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Dating your groupmate is a bad idea. Minjeong can't even count on both hands how many times people have said this to her, and Jimin definitely couldn't with all of the extra people in her life. They had tried it, anyway.
"It'll be different between us." It's not.
"We can make it work." They can't.
"I'll love you enough to see us through." Jimin won't.
Minjeong doesn't blame her.
Most of the time.
⋆.˚
Minjeong is lying to everyone, but the words roll off her tongue a hell of a lot easier than the truth. That always feels like sandpaper if she lets it sit in her mouth for too long. She can't swallow it, either. It's dry and dead.
"Yes, Mom, we broke up. Yes, it was mutual. Our schedules were too conflicting; he's going on tour soon…"
"No, I am not going to cry when I see her in practice, Yizhuo."
“Unnie, don't worry about me, I'm fine."
Everyone can tell that it, all of it, is categorically untrue. "I'm fine," Minjeong says, and it's roughly the ninth time she's said that exact lie today. She's lying on her back, sprawled over the gray couch, and she really needs to get up. It still smells like Jimin, as does everything else in this apartment, because her scent didn't follow her out the door when she packed up her love into boxes last week.
Jimin still exists here.
She's on their her sheets—Minjeong finds a hair tie yesterday, and she's yet to text Jimin that she has it. It's currently around Minjeong's wrist. Jimin has a million; she won't miss this one. Minjeong will. She's in their her kitchen cupboard: the dinosaur mug Jimin made years ago and gifted to her, that they both conveniently forgot to bring up when Jimin had her boxes. Jimin wants her to have it. Minjeong knows that much. She won't be the asshole who gives away the last bit of Jimin's heart she can still hold in her hands. She's at the mirror, waiting for Minjeong in the mornings, if she can bear to look. Sometimes she does, and Jimin stares back at her, behind her, chin hooking over her shoulder, golden skin bare in the soft light, her blue toothbrush hanging out of a wide, toothy smile.
She's not been there when Minjeong turns around for five days.
Minjeong hears her, on occasion. A low tune in the music Minjeong plays to drown out the silence reminding her of Jimin's voice, and then Minjeong drowns with it. A creaking floorboard is all it takes for Minjeong's brain to forget everything. She thinks it's Jimin, because Pponyo is still small and light enough to move silently; she always does, and Minjeong always smiles.
The reflexes, the habit, the routine that comes with loving someone for ten years and living with them for one, is proving to be utter torture. It's the part she performs without even realizing and it sits sharper when that realization settles underneath her skin.
She keeps lifting her head to see where Jimin is in the room. She accidentally makes two coffees three days ago instead of one. She can't not do it. She can feel Jimin's ghost follow her everywhere, and her presence feels louder when the walls of their her apartment close in and pulse around her, and she can feel her hold her at night, and she can feel the spectral hands on her skin in the morning, and she still reaches out and tries to feel the body she knows they belong to.
Minjeong finds nothing but a hair tie.
Jimin is not here, and it doesn't feel like it at all.
She's in every nook and cranny of this damn place, and Minjeong's so close to calling a priest, but even the thought of that reminds her of Jimin, too. Jimin would laugh. Jimin's beautiful laugh rings inside her head like a church bell. It sounds like a wedding she'll never experience in this lifetime.
She's not really sure where Jimin is staying. It could be on Aeri's couch, or at her parents'. They're still sharing each other's location; she could check. The itch is there, but Minjeong doesn't want to scratch it. She'll probably check it tomorrow. She doesn't care, but she does; she really does.
What is she doing right now? Was that overseas schedule today, or was it yesterday? Is she back already? Is she going to date someone else like last time? How long will that last? Will they love her like I do? Do I want them to?
Is she thinking about me, the way I'm thinking about her?
Probably.
Minjeong's friend, her closest friend of years, can't meet her eyes. She's been watching Minjeong for the last ten minutes. It's been awful, because what can she say to Minjeong that she hasn't said before, especially when she can't tell what she wants.
The first time had been so, so much easier.
"Go back to her; you know she'll always have her arms open for you."
The present is a different story. She stands rather awkwardly in Minjeong's living room, watching over both Pponyo, and Minjeong. Pponyo is faring much better than her mother, napping in her playpen and hopefully not thinking about where her other mother is. She knows what, or who, Minjeong is thinking about, because Minjeong's thoughts have all revolved around the same person since she was fifteen years old. Every single one.
