#yooyeon fluff

——

“I heard she was sick during the exam week. It’s why she didn’t get top spot.”

“Really? I heard she’s already taking college classes. Her parents think it’s time she gets a challenging education. I mean it makes sense. She would be first if it wasn’t for that.”

You snap your pencil at that. Everyone looks at her and fawns over her and—

“Is the VP of the student council here?”

You’re taken out of your thoughts by a member of staff that helps run the student council with Yooyeon. Another thing she’s taken from you.

She sees you before you’re able to respond and walks briskly to your desk, dropping budgeting reports, applications, newsletters onto your worksheets. “Could you go over these with Yooyeon when you have the chance? Preferably today. Thanks,” she says as she leaves the classroom, not giving you time to reply.

You sigh before placing them inside your bag, already dreading the impromptu meeting.

——

Turns out she never made it to school. An hour on transportation lands you outside her apartment door. You knock on the door and ring the doorbell and when it finally opens you’re greeted by her mom.

“Oh! What are you doing here?” She says in that surprised tone you remember hearing when you were younger. You haven’t seen her in a long time and yet she’s still the same as she’s always been. You should visit more often, if it wasn’t for the fact she was the mother of your nemesis.

“Hi auntie, just came to talk to Yooyeon about something. School related. Is she here?” You reply, keeping it brief. The sooner you get these to her, the sooner you can get away from enemy territory.

“She’s at the convenience store right now. Come on in!” She ushers you inside before you could reply, directing you to Yooyeon’s room before leaving to prepare snacks.

You stand there awkwardly, unsure where to look or what to do. You expect her room to be filled with notes from various subjects, old cup noodles from studying sessions and books strewn across the room. Instead… it’s nice. In a way that if you were to guess the personality of someone based on their room, your first thought wouldn’t be number 1 at school. Books are neatly arranged on shelves, bed made as if no one’s slept on it, and fairy lights hanging around the room. Her scent is potent and surrounding you as if it doesn’t want to let you go, dizzying you.

You take the council files out of your bag, move swiftly to her desk and place it there. The computer suddenly comes to life, the mouse moving after placing the documents and on the screen you see something… unexpected. Something so different from the Yooyeon you know, something if certain people found out, would definitely be disappointed in. Something—

“What are you doing?”

Startled, you jump back, accidentally hitting the space bar and playing the video. An audition tape. Of Yooyeon introducing herself, moving close to the camera to play a song she begins dancing too. It’s… not great but you see her passion in the moves. Your chest tightens watching the tape, not recognising the Yooyeon you see on the screen. You lean closer to the monitor—

“HEY!”

It takes a moment before you can acknowledge anything— your brain still trying to process what you saw on the monitor. Yooyeon swiftly moves to the computer, pausing the tape and stares at you with fury in her eyes.

You take a proper look at her now. An oversized grey hoodie engulfs her small frame, the hood is up casting a shadow over her eyes. Her face is bare but even you have to admit she’s still beautiful. You figure she’s not the school’s goddess for no reason.

For a brief moment, you’re captivated by this version of her, your cheeks warming. This version isn’t the one that wears her uniform immaculately, isn’t the one that is surrounded by people who want something, isn’t the one that is paraded around by the school faculty. This version of Yooyeon looks tired of being the poster child, the perfectionist everyone expects her to be.

“You’re auditioning?” The question comes out of your mouth before you register what you’ve done. It’s obvious what she was doing. You didn’t need to ask; the way she narrows her eyes makes it clear this was supposed to be a secret.

“Yes I am”, she mutters under her breath. She doesn’t say anything more than that, not that you expect anymore. She doesn’t owe you an explanation. But something about her quick sentence and the tone she used irritated you.

You know about the expectations placed on her by her parents, how she’s supposed to go to university, how she’s supposed to follow in her parents footsteps and become a doctor or something medical related. You know from your parents that her parents are strict, that they have the next 20 years of her life planned out. And from the constant praise and the lack of outcry from Yooyeon herself, you expected her to follow that plan. The fact she has an audition tape catches you completely off guard.

You look at the door and then at Yooyeon, a plan formulating in your mind. You know it’s petty but you want to make her suffer and there’s only one way to do that. “AUNTIE!”, you move towards her bedroom door ready to spill the news except a hand flies over your mouth and legs are wrapped around your torso. You’re wearing a Yooyeon sized backpack and this backpack is pulling you away from the door and back to the centre of the room. She’s freakishly strong or you’re embarrassingly weak because she’s got you stuck unable to move at all.

“Is everything okay in there?”, her mother asks from behind the closed door.

“Everything’s fine! Don’t worry!”, she replies in return, her grip on you still as tight as ever preventing you from escaping her grasp. At some point you give up trying to remove her and instead focus on not dropping her. You feel her breath tickling your ear, her perfume—soft and sweet—surrounds you until she is all you can smell. Her grip tightens around your shoulders, her body pressed firmly against yours, and your head goes all fuzzy from all the contact. This isn’t a situation you’ve been in before and you wish you could share this with anyone besides Yooyeon, your rival. (You had to remind yourself what your relationship with her is)

Once her mother’s footsteps retreat back to the kitchen, Yooyeon leans into your ear whispering, “I’m letting you go now. Don’t do anything stupid.” You move a couple steps away once she climbs off. Your face still red from her close proximity and heartbeat racing. You breathe in deeply in an attempt to lower your heart rate. It doesn’t work.

“Listen. You can’t tell anyone about this, especially my parents. They would freak out.”

“Why should I help you? Keeping this a secret doesn’t benefit me at all.” You reply.

You watch her sigh loudly, her composure replaced by frustration and annoyance. Her eyes scan your face, looking for anything in your expression that she could use.

“What do you want?” She asks, gritting her teeth. She hates this. This predicament she finds herself in, that she needs to rely on someone to keep a secret. And you? You could leave, promise to keep it a secret and never interact with her again. But you remember the rankings, the stolen presidency on the school council, how she seems to be better than you in everything. You’re not going to make it easy for her. Definitely not.

