your universe
nonidol!danielle x bandgirl!reader
synopsis: danielle transfers to a new high school and quickly befriends the ever-reliable student council president, minji. everything seems fine—until she starts catching glimpses of minji in places she shouldn't be.
includes: SLOWBURN YAY!!! mistaken identity, strangers to lovers, cheesy lyrics, NO ANGST, aespa as your bandmates
word count: 16.5k🤭
the morning air is crisp and quieter than she’s used to.
not silent — not empty — but hushed in a way that makes danielle feel like she’s arrived too early for something. maybe it’s the new city. maybe it’s the jet lag still tugging at the edge of her thoughts. maybe it’s just nerves.
her shoes sound too loud on the pavement as she walks up to the school gates, her bag tugging at one shoulder, her fingers fidgeting with the zipper even though there’s nothing left to check. everything about this morning feels neatly arranged. uniform ironed, hair tucked behind her ears, schedule folded into her pocket like a safety net. and still, it doesn’t feel quite real yet.
until she hears her name.
“danielle marsh?”
she glances up and spots a girl standing by the gate, posture perfect, blazer buttoned, the rising sun catching faint gold strands in her neatly combed hair.
that must be the president, she thinks, she looks exactly like how a student council president should look — calm, composed, and like she never forgets her homework. her presence is the kind that gently fills a space rather than demands it.
“that’s me!” danielle says brightly, breaking into a wide smile and lifting one hand in a wave. “and you must be the president?”
she nods with a small smile.
“kim minji. i’m here to walk you in. hope that’s alright.”
“it’s more than alright. honestly, i was kind of preparing to be immediately abandoned at the front steps,” danielle jokes as she falls into step beside her. “you know, the classic transfer student rite of passage.”
“you’re spared, for now.”
they walk at a comfortable pace, but danielle finds herself sneaking glances at the buildings around them. they pass a group of second years gathered near a stairwell, someone playing a melody on a harmonica through an open classroom window, the faint scent of cafeteria bread floating in the air. it’s a lot, but not overwhelming — just new. like every corner holds a different kind of unfamiliar quiet.
“so… what electives did you sign up for?” minji asks as they climb the staircase.
“music, i think. or, well—whatever you call it here. i just ticked the box that sounded closest. is that okay?”
“it’s perfect,” minji assures her. “we’ve got a good music program. some of our students even play in bands.”
danielle perks up, grin immediate.
“really? what kind of bands?”
minji’s smile turns a little softer, more private.
“you’ll see.”
they reach the classroom at the end of the hall, where light spills through the tall windows in streaks across the floor, catching the dust in the air like static. the hallway is quieter here, the kind of hush that exists just before a bell rings. minji steps forward with an ease danielle can't help but envy, knocking once before sliding the door open. she exchanges a few words with the teacher — measured, polite, almost effortless — and then gestures toward her.
danielle breathes in, smooths down her skirt with both palms, and takes two steps forward with the same confidence she always carries, even if it wavers faintly at the edges.
“hi! i’m danielle,” she says, voice light and bright as it fills the room. a few students glance up from their desks. “i moved from australia a few days ago. i’m not scary, i swear, and if you ever need help with english homework, i’m probably your girl.”
someone lets out a low snort in the back. danielle flashes a grin in that direction without looking, then bows half-formally, half-playfully, before straightening again. the teacher nods approvingly and gestures toward the empty desk near the window.
right beside minji, who’s already sitting with her hands folded neatly on the desk and her pens arranged like a little color-coded fence. danielle makes her way over, the floorboards soft under her shoes, and slides into the seat with a small exhale — not nervous, exactly. just… aware. aware of how new the chair feels. how the classroom buzzes differently than the ones she’s used to.
she begins pulling out her notebook when minji leans slightly toward her.
“you’re very good at that,” she says, quiet enough that no one else will hear. her voice doesn’t carry like danielle’s — it sits closer to the chest, measured but warm.
danielle looks up. “at what? embarrassing myself? yes. years of practice,” she replies, tone dry but smiling as she unscrews the cap of her pen.
minji shakes her head, a small huff of a laugh under her breath. “no. talking to people.”
danielle pauses for a second. not because she doesn’t know what to say, but because that catches her off guard a little — not in a bad way. she turns to face minji more directly, her voice still soft but sincere. “i mean… it’s easier when everyone’s nice. and you’ve been really kind. not gonna lie, i was expecting, like… cold shoulder, mysterious elite-type vibes.”
minji lifts an eyebrow without turning. “that’s haerin,” she replies flatly, almost deadpan. “you’ll meet her later.”
there’s a beat of silence.
then danielle laughs — loud and sudden, tipping her head slightly back with the force of it before covering her mouth with her hand. the kind of laugh that fills space and draws a few subtle stares, though none she really minds. minji doesn’t laugh along, but her lips tug upward, pleased.
by the time the lunch bell rings, the classroom empties in waves. chairs scrape back in staggered bursts, footsteps shuffle past open windows, and voices rise as students spill into the hallway in clusters — some chatting, others already halfway through their bentos, phones in hand. danielle doesn’t rush. she takes her time slipping her notebook back into her bag, glancing once at the schedule tucked into the front sleeve like she still doesn’t quite trust she remembers where to go next.
minji waits near the door, arms lightly crossed, not impatient but stillness folded into her posture. she doesn’t speak until danielle’s beside her again, like she’s used to letting the moment stretch until it fits comfortably.
they walk in silence for a bit, weaving through a patch of sunlight bleeding in through the hallway windows. danielle notices how minji greets almost everyone they pass — a nod, a small smile, sometimes a quiet “hi” — but nothing loud. there’s no need for volume. people just… part for her. fall into place like water around a stone.
outside, the courtyard is already alive with the chaos of lunchtime. students occupy every surface — benches, planters, low walls, the shaded edge of the gym steps. the air smells like cafeteria steam and cheap snacks and the faintest hint of grass. the sun filters through the trees unevenly, dappling the stone with flickering shapes. someone’s bluetooth speaker is playing a pop song from somewhere in the middle distance.
minji leads them toward a bench under a tree — half-sunny, half-shadowed — where three girls are already seated.
danielle recognizes one of them immediately from the energy alone.
the girl with the wide grin and bouncing leg looks up first. she’s animated even before she speaks, like she’s mid-sentence in a conversation she’s been having with herself all morning.
“danielle,” minji says simply, turning toward her. “this is hanni, haerin, and hyein.”
danielle straightens a little, the curve of her smile bright and immediate.
“hi!” she says, just slightly breathless from the sun. “it’s really nice to meet you guys.”
hanni leans forward so fast it’s like she’s been waiting for this moment all day.
“australian?” she asks, squinting. “i knew you weren’t from around here. the accent. you have one. it’s cute.”
danielle laughs, shoulders relaxing, and sets her bag down beside the bench.
“thank you. i’ve been trying to tone it down. i said ‘thong’ earlier and someone looked at me like i was having a stroke.”
hanni snorts and claps her hands once in delight.
“no, keep it. be confusing. keep us on our toes.”
haerin, who’s seated slightly off to the side with earbuds tucked into her collar, looks at danielle for a long second. not unfriendly. just… observant. quiet. like she’s watching a movie she isn’t sure how to rate yet. she doesn’t say anything at first — just reaches into her jacket pocket and slides a juice box across the table with one finger.
“try this,” she says eventually, her voice low and even. “it’s the least bad one in the vending machine.”
danielle blinks, then grins again as she accepts it.
“thank you. that’s a very comforting review.”
“it’s a gamble,” haerin replies with a small shrug.
danielle cracks it open anyway and sips. it’s exactly average. and cold. and somehow perfect.
hyein swings into the scene like she’s late on purpose, balancing her tray with a cup of soup teetering on the edge and a half-folded paperback novel wedged under her arm.
“you’re already my favorite,” she says by way of greeting, not even sitting down yet. “i hope you survive your first week.”
danielle looks up at her with amused confusion.
“what happens if i don’t?”
hyein slides into her seat like she’s settling onto a throne.
“we hold a funeral. haerin plays sad songs. hanni gives a dramatic speech.”
“i would be so good at that,” hanni jumps in, eyes wide. “danielle was a light in this dim world—”
“she’s not dead yet,” minji says calmly, sipping from her drink without looking up.
it’s a simple moment. but something in the ease of it — the way they all speak over and around each other like it’s second nature, the way no one seems to be performing — makes danielle’s chest feel oddly warm. not quite settled. but close. she lets herself laugh — the kind that tilts her head and makes her close her eyes for just a second — and tucks her knees slightly in under the bench, spine loosening, muscles starting to forget they were tense.
they keep talking, the conversation jumping between unrelated things: a math quiz that ruined haerin’s morning, a weird bird hyein saw on the roof, the way hanni insists that banana ketchup is better than tomato. danielle follows every thread, half-listening, half-floating.
and then she sees it.
across the courtyard, beyond the rows of scattered tables and benches, someone walks by.
the motion catches her eye first. slow, steady. a figure with short, dark hair, head down, a black guitar case slung over one shoulder. their blazer’s unbuttoned, tie loose, boots scuffing quietly against the concrete with each step.
the sun hits the metal zipper of the case and flashes once. bright, then gone.
the girl doesn’t pause. doesn’t look around. doesn’t acknowledge anyone. just passes behind a hedge and disappears around the far building like she’s walking a path no one else sees.
danielle straightens a little without realizing it, her brows lifting.
“hey—who’s that?” she asks, nodding toward the space the girl just vanished into.
minji doesn’t even glance. just presses a thumb into the condensation building on the side of her drink.
