Chapter Text
Minjeong’s first impression of Yu Jimin is that she’s probably terrible at singing.
It’s obvious. Yu Jimin is too pretty with her long limbs and silky black hair and sharp eyes. It’s as if she was born to be the silent, brooding visual of a girl group. The type who doesn’t need to do anything more than halfheartedly hold a note. The type to get scouted for her looks alone—not because she deserves it.
Not the way Minjeong does.
Years of auditioning have chipped away at Minjeong's already fragile teenage self-esteem. She’s only fifteen years old, but she thinks she might hate herself already. It’s hard not to when you're in this industry. Or in Minjeong’s case, trying to claw your way into it.
Don’t take it personally, her dad assures her. They're only tough on you because they want you to improve.
But everything feels personal when it comes to the one thing she’s ever really wanted. It never gets easier to stand there when scary adults look her up and down, then shrug like she's wasting their time. When she's heard you’re too fat you’re too short you just don't have the look we're searching for more times than she can count. Becoming an SM trainee did little to assuage those insecurities; if anything, being surrounded by dozens of younger and more experienced trainees only compounded them.
Minjeong is sure of one fact, though—she’s a good singer. Great, even. Her voice is the one thing that makes everyone in the room look at her like she’s actually worth something. Nobody can take that away from her. Even if Yu Jimin is the prettiest trainee in the practice room, there's no way that she’s even remotely as good of a singer as Minjeong is.
“You're up, Jimin,” the vocal trainer calls out. His voice echoes in the practice room, reverberating around the space until it pricks at Minjeong’s skin. She’s up after Jimin. Four more minutes until Minjeong has to rise to her feet and stand in front of the circle of pretty trainees and prove that she belongs here. Bile threatens to rise up her throat. Minjeong swallows it down, flits her gaze to Yu Jimin and hopes it distracts her from her own unease.
Jimin raises the microphone to her mouth. The low murmur of conversation in the practice room quiets immediately. An air of anticipation settles over the room—it’s the prettiest trainee’s turn to sing. Then she parts her lips, inhales softly, and takes Minjeong’s breath away for the very first time.
The first surprise is the tone of her voice: low and gravelly, a stark contrast to how girlish she looks with her bright lip tint and meticulously ironed school uniform. Her eyes flutter shut as she sings along to the ballad. It’s a somber song about overcoming a breakup, which Minjeong is fairly certain that neither of them have much experience with at their age, but the way Jimin’s voice wavers with emotion at the chorus makes Minjeong wonder if she really has had her heart broken before.
The second surprise is how unrefined she is. Jimin seemed so intimidating at first glance, when Minjeong walked into the practice room to the sight of her surrounded on all sides by curious trainees. Unapproachable. Almost like a celebrity already. But standing alone in a room full of people who are evaluating her and waiting for her voice to crack, Yu Jimin looks like the sixteen-year-old girl she really is.
Her nail polish is chipped. The hand that isn't holding the microphone fidgets restlessly with the rough fabric of her skirt. Her vocal technique is poor; she’s straining to hit the high notes and she’s out of breath already. Her eyebrows are furrowed too hard. She isn’t making it look effortless the way idols are supposed to.
Still, Minjeong can’t deny that her voice is beautiful. That the raw tone of it, however unrefined, tugs traitorously at her heart.
Jimin’s eyes flutter open once she finishes belting the last note. She blinks once and then twice, like she’s figuring out where she is. As she lowers the microphone, her gaze lands on Minjeong. Her eyes are wide and warm and curious. She tilts her head as if to ask was I good?
“Kim Minjeong. You’re up next,” the vocal trainer says.
The moment ends as soon as it starts. Minjeong’s stomach starts to churn again. Everybody’s looking at her. She rises to her feet too fast and stumbles on the way up. Her old sneakers squeak loudly against the polished wooden floor when she catches herself. A few girls around her snicker quietly, and despite her best efforts, Minjeong feels her face heat up in embarrassment.
Jimin strides over. The clack clack clack of her loafers echoes in the room, but Minjeong can hardly hear anything over the thrumming of her own heartbeat in her ears. Jimin stops in front of Minjeong and offers her the microphone with an encouraging smile. She’s even prettier up close. The dim overhead lighting washes over the tall slope of her nose and the swell of her lips. Their fingers brush, just slightly.
Minjeong’s stomach lurches. It must be the nerves.
Then Jimin closes her small hand into an even smaller fist, shakes it once, and mouths fighting! Minjeong tries to smile back, but it comes out looking more like a grimace. Her hands are trembling. She wraps both of them around the microphone like a prayer. It's the only one she believes in.
The delicate melody of the piano instrumental flows into the room. It’s Minjeong’s favorite song these days, a gentle ballad that comforts her when she’s laying in the unfamiliar bed on the top bunk in the trainee dorm.
Minjeong closes her eyes and lets herself imagine it: her cramped bedroom in Yangsan with the peeling posters of her favorite idols taped up on the walls, the crumpled balls of notebook paper piled in the trash can from when she secretly practiced signing her own autograph and embarrassed herself, the tangled earphones that whisked her away into her own world every night. She pictures the water stain on her ceiling that her dad insists that he’ll get around to fixing one day, the broken slats in her blinds that leak sunlight into her irises every morning.
It’s easier to sing when she pretends like she’s somewhere else. A place that doesn’t demand perfection of her. Like she isn’t alone in a scary new city where she might never become anybody.
When Minjeong parts her lips and sings the first line, a strange thing happens. The melody escapes her like a sigh. It’s still frightening, being up here in front of all of these people, but in the way that rollercoasters make her feel. In the way that stirs her, makes her feel alive and like so much more than just a small girl from Yangsan.
She can’t get the Seoul dialect right yet or respond to the trainers without stuttering or muster up the courage to join in with the other trainees when they joke around, but this—this, she can do. She can sing. It’s the one thing that makes her feel like the most honest version of herself, even when her body freezes up or when words fail her. The one thing she knows how to do.
Four minutes pass like a heartbeat. That happens sometimes, when Minjeong is especially nervous to sing in front of other people. She blacks out until the moment that she lowers the microphone to her side. She can never really recall how well she sang or if she messed up. The comforting sight of Minjeong’s childhood bedroom washes away as she blinks her eyes open and cautiously scans the expressions of the other trainees and vocal trainer.
Her gaze drifts to Jimin. I guess I did something right, Minjeong thinks.
Because Jimin’s looking at her like that: lips breathlessly parted, warm admiration in her wide eyes, hands clapping together gently like she’s afraid of interrupting the moment. The same way Minjeong was looking at her.
The practice ends soon after her performance. It was meant as an introductory session to gauge their skill levels, the vocal trainer explains before sending them home with a set of vocal warmups to memorize. Minjeong absentmindedly mouths the last one as she plants her palms on the floor to hoist herself up, taking care not to slip this time. A shadow falls over her.
