”

You didn’t correct her. Not because it was true, but because it didn’t feel like something that needed correcting.

Daniela gave the blanket a slow, menacing sweep with her foot, brushing perilously close to Manon’s thigh.

“Y/N, do something before I end up with pinkeye!” Manon begged, scooting backward with the dramatics of well… Manon.

You crossed the room, laughter bubbling under your breath. “Alright. Truce. Let’s all take a breath and keep our toes to ourselves.”

“She started it,” Daniela said as you reached the edge of the mattress, voice low and unbothered. But the smile tugging at her lips made it clear she didn’t regret a single thing.

“I’m telling HYBE. No—I’m telling Sophia,” Manon declared, grabbing a pillow like it was her emotional support animal. “This is elder abuse. Also, Daniela took the last mochi and tried to blame it on me.”

That, apparently, was the real crime.

“I did not!” Daniela shot back, sitting upright now, indignant.

"You totally did."

"Liar. I’ll remove you from this bed."

"You’re in my bed."

“Then I’ll remove you from your own bed.”

You sighed. They were arguing over your mochi again. But your smile came anyway, easy and automatic. And before you could overthink it, you moved. Hooked your arms beneath Daniela’s and lifted her clean off the mattress.

She gasped in protest but didn’t fight it. Not even when Manon stuck her tongue out in triumph. She just folded into you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she had been waiting for it.  

“Traitor,” Daniela murmured, eyes locking with yours. Said like a joke. But feeling like it was more.

You set her down gently on the dresser, ignoring how cold the room suddenly felt without her close. She adjusted her hoodie with theatrical care, brushing off invisible lint like she hadn’t just been forcibly carried across the room. Then she looked at you again, and the space between you didn’t feel like space at all.

There wasn’t any fluttering. No sharp breath or nervous spark. Just something else. Heavier. Steadier. A softening. And you weren’t sure that was any better.

Brown eyes held your gaze. Like they were waiting for you to say something. Then like maybe they didn’t need you to at all. 

Then Daniela’s brow twitched, sharp and abrupt, like a flicker of awareness cutting through the quiet. She leaned forward, right past you, plucked something off the desk, and before you could move, spritzed you square in the chest.

The perfume hit instantly. Familiar. Floral. Snapping you out of your thoughts. A little sharp, then warm. Like memory in aerosol form.

You coughed, catching some of it in the back of your throat. “What was that for?”

Daniela leaned back, twirling the bottle between her fingers like she hadn’t just made a silent declaration. “Just fixing something.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

She gave you one last, self-satisfied smile — subtle, unreadable, and entirely too smug — before sliding off the dresser and wandering off like it hadn’t meant anything.

From the bed, Manon mumbled into her blanket, “God, you guys are so weird,” before vanishing under the covers like she couldn’t bear to witness another second.

You didn’t respond. Just stood there, the perfume clinging to your clothes, to your skin, and breathed in. Long. Deep. Letting the scent of Daniela fill your lungs. Letting it hush the noise in your head, the ache Megan had left behind, the tension threading through your chest. 

Your heart was getting a little too full. And your thoughts, a little too crowded.

But for now, you let yourself have the quiet. Just this. Just for a second.

—

By the time the group interview came, you’d mostly stopped smelling like Daniela’s perfume. Mostly.

The chairs were arranged in a semicircle, the kind designed for aesthetic rather than comfort. Too narrow, too upright. You ended up wedged between Megan and Manon, with Daniela two seats down. Close enough to see her if you turned your head. Not close enough to touch.

The interview started harmlessly enough. PR fluff. Training anecdotes. Someone asked about the outfits for the new comeback, and Lara launched into a play-by-play like it was her personal dissertation.  You smiled for the cameras. Laughed where expected. Let the rhythm carry you.

Then the interviewer glanced at the cue cards and brightened. “This one’s been trending lately,” she said, her eyes flicking between you and Megan. “Two halves of fan-favorite MegY/N — you’ve been seen together a lot recently. Fans are wondering if there’s something going on there.”

You exchanged a look with Megan, a smile playing at your lips. It was an expected question, practically scripted by your team. Megan leaned in just slightly, a quiet, “You want this one?” under her breath. You gave a small shake of your head, the tiniest nod after. Letting her take it.

Megan didn’t miss a beat. She turned to the host, voice smooth, practiced. “Yeah, we’ve been spending more time together lately. A lot of overlapping schedules. Press, rehearsals, the usual.”

Her tone was light, like she was stating something obvious, nothing worth reading into. But you could feel the edge beneath it. The careful choice of we’ve been instead of I’ve been. Just close enough to suggest something, without confirming anything at all.

“She’s fun,” Megan added, glancing at you then. “Terrible at arcade games. Even worse at directions. Makes it interesting.”

The host laughed. “Sounds like a good match.”

Megan just smiled, lips twitching like she could have said more, but didn’t. Her hand brushed lightly against your arm, the smallest shift. Like a tether. Like a question.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Daniela shift in her seat. Not much. Just enough to let her arm rest across the back of Lara’s chair, her posture suddenly, pointedly, relaxed. But her jaw was tight and her nails bit faint crescents into the side of her palm, tucked away where only you might’ve noticed.

The host’s gaze floated toward her. “And Daniela? You and Y/N trained together, right? Since the early days of Dream Academy?”

Daniela nodded once. “Yeah, we’ve known each other a long time.”

Her voice was calm. Even as always. No accusation. No claim. But her knuckles were white around the edge of the seat. You caught it, the way she seemed to be holding herself back. And when her gaze touched yours, it burned. Like she wanted to say something else and couldn’t. Like she was afraid of what might happen if she didn’t, too. 

Then, quieter, like she was saying it just to the air,  “She's... more important to me than I probably let her know.”

A pause. Barely a ripple on the surface. A soft “aww” from Sophia, sweet and oblivious. Like a bandage over a wound.

The host nodded cheerfully, moving to fill the space. “Sounds like you’ve all gotten really close as a group.”

Daniela smiled. “We’re like family.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t even loaded. But they skipped just above something deeper, stirring it without breaking the surface.

Beside you, Megan gave a soft laugh. “Yeah. One big family.”

No one said anything else.

The conversation moved forward. Someone brought up snack preferences, and Manon launched into a passionate monologue about rice crackers. Everyone relaxed. The moment passed.

But your pulse didn’t.

You kept your eyes forward. Kept your hands still. Kept thinking about how Megan had let you answer the question first and how Daniela hadn’t answered at all until she had to.

And how even then, she hadn’t looked at Megan once. Only you.

—

The moment the cameras stopped rolling, the room shifted. Makeup artists swept in with cotton swabs and setting spray, staff called out wrap times, and the chairs were promptly abandoned like the PR torture devices they were. You stood slowly, stretching your back with a wince and the vague hope that your spine might forgive you by morning.

“That went well,” Sophia said, too cheerfully for how long you’d been smiling at lights. “No one said anything that’ll get us pulled into PR tomorrow.”

“Bold of you to assume,” Manon muttered, already peeling off her mic like it had personally betrayed her.

You were halfway toward the exit when Megan appeared beside you, keys swinging from one finger.

“Hey,” she said, nudging your arm. “Want a ride back? I parked across the lot.”

You opened your mouth, not quite sure what your answer would be—but it didn’t matter. Daniela’s voice cut in from the other side.

“I was going to drive her,” she said, calm and immediate. “I told her that this morning.”

You did not recall being told that.

Megan glanced over, tilting her head just slightly. “Don’t you have another press thing after this?”

“It’s five minutes away. I can take her first,” Daniela replied, not missing a beat.

Megan’s smile edged toward pleasant. “Right, but that’s out of your way. It makes more sense for me to take her straight back.”

Daniela’s eyes didn’t move. “Y/N doesn’t mind, do you?”

You blinked, caught in a crossfire you hadn’t realized you’d walked into. “Um… not really. I mean, it’s not like I have anything else to do.”

Daniela’s jaw twitched, just once. “It’s not always about what’s easiest.”

“Well,” Megan said, brushing hair out of her eyes, “it just feels unnecessarily complicated. That’s all.”

“I can catch a ride too, right?” Yoonchae chimed in from behind, tone too casual to be believable. “I left my headphones in the dorm and the van’s taking forever.”

Megan raised an eyebrow. “With me?”

Yoonchae gave her best innocent blink. “Unless… Daniela?”

Daniela looked at her. Then at Megan. Then at you.

You were very suddenly and deeply fascinated by the carpet.

“I’ll just go with Sophia,” Yoonchae announced, already turning away. “She’s nice when she’s not stressed.”

Daniela’s expression cracked just a little. “Wait—no. Sophia can’t even drive. Yoonchae, come back.”

But Yoonchae was already gone, fleeing like she’d just defused a bomb.

Lara passed by, sipping from a water bottle and watching the scene unfold like it was live theater. “It’s like watching divorced parents fight over weekend custody,” she muttered, loud enough for all three of you to hear.

“No one’s fighting,” Megan said as she pocketed her keys, already heading toward the lot.

“I’m not fighting,” Daniela said flatly.

You coughed into your sleeve. “Don’t you need a ride too?” you asked Lara.

Her expression shifted mid-sip. “Oh right. Yeah… can I come?”

And just like that, Megan’s victory was complete.

You ended up in her passenger seat, Lara in the back, the faint buzz of leftover tension still clinging to the air as Megan slid into traffic. She didn’t say anything at first, but her smile said plenty.

You stared out the window, a little too warm in your seat, and mumbled, “It’s not always about what’s easiest.”

Megan shrugged, flicking on the turn signal. “No. Sometimes it’s about winning.”

You didn’t respond. Mostly because you weren’t sure whether she meant the ride, or you.

—

Daniela’s live with Manon was not supposed to be a problem.

You were out running errands with your manager. Manon had decided to hop on Weverse for some light fanservice — a bit of fun, a few hearts, maybe a round of "which member would survive a zombie apocalypse" (Manon voted herself, obviously). Standard stuff.

What no one anticipated was Daniela showing up in your hoodie. 

“Hey, Dani,” Manon said, squinting at the camera. “Isn’t that Y/N’s sweatshirt?”

Daniela glanced down like she was just now noticing. “Oh. Yeah,” she said, casual. Shrugging. “It’s comfy.”  Like she hadn’t been wearing it for three days straight.

Manon hesitated, visibly processing. Her eyes flicked to the screen, scanning the comments, and you could see it hit, like she’d already done the math and didn’t love the answer. “Where’s Y/N?” she read aloud from the chat, clearly hoping to pivot the conversation before it took a turn.

“Busy,” she added quickly, flashing a PR-polished smile that looked dangerously close to panic. “We miss her very much though.”

Daniela leaned into the camera, all soft lashes and tragic exaggeration. “So much. My heart is empty.”

The comments immediately lit up:

“Y/N is probably with Megan rn.” “MegY/N supremacy.” “They were spotted out yesterday!” “Megan and Y/N are so cute!! Favorite ship.”

Daniela scrolled, then stopped.

A pause.

She read one back, slowly, sweetly, like she was letting it dissolve on her tongue:

“‘Megan and Y/N are so cute!! Favorite ship.’”

Then came the smile. Too even. Too sharp around the edges. And her laugh. The kind you don’t trust.

“Yeah,” she said, eyes flicking toward the screen. “So cute.”

And that was all it took. The chat flipped.

“Why is she smiling at us like that?” “Lowkey terrifying.” “Girl, blink twice if you’re okay.” “I think she lost connection.” “Daniela???”

Beside her, Manon shifted. Eyes darting. A nervous laugh teetered on her lips as she tried to reroute the moment before it spiraled any further, sensing danger, “Okay! Well, let’s—uh—maybe talk about music! We have our new album coming soon, and we would love to to—”

But Daniela just tilted her head. Still calm. Still effortless. Still not done. Pushed Manon out of frame. “You know,” she began, like she was commenting on the weather, “it’s funny that the whole Megan and Y/N bed thing went viral. Because Y/N and I actually do share a bed. All the time. And no one ever seems to think that’s weird.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that felt like everyone watching just leaned in at the same time.

Manon blinked. Once. Twice, “Dani. People are going to think—"

“What? It’d be true.” Daniela smiled wider, radiant and dangerous in that particular way that meant she knew exactly what she was doing, then, “Y/N and I have been sharing beds since Dream Academy.”

And the internet lost its collective mind.

“YEAH BUT YOU’RE STRAIGHT.” “YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THAT.” “I AM SCREAMING WITHOUT THE S.” “WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE HOODIE.” “THIS IS INSANE BEHAVIOR.” “DANI WTF.” “I CAN’T BREATHE.” “Y/N WHERE ARE YOU.”

—

Megan had gone to bed early that night.

Not because she was tired. She just didn’t feel like being online.

You had left her room not long before, fresh from your shopping trip. She had been your first stop, and you’d held up your gift for her like it was a prize. Some weird little collectible toy. A Labubu or something. You’d said it had reminded you of her.

Lara had called it ugly. Megan was happy to call it hers.