“someone from the music room, probably,” she says.
it’s said gently. casually. like it doesn’t matter.
and maybe it doesn’t.
but danielle keeps looking at that empty space for a few seconds longer.
not because she’s curious. not exactly.
just because something in the way the girl walked reminded her of gravity. and danielle — for all her brightness, for all her charm — has always been the kind of person who notices when someone carries weight like it belongs to them.
even in passing. even from a distance.
the music room is warmer than it has any right to be. not suffocating, but full in a strange, sleepy way. like it’s been holding sound and sunlight too long and doesn’t quite know how to let go. dust drifts lazily through the slats of the blinds. there’s a faint buzz from one of the overhead lights that no one else seems to notice.
danielle steps inside slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers gripping her notebook a little tighter than usual. her first class here. first time sitting in a room full of strangers who aren’t reading from math books or squinting at history notes. she should be nervous. but instead, her brain snags on something else entirely.
sitting at the back of the room, resting one boot on the rung of a metal stool, is minji.
or at least — it looks like her.
same face. same nose. same sharp jawline. same eyes, almost. but the rest? the rest feels off, like she’s been painted in the wrong colors. this girl is slouched slightly, fingers lazily plucking at the strings of a guitar balanced across her lap. her tie is missing, her sleeves rolled, and her blazer hangs loose like she didn’t bother checking the mirror before leaving the house. she looks like she knows she’s late but doesn’t care.
danielle stands still for a moment, her shoes paused mid-step, eyebrows pinched.
did something happen?
because yesterday — and she remembers this clearly — minji was perfect. not intimidatingly so, but quiet and clean and composed in that way that made her seem carved out of habit. every line of her uniform was sharp. every sentence she said had edges smoothed down with intention. and now?
danielle’s eyes track the lazy way minji’s fingers move over the strings. she hasn’t even looked up. hasn’t acknowledged her. hasn’t said anything.
is this a phase?did she just… snap?
danielle finally moves toward an empty seat near the front but keeps glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, unable to help herself. it’s not like she’s trying to stare. it’s just—she doesn’t understand. and when danielle doesn’t understand something, her brain starts making theories at lightspeed.
was it stress? did the president thing finally crack her open like a soda can under pressure? because this? the loose tie, the boots, the unbothered energy? this is very not the minji who walked her to class yesterday and arranged her pens by color.
still — she says nothing the entire period. neither of them do. the class moves along slowly, the teacher introducing the semester’s structure and guiding them through a simple warm-up activity. danielle’s hands hover over her notes, but she doesn’t write anything down. she’s too focused on what minji is doing behind her. not much — just leaning back, half-tuned guitar in her lap, strumming something low and off-tempo. nothing polished, but rhythmic. confident in a way that doesn’t need to be loud.
when the bell rings, danielle hesitates.
she really should let it go. walk out, ask minji about it later, maybe bring it up gently over lunch in that “haha i saw you in music class and you looked like you fought god in the hallway” kind of way. but she doesn’t.
instead, she marches straight to the back of the room the moment the teacher says they’re dismissed.
the girl is packing up, slipping the guitar into its case with casual efficiency. and danielle — still convinced this is minji mid-spiral — opens her mouth before she can think better of it.
“hey—uh, hi,” she blurts out. “sorry, can i ask something kind of weird?”
the girl lifts her head.
it’s minji. it has to be. but her stare is flatter than usual, like she’s trying to decide if danielle’s real or a hallucination. her expression doesn’t change. doesn’t even twitch.
still, danielle smiles through it.
“did you, like, have a breakdown last night or something?” she asks, half-laughing but fully sincere. “like, a ‘throw out all your sweaters and join a band’ kind of thing?”
no response. not even a blink.
“not judging,” she adds quickly, rushing to fill the silence. “i mean, if being student council president finally broke you, honestly? power move. this whole vibe? ten out of ten. kind of a hot mess in the best way.”
the girl just stares at her. not blank. not angry. just… quiet.
danielle scratches the back of her neck, suddenly aware of how loud her voice sounds in the almost-empty room. “like, i get it,” she continues anyway. “pressure builds, and next thing you know you’re skipping meetings to write breakup songs and starting your villain arc—”
“what.”
a voice interrupts. not minji’s. someone else’s.
danielle turns and finds four girls approaching — casually, confidently, with the kind of loose coordination that only best friends or bandmates have. one of them — pale, blue-streaked hair, eyes like ice cubes — raises an eyebrow.
“what is this,” winter asks, glancing between danielle and the girl with the guitar.
“who’s she?” yizhuo says, genuinely curious.
“i have no idea,” aeri murmurs, but she’s already grinning.
karina nudges the girl — minji — on the arm. “new fan?”
none of them look shocked to see her. none of them seem to think anything’s out of place. and that’s what makes it worse — because these girls, these effortlessly cool people, clearly know this version of minji like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen.
danielle’s thoughts start spinning.
wait. are they her friends? but— she said she was close with hanni, haerin, and hyein— where are they? what is happening?
the girl — still staring at her — finally speaks.
“…what are you talking about?” she asks, voice deeper than she remembers. rougher. more grounded.
danielle opens her mouth. then closes it again.
the girls laugh. one by one, they file past her, bumping shoulders and tugging at guitar straps and tossing quiet jokes over each other’s heads. karina throws a backward glance and smirks. “we’ll leave you to it.”
“have fun,” winter adds, deadpan.
and then they’re gone.
the girl walks past danielle last, boots heavy against the linoleum floor, guitar case slung over her shoulder. she doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t explain. doesn’t confirm or deny anything.
she just leaves danielle standing there, mouth still half-open, heart racing in the most confusing way possible.
danielle blinks.
okay.
what. just. happened.
danielle pokes at her food with a plastic spoon, eyebrows furrowed as her mind replays the morning on a loop — a disjointed montage of mismatched details she can’t quite make sense of. a familiar face in unfamiliar clothes. a guitar. a stare that felt nothing like the minji she knows.
across from her, hanni is perched sideways on the bench, knees up, chin resting lazily in her palm. her juice box is still mostly full, the straw untouched. beside her, haerin flips through a paperback novel, eyes flicking across the page in slow, deliberate motion, like she’s not really reading but wants to look like she is. hyein has one earbud in and is balancing a half-eaten sandwich on her knee, her other hand scrolling through her phone with mechanical indifference.
danielle glances between them, suspicious.
there’s something off about the way they’re all acting. too casual. too conveniently uninterested.
“so,” she says, carefully. “i think minji might be having… a moment.”
hanni doesn’t move.
haerin doesn’t blink.
only hyein reacts — sort of. she raises an eyebrow, like she’s hearing danielle from underwater.
danielle sits forward slightly, bracing her arms against the table. “like a breakdown. but a quiet one. you know the type.”
still nothing.
“she showed up in my music class today,” danielle goes on, voice dropping, “with a guitar, loose blazer, combat boots, and the energy of someone who hasn’t smiled in seven years.”
that gets a small reaction: hanni’s mouth twitches. barely.
danielle doesn’t notice. she’s too deep in it now.
“i swear it was her,” she says, more to herself than anyone. “same face. same eyes. but she didn’t say a single word. just stared at me like i insulted her ancestors and her lunch in one breath.”
“hmm,” haerin murmurs, closing her book gently. “are you sure it was minji?”
danielle looks up. “who else would it be? she looked exactly like her.”
hanni finally shifts, trading her juice box for a breadstick. “you sure you didn’t just… dream it?”
“no, because karina, winter, yizhuo, and aeri were with her,” danielle insists. “like, casually. like they always hang out. and no offense, but i thought minji’s people were—” she gestures around them, “—you guys.”
there’s a tiny pause. fractional. enough to catch if you’re paying attention — which danielle is.
but none of them break.
“that’s… interesting,” hanni says slowly, tapping her chin with the end of the breadstick. “minji never mentioned she plays guitar.”
“exactly!” danielle exclaims, snapping her fingers. “and she didn’t say anything in class either! not even when i talked to her. just—blank. cold. like, ‘i only speak in riffs now’ energy.”
hyein crosses her legs under the table, still looking down at her phone. “are you sure she wasn’t just… tired?”
danielle stares. “guys. she had a guitar case. she was sitting with a band. she left with a band. it wasn’t a vibe. it was a rebrand.”
hanni blinks slowly, like she’s buffering.
“maybe she has a secret life,” haerin offers, voice unreadable.
danielle frowns. “secret life? as a guitar-playing ghost version of herself? like hannah montana?”
“stranger things have happened,” hyein says with a shrug. “there was that one senior last year who faked his transfer to another school just to avoid physics.”
“that’s not the same!”
hanni, haerin, and hyein all exchange the tiniest glances — barely perceptible, but heavy with unspoken amusement.
danielle sits back, lips pursed, spoon abandoned.
“…you guys are being weird.”
“us?” hanni blinks innocently. “how?”
“you’re all way too calm about this. i just told you your friend might be living a double life and no one’s even remotely surprised.”
“we trust her,” haerin says, placid as ever.
danielle narrows her eyes. “this feels like a prank.”
hyein snorts. “if it were a prank, you’d be in on it. you’re too expressive to be left out.”
danielle sighs, rubbing her face with both hands. “ugh. maybe i hallucinated. maybe the lunch meat is haunted.”
“or,” hanni says slowly, carefully, “maybe there’s a logical explanation, and you just… haven’t figured it out yet.”
danielle groans and lets her forehead hit the table with a dull thud.
none of them comfort her.
instead, they sip their drinks, hide their smiles, and carry on — like they’re not all waiting for the moment danielle finally says the words: minji, i think i met your evil twin.
because they know. they’ve always known. and watching danielle spiral is just too entertaining to ruin with the truth.
the next day, she waits until the last bell rings before she corners minji.
the hallway is still thick with students, but danielle weaves through them with practiced ease, sidestepping backpacks and slamming lockers until she spots minji at her cubby, adjusting the strap of her bag like she’s about to vanish.
“hey—wait! don’t leave yet,” danielle calls, catching up.
minji turns with the kind of calm that makes her hard to read — not surprised, not annoyed, just quietly curious.
danielle pulls up short, trying to catch her breath. “i need to ask you something, and it’s gonna sound weird, but i swear i’m not messing with you.”
minji raises one brow. “okay…”
danielle takes a steadying breath. “are you in a band?”
minji blinks. “what?”
