Rent-a-friend
Client 24: Ji Suhyeon
Tags: Fluff, Slice of Life
(9.5k words)
"What? Gaeul signed up?" "Yeah."
"The Kim Gaeul that hired me?" "Who else, dumbass."
You almost miss the turn.
The steering wheel jerks slightly under your hands as your vans run along the road. Sunlight flashes through the trees lining the long road adorned with what you called "money house". The painting is secured in the back, wrapped carefully in brown paper and bubble wrap (Hair tie, 24/09), and delivering to your lovely frequent buyer, the Ji family. Usually the ride is quiet, with the radio tuning on pop music or whatever…
But no, this time is just Sakura yapping.
"The same girl, yes," she says with a tone far too cheerful. "The shit eating girlie."
"It's poop-flavoured curry."
"You told me you two ate literal shit."
You sigh, pinching your nose bridge for a moment. "Anyway, you're telling me she signed up for Rent-a-Friend voluntarily?"
"Fill out the form like us too. Ya, she wrote this long, earnest section about wanting to learn how to connect with people without pressure and trying something unfamiliar."
Ok, that tracks painfully well.
You glance at the traffic light ahead. "Did she say why?"
"Let me check…the form says: inspired by a particular cute guy."
"Don't fuck with me, Kkura." "I'm not!"
Yeah, you don’t believe her one bit, but Sakura still defends herself. "Do you know how excruciating it is to read reviews of you and not mine? Are you trying to rub it off your face?"
You snort. "Your fault for reading it."
"Oh jeez I wonder why?" She continues. "Totally not because management assigned me to train her. ME!"
The light turns red. But you haven't moved yet.
"YOU?!" You shout. “They didn’t think to—oh, I don’t know—assign the person she actually hired?”
"I guess they want the same gender just because."
"Gosh, Gaeul's gonna have one rough time." "You bitch!"
"You invoice people wrong for 3 weeks. I heard from management." "Okay, that was one time."
"She's going to think the whole service is a scam."
Sakura clicks her tongue. "You're just mad because YOU want to be her trainer."
The car honks behind you, and you finally step on the pedal. The road starts to widen now, buildings thinning out, iron gates and tall hedges replacing storefronts. The Ji family mansion isn’t that far, and you can already picture the long driveway, the security booth, the polite nod from the guard who recognizes your car by now.
'Why would I be?"
"Oh please." Sakura laughs. "She's really pretty even from me. And you just want to move on from your ex."
"Shut up and hang up."
"Gosh you are so baby. Anyway, I'll train her well. Just so that you can be soooo happy when you see her."
The wrought-iron gates of the Ji mansion come into view, black and immaculate, already beginning to slide open as your car approaches. You pull into the driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. The mansion looms ahead, expansive yet pristine as always.
“I’m here,” you say. “Don’t traumatize her.”
“No promises,” Sakura replies. “But hey — if she quits, I’m blaming you.”
And the line goes beep.
-
You wait.
That's usually how it goes when delivering to the Ji family — just some peacefully quiet stretches of nothing before you hit the road again. You stand near the edge of the main hall at first, then drift outside when the quiet gets a bit too overbearing, and the painting is still wrapped tightly.
You always wander around the path, and as usual, always marvel at the cleanliness and the scale. Trimmed hedges, pale stone paths, and a fountain splashing softly somewhere. Don’t even start on the fresh smell of grass mixed with something floral and expensive that probably has a French name you can’t pronounce. It feels familiar, actually, remembering how you peeked over the giant walls of your ex's house while waiting for her to sneak out.
That's when you notice a girl. From afar.
She's further in the garden, under a pergola. One leg against a wooden bench, her body folds with slowed and controlled precisions. The late afternoon light filters through the deciduous trees, casting patterns across her delicate shoulders. She has this dark hair pulled into a neat bun, and a leotard that makes you question if cold is a foreign concept for her.
Who is she, really? You’ve never seen her around here before. Maybe you missed her — the mansion is really fucking big.
Well, curiosity kills the cat, so you just walk to the uncharted habitat. Your footsteps crunch against the gravels and the shriveled leaves, and she turns her head to the noise immediately. Her posture instinctively straightens up before she relaxes again, and her face beams with a smile.
She lifts her hand and waves.
Oh. A little awkward, yourself, but you return it. "Hey. Um…Hi."
She doesn't respond. Just tilts her head slightly, seemingly waiting. Interesting. "Sorry, I was just…" You vaguely gesture around like that explains anything. "…uh, anyway, whatcha doing here?"
She blinks. And then her hands move with such fluidity and precision. Beautiful too, have to include that — she really has long and delicate fingers, yet she moves it to form some sort of symbols so quick as if she has done it her whole life.
It takes you exactly two seconds to realise you have absolutely no fucking clue what she just said. "Ah…ok, that's on me."
She puts one hand over her dainty lips and silently (and politely) laughs. Her shoulders lifting up and down, probably have gotten used to this scenario. Before you embarrass yourself further for your ignorance, you reach into your breast pocket (thank fuck you're wearing polo jacket today) and pull out your notebook and pen.
Quickly flipping through the paper, you hastily scribble. "Can we write?" You wrote.
She reminds you of Pingu a lot when her eyes beam up immediately. Her hands take them from yours with a degree of carefulness, and then write neatly and quickly.
"Hi! My name is Ji Suhyeon!"
Ji…Suhyeon? Ji? The Ji family?
Now it makes sense. The owner usually talks to you about his only daughter inside the mansion busy with her practice. So this is what she looks lik— oh, she's writing something else.
"'Su' as in excellent or long-lived, and 'Hyeon' as in worthy or wise. My name, you can think of it as 'exemplary virtue'"
You stare at the page for a second. Woah, beautiful name, and beautiful explanation too.
"Nice to meet you too, Suhyeon." Your hand quickly catches up with your voice. Your name is written down first, then usual greetings as the notebook is being exchanged back and forth like you have been doing it for ages.
She writes again. "I'm a ballerina, as you can see."
That doesn't surprise you at all. "Yeah, I figured. Don't worry."