It’s Yu Jimin. Jimin isn't much taller, but Minjeong’s habit of slouching in on herself makes it feel like Jimin towers over her. She straightens her back self-consciously.
“Minjeong, right?” Jimin asks. She’s smiling like it comes easy to her. “You’re a really good singer.”
“Ah, thank you,” Minjeong responds politely. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I thought you were great too, Jimin-ssi.”
“You said you were born in ‘01, right? I’m a year older than you. You can call me unnie.”
Minjeong blinks. Jimin remembers that? The circle of trainees introduced themselves one by one in the beginning of the practice, but Minjeong could hardly focus through the nerves about her impending performance. Jimin must not get nervous the way Minjeong does.
“Okay… Jimin unnie,” Minjeong says slowly, testing the way the honorific feels on her tongue. It isn’t so bad.
Jimin beams.
Minjeong isn’t adjusting to trainee life well.
Everything is new and scary. All of the other girls are skinnier, better dancers, better singers. The city is confusing with its big crowds and winding subway system and trendy slang that Minjeong can never quite keep up with.
Seoul makes Minjeong feel small in a way that she's never felt small before. Not in the good way, like how she feels when her dad wraps her in a bear hug or when her mom pinches her cheek or when her brother ruffles her hair. She feels invisible, out of place. Her voice feels quieter than it ever has.
She feels it the most on the weekends, when everyone else goes home to spend time with their families and she’s all alone in the empty dorm because Yangsan is too far to warrant weekly trips back. When the other trainees return from their shopping trips with the latest makeup products and trendy clothes and she has to ration her measly allowance to afford lunch. When she accidentally slips back into her thick, rough Gyeongsang dialect at the convenience store and the cashier takes a second too long to respond.
She’s different. That was exciting when she was that kid from Yangsan who performed at local dance festivals and traveled to Seoul for auditions. Now it feels wrong.
It's all wrong, how she takes so long to gather the courage to ask the vocal trainer a question that the opportunity passes. The mangled twist of her stomach at every monthly evaluation and how it makes her mess up dance routines that she’s practiced hundreds of times. The stutter of her tongue when she introduces herself during practices. The unsubtle exchange of disappointed glances between the company staff members. The way she isn’t like the others.
She isn’t like Jimin, who navigates the delicate social hierarchies of the trainee academy with what feels like effortless confidence and charm. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for with pure magnetism. Everybody sees it. Everybody knows she’s special, from the company staff to the other trainees. It’s no surprise that Jimin quickly becomes popular in their trainee cohort, especially given her storied ulzzang past.
What is a surprise is the way Jimin runs to greet Minjeong at the end of every practice.
“Minjeongie!” Jimin calls out, rushing towards her in a half-jog. Her long hair cascades behind her, swept away with movement. It always looks so shiny and soft. Minjeong inexplicitly feels the urge to reach out, run her fingers through the ebony wisps to see if it feels the way that it looks.
“Are you hungry? I have snacks if you want them,” Jimin says.
Minjeong’s eye twitches. Are they really on a nickname basis already? They’ve only known each other for two months.
Jimin’s already sifting through her backpack. How presumptuous of her. She pulls out a box of sour candy, the brand that Minjeong had off-handedly mentioned craving yesterday, and shakes it like she’s enticing a pet.
“No thank you, unnie,” Minjeong grumbles. “Weigh-ins are at the end of the month, remember? I still need to lose weight.”
“Oh.” Jimin blinks. Her eyes are big and round and honest. “Well, between you and me,” she whispers, linking their arms together and leading Minjeong towards the cafeteria, “you look really cute like this already.”
Minjeong just rolls her eyes and lets herself be guided. A tiny part of her thinks it kind of feels nice to make a friend, even if it’s the one person she can’t help but compare herself to. “So greasy, unnie.”
“What—I mean it!”
“Whatever. You say that to everyone.”
A cheeky grin spreads across Jimin’s face. “It’s SM. Everyone’s cute.”
Minjeong gives her an unimpressed look. Jimin takes that as an invitation to start excitedly telling her about the stray cat she befriended before practice. Keeping up with the meandering story takes so much of Minjeong’s focus that she doesn’t even notice when a piece of candy is placed into her hand. It’s only when the sour filling makes her tongue tingle that Minjeong realizes that she popped it into her mouth out of habit.
The post-practice chats keep happening. Sometimes they turn into mini adventures or group hangouts, but the one constant is Jimin's incessant teasing. Jimin teaches Minjeong how to use the subway and pretends to get on the wrong carriage just to see the split second of panic on her face. She helps Minjeong with her pronunciation, patiently repeating phrases the Seoul way, only to trick her into saying funny things. She introduces Minjeong to her big group of trainee friends with a ruffle of her hair and an empathic she totally looks like a puppy, right?
In her second month of being a trainee, Minjeong learns that Yu Jimin isn’t at all brooding and mysterious like she initially seemed.
She’s actually kind of annoying. But at least she’s nice.
It takes six more months for Minjeong to learn what she’s capable of when she stops getting in her own way.
It gets easier to speak up when she has questions. Her voice doesn’t waver as much anymore when she asks the vocal teacher how to support a note correctly or when she asks the dance teacher how to execute a movement.
Minjeong dutifully jots the answers down in a little notebook that she brings to practice and rereads her notes every night before she inevitably passes out from exhaustion. She arrives at the practice room an hour before practice begins, repeats the vocal runs and dance moves over and over until they start to feel like muscle memory. Like part of her DNA.
The trainers notice. They notice everything about the trainees—the roundness of their cheeks, the curved slouch of their spines—but this time, Minjeong’s getting the good kind of attention. The kind that gets her compliments and extra tips from the trainers. It starts to build her confidence, makes her even hungrier to improve.
But Minjeong isn't the only one who's rapidly improving.
“Wow, Jimin. Did you really get scouted for your visuals?” the vocal trainer says in disbelief. “Keep this up and we might make a main vocal out of you.”
Jimin ducks her head to hide her smile. She’s never been great with praise, likes it too much to keep the whole polite and unaffected act going for long. “I'm not so sure about that, but thank you.”
Minjeong’s stomach twists with something ugly. Envy. That pervasive emotion, the undercurrent of nearly all of her experiences as a trainee so far. Singing is supposed to be her thing. Not Jimin’s. Jimin already has the striking visuals and natural charisma. She doesn’t need to take this away from Minjeong too.
The thought immediately makes her feel disgusted with herself. Shame settles beneath her skin like a phantom itch. She clenches her fist at her side and forces a smile when Jimin glances back at her. She should be happy for Jimin. Jimin’s one of her closest friends at SM. She deserves the praise. Minjeong of all people knows how hard she’s worked for it.