“like, a real one. with instruments. and bandmates. and — and boots.”
minji’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t speak.
danielle continues. “because i think i saw you in music class yesterday? except not you you. you weren’t acting like yourself. you didn’t talk. you had a guitar. you walked away with, like, four other girls who all looked like they were about to headline a festival.”
minji tilts her head. “you’re saying you saw someone who looked like me?”
“not just looked — i mean, i was convinced. she didn’t correct me! i went up to her and started talking and she just stared at me like i was part of the ceiling.”
there’s a pause.
minji’s eyes soften slightly. her mouth quirks. “what did you say to her?”
“so many things,” danielle groans. “i thought you were going through a crisis. i told you to embrace it. i told you your new vibe was hot. i told you—oh god, i called it your villain arc.”
minji presses her lips together tightly, but her shoulders are starting to shake.
“you’re laughing,” danielle accuses.
minji nods slowly. “a little.”
“why are you laughing?”
“because,” minji says — and there’s something warm behind her voice now, like sunlight filtering through a window, “i think you met my sister.”
danielle goes still.
“…your what?”
“my twin.”
danielle’s jaw drops. “you have a twin?”
minji just nods, serene.
“that’s not fair,” danielle whispers. “you just — you — that’s — you can’t just have a twin and not say anything. i’ve been spiraling for hours. i thought i hallucinated a whole rebellion.”
“you didn’t ask,” minji says gently.
danielle turns in a slow circle, throwing her hands up. “oh my god. everyone knew, didn’t they?”
minji lifts a shoulder. “well…”
somewhere, faintly, she can hear hanni laughing two hallways down.
danielle groans into her hands.
minji pats her shoulder, trying — and failing — not to smile.
“don’t worry,” she says. “she does that to everyone.”
you catch the tail end of the conversation just as you round the corner.
it’s not like you meant to eavesdrop — the hallway’s narrow, and your footsteps are soft, and you’re holding the canned drink minji likes, still cold from the vending machine down the hall. you thought she’d be alone. thought you’d find her closing her locker, halfway through putting on her cardigan like she always does before the walk home. instead, you hear a voice that doesn’t belong to her. high, warm, frantic in that now-familiar way.
danielle.
you slow your pace, pausing just before the hallway widens. you can see the both of them now — minji with her bag half-zipped, danielle flailing her hands mid-explanation, eyes wide with disbelief. you can’t hear every word, but it’s not hard to put it together. you catch bits and pieces. “you have a twin?” followed by danielle’s groan of betrayal.
minji’s head turns just a fraction when she notices you. only a flicker. the barest shift in her posture. like an animal who’s learned to spot you even before you make a sound.
you raise the drink and nod.
she lifts a hand in return — small, barely more than a twitch of her fingers — before glancing back at danielle, who’s still processing the depth of her humiliation.
you wait a beat longer. then you step fully into view.
“your favorite,” you say, handing her the drink.
minji takes it like it’s muscle memory. “thanks.”
“ready to go home?”
her nod is small. steady. “yeah.”
you don’t say anything else. you don’t look at danielle, whose eyes are now bouncing between the two of you like she’s watching ghosts play out a scene she’s not prepared to understand.
instead, you turn. start walking. minji falls into step beside you like she always does.
neither of you explain.
and for a moment — just a moment — you feel the silence stretch long and comfortable between you. you don’t look back.
but you know she’s still standing there.
and that she won’t forget this.
she’s early to music class. for once.
partially because she wants to prove to herself that she can be on time when she wants to be, but mostly because her brain hasn’t stopped spinning since yesterday. the image of minji and her twin — side by side, effortless, synchronized — loops in her mind like a gif with no ending. the drink. the quiet conversation. the way they walked away without explaining a single thing, like they didn’t owe the world a damn word.
danielle had stood there for a full minute after they left, trying to process the existential horror of being the last to know.
now, seated at her desk, she stares at the empty chair beside her and braces for impact.
because if she’s right — and she is, now, confirmed — then the girl she mistook for minji earlier this week is about to walk in and sit next to her.
for the entire period.
as if on cue, she hears the familiar sound of boots.
low heels. solid tread. deliberate steps. her shoulders straighten instinctively.
the girl enters with the same quiet presence as before — blazer tied around your waist this time, sleeves rolled, collar slightly askew. guitar strapped to your back. there’s a pen tucked behind your ear and a crease in your sleeve and a scuff on the toe of one boot. you look like you meant to walk into a different timeline but ended up here anyway.
you don't look at danielle. just moves to your seat, shrugs off your bag, and set it down with practiced ease.
danielle sits frozen. like if she shifts too quickly, you will disappear again.
a beat passes.
then another.
“you’re not going to say anything?” danielle blurts before she can stop herself.
the girl — not minji — glances over. not annoyed. not surprised. just… tired. or maybe bored. it’s hard to tell.
“about what.”
danielle gapes. “you know what.”
there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of your mouth. not quite a smile.
“mistaken identity?” you say flatly.
“that’s putting it mildly,” danielle huffs. “i basically gave you a TED Talk about your hypothetical emotional breakdown.”
now the girl does smile. barely. “it was entertaining.”
“you let me spiral.”
“you spiraled on your own,” you correct, eyes already drifting to the front of the room.
danielle stares at you. stares hard.
this is not minji. not even a little. the resemblance is exact — almost creepily so — but the energy? completely different. you’re all sharp edges and soft silences. you move like someone who doesn’t ask permission. like someone who’s learned how to vanish without leaving the room.
“i’m danielle,” she says finally.
you raise an eyebrow, not looking at her. “i know.”
a beat.
“…are you going to tell me your name?”
a long pause. then, without turning,
“y/n.”
just that. nothing else.
danielle lets the name settle on her tongue.
it doesn’t feel like closure. it doesn’t answer any of the thousand questions still circling her brain.
but it’s a start.
and she can’t help it — she smiles.
it’s only after the bell rings that danielle realizes she hasn’t written down a single thing all period.
her notebook’s still open, pen resting in the groove of the spine, but the page is blank — no notes, no doodles, not even a smudged line to fake productivity. just faint pressure marks where her fingers tapped in time with her thoughts. she glances down, then sideways — at you, seated beside her, still so composed it almost unnerves her.
you pack your things in no particular rush, unbothered by the noise of desks scraping and students scrambling toward the door. you move like someone who doesn’t register urgency the same way others do — slow but not sluggish, calm without forcing it. there’s a rhythm to it: you close your notebook, you roll your sleeves up to your elbows, you adjust the strap of your guitar case like you’ve done it a hundred times. maybe you have.
she watches you like she’s trying to figure out what the punchline is.
because none of this lines up with the version of you she met in her head.
that version — the version she thought was minji — didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t break. that version terrified her a little. this version doesn’t, but she still doesn’t understand you. you look like minji but move like someone who’s been quietly disappointing people for long enough to stop trying to explain herself.
you don’t look at her once.
and still, danielle follows you out of the room like she doesn’t have a choice.
you walk ahead of her, just a little, not enough to call it intentional, but enough to remind her that you’re not walking together. you don’t talk. you don’t check to see if she’s keeping up. and she knows — knows — she should probably leave it alone. let it sit. you gave her your name, after all. she could’ve left it there.
but something about the silence stretching between you itches at her. like a space she hasn’t earned permission to fill, but wants to anyway.
when you stop walking — just near the stairwell — she nearly crashes into you.
you turn a little. not enough to face her, just enough for her to feel it.
“i don’t bite,” you say, and your voice is lower than minji’s. slower. flatter. something about it makes the hair on her arms stand up.
she blinks. “what?”
“you’ve been staring since class started.”
she winces. “i haven’t— okay. i have. but not in, like, a creepy way!”
you raise an eyebrow. that’s it.
danielle stumbles to explain. “i just— i didn’t expect you to be so… not minji.”
you don’t answer. you don’t nod, or roll your eyes, or laugh. just let the silence return like a door closing.
you stand there for a beat longer. then you move — fluid and effortless, like you’ve already forgotten she’s there.
she watches you walk down the stairs, boots thudding evenly against the concrete. she’s still rooted in place when she finally finds her voice again.
“hey, uh— do you always bring your guitar to school?”
you don’t pause.
but your voice drifts back anyway, clear and quiet,
“only on days i feel like being myself.”
and then you’re gone.
danielle stays where she is, heart thudding, like something significant just happened and she hasn’t caught up to it yet.
she thinks about your voice. the way you didn’t look back. the quiet gravity you carry like it’s something you never asked for.
she thinks about all the things you didn’t say.
and how somehow, those are the things she’s going to remember most.
by the time she finds her way back to the courtyard, danielle’s still not over it.
she sits at the usual table — or, well, what’s become the usual table over the last week — already halfway through a juice box she doesn’t remember buying. her knee bounces. her elbow’s in a puddle from a still-wet tabletop. she doesn’t care. her mind’s still stuck in that stairwell, clinging to the sound of your voice and the absolute absurdity of the moment.
only on days i feel like being myself.
what kind of line is that? who says things like that in real life?
“she’s unreal,” danielle mutters to no one in particular.
hanni looks up from her phone. “who is?”
“minji,” danielle says immediately. too immediately. “except not. not minji.”
three heads turn.
hanni’s expression stays neutral — carefully so. haerin lowers her chopsticks. hyein slides her glasses back up her nose like she’s preparing for something.
“okay,” hanni says slowly, “so like... maybe go back a sentence?”
danielle puts her forehead on the table.
“minji has a twin,” she says, muffled.
“does she now?” hanni replies, drawing out each word with wide eyes.
“yes!” danielle sits up, flailing her hands. “and none of you told me!”
“i thought you knew,” hyein offers, like she’s been caught halfway through a test she didn’t study for.
“how would i know?”
