Chapter Text
There’s always something pushing debut back.
Chaeryeong watches her friends leave one by one, looking for better opportunities. Where she was once surrounded by many, she has only her team and the younger trainees. She spends her days in the dance studio, practicing until her body forces her to stop.
Trainees cycle in and out of their sessions, staff watching closely for synergy. Where they had Somi was now an empty space — they needed someone who would match with them, and they had slim pickings.
“I like Yuna.” Jisu says offhandedly. “Young, lots of energy.”
Yeji hums. “She’s good. I also think Yunjin would fit.”
Chaeryeong nods along. Yeji and Jisu were now the oldest of the bunch, and one of them was sure to be leader.
Ryujin scoffs. “Not like what we think matters.”
Chaeryeong looks at Ryujin worriedly. They used to be by each other’s side, from school to practice to the dorms. But Ryujin’s eyes were distant lately, like they were searching for more. “Are you going to leave too?”
Ryujin’s anger dissipates slightly; she meets Chaeryeong at her level, kneeling down beside her. “Let’s leave together. All of us.”
“What?” Chaeryeong gapes.
“Let’s leave. If they want us to stay, they’ll do something. If they don’t… we’ll have each other.” Ryujin reaches out, tentatively taking Chaeryeong’s hand in hers. She gives it a squeeze. “No matter what.”
Ryujin’s voice is confident, self-assured — she’d definitely been thinking about it for a while. Had it just been the two of them, Chaeryeong might find herself lulled by her words. But she glances at Yeji and Jisu, and uncertainty was written all over their faces.
“Ryujin, you have to be joking.” Chaeryeong laughs. It’s the only thing she can manage to do but she wants to say more, do more. Something to stay side by side, hand in hand.
The other two join her in laughter but the look Ryujin gives is one she’ll remember for years to come. The look, she’d learn later, of Ryujin making up her mind and setting her sights where Chaeryeong couldn’t dream of following.
Trouble comes to Chaeryeong in the form of three missed calls from Jisu.
Her phone buzzes the first time mid-lecture and she’s quick to hit decline. The second time, she sends Jisu a quick message. The third, she turns on do not disturb. Jisu’s one of those people tragically born in the wrong time — a caller amidst texters — and her urgency could mean a traffic jam as much as it could mean the end of the world.
Jisu probably wouldn’t be the first to know about the latter. She can wait. She does wait; Chaeryeong spots her head peering through the door in the last half hour.
“Hi,” is all Chaeryeong can say as Jisu collides into her, intertwining their fingers. The older girl looks frantic, in the I-have-to-tell-you-something-or-I’ll-die way.
“I took a cab over. And we’re taking one back.” And as if she remembered how to talk to people, “Hi! How was class?”
“Class was fine. We’re taking the bus.” Chaeryeong holds her in place. She ignores the older girl’s whining. “And you’re explaining to me what’s so urgent.”
“I can’t. Not in public.” Jisu cups her hands around her mouth as they head toward the bus stop. “Show business.”
True to her word, Jisu says nothing more, putting a finger over her lips each time Chaeryeong does so much as glance at her. Even so, she bounces on her heels and looks around frantically. It’s one of the most endearing parts of Jisu, just not when she made all this fuss to have her wait longer.
Chaeryeong prefers it though. The Jisu of today retains the zest of life, something they tried so hard to squeeze out of her.
The Jisu of today also lives comfortably, a fact that Chaeryeong makes no light of. Her clientele affords her home comfort and a warmth uniquely hers, shelves lined in vinyls and other trinkets. Photos cover the walls, framed in some places and clipped to decorative lights in others.
Chaeryeong would stay over more often if it wasn’t also Jisu’s workplace. She found particular comfort in the corner where her desk is. In the space Jisu finds inspiration, she surrounds herself with the things she holds dearest. Chaeryeong can walk over there at any time and find pictures of Jisu with her family, Jisu with their trainee group, Jisu hugging Shin Ryujin—
Pause.