Comparing herself to other people has become a compulsion. It’s partially a byproduct of their environment—the trainers feed into it, uplift certain trainees by tearing others down. Every trainee is assigned a ranking at each monthly evaluation. They say a little competition is good, that it'll motivate them to improve faster.
Minjeong thinks that all it’s teaching them is to view each other as threats. She feels it in the jealous looks from the other trainees, in the awkward pauses before they congratulate her on acing evaluations. It isn’t just the company that evaluates them. It feels like all of the trainees are constantly evaluating each other, maintaining their own internal hierarchies of skill and beauty and potential.
Everyone is cordial, for the most part. But the tension is always there, simmering under the surface.
Minjeong tries to suppress her own compulsion for comparison, but the proximity to Jimin makes it difficult not to see all of the ways that they’re different. All of the ways that Minjeong could be better.
The sensation of warm air on Minjeong’s ear makes her flinch.
“Hey, Mindoong.”
Minjeong spins around and clamps a palm over her reddening ear. “You scared me!”
Jimin purses her lips to suppress a laugh. It reveals the dimple on the right side of her face, which only seems to appear when she’s feeling especially mischievous. Minjeong’s gaze drifts to the little dip on Jimin’s cheek, the roguish curve of her lips, then the playful peek of her tongue over sanguine flesh. She doesn’t mean to stare. It just happens sometimes when she looks at Jimin. But that probably happens to everyone who looks at someone like Jimin.
“Sorry. I booked our favorite practice room for an hour. Want to get some more practice in before bed?”
Oh. Class is over already. Minjeong glances around the room and sees the other trainees filing outside. She turns back to Jimin and nods, lets her feet guide her down the path to the familiar practice room.
Their favorite practice room is at the very end of the hall. It gets less foot traffic, which lowers the chance that prying eyes will peek through the little window on the door and see them goofing around. It’s also far enough from the main hall that they have enough time to hide their snacks and shove their phones in their pockets when they hear the approaching footsteps of the company staff.
They’ve been doing this lately, practicing together at the end of the day. Jimin says that it helps her review and memorize everything that they’re learning. It felt strange at first. Practice was always a solitary act for Minjeong, something to sneak in behind closed doors. She sang in the bathroom when her parents were at work, danced in front of the mirror in her bedroom with the lock fastened shut. It was a sacred thing, escaping into sound and movement, shifting into the version of herself that could only exist when no one else was looking.
So this is different, hearing the squeak of another pair of sneakers against the floor and the low timbre of another voice vibrating against the walls. Having someone in the room to giggle at her when she accidentally makes a weird face or trips over her own feet. But it’s kind of nice, too. It feels less lonely to share her deepest wish with someone else, to not be the only starry-eyed dreamer in the room.
Sometimes they don’t practice, though. Sometimes they just lay on the polished wooden floor and stare up at the flickering lights on the ceiling and talk. Jimin likes to ask about Yangsan, about what it was like to live so close to the ocean and about all of the regional specialties Minjeong grew up eating.
She likes asking Minjeong to teach her the Gyeongsang dialect, carefully repeating the shortened vowels with a serious look of concentration on her face. She sounds like a Seoul native, of course. It’s woven into the way that Jimin speaks—gentle and melodic. Like the songs that captivated Minjeong when she was a child, drawn to her father’s old radio like a revelation. The songs that brought her to Seoul in the first place. Jimin’s pronunciation is subpar at best, but Minjeong tells her it’s decent anyways.
When Jimin’s feeling really hopeful, she talks about the future. About all of the things they’ll experience if they debut. The bright lights, the screaming crowds, the tours around the world. Minjeong doesn’t let herself linger on the images too long, especially not the idea of them debuting together. Better to leave them as abstractions. Abstractions can’t hurt her the way expectations can.
Today doesn’t seem like it'll be a chatty day, though. Jimin flicks the lights of the practice room on and connects her phone to the speaker immediately. The opening notes of the latest song they’re learning fill the room.
“From the top?” Minjeong asks.
Jimin hums in affirmation. Her eyes are already focused on her own reflection. When they start dancing, though, Minjeong feels Jimin’s gaze flicker towards her. Feels Jimin watching her instead of her own shape in the mirror.
Something’s changed in the way Jimin looks at her too. The warm admiration is still there, but it’s sharper around the edges. More calculated. It doesn’t feel exactly like the way the other trainees look at her, with that complicated mixture of respect and jealousy and sometimes even disdain, but Minjeong isn’t sure what to make of it.
Not knowing makes her feel uneasy. It’s yet another thing in the growing pile of things that she doesn’t have control over: the songs and choreographies she practices, the classes in her daily schedule, the food she eats, what her future will look like in two and five and maybe even seven years. It makes her feel helpless, floundering around like this, living in a constant state of being completely at the whims of external parties.
What does Jimin see when she looks at Minjeong? Does she see a harmless younger friend, someone who isn’t worthy of being considered competition? Or does she see a potential threat? Minjeong isn’t sure which option she prefers.
They keep practicing. Over and over.
Jimin keeps looking at her with that unreadable expression. Over and over.
It’s been a long day. An average day of training spans ten hours, not counting the hours of individual practice that each trainee puts in on their own time. This day in particular has been packed with etiquette classes—Minjeong’s least favorite of the various classes the company deems necessary for trainees to master—and the exhaustion wears her patience dangerously thin. But maybe her patience has been wearing thin for a long time now.
Boldly, Minjeong makes eye contact with Jimin through the mirror. She huffs when Jimin averts her gaze and tries to pretend like she wasn’t staring.
“What?” Minjeong asks. It comes out sounding sharp. She pauses mid-movement and turns towards Jimin. “Are you mad at me or something?”
“Huh?” Jimin says, her voice twinged with confusion. She tears her gaze away from the mirror to face Minjeong. Part of Minjeong feels relieved that Jimin is finally looking directly at her instead of at her reflection. Another part of her feels terrified. “I'm not mad at you.”
“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”
The cloyingly sweet pop song continues to blare through the speakers. Minjeong’s words slash straight through it, leaving behind a charged tension that crackles between them like a live wire.
Jimin creases her eyebrows. She’s bothered now too, feels slighted by the accusation in Minjeong’s tone. “Like what?
“Like…” Minjeong clenches her fists at her side. “Like you’re picking me apart.”
Get used to it, the company staff tells them. Idols are always being watched. That’s why you have to learn good habits now, so you don’t mess up after you debut. But Minjeong wonders if the sensation of eyes on her will ever feel any less discomfiting. She hates that she can’t escape that feeling, even when she’s alone with Jimin in their favorite practice room.
Jimin’s jaw tightens. “What? Why would you think that?”
There’s a lump in Minjeong’s throat. She digs her nails into her palms to distract herself from it. It stings, but not enough. “It feels like you’re—” Her voice breaks. Everything boils over: the pressure, the self-doubt, the fear. “Judging me. The way everyone else is.
