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It starts with a kiss.
Admittedly, Mira had been caught in the heat of the moment. Not everyday does she get to hold one of the most important people in her life with such tenderness, nor see them laugh with such freedom—although it has become a more common occurrence in the past few months. The heavy atmosphere of a long overdue talk had finally lifted. Was it her fault that Rumi looked so stupidly kissable? With her flushed cheeks and shimmering starlight on her skin? Could Mira really be blamed?
The thing is: it starts with a kiss, but it isn’t the first.
Zoey is not a pretty crier but Mira still finds her to be one of the most gorgeous people she has ever laid eyes on, and so they kiss. It’s unfair. She can’t even recall who initiated it, but the hunger in it sticks to the back of her mind for weeks.
This leaves Mira in an awkward spot—of her own doing, mind you. Because she is impulsive and gay. Because she should have perhaps thought things through a little better. Because she should have considered that the two women she loves are kind of a mess.
And maybe, just maybe, they need to talk all together instead of these one-on-one sessions they've been having.
“I’m sorry, you kissed who?”
“Rumi. You know. Anxious, purple, a rave on her own.”
“Shut up! You don't- Why are you joking about this? What the hell, Mir!” Zoey whirls around in her desk chair, bewildered, because she can’t keep being ambushed in her own damn room like this. At least the kitchen would be neutral ground, damnit!
And Mira is so infuriatingly calm, inspecting her nails in that fake nonchalant way she does. As if they’re not perfect; as if Zoey didn’t spend hours fixing them up just yesterday. She just wants to avoid looking her girlfriend in the eyes after admitting she kissed someone else. Not just anyone, their best friend!
“Please, like you don’t want to kiss her too.”
And she has the gall to just sit on her bed like it’s nothing and accuse her of something so outrageous! So inconceivable! So- so-!
A bird chirps outside. A cab honks obnoxiously. Zoey’s pen drops from her hand.
“Zoey?”
“Oh no.”
“Zoey.”
“No no no-”
“Zoey, you cannot be having this revelation just now-”
But Zoey is already up and pacing and spiraling; she snatches a plush toy from the ones covering every inch of her bed and starts wringing the poor thing in her hands. “Mira! Oh my god! Holy shit, I want to kiss Rumi.”
“So does half the world, you’re not special-”
“Oh fuck, I like my best friend! My other best friend! I can’t look her in the eye like this. What am I gonna do?!”
Mira rises from her perch, figuring she should do something about her panicking girlfriend. “Uh… kiss her? What else?”
“I- I can’t just do that, oh my god! I need a plan! Oh god, what do I do?”
“You’d think after all those drives something would’ve happened already.” Mira’s tone is teasing as she slowly circles closer to Zoey, gaze far away like she’s picturing the scene. “Alone together, in the dark, late at night…”
“Stop that! You caused this!” A beat where Zoey finally stops pacing, leveling Mira with a wary look. “You’re not still jealous, are you?”
She refuses to acknowledge the lazy smirk stretching upon Mira’s face.
“Why would I be jealous?” Mira’s sharp gaze bores into Zoey and her warm breath fans over her cheek, and when had she moved this close? “I get to kiss you both.”
“Mira!”
“What? I’m right.” As if to prove her point, Mira gives Zoey a quick peck on the lips; and of course it works, because she immediately melts from such chaste contact.
Damn her.
And so what if Zoey loses track of time and space and spends the rest of the afternoon making out with her girlfriend? Sue her.
Peace only lasts so long however, and soon she’s back to spiraling. Mira doesn’t get it, and Zoey would never fault her for it, but it truly had been a miracle that their relationship had even set sail. As far as first kisses went, it was hardly the peak of romanticism.
Zoey had been all weepy and snotty and gross, and the talk beforehand had been heavy in a way that still weighed on her chest. But Mira had promised to stay—and she believed her, even if she had then proceeded to kiss their best friend with no warning. She’s already exhausted just thinking of the conversation they need to have about that.