“Well—“

——

The next time you see her was in the school’s library, sitting at a table in the middle, far from other students (as the number one student, the faculty made sure no one would bother her during study sessions).

You scan the place, looking for a table to study at to no avail. The only seat left was at Yooyeon’s table. Normally you wouldn’t entertain being near her. You could leave and study someplace else but she’s alone right now and the dirt you have has made you confident. She wouldn’t kick you off her table. Right?

You approach opposite of where she’s sat, placing your bag to an adjacent chair and sitting across from her. She pauses her writing, glances up at you for a second before returning to her study material.

“I have a question.”

“What?” She doesn’t glance at you, focused on the paper in front of her.

“Why do you want to be an idol?” You whisper.

“Because I want to.”

“But why?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“Don’t your parents have a 20 year plan for you or something?” She doesn’t reply. You saw her shoulders tense the moment you asked the question, how she’s suddenly more interested in the paper in front of her. Any normal person would drop this, change the subject. Not you though.

“Come on, answer the question. Or would you prefer if I— OW!” You shout, causing nearby students to turn to your direction. You glare at Yooyeon, still focused on the paper, whilst you lean down and soothe your shin. You can’t believe she just kicked you. And it really fucking hurts too.

The librarian comes over and shushes you, apparently you’re the only one at fault here. You glance over at Yooyeon and see the corners of her mouth raise gently. You narrow your eyes at her, ignoring the sudden tightening in your chest. You lean closer, “Look, if you want me to keep it a secret, give me an answer.”

She loses her smile at that and suddenly, you have the urge to bring it right back. “You know the answer already. I’ve done everything for my parents. I just wanted something for myself,” she mumbles softly.

The words sit between you.

A look of confusion lands on your face. She has everything; the scores, the popularity, the acknowledgement that you desperately crave and she wants to throw it all away to be an idol?

You look at her, really look at her. You see her knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on the pen, her breathing now measured and her face devoid of any emotion. You remember how she tensed up when you spoke about her parents, how she lost her smile around this topic. She’s gone back into her shell.

You know this feeling; of wanting something that feels out of reach, something that you only wish you can have but are too afraid to put it into action so you stay in your lane because that’s where you’re safe from failure.

You remember that version of her in her room, that sudden burst of energy trying to prevent you from spilling her secret and her passion through her dancing on the audition tape. You want to see that version of her again, not the one you see in front of you.

“I’ll help you.”

She freezes at your words and whips her head up to look at you. Her eyes bore into yours, looking for any deceit in your expression. “What?”

“I said I’ll help you. I’ll keep it a secret from your parents and cover for you.”

Yooyeon keeps staring at you, as if still processing what you’ve said. Your cheeks slowly turn red from the attention you’re receiving. You never noticed how beautiful her eyes are; dark and deep with emotion. You could get lost in them if you let yourself. You snap yourself out of it, coughing and looking away before your cheeks get any more warmer than they already are.

The librarian returns, admonishing you, giving you one last chance or she’ll kick you out of the library. You didn’t listen to what she was saying, focusing on keeping your heart rate in check. Once your heart rate was at an acceptable level, you turn to face her again.

“Why?” She whispers.

Your throat tightens. You wished she didn’t ask you this. You look down at the table, tracing the graffiti found on it hoping it gives you an answer.

Why?

Because I liked seeing that version of you.

“Why else? So I can make the number one spot mine,” you mumble quickly. “If my rival is focused on launching her idol career, I can—“

“I never thought of you as my rival.” She interrupts evenly.

You blink, not sure if you properly heard her. Not your rival? What was the point of all the late night study sessions, comparing your rankings? She didn’t even notice you. Your heart beats faster, whether from fury or embarrassment you couldn’t tell. You wanted to argue against that, to show that you two were in fact rivals in all but name.

You cleared your throat loudly, ready to refute but the librarian arrives before you can utter another word. You were too loud for a final time and are now being kicked out of the library. As you exit the library, your phone vibrates, a message from Yooyeon:

Thank you.

Just those two words and your chest feels a lot lighter.

Annoyingly so.

——

Yooyeon: What’s taking you so long?

You: Sorry. Got held up at the convenience store. 5 mins.

You send the text before putting your phone away, your other hand gripping tightly onto your backpack strap, knuckles turning white. You wait impatiently for the crosswalk light to turn green before running to the local dance studio.

A couple of months have passed since that day in the library and whatever this thing is between you has become steady.

Yooyeon: Did you even consider the answer structure I sent you?

You: All the points are in there. Why do I need to structure my answer if it just means more writing

Yooyeon: I got two extra marks than you.

You: WHAT?! WHY?!

Yooyeon: Because I structured my answer.

Gone were the days of one word replies. Now your chats are filled with shared schedules, studying tips, conversations about answer structures and the occasional painfully unfunny meme that neither of you understood but decided to share anyway.

Studying together becomes routine. Every Tuesday, you claim the same table at the library and clutter it with notes, pens and highlighters. At some point, you moved from sitting across from her to sitting beside her (sharing notes is easier this way). She corrects your answer structure and you test her on key topics until both of you burn out.

When the new rankings came out, the pair of you stared at the board. She reclaimed her top spot. It hurts but the feeling is fainter than before.

“You owe me lunch.”

“Why?”

“Because I let you take that place back.”

You walked off before she had time to refute.

——

You push the door hard, slamming it against the wall, hands on your knees panting before walking to the back of the room and removing your backpack.

“You’re late.”

“Only by a minute,” you say through plenty of deep breaths.

She’s staring at you pointedly, her eyes demanding an explanation, arms crossed and her right foot slightly tapping to the beat of the background music in the studio.

“Because I went to grab this,” you unzip your backpack to show her a roll of gimbap and an iced tea. “I bet you haven’t eaten since you got here huh?”

Her gaze softens at you and you feel the butterflies in your stomach again. She walks over, turns and presses her back against the wall before sliding down to sit beside you.

