✰When you first met her, you were intimidated, and thought she was way out of your league. Tall, elegant, a being that seemed almost celestial, who just waltzed into your life.
✰You were wrong, on two counts. One, she was nervous too. Arguably more nervous than you were. She plays it cool at first, but inside? Total panic mode. You’d catch her sneaking glances when she thought you weren’t looking, lips twitching as she bit back a smile
✰Second, when you finally began dating her, you realised she was also a sleep-deprived, clingy goofball who makes weird throat noises when she’s bored and eats snacks like a Victorian orphan
✰As your girlfriend, she pulls off a very magical blend of calm and “stupid cheese cat” ness, as Aeri called it
✰To the public, she’s the cool girlfriend, but the moment the door closes, and it’s just the two of you? It’s like her system reboots and gets the blue screen of death.
✰She’d trip over her own words, cuddle into you like a sleepy kitten, and get playfully dramatic about everything.
“You watched OUR show without me??? Traitor.”
✰When she’s feeling playful, she’ll roast you with a straight face, then give you a smirk. You know the one
✰Then when you roast her back, she either out sasses you, or plays the “sad puppy Rina” card(You were never winning)
✰She loves petnames, calling you “babe” or “honey” with zero hesitation, but if you call her “princess”?
✰She breaks down faster than a shitty car on life support. I’m talking blushing, pillow to face, legs kicking all over, the whole shebang
✰When she wants/needs to take care of you, she’s surprisingly responsible and mature. She keeps you on track, reminds you to hydrate, and organises the fridge by colour coded containers
✰But then she also baby-talks your pet and makes Dino chicken nuggets for dinner so…balance
✰When you’re upset, she doesn’t always know what to do, but she’ll wrap you in her arms, rest her chin on your shoulder, and just be there.
✰It’s heaven on earth
✰Very competitive. She got all pouty once because she claims you cheated in the game.(It was rock paper scissors.)
✰She loves compliments, but acts like she hates it.
“You’re beautiful, Rina”
“Pfft, you’re so cheesy, get away.”
-Literally has not stopped smiling in days
✰Shes clingy even in the most casual ways, like her hand on your thigh when she’s near you, leaning onto your side on walks, or sleeping with her face buried into your neck
✰Cuddles are a non-negotiable, but it’s not like you were gong to disagree with her anyways
✰She sends you random “Thinking about you” texts, orders your favourite food and drinks without you needing to ask, and it’s almost like she knows what you’re going to do before you do it
✰Her lockscreen is a blurry selfie of you kissing her cheek while she’s half laughing, half hiding
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
It feels like any other morning. Soft. Slow. Familiar in the way that makes you forget to question it.
The sunlight slips through the curtains at the wrong angle, brushing against your face like something gentle enough to ignore. You groan quietly, burying your face deeper into the pillow, instinctively shifting closer to the other side of the bed.
There is a dip in the mattress.
Faint. Subtle.
Like it has always been there.
You settle into it without thinking, your body moving on memory alone. Your arm drifts across the sheets, stopping just short of where she should be. Your fingers curl slightly, like they remember something your mind refuses to say out loud.
“…you’re awake,” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
A quiet hum answers you.
Soft. Familiar.
“Go back to sleep,” Karina murmurs.
“You woke me up.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re breathing too loud.”
There is a pause.
Then a quiet scoff, almost fond. “You’re impossible.”
You smile into the pillow, eyes still closed.
You stay like that longer than you need to. Suspended in that fragile space between asleep and awake, where everything feels right as long as you don’t move too much. As long as you don’t think too hard.
“…what time is it?” you ask.
“Too early.”
“Rina, baby, that’s not a real answer.”
“It’s real enough.”
You huff softly, dragging your hand lazily across the bed again. This time your fingertips press a little deeper into the mattress, like you are testing the shape of something that isn’t quite there.
“Five more minutes,” you say.
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I mean it this time.”
“You always mean it.”
“…and I always fail.”
“Exactly. See, whoever said you’re stupid.”
“I’m guessing you did”
You crack one eye open.
She is there.
On her side, facing you. Hair messy, falling across her face in soft strands. Her expression is calm, a little amused, like she has been watching you for longer than you realized.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“You’re ugly when you wake up.”
“You say that every morning.”
“And I’m always right.”
You squint at her, then reach blindly for the blanket, tugging it up over your face.
“…you’re mean in the mornings.”
“I’m honest.”
“Same thing.”
She laughs quietly, the sound soft enough that it feels like it belongs in this half-asleep world more than anywhere else.
You peek out from under the blanket again.
She’s still in that same position, looking at you.
“You’re still staring,” you mumble.
“You’re still ugly.”
“…rude.”
You push yourself up slowly, stretching your arms over your head. Your hand drifts toward her again without thinking, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face like you always do.
You stop.
Just before contact.
Close enough that it feels like you did it.
Your fingers hover there for a second too long.
“…what?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
You pull your hand back, scratching your cheek instead like that was always the plan.
“Stay here,” you say, swinging your legs off the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You’re going to burn it again.”
“I burned it once.”
“You burned it three times.”
“Details.”
She shifts slightly, propping her head up with her hand as she watches you. There is something comfortable about it. Like she has always been there in the mornings, watching you fumble your way into being awake.
“You also almost set off the fire alarm,” she adds.
“That was one time.”
“That was the same time.”
“…still counts as once.”
She hums, unconvinced.
You grab a shirt from the chair, pulling it on as you head toward the door. You pause just before stepping out, glancing back at her.
“Don’t move,” you say.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod.
The kitchen greets you the same way it always does. Quiet. Still. A little too neat in places you don’t remember cleaning.
You reach for two plates without thinking.
Set them down.
Side by side.
There is a small pause.
Then you keep going.
Eggs crack against the edge of the pan, the soft sizzle filling the space. It sounds louder than it should in the quiet.
“You’re staring again,” you call out, glancing over your shoulder.
She’s there, leaning against the counter now.
She always leans against the counter.
“I’m supervising,” she says.
“You’re judging.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re not doing anything.”
“I’m emotionally supporting you.”
You laugh quietly, flipping the eggs with a little more confidence than before.
“Wow,” she says. “Look at that. Almost edible. You’re improving baby”
“You’re so annoying.”
“And yet you keep cooking for me.”
“…I’m a good person and a loving partner.”
“Debatable.”
You reach for two cups, filling both with water. One sits closer to you. The other sits across from you.
Untouched.
You don’t look at it for long.
“You want toast?” you ask.
“You’re going to burn it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“…fine. Make it.”
You slide the bread into the toaster, leaning against the counter as you wait. Your eyes drift back to her without meaning to.
She’s watching you again.
Quiet.
“You’re smiling,” she says.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“…stop looking at me.”
“Make me.”
You hesitate, then grab a piece of bread from the bag, holding it up like a weak threat.
“I will throw this.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You won’t.”
“…you’re right, I won’t.”
She smiles, and it’s enough to make you lower your hand.
The toaster pops.
You flinch slightly at the sound.
She doesn’t.
You don’t think about it.
“See?” you say, grabbing the toast. “Perfect.”
“It’s slightly burnt.”
“It’s golden.”
“It’s brown.”
“Golden brown.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
At the table, you sit across from her. Two plates. Two cups.
She looks exactly the same as always.
Like she belongs there.
“You’re not eating?” you ask.
“I will.”
You nod, taking a bite.
It tastes normal. Warm. Real.
“You improved,” she says.
“See? I told you.”
“I didn’t say it was good.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied it was edible.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“Not even close.”
You smile anyway.
Your eyes flick to her plate.
Still untouched.
You look away quickly, taking another bite.
“…you always rush,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I eat at a normal pace.”
“You eat like someone’s going to take it from you.”
“…are you going to take it from me?”
“No.”
“Then I’m fine.”
She hums softly, like she doesn’t fully agree.
You slow down anyway.
Just a little.
After breakfast, you leave the plates in the sink.
Karina’s plate remained untouched. You moved it to the fridge.
You tell yourself you’ll come back.
You always do.
You wipe your hands on a towel, glancing toward the living room.
She’s already there.
She’s always there first.
You walk in, dropping onto the couch with a quiet sigh. The cushion dips slightly under your weight.
You pat the space beside you.
“Come here.”
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
She rolls her eyes, but shifts anyway.
Close enough that you can pretend you feel her warmth.
You lean back, letting your head fall against the cushion.
“You’re going to fall asleep again,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“…I might.”
She exhales softly, something fond hidden in the sound.
You turn your head slightly, looking at her.
“…stay today,” you say quietly.
She meets your gaze.
“I’m here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
A small pause.
“…you’re overthinking again.”
You nod.
“…yeah.”
You don’t push it.
Instead, you reach for the remote, turning on something random. The screen flickers to life, filling the room with soft, meaningless noise.
You lower the volume a little.
The click sounds louder than it should.
She doesn’t react.
You don’t think about it.
Your shoulder leans just slightly toward her.
You stop before it actually touches.
“…hey,” you say after a while.
“Hmm?”
“If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
She tilts her head, thinking.
“…somewhere quiet.”
“This isn’t quiet?”
“It’s not the same.”
You nod slowly.
“…then I’d go with you.”
She glances at you.
“…of course you would.”
“Someone has to make your breakfast.”
“You’d burn it there too.”
“Wow. You really have no faith in me.”
“I have accurate expectations.”
You laugh softly, letting your head tilt back.
“…what about you?” she asks. “Where would you go?”
You think about it.
Then shrug.
“…here’s fine.”
She watches you for a second.
“…you’re lying.”
“…maybe. But you’re here. So that’s okay.”
The show continues playing in the background, something slow, something neither of you are really watching.
“See,” you murmur after a while. “You’re already falling asleep.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m resting.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true.”
You smile faintly, letting your eyes close.
For a while, everything feels normal.
Perfect, even.
Like nothing has ever been wrong.
Like nothing could be.
And if you stay like this long enough, you almost believe it.
Later, you order food.
Two portions.
When it arrives, you take both bags from the door.
You glance behind you.
She is still in the living room.
She stays in the living room.
“You didn’t come to get it?” you call out.
“I knew you would.”
You nod.
That makes sense.
You sit at the table again.
Two meals.
She does not touch hers.
You leave it there longer this time.
Long enough for it to go cold.
Even when you throw it away, you hesitate.
Like you are waiting for her to stop you.
She does not.
Evening settles.
You find yourself watching her more.
Not obvious.
Just enough to make sure she is still there.
She always is.
Until she is not.
You are in the middle of talking, turning toward her, expecting that small, unimpressed look.
The space beside you is empty.
Your words stop.
You blink.
She is back.
“…you’re being weird,” she says.
“You disappeared.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You just…”
“I haven’t left”
You nod.
“…yeah.”
Night comes.
It always feels easier.
You sit on the floor, back against the couch. She sits beside you.
Close.
Still not touching.
“You’re thinking again,” she says.
“…I always think.”
“Not like this.”
You let out a slow breath.
“…are you really here?”
Silence.
“…what do you think?” she asks.
“I think you’re right in front of me.”
“Then why don’t you ever touch me?”
Your chest tightens.
“I do.”
“No,” she says gently. “You don’t.”
You look down at your hands.
You do not answer.
“…you didn’t come see me,” she says.
The words land heavier now.
“…what?”
“You didn’t come.”
Your throat feels dry.
“I didn’t know where to go.”
A pause.
“You did, you just didn’t go” she says softly.
The memory presses in before you can stop it.
White flowers.
Too many of them.
People speaking in hushed voices.
A framed photo that you refused to look at.
Your hands clenched so tightly they hurt.
You shake your head.
“I couldn’t.”
She watches you.
Quiet.
“I kept everything the same,” you say, your voice smaller now. “I thought if I didn’t move anything…”
“…then it wouldn’t be real,” she finishes.
You nod.
“Dance with me,” you whisper.
She studies you for a second.
Then nods.
“…okay.”
There is no music.
You stand anyway.
You hold your hand out.
You hesitate.
Then you close your fingers like they are wrapping around hers.
You move slowly.
Carefully.
“…you’re stepping on my feet,” she murmurs.
A weak laugh leaves you.
“You don’t even have feet right now.”
“…rude.”
Your grip tightens around nothing.
You do not look down.
“You love me, right?” you ask.
She looks at you.
Soft.
Certain.
“…you know I do.”
“Say it.”
“…I love you.”
Your chest tightens.
This time, you say it back.
“…I love you too.”
The words feel heavier than they should.
Like they are late.
Like they are meant for somewhere else, another time, another life.
When you stop moving, the room feels still.
“…you know this is goodbye,” she says.
Not a question.
You shake your head.
“…no.”
“You do.”
Your eyes burn.
“I didn’t get to say it properly.”
“You’re saying it now.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know.”
Silence settles between you.
“I should have been there,” you whisper. “I should have stayed. I should have—”
“You couldn’t,” she says gently.
“I could have.”
“You didn’t.”
The truth sits between you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
“…say goodbye,” she whispers.
You close your eyes.
Your hand tightens around nothing.
“…goodbye, Karina.”
When you open them, she is gone.
This time, you do not call out.
You already know.
The room is exactly the same.
But it feels different.
Not emptier.
Just… honest.
The next morning, the sunlight feels too bright.
You sit at the table with one plate.
One cup.
You eat slowly.
When you finish, you wash everything right away.
You do not leave anything behind.
Later, you pick up your phone.
You scroll up.
Message after message.
All sent.
None answered.
Your thumb hovers for a moment.
Then you type again.
I’m sorry I didn’t come see you. I’m sorry I didn’t show up in time. Maybe in another life, my love.
You stare at it.
Then, slowly, you press send.
The message delivers.
It sits there.
Quiet.
Unanswered.
You lock your phone.
You do not open it again.
A song plays softly from your record player.
Familiar.
It’s late.
The moon is out, and the city sleeps.
You stand in the middle of the room.
You take a step.
Then another.
Your body remembers the rhythm.
Even if nothing else does.
You close your eyes.
For a moment, it feels like she might still be there.
You open them.
You are alone.
You reach out nonetheless
You keep moving anyway.
Slow.
Unsteady.
And even when the song ends, you continue dancing.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The crash was loud enough to wake the dead — or at least the half-asleep cashier behind the counter.
You turn toward the sound and find a familiar disaster standing in the middle of the instant noodle aisle.
Kotone.
Covered in ramen cups.
Holding one in her hand like it’s a grenade.
She freezes, blinks once, and says, deadpan,
“You saw nothing”
You blink back. “You’re right, I did not see that you just declared war on the ramen shelf.”
“It attacked first.”
“I’m sure it did.”
The cashier sighs audibly, and Kotone winces, crouching down in a panic to pick up the mess — except she keeps grabbing the same three cups and restacking them in the wrong order, making the pile collapse again.
You snort. “You’re actually making it worse.”
“Then help me!” she whisper-yells. “This is serious! People could starve without these!”
“Tragic. National crisis.”
Kotone glares at you, the same way she did back in high school when you stole the last pudding from her lunchbox. You grin and crouch down anyway, helping her restack the fallen ramen cups one by one.
The two of you don’t say anything for a moment — the silence thick with dust, nostalgia, and the faint hum of the store’s dying air conditioner.
Then she mutters, “You still eat this junk?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You still trip over air?”
Her mouth opens. “That’s defamation.”
“You tripped on nothing, Kotone.”
She points dramatically at the floor. “You don’t know that. There could’ve been a— a ghost!”
“Right. The ghost of instant noodles past.”
“Exactly!” she says, deadly serious — and for some reason, that’s the moment you start laughing. Like, really laughing.
Her pout deepens. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to help!”
“I am! Emotionally!”
Kotone smacks your arm with a ramen cup. “I should’ve known you’d betray me first chance you got.”
“Please. You’d lose a battle to a paper bag.”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Tripped-on-a-stationary-chair.”
“That chair was aggressively stationary.”
“Mm-hm.”
You both glare at each other, then burst out laughing again — loud, shameless laughter that echoes down the empty aisles. The cashier mutters something about “kids these days” but you both ignore him.
Outside, the air smells like rain and warm asphalt. Kotone walks beside you, swinging the plastic bag of snacks like it’s a pendulum of chaos.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I think the store clerk hates us.”
“I think he’s filing a restraining order.”
“Good. Keeps things interesting.”
You glance at her. “So you’re back?”
“Temporarily.” She shrugs, the movement small and casual, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes — something softer hiding beneath the bravado. “No schedules for awhile, so I figured I’d come home before my company glues me to a practice room.”
“Your group giving you a break? Scandalous.”
Kotone narrows her eyes. “Oh? You do know who we are.”
You pretend to think. “Double… what now?”
Her jaw drops. “You liar. You know our songs.”
“I might’ve heard one. Maybe. Accidentally.”
“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “After all these years, you’ve become one of those guys.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who pretend they don’t know me to seem cool.”
“Relax, superstar. I’m not pretending.”
Kotone gasps. “You’re literally gaslighting an idol right now.”
You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure idols don’t get gaslit in convenience stores.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She kicks a pebble down the street, then adds, “Also, for the record, I’m totally telling my members that my childhood friend betrayed me.”
“They’ll side with me. All 23 of them.”
“Impossible.”
“Highly likely.”
“You underestimate my influence.”
“You underestimate my tolerance for chaos.”
She stops, squints at you, then bursts out laughing again. “God, I forgot how annoying you are.”
You grin. “And yet, you missed me.”
She opens her mouth, ready to argue — but then closes it again. A small smile flickers at the corner of her lips. “Shut up.”
You end up walking her home. Neither of you mention it, but it feels natural, automatic. The streets are still the same: cracked pavement, uneven sidewalks, the distant buzz of cicadas.
“You still live at the same place?” she asks.
“Yeah. You?”
She nods. “Feels smaller now. Or maybe I just got taller.”
“Definitely taller. You used to barely reach my shoulder.”
Kotone immediately steps closer, comparing. “I still don’t.”
“Shame.”
She elbows you. “You’re not that tall.”
“Tall enough to—”
Before you can finish, she reaches up and flicks your forehead. Hard.
“Ow!”
“Height doesn’t protect you from justice,” she declares, proudly.
You stare at her. “You’re insane.”
“Takes one to know one.”
You both break into another round of laughter, the kind that leaves you breathless.
By the time you reach her street, the laughter fades into something quieter. Softer.
Kotone glances at her house, the lights off inside except for the faint glow of her bedroom window.
“I guess this is where I turn,” she says.
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches, not uncomfortable — just full of things you both aren’t saying.
Then she looks back at you, eyes warm but tired in a way you’ve never seen before. “Thanks. For… this.”
You blink. “For bullying you in a convenience store?”
“For… showing up,” she says quietly, and before you can respond, she smiles — that same small, crooked smile she had as a kid. “Goodnight, dummy.”
“Goodnight, klutz.”
She waves lazily over her shoulder as she walks away.
Later that night, Kotone sits cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from a quick shower, a half-eaten popsicle melting beside her. Her old room feels exactly the same — the faded curtains, the posters on the wall, the faint creak in the floorboards.
Except for that..
It’s sitting on her desk under the soft yellow glow of the lamp — a little worn, the edges curled. The ink slightly faded but still clear.
Instead, she traces a finger over it— and laughs under her breath.
“Still a terrible liar,” she murmurs.
She sets it down gently, switches off the light, and crawls under the blanket.
Outside, the rain starts to fall — steady, quiet, and comforting. The sound she used to fall asleep to when everything still made sense.
And somewhere, half a town away, you’re probably still laughing about the ramen cups.
She smiles in the dark.
“Idiot,” she whispers fondly, a bittersweet smile on her face.
Then, finally, she sleeps.
You fall back into orbit without even realizing it.
One day it’s “Hey, coffee?”
Then it’s “You’re free this afternoon, right?”
Then it’s walks that turn into inside jokes that turn into hours that pass too easily.
It’s like muscle memory — how she always walks a half-step ahead of you but turns back to make sure you’re following, how you always wait an extra second at crosswalks just to annoy her.
Everyone sees it — the way your laughter sounds louder when you’re together, how your voices overlap like you’re trying to win an invisible argument.
But both of you pretend it’s nothing.
Like this is just what best friends do.
It’s late afternoon when you find yourselves at the park, the same one you used to visit after school. The swings are still creaky, the vending machine still refuses to accept slightly crumpled bills. Kotone’s hair glows in the sunlight — brown with a soft reddish tint — and she’s drinking iced coffee through a straw like she’s in a commercial.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she asks suddenly, her voice light.
You tilt your head. “What does?”
“Being friends again.”
You grin. “Who said we ever stopped?”
She blinks, and for a split second, something flickers in her expression — like she’s about to say something else. But then she laughs, kicking at a stray pebble. “You’re still as cheesy as ever.”
“And you’re still bossy.”
“Excuse me,” she says, mock offended, “I’m confident.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Confident menace,” she corrects, pointing her straw at you like a weapon.
You roll your eyes. “Sure. That’s what they all say before they trip over nothing.”
She gasps dramatically. “I do not trip over nothing!”
“Uh-huh,” you hum. “Tell that to the ramen aisle.”
“That was one time!”
“Two times.”
“…Okay, maybe two, three if you count the supermarket that time, but still—”
You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, and she’s smacking your arm like you’ve just committed treason. The old man walking his dog gives you both a strange look, but you don’t care. For the first time in a long time, it feels easy again.
Later, you stop by the convenience store. The same one where you met her again after years apart.
Kotone grabs a can of milk soda and raises it toward you. “Famous people still drink this,” she declares.
“Oh, right. You’re famous now,” you tease. “Should I start bowing when I see you?”
She squints at you. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of what? Your fans?”
“Of my talent,” she says, smirking proudly.
You snort. “TripleS, right?”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You remembered.”
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“You think?”
You grin. “Can’t say I’ve ever listened to their songs. What’s your name again?”
She gasps and smacks your shoulder with the rolled-up magazine she’s holding. “You liar! You totally know!”
“I don’t even know what a TripleS is.”
“Kami-sama, give me patience,” she mutters, trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Excuse you,” she says, straightening up. “I’m an idol. Drama is part of the brand.”
You grin. “Right. So is tripping over ramen cups, apparently.”
“Stop bringing that up!” she yells, but she’s laughing now, full and loud, the kind of laugh that makes her eyes curve into crescents. You think it’s the prettiest sound you’ve heard in a long time.
That night, she’s back in her childhood room — the one with faded posters and fairy lights that don’t all work anymore. She’s lying on her stomach, scrolling through your messages.
“You still hate the green popsicle part?”
“Obviously”
“Good. more for me.”
“you’re so predictable it’s boring”
“and you’re still so annoying”
She giggles quietly, hugging her pillow to her chest. It feels like the years apart are shrinking, collapsing into the space between your texts.