Mira’s little stunt had at least expedited things in a way. Now the only thing left in order for Huntrix to upgrade from girl group to polycule was her ability to woo Ryu ‘Everyone’s Type’ Rumi. No biggie. In Zoey’s inner ranking of nerve wracking activities, this was easily comparable to the time she auditioned for the group. Or to their debut. It was, at the very least, below the time Rumi had almost died.
Small victories.
As for the wooing itself, Zoey is at a loss. Well. Not so much lost and instead drowning in a sea of possibilities as her brain oh so helpfully provides dozens of ideas before she can even parse through them. Her first order of business is dumping them all in a notebook as a comprehensible list—comprehensible to whom is up for debate—followed by a meticulous process of elimination.
The most ridiculous and public go first, like spray painting the side of the tower or spray painting Rumi’s massive window. Any paint at all is dismissed. She won’t make a flashy declaration at dinner nor hang a massive sign from a ferris wheel, and it hits her then that the scale should probably remain small.
Because Rumi, for all her fame and charm, is actually rather shy. Patterns aside, the poor thing had grown up in the limelight, constantly scrutinized since birth. Zoey had known—as a Sunlight Sisters fan— the surface details of her tragedy: the death of her mother, the estrangement with the third member, and Celine’s guardianship. Even as a teenager she had felt the wrongness of it and pointedly avoided the gossip. It hit way too close to home with the way kids would make fun of her back in Burbank. She had vowed to never become that type.
Meeting her had been a dream and a reality check. Celine had been kind and accommodating, and Rumi was just another awkward kid. Still growing into her body and struggling to find the right words to match Zoey’s nervous blabbering. Music had become their common ground, in lyrics and harmonies that more easily translated all the ideas they couldn’t articulate otherwise. It was the first time Zoey understood the concept of a kindred soul.
She supposes then that the logical course of action is to talk to Rumi in their shared language, in the only way she can picture herself confessing her feelings without keeling over from mortification.
Unlike the popular fan belief that lyrics just hit her like divine intervention, Zoey’s approach to writing was closer to throwing all of her ideas at the wall and seeing what stuck. After multiple sessions of using this super secret method, she’d then frankenstein together bits and pieces until the shape of a full song pulled through. Sometimes it was words, sometimes melodies, sometimes vibes, but it had worked fine so far.
For once, she begins with something already in mind.
All the instruments in their recording studio are free reign for any to use when struck by inspiration, but they all know that the old beaten up acoustic guitar is Rumi’s. It’s got scratch marks and faded stickers, a couple chips along the border, and the strings have been changed more times than they can count, yet replacing it has never been an option. It’s well loved and has followed them since their trainee days—even longer in Rumi’s case. They all use it, yes, but it’s hers first.
That’s why Zoey picks it up when she arrives at the studio. There’s an odd intimacy to tuning someone else’s instrument, tracing the taut strings where other fingers have plucked familiar melodies. She strums mindlessly until it hits just the right chord, marking the start of the process.
Zoey thinks of everything that draws her to Rumi, so different yet just as strong as her love for Mira. She thinks of her elegant hands, calloused both from playing the guitar she now holds and from all the years of wielding her saingeom. She thinks of her wide awkward smile, much more genuine than the practiced ones she offers to the public. She thinks of her voice, which had been enough to bring them back from despair in their darkest hour. She thinks of the home Rumi has given her, of the understanding she hasn’t found anywhere else.
But time is of the essence, and the more Zoey dwells on these feelings, the more she realizes a notebook worth of songs still wouldn’t be enough to fully capture the contents of her heart. She needs something short and sweet, concise, just enough to get her point across before her feelings come bursting out of her chest.
Easier said than done.
What starts as an earnest effort to pour her soul out to her friend becomes instead a herculean task. The tail end of their hiatus tapers out, and for as much as Rumi is accused of being a workaholic, the truth of the matter is that none of them can stay still for too long. They’re already itching to get back to the grind of album producing. That’s when Bobby regretfully curbs their enthusiasm.