She looks amused, and then adds more. "Your paintings are so pretty. It looks great around the houses. My father really likes collecting them."
You give her an appreciative bow. "That is very kind of you, Suhyeon. Guess I will give your dad a discount for this one."
She bites her lips to not let out a smile. She fails, and you swear this girl will be the death of you today. "I often see you from far away when you bring paintings. This is the first time we really talk. Well, writing."
You huff. "Yeah. Writing."
"Kind of like texting on Insta." "Yeah, kind of like tex—" Wait.
Insta?
"Couldn't we just text on SNS?"
Suhyeon looks at the words on the paper, and it looks like the realisation hits her too. She smacks the notebook on her forehead and silently laughs again, her shoulders shaking.
You burst out laughing too. 'Right? We're standing here like back in the 1800s."
She scribbles faster now. "I forgot that you might not know sign language, so I just write automatically."
You follow suit with the line underneath. "I forgot SNS exists, so we're even."
She tilts her head, still somehow keeping the posture since you come over, then writes: "Do you want to add me on Insta?"
How straightforward she is.
You nod quickly, and your hand hastily grabs the phone out of the pocket before handing it to her. She takes it with both hands — careful, almost ceremonial, even — and types in her handle. When she gives it back, the screen is still on her profile: @jiyeon. But the profile picture is the main show. It's not some ethereal and graceful ballerina professional portrait. It's…actually just a zoomed-in selfie, with her cheeks puffed out and her eyes as wide and bright. Kinda like Pingu.
You look up at her, and she is as frozen as the rock nearby her. Her ears are red. Her cheeks are red. Even the tips of her fingers look red.
You look back at your phone.
Then at her.
Then back at the phone.
"…Pff."
She lunges and tries to yank your phone away. You dodge it instinctively, not because you are trying not to break it, but just because her reaction is hilarious. Feeling defeated, she scribbles aggressively in your notebook. "It's not funny!"
You grin. "It very much is. Funny, cute, and elegant.”
Her cheeks turn pink as she writes. "YES, MY IMAGE IS VERY ELEGANT." in all caps.
You look her up and down slowly, analysing the posture, the bun, the breathing, and then back to the puffy cheeks. Then you nod solemnly. "Of course, very elegant."
She narrows her eyes at you. Then, after a second, she writes, with a belated sigh. "Please forget what you saw."
You (fake) contemplate for a moment, then write. "Nah"
She swats your arm with your notebook while puffing her cheeks. And you have to admit it — she looks cuter than Pingu.
The recovery takes a while before a comfortable pause settles between you. No more sounds of scribbling — just the gentle rhythm from the fountains and the rustle of the overhead canopy. Somewhere up in the tree, a bird startles and takes off.
You write again. "I do other work too." You hesitate about writing it down, but you decide to do it anyway. "Rent-a-frien—"
"Oh, hey!" A voice cuts cleanly through the garden. You flinch slightly, instinctively straightening as one of the Ji family’s dealers steps out onto the stone path. He’s already adjusting his glasses, tablet tucked under his arm. Right, time to do my actual business here.
You wince apologetically at Suhyeon. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, tapping the notebook lightly. “I’ve gotta—”
A thumb up from her comes quickly. She hands you your notebook and pen back carefully, fingers lightly brushes yours. You step back, already shifting into your polite-business mode, but your phone buzzes in your hand.
@jiyeon sent you a message.
You look up. She’s holding her own phone now, pretending very hard to look composed. Elegant. Untouched by embarrassment… maybe.
Jiyeon: It was nice to finally meet you properly. (Not like the 1800s writing version.)
You look up at her. “It was,” and this time there’s no teasing tone. "See you around, Suhyeon."
And before you finally leave her alone, you type back one more thing.
You: Modern technology is amazing. See you around…puffy.
Jiyeon: Delete that nickname right now.
-
A few weeks later, you're standing on your tiptoes like a darn moron, purely because you are too lazy to drag the ladder from across the studio.
To be fair, your fresh stack of notebooks is idling on the top of your sketching bookshelves. The ladder — perfectly usable and stable — is leaning against the opposite wall. Yet, instead of grabbing it, you decided that today is the day you deepen your understanding of ballerinas.
Specifically, the foundation of the whole art form. Pointe.
"Okay…" you breathe heavily and rise slowly, one hand braced against the shelf and your calves immediately screaming to stop. "So far so good, I hope."
You rise a little higher anyway, trying to mimic what you remember from the sketches and reference photos. Weight forward, ankles straight, balance centred. Shift your weight forward an- yea, no. No. No. Instant regret. Mayday, mayday. Board the ship. Your calves literally scream, and your toes are carrying the entire weight of your body, and for one horrifying second you understand why ballerinas either deserve medals or lifetime free healthcare.
“Oh this is ba—”
Your phone buzzes. The vibration nearly makes you lose balance. You drop flat onto your feet so fast the impact echoes slightly against the studio floor. Honestly, you almost fell on your butt. But luckily, you catch yourself on the edge of the desk, wincing as blood rushes back into your feet.
“…Ow.”
Finally, you check your phone.
Jiyeon: Are you alive?
You snort.
You: Somewhat. Just studying pointe for sketching practices, and I think my ankles are dying.
Jiyeon: Are you trying it barefoot? You're not supposed to!
You: Oh really?
Jiyeon: You’re stupid. We have paddings in the shoe.
It feels like you're winning life when a pretty girl tells you that you are stupid. Huh, 'she' always called you stupid back then, well until you can't differentiate if it was affectionate or she was just berating.
The thought flickers past and you shove it away quickly.
You: Oh….. Well, ahem. How do you do?
Nice pivot.
Jiyeon: I’m okay. Just practicing a lot. Wyd?
You glance around your studio.
Papers scatter everywhere. Charcoal dust near your elbow. A half-finished study of a foot en pointe (sort of badly proportioned, now after a look.) But after Jiyeon’s explanation about padding, suddenly something clicks in your head. Gotta do it later otherwise you forget.
You: Drawing. Thinking of pulling another all-nighter after you told me I'm stupid. You?
Jiyeon: Just practicing. Recital soon.