Chaeryeong hopes if she stares at the polaroid long enough it’ll disintegrate. It’s only fair — damage for damage, Ryujin catching fire for emotionally slapping her in the face. “This is new,” is all she can say, turning to Jisu for an answer.
“We took it today!” Jisu’s excitement was a net positive, but the nerves were beginning to show. “When we were working on her song.”
One album. Jisu’s worked with big names before but this was the first time with a company so renowned, and their golden artist on top of that. Out of nothing but loyalty, Chaeryeong can promise that much.
One becomes five because of all the versions offered — the irony isn’t lost on her. But five albums wasn’t insane. Five albums could be one compulsive splurge. Five albums could sit inconspicuously on her bookshelf and collect dust.
Five albums shouldn’t be able to win her a slot at Ryujin’s fansign.
The queue moves row by row and Ryujin feels simultaneously too close for comfort and eons away. There was still time for her to run away, to toss the albums and leave the past where it belongs. But Jisu’s song blasts on the venue speaker and reminds her that the past has already crept up on her, whether she likes it or not.
Her row stands up and Chaeryeong feels her legs wobble, but she steels herself. If she causes a scene, people would find out who she was, and it wouldn’t be pretty for anyone.
Or maybe it would, for Ryujin. Former trainee reunites with Shin Ryujin — at her fansign! It paints Chaeryeong in a bad enough light and gives Ryujin good press. Chaeryeong pulls herself together out of spite.
Ryujin’s laughter gets louder the closer she gets. Chaeryeong listened to the album in full, but there wasn’t anything quite like being in the room with her. Her voice rings through Chaeryeong’s ears, threatening to send her back five years.
When their eyes meet, Ryujin’s face falters for a second before returning to its practiced perfection. Others wouldn’t have noticed, but Chaeryeong knows her too well. She used to relish in catching Ryujin off guard, because it was such a hard thing to accomplish.
Ryujin’s gaze, however, remains focused. She signs the album without glancing down, staring at Chaeryeong curiously, like a cat to its prey. “Any requests?”
Chaeryeong didn’t think she’d get this far. Her brain scrambles for something clever, sophisticated. Something to really get her frazzled. It comes up with nothing. “Maybe next time.”
Ryujin falters again, by way of a quirked eyebrow. She stares even harder, searching for an answer. When she finds it, something clicks, and she breaks out in a grin that Chaeryeong knows well. It only ever meant trouble for her.
“There’s a next time?”
Chaeryeong doesn’t give her a response. Not that she can — before she knows it, her minutes are up and staff are ushering the next fan in.
When she gets home, she flips through the album to see the signature and spots a message written in the corner of the page.
red hair suits you 👍
Ryujin with bangs. Ryujin in a blonde wig. Ten different Ryujins stare at Chaeryeong while she’s trying to learn and it’s driving her crazy.
It’s not like she wasn’t going to use all the stuff that came with her albums. She was never one to waste anything she was given, if the Twice tote bag and phone grip of her sister didn’t make it clear. No, she was going to use the preorder bonus Ryujin notepad, if only for her electives.
It’s only slightly distracting to hear her professor talking about taking the perfect shot when Ryujin’s winking at her.
Ryujin would be the perfect shot. Chaeryeong flipped through the photobooks — even the sillier poses couldn’t hide how photogenic she was. If Chaeryeong showed up to her next fansign and took a couple shots, people would eat it up, Photography 101 quality and all.
Using her expensive hobby to start a thankless pseudo-job? Just the kind of thing she would sign herself up for.
Chaeryeong is careful to cover up.
There were eyes everywhere — staff and fans alike — and no amount of time could take away the fact that she was once in the spotlight. Chaeryeong gets comfortable in hats, hoodies, turtlenecks and high collars; anything to push the attention away.
Ryujin notices her anyway, looking like a kid at a candy store when Chaeryeong sits in front of her.