Turns out that the biggest K-Pop group in the world having a public fight that derailed the biggest awards show in the industry—demon doppelgangers aside—and then disappearing off the face of the earth for three months had led the media and fans to speculate.
“I mean, I've seen fans ask around here and there, but no fancams or super hateful stuff? Nothing with tons of attention, at least.” Zoey had chimed in around a mouthful of japchae, a detail Bobby kindly ignored.
“Oh, no, it was- It was pretty bad. Broadcast channels are always ruthless, but even people online were getting nasty.”
“And we didn’t catch any wind of this? How?” Rumi, ever the leader, had chimed in.
From across the dinner table Bobby looked both apologetic and stern.
“I say this with all the love in my heart, but you were all a mess.” He stops their immediate protests with a hand up. “You seem to be doing better now! But you desperately needed the break. Besides, Celine had it handled! There’s nothing for you to worry about anymore.”
Two pairs of eyes dart to their leader, whose spine has gone stiff and her marks shimmer not quite right. No one had brought up the reunion with Celine yet beyond some apologies for things said in anger; Rumi had seemed exhausted, Mira couldn’t find a diplomatic way to breach the topic, and Zoey was sure her song would smooth over any hard edges.
“A warning would have been appreciated. If we’re doing damage control shouldn’t we be prepared for what people might say?”
“We’ve got that covered too! You’ll get a crash course on the popular theories without the toxicity of social media, and some talking points to go over. Really, it’s the ideal solution!”
Mira can see Bobby starting to sweat and prepares to intervene as Rumi’s muscles tense visibly. The longer this conversation goes, the worse the outcome might be.
“So we were kept in the dark? She lies to us and calls it protection?”
“I, well- I-It was a safety measure-”
“I’m done with her measures!” The inhuman tone under Rumi’s voice is well hidden by the sound of her fists slamming against the table.
Bobby flinches despite himself, knowing the anger isn’t directed at him but still concerned about this reaction. He watches as Mira wrangles Rumi aside while Zoey tugs him in the direction of the exit.
“I’m so sorry, Bobby. We can call later to figure out the details.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it, okay? I’ve seen worse, and I’ll have a chat with Celine about whatever that was.” He pats her back and it feels so fatherly she can’t help but give him a hug, one he eagerly reciprocates. “Now go, I’m sure she needs you both.”
Zoey doubts it until she returns and sees the panicked look Mira shoots at her; Rumi is hyperventilating, growling on every other breath, and with what Zoey knows must be a clawed hand held to her chest.
“She’s doing it again! I thought- I’m so stupid. How could I think she’d change?” Rumi gasps out between breaths.
“Rumi, you need to relax-”
“She’ll keep doing this! Every little inconvenience or flaw, we're kept to the sidelines until she decides we get to know.”
“I’m as mad as you are, but we can't do anything about it now.”
“But Mira-!”
“I took Bobby to the elevator.”
Zoey's quiet remark seems to be enough to break Rumi out of her spiral. “Wait, Bobby-”
“He'll be fine, but you should still apologize later.”
All three of them embrace, with Mira and Zoey sharing a determined look over their leader’s shoulder.
Their first few weeks back in the public eye are spent doing interviews, podcasts, social media posts, and casual yet carefully orchestrated outings. Zoey becomes somewhat of a livewire, ready to combust in between a busy schedule and secret writing sessions. Dark circles grow under her eyes the later she stays up, using the stolen time to finish coalescing her feelings into something legible.
Her saving grace is Rumi’s attention being pulled every which way, coordinating efforts with Bobby and using him as a bridge for communication with Celine. Zoey is forever thankful about being saved from the administrative side of belonging to a music group with a label and investors and what have you. She thinks that if not for Huntrix she would have stayed a soundcloud rapper, and the idea doesn’t bother her much. The music industry is a lot sometimes.
