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"Sophia… is Megan mad at me?" is the first thing to leave Yoonchae's mouth when she stumbles into their shared room, dropping her bag on the floor with a thud that's way too loud for eleven PM, but appropriate for the bomb that’s ticking in her chest.
Sophia looks up from her phone, eyebrows raised. “What?” she gasps in disbelief, forever amping up the dramatics. “No. Why would she be?”
“I don't know!” Yoonchae exclaims; it comes out raw, and desperate, but, all in all, pretty accurate to the way she’s feeling right now. Yoonchae throws herself onto her bed, and her next words come out muffled, by virtue of the pillow her face is shoved in. “That's exactly why I'm asking.”
There's a pause. It’s long, and unpleasant, and it makes Yoonchae's skin crawl with the anxiety that only comes from knowing Sophia is choosing her next words very, very carefully. She can practically hear the gears turning in her head as Sophia sets down her phone. “Did something happen?”
Yoonchae rolls over, staring at the ceiling.
Did something happen?
She doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to think about it, about Megan being mad at her.
So. She doesn’t think about it.
Instead, she looks.
There’s glow-in-the-dark stars near the fan. They'd stuck them up as a ‘roommate bonding activity’, during their first week, where everything was awkward and it was a struggle to have dinner together.
The stars are barely visible now, faded from months of use, but she remembers the night fondly anyway — Sophia standing on a chair while Yoonchae handed her the stars, one by one, both of them giddy with the newness of debut (ha, pun; because of their song. Yoonchae was something of a comedian. Or that was Megan rubbing off on her. But thinking about Megan right now was, was, was. No) life, with having their own space. It feels like a lifetime ago.
When Yoonchae realizes Sophia’s still waiting for a response, she tries not to visibly cringe. Just swallows her worries and barrels forward. “It's just... I don't know. She's been, like, weird lately.”
“Megan’s always weird,” Sophia snorts, hand scratching her chin. “That’s her token personality trait. You’re gonna have to specify. Weird how?”
“Like —” Yoonchae groans and sits up, crossing her legs. Part of her doesn’t want to say anything at all. The other part of her deems this incorrect; now that she’s started talking about it, Yoonchae isn’t permitted to stop. The words that’ve been building up inside her for days, pressing against her ribs, spill out all at once. “Like, yesterday during practice? I asked if she wanted to grab food after and she just said 'maybe' and then left with Lara instead. And this morning she didn't save me a seat at breakfast even though she always does. And earlier today I tried to show her this video I thought was funny and she barely looked at it before going back to her phone.”
Sophia hums, thoughtful. The optimist: “Maybe she's just tired. We've all been working nonstop.”
“But that's not all!” Yoonchae says, shooting Sophia down in an instant. She starts gesturing wildly with her hands. “Like, okay, you know how she always responds to my messages right away? She left me on read for three hours today. Three hours, Sophia. And when we were rehearsing, she kept — I don't know how to explain it — she kept not looking at me? Like, actively avoiding eye contact. And her jaw was doing that clenchy thing it does when she's annoyed.”
“The clenchy thing,” Sophia repeats, fighting a smile.
She’s glad someone finds amusement in her suffering.
“You know what I mean! That thing where —” Ugh, fine, Yoonchae demonstrates it, tensing her jaw. “Like she's grinding her teeth or something. She does it when she's trying not to say something.”
“I know, I know.” Sophia consoles, like she’s a child, which only serves to make her more annoyed. She’s not some… kid. Her and Sophia are only five years apart, which in the grand scheme of things, is quite small. Her and Megan? Even less, despite everyone’s continually coddling of her and adult-manner-of-speaking toward Megan. But it’s hard to stay mad at Sophia when she’s scooting to the edge of the bed, closer, amused expression gone and replaced by concern. “But honestly? I think you might be overthinking this. Megan's been stressed with the comeback prep. We all have.”
Yoonchae would like to believe her. It’d make everything fine and dandy, really. It’s not personal. It’s not personal. Maybe she should repeat it, like a mantra, whip out a prayer book and some candles, until it comes true, because even if Sophia claims she’s ‘overthinking this’, there’s a gnawing feeling in her stomach that won't go away. A certainty that something has fundamentally shifted between her and Megan, and that it’s all Yoonchae’s fault — she doesn't know what or why or how to fix it.
