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There is a fine line between 17 and 19. Megan knows this fact intrinsically, has had it ingrained in her memory since elementary school, when she first learned how to count, and it stays stuck with her now, embedded in the grooves of her brain, even after those days have long since passed and been forgotten, replaced by homeschooling and the ever-gnawing anxiety that she has to take Lexapro just to stave off, by new faces coming and going, and through it all, five that have remained with her for the years they have all dedicated themselves to training for. Which brings her back to her train of thought.
17 and 19 and the unspoken number in between. 18, the age where you officially become an adult, can make your own decisions, where minor labor laws no longer apply to you and you can spend as much time in the studio as you want, rehearsing until your legs feel as if they’re about to fall off or your voice strains just a bit too much for comfort from hitting one too many high notes in the recording studio. 18 has already hit her, passed her by in a daze and whirlwind of “Aren’t you happy you can do things on your own now, Megan?” Which, yeah. She appreciates the idea of it, sure, but in reality it goes more like this: Sophia will still loop her into sitting on her bed and convince Megan to spill what’s really been on her mind lately, Lara will still corner her into going to some new boba place or pop-up restaurant together, Manon will still ambush her on the couch with her cold, long-ass fingers digging into her sides, Dani will still rope her into filming a new dance trend, for the eyekons! Meizini rates will be going up after this, Megan, just you wait!
Maybe that’s her problem, that she always has to wait for what she wants. No matter how much she tries to convince herself, the gap between their years will remain the same, from now until the day one of them dies. The thought sobers Megan up, makes her take in a large gulp of too thick air. She almost chokes on it. The numbers will change, though. How could they not? With the same inevitability of the tide washing against her toes in the sand in Hawaii, the same push and pull of the waves lapping gently at the shore. They tug out grains of sand from the earth and bring them out to sea, hold them close, tumbling together with seaweed and seashells until the forever unchanging sea releases its embrace and sends its gifts back out to shore.
A seashell washes up between her feet. Megan stares at it for a moment longer than entirely reasonable, pinches it gently between her forefinger and thumb, notes its pearly whiteness and the spiraling pink streaks on its inside, brings it to her ear. If she listens hard enough, she can almost hear someone calling her name.
They are 17 and 19 now, but soon they will be 18 and 20. With December comes a change that shouldn’t feel as monumental as it is. After all, it’s only one number, Megan reasons with herself in the quiet of her room. She toys absentmindedly with a curl of her hair, stares out the window to see the pearly glow of the moon shining quietly back at her. The difference between 17 and 18 is only one. So is the space between 18 and 19, if she squints hard enough.
And, okay, it isn’t unheard of, people meeting each other later on in life, being born years apart yet still finding their way to each other, the pull of light shining on shifting waters. She knows people who have larger gaps between them than just two years, the span of their group’s lifetime, the amount of time they’ve existed, together, training, in order for her to make it on stage, hitting every beat with a rehearsed fluidity and looking up into shining spotlights and seeing the silhouettes of five other girls moving along with her, in her periphery.
Megan only ever really looks first for one pair of eyes among all of them, but she doesn’t quite want to examine what the reasons behind that might be. The pink strands curled around her finger vaguely remind her of something, but she can’t quite pinch her fingers around what it is.
The next night, Sophia actually does make her sit down to talk out her emotions. Megan thinks it must be exhausting for her, but she does it all with this sort of bubbly, endearing smile on her face that projects, don’t worry about me, I’m the leader of a group full of rising global popstar sensations and I have everything under control! Which Megan knows is entirely untrue, has caught Sophia mumbling to herself, half-asleep at the kitchen counter with a mug of already cooling coffee in hand, about her responsibilities as the leader, the one everyone is supposed to be able to count on.
Megan tries to make it easier on Sophia, she really does. She tries to stay out of her way when Sophia’s in a mood that has Manon scrunching her eyebrows together in a mix of amusement and concern, Megan chucks her clothes strewn on the floor of her room into the laundry basket when she sees Sophia wrinkle her nose while walking across the room, makes sure to always be there with open arms when Sophia needs her to.