It’s hard, then, when the interview questions are relentless. They poke and prod and Zoey feels like she’s under a microscope, being examined by millions for any anomalies; like a nightmare version of school turned up to eleven. She can see her tension mirrored in Mira, and doubled on Rumi. However, the duty of shouldering the heavy questions—once defaulted to their leader—is now shared between the three of them, and the burden shrinks just enough to make it bearable.
It’s one night after a particularly brutal round of questioning that they return to the tower absolutely beat. ‘High strung’ doesn’t seem enough to describe their state of mind, and each copes in her own way. Mira raids the pantry for snacks and drinks and makes her way down to their dance studio, where she’ll remain well into the evening until someone retrieves her; Zoey retreats to her room and unloads her thoughts of the day in her notebooks, lessening the mental load and saving ideas for the future; as for Rumi-
Well, what does she actually do after these kinds of things?
Over the years Mira and Zoey have learned to leave her to her own devices. Rumi seemed to enjoy her privacy—her solitude—and always rejected offers to unwind as a group, so they stopped insisting. What was the point if they knew the answer?
Except that hadn’t been true, none of it had been. Zoey finds herself going over past conversations after shows, after hunts, after practice, photoshoots, and fansigns. Every single time she remembers Rumi retreating; dismissing them with a wave and a smile, and Zoey wonders if the sadness in her eyes had always been there or if she’s willing it into her memories. Perhaps she’s filling blanks that weren’t there, reaching for anything that indicated she had missed a clear sign.
But the truth of the matter is that Rumi has always been an excellent liar, and even Mira with her borderline mind reading powers couldn’t see exactly what lay underneath; not just the patterns, but the loneliness, the fear.
It couldn’t have been more than an hour since they each went their separate ways when Zoey finally caves and decides to go investigate. She follows the hallways connecting their rooms with her hand tracing the wall in a familiar path, tapping her fingers to a beat that has been haunting her every waking moment as of late. She needs to finish that damn song.
For a moment Zoey pauses in front of Rumi’s door. There’s her own perpetually open one as an invitation to hang out whenever—something she has to rethink after Mira’s recent ambushes. Mira has her little sign that indicates when people are allowed inside or not. Very early on she had made clear she hated the sound of knocking with a passion. And then there’s Rumi’s.
Always closed.
She raps her knuckles against the wood, one after the other like a trill, and repeats it a couple times. It’s both a personal brand and a middle ground between Rumi’s required knocking and Mira’s disdain for the noise.
“Hey Rums?”
About a minute passes with no response. Mira isn’t around, so Zoey tries knocking louder.
“Rumi? You there?”
Only the quiet of the night answers. Zoey turns the knob, half expecting it to be locked, but it spins unimpeded. With a soft apology muttered into the air she peeks inside.
Deserted.
The room is as austere as she remembers it. The outfit she wore earlier for the interview is neatly draped upon the soft chair in the corner. The balcony window is closed and no movement can be seen outside—only the plants swaying in the breeze. The bed is perfectly made, the one source of warmth being the plush bear sitting proudly in the center. Zoey wonders, not for the first time, if Rumi holds it as her sole companion at night.
On her way to the elevator Zoey peeks into the kitchen and the living room, into bathrooms and hallways, still finding no sign of Rumi. By the time she’s reached and searched the floor where the dance studio is—after checking the gym and recording floors too—the hem of her shirt is a wrinkled mess between her hands.
Thankfully Mira is mid break, winded and sweating as she drinks from her water bottle, and Zoey has to make a conscious effort not to run her eyes down Mira’s lithe, athletic, tantalizing- Focus.
“Hey, Mir. Have you seen Rumi?” Her smile goes for casual, but the strain of it and her furrowed brows betray her emotions.
“No? I’ve been down here blasting music. Isn’t she usually in her room or exercising?”
“Checked both and nothing. Also everywhere else in the penthouse. And this floor. And others.”
Mira’s posture doesn’t change, nor does she get thrown into a panic, but her gaze does sharpen. There’s an edge of resignation as she stares into the middle distance, like she’s been expecting this outcome but had still hoped for the best. It sobers Zoey up, and she would have shifted her concern towards Mira had she not spoken next.