The flash of vulnerability cuts through Jimin’s anger. Her eyes widen in concern. “I’m not!” Her hands instinctively dart out as if to comfort Minjeong, but pause halfway, afraid to close the distance between them. “Minjeong, please don’t think that.”
“Then what is it?” Minjeong asks. It comes out sounding petulant. She hates the way she gets choked up when she’s angry. It feels so juvenile to stand in front of Jimin like this, fighting the tears that threaten to stream down her face.
“Uh, well—” Jimin averts her eyes. She stares down at her dirty Converse sneakers, fidgets nervously with her fingers. “It's going to sound embarrassing.”
The song finally ends, leaving a heavy silence between them.
“It’s just…” Jimin takes a deep breath. “You're really good, you know?”
Minjeong focuses on steadying her breathing. Inhale, exhale. Don't start crying. Don't let her see you cry. Don't let her see how weak you really are.
“I never seriously sang or danced before I got here. You've been doing both for a long time.” Jimin’s voice wavers. She’s doing that thing she does when she’s nervous—picking at her nails, scratching absentmindedly at the cuticles. But she doesn't withdraw. She keeps talking. That's one of the things Minjeong admires the most about Jimin: her devastating, unyielding sincerity.
“You’re someone that I really respect. Someone I want to keep up with. That’s why I pay so much attention to you,” Jimin continues. “Not because I’m judging you. Because I want to learn from you.”
Minjeong blinks once, then twice. Something warm pools in the pit of her stomach. The admission hangs in the air, refuses to sink in. She stares up at Jimin in a daze.
She’s gotten used to watching Jimin from this angle. Chin tilted, gazing up, inching closer by the force of her own gravity. Jimin is a lot of things to her: a dependable older trainee, a subway guide, a Seoul dialect coach, a late-night-snacking buddy, a silly unnie. An outstretched hand, tugging her into the light.
So she never considered the way that Jimin might be looking back at her.
All Minjeong manages to sputter is: “I didn’t know you thought of me like that.”
Jimin’s making eye contact with her now. It’s that look again, the one that made Minjeong uneasy before she had a name for it. But now she knows what it means, understands the full weight of it.
Jimin is looking at her like she’s special.
“I’m better when you're around,” Jimin says quietly. She takes a tentative step towards Minjeong, then another when Minjeong doesn't back away. “You catch the details I miss when we’re dancing. You always remember the right pitch. I want to be good enough to be your rival, good enough to—”
Jimin’s cheeks flush. The words come out in a rush, as if she’ll lose the courage to utter them if she hesitates for even a second. “To debut with you.”
A sob escapes Minjeong. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Chasing her dream with one of the very first friends she made as a trainee. Eating meals together in cramped dressing rooms. Sitting next to each other on plane rides all over the world. Watching the clouds together, from Seoul to London to Paris. Standing under the blinding lights with their fingers intertwined. The more she lets herself imagine it, the more she desperately wants it to be real.
Jimin reaches out and gently brushes a tear away from Minjeong’s face with her forefinger. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I won't ask you not to cry. But can I please hug you?”
Minjeong hesitates. She swipes at her tear-streaked cheeks with her sleeve, sniffles stubbornly, narrow shoulders shaking. It’s embarrassing enough to cry in front of Jimin. Her gut instinct is to flinch away, forcibly end the moment. Seeking comfort from Jimin feels like committing to the vulnerability that threatens to overtake her completely.
Then Minjeong looks up and sees the person who always gives her the window seat on the subway. The person who makes funny faces to distract her from her nerves when they’re backstage during tense monthly evaluations. The person who always waits for her after practice ends, even when their schedules don’t line up, so she doesn't have to walk back to the dorm alone at night.
Minjeong nods once, a brief, almost imperceptible duck of her chin that Jimin notices immediately.
Did Jimin always watch her like that? So intently, with the intention of anticipating her needs?
It only takes a single step for Jimin to close the distance between them. She takes Minjeong into her arms and holds her close, pressing the warmth of her body into Minjeong’s own.
“I'm sorry, unnie,” Minjeong mumbles against Jimin’s shoulder. She slumps against Jimin, struck askew by the force of her own emotions. Hot tears soak into Jimin’s shirt. She clutches the soft fabric between her fingers, anchoring herself to Jimin as sobs begin to ripple through her. “I'm so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jimin says in a soft voice. She rubs Minjeong’s back soothingly through the tremors. They stay like that for a bit: chins tucked into shoulders, arms wrapped around bodies, a tangle of limbs that obscures where Minjeong begins and Jimin ends. A Gordian knot of their own making.
When Minjeong’s ragged gasps for air stabilize into slow breaths, Jimin speaks again.
“Don’t you have anything nice to say back to me?” she asks in that familiar lilting tone.
Minjeong sniffles. She briefly considers wiping her snot on Jimin’s shirt, but decides against it when she considers the consequences. Namely, a loud whine from Jimin directly into her ear. “Your dancing is okay, I guess,” she murmurs, nostrils still congested from crying.
Jimin makes an offended noise, but doesn’t stop rubbing soothing circles into Minjeong’s back. “Wow, not even one nice thing?”
A fragile quiet falls between them. The fluorescent lights above them buzz faintly. The clock on the wall ticks like a metronome, counting down to a deadline neither of them are aware of yet. This becomes the soundtrack to Minjeong’s first confession, the one she’ll regret the most years later. The one she can’t take back. The promise that becomes a death knell.
“I want to debut with you too,” Minjeong whispers. “Promise we’ll debut together?”
It’s childish, she knows. Nothing is guaranteed in this industry. It’s dangerous to have this much hope, to grasp so desperately at a future that could slip between her fingers at any moment. To believe, even for a second, that conviction alone is enough to steer her fate.
But Minjeong’s a dreamer, after all. They both are. It’s the reason their paths even crossed at all.
Jimin pulls away just enough to loop their pinkies together.
“I promise, Minjeong,” she whispers back. “Let’s debut together.”
“What are you staring at?”
Jimin hesitates a moment too long before responding. The pensive look on her face is quickly replaced with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she mumbles as she double-taps on her phone screen and shoves it in her pocket. “Just Instagram.”
It’s February. Congratulatory wreaths line the streets. Fresh-faced teenagers in long black gowns crowd the subway carriages. Restaurants bustle with celebratory parties and dinners. Hordes of families taking one too many photos congregate at the gates of local high schools.
Graduation season. It’s impossible to escape it in real life or on social media. Minjeong’s own Instagram feed is so overloaded with the posts and stories and comments that she hasn’t opened the app in days.
Jimin seemed subdued around this time last year too, but it’s different this year. She’s been doomscrolling at any opportunity she gets: in the downtime between classes; in the seconds spent waiting for her turn to check out at the convenience store; in the little leisure time they have at the end of each day, her impassive face illuminated in the night by the cold glare of her phone screen.
