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The airport wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Just a layover, a few hours between flights, a place where lives crossed for a moment before parting again.
But then there was her — Sophia.
Sitting by the window in that washed-out airport lounge, sunlight threading through her hair, a quiet hum under her breath as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up at Manon once — just once — and smiled. And that was enough.
They talked because of a delayed flight. They stayed because neither of them wanted to stop.
Coffee turned into laughter, laughter into curiosity, curiosity into something soft and terrifying and alive.
By the time they parted, Sophia handed her a napkin with her number and said, “Text me when you land?”
Manon did.
She kept texting. Every day. Every hour she could steal.
Their relationship wasn’t loud. It lived in the spaces between things.
In sleepy good-morning calls. In playlists shared at 3 a.m.
In the way Sophia would tell her about home — about her family, about her favorite things, about how she used to sneak into her high school auditorium after class to sing under the stage lights alone.
Manon learned every detail. She wanted to — needed to.
She learned a few phrases in Tagalog just to surprise her. She quit smoking because Sophia hated smoking.
And for a while, it was enough.
Until the distance started talking louder than they did.
Until Sophia got cast for something big in LA, and Manon told her she was proud — even when her voice cracked saying it. Until the missed calls and tired silences started replacing “I love you.” Until one night, Sophia texted, “I can’t do this anymore.”
And Manon didn’t stop her.
She thought letting go would make it hurt less.
She was wrong.
Months later, when Manon walks into the Dream Academy housing in LA, the air catches in her lungs.
Because there she is.
Sophia — standing a few feet away, talking to another girl, smiling that same soft, devastating smile.
Manon freezes.
It’s like looking at a ghost she’s been mourning in secret.
Sophia looks at her, briefly. Her eyes widen — recognition flickers — but she looks away, just as quickly.
And Manon knows: they’re pretending.
Pretending not to know each other. Pretending not to remember everything that still hurts.
She pretends not to know that Sophia’s favorite fruit are mangoes, and one of her favorite snacks are dried mangoes dipped in chocolate from Cebu. She pretends she doesn’t know all of Sophia’s dream roles. She pretends like Sophia wasn’t the person she painted the most.
She pretends — but she feels everything.
Days turn into weeks.
They move around each other like ghosts, careful not to touch, careful not to see.
But Manon always finds herself looking.
When Sophia sings — her voice trembling, reaching — Manon forgets to breathe. When Sophia laughs with the other girls, Manon feels something in her chest cave in. When Sophia catches her gaze across the room, for a fraction of a second too long, Manon looks away — not because she doesn’t want to see her, but because she doesn’t trust what her face might show.
At night, when everyone else sleeps, Manon scrolls through their old messages — the ones she swore she’d delete. She rereads Sophia’s “miss you” texts until her eyes blur.
She whispers to the dark, “I’m sorry.” Even though no one’s there to hear it.
*****
She nearly slipped up though.
When they go to Korea together — a group trip to Lotte World — it’s supposed to be fun, a break.
But Manon feels the tension under her skin, like static.
The others are running around, buying souvenirs and snacks. Sophia’s laughter rings through the air, light and carefree. Manon trails behind, watching her from a distance she can’t seem to close. Then, at one of the little souvenir stalls, Manon sees a keychain rack —characters from Dark Moon.
Sophia used to talk about it all the time, especially Jakah, her favorite.
Before she can think, Manon picks it up and walks over. “Here,” she says quietly, holding it out. “This one’s your favorite, right?”
Sophia blinks, surprised. For a second, the air shifts. Something flickers between them — memory, recognition, ache.
“Yeah,” Sophia says softly, taking it from her hand. “Thanks.”
Her fingers brush Manon’s — just barely — and Manon feels it like a lightning strike.
A couple of the girls exchange confused glances. Dani whispers, “Wait, how’d you know that’s her favorite?”
Manon shrugs, pretending she overheard it somewhere. Pretending she didn’t memorize it a month ago.
Sophia doesn’t say anything. She just looks at her — a look that says she knows exactly what that moment meant. A look that stuck with Manon all night.
