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The penthouse was quiet besides the chatter on the TV, but even the bickering of the reality show contestants was pure background noise for Rumi.
She was sitting on the couch, a bowl of snacks in her lap, with a hoodie over her and pyjama bottoms. Her eyes were glued to the television screen, but it was a blank stare. Her mind was numb even though underneath the stillness she could feel the trembling thoughts. Pushing them down felt heavy, like they were tugging her lungs down with them. She was so far away from herself, and yet so close. She could feel the soft fabric brush alongside her sides, the heat of the bowl she had been holding for some time now, the shallow breaths which were not satiating enough.
For a second, she snapped out of it, and took a breath in, but she shuddered with the exhale. It was like she let out a bitter secret with the air she let out. Like she let the shame inside her colour the room around. A frown fell upon her face, and she unconsciously stiffened her shoulders as the thoughts swarmed in, as if they were waves waiting for the tide, waiting to devour the coast.
Shame. What a word! What an absolutely thick word, viscous with the fears it dragged along. Yes, the confession regarding her heritage was out in the open now. Well, only her bandmates knew about it, but even that felt like a lot more than Rumi would prefer. They talked about it a bit. Mira and Zoey were quite patient with her, letting her words come out at their own pace, through sobs, through hiccups. That had been a long night, and it should have made Rumi feel more at ease, but that was far from reality.
Rumi didn't say much. She didn't want Zoey and Mira to explore her feelings, to psychoanalyse, to delve deep into how it all affected her. And excuses rolled off her tongue like it was second nature to her which, after all, maybe it was. She avoided the conversation like it was the plague. Thinking about letting it all out in front of them, stripping herself to bare bones with such sincerity — it was too much. And „too much“ was something she was not ready for.
Days passed, and yes, her bandmates gave her a good chunk of comforting words, understanding looks, reassurement… everything Rumi could ask for, really. But the thoughts would still nibble. At least at first. Then there were nights when they would bite, when they would sink their teeth in and tear at the corners of her consciousness. Before they would come to her through Celine's voice, through Gwi Ma's growls, but lately the condescending words have been forming in her own voice.
Like tonight. Tonight when she was supposed to take a self care day or whatever. She deserved it, and she was aware of it even without Zoey and Mira pointing it out to her. GOLDEN was a roaring success, and it already hit the charts in all the best ways. It was a good excuse to have a night out, to celebrate, to relax. The original plan was the bathhouse until Zoey insisted on going out to this bar they had been meaning to check out for the longest time because of the never-heard-before cocktails they were offering, and both Mira and Rumi were up for it. However, as they were getting ready, and as the night was caving in, as the outfits were being pulled from the back of their closets, Rumi felt more and more sick. Actually physically sick. Which wasn't the greatest surprise in the world. At times, the abstract thoughts would morph into something tangible and her body would match the ill thoughts that would grasp at the corners of her mind. Maybe she should have seen it coming considering the past few weeks. Still, it disappointed her when the nausea started scratching at the back of her throat while Zoey and Mira were talking in the living room, waiting for her to join them.
They weren't mad, of course. They knew how hard this all was for her. She could play the tough guy, the leader that never backs down, but they knew how much everything hurt still, how many layers of pain she had to peel off, and Rumi hated that her pain was so clear as if it was served on a platter. They would have called it a raincheck, but Rumi already felt bad enough, so she begged them to have fun tonight before work chores caught up with them. And she promised them that she would find comfort in an old show, a favourite snack. They felt uneasy leaving her alone, but she promised and promised, and so they went.
As soon as the door closed, as the echoes of their steps disappeared, Rumi knew the promise had no way of being kept up. The nausea faded, but she still felt weak. She shook her head, clutching the kitchen counter, frowning. The cold marble felt like ice on her warm palms.
„It's okay. I'm going to be okay. It's fine.“ She mumbled the little mantras, tasting the empty words. She knew it was going to be a long night and not just because she knew that Zoey and Mira would be out for many hours.
