Archive of Our Own

It was nearing the end of their Dirty Work promotions when Ningning told them she planned to buy her own apartment.

The four of them were having dinner after a schedule, although calling it dinner felt generous when half of them were too tired to lift their chopsticks. Aeri had her hood pulled over her head and was leaning against the wall. Minjeong had been staring at the same piece of food for the past minute, debating whether eating it was worth the effort. Beside her, Jimin was listening to Ningning talk while slowly blinking as if she might fall asleep with her eyes open.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Ningning said. “I’m barely at the dorm anyway. I want somewhere that’s actually mine.”

Jimin looked at her. “You’re leaving me?”

Ningning rolled her eyes. “I’m buying an apartment. I’m not leaving the group.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’m going to be alone.”

“You’re barely home too.”

“That’s not the point.”

Jimin looked genuinely sad beneath the teasing, and Ningning seemed to notice because her expression softened. She leaned against Jimin’s shoulder for a second.

“You can come over whenever you want.”

But Jimin understood. 

Of course, she did. 

She knew Ningning. She knew the youngest loved solitude. She knows that she spent too much time being surrounded by members, managers, stylists, staff, and cameras. Wanting a private space did not mean she loved them any less. It was independence, not rejection, and Jimin would never prevent Ningning from taking that step simply because the dorm would feel lonelier without her.

Jimin sighed. “I’m going to miss living with you.”

“You’ll survive.” Ningning assured her. 

“We can live together.” The words came from across the table.

All three of them looked at Minjeong as she had said it so casually that, for a moment, nobody reacted. She continued looking at her plate as though she had merely suggested what they should order for dessert.

“What?” Jimin asked.

Minjeong finally looked up. “You and me. We could live together.” She immediately wished she had said it with less certainty.

Or maybe more certainty.

Either would have been better than the awkward silence that followed.

“I’m already living alone,” Minjeong continued, because apparently she had decided to make the situation worse. “If Ningning moves out, you’ll be living alone too. There’s no reason for us to stay in separate dorms.”

There was nothing unreasonable about the suggestion. In fact, it made perfect sense.

Still, Jimin continued to stare at her. Aeri was suddenly wide awake. Ningning looked between them like she had just been handed front-row tickets to something interesting. Minjeong shifted in her seat. “I mean, it’s practical.”

Practical.

There. 

That made it sound normal.

It gave the idea a boundary. 

It made the suggestion safe. 

This was not an emotional request. 

It had nothing to do with Minjeong being alone since January, or with the many evenings before that when she had already spent most of her time by herself. It did not mean she needed Jimin, missed Jimin, or wanted something only Jimin could give her.

It was simply…practical.

Logical.

Efficient.

That was it.

Jimin should have accepted immediately.

Instead, she stared at Minjeong as though she had suggested something impossible.

Living with Minjeong…should not have seemed so overwhelming. They had known each other for nearly  ten years. They had trained together, debuted together, traveled together, celebrated together, and cried in front of each other. They had endured exhausting rehearsals and uncertain years when neither of them knew whether their dreams would lead anywhere. There were very few people who understood Jimin as completely as Minjeong did.

Yet they had never been roommates.

They were opposites in too many ways. Jimin liked warmth, movement, conversations, and company. Minjeong liked dim rooms, familiar routines, and uninterrupted silence. Jimin loves to clean, while Minjeong preferred to keep her things exactly where she had left them. Jimin needed to talk through her feelings before she could understand them. Minjeong needed to understand her feelings before she could even consider sharing them.

It was almost miraculous that they had become best friends.

Perhaps their differences were exactly why it had worked for so long. They could care for each other from the safety of separate rooms. When one became overwhelming, the other could retreat. When they disagreed, physical distance softened the sharpest edges of their frustration.

Living together would change all of that. 

It would place every habit, every silence, and every misunderstanding beneath the same roof. And lately, there have been too many misunderstandings.

Miscommunications.

Too many to even remember.