Which might be the reason why Sophia is here now, in Megan’s room at midnight, patting the haphazardly tangled bedspread beside her and encouraging Megan to sit down with stupidly shiny eyes that are, strangely enough, reminiscent of a puppy.
So what else can Megan do but sit? Let the interrogation begin, she thinks, somewhat mournfully, although she also gets it. That Sophia wants to return the favor, wants to thank Megan for being there for her by also being there for Megan, even if it’s honestly the last thing Megan wants to do, when she had plans to play a game (or two, because one game always spirals into another, and another, and just one more! when she’s in a groove, resulting in a sleep-deprived Megan who has to sheepishly explain the next morning that, yes, the sound you guys heard last night was me hitting my desk in frustration at 2 in the morning because the Jett who had a 3/16/3 KDA ratio somehow managed to headshot me and it cost us the game) of Valorant before simply zonking out on her bed in comfort.
Now, she sits on the rumpled sheets, hands fiddling in her lap, eyes darting from Sophia’s hands, perched serenely still atop her knees, to the door of the closet, to the mottled popcorn wall of their hotel, back to her hands, then Sophia’s, then the closet again in a vicious cycle until Sophia breaks the loop.
“So, Megan,” Sophia begins, smiling brightly, as if she hadn’t almost dragged Megan into bed with her to talk about her feelings, which Megan was already having doubts about agreeing to, “What’s been going on with you recently?” She asks it like she doesn’t already know it–they all have tour to focus on, they’ve all been living, eating, breathing tour, Sophia herself knows as well as Megan the endless preparation they endured for it, then the frantic chaos of makeup and the fastening of mic-packs, last-minute in-ear monitor adjustments, then whispered encouragements and the thrill of the stage, lights shining on them from every angle, the blinking red circles of recording cameras at every glance, the bass rumbling in her bones and building the whole night until it all comes to a head after their final encore and they rush backstage in a flood of giggles and sweat and tears. Megan always cries after.
The first time it happened she learned to wipe her tears quickly, inconspicuously, under the guise of removing her in-ear monitor. After her second time using that excuse, she had felt a pair of dark eyes gazing at her curiously.
Megan uses the bathroom as an excuse now, strides into it with too-loud footsteps and locks the door behind her with trembling hands. She uses the time to grip onto the sink until her knuckles turn white and her hands stop shaking. She tries to forget the simmering ocean of dark eyes that follow her wherever she goes. When she opens the door and steps back into the quiet hallway, the feeling of being watched still burns under her skin. A ghost by the name of–
“Yoonchae,” Megan blurts out into the near silence of the hotel room, immediately claps her hands over her mouth, because, what the fuck, honestly? She’s been training for this, staying conscious of her mind and her body and making sure they both work in harmony together, or whatever meditation crystal regiment Lara had sworn by and they had both religiously subscribed to for a week before forgetting about it in the chaos of tour, but now her body and her mind both betray her by making her say the name of the girl she can’t stop thinking of. In front of Sophia, no less, who is staring at her now with a quizzical look, nose scrunched up in shock and consideration of the abrupt subject change.
“I mean,” Megan starts, laughs nervously, too loud exhales into the fragile air between them, “I mean, um, Yoonchae’s been doing really great on tour lately!” She grins back at Sophia, wide and delighted and slightly maniacal, if the increasing distance between Sophia’s eyebrows and her eyes is anything to go by. Smooth, Megan. Just keep going with the lie and Sophia will be none the wiser! Her lips start to hurt from being pulled back too much (so maybe it’s more of a grimace than a grin) and Sophia is still giving her that questioning look, so, okay, maybe she hadn’t been as smooth as she thought.