She replays what you said, “Who said we ever stopped?”
You’d said it like a joke, like a throwaway line. But it sticks.
Her smile lingers, soft and sleepy. But when the phone screen goes dark, the quiet feels heavier.
The words echo in her mind again.
Who said we ever stopped?
She turns over, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable.
“You didn’t say anything,” she whispers to no one. “That’s the problem.”
You remember that night because it felt too alive to fade.
The sky had that deep, heavy blue that only happens after the rain threatens but doesn’t fall. The streetlights buzzed above you like nervous thoughts, catching in the damp air, and somewhere down the block, someone’s radio played an old love song out of tune.
Kotone had insisted on dragging you out of the house after dinner — said you were getting boring, said she missed your “chaotic energy.” You said that was her way of admitting she was lonely. She told you to shut up, and you did. Because she was Kotone
So you ended up on her porch steps, half a pack of Pocky between you, cicadas screaming like background noise to your laughter.
“You’re seriously bad at this,” she said, balancing a Pocky stick on her nose, face scrunched in focus.
You watched her — her lips pressed together, hair falling over her cheek, the faintest pink at the tips of her ears.
The stick fell.
“Yes!” you said, triumphant. “Finally!”
She groaned, swatting your shoulder. “You were literally rooting for me to fail.”
“Wrong. I was rooting for justice to prevail.”
“Justice?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Says the person who threw my controller last time I beat them at Pokemon.”
“You threw it first!”
“I gently placed it…”
“I will smack you into tomorrow”
“against the wall”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, and for a moment, it felt like time folded back on itself — like you were both children again, like the world hadn’t yet taught you about distance or fear or how dreams can be the cruelest kind of beautiful.
And you thought: This is the night.
The folded letter in your pocket felt heavy — as if it already knew its fate. You’d written it days ago, unable to sleep, every word raw and unsure: how she made everything brighter, how you didn’t know when friendship had stopped being enough. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t even neat. But it was real.
You’d told yourself you’d give it to her tonight. Or at least say something.
But before you could gather the courage, she spoke.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said suddenly.
The world stilled. Even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath.
“I got scouted,” she said.
“Like what? For basketball? You might be a little bit too…” You barely finish before Kotone shoves you to the ground, a pout on her face.
“No you idiot. To be an idol. In a girl group. In Korea. Like Loona.”
Your throat went dry. “Korea?”
She nodded, eyes darting to yours, like she was waiting for your reaction. “Yeah. For a company. It’s… it’s real. They want me to start soon.”
The words hit you like a wave you didn’t see coming.
“That’s—wow,” you said, trying to sound happy. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s kind of insane, right? I didn’t think it would actually happen.” Her voice trembled on a laugh. “But I think I have to go. I want to try.”
You swallowed. “Of course you do.”
She looked at you then — really looked at you. And something in your chest twisted. Because you could see it: excitement and fear flickering together in her eyes, like firelight in a storm.
“I’m scared,” she admitted softly.
You tried to smile. “You? The girl who fought a seagull over fries?”
Her laugh cracked the tension. “That seagull was terrifying. But that fucker had it coming. No one touches your fries”
“Sure. The poor bird probably tells its friends about you.”
She elbowed you. “You’re such an idiot.”
You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”
“Don’t make me miss you before I even leave,” she said, and it was playful, but the words stuck in your chest anyway.
You wanted to say, Then don’t leave.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you said, “You’re going to be incredible.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” you said quietly. “You’ve always been the brave one.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. “That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m running away?”
You didn’t have an answer. You wanted to tell her that maybe chasing something doesn’t mean you’re running — that sometimes it’s just the only way to see how far your wings can carry you.
But the words got tangled somewhere between your heart and your mouth, so all that came out was a shaky laugh.
“Well,” you said, “if you are running, at least you look cool doing it.”
She threw a Pocky stick at you. “Stop ruining my emotional moments.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood!”
“You’re impossible,” she said, but she was smiling again.
That smile — that’s what destroyed you. The way she could look both terrified and radiant at the same time, like she already belonged to somewhere beyond your reach.
“Promise me something?” she said suddenly.
“Anything.”
“You’ll always be there for me. No matter what.”
You hesitated, then forced a grin. “Of course. I’m basically immortal.”
She laughed, but her eyes were too wet to hide it. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
The rain started then — light at first, just a whisper against the roof. The kind of rain that blurs the world without washing anything away.
You didn’t move. Neither did she.
You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending the night wasn’t slipping away beneath your feet.
And when it was finally time to go, she followed you to the gate.
“Don’t forget me, okay?” she said, trying to make it sound casual.
You smiled, even though your throat ached. “Never.”
You turned before she could see your face, the rain masking the sting in your eyes.
Somewhere on the walk home, the letter slipped out of your pocket. You didn’t notice. You wouldn’t find out until much later — by which point it wouldn’t have mattered.
Because by then, Kotone was already gone.
At first, she messaged you every day. Photos of her dorm. Complaints about sore muscles. Voice notes of her laughing about weird Korean snacks. You replied at first, quick and easy — keeping the rhythm alive, pretending you hadn’t noticed the growing distance behind the jokes.
But slowly, the messages became shorter. The hours between them longer. The emojis fewer.
And you started typing replies you never sent.
You doing okay? You eating enough? Don’t burn out too fast.
Delete. Rewrite. Delete again.
You told yourself she was busy. That she was chasing something worth the silence.
Then it got harder to lie to yourself. Her text messages went unreplied. Phone calls went unanswered.
Until one night, your phone buzzed again.
✉️Kotone: You promised you’d always be there for me
You stared at the message until your eyes blurred. Typed a reply.
You: I still am.
Your thumb hovered over “send.”
You almost can’t stop yourself
Then you turned the screen off.
You told yourself she’d understand.
That this was what it meant to love someone enough to let them go.
But the truth was quieter, sharper.
You weren’t letting her go.
You were just running away
And so the night she told you she was leaving became the last night that still felt like both of you — the laughter too loud, the silences too full, the air heavy with everything you didn’t say.
You’re halfway through a lazy summer afternoon nap when someone knocks on your door — loud enough to shake your walls.
You groan. “If this is a delivery, I didn’t order anything—”
But when you open the door, she’s there.
Kotone, with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, cheeks a little flushed from the sun, and two dripping melon popsicles clutched in one hand.
“You’re alive!” she declares.
“You’re loud,” you counter, blinking sleep from your eyes. “Also, you’re melting all over my porch.”
She grins, completely unbothered. “Then let me in before the sugar gods punish us both.”
Before you can respond, she’s already slipped past you, kicking off her shoes and making herself at home. She glances around your small living room like it’s some kind of museum exhibit.
“Wow,” she says, fake awe in her voice. “Still the same couch. Still the same curtains. Still the same tragic lack of interior design.”
You frown. “You’ve been here for, what, two seconds?”
“That’s all it takes for an idol’s expert eye,” she says proudly.
You cross your arms. “You couldn’t even win a game about recognising songs. I thought that was your wheelhouse Miss Kotone”
Her jaw drops. “You watched that?!”
“Internet exists,” you shrug.
She gasps. “You liar! You said you didn’t even know who TripleS was!”
“Still don’t,” you lie easily, leaning against the doorframe. “Sounds like a type of shampoo.”
Kotone looks personally offended. “We are a global idol collective!”
“Oh yeah, totally,” you nod seriously. “The one where Yooyeon, Seoyeon, and Yeonji ambushed you for your map, right? Iconic television.”
Her mouth falls open. “You— you watched Badge Wars?”
“Maybe,” you say. “Purely by accident.”
She narrows her eyes. “You absolutely didn’t stumble on it by accident.”
“I might’ve,” you tease. “Can’t believe you just turtled. I expected more fight from the girl who beat the lights out of me for taking her lunches”
She lets out a dramatic gasp. “Excuse me! That was a very special lunch!”
“If you say so” you say. “I just think you’ve lost your violent spark.”
“TAKE THAT BACK,” she yells, whacking your arm with the popsicle stick.
You yelp, laughing. “Violence! I’m being attacked by a national idol!”
“WHO’S LOST HER VIOLENT SPARK NOW!”
The whole house fills with your laughter — hers bright and unrestrained, yours helplessly caught up in it. The kind of laughter that hurts in the best way.
When you both finally calm down, she leans her head back on the couch, breathless and smiling. “I missed this,” she says softly.
You pause, caught off guard by how quietly she says it.
But then she stands and tosses you one of the popsicles. “Come on. Riverbank. It’s tradition.”
The river looks exactly the same. The cicadas hum, the air smells like damp grass, and the sun dips lazily behind the hill.
You sit side by side, feet dangling over the water. She unwraps her popsicle and immediately wrinkles her nose.
“You still hate the green part,” she says.
“You still forget I like it,” you reply without missing a beat.
She gasps. “You’re lying. You hated it. You always gave me the green part for my orange.”
“Well, that’s because you’d throw a fit and pout if I didn’t give you the green part.”
“HEY! That was one time! And I had just flunked my exam, so I needed comfort food.”
“Well,” you shrug, “even if I used to hate it, taste changes. Maturity.”
“You? Mature?” she scoffs. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve told all day.”
You grin. “I’ve told bigger lies.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Kotone says through a laugh, though it sounds more like a challenge than a question.
The silence is almost deafening.
“Like saying TripleS sounds like a shampoo brand.”
She chokes on her popsicle laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here you are,” you say softly.
The words hang there for a moment — heavier than you meant them to be.
You talk for hours. About stupid things — her trip to the convenience store, your tragic attempt at cooking, the time she almost mistook a microphone stand for a person backstage, and the other time she mistook a person for a microphone backstage. The second one went substantially worse.
But eventually, the laughter fades. The pauses between words grow longer.
Kotone leans back on her hands, eyes on the water. “You know,” she starts quietly, “sometimes I feel like I’m running in circles.”
You glance at her. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Being an idol sounds like a dream when you’re outside looking in,” she says. “But when you’re living it... sometimes it feels like you’re not living at all. Just— performing. Even when you’re supposed to be yourself.”
You stay quiet.
She keeps talking, voice soft, steady. “There’s always something next. Another show, another recording, another smile you have to put on. You have to hold your breath, and look graceful like a swan, diving underwater even when you’re drowning. And at night, when the lights go out, it’s just— quiet. You look around, and there are people everywhere, but somehow you feel…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to.
Lonely.
The word echoes in your head anyway.
And suddenly, you can’t breathe right — because it hits you all at once.
All those years she was out there, trying to be strong, trying to shine, and you weren’t there. You told yourself you were giving her space to chase her dream — but maybe what she needed was someone to tell her she didn’t have to shine all the time.
You look at her, and she’s looking away, blinking fast.
“Kotone,” you say softly.
She shakes her head, smiling too quickly. “Sorry. Wow, that got depressing fast. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” you interrupt gently. “You don’t need to apologize. You’re allowed to be tired.”
Her lip trembles, but she laughs anyway. “You always say the right thing, you know that?”
“Only when it’s about you.”
Her cheeks flush, and she kicks at the water to hide it. “Still smooth, huh?”
“Always.”
“If only-” She catches herself, and you both tense up.
She laughs again — softer this time, almost fragile. Then her hand brushes yours, and both of you freeze.
For one heartbeat, you think neither of you will pull away. But you both do, pretending not to notice, staring hard at the river instead.
You can’t tell if your chest is burning from the sun or from her.
When you walk her home later, she lingers at her gate again, twirling the popsicle stick in her fingers.
“You know,” she says, “it’s weird. Everything here feels like it’s been waiting for me. Even you.”
You grin. “What can I say? I’m dependable.”
“Liar,” she says, laughing softly. Then, after a beat, she adds, “But… thanks for today.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel normal again.”
You smile, trying to ignore the ache in your chest. “Anytime, superstar.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
That night, you text her:
✉️You: get home safe?
✉️ Kotone: yup. stop worrying, grandpa.
✉️ You: not worrying. just making sure the world celebrity didn’t get lost again.
✉️ Kotone: you mean like how you get lost in your own neighborhood?
✉️ You: that was one time.
✉️ Kotone: once a disaster, always a disaster. goodnight.
✉️ You: goodnight, trouble.
You hover over your screen for a long moment before locking it.
And across town, Kotone does the same — staring at your last message, smiling until the smile trembles.
Both of you fall asleep that night with the same thought echoing softly:
how easily laughter can hide the things you’re both still too scared to say.
You hadn’t planned to call. Really.
It had started as one of those stupid, impulsive ideas you normally talk yourself out of halfway through — only this time, you didn’t. Kotone had been back in town for a few days, and everything had felt almost like before. Laughing until your cheeks hurt, teasing her about her “celebrity walk,” pretending that years hadn’t slipped between you like pages torn out of a book.
And then the laughter would fade, and you’d catch her staring out the window for just a second too long. That’s when it hit you — how much you’d missed. How many moments you weren’t there for. How much you’d let her bear alone.
So, of course, your next logical step was to sign up for a fancall. With her group.
Yeah. Brilliant. The writer needs to stop writing shit cliches and wrap it up.
You couldn’t exactly ask Kotone for advice on how to stop being the person who hurt her. So you told yourself that maybe, just maybe, the people who spent the most time with her — her members — might help you figure it out. Without knowing who you really were.
Your finger hovered over the confirmation button.
“Don’t be weird,” you muttered. “Just… do it.”
Then your screen flashed.
Connected — Nien (TripleS).
Nien’s face filled your phone, a grin stretching from ear to ear. Her hair bounced with every movement, one earbud dangling like it had its own orbit. Somewhere behind her, voices echoed — shouting, laughter, a faint “Nien, stop throwing things!” and a loud crash.
“HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO! IS THIS A REAL HUMAN?!” she screeched, leaning so close to the camera her nose almost fogged the lens. “Finally! A calm one! Normal energy! Oh my god, a break!”
You blinked. “Uh— hi?”
She pointed dramatically at the camera. “You have no idea what I’ve been through today. The last call? The girl whispered my name for two minutes and then fainted. Fainted! I thought she’d lagged out, but no, she just fell sideways! I respected it though — commitment! Romantic! Honestly? I kinda fell for her a little.”
You choked on your laugh. “That… sounds intense.”
“She’s living in my mind rent-free now,” Nien said solemnly, before instantly switching tones. “Anyway! You’re breathing normally, so you’re already my new favorite. Normal! Calm! Safe! Boring but safe!”
“Thanks?”
“Don’t ruin it!” she warned cheerfully, spinning in her chair hard enough to blur. “So! Why are you here, mysterious normal person? You’ve got the ‘I have emotional damage’ face. Spill!”
You hesitated. Then, maybe because she was so wildly disarming, you did.
“I need advice. About a friend. Someone I promised I’d always be there for… and I wasn’t. I thought staying away would protect her, but I think it just made her feel alone. Now I don’t know how to fix it. Or if I even can.”
Nien gasped so dramatically you were sure it echoed through the dorm. “OH MY GOD. THIS IS A K-DRAMA. I LOVE IT.”
You blinked. “That’s… not—”
“No no no, listen, I’m invested. Okay, step one!” She raised a finger like she was teaching a masterclass. “Admit you messed up. Not with a novel. Not with a sad PowerPoint. Just say: ‘I was wrong. I’m sorry.’ Keep it short and punchy, like a good chorus drop. Boom!”
You bit back a smile. “Okay…”
“Step two,” she said, spinning again, this time juggling her phone and a stuffed penguin. “Context, not excuses. ‘I thought I was protecting you’ — valid. ‘I’m a noble tragic hero’ — not valid. Nobody likes that. You ghost someone for ‘their own good’? No! That’s Marvel-movie behavior.”
You snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Step three! Actions, not speeches!” she continued, shaking the penguin for emphasis. “Little things! Quiet gestures! Put a snack she likes in her bag, send a postcard, share a stupid meme. Do not flood her inbox like you’re spamming a game boss. Consistency over chaos. Small moves, big meaning.”
Her energy was relentless — a hurricane in a hoodie — but somewhere under the comedy, her words stuck.
“Step four!” she yelled. “Timing! You don’t just barge in with a speech like in movies! You ask. ‘Can I tell you something I should have said before?’ She says yes? Go! She says no? You wait. Respect her rhythm. Timing makes or breaks everything.”
You nodded slowly. “You’re… actually really good at this.”
“I contain multitudes,” she declared, striking a dramatic pose before laughing. “But seriously—wait, I have something real to say.”
And just like that, she shifted. The grin softened. Her voice steadied.
“Listen,” she said quietly, eyes still bright but suddenly focused. “The past means more to people than it shows sometimes. There was this once, I did something… stupid. I stole a letter from a member. Thought it’d be funny. Just a prank. You know — Nien chaos. But when they realized it was missing… they freaked out. Not like, cute angry. Real angry. Crying. Shaking. It was—” she exhaled, “—it was bad.”
You stayed silent, sensing how rare this side of her was.
“I didn’t get it back then,” she continued. “I thought, ‘It’s just a piece of paper.’ But to them, it was everything. Memories. Love. Something that kept them grounded. When I saw how broken they looked — like I’d taken away something sacred — I felt so small. I tried to joke, to fix it, but some things… you can’t fix with jokes.”
She looked down briefly, then back at you. “That’s when I learned: everyone has anchors. Things that keep them steady when the world spins too fast. You mess with those — you’re not just being dumb, you’re breaking something. Don’t take someone’s anchor. Protect it.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the chaos before.
Then she clapped her hands suddenly, the sound exploding through your earbuds. “OKAY! EMO TIME OVER!” she shouted, half-laughing. “So, moral of the story: Don’t ghost, don’t steal, don’t play the tragic hero. Do small, honest things. Listen when they talk. And if she tells you she was lonely—” her voice softened again, “—don’t try to fix it right away. Just… say you’re sorry she felt that way. That you wish you’d been there. That’s all. That’s enough.”
“I’m beginning to sound like Seoyeon…eww” Nien mutters to herself
Her eyes lingered on the camera for a moment, kind and unguarded. Then she grinned again, wide and unhinged. “Now! I’m gonna go pester Jiwoo because she hid my ramen cup. Wish me luck, normal human!”
“Good luck,” you said, still dazed from her whirlwind of sincerity and noise.
She saluted. “May chaos guide you!” she yelled, spinning so fast you caught a blur of colors before the call disconnected.
And then the screen went black.
You sat there for a long moment, the silence almost too loud after all that noise. Somewhere outside, cicadas hummed, as if they’d been waiting for you to listen again.
You weren’t exactly sure what counted as a “small gesture.”
After Nien’s whirlwind advice session, you’d spent the next morning staring blankly into your fridge, trying to decode her words like they were a secret questline.
“Tiny gestures,” she’d said. “Consistency. No tragic speeches.”
So, naturally, your brilliant idea was: invite Kotone over.
Low risk, high reward, right? Just hang out. Casual. Friendly. Not emotionally catastrophic. Probably.
When you texted her — hey, come over? I’ll cook something? — she replied almost immediately.
✉️Kotone: wow, u? cooking?
✉️ Kotone: is this a threat or an invitation
✉️ You: it’s called growth
✉️ Kotone: it’s called attempted murder
She showed up anyway.
The doorbell rang, and before you could even finish drying your hands, she was already half through the doorway, holding a bag of chips and looking far too at home for someone who hadn’t been there in years.
“Smells suspiciously edible,” she said, leaning over your shoulder to peek at the pan. “Who are you and what have you done with the disaster I used to know?”
“Disaster’s still here,” you muttered. “Just… slightly reformed.”
Kotone grinned — that same sharp, sunshine-filled grin that made your heart stutter. “Wow. Reformed. Big word. Did you learn that from your therapist or from watching cooking shows?”
“Neither,” you shot back. “From surviving your ego.”
“Fair,” she laughed, tossing her hair dramatically before hopping onto the counter like it was still her house. “So what’s the occasion? You suddenly feeling generous? Or guilty?”
You handed her a spoonful of soup. “Neither. I just figured we could hang out.”
She tasted it, hummed, and gave a small nod. “Not bad. Still too salty, though. Fitting.”
You rolled your eyes, pretending her presence didn’t fill every quiet corner of your house like it always used to. She looked the same — older, maybe, but still her. The mischievous tilt in her eyes, the way her foot swung idly against the cabinet door, the slight smile when she thought you weren’t looking.
Dinner went as well as expected. You bickered about everything — from how much garlic you added, to whether her band’s choreography looked painful (“We’re professionals, not contortionists,” she’d said indignantly), to who could hold more ice cream in one bite.
And then, somewhere between dessert and laughter, she noticed.
You’d poured her water before she asked. Pulled out a blanket when she shivered. Reached to fix the strap of her hoodie when it slipped. You didn’t even think about it — it just happened.
Kotone squinted at you. “Okay, wait. What’s going on here?”
“What?” you asked, mid-sip.
“You’re being…” she tilted her head, smirking. “Nice. Like—unusually nice. Suspiciously nice. You going soft on me?”
You choked. “I’m just being decent.”
“Oh no no,” she teased, pointing her spoon dramatically. “This isn’t decent. This is you, serving me soup and tucking me in with a blanket like some kind of romcom lead who finally learned empathy. What happened? Did guilt finally evolve you into a functioning adult?”
You gave her your best deadpan stare. “Keep talking and I’ll revoke your soup privileges.”
“Too late,” she said around a mouthful of soup. “Soup’s mine now.”
You sighed, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. It was chaotic, familiar, her. And somehow, it made your chest ache in the gentlest way.
After dinner, the two of you ended up in the living room, legs tangled on opposite sides of the couch, a movie playing in the background — one neither of you were watching.
Kotone was scrolling through her phone, when she suddenly said, “You know… this feels weird.”
You glanced at her. “Weird how?”
“Like…” she scrunched her nose, searching for words. “Like time froze. Like we just… paused for a few years and now we’re unpausing.”
You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“You just…threw away the remote.”
Kotone doesn’t let that statement hang in the air long enough to sting.
She looked at you for a second too long, eyes soft and unreadable. “You still remember all the small things. The soup, the blanket, the way I like the fan on setting two instead of three.”
“I told you,” you said, trying to smile, “I have an excellent memory.”
“Liar,” she teased, but her voice trembled just slightly at the edges. “You forgot me for years.”
The air stilled. You opened your mouth to reply — to explain, to apologize — but then she smiled again, a little too brightly. “Kidding! Relax! You look like you’re about to cry or propose or something.”
You forced a laugh, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, you wish.”
She threw a pillow at you. “Oh, please. You couldn’t handle me.”
“Handle you? You’re like caffeine mixed with chaos. I barely survived the soup.”
She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch, the sound bright and unguarded — like nothing had ever hurt her. You laughed too, because that’s what you both did best. Pretend it was all okay.
And for that night, maybe it was.
