Note: umm...@kwilquib @erospandemos @leafostuff have fun XD
(2.9k words)
Are you a weirdo if you keep looking through the window across the street to see Gyubin constantly? Especially today?
Don't think so. It's not like you're waiting for her, that's weird. You're just…checking outside. Every ten minutes…no, five…ok fine, you do check constantly.
In your defense, your bedroom window faces directly to her bedroom window, which means every time you look up from your book, your eyes naturally drift toward the house opposite yours.Excuses including the giggles across the street, the little waves she gives whenever you two make eye contact, sometimes the huge teddy bear she always dived to whenever she had a bad day (accompanied by her legs kicking vigorously).
For today, it's the dress.
Her bedroom light illuminates, and your mind brings you to a stage with her as the main actress in the spotlight. She smooths the front of her white dress, twirls left and right, clearly inspecting herself. The dress isn't over the top at all, but damn, doesn't it suit her unfairly well. Very elegant, very simple, very demure. Such a serendipitous event, you tell yourself.
Alright, gotta duck behind the curta— oops, too late. She caught you already, waving her hands excitedly while immediately breaking into that familiar grin.
You could only wave back.
Words are impossible from this distance (unless you two shout), since her bedroom and yours face each other across a suburban street that's wide enough for the world to witness the embarrassment of shouting if that is happening.
Languages formed. It started years ago since she first moved to this neighbourhood with her family — A wave is hi, holding up food is I'm eating, tapping your wrist means you're late, middle finger is middle finger. (It's only that one time, come on. Don't be nosy.)
Back to the present, the main girl presses both palms against the window dramatically (you wonder if the sound reaches you first, or the glasses break first). She gives you a spin, the dress twirls naturally once again. She points at herself and raises her eyebrows.
Well?
You give her two thumbs up. A girl looks pretty, and she deserves all the praises.
Of course, the main actress gasps theatrically and places both hands over her heart like she won a Grammy. And, oh my god, she bows. This idiot (it does give you a chuckle, though. You always do.)
Her bedroom door opens behind her. Her mother appears and says something to her, Gyubin nods back. The girl grabs a small purse off the bed and about to walk out of the room. But she glances back toward your window one last time.
She points at herself, then mimics walking as she points down the street.
Ah, it's prom night. Right.
You give her another thumbs up, which prompts a smile in her. Did you know that she has a cute smile? You know what's cuter? Gyubin forms a tiny finger heart and you make out back (well, awkwardly.)
Satisfied, she disappears from the room, and the bedroom light switches off.
You continue standing there long after she is gone. "…Lucky bastard."
-
Now, Gyubin is pretty.
Funny and friendly, too. Teachers adore her a lot, she is a model student after all. The old ladies at the restaurants you two walk by remember her as "the pretty lass", and heck, cats and birds sometimes gather around her like she just stepped out of a Disney movie.
It is, with high probability, that she'd have someone. Just that you didn't think it'd bother you this much. Tsk, whatever. Good for her, definitely, but prom is such a pain to go. Dress up for a night surrounded by fellow teens and foods that clearly don't fill you up as much as a bowl of ramen.
Are you projecting? Perchance. You don't care at all. Not even once.
Except the fact that you have mumbled that same phrase around forty seven times while trying to finish one chapter. The forty eighth was while making tea. And the forty ninth while rereading that same paragraph again since your brain is oh-so-busy with the lucky bastard who's going with Gyubin instead of the book.
Fucking hell, the words all blur together now. What can you do, really, except to just slip the bookmark between the pages and close the book. Ugh, quite a waste of money buying that suit hanging on the wardrobe right there huh.
Half an hour later, you're downstairs helping Mum wash the dishes, because it certainly beats sulking in your room with the suit right there. Ok, helping sounds generous, because you have been drying the same plate for the fourth time while keeping glancing at the front window.
"You alright, love?”
"Hm?" "You've been polishing that plate for five minutes."
"Oh. Oops."
Mum chuckles. "She's leaving soon? The neighbour girl?"
"Yeah."
"Prom?"
She hums knowingly when you nod. Man, parents truly are omnipotent.
Ding dong!
Oh? We don't expect any visitors though? Both Mum and you look toward the hallway.
"You mind getting that? "Ok."
Not many thoughts are on your mind, it could've been random people asking for directions, or a delivery you forgot that you have ordered. Yeah, who cares about the peephole, you can just tell them we're busy.
Oh boy, the door opens, and your brain completely stops working.
Gyubin on your doorstep, with that same white dress, the evening sky behind her looks dull. Wow, now that you are closer to her, her hair is done so neatly, there are these small silver earrings with intricate engravings. One hand behind her back, and the other is clutching a tiny paper gift bag.
Huh. Well this is something.
"Hi" Gosh, even her voice is pretty, this is so unfair.
"Hey there, yourself. Didn't your date already—"
"He cancelled."
"Huh?" "Food poisoning…or he said."
"Today?" "Mhm."
To clarify, your brain is still trying to catch up with the situation itself. Prom is like an hour away from happening, and the date that is supposed to be with her is away due to unfortunate circumstances. The back of your mind suddenly flashes the suit hanging in your room, your hand fidgeting in your pocket, your mouth feels dry.
Oddly enough, your eyes fixated on her heels rocking slightly. Is she…no way, right?
"So. I have another plan…" She pulls her hand forward, revealing a small white box. And inside is a blue boutonnière. Oh. Oh my god. Is this a dream? You need someone to smack you to reality right now.
"Gyubin…?"
"Well, I figured…if my original date couldn't come, I should probably ask the person I would love to go with, don't you think?"
"Yeah…yeah that makes sense."
No it is not. Your heartbeat is thumping like a drum. Your thoughts are going haywire. Who knows what the rhythm of your breathing is anymore. Did she actually say that YOU are the one she actually wants to go with? Gyubin, you can't just do this! Oh, and don't worry, it amplifies when she takes the boutonnière out of the box and holds it towards you.
"Well…wanna save me from being the girl who showed up alone?"
All the conversations through the windows, all the waves every morning, moments where you tag by her house and vice versa, nights of hand signs you two give each other, and every second of trying to be nonchalant and pretending nothing was there.
They all make your hand gently take the boutonnière from her. "I should…change first."
"Does that mean yes?"
"Well…you'd look pretty weird standing next to someone wearing sweatpants."
She has these cute blushes on her cheeks that make you just want to squeeze it. "That's…true."
"Yeah…"
The evening breeze drifts between the two houses you've spent years silently communicating across, and somehow standing two feet apart is infinitely more awkward than yelling hand gestures through bedroom windows. Heck, any pair of birds flying by probably cringe and drop to the ground looking at you two.
Your brain, meanwhile, has completely blue-screened. Just say something already, anything to compliment her, she looks so pretty under the downlight, come on!
"You look…different."
Fantastic. Ballistic. Give it up for the worst compliment ever.
"…Different…?" "I meant—I mean, you barely wear dresses, so…"
"Well, you're right." "Damn it, I sound weird."
"Indeed." At least a tiny laugh escapes from her. "You're not this hopeless, mister."
You are very hopeless for Gyubin, especially now. Damn it. Staying cool around Gyubin is very much an impossible task. One cute laugh from her and everything melts.
"Ahem. Well… I should probably get changed." "Of course."
"The suit isn't exactly going to walk downstairs by itself." "You don't know that."
"What do you mean?" "It can just fly down like Doctor Strange's cape, who knows?"
It should be said that it takes every single nerve inside you to not break down in laughter at an admittedly pretty lame joke. Her humour really hits the right spot.
"Give me ten minutes." "Take your time."
"I won't." "Oh you will."
You roll your eyes and begin stepping back inside, one foot crosses the doorway. Then, you feel your hand being tugged back, followed by warm fingers wrap gently around yours.
"Hm?"
You look back at her.
Gyubin hasn't moved, still standing in the same spot and holding your hand. And her face? Trying so hard not to laugh, the tiny grin keeps twitching wider. What is she up to now? Her head tilts innocently too, like a naïve deer in the abyss.
"I almost forgot." "About?"
She leans in, close enough that you can finally notice the familiar note of fresh fragrance - citrus, floral, and woody. Close enough that you can finally see the gleams in her eyes. "There was no date besides you from the start, by the way."
Never have you ever run this fast to get changed.
-
And you have never moved as fast as possible right now to find Gyubin.
The hallway is longer than your brain can remember, the white floors polished enough to catch your tired reflection for a split second before your old knees force you to slow down.
Your eyes slowly lift from the old blue boutonnière in your palm. Not the fresh one from years ago, no — this one has long since dried into muted shades of navy, carefully pressed beneath cracked plastic inside a tiny keepsake box you still carry around.
"…Sir?" A nurse rounds the corner just as you almost pass her. "We have found Mrs. Song again."
Oh. Hah. Of course. Thank the Lord for the younger workforce. Damn these knees, they complain louder than you do nowadays. Funny. At seventeen, you could sprint upstairs in seconds because the girl you loved was waiting outside. At seventy-eight, just standing from a chair requires utmost attention with every old joint in your body.
Thanking the kind nurse, you slowly but surely, move left and right, past the nurses' station, wave to Qwibbo the nice lad feeding imaginary seven thousand pigeons in the sunlight, turn another corner, and—
Music. Someone has left an old radio in the recreation room again. That same, old familiar melody catches your ear and has led you to where she is.
Gyubin. Now with your last name, Song.
She is still wearing the white cardigan your eldest daughter bought her a few Christmases ago that resembles the white dress from the prom date. She is still wearing the wedding ring you've slid back onto her finger more times than you can count with your feeble fingers because she keeps forgetting what it is and leaving it beside the sink. And she is still dancing, slowly swaying by herself and carefully counting under her breath.
"...Five...six...seven..." A tiny turn. "...Eight."
One of the nurses notices you. "She's been like this since she woke up, sir."
"When was that?" "About six."
"Did she eat breakfast?" "A few bites."
"Medicine?"
She nods. "...But she keeps asking what day it is."
You thank the nurse before quietly walking over. "...Hey."
Gyubin looks up, and you swear the sparks in her eyes never go away when seeing you. "There you are!" She said, and your heart foolishly skips, just like every single time, young and old. "I have been looking everywhere for you!"
"Have you?" "Mhm"
She reaches over and straightens your collar. "You'll wrinkle your suit."
You're wearing a knitted cardigan. "…Right. Sorry."
"You always leave everything until the last minute." She shakes her head dramatically. "We're going to be late for prom."
August 27th.
Again, without fail, every morning. She wakes up and checks the calendar beside her bed to find the little circle around August 27th. Then, she spends the rest of the day waiting for prom. Gyubin doesn't remember yesterday, last week, last month, heck, even their wedding day nor your daughter's birthday.
It's only that day.
"…Gyubin, we still have time." "Do we?"
"Mhm." "Oh good, but I haven't practiced enough yet!"
Before you can answer, she begins counting again.
"...Five...six..." Another careful step. "...Seven..."
You quietly follow beside her in case she stumbles. "...Eight."
-
That afternoon, while Gyubin (finally) naps on her hospital bed, you return home for a change of clothes.
The house has been painfully quiet since the children moved out. You make tea out of habit. One cup: just an earl grey tea bag and pour the water in. You're about to reach for the sugar cube, a bag of Persian tea, and absentmindedly reach for the second cup before remembering Gyubin is still in hospital.
The master bedroom that is both yours and hers remains mostly untouched. Her knitted cardigan that matches with yours still hangs behind the door, the half-finished knitting rests beside the armchair. A pair of reading glasses sits atop the novel she never manages to finish (she tried, the books you read can be quite tiring to go through.)
The old suit still hangs there in the wardrobe, pressed and protected.
"…psss, Doctor Strange's cape, huh?"
As you close the wardrobe, a notebook slips from the top shelf. Small, has a floral cover, and softened corners. Strange, you don't remember seeing this before? Curiosity kills this old man, you sit down and open it.
The first page simply reads: Battle Plan for Prom.
Oh…so this is Gyubin's. Too adorable, your wife is.
The second page:
04/08/2021
I need to ask him.
Damn it, too scary. Maybe tomorrow.
05/08/2021
Ugh, I still didn't ask.
Is he that dense? No way right? At least he's pretty cute.
Hopefully he will ask me.
08/08/2021
Are boys always this dumb? Gargghhh notice me already!
10/08/2021
Bought a new keychain for my bag, and tried new perfume.
If he doesn't notice, I will just rocket myself out of the window.
12/08/2021
I have a brilliant idea: Let's just make a fake date and get some friends to spread the rumour. Let's see if that pretty boy looks jealous.
Oh my god, it might have worked. But I wish he would come to me and ask.
"…Song Gyubin, still my little gremlin."
Page after page, each with increasingly more doodles and schedules about this fake date operation, dress sketches and moodboard, and sometimes admittingly bullshit thoughts squeezed into the margins.
Then the final entry.
27/08/2021
He said yes. Gosh I'm the happiest girl in the world.
Please let every dance after this one be with him too.
A small drop lands on the paper before you notice you have been crying since the first page. Come on, gotta wipe this carefully, it's your wife's treasure! For sixty years, you thought she'd simply been teasing you, knowing how sheepish you are. Never knew she'd spent weeks planning every moment waiting, hoping, wishing for you to be hers, and counting down until the day.
Closing the book and gently placing it on the desk as you stand up, you reckon you should practice again, for the prom, of course! Gyubin is waiting.
-
Here is an old man in a navy suit awkwardly counting under his breath in the master bedroom, the room that he and his wife has spent every single moment next to each other.
"...Five..." Left foot. "...Six..." Right. "...Seven..." He immediately steps on his own shoe. "...Ow."
Ok, one more time. "...Five..." No, wrong foot, damn it. Again. "...Five..." Turn. "...Six..." Again. "...Seven..." Again.
And again.
Until your old legs ache. Until you count to eight without messing up the step. Until the rhythm slowly begins returning and imprints onto your body.
Just enough for one more dance, enough for a girl who's still waiting for prom on August 27th.
Alzheimer's disease can steal yesterday, today, eventually tomorrow. But it sure damn couldn't steal the boy who sprinted upstairs to change into a suit, or a girl who stood patiently on the porch, holding a boutonnière and gleaming with hope that her masterplan will work. Those two young 17 year olds still exist somewhere inside her, in parts or as a whole.
But what you know is that, if she insists on waiting for prom, then you'd happily spend the rest of your life making sure she never had to wait alone.
-
With every step you take
I feel good, it’s like we’re dancing together
My, oh my, oh my, oh, my love
Be my only love~
A/N: Pinkkura continues to cause irreparable damage to me, and the concert clips certainly did not help.
Fanprose link here.
Enjoy.
“Hey, hun?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I’m bored.”
Well, isn’t this a case of deja vu.
You’re pointing out the fact that Sakura just got home, not looking away from the monitor in front of you, fingers tapping away rapidly at your keyboard. “And I thought you were finishing up that hat?”
“I would’ve, but I didn’t get to run by the store for some yarn earlier,” she says, moving to sit down on the bed behind you. “Wanted to change up the last bit of it with a different color.”
“Want me to drive you?” You dying in game gets you the opportunity to pause it, spinning your chair around to face her. “We could stop by somewhere for dinner and–” You pause, breath taken away from what you’re witnessing. “Whoa.”
Sakura plays with a few strands of her hair. “You like?”
You’re blinking, a loss of words and idiotically staring dumbfounded at her. “Like?” you repeat, staring at her twirl pink in her fingers. “I love.” Ignore the fact that what she has on can be considered black lace bra on black lace top damage to your brain, pink hair has never suited her more. “I thought you weren’t gonna redye it?”
“I changed my mind. The color was lightening up–” she explains, leaning back and propping herself up with her hands. “And I think it suits me.” She does this cute head tilt, nerdy smirk combo that gets you internally swooning your heart off seeing it. “Don’t you think?”
“Think the color’s made for you, sweetheart.” The smirk softens to a shy smile.
“You don’t have to flatter me that hard, honey.” A hair tuck in between, eyes turning to crescents with that grin you love gracing her features.
“What, I can’t tell my sweet, adorable girlfriend is beautiful?” you tease, sliding your chair forward and closer towards her. You use the bed as a stopper, and you end up right next to Sakura, your arm reaching out to play with her hair yourself, caressing her locks before squeezing her cheek gently. “My cute, pookie bear of a girlfriend–”
“Stop!” She swats your hand away with a giggle, and yet she inches closer to you, the sweet citrus scent of her perfume invading your sense of smell, a furthering of causation for you to fall all the more deeper into her intoxicating allure. “You’re so–” She shakes her head, finger jabbing you in the rib with a faux sound of exasperation.
“Lovable?” You cup her cheeks with one hand and squish her face.
“Annoying.” She rolls her eyes at you, letting out a smile when you squeeze her cheeks like a cute little stress ball. “Go back to your game, you annoying little shit.”
“And here I thought you were bored,” you tease, raising an eyebrow with yet another squash of her cheeks.
“I am bored,” she answers. “But it’s not like I got anything better to do.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, doofus.” She pushes you away, hard enough that it sends your chair sliding backward back to your desk. “Go play, I’ll be here.”
You glance back at Sakura, who decides to get comfortable at the bed. “You sure you can see that far?”
She answers with a wave, telling you that the monitor’s big enough for her to watch; cinematic moves, parrying, dying and all when she lets out a laugh after a few minutes of you fighting the boss and losing.
“It can’t be that hard, hun,” she says, the fight restarting from the beginning for the fifth (or was it sixth?) time. “Can’t you dodge instead?”
“Dodging is for pussies.” You take a breath, the screen turning to black as it loads the fight again.
Sakura giggles, hearing her say that dodging is for the ‘smart people’ as she stares at another sequence of you trying to parry the boss play out. “We might need a tip jar for the amount of times that girl tells you to parry it.”
“I am parrying it, sweetheart.” Cue yet another death screen.
You click on restart. “Not well enough, honey.”
“You try playing it and see what happens,” you retort, doing what you’ve considered the optimal (it wasn’t, and that’s why you kept on dying when you found out) first turn to get the most damage on the boss.
You hear her shuffle around the bed. “I’m good.” Dull, quiet thumps of her feet hitting the carpet follow and Sakura appears right next to you, leaning against your chair to take a closer look at watching you fail to beat this stupidly shitty boss. “Keep going, it’s fun to see you rage.”
Let out a calming sigh, take another whiff of her perfume to recenter yourself, and you lean forward.
That’s the thing with Sakura. She doesn’t need to say or do anything to get you motivated. Her existence alone gets you feeling like you can climb Mount Everest without all the fancy gear from top to bottom in a day. Of course that’s delusion speaking, but man can do many things when the love of his life is cheering him on by his side.
Considerably easily too, when your eyes are being drawn away from the game and into the black hole of a chest that she has. Her fault, you reason, when she decides to do the ever so simple action of leaning into the monitor and having her tits almost shoved into the side of your face (not that you’re complaining, that’s heaven wrapped in lace and Sakura’s embrace) since she wanted a closer look.
More power to her, since you’re getting a closer look at her tits underneath all that black lace. (Have you mentioned how crazily obsessed you are with Sakura’s tits before?)
It throws you off your game completely, the soft, full pair of breasts enclosed under layers of dark fabric luring you in, your attention moving away from the game and onto her chest. Which, can you really blame yourself when it’s right there, a breath’s length away from your mouth.
Causes you to lose again, though the rage is gone, replaced with this hyperfixation on her. The deep pull that her tits are causing irreparable damage to the way you think, and you would love nothing more than to lean in and rest your face, let out a sigh and smile when the cushions of her chest pillow on your face.
Christ, you should start a religion dedicated to them.
That all goes out the window when Sakura asks you something about the game, and you’re stuttering out an answer. Random things about the boss come out of your lips, why you’re fighting it, what’s the whole reason with this party in particular to use against the boss, some other random bullshit fact about the game—and while she leans back against the desk and listens with the soft, lovable look on her face, she’s also seeing through all your words with a follow up:
“You do know I was asking about why you’re using the keyboard and not the controller, right?”
The blank look on your face once the fact that you missed her question entirely registers results in a teasing smile to form on her face, finger tapping your nose; fingers wrapping around your cheeks to squeeze softly. “Distracted again?”
“A girl rubs her tits on a guy’s face, anyone would be,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Your reply makes her scoff, the smile turning into a grin as a finger hooks on the neckline of her top, giving it a tug.
“What, you wanna play with these again?” She makes an effort to pull it down, exposing the black lace underneath (trust yourself when you say that it’s a completely fucked up thing to do when you’re already so down bad for this woman) and you can’t help yourself from ogling.
Her chest has its own gravitational pull, you swear.
“If you’re offering,” you start, scooting yourself over with the chair to sit in front of her. “I’m not saying no.”
She hums, biting her lip to stop the excitement from bleeding through her features. It doesn’t work, of course, seeing her fingers play with the hem of her top. “What about your game?” She makes this innocent little glance back to your monitor, until her gaze turns back to you with this smoldering heat.
“Sweetheart, do you really want me to keep playing?” Your hands rest on the waistband of her pants.
“Well–” Sakura drags it out, straightening up from the desk. “I am bored.” She takes a few slow steps away from you, hands on her top. Swaying her hips as she plays with the fabric before she pulls them up, that defined line of her back showing bit by bit along with her unworldly waist that your hands are yearning to have a hold of.
Brings it to her chest, up her shoulders, off her body and onto the floor, where her hands come back to that snatched waist, feeling herself up; running them through her skin, going higher to the straps of her bra. Pulling them up, letting a strap fall down her shoulder, head turning to hit you with a look that screamed for you to take her—add to that her hips swinging around and for the love of everything unholy you are going to get on your knees just to beg for her to turn around.
And when she does—fuck, when she did you gained tunnel vision, fixated on the one final layer of lace that would ascend you to Elysium. You’re salivating, surely, at this point, and it’s only adding fuel to her flame, her finger letting the strap snap back in place.
Sakura’s asking you so much with so little done; lips curling into a smirk here, a brow raising there, her arm wrapping around her chest to give it a little push and her chest gets fucking bigger and all you can think of is your need to worship her lips, her skin, her tits—
The straps loosen on her collarbone, and the only thing that’s keeping it on her body is her forearm, and an idea; one that will get you on your knees.
“What do you say, hun?” She keeps a hand on the lace while she lets the straps come off her arms, and her teeth biting down her bottom lip does nothing to stop the exhilaration on her face.
“Come play with me?”
Walking backward, a finger on the strap replaces the hand keeping the lace up, baring her soft, large tits to you and your mind comes to the one rational thought that you can properly articulate:
God bless this woman.
You get up as soon as her feet hit the edge of the bed, and you’re on her just as the lace falls down to the ground. Her giggles as she gets tackled on the mattress is music to your ears, and you manage to say the words that will never stop being a fact.
“God, I love you.”
“I know, hun,” she says, hands cupping your cheeks. “You say it all the time.”
“And I’m never gonna stop saying it.” You’ve leaned forward, lips pressing against hers with all the devotion and desire you have for this woman, and she responds in kind.
There isn’t a need for her to say those words back, not when you know in your heart that she feels the same. Her actions dictate them instead, hands on your shirt, tugging away at the cloth.
You pull away only when the necessity arises—when the need to breathe comes, your shirt needing to come off, looking down to unbutton her pants. And when you sadly have to, your peppering kisses everywhere you can on her.
Peck her cheeks, mark her neck, nibble her earlobe. It’s a siren song of breathy moans and cute little whines sent straight into your ears, and you do everything in your power to hear more.
“Here–” Sakura grabs a hold of your hair, directing you to where she wants you to be. Your enthusiasm betrays you, the objects of your obsession served to you on a silver platter as you latch on to a tit, sucking eagerly. “That’s it, hun–”
You're biting down on her nub, eliciting a gasp from her, hands cradling you closer to her bosom; free hand continuing to pull down her pants, her legs helping you tug them down and off her, black silk the only thing left on her body, your fingertips running up her legs, thighs, waist, breast.
Give her other nub the same devotion—kissing it lovingly, play with the hard, pink pebble with your fingers and give it a pinch before coming down to kiss the pillowy flesh, revering them with muted groans that vibrate into her chest, and Sakura is enjoying every single second of it.
Hearing the cute whines that she makes, loving your mouth all over her body, her breathy pleadings of more, yes honey, please; that sweet, filthy version of her I love you’s when Sakura keeps you close to whisper them in your ear as you nibble on her teat.
It has you throbbing under your shorts as you grow messier, her breasts end up lathered in your spit, marks, and love when your mouth comes out to meet hers, the giggles that come out of her making you inch away with a smile. “What?”
“This isn’t what I had in mind when I asked to play,” she teases, resting her hands on your shoulders.
“And what did you have in mind?” Fingers come down to your chest.
“Oh, you know–” Gives you a push, and you’re giving way for her to straddle you, and Sakura is a marvel to gawk at—the smirk adorning her face along with the pink hair that fits her oh so perfectly, her tits red and raw from your efforts, waist that mold to your hands like it was made for you.
And she wonders why you keep reminding her of the fact that you’re head over heels for her.
“Was hoping we could do this instead.” She turns around, back facing you, jutting her ass wrapped in black panties, and as much as you are utterly addicted to her chest, her ass is a thing of beauty in of itself. “Might even get you to shut up.”
She’s shaking it inches away from your face, and you’re licking your lips (getting ready to eat her out and to hold yourself back, of course). “What, don’t want me to tell you that I love your ass?”
“I know you love it.” Her fingers make quick work of your shorts, and you're throbbing in her hands, leaking when she lazily pumps you. “Why do you think I’m asking you to eat it?”
“God.” That alone gets you pulsing around her hand, fingers inches to take her panties off already. You’re reaching up, running your hands over her ass, giving each cheek a squeeze. “What would I do without you, sweetheart?”
Her head turns around to face you, tongue sticking out teasingly. “Jerking it off by yourself?”
You let out a chuckle, playfully smacking her ass. “Ha, ha.” You rub the spot where your palm hit, leaning in to peck the red mark. “You’d be doing it by yourself if I wasn’t here either.”
“Guess I’m lucky I have you, don’t I?” Sakura giggles, blowing you a kiss before she heads back down. Feeling her hot breath on your length, your fingers hook into the lace and pull it aside, her pussy glistening and looking positively enticing to shove your face into.
“Think I’m the lucky one,” you mutter, thumb spreading her ass apart, admiring the way her folds open up. You take hold of her hips, pulling them back towards your face and your tongue gets its first delicious taste of her cunt just as her mouth envelops your cock.
And she tastes as mind blowing as she looks, tongue enjoying every single second it’s in contact with her pussy. Fingers digging in her cheeks to spread them apart to savor all of her, and she’s pushing back against you, even as she bobs up and down your shaft.
It’s making you both groan, both so preoccupied with each other that the noise only adds to your enthusiasm. Sakura starts to hit all your weak spots, tongue lapping against your tip, taking it back in her mouth to swirl it around and getting your legs to twitch at the pleasure. Fingers stroke your length, and the little hum she makes around you starts to make you lose control.
You’re reigning it back in, wanting to stay in her ass as much as you could, so you increase your fervor; tongue pressing flat against her slit, licking upward until you press into her, pushing yourself in her wet cunt.
There’s a long, drawn out moan that Sakura lets out when you do, getting her to pop off of you, a hand to stroke you replacing her mouth as she whimpers. “Hun–”
You don’t understand a single bit of what the hell she’s trying to tell you, your need to drink up more of her nectar. A hand comes underneath to press against her clit, and she’s cursing in the air when the gentlest of pressures start to meet that little nub.
“Oh, fuck–” Sakura’s back on you with a vigor that would’ve gotten you on your knees with how her lips are sealed tight around your cock, the pressure getting the hold you have on her hips to grow firmer.
It’s a competition, at this point, to see who can get each other off first. And you’re matching her tempo; frigging her clit, kneading that ass of hers in your fingers while you drink in all the drip that comes into contact with your tongue.
She’s grinding her ass against your face, taking you deep in her mouth and staying there until she gags, pulling away to trace your length down while she pumps. “Close?”
You pull back. “Are you saying or asking?” She doesn’t need an answer, when it was already throbbing in her hands.
“Mostly asking.” She gives your tip a sloppy kiss, tongue teasing the slit and making you hiss. “Maybe a little bit of saying.”
You don’t believe it for a second, seeing as she’s leaking all over you, thumb playing with her folds. You hum your disapproval, squeezing an asscheek. “Doesn’t look like it to me over here.”
“Yeah?” Her fingers tease all over your dick, nails raking gently around your thighs, coming to cup your balls. “Better get back and finish the job, hun.” She wiggles her ass, and that’s all you need to see for your mouth to press back against her cunt, pushing a finger inside her, and she’s so wet it gets you adding another one to fuck her with.
Your head is dizzy from everything she has; the divine taste of her juices, the soft press of her ass against your cheeks, that damnable mouth of hers sloppily making out with your cock.
Holding it in no longer becomes an option, and you’re losing yourself in the fog of it, desire and need and Sakura the only thing that you can comprehend. Her name comes out of your mouth like a prayer, fingers pumping into her faster, tongue finding her clit as your thumb starts circling her tight, little hole.
“Oh my god–” You know it’s a weakness of Sakura’s, playing with her asshole, and her words turn into shrieks when you press inside her pucker, chanting swears as her thighs start to tremble and press against your head. “Fuck, hun, you–”
Her head lolls to the side, her pants tickling your cock as she starts to convulse, thighs suffocating you, her walls clenching around your fingers as she floods your mouth, lapping it all up as you keep going, prolonging that high as long as you can.
Sakura gets you back, hands pumping away aggressively, forcing you to follow her, and all you can do is comply.
“Kkura, I’m–”
It all comes exploding out of you, moaning into her sopping cunt as she takes the first shot of your load into her cheek, hips bucking against her hand. She takes your tip in, taking the rest of your spill into her mouth as you pulse into her warmth.
Her fingers keep pumping away, milking you for everything you’re worth, Sakura’s throat never ceasing to swallow your cum. Bobbing her head leisurely, a content moan at each batch that she receives until you’re all spent.
You’re left leaving kisses all over her thighs as you feel the aftershocks begin to leave you, and when she releases you from her lips, she moves herself to the side, sprawled in the bed.
“That was cheating, you know,” she mutters, head looking up (or was it down?) at you. “Playing with my ass like that.”
“Like you didn’t enjoy it.” You manage, breathing deep, fingers caressing her thighs.
Sakura lets out a chuckle, slapping your leg. “Shut up,” she giggles, her tongue darting out to lick at the rope of white staining her cheek. She moves, shakily managing to move towards you, your arm wrapping around her shoulder when she drapes herself over you.
Her lips meet your chest, her fingers drawing circles as she lets out a pleased sigh. “Love you,” she mumbles, nestling deeper in your hold. “Teach me how to play that game of yours later?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” A laugh seeps through you, letting out a grin and kissing her forehead. The soft smile that graces her features when you do gets your heart melting, her eyes closing shut as she settles in your hug.
Tags : BFH, some pit stuff, just me gushing for her really because yeah
“Break time’s up! Come on, let’s go!”
“I can’t—no way!” you wheeze, sprawled on the floor. “My legs are on fire, I can’t…let’s just stop here.”
Nien shifts her jaw side-to-side, tilting her head as she looks over your leg. “Your legs are on fire, you say?”
“Yeah! It—”
“Got it!” she chirps, grabbing her water bottle and turning away.
Eh? That easy? No, she surely got something more in mind, this is Nien we’re talking about.
“Whoa.”
Though whatever that is can wait as you pull yourself up and watch her saunter over to the water dispenser. You are but a pig and Nien’s thighs are two juicy carrots, all out in their sweat-shined glory thanks to her tennis skirt.
Water bottle refilled, the main attraction shifts to her toned abs, flexing with every step towards you. You could be drooling right now, you wouldn't know. Not when it joins the river of sweat on your face, and all the space behind it is occupied by awe. In awe that she is somehow your girlfriend.
Nien’s amused giggle brings you back to her bright, full-faced smile; one of the few things that has the power to tear your eyes away from her body.
Smiling back at her, you extend your hand. But instead of handing you the bottle, she pours the contents all over your legs, cackling as you squirm in surprise.
“Ah! Huh—why…what was that for?”
“Tada!” Nien shakes out the last drips, setting the bottle aside. “Now your legs aren’t on fire anymore! I’ve put it out, heh.”
“The—what…really?” you chuckle, caught between amusement and frustration.
“Mhm! Now…” She claps her hands, leaning over with a determined expression. “One. More. Set. Come on, get up!”
You flop back to the floor, whining. “I can’t! It’s too—agh!” Nien yanks you up on your forearms, pushing you against a chest press.
“Baby. Listen to me.” Her voice is an octave lower, her usual sunny beam bringing along its blaze this time. “Are you actually injured?”
You gulp and peer down at your legs, wiggling them a tiny bit. “N–No.”
“Can you move them?”
More of a swing this time around. It’s difficult and makes you wince, but there seems to be a decent range of motion still. “Yes.”
Nien’s grip loosens slightly, holding your biceps rather than gripping them. “Do you want to make them stronger?”
You slowly nod, eyes warming up for some reason. “Y–Yes. Yes, I do.”
Her fiery gaze cools back down to a warm beam, her hands pushing aside the damp hair stuck to your forehead. “Then we do one more—you know what? Let’s just go for six reps this set. That’s it. Then we’re done.”
“Just six?” you croak, lighting up a bit.
“Yup! Just six.”
“Okay.” Your nods are firmer, more certain. “Let’s…let’s do this.”
“Attaboy,” she grins, tapping your shoulders and stepping aside. Letting out a long exhale, you grit and get back onto the leg curling machine, groaning loudly as you get in position.
“Ready?”
“Yup.”
“And go. Up! One.” Wow. Your hamstrings immediately protest, but you just about manage. “Up! Two.” You can’t let their protests drown out your desire though; another hefty pull. “Three!” Fuck, you’re real tempted to just let them win, unable to do this one without shaking.
“Four! Let’s go, you got it, babe!” So you’re shaking. As long as you move, that’s all that matters. “Don’t stop now, come on! Up! Five!” Oh jeez, no way you’re going all the wa—okay, just…maintain your form. Prioritize that. Just one more.
“And…up! Six!” Let’s. Fucking. Go! “Urghh! There! Wow! I did it! I d—”
“I didn’t say we’re done!” she spits, clapping her hands. “Up! Come on! Keep going!”
What the fuck? Didn’t we agree to six—oh, whatever. You’re in the flow of compliance, so you pull another rep, snarling the whole time as it’s the only way you’ll breathe properly.
“Seven! Good, one more!” You don’t know how you got here; your legs would be screaming on top of their lungs if they had a pair, your whole body is shaking, and yet. You grind towards another rep, your vocals matching the raised hurdle.
“Eight! Awesome! Just one more now, one more!”
“Oh my—honey! Nien! Please!” you wheeze, borderline sobbing. “I can’t—”
“Uh–uh! Don’t say that—don’t say anything! Just…try! Pull! Come on!” She leans in, closer to your head. “Up!”
“Urghh!” It feels impossible, sounds impossible, but you bite down hard and somehow thinly manage another rep, even if you only go half as far. “Nine! You’re doing great. One more, baby!”
Forget questioning it. This ends when she says it ends…or when you break. Whichever comes first. “Pfffff!” Try as you might, summon every molecule of reserve energy you have, you can’t do it. You bounce back weakly, not enough breath to verbally protest.
“Well done. Great job, baby,” Nien coos, helping you off the machine. You stumble and fall right into her arms, she lowers to the floor to accommodate.
“You said—” Your throat’s dry from all the panting, only airy wheezes until she hands you the water bottle that’s actually for drinking. “Shhh…slowly, baby. Well done, you’ve earned it.”
“You said we…we were only doing six!” you scowl, looking away from her to sulk. Nien chuckles and starts caressing your temple, lightly playing with your hair.
“And look how many you could actually do,” she whispers, holding up her fingers. “Nine—almost ten! Awesome, right?”
You look at her again, your pursed lips stretching into a half smile at the sight of her proud grin. “That was—” Heavy coughs cut you off, which she helps by tapping your back as you sit up.
“That was…” You look back at the machine, your half smirk growing into a full smile as your breathing levels off. “ …pretty awesome.”
“Hmph. Now you know. So don’t ever…” Nien pulls you in again, making you squeal as she lands multiple firm pecks on your cheek. “ …parrot that ‘I can’t’ bullshit again. Got it?”
“Got—got it! That—mmphh!” you barely get out before she goes for your lips next, and on this one you bounce back, sending her squealing and giggling to the floor.
“Is this your way of pampering me after all that?” you whisper before attacking her cheeks, which she wholeheartedly welcomes.
“Maybe? What, I can’t pamper my sweet man after all that? When he looks this cute?” she pouts, poking your nose and deploying her puppy dog eyes that you’ve yet to develop effective defenses for (and likely never will).
“Tsk. I never said that.” You dash a quick kiss at her lips before lying down next to her, letting your breaths and the gym’s ambient noises settle.
“That was pretty fucking intense though, not gonna lie,” you huff, rubbing your thighs.
“Well…” Nien turns over and throws her leg over you. “ …if we’re gonna raise your limits, we gotta push you to your current one. And you won’t do that if you don’t believe.”
“True,” you nod, grimacing to turn over so you can cup her cheeks. “And now thanks to you, I can.”
“Tsch. That was your hard work, you know. I just said some words.”
“And I wouldn’t have done shit without those words.”
“And you…” She pokes your nose with a ‘boop’ sound. “ …made the decision to listen to them. To ignore what you think and do what you can!”
“Hmph. You’re always so nice to me,” you puff, nuzzling in her shoulder.
“Because you’re not nicer to yourself!” she grumbles, ruffling your hair. “You’re much stronger than you think.”
“Heh. You really think so?”
“Mhm! I’m pretty sure I can prove it, even. Right now.”
You look up at her with a cocked eyebrow. “Oh? And how’s that?” That cheeky, mischievous smirk is back on her face, which you were about to entertain until you feel her slowly grind on your crotch, making you gasp.
“Honey?”
“Mmm…you looked really strong and manly back there. You were so hot…”
Those low, breathy words uttered through Nien’s cheeky expression makes your spine tingle, some heat pooling in your stomach as she continues to rock against you gently. “N–Nien…”
“See, you’ve still got some juice left, don’t you?” she purrs, shifting closer to your ear. “Wanna use it up on me?”
“Nngghhh…” You bite your lip and clutch her sleeve, your erection fully clocked in as it slides between her covered folds. “F–Fuck yeah!”
Nien chuckles and maintains her expression, though her eyes start to waver along with her airier voice. “Then we should hurry on home. But…” She reaches into your shorts, a sharp moan spilling as you flinch. “ …if you can carry me to the locker room, we’ll do it right now.”
“You…serious?”
“Yeah,” she replies breathlessly. “Walls are thick enough, shouldn’t wake the poor receptionist, hehe.”
“If it doesn’t work—” You shudder as she slowly rubs your leaking tip. “—we’ll be banned from here, won’t we?”
“So we find another gym. What’d I say about—ah…” Your hand slides down her exposed back to knead her ass. “Cheater. What’d I say about that attitude?”
“Right.”
“So?” She takes her hand out of your shorts only to suck on her fingers right in front of you. “Still feeling like you’re all spent?”
Your eyes scan the empty gym, landing on the entrance to the locker rooms. It’s a bit of a distance, not something you previously thought would be feasible.
“Hell no.” But you’re not the previous you. Not with Nien.
You clamber to stand up, trying to find a somewhat secure footing. Your legs expectedly wobble and threaten to buckle, but the thing between them has a much louder voice, so you listen to that.
As soon as you seem secure enough, Nien leaps into your arms, coming nerve-reckingly close to toppling you over. “You ready? Deal’s off if you drop me before you get in.”
“You bet.”
You begin the journey across the gym. Somehow, your leg’s strength returned, making the trip without too many hiccups. Though unlike Palpatine’s return, its reasoning is plentiful and sound.
For starters, there’s her lips and neck which your mouth seldom leaves, only pulling away to navigate between the machines lest any bumps waste your precious momentum. Then there’s her firm, yet supple asscheeks, filling out your palms and then some.
There’s the tightness in your shorts, its resident fiending to be reunited with her throbbing heat just behind the fabrics. Not to mention her scent; sweat, deodorant, perfume, makeup, detergent, everything. And then the sounds she makes into your mouth and ear; an addicting mix of giggles, whispers, and those delightful high-pitched moans of hers.
It’s just everything her, really. Everything Nien. Everything about this unfair combo of cute, sexy, heartfelt, dominating, supportive—you’d wear out a typewriter before you run out of ways to describe her. Not that it’s something you ever want to achieve, anyway.
The locker room door thuds against her back like an abrupt jumpcut back to reality, opened with a thrilled shudder from Nien. “Wow, you…you actually made it. I was right!”
Huh. You did. Where’d all that pain go—oh, here it is. “Of–of course I did. Who am I?” you flaunt, setting her down on the changing bench.
“Mmm…cocky, are we?”
“All thanks to you.” You pull away properly at last, dropping to your knees which puts you right in line with her glossy toned abs. You give just one glance at her for confirmation before you start feasting on them, licking up every surface inch you can manage without turning her over.
Nien maintains her cheeky, jovial demeanour, though larger and larger cracks seep through every time you make a close pass above her waistband. Satisfied with her abs, you drag your tongue flat, up from her belly button to just beneath her top.
She lets out an audible gasp, her jaws dropped as you pause with your nose nudged beneath her boobs.
“You’re p–pretty thirsty tonight, huh?”
“Well, it was quite the workout for me so…” You slide your fingers under her top and yank it upwards, freeing her tits. “ …forgive me for being famished.”
Nien’s laugh is cut off by your firm suck at her breast, humming onto the soft flesh. Only one of them though, the curtains need to be drawn for the full show to start. So you try to pull her top off all the way, your impatience only creating a hurdle.
“Here, let me do it.” Nien pulls it off with grace, tossing it onto the other end of the bench. Her hair got all ruffled as a result, and God it makes her look even hotter. You can’t resist taking a detour to her mouth again, lightly chewing on her lip as you pull away.
“You are so fucking hot.”
Yeah, just saying it in your head wasn’t enough. Especially as you’re reduced to low, breathy hums for the next few minutes, worshipping her collarbones, shoulders—all sweet appetisers before the first course.
“And you’re a buffet and a half.”
Starting with a different tit from the teaser. Your lips stretch to fill as much of your mouth with her, twiddling on her rock hard peaks. Longer, less restrained moans join her pants and squeaks, her palms pushing you into her while yours knead and squeeze the other breast.
Not to deprive said breast of your mouth, of course. You switch over and get more daring, lightly nibbling on her nipples with your teeth. Nien lets out a sharp moan, her fingers pulling on your hair by accident. “Ngghh, sorry!” she keens, massaging the offended spot on your scalp.
You finish up on her tits, giving each a farewell smooch before moving on…back up her body. Those tantalizing pits of hers. Never tried them before, worse times to give them a go.
It is without warning though, catching her off-guard as you nosedive into one.
“Oh! S–Sorry. I wanted to…does it feel bad?”
Nien looks you over in awe before shaking her head. “No, but…give me a heads up next time.”
“Gotcha. My bad.” Now the light is on and green, you get back to it. Dragging your nose along the bumpy, thinly shaven surface, your tongue close in tow. The new sensation overrides her usual restraints, her noises getting louder still.
“Gah! Mm…that—it, weird, but–but good weird. Keep going.”
And you do. Going for her other pit, giving it the same treatment. You weren’t particularly into this at first, just entertaining a curiosity. But it’s better than you thought. Will definitely return on occasion. Or on the regular, who knows?
What you are a regular for is coming up next though, hidden beneath her skirt. You’d prefer keeping them on if they were just open underneath, but alas there are integrated shorts.
You hook your fingers into the waistband and slowly peel them away, catching her panties along with it. At long last, there they are. Pink, swollen, and leaking like a broken tap thanks to your efforts.
“God, we are so fucked if someone walks in here right now,” she laughs breathlessly, peering at the door. Right, you’ve been so lost in her you forgot you’re doing all this in a public space at two in the morning.
“Ha. That’s the thrill of it. They’re welcome to join though, right?”
“Fuck no.” Nien lifts your chin with the toe of her shoe, all of the mischief gone from her eyes. “I’m not sharing you with anybody, you hear me? They should be privileged to watch.”
You swallow, lightly terrified and heavily aroused. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now eat me out already, thought you said you were famished?”
As true as that is, you don’t go straight for them, oh no. Even the bit of waist previously under her skirt gets attention, every drop of sweat lapped up by your ever so diligent tongue. “I also said you’re a buffet, so I’m enjoying every dish I can.”
About time for the main course. Your mouth works from the outside in, gliding closer and closer to her core. When you reach her outer folds, it’s like she shifts into a higher gear. Her entire body lurches, her back arches sharply, her thick thighs crushing your head.
Nien lets out her loudest moan of the evening yet, her hands scrambling for purchase on the edges of the bench. You have no such problems with how tight she’s locked you in, and you get to work.
And boy, is it worth the wait. It’s hard to exaggerate just how good she tastes as you slurp up her nectar with a dash of sweat. Keeping good health and diets definitely pay off, no matter how small the increments may be. Forget all those sugary sports drinks, you’ll take Nien over them any day of the week.
Feasting on her is barely a figure of speech. You suck, slurp, lick, prod your tongue—just short of actually gnawing on her flesh. But like any human sense, going at it for too long at once might make you numb to it. You can’t have that, can you?
So you do your best to shimmy out of her thighs, letting your fingers fill in for your mouth; they’re like package deals now, you can’t leave the other idle while one is getting action. Though as good as her hot, moist walls clenching around your fingers feel, it doesn’t quite match her flavour on your tongue.
Not to worry. Nien’s desperate babbles give it a run for its money as she unravels above you. Even better are the screams she lets out in between, now fully audible since your ears aren’t muffled. Yes, that’s something that still leaves you awestruck to this day. Just how much of a screamer Nien is once she’s in the zone. If someone outside couldn’t hear her before, they likely can at this point.
“Baby—babe—gnghhh! You—ahh! It…don’t stuh—don’t stop!” Oh, she’s getting close. Won’t be on your fingers though, no way. You pull them out to her dismay, which you pamper by offering said fingers to her. She takes them in straight away, not dissimilar to how you were with her body earlier.
While her mouth is busy upstairs, yours finish the job downstairs. Becoming more erratic, rubbing your whole face all around her slit, tripping breakpoints you didn’t know she had. And with her next scream bit down on your fingers, she shatters.
She was already leaking profusely and still a torrent blasts you in the face, half of it ending up everywhere but your mouth. You remedy that as soon as she loosens her legs enough, lapping up the wet trails down her inner thighs to just above her socks.
Honestly, you want to pull them off and indulge that extra toe-sucking goodness, but your dick’s waited long enough. You make your shorts scarce and kick it away, sharing a momentary soft kiss to let her get a taste and cool down.
Your next green signal? Nien’s hand reaching down to pump you, giggling as she rolls her thumbs on your slit. You groan and scoop her up again, stumbling towards the side of the room.
“You want it like this, babe?” she asks, hugging you tight as her back meets a locker.
“Yeah.” Lining yourself up, you take a deep breath. “Wanted to—ahh…” You slide into her slowly before slamming home, rattling all the lockers behind her. “Wanted to see about that…reserved strength theory.”
“Well, you—” Nien gasps, clutching your hair as you twitch inside her. “You watch yourself, alright? Don’t…force it if–if you can’t…mmhhh.”
“Eh, I'll manage. Trust.”
“Good.”
You thrust with a moderate heft, though at a slightly odd angle compared to usual thanks to your worked out legs. It works out just as well if not better though, rubbing against her entire clit. Soon enough her screams surface again, right next to your ear.
You match the decibels with your hertz, pounding the lights out of her and making an absolute racket of the lockers behind you, what with many of them having open doors. It’s loud and messy and likely breaks a good few laws, but you both are far beyond caring.
Your release starts gathering near the door so you stop, kissing her sloppily as you carry her back to the bench. “I…I wanna—urgh!” Your trembling legs give way at just the right time, planting her back on the stained bench. “I wanna cum on your abs, honey. Want…paint them white.”
Nien snickers, brushing your hair and kissing your nose. “Go ahead, baby. I’m your canvas,” she whispers, spreading her legs so you have room to pull out.
And you’re Bob Ross. Time for your own Liquid White—no, that’s the base. Plenty of that on her abs. You’re looking to get Titanium White on there, yes yes.
You aren’t done with her pussy quite yet though, better it than your hands. Rolling your hips slow and deep; the feeling is all that matters now. It always is, should be as another of her climax is on the horizon, her moans getting thinner.
Your mouth goes to hers so she can shriek into it, which she does seconds later. Her legs curve inwards, slightly trapping you in place. Shouldn’t be much of a problem though, you still have plenty of—
“Oh! Ahh, wait! Honey!”
The earlier tryst against the lockers used up your precious energy, making you burst the moment you start to pull out. Her pussy doesn’t waste a second, its spasms milking your cock. Feeling this, Nien fully wraps her legs around you, pressing you flush with her.
“Thought—mmm…thought you wanted to paint my abs?” she asks, half-chuckling half-moaning.
“It—my…I couldn’t—too much, I guess,” you squeak in response, emptying your last spurts into her. Ah, well. Her pussy’s still your favourite finish line, just wished you’d take a different route this time.
You shiver as you pull out, thick cloudy globules following your exit. You weakly chuckle at the sight, slumping to the floor next to her to catch your breath.
“Looks like you…” she pants, swiping a bit of your cum to taste it. “ …need some more training.”
“Yeah,” you nod, licking your lips. “Wait, you mean next week, right?”
“Of course, I’m not trying to kill you!” She exhales loudly and turns over, chin resting on her elbow. “Next week, core strength. We’ve barely started, baby. You’re gonna be so strong and healthy.”
You chuckle shyly, leaning in to kiss her, brushing aside damp hair. “I’ll trust you fully with this, honey.”
“Mhm! And you gotta believe in yourself, remember that.” Nien groans and sits back up, looking around the now humid, warm space. “Let’s clean up and go home. I’d fancy not being banned from here, it’s really nice.”
“Yeah. There’s no—oh! Wow!” You wobble like an air dancer upon trying to stand up, landing back down on the bench. “Honey, can you drive us home? There’s no way I’m…whoa.”
Nien laughs and sits behind you, giving a quick back massage. “Of course, baby. I was gonna do that anyways,” she coos, pecking your ear.
You let out satisfied sighs at her massage, slowly melting back into her arms. She nuzzles in your shoulder, gently rocking side-to-side.
“Thank you, honey.”
“No problem.”
“No, I mean…thank you.” You open your eyes and face her. “For not giving up on me. For doing everything you could to keep me going. Thank you.”
Nien smiles and kisses your forehead, hugging you. “Of course. We promised, remember?” she whispers, tapping your back softly. “But thank me properly when you can beat me in arms wrestling!”
“Mm…so, never? Heat death of the universe, perhaps?”
She pulls back and glares at you, clicking her tongue. “Babe?”
“I’m kidding! Attitude, belief, yes! I’ll beat you fair and square—heck, I’ll beat you in everything, watch.”
Nien cringes and tilts her head, humming. “Eh…not everything, no way. But I like that! Mind and body gotta work together.”
“For s—” A loud thud in the distance interrupts you. It takes a few to register what it was, but then it’s clear as day. “Shit! The front door. Someone’s actually here!”
You both snicker like hyenas as you scramble to dress up and wipe away any remaining evidence. You barely make it; walking out the door just as the newly arrived patron gets to it. No time to ponder about the look he gave you, you’re free! Frolicking into the night—well, Nien is. You’re hobbling like a zombie behind her, though equally joyous. Leg day turned out a helluva lot better than you expected.
“You do know the only reason you're here right now is because you're hot, right? Nothing more, nothing less.”
He looked at her and smirked.
“And your point being?” he asked, helping her carry her bag as she settled into the seat right by the bar counter.
“You’re lucky,” she smiled, fluttering her eyelashes at him as thanks when he returned her bag.
“I would rather think that it was fate that allowed us to meet,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Peach spritz. How about you, Miss—?”
Telling the bartender his order, he looked at her, palm raised towards her as he asked for both her name and drink.
“Jiwon,” she said, giving you a stare with narrowed eyes before turning to the bartender. “I’ll get the same.”
“Why the look?”
“Because you ordered what I wanted,” she said, leaning a little back to hook one of her smooth, white legs over the other. “And you already know my name, so why the question?”
“Well, firstly, it's what I always drink.”
“You're staring.”
“A little hard not to when you're this hot, Miss Jiwon.”
“Oh, please drop the formalities. They're not needed when you're already undressing me with your eyes.”
“As do you. Hot woman with a hot bod, hot glasses, hot thighs and hot ass? A little hard not to.”
“That sounds like an understatement,” she chuckled softly. “What about the second?”
“Just wanted to know more about the Park Jiwon other than her being the author of my favourite book.”
“You seem really good at flattery, huh?” She blushed and bent forward, fingers gripping her tie to loosen it, tugging it down to reveal the two charms hidden within.
“Flattery skills aside, I’m really good at flipping pages too, you know,” he said, taking the drink from the bartender.
He slid the glass to Jiwon.
“Oh please,” she chuckled and sat back straight, rolling her eyes. “You're a reader. Of course you’ll be good at that.”
“I beg to differ,” he said. “Not all readers are equal, just like how not all women are as beautiful as you.”
She picked up the spritz and gave it a little swirl before sipping, appreciating the fruity sweetness that was accompanied by the familiar burn of alcohol on her tongue.
“So, what do you think of my name? How does it compare to yours?”
“Nice try in asking for mine,” he teased. “But I think mine sounds better.”
He grabbed his drink and downed it in a single gulp.
“And you’ll agree because you’ll only be screaming it later.”
———
“S-Shit—Ethan—fuck don’t stop—”
Her hands grabbed onto his hair, pushing his head deeper between her thighs as he slurped continuously. His tongue continued to flick across her folds, drawing juices out of her already sopping heat.
He lifted his face off after an indefinite amount of time passed from him devouring her pussy.
“How's that?” he smirked, running his fingers playfully around her leaking cavern.
“It feels so fucking good…” Jiwon moaned, her body shivering while her lower lips quivered, as if begging for more kisses. Her arms clung on to the pillow underneath her back which Ethan had considerately tucked, but his kindness was all just a ruse, for he was torturing her vocal chords right now.
“That's two things of my checklist,” Ethan said, sticking his tongue forward for a slow tantalising lick, savouring her sweetness that topped peach fucking spritz or whatever. “I told you I’ll have you screaming my name—”
He stuffed his face right in again, pressing her thighs wide apart. He ran his mouth aggressively across her plump folds, flipping and spreading them like pages.
“—and I told you I’m very skilled at flipping pages.”
Park Jiwon, the famous author, was mewling a cacophony of pure unadulterated lust. But right now, he was the author. One with a tongue that was scribbling the autobiography of his pussy-juicing-adventures across her unfurling scroll of so-called purity which she had boasted earlier of still being a virgin.
He wrote a sloppy question against her clit, but all he got was a reply of slurps and squelches from her pussy — which were unironically because of him as well.
Not that he cared.
“Please Ethan—Ethan, don't fucking stop, I’m—”
He treated her like a dripping inkwell, making sure that there was enough juice producing out from within her walls for him to further his studies at getting a doctorate in seismology.
Why seismology?
Because he was learning how her body quakes. P-waves and S-waves sent through the sex planet named Park Jiwon. Ethan once read in a book that P and S meant Primary and Secondary, but he felt that they were distasteful. He much preferred the Pussy-waves, Pornographic-waves, Squirting-waves, and Sloshing-waves vibrating from his relentless tongue, leaving her tremoring and desperate for more seismic activity between her thighs.
Ethan also once read that tsunamis originate from earthquakes. So he worked harder for his first splash of inspiration, his Eureka moment.
Her pussy clamped down on his invading tongue, squishing out a wet squirt of hot gush, blessing him with his first surging crash. Her spread thighs tried to snap shut from the undulating pleasure, but he forced them apart, mouth greedy for every drop produced solely by the spasming muscles of her cunt.
Gibberish.
Okay, maybe there were some coherent words amongst her orgasm mantra, but they were also mostly something along the lines of etha—omagussh—pleas—ethan—donstap—fucmor—ethannn—.
And that was a testament to his skill of favourite-name-conversion.
When Jiwon had finally calmed down to her buzzing standby mode of prime fuckable status, her legs were vibrating in frequencies that could only be heard by Ethan who was preparing his pen for the next chapter.
“How was it?” he asked.
“…Ethan…” Jiwon gasped breathlessly, her lips oozing a drop of blood where she had bitten herself too hard from the ecstatical pleasure. “I can’t… think.”
Ethan hummed in approval and stood up, placing his hands under Jiwon’s arms.
“You don't need to think tonight,” he said, rubbing the soft flesh of her pits gently with his thumbs, before lifting her slightly into a proper sitting position. “I'm the author.”
He pressed his body forward and took hold of his cock, brushing the tip up and down her swollen folds. They both revelled in the tingling pleasure from the contact, pre-shocks sent up their spine as a promise of the euphoric wonders that would rock their minds.
“I may not be the best at writing—”
He pushed in.
“—but I’ll make you become the star of my best audiobook.”
Her languid moan ripped through the air.