You: Nervous?
The three dots linger longer than before. And then it's gon— oh, it comes back.
Jiyeon: A little.
You: You'll do well.
Jiyeon: I searched something.
…That is not the usual response to encouragement.
You: What is?
Jiyeon: Rent-a-friend.
Holy fucking shit. Your mouth — no wait, your fingers — and their stupid slip ups. Why did you even mention that job to her in the garden that day? You start pacing across the studio, bare feet tapping against the floor. But if she hires you… fine. That’s the job. But something about mixing work with someone you actually enjoy talking to makes your stomach twist weirdly. And clients with money (also 'her') always bring complications. Except the Ji family. they’re… nice.
Still. You wipe your palms on your shirt.
You: Ah…it's pretty easy to find, yeah.
Jiyeon: Your profile picture is less elegant than mine.
The ballerina, the witch, and the audacity of this bi—
You: Hold on, what?
Jiyeon: Did you just wake up and take a photo?
You stare at your profile picture in silence. Messy hair. Half-awake expression. Coffee mug in frame.
You: …no comment.
Jiyeon: Gosh, good thing I'm outside to help you out.
“Oh wow,” you mutter. “How kind of her.” Clearly she’s here to save your public image. Maybe recommend clothes. Maybe fix your lighting. She probably has good taste — ballerinas live in elegance and aesthetics after all. And with the kind of money the Ji family has, she could try every fashion style in existence.
…actually, dial back, outside?
You: Outside where?
A knock hits your studio door. Your brain takes a second to catch up.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me." You walk to the door, already rubbing your hands on your shirt to get rid of some of the charcoal dust. When you pull the door open, there she is.
Ji Suhyeon.
Her hair is not a bun this time, just pulled into a high, slightly messy ponytail, soft waves spilling down her back.. She's wearing an oversized gray hoodie that people will think she stole from her older siblings (she doesn't have one, as far as you know), with sleeves long enough to swallow half her hands.
And, annoyingly, the print on the hoodie is a bold, bubbly font: "I'm a bad influence."
"What…the…"
She lifts her phone slightly and tilts it toward you. Oh hey look, it's your DMs with her.
Jiyeon: Gosh, good thing I’m here to help you out.
She looks as proud as the day Leonardo Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa.
"You could've let me know, far out." Yet, you still step aside out of habit as she slips past you into the studio like it's a normal space in her own world. It's only when she stops in front of your working area that she slows down and lets her gaze travel across the room. And now she can see the study sketches that you have been doing. A lot of them — feet en pointe, arches, half-finished poses, the same tragic drawing where the ankle angle looks painful.
"Don't even." you groan, seeing how her cheeks puff up again and trying her hardest to not laugh. "I'm not into feets, ok? Just research. Meeting you got me curious about ballerinas and stuff…yeah."
She just shrugged. How sassy, Ji Suhyeon.
Anyway, you watch as she pulls a clean page from your notebook stack (the same one you almost died retrieving) and scribbles something.
"I want to sign up."
You stare at the five words longer than you notice. "Oh."
She scribbles again. "Why do you look at me like that?"
"Wait, no I didn't mean—" You start writing a reply quickly, but before you finish she lightly smacks your side.
"I'm kidding!"
Trickster, she is. Tricksters.
Ok, then she continues. "I do have…acquaintances, I suppose. But my recital is next week, they will be spending time with their own family and stuff." She sighs for a moment before continuing. "My parents will be busy."
"Business trip?" And Suhyeon nods again.
"I got used to it, sure. But it's quite a big recital in 2 weeks…and I really wonder when I will stop dancing for an empty pair of seats."
The studio feels a little quieter after that. The air conditioner hums. A page rustles somewhere near your elbow. But none of that miniscule detail matters when you look at her, staring down at the paper like something will happen miraculously if she writes it in a magical notebook. Alas, it's not Death Note or the more positive allegory that probably exists somewhere.
Somehow, you do see yourself in her, doing things for someone you adore, only for them to not be…there, watching you. Sigh. Move on already, far out, it's been like 4 years now.
“Alright,” you say, sliding it onto the desk. “You know the terms.”
You open it, and go with the usual clauses: maximum seven days, face-to-face time covered, calls and messages included — the same formula perfectly crafted, really.
Suhyeon is way too excited to even let you finish your sentences, with the way she nods mid-explanation. She literally just signs her name quickly as soon as you finish talking, yet the handwriting is neat and confident. You sign beneath it, the scratch of pen against paper feels louder than usual.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then she stretches to the belly pocket of the hoodie, and pulls out a rather worn out ballerina shoe. Pastel pink no longer shines and soft, the poor lad is no more. The edges slightly frayed, the strings feel like it crumbles up instead of flowing freely.
"It's from my first ever recital." She writes.
Your fingers hover above the shoe before you pick it up. It’s lighter than you expected. Wow.
"Well, guess I'll be in your c—"
Your phone buzzes. You look down.
Jiyeon: Time to update your profile!
You slowly lift your gazes toward her, and she's already holding up her phone, with the camera app open. Grinning.
"Oh FUC—"
-
A few days before the recital, you find yourself parked outside her ballet academy late at night.
The place looks very different compared to the bright, elegant studios you usually imagine when people say ballet school. The building is still beautiful, sure, but at this hour it’s quiet. The tall windows glow warm from the lights inside, stretching long golden rectangles across the damp pavement outside. Somewhere down the street a laundromat hums softly, the smell of detergent mixing with the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt.
Your engine is off, the window already rolled open. Phone in hand, you are just scrolling aimlessly for the third time. Sigh. You could be back at the studio right now. Cleaning brushes. Priming a few old canvases you’ve been neglecting. Maybe finishing that pointe sketch you butchered earlier. But instead, your fingers end up leading your screen to your DMs with Suhyeon this afternoon.
Jiyeon: After practice… chicken?
You: You’re the ballerina. Isn’t that illegal?
Jiyeon: Only if someone finds out.
You: Your instructors might kill me.
Jiyeon: Well, protect me then, good friend.