*****
It’s late. Its the plane ride back from Seoul. The absence of Illiya, Brooklyn, Karlee, and Mei. The cabin lights are dim, most of the group asleep, their breathing soft beneath the hum of the engines.
Manon can’t sleep. She keeps replaying Sophia’s look — the one at Lotte World, the one that felt like remembering and regret all at once. She gets up to go to the bathroom, padding quietly down the aisle. And there — waiting just outside the door — is Sophia.
They freeze.
The air between them is heavy, too full.
Sophia’s in her hoodie, hair tied up messily, skin glowing faintly under the soft cabin light. She looks tired. Beautiful. Familiar. Neither says anything at first.
Then Sophia clears her throat. “You did really well today. On stage. You always had a good tone.”
Her voice is even, but there’s warmth in it — a careful, cautious warmth that makes Manon’s chest ache.
Manon swallows, trying to find her voice. “You too,” she says. Then, quieter, “You were incredible, actually. You always are.”
Sophia looks at her, just a hint of a smile ghosting across her face.
Manon feels her heart skip a beat. And then Manon says it—before she can stop herself. “You look really pretty right now.”
It slips out too soft, too honest. Sophia blinks, caught off guard, probably because she is in her "comfortable clothes" which consisted of a large hoodie and pajama pants. Her lips part—like she’s about to say something—but she doesn’t. They just look at each other. It’s quiet, and fragile, and everything.
For a heartbeat, Manon swears she can still feel the pulse of what they used to be—that love that lived in silence, in glances, in all the things they never said.
Then both bathroom doors click open at once.
Sophia exhales, stepping forward first. “You can go ahead,” she murmurs.
Manon shakes her head. “No, you were first.”
Sophia gives her a small, tired smile and disappears inside. Manon stands there, her heart pounding, pretending not to wait for her to come back out.
When Sophia finally does, their shoulders brush as they pass. Neither speaks.
But it feels like a promise and a goodbye at once
*****
Back in LA the dance studio is bright and cold. Mirrors stretch across one wall, the hardwood floor polished. The air has that metallic smell of sweat and stage lights. Manon steps in, her heart already thumping. They’re in the middle of rehearsal. All the girls—Sophia, Lara, Daniela, Megan, Yoonchae, and others—are there. The instructors are waiting.
One instructor, Missy, stops the music. The girls freeze, caught in mid-movement. She folds her arms. Everyone’s breathing a little too loud.
“Okay,” Missy says. “Manon wanted to talk to you guys about some of the recent things going on.” She looks at Manon. There’s that pause — like the whole room is holding its breath.
Manon stands rigid, mind racing. She wants to explain. But the room seems to close in. She catches Sophia’s eyes from across the studio—her face calm, controlled, but the tension is there.
Manon says her part. Nobody dares to open their mouth.
And it’s Sophia who speaks up. Of course.
Her voice clear, sharp, the same voice that used to whisper “I love you” across oceans. “You keep saying you want this, Manon,” she says, arms crossed. “But you don’t act like it. No one’s going to hand you your dream if you can’t even fight for it.”
Everyone murmurs, half agreeing. But Manon can’t look away. Because she knows.
Sophia clears her throat, taking a small step forward. Every eye follows. “I don’t want this to be a gripe session,” she begins. Her voice is steady, but it hurts. “It’s because I care. I care about this group. About the work. About how good we can be. When you miss practice, or you’re not fully there… it’s not just choreography. It’s the trust.”
Manon’s throat closes. She can feel her skin prickling. The shame, the regret, the weight of knowing Sophia isn’t only talking about the program—but about them.
Sophia’s face doesn’t break. “You keep apologizing, or saying you’ll try harder. But we need to see it. Not just hear it. Because every time you don’t show up, someone else fills that gap. Someone else takes that hit.”
There’s a delay. Manon wants to speak, to say all the things she’s been holding in—the regret, the missing Sophia so painfully it’s like breathing in cold air.
But the rules of this moment press her down. She’s told to listen. Missy breaks in again, softening slightly. “We want you here, Manon. We want you giving this everything. If you want to be part of this, you have to be all in.”
Manon nods, quiet. She can’t say more.