He felt her walls stretch and part, engulfing his length with a force that was tighter than snug.
But this audiobook was in 3rd POV, and so the author can't only focus on himself.
Her mind reeled at the initial penetration, feeling him dilate her most precious secret like it was made to be. She felt him push every inch into her core, filling her cunt to the brim with his diamond hard cock that was hotter than magma.
Once they were fully connected in body, soul, and the slit of his pipe to hers, he began to pump.
Retract and crush.
Ethan began fucking his cock into her, thrusting his hips with a ferocity that scared even himself. He didn't know what went into his mind. The woman in front of him was of such a desirable form — respected yet slutty; beautiful yet whorish; charming yet fuckable.
And so he did what her body begged him to do.
She grabbed onto his idle hands and pressed them to her clothes, guiding him to squish her ample yet masked tits. Her mouth rasped and her eyes begged, unleashing never ending babbling requests for him to fill her over and over again.
“Ethan please, fuck me harder. Fuck me until I cum again. And again. And again. I don't want to stop cumming so please don’t stop.”
He took his cock with his hips and hammered into Jiwon, using her to write moans in the air like an inscription of sex and sex only.
It wasn't enough.
He grabbed her blouse with both hands, ripping them apart with animalistic force. Buttons shot out in diverse directions, but his eyes weren't looking at those. They were looking at the black laced bra covering her nipples. Ethan grabbed the ends of her tie and looped it around his fingers several times, gathering the lengthy fabric as he reeled Jiwon’s tits up towards his mouth.
“Look at me, Jiwon.”
He grabbed her bra with his other free hand and yanked it down, exposing the dark flush that had already bloomed across her areola as her nipples stood top. With a firm squish, he kneaded her breast with his hand, groping it with tenderising force as he kept fucking her. He treated her soft mounds like a stress ball, squeezing as he latched his lips onto hers, kissing her torridly.
“Ethan—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jiwon squealed into his mouth, her eyes rolling upwards as he destroyed both her lips. An unfading pressure was building within her, and she ground her hips against him, trying her best to reach the peak.
And she shattered.
Ethan kept slamming into her as she came, feeling her hot juices gush all over his cock. Every pull out released a trickle of liquid, and every plunge pushed her cum out with a squelch. She moaned and thrashed like she was having a seizure, and Ethan pressed down on her body hard, holding her in place as she shook uncontrollably.
The moment her orgasm waned, Ethan pulled out and grabbed her waist, flipping her onto all fours. He ran his hands around her supple butt that was raised high, miniskirt bunched around her waist. Climbing onto the bed, he positioned his angry and throbbing cock behind her, filling her in a single go.
Jiwon moaned loud, her fingers digging into the soft mattress of the hotel’s bed. He leaned forward and pressed his chest onto her back, whispering into her ears.
“I’m going to shake your world.”
He reached for her tie again and held it before straightening himself once more. With a tug, he yanked her upwards like a leashed dog. Even if she wasn't, he fucked her like one. He fucked her pussy like an animal perched on her limbs, and she was just there, taking his cock like she needed it with her life.
Her airway was strangled until she had barely enough space for air to wheeze through, keeping her on the edge of consciousness.
Gone was his rationality.
He grunted in the pleasure of her constricting tightness, letting go of the leash and gripping her ass cheeks. He squeezed the flesh tightly and bounced them up and down, pumping her pussy onto his cock.
She was insane.
Her pussy wrenched his shaft, milking him for all his worth and more, desperate to claim every single drop of his impending cum. He groaned as his hips jerked uncontrollably, pistoning into her without stop.
Jiwon came again.
Sticky, warm juices trickled down her thighs as her pussy convulsed, squeezing so hard that she forced Ethan’s cock out. She kept clenching without stop, expelling a shower of her juices that sprayed onto the sheets like rain.
Ethan didn't care even as Jiwon’s blabbered. He stood up onto the bed and grabbed her hips, pulling her them up. Guiding her forward, he walked her towards the bed’s headboard, pressing her upper torso downwards. With her legs still shaking, he plunged back into her as she stood, fucking into her wanton pussy as her hands scrambled onto any viable support for her fading sanity.
He kept pounding his cock in and out of her, filling both her and the room with nothing but the sounds of her moans, his grunts, the clapping sounds of skin on skin, and the unending sloshing and squelching coming from her pussy.
“Ethan, Ethan, I’m going crazy please, please make me insane—please crush my sanity, my pussy, my everything—”
He answered by lifting one of her legs, placing them on his shoulder. Her legs were spread into a perfect split along the length of his body, giving him full access to every detail of her sopping snatch. He learned every pleasurable rib and bump of her velvety walls as he hammered into her, thrusting hard with quake inducing slams that sent her hands scrambling at anything she could grab.
The wall.
She painted the wall of the hotel room with her sex juices, each sudden jerk of her body from his thrusts smearing handprints that made an art piece that was worthy to be called cute.
“Looks like you're talented to be an artist too,” Ethan grunted, feeling his impending orgasm approaching. He pounded her forward, pushing her towards the wall with every slam. Within five or so claps, her body was pressed flat against the wall, tits squished and pussy smushed.
“Fuck, Ethan—I’m gonna cum again, please, please, please—Ethan please, Ethan—”
“Inside or outside.”
“I don't know—fuck I’m so close—”
“Inside.”
He slammed.
“Or.”
He slammed.
“Outside.”
He didn't slam.
He held his cock outside of her, leaving nothing but the tip inside her begging pussy.
“Fuck please,” Jiwon whined at the loss of pleasure. “Inside, inside, just fuck—”
He slammed back in.
He grabbed her wrists and pulled her tight, pumping into her like a jackhammer.
One, two, three—
Jiwon became undone.
She clamped down on his cock as he pounded her through her orgasm, and that too brought him over the edge. Ethan pumped his white hot seed into her walls, flooding her with his own tsunami of pleasure as his cock pulsated without stop. Her pussy milked him without mercy, unrelenting in its desire to claim every drop of seed as its own.
When both their orgasms had died, they had equally died. Figuratively, of course. Jiwon collapsed onto Ethan, trusting him to catch her, which he did, before he too, fell backwards with her in his embrace. Her hair was splayed over his face which he gently gathered it to the side, and they both lay there, panting at the intense love making they just had.
“I hate you.”
“You don't,” Ethan said, pointing at the streaks of sweat and sex juices all over the wall. “That says otherwise.”
“Fuck you.”
“You just did.”
Jiwon broke into a laughing fit, arm covered over her forehead as she gasped to recover her breath.
“Can't believe I just hooked up with one of my fans.”
Ethan grunted, agreeing with what she said.
“And I too, the great audiobook author, can’t believe I fucked my idol.”
He groaned slightly as Jiwon shifted her thighs, trapping his spent cock around between her thighs, coating it with his cum that was leaking out of her filled cunt.
“The night is still young, self-proclaimed author,” she cooed, turning her to face him. She pressed her nose into his neck, breathing in the praiseworthy effort he gave in tenderising her cunt earlier.
Feeling the warm grip of her thighs and her greed for more, his cock twitched in response, swelling under the thought of getting more of her delicious body. He wrapped his fingers around the contours of her breasts, stimulating the nerves in her.
Already semi-hard, Jiwon grabbed his cock and slid it into her creamed pussy. She propped herself up on both hands, lifting her back off Ethan’s chest, before she began to rotate her hips, grinding herself on him.
Coupled with her moans, Ethan grew impossibly hard inside her pussy, and he gripped her waist tight, digging his fingers in. He raised her body like a trophy and crashed her down on his cock with a hard slam.
Ethan began writing chapter 3, pounding her through the night.
———
“I like you, Jiwon,” Ethan said, sharing a cup of coffee with her at the café at the hotel’s ground level.
“I know, you're one of my fans—”
“Not in that way. I like you as a potential partner.”
“I also know that,” Jiwon said, slicing a piece of hash brown into bite size. “But I don't think we're suited for each other.”
“What makes you say that?” Ethan asked.
“Well, for one, we both live miles apart,” Jiwon explained, humming softly as she tried to think of more excuses. “And I think with my job as an author, I wouldn't make a good partner.”
“Don't you think us meeting is because of fate?” Ethan asked.
“Fate, huh?” Jiwon chuckled, finishing up her breakfast. “I don’t really believe in it. Shouldn't you know me by now? None of the works I write are fantastical.”
“Really? I would seem to remember you lamenting about how you would never find someone who was at least intriguing enough, and also good-looking, hot, charismatic, and all that would ever wanted, which is why you remained a virgin until last night.”
Jiwon rolled her eyes and gulped her ice americano.
“Correction,” she said. “You sweet talked me.”
Ethan gave her a ‘you're seriously saying that?’ look.
“You do realise that what you have said meant the same as what I said right?”
“No? You implied my words,” Jiwon said, before giving a brief ponder. “Wait. I did mean that… Then I’ll change my statement and claim that I was tipsy from the alcohol and was not right in the head.”
Ethan leaned forward and stuck out his tongue, licking his lips in a provocative manner.
“You literally only drank two sips of a low-alcoholic drink. Plus, you were the one who begged me to show you what I can do. Come on Jiwon, give us a chance?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Anyway, I have to leave. My flight is in three hours. I’ll have to head to the airport.”
Jiwon stood up and grabbed her suitcase, waiting for Ethan before they left the café. They walked down the street and he tried to help her flag for a taxi.
“You're really not even going to leave me a number or anything?” Ethan asked.
Jiwon set her bag on top of her luggage and looked at him.
“Do you really not find me the least bit attractive or desirable enough to qualify as a potential relationship candidate?”
“I do, but I don't want to jeopardise my career or anything.”
She looked at him again, her eyes softening for a moment as she thought about the amazing time she had last night.
“I’ll give you a chance then,” Jiwon said. “Ask me a single question, and I’ll determine what to do.”
“You have ten seconds,” she said, and without waiting for his acknowledgement, she began counting down. “Ten.”
Ethan looked at her, a million thoughts running through his mind as he picked for the right question to ask.
“Two.”
“One and a half. One and one quarter. Are you not going to ask? Otherwise I'm going to—”
“Are you from Busan?”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“You stalked me?”
“What? No! I came from Busan, that's why,” Ethan tried to explain. “If you’re from Busan too, then we're closer than expected. I flew all the way out here for your fan sign, won a lucky draw to have a dinner date with you, drank with you, fucked you, ate breakfast with you, and even have the same hometown as you. If that isn't fate, what is?”
“You really trust fate, huh?”
“C'mon please Jiwon. I really like you and I want to have a chance with you.”
“I have to go,” she said, the taxi which she had flagged coming to a stop beside her.
“Jiwon. One chance.”
“Then let's do it this way.”
She gestured for the taxi driver to wait for a minute and reached into her bag. She took out a book and passed it to Ethan.
Ethan took it from her, confused, but a permanent marker was stuffed into his hand. The philosophical book was exactly like he remembered — entirely white with the title Overmorrow printed in red Trajan font in the centre, and nothing else except for her name written in the same font at the bottom.
“Write down your exact address at the back of the book.”
He gave her a puzzled look, asking why, but he opened the book and did it anyway, thinking that she wanted his address. When he’s done, he gave it back to Jiwon.
She scribbled something on the same page as where Ethan wrote something and showed it to him.
“Let's put that trust in fate of yours to the test,” Jiwon said. “I’ve written my address here as well. Plus, I've drawn a heart shape.”
She snapped the book shut before he could catch a glimpse of her personal information. She took the marker and drew exaggerated arcs across the white cover, signing her autograph on it.
Then she opened the taxi’s door and carried her suitcase into the back seat before getting in herself. She leaned forward and passed the book to the driver.
“Sorry for the wait mister. Here's something to make up for your lost time.”
He took the book from her, confused and irritated, but as her saw her face, his expression turned into a surprised one.
“Aren't you that woman I saw on television yesterday? That Pak Jeewan or what?”
“Park Jiwon,” she chuckled. “That book is one of my best sellers. You can sell it at a second hand shop. It has my autograph as well, so you can get quite a high price for it.”
When she said that, he turned excited and stuffed the book into the empty compartment on his door without second thought.
“That'll work. Where to, miss?”
“Give me one more minute.”
“Sure, sure,” the driver said, his attitude a total opposite from seconds ago. “Take as long as you want.”
Jiwon poked her head out of car’s window that was wound down and poked her head out.
“Try and look for that book after this mister sells it. If you really believe in our entwined fates, then you should be able to find it.”
Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but Jiwon gave him an apologetic smile, before turning back to the driver.
“Incheon Airport please. Terminal 1.”
She wound up the window and the taxi roared to life, driving off and leaving Ethan behind in the dust.
He stood there, looking at the tire marks left on the asphalt, watching them as if they were the last clue to her whereabouts.
———
“Bro, you available for dinner tonight?”
Ethan didn't even look up from his computer, eyes hyper focused on the topology of the two converging plates that he was analysing.
“Not really. I have plans.”
“You can't lie to me, you douchebag,” his colleague said. “You’ve been rejecting me ever since you’ve attended that stupid fan meet.”
He grabbed on to Ethan’s chair and pulled him off his computer, twirling the chair around till he faced him.
“Look at me. Who am I?”
“Uhh… Trevor?”
“Great. You remember me. Are you going to another stupid bookstore again?”
Ethan gave a small nod.
“I am, and what are you going to do about it?”
“Come on, Ethan,” Trevor dragged his chair over from the side and slumped into it. “What are even the odds of finding that book? There's like what, thousands of secondhand bookstores in Seoul alone. What makes you think you can find the book?”
Trevor sat forward and grabbed the cushion from behind him, throwing it at Ethan. Ethan, who was lost in his thoughts couldn't catch it in time, and he was struck squarely in his chest.
“And you yourself should know that book is super popular. It would be bought the instant the shop opens.”
“I know, but…” Ethan mumbled.
“And what if the taxi driver doesn't even sell it?”
“Trevor.”
“What?”
“Can you not drench me in cold water?”
“Fuck you!” Trevor exclaimed. “I’m trying to get you to your senses! Be realistic, my guy. There are many better women out there.”
“Okay, that's going too far. She's perfect, so don't you diss her.”
“Okay, okay…” Trevor raised his hands in defeat. “But can you please get a life? It's been what, two months, and you've literally spent every night visiting a different bookstore. Even if you don't find it in the first one, what makes you think that the first one you searched doesn't have it the next day when you visit another store?”
“Trevor.”
“What?”
“You yap a lot.”
“Fuck you,” Trevor cursed. “So, drinks tonight? It's Friday night after all.”
Ethan sighed and twirled around in is office chair, spinning himself round and round as he tried to jumbled his already messed up mind, thinking that mixing chaos with chaos would unravel the spaghetti’d thoughts in his head.
“Fine. But I still wanna go to the bookstore. Then I’ll join you for a drink.”
“That's the Ethan I know,” Trevor whistled, standing up with a triumphant pose of victory, as if he was praising the Sun. “You better not give me another stupid excuse later, or I’ll break into your house and steal your coffee machine.”
“That costed five thousand, you lil’ shit,” Ethan grunted, giving Trevor a judgemental stare.
“I don't care. If you're not joining, I'm gonna send the video of how you vomited all over the floor when you got drun—”
“Okay okay, sheesh. I got it. I’m not going to escape when 6 p.m. strikes and I’m going to sit here and wait for you to fetch me.”
“Don't be an asshole, Ethan,” Trevor rolled his eyes. “It’s 6 in like two minutes.”
“Which is why I said that. I’m driving my point that I'm not gonna go back on my words, idiot. C'mon, let's go.”
———
“Miss Park, would you like to introduce your book the audience?”
Jiwon took the microphone from the small table beside her. She was sitting on a beanbag that was placed slightly off centre on the mini stage erected in the middle of a shopping complex. She looked at the interviewer and raised the mic, giving it a small hum before speaking.
“Of course, first of all, I would like to thank you for inviting me here, as well as all of you lovely readers and fans of mine that have made the effort to attend this session.”
She took the white book that was resting on her thighs and propped it up on her knees, holding it out for the audience to see.
“I am the author of the book Overmorrow, and this book is a collection of philosophical essays and short stories that explores humanity’s habit beyond postponing.”
The interviewer listened attentively, asking Jiwon questions that engaged both her and the audiences.
“What do you mean by beyond postponing? Perhaps you may want to explain why you chose the title for your book?”
Jiwon smiled and nodded, eyes lit up in excitement as she quipped her answer.
“I would assume that everyone is familiar with the word tomorrow. It's something that we always use in many, many different situations, like when we don't have time to do the laundry after a long day at work, so we tell ourselves that we'll do it tomorrow. Some people call it procrastination, but I would like to call it self-care and purposeful time management. No one is exempted from that, not even me, of course. Even I would sometimes tell myself to leave eaten cup noodles with soup left in them on the table, saying that I’ll throw them tomorrow.”
She gave a brief pause.
“Until the day after tomorrow arrives and you discover you've created three new problems.”
Soft laughter bursted from the people seated below the stage, their own version of tomorrows appearing in their heads.
“However, my book is about overmorrow. It's not a commonly used word, but I’m sure many of you are familiar with it's meaning.”
“It means the day after tomorrow, right?” The interviewer asked with a smile. “I did my research, by reading the book, of course.”
Jiwon giggled bubbly.
“Thank you for your support,” Jiwon said, offering a small exaggerated half bow. “That’s right, overmorrow means the day after tomorrow. The book I’ve written explores many different scenarios and reasons as to why we push things to the next day, but it heavily focuses on how it affects the day after. It can be a direct effect, for instance, using the laundry example earlier, if I push the washing of clothes to tomorrow, what are the chances of that laundry not being done and the pile of dirty linen growing larger and larger? I would say it’s at least 90%.”
Small nods and hums of agreement sounded throughout the audience.
“But there are also indirect and unconscious effects, for example, future sight or precognition,” Jiwon said, raising two of her fingers on each of her hands and curling them down quickly as she spoke the last three keywords.
“Future sight and precognition?” the interviewer questioned quizzically.
“Well not exactly that. It's moreso on when you push something to tomorrow, you tend to unconsciously think about what comes the day after, be it planning, or anticipation,” Jiwon explained. “So in a sense, you gain the ability to see what happens in the future. Perhaps directing your own life would be a more accurate representation.”
“Hmm, it's sort of like manipulating fate, right?” the interviewer asked.
Jiwon’s face froze for a moment.
“Fate… W-well you could put it that way.”
She quickly composed herself and continued on with the interview, but her mind kept wandering off to the word fate.
When the public interview event ended, Jiwon was sitting in a café nearby, drinking a cup of iced americano. She was somehow having the same thing as what she ate that morning after she met him, slicing a hash brown into bite size.
Her eyes drifted to the stack of ten or so books on the table in front of her plate. They were all white with her name and Overmorrow printed in the same red trajan font, but they were un-autographed. She finished up her breakfast and pushed the plate aside, dragging the stack of books towards herself.
She took the one on top, placing it right in front of her. A marker already in her hand, she weaved her hand across the cover, painting the mark of her presence on the book.
The first one was done.
She repeated the same motions eight more times, before she settled on the last book.
She signed it. Done. Retrieving a empty tote bag from her bag, she packed the signed books in, stacking them carefully. They were all meant to be gifts for her close friends which she would be meeting later.
She took the last book.
But before she placed it in the bag, she opened it, turning to the familiar page. Familiar in the sense that it was where she had written her address below Ethan’s and drew a heart.
The same Ethan who she had met four months ago.
She closed it and packed it all up.
She took her phone and unlocked it, scrolling through the list of contacts she had saved.
Taxi Driver Uncle
She had gotten his number before she alighted the taxi for her flight that fated morning.
Her thumb hovered over the call button, inching towards it.
Then she lifted it and closed everything, pocketing her phone after locking it.
Maybe tomorrow.
———
“Have you even read the book?” Sophia asked.
“Is that even a question?” Ethan said, walking into the library.
“How would I know? I mean, I know you're a huge fan of the author, but I didn't know you were that big of a fan.”
“I like her.”
“Like as a person, or as a writer?”
“As a lover.”
“Crazy bastard.”
Ethan stopped in his steps and turned to look at Sophia.
“Look, if you're not going to help, I would much prefer if you left. I've been doing this for close to a year already, and I am not going to stop.”
He huffed in irritation and walked away, heading to the library’s search terminal. Sophia groaned in defeat and clambered after him, spewing an unending amount of half-baked apologies mixed with motivational quotes hoping that he would wake up from his delusion.
“Damn… five out of six copies borrowed?” Sophia said, peering at the monitor as Ethan searched. “How the hell is the book so popular?”
“Did you think I would choose any random person for my partner?”
“I mean, yes? What would she even see in you? The only thing good about you is that you are smart, and you earn a lot.”
“That sounds plural to me, Miss Sophia,” Ethan said, walking towards the section where the last of six books were shelved.
“Oh come on, do you have to flex your intelligence?”
“It's called being factual.”
Ethan turned into a corner and looked for the shelf labelled with initials starting with Jiwon’s name. He found it instantly. It was intuitive to him at this point. After all, looking for the book had been his daily ritual ever since he watched the taxi drive off.
He pulled it out.
His heart dropped. The cover was unsigned, but he still flipped the book open, hoping that what he was looking for would magically be there. However, the book was clean. Well, not ‘clean’ in the sense where it was spotless. It had a surprising amount of writing and notes scribbled throughout the entire book, and it showed that the previous owner had read and analysed the book thoroughly before donating it to the library.
“How’s it?”
Ethan shook his head.
“Is the book really that good?” Sophia asked.
“It is,” Ethan said. “There's a reason why it's my favourite after all. I really liked how she wrote about how our lives are predetermined by our own actions to a certain extent, and how minute things such as telling someone a simple ‘wait’ can deeply affect our future.”
“I did not understand any of that.”
“Then perhaps you should give the book a try? It's written in a way where it’s a collection of short stories that are no longer than five pages each, and each one is easily understandable since they're framed to be very relatable.”
Sophia looked at Ethan, giving him an incredulous look.
“What?” Ethan asked.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sophia said, turning to press her head on the bookshelf’s wood. “I was tasked by Trevor to follow and convince you to stop thinking about her, but somehow I am the one being convinced right now.”
Ethan shrugged and handed Sophia the book, stuffing it into her hand.
“Read it. Trust me.”
He turned and walked off.
Sophia sighed and ran after him, but in her hands were now Overmorrow.
“Where to now?” she called out to Ethan.
“There's… three more libraries I want to visit for today,” Ethan replied. “You still coming with me?”
“Of course! But let me borrow this first, okay?”
“Sure.”
Ethan followed her to the loaning terminal and watched her as she placed the white book on the sensor. The screen lit up and the small picture of the book along with its titled appeared.
His mind wandered.
He wondered if it was truly considered fate if he was actively searching for the book. He thought if he should stop looking for it and hope to coincidentally find the book one day.
Maybe tomorrow.
———
“I’ll get a martini, you?”
She fiddled with her marker in her hand, twirling it around her thumb.
“Hey.”
She twirled the marker another round. And another.
“Jiwon!”
The marker fell out of her grip, dropping onto the bar’s countertop with a soft clatter.
“Yea. Peach spritz, please. Thank you.”
“What's on your mind? I’ve barely gotten the chance to meet you and now that you’ve finally squeezed some time, you're ignoring me, the one who you claim to be your best friend?”
Jiwon looked at her and gave an awkward apologetic half-smile.
“I’m sorry.”
“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up. The famous Park Jiwon is apologising to me?”
“Lauren. Please.”
Jiwon rolled her eyes and picked up the marker again. This time, she played with the cap, soft clicks filling the air as she opened and closed the marker without stop.
“So, have you started on your next book?” Lauren asked, before thanking the bartender who slid a glass of martini to her.
“Not yet, I’m stuck,” Jiwon said. “I don't have any inspirations these days.”
She pulled her glass of peach spritz and gave it a little swirl, bringing it up to her nose. She gave it a little whiff and placed her luscious lips on the glass’s edge, giving it a sip.
“Huh…” Lauren hummed, giving Jiwon a judgemental look. “You’ve never faced this issue before. Whatever has happened to my cute and bubbly Jiwon?”
“I don't know,” Jiwon said. “It's just, I don't feel excited about anything anymore. It's like something's missing.”
“Missing? In what way?”
Jiwon picked up her marker again, playing with the cap once again. She opened and closed the marker as time passed, making the clicks sound faster and faster, watching the drops of condensation on her glass of spritz flow down, coalescing with other drops into a larger one. Numerous drops streamed down the glass, forming minute vertical rivers before pooling down at the base of the glass.
“I feel… empty.”
Lauren looked at her friend and shook her head, giving her a pat on the shoulder.
“You're still thinking about him, aren't you.”
“What!? No!” Jiwon exclaimed. “I’m just stuck at the brainsto—”
“Park Jiwon,” Lauren said. “I’ve known you ever since we were kids. I basically know you in and out. I even know what kind of lingerie you like to wear, so stop lying to yourself already.”
“Edan or whatever his name is—”
“Ethan,” Jiwon interjected.
“—Right. Ethan. He must have been someone that had struck you so dearly that made you like this. You, my dear friend, are in love with him.”
“…”
Jiwon gave her a beat of silence, before taking another sip of her spritz.
“Do you know, this was his favourite drink as well?”
“Why the hell would I know?” Lauren laughed. “Well, now I know. And I know that you, you are a person who never remembers anything that don't strike an impression, good or bad.”
Lauren rested her cheek on her fist that was propped on the bar counter.
“And your expression tells me that it's not bad. It's good. Maybe even gooder than good. The best. The most charming man you've ever met so far.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“What do you mean then?”
“Then you’re not going to contact him?”
“I don't have his contact.”
“What do you mean you don't have his contact? You didn't get the number of the man who managed to shake your world?”
Jiwon gave Lauren an awkward laugh and mumbled.
“It’s a long story, but I kinda softlocked myself.”
Lauren gave her a puzzled look.
“Tell me.”
“So basically, the tldr is,” Jiwon said with a sigh. “I got him to write his address on my book, which I wrote mine beside it after that. Then I signed on it, gave it to a taxi driver and asked him to do whatever he wanted with it.”
“Wow,” Lauren whistled. “Why?”
“Honestly? I don't know. You know how my book talks about predetermined fate as something that is predetermined by us?”
“Uh huh?”
“I basically wanted to test fate.”
“You're an idiot. You finally found someone you like, and you decide to do one of your stupid tests.”
“Yeah…”
"Congratulations."
"On what?"
"You've managed to turn a one-night stand into a year-long existential crisis,” Lauren said. “Idiot. Baka. Stupid.”
“Alright, alright!” Jiwon cried. “I'm stupid. Stop scolding me already.”
She looked at her peach spritz.
“I really was an idiot,” she mumbled, taking out her phone, looking at the time.
11.48 p.m.
I’ll call tomorrow.
———
“How do I look?” Ethan asked, adjusting his tie.
“Smart enough,” Trevor said. “C'mon you’re already plenty handsome. What are you trying to do? Charm all the unwed ladies in the wedding hall?”
“Can you not spout bullshit?” Sophia said. “Today is his big day and you're joking around?”
“Can you not be so uptight?” Trevor said, rolling his eyes.
“Uptight? Trevor Kang Sujae! You had better consider your words carefully from now on, or you’ll be sleeping outside tonight.”
Trevor shook his head and sighed, muttering under his breath, before whispering into Ethan’s ear.
“Marriage life can be really scary, y’know. I think you should reevaluate your choices.”
“That's it. You're on the couch tonight”
Ethan left the two to their argument and took his suit jacket from the clothes stand. He swung it around his back and slid his arms in, before fastening the cufflinks around his wrists and knobbing the buttons.
He took a last look in the mirror, appreciating how smart he looked.
He was ready.
———
People rarely postpone what they do not care about. We postpone only the things that matter enough to frighten us.
— Overmorrow, Chapter 7
Bzzzzz.
“Hi.”
“Who is this on the line?”
“Is this taxi driver uncle?”
“Yes? I mean, I’m a taxi driver, but do I know you?”
“Err… it's kinda hard to say.”
“Are you a scam caller?”
“Wait, what?! No! I’m Park Jiwon, you know, the author of Overmorrow?”
“Pak Jeewan? I don't know any Pak Jeewan. You're a scammer. I’m hanging—”
“No!!! Wait! You remember the book I gave you? The white one?”
“Please don't hang up, please?”
“Heh, I’m joking with you.”“So… you're looking for the book?”
“Yeah. You still have it?”
“I have it.”
“Goodby—wait, you have it?”
“Well I mean, I sold it, but I did copy down what you idiots wrote on a notepad, because I knew you would call me one day.”“You asked me for my number after all.”“Here I thought that my old ass was charming enough to have a beautiful lady like you to be interested in me, but it turns out I was just a convenient storage box.”
“Uncle! Really?! You have it?!”
“Yes, yes. I’ll give it to you now.”“You young people are sometimes so stupid. Love is such a fleeting thing, and how could you have thrown away such an fateful encounter?”
Jiwon looked at the paper in her hands. She could barely stabilise her own trembling, and the paper shook as she looked at it.
Ethan lived just a district away away from her.
How have I not met him before? He was so close, yet so far…
She grabbed her bag and ran out of the in nothing but her pajamas and a pair of flip flops, calling for a cab. Reading the address to the taxi driver in a firm voice that carried a subtle excitement, the vehicle zoomed off.
She looked at the book in her bag. It wasn't the one where they had written their addresses in, but she hoped that it would be their point of connection from now onwards.
Fate or whatever, I'm going to weave my own fate.
The taxi drove off. She looked up at the apartment complex and entered the building, heading up to the eleventh floor.
“11-03… 11-04… 11-05… here it is.”
She pressed the doorbell.
No response.
She pressed it again.
The black mahogany door remained still.
She pressed it over and over again, spamming the doorbell like her life depended on it.
“Young miss, what are you doing?” An old woman said, coming out from the unit beside Ethan’s. “If you're looking for Ethan, he had already left early in the wee hours of the morning.”
“Where did he go?” Jiwon asked. “I’m his friend.”
“Huh? Then you should hurry. He's already at the wedding.”
“W-Wedding?” Jiwon asked, her heart dropping to the centre of the Earth upon hearing the word. “Where is it?”
“At the nearby church. You should hurry if you don't want to miss him.”
Jiwon turned her head and ran, not even bothering to offer her thanks to the elderly woman.
“Young people these days…” the old woman sighed and shook her head, heading back into her house.
“Fuck!” Jiwon cursed, flagging for another taxi. “He's getting married?! Fuck fuck fuck! I shouldn't have done such a stupid thing.”
A taxi arrived and stopped, and she got inside in a flash, slamming the door shut. Muttering the address of the church and saying that she needed to get there as quick as possible, the taxi driver slammed his foot on the accelerator and the vehicle blasted off.
“Should I go? What do I even do if I see him? He's getting married today… fuck it. I’ll just show up. The goalpost is still wide open until the marriage ends.”
She arrived at the church in less than five minutes and rushed into the building.
The place was already mostly empty.
Most guests had left, and what remained were staff clearing flowers that had scattered all over the floor. Someone else was carrying a wedding portrait away.
Jiwon looked around desperately, trying to find any trace of him, but there was nothing.
“I was too late…” she mumbled, tears welling up in her eyes. “I wasn't late today. I was late for the past two years.”
She crouched down and started crying.
“Why was I such an idiot…”
Tears flowed without stop as sobs broke out of her heart uncontrollably.
“Trevor! Wait for me!”
Jiwon’s ears pricked up.
Her head snapped upwards and looked at the man that had just walked past her.
“Ethan?”
“Yes?”
He turned around and looked at the woman crying on the ground.
“Jiwon?”
They both froze at their spots, looking at each other.
“Ethan, is that really you?”
He knelt down and looked at her.
“Jiwon. I can't believe it's you.”
“Y-yeah,” Jiwon said between sniffles. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“What for? Why are you even here anyway?”
“Isn't it your wedding?”
“What? No?! This is one of my best friend's wedding. I’m just here as a best man. You haven't answered me, why are you even here?”
Jiwon just looked at him blankly, crying even louder. Then—
She lurched forward and lunged into his arms.
“I missed you.”
Trevor looked at the two from the side, shaking his head with a warm smile.
“I missed you too. I never stopped looking, you know?”
Jiwon dug her face into his chest and sobbed softly.
“And I never stopped thinking about you. I was dumb and stupid back then.”
“It doesn't matter,” Ethan said. “We found each other.”
Ethan helped her up, walking to a bench outside the church. Trevor waved him off and gave a thumbs up, before walking away with Sophia.
Jiwon pushed herself away from Ethan and looked at him with her glassy eyes.
“You know when you asked me for my name when we had our spritz drinks in the bar?”
“I never forgot.”
“I have another name. Megan.”
“That's a pretty name for a lady as pretty as you, even if you're ugly crying.”
She slapped him lightly on his shoulder.
“You're still such a charmer,” she laughed.
“I’ve never stopped looking, you know? Secondhand bookstores, libraries, friends, acquaintances. I kept looking around, revisiting each and every shop and place, hoping that I would find the book one day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
“So…”
“Hmm?” Ethan raised his eyebrows.
“What do you think of both my names? How does it compare to yours?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Yes. I’m going to change your favourite name.”
She grabbed on to his face and pressed her lips forward, capturing his in a desperate, greedy kiss. After long seconds, she pulled off and pressed her forehead to his, whispering hotly into his lips.
“Tonight, I’ll make you scream my name without stop.”
You look at her who is still in her seat, hand clicking and sliding rapidly across the frictionless mousepad as she tries to weave past attacks flying towards her.
“Give me a minute, babe. Let me finish this up.”
You drag a chair from an empty cubicle behind her and sit down.
And you wait. Wait. Waited.
Your wrinkled fingers tremble. Your baggy eyes waver. Your drooping back falls lower.
You're exhausted and tired.
But it's time.
“Victory!”
A deep, booming and resonant voice announces her win directly into her ears. You don't hear anything of course, since headphones are only meant for one person’s use.
Headphones that you bought for her. A Razer Kraken Kitty V3 Pro — Quartz that cost a fifth of your meagre part-time salary. And because you were so worried that she might damage it, you even offered to yourself to add on the extended warranty for its protection of an extra three years.
Who would have known that extended warranty does not protect your already crumbling feelings for her. Your ‘friends’ have called you blind, lovesick, or a dumb idiot, among many other nastier names, but at least someone chose to be with you.
Well, you're her cash cow after all.
She doesn't need to bat her eyelashes to get that limited edition Razer Enki X Hello Kitty and Friends gaming chair that burned half a hole through your pathetic wallet. She doesn't even need to whine and pout with the sole aim of draining your monthly cheque to buy the SHEGLAM Full Collection Set when she already has a CHANEL LES BEIGES HEALTHY GLOW SUMMER ESSENTIALS makeup set at home. That one was from the courtesy of your funding too, you remind yourself.
She turns around and looks at you. She's pretty. Pretty because you have worked your sorry ass to the bone just to keep her happy. Everything on her and used by her was and is from you.
But you're going to ensure that the tense doesn't become a future one. No more gifts for her that will be coming from you.
“So, what is it babe?” she coos, this time somehow magically batting her eyelashes.
You take in her victory-drunk expression from the game match which she has just won and swallow down a non-existent glob of saliva that your malfunctioning salivary glands are producing.
“I said, let's break up.”
“Like us?” she asks, pointing her finger between you and her repeatedly.
“Yes.”
“B-But why?”
“You don't love me anyway,” you say. “Nothing you say is going to change my mind, so let's just make this a clean break.”
You immediately stand and turn to leave, in fear that if you stay any longer, you’ll actually change your mind.
“Wait! No!”
She grabs on to your arm and clings to it with both hands, shouting at you with an exaggerated cutesy voice.
“But what about that skin that you promised to buy me? I already told my friend that I’ll buy it for her, and if you leave now, I’ll be labelled as a liar!”
You freeze in your step, heart clenching in helplessness.
“There’s also my monthly subscription for the battle pass! What about that? How am I going to pay for that now? Can you pleeeeaaasseeeee not terminate the recurring payment?”
Your fists clench. Your teeth grit against each other.
“And that new keyboard that you’ve already ordered for me, you won't be cancelling it, right? It's my favourite after all.”
That's it.
You yank your hand away from her and turn to her. Your mouth opens and your chest expands, ready to launch a bombardment of accusations of how much of a money grubber she is (not an accusation, by the way), but in the end, your lips simply close to a shape just enough for a growl.
“No. I had enough.”
Her face instantly switches. From a cute puppy to a devilish three-headed hell dog reminiscent of Cerberus, she begins to berate you.
“Enough? What do you mean enough? Haven't I been giving you more than you deserve? You should be glad that I even bothered to hang out with such a loser like you. You don't even have any friends, and you should fucking consider it a blessing from god that I see you as pitiful enough to cast eyes on your loathsome self.”
You stand there and take in the verbal assault, just like how you always do when there's nobody around, except that this time, you have close to sixty pairs of curious eyes from all around the PC Bang probably scoffing at you.
“Wait…” she hums, before continuing. “I see what it is. You're mad that I haven't spread my legs for you right? All these gifts and presents bought for me, but here you are, still a virgin that can't even get any pussy.”
She gives a mocking laugh and digs her finger into your chest.
“Virgin. Loser. Pussy,” she sneers, enunciating every syllable. “I’m sooo fucking glad I haven't even allowed you to even hold my hand.”
And you, who upholds the thinking of women shouldn't be retaliated against, regardless of whether its physically, verbally, or mentally, you just stand there and soak in every negative emotion enacted upon you like a sponge. Your clenched fist relaxes but your nerves twitch. Your heart pounds and adrenaline rushes, but you divert that to calm your surging rage.
“I bet if I—”
She raises her hand and stretches her palm wide.
“—fucking slap you right here, you wouldn't even do anything about it.”
Air whooshes and she swings it down.
You close your eyes on instinct, your muscles tensing to harden your skin and soften the incoming impact.
Air graces your cheek instead of flesh.
“What the fuck—”
You slowly open your eyes and look at her.
Or them.
“Let go of me—” she yells, yanking her hand off Nagyung’s grip. She had barely managed to step in at the last second, stopping you from getting a temporary tattoo of red handprint on your cheek.
“Leave,” Nagyung steps in between the two of you. “Or I’ll call the police on you for public nuisance and disruption of businesses.”
“I’ll be fucking back,” she says, glaring at you which Nagyun had promptly shifted her face to cut her eye contact. “I’ll bring all—”
“The only thing you’ll bring is bringing your stuff back,” Nagyung declares. “You will be hereby blacklisted and banned from this internet café, as well as any of our other branches. We will however allow you one additional day to collect your—”
Nagyung points to all ‘her’ equipment that you have gifted.
“—stuff, otherwise, they will all be promptly discarded.”
“You fucking bitch!” she screams, raising her hand once again to slap Nagyung this time round.
“Leave already!”
“Stop being such a bother!”
“Fuck off!”
Protests and complaints from other patrons came from all around, jeering at her.
“Stupid ass café,” she grumbles, flustered at the turn of situation. “You're all in on this together.”
She turns and grabs her belongings, storming past glaring gamers with her own death glares.
“I’ll ask each and every one of my friends to review bomb this place!” she screams before the door closes, muffling her unfounded outrage.
“I apologise for the commotion,” Nagyung says, bowing deeply. “However, please be considerate to your fellow customers, otherwise, we will blacklist you like that Karen earlier.”
The café returned to its still busyness, with the sounds of keyboard buttons and mouse clickings filling the air once again.
Nagyung grabs on to your wrist and pulls you into the kitchen.
“You alright?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you answer unconfidently. “Just…”
“You don't have to explain to me. I saw everything.”
“I'm such an idiot, huh?” you mumble.
“Yeah. It was about time. I was wondering when you’ll cut her off. Why were you even trying to keep that toxic of a relationship alive?”
You fall silent, leaning back against the kitchen counter and stare at the unopened packs of ramen lined in the cabinets above through the see-through glass.
Nagyung sighs.
“You want to clock out early today?”
That knocks you out of your daze.
“N-No! I need money. I’ll have to pay for her battle pass subscription still…”
Slap.
“Ow!” you shout, rubbing the back of your head. Nagyung smacks you, and if there's one thing you know about her, it’s that she doesn't hold back.
“You’re really an idiot. If you're going to continue feeding her, why break up with her in the first place? I know you're a people pleaser, but that isn't a battle pass for people to step all over you.”
She takes in a deep breath and continues to nag.
“Why are you even allowing people to step over you? Is your dummy brain that dumb?” She placed four fingers on her forehead and shook her head in disappointment. “If you're gonna continue to do that, I'm not going to issue your salary to you anymore.”
“Hey!” you argued, your voice’s volume increasing in intensity. “I'm not an idiot. And I'm not going to work for free. Who are you to decide if I get my money or not?! This isn't even your shop. It's your parents. You're just like me, a person who’s a loser—”
You mouth snaps shut at the misspoken words, and panic wells up in you.
“I-I’m sorry. I was just—”
“Go home,” Nagyung says.
“I—”
“I said, GO HOME.”
You look at her, trying to decipher her emotions, but you learn nothing. She doesn't look angry nor sad, and obviously she doesn't look happy. You open your mouth to speak, but she simply points her finger to the locker that houses your backpack.
Raising your hands in defeat, you sigh and walk past her, grabbing your stuff before heading out.
“Hey,” Nagyung calls out.
You turn and look at her.
“Come here.”
You walk over.
“Ouch!”
She had kicked your shin so hard that the tremor travelled from your bone up your spine into your head.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, sticking her tongue out at you before walking off to the counter, accepting an order for a bowl of instant noodles.
For the first time that evening, you smile.
You walk out of the PC café, head seemingly clearer from the liberation of your now-ex girlfriend and the head shock from Nagyung’s kick.
———
And so you think.
Your wallet finally feels full after like what, six years?
You take a sip of the bitter herbal tea.
Yes. Six years. You can't believe yourself either. You had actually waited six years of financial and emotional exploitation before mustering up the courage to free yourself from the shackles of that toxic relationship.
Was it her fault?
You boot up the PC in the closed internet café.
Yes, definitely. It was totally her fault. That scum of a woman who was a money loving whore.
Right. A little too harsh on your words there, but it's a fact. She still is a money loving whore, by the way — she had sent you a text message earlier asking for some funds to a new weapon skin.
That message was ignored, of course.
You stare at the loading screen of the computer, watching the dots appearing and disappearing in a circular path as a software update installs.
But somehow, you couldn't bring yourself to hate her. Sure, she was the metal cuffs of greed that drained and milked you of your finances, but you were the one who placed them upon yourself.
Cuffed yourself up.
Locked your wrists with them.
The screen switches and you key in the password. The familiar wallpaper advertising the PC café’s name greets you. Double click, and the game she always plays launches.
Anytime you could have used the keys in your hands to free yourself, to break out of your predicament, but you chose not to. You stuffed them into your pocket — your self imposed cage of your innermost desire for companionship.
A match starts. You choose a character that she always asks you to — one that only acts as a support to hers.
Perhaps you just wanted someone to be around you, to laugh, to talk, to appreciate each other without any favours or transactions that powers the relationship.
You wander around aimlessly, spamming buffs at allies randomly without a plan. A heal comes before a tank gets hit: they die because your skill is on cooldown. You buff a thief with intelligence stat instead of strength: they get deleted because their critical hit fell short of the opponent’s remaining HP.
Why do you feel so empty despite your wallet being full?
You get kicked out of the team.
The cursor hovers over the lobby’s different rooms. You pick a random one, one filled with the maximum number of players. Battle royale game mode. You ask for allies, try and form alliances. This time, you wake out of your stupor and support your team well, well enough that you and your three teammates are the last surviving players.
The elimination zone closes in towards the map’s centrepoint as the match reaches its penultimate showdown.
Four players, three ranking spots.
You four meet in an empty plaza.
You press F7 on your keyboard and start typing in the chat box.
How are we going to deci—
YOU DIED
A concentrated ice beam.
A overhead guillotine drop.
A barrage of missiles.
Before you can even hit the escape button and toggle out of text messaging mode, all three skills hit you squarely. Your HP bar drops to nil and the red words of death flood the screen.
Three different attacks kill you.
No.
It was only one.
An attack of betrayal.
This was premediated, no doubt. You had once again been used and discarded. Just as how your life had been like.
Perpetual giving and no receiving.
You quit the game and turn off the computer, leaning back into the chair. At least the soft cushions of your seat don't betray you.
You grab the glass and give your bitter tea its last bitter sip. It makes your tongue cringe and your mind grimace, but somehow, you feel a little better.
You need more—
“Here.”
A fresh glass of cold herbal tea appears in front of your face.
“Nakko.”
You sit up slightly, but she pushes you back onto the chair.
“Relax. We’re not at work anymore.”
She shakes the glass of tea slightly.
“Aren't you gonna take it?”
“R-Right,” you say, swapping your empty glass for the full one. “Thanks.”
“It’ll be deducted off your paycheck, by the way.”
You spit out the half sip that was already past your throat, discharging it back into the cup through the straw.
“You serious?”
“Employees are only entitled to one drink and one meal per day,” she says. “Don't tell me you forgot. You've been working here since like I was working here.”
“Fuck…” you curse, but you suckle on the straw regardless, drinking back the now saliva-contaminated-beverage.
“I’m joking. The rule is there but it can not be there,” she says, pulling a chair from the cubicle beside yours. “Why are you still here? You're usually home by now.”
“Bored. Free. Finally have some time to myself other than that bitch.”
You tap on the keyboard, playing with the buttons. You press it with every passing second, imagining how the black space on the unturned-on screen expands infinitely with every spacebar that you punch with your index finger.
Nagyung tucks her two hands under her thighs and swings her legs, looking at you with an unreadable expression.
“As you should. But why aren't you playing more?”
You close your eyes.
Your mouth opens and you want to tell her how empty you feel.
Instead, you suck in the remaining four hundred and seventy six millimetres of tea and stand up.
“Did she pick up her stuff?”
“Why are you even asking me the question?” Nagyung says. “You saw that her stuff was shifted out for her to claim when you came in. The stuff is now gone.”
She gives you the ‘it’s obviously picked up’ look.
“I was just… curious.”
Nagyung sighs and mutters.
“She did. She showed up with two males, which I assumed were her new boyfriend candidates. They helped her move everything into a truck that was driven by a third male friend before they all got in and drove off.”
You look at the arrow keys this time, playing with the left and right buttons as you tapped them alternatingly.
“Do you think she let them fuck her?”
“How would I know? Is that even important?”
“…Yes,” you mumble. “Because apparently I’m not worthy of even holding her hand.”
Nagyung stares at you, her eyes wavering slightly, unsure of what she should say.
“I should go,” you say, heading to the kitchen to grab your bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Nagyung watches you leave.
“Dummy,” she mutters.
———
“Ya, you look like shit. What the fuck happened to you?”
You look at her who enters the kitchen.
“Hey,” you mutter, casting your gaze back to the terminal and accept an order for a bowl of instant noodles.
“Have you even eaten?” Nagyung asks, donning her work apron.
You hesistate with your answer.
“Oh look, they asked for two extra eggs and three cheese sausages,” you say, diverting the topic. “Can't forget that.”
You turn to the induction stove and turn it on, placing a pot filled with water to the premarked dot that had been determined to be the secret of perfect chewiness of PC café noodles.
Water boils, noodles in, a right amount of time to cook. Not a minute more, not a second less. Seasoning in. The timer beeps and you turn off the induction, cracking two eggs in. Whilst you allow the residual heat to cook the eggs, you turn to take the sausages off the warmer and place them on a side plate.
Done.
You pour the spicy soup noodles into a bowl and garnish with a small serving of subtly sourish kimchi, then place them all onto a serving tray.
“You missed something,” Nagyung said, her arms crossed.
“I didn't.”
She raises her eyebrows and looks at you.
“Two extra eggs and two cheese sausages,” you say, pointing at each extra ordered topping. “See? One, two. Two eggs. One, two. Two cheese sausages.”
She plucks the order receipt from the holder above the countertop and presses it to your face.
“It's three,” she says, pointing at the cheese sausages. “One, two. Two cheese sausages.”
“Right. S-Sorry.”
You turn to take another sausage from the warmer, before walking out of the kitchen with the right order in your hands.
Nagyung clicks her tongue distastefully.
You walk towards the customer on the far end and serve it to him. Once you hear a hum of approval after he gives the noodles a slurp, your job is accomplished.
“Hey, could I get some potato chips?”
“I need some help with my PC here!”
Callouts reach you as you try to make your way back to the kitchen, so you attend to them.
You help a lady who has her PC frozen from opening three games. You take an order from a boy who wants ten pack of chips. You clear empty glasses and bowls onto your now empty tray.
“I need to go to the washroom,” Nagyung calls out to you. “Help me with finishing up this order!”
She takes her apron off and leaves the kitchen, leaving you scrambling back with fifty thousand things to do. You take the chips and place it on the counter — you’ll bring it out together with the other order later. You dump the dirty crockery into the dishwasher.
Phew.
Time to finish up the noodles on the stove. You take a look at the order. Same thing. Two eggs, three cheese sausages, but this one came with even more extra add ons of beansprouts and tofu slices.
You promptly cook everything and place them on the tray like a ritual, bringing it out again.
Aisle D10.
You walk in, making your way to the customer. Except that it's empty.
“What?”
You look to the cubicle beside D10 and tap on a student’s shoulder.
“Was anyone here?”
He peels off his headphones and looks at you with annoyance, seemingly irritated that you disrupted his mob farming momentum.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“What part of No do you not understand?” He rolls his eyes. “Now leave me alone.”
What a rude little—bzzt.
Your phone vibrates.
You set down the food on D10’s table and take your phone out.
You pocket your phone and settle into D10. Seconds later, you're already digging in to the noodles, chewing on the sausage, breaking the gooey yolk. She even added tofu and beansprouts to the order to make sure you have a balanced meal.
Fuck. How will you even repay her.
Halfway through the meal, you suddenly stop.
You had forgotten.
This was the exact seat that she was always using. She always used to order you to cook her meals as she played, disregarding if you were slaving away or not. She slurped her noodles here, pressed the keyboard here, and abused you here.
Your appetite is gone. You gag a little, but you decide to swallow back the minute amount of food you puked into your mouth.
Can't be dirtying the area.
You picked up the food and walked back to the kitchen, dumping everything into the wastebin.
Nagyung looks at you by the side.
You ready your ears for a beration and scolding for wasting food, but nothing comes. Nagyung just looks at you with a pair of eyes that you've seen like maybe twice? Thrice?
Point is, she rarely looks this soft and gentle.
“You alright?”
“Yea,” you answer immediately. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“Why would you be?”
“I—”
“Give me a minute.”
She walks out of the kitchen into the café and picks up a small microphone.
Ahem.
Attention please.
Due to an emergency, we will be closing the café in ten minutes time.
We apologise for the inconvenience.
As compensation, your next session here will be free of charge.
Once again, we apologise for the inconvenience.
She walks back into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?!”
“Shut up.”
Nagyung shushes you and retreives a piece of paper, noting down all the customer IDs as they pack up and leave the café. She makes a mark on the paper after the last person leaves, signing off with a: Customer List for Compensation.
“Help me out, will you?”
She takes an empty tray and rag, passing it to you. Once you’ve gotten yours, she takes her own and heads out into the café, cleaning up the mess and trash that the customers left.
You walk out and join her.
You half expect her to ask you questions while the both of you work, but nothing flies your way.
Silence.
Nothing but the shuffling of feet, sounds of the chairs’ roller wheels being pushed back into place, clinking of dishes, and the clattering of keyboards buttons as you both run sanitary wipes over them.
8.32 p.m.
An hour has passed since you both started cleaning up.
You pull the rack off the dishwasher and pick up a dry cloth, wiping the water off the washed dishes.
One bowl after another.
One spoon after a fork.
Plates stack high, but not taller than bottle of soy sauce.
Nagyung stands there and looks at you, watching you place the last dish into the cabinet.
“So,” she finally speaks. “Fancy a walk outside?”
You look at her. You're tired. You want to go home and sleep. At least you hope that you get some sleep.
Bur you nod anyway.
She hums in approval and turns to her locker.
“C’mon, grab your coat.”
You both walk down the cool streets.
The night was just beginning as people hopped out of diners and offices, but they also stumbled into bars and clubs.
“What's with you lately?” she asks, hand stuffed into her pockets. “You've been looking so… distracted.”
“I don't know. I really don't know. I feel so… empty.”
You stare down at the square tiles that line the pavement, trying to place your foot in every tile’s dead centre with every step that you take.
Childish, you know. But that is what that interests you right now.
“I just feel lost. Not in the way you think.”
“Me?” Nagyung asks. “How would you know how I think?”
You shrug.
“I don't know. I’m thinking that you think I'm a pathetic bastard who can't think for himself now that his overbearing and manipulative girlfriend is gone.”
“Well…” Nagyung mumbles, looking at you as she weighs her words and thoughts. “I agree with the pathetic part. But unable to think for yourself? That's a hard no.”
“Tell me more,” she says. “Tell me how you actually feel.”
“I thought I would feel happy. You know? More money and time to spend on myself.”
You stop by a roadside stall that's selling spicy tteokbokki. Nagyung orders a plate and adds some soondae (bloood sausage) to it. Then you settle into the small tent by the side, waiting for the order to arrive.
“I can finally play all the games I wanted. To use all the characters I didn't have a chance to experience.”
The owner brings over the plate and sets it down on the table. The rice cakes and blood sausages are covered in spicy and sweet red sauce, and two skewer sticks are stabbed into random pieces.
Nagyung takes one stick and pokes a rice cake, popping it into her mouth. She chews the white cylindrical national dish with pondering eyes, watching and listening to you while she eats.
“But with every game I played, I hated what I loved doing even more. I was constantly reminded of how she ordered me around, how she shamelessly whined for skins, how she gets mad at me for mistakes that she makes.”
You stare at the red plate, red equally flooding your eyes and chest.
“I didn't want to play anymore games. Not when it reminds me of her.”
“That I understand. But what about your meals? I can't be having a skeleton serve my customers, right?!”
“I’m afraid I’ll vomit if I do.”
“What? Are you not going to eat because instant noodles remind you of her?”
“They do…”
Nagyung sighs and pokes a piece of blood sausage, passing it to you.
“Eat.”
You look at the purplish-brown slice that's covered with red sauce. Nagyung shakes it slightly, nudging the piece towards you with a go on look.
You take the stick from her and put the food in your mouth.
You chew.
You swallow.
Chew and swallow, chew and swallow.
You chew and swallow.
The next thing you know, you're theee quarters through the plate, and Nagyung had unknowingly pushed it towards you.
“I-I'm sorry, Nakko,” you stutter, flustered at how you had basically ‘stole’ her share of the food.
“You're really an idiot,” she smiles, propping head up by the chin as she puts her elbows on the table. “I bought it for you, so eat it all up. Don’t choke.”
She looks at you with soft eyes as you slow your wolfing down of the food.
“Does fucking her really matter for you?” she asks.
You look at her, taken aback by the sudden interrogation, but you answer anyway. You've been close to Nagyung since god knows when, and talk about such matters was never something you both shyed away on.
“Not really,” you say, poking another piece of rice cake. “I just wanted to be… appreciated.”
She nods her head and just listens to you, taking in all your inner feelings and thoughts.
“You know, I used to think to myself. Am I really such a detesta—”
“Say, wanna do something else?” Nagyung cuts in. “It's Friday night. I know I did a diabolical thing and closed the café when there's so much money to be earned, but I guess I needed a break too.”
You stare at her blankly, since you too were taken aback by her actions.
“What could we do?”
“I don't know, something to distract yourself? There's an arcade a little down the road. Wanna hit that up?”
Arcade. It's been a while since you visited one. It's a money sucking land, but somehow, you're already deep into a claw machine, donating your seventeenth dollar coin to them profit makers.
Nagyung’s by your side, cheering you on, squealing useless directions she wants you to move the joy stick for the optimal clawing position. And of course like 99.8375% of attempts, the empty box of iPhone 17 Pro Max gets shifted a few inches before dropping back among the unobtainable stash of desirable treasures.
“And it's a net loss,” you declared, raising your hands in defeat.
“I really wanted it though,” she chuckles.
“Why do you even want an Apple product? There's like no room for self customisation.”
“What? I want it so that I can sell it, of course,” she giggles. “Why would I want a phone when I already have one that's perfectly fine.”
“You can't say that, you know?” you say. “You better go touch some wood, otherwise, the next thing you know, your phone is gonna spoil.”
“I never believe in such things,” Nagyung says, but she's already touching every possible wooden surface in the arcade.
She looks at the spoils for today: one generous keychain of a simple pink heart.
“I want it.”
“You can have it. I’ll be labelled as a gay under societal norms if I hang that on my bag.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Who says you need to hang girlie stuff to look like a gay. What makes you think you aren't already one?”
“Ya,” you curse at her, but somehow, how just break into a smile.
“Feeling better already?” Nagyung asks.
“Thanks,” you say, nodding.
“Let's head back,” she says. “I have more things planned for you.”
When you’re back at the café, Nagyung promptly turns on enough lights to make sure things are at least visible. She brings you to booth D10, which is apparently your nemesis right now.
She sits you down and boots up the computer, before taking her place in front of a PC beside yours.
“What is this?” you ask, your face already uneasy from being in this spot.
