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The early evening glow speeds past them in a whirl of colours and buildings and trees and people blurred around the edges. The only sounds in the car come from the playlist Momo has spent hours curating just for these drives—calm and nostalgic in a way that tugs at Jihyo’s heart. Jihyo’s head is tilted back against her headrest as she watches the road from beneath her lashes. All she can think is that it’s comfortable like this, while the sun sets somewhere beside them and Momo glows gold in her passenger seat.
They don’t really talk much, which is something Jihyo used to find overwhelming—this silence that she used to frantically try to jam full of questions and small talk. Had to learn that sometimes Momo just liked the act of being, of existing in the same place at the same time. Now she thinks it’s nice, almost warm, the way Momo is curled up quietly next to her, head tilted until her gaze catches on Jihyo’s face.
Jihyo isn’t really sure how it’s gotten to this point.
“What?” Jihyo finds herself asking. Feels her heart skip a beat when she glances over and finds Momo smiling lazily up at her, sleepy eyes blinking slow like a cat.
“You look cool when you drive,” Momo mumbles. “When I drive I look weird.”
Jihyo can’t help the short laugh that escapes her. “You don’t look weird,” she promises, wonders where Momo comes up with these things. “You tired?”
She hears a soft hum of agreement and, like she has no control over herself at all, she takes her hand from the gear shift and gently smooths down the hair on Momo’s head. She blushes immediately, of course, pulls her hand back like it had no business being there. But Momo hums again, eyes fluttering shut and Jihyo figures it was worth the brief flash of embarrassment.
So, she’s not sure how it got to this point. Not that she and Momo were ever particularly not close, but something had changed between them. Between months of convincing everyone around them that yes they like each other and no they don’t feel awkward when they’re alone and of course they know how to have a conversation—something changed. Like they had a point to prove, and now they’ve finally proven it, but to what extent?
It started with a sushi date. And then a movie date. And then taking Momo’s dogs for a walk and then and then and then.
Jihyo lost count.
Sometimes she finds herself texting Momo in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep, tells herself it’s because Momo is always awake at night and Momo is always ready for a late night snack. She’ll pick the girl up and tell Momo to connect her phone to the car and then they’ll drive and drive until Jihyo’s eyes become heavy from exhaustion and Momo snores in the seat next to her.
Or sometimes it’s Momo FaceTiming her in the middle of the day, face wrinkled so hard in a frown that Jihyo can’t help the cackle that escapes her when she answers. Momo will ask Jihyo how to do one thing or another, like “can I use this cleaner on my mirror?” or “how long do you cook this for, the way I like it?” or things she could just Google. Which Jihyo always tells her, and yet she always answers, even if that answer requires Jihyo to do research of her own.
So while they were never not close, they’ve never been this close either. Jihyo sometimes wonders if she’s ever been this close to someone in her life. In this way. With this specific feeling in her chest. She shudders through the thought, realizes she doesn’t have the energy to deal with that idea right now. Or at all. Would rather tuck it up neatly and hide it deep within her chest until the lack of attention eventually snuffs it out.
But of course it doesn’t work like that. Because these things have a way of lingering, staying long past their welcome. Like the faint afterglow that Momo’s perfume leaves on Jihyo’s couch. The way her laughter rings in Jihyo’s ears long after she’s dropped her home.
“Thanks for picking me up,” Momo suddenly mumbles, eyes still shut against the sun setting on her face. Jihyo swallows thickly, does everything in her power to keep her eyes on the road.
“Of course,” she says. And then it’s quiet again save for Momo half-humming the tune of the song that fills the car.
Jihyo pulls up to the front of Momo’s building and puts her car in park before angling her body as much as her seatbelt will allow her. She wants to say something, maybe call Momo cute, the way her hair sticks out at odd angles, her eyes drooping with exhaustion. Instead she says, “Well.” Cringes at herself. “See you tomorrow.”
Momo hums, entirely unbothered. Leans over the console to wrap an arm around Jihyo in an uncomfortable hug. “See ya,” she sings when she pulls back to finally remove herself from the car. But just as she closes the door she stops Jihyo with a hand through the window and an, “oh! I forgot to give this to you.” Then a small candy bar is tossed onto the passenger seat in Momo’s place and Momo is grinning ear to ear when she says, “Bye, Ji!” And she’s already disappearing into the lobby of her building by the time Jihyo registers the farewell.
Jihyo’s face is hot from the hug and then from the gift. She presses a hand to her ear as if she can dispel the warmth and then she sighs.
She doesn’t know how it got to this point.