“Yeah. Maybe,” Yoonchae says, but it’s hollow and unconvinced that anything Sophia’s said is the slightest bit true, and from the look on her face, Sophia sees that as clear as day.
She lies there for a while, even after Sophia’s tossed out a “Good night, sleep tight, we have rehearsals tomorrow!” and turned off the lights, shuffling in bed and trying to convince herself that maybe Sophia is right. She’s reading into things, and Megan isn't mad at her, and everything will be sunshine and ponies come tomorrow.
Except she can't shake the feeling that something's wrong.
Yoonchae's always been particularly good at reading people — maybe too good. It's not necessarily a developed survival skill, just something she learned at young. Gauging people’s moods from the way they held their shoulders or the particular cadence of their footsteps on the rocky ground. It helps, especially now that she’s in America and not back home, because when words fail, she can still tell when someone's upset with her. Can sense it in the air, in their words, in the behavior shifts that come with attempting (and failing) to hide how they truly feel.
And, so, it’s pretty easy to see that Megan's been… different. Nothing drastic, like spitting on Yoonchae, or pushing her down the stairs, or punching her in the nose, but in a thousand tiny actions that add up to a conclusion Yoonchae can't ignore.
Megan’s been different, she knows, because when Yoonchae shuffles back and replays old memories, there’s one constant: everything had been so different during Dream Academy.
Megan used to ruffle her hair every morning, automatic, without thinking, purely fond — that stopped weeks ago. Megan and her would go out to dinner, small little things of their own design, just for them, and steal food off her plate with a teasing, stupidly blinding grin — she hasn't done that either. And there’s that space that's opened up between them; not physical distance, not exactly, because they're still in the same practice rooms and dorms and cars, but an emotional gap that Yoonchae doesn't know how to bridge.
It scares her far more than she wants to admit.
Megan is — has always been — Yoonchae's person.
“Oh, Yoonchae!” this, “Oh, Yoonchae!” that. There’d never been a moment where Megan hadn’t, at the very least, attempted to include Yoonchae. Like it was important that she was part of the moment, engaged with everyone else.
It’s not only that.
Megan checked on her during their trainee days when everyone else was too caught up in their own stress, stayed up late helping her with English when she was struggling, patient and encouraging, even when Yoonchae wanted to give up and board the next flight home.
She’s the one who made her feel less alone in a country that still didn't quite feel like home.
The thought of losing that, of losing Megan, of Megan being mad at her for some unknown reason, makes her chest tighten and a noose wrap around her neck.
She must fall asleep eventually, even with the way her mind swarms like a storm, because the next thing she knows, her alarm is blaring and Sophia's already in the shower and sunlight is streaming through the gap in their curtains.
Yoonchae feels like she's been hit by a truck. Or maybe several trucks. Several Megan-shaped trucks.
She drags herself out of bed and goes through the motions of getting ready, mind still stuck on one, singular thing. One, singular person.
Morning bleeds into afternoon, and before Yoonchae knows it, she's sitting in a too-bright studio with ring lights that make her eyes water, wedged between Manon and Sophia on a couch that's absolutely not meant to fit six people comfortably. But. It’ll have to do.
The interviewer — a woman with an aggressively cheerful smile and a clipboard — is going through the usual spiel of questions. How's fame going? Comeback? What's the concept? Any spoilers you can share?
Standard stuff. Easy stuff.
Yoonchae's trying to focus, she really is, especially because management’s been on her ass about not answering questions, and how fans have been talking on and on about her not answering said questions.
The thing is, Yoonchae has a problem: Megan's sitting on the far end of the couch, next to Lara, and she can feel the weight of not being looked at. Of being completely, totally ignored. It's ridiculous, how much space Megan can take up by specifically not acknowledging her.
“So,” the interviewer says, leaning forward with that gleam in her eye that means she thinks she's about to ask something profound, “what would you say is the group's biggest strength? What makes Katseye special?”
