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It takes another five knocks for the door to finally open, and by then Nayeon’s ears have descended so far into an eternal fit of ringing that she’s certain they’ve begun to bleed.
The girl whose stormy eyes Nayeon meets is dressed in faded jeans, a graphic T-shirt and a blunt, shameless scowl. Her bright, bubblegum blue curls bounce feverishly as she cocks her head to the side, eyes glinting furiously. “Need something?” she yells over the music, folding her arms across her chest and raising both brows.
Nayeon swallows, a blush blossoming onto her cheeks.
The cacophony inside the girl’s house continues, forcing Nayeon’s hands over her ears as the trilling of trumpets and crashing of cymbals mercilessly attack her eardrums.
“Can you—” she starts, wincing, straining over the noise.
Bubblegum interrupts immediately. “You what?” she hollers back, cupping her ears with her hands. “Can’t hear you.”
She smirks.
Nayeon blinks, dazed. She struggles, heart thudding in her throat. “I said,” she echoes, louder, blush deepening as the girl merely grins, “turn off the music.”
Bubblegum taps her chin.
She steps backwards.
Nayeon knows what she’s going to say.
“No,” the girl declares, simply, smugly.
Nayeon sighs.
And then Bubblegum slams the door shut in her face.
*
There’s a stark difference between fans of classical music and fans of other genres, like pop or alternative rock, for instance.
Fans of pop are usually much younger, or at a point in their lives where they’ve reached quite a mundane (albeit slightly pleasant) plateau, and listen to pop at reasonable volumes—if not, only a bit louder.
Fans of screamo, alternative rock, and other similar genres … Nayeon knows, from a great deal of experience (although not at all first-hand), would be the typical demographic to blast deafening music at around midnight, on whatever days it suits them.
As an avid one herself, Nayeon normally expects herself to have an accurate perception of fans of classical music, and their habits.
If only this neighbour didn’t subvert every convention in the book.
*
The neighbour who plays hectic classical music at 4 a.m. on a Monday morning does not again open the door to Nayeon that day, or the day after that, or the following day.
But Nayeon is persistent. Stunned by this mutation in nature, burdened to cart about a bruised ego, and desperate to investigate more, she makes it part of her routine to stop by every other morning, evening, or late night out, to knock at Bubblegum’s door, in the hope that eventually the girl will cast aside her antisocial preferences and make friendly conversation.
At first, she knocks politely, and only several times. However, despite her patience, as time goes by, it becomes more and more apparent to Nayeon that this—this blue-haired mutant doesn’t at all appreciate the company of visitors, and it is made slightly too clear one evening when, before she can even get the chance to lift her hand to knock, Nayeon spies her sticking her head out the window and screaming, “It’s past your bed-time, Flower Crown—fuck off!”
Nayeon goes beetroot.
Incredulously, she watches the blue-haired girl haul the windows—and curtains—shut. And she realises, with a sinking stomach, that the volume of the music that’s been playing for the past three hours has escalated significantly, since her arrival at the neighbour’s door.
Clearing her throat and stiffening, she reaches up to poke at the flower crown sitting atop her head, then drops her eyes to the flowers adorning the hem of her strapless, snowy white dress. Most are fiery shades of candy apple, amber and bumblebee—a vibrant assortment, contrasting Nayeon’s usual preference for pastels or classic dark and light shades. And yet, she can’t help but wonder—sourly—the link between these blazing hues and her flaming cheeks; and frown at the girl’s reluctance to see her, so she can finally solve this peculiar mystery.
Not that she knows what the mystery really is anymore.
*
Jihyo’s called Nayeon a bunch of times.
But she hasn’t looked at her phone once.
Hunched over her desk in the corner of the room, Nayeon gnaws stubbornly and pensively at a disappearing pencil, eyes fastened to a clean, blank sheet of paper.
Ridiculously, the neighbour has only been blasting Roslavets’ chaotic Komsomoliya for the past half an hour, and at a volume too shockingly ear-piecing for Nayeon to concentrate.
Thus it takes another five listens to the same disorderly mess for Nayeon to finally finish the letter, and to seal it and make up her mind.
The air is crisp at she steps outside. It nips and bites at the tip of her nose and her legs, bare despite the frostiness of February. Shivering almost invisibly, Nayeon lifts her head and nose to the gloomy sky and marches across the street, venturing towards the neighbour’s with raw determination etched onto her face.
When she arrives at the door, she does not knock.
Simply, she bends down and slips the envelope under the door.
And then she spins back around and makes her way home.
Her heart only stops screaming when she’s safe inside.
First letter to the blue-haired neighbour:
Hello,
I understand that this is a slightly outdated form of communication, although you and I must admit that you haven’t made the more practical method of conversation very easy for me. I suggest you be a bit more considerate towards your fellow neighbours regarding the unacceptably loud music you listen to—and perhaps, maybe lower the volume a little? It would be greatly appreciated.
Many thanks,
Im Nayeon
*
The letter’s stupid.
Nayeon can’t believe she messed up that bad. She gets no immediate response, no response several days later.
And she’s itching to get a reply from that agitating girl, a sentence—just a word.
She scrambles out of bed a week after her silly mistake and hastily scrawls a brief paragraph onto some paper, interrogating the other about her favourite songs, genres, and other mandatory musician questions before posting it the same way she posted the first letter.
Another week drones by.
No response.
But Nayeon is adamant.
Her flow is interrupted when, a few days later, Jihyo materialises at her front door, dressed fashionably as always except also with a small, puckered pout.
Nayeon sighs.
Jihyo cocks a brow. “Very happy to see me then, are we?” she snorts, eyes drilling holes into the other girl’s back.
