Chapter Text
If you asked anyone on the campus about Yu Jimin, they’d tell you three things.
One, she’s the lead guitarist of the university band and plays like she has something personal against every string.
Two, she does not smile. Not at professors, not at peers, and certainly not at people who try to talk to her before noon.
And three, she is dating Kim Minjeong, which remains the greatest mystery the student body has collectively agreed not to question too loudly.
Because Minjeong is… well. Minjeong.
Top of the class. President of at least two organizations that require color coded planners. The kind of person who says “good morning” like she means it and somehow makes you feel like your life might actually improve because of it. People love her in a way that feels both deserved and slightly unfair to everyone else.
So when Jimin's car rolls into campus and stops right at the curb like she owns not just the vehicle but the concept of arrival itself, people notice.
Of course they do.
Jimin steps out first, sunglasses on despite the fact that it’s barely eight in the morning. She looks exactly like someone who would ignore your existence on purpose. Then she circles the car, opens the passenger door, and suddenly becomes a person capable of gentle, almost reverent movement.
Minjeong takes her hand as she steps out, all soft smiles and sunshine, like she personally approved the weather.
If you were watching from a distance, you would think: wow.
If you were closer, you might hear:
“Why are you carrying three bags,” Jimin mutters under her breath, already taking two of them anyway.
“I have a presentation,” Minjeong whispers back, still smiling brightly at a group of staring freshmen. “And a lab later.”
“You look like you’re moving in.”
“You offered to help.”
“I offered to hold one thing. This is not one thing.”
Their fingers stay laced together.
Firmly.
Suspiciously firm, actually.
Jimin leans in slightly, like she’s about to say something sweet. From afar, it looks like affection. Up close, it is absolutely not.
“It’s too hot for this,” she says, voice low. “Why are your hands always warm?”
“You’re the one squeezing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Jimin squeezes harder.
Minjeong’s smile does not break. Not even a flicker. If anything, it gets brighter, like she’s thriving under the attention of an invisible audience.
“People are staring,” she murmurs.
“They always stare at you.”
“They’re staring at us.”
“Same difference.”
They start walking.
Jimin carries Minjeong’s things like it’s a personal inconvenience she intends to complain about for the next hour, while also adjusting the strap on Minjeong’s shoulder so it sits more comfortably. Minjeong waves at people like she’s in a parade she never signed up for but is graciously accepting anyway.
At one point, Jimin slows just enough to brush a piece of hair away from Minjeong’s face.
It is, objectively, devastatingly soft.
“Your clips are useless,” she says quietly.
“You fixed it.”
“Don’t read into that.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I wasn’t.”
They reach the building for Minjeong’s first class.
Jimin hands over her things. All of them. Carefully. Like returning something valuable that was temporarily entrusted to her.
Minjeong looks up at her, eyes bright, expression warm enough to melt steel or at least chip away at Jimin’s reputation.
“See you later?” she says.
Jimin shrugs, which for her is practically a love confession.
“Yeah. Obviously.”
Minjeong beams.
Jimin rolls her eyes.
They linger for a second too long.
Then Minjeong turns and walks inside, still smiling, still perfect, still universally adored.
Jimin watches her go, jaw set, expression unreadable. Then she clicks her tongue, shoves her hand into her pockets, and stalks off like she hasn’t just spent the last five minutes holding hands like it meant something.
Across the campus, the consensus remains unchanged.
They are perfect.
Completely, disgustingly perfect.
And in Room 204, that illusion survives for exactly twelve seconds.
Minjeong has just sat down, neatly arranging her things with the kind of precision that suggests inner peace and not at all the result of years of academic survival, when a chair scrapes loudly beside her.
Ning Yizhuo.
Now, if Minjeong is the campus sweetheart and Jimin is the campus menace, Yizhuo exists in a category that can only be described as socially dangerous in a fun way.
She is loud. She is confident. She walks into rooms like they’ve been waiting for her. People know her name, professors remember her, and no one is entirely sure if it’s because she’s brilliant or because she once argued with a lecturer for ten minutes and won.
She drops into the seat next to Minjeong like she’s arriving on stage.
“So,” she says. “Are we lying to the public now or is this a long term investment?”
Minjeong doesn't even look up.
“You were literally there,” she says, flipping open her notebook. “You saw me get out of the car.”
“I did,” Yizhuo agrees. “Which is why I’m asking. Visual confirmation is different from verbal confirmation. I need sources.”
Minjeong finally glances at her, unimpressed.
“You are the source.”
“I don’t trust myself. I’m biased.”
Minjeong lets out a quiet sigh that says this is her life now.
“It’s real,” she says.
Yizhuo gasps like she’s just been handed breaking news.
“Oh, this is insane,” she says, delighted. “This is actually insane.”
“It’s not that dramatic.”
“You are dating Yu Jimin.”
“I’m aware.”
“The same Jimin who told a professor his lecture could’ve been an email.”
“It could’ve been.”
“The same Jimin who made a senior cry during practice.”
“You were the one who said he was off tempo.”
Yizhuo stares at her for a second.
Then breaks into laughter.
“This is unbelievable,” she says. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you attach yourself to the campus villain.”
“She’s not a villain.”
“She’s not nice.”
“She’s selective.”
“That is a generous word for it.”
Minjeong shrugs, adjusting her pen.
Yizhuo leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to discuss state secrets.
“So. details,” she says. “Are we talking about real dating or… a situation?”
Minijeong pauses just long enough to be suspicious.
Yizhuo’s eyes widen.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “It’s fake.”
Minjeong immediately rolls her eyes.
“Keep your voice down.”
“I knew it,” Yizhuo says, barely containing her excitement. “There is no way she just woke up and decided to be emotionally available.”
“She didn’t.”
“This is incredible.”
Minjeong tries very hard to look composed. She fails slightly at the corners of her mouth.
“It’s temporary,” she says. “And it makes sense.”
“It never makes sense.”
“It does.”
“Explain.”
Minjeong closes her notebook slowly, like she’s about to regret everything.
Yizhuo beams.
“Oh, this is my favorite part.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You are fake dating the most unapproachable person on the campus. It is a big deal.”
“It solved a problem.”
“What problem requires that solution?”
Minjeong hesitates.
Yizhuo leans in even more.
“Was it academic,” she asks. “Social. Legal. Slightly criminal?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Disappointing. But for whatever it’s worth do you understand what this means for me?”
“No, and I’m afraid to.”
“This is my ticket to meeting Aeri in the flesh.”
Minjeong closes her eyes briefly.
Of course it is.
“You already have a ticket,” she says. “It’s called being a normal person and attending their gigs.”
“That is not the same as being introduced,” Yizhuo counters. “I need proximity. I need acknowledgement. I need her to know I exist.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
Minjeong exhales, but she’s smiling now, small and helpless around the edges.
Yizhuo studies her for a second longer, tilting her head.
“So,” she says, voice dropping just enough to signal interest instead of chaos. “Circling back…”
Minjeong rolls her eyes in defeat.
Yizhuo does not let things go.
This is an established fact. A personality trait. A mild threat.
So of course, the story really begins with her.
A few nights ago.
It starts, as most questionable decisions do, with Ning Yizhuo refusing to take no for an answer.
“No.”
Minjeong does not even look up from her notes when she says it. Calm. Firm. Final.
Across from her, Yizhuo leans forward like a lawyer who just heard the weakest objection in history.
“You didn’t even hear the full proposal.”
“I heard enough,” Minjeong replies. “It involves a band. At night. In a café that will be overcrowded, humid, and full of people who think deodorant is optional.”
“That is a stereotype.”
“It is an observation.”
Yizhuo places a hand dramatically over her chest.
“You wound me.”
“You’ll survive.”
Yizhuo narrows her eyes, recalibrating. This is not her first negotiation, and certainly not her last.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Let’s approach this strategically.”
Minjeong hums, already suspicious.
“You come with me to see Send Help! play tonight,” Yizhuo continues, ticking points off on her fingers, “and in return, I will cover your groceries for a week.”
Minjeong pauses.
Just slightly.
Yizhuo notices. Of course she does.
“And,” she adds, pressing her advantage, “your car fuel.”
Minjeong looks up.
Now they are speaking the same language.
“For a week,” Yizhuo repeats, very clear, very deliberate.
Minjeong studies her like she’s evaluating a contract.
“You’re overpaying,” she says.
“I’m investing.”
“In what?”
“In culture,” Yizhuo replies smoothly. “In experience. In you becoming slightly more interesting.”
Minjeong almost smiles.
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. Also, Aeri will be there.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with me.”
Minjeong exhales slowly, weighing her options.
On one hand, crowds. Noise. Unpredictable social interaction.
On the other, a fully funded week of necessities.
Truly, life is about balance.