“We play.”
“I don't want to.”
“Hey, look at me.”
You don't. You just stare at the keyboard. Looking at the letters on the keys. Your mind keeps thinking of how she would not even bother to look at you and command you to do things. Your mind keeps thinking about the keyboard she made you buy. The mouse she wanted. The headphones that costed nothing to her.
It reminds you of—
“Look at me.”
Nagyung’s voice snaps you out of your trance. She grabs your hand, what the hell this is so weird, she's your best friend why would she grab your hand, but you don't pull away.
“You're just escaping,” she says, holding your hand tight. “I know you love playing games. I know you love eating instant noodles here. Are you going to let your love for what you love disappear? That doesn't seem very fair to yourself, right?”
“Uh… Nakko,” you mutter.
“Hmm?”
“Why are you holding my hand right now?”
“W-Well, you’ve been harping about how your stupid ex never lets you hold her hand, so I thought I would let you hold mine. Why? Are my hands not worthy? Are they not to your liking?”
“Yes. Wait I mean no! No!”
You squeeze her fingers tight.
“It's just, we aren't anything but friends, so wouldn't it be weird if we like… do this?”
“R-Right.”
She releases her hands from yours and turn to her monitor, muttering something under her breath.
“It’s not like you cared when you held my hands when we were small kids anyway.”
“What was that?” you ask.
“N-nothing,” she diverts. “Anyway, point being, don't stop doing something you love just because it reminds you of something bad. If anything, shouldn't you forge happier memories to replace them?”
You lean back onto the chair, taking in Nagyung’s words as you look at the screen.
“Are you gonna wallow in the past and stay unhappy perpetually?”
You close your eyes and ponder for a second. Many seconds.
Right. Maybe it is time to let myself be free.
“Nakko.”
You open your eyes and look at her.
“Thanks.”
“Dummy,” she says, smiling at you cutely. “Boot it up. We’ll play some matches together.”
A few moments later you're already deep into the game, blasting enemies to death with your mini-alliance with Nagyung. You both die early once, unable to do a thing except for spending the next twenty minutes watching how the rest of the game pan out. In another, you both manage to survive until the end, to which you rock paper scissored her and lost, so you let her kill you to take the number one spot.
But she disconnects from the game and lets you win.
“Then what was the point of me throwing scissors and you paper?” you say.
“You're stupid,” she says, rolling her eyes and bleps at you. “Men are supposed to always throw rock. You're the dummy for throwing a scissors.”
Games continue into the night, and by the time your stomachs are growling, time has passed into the domain of pre-morning where you both should be getting your daily dose of REM sleep. But who the fuck cares when you're having the time of your life. You can't even remember when you had so much fun or smiled this wide.
“I’m hungry,” Nagyung said, raising her arms up high as she stretches with a unholy moan. “Instant noodles?”
“Bet.”
You both stand and walk to the kitchen, only to be dismayed by the fact that there are no instant noodles left.
“Right,” Nagyung sighs. “Stock comes in tomorrow.”
“Bummer.”
“Alcohol? I got some beer stashed in here.”
“I’ll pass. We still have work tomorrow. Plus, I don’t want to get drunk and do stupid things.”
“Oh? What kind of stupid things?”
“N-Nothing. I mean, obviously stupid things like vomitting all over the place, falling onto the ground. Definitely not things like kissing or touching you or anything.”
“You sure?”
“Yea. I wouldn’t do that to you. Much less my best friend.”
“Wow. I’m offended. Am I that unattractive to you?”
“What? No! You're pretty, you're hot… hell, you're one of the hottest women I know. I don't even know why you aren't doing modelling or anything.”
Nakko puffs her chest up and flicks her hair backwards.
“Guess you have some conscience left in you.”
This time, you let your eyes linger. The colorful top hugs her figure, exposing the gentle curve of her shoulders and the sliver of skin above her shorts. Her long caramel hair hangs effortlessly around her, but your eyes draw towards her toned belly and the smooth expanse of her milky legs.
She's always been beautiful, but somewhere along the way, you don’t know when, your eyes had stopped seeing her as your best friend and quietly started seeing a woman.
“You're drooling.”
Your hand snaps to your mouth, wiping away nothing.
“Don't tease me, you shit.”
She laughs and opens the fridge, bending down to take two packets of milk. You swear she jutted her ass out towards you. Not exactly purposeful, but subtle enough for you to notice.
She chucks it to you.
You catch it and poke the straw in, taking a small sip of the cool liquid cream.
“Say, did you really love her?”
Nagyung shifts towards you and stands by your side, leaning against the counter.
“Love… I don't really know. She was the only one who approached me after all.” You swirl the packet of milk in your hands, looking at it as if you can see through the opaque carton. “Rather than love, maybe I think it was more like I was just accepting anyone who showed interest in me.”
You give the carton a big sip, drinking away your sorrows with the non-alcoholic calcium supplement.
“Now that I look back, I was really such an idiot huh. I had someone who really cared about me, but I didn't think much of it.”
Nagyung put down her milk and stared at her shoes.
“What am I to you?”
You put down your milk and also stare at your shoes.
“A friend. My best friend. My only friend who has been my best friend since forever. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of losing the only thing I have left.”
“Why would you?” Nagyung mumbles.
“Because I think I like you more than a friend. You've been with me for so long that I was just blind of your existence to me.”
Bzzt.
Your phone vibrates. You pull it out and it's a call from your ex. You pick up.
“Hey.”
“About damn time you picked up. When will you send me my keyboard? Oh and also the subscription for the battle pass next mon—”
“You money grubbing bitch.”
“What the fu—”
“Yeah you. You think I want to hold your hand? You think I want to kiss you? Even if you spread your legs, I wouldn't even look at you. I'm sorry, but I'm not attracted to narcissistic mosquitoes.”
“The fuck are you talking about? Who would even—”
“It's me, you bitch.”
Nagyung snatches the phone from you.
“Why? Are you jealous? Are you mad that your money cow is going somewhere else? If only you could see us right now. I'm holding his fucking hand. Maybe even hands. He's mine, you got it. He's mine and mine and mine forever. And you? You can go suck those three pussy thirsting gooners who want nothing other than to get in your pants. And guess what? Those gooners won't stay with a slut like you. Unlike you, my relationship with him will be perpetual. So fuck off.”
Beep.
She hangs up the call.
“That was… quite the speech,” you mutter, looking down at her fingers that were and are still threaded around yours. “So, what are we now?”
“Whatever you want us to be,” Nagyung says.
You stare at her silently, the words she had just spewed to your ex downloading into your mind.
“Nakko. I don't want to be your friend anymore. Nor do I want you to be my friend. I want you.”
She looks at you with a raised eyebrow, egging you to continue.
“I’ve been perpetually in love with you, but I just didn't want to admit it. I know you like me, but I didn’t trust my judgement. I just wanted your—”
Nagyung cups your face and smashes her lips onto yours.
She holds on to your tongue with her lips, her own flicking and swirling around yours as she kisses you hard. She steals your breath, your saliva, and your sanity, drinking them in as if it were what she had wanted since god knows when.
And you think you're god, because you've known it since forever, but you were just lying to yourself. The fuse has been lit, the bullet has been shot. You have now progressed past friends and handholding, and you want more.
You moan into her lips.
“Nakko…”
She licks your lips harder and digs into your mouth deeper.
“I want more.”
She pulls you off her, a thick string of saliva connecting between you two.
“I need more.”
“Then take me.”
You press your body forward, but she holds you off.
“Not here. I don't want our first time to be in this god damned kitchen.”
She holds on to your hand.
Fuck. It's the third time this night, or dawn, or pre-morning, whatever. It’s the third time your hand was held this night alone, and it feels so damn good. It makes your heart warm and fuzzy, and you feel as if you won't ever be alone again.
She guides you out of the kitchen into D10, settling into the seat.
“Tell me,” Nagyung says. “Tell me what you love about me.”
“You're so kind—”
“Shhh. Not those. I already know why you fell in love with me. I want to know what you love about me. Tell me what you were thinking when you stared at me earlier.”
You stand over her and bent down, breathing hot into her lips, forehead presses against hers. You lean in and give her a small peck.
“You have the cutest face when you get mad.”
You lean in again, this time suckling her neck.
“You give me the hottest stares when you get mad.”
Nagyung raises her head as you attack her sensitive spots, humming softly.
“How can I be cute and hot at the same time,” she gasps, feeling you plant kisses down her neck to her shoulder bone, which was already kindly exposed courtesy of her off-shoulder outfit.
“Ask yourself,” you say, snaking your fingers into the hem of her top and peeling it down. You pull off her bra at the same time, letting the fabric bunch just below the curvature of her underboob.
“Perfect,” you mumble, already latching your mouth onto one tit. “Cute and hot like your face.”
Her back arches off the chair, hands clinging onto the arm rest as she shakes from the pleasure of being suckled. You draw circles around her nipples with your tongue, teeth grazing them lightly to give her a virgin dose of pain-pleasure.
“Tell me more,” she rasps.
You stick out your tongue and leave a trail of saliva down to her belly, spreading oral slime all over her toned abdomen. You kiss it with wet smacks, worshipping her like you've wanted this for so long.
“Fuck. You tummy, it's so tight. It tastes just like how I’ve imagined.”
“Y-You idiot. If you've been thinking and fantasising about me for so long, what took you so long?”
“I don't know. I don't care. I just know I need you right now.”
“Then take me.”
You grab on to her shorts and pull it down, throwing the obstructing fabric to the side. What's left is just a pair of laced thongs, the pink translucent sheer fabric doing nothing to cover the wetness of her pulsating core. You lean in to give a small lick, tasting her sweet tartness through the cloth.
“I can taste your desperation, Nakko.”
You pull and peel the panty to the side, and the smell of her sex wafts into your nostrils.
You dive in.
The first broad lick has her mouth open. A second swipe makes her groan. The third slurp makes her toes curl. You draw symbols of pleasure with your tongue, digging into her cunt like its a shovel excavating gold.
Her pussy is a trove. A treasure trove of unexcavated potions that have been reserved just for you. You stab your tongue deep and flick a moan out; carve it right to harvest a grunt; swirl in curves to draw a squelch; swat down to force a stream out.
You draw her cunt with your tongue as if you're keying into a controller the cheat code for her pussy juice, and it fucking works because you can't drink without stop.
Not a single drop can go to waste.
At this point, your lips are drenched. You pull them off her lips to which she gives a cutesy whine of disappointment, but you immediately force that back into her as you stuff her full again with a finger.
Then a second. A third. Soon, her pussy is gaping with your hand resting within its confines.
“Y-You’re stretch me so wide…” she moans, her eyelids fluttering as her pussy quivers around you. “She won't hold your hand. So… so I’ll hold yours. I’ll hold yours with my hand.”
She grabs your other hand and presses it into her mouth, sucking on your fingers hard.
“I’ll hold yours with my mouth.”
She looks at you and grunts.
“Look at it.”
You look.
Her folds are pulled taut on either side of your hands, and an endless amout of lubricant flows out of her sex hole.
“And I’ll hold yours with my pussy.”
Her words set you off. You curl and twist your fingers, feeling how she grips your hand like they're begging you to never let go, but you're also begging for her to not do so either.
Squelch. Splosh. Squish.
You fingers dance around and inside her like you're carving the juices out of her, and you're succeeding. Her toned belly starts to clench and relax. Her breath starts to grow ragged. Her nipples turn impossibly hard.
“I’m gonna cum,” she mewls, hands reaching for you, but she's too submerged in bliss that she clambers at nothing. She settles for the inhuman arms of the chair and cums.
Her pussy explodes as she orgasms, clenching down on you with crushing force as you work her through. She whines and squeals in ecstasy, juices flowing out of her without stop until her orgasm wanes into a hibernating hum.
You pull your hand out of her soaked pussy.
“You're a squirter,” you whisper in awe.
“Shut up, dummy,” Nagyung rasps in a trembling voice, but she's smiling. “I want more.”
She stands up and turns you around, pushing you into where she just sat. The cushion is wet, but that's the least of your concern. She unbuckles your belt with urgency and tugs your pants down, removing them and throwing it to the side. At the same time, you take pull off your shirt and drop it to the ground.
Your cock is already at its full length, swollen and angry at the lack of attention you both gave it.
Nagyung wraps one hand around it and gives it a few shallow strokes, feeling your intense hardness.
“You're so hard,” she marvels, drawing her hand up from base to tip.
“If it’ll make you feel more confident, I’ve never gotten this fucking hard for her.”
She trembles at your words, leaning into your ear and whispers.
“You hate this place, don't you? Don't worry about it. I’ll make this become your favourite place after tonight.”
She stands and walks to your pants, taking out your phone from within your pocket.
“Let's be cheeky,” she says, turning on your phone. “Password?”
“…”
“Password?”
“Your birthday.”
Nagyung giggles.
“Wow. Like wow. That, made me super turned on. I'm going to milk my cock so fucking hard.”
Your cock twitches from her declaration.
She unlocks your phone and calls your ex, setting it down on the desk beside.
“What the fuck do you want, loser? Are you going to apologise for what that stupid girl said to me?”
Nagyung smirks and stands over you, climbing up onto the chair. She rests her feet on either sides of your thighs, settling between the tight gaps of the cushioned seat.
“If you're going to apologise, I only take cash. Maybe two hundred? Since I'm kind—”
A moan rips through the air.
Your mind reels as Nagyung lowers her pussy down, swallowing your cock whole as she snugs her pussy walls around your shaft.
“—the fuck was that?!”
You grunt as Nagyung impales herself fully onto you, revelling in the sensation of being filled to the brim fucking with both the rationality in her cunt and her mind. She doesn't even give herself time to adjust to your size. She just bends forward and lifts her hips, drawing you out of her cunt. The moment your tip is the only thing left in her, she slams herself back down.
Slap.
As if she's reading your mind, she moans into your ears.
“I don't need to adjust. I’ll let your cock fuck the adjusting into me.”
As if the meat entering and exiting her is not enough, she smirks and bites onto your shoulder, nibbling on your flesh like it’s a piece of delicacy.
“Are you both fucking? How dare you call me when you are having sex?”
“Fuck—your cock feels so good inside of me,” Nagyung cries in pleasure. She straightens her back and grabs on to your hands, once again threading her fingers between yours.
“Gosh your hands feel so big and warm around mind. Fuck, if only she knew what she missed out on.”
“Fuck you both—”
“Kiss me,” Nagyung demands.
You pull her towards you and smash your lips on hers, eating her oral cavity with a voracious appetite.
She moans into your mouth exaggeratedly, letting the muffled and wet smacking fill the air, all while she slams her tight cunt down onto your cock. The sounds of depravity transmits through the microphone of your phone, amd the next thing you know, a soft moan comes through the speaker.
“Please… more…”
You let go of her hands and grip her voluptuous chest, squishing and kneading her soft mounds that rests perfectly in your hands.
“Your tits… they're so soft and perfect. Nothing like hers.”
You lean in and suckle on one, the now free hand snaking to her waist. Gripping tight, you pull her down onto you with more force, pushing your cock further into her, albeit not much.
However, that extra few millimeters strike her most sensitive spot.
Nagyung cries out in pleasure as you pound into her depths, pushing her voice past her limits as she screams and moans and mewls and squeals, saliva drooling out of her open mouth as her eyes roll to the back of her skull.
Her mind is a haze as you assault her pussy, sending her on the path to another orgasm.
She cums.
Her hand slaps your chest in need for more, begging for you to fuck her harder, to give her everything that should have belonged to her instead of the money grubbing bitch.
“Fuck… I bet your cock would feel so good in me too… nghhh…”
Your ex moans through the phone, but you treat it as an erotic backtrack that only serves to drive both your libidos higher.
You stand and flip push Nagyung onto the table, pressing her back into the desk as you kiss her hard. Your chest press against her tits and her hands scramble for support, knocking your phone onto the ground and several PC equipment off their balances, but neither of you care.
Your cock needs no help. You simply push forward, and the unimaginable hardness of your cock guides itself back into the scorching hot confines of her pussy, and you hammer into her with an agenda.
To make her yours forever.
“I think I'm going crazy for you, Nakko.”
You're reply with a soft moan and lust-drunk eyes.
“I think I’m stupidly in love with you, Nakko.”
You receive legs that wrap around your back.
“And I think I want to cum inside of you.”
She looks at you with glassy eyes and nod.
“Fuck me with your thick, fat cock. Make my pussy yours and yours only. Shoot your thick hot cum until I'm loaded with all your baby batter.”
Her words act like a spell, and you groan and thrust into her wanton cunt like nothing matters. Her pussy squelches as juices overflow from another orgasm, slicking your cock up only for you to pull and push harder.
“Nakko, please.”
She stares into your eyes and nod desperately.
“Please stop being my perpetual friend.”
You grab on to her hand and take her lips.
“Please be my perpetual lover.”
With a grunt, you roar and cum inside of her, filling her womb full of your white seed. Ropes and ropes of cum shoots out of your slit, painting and coating her walls like a promise that you’ll give to her for eternity.
When you're done, you collapse back onto the chair, your cock pulled out of her tenderised and swollen snatch with a wet plok. You watch as your cum flows out of her, pooling onto the table, but she reaches her finger down, scooping it up and stuffing it back into her pussy.
“I need more,” she whispers. “Plug me full again and make sure none of it ever comes out.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Please, will you let me fuck your coc—”
You pick up your phone and hang up, proceeding to block her number.
You turn to her and look at the clock.
2.36 a.m.
“We open at 11,” Nagyung says. “Don't worry. We have plenty of time. And if you want, we could close the shop for another day. I have craved you since forever.”
You smile and rush forward to give her another kiss, pushing your now hard cock back into her creamed cunt again.
“This is now my favourite spot. And you're now my favourite food.”
And that—
Nagyung points to the pink heart keychain hanging off her bag in the kitchen.
ᘏᘏ thirsty bunn thursdays
male reader x asa (babymonster) ※ more of my works on fanprose
You should’ve been shot by now. Somehow, you’re the one doing the backshots and you’re not sure you’re killing it.
Asa was your colleague back in the days when clairsentient was a word you two shared as an advantageous quirk. You two were the top guns at CIRO but due to recent global events, you were both forced to retire—or so you think.
“Asa—” you manage to let out, as your hand is secured on her throat and she struggles to say your name.
She’s on her knees on the edge of your bed, face pressed into the sheets with her back arched. Your hand is around her throat with her choker still on while your other hand is on her hip and you are behind her. Exuberance overflows from both of you after she showed up two hours ago to supposedly finish her job clean and swift. Now, she is here in the shape you wanted her in, beautifully arched and folded. You’re finishing the job but it’s messy; finishing quick is never an option.
“You motherfucker!”
“Asa, language.”
Her nails are in the mattress and her moans grow louder as you penetrate her lovely paechy little ass. You cannot see her face but you can feel all of her. Lube wasn’t an option so you had to use her slick that doesn’t take long to leak from her tiny tight cunt.
“Who sent you by the way?” An inquiry that you don’t really need an answer to, because you know.
That’s the thing about clairsentients, lying is not an option at all. When you fuck her senseless you know every thought she’s having and obviously she understands yours as well and somehow neither of you has ever gotten used to it.
Retirement surely has made you slow. Days just reading fantasy novels and smut from the hit platform Fanprose have dulled your senses. If sprens were real, the room would be crawling with them, tiny wisps in the wind. Two hours ago you were a sitting duck and you certainly thought it was the end for you, but now she’s the one about to break.
You pull her hips back and slam into her ass deeper. Her whole body jolts forward with the impact. Her knuckles turn white on the sheets, the choker slides half an inch under your fingers, and you drag her back by it. Every stroke chips at her mental wall; oh how the professional is losing herself right now.
She finally confesses and it sounds like a moan mixed in with a curse.
“That piece of shit Prael.” She moans to mask her embarrassment because she knows a career in the intelligence industry won’t be an option anymore for her after this failure.
“MI6? How the hell did they pull that off?”
“They contacted me after learning about our retirement from CIRO—” You increase your pace, cock slamming into her ass violently, her cheeks jiggling like pudding at every impact, and she can’t help but scream out loud—the intensity making her pause. “—and of course after our last job, they didn’t want anyone surviving to tell the tale.”
“So they sent you to end me and eat your own bullet after?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you crazy? You were the Ace in the Hole of CIRO. Such talent will be wasted six feet under.”
“You know flattery doesn’t work on me.”
“It’s not flattery, my Ace-sa, it’s a fact.”
“Stop calling me that! I know you’re just mocking me because you were the true ace.”
You feel her waver, somewhere in the middle of her thoughts; the plan she walked in with is starting to look stupid. Her moans shift and something changes in her rhythm. Her walls are tightening; it almost starts to hurt. You feel her decision before she makes it. She’s let go and is nearing her climax. Prael was wrong about trusting her and this is just going to make him furious after, but you’re ready for that outcome. (Who cares, Asa’s yours. Who else will he send?)
You slow down.
“Don’t stop, you piece of—”
“Language! Say it right.”
“Please. Please make me cum.”
You thrust harder as she claws the sheets. Her back arches so deep you feel her whole body work you. Her choker moves under your fingers with every gasp and you keep going. You keep going until you feel her mind tip over the edge of sanity.
Her body violently shakes as she cums and you follow shortly after. You stay in her as her ass squeezes you through it. Her forehead is on the sheets and she is breathing erratically—unusual for a trained killer, which means all of this is as genuine and as raw as you can get from her.
“You still have that safe house in Kyoto, right?”
“I do.”
“…I hate you.”
“Your words don’t reflect what you really mean.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. Ace in the hole, you said.”
“I meant it.”
“Then I hope you’re prepared for what’s coming next.”
“Why, what’s coming next?”
She takes a breath. “Let’s just say a certain Agent Ahyeon is supposed to do cleanup.”
You hear the back door open and the air goes thin.
“Fuck.”
comment an idol you’d want featured on thirsty bunn thursdays and I’ll feature them in the next installment. thirsty bunn thursdays are now also on fanprose.
Until spring arrives and breaks what winter gave,
Snow falls heavy on the flower field's grave.
And when alas, the white cherry blossom blooms,
Yet, quietly, the winter snow continues to loom.
-
Puffy:
OH MY F*CKING GOD THEY'RE SO PRETTY!!!!
That…is the response to how the shoes are painted. It takes a few weeks more before you finally send it off, after spending far too much time making sure every detail is exactly how you want it. You wrap it carefully, double-check the packaging three separate times, and drive it straight to the Ji mansion with the vague anxiety that comes with handing something personal, hoping it survives the journey intact at the back of your beat up van.
You only know the reaction to your work by the way your phone explodes.
The first message is a photo of Jiyeon standing in front of the building. The second is blurry. The third is somehow blurrier.
And the fourth is a video that you just pressed play.
The camera shakes violently as Suhyeon jumps around the living room while her mother laughs somewhere off-screen. The painting leans against the wall in the background, catching the afternoon light from a nearby window, and every few seconds Suhyeon points at it again like she needs to physically confirm that it's real and hasn't somehow vanished. The video contains approximately three coherent words and several excited noises from the household (and some smacks to the wall, presumably from Suhyeon) that probably qualify as a form of excited language. At one point the camera swings wildly toward the ceiling before returning to the painting again, and somehow that only makes your heart bloom even more.
Puffy:
THANK YOU!!!!!!
MOM IS CRYING
IM ALSO CRYING
THIS IS YOUR FAULT
HOLY SHIT!
A little secret: when Jiyeon throws out profanity, she really knows how to, and it’s totally and entirely unrelated to you, obviously. Still, if she's going to enact the act of swearing, at least it's because she's happy and not because she stubbed her toe.
You:
You're very welcome, Puffy.
Three dots immediately appear. Disappear. Reappear. Then…
Puffy:
YOU MADE THE SHOE LOOK COOL!!!
Pfff. Out of everything she could have said about the painting, that…might be the most sincere compliment you have ever received as an artist. You two both come from prestigious artistic backgrounds, so you expect a more critical feedback, something about the composition, the moving colours, or it captures the blood, sweat, and tears that Suhyeon pours out to her work.
But nope, you just… made the shoe look cool. If only you got the same kind of response from ‘her’—
"EXCUSE ME! WHO ORDERED WICKED WING?" Oh hey, that's your meal. Probably best to eat before driving home.
-
The drive home is one you could probably do blindfolded, not that you'd ever try. Especially not tonight when it's snowy as fuck.
You've driven this route so many times that every turn, every traffic light, and every oddly placed convenience store feels permanently etched into your memory. And honestly, you need it etched into your brain especially during Winter: Your old van rumbles beneath flickering streetlights, tyres crunching over fresh snow while music from your phone fills the cabin just loudly enough to keep you awake. Otherwise, you would've fallen asleep, frozen, or drowning to the thought of Jiyeon's reaction to the dozens of small requests you've handled over the past few months. Then, somehow, your brain decides to remind you of the time you accompanied a client to Comic Con wearing a sailor uniform.
(Fucking worth it. Got a free figurine afterwards.)
You are roughly ten minutes from home, passing through the road with cherry blossom trees side by side, the heavy white caps bending branches under their weight to replace the flowers, when your phone rings through the speakers.
Sakura.
"Ohaiyo, Kkura." "PC Bang."
"…hello to you too, jackass." "PC Bang."
"Saku—" "PC Bang."
Twenty minutes later, you’re taking the PC spot next to her. She's right about being 'already inside' — she has already made herself comfortable at home, logged into a game. Not so much as a "thanks for making a U-turn on snow-covered roads." This ungrateful girl.
The PC bang glows with rows of monitors and neon lights, a far contrast to the freezing darkness behind the automatic sliding door. Keyboards clacking from every direction while the familiar smell of instant noodles, energy drinks, and poor life choices hangs permanently in the air. Screens flash with explosions, victory screens, and rapidly moving characters while conversations overlap from every corner of the room. Somewhere nearby, someone is arguing passionately with a teammate they've never met (it's the nicest you can say to a LoL game).
In other words, welcome to Sakura's abode.
"Are you calling me here to watch your KDA?" "No."
"Can you at least look at me when answering?" "Queue already, far out."
Three matches later, you wish you had ignored her call and enjoy your time mixing paints at home instead. Drinking tea. Sleeping. Literally anything else.
"How the fuck are you still alive?"
"Built different." "You say that to everything."
"It's called positioning." "More like you disappearing every team fight then magically showing up with four eliminations."
Six matches later, your shoulder pops, your eyes hurt, your wrists hurt, your back is finally suffering-free, mom's spaghetti. Far out, you're too old to play games this well, yet Sakura looks exactly the same as she did three games ago.
Well, maybe not, because she finally removes one earcup. And usually, this is how you know she wants something.
"Hey."
"Hm?"
"Can you be my friend?"
…Huh. You stare at her. Then at the monitor. Then back at her. Uh…
"Are you friendzoning me? Sorry, I don't see you th—"
Yeah, fair enough, you deserve that smack on your arm. Times ten. "Dumbass, I'm serious."
"I get it, sorry sorry." You chuckle. "So…what kind of friend request are we talking about?"
And you feel a buzz in your pocket. Glancing down at the phone screen, you immediately see a new message from Sakura, which would be completely normal if she wasn’t sitting less than a meter away from you. You slowly look over, only to find her staring intently at her monitor with the exaggerated focus of someone pretending they weren't responsible for whatever that just appeared on your phone.
Ok, let’s see what she sends you: A screenshot of the Client Form, with the Requester filled out as Sakura herself (hold up, what?), and the assigned Companion as you (hold up, what now?). The reason is…peculiar.
An event.
…A memorial service?
You stare at the image for several seconds, reading it twice just to make sure you're not misunderstanding something. Then you slowly turn your head toward Sakura again. She somehow manages to become even more interested in whatever is on her screen.
"…fuck no." "Why?"
Without hesitation, you reach over and lightly smack her head.
"That hurts!" "Good, because I still say no. Especially to a fucking funeral."
"Why?!" "You are not submitting that."
Sakura rubs the top of her head with a deeply offended expression. Pretty sure it doesn't hurt her, but you have to interrupt what she clearly believed was a perfectly reasonable solution to the situation (it's not).
"I'm just following the procedure." "No."
"I'm serious!" "No."
"Stop saying no!" "Sakura, we work at the same place."
She pauses for a moment as if she is carefully considering your argument, then points directly at the screen. "Exactly, dumbass."
…Oh. Oh…she's doing it again.
Miss Miyawaki Sakura here hates owing people. Hates with a hard T.
She's someone who buys coffee for a customer just because they bought her one six days ago. Someone who remembers a tiny favor from the delivery uncle who brought extra ingredients for the shop and she adds a bit extra to their bowls free of charge when it was nothing to them. If someone helps her move a box during delivery drop off, she'll somehow find a way to return the favor later. If someone covers for her once for a client, she'll spend weeks looking for an opportunity to balance the scales.
But…she's also exactly the kind of person who would rather create paperwork, contracts, and official procedures than openly admit she needs help from someone she trusts. You could say she is the definition of order.
"I'm still saying no." "Why not?"
"Because if you submit that form, then I'm obligated to say yes." "…ok, and?"
"That defeats the entire point."
Sakura might be upset right now, but sometimes, this girl needs to hear why it's fine to not have anything tied to a contract for once.
"If I only show up because there's a contract attached to it, then that's work," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the screenshot still displayed on your phone. "That's literally just work. That's not you asking me for help. That's you assigning me a job."
“But…” "But if I show up because you asked me to, that's different."
“Bu—” “You know I’m right.”
She responds by pulling her hoodie slightly higher, as though hiding behind fabric somehow invalidates your observation.
"Look," you sigh, spinning slightly in your chair. "Let's have no forms, assignments, approvals, contracts. None of that shit. I'm happy to come with you, Kkura."
"But it's unfair, because I'm asking you to do something."
…Oh god this girl can be the best comedian if she wants to. You laugh so hard your belly starts to hurt.
"Kkura-ya, you have covered my shifts before. You've sat through three-hour client debriefs when I was sick. You helped me build my profile on the website—"
"They really need to update the site." "It works fine, no?"
"Bruh."
"My point is that you've literally been doing favors for me for months. Did you send me an invoice afterwards for each good deed?"
Now that got her to shush. "Did you make me fill out a request form?"
Still silent. "Did you charge me?"
Your point probably has got to her head at this point, hopefully. "Well, there we go."
Sakura slowly sinks lower into her chair. Another thing about her is that…when she loses, she sulks like a kid. "I don't like it."
"I know."
You really do know. She's trying so hard to turn this into an official request, wants paperwork attached to it, and some clear guidelines. She’s not wrong — it's safe, secure, and if there's paperwork involved, then nobody owes anyone anything. Nobody has to feel bad.
"Still, you don't owe me a favour, never."
"But—" "Never."
-
Sigh.
You have thrown out every objection you raise, every explanation you patiently gave. Hell, this conversation could have been avoided if she simply clicks a different option. Yet the morning two days later, you wake up to three notifications. The first is the completed client form. The second is the approval notice, and the third is a receipt for seven d— wait, hold up, seven days? Didn't she say only for one event?
"Ya Sakura." You ring her immediately, and yes, not even a hello from you. "Fuck no."
"What?" "No."
"What are y—" "Why are you buying the seven days package?"
"Just because?" Oh this girl is playing the ignorance game, alright.
"Sakura, the service lasts only three hours."
"Well, approximately." "Then why?"
You hear rustling on the other end, probably her pulling her blanket over her face. "Well, that's the most basic one I can do. And you should be grateful, mister."
"…Why?" "I gave you a 5 stars review. And increased your rating."
Remember, violence is illegal, and Sakura knows where you live, so she will expose your IP address. "You are so irritating."
"I know. I have been told that a lot."
"By me." "Yep."
The contract officially starts two days later, and nothing practically changes. Sakura still calls you whenever she wants, sending you photos of the bowl of ramen she made, still sending you brain rot memes or recordings of her Overwatch matches. Basically, same old, but with paperwork involved this time.
Which is way, way worse. She keeps saying "You are contractually obligated to listen to this," "You're contractually obligated to answer," "You're contractually obligated to appreciate this meme." At this point, you're becoming contractually obligated to shove the paperwork into her mouth just to make her stop saying that phrase.
Sigh. Luckily you only landed mostly on clients like Gaeul and Suhyeon, because you really don't know how one truly navigates around a wild card like her.
Well…sort of. It only takes one sign at the time, and the first one comes three days before the memorial.
The two of you are eating dinner after work. The ramen shop is unusually quiet tonight and most of the dinner crowd has already left, leaving a few customers scattered around. Suhyeon would've joined the two of you like usual; it’s a habit of hers to always join you two ever since you first introduced her to the ramen shop. Unfortunately, freezing temperatures and an upcoming recital don't exactly mix well for a ballerina. It is a shame, although the evening is more comfortable. And conversations come easier, maybe. Actually, that is a good word to emphasise, because Sakura has spent the last ten minutes staring into her bowl and swirling the noodles around with her chopsticks.
On the other side of the table, you slurp.
"Should I cry?"
Anyway, you nearly died. Fuck, a noodle went down the wrong pipe. The cough was so violent the noodle was probably going to escape from the eye socket instead.
"What?" "At the memorial."
"What about it?" "Should I cry?"
"What are you on about?"
Her brows furrow, seemingly genuinely confused. Like somehow you've failed to understand a perfectly obvious question. Doesn't help when she continues with "I'm asking because I don't know."…and damn, this is harder than guessing whether you win the 50/50 in gacha games, who knows if she's ragebaiting or is actually that oblivious to the concept of grieving.
"Sakura." You slowly lower your chopsticks. "You can't just schedule crying like your game livestream."
"What if they notice? What if they become judgmental?"
It's been a few years since you have become acquainted with Sakura and become good friends with her, but this is the first time she gets so worried about other people’s perception of her. Without the usual sarcasm in her tone, Sakura is figuring out what grief is supposed to look like…and apparently nobody ever taught her.
The questions continue as the days go by, and it's easy to be confused if she's studying for finals or not. And these questions were…something.
Kkura:
Are flowers performative?
Let's just…put the phone down and walk around the studio. Ok, come back, and read it again. Fucking hell, what kind if question is this?
You:
Stop searching how to grieve on Tiktok ffs.
Kkura:
I have only scrolled for like 30 mins
You:
Turn it off.
Kkura:
One of them was played with Subway Surfer gameplay, too.
You:
BRUH
-
The night before the memorial service, she drops by your place and stays far longer than usual. For backstory, she has a habit of appearing at your studio for ten minutes and tends to overstay her welcome for three hours.
At this point, it's nice to have a cat (aka, Sakura) in the house, especially when it is a freezing void beyond the windows. Thin sheets of ice cling to the panes, soft white breath fogging the glass whenever you get too close. Across the street, the convenience store is still brightly lit, one lonely cuboid of warmth in an otherwise dark neighbourhood. Most of the apartment buildings have already gone black.
The inside is far softer than the world outside. Comfortable and quiet. Sakura is curled up in the corner of your couch, hoodie pulled halfway over her hands. You're sitting in the armchair opposite her with a mug of coffee that's long since gone cold.
Neither of you is really doing anything. You're supposed to clean up the brushes before she barged in, but it seems like your company is greatly needed. The memorial service is tomorrow, and it is clear that it's still sitting in the back of her mind.
"So…" She keeps her eyes on the coffee table. "Does grieving hurt?"
"That's…a broad question." "I know."
"It depends." "On what?"
"The person you’re grieving for."
She nods slowly, seemingly accepting that answer for…around seven seconds. Then…
"Was that what happened when you broke up with your ex?"
…Ok. That is the last thing you actually expected her to ask. The confidence she’d somehow gathered lasts exactly half a second, and the colour drains from her face almost immediately.
"Huh?" "What?"
"Why are you asking me that?"
“I-I mean—” She sits uptight so quickly the blanket slips off her laps. "N-no, wait—that—that came out wrong." Both hands shoot out in front of her, waving frantically as if she can shove the question back into her own mouth. "I-I wasn't trying to—I mean, I wasn't asking because—ugh."
She squeezes her eyes shut. "Forget I asked that."
There’s something oddly heartbreaking about it, truly. She's trying so hard to understand this, you have to forgive this poor girl. Well, since the question is already being thrown out to the ring, how should you answer this, hm? An exhale through your nose and glance towards the ceiling later, you arrive at:
"…well, grief might be too strong of a word for my situation."
"...really? It sounds painful, no?"
You let out a short laugh. "Wow, thanks, Miyawaki." "I'm being serious."
"…I know."
And she’s right, the breakup hurts a fucking lot. More than you wanted to admit at the time the fading memories refuse to come back, when she nonchalantly broke up with you on a winter night. That scar is still there — the white breath escaped your pale lips, the shivering of your hands, and the crushing of your heart.
You glance down at your mug. "Grief is heavier. It…usually comes from losing someone you can't get back."
Sakura listens quietly.
"Death. Family. Friends. People who are gone." Your fingers tap lightly. "But a breakup…it's kinda weird."
"Weird?" "They're still there, you know?"
"Ah." Sakura nods.
"They still exist, still living their life. Like, I can call them and see them, theoretically. Unlike you and your friend. The person is still there, but…" You sigh. "...the relationship isn't."
Sakura nods. "It's…similar then?"
You stare out the window. "It's probably somewhere in the same neighbourhood. Close enough, I would say."
"Do you.." You glance over, and she is chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek, eyes drifting everywhere except you, clearly debating whether she should continue the question. And not going to lie, the hesitation makes you smile.
"Sometimes." The answer is annoying to you, but the honesty is surprising. "It's not like I want her back. Just…I wish it didn't end in such a shitty way."
There. That probably sounds more accurate. Maybe what truly hurts you the most was watching something beautiful slowly heading towards the bad ending. Maybe. The room falls silent again, like even inanimate objects are giving a moment of silence.
"So…if someone dies, and you miss them." She eventually speaks. "And if someone leaves, and you miss them too…" She frowns immediately. "Fucking hell, emotions are stupid."
This girl, far out. (Lmao) "You conclude with that?!"
"Yes." "After all that?"
"Yep". She pulls her hoodie further over her head, clearly sulking. As if that makes her argument more convincing (hell no).
"You're really trying to understand the concept of grief for tomorrow, huh?" "Yea. What are you gonna do about it?"
"Sakura."
She finally looks back.
Now, you can repeat your point. She doesn't need to solve grief. She doesn't need to understand every emotion, guidebook, article, random Tiktok feeds, or graphics. She just needs to show up and pay respect. She can leave when she wants to, cry if she wants to, be sad if she wants to, confused if she wants to. You can say all that again to drill it in her head.
Instead, you tell her: "Just…do what your heart tells you to."
She stares at you for several seconds, clearly stunned by such an abstract answer (You are too). But then, she lets out a long sigh and sinks deeper into the couch. "Okay."
"You’re accepting it too easily, what the hell."
'Well your answer is annoying, but you're also annoyingly right." A laugh escapes her before she can stop it.
The anxiety doesn't disappear completely, sure. Tomorrow is still tomorrow, and nothing you say tonight is going to magically erase that.
But she looks less trapped inside her own thoughts. And for Sakura, that's probably the best outcome you could hope for.
-
Snow starts falling before sunrise.
Large, soft flakes drifting through the pale morning sky, blanketing the passing rooftops, tree branches, and parked cars until the entire city is one white plane.
You spend an extra thirty minutes clearing the windshield of your van and fixing up the chains onto the wheels. The heater takes forever to warm up, this damn junk.
By the time this same junk parks outside Sakura's place, the sun finally gets out of its white blanket. She climbs in wearing an oversized black coat, a charcoal scarf wrapped high around her neck, covering her mouth. Her hair is tied back far neater than usual, probably a result of spending a long time deciding how presentable she should be.
"…Morning." "Hey."
And neither of you say anything for about an hour.
The windshield wipers rhythmically push away melting snow while low volumed music trickles through the speakers. Outside, pedestrians move carefully along icy sidewalks, umbrellas collecting white flakes that refuse to stop falling.
Sakura is staring out the window.
Normally, she'd have found something to complain about by now. The weather that’s hindering the road, how slow you are at driving (please drive safely, unlike this girl who plays GTA like it owes her money), the sleep-inducing music, and the slow-ass heater.
Instead, "She hated winter."
"…hm?" "Her."
This is the first time her voice sounds…maybe it's not right to describe it.
"She'd complain about how cold the snow was. And wished it was warmer." "Ok that is not possible, the heck."
The smile disappears almost as quickly as it arrived, leaving the humming of the air-con filling the space. And eventually… "We met because we were dogshit. At streaming."
"Ah." "Three viewers, by the way. One was me, second was probably my laptop. The third might have been a bot."
"…pff." "Ya. I was serious, you little shit."
"Yeah, I figured, Miss Hustler." "She…was the same as well."
Sakura looks back out the window. "We'd finish streaming, then call each other until four in the morning since we were close with each other."
"Talking?" "Nah, mostly complaining. About no viewers and shenanigans we have to do to get more."
"Sounds…nice." "Shut it, Mr. Sarcasm."
A faint chuckle escapes her. "We kept saying we'd quit, but neither of us actually did. We kinda…grew up together, you can say that."
The snowfall thickens. The world outside the van turns pure white save for the occasional traffic lights glowing through the snow. You stay silent and let her continue.
"We learned everything together. Editing, streaming, sponsorships, trolling with hate comments, and how to say fuck off to creeps." She smiles at the memories. "Every little milestone — one hundred followers, one hundred pancakes. One thousand, we spent a thousand US dollars for stupid shit. Vlogs about our first joined collabs, sponsor, donation, all that stuff."
Her fingers absentmindedly trace circles on her thigh. "It was nice."
Another thing about Sakura: when she says something, she really means it.
"Then we fought."
You side-glance at her. "Over what?"
She isn't looking back. "Not even something worth fighting for."
"No?" "Not at all. Stupid, even."
"What happened?" "Internet controversies."
You frown. "...I'm gonna need more than that."
"We were both dead as fuck, streaming for like a week straight." She sighs. "Someone clipped something and was taken out of context. I thought she was badmouthing me, and she thought I was looking down on her."
…Huh. "Initially we were okay, but the exhaustion was not helping us stay rational. So…we argued constantly, had a fight that was blown out of proportion, and we both had too much pride to apologise."
The snow stops falling for a brief moment. "And we just stopped talking, I guess. And we won’t be able to talk for….ever."
The rest of the drive passes without another word.
-
The parking lot is already half full, black sedans and white SUVs slowly disappearing beneath fresh layers of snow. People move carefully across the icy pavement dressed almost entirely in black, umbrellas blooming open one after another as delicate flakes continue drifting from the grey sky above.
Neither you nor Sakura immediately move while the engine idles softly. Sakura sits beside you with both hands resting on her lap. Way too still for her character. She might have been rehearsing today in her head for countless nights. Probably since the night she asked you to accompany her. You can almost hear a checklist running through her mind, a mantra of stand, bow, offer condolences, don't leave too early, don't be too attached nor force herself to cry.
"Sakura."
"Hm?"
"Do what your heart tells you to."
"…you are so annoying." But her shoulders loosen slightly anyway.
Cold air immediate bites through your coat as you both step outside. The wind isn't particularly strong, but it's chilly enough to sting your face. Sakura is definitely smart, bringing that scarf to wrap half her face. (Her smug ass even shows off the hand warmers in her pocket, doesn't even offer you one. This damn troll.) Snow crunches beneath your shoes as you begin walking toward the entrance.
The memorial hall is beautiful…and quiet.
Ok, it is supposed to be quiet, but in a sense, not chillingly quiet. Subdued…maybe.
Arrays of white chrysanthemums line the entrance beneath black ribbons, their bright petals standing out against the monochrome surroundings. Incense lingers gently in the winter air. People continue to arrive and leave in smaller groups, some embrace and bow, others stand together reminiscing through watery smiles.
As you two enter, a middle-aged woman notices Sakura first.
"Sakura?"
The mentioned girl straightens. "Oh…Ms. Huh." She bows politely. "It's been a long time."
"It has. Oh gosh, you look so thin, my dear." The woman smiles sadly. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I almost didn–" The words slip out before Sakura can stop them. "I-I mean…I-I…"
"It's ok, I understand. But thank you for coming." She finally glances at you who stands idly behind Sakura. "And you are…?"
"Good morning, ma'am." You bow. "I'm Sakura's…boyfriend."
Sakura freezes harder than the frozen pond outside. You swear even the blood in her veins stops circulating. The look she gives you is absolutely magnificent — pure disbelief and absolute betrayal. The face that says 'I will fucking end your life'.
You bite the inside of your cheek. That's what you get for the hand warmer, you fucking troll (lol).
"Oh my goodness!" The mother clasps both hands together. "I didn't know you were seeing someone."
"...Neither did I," Sakura mutters under her breath.
"What was that, dear?" "N-Nothing!" She forces the brightest smile you've seen all week.
She looks between the two of you before letting out a relieved laugh. "I'm so happy she isn't alone today."
"Thank you very much ma'am." You nod. "Sorry for your loss."
The woman gives one final nod, "Thank you for coming, you two," before excusing herself to greet another arriving guest. As soon as she's out of earshot, Sakura turns toward you and smacks squarely against your arm.
"You fucking dumbass." "It’s funny!"
"It wasn't." "It absolutely was. That's what you get for not getting me an extra hand warmer."
She glares. "I almost…believed you."
"Wait, what?" "What?"
"Shush." "Pff."
At least now she’s not stuck inside her own head.
The portrait of her friend rests at the centre of the room as you two explore further, the altar surrounded by flowers, candles, handwritten letters, and probably some printed photos at different stages of her life. A smiling face frozen in time, young, bright and happy.
You notice Sakura's breathing for a second. Then she straightens her back almost instinctively…but not as stiff as before.
"She always hated that photo, by the way."
"…Looks pretty normal to me." "I know. This girl is just weird."
As the day goes, people gradually recognise her, most likely through the girl. Some approach, hesitate, and some simply wave or nod politely from across the hall. Every mutual friend seemed unsure of how to actually approach Sakura. Eventually, you drift further away to give enough space for Sakura to navigate the conversations herself. And that was when whispers appeared. Quiet, but you pick it up quite easily.
"...She's exactly the same." "I still can't tell what she's thinking." "She's barely reacted." "I haven't even seen her cry." "...She's always been cold." "...Guess some people never change."
There's no point saying back, especially here. You know well enough back then with Suhyeon. People build stories from what they can see above the frozen pond, and Sakura has always been exceptionally good at keeping everything below the water. Of course, Sakura doesn't care either, typical of her.
Every time someone steps away from the memorial board, Sakura wanders over alone reading every message, sticky notes, thank you and apology. Slowly, like she's trying to engrave every word before leaving. One makes her lips move ever so slightly, reading silently. One makes her smile. One makes her press her lips together.
Later, someone announces that guests are welcome to spend time outside before the closing prayers begin. Sakur— wait, where did she go? Did she…where did she go?
Leaving first, you exhale and frantically run around the vast white to try to find this one girl, before you see her alone far away, under a single cherry blossom tree. The branches are completely bare, winter long claimed its blossoms months ago. But snow has settled across every branch with such softness that it almost looks like it’s blooming again. White petals, exactly how she'd described it during the ride.
Just like what she said. Just like what her friend used to like. Just like what Sakura likes.
Everything here is quiet, the world behind you so distant. Muted voices, faint footsteps, life continuing on. Over here, there is only snow, and a Sakura beneath the tree that's still looking up. Snow gathers on her hair, her shoulders, her scarf, but she doesn't brush it off. Her posture holds for a while longer than it should.
"Sak—"
Then the posture breaks.
Her shoulders jerk once, then again. She turns her face immediately, burying it deeper into the scarf. She probably hopes that if she hides enough of herself, it won't count. Her breath breaks, small and fractured. She presses harder into the scarf, as if she can smother the sound of it. Her whole frame curls inward slightly, her pride refuses to be seen like this yet, it just keeps slipping through.
The snow keeps on falling.
And the first sob tears through the scarf. Both her hands clutch the fabric, pressing it against her face as another broken cry escapes. Then another, and another. The build ups of every thing left unsaid, and the memories left unshared, all come apart beneath that tree. Her wails echo across the empty grounds, with each one catches in her throat before breaking free again, harsher than the last.
You hear nothing.
Not like there's anything to hear, but you just…stayed far enough away that you can't. Instead, you turn your gaze toward the lone white blossom above, miraculously and resiliently blooming on a branch untouched by snow.
It simply stays there as Sakura wails.
And like you, who refuses to leave her alone in this white, cold world.
-
You:
Hey, are you almost here yet? We're going to this park near the memorial hall.
Thank you for coming again, good friend.
-
It finishes just after sunset, purely because no one really wanted to be the first person to leave.
People linger. Conversations stretch a little longer, too. Old friends exchange (or re-exchange, for some) phone numbers and social media handles like they'll actually contact back. Come to think of it, it was your cue to advertise yourself and 'Rent-a-friend', opportunity was right there! A room full of emotionally vulnerable people, Incredible networking chances–no, no, don’t do it. You didn't bring your business card today (and also your conscience tells you otherwise). Shame.
The hall slowly empties.
Snow continues falling outside.
You wait by the entrance while Sakura (managed to) finishes speaking to another mutual friend. She bows politely, exchanges a few words, then walks over without saying anything.
"Ready…girlfriend?" "Oh, I will end you, alright."
Looks like she's okay now…sorta. Some of the tears had dried up on her face. The cold has hidden most of the red hue on her cheeks, but not all of it. Every now and then she sniffs quietly, pretending it's just the winter air. Thank fuck that you have your handkerchief in your pocket at least to wipe them off her.
"Shush." "I haven't even said one word, dumbass." And she still lets you wipe.
The two of you make it halfway across the parking lot before she pinches your arm sleeve.
"Can we…go somewhere quiet?"
You look around: parking lots, mourners, small farewell conversations, tired smiles.
"…got somewhere in mind?"
"Not really."
"Then I do."
Twenty minutes later, you arrive at the nearby town and pull into a small park tucked between rows of sleeping houses. No one is foolish enough to spend a winter evening here.. The playground sits abandoned beneath the snow. The swings sway ever so slightly in the breeze. A single park bench rests beneath an old tree whose branches have caught enough snow to keep the seat mostly dry. Lucky you.
You brush the snow away with your sleeve. Sakura sits, and you sit beside her.
Silence. The distant hum of the town beyond the tree. And snow. It always snows.
"Thanks…"
"Hm?"
"For coming with me."
"You asked. And pay me too, by the way." "Idiot."
Another minute passes. You don't speak, because you are aware that she wants to say something. Eventually…
"I was…honestly devastated."
You don't interrupt.
"I thought…I thought someone played a damn prank with me, you know? I reread the message six times." Her laugh dies almost immediately. "Then I checked everyone else's condolences posts, hoping one of them would say sike at any second."
Well, guess no one did.
"I sat there just…looking at one spot on the ceiling. And I just–-" She chokes. "I just…I hated myself, damn it. I kept telling myself to message her next month, after this event, after this sponsorship, after I hit another sub count, but I just fucking keep delaying it."
Silence again.
"I'll talk to her once I'm successful enough, less awkward, once enough time has passed. Well, turns out…"
You don't dare to answer. There isn't a right one in your mental notes to really tell her. You just let the wind fill the space, until Sakura suddenly tilts her head upward. You follow her gaze to find the clouds begin to clear up, tiny stars slowly emerge between patches of clouds.
"She loved stars." "Hm?"
"Every year." She smiles. "She'd literally come to my house. We used to live pretty close to each other, and tell me to touch grass once a year." Her voice becomes completely deadpan as she imitates her. "It prevents psychic damage, she says."
That's so dumb, what the fuck. "…Pff, bro, what?!"
"Yep, and we both stood outside anyway." She leans back against the bench. "We'd be in the middle of ranked. Saw a bunch of stars, and we went outside immediately, no buts."
It's the first time all day (or all week) hearing her talk about her friend without immediately cowering herself back behind a shield. And you can't help but just smile adoringly at her.
And the words leave her naturally. "I miss that idiot. So much."
You continue staring upward, and so does she. Minutes pass, the cold gradually settles into your clothes, but neither of you mind.
Eventually, she speaks. "I can't remember the last time I sat beside someone that is not you without putting on a face." She let out a big sigh. 'It's nice, just sitting like this."
"Well…make room in your heart then, won't you, my lovely and pretty supervisor?"
Sakura blinks and looks at you, in which you can only shake your head. Hm? Well, if it’s not you, then who is it?
Both you and Sakura turn around to find a bundled-up figure walking towards them, carrying two canned coffees. She stops behind them, looking at Sakura, and then at you. Heh, she is here.
"…does this go under my pay check, good friend?"
You grin. "Took you long enough, Gaeul."
"Hey, it's dark, and I suck at directions, remember?"
Sakura stares at the girl, completely confused. "Wait, why are yo— how did you get here?" Gaeul?"
Gaeul shrugs. "You looked like you needed someone besides him." Then she narrows her eyes at you. "And because he called me at 4am this morning since I couldn't answer his text."
"Ok, snitch."
She rolls her eyes before sitting down on Sakura's other side as naturally. For a few seconds, nobody says anything…because Sakura simply looks between the two of you. Well, look at Gaeul. She is glaring intensely at you, actually.
"You scheming motherfucker." "I'm putting that on my resume."
Gaeul, on the other hand, nudges the still warm canned coffee into the older girl's hand. "You looked sad."
"Thanks." "Someone should bother you to cheer you up."
"Someone did." Sakura side-eyes you. "Dude played the fake boyfriend act. For fucks sake."
Gaeul gasps. "You did? That is so mean! She deserves better."
"Hold up, huh?"
The laughter comes easily after that. Small in a moment, loud in another. Comfortable, even. And then, Sakura's phone vibrates.
Jiyeon:
I heard what happened.
I'm really sorry.
I will tag by every day now, who cares about diet?
You don't even have to talk. I will just make hand sign for you.
Just... don't disappear, please?
Sakura reads the message twice, three times. A tiny smile appears, then a wider one. She lowers her head slightly, hiding the expression behind the rim of the warm coffee can this time. A tear slips free anyway, presumedly happy years. "Looks like touching grass once a year wasn't enough."
You look at Gaeul, then back at Sakura. "Well, good thing you got us to drag you outside now."
"…Heh. I like the sound of that."
Since the memorial began, since the week she shows you the form, heck, since the first day you two met, this is the first time she doesn't argue with you. She simply looks back up at the stars.
And this time, she is not looking at them alone.
-
After the cold winter passes
Until spring comes again
Until the flowers bloom
Stay here a little longer
Stay here a bit more.
-
Painting white is surprisingly difficult.
Ok, it's supposed to be…white, simple, and empty. White can be the blue where shadows settle, the gold where sunlight kisses the petals, the pink where neighbouring branches reflect against one another, the gray beneath overlapping blossoms— ok at this point the complexity of this branch is overwhelming that you are rambling nonsense.
Which explains why you've spent nearly four hours staring at it.
Spring finally arrived.
Outside your apartment, the white cherry blossom tree has completely bloomed.
Unlike your utterly terrible description, the branches that had once carried only snow, now explode into clusters of pale white blossoms, every petal glowing softly beneath the sunlight. A gentle breeze stirs through the neighbourhood, carrying loose petals that dance lazily across the pavement before settling against parked cars and the studio windows.
And your studio window captures quite a perfect frame that you are trying to encapsulate in your canvas. But to be fair, working in a space that consists of scattered paint tubes, dried brushes, empty coffee cups, and enough sketchbooks lathering around, you have made a convincing argument for any reasonable person to tell you to clean it up.
Fortunately, you aren't one. You paint and get paid to be 'friends' for a living.
Anyway, you dab and streak another stroke onto the canvas.
"Too cold." You add another hint of yellow. "Ah fuck, too warm now."
Painting truly is arguing with yourself constantly until both sides are satisfied…or a third party interrupts. In this case, the constant vibration of your phone. You already ignored it before, but it keeps on buzzing. Again and again.
"…What now…" You don't even need to look at the screen to find out that Sakura is annoying you again.
Kkura:
Wyd?
You:
Painting.
Kkura:
Ew. Working.
You:
I will beat you up.
Kkura:
Reported.
You snort.
You:
For?
Kkura:
Harassment.
Pic?
You lift the unfinished canvas just enough to snap a quick photo before sending it. And immediately:
Kkura:
Ugly.
This fucking b—
Kkura:
Jk.
It looks nice.
Should've painted me.
You:
Dafuq why?
Kkura:
Idk, people can't tell the difference between me and the flower anyway.
You mutter the words aloud before bursting out laughing at her antics.
And yes, over the past few months, Sakura slowly returns back to herself again. Nobody truly ever goes back to who they were before grief, but it's close enough — the practical questions about understanding grief have disappeared, and late-night overthinking is less frequent. Instead, your phone gets flooded with messages about absolutely nothing. She'll call just to complain about a ranked teammate. Send you blurry photos of instant noodles. Start an argument over something she made up five seconds earlier. She basically finds new ways to mix with her old antics of being an annoying ass.
Which is comforting.
You'd honestly been worried after the memorial, thinking she would try to distract herself with extra work with Rent-a-friend, the ramen shop, and streaming in a span of multiple days. But no, she is recovering in an unexpected yet healthier way, which soothes your mind.