Nayeon plods upstairs, hastening to hide her most recent letter—the ninth—and calls out her response from the corner of her room: “Yes, sure I am, if it makes you glad I said that.”
Jihyo’s laugh is both smiling and sour, her most remarkable talent: fusing emotions into beautiful, obnoxious sounds. “Why’d you run away from me then? In such a rush—you hiding something from me?”
Shit.
“Or am I just a bit ugly today?”
“That’s correct,” Nayeon yells with something unfathomable lodged in her throat.
Jihyo’s laugh sounds again.
Nayeon smiles miserably.
She decides to post the letter later that evening.
Ninth letter to the blue-haired neighbour:
Hi again,
I imagine you’ve become a bit annoyed of me and my letters, but I wanted to write again to you to ask you something slightly different this time. I hope you’ll respond. What’s your name? I realised suddenly I never asked—and you certainly didn’t answer.
Nayeon
*
Two days later, Nayeon arrives home from Jihyo’s, exhausted and aching, only to almost lose her footing upon her entry. “Fuck,” she curses below her breath, heart pounding—horrified—before stilling altogether.
The envelope partially crushed by the heel of Nayeon’s shoe has her name on it, engraved neatly and in a bold, bright blue.
For a moment, she is frozen, rooted to the spot, eyes bulging and pupils shivering.
And then she plunges and snatches at the thing, ravenous, tearing it open and squealing aloud.
Silently, she begins to read.
Dear Nayeon,
My name is Jeongyeon. I was wondering when you’d finally ask that.
*
“Fuck,” Nayeon says again. Then, louder, almost in a scream—“Fuck!” as she bounds around the house and beams and squeaks in shock and sheer delight.
She collapses onto her bed and lays there for several seconds, the name and only that girl’s name flashing before her eyes over and over and over again in an everlasting movie she never wants to end. Giddily, she staggers towards her desk and yanks her favourite, purple-coloured gel pen from its pot before finishing off her tenth letter to the girl, a wide, glistening beam stretched out across her face—even brighter than her usual glittering smiles.
She wrote back to me, she practically sobs to herself, gushing.
She finally wrote back.
*
Jeongyeon’s handwriting is medium-sized and round. Nayeon knows, because she’s been staring at the letter for the past hour and a half, forever stuck in a trance sparked only by a few words scribbled onto paper. Except, the word “scribble” seems too rushed and hasty for this girl’s idle hand, and the absence of cursive: the letters widely dispersed, alone like isolated islands.
Slowly, tentatively, gingerly, Nayeon lifts her finger to the first letter at the top of the page, tracing its shape with stilled breathing and wide, wondering, wandering eyes.
For a moment, the image of Nayeon’s fingers outlining the girl’s words melts briefly into an image of Nayeon’s fingers outlining, instead, the girl’s face—specifically, tracing the shape of her puckered, pretty, pink lips.
Nayeon flushes, ripping the thought from her mind and burning it.
She doesn’t plan on getting any more hallucinations like that any time soon, but—unfortunately—she doesn’t quite believe she can promise that.
Tenth letter to Jeongyeon:
Dear Jeongyeon,
What a pretty name that is! It suits your I don’t think I’ve seen you around. You moved in quite recently, right? Odd that I didn’t notice any moving vans. But welcome to the neighbourhood! I usually do this sort of thing in a much more glamorous way, you see. But anyway, would you like me to show you around? Are you a fan of coffee shops? We have a lot of those around here. Feel free to ask me any questions!
Your favourite tour guide,
Nayeon :)
*
Nayeon,
Thanks. You haven’t seen me or any moving vans around because I don’t carry much with me and stay inside mostly.
I guess you usually keep an eye out for people you can scare to death with huge welcome parties and big balloons and cake and all that?
I used to be a barista, so a few coffee shop names would be nice. But don’t push it, Flower Crown, I don’t need a tour guide.
Jeongyeon
*
The letter is grouchy and stormy, but Nayeon feels a thrilling bolt of lightning shoot up her veins as her eyes devour its contents. Her tongue wets her lower lip meticulously, which trembles as a tooth sinks into it: Jeongyeon knows her so well already. A welcome party fanatic; a balloons enthusiast; a fan of cake, of tonnes and tonnes of cake.
Nayeon grins even at Jeongyeon calling her Flower Crown again, feeling only the faintest tinge of hurt at the declination of her offer.
Well, it is as they say, a voice practically sings in her mind. Slow and steady wins the race!
The girl’s cheeks drown in scarlet as she grimaces at the thought, nearly crumpling the paper in her clenched hands.
Her throat is dry when a single, final thought occupies all the space in her misty mind:
The race to obtain Jeongyeon’s heart?
*
Nayeon has always thought Jihyo’s best features are her eyes. And not only because of their beautiful, round shape, or the fact that they sparkle and shimmer like diamonds; but their reflection of her own personality. When Nayeon first met Jihyo, she thought of her as child-like and cheerful—but the girl’s intelligence and shrewdness never fail to impress her.
Although Jihyo’s judgement, especially when paired with her protective nature, doesn’t always blend well with Nayeon’s.
“That neighbour of yours. Playing that loud…” She trails off, face scrunching up, her confusion and curiosity scrawled onto every feature of her face. “…classical music.”
“Yes.” Nayeon’s heart thumps slowly.
“Are the two of you acquainted?”
Nayeon fights the urge to snort. “We are, yes,” she responds thickly. It would be a lie to say no, and more than a lie: far-fetched. Jihyo and everyone else living in their town know Nayeon—are “acquainted” with her—and thus, why would this peculiar neighbour be an exception?
“Really?”
Faster, her heart flutters.
“Yes, really.”
“Have you mentioned to her how odd you find playing Introito at the approximate volume of a thousand decibels for the entire neighbourhood to hear?”