She looks around the room. It's emptier without Jimin or any sign of her; that's the entire reason Minjeong had invited her over. "Should we go out?"
Minjeong tries not to laugh, really, because she's doing what a good friend does—distracts, but it slips through Minjeong's bitten lips, regardless. It's bitter, and there's something ironic about the question.
Where, Minjeong thinks—where would a single place in South Korea not remind her of Jimin? Even when she's not physically in the country or their her bed, Minjeong can't avoid her. Minjeong isn't blind, deaf, nor an amnesiac.
She's Karina, for fuck's sake.
She's on every single billboard in Seoul, and half the time Minjeong is there with her. One day after Jimin had left, Minjeong passes one that had all four of them while she was taking a late-night drive to clear her mind. That image doesn't help in the slightest. They make so much sense together, almost as much as they don't. Jimin, front and center, her black hair shining, her face positively glowing, towering over her in boots and sharp makeup that makes her look like the Jimin everyone knows. Minjeong, next to her, at her side, where she always is. Their arms linked, and Minjeong's smiling for the camera when all she was thinking in that moment was how soft Jimin's skin is, how different this Jimin is from the Jimin she knows.
She doesn't like it when it's a solo billboard either, one of the three hundred brand campaigns Jimin's actively promoting herself. She sees it on a late-night walk, because she figures if she covers less ground, she'll see less of Jimin. She's wrong, because Jimin is positively everywhere, and everyone gets to look at Jimin, her Jimin, in an entirely different way than she does.
They can probably tell how thick Jimin's hair is, but they don't know what it feels like to run her fingers through the back of her scalp when their lips meet. They don't know what it feels like to play with the ends in the middle of the night when they should both be asleep. They don't know how it feels when it tickles her face when Jimin pulls her closer.
They don't know how beautiful she is even in the dark, stripped of makeup, light, performance, and all Minjeong can make out is her eyes and the weight of them when they meet her own. They don't know how beautiful she is when she smiles just for Minjeong, because the camera can never pick up how it feels to have that smile directed at her, how her heart clenches and leaps at the same time. They don't know how beautiful she looks even when she's walking away from Minjeong, boxes in hand, tears streaming down her cheeks—even Minjeong doesn't. Jimin won't let her get a glimpse.
Still, even if they don't see, know, or love Jimin the way Minjeong does, everyone gets to look. Minjeong has tried to grow accustomed to it over the years. Jimin is for everyone, not just Minjeong. Not even Minjeong anymore; she has to remind herself of that.
Minjeong could try to walk around blindfolded.
It would be rather impractical, and it would make no difference, really, because if Minjeong doesn't see Jimin, she can hear someone talking about her. Their managers do, of course, but they know not to pry; they'll find things they don't want to know.
"Is Jimin not ready?" Minjeong's manager asks the day after Jimin leaves, attempting to hurry them both to practice, with confusion breaching through the stress.
Minjeong stops in their her building's lobby. "Did Jimin not tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"We're not living together anymore." Her voice shakes so badly that it cracks on the last syllable.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
If it's not the management, it's the fans, and they're worse because they're completely clueless to the fact that Minjeong's heart splinters further every time she reads her name. The most innocuous message sets her off last night.
Are you with Jimin unnie?
No, actually, not in any meaning of the word.
Then, finally, when Minjeong thinks she can have a moment of peace, it's taken from her in an instant. The taxi driver, who doesn't even realize Minjeong, Winter, is in his backseat, turns the volume up on the radio. It's one of their songs, of course it is, and it just happens to be Jimin's part, and she sounds so sure, so strong and firm and crystal clear from the speakers; it's like she's in the seat next to her, singing along. Then, her part is next, of course it is, and it's almost like they're singing together again and that day didn't happen, and it's all normal. The YouTube algorithm doesn't realize Minjeong will cry at this time of night, recommending her a fancam of Jimin's entire Waterbomb performance. There's a red line at the bottom. Minjeong scrolls past it and wonders why she's trying to fool herself, and watches it with an open bottle of Soju in her hand.