And that's how you ended up here waiting patiently for your clie— wait no, that's rude to say that. Your friend. Yeah. (You're technically correct, but still.) It’s your new routine after accepting her request — unexpectedly becoming her chauffeur.
The studio doors eventually swing open, and the first group of ballerinas comes spilling out into the night. Even across the street, you can tell they just want to rest — make up still on, loose hoodies, puffy jackets, sneakers, tote bags slung over shoulders. Their hair — usually tightly wound into strict buns — is messy now, strands falling around their faces. Some leave in pairs, some in loud groups of four or five, laughing about something that probably happened during the rehearsal.
None of them are Suhyeon though, so you keep watching in the van. Every now and then someone glances toward the car parked along the curb. Probably wondering if you’re a driver, a parent, or some random guy waiting for someone. (Technically you’re all three.)
Finally, a familiar figure appears in the doorway. Puff— sorry, Suhyeon. But wow, even in casual clothes, she's not that hard to spot — straight spine, shoulder relaxed but not caved in. A tote bag hanging from one shoulder. No tight bun this time — just loosely tied.
But she's alone. You should come out and greet her, yeah? That sounds good.
Not so good when you hear voices nearby. A small group of ballerinas linger near the entrance, clearly not in a hurry to leave.
"…It's always weird me out." "Yeah, me too." "The instructors spend way more time correcting her."
"Right? Like the heck she's some top student." "Pleeeeeaasssee, she's nowhere near Kazuha."
The name does ring a be— ah! It's the top girl Suhyeon mentioned once before when you both were hanging out at her home garden again. The girl who everyone measures themselves against, even Suhyeon.
“It’s just favoritism.” “Exactly. If anyone deserves that level of attention, it’s Kazuha.” "Bet she's only there so that our academy can say we're inclusive."
Soft, obnoxious laughter follows before they fade away like the girls walking out. And Suhyeon is still standing there, a few steps away, and probably waiting for the sidewalk to clear before leaving.
All you feel is your heart seething out of anger and just regret. Regret to not walk over and tell them to shut the fuck up. Regret that you have to stop yourself to not taint Suhyeon's name and her hard work. What rumours can these snakes make when they see Suhyeon is being protected by a random guy they have never seen?
You know her position way to fucking well — exactly what happened to you with your ex.
So a deep breath you take. Let's not cause a drama.
You are simply here to make sure she doesn't go home thinking about those voices without one to fight back. And what you do first is to text her to know that you're here.
You: I'm in the parking lot, Puffy.
Her head turns immediately, and her entire face changes — a tired, neutral look melts into a warm smile. Her cheeks puff up as the corners of her lips go up. She lifts her hand and waves back, quickening her pace as she walks over.
You step out of the car and open the passenger door. "Hey there, Puffy."
Which, for your kind and gentleman-like manners, she rolls her eyes as she gets in.
The moment she sits down, she exhales deeply. You don't even need to ask to know how long the rehearsal was.
"So…Chicken?"
She pulls out her phone and types.
Jiyeon: Actually…ramen?
You glance at her. "Your instructors now WILL kill me."
Jiyeon: I really want ramen, though.
You stare at the message for a second before just…sigh. “Fine. But if your ballet career collapses because of noodles, I’m not taking responsibility.”
Her smile is convincing enough for you to start driving toward the best ramen shop you know.
-
Credit where it's due — even though Sakura works there, the ramen shop is actually really good. Which says a lot.
(Because if you judged the place purely based on her, you assume that the broth will be just the energy drink she stocks up over the months.)
The moment you slide the door open, the little bell above it dings softly. Warm air rushes out to meet you. Steam. Soy sauce. Garlic. The low comforting smell of broth that’s been simmering for hours. It’s a small shop with a small corner. A few tables along the wall. The kind of place that’s always slightly humid from boiling pots and never fully quiet until it's late night.
Immediately, her voice comes out from the counter.
"Oh?"
You look up. "Oh."
There she is behind the counter, hair tied into a lazy ponytail, sleeves rolled up, apron tied loosely around her waist like she half-committed to the job. One hand is holding a ladle. The other is resting on the counter as she leans forward with the enthusiasm of someone who just spotted gossip walking through the door. Her eyes flick to you, then to Suhyeon, then back to you.
“Oh?” she repeats, louder this time.
"Don't even."
For context: the ramen shop belongs to Sakura’s uncle. Family business (more accurately: the only place that willingly allows Sakura’s personality to exist behind a food counter without filing complaints.) She occasionally works here when she feels like it, which is about once or twice a week. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights.
“Well well well,” she says, tapping the ladle against the pot. “Look who finally brought a girl here.”
Suhyeon pauses beside you, and you instinctively shield her from your annoying friend/coworker. "Don't worry, she's annoying but harmless."
"I'm not annoying!" "You are."
You walk to the counter anyway and slide onto one of the stools, and Suhyeon sits beside you.
“You going to introduce us,” she says sweetly, “or should I just assume things?”
“You assume things anyway.” “Correct.”
Hah, this girl. "This is Suhyeon." And Suhyeon lifts a hand in a small wave.
Sakura watches her carefully for a moment, then notices the way Suhyeon reaches for her phone and types quickly.
Jiyeon: Hi. I’m Suhyeon.
Sakura blinks once, twice, and then: "Oh." Then her grin comes back even bigger. “Well that explains why he actually behaved himself for once.”
“Sakura,” you say flatly. “Can you please just bring me the usual and give Suhyeon extra toppings?”
Sakura ignores you completely. She leans closer to Suhyeon, elbows on the counter like they’re already friends. "How do you know this idiot?"
You open your mouth, but Suhyeon's fingers are faster.
Jiyeon: We're friends.
The kitchen behind bubbles quietly. A point boils. A fan hums. Then she slowly turns her head toward you. "You did not just bring a client to my ramen shop."
You shrug. "It's your uncle's"
"Don't even." "Hey, we want ramen."
She looks at you, then back to Suhyeon once more. "WAIT! Aren't you part of the family that pays for this guy's drawing?"
Suhyeon's eyes brighten up and enthusiastically nod her head, and not going to lie, it does lift your ego up quite a bit.
