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~
I have so many things i want to do to her looking like that, and i can guarantee you that 70% of what i want to do to her is not of the wholesome variety
"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.
You don’t think you ever found true happiness until you met Kang Haerin.
Before Haerin came into your life, it felt like you were living in a simulation. You had a normal, boring routine—you stocked up the books at the library, directed the kindergarten teachers where to lead their students, and went home.
That’s what you did because you were a fresh grad with a journalism major and no backups and also, nobody wanted to fucking hire you. They said something about mental ability, which was insulting, to say the least. Why should they let some stupid doctor define how you could prove yourself? You had batchmates with less amazing CVs than you and one of them is an author now. New York Times bestseller. Signed copies going for thousands of dollars.
And you? You’re stuck in your local public library, getting sick quite literally because of the dust (endless dust), and pretending that you still want to live. You had no parents or siblings to be of service to. All you had in this world was you, and you weren’t an ideal person to love. You can be honest with yourself.
But then Haerin walked in. The moment the door of the library clinked open, so did her entrance to your life. You knew you loved her immediately. It had to be fate, because this girl—this impossibly beautiful girl—walked up to you and asked:
“Where can I find a book about dreams?”
You stared at her dumbly, your Adam’s apple bobbing. She had curly hair and serious almond eyes that stared into your soul.
“Hello?” she said. “My name is Haerin. I need a book about dreams.”
“A-Are you looking for anything in particular?”
If Haerin was weirded out, she didn’t show it. Her face didn’t move an inch in spite of its soft lines. “No,” she replied. Always so straightforward, even… now?
“No authors? Because—um, I have a manuscript right now about a dreamer.”
“Really,” said Haerin, and you couldn’t tell if she was fascinated or sarcastic.
“He had a dream about a girl with catlike eyes. She kept appearing in his dreams until one day, she walked in as if she was real.”
Haerin stared blankly at you. You really fumbled big-time. You looked around at the dusty shelves and the dozing librarian and the dim lights. Here was a girl who had a classic beauty straight out of paintings with the composed clarity of a musical sheet. She didn’t belong here. She deserved to be somewhere she could be recognized and lauded for how beautiful she is.
And instead, she had a nosy librarian’s assistant using a cheesy pickup line on her.
Haerin started to laugh. Her serious eyes looked soft for a moment there, and all you could see in the caramel brown was you. You wanted to tell her about the silence rule but you couldn’t. You were laughing, too. Both of you could get in trouble.
“I’m sorry. That was really corny,” you admitted, scratching the back of your neck.
Haerin stifled the last of her giggles. “That’s fine. We can always start again. Watch.”
She snapped her fingers before turning on her heel. Her Mary Janes brought her back where you started, and back to the desk where you would start again. She was smiling this time as she held out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Kang Haerin,” she said. You shook hands firmly. “I dreamed about a guy who used a corny line to hit on me. But it’s fine, because he was really cute and I could tell he’s nice. Do you think I can find a story like that anywhere?”
Above you, the lamp flickered once. It never did that before. Must be a sign.
You smiled back at her. “I have just the thing.”
-
It didn’t take much dating for you to know she was the one. You knew from the second you saw her. But Haerin was shyer than she had let herself come across, and that didn’t matter anyway because you were willing to wait. You would wait forever if you needed to.
Forever lasted four months. On the first date, she wore a chic black dress with her hair now straightened in dark locks. You had coffee together. She talked about how, like you, she was also a fresh grad. She took theater, which surprised you because she didn’t look the type to show expression. One time, you made a funny joke and Haerin laughed without smiling. You apologized for your lack of humor and she had to clarify that she loved the joke.
But Haerin had many faces. One she often used was the expressionless look that made her a blank canvas.
“People are going to take me the wrong way whatever I do,” she explained over a sip of her black coffee. “So I just don’t respond at all and let them think about what I meant.”
“Do you ever show them what you actually feel?”
Haerin shrugged. “Only to the people I know could take me the wrong way but still love me anyway.”
Another face Haerin had was one that showed her wide, toothy smile. It took a lot to get it out of her, until it didn’t. It made you realize that Haerin wasn’t as hard to make happy as people thought. She said she was often told she was a strange girl; her exes never knew what she wanted and broke things off when they gave up.
But when you moved in together, she laughed when she heard you speak through a mouthful of toothpaste. She smiled when you kissed her under the moonlight at the balcony. Her eyes lit up whenever you told her you got her a new book.
“How do you always know what I want?” she asked in disbelief, flipping the hardbound on her lap. She looked even prettier without the makeup or distressed perm, when she lounged on your sofa with her natural straight hair wearing your shirt.