“Well… You know how she is.”
“What?”
“You know. When she’s overwhelmed.” Mira looks around the studio, at the clock on the wall, then gives her a meaningful look. “Today was a lot.”
Oh.
Rumi’s tendency to vanish into thin air always happens at the worst times. Just when her bandmates lower their guards it comes again as an unpleasant surprise. One moment she is their perfectly composed leader, and the next she disappears to god knows where. Never for long, never harmed, and yet it always hurts.
In the months after the reconstruction of the Honmoon, things came into perspective. Celine’s dismissal about their leader’s escapades, Rumi’s exhausted eyes when she came back, the way she’d melt into their touch before retreating once again. All the secrets and pain, carefully guarded by both their mentor and Rumi so that Mira and Zoey wouldn’t poke their heads in the wrong place, wouldn’t find the truth. How many more times had Rumi run while they were none the wiser? How much time had she spent alone and hurting away from them?
“Zo? I need you to focus.” Mira’s hands on her shoulders break her out of her spiral, her soft voice grounding her in the moment. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Is she?” Mira’s words feel like a bandaid on a bullet wound, and Zoey takes a step back. “Where even is she? Why did she run? After everything, why didn’t she come to us?”
Zoey sees it then in Mira’s shaky sigh, how she’s keeping it together by sheer force of will, for her sake. Instead of comforting Zoey it somehow makes her feel worse, like she’s only making things worse. “Look, we knew this would take time. We’re all tired and a little on edge from being back in the public eye, right? She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. Besides, you know she always comes back.” ‘To us’ goes unsaid.
“But why does she have to leave?”
Mira has no answer to the heartbreak in Zoey’s tone. Frayed at the edges herself, she runs a hand down her face, looking everywhere but at the misty eyes of her girlfriend.
“Zoey, look, just let her be, will you? She’ll come back when she’s ready-”
“I’ll go get her.”
“Zoey.”
“Any idea where I should look?”
This time Mira gives her an appraising look before sighing and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Focus. You’ll find her, you know where she is.”
“Huh? No, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Zoey. You know where she is.”
Before she can protest further a rhythm that isn’t her heartbeat resonates deep within; a hum that extends elsewhere, traveling like a wave through the iridescent threads that protect this world.
Of course she knows where Rumi is.
Zoey’s relationship with the Honmoon has always been one of hesitant affection, tremulous acceptance. It’s a barrier fueled by the energy of souls, and it hums with a beat she cannot hear, only feel; one she has felt for as long as she can remember. It’s a warm blanket she cannot touch, and the dissonant feelings unnerve her.
Any attempts at meditation had been a bust, and so the back and forth of communication had remained instinctual. A natural approach, Rumi had called it, back when Celine had grown more gray hairs trying to help her connect. And so that was how she called forth her shin-kal, how she had learned to close rifts, and how she could sometimes feel the gentle tug of her girls’ souls on her own.
It had always felt faint, weak, like any distance—physical or emotional—would snap that tentative bond. And yet, even after facing the demon lord, even after the Honmoon was torn apart and rebuilt, it remained. She could feel it even stronger now, nudging her upwards.
She makes a pit stop in her room, grabbing a jacket and the guitar.
We are hunters, voices strong
A haunting melody seems to carry over the night’s breeze, unencumbered as it floats above the buildings of downtown Seoul. There are no stars to be found here, only the neon light of the city to illuminate a lone figure perched on the edge of the Huntrix tower roof. The Honmoon harmonizes as it always does, but seems oddly reluctant now, discontent with the ancient mantra.
Slaying demons with our song
The singer is crouched and hugging an antenna, staring down into the busy streets full of life, even at midnight. Unlike the oblivious crowds below, she does feel eyes on her, but she won’t acknowledge them yet; like a tiger unbothered by a nearby photographer.
