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#2
1 49:09 - 49:22, 2 11:42 - 13:17
“During your trainee years, which member were you the most awkward with?” Yooa reads from the VLive comments.
“Ah, I can immediately point out who it is,” Binnie says, Yooa nodding vigorously at her side. They’re both glancing at Jiho as overtly as possible.
Seunghee frowns. Unlike them, she can’t think of someone right away. She shuffles through her foggy memories, gaze flitting around the room until the right answer suddenly strikes her. “Ah! Okay, okay,” she says, raising her hand to let the others know she’s ready.
Hyojung makes a small noise of surprise when she sees Seunghee pointing at her. Thankfully, she doesn’t look offended, just dumbfounded. Seunghee knew she wouldn’t have expected it — after all, as the leader, it’s her job to be close to everyone. Hyojung is a prideful person, and Seunghee has always secretly admired that about her whenever she’s not making fun of it out loud. She wonders if Hyojung is actually hurt, despite her outward composure.
“Why did you find me awkward?” Hyojung asks a few minutes later, after everyone else has explained why Jiho used to be so intimidating. Seunghee senses it then, decides to test it a little more.
“It’s not that you were awkward. I just don’t remember anything,” she says bluntly. As expected, Hyojung whines and slumps over. Yooa pats her shoulder comfortingly. “I don’t remember my first impression of you.”
If Seunghee had felt like explaining then, she might have told Hyojung that it wasn’t such a bad thing — that in fact, she didn’t have good first impressions of any of the members, and therefore Hyojung was spared from her inaccurate knee-jerk judgements. But she didn’t. Maybe she wanted to see just how much Hyojung cared. Maybe she wanted to see how much things had changed; if Hyojung was the same person who took these things to heart, or if she would understand her without asking.
Hyojung’s first impression of Seunghee was the exact opposite: it was anything but forgettable. Hyojung can still recall Seunghee’s audition like it happened yesterday. The stuffy heat as the trainees crowded together, the unnatural coolness of the wood as they pressed their ears against the door, their hushed breathing as they strained to hear bits of muffled conversation. A few moments of quiet. Hyojung held her breath in anticipation, unconsciously pressing closer.
The soft twanging of a guitar pierced through the deathly silence. Then a voice, a voice so unmistakably familiar, prodded at the memories laid dormant in the back of Hyojung’s mind and rustled them awake: a name, a face.
“She’s really good,” Yoobin mumbled, glancing at Hyojung.
Hyojung’s pulse fluttered nervously in her throat. She knew she was supposed to feel threatened, because up until then there hadn’t been anyone else to challenge her for the main vocal position, and now she was competing against someone who’d been singing in front of cameras since she was a child, the star of a national singing competition, with the voice of an angel. And there was something so singular about her voice, something that made Hyojung feel—
Excited.
“She is,” Hyojung whispered back. She’d tentatively labeled it as jealousy knowing full well that wasn’t the right word, but she didn’t know what else to call it. She felt the first stirrings of her heart then.
But she doesn’t tell Seunghee this. Not yet.
♮
#8
1 1:00 - 1:09
After the third time Hyojung makes a ‘which one’s the flower’ joke while posing next to the cherry blossoms, she begins to notice the strain in Seunghee’s expressions.
“Out with it,” she sighs, wrapping an arm around Seunghee’s shoulders.
“I don’t have anything to say,” Seunghee replies, automatically reaching up to intertwine her fingers with Hyojung’s.
“Yes you do. You’re making that face.”
“Since when do you know me so well?” Seunghee asks. “Between the two of us, you’re supposed to be the open book.”
“You always come to me when you want to talk, so of course I learned to recognize your expressions. Spill.”
“Unnie—” Seunghee starts, and then stops. She looks frustrated, running a hand through her hair. It’s bright pink, matching the cherry blossoms raining down around them. “Unnie, you’re not just doing this for me, right?”
“What, seeing the cherry blossoms with you?” Seunghee nods. “Would it really be such a bad thing if I was?”
“Well, if you’re saying it like that—”
“No, I’m not doing this just for you. I wanted to come here too,” Hyojung says reassuringly. “But I really don’t mind doing things for you.”
Seunghee’s cheeks pinken. It’s the same expression she gets whenever Hyojung genuinely compliments her singing. It’s cute.