“You said you wanted a classic mystery, and you could never go wrong with Sherlock Holmes.” You waved it off. You turned the television off for the night. Haerin hated the drill of the multiple-of-five volume dialogue when she’s trying to get herself sleepy.
“But how did you know? It’s so perfect.”
Doesn’t she get it? “It’s easy to tell what you want, Haerin. Ridiculously easy, I don’t even have to try.”
Haerin rolled her eyes, but she got an idea. She crawled over to you and made herself comfortable on your lap. Her bare thighs were smooth against yours. You held her waist as she stared deeply into your eyes.
Not only was Haerin attentive and sweet. It was like God took her qualities and made her physical form just as beautiful. She had a tiny, blemishless face with a nose you loved to nuzzle against. Her body was small and her waist fit into your hands perfectly, like you were made to hold her.
Haerin was smirking. “Alright then,” she said. “If you always know what I want, tell me what I want now.”
Her voice was soft. You looked down at her pink mouth and back up into those dreamy eyes. Like you said, way too easy.
“Me.”
“Don’t get smart,” said Haerin, but she proved you right with a deep, literally breathtaking kiss.
When Haerin kissed, it was like she was trying to pull the soul out of your mortal form and join it with her own. She closed her eyes and shoved her tongue deep in your mouth, her hips working in circles on your lap. The tiny pair of lace panties quickly got wet, and she moaned when your tip bumped against that patch of arousal.
This face was one she only showed to you. You slipped your hands under that big shirt and felt her toned abdomen and perky breasts, feeling her up and down. Every little touch made Haerin’s breath catch. It made her grind her clit more urgently against your erection, looking for something only you can give her. Most of all, it made her face twist and contort into one of pure pleasure, eyes widening and lips parting.
Haerin couldn’t take it anymore. She slipped her panties to the side, showing how wet you made her. She’s soaked as she took you inside her. Her body tightened up and curled into your arms. Your T-shirt long gone, Haerin started to ride you like she needed it. Like you’d disappear if she didn’t get what she wanted while you were here.
“Oh, oh fuck, right there…” Haerin shivered when you started thrusting up to meet her halfway. She had coated your length from base to head with her juices. There’s an endless stream of it.
You pulled her down with you. The sofa springs bore the intensity of your strokes. You held her hand as you kissed and bit her neck, groaning into her vanilla-sweet flesh. She was so easy to take when she was always so wet for you. Her legs locked behind your back in order to keep you there.
“Don’t stop, please,” whimpered Haerin, eyes filled with stars. “I love you. Don’t leave me.”
The lamp sitting on your center table went out. You couldn’t see Haerin’s face bathed in reds and oranges anymore. But you loved her, and so you kept your promise.
-
You were finally sure after years of not having things figured out. You were unsure about what you wanted to be. You were even more unsure when the time came for you to choose a course. When you graduated in that stadium with flowers surrounding you and cheers deafening you, you didn’t know what to do with your degree. You had no idea where to go.
But Haerin made you so certain of yourself. You didn’t want to paint her as someone who was the solution to all your problems and illustrate her to be a savior she never chose to be. But it wasn’t a coincidence that she came right when you were lost and suddenly you were on track for the first time in your life.
She made you want to become something. Just looking at her caused you to think of all the beautiful things a beautiful girl like her deserved—a good boyfriend, a nice car, a relationship that nurtured her. So you worked hard to give her all of that.
She held a hand to her mouth when she saw the gorgeous car parked in the garage. She was half-sobbing, half-laughing. “This is so sweet. What did I do to deserve you? Thank you, but—”
“What?”
She burst out laughing like never before. “I don’t know how to drive…” she replied. She looked a little sullen now. You took money out of your own pocket to get her a beautiful car only for her to be unable to drive. She couldn’t even parallel park. You probably thought it was a waste.
But you placed an arm around her and kissed her on top of her head. “It’s alright, baby,” you said. “I’ll do it for you. We can go wherever you like.”
All she had to do was say the words. You took her everywhere: malls, forests, airports. Funny; you only got a driver’s license the year before. You commuted back and forth but with Haerin, you revved the car up and picked her up from the salon.
All she had to do was ask. So now, you were at a beach where the shores were nearly white and the skies seemed to fall down on your shoulders. The clouds bore the weight of it all. It was nearly winter, so there was but a faint bit of sunlight. It refracted in the bubbles Haerin blew into the wind.
She was smiling so brightly. That was the only sunshine you needed.
