Chapter Text
Yeji breaks from the ending pose and collapses to the ground as the last beat of the music fades out, breathing heavily from exertion and relief.
“That was the take. It was perfect.” Ryujin’s voice floats from above her, and she nods, chest heaving.
“Let’s call it a day?” she offers, and Ryujin agrees immediately, joining her on the ground after switching the recording off.
They lie there for a while, catching their breaths and basking in their sweet victory. It’s Yeji’s first monthly evaluation, and Ryujin had stayed back with her after the rest to finish cleaning up the details of their piece. They may have only met a few weeks ago, but Yeji has learned that Ryujin’s not just the cutely cheery dongsaeng that hugged her from behind when they first met, but also someone who’s extremely meticulous, serious in her craft. She can already see the way they move in sync on the back of her eyelids, feel her body adjusting just a little, as if it’s adapting to dancing with Ryujin.
She listens as their breaths even out into something more stable, calmer. The quiet of the night is comforting, no matter how early they have to wake up tomorrow for another day of practice, school, practice, repeat. It’s a calmness she hopes to remember.
“Unnie, what’s your dream?” Ryujin asks, out of the blue.
Yeji turns to look at her, and she’s already being watched. Ryujin’s lying on her side, knees brought up to her chest and hand leaning to support her head, dark eyes trained on her in the dim light of the practice room.
“Why are you here?”
It’s a little bit of a loaded question, but Yeji knows the answer. She’s known since she stepped foot into the audition room, perhaps even when she first saw a dance group performing on stage as a child.
“I want to debut,” she meets Ryujin’s eyes, meaning every word of it. “I want to release my own music and dance to my own beat. I want to make it to the top one day, and look back and see how far I’ve come, and the people I’ve touched.”
“That’s nice,” Ryujin smiles, and Yeji thinks she sounds a little wistful.
“And you? Why are you here?”
She matches Ryujin’s position on the floor, searching her eyes for uncertainty. Being a trainee leaves no room for it; the rigour takes to it like sharks turn to blood, snapping up those who waver in the slightest and sending them back to where they came from. Everyone who stays knows what they’re here to achieve, is willing to do anything it takes for it.
And yet.
“I don’t know.”
Ryujin rolls over to look at the ceiling, arms spread out. Yeji watches as an easy smile spreads across her face.
“I just know that it feels right, being here.”
This, is a different side of Ryujin; a more serious one. The one who’s patiently curious, sincere in her questions and never judging her answers. The one that doesn’t just speak in a teasing or animated way, but also thinks carefully about life, the choices that she made and how it led to her today. The one who doesn’t know why she’s where she is but trusts herself enough to know that she’s in the right place.
Same question, different answers; perhaps that’s what made them fit like two puzzle pieces, yin and yang. Yeji, knowing exactly how to do what to do, and Ryujin, adapting effortlessly to what’s given to her. Yeji doesn’t know this yet, of course, but together, they would be unstoppable.
“Yeji-ssi, you’re up after the current performers.”
“Thank you,” Yeji says from her chair as her make-up artist finishes the final touches.
“There,” she gives one last dab of the brush, prompting her to look up at herself in the mirror. She can’t deny it’s nothing short of perfection. Her eyeliner accentuates her cat-like eyes, blush making her cheekbones more prominent, hair tied up in a high ponytail. It’s a typical fierce look that everyone (including herself) had agreed that she could pull off.
“Thank you, unnie,” she smiles at the reflection in the mirror, and her make-up artist smiles back, pats her shoulder before going to keep the brushes.
Given the moment of reprieve, she looks around the room. The staff are busy, running around making sure everything is in place. Some are setting up equipment, fiddling with cameras; her manager is talking to the phone, probably coordinating her promotion schedules.
All of them are busy for her, no less. Her song and her performance and her debut. ‘Air’, something she’s poured her heart into every step of its production. She’s grateful, has to remind herself that she fought tooth and nail for this, and she deserves it. But why does it feel so bitter?
(She knows the answer; she just doesn’t want to admit it.)
A call from her manager startles her out of her stupor, and she slips back into her idol role effortlessly, double checking the rundown, going through her dance moves in front of the mirror, warming up her throat.
Just as she’s pulling her accessories on, she hears a voice from behind her, so achingly familiar it nearly makes her trip on nothing.
“Yeji unnie,”
Yeji’s hand goes to the back of a chair instinctively for support, suddenly violently taken back to days filled with playful teases and sarcastic complaints and warmth in her cheeks. Days that are bittersweet to remember, now that the comfort of being in a group is merely a feeling she stores in her memories.
Wrenching herself back into the cool reality of the waiting room, she turns around.
Brown doe eyes, hair tied in a messy bun, now light brown. Smile faint but genuine, directed at her, no less. Her outfit is one that Yeji remembers from before, a simple flannel, a pair of cargoes, that green bag that she loves slung across her body.