“Is this because I asked why you wanted to come here with me?” Hyojung asks, amused.
“No,” Seunghee says indignantly, which means yes.
“I was just surprised. I’d assumed that you’d want to come here with all the members, not just me,” Hyojung answers, despite Seunghee’s apparent lack of need for an explanation. A cherry blossom lands in her outstretched hand and she tucks it behind Seunghee’s ear. The color fits perfectly. “We should do this again next year. Just the two of us.”
Seunghee brushes her fingers against the flower, but leaves it in place. “I’d like that.”
♮
#1
“The two of you are going to have to decide,” the CEO says, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Hyojung opens her mouth to protest, but he adds, “No, the both of you can’t be main vocals. Only one.” The words die in her throat, and she glances over at Seunghee, discomfort pricking under her skin. “Discuss this in the hallway. Tell me your decision in five minutes.”
The quiet click of the door shutting behind them sounds like a judge’s gavel. Distantly, Hyojung recognizes that this is a test, a test to see whether their teamwork will hold or break under this pressure. Teamwork that is supposed to be, in the exact words of their CEO, impenetrable.
The problem is, the two of them have only known each other for five months. As the last two trainees to join WM, neither of them are quite sure where they fit, still struggling to find their places in the dynamic of the group. Hyojung shifts uncomfortably, aware of her responsibility as the leader. The burden of this decision rests moreso on her than on Seunghee. She can’t let greed overwhelm her now, not when she’s supposed to put her members first.
But even then, she can feel her desire for the position eating away at her resolve, telling her it would be so easy to use her seniority, as the oldest member, as someone who trained longer than Seunghee, as the leader. And it would. It would be so easy.
“I think we should decide this based on skill,” Seunghee says, cutting off Hyojung’s train of thought. Her stomach fills with dread at the thought of a sing-off in the middle of the hallway right outside their CEO’s office, but Seunghee surprises her. “Honestly, our skill level is the same. I don’t mind being a lead vocal. It’s enough for me to be part of the group.”
Realization strikes Hyojung. She’d heard bits and pieces of Seunghee’s story — for every 9 out of 10 auditions, rejected from preliminary auditions based on looks, squeaking by on talent for the last 1/10th, and getting cut anyway in the final rounds. The desperation, the tears and sleepless nights she dedicated to her work all left out of the story, but still visible to those who read between the lines. Hyojung can’t begin to imagine just how grateful Seunghee must be to be standing here, to have the option to debate this in the first place. To have the opportunity to sing on stage.
Whether or not I’m the main vocal, I’ll get to sing on stage. That’s what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it?
“I think you should be the main vocal,” Hyojung says, surprising even herself with the conviction in her voice. “I don’t care if we’re equal in skill. You deserve it.”
“Unnie, that’s—” Seunghee stops, and there’s no doubt in Hyojung’s mind that she’ll accept it. “That’s not fair to you. Of course you deserve it too.”
To say that Hyojung’s floored is an understatement. She wonders just how much Seunghee knows about her story, the one where she participated in a children’s choir for years and squeezed out time in between her part-time jobs to keep honing her skills, fueled by the desperation of a dream. She wonders if her story has reached Seunghee, too.
(She has the growing inkling that Seunghee will keep surprising her.)
The clock tells her they have less than a minute to decide. “Neither of us, then,” she says. “We’ll both be the lead vocals.”
Seunghee nods, and Hyojung can feel that something’s shifted between them, something unnameable but tangible all the same. A phantom touch; a silent understanding. Two girls, brave and fearless, sharing one dream.
She raises a hand to the door and smiles at Seunghee. Knocks twice, and Seunghee smiles back at her.
♮
#7
1 17:26 - 24:25
“I just can’t believe it,” Seunghee repeats, gazing off into the distance. Their van rumbles along, filling the background with comforting white noise. Hyojung rubs Seunghee’s shoulder, pressed against her so that she can feel Seunghee trembling with every breath.
Hyojung noticed the telltale signs when they were getting into the van to go home from the Weekly Idol set. Seunghee’s lip was quivering and her eyes were misty, and she kept looking up at the sky so her tears wouldn’t fall.
“Seunghee-yah,” Hyojung had started, and that’s all it took for Seunghee to choke out a sob and bury her face into Hyojung’s shoulder.
