Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Outside the Zone
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The campus of Hanseong University hummed with life, but wherever Mira Kang and Zoey Han went, the noise seemed to soften around them, as if the world bent slightly to make space for the two. They were the kind of pair people noticed without meaning to—inseparable, always orbiting each other in small ways that betrayed the strength of their bond.

Mira, with her dancer’s posture and a grin that lit her whole face, carried herself with an energy that pulled people in. She had calloused palms from countless hours in the studio, bruises hidden beneath warm-up tights, and a heart that beat in rhythm with the music she danced to. Her major in dance wasn’t just a path—it was her blood, her oxygen, the way she expressed everything she couldn’t put into words.

Zoey, on the other hand, lived in sound. Her headphones were practically an extension of her body, always looped around her neck when not pressed to her ears. She studied music producing, fingers constantly tapping out beats on tabletops or dragging across the keys of her laptop. Where Mira was fire—burning bright, restless, sometimes reckless—Zoey was gravity, steady and grounding, drawing Mira back when she threatened to fly too close to the sun.

They were opposites in all the right ways. Mira pushed Zoey out of her quiet, perfectionist shell, while Zoey steadied Mira when her ambitions threatened to scatter her to exhaustion. They had been together since the second semester of freshman year, and by now, three years in, their relationship had weathered late-night arguments, stressful auditions, botched music projects, and the exhausting question whispered around campus 'How do they make it work so perfectly?'

But to Mira and Zoey, it wasn’t about perfection. It was about showing up for each other—through rain, deadlines, aching muscles, missed meals, and those rare moments when doubt crept in.

On a crisp autumn evening, Mira sprawled across the dance studio floor, sweat cooling on her skin, hair tied in a loose bun that had started to come undone. She lay on her back, staring up at the mirrored ceiling lights, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

The door creaked open. Zoey leaned against the frame, laptop tucked under her arm, the familiar curve of her headphones hanging from her neck. She smiled softly.
“You didn’t eat dinner again, did you?”

Mira groaned, covering her face with her forearm. “I forgot. I was working on the new routine and…” she peeked through her arm to grin at Zoey, “…I wanted it to be perfect before you saw it.”

Zoey shook her head, walking over to set the laptop down. She crouched beside Mira, brushing sweaty strands of hair away from her forehead. “You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

Mira caught Zoey’s hand, lacing their fingers together, sweat and all. “It’s not about proving. It’s about sharing. Dance feels empty if I can’t show it to you first.”

Zoey’s heart tightened at that—Mira had always been that way. Every song Zoey composed, Mira wanted to dance to. Every dance Mira created, Zoey wanted to score. Their art was tangled up with each other, so much so that professors sometimes teased them about being a packaged deal.

Zoey sighed, but her lips curved into a small smile. “Fine. But at least let me feed you before you collapse. Deal?”

Mira smirked, tugging Zoey closer until their foreheads touched, sweat and warmth mingling. “Deal.”

—--

Mira stirred awake, the edges of a dream clinging stubbornly to her like static. She blinked against the gray wash of early morning light that filtered through the thin curtains, the faint hum of the city beyond their apartment walls. For a moment, she didn’t know why her chest felt heavy, why her jaw was tight as though she had been grinding her teeth in her sleep.

And then the dream replayed in fragments.

‘The sharp sound of sneakers squeaking against a polished gym floor. A laugh—bright, unfiltered, teasing. A lanky figure showing her a dance routine in the middle of an empty hall, moving with the kind of enthusiasm that had seemed ridiculous to her at the time. She remembered herself back then—hands on her hips, smirking, saying, “That looks more like a worm than a dance.” She remembered the pout she’d caused, the way that person had kept going anyway, spinning and sliding across the floor with complete disregard for looking silly.’

Back then, Mira hadn’t known what she wanted. Dancing had been someone else’s dream. She had just been a girl who thought she would end up anywhere but here.

Now, years later, she was chasing that same art with every ounce of her being.

Mira groaned and shoved the covers off, dragging herself upright. Her hair fell loose around her face, messy from sleep. She pressed her palm against her temple as if she could push the dream out of her head. It wasn’t unwelcome exactly, but it was… strange. ‘Why now? Why that? Why her’

Her bare feet padded across the wooden floor, carrying her toward the small kitchen. She flicked on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness. Leaning against the counter, she pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath, “Why the hell am I dreaming about you…” The words hung in the air, soft, embarrassed, like she was admitting it to the tiles instead of herself.

Before she could spiral further, the sound of the bedroom door opening broke her thoughts. Mira turned her head just as Zoey shuffled out, hair tousled in every direction, drowning in an oversized shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Her eyes were still half-lidded, her walk more of a slow sway than steps.

Zoey didn’t say anything at first—she just walked straight over, her warmth wrapping around Mira as her arms slid across her waist from behind. Mira stiffened for a second, caught between dream residue and present comfort, then exhaled as Zoey pressed her face into her shoulder blade.

“What’s for breakfast?” Zoey mumbled against her, voice still thick with sleep.

Mira blinked, pulled back to the here and now. The kitchen light glowed over the two of them, their shadows overlapping on the wall. She felt the tension in her chest loosen—not gone, but soothed by the weight of Zoey’s embrace.

She reached up, resting her hand over Zoey’s arm that circled her. “I haven’t even thought about it yet,” she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. “Maybe eggs. Or… instant ramen, if you want to risk sodium poisoning this early.”

Zoey hummed, a small chuckle vibrating against her back. “Eggs are fine. Ramen’s for midnight cravings, not morning survival.” She tightened her hold slightly, as if anchoring Mira. “But I’ll eat whatever you make, Mira. You know that.”

Mira let out a short laugh through her nose, shaking her head. “You’re spoiled.”

“By you,” Zoey countered softly, her tone warm despite the sleep still lacing it.

Mira bit her lip, letting the words settle. The dream still lingered faintly, pressing at the corners of her mind, but Zoey’s presence was louder, steadier. She straightened her shoulders, deciding not to let the past steal the morning.

“Alright, breakfast first. Then I’m dragging you out for groceries. We’re out of milk.”

Zoey groaned dramatically, but didn’t let go. “Fine. But only because I like watching you negotiate with the cashier about coupons.”

Mira laughed, the sound breaking through the heaviness she’d woken with. For now, the dream could stay buried in the shadows of her mind. The morning belonged to Zoey.

—---

The studio smelled faintly of resin and sweat, the air still and heavy with the ghost of a dozen dancers before her. Mira’s body moved across the polished floor, each step sharp and purposeful, the routine drilled into her bones after days of practice. But even as she spun, stretched, and landed, her mind betrayed her.

Fragments of the dream resurfaced like stubborn echoes—laughter ricocheting across an old gym, a pair of hands too clumsy to be graceful, someone declaring, “One day I’ll be a real dancer. You’ll see.”

Her foot slipped slightly on the turn. She caught herself, jaw clenching.

Again, she tried. Count in her head. One, two, three, breathe—except the rhythm snagged on the memory, her chest tightening as if she couldn’t get enough air. Her arms dropped to her sides. Mira stopped in the middle of the floor, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her temple.

She turned to the mirror.

Her reflection looked back— dark pink hair damp with exertion, strands clinging to her face, fox-shaped eyes that burned with frustration more than focus. She stared at herself for a long moment, not at the dancer she had become, but at the girl from years ago who used to laugh at someone else’s worm-like moves, never imagining she’d end up here.

Her lips parted, a whisper slipping out before she could stop it.

“Did you… did you become a dancer like you promised yourself?”

The studio swallowed her voice, leaving only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. She bit the inside of her cheek, a sharp sting grounding her back in the present. ‘Why did this dream cling to her? Why now?’

The sudden creak of the door snapped her out of the spiral. Mira’s head jerked up just as the familiar sound of sneakers scuffed against the floor.

Zoey stepped inside, her presence cutting through the tension like sunlight through clouds. In her hands, she carried a small meal box balanced on top of a water bottle. She smiled—sleepy but genuine, that kind of smile that seemed to say 'I see you. I’ve got you.'

“I bought food,” Zoey announced, her voice playful but edged with that soft concern Mira knew too well. “You might actually collapse and die if you pass on lunch for the millionth time.”

Mira blinked, caught between the heaviness in her chest and the warmth that bloomed instantly at Zoey’s arrival. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, one corner of her lips twitching upward.

“Was I really that obvious?” she asked, rubbing the back of her neck, embarrassed by how raw she must’ve looked just standing there.

Zoey tilted her head, stepping closer, the water bottle cool against Mira’s damp skin as she pressed it into her hand. “You were,” she teased lightly, though her eyes flickered with a seriousness that Mira couldn’t ignore. “But it’s fine. That’s why I’m here.”

And in that moment, the echo of the dream faded—not gone, but softer.

Mira cracked the seal of the bottle, taking a long drink before murmuring, almost to herself, “You really save me more than I deserve.”

Zoey set the meal box down on the speaker, her grin widening. “Good thing I like being your hero, then.”

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the city in streaks of gold and indigo, Mira’s body felt like it had been wrung out. Her muscles throbbed with exhaustion, her head heavier than the weight of her limbs. She dragged herself back to the apartment, shedding her bag by the door before stumbling into the bathroom.

The shower was always her salvation. Hot water coursed over her skin, steam curling into the air, washing away sweat and fatigue. She leaned against the tiled wall, eyes closed, letting the spray beat against her shoulders. For a while, she just breathed, trying to melt into the warmth.

The sound of the door opening didn’t even make her flinch. She knew the rhythm of those footsteps too well. Zoey slipped in without a word, her outline blurry through the steam. Soon, another stream of water joined hers, Zoey’s soft hum blending with the hiss of the shower.

They ended up in the tub after, like they always did on nights when everything weighed too much. Mira leaned back against Zoey’s chest, her damp hair sticking to her skin, Zoey’s arms draped loosely around her waist. The water lapped gently against their bodies, warmth seeping into every tired muscle. It was a ritual as much as a comfort—one hour carved out from chaos where the world could not touch them.

For a while, silence filled the space, broken only by the slow drip of water from the faucet and Zoey’s occasional hum. Then, her voice—soft but cutting right through Mira’s quiet.

“Why were you so out of focus today?” Zoey asked, chin resting lightly on Mira’s shoulder. “Did something happen?”

Mira’s chest tightened. She stared at the faint ripples on the surface of the water, her reflection fractured and distorted. A sigh slipped from her lips, carried on the steam.

“Dancing…” Her voice trailed off before she steadied it. “Dancing isn’t actually my dream.”

She felt Zoey still slightly against her back, listening. Mira pressed her palm flat against the edge of the tub, fingers curling as if she could anchor herself there.

“It was a friend’s dream,” she continued softly, words slow, heavy. “From years ago. She used to show me these routines, half-serious, half-silly, saying she’d make it someday. I always teased her, said she looked like she was doing a worm dance.” A weak laugh escaped, bitter on her tongue. “And now… last night I dreamt about her. It’s been stuck in my head all day, like an itch I can’t scratch.”

She swallowed, the water suddenly feeling heavier around her. “I don’t even know why. I thought I buried that part of me… of her. But it keeps resurfacing.”

Zoey’s arms tightened ever so slightly, her cheek pressing more firmly against Mira’s damp shoulder. She didn’t speak right away, letting the silence stretch, not in judgment but in patience.

Mira bit the inside of her lip. “The words taste bitter just saying them. Like I’m betraying what I’ve worked for. Like… like I don’t even know if any of this was truly mine to begin with.”

Her confession lingered in the steam, fragile and raw.

For a moment, the bathroom was nothing but the quiet hiss of cooling water and the slow rhythm of their breaths. Mira kept her eyes on the ripples, chest tight, as though the confession might hang between them like smoke that refused to clear.

Then Zoey’s voice, low but steady, brushed against her ear.

“Do you feel happy when you’re dancing?”

Mira froze, her throat tightening. The question was simple, almost disarmingly so. She parted her lips to answer, but no words came out at first. Slowly, she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

Zoey’s arms shifted, one hand sliding up to rest over Mira’s heart, the other curling more securely around her waist. “Then that means it’s what’s meant for you,” she murmured. “It doesn’t matter where the spark came from, Mira. What matters is that it’s yours now.”

Mira’s lashes fluttered shut, her breath catching.

“Let the past be the past,” Zoey continued, her tone soft but firm, a warmth that pressed into Mira’s skin as much as her words did. “Let it fall away until it’s weightless. You don’t owe anyone your guilt for choosing joy.”

Mira’s chest constricted, though the pressure felt different now—like something breaking open instead of closing in. Her fingers curled against Zoey’s arm, holding on. “You make it sound so easy,” she whispered, voice trembling.

Zoey chuckled softly, lips brushing the damp curve of Mira’s shoulder. “It’s not. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

The bitter taste that had lingered in Mira’s mouth seemed to dull, softened by the warmth of Zoey’s presence. She leaned back into her, letting her head rest against Zoey’s shoulder. For the first time that day, she let the heaviness ease, if only a little.

“Weightless,” Mira repeated quietly, like a prayer she wasn’t sure she believed yet.

Zoey smiled against her skin, tightening her embrace. “Exactly. And until you can carry it that way… I’ll help hold it with you.”

The steam curled around them, and for the first time since morning, Mira’s chest loosened enough to breathe freely.

—-----

It had been a month since that dream, and Mira had done everything she could to bury it under sweat and focus. Each day at the studio chipped away at her doubts, until her routine was no longer shaky but sharp, confident, alive. When she finally performed in front of her professor, she felt every beat pulse through her veins, and for the first time in weeks, her reflection in the mirror didn’t look like a stranger.

She passed with flying colors.

Zoey had been there, waiting outside the studio with arms wide open and a grin that could split the sky. And Mira, flushed with pride, had thrown herself into them without hesitation.

As if the universe wanted to add more fuel to their joy, Zoey received news only a few days later: her latest track, the one she had labored over until dawn countless nights, had been picked for the upcoming University Festival. The celebration was inevitable.

So here they were now—hand in hand, laughter spilling between them as they strolled through the mall, weaving through the hum of Saturday crowds. Mira’s fingers toyed with Zoey’s, their swing playful, almost childlike. They had picked a restaurant tucked neatly into the third floor, a cozy place Mira had wanted to try for months.

“Dinner’s on me tonight,” Zoey declared, tugging Mira a little closer as they neared the entrance. “Producer perks, you know?”

Mira snorted. “Perks? You got picked for one festival. Let’s not inflate your ego yet.”

Zoey bumped her shoulder, mock-offended, and Mira grinned, basking in the warmth that came so easily with her. For a moment, everything felt weightless, just like Zoey had promised.

They were only a few steps away from the restaurant doors when Mira suddenly froze.

Her breath caught, her smile faltering as her gaze snagged on something—no, someone—threaded within the crowd moving just beyond the glass railing of the atrium. A flash of violet shimmered under the overhead lights, unmistakable in the sea of muted tones. Long, sleek, tied back in a braid that swayed with every step.

Mira’s stomach dropped.

Her grip on Zoey’s hand tightened unconsciously. ‘It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now.’

But the longer she stared, the more the image sharpened against the blur of strangers: the tilt of a head she knew too well, the easy stride, the braid like a ribbon of memory pulled straight out of her dream.

Mira’s heart thudded in her chest. She couldn’t hear the chatter of the mall anymore, couldn’t feel the warmth of Zoey’s hand. All she could think was—

‘Is that really you?’

Mira blinked, her chest tightening as the braid slipped further into the tide of strangers. She turned her head sharply, eyes scanning the flow of shoppers weaving past one another. Strollers, shopping bags, chatter, the blur of neon storefront signs—faces she didn’t recognize, bodies moving too quickly. But no purple braid.

Her heart stung with disappointment, though she couldn’t explain why. The ache dug deeper than she wanted to admit, a hollow tug that left her narrowing her eyes, stretching her neck, desperate for another glimpse.

Then she felt a tug on her hand.

“Mira?” Zoey’s voice was gentle, but the concern lacing it made Mira’s pulse falter. She turned to find Zoey studying her closely, brows pinched in a way that made guilt churn in her stomach. “Are you okay?”

Mira hesitated, her throat dry. The truth perched at the edge of her tongue— ‘I thought I saw her’. But the words burned too bitter, too heavy. She forced her lips into a curve that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Yeah,” Mira said softly, squeezing Zoey’s hand in return. “I’m fine. Just… zoned out for a second.”

Zoey didn’t look entirely convinced, but she nodded, her expression smoothing into something more neutral. She gave Mira’s hand another tug, leading her toward the restaurant’s entrance. The familiar chime of the doorbell and the warmth of the indoor lighting swept over them as they stepped inside.

They were seated quickly, the table by the window overlooking the busy mall below. Menus were opened, orders made, and soon the comforting rhythm of dinner began. Zoey, as always, filled the silence with small anecdotes from her classes, about a professor who had praised her layering technique, about a classmate who’d somehow confused bass boost with distortion.

Mira laughed where she could, smiled when she was supposed to. To anyone watching, she looked like a girl basking in a perfect date with her girlfriend, celebrating milestones they had both worked so hard to earn. And part of her was—she was proud, happy, grounded by Zoey’s warmth across the table.

But under it all, her mind kept circling back to that flash of violet.

‘Is it her? Or am I just exhausted?’

She poked at her food absentmindedly, hearing Zoey’s voice but not fully catching every word. Each time her gaze flicked toward the glass railing outside the restaurant, her chest tightened.

She wanted to tell herself she was imagining things. That it was just the exhaustion catching up to her—the long nights of practice, the lingering weight of that dream. And yet, the image was too sharp, too real to dismiss.

Mira smiled again when Zoey teased her about her bad chopstick grip, but her fingers trembled slightly around the utensil.

Somewhere inside her, the past had stirred awake.

---

Mira stirred awake with a sharp inhale, her jaw tight, sheets clinging damply to her skin. Her heart raced as though she had been running, though it was only her own mind dragging her into corners she thought she’d left behind.

The dream had been clearer this time, sharper than the hazy fragments from a month ago.

“Well, she’s the only person worth following around.” The words had slipped from her mouth with ease, a younger version of herself smirking as she trailed behind that familiar figure. They were chatting about nonsense—ridiculous things that made no sense at all, like whether aliens preferred ramen or fried chicken, or if one could really survive eating nothing but instant noodles for a year. Stupid, pointless things, yet they felt vivid, warm.

Then the scene shifted, as dreams often do.

The glow of a desk lamp lit two tired faces, textbooks sprawled open but mostly forgotten. It was one of those late-night study sessions that inevitably slipped into something softer. A sleepover that wasn’t about schoolwork at all, but about the kind of conversations only the night could hold safely.

Mira could hear herself clearly, chin propped in her palm, eyes staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know what I want to be,” she had confessed, voice soft with uncertainty.

Beside her, the other girl had smiled, tucking that long purple braid behind her ear. Her voice was steady, sure, brimming with a kind of determination Mira hadn’t known how to grasp back then. “Me? I want to dance on the big stage.”

The dream dissolved after that, pulling Mira back into the gray weight of morning. She stared at the ceiling of her apartment, her chest aching with something she couldn’t name. The fragments refused to fade like they usually did. They lingered—bright, insistent, demanding to be remembered.

Mira turned onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut as though darkness could push the memories away. But the echo of that voice stayed, clear as the first time she’d heard it.

“Me? I want to dance on the big stage.”

Her throat felt tight.

“What the hell…”

Mira tried to will her breathing to slow, but her chest rose and fell too fast, each inhale jagged, shallow. She squeezed her eyes tighter, as if shutting them hard enough might blur the dream back into nothing.

Beside her, the mattress shifted. Zoey stirred, blinking awake. It only took her a heartbeat to notice the tension radiating from Mira. Her brows knit, still hazy from sleep, but the concern was immediate and sharp.

“Mira?” Zoey’s voice was soft, still thick with drowsiness, but her hand reached out without hesitation, brushing against Mira’s arm.

Mira didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat locked, the weight of the dream pressing down too heavy. She focused on the ceiling again, but the images wouldn’t fade—the laughter, the braid, those words about the big stage.

Zoey sat up slowly, gathering Mira against her without waiting for permission. Mira’s cheek pressed into Zoey’s chest, the faint thrum of her heartbeat steady and grounding. Warm arms circled her, a gentle hold that asked for nothing but to keep her safe.

And then Zoey began to hum.

It was a tune Mira knew—one of Zoey’s unfinished compositions, a melody she often tapped out on tables, on her thigh, on the edge of her laptop. It didn’t have lyrics yet, but it didn’t need them. The sound filled the silence, soothing and steady, wrapping around Mira like a blanket.

Little by little, Mira’s chest loosened. Her breaths slowed, syncing with the rhythm of Zoey’s hum. Her trembling fingers reached up, clutching at Zoey’s shirt, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing tethering her to the present.

Zoey’s chin rested lightly on Mira’s damp hair, her voice no louder than a whisper of morning light. She kept humming, kept holding, until Mira’s body finally softened against her.

Mira didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The words tangled in her throat, bitter and unsaid, but for now, she let herself cling.

To Zoey’s warmth. To the melody that dulled the ache. To the lifeline she had always been.

Mira’s breath finally evened out, the ragged edges smoothing under Zoey’s steady embrace and quiet hum. The song drifted like smoke in the dim room, fragile but grounding, wrapping around them both.

Mira closed her eyes, clutching tighter at Zoey’s shirt, the fabric wrinkling beneath her fist. For a long while she said nothing, letting the sound steady her heart. But the words burned at the back of her throat, aching to be released no matter how bitter they tasted.

She exhaled slowly, a sigh slipping out with the faintest tremor.

“I had a dream,” she mumbled at last, her voice barely more than a thread of sound. She felt Zoey’s hum falter, but only slightly, the melody softening as if to make room for her.

“Again,” Mira whispered.

Zoey’s arms didn’t loosen. She only shifted a little, enough that her cheek pressed closer against Mira’s hair, listening.

“That same friend…” Mira’s voice thinned, words tumbling out between the cracks of her breath. “She was there. She said—” Mira swallowed, her throat tightening. “She said she wanted to dance on the big stage.”

The confession hung in the quiet, trembling, like it might shatter the fragile calm Zoey had built with her song. Mira pressed her face harder against Zoey’s chest, as if she could hide inside her, as if saying it too loud would make the dream too real.

Zoey’s hum faded completely now, replaced by silence. But her hands never stopped their gentle, grounding touch—one brushing soothing circles on Mira’s back, the other resting firmly over her arm.

Mira held her breath, waiting for something—questions, maybe, or a hint of worry in Zoey’s voice.

But all that came was a steady heartbeat beneath her ear, and Zoey’s arms that didn’t let go.

Zoey’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath Mira’s ear, each beat a drum keeping her anchored. For a while, that was all there was—the warmth of arms around her, the faint scent of soap clinging to Zoey’s shirt, the silence that made breathing a little easier.

Zoey’s lips parted once, closed again. Mira didn’t notice, too wrapped up in the ache of memory pressing at her ribs. But Zoey felt it—the weight Mira was carrying, heavier than the room could hold.

She fought the urge to ask. Fought it because she didn’t want to shatter the fragile comfort she had built with her humming, her holding. But the words slipped anyway, soft and careful, almost like an exhale.

“What happened to her?”

Mira froze.

Her whole body stiffened in Zoey’s arms, every muscle taut, breath catching like she’d been struck. The question pierced through her walls, sharp in its gentleness. She had braced herself for silence, for understanding without asking—but not for this.

Her fingers clenched tighter in Zoey’s shirt, trembling now. For a long moment she couldn’t speak. Her throat burned, her tongue heavy.

Finally, the words scraped out, raw and stammering.

“S-she left.”

Mira’s lips quivered, and she forced the rest out, the confession cutting bitter and sharp.

“I made her.”

The admission cracked the air between them.

Zoey didn’t move, didn’t flinch, though Mira could feel the shift in her breath against her hair. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick, heavy with questions, with things unspoken.

Mira pressed her face deeper into Zoey’s chest, as if hiding could erase what she’d said. Her body trembled, the words echoing inside her head like a punishment. ‘I made her. I made her leave’

Zoey’s arms only tightened, steady and unyielding, refusing to let her fall apart completely.

After that night, the dreams didn’t stop.
Fragments of memories Mira thought she had long buried kept surfacing, jagged and unwelcome. Faces blurred in the haze of sleep, voices she hadn’t heard in years whispered at the edges of her mind. She would wake with her chest heavy, her body sluggish, as though the weight of the past had settled into her bones.

Her composure faltered. The usual calm, stoic expression she wore like armor slipped. In the studio, her movements lacked their usual elegance—every turn, every leap felt hollow, dragged down by something unseen. Even her reflection seemed different, her fox-like eyes dulled, her pink hair hanging heavy with exhaustion.

And Zoey noticed. Zoey always noticed.

She didn’t demand answers. She didn’t corner Mira with questions. Instead, she provided the kind of quiet comfort that didn’t need words. A warm meal left on the counter. A silly joke at the right moment. Fingers lacing through hers under the table, reminding Mira she wasn’t alone. Lightness, steadiness, all the things Mira felt slipping through her own grasp.

Mira was grateful—so grateful it hurt.

One night, lying in their bed with the room bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Mira turned her head and looked at Zoey. Really looked at her. The gentle rise and fall of her chest. The patience in her eyes, even as she pretended not to notice Mira’s stare. The quiet, unshakable understanding she offered without ever demanding anything back.

Something inside Mira ached. A pang sharp enough to make her chest tighten.

She leaned down before she could second-guess herself, capturing Zoey’s lips in a kiss. It started soft, hesitant—an unspoken thank you, an apology, a plea. But Zoey’s arms curled around her, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until it turned into something more. Something intimate, grounding, and alive.

The world blurred around them, reduced to the heat of skin, the tangle of limbs, the rhythm of shared breaths. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Later, when exhaustion claimed them, they remained tangled together—legs entwined, arms draped, bodies pressed so close there was no space between them. Mira tucked her face against Zoey’s neck, her breathing steady, her heart finally quiet.

And for the first time in two long weeks, she slept.

No dreams. No fragments clawing at her chest. Just peace.

When morning came, Mira woke feeling alive again—light, energetic, confident. Normal. For the first time in days, she looked at her reflection and saw herself again.

And she knew, with a quiet certainty, it was because of Zoey.

Zoey blinked at the sight of Mira bustling around the small kitchen, her steps light, her movements sharp with energy that had been missing for weeks. The frying pan sizzled with bacon, the faint scent of butter and eggs filling their apartment.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching quietly. Mira’s pink hair caught the morning light, glinting like spun candy, and there was something in the way she hummed under her breath—something alive again.

Zoey’s grin spread wide, relief blooming in her chest. She couldn’t help herself.

“Slept well?” she drawled, her voice deliberately laced with mockery. Her lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “You’d better have, because my lower back hurts.”

The teasing landed perfectly.

Mira froze for a half-second, then chuckled—an actual laugh, not the hollow kind she’d been faking the past few weeks, but one that vibrated warm and genuine. It echoed through the room like sunlight cracking through clouds.

Setting down the spatula, she crossed the kitchen in a few quick steps and circled her arms around Zoey’s waist. Her lips brushed against Zoey’s neck, lingering just above the faint marks she had left the night before. A soft kiss pressed to the hickey, shameless and claiming.

“Never been better,” Mira murmured, her voice low, steady, certain.

Zoey’s grin softened, the teasing faltering for just a beat as her cheeks warmed. She tried to roll her eyes, but the tenderness in Mira’s tone anchored itself in her chest.

Before Zoey could retort, Mira tugged her toward the table. “Come on,” she said, tugging lightly at Zoey’s wrist. “Sit. Eat. I didn’t burn the bacon this time.”

Zoey laughed, letting herself be pulled along, letting herself melt into the rhythm of Mira’s new-found brightness. The table was already set—plates of eggs and bacon, toast stacked neatly at the center, mugs steaming with coffee.

As they sat down together, Mira’s hand brushed against Zoey’s under the table, lingering there, fingers curling just enough to say what she didn’t put into words.

And in that small kitchen, with sunlight spilling across the table and laughter slipping between bites, it almost felt like the weight of the past weeks had never existed at all.

—--

The campus buzzed with its usual morning noise, footsteps echoing against tiled hallways, voices carrying through the air. Mira and Zoey walked side by side, hands comfortably intertwined.

Mira’s stride was confident again, shoulders pulled back, fox-like eyes sharp but softened by the faint smile she couldn’t quite hide. Zoey, in her white turtleneck, looked almost angelic beside her—if not for the obvious smirk tugging at her lips.

The moment they stepped into their shared lecture hall, heads turned. A few of their classmates whistled low, grins breaking across their faces.

“Nice turtleneck, Zoey,” one called out with a teasing lilt.

“Yeah, we know what happened,” another chimed in, laughter bubbling around the room.

Zoey froze mid-step, her ears turning pink before she snapped her head toward them, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Excuse you? This is fashion, not evidence,” she declared, tugging at the hem of her sweater dramatically.

Mira burst out laughing, unable to help herself. The sound was so unrestrained that it sent another ripple of chuckles through the room. She leaned in, her voice low but perfectly audible to those close enough to catch it. “You do realize the sweater’s only making them more suspicious, right?”

Zoey gasped theatrically, pressing a hand over her chest. “Mira Kang, are you turning against me?”

“I would never,” Mira shot back smoothly, the corner of her lips twitching upward. “But if you’re going to wear a turtleneck in this weather, you might as well carry a sign that says ‘don’t ask me about the hickeys.’”

Their closest friends sitting nearby howled with laughter, pounding on their desks. “Busted!” someone shouted.

Zoey groaned, burying her face in her hands while Mira only leaned back in her chair, smug. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” Zoey muttered from behind her hands.

“Never been better,” Mira quipped, echoing her own words from the morning, her grin wide enough to draw more laughter from the circle around them.

The teasing continued until the professor arrived, the classroom gradually settling. But the warmth lingered, buzzing between Mira and Zoey as their hands brushed under the desk, their shared glances saying what words didn’t need to.

For once, Mira felt completely light—her chest free, her laughter real, and her heart steady in the rhythm they had built together.

Chapter Text

 (PURPLE BRAID)

Zoey had her notebook open, the edges smudged with graphite where her fingers had pressed too hard. Her pen tapped against the paper in rhythm, the faint melody in her headphones weaving itself into words. She wrote without pause, guided by the way Mira’s laughter from that morning still echoed in her chest.

Mira’s lightness—it was contagious. It was like watching the sun break through after weeks of rain. Zoey found herself wanting to bottle it, preserve it, turn it into something she could play again and again. A song, maybe. A melody that felt like fox-like eyes finally glowing again, like chuckles spilling unrestrained, like healing.

Her pen danced, words scratching out on the page.

*Light spills from you even when shadows try to hold you down…*

A tap on her shoulder cut through the rhythm. Soft. Deliberate. Polite.

Zoey blinked, tugged her headphones down, and turned.

Her gaze met a girl.

A girl with a long purple braid cascading over one shoulder, strands catching in the light like threads of twilight. Her posture was neat, her expression composed, yet softened by the curve of a polite smile. And there—on her left cheek, a dimple appeared, small but striking, as if designed to disarm.

For a moment, Zoey forgot to breathe. She looks perfect, the thought slipped in uninvited.

The girl tilted her head slightly, voice low and courteous.

“Do you know which building is the Chairman’s?”

The question was ordinary. But Zoey felt an odd ripple, like the universe had shifted a half-step to the left.

She straightened in her seat, fingers tightening on her pen. Something in the girl’s eyes tugged at her curiosity—a weight hidden behind the polite exterior.

Zoey offered a small smile back, forcing her voice steady. “Yeah, it’s just across the quad, the glass-front building with the flagpoles. You can’t miss it.”

The girl’s smile deepened, the dimple flickering again.

“Thank you.”

And just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone—steps quiet, braid swinging gently as she disappeared into the hallway’s crowd.

Zoey sat frozen for a beat, staring at the hallway. Then she glanced down at her half-written lyrics.

Her pen hovered.

The line she had just written—about shadows, about weight—suddenly rang differently in her head. She tapped her pen against the page, heart tugging with a strange unease.

Something told her this wasn’t the last time she’d see the girl with the purple braid.

Zoey stared at the half-finished lyrics in her notebook, the ink trailing off mid-line. Her thoughts kept drifting—not to the purple-braided girl this time, but to Mira. Always Mira.

She glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen and groaned softly. Past lunch. Which meant Mira was probably in the dance studio right now, working herself to the bone without a single bite. Again.

Zoey shut her notebook with a firm snap. ‘Unbelievable. If I don’t feed her, she’ll run herself into the ground’

Sliding her headphones into her bag, she made her way to the cafeteria, weaving through the afternoon crowd. She picked out Mira’s favorites—kimbap rolls, a box of japchae, and bottled water—then grabbed a sandwich for herself. Balancing the bags, she padded toward the dance building, her steps light but purposeful.

The door to the studio creaked open when she pushed it, and Zoey peeked in. There Mira was, pink hair flying with each turn, sweat glistening at her temples, her body cutting through the air with practiced precision. Her fox-shaped eyes were sharp, focused, though there was still something haunted beneath them, something Zoey could see even through the grace of her movements.

Zoey didn’t call out. She just slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind her. She set the food down, then eased herself onto the floor by the mirrored wall. Pulling out her notebook again, she flipped back to her unfinished lyrics and let her pen wander.

Minutes ticked by, the sound of Mira’s music filling the room, then fading. When the last note cut off, silence flooded in. Zoey closed her notebook, as if her pause was meant to match Mira’s.

Mira walked toward her, slow and deliberate, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. She sank down onto the floor across from Zoey, their reflections faint in the polished studio mirror.

Neither spoke at first. Mira wiped her face with the towel draped around her neck, her gaze flicking briefly to the bag of food, then back to Zoey.

Zoey tilted her head, meeting her eyes, the corners of her lips twitching up. “You didn’t eat, did you?”

Mira exhaled, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and didn’t bother denying it.

They ate in quiet companionship, the low hum of a soft song drifting through the studio, wrapping around them like a shared blanket. Mira carefully picked at her food, chopsticks moving with a rhythm Zoey had come to love—the grace in her gestures even when tired, the small sigh when something was particularly tasty.

Zoey took a bite of her sandwich, eyes wandering to Mira. The energy she had carried that morning was still there, vibrant and light, and Zoey’s chest swelled with a warmth she couldn’t quite name.

And then, her mind flickered back to the girl she had seen earlier—the one with the long purple braid. Her pulse quickened slightly, not from fear or jealousy, but curiosity, and maybe something more.

Her eyes glimmered as she looked at Mira, who was meticulously rolling a kimbap piece on her plate. Zoey leaned a little closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Mira!” she said, a little too loudly before she remembered the quiet they had been keeping. “I met this girl earlier… she’s got this cute, simple, perfect face. Really… she’s just—” Zoey’s words trailed as she gestured vaguely. “She asked for the Chairman’s building. I think she’s a transfer? I haven’t seen her around the premises before.”

Mira’s chopsticks paused mid-air. She blinked, considering the information, then nodded slowly. Her tone was calm, almost neutral, but Zoey could catch the small flicker of something—curiosity, maybe a shadow of recognition.

“Bold for her,” Mira said softly, resuming her meal. “To transfer mid-semester.”

Zoey grinned, sensing Mira’s subtle shift. “Yeah… bold, but she seemed polite. Smiled too. That dimple, Mira—you’ll like her dimples!.”

Mira let the comment slide without responding, but her gaze lingered on her food a fraction longer than necessary, and Zoey noticed. Her curiosity grew, though she didn’t push it. For now, she focused on finishing their shared meal, the two of them leaning into the quiet intimacy of the studio, while the new presence in their world lingered just outside their thoughts.

Even so, Zoey couldn’t help the twinge of fascination—and a strange, subtle tension that tightened her chest whenever she thought of that purple braid.

Sunday felt quieter than usual. Mira had declared she was “napping all day,” and Zoey had laughed, planting a kiss on her forehead before heading out. She needed to stretch her legs, grab some takeout, and restock her stash of notebooks—the ones she always bought for her lyrics.

The mall was bright but calm, a soft hum of weekend shoppers moving past in small waves. Zoey weaved through the aisles until she reached the stationary section, eyes scanning for the turtle-designed notebook she always favored.

She tiptoed lightly toward the upper shelf, balancing on her toes as she reached for a notebook. Her hand hovered just beneath the notebook, fingers brushing against the shelf.

Then a presence came from behind.

“Here.”

Zoey froze, turning.

There she was. The same girl. The cat-shaped eyes, long purple braid swinging just slightly, a flawless face with that deeper left dimple that had somehow imprinted itself on Zoey’s memory. The girl extended her hand, holding the notebook with delicate fingers.

“Consider it my thank you,” the girl said politely, voice soft but confident. “For pointing me to the Chairman’s building last time.”

Zoey’s hand shot out reflexively, taking the notebook. “Oh—thank you!” she said, cheeks warming. She opened her mouth, ready to ask for her name, to say something—anything—but the words lodged in her throat.

A new presence appeared. A woman in her mid-forties, sharp but composed, standing beside the girl. Her expression was neutral, almost watchful, and without a word, she gestured subtly.

Zoey blinked, and in the next moment, both the woman and the purple-braided girl had stepped back, turning toward another aisle and disappearing from sight.

Zoey stood frozen for a moment, notebook clutched against her chest, heart pounding in a rhythm that didn’t quite belong to her. The encounter had been brief, fleeting, but somehow heavier than she expected.

She glanced down at the notebook in her hands, the small turtle imprint catching the fluorescent light. Her fingers traced it absentmindedly, mind spinning with curiosity and that strange pull she couldn’t quite place.

“Who is she?” Zoey wondered, the question lingering in the air long after the mall had swallowed them both.

-------

Zoey stepped through the door, the faint scent of fried takeout mingling with the lingering warmth of the apartment. Her arms were full—one hand clutching a paper bag stuffed with fresh stationery, the other balancing the plastic containers of food she had picked up for dinner.

She froze for a split second, taking in the sight before letting out a soft chuckle. Mira was sprawled across the couch, one leg bent, the other stretched, eyes glued to some cartoon movie she always watched when no one was around. Her hair fell in a casual halo around her fox-shaped face, pink strands catching the late afternoon light.

Zoey carefully set the paper bag and food on the coffee table, then plopped down beside her. Curling onto her side, she rested her head on her hand, eyes glittering with excitement.

“I met that girl again!” Zoey began, practically vibrating with energy. “She helped me get the notebook that was way too high for me to reach! God, she’s so—goddess-like. Cat-eyed, long lashes, plump lips, deep dimples!”

Zoey’s words tumbled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly as though painting the girl into the room. “Too bad I couldn’t catch her name—somehow she got pulled away by her mom? I guess. But she’s… so perfect!”

Mira snorted without looking at her, finally turning her head to peer at Zoey with one eyebrow raised.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Mira asked, tone serious but laced with teasing. Her fox-shaped eyes sparkled with mischief. “Why are you telling me, your girlfriend, about this? Is this what they call micro-cheating?”

Zoey’s cheeks flushed a little, caught between laughter and embarrassment. “No! No, of course not! I just—she’s… fascinating, that’s all! You know me, I notice everything, but that—” Zoey waved vaguely, gesturing at the memory of the girl. “It’s not you, it’s… curiosity!”

Mira’s lips curved, the teasing in her eyes softening. She nudged Zoey with her shoulder, nudging her into the couch cushions. “Curiosity, huh? Just make sure your curiosity doesn’t start eating dinner together,” she said, smirking.

Zoey laughed, leaning closer until their foreheads brushed. “I only have eyes for you, Mira Kang,” she murmured, letting her voice drop into something intimate, quiet. “But… wow, that girl. She’s… unforgettable.”

Mira snorted again, pressing a kiss to Zoey’s lips. “Well, don’t let her make you forget the one you already have,” she teased, her words softening as her hand brushed over Zoey’s arm.

Zoey grinned, heart thudding in a mixture of amusement and something else she couldn’t quite name. For now, the moment was theirs—laughter, warmth, and the comfort of being tangled together on the couch.

--------

It had been almost a week since Zoey had last seen the girl with the purple braid, and she hadn’t been able to stop scanning the crowd every time she stepped onto campus. She told herself it was curiosity, simple fascination, but the truth was more complicated—there was something magnetic about the girl, something that lodged itself in the back of Zoey’s mind like a persistent chord.

Yet each time, that striking shade of purple hair remained elusive, lost in the flow of students and sunlight.

That afternoon, Zoey had nestled herself into a quiet corner of the library, textbooks and notebooks spread around her like a protective barrier. She was hammering out an essay for one of her minor subjects, pen scratching the page as she tried to tune out everything else. The hum of fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of pages turning was comforting, familiar.

And then—

A soft tap on her shoulder.

Zoey froze mid-sentence, pen hovering in the air. Her heart skipped, her chest tight. Slowly, cautiously, she turned around.

There she was.

The purple-haired girl. Polite, delicate fingers brushing the shoulder where she had tapped. Her long braid hung over one shoulder, the soft sheen catching the light filtering through the library windows. Cat-shaped eyes, flawless face, lips that curved gently at the corners, and the deep left dimple that had haunted Zoey’s thoughts all week.

Zoey blinked, caught between shock, startlement, and recognition. Her pen nearly fell from her hand.

“Hi,” the girl said softly, her voice the same calm, almost melodic tone Zoey remembered. “I… I think I saw you last week. I helped you with the notebook?”

Zoey swallowed, heart hammering. “Y-yeah,” she managed, voice catching slightly. “I… I mean, hi. I’m Zoey.”

The girl’s smile deepened, the dimple flickering as she nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name last time. I’m… Ru.”

Zoey’s mind raced. Ru. The sound of it seemed to settle around her, strange and new, yet familiar somehow.

For a long beat, they just stared at each other across the library table, the quiet hum of the room wrapping them in a bubble. Zoey’s pen felt heavy in her hand, the essay forgotten, and all she could think was ‘She’s here. And now I can’t look away.’

Zoey shifted in her seat, trying to ground herself, trying to make the conversation casual even though her heart was pounding like a drum in her chest. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and forced her voice to stay steady.

“So… uh, are you a transfer?” she asked, trying to sound natural, though her fingers kept tapping the edge of her notebook. Her essay lay forgotten, words half-formed on the page.

The girl—Ru—smiled. Polite. Composed. Practiced. But even in that careful calm, there was something undeniably magnetic, something that drew Zoey in.

“Yeah,” Ru said softly, her voice almost melodic, carrying just enough warmth to make Zoey’s chest tighten. “I just came back from the States.”

Zoey blinked, caught off-guard. “Oh… wow. That’s… quite a move, mid-semester.” She found herself chuckling nervously, unsure whether to look at the braid, the cat-shaped eyes, or somewhere else entirely.

Ru tilted her head slightly, dimple flashing in the polite, effortless way Zoey had noticed before. “Yeah… it was… bold. But I figured it’s better to start now than wait for the next semester.” Her tone was calm, almost rehearsed, yet somehow genuine.

Zoey tried to smile, but her words stumbled. “I-I mean… well, it makes sense. Um… welcome back, then?”

Ru’s smile widened just enough to make Zoey’s stomach twist in an unfamiliar way. “Thank you, Zoey.”

The sound of her name on Ru’s lips—soft, deliberate—sent a small thrill through Zoey. She realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out slowly, heart still hammering.

For a few moments, the library around them faded into a blur, the only thing Zoey could focus on was Ru—her presence, the polite sway of her braid, the warmth hidden in her measured, composed smile.

Zoey’s gaze lingered on Ru longer than she intended, heart thudding in that familiar, uncontrollable rhythm—the same way it did whenever Mira’s genuine smile caught her off guard, or when Mira moved with that effortless grace on the dance floor. She had to look away for a split second, blinking rapidly, before forcing her voice to sound casual.

“So… um, when does your class schedule start?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light, pretending the essay on the table still mattered.

Ru’s lips curved into a half-smile, the kind that seemed practiced yet effortless, polite yet slightly teasing. “Monday,” she said softly. “My aunt’s still fixing my papers.”

Zoey nodded, though her brain raced faster than her calm exterior could handle. “Ah, okay. So… still a few days to get everything sorted, huh?”

Ru’s eyes met hers directly, cat-like and sharp, but gentle at the same time. “Yeah. I guess it gives me a little time to get used to campus… and maybe find my favorite spots.” Her tone was light, but Zoey caught the subtle invitation beneath it, the way her gaze didn’t dart away, the small dimple that appeared again at the corner of her mouth.

Zoey swallowed hard, gripping her pen with a little too much force. “Well… if you ever need help figuring things out, I… uh… I can show you around. Maybe introduce you to some of the good study spots—or coffee spots,” she added, trying to sound casual, but the words stumbled out faster than she expected.

Ru’s half-smile deepened just slightly, and she nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you, Zoey.”

The sound of her name, so deliberate, so personal—it sent a little thrill up Zoey’s spine. Her pulse quickened, and she found herself grinning before she could stop it, caught between fascination, nerves, and something she couldn’t quite name yet.

The library around them seemed to fade a little, the hum of students and pages turning distant, leaving only Zoey and Ru in that suspended bubble of quiet curiosity.

Zoey watched Ru, captivated by the delicate way she tapped her fingers on the edge of the table. There was a rhythm to it—soft, precise, almost musical. Zoey’s eyes followed each movement, tracing the cadence like she could understand something about Ru just from the pattern.

Then Ru’s phone buzzed on the table. Her fingers tapped five times on the surface before she picked it up, moving with that same quiet grace that seemed to define her. She typed something swiftly, the gesture elegant, deliberate, and Zoey’s mind couldn’t stop following it.

Finally, Ru set the phone down and stood, every motion smooth, measured, like a dancer in mid-performance.

“My aunt’s at the gate,” she said softly, the dimple flashing ever so slightly. “Need to go. See you around, Zoey.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the left library aisle and walked away, her long purple braid swinging with each step. Zoey’s eyes followed her, tracing the curve of her shoulders, the sway of her hair, until the aisle swallowed her figure completely.

Zoey blinked, lost in thought, the half-written essay forgotten, her pen idle in her hand. Her pulse raced a little, a mix of intrigue and something else she couldn’t quite define.

“Babe,” a familiar voice cut through her reverie, warm and teasing, yet tinged with curiosity.

Zoey turned her head. Mira was leaning against the library desk behind her, arms crossed, fox-shaped eyes narrowing playfully. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Zoey flushed, caught off guard, and her pen tapped nervously against her notebook. “Uh… nothing,” she said quickly, trying to sound casual, though the memory of Ru’s elegant movements and that precise tapping of fingers lingered in her mind like a stubborn refrain.

Mira raised a brow, stepping closer, the teasing curl of her lips just visible. “Nothing, huh? Your cheeks say otherwise. Don’t tell me you’re daydreaming about someone again.”

Zoey’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. She tried to explain, tried to brush it off with a laugh—but she couldn’t. Not entirely. And Mira, of course, noticed every little falter.

Zoey sighed, dropping her gaze to her notebook. “It’s… someone I just met. Just… a transfer. Nothing serious.”

Mira’s grin widened, mischievous and knowing. “Hmm… just a transfer, huh?” she teased, nudging Zoey lightly with her shoulder. “You’re blushing like a rookie. Guess I’ll let it slide… for now.”

Zoey couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out, even as her thoughts kept wandering back to Ru, to the rhythm of her fingers, and the way she had made even a brief, polite interaction feel weightless and unforgettable.

Chapter Text

 (MEETING)

Almost four in the afternoon, and Zoey was still hunched over her notebook, fingers flying across the page with that fierce determination she always wore when deadlines loomed. Mira leaned back against the library chair, arms crossed, smirk tugging at her lips.

She had no rehearsal that afternoon, no pressing reason to be anywhere but here, so she made it her mission to distract Zoey as much as possible.

“Hey, babe,” Mira drawled, resting her chin on her hand. “Are you sure that sentence even makes sense? You’re staring at the page like it’s trying to eat you.”

Zoey shot her a glare over the top of her notebook, lips twitching as she tried not to smile. “I’ll survive. You’re just… you’re not helping,” she muttered, tapping her pen faster.

“Not helping?” Mira leaned closer, brushing a finger lightly over Zoey’s shoulder. “Come on, admit it—you love my distractions.”

Zoey rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. Mira chuckled, settling back in her chair, letting her fox-like eyes follow Zoey’s focused movements. There was something mesmerizing about watching her girlfriend write, so absorbed, so alive, even when Mira’s teasing threatened to pull her attention elsewhere.

Finally, Zoey slammed the notebook shut with a triumphant sigh. “Done!” she announced, grinning. Mira clapped mockingly, pretending to be impressed, then slid her hand into Zoey’s as they walked toward the campus exit, fingers intertwining naturally, like they’d done a hundred times before.

The drive home was easy, Mira’s pink hair catching the fading sunlight streaming through the windshield. At a fast food drive-thru, they laughed over the menu, Zoey teasing Mira about how much ketchup she would put on her fries. The car smelled faintly of salt, fries, and the excitement of finishing something together.

Once inside their apartment, the world fell away. They plopped on the couch, bags of takeout and Zoey’s scattered notebooks littering the floor around them. Mira leaned back, stretching her legs across Zoey’s lap, then propped herself on an elbow to watch her girlfriend carefully unwrap her food.

“You know,” Mira said, voice soft but teasing, “if we stayed like this forever, I wouldn’t complain.”

Zoey laughed, tossing a fry at her playfully. “You say that now, but you’d get annoyed in like five minutes.”

Mira caught it with a grin, popping it into her mouth. “Worth it.”

The apartment was warm, the hum of the city outside muted by the comfort of their shared space. For a while, they ate in silence, side by side, their hands brushing occasionally, the easy intimacy of years of being together settling over them like a blanket.

And Mira couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at her lips. For all the distractions, the deadlines, the strange curiosity of the world outside, this—Zoey here, beside her, warm and alive—was everything.

Mira munched on a fry, eyes casually tracing Zoey’s movements—but then she noticed.

The way Zoey’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. The way her fingers tapped a rhythm against the takeout container, soft and deliberate, one Mira felt familiar but couldn't quite remember. The quiet that hung over her, heavier than usual, as though something was pressing behind the easy exterior.

Mira’s brow furrowed slightly. She set the fry down and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, gaze fixed on Zoey.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice carrying that mix of concern and gentle teasing she always used when she needed answers. “What’s bothering you? You’re quiet… and it’s distracting.”

Zoey blinked, caught mid-tap, the rhythm halting as her gaze flicked toward Mira. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and let out a small, reluctant sigh.

Mira softened, nudging her hand gently with her own. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I’ll still think you’re perfect—even if it’s something weird or… complicated.”

Zoey swallowed, eyes dropping to the scattered takeout and notebooks on the floor. The words were there, teetering on the edge of her tongue, something she wanted to say but didn’t quite know how to frame without unraveling the cozy little bubble they were in.

Mira’s gaze didn’t waver. She waited, patient, steady—the way only Mira could be, like a lighthouse holding firm even in rough waters.

“Zoey…” Mira prompted softly, leaning a little closer, “I’m not letting this slide. You’ve got that look again—the one from the library earlier. You’re… somewhere else. Tell me what it is.”

Zoey’s fingers twitched against the container, and for a heartbeat, Mira thought she might say nothing at all. But Mira’s presence—unflinching, unwavering—pulled at her, grounding her in the moment.

Finally, Zoey met her gaze, hesitant but honest. “It’s… complicated,” she whispered. “I met that same girl again. At the library. And I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Mira’s fox-shaped eyes narrowed slightly, lips tugging into a half-smile, half-grimace of teasing suspicion. “The goddess-like beauty  from weeks ago?” she asked, playful but sharp. “Zoey, if this is micro-cheating, I swear—”

Zoey laughed nervously, cutting her off. “No! It’s not like that! I… I just—she’s… I don’t know, it’s nothing serious. Just… curiosity, okay?”

Mira’s expression softened, her teasing melting into concern. She reached over, brushing her fingers along Zoey’s arm. “Curiosity, huh? Well… you better make sure your curiosity doesn’t forget the person sitting right here,” she said, voice low, intimate, teasing still dancing at the edges.

Zoey smiled, though it was lighter than usual, still tinged with the fascination that Mira had noticed. Mira pressed a quick kiss to Zoey’s temple, letting her fingers linger.

“You’re mine,” Mira murmured softly. “And I notice everything.”

Zoey chuckled, the sound warm and light, and leaned in to press a soft kiss on Mira’s lips. Mira responded automatically, the familiar spark igniting, before Zoey pulled back just enough to grin mischievously.

“It’s just curiosity,” Zoey said, voice playful but eyes still flickering with something deeper. “You know me. I’m a curious person. And that girl… she’s like a puzzle I can’t solve. But she’s… perfect. From looks, to her smile, to the way she gestures. Watch this—she taps her fingers like this.”

Before Mira could protest, Zoey grabbed the takeout container in front of her and began tapping her fingers in the same soft, deliberate rhythm that the girl had used in the library.

Tap… tap… tap… tap… tap.

Mira’s stomach tightened. The rhythm was hauntingly familiar, a little too familiar. Her fox-shaped eyes narrowed as she watched Zoey’s fingers dance over the container, and a memory surfaced unbidden—someone from her past, someone long buried in the corners of her mind, had done the exact same thing when she was bored. The same pattern, the same gentle cadence.

A strange swirl of emotions rose in her chest—nostalgia, longing, and something sharper, a pang she hadn’t felt in years. Mira’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the flood of memory, the sudden echo of someone who had once meant so much.

Zoey noticed the change immediately, the way Mira’s usually calm, composed posture stiffened just slightly, the faint trace of something unspoken flickering in her expression.

“What’s wrong?” Zoey asked softly, tilting her head. “Did I… do it wrong?”

Mira shook her head, forcing a small smile, but her chest still ached, and her mind swirled with the rhythm. “No… it’s not you,” she murmured. “It’s just… that rhythm… it reminds me of someone from long ago.”

Zoey’s fingers paused mid-tap, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Someone… from your past?”

Mira’s gaze softened as she leaned back into the couch, letting out a faint sigh. “Yeah… someone I used to know. A friend who… mattered.” She looked at Zoey, eyes warm but distant, the memory lingering like a ghost. “That rhythm… it just brought it all back.”

Zoey reached out, brushing her hand over Mira’s, grounding her. “I get it,” she said softly. 

Mira’s lips curved into a faint, grateful smile, the tension easing slightly. She leaned into Zoey’s touch, letting herself sink back into the warmth, even as the memory of the past flickered quietly behind her eyes.

Friday had finally rolled around, a rare afternoon with little to do, and Mira couldn’t help but revel in the quiet luxury of it. The campus quad was bathed in warm sunlight, the kind that made the leaves shimmer gold and green, and the gentle hum of students passing by barely reached them on their secluded bench.

Mira stretched out, letting her legs drape over the far end of the bench while Zoey settled herself between them, leaning back against Mira’s chest. The weight was light, familiar, grounding. Mira rested her chin on Zoey’s shoulder, letting her fingers lazily trace the edge of Zoey’s laptop as her girlfriend tapped away at the keys.

Zoey was focused, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping a rhythm across her keyboard as she edited the track she’d been producing for her major subject. Mira watched her for a long moment, fascinated by the intensity in her eyes, the way her lips twitched slightly when she caught a beat she liked.

The rhythm of Zoey’s fingers echoed softly in Mira’s mind, and she couldn’t help but think back to that yesterday in the apartment, the tapping on the takeout container. That familiar cadence—the one that had stirred memories long buried—had returned, albeit slightly altered, playful and alive in Zoey’s music editing.

Mira shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to Zoey’s temple. “You’re really focused,” she murmured, letting her voice be just loud enough for Zoey to hear.

Zoey hummed in acknowledgment, eyes still on the screen. “Mm… yeah. Almost done with this section. Just… tweaking the synth layers.”

Mira smiled, pressing her cheek against the back of Zoey’s head. “You sound amazing,” she said softly. “Even when you’re just sitting here editing, I can hear it in you.”

Zoey’s fingers didn’t stop, but she let out a small sigh, a half-smile brushing her lips. “You’re too nice,” she murmured, voice muffled “And a little distracting.”

Mira chuckled softly, brushing strands of Zoey’s hair behind her ear. “Good,” she teased. “I like distracting my talented girlfriend.”

Zoey glanced up briefly, eyes sparkling, before returning to her laptop, tapping the keys in time with the music. Mira let herself sink fully into the moment, watching Zoey, feeling the warmth, the rhythm, and the steady, unspoken bond that tethered them together.

It was quiet. It was simple. And yet, Mira thought, moments like this—small, ordinary, yet perfect—were the ones she wanted to hold onto forever.

Mira’s chin rested comfortably on Zoey’s shoulder, the warmth in her chest grounding her. Her gaze drifted downward, unconsciously tracing the way Zoey’s fingers moved across the keyboard.

And then she noticed it.

The rhythm.

Tap… tap… tap… tap… tap.

It was the same rhythm Zoey had shown her the night before, the same delicate, deliberate pattern she had mimicked on the takeout container. Mira’s stomach tightened at the memory—the subtle, almost imperceptible swirl of pain it always brought.

Not exactly pain, not exactly longing, but a cocktail of both, a reminder of someone she had once known, someone who had meant more than she’d allowed herself to admit.

Her fox-shaped eyes narrowed slightly, heart tugging at an old, buried ache. The cadence wasn’t just music—it was a signature, a whisper from a memory long tucked away, now resurrected in Zoey’s absent-minded tapping.

Zoey, oblivious to Mira’s sudden tension, hummed softly in time with her own music, fingers still flying over the keys. Mira’s hands tightened slightly around her own knees, the bittersweet swirl of recognition and curiosity knotting her chest.

‘Why does this rhythm… feel like her?’ Mira thought, a small, almost imperceptible shiver running through her.

She swallowed, pressing her lips lightly against Zoey’s shoulder, letting herself breathe in the present while the past whispered beneath it. Mira knew she shouldn’t dwell, shouldn’t let the memory intrude on the calm, warm moment with Zoey—but the rhythm, that impossible, familiar rhythm, had awakened something in her she hadn’t felt in years.

And she realized, with a strange mix of awe and dread, that she was utterly, irrevocably captivated.

The sudden jolt of consciousness ripped through Mira, and her body shook as if she had been plunged into ice water. Her breaths were jagged, uneven, heart hammering violently against her ribs. Sweat dotted her forehead, dampened the nape of her neck, and her hair clung to her temples. The night lamp flickered as she fumbled to switch it on, bathing the room in a soft, pale glow.

She sat on the edge of the bed, both hands pressed to her face, trying to steady the rapid pulse in her chest, trying to force herself to breathe normally. The blanket slipped from her grasp, and she rose, moving almost automatically toward the bathroom, bare feet silent against the cool floor.

The mirror stared back at her, eyes wide and hollow, pupils dilated. Mira pressed her palms against the cold porcelain sink, letting the chill seep into her skin as she tried to shake the remnants of the dream. But the images, the sounds, the voices—they refused to leave.

Purple hair. That soft, rare smile she’d never seen anywhere else, delicate yet sincere, almost disarming in its purity. Mira’s chest tightened as the memory replayed vividly, as though the dream itself had burned into her mind with every detail sharpened beyond reality.

Then the scene shifted. Rain. Heavy, unrelenting sheets of it, hammering against the pavement, soaking everything in a cold, gray sheen. Mira’s own voice, desperate and ragged, pierced through the storm:

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were leaving!?”

A soft, raised voice replied, almost breaking over the roar of the rain. “I told you I’m not leaving. It’s my aunt who’s leaving.”

Mira’s chest ached. Rage, hurt, and confusion mingled in a bitter cocktail, pushing her forward. She grabbed the girl’s wrist, yanking her around, eyes blazing.

“Bullshit! You’re your aunt’s puppet! Wherever she goes, you’ll follow!” she shouted, her voice cracking in anger.

The girl’s face, framed by damp purple hair plastered to her cheeks, twisted in pain. Her eyes, wide and glossy with rain and tears, shimmered with disbelief. “What did you just say? A puppet? Is that what you think of me?”

“Yes!” Mira spat, voice sharp and raw. “You’re Celine’s puppet! You want to leave? Then leave! And don’t you dare come back… ever!”

The girl’s hands moved to her collar, gripping it with trembling fingers. Her eyes shone red, and the rain plastered strands of hair to her face as she whispered, broken, defiant;

“I defy my aunt… for you! I left the house… for you! Because I loved you! And you’re pushing me away?— Fine, you wanted me to leave. I’ll leave...”

Her voice, fragile yet piercing, cut through Mira’s chest like shards of glass. The rain fell harder, mingling with her own tears as the scene faded to black, leaving Mira suspended in the void of loss and regret.

And then Mira awoke, gasping, eyes wide, the memory of the rain, the words, the tears burned into her chest. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the sink, feeling the weight of her own guilt pressing down on her ribs.

Her reflection stared back at her—pink hair damp from sweat, eyes glossy, the faint outline of fox-shaped pupils widened in shock and something else… a hollow ache that she couldn’t push away. She pressed her palms to her face again, whispering under her breath, trembling

“Why… why do you keep coming back? Why now?”

The bathroom was silent, save for the distant hum of the night outside and the rapid, uneven thump of her own heartbeat. Mira leaned forward, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, letting the echo of that voice—the one that had once belonged to someone she loved—linger in her mind.

Mira padded back to the bed, each step quiet against the floor, her body still trembling slightly from the remnants of the dream. She slipped beneath the blanket, the warmth enveloping her like a fragile shield against the storm raging inside her mind.

She pressed her face into Zoey’s chest, letting the steady rhythm of her girlfriend’s heartbeat wash over her. It was grounding, anchoring, and for the first time in what felt like hours, Mira’s racing thoughts began to slow. The images from the dream—the purple hair, the rain, the pleading eyes—faded into the background, drowned out by the simple, undeniable presence of Zoey.

Her hands clutched Zoey’s waist tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline, like an anchor she needed to hold onto in the middle of a turbulent sea. Mira couldn’t breathe fully, couldn’t let go, because if she did, she feared the memories would come flooding back with double force, pulling her under.

Her chest ached, a hollow weight pressing down from somewhere deep inside. It wasn’t just the dream; it was the reminder of someone she had buried long ago, someone she had convinced herself didn’t matter anymore. But lying here, pressed against Zoey, the old ache refused to vanish. It twisted and swirled with longing and guilt, a bitter reminder of past mistakes and unresolved feelings.

She couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to sleep. The moment she closed her eyes, the memory would return, vivid and unrelenting. The words, the rain, the tear-streaked face of the girl who had once held so much of her heart would claw their way back into her mind, demanding recognition, demanding reckoning.

So Mira stayed awake, clinging to Zoey, her breathing gradually matching the steady cadence of her girlfriend’s heartbeat. The warmth, the soft rise and fall of Zoey’s chest, the faint scent of her shampoo—it was all enough to keep her anchored to the present, to remind her that she was here, alive, and loved.

For now, that was enough.

Her fingers tightened again around Zoey’s waist, the small, desperate grip of someone who needed to feel real and present. The ache remained, yes—but it was tempered by the quiet, unwavering light of Zoey beside her. And Mira, for the first time that night, allowed herself to exhale, to simply exist in the safety of this moment, even if sleep refused to come.

Monday had arrived, and with it, the fresh start of a new week. The campus hummed with its usual energy—students laughing, papers rustling, the distant echo of footsteps on tile. 

Mira sat in one of the desks of their shared art class, legs hangin, notebook open but largely ignored. Zoey, buzzing with an energy that Mira couldn’t quite place, had positioned herself between Mira’s legs, standing tall and animated, gesturing at their classmates while bickering about some trivial things that only made Mira smile faintly.

But Mira’s mind was only half-present, weighed down by the remnants of the past week; dreams that refused to let go, the strange rhythm of a tapping finger that had haunted her, and the ache of a memory she wasn’t sure she could face again.

The classroom door swung open, and Mira looked up, expecting the familiar stride of their professor. The man entered, followed by someone else—someone who walked with an unassuming calm, her presence quiet but undeniable.

Mira froze

A chill crawling down her spine. The world seemed to tilt, every sound muted except for the rush of her own blood in her ears. Her eyes widened, and the breath caught painfully in her throat as they locked onto hers—brown eyes, deep and unflinching, framed by the same long purple braid she always adored. That delicate dimple, the way her lips curved into a gentle, polite smile… it was all impossibly real.

Her mind went blank. The carefully constructed walls she had built around her emotions wavered and cracked. Thoughts tumbled over one another in a chaotic mess—No, it can’t be. She’s... here? Why… why now?

Her mouth betrayed her, moving before her mind could catch up. “Ru… Mi—”

The syllables hung in the air, unsteady and broken, as if she were trying to say more but could not form the words. Her chest felt tight, lungs constricted by the sudden flood of memories and the sharp pang of recognition. The classroom seemed to shrink, the chatter of students and the shuffle of papers fading into the background as her gaze remained locked on the girl

Zoey, sensing the sudden change in Mira, paused mid-gesture, eyebrows knitting together. “Mira?” she asked softly, concerned threading through her tone. But Mira couldn’t tear her eyes away.

The girl’s gaze held hers, calm, composed, but there was something almost fragile beneath the surface, something that mirrored the ghost of the past that Mira had been running from. 

The polite smile didn’t reach the depth of her eyes—they were serious now, searching, and Mira felt her stomach twist in recognition and dread.

Mira’s lips trembled as she tried to form words again, but nothing coherent came out. The past and the present collided violently in her chest, a storm of guilt, longing, and unresolved emotion she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years. Why now? Why today?

Zoey, oblivious to the layers of Mira’s turmoil, instinctively stepped closer, hand brushing against Mira’s knee. “Mira…” she whispered again, softer this time, but Mira barely heard her.

All she could see was the girl—the dimple, the cat-like eyes, the long purple braid cascading down her shoulder—and the memory of that rainy night, the shouting, the heartbreak, and the declaration that had shattered Mira in ways she had never truly confronted.

The classroom clock ticked loudly, painfully, as Mira’s mind struggled to catch up. Her throat ached, her heart pounded, and the weight of years compressed into this single moment. She was frozen, caught between past and present, unable to move, unable to speak, and terrified of the feelings she had buried so deeply now resurfacing with a force she wasn’t sure she could survive.

“Rumi…” she whispered again, the word barely audible, trembling with the weight of everything she had tried to forget.

And in that instant, Mira knew

Nothing would ever feel ordinary again.

Chapter Text

(SPIRAL)

Mira’s chest felt like it was caving in. Every breath burned, every thought frayed at the edges. She didn’t know where to put her eyes, where to focus, because no matter how hard she tried, they always darted back—to her. To Rumi.

The girl she had once shouted at under a heavy downpour. The girl who had walked away when Mira told her to, even though Mira had never really wanted her to. The girl who had haunted her dreams for weeks now, bleeding into her waking hours.

And now she was here. Standing in front of everyone. Standing like nothing had happened.

Mira’s knuckles whitened as she clutched the edge of the desk. Her mouth was dry, the faint metallic taste of panic lingering on her tongue. She wanted to say something, anything, but her mind was a storm, and her heart was a traitor, slamming mercilessly against her ribs.

Her train of thought was cut by the professor’s clipped voice.

“Ms. Kang, please refrain from sitting on the desks. Take your seats. We have a new student joining us today.”

Mira blinked, realizing she was still perched awkwardly on top of the desk. Heat rushed to her cheeks as the room shifted back into focus—the curious eyes of classmates, Zoey standing just between her, confusion flickering across her expression. With deliberate slowness, Mira slipped into her chair, the legs screeching faintly against the floor. Her movements felt heavy, reluctant, like her body was made of stone.

The professor turned with a small gesture, his hand sweeping toward the front of the room.

“Go ahead. Introduce yourself.”

Rumi stepped forward, her posture perfectly polite, her smile practiced but tight, almost too restrained. Mira noticed the details instantly—the slight curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders, the deliberate care she placed in each movement, as though every second was rehearsed.

“Hi, everyone.” Her voice was calm, smooth, but Mira could hear the faint tremor beneath the words, the accent softened yet undeniable. “I’m Ryu Rumi. I just came back from the States, so please don’t mind my accent.”

She ended it with a small bow, the braid slipping over her shoulder, catching the light just so. The classroom murmured with interest, a few polite smiles and whispered remarks drifting through the air. But all Mira could hear was the sound of her own pulse, roaring in her ears.

Ryu Rumi.

The name hit her like a stone, solidifying everything she had tried to deny. Her eyes stung, her throat thick with unspoken words. It wasn’t just a dream, wasn’t just her subconscious playing tricks. It was real. Rumi was real, here, breathing the same air, looking like the same girl Mira had once driven away with her own cruel words.

Mira swallowed hard, her chest twisting in a sharp, unbearable ache. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs under the desk, willing herself to stay still, to stay composed. Zoey shifted in her seat beside her, the warmth of her presence grounding but not enough to soothe the storm raging inside.

When Rumi’s gaze swept the room and inevitably brushed past her, Mira froze. For the briefest second, their eyes met—brown locking onto black, past colliding with present.

Mira’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

And in that silence, Mira realized— the past she had buried was no longer buried at all. It was standing in front of her, smiling a polite stranger’s smile, and there was no running from it anymore.

————

Rumi still stood at the front of the room, her posture graceful and deliberate, as if she were balancing herself on an invisible thread. She waited quietly, eyes lowered in respect, for the professor’s nod.

The professor adjusted his glasses, then looked over the class with mild amusement. “Alright, class. Since Ms. Ryu has just introduced herself, why don’t we welcome her with a few questions? Appropriate ones, at least.”

The room erupted into low chuckles, students perking up with sudden interest. Mira, however, felt her throat tighten. She wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t as if she were the one about to be questioned—but something about watching Rumi stand there, so calmly, so politely, as if nothing from the past had ever happened, made her chest constrict.

A hand shot up from the second row. “So, what’s your major?”

Rumi tilted her head ever so slightly, her braid sliding forward across her shoulder. She smiled that same polite smile—practiced, contained, distant—and answered smoothly, “Business and Music.”

Mira blinked. Music? The word felt strange, sharp, cutting through the years between them. Rumi had once whispered about dancing on the big stage, had once dragged Mira into impromptu living room routines, spinning and laughing until both of them were out of breath. But music? Mira’s stomach churned, her mind scrambling to reconcile the Rumi she remembered with the Rumi standing here now.

The questions continued, bouncing from one curious classmate to the next.

“What state were you in?”

“Do you play instruments?”

“Do you speak Korean fluently still?”

Each time, Rumi smiled politely, her tone unwavering as she answered one by one. Her voice was calm, low but clear, every syllable carrying that faint foreign lilt. It was practiced, controlled, and yet Mira still couldn’t look away.

She couldn’t.

Her eyes followed every movement—the way Rumi’s lashes dipped when she glanced down, the way her fingers curled loosely at her side, the way her dimple only flickered faintly when she smiled, like it was a shadow of the genuine grin Mira had once teased out of her in the past.

And then—

A laugh, louder than the others, broke through the chatter. A boy in the back leaned forward on his desk, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“So, Ms. Ryu,” he said, drawing out the syllables, “are you single?”

The class erupted with scattered chuckles, whistles, and a few groans of, “Seriously, dude?” The professor didn’t immediately cut it off, only arching a brow in warning, waiting to see if Rumi would answer.

Mira’s head snapped toward him so fast it made her neck sting. Her brows furrowed, tight, her black fox-like eyes narrowing into sharp slits. Something hot flared in her chest—anger, protectiveness, jealousy—an emotion she couldn’t quite name, only feel in the pit of her stomach.

Her nails dug into her thigh beneath the desk. Of all the stupid questions.

Her jaw clenched as she stared daggers at the boy, her chest rising and falling in shallow, tight breaths. She didn’t even realize how hard she was glaring until Zoey shifted slightly beside her, noticing the sudden change in her energy.

Mira turned her eyes back to Rumi, throat dry, waiting—dreading—what she might say.

Rumi didn’t flinch. She only smiled, the same careful smile, though her dimple didn’t appear this time. Her posture didn’t waver, her eyes didn’t dart nervously. She simply paused, as though weighing her words carefully, deliberately.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating for Mira. She wanted to shout, to cut off the question, to do something, but her body remained frozen, chained to her seat.

Please don’t answer. Please don’t—

And all the while, Mira’s chest ached with something raw and unbearable, an ache she didn’t want Zoey—or anyone—to see.

Mira’s storm only grew worse with every second of silence. Her hands were fisted on her thighs, nails digging crescent-shaped marks into her skin, sharp enough that she felt the sting through her jeans. Her jaw was so tight it hurt, her teeth gritted in a way that made her temples throb.

She didn’t even understand why she was reacting this way. Why her body felt like it was preparing for a fight she didn’t ask for. Why her pulse thundered in her ears, begging for an answer she wasn’t sure she could handle.

All she could think about was Rumi’s mouth—waiting for the words to slip out. Yes, I’m single. Or worse, No, I’m not. Both felt like knives, and she didn’t know why. 

Her eyes burned, unblinking, her throat dry. Answer it. Don’t answer it. God, just—

And then it came.

Not words. Not an explanation.

But a chuckle.

Soft. Low. Almost careless.

It spilled from Rumi’s lips, light and brief, but unmistakably hers. The sound lanced through Mira’s chest, sharp and clean, ripping open a place she hadn’t touched in years. It was a sound she had craved without ever admitting it. The sound of late-night study sessions and whispered jokes, the sound of a girl who had once promised to dance on a big stage, the sound of someone Mira had pushed away in the cruelest way.

The class howled in response, voices overlapping with teasing remarks and laughter, filling the room with a buzzing chorus

“Ooooh, she laughed!”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

“Man, you got no chance, bro.”

Even the professor’s mouth twitched, as though suppressing his own smile before raising a hand for order. “That’s enough. Appropriate questions only, as I said.” His voice carried authority again, cutting through the chaos.

But Mira barely heard him.

Her jaw loosened at last, her breath rushing out shakily. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in, waiting, terrified of what Rumi might say. That chuckle—gentle, unbothered, and completely noncommittal—was her answer.

Not yes. Not no. Just… nothing.

And somehow, that nothing tore Mira open even more than words could have.

The professor cleared his throat and gestured toward the rows of desks. “Alright, Ms. Ryu. You can take a seat now. There’s an empty one in the middle.”

Mira’s stomach dropped.

The middle row. Too close. Close enough that she wouldn’t be able to pretend she didn’t see her. Close enough that every turn of Rumi’s head, every brush of her braid, every polite word she spoke to a classmate would exist in Mira’s line of sight.

Rumi nodded politely, her composure unshaken, and began walking down the aisle. The click of her shoes against the floor echoed louder than it should have, each step drawing Mira’s chest tighter and tighter.

Mira couldn’t look away. Her eyes followed the purple braid swaying lightly, the careful rhythm of her stride, the way her hand trailed briefly along the edge of a desk as she passed. Every detail was sharp, vivid, branded into Mira’s memory like fire.

When Rumi reached the empty seat and slid gracefully into it, Mira realized she had been staring the whole time. Her cheeks burned, her chest heaving with the effort of keeping still, keeping quiet.

Beside her, Zoey shifted slightly, tilting her head at Mira. “Babe?” she whispered, just loud enough for Mira to hear.

Mira blinked, tearing her eyes away from Rumi at last. Her heart ached with a strange, unbearable weight, but she forced her lips into something resembling a faint smile. She couldn’t tell Zoey. Not yet.

Not when the past she had buried was now sitting just a few rows away, smiling that polite smile, as if she hadn’t once walked out of Mira’s life in the heavy downpour.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, but Mira barely heard it over the ringing in her ears. She was too focused on the sight ahead of her—Rumi, still seated in the middle row, as though rooted to the spot.

It didn’t last long.

Within seconds, their classmates crowded her desk like moths drawn to a flame. Some leaned over the edge, some crouched beside her, all smiles and eager voices.

“Hi! I’m Minji, let’s be partners sometime.”

“You said you do music? I’ve got a collab project—”

“Business major too? Hey, we should totally exchange notes.”

Laughter bubbled around her, casual and warm, and Rumi received it all with that same polite composure—smiling softly, nodding in acknowledgment, answering each one without hesitation. Perfect, controlled, poised.

Mira couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Her nails dug crescents into her palm now, not her thighs. Her jaw was locked tight again, aching. It wasn’t jealousy—she told herself that again and again. No, it was something else. Something sharper, darker, something she couldn’t name.

She didn’t even realize how tightly she’d been clenching her fist until she felt something warm slip over it.

Zoey’s hand.

Her fingers were gentle, prying Mira’s hand open one by one until her fist was unfurled. Then, with the kind of tenderness only Zoey ever managed, she traced soft circles into Mira’s palm, grounding her. Her thumb moved slowly, back and forth, patient.

Mira blinked, her breath caught. Her chest loosened—not fully, but enough to keep her from shattering right there.

She looked up, meeting Zoey’s eyes. Concern was written all over them, soft and searching, with a little wrinkle between her brows. She tilted her head slightly, voice quiet but steady.

“You okay, baby?”

Mira exhaled, the sound heavy, almost shaky. She leaned in, pressing her lips to Zoey’s jaw in a fleeting, tender kiss. The contact steadied her, even as the storm inside refused to settle.

“Just tired, I guess,” she murmured, forcing the words out like they were true.

Zoey’s expression softened instantly. The corners of her mouth lifted into a small smile, sweet and reassuring. She rose on her toes, just enough to press a gentle smack of a kiss against Mira’s lips. It was quick, but grounding, a reminder that she was here, that she was real.

Mira let her shoulders relax, if only outwardly.

And then—

“Hey, love birds!”

The teasing call came from one of their classmates across the room. Mira’s head snapped up at once, her body stiffening at the attention. The boy was grinning ear to ear, leaning lazily against a desk.

“Wanna join us for lunch?” he continued. “We’re gonna treat Rumi as a welcoming!”

Laughter rippled again, voices agreeing in unison. A chorus of “Yeah, let’s go!” filled the air.

Mira’s stomach lurched.

Her eyes darted immediately—instinctively—to the one person she swore she wouldn’t look at again.

Rumi.

She was still seated, her calm expression intact. Her lips curved just slightly, not quite a smile but close enough, and her gaze—steady, unreadable—was fixed on Mira.

It was only a heartbeat, maybe less. But it was enough. Enough for Mira to feel her chest tighten, her pulse skip painfully.

Did she see?

Did she see Zoey’s kiss? That soft little smack of affection, so casual, so normal for them? Did she watch Mira press her lips to Zoey’s jaw seconds before that?

The thought twisted in Mira’s stomach like a knife.

Because the answer—whether yes or no—felt unbearable.

If she did see, then Rumi knew. She knew Mira had someone else, that she had Zoey. She knew Mira’s life had moved forward without her.

If she didn’t see, Mira almost wanted to scream. Because she wanted to know what Rumi would have done if she had.

Her mouth went dry, her pulse hammering in her ears. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, caught in the weight of Rumi’s gaze until Zoey’s hand squeezed hers again.

“Lunch?” Zoey asked, looking at her with the same soft smile as before, unaware of the storm tearing Mira apart from the inside.

Mira’s lips parted, but no words came. All she could think was one thing, circling endlessly, clawing at the back of her throat like a scream she couldn’t release—

Did she see? Did Rumi see?

—————

The cafeteria was buzzing, full of chatter and clattering trays, but for Mira, everything blurred into the background.

Her fingers were laced with Zoey’s, her girlfriend’s warmth seeping into her skin. Normally, it was grounding, reassuring. But now, it felt like fire—like a spotlight was cast on their joined hands, on the little gestures they always did without thought.

Is she looking? Mira’s heart thudded painfully. Is she seeing me holding Zoey’s hand? Does she… does she care?

The thought repeated over and over until it drowned out everything else.

They followed their classmates, settling at one of the longest tables near the center. The group split into smaller clusters, laughter spilling over as trays and food boxes were set down. Mira’s stomach dropped when she saw where the only available seats were.

Right across from Rumi.

She lowered herself into the chair stiffly, jaw tight. Zoey slid in right next to her, looping her arm through Mira’s like it was second nature, leaning against her shoulder with a content hum. Normally, Mira would smile, drop a kiss to her forehead, maybe tease her for being clingy.

But now?

Now it burned.

Zoey’s skin burned against hers.

But Mira didn’t let go. She couldn’t. Not because she wanted to, but because she knew—she knew—if she pulled away, Zoey would pout, her brows knitting in that confused, hurt way Mira couldn’t bear to see.

So she held her. She held her tight, trying to steady her own heart, gripping Zoey like she was the anchor Mira needed to keep from unraveling completely.

And then Zoey leaned closer, her breath brushing against Mira’s ear.

“She’s the girl I was telling you about,” Zoey whispered, voice full of excitement, like she’d uncovered some grand secret. “The girl with goddess-like features.”

Mira’s throat bobbed hard, her jaw aching as she forced herself not to react.

She didn’t dare look up—not yet. She already knew if she did, she’d see Rumi’s eyes on her. And she didn’t know if she could handle what she might find in them.

Because Zoey’s words were still echoing in her head, stabbing at her chest like splinters.

The girl with goddess-like features.

Rumi.

Her Rumi.

The same girl who once smiled at her sweetly, who once shouted her love with trembling lips and tear-rimmed eyes.

And now Zoey was saying it—admiring her, pointing out her beauty. Not knowing—Not knowing the way Mira’s entire soul was splitting apart across that table.

Mira swallowed hard, forcing a smile for Zoey, though it barely reached her eyes. Her hand tightened around Zoey’s under the table, as though holding her tighter could silence the storm inside.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignore it.

That calm, unreadable gaze sitting across from her.

Rumi.

And Mira couldn’t tell anymore if the burning in her chest came from Zoey’s touch… or from the girl staring back at her like a ghost pulled from the depths of her past.

—————

The chatter around the table blurred into meaningless noise. Forks clattered, trays scraped, laughter spilled in waves—but to Mira, everything was narrowed down to one thing—the space across from her.

Zoey’s hand slipped out of Mira’s, leaving a faint chill in its wake. Mira blinked, confused for a moment, until she saw where Zoey’s hand went—extended across the table, offered openly, warmly.

“To properly introduce myself,” Zoey chirped, her voice bright, too bright, “We met quite a few times, but again—I’m Zoey. Nice meeting you, Rumi.”

Rumi’s gaze flickered down to Zoey’s hand. Her lips curved into a polite, small smile before she lifted her own hand, slipping it into Zoey’s.

Mira’s heart lurched.

The handshake was gentle, deliberate, a soft press of skin to skin. And then Zoey’s face lit up like a firework.

“Oh god,” she blurted without filter, “your hand is so soft!”

The words rang in Mira’s ears like an alarm.

Her stomach twisted, knotted, her jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might crack. Every fiber of her being screamed to reach across the table, to pull Zoey’s hand back, to break the contact, to shove Rumi’s hand away.

She didn’t even know—didn’t know if it was jealousy toward Rumi, or toward Zoey, or towards the impossible history between them that was suddenly bleeding into the present.

But the ache in her chest was unbearable.

Zoey, oblivious as ever, turned her shining eyes toward Mira. Her smile was wide, her face practically glowing with excitement, as though she had discovered some rare gem she couldn’t wait to show off.

And then Zoey did the one thing Mira wasn’t prepared for.

She turned back to Rumi and said, without hesitation, “By the way, this is my girlfriend, Mira. She’s a little stiff, but she’s kind.”

The words hit Mira like a punch.

Girlfriend.

Her.

Mira’s breath caught in her throat, tangled between disbelief and gratitude. Her chest swelled, torn between the urge to cling to Zoey’s words like a lifeline and the crushing dread of Rumi hearing them.

Slowly, her black eyes shifted—away from Zoey’s radiant face, away from the classmates snickering at the lovebirds—and locked onto the one gaze she feared the most.

Rumi’s.

Those brown eyes were steady, unwavering. They didn’t waver with surprise. They didn’t flicker with recognition. They didn’t even harden in resentment.

They just looked at her.

And then Rumi smiled.

A small, soft smile that tugged at the dimple on her left cheek. A smile that wasn’t rehearsed, wasn’t polite—just quiet, devastatingly calm.

“Nice meeting you again, Mira,” she said.

The words fell like a stone in Mira’s chest. Again.

Her throat tightened, her nails dug crescents into her thighs under the table, and for one terrifying moment, Mira forgot how to breathe.

Because it wasn’t just a greeting.

It was a reminder.

A reminder that no matter how much she tried to bury the past—no matter how tightly she clung to Zoey’s hand—Rumi was here. And she remembered.

And Mira didn’t know if her heart could survive it.

Mira sat frozen in her chair, her fingers gripping the edge of her tray so tightly her knuckles paled. She told herself to breathe—to calm the storm clawing through her chest—but her mind trembled, shaking loose memories and voices she wasn’t ready to face.

And then, mercifully, her phone buzzed.

She blinked down at the screen, the glow illuminating a subject line that nearly made her sigh in relief; Email from Prof. Ben — Please come to my office ASAP.

It was like fate handing her an escape hatch.

Her heart thudded with urgency—urgency to leave, to get out before the cracks in her composure showed. She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the cafeteria floor, and the group chatter barely dimmed at her sudden movement.

Leaning down, she bent close to Zoey, her lips brushing near her ear. “Prof Ben wants me in his office ASAP. See you later,” Mira whispered, her voice low, hurried.

Before Zoey could respond—before she could even tilt her head in confusion—Mira stole a kiss, quick and fleeting, pressed against Zoey’s lips like a lifeline she couldn’t afford to linger on.

And then she was gone.

Her legs carried her faster than she realized, practically running toward the cafeteria exit. The sound of laughter, of voices, of trays clattering—everything faded behind her, muffled and irrelevant compared to the thunder of her heartbeat.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t dare.

Because she knew—if she looked back, if her eyes would met Rumi’s again—her facade would shatter right there, in front of Zoey, in front of everyone.

Her chest ached, torn between the sting of her past and the warmth of Zoey’s lips still lingering on hers.

And for the first time in years, Mira felt like she was being split clean in two.

Chapter Text

(MUSIC)

Zoey tapped her fork against the edge of her tray, her grin as easy and natural as ever. The space beside her felt a little too empty without Mira’s warmth pressed close, but she kept her smile steady, determined not to let the sudden absence drag her mood down.

Across the table, Rumi sat composed, her hands folded neatly on the tray she hadn’t touched much. She still wore that calm smile, polite and unshaken, though Zoey swore she caught it—that fleeting moment, that tiny pause where Rumi’s eyes lingered at the cafeteria exit long after Mira disappeared.

It prickled something in Zoey’s chest. Something small, but sharp.

She shook it off with a blink, leaning forward, her curiosity bubbling up like it always did. “So,” Zoey started, her tone bright and eager, “Why did you leave Korea?”

Rumi blinked at her, surprised at the bluntness, before she offered a small shrug. “My aunt’s business. She moved, and I… followed.”

Zoey tilted her head, brow furrowing. “And when was that? When did you leave?”

Rumi’s fingers tapped lightly against her cup, once, twice, then stilled. Her smile didn’t falter, but her answer was softer this time. “Four years ago.”

Zoey felt her chest squeeze, though she couldn’t explain why. 

She leaned in a little more, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “So then why business and music? That’s… kind of a weird combo. Most people would pick one or the other.”

Rumi’s lips curved, the left dimple sinking in. “Business was my aunt’s idea. Music… was mine.” She let the words hang there for a beat before she added, “It keeps me sane.”

Zoey’s smile softened. There was something in Rumi’s tone—quiet, measured, but threaded with something real, something heavy. And it drew Zoey in, like a puzzle piece she was desperate to turn over, to see the full picture.

She didn’t notice it, not at first.

The way her chest quickened.

The way her eyes lingered.

The way her curiosity wasn’t just about the answers—it was about the person giving them.

Zoey nodded, straw still between her lips as she took another sip of her juice. Her mind was buzzing—not with the production notes she should be finishing—but with this girl sitting across from her who spoke with a kind of calmness Zoey wasn’t used to.

She put her cup down, tapping her fingers against the rim before leaning in again. “So,” she said, eyes glimmering, “Is music your teenage dream? Or something you just… stumbled into later?”