“you’ve been hanging around minji like, a lot,” hanni shrugs. “figured she mentioned it.”
“she didn’t!”
haerin raises an eyebrow. “you seem upset.”
“i am!”
they all just stare.
danielle throws her arms up. “she let me ramble to her about having an identity crisis! i thought she was having a breakdown. she said nothing. she just stared at me like i was narrating a fever dream.”
“and you’re sure it wasn’t minji?” hanni asks, voice way too casual.
danielle shoots her a look. “i’m sure. i talked to her today. her name’s y/n.”
there’s a beat of silence.
haerin stabs a dumpling. “cool name.”
“yeah,” hyein agrees. “very mysterious.”
“very not minji,” hanni adds.
danielle groans. “okay, now you’re all doing it.”
“doing what?”
“acting like this isn’t the biggest bombshell of the century!”
“danielle,” haerin says, her tone flat, “bombshell?”
“yes!”
hanni leans across the table, eyes sparkling. “so... which one do you like better?”
“hanni—”
“just asking.”
“they’re identical!”
“not personality-wise,” hyein points out.
“minji’s like... calm. soft. you know. student council vibes.”
“and y/n?”
danielle’s shoulders sink a little. not because she’s annoyed, but because she doesn’t even know how to explain you yet. not really.
“she’s... different,” she says finally. “she’s quiet. not shy, just... still. like she’s already lived a whole life and she’s tired of explaining it.”
the table goes quiet for a beat too long.
then hanni grins. “wow. you’re kind of doomed, huh?”
danielle buries her face in her hands.
no one disagrees.
danielle is still trying to breathe normally when minji arrives.
she doesn’t make an entrance — she never does — but something about her presence always shifts the tone. the conversation softens, or redirects. people straighten up without meaning to. even hanni lowers her voice a fraction when she spots her approaching across the courtyard, lunch tray balanced neatly in one hand, the other curled loosely around a juice pouch.
“speak of the devil,” hyein mumbles under her breath, just loud enough for the group to hear.
minji doesn’t catch it — or maybe she does and chooses not to react. she sets her tray down beside danielle and slides into the seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. like nothing has changed. like there isn’t a small storm still swirling under danielle’s skin.
but minji’s close now. too close for danielle to ignore the resemblance that’s been haunting her for two straight days.
she’s wearing her hair half up, pulled back with a pale green clip. simple earrings. she looks sharp today — clean lines, crisp collar, not a strand out of place. and yet, the moment she sits down, danielle’s brain flashes back to your rolled sleeves, your boots, your voice.
she can’t help it.
they’re identical, but not at all the same.
“hi,” minji says casually, like nothing’s different.
danielle stares at her for a beat too long before answering. “hey.”
the others pretend not to notice, but their silence is louder now.
haerin’s chewing slowly, like she doesn’t want to get involved. hyein’s flipping a fry over and over with her chopsticks, not eating. and hanni — hanni’s got this look, like she’s holding in a laugh so hard it might actually kill her.
minji unpacks her utensils with the same tidy rhythm as always. she glances up just once — at danielle — then looks away, like she already knows.
like she’s waiting.
and danielle knows she should say something. or ask something. anything. but her throat’s suddenly dry, and her mind’s suddenly blank, and she’s very aware of how normal everything looks on the outside when it’s absolutely not.
finally, she clears her throat. “so... your twin?”
minji doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pause. just finishes slicing her omelet into two clean halves.
“what about her?” she asks, quiet.
the group goes very still.
danielle frowns. “nothing. just... she’s cool.”
minji nods. “she is.”
and then that’s it. no elaboration. no teasing. no “i can’t believe you didn’t know.” she just eats her lunch like it’s any other day.
danielle feels like she’s going insane.
she looks to the others — for backup, for context, for anything — but they’re all too busy pretending this is normal. hanni’s sipping through her straw like it’s her job. haerin has pulled out a crossword. hyein’s reading the label on her juice box like it holds the secrets of the universe.
no one’s helping her.
so she just... sits there.
trying not to look as lost as she feels. trying not to picture your face instead of minji’s.
and failing. completely.
she’s not looking for you. not really.
school’s out, the courtyard’s thinning, and danielle’s halfway through a warm canned coffee when it happens — one of those moments that just… drops itself in front of you and refuses to be ignored.
it starts with laughter. not loud, not attention-seeking. just soft and short, like the kind that slips out when you’re not thinking too hard. she looks up — not even sure why — and there you are.
walking up beside minji like you’ve always belonged there.
no announcement. no dramatics. just… there. hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows. guitar case slung over one shoulder. your other hand reaches into your tote bag, and without even looking, you pull out a small, slightly squished bread roll wrapped in tissue.
you hold it out. not toward the sky. not like you’re proud of it. just directly to minji.
“still warm,” you say. “told the lady not to cut it.”
minji accepts it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “you always know when i crave bread.”
“i live to serve,” you say, voice dry but not cold.
“mhm,” minji hums. “a loyal peasant.”
“a tired one,” you mutter.
and that’s it.
danielle watches you both fall into step, walking toward the back gate, sharing that single bread roll like it’s some quiet sibling ritual. you don’t speak much — just bits and pieces, clipped lines passed back and forth like second nature. minji says something that makes you huff through your nose. you elbow her. she elbows back. no hesitation.
the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to explain itself.
and that’s what does it.
not the twin thing — danielle’s already wrapped her head around that. not the resemblance, or the confusion, or even the fact that you tricked her into monologuing the day before with that unreadable stare.
what gets her is how real it looks. how effortless. the way your body tilts slightly toward minji as you walk. the way she tears the bread roll and gives you the bigger piece. the way your steps fall in sync by habit, not design.
danielle doesn’t know why she expected it to be weird. forced. uncomfortable.
maybe because everything in her life feels a little like that lately — a puzzle she’s still piecing together while smiling through the gaps. but the two of you don’t look like that. you look like something whole.
and for the first time since she met you, she doesn’t feel the need to ask anything.
she just watches you both disappear down the path, arms brushing occasionally, heads bowed in some private rhythm. two faces she’s come to know — one gentle, one unreadable — moving as one.
same frame. same blood. but unmistakably your own people.
you get home before the sun’s completely down.
the sky’s still a little orange when you drop your bag by the door, guitar case leaning against the wall with that familiar thunk. no one says anything — your parents aren’t home yet. the light in the kitchen is off. the air smells faintly like dust and leftover rice.
minji’s room clicks shut down the hall. you don’t follow.
you don’t need to.
some twins share everything. toothbrush cups. playlists. friend groups. sometimes clothes. sometimes faces. you and minji just share faces and silence. and it’s enough.
you make tea, too hot to drink, and sit on the floor of your bedroom with your back against the bed. the window’s open. there’s a siren somewhere far away, a dog barking at nothing, and the faint echo of someone rehearsing scales two blocks down.
your fingers tap patterns against your cup. not a song. just muscle memory.
you think about your day in pieces. the bad tuning in music class. the vending machine that ate your coins. the breeze on the walk home. the way minji looked at you sideways after you handed her the bread — like she was about to say something but didn’t.
and then, after all of that, you think about her. the girl with the warm voice. the one who mistook you for your sister. again.
you didn’t expect her to follow you after class. you didn’t expect her to talk, either — not like that. rambling. panicked. dramatic in the way that made your chest itch, not with annoyance, but with the kind of secondhand embarrassment that lingers longer than it should.
you should’ve told her the truth.
but it was kind of funny. and kind of... interesting. the way she talked so much just to fill the space between you. like silence made her nervous. like you did.
you take a sip of your tea. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch.
you’re not thinking about her, not really. not about the way she looked at you — like you were a puzzle that shouldn’t exist. not about how she didn’t even try to hide her confusion. not about the way her voice caught when she asked if you were okay, like you’d fallen apart without realizing.
you’re not thinking about her at all.
you’re just... listening to the street noise, trying to hum a melody that keeps slipping away.
your guitar is still in its case. you don’t reach for it. not tonight.
instead, you lean your head back against the bed and let your eyes slip shut.
and maybe — just maybe — you let yourself wonder what she’ll say to minji tomorrow.
you kind of hope you’re nearby when it happens.
you wake before your alarm.
it’s still dim outside, the sky grey with the kind of morning that doesn’t promise much. you lie still for a minute. not tired, not exactly rested. just somewhere in between. your room’s quiet — no music yet, no kettle boiling, no floorboard creak from down the hall. it’s the kind of stillness you almost don’t want to break.
but you do. slowly.
you move through the motions without thinking. brush your teeth, tie your laces, pull your hoodie over your head. your guitar stays in the corner today. your bag is lighter for it. you make toast for yourself and an extra piece without asking why.
minji enters the kitchen five minutes later, adjusting her watch.
you don’t speak immediately. you just hand her the toast.
“no crust,” you say, even though she can already see.
“you spoil me,” she murmurs, taking a bite.
you shrug, sitting opposite her at the table. the silence between you isn’t awkward. it never is. it just breathes. she scrolls through her planner. you stare out the window. she finishes eating. you hand her a tissue before she even asks.
when it’s time to leave, you walk together. not side by side at first, but close enough that your steps fall in sync after a few blocks. you take the shortcut behind the bakery, like always. she makes a note about a student council meeting. you hum in response.
before you reach the gate, she glances sideways.
“you’re quiet.”
you smirk faintly. “i’m always quiet.”
“quieter than usual.”
you don’t answer.
minji doesn’t press.
but before you slip through the side entrance, she taps your arm gently.
“if she says anything today, don’t be mean.”
you pretend not to understand. “who?”