“You came again,” she says, grinning. Chaeryeong thought the new circumstances would bring a different dynamic — Ryujin having to filter her words and pretend she’s glad to see her, Chaeryeong as free as ever across the table — but Ryujin is nothing but delighted.
“I did.” Chaeryeong keeps her tone even. “I mentioned a next time.”
“So you like me that much?”
Chaeryeong refuses to lose this time. “Julia-nim’s song is very catchy.”
Ryujin scrunches her nose, adjusting to the trajectory of their conversation. “It’s my favorite off the album.”
Chaeryeong can hear the shutters behind her, capturing every millisecond of the moment. She sinks further into her seat.
Ryujin takes notice, and the playful mischief on her face gets replaced with something scarier — empathy. “Hey, everyone’s cool here. If not, I can make these no camera.”
Chaeryeong can’t stand it. She shakes her head. “That’d be bad for me, actually.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” Ryujin’s face fully twists in confusion, and the shutters return full force. Chaeryeong pulls her cap down further; she can’t have anyone recognize her, especially when she can’t hide her smile as Ryujin calls after her.
“That looks… maniacal.”
Ryujin comes in, uninvited as usual. Chaeryeong minds her words — Jisu was outside, and she didn’t like when any of them fought. She wasn’t exactly caught in the most comprehensible act — standing over a poster of the show, placing stickers over the girls methodically.
She just put one on Jiwon, and a preemptive one on her sister.
“I just want to commemorate their wins, is that so bad?” Chaeryeong whines, puffing her cheeks. “I don’t have much from back then.”
There were pictures, of course, but hardly taken by them. Pictures, even the nice ones, didn’t feel right when the cameramen caught her crying just as much.
There were letters, but she wasn’t going to put them on display like that.
“You’ll be next,” Ryujin says, like she knows. It’s a little too earnest for her liking. But true to form, she cracks a smile the next second. “Or maybe it’ll be me. You should tape a picture of me on there.”
Chaeryeong rolls her eyes, but smiles anyway. “I’ll grab our next showcase poster.”
When Chaeryeong visits Jisu, it’s to have fun. When Jisu visits Chaeryeong, it’s out of concern.
“Ryujin asked me if I gave you a bunch of albums. And I was going to, but I guess I don’t have to?” Jisu has an amused smile on her face. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”
Chaeryeong certainly wasn’t expecting her to show up. If she did, she’d let herself be caught doing something less embarrassing, like crying over dramas or learning new idol choreography. Anything but having her shots of Ryujin blown up on her computer screen.
She doesn’t know how to say ‘She consumes my free time and I see her in my dreams’ without sounding like she needs help, so she keeps her mouth shut.
Jisu sets the food she brought on the table, opposite her stack of albums. “She asked about you, you know. She wanted to know what you were up to.”
“She’s still friends with Yuna, Yeji was on TV, and now you two are buddy-buddy again.” Immediately, Chaeryeong regrets her words. “Sorry.”
Jisu puts her hands on Chaeryeong’s shoulders and continues. “It was cute, actually. She tried to act like she didn’t care, but we know how she is.”
“Nosy?”
“Shy.”
“Shin Ryujin? Don’t make me laugh.” Ryujin has always been brave, bold — things Chaeryeong envied, then and now.
“You only think that because we were part of her circle. Outside of that, she’s as bad as you.” Jisu casts her eyes downward, mulling over the implications of what she just said. Chaeryeong thinks the older girl’s doubt is silly — the accursed polaroid is proof of that.
“And she’s making millions while I edit pictures of her.”
Jisu side-eyes the albums, notably still sealed. “While you contribute.”
Ryujin finds her against the odds — before they start, while Chaeryeong sits near the back. She flashes that toothy grin of hers and Chaeryeong can tell she expects to win the day’s battle of wits.
Which is why it’s especially satisfying when Chaeryeong lifts up her camera and catches every stage of her realization. The furrowed brow, the buggy-eyed surprise, the finger pointed at herself in confusion. A clip-worthy moment she can milk for all its worth later.