Rumi paused.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze shifted—not at Zoey, not at the table, but somewhere beyond, somewhere farther than the cafeteria walls. Her smile softened, but it was a different kind of smile. Not polite. Not practiced. It was fragile, edged with something bitter, and it tugged deeper at her left dimple in a way that made Zoey’s chest squeeze without knowing why.

“I used to dream of dancing,” Rumi said finally, her voice quiet but steady. “Not music. Not business. Just… dancing.”

Zoey blinked, a little startled by the honesty in her tone. Rumi wasn’t looking at her anymore—she was looking at the straw in her cup, twirling it absentmindedly, her brows knitting just faintly, as if speaking the words was pulling at something she kept sealed tight.

“But then,” Rumi continued, her fingers still, “I moved to the States. My aunt… she wanted me to learn business, to understand the family empire. She said it was practical. Something I needed.” Her lips quirked into a humorless smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “And I always did what she wanted. Always.”

Zoey tilted her head, watching her closely, feeling the shift—the way the air around Rumi seemed heavier than before.

“But then I met this guy during freshman year,” Rumi added, her voice lighter, though the weight didn’t quite fade. “He was singing behind a DJ booth at a campus party. Just him, his laptop, a mic, and this whole crowd vibing to what he created. I’d never seen something like it before. I got curious. Asked questions. Started hanging out with him. And little by little, I realized… maybe music could be mine, too.”

Her hand tapped the table, once, twice, then flattened. She looked up at Zoey again, smile returning—still polite, but softer now, less sharp at the edges. “So I asked my aunt to let me double major. Business for her, music for me. A compromise.”

Zoey felt her lips curve into a smile before she could stop it. “A compromise,” she repeated, tilting her head. “But it sounds like the music part… that’s yours. That’s the part you chose.”

Rumi didn’t answer right away. She just held Zoey’s gaze, her brown eyes unreadable but deep, like there was an entire ocean of things she wasn’t saying. Then, finally, she gave the faintest nod.

“Maybe,” Rumi murmured. “Maybe it is.”

Zoey’s heart skipped, a strange thrill running down her spine. She didn’t know why this girl fascinated her so much, but she did. And as she sat there, across from that soft dimpled smile, she realized—she wanted to know more.

Even if she didn’t understand why.

Zoey leaned forward, her grin widening as though she’d just remembered something she couldn’t hold back. “Oh!” she blurted, voice bubbling with her usual excitement. “I’m producing music too. Like—seriously, not just for fun. For my major.” She tapped the table, rhythm quick, words tumbling out like a flood. “I could show you some if you want. My girlfriend, Mira—she always makes choreography whenever I release something for class. Then she uses it for her dance projects.”

Her smile stretched wider, pride sparking in her eyes. “Cool, right? It’s like we’re our own little two-person team. My music, her movement.”

Across from her, Rumi’s face shifted—not much, not enough for anyone else to notice. But Zoey did. She noticed everything.

The tiniest crease appeared between Rumi’s brows, the faintest pull of confusion threading through her otherwise calm features. A subtle falter in the smooth mask she wore so carefully.

And then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. The crease smoothed, her lips curved back into that polite, practiced smile.

But she asked, voice softer than before, “Mira? Dancing?”

Zoey blinked at her, taken aback by the tone. The way she said it—like the two words didn’t belong in the same sentence. Like it was wrong.

But Zoey just laughed, brushing it off, warmth rising in her chest as she leaned back and nodded proudly. “Yep! Mira and dancing. She’s amazing, actually. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw her. She’s always been… you know, the composed one, the serious one. But when she dances?” Zoey’s grin softened into something tender, almost reverent. “It’s like she’s free. Like she’s untouchable.”

Her heart swelled just saying it. Talking about Mira like this always did that to her. It was like she could see Mira on stage in her mind’s eye, pink hair flashing under the lights, fox-like eyes sharp and alive, her body moving with the kind of grace that turned heads without effort.

Zoey laughed again, shaking her head. “Honestly, if it weren’t for me feeding her food during practice, she’d probably just collapse in the studio.”

Rumi’s expression remained calm, her hands folded neatly, but her eyes… her eyes gave her away for the briefest second. A flicker—tightness, then something unreadable, something that looked a lot like pain.

Zoey’s brows knit, just slightly, her curiosity flaring again. But before she could dig deeper, Rumi tilted her head, polite smile unwavering, and said, “I see. She must really love it then.”

Zoey’s heart swelled again, and she nodded eagerly, completely unaware of the storm she’d just stirred in Rumi’s chest.

Because to Zoey, it was simple—Mira was her girlfriend, and Rumi was a new, fascinating puzzle she wanted to solve.

She didn’t see the shadows gathering in the space between them.

The bell rang, cutting through the chatter of the cafeteria. Chairs scraped, trays clattered, and students began filing out in pairs and groups. Zoey popped up from her seat in one smooth bounce, her hand automatically reaching for Mira’s—but then she remembered Mira wasn’t there. She blinked once, shrugged it off, and instead found herself falling into step beside Rumi, who had also stood and was waiting patiently.

They walked side by side down the corridor, the hum of students around them.

Rumi wore her smile again—polite, steady, a shield that never seemed to crack. Her posture was poised, her steps graceful, almost too controlled.

Zoey, on the other hand, was practically bouncing on her feet, her energy spilling out with every word.

“So—fun fact,” she started, tilting her head toward Rumi as though they’d been friends for years. “I love turtles. Like, really love them. And all water creatures, actually. Fish, manta rays, jellyfish—everything. But turtles are, like, my spirit animal.”

Her voice lifted with enthusiasm, her hands flailing a little as she talked.

“There was this one time,” Zoey continued, her grin widening, “I got so obsessed that I composed a whole track about different species of turtles. I’m not even kidding! Like, each rhythm was supposed to represent a different turtle. The hawksbill was all sharp and snappy, while the green sea turtle had this smooth, flowing vibe. It was sooo fun.”

Rumi glanced at her, a faint glimmer in her brown eyes. That polite smile remained, but Zoey caught something else—something tiny, fleeting. A twitch of her lips, almost like she was suppressing a laugh.

Zoey’s heart leapt at the sight. She grinned even wider, leaning a little closer as they walked. “Don’t laugh, I’m serious! I even named the track ‘Shell Beats.’ Pretty clever, right?”

Rumi let out the smallest exhale, not quite a laugh, but enough to make Zoey’s chest warm with victory.

The hallway narrowed as they approached their classroom, students still funneling in. Zoey kept her energy buzzing, unconsciously filling the silence Rumi never bothered to break.

And all the while, she thought she caught the tiniest flickers—Rumi’s smile softening for half a second, her eyes lingering on Zoey’s face longer than necessary before darting away.

But then the door to their classroom opened, the noise of chatter spilling out again, and just like that, Rumi’s mask returned.

Calm. Polite. Untouchable.

———

Zoey practically skipped her way to her own desk, scooping up her laptop in one smooth motion. Then, without hesitation, she bounced right back to where Rumi sat. She plopped the laptop gently onto Rumi’s desk, grinning so brightly it was almost impossible to ignore.

Rumi looked up from the notebook she had just placed down, her calm brown eyes flicking toward Zoey with a faint question in them.

Zoey’s smile widened, her dimples popping. “Okay, so—don’t tell Mira about this, alright? She’ll get all pouty if she finds out I let someone else listen first.” She leaned in, lowering her voice as if it were some world-class secret. “But! I’m gonna let you hear my latest work.”

Before Rumi could respond, Zoey was already plugging her earphones into the side of the laptop. She untangled the cord with the same eagerness a child had when unwrapping candy, then offered one bud to Rumi—the left—while slipping the right into her own ear.

“Here.” She nudged the dangling cord closer, eyes sparkling. “Trust me, it’s really good.”

Rumi hesitated for a beat, brows knitting in the faintest crease, but eventually she accepted the earbud, placing it delicately in her ear. Her calm expression never faltered, though Zoey swore she saw the slightest curve at the corner of her lips.

Zoey tapped her fingers quickly across the keyboard, her rhythm almost impatient, before finally pressing the enter key.

The music started.

A soft, pulsing beat filled the earphones—layered synths building into a steady rhythm. Then came the subtle bass, smooth but firm, followed by the light sprinkle of digital chimes that danced like stars over water.

Zoey closed her eyes briefly, swaying her head with the beat, completely absorbed. “Cool, right?” she whispered, though she knew the best part hadn’t even dropped yet.

Rumi, on the other hand, remained still. Her gaze softened as she listened, her fingers unconsciously tapping against her thigh—a rhythm not unlike the one Zoey remembered from the library. Her mask didn’t break, but there was something unguarded in her eyes now, something Zoey couldn’t quite name.

When the track shifted into its chorus, Zoey’s grin grew. “This is my favorite part!” she whispered again, her excitement bubbling over.

Rumi’s lips pressed together, not in disapproval but as if holding something back. She gave the smallest nod, a polite acknowledgment—but her eyes lingered on Zoey’s face for just a moment too long before darting back to the screen.

Zoey didn’t notice. She was too caught up in the music, too busy sharing a piece of her world, too proud of her work to realize that in the quiet, in-between beats, Rumi wasn’t just listening to the song—she was watching her.

The music swelled through the earphones, Zoey bobbing her head, mouthing a silent “boom, boom, boom” with the bassline. She was so lost in her own little bubble that Rumi’s voice slipped into it like a soft breeze—barely audible, fragile, yet sharp enough to cut through the rhythm.

“That’s why she fell for you.”

Zoey froze mid-bob, her head snapping toward Rumi.

The words weren’t loud, but they were clear. They didn’t feel like an accident, either. Rumi’s tone carried something underneath—something raw and buried beneath her usual calm mask.

Zoey blinked, earbud still in place, lips parting as if to ask, What?

But Rumi was already schooling her expression back into its practiced serenity. She tilted her head slightly, her dimple barely flickering as if she hadn’t said anything at all. Her fingers tapped lightly against the table, a rhythm that was too careful now, too controlled.

Zoey pulled her earbud out slowly, letting it dangle between her fingers. “Wait…” she said, her voice hushed but tinged with curiosity. “Did you just—what do you mean by that?”

Rumi’s gaze didn’t waver, but her silence stretched. She blinked once, twice, and then offered the kind of polite smile that felt like a door closing.

“Your music is… honest,” she said smoothly, deliberately. “It makes sense why people would be drawn to it.”

Zoey frowned, unsatisfied, a tiny pout tugging at her lips. That wasn’t what Rumi said. That wasn’t how she said it. But before Zoey could press further, the classroom door creaked open.

Her heart skipped, thinking it might be Mira—her Mira, who would definitely sulk if she saw Zoey sharing earphones with someone else.

But it wasn’t Mira. Just a group of classmates filing in, noisy and oblivious.

Zoey exhaled in relief, though her chest still buzzed with questions, her mind circling Rumi’s slip like a lyric she couldn’t stop humming.

That’s why she fell for you.

Why did it sound like Rumi knew exactly what she was talking about?

Chapter Text

(WHY?)

Mira’s steps slowed as she reached the door to their classroom, fingers curled tight around the strap of her bag. She was ready to slide inside casually, maybe sneak up behind Zoey and steal a kiss on her cheek like always. But what she saw through the narrow pane of glass rooted her in place—stone-heavy, breath caught mid-chest.

Zoey sat at a desk that wasn’t hers, laptop open, her whole face glowing with delight. She had one earbud in, the other nestled in the ear of hers. Rumi’s.

Mira’s stomach lurched.

It wasn’t the earphones that broke her—it was the way Rumi was looking at Zoey. Not polite, not measured, not the carefully practiced composure she had seen Rumi wear like armor since earlier today. No. Rumi’s eyes had softened, almost melted, like a frozen lake giving way to spring. Tender. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Mira gripped the cold metal of the doorframe, nails biting against her palm as she leaned in closer without meaning to. Her breath fogged faintly against the glass.

Zoey was oblivious—bobbing her head, mouthing the beat, the corners of her lips curled in pure joy. But Rumi… Rumi wasn’t listening to the music. She was watching Zoey. 

And then Mira caught it. The subtle curve of Rumi’s lips, the way they shaped sound without voice. Mira had spent years reading expressions, tiny details, lips forming words even in silence—she couldn’t mistake it.

‘That’s why she fell for you.’

The world tilted. Mira’s pulse roared in her ears, a hot ache radiating from her chest and twisting low in her gut.

Ache for Rumi—for the ghost of the girl she once knew, who had smiled at her like that, who had left her life in shambles when she disappeared.

Ache for Zoey—for the girl who didn’t even realize she was being stared at like that, who was laughing, trusting, sharing a piece of her art with someone who shouldn’t matter but suddenly did.

Mira swallowed hard, her throat dry and raw. A part of her wanted to burst in, to yank Zoey away and remind her—remind both of them—she’s mine. Another part wanted to run, to retreat before her carefully built walls cracked all the way through.

The decision was stolen from her when voices rose behind her. A few classmates, walking down the hall, laughing loudly as they headed toward the room.

Panic spiked through Mira’s chest. If she went in now, she’d have to sit there. Sit across from them. Pretend she didn’t see. Pretend she wasn’t unraveling.

Her feet moved before her brain caught up, carrying her down the hallway, around the corner, pressing her back flat against the wall as the group passed by and entered the classroom. She stayed hidden, breathing jagged, hands trembling as she pressed her palms against her thighs to ground herself.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t go inside, not with that scene burned into her mind. Zoey’s bright smile. Rumi’s soft stare. Those words Mira wasn’t supposed to hear but couldn’t unhear.

It’s unbearable.

She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched, heart hammering like it was trying to break free from her ribs.

Unbearable because she didn’t know if the pain blooming in her chest was for Rumi—the girl she once told never to come back. Or for Zoey—the girl she swore she’d never lose.

Ten minutes. That’s how long Mira gave herself. Ten long, suffocating minutes pressed against the cool wall outside the classroom, forcing her breath into something steady, unclenching her fists until the crescent marks on her palms dulled. She smoothed her hair, rolled her shoulders back, straightened her spine until she looked like the Mira Kang everyone expected—the composed, untouchable dancer who never faltered.

When she finally stepped inside, the room was already alive with chatter. Students clustered in little groups, laughter echoing under the fluorescent lights. Zoey had moved back to her usual seat, her laptop closed, her attention half on the friend sitting in front of her.

Mira’s eyes flicked once—just once—to where Rumi sat, a few rows away. The purple braid gleamed under the light, neat and perfect, like a marker Mira couldn’t unsee. She willed her gaze away immediately, tightening her jaw until it hurt.

She crossed the room and bent down to Zoey, stealing a brief smack of a kiss on her lips before sliding into her seat. Zoey blinked at her, cheeks tinting, but then she grinned like she always did, like Mira’s kiss was her favorite little surprise in the world.

Mira didn’t let herself look back at Rumi, not even to check if she had seen.

The lecture started. Mira forced her pen to move when notes were dictated, eyes locked on the whiteboard, ears tuned to the professor’s steady voice. Every so often Zoey leaned close to whisper a dumb joke or poke Mira’s arm to get a reaction, and Mira would play along, lips tugging into the faintest smirk, shoulders relaxing just enough to fool Zoey into thinking everything was fine.

But it wasn’t fine. Not at all.

Every word of the lecture blurred around the edges, the professor’s voice muffled by the pounding of her own pulse. Every time Zoey shifted in her chair, Mira caught the faint scent of her shampoo, comforting and grounding. Yet her chest still tightened, because she couldn’t shake the image of Rumi’s lips shaping words Mira wasn’t meant to hear.

She didn’t look. Not once. Not even when she felt the weight of Rumi’s presence rows away, like gravity tugging at her every bone.

By the time class ended, Mira’s notes were neat but meaningless, her head pounding with the effort of keeping herself together. She slipped her pen into her bag, exhaled slowly, and turned to Zoey with a smile practiced so many times it almost felt real.

Day’s over. I made it through, Mira told herself. Don’t unravel. Not here. Not now.

Mira’s hand was snug in Zoey’s, their fingers laced as they weaved through the sea of classmates making their way to the door. Relief trickled in Mira’s chest—relief that she could finally breathe, finally step away from this suffocating classroom.

But then Zoey tugged her hand in the opposite direction.

“Babe, come,” Zoey said brightly, pulling her toward the very desk Mira had spent the last hours deliberately avoiding. Mira’s stomach dropped. Her feet slowed, but Zoey’s excitement was enough to drag her forward until they were standing right in front of Rumi’s table.

Rumi looked up from arranging her books. For a moment, her calm, unreadable face stayed perfectly in place. Then her eyes flickered, just briefly, locking with Mira’s. It was a second too long, a second Mira felt down to her bones, before Rumi turned her gaze back to Zoey.

Zoey leaned forward with that radiant, uncontainable grin of hers, the kind that made people feel like they were the center of the universe. “Rumi, can I get your number? You know—we’re friends now.”

Mira froze, her heartbeat stumbling.

Her instinct was to interject, to cut in with something—anything—because she knew Rumi. Knew her well enough to know she wasn’t the type to hand over something as personal as her number to someone she’d met less than 8 hours ago. She’d always been guarded, selective, impossible to reach unless she let you in.

Mira braced for the polite decline. For Rumi’s usual deflection.

But instead, Rumi smiled. Soft. Effortless. Like it cost her nothing.

“Sure.”

The word hit Mira like a jolt.

Her brows furrowed, her chest tightening with a confusion that tasted bitter. She stared at Rumi, searching her face for some tell, some crack in the facade, but all she saw was that same calm composure, that same graceful restraint.

Zoey laughed, fumbling for her phone with her free hand, still holding onto Mira with the other like it was second nature. “Great! Here, I’ll give you mine too. That way, you can text me anytime. Music buddies, yeah?”

Mira’s mind buzzed, drowning out Zoey’s chatter. Rumi giving out her number so easily felt wrong—off. Not like her. Not like the girl Mira remembered who built walls higher than anyone could climb.

Why her? Mira thought bitterly, the words echoing sharp in her skull. Why Zoey?

And beneath that, deeper still, a quieter thought she refused to acknowledge, thrumming against the ache in her chest

Why not me anymore, Rumi?

The air outside was crisp, dusk settling over the campus as Mira and Zoey made their way to the parking lot. Zoey walked with a bounce in her step, her free hand gesturing animatedly as she recounted every little thing she and Rumi had talked about during lunch

Mira nodded in the right places, hummed when she needed to, but her mind wasn’t here—her mind was still back in that classroom, in the moment Rumi smiled and said sure.

By the time they reached Mira’s car, Zoey was still glowing, cheeks flushed with excitement. They slipped inside, the quiet hum of the engine filling the silence. Mira thought she might finally get a moment to breathe—until Zoey turned to her, grinning like she had just revealed the best secret in the world.

“Oh! I kind of bragged about your dancing earlier,” Zoey said with pride. “Told her how my perfect girlfriend makes choreography for the music I produce.”

The words hit Mira like ice water.

Her head snapped toward Zoey, eyes wide, brows furrowed, throat closing up so fast it almost hurt. She didn’t even realize her voice had risen until it echoed inside the car’s small space, sharp and raw

“You said what to her?”

Zoey flinched, her grin faltering, her hand halfway to reaching for Mira’s knee. “Babe?” she whispered, startled.

But Mira couldn’t stop the flood. Her chest squeezed, her pulse thundered against her ribs. She knows now. She knows. She knows I’m dancing.

The very thing Mira had buried, the very thing she had claimed as hers after pushing someone else away, the very thing that didn’t belong to her—it was exposed. And exposed to the one person she never wanted to see it.

Her breath came shallow, jagged. She turned her face away, one hand gripping the steering wheel like it could ground her. “Why would you tell her that?” she muttered, her voice lower but no less sharp, laced with fear more than anger.

Zoey’s brows knit in confusion, hurt flickering in her eyes. “Because I’m proud of you,” she said softly, carefully, like stepping across fragile glass. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re amazing, Mira. I thought you’d want people to know that.”

Mira’s chest ached, her body torn between the instinct to reach for Zoey’s hand and the terror clawing up her throat. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not when all she saw behind her eyelids was Rumi’s polite smile, and behind that smile, the memory of a rainy night, of words she couldn’t take back.

Zoey sat back in her seat, silence falling heavy between them.

The silence pressed on Mira’s chest until it felt like she was suffocating. Zoey sat quietly beside her, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, the usual sparkle in her eyes dimmed.

Mira hated that look. Hated that she’d put it there.

She drew a shaky breath, forcing her shoulders to relax, forcing the tremor out of her voice. She turned, reached for Zoey’s hand, and threaded their fingers together. The warmth of Zoey’s skin grounded her instantly, pulling her back from the edge.

“I—I’m just shy,” Mira whispered, the words tasting strange on her tongue. She gave Zoey’s hand a squeeze, mustering a small smile. “Please don’t brag that I’m so perfect. She might… she might think I’m arrogant.”

Zoey blinked, then her lips parted in a soft laugh of relief. The tension in her shoulders melted, her thumb tracing circles over Mira’s knuckles. “Oh my god, that’s what you were worried about?” She leaned closer, bumping her forehead against Mira’s gently. “Babe, you’re so far from arrogant it’s not even funny. You’re literally the opposite.”

Mira chuckled faintly, though the sound was hollow, her chest still aching beneath the calm facade.

Zoey squeezed her hand again, her smile returning in full force, bright enough to burn away the unease. “Don’t worry, okay? If anything, she should be impressed. Because you are perfect. My perfect.”

Mira’s throat bobbed, eyes stinging in ways she didn’t let show. She kissed the back of Zoey’s hand, murmuring, “Yeah. Yours.”

But when she finally turned the key and drove them out of the lot, her mind wasn’t on the road. It was on the image of Rumi’s calm face, her quiet voice, and the storm Mira had unleashed years ago—the storm that hadn’t truly ended.

Chapter Text

 (FIVE YEARS AGO)

Three weeks had passed, yet Mira still couldn’t believe she was breathing the same air as Rumi. Her thoughts tangled restlessly in her mind, stealing away her sleep. Midnight had come and gone, but Mira remained wide awake.

She slipped out to the balcony in her loose shirt and shorts, the city humming below her like a restless giant. Seoul was glittering—billboards flashing, headlights weaving rivers of gold, the occasional laughter rising from the street. It was calm, beautiful, the kind of view people captured for postcards.

But Mira’s chest wouldn’t still.

She leaned her elbows on the railing, letting the cool night air kiss her skin, lungs aching for peace that wouldn’t come. Her jaw clenched, then unclenched. She dug her nails into her palms, the crescent marks from earlier still faintly etched in her thighs.

Because her mind wasn’t here.

It was five years back.

Five years ago.

Mira remembered it vividly because it was the night her world cracked open and let someone in who should’ve never been forgotten.

Her father, a business tycoon who seemed to thrive on chandeliers and champagne, had thrown yet another lavish party. Mira, dressed in a stiff dress chosen by her mother, stood with a practiced smile on her lips, shaking hands with people twice her age, nodding at conversations she didn’t care to understand. Numbers. Stocks. Shares. Always the same.

The ballroom was bright, polished marble under sparkling heels, perfume so heavy it stuck to her lungs.

And then—she saw her.

Across the room, standing slightly behind a woman Mira vaguely recognized as one of her father’s acquaintances. A girl around Mira’s age, maybe a little younger, in a simple white thigh-length dress. Her posture was straight, her chin tilted just enough to project composure, but her eyes… her eyes betrayed her. They flicked nervously from corner to corner, as if the walls were closing in, as if this glittering cage was foreign to her.

And her hair.

A long, thick braid of purple. Not subtle lavender, not a streak—no, it was bold, unapologetic, running down her back like a banner she carried into the wrong battlefield. In that sea of diamonds and conformity, it was impossible not to notice.

Mira’s breath caught before she even realized she was staring.

Who was she? Why did she look so out of place yet stand so tall, as if daring the room to say something? The longer Mira looked, the more she noticed—the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress, how her lips pressed tight like she was holding back words, how her eyes glimmered with… something. Restlessness. Defiance. Loneliness.

Mira’s chest stirred, unfamiliar and wild. She didn’t know then that it was the beginning of something that would haunt her even five years later.

Because the girl turned, just slightly, and their eyes met.

And Mira swore—for a second too brief to belong to anyone else—that the crowded ballroom, the clinking glasses, her father’s booming laugh, all of it dissolved. It was just her and the girl with the purple braid.

Rumi.

The name carved itself into Mira’s memory before she even learned it.

Mira stood a little behind her father, her champagne flute untouched in her hand, pretending to be invisible, when the shift happened.

A woman about her mother’s age swept toward them, elegant in a midnight-blue dress, her posture sharp, her smile polished to perfection. Behind her, half a step back like a shadow, the purple-braided girl moved—quiet, almost reluctant. Mira’s eyes tracked her instinctively.

Her father’s face lit up with recognition.

“Celine Lee!” her father exclaimed, his booming voice carrying easily above the clinking of glasses. “It’s so glad to see you here.”

The woman—Celine—smiled politely, though there was something restrained about it, like even her warmth was measured.

“Mr. Alejandro Kang,” she replied smoothly. “Of course I wouldn’t miss your invitation.”

Her father laughed, loud and full, the way he always did when pleased. His gaze slid past Celine and landed on the girl behind her, and Mira swore she saw the girl stiffen just slightly under the weight of it.

“I assume this is your niece you once told me about,” he said, tone lighter now, tinged with curiosity. “The smart girl who liked dancing? What a gorgeous girl.”

Mira felt her stomach twist at his words—not jealousy, not yet, but something else. Something raw and unexplainable.

Celine’s eyes brightened, pride flashing there as she placed a guiding hand on the girl’s back, nudging her gently forward.

“Yes,” she said, almost indulgently. “This is Rumi. Introduce yourself, Ru.”

The girl—Rumi—froze for the briefest second. Mira caught the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the way her fingers curled tightly at her sides before she forced herself to step closer.

She extended her hand to Mira’s father, her movement neat, calculated.

“Pardon my rudeness for not introducing myself properly,” she said, her voice clear but carrying a fragile edge if one listened closely enough. “I’m Rumi. Ryu Rumi.”

Then she smiled.

It was flawless—polite, practiced, the kind of smile Mira had seen on countless heirs and heiresses forced into this glittering world. But it wasn’t real. Mira knew it instantly.

Something about that realization pierced her.

Her father took her hand firmly, chuckling as he gave it a shake. “Polite, articulate, and lovely. Celine, you’ve raised her well.”

Mira almost rolled her eyes. Raised her well? The girl looked like she’d been dropped into an arena and told to survive. She hid it well, better than most, but Mira had been raised in these cages too—she knew the signs.

Rumi bowed her head slightly at the compliment, murmuring a quiet “Thank you,” before stepping back again, retreating into that shadowed half-step behind her aunt.

And Mira—who was never interested in her father’s endless parade of business partners’ children—couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop wondering why that fake smile looked like it was hiding a storm.

Couldn’t stop thinking how someone with purple braids and a dancer’s heart ended up here, in this suffocating world, looking so out of place yet somehow unforgettable.

———

Mira’s eyes refused to behave. No matter how many times she told herself to look away, to watch the swirling gowns on the dance floor or her father’s booming gestures with the investors, her gaze always circled back to her. To the purple braid. To the girl with the polite smile that looked like it was stitched in place.

Rumi.

She told herself it was curiosity, nothing more. That was the excuse Mira always used when something gnawed at her too much. But curiosity didn’t make your chest feel tight. It didn’t make your pulse tick upward every time that girl shifted her weight or tucked a loose strand of purple hair behind her ear.

Then she caught it—the subtle moment when Celine Lee got pulled deeper into a conversation with Mira’s father and two other men. The niece, the polite shadow, wasn’t needed anymore. Rumi’s posture dipped, shoulders slackening as if she could finally breathe. Mira saw the second her mask loosened, just a fraction, before she excused herself with a quiet bow.

Mira didn’t even think. Her body just moved.

She leaned toward her father, lowering her voice enough so only he could hear.

“Can I excuse myself for a brief moment?”

Her father didn’t even look at her. He snorted, shaking his head the way he always did when she tried to slip out of her “duties.” The silent no was clear.

But Mira had never been the obedient type.

The moment his attention flickered back to his colleagues, she was already moving—slipping past glittering gowns, murmuring “excuse me's", weaving through the thick perfume and sharper voices until the crowd thinned near the drinks table.

That’s where she saw her.

Rumi stood alone, her back a little curved now that no one was watching. One hand held a glass of orange juice, the condensation slipping down her slender fingers. She sipped it slowly, her lips brushing the rim, her gaze fixed somewhere distant—anywhere but the suffocating ballroom behind her.

Mira paused a few steps away, suddenly unsure why she followed in the first place. The girl looked so far removed from the chaos, so…human. Like she’d escaped the cage for just a second, and Mira almost didn’t want to break it.

But she couldn’t stop herself.

So she waited until Rumi finished her sip, the glass lowering just slightly, before she stepped closer.

“Bored too?” Mira asked, her tone laced with a half-smile, trying to sound casual though her pulse hammered.

Rumi’s head turned, just a fraction, her braid shifting over her shoulder. For the briefest moment, Mira saw it again—her real face. Surprise, unguarded and soft, before the polite smile snapped back into place like a mask being worn too long.

“Maybe,” Rumi said lightly, her voice gentle but practiced, as if even admitting boredom was a risk. “These events aren’t exactly my favorite.”

Mira smirked, tilting her head, her champagne glass still untouched. “Mine either. Feels like a game of who can sound the most important without saying anything useful.”

That earned her something—a twitch at the corner of Rumi’s mouth, almost a smile. Not rehearsed. Not polite. Almost real.

And that tiny flicker made Mira’s chest burn in a way she couldn’t name.

Mira set her untouched champagne flute down with a quiet clink, fingers sliding instead around the condensation of a fresh orange juice. She didn’t even like orange juice that much, but there was something grounding about mirroring Rumi. Something that made the air between them feel less like stranger-to-stranger and more like—well, something else.

Her eyes darted to Rumi’s, then back down to the table, then back again. She leaned slightly, not too close, but enough to show she wasn’t here by accident. Her mouth opened before her brain caught up.

“So, what’s your favorite color?”

The moment the words left her mouth, Mira winced inwardly. What kind of question is that, Kang Mira? Are you five? She frowned at herself, already preparing to recover with some sarcastic comment.

But then it happened.

Rumi’s lips curved—small, faint, but real. A ghost of a smile that wasn’t stitched together for anyone else’s benefit. And Mira felt it, like her chest was suddenly too small to hold the rush of warmth.

Rumi shifted, straightening her back as if finally giving Mira her full attention. Her brown eyes caught the light, steady and unreadable, but they were on her.

“I’m torn,” Rumi said softly, her voice measured, but it carried something beneath the calm. “Between sky blue and white.”

Mira tilted her head, intrigued. “Sky blue and white?”

Rumi nodded once, braid swaying over her shoulder. “Sky blue feels…free. Like there’s nothing weighing it down. But white—” she paused, her gaze flickering somewhere distant before returning, “white is clean. Untouched. Like a fresh page.”

Mira’s grip tightened on her glass. She couldn’t tell if it was the words or the way Rumi said them—like they carried weight, like they weren’t just colors but… metaphors. Hints of something deeper she wasn’t saying.

Mira swallowed, suddenly eager. “That’s poetic. You sound like an artist.”

Rumi’s smile returned, but this time it was more polite, practiced again, like she realized she’d shown too much. “I’m not. I just think too much.”

Mira leaned a little closer, daring. “Thinking too much isn’t always bad. Sometimes it means you notice things other people miss.”

Rumi’s eyes flickered, something unspoken hanging in the space between them. For the first time that night, Mira felt like the crowd, the music, even her father’s booming laugh—all of it—had dimmed.

It was just the two of them, two glasses of orange juice, and a question that suddenly felt like the start of something Mira couldn’t name yet.

Rumi’s lips curved into that same polite smile, her tone as even as ever. “It seems like we’re sitting in the same boat.”

Mira blinked, brows rising in surprise before a slow smirk tugged at her lips. The remark was vague, but Mira caught it—Rumi wasn’t just talking about being at this party. She meant this feeling of being out of place, of not belonging in this stiff, tailored world of suits and champagne, and the way they notice things other people miss.

“Seems like you caught me,” Mira murmured, a low chuckle slipping from her throat. She lifted her orange juice in a mock toast, eyes glimmering with amusement.

Rumi tilted her head slightly, considering her, then—finally—clinked her glass gently against Mira’s. Her expression stayed calm, but her eyes… there was something warmer there, something hidden beneath the practiced composure.

“Caught you?” Rumi asked, voice soft, just a shade teasing.

Mira leaned on the edge of the table, her smirk widening a fraction. “Yeah. You saw through me. I’m supposed to be the dutiful daughter tonight, all smiles and polite nods. But instead, here I am. Sneaking orange juice like a kid.”

That earned it—just the tiniest laugh, quick and quiet, but genuine. Mira caught it like a secret. Her chest tightened, but not in discomfort—in delight.

For a beat, they just stood there, the faint hum of the ballroom’s string quartet filling the silence. Rumi’s eyes flicked away, scanning the crowd automatically, then back to Mira as if she was testing how much space she could give herself before being pulled back into her aunt’s orbit.

Mira tilted her head, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, Rumi, if you weren’t trapped here tonight… where would you be?”

Rumi hesitated. Her fingers tapped her glass, a tapping rhythm Mira caught, as if it was a habit. Then she said, almost like it slipped out “Somewhere quiet. Dancing.”

Mira’s breath hitched, but before she could answer, the familiar sharp click of heels drew near. Celine’s voice cut through the hum of chatter, calling her niece’s name.

Rumi straightened instantly, her composure snapping back into place like armor. She offered Mira one last small, almost apologetic glance before stepping away, her braid swaying as she disappeared back into her aunt’s side.

Mira stayed rooted, staring after her, the words echoing in her mind.

Somewhere quiet. Dancing.

Mira’s gaze lingered on Rumi a moment longer before she set down the half-empty orange juice glass. “Dancing, huh,” she mumbled to herself, the words barely audible over the ballroom’s chatter. 

With deliberate calm, she picked up her abandoned champagne glass, straightened her shoulders, and wove back into the crowd.

Her father’s eyes found her instantly. Alejandro Kang’s stare was sharp, narrowed with disapproval as if to say, where have you been hiding? His voice carried across the cluster of men in tailored suits.

“Mira,” he called, a subtle command disguised as fatherly affection.

For a fleeting second, she thought of ignoring him—walking past, slipping away again. But then her eyes caught Rumi, standing dutifully at her aunt Celine’s side just a step away from her father. Mira sighed inwardly, squared her shoulders, and walked forward.

Alejandro’s large hand came down gently yet firmly on her shoulder. “I forgot to introduce my only daughter, Mira Kang. She’s smart, too, and I want her to take business as her college major. One day she’ll inherit everything I’ve built.”

Mira rolled her eyes so slightly no one but herself could notice, but her lips curved into the perfect bitter-sweet smile. She extended her hand gracefully to Celine first, then to the two suited men—her father’s business partners. “My pleasure to meet you,” she murmured, polite and practiced, though her voice dripped with a hidden irony.

And then she turned.

Rumi stood there, poised, but Mira could see it—the faint flicker in her eyes, the way her composure slipped just enough for her to look startled. Mira extended her hand, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Rumi hesitated, just a fraction of a second, before slipping her own hand into Mira’s. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Kang,” she said, her tone polite, her face composed.

But Mira caught the small tremor.

Her smirk widened into something sharper, teasing. “Nice meeting you too, Ms. Ryu.”

And then, without warning, without hesitation, Mira lifted Rumi’s hand, leaned in, and pressed her lips lightly to her knuckles.

The effect was instant.

A collective gasp rippled around the small circle. Her father’s jaw tightened, eyes flaring with restrained shock. Celine stiffened beside him, her lips parting in quiet horror. Even the suited men blinked in surprise, darting their gazes between the two girls as if unsure they’d just witnessed what they thought they had.

But Mira didn’t care.

Her lips lingered for just a second longer than necessary before she let go, straightening to her full height, glass of champagne balanced delicately in her other hand. Her smirk remained, daring, defiant, eyes locked only on Rumi’s.

And Rumi—

For once, her mask slipped. Just slightly. Her composure cracked at the edges as a faint flush rose to her cheeks, her lips parting as if words had caught in her throat. Her brown eyes, wide and glossy under the ballroom lights, were fixed on Mira.

Mira tilted her head, a spark of mischief glinting in her fox-shaped eyes. Caught you, she thought, triumphant.

Mira’s train of thoughts ended when she felt a warm arms sliding inside her loose shirt, she turned over her shoulder and saw Zoey's sleepy face, pressed against her back, eyes half lidded, lips pouting 

“Why aren't you sleeping? Bed's cold without you” Zoey mumbled in Mira’s back

Mira’s lips curved into a soft smile as she tilted her head, leaning down to capture Zoey’s pout in three tender smacks, gentle enough to make the girl squirm against her back with a muffled giggle. Zoey’s arms tightened around her waist from behind, slipping further under the fabric of Mira’s shirt until her palms pressed flat against Mira’s stomach, warm and grounding.

“Better,” Zoey murmured against her shoulder, her voice drowsy, words slurred with sleep. “But I still want you in bed.”

Mira exhaled softly through her nose, her free hand resting over Zoey’s where it lay against her. Her gaze lifted back to the city skyline glittering in the distance—the sleepless lights of Seoul blinking like constellations. But the ache in her chest remained, a shadow too stubborn to leave, the memory of that girl always circling in the back of her mind.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Mira admitted in a whisper, stroking Zoey’s knuckles with her thumb.

Zoey hummed, half-asleep, cheek nuzzling lazily against Mira’s shoulder blade. “Then I’ll make you,” she said softly, with that fearless certainty only Zoey carried. “You don’t have to stay out here all alone when you’ve got me.”

Her words were simple, innocent, but they pierced deeper than Zoey could ever know. Mira’s throat tightened, though she didn’t let it show. She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of Zoey’s face, still half-buried against her.

And for a moment, Mira let herself melt into it—the warmth, the softness, the safe weight of Zoey’s arms.

“Alright,” Mira murmured at last, pressing a kiss into Zoey’s hair before gently prying herself from her embrace. “Let’s go back.”

Zoey, stubborn even in her sleepiness, refused to let go completely, so Mira half-carried her, guiding her back inside the darkened room. The sheets were still warm, still shaped from when Zoey had been curled up alone. Mira slipped under them, pulling Zoey against her chest.

As soon as her head hit the pillow, Zoey let out a contented sigh, her lips brushing against Mira’s collarbone.

Mira held her closer, watching the rise and fall of Zoey’s breathing until it steadied. Her hand threaded gently through Zoey’s hair, but her mind—her mind drifted again, stubbornly, back to a girl with long purple braids, back to a pair of practiced smiles hiding truths Mira still couldn’t untangle.

And for the first time that night, Mira whispered into the silence, words too soft for Zoey to hear

“Why did you smile at me like that, Rumi?”

Despite Mira’s wandering thoughts, the shadows of the past clinging to her mind, the steady rhythm of Zoey’s breathing slowly pulled her under. The warmth pressed against her chest, the soft weight of Zoey’s body molded into hers, it was like a lullaby Mira couldn’t resist.

Her lashes fluttered once, twice, before her eyes finally closed. The city outside still glittered, silent witnesses to the storm inside her, but Zoey’s calm breaths smoothed every sharp edge. Her warmth seeped into Mira’s bones, drowning out the echo of purple braids, of smiles from five years ago, of questions that had no answers.

For once, Mira didn’t fight it.

Her last thought before slipping into slumber wasn’t about the past, or business, or the girl who haunted her memory. It was Zoey—her messy warmth, her stubborn cling, the way she filled spaces Mira didn’t even realize were hollow.

And just like that, Mira was gone, drifting into the kind of sleep she only ever found with Zoey close, pressed into her heart.

Chapter Text

(ALMOST NORMAL)

Mira stirred in her sleep, hand searching lazily across the sheets. Her brows knitted when her fingers met nothing but cool fabric where Zoey usually curled. With a slow blink, Mira pushed herself up, scanning the room through heavy lids. Empty.

A soft groan slipped from her throat as she tossed the blanket aside and dragged herself out of bed. Her feet padded against the floor, every step a reminder that mornings were not her strong suit. She wandered through the living room—no Zoey.

But then the faint hiss of oil and the smell of something warm, savory, reached her. Mira followed it, pushing herself toward the kitchen. There she found Zoey, standing in front of the stove with her messy ponytail, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, stirring something in a pot.

Mira’s lips curved into a half-awake smile. Without a word, she shuffled closer, wrapped her arms around Zoey’s waist from behind, and pressed her face into her shoulder.

Zoey jumped, a startled squeak leaving her mouth, followed by her bright, contagious giggles. The sound made Mira’s chest loosen.

“Geez, you scared me!” Zoey laughed, hand still holding the ladle.

Mira groaned against her neck, voice husky with sleep. “Why are you up so early…? I miss you.”

Zoey melted instantly, tilting her head just enough to rest her cheek against Mira’s messy hair. “I wanted to surprise you with breakfast. But someone couldn’t wait an extra thirty minutes, huh?” she teased, her tone soft.

Mira only tightened her arms around her waist, lips brushing against Zoey’s skin as she murmured, “Bed’s empty without you. Feels wrong.”

Zoey giggled again, but her free hand reached down to squeeze Mira’s arm gently, grounding, reassuring. “Then stay right here and keep me company, sleepyhead. Breakfast tastes better when it’s made with love and clinginess.”

Mira’s tired smile deepened, eyes fluttering shut as she breathed Zoey in, letting the simple domesticity sink into her bones. For a fleeting moment, it was easy to forget the ghosts still clinging to her chest.

Zoey kept stirring the pot with one hand, the other tangled with Mira’s fingers. Mira was still half-asleep, cheek pressed against Zoey’s shoulder, her breathing slow and warm against Zoey’s neck.

Zoey tilted her head back just a little, lips brushing Mira’s forehead before placing a soft kiss there. “Good morning, clingbug,” she whispered with a smile.

Mira hummed in response, barely awake, but her hand slid under Zoey’s oversized shirt, fingertips pressing lightly against her warm skin as she pulled her closer.

Zoey chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. She was used to Mira’s morning clinginess—the way her girlfriend seemed to turn into a sleepy magnet, unwilling to let go.

But then, out of nowhere, Mira’s hand shifted, giving Zoey’s breast a playful squeeze.

Zoey yelped, startled, nearly dropping the ladle. “Mira!” she squeaked, her cheeks instantly heating up. Without thinking, she smacked Mira’s arm gently with the ladle she was holding, the sound a little thwap against skin.

Mira burst into a low chuckle, voice husky and teasing. “Mmh, warm and soft… best alarm clock ever.”

Zoey turned her head just enough to glare playfully, lips tugged into a pout despite the flush spreading across her face. “You can’t just—! I’m cooking, you menace!”

Mira’s arms tightened, her sleepy grin shameless. “Cooking tastes better with love and groping.”

Zoey let out an exaggerated groan, shaking her head, though her laughter betrayed her. “You’re impossible.” But she didn’t push Mira away—she never really could.

Zoey tried to keep her focus on the simmering pot, stirring diligently, but Mira clearly had other plans.

Still half draped on her, Mira shifted again, her lips brushing lazy kisses along Zoey’s bare shoulder. Soft, featherlight pecks turned into slow trails up to her neck, then to the nape of her neck, before going back down to shoulder and collarbone.

Zoey shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen, biting her lip to keep from letting out a sound. “M-Mira…” she warned, voice caught between exasperation and flustered laughter.

“Hmm?” Mira murmured innocently against her skin, as if she wasn’t leaving a line of distraction with every kiss.

Her hand, the one under Zoey’s oversized shirt, trailed slowly over her side, skimming the curve of her breast just enough to make Zoey stiffen, before sliding back down to her stomach—then teasing upward again in a lazy rhythm.

Zoey’s grip on the ladle tightened, her whole body stiff yet betraying her with the faintest arch toward Mira’s touch. “You—” She let out a flustered groan, cheeks burning. “You’re going to make me burn breakfast!”

Mira chuckled low in her throat, utterly shameless. “Then I’ll just eat you instead.”

Zoey gasped, scandalized, smacking Mira’s side again with the ladle—but she was laughing now, too. “You are the worst in the morning.”

Mira just grinned against her skin, lips curving as she planted another kiss right below Zoey’s ear. “The best worst,” she corrected, hugging tighter around Zoey’s waist.

Fifteen minutes passed in the soft haze of sizzling and stirring, the smell of breakfast filling their little space. Finally, Zoey turned off the stove, tapping Mira’s hand lightly.

“Breakfast’s ready,” she murmured, her tone fond.

Mira cracked one eye open, fox-like and sharp even with sleep still lingering on her lashes. Zoey turned in her arms, looping her own around Mira’s neck, smiling up at her.

But Mira wasn’t looking at the food. She was looking at her.

Her arms slipped lower, curling around Zoey’s waist, palms pressing against her lower back. “You mean,” Mira said with a sly grin tugging at her lips, “you’re ready to be my breakfast?”

Zoey laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, before smacking Mira’s back lightly. “You’re impossible.”

Mira just smirked wider, clearly proud of herself.

But then Zoey leaned in before she could say anything else—her lips capturing Mira’s in an unhurried kiss. Soft, slow, loving. The kind of kiss that made Mira’s grin falter into stillness, her teasing melt into warmth, her eyes flutter shut as if she could drown in it.

Zoey’s fingers brushed through the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her there, deepening the kiss just enough to linger before pulling back only a breath away.

“Now eat,” Zoey whispered against Mira’s lips, her smile glowing, “before I decide you don’t deserve breakfast.”

Mira laughed softly, resting her forehead against Zoey’s. “Too late. I already ate.”

Zoey rolled her eyes dramatically, though her lips twitched into a grin. She leaned up and pressed a quick smack of a kiss on Mira’s lips before prying her arms away from her back. “No more funny business,” she said, sticking her tongue out at Mira before darting toward the counter to grab two plates.

Mira scoffed a laugh, shaking her head at her girlfriend’s childish antics. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, though her voice carried the warmth of affection.

She reached for a ladle and scooped steaming chicken soup into a bowl, the savory smell wafting between them. Then she grabbed another bowl and filled it with fluffy white rice. Her movements were lazy, still heavy with the softness of morning, but there was a light curve on her lips she couldn’t hide.

Zoey, plates in hand, plopped them on the table and pulled out two sets of utensils. She hummed as she moved, her voice lilting in a tune she’d probably been composing in her head for days. Mira paused for a second, just watching her—this girl who made her mornings easier, lighter, and frustratingly sweet.

When Zoey caught her staring, she grinned knowingly. “What? Am I glowing? I knew this soup made me look like a domestic goddess.”

Mira rolled her eyes this time, smirking as she set the bowls on the table. “More like a chaotic gremlin.”

Zoey gasped, clutching her chest dramatically before grabbing Mira’s wrist and pulling her down into her chair. “How dare you insult your chef before eating? You’re lucky I still love you.”

Mira just leaned close, brushing her lips against Zoey’s temple in the softest kiss. “I know,” she whispered, smirking, “I’m very lucky.”

Zoey dramatically fanned herself with a spoon. “Honestly, Mira Kang, you should be careful. Calling your girlfriend a gremlin before breakfast? That’s basically a crime against love.”

Mira snorted, lifting a spoonful of soup and blowing on it lazily. “If that’s a crime, you’d be sentenced for life with all your chaotic messes.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly toward the counter, where Zoey had left eggshells scattered and a trail of seasoning packets like confetti.

Zoey immediately followed her gaze, then whipped her head back with a sheepish grin. “That’s called artistic process, babe. Real chefs make a mess, it’s proof of passion.”

Mira took her first sip of soup, humming with approval. “Mmm. Not bad for chaos. Tastes like you actually put effort into it.”

Zoey’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I was slaving away while you were drooling on the pillow like a princess. This soup is a masterpiece. You should be begging for the recipe.”

“Princess?” Mira repeated, smirking into her bowl. “More like a queen. You should be kneeling while I eat your food.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes and jabbed Mira’s side with her spoon. “Don’t tempt me, Kang. I’ll spill this soup on your lap and then you’ll be the one kneeling to clean up the mess.”

Mira caught her wrist in a flash, her fox-like eyes gleaming with challenge. “Bold of you to assume I’d mind.”

Zoey froze for a beat, her cheeks flushing red at the husky undertone in Mira’s voice. Then she huffed, breaking free and dramatically scooping rice into her mouth. “Ugh, you’re impossible in the mornings. Why do I even feed you?”

Mira chuckled, reaching over to tuck a stray lock of Zoey’s hair behind her ear. “Because you love me. Because I make you laugh. And because,” Mira leaned closer, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “I’m your favorite taste-tester.”

Zoey groaned loudly and slapped her palm against the table. “That’s it—I’m banning morning flirting. New house rule. No flirting until after breakfast.”

“Good luck enforcing that,” Mira murmured, stealing a piece of chicken straight from Zoey’s bowl.

Zoey gasped in horror, pointing an accusing spoon. “Thief!”

Mira smirked with the piece still in her mouth. “Mmm. Tastes better when it’s yours.”

Zoey’s pout melted into reluctant laughter, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in her hands. “You’re the worst. I swear, one day I’m going to record your menace energy and play it back to you.”

Mira leaned her chin into her palm, eyes softening as she watched Zoey laugh. “Do that. I’d love to hear how happy you sound when it’s because of me.”

That made Zoey’s laughter falter for just a second—her heart stumbling in her chest as Mira’s tone softened, warm and earnest. She covered it quickly by sticking her tongue out again. “Fine. You win this round.”

Mira chuckled, satisfied, before returning to her soup. The clinking of spoons against bowls and Zoey’s random humming filled the kitchen, the morning sunlight spilling in through the window making the scene feel like a photograph Mira wanted to hold onto forever.

By the time they finished eating, Zoey was humming again—something bright and bouncy that Mira half-recognized as one of her unreleased tracks. Mira stacked their bowls into the sink, but Zoey slipped in beside her, bumping her hip playfully.

“I’ll wash, you dry,” Zoey announced, already rolling her sleeves up dramatically.

Mira raised a brow. “Since when did you volunteer for chores?”

Zoey grinned mischievously. “Since I realized if I do the dishes, I get to order you around for a few minutes.”

Mira scoffed. “Order me around? Bold.” But she still reached for a towel, drying the first bowl Zoey handed over.

By the end of it, both were splashing water at each other like kids until Mira flicked a final droplet against Zoey’s cheek and tugged her wrist. “Come on, turtleboo. Bathroom before we’re late.”

------

The bathroom filled quickly with the sound of running water, toothbrushes clinking against ceramic, and—unsurprisingly—Zoey’s constant chatter. Mira was leaning against the counter, lazily brushing her teeth, when Zoey poked her side with her toothbrush.

“You hogged the mirror last time. Today’s my turn.”

Mira smirked, toothpaste foam at the corner of her lips. “You need the whole mirror just to admire your dimples?”

Zoey nearly choked on her toothpaste, swatting Mira’s arm. “Hey! Don’t drag my dimples into this. They’re national treasures.”

Mira leaned down, their shoulders brushing, her voice dropping low. “Mm, I agree. My treasures.”

Zoey’s ears turned pink, and she quickly shoved Mira’s face aside with a laugh. “Stop flirting while brushing your teeth! That’s illegal.”

“Illegal?” Mira said through a mouthful of foam, chuckling. “Add it to your list of fake laws then.”

Zoey leaned closer to the mirror, puffing her cheeks and inspecting them like a child. “What if one day my dimples disappear? Would you still love me?”

Mira spat, rinsed, then bent over to whisper right into Zoey’s ear. “I’d still love you even if you had spinach stuck in your teeth every day.”

Zoey groaned, covering her face with both hands before peeking out with an exaggerated pout. “You’re the worst. You know I can’t handle when you’re cheesy.”

Mira grinned, rinsing her face. “Then stop asking stupid questions, turtleboo.”

Zoey gasped. “Did you just—? You did not just call me turtleboo in the bathroom!” She flicked water from her hand at Mira, who only laughed and caught her wrist mid-attack, pulling her flush against the counter.

“You’re loud this early,” Mira teased, her fox-like eyes soft in the mirror reflection.

“And you love it,” Zoey shot back, though her voice had softened too.

Mira let out a quiet hum, leaning down to press a toothpaste-minty kiss against Zoey’s temple. “Yeah. I do.”

Zoey froze for half a beat, then wriggled out of Mira’s grip, cheeks flushed. “Ugh, stop being sweet in the bathroom. That’s supposed to be neutral territory.”

Mira just smirked, drying her face with a towel. “Not when you’re in it.”

They shuffled out of the bathroom still shoulder-bumping each other, Zoey grumbling dramatically about how Mira always turned their bathroom into a danger zone for feelings. Mira just smirked, towel slung lazily around her neck.

Back in their bedroom, the morning light streamed through the curtains, spilling over the clothes rack in the corner. Zoey plopped herself on the edge of the bed, blowing her damp bangs out of her face while Mira moved to the closet.

“So,” Zoey said, swinging her legs like a kid, “What’s the fashion statement today, Ms. Kang? Ice queen chic or approachable campus girlfriend?”

Mira pulled open the sliding door, fingers brushing through hangers. “Why do you say it like I’m in a K-drama choosing my aura for the day?”

“Because you are,” Zoey retorted, grabbing a pillow and hugging it against her chest. “You walk in anywhere and suddenly the whole room feels like background extras in your movie.”

Mira peeked over her shoulder, one brow arched, lips quirking up. “Background extras?”

Zoey nodded solemnly, then broke into a grin. “Yep. And me? I’m the quirky love interest.”

Mira chuckled, low and warm, before she pulled out a sleek black turtleneck and held it against her frame. “This one?”

Zoey immediately frowned. “Nope. Too intimidating. People already think you’re untouchable, that’ll make them think you don’t have blood, only ice.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but replaced it on the hanger. “Then you pick. Since apparently, I can’t be trusted to dress myself.”

Zoey hopped off the bed with a little bounce, padding over to the rack. She flipped through hangers with exaggerated care, humming under her breath like she was making a sacred decision. Finally, she pulled out a soft cream cardigan and a fitted top.

“This,” Zoey declared, thrusting it at Mira. “You look soft in this. People need to know you’re soft. For balance.”

Mira took it, raising her brow. “Soft? That’s your grand reasoning?”

Zoey grinned and tugged the cardigan closer to Mira’s chest. “Mm-hmm. Plus, it makes your shoulders look really nice.”

The corner of Mira’s lips curved up. “So, you just want me to look good for you.”

Zoey blinked, caught red-handed. “N-no! I mean—yes, but also—shut up, Mira!” She shoved the clothes into Mira’s arms and retreated back to the bed, burying her flustered face into the pillow.

Mira chuckled, shaking her head, before pulling on the outfit Zoey picked. When she turned, Zoey peeked from the pillow—and froze.

“...Okay, unfair,” Zoey muttered, lips puffed into a pout. “You look like you walked out of a magazine.”

Mira crossed the room slowly, kneeling onto the bed until she was hovering over Zoey, who squeaked and tried to roll away. Mira caught her wrist, pinning it lightly against the mattress.

“You’re the one who picked it, turtleboo,” Mira murmured, her fox-like eyes glinting with amusement.

Zoey’s face turned scarlet. “Don’t—don’t call me turtleboo when you’re on top of me, it feels weird!”

Mira leaned closer, whispering right by Zoey’s ear, “Then stop looking at me like I’m your whole world.”

Zoey slapped her free hand over her own face, muffling a groan. “You’re so mean, I hate you.”

But Mira only chuckled, soft and affectionate, before pressing a kiss to Zoey’s forehead. “No, you don’t.”

Zoey peeked out from behind her hand, dimples betraying her. “...Yeah, I don’t.”

Mira finally rolled off, letting Zoey sit up and grab her own outfit—a pastel turtle-neck dress with a denim jacket. She held it up like a prize. “See? I’m picking comfort and style. Unlike someone who dresses like a cold-blooded CEO most days.”

Mira smirked, leaning back against the headboard. “You’d still fall for me even in a paper bag.”

Zoey pulled her dress over her head, muffled voice coming from inside the fabric “Unfortunately, that’s true.”

Mira laughed again, the sound low and real, filling the room as naturally as breathing.

-----

The morning sun was already warm as they slid into Mira’s car, Mira automatically slipping into the driver’s seat while Zoey tossed her backpack onto the backseat with zero care. Mira started the engine, and the quiet hum of her favorite mellow playlist filled the car—a soft piano melody that made the morning feel calm.

But Zoey immediately groaned, stretching across the console. “Ugh, no. No, no, no. This is nap music, Mira! I’m gonna fall asleep before we even get to campus.”

Mira raised a brow, eyes still on the road as she pulled out of their street. “It’s called peaceful. Some of us like starting the day without headaches.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes dramatically, already reaching for the dashboard. “Peaceful? This feels like we’re in an art film about existential dread.” She tapped at the Bluetooth button. “We’re changing this.”

Mira caught her wrist mid-air with one hand, steering smoothly with the other. “No, we are not. Hands to yourself, turtleboo.”

Zoey gasped, scandalized. “You can’t use my nickname against me when you’re trying to oppress my music taste!”

Mira smirked, still not looking at her. “It’s not oppression. It’s called saving our ears.”

Zoey, undeterred and squirmed “Just one song! One bubbly, happy song to start the day! Pleeeease.”

Mira gave her a side glance, unimpressed. “You’re going to get us killed for the sake of bubblegum pop.”

Zoey grinned, cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder as she wiggled stubbornly. “If this is how I die, at least I die fighting for justice.”

Mira rolled her eyes but her lips twitched upward. “Justice? Really?”

“Yes!” Zoey declared, finally managing to tap the Bluetooth button. Her playlist connected instantly, and within seconds, the car was filled with the loud, cheerful beat of a sugary pop anthem. Zoey squealed triumphantly, throwing both arms in the air. “Victory!”

Mira groaned, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “My poor eardrums…”

Zoey wiggled in her seat, already dancing to the beat with wild, exaggerated moves. “Admit it! This is better than your funeral background music.”

Mira shot her a sharp side-eye. “Better for who? The squirrels outside?”

Zoey stuck out her tongue before leaning closer to Mira again, lowering her voice in mock-seriousness. “C’mon, admit it. You like it when I win.”

Mira’s smirk returned, sharp and dangerous. Without warning, she leaned toward Zoey’s ear and whispered, “The only thing I like is watching you get cocky before I ruin you.”

Zoey froze mid-dance, blinking rapidly as heat crept up her neck. “Y-you can’t just say things like that in the middle of a song about sunshine and rainbows!”

Mira’s quiet laugh filled the car, richer than the music itself. “Exactly why I said it.”

Zoey huffed, folding her arms, but she couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips as the bubbly music kept playing.

Mira shook her head, feigning annoyance, but she didn’t reach to change the song. She let Zoey have her win—because honestly, the way Zoey bounced in her seat, singing off-key at the top of her lungs, was worth far more than any calm playlist could give her.

-----

By the time they neared campus, Zoey was practically giving a full-blown concert in the passenger seat. She had one hand out the window, fingers splayed dramatically, while the other clutched an invisible mic. Her voice cracked gloriously as she belted the high notes, but she didn’t care one bit.

Mira, on the other hand, had one hand on the steering wheel and the other pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest twitch of amusement.

Zoey gasped between lines, turning toward Mira with the most offended look. “Excuse me? This is raw talent! I’m giving you front-row tickets to the Zoey Experience.” She dragged out the word experience like it was sacred.

“The Zoey Headache,” Mira corrected smoothly.

Zoey dramatically clutched her chest. “How dare you insult your girlfriend’s God-given pipes? I could’ve been on Idol if I wanted to.”

Mira side-eyed her, lips curving. “Idol? Maybe if the show was called Tone-Deaf Nation.”

Zoey slapped her arm lightly. “You’re cruel! Cold! Heartless!” she shouted in mock agony before turning back to her fake microphone and belting even louder, just to spite her.

Mira finally pulled into the campus parking lot, relief washing over her—until she realized Zoey wasn’t stopping. Zoey rolled down the window further, singing out to the students walking by as if she were on tour. Heads turned. People stared. Some even laughed.

Mira’s eyes widened in horror. “Zoey, stop. Stop. I swear I’ll leave you here if you don’t shut up.”

Zoey, of course, only sang louder, her voice carrying across the lot. “🎶 MIRA LOVES ME, YES SHE DOES, SHE CAN’T RESIST MY TUNES! 🎶”

Mira slammed the gear into park, yanked the keys out, and shot Zoey with her sharpest glare. “Get out of my car right now before I—”

But she didn’t finish. Because Zoey, grinning like a maniac, leaned over and kissed her cheek mid-song, quick and messy. “You love me too much to leave me!” she chirped, hopping out of the car like nothing happened.

Mira sat there, frozen, staring at the spot Zoey had just occupied. Her ears burned, her chest tight. And yet—despite herself—she let out a laugh, soft and defeated, before following her chaotic girlfriend out into the sunlight.

The moment Mira and Zoey stepped onto campus grounds, Zoey finally quieted down. Her usual bubbly chatter slowed, replaced with a soft hum as she clung to Mira’s hand like it was second nature. Mira, on the other hand, wore her familiar mask—a stoic, unreadable expression carved perfectly onto her face, as if nothing could disturb her.

Their outfits mirrored each other’s in the subtlest ways. Zoey’s pastel turtle-neck dress with a denim jacket while Mira wore a fitted cropped top, paired with black slacks, her soft-cream cardigan draped neatly over her shoulders. Different pieces, but standing together they looked almost intentional—two shades of light that somehow belonged side by side.

Students passing by couldn’t help but glance, some even whispering under their breaths. Not that Mira noticed; she kept her chin high, eyes straight ahead. But Zoey noticed—oh, Zoey always noticed. Her grin widened, proud of the fact that people saw her holding Mira’s hand.

When they entered their classroom, the familiar murmur of voices and shuffling of bags filled the space. Mira scanned the room out of habit. And then—her gaze locked.

Brown eyes.

Deep, calm, unbothered on the surface, but carrying something else beneath. Rumi. Sitting as composed as ever, her posture straight, her face the perfect picture of calm—but her eyes didn’t lie. They flickered, just briefly, when they met Mira’s.

And that was when Mira felt it. A fleeting whisper in her mind. Pull your hand away. Now. Before she sees.

Her throat tightened. It was instinct, the kind of thought that sneaks in uninvited, the kind that gnaws at the edges of your composure. She wanted to, desperately. To unlace her fingers from Zoey’s, to tuck her hand in her pocket and erase the intimacy, to guard herself from the weight of Rumi’s stare.

But Mira didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because Zoey’s hand—warm, steady, unbothered—was her anchor. A tether pulling her back from the storm of thoughts she thought she’d buried that morning. Without Zoey’s grip, Mira knew she’d drift. She’d falter. She’d drown in the memory of braids and brown eyes that once pulled her into a spiral years ago.

Zoey gave her hand a playful squeeze as they walked down the aisle toward their seats, completely unaware of the silent war raging in Mira’s chest. And for a moment, Mira let herself breathe. She tightened her hold, almost imperceptibly, as if clinging to Zoey’s touch was the only way to keep herself from unraveling under Rumi’s gaze.

Her steps never faltered. Her expression never broke. But inside, Mira whispered to herself—over and over again— Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

As soon as Zoey placed her bag down on their desk—just a few rows back from where Rumi sat—Mira felt her anchor slip. Zoey let go of her hand, the warmth vanishing in an instant, and Mira’s chest tightened like a vice.

Before Mira could even process, Zoey was already darting toward Rumi, her steps quick, her smile bright as if morning itself lived in her cheeks.

“Good morning, Ru!” Zoey chirped, voice carrying loud enough for a few classmates to glance their way. She leaned slightly over Rumi’s desk, her braids swaying with the motion. “How’s your sleep? Did you sleep well?”

Rumi lifted her eyes from the notebook she was arranging, her expression calm as always, though there was the faintest pause before she answered. “Good morning, Zoey. I… slept fine, thank you.”

Zoey didn’t catch the pause. She rarely caught those tiny fractures in people’s masks—she was too full of her own sincerity. Her grin widened, her voice softening into a sing-song plea as she added, “Come with us at lunch, please?”

Mira sat frozen in her chair. Her nails pressed into her thighs beneath the desk, hard enough to leave marks, but she didn’t move. She didn’t let her face shift. To anyone watching, Mira looked unbothered, her usual cool facade intact.

But inside?

Why does it ache like this?

Her eyes flicked toward Zoey, who looked radiant, glowing in her natural way, extending warmth to Rumi without hesitation. Then to Rumi—still as composed as ever, though her lips curved just slightly, politely, as she gave Zoey her full attention.

And Mira… Mira felt like the space between her ribs was caving in.

She wanted to get up, tug Zoey back, say something sharp, something that would remind both Zoey and Rumi where the lines were. But she stayed seated, hands gripping her slacks, forcing her expression to remain carved in stone.

Zoey’s just being Zoey, she told herself. She’s always like this. Warm. Friendly. Chaotic.

But still, that pang lingered, sharp and merciless, because Mira couldn’t deny it—she wasn’t sure if she was jealous of Zoey for reaching out so easily, or jealous of Rumi for being the one Zoey reached out to.

Rumi’s lips curved into that polite, practiced smile of hers, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes but was convincing enough to pass for warmth. She tilted her head ever so slightly toward Zoey and said, “Sorry, Zoey. I promised to have lunch with someone already.”

Zoey’s shoulders drooped instantly, her pout forming in that exaggerated way she always did when she didn’t get her way. “Aww, really? Fine, but next time you have to join us, okay?” she said, the brightness in her tone unwavering. She gave Rumi’s desk a playful tap before spinning on her heel to head back to Mira.

Mira, though, wasn’t looking at Zoey anymore.

Her eyes stayed on Rumi, lingering on the faint softening of her expression after Zoey turned away. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Mira caught it. That smile—the tiniest curve of sincerity slipping past the polite facade—lodged itself in Mira’s chest like a splinter.

And then her mind began to drift, to wander where it shouldn’t.

Lunch with who?

Her jaw tightened, her teeth pressing together until the muscle near her ear ached. A guy? A girl?

Her pulse quickened, her throat bobbing as she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. It was the only thing keeping her grounded, keeping her from blurting out something ridiculous like she used to when she was younger and reckless.

She tried to tell herself she didn’t care. That it didn’t matter who Rumi was having lunch with. But the bitter taste on her tongue betrayed her.

Because it did matter.

And that simple, maddening truth—combined with Zoey’s return to her side, still pouting, still chattering—was enough to make Mira clench her jaw again, forcing herself to breathe evenly, forcing her face into its stoic mask.

Even as the question burned in her;

“Who the hell gets to have lunch with her?”

The whole morning class unraveled like a slow burn inside Mira’s chest. The professor’s voice blurred, numbers on the board twisted into nonsense, and even Zoey’s gentle taps on her hand couldn’t pull her mind back fully.

Her thoughts chased each other in circles, relentless and sharp.

Who gets to have lunch with her? Who?

Her jaw tightened again and again until the muscle felt locked, her teeth gritting in silent defiance. She barely blinked, staring at the clock as if it was mocking her with every tick.

Girl? Guy?

Each possibility stung in its own way.

By the time the bell rang, the sound was almost deafening in her ears. The students packed up noisily, chattering about lunch, laughing, the scraping of chairs filling the room—but all Mira saw was Rumi.

Rumi’s head bowed slightly as she typed something on her phone, fingers flying quickly across the screen. She slipped it into her pocket, then moved with her usual composed grace, fixing her things in tidy motions.

Mira’s throat tightened.

Zoey had only just begun to speak—“Hey, what do you wanna eat tod—” but Mira didn’t let her finish. She grabbed Zoey’s wrist, tugging her sharply toward the aisle, practically pulling her out of the room. Zoey stumbled a step, laughing softly as though Mira was just being her usual impatient self.

But Mira wasn’t listening.

Her eyes were locked on Rumi’s back as the purple braid swayed slightly with each step out the classroom door.

They followed.

Outside, the midday campus buzzed with students spilling into the walkways, the air heavy with chatter and laughter. Mira’s eyes scanned the crowd frantically, heart pounding too fast for her cool facade to hold. She almost lost sight of her—until a voice rang out.

“Jiii!!”

Mira froze.

The voice wasn’t polite, wasn’t measured. It was raw, filled with genuine joy, a sound that made Mira’s chest clench in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge.

And then she saw it.

Rumi.

Rumi—smiling ear to ear, so wide and real that it cut Mira open. She ran forward without hesitation, her poise forgotten, her composure shattered, as she leapt into the arms of a tall, black-haired guy standing outside the building.

He caught her effortlessly, arms circling her, lifting her slightly off the ground as if it was second nature. Her laugh—bright, unrestrained—spilled out, drawing stares from the students around them.

Mira stopped walking.

Her fist clenched, tighter and tighter until her nails dug into her palm, until her knuckles turned bone white. A dull ache spread up her arm, but she couldn’t release it. She couldn’t move.

Because all she saw was Rumi’s face—glowing, alive, beaming in a way Mira hadn’t seen in years.

And it wasn’t for her.

It was for him.

Her stomach twisted painfully. Jealousy? Anger? Ache? She couldn’t name it. She didn’t want to. All she knew was that the sight hollowed her out, left her standing there with Zoey still beside her, tugging gently at her sleeve, asking softly, “Baby? Are you okay?”

But Mira couldn’t answer. Her gaze stayed locked on Rumi, on the arms that weren’t hers holding the girl she once—

The thought stopped before it could finish, but the damage was already done.

Chapter Text

 (MESSY & LOUD)

The hum of the plane was steady, almost too steady, as if mocking the chaos rattling inside her chest. Business class was supposed to feel luxurious, comforting—wide seats, crisp air, polite murmurs—but to Rumi, it felt like a cage. A cage she hadn’t chosen, but one she had been forced into.

She sat stiffly, arms crossed over her lap, staring at the small screen in front of her without seeing it. The seatbelt cut across her ribs, tightening with every shallow breath. Her suitcase was already stowed away overhead, her life reduced to a zipped compartment she couldn’t reach.

Beside her, Celine shifted with that same cold elegance, the kind that made Rumi’s stomach twist. Her aunt’s eyes flicked sideways, sharp as knives, before she let out a quiet, exasperated sigh.

Rumi’s throat burned, but she swallowed the heat down, burying it beneath her silence. She wanted to scream. She wanted to stand up in the aisle, shout that she didn’t want to leave, that she wasn’t supposed to be here, that she was supposed to be with her.

She had been willing to stay in Korea no matter what—willing to hide, willing to run, willing to let Celine cut her off as family. None of that mattered. She would have endured it all. For her.

But the one person she thought would fight for her… hadn’t. The one person who should have reached for her hand, whispered stay, chosen her over everything else—she was the one who let her go. Worse—she was the one who pushed her away.

The pilot’s voice broke through the cabin, announcing takeoff. The plane began to roll, and Rumi gripped the armrest, nails pressing into leather. Her chest ached with every thrum of the engine.

Outside the window, the runway blurred. Korea blurred. Everything blurred.

And Rumi told herself, over and over again, as the plane lifted into the sky— Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

But her heart did.

It always did.

———

The rain didn’t fall that day—it crashed. The storm was relentless, battering the world into gray and silver. Each drop stung against Rumi’s skin as she stood on the side pavement, her flimsy umbrella trembling in her grip. Her shoes squelched in shallow puddles, her clothes clung cold and heavy to her frame, and her long purple hair was plastered to her face.

She didn’t want to go. Not really. She told herself a hundred times that she would stay, that she’d fight for the life she wanted—for the girl she wanted. 

She almost didn’t hear Mira’s voice through the downpour. But then—

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were leaving!?”

The words rang louder than the rain, sharper than lightning. Rumi’s chest tightened. She turned, and there was Mira, soaked to the bone, water dripping from her hair, fury burning in her eyes.

Rumi’s throat tightened. She shook her head, her voice unsteady. “I told you I’m not leaving. It’s my aunt who’s leaving.”

But Mira didn’t buy it.

In two strides, Mira closed the distance. Her hand shot out, fingers locking around Rumi’s wrist, yanking her forward with a force that nearly knocked the umbrella from her hand.

“Bullshit!” Mira’s words cut, raw and jagged. Her ears were flushed red, her jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “You’re your aunt’s puppet! Wherever she goes, you’ll follow!”

The word—puppet—stabbed harder than anything else could. Rumi’s heart splintered, her breath catching painfully. Mira’s voice, usually her anchor, had turned into the knife twisting in her chest.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, “What did you just say? A puppet? Is that what you think of me?”

Mira’s gaze didn’t soften. Not even an inch.

“Yes! You’re Celine’s puppet!” she snapped. The rain streaked down her face, but it didn’t wash away the pain carved into her expression. “You want to leave? Then leave! And don’t you dare come back… ever!”

The world blurred. The pounding of the storm faded beneath the shattering in Rumi’s chest. Her vision swam, hot tears mixing with cold raindrops until she couldn’t tell one from the other.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She grabbed Mira’s collar with both hands, bunching the wet fabric in her fists. She tugged her closer, close enough that their foreheads almost touched, her sobs caught between fury and desperation.

“I defied my aunt… for you!” she cried, her voice breaking like glass against the storm. “I left the house… for you! Because I loved you! And you’re pushing me away?!” Her throat burned on the word loved, like the rain itself recoiled from it.

Her grip faltered. Her strength unraveled.

“—Fine.” Her voice cracked, hollow and fragile. “You wanted me to leave. I’ll leave…”

She shoved the umbrella against Mira’s chest and staggered backward. Each step away from her felt like tearing herself in half.

Her shoes splashed through puddles as she stumbled down the sidewalk, not daring to look back. The storm blurred everything, but the ache in her chest was clearer than anything had ever been.

By the time she reached the house, her aunt was there. Celine stood next to an open car door, dry and composed, untouched by the chaos around them. Her sharp eyes softened when she saw Rumi approach—shoulders slumped, hair plastered, eyes swollen red.

The moment she reached her aunt, Rumi broke.

Her knees buckled as she collapsed into Celine’s arms, her small frame trembling violently. She buried her face in her aunt’s chest, clutching the fabric of her coat like a child. The sobs ripped out of her—loud, guttural, unrestrained—like her body had finally given permission to let it all out.

“I—I don’t—” her words tangled with her cries, incoherent, spilling out between gasps.

Celine didn’t hush her. Didn’t scold. She simply wrapped her arms around her niece, holding her steady against the storm.

“It’s alright,” Celine murmured eventually, her voice low, firm, grounding. “I’ve got you.”

Rumi wept harder. The rain, the thunder, the hurt—it all crashed together, and for the first time that night, she didn’t fight it.

She let herself collapse, wailing in her aunt’s arms, feeling the weight of Mira’s words echo in her chest with every heartbeat.

Puppet. Don’t come back. Ever.

And the cruelest part? She believed her.

Her chest still felt raw, the weight of Mira’s words pressing down like stones, even in her sleep. The storm, the shouting, the breaking—it all played again and again, looping until it carved itself into her ribs.

A voice broke through, steady and calm, pulling her out of the nightmare.

“Ru, wake up. We’ll land in ten minutes.”

Rumi stirred, her lashes heavy and damp. Her eyes fluttered open, but the world blurred at first—Celine’s profile came into view, sharp, calm, composed as always. Her aunt’s gaze lingered on her with something gentler than usual, something she rarely let others see. But even Celine’s restraint couldn’t hide the way her eyes traced over Rumi’s face—the redness rimmed around her eyes, the puffiness from crying too much.

Because it hadn’t even been a full day. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Rumi had been standing in the downpour with Mira, shattering with every word flung her way. And even here, on this quiet flight above the ocean, she still felt it burning in her chest. Like wildfire—no, like wildfire doused with gasoline. Spreading fast, impossible to stop.

Rumi blinked slowly, her gaze shifting toward the window. The world outside was so dark, scattered with pinprick stars. Below, faint city lights stretched out in patterns unfamiliar to her. It wasn’t Seoul. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t Mira.

Her stomach twisted, tightening until her breath caught.

Oh, she thought bitterly, pressing her temple to the cool glass. I really ran off.

The words sounded so much like defeat, and yet so much like survival.

Her fingers curled into her lap, nails pressing faint crescents into her palms. She thought she had chosen this, but had she? Or had Mira’s words—sharp, final, unforgiving—pushed her into this seat?

Her chest ached all over again.

Celine sighed softly, a sound so faint Rumi barely caught it over the hum of the engine. She reached out, smoothing down a strand of Rumi’s damp purple hair that still clung stubbornly to her cheek. “Try to breathe, hm?” her aunt murmured, tone low and grounding. “You’re safe now.”

Safe.

Rumi closed her eyes at that word, her throat tightening. Safe, maybe. But hollow. Empty.

Because safety didn’t erase Mira’s voice echoing in her head. It didn’t erase the way she’d collapsed in Celine’s arms on the pavement, drenched and broken.

It didn’t erase the fact that the person she loved most had called her a puppet and told her not to come back.

And as the plane tilted slightly, descending toward a land she didn’t recognize, Rumi whispered silently to herself, pressing her lips together until they trembled—

Then I won’t.

Has it been a month? Rumi really couldn't tell. The dining room echoed with too much space. A table meant for ten felt hollow with only two. The chandelier’s glow washed everything in pale gold, glinting off polished cutlery and crystal glasses, but it couldn’t warm the silence between them.

Rumi sat rigid in her chair, her fork tracing aimless paths over the lamb she hadn’t touched. Her reflection in the glass plate looked like a stranger—tired, pale, shadows clinging under her eyes.

Across from her, Celine moved with practiced precision. Every gesture was measured, controlled. She cut her food neatly, dabbed her lips with a napkin, placed it back in her lap without a sound. She might as well have been carved from stone.

Finally, Celine broke the silence. “Have you thought about your major?”

Her voice was steady, not harsh, but it carried weight. It wasn’t a question—it was a deadline.

Rumi didn’t look up. She let her fork clink softly against porcelain, a sound too small to matter.

Celine’s gaze sharpened. “I need your answer by today, it's been a month, Rumi. There are still applications to adjust. Business would be the wisest course. Stable. Practical. A foundation.”

The words dropped like lead into Rumi’s chest. Business. Cold offices, endless meetings, numbers that meant nothing. A life chosen for her, not by her.

Celine, as if sensing the resistance in her silence, allowed a sliver of softness. “I’ll let you choose another major. Something lighter. You can take… Dancing.”

The word sliced through Rumi like glass.

Her head jerked up, eyes wide. Her stomach turned violently, but not with longing. With pain.

Because dancing wasn’t just an activity. It was her. And it was Mira.

She saw it as vividly as if the room had dissolved into memory

The two of them in her bedroom, music blasting from her phone. Rumi spinning, laughing, her hair sticking to her sweaty temples as she practiced. Mira sprawled across the bed, smirking.

“That’s supposed to be dancing? Looks more like you’re trying to be a worm.”

Rumi had groaned, throwing a pillow at her. “Shut up!”

Mira had caught it, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Rumi, flushed and stubborn, had grabbed her hand and yanked her onto the floor. “Then move with me, smarty-pants. Let’s see you do better!”

Mira had stumbled, tripped over her own feet, and ended up laughing so hard she could barely breathe while Rumi twirled circles around her. And then, somehow, the teasing stopped mattering. The music filled the room, their laughter filling the spaces between.

That memory, once so golden, now burned.

Her chest constricted. Her palms trembled against the tablecloth. Dancing wasn’t freedom anymore—it was a wound. It was Mira’s laughter echoing in a room she’d never step into again.

Her lips parted, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out, hoarse, cracked.

“I don’t want to dance.”

Celine stilled, knife halfway to her plate.

Rumi clenched her fists beneath the table, nails digging into her palms. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet her aunt’s eyes, even as they glimmered with something unreadable.

“I don’t want to dance. Not anymore.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. As if even the air disapproved.

Celine’s expression didn’t break. No flicker of sympathy, no pushback—just her usual, calm facade. “Very well,” she said finally, her tone flat. “Business it is.”

Rumi dropped her gaze back to her plate, throat tight, vision blurring. She couldn’t bring herself to take a bite. She couldn’t bring herself to move at all.

Because with those words, she wasn’t just abandoning a dream. She was burying the last piece of Mira that still lived inside her.

------

A week later. The air smelled faintly of autumn, crisp and alive, yet Rumi felt none of its warmth. She adjusted the strap of her leather satchel and walked up the wide stone steps of the university with a rhythm that was practiced, steady, almost mechanical.

Her second nature—the calm facade, the composed mask—had always been there. But after everything, after Seoul, after Mira… it had doubled, tripled, until it wasn’t just armor anymore. It was her entire body.

She moved through the buzzing campus like someone apart, her heels clicking against the pavement, her face set with a polite, unassuming smile. Not warm, not cold. Just… perfectly acceptable.

The classroom she entered was already alive with chatter, students spilling into desks in cliques and pairs. Rumi chose the middle row, not too close to the front, not too far back—safe, unremarkable. She set her notebook neatly on the desk, folded her hands atop it, and waited.

It didn’t even take twenty minutes.

“Hey! Why’d you transfer here?” a girl asked, leaning over the desk with too-bright eyes.

“Where are you from?” another chimed in, not even waiting for Rumi’s answer.

A boy with an easy grin dropped into the empty seat beside her. “What’s your major? Business? Or… no, you look like Communications.”

“Let’s be friends!” someone else piped up from the row behind, leaning so far forward their notebook nearly toppled onto Rumi’s desk.

The questions came like a tide—too fast, too curious, too insistent. But Rumi did what she had trained herself to do, what Celine had drilled into her without ever saying it outright; Smile. Hold steady. Answer, don’t reveal.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, her smile small but practiced, her voice smooth and even.

“I transferred because my aunt moved here.”

“I’m from Seoul.”

“My major is Business.”

“Yes, let’s be friends.”

Her tone was the same for each answer—polite, melodic, giving them exactly what they wanted, but nothing more. No weight. No truth. Just surface.

The group around her laughed, nodded, scribbled her spare number down when she offered it. They seemed charmed, some even a little dazzled. To them, she was mysterious, refined, approachable in a way that felt effortless.

But beneath her mask, Rumi’s chest was a quiet cavern. Empty.

As their chatter swirled around her, she thought briefly, If Mira were here, she’d be teasing me right now. She’d say I look like a politician giving rehearsed answers.

The thought stung, sharp enough that Rumi had to press her palm against the notebook just to anchor herself.

But her smile never wavered.

------

The hallway buzzed with the usual late-morning chatter, students pouring out of classrooms and towards the cafeteria. Rumi walked among them, her books neatly stacked against her chest, her posture straight as ever.

Then she heard it—bass. The faint pulse of music thumping from the rec room across the hall. She glanced sideways, just enough to catch a group of students inside, their bodies moving in sharp unison, one counting out the beats while another adjusted the phone propped up against a chair. They were recording. Practicing. Laughing between takes.

And before she could stop it, a smile crept across her lips.

Dancing.

Her dream, the one she used to say out loud without fear. She could almost hear her own voice, lighter, brighter, tugging at Mira’s hand under Seoul’s buzzing streetlights:

“One day I’ll be a real dancer. You’ll see!”

But now… those same words twisted in her head, stabbing sharper than any insult. A promise she no longer had the right to keep.

The smile faltered. Her jaw tightened, her grip on her books turning white-knuckled.

She couldn’t bear to watch. Not when every pivot, every spin, every carefree laugh reminded her of the life she had once wanted, the life she had chosen for herself. The one Mira used to tease her about. The one she had thrown away with five words—I don’t want to dance.

The cafeteria was just ahead, but her feet turned the other way. She needed air, space, anywhere but here.

Her steps quickened until she emerged into the quad, the campus green spread out under the late morning sun. The chatter of students faded into a dull hum behind her, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the sound of her own pulse.

Here, at least, she could breathe.

She sank onto a stone bench under a tree, setting her books carefully beside her as though they might shatter if she let go too fast. Tilting her head back, she let the sunlight wash over her face, even though it couldn’t burn away the heaviness still lodged in her chest.

She whispered so softly only the wind could hear—

“Not anymore…”

Her dream was gone. And the worst part wasn’t losing it.

The worst part was knowing she had buried it herself.

Two months blurred into each other like pages of the same book.

Every day, Rumi followed the same rhythm: a polite smile in the morning, back straight as she walked into class, books stacked neatly against her chest. She listened. She nodded. She answered when asked. Her classmates adored her—the reliable one, the one who explained formulas clearly, who lent her notes without hesitation, who never once raised her voice.

Perfect. Always perfect.

And yet… when she slipped away to the quad during lunch, when the noise of laughter and music couldn’t reach her, that perfectness felt like a weight pressing her down, reminding her of everything she had lost.

It was in the middle of this routine, after another week of seamless answers and tidy notes, when it happened.

“Ru!”

Rumi blinked, turning her head. A classmate—one of the more bubbly ones, hair tied in a messy pony and a wide grin plastered across her face—bounded over. “Oh my god, you have to come to this event!”

Rumi tilted her head slightly, that small, composed smile slipping back into place. “Event?”

“Yes! The campus mixer-slash-party-thing. It’s, like, the go-to vibe of the semester.” The girl leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically. “Everyone goes. You know… dancing, music, food, the whole thing.”

Her chest gave a strange little squeeze at that word—dancing.

The classmate didn’t notice, too busy clasping her hands together. “You’re new here, right? That’s literally the perfect reason to come. Please? It’ll be fun!”

Rumi’s throat went dry for the briefest second, but she caught herself. Her mask held. That same polite curve of her lips, that same even tone.

“Sure,” she said smoothly. “When?”

The girl squealed in delight, grabbing her arm before Rumi could even react. “This Friday! Yes! Oh, you’re gonna love it, Ru, I promise!”

Rumi nodded, her smile still intact. But as her classmate skipped away, already buzzing about outfits and playlists, Rumi’s fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt

Friday.

A party.

A room full of music, full of lights,

full of movement.

She whispered to herself, barely audible, her smile fixed like porcelain.

“…Right. Fun.”

------

Friday night came like a gash of wind, slicing into her carefully controlled routine. 

Rumi stood at the campus entrance, heels clicking softly against the pavement. The maroon silk dress she wore brushed just above her knees, its sheen catching the glow of the quad lights. Her hair was braided neatly down her back, the same way it always was—as though her braid itself was a chain, anchoring her, keeping everything tight and composed.

She let out a soft sigh, her lips pressing together before she finally walked inside.

The sound hit her first—deep bass, vibrating through her ribs. Then the lights—purple, green, neon strobing across the quad. A DJ booth stood tall at the center, cords sprawling like veins. Long tables were stacked with plastic cups, bottles, trays of food. Students laughed, swayed, already halfway drunk as if the week had never happened.

Rumi slipped in without a ripple, her posture straight, smile polite. She made her way to the drink station, fingers curling around the first safe option she saw—orange juice. Cold against her palm. Familiar.

She retreated toward a corner, away from the vibrating floor where others had begun to dance. Her gaze followed them for half a second, then she looked away, raising the cup to her lips.

An hour, she told herself. I’ll spend an hour, then I’ll go home.

It had barely been thirty minutes when the music suddenly cut.

The crowd groaned, a mix of disappointment and confusion. Rumi’s brows furrowed slightly, her eyes flicking toward the booth.

A tall man climbed up, grabbing the mic with practiced ease. His black hair caught the colored lights, his grin wide enough to infect the restless crowd.

“Who’s ready to partyyyyy!”

The response was immediate—an eruption of cheers, screams, whistles. The energy doubled in an instant.

The man threw his free hand up, pointing toward the crowd. “DJ Jinu in the house!”

His voice boomed, charismatic and bold, pulling everyone’s attention like gravity.

The bass dropped again, harder than before, and the quad shook with collective movement.

Rumi blinked, her grip tightening on her cup as she watched the man—Jinu, the name ringing in her ears—move effortlessly behind the booth, his grin never faltering as his fingers twisted knobs, pressed pads, syncing beats with precision. And then, without hesitation, he leaned toward the mic again—this time singing into it, his voice raw, loud, carrying over the crowd.

The students went wild, screaming in unison, dancing like the world outside didn’t exist.