Sometime before quietly spiralling on the couch and whispering the „encouraging“ words, she changed into a hoodie and long pyjama pants. If prompted, she would answer readily that it was her go-to comfy outfit, which it was, but it also covered every bit of skin that was covered in lightning-like patterns.
And exactly those patterns were the centre of her thoughts right now since they were the root of her shame. Everything stemmed from them, and Rumi had gotten into a bad habit of clutching her upper arms, where the patterns have started, and digging her nails into the soft skin. It hurt, yes, but that was the point. For a moment, she would feel in control, like she was fighting a full fleshed-out demon but with a miniscule movement. It would ground her, and the leftover semi-circles would take almost no time to fade out, leaving the skin pristine and seemingly untouched.
So that's what she did as the numbness transformed into aching worry and as the transformed into agony. Automatically her hands flew to her arms, and even though the hoodie was kind of a barrier, the pain still struck her. Brought her back. Brought back the tingling numbness that was much more preferable to an active meltdown.
She could feel the patterns almost moving where her nails left marks. They weren't actually moving, but it was like they shifted, flickered under the pressure. The feeling wasn't new in its nature, but it was new in its intensity. Before, it was much lighter, almost like the patterns were restricted. That was before they started spreading. Well, they were always spreading, but the spreading was so slow that she hadn't paid much attention to it. At least not until the final concert of their world tour, until the sudden release of GOLDEN, until her voice cracked at notes that, usually, she had no problem dealing with. It was humiliating, and the feeling wrapped around her chest as she rushed to the bathroom. She was distraught. The patterns shot up to her shoulders, snaked around her waist, and made their way across her collarbones. Her throat was plastered with pale purple vines that mocked her. And they weren't as quiet as before.
Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was fear contained within herself alongside shame and guilt and other unwelcome emotions. She wasn't sure, but a change took place and the patterns were now less like an unnoticeable static and more like a sluggish stream. It prickled, annoyed her, and the sliver of pain from her nails she would let herself bask in for the moment to calm herself became less and less appealing with the ever growing repulse from the very things engraved into her skin. She didn't want to touch them. They didn't feel human. They felt demonic. They were demonic. And the word melted in her throat with wince, and the toxicity that melted with it spread like wildfire through her. Soon, her hands were trembling, her spine collapsed and her hands were holding her head up, digging into her hair. Her breath hitched, and she could feel her thighs tensing up, as well as her fists, and horror overcame her when she realised she couldn't unchlech them. Couldn't relax.
„No, no, this is—this is not happening. I'm, okay, I—It's okay.“ She slurred the words, her voice an octave higher than usual, chopping her sentences with shallow breaths that did no favours to the growing hunger for air.
It was like fog fell upon her brain, a distant ringing enveloping her skull as her muscles ached with the tension. Her hands, once again, found their way to her arms, squeezing, compressing her skin until the blood flowing through felt thinner. Her cries reverbed through her body, and she felt trapped. As if every rib was limiting her ability to breathe, as if her skin was crawling under the fabric. She tried to breathe faster to compensate, but to no avail. Sweat formed in small droplets on the back of her neck. She felt her throat drying up, but there was no saliva to swallow down.
This isn't supposed to be happening.
I'm over this. I'm supposed to be over this.
They know, they know. There is nothing to panic over.
I'm Rumi. I'm supposed to be put together.
I am supposed to, to—this cannot be happening.
What did this make her? She could not, for the life of her, compose herself. Darkness dotted in the corners of her vision, and her head suddenly wasn't that heavy on her neck. Drowning. This must be what drowning feels like.
Rumi.
A mistake. A liability. The words surged into her mind. Irreparably damaged, eternally cursed. The patterns were flaring up, and it felt like a fire was brewing under her skin. The pain branching around her arms wasn't enough anymore, and she arched over in desperation as her nails—no, claws—dug in deeper. It didn't help. Nothing was helping. The pale violet markings now shined a dim red. Not that she noticed, but the colours changed regardless of audience. All she knew was that they were like a flame coming alive, its tips licking over her fragile skin.
Rumi.