Jihyo smirks.
She knows Nayeon has.
Nayeon swallows. Her throat feels tight and withered. “I don’t—” She struggles.
Jihyo waves a hand. “It’s fine. Just asking.” She wanders into the kitchen to grab some snacks.
But not before she sends Nayeon a mischievous, impish beam.
Nayeon,
Your friend dropped by to say hi. I don’t really like visitors but she was nice. Talk about me, do you?
I moved here a few weeks ago, to answer your question. I thought my neighbours were a bit too loud and wanted some peace and quiet.
What do you think about that, Yeon No. 2?
Yeon No. 1
*
“You talked to her?”
“I did.” Jihyo’s voice on the phone is breezy and nonchalant, oblivious and careless. Except Nayeon is almost certain she isn’t oblivious—that she knew exactly what she was doing when “dropped by to say hi” to Jeongyeon.
Her cheeks flush a murky, mortified, furious scarlet as her grip tightens on the phone. “But why would you—”
“Can’t I say hi to your friend, Nayeon? You forget, this is my neighbourhood too.”
Nayeon pinches the bridge of her nose, exasperated.
Talk about me, do you?
Her pink cheeks start to sizzle and flame.
“Jihyo.”
“Mhm?” Nayeon hears the gentle, comforting harmony of Debussy’s Clair de Lune in the background of the phone call, and marvels at its tranquillity in contrast to the raging, turbulent thunderstorm throttling her mind.
“What did you tell her?”
She can feel Jihyo’s small grin. “I didn’t tell her—”
“Park Jihyo—”
“Look, Nayeon.” Jihyo’s tone is suddenly serious. The older girl tenses slightly; then endeavours to listen.
“I don’t think she’s … I think you should stay away from her.”
Nayeon guffaws. “Excuse me?” Her blood boils. Her eyes narrow at the phone.
“Listen, Nayeon, I just— I’m worried.”
“You’re always worried.”
“Please—”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now. Leave me alone and stop interfering with my life!” Nayeon hangs up, chest heaving, panting.
She tries not to cry.
Yeon No. 1 (apparently),
That’s no fair—why do you get to be Yeon No. 1? And I find that pretty ironic—the comment about your neighbours being too loud—if you ask me.
I still can’t believe I never noticed you moving in! Although, now that I think of it, you’re the first to move here and keep to yourself. Well, apart from your deafening music. Not a fan of visitors, are you? Sorry if Jihyo bothered you. I bet you spoke more to her in person than you have to me, though…
Yeon No. 2
*
Yeon No. 2,
You look really young and cute. I assumed you were younger than me. I was born in ’96.
And even cuter—you’re jealous? Don’t worry, cutie Nayeonie, we didn’t talk much. She just asked if I moved in recently and said there aren’t many fans of classical music around here. Excluding the two of you.
What music do you like?
Yeon No. 1 (though I’m starting to doubt my assumptions about your age…)
*
This must be a joke. “Really young and cute”? Nayeon has received a handful of compliments in her lifetime, but never has anything made her face go this bright a shade of fuchsia; eyes go this wide and bulging; mouth drop this far down, until her jaw has smacked the ground and begun tumbling across the room like a very, very long scroll being open.
Her eyes slide onto the paper again, and quiver.
Cutie Nayeonie, the letter sings at her.
The noise that forces itself out of Nayeon’s throat is definitely a scream.
Dear Yeon No. 2 (that’s right, you were wrong!),
I’m a ’95 liner! And a huge fan of classical music, although I had to learn about and appreciate practically every genre there is out there when I studied.
We have more than a few fans of classical music in the neighbourhood, actually, so I was wondering: What better way to welcome you into our community than shove all the music lovers around here into one room? Well, it’d be a bit—gosh, a lot—more proper and organised than that, I promise you, and I also promise it’ll be a lot of fun!
Can’t wait to see you there—please inform me of anything I have to keep in mind, especially allergies and all that.
Yeon No. 1
*
“Nayeon, don’t you think it’s a little—well, sudden?”
Nayeon clenches her jaw. She penetrates Jihyo’s anxious stare with her own stubborn one. “What do you mean?”
“Nabongs, I love you and all, but you can’t expect everyone to be such a … social butterfly. So comfortable with everyone they meet, immediately. You get along with everyone, including people you hate, but—there are loads of people who aren’t like that.”
Nayeon’s eyes narrow. “So, what are you trying to say?”
Jihyo bites her lip. “I don’t think she’s gonna come to his party, Nayeon, and you have to be ready for that possibility—”
“A possibility,” Nayeon echoes, firmly. Jihyo watches her helplessly. “A possibility, that’s what it is, and only that.”
Despite her confident tone, her chest tightens.
Swallowing, she wraps her arms around herself and rocks back and forth, very, very slowly.
Jihyo holds her hand.
*
Jeongyeon doesn’t respond to the letter, but Nayeon goes ahead with planning the party anyway. It isn’t a lengthy process, and they’ve planned various welcome parties for music lovers in the past—even fans of classical music specifically—but the odd exception of a classical music lover who has the attitude of a moody, rebellious teenager doesn’t stop gnawing at Nayeon’s mind. She chews her lip as she orders the decorations, as she sets them up, and as she instructs her assistants to perfect the final changes to the hall.
She won’t like this, Nayeon thinks, chest screwed up into a tight, terrified ball, as her eyes scan the grandness and openness of the venue and the vibrancy and elegance of the décor. Panicking, she twists to face Mina, who’s busy brandishing some ribbons from a nearby box.
“Mina, this is all wrong.”
The ballet dancer’s face creases with confusion, a tiny frown sliding onto it. She stares at Nayeon, clueless. “Excuse me?”