And Rumi—calm, composed, untouchable Rumi—found herself stilled. Her polite smile faltered, replaced with something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

A crack. A small crack in the mask.

Rumi stayed in the corner at first, her back to the wall, the cup of orange juice half-finished in her hand. Yet her eyes refused to look away from him—from the way this “DJ Jinu” commanded the crowd as though the entire quad was nothing more than his stage, his playground.

Every beat he dropped seemed to ripple through the air and into people’s veins. Hands shot up, bodies moved without restraint, voices screamed lyrics she didn’t know but could almost feel.

And the strangest part?

It didn’t look reckless. It didn’t look wild. It looked… freeing.

Her chest ached with something she couldn’t name.

The music—his music—was loud, yes, but it wasn’t just noise. It was energy. It was fun. It was comfort wrapped in rhythm. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Rumi felt the weight in her chest loosen, just a little.

Her fingers tightened around her cup, then slowly loosened again. She blinked, her polite smile giving way to something faint, tentative—an almost-smile that wasn’t for show.

Before she could think twice, her feet began moving.

At first, just a few steps forward. The crowd was dense, bodies pressed together, laughter spilling everywhere. She hesitated, then weaved through them carefully, clutching her cup like a shield.

But the closer she got to the heart of the party, the harder it became to stay still.

Someone bumped into her shoulder with an apology, then threw their arms up as the beat dropped again. Someone else pulled their friend into a circle, cheering when the friend danced like a fool. Rumi caught herself smiling, for real this time, the sound of the music pounding in her ribs.

It wasn’t dancing. Not yet.

But her head nodded to the beat, her shoulders loosened. She felt her body move, almost against her will, almost against the walls she’d built so carefully.

The silk of her dress swayed lightly with her steps. Her braid brushed against her back as she turned, caught in the rhythm.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. I shouldn’t…

And yet—she didn’t stop.

Because for the first time in so long, she wasn’t Rumi, the perfect student, the polite niece, the girl who ran away.

She was just Rumi, in the middle of a crowd, letting music remind her that she was still alive.

The sudden drop in the song hit like a lightning strike. The bass deepened, the tempo quickened, and the crowd roared as if they’d been waiting for this exact moment. Neon lights cut across the quad in dizzying streaks of pink and blue, and the air vibrated with the force of it all.

Rumi felt it in her bones.

Her heart thudded—not from panic, not from grief—but from something she hadn’t felt in months; aliveness.

It started small. She clapped her hands once with the beat. Then again. Then the chorus crashed back, and the students around her began bouncing, bodies jumping as one, voices rising with a chant of—

“HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!”

Rumi’s lips parted, her lungs burning with hesitation, but then—she jumped too.

Her braid swung against her back, her maroon dress catching the light as she followed the rhythm, as her voice, raw and unpolished, slipped free into the night.

“HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!”

She laughed. An actual laugh. It startled her at first, but it didn’t stop. The sound spilled out of her chest like something she’d been keeping locked for too long. Every jump, every shout, stripped away another layer of the polite mask she wore daily.

And for these precious minutes, nothing else existed.

The grief, the broken promises, Mira’s voice in the rain—gone.

She shouted until her throat scratched, she jumped until her legs ached, she laughed until her chest felt light. The music became her escape, the flashing lights her freedom, the chanting crowd her shield from the pain she’d been carrying.

It was reckless. It was messy. It was loud.

And it felt right.

The music behind her shifted—no longer the pulsing rhythm that had pulled her into the crowd, but something heavier, rougher, guitar riffs cutting sharp through the speakers. The energy of the quad changed with it, a different type of frenzy sparking in the students.

Rumi slipped out, weaving between swaying bodies, her pulse still racing from the jump and chant. She hadn’t realized until now that she was smiling—an actual smile, wide enough that her cheeks ached.

Then she saw him.

The DJ. The one they’d screamed for, the one whose music had tugged her back into life for the first time in months.

He was leaning against one of the campus trees just beyond the string lights, his silhouette sharp against the night. The faint, glowing end of an electric smoking tube lit his face for a second as he inhaled, then faded again.

Rumi stopped. She didn’t even know what she was going to say—but her feet carried her closer anyway. Something about him fascinated her. Not just the way he commanded the crowd, but the way he seemed so at ease, so effortlessly himself.

As if he belonged to this world of noise and color.

Jinu must have felt her gaze because he lifted his head. Their eyes met, and he tilted his head to the side.

Rumi blinked—then tilted her head, too. It was automatic, almost ridiculous, and the realization made warmth creep up her neck.

Jinu burst out laughing, his voice bright and unrestrained in the cool night. “You’re funny,” he said between chuckles.

Rumi froze. Confused. Her brows pinched, and she glanced down at herself as if to figure out what she’d done. She hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t even moved—other than the head tilt.

Yet here he was, laughing at something about her.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

For once, Rumi—the girl who always knew the polite thing to say—was left speechless.

Rumi stood there, staring, still trying to piece together why he found her funny when she hadn’t even opened her mouth. The confusion on her face must’ve been obvious, because Jinu grinned wider, his dark eyes glinting under the glow of the string lights.

“What?” she finally asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

Jinu puffed on the smoking tube again, exhaling a thin trail before answering. “You—” he gestured at her with a lazy wave, “—you copy me without thinking. That’s funny.”

Her brows furrowed. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he cut in smoothly, chuckling again. “Head tilt, right? I do this—” he exaggeratedly tilted his head again, playful this time, “—and then bam, you mirror it like we’ve got some kind of secret telepathy.”

Rumi’s mouth opened slightly, then shut. Her face warmed. It wasn’t like she meant to. It just happened.

Jinu smirked as though he’d won some invisible game. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

She straightened at that, her usual composure snapping back like armor. “I can talk,” she said, more firmly than she expected.

“Good,” he said, amused. “Then talk to me. What’s your name?”

His words were light, teasing, but there was something in the way he leaned forward, elbows resting casually against his knees, like he was actually interested.

Rumi’s chest tightened. For a second she almost said, I’m no one important. Just someone trying to breathe. But instead, she pressed her lips into the faintest polite smile and answered, “Rumi.”

“Rumi,” he repeated, as if testing the sound of it, rolling it on his tongue with ease. “Nice. I’m Jinu.” He tapped his chest, though she already knew. “DJ Jinu, apparently.”

His grin widened. “So, Rumi—” he leaned in a little closer, eyes glinting mischievously, “—did you follow me out here just to copy my head tilt, or do you actually have something to say?”

The teasing lilt in his tone left her both flustered and oddly intrigued.

Rumi hesitated for a moment, then finally let the words tumble out.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

Jinu tilted his head again—intentionally this time, teasing her with the very motion he’d been pointing out earlier. “Do what?” His voice carried a lilt of curiosity, but his grin said he already knew where she was going.

Rumi pressed her lips together, her eyes flicking briefly to the ground before she moved closer. The grass crunched softly under her heels as she walked toward the wooden bench just beneath the tree’s wide shadow. She sat down—carefully, almost cautiously—but still within a few inches from him.

She took a small breath. Her voice came out steadier than she felt inside.

“Command the crowd. Make music interesting. Make someone feel… alive.”

The last word slipped out softer, almost like a secret.

For a second, Jinu didn’t respond. He leaned back, the smoking tube dangling loosely between his fingers, eyes studying her in a way that felt both lazy and sharp all at once. The kind of look that stripped her down—not her clothes, but the little walls she’d so carefully built these past months.

Finally, he chuckled under his breath. “Ah. That.”

He tapped his knee with the back of his knuckle, his grin shifting into something less playful, more thoughtful. “You’re the first person to ask me that, you know? Everyone else just says, ‘Cool music, bro,’ or ‘Play this next!’” He mimicked their voices in an exaggerated, mocking tone, then shook his head. “But you…” His gaze slid back to her. “You’re asking like you actually want the answer.”

Rumi’s fingers curled around the hem of her dress. She nodded once, quiet but firm.

Jinu leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the grin softening into something that almost resembled sincerity. “It’s simple, really. I feel it first. If the music doesn’t move me, it’s not gonna move anyone else. So I let it take me, and then—I just give it away. That’s it. That’s the trick.”

Her chest tightened. His words sounded so effortless, yet they carried a weight that made her stomach twist. Feel it first. She couldn’t remember the last time she allowed herself to really feel without holding back, without fearing what it might destroy.

She looked at him, and for the first time that night, her polite smile faltered into something raw.

“C-can you help me understand music?” Rumi blurted, surprising even herself. Her voice cracked mid-sentence, softer than the thump of bass still echoing faintly from the quad.

Jinu blinked once, then a mischievous grin curved across his face. Without answering directly, he raised the small vape between his fingers, the faint blue light at its end pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Try this first,” he said, playful as ever, holding it out toward her. “Then I’ll help you understand—or even create—music.”

Rumi’s brows pinched together. She bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the little tube like it was some kind of forbidden object. For a moment, she almost refused. Almost. But something inside her stirred—the same restlessness that had dragged her out of the corner, out of her cage of composure, into the chaos of flashing lights and pounding beats.

She reached out and took it from him, her fingers brushing his. “How does this even work?”

Jinu’s smirk widened, like he was watching a child about to try something for the first time. “Just puff it and blow the smoke. Easy.”

Rumi tilted her head at him again, that unconscious quirk she didn’t even realize she had. Then, determined, she brought the tip to her lips. She inhaled—too quickly, too sharply.

And immediately doubled over, coughing.

The vapor burst out in choked little clouds as she pounded her chest with one hand. Jinu burst out laughing, clutching his stomach, practically folding over from how hard he was laughing.

“Pffft—oh my god—Ru! You looked so serious! Like you were about to unlock the secrets of the universe—and then cough cough hack hack!” He mimicked her dramatically, wheezing between his fits of laughter.

Rumi’s face heated, part embarrassment, part annoyance, part something else entirely. She thrust the vape back at him, her lips pulling into the tiniest pout. “This is stupid.”

Jinu took it back, still grinning ear to ear, and shook his head. “No, no. You’re just a rookie. Music, smoke, life—it’s all about pacing. You can’t rush it, or it’ll burn you.” He took a slow, practiced drag, then blew a thin stream of smoke upward, the cloud swirling lazily above them. “See?”

Rumi blinked at him, her chest still tight from coughing, but for some reason… she found herself smiling. A real one this time, not the polite mask.

Rumi hesitated, glancing at the little device again when Jinu nudged it toward her. Her instinct said no, but the gleam in his eyes, the way his grin dared her—something inside refused to back down.

“Third time’s the charm,” he teased, his voice smooth, lazy. “Unless you wanna quit?”

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a quitter.”

She brought the vape back to her lips, slower this time. Inhale gently, like he said. She held the smoke carefully, her chest prickling with warmth, then exhaled. This time it came out in a soft stream, not a cough. Jinu clapped dramatically.

“There we go! See? Natural.”

Rumi blinked at the thin cloud fading in front of her—and then, almost without thinking, she shaped her lips in an O and blew again. A small circle formed, delicate and wobbly, floating into the cool night air.

Her eyes widened, surprise lighting her features, and for the first time in months, she actually laughed. It was quiet, but genuine. “Did I… just do that?”

Jinu leaned back against the tree, smirk stretching even wider. “Hell yeah, you did. Look at you, already showing off.”

A flush rose in her cheeks, but pride swelled in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the smoke or the feeling of doing something right—something playful, something real—that made her heart beat differently.

They stayed there, the noise of the party muffled behind them. Jinu took another drag, his voice turning more thoughtful. “You know… music’s kinda the same. You can follow steps, learn the mechanics, but the real magic? That comes when you stop overthinking and just… let it out.”

Rumi tilted her head, her braid slipping over her shoulder as she studied him. “So you don’t… plan it?”

“Of course I plan it. Beats, chords, layers—it’s like building a house. But the feeling, the energy, the part that grabs people by the heart? That’s not planning. That’s instinct.”

She absorbed his words, her lips pressing together. “I want to understand that. I want to… feel it like you do. Make people feel alive, like I just did back there.”

Jinu exhaled another lazy stream of smoke, watching it fade into the branches above. “Then you gotta stop being scared of messing up. Stop being perfect. Music’s messy. Feeling’s messy. You can’t fake it. You can only live it.”

Rumi sat still, his words sinking deep. For the first time in so long, someone wasn’t asking her to be polite, perfect, or composed. He was telling her to break it. To feel.

And under the maroon silk dress, under the weight of everything she had been burying for months, her heart whispered

Maybe this is what I’ve been missing.

Chapter Text

(START)

The night air clung to her skin even after she slipped out of the uber. The faint hum of bass still lingered in her chest, the echo of shouts and laughter following her up the marble steps of the house

Rumi unlocked the door quietly, half-hoping the house would be dark, that she could sneak into her room and let the memories of the party sink in without questions.

But the warm glow from the living room spilled across the floor.

Celine sat on the couch, posture as pristine as ever, her laptop balanced neatly in front of her. The clacking of keys filled the silence, a steaming cup of coffee untouched beside her. She looked up just once, eyes sharp, unreadable, then went back to typing.

Rumi froze by the entrance, clutching the strap of her bag, her pulse suddenly too loud. For a moment she thought of walking away, locking herself in her room. But something inside urged her forward. Slowly, she crossed the polished floor and sat on the couch opposite her aunt. Back straight. Hands folded in her lap. That practiced, composed smile that never quite reached her eyes.

She exhaled softly, trying to steady the tremble in her chest.

The keyboard clicking stopped.

Celine closed her laptop with a quiet snap, lifted her coffee, and studied her niece with that same composed gaze. She raised a brow, her voice calm, low, measured.

“What is it?”

Rumi’s throat worked before any sound came out. She swallowed, once, twice, trying to summon the courage she had borrowed earlier from a stranger under neon lights.

“I–is the offer of another major still available?”

Celine tilted her head ever so slightly, silent, waiting.

Rumi’s fingers twisted against her dress. “I… I want to have a double major. Business, for you. M–music, for me.” Her voice broke on the last word, fragile but determined. She lifted her chin anyway, forcing the words out like a confession. “Please?”

The silence that followed was heavier than the bass at the party, heavier than the rain-soaked arguments that had sent her across an ocean.

Celine’s brow arched a little higher. She placed her cup down with delicate precision, never breaking her gaze.

Music. The word echoed between them.

For Rumi, it wasn’t just a subject. It was the closest she’d come to choosing herself.

The silence stretched, the kind that made the seconds drag like hours. Rumi sat with her back straight, fingers tightening against the silky fabric of her dress. She could hear the faint ticking of the clock above the doorway, the soft hiss of the coffee’s steam, and her own heartbeat pounding like a drumline.

Finally, Celine spoke. Her tone was steady, deliberate, each word placed like a weight.

“Yes. But keep your priorities straight, Rumi. If your subjects in business waver even slightly, I’ll pull you out of that music major.”

The words landed heavy, but not crushing. They were firm, conditional—but not a refusal.

Rumi pressed her lips together, fighting the upward pull at the corners of her mouth. Her heart wanted to burst with relief, but she kept her face composed. Still, her thoughts betrayed her, bubbling up like a quiet laugh in the back of her mind:

Priorities straight? I’m not even straight.

She swallowed the thought down before it could slip out, replacing it with a polite smile. She nodded once, controlled, respectful. “Understood.”

Celine held her gaze for a breath longer, then, as if the conversation had been a mere footnote in her evening, she reopened her laptop and began typing again. The clatter of the keys filled the room, dismissing Rumi as swiftly as it had invited her in.

Taking the cue, Rumi stood and slid away toward the hallway, her steps soft against the floor. She closed her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Then she dropped onto her bed, the maroon dress fanning around her like a wilted flower. Exhaustion clung to her limbs, the night’s noise still echoing in her ears. But beneath the weight, there was something else—something light, electric, almost daring.

For the first time since stepping into this new world, Rumi didn’t feel like she was only performing. She felt… alive.

She closed her eyes, replaying flashes of neon lights, the sound of a crowd shouting hey hey hey, the grin of a DJ who laughed like he knew something about her she hadn’t yet figured out.

And slowly, a real smile bloomed.

-------

Two days later, the morning unfolded like every other. Rumi woke at dawn, her movements efficient, her posture straight, her mask unshakable. She walked through the university halls with her polite smile fixed in place, answering greetings, responding to classmates who asked for help, and jotting perfect notes that others often borrowed. To anyone watching, she was the definition of composure.

But when the clock struck 1 p.m., her routine shifted. Instead of heading home, Rumi turned toward the Arts Department. Her heart picked up pace the closer she got, her polished facade hiding the quiet thrill building in her chest.

She stopped at a door, smoothed her clothes, and knocked lightly. A man in wire-framed glasses and rolled-up sleeves—clearly the professor—pulled it open. His brows arched at the sight of her.

“Yes?”

“I’m Ryu Rumi,” she said with a polite bow, her voice soft but steady. “I’m here for Music Production.”

The professor nodded, letting her in. Rumi stepped inside, scanning the crowded room. Her eyes flitted past the rows of chatting students until they landed on him—Jinu.

He was slumped in his chair, head tilted back, mouth slightly parted, probably asleep.

She introduced herself to the class, her voice lilting just enough to show a flicker of warmth. And when her left dimple appeared, it sent a ripple of giggles through the group. She ignored them gracefully, eyes already set on the empty chair beside Jinu.

She took it.

Then, with a calmness that didn’t match the mischief bubbling inside her, she leaned over and flicked his ear.

Jinu stirred, groaning low. He turned his head lazily, eyes half-lidded until they focused—and widened.

“Ru!!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the classroom.

The professor didn’t miss a beat. He hurled a whiteboard marker across the room with precision.

The marker smacked Jinu right in the forehead.

The class burst into laughter.

Jinu yelped, rubbing the spot before bowing his head in apology. “Sorry, sorry!” His grin was shameless, though, peeking through his apology.

Rumi, meanwhile, sat straight in her chair, her face an impeccable mask of composure—save for the slight sparkle in her eyes as if she hadn’t done anything at all.

Rumi hadn’t expected to enjoy the class as much as she did. The way the professor broke down rhythm, layering, and transitions—it was nothing like the monotony of business lectures. This was alive, fluid, a language she had once longed to speak. Her focus doubled, tripled, every detail sinking into her mind as though it was the only thing in the world.

She sat straighter, eyes forward, pen scribbling notes at a quick pace.

And then, a whisper brushed her ear.

“What are you doing here? I thought you majored in Business?” Jinu’s voice carried that same casual teasing lilt, like he had no sense of timing.

Rumi didn’t so much as blink. She kept her eyes trained on the professor, her tone smooth, precise.

“I asked my aunt if I could do a double major,” she said. “So here I am.”

Jinu leaned back, a grin forming like he was about to shoot back with another quip—

But Rumi’s hand suddenly lifted.

The professor pointed her way, mid-sentence. “Yes, Miss Ryu?”

Rumi smirked, lips curving slyly as she spoke.

“My seatmate isn’t listening. He kept whispering in my ears… I think he’s flirting with me.”

The class erupted in laughter, desks rattling from how hard some were pounding them.

Jinu shot upright in his seat, face a mix of offense and disbelief. “Hey! You’re not even my type!”

Rumi turned to him then, brows raised in mock indignation, the corners of her lips curling with that dangerous smirk.

“Excuse me? I’m everyone’s type.

That sent the room into chaos.

The professor sighed once, then without hesitation, picked up another whiteboard marker and launched it across the room.

This time, it nailed Jinu square on the nose.

“GAH—!” Jinu groaned, clutching his face as the laughter grew louder, some students nearly falling off their chairs.

Even Rumi couldn’t stop the soft laugh that escaped her, though she hid it behind the back of her hand, eyes glinting with amusement.

The professor didn’t even look up from his notes. “Quiet down. Or next time, it won’t be a marker.”

For the first time in months, Rumi felt something she thought she’d buried under neat smiles and perfect grades. She enjoyed herself—not in the careful, controlled way she usually did, but genuinely.

The lectures fascinated her, yes—the language of beats, the mathematics of rhythm, the beauty of layering sound into something alive—but it wasn’t just that. It was the way Jinu groaned dramatically every five minutes, milking the sting of the marker to the point where even the professor rolled his eyes.

It was the way their classmates would stifle laughter every time he touched his nose like it was a grievous wound. It was carefree, messy, exciting—something she hadn’t felt in what felt like forever.

By the time class ended, her cheeks ached faintly from smiling too much, her chest oddly light as she walked home. The night air was crisp against her skin, the weight she always carried pressing a little less.

When she stepped into the house, the familiar scent of coffee greeted her. Celine sat in the dining room, laptop open, posture perfect as always. Normally, Rumi would just bow her head lightly and retreat to her room without a word.

But tonight, her smile slipped out before she could stop it.

“Welcome home,” Celine said flatly, glancing up from her screen.

Rumi leaned down and pressed a cheek-to-cheek kiss, soft and brief. The gesture startled even herself. Celine blinked at her, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion, but Rumi was already sliding into the dining chair, picking up her chopsticks with unshakable composure.

She ate quietly, back straight as always, but the corners of her lips kept threatening to curl upward.

For once, after months of storms and aching silence, Rumi wasn’t just breathing. She was living.

Celine’s gaze lingered longer than usual, coffee cup poised at her lips but not moving. Her niece had been many things in the past few months—composed, polite, obedient—but light had not been one of them.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying Rumi’s small but genuine smile as she ate.

Rumi felt the weight of that gaze but, instead of shrinking, she let her chopsticks lower and looked back at her aunt. “Celine,” she began, her voice soft but steady, “How were the subjects in your… college years? When you were majoring?”

Celine arched a brow, surprised. “Demanding,” she said after a pause, setting her cup down. “Why?”

Rumi smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, exhaling slowly. She thought of the lecture hall earlier, of the professor’s voice breaking down the anatomy of sound, of Jinu groaning dramatically to the amusement of everyone, of her own laugh escaping her lips. The memory tugged at her lips again before she hid it with a sip of water.

“I… wanted to ask how you managed it,” she said finally. “Balancing everything. Business, expectations, life.”

Celine leaned back in her chair, studying her like she was dissecting a contract. “You’re asking about balance because of your new major.” It wasn’t a question—it was fact.

Rumi nodded, quietly. Her heart fluttered in her chest, a rhythm she couldn’t quite control.

Celine’s expression didn’t soften, but there was a flicker—something faint but undeniable—in her eyes. “Then let me be clear, Rumi. If you want to keep that major, you’ll work twice as hard. You will not let your performance in business waver. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Rumi answered, voice small but firm. She lowered her gaze to her bowl, but the faint glow inside her didn’t dim.

Because for the first time since arriving here, Celine wasn’t shutting the door. She was leaving it cracked open.

And Rumi, clutching that opening in her chest, knew she was ready to step through it.

Rumi was halfway through chewing when her aunt’s voice cut through the quiet clink of utensils.

“How was the music production?”

The question startled her. Celine’s tone was still even, still composed, but it was personal. Direct. Rumi blinked, her chopsticks pausing in midair. For a heartbeat, she didn’t know how to answer.

Then, slowly, her lips curved into a small, almost reluctant smile. The memory of the three-hour class flickered in her mind—her hand shooting up, the smirk she couldn’t resist, the professor’s exasperation, the sound of her classmates bursting into laughter, and Jinu clutching his nose with a groan loud enough to echo across the room.

“It was…” Rumi’s voice softened, a breath of amusement slipping through. “Chaotic. But… good. I think I enjoyed it.”

Celine lifted her cup again, studying her niece over the rim. That smile—small, controlled, but real—hadn’t graced Rumi’s face in months. It was different from her polite façade. Softer. More alive.

“You seem lighter,” Celine remarked, not accusing, not praising—just observing.

Rumi ducked her head, her braid slipping over her shoulder. “I...guess.”

Celine didn’t respond right away, but her silence wasn’t cold this time. It was contemplative. She set the cup down, fingers drumming once against the porcelain before she returned to her laptop. “Keep it that way,” she murmured, almost like an afterthought.

Rumi looked down at her meal, the smile threatening to bloom wider. Her aunt might not say it outright, but in her own rigid, guarded way—Celine was giving her permission.

It was only her second day sitting in the music department’s classroom, yet Rumi could already feel the difference in the air compared to her business lectures. The walls here weren’t lined with stiff posters about finance and management—they were scattered with soundproof padding, album covers, and scrawled notes on chords and mixing.

The professor, a tall man with glasses always slipping down his nose, tapped the desk with a pencil. “Alright, class. For the next few weeks, you’ll be working in pairs. Your task is to create one fully produced track. Genre is up to you, but I expect cohesion, creativity, and teamwork. I’ll announce partners now.”

A wave of excitement—and dread—rippled through the room. Rumi sat straighter, her polite smile plastered on as always, but inside, her stomach fluttered. A project. Already?

Names were called one by one. And then—

“Rumi Ryu… with Jinu Han.”

The class erupted into chuckles and murmurs. Jinu, who had been lazily balancing a pencil on his upper lip, immediately dropped it and twisted in his seat. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he leaned an elbow on her desk.

“Well, well, Ru,” he drawled, voice dripping with mock-importance. “Partnered with me? Top student in the class? Looks like you got lucky.”

Rumi turned her head slowly, the corner of her mouth tugging upward just a little. “Or maybe you’re the lucky one.”

A chorus of “ooooh” rose from their classmates, making Jinu clutch his chest dramatically as if she’d just shot him. “Wow. Second class in and you’re already throwing daggers at me? Careful, Ru, I might cry.”

Rumi hid her amusement behind a calm blink, but inside she was oddly—warm. The banter, the teasing—it reminded her of a time when laughter wasn’t foreign to her.

The professor, unfazed by the noise, scribbled on the board. “Projects will be due in six weeks. You’ll have time during class, but most of the work will need to be done outside. Learn to rely on each other. Music is about collaboration as much as creation.”

Rumi felt Jinu’s gaze still fixed on her, mischievous and unrelenting. She straightened in her seat, hands folded on the desk as though she could mask the spark of anticipation already tugging at her chest.

Her first thought wasn’t about how hard the project might be.

It was about how much fun this was going to get.

The following week, Jinu insisted they start their project early. He dragged Rumi into one of the small student recording studios tucked at the back of the music building, walls lined with foam and wires snaking across the floor. It smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and the metallic tang of instruments that had been used by too many hands.

Rumi sat carefully on the swivel chair, her back straight, posture as disciplined as always. In contrast, Jinu sprawled across another chair, legs spread carelessly, spinning halfway around just to amuse himself.

“Okay, partner,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head, “what do you want to make? Ballad? EDM? Screamo death metal?” His grin was teasing, wide, daring her to crack.

Rumi pressed her lips together, hiding the twitch at their corners. “I’m not sure yet,” she admitted. “I want to understand how… music can make people feel something.”

Jinu squinted at her like she’d just confessed she didn’t know how to breathe. Then, softer than usual, he said, “That’s not a bad place to start.”

For the next hour, he showed her the basics—looping a beat, layering synths, adjusting volume knobs. Rumi’s fingers were tentative at first, hovering above the keyboard like she was afraid to ruin it. But then Jinu clapped his hands loudly and barked, “Ru, it’s not a museum piece. Hit it like you mean it!”

She startled, then pressed the keys firmly. The sound came out sharp, vibrant. Rumi felt it in her chest, like the vibration traveled straight into her ribcage.

After a few more tries, Jinu leaned back, exhaling a mock-dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay. I admit it. You’ve got rhythm.”

Rumi turned her head, one brow slightly raised. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“The highest one,” he said, hand over his heart. “Coming from me, at least.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. Their banter slipped into something more comfortable after that. The air wasn’t heavy with polite walls or forced composure—it was light, playful, like the music they were trying to build.

At some point, while Jinu fiddled with his vape pen and pretended to blow smoke rings at the ceiling, he said casually, “Just so you know… I’m an anti-romantic person. No love, no heartbreak, none of that mushy stuff. Music, parties, friends—that’s my vibe.”

Rumi’s fingers froze on the keys. Anti-romantic. The words echoed in her chest, stirring something she’d buried deep. Slowly, she turned, her expression unreadable, voice softer than usual.

“I hope I'm anti-romantic too...I used to love a girl back in Seoul,” she said. The words felt like shards cutting her throat as she pushed them out. “But it’s all in the past now.”

Jinu’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide with surprise. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, curiosity crackling in his grin. “Whoa, wait. You loved a girl? Tell me more. What’s the name? Can I know the name?”

Rumi hesitated. Every instinct screamed to lock the memory away, bury it under layers of composure. But maybe it was the dim studio light, the quiet hum of equipment, or the way Jinu wasn’t judging—just waiting, curious as ever.

Her jaw tightened. She pressed her lips together, fighting the tremor, before she finally whispered, “Mira. Kang Mira.”

The syllables tasted like ash on her tongue.

Jinu blinked. For once, the teasing grin slipped. “Mira, huh?” He tilted his head, studying her like he was piecing together a puzzle. Then he nodded slowly. “Sounds like a story.”

Rumi’s eyes flickered, something fragile and raw glinting in them before she quickly looked away. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

But even as she said it, her chest ached. Because to her, Mira would always matter.

Jinu clapped his hands together after Rumi’s confession, deliberately steering the air away from heaviness. “Alright, enough secrets for today. Back to work, rookie. Let’s see if you can actually build something that doesn’t sound like a microwave exploding.”

Rumi rolled her eyes, but her lips curved faintly.

He leaned over the equipment, showing her how to layer a simple drum beat first. “Think of it like a heartbeat,” he explained, tapping the desk in rhythm. “Boom, boom. Music always starts with a pulse. Doesn’t matter if it’s EDM, hip-hop, or pop—without that core, people can’t connect.”

Rumi followed his movements, pressing the keys carefully. The first beat she set was clumsy, a little uneven. Jinu groaned theatrically and dropped his forehead against the console.

“You’re murdering the pulse,” he muttered. “Ru, that poor heartbeat didn’t deserve this.”

She swatted his arm lightly, which only made him grin wider. “Try again. Relax. Feel it, don’t think it.”

The second attempt came smoother. Stronger. A rhythm that felt like something she could march to.

“There it is!” Jinu sat up straight, clapping. “See? Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Something fluttered in Rumi’s chest. Pride.

After they got the beat steady, Jinu leaned back in his chair. “Now the scary part. Lyrics.”

Rumi blinked. “I… don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” he said, tone uncharacteristically firm. “Lyrics are just… feelings dressed as words. You’ve got plenty of those, trust me.”

Her throat tightened. She almost wanted to argue, but instead she grabbed the notebook Jinu shoved toward her and stared at the blank page.

The silence stretched. The hum of the computer, the faint buzz of the ceiling light, Jinu’s lazy breaths—they all pressed into her ears. Finally, her pen moved.

I’m standing in the noise, but my heart is quiet,

Carrying storms no one can hear,

If I could turn the ache into a song,

Would you listen, would you stay near?

When she finished the short verse, she hesitated, chewing her lip. Then, with a quiet breath, she slid the notebook across to Jinu.

He read it, his grin fading into something softer. “For a first try?” he said finally, looking up at her. “That’s… damn good, Ru.”

Her cheeks warmed. She wasn’t used to praise. Not like this.

They tested the verse against the beat she’d built earlier. It didn’t match perfectly—her words stumbled awkwardly against the rhythm, too fast here, too slow there. But when her voice floated into the air, thin but steady, it filled the little studio with something new. Something fragile but real.

Jinu didn’t interrupt. He just leaned back, listening, a small smile tugging at his lips.

When the verse ended, Rumi exhaled shakily. “It was off,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Jinu said, shrugging, “But it was also real. That’s more than half the battle.”

Rumi pressed her hand against her notebook, feeling her pulse under her skin. For the first time since she’d arrived in the States, she felt… proud. Not because she was perfect, not because she was composed, but because she made something that belonged to her.

Something that felt like a start.

And Jinu, with his infuriating grin and endless banter, was the first person to witness it.

“Not bad,” Jinu leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as he eyed her like he was studying a painting. “But one verse won’t cut it, Ru. You can’t just tease the listeners and vanish.”

Rumi tilted her head, half-defensive, half-curious. “It’s my first week and you’re already asking for more?”

“Music doesn’t wait for comfort zones,” he said, tapping the table with his pen in rhythm. “Besides, your first verse was a little too honest. You can’t leave people hanging like that. Give me another one. Something that answers it. Think of it like a conversation—you opened the door, now finish what you started.”

Rumi groaned softly, leaning back against the chair. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is easy,” Jinu countered with that smug grin that made her both irritated and… weirdly motivated. “Here, I’ll even help you. Pretend you’re still talking to that girl—what’s her name? Mira?”

Rumi stiffened instantly. “Don’t.”

But Jinu just raised a brow, shrugging. “Fine, fine. Whoever it is then. Imagine you’re still speaking to them. What’s the next line you’d say if they were sitting right here?”

Her heart thumped uncomfortably. She tried to roll her eyes, but the question burrowed deep. She picked up her pen again, staring at the first verse she’d scribbled earlier. Her fingers tapped against the paper, following the beat they’d built. And slowly, the words came

I thought letting go would make me lighter,

But the silence is heavier than I dreamed,

If I could turn regret into fire,

Would it burn, or would it still?

She froze after writing it, staring at the ink like it had appeared on its own.

Jinu leaned over before she could hide it, reading the verse silently. His grin didn’t come this time. Instead, his lips parted in something like awe.

“Ru…” he said softly, almost too soft. “You’re not supposed to be this good on your first day. What the hell.”

Rumi’s cheeks burned. She tried to play it off, snatching the notebook back. “Don’t exaggerate. It doesn’t even match the beat.”

“So what?” Jinu shot back, energy returning. He leaned forward and began adjusting the rhythm, adding a subtle layer of synth beneath it. “Beats can bend. Words can stretch. You don’t cage lyrics—you build around them. Watch.”

-----

The next fifteen minutes blurred into a whirlwind. Jinu guided her through adjusting the timing, showing how to slow a word, how to break a line mid-beat, how to let silence hang where music could speak louder. Rumi’s voice trembled at first, but as she repeated the verse again and again, something inside her clicked.

By the fifth attempt, her delivery slipped into rhythm naturally.

By the seventh, Jinu had his head bobbing, eyes closed, grinning like a kid who just discovered candy.

And by the tenth, Rumi was laughing, actually laughing, because the sound coming out of the speakers didn’t feel clumsy anymore—it felt like music. Her music.

“See?” Jinu pointed at her like he’d just won a bet. “Told you. Natural. You’ve got that raw stuff, Ru. The kind you can’t teach.”

Rumi’s chest swelled, pride mixing with disbelief. “It’s still messy.”

“Messy is real. Real is good.” He stretched his arms above his head lazily. “Trust me, half the songs that top the charts start out sounding worse than this. You’ll get better. Way better.”

She blinked at him, a quiet smile tugging her lips. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The studio fell into a softer silence after that, the kind where the air hums with satisfaction rather than tension. Rumi flipped through her notebook, running her fingers over the ink, while Jinu leaned back, watching her like he wasn’t even trying to hide his curiosity.

“You know what’s scary?” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re starting to look like you belong here.”

Rumi let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious,” Jinu smirked, pointing at her notebook. “You walked in here all polished and perfect, but look at you now—scribbles on your hands, hair messy, singing verses like it’s second nature. Tell me that doesn’t feel right.”

She hesitated. For a second, her throat felt too tight to answer. But then she whispered, almost like a confession, “It does.”

“Good,” Jinu said, satisfied. He stood up and stretched, his shirt riding up slightly, and Rumi quickly looked away. “That means tomorrow, we’ll push harder. Maybe even start the chorus.”

“Tomorrow?” Rumi raised a brow.

“Of course tomorrow.” He grinned. “We’ve got a project, partner. Don’t think you’re escaping me now.”

Rumi sighed, but the smile she hid behind her hand betrayed her.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t dreading tomorrow.

She was waiting for it.

The following next afternoon, Rumi walked into the studio with her notebook hugged to her chest. She already spotted Jinu slouched across their usual seat, a lollipop between his lips, fingers tapping absentmindedly against his laptop keyboard. He didn’t look up until Rumi sat down beside him.

“There you are,” he drawled, stretching the words like he’d been waiting hours. “Thought you bailed.”

“I don’t bail,” Rumi shot back smoothly, sliding her notebook open on the desk. “I had another class. Unlike some people who nap through lectures.”

Jinu pulled the lollipop out with a loud pop and smirked. “Ouch. You wound me, partner. But hey—sleep is part of the creative process.”

“Is that what you call it?” she muttered, but there was a tiny smile at the corner of her lips as she flipped through her notes.

They started working on their project again, Jinu tweaking the beat he’d built the day before while Rumi polished the lines she’d written late at night. The two of them bickered over everything—tempo, word choice, even the tiniest pauses in rhythm.

“Too slow,” Jinu said, shaking his head as she tried to recite a line. “You’re dragging the syllables.”

“I’m not dragging,” Rumi argued, tapping the notebook with her pen. “I’m emphasizing.”

“It sounds like you’re reading poetry at a funeral.”

Rumi gasped, swatting his arm with the back of her pen. “You’re impossible.”

Jinu only grinned wider. “And you’re stubborn. We’ll make a killer duo.”

An hour passed before Jinu suddenly sat up straighter, an idea flashing across his face. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the recording booth in the corner.

“Alright, Ru. Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

Rumi blinked. “What do you mean?”

He stood, tugging the headphones off the stand and gesturing toward the booth. “Get in. We’re recording your verse.”

Her stomach flipped. “What? No. I’m not—”

“Yes.” Jinu shoved the headphones into her hands, smirking as if he’d just won some grand prize. “You’ve been scribbling and humming like a closet poet. Time to hear what it actually sounds like with a mic.”

Rumi shook her head furiously. “No way. My voice isn’t—”

“Not perfect?” he cut her off, leaning in with that irritatingly confident grin. “Good. Perfect is boring. Just sing it, Ru. Nobody’s judging.”

“Nobody except you,” she retorted, clutching the headphones like a lifeline.

Jinu tilted his head, playful as always. “Who says I’ll judge? We listen and we don't judge.”

Rumi froze, cheeks heating, and Jinu laughed so hard he nearly dropped his laptop. She smacked his shoulder and huffed, but her lips curved upward despite herself.

Five minutes later, she was standing inside the booth, the heavy glass door shutting out most of the outside world. Her pulse hammered against her ribs as she slid the headphones over her ears. Through the glass, Jinu gave her a thumbs-up, his grin annoyingly encouraging.

“You ready?” his voice crackled through the mic.

“No,” she muttered, but adjusted the stand anyway.

“That’s the spirit. Okay, we’ll run the beat twice, then you come in on the third. Remember to breathe. And for the love of god, don’t sound like you’re reading a bedtime story.”

“Shut up, Ji!.”

The beat began—soft at first, then layering into the rhythm they’d been building. Rumi held the notebook in trembling hands, eyes darting across her scribbled lyrics. She inhaled deeply.

And then she sang.

Her voice was quiet at first, unsteady, but it slipped into place as the words unfurled

I thought letting go would make me lighter,

But the silence is heavier than I dreamed…

The booth seemed to vibrate with her voice. Jinu’s head bobbed on the other side of the glass, nodding to the rhythm, expression sharpening with surprise.

By the time she reached the last line, her hands weren’t shaking anymore. She closed her eyes, letting the words fall into the beat, not overthinking—just feeling.

When the track ended, silence filled her ears.

Rumi exhaled shakily and lowered the notebook. “That was… bad, wasn’t it?”

The glass door swung open, and Jinu leaned inside with an unreadable expression. He stared at her for a long second before finally saying, softly, “Ru… that was fire.”

Her heart stuttered. “You’re lying.”

“Do I look like I’m lying?” He pointed to his laptop. “Come listen.”

Back at the desk, Jinu played the recording. Rumi sat frozen, listening to her own voice echo through the speakers. It wasn’t perfect—it wavered in places, too sharp in others—but it felt real, raw, like it carried more than words.

“I sound…” she whispered, searching for the word.

“Alive,” Jinu finished for her, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “Told you. You’ve got something, Ru. Don’t hide it.”

Her chest warmed, pride and disbelief tangling together. For the first time, she didn’t feel like the perfect, polished student pretending to be fine. She felt like herself—messy, vulnerable, alive.

And Jinu? He just smirked at her like he’d known all along.

“Guess I’ll have to make you sing the chorus next.”

Her groan of protest only made him laugh harder.

The next few sessions in the studio were nothing short of chaos wrapped in music notes.

Rumi was sitting cross-legged on the swivel chair, hair tied back in a neat braid, pencil tapping against her notebook as she stared at the lyrics. Across from her, Jinu was spinning lazily in his own chair, making obnoxious squeaking sounds with every rotation.

“Can you stop that?” she finally snapped, glaring at him.

He grinned, still spinning. “What? I’m vibing. It helps me think.”

“It’s distracting.”

“So is the way you over-enunciate every single word,” Jinu shot back, stopping his spin to lean closer. “This is a song, Ru, not a pronunciation exam.”

Rumi’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?! You’re lucky I don’t throw this pencil at you.”

“Do it. Maybe it’ll inspire me.”

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How do you even survive group projects?”

“I don’t. That’s why this is fun.” He winked, then pointed at her notebook. “Okay, focus. Sing that line again, but loosen up. You sound like a robot learning emotions.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she stood and went into the booth again. The beat played, and Rumi’s voice came in—clearer this time, smoother than before. She let herself relax into the rhythm, shoulders rolling slightly, eyes half-closed as she sang.

Jinu was halfway through scribbling on his laptop when his head shot up. His smirk faltered into something closer to surprise.

Her voice wasn’t just carrying the lyrics anymore—it was blending with the beat, bending naturally into the cadence of the song. Where she’d stumbled and hesitated, now her tone glided, softer in one line, sharper in the next, like she instinctively knew where to push and pull.

When the track cut, the silence in the room was almost heavy.

Rumi opened the booth door slowly, notebook pressed to her chest. “Well? Still a robot?”

Jinu blinked at her, then leaned back in his chair with a dramatic groan. “Unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You. This. That.” He gestured wildly at her, then at the recording. “Do you know how many months it took me to sound half that smooth when I started? And you just—what, decided to figure it out in few days?”

Rumi blinked, then laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No, I’m pissed. Like, actually pissed. You’re a natural.”

“Or maybe I just had a good teacher.”

That shut him up for a moment, and Rumi caught the way his ears turned a little pink before he scoffed. “Don’t flatter me, puppet girl.”

Her smile fell instantly, replaced with a sharp glare. “Don’t call me that.”

Jinu raised both hands in surrender, though his grin crept back. “Fine, fine. My bad. Point is—your voice just clicked with the beat. We’re almost there. A little polish, some layering, and boom—track of the semester.”

Rumi tilted her head, the weight of his words sinking in. She wasn’t used to being praised for something she wanted, something beyond the perfect grades and polite smiles. The way Jinu said it—like he meant it—made her chest flutter in a way she didn’t want to admit.

“Then… let’s polish it,” she said firmly, sliding back into her seat. “I want it to be perfect.”

What followed was hours of bickering that didn’t stop, not even for a second.

“Too flat,” Jinu muttered.

“No, it’s called restraint.”

“That harmony’s off.”

“It’s layered.”

“You rushed that verse.”

“You slowed the beat!”

Anyone passing by the studio might have thought they were at each other’s throats—but underneath the sharp words was a rhythm of its own. For every argument, there was a laugh. For every eye roll, there was a grin. Bit by bit, the project stopped being just homework—it was becoming theirs.

And the strangest thing? Somewhere in the mess, Rumi realized she wasn’t thinking about whether her smile looked polite, or if her posture was perfect, or if she was saying the “right” thing. She was just—there. Laughing. Singing. Creating.

By the time the session ended, their track sounded rough, but alive. The kind of alive that made Rumi’s chest ache with something dangerously close to joy.

She sat back, sweaty strands of hair sticking to her face, a grin tugging at her lips. “Not bad.”

Jinu leaned back too, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Not bad? Ru, admit it—we’re geniuses.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Fine. Geniuses.”

But inside, her thoughts were louder than the music ever could be Maybe, just maybe… I’ve found something worth holding onto again.

------

The fifth week came faster than Rumi realized. Between her endless Business classes, the demands of her professors, and the long hours in the studio with Jinu, her life had slipped into a rhythm she hadn’t expected to like—but somehow did.

And now, their project was done. Finished. Polished. Something she could hardly believe she had a hand in creating.

That night, she sat in the living room of Celine’s large, immaculately kept house, the lamps dimmed low, the marble coffee table spotless as always. Her phone was plugged into the portable speaker sitting on the table.

When she hit play, her own voice came spilling out into the room, blending seamlessly with the beat she and Jinu had fought over a hundred times.

Rumi leaned back against the couch, legs curled underneath her, braid draped over her shoulder. The sound of her own voice still startled her sometimes. Not because it was jarring, but because… it was good. Polished, textured, almost as if she’d been training for years instead of weeks.

She closed her eyes and let herself bob her head to the rhythm, a small, unguarded smile forming on her lips. She mouthed the lyrics under her breath, fingers tapping against her thigh in time with the bass. For the first time in months—maybe even years—she wasn’t thinking about posture, politeness, or perfection. She was just listening.

Upstairs, Celine had been reviewing documents late into the night. A low stack of files sat beside her laptop, coffee still steaming faintly at her desk. She stretched her arms, intending to call it a night, when a faint sound reached her ears.

Music.

She frowned, pushing her chair back quietly. Rumi rarely played anything in the house. If she listened to music, she usually wore her headphones, careful never to disturb. The thought tugged at Celine’s curiosity, pulling her toward the staircase.

When she descended, she froze halfway down the steps.

There, in the living room, was Rumi. Head tilted back slightly, eyes closed, a softness on her face Celine hadn’t seen in years. The speaker poured out a track layered with energy and warmth, and Celine felt herself still at the sound of it—at the voice threaded so perfectly through the beat.

Rumi’s voice.

She hadn’t heard it like this before. Not polite. Not careful. Not muted for the sake of appearances. It was alive. Confident. Surprisingly strong.

For a moment, Celine’s lips pressed together in a thin line, an old instinct to keep her composure. But then, almost against her will, the corners softened, tugging upward into the smallest of smiles.

Maybe you’re just like your mother, she thought quietly, her chest aching with an emotion she couldn’t name. Maybe music was your calling too.

She stood there for a while longer, listening—half hidden by the shadows of the staircase—before her discipline returned, pulling her back into her usual restraint. Without a word, she turned and padded softly back up the stairs, careful not to break the spell of the moment.

In the living room, Rumi never noticed. She was lost in the music, lost in the sound of herself—finally sounding like someone who wasn’t a puppet, wasn’t just polite, wasn’t just composed.

Chapter Text

(DJ RUMI)

By the time second year rolled around, Jinu and Rumi had earned themselves a reputation; inseparable, always bickering, but never apart for long. If one was spotted without the other, people asked questions. “Ride or die” wasn’t just a phrase—they lived it.

That afternoon, Rumi found herself sprawled across the carpet of Jinu’s living room, the air humming with the faint static of plugged-in speakers and the laughter of five people she’d grown oddly comfortable around.

Abby, Romance, Baby, and Mystery—the infamous SJa Boyz—lounged across the couch like it was their throne, throwing popcorn at each other between jokes that made zero sense to anyone outside their circle. They were the kind of group that seemed like trouble from the outside, but Rumi had learned last semester that underneath all the chaos, they were basically golden retrievers in human form.

And of course, in the middle of it all was Jinu, setting up the DJ mixer on the low table.

“I swear you’ve been promising this since my first class with you,” Rumi muttered, sitting up cross-legged as she narrowed her eyes at him. “But nooo, Mr. Lazy Genius can’t be bothered. Too tired. Too busy. Too cool. So I had to take drastic measures.”

The room erupted when she dramatically pointed to the corner where Jinu’s cat, Derpy, was curled like a loaf of bread and his bird, Susie, chirped happily in her cage.

“I said what I said,” Rumi added, smug. “If you didn’t teach me today, both Derpy and Susie would’ve been ‘temporarily relocated’ to my room.”

“Kidnapping my children is a crime, Ru.” Jinu’s voice carried mock outrage, but the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

“You’re a crime,” she shot back, grinning.

“Ooohhh,” the Boyz chorused in unison, leaning forward like an audience at a roast.

Jinu rolled his eyes and plugged in the last cable. “Alright, alright. Settle down, you hyenas. Ru’s about to embarrass herself, and I need silence for this.”

“Rude.” Rumi gave his arm a sharp nudge with her elbow. “I’ve got rhythm. I’ve got flow. Watch me turn this into art.”

Baby leaned over from the couch. “Yeah, right. Last time you tried beat-matching with your phone app, you created—what was it, guys?”

“A black hole,” Mystery supplied.

“A dumpster fire,” Abby chimed.

“A crime against humanity,” Romance concluded with a solemn nod.

Rumi gasped, clutching her chest in mock betrayal. “You traitors! I thought we were friends!”

“You’ve been upgraded to honorary,” Jinu deadpanned. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll save you from the truth.”

Despite the teasing, Rumi scooted closer to the DJ mixer, her eyes sparkling as Jinu flicked the power on. The LEDs blinked to life, buttons glowing like a spaceship control panel.

“Okay,” Jinu began, slipping into his teacher voice, which was equal parts serious and cocky. “Step one: don’t touch anything until I tell you. Step two: don’t panic if you screw up—it’ll sound like trash at first. And step three…” He glanced sideways at her, smirking. “Don’t act like you invented music just because you can sync two songs.”

Rumi ignored him, reaching toward the knobs. “So if I just—”

“HEY!” Jinu slapped her hand away, the Boyz howling with laughter. “What did I just say? Don’t touch until I say so!”

“Ow! Child abuse!” she pouted, cradling her hand dramatically.

“Correction: Bestie abuse,” he corrected, smug.

The lesson began, with Jinu guiding her hand to the jog wheel, showing her how to match beats per minute. His explanations were sharp but playful, and every time Rumi’s timing was even a hair off, he’d clap his hands and announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome DJ Trainwreck!”

But Rumi, stubborn as always, stuck with it. She scrunched her brows, chewed her lip, and by the fifth attempt, the track transition was… surprisingly smooth.

The Boyz actually paused their heckling, eyebrows raised.

“Not bad,” Mystery admitted.

“Wait, that actually sounded clean,” Abby added, leaning forward.

Jinu squinted at her like she’d just cheated on a test. “The hell…? Did you practice this in secret?”

Rumi smirked, brushing her hair back with exaggerated flair. “Told you, Ji. Rhythm. Flow. Art.” She punctuated each word with a little shoulder shimmy.

The Boyz roared with laughter, and even Jinu cracked, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you’d die without me,” Rumi shot back, sticking her tongue out at him.

Derpy meowed from the corner as if seconding her claim, and Susie chirped loud enough to make the Boyz double over again.

For the rest of the night, Jinu coached her through mixing while the others provided a live laugh track, tossing in ridiculous “DJ names” for her—DJ Loophole, DJ Dimples, DJ Auntie’s Nightmare. And though Rumi gave as much sass as she got, deep down she couldn’t stop the glow in her chest.

This—this chaos, this comfort—felt like home.

The night stretched longer than Rumi expected. At first, she thought Jinu’s “DJ lesson” would just be another one of their silly bickering sessions, him mocking her while she tried not to throw the mixer out the window. But something shifted the more she tried—the songs started blending. The beats lined up, the bass thumped smoothly, and the transitions didn’t sound like car crashes anymore.

And that was when the Boyz lost their collective minds.

“OOOOHHHHH!” Abby howled, leaping off the couch like a fan at a basketball game. “Did you hear that? Clean! CLEAN!”

Romance grabbed a pillow, threw it in the air, and shouted, “DJ DIMPLES IS IN THE HOUSE!”

Baby started stomping the floor like they were at a stadium, chanting, “Ru! Ru! Ru!” until Mystery joined in with a fake airhorn sound.

Even Derpy, startled by all the noise, leapt onto the back of the couch with wide eyes, tail twitching.

Rumi froze at the mixer, her cheeks warming. “You guys are insane, that wasn’t even that good—”

“Shut up, it was fire!” Mystery yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Play it again!”

Before she could argue, Jinu slid dramatically into the center of the living room, the bass still thumping through the speakers from her last transition. He threw his hands in the air like he was in a club, then—without hesitation—started twerking.

The Boyz screamed.

“NO WAY—” Baby nearly fell off the couch, wheezing.

“My eyes!” Romance covered his face, though he peeked between his fingers.

Rumi’s jaw dropped as Jinu shook his hips shamelessly, a grin plastered on his face. “You see that? That’s what a clean transition does to me! That’s the power of music!” he shouted over the beat.

Rumi doubled over, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. “Stop—stop it! You look like a dying squid!”

“That’s DJ Squid to you,” Jinu retorted, still moving.

Abby grabbed a half-empty chip bag, shook it like confetti, and tossed chips into the air. “LEGENDARY! DJ Squid and DJ Dimples collab when?!”

The laughter was so loud the music almost couldn’t compete. Rumi tried to wave them down, her face red, but deep down, she was glowing. Every smooth blend she created got another round of wild cheering, another “airhorn” from Mystery, another exaggerated dance move from Jinu.

At one point, she hit a transition so seamless even she froze, her fingers hovering over the controls like she couldn’t believe she did it. The bass dropped, rolling perfectly into the next track.

The room exploded.

Romance fell to his knees, pounding the carpet. Baby grabbed Derpy and raised him like Simba in The Lion King. Abby climbed onto the couch and yelled, “SOMEONE GET THIS GIRL A STAGE!”

And Jinu? He collapsed on the floor, clutching his chest dramatically. “I can’t… breathe… she’s too powerful. What have I created?”

Rumi leaned back, covering her face with her hands, laughing until tears prickled the corners of her eyes. “You guys are ridiculous…”

But the truth buzzed under her skin like electricity—this was fun. More than fun. She’d gone from being the polite, composed student who held herself like glass, to someone laughing so hard her dimples hurt, surrounded by noise, chaos, and people who actually made her feel alive.

And for once, she didn’t want it to end.

Rumi stepped out of her room, the faint sunlight cutting through the blinds and landing on the floorboards. Her eyes immediately caught a huge cardboard box in the living room, taped up neatly, as well as a couple of suitcases lined up beside it. Her brows furrowed, a swirl of unease crawling in her chest. What’s happening? she thought, her steps cautious as she made her way toward the dining room.

Celine sat at the table, semi-casual attire crisply pressed, a mug of coffee in her hands. The steam from the mug curled lazily in the morning light. She didn’t look up immediately, but the way she set the cup down and straightened her back signaled she was ready to speak.

Rumi slid into her chair across from her aunt, still feeling the tight knot in her chest. Her voice came out carefully, almost hesitant. “Are… you going somewhere?”

Celine sighed softly, long and deliberate, her gaze fixed somewhere past Rumi, lost in her own thoughts for a moment before she looked back. “I’m going back to Seoul,” she said calmly, almost matter-of-factly, but the weight in her voice betrayed the gravity of her words.

Rumi’s chest tightened further, a rush of thoughts pounding in her head. Am I going too? Am I staying? Is this just another push away from everything I’m building here? Her voice caught slightly as she opened her mouth to ask, but Celine spoke first, cutting through the tension.

“If you’re going to ask if you’re coming,” Celine began, her tone measured, “the answer is no. Not for now"

Rumi blinked rapidly, trying to process it. Her heart was a storm—relief tangled with frustration, longing tangled with the ache of being left behind.

Celine continued, softer this time, her voice almost gentle but still firm. “But I need you to go back next year"

Rumi’s lips pressed together, swallowing the lump in her throat. She nodded slowly, back straight as always, composed yet with a tremor she couldn’t hide. “I… understand,” she murmured, though inside, her thoughts were a tangle of worry, longing, and a quiet determination.

Celine gave her a brief, approving nod, lifted her coffee again, and took a sip, leaving Rumi to sit in the silence, staring at the morning sunlight hitting the floor. For the first time in days, she felt the weight of distance, the weight of separation—but also, faintly, the pull of independence, of carving her own path.

She let herself breathe, just for a moment, before the reality of the quiet house pressed down on her. Seoul was waiting, eventually—

Rumi’s chest tightened as she tried to process the news. Celine set her coffee down, her posture rigid, hands clasped neatly in front of her. Her voice was calm, precise, almost clipped, but there was an edge of worry woven into it that Rumi could feel immediately.

“You won’t be alone in this house,” Celine said, her tone strict, leaving no room for negotiation. “I’ve arranged for Jinu to stay here with you while I’m in Seoul. He’ll keep an eye on you—make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Rumi’s brow furrowed slightly. “Jinu… stay with me?” she asked, trying to mask her surprise with polite composure.

Celine’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp gaze fixed on Rumi. “Yes. And don’t misunderstand, Rumi. He is there as a responsible companion. I’ve made myself very clear—if he steps out of line in any way, there will be consequences. Severe ones. I will not hesitate to—” she paused, and the faintest flicker of worry softened her strict tone, “—to put him in his place. I warned him. Life-long ‘prison’ if he does something inappropriate.”

Rumi couldn’t help but stifle a small smile at the exaggerated severity of her aunt’s words, but Celine caught the corner of it. Her eyes softened, just for a moment, betraying the worry she was trying to mask

Rumi nodded, feeling the weight of both the warning and the concern. “Yes, Aunt Celine. I understand.”

Celine’s lips twitched briefly, almost like the smallest hint of a smile. Then she leaned back, the mask of strictness settling back over her features.

Celine’s voice cut through the quiet morning again, firm but with a trace of warmth beneath her usual strict tone. “Open the box in the living room, Ru. It’s my gift for your birthday this year.”

Rumi’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity mixing with caution. She rose from the dining table, her movements measured as she walked toward the living room. The only box in sight was a large, taped cardboard one that looked ordinary enough to hide anything within.

She grabbed a pair of scissors from the nearby drawer, carefully slicing through the tape. As the flaps fell open, her eyes widened in disbelief. Inside sat a DJ mixer—sleek, shiny, silver, and unmistakably high-end. The kind Jinu had spent countless hours obsessively searching online, with subtle diamond accents glinting under the morning light.

Rumi lifted the mixer out of the box gingerly, as if it were a fragile treasure. Her fingers traced over the polished surface, feeling the weight of it, the precision of the knobs, the tactile perfection of the sliders. It was everything a passionate music student like her could dream of.

Celine stepped closer, her heels clicking softly on the floor. Her expression remained composed, but Rumi caught the faintest softening in her eyes. “I know how much you’ve wanted this,” Celine said carefully, her voice still controlled but betraying a hint of pride. “It’s… expensive. But I think it’s time you had the proper tools. Just… remember your priorities”

Rumi turned the mixer in her hands, awe written across her face. “I… I don’t even know what to say. Aunt Celine… this is—” she paused, words failing her as she felt the weight of the gift, the care behind it, and the trust.

Celine’s lips pressed together, her gaze sharp yet thoughtful. “Don’t overdo your gratitude,” she said in that same measured tone, but there was a tiny crease in her brow that betrayed her concern. “Just… use it wisely”

Rumi’s chest swelled with a mixture of gratitude and excitement. She could practically hear Jinu’s voice in her head, begging her to let him try.

Setting the mixer gently on the counter, she looked back at Celine. “I promise, Aunt Celine. I’ll make the most of this… I won’t let my priorities slip.”

Celine nodded, satisfied with the answer, though her eyes lingered on Rumi for a moment longer, a silent mix of worry, pride, and the faintest touch of affection before she turned and left the room, leaving Rumi alone with the gift.

Rumi exhaled deeply, her heart racing—not just from the mixer, but from the unspoken understanding of the responsibility and trust that came with it.

-----

It had been a full week since Jinu and Rumi had thrown themselves into their daily DJ mixing sessions. Every day felt like a mix of chaos and progress—knobs twisted, tracks layered, beats aligned, and Rumi slowly learning to command the mixer with confidence. Her initial hesitation had faded, replaced by a focused excitement.

Now, they sat together in the university cafeteria, trays of food in front of them, a comfortable silence settling in as they ate. Rumi’s movements were measured, polite, as always, while Jinu—half-eating, half-smirking—kept one eye on her.

Their quiet moment was interrupted when two classmates from their music production class slid into the bench across from them. “Jinu,” one of them said, eyes bright with anticipation, “There’s an upcoming festival this Friday. Are you up for being the night’s DJ again?”

Jinu’s grin stretched, mischievous and confident as always. “Definitely,” he said, leaning back slightly, a gleam in his eye that made Rumi shift just a fraction in her seat.

Then his gaze landed on her, and that same mischievous grin widened just a little more. Rumi felt her polite composure tighten, stiffening slightly in her posture for the briefest moment. She reminded herself to stay calm, to stay collected, but she couldn’t deny the flutter in her chest at his glance—the way he seemed to silently challenge her, teasing, daring.

“You’ll be helping too, right?” one of the classmates added eagerly, looking from Jinu to Rumi.

Jinu chuckled, elbowing her gently in the side without breaking eye contact. “Of course. Ru here is a natural at this now. The festival’s gonna be smooth because of her.”

Rumi blinked, a polite, modest smile forming on her lips as her ears warmed. She quickly shifted her gaze to her tray, pretending to focus on her food while internally her mind raced. Smooth because of me? she thought, heart thudding with a mix of pride and nerves.

Jinu leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough for her to hear over the cafeteria chatter. “Don’t worry, Ru. I’ll make sure you get all the spotlight you want.”

The cafeteria chatter faded into background noise as Rumi’s thoughts spun faster than any DJ track. Jinu’s words, the compliment, the festival—it should have made her feel excited. And part of her did. But another part… the part she usually buried behind her calm, polite facade… was quaking.

The crowd, the lights, the pressure… What if I mess up? What if I freeze? What if I’m not good enough? Her hands tightened around her glass, knuckles whitening.

Jinu, oblivious to her inner storm for the moment, continued chatting with their classmates, laughing, cracking jokes, the effortless charisma he always carried. He seemed unshakable, untouchable—so different from the tight knot of nerves coiling in Rumi’s stomach.

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, reminding herself that she had been learning, practicing every day. I’ve done this before… kind of… I mean, I can do it. Yet, the more she tried to convince herself, the more the doubts crept in.

“Ru?” Jinu’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, gentle but laced with teasing. He leaned closer, his elbow brushing hers, and smirked. “You’re awfully quiet. Don’t tell me you’re already backing out.”

Rumi’s polite mask tightened. She forced a small, tight smile and shook her head. “I… I’m fine,” she murmured, though her voice lacked conviction. Fine? Yeah, totally fine, not shaking like a leaf at the thought of performing in front of hundreds…

Jinu raised a brow, amused, his grin softening just slightly as he studied her. “You sure about that? Because if you chicken out, I’ll drag you on stage anyway. And don’t think I won’t.”

Rumi’s stomach flipped. His playful threat should have been comforting—it should have made her feel supported—but instead it made the fear knot even tighter. He’s right, though. If I back out… he’ll push me anyway. And I don’t want to disappoint him…

Her polite composure stayed intact on the outside, but inside, Rumi’s mind was racing: strategies, transitions, tempo adjustments, possible mistakes, imagined crowd reactions. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. The nerves weren’t going away—they were growing, mingling with a strange flutter of excitement that made her cheeks warm.

“Just… let me think about it,” she said softly, pushing her glass back on the table. Her voice sounded calm, but her hands shook just enough to make the glass rattle slightly.

Jinu leaned back, smirking again, seemingly satisfied with her answer—or at least entertained by it. “Thinking, huh? That’s cute. Don’t worry, Ru. You’ll do great. You always do. And I’ll be there to make sure no one messes with you.”

Rumi let out a quiet exhale, gripping her fork a little too tightly, trying to steady herself. I just hope I can live up to that… she thought, the nervous energy thrumming through her like a low bass beat in the pit of her stomach.

The idea of performing in front of a real crowd, for the first time, was terrifying—but somewhere deep down, beneath the nerves and doubts, a spark of anticipation flickered. Maybe… just maybe… she could do this.

Later that afternoon, Rumi followed Jinu into the practice room at the music department, her bag slung over one shoulder, heart still hammering from the lunchtime conversation. The faint hum of amps, the soft flicker of neon from the DJ mixer’s standby lights, and the faint scent of vinyl and electronics made her stomach twist—equal parts excitement and dread.

Jinu flung his backpack onto the floor, grinning like he’d just won a game. “Okay, Ru, let’s get you warmed up. We’ve got, what, three days until the festival? Plenty of time… unless you’re planning to panic the whole time,” he teased, nudging her shoulder.

Rumi bit the inside of her cheek, brushing a strand of her long braid behind her ear. “I’m not panicking,” she said, though her voice came out a little higher than intended.

“Uh-huh,” Jinu said, raising a brow. “Sure. I believe you.” He clicked a button on the mixer, making a soft, pulsing bass hum through the room. “Alright, first, we’re going to go over transitions. You follow my lead, okay?”

Rumi nodded, trying to steady her racing heart. Her hands hovered over the controls, her mind spinning faster than the crossfader she was supposed to manipulate. Jinu started, effortlessly blending one track into another, the bass thumping in perfect rhythm, his fingers dancing over the knobs.

“You see? It’s all about anticipating the beat,” he said, glancing at her with a mischievous smile. “If you just push buttons randomly, it’s noise. If you anticipate… it’s magic.”

Rumi’s brow furrowed. “Anticipate… right,” she murmured, moving her hands cautiously. Her first attempt was clumsy—the crossfader slid too fast, the transition clipped awkwardly.

“Whoa, careful there,” Jinu said, chuckling. “You’re not chopping wood—it’s smooth. Think of it like dancing. You don’t just jump around—you lead and follow.”

Rumi stiffened at the comparison. Dancing… like Mira used to tease me about… But she pushed the thought away. This was music, her music. She focused. The second try was better, the bass now blending almost seamlessly.

“Not bad!” Jinu clapped, clearly impressed. “Third time’s the charm. Now, add a little flare. Put your signature on it.”

Rumi swallowed, nerves tightening her throat. She leaned in, hands trembling slightly, and tried to weave a tiny effect into the transition—subtle, almost invisible, but it changed the feel of the beat entirely. She looked at Jinu, expecting a critique, but he was grinning ear to ear, eyes lighting up like a kid who’d just found treasure.

“Ha! That’s it! That’s the one!” Jinu shouted, bouncing slightly on his heels. “You’re getting it, Ru! You’re actually… good at this.”

Rumi felt a small, triumphant smile tug at her lips, though her cheeks warmed in embarrassment at his excitement. “I… it’s just… trying,” she said, glancing down at her hands.

“Trying? You just made a transition that would’ve taken most rookies months to figure out!” Jinu said, giving her a playful shove. “Come on, give me that smug grin. You earned it.”

Rumi couldn’t help the soft, shy laugh that escaped her as she let herself relax slightly. Her nerves hadn’t vanished, but the tight coil of anxiety had loosened just a bit, replaced by the rush of creativity and the comfort of having Jinu right there beside her.

For the next hour, they bickered and laughed, coaxing each other through mistakes, improvising beats, and testing vocals. Jinu teased her mercilessly when she fumbled the crossfader, and she shot back with witty comebacks, her voice trembling slightly from laughter and adrenaline.

By the end of the session, Rumi leaned back, breathing heavily, staring at the mixer with wide eyes. “I… I actually did that?” she whispered, almost in disbelief.

Jinu’s grin softened. “Yeah. You did that. And tomorrow, we do it again. Remember, Ru, music’s not about being perfect—it’s about feeling it. And you… you feel it.”

Rumi’s chest swelled with pride and a tiny flicker of anticipation for the festival. The nervousness hadn’t disappeared—it never would completely—but now it carried a spark of something new— excitement.

The next evening, Jinu called the boys over—Abby, Romance, Baby, and Mystery—knowing Rumi would need familiar faces to calm her nerves before the festival. The living room quickly filled with the energetic chatter of the group, laughter bouncing off the walls as they plopped onto the couch, each of them sizing up the mixer setup like pros preparing for a mini concert.

Rumi, standing near the center of the room, crossed her arms and furrowed her brows. “I’ll only use the mixer Celine got me,” she said firmly, her voice a mix of determination and stubbornness. “I feel more… comfortable with it. I know all its controls, all the nuances. Any other mixer would just throw me off.”

Jinu tilted his head, feigning offense. “Comfortable, huh? What are you—afraid the ‘random mixers’ will attack you?” he teased, making the others laugh.

“I’m serious,” Rumi replied, her cheeks warming slightly but her voice steady. “If I’m going to perform in front of a crowd for the first time, I need my tools. That mixer… it’s mine, and I trust it."

Abby leaned forward, grinning. “She’s right, man. You know how Rumi gets when she’s confident with something. Let her do her thing.”

Romance nodded. “Besides, this way, we know exactly what she’s working with. No surprises.”

Baby chimed in, “Yeah, it’s like letting the lead guitarist play their own guitar—it’s just natural.”

Jinu held his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine, the lady knows best,” he said with a smirk, sliding over to let her take her place at the mixer. He gave her a playful nudge. “Go ahead, show us what you’ve got.”

Rumi set her fingers on the controls, feeling the familiar cool surface of the Celine-gifted mixer under her palms. The buttons, faders, and knobs all felt like extensions of her own instincts. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and started weaving through the tracks she and Jinu had prepared, the smoothness of the transitions immediately drawing approving whistles from the boys.

Mystery leaned back with a grin. “Damn, she’s already killing it before the festival even started!”

Jinu, caught up in the music, started playfully bobbing to the beat, making exaggerated dance moves that had Rumi stifling a laugh while keeping her focus. The energy in the room shifted from casual practice to a full-on pre-party vibe, and Rumi realized something: with Jinu and the boys here, with her trusted mixer under her hands, she didn’t feel the usual crushing anxiety. She felt… ready.

“Okay,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s run through the whole set. I want to feel it, not just hear it.”

Jinu leaned closer, grinning. “Atta girl. Let’s make some noise.”

And with that, the room filled with the rhythm of beats, laughter, and the electric buzz of music that promised a festival night Rumi would never forget.

Friday came like a fresh gust of wind carrying nervous excitement. Rumi, trying to keep her composure, walked through the campus grounds and spotted one of her semi-close friends from her business class—the bubbly girl who had insisted she come to the campus event back in freshman year. The girl’s face immediately lit up when she saw Rumi approaching.

“Hey, Ru! What’s up? Ready for the weekend?” she chirped, bouncing slightly on her heels.

Rumi hesitated, her fingers fidgeting slightly with the strap of her bag. Then, in a low voice, she leaned closer and said, “This is… a secret, but I’ll be the guest DJ for later’s festival. C-could you… uhm… take a video for me?” Her cheeks flushed slightly at how embarrassed she felt asking, though her words came out more earnest than timid.

The girl practically squealed, hopping on her feet and clasping her hands together. “Oh my god! Of course, of course! I’ll get the perfect angles, I promise!”

Rumi let out a small, genuine smile and handed over her videocamera. “Thanks… just, you know, don’t get caught in the middle of the crowd. I… I want to see the whole performance.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Don’t worry! I got you covered, Ru! You’ll look amazing!”

Rumi nodded softly, feeling a strange mixture of nerves and excitement flutter in her chest. She turned on her heel and walked toward the Art building, her steps purposeful but slightly hesitant, her mind already racing through the playlist, the transitions, and the smooth moves she had been practicing.

Inside the Art building, Jinu and the Boyz were waiting, sprawled across the room like a band of conspirators preparing for a mission. Jinu’s grin widened as soon as he saw her enter. “Finally decided to join us, huh? Or are you here to chicken out at the last second?”

Rumi pressed her lips into a thin line, raising a brow at him. “I didn’t chicken out. Are you all ready?”

Jinu leaned closer, smirking. “Don’t worry, Ru"

Rumi exhaled slowly, letting the tension in her shoulders melt slightly. “Okay… let’s do this,” she whispered to herself. And with that, the room hummed with anticipation, a silent prelude to the festival night that awaited.

------

The festival started just as the sun kissed the horizon, streaking the sky with warm orange and pink hues. The quad buzzed with life—students chattering, laughing, clinking plastic cups, snacking on finger foods, and sipping drinks under the string lights that were just beginning to glow. Soft music drifted lazily through the speakers, almost like a gentle tease before the real night would begin.

Backstage, Rumi and Jinu leaned against the wall, hidden but close enough to feel the energy from the crowd. The Boyz were stationed in front of the DJ booth, grinning and waving to Rumi, a constant anchor of familiarity that made her chest tighten with both excitement and nerves.

Rumi puffed her cheeks in and out, trying to steady herself, but the nervous gnawing in her stomach refused to settle. Her fingers drummed lightly against her thighs, betraying the calm she tried so hard to project.

Jinu, noticing her unease, chuckled lowly and handed her a small glass of strong liquor. “For the nerves,” he said, his mischievous grin broadening. “I don’t want you fainting on me on the booth.”

Rumi snorted and lightly punched his arm in mock indignation, but she didn’t refuse. She grabbed the glass and downed it in one gulp, feeling the sharp burn trail down her throat and settle like fire in her chest. She exhaled, shoulders loosening just slightly, and turned her gaze toward the booth.

There it was—her mixer, the one Celine had given her. Sleek, silver, polished to perfection, and gleaming under the stage lights. It looked almost… inviting, as if it were whispering encouragement to her.

The soft music from the speakers abruptly stopped, replaced by a momentary silence that earned groans and playful boos from the impatient crowd. Rumi’s pulse quickened, and she could feel the jitters crawling up her arms like electricity.

Jinu stepped forward, mic in hand, a grin plastered across his face. “Put your hands up in the air!” he shouted, the crowd instantly obeying, fists pumping and cheers erupting. Then, with a flourish, he announced, “So tonight, I have a guest DJ! Let’s give it up for DJ Rumiii!!”

The Boyz erupted with cheers, Rumi could feel the vibrations of their excitement through her chest, and the crowd’s roar surged like waves crashing against a shore. She took a shaky breath, letting it out slowly, trying to ground herself. With one final glance at Jinu, who gave her an encouraging nod, she stepped toward the booth.

Her fingers hovered over the faders, the knobs, the buttons—all familiar yet foreign under the spotlight. She set her palms gently on the mixer, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingertips, and for the first time that night, she allowed herself a small, nervous smile.

She hit the first cue, letting the beat slide into the speakers. The crowd reacted immediately, a ripple of movement and cheers, testing her courage and spurring her forward. She adjusted the tempo, layering in a soft bassline, her ears straining to hear the subtle harmonics as she moved fluidly across the mixer.

Jinu leaned in from the side, whispering over the pulse of the speakers, “Feel it. Don’t think, just feel it. They’ll follow you.”

Rumi nodded, her heart hammering, and started experimenting with transitions, fading one track into another, blending rhythms like she had practiced countless nights with Jinu. The Boyz shouted encouragement, clapping and jumping, their energy infectious. Every adjustment she made—the echoing synth, the deep bass drop, the seamless loops—made the crowd respond even more wildly.

Her confidence grew, pulse syncing with the rhythm she was crafting, hands moving faster yet precise, weaving the music together like a living tapestry. The lights pulsed in sync with the beats, casting elongated shadows that danced across her focused face.

And as the crowd moved, shouted, and cheered in response to her rhythm, she realized—this was why she loved music. Not just for the notes, the beats, or the technicalities, but for moments like this—where control met chaos, nerves met exhilaration, and her heart could beat in harmony with hundreds of others.

Tonight, DJ Rumiii wasn’t just Rumi; she was the storm, the energy, and the sound, all at once.

Rumi felt the rhythm pulsing through her veins now, nerves melting into adrenaline. Her hands moved instinctively over the mixer, each knob and fader responding to her touch, the tracks blending seamlessly like they’d been made for this exact moment. She could hear the crowd reacting, cheers building, anticipation thick in the air.

And then—something snapped. The timid, careful Rumi of the past few weeks vanished, replaced by the bold, fearless Rumi that had always existed in the music. Her eyes darted toward Jinu, a mischievous, overconfident spark lighting up her gaze. Without hesitation, she reached for the mic he was holding, her fingers curling around it like it belonged to her.

The Boyz, Jinu included, froze for a split second before breaking into cheers, sensing the energy shift.

Rumi lifted the mic to her lips, her voice ringing loud and commanding, cutting through the music and drawing every eye toward her. “Let me hear you guys scream!!!” she shouted, letting every ounce of her excitement pour into the words. The crowd roared in response, a tidal wave of energy, thousands of voices united.

And with that, she hit the cue for the major transition.

The beat shifted instantly—deeper, sharper, heavier. Synths cascaded over a pounding bassline, layered with quick, electrifying hi-hats that made hearts race. The crowd erupted as one, jumping, screaming, dancing, their energy feeding back into hers. Every fader, every knob, every loop she controlled became a heartbeat shared between her and the festival.

Jinu, grinning like a proud mentor and equally entertained by her confidence, leaned back and let her take full control. Even the Boyz, who’d witnessed Jinu command countless parties, couldn’t hide their awestruck faces. Rumi was in her element, mixing like she was born to do this, improvising perfectly, taking calculated risks with transitions that would’ve terrified a beginner—but she handled it with precision and flair.

The crowd responded to every tweak, every drop, every pause. And when the another major bass drop hit, shaking the ground beneath them, the festival erupted in unison—hands in the air, bodies bouncing, screams echoing under the evening sky. Rumi’s chest swelled with exhilaration, a smile breaking free despite herself. She glanced at Jinu, whose proud, laughing eyes met hers, and then at the Boyz, who were losing themselves to the music just like everyone else.

For Rumi, that moment was everything—fear dissolved, doubt evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated joy. 

Every transition was sharp, smooth, precise—but even more importantly, alive. The crowd was eating out of her hands, jumping, screaming, waving their hands in sync with the pounding beat.

And then the Boyz decided to make things even more chaotic.

One by one, Abby, Romance, Baby, and Mystery couldn’t contain themselves. They climbed atop nearby tables, their movements loose and silly, twerking and flailing like complete maniacs. Jinu, never one to resist a bit of mischief, threw himself onto a table with exaggerated flair, spinning on his knees and pumping his fists in the air. The crowd erupted into laughter at the sheer ridiculousness, but somehow, the energy only amplified.

Rumi’s eyes widened as she glanced at them, a mix of amusement and disbelief crossing her face. “You guys are insane,” she muttered into the mic—but her lips curled into a smile

The festival goers, inspired by the Boyz’s antics, started doing the same. Students hopped onto tables, waved their arms, danced, twerked, shouted lyrics along with Rumi’s commands. Chaos reigned—but it was the kind of controlled chaos that felt electric, freeing, intoxicating.

Rumi leaned into the mixer harder, adjusting the EQ, adding effects, blending tracks seamlessly, all while keeping an eye on the crowd and the Boyz.

Her heart pounded, adrenaline surging as the crowd followed every cue. The Boyz were embarrassing themselves—but in the best way possible—turning the festival into a riot of sound, movement, and unrestrained joy. And Rumi, felt completely unburdened. She wasn’t just performing—she was living the music, the chaos, the energy.

By the end of the track, the entire quad was a whirlwind of bodies, laughter, and lights. Students were cheering, the Boyz were laughing at their own antics, and Rumi—breathless, exhilarated, triumphant—finally allowed herself to grin fully, letting the crowd’s roar wash over her. For once, she belonged entirely in the chaos.

Chapter Text

(GHOST OF YOU)

The sliding doors of Incheon opened with a soft hiss, and Rumi felt the sharp, cool breeze of Seoul wash over her skin. It carried with it a scent she half-remembered—part crisp air, part city musk. Familiar, but foreign. Four years away had given distance to even the smallest things, like the way the wind pressed against her face. She pulled her carry-on closer, straightening her posture as the crowd around her spilled forward.

Waiting near the exit was Celine, as precise and composed as Rumi remembered—her sharp black blazer over a cream blouse, hair pinned back neatly, her expression unreadable but steady. She raised a hand in acknowledgment, the closest thing she’d offer to a wave.

“Rumi,” she said simply, her tone measured, as though the one year they were separated were nothing more than a brief weekend away.

“Celine,” Rumi replied with a small nod, equally composed.

They walked together toward the car without another word. The drive back into the city was quiet, only the faint hum of the engine filling the air. Rumi rested her head against the window, watching Seoul’s skyline glow brighter as they approached. The city had shifted in subtle ways, she noticed—taller buildings, broader roads, and more billboards flashing by than she remembered.

By the time they pulled into the long driveway, the gray modern house stood before her like a memory reimagined. Its light stone exterior gleamed under the soft floodlights, and the garden stretched further than she recalled, the hedges cut in sharp lines and flowers neatly arranged. It felt bigger now, expanded and polished in her absence.

Inside, warmth replaced the cold. Rumi breathed in the faint scent of sandalwood that lingered in the air, and for a moment, the house felt both like hers and not hers.

Dinner was already laid out at the dining table, minimalist and orderly—steamed rice, grilled pork, an array of side dishes placed in perfect alignment. Celine sat across from her, her posture still impeccable, her chopsticks held with delicate precision. Rumi ate quietly, savoring the comfort of Korean food after years abroad, when suddenly Celine broke the silence.

“How’s your majors?” Her voice was calm, casual, but Rumi could hear the weight behind it—the question of whether her efforts had been worthwhile.

Rumi didn’t pause, only replied between bites. “Still ranked first in Business, fourth in Music Production.”

Celine’s brows lifted slightly, just enough to register acknowledgment. “I saw the video you emailed,” she continued, setting her chopsticks down neatly against the porcelain dish. “You as a DJ. You looked… free.”

At that, Rumi’s lips curved into the faintest smile, one she didn’t even notice at first. She set her own chopsticks down, fingers brushing lightly against the table. “Yeah,” she admitted softly, almost to herself. “It’s fun.”

Celine’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, sharp yet searching, but she didn’t say more. The room filled again with the quiet clink of utensils and the subtle hum of the night outside.

Rumi laid on her bed, the ceiling above her painted in the faint reflection of city lights filtering through her curtains. Seoul still felt unreal—too close, too far. Her phone was in her hand, screen glowing softly in the dimness of her room. She stared at Jinu’s contact name for a long moment, thumb hovering over the call button.

It’s nine in the morning there… he’s probably in class, she thought, imagining him with his messy hair, tapping a pencil against his notebook, half-listening to a lecture. Instead of calling, she quickly typed out a message

“Touchdown in SK.”

She attached a picture she had taken earlier from her balcony, the Seoul skyline glowing with veins of neon blue and golden lights stretching endlessly into the night. After hitting send, she exhaled softly, a strange mix of relief and emptiness pooling in her chest.

Rumi rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket halfway over herself. Her thumb wandered to an app she rarely opened—Twitter. Or X, as everyone called it now. Jinu had been the one to force her into making an account, saying “You’ll need it. It’s basically free marketing. Plus, stalking idols is free entertainment.”

The familiar bird logo still sat there, unused, like a fossil in her phone. With a sigh, she tapped it open.

The feed was chaotic from the start, just as she remembered—Korean posts interlaced with American slang, memes about exams next to fancams of idols, debates about politics tangled with dance covers. She scrolled without intention, her thumb moving out of habit more than interest. Doomscrolling was easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.

Her eyes glazed over thread after thread until something stopped her.

A username.

@zoeyowiowi.

At first, it didn’t click. Just another girl posting another trend. But the thumbnail of the video pulled her in. She tapped it.

It started innocently—the girl, hair tied in messy black buns, putting down her phone as the TikTok voiceover chimed;

“Please watch my girlfriend for a minute, thanks.”

The camera tilted slightly, revealing the girl stepping aside with a flustered grin.

And behind her—

Rumi froze. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat so sharply it hurt.

There, half-sitting on the edge of a couch, was a girl Rumi knew far too well. A figure she could never mistake, not in a billion faces.

Her fox-like eyes, narrowed slightly.

Her dark pink hair, loose and flowing with careless precision.

That stoic expression, the subtle furrow of her brows.

The way she side-eyed the camera, uninterested, yet magnetic all the same.

Mira.

Rumi’s chest tightened. Her heart dropped, then throbbed painfully, as if reminding her it still beat, still reacted, still remembered.

The casualness of it—the nonchalance of Mira sitting there, in someone else’s frame, in someone else’s life—burned more than any confrontation could. The caption under the post read:

“LMAO she’s so done with me 💕 #gf #trend #seoulnights”

Rumi blinked hard, staring at the screen, her grip tightening around the phone until her knuckles whitened. She felt her pulse in her ears, loud and uneven.

Her mind spun, colliding between disbelief and recognition. That was Mira. It had to be Mira. Same eyes. Same brows. Same aura. The same Mira who—

She shut her eyes, but the image had already burned itself into her.

The same Mira she had left behind under a heavy downpour.

The same Mira who now sat behind another girl’s lens.

Rumi’s chest rose and fell unevenly, her phone feeling heavier than it should in her hand. Her lips parted just slightly as if the words would soften the blow if she said them aloud.

“…No,” she whispered, shaking her head faintly, her voice tight. “It can’t be Mira.”

Her thumb hovered above the screen, hesitant, trembling ever so slightly. She should’ve locked her phone. She should’ve tossed it onto the nightstand, rolled over, and forced herself to sleep. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Her thumb tapped the username: @zoeyowiowi.

The profile opened, and a fresh wave of dread curled in her stomach. The header was a blurry sunset selfie, the messy bun girl—Zoey—grinning so wide it almost felt infectious. The profile picture was a doodle of a turtle, childish and simple. Under the name, the bio read:

“Just here for chaos + gf content 🐢✨”

Rumi’s pulse quickened. Gf content. She swallowed hard, tongue suddenly dry.

She scrolled.

The first posts she saw were harmless—memes about exams, random screenshots of inside jokes, a rant about a broken vending machine. Silly, loud, unfiltered. It was the kind of account Jinu would’ve adored, chaotic and funny, the kind where personality spilled through each tweet.

But then came the photos.

Her breath caught.

Photo after photo, set after set—there they were.

Zoey and Mira.

Sometimes grainy selfies in cafes, Zoey’s smile radiant, Mira in the background, looking away but present. Sometimes clearer shots, Zoey holding the camera too close, her face scrunched up while Mira stood behind her, half-smiling despite herself.

And then—pictures that hit deeper.

Mira wasn’t just in the background. She was with her.

Mira walking beside Zoey at night, their hands intertwined.

Mira caught mid-laugh, uncharacteristic but real, as Zoey pointed the camera at her.

Mira in a candid shot, coat draped over Zoey’s shoulders like it was natural, effortless.

Mira sitting next to Zoey, a book in her hand, but her gaze unmistakably softer when angled toward her.

Every image felt like a knife Rumi couldn’t stop pressing against herself.

Zoey—bright, freckled, her energy spilling through the screen—radiated like a sun. Loud, unapologetic, almost blinding. She pulled focus in every frame, not because she tried, but because she simply existed that way.

And Mira… Mira had always been the storm. Controlled, deliberate, magnetic in her restraint. Yet here, in these posts, her edges seemed softened, her walls chipped. Not entirely—but enough. Enough for someone to capture her like this.

No one else was supposed to see her like this.

Rumi scrolled faster, eyes stinging, chest tightening with every flick of her thumb. Each post made denial harder, every tag, every caption, every candid slice of life shoved the truth closer and closer until it was suffocating.

Mira wasn’t just there.

She was with her.

Zoey and Mira. Together.

Her phone screen blurred as her vision grew wet, but her thumb kept moving, desperate, punishing, unable to stop.

The glow of the phone screen dimmed as Rumi pressed the home button, her chest so tight she thought she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stare at Mira’s face any longer. Couldn’t stare at Zoey’s smile that seemed to light up her screen and Mira’s expression—softened, undone in ways she had once selfishly thought were reserved only for her.

Her hands trembled, heart pounding like a drumline in her ears. Without thinking, without caring about time zones, she went to her contacts and tapped Jinu’s name.

Ring.

Ring.

Her stomach churned—she almost hung up. He was probably in class, probably laughing with someone, notebook open, sketching doodles instead of paying attention. And here she was, breaking down over pixels on a screen.

Then—click.

“Hey Ru,” Jinu’s voice came through, casual, warm, unguarded. “How’s Seoul?”

The sound broke her.

Rumi’s breath hitched, and suddenly her throat burned. She couldn’t hold it back anymore. Tears burst forward, her voice cracking, choked.

