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Rumi is accustomed to grief; her childhood friend, walking with her each and every day. Reminding her of the mother she never met, of the life she could never live. Even as an adult, it stayed by her side, clinging closer and closer the happier she felt.
This then, too, is to be expected.
Her friendships with Zoey and Mira have never been stronger. She no longer has to hide who she is, what she is. The honmoon is no longer built upon false personas—the trio has to sand away parts of themselves no more, nor do they have to make themselves smaller to finish their duty.
She’s happy, she’s so fucking happy.
Or at the very least, Rumi wants to be.
Her old friend has yet to leave her, and instead returns during moments of joy, during quiet moments, during whenever it deems she needs a reminder. Needs to remember what her newfound life cost, what she lost. What she cannot change, no matter how much she longs to.
Jinu is gone, burned to a crisp in front of her.
Not even a single scrap of his clothes remained.
All that she has is his soul in her chest.
The Saja Boys are practically nonexistent now, a fad that quickly lost its appeal, a viral sensation that had no staying power.
Were this a few months ago, this would have delighted her. Thrilled her. The evil was gone, the threat successfully eliminated.
But this isn’t then. This is now, and now Rumi wishes more pieces of them remained, if only so she'd have at least some way to see his face.
All images she had of Jinu were covered in dart holes, and all they do is bring to mind the holes that covered his body, of the time she cannot go back to. How callous she had been, writing that cruel song; how foolish she’d been, only seeing the demon in him. Infinite possibilities of what-could-have-beens condensed into what happened, her own inner voice berating her.
The internet, then, is her best chance at any remaining bits, price from regretful fans a nonexistent factor. She scrolls through pages and pages of idol merch, tries to find something, anything of him.
When she finds one singular piece, Rumi hits buy instantly. Her chest rumbles.
The tiger appears a few days later, magpie in tow. He claws at her window once, twice, eyes large and sparkling.
Rumi has to wonder—he can just teleport in, right? Maybe without a message, he’s trying to be a proper gentleman, no need to push himself through. Or maybe he’s letting her choose to let them in, a tangential piece of the man who broke her heart that night, and he doesn’t wish to go where he’s not wanted.
Rumi slides open the glass, gestures for the duo to enter.
The tiger rushes in, looks left, right, up, down. Pokes at the trash can. The magpie flies in, significantly calmer. His head, though, still swivels, all six eyes shrinking, trying to find something—and oh.
They’re looking for him, Rumi realizes.
They thought he would be here.
Grief brushes against her, a pang in her heart, a stabbing feeling under he ribcage. She reaches to pet the tiger, meets his eyes, still full of childlike wonder.
Taking a deep breath, she says: “He’s… gone.”
The tiger tilts his head, confused; the magpie closes his eyes, squawks—he clearly understands.
Rumi can feel the tears prick at her eyes, stinging. “He died,” she clarifies, choking up at the words. Because what else could she call it? Sleeping? When she has no way to wake him up?
He died, and Rumi was powerless to stop it. To stop him.
The tiger pushes into her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
He mewls, nuzzles into her touch.
How long had he been Jinu’s companion, she wonders? He was never far from him, tagging along like it was the most natural thing in the world. The magpie would watch over both of them from wherever he perched himself, fond when he thought no one was paying attention. A trio formed out of love.
And he left them. Left her, too.
Drops of water fall onto the tiger’s fur. “He… he died protecting me. I—”
—a knock at her door cuts her off, cuts through the misery. Both animals glance at the door then glance at her, awaiting their instructions.
Rumi wipes her face with one sleeve, ruffles the tiger’s fur. “You don’t have to hide this time,” she says, voice slightly nasally. They can all be out in the open, together.
It’s a single poster of him, of Jinu. Smiling. Full of himself. A perfect, flawless boyband leader.
Only Rumi knows that this perfect, flawless man would jumpscare easily, falling for it every time, screaming at the top of his lungs whenever she’d appear. Turn bright red when he said something a little too real. Hated himself more than he hated Gwi-Ma. And—
—loved her more than he feared Gwi-Ma.
But this poster is all that’s left; this glossy, fake image of him is all she could find, and Rumi can’t find herself to hate it. She, at the very least, won’t forget how he looked.
Rumi traces the outlines of his face, his jaw, imagines what it would have felt like in reality. Warm. Soft. Would he have ran away, embarrassed? Or would he have leaned into her touch, yearning just as much as her? Who would have crossed that final barrier between them?
Rumi chuckles, a hollow little sound. Something in her chest stirs, a bubbling feeling rising, rising—until it fizzles out, gone before she can catch it, taking what minor hope she felt with it.