This was the year that Jimin would’ve graduated with all of her friends, after all.
Minjeong recognizes the look on Jimin’s face because she’s seen it on her own. Her friends are spending late nights at hagwon studying for entrance exams, optimizing their college application essays, and touring prestigious universities every weekend. Minjeong dropped out of high school like all of the other serious SM trainees. From the vantage point of the same old practice room, it feels like everybody else is moving on. Leaving her behind.
Sometimes she wonders if it was worth giving all of that up. The high school experiences, the security of taking a traditional path. Will she ever know, really, if it was worth it?
“Minjeong unnie, can you help me with this part of the choreography? I can’t tell what I’m doing wrong.”
Minjeong turns. It’s Jiwoo, a shy new trainee who’s barely in middle school. She flashes Jiwoo a smile. By this point, the motion is practiced enough to make it look convincing. “Sure. Can I see the way you’re doing it?”
They’re the senior trainees now, the ones that the new recruits gawk at and seek out for advice. Two years of experience doesn’t seem like much to Minjeong. But it holds weight in the practice room, where trainees suddenly disappear only to be replaced with fresh new faces every few weeks. Most of Minjeong’s first trainee friends have already left, returned to their old lives with bragging rights and a slew of interesting stories to share.
Minjeong hardly even remembers what her old life was like. A lot has changed in two years. She isn’t the quiet, withdrawn trainee in the corner anymore. Now she’s the trainee that the trainers call on to demonstrate vocal runs and dance moves in front of the entire class. She doesn’t need to prove to anyone that she belongs here anymore. Not even herself.
“You're extending your arm too far,” Minjeong points out as she watches Jiwoo dance. “Focus on making a ninety-degree angle instead. Like this.” She demonstrates it with her right arm.
Jiwoo mimics the movement. “Like that?”
“Yup,” Minjeong says, her tone distracted. Her eyes wander around the practice room. Where did Jimin go? They were supposed to get dinner together.
“You were really cool at the last evaluation,” Jiwoo says. Her voice is earnest, and it draws Minjeong’s attention back to her. “I hope I can get as good at dancing as you one day.”
Minjeong’s lips curl up—a real smile, this time. She gives Jiwoo an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, Jiwoo. You're already doing way better than I was when I joined SM, so I'm sure you’ll be better than me in no time.”
“No way! You and Chaehyun unnie are too good.”
Minjeong’s eye twitches. Kim Chaehyun. Her new roommate and resident snack thief and probably the loudest snorer to ever exist. And the person who keeps snatching the number one ranking from her at the monthly evaluations.
Every month feels like a toss-up between which of them will get the highest evaluation score. Minjeong swears there’s a correlation between the frequency that she prevails and the rate at which her favorite snacks—which are clearly labeled with her name—mysteriously disappear from the shared fridge in the dorm. But that’s the least of her concerns these days.
Her main concern walks through the door: Ning Yizhuo.
Yizhuo has a breathtaking voice and cute accented Korean and what seems like a perpetually mischievous smile on her face. She became a trainee the year before Minjeong did, and due to being a child star or whatever, was immediately placed in all of the advanced classes despite her younger age. They only recently started taking classes together. Yizhuo is a celebrity among the trainees—she’s been officially announced as an SM Rookie, which basically feels like a guarantee that she’s going to debut.
And more importantly, she’s developed a real liking for Jimin.
Minjeong watches from across the room as Yizhuo skips directly to Jimin. Her eyes zero in on the physical contact: the easy loop of their arms, the warm press of skin against skin. It’s not that she doesn’t like Yizhuo. It’s just—does she really have to cling onto Jimin like that?
“Jimin unnie! I’m hungry. Treat me to dinner?”
Jimin’s mouth stretches into that lopsided grin. The one that makes Minjeong’s chest throb, even when it’s not directed towards her. “Sure. I was about to grab dinner with Minjeong—” Her head swivels back towards Minjeong. “You don’t mind if Ningning joins us, right?”
Minjeong’s stomach swirls with something unpleasant. It’s been happening more often these days, usually whenever Yizhuo inserts herself into her hangouts with Jimin. Minjeong figures it’s probably because she’s slow to warm up to people, and that maybe she’s a little envious that Yizhuo seems to have a sure shot to making it as an idol, and, well. She’s never really liked sharing.
She forces a smile. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
Dinner is fine. Yizhuo talks enough for the three of them, Jimin coaxes a few laughs out of Minjeong, and Minjeong even charitably asks Yizhuo a couple of questions about herself. She learns that they all love guobaorou and that it’s a regional specialty from the city that Yizhuo grew up in. It’s actually kind of fun debating which Chinese restaurant in Seongsu has the best rendition of the dish.
But she’s still relieved when they pay the bill and Yizhuo waves goodbye, swinging her bag of leftover fried pork by her side as she ambles back to the dorm she shares with the other SM Rookie girls. When it’s just them again, walking home together.
Jimin lets Minjeong shower first. When Minjeong walks out of the bathroom, though, Jimin isn’t waiting on the couch anymore.
She peeks into the room that Jimin shares with another trainee—pitch black. No Jimin-shaped lump under the covers. She pads over to her own room down the hall while towel-drying her hair and pokes her head inside. Chaehyun is sprawled out on the bottom bunk.
“Did you see where Jimin unnie went?”
“Oh yeah,” Chaehyun says as she scrolls through her phone, “she said she was going out for a bit.”
Going out at night? Jimin never does that. It’s almost 10PM. Between the two of them, Minjeong is the one who has a habit of staying up late. Jimin’s usually falling asleep on the couch by now.
Minjeong knits her eyebrows. Weird. She starts to leave, but Chaehyun’s voice cuts through the silence again.
“Hey, wait. Can you give me Jimin unnie’s number? I don’t have it yet.”
Minjeong stops in the doorway. She scratches her stomach idly. “Does she owe you money?”
“What? No, my friend thinks she's cute.” Chaehyun glances over and rolls her eyes when she sees the unimpressed look on Minjeong’s face. “He's a nice guy, don't worry. And he’s tall.”
Minjeong wrinkles her nose. “Ew, no. I don’t think she’d want me to give her number out to some boy she’s never met.”
The idea makes her skin crawl. Jimin texting some gangly boy with greasy hair who hasn’t even heard Visual Dreams (Pop! Pop!) by Girls’ Generation? Like they’d even have anything in common. Half of what Jimin pesters her about involves female idols in some way. What could a boy possibly say or do to interest her?
The next thought makes her stomach feel strange. That familiar feeling again. But what if he does interest her?
“Can you at least tell me what her type is? Come on, let me give him something to work with.”
“Her type?” Minjeong blinks. Does she know what Jimin’s type is?
“Don’t play dumb. Obviously you know.” Chaehyun’s giving her an incredulous look now. She sits up and places her phone face down on the mattress.