“Corrupting ballerinas now? Your employers become your clients, bro.” “Please cook.”
"Bitch, I haven't even asked what she wants for topics." Sakura turns to Suhyeon. "What topping would you like, Suhyeon?"
Suhyeon seems to scroll down something on her phone (A list, maybe?), and then turn around to show her. And uh…it feels like Suhyeon just throws whatever toppings she can think of on her head.
Jiyeon: Chashu, egg, corn, noodle, please.
Sakura can only look at you in bewilderment. "...Isn't she a ballerina?"
"She wants ramen."
Sakura leans forward slightly. “Does her instructor know about this?”
You shrug. And Sakura only laughs.
"Ok buddy, I will make it."
Suhyeon watches her go with quiet curiosity. Then she types something as you look over.
Jiyeon: She’s funny.
You snort. “She’s dangerous.”
From the kitchen Sakura shouts, “I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”
Her voice pierces through the usual sounds of broth boiling, ladles hitting the side of the pot, the sharp chop of a knife somewhere behind the counter (You really should check if there are any chopped fingers yet.) There's the usual hum of hers while she works, which is slightly concerning when she has something mischievous boiling up in her head.
A few moments later, she turns around with two bowls in her hand, the steam rises from them as an invitation. She sets Suhyeon's bowl down first, and holy moly, it's stacked. Rich broth shimmering under the light. Thick slices of chashu layered across the top. A perfectly cut egg. Corn floating around the edges. Extra noodles buried somewhere underneath the mountain of toppings.
Your bowl? Just a small bowl.
"…Why is mine so small?"
"You didn't say extra topping." "You always give me extra even when I don't ask!"
"Well, not today. They're all for Suhyeon." "Can I at least get another egg?"
"No."
You sigh but pick up your chopsticks anyway.
Suhyeon stares at the bowl for a second, probably calculating how much she can really eat until it's too obvious that she is on 'bulking season'. It seems to dissipate the moment you gesture her toward the bowl. And boy, she doesn't hesitate — First bite? Gone. Then another. Another. And another. Her shoulders drop bit by bit as the warmth of the ramen settles in.
Across the counter, Sakura watches her with her chin resting on one hand. "Starving?"
Suhyeon nods mid-bite, already going in for more. Satisfied with the answer, Sakura leans back, glancing between the two of you. "Big recital in a few days?"
Suhyeon nods, giving out three fingers as her mouth is busy sipping the broth. You translate instead as "three days."
Sakura whistles. "Oooft, crunch time."
“Which means she probably shouldn’t be eating this,” you add.
Sakura immediately points her chopsticks at you. "Shut up, carbs are cool."
"Do not become a fitness coach, I'm begging you."
Suhyeon laughs silently beside you, shoulders shaking. Feeling left out (probably), Sakura reaches behind the counter, grabs another bowl, and without asking helps herself to some broth and noodles straight from the pot. And she just sits down beside you two like she's part of the dinner now. (Well, she is, and always will be.)
“So,” Sakura says, leaning her elbows on the counter with a bowl of ramen in hand. “Are you nervous?”
Suhyeon pauses mid-bite, seemingly dropping her eyes slightly to the bowl. She reaches for her phone and types slowly. A lot of backspace, and a lot of typing, and a lot of stopping her own fingers before hitting send.
Jiyeon: A little.
"Good."
You raise an eyebrow. Huh? What? Even Suhyeon tilts her head.
"if you weren't nervous, it would mean you didn't care," Sakura slurps her noodles before pointing her chopsticks toward Suhyeon. “Nervous means you want to do well.”
Gosh, you hate to admit it, but Sakura is making a lot of sense right now, so you sigh. "She's not wrong."
“Oh wow. Write this down. He agreed with me.” "Shut up."
You glance toward Suhyeon. “Besides,” you continue, shrugging slightly. “You’ve been practicing nonstop. That’s what matters.”
"Of course." Sakura nods again. "And ignore loudmouths."
Your chopsticks pause mid-air. Suhyeon’s eyes flick upward. Sakura shrugs.
“You think ballet schools don’t have gossip?” she says. “Please. Any place with competition has idiots running their mouths.” She gestures vaguely with her chopsticks. “You just dance better than them. That’s the only comeback that matters.”
You glance sideways at her. “…That was surprisingly wise.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
Suhyeon is quiet for a moment, until she slowly sets her chopsticks down fully.
Her phone appears again, typing longer this time. Much longer, until the message fills most of it when she turns the screen toward you both.
Jiyeon: I switched academies a lot growing up. Some instructors didn’t think I should be there. Some students didn’t either. So my parents moved me. Again, and again, and again. This one is the first place that feels like it might work, hopefully. So I just want to do well. If I do badly, it feels like it will make everything look like a mistake.
Sakura sets her bowl down with a small clink. “Hey.”
Suhyeon looks up to find Sakura pointing her chopsticks at her firmly.
“Listen carefully.” Her tone is still casual, but you know her enough that there's an undertone of seriousness there. “You dancing on that stage already proves you belong there.”
She gestures toward the ramen bowl. “You think people who don’t deserve it work that hard? And if anyone talks shit,” she adds, “they can come eat here and say it to my face.”
"Why your face?" "You're just going to stand there awkwardly."
"Fair."
Guess that talk was more than enough for Suhyeon to start eating again.
-
It's today.
The recital.
You may or may not have arrived earlier than the scheduled time. Not because you're excited (lies, you are very excited), just ... .because being late would mean people looking at you, and it still imprints deep into your soul, those judgmental eyes.
You sit among strangers and pretend you belong there. As much as you don't like being surrounded by (potentially) a crowd of pretentious people, Suhyeon needs a little support from those she is familiar with.
After many days of passing by the venue (well, more like Suhyeon dragging you around and introducing every crook of the building), you have finally taken a step into it, and it certainly makes you hyper-aware of everything you do. The way your shoes sound against the polished floor. The way your jacket doesn’t quite match the rest of the room. Even the way you hold the program — like if you grip it wrong, someone’s going to notice.
(They won't. No one's bothered to stare, but your brain doesn't care.)