“Fine,” she says at last. “But we’re leaving early if it’s as bad as I think it will be.”
Yizhuo beams, victorious.
“It won’t be.”
“It will.”
“It won’t.”
“It will.”
“Agree to disagree,” Yizhuo says brightly, already packing her things. “Wear something cute.”
“I always do.”
“True.”
The café, as it turns out, is… not terrible.
Minjeong notices this immediately, which is both surprising and mildly offensive to her expectations.
It’s warm, yes, but not suffocating. There’s a low hum of conversation, the soft clink of cups, the faint smell of coffee overriding anything more questionable. People are gathered, but not pressed together like a human inconvenience.
Yizhuo, of course, acts like she’s just arrived at the event of the year.
“I told you,” she says, smug.
Minjeong looks around again, careful, observant.
“It’s… acceptable,” she admits.
“That is the highest praise you’ve ever given anything.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
They find a table close enough to the small stage, where equipment is already set up. Yizhuo is practically vibrating with anticipation, phone in hand, ready to document history or at least her version of it.
Minjeong sits, composed as ever, hands wrapped around her drink.
“I’m only here for the groceries,” she reminds her.
“Of course,” Yizhuo says, not listening at all.
The lights dim slightly.
And then they come out.
Send Help! is, unfortunately, good.
Annoyingly good.
Minjeong notices the guitarist first. It’s hard not to.
Yu Jimin stands like she doesn’t care about being watched, which of course makes everyone watch her more. There’s something sharp about her, something precise. Every movement looks intentional, even when it probably isn’t.
She does not smile.
Not once.
Minjeong finds that… interesting.
Beside her, Yizhuo is already gone. Spiritually. Emotionally. Entirely.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, already recording. “There she is.”
Minjeong follows her line of sight to Aeri, who is, admittedly, very easy to look at.
“You need to relax,” Minjeong murmurs.
“I will not,” Yizhuo replies. “This is important.”
Minjeong shakes her head, but her attention drifts back to the music.
She didn’t expect to like it.
She definitely didn’t expect to actually enjoy it.
But there’s something about the way the sound fills the room, something about the rhythm, the way people settle into it instead of fighting it. It’s not chaotic. It’s… alive.
She takes another sip of her drink, watching.
Listening.
And then, unfortunately, someone ruins it.
“Minjeong.”
She freezes.
Slowly, carefully, she turns her head.
Ah.
Him.
The one person she has successfully avoided mentioning to anyone, including the very nosy friend currently filming a drummer like her life depends on it.
He stands there with the confidence of someone who has never once taken a hint in his life.
“Hi,” he says, smiling like this is a pleasant surprise instead of a recurring problem.
Minjeong offers a polite smile.
“Hello.”
Yizhuo glances over, immediately clocking the situation. Her eyes flick between them, interest sparking.
“And you are?” she says casually.
“Just a friend,” he answers quickly.
Minjeong almost chokes.
Friend is a strong word for someone she has rejected multiple times with increasing clarity.
“This is Ning Yizhuo,” Minjeong says smoothly, choosing diplomacy. “My best friend.”
Yizhuo smiles, bright and sharp.
“Nice to meet you.”
He nods, then looks back at Minjeong like Yizhuo has already faded into the background.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.
“I could say the same.”
“I come here often.”
Of course you do.
Minjeong keeps her expression pleasant.
“That’s nice.”
There is a pause.
An uncomfortable one.
He does not leave.
Yizhuo watches this like it’s live entertainment.
“I was thinking,” he continues, “maybe we could talk later. Somewhere quieter.”
Minjeong’s smile stays exactly the same.
“I’m here with a friend.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
Yizhuo bites her straw to stop herself from laughing.
Minjeong exhales slowly.
Patient. Polite. Firm.
“I’ve told you before,” she says gently, “I’m not interested in anything like that.”
He waves a hand, dismissive.
“You just haven’t given it a chance yet.”
Yizhuo’s eyebrows shoot up.
Minjeong’s patience, famously vast, begins to thin.
“I’ve given you an answer,” she says, still calm. “Several times.”
“And I’m still here,” he replies, like that’s romantic instead of concerning.
Yizhuo leans in slightly, whispering just loud enough.
“Persistence is not always a virtue.”
He ignores her completely.
Of course he does.
Minjeong presses her lips together, considering her options.
Around them, the music continues. The crowd hums. On stage, the band plays like none of this exists.
And for a brief, fleeting second, Minjeong wishes she could say the same.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, this is the exact moment things begin to go wrong.
Or, depending on perspective, exactly right.
After the sixth song, Minjeong decides she has reached her limit. Not of the music, which is still surprisingly good, but of Jack, who has somehow managed to stay too close and too persistent without taking a single hint.
She turns to him with a polite smile, the kind that has ended conversations before, or at least attempted to.
“Maybe we should talk somewhere quieter,” she says, tilting her head slightly toward the stage where Send Help! is still playing to a cheering crowd. “It’s a bit loud here.”
Jack leans in, like the noise is part of the charm.
“Yeah, I was thinking that too,” he says quickly. “It’s hard to actually talk here.”
Minjeong nods, as if they are in perfect agreement.
“There’s a café just across the street,” she continues, gesturing toward the glass windows. “The one with the burgers. It’ll be easier to hear each other there.”
Jack smiles, immediate and eager. “Yeah, that sounds good. We can go now.”
“Now is good,” Minjeong agrees.
Of course now is good.
Anything is better than this.
She steps away from him for a moment, weaving back through the small crowd until she reaches Yizhuo, who is still very much occupied with recording Aeri like this footage will be reviewed by historians.
“Yizhuo,” Minjeong calls over the music.
“Mhm,” Yizhuo responds, not looking.
“I’m going across the street for a bit,” Minjeong says. “Just to talk to Jack.”
“Okay,” Yizhuo replies, still focused on her screen.
“I’ll be at the burger café.”
“Get fries.”
Minjeong pauses, watching her for a second.
“That’s all you have to say.”
Yizhuo finally glances at her, briefly.
“Do you want me to come?”
Minjeong looks over at Jack, who is waiting by the door like a man who thinks this is going well.
Then she looks back at Yizhuo.
“No,” she says. “It’s fine.”
Yizhuo nods once, already turning back.
“Okay. Film something if it gets dramatic.”
“It will not get dramatic.”
“Disappointing.”
Minjeong exhales softly and heads toward the door anyway, because clearly, she has made her choice.
The burger café is a relief the moment they step inside. It’s bright, open, and most importantly, there are people. Enough people that Minjeong immediately feels safer, grounded. Jack asks what she wants, and she just points at something on the menu, not particularly caring. He orders for both of them, smiling like this is going well for him.
They sit. And then he starts talking.
At first, Minjeong listens politely, nodding at the right moments, offering small responses. But Jack does not stop. He moves from one topic to another without pause, talking about his childhood, his interests, his best friend, his dog, and then somehow back to his dog again. It keeps going, stretching longer than necessary, longer than welcome. Minjeong waits for a pause that never comes, her patience thinning as she searches for an opening.
Her eyes wander for just a second.
And that’s when she sees Yu Jimin.
Jimin is sitting at a nearby table, completely unbothered, focused entirely on her burger like it’s the only thing that matters. Across from her is a girl who looks like she’s trying to hold a conversation, but Jimin barely reacts, offering nothing but the occasional glance before returning to her food.
Minjeong blinks, briefly confused.
Wasn’t the band still playing?
Why is Jimin here already?
And more importantly, where is Yizhuo when she actually needs rescuing.
“…and I think that’s why I’ve always been someone who values—”
“Okay, Jack.”
Minjeong cuts in, finally.
Her tone is still polite, but firmer now, enough to make him stop.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she says, offering a small apologetic smile, “but I came here to tell you something.”
He leans forward, hopeful.
Minjeong exhales quietly. “You can stop now. You don’t have to keep trying with me. I’ve told you before, and I mean it. There are a lot of people who would like you. It’s just not me.”
Jack frowns almost immediately. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not interested.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” Minjeong says patiently. “It’s not about you.”
“Then why not me?”
His voice starts to rise, just enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. Minjeong keeps her composure, but she can feel the conversation slipping out of control.
“I’ve already answered you,” she says.
“But I don’t understand,” he insists. “Did I do something wrong?”
And that’s when Minjeong, out of options and patience, says the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’m already with someone.”
Jack goes still. “Who?”
A very fair question. A very unfortunate one.
Minjeong’s brain blanks, and before she can stop herself, she turns and points.
Directly at Jimin.
“I’m with her.”
Jimin does not react. She is still eating her burger.
The girl across from her, however, turns immediately. “Do you know her?” she asks, sharp.
Jimin glances up, mildly confused, then shrugs. “Yes.”
Which is technically true.
It is also the worst possible answer.