“Uh…” Minjeong trails off. “I mean. We never really talk about that kind of stuff.”
“Really?” Chaehyun raises her eyebrows. There’s a short pause, as if she’s still trying to deduce if Minjeong is intentionally withholding information from her. She narrows her eyes, scans Minjeong’s face, then flops back onto her bed when Minjeong stares back blankly. “Nevermind then, I guess.”
Minjeong considers it as she walks over to her closet. Maybe it is kind of weird that she doesn’t know what Jimin’s type is. It’s all that the girls around them seem to talk about—ideal types, crushes, boyfriends. Minjeong and Jimin have practically been attached at the hip for the past two years. She knows that Jimin loves cats even though she’s highly allergic to them, that learning how to ride a bike has been her new year’s resolution for the past five years, that she enjoys chocolate but doesn’t particularly like chocolate-flavored things.
So how does she not know this?
Well. Boys never really cross Minjeong’s mind in the first place. It never occurred to her that it might be considered strange for two teenage girls not to discuss them.
Her body moves on its own, sliding open a drawer to grab a pair of sweatpants, shrugging a hoodie over her sleep shirt. It isn’t a conscious decision. Part of her just knows that she should check on Jimin. Besides, she already has an idea of where Jimin might be.
“I’m going out too,” Minjeong calls out as she shuts the front door behind her.
The dorm is just a few blocks away from the company. On the walk there, a colorful display at Daiso catches Minjeong’s eye. She hesitates, checks the time on her phone. Five minutes before closing. The cashier at the register stares back at her impassively. Minjeong hates being that person who walks in right before a store closes, but… it’s for Jimin.
She ducks in, bows her head unapologetically when she pays, and shoves her spoils into her shoulder bag.
When Minjeong arrives at the company, she scans her ID card at the door and walks down the dimly lit hallways without turning the lights on. She doesn’t need to. At this point, she spends more time here than in her own bed. She could traverse the winding corridors with her eyes closed.
The SM building is never completely empty or quiet, but on a late weekday night like this one, it feels unusually still. Minjeong rounds the corner and arrives at the hallway that contains the practice rooms.
Only one of the rooms is occupied. The one at the very end of the hall.
The light coming from the window on the door casts a long shadow along the empty hallway. If Minjeong focuses, she thinks that she can make out the faint sound of a piano from the room.
She follows the sound until she’s standing in front of the door. The window frames the scene like a picture: a girl with long black hair sitting at a piano. It’s one of the flimsy electric pianos that the company lets trainees check out from the music room. Her back is facing the door, but Minjeong knows that silhouette.
She’s memorized the shape of Jimin, the curve of her shoulders, the spill of her hair over her back. She can see Jimin with her eyes closed. She sees Jimin when she’s half-asleep, wading through the mirages of her dreams, wandering towards the light. She quietly opens the door and steps inside.
A melody tumbles out towards her. It’s an unfamiliar tune that Minjeong doesn’t recognize. She clears her throat softly to make her presence known.
“What song is that?”
Jimin stops playing and turns around, her eyes wide like she’s been caught.
“Oh, it’s—” Jimin looks away sheepishly. “Nothing. Just a melody I’ve been playing around with.” She looks back, sees Minjeong’s bare face and wet hair. “Why are you here? You hate going outside after you shower.”
Minjeong glances down. Her hoodie is dark at the shoulders from soaking up the dampness of her hair. She closes the door behind her and leans against it. “I wanted to see what you were up to.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
Minjeong shrugs. “Just had a feeling. Why are you here?”
“Wanted to get my mind off things.” Jimin’s voice is softer at the edges. Quieter, like she doesn’t want to be heard. The wide expanse of the practice room swallows it whole, the way it must have swallowed the voices of innumerable faceless girls before them.
Minjeong hums and starts walking toward Jimin. Decides not to bring up said things. When Jimin’s ready, she’ll talk. “Did you write that?”
“Ah, yeah,” Jimin says. The second syllable catches on an awkward laugh. It’s kind of cute, the way Jimin gets bashful like that sometimes. “Just for fun.”
Minjeong’s standing next to Jimin now. She pokes Jimin’s shoulder. Jimin wordlessly scoots over to make space on the piano bench. It isn’t very wide, and definitely isn’t made for two people, but Minjeong squeezes onto it anyways. Their knees press together.
“Can I hear the rest of it?” Minjeong asks.
A look flashes onto Jimin’s face. They’re better at controlling their expressions now, but Jimin has always been an open book. She’s nervous. Uncertain.
“Or not,” Minjeong says. She nudges Jimin’s foot with her own under the piano. Jimin kicks back, just barely. “But it’s just me, unnie.”
Jimin inhales. She raises her arms and delicately places her fingers onto the ivory keys. “Don’t laugh if I mess up, okay,” she mumbles.
Minjeong makes a noncommittal noise. Jimin elbows her, but starts playing anyways.
She starts hesitantly, pressing the keys so carefully that the notes are hardly audible over the sound of plastic thumping on plastic in the body of the piano. So hesitantly that the melody sounds like a whisper. It’s nothing like the way Jimin speaks, with her playful tone and carefree laughter. It’s nothing like the way Jimin is when she’s surrounded by other people.
This is Yu Jimin when no one is watching. The girl who dissects her own reflection for hours when she’s alone in the practice room. The girl who stays up too late scrolling through aspirational social media posts in the dark. The girl who can’t bear to make eye contact with Minjeong right now because she’s afraid that she’ll see disapproval on her face.
“Uh—sorry,” Jimin blurts out. She closes her fists together as if to strengthen her resolve. “I’ll start again.”
The girl who chooses to be brave, despite everything.
Her fingers are still unsteady, but she slowly gains confidence as she plays. The notes begin to ring out clear and true. It’s a simple arrangement, but the melody makes Minjeong’s chest ache—sweet and gentle, almost like a lullaby.
When Jimin stops playing, Minjeong claps her hands together softly. “I like it, unnie.”
Jimin makes a face. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”
“No, I’m serious! I think it sounds really pretty.”
“Really?” Jimin turns, a smile spreading across her face. It’s funny how little praise she needs for her mood to improve. “Thanks, Minjeongie. I’ve been really stuck on what to do next, though.”
Minjeong pauses to think. She never learned how to play piano, but she’s taken a few songwriting classes at the company so far. Her voice memos are full of clips of her humming little tunes and singing cheesy lyrics that she scrawled in the margins of her notebooks. It’s an occupational hazard, she supposes, the desire to create something beautiful.
A melody rises to the tip of her tongue.
“What if you did this?” Minjeong asks. She hums a short tune.
Jimin’s face lights up. She places her right hand on the piano keys again, experimentally mimicking the melody. “Like, uh… that?”
Minjeong purses her lips thoughtfully. “Yeah, and then maybe…” Another hum.
