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⭑𓂃
Los Angeles had never felt like a place meant for softness. Everything in the city felt curated—too golden, too hollow, like a dream sharpened at the edges. And in the middle of it all, Manon found herself wondering if she had imagined the warmth between them. She stood in the dimly lit hallway of their temporary West Hollywood house, her hand resting on the cool doorknob of Sophia’s room, listening to the muffled laughter coming from the kitchen downstairs.
The other girls were watching Friends reruns and ordering boba like nothing in the world was quietly falling apart upstairs. No one knew—not about the stolen nights, the brushed fingertips behind blackout curtains, the way she used to memorize the slope of Sophia’s shoulder just to feel grounded. And now, no one knew that even that— especially that—was disappearing.
When she finally stepped inside, Sophia was already on the edge of the bed, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, eyes vacant, skin lit in pale blue from the screen. It was such a familiar sight that it physically hurt to realize how distant it had become. They hadn’t talked—not really—in days. And even the moments they did, it felt like they were reading lines from a script they no longer believed in. There had been a time when every glance felt like a secret kiss, every silence charged with the electric buzz of us . Now, the silence sat between them like a wall neither of them had the strength to scale.
Sophia didn’t look up when she spoke. “You’re always late now.”
Manon flinched, because it wasn’t about tonight. It was about all the ways she had begun to pull away, slowly, instinctively, without even realizing. “I didn’t think it mattered anymore.”
Sophia finally lifted her gaze, and there it was—the flicker of something exhausted and ancient behind her eyes.
“Of course it matters. You still matter to me.”
The words were meant to soothe, but instead, they hurt. Because Manon couldn’t shake the feeling that they were both saying things for the sake of memory, not truth. She leaned against the closed door, her arms wrapped around her frame like she could keep something from falling out of her chest.
“Then why does it feel like we’re pretending?”
Sophia stood up abruptly, and for a second she looked furious—not at Manon, but at the world for making something so beautiful feel this hard. “Because we are pretending. Every fucking day. Do you know what it’s like to sit next to you in interviews, smile for the fans, answer questions like we’re all sisters, when all I want to do is reach for your hand under the table and not worry who’s watching?”
“I do know,” Manon whispered, her voice raw. “That’s what makes this so unbearable.”
It was true. All of it. They had built this house of mirrors, delicate and blinding, hiding behind the lights of Katseye, behind the cameras and curated moments. In public, they were polished perfection—effortless chemistry, playful teasing, sisterhood.
In private, they were aching. Slowly, unnoticeably, losing each other inside the roles they had agreed to play. There was no room for softness here, not when fans saw everything, not when managers monitored their every move, not when the price of visibility was silence.
Sophia stepped closer, her voice quieter now. “We used to be able to talk.”
“I think I forgot how,” Manon admitted. “Talking makes it real. And if it’s real, then I have to face the fact that I’m losing you.”
Sophia’s shoulders sank under the weight of that truth. “You already have.”
It broke her. It broke both of them. And still, they didn’t cry. Because there was something cruel about not even being allowed the catharsis of a good breakdown. If anyone heard them, it would spark questions. If anyone suspected, the narrative would spiral out of their control. They had always been good at hiding. Too good.
Manon closed the distance between them, just a few inches, enough to feel the heat between their bodies. Enough to remember what it was like to kiss without guilt. “I want to fix it, Soph..”
Sophia shook her head, tears shimmering but unshed. “You can’t fix something if one of us has already stopped holding on.”
The worst part was—she was right. Somewhere along the way, they had both loosened their grip, convinced there would still be enough thread left to pull them back together. But now, it was slipping too fast. And all they could do was watch.
Sophia finally sat back down, burying her face in her hands. “We don’t get to fall apart. Not like this. Not when we still have tours and fanmeets and stupid dance practices where I have to smile while pretending I didn’t dream about you walking out last night.”
“I didn’t walk out,” Manon said softly.
“I just… stayed in a different room. Because I didn’t know how to be near you without breaking.”
“That’s worse,” Sophia replied, her voice cracking. “At least if you walked out, I’d know you meant to leave.”
Manon’s knees gave in then, and she sank onto the carpet, resting her head against the edge of the bed like it could ground her. Like Sophia’s presence might still offer something solid. But the gap between them felt like an entire ocean.
And for the first time, she realized she was drowning with no one to call for help.
“I love you,” she said, almost angrily, like it betrayed her.
Sophia reached out then, caressing Manon's cheek gently—one last time, maybe for now, she hopes.
“I love you too. When it was easy.”
The ache of that confession wrapped itself around Manon’s ribs like a vise. Because she knew what Sophia meant. Not that the love was gone.
But that it had become a version of itself that neither of them recognized. Something quieter. Something colder. A love shaped more by habit than joy.
Eventually, they sat together in that quiet room, no longer speaking, no longer reaching. Just coexisting in the hollow echo of what they used to be.
And when Manon finally stood up to leave, Sophia didn’t ask her to stay.