Archive of Our Own ^beta

They go thrifting on Saturday because Megan suggests it a few days earlier.

She says it around a mouthful of toothpaste, words slightly muffled, eyes bright in the bathroom mirror. “We should go to that place on Fifth,” she adds, foam collecting at the corner of her mouth. “The one that still prices things like an actual thrift store.”

It sounds offhand—casual, if you weren’t listening for the pause that follows. Megan hesitates just long enough for the question underneath to surface.

“Okay,” Yoonchae says. She means it. She even smiles.

Megan exhales, shoulders immediately dropping from her ears.

They’ve done this at least hundred times before. Wandering narrow aisles, flipping through racks with no real plan, holding things up against each other and saying things like no, you have to get that and I see the vision. It used to be one of the places they could be Megan and Yoonchae, not Megan and Yoonchae.

That’s why Megan suggested it. Because it’s familiar. Because it’s supposed to mean we’re okay again.

The thrift store smells the same as always—dusty fabric, old detergent, the faint warmth of too many bodies passing through. The bell over the door jingles when they step inside. Nothing has changed.

Megan sticks close immediately. Not touching—not quite—but hovering in a way that’s careful instead of natural. Their shoulders brush near the first rack and Megan flinches, stepping away like she just brushed a hot surface.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

Yoonchae blinks. “You—”

“I know,” Megan says quickly. Too quickly. “I just—yeah. Sorry.”

Her smile comes a second late, tight at the corners. She reaches for a hanger she clearly doesn’t care about, studying it with sudden intensity.

Yoonchae lets it go.

This is what trying looks like, she thinks. Awkward. Overcorrecting. Slightly exhausting.

They’d said they’d be better about telling each other things. Not perfect—that would’ve been setting themselves up for failure—but better. Megan had said it with her thumb brushing over Yoonchae’s knuckles, voice steady in a way that mattered more than the words.

"I want to tell you when I’m overwhelmed. And I want you to tell me when you’re hurting—even if you’re scared it might upset me."

Yoonchae had nodded then. She’d meant it then. She still means it now.

But standing here, watching Megan apologize for something as small as brushing shoulders, Yoonchae understands something new: making a plan is easier than putting one into practice.

She tells herself this is normal. Or normal-ish. They just had a fight that wasn’t really a fight. They cried. They had sex that felt like relief—like an apology and a promise all rolled into a singular action. Of course it feels fragile. Of course Megan is moving like one wrong step might send them sliding backward.

Yoonchae had forgiven her almost immediately. That part had come easily, the moment Megan said I hurt you out loud and couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. Forgiveness had arrived without negotiation, her body choosing closeness instead of distance.

She doesn’t say that now.

She doesn’t say I’m okay or you don’t have to keep checking. Because she knows Megan well enough to know that pressing on something newly mended doesn’t make it stronger.

They wander, drifting in and out of aisles without much intention, and eventually end up at the sweaters. Megan pulls one out—blue-green, oversized, the sleeves comically long—and holds it up against Yoonchae’s body.

“This is ugly,” Megan says.

Yoonchae snorts. “You love ugly sweaters.”

“I love them on you,” Megan corrects, fingers worrying the fabric. “You rock the oversized look really well.”

Yoonchae watches her say it. The half-second delay before Megan smiles. The flick of her eyes to Yoonchae’s mouth, then back up again, checking.

It makes Yoonchae’s chest ache in a way she doesn’t quite like.

“Do you?” she asks lightly.

Megan blinks, tilting her head to one side. “Do I what?”

“Love them on me.”

“Yes,” Megan says immediately. “I—yeah. Obviously.” Her grin goes crooked, endearing. “But I think everything looks good on you, so results might be a little skewed.”

The joke reaches for something familiar but can’t quite grab it.

Yoonchae nods and drapes the sweater over her arm even though she doesn’t plan on buying it. She doesn’t correct Megan. Doesn’t want to make her second-guess a sentence she already had trouble to let out.

They move deeper into the store, into the narrow aisles where the floor creaks softly. Megan fills the space easily enough for the both of them.

“This place always plays the weirdest music,” she says. “It’s like it’s forcing you to be nostalgic.”

Yoonchae tilts her head, listening to the tinny pop song crackling in from the speakers. “I kind of like it.”

“Of course you do,” Megan says, smiling. “You would listen to this unironically.”

“I do listen to this unironically.”

Megan laughs—quick, bright. For a second it’s the sound Yoonchae loves most in the world. A second later, Megan glances at her, like she’s replaying the moment to make sure it went right.

They drift into denim. Megan holds up a pair of aggressively low-rise jeans and grimaces. “Why are these back?”

Yoonchae squints. “To humble us?”

Megan shudders. “No one in their right mind would ask for these. Other than Dani, maybe—but she’s, like, the target demographic, so I’d give her a pass.”

She tosses them back, reaches for something else, then stops short in front of a faded bomber jacket. “Oh my god,” she says. “My mom had one exactly like this.”

Yoonchae leans in for a better look. “Your mom had taste.”

“My mom thought she had taste.”

Yoonchae laughs, and for a moment it’s easy. The way it used to be. And without thinking, she slips past Megan and tugs lightly at her sleeve, guiding her toward the back rack. “Come look at these,” she says. “They are—”

Megan freezes.

“Oh—sorry,” she says quickly, like her brain is scrambling to catch up. “I didn’t realize I was in your way.”

Yoonchae’s hand falls immediately. “It’s fine,” she says. “I was just—”

“I should’ve been paying attention,” Megan continues, words stacking too fast. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Megan,” Yoonchae says. “It is okay.”