“Thank you,” she mutters softly as she reaches out for the food still in your hand, unwrapping it before taking a piece. She slides the roll of gimbap on the floor so that it sits between you both. You steal a glance at her but she isn’t looking your way. You grab a piece before staring in the same direction she is. The silence didn’t feel awkward like before. Instead, it feels… heavy. Like tension waiting to break.

You cough, trying to break the tension. “So… what’s the plan today?”

Yooyeon swallows roughly, like she wasn’t ready for the question. You unscrew the cap and pass the bottle of iced tea before she starts choking.

“Well… I want to get the dance routine down before we tape it. Everything’s good… just this particular part I don’t get.”

“Alright, sounds good. Let me know when you want to start recording.” You grab the camera and tripod from your backpack, setting it up in front of the mirror facing her. You make the necessary adjustments, ensuring she’s in frame and in focus. Before moving to the side, you catch a glimpse of her in the camera, stretching. Her t-shirt rides up, exposing her stomach. It’s suddenly too warm in the studio. You adjust a tripod that no longer needs adjusting.

Five minutes into a video about differentiation and integration from a well-renowned teacher, you hear grunts and growls of annoyance from Yooyeon. Pulling out your earphones, you look up to see her beautiful face marred by lines of frustration. You ignore that though immediately as you stand up and move towards her.

“Everything okay?”

“I just… I just can’t seem to get this move right.”

You watch the video with her, trying to ignore the sound of her heavy breathing beside you. The move itself looked easy from your novice eyes. “Show me.”

She glances at you then returns her attention to her phone screen. “Do you even know how to dance?”

“No. But I can tell you where you’re going wrong. Now show me,” you insist.

You play the video and almost immediately see where she’s going wrong. “You’re doing it wrong here.”

You walk towards her, replaying the dance on the phone. “Look. You’re moving too early here and…” you stand slightly behind her. “You’re rotating too early. The power comes from here—”

Without thinking, you place your hand on her shoulders. She stills at your contact. You don’t.

“Don’t lead with your arms. Let your core pull you first.” Your hands shift lower—just slightly—to her waist, guiding her turn. “There. Try it.”

She inhales sharply. You pretend you don’t notice, pretend you don’t feel her warmth.

You start the music again. “Three, two, one—pivot.” She turns, your hands steady at her waist guiding her through it, the movement becomes a lot cleaner and she moves a lot closer to you.

Too close.

Her back is pressed against your chest, your hands still holding her waist.

“See?” You whisper softly. “You had it.”

She doesn’t move away. Instead, she stares at the reflection in the mirror, her eyes finding yours in the glass.

Something shifts.

It takes a moment before the position she finds herself in dawns on her face. “Again,” she says abruptly.

“What—“

Yooyeon begins to pivot, catching you off guard and in the process, trips over your foot.

A gasp escapes from both of you, a tangle of limbs and a soft thud echoes in the studio. You both fall to the ground—you on top of her. One hand still on her waist, now even more exposed with her T-shirt riding up. The other cradles the back of her head, cushioning the fall. One of her hands is braced against the floor beside her, the other is splayed against your chest.

Silence.

The music still plays in the background.

Neither of you move.

You can feel her breathing. Fast.

Your heart is beating so loudly you’re sure she can feel it.

“You—“ she starts.

“I wasn’t—“

You both stop.

Her face is just inches away, you can see a dusting of pink spread across her cheeks. You’re so close that one small move—

A phone rings, breaking the spell. Her phone.

She pushes you off her and scrambles to her phone.

“Hey mom…”

You don’t listen to her conversation, your mind still reeling on what just happened.

“I have to go,” she declares.

Before you can say another word, she grabs her bags and walks out the studio briskly. You stare at her retreating form before lying back down on the floor, trying to calm your beating heart.

After a couple of minutes, you push yourself up to check the camera.

The red light blinks.

It recorded everything.

——

You’re early for your study session with Yooyeon, notebooks, textbooks and pencil already on the table before you see her arrive. You haven’t spoken since the incident at the dance studio and not for a lack of trying. Plenty of times you find yourself typing out a text only to delete it and throw your phone far away from you.

She stands at the head of the table for a good while before you turn to face her. Almost immediately after locking eyes, she turns away, head down and sat down on the other side of the table.

There’s a clear divide between you two, one you didn’t want to dwell on. You attempt to focus on your studies, head buried in a chemistry textbook about bonds between atoms yet you can’t seem to absorb any information on the page, finding yourself reading the same passage three, four, five times.

Your mind wanders. Back to the studio, back to the recording. You never deleted it, instead kept it safe on your computer back home. You don’t know why you decided to keep it, you can’t even force yourself to watch it.

You’re brought back to reality when you hear a faint knocking on the table.

“Do you have the answer sheet from the English exam a couple of weeks ago?”

“Uh… yeah,” you mutter before rummaging through your bag to look for it.

Once you found it, you hand it over to her, only to freeze. Your hands gently touch. Yooyeon startles at this, staring into your eyes when you glance up to her face. Both of your eyes move to the point of contact before you both quickly retract your hands and look away.

Knowing her, she would forget about the answer sheet and focus on something else and you were right, with how she refuses to look up from her paper. You slide the answers over until she sees it in her peripheral. She discreetly glances at you but you’re already looking into your textbook, reading the same passage for the sixth time.

After ten minutes of nothing, you got up, grabbed your water bottle and headed for the water fountain outside the library. You figured some fresh air would do some good. You notice a minute later that Yooyeon decided to join you, her own water bottle in hand. You subconsciously slow down to allow her to catch up.

The walk to the water fountain felt longer than it usually is, the silence between you stretching as the awkwardness, and your anxiety, grows. You need to break the tension before either of you decide that going back to your previous relationship was better than this.

“I’m sorry—“

“I didn’t—“

You both pause mid-step, turning to each other.

“About last—“

“The step—“

You both cut yourself off. Her cheeks gain a slightly pink tint whilst your ears start to go red. You stare at each other for a while; you notice her grip on her water bottle has tightened with how white her knuckles were, how her other hand has started pinching the back of her left hand.

Your mind won’t stop circling back to the dance studio.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when you hear her laugh; an awkward, slightly forced laugh.

“We’re both being stupid, aren’t we?” She says.