She finally accepts Gaeul's invites to lunch now instead of making excuses. Trying to talk about her feelings (not all of it, but she decides to be honest about herself) to late-night customers at the shop, whether they listen or not. You'd even caught her chatting with Suhyeon online (pretty sure it was a League of Legend lobby chat. Oh boy.)
Miracles do happen.
Kkura:
By the way, I need you to tag with me next week.
Gaeul is making another instance of shit curry again.
You:
Go suffer yourself.
Kkura:
Fuck you.
Sounds just like your usual conversation with her, indeed — Ok, enough procrastinating, time to set the phone face down, because the cherry blossoms aren't going to paint themselves. Another stroke, another adjustment. Oh hey, the painting is beginning to come together.
Knock knock.
Eh, probably a neighbour, or another package of paints that you may or may not have ordered and forgot that it's coming today.
"Door's open!"
The wooden door slowly swings inward, and you continue to paint without looking up.
"Just leave it by the table—"
You wish you didn't turn your head at all. The sentence dies halfway out of your mouth, and your grip tightens. Why? Why is she here? She shouldn't be here.
Standing just inside your studio, framed by the warm spring sunlight spilling through the open doorway, is someone you haven't seen in a very long time. The long dark hair, the same smiley eyes, the same habit of calmly looking around before speaking, as if making sure she isn't interrupting.
Neither of you says anything.
Outside, a breeze sends another wave of white petals drifting past the open window, and one lands between the two of you. The room suddenly feels much smaller, and your heartbeat is the loudest thing inside it.
This chapter has been in the back of my mind for a while. Genuinely, a very interesting topic to write, but I had such a hard time how to pull it off without making it so depressing. Bet you didn't expect a staff to request a fellow staff for the service heh. After all, we humans are social of social interaction, a friend won't hurt.
Special thank you to @valentinedrifter @toshyun @autumnyacorn for proofreading (Sakura, Jiyeon, and Gaeul are also idols i dont get to write often too lol.)
Well, now that Jiheon has been revealed. You have to wonder, why is she back? Time to wait kek.
AN: Been up for almost a month on FP, finally cross-posting this one. I'll be honest, everything is 100x easier over there, so sorry if things are delayed on Tumblr.
“What exactly are you doing up on the counter like that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“And why exactly are you wearing shoes on there? You do realise we cook in this kitchen?”
Asa lowers her shoulders just a little, but it does so much more than a subtle movement should ever have the power to do. Now isn’t that the understatement that underpins it all. Fine details and mildly-reserved seduction cooked into the drop of a shoulder, the hike of a leg, the tilt of her hips. It’s Asa’s modus operandi, and you’re her favourite victim.
“Not like you ever cook.”
Avoiding the questions. Gaslighting. This woman has a game to play, and you’re part of it. If you were ever unwilling, you would be dragged, kicking and screaming, into it.
You are never unwilling.
"I baked you a cake."
"Yeah, well, I'm a little distracted here."
"What's distracting you?"
"Oh I don't know... Maybe my girlfriend? Up on the counter? Ass in the air and back arched, wearing some little black leather shorts?"
"Just eat the damn cake."
"I'm thinking about it."
"Yeah?" Asa shoots you a sly smile, biting on one of those long black nails in a way that communicates an opening into a mind you're all too familiar with. Devilish looks with a sinful mind - there's always something in there. "Well, I know you're a messy eater; hope you plan on cleaning up once you're finished. There's a lot of cream filling inside."
Yep, that’s something, alright.
She's doing that thing again - tugging on the little invisible string around your heart, forcing it to thump faster. You swallow thickly. You're walking closer, focusing on her lips as she speaks again.
"And, well, it is your birthday..."
Your birthday. You're too distracted by the fact she's pressing her chest to the counter, deepening the arch of her back even further and lying her face against the smooth surface. Her cute cheek squashed against the marble, dark eyelashes fluttering upwards as she looks at you through them. The way she's wiggling her hips slightly, back and forth, in those tight shorts...
"My birthday," you echo her words.
She's sliding her hand over her thigh now, fingertips pressing into the pale skin. She grips, and she squeezes and fuck -
"Mhm," she's smiling, "so you're allowed to have your...cake. Indulge a little. Eat it up."
Those catty eyes are trained on you as she presses her hand further down. You're standing at the counter now, chest heavy and struggling with each breath. A figurative growl from somewhere deep inside you as you catch her wrist, pulling it away from where it's getting dangerously close to her crotch.
"Let me." You tell her, taking in yet another shaky breath. "Let me...enjoy it how I want to."
Her eyes widen with excitement as she pushes her hips back and, fuck, that’s too hot. "That's the spirit, birthday boy. Do what you want."
"You're really the best girlfriend," you begin to tug the shorts from her hips, watching her skin rise with goosebumps as your fingertips brush over her - subtle things. "You know that?"
"Yeah, well." Asa bites her lower lip for a moment before letting it slip free. "I love spoiling you."
You pull the tight fabric over her ass and the soft flesh spills out, plump and fucking perfect.
"Your ass..." You can't help it. You have to grip it. You drag your fingertips across her skin. It's so perfectly smooth and inviting and...
Her throat rumbles with a laugh. "You act like you've never seen it before."
You dive in without thinking, lips immediately pressing to the skin, teeth grazing, tongue sneaking out to get a taste. Her little whimper makes you want more.
"I like it." You tell her against her flesh. You pepper kisses down to her thighs before pulling back. "Every time is like the first time."
"Cringe," she mocks.
"Hey, it's my birthday, remember? You can't be mean to me."
She lifts a brow. You duck your head down again, allowing your teeth to dig into the skin. Her breath hitches. You smile against her, pulling back, watching the way the spot turns a delicate pink colour. You take your time, letting your hands wander her ass, watching the way her flesh reacts. You slide your palm down her thigh, and she rolls her hips, trying to chase the touch.
"Please..." Asa's breathless, her voice filled with want, "just... eat the cake already." Her tone is playful, but there is something about the edge that makes you think she's really trying to hold back. That she wants you more than she's letting on.
"It looks so pretty." Your fingers move, sliding over her bare pussy, just peeking through the gap at the top of her thighs. You prod your fingertips inside, finding her wet already. Of course she is. Then there's the moan.
Asa's moans - you could wax lyrical about them. You could write sonnets and songs and poetry about them. You want to record them sometimes, just so you can listen back whenever you want, but then you remember just how easy it is to elicit new ones. There's always something so playful about them, even when they're low and gravelly. It's like she's laughing a little as she moans, like she's having so much damn fun.
You place a hand on each cheek. Your birthday cake, in all its glory, is laid out on the counter for you. You lean in, dragging your tongue up from her slit and resting your face between those pert little cheeks.
Fuck, she's sweet - sweeter than the cake you're ignoring, and she smells so good. Her whole body just has this way of making you want to bury your face into any part of her that you can and just melt away into her.
You're tasting her sinful little hole, ass pressed back against your face, and her moans are growing louder. You're swirling your tongue against her. Her fingers grip at the edge of the counter, and she's pushing back more and more.
Eating her ass is one of your favourite things in the world. In part because of her reaction, which is always perfect, and partly because of her taste. The way she wriggles and tries to control it and can't help but just give in to the pleasure of it all. You're rock hard already, and your cock is pressing against your pants.
You pull back, taking a moment to grip her cheeks and watch them spread, spitting on her hole, watching the way her body shivers. You press your thumb to it, and it succumbs to the pressure, swallowing it whole.
Her moans are endless, and she's trying to roll her hips, to fuck back against your finger. You work your thumb inside, and she reacts in all those dirty little ways you can never forget. Her whole body is shivering, and it's honestly the hottest thing you've ever seen in your life (and Asa has given you a whole catalogue to choose from).
"Oh my god," her voice is strained, "please, just... My ass... Oh..."
You have to bite back your laugh, simply because you can't help but find her so endearing. Her cheeks are flushed, and you know if you could see her face it would be bright red. Her hair is damp at the temples with sweat. You move your thumb in and out of her slowly.
"Please what, babe?" You ask.
She's burying her face into the marble; it’s a ridiculous thing to try, but this girl is so used to being face down in the bed that muscle memory kicks in when the brain goes to mush. "Don't make me say it."
You use your free hand to smack her ass, just once. She whimpers. "Say it."
"No!" She huffs. There's a moment of silence where you keep fucking her with your thumb. You hear her suck her teeth. Finally, she relents. "Eat my ass and make me cum. Please."
You let out a knowing laugh. "Good girl."
You're not sure what you enjoy more: making her cum or making her beg. You lean in again - another taste. Her back arches beautifully. Your cock is aching. You work your mouth against her over and over.
You press your middle finger against her cunt, sliding it inside with no resistance. She's gripping it as her wetness leaks down your hand. The moans are getting out of control, her body shuddering and jerking. You feel her tighten around your finger.
"Already?" you ask, and she does not like that.
Asa pushes her face up and off the counter, her whole body trembling. "You're just... fucking good."
That makes you grin. You press your finger deeper, curling it in her, and she's practically screeching now, and despite the description, it’s a blessing to hear. You keep your mouth buried against her asshole, fucking her with your finger, picking up speed. Your cock is straining in your pants, your balls aching. You can't wait to slide your dick into her, which is utterly relatable.
"Oh my god," she's panting hard, her fingers straining where she grips the counter, "oh my god, oh my god... Yes, right there, right fucking there! Don't stop, don't stop..."
It's when she starts cumming that you start lapping up all the cream, sucking her into your mouth. Her pussy is pulsing around your finger. You hear her hit the counter with a dull thud, and it's followed by her hitting her open palm against it repeatedly.
"So good," her voice is a breathy whine, "so, so good."
You keep moving your finger inside her until the fluttering stops, her whole body relaxing into the counter. You pull back and look at the mess you've made. A sheen of sweat on her skin. Her cheeks red from the way you've so roughly spread them.
"Happy birthday to me," you say, as you unbutton your pants.
There's a little chuckle from Asa. She turns her head, her eyes slightly glazed. "That good, huh?"
"You have no idea," you take your cock out, sighing with relief, "can't wait to sink into you."
ive x le sserafim x m!reader
26.5k words
fanprose
(thank you to @bunnsfw for the book cover & @xantithesis for beta reading!)
—————
You stopped fearing death the moment you understood it.
You imagined how it would end a number of ways: getting struck by a drunk driver or a hit and run by some rich asshole late one night, maybe they're one and the same. Or your liver giving up after one too many shots after work, and you'd be found lying on the sidewalk, drowning in a pool of your own piss. Maybe you'd just get hit by a stray brick landing on your head because life is unpredictable like that.
You'd given up on a quiet, peaceful rest in some hospital bed in your old age a long time ago. You just didn't think you'd go out like this: becoming ground zero for an asteroid.
It was the last thing your mind. It was the last thing on everyone's mind.
The announcement came suddenly about two weeks ago; all programming was interrupted to give way for the President's public address. 15-20 meters in diameter, he said. Somewhere in the Korean Peninsula is where it'll land, scientists claimed. Blast radius, tsunami heights—the rest was scientific jargon you gave zero fucks or had any knowledge about. Most, if not all of Asia will be scourged. Casualties in the hundreds of millions, if not outright billions. Changes in climate lasting centuries. Effects on the world at large: significant.
They said it like you were just a statistic and not a living breathing human being. This was the extinction-level event the wealthy elite dreamed of. This is what Roland Emmerich was creaming his pants making movies about.
You followed the first few hours with piqued interest. Watched men in lab coats explain science and computer models on TV like you were in fifth grade again. Then came the politicians who said nothing, the religious figures—both the earnest ones and the charlatans alike—calling for prayer, for repentance, for something, anything, as if God was waiting for a sufficient number of people to say sorry before deciding to take His chosen up to heaven or redirect a six hundred meter rock out of Earth's orbit.
Within 48 hours, the networks stopped bothering with experts. There was nothing left to explain, really; the maths were clear and concise. No amount of science can change the fact that a quarter of the world's population was gonna be vaporized, bare minimum, and a third of the earth was gonna be rendered uninhabitable. The only variable left was how those people would spend their final hours.
This isn't a world where superheroes fall from the sky and save people, nor is it one where Mars is one readily accessible Elon Musk spaceship away. This is real life: cold and cruel, but it’s the world you live in. Sometimes the powers that be hear your prayers, but more often than not, it doesn’t respond. And regardless of what happens, whether you live or die, life goes on. In the future, you'll just be an afterthought lost to time. People will remember the meteor, but not you.
There's no point in fighting. No point in living for tomorrow.
—————
You walk out into the streets of Seoul like it's just another Tuesday.
72 hours till the meteor hits. Less than. With each second, it approaches ever closer. Slowly. Surely. An inevitability.
The networks added a doomsday clock counting down the hours in real-time. Regular programming continues with the occasional meaningless update, but otherwise, life goes on like normal. At least as normal as it can possibly be during a situation like this.
If it weren't for a big rock shadowing high up in the clouds, you'd think there was some kind of political upheaval—a revolution. Except no; the government has all but given up. They're secure in some underground bunker somewhere, watching, saving their own asses, offering false pretenses to people that are left to their own devices. Most of them at least. They'll wake up to a world without their own blood, a culture mostly scorched by fire and ash, and they'll forget this nation ever existed.
To say that it's loud would be an understatement. Going to the subway station is akin to moving through war-torn trenches.
Smoke permeates through the streets, never fading and constantly unsavory smelling. Stores are either broken through or falling apart. Men in masks rob some poor guy's furniture store to take out a sofa from his shop and set it ablaze in the center. Society has ripped off the band-aid and torn up the social contract. Not to mention the relentless cries of religious men in the corners with their signs calling to repent. It makes the meteor seem like an afterthought.
"Repent!" The preacher yells out as you walk past him on the walkway. "The Kingdom of God is at hand! The Lord will judge the living and the dead!"
You wonder whether the meteor has given him permission to be like this, or he just hangs around here all the time. You can’t quite tell the difference.
Through all this, the subway remains operational. People still have places to go, somewhere to be, even if they are only the few sane ones left.
The train cars are mostly empty, so much so you can pick whichever seat you want and there would be no objections. A young couple hold each other's hands till their knuckles turn pale white. An elderly woman lugs around a suitcase staring blankly at the floor like she's trying to memorize its pattern. You wonder if you've seen these people before; you wonder if they imagined this is how their lives would end. The thought lingers for only a moment before you put your headphones on and listen to music as the tunnels blur past.
It's amazing, really, how death makes time feel more invaluable. When you're alive and free and have nothing to worry other than overdue bills and expenses, it's easy to forget how quickly it can pass you by, how seasons change, because it's always there. And when it's suddenly cut short, when life expectancy goes from 65 all the way down to 25—you begin to realize how much of it you're wasting away on things that ultimately don't matter.
For one, you haven't called your family in months. They're still texting every now and then, asking how's the experience in Korea, but you haven't responded to any of them other than an emoji here and there. Then there's your friends you've met online; gaming sessions that once took you into the break of dawn hardly last longer than an hour now. And your circle is slowly breaking apart too; relationships, parenthood, career opportunities, war—
Growing up is realizing how lonely it gets in the world. How you're only surviving, not living. They always tell you to work hard, but now it feels pointless. A big rock is about to undo your entire existence—and like 70% of the world's history and culture.
Still, you soldier on. Because this is the only thing you know, and there's comfort in familiarity.
The building looks the same as it always is: gray and dull and in dire need of renovation. The security guard's still there, barely looking up to watch you swipe your badge and nodding.
"Still coming in today?" he asks absentmindedly, returning to his phone, watching some K-drama on his screen. Behind him is a small TV tuned to the news, doomsday clock counting down the time: 71 hours, 54 minutes, 12 seconds. Eleven. Ten.
"Someone has to," you say, which isn't really an answer.
"I guess," he replies, flippantly, shrugging. As you're about to enter the building, he then continues. "My wife wants me to come home. Says we should be together. For the end, you know."
You nod; there's nothing else you can say or do. You hardly talked to this man, other than 'Good morning' and 'See you, take care.' Never asked about his personal life—never knew he even had a wife until now—and it's too late to start.
"So, will you be going home to her?"
"Probably. I don't know." He says it with a lackadaisical demeanor while watching the show, making you question why he randomly brought it up to begin with.
Nevertheless, you continue and walk to the elevator.
On the 17th floor, the office is almost deserted. A place housing 24 employees, there's only three today, you excluded. Your boss is at his desk by the window overlooking the Han River, answering phone calls like always. He catches you mid call, gestures with his hand, silently mouthing 'one minute' before finishing his conversation over the line and hanging up.
He then motions to the unoccupied chair in front of him. "Take a seat." So you oblige.
His laptop has the doomsday ticker too: 71 hours, 49 minutes, 28 seconds now. 27. 26. End of the world aside, your boss looks tired. Not the topical acceptance that everything is meaningless and ash and rubble, but more ‘I haven't slept in three days and been making calls that won't change anything’ tired. His tie is loose around the collar; his hair looks grayer than usual. Maybe you haven't been paying this much attention to him.
"You're here," he remarks straight to the point.
"You say it like it's surprising," is your reply, knowing you haven't missed a day since Christmas. Never took a sick leave or paid time off so far in the year. Stayed several overtimes per week too. One of his strongest soldiers, as they would say.
"It is." He then switches tabs on his laptop, now flashing his GMail. "You're one of four people who showed up today. I had 52 employees. Now it's just" —he gestures at the empty desks— "this."
You don't blame anyone; none of this is important in the face of a giant rock headed towards your humble first world country.
"Life goes on," you tell him, shrugging, nonchalant.
"Does it?" he asks, but neither of you really know the answer to that. Nobody does.
He taps his fingers on the keyboard. Mutters something beneath his breath. A prayer, perhaps, followed by a deep, heavy sigh. Adjusting his glasses, he faces you again: "Thank you," he adds, and it sounds genuinely sincere. "for being here. For showing up. I don't know. It's more than what most people are doing."
"It's—just a job," you answer, because there's really no reason for this to be theatrical or melodramatic. Not like he promised you an overdue promotion a year ago or anything.
"It's not. Not anymore," he insists, shaking his head. "But thank you anyway."
After a pause, a moment of awkward silence where your gaze just wanders around, you ask if you can head to your desk, and he lets you go.
There's still work to do. There's always work to do.
Your office is no larger than a closet, but it's yours. It's a lot bigger when the place feels more quiet than usual. Even tapping your feet seems to produce an echo off the thin walls. And speaking of, one half is plastered with sticky notes, of passwords you should have memorized, of memos and tasks you've completed ages ago. A graduation photo of you with your parents sits in the corner collecting dust, as well as a calendar on the other end you haven't bothered changing in two years.
Then there's the right side of your desk, your mini-shrine of sorts. It started out small and innocuous, like all other interests: a hit song that always played in the streets, a fancam that caught your eye during one of your breaks. Not long after, you fell down the rabbit hole. She was the it-girl of Korea; her face was inescapable no matter where you looked. Billboards, banners, posters—every brand she modeled for was like an endorsement from the heavens itself. Meanwhile her leader was a charismatic performer who had a fun side to her.
It grew beyond those two. It became twelve. You learned they were groupmates with another dynamic pairing: one whose cute face had a duality of being both sweet and lethal. The other was the steady presence and industry veteran who had her moments of quirkiness. These two pairs became the backbone of their own respective groups. But once upon a time, they were sisters-in-arms. Members who grew under their own leader, their mother figure.
Then came the rest: a pretty face who always tried her best even though she never wanted to be an idol. A ball of charm that can do anything and would light up the room with her energy. A dancer who pushed herself no matter how difficult it got. A gorgeous actress who knew this was her one and only group. A tiny pocket of sunshine who still kept close with the others every chance she got. A leader took a second chance in Korea when she could have thrived just as much in Japan. And finally, a soulful voice and actress whom the world cried for when she tragically met her demise and broke the hearts of millions.
Each of them became successful, no matter what path they took, but together, they were something magical. These days, they’re just a memory, kept in music, performances, fandom nostalgia, and on the photos plastered on your wall. They haven't released anything new in years. Quietly withdrew from the public eye once they reached 30, or in the case of some, 35. You hope they're fine, wherever they are. After all, the news did say select individuals were being evacuated outside of the President and high-ranking government officials. Culture and history has to be preserved, if that’ll even be a thing.
Death makes you think about a lot of things. Regret mostly. But there's one thing that will bother you the most: the fact that you never saw them together. Live. In-person. Everything else can come second place.
You can only sigh and touch one of the photos—one of their last shots taken as twelve—before turning to your computer and answering emails.
—————
Today's workload is heavier than yesterday's. Not surprising, given what should have been done by a team of around 52 is now being shared by just four people. No one complains, not even you; there's no use when this all is meaningless in two days, anyway.
You process invoices. Update spreadsheets. Spam follow-up emails to clients whose faces you never see and who will never read them. You answer phone calls from people with the exact same sound of surprise that someone actually picked up. 'Business as usual,' you'll say, even during the end of the world, then get to inquiring about orders that will never ship and deliveries that will never arrive.
Rinse and repeat. You've never been more aware of the time, but it truly flies when you're preoccupied with work.
During lunch, you watch a rerun of a film being aired on the TV in the break room. Armageddon because apparently SBS has a dark sense of humor. You're biting down on some dry bread on a tuna sandwich, shaking your head remembering that one bit of Ben Affleck commentary about how it's easier for oil-drillers to become astronauts than to teach astronauts how to drill. That and the movie itself is so bad it's a guilty pleasure.
Here's the situation now: around 60 or so hours before the meteor hits. You're watching a movie about this exact situation play out, except death is instantaneous, there will be less explosions than what's on screen, and Bruce Willis isn’t going to save you.
It's absurd. Life is fucking absurd.
—————
The rest of your shift goes by unceremoniously. Your boss leaves at four, shakes your hand and tells you to take care with a sound that's more resigned to the inevitable than actual reassurances. The other employees begin filing out too, quietly taking their belongings before exiting.
Now you’re left alone again. You can't help but sigh.
Not the one that screams ‘fuck, the world is really ending’ and more akin to your body crying out in anguish after another day at work. The kind where you just want to lie down once you get home, stare at the ceiling, and think about where it all wrong. Probably the moment you wanted to go to Korea; you've come to this conclusion a long time ago.
And maybe that's the real absurdity: the world is ending and you're sighing like it's another Tuesday and you’re caught up during rush hour.
People are out in the streets, doing whatever the fuck they want because nothing will matter soon. Meanwhile you're still here behind these four walls, trying to cling to the last traces of normality because you don't know what life feels like without having to follow a pattern. In your eyes, life is about structure and control, not chaos and spontaneity. A meteor heading for earth is the complete opposite of that worldview.
Before leaving, you take one more glance at your makeshift shrine. Your collection of photocards pinned to the wall from different eras and groups. Your gaze snags on that one picture of them as twelve, and you look at them with a longing that feels too personal. Like they're within reach.
I hope you're okay. Wherever you are, you’re praying mentally. It's hard to find faith when everything around you is collapsing.
You grab your bag, and for whatever reason, you remove the photo from the wall, pocket it in your coat, and head off. Outside, the entrance is desolate; the guard's phone is plugged into the charger, but he's nowhere to be found. You shrug as you walk into the streets, putting on your headphones; it’s your only shield from the violence, noise, and anarchy of it all.
In the distance, the sun begins to set. It might be your last.
The train stops somewhere between Hongdae and Sinchon. Not gently, not a gradual slowing when the operator's being cautious, but rather a sudden lurch, one that almost makes the standing passengers tilt forward and crash onto the floor.
Delays, when they happen, come few and far between. Usually a door that won't close, a person on the track, sometimes construction or renovation of railroads. These days, however, the conductor says the same thing:
"Attention passengers. Due to civil unrest and blockages on the tracks ahead, this train will proceed no further. All passengers are advised to exit the station and seek alternative transportation. Thank you and we apologize for the inconvenience."
Civil unrest sounds like an understatement for what's basically Korea's adaptation of The Purge. You've had stones and other random objects chucked on the train windows before. You've seen rioters overpower walls of riot shields and toppling police cars. It's only by divine intervention, you conclude, that you haven't been touched by any one of these maniacs.
Still, no one complains. People simply grab their belongings and keep moving.
Getting off the platform is its own chaos. The boring kind. Loud and all over the place, but no bodies are being thrown around, and no one is in serious danger. A reminder that you're not alone in this, that even on the cusp of death, life goes on as normal.
Outside the station is a big glaring reminder that some men just want to watch the world burn. Across the street, a convenience store has its windows shattered, groups of thieves running off with whatever food and other supplies they can carry, a fire hydrant with its covers exposed and water endlessly bursting, a car that's upside down and set ablaze because why the fuck not, and the garage wall of some building with the words B.B.S spray painted in what might as well be someone’s blood. Sirens are blasting loudly; you can't tell whether that's police or an ambulance.
You step over a broken umbrella and head the other way.
Your apartment is only 20 minutes from here, maybe less if you take the back alleys. You could walk home in time to catch the evening news. Maybe call up your parents and finally answer back when it's too late. There's also that bottle of wine you've been saving for a special occasion, and there's no better time to open it than now.
Instead, you stride over to the taxi stand, right as an elderly couple climbs into the cab while the cabbie packs their luggage inside the boot. Queuing is nonexistent and the turnaround is quick; the next car pulls up as soon as the last one drives off.
You've got nothing but a sling bag with you. Stepping into the backseat, you give the driver an address you haven't said out loud in years:
"HYBE building, Yongsan district."
Over the rearview mirror, the man's eyes furrow behind his glasses. His hair is thin and gray. His lips quirk; it's the look of a man who's seen some shit. Definitely in his sixties.
"Are you sure? It's a long way from here. Traffic's bad. Everything is."
"I'm sure," you insist, looking out the window in time to see two masked men beating on some random guy just inches away from your cab. You should feel something—empathy, maybe—but instead, you lean back in your seat and yawn.
The driver shrugs. It's a gesture you're starting to recognize as the universal response to the end of the world. The car revs and pulls away from the curb.
En route to the destination, the streets are clogged with abandoned cars, people walking in the middle of the road, makeshift barricades, overturned trash cans, and piles of burning debris. Probably ran over plenty of dead things, too. Nevertheless, the driver maneuvers around them all with the efficiency and calmness of someone who has been through some shit, worthy of every 5-star review on Über while cursing beneath his breath every time someone jumps in front of the car.
On the right side of the road, a church can be seen with its lights on. A congregation of people assemble as far as outside the entrance doors, singing a worship hymn, their voices raised to the heavens above. They're singing something about being lost and then found. You can hear their collective praise even through the music playing in the car.
"Crazy times," the driver remarks, not directly to you, but to this: the chaos in the streets, the situation above, the world you're currently living in. "I've been driving this road for 15 years. Never seen anything like it."
"Me neither," you say, looking out the window, past the church and seeing a fresh thick layer of smoke rising in the distance.
"Where are you from?" he then asks. "Originally, I mean."
You pause. Your eyes widen. Then you answer, "Seoul. Moved from Europe around three years ago. Been on a work visa."
"Ah," the driver nods, looking at you through the rearview mirror. "I was born and raised here. I bet your parents must be proud that you work here in Korea, then."
"I don't know about proud," you answer, shaking your head, chuckling, but there's a tinge of underlying bitterness in your tone. "They did help me get here, so I can't really say much."
"Right, right." He nods again, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel as the car stops at a red light. "You know my whole family's here. My wife, my two kids, my mother—she's 83, can you believe it? 83 years old, and this is how she's gonna go. Not in her sleep, not in a hospital. A big fucking rock from space."
He says it like he's still trying to make sense of the fact. Like if he repeats it enough times the absurdity will wear off and something else will take its place. Acceptance or peace, maybe. You're not sure whether those things exist anymore.
"Yeah, well" —you mutter, scratching the back of your ear, stifling a laugh because you can't really comprehend it either— "I didn't think I'd go out like this too. None of us did. But it really do be like that, sometimes."
"What it be?" he snorts, sarcastic, a bit peeved (an understatement). "That we're left to die on our own while our leaders are tucked away safe and sound?"
The mood inside the car changes instantly. The driver goes quiet as he weaves around an abandoned delivery truck occupying two lanes. Then he continues talking. "Those people—the ones who ran—they're the real cowards. The politicians, the CEOs, the celebrities with their private jets and personal escorts. They're no better than us; only richer."
The photo in your coat feels a little heavier now.
"BTS left, you know that?" he continues, charged with an anger that's genuine, the kind that's been building for days: "They were on the list. Special transport, same as the president's cabinet. Within 48 hours of the announcement. Packed-up and gone. Jimin, Jungkook, all of them. Cowards."
"They're just people," you say, casual, understanding but seeing the world for what it is. "like everyone else."
"Famous people," he corrects. "They could have stayed. Could have—I don't know—said something." He shakes his head, clearly fuming at the idea. "But no. They're on a plane to go wait it out with the rest of the wealthy elite and would rather watch us all die. Meanwhile Son Heung-min—you know who Son is, right?"
Of course you do. Can't talk about football in this country without his name being among the first mentioned, if not outright. Even more than Mbappe or Lamal, hell, even Messi or Ronaldo.
"He was offered a spot. You know what he said? He said no. Said he'd rather die with his people." The driver's voice cracks slightly before returning to normal. "Now that's a man. That's someone who understands what it means to be a Korean."
And to be honest, you don't know how to react. You've accepted this for a long time, even without all the nutjob conspiracy theorists spazzing about it: the government and wealthy elite have a place of their own. Now they can rule the world without the guilt of having blood spilled by their own hands thanks to nature's call.
"So HYBE," he then says, while you're deep in thought. "Why there? You a fan of someone? My daughter's a big ILLIT fan."
You don’t answer; you don't know why exactly, either. There's a couple of groups you liked, and maybe you wanted to give them one final visit, maybe get some signatures that won't mean anything soon. That's if they're still even there, if the place is still functional. Given that company and BTS, with their connections to the government, it wouldn't surprise you if all their artists made it on the list for safe passage. But seeing as the lights are still on as the building is in sight—
"I don't know," is your eventual response. Even if you actually knew the reason, you would have said this anyway. "I just felt like going. Wanting to visit places before I go. I mean—we go."
The driver shrugs again. Doesn't press on any further. "Fair enough."
The cab pulls up to the front entrance of HYBE headquarters. Taller than you previously saw it, or maybe it's just reality warping itself the closer you get to the end. As expected, the front is empty and desolate; no security guards keeping watch, but the lights are on as night begins to fall. Peeking from outside, there's hardly any activity going on inside either. It's a miracle the rioters haven't burned this place to the ground yet.
"That'll be 22,000₩," the driver remarks, putting the car in park and looking over his shoulder. "On the house, though. Consider it a going away present."
You pay the fare anyway. Add in a few thousand more as a tip, because Lord knows he's gonna need it should he miraculously live past tomorrow.
Climbing out of the car, the streets here are calmer, peaceful. The air is cooler, less smog and fire. Most of the nearby stores are closed, and in the distance, the Namsan Tower still broadcasts its light show to an audience that's mostly stopped watching.
"You need me to wait?" the driver suddenly asks, drawing your attention. "Might be hard to find another cab out here."
A second scan beyond the glass doors shows you nothing. What once was a living hub for one of the biggest music labels now feels like a desolate paradise. The lights are on but nobody's home.
"No," you tell him. "Think I'll be here for a while."
He doesn't say another word. He quietly drives off, the screech of tires and hum of an engine echoing in your ears being the last thing you hear before the car disappears around the corner and you're left on your own again.
Stepping past the front doors, the entrance is completely unguarded. No security guards either, no sudden ambush out of nowhere. Cameras are everywhere—if they're still even functioning—but this place has seen stranger things walk through its walls.
The lobby is no better, completely silent and spotless, like the building is holding its breath. No receptionist waits at the front desk; not a soul roaming the halls. Every step you take echoes, bounces off the walls like roaring thunder. If it weren't for an impeding rock, you'd think the rapture already happened and everyone was taken up. A large screen on the far wall plays a loop of music videos and performances from their artist roster; Le sserafim is currently on screen. All five, present and accounted for. It's a reminder of good old days, a time period that you now take for granted.
For the first time in forever, you can't help but smile.
But watching them has you thinking, until curiosity gets the better of you. It's what led you here to begin with. Might as well capitalize on the opportunity.
So you help yourself to one of the many unused ID cards behind the front desk and step into an elevator.
Your first instinct is to go to the 12th floor. The dance studio looked so familiar you could sketch it out with your thoughts, the same room where they perfected their craft and shared laughs, tears, and everything in between. It used to be solely theirs, but you've seen your fair share of labelmates and even their juniors take up shop every now and then. Maybe this is the delusion talking, or simply nostalgia. Whatever it is, it's leading to doing things you've never thought about doing until now.
Maybe this is just coping with the fact you're dying soon, and you've got a laundry list of things you want to do, but never found the time or opportunity to. After all, you lost your spirit and youth a long time ago and never really found it again. Part of it, you believe, is hiding in here somewhere.
But as you tread carefully upon the halls, you hear something faint. Music. Thumping. Beating, like a heart that keeps going after everything. You take note of this. Close your eyes and feel it through your ears, tracing its source. It's leading you to a narrow corridor, the bass growing louder and louder, until it retreats behind a door with a sheet of paper that simply says FIMMIES written in all capitals.
The paper looks like it's seen everything too. Clearly worn around the edges, the ink looks faded. Behind the door, the music thumps past the walls and echoes. For a moment, you wonder what could have been: standing in the crowd, cheering, waving your lightstick, singing their songs out and repeating the fanchants—
That's never gonna happen now. Only in your wildest of dreams.
But the music keeps going. Perfect Night plays in the background, and as you reach for the knob, you hesitate. Probably staff or a janitor cleaning whatever's left. Doesn't matter; the world is fucking ending. You've come this far to turn back now.
So you slowly open the door. The echo of its creak goes unnoticed. You peek your head and your eyes widen in complete shock.
They're here. In casual clothes, still practicing, still giving it a hundred percent. But it doesn't feel the same as it was. You see it in the mirrors, the way their smiles look hollow and forced, the way Eunchae is a step behind the others. Even with an audience composed of just themselves, they're trying, because they know they won't ever perform to a crowd ever again.
Yunjin breaks formation and pauses the song on the phone. She looks at her members with a soft, bittersweet smile. "Alright. We did great. Ten minutes."
Eunchae immediately falls to the ground playfully before sitting down. Kazuha reaches for her water bottle, drinking while stretching her leg like the graceful ballerina she is, posture perfect. There's hardly any makeup on their faces, if at all; just their natural, raw selves. It's not that far off from what you've seen of them on screen.
Then Yunjin's gaze finds you and snags. You're still a stranger wandering around a building you have no business being in. But there's no fear behind her eyes; only a look of surprise and confusion.
"Hi," she says simply. The others turn around to face you as well. "Are you lost?"
Gulp your throat. Open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You cling to the door like a harness, tighter when the members approach you. They don't look scared at all. You expect them to call security, seize you and hold you hostage until they arrive. Kazuha especially; she looks like she can straight up beat the shit out of you.
None of that. They maintain a careful distance, even as you remain silent. Yunjin gestures with her hands. "Go on. We won't hurt you."
For a moment, you continue to stay quiet. Eventually, you manage to speak: "No, no. I'm in the right place." Your eyes wander around the room, at the lights, at the mirrors, at your reflection, "Front door was open, so—"
You flash the ID card that you took as proof. Kazuha tilts her head, assessing you and the item. She's wearing a simple grey top and some joggers, her hair tied in a ponytail. Seeing her up close, you can see how toned her arms are. That she can, in fact, beat the living shit out of you.
Eunchae laughs. It's a small sound, almost involuntary, like a hiccup. "Security's been gone for days. We're surprised the power's still on."
She says it like it's an everyday occurence. That people have come and gone here like it's part of their pilgrimage.
Your head is sticking out a bit wider now. Your grip on the door has loosened, but you're unsure whether you're allowed to step foot inside or not. The practice room is larger than what you've been allowed to see. Going from one point to the opposite side is about as long as an Olympic swimming pool.
"Well come on in," Yunjin says. "We were just about to have dinner."
The next ten minutes or so is a quick round of catch-up. Seated in a small circle inside the practice room like friends reconnecting.
You bring them up to speed on how you got here. The details remain mostly the same (still the same day, after all) but you keep the intimate parts unspoken. You say you're a fan (like everyone else, but genuinely), that you felt like visiting because the world is ending, as you do during such a time. That seeing them live was on your list, but that's never happening anytime soon.
You don't ask much about themselves; you've known their careers, their story, their legacy. Instead, you ask them why. Why are they here. Why are they spending their last days practicing together instead of being home with their families, maybe even finding a way to get to safety.
"We were supposed to go," Yunjin says. "Bang promised us safe passage. Not just us, as in" —she gestures to her members— "but all of HYBE. Said we were like family to him, and that we'd be taken care of."
"But—"
"He didn't," Kazuha sharply cuts in. She sounds flat and dour, like she's stopped fighting and has conceded to her fate. "He took himself and his family and BTS. That's it. The rest of us, we found out the day after. No warning, no explanation. Just—"
She shrugs. Her eyes glaze down to the floor. "Gone. Without a care."
Eunchae, who's been listening and quiet the entire time, adds: "We could have fought it. Gone to the media, made a scene. But what's the point? There's not enough room for everyone. Someone was always going to be left behind."
Your mind recalls what the cab driver said. That the wealthy elite will do anything to save themselves, even if it means throwing trusted confidants under the bus. Nothing new there, but it's nice to have some confirmation. At the end of the day, it's about survival. Nothing personal.
"Then that means," you then say. "the other groups—"
"Not part of that list," Yunjin finishes your sentence. "They all left to be with their families or together. We're the only ones still here, I think."
"In fact, this was supposed to be our last day together," Eunchae chimes in. "We just wanted to practice one more time before we parted ways for good to remember the good times."
"Yeah," Kazuha affirms. "Yunjin's supposed to be flying back to New York tomorrow morning. I'm going back to Amsterdam. And Eunchae's—"
"Gonna have a sleepover with Kyujin and Leeseo," Eunchae completes her member's sentence. She's smiling from ear to ear. You almost forget she's still relatively young compared to the rest.
If there's anything you'll give the end of the world for, it's bringing people together and reconciling. You can't imagine how it feels for these girls, having spent most of their youth and adulthood training, performing, bearing the brunt of needlessly cruel online hate without their loved ones close to them. They'd be lucky if their tours happen to have a stop close to home. But like all other things, none of that matters when everything is destroyed by fire and ash.
"What about you?" Yunjin then asks, turning the question back. "What are you doing?"
To be quite honest, you're not sure. You've resigned yourself to an unceremonious death a long time ago: all alone, no regrets. Mostly. You're not going home to your parents. You sure as hell aren’t hanging out with any of your co-workers, especially your boss. And you definitely aren't gonna make it to those underground bunkers either.
"I don't know.” You've got your hands in the pocket of your pants, unable to face them. "Probably drink. A lot. I've got a bottle of champagne at my place that I haven't opened, and now seems like the perfect time to whip it out."
No one says a word. They simply nod with an understanding that says yes, that's your life, and we're not gonna stop you.
As your hand touches the pocket of your coat, you remember something. When you watched their performances on the large screen downstairs, something felt off, and this was exactly why. The reason you actually came here. Somehow, it never crossed your mind until now. You fish the photocard out of your pocket and show it to them. They lean forward, squinting their eyes at the photo. All three women have a visceral reaction upon recognizing the faces on it.
Yunjin gasps. "Wait. This is—"
"Yeah." You're nodding. "I remember now. Why I came here. Because of them. Because of you."
"But—Chaewon and Kkura" —Eunchae interjects— "they're—"
"They're not that far."
There's this newfound conviction propelling you. Maybe it's because of the people in your photo giving you the drive. Maybe it's just the late kick of adrenaline knowing your time is near, and you're not ready to fall just yet.
"I'm a Fearnot, that's true," you continue. "But I loved them first. I learned to accept you because of them. And even when you're apart, no matter how far, you're still family. That's what they taught me."
The three girls exchange looks. They're really thinking this through. Hope—maybe. Insanity—definitely.
"Yeah, but" —Kazuha says now— "We don't know—this sounds crazy. Maybe they just want to be—"
"But they also want to see us too. I'm sure of it."
Eunchae shoots you a confused wide eyed stare, her head tilted and arms folded. "Where do we start though?"
You glance at her and remember what she said. Sleepover. The idea immediately bubbles to the surface.
"Starship," you blurt out before you even think about saying it.
"What?"
"Starship. We should go to the Starship building. Maybe they're still there, having something similar to this. A swan song, if you will." You're smiling as you suggest the notion, because not even the end of the world can keep you from making stupid jokes.
It doesn't register at first. Not immediately. But with Eunchae, the implication clicks not long after:
"Leeseo. You're right.”
"Good idea," Kazuha adds. "I should say goodbye to Rei before I leave Korea. Maybe she'll leave too."
"Alright. Looks like everyone's decided," Yunjin says, having taken up de-facto leadership on behalf of the group. "We're going to the Starship building."
But right when you're about to head off—Kazuha's putting on her jacket, Yunjin unplugging her phone—you also remember you came here on a cab. And the driver that took you is long gone.
"Wait," you suddenly tell them as you're approaching the door. "I don't have a car."
"No worries," Yunjin immediately answers. "I can drive. Took the girls here too. We'll take my car. Surely the streets aren't this bad tonight."
Leaving the HYBE building is a quick, mechanical affair. Turns out people still look after the place; you find a janitor sweeping the floors as you make your way back to the elevator. Looking out the window it's clearly nighttime, with an hour having passed since you came in. Yunjin says they haven't seen a receptionist in three days, nor have they seen any security guard either. When you ask how they can defend themselves, they tap tiny pepper spray canisters latched to their pockets and joke about hiding behind Kazuha when push comes to shove. She scoffs at it, obviously, but the jabs are light and playful. As you reach the basement parking lot, they tell you that Yongsan was one of the more secure places when the riots and chaos happened after the initial announcement, which is why the building was left mostly untouched.
Emphasis on mostly because there's those three letters again etched with spray paint on the side of some abandoned Mercedes. B.B.S. Some kind of doomsday cult, you assume.
You walk past it and to something more conventional, a Hyundai crossover. Yunjin says she borrowed it from her grandmother, that she didn't expect her demise to be from a giant rock too. You take the backseat behind the driver, Kazuha in the passenger side, Eunchae right beside you, and Yunjin in the driver's seat herself.
"Parking's free for employees," she remarks as the engine roars to life. "But I doubt that matters. They smashed up the boom barrier."
That activates the neuron in your brain. It's reflecting on the smirk in the rearview mirror.
"Don't tell me you joined the riots too—"
"Nope. Of course not." You're shaking your head, eyes shut, trying so hard to stifle your laugh as the car sets off. Parking is expensive at your workplace, which prompted that reaction. It's good old-fashioned karma.
—————
Turns out Yunjin was right: the streets are pretty calm in Yongsan.
Traffic is nonexistent. Hardly any sign of rampage or destruction. For the most part, the chaos was well-contained. You can chalk it up to Chairman Bang and his connections to the government, though, given the number of destroyed riot shields and batons sprawled all over the sidewalks and roads. You see it as one more act of defiance before they knew it was a losing battle and instead of surrendering, they chose to flee.
Can't blame him. If you were the head of a multi-billion dollar enterprise and in charge of the biggest boy group ever, you'd do the same.
But back to the here and now: Yunjin navigates the streets like a veteran, like she's traveled this road over and over. You're accustomed to seeing idols in the passenger seats, being escorted between schedules that driving should be the last thing on their mind. Sometimes you forget they can drive cars too, some even getting behind the wheel of supercars like any other A-lister.
"So," you start, breaking the silence inside the vehicle. No music, unlike in the practice room, and both Kazuha and Eunchae are staring out their sides of the window, deep in thought, tired to engage in conversation. "How'd you learn how to drive?"
You see it in the rearview mirror, the way her eyes suddenly glint, how she swallows her throat. The way she suddenly struggles to focus on the road. Yet she carries on.
"I learned because of Chaewon," she says, as the car blurs past an orange light turning red. "She would drive us during our days-off. She said she liked being in control. Said it made her feel safe."
Mid-conversation, you feel a tug on your hand. Eunchae's placing hers atop yours. You allow it.
"I promised myself I'd learn how to drive," Yunjin continues, her eyes now twinkling with unshed tears. "I wanted to drive her around too, so I could take care of her the same way she did for us. But when I finally got my license, it was too late."
The city blurs past. It looks different now in the dark. Streetlamps blend in with the fires burning in the distance, while smoke camouflages perfectly in the night. A few cars here, some people on the sidewalk there, a handful of stores still open, the dying breaths of a city soon to be erased off the map. A woman walks her dog. A homeless man sits on a stoop, smoking. A couple kissing against a wall, bodies pressed together like they're trying to become one before the end.
"Chaewon would have fought to be here," she adds. She's openly crying now, tears falling down her face. "She would have—"
Yunjin stops. Swallows. You see her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, turning pale white. Ultimately, she shakes her head and sighs.
"Sakura too. They would have stayed. They would have never left us behind."
You've seen how they cared for each other through thick and thin, in documentaries and in behind the scenes content. You see it in the faces of the girls too: Kazuha's stoic demeanor cracking slightly in the window's reflection, her lips quivering a tad. The way Eunchae holds your hand a little bit tighter. So you remain silent and quietly nod, because there's nothing left to say.
As the road ahead unspools, the drive has shifted into something tensely still. Yunjin's focused on navigating a place she isn't quite familiar with, and the others are too exhausted to speak. Here in Gangnam, the carnage is just as contained as in the Yongsan District, but the atmosphere is no less somber and melancholic. The clubs are closed. There's hardly any people out in the streets. No cause for celebration, no drinking and being merry for the end, not even for the most cynical or nihilistic.
Something catches your eye in the rearview mirror: not from outside, but a reflection that doesn't belong. There's two of you in the backseat—you and Eunchae—but the faces aren't either of yours. They're just the lower halves; no eyes, no noses, just features without an upper half to connect them. But they're so deeply ingrained into your head, you know who they belong to.
Those plump, pouty lips. The bob cut. The hint of pointy ears. The traces of pink hair. They can't be any more obvious.
Your heart catches. You blink, wipe your eyes, and the next second, they're gone. It's only you, your tired face staring back in the mirror again.
Eunchae notices. "You okay?" she asks. Her eyes widen with a concern that's almost childlike. For a second, you almost forget she's been there the entire time. That sometimes, she'd be the splitting image of her leader.
"I'm fine," you say, brushing it off. Exhaustion, most likely. Your brain playing tricks, filling in the gaps you want to see, or don't want to see, you're not sure which, when in reality, you don't want to sound crazy claiming you're seeing ghosts. "Just tired."
She doesn't push on any further. Hardly matters when Yunjin announces that they've reached their destination.
It's still the same Starship building everyone jokes about. The one that resembles a jail cell more than a company headquarters. Despite the long overdue need to move or renovate, this is still their place. At least the paint still smells fresh, but the bar is in hell; that's the only thing they've bothered touching in the last 15 years.
Surprisingly, the entrance has a security guard standing by. He stops all four of you. Asks for names.
"Le sserafim," Yunjin answers on your behalf. "We're here to see IVE. Are they in?"
He studies her for a moment. Then turns to you, Kazuha, and Eunchae. You expect him to ask who you are (you'll lie, say you're just their manager), demand identification, and do his job the way he was trained to. Instead, after a quick, almost lackadaisical scan, he speaks over his radio. Asks if they're inside, and a brief confirmation later, he lets your group through.
"Sixth floor," he says. "They've been there all day."
Stepping inside, the difference between both companies is night and day. The lobby is teeming with life, with faces and names you've vaguely heard about, all probably spending their final day together before parting ways. Jiyu spots you while getting a drink from a vending machine and bows to you and the Fims, who reciprocate the gesture as industry seniors. Same goes for the others you happen to run into: Allen, Minhee, Hyungwon, and Joohoney. You spend five minutes bowing to each idol, letting the girls catch-up with their fellow peers. They all say the same thing: they're here because the CEO wanted all the artists to come in today so they could properly say goodbye.
But just as you're about to reach the elevator, you hear someone calling from the lounge. Everyone turns around, and Yeonjung rises from a couch to greet the girls. They bow, exchange hugs, and she offers a formal handshake, which you accept. The formalities haven't finished completely when Dayoung comes in out of nowhere to say hello as well.
"Glad to see you're together," Dayoung says to Yunjin specifically, her beam still wide, her energy infectious even during these tumultuous times. "Same as the rest of us."
"Of course," she then replies, her smile small but sincere. "It's what—"
"I know, I know," Dayoung interjects. "It's what they would have wanted too. They would have come rushing down from the practice room if they found out you visited us."
Your hand involuntarily reaches for the photo in your coat. You don't show it, but even through the eyes of people you barely know, their presence is palpable. It makes your heart soar just hearing how loved they are.
"They should be on the sixth floor," Yeonjung chimes in with her sweet, maternal smile. Her stare lingers at you a moment longer than necessary as you finally reach the elevator. "Good luck."
Emerging onto the hallway is a refresher in deja vu. Quiet, hushed, silent. Not surprising; most of their artists are in the lobby. No music plays unlike in the HYBE building. But it's there: the group's designated practice room. The sign taped to the door is freshly written with a clear message: Do Not Disturb in Hangul. Yunjin ignores it and knocks twice. Someone echoes from inside, and she answers them back.
"It's us. We're coming in."
Yunjin pushes the door open.
Inside, four girls are huddled together on the opposite end of the room. Rei spots you and rushes toward Kazuha for a warm bear hug. Likewise, Eunchae and Leeseo meet halfway, walking to each other, exchanging hugs and kisses as well. Yunjin and Liz bow to one another before the junior idol embraces Yunjin too, sobbing on her shirt.
Meanwhile, Gaeul steadily approaches you. Offers a handshake. You exchange bows.
"We were expecting you," she remarks. Her hair's short again, the one signature cut resembling a bob; it was long two weeks ago, right before the announcement that shook the entire world. "Didn't expect their manager to be—young."
You gulp your throat. She gives you a look that's saying I'm onto you. I'm smarter than you think. You can only smile, keep up the facade, if there even is any.
"Relax. I'm not gonna turn you in," she adds, as if reading your mind. "None of us are."
Both of you look around and see your respective members falling apart. More than peers, they're also close friends. Bonded by adversity, heartbreak, and triumph, they've seen it all in the industry and came out of the fire unscathed. More than that, it's what their leaders, their veterans, with their wisdom and experience that helped them get this far and thrive.
Seeing them in one room makes you proud. Even though you're a nobody, something about seeing these girls together feels right. Like its destiny.
Eventually, the tears run dry. Yunjin goes to Gaeul, as leaders and the eldest of their respective groups. They hug too.
"They would have wanted this," Yunjin whispers against her ear. She's done her crying in the car and has been the emotional rock for the Fims. "They would be so happy we're here. It's just—"
"It's not the same, I know." Gaeul, the perceptive woman she is, captures what everyone's feeling with one simple sentence. "But we're here now. That's what matters."
In the midst of all the reconciliations, they forget that you exist.
When all the formalities are done, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo all come to you, apologetically bowing and shaking your hand.
"Sorry," Rei says, cheekily smiling, "Didn't realize they still had—"
"I'm not actually their manager," you casually admit, because there's no point in hiding anymore. It's the end of the world, for God's sake.
"Knew it," Gaeul mutters, to herself mostly. "I mean, we don't really have managers anymore. We said our goodbyes to them the other day."
"But it was his idea to bring us here," Eunchae blurts out, and all of a sudden, you're thrust into the center of their attention.
"That's cute," Leeseo remarks sweetly. "Honestly, it feels like a high school reunion, except" —her tone shifts to something somber— "it's a little bittersweet."
You know what she's alluding to. What all the girls have been repeating over and over for the past hour and more. Beat it over your skull at this point and have it ingrained in hot ink at this point.
"They would have wanted this," you repeat, echoing the same drawn out sentiment because there's really no other way to put it.
"So why, then," Liz suddenly speaks. "Why do all this? Why bring us together?"
You give the Fims a glance. Kazuha nods once. So does Yunjin. And then Eunchae. Sighing, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, then show them the photocard. Let the IVE girls see the reason and understand.
"I know I'm not anyone special," you say. "You guys sing, dance, write, make art. You make millions smile on stage and in front of the cameras. I push paper and answer emails and go home to watch your fancams. Rinse and repeat. But when the announcement came, when I knew the world was ending" —you pause, let go of a deep breath— "I thought about you. Not my family, not my future. You."
The room holds its breath. No one speaks. You can hear a pin drop in this stillness. Their heartbeats, even. It's the kind of calm that usually precedes an incoming storm, which feels apt given the immense gravity of the situation that brought you all together.
"I was ready to die, to be honest," you continue. "Already accepted my fate the moment it was announced. But earlier today, I took one last look at my office, saw this picture" —you hold it up for all to see— "and something changed. Maybe I'm not ready to go just yet. Maybe there's still one more thing I have to do. And that's this."
You flip the photo around, staring at the faces that paved the way. Your lips crack, and your expression shifts to something resembling yearning and regret. "I never saw them when they were together. Never saw you guys in the same room or take a photo either. And God, I know you're all friends, it's just—"
You pause. Shake your head. Sniffle. Shed a tear, maybe two. Find your way back. Continue.
"So here we are. I just wanted to see you guys together, even if it's for only an hour. Even if it ultimately doesn't mean anything tomorrow. Maybe I'm just wasting your time, but" —you wipe a stray tear from your eye— "thank you for everything."
They let your words sink in a few moments longer. Then Yunjin is the first to respond:
"You didn't waste our time," she says. She's looking at every person in the room, then you. "We wanted this, too. It's just—we were so caught up in our feelings to remember."
Gaeul nods in agreement. "We've been so focused on ourselves. On the what ifs, the could haves, the should haves. We were so lost on what to do, we forgot who and why we're doing this for."
Eunchae's eyes are twinkling. "We still mean something to people. Even after everything."
"But at least we're here now," Rei concludes. "Because of you. So we should be the ones thanking you."
And again, Kazuha repeats the same mantra, the universal belief that kept you all going: "They would have wanted this. Really."
For a moment, the air in the room shifts to something lighter. For once, there are smiles on faces. Even in this bleak and helpless situation, there's the one thing you cling to no matter how far gone you are: hope.
"So what now?" Leeseo then interjects. And frankly, you're amazed you've made it here without planning a single step. No one has a clue either. Two days might seem like plenty of time, but in the grand scheme of the world ending, it’s as precious as diamond, and it's quickly running out. Impulse can only take you so far.
"I live in Jeju," Liz suddenly remarks, clearing her throat. She'd been the most reserved one in the room, not having spoken even once up until this point. And even when she speaks, it’s low, naturally hushed, kept primarily for herself. "We could go there and watch the end of the world together. I can say goodbye to my family along the way."
Surprisingly, despite your four years in Korea, you've never visited once. Your work basically kept you prisoner in office, and your days off were spent at home overcompensating for your lack of sleep. It's a good idea; riding off to the literal and metaphorical sunset on this planet by the ocean. The scientists did say it was expected to land somewhere in the Korean peninsula, so your end is gonna be swift and painless. Imagine that: a body swallowed up by the sea. No better way to go out.
But then there's the others, as Yunjin points out: "Well, I'm supposed to fly out to New York tomorrow." You can see it in her eyes, the frown on her lips. The conflict, the way her heart wants to be there, but also remembering the family she has at home, the possibility of never seeing them one last time after being away for so long.
"I'm on one of the last flights to Japan, then Amsterdam," Kazuha says regretfully. "I would love to go, but—"
"And I have family in Nagoya," Rei adds. "This was really supposed to be our last day together."
Hearing them talk about their families back at home has you reminiscing about your own too. You're here because of them, but not in a loving way. It had been a rough falling out, but they never stopped reaching out. The messages eventually became few and far between, but they always looked out for you. Even as simple as 'Hope you're okay' and going out of their way to send extra money when you've covered all your needs, they still loved you til the end. Their last update was about the meteor, obviously, but they kept wondering how you feel and whether or not you'd go home, knowing their last physical image of you was swearing you'd never come back—and you'll more than hold up that promise now.
"That's fine," you say, slightly nodding. You're already conceding in your mind that you'll die alone. This dream was simply that: a dream. It was never a guarantee. "I mean, I'd more than love to go, but I just wanted to see you guys at least once—"
"I'm going," Gaeul interjects. "Already said goodbyes to my family yesterday. I want to be with Jiwonnie. Make sure she's there with someone she loves."
Liz's eyes sparkle and her smile brightens. For a second, you see a glimpse of the old Liz, the performer she is on stage.
Leeseo is resolute. "I'll go too. Eunchae, you're coming right?"
Facing her, Eunchae's eyes widen in shock, completely taken by surprise. "Woah, woah. I haven't gone home yet. Also, what about our sleepover with Kyujin—"
"She can come if you want. I'll let her know about this."
Eunchae can't help but laugh. "Alright, fine. You win, I guess. I'll be there too."
Yunjin and Kazuha smile at their member, elated that their youngest won't be alone. "We're sorry we can't be there," Yunjin says, caressing Eunchae's head, brushing her brown locks. "but they would be so proud knowing you're taking care of each other til the end."
Rei's been on her phone through the conversation, which explains why she's keeping distance, facing the practice room wall. Only now do any of you realize.