[…]
Sometimes Jihyo feels bold. Sometimes she gets so lost in conversation that she forgets that the intimacy she and Momo share feels like a secret. Sometimes she grabs Momo’s hand or plays with her hair or presses a kiss to her cheek and then they’re teased relentlessly for it and she reminds herself to never do it again.
But Momo always blushes, a pretty pink blooming over her cheeks like a sunrise and Jihyo always finds herself craving more.
It surprises even herself, the rush of warmth that surges through her whenever she makes Momo blush or laugh or stumble over her words. The way her stomach flips when their skin brushes too high or too close. She chalks it up to the giddiness of newfound closeness, or a special type of shyness that’s reserved for Momo—one that she doesn’t feel like dissecting right now. Or ever.
But especially not right now, while they’re sitting around the firepit in the backyard of Jeongyeon’s family home. Jeongyeon and Sana sit across the flames with Dahyun and Tzuyu curled under a shared blanket next to them. Momo and Jihyo have set up their camping chairs so close to each other their knees brush together and Jihyo’s in the middle of telling them all about the car that almost hit her on the drive here. About how they’re an idiot, seriously, and how she doesn’t know how they could’ve possibly gotten their license.
When she’s done waving her hands around angrily, dangerously close to the fire before her, she drops them. One hand lands on her armrest, curls around her can of soda in the cupholder, and the other lands on skin warmed by the flames. She freezes for a moment. Momo glances down at Jihyo’s fingers that graze the hem of her shorts and Jihyo almost pulls away out of instinct—out of fear or shame or whatever is tugging behind her chest—but she stops herself. She lets her hand splay lazily in Momo’s lap and tries to ignore how her heart pounds at the curious look the other girl gives her.
She tells herself she’s proving a point. That Jeongyeon would surely catch it if Jihyo ripped her hand away so suddenly, would tease them for how awkward they still are together, how stiff. She tells herself this is fine, this is fine, everything is fine!
Then Momo’s hand settles tentatively on top of her own and Jihyo’s face burns so hot it could put the firepit to shame. There’s a glance passed between the women opposite of them. Something curious and genuine and Jihyo tries her hardest to ignore it. Tries to focus on the sound of Momo’s voice telling them about her day instead.
[…]
There’s fire in her belly and a fog in her head and Chaeyoung’s music plays far too loud for the confines of Nayeon’s apartment. Something smooth and sensual that had immediately pulled Momo out of her drunken stupor and into the center of the living room.
“Take it off, Momoring!”
It’s Sana that calls out, voice high and excited and cracking under the weight of the wine on her tongue as she whoops along to Momo’s impromptu dance. Momo’s laugh is obnoxious, entirely unsexy, full of the type of joy and confidence you can only feel when you’re four drinks deep. Jihyo’s head is spinning. She watches as Momo teases the hem of her too-long T-shirt and starts to drag it up her stomach before she drops the fabric with another laugh.
Jihyo sucks in a breath, eyes darting to the fake plant by the TV like it’s the most interesting thing in the room. She shouldn’t feel like this—awkward, weird, like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t be. Everybody is laughing, cheering, egging Momo on. And Jihyo knows if it was anybody else dancing in the middle of Nayeon’s living room she would be joining along.
But it’s not anybody else. It’s Momo. And everything is different with Momo. Nothing makes sense, nothing is simple.
There are invisible lines between her and Momo, somehow. Ones that don’t exist for anyone else. Ones that they reshape and redraw as they see fit. And right now the line is that Jihyo cannot watch Momo drunkenly give Sana what borders on a lap dance because… because…
Because Momo’s slowly swaying her way over to Jihyo, twirls to the beat of the teasing sounds the other girls make as they watch. Momo has a light smile, like this is all just a joke, because surely it must be, surely this is no different than what she was just doing with Sana, the way she leans toward Jihyo as if she might just do something crazy like kiss her right then and there. Jihyo’s breath catches, body tensing up like she’s preparing to be socked in the stomach.
And then Momo stops, tips over to the side and collapses in a boneless pile of limbs next to Jihyo, slots her head between Jihyo’s shoulder and her jaw. “I’m drunk,” she mumbles through an airy laugh. Jihyo blows a breath past her lips while she tries desperately to calm her racing heart.
“I can tell,” she hums in feigned nonchalance, but Momo’s breath is hot against her neck and she smells faintly like soju and Jihyo is sure if Momo was just slightly more sober she would feel Jihyo's pulse hammering against her forehead.
“Will you sleepover at my place and make me hangover soup tomorrow?”