“you know who.”
you roll your eyes and keep walking.
you do know. and you don’t plan to be mean. not really.
class drags.
not because of the lesson — though the topic’s dry, and the teacher’s voice is the kind that makes fluorescent lights feel louder — but because danielle keeps trying not to look at you. and failing.
you’re sitting two rows ahead, two seats to the left. just far enough to avoid direct contact, but close enough that every time you shift in your chair, it pulls her attention like gravity.
you’re not taking notes. your notebook’s open, pen in hand, but your eyes are somewhere else. not bored — just distant. like you’re thinking about something deeper than the room, the class, the noise around you. you do that a lot, she’s noticed. disappear in place. quiet, steady, unreadable.
danielle doesn’t mean to stare. she tells herself that every time. and every time, she loses track of her own writing.
by the time the teacher calls for pair work, her page is a mess of half-finished bullet points and one very crooked diagram.
everyone starts turning toward their usual partners. chairs scrape, voices rise. she sees minji shift beside her, already pulling her desk slightly toward hanni’s. haerin and hyein lock eyes across the aisle. there’s a rhythm to it now, these class routines. even if she’s still learning where she fits.
and then she looks at you again — and you’re still alone.
you haven’t moved. your desk is unchanged, body angled slightly toward the window. your fingers are tapping lightly against the edge of your notebook, like you haven’t decided whether to stay or leave.
danielle hesitates. then moves.
she grabs her notebook and rises, slipping through the small gaps between desks. doesn’t ask. just lowers her voice and stops beside you.
“do you—” her throat catches. she clears it. “want to work together?”
you glance up. slowly.
your eyes land on hers with the kind of weight that doesn’t immediately answer. not cold. not kind. just still.
she almost backtracks.
but then you nod. once.
and that’s all it takes.
she slides into the seat beside you.
you don’t speak much at first. she reads the prompt aloud. you answer with short replies, low and flat, but clear. her handwriting improves as you go. she catches herself smiling once — at the way you draw arrows between your notes, not for neatness, but for logic. her heart calms down a little. her shoulders drop.
“you’re… really smart,” she says after a while, unsure why she says it out loud.
you don’t react at first. then, “you sound surprised.”
“not surprised,” danielle rushes to clarify, “just—okay, yeah. a little. you’re quiet.”
“quiet doesn’t mean unaware.”
“no, yeah, totally. i just meant—”
you turn to look at her. not sharply. not unkindly. but directly.
“you talk a lot.”
it’s not accusatory. just true.
danielle blinks. then laughs under her breath, rubbing the back of her neck. “yeah. i know.”
you don’t smile, but your eyes shift — something unreadable, something not quite blank.
“it’s not bad,” you say. then you look down at the worksheet again. “just loud.”
danielle doesn’t answer.
she just watches you underline a sentence and pass the sheet halfway across the desk — and feels the tiniest, strangest victory press into her ribs.
you’re tuning your guitar when it starts.
it’s quiet at first — just the scrape of a stool leg, the soft thud of drumsticks against the floor, the hum of an amp still warming up. you keep your head down, fingers working the tuning pegs with care, listening for the right pitch, the right tension. fourth string’s a little flat. you twist it gently. let it settle.
behind you, someone exhales through their nose like they’re trying not to laugh.
you don’t turn around. you already know it’s winter.
the space smells like sweat and takeout. it's small — barely wide enough to stretch your arms without bumping someone’s gear — but it's yours. worn rugs over concrete. empty water bottles in the corner. the keyboard has a sticky D key and the bass drum pedal squeaks when aeri gets too enthusiastic. but no one complains. this is where you breathe the easiest.
karina's already set up her bass. she’s leaning against the wall now, eyes half-lidded, casually plucking at her strings like she’s waiting for something to happen — or maybe just waiting for you to realize something already happened.
you strap your guitar over your shoulder. test the weight.
“so,” yizhuo says from the keyboard, not looking up. “you and the australian girl.”
you blink once. pause. adjust the strap.
“…what about her?”
aeri snorts from behind the drum kit. “don’t play dumb. we all heard what happened yesterday.”
“in class?” you mutter, without turning.
“mm. in class. in the hallway. at lunch. you getting followed around like a lost puppy—”
“she wasn’t following me.”
“no?” karina chimes in. “so she just happened to show up next to you. again. and again. and again.”
you sigh. plug your guitar in. the amp buzzes softly.
“she’s new.”
“she’s interested,” winter corrects, barely hiding her grin.
you don’t say anything. your fingers test a chord, E minor. it rings clean. too clean. you press down harder.
“she said she wants to get to know you,” aeri adds, tapping her sticks together in a lazy rhythm. “that’s basically a confession in y/n-language.”
“is there a y/n-language now?”
“oh, definitely,” yizhuo says, smiling behind her mic. “it's made of long silences, deep sighs, and occasional sarcastic remarks that actually mean you care.”
you strum again. G major. sharp on the second string.
you fix it.
you don’t look up.
karina lowers her bass slightly. “you didn’t tell her back then, huh.”
“tell her what.”
“that you’re a twin.”
you shrug. “didn’t come up.”
winter cackles. “didn’t come up? she thought you were minji mid-breakdown, dude.”
you frown.
“it was kind of funny,” yizhuo says gently. “also kind of sweet.”
you finally look up.
they’re all watching you now. not in a mean way — not even in that too-eager, matchmaking way. just… quietly. like they know something you won’t say out loud.
and maybe they do.
you sigh. press your pick to your bottom lip.
“she talks a lot,” you mutter.
“so do we,” karina shrugs.
“she looks at me weird.”
“you’re hot,” winter says plainly.
you roll your eyes.
aeri leans forward over the kit. “she’s not looking at minji when she does that. you know that, right?”
you glance away.
your fingers drift across the fretboard — not playing yet, just testing spaces between notes. D. F sharp. A. minor again. it’s muscle memory by now. the only language you trust when the room gets too quiet around questions you don’t want to answer.
“she’s just curious,” you say.
“and you’re just pretending you’re not,” yizhuo answers, soft and sure.
you don’t respond.
the silence stretches again, this time filled with something warmer. not teasing. not pushing.
just there.
you finally strum a slow progression. it hums through the amp — low, clean, steady. you let it ring, eyes on the floor, the warmth of their presence wrapping around you like a familiar soundcheck hum.
karina nods, starts matching your rhythm. winter joins in half a beat late, smile lingering under her breath.
aeri counts them in.
and just like that, you begin.
but somewhere between verse and chorus, your mind slips — just for a second — and you hear her voice again. talking too fast. hands flailing slightly. eyes bright like she’s trying too hard not to look nervous.
you don’t mess up the chord.
but your fingers press a little lighter.
there’s no sudden spark. no dramatic realization. no moment of clarity that punches you in the chest and leaves your hands shaking.
instead, it creeps in quietly — like the slow build of a song you’ve heard a dozen times but only just started listening to. like light slanting through your practice room window at golden hour, pooling warm on the worn-out floor, softening everything it touches.
danielle starts walking with you after class. not every day. not predictably. but often enough that it begins to feel routine. she doesn’t announce it — doesn’t say, “can i come with you?” or “mind if i tag along?” she just appears beside you, bag slung over one shoulder, a little out of breath like she’d jogged to catch up, and then starts talking like you’ve been mid-conversation all along.
you never tell her to go away.
sometimes she talks the whole walk — about her classes, her sister, the weird things hanni says during lunch. other times she just hums. low and absent-minded, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. when she falls quiet, it’s not awkward. it’s not a demand for you to speak. it just... breathes.
you like that. more than you thought you would.
you notice small things first. the way her backpack always has something slightly poking out — a notebook with a chewed-up spiral, a dangling keychain, a loose headphone cord that tangles around the zipper. the way she walks with her elbows just a little bent, like she’s always about to gesture. how she leans toward you sometimes, not in an obvious way, but enough that her shoulder brushes yours if the sidewalk gets narrow.
she never comments on the way you walk with your head down. never points out how you keep one earphone in, even if nothing’s playing. she doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.
instead, she hands you a folded candy wrapper and says, “this looks like your energy.” you stare at it — blue foil with a badly printed moon. you don’t know what it means. but you keep it anyway.
at band practice one weekend, she shows up fifteen minutes early.
you’re adjusting the mic stand. karina’s fiddling with her tuner. winter’s arguing with yizhuo about a synth line that sounds too much like a cartoon intro. danielle just walks in, backpack slung low, cheeks flushed from the sun, and drops herself into the beat-up couch like she belongs there.
you freeze. just for a second. then keep moving.
she doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t ask questions. she just watches. her eyes track your hands when you check the pedal board, linger on your face when you speak quietly to aeri about tempo.
and when you sit down during break, she sits next to you without asking.
she reaches for your water bottle — the one you haven’t opened yet — and drinks from it like she’s done it a hundred times. you feel the movement more than you see it, the tilt of her shoulder toward yours, the soft creak of plastic. when she hands it back, her thumb brushes yours.
you don’t say anything. neither does she.
and when her head tips, just slightly, enough to rest the weight of her hair near your arm, you still don’t move.
you tell yourself you’re just tired.
she doesn’t bring it up. not later that day, not the next. and neither do you.
but something shifts. not loudly. not dramatically.
just enough.
after that, she starts noticing your habits. not because you told her. because she pays attention.
she learns that you tend to fall quiet when there’s too much noise around — not out of discomfort, but to conserve energy. she notices that you rub your thumb against the side of your index finger when you’re thinking too hard. she figures out that when you give short answers, it doesn’t mean you’re mad — it means you’re overwhelmed, or overthinking, or unsure.
you catch her watching you sometimes. not in a staring way. just in a patient way. like she’s still piecing the shape of you together and doesn’t want to miss anything.
you don’t ask what she sees. you’re not sure you want to know.
but one evening — late, too late to still be out — you walk her halfway home after a show. she’s yawning and still talking too much, and you’re holding her wrist lightly because the sidewalk’s uneven. she doesn’t pull away. just keeps talking. her voice is lower now, softer, like she’s saving the last of her energy for you.
then, out of nowhere, she says:
“do you ever get tired of people not knowing what to do with you?”
you stop walking.
not suddenly. just enough to make her pause too.
the question doesn’t feel cruel. it doesn’t even feel heavy. it just… lingers.
you look at her for a long time. the streetlight flickers once behind her. her eyes catch it like gold. she looks concerned. but not afraid.
you shrug. “i don’t mind it.”
her gaze softens. she nods. “i think i would.”
you tilt your head. “you’re not me.”