The girl’s expression shifts instantly, and before anyone can process it, she grabs her drink and splashes it straight at Jimin. The reaction is dramatic, immediate, and entirely undeserved.
Jimin freezes, staring down at her now completely drenched burger.
“My burger,” she says, genuinely offended.
The girl storms out, leaving chaos behind her.
Jack, however, is not done. He marches over to Jimin’s table, dragging the situation further into public view. “Is it true?” he demands.
Jimin doesn’t even look at him. She’s still staring at her ruined food like she’s processing loss.
“My burger,” she repeats, quieter this time.
“Is it true?” Jack insists, louder now.
Jimin finally looks up, unimpressed. “What?”
“That you’re with her.”
Jimin glances at Minjeong, who is now standing there, fully committed to the worst decision of her life.
Before she can think, Minjeong answers for both of them. “Yes.”
Jack turns back to her, frustration building. “What does she have that I don't?”
Minjeong opens her mouth, scrambling for something, anything. “Well… she’s smart.”
Jimin nods immediately. “Yes, I am.”
Minjeong blinks, then continues, because apparently this is happening. “She plays guitar.”
“That, I do.”
“She’s confident.”
“Obviously.”
“She wouldn’t put me in this kind of situation.”
Jimin considers that, then nods once. “Correct.”
Jack looks between them, clearly not satisfied. “That’s it?”
Minjeong exhales, trying to hold onto whatever dignity is left. “No. That’s just… who she is.”
There’s a pause. A strange one, where everything feels slightly out of place.
Jack scoffs, shaking his head before finally backing off, muttering something under his breath as he leaves. The tension dissolves with him, leaving behind nothing but the aftermath.
Jimin looks down at her burger again, then back at Minjeong.
“Buy me a burger,” she says flatly.
And somehow, that is how it starts.
The memory lingers longer than she expects it to.
Not the chaos. Not the flying drink or the ruined burger or the way her life took a sharp, questionable turn in a span of minutes. It’s the small things that stay. The look Jimin gave her across the table when shit was about to go down. The pause before she agreed. The quiet, almost reluctant way everything clicked into place after that.
Which is why, when she finishes telling the story, carefully trimmed and suspiciously incomplete, Yizhuo just stares at her.
“That’s it?” Yizhuo says slowly. “You bought her a burger and she agreed to everything. That sounds suspicious.”
Minjeong closes her notebook with deliberate calm.
“Of course not,” she replies. “But I promised Jimin I wouldn’t tell a soul, so I won’t.”
Yizhuo studies her for exactly one second longer.
Then she shrugs.
“Fair enough.”
And just like that, it’s over. No prying, no dramatics, no interrogation. If it doesn’t interfere with her daily life, her schedule, or her chances of seeing Aeri up close, then it simply does not matter.
Minjeong appreciates that about her.
The day moves forward the way days always do, indifferent to personal plot developments.
Minjeong returns to her lecture, posture straight, pen moving steadily across her notes. She answers when called, listens when required, and exists in that polished, effortless way that makes professors nod in quiet approval. Around her, students scramble to keep up, but Minjeong is already three steps ahead, calm and composed.
Across campus, in a music room that smells faintly of wires and questionable decisions, Jimin is asleep.
Not dozing. Fully asleep.
Head tilted back, arms loosely crossed, completely unbothered by the fact that her bandmates are making noise around her. Ryujin is half tuning a guitar and half losing patience. Yuna is talking about something that sounds important only to her. Aeri scrolls through her phone, occasionally glancing at Jimin like this is a completely normal occurrence.
At some point, Jimin wakes up, blinks once, and decides she has class.
She does not rush. She never rushes.
By the time Minjeong is settling into her second class, Jimin and her group are just arriving at their first. The contrast is almost offensive. Minjeong is already deep into discussion, contributing thoughtfully, while Jimin leans back in her chair, listening only when necessary and answering only when directly asked, usually with unsettling accuracy.
Time passes in fragments. Notes are taken. Messages are ignored. Lunch happens somewhere in between, quick and functional for Minjeong, chaotic and loud for Jimin and her friends. There are hallway crossings that almost happen and then don’t, moments where their schedules nearly align but miss each other by minutes.
And then, eventually, the day begins to close.
Minjeong is in her lab, focused, attentive, surrounded by the low hum of concentration. The clock ticks slowly, stretching the last few minutes of class just enough to be noticeable.
Outside, leaning against the wall like she has every right to be there, is Yu Jimin.
Her class ended thirty minutes ago.
She has been waiting.
People pass by, glance at her, whisper. Jimin does not acknowledge any of it. Her attention is fixed on the door.
When it finally opens and students begin to file out, she moves immediately.
The professor is barely out of the room when Jimin steps inside, cutting through the space with quiet certainty. Conversations falter. Heads turn. This is not behavior anyone associates with her.
She stops right in front of Minjeong.
“Move quick,” Jimin says, already reaching for her things. “I’m late for rehearsal.”
Minjeong blinks, caught mid-motion as her bag is lifted from her shoulder.
“I have an org meeting,” she says.
“Then move fast,” Jimin replies without missing a beat. “I’ll drop you there, then put your things in the car before I go.”
Around them, people are staring.
Of course they are.
Because this is Yu Jimin, widely known for her indifference, currently carrying someone else’s belongings like it’s second nature. The same Jimin who barely tolerates conversation is now organizing someone else’s schedule.
Even Yizhuo, watching from the side, looks mildly betrayed by her own lack of information about Jimin and Minjeong’s dynamics.
Minjeong recovers quickly, falling into step beside Jimin as they walk out together.
“How was your day,” she asks lightly.
“Fine,” Jimin replies.
Minjeong nods and continues anyway, launching into a full recap of her own day without invitation. Jimin listens in fragments, offering the occasional hum or nod, her pace brisk enough that Minjeong has to adjust slightly to keep up.
“You walk so slow,” Jimin mutters.
“I’m walking normally.”
“Walk faster.”
Minjeong almost laughs, but she keeps going, matching her stride.
They move through campus like this, an odd balance of efficiency and performance, until Minjeong speaks again, softer this time but just loud enough.
“Can you hold my hand, please.”
Jimin stops.
Just for a second.
She’s slightly ahead, arms and hands already full with Minjeong’s things. She looks down at her hands, then back at Minjeong, then briefly around at the people who are very clearly watching.
Of course they are watching.
Jimin inhales, slow and controlled, then lets it out.
When she looks back, she’s smiling. Not wide, not warm, but enough. Enough to sell it.
“Come,” she says.
She shifts slightly, her left hand still occupied, but her pinky extends.
Small. Subtle. Intentional.
Minjeong notices immediately.
And just like that, she hooks her pinky with Jimin’s, her expression softening into something that looks easy, natural, real.
It is, of course, for show.
For the people watching.
For the story they’ve decided to tell.
But as they continue walking, fingers loosely linked in the smallest possible way, it becomes just convincing enough to make everyone believe it.
It works.
It works all the way until Jimin drops Minjeong off in front of the building where her org meeting is being held. Minjeong thanked her, soft and polite, slipping her hand away like it was always temporary. Jimin nods once, already shifting her attention elsewhere, already moving.
“Text me when you’re done,” Minjeong says, like this is routine.
Jimin hums. That’s enough of an answer.
Minjeong disappears inside, greeted almost immediately by people who adore her. The door closes, and just like that, the performance ends.
Jimin exhales.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough to reset.
She adjusts the weight of Minjeong’s things in her arms and turns towards the parking lot, focused on one simple objective. Drop the bags. Get to rehearsal. Pretend none of this requires effort.
“Wow.”
The voice comes from behind her, familiar and entirely too entertained.
Jimin doesn’t stop walking. “Don’t start.”
Aeri falls into step beside her anyway, hands tucked into her jacket like she has all the time in the world.
“I didn’t say anything yet,” Aeri says.
“You were about to.”
“I was going to be supportive.”
“You’re incapable of that.”
Aeri smiles. “True.”
They walk in silence for a few seconds, the kind that isn’t uncomfortable, just filled with things they don’t feel the need to say out loud.
Then Aeri glances at the bags in Jimin’s hands.
“You’re carrying her stuff.”
Jimin doesn’t look at her. “Obviously.”
“That’s new.”
“So is minding your business.”
Aeri lets out a quiet laugh, then reaches over and takes one of the bags without asking. Jimin doesn’t stop her.
“What’s her name?” Aeri asks.
“Minjeong.”
Aeri nods once, like she’s filing that away for later.
“Pretty.”
Jimin shrugs. “Sure.”
Aeri glances at her sideways. “You don’t sound convincing.”
“I’m not describing her to you.”
“You could try.”
“No.”
They reach the car. Jimin unlocks it, opens the back door, and starts setting Minjeong’s things inside with more care than necessary. Aeri notices. Of course she does.