Maybe if Megan keeps steamrolling on with her half-thought out explanation, Sophia won’t pry? “Like, have you even seen her during the Gnarly dance break? Oh, and Debut, and that note change during Tonight I Might, it was, um,” Megan hesitates, takes a reluctant pause, reconsiders what she’s even saying. Of course Sophia knows Yoonchae has been doing objectively great this whole tour. Hell, Megan’s already seen the fancams, eyekons posting eagerly, captioning their videos from the show last night, Sophia’s face at Yoonchae’s note change!!! With three heart emojis and a slew of comments reading: Mother is mothering, She’s so proud of Yoonchae, Omg my Sunchip heart, and even Maknae eats first, obviously Sophia knows that Yoonchae has been doing amazing so far.
Megan gulps audibly, and she can see Sophia’s eyes tracking the almost imperceptible movement, the subtle flex of her jaw as her throat works to swallow down the cloying embarrassment. “...Incredible.” She finishes weakly. Coughs into her hand as a way to defuse the tension, but somehow she thinks she made it worse. Making things awkward is my superpower! She scoffs at herself internally, scolds herself for letting the name crawl up from the caverns of her chest into her esophagus, up her throat and coming out with all the fragile brokenness she can’t help but give it, because those two syllables are as much a balm as they are a bruise to her already quivering heart. Oh, if only you knew, Megan, she thinks bitterly.
She is snapped out of her anxious spiral when Sophia abruptly speaks, “Yes, Megan, I have seen her during the Gnarly dance break.” Sophia sort of giggles at the admittance, quiet chimes of laughter filling the room, nothing at all like the sudden shrieks of laughter Megan has grown used to hearing from her. “You guys both did so good during that dance break, actually.” Sophia’s eyes find Megan’s, who stops fidgeting with her hands in favor of seeming invested in the conversation, although her interest is already piqued by Sophia’s praise.
“Thanks,” Megan laughs, also quiet in the stillness of her room, she knows the eyekons had loved it, hundreds on thousands of comments piling up under compilations and edits of the Gnarly dance break, her scrolling through to see if she had actually performed well or if she had gotten in her head too much already, but to hear praise from Sophia sets her at ease more than the comments ever could. Something about Sophia being the reliable one, the leader, the one she looks up to and not just a faceless username hidden in the comment section of videos she rewatches–only for that one part, she has to admit to herself, where Yoonchae comes up behind her, they whip their hair around for a few beats and after, when they vogue side by side together (Yoonchae, you conquered your greatest fear!) and Yoonchae grins at her, smile bright and just a little too dizzying under the lights and the scrutiny of thousands of eyes, all witnessing a moment Megan wishes, selfishly, were just a little more private.
But it’s Yoonchae, beaming at her, expectant, even if it’s only for the few beats of the song, even if Megan is the one who is always waiting, so who is she to deny Yoonchae the simple joy of smiling back at her?
Her lips part in an ear-splitting grin, watches the way Yoonchae’s eyes shine brighter even as the darkness of them sucks in the lights washing down on them, and for the space of a few beats, it’s only them on stage, two girls who found their way to each other from the beaches of Honolulu to the metropolis of Seoul, an ocean away, 4,577 miles apart that they somehow both managed to cross to land on this stage, performing together.
Megan has to pull herself away first. She can’t quite bring herself to meet those eyes after too long looking into them. Yoonchae always looks at Megan like she can see right through her, past the facade Megan sometimes puts on, like Yoonchae can see all of Megan’s insecurities and shortcomings and still wants to look anyway. Megan is too scared of being seen to let herself reveal anything, but Yoonchae somehow manages to wedge her fingers into that one crack in the wall Megan has erected around herself and dig in, just a little deeper, just enough for Megan to feel the first tremors of a crack in her careful defense.
She has to pull away, or the tide will drag her under and she will drown. She doesn’t look up to see the darkness of Yoonchae’s eyes falter in the absence of her light.
“Is there something going on between you and Yoonchae?” Megan blinks, and she is back in her hotel room, not being pulled under the relentless waves, the harshness of the stage lights are nowhere to be found in the dim moonlight from the window and the small lamp at her bedside. Sophia is staring at the wall now, giving Megan space to compose her thoughts, for once. Always waiting for Megan. Megan is always waiting. Is there a difference between the two?