“She won’t like this. She won’t like any of this, Mina.”
“But she’s a classical music fan. We always do this for—”
“But we shouldn’t be doing it now,” Nayeon grimaces.
She cancels the party without another thought concerning the matter.
*
It’s been a week and a half since the party—well, its cancellation, at least. And it’s been longer than that, since Nayeon and Jeongyeon last spoke.
Nayeon’s eyes sting with tears as she lies down face-flat on her bed, hands tangled in her own hair and a low groan escaping her lips. She doesn’t want to get up. She doesn’t want to get out of bed. She wants—
Suddenly, the sound of something rattling floods the house. It’s noisy—unbelievably noisy—and loud and aggressive enough that Nayeon is instantaneously convinced someone is breaking into her house.
“Shit,” she mumbles into her pillow, springing to her feet and crawling downstairs. Her breathing is heavy and eyes quaking, but by the time the front door has come into view she’s realised, shamefully, that it was only a letter.
She stops.
Her eyes bulge.
A letter.
As she had done with Jeongyeon’s first letter to her, she pounces on the envelope like a wave surging onto shore, ripping it open urgently and impatiently.
Nayeon,
I’m starting to get a little tired of being a postman. How about we make this a little easier for the both of us?
Here’s my number.
*
Nayeon blinks.
A number.
A phone number.
Jeongyeon’s phone number.
Jeongyeon’s phone number!
To text, to call, to add to her contacts?
The thought of having the blue-haired neighbour’s name saved as one of the contacts in her phone floods Nayeon from head to toe with pure, utter, genuine thrill. Her hands tremble as she staggers towards her phone on the table and taps and scrolls furiously and frantically and joyously, almost crying out in delight when the number is saved.
She wonders if she should wait, perhaps attempt to fool her neighbour who she is absolutely definitely very much in love with into thinking she has other things to do, besides chasing after gorgeous, grumpy, blue-haired fans of classical music.
But it quickly becomes apparent that the attempt would only be rendered futile—and is impossible.
Thus, she messages Jeongyeon straight away.
Nayeon: I’m starting to think you’ve invented a new genre of music: classical heavy metal
Jeongyeon: I prefer ‘heavy metal classic’, but I guess that sounds fine too
Nayeon: why didn’t you come to my welcome party?
*
Nayeon regrets saying anything about the stupid party immediately after sending it. She bites down tears and hopelessly endeavours to donate some strength to her unsteady legs.
Jeongyeon’s response doesn’t come until nearly a minute later.
Jeongyeon: you cancelled it, didn’t you?
Nayeon: I did.
Jeongyeon: and I’m p sure you know I’m not a people-person
Nayeon: You’re not.
Jeongyeon: glad we’re on the same page
Jeongyeon: did you cancel bc you realised?
Nayeon: That you don’t like making friends?
Nayeon: Yes.
Jeongyeon: That’s not entirely true, nayeonie. I just… prefer to wait.
Nayeon: It’s fine
Jeongyeon: No, it’s not fine, Nayeon
Nayeon: it seriously is…
Jeongyeon: Nayeon
Jeongyeon: I want us to be friends
*
Nayeon’s breath hitches in her throat. Her vision wavers, eyes latched onto a single text message, her entire body still bar her shivering pupils.
Slowly, her lips part.
She exhales.
It’s as though all the air inside of her has been sucked out, leaving her limp and lifeless.
And yet, at the same time, Nayeon realises: she’s never felt so alive.
Nayeon: you do?
Jeongyeon: of course I want that
Jeongyeon: do you?
Nayeon: yes
Nayeon: a thousand times yes, Jeongyeon
Jeongyeon: that’s good then
Jeongyeon: I’ve been meaning to ask
Jeongyeon: do you play an instrument?
Nayeon: Clarinet since I was six
Jeongyeon: predictable
Nayeon: In what way?
Jeongyeon: I figured you started playing an instrument as a kid, and that you’d bring that up
Jeongyeon: and as for choice of instrument: clarinets are very classy
Jeongyeon: like your ridiculous dresses
Nayeon: They’re not ridiculous
Jeongyeon: no, they’re cute
Jeongyeon: do you really wear dresses ALL the time though?
Nayeon: Most of the time, yes
Nayeon: and that reminds me
Nayeon: as much as I enjoy talking to you, Jeongyeon, I really think we should start meeting in person
Jeongyeon: I agree, technology really has destroyed this generation, hasn’t it?
Jeongyeon: I’ll be at your place in half an hour
Nayeon: Cool
Nayeon: wait what
*
“It’s a pretty vase.”
Nayeon starts forwards suddenly and clumsily, plucking the shimmering vase from the other’s gentle grasp with her cheeks flushed bright red. Jeongyeon watches—unruffled, amused, albeit slightly baffled.
Nayeon rushes to explain. “It’s my mother’s,” she blabbers; “well, it was.”
Jeongyeon realises. “Oh.”
She doesn’t apologise.
But then again, Nayeon didn’t expect her to.
Jeongyeon resembles an unwashed sock drowning in pristine white laundry, her scruffy t-shirt and ripped jeans a stark contrast to Nayeon’s tidy, pretty house. The vase that caught Jeongyeon’s attention is just one of the many extravagant decorations Nayeon suffocated her house with to make it look, smell and feel like her mother: a glittering chandelier; a winding staircase rimmed with gold; and too many trinkets to count. Jewellery on display merely for decoration—Nayeon wonders what Jeongyeon thinks. She wonders if Jeongyeon perceives her as a fancy, flamboyant princess, like her mother was.
Sometimes Nayeon is told she appears that way.
She doesn’t know if she likes it.
“Your house is pretty.” Nayeon tries to decipher Jeongyeon’s way of saying “pretty”, pondering helplessly the chances Jeongyeon means it in a mocking way.
