Work Text:
sayeon used to joke that ryujin was born for the spotlight.
back then, it was never about fame or cameras or red carpets. it was simpler, almost embarrassingly so.
back then, it meant the way the fading light wove itself through her hair during late afternoon walks home, catching on the reddish-purple strands, sparkling in the sunset. it meant how she could turn a cafeteria full of bored, half-asleep teenagers into an audience with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin. it meant the way she laughed, bright and reckless, a sound that made sayeon feel like she was standing too close to the sun, something that could’ve burnt her if she wasn’t careful.
ryujin had always been like that - a little too bright, a little too alive. it was too much for someone like sayeon, who lived her life between neat lines and carefully calculated motions.
but that was before the acceptance letter, with its embossed crest and red wax seal and heavy expectations, and the whispered fights in the hallway.
it was before sayeon chose the law and left ryujin standing on the platform, hands shoved into her jacket pockets like she was trying to hold herself together. she can still remember the cold metal of the railing beneath her palms, softly rumbling as the train shuddered awake, the way the platform smelled faintly of morning rain and engine oil. she remembers ryujin’s breath fogging in the morning air, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets like she was trying to hold herself together from the inside out. she remembers the way ryujin’s eyes kept flicking toward the departure board, then back to her, as if searching for some version of sayeon who might’ve chosen differently.
one that would’ve chosen to stay, with her.
but sayeon had already made her choice. she told herself, over and over, that it was the right one. after all, what could be better than a future guaranteed to her, one built on logic, stability, and a future that the kind of life her parents, and her past self could nod approvingly at.
she told herself that this love she had at seventeen was a soft thing, a temporary thing, something that would fade in time like chalk on pavement.
oh, how she was wrong.
and yet, time moved forward. the train pulled away, and ryujin didn’t chase after it.
she just stood there, small and still, watching sayeon disappear through the window, from the platform, and from her life.
years later, in the city, she reappears.
sayeon doesn’t notice the billboard at first. she’s too busy juggling a stack of case files, her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear as her supervisor drones on about deadlines. the city hums around her with the sound of cars, footsteps, and the distant wail of a siren. to her, this is just another weekday morning.
she’s thinking about a case summary she needs to finish before noon when something bright catches her eye.
she steps off the curb, glancing up quickly, and the world stops.
a girl, suspended above the city like a star in the sky. her eyes are lined in gold, her hair is swept back in soft waves. she wears a half smile that is soft, familiar in a way that makes sayeon’s throat tighten.
the ad is for a movie sayeon has never heard of, nor will she ever watch. but she knows that face, recognizes it like she does her own reflection. all she can see is ryujin.
the world keeps moving around her, pedestrians brushing past, the crosswalk timer blinking red, but sayeon stands frozen, staring up at the girl she once kissed behind the gymnasium, the girl who once fell asleep on her shoulder during late-night study sessions.
the girl who is now everywhere.
her coffee goes cold in her hand. she feels something sharp beneath her ribs, somewhere in her chest. perhaps it is regret. or longing.
sayeon can’t tell. she forces herself to look away.
—
it had started out small.
a friend dragged her to an open audition for a teen drama - “just for fun,” she had said, laughing as she filled out the form with her messy handwriting, scrawling ryujins name across the paper.
she didn’t want to do it.
she showed up anyway.
and when the casting director took one look at her, he had paused. something about her presence had been impossible to ignore.
ryujin got the role that day.
then a bigger one.
then, the lead role.
her first drama aired while sayeon was still buried in her third-year law textbooks. ryujin reached out once, to tell her about her chances of being a star. but sayeon had never responded, and so she had never reached out again.
but everyone else watched, and they fell in love. ryujin had a rare quality of sorts - perhaps it was charm, or a spark of sorts. regardless, the cameras adored her. interviews went viral, and fan edits flooded social media.
then came the movie, the one on the billboards.
ryujin had become a star overnight.
—
sayeon tries to forget, but fate is not kind.
a week later, she sees ryujin again.
this time, it’s on the side of a bus that slips past her on her morning commute. sayeon is waiting at the stop, earbuds in, pretending to listen to a podcast she’s replayed three times without absorbing a single word.
the bus pulls up, and there she is. ryujin, mid-laugh, head tilted just slightly, wearing that half‑smirk she used to give right before stealing sayeon’s glasses during class.
the bus doors open. people shuffle in.
sayeon watches the bus pull away, ryujin’s smile shrinking into the distance until it disappears around the corner.
she feels strangely abandoned all over again.
sayeon decides to bury herself in work, sitting in her usual corner of the coffee shop. her laptop sits on the counter, laying open, pen tapping against her notebook.
then she hears it. ryujin’s voice.
she turns around too fast, coffee splashing out of her cup and onto the floor, ruining the white tile.
but ryujin is not there.
her voice, however, drifts from the shop’s radio. it is only an interview, one of many. sayeon freezes.
“your rise to fame has been incredible,” the host says. ryujin laughs. “i’ve been lucky,” she replies. “and… i’ve had people who believed in me.”
sayeon closes her eyes. she wonders if ryujin means her.
she doubts it.