“Is it serious,” she asks.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No elaboration.
Aeri raises an eyebrow. “That was fast.”
Jimin closes the door. “Not really.”
“How long.”
“Long enough.”
Aeri hums, leaning against the car now, watching her like she’s a puzzle that might actually be worth solving.
“You like her.”
Jimin shoots her a look. “Relax.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a conversation.”
Aeri smiles, satisfied enough with that.
“Does she like you?”
Jimin pauses for half a second, then shrugs again. “She’s dating me.”
“That’s also not a real answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Aeri laughs under her breath.
This is how they’ve always been.
They’ve known each other since high school, long enough that conversations don’t need to be complete to be understood. Aeri talks more, pushes more, fills the silence when she feels like it. Jimin doesn’t. She answers what she wants, ignores what she doesn’t, and somehow that’s always been enough.
They don’t explain things to each other. They don’t need to.
Aeri straightens slightly, adjusting the strap of the bag she’s holding.
“I want to meet her,” she says.
Jimin closes the car door and finally looks at her.
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“About the girl who got you to carry her things across campus,” Aeri replies simply.
Jimin rolls her eyes, turning towards the driver’s side.
“You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
Jimin opens the door. “Give me the bag.”
Aeri hands it over, still smiling.
“You’ll introduce us eventually.”
Jimin tosses it into the back seat. “We’ll see.”
“That means yes.”
“That means stop talking.”
Aeri steps back, holding her hands up in mock surrender.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go. We’re late.”
“Obviously.”
She just stands there for a second, keys in hand, then exhales like she almost forgot something obvious. Aeri is already turned away from the car, waiting, because she knows this routine. Jimin locks the door again without explanation, slings her bag over her shoulder, and starts walking back toward campus.
Aeri falls into steps beside her, easy and unhurried.
“Right,” Aeri says. “We rehearse in a room. Not on the highway.”
“Don’t narrate,” Jimin replies.
“I’m just making sure you remember where you are.”
“I do.”
“Debatable.”
They walk in comfortable silence for a few seconds, cutting across the campus paths they’ve taken a hundred times before. The sun is lower now, the air softer, students lingering in groups instead of rushing between classes.
Aeri glances at her again.
“So,” she says. “Minjeong.”
Jimin doesn’t react much. “Yeah.”
“That’s her name.”
“I heard.”
“She’s your girlfriend.”
Jimin gives her a look. “You’re repeating information.”
“I’m processing.”
“Do it quietly.”
Aeri smiles, unfazed.
“What’s she like?”
Jimin thinks for a second, which is already more effort than she usually gives.
“She talks a lot,” she says.
Aeri nods. “That’s good. You don’t.”
“She doesn’t need help.”
“That’s also good.”
They turn the corner toward the music building, the familiar sound of someone badly playing piano echoing faintly through the open windows.
“Is it serious,” Aeri asks again, like she wants to see if the answer changes.
“Yes.”
Still the same.
Still simple.
Aeri hums.
“You’re weird,” she says.
“Correct.”
“I mean it,” Aeri adds. “You don’t do things halfway.”
Jimin shrugs. “It’s not complicated.”
Aeri glances at her. “It looks complicated.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“That has never stopped me before.”
Jimin almost smiles.
Almost.
They push open the door to the music room, the noise hitting them immediately. Ryujin is already there, sitting on an amp, scrolling through her phone like she’s been waiting for something better to do. Yuna is adjusting something on the mic stand with far too much energy for the time of day.
“Finally,” Yuna says, looking up. “You’re late.”
“You’re early,” Jimin replies, setting her things down.
Aeri moves toward the drum set, already settling in like this is the only place she’s fully still.
“Traffic,” she says casually.
Ryujin looks up. “We’re on campus.”
“Exactly,” Aeri replies.
Jimin picks up her guitar, adjusting the strap, fingers already testing the strings out of habit.
Aeri watches her for a second, then smirks slightly.
“I’m meeting her,” she says.
Jimin doesn’t look up. “No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
Aeri leans forward on her drumsticks. “Eventually.”
Jimin glances at her this time. “We’ll see.”
Aeri grins, satisfied.
Because that is not a no, and with Jimin, anything that is not a no is practically a confirmed future event.
The rest of them don’t question it. They’ve learned not to.
Jimin adjusts her guitar strap, fingers already moving across the strings like muscle memory has more authority than thought. Aeri taps her sticks together once, twice, settling into place behind the drums. Ryujin finally looks up from her phone, and Yuna claps her hands like she’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.
“Are we playing or are we just staring at each other,” Yuna says.
“Play,” Jimin replies.
They start.
The first chord cuts through the room, loud and sharp, followed immediately by Aeri’s drums kicking in with practiced ease. The sound fills the space, bouncing off walls that have heard too many versions of this exact chaos. It’s messy at first, then it clicks, like it always does.
“Yuna, you’re early,” Ryujin shouts over the noise.
“I’m not early, you’re late,” Yuna shouts back.
“Same difference.”
“Not at all.”
Jimin doesn’t join the argument. She just plays, steady and focused, occasionally glancing up when something is off.
“Again,” she says at one point, cutting through the sound without raising her voice.
Aeri stops first. The others follow.
“That was fine,” Yuna argues.
“It wasn’t,” Jimin replies.
Ryujin groans. “You’re impossible.”
“Play it right.”
They start again.
Across campus, in a room that smells faintly of whiteboard markers and ambition, Minjeong is seated at the center of her org meeting, listening with the same attentiveness she gives everything. She nods when appropriate, offers suggestions when needed, and somehow manages to keep everything moving without making it look like effort.
Someone is talking about logistics. Someone else is worried about scheduling. Minjeong smooths it over with calm efficiency.
“That works,” she says. “We can adjust the timeline if needed.”
Back in the music room, Yuna misses a cue.
“Again,” Jimin says.
“You’re enjoying this,” Yuna accuses.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
Aeri laughs, spinning a drumstick between her fingers. “She is.”
“I’m not,” Jimin repeats, already counting them back in.
The rhythm builds again.
Minjeong checks her notes, adds something to the agenda, then looks up when someone calls her name.
“What do you think,” they ask.
“I think we should finalize it today,” she replies. “So we don’t push it back again.”
There are nods. Agreement. It settles easily when she says it.
Back in rehearsal, Ryujin finally gets her part right.
“See,” she says, triumphant.
Jimin nods once. “Better.”
“That’s all I get.”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
They keep going.
The hours pass like this, back and forth, sound and silence, structure and chaos. Two completely different worlds running on the same timeline, somehow connected by something neither of them has fully defined yet.
Eventually, the meeting wraps up.
Minjeong gathers her things, stacking papers neatly, offering soft goodbyes as people start to leave. The room empties slowly, the energy fading into something quieter.
She checks her phone.
Nothing.
No message from Yu Jimin.
Minjeong tilts her head slightly, considering. Jimin’s rehearsal should be done by now. Or at least close to it. For a second, she debates texting first, then decides against it. It feels unnecessary.
She slips her phone back into her bag.
Maybe she’s still busy.
Maybe she forgot.
Minjeong shrugs to herself, unbothered, and heads for the door with the vague plan of walking to the parking lot and waiting there.
She steps out into the hallway.
And stops.
A few feet away, Yu Jimin is standing with her back turned, surrounded by her bandmates. Her posture is straight, her tone low but firm, like she’s delivering instructions that absolutely need to be followed.
Minjeong blinks.
This is new.
She doesn’t move closer right away, just enough to hear.
“Do not overwhelm her,” Jimin is saying.
There’s a pause.
“She’ll get overstimulated with your noise.”
Another pause.
“Just please behave and not embarrass me.”
Minjeong presses her lips together, already smiling.
Across from Jimin, Aeri is the first to notice her. Her eyes flick past Jimin, then widen slightly with interest. She nudges Ryujin, who follows her gaze. Then Yuna.
One by one, they all start looking at Minjeong while Jimin continues speaking, completely unaware.
Minjeong clears her throat.
Soft. Polite. Amused.
Jimin stops mid-sentence and turns.
There is a split second where something unreadable crosses her face.
Then it’s gone.
“Hi,” Jimin says, like she wasn’t just issuing warnings.
Minjeong smiles. “Hi,” she glances between them. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Nothing,” Jimin replies immediately.
Minjeong raises an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It was nothing.”
Minjeong hums, unconvinced but entertained.
Jimin shifts slightly, suddenly aware of the people around her.
“This is…” she starts, then pauses, like introductions are not something she does often.
She gestures vaguely. “Them.”
Aeri snorts. “I’m Aeri.”
Minjeong smiles wider.
“I’m Minjeong,” she says, stepping forward just enough to bridge the space.
“We know,” Yuna says immediately. “Yuna.”