There's a beat of silence, a tell-tale sign that everyone's waiting for someone else to jump in first.
And, well. She’d appreciate management giving her a day off, so Yoonchae opens her mouth before she can think better of it. “I think —” she starts, immediately regretting it when she feels Megan's gaze snap toward her. It’s simultaneously a relief and a nightmare. Because Megan may no longer be ignoring her, but she’s not giving Yoonchae the warm, encouraging look she's used to either.
It’s not even neutral.
Cold. Sharp. Annoyed.
Yoonchae's throat goes dry at it, the heavy desire to run out of the room, back to the dorm, and burrow under the covers strong, but she's already committed. She can’t back down now, not with the interviewer looking at like she’s a shark who’s just caught a particularly interesting fish. So, Yoonchae pushes through, trying to ignore the way her voice wavers slightly. “I think our biggest strength is how we, um —” she mentally curses herself for that. Fuck. She’s always so slow with her answer, so hesitant. “ — support each other. Like, we all come from different places, different backgrounds, but we've built this family together. And that bond, that trust… you can see it in our performances. We're stronger together than we would be apart.”
It's a good answer. PR-friendly. True, even.
Or, at least it used to be, until Megan decided she was #1 Public Enemy.
The interviewer beams, entirely unaware of where Yoonchae’s thoughts have headed. “That's beautiful! I love that.”
But Yoonchae's not looking at the interviewer anymore. She's acutely, painfully aware of Megan, whose jaw is doing that thing again — the clenchy thing — and whose eyes have gone back to staring straight ahead, but different than before. Harder. Like Yoonchae's words physically pained her to hear. Like simply hearing Yoonchae’s voice was as irritating as nails scratching down a chalkboard.
The rest of the interview is pure torture.
Every time Yoonchae shifts, she feels it.
Every time she laughs at something Sophia says, or nods along to one of Lara's answers, she can sense Megan's attention on her like a brand. And, no, not the good kind of attention.
She wants to sink into the couch cushions and kind of disappear forever.
When the interviewer asks about their pre-show rituals, Megan finally speaks. Her voice is perfectly pleasant and perfectly professional, the epitome of an idol, but there's an edge to it that Yoonchae is sure is meant to be directed at her.
“We do a group huddle!” Megan exclaims, smiling brightly at the camera. Not at Yoonchae. Purposely, not at Yoonchae. Only at the camera. “Get hyped together. Make sure everyone's ready, you know?”
The emphasis on 'everyone' feels pointed. Like a jab. Or maybe Yoonchae's just losing her mind.
When they finally wrap and the cameras cut, Yoonchae expects — hopes, desperately — that Megan will say something. Anything. Even if it's to yell at her for whatever she did wrong, whatever she did to deserve Megan’s glares instead of grins, stabs instead of hugs, hate instead of love.
But Megan simply stands, stretches, and walks out with Lara without a backward glance.
Sophia catches Yoonchae's eye from across the room and mouths, You okay?
Yoonchae nods, automatic. It’s a lie. She's not okay. Not even close.
Megan hates her, and she knows it’s all her fault, and she can’t figure out why. Not for the life of her.
The smell of rotting food and stale grease is probably not the ideal backdrop for an end-all be-all confrontation, but Yoonchae supposes beggars can't be choosers.
She'd followed Megan out here on impulse. Had watched her slip away from the group after they'd wrapped another schedule, with a tense set of her shoulder and a too-hard shove to the exit door.
Instead of letting her go, like she maybe should have, like a smart person would have, Yoonchae followed.
They’re behind the building now, next to a dumpster that's seen better days. It stinks, firstly, and Megan's pacing like a caged animal, so the vibe overall is. Not good. In Yoonchae’s sound judgement.
“Why are you here?” Megan asks, not looking at her.
“Because you've been avoiding me for two weeks,” Yoonchae says, and she hates how small her voice sounds. How young. Irritation bubbles up, underneath her skin, threatening to burst like a volcano and spew something she might regret. “And I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry, okay? Whatever it was, I'm —”
“You didn't do anything,” Megan cuts her off, sharp. She stops pacing, runs a hand through her hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she actually looks at Yoonchae. Really looks at her. “That's not, God, Yoonchae, you didn't do anything.”