A voice full of hatred drew the four letters inside her head. The failure. The monster who backtracked the Honmoon's progress, set them all back with a few pleading screams. She has to keep this all in. She absolutely has to keep the panic at bay. She's sabotaging the mission. She could hurt someone. Hurt her friends. This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
„Rumi!“
In a split second, the pressure on her shoulders materialised into something real, beyond the savage illusions of her mind. Even though her inhales were flat, she felt the change in the air, the crisp scent that came with a familiar voice that called out her name. She forced her eyes open.
The room before her was encapsulated in a darkened blur, and tears tinged the corners of her eyes. She heard her name again, but it was less a vibration in her skull and more of an external call. She blinked, forcing her vision to clear through the scattered mess she felt; the thudding heart, the sinking lungs, the ache, oh, the never-ending ache. Her nerves were still firing, her fists still clenched, but she felt another pair of hands over her upper arms. Some sense reached her processing region, and she saw, finally, the face covered in worry in front of her.
„—here, Rumi, Rumi, I'm here. I'm here, it's all okay now.“
Mira. Mira and her quick sentences which hinted at nervousness. The heat was still present, spreading down her back, sizzling on the surface, but the cold touch of Mira's hands contrasted it. Fought it. Toned it down. The patterns were still shifting like she was on top of a moving train, but Mira's voice pushed the sensation back.
Mira's touch was firm, but gentle, anchoring Rumi like she was a building ready to topple over. Rumi's head was still buzzing, but she tried to say something. She opened her mouth, and ravenously inhaled as if she had been suffocating for the past few minutes. Mira's hands slipped down to her fists, and she enveloped them. Rumi looked down at the limbs she lost control over. The buzzing didn't die down. Mira's voice spread around her, but it was a rumble against the static in her head. She could see her mouth forming words, probably repeating what she already said.
„Mira.“ Rumi tried to voice her name, but the rough edges of her voice mellowed the word into an unintelligible mess. It sounded like a broken plead.
Her flail voice made Mira shut up. She seemed collected at first; her hair slickly pulled into two pigtails, the alert look, the grasp she held Rumi in. But past it, Rumi could see now, there were thousands of questions piling up, each building a unique fear that Mira brawled with as she looked into the shattered state Rumi was in. recognised it all. The familiar gestures, the smallest twitches in her face. They spent enough time together for her to catch the subtle changes. And she spent enough time looking at Mira, taking it all in, whether consciously or subconsciously.
„I—I'm, this was, I don't—„
„Shh, shh. It's okay.“ Mira's right hand flew up to Rumi's cheek, brushing over the sharp-edged pattern that decorated the area.
„You don't have to say anything. Don't say anything.“ She sat beside her, her thumb feeling the fine line between her skin and her patterns, the smallest difference in texture.
Only then did Mira notice the colours that were dusting the patterns; the wine red, the iridescent pink, and the way the patterns looked like a brand, an imprint that Rumi could not get rid of. No matter how hard she wanted to. The colours settled a bit, still restless, but not in a frantic way that was present just a few moments before. The hues gushed and overlapped, framing the edges of Rumi's face. Mira's eyes followed the road they have paved onto Rumi down her neck which was the only uncovered part of her besides the face.
„I'm here. It's okay.“ She said in a hushed voice as if anything louder would shatter Rumi.
Her stare was dazed, defenceless, and as Mira's voice grounded her, she felt bitter feelings claw their way up to her throat. Tears formed again at the corners of her eyes, and one of her hands flew up to her mouth as if that would contain the sob that escaped right then and there.
„I—I'm sorry, I didn't—“
„Rumi, please.“ Mira cut her off, her voice breaking halfway.
She grabbed Rumi by the wrist, lowering her hand. Her hands were still shaking, but Mira brushed her knuckles with her thumbs, hoping that would calm her down.
„Please. Don't apologise.“
The chatter from the TV intensified for a moment, pulling Rumi's attention. The bowl with uneaten snacks was set down on the coffee table, and pain around her lungs waned as she was getting back to herself. The scene showing on the screen was quite unexpected, and for a moment Rumi wondered how much drama she missed out on. How much time had passed. The night sky was littered with artificial light, the skyscrapers stretching out as long as the eye could see, and even though the windows were closed, Rumi could hear, or at least imagine, the sound of traffic; the grumbly pedestrians, the rumbles of engines. Or maybe it was all in her head.