She means it. Completely. And that’s the strangest part in all of this—there’s nothing to fix here, no offense to smooth over. And yet Megan looks like she wants to bandage a wound that doesn’t exist.

Megan nods, a little too emphatically, and then she turns back to the rack and starts flipping through jackets with exaggerated focus, shoulders set uncomfortably.

Yoonchae watches Megan from the corner of her eye. The careful way she keeps just enough space between them now.

They make it to the mirrors near the back. Megan pulls a leather jacket from the rack—black, clean lines, improbably nice for the place it’s in and the price it’s at.

“Oh,” she says. “Wait. This one’s actually kind of—”

She cuts herself off as she shrugs into it, then turns toward Yoonchae.

“What do you think?” she asks.

Her voice is casual, her posture is anything but. She stands a little straighter, chin tipped up, eyes fixed on Yoonchae’s face like she’s waiting for a final verdict.

Yoonchae pushes aside the images that flash unhelpfully into her mind—jury box, courtroom, gavel—and really looks.

The jacket fits Megan perfectly. It highlights her features, makes her look confident in that effortless, dangerous way that always twists something warm in Yoonchae’s chest.

“It looks good on you,” she says. “Like… good good.”

Megan’s shoulders drop, tension draining out of her so visibly it’s almost startling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Relief crosses her face before she can stop it. She turns back to the mirror, smoothing the lapels, studying herself.

After a second, she glances back. “It’s not too much, right? Like—it doesn’t give try-hard?”

Yoonchae shakes her head. “No. It is just you.”

Megan laughs under her breath. “Okay. Good.”

She nods to herself, but Yoonchae can tell she’s still not fully convinced yet. She keeps fussing with the jacket—tugging at the hem, rolling her shoulders, angling herself toward the mirror again. She glances back at Yoonchae, quick and almost unconscious, then returns to the mirror.

Yoonchae watches the shift—admiration turning into assessment—happen in real time.

It’s not the reassurance that sits wrong. She’s never minded giving that. It’s the way Megan doesn’t seem to trust it unless it’s confirmed from every angle.

The thought slips in uninvited: Is this what it was like for Megan?  When Yoonchae was the one shrinking, measuring every reaction, making herself easier to keep.

Yoonchae doesn’t let it spiral.

Instead, she leans back against the wall, folding her arms loosely, giving Megan room to finish whatever quiet negotiation she’s having with her reflection.

“You should get it,” she says. “You will regret it if not.”

Megan turns, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another pause. Another searching look. Then Megan smiles—softer this time—and nods.

“Okay,” she says. “Then I will.”

She slips the jacket off carefully, folding it over her arm.

They check out without any further incidents. Megan insists on paying, then catches herself and laughs, then apologizes for laughing. Yoonchae chooses not to interrupt her. It feels like trying to stop a wheel that’s already in motion.

Outside, the door swings shut behind them with a thud. The cold hits immediately—sharp and biting enough to steal Yoonchae’s breath. Megan shivers beside her.

“God,” Megan says. “I forgot how cold it gets here.”

She reaches for Yoonchae’s hand without looking, muscle memory guiding her. Her fingers brush Yoonchae’s knuckles—

—and stop.

They hover there, awkward and unfinished, before retreating half an inch.

“Sorry,” Megan says, already wincing. “I mean—not sorry, I just—”

Yoonchae takes her hand before the sentence can finish, threading their fingers together.

Megan’s grip tightens instantly, solid and grounding, like she’s relieved the decision has been made for her. Her thumb brushes Yoonchae’s skin once, absentminded.

They walk like that for a block. The street is busy in the way New York City streets always are—cars passing, people bundled in coats, the city continuing without them. For a moment, Yoonchae almost forgets to think about anything at all.

Then Megan loosens her grip.

“Am I being weird?” Megan asks.

“Why do you ask?”

Megan shakes her head, laughing a little too fast. “Nothing. I just—” She exhales. “Never mind.”

She shoves her hands into her jacket pockets. Yoonchae keeps her own arms loose at her sides, resisting the urge to reach back out.

They make it to boba shop on the corner of the same block, the same place they used to go when everything between them was still new and undefined. The memory settles between them as they step inside.

Megan orders like she always has—same drinks, same modifications, the same easy confidence at the kiosk.

Then she turns back, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Is that still your order?” she asks. “I can still change it if you want.”

Yoonchae shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

She hears how practiced it sounds. It’s fine has been doing a lot of work lately.

Megan nods and pays for both of them, relief passing over her face before she collects their drinks. She carries them to the table by the window and sets them down carefully—straightening the sleeves, nudging the cups until they line up.

When she sits, she starts talking right away.

“So,” she says, unwrapping her straw and stabbing it into her cup a little too forcefully, “you know that girl I mentioned from my policy class? The one who always volunteers even when she definitely shouldn’t?”

Yoonchae nods. Megan has complained about her exactly twice before, which means the girl has earned it.

“She had to present today,” Megan continues. “Like, full fifteen minutes. Slides, notes, the whole thing.” Her eyebrows lift. “Except—no slides.”

Yoonchae makes a face. “No slides?”

“None. She gets up there, introduces herself, clicks the remote—nothing. Clicks again. Still nothing.” Megan laughs softly, glancing at Yoonchae to check. “The professor just stares at her. Like he’s trying to will the PowerPoint into existence.”

Yoonchae laughs quietly.

Megan relaxes a fraction.

“So there’s this horrible thirty seconds where no one knows what to do,” Megan says, leaning forward now. “And she’s just standing there like—” She gestures helplessly. “And finally she goes, ‘Uh. So. I guess I’ll just talk?’”