It’s the way Momo asks that makes Jihyo pause more than the question itself. Like she wouldn’t mind if Jihyo declined, but she knows that Jihyo wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The way she loops her arm through Jihyo’s, takes advantage of the rare drunkenness of all their members to let her affection flow freely. Jihyo swallows thickly, doesn’t have words for the feeling that bubbles up in her chest. It’s something sticky and sweet, tinged with acidic bile and it makes her head spin.
“Sure,” she says softly.
Momo hums happily, presses her face further into Jihyo, breathes that much deeper. And slowly, with an unfamiliar warmth that trickles down her spine, Jihyo realizes there is no world in which she would have answered differently.
[…]
Jihyo thinks she’d be a fool to believe no one would notice the shift between her and Momo. Not that they were hiding anything, necessarily. There was nothing to hide, in fact.
That doesn’t stop her from freezing in place when Chaeyoung tosses Jihyo a familiar hoodie, offhandedly says, “Can you give this to Momo? You’ll probably see her before I do.”
It wouldn’t be weird, really, if Chaeyoung had a real reason for assuming that. If Jihyo and Momo had a schedule together or if they had otherwise made plans that were open to the rest of the group. But they all have dance practice in two days, and tomorrow is a rest day for everybody, but Chaeyoung is so sure that Jihyo will see Momo before that.
“What?” She asks dumbly. She means to say why would you think that? Or, I don’t know when I’ll be seeing her next. But she knows that last one is a lie, because she’s sure when she checks her phone there will be a text from Momo asking her to come over or to go out and she knows her answer will be yes. And so she will see Momo, and she will return the hoodie that Chaeyoung borrowed, and Chaeyoung’s innocent comment will have been proven true.
Jihyo isn’t sure why the realization feels like a boulder in the pit of her stomach.
“Oh,” Chaeyoung says, “I don’t know.” She sounds surprised, or confused by Jihyo’s confusion. “You guys just hang out a lot. If not I can give it to her on Tuesday.”
“No,” Jihyo rushes out quickly, not wanting to be misunderstood. “It’s fine, I’ll probably see her. I just didn’t realize we…”
What? she wants to snap at herself. She didn’t realize what? That she and Momo have been spending so much time together recently it feels stranger for them to be apart? That she thought she was driving herself to insanity thinking about all the ways they’re different around each other, and Chaeyoung’s acknowledgment forces her to confront the fact that it’s not just in her head?
“I’ll give it to her,” she promises instead of an actual explanation. Chaeyoung looks at her, eyes soft and curious, and then she hums like something has clicked into place.
But all the younger girl says is a quiet thanks, and then she’s moving toward the door and saying her goodbyes and Jihyo can barely do more than weakly wave at her.
[…]
Momo is already waiting for Jihyo near her parking spot by the time Jihyo pulls into the parkade of Momo’s apartment. She’s still dressed up from the shoot she had earlier, sparkles bright on her eyelids even in the darkness of the parking lot. She stands up straighter, smiles a little brighter when Jihyo gets out of her car and Jihyo feels something awfully fond tug at her throat.
The smile gets even bigger when Jihyo hands her the hoodie from Chaeyoung. Briefly, she thinks of Chaeyoung’s easy assumption, the soft look she had given Jihyo like she’d realized something Jihyo didn’t. She feels her stomach turn, tries not to think about how her skin buzzes when Momo gives her a greeting hug.
They don’t talk much as Momo leads Jihyo to the elevator and clicks the button for her floor. But she had grabbed onto Jihyo’s hand at some point after she got out of the car and she doesn’t let go until they come to a stop outside her door.
Momo only pauses to greet Boo and Dobby before she walks into her bedroom, leaves the door open. Jihyo doesn’t know if she’s supposed to follow her or not.
There’s a lot of things Jihyo still doesn’t know with Momo. She’s sure if Nayeon was here she would’ve waltzed straight into Momo’s room, laid on her bed, laughed with her as she got changed. She wouldn’t wait for permission. But Jihyo isn’t Nayeon. And Momo is so different from her. Someone who doesn’t care much about silly things like whether or not they should enter their friend’s bedroom. Someone who wouldn’t care if Jihyo followed her or if Jihyo just stayed standing dumbly in the kitchen until she came back. Momo just doesn’t think about things like that.
Sometimes it puts Jihyo on edge, keeps her out of her comfort zone. How can someone be this calm? This at ease? And maybe if Jihyo would slow down and think, she would consider that Momo is the normal one here. That Jihyo has never cared whether Sana saw her half naked or not. That she could kiss Jeongyeon on the lips and laugh about it later. If she would slow down and think, she would ask herself why it’s so hard with Momo. And she would realize that she knows exactly why, exactly how.