“Obviously,” Ryujin adds. “Ryujin is the name.”
Aeri just watches her for a second, curious and bright, then smiles.
“Hi.”
Minjeong laughs softly, warm and easy. “Hi.”
There’s a brief moment where everyone just looks at her.
Because she is exactly what they expected.
And somehow not at all.
“You play really well,” Minjeong says, turning slightly toward Aeri. “I saw a bit last week. And I like your hair. The pink suits you.”
Aeri blinks.
Then, unexpectedly, looks a little shy.
“Thanks,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “I change it a lot.”
“It looks good,” Minjeong insists.
Yuna looks between them, then at Jimin.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “I get it now.”
“Get what,” Jimin asks.
Yuna just smiles.
“Nothing.”
Jimin narrows her eyes slightly, already suspicious.
Minjeong, meanwhile, is still smiling, entirely unaware that she has just made a very strong first impression.
Or maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.
With her, it’s hard to tell.
It is also, apparently, impossible to resist.
“We should eat,” Yuna announces, like this is the most natural next step after meeting someone who has already charmed her in under two minutes. “Let’s go out.”
“Yes,” Ryujin agrees immediately. “Celebratory dinner. For… whatever this is.”
She gestures vaguely between Minjeong and Jimin.
Jimin doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”
Everyone pauses.
Minjeong blinks, turning to her. “No?”
“She has things to do,” Jimin says, already final. “A lot of things.”
Minjeong tilts her head, studying her for a second, then smiles in that soft, disarming way that feels suspiciously like strategy.
“It’s okay,” she says gently. “I can do them later when I get home.”
Jimin looks at her.
Minjeong continues, just as sweet. “Besides, it’s just today, right? And I met your friends for the first time.”
There’s a brief silence.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough for everyone else to glance at each other like they’ve just witnessed something rare and possibly historical.
Because Jimin, who has turned down plans, people, and entire social situations without blinking, is now being negotiated with.
And losing.
Jimin exhales quietly through her nose.
“Fine,” she says.
Yuna lights up. “Yes.”
Ryujin grins. “I like her.”
Aeri, who has been watching this entire exchange with interest, just nods once like she expected this outcome.
“Let’s go,” she says.
The walk to the parking lot is louder now, filled with overlapping conversations that Minjeong somehow gets pulled into without effort. Jimin stays close, not quite part of it, not quite separate either, carrying Minjeong’s things again like it’s second nature.
They end up splitting between two cars, because of course they do.
Jimin drives. Aeri drives. Everyone else organizes themselves accordingly with the kind of chaos that somehow works out in the end.
The convoy to the nearest sushi place is short, uneventful, and filled with Yuna texting the group chat even though they are all physically present.
By the time they arrive, the place is warm, softly lit, and just busy enough to feel alive without being overwhelming.
Minjeong approves immediately.
“I like it here,” she says as they step inside.
Jimin glances at her. “Good.”
They settle into a table that barely fits all of them, chairs scraping slightly, menus being passed around like shared responsibility.
“I’m paying,” Aeri says, casual and firm.
Everyone looks up.
“You don’t have to,” Minjeong says politely.
“I want to,” Aeri replies. “Order whatever you want.”
Yuna gasps. “I love you.”
“You already did,” Aeri says.
“That was different.”
Ryujin is already scanning the menu with serious intent. “Don’t hold back,” she mutters to herself.
Minjeong smiles, a little amused, a little touched, and glances at Jimin.
“Is it really okay?” she asks quietly.
Jimin nods once. “She won’t let you say no.”
“That’s true,” Aeri adds.
Minjeong laughs softly. “Okay, then.”
They order more food than necessary. Of course they do.
While they wait, the conversation flows easily, stories spilling out one after another like this is what they’ve been waiting to do all day.
“Did she tell you about the time she almost got us kicked out of rehearsal,” Yuna says, pointing at Jimin.
Jimin doesn’t look up. “No.”
Minjeong’s eyes light up. “No, she didn’t.”
“She argued with the instructor,” Ryujin adds.
“I was right,” Jimin says.
“You were loud,” Yuna corrects.
“I was right and loud.”
Aeri leans back slightly, watching Minjeong more than the story. “She refused to apologize.”
Minjeong turns to Jimin, curious. “Is that true?”
Jimin meets her eyes for a second. “Yes.”
Minjeong smiles, like that confirms something she already suspected. “That sounds like you.”
“It was justified.”
“I believe you.”
Yuna looks between them again. “This is insane.”
“No, it’s not,” Jimin says.
“It is,” Ryujin insists. “You’re agreeing with someone.”
“I’m not agreeing. I’m clarifying.”
Minjeong laughs, covering her mouth slightly, and Jimin glances at her again, just briefly, like checking something.
The food arrives, filling the table with color and heat and the kind of comfort that makes conversations stretch longer than intended.
Jimin notices when Minjeong reaches for something and moves a plate closer without being asked. She notices when Minjeong hesitates over a dish and quietly tells her which one is better. She pours water into her glass before it’s empty.
She doesn’t comment on it.
Neither does Minjeong.
But Aeri sees it. Of course she does.
“So,” Aeri says at one point, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “How did you two meet?”
There’s a pause.
Minjeong glances at Jimin.
Jimin looks back.
And for a second, it almost feels like they are deciding something without speaking.
Minjeong smiles first.
“Unexpectedly,” she says.
Jimin nods. “Yeah.”
“That’s it,” Yuna says. “That’s all we get.”
“Yes,” Jimin replies.
Ryujin sighs. “You’re both annoying.”
Minjeong laughs again, softer this time, and looks down at her plate, still smiling.
And across the table, Jimin watches her for a second longer than necessary before reaching for her own food.
Dinner ends the way good dinner always does, with full stomachs, lingering laughter, and the quiet agreement that no one actually needed that last order but is very glad it happened anyway.
Chairs scrape back. Glasses are emptied. Someone mentions dessert and is immediately ignored.
Outside, the night air feels softer, cooler, like a reward.
They gather in the parking lot, stretching slightly, adjusting bags, easing back into reality after a few hours of easy noise and shared space.
“So,” Yuna says, already halfway to dramatic again, “we do this again.”
“We just did,” Ryujin replies.
“And we’ll do it again.”
Aeri unlocks her car with a soft beep. “Get in before I leave you.”
Yuna gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
Ryujin is already walking ahead. “She would.”
Minjeong laughs softly beside Jimin, then turns to them one by one, all warmth and sincerity.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says.
“Anytime,” Aeri replies.
Minjeong leans in, pressing light cheek kisses in farewell, paired with gentle nice to meet yous that feel genuine enough to disarm even the most skeptical person in a ten meter radius.
Yuna looks delighted. Ryujin looks impressed. Aeri just watches, thoughtful.
Jimin stands slightly to the side, hands in her pockets, nodding once at each of them like that covers everything.
It does.
Mostly.
By the time Minjeong turns back to her, Jimin is already at the passenger side of the car, door open, waiting.
Minjeong walks over, still smiling faintly, and Jimin lifts a hand without thinking, shielding the top of the doorframe as Minjeong gets in. It is automatic.
Aeri notices.
Jimin glances up and catches her staring. Rolls her eyes.
Aeri just smiles.
“See you tomorrow,” she says.
Jimin doesn’t answer, just closes the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side.
Engines start almost at the same time. Two cars pulling out of the lot, heading in different directions, the night stretching ahead of them.
Inside the car, it’s quieter.
Not empty. Just softer.
Minjeong settles into her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, then turns slightly toward Jimin.
“Your friends are really funny,” she says. “And chill.”
Jimin keeps her eyes on the road. “They’re loud.”
“They’re fun.”
“They’re annoying.”
Minjeong smiles. “You like them.”
Jimin shrugs. “They’re fine.”
Minjeong lets out a small laugh, then continues anyway, talking about little things from dinner, moments she liked, things she noticed, her voice filling the space easily.
Jimin hums in response. Nods occasionally. Offers a word or two when required.
“Did you have fun,” Minjeong asks at one point.
“Yes.”
“That’s it.”
“Yes.”
Minjeong laughs again, softer this time, and looks out the window, clearly unbothered.
The drive passes like that, easy in its own way.
By the time they reach Minjeong’s house, the lights are still on.
Jimin parks, steps out first, and walks around to help her again, already reaching for her things before Minjeong can protest.
“You don’t have to,” Minjeong says.
“I know.”
Jimin takes them anyway.
Inside, the house feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
“Mom, I’m home,” Minjeong calls.
Her mother appears almost immediately, smile bright and welcoming, the kind that makes the space feel fuller.
“There you are,” she says, then her eyes land on Jimin. “And you brought company.”
Jimin straightens slightly, suddenly aware of the time, of the situation.