“Y-yeah,” you reply, hand going to the back of your neck.

Both of you continue the walk to the water fountain in step, still in silence yet considerably less heavy.

“How is the studying going?” She asks. You’ve reached the water fountain, already filling the bottle.

“Terrible. Haven’t been able to concentrate,” you don’t tell her the reason, she knows why. You extend your hand out towards her as you finish filling your bottle. She hesitates for a second before giving you her bottle to fill.

“Me too,” she replies soon after.

You hand her water bottle back, fingers briefly touching each other but instead of a quick pull back, she allows her fingers to linger there.

“How about we forget about studying today? Maybe grab something to eat?”

She looks up at you briefly, her eyes scanning your face before relief washes over her. “Sure.”

You both head back to the library, close enough to brush shoulders and feeling lighter than ever since the dance studio.

“Can I keep the answer sheet for a week?”

“Hmm? Oh the English answer sheet? Sure.”

——

“Get that one. Oh and get that one too. It’s a 1+1 deal.”

You exhale tiredly as you grab the gimbap, drinks and eggs before adding them to the basket already containing ramyeon. “Is there anything else you want?” You ask, making your way to the register.

“Nope,” she says happily, walking alongside you. The weather is a lot colder now than before. You can tell by how Yooyeon covers herself tightly in a coat that dwarves her frame. You see a woolly hat as you walk down an aisle and decide to grab it before she notices.

After paying, you find her on a table by the window, ramyeon warm and ready for you.

You sit down next to her. The food smells delicious but you wait before eating; you don’t want to burn yourself after all. You stare out the window, all foggy because of the contrasting temperatures from the outside and here. Snowflakes have begun to fall gently, though it’s difficult to see with the fluorescent lighting from the store, coating the ground white.

It’s quiet, it’s peaceful, you feel like you can stay in this moment forever. Until Yooyeon disturbs your thoughts, inhaling her food loudly. You turn to face her, incredulous. She’s never done this in front of you, eating as if this were her first meal in a long time. You watch her eat, watch how her face moves closer to the ramyeon, watch the mess she makes on her side of table, on her coat and her face.

You can’t help but smile.

She pauses when she notices you haven’t started eating yet. “What?” She asks, mouth still full.

“Why do you eat like that?”

She gulps loudly. “Like what?”

“You’re inhaling your food like Kirby.”

“What? No I’m not.”

You laugh at her indignation, surprised at seeing this different persona of hers. Unconsciously, you grab a napkin to wipe some broth from her chin.

You’re too busy laughing to see the effect it had on her, how she stilled at the contact, breath hitching, cheeks turning pink like Kirby.

Your laughter fades when you realise how close the two of you are—your hand resting gently at her chin, unmoving. You look up to her eyes as they narrow at you, “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

You let go, reluctantly. You turn and focus on the food in front of you, refusing to look at her as she continues eating. You notice you haven’t moved further away and neither has she.

You finally take a careful bite, broth still a little hot. She finishes her food, wipes her hands on a napkin, then pulls her phone out, scrolling aimlessly while sneaking glances at you eating.

Before long, the bowls soon sit empty between you. Neither of you moves. The store now quiet; save for the hum of the fluorescent lights. Outside, the snow falls heavier, settling.

You press your finger to the window and begin to draw mindlessly. You laugh softly as you draw a lopsided bunny, a poorly proportioned dog, a penguin.

Beside you, Yooyeon stops her scrolling to look.

Not at the drawings.

At you.

You keep doodling on the window, the snow falling heavier outside. In the reflection of the glass, you catch her gaze on you.

You don’t comment.

“You should go home. Before it gets worse.”

She blinks. “Wh—what?”

You smile softly. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

You stand, tidying your mess and hers, before grabbing your coat, ready to brace the cold.

When the both of you step outside, the cold hits immediately—sharp and biting—but Yooyeon doesn’t flinch.

She gasps.

“Wow… it’s so pretty.”

She moves a few steps ahead and starts bouncing on her toes, giggling with excitement. She starts to slowly spin in place, arms wrapped around herself against the cold until you catch a glimpse of her face.

Her eyes are mesmerised, shaped like crescent moons, her lips parted enough to see her breath in the cold night. The falling snow softly lands atop her hair.

She looks… happy. At ease. Like all her worries are gone.

For a moment, you can’t breathe. Watching her has made your chest warm and you can’t help the smile on your face.

You’ve been smiling a lot around her lately.

And that burning desire to beat her is just a flicker.

When she stops to look at you, her hair is full of snowflakes, her nose tinged pink from the cold.

You step closer.

Close enough that your breaths mingle in the winter air.

You stay silent at first. Just lift your hand and gently brush the snowflakes from her hair, fingers lingering longer than they should.

She doesn’t move away.

You reach into your pocket and pull out the woolly hat, tear the tag off and settle it carefully over her head. Your hands tuck stray strands of hair behind her ears and adjust it slightly.

It’s just snow. It’s just a hat. You reason with yourself weakly.

“What’s this?” She asks softly.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t freeze.” You murmur.

She blinks up at you.

Snow softly falls on your shoulders, melting slowing through the fabric, the cold seeping in, reminding you that this isn’t a dream.

Yooyeon rises up on her toes—a lot closer now—and brushes your hair of snowflakes in return.

“You should’ve bought one for yourself.”

“I could only afford one.” You joke.

She smiles again at you, her eyes returning to that crescent shape you’re starting to grow fond of. Your heart beats faster at the closeness and you feel her breath rapidly.

You watch her swallow and break eye contact.

She steps back first.

You breathe out slowly, like stepping away from a ledge.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

She turns and starts walking, snow crunching under her shoes.

You fall in step beside her.

Your hand occasionally brushes hers.

This time, hers doesn’t move away.

Neither does yours.

——

You’re sat in front of your computer watching the audition tape for the umpteenth time.

You’ve been editing for the past two hours. It’s good. Clean. Definitely better than the first tape you recorded. If you were honest, you could’ve sent the tape as is, but knowing Yooyeon, she’d want it perfect. So, you delete some takes at the start, remove some of the background audio, overlay some music and done.