Rumi's cheeks were wet and sticky with tears. The nerves in her hands finally regained control, and she flexed her fingers inwards and outwards, slowly, as if she was trying out this new body she was given. Mira stayed silent, and Rumi knew the expression sewn across her face. It was the same look Mira would give to sponsors coming to them, trying to decipher their true motives. Rumi looked as the skin on her hands flexed. The cuticles on her fingers were a tad bit bloody, and Mira's fingers brushed over them. The specks stained her own skin, and that's when Rumi felt the pain there; small yet present. She pulled her hands away from Mira's grasp, looking over the copper tracks. She picked at the edge of her brittle nails.
Her braid was tousled, her figure hunched over, and her focus directed at the nails, as if she hadn't just broken down. Her breaths got deeper, though shaky during exhales, and even though her shoulders were still tense, the wave that engulfed her passed, leaving her dishevelled.
„Rumi.“
It took her a second to hear Mira's voice, to register the desperate tone hidden under it. She looked up, meeting her gaze. The heat still lingered, and for a second she worried that she had burns left over. She pulled her sleeves up, but there was nothing there. Nothing besides the patterns, sharp prisms of purple and pink, luminous and innocent. She must have imagined it. But then again, the sweat trickled down her back, and she felt uncomfortably warm. A sigh left her throat, and she pulled the sleeves down before wrapping her arms around her sides.
„I'm fine,“ She answered the silent question, her voice raspy from the crying, from the dryness that still hadn't left her mouth. „I'm fine now. It's fine.“
Rumi avoided Mira's eyes, instead focusing on the floor, on the folds her pants made. This was a mistake. She couldn't let her emotions get the best of her. Not like this. Not in front of others. She felt defeated, and couldn't bring herself to face her best friend, couldn't bear to even imagine what was going on through her head now. That she's a bad leader, a weakling, or something. Rumi couldn't even string together a row of words in her head. The buzzing hadn't died down yet.
Mira looked over her like she was a caged animal. God, Rumi hated that. She didn't want anyone pitying her, and she wished she could back into her room, let the night pass in silence, but she wasn't sure if she could even stand up like this. And it would probably be rude. Her fingers curled around the fabric on her sides, and she sniffled.
„You're not fine.“
Rumi ignored her, but as she swallowed, she felt the words dig into her heart. She could not admit that to herself. Admitting that was admitting defeat.
„Rumi, please,“ Mira said, a whisper, the smallest breeze, „Just look at me.“
The floor was dragging her gaze down, but she fought it, and with a frown she lifted her head up. It was almost regal: the sudden straight pose, the raised head, the scrunched eyebrows, but the tear stains were ruining the image. The poise was far away from being there.
Mira slowly reached her right hand towards Rumi's cheek, but Rumi turned her head away. Mira's hand retreated, but she couldn't see the look that accompanied the motion. She wasn't sure how Mira and Zoey felt about her patterns. Well, she had her theories, but none of them were cheerful, so she tried not to think too much about what she looked like in their eyes since it all went down. She was sure that the stares weren't indicators of anything good, and that made her want to hide, cover up, disappear. She felt dirty, filthy, smeared with patterns that were echoing the worst version of herself.
Rumi was wary, careful, even though it was just Mira, even though it was just her hand trying to meet her face. She wasn't sure what to do. Part of her wanted to run, escape like some feral animal, go somewhere where she could never be found, but another part of her, which was often muffled beneath everything else, dreamt of closeness. Dreamt of someone else's touch. Dreamt of letting herself fall into someone's arms, letting her body succumb to the relief her best friends were offering just for one evening. She ached for a gentle touch, for fingers through her hair, palms over her back, her thighs, her face. And there were nights when the ache was far too deep, like a gash that would never heal, because such wishes were unattainable for someone as dangerous as herself. And she knew it all to well.
„Where's Zoey?“ She said, genuinely curious, trying to pull her thoughts away from the danger zone they were going towards.
