Chapter Text
Jimin was thirteen when her friend from childhood moved away.
That was the first time her heart broke.
She had met Kim Chaewon on the playground of their elementary school.
She was seven, small fist balled tight and barely standing at the same height as the boy in front of her. Behind her, her friend had fallen to his hands and knees—scraped up and sniffling, valiantly trying to muffle his cries.
(Because big boys don’t cry; that’s what his bully, a boy a grade above him, said before he pushed him to the ground.)
Jimin was seven when she got sent home from the principal's office for the first—and only—time for shoving his bully into a tree so hard his Choco Pie in his backpack smooshed into a pancake.
She made him cry and she didn’t have it in her to care even the slightest bit. (If anything, Jimin felt more guilty about the perfectly good Choco Pie being collateral damage.)
She pointed at him and, for as stern as a seven year old can be with a glare as threatening as a disgruntled puppy, she screwed up her face and threatened repercussions because she’s her friend’s noona and she doesn’t take that lightly. She let the bully cry and wipe his tears and whine about being pushed. She watched him run away to tell whatever poor supervisor is watching over far too many sugar-crazed kids without remorse, without even caring about the consequences. She had a dongsaeng to care for! And she’s never really had a dongsaeng before—she’s used to being the younger one out of her family. So, she helped him up with that loving smile of hers, gently dried his tears with the sweater paws of her sleeve, hugged him close to her, and said, “Big boys can cry; I’ve seen my dad cry in front of me! And look at him,” Jimin pointed behind her, uncaring of how the bully petulantly screamed about telling on her, “he’s crying too!”
It was just supposed to be another day of school, but that day, Jimin stood up for her friend—a friend that would soon lead Jimin to her tethered soul.
Chaewon understood Jimin. All the versions of Jimin she was when she was growing up. She knew Jimin when she was ten and dreamed about being an idol, eagerly listened to her singing scales and cheered for her while she danced. She became Jimin’s canvas when she first started learning how to do makeup when she was twelve. Chaewon was honest about things she didn’t like, eyeshadows that didn’t match what she felt, wonky winged eyeliner that shouldn’t reach so close to her ears. And Jimin appreciated honesty, grateful that Chaewon would trust her to figure it out.
Chaewon knew Jimin at thirteen. She knew she was insecure about how she was taller than all of the boys in her grade, knew that Jimin gave up on her idol dreams because she was born with two left feet and a voice that needed more help outside of music class, which Jimin knew, even at her age, wasn’t financially feasible for her family.
She was new to high school, a freshman, in a sea of people who had lives outside of her—people who didn’t know Yu Jimin.
But Kim Chaewon did. She knew Yu Jimin and she knew her well. She knew what a happy laugh sounded like, knew when Jimin was uncomfortable when she’d laugh with a certain dimmed look in her eye. She could read her like a book, effortless and seamless, like she memorized her down to every detail, to every period and comma and paragraph break.
And when she was thirteen, being understood was all she wanted. Sure, attention was nice, getting compliments and boys shyly asking to hang out with her at lunch was flattering and Jimin wasn’t one to deny them if they were cute and interesting enough. But really, truly, all she needed was a friend to go to—to talk to and hug and be herself with because all anyone ever seemed to want was to know the idea of her, only ever cared to know what satisfied their image of her.
But Chaewon, with her steadfast friendship and faith, knew Jimin outside of the tangible—outside of her incandescence and silly jokes and lovable charm. Chaewon saw her angry, saw when she had been petty and frustrated and cold. Yet, she had the capacity to see her, still. To proudly call Jimin her friend even if she knew Jimin wasn’t as proud to call many other people outside of Chaewon hers.
It was easy with Chaewon. It never felt like she had a cross to bear when she slowly started to show parts of her that Jimin knew were harder to like. And Chaewon never made it feel like being vulnerable was a requirement to keep her. With Chaewon, Jimin felt understood.
And for someone like Jimin, it’s not often she gets understood so easily.
But it’s not like Jimin makes it easy to know her. She always keeps her cards to herself, always sharing what she wants, never divulging what she wants to stay hidden.
She’s funny and charismatic, bright and magnetizing in all the right ways. The center of the room revolves around her—it was never about being at the center of the room, rather than becoming. She doesn’t chase. She attracts. Charm comes easy when you know what to say. And Jimin always knows what to say. People can be easy to know. Narcissism and ego are embedded in human nature like the ladders of DNA, wound and tangled together. All it takes are questions and playful banter, feelings of relatability and closeness, and they’re in the palm of her hand.
Chaewon was in the palm of her hand, had been when Jimin was seven. And Jimin was in hers. Chaewon had her wrapped around her finger and they knew it. Jimin prided herself on being a good friend, ardently tried to make herself available for her. She bent to her requests, even if she didn’t favor them. She let Chaewon try makeup on her even if blending was a skill that took hopes and prayers and buckets of improvement.
Kim Chaewon was her best friend and Jimin loved her.
Jimin could buy all the trendy clothes and nail polish and makeup—if her allowance wasn’t spent on oodles of snacks. But she couldn’t buy charisma and the innate ability to be every person’s person.
Chaewon used to say, “You either got it or you don’t,” with a smirk on her lips, mischief twinkling in her eyes.
People like Jimin and Chaewon?
They got it, just like how they got each other.
And like charisma and all her people-know-how, Jimin couldn’t pay to keep her friendship with Chaewon when her family moved away right before winter break. She could try. Letters and phone calls and blurry Facetime calls could only do so much.
People fall out of friendships, Jimin knew that—fell out of plenty before.
She never imagined Chaewon to be one.
But life is busy and it moves on.
Hers moved on without Chaewon, just as she is sure Chaewon’s did too.
It takes two to be friends.
And friends they no longer were the year Jimin turned fifteen.
-
High school felt like a big fucking waste of time.
The more time Jimin spent at school, the more she found that her time was better spent with her friends, building a reputation that landed her student council president her senior year.
There was more busy work than there were actual assignments that felt fruitful, but Jimin didn't mind. It was the extracurriculars she liked more anyway. She wasn’t much of a ball-related sports person. Her hand-eye coordination didn’t work like that—she learned that when her face hit a volleyball before her hand did. But that was beside the point. She kicked ass at running miles and beating her personal records. Which happened to be better than her school’s records. And matched top runners in her school district.
Athleticism was a ticket to favoritism and Jimin knew that perfectly because her teachers let her off on way too many late assignments and half-assed papers that she knew were not worth humble B+’s. Even more so, track placed her right in the hub of knowing damn near everyone at her school. Because Jimin met Minju who knew Wonyoung who was friends with Sakura who knew Kazuha who was friends with Yunjin.
Yunjin who was in love with Kim Minjeong.
Kim Minjeong who became Jimin’s life’s greatest wonder—her greatest pursuit.
Her linchpin to living.