“Oh no,” Yoonchae says, smiling.

“Exactly,” Megan says, pointing at her. “Oh no is right.” She grins—then hesitates. “I mean—not for her. Obviously. It was awful. But also kind of incredible?”

She laughs again, louder, then looks back at Yoonchae’s face. When she sees Yoonchae still smiling, Megan keeps going.

“She makes it maybe two minutes in before the professor stops her,” Megan says. “He’s like, ‘You didn’t upload your slides.’ And she goes, ‘I thought I did.’ And he just—” Megan reenacts it, nodding slowly. “Like. Okay. This is who you are now.”

Yoonchae laughs properly at that. Megan’s smile brightens in response.

“And then,” Megan says, speeding up, “she keeps going anyway, but it’s worse because everyone’s thinking about the slides that aren’t there.” She gestures, then catches herself, hands dropping back to the table. “Sorry—um. Anyway. The silence? Unbearable. You could hear someone open a granola bar.”

Yoonchae laughs again, softer.

Megan notices and slows.

“I mean, not in a funny way,” she adds quickly. “Like—it was painful. Secondhand embarrassment.”

“No, I get it,” Yoonchae says. “It’s funny because it’s not happening to you.”

Megan exhales, relieved. “Exactly. You get it.”

She keeps going, adding details Yoonchae doesn’t need—the professor’s face, the sound the remote made when it hit the floor. It feels less like emphasis and more like calibration.

Yoonchae listens anyway. Laughs when it feels right.

Somewhere along the way, she starts to brace. Just a small tightening—before Megan looks up again, before she checks Yoonchae’s face and adjusts mid-sentence.

Halfway through her drink, Megan knocks her straw against the table. The sound is sharp. Megan startles.

“Sorry,” she says immediately. “I’m so clumsy today.”

“You are fine,” Yoonchae says. Again.

Megan presses her lips together, nodding. “I know you keep saying that, but—”

She stops herself.

The silence that follows stretches thin, toeing the line between awkward and not awkward.

Megan’s knee bounces under the table. Her gaze drops, then flicks back up to Yoonchae’s face—she’s searching for something there.

She looks like she has something lined up behind her teeth and can’t find a way to let it out.

Yoonchae could say no, you’re fine. She could say you’re not weird. She could ask what Megan meant by that, open the door herself instead of waiting for Megan to trip over the little bump at the bottom.

But the moment feels brittle—like it would snap, not bend if someone were to apply pressure.

So she lets it go.

Again.

Megan exhales slowly. “Never mind,” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t hold. “Sorry.”

Yoonchae swallows everything she wants to say. You don’t have to keep apologizing. I’m not mad. I already forgave you.

Instead, she nods.

They finish their drinks in relative quiet. Megan scrolls through her phone without reading. Yoonchae watches the ice melt in her cup, the liquid rising a fraction at a time.

When they leave, Megan holds the door open and steps aside, a gesture just careful enough to be noticeable. Outside, the streetlights have come on, casting everything in a pale, tired glow.

They walk toward Megan’s dorm in a silence that doesn’t fit. Megan keeps a measured distance—close enough to stay connected, far enough to feel intentional. When Yoonchae drifts, Megan adjusts. When Yoonchae slows, Megan matches her.

Yoonchae becomes acutely aware of herself—her pace, her posture, the swing of her arms.

If I’m already okay, she thinks, distantly, why isn’t she?

The question doesn’t carry blame—doesn’t even carry frustration—it’s just confused, circling the air without solid ground to land on.

They stop outside Megan’s dorm. The brick is familiar. The entryway light too bright.

“I had a good time today,” Megan says. It comes out earnest. Vulnerable. “I just wanted to say that.”

“I know,” Yoonchae says. “Me too.”

Megan smiles, relief loosening her shoulders. Then something else crosses her face—hesitation, maybe disappointment. As if she’s realizing that feeling like you had a good time isn’t the same as actually having one.

She then leans in like she might kiss Yoonchae, but stops, caught mid-motion. Her hands lift and stall, suspended between them.

Yoonchae closes the distance.

The kiss is gentle in a way that almost hurts. Megan’s lips are warm and restrained; her hands settle at Yoonchae’s waist like she’s placing them somewhere she remembers is allowed. They stay there—light, deliberate.

When they part, Megan rests her forehead against Yoonchae’s. She breathes in. Out. Then pulls back.

“I’ll text you later,” she says.

“Okay.”

Megan reaches for the door. She pauses with her hand on the handle, fingers curling into the cuff of her jacket. She looks back, searching Yoonchae’s face for something she doesn’t ask for.

The door shuts with a muted click.

Yoonchae stands there longer than necessary. The building hums around her—distant voices, an elevator chiming. Life continuing, indifferent.

The feeling doesn’t resolve. It stays exactly where she left it.

She turns it over once. Sets it aside.

Yoonchae knows Megan. Knows how easily care turns inward, how quickly reflection hardens into restraint. Pushing now would only make her fold further into herself.

So she decides—consciously, deliberately—to wait. The decision settles quietly. Almost comfortably.

She tells herself she just needs to have a little more patient. That Megan just needs time to forgive herself the way Yoonchae already has. That pushing now would only reopen something trying to scar over.

Still, as she turns to leave, an uneasy thought lingers beneath everything else:

I wish she’d stop looking at me like that.

Yoonchae exhales and keeps walking, already adjusting to the space she’s chosen not to cross yet—without knowing how much room that space will eventually take.

…

A few days later, Megan, Yoonchae, Lara are at the campus store because it’s nearing the end of the semester and everyone is trying to burn through dining dollars. It’s a waste not to since NYU won’t let students carry over unused dollars into the next semester.