It’s all part of the process. The same routine you’ve gone through hundreds of times. Yooyeon in front of the camera—smiling, performing, saying her lines. Her movements are smoother, transitions seamless. The perfect performer.

You pause right after she finishes the dance, after she says her final remarks. You’re meant to delete this part but you can’t bring yourself to.

She’s exhausted, skin flushed and breathing heavily—but she’s smiling. Eyes crinkling. Unfiltered.

You lean back in your chair. Your mouse hovering over the cut button.

Your stomach starts growling. You check your alarm clock beside you. It’s past midnight. You stand, arms above your head as you stretch before moving to the kitchen to grab something to eat.

You stare into a cupboard, realise there’s nothing in there and head to the sink instead.

As you stood there, faucet open and filling a glass, you start wondering when things started to change. Before, you would never glance her way. Now? She’s the first person you look for. You make sure she looks good in her audition tape, help her master the moves during those sessions in the dance studio.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when the glass starts overflowing. You sigh wearily, turning the faucet off while taking a huge swig of water before heading back to your room.

You sit at your desk, watching the tape again. It’s good enough that she’ll get noticed.

Your chest tightens at the thought—just slightly.

You want her to succeed.

Of course you do.

A vibration on your desk interrupts your thoughts.

Yooyeon: How’s the tape?

You: It’s good. Think it’s ready to be sent.

Yooyeon: Yeah? Send it to me when it’s ready.

Yooyeon: And thank you. For doing this.

Your heart does that familiar fluttering again as you reread her message two, three times, your grip on the glass tightening without realising.

You put your phone down and exhale loudly.

You return the video to the start and watch it again before sending it to her.

——

“Si—Since when did you start wearing glasses?” Yooyeon stammers as you approach her in front of the school gate.

“Always. Forgot my contacts today. Do I look okay?”

“Ye—yeah. You look… good.”

You notice how she steals glances as you walk to the main building together.

You also notice the slight pink tinge adorning her cheeks.

——

You briskly move through the crowd in the hallway.

You hear the whispers from your classmates, see their reactions but you ignore them as best you could.

When you reach the rankings, you find her standing there, staring at the board.

“Guess she finally slipped.”

You stand next to her, scanning the board not for your name but hers.

It isn’t at its usual spot.

You frown.

So you scan lower.

Past second. Past third.

Your jaw tightens.

Lower.

Number 11.

Kim Yooyeon.

There’s a flicker, an old and ugly part of you that wanted this. That wanted her name beneath yours.

It dies just as quickly.

You turn to face her.

She’s still staring but you see her shoulders tense and her hands tremble slightly.

“Yooyeon…”

“I have to go.”

You see the mask return before she’s moving past you, the space between you suddenly unfamiliar.

She doesn’t glance back.

You faintly hear congratulations from behind.

You don’t acknowledge it.

——

The routine doesn’t shatter; it thins out until it’s no more.

You still go to the library, still sit at the same table, keep all your notes neat and on one side in hopes to see her here again.

It doesn’t.

The empty chair now a monument of the growing distance between you.

Your phone stays on the table next to you, every ping feeling different than before. They’re no longer memes, philosophical debates or domestic texts; they’re cold and straight to the point, ending any conversation before they truly began.

Yooyeon: Can’t.

Yooyeon: Too busy. Studying.

You always wanted this. To be number one. To have no one question it. Now that you have it? It feels hollow.

You used to study to beat her. Now you study because it’s the only thing you know how to do.

——

After another fruitless study session, you decide to leave early and head home. As you walk towards the entrance, you stare at your phone, at the last message you sent to her. Read.

You contemplate a while; should you message her again? Leave her be? You decide to push forward, to message her one more time.

You stop at the gate when you hear her voice. And her parents.

“…did you get in this situation in the first place?” Her dad.

“This is not the time to be distracted.” Her mom.

Your chest begins to feel heavy as you continue to listen, back pressed against the wall, making sure they can’t see you.

“We had a plan for you Yooyeon. Are you just going to throw it all away?”

“Of course not,” she replies emotionless, “it won’t happen again.”

“You’ve always known what matters.”

“I know.” She mutters tiredly, voice almost a whisper.

You don’t bother to listen to the rest of the conversation, instead taking a deep breath to steel yourself before pulling your hood up and putting your earphones in. You tighten the strap of your backpack before moving off the wall. A sharp, chilly breeze moves against you as you start walking in the other direction.

——

You sit at your desk at home, staring blankly at the textbook in front of you, pen in hand. You reread a passage for the third time but the words don’t stick, like a puzzle your brain can’t solve. The pen feels heavy, your wrist numb from writing so much. You look down at your notes and find you’ve written the same thing three times. The pen clatters to the table, hands removing your glasses before pressing the heels into your eyes. You take a deep breath, eyes drifting towards the mini calendar.

2 weeks until the exam.

Your phone lights up from a notification—not from her. You check the time.

2am.

You exhale shakily. Your heart begins to pound, loud enough to drown the hum of your computer. The air feels thinner somehow. You inhale once—twice—three times but it doesn’t feel enough. You reach for the glass of water, taking a big gulp to calm your nerves. It doesn’t help much.

You stand on shaky legs and move towards the bathroom, careful not to wake anyone.

Standing over the sink, you turn the faucet on before splashing water on your face. You look up and stare at your reflection.

For a moment, you don’t recognise the face staring back at you. The eyes look hollow, dark bags underneath them. Your skin is paler than usual and cheeks are gaunt.

You return to your room, to your desk littered with mock exams, empty coffee cans piling up beside your lamp. You check your phone again, at the alarms. 5:30, 5:45, 6:00–just in case.

You’ve done everything correctly, followed a tight schedule. Stepped back when you were supposed to. So why does it feel like you’re falling further behind?

——

When you enter the classroom for study period, it feels louder than usual. Pens scrapping against paper, chairs against hardwood floors and the hum of the fluorescent lights above consume you.