“no,” she says. “but i want to understand you. even if it takes a while.”
she says it like a promise.
you don’t reply. you just look at her. and she waits. doesn’t fill the silence. doesn’t fidget.
just stays.
and something in you begins to steady.
the rain’s been falling since morning. not the loud kind — just steady, soft, rhythmic. it clings to the rooftops, crawls along the windows, dampens the streets until everything feels hushed and half-awake.
you don’t usually wait for people after class. you leave fast, take the back stairwell, disappear into the city like a smudge of color on a grey afternoon. but today, you linger by the lockers. bag slung low. hair sticking slightly to your temple. no one says anything about it.
danielle shows up a few minutes later, umbrella tucked under one arm, smile blooming even before she sees you.
“you waited?”
you shrug. “you have the better umbrella.”
she laughs, not quite expecting the joke. she opens it with a practiced flick of her wrist, the fabric snapping into place above you both. yellow again. always yellow. obnoxious and bright and hers.
you walk in silence for a while. your sleeve brushes hers. the rain hits the umbrella like soft static.
eventually, she says, “wanna stop somewhere?”
you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no.
there’s a bakery a few blocks out of the way. it smells like sugar and warm dough and melted butter. the glass windows are fogged. the inside is lit like someone turned the sunrise on and never turned it off.
you order something with cheese. she gets something flaky with a name you forget. you both end up sharing without asking.
there’s only one table left — near the back, beside a rack of free newspapers and a window with condensation trailing down in uneven lines. she pulls out her phone halfway through the meal, untangles her earbuds. hands you one without a word.
you take it. it feels… normal. not forced.
she presses play.
it’s something soft. piano, strings, maybe. not what you expect. you don’t ask.
you lean your elbow on the table. she mirrors you.
neither of you speaks.
the song shifts, moves from one melody to another, and you realize she made a playlist. not a random one. a curated one. the kind someone makes when they want you to understand something without having to say it out loud.
you listen. not just to the music — but to the shape of the silence around it.
and when you catch her watching you, just barely, just enough, you don’t look away.
you let her see.
danielle doesn’t remember when it stopped feeling one-sided.
she used to think it would always be like that — her talking too much, overstepping, filling the space because silence felt like rejection. she thought you would always stay at arm’s length, unreadable, cautious, tilted slightly away.
but now?
now you wait for her after class. you text back, sometimes within seconds. you don’t flinch when she leans close. you don’t shut down when she laughs too loud. you still don’t say much — but when you do, it’s never meaningless.
she started to understand your rhythm.
you’re not cold. you’re careful. you’re not distant. you’re… measured. you let people in slowly. not because you don’t care, but because you care too deeply. and too quietly. and too much.
she knows you won’t say what she means to you — not yet, maybe not ever. but she sees it in other ways. how you remember the details she forgets. how you never forget to pull her umbrella closer when the wind shifts. how you always hand her the last bite of whatever you're eating even when you roll your eyes doing it.
she notices how you stop walking when she says something real. how your eyes soften when she talks about her family. how you always look at her hands when she’s nervous, like you’re trying to see what she’s holding onto.
it’s past ten when your phone buzzes once on your desk, the sound soft under the hum of your electric fan. you don’t check it right away — you’re halfway through untangling your guitar cable, fingers already a little sore from earlier practice. but when you finally look, it’s her name. “are you still awake?”
you think about ignoring it. you think about what it might mean — why she’s texting instead of sleeping — but in the end, you just type back: “kinda. why?”
a minute passes. then your phone lights up again — this time, a call.
you let it ring once, twice. then you answer.
“hi,” danielle says. there’s something in her voice — soft, a little embarrassed. “sorry, i know it’s late. i just… forgot what that lit term was. the ‘meta’ something?”
you shift in your chair, rub your thumb over your eyebrow. “metonymy?”
“yes!” she exhales like she’s been holding her breath. “that. god, i typed ‘melatonin’ in the gc and deleted it immediately.”
you huff out a laugh, but your voice stays low. “close enough.”
you expect her to hang up. you wait for the usual “thanks, night!” but it doesn’t come.
instead, “what’re you doing?”
you glance at your floor, still littered with practice scraps. “sitting.”
“can i stay on the line?”
there’s a pause where you could say no. where you should. but instead you shift your phone from your hand to your shoulder, curl into the space beneath your desk like it’s a fort, and let the silence answer for you.
she talks about nothing, then everything — her sister’s weird sleep habits, how she used to be scared of elevators, the song that made her cry last week. you don’t say much. you don’t need to. her voice fills the space between the night and your walls. and when the silence settles in for good, neither of you says goodbye. you just fall asleep like that, your phone cooling by your pillow, her breathing still quiet in your ear.
the next day, you’re coiling strings at your usual corner of the band room when she walks in, still in her uniform, bag slipping off one shoulder. she drops to a crouch without asking and scans the mess of wires, pegs, and tools in front of you.
“you need a hand?”
you grunt, “not unless you know how to loop a high e.”
“i definitely don’t,” she says, reaching for the wrong end anyway.
you don’t stop her.
she fumbles through the first attempt, tongue caught between her teeth. you try not to laugh. she curses under her breath when the string slips, and when your hands meet to realign it, she freezes — just for a second — before continuing like nothing happened. her knee bumps yours. you don’t move.
“this feels like surgery,” she mutters, head bent close enough that you can smell her shampoo. you hum in agreement and let the quiet take over. you keep winding. she keeps watching. and when she leans in again — closer this time, to inspect your frets — her shoulder brushes yours and stays there.
you don’t say anything. neither does she.
when you finally look up, you notice the uneven line of her collar — one side crooked, the button half-done. she’s still staring at the strings like she’s memorizing something. without a word, you reach over, smooth the fold flat, fix the button, tug the fabric gently into place.
she blinks. doesn’t move. doesn’t ask.
you go back to tuning like it never happened.
but she stays a little closer after that.
after practice, she hooks her finger into your sleeve before you can head to the gate. “come with me,” she says, already tugging you toward the back street near the train station. “you haven’t lived until you’ve had their fish cakes.”
you want to tell her you’ve had them before. that this stall isn’t new. but her hand is still lightly hooked in your sweatshirt, and her voice is already soft with excitement.
the street is lit by a few flickering lamps. the vendor waves without looking up as danielle orders too much food, splitting the sticks and sauce trays like she’s done it a dozen times. you sit on the curb, knees nearly touching, steam curling into the night air.
she talks with her mouth full. about music, about dreams, about how she almost joined a different club before choosing music as an elective “because the flyer had a little cartoon guitar on it and i trusted the vibes.”
you laugh once. just a breath through your nose.
her fingers are sticky with red sauce, and when she tries to smear some on your wrist, you dodge just in time. she gasps — dramatic — and falls sideways into you like she’s fainting from betrayal. her weight is warm against your side. your hand twitches but doesn’t move.
she’s still grinning when she leans back up. “you’re fun when you’re not pretending not to care.”
you don’t answer. you just take another skewer from her tray, eat it slowly, and let the silence settle between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full.
it’s late when you get to your street.
the air’s still warm from the day, but quieter now — like even the heat has started to sleep. the lights from the corner bakery are off. there’s an old dog curled under a scooter. somewhere in the distance, someone’s playing music just loud enough for the melody to reach you, warbled and slow.
danielle walks beside you, her sleeve brushing your arm now and then like she doesn’t notice — or maybe like she does and doesn’t want to stop.
you’re not in a hurry, and neither is she.
when you stop by the gate outside your house, she does too. doesn’t even pretend to keep walking. just stands there, sneakers toeing the edge of the curb, fingers still stuffed deep in her jacket pockets.
she doesn’t look at you when she says it.
“i keep thinking about you.”
your chest goes still. not tight — not exactly — but expectant.
danielle kicks lightly at a stone by her foot. her voice is soft, but steady. “like… when i wake up. when we’re not in the same class. when i see something that reminds me of you, which is, like, all the time now. and it’s not—” she hesitates, but only for a second. “—it’s not just that i like you. i mean, i do. obviously. but it’s more like… i don’t know. you make things easier to feel.”
she finally looks up at you.
“i didn’t mean to say all that,” she adds, blinking like she’s surprised herself. “but i couldn’t just go home and pretend i didn’t.”
you don’t speak for a second. the space between you fills with quiet.
then, “yeah.”
your voice is rougher than you mean it to be, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
you scratch lightly at your wrist. eyes down. then up. then down again. it’s hard to look at her when she’s being this open — like she cracked herself wide open and handed you all the soft parts.
“i’ve liked you for a while,” you say finally. “i just didn’t know how to… say it. or if i should.”
she tilts her head a little. doesn’t speak, just listens.
you shift on your feet. “i guess i’m not used to people noticing me unless it’s because of minji. or because i’m on stage. or both. but you’re not like that. you talk to me like… i’m not a twin. or a guitarist. or someone with a matching face. just—me.”
danielle’s eyes soften. that same look she gave you the first time she helped restring your guitar. like she sees everything without you needing to explain.
you look away before your voice can shake.
“i think i was scared if i said anything, i’d ruin it. or make it weird. or start thinking about it too much. but when you said all that just now, it didn’t feel weird at all. it felt like… oh. so that’s what this is.”
she steps forward. not much — just enough for your shoes to nearly touch.
“so,” she says, quieter now. “what do we do now?”
you pause.
then you say, “you could walk me to school tomorrow.”
danielle smiles. it reaches her eyes.