Later that night, she said she didn’t want to leave yet. So you started a campfire while she bought soft marshmallows from the nearby grocery. A woollen quilt kept her warm. You let the fire toast your marshmallows into a rich brown.
“What if we get lost doing this?” Haerin asked. She looked at the stars in the sky, the sand around her. “Doing…” She gestured vaguely with her hands. “All of this. These wild adventures without a map or even a GPS.”
“We won’t,” you replied. You sounded so sure of yourself. It didn’t once occur to you that you could live a life without Kang Haerin. She belonged in your passenger seat, your lap, the deep brooks of your heart.
She bit off a piece of marshmallow from her stick. “We still have to be careful though. We won’t know every street forever.”
Right. Because one day, when you two got older and hopefully wiser, these roads would change. You wouldn’t know everybody in the neighborhood as soon as the newer, younger ones filed in. Everything would be nothing like you knew it was.
You hated to say it, but in spite of the darkness that dressed Haerin’s words, she was right. It wouldn’t be like this forever.
“Okay,” you said finally, thinking for a moment. “If I lost you, what would you do to lead me back?”
Haerin sat back into the sand. So many thoughts ran into her head at all hours of the day, and if you didn’t love her to death, you wouldn’t know. She often looked too mature, too composed to ever be bothered by anything. The Kang Haerin everybody knew was resilient. And when she was too resilient, she could risk being malleable to people. They could lie to themselves by saying they could mold her into whoever they wanted her to be.
But that wasn’t Haerin. So she turned up her chin and said, “I’d open a light.”
“What kind of light?”
“I dunno, anything.” She shrugged. “A fire, lamplight, or campfire. It doesn’t matter. If I shine it, I know you’ll get me out of the dark.”
The flames danced in golden flickers in her eyes. Haerin stared at it until her marshmallow burned and joined the ashes at the bottom of the log pile. You gave her your share.
“How about you?” Haerin asked. She scooted closer until the contact of your bodies seemed to spark hotter than the campfire itself. “How would I know if you’re lost?”
“Don’t worry about that. Leave the saving to me.”
-
Haerin didn’t like fighting with you. It made her cry real tears that could fill a pool if either of you were rich enough to afford one. She didn’t like all the yelling. She didn’t like how small it made her feel and not in the good way you managed to make it out to be when you’re in the chambers of your bedroom.
You tried not to yell at her. Whenever your voice got too intense, you turned away from her so she couldn’t see that you were angry. It helped you too because you couldn’t bear to see her sad. It felt like you were one with her emotions and tore you into pieces as it did to her.
“I just don’t know why you’re doing this,” she said. “You said you loved me. Why don’t you fucking show it?”
Unbelievable. You curled your hands through your hair and stopped yourself from pulling it out of the scalp.
“What else do you want me to do? I give you everything, Haerin. My car, my clothes, my time.”
The calendar pages ripped faster than the seams on your jacket. It’s been months since you graduated and she’s nearly twenty years old. You’re happy with each other. You’re the best company both of you could ever ask for. No one can understand you quite like Haerin does.
But oftentimes, that isn’t enough.
It’s what she’s trying to get across. Haerin’s dress tatters were crushed in her fists. She’s crying her heart out because she didn’t like being reminded of that. Ever. Youth was so comfortable it tricked you into believing it was something eternal.
You finally had the courage to turn around and look her in the eyes. To look her in those big, beautiful eyes and force yourself to recognize the truth. There were real problems in the world that trips and outings and sex couldn’t solve.
“Time, baby,” you said softly, in a broken voice you couldn’t claim as your own. It had been a while since you sounded so unsure. “Do you know how little time we have left?”
Neither of you should be blinded by the quick bliss you had now. You shouldn’t be fools. The lamp’s starting to look weird again. You needed to wake up—
Wake up.
-
Wake up.
The air that hits you is cold. You open your eyes groggily and quickly find out why. A blue hospital gown doesn’t really help warm your legs. The blanket is thin and cheap. The only warmth you can find is from the dull sting of pain from the needles shoved in the veins of your arms.
What an odd dream that was. You lift yourself up on the bed the best you can. Your body still feels tired. Part of you wants to go back to sleep again, but you stop yourself. If you close your eyes, you’re not sure if you’re going to wake up again.
You trail your fingers on the thick bandage taped to your skull. Around you, colorful balloons dance in the steady AC wind. You squint. One reads, in cursive: Happy 20th!
Before you is a wide television screen. Right now, it presents a photo of a girl with catlike eyes and hair curled for what looks to be a music show event. She’s smiling, but the headline gives her no reason to. It tells you of the lawsuit that follows her and her band at their heels, how it won’t leave them alone.