Don’t get them wrong, nothing bad happened between them. At least, nothing Jimin could identify. They had not fought, and neither of them had said anything unforgivable. There had been no betrayal, confrontation, or dramatic ending to their friendship. They were still aespa’s Karina and Winter whenever they stepped in front of a camera. They stood close during schedules and searched for each other instinctively in crowded rooms.

But in private, something had changed.

Something was different.

Their messages had grown shorter. Invitations that once came naturally now needed to be considered. Whenever Jimin sensed something was wrong, she gave Minjeong space because she assumed that was what Minjeong wanted. Whenever Minjeong needed someone, she remained silent because she assumed Jimin was already carrying too much.

It was ridiculous. They had known each other for almost ten years. They were best friends. They stood beside each other almost every day. 

But both waited for the other to reach out.

And neither did.

However, within that space lived another feeling. 

A feeling both can’t explain.

Nor dared to examine.

But it is there. 

No one knew when it started to grow, when it existed.

But it is really there.

It appeared whenever their eyes met for too long or a simple touch lingered beyond necessity. It existed in the weird ache Jimin felt whenever Minjeong withdrew. And it is there whenever Minjeong remembered details about Jimin that everyone else overlooked.

Jimin did not know what to call it. She was not certain she wanted to find out.

Minjeong seemed to notice her hesitation. Her expression closed before Jimin could gather her thoughts. “It was only a suggestion,” she said, trying to sound like she did not care. “You don’t have to take it seriously.”

“No, I am taking it seriously. I’m just surprised.”

“Why?”

Jimin opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Minjeong gave a small shrug and looked at her food again. “Forget it.” The conversation moved on after that, but the suggestion followed Jimin.

It followed her into the van, where Minjeong sat two seats away with her wireless earphones on. It stayed with her through rehearsals, interviews, and performances. It waited for her whenever she entered the dorm and found Ningning’s room empty because her roommate was away again.

Living with Minjeong.

It should have been easy to answer.

It made sense.

It was practical.

But she can’t bring herself to say yes.

—

Some weeks later, management brought up the same arrangement. They explained the cost, transportation, security, and convenience of keeping two members in the same apartment.

“It would be practical,” their manager said.

There was that word again.

She’s slowly starting to hate that word.

The management did not pressure Jimin. She nodded along the whole conversation and told them she would consider it. 

And indeed…she thought about it far too much.

Will it be really the right decision? 

Would we argue about dishes, lighting, noise, or the temperature of the apartment? 

Would our differences become unbearable? 

None of those things frightened her. But what scared her was the possibility that living together would leave them with nowhere to hide.

If Minjeong was upset, Jimin would see it. If Jimin missed her, Minjeong might notice. All the things that could be avoided through unanswered messages and separate dorms would follow them into the same apartment.

Would sharing a home repair the distance between us? 

Or would it force us to acknowledge what neither was prepared to discuss?

Most importantly, what would happen if confronting it made everything worse?

Jimin do not wanna know if their friendship will survive that.

And she could not lose Minjeong.

She can’t afford to lose her.

That was the truth she could never say aloud.

Minjeong was one of the few people who could tell the difference between Jimin, being Karina of aespa, and Jimin, just faking a smile so that no one would ask her about it. She knew the difference between Jimin being physically exhausted and emotionally drained. She knew when Jimin needed to talk and when she needed someone to sit beside her without asking questions. She knew the parts of Jimin that did not belong to the public.

Minjeong knew her.

With her, she was allowed to be Jimin.

Jimin could not risk losing the person who knew her best.

So she hesitated.

—

Then the last quarter of the year came, and everything came tumbling down.

Rumors about Minjeong started to go around since October.

At first, Minjeong treated them the way she treated every invented story about herself. She avoided searching her name, ignored headlines, and refused to read the comments. She stayed away from any conversation that began with a concerned expression and the question, Have you seen what people are saying?

But the rumors continued growing.

Rumors spread about Minjeong and another idol. They were false, but the truth had never stopped people from being cruel. Strangers spoke about her as if she were not human, as if they knew her because they had watched videos and collected edited photographs. The criticism became uglier and more personal, eventually spreading beyond her until the other members were dragged into it too.