Mira sighed, and her hand flew to the back of her neck which she scratched mindlessly.
„We bumped into some fans while coming home. I was so tired from the outing, so she told me to go home, that she will handle it.“ Mira said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. „She's probably enjoying herself. She likes attention whether or not she admits it.“
„Yeah, can't blame her.“ Rumi tightened the hold across her body.
Attention. Rumi liked it, there was no denying it. The fans screaming, the spotlights surrounding her. The good kind of tired that came after shows, the stiff wrist that followed fan signings. But this? This attention felt like an avalanche tumbling her way to smother her. Her instinct was to run. Her buried craving was to stay.
She looked at Mira. Something twisted inside of her, something that pushed her towards the edge of a cliff, though she couldn't tell you what that cliff was supposed to represent. As much as she felt at peace with Mira, she felt cautious, and she wasn't sure why.
It's not like their relationship was perfect. Something like that doesn't exist, anyway. But her arguments with Zoey and her arguments with Mira had a staggering difference. Zoey would usually agree with her at the end, let her „win“ the argument, let her get her way. Mira wasn't like that. Too often she found Mira's stubbornness annoying. But she admired it in a way. Mira held her ground. Mira wasn't afraid of confrontation. Yes, they clashed sometimes, but that's not the root of the cautiousness Rumi experienced around her. She knew that because Mira had never made her feel like less, she never acted towards her like a foe. Rumi almost felt like she was keeping herself at bay, like she had to hold her breath around her. Like she was trapped, but not in a bad way. Rumi could not make sense of it no matter how much she thought about it, repeating the moments they shared in excruciating detail. It was far from rational, so she didn't bother. But in a way, she longed for her approval. Her opinion mattered to her in a way she couldn't compare to Bobby or any other member of the crew. It was only comparable to what she felt with Zoey. Two sides of the same coin. Figuring out what it was seemed tiring.
She almost dared to call herself nervous. Almost.
Silence stretched between them, a chasm that longed for a bridge. Rumi wasn't sure what to do; should she say something, do something? She was definitely glad Mira pulled her out of her meltdown, but the aftermath was awkward at best, and she shuffled in her position on the couch, letting her arms loosen their grip.
She felt destroyed, for goodness' sake. Her voice was coarse, and the familiar touch of the hoodie over her was becoming claustrophobic. Nevertheless, she refused to pull her sleeves up. There was no need. No need for Rumi to see them, their clear lines, their unsteady colours. No need for Mira to be reminded of them.
„Do you want, uh, water?“ Mira asked, her voice a thin blade through the silence.
Rumi nodded, and in an instant Mira was up and going towards the sink. Rumi looked over her shoulder, tracing Mira's steps with her eyes. The slender arms that reached for the cupboard, and how her shirt hitched up just a bit with the motion. A remain of the flame she was engulfed in minutes ago touched upon her cheeks and she brought her gaze back to her hands. She had nothing to swallow down anymore, so she waited patiently for the glass of water.
The sound of water filling up the glass engulfed the room. She could bolt out of the room now, right? Mira was too far away to stop her. Rumi's thighs tensed with the idea as if ready to jump on her command. No, no, she's going to black out if she stands up now. She can't risk that. When she drinks the water, she'll tell her that she's going to sleep. Something she should have done way before she freaked out.
Mira returned, stretching her hand out. Rumi took the glass with both hands, and while the cold water was flowing down her throat, she could feel her body relaxing. For a brief moment, her brain was blank, the swarm of thoughts silent. The buzzing was a memory soon to be long forgotten.
„Do you want more?“
Rumi shook her head, and hunched over to set the glass on the coffee table. Silence threatened to hug them again. Rumi knew there were unsaid things between them. They closed in on her with each passing moment.
Guilt. That's what this is.
Even though she would have rather kept it all inside, selfishly holding onto her worries, she knew that she owed this to Mira and Zoey. She had to say something, let them know that she isn't angry at them, let them know that she wants them by her side.
Let them know how much it all hurts.