Because even if your chest still ached with all the things you hadn’t said, even if she still smiled like she was holding something back — for now, you were here. Together. Talking too much, laughing too loud, sharing old warmth as if it had never gone cold.
And maybe, you thought, watching her curled up with a popsicle in hand and that familiar glint in her eyes, that was what healing looked like — not grand gestures, not dramatic confessions, but quiet, ridiculous moments of almost-normal.
“Hey,” Kotone said suddenly, voice softening. “You’re still bad at hiding it, you know?”
“Hiding what?”
She smiled, lazy and knowing. “When you care.”
You froze — then threw a cushion at her, half-panicked, half-flustered.
“See?” she laughed. “Knew it. Softie.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it,” she grinned, biting her popsicle. “You missed me.”
You looked away. “Only sometimes.”
She kicked your leg lightly. “Liar.”
You smiled. “Always.”
Her grin faltered, just for a moment — but then she laughed again, because that’s what both of you did best.
And when she left that night, humming under her breath, the house still smelled faintly of soup and summer.
If you had to describe the kitchen right now, “crime scene” wouldn’t be far off.
There was flour on the ceiling.
How it got there, you would never know.
“Okay—okay wait,” you said, half laughing, half choking as Kotone somehow managed to flick more flour onto your shirt. “How are you this bad at baking?”
“I’m amazing at baking,” she said, indignant, holding a whisk like a weapon. “You’re just in my way.”
“In your way? You threw butter at me, Kotone.”
“I didn’t throw it,” she argued, though she was absolutely lying through her teeth. “It just… slipped aggressively.”
The countertop was a battlefield. A measuring cup had gone missing in action. Sugar coated the floor in a fine layer of crystalline snow. Kotone stood triumphant in the middle of it all, hair tied in a messy bun that was already coming undone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a smear of chocolate across her cheek.
You were supposed to be making cookies.
You were instead making chaos.
“Stop laughing and help me, oh my god—” Kotone said, attempting to whisk the batter again, only for it to splatter up onto her wrist.
You leaned against the counter, grin spreading wider. “Are you sure you’re not secretly auditioning for a food fight drama?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re talking a lot for someone who mixed salt instead of sugar.”
“That was an experiment!”
“That was a crime!”
You reached for the spatula to defend your honor, only for her to snatch it from your hand and hold it aloft. “Not so fast, traitor!”
“Oh, you’re dead,” you said, lunging forward.
The next thirty seconds could only be described as culinary warfare. Kotone ducked, laughed, tried to dodge your grab for the spatula, and ended up bumping into the counter, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. You caught her wrist at the same time she tried to smear chocolate on your face, and the both of you froze — faces inches apart, eyes wide, breathing too fast.
Then she burst out laughing.
And the moment shattered like sugar glass.
“Okay, okay, truce!” she said between giggles. “Before we destroy your kitchen completely!”
You let go, still smiling despite yourself. “You started it.”
“And you escalated it,” she countered, poking your chest. “Classic you.”
By the time the cookies were finally in the oven, you were both covered in a respectable layer of chaos — flour, sugar, laughter, and unspoken things.
Kotone flopped onto the couch beside you, arms stretched out dramatically. “I think we burned half of them.”
“Half is a win,” you said.
“Half is a tragedy,” she corrected, but her grin gave her away.
She leaned her head back, eyes closed, still smiling. “You know, you’ve been nice lately. Suspiciously nice.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Suspiciously?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head to look at you, smirk soft but playful. “You used to throw flour first. Now you help me bake. What’s up with that?”
“Maybe I just matured,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Kotone snorted. “Yeah, and maybe I’m secretly an astronaut.”
“Would explain the spacey moments.”
“Excuse me?” she said, laughing as she smacked you with a kitchen towel.
You caught it before she could pull it back. “That’s violence, you know.”
“That’s justice.”
You tugged the towel gently, smiling. “You’ve gotten way too bold.”
She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “And you’ve gotten way too soft.”
The words hit a little closer than you expected. You forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just trying to keep you from burning my kitchen down.”
Kotone giggled, then reached over to steal a sip from your drink. “Sure. You’re totally not just being sweet to me for no reason.”
Kotone laughed so hard she almost dropped the cup. “God, I missed annoying you,” she said, half under her breath.
The sentence was soft enough that you almost didn’t catch it — and she pretended she hadn’t said it. But something in her eyes flickered, a quick, quiet shimmer of something else.
The timer dinged, breaking the air between you.
Kotone jumped up, all cheerful again. “Moment of truth!”
You followed her into the kitchen, both of you crowding around the oven like it held state secrets. The cookies were uneven, some slightly burnt, others weirdly perfect — a reflection of the two of you, maybe. A mess that somehow worked.
“See?” she said, holding one up proudly. “We’re a good team.”
You smiled. “Miraculously.”
Kotone grinned. “You mean thanks to me.”
“Sure,” you said, deadpan, “you and your violent cooking philosophy.”
“I bring the chaos,” she said brightly, “you bring the sarcasm. Balance.”
You handed her a cookie. “Here. Peace offering.”
She accepted it with a dramatic bow, then bit into it — and hummed, eyes lighting up. “Not bad! You actually did something right for once.”
“High praise,” you muttered, but couldn’t help smiling.
For a while, the two of you just ate in companionable silence — that easy rhythm you used to have slipping back like it never left. She talked a bit about the dorms, about how loud Yeonji was, about how Yooyeon kept stealing snacks at midnight. You listened, smiling at every story, every little glimpse into her world.
Then you said, “Hey, can you grab my gloves from the table?”
“Roger that,” she said, marching off.
You turned back to the cookies, humming quietly to yourself — and then heard a thump.
“Uh,” Kotone said from across the room, “your drawer just… declared independence?”
You spun around — and froze.
She was crouched beside your desk, one hand holding a file that had fallen open. Albums, posters, a binder — a whole archive, really — lay spread across the floor.
The binder was the worst part. It was thick, carefully labeled. Pages of her photo cards, some signed, some rare, all pristine.
Kotone blinked at it, then slowly looked up at you, eyes wide with amusement. “…You collect me?”
You immediately felt your soul leave your body. “That’s not— I— It’s not like—”
“Oh my god,” she said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “This is—this is serious fan behavior. You have the limited edition one!”
You groaned, covering your face. “I can explain.”
“You better,” she teased, flipping through the pages. “Because this? This is intense. You even kept the little pre-order cards!”
You tried to snatch it back. “Stop!”
Kotone giggled, dodging you easily. “I didn’t know you were a stan! Should I start signing your walls? Maybe sell you my used water bottle?”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
She laughed, loud and delighted. “You’re blushing! Oh my god, you’re actually blushing!”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it, you missed me.”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
Kotone’s laughter faded just a little — not gone, just softer, gentler. She glanced down at one of the signed albums, tracing her finger over her name before setting it aside. “You really did keep up with everything, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly, suddenly unsure where to look. “Guess I did.”
There was a pause — small, fragile. Kotone smiled, but there was something behind it, something faint and hidden, like the echo of a thought she didn’t want to finish.
“Then I guess,” she said lightly, “I did something right.”
She stood, brushing off her hands, grin returning. “Anyway. Cookies are gonna burn. You can tell me later about how deep your fandom goes.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the tightness in your chest. “I’m regretting this baking session already.”
Kotone bumped your shoulder on her way past. “Liar.”
And as she reached for another cookie, humming softly under her breath, you realized how right she was.
You didn’t regret it at all.
Not even a little.
It starts with a photo.
Just one blurry photo — you and Kotone walking side by side, her laughter frozen mid-motion, her head tilted toward you beneath the warm blur of streetlights. Your arm brushes hers. The air glows soft and gold, tender in a way that feels like home.
But the internet doesn’t care about warmth. It doesn’t care about tenderness or how ordinary that night was.
It only cares about who she was with.
Within hours, it’s everywhere.
“tripleS Kotone spotted on a date with a non-celebrity.”
“Company refuses to comment.”
“So disappointing. I thought she cared about her fans.”
You scroll until the words blur together. The comments multiply like rot — parasitic, relentless. By noon, her name trends worldwide. Every timeline, every screen, every headline.
Kotone’s phone vibrates nonstop.
Her manager’s name flashes again and again — until she can’t look anymore. She sets it down, face-down on the bed, and the buzzing continues. She presses a pillow over her ears, but the sound keeps finding her.
Another call.
Another message.
Another wave of hate.
When she finally hurls the phone across the room, it bounces, hits the floor, and lights up again — like it refuses to let her rest.
You stand there helpless, watching as she curls up at the far edge of the bed, knees drawn tight, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. Her breaths come in shallow bursts. She’s trying not to cry, but her body shakes with the effort.
The comments keep coming.
“She’s just like the others.”
“Fake.”
“I can’t believe I ever supported her.”
“She ruined everything.”
Every word cuts deeper than the last — and you can do nothing to stop it.
By evening, Kotone locks herself in her room.
You knock once.
Nothing.
You try again, softer. “Kotone. Please.”
Still silence.
You slide down the wall, sitting on the floor, your back pressed to the door. The light under the crack glows faintly, flickering with movement. You rest your hand against it like maybe she’ll feel you there.
“I just want to know you’re okay,” you murmur.
No answer. Only the rain outside, slow and steady.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world fades until it’s just the two of you — one behind the door, one waiting on the other side.
And then, a sound.
A small, broken sob.
It’s faint, but it feels like the air leaves your lungs.
You knock once more, barely a whisper. “Kotone?”
Nothing — and then the softest sniffle, so quiet you almost imagine it.
“I’m not leaving,” you whisper. “Not until you’re okay.”
And you stay there — long enough for the rain to turn to a downpour, long enough for your back to ache and your throat to burn with words you’ll never say.
Finally — the lock clicks.
The door opens a few inches.
She stands there, eyes red, hair tangled, wearing your old hoodie that hangs too big on her frame. Her hands are buried in the sleeves, trembling. Her lips are cracked from crying.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice raw, like it hurts to speak.
You blink. “Because I was worried.”
She laughs — short, sharp, hollow. “Now you’re worried?”
You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Kotone—”
“No!” Her voice cracks, trembling with the kind of pain that’s been waiting years to escape. “You don’t get to pretend you care now. Not after everything.”
Your chest tightens. “I always cared—”
“Then where were you?” she shouts. “When I was in Korea — when I cried alone in the dorm bathroom, trying to cry softly to hide it from the others. When my manager yelled at me for every mistake. When I begged myself not to break down on camera.”
Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop. “Do you know what it’s like to stand on stage in front of thousands of people and still feel like no one’s looking at you? When the one person who promised they’d never leave — already has?”
Your breath catches. “Kotone—”
“I kept waiting for you!” she shouts again, tears streaming freely now. “Every night. I’d stare at my phone, watching that stupid green dot next to your name. I thought maybe you’d text first. Maybe tonight you’d remember me. But you never did.”
You swallow hard, words dying in your throat.
“Do you know how many times I almost called?” she whispers. “How many messages I typed out and deleted? How many times I told myself you were just busy, that you’d come back when you could?”
Her voice falters. “You promised you’d always be there.”
She looks up, eyes burning. “But you weren’t.”
You close your eyes. “I never stopped caring.”
Her laugh is sharp, pained. “Then why didn’t you show it?”
She steps forward, trembling. “You had binders. Binders, for God’s sake — of us, of me. Every photo, every album, every fan sign. You followed everything.”
You freeze.
Her tears spill faster. “You knew where I was. You watched every step I took. So if you cared so much—” her voice breaks, cracking open the silence between you — “then why didn’t you call?”
You can’t look at her.
“Do you know what that felt like?” she whispers. “To know you were still out there, still watching — but remembering that you didn’t call me? Not even once?”
Her hand hits your chest. Once. Twice. Weak, but it trembles with grief. “You were right there,” she sobs. “And you still let me believe you didn’t care.”
You can’t move.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispers. “I thought I wasn’t worth missing.”
You open your mouth, but she cuts you off — her breath shaking, her eyes wild.
“Why didn’t you tell me you missed me?” she says. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
Her voice cracks, and she lifts something in her hands. A small, worn envelope.
Your stomach drops.
The letter.
Your letter — the one you wrote before she left for Seoul. The one you lost that night she told you she was leaving.
“Kotone…”
Her hands shake as she holds it up. “Do you know how many times I read this?” she asks softly. “Before every show. Every rehearsal. Every time I wanted to give up. You said you believed in me. You told me to chase my dream.”
Tears spill down her cheeks, her lips trembling. “You told me you’d wait.”
She looks up at you, her voice cracking open. “So why?”
You can barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” she whispers.
And just like that — the room breaks.
You can’t move. You can’t speak. The storm outside swells, thunder rumbling like the world itself is grieving with her.
Finally, you manage, “Because if I did… I was afraid you’d stay.”
Her eyes widen, confusion flickering into hurt.
You take a shaky breath. “If I told you how I felt, I was afraid you’d give up everything. I didn’t want to be the reason you quit. The reason you regretted your dream. I couldn’t live with that.”
Kotone stares at you, disbelieving. Her lip quivers. “You idiot,” she breathes. “You absolute idiot.”
“I know.”
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “You think I wouldn’t have chosen you?”
Your throat tightens.
“I already did,” she says. Her voice is so soft you almost miss it. “Before I left. That night you wrote this — I already knew.”
Tears fall freely now. “I spent years loving you in silence. Every time I smiled on stage, I thought — maybe you’d see me. Maybe you’d look at me and call me. Maybe you’d remember. But you didn’t need to. You already had me, didn’t you? Trapped in your binders, frozen in pictures, easier that way, wasn’t it?”
You feel your knees go weak.
“I was out there trying to become someone you’d be proud of,” she says, “and all I ever wanted was for you to pick up the phone.”
The rain crashes against the glass, drowning the world outside.
Neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly — brokenly — she says, “You should’ve let me decide what I wanted.”
You look at her. She’s trembling, eyes glassy and distant.
“I would’ve stayed,” she whispers. “Even if it ruined me. Even if I had to start over, or I had to find another way to chase my dreams. I would’ve stayed for you.”
Her voice cracks completely. She sinks to her knees, curling in on herself, her face hidden behind trembling hands.
And you — you sink down beside her, useless and heavy, a thousand apologies caught in your throat.
Thunder rolls in the distance.
Inside, the two of you sit in silence — close enough to touch, but worlds apart.
And for the first time, you realize that loving her quietly might have been the cruelest thing you ever did.
The river was quiet that night—too quiet for a world that kept moving. The current whispered against the stones, soft and steady, like it had all the time in the world to listen. You didn’t. You sat there with your arms wrapped loosely around your knees, staring at your reflection as it wavered and broke with each passing ripple.
You weren’t sure what you were waiting for. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe just a familiar voice to fill the silence.
When it came, it was softer than you remembered.
“Hey.”
You turned. Kotone stood a few steps behind you, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, the wind tugging at her bangs. In her hands were two melon popsicles, the kind the two of you used to buy every summer from the tiny shop near the bus stop.
Without saying anything, she walked over and sat beside you. Close enough that her sleeve brushed yours. She offered one out.
You took it.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You both just sat there, legs dangling near the water, watching the popsicles slowly melt in your hands.
Finally, Kotone broke the silence. “I couldn’t sleep.”
You nodded. “Me neither.”
“Too many thoughts,” she said quietly. “Too many voices.”
Her tone wasn’t bitter—just tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of rest but from being stretched thin for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you said. The words were too small, too late. But they were real.
Kotone didn’t answer right away. She just nudged a pebble into the water with her shoe and watched the ripples bloom outward.
“You know,” she said eventually, “I came here before I left for Korea. Every night the week before. Just… to feel calm.”
You looked at her. “Yeah. I remember.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “I thought if I sat here long enough, I’d stop being scared. That I’d find some kind of sign that I was doing the right thing.” She laughed under her breath. “Didn’t work, though. I was still terrified.”
You swallowed. “I was terrified too, and not just of making you not chase your dreams.”
“Then what?”
“That you’d forget me,” you said honestly. “That you’d move on. That one day I’d see you smiling onstage, and you wouldn’t remember the person who used to walk you home.”
Kotone blinked, surprised. “You thought I’d forget you?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
She shook her head, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
She smiled a little, but it faded just as quickly. “I never forgot you. Not even once. Every city I went to, every stage, every new dorm… there was always something that reminded me of you.”
Her voice softened, trembling just slightly. “There’d be nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d reread your letter. I must’ve read it a hundred times. Sometimes I’d cry, sometimes I’d laugh, but I always… I always felt like you were still with me, even when you weren’t.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to disappear, Kotone. I just—”
“I know,” she said, cutting you off gently. “I wouldn’t have done it, but I know why you did.”
You looked at her, confused.
“You thought you were protecting me,” she continued. “You thought if you stayed away, it’d make it easier for me to focus. To chase my dream without looking back.”
You exhaled slowly. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
She nodded. “I know. That’s why it hurt so much.”
Her words caught you off guard.
“I never hated you,” she said. “Not once. I was angry, yeah. Sad. I thought maybe I’d said something wrong. But I never hated you. I wanted to. It would have hurt less that way, but I just… missed you so much it hurt.”
You looked down, fingers tightening around the wooden stick of the popsicle. “I missed you too. Every day. Every time I saw you smiling on screen, I’d tell myself you looked happy, that you didn’t need me anymore. But then I’d see it—the same look in your eyes I used to see when you were scared.”
Kotone was quiet for a moment, her gaze on the water. Then, softly, she said, “I wasn’t happy. Not really. I loved what I was doing, but… it always felt like something was missing.”
You turned to her. “What was missing?”
Her eyes met yours. “You.”
You froze. The simplicity of it hit harder than any argument, any outburst could have.
“You were always there in the back of my mind,” she continued, voice trembling. “When the lights went off after a concert, when I was too tired to take off my makeup, when I felt small in a room full of people. I’d think, ‘If I could just call you, it’d be okay.’ But I couldn’t.”
The silence that followed was fragile. You could hear the sound of the water, the faint echo of traffic from the bridge nearby, the small cracks in both of your hearts trying to mend themselves in real time.
“I thought you stopped caring,” she whispered.
“I never did,” you said. “I just thought… I didn’t deserve to. To risk ruining your dreams for my own selfishness”
She turned toward you then, eyes wet but steady. “That was my choice, not yours.”
Neither of you spoke after that for a while. The night was heavy but softer somehow, like it had finally loosened its grip.
After a long pause, Kotone leaned her head against your shoulder. It was tentative at first, like testing whether she still had permission. When you didn’t move, she relaxed, her hair brushing against your arm.
You let out a shaky breath. “You still like the green part?”
She smiled faintly, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Yeah. Always have.”
You smiled too, just barely. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Some do,” she murmured.
You turned to her, but she didn’t lift her head. “Like what?”
“This,” she said simply. “Being here again. Talking. Not pretending anymore.”
You felt her hand brush yours then—accidental, maybe, but it lingered just a moment too long to be nothing.
The cicadas hummed louder, the river shimmered under the moonlight, and in that quiet, you realized something. Maybe this wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe it was something better—understanding.
A beginning, not an ending.
Kotone sighed softly. “I don’t know what’s next,” she said. “But… if you’re here, I think I’ll be okay.”
You turned to look at her then, really look—her tired eyes, her faint smile, the girl you loved who somehow still looked at you like you were worth the wait.
You reached out, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly.
She laughed softly. “Good. Took you long enough.”
And then she leaned in just a little closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You know, I think I started loving you before I even realized it.”
You smiled. “Funny. I think I did too.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air between you felt warmer somehow, softer, like all the sharp edges had dulled a little.
Kotone nudged you with her shoulder. “You owe me a lot of ice cream,” she muttered.
You blinked. “What?”
“For emotional damages,” she said, taking another bite of her popsicle. “And for every time you didn’t text back.”
You laughed again, and this time, it reached your eyes. “That’s gonna be expensive.”
“I’m worth it,” she said, grinning faintly, and for a second—just a second—you saw the old Kotone again, the one who smiled with her whole face.
You both sat there until the sky went fully dark, the streetlights reflecting on the water like stars that had fallen too close.
At some point, she leaned her head against your shoulder. You froze at first—then relaxed, letting your head tilt slightly toward hers.
The cold from the popsicles had long since faded, replaced by the warmth of her against you.
“Don’t disappear again,” she murmured.
You nodded. “Only if you don’t run.”
She smiled faintly. “Deal.”
The river moved quietly beside you, carrying away the last of the hurt, the last of the silence.
And under the moonlight, with sticky fingers and hearts still piecing themselves back together, you and Kotone stayed there—two broken halves, finally remembering how to fit.
The sun hung low, spilling gold over the river and turning everything soft and drowsy. The air smelled faintly of summer rain, and Kotone sat on your porch steps with her knees pulled to her chest, a half-melted popsicle dripping onto her wrist. You’d both spent the day doing absolutely nothing — wandering through town, bickering in shops, pretending the clock wasn’t ticking down to her flight.
Now, it was just you two, sitting in the hush between cicada calls, pretending you weren’t counting how many hours you had left.
“Your porch still creaks in the same places,” Kotone said, rocking slightly, her voice light. “You should fix it.”
You smiled. “If I did, you wouldn’t know where to step.”
She laughed — that bright, melodic laugh that still made your chest ache. “Right. Can’t ruin the nostalgia.”
You leaned back against the railing, eyes on the fading sky. It was so easy again. Too easy. The space between you felt charged, like the seconds before a storm — not the kind that destroys, but the kind that drenches you and makes you remember what warmth feels like after.
When she turned to look at you, the light caught in her hair, and you thought — just for a second — that she didn’t look like the idol everyone else saw. She looked like your Kotone. The girl who used to race you down the hill behind your school. The girl who used to steal your snacks and then act offended when you noticed. The girl who never really left, even when she did.
“You’re staring,” she said, tilting her head with a teasing grin.
“I’m not,” you lied.
Kotone raised a brow. “Oh? Then what are you looking at?”
“Someone who doesn’t know how to eat a popsicle without it melting all over her.”
She gasped, smacking your arm lightly. “You’re such a brat.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
You grinned, swiping a drip of syrup off her hand before she could. “You’re hopeless.”
The touch lingered longer than it should’ve. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Her eyes flickered down to your hand, then up again — and suddenly the air felt too thick, too heavy. You both laughed it off, too quick, too practiced.
She shifted closer, the distance shrinking, until her shoulder brushed yours. “You really didn’t change much,” she murmured, softer this time. “Still the same you.”
You turned to her. “You think that’s a good thing?”
Kotone smiled faintly. “Yeah. It is.”
Silence followed — comfortable, but fragile. You could hear the river murmuring in the distance, the sound of home, of summers that used to feel endless.
“I used to think,” she said after a while, “that maybe we’d never get back here. Not like this.”