It smells like toasted bread and old fryer oil and whatever manufactured optimism they pump through the vents to make it feel less like a glorified convenience store. The shelves are half-empty, looted by students who waited too long and now refuse to let the system win.

Megan is ahead of them, already holding three different sandwiches, reading the labels out loud to whoever is listening.

“Okay,” she says, serious. “Pros and cons. Turkey pesto is reliable but boring. This one looks like it’s trying too hard. And this—” She squints. “—this has raisins in it. Which, ew.”

Yoonchae snorts before she can stop herself.

Megan glances back at her, face lighting up instantly. “Right? Thank you, Yoonchae.”

The relief in her voice hits a little off-kilter. It’s still careful, Yoonchae recognizes.

Lara is holding the free tote bag she got from the club fair this year in one hand, scrolling through her phone with the other, half-present in the way she always is when she’s texting a certain someone. “Manon says she’s leaving her dorm now,” she says. “Which means she’ll be here in, like, twenty minutes.”

“That’s being generous,” Megan says.

“I’m trying out this cool new thing called optimism, Megan,” Lara snarks. “You should hop on the bandwagon.”

When they reach the refrigerated section, Megan reaches for a seltzer, hesitates, then looks at Yoonchae.

“You like the strawberry flavor, right?” she asks.

Yoonchae nods. “Yeah.”

This is what the past week has felt like: hyper-awareness. Megan preemptively anticipating Yoonchae’s needs, checking each step against a version of her that exists mostly in Megan’s head. Yoonchae feels like she’s some test Megan is desperate to pass.

At the register, Megan buys Yoonchae’s drink before she can even protest. And then they find an empty table near the windows. It’s plastic, sticky, not worth caring about—but Megan wipes it down anyway. Twice.

Lara drops into her seat and immediately steals one of Megan’s chips. Megan doesn’t even look surprised, she just laughs under her breath and nudges the bag closer, an unspoken go ahead.

Yoonchae unwraps her sandwich slowly, the paper crackling too loud in her ears, and watches Megan talk. Her hands move the way they always have—loose, expressive, laughing too loudly at her own jokes, leaning in when Lara says something ridiculous, rolling her eyes in the exact same way she did at the beginning of the year.

It’s comforting, but also extremely disorienting at the same time.

She’s still Megan, Yoonchae can see that clearly. Still warm, still quick with a smile, still so easy to read it almost feels like cheating. Still her Megan, in the ways that matter most.

And yet every movement still feels just slightly moderated, like she’s sanding down her edges in case they cut someone. They’re careful in the way people get when they’re afraid of breaking something they don’t know how to fix.

Yoonchae takes a bite of her sandwich and tastes nothing.

Partially through her own sandwich, Megan shifts in her seat. “I’m gonna find a bathroom,” she says, eyes flicking to Yoonchae. “I’ll be right back.”

It comes off as an announcement as opposed to an apology. Progress, at least in Yoonchae’s mind.

Yoonchae nods. Lara waves Megan off with a chip, and Megan leaves.

The space she occupied doesn’t collapse the way it used to. That feels new.

Lara watches her go for a second longer than necessary. Then she turns back to Yoonchae, expression softening. “So,” she says, “are you guys, like, okay now?”

Yoonchae freezes mid-bite.

The question is gentle. Carefully phrased. Lara is good asking questions like that. Still, it lands with weight, like something set deliberately on her chest to see if she’ll notice.

She could deflect. Yeah, we’re good. That would be easy. Too easy. Lara isn’t looking like she’ll let Yoonchae get away with easy today.

“Yeah,” Yoonchae says slowly, swallowing. “I think… I think we are on the way. To good.”

Lara hums. “You both do seem better than you were last week.”

Yoonchae blinks. “It was… that obvious?”

Lara laughs, short and genuine, like she’s been waiting to be asked that. “Megan is not subtle when she’s upset—and neither are you, to be honest. You were somehow less expressive than before your ‘fight’.”

That surprises her. She’d thought she’d been doing a decent job of staying neutral.

“I thought only Sophia noticed that,” Yoonchae admits. “And Megan.”

“I live with Megan, babe,” Lara says. “You honestly thought I wouldn’t clock the way you two orbit each other?”

Yoonchae mirrors her movement without realizing it, leaning back, arms folding. She doesn’t miss the word orbit. Close. Constant. Never quite touching.

“You seem like yourselves again,” Lara continues. “Mostly. Just… a little adjusted. Like furniture shifted an inch to the right.”

Yoonchae exhales through her nose. “That’s… uncomfortably accurate.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Lara says, leaning back, crossing her arms. “I just wanted to check in.”

The out is right there. Yoonchae sees it. And yet she doesn’t take it.

“…It is not bad like before,” she says finally. “It is… different.”

“Different how?”

“She’s trying really hard.” Yoonchae traces her thumb along the edge of the sandwich wrapper, slow, repetitive. “Which should be a good thing. And it is. But it makes everything feel…”

“Crowded?” Lara offers. “Or like you’re being watched?”

Yoonchae huffs, surprised despite herself. “Confusing,” she says instead. “She is making it confusing again.”

There’s a silence that follows that Lara doesn’t jump in to fill in right away. She studies Yoonchae with that quiet, irritating patience that makes it clear she’s actually listening and processing what she's been told.

“It kind of sounds like Megan’s stuck in repair mode,” she says finally. “Like she’s so focused on not messing up again that she doesn’t know how to just exist with you.”