Still, no matter how much she pushed the words to get out, they remained in her voice box. Learned behaviour. Celine's advice blinked in her mind. Celine's reminders. Celine's warnings. Was Mira even in the mood for something like that right now? Maybe she shouldn't bother her.
But then again… Maybe it would be okay to just free herself for this one night. Share the sorrows. What's the worst thing that could happen, anyway?
Mira busied herself with the TV show, but Rumi knew she wasn't actually paying attention. She suspected it was Mira avoiding the patterns spread on her face and neck. Rumi pulled the hoodie up a bit, covering the neck as much as she could. She knew that the patterns aren't going away any time soon. However, she will get used to them some other time. Baby steps.
„Can you, um, sit down?“ Rumi said, her words faster than her brain. Did she sound
confrontational?
„Yeah, no problem.“ Mira said, and resumed her position on the couch, her gaze searching.
Rumi let her head fall on the headrest of the couch. The ceiling was not as interesting as she hoped. She sniffed, gave herself a second before she cleared her throat. Or maybe it was just stalling. She looked at Mira, determined. Ready. Kind of.
„I know that, I mean, this is all—“
„Rumi,“ Mira immediately cut her off, „Sorry, I just—I feel so bad letting you talk. I mean, you don't have to talk about this right now. If it's hard. You know? I'm not sure where you're going with this, but if it's too heavy at the moment, I can—I don't mind waiting.“
Rumi's gaped at Mira, not knowing how to follow up on that.
„I'm here for you. You know that, right?“ Mira leaned in just a bit, her eyes trying to find reassurance.
It seemed like Rumi's trust was of utmost importance to her, and that realisation washed over Rumi like a morning shower, pleasant with the simple joy it brought. She almost smiled.
The look in Mira eyes, the anxiety settled on her face—it all made Rumi rethink all the times when she felt alone. So many times it was her against the world, but she never considered that her bandmates, on the other side of the wall, longed to be by her side. She was never comfortable with others sharing her pain, but in this moment, the shame of her faults was buried deep down beneath something she could only describe as relief. Relief that someone cares, someone truly cares. Yes, she knew Mira was her best friend, but to see her at one of her lower moments and to not turn her back… it was all Rumi could ask for.
Before she knew what she was doing, her arms snaked around Mira's waist and her head leaned in to rest upon her shoulder, completing the sudden hug. Mira was taken aback, but quickly her own arms enveloped Rumi, and Rumi exhaled heavily. She couldn't remember when was the last time they were this close. Since the patterns spread even more, hugs were off limits in her head.
Rumi buried her head in Mira's shoulder, taken back by the warmth that filled her. Comfortable warmth, without teeth like the one she experienced before. Rumi regretted all the times she pushed Mira away, and she couldn't believe in that moment that this was what she was missing out on; a soft, safe embrace, someone ready to comfort her, to take on the weight upon her shoulders.
„I should have trusted you.“ She meant to say it in a rock solid voice, but it came out as barely a whisper. „I'm sorry.“ A tear slid down her cheek, wetting the thin fabric on Mira's shoulder.
Her heart thumped with regret. Her eyes were soaking Mira's shirt as Rumi sobbed. She could feel Mira's hand stroking her back up and down. She was starving. Starving for this. Starving for such intimacy, starving for her touch. And it really took her a breakdown to admit it.
„It goes both ways, you know.“ Mira pulled away from the hug, but let her hands rest on Rumi's shoulder as she gave her such a tender look. Rumi isn't sure if she encountered it ever before. „From now on, no more secrets, okay? We can handle it, Rumi.“
She cupped Rumi's face, brushing under her eyes to wipe away the few tears that stuck to her waterline. „I'm not going anywhere. I'm by your side, Rumi. For ever and ever.“
Rumi grasped Mira's forearms and tilted her head ever so lightly, basking in the indescribable feeling that coiled in her insides. She knew that a „thank you“ wasn't necessary. She actually saw the understanding in Mira's eyes. How eager she was to reach out. To truly be there, no matter what. That was more than enough.