But the problem is that she doesn’t think. Not about this, not in a way that matters. Instead she feels stupid, feels her body heat from the inside out at how neurotic she can be. Because then Momo sticks her head out from her bedroom doorway, eyebrows raised in confusion.
“You coming?” She asks. Jihyo, struck dumb by the acknowledgment, tries to pretend that she was just occupied with the dogs, but they’ve both left her to go back to their beds and she rocks on her heels for a moment before shuffling her way into the bedroom.
Momo is already half undressed and Jihyo does her best to feel normal about it as she sits on her bed and stares at the ceiling. “Do you want clothes to wear?”
It’s a mistake, letting her eyes drift back to Momo when she hears the question. It’s a mistake because Momo is just in a bra and sweatpants and Jihyo feels the tips of her ears prickle with warmth. She’s seen all her friends in varying states of nakedness at some point or another but this time feels different, feels too wrong or too right. The bedroom feels too small, maybe, too hot.
Jihyo clears her throat, feels her scratchy jeans against her legs, her thin sweater suffocating her. “Okay.”
Momo tosses her a tank top and shorts once she’s pulled a shirt over her own head and then flashes Jihyo a quick smile. An innocent smile, because surely Jihyo is the only one being weird right now. Momo looks as relaxed as ever, as always—lips curled softly like she’s never known a reason to frown.
“I’ll make us something to eat. Do you want a beer?”
Jihyo hums, says “okay” again and wonders when she became the less talkative between the two of them. She knows what Momo’s question actually entails—usually one beer becomes two and then three and then Jihyo inevitably stays the night. Because time doesn’t really exist between them at the best of times, let alone when they bring alcohol into the mix.
Jihyo gulps down her sudden nervousness. Wraps herself in Momo’s clothes and tries not to think about how they smell like her. She tries not to be weird—really, she does—but when she finally stumbles out of Momo’s bedroom to the sight of the other woman stirring something hot and sizzling in a pan she feels her knees go weak.
There’s two bottles of beer on the counter behind Momo, so cold that condensation drips down the sides and pools on the surface. Jihyo busies herself with digging through Momo’s drawers to find a bottle opener, and then cracks them both open. She hands one to Momo who tilts her head to the side, eyes squinted playfully. “Thanks, jagiya.”
Jihyo feels dizzy. She laughs, hopes her embarrassment hasn’t rushed to her face. And then she says, “no problem,” and hopes her voice doesn’t sound as weak as she feels. If Momo notices, she doesn’t say anything. She only holds her bottle out for Jihyo to clank her own against, tips her head back to take a long swig, lets out a satisfied breath. The alcohol warms Jihyo’s chest and she settles against the counter to watch Momo work.
“Aren’t you tired?” She suddenly asks.
Momo only shrugs. “Hunger matters more.”
Jihyo smiles at the words. She doesn’t offer to help because she knows Momo doesn’t need it, knows Momo basks in the peace of cooking alone and the reward of someone else enjoying it. So she only watches, takes slow sips from her bottle and tells Momo how good it smells.
They eat quietly, quickly, because Momo didn't have time for lunch and Jihyo keeps stuffing her mouth to prevent herself from nervously speak a mile a minute. Even after the sun has long since set, the night air is thick with heat. So they throw all of Momo’s windows open and sit on the cool floor of her living room once they finish their meal. The dishes lay piled up in the sink and Momo tells her not to worry about them, but Jihyo feels her fingers itch, knows she’ll probably wash them in the morning anyway.
They’re on their third beers now. Jihyo’s smile is more relaxed, limbs loose and lips looser as they talk about anything they can think of.
“Can I do your makeup?” Momo suddenly asks, eyes bright with curiosity. Her own makeup is still on her face from her photoshoot, and Jihyo laughs at the question.
Momo has already stood up, halfway in the bathroom by the time Jihyo calls out, “Why? Do you think I look ugly right now?” She’s bare faced and soft. Her words were a joke but for some reason she feels a wave of insecurity wash over her at the possibility of truth behind them. Unwarranted insecurity, she knows. She hasn’t been short of confidence regarding her natural appearance in years, isn’t sure what it is about Momo or this moment that makes her yearn for silly validation.
The question is met with a roll of Momo’s eyes, hands full with her makeup bag as she settles in front of Jihyo again. “You know I think you’re always pretty.”
The words make Jihyo pause for a moment. She watches Momo dig through the bag noisily, beer bottle sitting forgotten next to her. She chews on her lower lip and contemplates her next words.
“I didn’t,” she says. Momo looks up with confusion in her eyes. Jihyo fumbles nervously with the strap of her tank top that has slipped off her shoulder. “I didn’t know that.”