Jimin gasps. “Wait. That actually sounds good. Slow down, I need to figure out the notes.” Her eyes are shining. It’s the most she’s smiled in a week. The excitement radiating from her is so contagious that Minjeong’s skin starts to buzz with energy too.
The thrill of invention makes the next few hours pass in a flurry of creativity. By the end of it, they have a pile of crumpled-up paper from discarded composition drafts and numb legs from squeezing onto the hard piano bench for too long and thirty seconds, maybe, of actual music. Minjeong records Jimin playing it on the voice memo app on her cracked iPhone with the seriousness of a sound engineer in the studio.
Truthfully, the song is amateur at best. It’s hardly even a song yet—more like a patchwork of melodies. It probably wouldn’t get high marks in their songwriting classes. They certainly aren’t winning a Daesang any time soon.
But it’s theirs. And when Jimin finishes playing the final draft and turns towards Minjeong with that look on her face, that gorgeous medley of happiness and pride and awe, it feels like a greater honor than any award ever could.
It’s almost enough to make Minjeong forget about how sleepy she is. A wave of exhaustion suddenly washes over her. She yawns and rubs at her eyes, which prompts Jimin to finally check her phone. Her eyes widen once she does.
“It’s past midnight. We need to head back.”
Minjeong looks back at her. Adrenaline is still thrumming through her veins. Her body is tired, but she doesn’t want to go home, doesn't want the moment to end yet.
“What if we didn’t go back,” Minjeong says. The words feel alien on her tongue, as if uttered by a stranger. Is that how honesty is supposed to feel? Like the stranger inside of her is speaking? “What if we snuck out. Like right now.”
On a normal day, she would’ve never suggested that. And Jimin would’ve never agreed. They’re the definition of model trainees. It’s the middle of the night, and practice starts early tomorrow, and they’ll definitely hate themselves if they attend their modeling class with the extra strict teacher with no sleep at all.
Jimin bites her lip. Asks anyways. “Where would we go?”
“Anywhere,” Minjeong breathes.
They should really go home. Brush their teeth, wash their faces, prepare themselves to return to the endless routine of trying to live up to everybody else’s expectations.
Jimin closes her eyes, then opens them.
“What about the river?”
They’re going to miss the last train.
They both know it. But neither of them say anything. Jimin skips alongside the river, moonbeams streaming through her hair, the surface of the water behind her shimmering with the city lights on the horizon. The park is still at this hour, but the body of water next to them quietly pulses with movement. Water laps at the shore in tiny obsidian ripples.
It makes Minjeong think of low tide and seafoam, of the beaches she grew up on. Makes her wonder what Jimin would look like with her hair tangled in salted air and seawater lapping at her ankles like kiss after kiss.
Minjeong’s chest constricts. That’s been happening more often around Jimin. If she focuses, really focuses, she thinks she can identify what this feeling is. It isn’t the first time she’s felt this way towards a girl. But it is the most powerful, the way it makes her feel like her heart is constantly in her throat, the way it makes her too honest and too eager and too hopeful. Too much of everything.
“You should come home with me to Yangsan sometime,” she blurts out. It’s impulsive. But it’s worth it for the way Jimin whips around, white teeth bared in a smile so wide that her gums are visible.
“Really? You’d want that?” Jimin’s voice is too loud for the hour. Minjeong can’t bring herself to care.
“Yeah,” Minjeong says. Then, embarrassed at her boldness, she averts her eyes and continues walking. Cracks a joke. “Since your satoori is basically perfect now.”
“I told you all those lessons would be worth it,” Jimin says, eyes shining. “The grandmas at the market are going to love me.” She settles into step next to Minjeong. They bump shoulders, which jostles the lump in Minjeong’s bag.
Right. That thing. Minjeong reaches into her bag. “I have something for you, by the way.”
She pulls out what she’s been hiding: a wrinkled, misshapen graduation cap from Daiso. It’s closer to a party hat than a proper graduation cap, with its miniature form and stretchy string to secure under a chin. It’s made of scratchy felt instead of the shiny, smooth silk of an actual graduation cap. The tassel definitely isn’t the color of Jimin’s high school either.
Jimin freezes. Her eyes go soft with recognition. When Minjeong raises the cap, she bows her head slightly so Minjeong can place it on her head.
“I know you technically didn’t get your GED yet,” Minjeong says. “But you deserve to celebrate too.”
She reaches into her bag again and feels around until her fingers grasp onto a familiar shape. When she pulls out the party popper, Jimin laughs, the sound bubbling out of her chest in that unrestrained way that Minjeong likes a little too much.
Minjeong aims the party popper at the night sky and wraps the cotton string around her index finger. The stars blink down at her. Then she pulls, releasing confetti into the air with a small pop. Colorful streamers drift down onto their heads, some swept away with the breeze, landing in the water. It’s no fireworks show, but it’ll do for a makeshift graduation ceremony.
“Congratulations, Jimin unnie.”
For a moment, Jimin just stands there. Nerves begin to creep up Minjeong’s spine. Was it too cheesy? Or presumptuous of her to assume that Jimin was hung up over graduation? Maybe she doesn’t even care about that. Maybe her mood has been down for other reasons.
Then Jimin steps closer, opens her arms, and wraps Minjeong in an embrace that knocks the air out of her lungs. Not because Jimin was too rough or enthusiastic—because Jimin is holding her like she’s something precious. A hand cradles the back of her head and strokes through her hair. Their bodies press together, warm and close.
Before Jimin, Minjeong never knew that hugs could feel like this. That a hug could make her knees feel weak and her chest feel like it’s been cleaved open. She isn't sure if it makes her feel alive or like she’s bleeding out on the concrete. Her arms hang uselessly at her sides until she remembers to return the embrace, circling her arms carefully around Jimin’s torso.
“Thank you,” Jimin whispers.
Minjeong doesn’t trust herself to speak. She just nods, breathes Jimin in, tries to etch the touch into her memory.
Maybe this is the closest she’ll ever get to Jimin. Maybe it’s enough.
They miss the last train. And the late night bus. The next bus isn’t due for another thirty minutes, so they decide to walk home instead.
Jimin’s still wearing the graduation cap. She’s humming their song. She looks ridiculous, and her hair is all mussed up, but there’s still a ghost of a smile on her face and it’s enough to make Minjeong hold off on teasing her.
But that nagging question still lives in the back of Minjeong’s head. It’s so late that she isn’t sleepy at all anymore, just a little delirious. Delirious enough to let curiosity get the best of her. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”
Jimin makes an affirmative noise.
“What’s your type?”
“My type?” Jimin stops and turns to look at Minjeong. “Why do you ask?”
“Uh, apparently Chaehyun’s guy friend wants to know,” Minjeong says. She stops too, avoids eye contact. It’s technically the truth. She leaves out the fact that she has no intention of sharing this information with Chaehyun. Or anyone else, for that matter.