Yoonchae exhales, tension easing from her shoulders at being understood. The relief comes sharp, almost annoyingly so. “Yes,” she says. “Exactly.”

“And you?” Lara asks, prodding gently. “Where does that leave you?”

Yoonchae opens her mouth, then closes it again. The answer is there but she just doesn’t like how selfish it sounds when it’s said plainly.

“I think… I am tired,” she admits. “Not of her. But maybe tired of feeling like she is afraid to want me.” She swallows. “Megan should not fear her girlfriend.”

Lara smiles, small and steady. “She really shouldn’t, huh?”

They let that sit between them.

Outside the window, people pass by—students, commuters, professors, all moving with the careless momentum of lives that aren’t currently stalled on one difficult conversation. A man walks his dog across the street. A couple passes arm in arm, laughing at something private and unimportant.

Yoonchae looks away first.

“Do you want my advice?” Lara asks after a moment, leaning forward, chin in her hand.

Yoonchae hesitates—not because she doesn’t want it, but because she already knows what Lara is going to say. Still, she nods.

“Talk to her,” Lara says. “About what actually hurt. Not just the ‘we’re okay now’ version.”

Yoonchae swallows.

“Megan’s trying to be what she thinks you might need,” Lara continues. “But she’s guessing. And when Megan has to guess, she goes to one extreme or the other. You have to tell her what this is doing to you, or you’re going to be stuck in this stupid, pointless, endless cycle.”

Yoonchae presses her lips together, considering that. The word cycle lands hard. She’s always been good at endurance. She’s less sure she’s good at repetition.

“I do not want to make her feel worse,” she says quietly. “She feels bad enough for both of us.”

“I know,” Lara says. “But avoiding it isn’t sparing her feelings. It’s just delaying the conversation you both need to have.”

Yoonchae tips her head back, eyes on the ceiling, then brings her gaze down again.

“I already forgave her,” she says. “That is the part I cannot explain. I forgave her before she forgave herself.”

Lara’s expression softens. “Then maybe that’s exactly what you need to tell her.”

Yoonchae’s mouth purses as her hands start fidgeting against the table. “What if it isn’t?”

Lara smiles, wider now. “Then tell her anyway,” she says simply. “Tell her all of it. Don’t keep any more secrets from her. Or from yourself.”

The door swings open. Cold air rushes in.

Megan will be back any second.

Yoonchae straightens in her chair, heart picking up—not with dread this time, but with something steadier. Resolve, maybe. Or just readiness.

Either way, it feels like solid ground.

***

Even after her conversation with Lara, it isn’t Yoonchae who works up the courage to speak first.

It’s Megan.

It happens three days later, on a random weekday that doesn’t feel important until it suddenly is. They’re walking back from class together, Yoonchae having come picked up Megan from hers, the sky already dimming even though it’s barely past five. Megan hasn’t said much since they left her building, her answers clipped, attention somewhere else.

When they reach the fork in the path—Yoonchae’s dorm off to the left, Megan’s straight ahead—Megan slows.

“Hey,” she says.

Yoonchae turns automatically. “Yeah?”

Megan stops walking altogether. She looks down at the ground, then up again, then past Yoonchae’s shoulder like she’s checking whether anyone’s close enough to overhear.

“Can we sit for a second?” she asks.

Yoonchae nods immediately, relief blooming before she can stop it. “Yeah.”

They sit on the low stone wall near the quad. Their backpacks hit the ground at the same time, a dull, soft sound. Megan folds her hands in her lap. Her fingers lace together tightly, knuckles already paling, the skin stretched thin.

She takes a breath—slow, intentional. Her shoulders lift just enough to give her away.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without making it… a whole thing,” Megan says. “And I don’t think I can.”

Yoonchae stays quiet, letting Megan have the space she needs, but her eyes keep drifting back to Megan’s hands. She notices how the tension hasn’t eased at all.

“So I’m just going to say it,” Megan continues. “I don’t think we’ve fixed anything.”

Oh.

The bluntness lands harder than Yoonchae expects—she’d never really thought of Megan as confrontational before.

“I know we talked,” Megan says. “And I meant everything I said then. I still do. This isn’t me taking anything back.”

She looks at Yoonchae now. Really looks at her. Her expression is steady in a way it hasn’t been lately.

“It’s just… I don’t think I can forgive myself if I don’t actually understand what happened between us. And I don’t think I fully do yet.”

Yoonchae’s gaze drops again. Megan’s thumbs are pressing into her own knuckles now, harder than before, like she’s anchoring herself there.

Before she can think her way out of it, Yoonchae reaches over.

She slides her fingers gently between Megan’s, easing them apart with.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Do not do that with your hands.”

Megan startles, breath catching. She looks down like she’s only just noticed what she’s been doing.

“You will hurt yourself,” Yoonchae adds.

Megan exhales, tension spilling out of her in a way that feels almost involuntary. Her fingers loosen beneath Yoonchae’s touch, color returning to her knuckles.

“Sorry,” she says automatically—then stops. Shakes her head. “—Okay. Yeah.”

Yoonchae doesn’t pull her hand away this time.

Megan shifts, angling her body toward her fully now, their knees nearly touching. “I’ve been explaining myself a lot,” she says, “and yet I don’t think I’ve done it good enough. But I don’t want reassurance. I don’t want you to tell me it’s okay.”

She pauses, then adds, quieter, “I want to be clear about that.”

Yoonchae nods once. “Okay.”

Megan lets out a short huff of a laugh. A small smile follows, gone almost as quickly as it appears.

“When everything was happening,” Megan starts, “I didn’t feel out of control. I felt justified.”

Yoonchae doesn’t respond. Her grip tightens slightly, not to interrupt—just to stay present.