But she doesn’t, because her expression is awed.
Nayeon’s guts twist. “Thanks,” she exhales, releasing her breath although she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding it. Her chest burns; her gaze does the same when Jeongyeon’s eyes lock with hers.
The silence is awkward and heavy.
Jeongyeon explores.
“It’s so big.”
“It was my mother’s before.”
“I figured.” Jeongyeon whirls around, abruptly graceful, like a ballerina. Nayeon flushes: shocked, startled, delighted. She beholds Jeongyeon’s beautiful smile—a rare sight, rare indeed. But the constant absence of a grin upon her neighbour’s face only makes this moment more special, and the beam absolutely radiant, to say the least.
Jeongyeon is speaking: “—but I don’t think you’re like your mother?”
Nayeon blinks. “In what way?”
The smile—there it is again. Nayeon’s heart flutters. She stumbles after Jeongyeon, entranced and impressed by how quickly Jeongyeon has adjusted to this unfamiliar environment; how quickly she’s adopted a natural step in a home other than her own. For someone who claims not to be much of a “people person”, Nayeon thinks, panting, blushing, exhilarated, you sure look an awful lot at home in a stranger’s house.
But she wouldn’t want it to be any different than this.
Jeongyeon’s still smiling. Fuck, Nayeon loves that smile. “You’re not all that posh.”
“I’m not.”
Jeongyeon stops. She raises her brows at Nayeon’s gown, a pastel, timid blue, and the large white scarf draped around her neck. “You’re wearing a ballgown. And a scarf. Indoors.”
“It’s not a ballgown, just a regular gown,” Nayeon protests, though Jeongyeon doesn’t look very convinced (except she’s still grinning); “and the scarf—”
“A scarf indoors—” Jeongyeon guffaws, not contemptuously.
“It’s cold,” Nayeon pouts, and Jeongyeon shrugs.
Silence, again. Much lighter; Nayeon can breathe.
She breathes in the moment and mirrors Jeongyeon’s dazzling beam.
In her head, she’s standing outside in the middle of the street, shrouded in darkness bar the several streetlamps flickering and spilling pools of light onto the road. Her scarf is pulled up over her mouth and nose and only her eyes are visible, wide and shaking; her gown glows despite the murkiness of evening.
Jeongyeon leans in to kiss her.
“So why the clarinet?”
Nayeon snaps out of her daze. She stares at Jeongyeon, eyes bulging and chest rising and sinking like urgent, terrified waves. Her hands are shivering: she hides them behind her back.
Jeongyeon reclines in her seat on one of Nayeon’s sofas, body language open and casual.
Coughing, Nayeon bends her head; her eyes glue themselves to her mother’s favourite carpet. “My mother was probably the biggest fan of classical music ever to roam the planet. I bet she liked Beethoven’s works more than he did, and same with Mozart, and every other classical composer the two of us can name—and more.”
Jeongyeon chuckles. “So you took after her?”
“I liked the instruments. She showed me a selection. I picked the clarinet. I stuck with it.”
“What about others?”
Nayeon wrinkles up her face. “I like all instruments. But I’ve always preferred my clarinet.”
Jeongyeon nods. “Predictable.”
Nayeon flushes, almost with anger. “Isn’t that the second time you’ve said that?”
“Yes. But it’s not a bad thing.”
“No?”
Jeongyeon shakes her head, and her expression is so mild Nayeon instantly feels engulfed in shame.
They go quiet for a bit.
Jeongyeon stares at the paintings on the wall.
“I got an angry neighbour on my doorstep last night.”
Nayeon scoffs. “Are you surprised?”
Jeongyeon spins around to face her, grinning. “No. I figured I’d receive a few red-faced visitors soon enough.”
“Then why do it?” Nayeon asks, before she can stop herself. She regrets it the moment the words have tumbled off her tongue, pinking as she spies Jeongyeon’s face contorting slightly.
The unappealing, unappetising stench of stiff, sour silence returns too soon.
Tense, Nayeon fidgets. Her eyes drift to Jeongyeon’s stormy grey ones, as she wonders why—even when Jeongyeon’s entire face is set alight with passion and glee—her irises never seem to share the same excited, effervescent aura. Now, her face matches: troubled, stony, still. She returns to being a rock, cold and detached.
“Sorry—”
“It’s just music,” Jeongyeon mumbles. Her grouchy, grumbling tone forces Nayeon to shudder and bow her head, embarrassed.
The vase on the mantelpiece sparkles.
Jeongyeon advances upstairs.
*
When Nayeon realised she’d much rather fuck than a girl than any other guy on the planet, she stopped being so free about them being in her room. Of course, with someone like Jihyo, it’s always been very different. Jihyo is a summery, carefree breeze, who wafts around gracefully and graciously and sheds light over the darkest puddles of gloom littering a dull, dimly-lit street. Jihyo melts hearts platonically, and romantically, and so naturally Nayeon and her became friends and she couldn’t say no to her snooping around her room. Besides, Jihyo being Jihyo, she would probably much rather date a flower or singing animal than a human being.
That’s their joke about Jihyo being a Disney princess.
Nayeon is utterly convinced.
The mere image alone of Jeongyeon in her bedroom, however, has always emptied an infinite number of buckets, filled to the brim with a deep, dark flush, onto Nayeon’s entire being: and now, she quickly realises, her dream is slowly becoming a reality.
In fact, it already has become just that: Because as soon as Nayeon has staggered into her bedroom, Jeongyeon is already stood in the centre of it—back turned; chin tilted; eyes fixed to the flowery curtains wobbling in the faint breeze.
Nayeon swallows, hobbling forwards to tug the window shut.