Neither of them like to think too hard about Coloring Book. They still hold the song dear to their hearts, but the era itself was a dark time. The song hadn’t charted or sold high, their music video views were lackluster, and they couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that as a group in their third year without a win to their name, their time was running out.
“You remember what it was like back then,” Seunghee says, as if she read Hyojung’s mind. “We were nothing.” Upon seeing Hyojung’s expression, she adds, “or at least we thought we were.”
Hyojung can’t dispute that, so she nestles closer, nose tucked into the crook of Seunghee’s neck. She can feel Seunghee’s breath tickling her ear. The seatbelt is chafing her skin, but she doesn’t care. “It’s hard for me to believe too. Back then, if I was told that someone had been inspired to become a singer because of us, I’d have said it was a lie.”
Seunghee pauses, deep in thought. “I was thinking about their song, Butterfly? You know the lyrics?” She feels more than sees Hyojung’s nod. “The meaning of the song is that even our smallest actions ripple out and cause a chain of reactions all around the world. And I was thinking… during those days when I was wondering if I should give up on being a singer, I never would have imagined that by choosing to stay that I would impact the world like this.” Seunghee sniffles. “I feel guilty for ever wanting to quit, but more than that, I’m just so grateful that I didn’t.”
“I’m grateful too,” Hyojung whispers, and lets those words fill the silence.
She holds Seunghee all the way home.
♮
#4
1 23:19 - 23:49
As an idol, Seunghee doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on romance. During her trainee years, she regarded it as a waste of time and a distractor from her dream of becoming a singer, and she didn’t blink an eye when the company imposed rules banning dating upon their debut. But lately, she’s found herself thinking about it more. Many girl groups that debuted in the same year as them are rumored to be dating, and WM has begun to relax some of their restrictions with the arrival of Oh My Girl’s first win and growing success. It’s natural to wonder if their dating ban will be the next to go, Seunghee reasons. That’s probably why.
“They’re kind of like a couple, aren’t they?” Yooa asks, gesturing between Seunghee and Hyojung. Mihyun makes a noise of agreement.
(Okay, maybe that’s not the only reason why.)
“Please don’t say that,” Seunghee says, scrunching her nose.
“For real,” Hyojung adds.
“I hate it.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“They’re like the couples you think will break up soon but never do,” Yooa says, completely ignoring their back-and-forth. Seunghee tries to keep up her disgusted expression, but to her chagrin, she can’t help but burst into laughter.
As much as she acts like she hates it, she can’t deny the truth in Yooa’s statement. She and Hyojung have had their fair share of arguments, but their relationship has only been strengthened by it, amazingly enough. When she became a trainee, she never could’ve predicted that she would grow so close to the bossy, ever-so-stubborn, perfectionist Hyojung.
Hyojung’s leaning against her, their shoulders pressed together. Being this close is as natural as breathing to them, but as Seunghee begins to focus on it, she becomes uncomfortably aware of it. Just as if she suddenly noticed the rise and fall of her own breaths, she fixates on Hyojung’s body heat burning into her skin, her fingers lying centimeters away from Seunghee’s own. Just that distance to bring them together.
“They’re like a married couple,” Mihyun says, bringing Seunghee back to reality.
She pretends to be shocked, pinching her nose. “That’s terrible,” she says solemnly. Hyojung playfully punches her arm, a smile that looks more like a frown on her face, but she doesn’t say anything.
Seunghee asks Jiho about it later, after the VLive’s ended. Why Hyojung didn’t say anything.
“Are you serious,” is Jiho’s response, and okay, Seunghee should’ve known she’d respond like that. “Wow, you might even be denser than Yoobin.”
Seunghee blinks. “Huh? How is Yoobin dense? Wait, how am I dense?”
“Look, if you and Hyojung unnie already act like you’re dating, would it really be so awful if you actually were? It’s just putting a title on a preexisting relationship, isn’t it?”
“Why’d you have to say relationship,” Seunghee grumbles. “Of course it’s different. Dating and friendship are two totally different things.”
Jiho mumbles something under her breath. Seunghee discerns words that sound suspiciously like pity and Hyojung. “If you really want to know, go ask her. And if you can’t, maybe you’ll start to get it anyway.”
Over the next few days, Seunghee has a lot of opportunities to ask Hyojung, but she doesn’t. She tries to find the words, but when Hyojung looks at her, eyes glittering with curiosity, Seunghee’s mouth goes dry and her mind goes blank.