“I—” her words tangled, stumbling out between sobs, “I wasn’t supposed to come back, Ji. I shouldn’t have come back!”

The silence on his end was instant, and then his voice shifted—no longer casual, but sharp, alarmed. The kind of worry only someone who had seen her lowest points knew how to wield.

“Ru? Hey, hey—what’s going on? What happened?”

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, as if she could keep herself from splitting open. The tears kept coming, hot streaks down her cheeks, dripping onto her hoodie sleeve as she curled into herself on the bed.

“I saw—” she gasped, voice shaking, “I saw a post, Ji. M-Mira, she’s—” Her breath stuttered, her chest heaving as if every word cost her. “She’s smiling. With her… girlfriend.”

The word broke inside her like glass. Her voice collapsed on it, and then the sobs took over—raw, uncontrollable, the kind that left her lungs aching.

On the other end, Jinu inhaled sharply. She could hear the scrape of a chair, muffled background voices fading as if he was moving, leaving wherever he’d been. His tone was urgent now, his usual teasing gone, stripped bare to something only reserved for her.

“Ru, listen to me. Breathe, okay? Just breathe. In—out—come on. I’m here.”

She tried. She really tried. But her breaths came uneven, jagged, hiccupping between sobs. Her hand clutched the fabric over her chest, like she could hold herself together before she fell apart completely.

Jinu’s voice softened, trembling just a little—she could picture the crease between his brows, the way he pressed his lips when he was scared but trying not to show it.

“Rumi… I know it hurts. I know. But you’re not alone, okay? You called me, so let me hold this with you. Just let it out, Ru. Don’t hold back.”

And she did.

For minutes, all she could do was cry into the phone, her sobs spilling out in waves. Jinu stayed, quiet except for the occasional whisper—“I’m here,” “It’s okay, let it out,” “I’ve got you.”

The sound of him, steady even across the ocean, was the only thing keeping her anchored when everything else felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

Mira—the girl who once leaned against her shoulder in the library, who once whispered things only she was meant to hear—was smiling now, but not for her.

Not anymore.

And Rumi’s heart shattered in the knowledge that Seoul wasn’t just familiar. It was cruelty.

Rumi’s body finally gave out after so much sobbing, her pillow damp, her phone still clutched in one limp hand. The call with Jinu had long gone silent, the line disconnected, but she hadn’t noticed when. Her breaths evened out eventually, exhaustion dragging her under.

And then—

Warmth.

The faint scent of citrus and something floral. She stirred in the dream without knowing she was dreaming. The ache in her chest had dissolved into something gentler, something familiar.

Mira.

She was there, sitting propped up on the bed with her dark pink hair mussed like she had just woken up, strands falling over her forehead. Her lips were in a soft pout, fox-like eyes narrowed, her chin tilted ever so slightly as if she was sulking.

Rumi was at the desk in the corner of the room, notebook open, pen tapping against the page as she scribbled something. But Mira’s expression pulled her gaze away. She looked up, caught in that pout that spoke volumes without words.

Her brows rose in mock question. “What is it now?”

Mira didn’t answer—just deepened her pout, her cheeks puffing slightly, arms crossed over her chest like a petulant child.

A laugh, soft and indulgent, escaped Rumi before she closed her notebook, slipping the pen into its spiral. She stood, her chair sliding back.

The distance between them was only a few steps, but it felt like Rumi crossed a whole universe just to reach her. She climbed onto the bed, moving slow, deliberate, until she was hovering over Mira before sliding down against her.

Mira’s pout faltered, replaced by a smirk as Rumi wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close. Their bodies fit in that way they always had, like puzzle pieces that didn’t need adjusting.

“There,” Rumi whispered against Mira’s hair, her voice low, teasing but tender. “Don’t sulk now, you big baby.”

Her lips pressed against Mira’s softly, tasting like memory, like something she had once sworn she’d never forget. Mira smirked against her mouth, kissing her back, slow and claiming, before tightening her hold around Rumi’s waist like she would never let her go.

When they parted just slightly, Mira’s lips ghosted against Rumi’s ear.

“About time you give me attention,” Mira whispered, her tone light but edged with something vulnerable. “I was starting to feel lonely.”

Rumi’s heart swelled and ached at once, the kind of ache that wasn’t painful but too full, too much for her chest to contain. She leaned her forehead against Mira’s, eyes closing.

And then—

Sunlight.

She blinked, groggy, the dream unraveling in fragments as the real world forced its way in. Warm light spilled through the curtains of her Seoul bedroom, dancing across her sheets. Her face was sticky with dried tears, her throat raw.

But the ache in her chest was sharper now. Because the space next to her was empty. And Mira—her Mira—had only been a dream.

Rumi’s eyes lingered on the ceiling for a while after the dream unraveled, sunlight painting pale streaks across her room. Her chest still felt tight, the phantom weight of Mira’s arms haunting her ribs. She blinked a few times before slowly reaching toward her phone, screen lighting up with dozens of notifications.

When she unlocked it, her heart stuttered.

33 unread messages. 12 missed calls. 7 voicemails.

All from Jinu.

Her lips pressed together, guilt and fondness mixing in a messy knot in her chest. She didn’t even scroll to read the messages. She could already imagine his panic in every line, his worry hidden under all the swearing and overdramatic threats. Instead, she pressed his name, thumb hovering just a second too long before hitting the call button.

The line barely rang twice before his voice exploded through the speaker.

“Oh my fucking god! Ru! You almost gave me a heart attack! I swear to god I was about to book a flight to Seoul!!”

Rumi’s lips curved faintly despite the heaviness in her chest. A tiny, tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Ji, you’re exaggerating,” she murmured softly, voice still hoarse from all the crying. “I’m fine. I just… cried myself to sleep.”

Her honesty hung heavy in the air, and she almost regretted saying it. But with Jinu, there was no point pretending.

For a moment, silence hummed on the other end, and then Jinu’s breathing came through sharp, worried, like he was holding back another tidal wave of words.

Rumi closed her eyes, bitter amusement spreading as she added, “I’ll be fine. Really. Sorry for worrying you. You should sleep now.”

And before he could unleash the three-hour lecture she knew was coming—about how she couldn’t just vanish mid-call, about what if something had happened and he wasn’t there, about how she couldn’t keep brushing things off—she ended the call with a firm press of her thumb.

The silence that followed made the room feel emptier.

She exhaled slowly, rolling her stiff shoulders before slipping out of bed. Her legs felt heavy, like she’d been carrying all the weight of yesterday into today, but she pushed herself toward the bathroom.

The cold tiles grounded her. She peeled off her sleep clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the stream of warm water wash over her. It trickled down her face, almost mimicking the tears she thought she had none left of. For a long while, she stood still, hands braced against the wall, head tilted down, letting the heat seep into her skin until her breathing steadied.

By the time she stepped out, towel wrapped around her, she felt marginally lighter—though the ache lingered under her ribs, deep and stubborn.

She dressed simply, pulling on a soft sweater and jeans, then brushed through her damp hair until it fell neatly over her shoulders. With her phone slipped into her pocket, she finally pushed herself out of the room.

The house was quiet as she descended the staircase, the faint smell of coffee and toasted bread drifting from the dining room. It was grounding, familiar, even though she still wasn’t used to being back in Seoul.

She entered the dining room, spotting the neat arrangement of breakfast already laid out by the maids—steamed rice, kimchi, a small portion of grilled fish, and fresh fruit on the side. Celine’s chair at the head of the table was empty, though her coffee cup rested there half-finished, proof she had already been around before heading out.

Rumi quietly slid into her usual seat. She clasped her hands for a moment, grounding herself in the routine, then picked up her chopsticks and began eating, slowly, carefully, as if the simple act could tether her to reality.

But her thoughts kept pulling back—to Jinu’s panicked voice, to the dream, to Mira’s smirk and the way her arms felt around her.

Rumi sighed softly and forced herself to focus on the food in front of her, because if she let herself spiral again, she wasn’t sure she’d find the strength to stop this time.

After breakfast, Rumi excused herself from the dining room, her chopsticks carefully placed back on the tray, her appetite only half-satisfied. The food hadn’t been the problem—it was her mind, still thick and restless.

She padded quietly back upstairs, the familiar creak of the steps under her weight almost comforting. When she reached her room, sunlight spilled in brighter than before, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, but it pushed her forward.

Her luggage still sat at the corner of the room, unopened since her return. A part of her had avoided it on purpose—keeping it zipped up meant she hadn’t fully accepted she was staying here again. But now, something about the stillness demanded movement.

With a quiet sigh, she crouched down and unzipped the first suitcase. The faint scent of travel—fabric, paper, and the remnants of foreign air—hit her. She began pulling out folded clothes, stacking them in neat piles on the bed. Shirts in one, sweaters in another, dresses folded flat. Each piece felt like another small reminder of the life she had lived away from this house, each one carrying a story or a moment she didn’t want to linger on too long.

She carried the stacks into the walk-in closet. The space was cool, lined with shelves and hangers that seemed almost too pristine, like they were waiting for her. She hung her jackets one by one, smoothed down her dresses, folded her jeans with a precision that was almost military. Every neat line of fabric was her attempt at order in the chaos of her head.

By the time the first suitcase was empty, she felt a little lighter. So she moved on to the second, then the third. Piece by piece, she refilled her closet until it looked lived in again. At last, she dragged the empty luggage to the far end of the closet, where a large cupboard built into the wall stood.

She opened it, revealing a space big enough to hide at least four suitcases, maybe more. Without hesitation, she stacked the empty cases neatly inside, pushing them back until they disappeared into the shadows. She shut the door firmly, as if locking away not just the luggage, but also the wandering thoughts of what she had left behind.

When she stepped out of the closet and back into her room, she stopped.

The floor was still scattered with the last remnants of her arrival—her DJ mixer case, a tangle of cords, and a handful of notebooks splayed open like abandoned thoughts. The sight tugged something bittersweet in her chest.

Rumi bent down, gathering the notebooks first. Each one was worn, edges curled from use, pages filled with scribbles of half-written lyrics, late-night confessions disguised as poetry, and fleeting melodies she had once chased like they were lifelines. She stacked them neatly and placed them on her desk, aligning them in a clean row.

Her eyes drifted next to the DJ mixer. She lifted it carefully, placing it on her bed. The weight was familiar, grounding. For a moment, she just sat there, looking at it, her hands hovering above the knobs and sliders as if asking for permission.

Finally, she reached forward and pressed the power button.

The soft whirr of the machine filling with life echoed in the quiet room. The lights blinked to life, glowing softly against the dim afternoon sunlight streaming through her curtains.

She exhaled. Her fingers moved automatically, adjusting, syncing, aligning sounds. The rhythm filled her ears, the bass pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat. She looped tracks, layered beats, adjusted tempos—not because she had something specific in mind, but because the process itself demanded her focus.

It tethered her.

Every twist of a dial, every subtle shift in sound drowned out the ghosts of Mira’s arms in her dreams, Jinu’s panicked voice, the bitterness that clung to her chest. The music built a wall, a shield of rhythm and noise she could control when everything else felt unsteady.

Her head nodded slightly in time, the corner of her lip twitching upward at the satisfaction of a clean drop syncing perfectly.

For the first time since last night, Rumi felt like she wasn’t drowning. The chaos inside her was still there, but muffled—contained within the steady pulse of the mixer, the rhythm that belonged to her.

The beat thumped steadily, a pulse she could control, and Rumi leaned into it. She lost track of the time, the edges of the room blurring into soft shadows while the music expanded and filled every corner.

Her body moved slightly, just a sway of her head, her foot tapping against the floorboards in rhythm. The bass hummed deep in her chest, the hi-hats clicking like a nervous heartbeat, the synth stretching out like waves pulling her further in.

Without thinking, her hand reached for one of the notebooks she had placed neatly on her desk. She pulled it toward her, flipping it open to a blank page. A pen was already in her other hand, as if her body had been waiting for this exact moment.

She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t plan, didn’t filter, didn’t care if the words made sense. She just let her hand move.

“Running where the lights don’t follow,

chasing shadows I can’t hold.

Every smile is borrowed,

every touch turns cold.”

Her handwriting was messy, rushed, slanted in places where her pen dragged too quickly. She scribbled down half-formed lines, the lyrics tumbling out faster than her mind could process them.

“Your voice—it lingers,

like smoke on my skin.

I breathe it in,

and burn again.”

The music looped and she adjusted the mixer again, tightening the drop, layering a sharper snare beneath the melody. The sound fused with the words in her notebook, like they were born for each other.

Her chest felt heavy, but not in a suffocating way. It was release—every ache, every bitter sting of seeing Mira’s face, every unanswered question about why fate had brought her back here. It was all pouring into the music, into the paper, into the steady rhythm that tethered her to herself.

Her pen flew again, this time slower, like she was tracing her own thoughts

“If I close my eyes,

do I see you, or the ghost of you?

If I run tonight,

will the city lights forget me too?”

She stopped, exhaled sharply, and dropped the pen. Her fingers brushed over the fresh ink, smudging the edge of a line, but she didn’t care. The mixer still hummed, the track looping, evolving, a heartbeat she had built from scratch.

Her gaze lingered on the notebook. The words stared back at her, raw and unpolished. They weren’t perfect—far from it—but they were hers.

The track looped again, steady, hypnotic. Rumi’s pen found the page once more, her hand trembling slightly but moving anyway. Each line pulled something heavy from her chest, threading it into words.

She tightened her grip, writing faster—no filter, no revisions, just bleeding onto the paper.

Verse 1

Running where the lights don’t follow,

chasing shadows I can’t hold.

Every smile is borrowed,

every touch turns cold.

She bit her lip, then quickly underlined cold. The pen didn’t stop.

Pre-Chorus

Your voice—it lingers,

like smoke on my skin.

I breathe it in,

and burn again.

She adjusted the mixer, layering a soft build-up that mirrored the rising tension in her chest. The beat climbed, her pen following its rhythm.

Chorus

If I close my eyes,

do I see you, or the ghost of you?

If I run tonight,

will the city lights forget me too?

I keep calling, calling,

but the silence pulls me through.

I’m haunted, haunted…

by the ghost of you.

Her throat tightened as she whispered the last line under her breath. For a second, she had to stop, her hand hovering over the paper, heart racing like she’d just confessed something forbidden. But the music tugged her back, refusing to let her pause too long.

Verse 2

Every step feels hollow,

on streets we used to know.

Memories I can’t swallow,

they follow where I go.

Pre-Chorus (variation)

Your laugh—it lingers,

a scar in the wind.

I hear it again,

and I cave within.

The chorus came again, sharper this time, the melody she was layering growing bolder with it. She tapped the mixer, making the bass line hit harder, as if to hammer the ache into sound.

Chorus

If I close my eyes,

do I see you, or the ghost of you?

If I run tonight,

will the city lights forget me too?

I keep calling, calling,

but the silence pulls me through.

I’m haunted, haunted…

by the ghost of you.

Her pen hovered. Something was missing. She exhaled, her chest rising and falling, and then, like a whisper from somewhere deep, the bridge came.

Bridge

Maybe you’re laughing,

in someone else’s arms.

Maybe I’m nothing,

just another scar.

But if you hear me—

even once, even far…

Would you still remember

who we are?

Her hand shook as she underlined the final line three times.

Final Chorus

If I close my eyes,

do I see you, or the ghost of you?

If I run tonight,

will the city lights forget me too?

I keep calling, calling,

but the silence pulls me through.

I’m haunted, haunted…

forever by the ghost of you.

The pen dropped from her hand. Her notebook lay open, lyrics sprawled across the page in frantic handwriting, messy ink stains smudged where her tears had fallen without her noticing.

She sat back, staring at the words, the music still looping softly in the background.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it was whole.

It was her.

And it was Mira. Always Mira.

The sharp knock startled her, pulling Rumi out of her haze. She blinked, realizing the only light in the room was the dim desk lamp still glowing over her notebook. The beat from her mixer still pulsed faintly in the background, though softer now, like a fading heartbeat.

Her eyes flicked to her phone lying beside the notebook. 8:15 p.m. Already dark outside.

Rumi exhaled slowly, pushing back from her chair. She swiped at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to erase the redness around her eyes, but it didn’t quite work. She padded over to the door and pulled it open.

Celine stood there, her posture as composed as ever—arms crossed neatly, her businesslike stance never faltering. Her brows were raised, an unspoken question in them. But her eyes, sharper than most would dare meet, softened the second they landed on Rumi.

“You’ve been locked up here since breakfast,” Celine said evenly. Not accusing, but not casual either. “Do you plan to come out at all today?”

Rumi hesitated, fingers tightening on the edge of the door. She glanced at the floor for a second before meeting Celine’s gaze, her tone steady but quiet. “I… lost track of time.”

The faintest sigh slipped from Celine as she uncrossed her arms. “I figured.” Her eyes darted past Rumi’s shoulder—at the mess of notebooks stacked on the desk, the mixer glowing faintly, the scattered pages with scribbled lines of lyrics. For a heartbeat, her expression flickered, almost unreadable, before she looked back at Rumi.

“Dinner’s ready.” she said simply, but softer now, almost like a suggestion rather than an order.

Rumi nodded slowly, her voice low. “I’ll come down in a minute.”

Celine studied her for another second, as if weighing whether to push further, then gave a small nod. She turned slightly, then paused, her voice dropping just enough to lose the sharp edge. “Don’t… overwork yourself.”

It was the closest thing to concern Rumi had heard from her in years.

Before Rumi could answer, Celine stepped back and walked down the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the wood floor until the sound faded.

Rumi stood in the doorway a moment longer, her chest tight, staring at the empty hall. Then she closed the door gently, resting her forehead against the wood.

Celine always had a way of saying so little but leaving Rumi with so much to think about.

------

Rumi changed out of the clothes she had worn all day, slipping into a black hoodie and shorts. The hoodie hung a little loose, giving her comfort, familiar weight. She sat down at her vanity, pulling her long purple hair into a neat braid, fingers moving almost mechanically as her mind tried to settle. Once finished, she glanced around her room. Notebooks stacked, mixer turned off, blankets smoothed. She didn’t want to leave it messy—not after being lost in it for so many hours.

She drew in a breath, then stepped out, closing the door softly behind her. The hallway was quiet, her bare feet making no sound against the floor as she made her way downstairs.

In the dining room, Celine was already seated at the long glass table. She didn’t look up immediately, her attention absorbed in the glow of her phone, thumbs moving quick, deliberate. Her posture, as always, was perfect—back straight, shoulders set, as though she carried her authority everywhere she went, even at home.

Rumi slipped into her seat across from her. The scent of food lingered faintly in the air, warm and grounding. Celine gave her a quick glance, brief but acknowledging, before tilting her phone back down, resuming her typing.

They started eating, the clink of utensils against porcelain filling the silence. But it wasn’t the suffocating kind of silence Rumi remembered from years ago, back when the four walls of the dining room had felt like a cage. This was different—quiet, but lighter. Like the silence of two people who didn’t need to force words if they didn’t want to.

Halfway through the meal, Celine finally set her phone down beside her plate. Her gaze lifted, sharp and direct, and when she spoke her tone was steady, almost casual—though Rumi knew her words were always carefully measured.

“I re-arranged your transfer to Hanseong University.”

The words made Rumi pause, fork hovering halfway. She blinked, her brows furrowing slightly as her mind caught up. “Tomorrow?” she asked, her voice calm but holding a trace of surprise.

“Yes,” Celine replied without hesitation. “I need you to go there tomorrow to meet the chairman.”

Rumi straightened a little in her seat, processing. Her grip on her fork loosened slightly before she set it down. “Was it wise to transfer mid-semester?” she asked, her tone polite but curious, almost testing.

Celine didn’t flinch. She picked up her glass of water, took a sip, then set it down with composure before answering. “You had advanced studies in the States. You can cope up.” Her tone left no room for doubt, as if her confidence in Rumi’s capability was matter-of-fact, unquestionable.

Rumi exhaled softly, shoulders easing just a fraction. She gave a small nod, her expression smoothing back into composure. “Okay.”

Celine studied her for a second longer, then returned to her food without another word.

Rumi picked up her fork again, her mind racing quietly even though her face showed nothing. Tomorrow. Hanseong University. The thought pulled at something in her chest—a mix of anticipation and a weight she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.

But for now, she simply lowered her gaze and resumed eating, the calm rhythm of the meal carrying them through the rest of dinner.

Rumi walked past the gates of Hanseong University, her breath misting faintly in the cool morning air. The campus stretched out before her—sprawling stone pathways lined with trees, buildings of sleek glass and concrete, and clusters of students moving from one class to another. It had been years since she last walked these grounds, yet the mixture of familiarity and estrangement pulled at her in equal measure.

She kept her back straight, her expression calm, the careful composure she’d mastered long ago shielding the nervous flutter inside her chest. The chairman’s office was supposed to be simple enough to find, yet after circling twice, she still couldn’t figure out which building was his.

The minutes ticked by, and she knew she couldn’t keep wandering aimlessly. She needed to ask.

Her eyes landed on a girl sitting alone on a stone bench tucked in one of the quieter hallways of the courtyard. She had black hair tied into two messy buns, strands falling loose around her cheeks, and a notebook resting open on her lap. A pair of white headphones covered her ears, her fingers idly tapping against the edge of the page in rhythm with whatever song she was listening to.

Rumi hesitated, but necessity pushed her forward. Her steps were soft, deliberate. She stopped just in front of the bench, then extended a hand and lightly tapped the girl’s shoulder.

The girl startled slightly, her head jerking up. She tugged one side of her headphones down, and for a moment, Rumi felt herself freeze.

The girl blinked up at her, wide-eyed, expression caught somewhere between surprise and shyness. Her lips parted as if she hadn’t expected anyone to approach her, and the way she looked—flustered, almost endearing—made Rumi’s practiced composure nearly crack.

She gulped once, straightened her spine again, and let her polite, steady façade return. Her voice came out smooth, respectful.

“Do you know which building is the Chairman’s?”

The girl’s gaze lingered on Rumi for a long moment, almost studying her. Her wide brown eyes flicked over the straight line of Rumi’s posture, the calm mask she wore as if every movement had been rehearsed. Then, after a small pause, the girl offered a hesitant but kind smile.

“Yeah,” she said finally, her voice light but certain, carrying a brightness that somehow clashed with the heavy pounding in Rumi’s chest. “It’s just across the quad, the glass-front building with the flagpoles. You can’t miss it.”

Rumi let a practiced smile touch her lips, the left corner deepening into a single dimple. “Thank you,” she replied smoothly, her tone polite, unshaken. To anyone watching, she was the picture of grace and composure.

But the moment she turned her back, the smile fell from her face like glass slipping off a ledge.

Her thoughts roared like static in her ears.

That girl…

The image of her soft smile, those messy buns, the slight redness on her ears, the way her gaze lingered—it all collided violently with something buried deep inside Rumi’s memory.

Zoey.

Her breath caught, almost stumbling her step. She didn’t need to ask, didn’t need to check again—because she had seen Zoey before, not in person, but in the hundreds of posts she’d scrolled through until her stomach twisted into knots. The memes, the silly videos, the photos filled with sunlight and laughter. And always, always, Mira standing just a breath away from her.

Rumi’s chest squeezed, sharp and suffocating.

Zoey. Mira’s girlfriend.

The words screamed in her skull as she pushed her way across the quad, her stride stiff, mechanical. She forced her chin higher, her shoulders straight, the perfect façade of the polite Ms. Ryu. But beneath that shell, panic dug its claws deep, threatening to shred the poise she wore like armor.

Her hand reached for the glass doors of the Chairman’s building, pulling them open with more force than intended. The air-conditioned chill brushed against her skin, but it didn’t cool the heat of dread that had already spread through her body.

She didn’t head straight for the reception desk. Instead, she veered sharply to the side, finding the powder room tucked discreetly off the hall. The door clicked shut behind her, and finally—finally—she allowed herself to unravel.

Her palms slammed down on the edge of the sink, gripping it until her knuckles turned white. Her reflection stared back at her, calm as ever, not a hair out of place, not a single crack visible on the mask. But she knew better. She felt the tremor beneath her skin, the storm threatening to break loose.

Her breath came sharp and uneven. She bent forward, forehead nearly touching the mirror, whispering to herself through clenched teeth, “No. It can’t be. Not here. Not her.”

But she knew it was.

The random meeting, the flustered smile, the shy tone—it wasn’t just some stranger she had stumbled into on her first day at Hanseong. No, fate had decided to drag her straight into the orbit of the one person she shouldn’t cross paths with.

Zoey. Mira’s Zoey.

Rumi squeezed her eyes shut, her grip on the sink tightening further as if it could tether her to the ground, as if white-knuckled strength could keep her from splintering apart.

This is bad. So bad.

Her chest heaved, the image of Mira’s stoic, fox-like eyes flashing in her head, overlapping with Zoey’s freckled cheeks and bright expression. Together, they carved into her like two blades, forcing her to relive everything she thought she had buried back in the States.

She inhaled shakily, forcing herself upright, fingers still clutching the porcelain. She couldn’t lose her cool—not here, not now, not when she was about to meet with the Chairman of Hanseong University. She had promised Celine composure. Promised herself control.

So she lifted her chin once more, rolled her shoulders back, and exhaled slowly until her breathing steadied. The storm was still inside her, raging, but she pressed the mask back into place.

And then, without another glance at her reflection, she unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Chapter Text

(HOLD IT IN)

The Sunday air was warm, sunlight glinting off the windshield as the car purred steadily along the avenue. Inside, the atmosphere felt as precise and measured as the woman driving.

Celine sat upright at the wheel, posture flawless even in casual clothes. She had chosen a crisp beige blouse tucked into tailored pants, her hair drawn back neatly into a low knot. Every line of her body spoke of composure and control, as though even a simple errand required discipline. Her hand rested firmly on the wheel, fingers perfectly aligned, her other hand occasionally adjusting the air vents without ever losing focus on the road.

Beside her, Rumi sat in the passenger seat. The contrast between them was almost startling. She wore a black cropped hoodie sweatshirt that revealed just a sliver of her toned midriff, paired with denim shorts. Her long purple hair was tied back into her signature braid, the strands glossy and neat despite their length. One leg was tucked slightly under her, her arm draped casually against the window, but her gaze was distant, her thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Earlier that morning, when Rumi had said, “I’ll be fine buying things myself,” her voice clipped and careful, Celine had merely slipped on her watch and replied with calm finality, “It’s my day off, and I’m coming with you.” There had been no room for protest.

Now, in the car, the silence stretched like a tight string between them.

“You should fix your posture,” Celine remarked suddenly, her eyes still on the road. Her tone was even, not scolding, but it carried weight—the kind of reminder that expected obedience. “Slouching will become a habit.”

Rumi blinked, her shoulders stiffening before she adjusted, sitting straighter. “Right,” she said softly, her voice neutral.

Celine’s gaze flickered briefly toward her, sharp but approving. “Better.” Then, after a pause, she added, “You have to start getting used to carrying yourself properly again. Hanseong University isn’t the kind of place where you can afford to look careless.”

Rumi lowered her eyes, fingers idly brushing the edge of her hoodie. “I know,” she murmured.

But the truth was, her chest had been heavy all morning. Every step closer to this new life seemed to tighten the invisible strings around her. She kept picturing Zoey—her face, her voice, the shocking recognition—and Mira’s name had been there, pulsing just beneath it all like a bruise she couldn’t ignore.

Celine, watching her from the corner of her eye, noticed the shadow in her niece’s expression. She didn’t comment—at least not directly. Instead, she adjusted the radio, switching it off entirely.

“You’ll be meeting professors, administrators, and other students soon. Remember, first impressions matter. Your composure must be unshakable, Your faults and fears must never be seen.” she said, her voice steady, each word deliberate.

Rumi’s hands curled slightly in her lap, her braid sliding forward over her shoulder as she tilted her head. She forced a smile, polite and practiced. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Celine gave a curt nod, satisfied, before returning her focus fully to the road.

The silence returned, this time heavier, broken only by the soft hum of the engine. Rumi kept her eyes trained on the passing buildings, trying to anchor herself in the scenery, but her thoughts slipped back again and again to that face on the stone bench.

Zoey.

Mira.

And the way her own chest had clenched when recognition struck.

She tugged at the hem of her cropped hoodie, straightening unconsciously under Celine’s gaze. Efficiency, she told herself. She just needed to buy her supplies, get through the day, and not let her aunt—or anyone else—see the cracks.

But deep inside, Rumi knew nothing about this new beginning would stay simple.

-------

Celine’s calm presence beside her made the world feel a little less daunting, and Rumi’s small smile lingered as she browsed the aisles of pens, papers, planners—a simple, yet grounding pleasure she had sorely missed since leaving Seoul.

Celine hovered a few steps behind her, arms crossed over her chest, watching quietly as Rumi carefully picked through pens, highlighters, and folders—her eyes scanning for the items she deemed essential. There was something almost maternal in the way Celine observed her, silent and unintrusive, letting Rumi move at her own pace.

Rumi’s basket quickly filled with the basics: a few packs of gel pens, sticky notes in neat pastel shades, and a set of fine-tipped markers. When she reached the cashier, she set the basket down, giving a polite nod to Celine. “I forgot to grab a notebook for my lyrics,” she said softly. “Please wait for me here.”

Celine’s only response was a gentle nod, her gaze never leaving Rumi as she walked toward the notebook aisle.

Her gaze snagged on a figure a few feet away. Black hair, tied into two buns. Shoulders slightly hunched as if she’d been debating something on the shelves.

Rumi froze.

Her throat bobbed once, twice. Her practiced poise—that thin armor she wore like a second skin—wavered. She could feel the tremor in her lips, her heart suddenly hammering like it had back in the chairman’s building.

No. No, no, no.

The thought screamed in her head, but her feet wouldn’t move. Every instinct told her to turn, to pivot gracefully and leave the aisle as if she had never been there. To breathe, to pretend she hadn’t seen. To save herself from the collision she felt coming.

But then—like a sharp pang—her conscience struck. The girl at the shelf reached up awkwardly, stretching for something just slightly out of her reach, and the sight carved a hole right through Rumi’s resolve. She could leave. She could disappear into the safety of silence.

Or she could help.

Rumi’s hand twitched. And then, before she could stop herself, she moved forward. Slow, deliberate steps, her long braid brushing against her back with each movement. Her fingers grazed over the spines of the neatly stacked notebooks until she reached the one with a small, almost silly turtle design on the cover.

Her hand closed around it. She lifted it off the shelf.

And then, her voice—steady, though she felt anything but—slipped out.

“Here.”

The single word cracked the silence.

The girl stiffened immediately. Slowly, she turned, wide eyes meeting Rumi’s.

Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks caught the harsh mall light, making them glow like tiny constellations. Her ears flushed red almost instantly, the color spreading across the tips in a way that was impossible not to notice. And her eyes—soft brown, round, almost disarmingly honest—blinked at Rumi as though caught off guard, unprepared.

Rumi’s world tilted.

Zoey.

Her name carved itself into Rumi’s mind with brutal clarity. The girl from the stone bench. The girl from the posts. Mira’s girlfriend. The girl who radiated like sunlight in every picture, every video. And now—here she was. So close. So real.

For a heartbeat too long, Rumi simply stared. She could feel the tremble in her lips again, her chest tightening until it hurt. She wanted to turn, to run, to vanish into the crowd. But her body betrayed her.

Instead, she forced herself to move, her practiced mask clawing its way back into place.

Her lips curved upward, polite, poised, hiding the storm inside. The kind of smile she had given countless strangers, professors, even board members when she had been paraded in front of them like a model student.

A smile that wasn’t hers.

“Here,” Rumi repeated softly, extending the turtle notebook toward Zoey. Her voice was even, but her hand betrayed her—grip too tight on the notebook’s spine, knuckles paling as she held it out.

Rumi steadied herself. She could feel her pulse thudding in her throat, threatening to crawl into her voice, but she refused to let it. She adjusted her grip on the notebook, forcing her hand to loosen just enough, and let her words slip out—polite, measured, soft yet confident.

“Consider it my thank you,” she said, her tone smooth, practiced, as though she wasn’t unraveling inside. Her lips curved gently, a smile that reached only as far as it needed to. “For pointing me to the Chairman’s building last time.”

The girl’s—Zoey’s—eyes flickered in recognition, widening just slightly. Her hand shot out almost reflexively, as if her body had moved before her brain caught up, and she accepted the turtle notebook.

“Oh—thank you!”

Her voice was light, but the edges trembled with fluster. Rumi noticed it immediately, the same way she noticed everything. The way Zoey’s fingers brushed the cardboard cover, gripping it a little too tightly, as if anchoring herself. The way her cheeks bloomed with color, soft pink spreading across her skin until it reached just under her freckles.

Rumi’s polite smile didn’t falter, but she felt it—the crack inside her chest widening. Why does she have to blush like that? Why does she look at me like that when she already belongs to someone else?

Zoey’s lips parted again, hesitating. She looked as though she wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but the words caught somewhere in her throat. She blinked once, twice, her lashes dipping low before her gaze flickered back to Rumi’s face.

Her eyes lingered for too long, tracing the calm mask Rumi wore, pausing just a fraction of a second longer on the faint dimple that appeared on her left cheek.

Rumi thought she saw it—an almost invisible shift in Zoey’s posture, like she was teetering between holding back and stepping forward.

And then, just as the silence stretched, a quiet but distinct sound of heels approached.

“Ru”

Celine’s voice was low, composed, but it carried the kind of weight that snapped the moment in two. Rumi turned her head, finding her aunt a step away, arms crossed in that semi-strict way that had always been her trademark. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes softened just barely as she gave a small tilt of her chin, gesturing toward the waiting cart and the direction of the cashier.

It wasn’t a scold. It wasn’t even a command. Just a subtle reminder: Hurry up. We don’t have all day.

Rumi’s mask didn’t crack, not even a flicker. She gave Zoey one last small, polite smile—the kind that said goodbye without saying the word—and inclined her head slightly.

And with that, she stepped back, braid brushing against her shoulder, hands sliding casually into the pocket of her cropped hoodie as if her world wasn’t crashing under the surface. She walked toward Celine with steady steps, each one feeling heavier than the last.

Behind her, she didn’t dare look, but she swore she could feel Zoey’s eyes still on her, warm and curious, as though she wanted to reach out but hadn’t.

Rumi kept walking.

Hold it together. Just hold it in.

Almost another week had slipped by, quiet and steady, the kind of week that left Rumi restless with too much time to think. Thursday morning, Celine had been her usual composed self—black suit pressed sharp, voice brisk but calm as she stood near the dining table.

“We’ll go to Hanseong University today,” she said matter-of-factly, sliding a folder into her briefcase with practiced precision. “Your transfer papers are nearly finalized. The chairman will want a final confirmation.”

Rumi, dressed in her cropped cream sweater and fitted black trousers, only nodded, braid falling over her shoulder like a signature she couldn’t erase. She kept her reply steady. “Understood.”

The drive to the campus felt muted, Celine behind the wheel, her eyes focused forward as the city rolled past in clean lines and shifting glass. The familiar ache of nerves twisted low in Rumi’s stomach as the gates of Hanseong University loomed into view.

Inside the chairman’s office building, Celine led the way. She walked with that same composed authority, the kind that made heads turn without needing to speak. At the door of Chairman Jung’s office, she finally paused and turned toward Rumi.

“Stay nearby,” she instructed, her tone soft but lined with expectation. “Walk the buildings, familiarize yourself with the campus. I’ll handle this.”

Rumi bowed her head slightly, her façade intact. “Yes, Celine.”

The door closed behind Celine, leaving Rumi standing alone in the hallway. For a moment, she considered heading back toward the entrance, maybe wandering aimlessly. But her feet had a mind of their own. They carried her down the corridor, across the quad, through winding stone paths lined with cherry trees whose leaves had already begun to fade into autumn’s palette.

Without realizing it, she had walked into the library.

The tall glass windows spilled soft light across polished floors, the scent of paper and ink drifting in the air. It was quiet, almost reverent, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you and asked you to stay.

Rumi paused just inside the entrance, her breath slowing. She let her eyes roam over the rows of shelves, the scattered tables with open notebooks, the students tucked into corners with their laptops glowing faintly. Something about it grounded her, tethered her away from the restless thoughts that had been clawing at her since she came back to Seoul.

And then, she froze.

Because down one aisle, not too far from where the sunlight hit the wooden tables, she caught sight of a figure. Familiar. Too familiar. Black hair tied into two messy buns, shoulders slightly hunched over a notebook.

Zoey.

Rumi’s chest tightened as if an invisible hand had curled around it. She hadn’t come here for this, hadn’t expected to see her again so soon. And yet, her feet—traitorous, foolish—kept moving forward, carrying her between the shelves until she was standing just a step away.

She hesitated, mask of composure slipping for only a heartbeat before she forced it back. Her hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the edge of Zoey’s shoulder in the gentlest tap.

Zoey stiffened, then turned her head. And just as before—just like in the mall—Rumi saw the tips of her ears flush red almost instantly.

Rumi’s lips curved, soft and measured, her left dimple showing faintly.

“Hi,” she said, voice low and calm despite the chaos inside. “I think I saw you last week. I helped you with your notebook?”

Rumi noticed it immediately—the way Zoey’s throat bobbed once, twice, then a third time before any words managed to escape her lips. Her voice came out soft, uneven, but endearingly so.

“Y-yeah, I… I mean, hi. I’m Zoey.”

The name was already etched into Rumi’s memory from days ago, yet hearing it now felt heavier, more dangerous. She held onto her practiced composure, lips curving into a polite smile, her left dimple deepening like the mark of restraint.

It was rare for Rumi to initiate conversation with strangers. Rare, too, for her to even bother sustaining one. But something about the freckled girl in front of her—something about her flushed ears and unsteady gaze—pushed Rumi past her usual walls. She swallowed her hesitation, let her pride sink down with it, and forced herself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, her tone calm, almost formal. “I didn’t catch your name last time. I’m… Ru.”

The nickname tasted strange on her tongue, too informal, too careless for who she was and who she had been raised to be. But she let it sit between them anyway, an offering she couldn’t take back.

With a steady breath, she pulled out the chair across from Zoey and sat down deliberately. Her movements were composed, but inside, she felt like every second was a careful negotiation with herself.

One hand rested flat on the table—her anchor in plain sight. The other curled tight against her thigh, fingers clenching the fabric of her pants just to ground herself. Beneath the surface, her nerves buzzed like static.

And then, almost without realizing, her fingers began to move against the tabletop in a soft, muted rhythm. A steady tap-tap-tap, repeating in a pattern she’d carried with her since childhood. The rhythm of her mother’s old song, one she used to hum to Rumi when the world felt too loud. It was an unconscious habit, one that surfaced whenever her heart felt too unsteady.

Rumi’s gaze never faltered, her expression still calm, but beneath that still surface, she was drowning in the irony. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be talking to her.

And yet—she was.

Rumi’s thoughts were running in circles, the steady rhythm of her tapping barely keeping her tethered, when Zoey’s voice broke through—soft, uncertain, but trying.

“So… uh, are you a transfer?”

The question was simple, harmless even, yet it pulled Rumi back into the present. She smoothed her expression, smile practiced, polite.

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice even. “I just came back from the States.”

For a brief moment, silence lingered, and then Zoey’s face lit up in surprise. Her brown eyes widened, sunlight from the window catching in them, making them gleam like glass.

“Oh… wow. That’s… quite a move, mid-semester.”

She chuckled softly after, almost awkwardly, as if filling the quiet. But the sound of it—light, unguarded, careless—froze Rumi where she sat.

Her fingers stopped their rhythm against the table. Her chest tightened sharply, a crack splitting through the polished composure she wore like armor. That sound, that sight—Zoey’s smile, her ease, her warmth—was a ghost dragging her back to the image she’d seen weeks ago.

That post. That video. That girl with Mira.

Rumi’s throat felt dry. Her heart pounded too hard, too loud, and yet her face betrayed none of it. She forced her lips to hold the faint curve of a smile, though it felt brittle.

Inside, she clenched tighter. Her hand balled into a fist against her thigh, nails biting into her skin through the fabric. Anything to keep herself from unraveling. Anything to hold the polite mask steady.

Because sitting across from her—laughing without hesitation—was the same carefree girl she’d seen next to Mira, her Mira, the one Rumi had never truly let go.

And it made her want to break.

Rumi swallowed once, feeling the dryness scrape down her throat, before she tilted her head ever so slightly. Her braid slid over her shoulder, the polished gesture making her dimples flash as she pulled another smile onto her lips—practiced, poised, polite.

“Yeah… it was… bold,” she said, voice calm, steady, as if she’d rehearsed it countless times. “But I figured it’s better to start now than wait for the next semester.”

The words left her evenly, soft but with enough weight to sound convincing. If Zoey noticed the slight pause before Rumi spoke, she didn’t show it. Instead, she fumbled for her own response, her lips parting and closing once before she let out a quiet, nervous laugh.

“I-I mean… well, it makes sense.” Zoey’s voice tripped over itself, her eyes flickering to Rumi’s, then away again. Her hands toyed with the edge of the notebook she’d brought to the table. “Um… welcome back, then?”

The attempt was clumsy, but sincere—something unpolished in contrast to Rumi’s clean edges.

Rumi felt her chest ache again at the sight, but she forced her expression to remain intact. Her smile widened, still polite, still measured, dimples deepening as if to prove she wasn’t rattled.

“Thank you, Zoey,” she murmured, her voice carrying the perfect blend of warmth and restraint.

It sounded genuine. It looked genuine.

But under the table, her fist remained tight against her thigh, grounding her against the sudden crack threatening her composure.

There was a brief silence between them. The kind that lingered long enough for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the library to slip into focus. Zoey’s eyes kept flicking toward Rumi, studying her with a kind of cautious curiosity, before darting away as though she’d been caught staring.

Rumi forced herself still. She refused to let her façade fracture, even as she felt her composure strain with every second. Her fingers tapped gently against the polished wood of the table—a soft rhythm, steady, grounding. It was the only thing tethering her in the moment.

“So… um,” Zoey’s voice broke the silence, tentative but determined, “when does your class schedule start?”

Rumi’s lips curved, just slightly. A half-smile, the kind that had always been her shield—practiced yet appearing effortless, polite yet edged with the faintest tease.

“Monday,” she said softly. Her voice was smooth, deliberate, even as she felt her throat tighten. “My aunt’s still fixing my papers.”

Zoey nodded, as though filing that away, and before Rumi could prepare herself, more questions followed.

Each one came shyly, almost halting, but steady enough to keep their thread of conversation alive. And each time, Rumi responded—her tone calm, her answers precise, her polite smile never faltering. It was second nature to her, the way she could present herself with polished warmth, make conversation without revealing a single jagged edge.

The five minutes stretched on, Zoey leaning a little closer as her curiosity slipped past her usual shyness. And Rumi… she held her poise, her half-smile unwavering, her voice measured.

But under the table, her free hand pressed harder into her thigh. The sting of her nails against fabric bit sharper each time, a grounding pain to keep her from unraveling under the sight of Zoey’s earnest eyes.

Suddenly, Rumi’s phone buzzed against the wood of the table. The sound was sharp in the quiet library, and for a fraction of a second, her breath hitched, chest tightening like she’d been yanked out of a trance. Her tapping fingers froze, then resumed almost immediately—faster this time, like she was stitching her composure back together with each rhythm.

She turned the phone over. The screen lit up.

Celine: I’m at the gate.

Rumi inhaled slowly through her nose, a practiced breath that steadied her expression. She typed back quickly, her thumbs deliberate, controlled.

Rumi: Be there in 5.

Locking her phone, she slid it into her pocket and rose with the same composure she had worn through the entire conversation. Her braid slid over her shoulder as she adjusted her hoodie, her every movement careful, collected.

“My aunt’s at the gate,” she said smoothly, her voice low but soft, almost apologetic. “Need to go. See you around, Zoey.”

Her polite smile deepened for the briefest moment—dimples flashing, her face a perfect mask. Then, with a small dip of her head, she turned toward the aisle.

Each step away was purposeful, measured. But the moment she disappeared past the end of the row, her fingers tightened into fists again, nails biting into her palm. Her throat bobbed once, hard, as if she were swallowing down words she’d never let herself say.

Behind her, Zoey blinked, still sitting there, notebook open, eyes lingering on where Rumi had stood just moments ago. She lifted her hand slightly as though she might call out—but no sound came. Her lips parted, then closed, and she watched the aisle, a flicker of confusion—or maybe curiosity—crossing her face.

And Rumi kept walking, her fingers tapping against her thigh now instead of the table, her rhythm quick, sharp, the only thing keeping her steady until she reached the gate.

Sunday rolled by like a blur, and by late evening Rumi found herself sprawled on her bed, knees pulled close, her phone propped against a pillow. Jinu’s face filled the screen, his usual messy hair tied back just enough to keep it out of his eyes. He was munching on something—chips, by the sound of the crunch—and bobbing his head in time to the track Rumi had sent earlier. The bass thrummed faintly through his side of the call, his expression all focus, like he was dissecting each note.

“Mm,” he hummed, nodding, “tempo’s clean, but you might wanna drop the bass just a little bit in the second verse. Keeps it from drowning the vocal line. Other than that—solid, Ru. Real solid.”

His words were casual, but Rumi barely registered them. Her fingers were curled around the hem of her hoodie, her braid falling forward like a rope down her shoulder. Her chest felt tight. Too tight.

Out of nowhere, her voice slipped past her lips before she could think twice.

“I’m scared for tomorrow…”

The crunching stopped. Jinu froze mid-bob, his head snapping toward the phone like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. His brows pulled together, concern flickering in his eyes. He reached off-screen, pausing the music. The silence on the line was sudden and heavy.

“Scared of?” he asked, softer now, voice no longer casual but careful, the way he only got when he knew Rumi was treading on fragile ground.

Rumi hugged her knees tighter, pulling them into her chest until she could rest her chin against them. Her eyes, half-lidded, met his through the glassy screen. She tried to make her tone sound light, composed—but the softness, the weariness, seeped through anyway.

“What if she’s there…” she whispered, her voice breaking around the edges. “And she started telling me again to leave, to never come back? What if she hates me enough that just seeing me ruins everything?”

Jinu’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, letting her spill.

Her eyes dropped, her thumb rubbing absently over the fabric of her shorts.

“I feel like…” she hesitated, breath trembling, “…I really shouldn’t have come back. Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should tell Celine I can just go back there—to the States. Pick up where I left off. Pretend none of this ever happened.”

The words left her in a rush, quiet but weighted, like each one carried another stone pressing into her chest.

On the other end, Jinu shifted, his face coming closer to the screen, his tone losing all of its teasing sharpness.

“Ru…” Jinu’s voice dropped low, sharper now, carrying that rare edge he only pulled out when she was spiraling too far. “Don’t you dare disappear like that again. Don’t even think it.”

Rumi blinked, her brows furrowing slightly, lips parting as if to argue, but nothing came out. She just hugged her knees tighter, her braid falling forward to shadow her face.

Jinu leaned closer to the screen, his expression almost fierce now. “You hear me? You’re not running back. Not this time. You worked your ass off, you came back, and you—” he jabbed a finger at the camera “—belong there, Ru. Seoul isn’t just hers. It’s yours, too.”

Her chest squeezed. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t move.

Jinu wasn’t done. His tone softened only slightly, but his words carried weight. “I don’t care what she says, or if she looks at you like you’re a ghost she wants gone. Mira doesn’t get to decide your life. She doesn’t get to tell you where you belong.”

Rumi’s lips trembled. She pressed her forehead against her knees, whispering into the fabric, “But she told me once… she told me to leave and not come back. And I did. For four years.”

“Yeah,” Jinu shot back, not unkindly but with a conviction that cut through. “And guess what? You still came back. You’re here now, aren’t you? That means something. That means you’re stronger than her words.”

The silence stretched, heavy with Rumi’s uneven breaths. Jinu’s gaze softened again, his voice lowering into something gentler, coaxing. “Ru… I know it hurts. I know it feels like every time you see her, it’s a reminder of everything you lost. But you don’t erase yourself just because she told you to. You don’t vanish because someone couldn’t love you right.”

Her heart clenched so painfully she had to press her palm flat against her chest.

Jinu smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “You’re Ryu Rumi. Ranked top in business class, spinning music like you own every beat, walking around like the world can’t touch you—except I know it can, and I know it does. But you’re still here. You’re still standing.”

A tear slipped from Rumi’s eye, quick, silent. She brushed it away with the back of her hand before whispering hoarsely, “Ji… what if I can’t handle seeing her? What if I break again?”

“Then you break,” Jinu said simply. “You break, you cry, you scream. And then you pick yourself back up. And if you can’t, I’ll pick you up myself. But you’re not leaving, Ru. Not this time.”

Her throat closed, emotion clogging every breath. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Then, barely audible, she whispered, “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Jinu admitted, leaning back slightly, his expression softening. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it. And I’ll keep saying it until you finally believe me.”

Rumi let out a shaky laugh, watery and bitter at the same time. But beneath it, there was a flicker—tiny, fragile—of warmth. Of safety.

Rumi sniffled, dragging the sleeve of her hoodie across her cheek before lifting her gaze back to the screen. Jinu was still staring at her like he was ready to book a ticket across the Pacific if she so much as hiccupped wrong.

Her lips curved faintly, wobbly but trying. “Ji…” she whispered, then paused, deliberately dramatic. “Can you be my therapist?”

Jinu blinked, confused for a beat. “…What?”

Rumi’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Yeah. You know, you give all these long motivational speeches, call me out on my shit, and then pretend you’re not worried sick. That’s basically therapy.”

He narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. “Rumi…”

“I’ll pay you,” she added quickly, holding up one finger. “One cent. Every month.”

Jinu’s jaw dropped. “ONE CENT?!”

Rumi’s shoulders shook with the laugh she tried to suppress. “Yeah. That’s a fair rate, right? You’d get… uh…” she tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Twelve cents a year. You can buy… a gum wrapper maybe?”

He slapped his forehead, groaning like she’d just committed a crime against humanity. “You ungrateful brat! Do you know how many hours of my life I’ve wasted on your emotional rollercoasters? And you’re offering me twelve cents a year?!”

Rumi grinned now, the tension in her chest easing as she watched him flail. “Fine, fine. Fifteen cents a year.”

“Ru—” he pointed at her through the screen, looking dead serious, though his lips were twitching. “If you were here right now, I’d put you in a chokehold.”

She chuckled softly, leaning her cheek against her knee, braid falling forward. “You can try. But I’m stronger now, remember? Four years in the States, built resilience.”

“Resilience my ass,” Jinu scoffed. “You cry at cat commercials.”

“Okay but the cats look so sad!” she shot back, lips curving wider.

His laughter burst out then, loud and easy, chasing away the heaviness that had hung between them minutes ago. “God, you’re hopeless.”

--------

Monday came, and the weight of it pressed heavier than her blanket. Rumi lay in bed, her braid undone from sleep, the pale light of Seoul seeping through the curtains like it was mocking her. She didn’t want to get up—not today. Thoughts tangled in her head like thick smoke: Zoey’s wide freckled smile, Mira’s unreadable eyes in those memories she’d buried, and the sharp certainty that maybe she wasn’t ready to face this city again.

A light knock broke her spiral. “Ms. Rumi, your aunt asked for your presence in the dining,” one of the maids called politely through the door.

Rumi groaned softly, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling for a few more beats before replying, “Okay. Be there in twenty.”

“Yes, miss.” The footsteps faded.

Dragging herself up, she padded toward the bathroom. The hot shower worked its way over her skin, grounding her, washing away the ache of sleep and the static in her mind. By the time she stepped out, her fog hadn’t cleared completely, but she looked sharper. She slipped into a simple black fitted mid-thigh dress, the kind that was clean, composed, but effortless. She braided her long purple hair into her signature look, letting it fall down her back, swaying as she walked.

Phone. Wallet. Bag. A deep inhale. She pushed herself out of the room.

The house was too familiar and too foreign all at once as her heels clicked against the polished staircase. When she entered the dining room, Celine was already there—perfect as always, posture straight, a cup of coffee in hand, food neatly arranged on the table. The steam curled up from the cup, but it hadn’t been touched.

Rumi slid into her seat, setting her bag on the floor beside her. For a moment, the silence wrapped around them, heavy but not suffocating. Then, with her usual quiet deliberation, Celine set down her coffee cup.

Their breakfast began.

The clink of utensils against porcelain filled the stillness, measured and careful. Rumi glanced at her aunt, catching the way her expression never wavered—composed, disciplined, but softer than it might appear to outsiders. This was Celine’s way of showing care: presence, control, stability.

And Rumi, in her own quiet way, matched it. She ate in silence, letting the rhythm of the meal ground her, the fog in her chest settling just enough.

The campus of Hanseong University buzzed with its usual morning energy. Students streamed past in groups, the low hum of chatter, laughter, and hurried footsteps weaving into the crisp Monday air. Rumi walked through it with her usual poise, black dress fitting neatly, long purple braid swaying behind her like a deliberate ribbon. 

The chairman’s building stood tall, glass catching the morning light. Rumi climbed the steps, steady but purposeful, before knocking three times on the polished wooden door.

“Come in,” came the familiar baritone of Mr. Jung.

She entered, bowing slightly. “Good morning, Mr. Jung. I’m here to grab my schedule.”

Mr. Jung smiled warmly, riffling through his desk before handing her a small paper neatly folded in half. “Here you are, Ms. Ryu. Everything’s been finalized.”

“Thank you,” Rumi said, receiving it with both hands. She bowed once more before slipping out of the office.

Outside, she unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the list of classes. Her heart caught when she saw the first one written neatly on the page: Art Appreciation – Building 3. A general subject, manageable. She still had twenty minutes to spare, but her feet moved automatically, carrying her across the quad, past students perched on benches, the laughter of friends that rang in her ears like an echo of a life she used to have but couldn’t reach anymore.

Building 3 loomed ahead, not too modern, not too old—glass windows lining its sides, the faint scuff marks on its doors showing years of passing hands. Rumi slipped inside, eyes darting to the numbers carved above each classroom door. She moved down the corridor steadily, her braid brushing against her back, her breath even but shallow.

Classroom 4-1. She stopped in front of it, one hand hovering near the handle, when a voice behind her cut through the low murmur of the hallway.

“Are you the transfer?”

Rumi turned. A man in his mid-thirties stood there, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up just slightly past his elbows. His face was kind in a quiet, academic way, someone used to guiding rather than commanding.

“Yes, sir,” Rumi answered, her polite smile sliding into place with practiced ease.

The professor’s lips curved into an approving smile. He nodded. “Come, then. Let’s introduce you properly.”

He walked in first, and Rumi followed a step behind.

The classroom hushed as the door opened. Rows of students sat before her, notebooks open, some mid-whisper, some tapping their pens idly against the wooden desks. The air inside was a mix of morning sunlight streaming through tall windows and the faint, musty scent of books stacked in the corners.

Rumi stood near the front, her posture straight, shoulders drawn back, eyes briefly scanning the room.

And then she froze.

Her brown eyes met a pair of black ones across the room.

Sharp. Foxlike. All too familiar.

Mira.

Her heart thudded so violently she thought everyone could hear it. Her breath caught, throat dry, as if the world had tilted sideways and she’d forgotten how to stand. She forced herself—forced herself—to look away, her composure tightening like armor, her polite mask never slipping. Her lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile, her dimples pressing in as though nothing inside her was shattering.

But her hand, curled at her side, dug crescents into her palm.

Mira hadn’t looked away.

That same unreadable stare—piercing, cutting, the kind that saw too much—was locked on her. Not a word, not a blink, just that familiar weight pressing against Rumi’s chest like an anchor dragging her down.

“Ms. Kang, please refrain from sitting on the desks. Take your seats. We have a new student joining us today.” the professor said, his clipped voice cutting through the silence, Mira moved taking her seat

“Go ahead. Introduce yourself.” The professor said, unaware of the storm beneath the silence.

Polite applause trickled through the room. Rumi bowed slightly, her braid sliding over her shoulder, her voice calm, even, unshaken as she said, “Hi, everyone. I’m Ryu Rumi. I just came back from the States, so please don’t mind my accent.”

But her chest was burning.

Her gaze darted briefly across the room again, against her will, and collided once more with Mira’s.

The past she’d sworn to leave behind was here—alive, sharp, and sitting just a few desks away.

Rumi stayed rooted at the front, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, waiting for the professor to direct her toward an empty seat in the middle. The room was still warm with the echo of her short introduction when the professor suddenly clasped his hands together with a bright look.

“Alright, class,” he said, his voice tinged with playful amusement. “Since Ms. Ryu has just introduced herself, why don’t we welcome her with a few questions? Appropriate ones, at least.”

The students erupted into low laughter, a ripple of whispers filling the air like static. A few leaned closer to their desk mates, already smirking as if daring one another to go first.

Rumi tilted her head politely, the smile she wore calm, neutral, perfectly measured.

The first few questions came harmlessly enough

“What’s your major?”

“Where did you transfer from?”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

She answered each with composure, her voice even, never too short or too drawn out. “Business and Music.” “From Texas.” “Reading, sketching, writing, mixing” Each reply smooth and effortless, her mask unbroken.

Then, from the back row, a voice rang out, teasing and bold.

“So, Ms. Ryu—are you single?”

The classroom reacted instantly—low whistles, laughter, mock oohs echoing through the rows. Even the professor let out a weary sigh, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Rumi blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second. Her body didn’t flinch, but her mind froze, caught in the unexpectedness of it.

Almost instinctively, her gaze flickered across the room—unwilling, unplanned.

And then she saw it.

Mira.

Sitting in the left back rows, her posture perfectly upright, her fox-like eyes narrowed into a sharp glare aimed straight at the guy who had asked the question. It wasn’t subtle—her eyes were blades, cold, precise, daring him to open his mouth again. The kind of glare that could slice someone to pieces without a single word spoken.

Rumi’s breath hitched, eyebrows furrowing faintly before she forced her face back into calmness. She tore her gaze away, back to the amused stares waiting for her answer.

But the image lingered. Mira, watching. Mira, furious at the question. Mira, protective in a way that made no sense and yet made her chest twist.

Her lips parted to answer, but instead, an old memory tugged at her—uninvited, vivid.

Jinu.

That one night in the States, when some arrogant stranger had swaggered up during a late café run, grinning and asking her if she was “up for a hangout.” Jinu’s face had darkened instantly, his fist tightening at his side like he was one second away from knocking the guy’s teeth in. It had taken all of Rumi’s patience—and both her hands tugging him back—to stop him from throwing a punch right in the middle of the café.

The memory flashed so clearly in her head that before she could stop herself, a soft chuckle slipped past her lips.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a brief, low laugh—warm, genuine, out of place against her usually composed demeanor.

But the reaction it got was immediate.

The class gasped as if they had just witnessed a rare eclipse. A chorus of “Ohhh!” and “She laughed!” erupted all at once, echoing across the room.

The professor raised an amused brow, lips quirking into a smile he didn’t bother to hide this time. Even some of the quieter students straightened, suddenly intrigued by this transfer who had, until then, seemed carved entirely from calm stone.

Rumi’s eyes widened slightly at their overreaction, her brows knitting for just a moment before she smoothed her expression back into place. She tucked a strand of her braid behind her ear, shaking her head faintly, as if dismissing their noise.

But inside, she could feel it—heat curling in her chest, that strange tug pulling her gaze back toward the one person she swore she wouldn’t look at again.

And when her eyes betrayed her—when they flickered back to Mira—she caught it.

The faintest, most fleeting shift in Mira’s expression.

Not a glare.

Not indifference.

But something else.

Something softer.

Something that twisted Rumi’s insides far worse than that question ever could.

-------

Hours passed.

The hum of the air conditioner, the occasional scrape of a chair, the low murmurs of students half-listening—all of it blended into a haze. Rumi sat near the front, her back straight, her pen gliding across the page in tidy loops. To anyone else, she looked serene, focused, and perfectly composed.

But underneath that calm exterior, her mind was a storm.

Because she could feel it.

That stare.

It came from the left-back corner, steady, unwavering, burning in quiet intensity. At first, she tried to ignore it—eyes locked on the board, jaw set. But as minutes slipped into hours, it became impossible to pretend she didn’t feel the weight of it.

That gaze lingered like a warm breeze against the back of her neck—too gentle to call hostile, too familiar to dismiss. Every time she shifted slightly, pretending to adjust her seat or reach for her notebook, she could still feel it following her.

Mira.

Rumi didn’t have to look to know.

She didn’t have to confirm what her body already knew by heart.

So she sat there, perfectly still, letting her pen be her anchor. Her fingers tapped faintly against the edge of her desk—a silent rhythm that grounded her each time her heart threatened to sway.

When the final bell rang, Rumi nearly sighed in relief. But the moment she moved to pack her things, a few students were already crowding around her.

They spoke over one another, voices tumbling into noise.

Rumi smiled politely—her default armor. She nodded, answered short, practiced replies. Each smile was perfectly measured, her tone soft yet detached.

But amid the chatter, a loud voice from the circle cut through—carefree, teasing, completely unaware of the blade it carried.

“There they are again.”

The students around Rumi followed the guy's line of sight, curious.

And fate—cruel as always—dragged Rumi’s gaze right along with them.

Her world stilled.

At the back of the room, near the windows where the midday sunlight slipped, Zoey leaned forward—just slightly, just enough—and pressed her lips to Mira’s in a quick, casual smack.

A soft peck, nothing scandalous. Simple. Familiar.

But to Rumi, it might as well have been thunder.

Her breath caught mid-inhale. Her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. Her eyes—sharp, unwilling to show weakness—betrayed her anyway. Because she saw it.

She saw the way Mira’s stiff shoulders seemed to melt the moment Zoey kissed her. The way Mira’s clenched jaw relaxed. The way her expression—cold, guarded, so carefully neutral—softened, even if only for a second.

It was enough.

Enough to shatter something deep inside Rumi.

The world dimmed around her, voices fading into a distant hum.

And yet, even in the blur, she couldn’t look away. She couldn’t not see.

Her heart shuttered—

not cracked, not broken—

but shuttered.

The way glass quivers before splintering.

The way something fragile trembles under pressure but refuses to collapse just yet.

Her fingers curled into the hem of her dress beneath the table. Her thigh ached where her nails dug into skin, grounding her in that pain, forcing her to stay still.

Then one of their classmates, either oblivious or cruelly amused, called out—

“Hey, lovebirds!”

Laughter rippled across the room again.

The couple at the back pulled apart at once, startled—Zoey grinning, Mira blinking in mild panic.

And that’s when it happened.

Mira’s eyes—those sharp, fox-like eyes Rumi used to know so well—found hers.

It was like time folded in on itself.

For a moment, no one else existed. No laughter. No sunlight. No crowd. Just that locked gaze—two pairs of eyes across a sea of noise, colliding in a silence so heavy it burned.

Rumi saw it all in those eyes.

The faint tremor in Mira’s pupils.

The way her shoulders stiffened again, posture snapping straight as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

The way her throat bobbed hard, like she was forcing down a breath she couldn’t quite take.

And Rumi—God, Rumi wanted to look away.

To break. To run. To disappear.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She didn’t let the pain show—not when her heart screamed, not when the ache clawed its way up her chest.

She just held Mira’s gaze, unflinching, the same polite composure she’d worn since morning etched onto her face like a shield.

Her chin lifted slightly, her lips curved into the faintest of smiles—polite, practiced, unreadable.

Their guy classmate, the same one who’d teased earlier, raised his voice again, grinning ear to ear.

“Wanna join us for lunch? We’re gonna treat Rumi as a welcoming!”

Laughter rippled through the room.

A chorus of “Yeah, let’s go!” followed—students grabbing their bags, shoving notebooks away, energy buzzing after hours of lectures.

Rumi didn’t move.

Her gaze—still faintly locked on Mira—remained calm, polite, unreadable. Her left dimple deepened as she offered a small, measured smile. 

Across the room, Zoey turned toward Mira, fingers still laced with hers. Rumi caught the motion—the subtle squeeze of reassurance, the way Zoey’s thumb brushed over the back of Mira’s hand like a small comfort, a quiet claim.

“Lunch?” Zoey asked, tilting her head, her voice gentle.

Rumi’s heart stuttered once.

Mira’s eyes flicked toward Zoey, then briefly—too briefly—back to Rumi. And Rumi saw it. The hesitation. The way Mira’s lips parted as if to say something, the flicker of conflict behind her eyes.

For a fleeting second, Rumi almost wanted her to say no. To turn it down.

To do anything that would break the invisible script they were both pretending to follow.

But Mira exhaled slowly, eyes lowering, her features smoothing into something neutral. Then she nodded.

“Sure.”

That single word landed heavier than it should have.

Zoey smiled—bright, oblivious, maybe even relieved—and tugged Mira toward the group. The noise swelled again: laughter, chatter, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as everyone started moving toward the door.

Rumi stood still amid the rush. Her polite smile lingered, her back straight, her fingers brushing the strap of her bag in small, steady movements—something to occupy her hands, something to keep them from trembling.

Inside, though, her pulse drummed painfully in her ears.

She saw the way Zoey leaned into Mira as they walked, whispering something that made Mira’s lips twitch upward—an almost-smile. She saw the way their classmates teased lightly, throwing playful comments about how they “looked too good to be true.”

And Rumi—

Rumi just smiled faintly, lips curved like a crescent moon that hid its cracks behind the clouds.

When the group’s laughter echoed down the hall, Rumi followed quietly, a few steps behind, her braid brushing her back with each measured stride.

It was easier this way—to walk within the noise, to look composed, to pretend none of it mattered.

To pretend she wasn’t watching the girl she used to love… walk away, hand-in-hand, with someone else.

-------

The cafeteria buzzed with the easy chaos of lunchtime—voices blending with the clatter of trays and the hum of conversation. The scent of fried food and coffee hung in the air, a mix of comfort and fatigue that filled every corner.

For a few moments, conversation flowed around her—light jokes, campus gossip, talk about professors. Rumi offered small nods, smiles when needed, and the occasional word or two.

And then Zoey spoke.

Her hand extended suddenly across the table, palm open and warm, her voice carrying over the chatter:

“To properly introduce myself,” Zoey said, her tone bright and sincere, “we met quite a few times, but again—I’m Zoey. Nice meeting you, Rumi.”

It was open, disarming, completely genuine.

Rumi blinked once, eyes flicking from Zoey’s hand to her face. There was something so effortlessly kind about Zoey—it made it harder for Rumi to maintain her wall, even when every part of her wanted to.

Still, she smiled, that same polite, practiced smile that reached her eyes just enough to look real. She set her chopsticks down gently, lifted her own hand, and accepted Zoey’s.

Their palms met.

Warm. Soft. Human.

Zoey’s face lit up instantly, like someone had just turned on the sun. Her smile stretched so wide her eyes turned into crescents, and she let out a small laugh that startled even herself.

“Oh god—your hand is so soft!”

The words tumbled out of her in a blur of genuine awe and embarrassment, her cheeks immediately tinting pink.

A few classmates laughed lightly, amused by Zoey’s lack of filter. Rumi, still holding Zoey’s hand, blinked in faint surprise before her lips curved again—just slightly, politely, but this time there was a small trace of amusement behind it.

“Thank you,” Rumi said softly, tone warm but measured.

And that’s when she felt it—

that sudden flicker in the air.

Rumi’s gaze, slow and careful, shifted past Zoey.

Mira.

Mira’s brows furrowed tightly, the subtle muscle in her jaw flexing under her skin. Her fingers wrapped around her cup so firmly that the veins in her hand stood out, her knuckles paling.

Her fox-like eyes—sharp, unwavering—flicked to their joined hands for the briefest second before snapping back up to Rumi’s face.

And Rumi saw it.

The tension.

The slight crack in Mira’s mask.

The one only Rumi would notice—because she used to be the one who caused it.

Rumi’s heart gave a small, unwanted lurch in her chest.

She pulled her hand back gently, the movement calm and graceful as ever. Her lips curved again into that same polite expression, as if she hadn’t just felt the air between them tighten.

The chatter of the cafeteria felt like background noise now—just distant echoes beneath the steady pounding of Rumi’s heartbeat. She kept her posture perfect, her fingers loosely laced over her tray, her expression calm.

Then Zoey spoke, bright as ever, completely unaware of the weight her words carried.

“By the way,” Zoey said, her voice light and affectionate, “this is my girlfriend, Mira. She’s a little stiff, but she’s kind.”

The words struck like a quiet blow—sharp but silent, sliding beneath Rumi’s ribs before she could even brace herself. Her breath caught so subtly that no one would notice.

Girlfriend.

The word hung heavy in the air, twisting into something that made the room feel smaller, her throat tighter.

Rumi’s muscles stiffened beneath her calm exterior. She could almost feel the ache crawl up her skin, like something invisible pressing against her from the inside out. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t falter. Years of practice—years of learning how to smile when she wanted to break—kicked in automatically.

Her lips curved again, polite, gentle, the kind of smile that could fool anyone who didn’t know her.

“Nice meeting you again, Mira,” she said softly.

Her tone was perfectly even—graceful, measured, and so achingly distant that even Mira might have wondered if she’d imagined the small tremor hiding beneath it.

Mira’s eyes lifted to hers.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Rumi saw the way Mira froze—the flicker in her pupils, the way her shoulders tensed for half a second before she forced herself to relax. She caught the almost imperceptible parting of her lips, the breath Mira took before swallowing it down, before she leaned back ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” Mira said finally, voice quiet but steady, eyes locked on Rumi’s. “Nice to… meet you again.”

Zoey, oblivious to the undercurrent, smiled proudly and nudged Mira’s shoulder playfully. “See? She can be polite.”

A small laugh erupted from their classmates, the mood lifting easily again. Rumi joined in—lightly, softly, like she’d been part of the joke all along.

But inside, everything felt heavy.

Every second she sat there, every word spoken, scraped something raw inside her chest.

She lowered her gaze briefly to her tray, hiding the faint tightness in her jaw. Her fingers tapped once—softly—against the edge of the table. That same rhythm she always used when her heart felt too loud.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It steadied her.

It tethered her.

When she lifted her eyes again, the mask was back in place. Mira’s gaze lingered on her for just a moment longer before she turned away, looking at Zoey as if forcing herself to breathe normally again.

And Rumi smiled again. Because that’s what she did best.

Smiled, even when every nerve in her body was screaming that she shouldn’t have come back.

-------

It was over 10 minutes since Mira left due to some professor's email. Zoey kept asking Rumi questions, curiosity evident in her tone, Rumi answered as always. There was comfort in that simplicity. But Zoey tilted her head, eyes curious, and asked a question that slipped straight past Rumi’s guard.

“So, is music your teenage dream? Or something you just… stumbled into later?”

Rumi froze.

Just for a breath.

Her spoon hovered mid-air before she placed it down gently, silently. Her eyes flicked to Zoey’s face—open, bright, kind—but there was no judgment there. Just innocent curiosity. The kind that made Rumi’s chest ache because she didn’t deserve the softness of it.

Her throat felt dry when she finally spoke.

“I used to dream of dancing,” she said quietly.

The words felt strange on her tongue. Too familiar and too distant all at once.

“Not music. Not business. Just… dancing.”

Her voice trailed off, softer at the end. She didn’t look at Zoey now—her eyes fell instead on her untouched drink, the condensation pooling in a small ring on the table.

That one word—dancing—carried with it the weight of years she’d tried to forget. Memories she’d stuffed into the farthest corners of her mind.

The mirrored walls in a room. The echo of laughter that wasn’t hers. A familiar voice teasing her—“You call that dancing? More like you're trying to be a worm!.”

So she stopped dancing before that memory could keep reminding her of what she lost—and who she lost.

Rumi blinked, pushing down the sudden swell in her chest. Her fingers brushed against her thigh beneath the table, grounding herself with a gentle squeeze.

Because it wasn’t a dream she lost by accident.

She buried it herself. With eight quiet words that sealed the grave.

I don’t want to dance, not anymore.

Rumi’s fork hovered near her plate, untouched. Her body sat perfectly still, posture poised—shoulders straight, expression serene. On the surface, she was the picture of composure: the polite, unshakable student who had long ago mastered the art of listening.

Inside, though, her thoughts swirled in places she never wanted to revisit. The echoes of old rhythms, the faint sound of a metronome ticking somewhere deep in her memory, refused to fade.

She hadn’t thought about that side of herself in years. And yet, one simple question had unearthed it so easily.

Still, her façade didn’t falter. Not even once.

Her gaze softened, polite, as Zoey leaned forward, grin widening as though struck by a sudden, bright idea.

“Oh!” Zoey blurted, the sound bursting into the quiet cafeteria like sunlight through clouds. “I’m producing music too. Like—seriously, not just for fun. For my major.”

Rumi blinked, pulled gently from her reverie as Zoey’s hands animatedly tapped the table, a rhythm full of life and energy. Her words came tumbling out, quick, unfiltered, and warm.

“I could show you some if you want,” Zoey continued, excitement glowing in her voice. “My girlfriend, Mira—she always makes choreography whenever I release something for class. Then she uses it for her dance projects.”

The word choreography lodged itself somewhere between Rumi’s ribs.

Her stomach fluttered, an involuntary ache she smothered almost instantly. She kept her smile—gentle, practiced, unwavering—while her mind stumbled for footing beneath it.

Zoey’s grin only widened, her pride unmistakable. “Cool, right? It’s like we’re our own little two-person team. My music, her movement.”

Rumi’s heart twisted.

It was ridiculous—how something so simple, so sweet, could sting so deeply. Zoey’s joy wasn’t sharp or cruel; it was pure. And yet, it cut through her all the same.

Music and dance. Her music, her movement.

Rumi blinked, her fork still resting against the edge of her plate, appetite long forgotten.

Her thoughts, once neatly tucked behind her calm façade, began to stir again—gentle at first, then faster, like a current breaking loose beneath ice.

“Mira?” Rumi echoed quietly, lifting her gaze to Zoey, who was still smiling, still talking about melodies and studio hours and the fun chaos of collaboration. Then the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Mira? Dancing?”

Zoey paused mid-gesture, her spoon dangling in the air as she nodded, beaming. “Yep! Mira and dancing. She’s amazing, actually. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw her. She’s always been… you know, the composed one, the serious one. But when she dances? It’s like she’s free. Like she’s untouchable.”

Rumi didn’t respond.

Her mind had gone still. The cafeteria’s chatter faded into a soft, dull hum, like she was underwater, hearing through walls of memory.

Mira? Dancing?

The same Mira who used to sit cross-legged on her bed, teasing her between half-laughs and eye rolls every time Rumi spun around the room. The same Mira who’d tilt her head, smirk, and say;

 “Are you trying to be a worm, Ru?”

Rumi could still hear the sound of Mira’s laugh that followed, half-mocking, half-soft. She could still feel her own laughter bubbling in response, helpless and fond, pulling Mira by the hand just to make her move, just to make her join.

And Mira would jump, not dance—always jumping to the beat, flailing her arms in mock protest while Rumi’s laughter filled the space.

That was Mira. That was her Mira.

So hearing Zoey say choreography—that Mira created dances now—felt like a small fracture running through the floor beneath her.

When?

Why?

How?

Her mind spun with the questions she couldn’t ask out loud. When had Mira started loving the thing she used to mock? What changed? Who changed her?

Rumi’s gaze slipped to Zoey again, and this time, she really looked at her.

The way Zoey’s eyes gleamed when she spoke, hands painting invisible shapes in the air as if the world itself was made of rhythm and possibility.

The way her laughter seemed to echo across the cafeteria—unguarded, bright, like it had never known the weight of restraint.

There was something magnetic about her. She was light—radiant in a way that felt effortless. The kind of person people couldn’t help but look at, drawn in without realizing why.

And Rumi…

Rumi understood, in that painfully quiet moment, why Mira would fall in love with someone like her.

Someone who wasn’t afraid to be loud.

Someone who didn’t overthink before smiling.

Someone who could pull laughter out of a crowded room without trying.

She felt the ache bloom in her chest, a familiar kind of ache that sat between longing and self-blame.

Why couldn’t she be like Zoey?

Bright like a sun.

Free like a bird.

Warm like fire.

And, most of all—loved by Mira

Rumi swallowed the thought down before it could surface on her face. She smiled—polite, controlled, practiced—her mask returning just in time as Zoey continued to talk about melodies, projects, and future dreams.

But inside, something quiet and fragile had cracked open again.

Because the Mira Zoey described wasn’t the Mira Rumi remembered.

And maybe, just maybe—

that was the part that hurt the most.

--------

Rumi sat in silence, the faint hum of voices from the hallway fading behind the closed classroom door. The faint glow of her phone screen rested on her desk, but her mind wasn’t on it. Her thoughts were still tangled somewhere between the cafeteria and the quiet ache that had followed her here.

Then, out of nowhere, a soft thunk echoed against her desk.

Rumi blinked.

Zoey had placed her silver laptop right in front of her, its screen already awake, a music program open and blinking with waveforms.

Rumi tilted her head slightly, polite as always, her lips curving into that composed smile she wore so well.

Zoey grinned—wide and mischievous, her dimples deepening. “Okay, so—don’t tell Mira about this, alright?” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close enough that Rumi could catch a faint trace of her cherry shampoo. “She’ll get all pouty if she finds out I let someone else listen first.”

Rumi blinked, unsure how to respond before Zoey continued, voice bubbling with energy, “But! I’m gonna let you hear my latest work.”

Before Rumi could even nod, Zoey fished an earphones from her pocket, wiped one on her sleeve in a dramatic show of mock-cleanliness, and offered the left one to Rumi.

Rumi hesitated for half a second—then accepted. Her fingers brushed Zoey’s briefly, light as a whisper. Then Zoey clicked play.

At first, there was only silence. Then came the slow build of a melody—soft piano chords layered with distant synths, the rhythm steady but tender. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t showy. It was gentle—the kind of song that makes movement inevitable, the kind that makes a dancer’s body sway before the mind even realizes it.

It was beautiful.

Rumi felt something uncoil inside her chest as the music played.

Her eyes softened, the faint flicker of light from the laptop reflecting in her brown irises.

This wasn’t just good—it was felt. It had warmth, care, intention. The kind of music that could hold someone’s soul without saying a word.

Her gaze drifted to Zoey, who was watching her intently, almost nervous beneath her excitement. She was waiting—hoping—for a reaction.

Rumi didn’t speak. Not yet.

She just watched Zoey’s face, the spark in her eyes, the easy brightness that seemed to glow from within.

And in that silence, Rumi thought—

Now I know why she really falls for you.

Her chest ached with something quiet and familiar, something she couldn’t quite name.

Her eyes lingered on Zoey a beat longer before she looked down again at the screen, pretending to study the song’s timeline. But then, without meaning to—without even thinking—the words slipped out.

“That’s why she fell for you.”

It was so soft, barely more than a whisper, but it hung in the space between them like a breath neither could take back.

Zoey froze. Her fingers, mid-tap on the laptop’s touchpad, stopped moving.

Her eyes flickered to Rumi’s, confusion mixing with something else—something gentler, uncertain.

Rumi felt her pulse stutter. Her composure—the calm, polite mask she always wore—tightened again like invisible thread.

She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze back to the screen as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

--------

The classroom was almost empty when the final bell rang.

Desks scraped, laughter and chatter spilled into the hallway, and the heavy door closed behind the last group of students. The once-bustling space turned quiet, the faint hum of air-conditioning filling what was left.

Rumi stayed seated, quietly putting her things away with the same meticulous care she gave to everything she did—stacking her notebooks neatly, sliding her pens into the small pouch in her bag, aligning the corners before she zipped it shut.

She liked this moment of calm.

It was easier to breathe when no one was watching.

But then—

Two pairs of shoes stopped right in front of her desk.

Rumi’s hands stilled, her fingers lightly pressing against the edge of her notebook before she looked up.

Zoey was grinning down at her, that same bright, unguarded smile that seemed to make every room lighter. The kind of smile Rumi had long forgotten how to wear.

For a fleeting second, Rumi’s expression didn’t change—composed, calm, unreadable as ever. But her eyes flickered, just once, past Zoey’s shoulder.

And there she was.

Mira.

Still as glass, gaze unreadable. Their eyes locked—one heartbeat, two, too long.

Then Rumi turned back to Zoey, breaking the contact with a soft blink and a controlled exhale that only she could hear.

“Rumi,” Zoey said, her tone easy, her grin widening like this was the most casual thing in the world. “Can I get your number? You know—we’re friends now.”

The words hung in the air, simple, harmless. But Rumi caught the subtle shift beside her—

Mira.

Her stiffening. The small, almost imperceptible motion of her shoulders tightening.

Because Mira knew.

She knew Rumi didn’t hand out her number. Not to classmates. Not to acquaintances. Not to anyone she hadn’t known for years. Rumi was always guarded. Always careful. Always unreachable, a fortress wrapped in politeness.

And yet—

“Sure,” Rumi heard herself say.

It slipped out so smoothly that even she almost believed her own calm. Her tone was light, polite, unshaken. She reached for her phone, her fingers steady despite the quiet pounding in her chest.

She gave Zoey her number.

Zoey’s face lit up instantly, eyes practically sparkling with excitement. “Great! Here, I’ll give you mine too,” she said, tapping quickly on her phone before holding it out for Rumi to type in. “That way, you can text me anytime. Music buddies, yeah?”

Rumi looked up again, meeting Zoey’s grin—and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

Then she smiled. The same small, polite curve of her lips, the one that hid everything she couldn’t say.

“Music buddies,” she echoed softly, as she accepted Zoey’s phone and typed her name in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could feel Mira’s gaze still fixed on her.

Tense. Piercing.

Like the sound of glass about to crack.

And for the first time that day, Rumi didn’t dare look back.

It had been almost a month since classes started. A month of quiet torture disguised as routine.

Rumi learned the rhythm of Hanseong University—its halls, its patterns, its noise. She learned the names of her classmates, their voices, their habits. She learned when Zoey would laugh too loud in the morning and when Mira would sit in silence during lunch. She learned when to look away and when to pretend not to see.

And every night, when the sun dipped behind the Seoul skyline and the world finally quieted down, she called Jinu.

Always at the same hour. Always with her blanket pulled up to her chin, her long braid tossed over her shoulder, her voice soft and tired.

At first, Jinu would start the call with his usual teasing. “Hey, Ru. You sound like you’re calling from a cave. You hiding from your emotions again?”

She would sniff, chuckle weakly, and say, “Maybe.”

Then it would begin.She told him everything.

Every small detail that she couldn’t say out loud during the day—the way Mira’s laugh still made her chest ache, the way Zoey’s voice seemed to fill every room, the way she caught herself stealing glances at both of them even when she swore she wouldn’t.

Some nights, she told him about their group activities, how she would sit beside Zoey as they shared earbuds, and how Mira would subtly shift her chair away, pretending not to notice.

Other nights, she told him about how hard it was to keep pretending she was okay when all she wanted to do was scream, to ask why fate was so cruel to put her here again—back where everything hurt.

And Jinu listened. Always.

Sometimes he’d hum softly, sometimes he’d mutter curses under his breath that made Rumi smile through her tears.

“That girl’s lucky you haven’t set the world on fire yet,” he’d say once, his tone half-joking, half-serious.

Rumi sniffled, laughing wetly. “Fire’s messy. I already burned once. I’m not sure I’ll survive a second.”

There were nights where she didn’t even talk. She’d just cry quietly while Jinu stayed on the line, the faint sound of his keyboard in the background as he worked on something, occasionally saying,

“I’m here, Ru. Let it out. You don’t have to say anything.”

And then—when her sobs slowed, when her voice cracked from whispering too much, when her eyes felt heavy—he would crack a joke.

“Next time you call me, I’m charging emotional support tax,” he’d tease. “Five cents per tear. You already owe me, like, ten dollars.”

Rumi’s laugh always came through the receiver, soft and broken but real.

And somehow, that laugh—that fragile little sound in the middle of the night—was enough to make Jinu smile back, even from miles away.

Then, as she started drifting off, her voice barely a whisper, she’d murmur, “Thank you, Ji…”

And he’d reply, almost automatically, “Always, Ru. Always.”

Then the line would go quiet—Rumi finally asleep,

Jinu staring at the ceiling, both of them pretending the world wasn’t breaking her heart piece by piece every single day.

Rumi sat quietly in her usual seat — the one in the middle row, not too close to the front to be noticed, not too far back to be forgotten. Her notebook lay open, pen poised between her fingers, though she hadn’t written a single word. The faint hum of morning chatter filled the classroom, soft and distant, like a song she wasn’t part of.

The door slid open.

She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

That same rhythm of footsteps — light, quick, unbothered — was something she’d come to recognize over the weeks.

Zoey and Mira walked in together.

Rumi’s gaze flicked up briefly, catching the sight of their intertwined hands. Mira’s expression was calm, almost unreadable, while Zoey’s face carried that familiar brightness that seemed to fill every quiet space she entered.

They walked to their seats — just a few desks away from Rumi — and placed their bags down. Rumi’s fingers twitched against her pen, knuckles tightening slightly, but her face stayed smooth, composed, a picture of quiet indifference.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

Zoey.

She was walking straight toward her, the same easy grin tugging at her lips. The closer she got, the more Rumi felt that subtle rush of warmth — the kind she didn’t want to feel.

“Good morning, Ru!” Zoey chirped, her voice bright and effortless. “Did you sleep well?”

Rumi blinked up at her, her polite smile falling naturally into place like muscle memory. “Good morning, Zoey. I… slept fine, thank you.”

Zoey beamed, dimples showing. Then she leaned forward a little, lowering her voice playfully. “Come with us at lunch, please?”

Rumi’s heart skipped. The words were simple — an innocent invitation — but they hit somewhere deeper, somewhere she couldn’t name.

Her smile stayed, perfectly measured. “Sorry, Zoey. I already promised to have lunch with someone.” buy that was not true, she just need a distance 

Zoey pouted, drawing out the sound. “Really? Again? You’ve been so busy lately, Ru.”

Rumi gave a soft smile, shaking her head. “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“Promise?” Zoey asked, tilting her head.

“Promise.”

Zoey’s grin returned, easy and bright. “Okay then! I’ll hold you to that.”

She gave Rumi a playful salute before turning back to Mira, who was quietly watching from her seat — her expression unreadable, though Rumi felt the faint, familiar tension beneath it.

-------

The bell rang, signaling lunch break, and the classroom burst into its usual chorus of chatter, scraping chairs, and laughter. Rumi exhaled softly, placing her pen down. Her notes were neat, organized, but her thoughts had wandered a thousand miles away. She was about to start packing her things at her usual, unhurried pace when her phone buzzed against the desk.

The vibration was sharp in the sudden quiet between voices.

Rumi glanced at the screen — and froze.

Jinu: Outside.

That was it. No emoji, no follow-up, no explanation. Just one word. But her heart stuttered like it was a scream instead of a text.

Her fingers twitched before she even realized it. She moved faster than she’d moved in weeks — shoving her pens into the case, closing her notebook with a soft thud, stacking everything with mechanical precision that was more rushed than graceful. Her classmates were still chatting, Zoey’s voice bubbling somewhere behind her, but the sound faded into static.

She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and bolted out.

Her legs carried her down the hallway, the echo of her steps sharp against the polished floor. For once, she didn’t care about how she looked, didn’t think about the impression she left — her calm poise slipping through the cracks like sand between her fingers. Her heartbeat thundered, an uneven rhythm that pulsed in her ears as she neared the exit.

And then —

There he was.

Then just outside the building standing tall amidst the crowd of students spilling out, sunlight hitting his profile. The same familiar black hair, slightly messy as always, the same broad shoulders, the same tilt of his head like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Her breath caught.

“Jiii!!!!”

It tore out of her before she could stop herself — not measured, not polite, not quiet. Just real.

His head snapped toward her, that easy grin blooming across his face in an instant.

And Rumi ran.

She didn’t walk gracefully like she always did. She ran, bag bumping against her side, the sound of her shoes hitting the floor a blur. Her composure shattered the moment she reached him — leaping forward and throwing herself into his arms before the thought could even form.

Jinu let out a surprised laugh, catching her effortlessly. “Woah, hey—! Easy, Ru!”

But she didn’t let go.