Soft chatter fills the space, refined and effortless in a way you’ve never bothered to learn. People greet each other like they’ve done this a hundred times, most likely because they have. Names get thrown around casually like they mean something.
“Is Kazuha performing tonight?” “Of course. She’s the highlight.” “I heard her Black Swan last year was unreal.”
A room full of people who came expecting something flawless. So suffocating, this space is. Hence, distracting your self-consciousness, your fingers brush over the smooth paper of the brochure before flipping it open. Names. Roles. Acts. Your eyes skim past all of it until it lands on her name.
Ji Suhyeon, right there. No highlight. No emphasis. No little whispers about her in the room. Just…another line.
You give out a heavy sigh, before closing the program.
-
The lights finally dim, slow at first, then all at once.
Conversations don’t end so much as they’re cut off. Mid-sentence. Mid-breath. Like someone pulled a string and the entire room forgot how to make noise. Movements still in the same unnatural way, as if it had all been rehearsed beforehand. Even the air feels like it tightens, anticipation settling heavy across the audience that makes you sit a little straighter.
Then the curtain finally rises, and Swan Lake begins in white.
Act I moves in a controlled grace and beauty, yet it feels so…distant. The stage fills with soft light, the ballets move in clean and deliberate patterns. Every line is straight. Every extension is precise. It's honestly beautiful in a more untouchable way. Untouchable. You watch the formations shift, the symmetry change, the way every movement bleeds flawlessly into the next. Prince Siegfried comes out next. Then the court scene. It's all there. Perfect. So…perfect.
But you feel nothing.
Well, not really nothing. Your elbow rests against the armrest, your fingers loosely curled near your mouth as your gaze drifts. You follow the movement, sure, but absentmindedly. If anything, you're…bored.
Because she hasn't come out yet, even in act II: The Lake.
White swans flood the stage, and you don’t need to check the program again to know this is what everyone came for. You can see it in their posture: how they lean forward slightly, eyes sharpening, anticipation turning into eagerness.
Odette appears. Ah wait, sorry, Kazuha appears.
It's understandable why her name is widespread, with her soft and ethereal appearance. Controlled down to the smallest fingertip. Every movement floats. Every step feels more like floating. A kind of presence where people don't dare to let out their breath, in case they miss out on a rare sight.
Then, light whispers of praises. Soft and reverent.
“She’s incredible,” “That control…” "Worth the prices…"
It's all white noise to you. Your eyes keep glancing at the wings. Is it time yet…?
-
Somewhere between one breath and the next, Act III begins. Something in the air feels different. It's quite interesting that you feel that before you register the music sharpens. Lighting darkens just enough to stretch shadows across the theatre.
Then, she steps out. Ji Suhyeon. Black Swan. (So this is the secret role she refuses to tell you, huh.)
Everything else disappears. The dancers blur into movement without meaning. The stage shrinks, carved down to fit only her. Maybe because you have done anatomy study of ballerinas, or maybe because you hang out with her long enough to notice how she hesitates. To be fair, it's almost invisible. A fraction of a second where her step doesn’t land as clean as it should. Her shoulders hold tension. Her breathing comes just a little too sharp, like she forced it steady before stepping into the light.
It's funny. Everyone else is watching the idea of the Black Swan, yet you're watching the girl who brings the role into life. And she's…fighting.
Her first turn is controlled, not effortless. There’s weight and intention, then her arms cut through the air with precision, sharper yet grounded. She moves again with a spin and — oh shit, a slight imbalance. The shift in her center, the way she almost tips too far before pulling herself back in. The correction happens mid-motion, quick enough to hide from anyone not looking for it. She grounds herself harder into the stage, sharpens the next movement, pushes the expression further like she’s forcing something out of herself instead of letting it flow naturally.
And you finally pay attention to the whisper behind you. “She’s good.” “A bit tense.” "She has potential."
That clicks a memory in your mind.
"I can’t speak, but I can express myself with ballet."
This is to answer what you ask her, from an artist to another: What makes you do art?
But now you can finally see what she meant. Not the clean and perfect movements you usually associate ballet with. Not the effortless grace filling the stage before her. It's uneven, yet you find it more intrigued than anything else. Every sharp movement carries it. Every turn feels like it’s being forced into control rather than given freely. Her gaze hardens, not soft like Odette’s, but almost a stance, like she's saying something to herself.
Black Swan, from what you remember, is complex and multifaceted. She is portrayed as a seductive and captivating figure, often described as having a sensual and exotic nature. And that is certainly what you see from the Black Swan in front of you now. Her arms slice through the air again, sharper and faster. There’s no hesitation in the upper body anymore, just precision. Of course, her shoulders still carry tension. Her breathing still isn't perfectly hidden. And of course you notice it, but does it really matter when she owns it and turns it into something more deliberate. And that is more complex yet captivating at the same time.
You aren't sure when, but the audience stops comparing her to Kazuha. Not measuring techniques nor whispering critiques under their breath. They're just…watching.
She really does take their attention without a single word.
-
The applause doesn't come immediately. The entire theatre stays suspended in the final act.
And then it breaks, loud and sudden. Hands collide, people rise like something snapped them back into themselves. The sound fills everything, crashes against the walls, pours down from the balcony like it’s trying to make up for that one second of silence.
You don't move just yet, because she's still there, in the centre next to Kazuha, breathing. You can see it even from here, the rise of her chest, just a little too heavy. The way her shoulders don’t fully drop, like her body hasn’t gotten the message that it’s over. The tension clings stubbornly.
Only when the curtain falls, then you finally stand.
Suhyeon, they clap their hands for you now.
-
It's quieter backstage.
Everything that mattered stayed out there — the main character, the supporters, the audiences. What's left is the aftermath. And you know where to find the "villain" without much thought. Turn. Another turn. Then another turn.
And you find her sitting on the floor of the practice room. Alone and changed.
The Black Swan is gone like it never existed, replaced with an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame and loose pants that bunch slightly at her ankles. Her hair’s tied back, not neatly, just enough to keep it out of her face.