(She thinks she’s starting to get it.)
♮
#6
“Eeirp,” Hyojung says from the lower bunk.
It’s 2AM, so that can only mean one thing. “Mrrrk?” Seunghee asks.
“I’m hungry,” Hyojung complains. As if on cue, her stomach growls.
“You should be sleeping,” Seunghee says half-heartedly.
“So should you,” Hyojung retorts.
A lengthy pause.
“Jjapaghetti?”
“Yeah.”
Seunghee hoists herself out of bed and pads into the kitchen, busying herself with preparing the instant noodles. She hears Hyojung’s familiar footsteps on the floor behind her, arms wrapping around Seunghee’s waist as she absentmindedly stirs the boiling water.
“Every time we do this, I feel like a trainee again,” Hyojung murmurs, placing her chin on Seunghee’s shoulder. Her breath tickles Seunghee’s ear and she forces herself not to shiver. Hyojung will either think she’s cold and try to find a jacket for her, or gravely misinterpret it and try to give her some space. Neither of which she wants.
“Isn’t that a bad thing?” Seunghee asks. “Everything felt so uncertain back then. Like we were standing on the edge of the cliff, and looking down the descent.”
Hyojung hums. “It’s not so bad if we take the fall together.”
“You’re such a sap.” Embarrassment makes Seunghee’s face hot. She strains the water out of the noodles and adds the flavoring packet, eager for something to do. “Didn’t we, though?”
“Yeah, we did,” Hyojung says softly. “It’s kind of amazing, how far we’ve come. We were so awkward around each other back then.”
“Remember when the CEO made us pick who would be the main vocal? Man, that was so nerve-wracking,” Seunghee reminisces.
“Oh, that was a nightmare,” Hyojung laughs. “Honestly, I was going to say that I wanted to be the main vocal, but then you said you didn’t care about positions as long as you got to sing. That really got to me,” she admits.
“For real?” Seunghee looks bewildered. “You should’ve gone for it, unnie.”
Hyojung shakes her head. “It would’ve felt too wrong. We’re both main vocals now, anyway. It was a stupid rule that only one of us could be the main vocal.”
“We share our parts a lot, too. Like in SSFWL.” Seunghee scrapes the finished jjapaghetti into a bowl and walks back towards their room, tugging Hyojung along behind her. “I like it a lot better that way.”
“Don’t spill anything on my sheets,” Hyojung says automatically when Seunghee squeezes herself into Hyojung’s bunk. “I like it better this way too.”
“Really? I bet you want the high notes all to yourself,” Seunghee teases, taking a bite of the noodles. Some of the black bean sauce smears on her cheek.
“You’re such a messy eater,” Hyojung chides, delicately wiping the sauce away. All the napkins are in the kitchen, so she shrugs and licks it off her thumb. In the dim lighting, Seunghee’s cheeks look faintly red.
“I have you to take care of me,” Seunghee responds, feeding Hyojung a bite. The bunk is a tight fit, but their bodies figure it out, Seunghee’s arm wrapped around Hyojung’s waist and Hyojung’s head resting on Seunghee’s collarbone. They spend the rest of the night like that, voices hushed to avoid waking up the other members, long after they finish their meal.
Hyojung falls asleep first, Seunghee following soon after. She dreams about stage lights, two microphones, and a hand in hers.
♮
#9
Hyojung picks up on the second ring. “You could’ve just told me that you miss me,” she says in lieu of greeting, voice tinged with amusement.
“No, I couldn’t have.” Seunghee flicks her IU lightstick on and off. She’d had it on for the entirety of her VLive, and it’s probably low on battery. “It’s embarrassing.”
“So you decided it was less embarrassing to tell the entire world instead?” On.
“Yes,” Seunghee says resolutely. Off.
“I was really upset when you told me it’s more comfortable without me,” Hyojung comments. On. “I should’ve figured you were bluffing.” Off.
“It is more comfortable. I can watch animal videos without you interrupting me every three seconds,” Seunghee sniffs. She sets the lightstick on her nightstand, fingers tapping incessantly on her thigh.
Hyojung doesn’t seem fazed. “But?”
But I don’t have anyone to show them to, either. “But the dorm might burn down. Arin’s been wanting to cook lately.”