“That I find you pretty?” Momo asks, slow smile pulling at her lips. “I tell you all the time.”
Jihyo shrugs. She doesn’t know what she wants to hear Momo say, what she needs to ask to get an answer that will sate this gnawing urgency in her throat. She wants to ask, but do you only think I’m pretty as a friend? A coworker? Only in the way I’ve been trained and made to be pretty the same way we all are? Or is there something else there? Something personal? Something that makes your heart beat faster and faster if you think about it for too long?
She says, “I think you’re pretty too,” and Momo’s laugh is like music.
Silence settles between them again. This time Jihyo closes her eyes and hums as Momo starts patting all her favourite products onto her skin, makes little pleased noises whenever something looks good and quiet huffs when she has to wipe something away. A warm hand holds Jihyo’s face still by her jaw, thumb pressing against the corner of her lips and Jihyo feels her heart thudding deep in her chest.
“Can you look up for a sec?”
And then Jihyo is looking at the ceiling and Momo is dabbing under her eyes. When she finishes with a small, “okay,” Jihyo makes the grave mistake of keeping her eyes open, letting them dip down to catch Momo’s concentrated expression. The way her brows are pulled in, her lips pursed into a pout. Jihyo’s stomach lurches. Thinks Momo can’t possibly know how pretty she is like this.
Then Momo’s eyes catch on her own and Jihyo is too slow to do anything but hold her eye contact. Momo smiles. “You okay?” She asks, gaze drifting slowly between each of Jihyo’s eyes. Something thick is bubbling in the space between them. Jihyo almost feels like she can’t breathe.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Momo shrugs once she finally lets her eyes drop, moves her fingers to frame Jihyo chin as she pencils around her lips. “You just seem quiet today.”
She means Jihyo seems weird, surely. And Jihyo is always this strange with Momo. Always this lost in her head, easily embarrassed, jumpy. But Momo never says anything. Simply lets Jihyo’s silent overthinking and anxious jitters be the elephant in the room and Jihyo has always been grateful for it. Today is different, clearly. Today Momo wants answers and Jihyo isn’t sure she knows how to give them.
“Just thinking,” she says instead of anything real. Momo hums like she’s encouraging her to speak, sitting back on her heels and watching Jihyo intently. Jihyo squirms under her gaze, suddenly feels like Momo can read her like a book. Considers that maybe she can.
“You do a lot of that,” Momo says. “What’s going on up there?” She taps Jihyo’s forehead with her finger, mostly teasing, but Jihyo thinks she hears something serious underneath. Something that wants to know.
She clears her throat, looks at the mirror that Momo hands to her and hums happily at her reflection. “I’m thinking you could give the girls at the salon a run for their money,” she says instead of anything important, anything more honest.
Momo laughs at the words but Jihyo knows something is off immediately. Feels the sharpness of the sound, can almost see something that looks a lot like disappointment pooling in Momo’s eyes as she tidies up the makeup from the floor. Dread seeps like ice into Jihyo’s stomach.
Jihyo feels her heartbeat racing in her throat. She watches desperately as Momo makes a move to stand up, and she feels the moment between them slipping and fading so fast she’s afraid to blink in case she loses it.
But the moment passes. She blinks and Momo is gone through the bathroom door. By the time she returns, Jihyo knows whatever was building between them tonight had shattered to pieces.
She watches silently as Momo downs the rest of her beer, drags a hand lazily across her mouth and sighs. Her eyes are brighter, almost softer. Jihyo’s heart skips a beat, futile hope flickering in her chest.
Momo asks, “Should we watch a movie?”
Jihyo wants to say no. Wants to say let me try again, let me be honest. But the words wind tight in her chest and she swallows around them.
“Okay,” she says. “But it’s my turn to pick.”
Momo laughs before standing up, stretching her arms above her head and tossing Jihyo the remote. “Fine,” she shrugs. “As long as you don’t fall asleep midway.”
And then things feel normal, mostly. Like they didn’t almost permanently alter whatever tentative balance they had between them. If the cold ice of dread is still settled at the base of Jihyo’s spine when she wakes up the next morning, she tries not to think about it.
[…]
Things change a bit after that. Something so subtle, so imperceptible to most that Jihyo almost feels crazy for calling it a change at all. Momo still talks to her, still jokes with her the way they always have. They still sit next to each other when Jeongyeon invites them all out to dinner.
But Momo is avoiding her. In her own way. Is avoiding those little moments that Jihyo looks forward to every day, the ones that make her skin itch with anticipation. The phone calls and the late night texts. The lingering glances, fleeting touches so soft and so quick that to anyone else it would be a trick of the light.