“I was overwhelmed,” Megan continues. “I didn’t know how to say that. So I tried to contain it.”

She glances down, then back up. This time, she holds Yoonchae’s gaze.

“I started tightening things. My schedule. My reactions. The space we took up together.” A pause. Then, quietly, “...You.”

The word sits between them. Megan’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she doesn’t correct herself.

“I told myself I was being careful,” she says. “That I was protecting what we had.” Her voice stays even. “What I was actually doing was shrinking the problem until it felt manageable. And you were the part of it I could control.”

Yoonchae feels the truth of it register fully, a slow, internal shift rather than a sharp hit. Her chest feels heavy, but steady.

“I’m not saying this so you’ll make me feel better,” Megan says. “I know how it sounds. I’m saying it because you deserved to hear that I see it now.”

Yoonchae nods when she’s sure Megan is finished. The instinct to soften it—to reassure her, to smooth the edges—rises up immediately. Familiar. Comfortable.

Megan notices.

“Can you not do that yet?” she asks quietly. “I’m not done.”

Yoonchae stills, then nods again.

“When you… changed,” Megan continues, “when you got quieter, when you stopped pushing back—I could convinced that meant things were better.” She swallows. “I didn’t ask what it was costing you because, honestly, I didn’t want you to tell me how much I was hurting you.”

Yoonchae looks down at their hands. Megan’s fingers are still tense, tendons visible, but they’re steady now.

“I don’t want to mistake silence for okay,” Megan says. “And I don’t want us to keep moving forward if this is still sitting between us.”

The quiet stretches. It doesn’t feel fragile. Megan doesn’t rush to fill it.

Then she says, gently, “So now this is the part where you tell me what I missed—when I was too wrapped up in myself to see it.”

Yoonchae lets that silence sit for an extra minute. She needs it. Her chest feels tight in a way that she wouldn't describe as panic, not exactly, but just a... pressure. Of sorts.

“I do not know how to say this all without sounding like I am accusing you,” she says finally.

Megan shakes her head once. “Just say what you need to. I told you before that you don't have to worry about hurting my feelings.”

“But I do,” Yoonchae says. The honesty surprises her with how quickly it comes. “I always worry about you.”

Her gaze drops again, catching on their hands. Megan’s grip has loosened without either of them noticing. That, too, feels important.

“When things got hard at first,” Yoonchae says, careful, “I told myself it was temporary. That you were stressed, and once that passed, we’d find our way back to normal.”

Megan stays still, listening.

“So I adjusted,” Yoonchae continues. “At first it didn’t even feel like a choice. I just… stopped asking for things. Stopped bringing things up if it felt like bad timing.” She swallows, words feeling thick. “I thought I was helping.”

Her voice stays steady. That almost unsettles her more than if it had wobbled.

“And then it kept going,” she says. “And every time I thought about saying something, I would think—she is already overwhelmed. Do not add to it. Do not make her feel worse.”

Megan’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“I started paying a lot of attention to you,” Yoonchae says. “To your tone. Your energy. Whether you seemed like you could handle more conversation, or touch, or… me.” She exhales. “I got good at knowing when to pull back.”

Her thumb presses once into Megan’s palm, anchoring herself more than Megan this time.

“The problem is,” Yoonchae goes on, quieter, “I did not know how to come back from that.”

Megan’s eyes flicker. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Yoonchae says, searching for the right words, “once I made myself smaller, it felt safer to stay that way. Because if I did not ask for much, I never had to hear you tell me no. And if I did not need reassurance, I did not feel like I was asking for something you did not have.”

Her throat tightens then. She pauses, breath shallow.

“There were nights I wanted to text you just to say I missed you, missed… us,” she admits. “And I would not. Because I did not want to distract you. Or stress you out. Or make you feel like you had to respond.”

Yoonchae can see Megan’s eyes start to gloss over, but she doesn’t divert her gaze.

“And when you pulled back,” Yoonchae continues, “I told myself it made sense. You needed space. You were dealing with things. So I gave you more. And more.” A beat. “At some point, I could not tell if I was being patient or if I was disappearing.”

Her voice cracks then, just slightly. She hates that it does.

“I did not know how to ask if you still wanted me the same way,” she says. “Because what if the answer was no? Or what if you said yes, but only because you felt bad?”

Tears gather, blurring the edges of Megan’s face. Yoonchae doesn’t wipe them away.

“I felt like I was loving you at full volume,” she says, “and trying to turn myself down so I would not overwhelm you.” A breathless, sharp laugh escapes her. “And I did not know how to say that without sounding needy.”

Megan’s free hand lifts, hovering like she might reach for Yoonchae’s face—then stops. She lets it fall back to her lap.

“And when I went to Sophia’s,” Yoonchae says softly. “It was just to hang out because I had not seen her in a while. I did not mean to—” Her voice catches. “I did not mean to unload everything on her.”

Megan’s breath stutters. Yoonchae feels that land, sharp and unexpected.

“I was just tired,” Yoonchae says. “And confused. And it felt like I was doing everything right and still losing you anyway.” She presses her lips together. “I kept apologizing for crying because I knew she would talk to you eventually, and I did not want it to feel like your fault.”

She looks up then, finally, and meets Megan’s eyes.

“I do not think you ever wanted me to feel like that,” Yoonchae says. “But that is where I ended up.”

The words hang between them, heavy and undeniable.

For a long moment, Megan doesn’t speak.

When she does, her voice is quiet, rough. “You really thought you were failing me?”

Yoonchae nods once. Small. “Yeah.”

Megan closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they’re wet.