Even over the phone, Hyojung can see right through her. “You know, if you’re embarrassed to say you’re lonely because you think only you are, don’t be.”
“You’re lonely? You were the one who wanted to move out in the first place. Signed all the documents at lightning speed and everything.”
“I want to scold you for not telling me you were hurt by that, but I didn’t tell you until now that you upset me earlier. Things like that are hard to say.” Hyojung’s breath rustles over the receiver. “Of course I’m lonely. I miss sharing food with you. That was my favorite thing about living in the dorm. Not the food itself really, but staying up until the sunrise talking with you.”
Seunghee’s throat feels thick. “Unnie—”
“Do you want me to come over? Scratch that, I am coming over.” Seunghee hears keys jingling, followed by the sound of a door slamming shut.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Seunghee manages shakily. A tear slips down her cheek and she hurriedly wipes it away.
“Don’t assume I do everything just for you,” Hyojung retorts, but her voice sounds the slightest bit shaky too. “Give me fifteen minutes. Wait for me. I’ll be there.”
♮
#5
1 19:41 - 20:00
A while ago, someone — Seunghee can’t remember who told her this — offhandedly made a comment that she originally thought nothing of, but that would linger ceaselessly in her mind: “You laugh the hardest when you’re with Hyojung.”
Her gut reaction was to balk and deny it, like she always did at the premise of actually admitting to her affection for Hyojung. But right now, during this VLive with Hyojung, the sentence resurfaces to the forefront of her mind once again. Conversation and laughter flows easily between her and Hyojung, not a single moment of silence during their livestream. They go from making fun of Hyojung’s crying on Queendom to promising to sing their SSFWL high note face to face to calling Binnie on speaker so she can say hi to Miracles to animatedly discussing how often they change their phone numbers, all without pause. A far cry from how awkward and stilted their conversation used to be, back during their trainee days.
Hyojung leans forward to read the comments. “You two look like a married couple,” she reads. It instantly reminds Seunghee of her birthday VLive earlier this year, when Mimi said the same thing.
“Aigoo,” Hyojung rumbles, slinging an arm around Seunghee’s shoulder, already taking it upon herself to be the husband. Seunghee suddenly remembers Jiho calling her dense, and decides to go along with the act.
“Wait, who’s — let’s decide this here. I’ll be the husband,” Seunghee declares, expecting Hyojung to object.
“Sure,” Hyojung says without protest, to Seunghee’s surprise. “What should I call you? Sweetheart?” she asks, a smug grin on her face.
Seunghee’s stomach flips over at the pet name. “Stop,” she whines, cringing and shaking her head. Her heart rate feels like it’s increased tenfold at the thought of Hyojung, with that stupid self-satisfied smirk, calling her that and meaning it.
“Then what else should I call you? Honey?” Hyojung suggests, clearly amused by Seunghee’s embarrassment.
“We’ll just — we’ll just call each other by our names,” Seunghee manages, flustered. Her ears are burning, and she feels like she’s on the cusp of realizing something.
(She thinks she gets it now.)
♮
#3
1 3:44 - 5:49
“I’m just… I’m so happy,” Seunghee breathes, voice scratchy with tears. She's trembling like a leaf. Hyojung gently strokes her hair. She’s shaking too, heart beating so fast that it feels like it might burst out of her chest. She squeezes Seunghee tighter and wonders if she can feel it.
“It’s a dream,” Hyojung murmurs. “A dream come to life. I never expected...”
“Me neither. I was— it sounds stupid now, but I was mad at myself backstage,” Seunghee admits. “For hoping. Because it always hurts worse to hope.”
Hyojung knows what she means. They’ve long since learned not to raise their expectations. And throwing up walls to protect herself — that’s one of the things Seunghee does best.
“I can’t even understand it. I’m nothing, but the moment I stand on stage, I become something. Someone ,” Seunghee corrects herself, eyes brimming with tears. “Someone who is loved.”
“Don’t say that,” Hyojung says forcefully. “You’re already loved. I love you.”
Seunghee looks up at her, stunned. Hyojung’s face feels hot, but she continues. “It’s just like our song. You might think that there’s nothing special about you, but I see something inside you. Something great and amazing. And you deserve to be loved.”
Understanding dawns on Seunghee’s face, like the sun breaking slow and golden across the sky. Hyojung’s chest feels like a caged bird, wings flapping. Finally set free.