Her arms stayed wrapped around him, tight, almost desperate, face buried against his shoulder. The scent of sandalwood, faint coffee, and something warmly familiar wrapped around her like a memory she’d been aching to touch.

He chuckled again, softer this time, his arm wrapped around Rumi’s waist “Missed me that bad, huh?”

Rumi’s voice was muffled, trembling between laughter, disbelief and relief. “You— you didn’t even tell me you were coming…”

“I wanted to surprise you.” His voice dropped to a gentle murmur, teasing at the edges. “Guess it worked?”

Rumi pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him — eyes glossy but bright. “You dickhead… you really—” She stopped, the rest of her words swallowed by emotion.

Jinu smiled, and it was the same one that had anchored her for four years. The kind of smile that said you can fall apart now; I’ll hold you anyway.

For the first time in weeks, Rumi felt the heaviness inside her chest loosen completely.

For a moment, they just stood there—surrounded by the buzz of students, lost in their small reunion that felt like the first real breath she’d taken in months.

Then—

“Jinu!”

The voice came from the building entrance—sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade.

Both of them turned at once, heads tilting in unison toward the direction of the sound.

A figure stood in few feet away, her hand still raised as if she hadn’t quite processed what she was seeing.

Rumi’s smile faltered, the warmth in her chest cooling just slightly. Her fingers loosened their grip on Jinu’s jacket.

Jinu blinked, still holding Rumi protectively, then looked from the figure to Rumi, confusion flickering in his expression.

The crowd around them thinned, the chatter blurring into background noise.

Rumi’s breath hitched, quiet—so quiet only Jinu might’ve felt it against his collar.

Because that voice—

She knew it...

Chapter Text

(HANGOUT)

Zoey tilted her head, lips pursed as she studied Mira from the corner of her eye. Her usually unreadable, cool-as-a-cucumber girlfriend was anything but right now. The air around Mira was heavy, stormy. Her brows were drawn together so tightly a crease had formed between them, her jaw so taut that the vein running down the side was visible, pulsing. And her hands—Zoey’s gaze dipped—her fists were clenched so hard her forearms trembled faintly, knuckles chalk-white.

Zoey blinked. That wasn’t just irritation. That was something deeper.

Her curious nature prickled. Zoey tilted her head again, following Mira’s line of sight. Her eyes landed on the very thing that Mira was rooted to—Rumi.

Rumi, in all her goddess-like perfection, long purple braid falling over her shoulder, dimples deep as she smiled—no, grinned—at the tall black-haired guy she was currently wrapped around. He was holding her like she was light as air, like catching her was the most natural thing in the world. The sight was... jarring.

Zoey’s brows furrowed in mild confusion on why does her girlfriend is so affected by that sight. Then Zoey squinted at the guy’s face. Something about it nagged at her memory. Familiar. The sharp jawline, the half-smile tugging his lips as he steadied Rumi, the way he tilted his head slightly—Zoey tilted hers too, trying to match the image in her brain.

And then it clicked.

Her eyes widened slightly before narrowing in recognition. “...Jinu?” she mumbled under her breath.

Mira’s head snapped so fast Zoey flinched a little. Her black eyes locked on her, sharp, cutting through the noise of the crowd. “You know that guy?” Mira asked, her tone low but laced with irritation she wasn’t bothering to hide.

Zoey puffed her cheeks like she always did when annoyed at Mira’s tone, then narrowed her eyes at the guy again, confirming her thought. Yep. Definitely Jinu.

A bright grin spread across Zoey’s face like sunrise. She bounced a little on her feet, the storm radiating from Mira rolling right off her.

“Oh my god, it is Jinu!” she said, almost squealing. Without hesitation, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across the crowd, loud enough to draw a few stares from passing students—

“Jinu!”

Her voice carried, clear as day. The tall black-haired guy immediately lifted his head, turning toward the sound. His eyes scanned the crowd, then landed right on Zoey. Recognition flickered, his head tilting with that same easy familiarity.

Zoey didn’t give Mira a chance to react—she tugged at her girlfriend’s wrist with the same enthusiasm she always had when she was about to barrel into something without thinking twice. “Come on!” she chirped, practically dragging Mira forward.

Mira’s steps were reluctant, her body stiff like she was walking against an invisible current. But Zoey barely noticed. Her entire face was lit up in excitement, the kind she always had when bumping into someone she knew.

As they neared, Rumi pulled back slightly from Jinu’s arms, her composed smile sliding back into place, though the lingering brightness in her eyes betrayed the joy she’d just shown. Jinu, meanwhile, was still looking toward Zoey, one arm casually slung across Rumi’s shoulders like they’d been friends for years.

Zoey waved wildly, calling again, “Jinu! It’s me—Zoey!”

And Mira… Mira’s stomach twisted, her free hand curling into a tighter fist.

Jinu’s eyes widened as Zoey’s voice cut through the buzz of campus chatter. He squinted for a beat, then his expression cracked into the kind of grin that transformed his whole face—bright, open, genuine. His arm instinctively slipped from Rumi’s shoulders as his attention shifted completely.

“Zo?! Little Zo?!” he called out, his deep voice carrying easily. He let out a laugh, one that was equal parts surprise and delight. “No way—no way in hell! Yow, I didn’t know you’re studying here!”

He started stepping forward, his long strides making it easy to close the distance.

Zoey’s whole face lit up, and she let out a laugh that turned heads. “Jinu!” she half-shouted, then without missing a beat, she threw her hands up and flashed the little sequence of movements—the hand sign, goofy and complicated—that only the two of them would know.

The one they came up with during that very first awkward family reunion back in the States, when Zoey had been tiny, wide-eyed, and desperate to prove she wasn’t just the little cousin from overseas.

Jinu immediately barked a laugh and mirrored the sign with his much larger hands, his motions exaggerated and dramatic like always. He even added a playful spin at the end—something he’d teased Zoey with years ago.

“Damn!” Jinu chuckled, shaking his head. “You still remember that thing? What was that—three family reunions ago? Four? You were—what—twelve? Thirteen? Little brat wouldn’t leave me alone, kept asking me to play basketball even though you couldn’t dribble for shit.”

Zoey’s cheeks puffed, her brows knitting in mock offense. “Hey! First of all, rude. Second, I was eleven! And I can dribble now, thank you very much.” She jabbed a finger at his chest the moment she got close enough, her grin only widening. “Don’t underestimate me just ‘cause I used to chase you around like a puppy!”

Jinu laughed again, a deep booming sound that made a few nearby students glance their way curiously. He ruffled Zoey’s hair like he used to, earning another puffed-cheek glare from her. “Still the same Little Zo. I swear, you haven’t changed a bit. Just taller.” He tilted his head, looking her over. “Nah—scratch that. Taller and prettier. Guess you grew into yourself, huh?”

Zoey rolled her eyes but her smile betrayed her, bright and unbothered. She bumped his arm with her shoulder, the familiarity between them slipping right back into place like no time had passed at all.

Mira, though.

Mira stood stiffly beside Zoey, her wrist still trapped in Zoey’s grip. Her usually sharp composure was fraying at the edges, her jaw ticking as she watched Zoey beam at this tall, too-handsome-for-his-own-good cousin she’d apparently never mentioned before.

The way Zoey’s laughter bubbled out so easily, the way her eyes sparkled—it was different. Different in a way Mira couldn’t ignore.

And just behind Jinu, Rumi was still standing there. The polite smile she’d given Zoey earlier was back in place, but her eyes flickered, betraying a depth Mira couldn’t quite read. She hadn’t moved since Zoey and Mira approached, her hands folded neatly in front of her as if grounding herself.

But Zoey?

Zoey was too caught up in the whirlwind of reunion to notice any of it. She tugged Mira forward slightly, grinning ear to ear as she gestured between them. “Mira, this is Jinu! My cousin—well, technically, my uncle’s son from the States. We’ve only met like… three times? Four? But trust me—” she laughed, looking back at Jinu with a grin that showed all her teeth, “—he’s unforgettable.”

“Cousin, huh,” Mira muttered, her tone carrying that familiar cool edge, though Zoey—ever oblivious in moments like these—didn’t seem to catch it.

Jinu, however, did. He glanced at her, brows lifting slightly, then tilted his head with an easy smile that didn’t falter. “Nice meeting you,” he said, his voice smooth, casual.

His gaze lingered a fraction too long before he squinted. “What’s your name again? I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before.” He tapped his chin theatrically, as if trying to pull the memory out of the air.

Mira’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she answered, her tone clipped yet calm. “Mira. Kang Mira.”

For a brief second, she thought he would just nod and move on. But then Mira caught it—the quick flicker of Jinu’s expression, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. And then, almost unconsciously, his head tilted just the slightest toward Rumi, who had been standing a quiet step behind him all this time.

Rumi, as if sensing it, raised a brow in return, her expression unreadable but steady, like she knew exactly what that silent exchange implied. Her posture stayed perfectly straight, hands still folded in front of her, but her gaze cut from Jinu to Mira in a way that made Mira’s stomach twist.

Zoey, oblivious as ever, chirped in between them, “Mira’s my girlfriend!” she said proudly, leaning against Mira’s shoulder as though stamping the label across her chest for everyone to see. “She’s the smartest person I know, and totally scary when she wants to be—but I love her.”

The air shifted just slightly.

Jinu blinked, then broke into another easy grin. “Girlfriend, huh? Damn, Zo. Guess you really did grow up.” He chuckled before looking back at Mira with a raised brow. “Well then, Kang Mira. Guess I’ll be seeing more of you.”

Mira didn’t return the grin. She just nodded curtly, though her fox-like eyes betrayed the way her mind was racing, already circling back to that almost imperceptible glance Jinu had thrown at Rumi.

And Rumi—

Rumi finally broke her silence, her polite tone cutting clean into the tension. “Jinu, we should go.” Her voice was calm, collected, but her eyes lingered on Mira for half a heartbeat longer before she turned towards him

Jinu sighed, ruffling his hair, but nodded. “Right, right. Let’s catch up later though, Little Zo. It’s been way too long.”

Zoey beamed, but Mira barely registered it. Her jaw was tight, her chest hot with a mess of emotions she couldn’t even begin to untangle.

Because that glance, that silent communication, wasn’t nothing.

And Mira knew it.

---------

Zoey tugged on Mira’s hand, her energy like a spark trying to chase away the storm brewing in Mira’s chest. “Come on, I’m starving,” she said, pulling Mira toward the cafeteria with little resistance. Mira followed, silent, her fox-like eyes darting back once, just once, at where Rumi and Jinu disappeared down quad.

The cafeteria was its usual chaos—buzzing chatter, trays clattering, laughter echoing in clusters—but Zoey managed to weave them toward the corner where a small two-seated table sat free. She plopped down, dropping her tray with a satisfied sigh, and patted the chair across from her like a command.

Mira sat, her every movement deliberate, her back straight and jaw tight. For a few seconds, she just studied Zoey, who was already fiddling with her chopsticks. Then Mira narrowed her eyes, voice low but sharp.

“You didn’t mention you have a cousin named Jinu.”

Zoey paused mid-twirl of noodles, blinking at her. Then she tilted her head, brows raised, lips forming a small pout. “We actually never talk about distant cousins? Right?”

Mira’s eyes flickered. “Distant or not, you seem close enough to greet him like that.” Her words weren’t angry, but the coolness in them made Zoey frown.

Zoey puffed out her cheeks, tapping the end of her chopsticks on the table in mock annoyance. “Mira, come on. He’s a cousin I only saw, like, three-four times. Family reunions in the States. That’s it.” She leaned forward, playful but trying to soften the tension. “I didn’t think I needed to give you a full family tree just in case we bumped into him one day.”

Mira didn’t answer right away. Her jaw flexed, her hand tightening around her spoon. Images from earlier replayed on loop—Rumi’s radiant smile, the way she jumped into Jinu’s arms like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way Jinu looked at her after hearing Mira’s name.

It gnawed at her.

“Mira?” Zoey’s voice pulled her back. Her girlfriend’s head tilted, her eyes wide, her lips curved into the smallest pout that Mira knew was weaponized just for her. “Why do you look like you’re interrogating me?”

Mira’s gaze softened at that, though the tension still clung to her like a second skin. She exhaled slowly, trying to reel it in. “…Forget it,” she muttered, finally lifting her spoon to her soup.

Zoey’s lips twitched, caught between amusement and suspicion, but she let it slide. Instead, she grinned and nudged Mira’s shin under the table. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Mira froze mid-sip.

Zoey’s grin widened. “You are.”

Mira put her spoon down, her fox-like eyes narrowing as if she could burn away Zoey’s smug little grin. For a long beat, she didn’t say anything. Then her lips parted, her voice quiet but sharp.

“So what if I am?”

Zoey blinked, her chopsticks frozen midair. Then her grin split wider, delighted. “Ohhh, so my Mira is jealous,” she sang under her breath, leaning forward like she’d just uncovered the universe’s best secret.

Mira’s stomach knotted. She didn’t even know why she said it—why she admitted it when she wasn’t even sure who exactly her chest was aching over.

Was it the way Rumi’s smile bloomed for Jinu? Or the way Jinu smiled at Zoey like they’d shared something before Mira even existed in their lives? All Mira knew was that the sight of them—together—had set her blood boiling.

But Zoey didn’t care about the depth of that. No, Zoey leaned on the table, chin resting in her palm, eyes twinkling. “Kang Mira, jealous of my cousin. This is so cute, I might combust.”

Mira’s jaw flexed, her cheeks heating despite her stoic mask. “Don’t push it,” she muttered, picking her spoon back up as if it could shield her from Zoey’s teasing.

Zoey kicked her lightly under the table, beaming ear to ear. “What am I supposed to do, huh? My cool, composed, untouchable girlfriend just confessed she’s jealous. I need to document this moment.” She mimed pulling out her phone. “Wait, let me write it down—October third, Kang Mira admitted she’s jealous. History made.”

“Zoey.” Mira’s voice was low, warning, but the corner of her lips betrayed her—curling, faintly, against her will.

Zoey gasped dramatically, leaning closer. “Oh my gosh, are you smiling? She’s smiling while jealous. Adorable. Absolutely adorable.”

Mira huffed, looking away “Eat your food,” she muttered.

Zoey grinned widely “Yes, ma’am. My jealous girlfriend, Kang Mira.” She emphasized the name like it was a title, and Mira groaned softly, knowing she’d never live this down.

Zoey hummed happily. Mira’s eyes cut toward her, sharp and unimpressed, but the faint pink in her cheeks betrayed her cool mask.

“Seriously, Zo,” Mira muttered, “drop it.”

Zoey leaned closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “Mmm… no.”

Mira blinked, caught off guard. “No?”

“Nope.” Zoey popped the “p” with a grin. “Because seeing you jealous is like… seeing a cat try to pretend it doesn’t care when you pet it. I live for this. My cool, foxy Mira, all ruffled up.”

Mira exhaled heavily, trying not to laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” Zoey squeezed her hand, eyes twinkling. “…you still love me.”

Mira turned her face away, scooping a spoonful of rice to hide the smirk tugging her lips. “Unfortunately.”

Zoey gasped, her free hand dramatically clutching her chest. “Unfortunately?! You wound me! Here I was thinking I was your blessing, your sunshine, your reason to breathe—”

“Eat,” Mira cut her off flatly, sliding Zoey’s bowl closer.

Zoey bit back a giggle, biting into her food but never letting go of Mira’s hand. Between bites, she mumbled, “You can try to act cold all you want, but I know the truth. My Mira gets jealous. And she’s cute when she is.”

Mira finally looked at her, dark eyes softening for a brief moment before narrowing again. “…Fine. You win.”

Zoey nearly dropped her chopsticks. “Wait—you’re admitting defeat? Kang Mira?!”

Mira leaned in, her lips brushing Zoey’s cheek in a fleeting kiss before pulling back with that sly, fox-like smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

Zoey froze, stunned, then broke into the brightest grin. “Too late. Best lunch ever.”

Mira sighed, but deep down, her chest felt lighter. Jealous or not, Zoey’s warmth always had a way of grounding her.

The rest of lunch passed in soft teasing, Mira managing small smiles between Zoey’s constant pokes and dramatic antics.

The restaurant was a quiet spot tucked between a small bakery and a bookstore, ten minutes away from the university. The kind of place Rumi and Jinu always ended up whenever they needed to talk without eyes watching them — plain tables, warm lights, and the faint sound of jazz playing from an old speaker. The scent of grilled meat drifted from the kitchen, mixing with the clinking of glasses and soft chatter.

Jinu was fidgeting with his chopsticks, tapping them against the rim of his cup while they waited for their food. Rumi sat across from him, her hands folded neatly on the table, eyes scanning the street outside the window — still half trapped in her thoughts from earlier.

Then, Jinu suddenly froze, as if a lightbulb just went off in his head. He looked at Rumi with wide eyes.

“Holy freak, Ru?! The Mira’s girlfriend you always talked about is my cousin?! Holy shit, dude!”

Rumi blinked, clearly unamused. She tilted her head, her voice calm but tired. “How would I know you two are related? There’s a lot of people who have Han as a surname.”

Jinu looked personally offended. “Yeah, but still! You’ve been crying to me about Zoey Han for, like, weeks—and I didn’t even realize it’s that Zoey. My cousin!"

“Unbelievable,” Jinu muttered, leaning back in disbelief. “This is, like, cosmic-level irony. You, the calmest, most put-together person I know, emotionally spiraling over someone related to me. That’s wild.”

Rumi sighed, resting her cheek on her palm. “I’m not spiraling.”

He raised a brow. “Ru, you called me two nights ago because Zoey texted you a cat meme and you said, quote, ‘It felt personal.’”

“That meme was personal,” she murmured, the faintest pout tugging at her lips.

Jinu’s laughter broke through the quiet air, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. “Oh my god, you’re doomed. My cousin’s got you emotionally cornered, and she doesn’t even know it.”

Rumi rolled her eyes, but her tone softened slightly. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m observing,” Jinu corrected, pointing a chopstick at her like a professor making a point. “And my observation is this — Zoey’s got a habit of breaking into people’s walls like she owns the place. I’ve seen it since we were kids. She’s chaotic sunshine in human form.”

“Chaotic is an understatement,” Rumi muttered, remembering Zoey’s grin that morning, the way her voice always seemed to brighten the air.

Jinu leaned forward, lowering his tone. “And Mira?”

Rumi’s eyes flickered. The sound of laughter from another table filled the short silence between them. “Mira is… Mira,” she said softly. “Unpredictable, controlled, magnetic… and cruel in ways she doesn’t even mean to be.”

Jinu hummed, his expression softening. “You still love her, huh?”

Rumi didn’t answer. She just toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding it neatly, then unfolding it again. Her silence said more than any word could.

Jinu sighed and sat back. “You know, Ru, sometimes I think fate just has a really dark sense of humor.”

“That makes two of us,” she murmured.

Just then, the waiter arrived with their food — two steaming bowls of ramyeon, a plate of fried dumplings and kimbap. The moment broke, and Rumi reached for her chopsticks, forcing a small smile.

“Eat before it gets cold,” she said quietly.

Jinu nodded, but he kept glancing at her, watching the way she forced herself to focus on the food instead of the mess in her chest.

After a while, he said, with a teasing grin, “You know, you could’ve at least warned me that my cousin was the person driving you insane every day.”

Rumi sighed, her voice dry. “Oh, right. I should’ve said, ‘Hey, Jinu, by the way, your cousin is the girl who makes my heart forget how to beat properly.’ That wouldn’t be awkward at all. Knowing I didn't know anyone related to you”

Jinu nearly choked on his noodles from laughing. “You’re impossible, Ru.”

Outside, the midday sun stretched lazily across the street — the world still moving, even as Rumi sat there, realizing just how small and unpredictable it could be.

Rumi leaned back, her faint smile fading into something quieter. Then suddenly she said; “Maybe pretending is the only way to be fine.”

Jinu tilted his head at that, reading the shift in her tone the way only someone who’d known her for years could. “You’re still doing that thing,” he said softly. “Holding everything in until it hurts.”

She didn’t respond. She just focused on her chopsticks, picking at her food, until finally she sighed and said, “Do you ever regret the words you said to someone? Not because you meant them, but because you said them out of… pain?”

Jinu’s teasing expression softened. “All the time.”

Rumi’s eyes dropped to her plate, voice barely above a whisper. “I regret saying, ‘You want me to leave? Fine, I’ll leave.’”

The words came out quieter than she expected — shaky, raw. The kind of confession that carried years’ worth of ache.

Jinu’s chopsticks stilled. He didn’t interrupt, and didn't make a joke this time. He just watched her.

“I still remember her face,” Rumi continued. “She didn’t stop me. She didn’t say anything. She just… watched me go. And I walked away like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like I hadn’t already fallen apart the second I turned away.”

Jinu’s throat bobbed, but he said nothing.

“I told myself leaving was the right choice,” Rumi said, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That if she didn’t want me there, I shouldn’t stay. But god, Jinu, it felt like I was trying to tear my own heart out.”

The restaurant’s chatter blurred around them, replaced by the faint clatter of cutlery and the steady beat of her voice breaking slightly at the edges.

Jinu leaned forward, his tone low and gentle. “You didn’t deserve to be made to feel like that.”

“Maybe not,” she whispered, “but maybe I deserved the silence that followed.”

He frowned. “No, Ru. Stop doing that. You can’t blame yourself for the way someone else let you go.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “But I was the one who left.”

Jinu reached across the table, tapping her hand lightly — a simple, grounding touch. “You didn’t leave because you wanted to. You left because you were trying to survive.”

Rumi blinked at that, her chest tightening.

“You’ve always had this habit,” Jinu continued. “You think walking away makes you strong. But sometimes, Ru, strength isn’t leaving. It’s staying and saying, ‘This hurts, but I’m still here.’”

She looked at him — really looked at him — and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders softened.

“You make it sound easy,” she murmured.

He smiled faintly. “It’s not. But neither is pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

They sat in silence after that, the air heavy but familiar — the kind that didn’t demand words to fill it. Rumi picked up her tea again, letting its warmth seep into her hands.

After a while, Jinu leaned back, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know, you’ve changed since freshman year.”

Rumi raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You actually talk about your feelings now. Back then, you just threatened to throw my phone out the window whenever I asked what was wrong.”

A quiet laugh escaped her. “You were annoying.”

“Still am,” he said proudly. “But I’m also the guy who’s been watching you crawl out of the same heartbreak for four years, and I think it’s time you stopped apologizing for it.”

Rumi smiled, small but real this time. “You always know what to say, huh?”

“Not really,” Jinu said, grinning. “I just know you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore — it was comforting, grounding, something that reminded her she wasn’t alone in her chaos.

And for the first time since seeing Mira again, Rumi didn’t feel like she was drowning. She just felt human.

Rumi pushed her half-empty plate away, her chopsticks resting neatly on top, and leaned her chin on her hand. The restaurant had quieted a little — fewer voices now, just the soft music humming through the speakers and the clink of plates being cleared from nearby tables.

Her eyes flicked to Jinu, who was busy finishing his last bite of kimbap. A small crease formed between her brows before she asked softly,

“Are you just visiting? Are you going back to the States tomorrow?”

Her voice came out lower than she meant it to — steady but tinted with something fragile. That faint sadness she always tried to hide beneath calm words. The kind of tone Jinu had grown too used to hearing in late-night calls, when she thought he wouldn’t notice the tremor in her breathing.

He froze mid-chew, swallowed, then glanced up at her — and there it was, that knowing smirk curling on his lips. “What if I say yes?” he teased, leaning back against the chair. “Are you gonna cry?”

Rumi’s eyes narrowed, unimpressed. “No,” she said evenly, crossing her arms. “I’ll just cut you off as a friend.”

That earned a full-blown laugh from Jinu — loud enough that a few heads turned their way. He didn’t care. He laughed until his shoulders shook, until Rumi’s faint scowl cracked into the smallest reluctant smile.

“As if you can,” he said between laughs. “You can’t even sleep at night without me being your emotional support. Even if it’s just through video call.”

Rumi rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Not full — just confident in my value,” Jinu said smugly, wiping at his eyes. “I’m like… the Jinu-brand antidepressant. Comes with sarcasm and bad singing.”

That made her laugh — quietly, but genuinely this time. She covered her mouth, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet you still keep me around.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, voice light but gaze soft.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The easy laughter faded into something warmer, quieter. Jinu looked at her — the girl who once never talked unless she had to, who bottled everything up until she cracked. Now she was sitting across from him, teasing, smiling, trying.

He exhaled, his tone gentler now. “Don’t worry, Ru. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, the relief subtle but there. “You’re staying?”

He nodded. “For a while, yeah. I figured I might as well stay close, make sure you don’t spiral without me.”

Rumi chuckled softly, eyes dropping to her drink. “You make it sound like I’m helpless.”

“You’re not helpless,” Jinu said. “Just dramatic.”

She let out a quiet snort, but her voice softened. “I’m glad you’re staying, Ji.”

He smiled — small, sincere, without any trace of his usual teasing. “Me too, Ru."

-------

The soft clang of plates and the gentle hum of conversation faded behind them as Rumi and Jinu stepped out of the restaurant. The midday sun spilled across the street, warm and bright.

Rumi tugged at her bag strap as they walked side by side, the faint sound of traffic weaving through the air. The wind caught strands of her hair, brushing it against her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear, glancing up at the faint stretch of clouds above.

They were heading back toward the university — just a ten-minute walk, but with Jinu beside her, it stretched into something slower, calmer. He was shoving his hands in his pockets, humming a tune under his breath — a habit he picked up whenever his mind started drifting into music mode.

Then, suddenly, he turned to her. “Hey,” he said, bumping her shoulder lightly. “Did you try playing music in front of the class yet? You know, using Huntrix?”

Rumi blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. “Huntrix?” she echoed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” Jinu said, grinning. “Your precious baby DJ mixer. The one Celine got you two years ago. Don’t tell me it’s collecting dust now.”

Rumi chuckled softly. “No, it’s not. I’ve been using it… in my room. Just to pass time.”

Jinu tilted his head, studying her carefully. “So you didn’t try playing something in class?”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the strap of her bag, and she looked ahead — to the lines of trees swaying gently along the path, to the group of students walking ahead, laughing about something trivial.

“No,” she said finally, voice quiet. “I’m scared.”

Jinu’s brows furrowed. “Scared? Of what?”

“What if they don’t like it?” she murmured. “What if it’s… not good enough?“

He sighed, kicking a loose pebble along the pavement. “Ru,” he said, tone dropping into something more grounded. “You’re not gonna get anywhere if you keep thinking like that. Not everyone has to like it. You just have to play it.”

Rumi glanced at him, her expression unreadable but her eyes—those deep brown eyes—held the flicker of something fragile. “Easy for you to say. You don’t freeze up when people look at you.”

Jinu let out a small chuckle, not mocking but fond. “You think I didn’t? The first time I played live in front of strangers, I nearly forgot how to breathe.”

Rumi tilted her head slightly, her braid swaying as she walked. “You? Forgot how to breathe?”

“Yeah,” Jinu said with a grin. “I literally almost fainted after the second verse. My voice cracked, someone in the crowd laughed, and I wanted to disappear right there. But hey—” he shrugged, “—I didn’t die. And you won’t either.“

That made Rumi laugh, quietly. It wasn’t loud or bright, but it was real. “You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“Yet you’re still laughing,” Jinu shot back with a smug grin.

She shook her head, eyes softening. “Thanks, Ji.”

“Always,” he said, bumping her shoulder again. “But seriously—play something. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Just show them what you’ve got. Huntrix didn’t survive two years of your experiments for nothing.”

Rumi chuckled. “Huntrix survived because it’s indestructible.”

Jinu grinned, “Like you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved into a soft smile. “You’re so corny.”

He shrugged, “And yet, you love it.”

They both laughed this time — a sound that lingered, soft and unguarded, weaving between the breeze and the hum of campus life in the distance.

As they neared the university gates, Rumi looked ahead — at the familiar buildings, the chatter, the noise — and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel completely afraid of what waited inside

The Saturday morning light slipped through the curtains, brushing faint gold across Rumi’s face. Her room was quiet, save for the soft hum airconditioning and the occasional chirp of birds outside her window. She was deep in sleep, tangled under her blanket, when her phone suddenly started buzzing against her nightstand.

Her brow furrowed, eyes still shut. The ringtone blared again, persistent. She groaned, fumbling blindly until her fingers found the phone. The screen glowed harshly in the dim room — “Jinu 👿” flashing across it.

She squinted, rubbed her eyes, and swiped to answer.

“...What?” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

Jinu’s voice burst through the line, loud and overly energetic for someone awake at this hour.

“Ru! Ready Huntrix! I kind of invited Zoey to hang out — I said I’ll show her my talent in music!”

That sentence alone was enough to jolt her brain awake.

Rumi sat up too fast, her blanket sliding down her shoulders. “Wait—what? You what?”

The sudden movement made her dizzy, and she pressed her palm to her forehead, groaning. “Then why are you calling me, huh? What does you hanging out with your cousin have to do with my Huntrix?”

Jinu’s laugh echoed through the receiver — that familiar carefree sound that always meant trouble.

“C’mon, dude! Of course you’ve gotta show your skills too! I didn’t waste three years teaching you music just for you to hide it, you know!”

“Jinu—”

“Ah-ah!” he cut in, clearly amused. “No backing out! I’ll send you my hotel location. See you later, Ru!”

“Wait, what hotel—”

But before she could finish, the call cut off with a small click, leaving only the faint buzz of the ended call and her own reflection staring back at her from the black screen.

Rumi dropped her phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, lips parted in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

Huntrix sat quietly in the corner of her room, sleek and silver, and a few diamonds scattered on it— it doesn't have a single scratch despite being used for almost 2 years.

Now, apparently, it was being summoned.

She sighed deeply, running a hand down her face.

“Jinu Han, I swear…” she muttered under her breath, half exasperated, half amused.

After a moment of sitting there in stunned silence, she swung her legs off the bed, stretching her arms over her head. “Guess we’re going out today, Huntrix,” she murmured softly.

The morning sun grew a little brighter through her window — as if agreeing

Rumi sat at the edge of her bed, still clutching her phone. The quiet hum of her air conditioning filled the silence, the faint rhythm syncing with her own heartbeat that hadn’t quite calmed down from Jinu’s call. She thought about ignoring it all — maybe just crawl back into bed and pretend that phone call never happened.

Then her phone buzzed again.

She looked down. A new message.

Unknown number.

“Be there in 30, Zoey said we should pick you up…”

Her stomach dropped.

She didn’t need to guess who it was — that tone, the way it sounded just a bit too polite, a bit too careful.

Mira.

Her chest tightened, an ache blooming right behind her ribs. For a moment, she just stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen.

She could back out now. Just ignore it. Stay inside, claim she’s sick, block Jinu’s number for good. No one would blame her — at least not out loud.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she sighed quietly, typing back a simple:

“Yeah, sure.”

The second the message sent, Rumi dropped her phone beside her and pressed her palms to her face. “Why am I doing this to myself…” she whispered.

After a long exhale, she finally stood and moved toward her bathroom. Her movements were slow, heavy, like she was preparing for battle rather than a hangout. After a ten minute shower she walked towards her closet.

She grabbed a black loose cropped shirt — the kind that hung just low enough to reveal her left shoulder when she moved. Then, she pulled out a pair of clean white trousers, soft and wide-legged, something comfortable enough to wear but still neat enough to be seen in public.

Rumi slipped into the outfit, dried her hair, brushed it and let it wave for a moment, then she turned to the corner of her room. Her gaze fell on Huntrix, sitting quietly on her small desk. The sleek silver DJ mixer gleamed under the morning light — Celine’s gift from two years ago, her secret comfort, her voice when she couldn’t find the words.

She knelt down, opening the velvet case with care. The soft lining brushed her fingertips as she placed Huntrix inside, followed by the cords and the small, dented mini speakers she always used for practice.

Then she straightened up, grabbed her phone and wallet, and slipped them into her pocket — no bag, no extra weight. Just the essentials.

Finally, she reached for the hair tie on her wrist and gathered her hair back, weaving it into its usual braid — the one she always wore when she needed to feel composed, steady.

She looked at her reflection one last time.

Everything looked fine. Calm. Composed.

But her eyes — her eyes betrayed her.

They flickered with something soft, almost nervous, like she already knew this wasn’t going to be an easy day.

Outside, the faint sound of a car horn broke through her thoughts.

They were here. Already.

Rumi slipped her feet into her black sneakers, the soles pressing softly against the wooden floor as she bent down to tie the laces. The small creak of the floorboards followed her as she grabbed the velvet case from the bed and slung it over her shoulder. The case felt heavier than usual, even though it wasn’t. Maybe it was the weight of the day — or the people she was about to face.

As she descended the stairs, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee hit her nose, warm and grounding. Celine was in her usual spot on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, her brows knitted as she typed something quickly. A mug sat beside her, the steam curling lazily into the air.

Celine’s eyes flicked up when she heard the soft thud of Rumi’s steps. For a brief second, her gaze softened — then it dropped to the velvet case hanging from Rumi’s shoulder. She didn’t even need to ask; Rumi could already hear the question forming in her aunt’s head.

Before she could open her mouth, Rumi spoke first, voice steady but a touch quieter than usual.

“Jinu’s in Seoul,” she said. “He asked to hang out.”

Celine leaned back slightly, closing her laptop halfway. Her expression stayed calm — maybe even neutral — but there was a faint knowing glint in her eyes. “Don’t stay out late,” she said simply.

Rumi gave a small nod, lips curving into something like a polite smile. “Okay.”

And with that, she turned toward the door.

The moment she stepped outside, sunlight met her — bright, warm, and far too cheerful for the heaviness in her chest. The morning breeze brushed against her purple braid as she closed the gate behind her.

Across the street, a black polished car sat idling — sleek and modern, its surface gleaming like glass.

And there, in the passenger seat, Zoey.

Her face lit up the moment she spotted Rumi. She waved wildly, both hands in the air, her entire upper body halfway out the window like an excited puppy. “Ruuu! Over here!” she called, her voice carrying across the quiet street.

Rumi blinked, caught between amusement and disbelief. That kind of energy — it was so Zoey. Unfiltered, bright, and somehow enough to make the world tilt a little lighter.

Then her gaze shifted — to the driver’s seat.

Mira.

Her hands rested on the steering wheel, posture perfect, expression pinched in quiet disapproval as she shot Zoey a look that said everything without a word. Rumi knew that look — it was Mira’s “please behave” frown, the same one she used to give Rumi whenever she got too caught up dancing with too much energy.

A small pang tugged inside Rumi’s chest, sharp and unwelcome. She tore her gaze away before it lingered too long.

Drawing in a slow breath, Rumi walked toward the car, one careful step at a time, her velvet case bumping gently against her hip.

She told herself it was fine.

Just a hangout.

Just music.

Just Jinu.

But when she saw the way Zoey’s grin widened and Mira’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, something deep inside her whispered otherwise.

Rumi crossed the short distance to the car, her steps light but deliberate. The closer she got, the more she could see Zoey’s reflection practically bouncing in her seat, excitement radiating through the window.

Before Rumi could even reach the door handle, the passenger door swung open and Zoey hopped out, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement as she bounced once, twice, like she couldn’t stand still.

“Good morning, Ms. Ryu!” Zoey declared with exaggerated formality, her voice bright and teasing. Then, with a grand flourish of her hand, she added, “Your personal chauffeur is here!”

The words were so playfully delivered that Rumi couldn’t stop the small laugh that slipped past her lips — soft, fleeting, but real. Her lips curved into a polite yet genuine smile as she murmured, “Thank you, Ms. Han,” playing along with the tone.

Zoey grinned, clearly proud of herself for earning that small reaction, and hurried to open the backseat door for her. Rumi ducked her head slightly and slipped inside, careful not to bump her velvet case against the seat.

The faint hum of the car’s air conditioner filled the quiet, brushing cool air against her skin. Zoey closed the door gently, then dashed back around to the front passenger seat, sliding in with a small “whoosh” of energy.

She didn’t even settle properly — her torso immediately twisted halfway toward Rumi, her seatbelt hanging loose, eyes bright with curiosity.

“So,” she began, voice bubbling, “you know how to DJ?”

Before Rumi could answer, Mira’s voice cut through — calm, low, but carrying a tone that only people who knew her well would recognize as barely patient.

“Zo. Seatbelt.”

Zoey blinked three times, lips pressing together in mock guilt before she clicked the seatbelt into place. “Right, right,” she mumbled, then turned back again — only this time slightly restrained by the strap. “Okay, now you can answer,” she said with a grin.

Rumi couldn’t help it — she smiled, the kind that softened her eyes. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Jinu taught me.”

Zoey froze for a beat, her expression shifting from curious to realization in less than a second. Her mouth parted as her eyes went wide.

“Wait—” she leaned in a little closer, voice rising. “Is he the guy you said you met during freshman year? The guy from the event?”

Rumi’s lips curved into a gentler smile this time, the kind that carried a flicker of nostalgia. “Yeah,” she said softly, “he’s that guy.”

For a second, Zoey just stared at her, eyes sparkling with that same boundless enthusiasm she always carried — but somewhere in it was genuine interest. “No way! That’s actually so cool. I thought he was like… a random friend from online or something.”

Rumi just chuckled under her breath, leaning back against the seat as she fastened her own belt. “No. Definitely not random.”

From the driver’s seat, Mira stayed quiet — eyes on the road, jaw tight, her hands gripping the steering wheel just a bit firmer than before.

Rumi noticed.

Of course she did.

But she said nothing.

Outside, the city rolled past in blurs of gold and gray, while inside, the car carried three people — one chatting endlessly, one politely answering, and one who couldn’t stop listening.

The car slowed to a smooth stop in front of the hotel entrance, its polished glass facade reflecting the bright morning sun. Rumi blinked against the light as the vehicle rolled into the driveway. Mira parked neatly, the kind of precision that came from habit, her movements clean and controlled.

Before anyone could move, Mira spoke first, her tone clipped but calm.

“Text me when it’s time to pick you up,” she said, eyes fixed on the front.

Zoey, ever unbothered, grinned brightly. “Got it, honeybunch!” she chirped, flashing a quick thumbs-up before turning to grab her phone.

Rumi, seated in the back, blinked once. Her brows creased slightly before she could stop herself.

Her mouth moved before her mind caught up.

“You’re not coming?”

The question left her lips softer than she intended — too honest, too direct. It startled her just as much as it did Mira.

Through the rearview mirror, Mira’s dark eyes met hers, steady, unreadable.

“No,” she said after a moment, voice low. “I’m busy.”

Rumi just nodded, lowering her gaze, fingers folding together neatly on her lap as if to contain the words that wanted to follow.

But Zoey, of course, had no filter.

“Busy your ass,” she said with a grin, tapping Mira’s arm playfully. “You’re just gonna sulk in the apartment and watch old variety shows again.”

Rumi’s lips twitched at that — barely, but enough that the corner of her mouth softened.

Mira turned her head, ready to retort, but before she could, a sharp knock sounded against the passenger window.

Zoey jumped slightly before turning, her face lighting up instantly. “Howdy, cousin!” she said, lowering the window.

Jinu leaned down, a mischievous smirk painted across his face. “Howdy, Zo,” he echoed, tone dripping with humor. Then, as he straightened, his gaze flicked past her — locking briefly onto Mira.

“You coming too?” he asked casually, brows raised. “I won’t mind.”

Mira’s only response was a small, unmistakable roll of her eyes.

Rumi saw it in the reflection of the glass — a tiny motion that made Jinu huff out a quiet laugh.

“I’m finishing a major project,” Mira said, still facing forward, tone clipped but controlled.

Jinu shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he stepped back, circling around to the backseat. The door clicked open, and a rush of warm air slipped inside.

“Hi, Ru,” he greeted, voice lighter now.

“Hi, Ji,” Rumi replied softly, her voice calm but her eyes glimmering faintly at the familiarity.

Jinu leaned in — and in one smooth motion, his fingers found the seatbelt clasp and pressed it free, the soft click echoing quietly. Then, without a word, he reached for the velvet case resting on her lap and slung it over his shoulder like it was second nature.

He extended his hand, and Rumi took it — their movement seamless, practiced, familiar in a way that needed no words. He helped her out of the car, steady and careful, like he always did.

But the moment Rumi’s feet hit the ground, she could feel it — the sharp, invisible weight of Mira’s stare cutting through the window, heavy and cold against Jinu’s back.

Jinu didn’t flinch, but he definitely noticed.

He smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, and with a practiced nonchalance, he turned and opened the passenger door next.

“C’mon, Zo,” he said easily. “Time to show me what your ‘talent’ looks like.”

Zoey hopped out with her usual energy, slinging her small sling bag over her shoulder and flashing Mira a bright grin. “Don’t miss me too much, babe,” she teased before the door closed behind her.

The hotel doorman opened the glass doors as the three of them walked inside — Rumi’s steps quiet, Jinu’s confident, Zoey’s light and rhythmic.

Behind them, the car stayed parked a moment longer than it needed to before it finally pulled away, disappearing into the morning traffic.

And though Rumi didn’t look back, she could still feel it — that same lingering stare, cold and restrained, following her through the tinted glass.

The elevator chimed softly before its doors slid open to reveal the top floor suite — polished marble floors, tall glass windows that framed Seoul’s skyline, and a sprawling couch that looked far too soft for its own good.

As soon as Jinu swiped the keycard and pushed the door open, Zoey bounded in first, her excitement echoing through the quiet room.

“Holy crap, dude, this place is huge!” she squealed, practically throwing herself onto the wide couch and sinking into its cushions. “You could fit an entire dance team in here!”

Jinu barked out a laugh as he stepped in behind her, his hand gripping the velvet case slung over his shoulder.

“Careful, sunshine,” he teased. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar couch you’re trying to kill.”

Rumi followed a few steps behind, her eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on the coffee table. The suite smelled faintly of cologne and hotel-clean linen, and the morning light poured through the windows, painting the floor in pale gold.

Jinu knelt slightly and placed the velvet case down with a kind of reverence, his movements deliberate. Then he turned toward Rumi, one eyebrow raised.

“You haven’t had breakfast?”

Rumi crossed her arms, giving him a flat look. “How am I supposed to eat breakfast when you called and said, ‘Bring Huntrix,’” she said, rolling her eyes for emphasis. “You didn’t exactly give me time to toast bread.”

Jinu chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Still dramatic as ever.”

Before Rumi could retort, Zoey propped herself up on her elbows, curiosity sparkling in her dark eyes.

“Wait—who’s Huntrix?” she asked, the name rolling awkwardly off her tongue, like she was trying to figure out if it was a person, a pet, or a password.

Jinu grinned mischievously. “Oh, right. You haven’t met her yet.”

He crouched down in front of the coffee table, his fingers unzipping the velvet case with care. The fabric whispered open, and he lifted the lid to reveal the sleek silver DJ mixer inside — compact but powerful, every dial polished, every light unscuffed.

Even after two years, it gleamed under the morning light like something brand new, expensive, and loved.

Zoey’s eyes widened. “Whoa. That’s… yours?”

Rumi nodded, her lips curving into a faint, polite smile — the kind she gave when she was proud but didn’t want to show it.

“Celine, my aunt got it for me two years ago,” she said softly, brushing her fingertips against the edge of the mixer.

Zoey leaned closer, inspecting the controls like a kid seeing candy for the first time. “Huntrix, huh? That’s such a cool name. It sounds like a secret weapon.”

Jinu smirked. “Pretty much is. Ru’s secret weapon.”

Rumi rolled her eyes again, but a quiet chuckle escaped her lips. “You make it sound like I’m about to start a war.”

Zoey beamed. “Well, if it involves music, that’s a war I wanna see.”

The three of them laughed softly, the sound bouncing against the walls of the suite — light, warm, and unfamiliar for Rumi, who hadn’t laughed this freely in what felt like a year despite its just been a month.

For the first time in weeks, her chest felt a little lighter — even if somewhere deep down, she could still feel the faint, invisible ache that came with remembering who wasn’t there.

The hotel suite filled with the low hum of the city outside — the sound of distant traffic muffled by glass, faint music drifting up from somewhere below.

Jinu leaned back on the couch, phone in hand, casually scrolling through the hotel’s in-room service menu. “Alright, what do you two want? They’ve got the works — pancakes, bulgogi, omelettes, pastries, or the most overpriced orange juice on the planet.”

“Coffee, and salad” Rumi said simply, crossing one leg over the other.

Zoey perked up. “Pancakes! With strawberries, syrup, whipped cream—oh, and bacon on the side!”

Jinu smirked at her enthusiasm and tapped in the order. “Got it, sugar monster.” Then he ordered for himself — a heavy brunch platter and espresso — before tossing his phone onto the couch.

But that grin — that specific, mischievous tilt of Jinu’s lips — appeared out of nowhere. Zoey caught it first, her eyes narrowing. “What’s with that face?”

Rumi immediately straightened, already recognizing the danger in his expression. “Jinu,” she warned slowly, brows furrowing. “Whatever it is, don’t. Or I swear I’ll relocate Derpy and Susie.”

That made Zoey blink. “Who—”

“You can’t use my sons against me!” Jinu cut in, clutching his chest in mock outrage. “They’re in the States!”

Rumi’s brow twitched. “Then I’ll hack your Nest cam and tell them their father’s been irresponsible again.”

Zoey looked back and forth between them, completely lost but utterly fascinated — the sharpness in Rumi’s eyes, the smugness in Jinu’s grin, the way their sibling-like bickering seemed to have its own rhythm.

Her head tilted slightly, watching how Rumi’s stoic face softened just slightly when Jinu laughed.

“Wait—Derpy and Susie are...?” Zoey began.

“My cat and my bird,” Rumi muttered dryly.

“MY cat and MY bird” Jinu corrected, pointing dramatically. “My pride and joy. She catnapped and birdnapped them once.”

“I was pet-sitting.”

“You kept them for six months.”

Zoey’s laughter burst out before she could stop it, the sound bright and airy. “Oh my god, you two are unreal.”

Jinu just grinned wider, then reached for his laptop. “Speaking of unreal…” He opened it and began typing rapidly, a little too happily.

Rumi’s eyes widened the moment she recognized the file name flashing across the screen.

“Jinuuuu,” she groaned, dragging out his name like a warning.

He only laughed — that kind of laugh that meant he was absolutely doing something she’d hate. He sat down next to Zoey, clutching the laptop protectively, and pressed the play button.

The video flickered to life.

It wasn’t even five seconds before Rumi exclaimed, “You did not!” She lunged forward, trying to grab the device, but Jinu quickly shifted it out of reach, laughing so hard he nearly dropped it.

“What!? This is my favorite memory, you know!” he said between laughs.

Zoey scooted closer, practically bouncing. “Stop moving! I can’t see!”

Jinu froze obediently, holding the laptop steady. With a frustrated sigh, Rumi plopped down beside Zoey, crossing her arms — but curiosity got the better of her. She side-eyed the screen, reluctantly watching.

The shaky video captured a younger Rumi on stage at their old school festival — her long purple hair braided, head tilted slightly as she adjusted the mixer. The crowd’s murmur in the background, the soft build of beats, and then—

The moment the drop hit, even the camera shook with the audience’s reaction.

Zoey’s mouth parted slightly. “Wait—that’s you?” she whispered, her eyes darting from the screen to the real Rumi beside her. “You look… insane. Like—like you own the stage.”

Rumi tried not to smile, but her lips curved anyway. “It was… a fun day.”

“Fun?” Jinu snorted. “You destroyed that stage. Everyone was talking about you for months!”

Zoey’s grin spread, eyes bright. “I can see why.”

And as the beat on-screen swelled and the crowd cheered again, Rumi’s heart fluttered quietly — not from the memory, but from the way Zoey was watching her.

With awe.

With warmth.

With something Rumi couldn’t quite name.

The bass from the video thumped faintly through the suite’s speakers — a ghost of the energy that once electrified the entire festival ground.

On-screen, Rumi’s younger self leaned over the mixer, strands of hair loose and wild, face glowing beneath the stage lights. The crowd screamed, hands raised in rhythm. Then came the moment — the one Jinu always teased her about.

The camera shook as she grabbed the mic from his hand, eyes blazing.

“LET ME HEAR YOU GUYS SCREAM!”

The response was deafening, even through the tinny playback. A sea of voices erupted, and then—

The drop hit.

The whole crowd jumped, waves of movement and light blurring into the beat. Even through a two-year-old recording, it was impossible not to feel the rush of it — the raw, chaotic thrill that Rumi carried so effortlessly back then.

Zoey’s jaw dropped, her phone forgotten in her lap. Then suddenly, as if waking from trance, she scrambled up and nearly shrieked, “Oh my god! Rewind it! I need to have a copy of this!”

Before either of them could react, she grabbed her phone, hit record, and frantically dragged the slider back.

“Zoey, no—” Rumi began, but the words died in her throat as Zoey pressed play again.

The same moment flashed on screen — her shout, the light, the sound, the spark. Zoey held her phone close, capturing every second with a grin that could rival the one from the old video.

“I swear—this is legendary,” Zoey said breathlessly. “You look like—like you were born to do that. I’m sending this to Mira.”

Rumi tensed, her hand twitching slightly as if to reach for the laptop — but she stopped halfway.

She wanted to close it, to stop the playback, to keep that piece of herself private and untouched.

She couldn't move.

So instead, she just sat there, quiet, watching her past self grin and jump with the crowd — laughing, glowing, so in love with the moment.

Her chest ached. Not out of regret, but out of longing.

The kind of ache that comes from seeing who you used to be, and realizing how much you’ve changed.

Jinu watched her silently from the other side of the couch. He didn’t tease this time — just smiled softly, like he knew what she was thinking.

And Zoey, sitting between them, didn’t notice the heaviness in Rumi’s stillness. She was too caught up in replaying the scene again, whispering under her breath,

“Damn… you were really something else.”

Rumi let out a small breath through her nose — a half-smile tugging at her lips.

“Was?” she murmured.

Zoey looked up, eyes bright. “Are. Definitely are.”

Rumi blinked, startled by how easily Zoey said it — how much she meant it.

The words hung in the air like a pulse neither of them wanted to break.

-------

After brunch arrived — trays of pancakes, eggs, salad, rice, bacons and hotel coffee that smelled way too strong — the three of them lingered, eating and laughing between bites. Zoey nearly choked twice from laughing too hard at Jinu’s jokes, and Rumi had to slap his arm each time he tried to sneak bacon from her plate.

By the time they finished two movies, it was already past 2 p.m. The room had grown lazy and warm, the air conditioner humming softly against the muted sunlight spilling through the curtains. Zoey was slumped against the couch, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through movie recommendations while Rumi half-dozed beside her.

Then Jinu suddenly sat upright and clapped his hands. “Okay,” he announced, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. “Time for chaos.”

Rumi cracked one eye open. “What chaos?”

“The fun kind,” Jinu grinned, already heading toward his room. They heard the faint sound of him rummaging through something — a clatter, a thud, and then he reemerged with a wide grin, holding a mic in one hand and a DJ mixer in the other.

Zoey instantly perked up, bouncing on her feet and punching the air above her with both hands.

“Yeahhhh!!” she cheered, like a child being promised candy.

Rumi could only shake her head, smiling faintly as Jinu began setting up his equipment on the low table. It was the same silver mixer from their first days together — slightly dented, a little scratched, but still gleaming like the memory it carried.

Once Jinu was done connecting the cords, he looked up at Rumi with a challenging smirk.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Rumi asked flatly.

He raised a brow. “Set up Huntrix. What are you waiting for? Prince Charming?”

Zoey snorted so loudly she nearly dropped her phone.

Rumi narrowed her eyes at him, but there was no real heat in it — just the usual rhythm of their old banter. “You’re always exaggerating,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m not like you who moves too slow.”

“Oh please,” Jinu shot back, pretending to clutch his chest. “You wish you could mix half as fast as I do.”

Rumi stood, trying not to smile, and walked over to where the velvet case sat by the table. “Fast isn’t everything,” she said coolly, crouching down to unzip it.

“Yeah,” Jinu said, plugging in the mic and testing it with a small echo. “It’s also about not boring the crowd to death.”

Zoey laughed so hard she had to sit back down. “I feel like I’m watching two divorced parents fighting over custody of a turntable.”

Rumi turned her head just enough to give Zoey a side glare that wasn’t really a glare — more like you’re not wrong, but I won’t say it out loud.

Jinu, of course, basked in the chaos he’d created. “This,” he said dramatically, holding up a cable like a sword, “is war.”

“War you’re about to lose,” Rumi replied, connecting the last wire to Huntrix and powering it on.

The light flickered to life — soft blue fading into violet — and the soft hum of readiness filled the suite.

Zoey’s eyes widened, both hands on her knees. “Oh, this is so cool.”

Jinu pointed at Rumi, a grin splitting his face. “Alright, Ru. Show the rookie how it’s done.”

Rumi glanced at Zoey — that same warmth in her grin, the kind that almost reached her eyes this time — before she turned back to the mixer.

“Alright,” she said, fingers poised over the pads.

“Let’s make some noise.”

The moment Huntrix lit up, Jinu grinned like a kid ready to start trouble. He cued a few samples on his mixer, laying down a simple rhythm that pulsed through the suite. Rumi watched quietly, her head tilting to the beat, before her fingers slid over the faders — precise, clean, confident. She didn’t need to show off; she never did. Her style was smooth, flowing, almost like painting sound into motion.

The low thrum turned into something deeper. The sound shifted, building layer after layer until the room started to vibrate with life. Jinu nodded in approval, half impressed, half pretending not to be.

Zoey, meanwhile, was practically bouncing on her heels beside the couch, the beat clearly taking over her body. Her shoulders swayed, her hands tapping against her thighs. Then she suddenly gasped — that kind of dramatic, lightbulb-over-the-head gasp — and turned toward Jinu and Rumi with a wicked grin.

“Okay, wait,” she said, raising a hand like she needed a microphone. “Give me a second—don’t laugh.”

Rumi’s brows lifted in quiet curiosity, while Jinu leaned back, already smirking. “Oh no,” he said. “She’s gonna do it.”

“Do what?” Rumi asked, half-smiling despite herself.

“Rap,” Jinu replied, whispering as though it were a sacred secret.

Zoey rolled her eyes, grabbed the spare mic from the table, and started pacing dramatically in front of them.

“Yo, yo, check it,” she said in a playful deep voice, bobbing to the beat Rumi had just dropped.

The first attempt was clumsy, her words tumbling over each other in a messy rhythm

“I’m sittin’ in the suite, the beat’s kinda sweet,

Jinu with the moves and Rumi’s got the heat—uh,

Mix it up, spin it up, don’t you dare compete,

‘Cause Huntrix in the house and she can’t be beat—YEAH!”

Her voice cracked on the last “yeah,” and Jinu burst into laughter so hard he had to grip the couch for support. Rumi tried to hold her composure, but her lips trembled, her shoulders shaking as she fought the laugh creeping up her throat.

Zoey stopped mid-flow and pouted. “Hey! I said don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry,” Jinu wheezed, holding up a hand. “I’m just—holy hell, you sounded like you swallowed a trumpet!”

Rumi covered her mouth, muffling a quiet giggle before saying softly, “You were actually… on beat.”

Zoey blinked, surprised. “Wait—really?”

Rumi nodded, a hint of genuine amusement glinting in her eyes. “For someone who said ‘yo’ like five times in one sentence, yeah. You had rhythm.”

Zoey gasped dramatically, spinning to Jinu. “You hear that?! Ms. Perfection said I have rhythm!”

“She’s just being polite,” Jinu teased.

“I’m not,” Rumi said, crossing her arms but still smiling faintly. “It was chaotic… but good chaos.”

Zoey threw both her hands up in victory. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten!”

They all burst out laughing again — loud, unguarded, the kind of sound that filled the suite with something that wasn’t music but felt just as alive.

Then Jinu leaned toward his mixer again and said, “Alright, DJ Ryu. Your turn to spin something for our rapper in denial.”

Rumi shook her head, but her smile didn’t fade this time. “Fine,” she said, fingers brushing over Huntrix’s pad as a new beat built — sharper, deeper, the kind that made Zoey sway unconsciously.

And just like that, the three of them fell into rhythm again — Rumi and Jinu mixing, Zoey mumbling playful lyrics that somehow rhymed “boba” with “supernova,” laughter filling every pause in between.

The beat pulsed like a heartbeat, smooth but heavy, building under Jinu’s touch as Rumi mirrored his tempo. Huntrix gleamed beneath her fingertips — sliders and knobs dancing under every movement she made.

Zoey, already warmed up from her chaotic rap session, was standing in front of the coffee table, her body moving freely to the rhythm, dropping another impromptu rap about coffee, late-night deadlines, and heartbreaks healed by bubble tea.

“Yo, yo, listen—” she began, pointing dramatically toward Rumi, “Miss Ryu on the deck, she ain’t here to flex—”

Jinu snorted in laughter. “That doesn’t even rhyme!”

“It’s artistic expression!” Zoey fired back, making Rumi chuckle under her breath.

Then Jinu leaned toward the mic, smirk forming. “Alright, alright—Ru,” he called, voice sliding with that teasing challenge he always had. “Try to sing on this beat.”

Rumi’s hands stilled. She turned her gaze to him, one brow arching in quiet suspicion. “Sing?”

“Yeah,” Jinu said, grin widening. “You still got those pipes or what? Or have you gone soft in Seoul?”

Rumi rolled her eyes, but that faint tug at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yup,” he said proudly, twisting a knob and letting the tempo slow into something melodic — layered with soft synths, faint percussion, and a looping echo of strings. “C’mon, Ru. Show the rookie how it’s done, done, done”

Zoey perked up instantly. “Rookie?! Hey!”

Rumi exhaled through her nose, shaking her head before reaching for the spare mic. “Fine,” she murmured. “But don’t laugh.”

Jinu threw a mock salute. “No promises.”

The music shifted, clean and inviting — and without warning, Rumi began to sing.

It wasn’t loud or showy. It was low at first, almost like a whisper woven into the beat — warm, velvety, the kind of voice that didn’t need to prove itself because it meant what it said. Then, as the rhythm deepened, she let it grow.

“In the noise and the lights,

I lost a piece of what felt right,

But I still move, still breathe,

still sing my way through the night…”

Jinu froze mid-adjustment, his grin slowly fading into awe. Zoey, however, had already fumbled for her phone the moment Rumi’s voice hit the air. She held it up, recording without a sound — eyes wide, mouth slightly open, as if afraid to interrupt whatever magic she was witnessing.

Rumi closed her eyes, lost in the melody, her voice blending perfectly with the pulse of the beat. Every lyric was freestyled — raw, instinctive, pulled from somewhere deep and familiar.

“Don’t know where I’ll go,

but I’ll keep my rhythm slow,

‘cause sometimes moving gentle

is the only way to grow…”

Her final note lingered — soft, trembling at the edges — before fading back into the rhythm that carried it.

Silence.

For a moment, no one spoke. Even the hum of the equipment felt muted.

Then Zoey whispered, barely audible, “Holy crap.”

Rumi blinked, turning toward her. “What?”

Zoey slowly lowered her phone, staring at the screen replaying what she just captured. “That was… insane. Like—you sing like you feel everything.”

Jinu smirked, recovering first. “Told you,” he said, folding his arms proudly. “My student’s a prodigy.”

Rumi groaned. “You’re exaggerating again.”

“I’m documenting history,” Jinu countered.

But Zoey wasn’t teasing. She was looking at Rumi the same way she looked at a new song she couldn’t stop replaying — eyes bright, utterly captivated. “I’m so showing this to Mira,” she said without thinking.

Rumi’s expression faltered for a split second — the faintest flicker of panic — but Jinu quickly leaned forward, swiping at Zoey’s phone. “Delete it first, sunshine. At least let her breathe before going viral.”

Zoey pouted, clutching her phone to her chest. “No way, this is gold!”

Rumi exhaled softly, hiding a small, shy smile. “Zoey…” she said gently.

And somehow, her tone — polite but pleading — was enough. Zoey sighed dramatically, but her thumb hovered over the screen. “Fine. I’ll keep it just for me,” she muttered, cheeks puffed.

“Good,” Rumi said, her lips curving faintly.

Then Jinu leaned back, laughing under his breath. “I missed this,” he said. “You, me, the chaos, the music…”

Rumi’s gaze softened. “Yeah,” she murmured, eyes flicking briefly toward Zoey, “me too.”

The suite fell into an easy rhythm again — laughter, music, teasing — but somewhere between the beats, Rumi caught herself glancing at Zoey’s phone, wondering if maybe, just maybe, that small captured moment was better left remembered than erased.

It was already 7:30 p.m. when Mira's phone buzzed against the coffee table, the vibration faint under the soft hum of the lamp beside her. She was in their apartment, laptop open, a half-written essay blinking on the screen she hadn’t typed on for the last thirty minutes.

The notification read:

Baby Z🐢😘: Babe!! Pick me up!

Below it was a video attachment.

Mira exhaled through her nose, a mix of exhaustion and fond amusement softening her lips. “Of course she sends a video instead of just saying what floor she's in,” she muttered under her breath. Still, she tapped it open.

The clip started with Zoey’s face, up close and chaotic as always. She was holding a mic and rapping nonsense into it, words bouncing off-beat and out-of-rhyme, her laughter louder than the rhythm behind her. Mira’s brow twitched upward — half in disbelief, half in a smile she couldn’t suppress.

Then the screen shifted — a quick flicker showing Jinu, hunched over a DJ mixer, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. His familiar grin flashed, that same one Mira saw the first time they met.

But then the camera turned again.

And everything stilled.

Rumi.

The video caught her mid-performance, the lights of another mixer glinting across her face, soft shadows brushing against her cheekbones. Her head was tilted slightly, purple braid draped over one shoulder. That familiar curve of her lips — not polite, not restrained — just real, radiant in a way Mira hadn’t seen in years.

Her heart thudded once. Then twice.

Mira’s thumb hovered over the pause icon before it pressed down. The screen froze on Rumi’s profile — delicate, familiar, painfully so. The pointed nose she used to trace with her fingertip. The soft pink lips that once mumbled sleepy apologies after every fight. Those brown eyes — warm, bright, alive — gleaming under the soft hues of colored lights.

Mira blinked. Once. Twice. But the image didn’t blur.

She tapped the video again, letting it play.

Rumi laughed — a sound she hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. It wasn’t that polite, practiced chuckle she’d gotten used to seeing in class. This one was open, unguarded, her.

That smile — it hit her like a wave.

Because it was familiar. Too familiar.

The kind she used to wake up to.

The kind she used to adore.

The kind she love

The kind she lost.

By the time the video ended, Mira realized she hadn’t breathed properly for the entire thirty seconds.

Her thumb lingered on the screen a moment longer before she pressed and held the video file — the options appearing above: Save Video.

Her mind screamed don’t, but her body moved on its own.

She saved it.

And, without a word, added it to her private album.

The guilt settled immediately after — heavy, unexplainable. She wasn’t even sure why she did it. Curiosity? Nostalgia? Or something she shouldn’t even dare to name?

Her phone dimmed in her hand, and she caught her reflection in the blackened screen — unreadable, tired, maybe even… hollow.

She exhaled again, this time shakier. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered to herself, locking the phone.

Standing up, she grabbed her car keys from the counter. The metallic jingle echoed faintly in the quiet room.

“Let’s get her,” she muttered — but even she wasn’t sure if she meant Zoey or the version of herself that once learned to smile the way Rumi still did.

-----

The parking lot was quiet, the sound of her car engine clicking as it cooled filled the air. She leaned back on her seat, staring at the faint glow of her phone before unlocking it.

Honeybunch🦊✨: I’m here. What floor?

It took about three minutes before Zoey replied —

Baby Z🐢😘: 25th, the suite 😘

Mira exhaled, slid her phone into her pocket, and pushed open the car door. The air was crisp, faintly cold against her skin. She tugged her cap down slightly, tucking away a loose strand of pink hair before shoving both hands into her pockets. Her boots clicked softly against the marble floor as she made her way to the elevator.

The ride up was quiet — too quiet. Just the low hum of the elevator music and her own reflection staring back at her in the mirrored walls. The small digital numbers blinked slowly until finally, 25.

The door slid open with a soft chime.

Mira stepped out, the carpet under her shoes muffling her steps. She found the suite number easily and raised her hand to knock.

She half-expected Zoey’s chaotic face or Jinu’s teasing grin to greet her.

Instead—

The door opened, and there stood Rumi.

The faint sound of shuffling came from inside, but for a second, everything blurred except the way Rumi’s eyes met hers. Brown, steady, and familiar — and for that split second, Mira forgot how to breathe.

Rumi’s gaze flickered inside, then back to Mira before she stepped aside. “Come inside first. We’re cleaning up,” she said softly.

Mira nodded once. “Thanks.”

As she walked past, the faint brush of air between them carried that scent — lavender, sandalwood, and a trace of mint. It hit like muscle memory, stirring something deep and uninvited in her chest.

She straightened her back as her eyes adjusted to the soft light inside the suite. Jinu was crouched by the coffee table, carefully placing DJ mixers back into their velvet cases, a faint grin still on his face. Zoey, meanwhile, was untangling mic cords, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

Mira stood there quietly, her presence unnoticed for a few seconds — or maybe ignored. She wasn’t sure. Her heart beat a little too fast for the stillness around her.

Then Rumi’s voice came again, calm but familiar in the worst way. “Zo, Mira’s here.”

It was casual.

Too casual.

But the sound of her name from Rumi’s mouth tugged something sharp and uncomfortable in Mira’s chest.

Zoey’s head snapped up immediately. “Miraaa!”

Before she could react, Zoey was already bouncing toward her, arms wide, and leaping straight into her like an excited puppy. The impact made Mira stumble half a step back, groaning softly.

“Careful—Zoey,” she muttered, but her arms instinctively wrapped around Zoey’s waist, one hand resting at her back for support.

Zoey giggled against her shoulder. “You took forever.”

Mira chuckled under her breath, her hand patting Zoey’s back once before she glanced up — and met Rumi’s eyes again.

Just for a second. Mira felt a sudden ache in her chest.

Rumi was standing near the couch, her hand brushing her hair back before she turned away. Her gaze softened — unreadable — before she crouched to start fixing the pillows scattered across the floor.

Mira’s throat tightened. She shouldn’t be staring. She shouldn’t care. But she couldn’t help noticing how natural Rumi looked — comfortable, warm, herself.

The way she used to be when things weren’t complicated.

Mira blinked, realizing Zoey was still wrapped around her. She carefully loosened her arms and let Zoey slip down, keeping her gaze firmly away from where Rumi was.

“Missed you,” Zoey said, smiling up at her.

Mira forced a small smile. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Missed you too.”

But her heart wasn’t steady. Not after seeing the way Rumi’s smile still lingered faintly, the one she thought she’d forgotten how to remember.

The air felt too still. Too aware.

Zoey clung to her arm, talking about how much fun they’d had, how Rumi “totally killed it” with the mixer, how Jinu almost broke the mic stand from too much headbanging. Mira nodded along, half-listening — but her eyes kept finding the quiet figure near the couch.

Rumi was gathering the last of the pillows, brushing the creases with her palm before setting them neatly on the cushions. Her braid slipped over her shoulder as she bent to pick up a stray blanket, the motion too natural, too familiar.

Mira should’ve looked away.

She didn’t.

“Hey,” Jinu’s voice suddenly cut through the silence. He zipped up the velvet case, grinning as if he’d been watching this entire silent tension unfold. “You two planning to just stand there like statues or…?”

Zoey laughed and playfully nudged Mira’s arm. “She’s shy, Jinu.”

Mira rolled her eyes, tugging down the brim of her cap. “I’m not shy. Just—watching.”

“Watching what?” Jinu teased, his smirk widening as he shot a look between her and Rumi.

Rumi straightened, frowning. “Ji.” Her tone carried that warning note — the one only he seemed to ignore.

“What?” he said, raising both hands in mock innocence. “I’m just asking a question. You’re all acting weirdly quiet after making this place sound like a concert hours ago.”

Zoey giggled again, dropping onto the couch. “You should’ve seen her face when the drop hit. Rumi was like—” she mimicked Rumi’s serious DJ expression, lips pressed, eyes focused.

Rumi groaned softly, crossing her arms. “Please don’t.”

But even Mira noticed the tiny smile that followed — real, unguarded, slipping past her usual calm.

Before anyone could reply, Jinu clapped his hands once. “Alright! Before my suite turns into a graveyard of awkward silence, how about dinner?” He reached for his phone, waving it slightly. “Hotel food’s good here. I’ll order something up — unless you all want to leave now?”

Zoey gasped. “Leave? Are you kidding? I’m starving. Let’s stay!”

Mira blinked, glancing toward Rumi instinctively. “You staying?” she asked quietly, before realizing she said it out loud.

Rumi looked up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “...I guess so.”

“Good!” Jinu said, grinning triumphantly. “Four for dinner it is. My treat.”

Mira sighed, giving up the argument she didn’t even start. She slipped her hands into her pockets again, watching as Jinu placed the order through his phone.

Zoey was sprawled comfortably beside Rumi now, excitedly showing her random memes. The faint laughter that followed — quiet, genuine — filled the space Mira stood in.

And she realized how foreign that sound felt coming from Rumi.

Foreign, but missed.

Her chest tightened.

Jinu caught her staring again, smirked, and mouthed a single word across the room — “Busted.”

Mira glared. “Shut up,” she mouthed back.

He only chuckled and went back to ordering, leaving her there — standing, torn between sitting down or walking straight out before this tension swallowed her whole.

Zoey tilted her head when she realized Mira was still frozen by the door — like she’d been glued there since she came in. The others were talking, moving, laughing, but Mira… hadn’t even taken a single step.

With that familiar bright grin, Zoey walked over, grabbed Mira’s wrist, and tugged. “C’mon, babe, stop standing there like a ghost.”

Mira stumbled a bit, catching her balance just as Zoey pulled her toward the couch — the exact spot beside Rumi. The distance was close enough that Mira could smell the faint trace of Rumi’s lavender shampoo clinging to the air. Too close, almost.

But before Mira could even sit, Rumi suddenly stood. “I’ll—uh, get something,” she said softly, brushing past them.

The warmth that Zoey’s hand left on Mira’s wrist faded as she watched Rumi disappear into Jinu’s room. The sound of a door opening, a soft shuffle, then a few seconds later Rumi came back out — now wearing a gray sweater, slightly oversized, the sleeves hiding part of her fingers.

“Ji,” Rumi said, tugging lightly on the hem. “I borrowed this.”

Jinu, who was now leaning against the wall, smirked. “Wearing it before borrowing it is a crime, you know,”

Rumi raised a brow, crossing her arms. “You should’ve told that to yourself when you kept bringing Huntrix without my knowledge.”

Zoey burst into laughter so bright it filled the entire room. “Oh my god, you two sound like an old married couple!” she said between giggles, nearly falling onto the couch.

Jinu rolled his eyes dramatically, but there was a faint grin tugging at the corner of Rumi’s lips — the kind Mira hadn’t seen in a long time. It was soft. Relaxed. Unfamiliarly at ease.

But Mira’s brows furrowed slightly.

Huntrix?

The word echoed in her head, foreign yet important.

Who — or what — was Huntrix?

Her gaze lingered on Rumi longer than she meant it to, watching how naturally she laughed with Jinu and Zoey. The sound felt distant, even though it was happening right in front of her.

Mira didn’t realize she’d been staring until Zoey leaned closer and whispered, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mira said quickly, blinking herself out of it. “Just… wondering who Huntrix is.”

Zoey grinned, still catching her breath from laughing. “Oh! You’ll find out soon enough.”

That didn’t help at all.

If anything, it made Mira’s chest feel heavier — curiosity tangled with something she didn’t want to name.

Dinner came not long after. The smell of roasted chicken and creamy pasta filled the suite, mixing with the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft laughter from the couch. Jinu had laid out the food casually—like it was just another friendly hangout—but Mira couldn’t shake the heaviness in her chest.

She sat between Zoey and the armrest, across from Rumi and Jinu. The table was low, a few takeout boxes scattered over it. Rumi was quiet, as always, listening more than she spoke. Her hair was in its usual braid, a few strands framing her face. Her sweater sleeves still half-covered her hands as she picked at the food.

Zoey, on the other hand, was her usual sunshine—talking animatedly, laughing at her own jokes, poking Mira’s arm every now and then. “Babe, try this one, it’s so good,” she said, pushing a container toward Mira, who smiled faintly and took a bite just to humor her.

The taste didn’t register.

Her eyes kept flicking back to Rumi—unintentionally, unwillingly. The way she smiled faintly at Jinu’s teasing, the way her fingers tapped lightly against the table when she was deep in thought. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It didn’t mean anything.

But Mira’s chest ached anyway.

Zoey’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts, “So, Ru, are you performing with Jinu next time? I need to see that in person. You were insane in that video.”

Rumi smiled politely, shy even. “I don’t think so. That was just a one-time thing.”

“Yeah, right,” Jinu snorted. “You said that last time too, then blew up the crowd.”

Rumi’s cheeks reddened a bit. “That’s different.”

Zoey laughed, shaking her head. “You’re both insane. Like, music soulmates insane.”

Mira’s fork froze halfway to her lips.

Music soulmates.

The words rang too loud, echoing in her skull. She forced a quiet laugh, pushing it out so it didn’t sound like something had cracked inside her. “Music soulmates, huh? That’s… cute.”

Zoey beamed, missing the tightness in Mira’s tone. “Right? They even have names for their mixers! Rumi has one called Huntrix, and Jinu has—what was it?—Soundreaper?”

Rumi nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

Mira smiled too. Tight. Plastic. Her mind spiraled quietly while she stared at her half-empty plate.

Huntrix.

A name.

Something that had meaning, that Zoey said with fondness, that Jinu said with pride, that Rumi said like it was a piece of her.

Mira didn’t know why it bothered her. Why it twisted something sharp inside her chest.

Why she suddenly felt like she didn’t belong in this picture—Zoey laughing beside her, Rumi calm across the table, Jinu at ease in between.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

Rumi had moved on—hell, maybe she was the only one who hadn’t. Maybe everyone else had found their place, their rhythm, their peace. And here she was, still hung up on a smile she wasn’t supposed to miss, still memorizing the way Rumi looked when she was happy.

Zoey leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder mid-laugh, murmuring, “You’re so quiet, babe. You tired?”

Mira blinked, her throat tightening. “Yeah… just tired.”

Zoey hummed, content, and turned back to talk to Jinu again.

Mira glanced up one last time, and there it was—Rumi, looking at her for just a second before she looked away. Quick, quiet, almost guilty.

It was enough to make Mira’s breath catch.

And for the first time in weeks, Mira realized she wasn’t angry nor guilty.

She was just hurting —yearning even.

Chapter Text

(TALK)

The clock on the wall blinked red—9:00 p.m. The air inside Jinu’s suite had grown soft and heavy, dim lighting melting into a comfortable haze. Everyone was full from dinner; half the takeout boxes sat open on the table, and Zoey had her legs crossed on the couch, humming under her breath.

Then Rumi’s voice broke the calm.

“Ji, you have ice cream?”

Mira’s eyes flicked toward her instinctively. Rumi was sitting cross-legged, a little too at ease in that gray sweater Jinu had let her borrow—his sweater. The sleeves nearly swallowed her hands.

Jinu shook his head, standing up with that lazy grin he always wore. “I could head out and buy one. Wanna come?”

Rumi opened her mouth to answer, polite as always, her tone soft but steady. “Sure—”

“Wait!” Zoey shot up before she could finish, almost tripping over the blanket at her feet. “Jinu and I should buy it!” she declared, her grin wide and mischievous. “I need to talk to this cousin of mine anyway.” Her eyebrows danced playfully, as if she was in on some secret joke only she understood.

Mira’s chest tightened. The words I need to talk to this cousin of mine shouldn’t have meant anything, but the teasing tone somehow did.

She straightened on instinct. “I’m coming,” she said, maybe a bit too quickly, too firm.

But Zoey turned to her with that radiant, disarming smile—the kind that always managed to tear down Mira’s walls before she realized it.

“Nah,” Zoey said, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s family talk. Stay with Rumi. You two should get along, you know?”

It was teasing. Playful. Meant to be light.

But it hit Mira like a quiet stab.

Get along?

Her chest ached, heavy and raw beneath her calm expression. Get along? Is that even possible? she thought, the words echoing inside her skull.

Her and Rumi—after everything, after years of silence and avoidance and unsaid things—get along?

She didn’t even realize she’d stopped breathing until she caught Jinu’s glance. He wasn’t looking at Zoey anymore. His eyes were on Rumi. Soft. Familiar. Like he saw her in a way nobody else did.

And Rumi—Rumi blinked twice, almost shyly, before she nodded.

Her lips tugged into a faint, gentle smile.

A smile she didn’t even know Mira was watching.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have hurt.

But it did.

Because for the first time in a long time, Mira realized something bitter—

Zoey had no idea what kind of history she’d just locked Mira alone with.

And as the door clicked shut behind them, the sound of Zoey’s laugh fading down the hall, the room felt too quiet. Too tense.

Too dangerous.

Mira exhaled slowly, her hands tucked into her jeans pockets as her gaze flickered to Rumi.

It was just the two of them now.

And the air felt like a memory neither of them wanted to touch.

The silence sat thick between them. The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound that dared move through the suite. Rumi was sitting on the far end of the couch, legs crossed, hair tied back neatly, that familiar calm plastered on her face.

Mira leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered. But inside, everything itched—her thoughts, her pulse, the weight of the quiet.

She stared at the floor for a moment before she finally said it—

“How have you been?”

It came out quieter than she intended. It wasn’t loaded, not sharp—just quiet. But somehow, it made the room even quieter.

Rumi didn’t answer right away. She blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through her composed expression. Then she nodded once, her voice soft but steady.

“Fine, you?”

That word—fine—made something twist inside Mira.

Because Rumi had always said fine that way. Back then, too. When she was hurting. When she was angry. When she was about to walk away.

Mira looked up at her, lips parting to say something, but nothing came. Rumi’s gaze stayed calm, polite, distant. The same gaze she’d seen every day in class for the past month—so perfectly composed it almost made Mira want to break it just to see something real underneath.

Mira pushed herself off the counter, walking closer, slow, like every step was testing the air between them.

“That’s all?” she asked quietly, voice low enough it almost got lost in the hum of the air. “Just… fine?”

Rumi’s head tilted slightly, her lips curving into the faintest polite smile.

“Yeah. Fine,” she said again. “Why?”

Why.

As if Mira had any right to ask.

Mira wanted to say a dozen things—Because you look tired, or Because I haven’t seen you laugh like that since before I ruined everything, or maybe just Because I still think about you more than I should.

But all she said was—

“Just wondering.”

Her tone was even, casual. But her chest felt tight.

Rumi nodded once, as if that answer was enough, and turned her gaze toward the window, watching the city lights shimmer beyond the glass. The faint lavender of her braid caught the glow of the lamp, and for a moment, Mira forgot how to breathe.

The silence stretched again—thick, heavy, fragile.

Mira swallowed hard, looking away, pretending she didn’t see the faint tremor in Rumi’s fingers as she brushed imaginary lint off her sweater.

Fine, Mira thought bitterly. We’re both still pretending we’re fine.

The quiet stretched until it started to sound like static in Mira’s ears.

Rumi didn’t look back at her, just sat there—legs tucked up, sweater sleeves covering her hands, her gaze tracing the blurred glow of Seoul outside the window.

It was unbearable.

That silence. That distance. That pretend nothing happened air Rumi carried so well.

Mira shifted her weight, then sighed softly, the sound barely reaching Rumi.

“You know…” she started, eyes fixed on the floor before daring to glance at her, “…I saw that clip Zoey took earlier.”

Rumi’s head turned a little, not fully—just enough for Mira to catch the outline of her face under the lamplight.

“Oh,” Rumi said, the corner of her mouth twitching faintly. “That. She’s quick with a camera, isn’t she?”

Mira huffed out a small laugh, short and quiet. “Yeah. Always is.”

Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, heart pounding a little faster than it should.

“You looked happy, though,” she said softly. “Really happy.”

“Thanks.” Rumi smiled politely, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It used to reach her eyes before—before everything fell apart between them.

And something in that made Mira’s throat tighten. She didn’t even notice she’d stepped closer until she saw her reflection beside Rumi’s in the window glass.

Rumi’s reflection blinked, confused by the sudden proximity.

Mira’s lips parted before her mind could stop her tongue. “I missed seeing you like that,” she murmured.

The words fell heavy between them, quiet but sharp—like something neither of them wanted to touch.

Rumi turned, finally meeting Mira’s gaze fully for the first time that night. Her brows drew together slightly, eyes unreadable.

“What do you mean?”

Mira froze.

She should’ve said nothing. She knew she should’ve said nothing.

But her mouth kept moving.

“I mean—” she laughed awkwardly, rubbing her neck, “—you know, that… carefree thing you do. When you're happy. You looked like… you again.”

She hoped the explanation would sound light, maybe even casual. It didn’t.

Rumi’s expression softened for a second—then shuttered closed again.

“I didn’t know I stopped being me,” she said quietly.

Mira’s breath caught.

“That’s not—” she tried, but the words stumbled, broke halfway through.

Rumi leaned back against the couch, her gaze dropping to the floor. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

Her tone wasn’t cold. That was the worst part—it wasn’t anything. It was empty.

Mira clenched her jaw, trying to swallow the ache building in her chest.

She wanted to reach out, to bridge that tiny gap of air between them. But her hands stayed rooted by her sides.

“You don’t,” Mira said softly, “You don’t get it, Rumi.”

Rumi’s head tilted slightly, that same calm mask in place.

“Then tell me,” she whispered.

The challenge was so soft it almost sounded like a plea.

Mira inhaled slowly. She could’ve said I still care, or I never meant to hurt you, or even I wish you hadn’t walked away.

But instead, her voice came out barely above a whisper—

“I just… missed being part of that version of you.”

Rumi didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t look away either.

Just sat there—staring at Mira with eyes that were too calm for the storm brewing underneath them.

Then, quietly, she said—

“You were.”

Mira blinked, confused. “What?”

“You were part of that version of me,” Rumi said, voice steady now. “That’s the problem.”

The air went still again. Mira’s chest tightened painfully, her throat dry.

The quiet stretched again after Rumi said it—

You were. That’s the problem.

Mira sat on the couch, still frozen, staring at the person across from her. Her heart was racing, her chest tight with something she couldn’t swallow down anymore.

Rumi stood up and already took 4 steps away before Mira’s voice cracked through the still air.

“Why do you always do that?”

Rumi stopped. Slowly, she turned, brows pulling together slightly.

“Do what?”

Mira exhaled through her nose, pushing herself up from the couch and crossing the small space between them. She didn’t stop until she was standing right in front of Rumi.

“That,” she said, gesturing vaguely, her tone sharper than she intended. “You always act like nothing gets to you. Like it didn’t hurt. Like I didn’t hurt you.”

Rumi’s eyes flickered—just a second, quick, almost imperceptible—but Mira saw it.

Then Rumi lifted her chin slightly. “Because it’s easier than pretending I wasn’t the only one hurting.”

That made Mira’s breath hitch the small distance between them feeling like a wall.

“That’s not fair,” Mira said, shaking her head. “You think it was easy for me? Watching you walk away—hearing you say ‘Fine, I’ll leave’ like it didn’t matter—like I didn’t matter?”

Rumi crossed her arms, her jaw tightening. “And what was I supposed to do, Mira? Stay while you pushed me away? Stay while you couldn’t even look me in the eye without pretending you want me gone? Stay even though you made me feel nothing?”

“It didn’t mean nothing!” Mira snapped before she could stop herself. “God, Rumi, you think I didn’t want to stop you that day? I did! But you—”

Rumi cut her off, voice rising now. “Then why didn’t you?!”

The words slammed into the room like thunder. For a moment, both of them just stared at each other, breathing unevenly.

Mira’s throat burned. “Because I was scared, alright?” she said finally, her voice cracking on the edges. “I was scared of ruining what was left. Scared of saying something that would break us completely shattered.”

Rumi’s expression softened, but only for a second before she spoke again, quieter this time but still sharp.

“You broke it anyway.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

“Then what was I supposed to do, Rumi?” she asked, voice trembling. “Run after you? Beg you to stay after you just agreed to leave without a fight, as if I’m just piece that didn't matter?”

Rumi’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Mira laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “You don’t get it. You always just… shut down. Pretend you’re fine, pretend you’ve moved on—while I’m here, still trying to make sense of everything we threw away.”

Rumi’s reply came quieter, but her tone still cut through the room like glass.

“And you always act like you’re the only one who’s bleeding.”

Mira looked up sharply, their eyes locking—neither willing to look away this time.

“I never said that,” Mira whispered.

“You didn’t have to.”

The air between them was heavy—too heavy. Every word felt like it had history behind it. Every glance carried the echo of things they never said, things they still wanted to.

And then—

click.

The front door opened.

-------

Before Zoey and Jinu could even set the ice cream down on the coffee table, Rumi’s voice cut softly through the room—gentle, but final.

“I’ll be on the rooftop for a minute. I feel suffocated.”

Her words weren’t sharp. They were measured. Controlled. The kind of calm that came right after a storm.

Mira’s eyes followed her as she grabbed her phone from the table and slid it into her pocket. That polite, practiced smile—one Mira always recognized—flashed briefly before Rumi turned and walked out of the suite. The door clicked quietly behind her.

For a moment, no one spoke. The sound of the city hum faintly leaked through the window, the faint scent of cherry and sandalwood still lingering in the air.

Jinu’s gaze followed Rumi until she disappeared. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He just exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable.

Zoey, however, didn’t miss a beat. She turned sharply to Mira, eyes narrowing in that pouty glare she used whenever she was half-annoyed and half-worried.

“Did you frighten Rumi? What did you do, babe?”

Mira blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t do anything.”

Zoey crossed her arms, not buying it for a second. “Mhm, right. Because people totally say I feel suffocated after having a friendly chat.”

Jinu sighed, setting the ice cream down on the counter. He reached out, gently catching Zoey’s wrist before she could march toward the door. “That won’t be necessary,” he said quietly. “I think Rumi really just needs fresh air.”

There was something about his tone—firm, but calm—that made Zoey hesitate. She looked up at him, then back at Mira, clearly torn between trust and frustration.

Zoey finally huffed, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But if she doesn’t come back, I’m blaming you.”

Mira could feel Zoey’s gaze on her—sharp, heavy, serious. The kind of look that stripped away her defenses. Zoey rarely looked at her like that. It wasn’t teasing, or playful, or soft—it was disappointed.

And somehow, that stung more than the argument she’d just had.

Mira’s chest tightened. She looked down, brushing invisible dust off her jeans before she said quietly, “I’ll go check on her.”

Zoey’s expression softened slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

Mira grabbed the jacket resting on the arm of the couch and slipped it on, her movements slow, almost hesitant. As she reached the door, she caught Jinu’s gaze. His eyes were steady, knowing, and yet strangely gentle.

“She’s probably on the east side of the rooftop,” he said. “She likes watching the lights from there.”

Mira nodded once, quietly. “Thanks.”

Then she turned the handle and stepped out.

The air in the hallway was colder, quieter. Each step toward the elevator echoed faintly, matching the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

By the time the elevator doors slid open to the rooftop level, Mira exhaled slowly, the chill air brushing against her skin. The night was deep blue—Seoul’s skyline glittering with millions of tiny lights that seemed almost alive.

She spotted Rumi instantly.

Standing near the railing, back turned, hair loose now—the purple braid undone and flowing gently in the wind. One hand tucked into the pocket of Jinu’s gray sweater, the other holding her phone loosely by her side.

Mira stood by the doorway for a moment, just watching.

The way Rumi’s shoulders rose and fell in slow rhythm. The way the wind tangled strands of hair against her cheek.

Something about the sight hit Mira in the chest. That familiar ache. That realization that maybe Zoey was right—maybe she had frightened her. Or worse, maybe she’d reminded Rumi why she’d walked away in the first place.

She tightened her grip on her jacket, took a deep breath, and took a step forward.

The rooftop door shut behind her with a quiet click.