You looked down at your hands. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I’m glad we did.” Her voice trembled just a little. “Even if it’s just for now.”
You swallowed hard. The words you’d been holding for years pressed against your tongue, desperate and heavy. But you didn’t say them — not yet. Maybe because you were scared. Maybe because she was leaving.
“Do you ever think about—” you began, but she interrupted with a small, knowing smile.
“All the time,” she said.
That stopped you.
“Whatever you were about to ask,” she added, “yes. I think about it all the time.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I do.”
You turned to face her fully now. The world seemed to narrow to just her — her lips curved in a small smile, her eyes glinting with something that looked too much like everything you’d ever wanted.
“Kotone,” you said quietly.
She leaned in just a little, enough for your breath to catch. “Hmm?”
You hesitated. The words hovered there — I love you, don’t go, stay — but you couldn’t ruin it. Not yet. The world already took enough from her.
“Thank you,” you said instead. “For coming back. For everything.”
Her smile faltered, softened. She looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like she was trying to read all the words you weren’t saying. Then she whispered, “Always.”
The word hung between you, as soft as the evening breeze, as fragile as the fading light.
You both sat there until the stars came out — your shoulders pressed together, laughter spilling quietly between the silences, the unspoken confession resting somewhere in the warmth of her hand against yours.
Neither of you said it out loud. But it didn’t matter.
Because in that small, fleeting summer night, you both knew.
You always had.
Kotone left on a Tuesday.
The morning after felt like a hangover — not from alcohol, but from all the feelings you didn’t say. Her mug still sat in your sink, half-rinsed. A hair tie you didn’t remember her taking off clung to your wrist. Everything looked normal, and yet, everything didn’t.
You told yourself you wouldn’t expect her to text first. She had schedules, practices, interviews — a life that didn’t have room for waiting.
So you didn’t expect it.
But she texted anyway.
✉️ Kotone [9:47 PM]: landed safe :)
✉️ Kotone [9:48 PM]: i miss the creaky porch already
✉️ You [9:50 PM]: wow that was fast
✉️ You [9:50 PM]: didn’t even get a dramatic “goodbye forever” at the airport
✉️ Kotone [9:51 PM]: sorry, i didn’t want to cry in front of the paparazzi lol
✉️ You [9:51 PM]: fair
✉️ Kotone [9:52 PM]: …but i did cry a little in the cab
✉️ You [9:52 PM]: loser
✉️ Kotone [9:53 PM]: says the one who kept my mug hostage
You smiled at your phone like an idiot.
That became your new rhythm — little texts between long hours. You learned that Kotone was the type to message at the oddest times. 2:16 AM, after a rehearsal. 11:03 AM, when she was half-asleep on the studio floor. Her texts were little windows into her world — messy, honest, sometimes half-coherent.
✉️ Kotone [2:16 AM]: rehearsal done. my feet hate me. send comfort.
✉️ You [2:17 AM]: comfort is on the way. ETA: 0.2 seconds. imagine me patting your head.
✉️ Kotone [2:18 AM]: not the same. need actual headpats.
✉️ You [2:19 AM]: okay now you sound like a cat
✉️ Kotone [2:20 AM]: maybe i am
And sometimes, it was voice calls.
Soft, late-night calls that felt like secrets.
You’d hear her breathing before she spoke, the faint rustle of sheets as she lay in her dorm bed. The city outside her window hummed faintly, and her voice — tired but alive — filled your ears.
“How’s Seoul?” you’d ask.
“Busy,” she’d say. “Loud. The coffee here’s good though.”
“You always talk about coffee.”
“Because it’s the only thing keeping me functioning.”
“Besides me,” you teased.
There’d be a pause, then a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Besides you.”
Some nights she’d tell you about rehearsals — how her groupmates teased her about being distracted lately. How she smiled more on set. How the fans noticed it, too.
And you’d wonder if she told them why.
Other nights, you didn’t talk much. You’d just exist together. You, listening to the hum of her world; her, listening to the silence of yours.
“Are you still there?” she’d whisper sometimes.
“Yeah,” you’d murmur. “Still here.”
And she’d sigh — a small, content sound, like she was trying to memorize what it felt like to be found again.
Weeks turned into months. You got used to the time difference, the way she’d send photos of cloudy Seoul mornings or half-finished drinks with captions like “thinking of you, kinda.”
You’d reply with something stupid — a selfie of you holding her forgotten mug, or a shot of the riverbank at sunset. And every time, she’d say the same thing:
✉️ Kotone [7:12 PM]: stop sending me pictures that make me miss home :(
✉️ You [7:13 PM]: maybe that’s the point
✉️ Kotone [7:14 PM]: then you’re mean
✉️ You [7:14 PM]: you love it
✉️ Kotone [7:15 PM]: …yeah. i kinda do.
One night, during a call, she said softly, “You know, it feels different this time.”
You turned in your bed. “What does?”
“This. Us.”
Her voice was tired but warm — the kind of tired that comes after laughter. “Last time I left, it felt like goodbye. This time… it doesn’t.”
You swallowed, heart stuttering. “Maybe because it isn’t.”
There was a silence then. Not awkward, just heavy — the kind that holds everything words can’t carry.
“You’re gonna make me cry again,” she murmured.
“Then don’t,” you said gently. “Just… stay on the call.”
She did. For hours. Neither of you hung up. Sometimes you’d hear her breathing, slow and even, and you’d realize she’d fallen asleep. You didn’t end the call. You just listened.
Days passed like that — one message, one call at a time.
The distance stayed the same. But somehow, it didn’t feel so far anymore.
And every time the phone rang, your heart would skip, because you knew it was her.
Every time she laughed through the speaker, your room felt less empty.
It started as a ridiculous idea.
You’d been talking to Kotone daily — texts, calls, memes, late-night voice notes — the whole rhythm of being close, but still far. And yet, the thought kept creeping into your mind: what if you didn’t have to be far? What if you could see her, surprise her, and finally show her, without words that might fumble the moment, how much she meant to you?
The problem? You were in your hometown. Seoul was… a universe away. But then, you remembered Nien.
You’d never forgotten that chaotic, brilliant, unhinged personality on the other end of that one fancall. The way she had given you advice about Kotone, the way she had lectured you on trust, on small gestures, on paying attention to the heart behind the binder and the letters. Nien was your only link to Kotone’s world without it being suspicious.
So you contacted her again, with the help of a very rich mutual on Twitter — a generous, slightly wealthy fan who owed you a favor after a ridiculous chain of DMs. Somehow, that led to another fancall with Nien.
Nien: “WHO IS THIS HUMAN?!” she yelled the moment she appeared. Her hair was still chaotic, earbuds dangling, dorm sounds echoing in the background. “You again! You’re normal again, huh? Safe? Too safe! This is suspicious!”
You laughed nervously. “Nien… I need a favor.”
She froze mid-spin. “FAVOR. DANGER. THRILL. EXPLAIN.”
You explained everything, carefully, but quickly. How you and Kotone had… history. How you’d made mistakes. How you’d promised to be there, and how you finally wanted to show her you had always meant it.
You explained the surprise you were planning, your only chance to make it unforgettable.
She stared at you for a moment, eyes narrowing, then her grin split her face in half. “OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH. I LOVE THIS. CHAOS. EMOTIONAL CHAOS. ROMANCE. OMG. THIS IS SO EXCITING.”
You held up your hands. “It’s not chaos. I’m trying to be organized for once.”
“LIES,” she said instantly, giggling. “Fine. Fine. I’m in. I will help you orchestrate the perfect surprise. No mistakes. No disasters. But… you owe me everything, okay? EVERYTHING. Dorm snacks, selfies, weird dances — EVERYTHING.”
There’s a long, quiet beat.
Then she says, voice soft, “Wait.”
You blink. “Wait?”
She leans closer to the screen. “You said… letter.”
Your heart skips. “Yeah.”
Her eyes dart side to side, like she’s trying to connect invisible dots. “You said it was old — yellowed — and you gave it to her before she left.”
You nod slowly. “That’s right.”
She gasps — a sharp, audible sound. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. “No freaking way.”
“What?” you repeat, alarmed now.
“Oh my god, oh my god.” She laughs — a mix of disbelief and secondhand guilt. “That letter. The one she wouldn’t stop talking about for weeks. The one I accidentally… kind of… stole.”
“I didn’t know it was from you!” Nien waves her hands frantically, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought it was, like, a fan thing — or something she wrote to herself, I don’t know! She was so mad when she found out I took it.”
You can’t help it — you laugh. A real, tired, almost disbelieving laugh. The story she had told you. “You stole my letter.”
“Oh my god,” Nien groans, burying her face in her hands. “I stole your letter.”
The two of you laugh until the tension dissolves into something easier — something lighter.
Then she looks back at you, eyes soft but serious. “You really love her, don’t you?”
You nod. “Yeah. Always have.”
Nien smiles, but it’s the quiet kind — the knowing kind. “Then come here,” she says. “I’ll help. I’ll talk to the manager, I’ll figure something out. You just get on that plane.”
“Really? That easy?” You asked, almost incredulous.
“Yeah, well, the writer, you know, the one that keeps calling me a lesbian, poor guy probably got lazy and couldn’t think of another way for you to get into contact and make this all happen, so, contrivances. Now, back from our 4th wall break for our regularly scheduled program.”
You don’t know how to thank her — so you just whisper, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she grins. “Just… make her happy. She deserves that.”
You nod again, and this time your voice doesn’t shake. “I will.”
For the next week, Nien became your clandestine partner-in-crime. She shared tips about the dorm layout, the best times to avoid security, how to leave little teasers without tipping Kotone off. She teased you relentlessly, but also sent updates on Kotone’s schedule — all anonymized so Kotone would never know you had infiltrated her life via her most chaotic ally.
Finally, the day arrived.
You stood near the dorm, heart hammering like a drum. The city smelled like rain on asphalt, a comforting scent that reminded you of the last time Kotone had been in your hometown. And now… you were here, in her city, breathing the same air, waiting for her to come out, unaware that you’d flown across the sea to see her.
You heard the familiar click of her shoes against the pavement before you saw her.
That sound alone was enough to make your heart race — light, rhythmic, a melody you hadn’t realized you’d memorized.
Kotone appeared a second later — laughing at something one of her groupmates had said, phone in hand, her hair bouncing with every step. The evening sun caught in it, making her glow gold.
The world seemed brighter, faster, lighter — and your stomach was a tangled knot of nerves.
You took one hesitant step forward.
“Kotone,” you said softly.
She froze mid-step.
The laughter died instantly. Her head turned toward you, eyes scanning your face like she couldn’t quite trust what she was seeing.
Shock. Disbelief. Then — slowly, achingly — recognition.
“Wait…” she whispered. “No way.”
You swallowed hard, holding up a small envelope — a simple, creased note. The same kind of envelope you’d used for the letter all those years ago.
“I had help,” you managed, your voice trembling. “But I’m here. I just… I wanted to see you. In person. To see you smile — not through a screen, not in a video. Just you. Right here.”
For a moment, Kotone just stared — eyes wide, lips parted — like the world had stopped spinning. Then her hands flew to her mouth.
“You…” Her voice broke into a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. “You’re here? You’re actually—”
Before you could even nod, she moved.
It wasn’t just a run — it was a blur. A sprint that turned into a jump, high and sudden, all momentum and emotion. You barely had time to brace yourself before she collided with you, arms thrown around your neck, legs nearly lifting off the ground.
You stumbled back a few steps, laughing helplessly as you caught her, the force of her joy nearly knocking you both over.
She buried her face into your shoulder, shaking with laughter and tears all at once. “You idiot!” she said between hiccupped breaths. “You absolute idiot! You actually came!”
“I told you I would,” you murmured into her hair, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
She leaned back, still clinging to you, eyes shining so bright it felt like the whole city had dimmed to make room for her. “You—how did you even—”
“I had help,” you said again, laughing through the adrenaline. “Nien. Twitter. Maybe fate, I don’t know.”
“Nien helped you?” she gasped, incredulous.
“Yeah. Turns out she’s better at logistics than she is at keeping secrets.”
Kotone laughed — loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh you hadn’t heard in person for years. She swatted your shoulder lightly. “You’re insane,” she said, voice trembling with affection.
“Maybe,” you admitted. “But I’m your kind of insane, and I’ll be here, forever. Guess who’s your new neighbour?”
She stared at you for a heartbeat — and then, softly, her smile changed.
Less laughter now, more something tender. Something full.
Her hands slipped from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. “You really moved here,” she whispered.
You nodded. “Yeah. For good.”
Her eyes glistened, but this time, there were no tears. Just warmth. “You have no idea how much I wanted this.”
And before you could even think — before the world could start moving again — she leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect — it was messy and breathless and half-laughing, the kind of kiss that tasted like years of missed chances and all the things you’d both been too afraid to say.
When you finally pulled apart, she was still close enough that her breath brushed your skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, smiling against your lips.
“I know.”
“I love that about you,” she said, and this time, she didn’t look away.
You laughed softly, forehead resting against hers. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I think I’ve always loved that about you too.”
She grinned, eyes bright and unguarded, and tugged you by the wrist toward the dorm entrance. “Come on,” she said, voice lilting with happiness. “You’re telling me everything.”
You let her pull you inside, your hand still wrapped in hers — a perfect fit, like it always had been.
Synopsis: Once a year, you sit in a booth, in Cafe Dérive . On the other side of the barrier, a voice—soft, trembling, sometimes furious, sometimes exhausted—belongs to a girl who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders.
You’re not supposed to know who she is. She’s not supposed to know you. But year after year, she comes back. And year after year, you realize that maybe anonymity, or at least, the pretense of it, is the only place where someone like her can finally breathe.
It’s just one hour. One hour where she stops pretending. One hour where you become the only person who really sees her.
WC:11338
A/N: be kind
Chapter One — 2017 - The Trainee
Café Dérive, a café in the streets of Seoul. A hole in the wall, not known as much for it’s coffee or tea, but for it’s booths.
The sign behind your mother’s café counter has said it for as long as you can remember, etched into dark wood and softened by age.
“One session. One voice. Once a year.
No names. No faces. No promises.”
Most people take pictures of it, think it’s charming, a gimmick with soul. But you’ve lived under the rules for 2 years, and they’ve never once felt like a game.
You’ve seen people change in the booths. Not quickly. Not magically. But you’ve seen shoulders straighten, seen tears dry, seen strangers walk out like they’re carrying themselves a little more gently. You’ve seen people smile—not fake smiles, not the kind when someone asks you for a photo, or when you pretend like something isn’t bothering you, but the kind that seems to pull from somewhere buried and brave.
You were never supposed to be in the booths.
But then the wind is curling against the windows, and you’re wiping crumbs off the counter when the door swings open and everything in the café seems to hush.
She’s small. That’s the first thing you notice. Not short, exactly, just… slight. Like she’s been growing up too fast to notice the pieces of herself still catching up. Her clothes hang off her like she borrowed them from an older sibling—oversized hoodie, jeans cuffed messily above her sneakers. Her baseball cap is tugged low over her face, the bill nearly shadowing her entirely. But it doesn’t matter.
Because it’s her eyes.
Just before she heads toward the back booths, she glances around the café—and you catch them, just for a second. Wide, dark, rimmed in something that looks too painful. Exhaustion.
Not the sleepy kind. The soul kind.
You move before you think about it.
The booths are sacred. Your mom’s told you that more than once. People come here to pour their hearts into a stranger, to speak freely behind the safety of wood and curtain and rule. It’s not a place for eavesdropping. But the opposite booth is empty, and something inside you stirs—a quiet kind of ache—and before you realize what you’re doing, you’re slipping quietly into Booth A, opposite the one she just entered.
The red light turns on above the divider. The session begins.
Silence.
You sit with your hands folded in your lap, listening to the thump of your own pulse in your ears. The divider between you is smooth and solid, save for the frosted glass window that allows only the softest light through.
Then:
“Is someone there?”
Her voice is uncertain. Tired.
“Yes,” you say. Softly. Gently.
A pause.
“I wasn’t sure anyone would come.” Her voice is steadier now, but still low. “I almost hoped no one would.”
You wait.
Then, as if a dam quietly broke, she says, “I don’t think I know who I am anymore.”
It lands in the silence like a confession. You don’t answer—at least not with words. You simply… stay. That’s enough.
She exhales shakily. “I’m not supposed to say anything, I know. No names. No promises. But I need to say something, or I’ll lose my mind.”
You let her. You feel as if she’d crumble if you made her stop.
“I’ve been training to be someone—something—since I was ten. For a stage. For a dream that stopped feeling like mine a long time ago.”
You don’t speak. You let the space hold her.
“They say I’m lucky. That girls would kill for this. That I should be grateful. And maybe I was, at first. Maybe I still am, sometimes. But it feels like… like my skin is made of glass, and everyone’s watching, waiting for it to crack.”
You can almost hear the way her hands twist in her lap. The way she’s probably chewing her lip raw.
“They use me as the good example, that I’m the mature one. All they’re saying is I should wait till no one is around to cry. They time how long I sleep. How much I eat. How often I smile. They tell me to be effortless while watching everything I do.”
Still, you don’t interrupt.
“I miss forgetting what I look like. I miss waking up without dread. I miss—” her voice falters, “—feeling like a person.”
You lean forward slightly.
“It’s okay to miss yourself,” you say.
She pauses.
And then: “Why does that make me feel guilty?”
“Because they’ve made you think being human is a flaw.”
Silence, again. Not heavy. Just… full.
“I’m thirteen,” she says after a long moment. Her voice is quieter now. “I should be having fun with my friends after school. I shouldn’t be this tired. I shouldn’t be afraid to grow older.”
You feel your breath catch in your chest.
You know you’re not supposed to, but you couldn’t catch the words before it left your throat.
“I’m thirteen too.”
You don’t feel the same as her, not exactly. Your life is still books and awkward school projects and warm drinks handed to regulars who know your name. But something in the way she speaks—like she’s been hollowed out and painted over—makes you feel older just listening to her.
“I thought chasing a dream meant being happy,” she says. “But all I feel is pressure. I don’t get to fail. I don’t even get to cry.”
She laughs softly. And it’s not joyful—it’s cracked. “You sound older than you are.”
You shrug, even if she can’t see it. “My mom says I was born serious.”
“She might be right,” she says. You can hear her smile. It’s faint, but there.
You tilt your head. “Do you want to stop?”
“What?”
“Chasing the dream.”
She’s quiet.
“I don’t think I can,” she says eventually. “Not without disappointing everyone. Not without disappointing the version of me who believed in this.”
“You’re not disappointing her,” you say. “You’re just protecting the parts of her that still matter.”
Another pause. And then she breathes out, and it sounds like something has loosened in her chest.
“Why are you here?” she asks after a moment.
You think about it.
“I want to listen. Sometimes people just need to be heard, and I’ll help whoever I can.”
“I… needed this,” she says. “More than I realized.”
“I’ll be here next year,” you offer. Quiet, sure.
“…Yeah?” Her voice softens again.
You nod. “One voice. Once a year.”
There’s something unsaid between you. Something warm and aching and oddly certain.
Then you hear her shift. Her hand against the curtain. “I have to go.”
You don’t ask where.
But before she leaves, she says—hesitant, almost shy:
“Will you… will you remember me?”
You don’t need to think about it.
“Yes.”
And then she’s gone.
Chapter 2: 2018 – The Survival Show
The first snowfall of the year had come early, dusting the city in a soft hush. Inside your mother’s café, the warmth of brewing coffee and the gentle hum of conversation created a cocoon against the cold. The booths at the back, with their frosted glass dividers and worn cushions, stood as silent witnesses to countless confessions.
She slips into the booth across the wall from you like she’s done it a hundred times, even though this is only the second.
You don’t speak first. You don’t need to.
“Are you there?”
“I am.”
“…You’re here again.”
Her voice is quiet but certain. Like she wasn’t sure she could count on it until now.
“I told you I would be,” you say simply.
“I wasn’t sure if this was a one-time thing for you. You never told me much about yourself.”
You shift in your seat, feeling the corners of your hoodie sleeves under your palms. “Not much to tell.”
“Liar,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. Just a soft curiosity.
There’s a silence. Not an awkward one—just space. She doesn’t fill it right away. She’s learned that with you, there’s no pressure to rush. Maybe that’s part of why she came back.
“I’m on a show now,” she says after a beat. “A survival show. It’s called Produce 48. You’ve probably heard of it.”
You hum. You’ve seen posters. You don’t watch.
“I didn’t think it’d be this hard,” she continues. “Not the dancing. Not even the singing. It’s everything else. The… pretending. Or maybe not pretending—maybe it’s more like filtering. They tell us to stand out, but not too much. Be confident, but don’t be arrogant. Smile, but don’t fake it. Be graceful if you lose, humble if you win. And if you cry, cry prettily.”
She pauses. When she speaks again, it’s quieter. “I’m exhausted trying to be the right kind of girl.”
You sit with her words. Let them hang. Then, softly:
“What kind of girl do you want to be?”
That silence again. But this one feels different. Like it’s stunned.
“No one’s asked me that,” she says eventually, like the realization is sinking in even as she says it. “Not the producers. Not even my friends. Everyone’s just… so busy. We’re too busy chasing what they want.”
You wait. She gives you more.
“I want to be seen,” she says. “Really seen. Not for my face. Not for my ranking. Just… for who I am. When the cameras are off. When I’m not trying to be Won- Oh—”
She freezes. You feel it in the breath she draws in sharp. “Forget I said that. That’s not my real name. I mean, it is, but—”
“It’s okay,” you say, gently. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I think you’re already that girl,” you continue. “You just haven’t met enough people who know how to look.”
She’s quiet for a long time. Then: “You always say things like that. It’s weird.”
You shrug. “It’s just how I think.”
She hums. “Your voice always sounds calm. Like nothing surprises you. You’re probably one of those kids who reads a lot, right?”
You laugh under your breath. “Yeah.”
“And you help out at the café?”
“Sometimes.”
“Figures,” she says. “You talk like someone who listens all the time. People who listen always end up sounding older than they are.”
You scratch your wrist. “My mom says I’m wise beyond my years.”
“She’s right.”
A beat.
“Do you like working here?” she asks.
You pause before answering. “I don’t know. I like being here, I think. I like how people leave a little lighter than when they came in. I like that it’s quiet. That you can just… listen.”
“And you only do one booth a year?”
“Yeah. It’s the rule. One session per person. Once a year. My mom says it keeps it sacred. Makes people say what they actually need to say, not just what they think they should.”
“That’s kind of beautiful,” she murmurs. “It makes sense. I didn’t think I’d say anything last year. But something about not knowing who you are… it made me say everything.”
You’re quiet, and then: “Is it scary? The show?”