Megan blinks again, takes the time to process the question for the space of her own few beats (Obvi, obvi–) startles. “W-what? There’s nothing going on between me and Yoonchae!” Her hand comes up to rub at the back of her neck in an effort to seem relaxed and not-at-all caught off guard, but wait, isn’t that what guilty people do when they’re caught? Megan worries her lip between her teeth, brings the hand from her neck to her hair to play with the pink tips, tries to ignore how much it reminds her of Yoonchae, carding her fingers through silky strands of hair every time she gets nervous, and, okay. So maybe there is something going on between her and Yoonchae, at least on Megan’s end.
Sophia gives her a look, like, girl, come on, I can see right through your bullshit, just admit it already, and it takes Megan only five seconds to give in. And by give in, she means stubbornly pretend she hasn’t just had the realization of a lifetime and that she now wants to claw her heart out of her chest and put it in a chokehold for daring to skip a beat when the waves of the ocean greet her eyes, Hello Megan, because she can’t, because 17 and 19, she repeats like a mantra in her head, because they’re in the same group, because, because–
She is interrupted from her spiral by Sophia placing a hand on her knee gently, stupidly gently, because Megan is too loud for gentleness, ruins most things she touches, thinks it’s a miracle she even got here at all, to be in a group and build some of the best friendships she’s ever had, always worried she’s one step away from bulldozing through their bond with her too-muchness, always, always waiting, always toeing the line, prank-calls with Manon and threatening to kiss Yoonchae one too many times for her own good.
“Megan,” Sophia says steadyingly, “It’s okay. Come on, breathe with me.” Megan does, copies her pattern of in four, hold four, out four, can’t help but think of a smile under stage lights, fights off the urge to do something stupid like dancing to the choreo right then and there. She feels herself settle, the waves lap at her feet calmer and more soothing than the angry rip-roar of them before.
“You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to,” Sophia starts, and Megan nods, thankful for the out she’s been given, “But if you do want to talk about it, know that I’m always here.” Again, Megan nods, eyes cast downwards to a small stain on the bedsheets. “I also think you should talk with Yoonchae.” Megan jolts, eyes flashing with something that she has the sinking suspicion looks a lot like guilt, was it that obvious? “She’s been worried about you, too, you know.” Sophia shares this small grain of knowledge like it is almost too precious to give up, and Megan freezes, heart dropping into the pit of her stomach before lurching back up to drum at her ribs again, far faster than normal.
Yoonchae is worried about her? What does that even mean? Before she can voice the questions, Sophia is pulling her into a tight embrace, striding across the still messy floor, almost tripping on Megan’s shirt from yesterday and doesn’t even shake her head, just makes her way to the door and gives Megan one last searching glance before entering the hallway. Megan sighs and resigns herself to getting ready for bed. She fishes out the shoes she’d packed right before they had left for tour for the next day, sandals, weather-worn and leather peeling from the beaches of Honolulu, grabs them out from the plastic bag she had packed them in, and–
She shakes the bag a little, squinting as if that would help her see the bag’s contents. There is something inside, the wrinkles of the plastic are more pronounced at the bottom, and the bag is a little heavier than normal, but barely noticeable, so whatever’s inside can’t be all that big. Megan brings the bag to her lap, ignores the plastic crinkling and parts the mouth of the bag. Inside, there is a seashell, gleaming up at her cheerfully. Megan takes it out, sets it on her nightstand, appraises it in the soft glow of the moonlight outside her window. Lets herself wonder for the span of the last closing beats before she drifts into the oblivion of sleep, how did that get there?
For her whole life up until now, Megan has always been Mei Mei. The little sister, the youngest, the one nobody ever expects anything of. Her Ge Ge, Tyler, had always taken care of that for her, rising to meet her parents’ hopes for their children. Raising the bar, so Megan could duck under it with a dutiful nod to his sacrifice as the eldest child and only son, like some twisted game of limbo.
Now, Megan thinks she is flexible enough to be able to sneak under without having to squat to her knees like the petulant child she had been. The little sister whose skin had been so easy to get under, jabs and spending too long under the sun, being dried off in the unrushed way she didn’t have patience for, arms crossed and scowling up at her older brother’s face, who had grinned cheekily at her and kept on ruffling her hair with the towel.