Back against the mirror, legs unevenly folded like she didn’t commit to a position before stopping altogether. One hand rests loosely against her thigh, fingers slightly curled. The other is planted on the floor beside her, keeping her upright more out of habit than need.
She looks…ethereal. A déjà vu of your first time meeting her in the garden.
So you just stand there and take it in.
The faint smudge of makeup near her eye. The way her breathing hasn’t fully settled yet. The almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers, like the performance, is still echoing through her muscles.
Then she notices you. Her eyes gleam up, and her cheeks puff up as she waves her hand.
You step closer, slow and deliberate. Close enough that she can see everything you do without having to move. It has been at the back of your mind of what you can do to make this girl…to make her effort feel more recognised. To reach her.
So…um…you raise your hand. First, you form a flat hand and touch your chin with your thumb. Then, you move your hand forward and away from your body. Flat hand down to other flat hand.
Good…
You don’t rush. You let each part land, because it's the singlehandedly most important phrase you have said ever in your life. Then the same hand makes a downward fist and taps it against the other fist twice.
…job.
Good job.
She blinks slowly, like the meaning reaches her first, then the intent, and then you. And somehow that makes her shoulders relaxed gradually. Like all the stress that has kept her tense the whole night. Her expression softens, the tension melting out of it in real time, and then…she smiles. It spreads quickly, unfiltered and almost startled in how real it looks. Her eyes brighten, with the corners crinkling slightly.
Her hand moves quickly, most likely out of excitement and habit. "Wait wait wait, I just learned that phrase."
Her hands stop mid-motion, and on cue, her cheeks turn red, probably realising her image at the moment. Then, she closes her lips as if she tries so hard to not laugh.
A second later, she reaches for her phone. Thumb swipes and quick taps, and then she angles the screen toward you.
Jiyeon: You practiced that?
You shrug, leaning one shoulder lightly against the mirror. "Enough to not embarrass myself."
She squints at you.
Jiyeon: You're already embarrassing. But thank you.
You don't answer immediately, because these aren't just words. It’s the way you notice how she looks at you while you read them, like she's anticipating your reaction, expecting you to downplay it.
"…you're welcome. I'm glad."
She nods to herself, a small one, before locking her phone and setting it aside again.
For a moment, neither of you move. The room hums quietly around you. The light in the corner flickers just slightly, enough to shift the shadows along the mirrors. Her breathing has mostly steadied now, but there’s still that faint leftover energy in her posture.
Then, she nudges your knee. Once. Twice.
"Hm?"
She gestures to you.
"Hm? I'm sitting."
She rolls her eyes (actually rolls them this time) then reaches forward, grabs your sleeve, and tugs.
"Jeez, you bossy puffy." You exhale through your nose, yet you adjust anyway, shifting your position so your back presses more fully against the mirror, legs stretching out slightly in front of you. "Happy?"
Her answer? Scooting closer, turns slightly, then leans back. Her head settles against your chest like it’s always been meant to be there, like this is just…where she goes now when she’s done holding herself together. Your body adjusts faster, shoulders easing back against the mirror, one hand hovering awkwardly for a second before settling loosely at your side. Her weight sinks in, warm and solid. And she finally exhales, a long one. And she tilts her head back to look up at you. Upside down.
The Black Swan is fully gone, leaving you a puffy Ji Suhyeon in your embrace.
And it hits. That same angle and closeness. Your ex used to do that. Used to stare at you like she was trying to catch something slipping through your expression before you could hide it.
Tsk, can't believe that she still affects you till this day.
Guess Suhyeon noticed too, as the hand that rests against your thigh tightens the grip while she reaches for her phone again.
Jiyeon: You ok?
You shake your head. "It's nothing, don't worry."
Jiyeon: You always say that.
"It usually is."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push it either. Instead, she lowers the phone slightly, still holding it, thumb resting against the screen like she’s debating whether to say more.
She decides to press her head a little more firmly into your chest like a cat choosing comfort over answers. Her breathing slows further, evening out to a steady pace. You can feel it through the fabric of your shirt, the rhythm grounding in a way you didn’t expect to welcome it.
Jiyeon: I don't know if this is enough.
The soft glow fills the room, and your gaze drops to her. She's not looking at you anymore, just staring at the ceiling upside down. You don't ask who is "them", you already know.
"Hey."
Her eyes flick up slightly.
"You don't need to be perfect." you sigh, "You don't even need them to just suddenly change their minds. Um…I guess, you just need one moment where you don't look like you're about to run…and you had that tonight."
There's a longer pause. Her thumb hovers over her phone, then she types.
Jiyeon: What if it's just tonight?
"Then you do it again tomorrow…and the day after that, and the day after that." Your hand brushes lightly against her air. "You just need to keep proving yourself, like you have always done."
And she goes quiet again. No more typing. No more movement. Just steady breath.
Jiyeon: I'll try.
-
By the time you push the door open and step outside, the night has already settled in.
Cool air brushes against your skin, carrying that faint mix of asphalt and distant traffic. The hum of the venue fades behind you as the door swings shut, leaving only the quiet stretch of the entrance and the low glow of streetlights bleeding across the pavement.
Suhyeon lingers half a step behind you. Just…slowing down. Her phone rests loosely in her hand, thumb idly tracing the edge of it like she's still holding onto something from earlier. The oversized hoodie swallows her frame again, with the sleeves bunching at her wrists as she adjusts them unconsciously.
And then, she stops.
You follow her line of sight out of curiosity and….Kazuha? Wait, that is her.
Leaning against the metal railing just off to the side of the entrance, one foot crossed over the other, relaxed posture yet not careless. Even in her everyday comfy outfit, the composure retains — as if the stage never fully left her.
She straightens the moment she sees you two, and hone in her attention to Suhyeon immediately.
You don't think it's comparing, but it doesn't help Suhyeon who shifts beside you. Her shoulders pull in just slightly, slowly scoot next to you like she hasn't decided whether to stay or retreat.
Kazuha raises her hand and waves in a friendly arc.
Hi.
Oh, she said hi…? In sign language? Suhyeon seems to be perplexed too, with how she keeps blinking.