“I didn’t see that,” she says. “I should have. But I didn’t.”

Something in Yoonchae’s chest aches at the simplicity of it.

“I was not trying to punish you,” Yoonchae adds, quickly. “I did not pull away on purpose. I just… could not ask for reassurance without feeling like I was making things worse.”

Megan exhales, shaky. She squeezes Yoonchae’s hand—not tight this time.

“I’m really glad you’re telling me now,” she says.

Yoonchae nods, tears finally slipping free. She doesn’t apologize for them. That is new.

“I was scared,” she admits. “That if I said all of this, you would think I was too much. Or that it would undo what we fixed.”

Megan shakes her head immediately. “This is part of fixing it.”

The certainty in her voice lands cleanly. No hesitation. No qualifiers.

Yoonchae lets herself breathe.

They sit there for another moment, knees still angled toward each other, hands still linked. The air feels different now—calmer. Less tense. More settled. Yoonchae thinks they can be okay like this.

Megan reaches up with her free hand and wipes at the corner of her own eye, sniffling softly. She lets out a weak laugh. “Wow. Cool. Crying outside. On campus. How very dignified of us.”

Yoonchae huffs, the sound catching somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “We... committed to the bit, as Lara would say.”

“Truly,” Megan says. “Someone’s definitely walking by thinking we just broke up.”

Yoonchae glances around instinctively, then back at Megan. “Or failed a midterm.”

Megan smile, wiping under Yoonchae’s eyes next—gentle, careful.

They don’t rush it anything. They just sit, breathing, letting the last of the emotion drain out in quiet waves.

After another minute or two, Yoonchae says, “I think that is the most I have ever said at one time.”

Megan blinks. Then laughs, properly this time. “Oh my god. You’re right.”

“That was probably,” Yoonchae continues, deadpan, “multiple semesters worth of words.”

“I should be honored,” Megan says. “Truly. This is a historic moment for you.”

Yoonchae smiles, small and real. She hesitates just long enough for it to matter.

“Can I—” she starts, then stops herself short. “Can I kiss you?”

Megan’s answer is immediate. “Yes.”

Yoonchae leans in slowly, giving Megan time to pull back if she wants to. She doesn’t.

The kiss is soft and unhurried. No urgency, no apology tucked into it—just warmth. Megan’s hand comes up to Yoonchae’s jaw, thumb resting against Yoonchae’s cheek as their lips move and part. They stay locked together for several seconds longer until Yoonchae pulls back. She takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” Megan whispers, then leans forward, touching her forehead to Yoonchae’s. “Yeah. This helps.”

Yoonchae smiles. “Good.”

They linger a second longer, then stand together, brushing grass from their coats. The cold rushes back in immediately, biting and sharp.

Megan groans. “Oh my god. Why is it this cold?”

“You say this every time,” Yoonchae says.

“Because it’s always unreasonably cold,” Megan replies. She tucks her hands into her sleeves, then looks up. “So. Um. Where are we staying tonight?”

Yoonchae tilts her head. “I thought yours, unless—”

Megan makes a face. “Lara mentioned Manon’s coming over tonight, so…” She shrugs. “Who knows what’s happening in that room. But... I really don’t want to hear anything emotionally scarring tonight.”

Yoonchae snorts.

“So,” Megan says, hopeful now, “your dorm?”

Yoonchae nods. “Yeah.”

Megan immediately huddles closer as they start walking. “Okay, but hear me out—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know where this is going.”

Megan presses her cold hands against Yoonchae’s arm dramatically. “But tt’s freezing, Yoonchae," she whines. "And you have a jacket. And I am suffering.”

“You are always unprepared,” Yoonchae says. “Every single time.”

“And yet,” Megan says, grinning up at her, “you continue to date me.”

Yoonchae sighs, already slipping her jacket off. “You are impossible.”

She drapes it over Megan’s shoulders anyway, tugging it closed before Megan can even thank her.

Megan beams. “Wow. I love being right.”

They walk hand-in-hand toward Yoonchae’s dorm, steps matching easily now. Megan bumps her shoulder into Yoonchae’s, light and unthinking.

“Hey,” Megan says after a moment. “Thank you. For staying with me despite how… me I was about everything.”

Yoonchae squeezes her hand. “I am not going anywhere.”

This time, the words feel solid when she says them.

And this time, she thinks Megan believes her.

***

Two months later, Yoonchae’s dorm room looks like it’s thinking about moving out.

Her suitcase sits open on the floor, empty enough to feel accusatory, half a sweater folded neatly at the bottom like a placeholder. Clothes are spread across her bed in quiet categories—things she wears often, things she forgets she owns, things that she’s not quite sure if they’re hers or Megan’s. Books stack near the wall, some already boxed, others left out because she keeps reaching for them without realizing she’s doing it.

Everything is in limbo.

So is she, a little. But it doesn’t feel bad the way it might have once. It feels… honest.

Megan is sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back against the bed, carefully wrapping a mug in a T-shirt because she knows it’s Yoonchae’s favorite. She isn’t rushing. She isn’t asking questions every thirty seconds. She just exists there, present in a way that's become familiar again.

“Do you want this one packed or left out?” Megan asks, holding up a chipped ceramic cup with faded blue lettering.

Yoonchae glances over from where she’s folding jeans. “Packed,” she says. “You are the only one who uses that.”

Megan nods and wraps it more carefully than necessary.

This is what better looks like, Yoonchae thinks—not big gestures, not dramatic repairs, but consistency. Megan showing up, even on days when they disagree about stupid things like whose laundry detergent smells better. Megan staying when Yoonchae goes quiet instead of filling the space with assumptions or apologies. Megan asking questions and actually waiting for the answers.