She’s exactly as Yeji remembers - but different.
“Hi,” Ryujin’s eyes soften, and her smile makes Yeji’s knees weak.
Yeji can’t speak for a moment. She doesn’t believe her eyes. It’s like the universe is conspiring against (with) her.
They haven’t seen each other since that last night in Gangnam at the company. Practice room dim as the light from the hallway danced along the mirrors. Those familiar couches that doubled as beds during long nights, faint pulses of a song that another group was practicing upstairs.
Yeji had been tipsy, but the memory distills clearly in her mind. The five of them in the center of the room, clinking glasses of whiskey Ryujin had brought from her house. The bitterness of the alcohol on her tongue, wondering how she actually liked this type of drink. The heat in her cheeks as she took everything in with hazy consciousness.
It was their last time in that room officially as Itzy, a quiet recognition to the family they had become. They’d laughed about the shenanigans throughout the years, reenacted silly mistakes during practice, scrolled through their photo albums for glimpses of how they’d grown over the years. There were tears, of course, but there was also silence. The silence of five girls beginning to accept that their decade together was about to end, that their paths were about to diverge. The stillness in the air as they take in their new reality.
As their night had ended, her members had insisted she get into a taxi before they left, seeing the flush in her cheeks. Yuna had reached for her hand to steady her, Jisu had cracked some joke about Yeji not being able to handle her alcohol has well as the rest of them (as if they hadn’t known from the first time she drank), and Chaeryeong had let her lean on her shoulder on the elevator ride down, seeming all too happy about looking like the taller one.
Ryujin had not said much, but she’d called the taxi, spoken to the driver about driving slowly because she knew Yeji got dizzy in moving cars when she drank, and then carefully helped her with her seatbelt as she got into the taxi. The younger had touched her cheek briefly, making sure she was okay, and Yeji had leaned into her hand, her world softened at the edges but not enough to forget to reassure Ryujin that she was lucid enough to go home alone.
She remembers the exact look Ryujin gave her as the taxi drove away, loaded with the things they did not and could not say. How she could still feel eyes trained on the back of her head long after the car turned the corner.
The memory is so vivid Yeji can taste it.
And after that - nothing. Sporadic messages in the group chat, A few quick calls, snapshots of their days, comments on each other’s Instagram posts. She’d seen Jisu, Chaeryeong and Yuna at some point over the past two years over a meal or for a quick visit, but never Ryujin.
Until today.
Ryujin holds herself with the same quiet composure that’s only grown throughout their years of activity. It reminds Yeji of how they used to stand side by side at events sometimes, the reassurance of having someone like Ryujin next to her, how it used to ground her.
But yet, standing in front of the same person after two years, she feels like she’s been thrown off-kilter, like the script she had imagined for this moment no longer fits whatever movie her life is.
“You came,” She breathes.
Ryujin’s expression flickers imperceptibly, and Yeji wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t been staring so intently at her, waiting for her to disappear, for this to be some cruel trick the universe is playing with her.
As quickly as she spots the change, it’s gone. Ryujin holds out a bouquet of flowers.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She says, soft but honest in a way that Yeji hasn’t heard for so long.
Heart in her throat, Yeji accepts the bouquet. Pink roses and sunflowers. Careful choices; Ryujin’s always been meticulous like that. She steps forward, carefully wraps her arms around Ryujin. Ryujin freezes for a fraction of a second, before slowly moving her arms up to reciprocate the hug.
“Thank you,” Yeji murmurs, and hopes that Ryujin can hear what she doesn’t say.
Ryujin’s arms tighten slightly around her, and she hopes that the younger can’t feel the loud thudding of her heart. It’s the same person, same hug, same feeling, but so foreign.
“Always,” it comes in a whisper, next to her ear. It’s so soft that Yeji isn’t sure if she imagined the response.
She pulls away first, careful not to crowd Ryujin for too long. The younger has a faint smile on her face, and Yeji sets the flowers down, giving herself two seconds to take a deep breath before continuing.
“I haven’t seen you in so long,”
Her smile is genuine, hoping to dissolve the slight tension that has settled. And it’s true. More than two years without seeing this face, hearing her voice other than through the phone. Yeji wonders how they even got through it, when they used to be glued together every waking moment.
“I swear you’ve been filming in the desert, or something,” she teases, and Ryujin chuckles.
“The mountains, actually. We didn’t have signal for a couple of days.”
Yeji shakes her head.
“Shin Ryujin, iPad kid, surviving without the internet. Who would have thought.”
“Actually,” Ryujin scratches her head. “I downloaded my dramas for when I had free time.”
They share a laugh at that, because it’s been so long and some things never change.
“Speaking of filming. How’s the new drama going?”
Yeji steers the conversation to something much more neutral. It’s much easier to ask about Ryujin’s life now, when hers is a walking minefield, unforgiving with every misstep.