It shouldn’t even matter—Momo is busy, they all are. But that never used to be an issue. They would still find pockets of time for each other. And maybe it’s Jihyo’s own overthinking getting in the way, flashes of that missed opportunity playing in her head on an endless loop, mocking her, reminding her of what has slipped between her fingers.
Because that’s what has happened now, hasn’t it? She missed her chance, and she can’t expect Momo to keep waiting forever. To keep playing this game. Except it isn’t a game anymore, and Jihyo may never be able to pinpoint the moment it became something serious, something real. It had all been easy when it was just playful flirting, when they were skirting the lines of a type of friendship neither of them had ever experienced with anyone else.
“Did you ask me to dinner so I could talk to myself all night?” Mina’s voice pulls Jihyo from her thoughts, eyebrows arched in mild annoyance but the humour in her eyes gives away her amusement.
Jihyo sighs. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
She twirls pasta mindlessly around her fork. She doesn’t know why she picked this restaurant.
“What’s wrong, Hyo?” Mina asks like she’s been holding in the question all night, maybe longer. Maybe since Jihyo called her earlier with the desperate urge to go out, or before that, even. Maybe she noticed the tiredness in her eyes, the way Jihyo’s been quieter than usual lately. Mina notices everything, and Jihyo thinks she must be stupid for believing she could fool the other girl.
So, she decides to be honest. Kind of.
“Nothing," she sighs. "It’s just… Does Momo seem okay to you?” She wants to cringe at the question, at how pathetic she sounds, how Mina has asked about Jihyo, but Jihyo can only think of Momo. How did they get here?
(She asks and asks and asks herself. The answer is jumbled up in her chest, waiting for her to choke on it, cough it out once and for all.)
“Momo?” Mina asks, and Jihyo wishes she could take it all back.
“Forget it,” she tries anyway, laughs and twirls her pasta faster.
“Jihyo,” Mina mumbles. She reaches across the table and slows Jihyo’s hand and Jihyo feels tears rise in her throat against her will. “You can talk to me.”
Her voice is earnest and knowing, warm in a way that throws Jihyo back in time. Back years and years ago when she felt like she was crushing under the weight of expectations and responsibility and the only person she’d been able to open up to was Mina with her quiet comfort and her endless patience.
“It’s nothing, really,” she lies. But Mina’s eyes are kind, and she can see right through Jihyo even on the best of days. “I don’t even know what happened.” The words are barely more than a whisper but Mina hears, gaze softening with understanding. Jihyo wants to ask how much she knows, how she knows—if Momo told her or if whatever bloomed between them was just that easy to spot.
“God, I fucked up,” she groans, drops her head to her hands. “It wasn’t supposed to be serious,” she continues, knows she must sound insane with the way she's trying to grasp for words to explain her feelings and continuously coming up short. “I feel like I’m going crazy.” The clatter of the restaurant dims to nothing more than a buzzing between her ears. “She’s always just so… Momo. About everything. Nothing fazes her, meanwhile I feel like I’m struggling just to keep my head above water around her and I have no idea what I’m doing and now I’ve fucked everything up.” The words come out in a rush so fast she wonders if Mina understood a thing she said. She looks up at Mina like the girl will have the key to her problems, will be able to tell her exactly what to do or say to fix the cracks she forced between herself and Momo.
“Ji,” Mina says softly. “I don’t know everything about what’s going on between you two but… I think you just need to talk to her.” And of course Myoui Mina would give her sound, rational advice while Jihyo is in the middle of a catastrophic spiral.
What a terrible friend.
“I can’t,” Jihyo says, clutching her fork so tight her knuckles go white. “There’s so many things that could go wrong.”
Mina looks at Jihyo for a moment, exasperation written clearly on her face. “The choice is yours,” the girl finally says. “Either you self-sabotage and let this weird… thing between you two get worse. Or you take a chance. And not that it’s any of my business, but I think your odds are pretty okay here.” She ends with a shrug, pops a forkful of pasta in her mouth and looks at Jihyo like a challenge.
Jihyo’s eyes dart around Mina’s face like she’s waiting for her to burst into laughter, to say she’s just kidding, that Jihyo should absolutely not actually act on her feelings. But it doesn’t come. Mina only smiles at her, raising an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.
“What if it’s too late?” She asks. Finally, the real concern she’s had this whole time. What if she’s lost her chance forever?
“Jihyo,” Mina says, scolding with care in a way only she can. “We’re talking about Momo here.”
She doesn’t need to elaborate.
“You know, I hate how reasonable you are.”