“Is this your job now?” Ryujin asks before she can even sit down. She looks impatient, almost… accusatory, like Chaeryeong insulted her cats. Does she still have cats?
“Is this not what you wanted? I’m your fan,” Chaeryeong attempts, but Ryujin’s change in demeanor drains her of not only the confidence to taunt, but also the desire to do so.
“I’ve seen you three times in the past week. And now you have…” Ryujin looks her up and down, no doubt searching for the camera, but Chaeryeong gets chills nonetheless. “This isn’t some kind of joke?”
Chaeryeong doesn’t know if she should feel offended that Ryujin would consider that. The idea that she would invest the time and money in ill will. That she could aim to hurt. If anything the joke was on herself — to sit in front of the person who hurt her the most and give her chance and chance again to do it some more.
Except she sees Ryujin now and it doesn’t sting like it used to. Like her feelings grew with her, shifting and changing into something different. Something that makes her want to reach her hand across the table in the hope that Ryujin meets her halfway, like they were kids again.
She holds back on the urge, simply shaking her head. “It’s not a joke.”
Chaeryeong leans on her sister as Yeji downs her water bottle in one go.
“That was good,” Yeji praises, smiling like her chest isn’t heaving. She’s glistening in sweat and looks gorgeous still, especially donned in crew merch.
“Of course she is,” Chaeyeon responds, stepping back to peel off her own hoodie, their logo hiding in a tank top underneath. “She’s probably here more than we are.”
“Yeah, because you two have other places to dance.”
“You could too,” Chaeyeon says, firm but kind. With Chaeyeon, her hands were always outstretched. She caught Yeji all those years ago, found her a new place to call home.
When they were younger, Chaeyeon was always there to help her up. In front of their parents, in front of millions, in front of higher-ups that looked at them like liabilities and not people. In front of no one at all— Chaeyeon was laughing when she cleaned out her locker, while Chaeryeong’s face was buried against her back, not daring to look up.
“You’re tough, Ryeong,” Chaeyeon says simply. “You’ll do great. You’ll find your team.”
In ways so small, Chaeyeon gestures to their left. Chaeryeong sees her— Shin Ryujin, standing to the side. She looks nonchalant, but she’s sipping on a juice box that looks as good as empty — she’s been there for some time. In her other hand was another box, and she was gripping it a little too tight for normal.
“Ryujin-ah,” Chaeyeon calls out. The girl’s head whips way too fast and she waddles over obediently.
Chaeryeong can't entertain the thought. That life was beyond her now.
Ryujin’s promotional cycle comes to an end and in her last fan event, Chaeryeong has no excuse, no witty comment. Ryujin expects her to come, and she expects Ryujin to give her a headache, one way or another.
“You missed the last one,” Ryujin points out.
“Sorry.” Chaeryeong could say more — explain why, catch her up on the past few years — but they had no reason to meet again after this. Not until the next time.
“What? No, don’t be.” Ryujin writes something on the page and closes it before Chaeryeong has time to look. She slides the album back to her. “Before you go,” she pleads.
Chaeryeong makes it back to her seat, carefully cracking the photobook open just enough to read the message.
Rather than banter, Ryujin’s written a set of directions. Chaeryeong looks behind her; there were rows of people yet to get their chance. But the time Ryujin wrote down was nearing.
Chaeryeong grabs her things and leaves the main hall. Several heads turn to her, but only one shows any recognition — the staff Ryujin personally posted for her. He beckons her over; Chaeryeong quickly weighs the pros and cons of following a stranger to another location, ultimately choosing to trust Ryujin.
He doesn’t take her far. The venue is only so big. Chaeryeong finds herself waiting outside the dressing rooms, waiting for whatever Ryujin thought was so urgent that she needed to
Finally, he reemerges with something in his hand. He passes it onto Chaeryeong quickly and leaves, leaving her alone with it.
An envelope addressed to her, postmarked the year Ryujin left.