“I’m sorry we got home late,” she says quickly. “We went out with some friends and it ran longer than expected and—”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” her mom says gently, cutting her off with a wave of her hand. “You don’t have to explain. I’m just glad you’re both safe. Have you eaten dinner already?”
“We did,” Minjeong answers, stepping in beside Jimin. “It was really good.”
“That’s good,” her mom says, satisfied. “You should rest then.”
Minjeong nods, already slipping into an easy rhythm, telling her about her day in small pieces while they move further inside.
Jimin quietly takes Minjeong’s things upstairs, familiar with the layout, with the turns, with the room that has slowly become less foreign over time.
She sets everything down neatly, then heads to the bathroom.
By the time she comes out, hair damp, towel draped loosely around her neck, Minjeong is at her desk, organizing her things like the day is not fully complete until everything is in its proper place.
Jimin pauses by the door, watching her for a second before speaking.
“Is your mom not gonna ask why I’m here so often?”
Minjeong doesn’t look up. “She knows everything.”
Jimin stills.
“What do you mean she knows?”
Minjeong shrugs, casual. “She knows.”
Jimin drops the towel onto the chair. “Why would you tell her? I thought we talked about this. You promised me you won’t tell anyone.”
There’s a flicker of something close to panic in her voice now, sharper than usual, breaking through the calm she keeps so carefully in place.
Minjeong finally looks up at her.
“Relax,” she says, like this is not a big deal at all. “Who is she gonna tell anyway. Our plants? The cashier at the grocery store she goes to? I don’t think so.”
Jimin stares at her.
“You’re fine,” Minjeong adds, softer now. “You’re safe.”
The room settles.
Jimin exhales, the tension slipping out of her shoulders just as quietly as it arrived.
She nods once.
“You’re right,” she says. Then, after a second, quieter, “Sorry.”
Minjeong smiles a little. “It’s okay.”
Jimin glances at her again, then looks away, like that’s enough honesty for one moment.
“Thank you,” she adds.
Minjeong doesn’t make a big deal out of it. She just nods, returning to her things, the quiet between them comfortable again.
Outside, the house is still.
Inside, something small has shifted.
Not enough to name.
But enough to follow them into the next day, and the next, and the one after that, until it starts to feel less like a single moment and more like a pattern forming quietly in the background of everything they do.
They arrive at university together again.
Jimin pulls up like she always does, precise and unbothered, stepping out first, already moving to open Minjeong’s door. Minjeong steps out with that same soft smile, adjusting her bag, letting Jimin take half of it without protest.
People notice. Of course they do.
“Since when,” someone asks one morning as they pass.
“Recently,” Minjeong answers.
Jimin says nothing.
“She’s nice to you,” another adds, like it’s a revelation.
Jimin glances at Minjeong. “She’s manageable.”
Jimin laughs, like that is somehow a compliment.
It becomes routine. The walking together. The small gestures. The way Jimin slows down just enough for Minjeong without admitting she’s doing it. The way Minjeong fills the silence without expecting much in return.
At some point, Minjeong pulls Yizhuo into it.
“This is Yizhuo,” she says one afternoon, bright and casual, like she isn’t introducing two very different forces into the same orbit.
Yizhuo looks at Aeri first.
“Oh,” she says, pleased. “You’re real.”
Aeri smiles. “Unfortunately.”
“I like your hair.”
“I like your confidence.”
Minjeong watches them like this is exactly what she expected to happen.
Jimin stands slightly to the side, arms crossed.
“They’re going to be loud,” she mutters.
“They already are,” Minjeong replies.
They leave them to it.
Days pass like this, stitched together by classes, rehearsals, shared walks, and the constant presence of other people watching.
Sometimes it’s simple.
Someone asks, “How long have you been together?”
“Not long,” Minjeong says.
“Long enough,” Jimin adds.
Sometimes it’s not.
Jack reappears.
Of course he does.
He catches Minjeong outside one of her classes, stepping into her path with that same persistence that has somehow survived every polite rejection.
“I don’t think it’s real,” he says, glancing toward Jimin like she’s a temporary inconvenience. “This thing with her.”
Minjeong exhales quietly. “Jack—”
“I can wait,” he continues. “Whatever this is, it’s not serious.”
Jimin, who was walking half a step ahead, stops.
Not long. Just enough.
Then she steps closer, expression flat in a way that usually ends conversations before they begin.
“It’s real,” she says.
Jack scoffs. “Right.”
Jimin doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.
“Do you want me to repeat it slower?”
Minjeong touches her arm lightly, a small grounding gesture.
“Jimin,” she says softly.
Jimin exhales, sharp this time, then looks back at Jack.
“Stop bothering her,” she adds.
There is something in her tone now that is not for show.
Jack notices then leaves.
Minjeong looks at Jimin for a second, searching her face.
“Thank you,” she says.
Jimin shrugs. “He’s annoying.”
Still, she doesn’t move her arm away right away.
In public, they become better at it.
Better at looking like something people believe in.
Jimin holds her hand more often, not just the pinky now, but properly, fingers laced when people are watching. She opens doors. Carries things. Stays close enough to make it convincing.
Minjeong leans in just enough. Smiles up at her. Says her name in that soft way that makes people look twice.
“They’re cute,” someone whispers once.
Jimin hears it and rolls her eyes.
Doesn’t let go of Minjeong’s hand.
On the way home, it’s different.
Quieter.
Minjeong still talks, sometimes. About her day. About something she read. About something small that caught her attention.
Jimin listens.
Answers in hums. In short replies. In the occasional question that sounds almost accidental.
“You like that class,” she says once.
“I do.”
“Why.”
Minjeong thinks about it. “It makes sense to me.”
Jimin nods, like that is enough.
Some nights, Jimin stays.
Most nights, she doesn’t.
Sometimes she ends up at Aeri’s place, where everything is too clean and too expensive and Aeri falls asleep with music still playing softly in the background.
Sometimes at Ryujin’s, where Yuna is also there, and the noise doesn’t fully stop even when the lights are off.
And sometimes, when she doesn’t feel like explaining anything to anyone, she parks at a random grocery store, leans her seat back, and sleeps there.
It doesn’t bother her. It never has.
But the next day, she still shows up at Minjeong’s gate on time.
Like clockwork. Like it matters.
They learn things about each other in pieces.
Minjeong learns that Jimin hates unnecessary noise but doesn’t mind music loud enough to feel in her chest. That she will complain about carrying things and still carry them anyway. That she notices everything and says very little about it.
Jimin learns that Minjeong organizes her notes by color. That she talks more when she’s tired. That she always says thank you, even for things that don’t require it.
None of it is important.
All of it is.
And every day, it gets easier. The acting, the timing, the way they fit into the roles they’ve created. It is all for show. It has to be.
That is the whole point.
Even if, somewhere between the routine and the repetition, it starts to feel less like something they are performing and more like something they are quietly, accidentally becoming anyway.
Aeri’s room had the kind of lived-in chaos that suggested both discipline and rebellion had tried to coexist and then quietly given up. There was a guitar propped against the wall owned by Jimin, a stack of law books that clearly belonged to her father but had somehow migrated here, and a television that was currently under siege by two very competitive idiots with controllers.
Jimin leaned forward on the edge of the bed, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line like she was about to negotiate a business deal instead of launching a digital character into a spinning kick.
“You’re panicking,” Aeri said, not even looking at her. Her thumbs moved lazily over the controller, like she had all the time in the world. “I can feel it from here. It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m not panicking,” Jimin muttered, immediately pressing the wrong button and getting her character absolutely obliterated.
Aeri snorted. “That was tragic.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“You’re literally losing hair from how annoying you are.”
“I have perfect hair,” Aeri said, tossing her head just enough to prove it, even though no one had asked for a demonstration.
A half-empty can of beer sat dangerously close to the edge of the table between them, next to a bowl of nuts that had already been reduced to crumbs and questionable pieces no one wanted to claim. The room smelled faintly like snacks and victory, which in this case belonged entirely to Aeri.
Jimin groaned as her character hit the ground again. “This game is rigged.”
“It’s not rigged,” Aeri said. “You just have commitment issues.”
Jimin shot her a look. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does if you think about it deeply,” Aeri replied, which was her way of saying she had no intention of explaining herself further.
They played another round. And another. The insults got progressively more creative, less rooted in reality, and somehow more personal. At one point Aeri accused Jimin of fighting like someone who says “k” in arguments, and Jimin retaliated by calling Aeri a traitor to all rhythm-based lifeforms, which felt appropriate given she was a drummer who couldn’t keep tempo in a fighting game.
It was loud and easy and familiar. The kind of friendship that didn’t need careful handling.
Which was probably why Aeri chose that exact moment to ruin it.
“Does she know?”
Jimin blinked, her fingers stilling on the controller. “What?”