Not yet.
When the confrontation ends, the room falls silent. The instructors move on to correcting choreography, but nothing feels normal. Sophia quietly resumes, but there’s distance—an invisible line drawn.
In Manon’s chest, regret is heavy. She regret is all she feels.
Her eyes find Sophia’s across the room one last time before she bows into the next routine, and for a moment, she wishes she could reach across the floor and bridge the space between them.
The night after the confrontation feels too still. The rest of the girls have gone quiet, tucked into their dorms or still practicing downstairs. The building hums faintly — air vents, distant laughter, muffled music.
Manon sits on the floor of the empty practice room, her back against the mirror. Her reflection looks small, broken under the fluorescent light. She hasn’t been able to shake Sophia’s voice — calm, firm, cutting in all the ways that only she could be.
Sophia’s words stung the most. It was lingering.
She gets up, grabs her jacket, and steps into the hallway. She doesn’t know where she’s going — only that her chest hurts in that way it used to, when she and Sophia would hang up the phone after arguing, both crying in silence.
She finds her sitting outside.
Sophia’s alone, perched on the steps near the vending machine, knees drawn up, her hoodie loose around her shoulders. The night air is cold enough to sting. There’s a half-empty bottle of water beside her.
Manon freezes for a second, then forces herself forward. Her throat tightens. “Sophia.”
Sophia doesn’t look up right away. “Hey.” Her voice is flat — polite, almost. The kind of tone you use when you’re trying not to feel too much.
“I—” Manon stops, her voice catching. “I wanted to talk. If that’s okay.”
Sophia sighs softly, eyes still on the ground. “You don’t have to. I already said everything I needed to.”
“I know,” Manon whispers. “But I didn’t.”
Silence.
Manon sits down beside her — not too close, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her shoulder. The smell of Sophia’s shampoo hits her, faintly sweet and nostalgic, and it’s almost enough to make her cry.
“I’m sorry,” Manon says, the words tumbling out. “For everything. For how I acted back then. For how I didn’t try harder — with us, with this, with you.”
Sophia’s eyes flicker to her, sharp but soft. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Manon. It doesn’t change anything.”
“I know,” Manon murmurs. “But I still need to say it. Because I’ve been walking around pretending like it’s fine, like we’re strangers, but I miss you. I miss you so bad I can’t even look at you sometimes.”
Sophia’s expression cracks, just slightly. “You think I don’t miss you?” she says quietly. “You think it was easy for me to watch you walk into this place like nothing happened?”
Manon shakes her head. “No, I know it wasn’t. I just—” she exhales, shaky. “When we were together, I thought distance was the problem. But it wasn’t. It was me. I got scared. I thought if I didn’t reach too hard, it wouldn’t hurt when you left.”
Sophia looks away, jaw tight. “You made it hurt anyway.”
That hits deeper than any accusation.
Manon swallows hard. “I know. And you had every right to give up on me. But I never stopped caring. I never stopped—” she cuts herself off, chest trembling. “Even when you weren’t mine anymore, I couldn’t unlearn you. I still remember your go to karaoke song, how you hum before you start singing, how you tend to talk more when you’re nervous. I know it’s stupid, but—”
Sophia’s eyes glisten, but she shakes her head, voice sharp. “It’s not stupid. It’s just… late.”
Manon nods. “Yeah. I know.”
They sit there in silence for a while — the hum of the vending machine filling the gap between them. Sophia pulls her sleeves over her hands, staring out into the dark courtyard.
“I was really angry with you,” Sophia says finally. “Because I wanted you to fight for me. I wanted you to say, ‘No, we can make this work,’ but you didn’t. You just… let it die. And I kept thinking, maybe you didn’t love me enough.”
Manon turns to her, eyes glassy. “I did. I just didn’t love myself enough to believe I could deserve you.”
Sophia’s breath catches. She doesn’t look at her. “You always know how to say things like that when it’s too late.”
“I know,” Manon whispers. “But if you ever wonder if I cared, or if I still do — please don’t. I never stopped.”
Sophia’s quiet for a long time, and then, finally, she says softly, “You’re trying now. I can see it.”