After that, sleep came easy. Your laugh was still echoing in her head, your perfume still clinging to her blanket. She pulled the covers over her face, flipped her phone screen down, and fell asleep with a smile tugging at her mouth.

Quiet. Peaceful. Perfect.

Then she woke up to 162 unread notifications and a trending topic she really didn’t want to see.

#DanY/N.

Eyes still heavy, she opened her socials and tried to pretend the spike of dread in her chest was nothing.

But there it had been.

Daniela, on live. In your hoodie. Doe-eyed, innocent, and glowing. Like she hadn’t just set the internet on fire.

"…Because Y/N and I actually do share a bed."

"What? It’d be true.”

Silence.

Manon’s horrified face. The fandom’s collective meltdown.

Megan blinked at the screen, “What the hell,” she muttered.

She didn’t mean to scroll, but her thumb moved anyway.

"daniela is NOT slick i see you girl" "the way she’s wearing her hoodie oh she’s COOKED" "megy/n was cute but dany/n got the angst" "bedsharing >>> claw machine. sorry" "umm was she just talking about bedsharing or..." "daniela woke up and chose violence <3"

Comments. Memes. New edits. The fandom split down the middle like it was a custody battle.

Megan let out a slow, controlled exhale. Because the subtext was right there. In three little words. “It’d be true.” Just vague enough that the fans might not have noticed, but Megan did. And Y/N would surely too.

Daniela didn’t usually go public like this. Not with feelings, and definitely not with you. But lately, she’d been different. Megan had seen it. A little sharper around the edges. A little less polished. Like she’d finally stopped trying to be everyone's favorite and started trying to win something instead.

And that something was looking more and more like you.

So of course Daniela smiled like it meant nothing. And of course that meant everything.

Megan told herself she could be mature. She could rise above this. She had grown. Learned not to chase things that weren’t hers.

But then she opened her burner account.

@megYNsupremacy: ok but Megan would never go on live and air out personal info like that. just saying. #TeamMegY/N

She stared at it. Felt a little silly. Then hit post anyway.

Mature, she could be. Petty, she also was.

If Daniela was going to fire the first shot while wrapped in your hoodie like it was her birthright, Megan wasn’t about to take this lying down. She was settling in. And she wasn’t backing off.

—

You hadn’t even made it through your morning skincare routine before you started getting tagged.

At first, it was nothing. A couple of pings. A handful of comments under old posts. You figured maybe a new behind-the-scenes photo had dropped early. Maybe a clip from rehearsal leaked.

Then your phone buzzed three times in a row. Manon texted “I’m sorry in advance.” Lara sent a link with nothing but a skull emoji. And Sophia had left you a voicemail that just said your full government name. 

One of those was already scary, three in succession? Downright terrifying. It unsettled you just enough to check. You paused, brush still in your hand, something cold blooming low in your stomach as you blinked blearily at your screen.

#DanY/N. Live footage. Bedsharing.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

You frowned. Then frowned harder. And within seconds, you were on Twitter, your thumb moving on instinct. You tapped through to the livestream replay, the kind of account you never trusted but always checked anyway.

And there she was.

Daniela.

Hair soft from sleep, lashes dark against her cheekbones. Half-curled against Manon on a bed. Lit only by the crappy camera quality and even crappier dorm lights. A slow, lazy smile tugging at her lips.

She looked like someone caught mid-dream. Safe. Light. Untouchable. Wrapped in your hoodie. And though it was slouchy on her frame, faded and familiar, it still looked better on her than it ever had on you.

You didn’t even have time to process that before she spoke.

“Because Y/N and I actually do share a bed.”

You froze. Then blinked. Then let out a short, breathless laugh. “Wait. What?”

You rewound. Played it again.

“Because Y/N and I actually do share a bed.”

"Dani. People are going to think—"

“What? It’d be true.”

You stared at her. Then looked closer. Because it kind of sounded like Daniela was suggesting...

Your brain scrambled to file it under something safe. Easy. A bit. A joke. Maybe Manon had saying something offscreen and Daniela just running with it.

There was no way Daniela meant what it sounded like she meant.

“What? It’d be true.”

But Daniela didn’t just say things like that. She didn't make innuendo's like that. Not without PR clearance. Not without layers of giggles and winks to blur the meaning.

So, you looked for the tells. A smirk. A shrug. The soft nudge of humor you were used to. But it wasn’t there. Not really. Instead, Daniela’s smile stayed, but morphed... into something almost strange. Off. Too still. Not playful. Not bright.

You paused the video. Watched it again. Slower this time.

And you noticed new things. Small things. Easy to miss things if you weren’t looking, but not the kind that proved what you were hoping for. Instead, you caught the way her fingers curled tight in the sleeves of the hoodie. The way her voice didn’t quite lift at the end of the sentence, like it wasn’t a joke. The way she didn’t glance at Manon or the chat or anything else as she spoke.

Just forward. Just through the lens. At you.

And suddenly something in your chest shifted. Slowly. Heavily. Like the first tilt of a room before the floor drops out.

It was absurd. Almost surreal. The kind of reckless stunt Lara would do, the kind she would pull you in on too, just so the two of you could both get lectured by Sophia the next day. It wasn't like Daniela to ever act like this. 

No. No, that wasn’t—

You rewound again. And again. And again. Like you could someone make the truth of the situation. 

Her hands. Her shoulders. Her mouth.

Her eyes.

That was what stopped you.

Because for all her smiles, all her laughter, Daniela’s eyes weren’t amused. They were steady, quiet, unblinking, but not amused.

You recognized the look in them. Had seen them before, but never like this.

Only in quiet hours, when the dorm was still. When Daniela sat beside you on dusty floors and leaned her head against your shoulder and forgot to keep her guard up. When she laughed too softly and looked too long and said nothing at all.

Only ever when it was late. When she was tired enough to be honest. 

You had never let yourself believe it meant anything. Choosing instead to keep it close. Keep it like a secret. And yet here she was, not tired, not unguarded, not alone with you in the dark. 

Here she was saying it on livestream. Confessing without confessing, and knocking the breath clean out of your lungs. 

It’d be true.

You thought of the interview. How her fingers dug into her lap. How she looked at you and not Megan. How her voice sounded just a little too even.

You thought of the perfume. The hoodie. The way she spritzed you like she was leaving her mark.

You thought of the way she lingered in doorways after you walked out, like maybe she was still waiting for something you never gave her.

And now this. Now this truth too large for three words, and somehow still crammed inside them. 

"People are going to think—"

"It'd be true.”

You tried to rationalize it. 

She’s straight. That should be the end of it.

But it wasn’t. Because you saw it now. All of it.

The weight she’d been carrying. The want she’d never named. The way she’d lived next to you instead of reaching for you. 

You didn’t feel dizzy. You felt sick. Like your insides had twisted into something you couldn’t undo. Like your body had registered the ache before your mind had caught up.

Because Daniela hadn’t said I love you. She had said It’d be true. And somehow, that was worse. Because it meant she always had. And you just hadn’t seen it. Or maybe you had, and you were too scared to look back again. 

Your phone buzzed again.

A new edit. A new meme. A message from Megan. 

And your heart clenched tighter.

Because of course there was a message from Megan. Of course it had to be her name glowing softly on your screen, arriving at the exact moment when everything inside you was starting to split open. But this mess hadn’t started here. Not with Daniela’s voice on a livestream, not even with the hoodie. It had started long before that.

Because Megan never made you guess. Never left you wondering where you stood. She wasn’t soft like Daniela, not in the same way. She was loud and sharp and impossible to predict, but never with her feelings. With her, everything was clear. Unapologetic. Real.

Her smile always hit a little too fast, a little too hard. Her laughter was a full-body sound, reckless and addictive. And every time she looked at you, it felt like the world stopped spinning just long enough for you to catch your breath.

Being around her was like holding a live wire. Not dangerous, exactly. Just impossible to ignore. She made the moment bigger than it was supposed to be. Brighter. Messier. Worth it.

And somewhere along the way, the butterflies came.

Not soft ones. Not gentle flutters. The kind that hit low in your stomach and climbed up your ribs. The kind that made your hands ache to reach for her before your mind could catch up. The kind that made you say her name even when you weren’t thinking about her. The kind you wanted to chase because they meant something was happening.

And now... you didn’t know what to do with that. Not when Daniela’s voice was still echoing in your ears. Not when the words it’d be true felt like they’d been waiting for years to break you open.

Because it wasn’t just about who made sense anymore. Or who knew you best. It was about who could still change everything.

You didn’t know what Daniela’s words meant, not really. If they were hope or regret or both. And you didn’t know what Megan’s message was either. Only that seeing her name lit something inside you that you didn’t know how to hold.

You sat on the edge of your bed, phone still buzzing in your hand. Your breath came uneven, too shallow. You stared at the floor for a moment, willing it to stop spinning. You could still hear both of their voices — one soft, one steady. Both trying to reach you in different ways.

You were already unraveling. But for who?

You stared down at your phone, pulse hammering in your ears. The room felt too quiet. The air too thin. And for the first time, you realized: no matter what happened next, something would break.

But the universe suddenly had nothing to offer.

No neon signs. No sweeping score. Just a quiet choice, waiting to be made.

Real or Imperfect. But nevertheless, yours.

—

Daniela Avanzini was not in love with Y/N L/N.

Or at least, that was what she told herself, over and over like a prayer she could recite in her sleep. She repeated it in the quiet moments between practices, in the stillness of the dorm room at night. She repeated in the brief glance shared across crowded hallways, in the silent sighs escaping her lips when their hands brushed accidentally. It was a truth she clung to because she had always known what her life was supposed to be: ordered, controlled, disciplined. Mapped out by clear routines, dreams carefully nurtured through years of hard work and unwavering focus. 

She had been born with a purpose, or so she had always believed. From the instant her tiny feet touched the polished wood floor of a dance studio at just three years old, the world had watched her with wide eyes and whispered promises. She would be a star. She would be brilliant. She would be everything. Daniela never questioned it. She didn't need to.

So when Y/N L/N arrived at Dream Academy, quiet and gentle, all soft smiles and a curious sort of determination that didn't quite match the cutthroat world they inhabited, Daniela paid little attention. Y/N was good, yes. Talented, yes. But not exceptional. Not unforgettable. Just… good. Daniela’s eyes had always been trained to find brilliance, and Y/N, for all her earnest effort, wasn’t that.

And yet there was something about Y/N that made Daniela hesitate, anyway. Something that made her pause the first time she watched Y/N laugh in the middle of a routine she’d just messed up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment but eyes bright with something Daniela didn't recognize. It was a kind of genuinity Daniela didn't understand. She was used to people who moved with purpose, who danced to win. But Y/N? She moved like she was dancing for herself. Like she didn’t care who was watching.

Daniela told herself that was why she offered to help Y/N after that late-night rehearsal. It was curiosity, maybe even a little bit of pity. Nothing more. She was the best dancer in the room, and Y/N was struggling. It was a simple kindness. A moment of generosity from someone who had more to give. 

It definitely had nothing to do with how Y/N’s smile made her heart stutter in incomprehensible ways. Or how she’d had to Google “how to tell if you’re allergic to a teammate” because every time she caught Y/N’s gaze, her cheeks would burn and her body would flush.

No, she decided firmly. It was just curiosity, that was all.

“Want me to walk you through that combo again?” Daniela said, her voice as casual as she could make it, her expression easy. She was already half out the door, but something had made her pause, turning her back around to look at the girl who was still breathing hard, sweat clinging to her hairline.

Y/N looked up, surprised, and Daniela found herself memorizing every detail of that expression. “Me? Really?”

Daniela smiled, the way she always did when she wanted to put someone at ease. “Yeah, you. Unless you think I’m secretly plotting your elimination.”

The second the words left her mouth, she winced. They felt too real, too close to the kind of thing that actually happened in a place like this.

But Y/N laughed—a startled, breathless sound that startled Daniela in a way she wasn't prepared for. It tightened her chest and made her pulse quicken, and for a fleeting moment, she found herself wondering how she could make that laugh hers and only hers, before her senses kicked in and she quickly brushed the thought aside, confused by what had come over her.

After that night, Daniela declared her curiosity satisfied. Better not to mess with things, people, meant to be left alone.

She never planned to stay behind so many more times. She certainly never meant for those late hours in the studio to turn into something else entirely.

At first, it was just about the dancing. Y/N would watch her with wide eyes, trying to copy the way Daniela’s feet moved, the way she let the music live in her bones. Daniela would correct her posture, show her how to let the music fill the spaces between every breath. Y/N would listen, nodding seriously, and every time she finally got it right, her face would light up like she’d just discovered the secret to flight.

But then it became something more. Something dangerously close to attachment. The nights turned into a quiet ritual: just the two of them, feet moving in the near-dark of the studio, breath misting on the mirrors. In that quiet, they found a rhythm that felt almost like home, a fragile sanctuary built on laughter and the soft scuff of shoes on the floor. Y/N made her laugh in a way no one else did; laughter that peeled back the weight of the world she carried on her shoulders. With Y/N, she could almost forget that every move she made was meant to be watched, every smile carefully polished and perfect.

Almost.

