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Megan wakes up like one of those animals in the tar pits.
Not dead—not yet, unfortunately—but suspended in it, half-preserved and half-drowning, every attempt to move only dragging her deeper. She doesn’t surface all at once—she never does anymore. First comes the pressure behind her eyes, the dull, patient ache that’s been pressing there for what feels like hours, waiting her out. Then the taste in her mouth: stale smoke, sugar, something burnt down to a memory. The last drink she didn’t finish, or maybe finished a few too many times.
Her tongue feels swollen, too big for her mouth. Her limbs feel wrong—heavy in a way that isn’t weight so much as betrayal by her own body. She lies there, breathing, because breathing is still easy enough, and tells herself that as long as she can do that, she’s not stuck.
Not really.
The next thing Megan’s able to realize is that she’s on the couch. That tracks, even with her shaky memories.
The cushions smell like cigarettes and her perfume layered wrong, sweet over sulfur. Her neck is kinked at a strange angle, hair stuck to her cheek, bangs standing up like she’d stuck a fork in the toaster. She blinks up at the ceiling and squints. Morning light leaks in through the blinds, thin and judgmental.
Her sketchbook is on the floor where it fell sometime last night around—she checks her phone, momentarily blinding herself with full-brightness—2:17 a.m. The page it’s open to is a mess of half-lines and aborted ideas. A sleeve that goes nowhere. A silhouette she abandoned halfway because she thought it looked mildly offensive. Pencil smudges where she erased too hard, then gave up.
Megan exhales through her nose. Right.
Her phone buzzes again. And again. She doesn’t look at it yet. Because she already knows. Emails stacked and piling up. Her PR manager, Manon, probably—subject lines with words like timeline and visibility and NYFW is closer than you think! as friendly reminders. A DM on Instagram from someone she’s partied with before asking if she made it home safely. A calendar notification she forgot to turn off: Design review (tentative).
Everything is loud. Everything is asking something from her.
Except herself.
She rolls onto her side and groans softly, pressing her face into the back of the couch. The fabric smells faintly like Yoonchae’s detergent. Clean. Yoonchae. The kind of scent that could be mistaken with a warm hand on your back in a too-crowded room. Megan stays there longer than necessary, breathing it in like it might do something useful, like it might kickstart whatever part of her brain that has been dead for months.
Nothing happens. Unfortunately.
Eventually, she pushes herself up, joints cracking in protest. There are empty bottles on the coffee table, ashtray overflowing but not gross—she’s not an animal—just neglected. Clothes draped over the armchair, over the radiator, over the back of the dining chair like she’d shed herself in pieces as she walked through the apartment.
Networking, she thinks, not for the first time. That’s what she calls it. That’s what everyone calls it. Drinks with buyers. Afterparties. Being seen. Being remembered.
Everyone does this in fashion. You’d be weird if you didn’t.
She rubs the crust out of her eyes, careful not to bump the psoriasis flare-up near her wrist, and stumbles toward the kitchen. The floor is cold. She vaguely registers the sound of movement that isn’t hers—the soft clink of a pan, the low hum of the stove—and something in her chest loosens before she can stop it.
Yoonchae’s already up.
Of course she is.
Megan props herself up against the doorway and watches her for a second without announcing herself. Yoonchae moves quietly, hair pulled back in a claw clip that isn’t her, sleeves of an old band tee that also isn’t her pushed up to her elbows. She cracks eggs one-handed into a bowl, neat and practiced, then wipes the counter without looking.
There’s a small pile of Megan’s clothes folded on the chair by the table. Not washed yet—just organized into a stack that suggests intention without accusation.
Megan smiles despite herself. God. She loves Yoonchae. It hits her sometimes out of nowhere, sharp and stupid and overwhelming, like she forgot and her brain just remembered all at once. Two years in and it still sneaks up on her like this, still knocks the air out of her lungs when she’s not paying attention.
“Morning,” Megan says, voice rough.
Yoonchae glances over her shoulder. Her smile comes easy, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s subtle. Megan clocks it distantly, registering it in the back of her mind. “You’re… awake.”
“Debatable.” Megan shuffles farther in, reaching for the coffee machine. A mug is already set out with exactly the amount of whole milk she likes. Of course it is. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost ten.”
Megan winces. “Yikes.”