Manon laughs weakly, wiping her eyes. “Yeah. But it’s not because I want to prove something. It’s because you taught me to.”
Sophia exhales, long and trembling. “You’re better, Manon. But I’m still… hurt. And I don’t know if I can let you back in, not like before.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Manon says. “I just want you to know I’m not running anymore.”
Sophia nods slowly, her gaze softening. For a fleeting moment, her hand twitches like she wants to reach out — but she doesn’t.
The night hums around them. Two people who once fit perfectly, now sitting side by side with miles between them.
When Sophia stands to go, she turns back, her eyes tired but full. “You did really well today,” she says quietly. “Keep it up.”
Manon nods, voice breaking. “You too.”
Manon watches as Sophia walks away, her silhouette fading into the hallway light.
And Manon stays there — the taste of apology still in her mouth, the ache of love still alive in her chest.
She whispers into the empty air: “I’ll keep showing up this time.”
*****
The next morning, Manon wakes up before sunrise.
The world outside is still blue and half-asleep, the city muffled and soft. But her mind is already racing. She slips out of the dorm quietly, tying her hair up, sliding her practice shoes on without waking anyone.
She promised herself last night she’d stop running — and this is how she starts.
When she walks into the practice room, it’s empty except for the faint hum of the AC and her reflection in the mirror. She presses play.
Again.
And again.
Until her body aches, until her breath catches, until the choreography that once terrified her starts to feel like hers again.
By the time the others arrive, sweat is dripping down her back. Lara blinks in surprise. “You’ve been here since—?”
“Early,” Manon says simply. She doesn’t add because I need to prove something.
Sophia walks in a little later, hair pulled back, a water in her hand. She slows when she sees Manon already moving in time to the music. Their eyes meet in the mirror for the briefest second — a flicker, nothing more — but it lingers in the air like static.
Sophia looks away first, pretending to focus on warming up. But her fingers tighten slightly around her cup.
Mission 3 comes sooner than any of them expect. The group’s energy is tense, a mix of pressure and pride. And fate — or maybe the producers — put Manon and Sophia on the same team again.
No one says anything when the lineup is announced, but everyone feels it.
The first few practices are stiff. They move like strangers sharing the same rhythm. But slowly — piece by piece — something shifts.
When Sophia struggles with a transition, Manon offers to stay after to help. She doesn’t push, just quietly mirrors the movement beside her, adjusting angles, murmuring, “Here — like this, right?”
Sophia nods, eyes focused, but there’s a softness to her tone. “Yeah. Like that.”
And then one night, when everyone else is gone, it’s just the two of them. The speaker hums quietly as the same section loops over and over.
They move in sync.
Breathe in sync.
The tension between them feels different now — not sharp, but electric.
When the music stops, Sophia’s laugh slips out, breathless and small. “You’ve been practicing,” she says, almost teasing.
Manon smiles, chest heaving. “I told you. I’m showing up.”
Sophia’s eyes meet hers — steady, unreadable. But something in them flickers, a warmth she’s been trying to hide.
“I see that,” she murmurs.
The night is cold, but the lights burn bright — high above the set, flooding everything in silver and gold. Their breath fogs in the air, the sound of staff shuffling equipment echoing through the lot.
It’s almost midnight. Everyone’s exhausted.
Manon rubs her hands together as she watches Sophia from a few meters away, sitting on a folding chair near the monitors. Her shoulders are shaking slightly beneath her jacket, skin pale, eyes glossy with fever.
She shouldn’t even be here. But she’s Sophia — stubborn, proud, and too professional to admit she’s sick.
“Team Buttons, standby!” someone shouts.
Sophia pushes herself up. She stumbles once, just barely. Dani notices, frowning.
“You sure she’s okay?” Dani whispers, falling in beside Manon.
Manon’s eyes stay fixed on Sophia. “She will be,” she says softly, though her chest tightens.
The camera rolls again.
Sophia hits every move, every note. Her energy flickers in and out like a candle about to die, but she keeps burning anyway.
When the final “Cut!” echoes through the air, Sophia nearly drops to her knees.