Aeri didn’t look at her. She just kept playing, her character moving in small idle motions on the screen. “Minjeong.”
Jimin frowned. “Know what?”
Aeri finally glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “Does Minjeong know about your family?”
The question didn’t land loudly. It didn’t crash into the room or demand attention. It just slipped in and sat there, quiet and inconvenient, like a thought Jimin had been carefully stepping around for days.
Jimin looked back at the screen, though she wasn’t really seeing it anymore.
“She knows about my situation right now,” she said after a beat. Her voice was steady, but there was something tucked underneath it. Something she didn’t want to examine too closely. “But family, no.”
Aeri nodded slowly, like she had expected that answer.
They let the game run for a second, the characters shifting in place, waiting for input.
“Do you have plans on telling her?” Aeri asked.
Jimin huffed out a small laugh, like the question itself was unnecessary. “What for?”
Aeri shrugged, picking at the label of her beer can. “Maybe because she’s your girlfriend.”
Jimin let out a short, almost automatic, “And?” but it lacked its usual sharpness.
Aeri tilted her head. “You’re very adamant that it’s serious.”
That made Jimin pause.
Because she had been adamant. To everyone else. To their friends, to curious classmates, to anyone who so much as raised an eyebrow at them holding hands in public. She had leaned into it with this strange, uncharacteristic certainty. Like if she said it enough times, it would settle into something real.
It was supposed to be simple.
Fake, even.
And yet.
Jimin stared at the screen, but what she saw instead was Minjeong laughing at something Yuna said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Minjeong asking her if the story was true, leaning in like she genuinely wanted to know. Minjeong in the passenger seat, talking about nothing and everything, filling the silence Jimin usually guarded so carefully.
It was just for show.
It had always been just for show.
“Jimin,” Aeri said, her tone lighter now, almost teasing again. “You’re losing.”
Jimin blinked, snapping back into the moment just in time to see her character get launched across the screen.
“Are you serious?” she snapped, immediately leaning forward again. “You’re so annoying.”
Aeri grinned, victorious. “You literally stopped moving.”
“You distracted me.”
“That’s called strategy.”
“That’s called cheating.”
“There are no rules,” Aeri said. “Just like your love life.”
Jimin groaned, grabbing a handful of nuts and tossing one at Aeri, who dodged it easily.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you keep coming back.”
“Because you have a PS5.”
“Liar.”
Jimin didn’t respond to that. She just focused on the game again, her movements sharper now, more aggressive. Like she was trying to punch her way out of a thought she didn’t want to finish.
Aeri watched her for a second, something softer flickering across her expression before she masked it with another smirk.
“Wow,” she said. “Look at you. Suddenly you care.”
“Shut up,” Jimin muttered, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips now.
They fell back into their rhythm after that. Insults, laughter, the occasional dramatic gasp when one of them landed a particularly satisfying move. The beers disappeared slowly, the pile of crumbs growing more tragic by the minute.
Outside, the night settled in comfortably, wrapping the world in that quiet hum that made everything feel a little less urgent.
Inside, Jimin didn’t think about her family again. Not directly. But the question lingered somewhere in the back of her mind, like a door she had accidentally left unlocked.
And Minjeong, without knowing it, was already standing on the other side.
“Rematch,” Jimin said, cracking her knuckles.
Aeri raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to lose again.”
“Not this time.”
“You say that every time.”
Jimin smirked, her grip on the controller firm. “Yeah, but this time I mean it.”
Aeri laughed, shaking her head as she hit start.
And just like that, the room filled up with noise again. The kind that made it easy to forget things.
At least for a while.
Across town, noise looked different. It was softer, warmer, wrapped in the familiar hum of a television that had been playing the same comfort show for years, like a ritual neither of them had officially agreed to but never questioned either. The living room lights were dim, the couch worn in the way that meant it had held a lot of quiet nights and unspoken understanding.
Minjeong was tucked into her usual spot, legs folded beneath her, eyes half on the screen and half somewhere else entirely. Her mom sat beside her, relaxed, occasionally reacting to the show with small comments that felt more like background music than actual conversation.
It was easy here. It always has been.
“Mom,” Minjeong said suddenly, like the thought had just fallen into her lap and she decided to keep it.
“Hmm?”
“Can we get a cat?”
Her mom didn’t even look surprised. She simply shifted slightly, considering it with the seriousness of someone who knew that in this house, even small questions mattered.
“A cat?” she repeated.
“Yeah,” Minjeong said, a little more animated now. “Like a small one. Cute. Not judgmental.”
“All cats are judgmental,” her mom replied calmly.
“Okay, then one that hides it well.”
That earned a soft laugh. “It’s okay with me,” her mom said after a moment. “As long as you take good care of it.”
Minjeong brightened immediately. “I will.”
“I know you will,” her mom added, then glanced at her. “Did you ask Jimin about it?”
Minjeong blinked. “Why would I ask Jimin?”
Her mom gave her a look that was gentle but very much loaded. “Because she’s often here.”
Minjeong frowned slightly. “So?”
“So maybe she’s allergic,” her mom said. “You know. To cats.”
Minjeong snorted. “I heard you said cars.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Her mom waved a hand dismissively. “That’s not the point.”
Minjeong shook her head, smiling a little. “Why would I need to ask her though?”
Her mom tilted her head, studying her in that quiet way that always felt like she was seeing three steps ahead. “Because she’s starting to always be around us.”
Minjeong opened her mouth, then closed it again, like she had started a sentence she suddenly didn’t feel like finishing.
“Also,” her mom added lightly, “it would be unfortunate if you bring home a cat and your… frequent guest starts sneezing like her life depends on it.”
Minjeong huffed. “She’d just glare at the cat until it leaves.”
“Exactly,” her mom said. “And then you’ll have to choose.”
“I’m not choosing between Jimin and a hypothetical cat,” Minjeong said, horrified.
“Good,” her mom replied. “Because the cat might win.”
Minjeong laughed despite herself, then quieted a little, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of a pillow.
“About that,” she said after a moment, more thoughtful now. “You know her situation, right?”
Her mom nodded once. “You told me.”
“And you didn’t ask anything,” Minjeong pointed out.
Her mom simply looked at her. “You didn’t want me to.”
“I didn’t,” Minjeong admitted. “But still.”
“There are things we don’t need to pry on,” her mom said gently. “If she wants to tell me, she will. If she doesn’t, that’s her right.”
Minjeong leaned back into the couch, absorbing that. “What do you think of her?”
Her mom didn’t answer right away. She watched the screen for a few seconds, like she was letting the question settle properly before touching it.
“I think Jimin is a nice child,” she said eventually.
Minjeong turned to her slightly, waiting.
“She’s closed off,” her mom continued. “And distant, yes. You can feel that immediately. But that’s not all she is.”
Minjeong nodded slowly.
“She does things for you,” her mom added. “Small things, big things. She pays attention. And it doesn’t feel forced.”
Minjeong smiled faintly, almost to herself. “Yeah.”
“I can tell it’s out of kindness,” her mom said. “And fondness.”
Minjeong made a face. “Fondness sounds so… formal.”
“It’s accurate,” her mom replied simply.
Minjeong sighed, but she didn’t argue.
“By the way she speaks,” her mom went on, “the way she acts, her demeanor. She knows how to talk to people. Especially parents.”
Minjeong groaned. “Don’t remind me. She’s your favorite now.”
“I didn’t say that,” her mom said, though she was clearly amused.
“You didn’t have to.”
Her mom smiled. “What I’m saying is, she was raised well. You can see it. That doesn’t come out of nowhere.”
Minjeong tilted her head. “Even if she doesn’t talk about her family?”
“Especially then,” her mom said quietly.
That made Minjeong pause.
They sat in that thought for a moment, the air between them settling into something more reflective.
“Do you think she’s happy?” Minjeong asked suddenly.
Her mom glanced at her. “With you?”
Minjeong hesitated. “In general.”
Her mom considered that. “I think she’s… trying.”
Minjeong nodded, her expression softening.
“And I think,” her mom added, “you make it a little easier for her.”
Minjeong let out a small breath, like she didn’t know she’d been holding it.
They drifted into lighter conversation after that, the kind that looped around mundane things but still felt full. Minjeong asked questions here and there, some serious, some not.
“Do you think she likes sweets?” she asked at one point.
“She didn’t say no to the dessert I gave her,” her mom replied.
“That doesn’t mean she likes it. That just means she has manners.”
“Then give her something sweet and see if she finishes it,” her mom suggested.
Minjeong nodded thoughtfully. “Experiment.”
“Exactly.”
A few minutes later, “Do you think she sleeps enough?”
Her mom raised a brow. “That sounds like a concern.”
“It’s not,” Minjeong said quickly. “I’m just asking.”