"Rei-chan!" Kazuha calls to her, and she turns around with that cheeky grin.
"Guess what," she says, and her smile is so goddamn infectious, she'd make you believe they found a way to stop the meteor from hitting just now. "Called my parents. They're gonna miss me a lot, but I knew I wasn't letting you all go without me."
Liz runs over to give her an emphatic hug. They've always been so close, so joined to the hip at points. You can imagine Rei playfully arguing over the phone begging to stay, that she wouldn't live without her and vice versa. "Took only seven minutes," she adds, as she lets Liz cry on her shoulder from joy.
So here's the score with all the commotion going on: the IVE girls are staying together, Leeseo has Eunchae tied down, while Yunjin and Kazuha are flying home to their respective countries tomorrow. It was fun while it lasted, these two or so hours. Even if the interactions were brief and emotionally charged, at least you got these two groups together one last time.
"I guess it's the six of us at least," you remark, including yourself in that list of people heading off to Jeju to watch the sunset over your incoming demise. Deep down, you always wanted to go; you just needed a reason to stick together, no matter how many people would be present. "I can come along too, right?"
"Of course," Leeseo immediately answers, like no is not an option. "You brought us all here. You should be there."
"And we're sorry we might not be there," Yunjin adds, apologetic again. "But they're amazing company. Trust us."
"Rei will keep you up all night," Kazuha jokes, prompting Rei to shoot her a mischievous scowl. Liz randomly blushes. "And if you're ever missing us, just know we'll be there in spirit."
It's the kind of reassurance that harkens back to old days. When they would post on Weverse and on streams to fans needing strength to carry on through hard times. Because even in your final hours, you need a bridge to cross over to the other side safely. They still do, but you could tell the feeling isn't the same; they don't even believe it themselves. Until now. For a moment, they're idols again.
"That's everything settled," Gaeul remarks. The room turns its attention to her. "We'll meet here tomorrow morning or at the HYBE building, whichever feels more convenient—"
"HYBE building," Leeseo interrupts. "I like this place and all, but I don't think we can all fit in the lobby."
No one else speaks up. No one objects. After a moment to ruminate the options, Gaeul opens her mouth again.
"Since Eunchae's the only Fim joining us, I feel comfortable if we all just met here."
"But—"
"It's okay, Seo." Eunchae cuts Leeseo off. "I know my way around. I can take care of myself."
Leeseo opens her mouth. No words come out, so she closes them again. Hard to believe they're grown now when they were babies not that long ago. You can still see flashes of that in her mannerisms and character.
"We'll meet here at dawn," Gaeul continues. "Tonight, we go home, pack all our belongings, say goodbye to our families if we can. Rest up. Tomorrow's gonna be the longest day ever."
Everyone nods in agreement. Then Yunjin and Kazuha give hugs to each and every single one in the room. Including you.
"Gonna miss you guys a lot," Yunjin would mutter to every person. She's always worn her heart on her sleeve, so you know genuine emotion is felt in every word, every tight embrace. You hardly know each other (you literally just met two hours ago), yet she hugs you like you've been best friends for a lifetime. Maybe in the next one.
On the other hand, Kazuha is calm and stoic. Doesn't show her true self much, with or without cameras. She smiles. Laughs. Reacts. She's never been one to let loose, always disciplined in her intuition. Nevertheless, the care is there, that maternal instinct kicking in when she hugs everyone, with you last.
"You've done us a great favor bringing us together," she whispers in your ear. "Now they won't be alone."
"Never been. They always had you."
"And we had them to guide us," she replies back. There's an ache in how she refers to them. The ones who would be proud and would make the initiative to gather them all. "I wish we thought of this sooner."
"Not late," you say. "It's not too late."
Minutes later, you all emerge from the practice room with a newfound confidence, one that feels rare given what's to come. The lobby is still packed, but you become the center of attention. The girls give their farewell bows and waves to the idols waiting, chatting it up in the lounge. Yeonjung stops Gaeul for a quick exchange while the rest of you go on ahead. No one asks where you're going or why. And as you pass by the desk, the receptionist is watching some variety show on her phone, but at the edge of the screen, the doomsday clock is still ticking, counting down, a slow inevitability.
Less than two days remain.
—————
Sleep never comes that night.
You've had your restless nights. It's been a habit as far back as college. Instead of research and work, however, you've been thinking about them. Those girls. The ones who made your life tolerable even in the smallest of ways: their music, personalities, performances, and everything in between. You may not have known them much, if at all, but their existence has defined you. And wonder what could have been. The fact you've gotten the seven of them together is a miracle in its own right, how much more the rest.
But that's for another lifetime. The inky blackness of night gives away for royal blue, the incoming sunrise. You haven't packed even a single thing since you got home. There's only less than 40 hours left, and the biggest day of your lives is looming ever closer.
No time to worry about that. You do your usual morning routine: shower, breakfast, then pack. A backpack with your essentials, three sets of clothing changes, grooming kit, and the bottle of unopened champagne is all you're bringing. The last time you remember carrying this much was when you first arrived in Korea. Now it's come full circle.
Before you leave, you do two more things: pocket the photo you took from the office in your jacket—the very reason for all this—and blow out the candle set in front of a second personal shrine, this time encompassing a whole shelf. You'll miss the albums, the photocards, the polaroids, the memories embedded in them. And despite letting them go, you don't regret a single purchase or a single cent.
With that, you take a deep breath and step out of your house for the last time.
By the time you reach the hill where the Starship building stands, the entrance is already packed.
They've been waiting a good 15 to 20 minutes, Gaeul says. The rest of the girls are there, as expected: Rei, Liz, Leeseo, and Eunchae. The plan is this: you'll take a ferry to Jeju, because all flights within and out of Korea have already been taken, and the world is shutting down tomorrow.
You greet one another warmly, with hugs and kisses than bows now. The first thing you notice is how much luggage each of them are carrying in comparison to your solitary backpack. Three to four bags for each person, like they're embarking on a world tour instead of watching the world end.
The next is Rei and Liz wearing matching brown hoodies. "Christmas gift," Rei would comment, and she'd reveal they were shocked and laughed when they found out they gifted each other the exact same thing for their secret santa. It brought them even closer that day, and you can tell by how they’re glued to the hip.
Then you turn to Leeseo and Eunchae. Just the two of them instead of three like what they've been talking about the previous night. "Kyujin had a change of heart. She wanted to be with her members," Eunchae would answer, and you wonder if this was inspired by what happened yesterday. You can see the vision: a majority of these groups, bonded by hardship and success, spending their final day together like this.
Just then, you hear the rumble of an engine. Followed by another. Actually, there's three of them pulling up to the hill.
"Our ride's here," Gaeul remarks, standing up from the stairsteps. Three identical black vans await, enough to seat your group three times over. The passenger door to the first one opens, and everyone smiles from ear to ear.
You can't help yourself either, because Yunjin steps forward with her arms wide open.
"How's my favorite people in the world?" she asks energetically, and God, you missed that bubbly energy so bad. Not just on stage or in front of cameras, but in general.
"Yunjin, I thought you were—"
"I couldn't help myself. I said my goodbyes over the phone last night," she cuts you off, putting a hand on your shoulder as she walks into a spree of hugs from the girls, especially Eunchae. "There was a lot of crying and pleading, especially with Rachel, but they were more than willing to let me go. So here we are."
"We?"
From the second van, Kazuha emerges quietly, waving hello at everyone, but with no less fanfare. The group, as you know it, is officially complete.
"You can thank Yunjin for this," she simply says, laidback and composed as usual. "She crashed mid-call while I was bidding farewell to my family."
"No I didn't," Yunjin playfully denies. "You were 10 seconds away from hanging up."
"But you still crashed my call."
"Did not."
"Did."
They go back and forth a few times, while the rest of you can only laugh along. It's all in playful jest, but it still doesn't answer why there's three vans. You understand that two are needed to accommodate you all, separating you into your respective groups with your luggage, but a third seems unnecessary.
So Yunjin explains it on the walk to the van, and it's rather simple: "All our camping stuff! Tents, foldable chairs, everything to make our last day on earth not as miserable."
"I'm surprised you're not driving," Eunchae remarks to Yunjin as you head for the vans. The drivers come out from their seats to assist with the many, many bags.
"I would have driven us into a ditch. Eventually," she quips back, drawing another round of laughs.
—————
You get to the port faster than expected.
The chaos has all but completely died. It's like the remaining people that haven't fully accepted the inevitable are finally coming to terms with their fate. Fires are petering out, most if not all non-essential stores are closed, and the mood is just dour all around. It doesn't help that the weather feels like it wants to break your spirit: cloudy skies, roaring thunder, the occasional drizzle—this eerie atmosphere leaves shivers even on the most resolute of souls.
Nevertheless, you make it onboard the first ferry to Jeju. You slept through the drive there, so you're woken up by the sound of horns blaring and the waters crashing against the shore. One of the last normal places on earth, you reckon, there's this stillness keeping everything afloat. Even with all the shouting and noise, that serenity holds it all together. Because for every shout by a driver, there's a man reading his Bible. For every crying infant being comforted by their mother, there's a couple holding hands on the ship's deck. For every dog bark, there's the flap of seagull wings.
And then there's you: for every tired, drained soul is another smiling widely through their grief. People who've resigned to their fate and are making the most of their time left, like the diagnosis is terminal. Here, the rain has stopped. The skies remain gray, but patches of blue, hints of the sun, begin shining through.
Two hours, the captain said. Two hours before you reach Jeju, your final resting place. And from what you've seen, there's not a lot of better, greener places to die on.
While the girls catch up with one another downstairs, you find yourself leaning on the railing alone. The last 24 hours or so haven't felt real yet. You're really here, on a boat headed to Jeju alongside the idols you loved. You're doing things you never thought you'd have a chance to do, living beyond your mundane four walls and monotonous weekday routine. All it took was the end of the world for it to happen.
You don't notice Liz creeping up beside you, breaking away from the pack. Her hair is being tossed around by the wind, almost concealing her face.
"Hey," she mumbles against you, almost muted by the waters. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you reply, keeping your tone low, tilting your head in her direction but averting your gaze. "So—you get to go home. Be with family. For the end."
She nods, then shakes her head. Lets out a pained chuckle. "Sure. But I'll be with you, and them. I won't stay, just passing by to say my goodbyes to everyone."
"Right, right."
You watch the waves down below. Trace the trail the ferry makes as it cruises forward. No animal surfaces from the waters; it’s just the sea streaming backward. Meanwhile, Liz keeps her gaze straight, at the vast ocean ahead. Endless cloudy skies, endless ocean. The mainland is long gone from view; none of you will ever step foot in it again.
"When you moved from Jeju, as a trainee," you then start, after a few minutes of quiet reflection, You're facing Liz now, and she meets you halfway. "What was it like? How was—adjusting to the city?"
She doesn't speak. Not right away. That's how she normally is: reserved and withdrawn, careful when to talk and with her choice of words. "It was rough. I wasn't familiar with, well—everything. I took a big risk going out there alone. I'd get lost to and from the building, my accent was rough, and I'd get weird looks from anyone because I wasn't so used to everything. It was—brutal. I thought if I wasn't gonna get cut for my looks, it was definitely because I showed up late especially during those first two months."
In a way, your first year isn't far off from her experience. You didn't speak the language and had to use a translator more often than not. You didn't know cars were right-hand drive. You broke so many traditional customs and rules that it was a miracle you weren’t put into prison. It took you a year to read and write in basic Korean, but you eventually adjusted.
"But," she continues, "the girls helped me out so much." Her gaze flicks to the stairs, pertaining to the girls on the lower deck. "They were so kind, so patient. They took me in as one of their own." She then looks up at the sky, stares for a while as the sun slowly parts through the clouds, then down at the ocean. "Especially Yujin and Wonyoung. They taught me everything as idols."
"Right," you say, and you think about how fast they must have grown up. They were the youngest back then, the ones cared for and coddled by everyone else, only to turn around a few months later to become those maternal figures for girls not that far off in age from them. Wonyoung especially, with how the media and spotlight has been far more critical towards every little thing she does. They must have carried wisdom beyond their years.
"The one thing I cherish the most was what they said to me before our last evaluation, right as we were getting ready to debut," she adds, and you can see her features crack up remembering in real time. "was that I should always be myself. No matter if people hated me or not. They said that true fans would see through everything and like me for who I am. It's been my mantra ever since."
Your gaze flicks to the vast ocean ahead. Jeju is beginning to rise above the horizon. Seeing this, Liz walks away, but you call to her before she reaches the stairs.
"Jiwon."
She turns around. Faces you eye to eye. Your heart races. You're nervous, but not out of love; this isn't a confession.
"I'm sure they're proud of you," you say. "Proud you stayed true to yourself."
She doesn't react. Doesn't say a word back. Rather, she continues walking and heads down the stairs, but as she disappears, you can see a trace of a smile forming on her lips.
One step out of the ferry is enough to inform you that the difference between Jeju and the mainland is night and day. The air you breathe is fresher, the grass is greener, and the world is quieter, but in a peaceful, serene way. You can hardly tell the end of the world is happening if you lived here.
Liz finds you waiting outside. The vans are still inside the ferry, waiting to disembark. Some families are reuniting here, hugging those who have chosen to return home and spend their final hours with their loved ones. One look in her eyes says it all: she wishes she could have been back on a better day.
"I just wanted to say thank you," she says, and it's sincere enough to break through her reserved nature. "For saying that. For saying I'm still–me."
Your mouth opens instinctively, but only air comes out. You were never the best at listening or giving responses, but it's your connection to those girls that you can meet halfway and relate.
"O-of course," you manage, and your brain is glitching trying to find the right words to say. "But I'm just a guy who only knew you cause of them–"
"And you accepted us, too. Right?" Liz cuts you off gently. Hand on your shoulder, she knows where you're coming from.
You can only nod. Of course you did. Loved them the same way as those girls. They're an extension of their legacy, their lineage.
She's walking away again. You hear the blare from one of the vans. Her smile is wider now, a glimpse of the old Liz. "Come on. Family's expecting a huge party. They've prepared lunch for us."
The road to Liz's house is long and winding. Remote, as with most of the places in Jeju, considering the rent's cheaper but there’s not a lot of people living here. Eventually, tarmac gives away to a mile long stretch of gravel, sandwiched by never-ending fields extending outward. Your driver remarks that essentials haven't been shipped here in almost a week, and for good reason. No point in trying to save lives when you're near the Earth's demolition zone, but given how abundant the harvest looks, they don't seem to have a problem at least.
As the convoy approaches a house nestled on a hill, a makeshift Welcome Home Jiwon banner hangs by the front door. Hero's welcome, Leeseo would say, and even though Liz laughs and it's in good nature, that bittersweet undertone lingers. You can't imagine being her: the last two homecomings being both under the worst circumstances.
You step out first. Liz follows after you, then the rest of the IVE members. Yunjin emerges from the passenger seat of the second van. The other two stay in their respective vehicles for now. As the wind blows the bottom edges of the banner, no one is stepping out to greet your party.
As the girls turn to Liz, she calls out: "Mom. Dad. I'm home."
And for a few seconds, no one answers back. Then the front door swings open, and out comes her younger brother.
"Noona! You really came!" He comes rushing down the stairs screaming and runs hugging his sister. He doesn't seem to acknowledge your existence, or her friends and traveling companions for that matter. Nevertheless, everyone steps back and gives them their moment. "It's been a while!"
She smiles. "Only been two months," she corrects, met by a playful slap on her cheek in retaliation.
"Two months too long," he says, and they share a laugh. Warm, pleasant, wholesome. And even though they've already said their goodbyes, you imagine these other girls would rather be with their own families than spending their last day here.
As the Kim siblings finish hugging, their mother steps out, her smile inviting. "Welcome home, Jiwonnie." Then her gaze flicks to the rest of you, finding you first. "And to you as well. Thank you for bringing her home to us."
You bow first, leading the rest. Your smile is small, your presence carefully contained.
"Come on in," she then says, stepping back into the house with an inviting gesture of her hand. "We prepared lunch for everyone."
Inside, the house feels quite lived in. The paint on the walls looks fresh, the place already smelling of cooked meat and other food. Liz's brother has already run to the kitchen helping out Mr. Kim with the last of the meals. You hear the ping of an oven, something simmering on the pan. The girls carefully take their seats in the living room while you wander around aimlessly.
Your gaze flicks on a table with framed memories of Liz throughout time: her as a preschooler, in third grade, a solo pic inside the Starship building when she was a trainee, and most recent of all, with her fellow members not that long ago (give or take a few years). They visited here at some point, probably a few times.
Yujin and Wonyoung are smiling widely in the picture, you observe. Their eyes look so bright, like they see their futures ahead of them. Can't help but smile too, even if it's not the real thing.
"That was not long after we all renewed our contracts," Gaeul suddenly mumbles, having stepped beside you while you were deep in thought. "I thought we had forever, but–"
She shakes her head, her tone shifting to something somber. Her lips are moving, but nothing comes out, only air. The look on her face tells you everything you know: regret.
"I don't know why she went," she mutters, mainly to herself, but you can hear her. "I should have told her not to–"
"It wasn't your fault," you kindly say. Your hand on her shoulder, she's holding the photo now, a little too tight for comfort. "Was just–bad luck. They wouldn't have known. None of you did."
Her hands are trembling, soon followed by the rest of her body. She looks like she's ready to crumble anytime. Leeseo sees this and walks over to her to give her a hug, and Gaeul immediately lets go: she sobs on her shoulder and into her embrace.
Liz, helping her family the entire time, is on your other side. "She's never been able to forgive herself for it," she remarks, sympathetic. "Come on. Lunch is ready."
The distribution is split into three rounds, since it can only seat ten. The family isn't used to such a large party, but there's more than enough food and drink to go around for even thirds. It's quite the last supper.
Against your wishes, they invite you to take first, followed by the IVE members, then the Fimmies. Liz's family eats last; they sit around the table, while you scramble throughout the living room for lunch. Gaeul stays in front of the photo, while Leeseo and Rei hover close by her side. Yunjin's talking with someone over the phone, and Eunchae and Kazuha sit by you in the guest area, eating quietly.
"We were so surprised when it happened," Kazuha mumbles between chomps. "We all did. It was so sudden."
You definitely know. It was everywhere for a whole week. While you were busy maintaining your nine to five, the world was moving too fast to keep up. And while this incident brought most of Korea to their knees, you were still sleeping under that metaphorical rock.
Eunchae nods in agreement. "When Sakura and Chaewon heard of it, I never saw them cry this much and weep so loud."
Of course they did. They'd be the first people to throw themselves into the fire to keep the rest of the girls warm. The others too, but they'd all be fighting to see who'd keep them safe instead. When it happened, the rest would fall, and ultimately they did. Little did anyone know that was the beginning of a domino effect.
And all you can do is just eat quietly, reflecting on what could have been.
An hour and a half later, the party is ready to hit the road again. Liz got their blessing and approval to be with you for the end of the world, and though it pains the family, it's her heart's desire, and they're more than willing to let her go one last time.
The Kim family gives Liz one final hug. Mrs. Kim is crying. Mr. Kim is steady, but on the verge of falling apart too. Her younger brother is holding her tightly, refusing to let go.
"If somehow, we ever survive this," he mumbles against her hair, "Then I don't want you to leave us ever again. You understand me?"
Liz is crying too, but she softly laughs. "You bet."
You don't see any of this. Only hearing the commotion, as you're using the bathroom. Washing your slick face, you stare at your reflection. Blink a few times. They're sharing hearty laughs outside now, exchanging promises to see each other in the next life, but their voices gradually die down. Your ears start ringing.
They're talking.
"I miss them too," someone says. The voice is distinctly feminine.
"They'll be alright," another answers. This one too, is also feminine. They're quite clear, in fact. Reverberating in your ears. Like they're in the room with you right now.
So you look around. Nothing. Just you. But you can still hear them clearly.
"So glad they're together," the first girl says. "Glad they didn't forget about each other. And us."
The other woman makes a satisfied hum. And then they fade out, like this was some kind of fatigue-induced dream.
You're still looking around, trying to find where they went. Nothing.
"Hey!" Mr. Kim calls out from the living room, grounding you back to reality. "You have somewhere to be."
Your eyes glaze back at the bathroom door; your legs are so wobbly, you end up leaning. "I'll be out in a bit."
Here's what you'll do when you step out: you won't tell them what you were hearing. There's no feasible way to make it sound sense, even though your outrageous idea has brought you all together. And while they've heard crazier things at the end of the world, none of them hit quite as close to home as this. Some thoughts are best kept secret and left unspoken.
So the dust you were taken from, and so will you be dust when you return. That's a verse you remember when you were young and still had faith.
But right now, all you see is green. An endless land of green.
Completely untouched by man, Jeju's cliffs rise up to the edge of the island. The seas are a lifetime below, its waves crashing violently along the rock formations and the bluff. Otherwise, it's the most serene place you've ever been in. If there was ever a final frontier on Earth, this was it: it's no Tower of Babel, but it's the closest you'll get to touching heaven.
After a moment to soak in the fresh air, you all get to unpacking. Unfurling tents, laying out food, spreading out jackets, unfolding chairs, taking photos, saving their final memories. Wood is as common as oxygen here, perfect for the fire you'll light up at night. Even out here, high up in the hills of Jeju, reception remains strong; someone has their phone on the news, keeping track of the doomsday clock. 28 hours left, the trackers say, and it's gonna time perfectly with the last sunset this world will ever see.
Hours pass. The bright blueness of day gives way to sunset’s orange, and you see the asteroid now: brighter than any other star, small but rapidly approaching. No one's brought a telescope, but you all will see up close and personal soon anyway.
24 hours remain, the tracker reads on Google. You're standing alone on the edge of the cliffs, atop a small hill that makes you feel closer to God than ever before. Ahead the ocean stretches out endlessly, bleeding orange against the waters. Soon, it'll be red and black and melted away. As the sun sets on the horizon, sinking for its next rotation, the winds are becoming breezier and colder.
This feeling of being closer to God–you feel them here too. You've got no evidence other than your gut, your instinct telling you this. The same intuition that made you look twice on your office wall, prompted you to take that photo, brought you to the HYBE building–it's all been building to this. Like it's a part of some divine scheme.
Look to your right and the camp several levels below is all but completely finished. The bonfire is starting, the place is lit up by portable lanterns and the girls are specks of dust from your view. Someone's waving at you from that distance; no shit, you don't know who it is.
That's your signal to head back down and return. But before you do, there's one more thing:
The photo's been pocketed in your pants the entire time. You pull it out and hold it on the cliff. It was taken at a place similar to this: sunset background, their hands raised to the sky, with their final days looming around the corner too. The parallels couldn't be any more eerie.
And a new thought comes up: how did they feel around that time. How they embraced their final days knowing it was about to end. Did they beg. Did they plead. Did they accept their fate. They definitely cried, though. How many times, you don't know.
That was a lifetime ago, yet with the meteor approaching, it feels like it was only yesterday.
—————
This group circle hearkens back to your last days in college.
It was a spiritual retreat before graduation, a two day respite from your internship and other commitments to reflect on the past four years. The night ended like this too: each person coming forward to share their memories, their grievances, and everything in between. No stone was left unturned, no darkness left hidden in the light. You don't remember much other than being closed off from everyone else, that your only regret was not being more sociable, but in the time between that and now, hardly that part has changed.
The fire's smoke reaches up to the inky night sky, crackling and spitting. All of you–eight to be exact–sit around the campfire. Some in folded chairs, others on the grass, and the rest on blankets or jackets. Coffee's being passed around as the evening chill settles comfortably throughout the area. Lanterns and portable lights make everyone's faces somewhat visible.
No one speaks. No one's taken up the presiding role. At least not yet.
22 hours, says the ticker, and it's being reported that only 5000 or so people have been granted passage to the top secret bunkers to live on after the meteor hits. World leaders, a handful of celebrities, and billionaires who bought their way in, obviously. But there's no point in protesting; it's tucked somewhere unknown, off radar, and they don't give two shits about what happens to everyone now.
"So," Yunjin starts, and she can hardly be heard, barely carried by the wind. "Since it's our last night together, I think, we should all share stories." Her gaze flicks left and right, by the members beside her and the friends made along the way. "Anyone wanna go first?"
She's met by silence. It’s neither awkward nor tense. The kind that's usually reserved for students when asked about a lecture they should be paying attention to, but instead drift off from. Good effort, though, you think to yourself. She's always been the social butterfly, the most outgoing of the bunch.
"Alright. Guess I'll have a go," she continues, almost muttering to herself, trying to laugh the cringe away. Doesn't quite reach it. Then she breathes. Hands clasped together, she stares at the fire for a moment, then tilts forward.
"As you all know, me, Chaewon, and Nako go all the way back," Yunjin starts, her face lit by the fire. "You know how competitive it gets at times, especially when it’s on national television. I wanted to prove myself to the people, because I knew I could be great. Chaewon let me. Nako let me too, even though she was the one that was really meant for the part, and I can't thank her enough. There was no argument from anyone. But then–people thought I was greedy. Selfish for wanting to take the vocal role. But it was because of them I got to shine, even if I ultimately didn't make it onto the final lineup. Then, geez, as fate would have it, we'd end up in the same group together a few years later."
She laughs. Smiles at the thought. It's genuine, warm. "She was meant to be a leader. She sees the best in people and she makes them believe in themselves. I count myself so goddamn lucky to be Chaewon's teammate, but more importantly, as a friend." Looking to her members beside her, she nudges them closer. "We all are. So kind, so gracious, and so pure of heart." She sighs. Blinks. A pair of tears fall from her eyes. "Wherever you are Chaewon, just know we wish you were here with us. Because you would be."
Kazuha speaks up next. She sounds almost quiet, as if restraining herself. "When I first arrived in Korea, I didn't speak the language. I mean, I knew some of the basics–hello, goodbye, thank you, where is the bathroom–but I couldn't hold a conversation with anyone. I couldn't even order food without having to point at pictures. I felt helpless."
Her smile is just as small as Yunjin's, sad and bittersweet. "Then came the low point. I was scolded by the choreographer during training for not keeping up with the others, because I couldn't understand what she was saying."
She shifts in her seat, crossing her leg as she gazes into the fire. "I cried in my room that night. It was the worst I felt about myself since I began learning ballet. It had only been a month, but I thought about quitting already. Maybe this wasn't for me, I thought to myself. Then Sakura came into my room, knocking on my door. She sat by me and said, 'It's hard isn't it? Being somewhere new. Becoming someone new,' and I said yes. And you know the part that got me? She told me she did it three times. The first in Japan, then in Korea, and then—with me."
Her gaze flicks toward Yunjin and Eunchae. They're smiling wide, so she can't help but grin seeing them too. "With us. We hadn't debuted yet, not even close. But she spoke like it was happening the next day. Like we were already past the hardest part."
Kazuha holds her hands close to her heart. "She never got impatient. Never made me feel stupid. Between practices, she'd help me get accustomed to the language. She'd speak on my behalf whenever I wanted to express myself until I was ready to do it on my own. And even after I became fluent, I never stopped learning from her. If not for her, I wouldn't have become an idol. If not for her, I wouldn't be here with you guys. She's the reason I can speak here today, and be proud of how far I’ve come. I just wish I could tell her that. I had so many chances, but I never did. Not really. Not in a way that matters."
Eunchae's wiping a tear from her eye before she takes the floor. "They're all sisters and mother figures to me. Chaewon, Sakura, Yunjin, Zuha—you all took care of me. Protected me. Made sure I couldn't be swallowed by the system completely."
She pauses. Swallows her throat.
"I was so young when I joined. Too young now that I think about it. I didn't really know what I was doing; I just followed my heart and wanted to dance. I didn't know who I was, but they did. They took me in and loved me, and because of them, I grew into someone I can be proud of."
Her voice cracks at the end of her last sentence. Leeseo instinctively reaches out and holds her hand. Yunjin puts a comforting hand on her back.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without them," she whispers. "I just hope we can be together, even in the next life."
Yunjin then pulls her into an impassioned hug. Kazuha reaches over to rest a hand on her knee. As close as Leeseo is to her, she lets them have their moment. The whole group does.
Gaeul speaks up next. Low and steady, it’s the kind of tone used to holding things together. "Yujin and I were the oldest, so naturally, the leadership role came down to the both of us. Then she ended up getting chosen, much to the shock of everyone else." She faces her members, who nod once in agreement. "You were there. I still remember that day. We just wrapped up the jacket shoot for our debut, and they announced it three days before our last evaluation."
"Wonyoung was especially sad," Liz quietly remarks. "She wasn't gonna be the maknae like before."
"Yeah, and that's exactly why we all were," she answers. "She essentially had to mature overnight. But that night, she came up to me and said, 'Unnie, I need you. I need someone older, someone wiser, someone who can hold me up when I crumble.' And to be honest, when I heard of it, I didn't think I was the right person for the job. She had more experience in the industry, and so did Wonyoung, so I felt that she was more qualified. But then it clicked: she was still young. She was still a teenager trying to figure things out, and she needed someone to reassure her she'd be okay. So I did. I became the person she can confide in, whenever she doubted herself, even when she worried about everyone else."
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "She would have wanted to be here. She would have loved to see us all together. I'm sorry I couldn't fulfill that promise to the end. I'm sorry I couldn't be by her side, and the one time I wasn't, I paid the ultimate price."
Rei mutters something to Kazuha. Her lips are concealed behind her hand. They're exchanging smiles. Some laughs, too. Then she puts her hand down.
"When I came to Korea the first time, I was lonely. Not homesick, exactly; I missed Japan, but I knew I wanted to be here. I knew this was where I belonged. But I didn't have anyone: no friends, no family, no one who understood what I was going through."
She turns to face Liz, and their hands find each other.
"Then these girls took me in. They didn't care that I was the first Japanese trainee the company recruited; in fact, they learned Japanese so they could communicate with me. They made me feel at home, even when I was so far away. They helped me get accustomed to Korea, and I couldn't thank them enough. For that, I have no regrets. None."
They lean on each other's heads. Rei smiles at Liz, and she blushes in response. She lets go of her hand to speak next:
"I grew up on this island. It's beautiful, but it's small. Isolated. I hardly had friends to play with or have lifelong bonds with. Seoul was mostly what I saw on the TV and in pictures, so it became my dream to see the bright lights and the big city. And when I got there, I was—terrified. People were hostile to my accent. I got lost so often. I didn't know anything except I was a girl from Jeju who was in over her head."
Her gaze flicks to Gaeul beside Rei, then Leeseo next to Eunchae. There's two spots where they should be seated in, but instead is an unoccupied void that can't be filled.
"They welcomed me. All of them. They loved me the way I am. It didn't matter that I wasn't polished or perfect, or that I was so clumsy and arrived late to practices; they helped me find my way. They made Seoul feel like a second home." Liz covers her mouth, nearly reaching up to her eyes. When she talks again, the words come out almost inaudible. "I don't know if I ever told them that. I don't know if they knew how much they meant to me, but I hope they did. I hope they knew."
Leeseo's been waiting for her turn patiently and quietly. When she takes the floor, she sounds smaller than the rest, but no less steady:
"My unnies were my mentors. They taught me everything: how to dance, sing, act in front of cameras. Being everything an idol should be, basically." She pauses. Grins. It's quite the contrast compared to the otherwise solemn atmosphere and previous melancholic testimonies of the others. "It helps when one of those members is Jang Wonyoung, and the other is An Yujin. They were so perfect for us—and each other."
Everyone smiles. Warm, genuine, bright. Some much needed levity in the space.
"But they also taught me how to be brave," she continues. Her energy is dimmed just slightly, but still sincere. "How to keep going even when I was scared. How to smile even when I wanted to cry."
She looks at the fire, then at Eunchae, before staring up at the sky.
"I'm still learning. I'm still scared. But I'm here. And I'm not alone. And it's because of them. I hope I can be that person for someone the same way they did for me."
The fire has burned low. The logs are crumbling at the edges. Its warmth feels softer now, more gentle. Everyone has told their stories, shared fond memories, poured out regrets, and everything in between.
"Now then," Yunjin says, presiding once again. Her gaze flicks to you, seated across the fire, and everyone else follows suit. She doesn't press on any further, letting you decide whether you want to take the floor. And after some thoughtful consideration, your lips curve in the shape of a smile.
Of course you pull the photo out. It's like your personal gun at this point. They can barely make out the figures even with the fire, but the faces on it are too familiar, too recognizable to matter. The implication is right there.
"I was there from the beginning. Way before that," you say, holding the photo, scanning it front and back. "Since Produce 48. So yeah, I saw your performance of Into the New World," you add, staring directly at Yunjin. "I watched the show every single week. I had my picks. Argued with strangers online about who deserve to make it. I had my favorites; everyone did. And when the final lineup was announced, it" -you swallow- "wasn't what I wanted."
Yunjin leans forward. Kazuha's face shifts. Everyone waits with bated breath.
"Not gonna lie, some of my picks didn't make it," you continue, averting your gaze, looking down on the ground. "And those that took their place—I didn't understand. I was angry. Disappointed. I almost didn't follow the group at all."
You're holding the photo with both hands, staring into each member's eyes, remembering the qualities that captured your heart. "And when they debuted. I watched their debut stage, and" —the words die gradually on your tongue— "I don't know how to explain it. I just—fell in love. Not just with my picks, but all of them. The way they danced, the way their voices sounded, their music—it's like they've been brought together not by some committee or public vote, but through divine intervention. Like they were a team of destiny."
The fire crackles. You pause to catch your breath. Your glance shoots upward to the sky, at the smoke rising to the heavens. "Then the whole voting scandal came out, and everything fell apart. People wanted their heads. Said they shouldn't exist, that their legacy was a fraud. And maybe that's true, knowing what we know now, but those girls didn't deserve any of the hate. They didn't choose any of that. They simply—showed up and worked hard. Most important of all, they loved what they were doing, and they loved each other. They made something beautiful, even if the foundations were flawed from the start."
Somehow, through it all, you don't cry. You remains steadfast. Probably because you’ve done your weeping a long time ago. Or you lost your ability to feel. Maybe both. Around you, they're intently watching, crying, listening. You feel jealous for these girls; not only because they got to be closer to them than you could ever dream of, but for exactly that: the fact they have a living, breathing soul.
Nevertheless, you carry on: "I supported them through everything. The highs, the lows, the record breaking pandemic year, the eventual disbandment. I waited for their solo debuts, their new groups, their new careers. I watched Yena transform into a three-dimensional entertainer, Yuri, Hyewon, and Minju become award-winning actresses, Eunbi turn into a festival legend, Chaeyeon competing in every dance show imaginable because her love for dancing is just that insatiable, Nako establishing herself in Japan while occasionally dipping in Korea every now and then—"
With each name, your smile grows marginally wider. With every acknowledgment of their legacy, your face becomes brighter.
"And don't even get me started on you girls," you add. You're looking at them one by one: Yunjin, Kazuha, Eunchae, Gaeul, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo, and the rest who aren't there but present in spirit—the long-term impact they left on not just you, but on K-pop in general. "I don't really need to say much, because you're living proof of their influence on the industry."
Their responses are all over the place, but in a positive way. Liz covers her face with her hands. Rei smiles through her eyes. Eunchae's eyes glisten. Yunjin has this proud, affirming look on her lips. Kazuha nods once. Gaeul simply looks away.
"But," you continue, looking at that photo again. "it's not the same, you know? Not the same without them. Without all of them. When they were together, they were—a constellation. A family. And I know; I know they've moved on. They have these new careers, new lives, new people to love and take care of. And I did too. I accepted you guys the same way they did. But some part of me kept waiting, kept hoping, kept wishing that somehow, someday, I'd get to see them reunited again, even just once. I.O.I did it; why can't they? And that opportunity never came."
You look up to the sky once more. The smoke is dying down. The fire is on the verge of burning out. The sky is clear, countless stars twinkling far above. Soak every second you have left to see the night.
"Then the world started ending. At first, I was just ready to die. Honestly, I prayed the meteor would come sooner than later. I didn't really see any reason in hoping or living any further. But, as I was about to clock out of work, I thought of them. I remembered this photo." You hold it up for all to see, even in the near dark. "And I thought, if I'm going to die, I want to do one more thing. Even if it was impossible, I wanted to see them one more time. So instead of going home, I went to HYBE, and then" —you gesture with your free hand— "here we are."
You take the deepest breath of your life. The fire pops. Someone's sniffling, another is sobbing.
"They would have wanted this," Gaeul quietly remarks. "Yujin would have wanted us to be together. I know she would have done the same."
"They're here," Yunjin says. She looks around at the circle, something she'll never get tired of. "In a way. We're representing them by being here."
Kazuha reaches across the fire and takes your hand. Warm, but gentle. "Thank you. For remembering them. For remembering us."
"I think this was the best idea," Liz adds. "We're not alone when tomorrow comes, because we have each other."
The atmosphere in the circle shifts to something lighter. The fire has all but completely fizzled out, reduced to faint embers. Eunchae rips open a bag of marshmallows; Leeseo whines that she should have brought it out when the fire was still stronger. Her complaining becomes irrelevant when she has first dibs, then passes it around the group.
"Okay, now what about comfort songs," Yunjin asks. "What's the one song we're listening to at the end of the world?"
For a moment, everyone thinks about their answers carefully. A surprising struggle, like a pop quiz has been dropped. Eventually, they're given out one by one:
"One Last Time by Ariana Grande," says Liz. "That one also had a meteor apocalypse for the music video. Feels fitting for tomorrow."
"Rebel Heart," Rei follows. "They did say that song gives off disbandment vibes, and well—we are disbanding. Technically."
"Give me Just the Way You Are," Leeseo chimes in. "The Milky song. It always gets me in a good mood no matter how low or scared I'm feeling."
"I guess Bohemian Rhapsody's a good shout," Gaeul comments. "Six minutes, and it's got everything from sentimental to orchestral and even rock. No better last song to go out on."
"I'll do you one better," Yunjin suggests. "All Too Well. The full 10 minutes. At least we can say we were standing at the end of the world when it hits."
"You're only saying that because it's Taylor Swift," Kazuha chides. Yunjin rolls her eyes.
"Then tell me what song would you listen to, Zuha," she chirps back, playfully elbowing her ribs.
Kazuha grimaces. "Sign of the Times," she answers calmly. "I was rewatching Project Hail Mary last night to cheer myself up after the call." She sighs. "I wish Ryan Gosling was real."
While Yunjin shoots her this conspicuous, disgusted glare, Eunchae casually cuts in: "I wanna say Hot. By, you know" —her eyes flick between her members, blushing— "The last thing I wanna think of when we go is us."
And that leaves only you. You could go for something humorous like It's the End of the World as We Know It, something epic like The Final Countdown (too on the nose), back to comedy like Closing Time, something overtly sentimental like Do You Realize, or downright nihilistic like Creep—
You end up going sentimental. The phone isn't halfway out of your pocket when you press play.
Have you ever seen anything?
Have you ever seen this color?
The smiles come naturally. Of course. Someone may have seen it coming a mile away, but no one cares. The more surprising bit is the song choice more than the artist itself; not any of their titles (especially Panorama), nor their slower ballads, but something happier and more upbeat, and from their debut as well. The reasoning is the same as Leeseo's: it's an instant shot of dopamine regardless of the situation, no matter how you feel at the moment. But one particular line resonates with you even now:
I will always be with you~
And sure, it's one of, if not the most common trope especially in K-pop songs. A promise about a lifetime, when really, it was for only two and a half years. But it doesn't change the lasting impact these girls had on your life, and that's the last thing you want to remember even in your dying moments.
You see Leeseo mouthing the lyrics like she knows this song from heart too. Everyone's bopping their head with the song. The fire's completely gone now, and the evening wind completely takes over. Someone yawns deeply; you don't know who. Suddenly, Kazuha rises from her seat and stretches her arms.
"I'm clocking out," she groans out mid yawn, walking over to her tent. She doesn't look fazed at all; if anything, it's another day for her. Another notch on a schedule that's well and truly ending.
The others follow, retreating to their chosen tents. Of course you have your own, but you've given up on a proper rest a long time ago, way before a meteor decided it was your time. You exchange good nights with everyone knowing you'll hardly sleep through the night, and that's okay. It won't matter when you're dust and bones around this period tomorrow.
But even with all these thoughts running through your head, you close your eyes. As your consciousness fades to black, this is the last thing you remember:
18 hours remaining.
—————
Still, even as the end looms closer than ever, the world never stops. It's making its funeral bed.
The Pope presides over a country-wide prayer vigil at St Peter's Basilica. Analysts and reporters are crunching down the initial casualties (already in the billions), the long term effects on the planet, and whether or not life as we know it will continue existing in the years to come. Presidents are giving their farewell addresses; some choose to stay and die with their nation, others (global superpowers mainly) have taken quiet refuge somewhere only they know.
People take refuge in makeshift bunkers, whether in their homes or through subways, underground basements, or whatever place they can find. Some stupid billionaires are sending rockets to blow up the meteor without properly considering the new problems such an idea would bring. Either way, this planet is fucked. Nature or the forces above have marked you all for death.
All this chaos and commotion for something that will ultimately consume everything and everyone. Meanwhile, on the other side of the planet, it's as still as water.
Less than 9 hours remaining, the doomsday ticker reads on the bottom of your phone, checking the news in real-time. Still lying in your tent, you wake up to your best night of sleep in years. Probably just the calm acceptance of your fate fully settling in your bones.
Peeking out from your tent, you can hear the relentless waves crashing against land far below the hills where you're standing. Someone's simmering food over a portable cooker, based on the crackle of oil and meat. Another's playing music over their speakers. The skies are surprisingly clear. The breeze is perfectly chill. It feels right.
You finally step out into the warm embrace of the sun. Soak it all up because you'll never feel it again in a matter of hours.
Yunjin's the first person to greet you good morning, the one cooking breakfast—or brunch, as she would correct, as it’s close to noon. Nevertheless, she serves bacon on top of pancakes with a spread of maple syrup. The pork looks a little burnt, though. She says that you're the only one who hasn't eaten yet, since everyone else got up earlier, with her in particular up the earliest to watch the last sunrise of her life.
"You look well rested," she remarks, flipping a few pieces of overcooked bacon over. "Doesn't seem like the world is ending today for you."
"I've made peace with that a long time ago," you reply, shrugging, poking a strip with your finger before she swats it away with her spatula. You wince, yelping as she smacks your hand.
"Hey. Clean your hands first," she scowls, pointing to a nearby well. You're reaching for your aching hand, annoyed as she laughs at your pain. But you acquiesce.
Meanwhile, the others are spending their final hours as you thought they would: Gaeul's by herself reading a book inside one of the vans' cargo area, Kazuha's in workout gear meditating under the open sun, and Leeseo and Eunchae are playing some video game on a shared Switch 2. Rei and Liz are nowhere to be found.
You ask them where they are; they mindlessly answer the hill without looking away from the screen even for a split second. Both girls are locked in, mashing buttons on their JoyCons competing like they're at Genesis. You forgo breakfast to look for the missing couple instead.
And sure enough, they're standing at the top of the hill, holding hands. Up here, the winds are twice as harsh, and the ocean ahead spreads out everywhere. You can see a commercial plane flying past; for what reason you don't know.
"Gorgeous view," Liz mutters to Rei. She looks down at their interlaced fingers, with Rei's skin glistening under the light, almost resembling a ring. "I lived here my entire childhood and I didn't know this place existed."
"Your parents didn't take you? Even once?" Rei asks back, tilting her head.
"I probably forgot if they did."
Rei smiles. Brushes the blow locks blocking Liz's face. Then she cups her cheek. "Maybe one day, if somehow, we make it through this, then this would be the best place to propose to."
"Who? Me?" Liz's cheeks turn beet red. Flustered at the implication, she covers her face with her hands. "Hey—"
"No, no, not me, silly," Rei chuckles. She pulls Liz's hands away from her face and leans forward, flashing her trademark grin. "I mean, the person who'll eventually love you and give you the world and all that! I can never love my best friend; we would break up and that would be ugly."
Liz looks overwhelmed. This feels like a confession. Even though they've been close after so many years. They've hung out countless times, slept in each other's beds, shared clothes and items—but they could never meet halfway for the most important thing: commitment. And that's what's keeping them apart. Even now.
"Gosh, Rei—" She stops herself. Still hesitant, still unwilling to speak her truth. "I mean—"
"Relax. That's not gonna happen, anyway. We're all gonna die," Rei interjects, her energy sounding wrong in the face of imminent death.
As you approach them, they face you in unison, moving like its choreography. "Hey!" Rei chimes, waving. Liz, meanwhile, bows gently. Slightly leaning closer to her member, but without letting go. "What are you doing here?"
"Was about to ask the same thing," you counter.
"There was no beach to walk on," she answers, "so this hill was the next best thing. Great view. I can see why you like it up here."
It can be interpreted two different ways: how it's the closest you've been to God in years, or it's a straight plunge into the sea down below. Either way, you're seeing heaven real soon.
"Am I overstepping on something?" you ask, and Liz immediately huddles behind Rei, futilely hiding half her frame.
"Not at all," Rei answers. Her eyes glance briefly back at Liz, the reddest person in the vicinity. "Anyone looking for us?"
Turn to your side, down at the camp below. Their gazes follow. Nope. No one at all. Everyone's doing their own thing.
"No, I'll just—go down—"
As you're about to turn around, Rei suddenly grabs your hand, pulls. Gives you a hug.
"What—what's happening?" you force out, the words coming rough. She squeezes tightly as if sucking the air out of your lungs.
"Nothing. Just wanted to give you a hug for no reason," she mutters, as Liz quietly sneaks off while you're trapped. You turn your head just enough to see her jog down the hill.
"What was that all about?"
"Beats me," she says. You want to believe her, but girls like Rei tend to hide secrets behind not so subtle smiles. This is no exception.
—————
7 hours remaining, the doomsday tickers read. Programming is nothing but waiting for the end to arrive; TV is basically white noise. Sometimes you just want to turn it off, throw all the phones and devices away. Death feels more real when you just—feel it approaching, not watching some countdown.
Everyone's gathered around the circle for lunch, sharing snacks, drinks, and conversations, cherishing the last traces of normal life before it all becomes dust. The final hours of peace anyone will get.
Just then, you feel a slight disturbance. A tremor. A faint echo of engine noises, followed by a flock of birds flying off. SUVs and vans and cars of different kinds—around eight or nine of them—emerge from the forest serving as the gate between road and paradise. Some drive past your camp, others stopping several feet away. You eat away the newfound attention, pretending to act nonchalant, but after a night spent with these girls and soon to be former idols, it feels like an intimate secret being exposed to the world.
But it doesn't take long to realize nobody cares. No one asks who you are and the people that you're with. You find that these people are here for one thing only: to see the end with their own eyes, up close and personal. Families, couples, friends. Doesn't matter the age, status, gender, race, or anything else, you're all nothing when the time comes.
When they wave, it's less about the stars beside you and more 'came here for the meteor, huh?' acknowledgement. They have their own snacks and chairs and blankets for the occasion. It just so happens you went a day too early, it seems.
And wouldn't you know it, Liz's family is here too.
Her brother runs headfirst into her for an immediate hug. Everyone bows and greets her parents. They brought the old family van, the one that's been in the garage and only driven like thrice a year, brought out a fourth 'for old times' sake.' They said if she couldn't be home, then they'd be the ones to go to her instead, and they're blessed to see their daughter come back one more time and just be close enough to reach. It's a bittersweet feeling, but at least they'd be together.
And as you turn around, a dozen or so women are emerging from the other side of the hill. Squint your eyes; can't really tell them apart. One of them seems to be looking for something or someone. A few moments later, they found it: you.
As they come down the hill, their faces become clearer. And so is the first voice.
"Hey!" a blonde girl yells out, and her arms are stretched wide, seemingly going for a hug. You've never met this person, but you respect the gesture enough to reciprocate.
She runs past you and towards Yunjin instead. That was never meant for you. The fact you don't know each other should have been a dead giveaway.
Likewise, the other girls walk past and ignore you completely. Nine of them to be exact now, but one stops and actually recognizes you. Her eyes widen with genuine surprise—and delight. So do yours.
"Hey," you manage to call out as the woman caresses your cheek and pecks it. "Aren't you—"
"From the Starship building? Yes!" She sounds excited that you remember her from the other day. "Oh, I never really introduced myself to you. I'm Yeonjung, by the way. I'm their senior," she says, pertaining to the IVE girls greeting her members, proud at seeing her lineage come together.
"I know you," you reply, and your gaze flicks to Gaeul in particular. "You stopped Gaeul as we were leaving."
"Yep! I found out your plans from her, and after talking with Somi, we pitched this together super last minute." All eyes are on Somi, the most enthusiastic in the area, giving hugs and kisses like it's Christmas. "It's inspiring what you've done to these girls. And well, it's inspired us too."
"You guys are fortunate," you remark, mentally recounting each member for confirmation. Somi, Sohye, Sejeong, Chungha, Jung Chaeyeon, Nayoung, Doyeon, and Yoojung. Hell, even Mina and Jieqiong are present and accounted for. It's a goddamn miracle. "You guys get to be together. Them, on the other hand—"
"We almost didn't," Yeonjung gently cuts in. "Jieqiong almost didn't make the 5 a.m. flight to Korea today. They were no longer flying planes from China after 10."
"Still. You are all here, regardless,” you say. “Even if you're not together, you all could have said goodbye to each other through calls or some physical meeting. They can't."
She blinks. Stares at her girls, then at her juniors. Subtly, she shakes her head. "They deserved better, you know. All of them. I wish they were here too."
"They are," is your reply. "In a way, I can feel them. Somehow."
The I.O.I girls finish exchanging pleasantries, and you feel the attention being redirected toward you as Rei nudges Sejeong in your direction. They surround you completely, offering apologies in their own personality and pace for ignoring you. Everywhere you turn, there's a face saying 'sorry' and bowing. You can hear the girls laughing in the background, Yunjin and Rei especially, as they wish to be with your group for the grand finale. Of course you say yes; even when you're the only person who might say no—and you won't—the supermajority won't accept that.
Ultimately, there's about forty or fifty or so here on the cliffs on Jeju, with front row seats to Earth's grand finale.
As the hours fly by, you watch the last of this world fall apart. Slowly. Surely.
First it was the networks. With less than 4 hours to go, all non-news related broadcasting said their goodbyes; each station played their last songs and aired their final programs. DJs bid their own farewells, each one no less emotionally charged and heavy:
"To all our listeners, we thank you. Thank you for tuning in, for staying with us, for keeping this job a joy even during our hardest days. We don't know what comes next. None of us do. But what we do know, is that we've shared something with you—something real, something human—and for that, we are grateful."
"If you're still listening, please. Call your mother. Call your father. Call the friend you haven't spoken to in years. Make amends. Forgive. We don't have much time left, but we have enough to leave without any regrets."
"This is KBS Radio 1. We are signing off. God bless you. God bless us all."
The services followed not long after. Telecommunications, electricity, the like–you all know because you've heard from acquaintances in the mainland and in other countries that everyone has been left to fend for themselves now. Most governments have gone into hiding, and the few that stayed are choosing to fall with their respective nations. This was a given. They'll have to live in a world that's certainly gonna be uninhabitable for millions of years.
That's their problem to deal with. For now, it's cosmic judgment given in the form of a giant rock. It's visible in the sky now as the skies turn from blue to orange, clearly seen through binoculars and telescopes, careening down at God knows what speed, because the time between impact and after is almost instantaneous. You wouldn't know what hit you.
37 minutes left, Yeonjung's custom built ticker reads. You've lost access to the internet an hour ago, so it could land any time now. She says that Dayoung managed to put it together by connecting it to NASA's database, the hows and whys she has no clue. Of course she did; she does just about anything and it fucking works. This doohickey is also why you still have communication with everyone else. There's a lifetime of questions you want to ask, but it all feels irrelevant in the face of imminent death.
Through the radar, you hear NASA and other rogue teams are pulling off the sci-fi bullshit hail mary you've seen in films: they're sending astronauts to space by blowing up the meteor before it hits earth. The rockets are already en route to meet it, and the plan is just straight up ripped from Armageddon. Dig through the center and detonate everything from the core. It's fucking stupid in the movie, it's even dumber in real life.
"Did they ever name the asteroid?" Eunchae asks innocently. "I don't think they ever said it in the news, or maybe I forgot."
"Hmm," Yeonjung ruminates, "I think it was called Luminary for how bright it was on their satellites. They missed it by 2 days."
"Sounds stupid," Somi scoffs. "Should have called B.B.S for Big Bullshit."
Just the small banter between people, not just these girls in general, feels like a relic in this heightened atmosphere. To think you'll be beyond history—not lost in the record books, not something to be remembered more than a number, a statistic—should daunt you. It doesn't; it just makes these moments more special.
Outside of you and a few others tracking the asteroid, everyone's waiting anxiously for the end. Couples, families, friends, fresh acquaintances all standing on a field looking up at the sky. Elsewhere, life goes on. The earth still spins. Nature continues its cycle with blissful innocence. It's hauntingly beautiful.
Repentance, regret—you'll save it for the afterlife when you knock on heaven's throne.
10 minutes remain. The asteroid is much clearer now; it's a gargantuan mass hurtling down in a wave of its own smoke with small crackles in the middle and around the sides. The hail mary must have failed, you assume, given there's no update since. Yeonjung ultimately decides to close the radar and join the others in facing the end. All of you do so as well. You make the short climb up the hill to meet it at the summit.
As you look around, there's this underlying dread behind each person's eyes. That maybe, just maybe, they're not ready to die just yet. They're all still in their 20s to 30s, with so much ahead of them, only for that opportunity to be prematurely taken away. Liz and Rei are holding hands. Eunchae and Leeseo are hugging each other. They're then cuddled by Kazuha and Gaeul, reassuring them that everything will be okay. Yunjin has her hands folded, feeling shivers down her spine. The wind is getting cooler; the evening breeze is approaching. The ocean bleeds orange on the horizon; the sun is sinking down.
"Do you have any regrets?" Yunjin asks suddenly, facing you as she rubs her hands on the sleeves of her shirt, uselessly keeping warmth. It's quiet, kept specifically for you.
Your brows furrow. "Regrets about what?"
"Anything. Life, love, career—anything you regret. Could be spending your last days with us."
"Definitely not," you answer calmly. "Being with you is the best thing I could have done. For a couple of days, I actually felt normal. Like I was in my youth again."
She smiles. Small, but heartfelt. That's all she needs to hear.
"And what about you?" you ask in turn.
"None," she says simply, like she's secure in herself. "I got to sing, dance, and be on stage with the people I love. That's more than what most people get."
"And Chaewon?"
"She's in my heart. That's all that matters."
Someone's playing a song on their phone. Not the choices you shared over marshmallows and around a campfire, but something different. Downpour, because today feels like a terrible day for rain.
You track the source. It's Kang Mina. She's on the verge of tears.
"You alright?" you ask her. She doesn't reply at first; it takes a moment before she looks at you and her brain loads. Blinking, she wipes a stray tear from her eye.
"Yeah," she answers, nodding erratically. Her body's trembling nervously. "Just—I missed out on a lot. I wasn't there for the 10th anniversary comeback and tour, and then the 15th one as well, thinking there would be time for me to join the 20th. And then" —she sobs— "this. I took everything for granted."
A hand finds her shoulder. Somi's. Sejeong follows. The other girls follow shortly after in shared comfort.
"You'll always be I.O.I, remember?" Sejeong says. "Doesn't matter if you weren't there for the reunions. What matters is you are I.O.I, no matter what. That part of you will always remain, wherever you are."
"That goes for the rest of us," Sohye adds. "And even if it was because of a giant rock, I'm glad we got to share one final moment together. All of us."
"Thank you girls," Mina mutters as she sobs into her members' arms. They share a warm hug that also makes you smile. You may not know these girls, but you can resonate with this shared bond. What a beautiful final sight of humanity.
But now there's the meteor, burning overhead. Not even Hollywood's best IMAX cameras can fully capture the scope of this beast. The air feels hotter; breathing is akin to inhaling in a closed room full of nitrogen and metal. It's descending faster than you can comprehend it.
You pull out your phone. Not to take a photo like any dumb influencer, but to play your song. The opening melody and harmony of Colors rings in the air, but everyone's too engrossed by the sheer scale of the asteroid to notice. It's borderline inaudible, almost drowned out by the whistle of the falling star above, but the lyrics are clear—that's all that matters.
You should be seeing your life flash before your eyes. Glimpses of your childhood and growing up, the inevitable fall out that led you to Korea and where you are now. None of that. Nothing really comes to mind, not even the girls that inspired this song. Just a preoccupied head more concerned about what's waiting on the other side than the end of all things.
Ahead of a small crowd gathered at the hill of Jeju's cliffs, you stand headfirst, facing the sun. The light becomes brighter by the second until it's blinding. You close your eyes—and smile.
The end.
—————
You wake to a shining light. This must be heaven—
Except you're still here. Still breathing. Staring the asteroid right in the face.
It's up there, several thousand feet in the sky, its presence almost swallowing the entirety of the cliff you're standing on, but it's not moving anymore. Sure, it leaves a massive trail of smoke in its wake, but any forward—or downward—momentum has been completely shunted.
Something is keeping the asteroid from falling. You look around and the others, too, are also suspended in frozen animation. Only you seem to be conscious and able to move around. But you don't go too far; you look up again and find the source holding it together: a small beam of light rising from the ocean, finding its way up to the hill. Purple, blue, white—it's every color of the spectrum all at once.