“Sorry. It’s cold, isn’t it?”
“Your room is cute.”
Nayeon blushes. She always blushes, but this time it’s an enormous blush—a painfully palpable blush, a sea of red that swallows her whole and vomits her onto the floor.
She winces.
It’s a horrific image.
But accurate enough.
“Th—” Her tongue knots. “Th—Thank you.” She hangs her head, fighting back a wide, excited smile.
Jeongyeon sits on her bed.
Fuck.
“Where’s your violin?”
Nayeon blinks rapidly, willing her cheeks to blanche a natural shade of warm beige. “I, uh,” she croaks. She stumbles towards her bedside clumsily, fishing around beneath her bed; her head twists so she faces away from Jeongyeon, who watches with a crooked smile. “I’m not really that organised—”
“I expected that.”
Nayeon flushes. Again. It seems this must be Jeongyeon’s talent: making girls go permanently bright red. She straightens her back as she retrieves the violin from underneath her bed, eyes slightly narrowed and fixed onto the girl sat above her. “You expected—expected what?”
“That you weren’t very organised,” Jeongyeon hums. Her expression is decorated with wisdom; eyes deep and knowledgeable. “Your preppy-perfect girl image is super forced, you ever realise that?”
“I do.” Nayeon swallows, a little uncomfortable.
Jeongyeon nods. “It’s still cute though. Your messy side is just cuter.”
Nayeon wonders if this is the billionth time she’s blushed today. She ducks her head, grabbing at a lock of hair and forcing it behind her ear—drenched in humiliation and thrill. Jeongyeon drives her absolutely fucking crazy.
And she loves it.
She could never deny that.
Call me a cute again, her eyes whisper silently, urgently, before the emotions of lust clouding her mind quickly morph into horror: her face contorts—mouth curling unpleasantly—and she hugs the violin to her chest, eyes darting away. She searches for her bow.
“Are you going to play for me, Nayeon?” There’s a teasing lilt to Jeongyeon’s voice as she sings the words, batting her eyelashes and puckering her lips.
Nayeon stares at those lips.
She really wants to kiss those lips.
Her eyes snap back to Jeongyeon’s, realising both girls’ pupils have dimmed.
She swallows dryly and starts to play.
*
Things happen fast.
With Jeongyeon, everything seems fast. Nayeon can’t even call it a dream: because dreams are slow, drowsy, distant. With Jeongyeon—with Jeongyeon everything moves quickly, flashing brightly, like vivid neon lights. Everything feels real, realer than real, yet also unbelievable. Extraordinary.
Otherworldly.
In this parallel universe, only Nayeon and Jeongyeon exist.
And then, at Jeongyeon’s new favourite coffee shop one day, the blue-haired reason for all Nayeon’s sensational fantasies clears her throat.
Nayeon looks up quickly from her small steaming mug, eyelashes fluttering rapidly, eyes a little wide. “Hm?”
“You still haven’t been to my place.”
At that, Nayeon flushes. Despite their frequent outings together, this cursed habit of blushing at an embarrassingly intense volume whenever the other utters more than two words has never ceased to bother Nayeon. And now, more than ever, especially at the mention of her mysterious crush’s abode, she sizzles with the intention to soak herself in a boiling bath of rosy red.
“I—uh—” She stumbles over her words, mortified as always. “Well—Yes. I haven’t, no. No.”
Jeongyeon smiles.
Nayeon squeaks.
“It’s a plan, then,” Jeongyeon decides instantly—because she, and probably everyone else on the goddamn planet, knows Nayeon would never object to such a glorious invitation.
*
Jeongyeon’s house is exactly the way Nayeon pictured it: clustered, cluttered, and clad with humungous posters, abstract paintings that scream in Nayeon’s face, and the raw scent of brilliance. It’s loud, crazy, and incredible.
Nayeon is struck breathless.
“I didn’t bother to clean up,” Jeongyeon notes apologetically, picking through some discarded laundry with a slant in her tone which teases, I knew you wouldn’t like it otherwise.
Nayeon swallows.
“Make yourself at home. My bedroom’s on the left upstairs. I just need to get a few things sorted in the kitchen, yeah?”
Rapidly, Nayeon nods. She scurries upstairs with her eyes glued to her feet as Jeongyeon disappears into, what she assumes must be, the kitchen.
Jeongyeon’s bedroom is even more fucking amazing. Nayeon’s heart is pounding once she’s reached merely the doorway, peering in shyly and opening her mouth wide at the spectacularly intelligent and creative mess inside. Jeongyeon is a tornado, a hurricane, a tropical storm—of the arts and culture and music and art and all things bright and bold and brilliant and abstract. Nayeon doesn’t think she’s ever felt so … quite … in awe before.
She is in awe of Jeongyeon.
“Like my room?”
Nayeon screams. She surges into the air at the sudden whisper directed to her neck, all the hairs on her body standing as she is launched into the ceiling.
Jeongyeon, unruffled, laughs. Grinning, she pulls out a plate of jellies from behind her back and offers it to the other, who can’t help but stare at the plate as though it were actually another three hands of Jeongyeon’s.
Incomprehensibly, she stutters.
Jeongyeon’s beam widens. “You said you like jellies?”
“I—I—Uh,” Nayeon blinks rapidly, a blush creeping to her cheeks (making its routine appearance), a mist overwhelming the cavern of her brain, and her eyeballs dangling from their sockets. “Y-yes.”
“You do, right?”
“Yes.” She tries not to collapse right there and then. Her eyelashes flutter rapidly. “I—I—”
“Do you wanna see me play?”
Nayeon’s mouth falls open.
She doesn’t even know what instrument Jeongyeon plays.