Manon doesn’t think. She’s already moving, breaking from formation to catch Sophia by the elbow, steadying her before she falls.
“Hey, easy,” Manon murmurs, voice low so no one else hears. “Sit for a second.”
Sophia blinks up at her, dazed, cheeks flushed from fever. “I’m fine,” she whispers.
“You’re not,” Manon says, pulling her gently toward the side of the set where it’s quieter. She crouches, opening a water bottle and holding it out. “Here.”
Sophia takes it, drinking a little. Her fingers brush Manon’s when she hands it back — the touch is fleeting but enough to send something through Manon’s chest.
Dani’s voice breaks the silence. “You’ve been glued to her all night,” she says, standing a few feet away, arms crossed. “What’s going on with you two?”
Manon straightens, heart jumping. “Nothing,” she says too quickly. “I’m just… worried. She’s my teammate.”
Dani raises an eyebrow, unconvinced but too tired to push it. “Right.” She turns to grab her things, leaving them alone again under the hum of the lights.
Sophia laughs softly — it’s hoarse, barely a sound. “You’re still terrible at pretending.”
Manon’s lips twitch. “So are you.”
Sophia leans back against a lighting crate, exhaustion pulling at her features.
After a beat, she says quietly, “Can I lay my head on you? Just for a second.”
Manon’s breath catches. “Yeah,” she whispers.
Sophia rests her head on Manon’s shoulder. The weight is light, familiar. Her hair brushes Manon’s neck, smelling faintly of her perfume.
For a moment, everything falls away — the noise, the cameras, the months of distance.
Manon remembers one morning in Switzerland when Sophia visited. Sophia bundled in her scarf, laughing through the fog. She remembers sitting on a park bench, Sophia’s head against her shoulder, the way her voice sounded when she hummed without thinking.
That same sound echoes faintly now — Sophia humming under her breath, lost in half-sleep.
Manon closes her eyes, letting the ache wash through her. You’re still the only one I want to take care of.
Later that night, when they finish the final take, everyone gathers around to wait for the announcement. The lights are dimmer now, the air colder.
The screen calls the names:
Celeste. Ua. Nayoung.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Celeste tries to smile through tears, hugging them one by one. Ua’s lips tremble but she thanks everyone softly.
Nayoung just says, “Do your best. Keep going.”
Manon hugs Celeste tight. “You did so well,” she says, voice thick.
Celeste nods, squeezing her back. “You too, Manon. Keep her safe, yeah?” she whispers — and Manon doesn’t ask who she means.
When Manon turns, Sophia’s standing beneath the light, face streaked with tears, eyes shimmering. She looks so small and bright all at once.
Their eyes lock, and the noise of the set disappears again.
Sophia walks toward her slowly. “We made it,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Manon nods. “Yeah.”
They stand close, breath clouding in the cold between them.
Manon hesitates, then says quietly, “You were incredible today, Sophia.”
Sophia smiles faintly — tired but sincere. “You too, Manz.”
The nickname slips out before she can stop it. It hangs in the air like something sacred.
Both of them freeze.
Sophia looks away first, her cheeks pink under the light. “Sorry. Habit.”
Manon swallows, forcing a small smile. “Don’t be.”
For a few seconds, they just stand there — not quite touching, but too close to feel like strangers.
Sophia exhales softly. “You should rest.”
Manon nods. “You too.”
Then Sophia turns, walking back toward the van, her figure dissolving into the bright white light.
Manon stays behind a moment longer, watching her until she’s gone.
And even as the set goes dark, Manon’s heart doesn’t stop glowing — faint and persistent, like a pilot light that refuses to die.
The room was quiet — too quiet. Just the hum of her AC and the sound of the outside world. It was late enough that everyone was asleep, but Manon couldn’t even pretend to rest.
She lay on her side, the glow of her phone washing her face in pale light, thumb hovering over a name she hadn’t touched in months.
sophia my sunshine☀️
It was corny but it showed how smitten she was. The contact name hadn’t changed since before the show — since before everything fell apart. She could’ve deleted it. She told herself she would. But every time she tried, her thumb froze. It felt like erasing a life she’d already lived.
She opened it.
