Chapter Text
Jimin is the first.
Jimin is bone-tired, and can’t point to why. Things are fine. Things are good. Hundreds of people would pay terrible prices for a position as lead dancer in the company. Why isn't that enough? It’s a tough lifestyle, of course, it would be for anyone. But Jimin always feels half a step behind all the other dancers in everything except the actual dancing.
The others get tired, but they don’t get angry with the whole world at the end of a day in the dance studios. Jimin does. The others get anxious when the choreographers are annoyed with them, but they don’t overthink every microexpression on the choreographers’ faces. Jimin does. The others have their superstitions and rituals, but they don’t freeze up in total panic when they have to amend them. Jimin does. The others like their dance costumes, but they don’t feel uncomfortable wearing their casual clothes. Jimin does.
Jimin is bone-tired. Every day, they get closer and closer to giving up.
It’s late, really late, and they’re the only one left at the dance studio. They need to get back to the dorms, shower, try to get an hour or two of sleep, and get back up to do it all again tomorrow. But it just feels too fucking hard. They’ve sat down on the floor to chug water, because they’re crying again and they’re already getting a dehydration headache.
And that’s when they see it.
In the narrow sliver of a gap between two of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, there’s a soft purple glow.
Jimin blinks their eyes. Have they been here so long they’ve started to hallucinate?
The glow is beautiful. And it doesn’t go away when they rub their eyes or tilt their head. They can’t resist getting up and slowly approaching, expecting any moment to discover that it’s a trick of the light, or a fascinating new migraine symptom, but it just stays exactly as it is. Warm and soft and beautiful. Welcoming.
Jimin reaches out their hand, and the mirrors part like doors, the glow between them widening and shifting.
Without even thinking about it, Jimin steps forward.
A door tinkles gently closed behind them. They’re in a softly-lit room. Definitely not the next studio on the corridor, where they would be if they’d just gone straight through the wall. This is a room they’ve never seen before. There’s a wooden desk, like a reception desk, and bookshelves, and the most comfortable looking couch Jimin has ever seen in their life.
“Hello?” they call.
It’s quiet here. Not just quiet - peaceful. A deeper, calmer quiet than just the lowering of noise in the dorms at night, or during an examination. Their tension and exhaustion are already ebbing away, even though they should be terrified. By all reasonable metrics, the best case scenario is they’ve fallen asleep on the dance practice floor and this is a dream. But it feels real.
They cautiously move across to the desk and touch it. It definitely feels real; solid and smooth, well-varnished. It smells nice too.
A piece of paper on the desk catches their eye.
They pick it up.
Dearest Jimin, it says, Welcome to the Magic Shop. This is a place for you to be entirely yourself. Days when you hate yourself, days when you wish you could disappear, make a door in your heart and come here. This place is yours.
A place to be entirely themselves. The idea is intoxicating.
Through a door at the back of the room, they find a larger, brighter room, and in that room are doors leading to many others. Their exhaustion lifted, they begin to explore...