Fix the world and make it right
Zoey shudders. Her old ratty jacket—or maybe Mira’s—does little to fend off the unimpeded currents this high up. However, the chill in her spine isn’t entirely because of the cold; the tune being absentmindedly sung by the woman in front of her is almost a malediction being unknowingly cast upon them both. It brings back memories, not all of them good.
When darkness finally meets the light
The Honmoon now thrums happily in time with the rhythm of Zoey’s heart, a beat intimately known by Rumi. She feels somewhat like a spider at times like this, sensing the vibrations in the fabric of the world, and harnessing the threads to keep an eye on the people she cares about the most.
“That song always gave me the creeps. Uh, no offense.”
Rumi couldn’t stop her laughter if she tried; only Zoey can bring her out of her stupor so effectively.
“No, no, I get it.” Rumi doesn’t turn, only calls back a little louder to be heard. “It’s still soothing though, you know? Familiar.”
Rumi glances over her shoulder, just barely, and immediately winces and looks away again; Zoey looks like she was told her puppy got run over. Great, she said yet another upsetting thing.
“I thought you said you’d come to us when you felt bad.”
Zoey’s tone isn’t as light anymore, edged with concern. Still, Rumi won’t turn; her eyes are fixated upon the faint silhouette of a man busking on a street corner, and the way the Honmoon hums in content.
“I’m fine, Zo, don’t worry.” More often than not these days, Rumi finds that she does mean it. She feels fine, almost normal. She desperately craves normalcy. “Just decompressing, I guess. Long day.”
Not long after she feels warmth draped upon her back, and the gentle telltale tug on her braid that means Zoey is playing with it.
“You’re up here, all alone, dressed like this.” Her fingers hook on Rumi’s hoodie, then on her turtleneck, prompting tremors upon her shoulders and a flash on the marks on her neck. Zoey tries not to focus too hard on that reaction. “What am I supposed to think?”
“I didn’t mean to worry you.” Rumi takes the wandering hand in hers and presses a kiss to the palm; as caution, as payback, she isn’t sure. She can practically feel the heat of Zoey’s blush on her shoulder. “But Zoey, I have an obscene amount of these and it’s horribly cold up here.”
“Don’t change topics. Why are you here? And singing that song.”
Rumi sighs, knowing she won’t avoid this conversation. “Just… Everything is so loud sometimes.” She absentmindedly rubs at a pattern over her wrist. Not for the first time, she finds herself unsure if it’s comforting or unnerving that the marks feel just like normal skin. “Sometimes I drown it out with more sound and exercise, but other times it’s too much. Sometimes I come out here and just… Enjoy the quiet, I guess. This nothingness. Sorry, I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“No, I get it.” It sounds muffled against the fabric of her hoodie, but Zoey’s hold on her tightens. “There’s too much bouncing around in there, gotta make it stop somehow.” Her notebooks, her ramblings, her music; all outlets. Once upon a time it had made her ashamed. Before Huntrix, before Mira and Rumi; it all feels so far away now.
They remain cuddled together for a while, unsure and unbothered by the passage of time. Rumi sits fully, still with Zoey clinging like a baby koala, until a jolt from the maknae startles them both.
“Oh! I’m not bothering you, am I? Being here while you need the quiet?”
Finally Rumi turns, giving Zoey such a soft smile she almost feels like crying. “Oh, Zoey, never. No, if anything you’re an anchor, I think. I feel like I’d just drift away into my own head otherwise.”
A gentle calloused hand rests against Zoey’s cheek and she immediately leans into it, craving the warmth and affection.; Rumi just holds her, tracing constellations on her freckles, and then the dark circles under her eyes with a frown.
“Frankly, I’m more worried about you. Have you been sleeping lately?” She pokes at Zoey’s nose with her thumb, giggling at the way she scrunches it up. “It goes both ways, you know? You can talk to me if you need to.”