Your hood’s up, eyes down avoiding the looks from your classmates as you make your way to your desk. You hear their whispers but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You’re not sure if you want to know.

As soon as you settle, you begin working on a practice paper, meticulously writing answers and checking notes. Except you don’t remember what you’ve just written. You look down and see a mess. The answers are too long, ignoring the structure she provided. The handwriting is ineligible, barely coherent.

A faint ringing creeps into your ears, manageable for now. You press your fingers into your temple hoping it will stop. It doesn’t. Your pen slips out of your hand, clattering onto the floor. You inhale sharply, chest tightening. You blink, trying to steady yourself. The words on the page shifting under your gaze.

“Here, You dropped this.”

You watch as a hand reaches out, placing your pen back onto your desk before retreating, unbothered.

“Thanks,” you manage, voice rough.

They’ve already turned around back to their own paper.

The ringing is still persistent, but it dulls—like it’s moved further away. You inhale carefully, trying to gain some semblance of control. Incoherent sentences and messy handwriting stare back at you.

You can’t do this. Not now.

You stand up quickly, the chair wobbling for a moment before you caught it. The movement was too fast, you stay stationary to adjust. A few heads turn towards you.

You ignore them, pulling your hood further over your head as you head out the classroom.

The hallway feels colder.

Conversation’s echoing, shoes squeaking against the polished floors. Every sound feels sharpened, more intense.

You keep your head down and walk.

One step after another.

Your hands shoved in your pockets, shoulders hunched over.

You don’t notice the way she slows when she sees you.

Or how her expression falters.

——

She’s halfway to the classroom when she hears your name. She wouldn’t have paid attention otherwise.

“Have you seen him lately?” Someone says.

She slows without meaning to.

“Yeah. He looks a lot paler now.”

Another voice chimes in.

“I know right? And he barely pays attention.”

She stops, trying to listen to more, but they’ve changed topics leaving her uncomfortable.

She tells herself they’re exaggerating. That you’re always intense when it comes to studying.

Still. A small part of her worries.

She continues to the classroom, fingers tightening on the textbooks taken from the library.

And then she sees you.

Her steps falter.

No one else seems to notice. But she knows you. The way your shoulders fold inwards, how your hood is pulled low, shadowing your eyes. You hate wearing it like that. She knows you do.

She stops. She tries to call out to you only for your name to die in her throat.

You don’t look at her.

You don’t slow down.

She can only stare as you walk past her.

——

When she enters for the afternoon study period, you’re already sat at your desk, head down, writing furiously.

She makes her way to her desk, only to pause. She glances at you, at how your hoodie swallows your frame, how your knees bounce rapidly. She walks past her usual desk, past you and settles somewhere behind.

From her place, she watches you. Practice exam forgotten, pencil case still closed. She watches the slight tremor of your hand, the furious way you rub your eyes, how you tear the page from pressing too hard.

She wonders when you last slept.

Her thoughts get interrupted when she notices a classmate walk up to you, asking a question she can’t hear. She sees you try to help but hears grunts of frustration, tearing of paper to start again. Eventually they leave, saying they’d find someone else to help.

You’re good at explaining. She should know.

She startles when the bell rings. Looking down at her still-closed exam, she sighs. She hears the scrape of the chair moving backwards as you begin to pack up your things. She packs her things slower than you, still watching as you get up to leave without glancing back.

——

She hesitates in front of your door, pacing back and forth. Your mom let her in just as she was leaving for grocery shopping. It’s just you and Yooyeon.

You jump when you hear the door to your room opening, eyes widening at seeing her in what feels like forever.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“H-hi. W-what are you doing here?”

You don’t give her the opportunity to answer.

“Gi-give me a minute. Please.”

“I-I need to finish this. The answer n-needs to be perfect. I need to-to…”

Your breathing turns uneven, the rest of the sentence dissolving.

Your hand starts shaking violently, the pen rattling against your notebook, ruining your answer. Your other hand clamps over it, an attempt to keep it steady. You try to take deep breaths to calm down. It doesn’t help.

You stare at your hand, willing it to stop shaking. It only trembles harder.

You don’t notice how close she is to you until her fingers gently wrap around yours. Warm. Steady. The shaking doesn’t stop but it slows.

You stare at the point of contact, watching as she carefully pries the pen from your hand before placing it gently onto your desk.

The chair rolls away from the desk as she pushes it. You don’t argue. Your knees wobble as she pulls you up and for a second, you’re afraid you’ll fall.

Her hand tightens around yours as she leads you to bed.

You struggle to meet her eyes as you sat down. You squeeze her hand to steady your breathing.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly. You try and look anywhere but at her.

Eventually, you shut your eyes and lean forward, your forehead hovering before resting against her stomach.

Her perfume surrounds you, familiar and calming.

Your fingers loosen around hers, arms falling, laying flat against your legs as you release a shaky breath.

She brings her hands to your head, her fingers threading slowly through your hair, steady and careful.

You stay like this for a while.

Your breathing eventually evens out, the tremor in your shoulders fading.

Only when the room quietens does she move, slowly pulling away.

You look up, already missing her warmth, your hand twitches like you were going to reach for her before returning to your lap.

Yooyeon doesn’t leave the room. Instead, she grabs the waste bin beside your desk, clearing the empty coffee cans and the crumpled notes, all your books stacked and moved back to the shelves above.

She returns to your side, not a moment later and sits beside you. She quietly takes hold of your hand before carefully threading her fingers through yours.

You sit there in silence, the pair of you. The only sound being the hum from the computer and your breathing.

You know she shouldn’t be here, that she’s defying her parents by being here. That there will be consequences.

But she came anyway.

You feel her gently caress the back of your hand with her thumb and that warmth returns. You close your eyes again, not to calm yourself but to focus on the person beside you; her breathing, her touch, her warmth.

Before you know it, she moves closer, leaning her head onto your shoulder. You stiffen—still not used to the contact—before letting yourself lean into it.

——

You’d been coming to the local library these past few days, the usual noise of panicking students replaced with soft hums of pages turning and the occasional pen scratching against paper.