“Y-you play?” she blurts stupidly, then bites down on her tongue immediately after. You fucking idiot, of course she plays, she reprimands herself in silence, flushing due to her own words this time rather than the other’s.
Jeongyeon watches, as always, amused. Her pretty mouth curls into a smirk as she leads Nayeon into a smaller room.
Nayeon’s breath leaves her without warning.
She gawks, shocked.
A piano.
Jeongyeon smiles, almost shyly. “You’d expect me to be a drummer or something, huh? Because of the loud music?”
Nayeon shakes her head. “You like classical music.”
The pianist nods. “That’s right. I do.” She perches onto the seat in front of the grand sculpture of splendour and magnificence, creating the most peculiar juxtaposition: a scruffy shock of bright bubblegum beside an elegant, majestic piano. She looks up at Nayeon, who struggles to mask her startled gaze, and smiles.
Nayeon manages to smile back.
Jeongyeon begins to play.
*
Prior to Jeongyeon’s first letter, Nayeon assumed her brash neighbour must be a rock fan, in addition to a fan of classical music. This was purely due to the fact Nayeon couldn’t, for the life of her, remember a single time her neighbour had played a piece of classical music that wasn’t so incredibly chaotic and discordant it made her eardrums split into fragments.
But now, as Jeongyeon’s fingers gently coax the keys of her grand piano, Nayeon refuses to believe the girl in front of her is the same girl who plays Schnittke’s First Symphony at the wakening of the sun.
She does not play Tiersen’s Pern: she breathes it to life. She births it and crafts it and paints it like Picasso or Claude Monet and she, all the while, does not once graze the keys with her eyes—not once. All the while, she plays with them latched firmly onto Nayeon’s, clear and dazzling and beautiful, as beautiful as the melody she coats the room with. Her smile is wide and brilliant as always, but now Nayeon feels her heart being tugged with a greater force than usual, more pleasantly than with mere shock or electricity. She watches Jeongyeon’s fingers flutter and flit and fly across the keys at the speed of light whilst her eyes do not grace them with the briefest glance.
She drowns in the music, feels it and Jeongyeon’s eyes shroud and paint her in all the colours of the rainbow, and more.
When it’s over, she’s dazed.
And above all, she’s convinced she’s never felt so in love.
*
Nayeon’s head jolts.
She twists towards her alarm clock, groaning and threading a hand through her tangled hair as she squints, trying to make out the time.
Eleven o’ clock.
In her excitement, she’d overslept.
The door continues to buzz and bark angrily, relentless until Nayeon finally makes it downstairs and heaves it open, perplexed and mildly agitated.
Her eyes widen when she recognises her visitor immediately.
It’s Jeongyeon.
“Hey,” she breathes, dizzy, heart gathering speed as it nears a sprint. She clutches her chest, as though fruitlessly endeavouring to contain it.
Jeongyeon is furious. “What the fuck have you done?” she snaps in Nayeon’s face, forcing the other to blink rapidly in shock and terror.
Jihyo was right, Nayeon thinks to herself miserably, willing the taste of tears to dissipate quickly. “I—You—Did you—”
“What the fuck is this? A concert?” Jeongyeon shoves something into Nayeon’s chest, and Nayeon identifies the object with a shrivelling of the throat.
The concert she signed Jeongyeon up to.
Without her permission.
“I—You played so—”
“The closing act? Are you out of your fucking mind, Nayeon? Do you know how long it’s been since I last played?”
“But on Tuesday, you—”
“I didn’t,” Jeongyeon snarls, eyes wet.
Nayeon freezes.
Jeongyeon looks terrified.
What have I done?
She unknots her tongue. “Jeongyeon, I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”
“I won’t,” the pianist declares fixedly and furiously, and despite how sorry she feels for Jeongyeon, Nayeon can’t help but feel a pang of pity for her, too. You play brilliantly, she wants to plead; she wants to beg her to still play at the concert, to show everyone how much of an incredible, astounding musician she is.
But she knows she shouldn’t, and so she doesn’t.
She only watches Jeongyeon thunder back towards her house, slamming the door shut behind her, and with that, Nayeon collapses to the ground, and sobs.
*
“You did it again—”
“All you do is scold me, nowadays,” Nayeon snaps, a little too harsh than intended.
Jihyo remains unruffled. She blinks slowly and presses her lips together tightly as Nayeon stirs. “You keep making mistakes.”
“I—”
“Stop forcing the poor girl out of her comfort zone, Nabongs, please—it’s none of your business—”
“But I want it to be!” Nayeon shrieks before she can stop the words from spilling out of her mouth. She rapidly shuts it and wrenches away her gaze after she blurts out the words, cheeks reddening and legs trembling. Before Jihyo can say anything, she staggers to her feet and flees to the bathroom, locking the door and weeping in embarrassment and pain and agony and fear and regret and sadness, all over again.
Jihyo follows soon after.
She knocks gently, once; twice.
At first Nayeon doesn’t let her in. But then she does, after the fifth knock, because she knows that—doubtlessly—Jihyo would stay outside all night if Nayeon took that long.
And maybe, maybe Nayeon is grateful for that.
Very grateful.
*
The concert is arranged by Nayeon. That’s no surprise, of course, because Nayeon arranges everything. She’s in charge of hiring people to decorate, cater, and take care of all the rest of it, but she oversees everything—and usually, it’s quite fun. She wouldn’t bother with it all if it wasn’t, but this time, despite the pleasant air of the event and her favourite sight of friends working together, she can’t help but feel … sick. Numb, odd. She can’t really tell what it is, not exactly. It’s not something she’s used to, that’s for sure, and this very peculiar feeling that turns the taste of her tongue dull and sour and makes her wince and squirm doesn’t stop irking her until she’s hobbled out of the room for some fresh air.
Jihyo is quick to follow.