“Not in the way people think,” she says. “It’s not the judges or the cameras or the schedule. It’s the other girls. The way everyone watches each other, measures themselves. Like we’re not allowed to just exist—we have to win at existing.”
You sit with that. Then, softly, “That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” she says. “Sometimes I wonder if it’ll be worth it. If people will like me. If I’ll debut. And sometimes I wonder if I’ll like myself at the end of it.”
You shift your weight. “I think the version of you who came back this year still knows who she is. That’s something.”
She exhales. “I didn’t even know how much I missed talking to you. I told myself it didn’t matter. That you were just a voice. But it’s not just that. You listen. You don’t judge. You make me feel like a person again.”
There’s a pause.
“Do you think I’ll make it?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’m sure you’ll make it. But I hope the girl behind the barrier makes it too.”
You’re quiet again, until you feel her settle. Her breathing slows. Her next words are softer.
“You know what I miss?” she says. “As dumb as it sounds—I miss normal conversations. Just…talking about anything. Not being careful with my words. Not worrying how I’ll be edited.”
You smile to yourself. “Then let’s talk about anything. We have time.”
She laughs again. It’s warmer now. “Okay, mystery voice. What’s your favorite book or movie?”
You pause. “Probably something by Studio Ghibli. Or The Little Prince. My mom says I’m an old soul.”
“She’s right,” she says. “You talk like you’re fifty.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No,” she says softly. “It’s…comforting.”
She doesn’t ask you more. She doesn’t press for details. She just lets your voice fill the space like she’s collecting it, cataloging your calm like a museum piece she can revisit in memory. And then she sighs.
“There’s a girl in my dorm who says she cries herself to sleep every night. She’s eighteen. I pretend I’m asleep so she won’t think I’m weak too. But sometimes I think if I open my mouth, I won’t stop crying either.”
That stills you.
You think of the posters. The glitz. The way the public devours idols like sugar—until they don’t.
“I don’t think being honest about your sadness makes you weak,” you say quietly. “I think pretending everything’s fine all the time would break anyone.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Then—
“…Do you think I’m strong?”
You could lie. You could say yes without thinking. But you speak carefully. She deserves that.
“I think strength isn’t just doing the hard things. I think it’s coming back here. Talking to someone you don’t even know. Letting yourself be real, even just for a little while.”
You hear her swallow.
“I didn’t think I’d cry this year,” she says.
You let that sit. You don’t interrupt.
“I almost didn’t come. I almost told myself I didn’t need this anymore. That I could handle it all. But then I thought of your voice. And how it made me feel safe. And I realized… I still need this.”
She’s quiet a moment longer. Then she murmurs, “Do you ever feel like you’re not meant to be the person everyone thinks you are?”
You consider. “Yeah. Sometimes I think everyone wants a version of me I don’t know how to keep being.”
She sighs. “Exactly.”
The red light on the booth blinks once. A gentle reminder: time is running out.
But she doesn’t move. Neither do you.
“You’ll be here next year?” she asks.
You nod. “I’ll be here.”
There’s a pause. A fragile kind of silence, like the space between violin notes.
“Okay,” she says. “Then I’ll make it through. Just to come back here.”
And then she’s gone.
Chapter 3: 2019 – The Debut
She enters quietly. Always quietly. The bell above the door chimes, but her footsteps don’t make a sound. She slides into the other side of the booth.
A pause.
Then, “Hi.”
You smile without meaning to. “Hi.”
A deep breath escapes from her side of the wall. It sounds like she’s been holding it for months.
“Do you remember what I said last year?” she asks.
You lean slightly forward. “I remember a lot of things you said.”
“I told you I wanted to be seen.” Her voice dips lower. “Well… now I am. Everywhere. All the time. They watch everything. The way I walk. The way I smile. I blink wrong and suddenly I’m cold or stuck up. Or a robot.”
You tilt your head against the partition, waiting for her to go on.
“I debuted.” She laughs, but it’s hollow. “You probably knew that already.”
“I did,” you say quietly.
“I’m the center,” she continues. “That means I’m supposed to be the anchor. The face. The standard. But it feels like being picked to stand in the middle just means I’m the easiest target. We’re doing well, I think. People like us. We won a couple music shows already. My name trends on Twitter a lot. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s… not.”
You don’t answer. She’s not looking for reassurance. She’s looking for release.
“There’s this moment every night,” she says slowly, “just before I fall asleep, where I forget what I did that day. I don’t remember the stage or the interviews or the comments. For like ten seconds, I just exist. It’s the only time my brain feels quiet.”
You close your eyes, just listening.
“Everyone says I look like I was made for the Center. That I have the right kind of face, the right aura. But no one ever asks if I wanted to be the one in the middle.”
You speak softly. “Did you?”
She’s quiet. Then: “I don’t know anymore.”
You hear the way she shifts in her seat, like her body is too tired for her age.
“They train us to hold poses for hours,” she continues. “To smile no matter what. Our managers count how many seconds we make eye contact with fans. One of them told me to ‘blink more gently’ during the encore.”
You blink instinctively.
“I get these comments online,” she says, voice tightening. “Some say I’m arrogant. Others say I look empty. Cold. Plastic. One person said I look like I have no soul. I’m fifteen. I still like gummy candy. I cry at movies. I’m just—” she cuts herself off, breathing harder now. “But they don’t see that.”
“What do they see?” you ask.
“They see her. The center. The pretty one. The one they can mold and break and criticize and own.”
“I miss being fifteen,” she says, almost under her breath.
“You are fifteen.”
“Am I?” She scoffs, but there’s no bitterness in it. Just resignation. “Most days I feel like I’m thirty-five. I have to think about everything I say, every move I make. I watch what I eat. I train until I can’t feel my legs. I fake laugh at jokes from people twice my age. I get scolded for not being ‘engaging enough’ or not maintaining my image. What kind of fifteen-year-old has an image?”
You press your fingers to the wood between you. “The kind who still wishes someone would ask her how her day was.”
Silence.
Then a breath. “How was your day?”
You blink. It catches you off guard.
“Normal,” you say after a pause. “I helped my mom in the café. She keeps saying I’m growing into my ears, which feels like a weird compliment. Then I read a book. Took a walk down to the park. There’s this one tree with yellow leaves that looks like it’s glowing this time of year.”
She hums. “That sounds… peaceful.”
“It is.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then: “What book?”
You hesitate, a little surprised she asked.
“The Little Prince. I’ve read it a hundred times, but I keep coming back to it.”
“That’s the one with the fox, right?”
“And the rose,” you say. “And the boy who learns what matters most is invisible.”
She goes quiet again, thoughtful.
“I wish I was invisible sometimes.”
“No, you don’t,” you say gently.
A pause.
“You’re right,” she murmurs. “I just want to be invisible to the wrong people. And seen by the right ones.”
“You’re being seen right now.”
There’s a small intake of breath.
“By who?” she asks, almost afraid.
You touch your fingertips to the wood again. “By someone who remembers what you said last year. And who’s listening now.”
The silence that follows is heavier, but softer somehow. Like a weighted blanket instead of a crushing stone.
“My members are good to me though,” she adds, almost as if she’s reminding herself. “Yena unnie gives me snacks when I’m too nervous to eat. Eunbi unnie checks on me even when she’s exhausted. Hitomi lets me nap on her shoulder during van rides. They’re not just teammates. They’re… safety.”
You smile at the way she says it.
“But even with them,” she adds, “I still feel like I’m performing. Like I’m only real when I’m in this booth.”
You rest your palm flat on the partition.
“I think you’re real all the time,” you say. “But maybe here is the only place you’re allowed to be.”
Her breath catches again. She doesn’t speak for a long time.
When she does, her voice is fragile but grounded.
“I missed this. I didn’t realize how much until I was walking here.”
You nod. “I look forward to it all year.”
“So do I.”
Then, almost shyly: “Would it be weird to ask what your favorite thing is right now?”
“Like a song?”
“Anything.”
You think.
“Warm socks. And old bookstores. And the feeling when someone laughs at something you didn’t think was funny, but suddenly is.”
She laughs again, soft and genuine.
“And yours?” you ask.
She is quiet. Then:
“Rolling down the car window after a long schedule. Letting the wind mess up my hair. For a second it feels like I could just… fly away.”
Another pause.
“And this,” she adds, so softly you almost miss it. “This hour. You. Even if you’re just a voice in the wall.”
You take that in. Let it settle between you.
There’s a long pause, then she asks something she never has before:
“What do you want?”
You blink. “What?”
“You always ask me questions,” she says. “But I never ask you anything real. So… what do you want?”
You smile faintly. “For you to feel like yourself again.”
“That’s not fair.”
You laugh, quietly. “Okay. I want… a quiet life. Not small, just… intentional. A simple life, with people I love, doing what I love. A life where I can write. Or help people. Or maybe just be the kind of person people feel safe talking to.”
She breathes slowly. “You already are.”
Your throat tightens a little. You cover it with a joke. “Flattery gets you an extra minute in the booth.”
She chuckles. “Then I’ll keep talking.”
You fall into easier conversation after that. She asks about your school—what classes you hate, which teacher you think might secretly be a robot. You tell her about the stray cat that’s been living under the steps outside the café, how it only comes out when no one’s looking. She tells you that she’s starting to write poems. You tell her about how you’ve been drawing recently, but not the faces, but only their shadows. She tells you about the weird food combos the other members try—how one of them puts strawberry jam on instant noodles.
She sounds like a teenager, finally.
Until the timer on the booth clicks.
She exhales, long and slow. “It’s always too short.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I have to wait a whole year,” she says, and her voice sounds thinner now, like something stretched too far.
“But you’ll wait?” you ask.
“Yes.”
Then, quietly:
“Will you?”
You smile at the partition. “Of course.”
She stands. The booth creaks. The sound of fabric shifting.
“Same time next year?” she asks.
“Same booth,” you reply.
She hesitates, just like last year. Then, softer than you’ve ever heard her:
“Thank you.”
You don’t say “you’re welcome.” Not because you don’t mean it—but because the thank-you wasn’t for this hour.
It was for every hour she survives until the next one.
And then she’s gone
Chapter 4: 2020 – Isolation
There’s something different in the way the door opens this time.
The door creaks open and there’s a pause—like she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to come in.
You don’t say anything. You just wait.
Then you hear the curtain rustle and the faint sound of her sitting down across the wall.
“Is it you?”
You don’t answer right away. The question is too heavy for just a name.
So you say, softly, “Always.”
There’s a breath—quiet, shaky. Then:
“I wasn’t sure you’d come this year.”
“I wasn’t sure if you would either.” you say gently.
That earns the smallest huff of laughter from her. “Touché.”
There’s a silence that follows, but not an awkward one. It’s the kind of silence that happens when someone is searching for the right place to begin.
“It’s been… a year,” she says finally. “I’m not even sure where to start.”
“Try somewhere soft.”
She thinks about that.
Then: “I think I’m scared I’m becoming hollow.”
Your throat tightens at how quickly she drops into the truth this year.
She continues, “Everything I say is filtered now. Not just on camera—everywhere. Even in the dorm, even around the girls. It’s like I’ve rehearsed being myself so many times that I don’t know where the performance ends.”
You close your eyes. “That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” she whispers.
You wait, letting her set the rhythm.
She lets out a breath, soft and shaky. “I thought about this all year. Not even just today. Some nights I’d be lying in bed, scrolling through all the things people were saying about me, and I’d think, if I can just make it to the booth again… maybe I’ll be okay.”
You stay quiet, giving her space.
“My members say I’m too online,” she murmurs. “They’re probably right. But when you’re home all the time, when the world just stops moving, your phone becomes the loudest thing in the room.”
You can imagine it too easily—her in her room, lights off, screen glowing blue in the dark. Scrolling past the comments. The ones that dig into your skin, the ones that make you question the shape of your face or the sound of your laugh.
“They say I’m fake,” she whispers. “That I’m too perfect. That I don’t deserve the center. That I must have done something to get this far. And I know I shouldn’t care. I do all the right things—I rehearse until my body gives out, I keep my posture even when I want to collapse, I answer every question politely, I smile when I want to cry. But none of that matters when someone posts a screenshot of my face mid-blink and calls me a monster.”
You feel something coil in your chest.
She’s only sixteen.
But her voice is older than her age again, and not in a way that makes you admire her. In a way that makes you mourn what she’s already had to become.
“I try to stay close to the girls,” she continues. “They’re kind. We still talk a lot. Minju unnie makes me tea when I can’t sleep. Yujin does these bad impressions that make everyone groan. Sakura’s gentle in a way that doesn’t ask anything from you. They keep me afloat.”
You nod, then add softly, “But they can’t be everything.”
“No,” she agrees. “And I don’t want to burden them. They’re carrying enough.”
There’s a long pause. You wait.
“I started keeping a list,” she says, tone quieter than before. “Of all the things people criticize about me. Like maybe if I fix them one by one, they’ll stop.”
You speak before you think. “Burn the list.”
She laughs. It’s a short sound, but there’s something grateful in it. “You always say the most reckless things in the calmest way.”
“I mean it,” you say. “Burn it. Tear it up. You don’t need to shrink yourself into their idea of you.”
She stays silent, but you can imagine her, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath through her nose. “Minju unnie has been teaching me how to journal. She says it helps to write like no one’s watching.”
“Does it?”
“I tried. I wrote, ‘I’m scared I’ll disappear into her.’ And then I stared at the sentence for ten minutes and couldn’t keep going.”
You stay quiet.
“She’s not me,” She says. “The one on stage. The girl with perfect angles and fan cams and synchronized steps. She’s… manufactured. Beautiful, maybe. But not whole.”
“What’s the difference?”
“She’s adored,” she says flatly. “I’m not sure I am.”
You want to reach through the wall. You want to undo every bad headline, every cruel comment, every whisper that followed her home through the screen.
“You are,” you say. “You’re just not allowed to believe it.”
Another pause. She breathes in. “They love her. But they don’t know me.”
“They could,” you say.
“They don’t want to,” she replies. “People don’t want girls to be complicated. They want us to be palatable. Aspirational. Not messy. Not tired.”
You swallow. “But you are. You’re tired. And complicated. And human. And you still deserve to be loved.”
The silence that follows is louder than anything either of you has said.
Then, voice trembling, she says, “You always make it sound so simple.”
You smile faintly. “It isn’t. But I think sometimes we need to be reminded of the obvious things.”
There’s a shift in her voice—something softer. “You know… when I sit in this booth, I feel like I’m allowed to just exist.”
“I think that’s the point. For this talk to be special”
“It shouldn’t be this rare,” she murmurs. “Feeling like I can just… be.”
You nod even though she can’t see it. “Tell me something about you. Not the idol. Just… you.”
She’s quiet. Then:
“I like strawberry milk more than coffee. But I still order iced americanos because that’s what everyone else gets.”
A pause.
“I love painting my nails. But I’m not allowed to keep them long. Too impractical for choreography.”
Another pause.
“I hate high-waisted jeans. But stylists say they make my legs look longer.”
One more.
“And I used to love singing in the shower. But now I worry someone’s always listening, judging how I sound.”
You say softly, “Thank you. For sharing those.”
“I miss liking things for myself,” she says. “Not for how they look on fancams.”
Then, her tone lifts, ever so slightly: “Your turn.”
You blink. “Me?”
“Yeah,” she says, a bit more teasing. “Tell me something not-perfect about you.”
You think for a moment. “I forget birthdays. Even the ones I try hard to remember.”
She laughs. “Relatable.”
You add, “I talk to my cat when I’m home alone. Like full conversations.”
“That’s cute.”
“And I still sleep with my old pillow from when I was six. The one with faded stars on it.”
“Now that’s sweet.”
There’s a longer silence this time, but it’s full of something warmer. Something settled.
Then: “I don’t know your name,” she says.
You smile faintly. “That’s part of the rule.”
“I know,” she says. “But sometimes I wonder what it would be like… to look up and see you.”
You don’t say anything. Neither does she. But something shifts. Deepens.
“I was painting last week,” you offer, trying to shift the mood just slightly. “Just watercolor. The cheap kind.”
“Oh?” Her voice perks up, ever so slightly.
“There was this cherry tree outside. The blossoms were halfway gone. I painted it anyway.”
“Why?”
You think about it. “Because it was still beautiful.”
There’s a long pause. Then she says, so quiet you almost miss it: “Sometimes I think I’m the tree without the blossoms.”
You don’t hesitate. “You’re the sky behind it.”
Another long, full silence. It stretches between you, gentle and warm.
“You’re good at that,” she says eventually. “Saying things that make me stop hating myself, even for just a little while.”
“I don’t want you to hate yourself.”
“You barely know me.”
“Still.”
Then, even quieter: “You’re one of the only people I feel like I don’t have to earn.”
The weight of that sentence sinks into your ribs.
You don’t know what to say. So you don’t.
She fills the quiet instead. “Do you think I’ll ever be… just Wony—” She stops. “Just me again?”
“I think you never stopped being you,” you reply. “But I think the world’s made it harder to hear your own voice.”
She whispers, “It’s quiet in here.”
You nod. “That’s why I stay.”
“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not a symbol,” she whispers. “Like I’m not a brand.”
“You’re not.”
“To you.”
“To anyone willing to see.”
She sighs. “I wish I could believe that.”
“I’ll believe it for you until you can.”
You don’t know what she’s doing on her side of the wall, but you imagine her hugging her knees to her chest. You imagine the exhaustion behind her eyes.
Another silence. And then:
“Can I ask another weird question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you… think about me? Between these visits?”
The question lands with a weight you don’t expect. You don’t speak right away.
Then: “Yeah. More than I probably should.”
She laughs. “Me too.”
Something unspoken flickers between you. It doesn’t need a name. Not yet.
Then she says, “I drew your voice once.”
You blink. “What?”
She laughs softly. “I know that doesn’t make sense. But I sat down with my pencil and tried to sketch the way your voice feels. I ended up with something that looked like a candle in a snowstorm.”
You feel your breath catch.
“Can I keep that image?” you ask, smiling.
“It’s yours.”
You imagine what it would feel like to see her without the curtain—just for a second. Not as the idol. Not as the center. But as the girl with chipped nail polish and late-night fears and too many masks.
You don’t need to see her. Somehow, you already do.
Then she says, softly: “There’s a person in my dreams sometimes.”
You tense.
She continues, “I never see their face. But I hear their voice. It sounds like… here.”
You don’t say anything.
“They doesn’t ask for anything,” she says. “They just listen. And when I wake up, I feel like I can breathe.”
“You think it’s me?”
She pauses. “I hope it is.”
The timer buzzes—louder than it should be. You both flinch.
Neither of you moves.
Then she whispers, “I wish I could stay.”
“You’ll come back.”
“I always do.”
But she hesitates by the curtain.
Before she goes, she says, “You’re the only place that still feels like mine.”
Then she’s gone.
Chapter 5: 2021 – The Disbandment
You recognize her by the way she walks—cautiously, like the ground beneath her has been unsure for a while and she’s still waiting for it to give out completely. There’s no rush in her steps. Only the kind of quiet that settles over someone who’s had too much noise inside their head for too long.
She slips into the booth like someone returning to a familiar memory—worn, soft around the edges, but safe. The same rustle of fabric. The same exhale—low and fragile, like she’s finally letting herself breathe after a year of holding it in.
She doesn’t speak right away. You don’t either.
The silence between you hums differently this year. Not heavy like dread. Denser, maybe. Like grief that’s grown roots.
Then, after a long beat, she speaks. “It’s really over.”
You nod out of habit, then remember. She can’t see you. Still, she knows you heard her.
“IZ*ONE?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.
She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. It feels like I died with it. Like that version of me—the one with twelve sisters and a purpose and a schedule to hide behind—she doesn’t exist anymore. And I don’t know if the new me is any better.”
You wait, letting the silence cushion her words. “You’re not supposed to have it all figured out. You’re seventeen.”
She laughs again, but this time it’s hollow. “Everyone keeps saying that. ‘You’re still so young.’ Like that’s supposed to make it feel easier. But I never got to be young. Not really. My life has been measured in rankings and rehearsal hours since I was twelve.”
You’re quiet for a moment, then your voice softens in a way it only does for her. “Then be young with me. At least for this hour.”
There’s a pause. Then a laugh—fragile, but real. “You always say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like the world hasn’t crushed you yet.”
You smile, even though she can’t see it. “Maybe it has. Maybe that’s why I know how to spot it.”
She exhales through her nose. “I thought I’d feel free when it ended. That when the last performance was over, I’d sleep for a week and finally breathe. But now there’s this… stillness. And it’s not peace—it’s just empty. I miss the noise. The chaotic breakfasts, the staff yelling at us for sneaking snacks, the stupid pranks. I even miss our tiny bathroom with three people fighting for the mirror.”
You laugh softly. “So it really was that bad?”
“Worse,” she says, then quieter, “But it was ours.”
There’s a beat of quiet between you.
“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go now. The company wants me to start preparing again. Training. Probably for another debut. But for what? Another version of me, shinier, more polished, more… hollow?”
“You could just… prepare to exist. Rest. Let yourself breathe before building something new.”
“That’s not how it works for people like me,” she says, gently but firmly. “If I stop moving, I disappear.”
You nod slowly. You don’t push. You never do.
After a pause, her voice changes slightly. “How about you?” she asks. “How’s your year been?”
You blink, a little surprised. “There’s still time. I can listen to you.”
“I know,” she says. “But… I want to know. You feel like a constant in my life, and I realized I don’t really know anything about you.”
You hesitate, then let yourself lean into it. “I’ve been writing more. Mostly at night. Small things I never show anyone. Just… stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Stories about people who are lost. Or lonely. Or quietly breaking. And how they find each other in strange places. Or maybe just in moments no one else sees.”
She’s quiet, then murmurs, “That sounds familiar.”
There’s a small beat.
“Are any of them about me?” she asks, her voice soft, teasing around the edges—but not really joking.
You don’t lie. “Some of them.”
The silence after is long, but not uncomfortable. It hums with recognition. Like you’ve stepped into a truth you were both circling all along.
“I wish I could know what you look like,” she says suddenly.
You inhale, slow and steady. “Would it change anything?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Maybe. Maybe it would ruin it. Or maybe it would make everything too real.”
“It already is real,” you say. “Isn’t it?”
Another pause. This one feels deeper.
“It is,” she says at last. “But it still feels like a dream I only get once a year. And when it’s over, I miss it for the next three hundred and sixty-four days.”
You feel something ache in you. Something that’s been growing steadily for years—soft and quiet, but stubborn. Like longing that doesn’t know what it wants yet.
“What would you do,” she asks suddenly, “if you saw me on the street?”
“I’d pretend I didn’t know you.”
“You’d really walk past me?”
“If that’s what you needed.”