Yoonchae blinks, confused. “Then why —”
“Because I'm stressed!” Megan snaps. It comes out louder than either of them expect. She’s caught Yoonchae’s wince, clearly, and decided it mattered, when her voice takes a softer edge as she continues, “I'm stressed, and I'm tired, and everything feels like it's falling apart, and I've been taking it out on you because you're... you're there. You're always there, and it's easy, and I —” She cuts herself off, jaw working.
Clency thing, Yoochae’s mind distantly registers.
What comes out is: “I'm easy?” It leaves her mouth with far more hurt than she intends embedded.
“Not like that,” Megan says quickly, something desperate under the surface. “I mean — you're the person I'm most comfortable with. Which sounds like it should be a good thing, I know, but it also means you're the person I'm most comfortable being terrible to, apparently.” She laughs, bitter and hollow. “Which is really messed up.”
Yoonchae takes a step closer. The dumpster smell is overwhelmingly awful — she can't bring herself to care, not when Megan's looking at her like that. Not when… not when… Megan’s not mad at her? “So you're not mad at me?”
“No,” is what exits Megan’s mouth, speed of light. She sounds so, so tired. Exhausted, in a way that has nothing to do with their schedule. It makes Yoonchae feel guilty, if anything. How had she not noticed? How bad Megan was handling everything? The transition from pre-debut to debut had been difficult for everyone, sure, but she’d thought that was how they bonded. Over the difficulties. Smile through the pain and keep going. Yoonchae hadn’t realized Megan was drowning, no life vest in sight. “I'm mad at myself. And the company. And the fact that I can't sleep more than four hours without having a panic attack about messing up choreography or saying the wrong thing in an interview or —” she pauses, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “But not you. Never you.”
“You could've just told me,” Yoonchae says quietly. “Instead of shutting me out. Making me think I did something wrong.”
“I know.” Megan's voice cracks. She’s probably holding back tears. She hopefully is, honestly, because Yoonchae can’t be the only one about to cry. “I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Yoonchae. I just didn't want you to see me like this. All... falling apart. You look at me like I have my shit together, and I didn't want to ruin that.”
“I don't care about that,” Yoonchae counters, stepping forward and closing the distance between them. Until they're close enough that she can see the exhaustion carved into Megan's features and the way her hands are trembling slightly. It fills her with so much more guilt. “I care about you. Not some perfect version of you.”
Megan makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. “You're supposed to be the one I take care of, you know? Not the other way around.”
“Maybe we take care of each other,” Yoonchae offers, far steadier than she feels. “Crazy concept, I know.”
That gets a real laugh out of Megan, watery but genuine, and God, Yoonchae's missed that sound. Missed it so much it physically hurts. "When did you get so wise?"
“I've always been wise.” Yoonchae frowns, waggling a finger. “You just never noticed because you were too busy doing the clenchy jaw thing."
“The what?”
“Your jaw! You do this —” Yoonchae demonstrates, tensing her jaw as Megan does. It feels ridiculous, but ridiculously worth it when Megan's suddenly laughing harder, more real than before. And because Megan’s always been as contagious as a disease, it infects Yoonchae; they’re both laughing, standing behind a dumpster in the fading afternoon light.
It's absurd. It’s everything Yoonchae's been missing for two weeks.
Megan's laughter abruptly shrivels and dies, turning serious. “I really am sorry,” Megan whispers.
“I know,” Yoonchae says, and she does. She believes her.
Unbidden, a thought bubbles up: Yoonchae wants to kiss Megan.
Wants to learn what her lips taste like.
But she can't do that.
They're bandmates, at the beginning of their career, with cameras everywhere and contracts that could crumble if Yoonchae reaches for what she wants instead of what she should want.
“Come on,” Megan says, reaching for her hand. “We should get back before they send a search party.”
Yoonchae nods, lets Megan guide her back inside, lets whatever was broken between them mend.
It's not perfect.
But they're them again.