Then came the finale, the stage lights hot on her skin and the roar of the crowd like a heartbeat under her feet. Daniela had always imagined this moment: the applause, the confetti, the validation. But when they won, when her name was called alongside Y/N’s, Daniela was no longer sure she really cared about the cameras or the bright glare of the lights that celebrated her hard work. All she really saw was Y/N. Y/N’s wide eyes and trembling smile, the way she reached for Daniela’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. And in that instant, that one perfect moment, Daniela realized she didn’t want to let go.

—

The feelings that followed were slow and consuming, creeping into the edges of her thoughts like a shadow. A longing that settled in her chest, making her breath hitch every time Y/N brushed against her shoulder in the practice room. And the shame that followed close behind, coiled tight in her throat, always there to remind her: this was only friendship. This was normal.

Because to admit there was more than that? Daniela couldn’t even begin to consider it.

Still, there were moments—late at night after the dorm lights had gone dark—when she let herself forget. Just for a little while. She’d press closer to Y/N in the cramped twin bed they sometimes shared, their laughter softening into quiet murmurs and unfinished sentences. She’d memorize the lines of Y/N’s face, each freckle and mole, telling herself it was only comfort. Only the warmth of two friends too tired to care about boundaries. But then she’d breathe in the scent of Y/N’s shampoo on the pillow, her hand drifting up to brush a strand from Y/N’s face, lingering, her fingers trembling with something she couldn’t name. And the guilt would come crashing in like a wave, pulling her under until all she could do was lie there, perfectly still, and wait for it to pass.

She told herself it would. That it had to.

But every smile Y/N gave her tightened something in her chest that felt like betrayal. Every time Y/N’s touch lingered, Daniela felt her world tilt, her heart beating too fast as if gravity itself was shifting. She stumbled through each day, wanting, aching, for Y/N to catch her.

But it was a want that had no place in the life she’d planned so carefully.

When the rumors started, little jokes on lives about Dani x Y/N, teasing comments from fans about how close they were, she laughed along. She let them think she was immune, that none of it mattered. Like her every thought wasn’t consumed by the need to quiet the feelings she didn’t want to name. 

She wasn’t in love. She wasn’t. She repeated it so many times that some days she almost believed it.

It was after one of their late practices, both of them spent, sitting side by side on the cool studio floor with their heads tipped back against the mirrored wall. Shoulder to shoulder, legs stretched out in front of them, breathing slow and heavy. Daniela turned to look at Y/N, at the flush of her cheeks and the soft curve of her neck, and for a single breath she let herself wonder: what would it feel like to kiss her? To thread her fingers through Y/N’s hair and never let go? The thought slammed into her like a punch, sharp and breathless.

She looked away quickly, a flush rising in her own cheeks. 

“I should… I should go shower,” Daniela said abruptly, pushing herself up. “I have to go live with Manon and Lara later.”

Y/N blinked at her, a little surprised, but understanding nevertheless, “Oh, okay. I’ll definitely tune in.”

Daniela forced a smile, her heart pounding a little too fast. “Yeah. Sure. I look forward to it.” She caught the flicker of Y/N’s smile at her words, turning quickly before Y/N could see how her hands were shaking, or how her eyes had lingered on the other girl’s mouth just a moment too long.

And when she said it outright, during that Weverse Live—“Enough with the gay allegations. I’m not into girls.” The words slipped out easier than she’d expected, like she’d been rehearsing them for weeks. 

For a moment, she felt something in her chest loosen, like saying it out loud had finally make it true. Like it had erase the way her pulse stuttered whenever Y/N smiled at her, or how every accidental touch felt like it left a brand on her skin.

It didn’t. But she told herself it did.

Because that fit her plan. It fit the life she’d been building ever since she was old enough to understand that the world didn’t have room for girls who wanted things that didn’t fit neatly in the lines.

So, she tried to convince herself those feelings would just vanish on their own. That the ache she carried like a second skin, and the way Y/N’s laughter haunted her dreams, would finally fade.

And it seemed the universe finally listened—but in all the wrong ways.

—

The interview was nothing at first. A shared sofa, a round of questions they had all answered a dozen times before. The lights were hot, the smiles practiced. Megan and Y/N had been seated next to each other, unusual but not worth sparing a second thought about. Probably management testing out a new pairing. But one slip, one awkward laugh in front of the camera later, and suddenly the whole world decided it was something more.

Daniela watched it unfold in real time. She didn’t even have to look for it; it found her on its own. Soft-focus edits, bright colors, captions that blurred the line between teasing and obsession: #MegY/N, a hundred thousand hearts and counting. Their names tangled together in ways that made Daniela’s stomach twist.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it was just the fans being fans: harmless, if a bit overzealous. That the only reason it bothered her at all, if she would even call it that, was because she didn’t want Y/N to feel cornered by something she hadn’t asked for. That it was about boundaries, not… whatever else she might be feeling.

But the feeling clung to her anyway, stubborn and familiar. It settled behind her ribs like a quiet bruise, pulsing there whenever the world got too quiet, whenever her thoughts wandered where they shouldn’t.

She was used to control, to order, to plans she could see and hold and predict. But this was none of those things. And she didn’t know how to keep it from slipping under her skin.

The next day, she watched from across the practice floor as Y/N and Megan followed a manager out. No explanation. No glance back. Daniela stayed where she was, stretching in the corner, feigning indifference. She didn’t ask what it was about. She didn’t need to.

Sophia filled in the blanks later, her voice light, almost dismissive. “Probably just PR damage control,”  she said, fingers tying her laces with practiced ease. “Nothing I would worry about.” Daniela only nodded, her smile brittle and small. She didn’t ask why Sophia felt the need to say it, and Sophia didn’t try to explain.

And for a while, it did seem like it didn’t matter.  Megan and Y/N stayed polite but distant, the space between them unchanged. Practice took over: long hours, tired bodies, the endless push toward perfection. Daniela let the rhythm of it all carry her. Let the burn in her muscles and the steadiness of routine drown out the rest. Let herself believe it would all settle back into place.

Until it didn’t.

Y/N hadn’t shown up for their usual after-practice ritual—the quiet hour that felt like it belonged to them alone. Daniela waited anyway. She stretched in the low light, the music a soft whisper in the background, glancing at the door every few minutes like she could will it to open. Like Y/N would slip inside with a sheepish smile, hair damp from a quick shower, and lean close to murmur, “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

But the door stayed closed, and the room felt too big, too empty.

Eventually, she texted.

Daniela: Where are you? We’re supposed to go over the new routine.

The reply was quick. Clipped.

Y/N: Sorry! I forgot. PR assignment. I’ll catch you up later.

I forgot.

Daniela stared at the words, her phone suddenly unnaturally cold and heavy in her hand. A tightness formed in her throat, one she didn’t know how to swallow down. One she couldn't explain away.

That night, she opened her laptop and saw the photos. Y/N and Megan, heads close together over steaming cups. Later, at the arcade. Then, the park. For the camera, she reminded herself, trying and failing, not to overanalyze every frame. Every smile. All for the camera. But the images felt like salt in a wound she’d never let herself touch.

When Y/N came back to the dorm, cheeks flushed from the cold and a spark in her eyes, Daniela forced a smile. She asked how it went, careful to keep her voice light, careful not to let the bitterness slip through. She secretly hoped Y/N would say the date had gone badly. That it had been a disaster. But Y/N’s easy laugh was disarming, and Daniela tried to let it wash away the questions clawing at her throat. She did her best to pretend she didn’t notice the lingering scent of Megan’s perfume clinging to Y/N’s coat, sweet and sharp and so very much not hers. Fought the urge to scrub every trace of the other girl away, to reclaim what felt like was slipping through her fingers. So she sat there, acting like everything would be the same. Like the quiet dread that had begun to creep in could be ignored.

But the shifts started small and slow. A lean here, a shared secret smile there. Y/N’s laughter ringing out for Megan, bright and unguarded. Megan’s hand resting on Y/N’s arm, soft and familiar. All of it quiet, but expanding, slipping into the spaces Daniela had once thought were hers alone.

She tried to tell herself it was okay to be jealous. That it was about friendship, about wanting to be the one Y/N came to first, the one she trusted with those soft, easy smiles. She was allowed to want that, wasn’t she?

But even that excuse was starting to crumble, thin around the edges and frayed where she pressed on it too hard.

Weeks passed, and the feeling only grew. Daniela hated how she noticed it all. The way Y/N’s eyes would light up when Megan walked in, the way Megan would catch her gaze and smile, something tender flickering between them like a secret only they shared. The way they found each other without trying, like pieces of a puzzle that had always fit.

She tried to ignore it. The voice in her head, the twist of something deep in her chest. Told herself she just wanted Y/N to be happy, even if it meant sharing her laughter with someone else. That it wasn’t her place to feel more than that.

And maybe that was true. Maybe it should have been.

But every time she caught Y/N’s eyes across the room—soft, open in a way that made her breath catch—she felt the truth settle deeper in her bones: it was more than she could admit. And it wasn’t going away.

One night, after another long rehearsal, Daniela lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The dorm was too quiet without Y/N’s laughter to fill the dark, too still without the gentle weight of her presence pressed close. The air conditioner hummed low, Manon’s breathing a distant, steady hush. Daniela’s phone rested on her chest, heavy and unyielding, each second of silence pressing down like a secret she didn’t know how to hold.

Y/N was out late again, probably with Megan. Daniela forced a smile when the thought crossed her mind, even as something sour tugged at the edges of her calm. She turned her face to the pillow, trying to breathe through the emptiness that had settled there like it had always belonged. Like it was just another part of her she couldn’t cut away.

Then her phone buzzed, and she hated how her heart jumped at the sound.

Y/N: Hey, still awake? Sorry if this is random, but I was thinking about that transition you showed me earlier. I think I finally got it.

A small smile found her lips despite herself. As if the simple fact that Y/N had been thinking of her at all was something she could cling to. Her fingers moved before she could second guess.

Daniela: Show me tomorrow. I want to see it.

It was an easy thing to say. Just a dancer checking in on another dancer. Just a friend encouraging a friend. But even as she typed it, she felt something tighten in her chest, wrapping itself around her heart and refusing to let go.

Y/N: Deal. But only if you promise not to laugh when I mess it up again.

Daniela’s smile softened, but it didn’t bring her any relief.  Her throat felt too tight, her pulse too loud in her ears. She read Y/N’s message over and over, each word gentle and warm, but weighted with something she couldn’t push away.

Daniela: I never laugh at you.

She paused before sending it, reading the words again and again, as if she could convince herself that they were only what they seemed. Something a friend would say, nothing more. But each time she read them, they felt heavier. Like she was trying to wrap all the feelings she couldn’t admit into something simple, something safe. But it wasn’t safe. It wasn’t simple. And no matter how she tried to pretend, it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like everything.

Y/N: Good. Because I always feel like I’m better when you’re watching.

Daniela set her phone aside, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed the heel of her hand against her chest, like she could hold the sudden, overwhelming warmth there in place. But it was no use.

Because the truth was already there, raw and electric, pulsing through every breath, every heartbeat. The truth she had tried to scrub away like a stain she could wash out. The truth she had prayed over like a sin she could somehow unlearn.

And if Daniela thought that admitting it would make things better, if she thought that finally facing what she had been running from would suddenly fix everything, she was wrong. It didn’t make the feelings any smaller. It didn’t make them any easier to bear.

Daniela Avanzini was in love with Y/N.

And she didn’t know what to do with that truth.

-

catch me dropping a megan's version too (?)

Read:

⁺ Megan is not in love

Falling in love with Daniela was easy. Inevitable. Like tripping on your own feet or realizing the ground beneath you had quietly shifted. You barely noticed it happening until it had already swallowed you whole.

It all began at Dream Academy, a place whose name sounded like a promise whispered on a stage: floodlights, fan chants, and viral stages. In reality, it ran on nerves, endless drills, and the quiet desperation of teenagers trying to become stars before the world forgot them. Every day felt like you were caught in the same nightmare. Long days packed with choreography, vocal training, evaluations, and interviews that never quite let you forget you were being watched. You were always performing, even when the music stopped.

It wasn’t glamorous. It was grueling. You learned how to push through injuries that never fully healed, how to force a smile on two hours of sleep, how to bow and thank every instructor even when you felt like you might shatter. Some days you wondered if it was worth it. Other days you were sure it had to be. Because when the lights would hit the stage, when the footage of your hard work would be replayed back for the world to see, you wanted to be there to catch them. 

The other girls were intimidatingly good. They moved like they were born to dance. Like the music itself had chosen them as its favorite children. But even the best of them couldn’t be compared to Daniela Avanzini. 

Daniela danced like she wasn’t a part of your world. Every movement she made was effortless, every smile perfected, like she’d just rolled out of bed one day and decided, “Yes, today I’ll defy gravity for fun.” 

She was the kind of dancer who didn’t just take up space; she made you forget the floor had limits. You watched her in those first weeks, a spark of awe in your chest that wouldn’t leave. It was everything she did. Every breath she breathed. Even when she was just sitting cross-legged on the floor, adjusting her shoelaces, you could see it in the tilt of her head, the easy grace in her fingers: she couldn’t just dance, she was the dance. 