“okay,” she says. “deal.”
she turns like she’s about to leave, but before she does, she bumps your shoulder — light, familiar — and says, “i wasn’t planning on confessing tonight, by the way.”
you shrug. “i wasn’t planning on answering.”
you don’t say anything else.
you just look at her — really look — at the curve of her lips as they part like she’s about to say something and forgets, at the way her cheeks are pink from more than just the cold, at the way she’s standing like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands anymore. you think: this is the same girl who nearly cried over a juice box. who laughs with her whole chest. who clumsily helped you restring your guitar and watched you like you were playing something only she could hear.
you think, i want to kiss her.
so you do.
you lean in slowly, so slowly that she has all the time in the world to pull away, but she doesn’t. she tilts her chin just slightly, meets you halfway, breath catching when your lips finally touch hers — soft, warm, a little unsteady at first. her hand comes up to your shoulder, light as air, and you swear she’s smiling into it.
you don’t usually bring lyrics to practice.
not yours, at least — not the kind you scribble into your phone notes late at night, or the ones you record in voice memos so quiet you can barely hear the chords over your own breath. usually, you keep those to yourself. keep them tucked somewhere between half-finished demos and never-sent messages. you write to get it out, not to share.
but this time... this time you don’t just bring it.
you print it.
“okay,” you say, setting a few sheets on the old amp beside winter’s pedalboard. “before anyone says anything—yes, it’s cheesy. yes, it’s different. yes, i know.”
“uh-oh,” aeri says immediately, lowering her drumsticks.
“that’s never how a sentence should start,” karina adds, squinting as she leans in to read the title at the top. “‘your universe’? are we in our lover girl era now?”
you glare at her, only half-serious. “just listen.”
“you wrote this?” winter asks, already flipping to the second page. she pauses at a line. hums. “it rhymes.”
“i would hope so, most songs do,” you mutter.
“no, like... sweet rhyming. heartfelt rhyming. this is so uncool of you.”
you sit on the amp next to her, arms crossed. “do you want to play it or not?”
“depends,” karina says, plucking her bass string slowly. “did you write this for a certain sunshine-colored girlfriend who has no idea how whipped you are?”
yizhuo immediately chokes on air. “oh my god. you did.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“you didn’t deny it.”
“i didn’t confirm it either.”
“that’s literally the same thing.”
you groan and press a palm to your face, but the edges of your mouth tug anyway.
“you guys suck.”
“we’re the best,” winter replies. “and we’re playing this.”
karina shifts her strap over her shoulder, already adjusting the amp levels. aeri taps a soft tempo against the floor, leaning back on her stool like she’s trying to act unaffected, but her grin is all teeth.
“you’re lucky we like you,” she says.
“more like we’re lucky someone finally turned you into a sap,” winter adds, raising an eyebrow as she glances at the lyrics again. “you really wrote ‘you hold me like i’m the one who’s precious’? who are you?”
“shut up and play,” you mutter.
but your voice cracks on a laugh.
you adjust your mic stand with careful fingers, steady your guitar against your hip, and take one long breath as karina gives the signal.
the first chord is soft.
the second fills the room.
and by the time you reach the chorus — by the time the words slip from your mouth like they’ve been waiting for a place to land — none of them are teasing anymore.
they just play.
because even if they’ll tease you later — even if aeri will call you a simp and karina will make gagging noises when you hand her a new verse — they get it. they’ve seen the way you look at danielle when you think no one’s watching. they’ve seen how your voice softens around her name.
so they let you have this.
your cheesy, dreamy, painfully honest song.
your universe.
and when the last note fades into the walls, no one says anything right away.
then winter nods once. “we’re definitely closing with that at the next set.”
“i’m gonna cry,” aeri sniffs dramatically, pretending to wipe her face.
karina stretches her arms over her head and grins. “you’re still disgusting. but in a beautiful, deeply annoying way.”
you shake your head, fingers still buzzing from the last chord.
the gym smells like dust and sugar and plastic chairs. someone spilled soda on the floor near the sound booth, and a junior is trying to mop it up before it dries sticky. behind the curtains, aeri’s tuning her snare with a quiet precision she doesn’t usually show, and winter’s leaning against the wall with her guitar already slung across her chest, idly tapping a rhythm on her thigh. karina’s scrolling through the setlist again, mouthing lyrics she already knows by heart.
your fingers are trembling slightly.
you wipe them on your jeans, then adjust the strap of your guitar for the fourth time.
the applause from the last act fades, and somewhere in the crowd, someone yells “aespa next!” like they’ve been waiting all evening. your name is said, too — maybe by hanni, maybe by danielle, you can’t tell through the curtains — but the way your stomach flips makes it clear enough.
when they call your band to the stage, you step out first.
it’s loud. not chaotic, not overwhelming — just… full. full of voices, full of heat, full of flickering phone flashlights and the scrape of chairs shifting, people standing, a buzz that builds in your chest like an open amp. your shoes echo a little on the wooden boards. the mic stand is taller than you remembered.
karina walks past you with a light bump of her shoulder, and winter gives your wrist a quick squeeze. aeri tosses a stick in the air and catches it with a grin.
you take a breath.
adjust the mic.
“hi,” you say, voice steadier than you expect. “we’re aespa.”
applause rises again, and this time you do hear danielle clearly — the pitch of her cheer, the clap that’s just a little too fast, a little too excited. your eyes scan the front row, and there she is — right where you thought she’d be. center, just off to the left. hanni’s next to her with both hands cupped around her mouth, shouting something you can’t quite make out. minji’s beside them, arms crossed but smiling in that understated way she does when she’s proud but doesn’t want to be obvious about it. haerin stands behind them, watching quietly. hyein’s already pulled out her phone and is waving it like a glowstick.
you swallow down the way your chest twists.
“this next song’s… different,” you say, brushing your hair back with your wrist. “not our usual kind of sound.”
karina chuckles behind you, but doesn’t interrupt.
you tighten your grip on your pick. “i wrote it.”
your voice is a little quieter now, but it still reaches. a few people shift in their seats. the gym hushes just a bit.
“i hope you like it.”
winter starts the intro — slow, soft, measured. it’s the gentlest you’ve ever heard her play, like she’s trying to coax the notes into being instead of pressing them out. aeri follows with a quiet tap of sticks against the rim of the snare. no crash cymbals. no heavy kick. just enough to give you a heartbeat.
you step forward, the lights warming your skin, and start to sing.
Tell me something
When the rain falls on my face
How do you quickly replace it With a golden summer smile?
your voice carries, soft but unshaking. not because you’re fearless — god, you’re not — but because you’re sure. the lyrics sit just behind your teeth like they were always meant to be said aloud. you don’t glance at the crowd yet. you’re not ready.
Tell me something
When I'm feelin' tired and afraid
How do you know just what to say To make everything alright?
yizhuo joins you on the chorus, bassline steady, low, grounding.
I don't think that you even realize
The joy you make me feel when I'm inside your universe
You hold me like I'm the one who's precious
I hate to break it to you,
but it's just the other way around
this time you do look.
and danielle — danielle is still.
not silent, not frozen, just completely still, like if she moves she’ll miss it. her eyes are wide. her smile is small now, softer. like she knows. like she knows it’s her.
you hold the mic a little tighter.
You can thank your stars all you want
But I'll always be the lucky one
a few rows back, hanni is smacking minji’s arm, clearly mouthing something like did you hear that?! and minji, ever composed, just bites back a laugh and shakes her head. hyein’s whispering in haerin’s ear while pretending to dab tears from her eyes with a tissue. someone from your class is swaying along, eyes dreamy.
but your eyes are only on danielle now.
Tell me something
When I'm 'bout to lose control
How do you patiently hold my hand And gently calm me down?
the second verse feels heavier, but not in a bad way. just real. exposed. like showing someone a diary you never meant to share.
Tell me something
When you sing and when you laugh
Why do I always photograph
My heart flying way above the clouds?
winter echoes you on the final lines of the bridge. karina’s harmonizing now. aeri’s kept it bare — just enough to lift the words.
you reach the last chorus and close your eyes.
I don't think that you even realize
The joy you make me feel when I'm inside your universe
You hold me like I'm the one who's precious
I hate to break it to you, but it's just the other way around
You can thank your stars all you want But I'll always be the lucky one
I'll always be the lucky one
by the time the last chord fades, the gym feels like it’s holding its breath.
and then the cheering breaks loose.
it’s not the loudest reaction of the night — not in decibels. but it’s full. warm. waves of applause and shouts and laughter and a very clear “GET MARRIED ALREADY!” from the third row that’s definitely hanni.
you turn away from the mic with your face flushed, heart still racing. giselle flings her stick into the air and yells something celebratory. karina slings her bass off and points at you with both hands like look at this disaster romantic. winter just walks over and pats your back, a rare grin spreading across her face.
you bow with them, the stage lights still soft and golden.
and when you glance at danielle again, she’s standing now. not clapping. just watching.
eyes shining.
the corridor behind the gym is dimmer than the stage, quiet in a way that almost feels sacred. it smells like old varnish and forgotten cleaning supplies — the kind of space that doesn’t see much use except on nights like this. your footsteps are soft against the tiles as you drift halfway down the hallway, guitar case slung over your shoulder, heart still tumbling unevenly from the last note you played.
you think maybe you need a minute. just one. to come down. to breathe again.
but you don’t even make it to the storage door at the end before you hear your name.
soft. rushed. familiar.
“y/n—wait!”
you stop, slowly turning around.
danielle's there, half-breathless, hair slightly out of place like she ran the moment the set ended. her jacket is falling off one shoulder, and her school ID is twisted around her fingers like she was fidgeting with it the whole time she was trying to reach you.
her eyes catch yours.
and the hallway gets quieter still.
“you—you didn’t think you could just walk offstage like that, did you?” she says, trying to sound casual, but her voice betrays her. too high at the edges. too full.
you smile, a little crooked. “i needed air.”
“oh,” she says, taking one slow step closer. “should i go?”
“no.”
your answer is immediate.
her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to let it turn into a grin. she doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches you. and you don’t move either — can’t, maybe. your body feels heavier than it did on stage, but not in a bad way. just weighted with everything left unsaid.