It’s Yoonchae, now, that Megan has to look up to. Sometimes, she looks up and the light blinds her eyes, tricks her, for just a second, into thinking she is back in Honolulu, her brother smirking back at her.
She blinks, and it’s Yoonchae, standing there, smirking, her shadow cast over Megan’s face as she clears her eyes from the glare. Megan has never once been taller than her brother in her whole life. She was taller than Yoonchae, though, when they first met, but now Yoonchae stands just slightly taller than her, shoulders pressed together during interviews, and the whiplash Megan gets from having to raise her eyes just that little bit up to meet Yoonchae’s shouldn’t be as shocking as it is. The difference between five feet and six inches and five feet and seven. One inch is really all it is. But then again, maybe Yoonchae will keep growing, and she will gain another inch on Megan, who can’t quite grow as quickly as Yoonchae, the girl who moved all the way from across the ocean to a country where she couldn’t even speak full sentences yet, to who she is now, a member of Katseye, whose English seems to be even better than Megan’s own, sometimes. The difference is only two inches. The difference is only two years. It shouldn’t feel as big as it is.
Nobody has ever expected anything from Megan other than the expectations she places on herself. The ugly truth of it sits behind her chest now, as she stares, has to look up, into eyes brimming with the sereneness of the sea. And the expectations she places on herself now: Be a good role model for Yoonchae. Be someone she can look up to. Help her when she asks for it, and always be there for her when she doesn’t. Should a role model be feeling this way? Megan falters, stumbles over the trailing line of her own thoughts, trips into churning waves and is immediately soaked by the deluge of thoughts she tries her hardest to hold back. You can’t stop the tide, she thinks, futilely, in the last seconds before the water closes over her head. The salt stings as she goes under.
Megan reluctantly resolves she really does have to talk with Yoonchae. Only after Sophia shoots her a warning glance after she spends a while too long gazing at Yoonchae’s side profile, the soft expanse of smooth skin against dark hair and darker eyes. Megan clears her throat, the action an unspoken question in and of itself. Yoonchae looks up to her, this time, from her spot on the floor where she had been playing Uno with Sophia and Lara.
“Yoonchae,” Megan starts, fumbling over her words, because that’s really all she’s been able to do lately, “Can we talk?” She regrets it immediately, sweat breaking out on the palms of her hands and the shakiness of her voice she can only hope no one picks up on. Yoonchae blinks, nods serenely, pausing to get up from the floor amid complaints from Sophia and Lara.
“Go ask Dani to play,” Yoonchae tells them, and their eyes light up at the suggestion, Sophia springing up from the floor to call for Dani. Yoonchae follows Megan out the door, doesn’t flinch when Megan suggests they take a walk around outside. Megan envies her ability to take everything in stride more than she cares to admit.
As they walk towards a small cafe Megan had spotted from across the street, Yoonchae interlaces her hand with Megan’s, smiling faintly. “Okay, Megan.” She breezes across the street with Megan in tow the same way a model might walk down the runway of a red carpet. (Gna-gna-gna-gna-gna-gnarly, gna-) “What did you want to talk about?” Yoonchae leads them to the front of the cafe, Megan opens the door. Tries to hold it for Yoonchae, who simply smiles and takes it from Megan, gesturing her in.
Megan enters with a huff, hands reluctantly shoved in her hoodie pocket, relinquishing the warmth of Yoonchae’s palm. Things always seem to go this way, lately. Megan trying to pave the path for Yoonchae, Yoonchae taking the reins from her anyway and making it better than Megan ever could. Megan tries not to feel bitter over this fact.
“I, um,” She chuckles nervously. Megan can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, hopes the pink glow isn’t noticeable in the warm ambient lighting of the cafe. Something tells her Yoonchae will notice anyway.
Yoonchae takes the reins from her again, reroutes the path Megan had put them on with all the ease of someone who has performed the same task a thousand times before, switches the track of Megan’s thoughts from one to another effortlessly and reaches out to flip the switch with just three words.