Minjeong hasn't been able to handle any mention or recollection of aespa in the last five days. Practice is atrocious, and she's so glad they aren't filming behind-the-scenes content anymore, because she can't even look at Jimin during serenade. She's too close, and close triggers her memory, and she can suddenly see ten years with Jimin reflected in puffy eyes two inches from her.
Every moment, on stage or off. Before the lights and cameras, and after they've been trained to track their every movement. Millions watching them or not.
And then her mind keeps going.
It's not just Seoul, it's Yangsan, it's her place, the place she grew up, the place Jimin was desperate to visit, and then it's any corner of the globe, because everywhere that she's been to, Jimin had been matching her pace and their fingers had brushed.
So, a single place on planet Earth that doesn't remind Minjeong of Jimin?
Not any of their practice rooms, recording studios, or concert halls. Not the streets, not in restaurants or cafes or karaoke rooms or tennis courts or the beach or—
She'd pay good money to find it and bury it underground. She wouldn't know how to breathe in a place that didn't have Jimin hanging in the air; her lungs would choke on it. Maybe that's what she needs, and maybe it's what she wants. Minjeong doesn't know, and she'd pay good money to find the answer inside her mind, too.
"You could do a live? Spend some time with your fans?" Minjeong's friend prompts, rustling around the handbag that previously lay discarded on the very same couch Minjeong has yet to move from. "I brought my slime."
Minjeong had honestly forgotten her friend was standing there, that she was in their her apartment and not Yangsan, Santa Monica, or—
"Sure."
⋆.˚
Jimin is coming back to Korea today. Minjeong had checked her location when she had woken up, confirmed that she is still overseas, and then her manager had said it on the way to today's practice.
Without Jimin.
It's happened before with other members, but mostly with Jimin, because Jimin is a very busy woman.
"Okay."
It's somehow better and worse without Jimin. Minjeong runs through Serenade with a backup dancer. She's good; Minjeong likes her, but it's not the same without Jimin. There's no chemistry, no flair, no tension, no sense of accomplishment when she's not performing it with the second half of herself. The person she did all this for when it came down to it, all those years ago. The person Minjeong hates and loves being without.
Without Jimin, Minjeong can focus on herself.
She can go through her own solo track with limbs and a voice that shake in equal parts. She can fumble through line after line. She can stumble on most of her turns. She can bring absolutely nothing to the table because something so integral walked away from her, and she left a pretty sizable dent.
She's fine.
Unless Yizhuo and Aeri remind her.
"How are you feeling today?" Yizhuo asks during a break, sliding up next to where Minjeong is balancing against the wall. They had been halfway through the set list when it was called, probably because Minjeong couldn't keep up with choreography she has done in her sleep. Because Minjeong might as well be waiting in an airport with Jimin, that's how much she has left to give today.
Minjeong pretends to keep scrolling on her phone. "Fine," she replies, shorter than she'd like to be with Yizhuo, and her eyes dart to her left for an exit, only for the small bit of space to be taken up by Aeri.
"Are you really?" Yizhuo pushes, and Minjeong doesn't know what to tell her, and she can't stop looking at Aeri. She had talked to Yizhuo already; she was the first person she had called when the door shut behind Jimin—she'd known some of it already; it's hard not to.
Dating your groupmate is a bad idea.
It's Jimin never home, because she's too busy bending herself backwards and working herself to the bone, and it feels like there's never anything left of her by the time she finally comes home to Minjeong, and she's just a shell of the woman Minjeong loves, and Jimin hates herself for it.
Dating your groupmate is a bad idea.
It's Minjeong loving her so fiercely and so wholly and not having anywhere to put that love, that it spills out in moments she'll replay in the dark and panic that she's ruined both of their careers, and she can't stop the panic that rises like a flood, and not even Jimin can pull her out.
Dating your group mate is a universally agreed, truly terrible idea.
Minjeong's mouth moves before she can stop it. "What has Jimin told you?"
Did she tell you that we fought that night? She probably did; she tells you almost everything, and I love that you're there for her. I hope you are there for her now, since she won't let me be. Did she let you see her cry? She never lets me see, and it's one of the reasons we had that stupid fight. Do you know how hard it is to watch the woman you love stretch herself so thin, with the sour taste in your mouth that tells you that you're struggling too, and be pushed away because she doesn't want to add to the burdens that drag you down like an anchor? Do you know how easy it is to understand it?