Kazuha continues, movements controlled but softer now, less formal than they were on stage. At this point, you lose it completely. Well, hands are thrown, movements are frequent. But you can't understand it (again, you only learned one praise), so what you're left with isn't the words themselves but the shape of the conversation, the movement, the space between the signs…and more importantly, Suhyeon's face.
Kazuha continues signing, her movements controlled and precise, but softer than they were on stage. Less performative and more…direct, like she's speaking to the Black Swan and only her.
And you see the effect.
Suhyeon’s fingers twitch against her phone, her grip loosening just slightly as her shoulders drop, not completely, but enough that you can tell that right now it didn't go the way she expected it to. Her eyes flick to you quickly, not asking for permission exactly, but checking, or asking for guidance on what to do next.
You don't ask what was said. Instead…it feels right to nudge her lightly with your elbow. "Come on."
She exhales, a small and almost silent one she lets out, and then steps forward.
You're left watching from the side. At first, her movements are careful, measured, her hands staying closer to her body as if she's still holding something back, her expression still neutral and guarded. Kazuha signs again, longer this time, and whatever she says causes Suhyeon's brows to draw together slightly, confusion flickering across her face before she responds, her own signs quicker and more questioning. Kazuha answers in return, short and firm, and that’s when Suhyeon goes still, her hands hovering for a moment before lowering slowly, her gaze dropping and then lifting again, not exactly meeting Kazuha’s eyes but no longer avoiding them either.
From there, the conversation softens.
Kazuha’s movements become less structured, and Suhyeon’s posture follows, her shoulders easing as the tension drains out in small increments. Her responses come slower now, not because she’s struggling, but maybe because she’s actually thinking about them instead of reacting, and the difference shows in the way her hands move with more intention.
There's another pause. But it doesn't feel so awkward this time. Then Kazuha signs something shorter, if you dare to say, more casual.
Suhyeon curls her fingers slightly around her phone again, thumb pressing against the screen like she needs something to hold onto while she decides, and then she looks back at you. You meet her eyes and hold them, not saying anything, just giving her a small nod.
She looks down, her phone lighting up as her thumbs move quickly across the screen, and then turns it toward you.
Jiyeon: She wants to hang out. Talk about ballet. Is that okay?
“Why are you asking me?” you say, your tone is light but steady enough that she doesn’t mistake it. And to be clearer, you nudge her forward slightly. "Go have fun with your new friend."
She exhales again, this time with a faint huff that is more relief. When she turns back, her hands lifting with less caution, like the relationship has loosen up for her to be a little more herself. Kazuha smiles, and the two of them fall into step together, their signs picking up as they walk, hands moving in the rhythm you still can't follow but don't need to. It looks like…Suhyeon can carry herself now.
You are certain she can take care of herself now the moment your phone pings up.
Jiyeon: Thanks for being by my side all this time. See you next time…good friend.
You stay where you are for a moment longer than necessary, watching as they disappear further down the path, Suhyeon’s posture gradually relaxing with each step until there’s almost no trace left of the girl who stood beside you just minutes ago, caught between pressure, hesitation and doubt.
Then you turn to your car.
-
By the time you step into your studio, the night has already settled. The familiar scent greets you immediately — paint, canvas, that faint chemical sharpness that never really leaves. It brings you back to your home faster than anything else could, pulling you out of the lingering echo of the theatre and into a space that you own.
The canvas is exactly right there where you left it.
It's her shoe. The one Suhyeon gives you as payment.
Even now, you can still recall the moment she handed it over. It sounds casual, like it was just an old thing she no longer needs. But you, of all people, know how hard it is to let go of something that means so much to you. Her grip lingered for a fraction too long before she pulled back, as if she had to gaslight herself it was okay to give it away.
Looking at the canvas again it looks….perfect.
Too perfect.
Every line is clean, deliberate, controlled down to the smallest detail, the kind of precision that usually satisfies you because it proves you got it right. The proportions are exact, the curvature of the arch carefully measured, the ribbons falling in smooth, elegant lines that look like they belong in a display instead. The shading is soft, seamlessly blended, giving the fabric a pristine finish that almost glows under the light.
It's polished and refined.
And that’s exactly why it feels so fucking wrong.
You remember the way the satin had dulled in certain places, the faint fraying along the edges where repetition had worn it down, the subtle discoloration near the toe where pressure built up over time, over countless movements, countless landings, countless moments where she forced her body to hold just a little longer than it wanted to. You remember how the sole didn’t look pristine but softened, shaped, moulded, carrying the imprint of every step she had taken in it.
This isn't that. Not even close.
Your hand reaches for the brush, the motion automatically and naturally. You just let it run its course — fracturing the smooth gradient, uneven stroke, pigments catching in places it wasn't supposed to, disrupting the clean surface you worked so carefully to maintain. Your brain itches to fix it immediately…
But you leave it exactly where it is.
Your movements become quicker. Shadows deepen in patches, mimicking the way wear accumulates over time, how certain areas darken under pressure while others remain lighter, how nothing is ever truly symmetrical when it’s been used and worn. Yes, that's it! The clean softness disappears. The ribbon draws your attention next, its curve too elegant, too intentional, like it was designed rather than lived in. You pause for a second, studying it, then drag the brush across it just enough to disrupt the flow, introducing a slight twist, a small imperfection in the way it falls.
You step back to see it as a whole.
It's not perfect anymore — asymmetrical, rough finish. Yet, it looks far closer to what you remember. The wear and tear, and the countless tribulations and ridicule that Suhyeon has gone through, you let it stay that way…
…and hopefully it represents Suhyeon and her effort the best.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note:
Tada! Second part is here! Evidently, one of the more experimental fics I wrote too. Genuinely fun to write someone without being able to speak and I get to be creative with how I "voice" Suhyeon.
My apologies for the long wait with all the research and the IRL stuff going on. I can't guarantee when the next part will come out, but hope you all stay tuned!
Special thank you to @toshyun (the only reason I write Jiyeon, really.)
I have seen some good guesses from you guys regarding the mystery 4th person, so here's the next hint to help yall.
(HINT: a maknae)
Thanks for reading! Cya~