You look up towards the entrance when you hear it open and see her, carrying a plastic bag of snacks and a pillow under her arm. You tilt your head in confusion, “What’s with the pillow?

“For you. I’m making sure you get enough rest. Even if it’s in a library.”

Your face softens as you continue watching her. She takes the snacks out the plastic bag, arranging them neatly on the table, textbooks and notes placed neatly between you the pillow stuffed onto a chair beside her.

“Here. Drink this.”

You take the bottle of water from her, silently thankful it wasn’t another can of coffee. You’re not sure you can drink another can in your life.

A small part of you feels guilty.

After that day in your room, you found out her parents were livid she missed a private tutor session to see you. She argued with them, much to your surprise, even telling them her dream to become an idol, that she wanted no part of their 20 year plan.

You didn’t hear from her for a couple of days. Worry began gnawing at you until she sent a meme late at night.

What happened? Are you okay?

Yeah. Just had an argument with my parents.

Because of me?

You remember watching the three dots, waiting for what seemed like forever.

Because I told them what I should’ve told them ages ago. They were angry at first but I convinced them. As long as I pass this exam, I can try out.

You feel a pen being tapped lightly on your head.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks, a small smile on her face, her eyes turning into that crescent shape you’re beginning to love.

“N-nothing. Just how to answer this question,” you manage to stutter.

She peers into your question paper. “For this, you need to…”

You don’t listen to her anymore. You can’t. She’s leaning closer to you now. Your eyes drift to her face—to the little mole on her nose, to the soft curve of her lips as she explains, the way her hair catches the light from the library window.

“…so if you solve for this equation first, the rest should follow naturally,” she murmurs softly, as if it was only meant for you. She looks to you, a smile adorning her features as she catches you staring.

You cough, throat suddenly dry before nodding, eyes returning to the paper and working through the problem. What did she say again?

After nearly two hours, the words in the textbook begin to blur together. You lay your pen down and bring your hands to your eyes, rubbing them.

You feel her hand on your shoulder, “Hey,” she murmurs.

You blink, trying to focus. “I’m awake.”

Without another word, she removes your notes, replacing them with the pillow.

“Take a break.”

“We’re in a library.”

“Exactly. No one’s going to notice.”

You try to argue but one look from her tells you you’re not winning.

When you finally rest your head against the pillow, you hear the gentle rustle of paper beside you as Yooyeon continues studying.

Just as you were about to fall asleep, you feel her fingers gently brush your hair.

——

You wake to a gentle tapping of a pen against the table.

For a moment, you forget where you are.

The sunlight from a setting sun spills across the table. You hear pens scratching against paper, pages from books turning.

“Look who’s awake.”

You blink a few times, your vision focusing on her. Her head resting upon her palm, gaze fixed on you.

You lift your head slightly from the pillow. “Have you been watching me sleep?”

You see her cheeks turn pink but her eyes don’t shift, still focused firmly on you.

“Maybe for a bit.”

Your ears turn red at the confession. You sit up straight, clearing your throat before sliding the pillow towards her.

“You should’ve woken me.”

She shakes her head.

“No, you need rest. You study too much. Someone has to make sure you don’t overdo it.”

You pause. Her voice was softer than usual.

“…Thanks.”

She doesn’t respond.

You look over and see a small smile on her lips as she looks down at her notes.

You continue to stare, the paper from before your nap long forgotten.

She must’ve felt your eyes on her.

“Quit staring. Get back to work,” she laughs under her breath, eyes focused on her own paper.

——

Soon enough, the exam arrives.

Rows on rows of desks fill the classroom, paper face down as the proctor explains the exam rules. You see your classmates bouncing their knees, swallowing water as if they haven’t drank in forever and some fiddling with their pencils.

Across the room, Yooyeon is sat two rows ahead.

She turns slightly in her chair.

Just enough to get a glance at you.

For a moment, your eyes meet.

She raises her fist slightly—a small sign of encouragement.

You nod once.

Then the papers are flipped over.

And the exam begins.

——

The exam ends.

Time continues as it always does—quietly, without permission.

Graduation comes and goes.

Applications are sent.

And somewhere between the early morning lectures and the late night meals, Yooyeon begins appearing everywhere.

——

“I got in.”

Both of you are on the floor in her room, scrolling aimlessly through your phones. Her head laid in your lap.

“What?”

She sits up abruptly, almost taking you out.

“They saw the tape. They want me to join a program. If I progress far enough, I get to debut.”

She stares at you. Like she can’t believe it herself.

“Wow. Wow. Wow!”

You get up from the floor, pulling her with you before you wrap your arms around her, lifting and spinning her.

You gently place her back down, your arms still around her waist, hers on your shoulders. You’re really close now, closer than you’ve ever been before. Your breaths mingling in the little space between you.

“You did it.” You whisper.

For the first time, her face can’t control the emotions etched upon it.

Her hands slide from your shoulders before wrapping around your waist, burying her face in your chest as you held her.

——

Years later, Yooyeon stands outside your apartment. Her hands fidget with her sleeves as she contemplates knocking on your door.

Naturally, you both grew apart.

Daily texts became weekly.

Weekly became occasional check ins.

Eventually, most of what you knew about Yooyeon came from a screen.

Before she’s able to make a decision, you appear from the elevator, plastic bags in hand.

“H-hi.”

“Yooyeon… what are you doing here?”

“I-I got your address from your parents. I have a couple days off. I wanted to see you.”

You stare at her. Watching her on TV never did her justice.

“Come in.”

She moves aside, giving you access to keypad before following you in.

You move to the kitchen, placing the plastic bags atop the counter. You’re suddenly fully aware how small your apartment actually is.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

After glancing around your bare apartment, she finally meets your eyes. She shakes her head.

“I’ll make you something.”

You start unloading the bags, setting the ingredients out on the counter and shelving the rest. You walk to the sink, washing your hands before grabbing a glass and filling it with water. You turn around. She’s sat at the counter now. You move to give her the glass.

“Do you need help?”

A small smile breaks out.

“I’m okay. I’ve seen the videos.”

Her eyes widen at your confession.

“You did?”