Yoonchae hums, noncommittal. She flips something in the pan, and the smell that fills the kitchen isn’t just butter—it’s salt and fat and heat, sharp and unmistakable. SPAM. It hits Megan all at once, vivid and uninvited.
For a second she’s eight again, barefoot on cool tile in Honolulu, watching her mom press slices into a pan until the edges blistered and crisped. SPAM and warm sticky rice wrapped tight with a thin strip of nori, eaten standing up, eaten fast, because there was always somewhere else to be. It was never meant to be fancy, but it was always filling. It was home.
Megan leans back against the counter now, the memory settling heavy and sweet in her chest. The smell grounds her, anchors her in a way nothing else has lately. She watches Yoonchae move through the kitchen like this is where she belongs, and feels that familiar mix of gratitude and guilt sink low in her stomach, dense and slow. It’s not something she wants to name.
She tells herself, as she has been doing more lately, that this is temporary. A rough patch. A dry spell. She’s had them before. Everyone does. One good idea and she’ll be back on track. One good show and this version of her—the messy one, the tired one, the one who smells like smoke at ten in the morning—will evaporate like it never existed.
She reaches for her Lexapro on the counter without looking. The bottle rattles. She pauses, frowns slightly. It feels lighter than it should. She shakes it again.
Yoonchae’s eyes flick over, briefly, then back to the pan without saying anything. Megan dry-swallows a pill anyway and washes it down with still too-hot coffee. She burns her tongue.
“I have a thing later tonight,” Megan says. “Manon’s freaking out about something. Shock of the century.”
Yoonchae nods as she plates the eggs and SPAM. “You went out last night.”
“That was a networking event,” Megan corrects automatically, then grins, crooked. “It was… productive.”
Yoonchae doesn’t argue. She sets the plate on the table, reaches for two forks. The silence stretches, thin but not uncomfortable. Megan scrolls through her phone finally, skimming headlines and unread messages without actually absorbing any of their content.
That’s when she notices the bag.
It’s by the door. Neatly packed. Yoonchae’s tote, the black one with the fraying strap she refuses to throw away. Sneakers tucked beside it. Charger looped around the handle.
Megan’s brain registers it and promptly puts it off.
“Huh,” she says lightly, gesturing with her phone. “You going somewhere?”
Yoonchae’s shoulders tense. Just a fraction. Megan misses it, too busy smiling, already assembling the explanation for her in her head. Class. Sophia’s. An overnight. Normal things. This is normal.
“Later,” Yoonchae says, after a beat. She sits across from Megan, folds her hands in her lap. She looks tired up close. Not hungover-tired—Megan would be able to recognize that look on anyone—but bone-tired. She looks bone-tired. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep.
Megan digs into her eggs. They’re perfect. Of course they are. Because Yoonchae’s perfect. She eats like she hasn’t in days, because she hasn’t, because food is easier when someone else makes it and harder when you’re alone with your thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Yoonchae asks, softly.
Megan smiles around a mouthful of food. “Yeah. Just…busy. You know how it is.”
Yoonchae watches her for a second longer, eyes steady, searching for something Megan doesn’t realize she’s hiding. Then she nods.
“…Okay,” she says.
Megan relaxes instantly, mistaking the absence of argument for agreement. See? Fine. We’re fine. She reaches across the table and bumps Yoonchae’s knee with her own, playful. Grounding.
She just needs one more night. One more show. One good idea.
Then everything will make sense again.
She spears a piece of egg and squints at it like it might betray her. “You’re trying to kill me,” she says lightly. “This is way too good for a weekday morning.”
Yoonchae’s mouth curves, small but real. “You say this every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.” Megan leans back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead until something in her shoulder pops. She winces, then grins. “Occupational hazard. A true genius at work.”
Yoonchae snorts despite herself, reaching for her coffee. Megan watches her do it—wrap her hands around the mug, blow across the surface like she’s done a thousand times before. Domestic muscle memory. The kind that sneaks up on you and convinces you you’re safe.
Megan drains half her own cup in one go and immediately regrets it. “Ugh. Nope. Too fast. Rookie mistake.”
“You do this every time too,” Yoonchae says.
“Consistency is a virtue, as they say.”
She’s halfway through another bite, more SPAM than egg this time, when her eyes drift back to the front door.