The messages loaded slowly, one by one — a history written in tiny bubbles.
"good morning, manz ☀️"
"mon, you’re late again"
"moon, answer me or I’m flying to switzerland"
"I miss you already"
Manon let out a breath that trembled halfway through. The pet names still hit like they were alive.
Moon.
It had started as a joke. Sophia had called her that once after a late-night drive when Manon was visiting, saying, “You always look prettier under the streetlights.” And then she laughed, that dorky laugh that always made Manon’s chest hurt in the best way. “You’re my moon,” she’d said, voice soft. “I don’t shine unless you’re around.”
It was the kind of thing that sounded silly out loud, but Sophia had meant it. Back then, she meant everything she said.
And Manon—
She’d loved her like gravity.
Every memory hurt now because it was tied to a version of them that didn’t survive. The goodbye before Sophia went to Dream Academy (Manon didn’t realize it was Dream Academy) still replayed in her head: the forced smiles, the unspoken panic. “We’ll be okay,” Sophia had said through the phone, but her voice was already breaking. And then, a few weeks later, a message that ended everything without really explaining why.
"I cant do this anymore"
Manon had typed out a dozen replies — im sorry, i’ll do better, i promise to fix things — but none of them felt enough. She deleted them all, and that was that. She didn’t even bother replying.
They hadn’t talked since. Not really. Just polite hellos during practice, soft smiles in the hall, a fragile, wordless truce.
Now, scrolling through their old messages, it all felt like a life she’d imagined. A parallel world where they still texted each other after rehearsals, where Sophia still called her moon and Manon still answered, “Hello, sunshine.”
Her throat tightened. She pressed the phone to her chest, blinking hard as the ache swelled behind her ribs.
God, she missed her.
Not the on-camera Sophia. Not the confident leader the fans adored.
She missed her Sophia — the one who laughed mid-kiss, the one who would talk Manon to sleep, the one who ended every call with “love you” so casually that it never felt like a confession, just a truth.
She missed the version of herself that existed in that relationship too — softer, lighter, certain.
Now, they were both chasing something else, pretending the past was neat and finished when it still bled through every glance. And the cruelest part? They’d made it this far together again, just on opposite sides of something unnamed.
Manon’s thumb hovered over the message box. She typed out hey sunshine— just to see it there. The words looked wrong now, like they belonged to someone braver, someone who hadn’t ruined what they had.
She deleted it.
Her screen dimmed, and in the reflection, she caught the faint shimmer of tears she hadn’t noticed falling.
She whispered into the dark, barely audible: “Goodnight, sunshine.”
The words felt smaller without Sophia there to hear them. But she said them anyway — because it was the only way she still knew how to love her.
*****
The last week felt like it existed outside of time.
The five of them — Ezerela, Lara, Samara, Sophia, and Manon — spent every waking hour in the studio. Days bled into nights, the mirrors fogged from sweat, and the floor was littered with empty water bottles and half-eaten snacks. Sleep was optional; perfection wasn’t.
There were no words about what came next — no one dared say “final mission” out loud — but it hung there, heavy and electric, in every glance.
Sophia led most of their run-throughs. Her voice carried easily, gentle but sure: counting beats, correcting posture, encouraging everyone to push through one more time. She was steady, even when she was tired — though Manon always noticed the signs when Sophia was wearing herself thin. The small shake in her hands when she tied her shoes. The way she pressed her palm against her ribs when she thought no one was looking.
Manon was always looking.
She’d slide a water bottle across the floor toward her during breaks, pretending it was nothing, pretending the motion didn’t mean what it did.
Sophia would catch it, glance up, meet her eyes for a split second — and smile. Just a little. Just enough.
Other times it was Sophia who noticed. She’d stop beside Manon mid-practice, murmuring, “You’re spacing out,” before handing her a towel or fixing her mic pack. Or, more quietly: “You okay?”
Manon always said yes, even when her heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with dancing.
Lara teased them sometimes — lighthearted, oblivious — when she caught one looking at the other too long. “You two communicate with telepathy or something?” she joked once. Sophia had laughed, brushing it off, but her cheeks flushed a faint pink that Manon noticed immediately.