Instinctively, you close your eyes from its dazzling gleam. Its glare relaxes, even as bright and as colorful as it shines. Open them, and it's transformed into a ray punching into the asteroid's core. Still no source. And then—
They're right there. Facing the meteor. Surrounding you.
Hands raised to the sky, each one radiates the color associated with their youth, pouring their light into the asteroid, keeping it from falling any further. They're not real; this is all a figment of your imagination. The memories that were supposed to flash before you die. But no—they're actually pushing the planetoid back. They look exactly the way you or anyone last saw them: alive and in good spirits.
You can't speak. Your eyes remain wide, unable to maintain a gaze at any one of them. Sheer, utter disbelief. You want to hold out and feel them; you don't.
She finds the opportunity to glance at you. Beams.
"We've been waiting for you," Eunbi says, relaxing her arms, but still pouring her light into the beam. She shouldn't be here, but she's real. The voice, the frame—all clear to your senses. "I'm so happy we're still remembered like this."
"We've been waiting for the right time," Sakura clarifies, flicking her gaze at Chaewon. "And this is it."
Chaewon's eyes glance at the girls behind you, more specifically Yunjin, Kazuha, and Eunchae. "I'm so proud of what these girls have become. We're here. Always have been. Even when you couldn't see us, we were keeping track of everything. You remembered us. And we are so grateful."
Suddenly, the meteor groans, pushes down slightly. The girls wince, their faces straining as they're forced to lift their arms higher, exerting more effort than usual. It's a stalemate.
"We don't have a lot of time," Yujin states. "Well, we do. We can easily destroy this meteor, but we don't want to do it by ourselves."
"We want you to help us," Wonyoung adds. Her eyes tilt to the people behind you, encompassing the greater crowd, not just the ones still present. They land on Gaeul, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo, and she looks at each of them proudly. "All of you. The ones who still remembered. The ones who kept us alive."
They're not moving. Not at all. Their words confuse you at first, but you've seen stranger things.
"What do I have to do?" you ask, panicked and desperate.
"Lift your hands," Chaeyeon answers, tilting her head, smiling. "Your light. It's just as powerful as the rest of ours."
But there's nothing resembling light coming out.
"Are you sure?" You hesitate.
"We are!" Yena shouts exuberantly. She reaches out her hand. At the same time, they begin floating. "Now come on. We can do this. Together."
For a moment, you don't follow. Part of you thinks this is all just a weird afterlife dream. That you're seeing ghosts. Hope manifesting through some forgotten nostalgia. But her hand is still there, waiting for you to take that leap.
Ultimately, you take her hand. It's warm. Solid. She's real. They all are. And before you know it, you begin levitating off the ground too.
After only a few moments, Yena lets go; you don't fall. Rather, you're suspended in the air as they climb just a little higher, encircling right under the asteroid.
"Come on. Join us," Hitomi urges. There's no urgency, merely a kind call to action.
And just like the Apostle Peter, you struggle to find your footing. Not for lack of faith, but at the absurdity of it all: 12 ghosts making you face death like this. It feels like a rite of passage more than anything else. But you follow along, because a small fraction of you wants to believe.
Eventually, you catch up to their height. Several thousand feet in the sky. You're walking on air.
"Lend us your light," Hyewon prods. "It's been in you the entire time."
Their light is getting stronger; the collective beam is slowly pushing back the asteroid. The shadow overhead is shrinking down to the edge of the cliff. They can singlehandedly shatter this meteor; you're just there as a private audience.
But they still reach out to you. To make you feel that you belong.
"Be here," Minju chimes in.
"We need you," Nako pleads.
"Trust us," Yuri adds last. "We miss you too. All of you. But we're so thankful you brought them together when we couldn't."
The meteor is pushing down once more. They struggle to hold the beam together. The light is flickering.
"Come on. You've given us this," Eunbi pertains to the people below. Maybe more than that. The thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions, who still remember them. "Now help us repay the favor. And as an apology for not saying goodbye properly."
After a moment's contemplation, you hold out your arms. Slowly, still hesitating. Faith is the one thing pushing you forward when all seems lost. As your hands match level with theirs, light begins to pour from your palms. Colorless at first, but when it joins the group's beam, it changes into every one of each member before the collective ray turns to a bright green. The meteor is being thrust upward again; more importantly, it's starting to crack at its center.
"It's breaking," Sakura remarks, her brows narrowing. "A little more. We can do this."
The beam continues to change colors, going through each member's signature over and over. The asteroid groans; it's being pierced through the core, now a few feet into being punched through. Hairline fractures spread throughout the massive body, the cracks being filled by the devouring light.
"It's falling apart," you say, in awe at what's happening. There's no way you'll explain any of this without being sent off to a psych ward or a therapist. Or maybe this is just one last fever soaked dream before you died. Can go either way.
Nevertheless, the possibility of a miracle spurs you on. So you push. Extend your arms higher, giving it all that you have. You want this more than even they do. You're fueled by love, loss, faith, fear, hope, desperation, sorrow, joy—everything in between. It powers your light too. The meteor begins glowing brightly.
"Almost," Yujin exclaims. "We're doing it! Just a little more—"
You don't know where this side of you came from, but you let out a roar that dissolves into background noise. As the world goes silent, you can feel the giant rock being crushed with your very hands. Down below, you can feel the earth tremble even from up in the sky. The girls are beginning to fade in and out too. The light has become as wide as the meteor itself—pure, distilled white hue.
The light overwhelms your senses. The asteroid is all but consumed. The last thing you hear before you reach the other side, faint and almost imperceptible, a shared voice:
"Thank you. For everything."
—————
Might as well face the music.
Here's the cold, hard truth: they were gone. They've been gone. As in, it's not April 29, 2021 because you have that date marked on the calendar like Christmas or any other holiday, nor was it anything like three years ago, when contract negotiations were public and messy and there was reason to believe one or two of them would walk away forever. They did, all of them, but not in the way you expect careers to end: sudden, tragic.
The thing about death is that it comes without warning. One minute, you have a bright future and rest of your life ahead of you, the next you're collapsing during a fashion event and it's all for nothing. That's exactly what happened to Wonyoung. She was the first to go, and you can't come to terms with the cruel irony of her fate: she was the center, and she died as the center of attention. Natural causes, the doctors and coroners said, a byproduct of being too young and too in demand. It shook the entire industry, called into question whether she had been overworked to the bone (she was). She never complained; she was the consummate worker who kept things professional. Part of you believes she regrets signing that extension, but you'll never know.
Unsurprisingly, they were never the same after. Yujin tried her best to hold them together, but a reckless drunk driver was feeling too egotistical to let go of the wheel on a lonely night, and she paid the price. She was holding a Cherry plush in remembrance of her at the crime scene, which made her untimely demise all the more heartbreaking. The rest of the girls—they haven't had a comeback since then. Shelved, and probably for the best.
It's only these two so far, but part of you hurts remembering. And then there's the rest:
Chaewon had this nagging neck injury after that one accursed move that initially sidelined her for months. One slip in their dorm and then she was gone. Sakura found her half an hour later and rushed her to the hospital to no avail. She blamed herself not being there to save her on time, and it'd come full circle: a sasaeng pulled a knife on Kazuha during one of their fanmeets and she stepped in to take what would have been a hit to the stomach. Likewise, she was hospitalized but it was too late: she had bled out. HYBE kept the girls, promising to support them, but they never did. They were sidelined in favor of their newer groups. Yunjin saw the light and was trying desperately to terminate their contracts, but nothing came of it.
Eunbi was trying something different; she wanted to be an action star. Naturally, there were stunt sequences, and unlike others who opted for doubles, she insisted on doing them herself. A wire malfunction caused her to fly 30 feet into the air and crash facefirst into one of the buildings used for the set. Pure negligence on the production team and coordinator's part; that wire was reportedly having issues but they were saving costs and filming time. Another life carelessly lost.
Hyewon's probably the one with the best outcome: she simply died of natural causes. She was found sound asleep in her apartment one day after watching anime the night before and never woke up. Too soon, everyone would say. Never had any underlying health issues that were publicly addressed, just someone who was never meant to stay here on this earth a long time.
Yena's past would come back to haunt her. Recurrence. She knew she was always on borrowed time, and while she would fight it at first, she recognized it was a losing battle. No wonder she gave it her all: every performance, every song, every time she talked, she spoke like it would be her last. And she shined brighter during her final moments than any other period.
Chaeyeon loved her sister. That's a given. But she loved her so much that she didn't hesitate to give up her heart for transplant. A shared, undiscovered hereditary disease meant both of them were essentially ticking timebombs, and she wanted to make sure her sister could live to see another day.
Hitomi loved her members. Took care of them as her own sisters and daughters. One rainy night, their van was speeding to the next schedule when it hydroplaned into a barrier on the highway. The car tumbled over and ended up upside down. She held onto the members as it crashed, and that's how they managed to survive. She was the only casualty of that accident.
Nako was at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was deep in the pit of a music festival when the crowd began pressing in after some maniac brought in a gun and opened fire. Suffocated and passed out as she tried to find shelter from the chaos. A bullet did not kill her, but the commotion that caused it did.
Yuri got into one of the messiest relationships ever. After co-starring as one of the leads in a critically acclaimed drama, she ended up falling in love with her co-star. They became an instant power couple, further sparked by more successful projects. Then he was caught cheating on her with a younger actress, but he denied the allegations and even proposed to Yuri as a way to save face. After getting exposed a second time with a different actress, he ended up getting into this heated argument with Yuri while driving and struck another car that ended up totaling their vehicle, killing them both on the spot.
Minju became the dying ember of an era. She had been to every single one of her member's funerals, and with each appearance, people could tell it affected her greatly. She was losing weight, getting more and more wrinkly despite her age, and didn't appear in public as much. The stress and heartbreak of losing everyone she loved proved to be too much, and she eventually suffered her own heart attack not long after Yuri's passing. She felt that she shouldn't have to go alone, and so she followed her in the afterlife.
One by one, the lights flickered in and out until there was none. It had been almost two years since Minju, the last of their legacy, passed. Truly nothing was ever the same. The groups, the people closest to them, the fans who still remembered—it was impossible to move on. The fact that they all went in near quick succession is haunting to think about. Like death specifically wanted them all, because being apart wasn't an option. They had to be together. They were family.
This was the lie that kept you going. You deluded yourself into believing they were together somewhere. Just not here; up there. Living their best lives. They had been talking about it, too. In the months leading to their departure, after the dust settled and contracts were made flexible, rumblings began. It was the worst kept secret in the world. Even their members got in on the act. Their schedules were clearing up specifically to make an album and a tour happen. This was the closure you were finally waiting over a decade for.
And then it wasn't.
Everything else happened, and the dream was simply just that: a dream. While the world moved on and memories faded, you refused. The girls and the people they left behind couldn't. For them, it was more than losing an idol: it was losing a leader, a member, a sister, a friend. For you, it was your youth, your spark, a piece of your soul with every member's passing. And so it was. Little by little, you detached from the world until all twelve were gone. Truthfully, you died the same day Minju died; every day after was merely a corpse walking amongst the living, a puppet without its strings.
And as you float along the line between the living and the dead, you realize that there's more to this life than staying in the past. The future can be scary sometimes. Nostalgia brings comfort. But that doesn't mean you have to be consumed by it. Like Nako once said, even when they're apart, the fact they existed means they happened. That they will always come at the right time.
That was the closure you got, but never fully understood. Until now.
—————
You find yourself lying on the ground somehow.
The sun is still setting on the horizon. The evening breeze begins to settle. You scramble to your feet to see if the meteor is on its way down—and nothing. Just an orange sky giving way for starry night. But in its wake, sparkling dust as fine as snow slowly descends to the Earth, spreading throughout the sea and the cliffs where you stand.
It's beautiful.
The crowd looks just as confused as you are. People are holding out their hands, catching stray drops, glistening and glowing in their palm.
Eunchae is the first to vocalize it. "What—what just happened?"
No one speaks, initially. They're too in disbelief to make sense of anything. The closest explanation anyone has is from Leeseo, and even that sounds too farfetched: "It just—disintegrated. It was falling, we were all blinded by the light, and next thing you know, it was—gone."
A ripple of murmurs passes through the small congregation. Some say it actually dissolved upon entering the stratosphere. Others suggest the ocean swallowed it whole (but where's the massive hole in the earth's crust and why are the waters still there). You've got a few proclaiming divine intervention, doesn't matter which god. But you know the truth. What you saw felt the most real, because you experienced it up close and personal.
You just can't bring yourself to say it.
Because, first of all, you don't believe. Not fully. None of these people will, either, not even the girls. How can you explain articulately that the 12 ghosts you trauma bonded over appeared and helped you vaporize the asteroid on some anime bullshit. There's no plausible way to make your case without sounding like a deranged fan who needs a realty check.
None of that matters now. What's important is that you're here. Everyone is. Still breathing. Still alive.
Yunjin looks like she's on the verge of tears. She falls to her knees dramatically, the kind that's earned after an exhausting battle. "The world—"
She's overwhelmed with bliss and relief to finish her sentence. Can't find the words.
"It's still here," she manages. "We're still here."
The emotions from everyone else burst open. Laughter from the elderly, children's screams, hugs and sobs from friends, family, and lovers realizing they've been given a second chance at life and won't take it for granted again.
And sure, you have no one to grab in the moment. You're acquaintances at best. But you look up at the sky and find solace knowing you're never alone.
Minutes later, communications are restored. Everyone is celebrating. News channels and radio broadcasts return overjoyed, unable to contain themselves:
"The world as we know it, is well and truly safe—"
"Scientists are baffled—religious groups are calling for prayers of thanksgiving—"
"This is a story about the indomitable human spirit, says the Italian president—"
And the scenes. The absolute scenes around the world. People are breaking out into the streets hugging, crying, wreaking havoc out of sheer happiness. Bottles are popped. Flags are waved. Not in celebration for a city or a country, but for humanity as a whole.
Meanwhile, as night falls over Jeju, a massive campfire party is underway. The idols are singing like they've redebuted. Like they've found reason to perform again.
You can hear their shouts and laughs from the cliff's peak. You've stayed behind, still thinking about the dream. About them. If it really was indeed their doing. You haven't brought it up to anyone even once, never hinted at it, and probably never will. Only after you eventually face your maker, and then you will find out the answer.
But that's for one day. Someday, but not today.
Until then, you look up at the sky once more. The moon is out. Comets and meteorites are flying past. And high in the cosmos, 12 stars are shining brighter than the rest. Their time may have gone, but as long as they live in your memories and hearts, they will always exist.
With one hand you reach out, similar to the way you shattered the asteroid together. Nothing emanates from your palm, but the moon reflects its light down. It's the closest you'll get to feeling them. And through the dark, you hold out the photo with the other, still untouched by the elements. Proof that they're alive.
You hold it close. You can hear their voices echo in your head.
I will show you my colors.
And you can't help but smile.
"Hey." Someone’s calling out, so you turn around. It's Yunjin. "We're about to have dinner. Come on. Let's eat."
"I'll be there shortly," you say. She grins as she walks away.
As you follow her into a future that's bright and promising, the stars above twinkle. Shifting into their colors without anyone noticing, they disappear.
Forever written on the clouds.
—————
(a/n: sorry this took long
originally, this was meant to be a secret "13th" day fic for iz*mas when i reposted the series on fanprose, but i didn't expect how lengthy this would end up being! I also wanted to do a disaster fic, heavily inspired by Armageddon and Deep Impact (you can tell i watched a bit of pointlesshub). if i hardly mentioned their names, it was a deliberate writing choice for the plot, but the twist feels kinda obvious tbh lol. i wanted their presence to permeate throughout the story but through the lens of different characters and what it would be like without them. not sure if they count as killing an idol since they do happen before the story starts, but i ended up explaining in gruesome detail how lol. something different before i embark on my most ambitious string of projects yet, thank you for reading! ♡)
"The Kim Gaeul that hired me?" "Who else, dumbass."
You almost miss the turn.
The steering wheel jerks slightly under your hands as your vans run along the road. Sunlight flashes through the trees lining the long road adorned with what you called "money house". The painting is secured in the back, wrapped carefully in brown paper and bubble wrap (Hair tie, 24/09), and delivering to your lovely frequent buyer, the Ji family. Usually the ride is quiet, with the radio tuning on pop music or whatever…
But no, this time is just Sakura yapping.
"The same girl, yes," she says with a tone far too cheerful. "The shit eating girlie."
"It's poop-flavoured curry."
"You told me you two ate literal shit."
You sigh, pinching your nose bridge for a moment. "Anyway, you're telling me she signed up for Rent-a-Friend voluntarily?"
"Fill out the form like us too. Ya, she wrote this long, earnest section about wanting to learn how to connect with people without pressure and trying something unfamiliar."
Ok, that tracks painfully well.
You glance at the traffic light ahead. "Did she say why?"
"Let me check…the form says: inspired by a particular cute guy."
"Don't fuck with me, Kkura." "I'm not!"
Yeah, you don’t believe her one bit, but Sakura still defends herself. "Do you know how excruciating it is to read reviews of you and not mine? Are you trying to rub it off your face?"
You snort. "Your fault for reading it."
"Oh jeez I wonder why?" She continues. "Totally not because management assigned me to train her. ME!"
The light turns red. But you haven't moved yet.
"YOU?!" You shout. “They didn’t think to—oh, I don’t know—assign the person she actually hired?”
"I guess they want the same gender just because."
"Gosh, Gaeul's gonna have one rough time." "You bitch!"
"You invoice people wrong for 3 weeks. I heard from management." "Okay, that was one time."
"She's going to think the whole service is a scam."
Sakura clicks her tongue. "You're just mad because YOU want to be her trainer."
The car honks behind you, and you finally step on the pedal. The road starts to widen now, buildings thinning out, iron gates and tall hedges replacing storefronts. The Ji family mansion isn’t that far, and you can already picture the long driveway, the security booth, the polite nod from the guard who recognizes your car by now.
'Why would I be?"
"Oh please." Sakura laughs. "She's really pretty even from me. And you just want to move on from your ex."
"Shut up and hang up."
"Gosh you are so baby. Anyway, I'll train her well. Just so that you can be soooo happy when you see her."
The wrought-iron gates of the Ji mansion come into view, black and immaculate, already beginning to slide open as your car approaches. You pull into the driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. The mansion looms ahead, expansive yet pristine as always.
“I’m here,” you say. “Don’t traumatize her.”
“No promises,” Sakura replies. “But hey — if she quits, I’m blaming you.”
And the line goes beep.
-
You wait.
That's usually how it goes when delivering to the Ji family — just some peacefully quiet stretches of nothing before you hit the road again. You stand near the edge of the main hall at first, then drift outside when the quiet gets a bit too overbearing, and the painting is still wrapped tightly.
You always wander around the path, and as usual, always marvel at the cleanliness and the scale. Trimmed hedges, pale stone paths, and a fountain splashing softly somewhere. Don’t even start on the fresh smell of grass mixed with something floral and expensive that probably has a French name you can’t pronounce. It feels familiar, actually, remembering how you peeked over the giant walls of your ex's house while waiting for her to sneak out.
That's when you notice a girl. From afar.
She's further in the garden, under a pergola. One leg against a wooden bench, her body folds with slowed and controlled precisions. The late afternoon light filters through the deciduous trees, casting patterns across her delicate shoulders. She has this dark hair pulled into a neat bun, and a leotard that makes you question if cold is a foreign concept for her.
Who is she, really? You’ve never seen her around here before. Maybe you missed her — the mansion is really fucking big.
Well, curiosity kills the cat, so you just walk to the uncharted habitat. Your footsteps crunch against the gravels and the shriveled leaves, and she turns her head to the noise immediately. Her posture instinctively straightens up before she relaxes again, and her face beams with a smile.
She lifts her hand and waves.
Oh. A little awkward, yourself, but you return it. "Hey. Um…Hi."
She doesn't respond. Just tilts her head slightly, seemingly waiting. Interesting. "Sorry, I was just…" You vaguely gesture around like that explains anything. "…uh, anyway, whatcha doing here?"
She blinks. And then her hands move with such fluidity and precision. Beautiful too, have to include that — she really has long and delicate fingers, yet she moves it to form some sort of symbols so quick as if she has done it her whole life.
It takes you exactly two seconds to realise you have absolutely no fucking clue what she just said. "Ah…ok, that's on me."
She puts one hand over her dainty lips and silently (and politely) laughs. Her shoulders lifting up and down, probably have gotten used to this scenario. Before you embarrass yourself further for your ignorance, you reach into your breast pocket (thank fuck you're wearing polo jacket today) and pull out your notebook and pen.
Quickly flipping through the paper, you hastily scribble. "Can we write?" You wrote.
She reminds you of Pingu a lot when her eyes beam up immediately. Her hands take them from yours with a degree of carefulness, and then write neatly and quickly.
"Hi! My name is Ji Suhyeon!"
Ji…Suhyeon? Ji? The Ji family?
Now it makes sense. The owner usually talks to you about his only daughter inside the mansion busy with her practice. So this is what she looks lik— oh, she's writing something else.
"'Su' as in excellent or long-lived, and 'Hyeon' as in worthy or wise. My name, you can think of it as 'exemplary virtue'"
You stare at the page for a second. Woah, beautiful name, and beautiful explanation too.
"Nice to meet you too, Suhyeon." Your hand quickly catches up with your voice. Your name is written down first, then usual greetings as the notebook is being exchanged back and forth like you have been doing it for ages.
She writes again. "I'm a ballerina, as you can see."
That doesn't surprise you at all. "Yeah, I figured. Don't worry."
She looks amused, and then adds more. "Your paintings are so pretty. It looks great around the houses. My father really likes collecting them."
You give her an appreciative bow. "That is very kind of you, Suhyeon. Guess I will give your dad a discount for this one."
She bites her lips to not let out a smile. She fails, and you swear this girl will be the death of you today. "I often see you from far away when you bring paintings. This is the first time we really talk. Well, writing."
You huff. "Yeah. Writing."
"Kind of like texting on Insta." "Yeah, kind of like tex—" Wait.
Insta?
"Couldn't we just text on SNS?"
Suhyeon looks at the words on the paper, and it looks like the realisation hits her too. She smacks the notebook on her forehead and silently laughs again, her shoulders shaking.
You burst out laughing too. 'Right? We're standing here like back in the 1800s."
She scribbles faster now. "I forgot that you might not know sign language, so I just write automatically."
You follow suit with the line underneath. "I forgot SNS exists, so we're even."
She tilts her head, still somehow keeping the posture since you come over, then writes: "Do you want to add me on Insta?"
How straightforward she is.
You nod quickly, and your hand hastily grabs the phone out of the pocket before handing it to her. She takes it with both hands — careful, almost ceremonial, even — and types in her handle. When she gives it back, the screen is still on her profile: @jiyeon. But the profile picture is the main show. It's not some ethereal and graceful ballerina professional portrait. It's…actually just a zoomed-in selfie, with her cheeks puffed out and her eyes as wide and bright. Kinda like Pingu.
You look up at her, and she is as frozen as the rock nearby her. Her ears are red. Her cheeks are red. Even the tips of her fingers look red.
You look back at your phone.
Then at her.
Then back at the phone.
"…Pff."
She lunges and tries to yank your phone away. You dodge it instinctively, not because you are trying not to break it, but just because her reaction is hilarious. Feeling defeated, she scribbles aggressively in your notebook. "It's not funny!"
You grin. "It very much is. Funny, cute, and elegant.”
Her cheeks turn pink as she writes. "YES, MY IMAGE IS VERY ELEGANT." in all caps.
You look her up and down slowly, analysing the posture, the bun, the breathing, and then back to the puffy cheeks. Then you nod solemnly. "Of course, very elegant."
She narrows her eyes at you. Then, after a second, she writes, with a belated sigh. "Please forget what you saw."
You (fake) contemplate for a moment, then write. "Nah"
She swats your arm with your notebook while puffing her cheeks. And you have to admit it — she looks cuter than Pingu.
The recovery takes a while before a comfortable pause settles between you. No more sounds of scribbling — just the gentle rhythm from the fountains and the rustle of the overhead canopy. Somewhere up in the tree, a bird startles and takes off.
You write again. "I do other work too." You hesitate about writing it down, but you decide to do it anyway. "Rent-a-frien—"
"Oh, hey!" A voice cuts cleanly through the garden. You flinch slightly, instinctively straightening as one of the Ji family’s dealers steps out onto the stone path. He’s already adjusting his glasses, tablet tucked under his arm. Right, time to do my actual business here.
You wince apologetically at Suhyeon. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, tapping the notebook lightly. “I’ve gotta—”
A thumb up from her comes quickly. She hands you your notebook and pen back carefully, fingers lightly brushes yours. You step back, already shifting into your polite-business mode, but your phone buzzes in your hand.
@jiyeon sent you a message.
You look up. She’s holding her own phone now, pretending very hard to look composed. Elegant. Untouched by embarrassment… maybe.
Jiyeon:
It was nice to finally meet you properly.
(Not like the 1800s writing version.)
You look up at her. “It was,” and this time there’s no teasing tone. "See you around, Suhyeon."
And before you finally leave her alone, you type back one more thing.
You:
Modern technology is amazing. See you around…puffy.
Jiyeon:
Delete that nickname right now.
-
A few weeks later, you're standing on your tiptoes like a darn moron, purely because you are too lazy to drag the ladder from across the studio.
To be fair, your fresh stack of notebooks is idling on the top of your sketching bookshelves. The ladder — perfectly usable and stable — is leaning against the opposite wall. Yet, instead of grabbing it, you decided that today is the day you deepen your understanding of ballerinas.
Specifically, the foundation of the whole art form. Pointe.
"Okay…" you breathe heavily and rise slowly, one hand braced against the shelf and your calves immediately screaming to stop. "So far so good, I hope."
You rise a little higher anyway, trying to mimic what you remember from the sketches and reference photos. Weight forward, ankles straight, balance centred. Shift your weight forward an- yea, no. No. No. Instant regret. Mayday, mayday. Board the ship. Your calves literally scream, and your toes are carrying the entire weight of your body, and for one horrifying second you understand why ballerinas either deserve medals or lifetime free healthcare.
“Oh this is ba—”
Your phone buzzes. The vibration nearly makes you lose balance. You drop flat onto your feet so fast the impact echoes slightly against the studio floor. Honestly, you almost fell on your butt. But luckily, you catch yourself on the edge of the desk, wincing as blood rushes back into your feet.
“…Ow.”
Finally, you check your phone.
Jiyeon:
Are you alive?
You snort.
You:
Somewhat. Just studying pointe for sketching practices, and I think my ankles are dying.
Jiyeon:
Are you trying it barefoot? You're not supposed to!
You:
Oh really?
Jiyeon:
You’re stupid. We have paddings in the shoe.
It feels like you're winning life when a pretty girl tells you that you are stupid. Huh, 'she' always called you stupid back then, well until you can't differentiate if it was affectionate or she was just berating.
The thought flickers past and you shove it away quickly.
You:
Oh…..
Well, ahem. How do you do?
Nice pivot.
Jiyeon:
I’m okay. Just practicing a lot.
Wyd?
You glance around your studio.
Papers scatter everywhere. Charcoal dust near your elbow. A half-finished study of a foot en pointe (sort of badly proportioned, now after a look.) But after Jiyeon’s explanation about padding, suddenly something clicks in your head. Gotta do it later otherwise you forget.
You:
Drawing. Thinking of pulling another all-nighter after you told me I'm stupid.
You?
Jiyeon:
Just practicing. Recital soon.
You:
Nervous?
The three dots linger longer than before. And then it's gon— oh, it comes back.
Jiyeon:
A little.
You:
You'll do well.
Jiyeon:
I searched something.
…That is not the usual response to encouragement.
You:
What is?
Jiyeon:
Rent-a-friend.
Holy fucking shit. Your mouth — no wait, your fingers — and their stupid slip ups. Why did you even mention that job to her in the garden that day? You start pacing across the studio, bare feet tapping against the floor. But if she hires you… fine. That’s the job. But something about mixing work with someone you actually enjoy talking to makes your stomach twist weirdly. And clients with money (also 'her') always bring complications. Except the Ji family. they’re… nice.
Still. You wipe your palms on your shirt.
You:
Ah…it's pretty easy to find, yeah.
Jiyeon:
Your profile picture is less elegant than mine.
The ballerina, the witch, and the audacity of this bi—
You:
Hold on, what?
Jiyeon:
Did you just wake up and take a photo?
You stare at your profile picture in silence. Messy hair. Half-awake expression. Coffee mug in frame.
You:
…no comment.
Jiyeon:
Gosh, good thing I'm outside to help you out.
“Oh wow,” you mutter. “How kind of her.” Clearly she’s here to save your public image. Maybe recommend clothes. Maybe fix your lighting. She probably has good taste — ballerinas live in elegance and aesthetics after all. And with the kind of money the Ji family has, she could try every fashion style in existence.
…actually, dial back, outside?
You:
Outside where?
A knock hits your studio door. Your brain takes a second to catch up.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me." You walk to the door, already rubbing your hands on your shirt to get rid of some of the charcoal dust. When you pull the door open, there she is.
Ji Suhyeon.
Her hair is not a bun this time, just pulled into a high, slightly messy ponytail, soft waves spilling down her back.. She's wearing an oversized gray hoodie that people will think she stole from her older siblings (she doesn't have one, as far as you know), with sleeves long enough to swallow half her hands.
And, annoyingly, the print on the hoodie is a bold, bubbly font: "I'm a bad influence."
"What…the…"
She lifts her phone slightly and tilts it toward you. Oh hey look, it's your DMs with her.
Jiyeon:
Gosh, good thing I’m here to help you out.
She looks as proud as the day Leonardo Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa.
"You could've let me know, far out." Yet, you still step aside out of habit as she slips past you into the studio like it's a normal space in her own world. It's only when she stops in front of your working area that she slows down and lets her gaze travel across the room. And now she can see the study sketches that you have been doing. A lot of them — feet en pointe, arches, half-finished poses, the same tragic drawing where the ankle angle looks painful.
"Don't even." you groan, seeing how her cheeks puff up again and trying her hardest to not laugh. "I'm not into feets, ok? Just research. Meeting you got me curious about ballerinas and stuff…yeah."
She just shrugged. How sassy, Ji Suhyeon.
Anyway, you watch as she pulls a clean page from your notebook stack (the same one you almost died retrieving) and scribbles something.
"I want to sign up."
You stare at the five words longer than you notice. "Oh."
She scribbles again. "Why do you look at me like that?"
"Wait, no I didn't mean—" You start writing a reply quickly, but before you finish she lightly smacks your side.
"I'm kidding!"
Trickster, she is. Tricksters.
Ok, then she continues. "I do have…acquaintances, I suppose. But my recital is next week, they will be spending time with their own family and stuff." She sighs for a moment before continuing. "My parents will be busy."
"Business trip?" And Suhyeon nods again.
"I got used to it, sure. But it's quite a big recital in 2 weeks…and I really wonder when I will stop dancing for an empty pair of seats."
The studio feels a little quieter after that. The air conditioner hums. A page rustles somewhere near your elbow. But none of that miniscule detail matters when you look at her, staring down at the paper like something will happen miraculously if she writes it in a magical notebook. Alas, it's not Death Note or the more positive allegory that probably exists somewhere.
Somehow, you do see yourself in her, doing things for someone you adore, only for them to not be…there, watching you. Sigh. Move on already, far out, it's been like 4 years now.
“Alright,” you say, sliding it onto the desk. “You know the terms.”
You open it, and go with the usual clauses: maximum seven days, face-to-face time covered, calls and messages included — the same formula perfectly crafted, really.
Suhyeon is way too excited to even let you finish your sentences, with the way she nods mid-explanation. She literally just signs her name quickly as soon as you finish talking, yet the handwriting is neat and confident. You sign beneath it, the scratch of pen against paper feels louder than usual.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then she stretches to the belly pocket of the hoodie, and pulls out a rather worn out ballerina shoe. Pastel pink no longer shines and soft, the poor lad is no more. The edges slightly frayed, the strings feel like it crumbles up instead of flowing freely.
"It's from my first ever recital." She writes.
Your fingers hover above the shoe before you pick it up. It’s lighter than you expected. Wow.
"Well, guess I'll be in your c—"
Your phone buzzes. You look down.
Jiyeon:
Time to update your profile!
You slowly lift your gazes toward her, and she's already holding up her phone, with the camera app open. Grinning.
"Oh FUC—"
-
A few days before the recital, you find yourself parked outside her ballet academy late at night.
The place looks very different compared to the bright, elegant studios you usually imagine when people say ballet school. The building is still beautiful, sure, but at this hour it’s quiet. The tall windows glow warm from the lights inside, stretching long golden rectangles across the damp pavement outside. Somewhere down the street a laundromat hums softly, the smell of detergent mixing with the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt.
Your engine is off, the window already rolled open. Phone in hand, you are just scrolling aimlessly for the third time. Sigh. You could be back at the studio right now. Cleaning brushes. Priming a few old canvases you’ve been neglecting. Maybe finishing that pointe sketch you butchered earlier. But instead, your fingers end up leading your screen to your DMs with Suhyeon this afternoon.
Jiyeon:
After practice… chicken?
You:
You’re the ballerina. Isn’t that illegal?
Jiyeon:
Only if someone finds out.
You:
Your instructors might kill me.
Jiyeon:
Well, protect me then, good friend.
And that's how you ended up here waiting patiently for your clie— wait no, that's rude to say that. Your friend. Yeah. (You're technically correct, but still.) It’s your new routine after accepting her request — unexpectedly becoming her chauffeur.
The studio doors eventually swing open, and the first group of ballerinas comes spilling out into the night. Even across the street, you can tell they just want to rest — make up still on, loose hoodies, puffy jackets, sneakers, tote bags slung over shoulders. Their hair — usually tightly wound into strict buns — is messy now, strands falling around their faces. Some leave in pairs, some in loud groups of four or five, laughing about something that probably happened during the rehearsal.
None of them are Suhyeon though, so you keep watching in the van. Every now and then someone glances toward the car parked along the curb. Probably wondering if you’re a driver, a parent, or some random guy waiting for someone. (Technically you’re all three.)
Finally, a familiar figure appears in the doorway. Puff— sorry, Suhyeon. But wow, even in casual clothes, she's not that hard to spot — straight spine, shoulder relaxed but not caved in. A tote bag hanging from one shoulder. No tight bun this time — just loosely tied.
But she's alone. You should come out and greet her, yeah? That sounds good.
Not so good when you hear voices nearby. A small group of ballerinas linger near the entrance, clearly not in a hurry to leave.
"…It's always weird me out." "Yeah, me too." "The instructors spend way more time correcting her."
"Right? Like the heck she's some top student." "Pleeeeeaasssee, she's nowhere near Kazuha."
The name does ring a be— ah! It's the top girl Suhyeon mentioned once before when you both were hanging out at her home garden again. The girl who everyone measures themselves against, even Suhyeon.
“It’s just favoritism.” “Exactly. If anyone deserves that level of attention, it’s Kazuha.” "Bet she's only there so that our academy can say we're inclusive."
Soft, obnoxious laughter follows before they fade away like the girls walking out. And Suhyeon is still standing there, a few steps away, and probably waiting for the sidewalk to clear before leaving.
All you feel is your heart seething out of anger and just regret. Regret to not walk over and tell them to shut the fuck up. Regret that you have to stop yourself to not taint Suhyeon's name and her hard work. What rumours can these snakes make when they see Suhyeon is being protected by a random guy they have never seen?
You know her position way to fucking well — exactly what happened to you with your ex.
So a deep breath you take. Let's not cause a drama.
You are simply here to make sure she doesn't go home thinking about those voices without one to fight back. And what you do first is to text her to know that you're here.
You:
I'm in the parking lot, Puffy.
Her head turns immediately, and her entire face changes — a tired, neutral look melts into a warm smile. Her cheeks puff up as the corners of her lips go up. She lifts her hand and waves back, quickening her pace as she walks over.
You step out of the car and open the passenger door. "Hey there, Puffy."
Which, for your kind and gentleman-like manners, she rolls her eyes as she gets in.
The moment she sits down, she exhales deeply. You don't even need to ask to know how long the rehearsal was.
"So…Chicken?"
She pulls out her phone and types.
Jiyeon:
Actually…ramen?
You glance at her. "Your instructors now WILL kill me."
Jiyeon:
I really want ramen, though.
You stare at the message for a second before just…sigh. “Fine. But if your ballet career collapses because of noodles, I’m not taking responsibility.”
Her smile is convincing enough for you to start driving toward the best ramen shop you know.
-
Credit where it's due — even though Sakura works there, the ramen shop is actually really good. Which says a lot.
(Because if you judged the place purely based on her, you assume that the broth will be just the energy drink she stocks up over the months.)
The moment you slide the door open, the little bell above it dings softly. Warm air rushes out to meet you. Steam. Soy sauce. Garlic. The low comforting smell of broth that’s been simmering for hours. It’s a small shop with a small corner. A few tables along the wall. The kind of place that’s always slightly humid from boiling pots and never fully quiet until it's late night.
Immediately, her voice comes out from the counter.
"Oh?"
You look up. "Oh."
There she is behind the counter, hair tied into a lazy ponytail, sleeves rolled up, apron tied loosely around her waist like she half-committed to the job. One hand is holding a ladle. The other is resting on the counter as she leans forward with the enthusiasm of someone who just spotted gossip walking through the door. Her eyes flick to you, then to Suhyeon, then back to you.
“Oh?” she repeats, louder this time.
"Don't even."
For context: the ramen shop belongs to Sakura’s uncle. Family business (more accurately: the only place that willingly allows Sakura’s personality to exist behind a food counter without filing complaints.) She occasionally works here when she feels like it, which is about once or twice a week. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights.
“Well well well,” she says, tapping the ladle against the pot. “Look who finally brought a girl here.”
Suhyeon pauses beside you, and you instinctively shield her from your annoying friend/coworker. "Don't worry, she's annoying but harmless."
"I'm not annoying!" "You are."
You walk to the counter anyway and slide onto one of the stools, and Suhyeon sits beside you.
“You going to introduce us,” she says sweetly, “or should I just assume things?”
“You assume things anyway.” “Correct.”
Hah, this girl. "This is Suhyeon." And Suhyeon lifts a hand in a small wave.
Sakura watches her carefully for a moment, then notices the way Suhyeon reaches for her phone and types quickly.
Jiyeon:
Hi. I’m Suhyeon.
Sakura blinks once, twice, and then: "Oh." Then her grin comes back even bigger. “Well that explains why he actually behaved himself for once.”
“Sakura,” you say flatly. “Can you please just bring me the usual and give Suhyeon extra toppings?”
Sakura ignores you completely. She leans closer to Suhyeon, elbows on the counter like they’re already friends. "How do you know this idiot?"
You open your mouth, but Suhyeon's fingers are faster.
Jiyeon:
We're friends.
The kitchen behind bubbles quietly. A point boils. A fan hums. Then she slowly turns her head toward you. "You did not just bring a client to my ramen shop."
You shrug. "It's your uncle's"
"Don't even." "Hey, we want ramen."
She looks at you, then back to Suhyeon once more. "WAIT! Aren't you part of the family that pays for this guy's drawing?"
Suhyeon's eyes brighten up and enthusiastically nod her head, and not going to lie, it does lift your ego up quite a bit.
“Corrupting ballerinas now? Your employers become your clients, bro.” “Please cook.”
"Bitch, I haven't even asked what she wants for topics." Sakura turns to Suhyeon. "What topping would you like, Suhyeon?"
Suhyeon seems to scroll down something on her phone (A list, maybe?), and then turn around to show her. And uh…it feels like Suhyeon just throws whatever toppings she can think of on her head.
Jiyeon:
Chashu, egg, corn, noodle, please.
Sakura can only look at you in bewilderment. "...Isn't she a ballerina?"
"She wants ramen."
Sakura leans forward slightly. “Does her instructor know about this?”
You shrug. And Sakura only laughs.
"Ok buddy, I will make it."
Suhyeon watches her go with quiet curiosity. Then she types something as you look over.
Jiyeon:
She’s funny.
You snort. “She’s dangerous.”
From the kitchen Sakura shouts, “I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”
Her voice pierces through the usual sounds of broth boiling, ladles hitting the side of the pot, the sharp chop of a knife somewhere behind the counter (You really should check if there are any chopped fingers yet.) There's the usual hum of hers while she works, which is slightly concerning when she has something mischievous boiling up in her head.
A few moments later, she turns around with two bowls in her hand, the steam rises from them as an invitation. She sets Suhyeon's bowl down first, and holy moly, it's stacked. Rich broth shimmering under the light. Thick slices of chashu layered across the top. A perfectly cut egg. Corn floating around the edges. Extra noodles buried somewhere underneath the mountain of toppings.
Your bowl? Just a small bowl.
"…Why is mine so small?"
"You didn't say extra topping." "You always give me extra even when I don't ask!"
"Well, not today. They're all for Suhyeon." "Can I at least get another egg?"
"No."
You sigh but pick up your chopsticks anyway.
Suhyeon stares at the bowl for a second, probably calculating how much she can really eat until it's too obvious that she is on 'bulking season'. It seems to dissipate the moment you gesture her toward the bowl. And boy, she doesn't hesitate — First bite? Gone. Then another. Another. And another. Her shoulders drop bit by bit as the warmth of the ramen settles in.
Across the counter, Sakura watches her with her chin resting on one hand. "Starving?"
Suhyeon nods mid-bite, already going in for more. Satisfied with the answer, Sakura leans back, glancing between the two of you. "Big recital in a few days?"
Suhyeon nods, giving out three fingers as her mouth is busy sipping the broth. You translate instead as "three days."
Sakura whistles. "Oooft, crunch time."
“Which means she probably shouldn’t be eating this,” you add.
Sakura immediately points her chopsticks at you. "Shut up, carbs are cool."
"Do not become a fitness coach, I'm begging you."
Suhyeon laughs silently beside you, shoulders shaking. Feeling left out (probably), Sakura reaches behind the counter, grabs another bowl, and without asking helps herself to some broth and noodles straight from the pot. And she just sits down beside you two like she's part of the dinner now. (Well, she is, and always will be.)
“So,” Sakura says, leaning her elbows on the counter with a bowl of ramen in hand. “Are you nervous?”
Suhyeon pauses mid-bite, seemingly dropping her eyes slightly to the bowl. She reaches for her phone and types slowly. A lot of backspace, and a lot of typing, and a lot of stopping her own fingers before hitting send.
Jiyeon:
A little.
"Good."
You raise an eyebrow. Huh? What? Even Suhyeon tilts her head.
"if you weren't nervous, it would mean you didn't care," Sakura slurps her noodles before pointing her chopsticks toward Suhyeon. “Nervous means you want to do well.”
Gosh, you hate to admit it, but Sakura is making a lot of sense right now, so you sigh. "She's not wrong."
“Oh wow. Write this down. He agreed with me.” "Shut up."
You glance toward Suhyeon. “Besides,” you continue, shrugging slightly. “You’ve been practicing nonstop. That’s what matters.”
Your chopsticks pause mid-air. Suhyeon’s eyes flick upward. Sakura shrugs.
“You think ballet schools don’t have gossip?” she says. “Please. Any place with competition has idiots running their mouths.” She gestures vaguely with her chopsticks. “You just dance better than them. That’s the only comeback that matters.”
You glance sideways at her. “…That was surprisingly wise.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
Suhyeon is quiet for a moment, until she slowly sets her chopsticks down fully.
Her phone appears again, typing longer this time. Much longer, until the message fills most of it when she turns the screen toward you both.
Jiyeon:
I switched academies a lot growing up.
Some instructors didn’t think I should be there.
Some students didn’t either.
So my parents moved me. Again, and again, and again.
This one is the first place that feels like it might work, hopefully. So I just want to do well.
If I do badly, it feels like it will make everything look like a mistake.
Sakura sets her bowl down with a small clink. “Hey.”
Suhyeon looks up to find Sakura pointing her chopsticks at her firmly.
“Listen carefully.” Her tone is still casual, but you know her enough that there's an undertone of seriousness there. “You dancing on that stage already proves you belong there.”
She gestures toward the ramen bowl. “You think people who don’t deserve it work that hard? And if anyone talks shit,” she adds, “they can come eat here and say it to my face.”
"Why your face?" "You're just going to stand there awkwardly."
"Fair."
Guess that talk was more than enough for Suhyeon to start eating again.
-
It's today.
The recital.
You may or may not have arrived earlier than the scheduled time. Not because you're excited (lies, you are very excited), just ... .because being late would mean people looking at you, and it still imprints deep into your soul, those judgmental eyes.
You sit among strangers and pretend you belong there. As much as you don't like being surrounded by (potentially) a crowd of pretentious people, Suhyeon needs a little support from those she is familiar with.
After many days of passing by the venue (well, more like Suhyeon dragging you around and introducing every crook of the building), you have finally taken a step into it, and it certainly makes you hyper-aware of everything you do. The way your shoes sound against the polished floor. The way your jacket doesn’t quite match the rest of the room. Even the way you hold the program — like if you grip it wrong, someone’s going to notice.
(They won't. No one's bothered to stare, but your brain doesn't care.)
Soft chatter fills the space, refined and effortless in a way you’ve never bothered to learn. People greet each other like they’ve done this a hundred times, most likely because they have. Names get thrown around casually like they mean something.
“Is Kazuha performing tonight?” “Of course. She’s the highlight.” “I heard her Black Swan last year was unreal.”
A room full of people who came expecting something flawless. So suffocating, this space is. Hence, distracting your self-consciousness, your fingers brush over the smooth paper of the brochure before flipping it open. Names. Roles. Acts. Your eyes skim past all of it until it lands on her name.
Ji Suhyeon, right there. No highlight. No emphasis. No little whispers about her in the room. Just…another line.
You give out a heavy sigh, before closing the program.
-
The lights finally dim, slow at first, then all at once.
Conversations don’t end so much as they’re cut off. Mid-sentence. Mid-breath. Like someone pulled a string and the entire room forgot how to make noise. Movements still in the same unnatural way, as if it had all been rehearsed beforehand. Even the air feels like it tightens, anticipation settling heavy across the audience that makes you sit a little straighter.
Then the curtain finally rises, and Swan Lake begins in white.
Act I moves in a controlled grace and beauty, yet it feels so…distant. The stage fills with soft light, the ballets move in clean and deliberate patterns. Every line is straight. Every extension is precise. It's honestly beautiful in a more untouchable way. Untouchable. You watch the formations shift, the symmetry change, the way every movement bleeds flawlessly into the next. Prince Siegfried comes out next. Then the court scene. It's all there. Perfect. So…perfect.
But you feel nothing.
Well, not really nothing. Your elbow rests against the armrest, your fingers loosely curled near your mouth as your gaze drifts. You follow the movement, sure, but absentmindedly. If anything, you're…bored.
Because she hasn't come out yet, even in act II: The Lake.
White swans flood the stage, and you don’t need to check the program again to know this is what everyone came for. You can see it in their posture: how they lean forward slightly, eyes sharpening, anticipation turning into eagerness.
Odette appears. Ah wait, sorry, Kazuha appears.
It's understandable why her name is widespread, with her soft and ethereal appearance. Controlled down to the smallest fingertip. Every movement floats. Every step feels more like floating. A kind of presence where people don't dare to let out their breath, in case they miss out on a rare sight.
Then, light whispers of praises. Soft and reverent.
“She’s incredible,” “That control…” "Worth the prices…"
It's all white noise to you. Your eyes keep glancing at the wings. Is it time yet…?
-
Somewhere between one breath and the next, Act III begins. Something in the air feels different. It's quite interesting that you feel that before you register the music sharpens. Lighting darkens just enough to stretch shadows across the theatre.
Then, she steps out. Ji Suhyeon. Black Swan. (So this is the secret role she refuses to tell you, huh.)
Everything else disappears. The dancers blur into movement without meaning. The stage shrinks, carved down to fit only her. Maybe because you have done anatomy study of ballerinas, or maybe because you hang out with her long enough to notice how she hesitates. To be fair, it's almost invisible. A fraction of a second where her step doesn’t land as clean as it should. Her shoulders hold tension. Her breathing comes just a little too sharp, like she forced it steady before stepping into the light.
It's funny. Everyone else is watching the idea of the Black Swan, yet you're watching the girl who brings the role into life. And she's…fighting.
Her first turn is controlled, not effortless. There’s weight and intention, then her arms cut through the air with precision, sharper yet grounded. She moves again with a spin and — oh shit, a slight imbalance. The shift in her center, the way she almost tips too far before pulling herself back in. The correction happens mid-motion, quick enough to hide from anyone not looking for it. She grounds herself harder into the stage, sharpens the next movement, pushes the expression further like she’s forcing something out of herself instead of letting it flow naturally.
And you finally pay attention to the whisper behind you. “She’s good.” “A bit tense.” "She has potential."
That clicks a memory in your mind.
"I can’t speak, but I can express myself with ballet."
This is to answer what you ask her, from an artist to another: What makes you do art?
But now you can finally see what she meant. Not the clean and perfect movements you usually associate ballet with. Not the effortless grace filling the stage before her. It's uneven, yet you find it more intrigued than anything else. Every sharp movement carries it. Every turn feels like it’s being forced into control rather than given freely. Her gaze hardens, not soft like Odette’s, but almost a stance, like she's saying something to herself.
Black Swan, from what you remember, is complex and multifaceted. She is portrayed as a seductive and captivating figure, often described as having a sensual and exotic nature. And that is certainly what you see from the Black Swan in front of you now. Her arms slice through the air again, sharper and faster. There’s no hesitation in the upper body anymore, just precision. Of course, her shoulders still carry tension. Her breathing still isn't perfectly hidden. And of course you notice it, but does it really matter when she owns it and turns it into something more deliberate. And that is more complex yet captivating at the same time.
You aren't sure when, but the audience stops comparing her to Kazuha. Not measuring techniques nor whispering critiques under their breath. They're just…watching.
She really does take their attention without a single word.
-
The applause doesn't come immediately. The entire theatre stays suspended in the final act.
And then it breaks, loud and sudden. Hands collide, people rise like something snapped them back into themselves. The sound fills everything, crashes against the walls, pours down from the balcony like it’s trying to make up for that one second of silence.
You don't move just yet, because she's still there, in the centre next to Kazuha, breathing. You can see it even from here, the rise of her chest, just a little too heavy. The way her shoulders don’t fully drop, like her body hasn’t gotten the message that it’s over. The tension clings stubbornly.
Only when the curtain falls, then you finally stand.
Suhyeon, they clap their hands for you now.
-
It's quieter backstage.
Everything that mattered stayed out there — the main character, the supporters, the audiences. What's left is the aftermath. And you know where to find the "villain" without much thought. Turn. Another turn. Then another turn.
And you find her sitting on the floor of the practice room. Alone and changed.
The Black Swan is gone like it never existed, replaced with an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame and loose pants that bunch slightly at her ankles. Her hair’s tied back, not neatly, just enough to keep it out of her face.
Back against the mirror, legs unevenly folded like she didn’t commit to a position before stopping altogether. One hand rests loosely against her thigh, fingers slightly curled. The other is planted on the floor beside her, keeping her upright more out of habit than need.
She looks…ethereal. A déjà vu of your first time meeting her in the garden.
So you just stand there and take it in.
The faint smudge of makeup near her eye. The way her breathing hasn’t fully settled yet. The almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers, like the performance, is still echoing through her muscles.
Then she notices you. Her eyes gleam up, and her cheeks puff up as she waves her hand.
You step closer, slow and deliberate. Close enough that she can see everything you do without having to move. It has been at the back of your mind of what you can do to make this girl…to make her effort feel more recognised. To reach her.
So…um…you raise your hand. First, you form a flat hand and touch your chin with your thumb. Then, you move your hand forward and away from your body. Flat hand down to other flat hand.
Good…
You don’t rush. You let each part land, because it's the singlehandedly most important phrase you have said ever in your life. Then the same hand makes a downward fist and taps it against the other fist twice.
…job.
Good job.
She blinks slowly, like the meaning reaches her first, then the intent, and then you. And somehow that makes her shoulders relaxed gradually. Like all the stress that has kept her tense the whole night. Her expression softens, the tension melting out of it in real time, and then…she smiles. It spreads quickly, unfiltered and almost startled in how real it looks. Her eyes brighten, with the corners crinkling slightly.
Her hand moves quickly, most likely out of excitement and habit. "Wait wait wait, I just learned that phrase."
Her hands stop mid-motion, and on cue, her cheeks turn red, probably realising her image at the moment. Then, she closes her lips as if she tries so hard to not laugh.
A second later, she reaches for her phone. Thumb swipes and quick taps, and then she angles the screen toward you.
Jiyeon:
You practiced that?
You shrug, leaning one shoulder lightly against the mirror. "Enough to not embarrass myself."
She squints at you.
Jiyeon:
You're already embarrassing.
But thank you.
You don't answer immediately, because these aren't just words. It’s the way you notice how she looks at you while you read them, like she's anticipating your reaction, expecting you to downplay it.
"…you're welcome. I'm glad."
She nods to herself, a small one, before locking her phone and setting it aside again.
For a moment, neither of you move. The room hums quietly around you. The light in the corner flickers just slightly, enough to shift the shadows along the mirrors. Her breathing has mostly steadied now, but there’s still that faint leftover energy in her posture.
Then, she nudges your knee. Once. Twice.
"Hm?"
She gestures to you.
"Hm? I'm sitting."
She rolls her eyes (actually rolls them this time) then reaches forward, grabs your sleeve, and tugs.
"Jeez, you bossy puffy." You exhale through your nose, yet you adjust anyway, shifting your position so your back presses more fully against the mirror, legs stretching out slightly in front of you. "Happy?"
Her answer? Scooting closer, turns slightly, then leans back. Her head settles against your chest like it’s always been meant to be there, like this is just…where she goes now when she’s done holding herself together. Your body adjusts faster, shoulders easing back against the mirror, one hand hovering awkwardly for a second before settling loosely at your side. Her weight sinks in, warm and solid. And she finally exhales, a long one. And she tilts her head back to look up at you. Upside down.
The Black Swan is fully gone, leaving you a puffy Ji Suhyeon in your embrace.
And it hits. That same angle and closeness. Your ex used to do that. Used to stare at you like she was trying to catch something slipping through your expression before you could hide it.
Tsk, can't believe that she still affects you till this day.
Guess Suhyeon noticed too, as the hand that rests against your thigh tightens the grip while she reaches for her phone again.
Jiyeon:
You ok?
You shake your head. "It's nothing, don't worry."
Jiyeon:
You always say that.
"It usually is."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push it either. Instead, she lowers the phone slightly, still holding it, thumb resting against the screen like she’s debating whether to say more.
She decides to press her head a little more firmly into your chest like a cat choosing comfort over answers. Her breathing slows further, evening out to a steady pace. You can feel it through the fabric of your shirt, the rhythm grounding in a way you didn’t expect to welcome it.
Jiyeon:
I don't know if this is enough.
The soft glow fills the room, and your gaze drops to her. She's not looking at you anymore, just staring at the ceiling upside down. You don't ask who is "them", you already know.
"Hey."
Her eyes flick up slightly.
"You don't need to be perfect." you sigh, "You don't even need them to just suddenly change their minds. Um…I guess, you just need one moment where you don't look like you're about to run…and you had that tonight."
There's a longer pause. Her thumb hovers over her phone, then she types.
Jiyeon:
What if it's just tonight?
"Then you do it again tomorrow…and the day after that, and the day after that." Your hand brushes lightly against her air. "You just need to keep proving yourself, like you have always done."
And she goes quiet again. No more typing. No more movement. Just steady breath.
Jiyeon:
I'll try.
-
By the time you push the door open and step outside, the night has already settled in.
Cool air brushes against your skin, carrying that faint mix of asphalt and distant traffic. The hum of the venue fades behind you as the door swings shut, leaving only the quiet stretch of the entrance and the low glow of streetlights bleeding across the pavement.
Suhyeon lingers half a step behind you. Just…slowing down. Her phone rests loosely in her hand, thumb idly tracing the edge of it like she's still holding onto something from earlier. The oversized hoodie swallows her frame again, with the sleeves bunching at her wrists as she adjusts them unconsciously.
And then, she stops.
You follow her line of sight out of curiosity and….Kazuha? Wait, that is her.
Leaning against the metal railing just off to the side of the entrance, one foot crossed over the other, relaxed posture yet not careless. Even in her everyday comfy outfit, the composure retains — as if the stage never fully left her.
She straightens the moment she sees you two, and hone in her attention to Suhyeon immediately.
You don't think it's comparing, but it doesn't help Suhyeon who shifts beside you. Her shoulders pull in just slightly, slowly scoot next to you like she hasn't decided whether to stay or retreat.
Kazuha raises her hand and waves in a friendly arc.
Hi.
Oh, she said hi…? In sign language? Suhyeon seems to be perplexed too, with how she keeps blinking.
Kazuha continues, movements controlled but softer now, less formal than they were on stage. At this point, you lose it completely. Well, hands are thrown, movements are frequent. But you can't understand it (again, you only learned one praise), so what you're left with isn't the words themselves but the shape of the conversation, the movement, the space between the signs…and more importantly, Suhyeon's face.