“I love you too, unnie,” Seunghee says. Takes Hyojung’s hand. “I’m proud of us. We’ve come so far.”
“Don’t get sappy on me now, Hyun Seunghee.” Hyojung’s blinking hard, but she’s still smiling. “You said it yourself: this is just the beginning.”
♮
#10
“Unnie, I don’t think I can finish all this,” Seunghee groans as she slumps over on the couch. Hyojung plops another fistful of jjapaghetti onto Seunghee’s plate. “Should I call over the other members to eat this?”
“Just put it in the fridge,” Hyojung shrugs. Normally she would’ve agreed without a second thought; Seunghee tries not to read into Hyojung wanting the two of them to be alone.
“When you said you wanted to come over to cook for me, I wasn’t aware you were going to cook a full-course meal.” Seunghee places the empty dishes in the sink.
“Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll take care of them in the morning. Sit with me.” Hyojung pats the spot next to her on the couch. Hyojung’s phone, which is currently shuffling Seunghee’s “faves ✨” playlist, starts playing dlwlrma by IU.
“We should duet this sometime,” Seunghee comments, resting her head on Hyojung’s shoulder.
Hyojung hums in agreement. “I’ll film and upload it.”
They sit in silence, enjoying the song together. Seunghee remembers just how shocked she’d been when IU confessed that the lyrics were about Oh My Girl. It was a revelation. At their lowest, without them knowing, a young trainee toiled away in the dance studio and at auditions, inspired to become a singer because of them. And at the same time, Seunghee’s idol, her own inspiration to become a singer, was writing one of her most beloved songs for them.
The song ends. The air sounds lonely without it. Seunghee looks up at Hyojung. Even at this angle, she’s so breathtakingly pretty that it makes Seunghee’s heart ache.
“Stay over tonight. I miss you,” Seunghee admits in a whisper, so uncharacteristically vulnerable that it makes Hyojung swallow, suddenly aware of the gravity of her words. The gravity of everything she feels.
“You don’t have to,” she says quickly when Hyojung takes a moment too long. Hyojung’s chest clenches; there it is, the walls thrown up to protect herself. “Just do it if you want to. Don’t do things for me.”
“I want to if you want me to,” Hyojung answers honestly. “I don’t mind.” Words on the tip of her tongue; I miss you too.
“It’s selfish of me though, isn’t it?” Seunghee asks wryly. “You’ve always wanted your own space. To grow your YouTube channel, to be independent. We see each other every day. I can’t…” Seunghee’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, and Hyojung’s gaze flickers down to follow the movement. “I can’t ask for more than that.”
“I think you can,” Hyojung murmurs, and it’s then that Seunghee realizes just how close Hyojung is and that she’s leaning closer, fingers delicately cupping Seunghee’s jaw like she’s holding something precious and fragile. Hyojung’s kisses shift from gentle to insistent, tongue swiping across Seunghee’s bottom lip. She whimpers, her grip tightening on Hyojung’s shirt.
They break apart, their soft panting the only sound in the room. Seunghee’s heart feels like she just ran a marathon and then some. Hyojung looks equally flustered, hands raising to press against her burning cheeks. It’s cute.
“I’ll sleep over tonight,” Hyojung says firmly, and then takes the line into context. “Not like that.”
Seunghee laughs. “Aren’t you moving too fast, unnie?” she teases. “At least take me on a date first.”
“Haven’t I already, though?” Hyojung asks, amused. “We’ve been going on dates for years.”
Seunghee bites her lip. Hyojung really wants to kiss her. “I’m dense, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you are.” Hyojung tugs Seunghee’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
Seunghee flushes scarlet, but allows Hyojung to drag her into her bedroom. They have an unspoken agreement from their roommate days that Hyojung is the little spoon, so Seunghee slings an arm around her waist, hand finding Hyojung’s under the covers. They breathe in silence, drifting off to sleep.
“My lease expires in a year,” Hyojung says, out of the blue.
“Hm?” Seunghee asks, feigning nonchalance. She wonders if Hyojung can feel her heart racing.
“I don’t like sleeping alone either, you know.” Hyojung traces Seunghee's pinky with her own; a silent promise. “I’ll move in here with the rest of you, so wait for me. I’ll be there.”