Ryujin shrugs. “Same old, same old. I have a few days of break before we start again, so it’s nice having some time to myself.”
It makes her heart warm, traitorously. A mere few days and Ryujin’s here, instead of taking the time to rest like she should be doing.
“That’s good, I hope you’re not working too hard,” Yeji turns to grab her mic pack, clipping it on and slipping the mic around her neck with practiced ease. Ryujin chuckles.
“You’re one to talk, unnie,” she says. “But look at you. You’re finally doing it.”
Yeji swallows, remembering what else it cost her, more than just those sleepless nights and aching muscles. It’s an odd feeling, having Ryujin right here, witnessing all this.
“I guess I am.”
Someone calls that it’s her turn, and Yeji looks at Ryujin, an apology already on the tip of her tongue, but the younger just nods.
“Go, unnie.”
Yeji looks back one last time as she nears the door, only to find Ryujin already watching her. And there it is again, that pull that always brings her to Ryujin’s direction, because that’s where comfort is.
Her eyes trace over Ryujin’s face again. The face she knows so well, that she spent years memorising. Who knows when they’ll see each other again. Maybe in another two years. Maybe more, maybe less.
A wave of desperation hits her. She doesn’t want to guess. Not when they’ve learned that it takes fate two years to bring Ryujin back in front of her. She doesn’t want their relationship to go back to nothing but group texts and occasional calls, when it used to be the opposite.
It comes out before she knows it, impulsive and sudden but a step forward nonetheless.
“Let’s have lunch when my promotions are over?”
Ryujin hesitates, and shit, Yeji’s overstepped, she shouldn’t have-
“Of course,” she says. Yeji’s train of thought stops. The younger has this soft smile on her face, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Still. She takes the response for what it is, not wanting to read too much into it.
She gives her a last smile before her manager calls for her again. There are eyes lingering on her as she leaves the room.
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
Ryujin settles on the couch, watching on the TV in the room as Yeji’s live broadcast begins. The music starts, and the notes are familiar, similar to the demo Yeji had put in their group chat a few months ago with no context whatsoever. Just because their schedules never aligned didn’t mean the five of them didn’t keep in touch. They’d gotten used to dropping each other updates on KakaoTalk, sneak peaks of their new projects, billboards of one of them they walked past.
When the file appeared in the chat window, Ryujin had been about to leave for a week-long filming session. They’d confirmed the location, a very long name that she could never pronounce, and most importantly, the fact that there would be weak or no cell reception. The things people do for filming.
As expected, all of them had lost their minds collectively, prompting a very rushed, very loud, very excited group video call with a lot of screaming. Chaeryeong had joined a tad late, squinting at the screen wondering what the commotion was because she slept early that night. It was the first time the five of them had been on video call in a long while, to celebrate their leader unnie’s debut.
During the car ride to the site, she’d downloaded the track onto her phone with her data, and it was played more times during that week than she was willing to admit.
On screen, Yeji is captivating; she always has been, since the first day Ryujin met her. Her charm’s only grown throughout the past few years, an energy that commands look at me, and nothing else.
Ryujin does. She watches as Yeji hits every beat flawlessly, her hair moving with the moves and not a strand out of place, her voice smooth and controlled even as she hits the high notes.
The song ends sooner than she expects, and Ryujin isn’t surprised at all to admit that it’s good. It’s Yeji, every second and every word of it. She can’t imagine a more fitting song for her debut.
Yeji spots the camera for the ending fairy and beams, giving it a wave. Ryujin’s heart does this thing where it flips, because it’s a surprise and not at all that Yeji’s managed to keep this gratitude, the childish joy of being filmed with a camera.
As the crew prepares for the transition to the next stage, Ryujin knows it’s time. She sets the packet of corn chips next to her bag and stands up, taking one last glance at the screen. Yeji’s interacting with her fans, kneeling down to hear what they say.
“Ah, Ryujin, aren’t you staying?” one of the staff she knows asks her, and she tears her attention away from Yeji. She gives her a smile, tries to play it off as casually as possible.
“I have something to do, unnie,” she nods at her. “She was amazing.”
“She was,” the staff member says, because she’s watched them grow over the years from their debut and anyone who knows what they went through would agree that Yeji deserves this more than anyone. “Come see us again soon, yeah? Yeji’s happier when you’re around.”
Ryujin swallows, tries not to read too much into it; she’s just a source of company, and Yeji never liked being alone. “Of course, unnie.”
Leaving the broadcasting station feels much like how it did those few years ago, when they were being herded from one station to another. There’s an odd tug in her gut as she remembers those days, Jisu and Yuna piling into their van, Chaeryeong holding a sweet potato, Yeji slipping her hand into hers.