“It’s okay, Megan.” murmured hesitantly but reassuring. Yoonchae reaches back for Megan’s hand, notices Megan’s obvious reluctance to disengage her hands from the current state of fidgeting they are in already in the pocket of her hoodie, slowly retracts her outstretched hand. Megan feels the gesture hit her with all the sting of a slap of salt water.
Megan sighs, pinches her fingers together in her pocket, swears she can feel something poking her but chooses to ignore it. “I’m sorry, Yoonchae.” She tries with a smile plastered on her face. Of course Yoonchae sees right through it–when has she not? Her hands come up to almost, almost cup Megan’s cheeks, hovering just an inch away. Megan almost short-circuits at the not-quite-there contact. The scent of the sea fills the air around her, and she casts a furtive glance around the cafe. It is crowded, but no one is giving the two girls a second glance from where they are standing in line, so it’s fine.
Megan allows herself to lean into Yoonchae’s touch. Yoonchae’s fingers mold themselves barely firmer around her face, cupping her jaw, thumbs pressed lightly against her cheeks, never pushing, only waiting. Megan knows this is Yoonchae giving her an out, thinks, 17, then, but 18 is soon, closer than it’s ever been before, but 19, then 20–she has to cut herself off from her thoughts, racing through her mind. Maybe if she thinks too hard, her hands will somehow reach out and find the lever, the switch, force them back onto Megan’s doomed cart-ride into the depths of her desire, off of Yoonchae’s carefully planned track.
She lets herself sigh into Yoonchae’s hands. Her eyes flicker closed amidst the chatter of the people, to let herself feel it, but to stop from feeling Yoonchae’s eyes on her windows. But the moon will still shine, she finds herself thinking, the waves will still reach out. The thought alone convinces her to open her eyes once more, gaze into Yoonchae’s windows, thinking, maybe, just maybe, Megan will be able to find her soul bared behind those impossibly dark eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, even though she’s unsure of what, exactly, she is apologizing for. Yoonchae, I’m sorry for making you wait. I’m sorry for being too afraid. I’m sorry I don’t know how to fight the current. I’m sorry the gap between our years was just wide enough for me to hesitate from leaping into your waters. I’m sorry the waves will never be able to reach out and touch the moon. I’m sorry the moon couldn’t come meet the sea at the horizon for as long as you wish it could.
The tears well up again, in the middle of a cafe on a quiet street. There is no in-ear-monitor or the chaos of a show well done to hide behind here. Only Yoonchae and Megan and her heart drumming a furious staccato against her ribs. Yoonchae’s eyes soften as they meet hers, Megan lets herself sigh again into soothing waters. The sigh is shakier this time, but Yoonchae is there, and so is the tide, steady and ever-present and dependable. Maybe the moon can also be reliable, Megan catches herself thinking, after all, the phases just keep cycling. Maybe Megan can be reliable too, for Yoonchae. Maybe she doesn’t have to be afraid of diving into dark, unknown waters. Maybe she won’t drown, this time.
Maybe she can still swim, maybe the waves won’t drag her under but buoy her upwards, forever and always, and maybe there will be another girl right beside her, always trying to reach the moon. Yoonchae, don't you know I would always wait for you? Hands outstretched anyway, fingers grasping futilely at the soft shine of the moon, pearly light spilling out along smooth skin. Dark waves, eyes, what’s the difference, really? Swallowing up her light. Taking just enough for Megan to feel it but not enough to tear herself away from the pain of being known.
Megan, Yoonchae whispers to her under the glow of stage lights, in the shelter of her hotel room, backstage in the dressing room where no one can see them, in the quiet center of a busy cafe, foreheads pressed together and hands holding her, eyes meeting hers, forever and always, and maybe the waves will never be able to resist being pulled towards the moon, almost able to reach it, and maybe the moon will sink just a little lower in the sky each night until they finally touch, and maybe the dark sea on the horizon will finally meet the moon’s light, what are you waiting for?