You, though? You were good. Not great, not world-class, but good. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror mid-rehearsal, hair plastered to your forehead, eyes wide with determination, face twisted in that half-smile that said you were trying not to let on how much your calves burned, and you’d think, “Hey, not bad.” But then Daniela would glide past you like a summer breeze, and you’d remember, “oh yeah”. She was untouchable.

So when Daniela offered to stay behind and help after a particularly brutal rehearsal, you had half thought she was joking. Or that you were finally hallucinating from the dehydration. 

The rest of the class had long stumbled out like zombies, leaving behind a studio that smelled like sweat and cracked dreams. You were still trying to figure out how to make your foot stop cramping when she had spoken up.

“Want me to walk you through that combo again?” she said, like it was no big deal. Like helping you wasn’t going to cost her precious rest or time.

You blinked. “Me? Really?”

She grinned. “Yeah, you. Unless you’re worried I’m secretly plotting your elimination?”

You laughed, a breathless huff that came out more like a snort, not your finest moment, but Dani just laughed in turn. A big, warm laughter that somehow made your exhaustion feel lighter. 

You stayed, if only to see how things would play out. 

She showed you how to let the music fill you up, how to soften your lines without losing your strength. She corrected your posture with the lightest of touches, gentle yet grounded. And even though she didn’t have to, even though she could have easily just gone back to her dorm and crashed like everyone else, she didn’t. She stayed. 

After that, every late-night practice turned into a ritual: late-night practices when the world outside the studio was dark and still, just you and Daniela and the mirror reflecting your progress in fits and starts. And every time you wanted to quit, she’d find some way to make you laugh: a silly face, a ridiculous story about her first recital costume, a badly timed joke that made you smile simply because she had gone through the trouble of telling it. 

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was better. It was friendship first, late-night giggles in the hallway when you should have been sleeping, shared bites of half-melted protein bars, hugs that always smelled like coconut shampoo and clean sweat. It was something small and steady that grew in the spaces between rehearsals, in the silences when you were too tired to talk.

You hadn’t expected to find a lifeline at Dream Academy, but Daniela was yours. On elimination days, when your name was on the line and your stomach felt like it might implode, you always found her eyes across the room. She’d give you that look. Steady, bright. Like she believed in you more than you believed in yourself.

When homesickness crept in like a fog, it was Daniela who pulled you out of it. She’d find you curled up on the stairs, phone clutched like a lifeline, and plop down beside you. “Want to talk about it?” she’d ask, and sometimes you’d say no. She’d just sit with you anyway, humming little snippets of pop songs that had no right to be that catchy.

And when your name was called in the finale, when the world blurred into lights and noise and you thought your heart might beat right out of your chest, it was Daniela you ran to. Because she was the one who made you believe you could get there at all. And Dani? She hugged you so tightly that night you thought your ribs might crack. It was the best pain you’d ever felt.

—

Of course, your feelings only grew as time went on. 

Because there were seven of you in Katseye, someone had to draw the short straw and end up in the three-person room. You, Dani, and Manon ended up sharing. Honestly? You were kind of relieved. If it had just been the two of you, you probably would have combusted by now. Daniela in pajamas? Daniela brushing her teeth with a little dance sway? You were not built for that level of proximity. You had a dignity quota to maintain, and sharing a bedroom with just her would have drained it completely.

Still, you were content. Totally, wholly, tragically content just crushing on Daniela from afar. You had a ten-year plan: get more confident, improve your freestyle, learn how to flirt without buffering like a dial-up connection. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d be brave enough to tell her. But for now? You were happy just to watch her in stolen moments, hands brushing in crowded hallways, laughter echoing in the spaces you shared.

Then the Weverse Live happened.

It started out harmless, a silly distraction in a hotel room that smelled like stale air and overpriced soap. The group had gotten a break between events, everyone scattered across several rooms. Manon and Lara had taken up residence at the foot of Manon’s bed, turning it into their own private talk show. They answered fan questions with effortless charm, laughing so loudly Yoonchae had to send them several threatening texts to be quieter. Daniela drifted in and out, appearing on camera whenever the mood struck her.

You watched the live from your phone, the next room over, a smoothie balanced in your lap, pretending you weren’t just watching for Daniela. No, this was about supporting all your friends. Obviously.

Manon squinted at her phone dramatically, eyes lighting up at a particular one, “Okay, here’s a good one,” she said, a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth, “Any rumors you girls want to debunk?”

Before Lara could even pretend to be scandalized, Daniela popped her head into the camera frame. Her hair was still damp from the shower, the natural curls somehow still alive despite management’s ruthless attempts to flatten it into submission. Spirals framed her face, soft and a little wild, and you had to remind yourself to blink. Daniela was grinning like she’d just found out breakfast was served until noon. “Yeah,” she said, throwing her hands up with fake exasperation. “That I’m gay. Enough with the gay allegations!”

Manon and Lara lost it, clapping and squealing like she’d just announced world peace. Their laughter was so loud you could hear it through the wall separating your two rooms, and the string of curses that left Yoonchae’s mouth had you clutching your pearls, “Congratulations!” Manon and Lara hooted, the fans similarly losing their minds in the chat.

“Wow. You're so brave.” 

You, on the other hand, had dropped your smoothie. The plastic cup wobbling and falling with a sad little splat on the floor, smoothie splattering across your bare toes. Because that? That might have been the one variable you hadn’t prepared for. 

You’d accounted for all the usual things:  the slow burn of unrequited feelings, the fear of rejection, the endless “what ifs” that kept you up at night. But the “not even in the same ballpark” revelation? Yeah, that one slipped through the cracks.

You tried to act normal. Held it together for a few days, which you figured deserved some kind of medal. Chalked it up to pride. Dignity. Delusion.

It worked, until it didn’t.

Eventually, you cracked and wound up outside Lara’s door, full meltdown mode, hoodie pulled over your head like that would somehow soften the blow.

The girl opened the door with her usual calm: face mask in place, hair wrapped in a towel, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Don’t even start,” she said, before you could even open your mouth.

You didn’t bother with a greeting, just trudging in and flopping onto her bed like it was your own, “This group is full of gay people,” you groaned, burying your face into her pillows, “How did I manage to fall for the only straight one?

Lara snorted, peeling off her mask. The door softly shut behind her with a muted click, “Pretty sure it’s just you and me, babe.”

You peek through your fingers, cheeks on fire, “Really? Just us?”

“Tragically,” she said, wiping away the last of the mask. Then, a pause, “Well… actually—”

The door swung open and Megan suddenly stepped in, a lint roller in one hand. Upon seeing you, she paused in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene: you flopped across Lara’s bed and Lara unbothered as always.

Megan’s eyes flicked over you for a fraction of a second before she looked away. Her mouth pulled into a polite smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

“Uh… am I interrupting something?” she asked, her voice careful. Neutral. Like she was weighing her words in her head before they even reached her mouth.

Lara shot you a look that said, Don’t say anything weird, before she turned back to her roommate, innocent grin and all. “Nope. Just girl talk.”

You pushed yourself up too quickly, like you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Yearning? That wasn’t a crime, “Hi, Megan,” you said, your voice cracking with the effort to sound casual.

“Hey.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting to the lint roller in her hand like she’d forgotten why she was there at all. She barely glanced at you again, like it was easier not to see you at all.

“I’m just grabbing the lint roller,” she said, her tone clipped.

You almost pointed out she already had one but bit it back. Lara, of course, saved the day. She reached behind her and tossed Megan another lint roller without a word.

Megan caught it, fingers toying with the handle like she needed something, anything, to do with her hands. For a moment, she just stood there. Two lint rollers, one awkward silence, and the kind of pause that felt heavier than it had any right to.

 It looked like she was about to say something more. You swore she was. But then she looked away, her mouth pulling into that polite little smile you’d seen too many times. The kind that always felt like a door gently shutting in your face.

“Thanks,” she said, a little too flat to pass as casual. “Well… I’ll see you both in the morning, I guess.” She lingered in the doorway half a second longer, like the air itself had a grip on her sleeve. And then she turned, disappearing into the hall with a soft click of the door.

You blinked. The weirdness of it all clinging to your skin like static. It almost felt like she’d rather crash on the floor outside than share a room with you.

Lara let out a small laugh, the sound muffled by a hand. “Wow. You scared Megan away,” she said, voice light, teasing. “Didn’t even know that was possible.”

You groaned and flopped deeper into her comforter like you could disappear into the stitching. “I swear, she hates me,” you muttered. “Every time she’s near me, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lara said, rolling her eyes. “Megan doesn’t hate you.”

She nudged you with her foot. You grumbled a half-hearted “Hey!” and before you could fully protest, she yanked a pillow from behind you and smacked you with it.

“Now can you get your dramatic ass back to your own room? Some of us have practice tomorrow, and I’d like to survive it.”

You groaned louder, attempting to hide beneath the blankets. “Your friend is in emotional ruin and you kick her out. Say you hate me!”

Lara just laughed harder and shoved you off her comforter. “You’re being ridiculous,” she said, ignoring the pleading look you gave her. “But I love you, anyway. Now seriously—out, before Megan comes back.”

You dragged yourself upright with the full theatrics of teenage heartbreak and shuffled toward the door, still muttering quiet curses of “betrayal” and “injustice” under your breath. 

When you slipped back into your own room, Daniela was still awake, curled up on her bed with her phone resting on her knees. She looked up as you entered, concern flickering in her eyes. Manon was nowhere to be found. Just you, Daniela, and the echo of your pitiful dignity.

“Hey,” Daniela said softly, setting her phone aside. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly, the smile you offered feeling all wrong, tight and shaky, like it had been assembled in a rush. “Yeah. I’m great,” you thought, miserably. Just in love with you. Ha ha. No big deal.

She sat up a little straighter, watching you with those wide, painfully sincere eyes that always made lying feel like a crime. “Are you sure? You look kind of…” She trailed off, clearly trying to find a word softer than wrecked. “Tired.”

You let out a laugh that pitched too high and landed nowhere good. “I’m fine,” you said, waving a hand like that would dismiss the gnawing ache in your chest. “Just a long day. A stupid one.” Then, quieter: “Thanks, though.”

But she didn’t look away.

“If there’s anything I can do, seriously. I don’t mind.”

You tried to hold her gaze but couldn’t. The kindness in her voice made it worse, like it was peeling away all the armor you’d so carefully duct-taped together. “No, I’m okay. Really.” I mean, unless you want to start liking girls, but no pressure.

She gave you a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eye, but still, she nodded. “Alright. Well, I’m here. If you need me.”

You mumbled a quiet “thanks,” and crawled into bed, curling under your blanket like it might make everything less loud, less sharp.

Because yeah, things were going great. Just you, your hopeless crush, and the universe’s favorite ongoing joke.

And it was almost as if the universe took your thoughts as a personal challenge.

—

The day of the magazine interview arrived with about all the fanfare you’d expect: bright lights, meticulous outfits, and the kind of backstage chaos that made you wish you could evaporate into the nearest wardrobe rack. It wasn’t your first group interview, far from it, but today felt like the universe had gotten bored and decided you would be its favorite chew toy.

Because somehow, for reasons that remained unclear and deeply unfair, you were seated right next to Megan. Meanwhile, Daniela—the love of your life, in case the universe forgot—was at the other end of the couch, practically sharing a cushion with Lara. You tried not to take it personally, but the cosmic targeting felt a little obvious.

Of course Lara noticed immediately. She locked eyes with you across the room, her grin already criminal,  as if to say, “Haha, loser. Jealous?” You glared back with all the energy of a jilted CW side character, mouthing, “There’s no loyalty anymore.” She just winked.

You sank lower into the couch. Daniela was laughing at something Lara had said, her head thrown back in that easy, airy way she had. You tried to mask the bitterness creeping up your throat.

Next to you, Megan sat like she’d been carved out of stone. Perfect posture. Perfect composure. And the kind of silence that felt too loud. You kept sneaking glances at her, wondering if she was still thinking about how you’d basically melted down in her room the night before. She didn’t look your way once.

Desperate to fill the silence, you cleared your throat. “So… uh, how’s your morning been?” you asked, voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the others.

She startled slightly, like she hadn’t expected you to speak. “Oh. Fine,” she said, stiff and overly polite. She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, eyes flicking to the camera crew setting up across the room. “Yours?”

You shrugged. “Same. Just… you know. Trying to look awake.”

A small smile ghosted across her lips but vanished before it could settle. “Yeah. Same,” she said again

And that was it. Silence returned with a vengeance, awkward enough it practically had its own zip code. You couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable because she hated you or because you’d made a complete fool of yourself the night before. Probably both. 

Mercifully, the producer called for quiet as the interview began, and you were pardoned from your suffering. The interview was simple enough, questions about training, group dynamics, upcoming releases: stuff you were used to by now. You smiled when you were supposed to. You answered like you’d practiced. Always mindful of the camera.  