She breathes out. “There you go again. Saying exactly what I need to hear.”
“That’s why you come back.”
There’s a long pause. Her voice is different when she speaks again. Gentler. Tethered.
“I come back because… this is the only place I feel like me.”
The quiet that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick with all the things neither of you dares to name yet.
“Do you remember what you said the first time we talked?” she asks.
You think for a moment. “That you sounded tired.”
“I was. I still am. But you never asked for anything. Not an autograph. Not a photo. Not even a piece of me I wasn’t ready to give.”
“You deserved a place where no one wanted to take.”
“I think I lov——I think I need this version of you,” she whispers.
Your breath catches. “This version?”
“The one who never asks me to be anything but myself.”
You almost say something reckless—almost ask her to stay, almost beg her not to disappear for another year. But instead you say, “Who you are has always been enough for me.”
She’s quiet, but you hear her breathe.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says finally. “I think I’d fall apart if you weren’t.”
“You don’t have to hold everything alone.”
“Then can I give you some of it?” she asks, half-laughing, but it’s not really a joke.
“All of it,” you say.
There’s a long pause before she whispers, “I’ll see you next year?”
“You always do.”
And even as the hour starts slipping through your fingers, like it always does, she lingers. Not because she doesn’t know the rules—but because this time, neither of you wants to let go just yet.
She doesn’t say goodbye. Just lingers, like she doesn’t want to leave.
Chapter 6: 2022 – The Re-debut
You recognize her before you hear her. There’s a rhythm to the way she moves—a quiet, practiced grace—but tonight, it’s slower. Heavier. As if the months have added weight to her steps, to her breathing. She slips into the booth with the soft sound of her coat brushing against the wooden seat, and for a moment, she doesn’t speak.
You don’t either. The silence between you has never felt awkward. It’s always been a kind of sacred prelude. A way of saying: We’re back.
When she does speak, her voice is rougher than last year’s. Not broken. But thinner. Pulled taut.
“They call me a doll now.”
There’s a pause, and you hear her exhale, like she’s been holding the words for too long.
“That’s the compliment, apparently. Not ‘smart’ or ‘talented’ or ‘kind.’ Just… ‘perfect.’ Like I’m this thing people put on a shelf. Look at, admire, criticize, reposition. Smile more. Blink less. Don’t gain weight. Don’t show too much thigh. Don’t look tired. God, I’m so tired.”
You hear the faintest hitch in her breath. “I feel like a mannequin most days. Hollow.”
You lean forward slightly, even though she can’t see you.
“But you’re not,” you say, gentle but certain. “You’re made of so much more than what they see.”
She lets out a bitter little laugh. “They don’t care what I’m made of. They want flawless skin, long legs, a good angle. They want this version of me that doesn’t cry, doesn’t eat carbs, doesn’t age.”
“And what do you want?”
She’s quiet.
“I want to be seen. Not watched. Not dissected. Seen.”
You nod. “I see you.”
You let the silence wash over the both of you.
“Do you feel like a person?” you ask softly.
She lets out a breath, more a laugh than a sigh. It sounds brittle.
“Sometimes I don’t. I feel hollow. Like I’m only real when the camera’s off… and even then, sometimes I’m not sure.”
The sadness in her voice has changed over the years. Less shock now, more weariness. She’s growing used to the ache. That scares you.
“People think I have everything,” she continues, quieter now. “But I don’t know who I am half the time. They gave me a spotlight and took everything else.”
“What would you keep, if it were up to you?” you ask.
She’s quiet for a while. Then—
“This. This booth. This hour. You.”
You close your eyes. Her voice has never felt closer.
“You know,” she says, and there’s a tremble now, “I had a fan call the other day. Just a regular fancall. Except it wasn’t. This girl—she looked like she’d been crying before we even started—and she just said… she said I saved her. That seeing me smile helped her through something. And I smiled for her, I really did. But then she thanked me, and I couldn’t stop crying.”
“I tried to turn away from the camera so she wouldn’t see, but it was too late. She told me she’d never seen someone be so human on screen. And I just—” Her voice cracks. “I’m supposed to be a doll, right?”
“No,” you say gently. “You’re just someone who gave another person hope. And that’s more than enough.”
“But I wonder if they’d still say those things if they saw me like this,” she whispers. “Sad. Lonely. Tired.”
“They don’t get this hour of you,” you say. “I do. And I love this hour.”
There’s a breath, caught between silence and something more. You hear her shift on the bench, like she’s curling inward, trying to disappear and hold on all at once.
“I think I do, too,” she says. “I think I need it.”
There’s something charged in the quiet that follows—not explosive, but intimate. Familiar. You’ve grown together across these years in a space untouched by lights or lenses. She doesn’t have to be herself here. And you… you’ve become the version of yourself who listens better than you speak, who offers comfort like it’s instinct.
“What about you?” she asks, softer now. “How’s your life?”
“Steady,” you say. “I read more. I write. I stay in my head too much.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Do you ever think about me?” she asks suddenly.
Your breath stills.
“More than I mean to,” you admit.
“Do you write about me?”
You pause. “Every year.”
There’s a pause that feels longer than it is.
“Would you ever show me?”
“Maybe someday. If I thought you’d still want to read it when you saw your name written like that.”
“I don’t think I’d hate it,” she says. “I think I might keep it under my pillow.”
You laugh—quiet, surprised.
“What?” she teases.
“You’re cute when you say things like that.”
“You’ve never even seen me when we talk.”
“You’ve never even seen me,” you shoot back.
“Maybe I don’t need to.”
She says it with a softness that makes your chest ache.
You breathe in. “If you saw what I looked like, and saw me on the street…”
“I’d walk past you,” she says. “But only because I’d want to turn around.”
You smile, quietly. “That sounds dangerously close to poetry.”
“Don’t flatter me.”
You can feel how close the hour is to ending. Her voice lowers a little more, settling into something that’s almost a whisper.
“You know,” she says, “this isn’t just some silly ritual for me. I think about this all year. I count the days.”
“So do I,” you say.
“I don’t know what this is between us. I don’t even know your name. But it feels like… home.”
“It is.”
She doesn’t speak for a while after that. You let her sit with it. Let it sink in like warm rain.
“Promise me something?” she asks finally.
“Anything.”
“No matter where I go, or who I become… keep being this person. Keep being the one place I don’t have to pretend.”
“I will. Always.”
There’s a pause, and then—
“See you next year?”
“You always do.”
She doesn’t say goodbye. Just lingers, like she doesn’t want to leave.
Chapter 7: 2023 – The Breaking Point
She doesn’t rush into the booth this time. There’s no rustle of hurried footsteps or quiet laugh behind the curtain. Just a slow drag of fabric, and the softest exhale—like even breathing has become something she has to remember how to do.
You don’t say anything. You’ve learned by now that silence is a kind of language with her.
When she speaks, her voice sounds smaller than usual. Like something’s collapsed inside it.
“I almost didn’t come.”
It’s only four words, but they land with a weight you can feel in your chest.
“I thought about turning around,” she continues. “Right outside the door. Just walking away. Pretending this place never existed.”
A beat.
“But then I realized… I didn’t know where else to go.”
You swallow hard, the ache creeping behind your ribs.
She sighs, the sound brittle. “I forgot what I used to like. What made me feel happy. Or safe. Or… me.”
Her fingers tap against the partition. Not idly. Desperately.
“I forgot what I used to like,” she murmurs. “Like, actually forgot. I was doing an interview the other day and someone asked me my favorite color, and I just… stared at them. I said pink. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
She pauses, then huffs a laugh that holds no humor. “I realized I don’t even know if I like pink. I don’t know what I like anymore. Not food. Not clothes. Not music. Everything I do is for someone else’s idea of who I should be.”
You listen, careful not to interrupt. She always builds her way into the truth slowly, piece by painful piece.
“I still move like I’m being watched. Even in my room, I catch myself posing without meaning to. My smiles don’t reach my eyes. I only breathe deeply when I’m here.”
There’s a pause. A different kind of silence. Then:
“Sometimes I catch myself wondering what I would be if I wasn’t an idol. But that thought scares me. Because…what would be left?”
You lean closer to the barrier, voice low and steady.
“The girl behind the barrier. And she’s more than enough.”
She exhales, and it catches like something inside her cracked a little too easily.
“You always say the right thing.”
You smile, even though she can’t see. “That’s only because you already know the truth. I just remind you.”
She laughs, barely. A small sound that sounds more like heartbreak than joy.
“I’ve been performing so long I don’t know how to exist outside of a spotlight. I don’t know how to sit still without wondering who’s watching me. If my smile looks okay. If my legs are too thin. Or too thick. If I blink too much.”
Her voice breaks on the next line.
“I read the comments. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. They talk about my body like it belongs to them. They say I look like a mannequin. That my eyes are too wide, or my face is too bland. That I’m overrated. That I’m faking every moment I try to be kind. That I’m not real.”
She inhales a sharp breath.
“And the worst part is… sometimes I believe them.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Then, softly:
“You’re amazing. I just think you don’t see it.”
She lets out a laugh—sharp, hollow, almost angry. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No. You’re not amazing because I said it. You’re amazing. I’m just reminding you.”
She doesn’t respond, but something shifts. Not relief—just exhaustion. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep. The kind that feels like surrender.
“I come here and I try to remember the girl I used to be,” she whispers. “Before all the cameras. Before they decided I was only valuable if I was perfect.”
She leans closer to the barrier. You can hear it in the way her breath hits the surface between you.
“Sometimes I think this is the only hour I’m not pretending.”
Your voice cracks when you answer. “That’s why I’m here.”
Another silence. But this one doesn’t feel safe. It feels like she’s unraveling behind it.
“Do you ever wonder what would happen if this wall wasn’t here?” she asks suddenly. “If I could see you? If you were just… a person?”
You close your eyes. “I do.”
“I think I’m starting to hate this wall,” she says, so quietly it sounds like a secret. “But I’m terrified that if I know who you are. If you’re not just a voice in the wall, everything would change. And this…I need this”
You try to keep your voice steady. “I’ll still be here. No matter what side you’re on.”
She laughs again, but it’s wet this time. “You don’t understand. I need this. I need you. And I hate how much I do.”
“I know.”
“I tell everyone I’m fine. That I’m strong. That I love what I do. But when I come here, I don’t have to lie.”
You lean your forehead gently against the divider. “You never did.”
She exhales shakily.
“I think if this place disappeared, I would too.”
Your heart breaks a little, even though you’ve been bracing for it all year.
“Then I won’t let it disappear.”
“I know we pretend we don’t know each other,” she says after a while. “And maybe that makes it easier. But sometimes I wonder… if I met you on the street, would I recognize your voice? Would I stop and turn around?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
She laughs softly through what sounds like a tear sliding down her cheek. “I probably wouldn’t. And maybe that’s a good thing.”
You speak through the ache in your throat. “You deserve to be seen as more than what the world tries to take from you.”
“I think the only version of me that feels real anymore,” she says, “is the one who sits in this booth.”
“You don’t have to hold everything alone.”
“Can I give you some of it?” she asks, almost like a plea.
“All of it,” you say.
When the hour begins to close, neither of you moves. The silence stretches out, not comfortable, but necessary.
“I don’t want to leave,” she admits. “I don’t want to go back to pretending.”
“I’ll be here,” you promise, “when you’re ready to come back.”
She lingers for a long moment, fingertips brushing the wood between you like it’s the closest she can come to touching something real.
And then, in a whisper: “Thank you for remembering me. Even when I forget myself.”
She doesn’t say goodbye.
She never does.
But this time, you hear her crying as she leaves. And it sounds like the kind of pain only the quiet can hold.
Chapter 8: 2024 – The Confession
The booth door creaked shut, and for a moment, all you could hear was the soft hitch in her breathing. She always took a second before speaking, like she had to put down whatever mask she wore outside before she could even begin to be herself here. But tonight, she didn’t just seem tired—she seemed undone.
You could feel it in the air. The kind of stillness that only came after someone had spent too long holding it all in.
When she finally spoke, her voice was almost unrecognizable.
“I think I’m in love with a voice.”
You blinked. Not because you were surprised. But because somewhere inside you, you’d been waiting for that sentence—dreading it, hoping for it, needing it.
“It sounds ridiculous,” she added, trying to laugh, but it came out thin, frayed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name. I’ve never seen your face. And yet… this hour… every year, it’s the only time I feel like I can breathe. The only place I’m not performing.”
You leaned forward, the wooden partition between you and her more solid than ever.
“It’s not ridiculous,” you said softly.
She exhaled, like she’d been waiting for you to say that.
“I keep thinking,” she said, “if we ever saw each other outside this room—really saw each other—would it feel the same? Or would it break whatever this is? Because I don’t want to lose this. I really, really don’t.”
You didn’t answer right away. Because you’d thought the same thing. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the middle of crowded places, wondering if she was nearby and you’d never know. The barrier protected you both, but it had started to feel like a cage.
“Maybe the wall’s the only thing keeping us safe,” you said. “But maybe it’s also the only thing keeping us apart.”
She was quiet for a long time.
“What would you do,” she whispered, “if I crossed it?”
You opened your mouth, but no words came. You didn’t know the answer. Or maybe you did, and it scared you too much to say it out loud.
She shifted in her seat, her voice steadier now, but no less vulnerable.
“I’m doing okay,” she said, as if to change the subject. “At least, that’s what I tell everyone. The girls and I… we’ve grown a lot. IVE is bigger than we ever expected. We just finished a tour, and everyone’s saying we’re doing great. But…”
Her voice caught. You waited.
“The cameras are never off,” she murmured. “Even when they are. There’s this… constant pressure to be the ‘center’. To be perfect. People say it like a compliment—‘She’s like a doll.’ But dolls don’t get to have bad days. Dolls don’t cry. Dolls don’t grow tired.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I forget who I am. I don’t remember what food I liked before I debuted. I don’t know what music I’d listen to if no one else could hear. I forgot my favorite…everything.”
You swallowed. There was nothing easy to say to that.
“But here,” she said, her voice trembling, “with you, I feel like I’m still someone. Not an idol. Not a product. Just… a girl. A girl who still remembers how to feel.”
You drew in a breath, slow and deliberate.
“Just because you carry something well,” you said gently, “doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy.”
She was silent again. You imagined her, curled against the wooden wall, staring at nothing. You could almost feel her heartbeat through the grain.
“There you go again.” she whispered.
“I think I’m scared to need you,” she said suddenly. “Because I do. I really do. I think about this booth when I’m thousands of miles away. I replay your words when I’m smiling for people who want something from me. And sometimes, I forget that you’re just a voice. That you might not even think about me when I’m gone.”
You couldn’t stop the ache in your chest.
“I do think about you,” you said. “More than I should.”
There was a long pause. You weren’t sure if you’d said too much, or not enough.
“Do you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Every day.”
She didn’t speak again for a while, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things neither of you were quite ready to say.
“I wish I could see your face,” she said eventually. “Not because I want to ruin this. But because I want to know what kind of eyes can see me so clearly when no one else can.”
You swallowed hard.
“Maybe someday.”
“Would it be wrong,” she asked, “if I said I wanted to cross the wall, but not yet?”
“Not wrong,” you said. “Just honest.”
“Then I’ll stay here. For now.”
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.
But you stayed in that silence with her. You let it wrap around you both like a blanket neither of you wanted to lift.
Because even though you were still pretending not to know each other—still clinging to anonymity like a raft—you both knew the truth:
She wasn’t just a voice behind a wall anymore.
She was your voice.
And you were hers.
Chapter 9: 2025 – The Door Between Us
She enters the booth with a different kind of quiet.
You’ve memorized the sound of her arrival over the years—always soft, a hesitant shuffle, the sigh of someone who’s been holding in too much for too long. But this time, it’s lighter. Not weightless, not without pain, but less like she’s collapsing under something invisible.
You don’t speak right away. Neither does she.
For a while, it’s just breathing. Shared air. Familiar silence.
Then her voice, a little raspier than you remember. “You still remember.”
“I remember a lot of things,” you say gently.
You can hear the smile in her voice. “You always do.”
She pauses, as if waiting for the rest to settle. “I almost didn’t come this year.”
Your breath catches. “Why?”
“I was scared it wouldn’t be enough anymore,” she says, honest. “That just hearing your voice would make me want more. Or that I’d feel like I’d outgrown this.”
“And did you?”
“No,” she whispers. “If anything, it’s worse. You’re still the only place I can exhale.”
You don’t reply right away. There’s a heaviness in your chest that words don’t quite reach. So instead, you say softly, “I’m glad you came back.”
“I always do,” she says, a little too quickly. “Even if part of me hopes you’ll say something reckless one day. Something that makes this fall apart.”
There’s silence again. Not cold, but charged.
“How’s everything?” you ask finally. “I saw the comeback. It’s good. You seemed… good.”
She lets out a small laugh. “That’s what I’m supposed to look like. That’s the whole game, right? Appearances. But yeah… this year was different.”
“How so?”
“I stopped trying to be palatable,” she says. “For the first time, I said no to things that made me feel like glass. I started writing in a notebook again. Took dance classes for fun, not for stage. I even told a fan on a fancall last month that I was struggling—and she cried. And I cried. Because she said I helped her. And I didn’t know I was still helping anyone.”
You don’t realize you’ve clenched your fists until your nails dig into your palms. “You’re still helping me.”
You doesn’t answer at first. Then softly, “Even after all this time?”
“Especially after all this time.”
She exhales, shaky. “It’s weird, isn’t it? You know the version of me that no one else does. But I don’t even know what your face looks like.”
“Would it change things?”
“I don’t know anymore,” she admits. “Last year, I think it terrified me. Now I think… I think it’s the not knowing that’s killing me.”
You’re quiet for a long time. Then you say it—the thing you’ve held back for too many years.
“You say I always say the right thing. But that’s because I see you clearly. Not the version everyone edits and filters and picks apart. Just you. The one who laughs when she’s tired, who whispers when she’s scared, who shows up every year even when she doesn’t know why. You’re amazing. I just think you don’t see it.”
She goes quiet.
Then: “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
You don’t flinch. “You’re not amazing just because I said it. You’re amazing. I’m just reminding you.”
“Getting lazy, are we? Reusing words of wisdom now.” She jokes, but you feel something beneath the surface, trepidation, fear, even.
Silence again. But it isn’t empty. It’s trembling with something.
“You’ve been my secret,” she says suddenly. “Like a little piece of the world no one else knows about. But I don’t think I want you to be a secret anymore.”
You swallow. “What are you saying?”
She takes a breath. “I don’t want to wonder anymore. I want to know what your eyes look like when you say things that make me feel whole. I want to see if your hands shake when you speak. I want to step outside this booth and still feel brave.”
You don’t speak. You can’t. Your heart is beating too loud.
“I think I’m going to wait outside… for five minutes,” she says.
You sit still, listening like her words are something fragile and alive.
“If you want this to stay just what it is—an hour, a memory, something you tuck away again—I’ll understand. I will, and I’ll see you here again in a year” she says, almost like she’s trying to convince herself. “But if you’ve ever… if any part of you wants to know what this is outside these walls…”
She trails off. You hear her swallow.
“Then come out before those five minutes are over.”
She doesn’t say “please.” She doesn’t have to.
A breath. A silence.
Then the soft sound of the door creaking open and then gently closing.
And she’s gone.
The room feels hollow without her voice. It always does, but this time the silence has teeth. You sit, frozen, her words ringing in your head louder than anything she’s said before.
Five minutes.
You think of every version of her you’ve met through that barrier. The broken one. The exhausted one. The one who laughed in defiance. The one who whispered things no one else got to hear. You think of her voice—the way it always trembled when she was trying not to cry, and the way it steadied when she said something that mattered.
You stand.
Your hands are shaking.
The door groans open, and outside, there’s the hum of life again. But just a few feet away—near the alley wall, hugging her arms close—is her.
She turns slowly when she hears you.
Wonyoung.
No barrier. No booth. Just her.
She’s wearing a hoodie, hair pulled into a loose bun—eyes darker and softer than you remember, though you’ve never actually seen them since that fateful day. And yet, it feels familiar. Almost too familiar.
There’s a stunned kind of stillness between you. The world hushes.
Her lips part in disbelief, and she lets out a tiny laugh—part surprise, part relief, part wonder. “You.”
You smile, nerves and warmth tangled in your chest. “Me.”
“I didn’t want this to stay just a dream.” You continue, looking at her with a small smile
She takes a few small steps forward, hesitant, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she moves too fast.
“I used to imagine this moment,” she says softly. “Your face. Your smile. I’d replay your voice in my head on the hard days. You were my anchor, even when I didn’t know your name, or how you looked.”
You meet her gaze and feel the weight of everything unspoken settle gently between you. “And you were always the only one I waited for. Every year.”
She blinks, and the tears are closer now, but she doesn’t look away. “I don’t want to pretend anymore,” she whispers. “But I’m still scared.”
You reach for her hand—slowly, carefully—and when your fingers brush, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.
“I am too,” you say. “But maybe we can be scared… together.”
A pause. Her hand curls around yours.
Then, with a small, shy smile, she tilts her head and says, almost playfully, “So… what now?”
You smile back. “Now? We find out what happens when the hour doesn’t end.”
She squeezes your hand gently, grounding herself in the contact. Then she lifts her gaze, and her eyes soften, filled with something tender and bright and unmistakably hers.
“Can I still pretend,” she whispers, voice trembling just slightly, “that I don’t know you?”
You laugh, brushing your thumb along her knuckles. “Only if I get to pretend I’m not half way there already”
That’s when the tear finally slips down her cheek, but she’s smiling.
And then—like it’s the simplest thing in the world—she lifts her hand, just a little unsteady, and holds it out to you.
“Hi,” she says, voice barely above a breath, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Wonyoung.”
You smile, the kind that rises slowly, like something long-held and hard-won.
You take her hand a little tighter, just enough so she knows you’re not letting go anytime soon.
“Hi,” you say, voice soft and certain. “It’s really, really nice to meet you, Wonyoung. My name is Y/N”
You pause, heart stammering in your chest, then add—
“I’ve been waiting a long time to say that.”
She laughs, and this time there’s no hesitation. Just joy. Just relief. Just her. Jang Wonyoung. Not the idol. Not a doll. Just the girl behind the barrier.
a/n: This is a fem reader fic, but all are welcome. Reader's gender doesn't really have a bearing on the story. also, @songsofvenus, i did it.
WC:9761
Full Moon: The “First” meet
“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”
The tavern always smells like honey and smoke.
It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s been there longer than memory — walls stained with laughter, ceiling beams holding whispers of too many winters. Outside, the night hums with music and the low buzz of insects. The moon hangs heavy above the hills, full, swollen and silver, the kind that looks close enough to touch if you reached just high enough.