Mira breaks first.
Rumi knew she would, knew it was coming. She faces things head-on, sometimes butting them, sometimes soothing them, but always, always never running away.
She just never expected her to be so blunt about it, on such a nice day, all three of them watching a movie on the couch.
“Are you going to tell us what happened between the two of you?” Mira asks. Rumi had been busy tracing her patterns—a new habit forming, she’s noticed, proof of her existence, of their connection—and sighing. Moping, even. She’s trying not to, but some days, some days her old friend presses all its weight upon her, and being with the others can’t shake the feeling.
Rumi stops her movements. “What?” she says, playing dumb. No more hiding, sure, but she’s not positive she even has the words to explain. A relationship of a few weeks, secret rendezvouses, hushed promises. A string of fate so tangled and twisted it chokes her.
“You and Jinu,” Mira says, straight to the point. “Zoey and I both saw what he did, and you scoured the internet for that damn poster.”
“It was,” Zoey speaks up, voice unsure of shaking this newfound balance, “r—obvious something happened.” She looks to Mira for guidance, being so upfront a foreign feeling to her. “We just… we’re just here, if you want to talk about it?”
“It might… I might make you feel better,” Mira says, edge in tone to cover for the softness in her eyes.
Rumi runs her thumb over a mark on her other hand. “What would you like to know?” She’ll relent; she’ll share to sate their curiosity, keep the rest to herself. For herself.
“...the tiger and magpie were his, right?” Zoey asks.
Rumi nods. “Yes.”
“How did they meet?”
“I don’t know.” There’s so much she never got to learn, and she wonders if she ever will.
Zoey slumps, clearly a tad disappointed. “Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh—”—she perks back up, hands raised in defense—“—no just! I bet the tiger was cute as a baby and I was just, you know, wanting to hear baby stories!” Zoey places her hands in her lap. “I bet he was so small.”
A warmth spreads in her chest, and Rumi lets a brief smile grace her face. “The bird’s hat was for him, so I guess?”
“Real growth spurt, then,” Mira says, slightly in awe. She clears her throat, then continues, choosing to be a tad more serious: “He knew about your patterns, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah,” Rumi says.
“How?”
“When I went to chase him at the bathhouse… he sliced through my sleeve.” She flushes, remembering the whole ordeal. Of his chest against her. Of the heat. The sweat.
“Wait!” Zoey jumps a bit, snaps her fingers like she’s just hit a breakthrough. “Is that why you had cloth around your arm then?”
“He… he did that. He hid them for me.” She traces another pattern, tries to calm her racing heartbeat.
Zoey looks to Mira, mouth slightly agape. Mira’s eyes dart away, clearly processing those words. She purses her lips together, taps a finger against the couch. With a frown, she asks, “Why did he do that?”
Rumi had thought the same thing. Thought it time and time again, even when things blew up. “I don’t know,” she says once more. “He just did it.”
“Just did it, huh.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s…”
“...nice,” Zoey completes. “That was nice of him.”
The sensation in Rumi’s chest rises more, feels lighter, airier.
He probably wouldn’t know what to do with the genuine praise, and the idea of him all flustered makes her smile grow. “Anything else?” she says, willing to go on a bit more.
“...did you love him?” Mira says, eyes making contact with Rumi’s own.
Rumi has to laugh. “I don’t know.”
She’s too afraid to say it out loud, to speak it into existence. It would just make the pain hurt more—a thirst she can never quench. Time slowed whenever they were together; all the futures she imagined had him there, by her side.
How could it be anything but love?
There’s a weight on her chest; the floating feeling sinks, everything feels heavy once more. Like what’s underneath is somehow disappointed with that answer, and she presses a hand over her heart. Tries to convey what she cannot say.
Zoey sniffles, and with it pulls Rumi back to couch, just in time to see her launch herself at Rumi, arms going straight for her neck and not letting go. In her blurry vision, Rumi sees Mira blink, taken by surprise. Then: understanding, coming to join the other two, long arms perfect for a group hug.
“We’re here for you,” Mira says. She may or may not let out a sniffle of her own.
“Always!” Zoey agrees, snot bubble popping.
And for the first time, Rumi lets herself cry with them.
The poster hangs in the studio.
Rumi feels her room would have been… too heavy. Too close. Too much of a constant reminder.
Here, then, he can watch her work. Watch her fiddle with her guitar, try to find the lyrics for their comeback.
See her doing what she loves. He never did get to see her on that stage, after all.
Something deep inside her buzzes.
Rumi breathes out—one, two, three—then breathes in. She strums a few notes, and wonders what melody would wake a sleeping soul.