Mina smiles her smug smile that Jihyo’s been on the receiving end of more than possibly anyone on the planet, and then Mina pays their bill. She waves away Jihyo’s protests like they’re nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing in her personal space. But later, when Jihyo's car pulls to a stop in front of Mina’s building, the other girl gives her hand a squeeze.
“You guys will be fine, you know?” Mina says. “No matter what happens.”
And, god, Jihyo hopes she’s right.
[...]
It’s Momo that reaches out first. Somehow Jihyo thinks it's always Momo.
Jihyo is settling on her couch with a second bottle of soju, body exhausted from her schedule but mind unable to stop racing for the few minutes it would take her to collapse into sleep. She’s pouring a shot for herself when a succession of knocks ring out in her empty apartment. She stares at the door dumbly for a moment, confusion and sudden nervousness washing over her as she tries to think of who could be visiting her at this time. Anybody who would show up on her doorstep unannounced surely knows the code to her apartment.
She finally gets to her feet when another knock pulls her out of her thoughts. She looks through the hole in her door and feels her chest heave at the sight of Momo. For one cowardly moment she wonders if she could just not answer. Could pretend to be asleep, save this moment for another day, on her own terms. But the thought of sending Momo away at this time of night sends a pang of guilt through her body. And something more… Something like longing fills her head, clouds her brain, makes her feel so suddenly desperate to have Momo in her company. Really there, not just the facade they put on in front of cameras and members, not just this halfway attention that Momo has been feeding her hesitantly, sparingly.
The door swings open. Momo’s eyes are wide as if she wasn’t expecting Jihyo to be on the other side. Jihyo’s first thought is that Momo looks cute right now, and then she pretends not to know why she thinks that at all.
“Hey,” Jihyo manages to croak out, liquor sitting warm in her belly. She feels a wave of dizziness rush over her.
“Hey,” Momo nods back. She takes her shoes off and steps around Jihyo, moves through her apartment like she belongs there and something threads sharply through Jihyo’s chest at the thought. “I brought wine but… I guess you already started.” The words are teasing, but there’s worry buried deep beneath them and Jihyo almost feels embarrassed as she steps over to block the sight of her soju with her body.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she mumbles as an excuse.
“Me neither,” Momo hums. And then it’s quiet for a moment, awkward in a way they’ve never truly been. “I hope you don’t mind,” Momo says suddenly, quickly, flickers of regret weighing down the edges of her words. “I should’ve called.” But she’s never needed to before, and the words force Jihyo to face the fact that something really has shifted between them and that it’s all her fault.
“I don’t mind,” she says. A pause. She chews on her fingernail, watches Momo fidget with the wine bottle and feels an overwhelming rush of affection. “I’m actually glad you’re here.”
Momo looks at her then, eyes softening, some of the tension melting around them. Jihyo can finally breathe.
Momo starts moving around the kitchen looking for a couple of wine glasses before she settles by the counter once more. Mina’s words ring in Jihyo’s ears against her will—take a chance. She feels suddenly detached from her body, watching the scene unfold before her like none of this is truly happening. Like she’s dreaming.
“Momo,” she mumbles, and the word does not come from her, though her own lips move with the sound. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” And it all sounds so foreign, like her head is underwater, ears filled with cotton, she sees Momo look up, confusion and hope and something else Jihyo can’t name swimming in her eyes and she thinks, surely she can’t be looking at me like that.
Momo is quiet, gives Jihyo time to splutter and choke over her own words. She’s patient where Jihyo is not and for the first time ever, Jihyo almost resents her for it. How easy this would be if Momo just wrenched the words from Jihyo’s throat by force, if she would be selfish enough to back Jihyo into a corner and rip her heart from her chest once and for all, to keep it all to herself.
Instead she waits, and she watches. Jihyo finally pulls out a chair to sit, elbows thudding heavily on the counter as she leans into it.
“I don’t know where to start,” she says, tries to be honest.
And all she can think is, if only she cared less. If only she wanted this less. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to spit it out, to be honest. The incessant voice in her head talks about rejection and humiliation and she knows, she knows, how silly it is to think like that when Momo is looking at her with warmth in her eyes, standing there with her heart on her sleeve. When Momo has been the only one giving and giving and giving.
But what if?
A gentle hand grips her own, pulls it away from her face, and the pressure in Jihyo’s head grows and grows until all she can feel is a blinding white pain pounding behind her eyes. “It’s okay,” Momo mumbles. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
And then Jihyo’s heart lurches in her chest. Because here is Momo telling her it’s okay, that they can brush this thing between them under the rug again, that Jihyo can breathe, can live to see another day.
Somewhere behind them, the city croons its song through Jihyo’s open window.