You push the door open and step inside. Warmth greets you first, then noise. Someone’s playing a fiddle near the hearth, a tune bright enough to lift the heart but old enough to sound like it’s been carried through generations.
You find a seat at the counter, halfway between solitude and company. You don’t know why you came here tonight — only that something pulled you, a quiet gravity that feels older than reason.
Elias, the barkeep, wipes his hands on a linen rag and gives you a look that sits somewhere between surprise and something else entirely. It’s brief, fleeting.
“Evening,” he says simply, voice gravelly from years of laughter and smoke. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
You smile, shaking your head. “Just passing through.”
He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s looking for a detail he can’t quite find. Then he nods, turning to pour you a drink. “Travelers always come after the full moon,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
You blink. “Sorry?”
“Nothing.” He slides a tankard across the counter, golden mead sloshing softly against its sides. “Sweetest we’ve got. Bit too much honey, if you ask me.”
Before you can answer, a voice rings out from behind you — smooth, lilting, carrying laughter even before the words take shape.
“You say that every time, Elias, and you’re still wrong. There’s no such thing as too much honey.”
You turn — and the rest of the tavern seems to fade.
She’s standing by the doorway, framed by moonlight and the chatter of the room, and for a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe.
Her hair catches the firelight like strands of gold spun thin. Her smile is wicked and bright, and her eyes — God, her eyes — gleam with the sort of knowing that makes you feel seen, even when you don’t want to be.
Sophia.
You don’t know her yet, not by name, but she already feels like a memory you should’ve kept.
She glides toward you with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere. Elias groans softly under his breath, but there’s fondness beneath it, a tired affection that sounds like routine.
“Here to argue with me about my mead again?” he asks.
“It’s tradition,” she says, slipping onto the stool beside you. “You can’t have a full moon without our monthly debate.”
You chuckle, glancing between them. “Do you two know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” Elias says.
“Tragically,” Sophia corrects with a grin. “He’s my favorite person to annoy.”
There’s something magnetic about her. She speaks in a rhythm that makes you lean closer without realizing. Every word dances. Every laugh feels like it was meant for you, even when it’s not.
You raise your tankard. “So, you’re the local expert on honey content, then?”
“Only when it comes to mead,” she says, turning her gaze toward you, sharp and playful. “Everything else, I’m still figuring out.”
You smile, already lost.
There’s no other way to describe it — you fall for her right then. Not slowly, not carefully. Instantly. Like you’d been walking a familiar path and suddenly realized the stars were brighter because she was standing under them.
She tells you about the town — the festivals, the flower stalls in the square, the way the cobblestones glisten after the rain. She speaks in colors, and somehow you can see every one. You tell her bits about yourself, small things — your travels, the people you’ve met, the way the forest looked when you arrived at dusk.
She listens like it’s all facinating, but her eyes flicker, just for a second, a glint of something you can’t decipher.
The tavern grows louder, but your world narrows until it’s just her voice, her laugh, her fingers tracing circles on the rim of her glass. She leans in, her shoulder brushing yours, and something electric hums between you.
“Do you always charm strangers this easily?” you ask, trying to sound playful instead of awestruck, or lovestruck.
“Only the interesting ones,” she says softly.
Elias passes by again, shaking his head. He catches Sophia’s eye — and for an instant, his expression softens. Then he’s gone, moving down the bar, refilling drinks, pretending not to look back.
You don’t see it. You’re too busy watching Sophia tilt her head back to drink, the firelight catching her throat, her smile curving like a secret.
Time slips strangely when you’re around her. One minute, you’re strangers. The next, you’re laughing like old friends, knees brushing beneath the counter.
When the crowd begins to thin, she looks toward the door. “Come on,” she says, standing. “You can’t waste a full moon indoors.”
You follow her out without question.
Outside, the night is soft and golden. The moon rests low above the horizon, enormous and impossibly bright. The air smells like clover and pine and the faint sweetness of mead still on your breath.
You walk side by side down the dirt road, your hands brushing every so often. The silence between you feels easy — not empty, just waiting to be filled.
When you turn back, she’s already watching you. There’s something in her gaze — a glimmer of affection, but something else too, something you can’t quite name.
It doesn’t matter. Not tonight.
All you know is that the world feels right beside her. That maybe you were supposed to walk into that tavern tonight. That maybe you were supposed to meet her.
And so you smile, and she smiles back — that wide, luminous grin that could outshine the moon itself.
Later, when she says goodnight, you think of something stupid like fate.
You fall asleep with her laughter still echoing in your head.
And when you dream, you dream of the same tavern, the same moonlight, the same laugh
Waning Gibbous: The “First” picnic
You wake to sunlight and the faint scent of honey still clinging to your sleeves — a sweet reminder of the night before. The tavern, the laughter, the way Sophia said your name like she was tasting it. You’ve been replaying every moment since, like a song you can’t get out of your head.
You don’t expect to see her again.
That’s what makes the knock at your door so startling.
“Good morning!”
Her voice is unmistakable — warm and lilting, with that soft musicality that makes your heart do something stupid. You open the door to find Sophia standing there in the early light, holding a picnic basket and smiling like she’s been waiting for you all along.
She’s wearing a light dress the color of cream and sunlight, and her hair’s tied up with a ribbon that catches the breeze.
You blink, still trying to wake up. “Sophia?”
“Do you know any other Sophias who bring you breakfast at ungodly hours?” she asks, pretending to frown.
“It’s not that early,” you say automatically, even though it definitely is.
Her grin widens. “See? You’re already defending me. That’s a good sign.”
You can’t help but laugh. “So, breakfast, huh?”
“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “technically lunch. But breakfast sounds more romantic.”
You don’t even hesitate when she gestures for you to come along. Somehow, following Sophia feels as natural as breathing.
The two of you walk out of town and into the fields, where the grass bends in soft waves and the air smells faintly of clover. Sophia talks as she walks, hands moving animatedly — about the best pastries in the market, or about how Elias still doesn’t know how to pour mead without spilling some.
You mostly listen, stealing glances when you think she’s not looking. Her words come easily, full of color and rhythm — and every so often, she glances your way as if to make sure you’re still smiling.
You are. You can’t not.
When you reach the meadow, Sophia spreads out a checkered blanket and unpacks the basket with a flourish.
“Behold,” she declares, dramatically lifting a jar, “my greatest weakness: strawberry jam.”
“Your greatest weakness?” you tease. “Not bad dancing? Or too much talking? Or that thing you do with your nose?”
“Excuse me,” she says, pretending to be offended. “I am an excellent dancer and a delightful conversationalist. Also, I’ll have you know that my nose is adorable.”
“Debatable.”
She gasps, hand over her chest. “You wound me.”
You grin. “Maybe I’ll make it up to you with a compliment.”
She perks up. “Go on.”
You pause, pretending to think. “You have a nice… basket.”
Sophia groans, throwing a grape at you. You catch it midair — barely — and she claps, laughing.
“Fine,” she says. “You get partial redemption.”
The picnic is simple but perfect — flaky bread, cheese, strawberries, and the jam she swears could solve wars. You eat until you’re full, and then some, talking about nothing and everything: the weather, favorite colors, childhood dreams.
She tells you she used to sneak onto the roof to look at stars, because she liked pretending they could hear her.
You tell her you used to name every stray cat in your neighborhood.
“Every single one?”
“Even the mean ones.”
She laughs softly. “That’s very you.”
You raise a brow. “What does that mean?”
“It means you look at things like they’re worth loving,” she says, voice lighter than air — but there’s a softness in her gaze that makes your chest ache a little.
After lunch, she convinces you to play a dice game she claims is “incredibly simple.”
It’s not.
Ten minutes later, she’s giggling so hard she can’t even roll straight.
“Wait, wait,” you protest, pointing at her cup. “You’re making up rules as we go!”
“Am not!”
“Then explain how I just lost twenty points because my dice rolled an even number.”
“It’s a bonus penalty,” she says, completely deadpan.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You groan. “You’re insufferable.”
Sophia beams. “And you’re adorable when you’re losing.”
Your face heats instantly, which only makes her laugh harder. “You know,” she adds, grinning, “you make this too easy.”
You lie back on the blanket in mock defeat. “You’re evil.”
She flops down beside you, her hair brushing your shoulder. “Maybe. But at least I’m cute about it.”
You can’t argue with that.
For a while, the two of you just lie there, watching clouds drift lazily across the sky.
Sophia hums — a tune you swear you’ve heard before, though you can’t place it. It feels like how sunlight sounds.
“Do you ever think,” she says quietly, “that maybe the sky’s too big for one person to look at alone?”
You glance over. She’s smiling, eyes closed, face tilted toward the warmth.
“Then it’s a good thing you invited me,” you say softly.
She opens one eye, looking at you, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the world narrows down to that one look — the little spark in her gaze, the quiet recognition of something she won’t name yet.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It is.”
Later, she kicks off her shoes and wanders barefoot into the stream that runs along the edge of the meadow. The water sparkles around her ankles, catching sunlight in little bursts.
“Come on!” she calls. “It’s not cold!”
“It looks cold.”
“It’s refreshing,” she insists, splashing water toward you.
You yelp as it hits your arm. “Sophia!”
She laughs so hard she almost falls. You chase her in, splashing back until both of you are soaked, breathless, laughing like children.
When you finally stumble back onto the grass, dripping and exhausted, she sits beside you and hands you a towel from the basket like she knew this would happen.
“You planned this,” you accuse.
“Maybe,” she admits, grin mischievous. “You always smile more when you’re caught off guard.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not fooling anyone.
By the time the sun dips low, painting everything in gold, you’re both stretched out on the blanket again. The air is still warm, the world quiet except for the hum of cicadas.
Sophia props herself up on one elbow, watching you. Her eyes catch the last of the light, glowing amber.
“What?” you ask, suddenly shy.
“Nothing,” she says softly. “Just thinking that you look exactly how today feels.”
You blink. “What does that mean?”
She smiles. “Like sunshine. Like something I don’t want to forget.”
You don’t realize how close she’s leaned until you can see the tiny flecks of light in her irises.
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“Then don’t forget,” you say quietly.
Her smile falters — not in sadness, but in that way people do when they’re feeling too much, when feeling overwhelms in a tidal wave. “I’ll try not to,” she whispers.
You walk back together as the sky deepens to violet. The road is lined with fireflies, and she catches one in her hands, letting it glow between her fingers.
“See?” she says. “Even the little lights follow us home.”
Elias is sweeping outside the tavern when you arrive. He gives Sophia a long, unreadable look, and she offers him a cheerful wave.
“Evening, Elias!”
He nods slowly. “Evening, Sophia. At the waterfalls again?”
Sophia just smiles. “You always remember, don’t you?”
“Hard to Forget.”
You frown, not understanding, but Sophia just squeezes your arm gently. “Ignore him,” she says lightly.
And then she’s looking at you again, eyes soft, almost hopeful. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you promise.
When you finally lie down that night, the scent of wildflowers still clings to your clothes, and you fall asleep smiling, the sound of her laughter echoing in your mind.
You dream of sunlight and honey and the way Sophia looked at you — like she already knew you’d follow her anywhere.
Third Quarter: The “First” Date
The sun was just beginning to sink when you saw her again. It was a daily occurrence by now, Sophia seemed to always know where to find you, spending at least a little of every day with you.
The sky had turned gold around the edges, a warm sort of light that made everything feel softer—the cobblestones, the chatter spilling from market stalls, even the wind. You were helping old Mr. Brehn at the bakery when you caught sight of her through the open doorway. Sophia, standing there like she’d stepped straight out of a dream you’d been too afraid to admit you were having.
She was laughing at something the flower vendor said, a ribbon of sound that wrapped around you, bright and unhurried. Her hair caught the last of the sunlight, haloed in gold, and she wore a soft cream dress this time, with her sleeves tied up and a faint dusting of flour smudged across her wrist—as though she’d been somewhere else, busy being radiant.
“Don’t stare too long,” Brehn said, elbowing you with a grin. “You’ll burn your bread.”
You pretended to focus on the dough. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were absolutely staring.”
You were.
And when she spotted you through the doorway, her smile widened like she’d just remembered your name after a long time. “There you are,” she said, stepping inside.
“Me?”
“You,” she confirmed, tapping your chest lightly with one flour-dusted finger. “I thought I might find you here.”
“You were looking for me?” you tried to sound casual, but the words tripped over each other on their way out.
Sophia tilted her head, pretending to think. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just following the smell of cinnamon. But either way…” she smiled, bright as a sunrise. “I’m glad it led me to you.”
Brehn made a sound behind you—something between a chuckle and a sigh—and muttered, “Young love, gods save them,” before shuffling to the back room.
Sophia leaned against the counter, eyes glinting. “Walk with me?”
You nodded before you even realized she’d asked.
The streets were quieter by the time you left the square. Lanterns had begun to bloom open one by one, their light flickering gently across the cobblestones. Sophia led you along the river path, the air full of late-summer sweetness and distant music from the town’s open-air musicians.
She carried a small satchel slung across her shoulder, and halfway down the path, she stopped and spread a blanket beneath a willow tree, right where the moonlight dripped onto the grass like silver ink.
“Sit,” she said, patting the space beside her.
You sat.
Out came a small collection of pastries, wrapped in parchment, and a flask that smelled faintly of honey and berries. There was even a single daisy tucked in a glass bottle of water—slightly wilted, but clearly chosen with care.
You smiled. “You’ve thought this through.”
She looked pleased. “It’s called preparation. You should try it sometime.”
“Oh, is that what this is? Preparation? For what?”
“For me charming you,” she said matter-of-factly, handing you a pastry. “Obviously.”
You almost choked laughing, and she grinned like she’d been waiting for exactly that.
The evening unfolded like it had been written in the stars. She talked, and you listened, though sometimes it was hard to tell which one of you was doing more of the talking. Sophia had a way of pulling the world closer with her words—stories about constellations that guided travelers, about a lake that froze into glass once every hundred years, about a child who swore they saw the moon blink.
You didn’t know how much of it was true, but the way she spoke made truth feel like a secondary concern.
At one point, a gentle breeze lifted her hair, and she pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. “The wind adores me,” she said.
“Can you blame it?” you replied before you could stop yourself.
Her grin faltered just long enough for color to rise in her cheeks. “That was smooth.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t take it back,” she interrupted, nudging your shoulder. “It was good. I’ll allow it.”
You both laughed then, your shoulders brushing, and for a moment the world seemed to tilt slightly, like it was holding its breath for you.
When the laughter faded, Sophia leaned her head against your shoulder. The movement was so natural you didn’t even flinch. You just breathed in—the faint scent of wildflowers and honey clinging to her hair.
“You smell like cinnamon,” she murmured.
“You told me to bring something that makes me happy,” you said softly.
Her head lifted slightly, and she blinked at you. “And you brought… roasted chestnuts?”
You hesitated, smiling. “No. I brought myself.”
There was a pause—long enough for the crickets to fill it—before Sophia laughed, the sound bubbling up warm and real. “That’s terrible,” she said, but she was smiling so hard her nose crinkled.
“It made you laugh, didn’t it?”
She pretended to pout. “Barely.”
“You laughed.”
“Only a little. But not because the joke was funny, only because you’re cute.”
“Still counts.”
Sophia giggled again, the kind of sound that made your ribs ache with happiness. And then she reached for your hand—casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world—and kept it there, fingers intertwined.
You watched the moonlight play over her face, turning her eyes to molten silver. “You know,” she said quietly, “the moon’s at the third Quarter tonight.”
“Is that bad luck?” you asked.
“Maybe.” She smiled softly. “Or maybe it means there’s more to come.”
Her thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, tracing slow circles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was tender, something that filled the air instead of breaking it.
When it grew late, she walked you home. You passed the fountain where children played during the day, now quiet under the silver light. Every now and then, she’d nudge you with her shoulder, like she was checking to make sure you were still beside her.
At your door, she stopped. The world was hushed—just you, her, and the sound of the river in the distance.
“The moon’s changing,” she said softly. “It always does.”
You nodded, not really knowing what to say.
Sophia looked up, eyes reflecting the stars, and for a moment you swore you saw something flicker behind them—a shadow of sorrow quickly tucked away. But then she smiled again, bright and certain.
“Promise me you’ll meet me again tomorrow?”
“As long as the moon’s still there,” you said, half-joking.
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then I suppose we’ll never run out of tomorrows.”
And before you could reply, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. Just a whisper of a thing—light, fleeting—but it stole the air right out of your lungs.
Then she was gone, her cloak sweeping behind her, laughter echoing faintly down the lantern-lit street.
You stood there long after she disappeared, staring at the moon, heart racing in a way that didn’t feel entirely new—but you couldn’t understand why.
All you knew was that you were smiling, and the night felt like it had been waiting for you both.
Waning Crescent: The “First” dance
The town was unrecognizable that night.
Every month, the streets were dressed in silk banners and candlelight, the smell of roasted chestnuts and honey cakes drifting through the air. But this time—it all felt different. Maybe it was because you’d spent the whole day with Sophia, helping her carry lanterns for the children to hang by the river. Maybe it was because every time you looked up, you found her already looking back, smiling that secret, knowing smile that made your pulse stutter.
The moon hung low and sharp in the sky, a silver sickle slicing through the dark. The Waxing Crescent. A sliver of light that promised something was coming, though neither of you knew what it would take to get there.
Sophia was impossible not to notice that night.
She wore blue. Not the kind of blue that faded into the background, but the kind that shimmered when the lanterns caught it—like the reflection of moonlight on still water. Her hair was braided loosely down her back, the braid unraveling every time she turned to laugh at something someone said.
You’d barely stepped into the square when she found you. She didn’t even say hello. She just grinned, eyes bright, and grabbed your hand.
“There you are,” she said breathlessly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” you echoed, startled by her choice of word.
“Mm,” she hummed. “That you promised to dance with me.”
“I don’t remember promising that.”
She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Then maybe it was a dream.” Her fingers tightened around yours. “But if it was, I’m glad you showed up anyway.”
You laughed—because that was the thing about Sophia. She could say something utterly ridiculous, and yet somehow, you’d still want to believe every word of it.
The musicians struck up their first tune—a lively reel that sent the crowd spinning and clapping. Sophia pulled you straight into the chaos before you could even protest.
“I can’t dance,” you said, nearly tripping over your own boots.
“You’ll learn,” she replied, her laughter spilling into the music. “Just follow me.”
“I’ll step on your toes.”
“You say that like you haven’t already.”
Her teasing was quick and light, and soon your nerves melted under the sound of her joy. You moved the way she told you to—left, right, spin—and somehow, between her laughter and your stumbling, the rhythm began to find you both.
At one point, she twirled away from you, her skirt flaring, and the world blurred around her. When she turned back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes soft with something you couldn’t quite name.
The music slowed. Couples began to draw closer.
Sophia stepped into your space, one hand resting lightly against your chest, the other still holding yours. You could feel her heartbeat through your fingers, quick but steady, like it had been waiting for this.
“See?” she whispered. “You’re not terrible at it.”
“Because you’re doing all the work,” you said quietly.
“Maybe,” she said, smiling up at you. “But you’re trying. That’s what counts.”
For a while, neither of you spoke. You just moved together, slow and quiet, surrounded by laughter and candlelight. Every now and then, you’d catch her looking at you—not in the playful way she usually did, but like she was memorizing the lines of your face.
It should have felt strange, but instead it felt like something inside you recognized her gaze. Like you’d been waiting for it.
Later that night, when most of the lanterns had dimmed and the music softened into something slow and wistful, Sophia led you away from the square.
“Where are we going?” you asked, but she only smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
You walked in companionable silence through the narrow streets until you reached the riverbank. The water shimmered under the crescent moon, scattered with reflections of floating lanterns. Sophia crouched down beside one, tracing her fingers through the rippling light.
“Every month,” she said softly, “they say the lanterns carry wishes upstream. Toward the moon.”
You knelt beside her. “Do you believe that?”
She hesitated, then shook her head lightly. “No. I think the moon already knows what we wish for. It just doesn’t always give it to us. Not in the way we think, at least.”
There was something in the way she said it—tender, almost mournful—but when you turned to look at her, she was smiling again.
“Come on,” she said, reaching into her satchel. She pulled out a small paper lantern, its edges faintly golden from the firelight. “Write something.”
You blinked. “What should I write?”
“Anything.” She grinned. “A wish. A secret. A bad poem.”
You laughed under your breath but took the quill she offered. You hesitated for a long time before writing, the ink pooling at the edge of each letter:
I hope this lasts.
When you handed the lantern back, Sophia didn’t ask what you wrote. She simply leaned closer and whispered, “It will. It’ll last forever”
And for that moment, you believed her.
Together, you set the lantern afloat. It drifted gently down the river, joining the countless others—small, trembling lights on a sea of silver.
Sophia leaned her head against your shoulder, watching it fade into the distance. “The moon looks happy tonight,” she murmured.
“Does it?”
“Mm. Maybe it likes seeing us like this.”
You smiled, eyes on the water. “Then let’s make sure we give it a reason every night.”
Sophia didn’t answer. She just squeezed your hand, her thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, fleeting pattern—one you didn’t yet recognize.
When she finally walked you home, the moon had risen higher, its curve gleaming pale against the dark. You turned at your door, about to thank her for the night, but she spoke first.
“Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Remember this,” she said quietly. “Even if… you don’t remember me.”
You blinked, startled. “What?”
Sophia smiled quickly, brushing it off with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I mean—just promise you won’t forget how perfect tonight was.”
“Oh.” You smiled back, still a little dazed. “That, I can do.”
And when she leaned in, her lips brushed your cheek, softer than moonlight.
When you closed your eyes that night, her laughter still echoed behind your ribs. You didn’t know what you were falling into—only that you were already in too deep.
New Moon: The “First” Sign
The night of the new moon was darker than it had any right to be. Not the kind of dark that feels empty, but the kind that hums with quiet life—the kind where every candle flicker feels like it’s standing guard against something vast and unseen. The sky was a blank sheet above the town, the stars trembling faintly against it, and as you climbed the path to Sophia’s cottage, the world felt softer, slower.
Her house sat on the crest of the hill, its windows glowing amber against the blue-black night. You could smell the lilac before you reached the door—the scent that seemed to follow her everywhere. Inside, she’d said, there would be dinner waiting. “Something sweet,” she’d promised, “but not too sweet. Balance is everything.”
When you knocked, she opened the door before you could even lower your hand.
“You’re early,” she teased, stepping aside to let you in. “Or maybe I’m late. I never know anymore.”
The cottage was just as you’d imagined—small and a little chaotic, but warm in a way that made your chest ache. Books were stacked in uneven piles along the walls, spilling over tables and chairs. Dried flowers hung from ceiling beams, their stems brittle but still fragrant. A cat-shaped teapot steamed quietly on the stove, and the fire snapped in the hearth like it was trying to keep up with her.