The bag is still there. Packed. Not slouched or half-zipped or waiting to be dealt with later. It looks ready in a way nothing else in the apartment ever does. Yoonchae’s sneakers sit beside it, placed with care, like Yoonchae had meant for Megan to find them.
Megan’s stomach turns over, slow and heavy. The room tilts just enough to make her aware of her footing.
She laughs, because that’s what she does when something feels off and she doesn’t want to look at it yet. “What’s with the go-bag?” she asks, too casual. “You planning a dramatic escape? Sleepover? A secret second life I don’t know about?”
Yoonchae doesn’t smile this time.
She sets her fork down carefully. The sound is soft. Polite. It feels louder than it should.
“Megan,” she says.
That’s it. Just her name. Megan’s stomach tightens anyway.
“Hey,” Megan says, still smiling, because stopping now would be suspicious. “What’s up?”
Yoonchae folds her hands together on the table. Megan notices, absently, that her nails are clean. Short. Practical. She’s always admired that about her. “I’m going to stay with Sophia and Daniela. For a while.”
“Oh,” Megan says, because apparently that’s what comes out when your brain lags behind your mouth. She blinks. “Like—today?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“…I don’t know yet,” Yoonchae says, quieter.
Megan laughs again, too quick, too bright. “Okay, but—why does it sound like you’re breaking up with me?”
Yoonchae’s eyes flicker. She looks tired again. Not angry. Not cold. Just…done.
“I’m not,” she says gently. “I do love you.”
Megan exhales, relieved. There it is. The most important part. “Okay. Yeah. I know that.”
“I love you,” Yoonchae repeats, slower, like she wants to be understood correctly. “But I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”
Megan opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Do what?”
Yoonchae doesn’t rise to it. She doesn’t list the bottles, the ashtrays, the late nights, the way Megan’s hands shake when she thinks no one’s looking. She doesn’t have to.
“This,” she says instead, soft. “Every day. You say it’s temporary. After fashion week. After the next show. After the next thing.”
She hesitates, just for a moment. “I believe you. I really do. But I’m tired.”
The word hits harder than any accusation could have.
Megan leans forward, elbows on the table. “Okay, but—this is just a phase. You know that. You even said so yourself. I’m under a lot of pressure right now.”
“I know.”
“I’ll slow down,” Megan says quickly, the words tripping over each other. “I can—cut back. After fashion week, things calm down. They always do.”
Yoonchae nods. “You said that last time.”
Megan swallows. “Yeah, but this time I mean it.”
“I believe you,” Yoonchae says.
Then, quieter: “That’s not the problem.”
That’s worse. Megan feels something crack at the edges.
“I just—” Megan drags a hand through her hair, leaves it there, gripping lightly like she might float away otherwise. “I don’t understand why you’re leaving if you believe me.”
Yoonchae looks at her then, really looks at her, and there’s so much care there it almost hurts to breathe around it. “Because loving you doesn’t mean I can stay and watch you hurt yourself like this.”
Megan’s chest tightens. Panic flares, hot and sudden. “I’m not hurting myself.”
“You are,” Yoonchae says quietly. “You’re hurting yourself so much you can’t see it anymore.”
Silence stretches. The food goes cold.
“I need some space,” Yoonchae continues. “Not because I don’t love you. I do. And this—” She gestures vaguely between them, at the apartment, the table, the life they’ve built. “This is hurting me.”
Megan shakes her head, small and helpless. “So what, you’re just—leaving?”
“I’m stepping away,” Yoonchae corrects gently. “I can’t stay like this.”
Megan laughs again, but it comes out wrong, brittle. “You’re acting like I’m—like I’m some lost cause.”
“I don’t think that,” Yoonchae says immediately.
“Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me?”
Yoonchae flinches. Just barely. “That’s not what I’m doing,” she adds, carefully.
Megan looks down at her hands. They’re shaking now. Great. “I can fix this,” she says, hating how desperate she sounds. “Just—give me time. I’ll get it together. I always do.”
Yoonchae stands anyways, picking up her bag.
Megan’s heart stutters. “Yoonchae. Please.”
Yoonchae pauses at the door. She looks back, eyes soft, wrecked. “I love you,” she says one last time. “Please take care of yourself, Megan.”
Then she’s gone.
The door closes with a quiet, final click.
No slam. No echo.
Nothing.
The apartment feels enormous immediately. Wrong-sized. The air smells like SPAM and home and coffee and something clean that’s already fading. Megan stays where she is, hands on the table, staring at the empty chair across from her.