Jihyo feels it then, the pressure slipping down from her head, pressing behind her heart. It coils tight in her chest, thick and solid as she swallows and swallows and tries to force it back down. Or maybe, for once, to force it up. Up and out until everything she’s trying to say is splattered warm and viscous on the countertop between them. She looks up, eyes meeting a curious gaze that burns with worry. But Jihyo thinks she still sees that something else, something hopeful, thinly veiled excitement shooting through irises like lightning, so fast Jihyo would miss it if she blinked.
She feels like she may be sick.
“I just…” the words are weak and pathetic. Twinkling eyes grow brighter, lightning strikes and thunder roars. She chokes out, “I just really like being around you.”
A laugh. A sound of disbelief laced with amusement. Jihyo’s cheeks burn until fire licks at her ears.
“You… like being around me?” Momo asks slowly. Some of the tension has eased. Jihyo’s breathing has slowed, Momo’s grip around her wrist has loosened, shifted to hold Jihyo’s fingers. The smile is painted plainly on Momo’s face now, and she laughs again. “You look like you’re going to throw up, Hyo.”
“I might,” Jihyo says, is honest again, feels the truth flowing out of her like air now. “Sometimes,” she starts, “I don’t know how to exist around you. And then I feel stupid.” She pauses only to take a slow, trembling breath. “Because how do I tell someone I’ve known and loved for years that our friendship is suffocating me because… because I want more.”
Momo’s breath hitches, the weight of Jihyo’s words smoothing out the amusement on her face. And then it all feels very real, and Jihyo can’t take her words back, can’t put them between her teeth and chew them down until they are nothing more than powder dissolving on her tongue. Everything about it is terrifying, but Momo is still holding her hand. Jihyo figures that must count for something.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” Momo finally hums. She takes a step forward, lets go of Jihyo’s shaking hand to touch her palm to Jihyo’s cheek warmed by the fire of her embarrassment. “For a while, actually.”
Jihyo rolls her eyes before she can catch herself, but her face splits into an easy grin, head leaning into Momo’s hand. “You know I’m an overthinker.”
“Or maybe underthinker, in this case.” Momo’s voice is all warmth and soft teasing as she runs a thumb over Jihyo’s cheekbone and it’s almost scary—how normal this feels, as if they’ve been doing this for ages. And maybe they have, sharing intimacy and affection in their own quiet way.
“Are you going to kiss me now or what?” Jihyo asks, defaults back to her defiance to mask the vulnerability threatening to rip her inside out, pretends the question doesn’t make her heart beat in her throat. But Momo only laughs, and Jihyo can do nothing but melt into the sound.
Momo leans in then, breath brushing hot over Jihyo’s lips. “Big demands from the girl that almost fainted trying to say that she wants me.”
Jihyo whines and Momo laughs and then their lips are slotting together slowly, tentatively. It’s a gentle thing that makes heat unfurl from Jihyo’s gut up to the tips of her ears, down to her toes. She sighs against Momo’s mouth, and tugs her closer by her hips until Momo is standing between her legs, flush against her, and then they pull apart. Jihyo wraps her arms around Momo’s waist, presses her ear to Momo’s chest, squeezes her eyes shut in disbelief. She hears Momo’s heart thudding against her ribcage, feels Momo’s fingers threading softly through her hair. She reminds herself to breathe and all she can smell is Momo, Momo, Momo.
“I’m not dreaming, am I?” She asks quietly. Momo lets out an amused puff of air against the top of Jihyo’s head and pinches her side, laughter bubbling up into the quiet apartment when Jihyo yelps.
“Nope.” Momo’s face is flushed and painted with amusement when Jihyo pulls back to glare at her.
“You’re making me second guess this, Hirai.” But the words taste like a lie and Momo only smiles down at her.
“No I’m not. Park Jihyo has feelings for me,” Momo sings as she continues poking at her sides. “She wants to date me.”
Jihyo’s stomach lurches at the words and she finally catches Momo’s wrists, breathless with laughter. “I do,” she mumbles.
Jihyo leans forward this time, tilts her head up and presses kiss after kiss into Momo’s mouth until they have to pull away pink-cheeked and panting. She lets her hand rest on Momo’s cheek, running her thumb over Momo’s lips and lets out a dazed sigh before her eyes widen. “Nayeon’s never going to let us live this down.”
Momo barks out a laugh, head tipped back so far she nearly falls right over. Jihyo catches her and can’t contain her own laughter at the sight of Momo’s flailing arms as she brings them both to their feet.
Maybe, she thinks—with fondness in her chest and only a little bit of horror—the inevitable teasing will be worth it.