Rumi didn’t turn around. Not yet.

But Mira could feel the weight of her presence, like gravity pulling her closer whether she wanted it or not.

The rooftop air bit cold against Mira’s skin as she stepped forward, but her heartbeat was so loud it drowned out the wind. She didn’t stop walking—not because she knew what she was doing, but because her body refused to listen, to reason.

Each step felt heavier, slower, but the sight of Rumi standing there—small frame wrapped in that gray sweater, the city lights reflecting against her hair—pulled her in like gravity. Rumi didn’t turn around, didn’t move, didn’t say a word. She just stood there, staring out over the skyline as if the view could quiet something inside her.

Mira’s breath caught.

She wanted to speak—say something casual, anything—but the words tangled somewhere in her throat. So instead, she kept walking.

And before her mind could catch up to her body, she was there—close enough to smell the faint traces of Rumi’s lavender shampoo, close enough to see the slight tremor in her shoulders. Mira’s arms moved on their own, wrapping around Rumi’s waist from behind, pulling her in.

Her nose pressed gently into Rumi’s hair. It was soft, warm. Familiar. The kind of warmth that felt like home, but one she wasn’t supposed to touch anymore.

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

Then she felt Rumi stiffen. Every muscle in her body went rigid, frozen in that split second between disbelief and heartbreak. She didn’t move—didn’t lean back, didn’t relax. She just stood there, stone still in Mira’s arms.

And Mira, god, Mira felt that stiffness like a knife.

But she couldn’t stop herself. Not this time.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t careful. The words just slipped out, trembling against Rumi’s shoulder, soaked with everything she’d been choking down for weeks.

The reaction was immediate.

Rumi’s entire body trembled. Not the kind of trembling that came from cold—but from something sharper, rawer. She drew in a breath that hitched halfway through. Her fingers twitched against her sides, like she didn’t know what to do with them.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—she pried Mira’s arms off her waist.

Her hands were gentle, but her touch was deliberate.

When she turned, Mira saw it all. The storm behind those brown eyes. The way her lips parted like she wanted to scream, but the words came out broken instead.

“You don’t get to say that now,” Rumi said quietly, her voice trembling but steady enough to cut. “You have a girlfriend, Mira.”

The word girlfriend hit like a punch.

Rumi took a step back, and another. The space between them widened, but Mira could still feel the ghost of her warmth on her arms.

“That’s cheating,” Rumi added—her tone still calm, but her eyes said otherwise. Her voice cracked right at the end, soft enough to break something inside Mira.

The wind picked up, tugging strands of Rumi’s hair across her face. She looked away, toward the edge of the rooftop again, blinking hard as if to stop something from spilling out.

Mira’s throat tightened. “Ru—”

“Don’t,” Rumi said sharply. Not loud, but enough to make Mira stop mid-step. “Don’t call me that like nothing happened.”

Mira froze, her jaw clenching. She wanted to say something, explain, anything—but what was there to say? That she didn’t mean to fall for someone else while still missing Rumi? That every time Zoey laughed, some part of her remembered Rumi’s smile instead?

The guilt was suffocating.

She swallowed hard, taking a shallow breath. “I didn’t—”

Rumi let out a shaky laugh, bitter and soft. “You didn’t what? Mean to?” Her gaze lifted to Mira’s, eyes glassy. “You didn’t mean to hold me like that? You didn’t mean to make me think—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together before she could finish.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Mira’s chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. The words I’m sorry hovered on her tongue, but somehow, they felt too small. Too empty.

“I just…” Mira started, her voice low. “I just wanted to hold you again. Just once.”

Rumi shook her head slowly. “And what then?” she asked, her tone quieter now. “You go back to her? Pretend this didn’t happen? Pretend I’m just some memory you can visit whenever you feel lonely?”

Mira didn’t have an answer.

Because she didn’t know.

She didn’t know why the sight of Rumi still twisted her chest, or why her heart had raced the second she saw her in that sweater. She didn’t know why saying I miss you had felt like both a confession and a mistake.

Rumi exhaled slowly, wrapping her arms around herself. “You shouldn’t have said that,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have come closer.”

Mira’s voice was small when she replied, “But I couldn’t help it.”

Rumi’s eyes softened—just for a second. A single, fragile heartbeat. Then she looked away. “That’s the problem, Mira,” she said, turning toward the city lights again. “You never could.”

The wind blew between them, carrying the scent of rain and lavender. The city below buzzed faintly, oblivious to the chaos unraveling above.

Mira stayed where she was—half reaching, half retreating—watching Rumi’s silhouette blur against the skyline, realizing too late that sometimes missing someone wasn’t love.

Sometimes it was just a wound that never healed.

Then, out of nowhere, Rumi asked, “Are you here to tell me to leave again? To never come back?”

The words sliced through the night like lightning.

And suddenly, it was raining again — not really, but in Mira’s head, the rooftop blurred into that night under the heavy downpour. She remembered the way Rumi stood then — soaked, shaking, but unyielding. The rain dripping from her eyelashes, her voice breaking as she said, ‘You want me to leave? Fine, I’ll leave.’

That was the night everything shattered. The rain was cold, but Mira remembered how warm Rumi’s tears felt when they mixed with it. She remembered how she wanted to stop her, to run after her, but didn’t. Cowardice held her still. Regret filled the space where courage should’ve been.

Now, under the pale rooftop light, Rumi looked the same — standing tall, pretending she wasn’t breaking, pretending that her heart didn’t just twist open again.

Mira’s throat went dry.

 “Rumi… I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Rumi’s voice rose slightly, the way thunder grows before it bursts. “Didn’t mean it? Because it sure sounded like you did back then.”

“I was angry—”

“So was I!” Rumi snapped, finally stepping closer, her eyes glinting under the city glow. “But I didn’t throw you away just because I was angry, Mira. I stayed. I waited.”

The words echoed, ricocheting through the rooftop. Mira’s breath hitched — the image of Rumi walking away in the rain flashed in her mind again, droplets clinging to her hair, her back turned but shoulders trembling.

Mira took a small step forward, her voice breaking.

“I didn’t mean to let you walk away. I— I didn’t know how to make it right after that.”

“You didn’t even try,” Rumi said quietly. “You let me walk out there like I meant nothing. You said you loved me and then you let me go as if you didn’t.”

Silence again. Just the hum of wind and the sound of their hearts thudding too loud.

Mira’s voice dropped into something barely audible.

“I never stopped.”

Rumi’s gaze flickered, uncertain for just a moment — before she shook her head, almost laughing under her breath, as if she couldn’t afford to believe it again.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t make it harder than it already is.”

Mira’s throat tightened. The wind picked up, tugging at her jacket, tossing Rumi’s hair across her face. She wanted to reach out — to tuck that strand away like she used to — but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Every inch of Rumi now felt like forbidden ground.

“You think I’m trying to make it harder?” Mira’s voice trembled, though she tried to keep it even. “You think I came here just to— what, torture you?”

Rumi’s laugh came out sharp, humorless.

“No. You came here because you always do this, Mira. You show up when it’s too late. You say all the right words when they don’t matter anymore.”

Mira flinched.

“That’s not fair—”

“Fair?” Rumi’s tone cracked, quiet but fierce. “You think this is about fair? I spent years trying to unlove you, Mira. Trying to forget how it felt to stand in the rain that night, hearing you say ‘You wanted to leave, then leave and never come back.’ And now—” she exhaled shakily, “—now you show up again, holding me, saying you miss me? That’s not fair.”

The weight of her words settled between them like heavy fog.

Mira felt it press against her chest, raw and unrelenting.

She looked down, her voice dropping.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Rumi shook her head slowly.

“You always say that. But you did. You still are.”

Mira bit her lip, desperate to steady her breath. “You think I don’t regret it? Every time I close my eyes, I still see you— that night— soaked, trembling, walking away from me.” She paused, a flicker of pleading in her tone. “I wanted to run after you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Rumi's voice cracked

Silence.

That same haunting question.

The one that lived in her nightmares.

Mira couldn’t answer. Because she didn’t know. Or maybe she did, but she couldn’t say it aloud — fear, pride, confusion, all wrapped into one cowardly heartbeat.

Rumi looked at her, and for the first time since she turned around, her eyes softened — not forgivingly, just tired.

“You have Zoey now,” she said, her voice quieter. “You shouldn’t still be here talking about what-ifs with me.”

Mira’s breath hitched. “You think feelings just stop when someone new comes along?”

“They should,” Rumi shot back. “Or at least you should try to stop them. You’re not being fair to her, Mira. You can’t hold her hand and still look at me like this.”

The words hit Mira like rain after thunder — sudden, cold, sobering.

She wanted to argue, to say that Zoey was different, that Zoey made her happy — but even as the thought formed, she knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Not when her heart still raced for the girl standing a few feet away, the one she’d already lost once.

Mira stepped forward, her voice trembling but steady enough to be heard.

“I didn’t come here to confuse you, Rumi. I came here because I— I can’t stop thinking about you. About that night, about everything I said wrong.”

Rumi’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her gaze flickered down, then back up — anger fading into something more fragile, more dangerous.

“Mira,” she said softly, almost a whisper, “you don’t get to keep coming back whenever your guilt feels heavy.”

“It’s not guilt,” Mira said, stepping closer despite herself. “It’s you. It’s always been you."

Rumi exhaled harshly, blinking away something in her eyes that wasn’t quite tears.

“Stop,” she said, voice breaking, “just stop. You have someone waiting for you downstairs. Someone who loves you. Don’t stand here and make me feel like I’m stealing something that isn’t mine anymore.”

Mira froze.

The words dug deep, all the way into the hollow part of her chest that still belonged to Rumi.

And maybe she was right. Maybe Mira was stealing something — a heartbeat, a second, a memory that didn’t belong to her anymore.

The city below them buzzed with life — taxis honking, lights flashing, laughter rising faintly from the streets — but up here, it felt like time had stopped.

Neither spoke.

The silence hurt more than the shouting ever could.

Then, Rumi turned slightly toward the edge, eyes on the skyline.

 “You should go back, Mira.”

Mira didn’t move.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Just a breath, shaky, heavy before she finally nodded, barely.

And as she turned to leave, the rain started again — thin, quiet droplets falling like echoes of that night.

Rumi didn’t flinch this time.

She just closed her eyes and let it fall.

Chapter Text

(CRACKED...)

Zoey sat cross-legged on the couch, spooning a mouthful of ice cream straight from the tub. The sweet chill numbed her tongue, but not the restlessness curling inside her.

Jinu was sitting on the floor, scrolling through something on his phone, his expression unusually quiet.

“She’s taking a while, huh?” Zoey said, tapping her spoon against the plastic lid. “You think Rumi’s okay?”

Jinu hummed, not really looking up.

 “Rumi’s strong. When she says she needs air, she really means it.”

Zoey chewed on that thought, glancing toward the door Mira had disappeared through.

 “And Mira?” she asked softly.

Jinu finally looked up, one brow raised. “You know her better than I do, she's your girlfriend.”

Zoey smiled a little, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah… but sometimes it feels like I don’t.”

The clock on the wall blinked 9:42 p.m. The suite was too still — the kind of still that made Zoey’s chest tighten. Normally, she’d fill that silence with jokes or humming or a ridiculous dance move just to make everyone laugh. But tonight, her fingers just played with the condensation on the ice cream tub, tracing circles over and over.

Then, the door opened.

Mira stepped inside — quiet, slow. She wasn’t drenched, but her hair clung slightly to her temples, and her jacket was damp at the shoulders. Her eyes didn’t look like Mira’s eyes — not the sharp, controlled kind Zoey adored and teased endlessly. They looked tired. Sad.

Zoey’s heart dropped a little.

 “Hey, you took forever,” she said, trying to sound light. “Did you two fall asleep up there or what?”

Mira didn’t answer right away. She just closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a second like she had to remember how to breathe.

“Rumi’s still on the rooftop?” Jinu asked, standing.

“Yeah,” Mira said, her voice quieter than usual. “She just… needed some time.”

Zoey blinked, frowning. “What happened?”

 “Nothing,” Mira said quickly — too quickly. “We just talked.”

Jinu’s eyes darted to her, clearly reading more between the lines. He didn’t ask though — maybe because he knew better.

Zoey didn’t. Zoey never did.

She stood up, walked closer, her eyes searching Mira’s face. “You sure it’s nothing?”

Mira nodded, forcing a smile that looked like it was stitched together. “Yeah. Just… talk.”

That’s when Zoey noticed it — the smallest tremble in Mira’s hands before she shoved them in her pockets. It made Zoey’s chest ache in a way she didn’t know how to explain.

“You look cold,” Zoey murmured, grabbing the blanket from the couch and wrapping it around Mira’s shoulders before Mira could protest. “There. Cozy. No more shivering, got it?”

It made Mira smile — a real one this time, but faint and fleeting. “Thanks, Zo.”

Zoey’s lips curled, though her voice turned softer. “You’re welcome, babe.”

But when Mira turned away, Zoey’s smile faltered.

Because for the first time, babe didn’t sound like it used to. It didn’t bounce back with that teasing smirk, or make Mira’s eyes light up. It just fell flat — quiet and unfinished.

Jinu stood, stretching, muttering something about checking the rooftop. But Zoey waved him off.

“Let her breathe,” she said. “She’ll come back down when she’s ready.”

Jinu nodded, and disappeared into his room.

Now it was just Zoey and Mira, the faint hum of the city outside, the untouched ice cream slowly melting on the table.

Zoey plopped beside Mira, watching her profile — the way her gaze stayed locked on nothing, lips parted like she was lost somewhere else entirely.

And Zoey felt it — that invisible gap, small but terrifying. The kind that starts between fingers that used to fit perfectly.

“Mira,” Zoey said quietly, “whatever the talk is about… does it hurt?”

Mira turned her head, surprised — not at the question, but at how gently Zoey asked it. She didn’t answer. Just stared, guilt flickering behind her eyes like static.

That silence was enough of an answer.

Zoey exhaled through her nose and forced a small smile, though her chest felt heavy.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” she said, voice soft but laced with something fragile. “But someday, I hope you do.”

Mira nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Someday.”

But as Zoey leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder, she could feel it — that “someday” wasn’t a promise.

It was a delay. Then Jinu’s voice broke the silence.

“Uhm… Rumi just booked a cab. She said Celine texted her.”

Zoey’s spoon froze midair. For a second, she didn’t even breathe—she just stared at Jinu, waiting for him to laugh or say just kidding. But he didn’t. He stood there, scratching the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the door like he half-expected Rumi to walk back in.

Next to her, Zoey felt Mira go rigid. Not the calm, controlled kind of stillness Mira was known for—but the kind that came before breaking. Her shoulders rose slightly, breath trembling, and her hands clenched beneath the blanket Zoey had wrapped around her earlier.

Zoey’s chest tightened.

She didn’t even think—she just smiled, forced but bright.

“Then… I guess Mira and I should go too,” she said quickly. “I think she'll catched a cold.”

Her voice came out too light, too quick, but Jinu just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck again before nodding.

“Yeah, alright. Text me when you guys get home.”

Zoey nodded, standing up and brushing imaginary lint off her skirt before turning to Mira. She held out her hand, a silent gesture.

Mira looked up slowly, eyes glassy, fox-like but dull—so dull it made something in Zoey ache so deeply she wanted to scream.

“Come on,” Zoey said softly, her smile trembling now. “Let’s go home.”

For a moment, Mira didn’t move. Just stared at Zoey’s outstretched hand like it was something foreign—like she wasn’t sure she deserved to take it. Then finally, she placed her hand in Zoey’s palm. Her fingers were cold.

Zoey squeezed lightly, trying to anchor her.

But Mira didn’t squeeze back.

They walked to the door in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the suite—soft but sharp in the quiet that followed. Jinu said something—maybe “Take care,” or “See you guys”—but Zoey didn’t really hear it. All she could focus on was Mira beside her, moving like a shadow of herself.

When they stepped into the elevator, Zoey pressed the button for the lobby. Mira stood against the wall, arms crossed loosely, her reflection on the metallic doors showing a face Zoey barely recognized.

She hated that face.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful—it was. Mira was always beautiful. But because it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t the Mira who chuckle too loud when Zoey said something stupid. It wasn’t the Mira who ranted about people leaving dishes in the sink and then bought Zoey ice cream five minutes later.

It wasn’t the Mira who used to look at her like she was sunlight.

And now, all Zoey could see was someone hollowed out by something she couldn’t name.

 “You okay?” Zoey finally asked, breaking the silence.

Mira didn’t answer immediately. Her head tilted slightly, eyes still fixed on her own reflection.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Just tired.”

The word stung.

Tired.

It was the safest word Mira always used when she didn’t want to talk.

Zoey forced a smile again, looking at the numbers flickering on the elevator panel.

“Then let’s get you home,” she said softly.

But deep down, it wasn’t enough.

She wanted to shake Mira, to make her speak, to tear down whatever wall she had built in the span of minutes. She wanted to scream What happened up there? or Why are you shutting me out again?

But she didn’t.

Because Zoey wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

When the elevator doors opened, she tightened her hold on Mira’s hand and led her out.

Mira followed—quiet, obedient—but her steps felt distant.

And as they walked through the lobby lights and toward the parking lot, Zoey realized something painful

The person beside her wasn’t just tired.

She was somewhere else.

And Zoey didn’t know if she’d ever reach her again.

Zoey ended up driving. She didn’t even remember how it happened — maybe because Mira’s silence scared her more than anything. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but heavy… like a storm that refused to break.

The drive back to their apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the car engine and the faint rhythm of the rain starting again outside. Mira was in the passenger seat, one hand resting limp on her lap, her gaze fixed on the window as if the world passing by had answers she couldn’t find.

Zoey kept glancing at her — once, twice, more than she could count — every time hoping Mira would look back, that she’d say something, anything. But Mira didn’t.

And Zoey didn’t know what to feel.

Part of her wanted to reach out, to touch Mira’s arm, to tell her she didn’t have to hold it in — whatever it was. Another part of her wanted to scream, to demand, “What happened? Why are you like this?”

But she didn’t.

She just kept driving, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter than needed, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name.

When they finally reached the apartment, Mira moved like she was underwater. She unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door, stepped out — all slow, all detached. Zoey followed behind, locking the car before jogging to catch up.

The moment they stepped inside, Mira headed straight to the couch and sat down. No lights on, no shoes off, just—sat there. Staring.

Zoey stood by the doorway, frozen, watching her. She didn’t know whether to sit beside her or leave her alone.

Mira’s eyes were glassy, her lips pressed tight, her body leaning slightly forward like she was trying to stop herself from falling apart.

Zoey’s hand twitched at her side.

She wanted to help. God, she wanted to.

But that look in Mira’s eyes — that faraway, unreachable look — felt like a door slamming in her face.

A door that once led to everything they were, now closing off inch by inch.

Zoey took a deep breath and walked closer, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. She kneeled in front of Mira, trying to meet her eyes.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice breaking against the quiet. “Talk to me, babe. Please?"

Mira blinked slowly, her gaze flickering down to Zoey before sliding away again. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Zoey’s throat tightened.

She hated this. Hated the silence, hated the way Mira’s heart felt miles away when she was just right there.

“Did something happen?” Zoey whispered. “Did Rumi say something?”

Mira’s fingers twitched, but still — nothing.

Zoey exhaled shakily, her voice trembling now.

“I can’t help you if you keep shutting me out, Mira. I don’t— I don’t know what’s going on, and it’s— it’s driving me crazy because you’re right here but you’re not here.”

Mira’s eyes flickered, barely. Her jaw tightened, and for a split second, Zoey thought she saw something crack — a flicker of pain, guilt, maybe both. But just as quickly, it disappeared again, buried under that same quiet shell.

Zoey stood slowly, sitting down beside her. The distance between them was small — but it felt like an ocean.

She didn’t push further.

Didn’t ask again.

Because Zoey knew, deep down, that whatever had broken inside Mira tonight wasn’t something she could fix in one conversation.

Still… she reached out, laying her hand gently on Mira’s knee — a silent promise.

She’ll wait.

Even if it hurt.

Even if the door never opened again.

Zoey just sat beside her. No words, no movement — just the sound of their breathing, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and the rain tapping softly against the windows.

Zoey hated silence.

Always did.

Silence made her mind spiral, made her thoughts twist and overlap until she couldn’t tell which ones were hers and which were her fears. But right now… silence felt like the only thing keeping both of them from falling apart. It was fragile — like glass between them. One wrong word and it’d shatter.

She watched Mira from the corner of her eye. Her hair was still damp, her shoulders tense, her gaze fixed on nothing. It was that look again — the kind that made Zoey feel like she was watching Mira drift somewhere she couldn’t follow.

And it wasn’t the first time.

Mira had done this before.

Their first year together.

Zoey could still remember that night like a bruise that never fully healed. Mira had gone out to meet an old friend from high school — just coffee, she said. When she came back, she wasn’t the same. Her eyes were tired, her smile half-there, her voice small. She looked like someone had reached inside her chest and taken something away.

That night, Mira sat on the same couch — quiet, unreachable. And Zoey didn’t know what to do. She didn’t understand why the girl who was always so open, so honest, so bright, suddenly turned into this quiet, unreadable version of herself.

So Zoey did what she always did when she was scared — she fought.

She remembered raising her voice, words spilling out too fast to catch. “Did I do something? Am I not enough? What’s wrong, Mira? Just tell me!”

And Mira—

Mira broke.

She didn’t speak. She just cried. She cried so hard her shoulders shook, her breath hitched, her hands covering her face like she was ashamed of falling apart.

Zoey had pulled her in that night, held her as tight as she could, and swore she’d never let her feel alone again.

But Mira never said what happened. Never explained what that friend said. The only thing Zoey got was silence, and the memory of the promise Mira made through shaky breath and wet cheeks;

“I won’t shut you out again.”

And yet— here they were.

Now. Of all times.

Mira sitting next to her, eyes empty, walls high.

Zoey, sitting beside her, pretending silence was enough to hold them together when she could already feel the cracks forming.

She wanted to speak.

To say, “You promised.”

To say, “Please don’t do this to us again.”

But the words stuck in her throat, caught between love and fear.

So she sat there instead, breathing in the quiet, hating every second of it.

Because even though the silence was keeping them from shattering — Zoey knew it was also what was slowly breaking them apart.

That night, silence followed them into the apartment like a shadow that refused to be left at the door.

Mira didn’t say anything when Zoey stood by the hallway, one hand gripping the frame of the guest room. Her face was unreadable, her movements slow—careful, like she was afraid even breathing too loud would break something between them.

“I’ll sleep in here tonight,” Zoey said quietly. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it was heavy—weighted with things she didn’t know how to say.

Mira just nodded.

No hesitation. No attempt to stop her.

Just a soft, tired nod.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else could have.

Because the Mira Zoey fell in love with—the Mira who always clung to her arm in bed, who mumbled “five more minutes” into her neck every morning, who hated even turning her back to Zoey when they slept—would never have just nodded.

She’d pout, whine, maybe tug Zoey back into the room with sleepy hands and a quiet, “Don’t go.”

But this Mira…

This Mira didn’t even blink.

Zoey bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the sting in her throat. She wanted to ask why. She wanted to demand a reason, to shake something out of the quiet and get her Mira back. But she didn’t. Because if she opened her mouth now, she wasn’t sure what would come out—anger, or heartbreak. Maybe both.

So she just nodded back, almost mechanically, like she was agreeing to something neither of them wanted.

When she turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of Mira sitting on the edge of the bed, back hunched slightly, her eyes fixed on her hands. The lamplight painted her in soft gold, but even that warmth couldn’t touch the distance between them.

Zoey stood there for a moment longer, silent, her chest tightening. She wanted to say “goodnight.” But it felt wrong. Too empty.

So she didn’t say anything at all.

She stepped into the guest room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it for a long, quiet second.

The space felt colder than she remembered. Too big. Too quiet.

As she laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind replayed the way Mira’s head didn’t lift when she left the room. The way she didn’t even glance back.

It was ironic, she thought.

Mira used to hate sleeping alone. Used to sneak into her room after nightmares, or crawl over to Zoey’s side of the bed in the middle of the night, whispering about the dark corners of her mind that only calmed when Zoey was near.

And now—

She just agreed to be apart.

Without a word.

That irony sat heavy in Zoey’s chest as she turned on her side, clutching the blanket tighter, her eyes burning from the tears she refused to let fall.

-------

Morning came gently, but the room felt heavier than dawn itself.

Zoey stirred awake, blinking through the soft light that seeped through the blinds. Her back ached slightly from the guest room mattress, but something warm, something familiar pressed against her side.

A weight. A soft one.

Her breath hitched when she looked down.

Mira.

Her head rested on Zoey’s chest, hair messy and tangled, cheek slightly flushed against the fabric of Zoey’s shirt. One arm was draped across Zoey’s waist, her fingers curled faintly into the blanket as if anchoring herself there—holding on to something fragile she couldn’t name.

Zoey froze.

For a long, quiet moment, all she did was stare.

Mira’s breathing was steady but shallow, the kind that trembled slightly before exhaling. Her lips parted softly, and her eyes were half-lidded—not fully awake, not fully asleep. Her gaze wasn’t on Zoey, not exactly—it looked far away, like she was listening to something only she could hear.

Zoey didn’t move.

She didn’t dare to.

Because she remembered.

She remembered a night long ago—months before everything turned complicated—when Mira couldn’t sleep because of a panic episode after a brutal day of dance routine. She’d crawled on Zoey's top, trembling, and Zoey had wrapped her in her arms without a word.

And then Mira had said it—softly, sleepily, against Zoey’s chest.

“When I listen to your heartbeat, it’s like a song that lullabies me. It’s… I don’t know, my strength.”

Those words had stayed with Zoey. Every single syllable.

So now, feeling that same heartbeat being listened to again, under completely different circumstances, Zoey’s throat burned.

Because the comfort Mira sought… wasn’t the same as before.

Because the Mira clinging to her now wasn’t the same Mira who once said those words with a soft smile.

Zoey’s hand twitched slightly, an instinct to reach up and stroke her hair. But she didn’t.

She just stayed still—letting Mira listen, letting her pretend this morning wasn’t carved out of last night’s silence.

Mira’s breath hitched faintly, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her fingers pressed tighter against Zoey’s side for a second before relaxing again.

Zoey closed her eyes.

It was strange—how something so intimate could feel so unbearably distant.

Mira was there, physically close, her warmth seeping through the sheets. But her mind, her heart—they felt miles away.

Zoey wanted to whisper something, anything, but she didn’t trust her voice not to crack.

So she stayed silent.

Letting her heartbeat speak instead.

The same heartbeat Mira once called her strength.

The same one now trembling under the weight of what they both couldn’t say.

And as the morning light stretched slowly across the room, Zoey realized something painful—

Mira was holding her like she was afraid to lose her.

But Zoey felt like she already had.

Mira exhaled heavily—like the air had been trapped inside her all night.

It was shaky, uneven, full of everything she couldn’t name.

Then came the words.

Soft, quiet, broken.

“I’m sorry.”

No context.

No explanation.

Just sorry.

Zoey froze again, staring at the ceiling before glancing down at the woman still resting against her. Mira’s voice was so fragile it almost didn’t sound like her—it didn’t carry the confident tone Zoey fell for, the sharp, sure rhythm of someone who always knew what to say.

It was a whisper that sounded like defeat.

And Zoey… she didn’t know what to do with that.

Her chest ached, but she forced herself to breathe steadily—slow, deep, calm—because Mira’s ear was still pressed against her, still listening. Zoey didn’t want her to hear the tremor in her heart, didn’t want her to hear how much that one apology cracked her open.

So instead, she lifted her hand gently.

Her fingers brushed against Mira’s pink hair, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear, tracing the soft curve of her cheek. Mira’s skin was warm under her touch, and for a second, Zoey thought she saw her flinch—not out of discomfort, but recognition.

A memory flickered between them.

The countless mornings before this—Mira half-asleep, Zoey brushing her hair away, Mira murmuring something teasing like “You’re obsessed with touching my face, huh?”

And Zoey would laugh and say, “Can you blame me?”

But not today.

Today, Zoey didn’t say a word. She couldn’t.

Every phrase that came to her tongue felt too sharp, too cruel, or too hollow.

So she did what she could.

She hummed.

A familiar melody—slow, mellow, and imperfectly tender. One of her unreleased tracks, one Mira always said made her “feel like floating.” The one Mira used to loop endlessly while studying, saying it sounded like peace trying to hold itself together.

Zoey’s hum was quiet, almost trembling at first, but it steadied as Mira’s breathing slowed against her chest.

Mira didn’t speak again. She just listened—her eyelids fluttering, her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t bring herself to.

Zoey hummed until her throat tightened, until the silence between them softened but didn’t disappear.

And as the sound faded, she realized her heartbeat had synced with the rhythm again—slow, familiar, aching.

Mira’s hand slipped slightly, resting near Zoey’s ribs, her fingers twitching once before going still.

Another apology almost escaped her lips—but it never did.

And Zoey kept humming.

Because it was the only way she knew how to tell Mira—

I heard you. I felt it. I’m here.

They stayed like that for almost two hours — tangled in silence, wrapped in something too fragile to name.

The sun had risen high enough to spill through the sheer curtains, painting the room in soft gold and faint warmth. The only sound was Zoey’s steady heartbeat against Mira’s ear, and the soft rhythm of their breathing, like a lullaby that neither of them wanted to end.

Then Mira shifted.

Her fingers curled slightly against Zoey’s side as she lifted her head. Her hair was messy, sticking to her cheek, and her eyes — still half-lidded — finally looked up.

Zoey blinked, unsure if she was still dreaming.

Because this time, Mira’s gaze wasn’t distant. It wasn’t dull, or empty, or lost somewhere in the spaces between them.

It was there.

Focused. Present. Real.

And then Mira said it.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice raspy, like she hadn’t spoken for weeks. Then a faint, trembling smile tugged her lips as she added, “Always in all ways.”

It was a simple line — one they’d exchanged so often it became a rhythm of their own, a ritual stitched into their days.

But now, after last night’s silence, after the distance, after the storm behind Mira’s eyes…

It felt different.

It felt like the words were rediscovering their meaning again.

Zoey smiled, soft at first, then wider as the corners of her eyes crinkled.

She brushed her thumb along Mira’s cheek, the pad of it catching the faint warmth there.

“I love you, always in all ways,” Zoey murmured back.

“Through ups and downs, lights and darks, sickness and health.”

It slipped out half like a promise, half like a plea.

And for the first time since the rooftop, since the night that nearly broke them again, Mira smiled — genuinely.

Not the composed kind. Not the polite or practiced kind.

But the real one — the one that reached her eyes, that softened her features, that used to make Zoey’s chest flutter no matter how many times she saw it.

Zoey grinned in response, relief bubbling up inside her chest.

She leaned forward, bumping her forehead lightly against Mira’s, and whispered, “That’s my favorite version of you.”

Mira chuckled — small, breathy, and real.

Her hand found Zoey’s and squeezed.

And for a fleeting moment, it felt like the weight between them had thinned — like maybe, just maybe, they could still find their way back through the cracks.

Zoey thought it would all be fine.

That everything would go back to the way it used to be — the laughter in the morning, the small chaos of two toothbrushes bumping at the sink, the quiet hums Mira made while doing her hair, the kind of everyday rhythm that felt like home.

But it’s been two weeks days.

Two weeks of silence.

Two weeks of awkwardness and unspoken words hanging like fog in the air.

Two weeks of Mira staying in her studio room longer than usual — sometimes emerging only to grab coffee or water, eyes tired, expression unreadable.

And Zoey hated it.

She hated walking through the apartment like she was trespassing in her own space.

She hated how every small sound felt amplified — the clinking of spoons, the faint buzz of the fridge, the hummed of the music from the studio 

Most of all, she hated how she started whispering to herself just to hear a voice — any voice.

At first, she told herself it was fine, that maybe Mira just needed space, that she shouldn’t push. But by the second week, irritation began to claw up her chest. Every quiet minute felt like a reminder of something broken that neither of them wanted to fix.

So Zoey did what she always did when she didn’t know what else to do — she worked.

She busied herself with her major subject — Music Production Theory.

Her desk was scattered with notes, a half-finished track looping through her headphones, and a coffee cup gone cold hours ago. She stared at the mixing interface on her laptop, watching the waveforms bounce and collide without really hearing them.

It was almost laughable — how she could shape sound so well, but couldn’t break the silence in her own home.

She sighed, rubbing her temples.

Her mind kept replaying Mira’s “I love you” from that morning — the one that had sounded so certain, so warm.

And yet now, every time she thought about it, the words felt like a fragile thread stretched thin, about to snap.

Zoey leaned back, eyes flickering toward the closed studio door across the living room.

A dull ache settled in her chest.

“You said you’d never shut me out again,” she whispered to no one.

The silence answered back — steady, unyielding, cruel.

Zoey stood up from her notes.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up — before the haze of questions and unshed words could fully drown her. The world outside her head was muted, like her thoughts were pressing cotton against her ears. She walked toward the kitchen, bare feet brushing against the cool tiles, the air thick with the scent of instant coffee and the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Her head was buzzing.

What if this is her way of telling me it’s over?

The thought came like a knife — sharp, sudden, cruelly casual — and it cut through her chest with such precision that she forgot how to breathe.

She reached for something — anything — her hand finding the edge of a ceramic bowl from the drying rack. It was almost automatic, her body just needing to do something while her mind spiraled.

No, she wouldn’t… she told herself.

But then another voice, small and bitter, whispered back: Then why does it feel like she already left?

Her breath hitched, eyes burning, and she clutched the bowl tighter, as if it could anchor her to the moment. But her thoughts kept running, faster and faster — every silence, every glance, every empty word between them twisting into something darker.

Then it came, the one thought she wasn’t ready for; Is this Mira’s way of telling me that we should break up? 

Her throat constricted.

Her hands trembled.

And in that trembling, the bowl slipped.

It fell to the floor, shattering into dozens of sharp white fragments.

The sound tore through the quiet — violent, echoing, final.

Zoey froze.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she stared down at the floor, at the mess she made — the reflection of her face splintered in tiny shards.

Something inside her cracked too.

Without thinking, she crouched. Her fingers reached for the larger pieces first, then the smaller ones. The edge of one caught her palm — a sharp sting, a thin red line, then another, and another — but she didn’t stop. She just kept picking up the fragments like if she fixed the bowl, maybe she could fix this too.

She didn’t even hear the footsteps at first.

But then —

Thud.

“Zoey,” Mira’s voice rang out, sharp, alarmed. “You’re bleeding. What the fuck— don’t touch it!”

Zoey blinked. Her head snapped up, and Mira was already there — moving fast, her expression somewhere between anger and worry.

Before Zoey could say a word, Mira grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the sink. The world blurred; the next thing she knew, cold water ran over her hand, washing away the crimson that trailed down her wrist.

Mira’s grip was firm but careful, her movements practiced — familiar, the kind of care that once made Zoey melt. But right now, it only made her chest hurt more.

She stared at their hands under the stream of water.

Mira’s thumb brushed over her skin, checking the cut, the touch both gentle and trembling.

It should’ve comforted her.

But instead, it made the silence louder.

Zoey’s throat burned. Her eyes stung, not from pain but from everything she hadn’t said in two weeks.

Her lips parted, her voice unsteady.

“Are you done shutting me out?”

The question came out low, cracked — like glass under pressure.

Mira froze. The water kept running, hitting Zoey’s palm in an uneven rhythm. Mira didn’t say anything — not a word, not even a breath — and that silence was enough to break something inside Zoey.

She yanked her hand away, droplets of water flying off her skin.

The sound of the faucet running filled the kitchen again, hissing like white noise between them.

Zoey stepped back, her chest heaving.

Her voice was shaky but louder now, fueled by the kind of hurt that begged to be heard.

“You don’t get to act like you care if you’re just going to pretend I don’t exist the moment something bothers you!”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.

“I don’t need you to protect me from whatever this is, Mira. I just need you to talk to me!”

Mira stood still, wet hands hovering over the sink, her pink hair falling over her eyes.

“Zoey…” she whispered, but the word felt hollow, unfinished.

Zoey let out a small, broken laugh.

“You can’t even finish my name.”

The silence that followed was suffocating — the kind that filled every inch of air between them, heavy with unsaid things and old wounds.

Mira opened her mouth — maybe to explain, maybe to defend herself, maybe to reach out — but the words never came. They just hung there, trapped in the space between them, as Zoey’s chest rose and fell, her pulse pounding so hard it echoed in her ears.

The silence stretched thin — unbearably thin — and Zoey couldn’t take it anymore.

Her fingers curled into her palm despite the sting, and she felt the fresh sting of her cut reopening. But she didn’t care.

Not about the blood.

Not about the mess on the floor.

Not about Mira standing there, silent and beautiful and unreachable.

She turned away.

Her steps unsteady, heart loud. Mira’s voice called after her — soft, hesitant 

“Zoey...wait.”

But Zoey didn’t.

She grabbed her hoodie from the back of the couch, pulling it on with trembling hands, ignoring the way the cuff instantly darkened with blood, her bag slung over her shoulder like a weight that ground her even slightly. The door clicked open, and a burst of cold air rushed in, wrapping around her like the only thing that dared to touch her now.

“I can’t do this right now,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

And then she was gone.

The hallway outside was dim, lined with flickering lights and the faint hum of the city below. Zoey walked fast — too fast — her sneakers slapping against the floor, her breathing shallow. She didn’t even realize she was still bleeding until she saw the faint smudge of red on her sleeve.

By the time she stepped out of the apartment building, the morning had turned grey. The sky was heavy with low clouds, and the chill bit through her clothes. She shoved her hands into her pockets, wincing when her palm brushed against the fabric.

Her thoughts spun in circles — jagged and restless — replaying every second of the scene she’d just left behind.

The broken bowl.

The cold water.

Mira’s hands holding hers.

The silence that screamed louder than any argument.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or something.

But nothing came out.

The commute to the university felt longer than usual. The city noises — engines, chatter, laughter — all blurred into background static. Her mind was too full of what ifs.

What if I pushed too far?

What if she really wants out?

What if this is the beginning of the end?

Each thought stung worse than the cut on her hand.

By the time she reached the gates, her breath was uneven, her lips pale from the cold. She tugged her hoodie tighter around herself and walked across the campus, avoiding the curious glances of a few students she passed.

Her hand was still bleeding, the small gash refusing to close. The blood had seeped through her sleeve now, staining the cuff dark and tacky. She tried to ignore it, clutching the hem of her hoodie with her other hand, trying to focus on anything else.

But her head was fuzzy — like she was underwater, everything muted and slow. She passed through the courtyard, the familiar hum of voices around her barely registering.

Her phone buzzed once in her pocket.

She didn’t need to check to know who it was.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Her vision blurred for a moment — not from tears, but from exhaustion. She pressed her palm against her chest, right where it hurt most, and whispered under her breath

“It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.”

And somewhere far away, in that quiet apartment they once called home, Mira stood in the kitchen — surrounded by broken glass, the sink still running, her own hands shaking — whispering Zoey’s name like a prayer that came too late.

Zoey turned the corner toward the university’s main building — the familiar path lined with old trees and stone benches — but her steps were uneven, like every movement took effort. The world felt hazy. The morning air stung her lungs, and the wound in her hand throbbed with every heartbeat.

Her mind was everywhere — still back in the kitchen, still hearing the sound of the bowl shattering, still seeing Mira’s eyes. Those eyes that once burned with warmth, now so unreadable they scared her.

She didn’t even notice the figure coming from the opposite direction until her shoulder collided with someone solid.

“Hey— careful.”

That voice.

Soft, even, familiar.

Zoey blinked, and there she was — Rumi.

Her posture, as always, was calm and collected, her hair tied in its usual braid, her shirt immaculate despite the morning breeze tugging at the strands. Rumi tilted her head slightly, the way she always did when trying to read someone — a quiet habit that once made Zoey both nervous and oddly comforted.

“Zoey?” Rumi’s tone was steady, but her brows furrowed just a little. Her gaze flicked down to Zoey’s hand — the sleeve stained dark, the faint smear of red. “You’re...you’re bleeding.”

Zoey looked at her, but couldn’t form words. She tried to force a smile, to make it seem like nothing, but her chest ached too much, her throat too tight.

Rumi’s eyes softened, the calmness around her shifting from indifference to concern. “What happened—”

But Zoey didn’t let her finish.

Before Rumi could say another word, Zoey just moved.

It wasn’t graceful or planned — it was instinct. Desperation. Need.

She stepped forward and threw her arms around Rumi, burying her face against her shoulder.

The breath Rumi drew in was sharp and startled, her body tensing on reflex. But then she felt it — Zoey trembling. Really trembling. Her shoulders shaking, breath coming out in uneven, broken gasps.

Rumi froze for a second — her mind catching up with what was happening — before she slowly, hesitantly, lifted her arms and wrapped them around Zoey.

“Zoey…” she murmured, voice soft, cautious.

And that was all it took.

Zoey broke. Completely.

The sobs she had been holding back since two weeks ago — since the silence began — tore out of her chest like a dam finally bursting. She clutched Rumi’s shirt tightly, fingers curling into the fabric, as if holding on would keep her from falling apart entirely.

Rumi could feel Zoey’s heartbeat against her — rapid, erratic, pained. She didn’t say anything. She just held her. Her hand came up, resting lightly against the back of Zoey’s head, steady and gentle.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, even though she didn’t know what was wrong. “You’re okay.”

But Zoey shook her head, her words muffled against Rumi’s shoulder.

“I’m not— I don’t— I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Her voice cracked on every word.

Rumi’s brows furrowed deeply now, her calm exterior beginning to waver. She felt Zoey’s pain without even needing context — it was in the way she clung to her, the way her breath came out in gasps, the way her whole body trembled as if she’d been holding herself together for too long.

“Zoey, hey…” Rumi’s tone lowered, quiet but firm, the way she spoke when she wanted someone to really listen.

“You’re bleeding. Let’s— let’s sit, okay?”

Zoey didn’t move, didn’t answer, just stayed there. Her hands were cold. Her face pressed against the side of Rumi’s neck, her tears soaking through the fabric of her shirt.

Students passed them by — some slowing, some staring — but Rumi didn’t care.

She guided Zoey slowly toward the bench near the corner, her arm still wrapped protectively around her. She sat her down, crouching in front of her, and gently took Zoey’s injured hand.

Rumi’s expression didn’t change much — still calm, still focused — but her touch was careful, like she was handling something fragile. She used the edge of her handkerchief to wipe the blood off Zoey’s palm, her thumb brushing against her skin just once before she looked up.

“What happened?” she asked, voice low.

Zoey looked down at her lap, eyes red, lips trembling. “I… I don’t know. Everything just… hurts. And she— she won’t talk to me, Rumi. She just shuts me out. Like I’m… like I’m a stranger.”

Rumi’s hand paused mid-motion, the words sinking in. She didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Mira,” she said quietly.

Zoey nodded, her tears starting again. “I don’t even know what I did wrong. After you guys talked she started to just shut me out”

And that broke something in Rumi’s chest. Because for the first time in a long while, she saw Zoey — not as the loud, confident, magnetic girl everyone admired — but as someone raw and human and lost.

Rumi set the handkerchief aside and exhaled slowly.

“You shouldn’t be out here like this. You need to clean that wound. Come on—”

But Zoey shook her head weakly, clutching Rumi’s hand before she could stand.

“Just… stay. Please.”

Rumi froze.

The wind shifted, rustling through the leaves overhead. The campus noise blurred again, fading into the distance until it was just the two of them — Zoey, broken and trembling; Rumi, calm but shaken, unsure whether to comfort her or hold herself back.

She stayed.

Quietly, carefully, she stayed.

Zoey leaned her head against Rumi’s shoulder again, and for a brief, fleeting second, the storm in her chest eased — not gone, but quiet enough to breathe.

Zoey didn’t know how long she’d been crying. Time didn’t feel real anymore — everything blurred at the edges, smeared by tears and exhaustion. All she knew was the warmth in front of her. The faint scent of lavender and sandalwood — Rumi.

The weight of the world seemed to lessen just a little with her there. Just a little.

Through the haze of her uneven breathing, Zoey heard the quiet sound of a zipper. She blinked through her blurred vision, watching as Rumi set her bag down besides her. Calmly. Deliberately. Every move measured, precise — the opposite of Zoey’s trembling mess.

Rumi didn’t speak at first. She just opened her bag, and took out a small black pouch. Her movements were clean, unhurried — as if she’d done this a thousand times before.

A soft click followed — Rumi opening a small spray bottle — and then her voice, steady and low, cut through the fog in Zoey’s head.

“This will sting.”

It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement — careful, quiet, firm.

Zoey just nodded. Her throat felt raw. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything, afraid her voice would crack again. So she simply offered her hand, palm upward — the one smeared with streaks of dried blood.

Rumi’s gaze flicked briefly to Zoey’s face — her eyes unreadable but focused — before she brought the spray bottle close. The cold mist of alcohol hit the cut.

And Zoey flinched.

It wasn’t the pain — not really. It was the sharpness of the sensation after so much numbness, like the sudden sting was reminding her she was still alive.

Rumi’s hand was steady, though. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. She just held Zoey’s hand, firm but gentle, and dabbed at the wound with her handkerchief. The white cloth bloomed faint red, and Zoey watched in silence, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

Then — without meaning to — her fingers tightened.

Rumi inhaled softly, her breath catching when Zoey’s grip on her wrist became vice-like. Her nails dug into the delicate skin of Rumi’s forearm, crescents pressing deep. Zoey didn’t realize she was doing it — it was reflex, something to hold onto when her insides felt like they were collapsing.

“Zoey,” Rumi said, her voice low but calm, that same careful tone she always use. “It’s okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

But Zoey’s breathing came out ragged anyway — sharp inhales, shaky exhales — and the more she tried to hold it back, the more it broke apart. Her hand trembled, her nails still clutching onto Rumi’s wrist like she might disappear if she let go.

Rumi didn't say anything. She just kept working — slow, precise — cleaning the rest of the wound, dabbing away the edges of red.

Her silence wasn’t cold. It was grounding.

Zoey could hear the faint sound of the alcohol fizzing against her skin, the soft rustle of fabric as Rumi tore open a bandaid, the hum of the world around them that felt so far away.

When Rumi finally pressed the bandaid gently against Zoey’s palm, her fingers lingered for a moment too long — just resting there, as if anchoring her in place.

Zoey looked at her — really looked — and for a fleeting second, she saw something flicker in Rumi’s eyes. Something she couldn’t quite name. A softness buried beneath composure.

The breeze picked up. Zoey’s hair brushed against her cheeks, sticking to her tear-damp skin. She realized she was still holding Rumi’s wrist — still clinging like her life depended on it.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to… stay, you know.”

Rumi’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Instead, she just sat there. Still crouched, still steady, her hand still under Zoey’s.

“I know,” she said finally. “But you asked me to stay, so I’m staying.”

Something in Zoey’s chest cracked wide open at that — not painfully this time, but like she could finally breathe again, even if it hurt.

The bandaid felt too small for the wound. The silence felt too heavy for the air. But for the first time in weeks, Zoey didn’t feel completely alone in it.

She just sat there, her palm wrapped in Rumi’s careful hold, her heartbeat slowly syncing with the quiet rhythm of Rumi’s breathing.

The bell’s shrill ring cut through the tension like a blade.

Zoey flinched a little, blinking away what was left of the tears in her lashes. Before she could even stand properly, Rumi was already rising, slipping her medkit back into her bag in one practiced motion.

“Come on,” Rumi said softly — not commanding, not gentle either, just… steady.

Zoey didn’t argue. Her body felt too heavy to resist.

Rumi guided her through the hallway, one hand lightly hovering near Zoey’s elbow — not quite touching, but close enough to catch her if she stumbled. The fluorescent lights above flickered as they passed each row of lockers. Every sound felt distant: the chatter of students, the echo of footsteps, the creak of doors.

When they reached the music production classroom, Zoey hesitated at the door. She caught herself glancing around — like Mira might suddenly appear in the crowd.

But she wasn’t there.

Mira wasn’t in this class. She knew that. Yet the emptiness in the room where she shouldn’t be somehow made Zoey’s chest feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.

Rumi led her to her seat, the one near the middle by the window.

“Sit,” she said quietly.

Zoey sat, her movements mechanical, while Rumi slipped into the seat beside hers — her usual spot. She placed her bag down carefully, hands folded neatly atop her desk. Her composure was almost unnerving, but it was the kind of calm that Zoey found herself holding onto, like a life raft in stormy water.

The classroom settled just as the professor walked in — the familiar shuffle of papers and keys jangling on his belt. He clapped his hands once, a signal for attention.

 “Alright, everyone! I hope you’re ready to do something a little more hands-on this week.”

There was a murmur of excitement across the room, but Zoey just leaned back, staring blankly at the desk. Her head still ached faintly from crying, her bandaged hand resting on her lap.

“I’ll be assigning you in pairs,” the professor continued, scanning the class list on his tablet. “You’ll produce one full track together. It can be any genre — I just want to hear your synergy.”

Synergy. The word twisted something in Zoey’s stomach.

He started calling names — familiar pairings, expected duos, laughter and groans scattered across the room — until her name came up.

“Ms. Han…”

Zoey straightened automatically, heart pounding for no reason she could explain.

“…and Ms. Ryu.”

Her head turned before she even processed it. Rumi was already looking at her.

For a second, everything went still.

“You’ll be joining hands,” the professor added with a smile that made Zoey’s throat tighten. “And I expect a lot from both of you.”

Zoey swallowed hard.

Her pulse thrummed loud in her ears — a syncopated rhythm that felt more like panic than excitement.

Rumi didn’t look surprised. Her expression stayed neutral, lips pressing into a faint line as she nodded once toward the professor. Then she glanced back at Zoey — calm, unwavering.

But Zoey… couldn’t.

She didn’t know why she felt nervous. Maybe it was because her thoughts were still clouded by Mira. Maybe it was because she hadn’t stopped replaying the argument in her head. Or maybe it was because, somehow, sitting beside Rumi made her realize just how quiet her world had become.

And now she’d have to make music with her — the one person who could read silence better than anyone.

Zoey huffed under her breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning her cheek on her palm.

“Of course,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Of course it’s you.”

Rumi heard — she always did.

“Would you prefer someone else?” Rumi asked softly, not unkindly, just curious.

Zoey’s lips parted — a retort on the edge — but nothing came out. She only managed a small, tired shake of her head.

“No,” she whispered, eyes flicking toward the window. “I want to see you work."

The faint scratch of a pen across paper echoed as the professor continued explaining the assignment. Yet for Zoey, it all faded into white noise. The only thing she could feel was the pulse under her skin, the way her heartbeat seemed to sync with the sound of Rumi’s quiet breathing beside her.

And somehow, that terrified her more than anything. 

And she didn't know why...

---------

Class dismissed with the sound of chairs scraping and chatter filling the room. Students rushed to pack their things, the usual mix of laughter and complaints about assignments echoing faintly — but Zoey didn’t move.

She just stayed there, elbows on the desk, hands limp, forehead nearly touching the smooth surface. Her bag was still half open, her notes untouched. The exhaustion in her body was louder than the professor’s final words, louder than the footsteps leaving.

When she finally exhaled, it came out as a heavy sigh — the kind that sounded more like surrender than relief.

“You’re not moving,” Rumi’s voice broke the silence beside her.

It wasn’t teasing, not quite. Just matter-of-fact, steady.

Zoey tilted her head slightly, enough to see Rumi from the corner of her eyes. Rumi was still there — posture composed, her bag already packed but untouched, hands resting neatly on her lap like she was waiting. For what, Zoey didn’t know.

“You’re still here,” Zoey murmured, voice muffled against her arm.

“You look like you needed someone to be,” Rumi said simply.

That made Zoey lift her head. Her messy hair fell into her face as she turned fully, eyes locking on Rumi’s.

There it was again — that calmness. That quiet presence that grounded her when she didn’t even realize she was spiraling. Rumi wasn’t saying much, but she didn’t have to. She never did.

Zoey studied her for a second too long — the soft expression that rarely changed, the eyes that looked at her like they saw past the chaos.

Something in Zoey’s chest ached.

She leaned back on her chair, rubbing her eyes with both hands before dropping them limply to the desk again.

“You know…” she began, her voice soft, tired. “You have this annoying… thing about you.”

Rumi blinked once, slowly.

“Thing?”

“Yeah,” Zoey muttered, her gaze half-lidded but fixed on Rumi. “Like, you just… stay. You don’t talk too much, but you don’t leave either. It’s like you’re built to be someone’s calm.”

Rumi’s lips curved into a teasing smile that rarely appears, it's the first time Zoey seen it too

“And that’s… annoying?”

“Kinda,” Zoey said, smiling faintly for the first time that day. “Because it works. And I don’t want it to.”

Rumi tilted her head, studying Zoey like she was trying to understand a song she’d heard before but couldn’t place the melody of.

“You don’t want to feel better?”

“I don’t want to need someone to make me feel better,” Zoey corrected softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable this time. It lingered between them — a kind of peace that came only when words stopped being necessary.

Outside, the faint hum of chatter and distant guitar strings from another room bled into the air. Rumi reached for her water bottle, twisted the cap, and took a slow sip before setting it down again.

“Needing someone isn’t weakness, Zo,” she said finally, eyes still forward.

Zoey swallowed hard. Her heart thudded, slow but heavy. She hated how easily Rumi’s words slipped through her defenses — no force, no demand, just truth.

She looked at Rumi again, really looked — and in that moment, her thoughts weren’t fuzzy anymore. They weren’t clear either, but they were still.

“You always know what to say,” Zoey murmured.

“Not really,” Rumi said, standing and adjusting her bag strap. “I just say what I wish someone told me.”

That line hit deeper than Zoey expected.

When Rumi turned to leave, Zoey instinctively reached out, her bandaged hand brushing lightly against Rumi’s hand. Rumi stopped and looked down at her — eyes soft, patient.

“Can we… work on the project together here?” Zoey asked, her voice small, almost hesitant. “I don’t… really wanna go home right now.”

Rumi nodded without hesitation.

“If you say so, Zo”

-------

While the classroom emptied completely and the golden afternoon light poured through the window, Zoey leaned back again, watching Rumi pull out her laptop and plug in her earphones — neat, quiet, grounding.

Zoey’s heart calmed, not fully, but enough.

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like she was drowning.

She didn’t know what this meant — or what it would lead to — but for now, Rumi’s presence was the only thing that didn’t hurt.

By the time the clock on the classroom wall hit 4 PM, the sunlight had mellowed into that hazy golden warmth that made everything look softer, slower — like the world was winding down. Papers were scattered across their desk, laptop screens glowing faintly, a half-empty cup of iced coffee sweating onto Zoey’s notes.

They’d been working for hours, but the progress bar on their shared work told the same story — only a third done. Barely.

Zoey leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms until her spine gave a satisfying crack. Rumi, ever meticulous, was still typing, eyes narrowing slightly in focus as her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“We’re not gonna finish this today,” Rumi said finally, sitting back and rubbing the back of her neck. “We should continue tomorrow.”

Zoey let out a small laugh, low and tired.

“Yeah. Probably.”

But she didn’t move. Didn’t start packing her things. She just sat there, hands loosely resting on her knees, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

Rumi noticed. She always did.

“Zoey?”

“Hmm?”

 “You’re not moving.”

Zoey bit her lip. She didn’t know how to say it without sounding weak. Without sounding lonely. The silence stretched too long, and Rumi waited — patient as ever, her gaze steady but never prying.

Finally, Zoey exhaled through her nose, a shaky breath she didn’t mean to let out.

“I don’t… want to go home tonight.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Rumi blinked, her expression unreadable for a moment — not judgmental, just… processing. Then she closed her laptop slowly, resting her hands on the cover.

“You could crash in mine's tonight,” she said carefully, her tone even. “Or Jinu’s.”

Zoey laughed quietly, almost bitterly.

“Yeah, Jinu’s probably buried in his music files again. And if I show up, he’ll think I’m there to annoy him”

Rumi tilted her head slightly.

For a few seconds, all that could be heard was the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint noise of students outside. Then Zoey forced a small smile, the kind that never reached her eyes.

“Yours,” she said, finally meeting Rumi’s gaze. “I don’t want Mira to know where I was.”

Something flickered in Rumi’s expression — concern, hesitation, something unspoken that neither of them dared name. But she nodded anyway, quietly.

“Alright.”

Zoey tried to smile again, but it came out tight. Forced. She gathered her notes just to have something to do with her hands.

Rumi didn’t press. She didn’t ask what happened, she just stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, and said softly,

“Then let’s go before it gets dark.”

And somehow, that simple sentence — that calm acceptance — loosened something in Zoey’s chest.

As they walked out of the classroom together, Zoey trailed a few steps behind, watching the way Rumi’s braid swayed slightly with every step, how composed she always seemed. She envied it, that steadiness. That quiet kind of strength.

But beneath that envy was something else. Something she didn’t have the courage to name.

Not yet.

The ride to Rumi’s place was quiet — not awkward, not exactly peaceful either. The air between them was a fragile kind of calm, like glass that could crack with the wrong word.

Zoey leaned her head against the cab window, eyes following the blur of the city lights, fingers fidgeting with the bandaid wrapped around her palm. It stung a little — not from the wound, but from how Rumi had looked at her earlier, with concern so gentle it made her chest ache.

When the cab slowed to a stop, Zoey blinked and lifted her head. Her breath caught before she even stepped out.

The house in front of her wasn’t what she expected. Not at all. It feels different from what she saw 2 weeks ago

It was huge — a sleek modern home painted in soft gray, the kind that belonged in lifestyle magazines. Tall trees lined the front, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze. The garden was wide and tidy, small patches of flowers neatly arranged near the pathway. Warm light spilled from the windows, painting gold on the gravel driveway.

Zoey hesitated beside the cab door, her shoes crunching faintly against the stones. “This is your house?” she asked, voice small, as if afraid to break whatever quiet spell lingered over the place.

Rumi glanced at her, an unreadable look flickering in her eyes. “Yeah, you've been here weeks ago” she said simply, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Rumi’s steps were steady as she led the way up the stone path. Zoey followed, slower, her eyes flickering from the glass-paneled walls to the subtle lights that outlined the doorframe.

When Rumi opened the front door, a rush of cool air greeted them — lavender and something faintly coffee grounds, and fresh laundry.

“Welcome home, Ms. Rumi,” one of the maids said, her voice polite but surprised when her gaze fell on Zoey. Another maid appeared near the hall, bowing slightly before her eyes darted toward Zoey again — curious, cautious.

Zoey felt the back of her neck heat up. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention — she never fit in places like this.

“Is Celine home?” Rumi asked, tone composed as ever.

The maid nodded. “Ms. Celine’s in her room, Ms. Rumi.”

Rumi hummed a soft acknowledgment, then turned toward Zoey. Without saying anything, she reached out and gently took Zoey’s wrist. Her touch was light, just enough to guide her. Zoey didn’t resist — she followed, her heartbeat unsteady for reasons she couldn’t quite explain.

They walked upstairs, the house quiet except for the faint hum of air conditioning and the muted click of Rumi’s heels against the wooden floor. Every corner was polished, every frame aligned, every scent carefully chosen. It was the kind of environment that felt perfect, but not necessarily warm.

Rumi stopped in front of a white door. It looked… different. Simpler. Still neat, but softer than the rest of the house — a hint of her personality beneath all the order. She turned the knob and pushed it open.

Zoey’s eyes wandered as she stepped in.

The room was spacious but not overwhelming. A clean, white bed sat in the middle, tucked neatly with soft gray sheets. A study table occupied the left corner, lined with notebooks, pens, and a few music theory books stacked in perfect symmetry. At the far right corner stood a familiar sight — Huntrix, Rumi’s sleek silver DJ Mixer. 

Zoey remembered the first time she heard Rumi play it — that afternoon when they hung out at Jinu’s suite, when Rumi let her guard down and let Zoey see how she commanded the crowd 2 years ago in the states when she DJ’d for the first time. The memory almost made her smile. Almost.

Rumi set her bag down near the bed and turned toward her. Her voice softened when she spoke, the professional calm replaced by something gentler.

“Feel at home,” she said. “I’m going to talk to Celine first. I’ll be back.”

Zoey only nodded. She watched Rumi leave, the white door clicking softly behind her.

And then it was quiet again — too quiet.

Zoey exhaled, finally letting herself sit on the edge of the bed. Her fingers ran across the smooth sheets, her gaze drifting toward Huntrix. The silence pressed around her, wrapping her like something both comforting and suffocating.

She didn’t know what she was doing there.

She didn’t know if she should’ve come.

All she knew was that home didn’t feel like home anymore — not with Mira’s silence echoing in every corner of her mind.

And maybe… just maybe, that’s why she ended up here.

Zoey sank into the bed like she hadn’t rested in weeks. The mattress was softer than she expected, the kind that gently gave way under her weight — not too firm, not too light. It smelled faintly of fabric softener and something she could only describe as Rumi. That subtle, familiar scent of clean linen, sandalwood, and a touch of lavender shampoo she always used.

She lay flat, eyes tracing the ceiling, counting the faint patterns in the white plaster to keep her mind from spiraling. The house was silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioner and a faint ticking clock somewhere near the study table. It wasn’t her home, but it felt oddly safe — detached from everything that had been suffocating her for weeks.

The heaviness in her chest lingered though, dull and unrelenting.

Her thoughts drifted — from Mira’s silence, to the shattering bowl, to the way Rumi’s hand felt steady when she treated her wound. Zoey hated herself for finding comfort in it, for the warmth that crawled beneath her skin when she remembered Rumi’s voice saying, “This will sting.” It wasn’t just the words — it was the care behind them, the way Rumi looked at her like she mattered, even when Zoey was breaking apart piece by piece.

Her palm throbbed a little under the bandaid, but it was nothing compared to the ache sitting right behind her ribs.

She turned to her side, facing the direction of Huntrix. Even from where she lay, she could see the way the polished surface caught the light — clean, untouched. Rumi must’ve spent hours wiping it down. That was just who she was — composed, precise, even when everything else was chaos.

Zoey wondered if Rumi ever allowed herself to crumble. If she ever screamed when no one was around. If she ever broke a plate or cried until her voice cracked. Because right now, Zoey felt like she was the only one breaking, and she was tired of being the fragile one.

She exhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed.

The scent of the sheets was comforting. Maybe too comforting. She curled on her side, one arm draped across her stomach, the other tucked under the pillow. She felt the exhaustion in her bones — the kind that no amount of sleep could fix, but maybe rest could help soothe for a moment.

Her heartbeat slowed, her mind fading in and out between flashes of thought — Mira’s soft apology, Rumi’s steady tone earlier, the way the cab’s engine hummed while she stared out the window. It all blurred together like a muted film.

Before she knew it, her breathing evened out.

She didn’t remember when her eyes fully shut. She didn’t notice the way her body relaxed against the mattress or how her hand unconsciously reached for the empty side of the bed, as if searching for someone who wasn’t there.

All she knew was that, for the first time in weeks, the weight pressing against her chest eased — not gone, but lighter. The silence didn’t feel so sharp anymore; it felt like a blanket instead of a cage.

Rumi’s room was warm, steady, untouched by the chaos outside.

And as Zoey drifted into sleep, her last thought before everything went quiet was simple and strange — Why does peace feel so much like Rumi? I want to stay here.

--------

Rumi closed the door behind her softly after talking to Celine. The faint creak echoed in the hallway as she leaned against the wall for a second, exhaling deeply. Celine hadn’t asked many questions — just a raised brow, a brief pause, and a nod before she turned back to whatever she was doing. But Rumi could tell her aunt wanted to ask why. Why Zoey was here. Why she looked like she’d cried on the way. Why Rumi’s voice was quieter than usual.

She didn’t answer because she didn’t know how.

Her steps were careful as she walked back down the hall. The closer she got to her room, the slower she moved, unsure why her pulse was picking up. When she pushed the door open, the faint scent of lavender greeted her — her own — but mixed now with something softer, something undeniably Zoey’s, like warmth and faint fruity perfume.

And there she was.

Zoey was asleep.

She was sprawled sideways on Rumi’s bed, one hand loosely curled beside her head, the other resting against her chest where Rumi could see the faint rise and fall of her breathing. Her face was relaxed, free from the tension that had lingered all day. The bandaid on her palm was slightly peeled at the corner, the faint trace of red visible beneath it.

Rumi froze by the doorway.

For a long moment, she just watched. The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, bathing Zoey in soft amber hues. It touched her hair, glinting faintly against the strands. Her lashes fluttered slightly, like she was chasing something in her dreams.

Rumi’s chest ached.

There was something unbearably tender about seeing Zoey like this — so still, so quiet. The girl who filled every room with noise, with laughter, with fire… now curled up in her bed, silent and small.

Rumi moved closer, each step slow, her breath shallow. She didn’t want to wake her. She didn’t want to intrude. But something in her — something she couldn’t name — wouldn’t let her leave either.

She crouched down beside the bed.

Her eyes roamed across Zoey’s face, tracing every feature — the curve of her jaw, the faint pout of her lips, the small crease between her brows that appeared when she was lost in thought.

Her fingers twitched. She almost reached out, but stopped herself, curling them into her palm instead.

Her gaze dropped to the bandaid again. She sighed softly, shaking her head. “You’re so reckless,” she whispered under her breath, the sound barely audible.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was… fragile. The kind that made her chest tight but also, in some twisted way, calm.

Rumi sat on the edge of the bed eventually, careful not to disturb her. Her hand rested beside Zoey’s, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from her skin.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe an hour.

She stood up quietly, grabbing the spare blanket folded at the end of her bed. With careful movements, she draped it over Zoey’s shoulders, letting it fall lightly against her arm. Zoey stirred slightly, brow furrowing before she relaxed again.

Rumi’s throat tightened.

She brushed a stray lock of hair away from Zoey’s cheek — quick, fleeting, almost like she was afraid of being caught.

Then, in a voice she barely recognized as her own, she murmured,

“Don’t break any more than you already have.”

It wasn’t a command. It was a statement.

Chapter Text

(SOMETHING)

She didn’t see Zoey anywhere.

Not in the usual hallway outside the music wing, not near the vending machines where she’d usually wait with her earbuds dangling, and not at the café across from the university where they used to sneak in between classes.

Mira knew they didn’t share a schedule today — she knew — but still, she looked. She checked every corridor, every corner where Zoey’s presence might somehow still linger. It was pathetic, she knew, but her chest felt so hollow she couldn’t stand still.

She had already sent bunch of messages in the span of an hour.

Honeybunch 🦊✨: Where are you?

Honeybunch 🦊✨: Please talk to me.

Honeybunch 🦊✨: I’m sorry.

Honeybunch 🦊✨: I should've explained.

Honeybunch 🦊✨: Zoey, baby please answer me.

All of them remained unread.

Her screen stared back, cold and unchanging, while her mind kept replaying every image from that morning — Zoey’s trembling voice, the sharp sound of glass breaking, the red line of blood trailing down her palm.

“Are you done shutting me out?”

Those words sliced sharper than the broken glass.

Mira swallowed hard, fingers gripping the strap of her bag as she walked out of the building. She had tried calling twice, but Zoey didn’t answer. The voicemail tone was like a mockery — her own recorded voice saying, ‘Hey, this your girl Zoeyowiowi. I’m trying to fish out a dinosaur so just leave a message, ba-bye!’ followed by that short, indifferent beep.

The beep that meant silence.

By the time Mira reached the parking lot, the sky was already the color of bruises — deep purple fading to black. She got into her car, started the engine, and just sat there. She didn’t drive. Her hands were on the wheel, but her mind was running back to the kitchen — to Zoey’s expression when she said ‘I can’t do this right now.’

Not ‘I need space.’

Not ‘I’ll come back.’

But ‘I can’t do this right now.’

It sounded so final.

It sounded like leaving.

Mira didn’t even remember how she got home. One moment, she was in the car; the next, she was unlocking the door to their apartment. The hallway light flickered when she entered, and the clock by the television blinked 8:15 PM in small red digits.

Zoey’s shoes weren’t by the door. Her hoodie wasn’t hanging by the hook. The apartment felt… emptied. Even the air smelled like nothing — no trace of her vanilla shampoo that always lingered after her showers.

“Zoey?” Mira’s voice broke the silence, but it sounded wrong. It bounced off the walls, thin and fragile.

No answer.

She dropped her keys on the counter, the metallic clink echoing too loud in the quiet space. Her hands were shaking. She tried to steady them by pressing them to her temples, but it didn’t stop the ache — the ache that started in her throat and settled heavy in her chest.

She walked toward the kitchen out of habit, as if expecting Zoey to be there, maybe cooking, maybe humming that melody she always hummed when she thought no one was listening. Instead, the sink was empty — except for the faint rust stain near the drain.

Her breath hitched.

The blood.

It was still there — faint, barely visible, but she could see it because she knew.

Her mind wouldn’t stop replaying how Zoey had pulled her hand away, how the water had mixed red with clear before draining away, how Mira’s voice had sounded too sharp even when she didn’t mean it.

“You’re bleeding. What the fuck, don’t touch it.”

The last thing she said before Zoey walked out.

Her heart clenched so tightly it almost felt physical.

She moved to the living room, sat down on the couch where Zoey used to sit cross-legged, and stared at the empty space beside her. The silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating. She hated silence — Zoey used to fill every corner with sound: laughter, singing, little hums, random conversations about her lyrics, even her silly humming when brushing her teeth.

Now it was just the tick of the wall clock, slow and merciless.

Mira’s phone lit up again — just the screen time changing. No messages. No calls.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let out a laugh — quiet, dry, disbelieving.

“Great,” she whispered to herself. “I managed to drive away both of them.”

The words hung there, bitter and true.

Rumi’s face flashed in her head — drenched in rain, eyes trembling but resolute, the last time she walked away from Mira. And now Zoey’s — eyes wet, voice shaking, her hand bleeding.

Different moments. Same ending.

Her throat burned as she leaned back and stared at the ceiling, trying to keep her composure, but it was useless. The tears came quietly at first — one blink, then another, until her chest shuddered and her hands went to cover her face.

“Where are you…” she whispered through her palms, voice cracking. “Please… come home.”

Her phone stayed silent.

The apartment stayed cold.

And Mira stayed there — sitting on the couch in the middle of an empty apartment, surrounded by the ghost of laughter that used to fill it, counting every second as it dragged like punishment.

Her hands were trembling when she reached for her phone again. The screen was dim, but she didn’t need light to find the number — she knew it by heart. Rumi’s. It sat there at the top of her contacts pinned, a name that somehow felt heavier than any word she’d spoken tonight.

Her thumb hovered over it.

She could press it — just one tap — and maybe she’d know. Maybe Rumi had seen Zoey at the university, or maybe she had heard something. Rumi always heard things. But even thinking that name made Mira’s stomach twist with something sour and sharp.

She couldn’t.

She couldn’t.

The thought of hearing Rumi’s voice — steady, calm, detached — when Mira herself was barely keeping it together felt unbearable. She didn’t want to sound desperate. She didn’t want Rumi to hear that her voice still cracked the same way it did years ago

So she scrolled past it.

Down, down — until she found a different name.

Jinu.

Her last good option.

Her only distraction from pressing the one number she shouldn’t.

She opened the message box, she typed slowly. Her thumbs hesitated, shaking.

Mira: Is Zoey there?

She stared at the blinking cursor for almost half a minute, unsure if she should even send it. Her chest felt tight, her heart pounding against her ribs as if it was trying to break free.

What if he said yes?

What if Zoey went to him?

What if she’d chosen anyone — everyone — except her?

Mira exhaled through her nose, the kind of breath that wasn’t really calm but controlled enough to keep from falling apart.

Then she pressed send.

The message whooshed away, and she froze, phone still in her hands like it burned.

She counted.

One minute.

Two.

The reply came almost instantly — the familiar chat bubble popping up with Jinu’s name, and the message that followed made her jaw clench hard.

Jinu: Nah, dude she’s living with you?? Did you kicked out my cousin?? Rude gf you are 👿

Mira stared at the text, her brows furrowing so tightly that her vision blurred for a second.

She could almost hear his teasing voice, the careless tone, the way he always turned tension into a joke. Normally she’d snort or roll her eyes. But right now, her stomach churned, her pulse thrumming with a mix of worry and anger.

She rubbed her face with her free hand, letting out a low groan. “Not now, Jinu…”

Her thumbs flew across the screen, harder than she intended.

Mira: I didn’t kick her out you freaking ass. We just… we fought, earlier, and she’s still not back.

She stared at the message for a second before sending it. When the delivered mark appeared, her throat felt tight again.

It wasn’t just a fight — it was the kind that left something cracked. The kind that changed how the air felt when they were in the same room. She remembered Zoey’s eyes — wet, angry, lost — and the way her voice shook when she said she couldn’t do it right now. Mira had seen plenty of tears before, but never Zoey’s like that.

She pressed her lips together, waiting for Jinu’s reply. The seconds dragged. Her heart beat louder in her ears.

Nothing.

She refreshed the chat. Still nothing.

She put her phone down, only to pick it up again two seconds later, her leg bouncing restlessly. She typed another message, deleted it. Typed again, deleted again.

Her thoughts were running in circles.

What if Zoey’s not safe? What if she fainted somewhere? What if she’s with someone?

And then came the whisper she hated —

What if she’s with Rumi?

The idea made her chest twist. Not because she didn’t trust Zoey, but because Rumi had always been that quiet constant in the background — calm, poised, reliable — everything Mira wasn’t right now. And Zoey, when hurt, always leaned toward calm. Always leaned toward comfort.

Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles went pale.

If she was with Rumi, Mira wasn’t sure whether she’d be relieved or shattered.

She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling as the room dimmed around her. Her phone rested on her lap, screen black again. She wanted it to light up — she wanted Zoey’s name to appear, or even Jinu’s sarcastic reassurance, anything.

But nothing came.

Only the faint hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, and her own heartbeat echoing in her chest, too loud for a room that felt too empty.

Her phone buzzed once, the screen lighting up against the dull glow of the apartment.

For a moment, her heart leapt — the kind that almost hurt.

She snatched it up so fast her fingers almost slipped.

Jinu, she thought.

Or maybe… Zoey.

Please, let it be Zoey.

But the name on the screen made everything inside her stop.

Rumi.

Her pulse stuttered. The letters blurred for a second, and she had to blink twice just to make sure she was reading it right. 

Her thumb hovered again, hesitant, before the notification expanded on its own.

A short message. Uncomplicated. But it hit like a storm anyway.

Rumi: Zo’s staying here tonight. Dw, she’s safe.

The world fell silent for a second.

Mira didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The words swam in front of her, gentle and calm, like they weren’t the exact kind of words that could rip her chest open.

Safe.

Zoey’s safe.

That should’ve been relief.

That was relief.

But it came tangled with something bitter, something sharp that burned through her stomach and lodged in her throat.

Before she could even react, another notification came in.

An image.

Her hands trembled when she tapped it.

And there she was — Zoey.

Her Zoey.

Curled on a bed Mira didn’t recognize. The sheets were soft gray, the light dim and warm, the kind of quiet comfort Mira used to build around her every night.

Zoey’s brows were furrowed, her lips slightly parted, one hand tucked beneath her chin. The other lay on her side, palm up — the faint square of a bandage visible against her skin.

The sight made something collapse inside Mira’s chest.

Her throat ached.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the phone, tracing the tiny pixelated outline of Zoey’s face like it would make her real again, like it would bring her home.

But she wasn’t home.

Mira swallowed hard. The air in the room felt heavier, thicker, like gravity itself was pressing against her. Her breath hitched as she noticed the gray blanket draped over Zoey’s shoulder — neat, careful, deliberate.

Rumi’s doing. It had to be.

Of course Rumi would know how to make her comfortable.

Of course Rumi would be the one to make sure she was safe, to notice the little things.

Mira closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose, slow, trying to stop the tremor in her chest. It didn’t work.

All the thoughts she’d been suppressing came back louder.

Rumi.

Zoey.

Together.

The image stayed on the screen, bright against the darkness of her apartment. It felt too intimate, too gentle, too foreign.

That kind of calm wasn’t hers.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

She wanted to type something — thank you maybe, or I’ll pick her up tomorrow, or even don’t touch her. But none of it came out right. None of it fit the hollow ache curling up her spine.

Instead, her phone buzzed again.

Rumi: She’s asleep. You don’t need to worry.

That calm, distant tone.

Still the same after all these years.

Mira stared at it for a long time before she turned the phone face down on the couch beside her.

The screen dimmed, but the image burned into her mind anyway — Zoey’s small frame, her furrowed brow, that gray blanket.

She pressed her palms over her face, dragging them down until her fingers tangled in her hair. Her chest hurt. Her breathing came out uneven, quiet but shaking.

She should feel relieved.

She should be thankful.

But all she could feel was that creeping sense of loss — like she had already started losing something she wasn’t ready to let go of.

The apartment felt unbearably silent.

Too big, too empty.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, whispering into her hands — the words breaking like splintered glass.

“Why her… why you, Rumi?”

Her hands hovered above the phone again, the faint buzz still vibrating against her palm. The picture was still there — Zoey asleep in Rumi’s room — like a bruise Mira couldn’t look away from. The longer she stared, the more it felt like her chest was collapsing inward.

Her vision blurred for a moment before she blinked hard, jaw tightening, lips parting with an exhale that came out shakier than she wanted. She couldn’t stand the silence anymore — not the quiet of the apartment, not the quiet between her and Zoey, and definitely not the quiet between her and Rumi.

So before her mind could talk her out of it, her thumbs started moving.

Mira: Of course it has to be you...

She hit send before she could erase it.

Her breath caught. The three dots popped up on the screen almost immediately — like Rumi had been waiting. That familiar mix of hesitation and stubbornness bloomed in Mira’s chest. Rumi had always been quick to respond, quick to challenge, quick to bite back when the air turned sharp.

A short moment later, her phone vibrated.

Rumi: Are you accusing me?

Mira froze. She could almost hear the tone — calm, clipped, that frustratingly composed rhythm Rumi had whenever she was trying to stay polite while being seconds away from snapping.

Her chest burned. She typed, erased, typed again. Her mind replayed Zoey’s expression earlier that morning, the look in her eyes before she pulled her bleeding hand away. And now… she was in Rumi’s house. Sleeping there.

The thought twisted something deep inside her.

But before Mira could even think of what to say, another message came through.

Rumi: It’s your relationship. It wasn’t my fault you screwed up.

The words hit her like a slap.

She gripped her phone tighter, nails digging into the glass case. Her jaw clenched, throat tightening with words she didn’t know how to arrange, because Rumi was right — brutally, infuriatingly right. It wasn’t Rumi’s fault. She didn’t tell Mira to spiral, she didn’t tell her to let her walls crumble or to lose control of her temper.

But still… hearing it from her — from the one person who once made Mira believe in softness, who once held her through nights just like this — made it worse.

Mira exhaled shakily and leaned back against the couch, the phone still glowing in her palm. Her mind replayed everything — the rooftop, the rain, Rumi’s trembling voice saying “You don’t get to say that now that you have a girlfriend.”

And now this.

Now this.

Her thumbs trembled, the frustration finally bleeding out in small, uneven bursts as she typed back.

Mira: You think I wanted this? You think I planned for things to fall apart?

Mira: I didn’t.

Mira: I just…

Mira: I don’t know what to do anymore.

She paused, her breath uneven, staring at the words before hitting send. She didn’t know if she wanted Rumi to read them as anger, or as exhaustion. Maybe both.

It took Rumi longer to respond this time. The three dots flickered on and off — like she was typing, then stopping, then typing again. Mira could picture it perfectly; Rumi sitting somewhere quiet, probably with that same stoic face that made it impossible to tell if she was angry or hurt or both.

Finally, another message appeared.

Rumi: Mira… you don’t need to talk to me about it. You should talk to her.

Mira stared at the screen, her throat tightening.

Talk to Zoey.

She wanted to scream that she couldn’t. She started typing again.

Mira: I tried. She won’t even look at me.

Rumi’s reply came a moment later — soft but firm.

Rumi: Then let her breathe.

Rumi: Not everything needs fixing right away, just stay.

Mira’s eyes stung. It was ironic — the same person who once ran away was now telling her to stay.

Her fingers hovered again, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t know what else to say. She tossed the phone onto the couch and pressed her palms against her face, dragging them down until they covered her mouth.

Her heart felt like it was splitting in two — one part still beating for Zoey, the other throbbing with all the old ghosts Rumi’s voice brought back.

After a long moment, her phone buzzed again — one last message from Rumi.

Rumi: She’s asleep now. I’ll make sure she eats tomorrow.

Rumi: Get some rest, Mira. You look like hell when you don’t.

Mira let out a soft, bitter laugh that caught in her throat.

Rumi still remembered that.

Still remembered her habits.

And somehow, that hurt the most.

She whispered into the empty apartment, voice shaking — “Of course it’s you…”

The echo answered back in silence.

-------

6:25 a.m.

The city outside was starting to glow pale blue, the kind of light that leaks through half-closed blinds and makes everything look colder. Mira hadn’t moved since last night. She was still sitting on the couch, one leg bent up, her elbows propped on her knees, staring at nothing — at the empty space that used to hold warmth, laughter, and Zoey’s hums.

Her body felt heavy, but her mind wouldn’t stop. It just looped — Zoey’s bleeding hand, her breaking voice, the slam of the door. Every time she blinked, the image reset like a cruel replay.

She rubbed at her face, feeling the dryness of her lips, the ache in her eyes. She hadn’t even changed — same shirt, same jeans, same exhaustion clinging to her skin. The silence in the apartment was unbearable, too loud, too empty.

Then she heard it.

A click.

The door.

Her head snapped up, heart hammering so hard she almost choked on her own breath.

And there she was.

Zoey.

Her Zoey — standing in the doorway with her bag slung low on her shoulder, hair messy, eyes red around the edges.

For a heartbeat, Mira couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Then her body acted before her thoughts caught up. She stood, too quickly, legs stumbling against the coffee table as she half-ran, half-walked toward her.

And then she was there — arms wrapping around Zoey’s frame, clutching her so tightly she could feel her heartbeat through the layers of fabric. Her forehead pressed against Zoey’s shoulder, the scent of outside air and faint vanilla shampoo hitting her all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Mira whispered, voice breaking into the silence. “I’m really sorry.”

Zoey didn’t move at first. Mira didn’t even know if she was breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, the words trembling out of her, repeating, falling out like a prayer she didn’t know how to stop saying. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have— I just…”

Her breath hitched, eyes stinging, throat tightening until it burned. She felt her hands tremble against Zoey’s back, gripping tighter as if afraid she’d disappear again. Her shoulders shook, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths she couldn’t steady.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, voice smaller now.

Zoey’s hand twitched — a tiny movement against Mira’s spine — before finally, slowly, her arm came up to rest against Mira’s back. The touch was hesitant, unsure. But it was there.

And Mira broke. A shudder ran through her body, her breath catching as she buried her face deeper into Zoey’s shoulder. The tears she’d been holding back since last night finally fell, hot and silent, soaking into Zoey’s shirt.

She didn’t care how she looked.

Didn’t care about the sleepless night, the guilt twisting her insides raw.

All she cared about was that Zoey was here.

Mira held her tighter, words spilling between heavy breaths, her voice shaking against Zoey’s skin.

“I can’t lose you too.”

The apartment stayed quiet — no words, no answers — just the sound of Mira’s uneven breathing, Zoey’s shallow sighs, and the slow, fragile rhythm of a heartbeat that felt like home.

LAST NIGHT

The room was wrapped in quiet — not the kind of silence that felt heavy or suffocating, but the kind that hummed softly beneath the faint rhythm of another person’s breathing.

Rumi lay on her side, half-covered by her gray blanket, eyes adjusting to the dimness of her room. The soft glow of the bedside lamp made everything appear softer — the pale hue of the walls, the delicate strands of Zoey’s hair spilling across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

She reached for her phone, the faint click of the screen breaking the stillness. Her fingers moved with practiced ease as she typed,

Ru🫅🏻: Help me and Zo for our project that’s due in a week. We’ll go to your suite tomorrow after class.👽

She stared at the message for a moment before pressing send. A quiet ping confirmed it was delivered. Jinu would probably reply with something teasing in the morning, but right now, her head was too heavy for banter.

Rumi placed the phone back on the nightstand, her movements deliberate, cautious — like even the smallest sound might disturb the peace that somehow settled between them. She turned, resting her head on her arm, and found herself facing Zoey.

Zoey’s face was bathed in the faint glow from the window, her lashes brushing against her cheeks, lips slightly parted as she breathed out steady and soft. There was a crease still visible between her brows — something that hadn’t quite faded even in sleep.

Rumi’s gaze lingered there.

She didn’t know why her chest ached seeing that expression. Maybe it was because Zoey looked fragile in a way Rumi wasn’t used to seeing — not the loud, playful, bright Zoey everyone knew, but someone quieter, almost lost.

Her eyes softened, and before she could stop herself, a faint curve pulled at her lips. A small, almost unnoticeable smile.

She wanted to brush away the loose strands falling over Zoey’s face, but she didn’t. She kept her hands to herself, watching for just a few seconds longer before closing her eyes.

The scent of vanilla shampoo lingered faintly between them. The kind of smell that clung even when you tried not to remember.

And as Rumi’s breathing slowly matched Zoey’s, her last thought before drifting to sleep was quiet but clear;

You really are trouble, Zo.

MORNING

Zoey woke to the faint warmth of morning light bleeding through the curtains — that soft, golden kind that seemed to hum quietly across skin. Her body felt heavy, her head foggy, her breath shallow as she blinked against the brightness that slowly crept into her senses.

It took her a few seconds to register the room — the muted white sheets, gray blanket, the faint smell of lavender and sandalwood, the subtle hum of air conditioning. And then, it hit her — this wasn’t her room.

She stilled.

Her eyes flicked to her side, and everything inside her seemed to freeze and rush all at once.

Rumi.

Lying just inches away, still asleep, hair spilling across her pillow like violet silk, one arm tucked beneath her chin. There was something impossibly serene about her — the rise and fall of her chest, the calm rhythm of her breathing, the soft light tracing the line of her jaw.

Zoey didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Her chest fluttered, a pulse she didn’t quite understand echoing beneath her ribs. Her mind whispered she should look away, should sit up, should do anything but stare — but her heart refused to listen.

Rumi looked different like this. Softer. Warmer. Less like the composed, sharp-tongued student who could silence a room with a glance — and more like something human. Something breathtakingly human.

Without realizing it, Zoey’s fingers moved on their own, brushing forward until they reached a strand of purple hair that had fallen over Rumi’s face. It framed her cheek, hiding the small curve of her lips, and Zoey — without thinking — tucked it gently behind her ear.

Her touch barely grazed Rumi’s skin, but it was enough to make her pulse trip over itself.

“God,” Zoey thought, her throat tightening. She looks like a goddess.

The words weren’t meant to form, but they slipped through her head before she could stop them. And once they did, she couldn’t take them back.

Every part of her felt tangled — guilt and awe, confusion and something dangerously tender. She shouldn’t feel this. Not after yesterday. Not after the fight. Not when her heart was supposed to belong to someone else.

But as she stared at Rumi — the soft curve of her cheek, the faint shadow of her lashes — her chest betrayed her. It ached.

Rumi stirred then.

It was subtle, barely a movement — a slow inhale, her fingers twitching slightly against the sheet. Her brows drew together for a moment before her lips parted, and she… licked her lower lip.

Zoey froze.

It wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t even conscious — just a small, natural movement, but it hit Zoey like a spark, sharp and silent.

Her breath caught. The air felt suddenly too thick, her heartbeat too loud.

Every rational thought she had — about distance, about lines she shouldn’t cross — blurred under that tiny, unguarded motion.

Rumi made a faint sound, soft and sleepy, before stilling again. Her lips glistened slightly in the faint morning light, and Zoey had to force herself to swallow the tension sitting in her throat.

“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself silently, clenching her hand into a fist beneath the blanket. “You’re just… you’re just tired.”

But she didn’t move away.

For a few seconds more, Zoey just stayed there — caught between the weight of what she shouldn’t feel and the warmth of the person sleeping right beside her.