“you wrote that,” she says softly. “the song.”
you nod once.
“for me?”
your throat tightens. “…yeah.”
her breath catches just barely — you hear it more than you see it.
and then she’s stepping forward again, slower this time, until there’s only a foot of space between you. she’s looking up at you like she’s seeing something she hadn’t let herself believe until just now. like the song wrapped around her in the crowd, and she’s only just broken the surface again.
you glance away for half a second, nervous, suddenly too aware of how still you are.
her hand reaches for your sleeve.
her fingers find the edge of it and hold on.
and then, quietly — so quietly — she says,
“i love you.”
the words land like something soft and vast. they don’t startle you. they don’t knock the air out of your lungs. they settle. low and deep and warm. like she’s been waiting to say them for a long time, and now she finally has.
your gaze flicks back to her.
she’s smiling, but her eyes are glassy — not quite teary, but close enough that you can feel it.
you let the quiet stretch for just a second longer.
and then you breathe.
“i love you too.”
it’s almost a whisper. like if you say it too loud, it might shake loose the gravity of it.
and that’s when she laughs — soft and shaky, like she’s been holding her breath since the first chord.
“yeah?” she says, eyes shining. “you’re not just saying that ‘cause i clapped the loudest?”
you snort. “you didn’t. hanni did.”
“rude.” she tries to glare at you, but her smile breaks through almost instantly.
and then she’s laughing, and so are you, and then—
she leans in.
you kiss her.
slow, gentle, nothing rushed about it. it’s not a kiss meant to be seen. not one of those breathless hallway moments stolen between classes. it’s quieter. something patient, something certain. like returning to a feeling you didn’t realize you’d been circling for weeks. her hand doesn’t go anywhere — it just stays at your sleeve, her grip steady.
when you pull apart, you don’t move far. she rests her forehead against yours, breathing softly. her nose brushes yours. her fingers don’t let go.
and then, again — but smaller now, like a secret only meant for you,
“i love you so much.”
you close your eyes.
and finally — finally — everything in you exhales.
the walk from the back gate to the courtyard is short, but it stretches. not in a bad way. just in the way time seems to loosen after something big — like the world’s giving you room to breathe again. danielle walks close beside you, shoulder brushing yours, her hand still laced in yours like she’s not even thinking about it anymore. like it’s just… default now. natural.
the sky’s deepened a little since the stage lights faded, edges of the clouds now dipped in lavender. a warm breeze carries the scent of kettle corn from the last stall being packed up, and the glow from the campus lamps softens the pavement underfoot.
you take it slow, partly because neither of you really wants to go home yet, partly because her thumb keeps grazing over your knuckles. like she can’t stop.
you hear them before you see them.
the laughter’s loud. exaggerated, like someone just finished reenacting something dramatic. a voice that sounds a lot like hanni’s carries across the courtyard, followed by the distinct sound of hyein saying, “no because if she didn’t say it, i would’ve.”
danielle sighs beside you, already bracing.
you round the corner and there they are — minji seated on the edge of the bench, legs crossed at the ankle, water bottle in hand like she’s the only one taking this hangout seriously. haerin’s beside her, expression unreadable, though her juice box is suspiciously halfway crushed like she’s been quietly enjoying the chaos. hanni’s practically bouncing where she sits, one leg tucked under the other, fingers twirling her phone. hyein’s halfway lying on the bench, head dangling upside down, arms spread dramatically.
they all look up at once.
and when they see your hands — still tangled — the teasing doesn’t even wait a second.
“there they are,” hanni sing-songs, like it’s a sitcom entrance.
“you’re late,” minji says, deadpan, taking a long sip from her bottle. “we thought maybe you eloped.”
“we almost did,” danielle replies cheerfully, like she’s not the slightest bit embarrassed.
“and no one invited me?!” hyein says, faking betrayal. “i was gonna make a speech.”
“a very dramatic one,” haerin adds, nodding solemnly.
you blink. “are you all seriously still here?”
“we were waiting,” hanni says, grinning. “we knew you’d come back out.”
“you were waiting?”
“duh,” hanni snorts. “you really thought you could perform that song and walk off like we weren’t gonna say something?”
danielle buries her face in your shoulder again, muffling a groan. “i told you.”
“you did,” you sigh, barely hiding your smirk.
“honestly?” minji adds after a beat, eyebrow lifting in that very minji way. “i don’t know what’s worse. the fact that you sang that with your whole chest… or the fact that this all started because danielle thought you were me.”
danielle lifts her head just enough to say, “i’m still traumatized.”
“you have the same face!” hyein says.
“you do not get to talk,” you grumble. “you were all in on it.”
“you let me think i was hallucinating your face,” danielle accuses, half-laughing now.
“you were doing great, though,” hanni cuts in. “truly iconic meltdown.”
“and you,” you say, pointing at minji, “could’ve said something. anything.”
minji blinks, wide-eyed. “me? i offered to introduce you to her and you said, and i quote, ‘absolutely not.’”
you groan. “i didn’t think you’d take it literally.”
“well, maybe if someone didn’t disappear into the music room every lunch, we could’ve avoided this.”
“maybe if someone didn’t walk around like she owned the school, people wouldn’t confuse us.”
“excuse me?” she raises both brows. “who owns the school?”
“definitely not the girl crying over anime songs.”
“that was one time,” she hisses.
“you used my sleeve as tissue.”
“okay, wow.”
danielle looks between you both, clearly delighted. “you’ve been waiting to use that one, huh?”
you shrug. “had it in my pocket.”
minji exhales like she’s rethinking every sibling-related life choice. “unbelievable.”
“you love me,” you say smugly.
“debatable.”
“you gave me the bigger slice of cake last week.”
“out of pity.”
“see?” danielle mutters to haerin, “they’re like this all the time?”
haerin nods. “every day.”
“and yet no one warned me.”
“we wanted it to be a surprise.”
“you’re so welcome,” hanni says, bowing.
“anyway,” hyein says loudly, “can we circle back to the part where y/n was basically confessing on stage in front of the whole school?”
“yes, please,” hanni nods. “i want to talk about the part where she said ‘i’ll always be the lucky one.’”
“that was so much,” hyein agrees.
danielle clutches her chest. “it was, right?”
“you all suck,” you mutter.
“no,” minji says, standing and patting your head like you’re five. “you suck. we just witness it.”
“i’m your twin.”
“and you wrote a love song.”
“which you liked,” you accuse.
“which i tolerated.”
“you cried.”
“i yawned.”
“you stood up during the last chorus.”
“i had a cramp.”
danielle laughs so hard she almost stumbles.
you wrap your arm around her shoulders to keep her steady, and she leans into you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
danielle beams. “minji, we’re practically sisters-in-law now.”
“welcome to the family,” minji says dryly.
“you’re the worst,” you mumble.
minji pats your head. “and you’re predictable.”
“okay, we’re leaving,” you announce, tugging gently at danielle’s hand. “this is abuse.”
danielle’s laughing but doesn’t resist. “bye, bullies!”
just as you’re almost out of earshot, minji calls after you — smug and sweet all at once,
“tell your universe we said good night!”
you groan so loud it echoes.
the two of you walk off into the slow-fading gold of the evening, hands clasped tight, the sound of your friends’ laughter still tumbling behind you like a song that doesn’t end.
you leave the courtyard with danielle still chuckling beside you, her hand tight in yours like she’s not ready to let go even after the laughter fades.
the voices behind you grow smaller — hyein yelling something about snacks, hanni insisting they take a group picture before you leave, minji pretending she’s too cool for any of it but still smiling so wide it hurts a little if you look too long. haerin hums something under her breath. probably the chorus from earlier. maybe she’ll ask to cover it later. (you’re always gonna say yes.)
you and danielle walk slowly. the sun’s lower now, skimming just above the rooftops, turning her hair the color of honey and copper. she doesn’t speak right away — doesn’t have to — and neither do you. your fingers swing between you, barely brushing each other’s sides with every step.
then, after a while,
“so…”
you glance at her. she’s looking at the sky, squinting through the light, lips curled like she’s already halfway through the thought.
“i’ve been wondering this for, like, a while now,” she says. “but i didn’t want to ask before because i thought maybe it was, like, deeply symbolic or personal or whatever.”
you raise an eyebrow. “okay.”
“but now i have to know.”
you hum, curious. “know what?”
danielle turns to you, fully serious — too serious, actually. which makes it worse.
“why is your band called aespa?”
you blink. “…what?”
“aespa. like—what does it stand for? is it initials? a phrase? something meaningful?”
you stare at her.
“because i’ve had theories,” she continues. “like maybe it’s ‘aesthetic space’? or maybe something about alter egos or duality. you and minji are twins — maybe there’s a theme. or is it a play on ‘aspect ratio’? like visuals, performance, dimension—”
“spaghetti,” you say.
she blinks. “…what?”
“spaghetti.”
her brow furrows, like she’s trying to unlock a riddle. “are you craving some? we can go to that italian restaurant if you—”
“no,” you laugh, shaking your head. “we were hanging out one day, and winter was zoning out — like, full on disassociating — and she just said ‘espaghetti’ instead of spaghetti.”
danielle blinks.
you grin. “we were quiet for five seconds. and then karina just went, ‘that’s it. that’s the name.’”
she stares at you.
you shrug. “we dropped the ghetti and added an ‘a’. now we’re aespa.”
danielle covers her face with both hands. “no.”
“yes.”
“you mean to tell me i’ve been out here trying to decode some deeper meaning—”
“—when it was just winter craving pasta, yeah.”
she groans dramatically, dragging her hands down her face. “i can’t believe this.”
“believe it.”
“i thought it stood for something cool.”
“it is cool,” you argue. “spaghetti’s timeless.”
she groans again, but she’s laughing now, forehead pressed into your shoulder as you both keep walking.
this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