She doesn’t mention Mira. Mira might be impulsive and blunt but she isn’t a dick, and she had talked to Rumi about being with Zoey. Even if she hadn’t, Rumi isn’t blind. She has known—probably even before those two—that feelings had bloomed. She has known that all her secrets and self loathing had locked her into the role of observer, made her mind a cage, even if it was now refurbished into a warm cottage.
Mira had opened the door and made herself at home unprompted, unapologetic. Rumi adored her all the more for it.
Zoey however hesitates, lingers by the garden, handling the picket fence like it’ll break. Maybe Rumi wants her to break it.
She’ll unpack that later.
“I know, I know! I just- I’ve been working on something. I, uh, actually meant to show you. Before I found you brooding, that is.”
Please cut short my brooding. Please barge into my life the way you did all those years ago. Please don’t tiptoe around me, I never meant for you to feel like you had to.
“Please show me?” Rumi says instead, her head tilted like a curious, pleading puppy, and Zoey could die right there.
Rumi finally notices the guitar then, as Zoey takes it and carefully positions her fingers before beginning to gently pluck a simple melody. Zoey’s eyes stay glued to the instrument as heat slowly rises to her cheeks.
“Talking to the songbird yesterday
Flew me to a past not far away
She's a little pirate in my mind
Singing songs of love to pass the time”
She dares a glance up at Rumi and immediately falters in the next note, scrambling to get back on track. The tender look in her eyes and the way her marks seemed to glow in time with her singing were far too distracting.
“Gonna write a song, so she can see
Give her all the love she gives to me
Talk of better days that have yet to come
Never felt this love from anyone”
Zoey pretends not to hear Rumi’s little gasp, the same way she pretends her own voice isn’t wavering and the few times her cold fingers miss their mark. But she keeps going, because if she stops now she doesn’t think she’ll ever dare finish.
“A girl can never dream these kind of things
Especially when she came and spread her wings
Whispered in my ear the things I'd like
Then she flew away into the night”
She goes into the next chorus and lets herself focus on the lyrics, on her feelings, on the overwhelming love she doesn’t know what to do with. A part of her is relieved, even in the face of rejection, because she would have probably exploded if she hadn’t expressed this at some point.
“She’s not anyone.” When the song is done, she finally looks back up to Rumi and immediately her stomach drops at the sight of her teary eyes. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry- Oh god, was it really that bad? It was bad, it was horrible, I’m sorry.”
“How can you say that?” In between tears Rumi manages to laugh and awkwardly pull Zoey into a hug, ignoring the way the guitar digs into her side; a part of her happily reminisces on the very first car ride, where Zoey held her as she does to her now. “It’s yours. It was perfect.”
Zoey’s shoulders sag with relief and she burrows further into the hug, clinging to Rumi’s hoodie like her life depends on it. “Oh thank fuck, I got worried! Please tell me you understood what I was telling you? I think I’ll combust if I have to spell it out.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Rumi is giggly and misty eyed and burying her face in Zoey’s neck, cozy beyond belief. “I think I’d still like to hear you say it.”
“You’re bullying me. I’m here declaring my feelings and you’re bullying me! You haven’t even said it back!” Zoey whines petulantly, before muttering against Rumi’s hoodie with a red face and a tinge of trepidation. “You, uh, do feel the same, right? Just so we’re on the same page, you know?”
At that Rumi pulls back slowly, gently, and takes Zoey’s face in her hands. She touches her forehead to hers and smiles, in that soft, shy, slightly crooked way that reflects what she truly feels. “Zoey, I love you. Since the time we first met, I think.”
Now Zoey is the one teary eyed, pushing the guitar aside and tackling Rumi to the ground. “I love you too, so much. I’ve been wanting to say it! But it was never the perfect time and I had this whole plan and romantic lighting and stuff, but we got off break and the schedules and your brooding-”
Rumi, very helpfully, stops her ranting with a kiss. It’s tender and loving but there is no doubt in it; just the quiet certainty of their affection for one another.
“It was perfect.” And oh, the softness and awe in her voice when she says it. “It was everything, Zo.”
And there, in Rumi’s arms, Zoey can’t help but agree.