The fear that freezes you like an ocean so intent on drowning you, the pressure that clings like it has claws and it stings when it digs into your skin, the fighting for the space and energy and time to love someone so much that you'd put your career in the ground if it didn't mean you'd bury her next to you.
It's hell, and it's heaven all at once, and I miss her so badly it hurts.
"She said it wasn't your fault."
Minjeong only realizes she's crying when Yizhuo wraps her arms around her.
⋆.˚
It's late when someone knocks loudly on their her door.
Minjeong hadn't been sleeping; she hadn't even been trying to. She'd been sitting in the dark, and Jimin's ghost had been sitting with her. They'd been talking. She had said that practice was hard without her, more so than it's ever been, and she hates and loves that she wasn't there because it meant Jimin was pushing herself further. That she got food from the takeout place Jimin loves, and she left Jimin's usual order in the fridge, and she doesn't know why. That whoever is pounding on the door is really irritating her because she has no messages on her phone, and it's past midnight, and she wants to keep talking to the ghost of her ex-girlfriend.
Minjeong swings her legs over the bed and gets up when the pounding doesn't let up for a few minutes, and Pponyo starts barking from the living room, clearly upset that she's been woken up. Minjeong checks on her first, and she's okay. Minjeong coos over the little ball of fluff in her arms before setting her down gently in her playpen.
She's a little bit scared. It's a highly secure building; it's not a sasaeng, but it could very well be a manager. Minjeong sucks in a deep, shuddering breath as she makes it to her door. She's not sure why they wouldn't text or call, especially if it was something urgent, but maybe their phone died, and it's something extremely serious, like a scandal, the scandal she's dreaded since she was eighteen years old and knew she loved Jimin, like everything she had worked so hard for has just blown up in her face—
"Hi."
It's Jimin.
Minjeong would recognize that voice if she were blind, deaf, or an amnesiac, and Jimin looks and sounds every part of pathetic. Her face is bare, just how Minjeong likes her, unguarded, hers. Jimin's bangs are matted across her forehead; she's panting, chest heaving in the thin tank top Minjeong had just seen her in on Twitter—she's just come from the airport, she realizes, and that's why there's a suitcase trailing behind her.
Doesn't explain the wide, wet eyes looking down at her so softly that it wraps around Minjeong's ribs like a hug.
She looks so beautiful that Minjeong's lips part.
"Hi." Minjeong doesn't sound or look any better; it comes out breathless, and of course, tonight is the night she's wearing an old shirt of Jimin's she found at the back of her closet. "What are—"
"I had to see you."
That's all it takes for Minjeong to open the door wider, and then she's reaching for Jimin, grabbing the hem of her tank top, and pulling Jimin inside the darkness of their apartment, their home. They don't waste any time; they've just spent the last six days doing so. Minjeong crowds her against the door and buries her face into the top of Jimin's chest, tears soaking through the black fabric, and Jimin holds her close by the nape of her neck, pulling on the strands of blonde as she pins their bodies tightly together that Minjeong shouldn't be able to breathe.
She can.
Everything she takes in is Jimin.
Her scent is muffled by sweat, but Minjeong can't complain when she can feel every part of Jimin pressing to her, when she can barely see Jimin's silhouette through the tears, when she can just about hear the sound of Jimin's cries mixing with her own, when she pulls back and Jimin's lips finally, finally meet her own—
Minjeong feels like she's come home, too.
Jimin's lips are soft and sweet and salty and fit perfectly against her own as they always do.
"It'll be different between us," Jimin gasps as their mouths move against each other in a dance they've done for years, and will do for many more.
Minjeong kisses her harder, hands grabbing onto whatever piece of Jimin she can hold on to long enough for this to feel real. "We can make it work." It is real. Jimin is real. What they have is complicated and messy, but it's real, and they both know it.
"I'll love you enough to see us through," Jimin says it like she means it. Minjeong feels every scar she wears on her heart like a badge ache. Jimin soothes it with another press of her lips, and Minjeong decides they both have room left on them for love and the cuts that will always come with it. They'll patch each other up.
Minjeong believes her. "I have takeout for you in the fridge."
Jimin breaks the kiss with a laugh, that same beautiful laugh that's been haunting the halls of their apartment for six days. Minjeong drags her into their kitchen, and she can just about hear the ringing of church bells in the back of her head.
⋆.˚