“Hmm, my type…” Jimin wonders out loud, tapping her chin with her finger. Her eyes wander out to the empty expanse of concrete and streetlights in front of them. Then Minjeong feels eyes on her again.
She risks a sideways glance. She expects Jimin to be looking at her with that familiar cheeky smile, dimple peeking out, a teasing remark on her tongue. She isn’t prepared for the fondness in the dark pools of Jimin’s eyes or the thoughtful set of her lips.
Jimin reaches out. Maybe for another hug, Minjeong secretly hopes, even though she hasn’t done anything to earn it. Slowly, Jimin’s hand travels up, fingertips resting gently on the side of Minjeong’s head. Minjeong holds her breath, eyes wide.
Then Jimin roughly ruffles Minjeong’s hair and bursts into a fit of giggles.
Minjeong clicks her tongue in annoyance and shakes the strands out of her eyes. She instinctively darts a hand out to smack Jimin, but Jimin’s already preemptively jogging away. She knows that Minjeong hates it when she does that.
“It’s a secret!” Jimin shouts back. She’s further down the street now. Why is she running so fast?
Minjeong whines. Kicks her legs up to follow. “Hey, wait! Tell me!”
By the time they make it back to the dorm, exhaustion has fully seeped into their bodies. They tip-toe inside and brush their teeth next to each other silently in front of the bathroom sink. When they’re done, Minjeong trudges to the couch instead of her own room.
Jimin stops in the hallway. “What are you doing?”
Minjeong’s already making herself comfortable on the couch, gathering the pillows that she likes to hug when she naps there during the day. “I have the top bunk, remember? It creaks really loudly. I’ll wake Chaehyun up if I try to get up there.” The last few words blend into a drawn-out yawn. It’s a miracle that she's even still conscious.
“But your back always hurts when you fall asleep on the couch.” Jimin’s eyebrows furrow. She walks towards Minjeong and wraps a hand around her wrist. “Just come with me.”
Minjeong makes a confused noise, but the sleepiness makes her pliant enough to follow. Jimin guides her down the hall and gingerly opens the door to the room that Jimin shares with another trainee. The soft sound of snores from the top bunk filters out into the hall.
“She’s a heavy sleeper,” Jimin mouths. She steps inside and pulls her blanket open. Then she settles her hand on Minjeong’s back and nudges her forward. “You can sleep here. I'll take the couch.”
Minjeong turns back with a scowl. “What,” she whispers harshly. “You should sleep in your own bed.”
Jimin’s already slowly backing out of the room, but Minjeong grabs her wrist and shakes her head aggressively. Her hair flutters from side to side with the movement. Jimin huffs and starts yanking back, trying to break out from Minjeong’s grip. She’s strong, but Minjeong is determined. The noise from the tussle elicits a disgruntled but not-quite-conscious groan from the top bunk.
They both freeze. A rustle, as Jimin’s roommate tosses in her sleep. Then the snoring resumes.
Minjeong breathes a sigh of relief. She tightens her hold on Jimin’s wrist to drag her back, but then Jimin raises both of her hands in defeat and begins to walk towards her bed. Minjeong lets go. Smiles a bit, satisfied and smug. It falters when Jimin starts nudging her towards the bed too.
She opens her mouth to protest, but shuts it when Jimin raises a finger to her lips and motions up towards the top bunk pointedly.
They've never done this before. But friends sleep in each other’s beds all of the time, right? It’s not weird. And it’s true. Her back does always hurt after she sleeps on the couch. Given the strange positions that they need to contort their bodies into for their modeling classes, it’s probably in Minjeong’s best interest to sleep on a more comfortable surface.
With her heart in her throat, Minjeong climbs onto the bed as quietly as she can. Jimin follows behind her, the mattress dipping slightly with her weight, and pulls the comforter over their shoulders. It’s a single-sized mattress that definitely isn’t wide enough for two people. Minjeong presses her back against the cool surface of the wall behind her and straightens her body out stiffly to create more space between them.
There’s still hardly any distance between their bodies. Minjeong can feel the heat of Jimin’s body emanating towards her. Jimin’s scent is everywhere: her shampoo on the pillowcase, her laundry detergent on the sheets, her woody perfume on the duvet cover. It’s overwhelming. Minjeong’s face burns. Suddenly, she isn’t sleepy at all anymore.
She closes her eyes and tries to count sheep anyways. It doesn’t make her any less alert, but it slowly helps her body relax a little. Enough for her heart not to jump out of her chest when Jimin speaks again.
“Can I tell you something?” Jimin whispers, so quietly that Minjeong can hardly make out the words.
“Yeah,” Minjeong whispers back.
Jimin shifts and pulls the comforter over their heads. The insulated material muffles her voice from the outside world. Under the covers, it’s just them.
“I’m scared,” Jimin finally confesses. It’s too dark to see what her face looks like. But even with her eyes closed, Minjeong can see the downturned frown of her lips. “I’m already eighteen. What if I don’t debut after all? Or what if I do, and everyone hates me?”
“That’s impossible,” Minjeong scoffs. Because it’s Jimin. Who wouldn't like her?
“I don't know about that. You know how people are.”
Between the two of them, Jimin’s usually the optimistic one. The one who talks about her dreams like they’re going to happen. The one who talks about Minjeong’s dreams like they’re going to happen. Jimin believes in herself so earnestly that the people around her can’t help but want to believe in themselves a little, too. Hearing her doubt herself like this makes Minjeong wonder how much of Jimin’s outward optimism is for the sake of others rather than her own.
Minjeong has never been great at comforting people. She never knows the right things to say. But tonight, the words spill out of her.
“You don’t have to be afraid of that. You’re one of the best performers I know,” Minjeong says. She pauses, almost stopping herself from saying the next few words. But then she remembers the dejected slump of Jimin’s shoulders, the subdued tone of her voice, and decides that it’s worth the potential embarrassment. “And you already have a fan.”
Jimin huffs. “Those weirdos who take pictures of trainees leaving the SM building don’t count. They don’t even know who I am.”
“I’m not talking about them,” Minjeong breathes. She’s glad that it’s completely dark under the covers. It makes it easier to be honest. “I’m talking about me.”
Jimin’s breath catches. There’s a rustle as she turns on her side to face Minjeong. Minjeong is afraid of what she’ll see if she looks. Of what she’ll imagine under the cover of the darkness. She keeps her eyes closed.
“I see you everyday. The way you dance, the way you sing. I’ve seen you do it all in sweatpants and without makeup and with greasy hair, and—” Minjeong’s throat feels dry. She swallows roughly, wipes her palms on her sweatpants. “I still can't look away.”
It feels like a confession. Maybe it is. Minjeong lets herself finish it anyways.
“No matter what happens, I’ll always be your first fan.”
This is the moment, she realizes later, that the knot tightens.