“Mm,” her mom hummed, unconvinced. “She looks like someone who doesn’t.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Then maybe remind her,” her mom said. “Gently.”
Minjeong smiled a little. “She’d get annoyed.”
“Then remind her anyway.”
Minjeong leaned back, staring at the ceiling now. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” her mom said. “People just make it complicated.”
Eventually, her mom stretched, the day catching up to her in a quiet, inevitable way.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said, reaching for the remote.
Minjeong nodded, still curled into the couch. “Okay.”
Her mom stood, then paused in front of her, her expression soft.
“And Minjeong?”
“Hmm?”
“Ask Jimin about the cat,” she said. “If you’re going to get one, it would be nice if it’s something you both take care of.”
Minjeong blinked. “Both?”
Her mom smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Minjeong murmured.
She stayed there after her mom left, the room quieter now, the absence of conversation settling gently rather than heavily.
After a moment, she reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Jimin’s name.
Then, with a small, decisive breath, she typed.
Do you like cats?
She stared at it for a second, then sent it before she could rethink the question.
And just like that, something small and ordinary carried the weight of something neither of them had said out loud yet.
The next morning arrived with the kind of brightness that felt personally offensive.
Friday. Last day of classes in a week. A day that was supposed to feel light, like a reward. Instead, Minjeong was pacing across her bedroom like she was preparing for a public trial.
Her phone sat on her desk, screen dark, which was rude considering the emotional turmoil it had caused.
Do you like cats?
Sent. Delivered. Ignored.
Minjeong pressed her lips together, arms crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed again. She had checked it three times already. No reply. Not even a reaction. Not even a dry, two-word answer that Jimin specialized in like it was an art form.
Nothing.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “That’s fine. That’s normal. People don’t reply sometimes.”
She stopped pacing, stared at the phone again, then picked it up just in case the universe had decided to fix things in the last ten seconds.
It had not.
A knock on her door interrupted her spiraling.
“Sweetie,” her mom called gently, “Jimin’s been waiting outside for thirty minutes.”
Minjeong froze.
Thirty minutes.
“She is?” Minjeong asked, like maybe her mom had said something else entirely.
“Yes,” her mom said, amused in a way that felt slightly traitorous. “She’s in the car. Looking… patient.”
Patient was not a word Minjeong would have ever used to describe Jimin.
“Okay,” Minjeong said quickly, grabbing her bag like she was escaping the scene of a crime. “I’m coming.”
“You should probably hurry,” her mom added. “Before she rethinks being with you.”
“Mom.”
“I’m kidding.”
Minjeong was not convinced.
She took one last glance at her phone, sighed dramatically, then walked out of her room and toward her fate.
Outside, Jimin’s car was parked exactly where it always was, like it belonged there. Jimin herself was leaning slightly against the driver’s side, one hand in her pocket, the other holding her phone loosely. She looked… fine. Too fine, actually. Which was suspicious, considering Minjeong knew for a fact that she had spent the night with Aeri, which meant alcohol, loud music, and bad decisions.
There was a slight tiredness around her eyes, though. A softness in the way she stood, like her body had not fully agreed to be awake yet.
Minjeong approached cautiously, like she might spook her.
Jimin glanced up, expression neutral.
“You’re late,” she said.
“You’ve been here for thirty minutes,”
“You’re still late.” Jimin said, opening the passenger door.
Minjeong slid into the seat, suddenly very aware of everything. The car. The silence. The girl next to her who had not replied to her message.
Jimin got in, closed the door, and reached over without hesitation.
“Seatbelt,” she said.
Minjeong blinked, startled. “Oh.”
She fumbled with it quickly, clicking it into place. The moment it did, Jimin started the car and pulled away like that had been the only thing holding her back.
No mention of the message.
No mention of cats.
Just… driving.
Minjeong stared straight ahead, her thoughts loud enough to count as background noise.
Maybe she didn’t see it.
Maybe she saw it and ignored it.
Maybe she hates cats.
Maybe she hates me.
That last one felt dramatic, but also not entirely impossible.
Jimin tapped the steering wheel lightly, eyes on the road, completely unbothered by the existential crisis happening beside her.
“Did you sleep?” Minjeong asked, because silence was unbearable.
Jimin hummed. “A bit.”
“You look tired.”
“Mm.”
That was it. Conversation over.
Minjeong sank slightly into her seat, defeated.
The day unfolded the way it always did, like a routine they had practiced enough to make it look effortless.
They arrived together, of course. Jimin stepping out first, walking around the car, opening Minjeong’s door like she had been doing it her whole life. Minjeong smiled at her, sweet and practiced, while Jimin took her bag without asking, like it was part of the agreement they had never written down.
To anyone watching, it was perfect.
Minjeong greeted people as they passed, her voice warm, her smile easy. Jimin stood beside her like a guard dog that tolerated exactly one person in the world. When someone lingered too long, Jimin would glance at them, just enough to make them reconsider their life choices.
Their hands found each other naturally. Or rather, Minjeong’s hand found Jimin’s, and Jimin allowed it with a quiet sigh that somehow meant yes.
At one point, Minjeong stopped to talk to a classmate about an upcoming exam. Jimin shifted her weight, clearly bored, their fingers still laced together.
“You talk a lot,” Jimin muttered.
“You listen a lot,” Minjeong replied sweetly.
“I don’t.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
Jimin didn’t argue, which was as close to losing as she ever got.
Eventually, they parted ways for their respective classes. Jimin handed over Minjeong’s things with a small nod, then walked off without looking back.
Minjeong watched her go for a second longer than necessary, then turned toward her own building.
She didn’t get very far before Yizhuo appeared at her side like she had been summoned by academic stress.
“Hey,” Yizhuo said, already flipping through her notes. “For the assignment, are we adjusting entries before or after the trial balance?”
Minjeong blinked. “What?”
Yizhuo frowned. “The homework. For accounting. The one due today.”
“Oh. Right.”
“So?”
Minjeong opened her mouth, then closed it again, her brain clearly somewhere else entirely.
“Minjeong.”
“Hmm?”
“Focus.”
“I am focusing.”
“You are not focusing.”
Yizhuo stopped walking and snapped her fingers in front of Minjeong’s face.
Minjeong flinched. “What?”
“There you are,” Yizhuo said. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere,” Minjeong replied quickly.
“Liar.”
Minjeong sighed, defeated. “Okay. Fine.”
“What’s wrong?”
Minjeong hesitated, then lowered her voice slightly. “I texted Jimin last night.”
Yizhuo’s eyes lit up immediately. “And?”
“She didn’t reply.”
Yizhuo paused. “That’s it?”
“That’s not just it,” Minjeong said, scandalized. “I asked her something.”
“What did you ask?”
Minjeong looked away. “If she likes cats.”
Yizhuo stared at her for a second, then burst into laughter.
“It’s not funny,” Minjeong said, though she was already smiling a little.
“It is a little funny,” Yizhuo admitted. “That’s what you’re stressed about?”
“She didn’t reply,” Minjeong repeated, like that explained everything.
“Maybe she didn’t see it.”
“She had her phone.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know how to use it.”
Minjeong blinked. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Yizhuo said. “Have you seen her text? It’s always one word. Sometimes two. That’s not normal.”
“That is normal for her.”
“Exactly,” Yizhuo said. “So expecting a proper reply is already a mistake.”
Minjeong sighed. “It’s just embarrassing.”
“It’s not,” Yizhuo said simply. “You asked a normal question.”
“And got ignored.”
“Or she didn’t see it.”
“Or she saw it and didn’t care.”
Yizhuo nudged her lightly. “Hey. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be waiting outside your house and your little fake relationship would be over by now.”
Minjeong paused.
“Exactly,” Yizhuo said. “Relax. You’re overthinking.”
Minjeong exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I know,” Yizhuo said, pleased.
The rest of the day passed without incident. No cat conversation. No sudden confessions. Just the usual rhythm of classes, shared glances, and quiet routines that were starting to feel less like pretending and more like habit.
By the time the sun began to set, Minjeong found herself back in Jimin’s car, the air between them comfortable in that quiet, almost familiar way.
“Are you staying tonight?” Minjeong asked, casual.
Jimin shook her head. “No.”
“Oh.”
“We have a gig,” Jimin added. “I’m going out with friends.”
Minjeong nodded. “Okay.”
That was it. Simple. Straightforward.
Jimin dropped her off like she always did, walking her to the door, handing over her things.
“Text me when you get inside,” Jimin said.
Minjeong blinked. “You don’t reply.”
Jimin looked at her, unimpressed. “I read.”
Minjeong huffed. “That’s not the same.”
Jimin’s lips twitched, just slightly. “Go inside.”
Minjeong did, but not before glancing back once.
Jimin was already walking away.
And for some reason, Minjeong thought about cats again.