But then the interviewer tilted their head, eyes flicking between you and Megan with a smile too curious for comfort, and you suddenly felt the creeping suspicion that everything was about to go downhill from here, “Megan and Y/N. You two are seated together today, a pairing we don’t usually see. Have you gotten closer recently? The fans are really curious.”

It was the kind of question meant to be harmless. We’ve always been close. Everyone is like family. Easy. Done. Perfectly on brand. But for you, it detonated on impact.

“Uh—no, not really,” you blurted, too fast, too honest. You winced. Great start. Management was going to be real happy about this one. 

Megan straightened beside you, already in PR mode. “No—well, yes, actually,” she rushed to clarify. “I mean, we’re all close. Everyone in Katseye is like family. We’ve been spending time together after practices… and stuff.”

“Oh—right, yes,” you stammered, hoping desperately you could salvage your answer, “We are friends. I didn’t mean ‘not’ as in ‘not.’ We hang out. I go to Megan’s room all the time!”

You paused. Just a moment. Your brain caught up.

“Or—actually, not all the time. Just… sometimes. A normal amount. Like anyone would. Definitely nothing weird—no sharing beds or anything!” Haha. Why did you say that?

You were fumbling this. Bad. You knew it. And judging by the way Megan’s head whipped toward you, mouth falling open in pure horror, so did she.

“We don’t share a bed!” she blurted, alarmed. “That’s not—we just talk! After practice. About choreography. And… group things. Completely normal, totally platonic group things.”

From the other end of the couch, Lara let out a noise that might’ve been a snort or a cough or both. Daniela’s smile twitched, eyes flicking toward you.

You and Megan tried to talk at the same time. Jumbled sentences. Overlapping excuses. Too many words and not enough sense.

“Just—like—” “It’s not—”

The interviewer laughed and moved on, but the damage was done. You could already feel it: that clip was going to haunt you forever.

And sure enough, when the video went live, the internet did what the internet always does. It latched on and refused to let go. The clip of you and Megan babbling about not sharing a bed? Instantly viral. Set to every soft-focus romantic audio known to humankind. #MegY/N trending within the hour.

And the captions? Absolutely ruthless.

“They’re so bad at hiding it. I’m obsessed.” “Why did she even bring up sharing a bed unprompted? Suspicious!” “This is either a romance or the world’s most awkward friendship. Either way, I’m here for it.”

You turned off your phone. Buried yourself under your blanket. Tried not to scream into your pillows.

Everything was fine. Totally fine. Just a crush you hadn’t gotten over and a ship name you didn’t ask for. 

Perfect.

—

As expected, management was all over it the next day. It was almost laughably predictable: pulled aside after rehearsal, muscles sore and clothes still damp with sweat, you and Megan were ushered into the small “quick chat” room like kids being sent to the principal’s office.

You exchanged a glance, hers tight-lipped and yours halfway between apology and panic, before following one of your managers inside.

He was already beaming, practically vibrating with excitement. “So, that little moment in the interview,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Fans are obsessed. You two are trending everywhere. It’s perfect for the group.”

You shifted uncomfortably, sweat cooling on your back. “Right,” you said, trying to sound casual. “We noticed.”

Megan gave a single, clipped nod, eyes fixed on the loose thread she was now aggressively unraveling on her sleeve. It was a miracle that the sweatshirt didn’t fall apart on the spot. 

“Here’s the idea,” the manager continued, voice too chipper for your taste. “Obviously, nothing you’re uncomfortable with. But you two? You’ve got this natural dynamic. We want to lean into that.”

You blinked. Natural. Right. “Lean into it how?”

“Nothing scripted,” he said. “Just... hang out. Get coffee. Wander around. Be friends in public. If fans spot you, great. If not, no big deal. Just... be yourselves, but maybe with a little extra awareness of the cameras. That cool?”

Your stomach gave a nervous twist, not liking where this was going, “So...  you want us to play into the ship.”

“Exactly!” he said, hands clapping together like he’d just solved climate change, and not like he was suggesting borderline queerbaiting, “No pressure. Just visibility.”

You nodded, more in acknowledgement than anything. You did not want to do this. You really, really did not want to — “Yeah. Okay.” You heard yourself say, anyway.  

Your manager gave you a satisfied grin. He turned to Megan. “And you?”

She hesitated, a beat longer than you had, before nodding. “Sure,” she finally said, voice level but far away. “That’s… fine.”

“Perfect!” You were pretty certain the man had never looked happier, watching as he all but skipped out of the room. “Can’t wait to see how it plays! And remember, you’re just selling the idea!” He was gone before you could get another word in. 

You and Megan lingered behind for a second, neither of you quite believing what just happened. You turned towards the girl, hoping to catch her expression, but she simply gave you her signature tight, unreadable smile and a shrug, one that felt entirely too ingenuine. 

“We… can figure something out later.” She muttered, low and rushed, before turning away and leaving.

You wanted to ask if she was really okay with this PR stunt, but the question caught somewhere behind your tongue and never made it out. The only thing you could do was sigh. 

—

Later that night, you found yourself in Lara’s room again, flopped on her bed while she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone. Almost like you being here hadn’t been the cause of your current predicament—well, that and your own big mouth.

“Wow,” Lara said, smirking without looking up. “If I’d known fans would go this crazy for a sapphic relationship, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”

You shot her a flat look, not understanding how she could joke in a time like this, “This is serious, Lara.  How could they ship me with Megan? We barely talk!”

“Well, the two of you certainly had a lot to say during that interview.” Lara responded, snickering as she came across yet another fan edit of MegY/N. 

“I think my manifestation went wrong. It’s the wrong dancer, universe. It’s supposed to be me and Daniela, please. Me and Daniela.”

Lara cackled, tossing a pillow at your face. “Well, you didn’t exactly help with that ‘not sharing a bed’ comment.”

You groaned, muffling your face against the pillow with renewed conviction. “I swear, Megan probably thinks I’m an idiot. And worst of all, I might never have a chance with Daniela now.”

Lara raised an eyebrow. “Mmm, yes. I’m sure that’s why. Not, say... because Daniela’s straight.”

You shot her a dirty look. “I don’t know why I even come to you for help.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Because I’m the only one who’ll listen to your gay panic and still think you’re not a total loser? Because I’m wise beyond comparison? Who else would you even go to about your gay problems? Daniela—oh wait.” 

You threw the pillow back at her. She caught it easily, one-handed, grinning.

“Oh come on, it could be worse.”

Your muffled ‘not really’ was met with a dip in the bed as Lara climbed in with you. “I mean, think of it this way. Maybe you and Megan actually get along. Maybe Daniela might even get a little jealous.”

The idea made your ears perk and you sat up a little. “You think?”

Lara immediately burst out laughing. “No! She’s straight.”

You collapsed back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “I’M TRYING TO FORGET THAT.”

Yeah. You were in deep.

—

You had half hoped the whole MegY/N situation would blow over before management decided to chase you down for more content. But it was funny how long a 20-second clip of you and Megan babbling about not sharing a bed could keep the gay eyekons fed. And it wasn’t long before management sent both of you a “reminder” to hang out (code for give us something to work with). Not explicit, but heavily implied.

And with your luck, the “hang out” immediately started on the wrong foot. You’d mixed up the meeting time and ended up arriving at the café a full half hour late. For ten minutes, you’d paced outside, pretending you weren’t checking your phone every two seconds. Meanwhile, Megan had been there early, sitting inside, convinced you’d stood her up. When you finally rushed in, flushed and apologetic, she gave you a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Now you were perched on a rickety stool in a coffee shop, staring at Megan across the wobbly table. You wondered if it was possible for a coffee shop to be too curated. Everything looked like it had been picked out of a Pinterest board: tiny succulents in mason jars, handwritten chalkboard menus, and baristas who looked like they had deep thoughts about oat milk.

Megan looked like she was part of a magazine spread herself. Perfectly straight posture, hair tucked behind her ear, expression calm and polite. Too polite. You couldn’t tell if she was genuinely uncomfortable or just very good at pretending she wasn’t.

“So,” you said, grasping for anything to keep the conversation alive. “This place is… cute, right?”

She glanced around, her eyes flicking over the hanging Edison bulbs and carefully distressed furniture. “Sure,” she said, her voice so neutral it could have been a compliment or a eulogy.

You tried again. “I read somewhere they roast their own beans. Or something. I don’t really get coffee stuff, but it’s supposed to be fancy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, just slightly. “You don’t get coffee stuff?” she repeated.

“I’m more of a ‘whatever’s cheapest’ kind of person,” you admitted, heat rising in your cheeks. That did not sound cool. “But I thought it would be a good place for… you know. The whole PR thing.”

She was quiet for a beat, fingers idly fidgeting with the cardboard sleeve on her cup. “Do you come here a lot, or did you just find it on some blog?”

You let out a relieved laugh. “Definitely a blog. My entire knowledge of ‘cool places’ is secondhand from other people’s Instagram stories.”

A small, genuine laugh escaped her then. It was soft, but it cracked the careful politeness she’d been wearing like armor. “At least you’re honest,” she said.

“Yeah, well, honesty’s the only thing I’m good at,” you responded, half joking but mostly sincere.

She looked at you for a long moment, her gaze steady and a little too intense. Then she took a breath. “You’re good at a lot of things,” she said quietly, so softly you almost didn’t catch it.

Your heart did a weird little flip, but before you could figure out what to say, she straightened up and the moment was gone. Silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy.

You cleared your throat. “So… I read somewhere that silence between people who don’t know each other is more awkward than between people who do. Does that mean we’re not friends, or…?”

Her lips curved, like she was trying not to laugh. “Are you really trying to turn this into a social experiment?”

You threw your hands up. “I’m desperate here! I don’t want management to think we’re hostages in a coffee shop. They might make us redo this whole thing.”

That got a real laugh out of her, one that brightened her eyes and made you feel like maybe you weren’t completely failing. “Alright,” she said. “Maybe we should change the setting.”

“Change of scenery?” you asked, hopeful.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here before I end up memorizing the entire chalkboard menu,” she said, finally pushing her cup away.

You jumped up like you’d been waiting for permission. “Arcade? There’s one a few blocks away. More neon, less… quiet.”

She gave you a small nod. “Let’s go.”

The arcade was everything the coffee shop wasn’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetically alive. The air buzzed with the scent of popcorn and electricity, neon lights blinking like they were trying to communicate in Morse code, and some ancient pop song pounded through blown-out speakers. It was the kind of overstimulation that felt, oddly, like peace. Here, silence wasn’t expected, and small talk didn’t matter.

Megan’s shoulders eased, just a little, as she watched you flit from machine to machine like a kid on too much sugar. There was something quietly fond about the way she trailed after you. Like she was letting herself get pulled into your orbit.

“Look at this one,” you said, stopping in front of a claw machine. Inside, a small lion plush was pressed tragically against the glass, its stitched eyes wide with betrayal. It was the kind of thing you knew Daniela would love. You pointed dramatically. “I have to win this.”

Megan raised an eyebrow, amused. Clearly not as captivated by the lion as you were, “Seriously? That thing? You’re really going to spend all your money on that?”

“Absolutely,” you said, already digging through your pockets for change like a woman possessed.

Megan just hummed, clearly filing that little fact away somewhere deep in her mental archives. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

You did not, in fact, have anything.

Your first attempt was a disaster. The claw swerved dramatically to the left, missed the plush by a full plushie-length, and slammed into the bottom of the machine with a metallic thud.

“Wow,” Megan deadpanned. “Inspiring.”

“I was testing the calibration!” you insisted. “That was a warm-up round.”

It didn’t get better. Try after try, the claw juked away from the lion like it was in a rom-com and the timing just wasn’t right.

After the fifth failed attempt, you groaned in despair and handed Megan the last few coins. “I’m cursed. You do it.”

She looked skeptical. “You really want me to waste your money too?”

“Maybe you’re secretly a claw machine prodigy,” you said, already stepping back with a flourish. “Let’s see what you’ve got, champ.”

She rolled her eyes, but took the coins. Her fingers brushed yours for just a second—barely enough to register, but still enough to make your stomach do a dumb little flip.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m blaming you when this goes horribly wrong.”

“I’ll take full financial responsibility,” you said solemnly.

As she lined up the claw, your phone buzzed. One glance at the screen made your stomach clench.

Dani: Where are you? We’re supposed to be going over the new routine.

You winced. Crap.

You: Sorry! I forgot. PR assignment. I’ll catch you up later.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, guilt gnawing at your chest. You didn’t know how you had even let the rehearsal slip your mind: not when it was you and Daniela’s thing. But the morning had been so hectic with trying to meet up with Megan that you’d gotten lost in the chaos. 

Daniela would understand. Right?

You shook the thought off and looked back to Megan—who was now engaged in what could only be described as psychological warfare with the claw machine.

Her jaw was set, her brows knit together in intense concentration. She muttered to herself like she was casting a spell and jabbed the joystick like she was ready to pick a fight. You watched as her claw missed the lion, and she smacked the side of the machine hard enough to make it groan.

“This piece of trash,” she growled, shoving in another coin. “Come on, you useless tin can.”

You blinked. Had she just growled?