And in that quiet, it hit her how dangerous this was. How Rumi had a way of drawing her in — quietly, effortlessly, like gravity — and she didn’t even know she was falling until it was already too late.

Zoey kept her gaze on Rumi, unable to tear her eyes away. It was hypnotic — the slow, steady rhythm of Rumi’s breathing, the way her chest rose and fell in quiet harmony with the light morning air. Every exhale seemed to hum softly between them, pulling Zoey deeper into the warmth of that moment she shouldn’t be caught in.

Her hand still rested close — too close — and she could feel the ghost of Rumi’s heat against her fingers. Zoey didn’t dare move. She just watched, her heart thudding quietly, eyes tracing the faint movement of Rumi’s collarbone, the soft flicker of lashes fluttering every few seconds.

Then, suddenly, Rumi stretched.

Her arm extended above her head, her body shifting under the blanket, and Zoey’s breath hitched.

Panic flared instantly — hot and sharp.

Without thinking, Zoey scrambled, snapping her eyes shut and flopping back down against the pillow as if she’d been asleep the entire time. She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to regulate her breathing, hoping it didn’t sound too forced — too guilty.

The sheets rustled beside her, slow and faint, followed by a soft yawn. And then—

“Good morning,” came Rumi’s voice. Low, husky, touched by sleep — and something about it sent shivers down Zoey’s spine. “You awake?”

Zoey’s mind went blank.

She could practically feel Rumi looking at her. That familiar pressure of someone’s gaze lingering too long, tracing every detail. She could picture Rumi’s half-lidded eyes, the sleepy confusion slowly giving way to awareness.

Her heart pounded against her ribs — don’t say anything, don’t move, pretend you’re asleep, pretend—

But her mouth betrayed her before her thoughts caught up.

“No, I’m not,” Zoey muttered.

The moment the words left her lips, she realized what she’d done. Her eyes snapped open, horror and embarrassment colliding all at once—

And then she heard it.

A laugh.

Not Rumi’s sharp, practiced chuckle from school, not the polite one she gave to classmates or teachers — but a soft, unguarded laugh. One that started low and light, then bloomed, warm and real, carrying a note of disbelief and quiet amusement.

Zoey stared.

Rumi’s eyes were half-closed, her hair messy from sleep, lips curved into a genuine smile that looked… different. Softer. Her usual composed expression had melted into something entirely human, entirely disarming.

And Zoey swore her heart stopped for a second.

She didn’t know if it was the laugh, the sight of that fleeting, real smile — or the fact that it was Rumi, the girl who always looked so untouchable, now sitting up with sunlight brushing her cheekbones — but it made something inside Zoey ache and flutter all at once.

Rumi tilted her head slightly, still smiling. “You’re terrible at pretending,” she murmured, voice still drowsy, like the morning hadn’t quite reached her yet.

Zoey blinked, still trying to recover from both the panic and the aftershock of that laugh. “You— you startled me,” she muttered, eyes darting away, cheeks burning.

Rumi chuckled again, softer this time. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

The air between them settled into a quiet warmth — the kind that felt dangerous, unspoken, and too comfortable for what it should be.

Zoey tried not to stare again. She failed.

Chapter Text

 (DIVIDED)

The morning light spilled through the curtains like soft gold, cutting thin streaks across the bed and catching in the loose strands of Rumi’s purple hair. Zoey sat up slowly, still heavy with the remnants of sleep, rubbing her eyes — but then she froze.

Rumi had moved to the window.

She was silent, almost graceful in the way she reached up, her fingers curling around the edges of the curtain before she pulled it open. Light flooded the room, spilling over her frame — a silhouette outlined in morning gold.

Then she stretched.

Her arms extended above her head, her back arching slightly, the hem of her white pajama top lifting just enough to reveal the subtle curve of her waist, pale skin catching the light. Zoey’s eyes caught on it before she could even think — and once she did, she couldn’t look away.

Her breath hitched.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

She didn’t want to stare, didn’t mean to — but her whole body betrayed her.

Every part of her screamed look away, but her gaze stayed, helpless and unblinking.

There was something almost cinematic about it — Rumi framed against the morning window, the city just waking behind her, her hair a soft mess, her figure outlined in calm confidence Zoey never managed to replicate.

Rumi let her arms fall, both hands resting lightly on the top of her head as she turned halfway, her torso twisting just enough for Zoey to see her fully now. And God — there was something in the way she looked, half-lidded eyes, bare face, the faintest mark of pillow creases on her cheek, that made Zoey forget to breathe altogether.

Her heart jumped once, then again — wild, disobedient.

God, she looks so infuriatingly gorgeous.

Zoey didn’t even realize she was staring until Rumi tilted her head. Her brown eyes — calm, steady, sharp when she wanted them to be — landed squarely on Zoey, and Zoey’s whole chest tightened.

“You okay?” Rumi’s voice was soft but carried that edge of dry amusement she always had when she caught someone off guard. “I asked what breakfast you want.”

It took Zoey a full second — maybe two — to process the words.

“What?” she blurted, blinking. Once. Twice. Thrice. Her brain scrambled to catch up, her throat suddenly dry. She could feel Rumi’s gaze on her, the way it lingered like she was trying to read through her silence.

Rumi raised a brow, waiting, still standing there, still looking too damn perfect in a loose pajama top and that calm, indifferent composure that always made Zoey feel smaller.

Zoey swallowed hard, her throat bobbing visibly before she tore her gaze away, fixing it instead on the sheets tangled in her lap. “Anything,” she said finally, voice low and rough. “I’m not picky.”

It was a lie — not about food, but about everything else.

Her jaw tensed. Her teeth caught the inside of her cheek, biting down hard enough to sting, as if pain could ground her.

Because what she really wanted wasn’t food — wasn’t a distraction.

She wanted this odd sense of peace not to shatter. She wanted Rumi to stay in this moment — soft, unguarded, just her — and she wanted the confusing flutter in her chest to stop making her feel like she was betraying something she wasn’t ready to lose.

Rumi turned fully now, one hand resting lazily on her hip, watching Zoey with an expression she couldn’t decipher — curious, but unreadable.

“You sure?” she asked, tone lighter now. “Because if I make something you don’t like, you’re stuck with it.”

Zoey forced a smile, one that barely reached her eyes. “I said I’m not picky.”

Rumi’s lips curved, a ghost of a smile. “Okay then.”

She turned away, walking toward the door with that same quiet confidence, leaving Zoey sitting there on the bed — heart pounding, mind fogged, and something deep inside her thrumming in quiet confusion.

The door clicked softly behind Rumi.

And only then did Zoey finally exhale — a shaky, uneven breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

--------

Rumi’s door creaked open with a soft click, and Zoey turned instinctively.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been fidgeting — twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers, her thoughts looping endlessly between the warmth she felt and the guilt pressing at her ribs.

Rumi leaned against the doorframe, casual as ever, but there was something uncertain about her posture — the faint hesitation in the way she crossed her arms, the slight tightness around her mouth. Her voice broke the silence, quiet but clear.

“So, ahm…” Rumi started, glancing aside for half a second before looking back at Zoey. “My aunt, Celine — wanted you to join us for breakfast.”

Zoey froze.

Her heart did that weird, traitorous leap again.

“She did?” she asked, voice soft, uncertain.

Rumi nodded, then lifted her hand and rubbed the back of her neck — a small, almost nervous gesture Zoey rarely saw from her. “Yeah. But I could tell her you don’t want to, if you actually don’t want. It’s fine.”

For a moment, Zoey didn’t respond. The air between them hung heavy, charged with quiet tension. Her fingers tightened around the hem of the blanket, her mind spinning.

Celine.

Zoey remembered that name.

Rumi had mentioned her before — her aunt, her guardian, the one who took her in after her Mom died. Zoey had only ever seen her once, in a mall months ago — tall, composed, expensive-looking. Back then, Zoey didn’t even know Rumi personally. And now she was about to have breakfast with her.

Her pulse quickened, and she puffed out her cheeks, trying to exhale the nerves out of her body. “No, no, it’s okay,” she said quickly, maybe a little too quickly. “I’m joining you guys.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, but she tried to cover it with a smile — the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but looked convincing enough for anyone who didn’t know her.

She stood up, the blanket slipping down to the edge of the bed as she hurriedly fixed her hair, her fingers combing through the messy strands. She caught sight of herself in the mirror — slightly disheveled, eyes still heavy with sleep, wearing her hoodie with the sleeves still having dried blood. She took it off and straighten her wrinkled shirt inside.

God, she looks like she just rolled out of her bed — because she literally did, she thought, panic rising in her chest.

She smoothed the shirt down and adjusted the hem, brushing imaginary lint off her jeans. “Do I look… presentable?” she muttered more to herself than to Rumi, glancing down at her reflection before turning back toward the door.

Rumi was still there.

Leaning casually against the frame — but her eyes told a different story. They softened the moment Zoey looked at her, full of that quiet observation she always carried.

“You sure it’s okay?” Rumi asked again, her tone gentler this time. The faintest trace of concern flickered across her features — one brow slightly furrowed, her head tilted just a little, like she was still gauging Zoey’s comfort.

Zoey’s chest tightened at that. That look — it wasn’t pity, it wasn’t even curiosity. It was something deeper, protective almost, like Rumi was quietly telling her you don’t have to if you don’t want to.

Zoey met her gaze, and for a split second, she forgot how to breathe again.

“I’m sure,” she said softly. “I mean… it’s just breakfast, right?”

Rumi didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on Zoey, tracing the lines of her expression as though trying to read the hesitation beneath the words. Then, finally, she nodded once.

“Yeah,” she said, her lips curving into a faint smile that almost — almost — looked like relief. “It’s just breakfast.”

She stepped aside from the doorway, gesturing toward the hall. “Come on. She doesn’t like waiting.”

Zoey forced a small laugh, her voice cracking slightly from nerves. “Right. Wouldn’t want to keep your aunt waiting.”

As she followed Rumi down the hall, her heart wouldn’t stop racing. Every step closer to the dining room felt heavier than the last — not because she was about to meet someone intimidating but because she's meeting someone from Rumi’s life

The walk to the dining room felt longer than it should have.

Zoey’s sneakers barely made a sound on the polished wooden floor, but the echo of her heartbeat filled the silence instead — loud, fast, out of rhythm. The house smelled faintly like coffee and butter, the soft hum of a jazz record playing somewhere in the background. It was peaceful, elegant, and so not her world.

Rumi’s steps were steady, purposeful, every movement graceful in a way that made Zoey feel like she was watching a movie — one where she didn’t quite belong in the scene.

Her fingers fidgeted by her side until Rumi’s hand reached back and lightly wrapped around her wrist, a simple touch that grounded her.

Zoey blinked at the warmth of that contact, the gentle pressure of Rumi’s fingers against her skin. “Come on,” Rumi murmured, voice low, almost like she knew Zoey’s thoughts were a mess.

And before Zoey could overthink it, she was being guided through a tall white archway and into the dining room.

Her breath hitched.

The room was wide and sunlit, with tall windows draped in pale gray curtains, a chandelier hanging elegantly above a marble table. The air smelled faintly like coffee and something sweet — maybe pancakes, maybe croissants. Everything about the place screamed sophistication, even the silence had weight to it.

And sitting right at the center of the table, with a coffee cup in hand and posture straight as if she was born for it, was Celine.

Rumi’s aunt.

Her presence filled the room effortlessly.

Long black hair, sleek and styled behind one ear, a white blouse tucked perfectly into beige trousers, minimal gold jewelry that caught the morning light. Her movements were deliberate — unhurried, confident, like she didn’t need to say much to make people pay attention.

Zoey froze for half a second.

Celine’s gaze lifted from her cup and landed on them, sharp but not unkind. It wasn’t intimidating in the traditional sense — it was something subtler, heavier. The kind of gaze that saw through you, that assessed everything before you even spoke.

Zoey felt her stomach twist.

Rumi’s hand was still on her wrist, and that small tether of contact suddenly became her lifeline.

Celine spoke first, her voice calm, low, yet commanding enough that Zoey immediately straightened her posture. “You must be Zoey,” she said, setting her cup down with a quiet clink against the saucer. “Jinu’s cousin?”

Zoey blinked.

How—

Her mind scrambled.

She knows who I am?

Her throat went dry. She could practically feel Rumi’s hand tense slightly — maybe as a silent warning, or reassurance, she couldn’t tell.

“Y-yes,” Zoey finally stammered, nodding too fast. “I’m Zoey Han. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”

Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. She forced a smile, polite and nervous, hoping it didn’t look as shaky as it felt.

Celine studied her for a moment. Not rudely, but observantly — like she was filing away details. Her eyes were warm brown like Rumi’s, but sharper, older, more experienced. Then, she smiled. Polite, poised, but distant.

“It’s a pleasure, Zoey.” Her tone carried a hint of warmth — practiced, maybe genuine, Zoey couldn’t tell. 

Then, silence settled — a heavy kind that stretched across the table.

Zoey could hear the ticking of a wall clock, the faint clink of Celine’s spoon as she stirred her coffee again, the sound of her own pulse thrumming in her ears. She’d never been good with silence, and in this house, it felt even louder.

If Rumi was calm, poised, confident — Celine was triple that.

Flawless. Untouchable. Like she belonged in a world Zoey could only ever admire from afar.

And Zoey — in her wrinkled shirt, messy hair, and bandaid on her palm — felt painfully out of place.

Still, she sat there, forcing a smile and keeping her gaze low, because she didn’t want to ruin the morning for Rumi.

But the more Celine’s eyes lingered — curious but calm — the more Zoey felt nervous.

Celine’s laughter came first—soft, rich, and poised in a way that carried authority even when it was warm. She leaned back against her chair, the handle of her cup balanced perfectly between her manicured fingers as she said, “You really are Jinu’s cousin. He behaved the same the first time we met.”

Zoey blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. It wasn’t cold or formal anymore—there was a faint trace of amusement in Celine’s voice, a rare crack in the poised composure that she carried like a second skin.

Beside her, Rumi’s lips curved, a playful smirk ghosting her expression as she turned to her aunt. “Yeah, he called you Ma’am too, right?” she said, tone teasing but fond.

Celine’s lips tugged upward as she gave a small, dignified nod, as if confirming a particularly amusing story rather than a memory of a meeting that probably terrified Jinu half to death. “He did,” she admitted with a smirk. “Poor boy could barely look me in the eye.”

Rumi hummed, that low melodic sound that always carried a hint of satisfaction. “At least your first meeting with Zoey wasn’t you threatening her with imprisonment for a lifetime if she did something inappropriate.”

Zoey’s eyes widened as her head snapped toward Rumi, disbelief flickering across her face. “Wait—what?” she almost blurted, but it came out as more of a breathless whisper.

Celine just lifted a shoulder, utterly unbothered, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I might’ve… implied that,” she said smoothly, stirring her coffee with slow, graceful circles. “You see, Jinu tends to associate with people who bring a little chaos into his life, he's the chaos in Rumi's life. I asked him to stay with Rumi under one roof after I left the states, I needed to ensure he wouldn't do anything inappropriate.”

Zoey’s mouth fell open, and before she could stop herself, a small sound—something between a stifled laugh and a shocked gasp—escaped her. She bit the inside of her cheek immediately, trying to keep her composure.

But it was impossible. The way Celine and Rumi spoke—so calm, so matter-of-fact, as if threatening someone with jail time was a normal family anecdote—was both terrifying and weirdly charming.

Rumi turned slightly toward her, one brow raised in amusement as if she was watching Zoey struggle not to burst out laughing. Her tone was teasing, soft but edged with pride when she said, “See? That’s Celine for you. She could terrify a man twice her size just by sipping coffee.”

Zoey glanced at Celine again, and honestly… she could believe that. The woman had that air—refined elegance wrapped around quiet dominance. Even sitting still, she felt like the kind of person who owned the room just by existing.

Trying to find her voice, Zoey managed, “I–I can see that,” though it came out half-nervous, half-awkward.

Celine smiled, setting her cup down on its saucer with a soft clink. “Relax, Zoey. I’m not planning to threaten you,” she said, tone warm but laced with that subtle undercurrent that made Zoey question if she was entirely serious.

Rumi chuckled under her breath, and the sound made Zoey’s chest flutter unexpectedly. She looked away, eyes on her untouched plate, cheeks warming.

The air between the three of them was strange—light but charged, polite yet laced with an invisible tension that Zoey couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the fact that she was sitting just a few feet away from Celine, who looked like she stepped out of an expensive magazine, while beside her was Rumi, still in her soft white pajama top, hair loose, skin glowing faintly under the morning light.

Every time Rumi’s arm brushed hers accidentally, Zoey felt her pulse hitch. And every time Celine’s sharp, amused eyes flicked to her, she straightened her posture without realizing.

Rumi leaned slightly toward her and whispered, “You’re doing fine,” and the quiet reassurance in her voice almost made Zoey’s heart skip.

“Th-thanks,” Zoey whispered back, forcing a small smile, trying to hide how much her nerves were burning through her skin.

Celine observed them both silently for a moment, a knowing look flickering in her gaze before she finally said, “You two seem close already.”

Rumi only hummed, lips curving slightly. “Something like that,” she replied, and for some reason, that something made Zoey’s throat go dry.

The tension at the table shifted again—lighter, but no less alive. And as the conversation drifted to small talk about classes and projects, Zoey couldn’t shake the feeling that this breakfast wasn’t just a simple morning meal—it was the beginning of something quietly complicated. Something that was going to make her heart work a little too hard every time Rumi smiled.

The clink of porcelain faded as Celine set her cup down, eyes flicking briefly toward the delicate watch wrapped around her wrist. “It’s already 5:30,” she noted, her voice calm yet precise—like she was cutting through the soft hum of morning chatter.

Her gaze shifted between the two girls, that faint, unreadable curve of her lips still there. “You two aren’t going to get ready yet?”

Rumi blinked, mid-sip of her juice, before tilting her head slightly. “Oh—right,” she muttered, sounding almost surprised at how quickly time had slipped by.

Celine pushed her chair back with that effortless grace she always carried. “Well, I’ll be leaving first,” she said as she turned to them. “I have a meeting downtown.” Her tone softened just a touch as she added, “Try not to be late, both of you.”

Zoey quickly stood, almost by instinct, the legs of her chair scraping against the marble. “It was… nice meeting you, Ms. Celine,” she said, her voice polite but a little nervous still.

Celine’s lips curved faintly—an expression that could’ve been a smile or quiet amusement—as she replied, “Likewise, Zoey. You seem like good company for Rumi.” Then she gave her niece a brief glance that only Rumi seemed to understand before walking off, heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

The distant sound of the main door shutting followed, then the low hum of an engine starting outside. A few seconds later, silence settled into the room—gentle, but strange.

Zoey exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly as if the air had been too formal to breathe in properly until now. She looked toward Rumi, who was now leaning back against her chair, staring absently at the spot where her aunt had just been.

Rumi broke the silence first, turning her head toward Zoey. “I could let you borrow some clothes if you want…” Her tone was casual, quiet. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass absentmindedly. “…or are you going home first?”

Zoey blinked, caught between comfort and responsibility. “I think I should go home,” she admitted softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mira might be worried to death. I didn’t come home last night.”

For a moment, Rumi didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, as if she understood more than she was saying. Then she pushed her chair back, stood up, and ran a hand through her hair. “Alright,” she said, her tone gentle but brisk. “I’ll get your things upstairs.”

Zoey watched her as she walked away—barefoot, still in that loose pajama top, sunlight spilling across her frame from the tall window. The sight did something strange to Zoey’s chest again, that same flutter she’d been fighting since she woke up.

Left alone in the dining room, Zoey fidgeted with her fingers, her mind drifting—half to the image of Mira pacing at home, half to the quiet grace of Rumi disappearing up the staircase.

There was something about the contrast between the two girls—Mira’s emotional intensity, Rumi’s quiet composure—that pulled her in two different directions at once.

And as she sat there, tracing her thoughts back to the warmth of the bed she’d just shared with Rumi and the chaos of the day before, Zoey couldn’t help but think

She hadn’t just crossed a line—she’d stepped into something new, something delicate, and she didn’t know where it would lead.

-------

Rumi’s footsteps were soft against the marble stairs when she came back down, a folded hoodie draped neatly over one arm, Zoey’s phone and bag in her hands. The morning light pooled behind her from the wide stairwell windows, soft and golden, casting her in a way that almost made Zoey forget to breathe.

Rumi didn’t say anything at first—she just approached, quiet as ever, and held the items out. Zoey took them, her fingers brushing briefly against Rumi’s. It was such a small touch, but it sent a shiver down her arm.

“Thanks,” Zoey said, smiling faintly—trying to make it casual, but it came out softer than she expected.

Rumi nodded once, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “I’ll walk you to the gate,” she said simply.

They stepped outside together. The house’s tall front doors opened to a long stone pathway lined with trimmed hedges and morning dew glistening over the grass. The air was cool—crisp enough that Zoey tugged her hoodie over her shoulders as they started walking side by side.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The only sounds were their footsteps, the faint rustle of leaves, and a few birds chirping from somewhere near the gate. It felt peaceful, but too peaceful—like the world had gone still just for them.

Zoey glanced sideways. Rumi’s expression was calm, as always—composed, unreadable, the kind that made it impossible to know what she was thinking. But there was something in her posture, in the way her shoulders relaxed, that felt… safe.

“Thank you,” Zoey said finally, her voice breaking the quiet like a whisper through glass. “For letting me stay the night.”

Rumi’s eyes flicked toward her briefly, her lips curving into a soft hum. “It’s fine,” she replied, her tone low and even. “You needed it.”

That made Zoey’s chest tighten in a way she didn’t expect. There was no judgment in Rumi’s words, no hint of the chaos she’d left behind the night before. Just… quiet understanding.

They reached the gate sooner than she wanted. The morning sun had climbed higher now, filtering through the tall trees that framed the property. Zoey stopped and turned to face her. Rumi did the same, her hair catching the light—those purple strands glowing faintly like silk.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Rumi’s gaze was steady, calm as always, but softer now. Zoey didn’t know what possessed her—maybe it was gratitude, or exhaustion, or that strange comfort Rumi gave without meaning to—but she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.

Rumi froze for a moment, the surprise flickering in her eyes, but then her arms came up—hesitant at first, then firm, steady. Zoey could feel her warmth, the faint scent of lavender from her hair, the rhythm of her breathing. It was grounding. Calming. Something she didn’t know she needed until now.

When Zoey finally pulled away, she smiled—a real one this time, the kind that made her eyes crease slightly. “See you later?” she asked

Rumi’s lips curved into a gentle smile—not a smirk, not her usual polite expression, but something real, warm. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “See you.”

Zoey nodded, stepping back as the cab rolled to a stop by the curb. She turned once more before opening the door, her heart doing a strange twist at the sight of Rumi standing there by the gate, one hand in her pocket, the wind brushing her hair.

And as Zoey climbed into the cab, the door shutting behind her, she found herself watching Rumi through the window until the house grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

Something about that morning lingered—like the calm before a storm she didn’t yet understand.

The cab slowed to a stop in front of the apartment building, the same one Zoey had walked out of just a day ago with trembling hands and a bleeding palm. The sky had shifted to a dull gold, the kind of morning that should feel normal—but it didn’t. Her chest tightened with every step she took toward the entrance, each one echoing the memory of Mira’s voice trembling through the air “Zoey...wait.”

She stood in front of their door for a long moment, her fingers hovering over the handle. The silence on the other side felt heavy—too familiar. She didn’t know what to expect when she pushed it open, didn’t know which Mira she was about to face—the one who broke down, the one who shut her out, or the one who used to pull her close and make everything feel okay again.

The lock clicked softly, and Zoey stepped inside.

The air was still, except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. The curtains were half drawn, letting in lines of pale sunlight that fell over the couch—where Mira sat. Still. Same clothes. Same messy bun. The clock on the wall blinked 6:25 a.m.

Mira’s eyes lifted the second Zoey closed the door. And in that moment—like something snapping loose—she stood. The movement was sharp at first, almost unsteady, before she crossed the space between them in three quick steps.

“Zoey…” Mira’s voice cracked, raw and small.

Zoey barely had time to set her bag down before Mira’s arms were around her, holding her so tight it almost hurt. Her forehead pressed against Zoey’s shoulder, her breath warm, uneven. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over, her words muffled against Zoey’s hoodie. “I’m really sorry, Zo. I didn’t mean to—” Her voice broke completely. 

Zoey froze. Her throat tightened, her arms hanging awkwardly by her sides. The scent of Mira’s shampoo, the tremor in her shoulders, the heat of her body against hers—it all hit at once. Her heart was pounding, but her mind was still somewhere between last yesterday’s silence and Rumi’s calm voice.

For a moment, Zoey wanted to melt into the embrace. She wanted to forget the blood, the words, the hurt. But another part of her—the one that remembered Mira’s silence, the way she didn’t even try to stop her from walking away—stayed still.

Mira’s hands trembled against her back. “Please,” she whispered, breath hitching. “Say something. Anything. Just—don’t stay quiet.”

Zoey’s lips parted, but no sound came. She didn’t even know what to say. Her emotions tangled between guilt, confusion, and something unspoken that pulsed heavier the longer she stayed in Mira’s arms.

So she did the only thing she could—she lifted her hand, gently resting it against Mira’s back, her fingers trembling slightly. “I’m here,” she murmured finally. “Just… give me a second.”

Mira’s grip loosened slightly at that, her breathing shaky but slowing down.

The silence stretched again—this time softer, but fragile.

Zoey’s eyes drifted toward the window, sunlight catching the bandage on her palm. A faint ache pulsed beneath it—a reminder of both the wound and the touch that tended it.

And somewhere deep down, beneath the guilt and the exhaustion, Zoey realized something terrifying.

She didn’t just feel broken from the fight. She felt divided.

Chapter Text

(EASY TO BREAK)

The classroom felt heavier than usual—too still, too quiet for something that used to be filled with laughter, teasing, and whispered jokes between Mira and Zoey. The faint buzz of the fluorescent lights hummed above them, filling the gaps their silence left behind.

Zoey sat stiffly at their usual spot—the back-left corner by the window, where sunlight used to pool lazily across their desks, where Mira would usually trace patterns on her arm when bored, or rest her head on Zoey’s lap when the professor was late. It was supposed to be their spot. It still was. But right now, it just felt suffocating.

Mira sat beside her, a thin notebook open but untouched. She leaned her head gently against Zoey’s shoulder, her familiar weight pressing lightly against Zoey’s arm. It used to make Zoey’s heart flutter. Now, it made her chest tighten.

Mira’s hand—her left one—was tracing lazy shapes on Zoey’s uninjured palm. Circles, lines, letters that didn’t form anything coherent. Her fingers were cold, or maybe Zoey’s were just too warm. She didn’t know. She didn’t even want to move.

She could feel Mira’s quiet attempt at closeness, could feel her body trying to say what her mouth couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m trying. Please look at me.

But Zoey couldn’t—not right now. Her eyes were fixed on the whiteboard, on the meaningless scribbles of the professor’s notes, on anything that wasn’t Mira’s touch or the ache blooming in her chest.

Her bandaged palm throbbed faintly where Mira wasn’t touching it. And in the distance, just a few rows ahead, she caught sight of Rumi—sitting with her back straight, her hair tied in its usual braid, her notebook filled with neat handwriting already. Calm, poised, steady. A quiet contrast to everything Zoey was feeling right now.

Mira stirred beside her, her head lifting slightly from Zoey’s shoulder. “Zo,” she whispered, voice low enough not to draw attention. “Are you… still mad at me?”

Zoey blinked once, slowly, her gaze still forward. She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell Mira that she wasn’t angry, just tired, confused, tangled in things she couldn’t yet name. But her throat locked, and the words wouldn’t come out.

Mira’s breath hitched softly. She shifted closer again, her fingers brushing the hem of Zoey’s sleeve as if asking for permission to stay connected. “Zoey,” she said again, this time a little louder, the hint of a nervous laugh tugging her voice. “You’re spacing out again. I could scream and you wouldn’t even blink.”

Zoey exhaled through her nose, a small, forced smile tugging her lips. “Maybe because you shouldn’t scream in class,” she muttered.

Mira smiled faintly, even though her eyes didn’t quite match it. “Then maybe I should just… do this.”

Before Zoey could ask what she meant, Mira reached forward and softly poked her cheek. Just once. Then twice. Zoey turned, startled, eyes wide.

Mira giggled under her breath, leaning her chin on her palm like nothing happened. “There. At least you looked at me.”

Zoey’s heart squeezed—half from guilt, half from the ache of remembering the girl she fell in love with, the one who could make her laugh even when everything else fell apart. Mira was trying, she knew that. Trying to pull her attention back, to earn even the smallest glance, the smallest piece of warmth.

But the silence that followed between them was thick again. Zoey felt her throat ache with words she couldn’t say.

And in front of her, Rumi turned slightly at the sound of Mira’s quiet giggle, her brown eyes flickering toward them for just a second. Her gaze met Zoey’s—not for long, but long enough for Zoey’s pulse to stutter. Rumi gave a small, polite nod before turning back to her notes.

Zoey’s hand twitched, instinctively wanting to hide the bandaged palm from sight.

Beside her, Mira noticed the movement. Her fingers hesitated over Zoey’s hand for a beat before she carefully intertwined them again, her grip soft but desperate.

Zoey didn’t pull away.

She didn’t squeeze back either.

She just let it be.

The way Mira’s head leaned back onto her shoulder, the way the sunlight framed Rumi’s calm figure a few rows ahead, the way her own heart felt torn between guilt and longing—everything around her blurred into quiet noise.

------

The bell rang, breaking the low hum of murmurs inside the classroom. Chairs scraped against the tiled floor, the weight of backpacks shifted, and the room slowly emptied. Rumi packed her things with quiet precision, head bowed slightly as she slid her notebook into her bag. She didn’t glance back once—not even when Zoey stood, not when Mira’s hand brushed against Zoey’s arm.

Zoey pretended not to notice. She packed her things slowly, deliberately, waiting until almost everyone had left. Her pulse beat softly in her ears, not out of nervousness, but out of the exhaustion that had been gnawing at her since that morning—the kind that made her chest feel too tight and her thoughts too loud.

Mira, on the other hand, wasn’t pretending. She was standing just a step away, staring at Zoey with a mix of hesitation and panic in her eyes. When Zoey slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, Mira’s hand shot out, fingers curling around Zoey’s wrist—not too tight, but enough to stop her mid-step.

“Zo,” Mira’s voice cracked slightly, soft but trembling. “Can we… talk? Please?”

Zoey froze, her back half-turned. The hallway outside was already loud with students laughing, footsteps echoing, doors closing. Inside the room, it was just them—two people trying to find their way through the mess they made.

Zoey exhaled, slow and quiet, before turning to face her. “Mira, we’re in a classroom.”

“I know,” Mira said, her eyes glistening faintly as she took a step closer. “But if I don’t say this now, I might not be able to later.”

Zoey opened her mouth to respond, but Mira’s voice came faster, desperate, tumbling over itself.

“I’m sorry, Zoey. I’m sorry for everything—for shutting you out, for making you feel like I wasn’t there. I didn’t mean to. I was just—” she swallowed hard, looking down at their hands, at the thin bandage still wrapped around Zoey’s palm. “I was scared. I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Zoey’s chest softened at that. She could hear the truth in Mira’s voice, could see it in the way her fingers trembled around her wrist. But the ache was still there. The ache from being shut out, from watching Mira retreat into silence like she always did whenever something hurt.

“Mira,” Zoey said gently, her tone calm but tired. “You always do that.”

Mira blinked, eyes lifting to meet hers. “Do what?”

“Shut me out,” Zoey replied. “You say you don’t want to make things worse, but you end up hurting me more by disappearing into your own head.”

Mira’s lips parted, a protest dying on her tongue. She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. “I didn’t mean to, Zo. I didn’t—”

“But you did.” Zoey’s voice was soft, but firm. “You did, and you’ve done it before. You promised me you wouldn’t, remember?”

The words struck harder than Zoey intended. Mira’s eyes flickered—pain, guilt, something raw and childlike flashing through them. She nodded once, then again, like she was trying to convince herself she still had the right to stand there.

“I remember,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m here now. That’s why I’m trying to fix it.”

Zoey’s expression faltered. God, she hated this—hated seeing Mira crumble, hated that her heart still softened even when her mind told her not to. Mira took another step forward, close enough that Zoey could smell the faint trace of her shampoo, the scent that used to cling to her every morning.

“Zoey,” Mira said, her voice breaking now, “I can’t lose you too.”

Zoey’s chest stilled. Her head tilted slightly, confusion softening her features. Zoey’s breath hitched at that single word—

“Too?”

It lingered in the air like smoke, curling between them in the silence that followed.

Mira’s lips parted. She looked like she wanted to run and speak all at once. Her throat worked, her fingers still clutching Zoey’s wrist, trembling ever so slightly. Zoey’s gaze softened, waiting—because despite everything, despite the quiet tension clawing at her chest, she still wanted to understand.

Mira took a deep breath. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I lost—”

But the sentence never finished.

The click of the door snapped the air like glass. Both their heads turned as the door swung open, flooding the quiet with the sound of sneakers and careless laughter. And there she was—Rumi.

Zoey froze.

Rumi stood there, framed by the doorway like sunlight after rain—her hair tied in braid, eyes calm, composed as always, but her presence carried weight. She scanned the room quickly, her gaze landing on Mira and Zoey. For a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered across her face—something that almost looked like pause.

Behind her came Jinu, phone in hand, grinning like the world owed him nothing. “Little Zo! There you are!” he called, his voice echoing. “C’mon, I’ll help you with your project.” Then, his grin widened as his eyes landed on Mira. “You coming, foxy?”

Zoey’s eyes flicked between them. Mira’s jaw tightened instantly, her hand releasing Zoey’s wrist like she’d been burned. The air shifted—stiff, brittle.

Rumi stepped aside, quiet, giving Jinu space as he strutted further inside, but Zoey caught the subtle glance Rumi threw Mira’s way—a flicker of recognition, a trace of tension, maybe even discomfort. It was gone as fast as it came.

Jinu leaned lazily against the desk nearest them, utterly oblivious to the atmosphere he’d walked into. “So,” he said cheerfully, “Zoey, you ready to face death-by-group-project? I already brewed my fourth coffee. I’m basically vibrating.”

Zoey forced a small laugh, even though her chest still felt tight from what Mira almost said. She turned toward him, grateful for the distraction, but her thoughts lingered on that unfinished sentence.

I lost—who?

Mira hadn’t moved. Her expression had shuttered into something quiet, distant. Only her eyes betrayed the frustration beneath—half from being interrupted, half from Jinu’s teasing. She exhaled sharply through her nose, crossing her arms. “Jinu,” she muttered, voice low, “don’t call me that.”

Jinu raised a brow, mock-innocent. “What? Foxy? C’mon, it suits you.”

“Drop it.”

Her tone sharpened just enough that even Jinu blinked, sensing the edge. He lifted both hands in surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”

Rumi’s voice cut softly through the noise, calm and deliberate. “We should go.”

Zoey turned toward her, and for a brief moment, their eyes met—Rumi’s gaze steady, unreadable. Zoey felt something flutter again, that strange pulse in her chest she didn’t know how to name. She nodded quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” Zoey said, forcing her voice steady. “We should.”

Mira stood rooted for a second longer, still staring at the empty space between her and Zoey. Her fingers twitched, as if wanting to reach out again—but she didn’t. She just swallowed hard and followed behind them in silence.

Zoey glanced over her shoulder once. Mira’s eyes were downcast, her lips pressed thin. And Zoey couldn’t help but think—whatever Mira was about to say, whatever name she was about to bring up—was something that might’ve changed everything.

And now, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever hear it.

The car hummed beneath Zoey’s legs as they rolled out of the university parking lot, sunlight spilling across the windshield like slow-moving honey. It was midday — the kind that should’ve felt lazy and calm — but somehow, the air felt crowded.

Zoey sat in the backseat, pressed against the window, Jinu sprawled beside her with his legs shamelessly spread like he owned the car.

Up front, Mira’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter than necessary, her knuckles pale against the leather. She wasn’t saying much. Her eyes stayed on the road, but the silence radiating from her felt sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine.

Rumi sat in the passenger seat, posture calm, phone resting on her lap. The light from the window painted soft gold highlights on her hair, the purple strands glowing faintly under the sun. Every now and then, she glanced at the rearview mirror, her gaze flicking toward Zoey — quick, fleeting, unreadable.

Zoey tried not to notice. Tried not to notice how aware she was of Rumi’s presence now, how the space between them — the front seat and the back — somehow felt too close.

This was supposed to be their project.

Rumi and her.

Just the two of them.

But now, it was a full car — and the rhythm between them felt off-beat, uneven, like the start of a song that couldn’t find its tempo.

“So,” Jinu said suddenly, leaning forward between the seats, grinning. “Who’s leading the production? You, little Zo? Or Miss Calm-and-Collected over here?”

Rumi’s lips curved slightly. “It’s Zoey’s concept. I’m just helping her refine it.”

“Refine?” Jinu laughed, looking back at Zoey. “You hear that, Zo? That’s Rumi-code for ‘I’m doing the hard work.’”

Zoey smiled faintly, her tone soft but teasing. “Guess I’ll just let her then.”

Rumi shot her a glance — not annoyed, but almost amused, like she wasn’t used to hearing Zoey tease back. Their eyes met for a second, and it was enough to make Zoey look away, heart stumbling a little.

From the driver’s seat, Mira exhaled slowly. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel — one, two, three taps — before she muttered, “You guys could just argue about it when we get there.”

Jinu chuckled. “Jealous you’re not part of the duo, Mira?”

“Hardly.” Mira’s tone was sharp, but her jaw clenched right after. She didn’t look back.

Zoey stared at the reflection of the sunlight dancing across the tinted window, pretending she didn’t feel the tension radiating like static between the front and the back seat. Rumi’s calm was the quiet center, Mira’s silence the weight around it, and Jinu’s chatter the thin thread trying to hold it all together.

When the car finally turned into the familiar street leading toward Jinu’s high-rise building, Zoey found herself taking a long breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The rhythm of the ride had been all mismatched — tension and laughter, silence and small talk, and that strange pulse every time Rumi’s reflection in the glass aligned with hers.

She closed her eyes briefly, letting her head rest against the window.

Just one project. Just music. Just a song.

That’s what she told herself.

But the moment she opened her eyes again and caught Rumi turning her head slightly — her profile glowing beneath the sunlight — Zoey’s chest tightened.

-------

The elevator ride to the 25th floor was quiet, except for the steady hum of the lift and the faint ding that echoed every few floors. 

The hallway stretched long and sleek, the city light spilling through the narrow windows, painting gold streaks across the marble floor. Jinu walked ahead, animated as ever, his voice bouncing off the walls as he scrolled through his phone.

“So, hear me out — sushi platters for lunch? Or should I go full chaos mode and order barbecue, ramen, and cake?”

Rumi walked beside him, hands tucked in the pockets of her gray slacks, her tone calm and smooth like always. “Sushi sounds fine, but maybe less chaos this time. You always order too much.”

“Too much is the right amount when you’re feeding artists,” Jinu countered, smirking. “Right, Zo?”

Zoey blinked — she didn’t even realize Jinu was talking to her until he turned slightly, grinning over his shoulder. She managed a soft laugh, a sound more like a sigh.

“Yeah, yeah. Just… not spicy, please. You know I’ll die.”

Rumi chuckled, low and short, and that sound made Zoey’s chest twist. It was such a small thing — the way Rumi laughed, the way her lips curved slightly, her expression barely changing but still somehow warm — but it lodged itself in Zoey’s mind like a splinter.

And beside her, Mira was there.

Walking quietly.

Their shoulders almost brushing but never quite touching.

Zoey could feel Mira’s presence more than she could feel her own heartbeat — the faint warmth radiating from her, the weight of her silence. Mira hadn’t said much since they left campus. She just kept glancing sideways every few seconds, as if wanting to reach out but not knowing how.

If Zoey were in her right mind, she’d probably be excited. Should be excited, even. Her girlfriend was here, her friend Rumi was here, and her cousin Jinu was practically a walking good mood generator. The perfect mix of the people she loved in one space — it should’ve been perfect.

But it wasn’t.

Not when her stomach twisted every time Rumi’s calm voice filled the air.

Not when her chest tugged painfully every time Rumi’s head tilted slightly as she talked.

Not when she realized how effortless Rumi was — quiet, steady, unbothered — while Mira was a storm Zoey loved and feared at once.

Her Mira, who was trying so damn hard to fix what was breaking between them.

Her Mira, who whispered I’m sorry like she meant it with every cell in her body.

Her Mira, who loved her, always in all ways — and Zoey was terrified because her heart was starting to skip a beat for someone who wasn’t her.

Her throat tightened. She forced a smile. “Jinu, make sure there’s salmon, okay?”

“Got it, Little Zo,” Jinu said, flashing a thumbs-up before tapping his code into the door.

The lock beeped twice, and the door to his suite swung open, flooding them with light — high ceilings, wide windows, soft jazz playing from a hidden speaker. Rumi walked in first, her gaze sweeping around the familiar space, while Mira brushed past Zoey to drop her bag on the couch.

Zoey lingered by the doorway for a second, looking at all of them.

Jinu laughing as he placed his phone down.

Rumi scanning the equipment they’d use for the project.

Mira glancing back at her, lips pressed into something that looked like a silent apology.

And Zoey — stuck in the middle, heart split between the familiar and the forbidden.

She took a slow breath and stepped in.

The door clicked shut behind her.

God, what am I doing? she thought.

Her chest still tugged. And the sound of Rumi’s voice saying, “Let’s set up the workstation here,” didn’t make it any easier.

The suite was filled with a mixture of soft beats, low hums, and the faint scratching of a pen on paper. It wasn’t chaotic — not like rehearsals usually were when Mira was involved — but rather… methodical. Focused. It almost felt sacred.

Jinu sat behind the digital workstation, headphones pushed halfway up his messy hair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the keys as he tested basslines. “Nah, that’s too heavy. Rumi, what if we drop the tempo just a little? Make it breathe more?”

Rumi, seated cross-legged beside him with her laptop open, didn’t even glance up. “Mm. Around 87 bpm instead of 92. Layer it with synth pad two.” Her voice was even, thoughtful, calm as always — but her eyes glimmered with focus, with something that looked almost alive.

“Got it,” Jinu said, and the bass pulsed lower, smoother, the room vibrating faintly with each kick.

Across from them, Zoey was hunched over her notebook, scribbling lines that crossed out, rewrote, and re-crossed themselves. Lyrics, messy and raw — feelings she couldn’t quite untangle spilling in half-sentences and scribbles. She’d pause, chew the end of her pen, hum under her breath, then write again.

“‘Even the stars fade when you look at me’… no, too cliché,” she muttered, tapping the page.

Rumi turned slightly, still typing, “It’s not cliché if it’s true.”

Zoey’s hand froze mid-word. She didn’t look up. Didn’t want to. Because if she did, she’d see Rumi’s eyes, soft and unguarded, and she wasn’t ready for that.

Instead, she muttered, “You’re terrible at lying,” and pretended to focus again.

Mira sat on the couch a few feet away, phone clutched loosely in her hand. She’d been scrolling through the same feed for fifteen minutes now — not really reading, not really seeing. Just… scrolling.

She could hear the rhythm Jinu and Rumi were building, the way their conversation flowed so naturally — timing, layers, structure — all words Mira had no place in.

She didn’t belong here.

She used to be the one Zoey looked at like that — the one who made her beam mid-thought, laugh mid-sentence. But now, Zoey’s gaze was elsewhere.

Zoey’s shoulders relaxed when she talked to Rumi.

Her voice softened when Rumi gave feedback.

Even the silence between them — it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable.

And that comfort was eating Mira alive.

She forced a smile whenever Zoey looked her way, but each time felt more brittle than the last. She wanted to do something — join in, help, exist in this world Zoey was part of. But she didn’t know how. Music wasn’t her language. Dance was. And there was no stage here for her to move on, no choreography to hide behind.

Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of thought.

A message from one of her troupe friends: “Practice at 5? Don’t forget the showcase prep.”

She typed back automatically — Yeah, I’ll be there — but her eyes stayed on Zoey.

Zoey’s lips were moving quietly, murmuring lines under her breath as she tested the melody Rumi just played.

Rumi leaned closer, fingers moving over the keyboard. “Try that again, softer. You’re pushing the vowels too hard.”

Zoey followed, voice trembling slightly as she repeated the line — this time lighter, airier.

Rumi smiled faintly. “There. That’s the sound.”

Zoey blinked. “Yeah?”

Rumi nodded, “Yeah.”

And that — that tiny exchange, that shared grin, the way Zoey’s face brightened — made Mira’s stomach twist.

Jinu turned to glance at her, sensing the shift in air, his grin faltering just a little. “You okay there, Foxy?” he teased softly, but his tone was careful.

Mira just hummed, forcing a smirk. “I’m fine. Just… enjoying watching the geniuses work.”

But she wasn’t fine.

Because every second she sat there, it felt like she was watching the distance between her and Zoey stretch wider — invisible but painfully, unmistakably there.

------

Zoey looked up for a moment, eyes meeting Mira’s across the room.

Her chest squeezed, seeing that faint smile that didn’t quite reach Mira’s eyes.

And maybe, for the first time, she felt the weight of what silence — her choices — might’ve done.

The beat pulsed softly in the background.

Jinu hummed something tuneless.

Rumi’s fingers tapped against the keys.

And Mira… sat still, phone dimming in her hand, pretending the music didn’t sound like heartbreak set to rhythm.

Zoey’s pen stopped mid-word.

Her hand trembled slightly over the paper, a half-written line bleeding into a dot of ink where she froze.

Across the room, Mira was still sitting on the couch — same spot, same stillness — pretending to scroll on her phone. But Zoey could see it. That flicker. That subtle cracking behind Mira’s soft smile.

Zoey had seen that look before — the exact same one Mira wore the night her parents’ cut her off, the night her dad called her ungrateful/worthless daughter, the one she wore when she tried to convince everyone she was fine.

That quiet, almost invisible breaking behind her eyes. The same way Mira’s shoulders stiffened just a fraction whenever Zoey laughed too freely, or whenever her name slipped from Rumi’s mouth in that calm, even tone.

And Zoey hated it.

Because she knew Mira was watching her.

Every glance, every hum, every soft grin that slipped out of Zoey’s mouth when Rumi said something smart or funny — Mira caught them all.

She knew Mira well enough to feel it — that tightening in her girlfriend’s chest, that quiet burn in her throat she tried to hide behind a smile.

And Zoey… was the reason for it.

The realization hit her like static — loud and soft at the same time.

She couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even finish the line she’d been writing.

Because the truth was too sharp:

She was looking at Rumi the way she used to look at Mira.

Not with love — not yet, she told herself — but with something dangerously close. Something that felt like gravity.

Her pen dropped onto the notebook with a dull clack.

Zoey clenched her jaw and looked down, forcing herself to focus on the messy scrawl in front of her — heartbeats caught in rhythm, lies that sound like truth — and the words blurred.

She heard Mira’s quiet exhale from across the room.

And then the softest sound — a sniffle, barely audible, swallowed by the beat still looping from the speakers.

Zoey’s chest ached. She wanted to say something, anything.

But what could she even say? I’m sorry I don’t know what’s happening to me? I’m sorry I can’t stop staring at someone else while you’re right there?

Her throat felt like it was closing.

And right when the tension inside her hit its breaking point —

Ding.

The doorbell cut through the air, sharp and saving.

Jinu pushed back from his chair, swiveling around with a grin that didn’t quite match the heaviness in the room. “Lunch’s here,” he said, stretching his arms above his head before shuffling toward the door. “Let’s take a break before my brain melts.”

Zoey exhaled — a shaky, almost relieved sound she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Rumi stood, quiet and composed as always, brushing her hair back before walking toward Jinu to help.

Mira moved too, but slower, her phone still in hand, her eyes flicking briefly to Zoey’s face.

That single glance — tired, heavy, but still soft made Zoey’s stomach twist.

She looked away, biting her lip.

Her notebook sat open in front of her, and the half-finished lyric stared back at her like a wound she couldn’t close.

The music faded into silence.

And for the first time that day, Zoey wished the beat would start again — anything to drown out the guilt pounding louder than her own heart.

They sat on the carpet, the afternoon sun stretching lazy beams across the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The smell of soy sauce and rice lingered between them — neat containers of sushi spread out on the coffee table, chopsticks clinking occasionally as Jinu reached for another roll.

It looked perfect.

Four people, friends, laughter somewhere between bites and light conversation. Jinu, grinning as always, making small jokes about his own eating habits. Rumi, calm as ever, politely adding to the conversation when necessary. Mira, sitting quietly beside Zoey.

Mira’s thigh pressed lightly against hers, a warmth that should’ve felt familiar. Comforting. But Zoey’s heart wouldn’t steady. Every time Rumi lifted her eyes, every time that composed voice hummed in agreement to something Jinu said, Zoey’s stomach did that same, traitorous flutter. She hated that it did.

Then Mira’s hand found hers.

Softly, carefully — like she was afraid Zoey might pull away.

Her fingers slid between Zoey’s, weaving loosely, the contact so fragile it almost didn’t feel real. Mira didn’t look at her. She just stared down at her sushi roll, thumb brushing slow circles over Zoey’s knuckles, her breathing shallow.

It wasn’t possessive.

It wasn’t even reassuring.

It was pleading.

That’s what broke Zoey the most — that Mira didn’t grip her hand tight, didn’t try to demand closeness, didn’t force anything. She held Zoey like she was giving her a choice. Like she already knew Zoey might not choose her anymore.

Zoey swallowed hard.

The air felt heavy — that kind of quiet that doesn’t belong in a group of friends. Jinu was still chatting about a new beat he was working on, throwing chopstick gestures as he spoke. Rumi answered softly, nodding, her attention fixed politely on him.

But Zoey couldn’t hear any of it.

All she could hear was Mira’s silence.

Not the kind she had for the last two weeks — the cold, closed-off kind that came with isolation and late nights in the studio

But a different kind.

This one trembled.

It was the kind of quiet that said I’m tired of pretending.

The kind that said I’m scared I’m losing you.

Zoey looked down at their hands. Mira’s fingers trembled faintly against hers. The sushi she’d picked up sat forgotten between her chopsticks, untouched.

“...You okay?” Zoey whispered, so softly that even she almost didn’t hear it.

Mira smiled, or tried to. “Mm,” she hummed, her lips barely curving. 

But Zoey saw it — the tiny hitch in her throat, the way her lashes fluttered as if to hold something back.

Jinu’s voice floated through the air from across the table. “Foxy, you’ve been quiet today,” he said gently, his tone playful but observant.

Mira blinked, eyes flicking up just for a second before she forced another soft smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just… not hungry.”

Zoey felt Mira’s thumb still against her skin. The light circles stopped.

Something inside Zoey twisted — guilt, affection, something darker. She wanted to squeeze Mira’s hand back, to tell her she wasn’t losing her, that she was still here — even if her heart felt messy and unsure.

But she couldn’t bring herself to lie.

So she stayed quiet.

The sunlight shifted, catching on the glass tabletop. The soft hum of the A/C filled the silence between conversations, and Zoey could feel Mira’s pulse under her fingers — fast, fragile, human.

She’s breaking, Zoey thought. And I’m the one doing it.

Rumi’s calm gaze flickered briefly toward them — or maybe Zoey imagined it — before she looked back at Jinu, saying something about the bassline.

Zoey forced herself to smile, to nod along to whatever Jinu was saying, pretending the tension wasn’t strangling her from the inside. Pretending her girlfriend’s quiet didn’t hurt. Pretending she wasn’t aware of how wrong everything suddenly felt.

Because from the outside, it looked like a perfect hangout.

Perfect people.

Perfect scene.

But Zoey knew — between Mira’s trembling hand in hers, Rumi’s calm composure, and her own heart twisting where it shouldn’t — perfection was just another word for pretending.

The clock ticked quietly against the steady rhythm of Rumi’s laptop — faint clicks, a metronome of focus. They had all settled back into their little zones after lunch: Jinu, sprawled lazily on the couch with his headphones halfway on; Rumi sitting cross-legged by the table, hands moving fluidly over the keys, adjusting beats and fine-tuning layers; Zoey on the carpet again, notebook open, pen between her teeth, eyes lost in words that refused to sound right.

And Mira — still in her spot.

Back pressed against the couch, both knees pulled close to her chest, her phone in her hands.

She hadn’t said much since lunch. Occasionally her screen lit up with messages, flashes of white against the low afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

Her expression didn’t change — quiet, neutral — but her thumb kept scrolling, faster and faster.

Zoey noticed.

Every scroll.

Every time Mira’s breath caught or her leg bounced faintly.

Every time she felt the tug of guilt clawing at her ribs.

The project moved along. Jinu started humming under his breath, Rumi looped the same melody twice, asked Zoey what she thought, and Zoey answered half-heartedly, her mind still tethered somewhere else — on Mira, on the way she hadn’t said a word in nearly an hour.

By the time the clock hit 3:00, the soft rhythm of the session broke.

Mira suddenly stood up.

The sound of movement — sudden and real — startled all of them. Jinu looked up first, eyebrow raised. Rumi stopped the track, her fingers hovering mid-air above the keyboard. Zoey’s eyes darted up, her pen slipping from between her fingers and rolling quietly against the floor.

Mira’s phone screen dimmed. She smiled faintly, though it looked tired — the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I have a dance practice at five,” she said softly, looking around the room.

Her tone was light, easy — but her shoulders were tight, and Zoey could see how her fingers gripped her phone a little too hard. “Need to go.”

Zoey blinked, confused for a second. “Oh—right,” she said, half-standing. “Wait, I’ll—”

Before she could finish, Mira reached into her pocket and held out her car keys.

The tiny metal jingled in her hand before landing on Zoey’s open palm.

“Drive it home, yeah?” Mira said, voice still faint, soft as if she was afraid to break something between them. “I’ll just get it later.”

“Mira…” Zoey’s voice trailed off.

Mira didn’t look away. Her gaze lingered — calm but trembling, eyes carrying that same unspoken ache Zoey had been pretending not to see. Then, slowly, Mira leaned down.

Her lips hovered just above Zoey’s — so close.

It should’ve been easy, like breathing. Like muscle memory. They’d done it a hundred times before.

But this time, Mira’s breath hitched. Her lips trembled, just barely brushing Zoey’s skin before she stopped herself — a small pause that said I still want to, but I don’t know if you do.

Then, instead of closing the distance, she leaned back and smiled — small, broken, pretending. “I’ll text you later,” she murmured.

Zoey froze. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, with her heart, with the air caught between them.

Rumi’s voice came quietly from behind. “How are you going there without your car?”

Her tone wasn’t judgmental — just that calm, level curiosity Rumi always had. Still, the question cut through the fragile silence.

Mira straightened, glancing over at her. “I’ll manage,” she said, and this time her voice was steady — the kind of steadiness that comes only when you’ve learned how to walk away before your heart cracks open. “Always does.”

And she turned.

No hesitation.

No looking back.

The soft click of the door echoed after her — too soft, too final.

Zoey stared at the door long after it closed, the keys still cold in her hand. The weight of them felt heavier than it should — heavier than metal, heavier than sound.

Jinu looked between them, sensing the drop in air pressure but wisely said nothing. He just leaned back on the couch again, pretending to scroll through his phone.

Rumi was the only one who didn’t look away. She glanced briefly at Zoey — not with pity, not with surprise, just that quiet kind of awareness that always made Zoey’s chest feel too tight.

“You okay?” Rumi asked softly, eyes still on her laptop, voice calm as if she wasn’t trying to intrude.

Zoey swallowed, her throat dry. “Yeah,” she lied, forcing a breath, forcing a smile that didn’t reach. “Let’s just… keep going.”

The beat resumed, faint, rhythmic, unbothered.

But the air didn’t go back to normal.

Because Mira was gone.

And somehow, it felt like she left with the only sound that kept Zoey’s heart steady.

--------

The wind carried that faint mid-afternoon chill — not cold enough to sting, but heavy enough to make every breath feel thick. Mira shoved both her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, her shoulders hunched, and her gaze fixed on the cracks of the pavement ahead.

"3:15, still early,” she muttered under her breath.

She could’ve hailed a cab. It would’ve taken thirty minutes at most to reach the studio.

But the thought of sitting still, trapped in a moving box with her thoughts, was worse than the idea of walking an hour and a half through the quiet streets. So she walked. One step, then another, her boots scuffing softly against the concrete.

The city was alive in its usual hum — traffic, chatter, someone laughing near a café — but to Mira it all sounded far away, like a film played behind glass. Her mind wasn’t here; it was back there, in that suite.

Rumi’s voice.

Rumi’s laugh.

Zoey’s smile — soft, fond, too familiar.

Mira’s chest tightened. Not in anger. Not exactly in heartbreak either.

Just that deep, nauseating ache of recognition.

Because she knew that look Zoey gave Rumi. The small, helpless one — the kind you try to hide behind polite smiles but fail to bury once it starts showing in your eyes.

She’d worn that same expression once.

Years ago.

On the same Rumi.

“Fuck…” Mira whispered, stopping at the pedestrian crossing, the red light flashing on her skin. Her jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the road but not really seeing it. “Of all people…”

Her pulse picked up — not fast, just heavy, like every beat carried a memory she’d rather forget. The way Rumi used to look at her, when they still understood each other without saying a word. When late-night talks studies turned into laughter and quiet confessions. When everything felt simple.

Before the downpour.

Before the tension.

Before she messed it all up.

Mira’s throat ached as she exhaled, her breath fogging faintly in the cool air.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t betrayed. Zoey hadn’t done anything wrong — she was just being Zoey, soft-hearted and gentle, easy to love and even easier to fall for someone like Rumi.

But what made Mira’s chest twist wasn’t Zoey’s feelings — it was Rumi’s.

Because she saw it.

Clear as daylight.

The way Rumi looked at Zoey — calm but tender, like she was trying not to let it show. That was the same look she used to give Mira back then. Before things fell apart. Before they learned to build walls between them.

“God, this is pathetic,” Mira murmured under her breath, dragging her hand over her face before letting it drop again. She forced a small laugh — humorless, raw. 

The light turned green. She crossed, steps slower this time. Her body moved on instinct, but her mind was miles away — tangled between the past and present.

Mira’s breath hitched, sharp in her chest.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to sting.

She wasn’t mad at Zoey. Not one bit.

She was mad at herself — for still feeling something she swore she buried.

For still knowing that a part of her heart hadn’t stopped aching for Rumi.

Her steps faltered. She stopped near a lamppost, pulling her phone out of her pocket. The screen lit up — no new messages. No missed calls. Just the same background of her and Zoey at the festival last year.

Zoey’s smile, her arms wrapped around Mira’s shoulders.

She looked so happy.

Mira stared for a long while.

Then her lips curved into a bitter, fragile smile.

“I’m losing her,” she whispered, voice barely there. “And I can’t even blame her.”

She pocketed her phone again, exhaling through her nose, and continued walking.

Each step forward felt like an attempt to outrun her own emotions, but they followed her — quiet, steady, impossible to shake off.

Like a song that never quite fades, even after the music stops.

The dance studio was empty when Mira arrived.

She dropped her bag by the corner and stared at her reflection in the wall-length mirror — blank expression, red-rimmed eyes, the faint trace of exhaustion beneath them.

She didn’t stretch. Didn’t warm up. Didn’t think.

She just walked to the middle of the room, pulled her phone out, connected it to the speaker, and pressed play.

A slow beat filled the air — steady, melancholic, the kind that creeps under your skin instead of blasting through it.

And then Mira started to move.

Her arms lifted first — slow, controlled, as if she was dragging something invisible up from her chest. Her body followed, precise, every motion sharp yet fluid. Her legs hit each beat cleanly, her posture unwavering, her technique flawless.

But her mind was nowhere near as clean.

Inside, everything was noise.

Flashes of Zoey’s laugh.

Rumi’s soft hum when she’s thinking.

The hollow silence that followed Mira’s apology earlier that week — the one Zoey didn’t know how to answer.

She turned sharply, one foot pivoting with a frictional squeak. Her reflection split under the studio light, a blur of motion.

Her hand dragged across the mirror, leaving faint sweat marks on the surface.

She could hear her own breathing now, uneven, the kind that burned in her lungs. But she didn’t stop.

Step — spin — drop.

Elbow — chest — pulse — slide.

Each movement was precise, disciplined. Her years of training evident in the way her body flowed even as her heart cracked.

Because dancing was all she had left that still made sense.

Every emotion she couldn’t say — she could translate it here. Every ache, every regret, every memory that replayed like a broken track — they all had a rhythm now.

She could almost hear Rumi’s voice from years ago when she teaches her a move, her tone was teasing, calm, low tone.

“Loosen up, Mira. You’re dancing like you’re trying to win a war.”

She had laughed back then.

But now, she wasn’t winning anything. She was just trying not to fall apart.

Her body dropped low to the floor — palms flat, knees bent — before she pushed herself back up, spine arching as if pulling her chest open. Her hair clung to her face, sweat rolling down her temples.

Her reflection stared back — same face, same body, but the eyes looked foreign.

Empty.

She didn’t realize she’d been crying until she felt the salt sting her lips.

Her movements softened then — slower, heavier. Like the weight in her chest was dragging her down with every beat.

She pressed her palm against her sternum, right where it hurt, and twisted — a motion meant for release but it only made her heart race faster.

Zoey’s voice echoed faintly in her mind.

I can’t do this right now.

The way she said it — shaky, tired, almost scared.

Mira’s lips parted as her breath hitched, body pausing mid-turn. For a second, she stood there — hands shaking, shoulders trembling, breath caught between a sob and a gasp.

The music played on, muffled by the pounding in her ears.

Her hands dropped to her sides, trembling fingers curling into fists. She took one deep breath and forced her body to move again.

No more control this time — her form breaking, movements messy, raw, desperate.

Every spin was too fast.

Every step too sharp.

Every slide too heavy.

It wasn’t dance anymore — it was release.

It was the ache in her chest spilling out through her limbs.

The guilt. The jealousy. The fear.

She ended with a final drop, one knee hitting the ground, her palms pressed flat on the floor as her breath tore through the silence.

The music faded.

Only her ragged breathing filled the room.

Mira stayed there — head down, sweat dripping onto the floor, tears still clinging to her lashes.

Her reflection looked shattered through the mirrored surface, the light bending around her form.

She laughed — low, shaky, almost humorless.

“Nice job, Mira,” she muttered to herself, voice hoarse. “You can’t even keep love and rhythm separate anymore.”

She pushed herself up, grabbed her water bottle, and sat by the wall, her back sliding against the cool mirror until she was seated on the floor.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her pulse echoed in her ears, matching the phantom beat of the song still trapped in her chest.

She tilted her head back, eyes closing as she whispered,

“Rumi... Zoey... What the hell am I supposed to do with the both of you?”

Mira’s head was still leaned back against the cool mirror, her breathing steadying into something close to calm — or at least the kind of calm that comes when the body’s too tired to feel anything. Her phone buzzed beside her thigh, the vibration echoing faintly against the hollow floorboards.

She blinked once, slow, reluctant, then picked it up.

[Minji, Class Chat 💃]

Training postponed today. Choreo says he has emergency. See you guys tomorrow!

Her eyes lingered on the message, unfocused. Her thumb hovered above the keyboard before she typed a single word:

“Noted.”

Then she dropped the phone face down beside her and exhaled — deep, unsteady, a laugh that never fully came out.

Postponed.

Her body should’ve felt relieved.

Her muscles screamed for rest.

But her mind— her mind needed the distraction, the noise, the movement. Anything that wasn’t silence, anything that wasn’t the memory of Zoey pulling her hand away, or Rumi’s name lighting her screen at night.

So she stood up.

Her legs wobbled slightly from the earlier dance, but she didn’t care. She just walked to the middle of the room again, pressed replay on the speaker, and let the music begin.

The bass started soft, like a heartbeat.

Then it built — slow, steady, heavy.

Mira moved.

Her body bent, twisted, spun. Her hair stuck to her temples, her shirt clung to her spine. There was no routine, no choreography. Only instinct. Only ache.

Every sway of her hips felt like a confession she never spoke.

Every reach of her hand felt like a plea no one heard.

She danced like someone fighting herself — precise enough to keep control, raw enough to tear through it.

Her reflection blurred in the mirror as tears stung her eyes again. She clenched her jaw, twisting, turning, her arms slicing through the air with sharp, reckless precision.

She wasn’t dancing anymore — she was unraveling.

Each beat hit her chest like a bruise.

Each spin felt like she was trying to shake something off — guilt, longing, anger — but it stayed, all of it, buried deep in her ribcage.

The song shifted to its bridge — slower now, heavy, melancholic.

She stumbled once, caught herself, but didn’t stop.

Her movements grew smaller, closer to herself, like she was folding in.

Her breath broke into quiet sobs between steps, but her body didn’t stop moving — wouldn’t stop.

The studio lights caught the sheen of sweat on her face, the glint in her eyes that wasn’t just exhaustion. It was heartbreak made visible, one motion at a time.

The music faded, leaving only her breathing — ragged, uneven.

Mira sank to her knees, chest heaving. The quiet after the music felt cruel.

Her reflection in the mirror looked distant — like she was watching someone else fall apart.

She pressed her palms against the floor, trembling, whispering to no one,

“Why can’t I stop?”

The question hung there, unanswered.

Because even if she wanted to stop — stop thinking of Zoey’s soft voice, stop remembering Rumi’s calm eyes, stop replaying the way both of them made her heart ache in entirely different ways — she couldn’t.

Her pulse still followed the rhythm that wasn’t playing anymore.

Her body knew the steps even when her mind wanted to forget.

And as she stood again, pressing replay with shaking fingers, she whispered —

“Just one more time.”

The music started.

And she broke all over again.

Mira didn’t notice when the second song began.

The transition was seamless — a softer rhythm this time, something that felt too gentle for the way her chest burned.

But her body moved anyway.

Her sneakers slid against the wooden floor, her arms cutting through air that felt heavier with each breath. The mirror before her had fogged slightly, reflecting nothing clear anymore — just a blur of motion and exhaustion.

Her heartbeat tried to keep up with the tempo, but it was losing pace.

Her body was losing pace.

Still, she didn’t stop.

Every pivot, every spin, every stumble felt like resistance — against her thoughts, against her breaking. Against herself.

Her hair clung to her face, sticking to her damp skin. Her throat burned, lungs tightening, but she pushed through, forcing her legs to obey.

One more turn.

One more breath.

One more second of pretending she was fine.

And then her knees gave out.

It wasn’t graceful — it was raw, messy, abrupt, painful.

Her body dropped to the cold wooden floor with a dull thud, palms sliding forward to catch herself, breath ragged.

The air rushed from her lungs, her muscles trembling under the weight of everything she refused to name.

The song kept playing.

So she stayed there.

Mira pressed her forehead to the floor, her breath misting the surface, her tears falling silently — small, glimmering dots against the polished wood.

She let her arms curl under her head, then moved one over her eyes, blocking the light, the ceiling, the world.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven patterns.

The song looped again.

And again.

She didn’t move to stop it.

Every lyric blurred into white noise — a background hum to the sound of her breathing and the occasional broken sniffle she couldn’t hold in.

Her mind was chaos — Her throat ached, but no sound came out except for a weak,

“…fuck…”

It wasn’t anger.

It was surrender.

She pressed her forearm harder against her eyes, as if pressure could stop the tears from falling. But they kept coming — quiet, relentless.

Her body finally stilled.

Only her breathing moved, shallow and trembling.

The studio felt too big around her.

The echo of the song too empty.

The silence between loops too loud.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that — minutes, maybe hours — but it didn’t matter.

The music would end, restart, end again, and she would still be there.

Face hidden.

Tears drying on her skin.

Breathing through the ache in her chest that wouldn’t go away.

And when her fingers finally relaxed against the floor, her last thought before exhaustion pulled her under wasn’t about Zoey, nor Rumi — it was about how easy it was to break, when no one was there to see.

Chapter Text

(THREE A.M)

Zoey couldn’t focus. No matter how many times she reread the line she wrote or listened to the track Jinu and Rumi were layering, her mind wouldn’t stay still. Every beat echoed wrong, every lyric felt empty.

She caught herself glancing at her phone again. No new messages. No calls. Just silence. The kind of silence that felt heavy — the kind that reminded her of how Mira smiled earlier, that faint, trembling smile before she left.

Her chest had been uneasy since she saw her walk out that door.

She knew Mira said she had practice at five, but something about the way she said “I’ll manage, always does” kept replaying in her head, scraping her from the inside out.

When the clock hit six, Zoey put her pen down and turned to Rumi and Jinu.

“Hey,” she started softly, her tone almost apologetic, “can we stop here for today? I think we’ve done enough. I—I just need to check something.”

Rumi looked up from her laptop, brows furrowing slightly. “Sure,” she said, no questions asked. Her voice was calm, like always — but her eyes flickered briefly, something unreadable passing through them before she turned to close her screen.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Jinu said, stretching his arms over his head. “We can pick up tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Zoey murmured, already grabbing Mira’s car key from the table. Her movements were rushed, unsteady — even she could feel it. Her pulse raced for no reason she could name.

The elevator ride down felt suffocating. The world outside had turned dusky — the sky melting into shades of tangerine and gray. Zoey gripped the steering wheel as she got in Mira’s car, the smell of Mira’s perfume faintly lingering on the seat. It was familiar, comforting, and it made her chest tighten all the more.

The drive to the studio blurred around her. The streetlights flickered on one by one as if following her path, and the radio hummed quietly in the background — some ballad that she didn’t have the energy to turn off.

She thought of Mira again — of how she’d smiled that morning, head on Zoey’s shoulder during class, fingers tracing patterns on Zoey’s palm like she was memorizing her. Then she thought of how she looked at Rumi across the room. How quiet that pain looked on her.

Zoey’s fingers tightened on the wheel.

The familiar outline of the dance studio came into view, its lights dim behind the glass walls. Zoey parked the car and hurried out, heart pounding against her ribs.

She could still hear faint music inside — soft, broken, looping. The same one Mira always danced to when she was hurting.

Zoey’s breath caught. She reached for the door, her fingers trembling. The air was cold, heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

And when she stepped inside, the world went still — her eyes finding Mira.

Lying on the floor, soaked in sweat and tears as the music repeated itself endlessly.

The song stuttered to a stop with a soft click when Zoey pressed the button on the speaker.

Silence swallowed the room, so thick it almost echoed.

Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and the sound of Mira’s uneven breaths remained.

Zoey’s heart pounded, loud enough she was sure Mira could hear it too.

She crouched beside her, lowering herself slowly onto the cold wooden floor.

Mira didn’t move.

Her chest rose and fell, her arms draped over her stomach, one forearm across her eyes like a fragile wall she’d built to keep herself from falling apart completely.

Zoey reached out — hesitant at first, her hand hovering for a moment before she let her thumb gently brush along Mira’s cheekbone. Her skin was damp, a mix of tears and sweat.

Mira flinched ever so slightly at the touch, but didn’t push her away.

“Mira,” Zoey whispered, voice trembling.

No response. Just a sharp inhale, a heavy exhale.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” Zoey continued, her words soft, breaking at the edges. “You’re freezing…”

Mira’s lips parted, her voice small, cracked — “I’m fine.”

Zoey almost laughed, but it came out as a breath that hurt. “You’re not fine.”

Mira finally turned her head, just enough for Zoey to see her face. Red eyes, puffy cheeks, lashes clumped with saltwater. That strong, confident Mira who never let anyone see her break — she was gone.

What was left was someone raw, trembling, still pretending she wasn’t falling apart even when her whole body said otherwise.

Zoey’s thumb moved again, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to pretend,” she whispered. “Not with me.”

Mira’s lip trembled. She let out a small laugh, dry, humorless — before she said, “I didn’t mean for you to see this. I just—” Her voice cracked, her throat tightening as if she was choking on her own words.

“I just wanted to dance it out, you know? That’s what I always do. Move until I stop feeling. But...it didn’t work this time.”

Zoey stayed quiet. She wanted to say something, anything, but nothing she could say would make it better. So instead, she reached for Mira’s hand and held it — warm against cold, soft against trembling.

“You don’t have to stop feeling,” Zoey said eventually, her tone barely audible. “You don’t have to do it alone either.”

Mira swallowed hard. Her fingers curled weakly around Zoey’s hand.

She closed her eyes again, her forehead creasing.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate that I can’t stop caring. I hate that I still break like this when I thought I already buried it all. It’s like—” she paused, her voice shaking as she searched for air, “it’s like everything I’ve been holding back just keeps finding its way out no matter how hard I try to lock it away.”

Zoey’s throat tightened. She brushed her thumb along Mira’s knuckles. “It’s okay to break, Mira.”

Mira’s eyes opened, hazy and wet, searching Zoey’s face. “No, it’s not. Not when everyone expects you to be strong.”

Zoey shook her head. “That’s the thing about strength,” she murmured. “People forget it’s not about not breaking. It’s about letting someone see when you do.”

Mira blinked once, twice — tears spilling over again, silent but steady.

And Zoey just stayed there.

Holding her hand.

Letting her breathe.

Letting her crumble, quietly.

Until Mira whispered, barely audible —

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Zoey’s lips curved into a faint, aching smile. “I didn’t think I could stay away.”

The words hung between them — quiet, honest, and trembling with everything left unsaid.

Mira’s voice broke the stillness first.

Soft. Trembling. The kind of softness that didn’t belong to her — not to the Mira who always stood tall, composed, untouchable.

“It’s Rumi,” she said suddenly, the name falling like a stone into the silence. Zoey froze. Her chest tightened, her grip on Mira’s hand loosening without realizing it.

“The person I lost,” Mira continued, her words shaking, breath uneven. “W-we first met each other five years ago, we talked briefly, then we became CSAT study buddies.”

Zoey blinked — the realization hitting too fast, too loud in her mind.

Rumi.

“She became my girlfriend just months after,” Mira’s voice cracked, fingers trembling slightly as she pressed her palms to her eyes. “But—but after a year… I thought she was leaving, that she was going to follow Celine to the States. I confronted her under the heavy rain, I didn’t believe her—” her voice caught, sharp, painful, “—I called her Celine’s puppet. I drove her away. I pushed her away.”

Zoey didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Mira let out a weak laugh, one that sounded more like she was breaking apart mid-breath. “It’s my fault… all of it. I told her to leave and never come back, and she did. She actually did.”

Her voice turned into a whisper, quiet and trembling — “And now she’s back, and she doesn’t even look at me the same. She doesn’t remember how I used to make her laugh, or how she used to rest her head on my shoulder whenever she was tired. She’s so calm now, so distant. And I did that. I made her that way.”

The room felt smaller, heavier with every word that left Mira’s lips.

Zoey’s fingers twitched — she wanted to reach for her, to hold her again, but something in her chest kept her still.

She listened. Because she didn’t know what to say.

Every word Mira said seemed to echo inside Zoey’s head —

Rumi.

Girlfriend.

Five years ago.

Under the rain.

It all lined up — every subtle glance, every unspoken tension between Mira and Rumi that Zoey couldn’t place before now made cruel, painful sense.

Zoey’s heart thudded so loud she could barely hear the hum of the air conditioner anymore. She bit her lower lip until she tasted metal, but she didn’t interrupt. She couldn’t.

Mira’s hands were shaking now, her voice barely holding itself together. “You should’ve seen her back then, Zo. She was… bright. Wild. She made everything feel alive.” Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “And I killed that part of her because I couldn’t trust her.”

Zoey’s throat burned, her eyes stung — not from jealousy, not from anger, but from something she couldn’t even name. A mixture of ache, guilt, confusion.

Because she wanted to hold Mira, to protect her from her own ghosts.

But she also wanted to scream because that same ghost was the one making her heart beat faster every time she saw her.

She pressed her lips together, her voice small when it finally came out.

“Mira…”

Mira looked up — eyes hollow, red-rimmed, exhausted.

Zoey swallowed hard, her chest trembling. “You loved her.”

Mira nodded — slow, broken. “I think I still do.”

The silence that followed was deafening. And all Zoey could do was sit there.

Mira’s breathing slowed, ragged but measured, as if she was trying to steady herself — to keep the rest of her from shattering. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, lips parting just slightly before the words slipped out.

“And you’re falling for her.”

Zoey froze.

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t even an accusation.

It was a truth Mira had already accepted before she ever said it aloud.

The words lodged somewhere deep in Zoey’s chest, painful, unbearable, real. Her throat tightened as she looked at Mira — those eyes that once made her feel like home now stared back at her with quiet surrender, as if Mira had already lost a fight she wasn’t even trying to win.

Zoey didn’t speak. She didn’t even breathe.

Mira blinked, slowly, her lashes trembling with the weight of exhaustion. “And I can’t blame you,” she continued, her voice softer than a whisper, but it cut through Zoey like glass. “Never really could.”

Zoey wanted to say no.

She wanted to deny it, to reach out, to pull Mira close and tell her she was wrong — that she was still hers, that she didn’t mean to look at Rumi that way, that her heart wasn’t betraying her.

But she couldn’t.

Because silence always told the truth when words couldn’t.

Mira smiled faintly — not the kind that lifted corners of her lips, but the kind that belonged to someone who had already accepted pain as part of loving.

“You try to hide it,” she whispered. “But you forget, I know you, Zo. Every flicker of your eyes, every time your breath catches when you see her — it’s the same way you used to look at me.”

Zoey’s chest tightened until breathing hurt. “Mira…”

“I’m not angry,” Mira said, her tone trembling, fragile. “I’m just… tired. Tired of pretending I don’t see it. Tired of holding onto something that’s already slipping away.”

Her voice cracked at the end, but she forced a small laugh to cover it — and that hurt Zoey even more. Because Mira wasn’t breaking in a loud, chaotic way. She was breaking quietly, gently, the kind that hurt slower but deeper.

Zoey finally reached out, her fingers brushing the back of Mira’s hand, but Mira didn’t take it. She just looked at her — eyes wet, voice barely holding.

“I understand, Zoey,” she said softly. “You can’t help who your heart chooses.”

The silence that followed pressed against Zoey’s chest like a weight she couldn’t lift.

She wanted to say I love you, she wanted to fix it — but the words wouldn’t come out, because loving Mira still didn’t change the truth that hung between them.

She was falling for Rumi.

And Mira already knew.

-------

Mira stayed still on the floor, her body unmoving except for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. The polished wood beneath her seemed to swallow the sound of her breath, making the silence too loud, too heavy to bear.

The faint hum of the lights overhead flickered, spilling shadows over her face — over the corners of her mouth that trembled, the lashes damp against her skin. Zoey could see how her fingers twitched slightly, the same hands that once felt so steady now searching for something — air, reason, maybe mercy.

And then Mira spoke again, her voice softer, more fragile than before.

“If you ended breaking up with me…”

Zoey’s eyes widened, her throat tightening. Mira’s voice wasn’t sharp — it was quiet, almost weightless, but it struck deeper than any anger could.

“…tell Rumi it’s my fault,” Mira said, her words spilling like they were carefully untangled from somewhere painful. “Tell her I cheated, I left you, I hurt you, I pushed you out.”

Her lips quivered around the last few words, her breath catching. “Anything. Tell her it’s me and not you.”

Zoey wanted to reach out, but her hands felt cold — useless. The ache in her chest pulsed like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Mira’s arm shifted slightly, but her forearm still covered her eyes as her next words trembled out.

“Let it be me, Zoey…” she whispered, voice cracking into the still air. “If someone has to take the blame, if someone has to be hated, let it be me.”

The silence after that was brutal — heavy and uneven, broken only by the quiet sound of Mira’s breathing, shallow and trembling.

Zoey swallowed hard, feeling her throat burn.

“Mira, don’t—”

But Mira shook her head weakly, as if she couldn’t bear to hear it. Her hand slid off her forehead, landing on her chest, over where her heart was beating too fast, too loud.

“I don’t want her to think she ruined us,” she whispered, barely holding herself together. “I don’t want her to carry that… I already did enough ruining for everyone.”

Her voice cracked completely then, raw and small. “Let it be me, Zo. Please… let it be me.”

Zoey could feel her tears welling up, but they wouldn’t fall — not yet. Not when Mira’s voice still lingered in the air like a ghost she couldn’t touch.

Because this — this wasn’t Mira asking for forgiveness.

This was her asking to be erased.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything Zoey had ever known.

Zoey didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her chest started to ache.

The air between them felt like glass — fragile, thin, one wrong word and it would shatter completely.

“Mira…” she whispered, her voice barely holding.

But Mira didn’t look at her. Her arm stayed over her chest, her body unmoving except for the faint tremor running through her shoulders. It wasn’t the kind of crying that begged for attention.

It was quiet, restrained — the kind that looked more like exhaustion than sadness, as if she’d been fighting too long to even let it out properly.

Zoey shifted closer. Her hand hovered above Mira’s arm, hesitating before she finally touched her — gentle, as if afraid Mira might break under her palm.

“Don’t say that,” Zoey breathed out, her voice shaking. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

Mira exhaled a sharp breath that almost sounded like a laugh, broken and breathless.

“I’m not asking,” she murmured. “I’m telling you what’s easier.”

“Easier for who?” Zoey asked, her tone too soft to sound like anger but too tight to be calm.

“For everyone,” Mira said. She finally turning her face to the side. Her eyes — red, wet, lost — met Zoey’s, and Zoey swore she could feel the pain pulse through the air like static.

“I can take it, Zoey. The blame. The story. The hate,” Mira whispered. “Because you don’t deserve to be the one hurting.”

Zoey shook her head, her tears finally threatening to spill.

“That’s not fair,” she said. “You don’t get to decide who takes the pain, Mira. You don’t get to make yourself the villain just to make things easier for me.”

“I already am the villain,” Mira said softly, almost too calm for how much her body trembled. “I pushed Rumi away when she didn’t deserve it. I almost lost you because I didn’t know how to hold you without being scared I’d lose you too.”

Zoey’s chest tightened, every word hitting deeper than the last. She reached for Mira’s hand, but Mira didn’t move — didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away either. Just stared at Zoey with that hollow look, like she’d finally run out of energy to pretend.

“Mira,” Zoey whispered again, her voice breaking this time. “I’m not leaving you.”

Mira’s lips twitched into a faint, trembling smile. “Not yet,” she said quietly.

The silence that followed felt suffocating — a quiet so heavy it pressed on Zoey’s lungs. She wanted to tell Mira she was wrong, that love wasn’t about timing or ghosts from the past, but she couldn’t.

Because deep down, she knew what Mira saw — the way Zoey’s eyes lingered on Rumi too long, the way her pulse quickened when Rumi laughed.

It was real.

And it was killing them both in slow motion.

Zoey squeezed Mira’s hand tighter, grounding herself in the warmth that still lingered there, refusing to let it fade.

“Then let me choose,” she said quietly, voice trembling. “If something’s going to break… let me be the one to hold it together until it does.”

Zoey’s thumb brushed over Mira’s knuckles, desperate, trembling.

“Mira,” she whispered again, like her name alone could fix everything.

But Mira shook her head — barely, weakly — her lips parted just enough for a breath that came out jagged. “Please… don’t make it hard.”

Zoey froze.

Her pulse skipped, the air inside her chest collapsing like glass under pressure.

“Hard?” she echoed. “You think it’s not already hard?”

Mira let out a fragile laugh — soft, bitter, like a crack through something already splintered. “You’re kind, Zo. Too kind. You don’t know how to hurt people, even when it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s not—” Zoey started, but Mira cut her off, her voice rising just slightly.

“I can see it,” Mira said, sitting up this time, knees bending, palms pressing flat against the cold wooden floor between them. Her hair clung to her damp cheeks, her eyes glassy but steady.

“The way you look at her. The way you listen when she talks. It’s—” she swallowed hard, her voice trembling, “—the way you used to look at me.”

Zoey’s breath hitched. She wanted to say it wasn’t true, wanted to deny it, but the words burned on her tongue. Mira saw right through her, through the lies she hadn’t even said yet.

Mira let out another quiet breath, like she was trying to keep her voice steady but it wavered anyway.

“Please,” she said again, softer this time. “Don’t make this harder than it already is. Don’t—don’t look at me like that, like you still love me the same way, when we both know… we’re already slipping.”

Zoey’s throat ached. “You’re asking me to stop trying.”

“I’m asking you to stop breaking with me,” Mira whispered. “You deserve something that doesn’t hurt this much.”

Zoey crawled closer, her voice unsteady. “Mira, you’re not something I just—stop feeling.”

Mira’s lips parted, a quiet sound escaping her like she wanted to believe that, but couldn’t. “You will,” she said. “One day you’ll wake up and realize I was just… a chapter that ended too early.”

Zoey shook her head, tears pooling, her tone breaking between breaths. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to tell me when I stop caring.”

“Then don’t care out of pity,” Mira said sharply, her tone cutting through the quiet. Her voice cracked mid-sentence, and she turned her head away. “Don’t stay because you feel sorry for me.”

Zoey’s voice softened instantly. “I’m not sorry for you, Mira. I’m scared of losing you.”

Mira’s shoulders trembled; she let out a quiet, shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “You already are,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

The silence stretched again — only the faint hum of the studio’s air conditioning filling the room.

Zoey’s eyes dropped to Mira’s hand resting on the floor, her fingers twitching slightly, unsure whether to reach again or let go.

She finally whispered, “I don’t want to lose you to her.”

Mira lifted her gaze then, eyes red but calm in a way that hurt more than tears ever could. “You’re not losing me to her,” she said. “You’re just finding her the way I once did.”

Zoey’s chest clenched. She wanted to scream, to say something — anything — that could rewind the hours, the months, the little moments that led here. But instead, all she could do was whisper, “Please stop talking like you’ve already given up.”

Mira smiled faintly, broken but sincere. “I’m not giving up,” she said, voice trembling. “I’m just… letting you go, before you start hating me for not being her.”

And for the first time, Zoey couldn’t find any words left to fight back with.

She just stayed there, in that cold studio, the air thick with everything left unsaid — the echoes of what they were, and the quiet grief of what they were both too scared to become.

Zoey’s breath trembled, her hands balled into fists at her sides then she stood up. 

The silence between them burned — until something inside her finally snapped.

“You’re doing it again!” she said, her voice sharp enough to echo against the mirrored walls. It startled even her, the raw sound of it. “You’re shutting me out, Mira. You’re pushing me away like you once did to Rumi.”

Mira froze. Her head jerked slightly, eyes wide — like Zoey had just struck a part of her she’d been trying to keep buried.

Zoey took a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling too fast. “You keep telling me to end this,” she continued, voice trembling between anger and heartbreak, “to blame you, to make you the villain — but this isn’t how this works, Mira. You don’t get to make all the decisions for both of us.”

Mira blinked hard, jaw tight, her fingers curling against the floor as if grounding herself. “You think I want to do this? You think it’s easy for me?”

“Then stop doing it!” Zoey shouted. Her voice cracked mid-sentence, her throat stinging. “Stop pushing me away because you’re scared of getting hurt. I’m right here, Mira. I’m not her, I’m not Rumi, and I’m not leaving.”

The air between them went still.

Mira stood, slow and deliberate, the dim ceiling lights catching the wet shimmer in her eyes. “You think it’s just fear?” she asked quietly. “You think this is about me being scared?”

“Then what is it?” Zoey demanded. “Because all I see is you giving up before we can even try.”

Mira looked away, shaking her head, a small bitter laugh slipping past her lips. “It’s about you,” she said softly, her voice trembling but clear. “About you looking at her the way you used to look at me.”

Zoey flinched, as if the words themselves hit her. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” Mira interrupted, tears slipping past her lashes now. “You think I don’t see it? Every time she speaks, you listen. Every time she smiles, your whole face softens.”

“Mira, stop—”

“No, you stop pretending,” Mira snapped, her tone breaking under the weight of her voice. “I’m not trying to be the villain. I’m trying to protect what little of us there’s left before we burn each other completely.”

Zoey’s throat tightened. “So what, you’re just going to walk away? Is that your solution to everything?”