Slowly, the tears come. They start at the top of her eyes and spread their way down her cheeks as fast as her breathing catches. Megan bites down hard until she tastes blood, because focusing on that is easier than anything else.
It feels terrible to cry alone.
Her stomach tightens first, then lurches without warning. Megan shoves back from the table, chair legs screeching against the floor, and barely makes it to the sink before she’s gagging. Nothing comes up—just bile and stomach acid and she the hatred she feels because her body reacted quicker to it than she did. She braces herself on the counter, shaking, forehead pressed against the cool laminate.
She fumbles for a cigarette out of habit more than need. The pack sits on the counter where Yoonchae used to slide it just out of reach, not hiding it, just delaying the inevitable. Megan grabs for the lighter first, misjudges the distance, and clips the edge of the pack with her knuckles.
It tips. Falls. Bursts open against the floor.
Cigarettes scatter everywhere, rolling under the table, fanning out across the tile like they’re trying to escape her. Megan stares at them too long, chest tight, throat burning.
“Jesus,” she mutters.
She crouches down, fingers clumsy, and scoops one up from the floor. It’s already between her fingers before she has time to feel embarrassed about it.
She tries to flick the lighter.
Her hands won’t stop shaking.
She laughs again, sharp and breathless, because of course they won’t. Because even this—this tiny, stupid ritual—feels wrong now. She drops the cigarette back onto the floor and presses her blunt fingernails into her thighs until the tremor dies down.
The apartment smells wrong.
It’s still technically the same—same furniture with clothing draped over it, same half-finished sketches taped crookedly to the wall, same pile of unopened mail—but without Yoonchae moving through it, it feels like a set after the actors have gone home. The scent of coffee lingers without the warmth of her hands around the mug. The clean note Yoonchae brought with her—laundry soap, shampoo, something citrusy—is thinning out by the second.
Megan drifts without meaning to, still barefoot on the cold floor. She passes the couch where she’s woken up more times than she can count, Yoonchae already awake, already gentle. A glass of water placed on the table. A blanket tucked around her shoulders. Fingers brushing hair out of her face like it mattered whether she slept well.
Memories of them come back in pieces, uninvited and out of order: Yoonchae pressing cold spoons beneath Megan’s eyes before an event, murmuring about how she doesn’t have to look perfect, just awake; a spa date Megan almost canceled because she was “too busy,” Yoonchae insisting anyway and laughing softly when Megan fell asleep halfway through the facial; quiet nights on the floor with their backs against the couch, eating takeout from the same container, sharing headphones, not talking because there was no need to fill the space. Megan had treated those moments like they didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
She presses a hand to her chest now, like an open wound that needs the pressure to stop it from bleeding.
“Yoonchae,” she says aloud, like saying it might summon her back into the room. It doesn’t. The apartment stays silent—no soft reply, no lightly accented voice, no curtain of pin-straight black hair appearing at the edge of her vision. And that absence makes her angry, a sharp, pointless frustration she can’t put out like a cigarette. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, too,” she adds, too late.
She thinks of the nights she came home wired and hollow, talking too fast, already halfway gone. The promises she made with one eye on the calendar. After this show. After fashion week. After things settle down. She thinks of how Yoonchae learned to read her moods by the way she took off her shoes, by whether she could meet her eyes, by how long it took before she reached for something to take the edge off.
Love isn’t the same thing as safety, and she can’t make herself stop thinking it.
She loves Yoonchae. She knows that. And somehow it still wasn’t enough. Loving someone doesn’t mean you stop making them watch you slowly destroy yourself.
She sinks down onto the couch, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. For the first time, her life doesn’t feel glamorous or productive or temporary. It feels dangerous now. Like something she should’ve put down a long time ago.
Megan stares at her phone. There are numbers there she knows by heart without looking. People who answer at any hour. People who don’t ask questions.
Her thumb hovers. Stops.
Instead, she scrolls—past messages she doesn’t want to read yet—until she finds Sophia’s name.
She types, deletes, types again.
megan (10:13 am):
she’s with u, right?
Her vision blurs before she can second-guess it. She sends it anyway.
The apartment stays quiet. Still too quiet. Megan leans forward, breathing through the tightness in her chest.
She can’t keep doing this.
Her phone buzzes against her thigh.