There were moments when they all felt like a real team — laughing after a clean run, collapsing on the floor in a sweaty heap. Sophia would be the first to say “Again?” and everyone would groan except Manon, who secretly liked hearing it because it meant she’d get to see her smile again.
And then the laughter would fade, the studio would go quiet, and the weight of tomorrow would settle back in.
*****
The night before the final day, the air in the building felt different — too still, too aware.
Manon had come back for one last stretch, one last run-through, anything to calm the nerves twisting in her chest. But when she opened the door, she realized someone was already there.
Sophia sat on the floor by the mirror, earbuds in, head tilted back against the wall, the glow of her phone lighting half her face. She looked peaceful in a way that made Manon’s throat tighten — tired, but beautiful.
Manon hesitated, standing in the doorway longer than she should’ve. Then she took a breath and crossed the room, choosing a spot against the opposite wall. Far enough to respect the space between them. Close enough that she could still hear the faint music leaking from Sophia’s earbuds.
For a while, neither said a word. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — just fragile, like glass between them. The hum of the air conditioner filled the space.
Manon’s fingers toyed with the cap of her water bottle. She wasn’t even sure why she spoke — maybe because she couldn’t stand not hearing Sophia’s voice.
“Final day tomorrow.”
Sophia blinked, pulling one earbud out. Then, a soft chuckle — low, familiar, almost teasing. “Yeah. Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
That laugh — it was the same one that used to happen between kisses, muffled against Manon’s skin. The sound hit her like a memory. Her chest tightened.
Sophia tilted her head. “Are you nervous?”
Manon thought for a second, then shook her head. “Not too much.”
Sophia smiled faintly, raising an eyebrow. “Really? Why not?”
Manon looked at her then — really looked. The studio light caught the side of Sophia’s face, the soft sheen of sweat on her skin, the loose strands of hair framing her eyes.
“Because I know you’re going to debut,” she said quietly.
For a heartbeat, Sophia froze. A flicker passed through her expression — surprise, then something warmer, softer, that she tried to hide but couldn’t.
Silence settled again, thicker now. Sophia looked away first, pretending to check her phone, but Manon couldn’t look anywhere else.
She wanted to memorize her like this. The calm before everything changed.
“You earned it,” Manon added softly.
Sophia didn’t respond right away. She just exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh. Then she stood, brushing off her knees, and reached for her bag.
Manon stayed where she was, hugging her knees to her chest. She didn’t want to break the spell or ask her to stay. She didn’t want to risk saying something she couldn’t take back — not tonight.
Sophia walked toward the door, her steps slow. For a second, Manon thought that was it — another quiet ending.
But Sophia stopped at the doorframe.
She didn’t turn all the way around — just enough that Manon could see the side of her face, the faint tremor of hesitation before she spoke.
“Text me when you debut.”
The words hit like déjà vu — not a question this time, but a quiet command. A promise she wasn’t sure she’d be allowed to keep.
Manon’s heart stuttered. She wanted to ask why now, wanted to say I never stopped, but the words wouldn’t come.
Sophia finally looked at her — just for a second — eyes soft, unreadable. And then she was gone.
The door shut behind her, leaving the room full of echoes.
Manon didn’t move. She sat there, the weight of Sophia’s voice lingering in the air, in her ribs, in her pulse.
And for a long moment, she let herself imagine that maybe Sophia meant both of them would debut.
Together.
*****
The stage lights still burned behind Manon’s eyelids long after they dimmed. The world felt too loud — the cheers, the flashing cameras, the thundering music. Her hands trembled in her lap as the final name was about to be called.
One last spot. One last breath.
“Manon!”
Her body went still for half a second — then the room erupted.
Applause, screaming, confetti. Someone hugged her; another was crying. She smiled until her face hurt, trying to catch her breath through the blur of light and sound. The moment she had dreamed of — debut — was here, but it felt unreal, hollow at the edges.
Everything blurred after that: the congratulations, the final words from the judges, the goodbyes. Megan was beside her the whole time, laughing, spinning her by the hand as they ran down the street toward her mom then towards the celebration. “You did it, Manon! You’re debuting!”