“You okay?”
Nayeon whips around, face yellow. Jihyo cocks a brow. Nayeon flushes. “I’m—not doing so well, today.”
“Last year you were vomiting your face off, but you still managed to give Momo the birthday of a lifetime.” Both Jihyo’s eyebrows arch high on her forehead. “But this year something’s different?”
Nayeon turns away. She really appreciates how much Jihyo cares about her, really, she does—but right now, she wants nothing more than for Jihyo, and everything else, to just vanish and leave her alone.
Her stomach knots; her jaw clenches. “Please, just—”
“It’s Jeongyeon, isn’t it?”
Nayeon wants to scream at her. She folds her arms across her chest, struggling to keep her balance, struggling to keep a scowl tucked away, out of sight. She fumes, seethes, quietly.
Silence.
Jihyo doesn’t leave.
*
Despite her sickness, Nayeon succeeds in finishing the arrangements for the night. It’s not the grandest event she’s ever planned, but it’s certainly acceptable. She concludes the preparations with a tight, rigid smile plastered across her pallid, pale face—but nobody notices, bar Jihyo, who watches with a rather sombre expression.
The event is scheduled for tomorrow evening, but Nayeon wishes she could fast-forward and get it all over with as soon as possible. The knots festooning the pit of her stomach are bothering her incredibly, and it’s proving an impossible mission to untie them all. There are just so many, so many of them, crowding her mind and battering it senseless until she grabs at her head and screams silently.
Guilt gnaws at her, at every inch of her crumpled, crouching body. She staggers and wails and struggles.
Her phone rings.
*
“You haven’t spoken to me in a while.”
“No.” Jeongyeon’s voice is muted, colourless.
Nayeon bites at her lip in frustration, brows weaving together. “No? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“I don’t like performing in front of large crowds, Nayeon.”
“But you’re so good!” Nayeon explodes, exasperated, infuriated, incredulous. “That’s why I signed you up, and—and you don’t get to ignore me as if I’m not allowed to make mistakes, I told you, I’d get you off the—”
The line goes dead.
Nayeon roars and hurls the phone across the room.
*
“You know, I realised something.”
Nayeon’s eyes meet Jihyo’s, but not really. “Hm,” she answers absentmindedly, stirring her drink. Her eyes wander as Jihyo speaks, not seeing the glittering, blinding lights, or the spectacular chandelier, or the pristine dining tables with golden cutlery, or the swarms of guests everywhere. She sways, vaguely. Her lips purse.
“—right? Don’t you—” Jihyo falters, eyes narrowing. “Nayeon? Are you listening?”
“No,” Nayeon admits, faintly apologetic.
Jihyo sighs and rolls her eyes. “I said, it’s a shame you don’t perform at these concerts anymore. What happened to that?”
Nayeon’s cheeks colour. “I’m the event planner. It would be selfish to perform at my own—”
“Excuses, excuses,” Jihyo tuts. She glides away before Nayeon can have the chance to retort.
The night chugs past sluggishly, hazy and slow, so slow that Nayeon must sit down and gather her nerves before she can give a speech during an interval. She robotically recites the same speech she gave at the last winter concert, hoping nobody will notice. She doesn’t manage to see if anyone does, because she fades into some remote place halfway during the automated delivery.
Nearing the grand finale, Nayeon considers making her escape. It’s somebody else’s turn to wrap up the evening—Dahyun, perhaps?—thus she doubts she would be needed. She’s just about to go through the plan for the second time in her head when someone announces it’s time for the opening act.
Her stomach turns over.
Her vision blurs as she staggers, ready to be sick.
But then someone walks onto stage—no, floats onto it, and sits at a grand piano, bubblegum blue curls tucked into a neat bun and dressed in pretty petals. Her gown is black, and hugs her slim body gracefully and graciously. She raises two hands, clothed in snowy gloves, which quiver for a moment—before plunging into the piano, splashing over the keys and drowning the room in a passionate, gorgeous, thrilling delivery of the liveliest piece that has ever blessed the ears of everyone in town.
And just like the first time Jeongyeon ever played for Nayeon, she plays beautifully, animatedly, and most importantly, with her eyes fixated on Nayeon the entire time—sparkling, radiating, brilliant and powerful.
Nayeon is breathless, astounded, ecstatic. She’s swaying again, but this time, swaying with absolute joy, swelling with pure pride, at the sight of none other than Jeongyeon concluding the prestigious winter concert, sat in front of more than a hundred eager, impressed guests who she pays no attention to whatsoever. She only stares at Nayeon, smiling, grinning, beaming, twinkling.
A star in a sea of admiration, Nayeon thinks without breathing.
A star winking and twinkling at Nayeon.
*
The piano is a soft, light, gentle pink. Nayeon grazes the keys with her fingers, heart pounding. Her blood pulses in her ears, hot and hard, and a lump in her throat grows slowly.
She turns at the sound of footsteps thudding into the hall.
Jeongyeon appears at the end of it.
Nayeon stills; stares.
A thick, beautiful silence hangs between them.
Jeongyeon smiles.
*
Jeongyeon’s lips are soft, light, gentle; they brush over Nayeon’s like the wings of a butterfly, fluttering rapidly yet faintly at the same time. Nayeon makes a noise that turns her cheeks red but Jeongyeon’s face bright with pride and—and something else, fuck, Nayeon’s been waiting for this moment so long, to be in Jeongyeon’s arms and warmth and right beside her beautiful smile and delicate lips and in her comfy, messy bed. Her heart beats fast as Jeongyeon kisses her shyly, deeply, bravely, happily, and Nayeon kisses back, kisses back until her lips and body and mind go numb.
It’s the best feeling she’s ever felt.
And she never wants it to end.