“I walked away once because I couldn’t breathe,” Mira said. “Now I’m trying to let you breathe before you suffocate here with me.”

Zoey took a step closer, shaking her head, whispering now, “You don’t get to decide what I want, Mira. You don’t get to save me from a choice I already made.”

Mira’s gaze flicked up to her, eyes red, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and tenderness.

She took a slow breath, and for a heartbeat, the room went quiet again — the hum of the air conditioning the only sound between them.

“I can fight for a lot of things,” Mira whispered, her voice cracking. “But I can’t fight when it’s your heart who fell for Rumi, Zo.”

The words settled heavy in the air — final, quiet, and unbearably kind.

Zoey’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her chest hurt, like something inside her had just caved in.

She wanted to argue, to scream, to reach out and shake Mira until she stopped saying things that sounded so much like goodbye.

But the look in Mira’s eyes — soft, defeated, understanding 

And Zoey knew.

This was what it felt like to love someone who kept choosing to disappear.

The clock glowed faintly on Rumi’s nightstand — 1:03 a.m. The air in her room was still, the kind that hummed between exhaustion and restless thoughts. She had just settled into bed, half-buried beneath her comforter, phone in hand, ready to scroll through Zoey’s usual midnight spam — a turtle reel, maybe — or Jinu’s memes that made no sense but somehow always earned a chuckle.

Then her phone buzzed, a single vibration that didn’t feel like either of them. Rumi blinked at the notification lighting up the screen.

Mira.

Her brows drew together. It’s been days since Mira had messaged her directly — months, maybe — and even then, their words were careful, coldly polite, never dipping below surface level.

Rumi hesitated for a heartbeat before tapping it.

Mira: Can we talk? Please? I’m outside.

Her stomach tightened. The words sat there, plain but heavy, like a stone on her chest. “Outside,” she whispered to herself, slipping out of bed before her brain could talk her out of it.

The hardwood floor was cold under her bare feet as she grabbed the nearest hoodie hanging by her chair. She didn’t bother checking the mirror, didn’t bother with her hair — she just moved, quiet, purposeful, heart beating faster than she’d like to admit.

The night air met her the moment she stepped out. It was sharp and quiet, only the soft chirping of crickets and the far-off hum of Seoul’s sleeping pulse filling the silence. The long pathway toward the gate stretched ahead — that familiar walk she usually loved for its peace now felt endless.

Halfway down, she saw her.

Mira.

Standing there just beyond the gate, hugging herself, shoulders trembling faintly under the thin light spilling from the front lamp. Her clothes were the same ones she wore earlier — a faded gray shirt under a jacket, jeans scuffed at the knees. Her hair was messy, strands sticking to her face, and her eyes… red, tired, unfocused.

Rumi’s voice came out softer than she intended, cautious but laced with something she couldn’t hide. “Mira?”

At the sound of her name, Mira’s head lifted slightly, lips twitching into a faint, fragile smile — one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Hey.."

Rumi opened the gate slowly, metal creaking as she stepped closer. “Come inside,” she said quietly, nodding toward the house. “It’s late. You’ll catch a cold.”

Mira shook her head, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. “It’s fine,” she murmured, her tone low, rough around the edges. “I won’t stay long.”

Rumi wanted to argue, to insist — but the look on Mira’s face stopped her. It wasn’t defiance. It was exhaustion. A kind of weariness that sat deep, bone-deep, as if she had been holding something for too long and her arms were finally giving out.

So Rumi just nodded once, stepping beside her instead of leading her in. They both sank down on the pavement just outside the gate, the cool concrete pressing against their palms. The night around them was still, but the air between them felt tight — fragile — like a wire stretched too far.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Just breathing, quiet and uneven, like both were afraid that one wrong word might snap everything that was holding them together.

Then Mira exhaled, slow and trembling. “I screwed up again,” she said finally, voice low, almost lost to the night. “As always.”

Rumi turned her head, studying the side of her face — the faint shadow of regret lining her expression, the way her lips pressed together as if she was holding back everything she’d swallowed for years.

She didn’t rush her. Didn’t ask.

Just listened.

And when she did speak, her voice was careful. “Did you and Zoey fight?”

Mira let out a small, breathless laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all. “Something like that,” she whispered, eyes still fixed on the ground.

Rumi nodded slowly, her gaze tracing the curve of Mira’s trembling hand where it gripped her own arm. There was so much unsaid sitting between them — ghosts of their past lives, of rain and words that once tore them apart — and now, here they were again, sitting under the same sky, breathing the same heavy silence.

Rumi didn’t say anything at first. The air between them was still and thin, the kind that carried every breath, every unspoken word. The faint wind brushed past, rustling the leaves overhead and brushing through Mira’s hair.

Mira’s voice came out small, almost cracked through the silence. “I’m so pathetic.”

Rumi’s brow twitched slightly. She turned her head just enough to glance at Mira, her tone calm, collected, the kind of composure that had always set her apart. “Why’s that?”

Mira didn’t answer right away. She hugged her knees tighter to her chest, fingers digging faintly into the denim of her jeans. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, staring at the patch of pavement between her shoes. “Because I’m doing the same thing,” she murmured, the words trembling but honest.

Rumi’s heart stilled for a moment. She didn’t need an explanation — the heaviness of those words already told her enough. Mira was doing it again.

Pushing someone away.

Running before they could hurt her.

And the cruel irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Rumi stayed quiet, biting the inside of her cheek as if the tension might leak through if she spoke too soon. She could feel that old ache unfurling in her chest, a muscle memory of hurt she thought she had outgrown.

Mira’s voice wavered as she continued, “I should’ve just said sorry.” Her gaze flicked up for a second before falling again, voice breaking softer. “I should’ve just begged her to stay, or—to not leave me, or something. Anything.”

Rumi turned her face toward the empty street, jaw tightening. “And you didn’t,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Mira shook her head, a humorless laugh leaving her throat — dry and fragile. “No. Instead I did what I’m good at.” Her lips curved into a bitter smile. “I told her to blame me if we ever broke up. I told her to just… let it be my fault. I told her to leave before it shatters completely.”

The last words hit the air like a confession, raw and trembling. Rumi could feel the weight of it — not just the heartbreak Mira was talking about, but the echo of the past threaded between them. It was too familiar. Too close.

Rumi exhaled through her nose, steady, quiet, but her chest felt heavier with every passing second. “You think protecting someone means pushing them away,” she said finally, her tone neutral, but the tension beneath was palpable. “But that’s not protection, Mira. That’s surrender.”

Mira’s head snapped slightly in her direction, eyes glassy. “You think I don’t know that?” she whispered. “You think I don’t regret every word I said? I watched her eyes fall apart right in front of me, and I couldn’t—” she broke off, swallowing hard, voice catching. “I couldn’t stop myself. Because it’s easier to be the one blamed than to be the one left behind again.”

That silence came back, heavier this time, pressing against both of them.

Rumi looked at her, her expression unreadable — not cold, but measured. She wanted to say something sharp, something that would cut through that guilt, but what came out instead was quieter. “You’re still choosing pain before it chooses you.”

Mira blinked, and for a second, she looked like she might break all over again. “Maybe I deserve it,” she whispered.

Rumi’s jaw flexed, and she turned her gaze forward again, unable to meet her eyes. “No one deserves to keep reliving the same hurt,” she said, softer now. “Not even you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke again. Just the faint sound of wind and their uneven breathing filled the night. The streetlight above them flickered faintly, casting shadows that stretched and disappeared across the pavement.

Two people sitting side by side — broken in ways that mirrored each other too perfectly.

They sat there for a long time, side by side, beneath the quiet hum of the streetlight. Neither said a word. The night had settled into that still kind of silence that only came after confessions—when everything that could be said had already been spilled into the air, and all that was left was breathing.

Mira’s shoulders had finally eased, her head tilted back slightly as she stared up at the faint stars beyond the city haze. Rumi stayed unmoving, arms resting loosely over her knees, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. The calm wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t suffocating either—it was just… there. A shared quiet.

Minutes bled into an hour before Mira finally shifted. The gravel crunched softly as she glanced down at her wristwatch, the digital glow reading 3:09 a.m. A faint exhale slipped from her lips as she pushed herself up. “It’s already three,” she murmured, brushing off the dust from her jeans. Then she turned, a small, apologetic smile flickering across her face. “I should go. I’ve taken up your sleep.”

Rumi hesitated, glancing up at her. Her first instinct was to let her go—it was easier that way, cleaner. But something inside her ached at the thought of Mira walking away into the cold again. So she reached out, took Mira’s offered hand, and let herself be pulled up. The touch was brief, but the warmth lingered.

She brushed her pajama pants absently, avoiding Mira’s eyes as she said quietly, “It’s late. You could use the spare room inside.”

Mira shook her head almost immediately, her voice soft but firm. “Zoey’s probably still up and waiting.”

Rumi froze for a heartbeat, her expression faltering just slightly before she nodded, masking the flicker of something that tightened in her chest. “Right,” 

For a moment, it seemed like that was it—that Mira would turn, walk toward the street, and the night would fold itself back into silence.

But she didn’t.

Instead, Mira stepped forward—slowly, hesitantly—and before Rumi could react, Mira's arms wrapped around her. The hug wasn’t tight, not desperate. It was soft and trembling, like Mira didn’t think she had the right to hold her but couldn’t stop herself either.

Rumi froze, breath caught in her throat. Her mind screamed to stay still, to keep the walls up—but her body betrayed her. Her hand lifted, uncertain, before settling lightly on Mira’s back. She gave one small, gentle pat, then another.

Mira’s voice came next, muffled against her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ru.”

Rumi’s heart stuttered.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Mira whispered again, her breath shaky, words fragile and unsteady. “For anything. For hurting you. For pushing you away. I’m sorry.”

Rumi closed her eyes for a second, the old ache threading through her chest like a ghost. She didn’t say anything—not yet. Her fingers stilled against Mira’s back, and she just let the silence hang between them, thick and fragile and real.

There was no grand forgiveness, no promise of fixing what was broken. Just that quiet moment, beneath the dim streetlight, where one finally said what should’ve been said years ago

--------

Morning came heavy and unkind.

Rumi’s head throbbed the moment she opened her eyes — the kind of dull ache that came from lack of sleep and a night heavy with thoughts that refused to quiet. The clock on her nightstand blinked 7:48 a.m. — three hours. Barely enough to function, but she’d been running on less before.

She dragged herself up, groaning under her breath as she forced her body into motion. The cold shower helped a little, numbing her skin, grounding her mind. By the time she was dressed — loose slacks, a cropped topped hoodie, purple hair tied in its usual long braid— she’d almost convinced herself that last night hadn’t happened.

Almost.

The scent of brewed coffee hit her as she descended the staircase. The soft clink of porcelain followed, rhythmic and familiar. Her aunt, Celine, sat at the dining table, reading something through her laptop with that same sharp composure she carried everywhere — her shoulders straight, her expression unreadable.

“Good morning, Aunt Celine,” Rumi greeted, her voice low but polite.

Celine’s eyes flicked up briefly from the paper. “Morning.” She gestured subtly toward the seat across from her. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Rumi nodded, settling into her chair. The quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of utensils against plates and the distant hum of the birds outside. It was ordinary. Peaceful, almost.

Until it wasn’t.

“I didn’t know you and Mira have gotten close again,” Celine said suddenly, her tone casual — but her words landed like a stone dropping into still water.

Rumi froze. Chopsticks halfway to her mouth, noodles dangling limply between them.

Her head turned slowly, confusion flashing in her eyes — though her gut already knew. “What do you mean?”

Celine lifted her gaze fully now, arching one perfectly shaped brow. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp, observant in the way only Celine could be. “I saw her through the balcony last night.”

Rumi’s breath hitched. Her fingers tightened on the chopsticks as her heart stumbled a beat. “Y–you saw her?”

Celine nodded once, setting her coffee cup down gently, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. “At three in the morning,” she added, deliberate, watching the way Rumi’s composure flickered. “Did you two get back together?”

The question hit her harder than she expected.

Rumi’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “No—” she blurted out, too quickly, the denial sharp and desperate. “Oh, god, no. We didn’t—” she stumbled for words, rubbing at the back of her neck, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “She just… she wanted to talk. That’s all. And she have a girlfriend, Zoey, Jinu's cousin”

Celine didn’t respond right away. She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, eyes narrowing in silent scrutiny. “Talk,” she repeated, almost like she was testing the word. “And that talk involved her hugging you?”

Rumi’s stomach dropped.

Her pulse spiked as she replayed the moment — Mira’s trembling arms, the soft warmth against her shoulder, the apology that clung to her even now. She bit the inside of her cheek, her voice caught somewhere between guilt and defense.

“S-she just…” Rumi swallowed hard, eyes lowering to her plate. “She just said sorry.”

Celine hummed — not convinced, not angry, but thoughtful. The kind of hum that always made Rumi feel like she was being read like an open book.

“She has a girlfriend, doesn’t she?” Celine asked after a pause. Her tone was steady, but her nose wrinkled faintly, a habit she had when something didn’t sit right with her. “Zoey?”

Rumi hesitated again, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Celine sighed softly, her gaze drifting to the untouched cup of tea beside Rumi’s plate. “Then why come here in the middle of the night? Why not talk to her girlfriend instead?”

Rumi didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense, not one she could say aloud. She could still feel the weight of Mira’s trembling voice, the apology that carried years of buried things between them — things Zoey might never understand, things Rumi herself hadn’t wanted to touch again.

“I don’t know,” Rumi said finally, her voice quiet, small. “Maybe she just… needed to say something she couldn’t say to anyone else.”

Celine studied her for a long moment, then exhaled through her nose and went back to her coffee. “Just be careful, Rumi. You’ve always had a soft spot for broken people. Don’t let it break you too.”

Rumi didn’t reply. Her chest ached — not because her aunt was wrong, but because she was right.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but Rumi didn’t fight it. She just sat there, her appetite gone, staring at her untouched food as her mind wandered back to the girl under the streetlight — and the apology that wouldn’t stop echoing in her head.

Chapter Text

(KANG)

The clock blinked 3:56 a.m. in the dark.

Zoey lay on her side, facing the wall, eyes closed but nowhere near asleep. Her body was still, her breathing quiet, but her mind was loud — spinning itself in circles, chasing fragments of the conversation from the studio like shards of glass she couldn’t stop stepping on.

Mira’s voice echoed, soft but trembling.

“If you end up breaking with me… tell her it’s my fault.”

Zoey had replayed it again and again, every pause, every breath, every word that cracked in the middle. She tried to tell herself that Mira didn’t mean it, that she was just scared, that she didn’t actually want to end things — but the memory of Mira’s tears and the way her voice shook had rooted too deep.

And Zoey hated how helpless she felt — hated that she didn’t know how to fix something she didn’t even understand anymore.

The silence of the room stretched thin. Only the hum of the small desk lamp, left dim on the far side of the room, filled it.

Then — the soft creak of the door.

Zoey didn’t move.

Footsteps padded gently across the floor. The sound was hesitant, tired. The scent of Mira’s perfume — faint, dulled by the cold air outside — reached her before the mattress dipped behind her.

Zoey’s pulse stumbled.

She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t breathe too loud. Then she felt it — an arm slipping around her waist, slow, tentative, the weight so familiar it made her chest ache.

Mira’s forehead pressed against her back, her breath uneven, warm against Zoey’s skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Zoey didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

She just lay there, heart drumming hard, feeling every shaky exhale Mira tried to hide.

There were no apologies whispered this time, no explanations. Just the soft sound of Mira curling closer, seeking warmth — or maybe forgiveness — that she couldn’t ask for out loud.

And Zoey, despite everything, didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tell her to stop.

Because even if she didn’t know where they stood anymore — even if every breath between them felt fragile — she still wanted to hold on to this small, quiet moment.

Just for tonight.

The clock blinked 8:13 a.m.

Zoey’s eyes opened to the same wall she’d been facing when she fell asleep. She didn’t move at first. The weight of an arm still looped loosely around her waist reminded her that Mira had come home — that she hadn’t dreamed it.

Mira’s breathing was steady now, soft and even against Zoey’s back.

Zoey let out a slow exhale, careful, before she gently lifted Mira’s arm and slipped out of bed. Her movements were quiet — practiced.

She padded toward the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection for a moment. Her own eyes looked tired, faint shadows under them from the sleepless night. Her lips pressed together, trembling just enough that she had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to steady herself.

By the time she stepped out, she’d already decided what to do — something ordinary, something that didn’t involve emotions she couldn’t yet name.

Breakfast.

She turned on the stove, laid out the bacon, cracked eggs into the pan, and started mixing batter for pancakes. Her movements were mechanical — whisk, pour, flip. The rhythm steadied her. Bacon sizzled. Eggs popped. It was easier to focus on that than on the storm that had lingered between them.

She was halfway through pouring the last pancake when she felt it — the faint shift in air, the quiet shuffle of bare feet against the floor.

Zoey froze for half a second, then slowly glanced sideways.

Mira stood a few steps away, still in the same clothes from last night — the wrinkled shirt, the jeans with creases from being sat in too long. Her hair was messy, framing her face in soft, tired pink strands. Her eyes, half-lidded, looked down at the tiles, as though afraid to look up.

Zoey swallowed hard.

“…Morning,” she murmured, the word leaving her throat dry and uneven.

Mira didn’t answer. She just stood there, quiet.

Zoey flipped the pancake, forcing herself to look anywhere but Mira. The smell of the batter filled the silence. She focused on the edges browning perfectly, on the soft hiss of the pan. Anything but the weight of Mira’s presence behind her.

Then — a sound.

A heavy, sickening thud.

Zoey’s head snapped to the side.

Her heart stuttered.

Mira was on her knees.

The spatula in Zoey’s hand slipped, clattering to the counter. She turned, eyes wide. Mira’s hands rested limp on her lap, her head tilted up slightly, eyes red-rimmed and glassy — like she’d been holding everything in until that exact moment broke her.

“Mira—” Zoey started, but her voice caught when she saw the look in her eyes.

Mira’s lips parted, trembling as if every word cost her breath.

“I’m sorry.”

It came out cracked, barely above a whisper, but it tore through the room like glass splitting.

Zoey stood frozen, her chest tightening.

Mira’s shoulders began to shake, barely — controlled, restrained — the way she always tried to hold herself together even when she was breaking. Her voice came again, softer, desperate.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her throat straining. “For everything. For last night. For before. For—”

She couldn’t finish. Her breath hitched mid-sentence, her voice dissolving into silence.

Zoey moved before she even thought — lowering the hear of the stove, stepping forward, her heart pounding too loud in her ears.

“Mira,” she said again, quieter now.

Mira shook her head, hair falling forward to hide her face. “I keep saying sorry like it fixes anything. Like it makes it easier for you to stay. But it doesn’t.”

Her voice broke again. “And I hate that I’m still the same. Still the person who ruins things. Who doesn’t know how to hold on without hurting.”

Zoey’s chest ached so hard it felt like breathing hurt.

The smell of burnt pancake started to creep through the kitchen, but neither of them noticed.

Zoey crouched down, slow and careful, until she was eye-level with Mira. For a moment, neither spoke. Just quiet, heavy breaths in the small kitchen.

Mira finally looked up — her eyes red, glassy, shimmering like she’d run out of ways to hide.

“I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for anymore,” she whispered. “For loving wrong? For breaking again? For not being what you deserve?”

Zoey didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat felt tight.

All she could do was reach out, hesitant, her fingers brushing against Mira’s hand. The contact made Mira flinch, not from rejection — from how fragile it felt to be touched right now.

“I don’t need perfect, Mira,” Zoey said, barely audible. “I just need you to stop disappearing when it hurts.”

Mira’s lips parted — a tremor running through her chest.

And there they stayed — in a quiet kitchen filled with the faint scent of overcooked pancakes and apologies that couldn’t undo the ache.

Zoey didn’t move. She was still crouched in front of Mira, her knees aching slightly from the tiles, but she didn’t care. All she could see was Mira — disheveled, trembling, her eyes glassy and unfocused as if she couldn’t decide whether to look at Zoey or at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Mira whispered again. Her voice cracked mid-breath, soft and hoarse. “I’m sorry for last night. For saying things that hurt you.”

Zoey’s lips parted, but no words came.

Mira continued, the words spilling like she couldn’t stop them now that she started. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone when I shouldn’t have. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve talked. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you’re the only one trying.”

“Mira—” Zoey began softly, but Mira shook her head, eyes dropping to the floor.

“No, please,” Mira breathed, the corner of her lip trembling. “Let me say it. Just this once. I keep—” she paused, inhaling sharply, “I keep ruining things before they even get a chance to fix themselves.”

Zoey’s heart clenched.

Mira’s hands fidgeted in her lap, her nails pressing into her palms. “I thought pushing people away was safer. I thought if I left first, it wouldn’t hurt as much. But it always does.”

Her voice trembled again, quieter this time, “I shut you out when I'm exhausted. I kept pretending that I was fine, that I was just tired or distracted, when in truth, I was scared. Scared that you’d look at me one day and see what I really am — someone broken, who doesn’t know how to be loved right.”

Zoey swallowed hard. “Mira, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Mira interrupted again, her tone rising just enough to make it sound desperate. “I’m sorry for disappearing, for shutting you out, for letting you feel like you’re chasing something that keeps slipping away.”

Her words wavered, like she was unraveling by the syllable.

“I’m sorry for making you feel like I didn’t want you, because I do, Zo. I do, I always do, but I don’t know how to keep you without hurting you.”

“Mira…” Zoey murmured, voice barely a whisper now.

Mira finally looked up, eyes wet but focused on her this time. “Every time you look at me, I feel like I’m being seen — and it terrifies me. Because I don’t deserve that kind of love. Not after everything.”

Zoey’s throat tightened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Mira let out a sharp exhale — half laugh, half sob. “I keep trying to protect you from me. But I end up doing the opposite. I end up making you hate me.”

Zoey shook her head quickly, voice breaking, “I don’t hate you.”

Mira’s lips trembled into something close to a smile — but it was bitter, fragile. “You should.”

“Don’t say that,” Zoey said, leaning closer. “Don’t do that, Mira. Don’t turn yourself into the villain again just so you can carry all the blame. That’s not what this is.”

Mira blinked, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Then what is this, Zo?”

Zoey’s jaw tensed. “It’s us trying. It’s me still here. Still choosing you.”

Mira’s expression faltered — guilt, disbelief, ache all at once. “Even when I keep breaking?”

“Yes,” Zoey said without hesitation, her voice trembling but firm. “Even then.”

Mira’s shoulders caved slightly, as though the weight of Zoey’s words pressed too heavy against her chest. Her hands covered her face, her breath coming out uneven.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, softer now, like it was more to herself than to Zoey. 

Zoey reached out — slow, deliberate — and took her wrists gently, pulling her hands away from her face. “You don’t need to keep saying sorry,” she said quietly. “Just stop disappearing on me.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the faint ticking of the clock, the cooling pan on the stove, the smell of burnt edges of pancake and bacon grease fading into the morning.

Then Mira exhaled shakily, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to stop running, Zoey.”

Zoey’s hand tightened around hers. “Then don’t run. Just— stay.”

Mira’s eyes shimmered, glassy again, but she nodded faintly — not a promise, but maybe the closest she could give.

And for the first time since last night, Zoey felt the smallest hint of air return to her lungs.

Zoey was still kneeling in front of her when Mira finally spoke again.

“I—I came to Rumi last night.”

The words hit like a cold wave. Zoey’s breath hitched, her spine instinctively straightening, her fingers frozen around Mira’s wrist.

Mira’s lips quivered, her eyes flicking to Zoey’s face only for a second before darting away. “I didn’t know why. I didn’t know how. I just— I went.”

Zoey blinked slowly, the back of her throat tightening. “You… went to her?” she asked softly, trying not to sound like she already knew the answer.

Mira nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. Around one. I thought— I thought maybe I’d just walk, clear my head or something. But I ended up outside her place.”

Zoey’s heart sank. “And she—she saw you?”

“She came out,” Mira whispered. “She always does.” Her fingers curled into her jeans, knuckles whitening. “I texted her before I could even think it through. I told her I was outside. She didn’t ask why. She just came out like— like she used to.”

Zoey’s chest ached, but she stayed quiet. She wanted to listen. 

Mira let out a sharp exhale that cracked midway. “And I stood there like an idiot, hugging myself, saying I wouldn’t stay long. She asked me to come in—God, she still talks so calm. Like nothing ever broke between us.”

Zoey’s jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

“I told her I’m pathetic,” Mira continued, voice thin. “That I’m doing the same thing again. That I keep hurting people who care about me because I don’t know how to stop breaking things before they break me.”

“Mira—”

“I said I told you to blame me if we ever broke up,” Mira cut in, eyes glassy, voice trembling but fierce. “I told her I said those same words to her years ago. I did it again, Zo. I repeated the same mistake. I didn’t even realize how much it mirrored what I did to her—until last night.”

Her voice wavered, breaking on the edge of a sob. “She didn’t yell. She didn’t even say much. She just listened. And that’s what made it worse, because I don’t deserve her silence, I don’t deserve her kindness—”

“Mira,” Zoey whispered, the sound fragile, almost pleading.

“I shouldn’t have gone to her,” Mira said, shaking her head hard, tears finally spilling over. “You should hate me for that. You should be mad.”

Zoey swallowed thickly. “I’m not mad,” she said quietly. “I’m just… trying to understand.”

Mira laughed weakly through her tears — hollow, breathless. “Understand what? That I keep running to the same person I destroyed?”

Zoey’s lips pressed together, her chest tightening. “Maybe because she’s part of what you’re still trying to fix.”

Mira stared at her, stunned silent.

Zoey continued softly, “You’re not running to her, Mira. You’re running to the part of you that broke when you lost her.”

The air stilled. Mira’s breathing hitched — slow, shallow.

“I’m not blind,” Zoey said, her voice trembling now. “I saw the way you look when her name comes up. I knew before you even said it.”

Mira’s lip trembled, her throat working around a dry swallow. “Then why are you still here?”

Zoey hesitated — just long enough for the truth to hurt. “Because I love you.”

Mira shook her head, biting her lower lip until it reddened. “You shouldn’t. Not like this. Not when I keep making you hurt.”

Zoey leaned in, whispering, “Then stop trying to decide what I should feel.”

Mira’s eyes darted up to her, wide, trembling.

“You came to her because you needed to breathe,” Zoey said, her words slow, deliberate. “And I get that. But don’t lie to me about it next time. Don’t make me feel like I have to piece you back together in the dark.”

Mira’s hand twitched, reaching out — hesitant, unsure — until her fingers brushed Zoey’s. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I didn’t go there to hurt you, I swear. I just… needed someone to remind me who I used to be before I ruined everything.”

Zoey blinked back tears she didn’t want to shed. “And did she?”

Mira let out a shaky breath. “She reminded me that I still have a heart — even if it doesn’t know where to rest anymore.”

The silence that followed was sharp, intimate. Just the faint hum of the fridge, the muted rhythm of two people who loved each other in all the wrong ways.

Zoey looked at her — at the rawness, the exhaustion, the trembling truth — and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know whether to reach out or pull away.

Zoey exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the faint hum of the kitchen fan. The air still smelled like burnt pancakes and bacon grease — too domestic for a conversation that felt like the edge of a cliff.

She was still crouched near Mira, but there was a hollow ache building behind her ribs, something that wanted to be spoken before it rotted her from the inside. Her fingers twitched against the floor, her throat tight.

“I liked her,” Zoey said finally, her voice breaking the stillness. Mira’s head lifted slightly, eyes widening just enough.

Zoey continued, her tone trembling but steadying with each word. “I liked her because of her calmness. She doesn’t ask, she just listens. You know? She’s like… like a starlight in the night. She doesn’t demand attention, she just—exists. Calm, composed, shining.”

She laughed softly, bitterly, shaking her head as if scolding herself for saying it out loud. “That’s the reason I fell for Rumi.”

The words hit the air like glass falling. Mira’s lips parted, her lashes fluttering as she absorbed it. Zoey kept her gaze fixed on the counter — anywhere but Mira’s face — afraid of what she might see there.

“I tried not to,” Zoey went on, voice low and raw. “I told myself it was just admiration. That I only liked how she carried herself, how she always seemed to be at peace while the rest of us were chaos. But I think… I think part of me just wanted to feel safe like that. And she—” she swallowed hard, blinking fast, “she made me feel like I could breathe even when I was breaking.”

Mira’s lips curved into something fragile — not quite a smile, not quite pain. Her eyes were soft, wet. “That’s what made me fall for her too,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “way back five years ago.”

Zoey’s eyes flicked to her then, finally meeting her gaze.

Mira laughed weakly, a sound halfway between a sob and a sigh. “She has that thing, right? That quiet pull. Like she doesn’t even need to say anything to reach you. You just… start orbiting her without realizing it.”

Zoey’s shoulders slumped, a humorless chuckle escaping her. “Yeah. She’s gravity disguised as stillness.”

Mira nodded faintly. “Exactly that.”

“I used to hate her for it,” Mira confessed softly, gaze falling to her hands. “For being able to make me feel small without even trying. For making me feel seen and unseen all at once.”

Zoey’s brow furrowed gently. “You didn’t hate her, though.”

“No,” Mira admitted, shaking her head, tears threatening again. “I loved her. Too much. The kind of love that makes you afraid of what happens when it ends. So I ended it first.”

Zoey’s heart ached at that — the quiet honesty, the weight of it. “And you think you’re doing that to me now?” she asked, not accusing, just curious, broken.

Mira looked up. The corners of her lips trembled. “Aren’t I?”

Zoey held her gaze, something fierce and vulnerable flickering in her eyes. “You’re not ending it, Mira. You’re just… running scared.”

Mira let out a bitter exhale, covering her face with one hand. “You sound like her.”

“I’m not her.”

“I know,” Mira said quietly. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because you’re not her, and yet you love me like she used to — gently, without forcing me to be whole — and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Zoey’s throat burned. “Then don’t do anything,” she whispered. “Just stay.”

Mira’s eyes softened, a tremor running through her chest. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.

“I do,” Zoey said firmly. “I’m asking for you to stop leaving every time it hurts. To stop looking for pieces of yourself in people you already lost.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, Mira whispered, “You talk like you’ve already forgiven me.”

Zoey blinked slowly, a tear escaping down her cheek  “Maybe I have. Or maybe I’m just too tired not to.”

Mira stared at her — really stared — and something broke open in her face, something that looked like guilt and love intertwined. “You deserve better than someone who still dreams of someone else’s voice.”

Zoey’s lips curved faintly, almost smiling through the ache. “Maybe. But right now, I still want yours.”

And that was enough to shatter the last bit of distance between them — not through touch, not through words, but through the sheer, unbearable quiet of understanding.

Zoey inhaled softly through her nose, eyes still stinging, her throat raw from everything they’d just laid bare. The tension in the air had thinned a little — not gone, but loosened, like a rope slowly untying itself. Her legs had gone stiff from kneeling on the cold tile for too long, the ache crawling up her calves and into her knees.

She exhaled and pushed herself up, her palms pressing against her thighs for balance before she reached a hand toward Mira. “My knees are hurting,” Zoey muttered, half teasing, half tired. “I bet yours too. Gaja, I’m hungry.”

Her voice carried a kind of warmth — the fragile kind that came after a storm, when you were too exhausted to fight anymore.

Mira blinked up at her, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Her lips quirked faintly before she let out a small scoff. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, but there was something soft under it. Something grateful.

Zoey wiggled her fingers, insisting. “Come on, before my legs actually give up.”

Mira hesitated only a heartbeat longer before she reached up and took Zoey’s hand. Her grip was cool but steady, and when Zoey pulled, Mira rose with her, slow and deliberate — until they stood inches apart, breath mingling, eyes lingering a moment too long.

Zoey’s heart skipped. It wasn’t romantic — not exactly. It was human, fragile, real. Two people standing in the afterglow of hurt, still learning how to exist in the same space without breaking each other again.

Mira’s gaze flicked down briefly, then back up to Zoey’s face. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but Zoey beat her to it.

“You made me burn it,” Zoey said, tilting her chin toward the stove.

Mira blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Zoey pointed at the pan where the last pancake sat, edges darkened, smoke still faintly curling up. “The pancake,” she said, puffing both her cheeks like a child pretending to pout. “You made me burn it.”

Mira stared at her — and then, finally, a small laugh escaped. It was quiet, genuine, like the sound of air returning after being held too long. “I didn’t make you burn it. You were too busy giving monologues about starlight.”

Zoey shot her a mock glare, hands on her hips. “Excuse me, that was a heartfelt confession, thank you very much.”

“Uh-huh,” Mira said, rolling her eyes with a smirk tugging at her lips.

Zoey turned back to the pan dramatically, poking the charred edge with a spatula. “Well, since you distracted me with your tragic aura, you’re eating this one.”

Mira frowned, lips curling. “What? No, you eat it. You’re the one who burned it.”

Zoey spun around, eyes narrowing playfully. “No buts,” she said firmly, pointing the spatula at Mira like a weapon. “You’re eating this piece.”

Mira chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yep,” Zoey said, popping the “p.” “And hungry. So if you want breakfast privileges, you take the burnt pancake.”

Mira raised a brow. “Is this how you win arguments?”

“Usually,” Zoey said.

That earned another soft laugh from Mira — this time lighter, freer. The kind that didn’t sound like she was suffocating anymore.

Zoey turned off the stove, plated the good pancakes, then slid the burnt one toward Mira. “There. Your punishment.”

Mira sighed dramatically, took the plate, and muttered, “This is abuse.”

Zoey grinned faintly. “It’s love.”

That shut Mira up — not because of what Zoey said, but because of how she said it. Soft, unthinking, without the weight of confession. Just instinct. Just her heart speaking before her brain could catch up.

Mira looked at her for a long moment, the faintest smile tugging at her lips, but her eyes… her eyes told another story. Something between ache and quiet gratitude.

Zoey noticed but didn’t comment. She just grabbed her own plate and sat down on the counter stool. “Eat before I change my mind,” she mumbled.

Mira sat beside her, fork in hand. The burnt pancake wasn’t as bad as it looked — but neither of them cared about the taste. The silence that settled wasn’t awkward anymore. It was almost… easy.

Mira glanced sideways at Zoey, voice low. “You really forgive too easily, you know that?”

Zoey took a sip of juice before replying. “Maybe,” she said, shrugging lightly

--------

It was around nine in the morning when both Mira and Zoey’s phones buzzed in unison, vibrating somewhere on the unmade bed behind them.

Zoey, already sitting on the floor, bent over to tie her white sneakers, glanced up with a lazy grin. “Who’s popular this early?” she muttered, tugging the laces tight.

Mira, on the other hand, was still rummaging through their shared closet — half-dressed in an oversized shirt, hair falling over her shoulders as hangers clinked softly against each other.

“Probably Jinu,” Mira murmured, pulling out a denim jacket and then tossing it aside. “He’s the only person who texts this early without caffeine in his system.”

Zoey stood up, stretching with a groan before flopping down dramatically onto the bed, reaching for one of the phones — didn’t even check whose it was. She tapped the screen, and immediately snorted when she saw the notification.

“Oh my god—” she wheezed, biting her lip to contain her laugh. “Mira. You have to see this.”

Mira turned around, one brow arched. “What now?”

Zoey rolled onto her back, grinning like a child. “Jinu created a group chat named Ice Ice 4 Sale.” She burst out laughing, clutching the phone to her chest.

Mira blinked. “What?”

Zoey was already dying of laughter. “I swear—look!” She sat up, turning the phone toward Mira as her laughter filled their small apartment.

Mira leaned in to see, her lips twitching as she read the name on the screen. “Ice Ice 4 Sale? …No wonder you’re cousins,” she muttered, shaking her head before pulling a pair of ripped baggy jeans from the closet.

Zoey, still giggling, said between breaths, “He’s actually unhinged.”

Mira smirked faintly as she stepped into her jeans. “And you find that endearing.”

“Obviously.”

Another buzz came through the phone — this time the first message.

Jinu😈: “Waddup losers 🧊🔥 I made this group for IMPORTANT business purposes.”

Zoey snorted again and typed back immediately, fingers flying across the screen.

Zoey🐢: “Business purposes my ass, it’s 9 a.m. Go back to bed, DJ Disaster.”

"Tell him to rename it to Ice Ice for Clowns.” Mira said from across the room, still half-dressed

Zoey laughed and added it.

Zoey🐢: “Mira said rename it to Ice Ice for Clowns 💀”

Not even a second later, Jinu’s typing bubble appeared.

Jinu😈: “Respectfully, no. Branding is everything. You’ll thank me later when we go viral.”

Zoey🐢: “You’re delusional.”

Jinu😈: “Delusion is half of ambition.”

Zoey wheezed out loud at that one, slapping a hand on the bed. Mira finally turned around, slipping on her gray turtleneck and shaking her head. “He’s unbelievable.”

Zoey typed quickly again.

Zoey🐢: “Delusion is half of ambition??? Bro thinks he’s Socrates with a Spotify account.”

A new notification popped.

Rumi🫅🏻: “What the hell did I just wake up to.”

Jinu😈: “The birth of greatness.”

Rumi🫅🏻: “The birth of a migraine, maybe.”

Zoey🐢: “Finally someone said it 💅”

Mira finally joined in from her own phone this time, sitting beside Zoey to type.

Mira🦊: “You seriously made a group chat at 9 a.m. for what? An intervention?”

Jinu😈: “For our comeback era 😤🔥”

Zoey🐢: “We’re not doing this again.”

Rumi🫅🏻: “We’re not.”

Mira🦊: “We’re definitely not.”

Jinu😈: “It’s giving betrayal 😔”

Zoey laughed, head falling onto Mira’s shoulder, her voice muffled. “He’s too much.”

Mira smiled faintly, glancing down at her — that quiet, gentle smile she hadn’t worn in a while. “You love it,” she said softly.

Zoey shrugged. “Maybe. He keeps life interesting.”

Jinu sent another message — this time, a poorly edited meme of himself wearing sunglasses with the caption ‘ICE ICE 4 SALE: TOUR COMING NEVER’ plastered in Comic Sans.

Zoey🐢: “You need to be stopped.”

Rumi🫅🏻: “I second that.”

Mira🦊: “I third that.”

Jinu😈: “Haters fuel my art 😌”

Zoey typed again, grinning as she spoke aloud for Mira to hear

Zoey🐢: “Fuel your art with a nap.”

That one made Mira laugh quietly, her shoulders shaking as she slipped into her coat.

They sat there a little longer than they should have, chatting nonsense back and forth. The air was light again — no heaviness, no unspoken words for the first time in a long while.

Finally, Mira stood, sliding her phone into her pocket. “We’re gonna be late,” she said, though her tone was soft, not scolding.

Zoey groaned. “Ugh, fine. Let me get my bag.”

Mira hummed, grabbing her water bottle and tossing it toward Zoey, who barely caught it. “You’re hopeless,” Mira teased.

Zoey grinned as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “And yet you still live with me.”

Mira shot her a sideways look. “Don’t remind me.”

Their laughter mingled, echoing softly through the apartment as they headed out — phones still buzzing behind them with Jinu’s last message:

Jinu😈: “Okay but hear me out — Ice Ice 4 Sale merch.”

Rumi🫅🏻: “No.”

Zoey🐢: “BLOCKED.”

Mira🦊: “Seek help.”

Mira pulled the car smoothly into the university parking lot, the hum of the engine fading as she turned off the ignition. The air outside shimmered with late-morning light—warm, soft, almost deceptively peaceful.

Inside, though, it was quiet. Zoey sat in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, her thumbs flying over her phone screen while her face twitched between irritation and amusement.

Mira leaned her head against the seat for a moment, eyes closing briefly as she gathered herself. She could hear the faint tapping from Zoey’s phone, followed by a muffled laugh.

“What now?” Mira asked, voice low but carrying a small smirk.

Zoey didn’t even look up. “Jinu just said he’s gonna design Ice Ice 4 Sale hoodies,” she said, her voice threaded with exasperation and disbelief. “He literally said—and I quote—‘we’ll sell them under the table if the school doesn’t approve our artistic genius.’”

That earned a small chuckle from Mira, the kind that barely escaped her lips but softened her expression. “And you’re still arguing with him.”

“Because someone has to keep him grounded,” Zoey shot back, finally looking up from her phone. “He’s the type who’ll actually print 50 shirts overnight.”

Mira rolled her eyes lightly, unbuckling her seatbelt. “You say that like you wouldn’t help him.”

Zoey’s grin faltered just slightly. “...Maybe I would,” she admitted, her tone dropping. “But only because I’d want to witness the disaster firsthand.”

“Uh-huh,” Mira hummed, opening the door. “Come on, disaster girl. We’ll be late.”

Zoey followed, still typing something under her breath as she got out of the car. “You’re just mad because Jinu’s ideas have more spice than your black coffee self.”

Mira shot her a sideways look as she locked the car. “At least my coffee’s consistent. Not like some people who fall for chaos and then complain about it later.”

Zoey opened her mouth to retort but closed it with a tiny grin. “Touché.”

They fell into step side by side as they headed toward the main building. The courtyard was already buzzing—students sitting under trees, rushing between halls, laughter echoing faintly over the chatter.

Normally, Mira and Zoey would’ve walked with their fingers laced together, Zoey’s hand swinging lightly as she hummed some random tune. But today… their hands stayed by their sides.

It wasn’t awkward—just different.

Quiet. Careful.

Zoey noticed first. Her phone screen dimmed in her palm as the group chat fell silent for once. She tucked it into her back pocket and looked down at their hands, brushing close but never touching.

She exhaled softly. “This sucks.”

Mira glanced at her. “What?”

Zoey tilted her head, her lips forming a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “This. Us walking like strangers. I’m not used to this.”

Mira stopped walking for a beat. Zoey slowed too, turning to face her. There was a flicker of something unreadable in Mira’s eyes—tired, soft, but cautious.

Zoey hesitated, then held out her hand between them, palm up. “Come on,” she murmured, voice quieter now.

Mira blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “Zoey—”

“I know,” Zoey interrupted gently. “We’re… still figuring things out. But,” she exhaled, her hand trembling just a little, “I don’t want to start the day pretending you’re not still mine.”

Mira’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She just stood there, eyes flickering between Zoey’s face and her offered hand. Then she asked quietly, “Are you sure?”

Zoey’s breath hitched at the question — it wasn’t accusatory, just fragile. The kind of fragility that came after too much breaking.

“Yeah,” she said finally, her voice steadying. “I’m sure.”

So Mira did the smallest thing — she didn’t take Zoey’s hand right away. She looked down at it, at the faint callouses on her fingers from guitar strings, at the warmth that was always there, even when her words weren’t. And slowly, carefully, she reached out — not in a rush, not desperate — and let Zoey’s fingers slip through hers.

Zoey smiled, small and real. She intertwined their hands herself, locking their fingers together before giving Mira’s hand a light squeeze. “See? Feels better already.”

Mira exhaled a small laugh — faint but genuine — and nodded. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Zoey said, her grin softening into something fond. “And you still love me anyway.”

They walked again, this time slower. The world around them carried on — students rushing, voices echoing — but their little pocket of quiet felt safer now. Mira didn’t say anything more, but her thumb brushed against Zoey’s once.

It was subtle. Unspoken. But it was something.

As they reached the main building, Zoey glanced sideways and whispered, “We’re gonna be okay, right?”

Mira looked ahead, her lips parting for a second before curving faintly upward. “We’re trying, aren’t we?”

Zoey’s chest tightened, but she smiled anyway. “Yeah… we are.”

And together, they walked through the glass doors — fingers still linked, holding on just a little tighter than before.

Just a few feet away from their classroom door, the morning air around them shifted.

Students brushed past, laughter echoing faintly through the hallway, but Zoey’s attention snagged—like gravity bending in one direction.

There she was.

Rumi.

Her purple hair was pulled back into a single, clean braid that hung down the middle of her back, swaying slightly as she walked. Her posture was as composed as ever—shoulders back, steps even, chin raised just enough to exude quiet confidence. She carried her books neatly against her chest, and even in the rush of the hallway, that calm, polite smile of hers didn’t falter. It was the kind of grace that never tried too hard but somehow outshined everyone anyway.

Zoey stopped walking for a split second without realizing it. Something in her chest tightened, something she thought she had tucked neatly away.

Mira noticed. Of course she did.

Her gaze flicked from Rumi to Zoey—just for a heartbeat—and a faint, almost unreadable expression crossed her face. She leaned slightly closer, her voice dipping low enough for only Zoey to hear.

“There goes your starlight,” Mira whispered, tone light but threaded with something quieter underneath. “Go say good morning.”

Zoey blinked, furrowing her brows. “What?”

Mira didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let go of Zoey’s hand—slowly, deliberately—and tucked her hands into her coat pockets.

The loss of warmth was instant.

“Mira—”

“It’s fine,” Mira said softly, cutting her off, her voice smooth but not cold. “You should. She saw you.”

Zoey turned her head slightly, and sure enough, Rumi had glanced their way—just a brief flicker of recognition before her polite smile deepened. She gave a small nod in greeting, the kind she’d give any classmate. But somehow, to Zoey, it hit differently.

Zoey hesitated, looking back at Mira. “Why’d you—why’d you say that?”

Mira tilted her head, her lips curving faintly—not quite a smile, not quite not. “Just because"

That hit Zoey harder than she expected. “That’s not fair,” she muttered, her brows knitting.

“I didn’t say it was,” Mira replied, her tone calm. “It’s just true.”

Zoey’s shoulders stiffened. “You think I—”

“I don’t think anything,” Mira interrupted again, exhaling as she glanced away. “I’m just saying… you don’t have to pretend you don’t see her. You don’t have to pretend I don’t notice either.”

Zoey’s chest twisted. Her voice came out quieter. “You make it sound like I—like I’m still—”

“Zo,” Mira said softly, and her use of that nickname felt heavy. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I meant what I said last night. I’m not going to keep punishing you for things that already hurt both of us.”

Zoey swallowed hard. “Still doesn’t mean you get to—” she gestured vaguely toward Mira’s pocket, “—just drop my hand like that.”

Mira’s lips twitched, but her eyes softened. “You think I wanted to?" 

Zoey hesitated, and the look on her face said she hadn’t expected that answer.

“I’m just giving you space to breathe,” Mira continued, her tone quieter now. “You always freeze up when she’s near. I didn’t want to make it harder.”

Zoey opened her mouth but couldn’t find the right words. Her chest ached in a way that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said finally, half under her breath.

“Probably,” Mira said, her mouth curving just slightly. “But so are you.”

Zoey looked at her for a long moment—her soft expression, her calm tone, the way she said things without trying to make them sting. Then she sighed and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

“Love you too,” Mira replied, smirking, before taking a step toward the classroom door.

But Zoey didn’t move right away. Her gaze trailed back to Rumi, who was now sitting in her middle seat with her usual composed focus. The braid swayed slightly as she shifted her weight, one hand tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

Zoey didn’t know what to feel. She wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia or guilt, admiration or longing—or maybe all of it tangled together. She hated how it still made her chest flutter, even just for a moment.

Behind her, Mira paused at the door and turned her head slightly. “You coming?”

Zoey blinked out of her daze, forcing a smile. “Yeah,” she said quickly, jogging the few steps to catch up.

As she passed Mira, she whispered without looking at her, “You’re really bad at pretending.”

Mira didn’t reply, but when Zoey glanced sideways, she caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at Mira’s lips.

And as they stepped into the classroom—Zoey’s pulse still a little too quick, Mira’s hands still shoved deep in her pockets—Rumi turned her head, offering that same calm, polite smile again.

But for a split second, her eyes softened. Just a little.

And that was enough to make everything inside Zoey feel far too loud again.

Zoey set her bag down beside Mira’s desk with a soft thud before letting out a small sigh, the kind that was half exhaustion and half nerves she wouldn’t admit to. She brushed her hair over her shoulder, straightened her shirt, and—before Mira could even glance at her—she walked right toward the middle row.

Toward her.

Rumi sat in her usual seat, posture composed, eyes scanning her notebook as if the rest of the class didn’t exist yet. The morning light from the wide windows behind her cast a faint glow along her braid, making the lilac strands gleam faintly.

Zoey’s grin came automatically, bright and familiar. “Good morning, Ru!!” she greeted, her voice that same sunlit tone she always used when she was trying to smooth out the air between them.

Rumi blinked, looked up—and for a second, her expression softened, surprised but not startled. “Good morning, Zoey,” she replied, her tone even, polite as always.

Zoey plopped down on the empty chair beside her, legs crossing, elbows on the desk. “How’s your sleep? You look like you actually slept after midnight this time,” she teased, resting her chin on her hand.

Rumi’s lips curved faintly, a small, genuine smile. “Three hours is better than none,” she said, in that calm tone that always made everything sound lighter than it was.

Zoey chuckled. “Three hours? Girl, that’s not sleep, that’s a nap with commitment issues.”

Rumi shook her head, a quiet laugh escaping her before she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then I guess I’m consistent with my issues.”

Zoey laughed, loud enough to draw a few glances from the other students trickling in. She didn’t care. “You saw Jinu’s delusion in the GC, right? I swear, he’s so unhinged! He was talking about selling his ‘limited edition emotional damage’ for 500 won and free fries.”

That made Rumi exhale softly, her polite composure cracking into amusement. “I did. He added a voice note too, didn’t he?”

Zoey groaned dramatically. “Oh my god, yes! He was singing that Frozen song again—‘Let it gooo~’ with his fake British accent.”

Rumi giggled. It wasn’t loud, but it was real—and Zoey’s grin widened at the sound. She leaned closer, chin still resting on her palm. “You laughed, Ru. That’s progress.”

“I’m allowed to laugh, aren’t I?” Rumi said, arching a brow slightly.

“Yeah, but not at Jinu’s expense. That’s like feeding a stray cat—it’ll come back with more chaos.”

Rumi hummed, her tone thoughtful. “Then maybe we should let him. Life needs chaos sometimes.”

Zoey blinked. “That was poetic,” she said, smiling. “Since when did you start sounding like that?”

“Since I met people who live in chaos,” Rumi replied, glancing at her pointedly.

Zoey gasped dramatically. “Are you calling me chaos?”

“If the description fits.”

Zoey pressed her hand to her chest. “Wow, Ru, that’s cold. I thought we had something special.”

Rumi laughed again, shaking her head. “You never changed, have you?”

“Why would I? Being me works,” Zoey said, grinning. “I get laughs, I get free food, I get—” she stopped when Rumi raised an eyebrow again, that quiet, knowing look that made Zoey’s stomach flutter unexpectedly. “…yeah, I get scolded too.”

“Mostly that,” Rumi murmured.

Zoey snorted. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Across the room, Mira sat in silence, her bag placed neatly beside her seat. She watched them for a moment—Zoey’s laughter, Rumi’s small smiles, the way Zoey leaned a little too close when she talked, like she always forgot about boundaries when she cared.

Mira exhaled quietly. She set her coat on her chair and folded it with precision, hands smoothing the sleeves before placing it neatly over the backrest. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t sigh, didn’t frown. She simply sat, scrolling through her phone—thumbs moving idly over the screen but her gaze drifting toward the window instead of the feed.

The seconds passed in the kind of quiet that wasn’t really quiet at all. Every laugh Zoey made reached her ears. Every soft murmur of Rumi’s voice felt louder than it should’ve been.

After ten minutes of pretending to scroll, Mira’s leg started to bounce slightly under the desk. Her stomach tightened with that familiar heaviness—the kind she used to ignore because pretending she didn’t care was easier than admitting that she did.

She stood up. The chair legs scraped faintly against the tiled floor, breaking the steady hum of chatter.

Zoey didn’t look up immediately, too caught up in showing Rumi some new meme Jinu made—something about "emotional support iced coffee."

Mira stared at her for a heartbeat longer, the corner of her mouth twitching with something unspoken, before she grabbed her phone and slid it into her pocket.

Her gaze lingered once more—Zoey’s grin, Rumi’s quiet smile, the ease that seemed to bloom when they spoke.

And without a word, she turned and walked out of the classroom.

Zoey only noticed the faint sound of the door closing behind her. She blinked, glancing toward Mira’s empty seat, and frowned slightly.

“Where’s she going?” she mumbled more to herself than anyone.

Rumi followed her gaze briefly. “Maybe the restroom?” she offered, tone even.

Zoey hummed, but the small crease between her brows didn’t fade. She turned back to Rumi with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah… maybe.”

But something in her chest felt off—as if she’d just missed a cue in a song she thought she knew by heart.

Ten minutes passed—maybe more—before the door creaked open again.

The chatter in the classroom dulled slightly, enough for a few heads to turn, including Zoey’s. Mira walked in quietly, her footsteps measured but unsteady, as if she’d spent the last few minutes trying to control her breathing. Her hair was a little messy now, not in a disheveled way but in that ran-my-hands-through-it-too-many-times kind of way. The collar of her turtleneck was slightly tugged, and her ears—normally pale—were flushed red.

Her eyes were half-lidded, not in exhaustion but in something else—something heavier, almost unreadable. There was tension in her shoulders, a stiffness that betrayed her calm expression. And when she finally reached her seat, she didn’t even glance toward Zoey or Rumi. She simply pulled the chair back, sat down quietly, and folded her arms on top of her desk before lowering her head into them.

Zoey’s smile faltered instantly.

She turned her head slightly, watching her girlfriend’s back rise and fall too quickly for someone who was just tired. It wasn’t like Mira to show anything—she was composed, steady, self-contained—but right now, everything about her screamed that something wasn’t right.

Rumi noticed it too, even from across the row. Her brows knit together subtly, but she didn’t say anything. She knew Mira well enough to recognize when she needed silence more than questions.

The air shifted. Whatever ease or playfulness was lingering from Zoey and Rumi’s earlier banter faded, leaving behind something taut and unspoken.

Mira’s breathing steadied gradually, but her hands remained clenched where they rested beneath her head. A quiet sigh left her—barely audible, like a sound she didn’t mean to let out.

Her eyes opened, staring sideways at the window. The light outside hit her face softly, outlining the tired shadows beneath her eyes. She blinked once, twice, then exhaled again through her nose.

It was the kind of exhale that carried too much—frustration, regret, maybe the remnants of whatever she had just been trying to suppress.

Her gaze caught her reflection faintly in the window—half of her face hidden, the rest lit by daylight.

She stayed that way for a while, still and quiet, her breathing gradually evening out as the rest of the class continued to talk among themselves.

Zoey shifted in her seat. Her hand twitched on the desk as if she wanted to reach out, say something, do something—but she didn’t.

Because Mira’s head stayed down. Because her walls were back up. Because Zoey didn’t know how to climb them anymore without making her bleed again.

The door opened once more, and the professor entered, carrying an armful of folders.

The sound snapped the room back to order—chairs scraped, whispers ended, notebooks opened.

But Mira didn’t lift her head right away. She just turned it slightly toward the window, exhaling softly again.

And even from across the narrow space between them, Zoey could see her lips moving faintly—no sound, just the shape of a word that might’ve been “breathe.”

Whatever had happened outside—whatever she had to face in those ten minutes—it left her trembling quietly beneath the pretense of calm.

And Zoey could only stare, her chest tightening with a kind of worry that words couldn’t fix.

The bell rang—sharp and heavy—signaling lunch break. Students began flooding out of their seats, the low hum of chatter replacing the professor’s monotone voice that had filled the room for the past hour.

Just as Zoey started to stretch her arms, the door swung open with a loud creak and Jinu’s familiar voice boomed, his grin wide and chaotic as ever.

“Ru! Zo! Foxy! Let’s grab lunch!”

A few heads turned at the nickname “Foxy,” the one he reserved only for Mira—half teasing, half habit—but Jinu didn’t care. He was already halfway into the room, waving his arms dramatically like he owned the place.

Zoey blinked, startled out of her haze, before she chuckled. “You always come in like you’re making a grand entrance.”

Before she could say more, Mira’s quiet voice cut through.

“You guys go first. I need to do something.”

It wasn’t loud, but it was steady—too steady, like she’d practiced it.

Zoey’s smile faltered. “You sure?”

Mira nodded, looking down as she pretended to type something in her phone “Yeah, I just need to make a call.”

There was a beat. Zoey and Jinu exchanged a glance—one of those silent ‘is-she-really-okay?’ looks—then both turned back to her.

“You okay?” Zoey asked, her tone light but her eyes sharp.

Mira finally lifted her head. Her smile was small, almost convincing. “Yeah. You should go first before the cafeteria runs out of food again.”

Zoey puffed her cheeks, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push further. “Fine, but you’re buying me milk tea later.”

Mira’s lips twitched. “Deal.”

Jinu clapped his hands dramatically. “Good! Then let’s move, peasants! Food awaits!”

Zoey rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag, and followed him out. Their voices faded in the hallway—Zoey’s laughter blending with Jinu’s chaos—until the door clicked shut again.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Rumi was still there.

She hadn’t moved right away—her bag already slung over her shoulder, but her eyes still fixed on Mira. When their gazes met, Rumi finally spoke, her voice calm but low.

“You were hyperventilating earlier when you came back.”

Mira froze for a moment, caught off guard. Her lips parted but no sound came out. Then, finally, she swallowed hard and looked away.

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “I guess.”

Rumi didn’t look convinced. Her posture was still and composed, as always, but her eyes softened—worried in a way that was hard to miss once you looked close enough.

“You’re not,” she said simply. “Your hands were shaking.”

Mira’s throat tightened. She exhaled, almost like a quiet laugh, but it trembled. “I just—needed air. That’s all.”

Rumi hummed, that low sound of acknowledgment that wasn’t quite agreement.

“You’ve always said that when you’re not okay.”

That made Mira’s chest clench. She looked up, eyes flickering with something that was both surprise and recognition.

“You still remember that?”

Rumi met her gaze evenly. “I remember everything,” she said, then paused, just a second too long—before adding, “Some things don’t fade, Mira.”

Mira’s eyes darted away instantly. Her jaw tightened as she gripped her phone, pretending to scroll just to keep her hands from shaking.

“I… don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to,” Rumi replied quietly.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was fragile. Like a string stretched too thin between them.

Finally, Rumi adjusted her bag strap and said softly, “I’ll go."

Mira only nodded, still unable to lift her gaze. “Yeah… okay.”

Rumi turned to leave, but just as she reached the doorway, she glanced back. Mira had her elbows on the desk now, both hands pressed over her face as if trying to breathe herself into calmness again.

For a brief second, Rumi wanted to walk back—say something, anything—but she didn’t.

Because the line between them was already too blurred.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And inside the empty room, Mira exhaled shakily, the kind of breath that came after holding too much in. Her hands trembled against her face before she whispered to herself—voice barely there.

“You’re doing it again…”

Then she dragged her palms down slowly, forcing herself to breathe, even if every inhale hurt.

--------

The cafeteria was alive with noise—cutlery clinking, trays sliding, chatter swelling and falling like waves. The air smelled of fried rice and kimchi stew, and the sunlight cut through the wide glass panels, painting the floor in stripes of gold.

Zoey, Jinu, and Rumi sat at a corner table near the window, half their plates already empty. Mira’s seat—just beside Zoey—was untouched. Her tray was still missing. Her phone hadn’t lit up once.

Zoey sighed, her cheeks puffing out as she stared at the untouched can of soda across the table. “Is she avoiding us?” she muttered, pushing her food around with her spoon. “Did something happen?”

Jinu looked up from his tray, one eyebrow raised. “She looked… panicked,” he said after a pause, recalling Mira’s face when he barged into their classroom earlier. “Like she saw a ghost or something.”

Zoey’s head snapped toward him. “What do you mean panicked?”

Jinu shrugged, nonchalant. “Her ears were red, eyes looked glassy. The usual Mira panic face.”

Zoey frowned, leaning her elbows on the table. “Do you think someone bullied her? Or like—fight her? Or threatened her or something?”

Jinu almost choked on his drink, laughing mid-sip. “What are we, kindergarten? No one does that in college, Little Zo.”

Zoey groaned, covering her face. “I’m serious, Jinu!.”

“Yeah, whatever” he said, grinning.

Zoey reached across the table to smack his arm, but even that was halfhearted. She chuckled anyway, the sound mingled with the sigh that followed. “You’re the worst.”

“Thanks, I try.”

Then came Rumi’s voice—soft, calm, but sharp enough to cut through their playful tone. “And who would even dare to threaten a Kang?”

Zoey froze. The way Rumi said it—steady, factual, yet slightly incredulous—made her chest tighten.

Jinu stopped mid-chew, glancing between them.

Zoey pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes dropping to her food. “Mira’s not under the Kangs anymore,” she said quietly.

That made Rumi’s brow furrow instantly. Her chopsticks hovered midair. “What?”

“She’s not,” Zoey repeated, this time looking up, voice firmer. “Her dad cut her off. Like—completely.”

Rumi blinked, confusion flashing across her face before something else—guilt, maybe—settled in. “When?” she asked, her tone lower now.

Zoey hesitated, poking at her food. “A few years ago, I think? She doesn’t talk about it much.”

“She was kicked out,” Jinu added bluntly, still chewing. “Mira told me once—after one too many beers. Said her parents didn’t like her wasting time dancing instead of taking over their business. They pulled her money, the car, the house, everything. She worked her ass off to buy a new car”

Rumi’s grip on her chopsticks tightened slightly. Her gaze dropped, the corners of her lips pressed together, unreadable.

Zoey glanced at her, cautious. “You didn’t know?”

Rumi shook her head slowly, her expression controlled but her eyes flickered—something dark and quiet behind them. “No,” she said softly. “I didn’t.”

There was a pause. The noise of the cafeteria faded for a second, like the world around their table dulled.

Zoey sighed again, leaning back against her chair. “I just… I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t she tell me that?"

Jinu shrugged, tapping his spoon against his tray. “Because she’s Mira,” he said. “She bottles things up tighter than a Coke can in a freezer.”

That earned him a half-hearted glare from Zoey, but even she couldn’t deny it.

Rumi set her chopsticks down, the faintest sound against the tray. “She never used to be like that,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “She used to talk about everything. Even the most useless, random things.”

Zoey looked at her curiously. “You mean… before?”

Rumi’s jaw twitched. “Yeah. Before.”

That single word carried weight—enough that Zoey didn’t press further.

For a long moment, none of them said anything. Jinu leaned back, staring at his drink. Zoey kept tracing circles on the table with her thumb. Rumi’s eyes stayed fixed on her untouched food.

Finally, Zoey exhaled, forcing a small laugh to break the tension. “I’ll check on her later,” she said softly. “Maybe she just needs a bit of space.”

Jinu looked up, smiling faintly. “You sure she won’t bite your head off?”

Zoey grinned, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “If she does, I’ll bite back.”

Rumi’s lips curved slightly, but her gaze was distant—still somewhere else, caught between the past and the quiet ache she couldn’t name.

And across the table, Zoey noticed it—how Rumi’s composure wavered just for a split second before she looked away again.

Something in Zoey’s chest tugged.

Something she didn’t want to understand.

Rumi barely tasted her food after that. The cafeteria’s noise had long since blended into a dull hum—the laughter, the trays clattering, the chatter of students around them all distant, as if she were sealed behind glass.

Zoey and Jinu were still talking, voices faint and muffled, but she couldn’t keep up anymore. Her head buzzed with one single name, one single face.

Mira.

The name alone made her chest tighten.

She pressed her chopsticks down on her tray, forcing her hands to stay still. But even that didn’t work. Her fingers twitched, restless. Her mind wouldn’t stop replaying Zoey’s voice.

“She’s not under the Kangs anymore.”

“Her dad cut her off.”

“They pulled her money, the car, the house, everything.”

"She worked her ass off to buy a new car"

When? Why? How could she not know?

She, of all people.

Rumi tried to school her expression—shoulders straight, face calm—but something in her cracked beneath the surface.

Mira, cut off? Mira, the one who used to show up with a driver waiting outside, the one who always had crisp uniforms and the newest things? Mira, who’d always say “Don’t worry, I got it” when some of their classmates forgot their wallet at lunch? Mira, whose name alone made people step aside in the hallway because she was Kang Mira—the daughter of the Kangs.

Now… cut off. On her own.

Rumi exhaled slowly, her hand curling into a fist under the table.

She didn’t even tell her.

Why didn’t she tell her?

That question burned her throat the longer she sat there.

She knew why, deep down.

Because Mira didn’t owe her that anymore.

Still, knowing didn’t stop the ache.

She pushed her tray slightly away, appetite long gone. Zoey and Jinu were laughing about something—Jinu probably teasing Zoey about her portion size again—but Rumi barely heard them. She just stared at the condensation dripping down her water bottle, tracing its path with her eyes.

Her chest felt tight.

Because no matter how much she’d told herself she’d moved on, she hadn’t. Not really.

That “I’m sorry, Ru” from last night—it should’ve been nothing. It should’ve been meaningless after everything they’ve gone through. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t nothing.

It was everything.

It was a spark in the dark. A hand she thought she’d never feel again. The same voice that used to whisper her name when the world felt too heavy.

And the way Mira said it last night—quiet, trembling, almost broken—shook her to her core. It wasn’t an apology from guilt. It was an apology from longing, from regret, from love that still lingered in the cracks they both tried to fill with distance.

Rumi clenched her jaw.

Because she still cared.

After all this time, after all the silence, she still cared. And she hated it—how her heart refused to listen to logic. How her mind screamed you shouldn’t while her chest pulsed you still do.

I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t think about her.

I shouldn’t feel this way anymore.

But then again, how could she not?

Every glance, every word, every subtle tremor in Mira’s voice still played in her head like an old record she couldn’t turn off. Even when she pretended not to notice the way Mira’s hand shook when she reached for her bag. Even when she pretended not to look when Mira’s eyes softened in her direction for half a second too long.

And now, learning this—learning that Mira had been quietly carrying something that heavy, that lonely, without telling anyone—it made her chest ache in ways she thought she’d outgrown.

Rumi pressed her lips together, holding her breath for a few seconds before exhaling again.

The sunlight outside caught her reflection faintly against the window—eyes steady, posture calm. No one would think anything was wrong. No one would see the turmoil curling behind her composed stare.

But she could feel it, spreading through her like smoke.

She missed her.

God, she missed her.

Not just the Mira who used to walk her home after late-night study session. Not just the Mira who’d tie her shoelaces because Rumi’s hand always trembles. Not even the Mira who smiled like she owned the sun.

She missed this Mira—the one sitting in class, eyes dull and shoulders heavy. The one who said “I’m fine” when she clearly wasn’t. The one who apologized last night like she’d been holding her breath for years.

The one who still, despite everything, felt familiar.

Rumi swallowed hard.

Her composure was slipping. She knew it. The more she tried to contain it, the tighter it pressed against her ribs. The more she told herself she didn’t care, the clearer it became that she did—far too much.

You’re a fool, Rumi.

Maybe she was.

But even fools couldn’t stop their hearts from remembering the warmth that once felt like home.

And Mira, whether she wanted it or not, was still that—home.

Even if that home no longer had a door for her to walk through.

The chair screeched slightly when Rumi stood up. Zoey and Jinu barely noticed—still bickering about something trivial—so she quietly excused herself.

“I’ll go to the restroom,” she said, her tone steady, composed.

But her eyes weren’t on the hallway that led to the restroom. They were fixed on the glass doors opening to the quad.

She didn’t know why her feet carried her there. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was the gnawing unease that hadn’t left since lunch started. She needed air. She needed to breathe.

The autumn sun was high but soft, brushing warmth over the trimmed grass and scattered benches. Students lounged around, some chatting, others napping, but Rumi didn’t notice them. She took only ten steps before freezing completely.

Her pulse spiked.

There—right by the fountain—stood Mira.

And in front of her… him.

Mr. Alejandro Kang.

Rumi’s breath hitched. She hadn’t seen him in years, but she could never mistake that figure. The silver streak in his jet-black hair caught the light like steel. His broad shoulders, the way he stood tall with an effortless kind of command—it was the presence of a man used to control. Used to power.

His sharp, fox-like eyes were narrowed at Mira, his jawline cutting against the sun.

Even from a distance, Rumi could feel the pressure of his aura—the kind that made people straighten their backs and choose their words carefully. The kind that demanded obedience.

And Mira… Mira stood before him, still as stone.

Rumi’s heart sank.

The distance between father and daughter wasn’t physical—it was heavy, suffocating, filled with everything unsaid.

“I told you not to come here,” Mira’s voice was low, trembling beneath the weight of composure.

Alejandro Kang tilted his head slightly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “And yet, here I am. You didn’t think I’d let my daughter live like this, did you?”

“I’m not your concern anymore,” Mira said, voice tight.

His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened. “You think cutting yourself off makes you independent? Mira, you’re a Kang. Whether you accept it or not, that name runs in your blood. You don’t just abandon that.”

Mira clenched her fists. “You already disowned me, remember?”

Alejandro took a slow step forward. “I said I cut your privileges, not you. I expected you to realize how foolish your rebellion was and come back home.”

Rumi could see Mira’s jaw twitch. Her eyes burned with something sharp—pain, anger, exhaustion.

“I’m not coming back,” Mira said firmly. “You made sure I understood what leaving meant. I made peace with that.”

He chuckled—a sound that wasn’t amusement, but disbelief. “Peace? You call this peace? Living in a cramped dorm, scraping by, dancing for spare change? You’re wasting everything I built for you.”

“You built walls,” Mira snapped before she could stop herself. “Not homes.”

Alejandro’s expression flickered, but only for a heartbeat. “You sound just like your mother.”

Mira froze. Her breath hitched audibly.

“Always emotional, always clinging to ideals instead of sense,” he continued. “She thought love could outweigh responsibility. Look where that got her.”

“Stop,” Mira hissed, voice breaking.

But Alejandro didn’t stop. His tone lowered, cruel in its calmness. “I thought losing her would make you wiser. Stronger. But no—you’re still chasing sentiment. Still running after scraps of affection like it will fix anything.”

“I said stop!” Mira’s voice cracked this time.

The students nearby glanced over, whispering.

Mira’s chest heaved, her fists trembling by her sides. She bit her tongue hard, holding back words she knew would only make it worse. Her eyes glistened, but she refused to let them fall.

And that was when Rumi moved.

Before she could think, before fear or logic could stop her, she stepped forward, her footsteps sharp against the pavement.

“Mr. Kang,” Rumi called out, her tone even but steady, her back straight, every inch of her posture lined with quiet authority.

Both of them turned. Mira’s eyes widened in alarm.

Alejandro Kang blinked, momentarily thrown off—then recognition flickered in his gaze.

“Ms. Ryu Rumi,” he said with a grin that never reached his eyes. “Celine’s niece. It’s nice meeting you again after five years. You’ve grown up.”

Rumi offered her hand politely, though her stomach churned. “It’s a pleasure to see you here at Hanseong University, Mr. Kang.”

His handshake was firm, precise, calculated.

“You’re studying here too?” he asked, glancing briefly between her and Mira, a glint of curiosity—or something colder—in his eyes.

“Yes,” Rumi replied smoothly. 

“Of course,” he said. His lips curled faintly. “You always were close, weren’t you?”

Rumi didn’t flinch, though Mira visibly tensed beside her.

“We still are,” Rumi said simply, and she saw something flicker in Mira’s eyes—something raw and unguarded.

Alejandro chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Mira always had a talent for collecting attachments. She thinks loyalty is love.”

“Maybe because it is,” Rumi said evenly, before she could stop herself.

The air between them sharpened. Alejandro studied her for a beat too long—amused, maybe slightly impressed—but clearly irritated.

He turned back to Mira, the smirk returning. “Still hiding behind people, Mira? First your mother, now your… friends?”

“I’m not hiding behind anyone,” Mira bit out. “I just don’t need to stand alone in front of someone who never treated me like his daughter.”

“Mira,” Rumi whispered, a warning under her breath.

Alejandro’s expression finally hardened, his voice dipping into that dangerous tone of restrained anger. “Careful, Mira. Pride won’t feed you. It won’t protect you when this… fantasy collapses.”

Mira’s voice came low, shaking with defiance. “I’d rather starve than live under your control.”

Alejandro’s jaw flexed. His hand twitched at his side.

Then he smiled again, slow and chilling. “So be it. But remember, when you fall, I won’t be there to catch you. You made that choice.”

Mira’s lips parted, but no words came. Her breath came ragged and shallow, fury tangled with grief.

Rumi stepped forward slightly, her body unconsciously shielding Mira. Her voice was soft but edged.

“Then it’s good she has people who will.”

Alejandro’s gaze slid to her again, sharp and assessing. He looked like he wanted to say something—then simply exhaled through his nose, almost in amusement.

“You really are Celine’s niece,” he said finally. “Bold, polite, and foolishly loyal.”

He adjusted his cufflinks, turned, and started walking away.

The moment he was gone, the tension snapped. Mira exhaled shakily, her whole body trembling as if she’d been holding her breath the entire time. Her eyes were glassy, her fists still clenched so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Rumi took a cautious step closer. “Mira…”

But Mira didn’t look at her. She just stared at the ground, voice low and raw.

“He’s right about one thing,” she whispered. “I always choose the wrong people to stand with.”

Rumi’s chest twisted painfully. She reached out, hesitated, then gently placed a hand on Mira’s wrist.

“Then maybe this time,” Rumi said softly, “choose the ones who won’t let you stand alone.”

Mira finally looked up—her eyes red-rimmed, glistening, defiant, and heartbreakingly fragile.

And for the first time in years, Rumi saw not Kang Mira—the perfection, the heiress—but Mira, stripped raw, trembling, human.

Chapter Text

(TEASE)

The hum of the car filled the silence.

It was the only thing alive between them—soft engine noise, the faint rattle of air conditioning, the rhythm of wheels against asphalt.

Zoey kept her eyes on the road, hands steady on the steering wheel. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. She could feel it—how Mira’s quiet wasn’t a wall this time, but a tremor trying to hold itself together.

Every now and then, Zoey would glance at her from the corner of her eye. Mira sat with her head tilted toward the window, one hand resting on her lap, fingers twitching slightly as if she wanted to grip something but couldn’t. The afternoon sunlight brushed across her cheekbones, soft, but it only made the exhaustion more visible—the tightness around her eyes, the faint redness there.

When the red light hit, Zoey finally said, gently, “Seatbelt.”

Mira blinked and looked down. She hadn’t buckled it. With a small nod, she reached for it, the faint click echoing in the still car. Then silence again.

Zoey didn’t push. She knew better.

When they reached their apartment, Mira stepped out first, walking ahead while Zoey locked the car. The hallway felt unusually long, the sound of their shoes bouncing faintly off the walls.

Inside, Mira dropped her bag near the entryway before collapsing onto the couch. She didn’t even bother to take off her shoes. Her shoulders slumped, hands pressed against her knees, head hung low.

Zoey stood by the doorway, unsure for a second. She wanted to ask what happened, but the air around Mira was heavy—fragile. So she decided to give her space, turned toward their room.

But just as Zoey took a step, she felt a light tug.

Her wrist.

Mira’s fingers wrapped around it, gentle but firm.

“Please,” Mira murmured, barely audible.

Zoey looked down. Mira wasn’t looking up—her eyes were on the floor, but her grip said everything. Stay.

Zoey nodded softly and sat beside her, the couch sinking slightly beneath their weight. Mira’s hand was still on her wrist, holding it like she was scared Zoey might vanish if she let go.

For a long moment, neither said a word. The quiet between them was thick, the kind that could either suffocate or heal depending on what was said next.

Then Mira finally exhaled. Long, shaky, breaking at the edges.

“I promised,” she started, her voice soft but strained, “I promised I wouldn’t shut you out, again.”

Zoey looked at her, eyes gentle but guarded. “Yeah. You did.”

Mira nodded, slowly, still not looking at her. “Earlier…”—she swallowed, voice trembling "my dad called.”

Zoey blinked. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“He told me to come home,” Mira continued, eyes fixed somewhere past the floor. “Said I was wasting my life. Said I should change my major to business, stop chasing… whatever fantasy this is. That he was done watching me make a fool of myself.”

Zoey’s stomach tightened. She leaned back slightly, arms folded—but her eyes never left Mira.

“I told him not to come,” Mira said, quieter now. “Told him to just—just don’t. But he did. He texted me during lunch, said he was on the quad.” She laughed softly, bitterly. “I thought if I didn’t go, he’d make a scene. So I went. And it got heated, really fast.”

Zoey stayed still, fingers curling on her armrest. “What did he say?”

Mira’s lips pressed together before she answered, “That I’m an embarrassment. That I’m throwing away the Kang name. That I’m nothing without it.” Her laugh came out cracked. “And for a second… I almost believed him.”

Zoey’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists.

“But then—” Mira’s voice trembled, eyes flickering up briefly to meet Zoey’s before darting away again. “Rumi appeared.”

Zoey’s breath caught, a small flicker of surprise in her chest. “Rumi?”

Mira nodded. “Yeah. Out of nowhere. She just… came up and interrupted us. Greeted him like she always does, calm, polite, like nothing could shake her. She even shook his hand.” Mira exhaled shakily. “It was like she’d been waiting for that moment.”

Zoey stayed quiet, her heart beating a little too fast now.

Mira’s grip on her wrist loosened a little as she continued, voice soft and heavy with disbelief.

“She cut in when things started getting worse. When I—I said something I shouldn’t have. She stood between us, like she was protecting me.” Mira shook her head, the faintest, hollow laugh leaving her lips. “From my own father, Zo. She shielded me from him." 

Zoey’s gaze softened, but her chest ached.

Mira’s voice wavered, raw and trembling. “He insulted her too. Called her foolish, too loyal for her own good. She didn’t even flinch. Just looked at him and said… ‘Then it’s good she has people who won’t let her stand alone.’”

Mira’s throat tightened as she said it, repeating Rumi’s words like they were something sacred and painful all at once.

Zoey exhaled through her nose, eyes turning away briefly. The silence stretched again.

Then she asked quietly, “And what did you do?”

Mira’s lips parted. She opened them once, twice, then finally said, “Nothing.”

The word was small. Defeated.

“I stood there, shaking like a coward. I couldn’t even look at her properly.” Mira’s voice cracked this time, and Zoey turned to look at her fully. “She—she didn’t even have to be there. She could’ve walked away, like she used to. But she stayed. She faced him when I couldn’t.”

“Mira,” Zoey whispered, her tone caught somewhere between sympathy and something heavier—jealousy, hurt, understanding.

Mira shook her head, fingers brushing against her forehead. “I don’t know why she did it. I don’t know if it’s because she still cares, or if she just couldn’t stand watching someone crumble. But the way she looked at me, Zo…”

Her voice faded into a whisper. “It made me remember everything.”

Zoey swallowed hard, her heart thudding in her chest.

Everything—the way Rumi used to smile softly whenever Mira was stressed, how she always had that quiet strength that grounded everyone around her. The kind of calm Zoey once admired… and fell for.

But now, sitting beside Mira, watching her shake as she tried to keep herself from breaking again, Zoey’s heart twisted painfully.

Because Mira wasn’t just remembering Rumi.

She was remembering what it felt like to be seen.

Zoey inhaled deeply and unclasped Mira’s hand gently from her wrist, but only to hold it fully this time—fingers threading through, warm, grounding.

“Hey,” she said softly. “You don’t have to justify anything to me. You don’t owe me that. But… I’m glad you told me.”

Mira looked up, eyes glassy. “You are?”

Zoey nodded slowly. “Yeah. Because at least this time, you didn’t face it alone.”

Mira’s lips quivered, her eyes darting between Zoey’s and their joined hands. Then she exhaled, the sound trembling as she whispered, “Thank you.”

Zoey smiled faintly, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze—maybe relief, maybe quiet heartbreak.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Zoey murmured. “You still owe me for the burnt pancake from earlier.”

That earned a weak laugh out of Mira. Just enough to loosen the tension in the air.

But beneath that fragile laughter, both of them knew—

Rumi’s name had cracked something open.

And no amount of silence could make it disappear again.

-------

Zoey shifted on the couch, eyes flicking from Mira’s hand still resting on her’s to her face—Mira’s lips slightly parted, breath slow but uneven, her eyes sharp like she’s waiting for Zoey to say something absurd just to confirm her suspicions.

The silence between them felt dense, humming with everything unsaid. Zoey took a deep breath, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her shirt.

“Do you think…” she began, voice unsure at first, then steadier, “we could pursue Rumi together?”

Mira blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly, her head turned toward Zoey, brows drawing together in disbelief.

“…Together?” she repeated, each syllable laced with that quiet, dangerous tone she used whenever she was trying not to snap. “Together, as in—you and me? Pursuing her?”

Zoey swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. Together.”

Mira’s jaw tensed. She let out a hollow laugh, short and sharp. “That’s not funny, Zoey.”

“I’m not joking.”

Mira’s eyes widened, then narrowed even further. “You can’t be serious—”

Zoey lifted her hands in a half-surrendering motion. “I am. Listen first, okay? Just—hear me out.”

Mira leaned back against the couch, her arms crossing over her chest, one brow arching high. “This should be good,” she muttered, the sarcasm thick enough to cut through.

Zoey hesitated but pressed on. “You still like her. You don’t have to say it, Mira, I can see it. You were shaking when you saw her again, and when her name comes up, you always tense. And me?” She laughed awkwardly. “I like her too. Maybe not the same way, maybe not as long as you have, but I do.”

Mira’s eyes glimmered with something volatile—hurt, disbelief, and maybe even jealousy. “So your solution is… what? That we share her? That we play some kind of emotional tug-of-war until one of us gets tired?”

Zoey shook her head quickly. “No. Not like that. Not fighting for her, not stealing her from anyone. I mean… if she ever wants both of us, if she ever feels something for both of us—then why not let it be possible? Why does it have to be one or the other?”

Mira’s lips parted again, words caught somewhere in her throat. “You’re talking about being polyamorous.”

Zoey nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah. If—if—you’re open to it.”

Mira stared at her for a long, unbroken moment. The air between them felt fragile, stretched too thin. Then she exhaled, rubbing her temple as if trying to physically push the thought away. “Zoey, that’s—insane.”

“Why?” Zoey asked softly. “Because it’s not traditional? Because people would judge? Or because you can’t stand the idea of me having what you have with her?”

Mira’s gaze snapped toward her. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true, though.”

Mira’s expression faltered. For a second, she looked like she might argue—but instead, she sighed and looked away. “You don’t understand. Rumi and I… we have history. It’s messy, painful, complicated. You don’t just add someone into that kind of storm and call it love.”

Zoey’s tone softened. “But maybe… maybe that’s exactly why it could work. Because love isn’t this perfect, clean line we draw around one person. Sometimes it’s—messy, overlapping, unplanned. Sometimes it’s more than one person. You told me once that connection matters more than convention. Was that a lie?”

Mira froze. Her mind flashed to nights she’d told Zoey things she never told anyone else—about freedom, about finding love that wasn’t boxed in. About not letting fear dictate what they could or couldn’t feel.

“Zoey…” Mira started, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Zoey’s tone was gentle, but her eyes didn’t waver. “I’m asking you to think about it. Not for now, not for tomorrow. Just… think about it. Because I can’t lie and say I don’t want Rumi. But I also don’t want to lose you.”

Mira blinked. The words sank deep, heavier than either of them expected. She turned her head slowly to meet Zoey’s gaze—sincere, nervous, and so achingly open that it almost hurt to look at.

“Do you even know what it means to share someone?” Mira asked quietly, her voice trembling around the edges. “To really share—not just the idea of it, but the jealousy, the fear, the moments she’ll reach for me and not you, or you and not me?”

Zoey’s eyes softened. “I don’t. Not yet. But I want to learn if it means I get to love both of you honestly.”

Mira exhaled shakily, then leaned back, covering her mouth with her hand as if trying to hide how much that hit her. For a long while, she didn’t speak.

Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “You’re crazy, Zoey.”

Zoey smiled faintly. “You said that before.”

“And I meant it,” Mira muttered, but her voice lacked its usual bite. There was something else beneath it—confusion, maybe, or curiosity she didn’t want to admit.

Zoey leaned forward, her voice softer now. “I’m not asking for an answer. I’m just asking you not to shut the door completely.”

Mira closed her eyes, exhaled deeply, and murmured, “You don’t know what you’re starting, Zoey.”

Zoey smiled again, this time almost wistful. And grabbed Mira's hand again “Maybe not. But I know it’s something real.”

And for once, Mira didn’t argue. She just sat there, still holding Zoey’s hand, her pulse steady but trembling beneath her skin—as if part of her, deep down, was terrified that Zoey might be right.

Zoey leaned back against the couch, the heavy air between them starting to lift just slightly after the last exchange. Mira was still processing everything—her hand still loosely gripping Zoey’s hand, her mind miles away and yet anchored by that single, grounding touch.

Zoey watched her, studying the way Mira’s lips pressed into a tight line, how her brows remained furrowed even when her expression softened.

And maybe—just maybe—the tension was too much for Zoey to resist breaking.

She tilted her head, a mischievous glint flickering in her eyes. “Also,” she began, her tone casual but clearly up to no good, “haven’t you thought of her being in the middle of us… you know—”

Zoey trailed off as she wiggled her brows, lips curling into that smug, teasing grin she always wore when she was about to cross the line.

Mira blinked once, her head snapping toward her with the speed of a whip. “Zoey.”

“What?” Zoey asked innocently, still smirking. “It’s a valid thought.”

Mira’s jaw dropped. “A valid thought? What—are you out of your mind?!”

Zoey laughed, unbothered. “I mean, come on. You said it yourself, you two have history. I’m just saying it’s not impossible to—uh—blend that with something new.” She leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Like, imagine it, right? Her in the middle, both of us—”

“Zoey!” Mira practically yelped, smacking Zoey’s arm so hard the sound echoed in the small apartment. Her cheeks flared red instantly, eyes wide in pure mortification. “God, you’re such a freak!”

Zoey burst out laughing, clutching her arm dramatically. “Ow! What?! I’m just exploring possibilities!”

“You’re deranged!” Mira snapped, standing abruptly as if to put physical distance between herself and the chaos Zoey just unleashed.

She started pacing in front of the couch, muttering under her breath, “Why do I even talk to you? Why do I even—God—why am I blushing?”

Zoey tried to hold back her laughter but failed miserably. “Because deep down,” she said between chuckles, “you thought about it for a split second and your brain short-circuited.”

Mira froze mid-step, whipping her head around. “I did not!”

Zoey grinned wider. “You totally did.”

“I—” Mira stammered, her face somehow redder. “I didn’t! I swear to God, Zoey—”

“Sure, sure,” Zoey teased, leaning forward with her chin propped on her hand, eyes glinting with playful malice. “Then why are your ears red, huh?”

Mira covered her ears immediately. “Because you’re insane and my body is having a physiological reaction to your stupidity!”

Zoey tilted her head, feigning thought. “Hmm, or maybe your body’s having a physiological reaction to the mental image I just gave you.”

Mira’s mouth fell open in sheer disbelief. “You— I— that’s it!” She grabbed one of the couch pillows and hurled it directly at Zoey’s face.

Zoey caught it—barely—and started laughing so hard her shoulders shook. “Oh my God, you should see your face right now. You look like you just committed a sin by thinking!”

Mira groaned, dragging her hands down her face before sitting back down, visibly flustered. “You’re impossible. Utterly impossible.”

Zoey leaned sideways, still grinning. “C’mon, admit it. You did imagine it for, like, a microsecond.”

Mira turned her head sharply to glare at her. “Even if I did—which I didn’t—you seriously need to stop talking before I file a restraining order.”

Zoey smirked. “Would it be under harassment or irresistible charm?”

Mira grabbed another pillow. “Try me.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds—Zoey biting back laughter, Mira trying her best to look composed but failing spectacularly. Then Zoey finally exhaled, grin softening into something almost fond.

“I’m just teasing, Babe,” she said, her tone gentler now. “You know me.”

Mira sighed, sinking back into the couch again, her shoulders relaxing. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Zoey laughed softly. “Hey, I had to make you smile somehow. You’ve been carrying that whole thing with your dad and Rumi all day.”

Mira glanced at her, lips twitching despite herself. “You have a terrible way of cheering people up, you know that?”

“Works, though,” Zoey said with a wink.

Mira huffed out a reluctant laugh, finally letting the corners of her lips lift. “You’re such an idiot.”