“Whoever built this thing deserves to be haunted by every plush it’s ever eaten,” she muttered. “I will curse your bloodline. I will end your legacy. I will make you pay.”

You watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated. You’d never seen Megan like this: so alive, so real. So far away from the awkward, always impersonal Megan she was around you. It was… kind of adorable.

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “This machine is rigged, and I will burn it down with my mind.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, Megan almost looked embarrassed. Almost. But the fire in her eyes didn’t dim.

“You’re really… passionate about this aren’t you,” you said, hands raised. “It’s kind of cute.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, you wanted to crawl into the claw machine and live there forever. It wasn’t like Megan could you drag you out of there, anyways. 

Megan flushed. Her cheeks actually turned pink. You half expected her to ignore your comment, or maybe roll her eyes in response. But to your surprise, she didn’t look away.

“You’re weird,” she finally said, quietly.

You smiled, not apologetic, just honest, “Well. Takes one to know one, I guess,”

And for the first time that day, she cracked a real smile—really smiled. Not the polite, press-trained half-curve, but something warm and real and almost shy.

You pulled out your phone and snapped a photo before you could overthink it: the two of you standing in front of the cursed claw machine, Megan still a little pink-faced, you grinning like a maniac, and the lion still tragically out of reach.

You sent it to the team group chat with the caption: $70 and no lion, but at least we didn’t kill each other.

Megan looked at the photo, then at you. “Think that’s enough to keep management happy?”

You grinned. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you think we look like idiots in that photo?”

“Yes, we absolutely do.”

And for the second time that day, Megan smiled back, no polite pretense, no carefully practiced grin. Just a real smile. And you thought, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

—

You returned to your room that evening, feeling a strange mix of relief and giddiness humming under your skin. Your cheeks still ached from laughing too hard, your stomach from too much terrible pizza and even worse soda. The day had started with you wanting to melt into the floor, but somehow, against all odds, you and Megan had clawed (literally) your way into something almost… fun.

You were still turning that thought over in your head when you stepped inside to find Daniela sitting cross-legged on her bed, her laptop perched on her knees.She looked up immediately, eyes sharp with mischief.

“Well, well,” she said, her grin downright devilish. “There’s the cheater.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Cheat on you? Never.”

Daniela rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t budge. “You sure about that? Because according to the internet, you and Megan are in a very committed relationship.”

She spun the laptop around.

You crossed the room, curiosity getting the better of you, and leaned in to see. Sure enough, there they were: blurry photos of you and Megan at the café, the arcade, even a few of you walking in the park afterwards, all carefully captioned with things like “MegY/N in the wild?” and “soft couple vibes???”

There were even a few that made you laugh.

“Y/N touching grass?” “Rare shut in spotted.”

Those not so much. 

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God. How do they even find us?” You and Megan hadn’t seen a single fan the whole day, and you’d been trying. Turns out, you didn’t have to. 

Daniela chuckled, low and amused. “You’re famous, remember? Our fans have eyes.” She glanced back at the screen. “You two looked like you were having fun, though.”

“Yeah,” you paused. “It actually… wasn’t too bad. Megan wasn’t how I expected.”

“Oh?” Daniela’s voice was light, but you thought you heard something else, something just below the surface. She tilted her head, studying you like she was trying to see past your words. “That’s good.”

But there was something in the way she said it that made you pause. Just a slight shift in her tone. A note you couldn’t name. You looked up at her. Her expression was still open, still warm, but suddenly you couldn’t quite read her. If there was anything else there, it was buried under that easy smile.

You leaned in a little, still peering at the laptop, and didn’t realize how close you’d gotten until your arms were braced on either side of her legs. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin and for a second the world felt very small and very warm, just the two of you pressed close together, breathing in the same pocket of air.

And then Daniela spoke, breaking the spell with a soft smile. “So the date went well?”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, the tension slipping away like water. “Gods, no. It started as a complete disaster,” you said, shaking your head. “Like, I was late, and Megan was there all early and composed and just… totally not impressed. I thought she was going to kill me.”

Daniela laughed, a bright, familiar sound that always made the air feel lighter. “I can’t even picture Megan wanting to murder anyone. She seems so… calm.”

“You’d think,” you said, grinning now. “But then we got to the arcade and something snapped. She went full gremlin mode over this claw machine. Like—threat-level. I thought she was going to break the glass.”

Daniela tilted her head, eyes dancing. “A gremlin?”

“She cursed at it. Threatened the inventor’s bloodline. I was honestly afraid for my life.”

Daniela shook her head, still smiling. “Sounds like you had an eventful day.”

“Yeah.” You glanced at her, softer this time. “It was… a day.”

For a moment, the room settled into a gentle quiet. Not awkward, not tense. Just still. You watched her, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she was always so unapologetically her. It was easy, being around Daniela. Even when everything else was loud and confusing, she wasn’t.

But you knew better than to say anything. You weren’t here to blur the lines. You weren’t going to be that person. Not now. Not when she was still looking at you with that familiar, easy affection and no idea how badly you wanted it to mean something more, “What about you? Any major developments while I was out playing claw machine therapist?”

She rolled her eyes and shut her laptop with a click. “Just practice. Nothing exciting.”

“Sorry for missing our rehearsal.”

“It’s okay.” Her voice was light, but not dismissive. “You can make it up to me some other time.”

You gave her a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed, and for a moment, you let yourself have this—just the sound of it, just the feeling of her next to you, just the impossible, ridiculous hope curling somewhere low in your chest.

Even if it didn’t mean anything to Daniela.

—

The weeks after that day blurred together. Management had seen the fan frenzy from that first outing and decided to run with it. Every live stream seating chart seemed to get suspiciously shuffled until you and Megan were always next to each other. In group pictures, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder, and you had a sneaking suspicion that every “team-building exercise” was really just an excuse to get more MegY/N moments on camera.

But you didn’t mind. Not really. Because somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a PR stunt and started feeling… easy.

At first, it was just the little things. Like how Megan would lean in a little closer than she had to when you showed her something on your phone, her head tilting in that curious way that made your breath catch for no good reason. Or how she’d laugh at your dumb jokes, not the polite, clipped laugh she gave strangers, but the real kind that made her shoulders shake and her eyes squint shut.

You discovered that Megan was so much more than the polite, reserved girl you’d thought. She was spontaneous in the weirdest, best ways. She’d drag you out of the dorm on a rainy night just because she had a sudden craving for convenience store ramen, and you’d end up in a cramped little shop at midnight, eating noodles straight out of the cup and trying not to wake the sleeping neighborhood with your laughter. She’d burst out laughing at the worst times, her giggles turning into tears like you’d unlocked some secret level of her. She’d turn group practice breaks into impromptu karaoke contests, belting out songs in a voice that was way better than yours but somehow didn’t make you feel small. 

And in those moments, it struck you how different it felt from Daniela.

Daniela was all warmth and quiet reassurance. The kind of person whose laughter was like a promise: bright, steady, soft around the edges. With Daniela, you felt grounded, safe. Like no matter how badly you stumbled, she’d be there to catch you with a smile and a gentle hand.

Megan was different. She was loud in all the ways that counted, and she pulled you along with her. She was unafraid to be ridiculous, to be too much. She made you feel alive, like you were burning bright and fast and somehow it was okay to let the world see you that way.

And you loved it. You loved how she didn’t look at you like you were weird when you started rambling about the conspiracy theories you’d read online. You loved how she didn’t care if you babbled about random facts or threw out terrible puns, instead choosing to match you word for word, joke for joke, always a willing accomplice in your nonsense.

It got to the point where you couldn’t even remember why you’d been scared of her. Megan wasn’t intimidating or distant; she was a puppy in human form, all bright eyes and wagging tail. She was so full of life it made your chest ache in the best way.

But it wasn’t always like that. Megan had her quiet moments too. There were days when the light in her eyes dimmed, when she’d retreat into herself like she was drawing her energy inward to keep from burning out completely. She never said anything was wrong, but you could feel it in the way her shoulders curled inward, in the way she’d let her phone sit silent and forgotten beside her.

At first, you didn’t know what to do with those moments. With Daniela, quiet moments were natural, comforting. But with Megan, it felt like a puzzle. You’d crack another joke, try to fill the quiet like you always did, but it didn’t always land. So you learned to stop pushing. You’d sit with her, shoulders pressed together, your own chatter quieting to a gentle hum. Sometimes you’d hand her your phone and let her swipe through memes in silence. Sometimes you’d just sit there, your foot nudging hers every so often to remind her you were still there.

One night after a group live, you both ended up on the practice room floor, backs pressed against the mirrored wall. Megan had her head tipped back, eyes closed, and for a long while neither of you said a word.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice careful.

She cracked one eye open and smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

You didn’t push. You just offered her a quiet smile and let the moment sit between you. 

It became a rhythm. Loud and soft. Bright laughter and quiet spaces. You’d match her giggles with your own when she was on, and you’d match her stillness with your own when she was off.

And it was in those moments that you realized how much you’d started to care. 

It had been after an impromptu photoshoot at the park (complete with management’s not-so-subtle “just look natural” stage directions), you found yourselves sprawled out on a patch of grass, the late afternoon sun turning Megan’s hair into gold. She was quiet again, her fingers absently tracing patterns in the grass.

You reached over and plucked a blade of grass from her hair. “You’ve got a whole ecosystem in there,” you teased, “I think I saw a ladybug crawl in.”

She cracked a smile, small but real. “I’m going to pretend you’re kidding, for my own sake.” she said, her voice warm but tired.

You just grinned and let your hand rest there for a second, fingers brushing her hair before you pulled back. “Don’t worry, I redirected all the insects away.”

It was silly. And dumb. And ridiculous. And it didn’t matter.

Megan laughed, eyes squinting and teeth showing, her whisker dimples appearing. And your own smile was inevitable.

You knew it in that moment and every other after: you were so, incredibly screwed.

The universe was laughing at you now.

_

two direction for this story to go, pick your poison

Read the Supplements (recommended):

⁺ Daniela is not in love

⁺ Megan is not in love

Next Part (if you hate this story and me ig):

+ Part 2: the universe goes quiet

The lights were always too bright.

Not in a way that hurt Sophia's eyes, not quite. She had long since trained herself not to squint, not to blink too much, to hold her gaze firm and open no matter how harsh the glare from the stage rigging or the camera flashes. But it still got into her head, the brightness. Not exactly painful but lingering. It crept into her thoughts and clung to her skin, made her feel hollowed out after long days of being seen, always seen.

She sat now on the floor of the practice room, her spine pressed flat to the mirrored wall. Her arms rested across bent knees, fingers loosely knotted. The air was thick with heat and humidity, faintly tinged with the chemical scent of old sweat and rosin. Her body hummed with the ache she knew too well: the pinch in her lower back, the dull, deep soreness blooming in her calves, the tense, knotted line running from one shoulder to the other no matter how often she tried to roll it out.

Around her, the other girls were scattered, their laughter filling the space like birdsong in spring. Lara and Daniela were bickering playfully over choreography counts. Megan was lying flat on the ground like a starfish, arms splayed dramatically. Manon scrolled through her phone, humming something under her breath. Y/N was recounting a funny story, while Yoonchae was giggling into her water bottle, legs swinging as she perched on a bench.

Sophia didn’t join in.

The rehearsal had taken more out of her than she liked to admit. Her legs had trembled, just slightly, when she’d pushed herself up from the floor. A faint, betraying quiver at the knees. But she’d ignored it, told herself it was nothing. Just the practice. Over six hours spent drilling the same eight counts until the moves lost their shape and her muscles gave up remembering them on their own. Her body was just tired, that was all. All the girls were tired. This was what it took to be good.

She told herself these things like they were mantras.

When the music started again, sharp and familiar like a knife she knew too well, she stepped into formation without hesitation. Her limbs obeyed without thought, muscle memory guiding her through the angles and pivots like machinery built into her bones. But her mind had drifted. Not fully, not dangerously. Just enough for a hum to start in the back of her skull. A low, pulsing rhythm that didn’t belong to the song.

It was a warning. One she knew to ignore.

She was slipping. Slowly, quietly. In ways no one was supposed to notice.

And they couldn’t. Not when they needed her. Especially now, with the comeback looming like a deadline written in permanent marker. Management had been relentless lately, as if each of them were raw material waiting to be reshaped. Slimmer silhouettes. Tighter formations. More engagement. Cleaner visuals. Always cleaner.

Yesterday, the teaser had gone live. A fifteen-second flash of perfection meant to sell everything they were. And like a fool, Sophia had scrolled through the comments.

"The group would be great if their leader smiled more." "She always looks like she’s trying too hard." "How is she one of the oldest and still not the best dancer?"

And then the ones that cut deeper, not aimed at her directly, but through her.

"Their maknae’s clearly better than her already." "Does she even lead them?"

She had deleted the app by morning. Thrown her phone face-down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until her chest stopped aching.

She had to be better. Had to be everything they needed her to be. So when the choreographer’s voice rang out again with a flat, familiar "Five, six, seven, eight," she jumped.

Too late. A heartbeat behind.