Kazuha continues signing, her movements controlled and precise, but softer than they were on stage. Less performative and more…direct, like she's speaking to the Black Swan and only her.
And you see the effect.
Suhyeon’s fingers twitch against her phone, her grip loosening just slightly as her shoulders drop, not completely, but enough that you can tell that right now it didn't go the way she expected it to. Her eyes flick to you quickly, not asking for permission exactly, but checking, or asking for guidance on what to do next.
You don't ask what was said. Instead…it feels right to nudge her lightly with your elbow. "Come on."
She exhales, a small and almost silent one she lets out, and then steps forward.
You're left watching from the side. At first, her movements are careful, measured, her hands staying closer to her body as if she's still holding something back, her expression still neutral and guarded. Kazuha signs again, longer this time, and whatever she says causes Suhyeon's brows to draw together slightly, confusion flickering across her face before she responds, her own signs quicker and more questioning. Kazuha answers in return, short and firm, and that’s when Suhyeon goes still, her hands hovering for a moment before lowering slowly, her gaze dropping and then lifting again, not exactly meeting Kazuha’s eyes but no longer avoiding them either.
From there, the conversation softens.
Kazuha’s movements become less structured, and Suhyeon’s posture follows, her shoulders easing as the tension drains out in small increments. Her responses come slower now, not because she’s struggling, but maybe because she’s actually thinking about them instead of reacting, and the difference shows in the way her hands move with more intention.
There's another pause. But it doesn't feel so awkward this time. Then Kazuha signs something shorter, if you dare to say, more casual.
Suhyeon curls her fingers slightly around her phone again, thumb pressing against the screen like she needs something to hold onto while she decides, and then she looks back at you. You meet her eyes and hold them, not saying anything, just giving her a small nod.
She looks down, her phone lighting up as her thumbs move quickly across the screen, and then turns it toward you.
Jiyeon:
She wants to hang out. Talk about ballet.
Is that okay?
“Why are you asking me?” you say, your tone is light but steady enough that she doesn’t mistake it. And to be clearer, you nudge her forward slightly. "Go have fun with your new friend."
She exhales again, this time with a faint huff that is more relief. When she turns back, her hands lifting with less caution, like the relationship has loosen up for her to be a little more herself. Kazuha smiles, and the two of them fall into step together, their signs picking up as they walk, hands moving in the rhythm you still can't follow but don't need to. It looks like…Suhyeon can carry herself now.
You are certain she can take care of herself now the moment your phone pings up.
Jiyeon:
Thanks for being by my side all this time. See you next time…good friend.
You stay where you are for a moment longer than necessary, watching as they disappear further down the path, Suhyeon’s posture gradually relaxing with each step until there’s almost no trace left of the girl who stood beside you just minutes ago, caught between pressure, hesitation and doubt.
Then you turn to your car.
-
By the time you step into your studio, the night has already settled. The familiar scent greets you immediately — paint, canvas, that faint chemical sharpness that never really leaves. It brings you back to your home faster than anything else could, pulling you out of the lingering echo of the theatre and into a space that you own.
The canvas is exactly right there where you left it.
It's her shoe. The one Suhyeon gives you as payment.
Even now, you can still recall the moment she handed it over. It sounds casual, like it was just an old thing she no longer needs. But you, of all people, know how hard it is to let go of something that means so much to you. Her grip lingered for a fraction too long before she pulled back, as if she had to gaslight herself it was okay to give it away.
Looking at the canvas again it looks….perfect.
Too perfect.
Every line is clean, deliberate, controlled down to the smallest detail, the kind of precision that usually satisfies you because it proves you got it right. The proportions are exact, the curvature of the arch carefully measured, the ribbons falling in smooth, elegant lines that look like they belong in a display instead. The shading is soft, seamlessly blended, giving the fabric a pristine finish that almost glows under the light.
It's polished and refined.
And that’s exactly why it feels so fucking wrong.
You remember the way the satin had dulled in certain places, the faint fraying along the edges where repetition had worn it down, the subtle discoloration near the toe where pressure built up over time, over countless movements, countless landings, countless moments where she forced her body to hold just a little longer than it wanted to. You remember how the sole didn’t look pristine but softened, shaped, moulded, carrying the imprint of every step she had taken in it.
This isn't that. Not even close.
Your hand reaches for the brush, the motion automatically and naturally. You just let it run its course — fracturing the smooth gradient, uneven stroke, pigments catching in places it wasn't supposed to, disrupting the clean surface you worked so carefully to maintain. Your brain itches to fix it immediately…
But you leave it exactly where it is.
Your movements become quicker. Shadows deepen in patches, mimicking the way wear accumulates over time, how certain areas darken under pressure while others remain lighter, how nothing is ever truly symmetrical when it’s been used and worn. Yes, that's it! The clean softness disappears. The ribbon draws your attention next, its curve too elegant, too intentional, like it was designed rather than lived in. You pause for a second, studying it, then drag the brush across it just enough to disrupt the flow, introducing a slight twist, a small imperfection in the way it falls.
You step back to see it as a whole.
It's not perfect anymore — asymmetrical, rough finish. Yet, it looks far closer to what you remember. The wear and tear, and the countless tribulations and ridicule that Suhyeon has gone through, you let it stay that way…
…and hopefully it represents Suhyeon and her effort the best.
Tada! Second part is here! Evidently, one of the more experimental fics I wrote too. Genuinely fun to write someone without being able to speak and I get to be creative with how I "voice" Suhyeon.
My apologies for the long wait with all the research and the IRL stuff going on. I can't guarantee when the next part will come out, but hope you all stay tuned!
Special thank you to @toshyun (the only reason I write Jiyeon, really.)
I have seen some good guesses from you guys regarding the mystery 4th person, so here's the next hint to help yall.
Note: I have resorted to the sacred prompt list by Anon again….this helped me so much frrr. Hope you will post your first ever fic here so I can tagged you!!
This concludes the unofficial (or official ig) IZ*ONE marathon. @hyeyulenjoyer hope this was a fun ride for you. And thank you everyone for enjoying these fics as well!
Also appreciate IVE for paying respect to the recent tragedy. All the dumb haters who find ways to hate them again....just touch grass pls.
(this was the perfect picture for this fic lol)
The tickets sit on your desk, undisturbed, their glossy surface catching the dim glow of your bedside lamp. You don’t even need to read the text printed on them anymore. The details are already burned into your brain.
A fan sign.
It was supposed to be special, you remembered. Something to look forward to for weeks, marked on your calendar with a little star. You were supposed to show up, tease her about messing up choreography, make her laugh in the middle of a serious performance, see that look in her eyes that was just for you.
Now, the tickets is a stain on the table.
Your phone is face-down beside them, dark screen hiding the messages you haven't opened yet. The well-meaning texts from friends, the casual work notifications, all messages except from her.
Wonyoung.
You close your eyes, but it doesn't help. The memory of your last call with her is still fresh, the words playing over and over like a song stuck on repeat.
"I just don’t have time for this anymore."
"For us, you mean?" "Mhm."
It was disturbingly calm, measured, like it was just another item to tick off on her to-do list. There had been no anger in her voice. No hesitation.
That…hurt more than anything.
You had wanted to say something, anything to make her stop. To remind her of the nights spent whispering over the phone until she fell asleep, of the rare moments when she let herself be vulnerable with you, of the way she would light up the second she saw you waiting for her backstage to take her to eat a whole cow together.
But you couldn't mutter a voice, just sitting there, phone pressed to your ear, fingers gripping the fabric of your hoodie so tightly it threatened to tear.
And then, just like that, she was gone.
That was three days ago, by the way.
Three days of checking your phone too often. Three days of convincing yourself you were fine. Three days of staring at these damn tickets on the desk and trying to figure out why you hadn’t just thrown them away. You should sell them. Give them to someone who’d actually enjoy them.
But you didn't do anything.
Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s the stupid and stubborn part of you that refuses to admit that she’s really gone. Whatever the reason, you find yourself gripping them tighter instead of throwing them away.
You decided that you will go.
Not for her. Not to see her. Not at all.
Just so you don’t have to sit in this room, drowning in thoughts of what used to be. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.
Mhm. Yep. That's about it.
-
The venue is packed.
Fans shuffle forward in line, their chatter buzzing in the air like static. Excited whispers, rustling light sticks, the occasional squeal when a favourite member’s name is mentioned. Your fingers tighten around the album in your hands. (Ironically you still hold onto her album)
This is normal for them. For the fans around you, this is just another fan sign. A chance to meet their idols, to share fleeting moments, to walk away with a signature and a memory they’ll cherish for years.
You should feel the same, of course. Instead, you’re just… tired. But seriously, who could blame you, you’re about to come face-to-face with your ex-girlfriend and she has no idea you’re here.
Your grip on the album tightens as the line inches forward. The first few members greet you with polite smiles, their voices light and bubbly. You do your best to respond normally, but your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the inevitable moment that keeps creeping closer and closer.
You don’t need to look up to know she’s at the end of the table. And then, oops, there’s no more time left.
Your album slides across the table. Long, slender fingers stop it in place.
And then her eyes meet yours.
She looks the same. Still flawless, as always. Every strand of hair perfectly in place, makeup soft and ethereal under the bright overhead lights. And those sparkly boba eyes that you often got lost in.
But…she’s not yours anymore. Not at all.
Maybe there was some sort of recognition, surprise, and who knows what else that crosses her face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a carefully neutral expression.
Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then…
“Hey.”
It’s awkward. Too awkward. You can feel the tension hanging between you.
“Hey.”
For a split second, she looks like she wants to say something else. Like she wants to break the script, ignore the rehearsed greetings and practiced smiles. She doesn’t. Which is obvious, she's Jang Wonyoung.
Instead, she picks up her pen, the mask slipping back into place. Her expression evens out, and in a voice so perfectly professional it almost stings. She says, “Thanks for coming.” Just like she would to any other fan. Your stomach feels like it will belch out all the depressing episodes out.
You should’ve known. Of course, she wouldn't acknowledge it. Not here. Not in front of all these people where her image is so pristine.
Still, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. “Of course. Would’ve been a waste of money if I didn’t.”
She presses her lips together, nodding slightly. “Right. Can’t have that.”
She signs her name, her handwriting as neat and practiced as always. But there’s a hesitance in the way she moves, a slight delay before she lifts the pen from the page. When she finally pushes the album back toward you, her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. Then…
“Take care, okay?”
She’s looking at you now. Really looking at you.
And for a moment, just one fleeting moment, she’s not the Jang Wonyoung, the IT girl, the global superstar.
She’s just…Wonyoung.
The girl who used to call you late at night just to hear your voice. The girl who used to lace her fingers through yours under the table when no one was looking. And the girl who also told you she didn’t have time for you anymore.
The words stick to your throat. You genuinely don’t trust yourself to say anything.
So you just…don’t.
You just take the album, stand up, and walk away. And even as you disappear into the crowd, you can still feel her eyes on you. You will be fine. Should be.
-
Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.
It’s been a few days since the fan sign, and you’ve buried yourself in anything that keeps your mind occupied: work, games, mindless scrolling through your phone. Anything to keep yourself from replaying the look on Wonyoung’s face at the fansign. From remembering the way she hesitated before handing your album back. From thinking about the way her gaze kept flickering toward you as you walk away, as if she was looking for something. Or someone.
But that’s not your problem anymore. You told yourself that the moment you left the venue.
Which is why, when your phone starts ringing at an ungodly hour, you almost don’t check the caller ID. The second you see her name flashing on the screen, you groan immediately.
Jang Wonyoung.
The ringing continues, each second stretching unbearably. You should let it go. Turn off your phone. Pretend you never saw it.
But you don’t. Because deep down, you know you still want to hear her voice. So you answer.
“...Hello?”
There’s silence on the other end for a moment, followed by a breathy and drawn out giggle. Aiya, why is she being weirdly affectionate again? It only happens when she is drunk.
"Dummmyy!" she hums, stretching your nickname like it’s some sweet, familiar melody.
Ah, she is drunk. “Wonyo. Are you drunk?” You sigh, ignoring the way your nickname for her easily rolled out of your tongue.
She giggles again, the sound loose and unguarded. "Mmm… maybe."
"Goddamn it." You rub your temples. "Where are you?"
A rustling noise filters through the receiver, followed by the distant hum of traffic. "Somewhere," she mumbles. "Some bar, I think. The girls took me out."
Figures. You shift in bed, propping yourself up against the headboard. “It’s late.”
“I know,” she says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “But I wanted to call you.”
“Why?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, there’s a soft exhale before she says, “Because I miss you.”
Your fingers tighten around the phone. "Don’t do that, please."
"Do what?" "Say things you don’t mean."
"But I do mean it. I do miss you."
You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. "Well, that’s not my problem anymore, is it?"
She goes quiet.
For a moment, all you hear is the faint sound of music in the background, the distant chatter of people. She’s probably in the back of some high-end bar or a private lounge that someone of her status often went. You can picture it too easily—her long hair falling over her shoulders, her lips painted red, the glow of the city lights reflecting in her eyes.
Your heart beat rapidly at the image.
"You came to the fansign." she says suddenly, cutting into your thoughts.
You rub at your temple. "Mhm."
"Why?" "You already know why."
"Say it anyway."
You sigh. "Because I had the tickets. It would’ve been a waste."
She lets out a humourless laugh. "Right. Can’t have that."
There’s another long pause. Then, almost hesitantly. "Did you feel anything?"
Your eyes widened. "Feel what?"
"When you saw me again." Her voice is quieter now. "Did you feel anything?"
Your jaw clenches. You want to lie. Want to say no, not at all. That it didn’t matter. That she doesn’t matter. But you can’t.
Because the truth is, you felt everything. The way your heart clenched when she looked at you. The way your stomach twisted when her fingers hesitated over your name. The way your mind screamed at you to move on, to stop letting her affect you, to stop caring.
But you don’t tell her any of that. Instead, you settle for, "Who cares anyway."
"Why not?" "Because we’re done, Jang Wonyoung."
She sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, you wonder if she’s about to cry.
"You-" She stops, swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is unsteady. "You didn’t even try to fight for me."
Your grip tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white. "You were the one who ended things. On the phone, may I remind you."
"I know," she whispers. "And I thought it was the right choice. But now I just—" She breaks off, voice cracking slightly. "I don’t know anymore."
It would be so easy to give in. To tell her that you don’t know either, that you still think about her, that you still wonder if maybe this wasn’t supposed to end like this.
But what’s the point? She made her choice. And you’re tired of being the one left picking up the pieces nor being the second choice.
"You’re drunk, Jang Wonyoung," you say, voice carefully even. "Go home and go to sleep."
"Wait—" "Goodnight."
And then, before she can say another word, you hang up. The silence that follows is deafening.
Thank fuck, you can finally breathe.
-
Or at least, it should be.
You did the right thing, you tell yourself. Cut it off before it could spiral any further. Before you let yourself believe, even for a second, that anything has changed.
But still, the weight in your chest lingers.
The room feels too quiet now, the kind of silence that presses in from all sides, making it impossible to ignore the thoughts creeping into your head. You lie back down, throwing an arm over your eyes, willing yourself to sleep.
You don’t know how much time passes before you hear it.
A knock.
Wait what the fuck?
At first, you think you’re imagining it. Sleep-deprived, emotionally drained, and still reeling from that damn phone call, your brain must be conjuring things that aren’t real. But then, the knocking got more insistent. Erratic, yet insistent.
Your brows furrow. You sit up, straining your ears.
"Who the hell…?"
It’s almost 3 AM. No one in their right mind would be visiting you at this hour. Then again, you just got a call from a drunk girl not in their right mind.
Knock, knock, knock.
It’s louder this time, clumsy and uncoordinated, like whoever’s on the other side can barely keep their balance. A sinking feeling settles in your stomach. You begrudgingly throw off your blankets and push yourself up, padding toward the door. Your hand hovers over the handle for a second before you sigh and pull it open.
And there she is.
Wonyoung.
She’s standing there in the dim, flickering hallway light, wrapped in a thin coat that does nothing to protect her from the cold. Her long hair is slightly tousled, the glossy perfection from the concert gone, strands falling loosely over her shoulders. She sways just the slightest, a delicate wobble on unsteady feet. Her lips are slightly parted, eyes glassy. And most likely not just from the alcohol.
You blink. She blinks back, like she’s just now processing that you’re standing in front of her.
Then, with absolutely no warning, she wobbles forward, collapsing against your chest.
You barely manage to catch her. “Jesus—Wonyo.” You gently hold her arms, steadying her. “What the hell are you doing here?”
"Surprise, hehe~"
You let out a sharp breath. “Surprise? You’re seriously—” You stop yourself, jaw clenching. “How did you even get here?”
"I took a taxi," she announces, like that justifies her showing up at your door past midnight after breaking up with you.
“Alone?” “Mmhmm.”
Your stomach twists. “Wonyoung, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
She just hums, leaning more of her weight onto you. Her forehead presses against your shoulder, and you can feel the slight tremble in her body.
You sigh, tightening your grip. “You’re freezing.”
“I was walking.” “Walking where?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she tilts her head back to look at you properly. Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something she’s probably been holding in for too long. But then, she hiccups.
You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “You’re so out of your mind.”
"You hung up on me," she murmurs.
You pull back slightly, just enough to see her properly. “Yeah. I did.”
"That was mean," she says, pouting. "I was talking."
"You were drunk." "Still talking."
You shake your head, adjusting your grip on her. “Come on. You need water. And sleep.”
She hums, letting you guide her inside. “Only if you let me stay.”
You pause. She sounds very sober just then… before the giggles come back, burying her face in your chest, and you decide that you’ll deal with that in the morning. But for now, you just hold her close.
You sigh, pressing your lips into a thin line as you shift your grip on her. She’s barely standing at this point, practically melting into you like she has no bones in her body.
"Alright, come on," you mutter, wrapping an arm around her waist and leading her inside.
She stumbles slightly, her fingers gripping at your shirt as she giggles under her breath. "You smell nice," she mumbles.
Ignoring that, you close the door behind you with your foot, guiding her toward the couch. She flops onto it with zero resistance, her coat slipping off her shoulders. The moment she’s down, she tilts her head back, blinking up at you like she’s expecting something.
She doesn’t hesitate. Stumble inside like she belongs here.
And maybe that’s the problem. She did belong here. Now? Now you don’t know.
Her eyes lazily drift across the apartment, lingering on the things she still remembers—the half-empty cup of coffee on your desk, the hoodie she used to steal draped over the chair, the faint indent in the couch where she used to curl up next to you.
Then she noticed your desk, the same desk where the fansign ticket sat just days ago. The same one she saw in your hands at the fansign days ago.
"You really came," she murmurs, not looking at you. "I didn’t think you actually would."
You shrug. "Like I said. Would’ve been a waste."
She flinches. Just the tiniest bit. Then she exhales slowly, arms wrapping around herself. "It was weird."
"What was?"
"Seeing you there. But not... There, you know?" She fully looks at you now. "You didn’t smile. You didn’t tease me like you usually do. You barely even looked at me."
"What did you expect?" you ask quietly. "You dumped me, Wonyoung. You can’t just expect me to act like nothing happened."
She presses her lips together, fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve. "I know."
You wait. Give her the space to say what she came here to say. But she doesn’t. Not right away.
She defeatedly sighed, tucking her knees under her chin, looking smaller than she ever has before. She stares at her hands for a long moment before mumbling, "I don’t know why I came here."
"Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you drunk-called your ex, then showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night without a plan."
She frowns. "I do have a plan."
"Yeah?"
She huffs. "Step one: get inside. Step two..." She falters, looking away. "...I didn’t think that far."
You shake your head. "Pff, ok princess."
Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken.
"Do you hate me?"
You freeze.
Your first instinct is to say no. Because of course you don’t hate her. You never could. But that’s not the right answer, is it?
So instead, you tell the truth.
"I don’t know," you admit. "I want to. But I can't."
She looks up at you then, eyes searching. Hopeful and afraid all at once. "I messed up, didn’t I?"
"Yea. Big time."
She swallows. Lowers her gaze again. "I thought breaking up would make things easier. For you…for both of us."
"Did it?"
She shakes her head. "No."
"Then why did you do it?"
"I was scared," she says, and her voice is so small, so unlike the confident idol the world knows, that it almost hurts to hear. "I thought I was being selfish, holding onto you when I barely had time to see you. I thought you deserved more than stolen moments and rushed phone calls."
Your jaw clenches. "You didn’t even ask me what I wanted."
"I know, I thought I was making the right choice."
You sit down across from her, legs spread, elbows on your knees. "And now?"
She meets your gaze, vulnerability laid bare. "Now... I just miss you."
Your heart leaped a mile. This was the Wonyoung you always see. Not the glamorous and model-esque Jang Wonyoung everyone always see on TV. Not the well-spoken and powerful public figure everyone knows. Just…a gentle yet bubbly girl who snuggled up next to you on the couch at the end of the day.
But your brain should tell her to leave. To sleep it off, to sober up and think about this when her mind is clearer.
Then she reaches out just the slightest, her fingers brushing against yours on the couch. And you don’t pull away.
"You’re drunk," you remind her, though your voice lacks conviction.
She smiles faintly. "Thanks…Mr. Obvious."
Silence. Then, tentatively, she pleads: "Can I sleep here tonight?"
You already know your answer, aren't you? Look down at how your hand already intertwined with hers.
"Go get a blanket. Wonyo."
She doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like she’s memorising you all over again like the first. Then, with a small, almost relieved nod, she gets up and stumbled into your bedroom as she dragged you along. You know, the same bedroom she used to slip into after long schedules, the same one she used to call 'ours'.
And just like that, the distance you tried so hard to create crumbles.
Note: welp....yall ask for part 2 and yall shall receive.
I was planning to post it earlier, but uni has started for me and I didn't have time to think about posting it (assignment due in wk3 already. Shocking.)
But yea, Cheeky blew up quite hard, and I'm happy that it did. I kept reading back to it and feeling delulu during these trying times.
You can check part 1 here! And hope you will enjoy this lighthearted sequel!
(Damn u yujin stop being so cute-)
You should’ve seen this coming — actually, no. Everyone should’ve seen this coming.
It wasn’t just the members. Not just the managers, the stylists, or even the company staff. At this point, half the industry had figured it out before you did.
Ever since the Honey Incident (as Wonyoung dubbed it, bless her tired soul), Yujin had apparently decided that embarrassing you in public wasn’t enough. At first, it was harmless and still pretty cute. She’d joke around, tease you about being too serious, drape herself over you in public like you were her personal couch, and demand your attention at all times.
Then it got worse.
Somehow, somewhere along the line, she had started treating you less like a bodyguard and more like her favourite person in the world.
Which, um, led to this moment.
An Yujin, the ever-cheeky, ever-confident leader of Everg— wait, fuck, wrong group, IVE, was standing in front of you, blushing, in the practice room.
You had been assigned to keep watch while they rehearsed, standing by the door as the girls went over their choreography for the millionth time that day. It was routine at this point — watch them sweat, keep an eye out for potential threats (especially if it involves a certain puppy), and occasionally stop Liz and Rei from sneaking off to buy bubble tea. The usual.
But today felt…off.
No, not Yujin being annoying again (though she had tried to balance a water bottle on your head as you watched over them). This was something else.
You first noticed it when Yujin kept sneaking glances at you between dance breaks. These were more hesitant, more…nervous. Which was…very out of character of her. Because An Yujin never gets nervous around you.
"Alright, let’s wrap up here," their choreographer finally announced.
The members groaned in relief, collapsing onto the floor like a pile of exhausted puppies…well except for Yujin. Yujin was staring at you. Menacingly.
And before you could question it, she marched over.
"Hey," she said.
You narrowed your eyes. "...What's up, Yuu?"
She bit her lip, shifting on her feet. Her eyes were looking at anywhere but you. "So, uh…"
Code Red. She was acting weird.
Yujin never hesitated when speaking to you. Usually, she was all smug grins and playful insults. But now? She looked like she was about to combust.
The rest of IVE noticed, because of course they did. They had enough of Yujin fiddling around in their dorm.
"Oh my god," Wonyoung mumbled from her spot on the floor. "It’s happening."
"What’s happening, unnie?" Leeseo whispered.
"She’s finally doing that," Rei deadpanned.
Liz let out a long, suffering sigh. "Took her long enough."
Gaeul rubbed her temples. "I don’t have the energy for this."
Meanwhile, you were still trying to process what was happening when Yujin squared her shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and gave you her ultimatum.
"I LIKE YOU!"
Silence. The whole room froze. The whole world froze. And your brain short-circuited.
"...Huh?"
Yujin, still bright red, clenched her fists. "I LIKE YOU, OKAY?!"
Her voice cracked slightly.
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
She groaned, running a hand through her already sweat-damp hair. "Do I really have to say it again?"
"Yes."
"Ugh." She took another deep breath. "I LIKE YOU. ROMANTICALLY. LIKE, IN A DATE-Y WAY. LIKE, I WANT TO HOLD HANDS AND STUFF!"
From the floor, Wonyoung gagged. "Unnie, please stop talking."
Liz groaned into her hands. "This is a nightmare."
Leeseo, innocently, started clapping. "Go, unnie! Be brave!"
Yujin shot them a glare before turning back to you. "So? What do you think?"
You stared at her. Then at the other members, who looked like they were witnessing a murder scene. Then back at her.
"...Are you serious?" "Dead serious."
What the…what?
Of all the things An Yujin could’ve done today or any other days — steal your sunglasses, challenge you to an arm-wrestling match, make up some dumb nickname for you—this was not on your bingo card.
But here she was.
The girl who spent the last few months making your life a constant struggle, the girl who clung to you like a koala and made sure everyone and their grandmother knew you were her bodyguard was now standing in front of you, blushing, waiting for an answer.
"...Absolutely not," you said flatly.
Yujin gasped. Genuinely gasped. Like you had just betrayed her.
"Rejected?! On my first attempt?!"
"You literally threw the truth bomb at me, Yujin—"
"This is a historic moment," she muttered, shaking her head. "An Yujin, turned down for the first time in her life… I don’t know how to recover from this…"
Gaeul threw a towel at her. "Bro, please shut up."
"But—" "Just shut up."
Yujin groaned dramatically before turning back to you.
"...Okay, fine. First attempt failed," she admitted. Then her lips curled into a familiar, mischievous smirk. "Guess I’ll just have to try again."
"What-" "I don’t give up that easily, honey~"
And that was the exact moment you realized you were screwed.
-
Yujin, apparently, had no concept of personal space. Everywhere you went, she was there. Which fits her nickname as the big, overgrown puppy that refused to leave your side.
"Good morning!!" she chirped, appearing out of nowhere and looping her arms around yours as soon as you entered the practice room.
You sighed. "Did you need to latch onto me the second you got here?"
"Yes," "Why?"
She just grinned. "Because I like you~"
"That’s not an answer." "It is an answer."
"Not a good one, innit?"
"Well, too bad," she hummed, swinging your arm like you were best friends at a schoolyard. "You rejected me, so now you have to deal with the full force of my affection until you change your mind."
"You mean to suffer?" "Tomato, tomato, same thing."
From the other side of the room, Wonyoung threw her water bottle onto the floor dramatically. "She never did this before. Why now?"
Gaeul groaned into her hands. "I don't wanna see this anymore."
Leeseo, bless her innocent heart, was still cheering her leader on. "She’s so great!"
Meanwhile, Rei just stared at you with pity. "You brought this on yourself."
You sighed, but you didn’t shake Yujin off even when lunch time arrived. By that point, the entire company definitely knew about Yujin’s ridiculous pursuit. Here you are, sitting in the break room, minding your own business, when she waltzed in with the confidence of someone who bought the place.
"Hey, babe, what do you want to eat?" she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.
You ignored her. "Not hungry. And don't call me babe out aloud, Yujin."
"That’s not what I asked." She slid into the seat across from you, chin resting on her palm. "I can order whatever you want. Couple meals are on sale today~"
That kickstarted a chain of whispers in the room. And seriously, you could feel the stares chilling down your spine.
"Yujin," you said slowly. "Stop. Please."
She gasped dramatically. "Rejected again?! In public?!"
"Stop acting like this is new." "It hurts every time!"
At the next table, two staff members were openly watching the exchange, barely trying to hide their amusement.
"Seriously, are they dating or not?" "I dunno, but Yujin’s trying."
Yujin winked at them. "Oh, I will succeed."
You groaned and buried your face in your hands.
-
You eventually had grown used to the chaos (not by choice). The teasing, the dramatic declarations, the smug little grins Yujin would shoot at whenever she found new ways to fluster you. And yep, you had come to expect her annoying antics — her constant presence, the way she’d grab your wrist and drag you places, how she’d miraculously find an excuse to be around you no matter where you were stationed.
And it stops one day, and it gets you feeling unnerved. It felt…too quiet, and was very apparent the moment you arrived at the company building.
Normally, you wouldn’t even get to stand still before Yujin popped out of nowhere, throwing an arm around your shoulder like she had been waiting for you all morning. "Good morning, honey~!" she'd always say, far too enthusiastic for someone who had spent hours practicing the night before and always the responsible leader she is.
Today?
Nothing.
No surprise ambush. No unnecessary skinship. No Yujin. Absolutely nothing.
Which made your brows furrowed slightly as you walked toward IVE’s practice room. The usual noise from within — the sound of music, the members chatting, Wonyoung complaining about something — was still there. But the one bubbly voice that always stood out the most (unfortunately for you) was missing.
When you stepped inside, the members barely glanced at you, too busy stretching or scrolling through their phones during a break.
"Um….Where’s Yujin?" you asked, trying to sound neutral.
Gaeul sighed, tossing her towel over her shoulder. "Sick. She’s been in bed all day."
You frowned. Yujin? Sick? That never happened.
"She overworked herself again," Wonyoung added with an eye roll. "Serves her right for staying up late doing who-knows-what after practice."
Liz hummed. "Unnie said she was fine this morning, but the moment she tried to stand up, she almost collapsed."
Collapsed? Yujinie collapsed?
Before you could even process it, your feet were already moving toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Rei called out.
"Checking on her." you replied without hesitation.
From behind, you swore you heard Leeseo muttering, "Wow, oppa didn’t even deny it this time."
-
The dorm was quieter than usual.
Normally, when you entered, you were met with the sounds of the other members laughing, chatting, or bickering over something trivial. But today, it was almost eerily still.
You tip-toed down the hall until you reached Yujin’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and when you peeked inside, you found her curled up in bed, swallowed by a mountain of blankets (and hoodies that Leeseo sprinkled on). Her hair was a mess, her usually sharp and playful eyes barely open, fever-flushed cheeks standing out against her pale skin.
She looked... small. More than a sick puppy, which unsettled you.
Yujin was always everywhere, loud, full of energy, always teasing, always finding ways to get under your skin. But now? She looked nothing like the person who had spent the last few months making your life infuriatingly interesting.
Her gaze shifted slightly when she noticed you, and a slow, tired smile curled on her lips.
"...You came," she mumbled, her voice hoarse and laced with sleep.
"Obviously," you replied, stepping closer. "Gaeul said you almost collapsed this morning."
"Gosh, they overblown it, aren't they?" "That’s not funny, Yujin."
Before she could mutter another tired sound, you sat beside the bed and placed the back of your hand against her forehead. She was burning. A lump formed in your throat.
She blinked up at you, dazed. "You never touch me first…*cough*"
"Because you’re usually annoying. Now shut up and let me check your temperature."
Her lips twitched, like she wanted to say something smug, but she was too exhausted to put up a fight. Your fingers brushed against her wrist, and she was so warm. The thought of her pushing herself this hard—until her body gave out—makes you fidgeting around your seat.
"Have you even eaten?"
She shrugged lazily. "Didn’t feel like it."
You exhaled sharply, glancing at the small table by her bedside. There was an untouched bowl of porridge, now cold, sitting beside a bottle of unopened medicine and a cup of water.
Shaking your head, you grabbed the medicine and turned back to her. "Take this."
"Ugh, I hate that stuff." "You hate a lot of things, but you still do them when necessary."
She groaned, flopping back onto her pillow. "Bossy."
"Annoying," you shot back.
She grinned weakly, reaching out with grabby hands. "Then feed me, my favourite bodyguard."
"You have hands."
She pouted dramatically, eyes twinkling with mischief despite her exhaustion. "But I’m weak and helpless right now. What if I pass out? Will you carry me princess-style to the hospital?"
"Unbelievable." Still, you remain on the edge of her bed, opening the bottle and holding out a spoonful of medicine.
"Don’t make me change my mind," you muttered. "Now say ahh"
She hesitated for a second before leaning forward, parting her lips. As soon as the bitter medicine touched her tongue, her face scrunched up in absolute betrayal.
"EUGH! That’s disgusting!" "You’ll live,"
You said flatly, handing her a glass of water. She downed it quickly, still making exaggerated gagging noises.
"Drama queen."
She flopped back against her pillow, letting out a deep sigh. "You really do care about me, huh?"
"*sigh* Obviously. I'm meant to take care of you."
For once, she didn’t tease. Instead, she just stared at you, her usual playful confidence softening into something quieter.
"...Hey…" she murmured, fingers curling into her blanket. "I wasn’t joking, you know."
You swallowed. "About what?"
She smiled. Small, genuine, and far too vulnerable for someone usually so full of herself. "Liking you."
Yujin, wha…She can't just say something like that and have you continue the façade of ignoring something that had been growing for a while now, and the fact that you have been refusing to acknowledge until this moment. You sighed, ignoring the way your heart leapt a mile for her. Ignoring the way the corner of your mouth curled up to a smile.
I wanted to ask if ur a guy? I want to start writing m! readers but it feels like I’m not allowed to cuz I’m a girl or that I might not be able to capture how a dude would truly act? Do u write it as ur view as a dude, or is it better to think of a male character and write as is but without labelling a name? I just sometimes think guys won’t end up liking it so I want to know
Hallo!
First off, welcome to writing! Happy to have u here.
Yes, I'm a guy (imagine a sassy gal being this down bad for Asa), so yeah I write my fic as a dude. It's not because I'm a dude that I write things that a male would act, I write my fic based on how I, AS A PERSON, would react to the situation. It's self-insert so i get to channel my input on the story. (Hence, tsundere.)
I will try my best to be in your shoes, cuz this is a valid dilemma to have, and I appreciate you for it. But gender will never be an issue writing any POVS, it's always the matter of how YOU want the story best be told as.
You want it through a dude's POV? Great! girl's POV? heck yea? as a duck? Even better!
To shout out, you should definitely check out these female writers who wrote Male POV: @majorblinks @wonyoungspetslave @seorreality @kooyabooya (and more that i might forgot, pls dont end me). They do be putting very spectacular written works and I can vouch for it.
(My place to brag again about Triple Dog Dare. fack me that sht is still great)
If you are really trying to write Male POV's, you should read more books and watch more media that are male POV (which is most of it tbh) in order to understand the many different facets of malehood. Language, tone, behaviour, etc.
I hope this helps you reaching towards the story u wanna write!
Note: Thank u @mintwithchoco for the prompt! It was fun to write this! (I might have post it a bit early but It's a bit too fluff to rot in the jail-
Hope yall got enough dose of lethal Yujin. Here’s a cutie Yujin for yall
(Can this woman not make me blush every single time-)
There were…many opinions about An Yujin through her online exposure: gorgeous yet strict, a natural professional and one of the most popular idols in the business. You know, the usual.
So when you got hired as a personal bodyguard to IVE, you knew you had to be in your best behaviour, or you get fucked, simply. You were expecting a professional introduction, maybe a polite handshake, a simple exchange of names, and a respectful nod just like how it had been with every other client before.
But uhh… no.
Loud, unabashed laughter. Yeah, that was the first thing your ear picked up.
You had barely stepped into the practice room, clad in your sharp black suit with an earpiece securely in place, when Yujin spun around mid-dance routine, caught sight of you, and nearly collapsed from laughing too hard.
"Oh my god, you look so serious!" She practically wheezed, hands on her knees.
…Ok, that’s not the usual reaction. "...Excuse me?"
She straightened up, still giggling, and gave you a once-over. "You're my new bodyguard, right? Wow, we’re the same age, but you look like you’re about to arrest me or something." Yujin wiped at the corner of her eyes and grinned as she strolled up to you, radiating the kind of unbothered energy that made your brow twitch.
Well this is…going to be a pain.
"Well at least I do look the part, no?" you asked, straightening your vest as you clear your throat. "I’m literally here to keep you safe."
"Oh, I’m very grateful." Yujin smirked, stepping closer with a mischievous glint in her eye. "But I was kinda hoping for someone... I don’t know, scarier? You look way too nice."
"I can be scary." "Yeah? Prove it."
You sighed and took a step forward, dropping your voice into a low, stern tone. "Miss An, if you don't follow security protocol, I will personally make sure you regret it."
For a moment, Yujin's eyes widened, and you thought, finally, that she would actually take you seriously.
Then she grinned even wider. Whait, wha—
“Ohhh,” she mused, stepping even closer, her face just inches from yours. “I like you already.”
You had a very bad feeling about this.
-
If you had known what was coming, you would’ve quit on the spot.
An Yujin, despite her public image of being a charming, responsible leader, was actually a menace. A giant menace.
If she wasn’t sneaking off to buy snacks at the nearby convenience stores without telling anyone, she was hiding behind doors just to jump-scare you. And the worst part? The other IVE members had joined in on it…but mostly Yujin.
"Come on, just one smile," Yujin teased one afternoon, poking your cheek while you stood guard by the van. "You've been with us for months, and I still haven't seen you laugh."
You exhaled through your nose. "My job is to protect you, not to entertain you."
"That’s so boring. How do you survive without fun?" "By keeping a certain someone out of trouble."
Yujin gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Wow. Is that how you see me? Just a walking headache?"
You opened your mouth (because yes she was a giant headache to you) but she cut you off, suddenly leaning in way too close.
"What if I am your problem, huh?" she whispered, eyes glinting with playful challenge.
You held your ground, staring her down. "...Then I'll have to handle you accordingly, I suppose."
"Well, I’d like to see you try…mister."
Oh, she was insufferable. And unfortunately, you were stuck with her.
-
"You know," Yujin drawled, stretching across the couch in the waiting room like a cat in the sun. One arm hung off the side lazily, while the other rested behind her head, eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. "I think you like me more than you let on."
See, a normal person would have freaked out when a pretty girl said something at that caliber. But no, you got too used to it at this point. "What makes you think that?"
Her lips curled upward, slow and knowing, like she had already won whatever game she was playing. "Because I'm fun. And charming. And incredibly good-looking." She struck an exaggerated pose, tilting her chin up dramatically like some kind of historical monarch. Well, at least she’s self-aware. Go girl, you rock.
Across the room, Wonyoung groaned, rubbing her temples. "Unnie, please. Have some dignity."
"You don’t want me to tell the truth?" Yujin gasped, clutching her chest in mock devastation, her mouth slightly parted.
"I don't want you to embarrass us in front of our bodyguard, please." Wonyoung corrected, glancing at you apologetically.
You just shook your head, lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm used to it. Thank you, Wonyoung."
Yujin’s eyes flickered with amusement, but instead of making another joke, her expression softened just slightly, like she had caught something in your tone that intrigued her. Then, just as quickly, the mischief returned. "See? That's basically an admission that you enjoy my company."
You gave her a deadpan look. "That is not what I said."
"Too late, I'm taking it as fact." She stretched her arms over her head, looking far too pleased with herself.
You exhaled through your nose, choosing to ignore her. Because if there was one thing you'd learned about An Yujin, it was that engaging with her nonsense only fuelled her further. But, you know, despite all her teasing and the way she constantly pushed your buttons, there were moments when she reminded you why she was the leader of IVE.
Like now.
Liz sat in the corner of the room, staring down at her phone with her lips pressed into a tight line. She was fidgeting, her hands twisting together in her lap, a stark contrast to the usual easygoing energy she carried.
Yujin noticed instantly. Her playful expression melted away, replaced by something steadier. More grounded. She pushed herself off the couch, crossing the room in a few quick strides before crouching beside Liz.
"Jiwonie," she called softly, nudging her knee against Liz’s. "What’s up?"
"I…um…. feel like I keep messing up my parts in the choreography."
Yujin tilted her head, studying her with an unreadable expression. Then, instead of immediately reassuring her, she took a moment. Enough to let Liz’s words settle before responding.
"No buts." Yujin stood up, walked over, and slung an arm around Liz’s shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "You know what I told you? The best performers aren’t the ones who get everything perfect all the time. They’re the ones who keep going no matter what."
Liz still looked uncertain, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "You really think so?"
"I know so." Yujin grinned. "Besides, if you mess up, I’ll just mess up too. That way, we’re both in trouble."
"Holy shit, that’s a terrible encouragement," you muttered.
Yujin turned her head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, and the glint in her eyes was back. "It’s called leadership," Yujin shot back. "Ever heard of it?"
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, but you didn’t argue. Liz was smiling now, and that was proof enough that whatever Yujin was doing was working. She had a way of lifting her members’ spirits that was genuinely impressive.
Liz laughed, looking much more relaxed. "Thanks, unnie."
"Anytime," Yujin replied, patting her head before making her way back to her spot on the couch. As she passed you, she glanced up, smirking.
"See? I'm not just a pain in your ass."
"For the record, I have never said that," you replied, but she only winked before plopping back onto the couch like she hadn’t just effortlessly reassured one of her members.
You sighed. Protecting An Yujin was exhausting… but you didn’t mind as much as you pretended to.
-
Your day off. A rare and precious thing. Holy moly.
You had been looking forward to it. No earpiece, no schedule to follow, no six-foot radius of hyper-vigilance around an overgrown puppy disguised as an idol. Just a quiet, peaceful day to yourself to take a nice walk outside and enjoy the fresh air…
o...r so you thought.
The realization hit you like a cruel joke when you spotted her.
An Yujin. Hoodie up, mask on, but you’d recognise her anywhere. The way she walked, slightly loose-limbed and confident, like the world was hers to navigate. The way she hummed under her breath as she glanced at store signs, completely unaware of how reckless she was being.
You groaned under your breath. Of course. What the fuck is she doing by herself?
But before you could even question why she was out alone, without security, without backup, you saw him. A man. Mid-thirties. Dark hoodie. His posture was too stiff, his steps too calculated. He lingered a few feet behind Yujin, never overtaking her, never slowing down. His gaze flickered to her every few seconds, fingers twitching slightly as if waiting for something. (Don’t want to be rude, but he looked like someone you can smell 5 km away)
Of course, your instincts kicked in immediately and walked into the same convenience store, keeping to the shelves as she strolled past the snack aisle. She had no idea. Her biggest concern at the moment was probably whether to get banana milk or iced coffee…completely oblivious to the shadow tailing her.
So much for being the dog of IVE.
He lingered near the entrance, pretending to look at snacks but never actually picking anything up. His eyes were locked on Yujin, and his fingers twitched like he was waiting for the right moment.
Sasaeng. Ah for fuck’s sak—
You moved fast.
The moment Yujin left the store, you followed right behind. And just as the man reached out, you grabbed his wrist. Tight.
A sharp intake of breath. The man's head snapped toward you, eyes widening in shock and irritation.
"The hell—?" he hissed, jerking back, but you didn’t let go.
Yujin spun around, startled. "Huh?—"
"Good afternoon, mister." You pulled her behind you instinctively, keeping your grip on the man, and putting that “professional” smile on your face. "I don’t know what you think you’re doing," you said, voice low and firm, "but walk away. Now. While I still say please."
The man scowled, trying to yank his arm free. "Who the hell are you?"
"Her bodyguard," you answered coldly. "And if you don’t leave in the next five seconds, you won’t like where your eyes will end up at."
A flicker of hesitation. His eyes darted between you and Yujin, who was standing rigid behind you now, her usual carefree energy drained into tense and alert.
Then, finally, the man sneered and yanked his arm free. "Tch. Not worth it," he muttered before disappearing into the crowd.
You stood there for a moment, making sure he was really gone, before exhaling. Thank fuck that’s over…ah wait, the girl behind you. This troublesome brat.
"So…what the hell?" you snapped, turning to her. "Why are you alone?"
She blinked up at you, wide-eyed, still processing what just happened. "Uh…"
"You know how dangerous this is, right?" Your voice was sharper than usual, the adrenaline still running through you. "No staff, no backup, no security. What were you thinking?"
Yujin finally seemed to snap out of it, rubbing the back of her neck. "...I just wanted to go out for a bit. I didn’t want to bother anyone."
" Bothe—You call this not bothering anyone?! You're lucky I decided to go out right now you dunce!"
She hesitated, shifting on her feet. Then, in a small voice, she admitted, "I didn’t even realize he was following me."
You exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Yujin-ah," you muttered, softer this time, "this is exactly why you can’t go out alone. It’s not about you wanting freedom, I totally respect it, of course, but it’s about your safety. There are people out there who—"
You stopped, shaking your head. What matters is that Yujin is okay. "Just... don’t do this again. Please."
Silence stretched between you for a few seconds before Yujin suddenly smiled. A softer one. Almost... grateful.
"You really do care about me, huh?" "Girl, that’s what you’re taking from this?"
Her lips twitched, and just like that, the mischievous glint in her eyes was back. She nudged your arm playfully. "Admit it. You’d miss me if I got kidnapped."
"Don't make me use profanity you—"
"Fine, fine!" She laughed, hands up in surrender. But then she let out a breath, gaze flickering down for a second before meeting yours again, more earnest this time.
"Seriously, though," she murmured. "Thanks. I mean it."
You watched her for a moment, noting the way her usual carefree mask had cracked just a little. The way her eyes, despite the teasing, held something like genuine gratitude. She nudged you playfully. "Guess I owe you one, huh?"
"More like you owe me about a hundred at this point."
Yujin grinned. "Then I’ll start by buying you lunch. C’mon, bodyguard. Let’s eat."
And despite everything, despite the fact that this was supposed to be your day off, you found yourself walking beside her, watching her laugh like nothing had happened.
Guess that’s the definition of a good day, huh.
-
You should’ve known saving An Yujin would have consequences.
Not in the form of a promotion or a bonus (though you wouldn’t say no to either), but in the absolute menace she had become ever since that day.
At first, you thought you were imagining things with the longer stares, the way her lips curled mischievously whenever she caught your eye, the subtle brushes of her fingers against your arm whenever she passed by. Then, the touches became more deliberate. The teasing got more frequent. The closeness is more unbearable.
It was like a switch had flipped. Suddenly, your personal space was no longer yours. And the worst part? She did it so naturally, like she had always been this clingy with you.
Just like this one morning at the company building—
"Yallooo~" Yujin sang as she threw an arm over your shoulders, completely ignoring the amused stares of the staff around you. "Walk me to the practice room!"
"Yujin, You know I’m going there anyway." "But this way is more fun." She tightened her grip, practically hanging off you.
"...Do you have to be this close?" "Yes,"
It only got worse after a long schedule. You were expecting Yujin to slump in exhaustion like she usually did. Instead, the moment she climbed into the van, she scooted over without hesitation, settling in way too close before dropping her head onto your shoulder with a satisfied sigh.
"What are you doing?" you asked, voice flat, not daring to move.
"Getting comfortable," she mumbled, shifting slightly as if trying to mold herself against you.
"You have an entire seat to yourself." "But I don’t want to sit alone. You’re warm."
Across from you, Wonyoung and Liz exchanged knowing looks.
"Oh no," Gaeul muttered, covering her mouth to hide a laugh.
"I don’t get it," Wonyoung whispered, glancing between you and Yujin. "Since when were they this close?"
Liz smirked. "Since someone got rescued and suddenly realised how cool their bodyguard is."
"I heard that, Jiwon." "I'm glad you did, good sir."
Meanwhile, Yujin hummed in contentment, completely ignoring the stares and the muffled giggles of her members. As if your shoulder was the perfect place to rest, she nestled in further, her soft breath fanning against your neck. That feels….strangely not weird. The fuck?
"...Heavy," "Comfy," she countered with a teasing lilt, her lips curling into a lazy grin.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Gaeul shaking her head. "This is getting too spicy for my granny eyes."
Liz, meanwhile, giggled behind her hand. "We should start selling tickets to this slow-burn romance."
You groaned. Yujin? She just smirked.
Her clingy antics doesn't stop in the comfort of their dorm, unfortunately. Before their music show performance, you were standing near the dressing room door, waiting for the members to finish.
And then the door swung open.
Yujin strolled out like she was making a grand entrance, her hair freshly styled, her makeup flawless, looking every bit the idol she was. And then, in one smooth motion, she reached out, grabbed your hand, and laced her fingers with yours.
Your brain lagged.
"Let’s go, mister!" "Why are you holding my hand—?"
"You saved me, so now I’m keeping you close!" she said cheerfully. "You're my lucky charm!"
Behind her, Leeseo’s jaw dropped. Liz and Rei had to turn away to hide their laughter.
"Yujin," you hissed under your breath, trying to pull away.
She only tightened her grip. "Nope," she said. "Mine now."
You could physically feel Wonyoung’s migraine forming. "You cannot just say that out loud,"
"I just did." Yujin smirked, swinging your intertwined hands slightly, watching your reaction with delight.
Liz and Rei lost it, muffling their laughter behind their hands. At that moment, a staff member walked by, did a double-take at your very obvious hand-holding situation, and nearly tripped.
You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.
-
You really should have been more prepared for this.
It happened at the airport, in front of dozens of fans, reporters, and flashing cameras.
You were walking beside Yujin, scanning the crowd for any potential threats, keeping a careful distance, when suddenly—
"Honey~!"
You froze. The world stopped. You did not remember signing up to sing for JYP.
Gasps. Shrieks. The camera flashes directly in your face. Even the security personnel ahead of you paused.
Your entire being short-circuited. "What did you just call me?"
Yujin, completely unbothered, turned to you with an innocent smile. "Honey~" she repeated, her voice sweet as sugar.
Wonyoung, Gaeul, and Rei screamed. Leeseo was flabbergasted, with Liz quickly covering the youngest's ear from behind.
Hell, even the fans were losing their minds.
"OH MY GOD—" "WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY—" "HUH?!?!?" "YUJIN CALLED HER BODYGUARD HONEY?!?!"
"What. The. Hell. Yujin?!" Your ears burned with embarrassment. "Are you trying to make me headline Dispatch?"
"You take care of me," Yujin said smoothly, not missing a beat. "You protect me, you make sure I eat, you save my life. So obviously, you're my honey."
"You cannot just say that out loud in public," "But I just did,"
You quickly cover her mouth, frantically trying to damage control. "STOP!!!!"
At this point, Wonyoung had buried her face in her hands, physically unable to process what was happening. Gaeul was bent over, wheezing. Rei looked like she was watching the most dramatic plot twist unfold in real life.
A fan nearby whispered to their friend, "Do you think they’re dating?"
You wish the world could just swallow you and perish at that point.
And Yujin? This girl? This freaking troublesome brat?
She just tugged on your sleeve, eyes filled with amusement, and smiled. "Come on, honey. Let’s go."
And as you caught the knowing grins of her members, the delighted chaos among the fans (according to Yujin), and the sheer horror on your own face reflected in the airport glass, you realized something.
Note: ...gosh i actually don't know proper words to say about this fic except it is a pretty angsy melodrama. I have spent quite a long time writing this pretty strong angst fic and this got me very attached to the plot. Plus, I wanna make it justice for my first ever bias, Myoui Minari.
I hope you guys will enjoy it as much as I do (sorry if it got too gloomy). It's actually the longest I ever wrote.
Please feel free to give feedback (here or dm) as well on how you thought about it.
Special thanks to the goat @kwilquib and my twin @wonyology for suggestions and proofread!
(6.9k words)
You’ve fixed that damn light three times this week.
It still flickers—quietly, stubbornly—like it’s mocking you. A soft, rhythmic pulse above the entrance, casting a stuttered glow over the velvet ropes and the scratched linoleum floor in the lobby. You stare up at it with a wrench in one hand and a roll of electrical tape in the other, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to feel your pulse there.
One more thing that doesn’t work right.
The bulb’s only three years old, like everything else in this theatre that was installed just slightly too cheaply. You remember when the renovations finished—polished wood stage, fresh paint, clean seating. It was modest, nothing like the polished chrome palaces of sound across the city, but it had charm. It had character. It had promise.
Now it has peeling corners on the stairwell posters and a faucet backstage that leaks when it’s cold.
You step down from the stepladder and exhale slowly, pushing the wrench into the back pocket of your jeans. Your shoulders ache. Your jaw’s sore. You haven’t unclenched it properly in days.
"Another day in paradise," you mutter.
Your voice echoes slightly in the open auditorium, the kind of silence that fills a space that’s waiting. Not dead silence—no, it still hums with the memory of applause and feet scraping the floor and chairs creaking under shifting weight. But today, now, it just feels... suspended. Like everything in here is holding its breath.
“Flickering again?”
You stiffen. She always appears like that. No footsteps. No hello. Just is, suddenly, somewhere nearby.
You glance toward the seating and see her—already in the fourth row, third seat from the aisle, exactly where you knew she’d be. Where she always sits before rehearsals.
Mina.
Dark coat still on, scarf tucked perfectly into her collar, fingers laced in her lap like she's waiting to be called for judgment. Her posture perfect, her gaze passive. There’s something about her presence that’s always still—like she’s carved out of calm. She doesn’t fill the room the way most performers do. She doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t have to.
Her silence just... resonates.
You sigh and lean the ladder against the side wall. “It’s the wiring. Again. I swear this building was put together with spare parts and positive thinking.”
Mina blinks slowly, her expression unreadable. “Do you want me to call someone?”
You raise an eyebrow. “With what budget? The imaginary one?”
"We do make pretty decent money."
"Well, I'm stubborn, ok?" You huffed.
"Suit yourself." She hums. It's soft. Barely audible. Probably her version of acknowledging a joke.
You eye her from the edge of the stage. The house lights aren’t on, but some sunlight filters in through the narrow windows above the rear seats, catching in her hair. She looks composed. Untouchable. As usual.
“I thought Jihyo told you rehearsal wasn’t for another hour.”
“She did. You did as well.”
You pause, arms crossing. “Then why are you here?”
“I like the quiet,” she says. “Before the crew arrives.”
You scoff and step down off the stage, the boards creaking under your boots. “You? Liking something? Now that’s new.”
She tilts her head the tiniest bit. “I didn’t say I liked it. I said I preferred it.”
“Wow. Don’t be so enthusiastic, Sharon. You’ll scare the walls.”
Again, nothing. No twitch of the mouth. No glare. No snark back. Just that quiet stillness. Always watching, always composed. You fold your arms tighter, a familiar irritation prickling up your spine.
It’s not that she’s rude. She’s never been cruel, never been arrogant. She just doesn’t... react. You’ve known her for years now—years of her singing like moonlight and sounding like magic—and still, she rarely shows you more than her carefully measured words and that impossible calm, which suited well with her stage name.
You never know what she’s thinking. The stoic face. The calm expression. You're unsure if you should be annoyed or not, but it definitely makes your stomach twist.
You’ve heard the rumours. Whispers from other theatres. The bouquets. The calls. The offers. The elegant invitations sent directly to her, not through you. And she hasn’t said anything. Not a word.
So you haven’t either. Because if she is leaving, if she’s going... you’re not sure you want to hear her say it.
You force a shrug. “Well, there's nothing to do for you right now. Just lighting adjustments.”
“I know.”
“So go home. Eat your donut. Breathe.”
She glances at the empty stage. “I don’t mind being here.”
You hate how she says things like that—so quietly, so simply—and it always sounds like the full stop on a sentence you weren’t finished writing.
You run a hand through your hair, already regretting coming in early.
“Suit yourself,” you mutter, turning toward the back hallway. “Just don’t blame me when your throat gives out and I say I told you so.”
Behind you, there’s no answer. No protest. No sigh. Not even the sound of her shifting in her seat.
She just... watches. Like always.
And you walk faster than you need to, because suddenly the quiet in the theatre doesn’t feel peaceful anymore.
It feels like the kind of silence right before the curtain rolls.
-
There was a time—five years ago—when no one knew who she was. You don’t even remember what the other acts sounded like that night.
It was a rainy Thursday—one of those bone-deep, unforgiving downpours that made the walls of your theatre shudder with every gust of wind. Open mic night had been a last-ditch idea. Something to keep the lights on, get a few curious locals in the seats. You’d even printed flyers yourself, leaving stacks at bus stops and cafés, hoping someone—anyone—would show.
Eight people came. Five performed. None stood out.
And then, near the end, just as you were packing up leftover water bottles and untangling mic cords, she walked in.
Mina.
You didn’t know her name then. She wasn’t famous yet. Wasn’t even known. Probably as famous as that quiet ladder tucked away backstage.
She was soaked to the ankles, black coat damp from the rain, clutching a small USB drive in her hand. She didn’t introduce herself. Didn’t smile. She just looked at the stage, then looked at you, and said, flatly:
“Is it still open?”
You were a bit thrown, honestly. She didn’t have that awkward shuffle most people had when walking into a performance space. She just existed there—quiet, still, strangely poised.
“…Yeah,” you said after a beat, gesturing vaguely to the mic stand. “Yeah, sure. We’ve got a few minutes.”
You expected nerves. A shaky voice. Maybe another cover of some indie ballad.
Instead, silence.
Then music. And then her voice.
The room stopped breathing.