The red and blue colors of her stock image are blinding. You ask the doctor to turn off the light.
You can feel somebody joining you on the bed, the way the sheets slightly shift, your body sensing the movement of the mattress to then feeling the soft skin pressed up against yours.
Open your eyes, its your girlfriend, its not hard to recognise her even in the darkness, the smile you can see on her face signals that the movie night with her friends was a success, so close your eyes and try to fall asleep once again.
“Can't sleep?” She whispers.
A small chuckle escapes you, “yeah”
“Good, i need to ask you something”
“Cant this wait for tommorow nabi? It’s so late” You ask, your hands instinctively wrap around her body to embrace her.
She shakes her hands while she turns her face to look at you, even at pitch black you can see the glint in her eyes. “i will already forget it by tommorow and then be sad for the whole day”
Remembering the last time your girlfriend was in a bad mood for the whole day (she tried to play valorant to ease her mind but ended up so tilted that by night, you had to sleep on the couch because she was punching the pillow, cursing quietly about every stupid mistake her team made), you take a deep sigh and open your eyes once again. “Okay, what's on your mind?”
“Do you think aliens exist?”
Blink once, twice, its 3 AM, you wanted to sleep after an exhausting day at work and the only keeping you of a sane sleep schedule is your girlfriend's curiosity resembling a 10 year old.
“…good night” you turn around, closing your eyes to continue your sleep but Yuna is already pulling you back to face her.
“Noooo, dont sleep yet” she whine
“This absolutely can wait for tommorow, where does this come from?” You ask her
“We watched the Super mario galaxy movie, and it got me thinking about life in space” she explains, “i wonder how do they look like"
“I doubt aliens actually exist” you comment, you can sense how Yuna’s expression turns sad, having her curiosity dismissed so effortlessly.
You take a deep sigh, you remember how shit the couch is to sleep on.
“BUT, assuming they do in fact exist, i have a feeling they would like classic aliens, you know… green, skinny, talking a weird language, what about you?”
“I personally think they look like the Lumas from the mario movie” you can hear the quiet excitement back in her voice.
“How do they look like?”
“They are like star shaped, with vibrant colors and oh! They are super soft, i bet hugging them will feel so good” she exclaims
“Sounds cute” you respond, still quite tired
“The are, and their mother rosalina? She’s so cool” and the she continues to talk, wondering if they will come to earth on the comet observatory, and will they enjoy the culture of earth? What about the dishes? The locations?
Her voice becomes background noise as all of your focus shifts onto her smile, the way her cheeks puff out while she talks, and the way her eyes seem to sparkle every time she makes eye contact with you, at this point you cant help but lean in and leave a kiss on her soft lips.
She pauses, her cheeks full of blush, stars begin to form im her eyes, and her expression? Surprised to the point you cant help but laugh as your hand find hers, interlacing your fingers while the other hands moves her body so she now lays on top of you.
A smile forms on her face once again, “did you just kiss me?”
“Yep, and i will if you are going to ruin my sleep schedule with your yapping” you respond, responding to her smile with one of your own
“Is that a challange?”
“I dont know, is it?”
And she starts giggling, smiling at you the same way she did when you first fell in love with her all those years ago
“So as i was saying…”
And you kiss her again, and again, another one to her forehead this time, then the nose, and then each cheek.
Because whats a couple hours of sleep compared to the yapping of the love of your life?
I prefer sub Winter. Although I wrote a dom Winter for "Two for one", I don't consider her such. Her manners are way too cute and she has a hard time looking serious.
I don't even have many lewd thoughts about her but if I have them it's usually about overstimulating her and making her squirt all over the bed until it's drenched.
while i have ur attention, i wanna let yall know about a pretty sick platform called Fanprose!
I won’t be leaving tumblr completely, but I’ll be a little more active over there in terms of the random bullshit that I spew! I have a few fics on there that are “Fanprose exclusive” (I’m too lazy to bring them over) so come check it out :]
Just checking in on you boss making sure you’re okay and living well
Oh hello :wave:, im okay, im good...i exist, i live well
mostly i am more active on fanprose than here, trying to get Sieun 004 atm or crying because the shrine took away my pocas
i am trying to write (keyword trying) but its a constant struggle to find momentum and write, i have a series and a oneshot i plan to release before 2026 is over (hopefull)
Now the question i have for you: are you the mecha i am thinking about?
have a sieun as a thank you for the ask, and feel free to check me on fanprose