Manon laughed back—or tried to—but her heart was somewhere else. Somewhere she hadn’t let herself look all day.
At the banquet, surrounded by glittering lights and champagne and smiles that all blurred together, she saw her.
Sophia.
Standing across the room, radiant and composed, laughing at something Samara said. Her dress shimmered in the light. Her hair was pinned up, neck exposed — the same neck Manon used to kiss in the mornings whenever either one of them visited.
Manon froze. The noise dimmed until all she could hear was her heartbeat. She didn’t even realize she was typing until she looked down at her phone:
Manon: hey sunshine
The nickname she hadn’t used since before the breakup.
Sophia’s phone buzzed. Her eyes flickered down, then up — locking with Manon’s immediately. A small, startled breath escaped her lips. Then she set her glass down and walked out the side door.
Manon’s hands shook. Every instinct screamed at her to stay, to play it safe — but her feet moved before she could think.
She followed.
The hallway outside was dim, lined with gold light from the ballroom. The music was muffled behind the doors. Sophia stood there, waiting.
For a moment, they just looked at each other — months of silence packed into one impossible second.
“Sophia, I—” Manon began, voice breaking.
Sophia cut her off, voice trembling. “You are such an idiot.”
Manon froze.
“Do you even realize how stupid that was?” Sophia’s words came sharp, but her eyes were glistening. “That night, when I texted you I can’t do this anymore — I saw you typing! I saw you! And you didn’t send anything. Do you know what that felt like?”
Manon’s chest ached. “Sophia—”
“No!” Sophia’s voice cracked. “I waited, Manon. For months. Even through my training, even through everything — I waited to hear from you. And you said nothing.” Her hands balled into fists. “You disappeared like I meant nothing.”
Manon swallowed hard, tears stinging her eyes. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought—”
“You thought what? That I’d moved on? That I didn’t care anymore?”
Manon’s voice finally cracked open. “I thought I’d already hurt you enough!” The words burst out. “And I didn’t want to make it worse. I didn’t want to be a reminder of everything that went wrong.”
Sophia shook her head, a broken laugh slipping out. “You’re unbelievable.”
Manon stepped closer, desperate. “I regretted it every single day, Sophia. I didn’t do enough. I didn’t fight for us. I was scared — of everything — of failing, of holding you back, of losing you.” Her voice softened, trembling. “But I lost you anyway. And I swear, I never stopped loving you.”
That last line seemed to break something in Sophia. Her jaw trembled; tears spilled over. “You think I stopped?” she whispered. “You think I didn’t cry when you got here? When I saw you across the studio again after months?”
She laughed bitterly, wiping at her eyes. “I told my entire family to vote for you, Manon. Every mission. I wanted you to win even if it broke me.” Sophia sighed. “I wanted to be with you again.”
Manon’s breath hitched.
Sophia’s hands trembled as she pointed weakly at her. “And I hate that I still care this much. I hate that you’re the first person I look for every time something happens. I hate that I still—” Her voice failed, swallowed by a sob.
Manon stepped forward and, very carefully, reached for her hand. Sophia didn’t pull away.
“I know,” Manon whispered. “I know. And I’m sorry. I should’ve sent that text. I should’ve said everything then — not now, not after all this time.” She pressed Sophia’s hand to her lips. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I won’t disappear again.”
Sophia let out a choked laugh through tears. “You say that like I could ever get rid of you.”
Manon laughed too—small, broken, but real.
Sophia lifted her hand and cupped Manon’s face. “You make me so angry,” she murmured. “You ruin me every time, moon.”
“I know,” Manon whispered, her own nickname ringing in her ears. “I love you sunshine.”
Sophia smiled — trembling, sad, beautiful. “I love you too,” she whispered back. Then she pulled her in and kissed her, hard — desperate, forgiving, everything they hadn’t said for months pressed into one breath.
When they finally broke apart, both were crying and laughing, foreheads pressed together.
From the banquet room, applause and laughter swelled again, distant and muffled — the sound of the world continuing.
But here, in this small quiet between songs, between years, they finally found each other again.