It was like glass breaking underwater—delicate but cutting. Soft, yet commanding. You felt it in the back of your teeth. Her voice didn’t beg for attention, didn’t fight to be heard. It simply was. As if the space itself had been built to carry that sound. She didn’t move. Barely blinked. She wasn’t emoting with her face or body—just her voice.
And somehow, that was more powerful and enigmatic than anything you’d seen in months.
You sat there in the front row, dumbfounded. Halfway through the song, you leaned forward without even realizing it, elbows on your knees, heart pounding like you were watching something rare—something fragile that could vanish if you so much as blinked.
When she finished, there was no applause. Just stillness. Reverent and a little stunned. She just walked off stage without a word after giving a light bow.
You shot to your feet, practically tripping over a cable. “Wait—!”
She stopped mid-step, turning slightly, expression unreadable.
You didn’t have a pitch ready. You just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“That was… incredible. I mean, I’ve never—where did you learn to sing like that?”
She tilted her head slightly, as if the question confused her. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“I just sing.”
Wow. Of course she just sings.
You exhaled, trying not to look as breathless as you felt. “Okay. Listen. This is going to sound insane, but—would you consider coming back next week? I mean, it’s just a small slot, nothing fancy, but—hell, I’ll arrange the whole lineup if you want. I’ll find a better mic, or get you a proper spotlight, or—whatever you need. Just say the word.”
She stared at you for a long moment, eyes dark and unreadable.
“…You run this theatre?” she asked.
“Yeah,” you said, a little sheepishly, glancing around at the modest rows of red seats, the modest stage, the modest everything. “Well, I mean, it’s not the fanciest place, but… it’s mine. And I really think people need to hear you.”
Another pause. You didn’t breathe.
“…Okay,” she said simply.
And then she left. Just like that.
You stood in the middle of the aisle long after the door clicked shut, grinning like an idiot.
Luckily, she came back the following week. On time. Alone. Dressed just as plainly. No entourage. No expectations. And when she sang again, the audience was twice as big. And then three times. And then sold out. And the rest is history under the name "Sharon". You didn't remember how that name came to be, but at least it made her feel like a part.
You started paying her more before you even paid yourself. Anything just to keep this lotus here among the mud.
You began managing her schedule personally, not because she asked, but because she forgot to reply to emails. You handled inquiries, screened messages, declined the sketchy contracts she barely glanced at. She never requested anything, but you left tea at her seat anyway. Always warm, like she preferred.
She never said thank you outright. But sometimes she’d hand you a tea before your meetings. Or stand next to you a little longer backstage before a show. Or hum one of your favourite songs during warm-up.
You didn’t need more than that. Not back then.
You were just happy to be near the music. Her music. Happy to help her find a place to be heard. Happy she chose your theatre to sing in.
And now, she’s outgrown you. And you hated that you knew this place hindered her.
-
The theatre is quiet again, the way it always is after everyone’s gone.
You don’t like this kind of quiet. Not anymore.
It used to be peaceful — comforting, even. A sign that you’d made it through another day. That the crew finished the set without killing each other. That the lights didn’t explode, the sound didn’t fail, and no audience member vomited during intermission. These used to be victories.
Now, the silence feels… loaded. Like the air is waiting for something to collapse.
You pass the dressing rooms, scanning for signs of life. Most of the doors are open, lights off, seats empty, clothes gone. But hers — fourth door on the right, with the gold star sticker half-peeled on the top corner — is still shut.
You knock twice. No answer. So you knock again, already pushing the door open. “Mina, it’s me.”
She’s sitting in front of the mirror.
Her back is to you. Her reflection meets you first — smooth porcelain skin under the soft warmth of the mirror bulbs, lips just a touch parted, like she had something to say but forgot it halfway through the thought.
She’s brushing her hair with slow, deliberate movements. One side already sleek and pinned. Her posture is impossibly straight, like she’s carved out of poise. Or maybe like she’s bracing for something.
You linger in the doorway.
“Still here?” you ask, pretending your voice isn’t cracking around the edges.
Mina doesn’t look at you. Her gaze stays fixed on her reflection, like she’s looking at someone she’s trying to recognize.
“We finished over an hour ago,” you say.
“I know,” she replies softly.
You take a breath. It tastes like dust and hairspray and the last ounce of patience you’ve been carrying.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
You scoff and step inside. “Great. Real communicative as always.”
She says nothing.
You run a hand through your hair, gripping it for a second at the root. “Mina, what are we even doing anymore?”
Finally, she turns slightly. Just enough to see you from the corner of her eye. “…you tell me.”
You’re not ready for that answer. And yet, it’s the one you’ve been circling for weeks now. You drop into the armchair by the costume rack, the one with the fraying seam you never got around to fixing.
You don’t look at her when you speak next.
“Starship Theatre’s rep came again,” you say. “This time that guy brought a contract. Tried to slip it under the staff door like he’s a fucking spy.”
Mina hums. “He’s persistent.”
“Because he knows what he’s getting.” You stare at the carpet. “Because everyone does. He has a better hand here.”
She doesn’t respond. You can feel her watching you in the mirror.
You lean forward, elbows on knees, fingers twisting into knots.
“I know you’ve been getting offers,” you continue. “For months now. I know your name’s started showing up in music blogs. I know that video of you singing Doughnut hit over a million views. I didn’t bring it up because… it’s your choice.”
A beat of silence.
“And yet,” she says evenly, “you’re angry.”
“Of course I’m angry!” you snap, moving closer. “You’re the reason this theatre is still standing! You’ve been carrying the weight of it for years and—yeah, I didn’t want to admit that, but it’s true. You saved us. You saved me. And if you go—”
You stop yourself. If you go, I lose the only thing that makes this place feel alive. I lose you.
The words hover at the back of your throat, but you swallow them.
Mina doesn’t flinch, but her fingers are tightening around the hairbrush. You notice.
“I told myself I wouldn’t use you. That I’d keep it fair. That I’d only ask for what you were willing to give. But I did ask. Again and again. Even when you were tired. Even when I could tell you didn’t want to.”
Your throat tightens.
“But I was selfish. Because I thought… if I gave you space, if I supported you right, if I never pushed too hard—you’d stay.”
You look at her through the mirror, fully now. “And maybe you still will. Or maybe you’re already gone, and this is just a fucking formality.”
Mina is quiet. Then she places the brush down.
“I know” she says, measured and soft.
You look up, startled. “You… know?”
Her gaze stays in the mirror. “I’ve known for a long time.”
Her voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t falter — but it lands heavy.
“I know this theatre is holding me back. I could have left a year ago, maybe two. But I stayed.”
You blink, unsure where she’s going with this.
“I stayed,” she continues, “because I thought… maybe something else would happen. Between us.”
The floor drops out from under you. “You…” Your voice cracks. “Mina—”
"You were and still…" Mina took a breath. "…a big part of my life. You gave me opportunities. You gave me a future. I gave my all…gave myself…. to this theatre. I want you to…just…look at me properly."
You swore the air got stuck in your lung. "I do-"
“I waited,” she says, turning to look at you directly now. Her expression is calm, but her eyes hold something sharper — the edge of disappointment honed over years. “For years. Hoping you’d say something. Do something. Anything that doesn't make me feel like a product. And every time you didn’t, I told myself to wait just a little longer.”
You don’t know what to say. So you don’t.
She exhales quietly, as if admitting this costs her more than she wants you to see.
“When you asked for more shows, I said yes — because it meant more time here. More time near you. And I kept thinking… maybe this time. Maybe now.” Her eyes drop for the briefest second, then rise again. “But nothing happened. It’s always nothing.”
Her voice is still soft, still steady, but each word is measured like a final judgment.
“And I’m tired,” she says simply. “Tired of expecting something from you. Tired of living in a loop where I give you more, and you give me the same silence back.”
You step toward her, but she doesn’t move.
“So now,” she says, “I’ll give myself to something else. My career. Somewhere I can grow. Somewhere I’m not… waiting.”
You bite down on your lip. The word is right there, clawing its way up your throat, but you choke it back.
“Just like that?” you murmur.
“It’s not just. And it’s not easy.” She lowers her voice. “But I’ve known for a while.”
You stare at the spot on the vanity where her name is taped in crooked gold letters. You put it there. You remember how she didn’t react at all. But you sometimes saw her trace the edge of the tape when she thought you weren’t looking.
“…So that’s it?”
She nods.
Then, for the first time in what feels like years, she says something that breaks your heart more than the rest.
“I’m sorry.”
And this time, you see it — not just the emotion, but the weight behind it. The flicker in her eyes. The tiny, nearly imperceptible tremble in her voice.
You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to scream that it’s not. You don't know what role you should play in this damn tragedy.
Instead, you drop your head into your hands and breathe in the scent of powder and old wood and her.
“…Can I be selfish one last time?” you ask, voice hoarse.
“Yes.”
You take a breath. “Stay for one last performance.”
You don’t realize how much hope you’re putting into the words until they’re out. You’re looking at her like maybe she’ll read your mind. Like maybe she’ll see all the things you can’t say.
Her expression doesn’t change.
For a flicker — less than a heartbeat — her eyes soften. You can almost feel the air shift, the ghost of something unspoken passing between you.
Maybe, just maybe, she thinks — this is it.
But then you stop. You say nothing more. You let the moment die.
And she knows. That tiny ember of hope sputters out.
“Alright,” Mina says quietly. “One last performance.”
-
The afterparty ends in laughter you can’t really quite join in on.
The crew claps your back. The supporting performers hug each other. The staff finally breathe. The new girl in costuming cries a little and wipes it away before anyone notices.
And through it all—you smile. You thank them. You nod. You raise your cup. But you don’t feel any of it.
Because she’s not here.
Not even a goodbye. Not even a glance.
When the last person leaves and the theatre goes quiet again, you lock the side doors, check the back rooms, and finally—finally—let yourself return to the stage.
You walk slowly, as if your feet weigh more tonight. Past the props still stacked from the encore, past the dimmed ghost light humming faintly in the centre. And down the side steps of the stage... to the audience seats. The seats stretch before you like gravestones in orderly rows, still warm from the hundreds that sat through her final performance. You stand at the edge of the aisle, hands deep in your pockets, gaze locked on that one familiar spot.
You sit where you always wanted to. Always wished you did.
Not in the aisle. Not backstage. Not on the ladder hastily fixing that light bulb whenever she comes early despite being told by you and Jihyo. But here. Fourth row. Third seat from the aisle. Mina’s seat.
You don’t sit in it. That feels wrong. Still too warm with her shadow.
Instead, you sit beside it. Close, but not quite touching. As if she’ll walk in any second and (hopefully) scold you for invading her space. As if she’ll glance sideways and say something dry, something cool, something so uniquely her.
But the seat beside you stays cold. Empty.
You lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together loosely.
The theatre smells faintly of roses. Someone must’ve forgotten a bouquet behind. The kind she always hated receiving. “Too flashy,” she once muttered, when someone tried to hand her thirty-five long stems wrapped in gold foil. “I prefer lilies.”
You should’ve remembered that sooner.
“…I always thought I’d have more time with you,” you say aloud, voice hoarse. “Not forever. Just… more. To properly know you.”
The walls don’t answer.
“I kept telling myself I didn’t want to bother you. That you liked your quiet. That it was enough just to… see you every day, to manage things so you didn’t have to worry.” You stare at the empty seat. “But I should’ve sat here. Just once. I should’ve just talked to you.”
The knot in your chest tightens.
All those days she came early and sat in this very spot. All those moments you caught her staring at the empty stage. You thought she needed silence. You thought she wanted space. But maybe—maybe—she would’ve let you stay, too.
You would’ve asked her how her day was. What song she was into lately. What she would like to do when she wasn’t rehearsing or performing or trapped in this little world you built around her. Maybe she would’ve shared more, even if just in fragments. Maybe it would've helped you know more on how to talk to her last time in the change room. Properly.
You read the crumbled note she left again, even though you’ve already memorized every word.
You were the first person who saw me. I sang for the theatre. I stayed because of you.
I’m sorry I never said it until now.
—Mina
“Why didn’t I just fucking sit next to you?” you whisper, voice cracking.
A part of you knows the answer. Because you were scared that if you did, and she didn’t say anything… it would hurt worse than pretending you didn’t want to. You always got close to just sitting next to her every early morning when she tagged by. Always but lost the courage to.
Now there’s nothing left to pretend. She’s gone.
You sit there a while longer. Not saying anything. Not needing to. You just…breathe out.
The theatre breathes with you. Or maybe it exhales for the first time since she left.
It’s strange—how her absence fills more space than her presence ever did. Like she didn’t take up room until she was gone.
And maybe that’s what you’re really mourning. Not the fact that she left. But the realization that you let her slip through your fingers quietly, gently, without ever asking her to stay. Because you knew she wouldn’t.
Still…you wish she had said goodbye out loud. To you at least.
Just once.
-
You stop sitting next to her seat after the third night.
It was quiet comfort at first — not solace, never that — just the act of occupying the space she left behind. Like you could hold onto the faintest heat her body had left in the cushion. A phantom warmth. A last trace of her presence before the crew moved on without her.
But after three nights, it began to feel pathetic.
So instead, you get up earlier than everyone else. Show up before the city has even warmed beneath the morning sun. You unlock the side door with stiff fingers, lights still dark, and walk into that small, modest theatre that once felt full of life. Your steps echo a little too loud now. The sound rings back at you like an accusation.
The theatre isn’t falling apart. Not quite.
It was never one of those grand velvet-draped relics with golden balconies and champagne intermissions. No, your theatre was always modest — clean, functional, bare-boned charm with just enough character to feel intimate. It had that gentle kind of age, like a smile line near the corner of a mouth, like it’s been through enough to feel lived in, but not enough to lose its soul.
But now, the soul feels like it’s missing.
You sweep. You rehang posters. You change the lightbulbs before they even have a chance to flicker. You spend hours poring over spreadsheets and emails from underwhelming performers, trying to sell them on a dream that doesn’t exist anymore.
Because the dream was her. And she’s gone.
It’s been a month since Mina’s last show.
And no matter how much you work, how hard you grind your teeth through meetings and rehearsal schedules, you can’t clean away the ache she left behind.
People talk to you less now. Not out of fear. Not exactly. But something colder. Hesitation, maybe. Like they’re walking around someone with a freshly bandaged wound they’re afraid to bump into.
You used to be sharp, sure — biting and sarcastic, that kind of "show not tell" energy the team secretly loved. They used to tease you about it. Laugh when you scolded them for wasting time, even as you handed out snacks during breaks and made sure everyone had water bottles at tech rehearsals. You were cold in words, warm in action. That was the balance.
But now… now it’s just cold.
No more dry jokes. No offhand remarks laced with reluctant affection. Just clipped orders, frustrated sighs, and a silence that wraps around your shoulders like a soaked coat.
Jihyo, your stage manager, tries to hide her concern. She gives you looks. The kind that hover between annoyance and worry. But she doesn’t push. Not at first.
Others aren’t so subtle.
“I heard she’s doing shows at Starship now,” your assistant, says one afternoon, while coiling cables. Her voice is low but pointed. “Sold out four nights consecutively. Must be nice.”
You grunt. Don’t look up. Just keep typing into the budgeting spreadsheet that refuses to balance.
“She probably doesn’t even think about this place anymore.” she mutters.
You glance up slowly, meeting her eyes. There’s a flicker of guilt on her face, but it’s buried under something else. Frustration. Jealousy, maybe. You don’t answer.
“…Probably not.” you say, voice flat.
And that’s all it takes. A shift in the air.
Your silence gives them permission. Not directly. But something changes after that. Whispers get a little louder. The ones who worked with Mina — who watched her light up the stage without even trying — they start to speak of her with less reverence.
“She was distant, anyway.”
“She didn’t care about any of us.”
“She sang, sure, but she never stayed after shows. Never smiled. Never shared anything.”
“She just left.”
You never correct them. You never defend her. Not because they’re right — but because you don’t have the energy to untangle all the mess she left you with. Because deep down, you know that if you open your mouth, it won’t be a neat explanation. It’ll be a dam breaking. A flood of things you never had the courage to say to her face.
So you stay quiet. Bottling up all the things you knew about Mina more than everyone else. And they start to dislike her. Not hate. Not really. Just enough for the resentment to bloom in corners. Just enough to fill the space she left behind.
The new cast members — the ones who came in after Mina’s final bow — hear the bitterness second-hand. They weren’t there to see how she moved. How she never needed grandeur or choreography. How the air would still around her when she stood at centre stage and simply sang. How she didn’t perform for attention, but for some sacred rhythm inside her chest you were never allowed to hear.
They don’t understand. They don’t want to understand.
So they shrug, and say, “She wasn’t that special.”
You hear it backstage. You hear it too many times. Each time, it chips something inside you. But you don’t respond. You just stare at the spot on stage where she used to stand — downstage centre, left foot slightly forward, chin tilted in that exact unintentional elegance. The spotlight always caught her eyes just right.
You remember everything about her presence. It lingers, even now, like perfume in an empty room.
Eventually, Jihyo corners you after a long, soul-crushing rehearsal. The new lead fumbled two lines. The sound tech cut out. You snapped harder than necessary. People left with their heads down.
Jihyo doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You’re bleeding the team dry.”
You barely glance at her, rummaging through your bag. “They’ll live.”
“They’ll leave.”
You stop. Stare at her.
She folds her arms. “You think no one notices? You haven’t smiled in days. You bark at everyone. You’re distant, cold—worse than usual.”
Your jaw tenses. “I’m…keeping the theatre running.”
“We’re all keeping it running,” she fires back. “But you? You’re not directing anymore. You’re surviving. And you’re dragging the rest of us through the mud with you.”
You stare at her long and hard. No energy in your voice this time. Just exhaustion.
“She left,” you whisper. “She walked out the side door without looking back. And I let her.”
There’s a long silence. Jihyo’s face softens, but only slightly. “You didn’t make her leave.”
“No,” you murmur. “But I didn’t ask her to stay, either.”
She leaves you there, standing alone under the harsh fluorescent lights. You think she wants you to take a break. To go home. To rest.
Well, you don’t. You wait until the theatre is empty again. Until the hallway is silent. Until the last staff member has left.
And then, for the first time in a while, you walk to the fourth row.
You don’t sit.
You just stand there. Staring at her seat.
You remember the way she used to sit — poised, always straight-backed, hands folded. Never slouched. Always composed. Like she was made of something quieter than confidence. Something permanent.
You look down at the cushion. It’s just fabric. Just foam. But it still faintly feels like her.
Your fingers brush the armrest.
“Mina,” you whisper. Her name still fits awkwardly in your throat. “Why didn’t you make me stop you?”
There’s no answer. Of course not. So you just clench your jaw and turn away.
And once again, you go back to work. Because the show must go on. Even if the person who made it feel worth watching is no longer in the audience.
No longer in the wings. No longer… yours.
Just a silence, now. And a seat that remains empty.
-
The house lights hadn’t even dimmed yet, but the backstage buzz was already picking up. You stood on the edge of the stage, clipboard pressed tight against your ribs, eyes narrowed as you studied the rigging high above. The familiar scent of old wood mixed with the faint trace of freshly painted set pieces wrapped around you like a familiar shroud. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of light piercing through the upper windows, making the quiet theatre feel almost sacred.
Jihyo approached, her footsteps cautious but steady. “Hey, you okay?” she asked, voice soft but carrying that unmistakable edge of concern. You barely glanced at her.
“…fine,” you muttered, adjusting a spotlight with the long pole. Your hands trembled slightly as you gripped it tighter, trying to will the weakness away.
“Ya, you’re not fine.” She stepped closer, folding her arms. “You’ve been rubbing your temple all morning and skipping lunch.”
“I’m just tired, Jihyo. You know how it is.” You tried to force a smile, but it cracked halfway through.
She didn’t buy it. “You don’t look tired. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
You swallowed hard and took a breath, willing your legs not to betray you. “I’m fine. Really.”
She frowned, stepping back but keeping her eyes on you. “If you say so.” She glanced toward the wings, where crew members busied themselves setting up. “Look, the others are asking for you. The act's warming up. We start in thirty.”
You nodded stiffly, turning your gaze back upward, focusing on a tangle of cables dangling near the lighting rig. Your vision blurred at the edges for a moment, but you blinked it away. You couldn’t afford to slow down—not now. Not when the theatre was hanging by a thread.
Jihyo lingered, watching you carefully. “Seriously, you need to sit down for a minute.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit’” she insisted, stepping forward and catching your arm before you could move. “Look at me.”
You met her worried eyes. She was always so steady, so grounded—your anchor when everything else threatened to fall apart. But right now, even she looked shaken.
“I—” you started to protest, but the world tipped sideways.
Your knees buckled.
Jihyo’s grip tightened instantly as she caught you before you hit the floor, lowering you gently to the stage. The clipboard slipped from your hands, clattering against the wood like a gunshot.
“Hey! Hey, stay with me!” she said urgently, shaking your shoulder.
Your breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. The dim lights spun overhead, and a cold numbness crept from your fingertips, crawling up your arms.
“Someone call an ambulance!” Jihyo shouted, voice cracking. "Hurry up!"
You tried to speak but the words tangled in your throat. Darkness edged your vision.
“Stay awake! I’m right here!” Jihyo’s voice was the last thing you heard before the world went black.
-
The room smelled like antiseptic and too many flowers.
When you came to, the world was blurred around the edges. The hospital ceiling looked just like the theatre’s light grid—white, rigid, oppressive. You tried to sit up but immediately regretted it, your head pounding like it had stored weeks of pain just for this moment.
“Don’t,” someone said.
The voice was familiar.
Soft. Gentle. A little out of breath.
Your eyes adjusted, and slowly, familiar silhouettes came into focus. Was it Mina? Did she actually came?
….it was Jihyo, eyes red. A few staff. Some of the newer performers. Even the grumpy lighting tech you always butted heads with. All hovering like anxious bees around your bed.
You blinked at them, ignoring the disappointment in your tone. “What… what are you all doing here?”
“Waiting for you to wake up, dumbass,” Jihyo mumbled, brushing their nose. “You scared the living shit out of us.”
"I'm…not dead though…?"
"You're very close to be, boss."
A chorus of relieved laughter rippled around the room, but it didn’t lift the heaviness from your chest. You searched the crowd, eyes scanning. You don't know why you looked around for her anyway.
You thought it was finally time to let her go until the door open. She walked in like she hadn’t been gone a day.
The same dark coat, buttoned neatly to the collar despite the early spring warmth outside. Hair smooth, the kind that didn’t give the wind permission to move it. Her expression was the same as the last time you’d seen her — cool, unhurried, eyes deep enough to reflect every question you wanted to ask but would never answer them first.
But somehow you can see the slight trembling on her lips, the grip on the coat sleeve with her delicate hand that is tighter than usual, the small impatient tap of her foot.
Mina.
She didn’t look at anyone else.
Not Jihyo, not the actors, not the crew members leaning against the far wall. Her gaze locked on you from the moment she stepped through the doorway, and for her, the rest of the room may as well have been furniture.
There was a stiffness from the others. Not open hostility, but the kind of quiet bracing people do when someone they don’t like walks in. Mina either didn’t notice or didn’t care. You could feel the shift—the tension crackling like static in the air. Everyone knew what she did. Everyone saw what she left behind.
You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry. “Mina—”
“Later,” she said, calm and clipped, the kind of tone that left no space for argument.
Her eyes flicked once toward the others, then back to you. “Out.” It wasn't loud. It wasn't even sharp. But it had weight and the room responded to it.
"Are you seri-"
"Jihyo, it's ok." You stopped her, summoning all of your power to. "Can I have a moment with Mina, guys?"
"Bu-"
"Please…?"
Jihyo sighed, loud and reluctant. Then the room began to clear. Your staff shuffled out, muttering and avoiding eye contact. You sat up slightly in the bed, wincing, watching as the door clicked shut behind the last person. Mina remained standing by the foot of your bed, fists clenched at her sides, throat bobbing.
Only then did she let her gaze settle on you again.
Up close, her face was exactly the same as you remembered — controlled, unshaken, every emotion buried just deep enough that you could only guess. If she’d missed you, you wouldn’t see it. If she’d been worried, she wouldn’t let it show.
She stood there like that for a long moment, then finally spoke. “…you idiot.”
The words were quiet. Too quiet for the hallway to hear. But her voice carried a faint tremor that you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from her before.
Then her knees gave out and she fell to her knees at your bedside. Not sat. Not crouched. Fell.
“Mina, are you-” you gasped, but she shook her head violently, both hands clenching the bedsheet like it was the only thing tethering her.
You finally took a proper look at her eyes. They weren’t cold. They weren’t indifferent. They were shattered.
“You think I didn’t hear?” she continued, low but quick, as though saying the words any slower would let them unravel her. “About you skipping meals? About the hours you’ve been pulling? About the fact that you…” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “Do you even understand how stupid that is?”
You blinked, unsure if the haze in your vision was from fever or disbelief. “You left.”
“I know.” She swallowed, eyes locked on yours like she was daring you to look away first. “I thought you’d be better without me.”
You stayed silence.
“…I thought if I left, you’d rest. I-I thought if I left, maybe you’d finally put yourself first. But you didn’t.” Her hands trembled as they gripped the blanket draped over you. “You got worse. You—god dammit, you collapsed.”
“Mina…”
“I’m so stupid,” she murmured, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Y-you made me who I am. You protected me. You believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. And all I did was leave.”
You tried to shake your head, but she kept going.
Her voice shook, and tears started rolling down her cheeks. Quietly at first. Then faster. More frantic. She buried her face in her palm, soft sobs muffled, her breath catching and hitching as the flood finally broke loose.
“I kept telling myself it was for the best. That bigger stages meant I could make you proud. Make my biggest supporter proud. That maybe you'd… you’d finally stop pushing yourself so hard.” Her shoulders shook, her voice barely holding together. “But I was just being a piece of trash. Running away when things got hard. From you. From everyone.”
"Mina-"
And then it happened. Her voice rose.
She looked up at you then, wailing. “But hearing you like that—hearing you fall in front of everyone—I’d rather just burn out completely and die than let that happen again.”
For anyone outside, the sound must have been jarring — the calm, unreachable Mina breaking through the wall she’d built around herself, her voice spilling out raw and uneven.
Inside, mascara streaks ran down her face. Her lip quivered. Her perfectly done makeup was a mess—but she was still Mina. Still beautiful. Still yours, in some impossible, broken way.
You couldn’t help it. Tears slipped from your eyes too, and you reached out, brushing her cheek with the back of your hand. You choked out a laugh through your tears, finally noticing her attire underneath the coat. “Ya, you ditched your act tonight? Can't believe the Sharon did just that.”
She nodded against your arm, still clutching the sheet like a lifeline. “I couldn’t sing. Not if I didn’t know if you’d ever… wake up.”
"I don't die that easily…" You reached out, hand weak but steady enough to touch her hair. Her soft, raven-black hair. She leaned into the touch like she had been waiting years for it.
And then it hit you. A memory. A name.
Sharon. Her stage name. The name that shook the world.
She had chosen it with you. Late one night in the green room, the two of you huddled over a list of names, laughing at the ridiculous ones and pausing at the ones that meant something.
"Sharon" had stuck. A name of beauty, strength, and determination in solitude. You’d said it suited her. And it did.
But now… now you were reminded of something you hadn’t let yourself remember. That underneath Sharon—the siren-like, enigmatic voice that saved your theatre—was still Mina.
Just Mina.
A girl who didn’t know how to cry in front of anyone until right now. Who didn’t know how to tell you that the spotlight was starting to burn. That she was deep down afraid of letting people down.
Even though she looked so composed around everyone else, her hands always shook behind the curtain. That a cold girl like her can be so beautiful even when in glassy tears while leaning to your palm.
“I missed you…” you whispered.
She looked up then, eyes rimmed red, voice breaking apart with every syllable.
“I missed you more.”
And so, for the first time since that quiet, aching parting weeks ago, you both cried together. No pretences. No walls. Just the sound of regret and longing, unspoken for far too long.
She wept audibly, and you held her, gently and delicately. And for a moment, just a moment, the world beyond the curtain didn't exist.
Speaking of not following schedule, here's a "little" thing I made for the loveliest floofiest Asa fan @ducktoo
“Thank you, please come again!” you brightly say to a leaving customer. He couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge, rushing like his life depends on it after hearing something on the phone. The café’s quiet again, your sigh seeming to echo despite the decent soundproofing. That was only your third customer after nearly six hours of operation.
The business strategy sounded pretty solid and straightforward when your friend and owner Takaki suggested it. A café with a cozy ambience and plenty of amenities for students of the nearby university. Pricing’s also a major thing, in that it isn’t very major. Well-suited for their budgets. Projected losses in the early days, of course, but the traffic’ll pay it off in time.
Well, difficulties along the way put delay after delay which means your grand opening is smack dab at the middle of summer break. You can individually track each customer over the past two weeks, so barren it has been.
“Ah, well. Good thing dude’s filthy rich. Next month will pay off, trust.” You busy yourself with whatever baristas do when it’s quiet, wiping down tables over and over. There must be more cleaner residue on those than there have been actual stains. The windows, too. At least that you kinda enjoy, as any stains bother you immensely.
At one point you take over the chill jazz and soul R&B playing on repeat, blasting your own mishmash of genres while singing them to your heart’s content. A decent use of the pricey double glazed glass at least.
Unfortunately, slaving the speakers to your phone means the welcome bell doesn’t sound when a customer does open the door. “Now let me show you the shape—ahh! My heart!” You jump at the sight of the mythical customer just as she closes the door behind her. She’s hardly affected. Maybe her eyes widened a bit, but that’s it.
“Sorry, sorry! Pardon me. We are open, yes! Lemme just…” You stumble and scramble to the counter, the squeaky clean floor working against you. The playlist switches back to company SOP, along with your disposition. “Please, come in. What can I get for you today, miss?”
She approaches the counter silently, her eyes only changing when she reads over the menu. “Do you have anything that’s…brightly colored? Except for red,” she croaks like her voice is trying not to disturb the ambience.
You raise a brow at the peculiar request. “Well…if I’m getting you correctly, our matcha latte’s what you’re looking for.” She winces, curling her lips inwards. “That’s…green, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.”
“Anything that’s like…purple in color? Violet, something like that?”
“Eh…not as of yet, unfortunately,” you give a slight bow. “Maybe you could give some suggestions? We can add it to the menu later, still feeling things out here.”
She sighs, shoulders slumping but not loosening. “No, I’ll just take one large matcha. Normal sugar and ice.”
“Gotcha. Anything else? Our sandwiches are pretty good—”
“Just…the matcha latte, please. Thank you.” Her answer is curt, but doesn’t bite very hard, like its teeth had been worn down.
“Of course, one large matcha latte, normal sugar and ice.” You give her the QR payment code and she scans it, movements almost robotic. “Very well. I’ll get this ready for—oh, almost forgot!” You chuckle brightly and tap on your forehead, trying to melt away at least parts of the wall of ice she brought in. “What’s the name for the order?”
“Enami. Enami Asa,” she answers, efficient and no warmer, already turning away to look for a seat. “Enami…Asa. Like this?” You show her the writing on her cup. Asa offers a passing glance, confirming with a single nod and continuing on her way. You finally relent and accept the cold. Perhaps it’s what she needs right now far more than whatever you could offer.
You do maintain your own temperature as you deliver the drink to her table. Asa returns a brief thanks; polite, sanitised. You give a slight bow and return to the counter, readying yourself for another customer…that doesn’t come. Back to filler activities you go, minus the obsessive cleaning and personal karaoke, that is. Only you, the gentle music, the air conditioning with hints of coffee, and Asa.
Seriously, she didn’t bring anything with her other than her phone, it seems. And even that sits idly in her pocket. She takes a small sip every now and then, otherwise just observing the interior in silence, barely moving her head.
Bit by bit her cup empties, and on the last sip she places the cup back in the exact same spot it’s been in; not even the ring of water on the table is out of place. She gets up and puts the chair back in place, turning towards the exit. “Thank you, please come again!” Asa’s arm flies up to chest level before she snaps them back to her sides, offering a half-bow on the way out. You return it and watch her walk away. From where you can see, it seems like her head doesn’t quite know where she’s going, her legs merely following whatever path they’re on.
“Hm. Quiet, uptight…purple drink lady.” You hum and add her to the small bank of customers in your mind, fully expecting this to be your only encounter with her.
But it isn’t. Asa comes back every three to four days, making her the first and so far only recurring customer. Each time she orders the same thing. Sits in the same spot. Makes no conversation beyond what is chiefly necessary. You thought the cold silence would be suffocating, what with your polar opposite energy. Strangely, that’s not the case. You find her presence to be some sort of anchor, something to look forward to with less than ten customers a day.
***
On the third week after your first encounter, you almost wish for that back. Academic year’s in full swing, numbers previously requiring a week to reach easily surpassed in three hours. You and Takaki both man the counter full-time, no longer taking turns. He’s already thinking about hiring another employee, too.
When Asa shows up again, you almost don’t recognise her amidst all the fast-moving chaos. “One moment! Welcome to the Camel Café. What can I get—oh! Hi!” You just about jump on your feet upon seeing her. A wide, unabashed grin blooms across your features, half of the day’s tension melting away from your shoulders.
Asa seems equally awestruck by the crowd, if not perturbed. It’s the first new expression you’ve seen from her. “I see business has…taken off.” A casual, non pragmatic (well, less than usual) comment too? You can’t help but laugh, to the confusion of Takaki behind you amongst his juggling of four orders.
“Yeah, you don’t say. Weird to see the place so lively, isn’t it?”
Asa shrugs. “Well, its capacity is paying dividends.”
“Anyways, what can I get you? The usual?” Your fingers hover above the screen, ready to punch in her order.
“Actually…looks like I won’t need anything from you today,” she murmurs. Your smile drops a degree, tilting your head. Your eyes follow where hers seem to be fixed upon, then you hum in understanding. “Ah, your spot’s taken? It’s fine! Hey, Imma let you in on a little secret. See that dude in the sun hoodie? He’s gonna book it out of here in—”
“No, it’s not fine. I’ll return on a later date. Thank you. I won’t obstruct your business any longer.” Asa bows and turns about face before you can begin to argue. You watch her walk away with a small frown on your face, one you immediately have to curve back up for the next customer.
That continues for the succeeding occasions. Asa will only come in and order if her favourite spot’s available, backing away as soon as it’s taken by someone else. When she does manage, she orders the same drink and does the same thing. Among the hustle and bustle of university students with their drinks, laptops, headphones, extension sockets and the like, her table is jarringly still and sterile. A single large matcha latte. Raised from and lowered onto the exact same spot that it first occupied the table on.
Even on the rare quieter days. If her spot is taken, Asa won’t enter. You decide to make use of the quiet to go after her, asking Takaki to take over. “Wait! Enami-sama!” Her entire body straightens into one line, turning around so smoothly it looks choreographed. “Yes?”
“I just—” You cough as you catch your breath, hands on your knees. Damn, you need to exercise. “Just have one question. I gotta know.”
“Is it pertaining to me and or important?”
You stand up and face her squarely. “It does pertain to you. And it’s important. To me.” Asa narrows her eyes a bit, one corner of her mouth tugged up in thought. If not for her standoffish, enigmatic nature (or maybe because of it), she does look rather adorable.
“Go ahead, then. What is it?” Oh, right. The question. “Why…oh—I lied. Well, forgot. Two questions, actually. Is that alright?”
“Was that one of them?”
A snort makes it past your nose before you could stop it. “Eh, no. Unless you count it as one, then it’s three questions.” You could swear that her mouth twitched a few millimetres at that. Maybe you’re just seeing what you want. Whatever, unimportant.
“Very well, then. We’re already here, anyways.” She crosses her arms. “Right, first off. Why that spot in particular? Like, you’ll take nothing else but that spot. Why?”
Asa exhales and looks over her shoulder, then down at her shoes. “It’s…spacious. Secure. But not out in the open.” She looks back up at you. “That’s why I chose that spot.”
“Hm. And there’s no other spot that fits the bill?”
“Well, there are a few others that may, from my observations. But…I fear they won’t achieve the same effect.” You nod and let her answer settle. At least out here the silence isn’t idle. Some cackles in the distance from a group of students, the birds in the trees, the deep diesel rumble of a bus setting off from its stop.
“I see.” Asa’s body starts shifting side-to-side, like your acknowledgement was the permission to loosen up that it was waiting for. “Next question, then. Why purple?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you first came to the café. You asked for brightly colored drinks. Except red. You wanted purple or violet, but settled on green with the matcha.”
Asa scoffs—actually scoffs. Her lips curve up into a small, tangible smile. Which stays. “You…remember all of that?”
“Of course I did! You’re among our first customers, first one to come back, and with that request of yours?” You list off with your fingers. “Pretty hard to forget, Enami-sama.”
She lets out what might have been a chuckle, definitely some humoured expression. “Didn’t dope that as something so memorable.”
Your eyes and ears perk up. “Dope…it?”
“Ah, it’s this…when riflemen hone in their scopes to their rifles? And they use the data for quick reference, different ranges—anyway, that’s what that means.”
“Oh…yeah, yeah, I get it. Interesting! You work with firearms or something?”
That small smile droops to only a small hint of it. “I…used to.”
“Really? What—” You just now catch her expression, feeling like her whole person shrunk a few centimeters. “Oh, sorry. I pried too much, didn’t I?”
Asa waves you off quickly. “It’s alright. And to answer your last question…” She looks you in the eyes, but her pupils unfocus. “I have my reasons. About the colors. It…it isn’t something I’d like to discuss right now.”
“That’s completely fine. I was just curious more than anything.” You put your hands together in front, fingers fiddling. “Well, I should…get back. Thank you for your time, Enami-sama. See you later.” You bow and turn around after she returns it.
“That was more than two, by the way.”
You stop and turn around, finding another, slightly bigger smile on Asa’s face. “Sorry?”
“That was way more than two questions. Shouldn’t you be better with numbers, running a business and all?” she chuckles. It’s soft, but definitely a chuckle this time.
You shoot back a smirk. “Aha. Good point. Though, I think you’re more than just business, Enami-sama.”
“Is that so?” She raises a brow. Your face runs a bit cold. To be honest, you don’t know why you said that or really what it meant. Just saying what felt right at the moment.
“Since I’ve gone over so much, one more wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
“I thought you had to get back to work?”
“Well, call this customer networking…or whatever. Bossman’s the one with all the business jargon.”
“You just said I’m more than business.”
“More than just business. May include business somewhere in there,” you tilt your head.
Asa laughs, the bright noise bouncing around the quiet street. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably good,” you snicker. “Anyways, what I meant to say was…you said there are other tables that could suit you, yeah?”
Asa nods. “Correct.”
“Maybe next time your current spot’s occupied, you could…try those, if available. You might hate them, you might like them more than the usual spot. Nobody knows. Not until you try them.”
Asa smiles and puts her hands in her pockets. “I’ll…keep that in mind. Thank you, ‘More than just business’ barista-san.”
You laugh freely, waving at her. “You’re welcome, Enami—”
“Call me Asa,” she interrupts. “Enami-sama sounds a whole lot like ‘just business’.”
“Right, right.” You nod. “Then…see you later, Asa-san!”
***
“Let me have the…peach tea,” Asa gingerly asks. You hum in fascination, nodding. “Different drink? Nice! Hot, right? Or are you an iced tea freak like I am?”
“Hot, please. Like it needs to be any colder this October,” she giggles. She’s been doing that a lot more since that afternoon. Still some tension evident, but she’s letting them off more often.
“Thank you very much. Well, I know where you’re sitting. One hot peach tea on the way,” you chirp after she makes the payment.
“Actually?” She peruses the interior. “I’m going for a different spot today. Testing out my candidates.”
“Heck yeah! What’s the occasion today? Lots of firsts!”
She smirks. “Does there need to be an occasion?”
“Word,” you nod. “Well, go for it. Let me know about the…assessment later?”
“I will. You’re the only one interested anyways,” she scoffs, waving as she goes for the new seat despite her usual spot being vacant. Delivering her drink feels a bit strange, not taking the route you’ve got wired in.
***
“Yo.” Takaki nudges your arm. “I got news. Big one.”
“Congrats! When’s the wedding?”
He swats your back with a rag, only making you snicker louder. “Wiseass. I’m thinking about a new line of drinks.”
“Ooh. What kind?”
“Tropical. Refreshing, colourful, fruit mixes, that kind,” he states with a ‘wow’ gesture.
You scoff. “Tropical? In this climate?”
“Well, not right now, obviously. We need that new staff first.”
“Right! You got someone in mind?”
“Got a couple candidates. Anyways, thought I should let you know early. Pass the news to that VIP customer of yours. Heard she likes colorful drinks?”
“VIP customer, really,” you giggle. “What, she your…girlfriend then?”
“Now hold your fucking horses.” You brandish the portafilter towards him. “She—”
A loud clatter grabs your attention, snapping your head in search of the source. Easy to find with everyone else’s heads turned towards it; Asa’s new table. Her cup is no longer on it, fallen over with its contents spread across a big splatter on the floor. Asa herself is breathing hard, chest rising and falling, mouth partly open. Sweat glistens on her temple, her eyes unfocused and darting all over the place.
“Shit.” You don’t think twice and run around the counter towards her side, navigating around pulled out chairs and extension sockets on the floor. “Asa-san? Can you hear—”
“GET DOWN FROM THERE! Get your head down! What the fuck are you doing!” she roars, hands flying to cover her own head.
“Okay, okay.” You lower yourself to level with her eyes. “Why are we getting down?”
“Didn’t you—you don’t see what happened to her?!” Asa screeches and wheezes, curling into herself further. “They shot her! THEY SHOT HER IN THE HEAD! She was smiling and they shot her! Blood…there’s blood everywhere…”
“Alright, Asa-san. Listen to me—”
“We’re all gonna die! We’re stuck out here, we’re gonna—”
“Enami Asa!” you call out just loud enough to be heard over her own rambling. “Look at me! Over here, where my voice is. Can you hear me?”
Asa slowly lowers her head and complies, looking in your general direction. “Good. Now breathe. Slow in, slow out. Don’t rush. Let it through.” She nods and tries, taking multiple attempts to smooth out.
“Easy…good. Now, what are you sitting on right now? Can you feel it?”
She snakes her hand down, tapping and rubbing her chair. “C–Chair. A…a chair.”
“Can you say it for me?”
“Huh…huh?”
“‘I am sitting on a chair’. Say it. Take a breath first if you need to,” you gently guide her.
“I…I am—” She takes the preceding breath. “I am sitting…on a chair.”
“Good. Now where is that chair?”
“It…ah!” She ducks to avoid something invisible. “In…in the café—Camel Café.”
“Good. Say it for me. ‘I am sitting on a chair in the Camel Café.” This cycle repeats, each time adding more and more components that help guide Asa back to the present she’s been distanced from.
“Very good. You’re coming back. Now…” You reach out for her still trembling hand, laying your hand on top of it with the lightest touch that’s enough for her to feel all of it. “You are in here, not out on the battlefield. You are with me, not with your troops. You are…safe, Enami Asa. We’re here for you. I’m here for you.”
Some colour begins returning to Asa’s face, her breathing much softer and quieter than before. “I…” she attempts something but it ultimately fades away. “You don’t need to say this one back, just nod if you understand all that. Mmkay?”
Asa stares at you for several more seconds before she nods. A quiet sob breaks through, then breaks down into longer cries. The tables around you breathe out a collective sigh of relief, returning to their business. You softly tap Asa’s hand throughout, whispering quiet assurances to her.
***
“I, uh…” Asa sniffles sometime later, her voice hoarse but relaxed. “I guess you know about my past life now, huh?”
You shrug. “Yeah, very few professions would cause such an…effect on someone. I could see some signs earlier though. Not too big of a surprise, heh.”
She nods and chuckles, wiping her nose. “Not at all.”
“Yeah.” You look over your shoulder at Takaki who’s signing you to get back to the counter. “Well, I…gotta get back now, okay? I’ll be right over there—”
“Wait, wait. Just…stay. A bit longer, please?” Asa reaches out for your hand. You smile and nod, mouthing ‘five more minutes’ to Takaki.
“How, um…how did you know to do that? The…whatever you did to me.”
“Ah, that?” Your lips stretch to a pensive smile, shifting in your seat. “It…my dad. On his way home from the city he was hit by this…sports car thing. Went stupid fast and blew through a red, and…my dad’s car was in his way.” You nod and swallow, your throat feeling a bit heavy. “Dad made it, but uh, Mom…Mom didn’t.”
Asa’s grip on your hand tightens, some moments of silence passing. “That…I’m sorry. I don’t know…what to say. That’s horrible!” she whispers.
“You don’t gotta say anything,” you wave. “Anyways, it’s a few years ago now. But, Dad still has these…episodes, occasionally. A lot more then, he’s much better now. But yeah, that’s how I calmed him down whenever it happened!” You shrug and smile, wiping away non-existent snot under your nose.
“Gosh, what a mess. I’m sorry, Asa-san. I shouldn’t…” You sigh. “It was my fault, I–I got you into this, pushed you towards it. It was a big mistake.”
Asa squints her eyes at you, the most hostile expression you’ve ever seen her wear. ”It wasn’t a mistake for me.”
Your eyes open a bit wider. “Wait, what?”
“It…it did create a big mess, and it was scary, but…” Her expression grows warmer again. “ …I’m feeling braver than I’ve felt in years now. Years!”
“Really?”
“Mhm! I don’t know if I would ever have tried it without you.” She cringes and peeks at the floor. “That is a lot of tea on the floor, though. I’m sorry, I would clean it myself, but…I know you won’t let me.”
“You bet!” you scoff as you stand up. “Dude will actually curse me for three generations if I make you do it. It’s my responsibility anyway.”
Asa laughs, looking down at her lap. “Thank you. For that, for…everything, really.”
“You’re welcome—whoa,” you raise your hands, leaning back. “You’re not going away or something, are ya? Why’d you say it like that?” She looks up, slightly flummoxed. It really is adorable, you can’t deny. “Huh?”
“I’m kidding!” you laugh and lower your hands. “You’re fun to tease, Asa-san.”
“Tsch. Get back to work already! Soon enough your boss will ban me for all of your time I’m taking,” she giggles.
“I’ll go on strike if he does that. And I am working,” you say smugly. “But yeah, he might cut my pay, actually. Shit.” Right as you turn around, Asa shoots up to her feet. “Then, um…can–can I have your number?”
“Why, that’s—huh?”
“You know, so that I could…take up your time outside of work instead?” Asa sounds stable and confident, but her hands are shuffling all over the place. You giggle, grinning widely. “Sounds like a plan.”
***
Asa does not waste the established contact at all. She’s way chattier online than in person, and it doesn’t take too long before short, casual messages escalate into sending you all sorts of pictures and thoughts. Things she sees walking, rants about her thesis, would-you-rathers and hear-me-outs that both of you spend far too much time on. A bulk of your downtime is now spent replying and reading them. Honestly, it was a bit overwhelming early on. Now? You enjoy nearly every bit of the noise.
Another new habit Asa’s picked up is waving at you through the window before she enters, jumping in place at times. It warms your heart every time, and you wave back with equal excitement whenever you can.
October has been cold and this late afternoon is the coldest yet, the café’s heating turned up almost to full power. You wear more layers than usual indoors, in preparation for the unpredictable dash outside that happens every so often.
Then, in the corner of your eye, you see her. Walking slower than everybody else that is trying to keep warm. She’s back in those choreographed steps that you saw the first few times, but this one is different. They’re immensely weighted, yet float across the ground like it’s made of clouds.
The smile growing on your face drops back down, your eyes narrowing a smidge. Atop Asa’s head is a green tricorn hat with some goldish emblem in the center. You don’t need to see exactly what the emblem looks like to know what it is, further confirmed when you peek between her dark green long coat. White shirt, green necktab, green suit jacket, and green trousers; she’s in Army full dress. And those aren’t worn without occasion.
As she gets closer, you can better see her eyes, how tired they are. Dark eyebags that are just about hidden by her makeup, something most passerbys wouldn’t notice. But you do. You’ve seen how bright those eyes can be.
Asa takes longer to notice you, only a few steps from the door when she does. Her expression lights up several degrees, but the fatigue is still evident. You wave back and smile as usual, feeding each other’s warmth. On her side, that dissipates real quick the moment she sees something across the street, something beyond your field of vision.
You lower your hand, cocking your head around to try and see what she’s seeing. You don’t have to look for long though. From the corner of your vision emerges a man in a long coat, a peaked cap resting stiffly atop his head. The same colour as hers. His coat has one glaring difference though; gold and red epaulettes on the shoulders, with a couple silver cherry blossoms pinned on it. An officer.
Your curiosity turns to mild anxiety, not helped by the way Asa looks at him. That is with seething disdain, sparsely returning his bow. He says something to her, you can see his jaws moving from behind. One arm is clutching something underneath it while the other arm extends toward the door, likely inviting her to continue their discussion inside.
Whatever it was he suggested, Asa shoots it down, slashing it apart with her gaze while hissing something through her teeth. She cocks her head as she turns around and storms somewhere, the officer walking in tow.
***
Minutes grow, so does your unease. Who was he? What did Asa have to do with him? Why’d she have to lead him away somewhere? She was NOT pleased to see him. Maybe it’s not him, it’s the Army as a whole? What did she have to do with them still? What if they—
“Excuse me! I’m trying to order!”
You flinch and nearly fall over from your knee buckling. Breathing hard, spine is stone cold. Nothing to do with the weather, it’s nice and warm in here. “I, uh…um. Welcome! To–to…Camel Café. Where is—I mean, what can I get you?”
The customer shrugs it off and makes their order, you carry out the process as usual. As you make their drinks though, one, two missteps are made. You course correct just in time to not ruin them, but you are cutting it pretty close.
“Dude, you alright?” Takaki asks, popping out from the kitchen.
“Yeah man, it’s cool.” The cup sealer feels stiffer for some reason. Perhaps it’s actually you feeling weaker. “No! I don’t know dude, I keep…I keep worrying. It’s so weird, it’s driving me nuts! I don’t worry this much, not me.”
“Ooh, do I detect a…something something?” he snickers, turning dead serious seconds later. “But seriously, I think you need a break. You don’t look too hot.”
“I can handle it,” you grit. “It’s just a…stupid thing in my head.”
“That stupid thing in your head almost ruined two drinks. Finish those and take a walk or something. I’m serious.”
“It’s fine! I’ve gone on enough sidequests on the clock already, I’m gonna make my time’s worth.”
Takaki scoffs, putting his hands on his waist. “Am I some corporate demon or something? Fine. But if you force yourself and get sick later, I will make you work through it.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded. “Will you really?”
“Take a fucking break!”
“Okay, okay!” You check for leaks on the cups and push them to the pick up counter. “And the new kid? Will she be alright?”
“Ha! She’ll be more than alright. Kid could probably fly a plane after a good enough tutorial. Go on man, I got this. We changed it to a pick-up system for a good reason, hey?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Takaki! I’ll make it up to you!”
“Ew, I have a girlfriend, thank you.” You both laugh loudly as you make your way outside. The freezing cold whiplashes you, but it’s nothing to the anxiety that brews within you again.
***
You walk to a faraway part of the street you’ve never gone to, trying to clear your mind. Pacing back and forth within the same twenty meters, a brief point of wonder for the few passers by. “It’s okay…it’s okay. It’s all–all worse in my mind. Never—”
“Oh.” A voice brings you back into the present, and the source is right in front as you open your eyes.
“Oh? Oh! Asa-san!”
Asa stares at you, then smiles and waves a bit stiffly. “Hi! What…what are you up to out here?”
“Asa-san! Asa…” You dash towards her, panting despite only going like three meters. “You’re here! You’re…you—” Her appearance is so overwhelming for some reason. With what emotion? You’re not entirely sure yourself.
“Eh? What—are you crying? Why are you crying?” Asa slides her coat off and throws it over your shoulder before you can protest. Not that you really can, being the sobbing, shaking mess that you are.
“Did something happen at the café?”
You shake your head and frantically wipe away tears, stammering repeatedly before uttering something intelligible. “I was…I was really worried about you.”
Asa raises her eyebrows, looking around. “Me? You were worried?”
“Mhm!” you nod. “I had…there—I had all these…thoughts, you know. That something might’ve happened to you. You—you stormed away, and…the way you looked at that officer, it—” You cough hard. “I couldn’t think straight, I was so worried!”
Asa’s mouth opens and closes, then she scoffs. But her subsequent tone isn’t dismissive, rather warm and soft. Enough to reach you, but inaudible to everyone else. “So that’s what made you worried? Did you think he was going to…try things on me?”
“Maybe?” you croak. “I—I don’t know. I’ve been reading a lot of things online, about the…the things that the government and the military had apparently done. Especially to people against that fucking war.” You sigh and ruffle your hair. “I guess all the…anxiety and the doom bled over. It’s probably silly.”
She nods slowly, looking down at her shoes, then back up at you. “It’s…not silly.”
“Really?”
She shakes her head. “My trade wasn’t in that area. You know, PR and Intel. But…I have dealt with their sort. Especially because of my trade. And…” She clicks her tongue, exhaling a visible plume of breath. “A lot of the things you’ve seen are not beyond them to do at all.”
“Of course, it’s all ‘alleged’ because there’s yet to be concrete evidence,” she shrugs and chuckles. “But those playbooks aren’t new. Not in 2032. Been done plenty of times by other parties.”
“R–Right.” You’re starting to shiver now the adrenaline’s wearing off. “So…t–that guy earlier really didn’t do anything foul, right?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t let him.” Asa eyes you up and down, then bursts out laughing.
“W–What?”
“Nothing, it’s just…you really were worried sick, running out here without a scarf, a coat, or anything!”
“Ah, y–yeah, about that. I uh…left them back at the c–café. ” You shiver hard and rub your hands together. “A–Aren’t you cold? You’re not wearing m–much more than I am. Here—”
“Nu–uh.” Asa stops you from returning her coat. “I can deal with it until we get to the café. You need it a hell of a lot more than I do,” she chuckles.
“I–I guess, heh.” You wrap her coat around yourself harder. “Let’s get back.” You two start walking back to the café, nothing but your shudders and the street’s noises filling the first half.
“You look good, b–by the way,” you chirp.
“Hm?”
“That uniform. Looks good on you.”
Asa smiles and hums, straightening her already razor sharp collar. “Thanks. It better with how expensive the damn tailor was.”
“Heh. I didn’t know you had to pay for that.”
“Ha! There’s tons we had to pay for ourselves. Makes you wonder where all that defense spending goes.”
You nod, wiping off some ice crystals from your nose. “What was the occasion, if I may know?”
“Occasion?”
“I heard you guys don’t wear this too often, so…what was it for?”
“Ah, this?” She glances at the ribbons above her left breastpocket, then looks into the distance for a few before answering, “A funeral. It was a funeral.”
“I see.” Asa slows down her steps slightly, and you match her. “Someone you knew?”
“Nope. Never heard of her until four days ago,” she shrugs. “I did work with who she left behind, though. And…” She sighs and stretches her arms. “ …I am a bit worried about him. After how he dealt with the last time…” Asa clears her throat and waves her hands like swatting away a thought bubble. “Anyways, that’s what I’m all dressed up for. I don’t want to get into it too much.”
You nod and leave it at that, all the way until you arrive in front of the café. “Here we are. Man, it looks so warm and cozy inside. Here.” You slide off her coat and hand it back to her. “Thanks for letting me use it.”
“You’re welcome. Is it really okay for you to be out this long?”
“Oh, dude was about to boot me through the window if I didn’t take a break.” Asa bursts out laughing at that, making you cackle as well. “You sure got an interesting boss!”
“Yeah, tell me about it. You uh…coming in, or do you have somewhere else to be?”
Asa tilts her head side-to-side. “Well, there’s my thesis. Probably should get back on that, fuck ton of revisions.”
“Aha. Yeah, I know that feeling.” You stick your hands in your pocket and inhale through your teeth. “Well, good luck with that. I’m rooting for you! See you…whenever I see you again, Asa-san. Bye!” you jump and wave.
Asa grins and waves back with both of her hands. You turn around and are about to open the door when you hear, “Whatabouttonight?”
It was so fast you didn’t catch a single word. “Sorry, what?”
“Er…that, ‘whenever I see you again’. What if that whenever is…is tonight?” she asks, voice shrinking towards the end.
You stare at her before chuckling, “Are you asking to hang out?”
Asa snaps her head up at you. “Well, that—yeah! Yes. I mean, we always hang out when you’re on the clock, and I feel bad.” She swings side-to-side, hands behind her back. “So…what if we hang out properly? You know, just…coffee and chat, or snacks and chat, or—or, we don’t even need to do much. Just…walks and stuff. If–if you’re down, of course. No need to force it if you’re not…free.”
You laugh boisterously, tickled by how cute she is all nervous and excited like this. “I am down and will be free. Don’t you worry.”
“Great!” She jumps on her feet. “Then…see you tonight?”
“Yep! I’ll text you when I’m done.” You smile widely and wave with both hands. “Scratch that, I’ll call you when I’m done! Bye!”
“That works too! Bye! See you!” Asa watches you go inside before turning around, walking away with a long-lost skip in her step. The weather isn’t any warmer, but the insides of your hearts definitely are. The heat source? Well, you’ll find that out tonight.