—
Zoey's cheeks hurt from all the smiling. She staggered a bit as she retreated away from the fans. It was a small group of older teenagers, and she hoped it would be just some empty chatter, small talk, until she could go back home, but it morphed into them telling their life story while she was nodding and grinning throughout it all. Was she glad that HUNTR/X was their first step into k-pop? Sure! Sure she was! Whatever helps the Honmoon! But, goodness, they could have posted that on Twitter or something, hoping she would come across it.
No matter, she survived. Her legs were tired from all the standing, and the aftertaste of whatever alcohol she tasted in that bar lingered on her tongue. She was stronger than a few shots, though, and she kept her guard up as she slithered down a few streets. Still unsure about someone following her since it had happened before, she passed some parking lots and shops to throw off any too enthusiastic fan. Once she was sure that she was alone, or rather, that she was not being followed, since the streets of Seoul were never completely quiet, she got home.
She looked at the mirror in the elevator. Luckily, it won't take her long to take off all the makeup. Her hair wasn't even in that bad of a state considering the dance moves she pulled tonight. The ache in her muscles lulled her. She was already daydreaming about her bed, and how she was going to sleep in tomorrow. Chores could wait, anyway. She could maybe even try to beg Bobby to give them a break since Rumi cut the last one short.
Rumi.
Zoey stiffened as the name popped in her mind. Rumi wasn't exactly in the best state one could be in, and Zoey felt so bad about leaving her to herself for a whole night. The guilt got to her through layers of intoxicating drinks. Who knows how long she was left with her own thoughts. She wasn't even sure what time it was, or how much more time she wasted on the fans. She rubbed her temples, and willed herself to calm down. Everything is fine! No need to panic! If something had happened, she would have gotten a call from Rumi. Or from Mira who, hopefully, didn't run into another group of unexpected fans along the way home.
Once she entered the penthouse, she squinted. The only light came from the street lights, from the lively city. On the couch she could make out a figure, so she carefully stepped towards it.
„Mira?“ She whispered, and the figure turned, revealing the sharp features which crowned Mira's face.
„Hey, Zo.“ She smiled. „Alive?“
„Heh, barely!“ Her hands flew up, dancing through the air in quick gestures. „You'd think there is no one more boring than your parents, but like, I truly thought about comparing—“
„Shh, shh, just a tad bit quieter, please.“ Mira winced at the crescendo in Zoey's voice. „Rumi fell asleep.“
„She's here?“ Zoey raised an eyebrow, and went around the couch, and would you look at that! There Rumi was, her head rested on Mira's chest, her mouth a bit open. No tense shoulders. Sadness completely wiped away.
„She looks so…“ Zoey trailed off.
„Yeah.“ Mira brushed away a strand that fell down Rumi's face. „I know.“ She glanced up towards Zoey with a knowing smile, and Zoey could only smile back, affection filling her insides for the two girls sprawled in front of her.
She was set on joining them on the couch, so she took a quick shower, hoping her head wouldn't hurt too much in the morning. Once she slipped into her pyjamas, she tiptoed back to the living room. Mira lifted her left hand, waiting for Zoey to fill the empty space with her presence. Zoey nestled there, and let her head rest on Mira's shoulder. She wanted to talk, to babble about something before sleep took over her, but her eyelids were just so heavy.
She yawned. „Is she okay?“
A beat of silence. Zoey wondered if Mira heard her, but then her raspy, tired voice reached her ears. „She had… a rough night. I don't know when she's going to be okay, but I made sure she knew that we're here.“ Mira's hand rested on Zoey's, rubbing little circles in her palm.
„That's good.“ Zoey tilted her head up to meet Mira's eyes in the dim light. „I'm sure she felt at peace with you.“
„You think so?“
„I know so.“ Zoey smiled. „I always feel better when you're next to me.“
Had Zoey let her gaze linger there for a moment more, and had she squinted a bit, she would have seen Mira's rosy cheeks. But sleep overtook her, and Mira felt when the pressure on her shoulder increased as Zoey let her head fall down, her body limp, her thoughts strung together in a dream.
Mira's lips upturned into the smallest smile before she let sleep overtake her, too.