Her car makes a chirping noise as she unlocks it and slides in, but it does nothing to ward off the trance she suddenly finds herself in. She sits for a while, watching as the few people on the streets go about their day. It’s funny how this place has witnessed their countless comebacks, final broadcasts, yet it’s still the same as it was when they were fresh-faced trainees who were about to debut, when they’re anything but.
She swallows the feeling down as she starts the car and drives away, leaving the memories behind.
(When Yeji comes back to her dressing room after the performance, she’ll find the packet of chips sitting next to her bag and a new message on her phone.
Ryujin
i have something to do, but you were amazing, unnie, like always
good luck with the rest of your promotions
She’ll smile down at it, ripping open the packet of chips. Funny how they’re sweeter than they usually are. Aren’t they all meant to be the same?)
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
Ryujin sets her mug on the side table, picking up the script as she settles on the couch. Her day off doesn’t mean she gets to switch off entirely. Filming resuming soon means she has to be familiar with the script, know her lines in her sleep, and truly embody her character. Going over lines again at three in the morning is only part of what has to be done.
When Kiss & Tell came out last year, the public had received it well. Itzy’s Shin Ryujin, known for her charms and presence, in a role that fit her to a tee. Playing a CEO had felt like the extension of her idol persona, confidence that came from skill and poise that came from years of training. It was only natural for her first drama.
After filming had ended, her company had suggested she try a new genre. Everyone knew the bold, charismatic side of her, as they had put it during the meeting. People would want to see more. And so it became her manager’s new mission, and Ryujin’s new dilemma.
Her manager had stumbled across the casting for How I Love You by pure chance, and insisted she tried it out. Despite it being the complete opposite of what she expected to do, she had agreed, and surprisingly, the director had deemed her ‘perfect’. And so here she is, Jihyun, female protagonist of How I Love You, a young girl devastatingly in love with Minjun, the male protagonist. It’s not her ideal role, but she treats it with respect, as she would with any other.
Still. It doesn’t mean it’s not difficult. The script reading and outfit fittings had gone smoothly enough, but the first two stretches of filming had taken more out of her than she expected, planting a small seed of annoyance. She feels further and further away from Jihyun as she goes through the scenes they’re going to film, and it’s not just because she’s only met her acting partner a handful of times.
She squints at her lines, recites them in her head, and manages to get through a few pages out of sheer will. It feels mechanical, somehow, like how it did during the script reading. LIke she’s injecting emotion into the lines to pretend to be Jihyun, instead of just stepping into her shoes.
Something isn’t clicking.
She goes through the same scene a few more times to no avail. The words stay on the page, don’t come to life in a scene in front of her like they did before.
Just as she contemplates taking a break, her phone pings with a message, breaking her cycle of frustration. She secretly thanks whoever has such immaculate timing, picking up her phone. The screen lights up with the notification, and scratch that- this might actually be one of the few things that are more complicated than the script she’s holding.
Yeji
Thank you for coming today, Ryujin-ah ^-^
It meant more than you think
The moment earlier today flashes across her memories. Yeji must have finished the live show and pre-recordings for the day if she’s texting so late. It’s one thing she doesn’t miss about the idol life, the non-existent sleep schedules of promotion weeks. If there was anyone who was actually built for this, it would be Yeji.
She remembers the first time she saw Yeji dance. The surety she held in her gaze despite it being her first day at the company. She remembers the moments on stage where she would look at her and see the sparkle in her eyes, and remembers thinking that this is where the older truly belonged, shining under the blinding lights. It was only a matter of time before her debut.
It had felt like a fever dream, seeing her after all this time. A stark reminder of how they rely on social media for life updates now. Yeji’s shocked expression, the carefully maintained blanket of pleasantries between them, had been another reminder of how much has changed. She clearly hadn’t expected Ryujin to turn up at all, which was surprising in itself, given all the other members had visited her at some point throughout her debut preparations.
Considering… everything, Ryujin admits that it hadn’t been unreasonable to assume distance. She could see it in Yeji’s expression, knowing to read her after all these years. Asking for a meal out of Ryujin’s time had been a slip, raw and barely restrained. And it had stung slightly, because this isn’t how they’re supposed to be. They’ve known each other more than a decade, survived the industry together seven years, and traded parts of themselves no one has ever seen before. There isn’t supposed to be any awkwardness, shouldn’t feel like they’re speaking with a chasm between them.
She accepts it as a part of what they’ve become, either way, and types out her reply.
Ryujin
of course i wouldn’t miss it
get some rest, unnie, you’ve worked hard
we’ll find a date for lunch soon
Ryujin looks back at the script. Thinks again about Jihyun.
She suddenly realises how she must feel. The slight discomfort gnawing at her chest, the uncertainty of whether to say something, the caution because a slight mistake could mean setting something off. The same words seem a little more familiar, a little more real.
She picks up her pencil, makes a note, and continues soldiering through the rest of her scenes.