You can’t stop the smile from widening. “Of course. Who beats eggs like that? Did you do it for the content?”

You watch as her face flushes in embarrassment, her hands moving to cover them.

——

“Take a look around, I’m almost done here.”

You grab the remaining empty plates between the two of you before heading to the sink to wash them.

She takes her time, looking around your own space. It’s minimal—couch, TV, a table makes up most of your living room. Very different from the dorms where you struggle to even walk.

Her wandering eventually leads her to your bedroom. It’s a lot cosier than the room you grew up in. Soft lighting brings an air of warmth. Your bed, slightly crumpled, has one too many pillows on top.

She walks over to your desk. The same desk you had growing up but instead of calendars and coffee cans, a picture of the both of you sat proudly. It was taken before her debut. The pair of you sported big smiles but your eyes told a different story; that whatever this was between you had to end now.

She looks up to the shelves beside the desk and sees all her albums, all in a row. Her lightstick displayed proudly too. Paper tickets from her concerts and from music shows all occupy the same space.

Her chest tightens at your quiet support, retreating until she bumps into the desk behind, waking the computer.

She looks over to the screen and sees a single video in a folder.

audition_4.mp4

Curiosity got the better of her and she plays the video.

It was that day in the studio. The first time you helped with a dance move.

She watches the video in its entirety; the moment you walk over, when your hands graze her waist, the heavy breathing from both of you before the inevitable stumble onto the floor.

She hears a noise outside the bedroom to find you standing there, watching her. She exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“You kept this.”

You wait a moment before replying.

“I did.”

For what felt like forever, the two of you continue to stare at one another, a million thoughts and emotions passing between you.

Finally, she moves first, away from the desk and towards you. You inhale sharply and hold your breath. Your hands lay by your side, unsure what to do.

She’s close now, only a breath away. No words come out of your mouth as you continue to stare at her, at how her eyes roam across your face.

She lifts a hand towards your cheek, thumb gently caressing your cheekbone.

You freeze under her touch.

For a moment, she hesitates, her eyes searching yours, giving you a chance to walk away.

You don’t.

Slowly, she leans in, eyes fluttering closed as her lips softly brush against yours.

“What are you doing?” She asks, padding into the small kitchen. You hear the cabinet open, the clink of a bowl, the rush of cereal hitting ceramic. Milk pouring.

When you don’t answer, her footsteps return. You feel her standing on the other side of the table, bowl in hand, the sound of her spoon hitting the bowl the only noise in your apartment.

“I’m waiting in line. For tickets. To your concert.”

Silence. Then—

“What?”

You risk a glance up. She’s staring at you, spoon halfway to her mouth, milk spilling back into the bowl, her expression caught between amusement and disbelief.

“I’m in line,” you say slowly, like you're explaining it to a child, “to get tickets to your new concert.”

She chews deliberately, letting you sit in it. “Why? You know I can get you tickets, right?”

You shake your head. “No. I want the full fan experience. Waiting in line. Buying tickets. All of it.”

She snorts mid-swallow. Chokes. Her hand flies to her mouth as she coughs, eyes watering, shoulders shaking with laughter she’s trying to suppress.

“You’re—” she coughs again, “—you’re so stupid.”

You look up—really look—and your breath catches.

No makeup, hair still messy from sleep. The morning light from the window behind you catches on her face, softening her edges. You’re so used to seeing her on screens now—stage lights, camera-ready, untouchable.

This version tightens something in your chest every time.

A ping from your laptop snaps your attention back.

The timer hits zero. The page reloads.

SOLD OUT.

“What?” Your mouse clicks uselessly. Refresh. Refresh. “No. No. No. Are you serious?”

The screen doesn’t change.

She’s moved behind you, head just over your shoulder, laughing. Not sympathetic. Delighted.

You freeze. Turn to her slowly.

“Yooyeon.” Pause. “Baby.” She cringes at that. You hold up one finger. “Can I please have one ticket?”

She stands up straight, taps her chin, pretending to think about it. “Mm… no.”

“Why not?” You’re whining now and you don’t care.

She braces one hand on the table and leans in. Close enough that your eyes drop to her mouth without permission.

“You said you wanted that fan experience,” she murmurs, moving until her lips nearly brush your ear. “Experience not going.”

You snap your head toward her, eyes wide. She’s already smiling—that smile. Eyes creasing into crescents, cheeks high.

“That’s not fair! You distracted me!”

You stand, your chair scraping against the floor. She’s already moving, circling around the table as you lunge right. She dodges left, laughing, the sound bright and unguarded. She nearly trips over a chair leg, stumbles before recovering. You feint towards the bedroom. She breaks for the couch.

You catch her around the waist just as she tries to dart past the window.

You both collapse onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs, breathless.

You start pressing kisses everywhere you can reach—forehead, nose, the corner of her mouth, her cheek.

“Ew—stop—” She’s laughing, squirming, not actually trying to escape. “Alright, alright!”

You pull back just enough to see her face. She’s grinning.

So are you.

“Yeah? Can I get VIP? Maybe a one-on-one photo with Kotone?”

Her smile sharpens. “Don’t push your luck.”

——

A month later, you’re at the front door, coat on, car keys in hand.

You pull out your phone to check the ticket one last time—VIP, front row, Section A—and you can’t help the smile.

A text comes through before you can pocket it.

Yooyeon: Do you like it?

An image loads.

Blonde. She’s blonde now.

The photo’s clearly taken in a dressing room—bright lights ringing a mirror behind her, group mates blurred in the background, moving. But she’s in focus. Hair falling just past her shoulders, wavy, lighter than you’ve ever seen it, framing her face in a way that makes her look both familiar and completely ethereal.

Your throat goes dry.

You stare at the photo longer than you should.

It’s been so long since you’ve last seen her. She’s always at the company, rehearsing. If she’s not there, then she’s with her group in the dorms.

You miss her.

Another text comes through.

Yooyeon: Well?

You type fast.

You: Love it.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Yooyeon: See you tonight?

You glance at the ticket on your screen.

You: VIP

Yooyeon: I know