The disappointment in their trainer’s face was immediate. Not anger, not frustration. Just the subtle tightening of the jaw, the way the clipboard lowered slightly, the absence of praise.

"Reset. Again."

She didn’t dare to make another mistake.

Not for the next hour. Not ever again. Not a single missed beat, not a single misplaced hand.

But the way she locked her jaw every time the music restarted, the way her arms moved like they were made of steel wires, too taut, too precise: it wasn’t from the fluid grace they had once praised her for.

It was survival.

When practice finally ended, and the others filed out around her, chattering about dinner plans and shared showers and who had borrowed whose hairbrush, Sophia hung back. She pretended to check her water bottle, to tie her shoelaces. She smoothed her hair back even though no one else was watching, kept herself believably busy with the small things, until the room emptied.

Almost.

She turned, reaching automatically for her bag, and froze when she saw Y/N still standing in the doorway.

Her figure was silhouetted, one hand gripping the strap of her gym bag, the other holding the straps of Sophia’s. Her gaze was steady, not asking anything. Just waiting.

Sophia’s throat closed.

“You don’t have to—” she started, already regretting the sound of her voice, too rough, too revealing.

“I know.”

That was all.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t approach. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, quiet and patient, giving Sophia the choice to come or stay.

And somehow, it felt like the first time someone had given her a choice.

—

That night, in the dorm, Sophia barely made it past brushing her teeth before her hands began to shake.

She wrapped herself in a hoodie three sizes too big and padded into the living room on quiet feet, curling into the far corner of the couch. The lights were dim. A single lamp near the hallway cast a soft glow over the fabric, warm and golden, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her legs tucked under her, she gripped the hem of the hoodie sleeves and pulled them over her fists.

The others were still in their rooms. Someone—Manon, maybe—was playing music behind a closed door, something soft and old, with a gentle rhythm and watery vocals. Laughter filtered out from Lara and Megan’s shared room, bright and sudden, then faded again.

Sophia closed her eyes. Tried to breathe. Remember her rhythm. But her chest was tight in that way it always got when everything caught up to her too fast.

It had started after practice.

The message from their choreography trainer had come through while she was still on the van ride home. Not cruel, just clipped. Clinical.

Still too tight in the transitions. Watch your timing. You're always half a beat behind.

She already knew. That had been the worst part. She had felt it in her body, the slight lag, the slippage between mind and motion. Felt it in her chest, everytime she tripped up. 

She didn’t respond back. Couldn’t scrape up the dignity to. 

At the dorm, she had barely stepped inside when one of the managers pulled her aside. Yoonchae had frozen up before they could film a quick promotional video: some silly, throwaway clip for social media, a trend they were meant to jump on with pre-made choreography and a one-liner about the new album.

“She’s just a little homesick,” the manager said, glancing toward the hallway, where the youngest had locked herself in the bathroom. “Can you fill in? Just this one.”

Sophia said yes. Of course she did. Even though she had vocal practice in twenty minutes and hadn’t eaten since noon. Even though her throat was raw and her feet burned. She smiled for the camera. Hit every mark. Said the right line. Laughed on cue.

Then, later, after scarfing half a protein bar and washing it down with room-temperature water from her tote bag, she got the message she had been looking forward to all day. A missed call from her mother. Just one ring before it stopped.

She tried calling back, but management had double-booked her again. A one-on-one dance session they hadn’t warned her about, followed immediately by a briefing for a skincare CF. When she pointed it out, the reply had been simple: Just be quick. The rep can wait five minutes if needed.

She had rushed through both. Fumbled a transition in the solo run-through. Missed a small but important note in the product script. The staffer’s face afterward had been polite, but something in their eyes told her she had slipped again. That there was something else to fix tomorrow.

Failure after failure after failure.

Now, her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

She didn’t cry. She never cried. Not where anyone could see. But her jaw was clenched so tight her molars ached, and she stared blankly at the weave of the cushion beneath her fingers, trying to remember what it felt like to be a person. Not a brand, not a leader, not a checklist of deliverables and rehearsals. Just a person. A girl.

A shadow passed over her peripheral vision, causing her to blink, slow and sluggish, as a mug of warm tea appeared in front of her held by steady hands.

Sophia looked up.

Y/N stood over her, dressed in a faded university sweatshirt and pajama shorts. Her hair was still damp, curling softly at the ends like she had just gotten out of the shower. She didn’t say anything. Just held out the mug, both hands wrapped around it like it was something she had warmed herself with first.

Sophia reached for it slowly, and their fingers brushed. A light touch, but it sparked something beneath her skin, small and electric.

“Chamomile,” Y/N said, voice low, almost lost in the rustle of fabric “It’s supposed to help.”

Sophia’s gaze dropped to the mug, and then back to Y/N. The implication wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers around the warm ceramic as if it could anchor her.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Y/N didn’t go far. Instead, she eased down beside Sophia, settling in without a sound, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever held the moment in place. Their knees touched, but neither of them shifted.

The tea was warm in Sophia’s hands. Steadying. The steam ghosted against her face, carrying the faint floral scent of chamomile and something sweeter she couldn’t name. She took a careful sip, then another, letting the quiet stretch out between them.

On the coffee table, a half-folded blanket sat beside a remote and a phone charger. The room had that lived-in feel, cozy in a way that only came when everyone else was tucked away in their own spaces. Behind the closed doors, the dorm buzzed gently with muffled voices, humming water pipes, and the distant click of someone typing.

Y/N leaned forward slightly and grabbed the remote. She didn’t ask before flicking on the TV, and the screen lit up with the familiar blue-white glow of the home screen. A few clicks, then a pause, and the opening bars of Mamma Mia floated into the air.

Sophia blinked. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the mug.

Of course.

It wasn’t a secret that the filipino loved the movie. The others teased her about it sometimes, when she insisted on watching it for the third time on a tour bus, mouthing the lines under her breath. But she never really talked about why. There was something in the messiness of it, the sunshine and absurdity, the way things still somehow ended up okay, that made it feel like a safety net.

She didn’t say anything. Just let the corners of her mouth lift, barely, as the camera panned across the sea and the first few lines of “I Have a Dream” played soft and familiar.

Y/N leaned back, one leg tucked under the other. Her head tilted against the couch cushion, gaze relaxed. “It was just on,” she said, offhand. “Figured it was better than scrolling.”

Sophia hummed quietly.

A few minutes passed. The tea was half gone now, the warmth from the mug slowly soaking into her palms, loosening something she hadn’t realized was clenched in her chest. Her body was tired in the deepest way, like the exhaustion had reached her bones, but she still sat upright, shoulders held in their practiced, unshakable posture.

The light above them buzzed faintly. Y/N shifted.

“Too bright,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “I’m turning it off so I can see the screen better.”

She stood without waiting for a reply and crossed to the switch near the hallway. The room dimmed instantly, leaving just the flickering light of the TV to wash over them. Everything softened in its glow. The room felt smaller now, warmer, like a cocoon. Sophia blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting, the sudden absence of overhead light making the tight band behind her temples ease just a little.

Y/N returned without ceremony, but this time she brought one of the couch pillows with her. She sat down again, closer than before. The pillow ended up between them at first, but then she adjusted it, tucked it behind her back instead. The space narrowed.

“It’s kind of cold,” she said, as though that explained it. “It always gets drafty near the window.”

Sophia nodded, quiet. The words didn’t matter. She knew what Y/N was doing, even if they were both pretending not to notice.

She felt it when their shoulders brushed, then settled. When Y/N angled her body just slightly, so that her knee pressed more fully against Sophia’s thigh. When the slow pressure of a hand, gentle and unassuming, found its way to the small of her back.

It was barely a touch. More like a weightless presence, a loose curl of fingers that moved in lazy, rhythmic circles. But it steadied her. Like ballast. Like the pressure reminded her she was here, not performing, not holding everything together. 

Sophia didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Her eyes drifted to the TV. Donna was arriving on the island, the screen a blur of colors and summer heat: sunlight in hair, singing at the top of lungs, a mother dancing barefoot on old floorboards.

Y/N’s scent curled around her. Something clean, a little citrusy, mixed with damp hair and the faint, lingering sweetness of body cream. And underneath it all, the same scent that had clung to the mug of tea—chamomile and warmth.

Sophia’s grip on the cup loosened. Her shoulders dropped, just slightly. The tension she had been holding for days, maybe longer, began to ease away. Her heartbeat slowed, and she let her head tilt. Just barely. Resting against the space between Y/N’s shoulder and collarbone. And when sleep came, uninvited but not unwelcome, it came gently. 

The mug, now empty, rested on the couch beside her.

—

Sophia didn’t mention the tea the next day.

She didn’t mention how she had drifted off to sleep in the living room, her head tilted softly onto Y/N’s shoulder, or how Y/N had stayed with her until the movie ended. She didn’t mention the gentle nudge that woke her, or the way Y/N had guided her to her bed with one hand resting lightly at the small of her back, no words, just presence.

She woke up still in her hoodie, her hands curled loosely like she had been holding something in her sleep even though she wasn’t.

The morning unfolded as it always did. The dorm was loud in its usual, comforting way. Megan wore mismatched socks again. Daniela argued cheerfully with Manon over who got to use the bathroom first. Lara braided Yoonchae’s hair from behind as she scrolled through her phone, never asking, just humming tunelessly. Y/N sipped her coffee in silence. 

That afternoon, they were called into the studio to record harmony layers for the bridge, each girl vanishing into the booth one at a time. Sophia had done this so many times it felt like breathing. She knew how to place her voice just behind the melody, to let it bloom then disappear.

When it was her turn, she adjusted the headphones and stood in the dim blue light.

The producer’s voice filtered in through the headset. “Give us that first harmony line, soft. Breathier. You know the mood.”

She did. Of course she did. The song had lived in her for weeks. It was all breath and ache and quiet yearning. Something that sat under the skin and stayed there. She sang it three times. Each take lighter than the last.

“Almost,” the producer said, not unkindly, “Give us something more fragile.”

Sophia closed her eyes and tried again.

This time, something shifted. Not her voice, that stayed even, trained and unwavering, but something inside her chest. Not a collapse. More like surrender. Like she had loosened her grip on whatever she was holding too tightly.

The silence in her headphones was longer than usual.

Then, “Good. That’s the one.”

She stepped out of the booth and back into the dim-lit studio. Manon offered her a banana with one hand while balancing a notebook in the other. Sophia took it silently and sat down.

Y/N was the last to record. She didn’t say much, just moved with easy familiarity, tying her hair back loosely and rolling her sleeves up to the elbows. She adjusted the mic herself, tested with a small hum, her fingers brushing the stand like she was tuning something delicate.

Sophia watched her through the glass. She wasn’t pretending to check notes or scroll on her phone. She just watched. The shape of Y/N’s mouth forming each note, the slight furrow in her brow when she focused, the way her body leaned into the sound without performing.

Their eyes met once. Only for a second. Y/N looked up and caught her gaze through the glass. Not long. Not deliberate. But it stayed with her anyway.

Later that evening, after dinner and cleanup and the slow settling of the dorm into quiet again, Sophia found herself in the laundry room, folding towels just for something to do with her hands.

The fluorescent light buzzed above her. The dryer clicked as it spun down to silence. She hadn’t turned on any music. There was a kind of comfort in the hush, even if it was edged with the kind of stillness that asked too many questions.

She was down to the last towel when Y/N stepped inside, holding something in her hands.

“You left this in the living room,” she said, lifting Sophia’s hoodie slightly.

Sophia took it with a nod. “Thanks.”

Y/N didn’t leave. She leaned against the dryer, arms crossed loosely, her face unreadable in that way she had: not guarded, just... unoffered.

Sophia folded the last towel with care. She didn’t rush. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but full. Then Sophia said it, quiet, barely louder than the sound of cotton being smoothed flat.

“Are you worried about the comeback?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. There was no hesitation.

“Yeah. I mean, how could I not be?”

Sophia gave a small breath of a laugh. It wasn’t bitter. Just real.

“But,” Y/N continued, her voice steady, “I think we’ve got it. We’ve been working hard. And it shows.”

Sophia looked at Y/N. Really looked. The soft line of her jaw, the calm in her eyes, the way she stood with her weight on one leg like she wasn’t afraid of stillness. There was no rush in her posture. No urge to fill the space. Just stillness, held without apology.

Y/N didn’t say the right things. She was the right things. Quiet and solid and warm.

It was like she knew Sophia didn’t need reassurance. She didn’t need praise or comfort or someone to tell her to slow down. What she needed, what she had, was someone who saw her. Who knew how hard she had been holding everything together and still chose to say nothing, to stand with her without trying to fix it.

Sophia nodded once, then tucked the hoodie under her arm.

“I’m going to start another load,” she said.

Y/N gave her a small smile. “I’ll help.”

And that was it.

Just the two of them in a too-bright laundry room, folding towels and sorting laundry, shoulders occasionally bumping as they moved. Together.

—

Sophia couldn’t remember exactly when the dizziness started. Only that it was always there now.

Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just persistent. A slow, creeping tilt beneath her feet, like the floor had shifted by a single degree and never settled back.