And then there was Sophia.
Her hair was loose tonight, falling in soft waves that caught the firelight. Her dress looked borrowed from the sunlight itself—simple linen, tied loosely at the waist, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she stirred something golden in a small pot.
You leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “You’re glowing.”
She laughed, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s the honey. I spill it on myself every time. I’m half sugar at this point.”
You grinned. “Elias told me you still argue with him about how much he puts in his mead.”
Sophia groaned, lowering her head dramatically. “Because he refuses to understand proportions! A spoon too little and it ruins everything.”
“Seems like you’d know all about balance.”
She turned, brow lifting, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Are you calling me sweet?”
“I didn’t say that,” you said, fighting a smile.
Her laugh was soft, easy—the kind that slipped under your ribs and stayed there. “You didn’t have to.”
While she worked, you wandered around the room, drawn by the clutter. Everything in her house seemed touched by memory: old glass bottles filled with dried petals, pressed leaves, maps with little red Xs marked in corners. It was the kind of home that told stories, one without a single empty surface.
Then something on the mantle caught your eye.
A small object, half-hidden behind a stack of worn books—a wooden sculpture of a hand. Its size was odd, its surface darkened with age. You leaned closer, realizing it was shaped like a monkey’s paw, its fingers curled unnaturally. Four were outstretched, and one—just one—was half drawn toward its palm.
You stared for a moment. The wood looked smooth, as though it had been touched too many times, worn down by time or memory.
Before you could look closer, Sophia’s voice floated from behind you—gentle, but firm in a way you hadn’t heard before.
“Careful with that.”
You turned, caught off guard. She was standing a few feet away, wiping her hands on a towel, her tone casual—but her eyes were fixed on you, sharp and unreadable.
“Sorry,” you said quickly. “Didn’t mean to snoop. What is it?”
Sophia hesitated for a breath too long. Then she smiled, light and easy again, slipping past you to place herself between you and the mantle.
“Something old,” she said simply, brushing a bit of dust from the wood before setting a candle in front of it, as if to hide it behind the flame. “A keepsake. Useless thing, really.”
Her voice softened again, playful, warm. “Now, are you going to stand there staring at my shelves, or are you going to taste the soup I nearly burned waiting for you?”
You blinked, disarmed by how quickly the moment shifted. “You? Burn soup? I thought you were perfect.”
She snorted, leading you toward the small table by the hearth. “Perfect people don’t spill honey on themselves every night. Sit down.”
You did. She served you a bowl of something golden and fragrant—it shimmered faintly when it caught the light, like sunlight trapped in broth. She sat across from you, chin resting on her hand as she watched you take the first bite.
“It’s amazing,” you said immediately. “What did you put in this?”
“Trade secret,” she said with a sly grin. “If I told you, you’d never come back.”
“Maybe I’d come back anyway.”
That earned a pause. Her smile faltered for just a second, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she shook her head and laughed softly, reaching over to nudge your bowl. “Eat before I get sentimental.”
You stayed late that night, talking about nothing in particular. She told you about her garden—how she couldn’t keep lavender alive but her thyme grew too fast. You told her about your walks through the woods and how sometimes you thought you heard your name carried in the wind. She laughed, told you that meant the forest liked you.
At some point, she sat on the floor in front of the fire, humming quietly as you leaned against the wall beside her. Her head found your shoulder naturally, like it had always belonged there.
You thought about how every time you saw her, the rest of the world blurred a little. How you felt like you could live your entire life in that cottage, in that small pool of firelight, with her fingers tracing idle circles on your wrist.
When you finally stood to leave, she followed you to the door.
“Stay,” she said softly, just as you reached for the handle.
You turned. “You want me to?”
She smiled faintly. “I always do.”
Her voice had a strange echo to it then—a quiet longing that made something in your chest twist. But before you could ask, she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to your cheek, feather-light.
“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s late. The moon’s gone tonight, remember?”
As you stepped outside, you glanced back once more.
She was standing by the hearth, her silhouette painted gold by the firelight. And though her expression was soft, her gaze flicked, just once, toward the mantle—toward that strange little hand you’d nearly touched.
The candle she’d set before it burned lower, wax pooling at its base. The wooden fingers hadn’t moved, but you could’ve sworn that one of them, the curled one, cast a slightly longer shadow than before.
Waxing Crescent: The “First” tears
You wake before dawn to a sound too fragile to belong to the world outside. It takes you a few seconds to realize it’s coming from Sophia.
The fire has gone out sometime in the night, leaving only faint embers pulsing in the hearth like slow, dying hearts. The light that fills the room is the silver kind that arrives before sunrise—the light that belongs to ghosts and memories. It spills across the wooden floorboards, across the table with its half-melted candles, and finally across Sophia’s face.
She’s turned toward the window, half-hidden by her hair. Her lips are parted. A tear slips quietly down her cheek.
You’ve seen her in so many forms before—mischievous, stubborn, tired, luminous—but never like this. There’s something ancient about the way she looks now, like a statue that has seen centuries pass in silence. The sight makes your chest ache.
You almost don’t move. She seems so still, so fragile, that even breathing too loud feels like it would break the spell. But when another tear traces its way down, something in you decides for you.
You reach out, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek.
Sophia startles. Her eyes fly open, deep and dark and uncertain. She looks at you like she’s not sure if she’s dreaming—or if she’s still inside whatever dream she just left. Then she exhales, softly, and whispers your name as if remembering where she is.
“Hey,” you murmur. “You were crying.”
Her lashes flutter. She blinks once, twice, and looks away, toward the dying embers. Her voice, when it comes, is soft—gentle enough to almost make you forget it’s avoidance.
“Was I?”
You nod. “Yeah. You were.”
She pushes herself up slowly, her hair falling over her face as she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. The motion is too casual, too deliberate. “I must’ve been dreaming,” she says. “It happens sometimes.”
“Bad dream?”
Sophia hums, as if she’s deciding how much of the truth she’s willing to share. Finally, she says, “Not bad. Just… too familiar.”
You tilt your head. “Familiar how?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she pulls the blanket tighter around herself and turns her gaze toward the window, where the last sliver of moon hangs low. “There are some things,” she says after a long silence, “that stay with you even when you’ve left them behind. Places. People. Promises.”
There’s a weight in her tone that feels older than her. Something unspoken but heavy, like the echo of prayer still clinging to a ruined temple.
You reach for her hand. “You make it sound like you used to belong to something.”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe I did.”
“Like a church?” you tease gently.
Her smile flickers at that. For a heartbeat, she looks almost wistful. “Something like that,” she murmurs. “Once.”
There’s a quiet in the room after that—an unspoken understanding that you’ve brushed against something she doesn’t talk about. Not because she can’t, but because it hurts to.
You don’t push further. You just keep your hand where it is, your thumb tracing small circles against her skin until her breathing steadies again.
When morning finally arrives, you wake to the scent of smoke and lavender. The hearth burns again, a pot bubbling softly above it. Sophia is at the counter, barefoot and wrapped in her shawl, humming an unfamiliar melody that sounds too structured, too reverent to be a simple tune.
It sounds like a hymn.
You sit up and watch her for a while, the early light washing her in gold. There’s something graceful about the way she moves—a rhythm too deliberate to be casual. Her gestures are small and precise, like she’s performing a ritual she’s forgotten she knows.
When she notices you watching, she smiles. “You should eat,” she says lightly, placing a plate in front of you. “I made something warm.”
You grin, still half-dazed. “You always wake up first. Do you ever sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“You said that like it’s optional.”
She laughs, but it’s quieter than usual. “Old habits,” she says, and you catch the faintest trace of something else beneath her tone—something that sounds almost like confession.
“What kind of habits?”
She glances at you, eyes glimmering. “Ones you don’t need to worry about.”
You chuckle, even as curiosity tugs at you. “You talk like you used to be someone important.”
Sophia’s hand stills on the spoon. For a moment, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then she smiles again, softer this time. “I used to be someone obedient,” she corrects. “That’s not quite the same thing.”
Her words linger in the air, strange and heavy.
You take a bite of the food she’s made, but your eyes drift toward the shelf above the hearth—where something small sits in shadow. A wooden trinket, its surface dark and uneven. You frown, leaning forward just slightly.
It’s a totem. Carved, old, and curled inward.
The sight sends a faint chill crawling down your spine, but you don’t know why.
“What’s that?” you ask.
Sophia’s voice changes so subtly that if you weren’t listening for it, you might have missed it—the note of quiet alarm she hides beneath her calm. “That?” she says, turning toward you, her smile immediate and easy. “Just a keepsake.”
You raise an eyebrow. “From where?”
“From a long time ago.”
“Looks… strange.”
“Most old things do,” she says lightly, and then—before you can ask again—she crosses the room and sets a cup of tea in front of you, her body perfectly positioned between you and the shelf. “Drink before it gets cold.”
Her tone is kind, but her eyes flicker toward the totem for the briefest moment, sharp and assessing, before she looks back at you.
The message is subtle but unmistakable.
She doesn’t want you near it.
You decide not to press. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever that object is—it isn’t just decoration. And the way Sophia stands there, smiling like she’s trying not to betray something, makes you think she’s guarding it.
After breakfast, you both step outside. The world is gray and soft, mist curling low across the valley. Sophia tilts her face to the sky, eyes half-closed, as though listening for something distant.
“You really do like mornings,” you say, watching her.
“They’re the quietest part of the day,” she answers. “Before the world remembers its noise.”
You smile. “You sound like someone giving a sermon.”
She turns to you, sunlight catching her eyes, and for a heartbeat she looks almost ethereal. “Maybe I’ve given one before,” she says with a small shrug.
You laugh, thinking she’s joking. But she doesn’t laugh with you.
Instead, she looks at you for a long, unreadable moment, her expression caught somewhere between affection and sorrow. Then she smiles—a small, fleeting thing—and whispers, “Eat well today, alright? I want you strong.”
You nod, a little confused, but the way she says it makes something warm stir in your chest.
When you leave her cottage that afternoon, the clouds begin to roll in. You turn once, just to wave goodbye. She’s still at the window, hand resting lightly on the frame.
You tell yourself it’s just a trick of the light. But when Sophia’s gaze meets yours through the glass, there’s something there you can’t quite name.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Something older.
Something that feels like prayer.
First Quarter: The “First” Kiss
The night hums soft and low, the way summer nights do when the world decides to be kind for a while. The air smells like wet grass and river stones, touched with the faint sweetness of lilies. You follow the path by memory—past the crooked willow that leans too far, past the old fence where the wood gives way beneath your palm. The moon is fractured tonight, its light scattered in the rippling current below, breaking into pieces every time the water moves.
Sophia stands in the shallows barefoot, her skirt hiked to her knees, hem damp where it brushes the water. The pale gleam of moonlight turns her hair silver. Around her neck, the small pendant you’ve seen a dozen times before glows faintly, like it’s catching more light than it should.
For a moment, you just watch her—how she lifts her hand and lets the cold river thread through her fingers, how she looks like she belongs more to the moonlight than to the ground.
“Hey,” you call softly.
She turns, and her smile hits you like warmth after rain. “You found me.”
“You’re easy to find,” you say. “You glow.”
She laughs, quiet and embarrassed. “That’s the moon, not me.”
You shake your head, stepping closer. “No. It’s definitely you.”
The words come out before you can stop them, as natural as breathing. Lately, everything with her feels like that—instinctive, inevitable. She fills the silence so easily that you forget what life sounded like before her voice existed in it.
She looks down at the water, but not fast enough to hide the color rising in her cheeks. “You always say things like that,” she murmurs.
You grin. “Can’t help it.”
Her eyes flicker up at you—blue in the moonlight, uncertain, searching. You wade in until you’re close enough to see the tremor in her hands. The river folds around your legs, cold and alive, tugging gently at your balance.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” you say.
“Neither should you,” she replies, and then—her smile softens—“but I’m glad you are.”
For a while, neither of you speaks. The current hushes against your ankles. Fireflies blink in the reeds, the kind of quiet magic you only notice when someone else is beside you. Sophia tips her head back to look at the broken moon, and the pendant against her chest flares again—just faintly, like it’s reacting to something unseen.
You catch yourself staring. “That necklace,” you say. “It’s different tonight.”
Her fingers brush over it protectively. “It always shines brightest when the moon’s in pieces,” she says softly, eyes still skyward. “Like it’s trying to put it back together.”
You smile. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”
“Maybe it is,” she whispers, then glances at you. “Everything that remembers love is, a little.”
You don’t understand what she means, but the way she says it—quiet, reverent—makes you want to.
When she looks at you again, her expression has changed. Her eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears that catch the moonlight.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head quickly, as if that could undo the tears. “Nothing,” she says, laughing weakly. “You always ask that.”
“Always?”
Her breath catches—just barely—but then she smiles again. “It doesn’t matter.”
You want to press, but something about her tone tells you not to. So instead, you lift your hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. She doesn’t move away. If anything, she leans into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut.
Her skin is cool from the river, but her pulse beneath your fingertips is racing.
“I love you,” you say.
You don’t plan to, but the words come out anyway, honest and heavy and too full. Because it’s true—because somehow it feels like it’s always been true, like you were already in love with her before you even knew her name.
Sophia’s hands tremble as they rise to your face. Her touch is feather-light at first, then surer, her thumbs tracing the edge of your jaw as if she’s memorizing you. Her voice breaks when she whispers, “You always do.”
You frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
But she only smiles—a sad, radiant smile that feels like the end of something. “You always mean it.”
And before you can ask again, she leans in.
The kiss is soft, hesitant, the kind that feels like both a beginning and an apology. Her lips taste faintly of riverwater and honey, salt from her tears mixing with the sweetness of her breath. You feel her tremble, feel the way her fingers slide up into your hair as though she’s trying to anchor herself to this one perfect moment.
You kiss her back like you’ve been waiting a lifetime for it. Maybe you have.
When you finally pull away, she presses her forehead to yours, breathing you in. Her hands are still on your face, still shaking.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first night,” you whisper.
Her answering laugh is quiet, wet with tears. “You did,” she says softly.
You open your mouth to ask what she means, but she leans in again, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before you can speak. “Don’t ruin it,” she murmurs. “Just let it be.”
You do. You let the silence hold you both.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and riverweed. You shiver a little, and Sophia steps back just enough to study you, her gaze catching on the edge of your shirt where it’s come loose. Her eyes flicker—something sharp and sad passing through them—before she reaches out and gently pulls the fabric back into place.
“What?” you ask.
She shakes her head quickly, forcing a smile. “Nothing. You’ll catch cold if you keep standing there.”
You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “You sound like my mother.”
“Then she must have been wise.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m an idiot?”
Sophia grins—really grins—and you realize how much you’ve missed that look, even though it’s only been hours. “Maybe a little.”
You grin back. The two of you linger by the river until the moon slips lower, until her pendant dims to nothing. And when you finally walk her home, hand in hand, you can still feel the ghost of her kiss against your lips.
It isn’t until later—when you’re washing the river mud from your skin, the lamplight stretching long and soft across your back—that you notice the old scar.
A line, thin and pale, running across your back. You’ve never thought much of it, never remembered where it came from. But tonight, for some reason, when your fingers trace it, your heart stutters—like something inside you is almost remembering.
Outside, the river keeps singing. And somewhere not far away, Sophia stands at her window, watching the moon vanish behind clouds.
Her fingers touch her lips, then her pendant.
Waxing Gibbous: The “First” Goodbye
The night before the full moon was too still — the kind of stillness that felt like holding your breath before something breaks. The air shimmered faintly with silver light, soft and sharp all at once. The meadow was washed in it, all color drained away until even Sophia looked ghostlike, standing in the tall grass with her white dress brushing her knees, her hair unbound and dark as ink.
You thought she was beautiful. You always did.
She turned when she heard your footsteps, her expression soft but unreadable, eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t quite sadness and wasn’t quite peace. Behind her, the moon hung swollen, almost full — a blade of light suspended in the sky.
You smiled when you reached her. “You found our spot again.”
Sophia’s lips lifted, but it wasn’t a smile. “You always say that.”
Her tone was gentle, affectionate even, but there was something underneath it — something so quiet you could almost miss it if not for the way her fingers curled into her palms.
You stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve been distant,” you murmured. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Sophia hesitated, the way she always did when she was deciding whether to tell you the truth or protect you from it. Her gaze drifted upward, to the almost-full moon, and for a moment her face was lit like a painting — every line carved by sorrow and devotion.
“Do you know what tomorrow is?” she asked softly.
You grinned, thinking you knew the answer. “A lunar cycle since we first met?”
She laughed faintly, but it was hollow. “No. Not that.”
You frowned, tilting your head. “Then what?”
Her eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, she looked like she might tell you everything. Then she looked away again. “Do you remember the first time you came here?”
“Of course I do,” you said. “You dragged me here to see fireflies.”
Sophia’s shoulders trembled, though she smiled. “You always say that too.”
You reached for her hand, and she let you take it. Her fingers were cold. When she finally spoke again, her voice was low and careful, like a prayer she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say.
“I used to be a priestess,” she said.
You blinked. “You?”
Her lips curved faintly. “Surprised?”
“A little. You don’t really strike me as the… temple type.”
She laughed softly at that, but it faded quickly. “Maybe I wasn’t very good at it. I thought I understood what faith meant. I thought if I prayed hard enough, the moon would listen.”
You squeezed her hand gently. “Did she?”
Sophia’s eyes filled, not with tears yet, but with something like exhaustion — the kind that comes from carrying the same pain too many times. “She did,” she whispered. “And that’s the problem.”
The wind stirred around you, cool and sweet. You could hear the river beyond the meadow, a steady hush. It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it felt fragile.
Sophia stepped closer until your foreheads touched. Her breath trembled against your skin. “You were dying,” she said, her words breaking apart as she spoke them. “There was blood, and I… I couldn’t lose you.”
You froze, your pulse stuttering. “Sophia—”
“I begged her,” she continued, voice shaking. “I begged the moon to save you. I didn’t care what it cost. And she heard me. She always hears her priestesses.”
Her thumb brushed your cheek, tender and reverent, as if she were memorizing you again.
“She gave you back,” Sophia whispered. “But she didn’t give you whole.”
You stared at her, confused. “What are you saying?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Every time the moon wanes, you forget. And when she waxes, you return. The curse renews itself.”
You blinked, the words sinking like stones you couldn’t hold onto. “That’s not possible.”
Sophia smiled through her tears, shaking her head. “You always say that, too.”
Her hands moved to your shoulders, tracing down your arms until she found the edge of your shirt. She hesitated, then gently slid it aside, her fingertips brushing the long scar across your back — a pale, jagged line that you never remembered earning.
“This,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “This is where it started. You fell in my arms that night. I thought the moon saved you.” Her hand trembled against your skin. “But all she did was make sure I’d lose you over and over again.”
You swallowed hard, words caught in your throat. You wanted to tell her she was wrong, that you’d never forget her, that you’d always find her again — but there was a weight building in your chest, something heavy and cold. The world around you seemed to hum faintly, a vibration you could feel in your bones.
Sophia’s expression broke. She cupped your face in her hands, desperate now. “Please, stay,” she whispered. “Just this once, stay.”
“I’m here,” you said, trying to sound steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You always say that,” she repeated, a tear slipping down her cheek. “And then the next night, you look at me like I’m just some curious stranger.”
Your vision blurred. “Sophia…”
“Shh,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “Don’t fight it. It hurts more when you do.”
You tried to focus on her face — her eyes, her trembling smile, the scent of her hair. You wanted to memorize her, but everything was already slipping, fogging at the edges.
“I’ll remember,” you swore, your voice trembling. “I’ll remember you.”
Sophia let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You said that the first time. And every time after.”
Sophia’s hands cupped your face, trembling so hard it was a wonder she didn’t drop you. Her fingers pressed against your jaw, desperate, worshipful. “No, no, no,” she breathed, voice cracking. “Stay with me. Please—just a little longer.”
You tried to focus on her — the shape of her face in the moonlight, the streaks of tears shining silver down her cheeks — but the world was tilting, spinning away from you. Her voice was soft but distant now, like it came through water.
“Sophia,” you gasped, your breath hitching, your heart tripping over itself. “What’s happening to me?”
Her breath broke on a sob. “Shh,” she whispered, dragging you against her chest, clutching you so tightly you could feel her pulse shuddering against your skin. “It’s okay, love. You’re okay. Just breathe, please—breathe with me.”
You tried. You really did. But every inhale came shorter, shallower. The air refused to stay in your lungs.
“I don’t—” your voice faltered, trembling. “I don’t understand—”
“I know,” she said, brushing your hair back, her hand shaking violently. Her thumb traced the curve of your cheek as though memorizing it. “You don’t have to understand. Just listen to me. Please.”
Your body jerked with another uneven breath. Her forehead pressed against yours, her skin fever-warm, her tears dripping down to mingle with your own.
“It’s just the curse,” she whispered, though her voice broke halfway through. “It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”
Her words hit something inside you — something ancient and frightened. You reached for her hand, fingers weak, trembling. You could barely see now; the moon’s glow blurred and fractured, the edges of the world fading to white.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t go yet.”
You clung to her, your grip slipping. “Sophia…”
She made a sound — something between a sob and a prayer — and pressed her lips to your temple, again and again, her tears falling like rain. “You always love me,” she whispered, voice cracking. “And I never stop.”
You wanted to tell her you weren’t leaving, that you’d stay this time, that you could fight it. But your voice was gone, your mouth barely moving.
“S-Sophia…”
Her name broke apart in your throat.
Sophia’s arms tightened around you as if she could anchor you to this world by sheer will. “I’m here,” she whispered, her breath catching. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
But she wasn’t calm anymore — she was breaking. You felt her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs, her body trembling as though the grief itself might tear her open. Still, she forced her voice steady for you, even as it shattered. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, my love. You can rest now.”
You wanted to say something — anything — but all that came was a breath. You exhaled, slow and final.
Your body stilled.
The night went utterly silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The moon hung swollen and merciless above, lighting the meadow in cruel silver.
Sophia didn’t move. She just held you, your head cradled to her chest, her fingers tangled in your hair. Her lips brushed your crown, your cheek, your closed eyelids. Each kiss was a plea the heavens wouldn’t hear.
When her voice finally came, it was raw — scraped hollow from crying too long, from praying too hard. “You promised you’d remember,” she whispered into your skin. “You always promise.”
Her tears stained your collar, her breath hitching like her lungs refused to let her go on. “And I always let you.”
She tilted your face toward hers, brushing one last tear from your cheek. The moon painted her in white fire — the priestess she once was, the lover she could never stop being.
Her voice broke as she said it — the words she always used when she could say nothing else.