They wake up together practically every morning now, like they did before. Sometimes it’s Yoonchae’s, sometimes Megan’s, sometimes they both forget whose bed it technically is until someone reaches for a charger and realizes it’s not in the place they thought it would be. The routine has settled into something easy again—brushing teeth side by side, sharing clothing and food without comment, Megan automatically handing Yoonchae the mug with more coffee because she knows she needs it.

Knowing without asking. Trusting that closeness won’t suddenly cost her something.

On Monday, her suitcase is mostly empty.

On Tuesday, there are folded stacks inside it, clothes pressed down gently, a few things lying flat on top.

On Wednesday, Megan shows up with takeout and a roll of packing tape and doesn’t say anything about how quiet Yoonchae is, just sets the food down and kisses her temple before sitting on the floor again.

“You don’t have to be okay about this,” Megan says casually, peeling tape from the roll. “Just so you know.”

Yoonchae swallows. “I know.”

She lets herself be sad that night without apologizing for it. Lets herself sit on the bed with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting against them, watching Megan move around the room with the roll of packing tape balanced against her wrist.

Megan hums some half-remembered song while she works, slightly off-key and completely unbothered. The sound fills the room gently, washing away some of the lingering sadness. Every so often she stops to smooth down the edge of a box or press the tape more firmly into place, double-checking that everything will hold.

Yoonchae’s eyes burn, but she doesn’t wipe at them. She just lets the tears come, heavy and hot and real.

When Megan finishes the last box, she sets the tape down, quiet as possible, and crosses the room. She climbs onto the bed carefully and sits behind Yoonchae without a word.

Her arms slide around Yoonchae’s middle, firm and deliberate.

Yoonchae exhales, the breath leaving her in a way that feels lighter than she expected it would. She leans back into Megan’s chest immediately, shoulders loosening as Megan adjusts, pulling her closer until there’s no room left for doubt.

Megan presses her cheek against Yoonchae’s hair, warm and grounding. She doesn’t say it’s okay. She doesn’t say anything at all. She just holds her—steady, anchoring, making a promise with her body instead of her mouth.

After a while, Megan tightens her arms just a little, a subtle squeeze that means I’ve got you. She whispers quietly into Yoonchae’s ear, “You don’t have to be brave right now.”

Yoonchae nods once, the motion small but enough. Her hands come up to rest over Megan’s forearms, fingers curling there.

They stay like that until Megan shifts only to tug the blanket up around them, tucking it around Yoonchae’s legs with absent familiarity.

Later, when they finally turn in for the night, Megan keeps one arm wrapped around Yoonchae’s waist even as they fall asleep, grip unyielding in the way that says she’s not going anywhere—no matter how far the boxes travel.

On Thursday, they argue—briefly—about whether Yoonchae actually needs three coats.

“I’m from Hawaii,” Megan says. “I’m biased.”

“And I am from Seoul,” Yoonchae replies. “Also known as reality.”

Megan grins. “Okay, rude.”

They resolve it by packing two and leaving one out. The argument doesn’t linger. Neither do they.

By Friday, the room looks different. The bed is bare except for one blanket Yoonchae plans to use at the airport. Most of the books are boxed. The suitcase is heavy now, zipper straining slightly when Yoonchae presses down on it with her knee.

The reality of it hits then. The reality of having to say goodbye.

Megan seems to feel it too. She goes quiet, leaning back against the wall, knees drawn up, watching Yoonchae move around the room.

“This part sucks,” Megan says eventually.

Yoonchae nods. “It does.”

“…So,” Megan continues, aiming for casual and almost landing there, “I talked to my mom again.”

Yoonchae looks over. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Megan shrugs, eyes fixed on the box she’s folding shut. “She was asking about my summer plans. Like she always does." A small pause. "...And she eventually asked me about your plans, too.”

Yoonchae stills, just a fraction.

“She said you could spend some time with us in LA whenever you get back in the States,” Megan continues, carefully neutral. “Like—if it’s early enough. A week or two before we have to come back here.” She hesitates, then adds, “She really likes having you around.”

Yoonchae lifts an eyebrow. “It is just your mom who likes having me around?”

“Well, I mean—“ Megan sputters out, then stops. She exhales and tries again, more honest this time. “I’m asking because I’d like to see you at some point before the next school year. God forbid a girl miss her girlfriend.” She rolls her eyes, but eventually meets Yoonchae’s. “I just—I like the idea of being there with you. Without classes and everything else in the way.”

That makes Yoonchae smile.

Megan smiles back, relief clear in the curve of her lips and the tilt of her head. “You can say no if that’s weird,” she finally says.

“No,” Yoonchae responds, softer this time. “I would love to come see you in LA.”

They don’t plan anything after that. They don’t pull out calendars or talk flights or dates. They just sit there together, backs against the bed frame, boxes stacked around them.

On Saturday morning, they eat cereal out of paper bowls because all of Yoonchae’s dishes are already packed up. Megan spills milk and swears. Yoonchae laughs and hands her a towel without comment.

On Sunday, they pack the last box together—photos, loose papers, things that didn't fit anywhere else. Megan pauses over a folded receipt from months ago, then tucks it back in without saying why it matters.

When they’re done, they sit amid the boxes, backs against the bed frame, knees touching. Megan reaches out and laces their fingers together, easy and unafraid.

“This isn’t the end,” Megan says, sounding very sure of herself.

Yoonchae lifts their joined hands before she answers. She presses a small, deliberate kiss to the back of Megan’s hand, the skin soft and warm under her mouth. “I know.”