It followed her.

In practice rooms where the mirrors sweated and the music pressed like a second heartbeat under her skin. At night, when the hum of the dorm was too quiet to soothe her and too loud to ignore. During interviews, when her smile was so precisely shaped it left her jaw sore long after the cameras stopped.

She carried it like she carried everything else. Silently.

The weight, the expectations, the invisible calculations she performed daily to keep the others steady. Who needed more rest. Who hadn’t eaten. Who was nearing a crack in their veneer. She made herself the buffer without thinking, because that was what leaders did.

She didn’t resent it. Not really. She had made peace with the truth early on: people depended on her, so she didn’t get to fall apart.

But lately… she was slipping.

Not in a way others could name. Not in ways that would alarm anyone.

Megan handed her extra water bottles during practice without making it a thing. Manon joked louder near her, like joy could be volume-controlled. Lara would squeeze her hand before shoots, firm and grounding. Even Daniela wordlessly draped her jacket over Sophia’s shoulders on days when the heat didn’t reach her.

They noticed.

But Y/N, she saw.

And that was harder.

Because Y/N didn’t hover. She didn’t fill silences. She didn’t treat Sophia like a role to be performed. She simply existed beside her, quiet and steady — a stillness that never demanded, only invited. A stillness Sophia found herself drawn to more often than she ever intended.

It began with the small things.

A neatly folded packet of ginger candies, slipped by her bag on the day her throat burned after too many hours pushing her voice. A soft tug on her sleeve at midnight when she was still watching rehearsal footage on loop, eyes heavy and red, the tug saying clearly: enough for tonight. A subtle redirect during an interview when Sophia paused, words briefly caught between thought and phrasing, and Y/N filled the space with something warm and natural, giving her just enough room to breathe without anyone noticing she’d needed it.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic.

And maybe that’s what made it dangerous.

Because if Y/N had made it obvious — if she’d reached out with concern etched on her face and said, I know you’re tired. Let me help — then Sophia would have known what to do. She would have smiled and said, I’m fine, and built the wall back up.

But there was never a wall to build. No grand gesture to reject. Just quiet. And warmth. And the way Y/N’s hand might press briefly to her back as they passed in the hallway, grounding her like gravity. The way her voice softened when she said Sophia’s name. The way she never asked for space, but made enough of it for Sophia to step into when she couldn’t find her own.

And now, with every moment she leaned into that space, every time she let herself rest in it, even just for a breath, something twisted faintly in her chest.

Because Sophia knew what it meant to rely on someone. She’d spent her whole life making sure no one had to rely on her too much.

But here she was. Letting herself be seen. Letting herself rest in someone else's shade.

And it was getting harder to pretend it didn’t matter.

Harder still to admit how much it did.

—

The guilt didn’t arrive with a bang. It crept in softly, like a tide. Barely noticeable until her feet were already wet. Until it was too late.

It found her one afternoon, during a rare sliver of downtime. The studio had gone quiet. No shoots. No back-to-back rehearsals. Most of the girls had drifted off for bubble tea or sunlight in the back stairwell.

Sophia stayed behind, claiming she had emails to answer. She sat in the practice room with her laptop open in front of her, the cursor blinking on a half-written reply to their stylist. 

But she wasn’t answering emails. She was listening.

Y/N was just down the hall, her voice drifting through the slightly ajar door as she helped Yoonchae film a quick Q&A segment for socials. Light questions. Favorite snacks. Most-used emojis. Their laughter rang out, full and unguarded.

Sophia sat frozen, hands still, eyes on a screen she couldn’t see.

She didn’t want to be part of the moment. That wasn’t what hurt. What hurt was that she hadn’t even thought to be.

Y/N was always there. Always nearby. Never pressing. Never asking. Just quietly present, like a breath Sophia hadn’t noticed she was taking until the air got too thin. But that also meant that every quiet act of care — every mug of tea, every offered silence — came at a cost Sophia had never properly tallied.

And it made something bitter stir in her chest.

She closed the laptop and stood, suddenly needing air that wasn’t full of her own self-awareness. She grabbed her jacket and stepped outside the building, where the sky had gone faintly grey, spring light filtered through clouds.

She didn’t get far before she heard footsteps behind her.

“Skipping out on emails now?” Y/N’s voice was easy, teasing.

Sophia didn’t turn around. “Finished them.”

A pause. Then Y/N fell into step beside her.

They walked together for a while, not far. Just to the edge of the lot behind the studio where the pavement gave way to gravel and the smell of blooming grass lingered after the rain.

Sophia kept her arms folded. Not because she was cold.

Y/N said nothing for a few minutes. Just let the silence settle between them like breath. Then she nudged her shoulder lightly into Sophia’s. “You okay?”

It wasn’t intrusive. Wasn’t heavy. Just a thread cast out.

Sophia nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed a break.”

Another pause.

“Everyone does sometimes,” Y/N said.

Sophia didn’t answer.

She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to tell the truth.

Instead, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and said, “You’re good at that. Showing up. For everyone.”

Y/N tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning. “I try.”

Sophia hesitated. Then, too quiet: “I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

Y/N blinked. The wind lifted a strand of her hair, brushing it across her cheek. “You don’t.”

“But I could,” Sophia said. And then caught herself. “I mean, it’d be easy to. You don’t—”

She stopped. The words turned sour on her tongue.

Y/N didn’t press her. She just looked at her, really looked. The way she always did.

And it was too much.

Sophia turned her face away, jaw tense, eyes fixed on nothing. She said nothing. She couldn’t.

Then, quietly, Y/N stepped closer, not quite touching, but near enough that their shoulders almost brushed again.

“I don’t offer things I can’t afford to give,” Y/N said, voice steady. “So if I’m here, it’s because I want to be.”

Sophia’s throat tightened. Her hands disappeared deeper into her sleeves. 

The words were kind. Solid. True. And Sophia didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.  

—

That night, Sophia laid awake. 

She laid still long after the others had gone quiet, her body aching in every way it could: knees stiff, back tight, chest sore from holding too much. Her body longed for rest, but her mind ticked forward like a second hand gone haywire. Like if she didn’t move soon, she’d fall behind on something even if nothing was scheduled.

She rolled onto her side, the sheets whispering against her skin.

Across the narrow stretch of their shared room, Y/N lay in her bed, a soft silhouette framed by the silver pull of moonlight. Her blanket rose and fell in quiet rhythm, and even asleep, she faced Sophia, always curled that way, always toward her. It wasn’t something they talked about. It just... was.

Sophia stared at the shape of the other girl and felt like a thief.

—

The next morning, the rain came.

It started during their second run-through of the choreo: light at first, barely more than a whisper on the high windows. Then harder. Louder. Wind pushing it sideways. The rehearsal studio dimmed as the gray outside swallowed the morning. The mirrors fogged around the edges, and their reflections blurred into pale ghosts.

Everyone was dragging.

Manon missed a cue. Daniela’s ankle rolled slightly on a pivot. Megan kept rubbing her thigh between counts.

Sophia picked up the slack.

She shouted louder. Counted harder. Caught the missed formations. Cleaned transitions that weren’t even hers to fix. Her voice cracked halfway through, but she kept going. Her shoulder pinched. Her right knee gave a little shake at the end of a turn. But she kept going.

She always did.

Until she couldn’t.

Near the end of the fourth full-out, her balance slipped. It was not a full stumble, just a flicker, a shift in her center that made her land a beat late. She caught herself before anyone could say anything. Hit the final pose like always. Chin up. Core tight. Smile in place.

But she saw it.

Y/N saw it too.

When the trainer called dismissal, Sophia waited. Let the noise surge.

Someone shouted about fried chicken. Another cheered for bubble tea. The team took a blurry group selfie, everyone sweaty and radiant and too loud for how tired they were.

Sophia smiled, like it didn’t cost her anything.

Then she slipped out.

Not far. Just the hallway outside, dim and humming with rain still against the windows. She pressed her back to the wall, the tile cold through her damp shirt. Her hand was curled into the hem of her tank like she could press the tremor out of her fingers. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. The ringing in her head got louder as she did her best to stay upright.

Don’t fall apart. Don’t fall apart.

Her breath hitched. Sharp. Shallow.

And then there was movement. 

Y/N. 

Towel looped over her neck. Face pink from exertion, knee darkening with the start of a bruise. She didn’t say anything. Just came close. Closer. Until their forehead touched.

Just that. Nothing more. And it almost broke Sophia completely. 

She clenched her jaw. Bit down on the inside of her cheek. Swallowed the sound building in her throat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a scrape.

Y/N didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing in tandem.

“I can’t—” Sophia tried, then stopped. Her throat worked around the truth. “I can’t keep needing you like this.”

Still, nothing.

Sophia turned her face slightly away, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t deserve it.”

This time, Y/N answered. Soft. Sure. “Why not?” 

Sophia blinked hard.

“Because I don’t give back the same way. I can’t. Because you’re always—” She broke off. Her breath came faster. “Because you’re always the one who catches me. And if I fall too hard, and you’re not there... I won’t know how to fix it. I won’t know how to be okay.”

Silence.

Sophia’s fists trembled at her sides. “I’m scared. I’m scared of letting you in too far. Of what it means. Of what it makes me.”

Y/N stayed quiet.

And that silence hurt — not because it was empty, but because it was patient. Because it meant she was still here.

Sophia looked at her, eyes glassy, throat raw. “I don’t even know what this is. It doesn’t feel like friendship. But it’s not just romance either. It feels... more. Somehow.”

Y/N reached out, brushing her fingertips along Sophia’s arm. Shoulder to elbow.

Sophia flinched. Not away. Inward. Like the contact struck something buried deep. But she didn’t move.

Y/N stepped closer. Slower this time. She leaned in, not to kiss, not to claim, not to fix. Just enough to press her lips to Sophia’s shoulder. A soft, fleeting touch on the edge of her damp sweatshirt.

Just enough to be real, to say: I hear you. I’m here. 

Sophia’s face crumpled. Her body sagged forward, surrendering inch by inch until her forehead found Y/N’s collarbone. Her whole frame shuddered once, then stilled.

Her hand reached blindly. Found Y/N’s. Their fingers tangled together, tight and desperate, a tether more than a hold.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Sophia whispered. “Not without ruining it.”

Y/N’s reply was soft, nearly lost in the fall of rain.

“Then don’t do it alone.”

Sophia trembled again. Once. Twice. 

And finally, finally, she let go. 

Not of Y/N.

Of the guilt. Of the fear. Of the weight she'd carried since the moment someone called her strong.

And in that small, rain-damp hush, they stayed.

—

Comeback week felt like a storm that never broke.

Everything happened faster now: call times, interviews, late-night rehearsals. Choreography on glossy floors that bruised their knees. Scripted soundbites. Smile for the camera. Blink. Breathe. Repeat.

Sophia moved through it like a machine.

Efficient. Composed. Dependable. 

Her voice stayed level. Her shoulders didn’t slump. She waited behind when the stylists needed last-minute fixes. She smiled, even when her chest pulled tight with exhaustion so deep she felt it in her teeth.

She didn’t complain.

Because this — the exhaustion, the discipline, the price — was the job. And she was good at it.

It was only in the silence after that Sophia ever felt the cost.

One afternoon, after an especially exhausting day, she sat on the practice room floor after the others had gone. The overhead lights were off, just the glow of her phone casting long shadows across the mirror. She hadn’t even taken off her shoes. She just sat with her knees drawn up, arms draped over them, as she stared into her reflection: Dim. Distant.

For the first time in what seemed forever, she let herself go. In this room, she didn’t need to hold herself upright for anyone else. She could just feel. All of it. The tremble in her fingers, the ache behind her eyes. The sinking pressure that didn’t quite have a name.

She didn’t hear the door open, but she knew who it was the second the silence shifted.

Like clockwork. Like a prayer. 

Sophia didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. 

And when Y/N reached over — slow, deliberate — and uncurled her hand from where it had been clenched into her hoodie, Sophia didn’t resist.

She simply let their fingers twine again. Familiar now. Sacred. And exhale. 

— 

Later, they would walk into the press event together, full makeup, styled hair, eyes bright like nothing ever tired them.

Sophia would smile with practiced ease. She would thank the interviewer, compliment the fans, lift Lara’s answer with a joke when the question got too deep. She’d stand in the middle of the group like she belonged there as if the foundation didn’t tremble beneath her feet.

And when it was over, when the cameras went off and the car doors shut behind them, she’d sit in the farthest seat in the van, head pressed to the window, and feel the ache return in silence.

But in the middle of it all, between the chaos and the pretense and the exhaustion so deep it hollowed her out, there would be that small moment from earlier.

The hum of the T.V. 

Y/N’s steady shoulder against hers.

The shape of breathing, shared.

Not a lifeline. Not a cure.

But proof.

That somewhere inside the exhaustion, she could fall. And that even if she did, Y/N would catch her.  

And that was enough.

—

was thinking about making this a hurt/no comfort piece, but then remembered that not everything has to be painful. sometimes, good things can simply be good. happy pride month, y'all. thank you for reading.