They had experienced multiple rumors before. Appearing unaffected had become part of their job, another performance expected of them. They were supposed to smile, insist they were fine, and continue working as though thousands of strangers had not spent the day dismantling their character.

This time felt different.

Even Jimin, who usually forced herself to approach controversy with composure, struggled to contain her anger. She watched Minjeong carefully during schedules, searching for any visible sign that she was hurting. Minjeong remained professional. She spoke when spoken to, smiled at the appropriate moments, and completed every performance without making a mistake.

When the four of them were finally alone, Jimin gathered enough courage to ask if she was all right.

Minjeong immediately spoke first.

“I’m okay,” she said. “You guys don’t have to worry.”

No one believed her.

But they knew Minjeong well enough to recognize the wall she had placed around herself. Aeri changed the subject. Ningning remained physically close without asking questions. Jimin followed their example, even though every instinct told her not to.

I am respecting Minjeong’s space. At least, that was what she told herself.

That night, Jimin sat alone in the dorm and thought about Minjeong returning to the other apartment.

There would be nobody waiting for her.

Nobody would notice whether she ate, whether she slept, or whether the silence around her had become unbearable. Nobody would hear it if her careful declaration of I’m okay finally broke apart.

Jimin picked up her phone.

Her message was brief.

I accept the living together proposal.

It took awhile but Minjeong responded.

What?

The proposal about living together. I’ll do it.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times.

Are you sure?

Jimin stared at the message.

She was not sure. 

Definitely not sure.

The fear within her had not disappeared. She was still afraid over the thought of it. But something had simply become more important than being afraid.

She simply could not bear the thought of Minjeong going home alone anymore.

Yes. Let’s live together.

—

They were supposed to move in together after the New Years, but their schedules refused to cooperate. Vacations, individual commitments, and family visits repeatedly delayed their plans. 

Eventually, they found the time.

As they finally carried their belongings into the new apartment, the decision had begun to feel unreal.

They are really living together.

Jimin and Minjeong are now, technically, roommates.

It was starting to sink in.

The first few days were painfully awkward.

The apartment itself was fine. It was clean, comfortable, and large enough for both of them to have their own rooms. Management made sure everything they needed was there.

It was perfect.

The problem was them.

Instead of behaving like best friends who had known each other for nearly ten years, they acted like excessively considerate individuals who happened to share an address. Jimin asked before using anything in the kitchen, even when it clearly belonged to both of them. Minjeong apologized whenever she turned on the television, opened a cabinet too loudly, or walked through the living room while Jimin was resting.

They informed each other about every insignificant movement as if they were submitting formal reports to management.

“I’m going to shower,” Jimin would announce.

“Okay,” Minjeong looked up to her and answered.

“And, I might use the washing machine afterward.”

“That’s fine.”

“Unless you need it?”

“I don’t”

“Are you sure?”

“Jimin Unnie, you can use the washing machine.”

They tried so hard not to inconvenience each other that the apartment never really felt comfortable. Their belongings remained inside their separate bedrooms, while the shared spaces looked more like a carefully maintained soulless rental property.

It frustrated Jimin more than she wanted to admit.

They were supposed to know each other. They had shared food, hotel rooms, waiting areas, victories, disappointments, and countless hours inside cramped vans. Minjeong had seen Jimin at her best and worst. Jimin could recognize the smallest changes in Minjeong’s expressions before Minjeong said a word.

Yet inside their new apartment, both behaved as if one wrong action might make the other regret agreeing to live there.

It was a few days before Jimin was scheduled to leave for Milan, that she finally decided she had endured enough.

Minjeong was sitting on the sofa with her legs folded beneath her, absorbed in something on her switch 2, when Jimin entered the living room and stood in front of her.

“We should go to Lotte World,” Jimin announced.

Minjeong slowly looked up. “What?”

“Lotte World. You and me. We should go.”

Minjeong stared at her as if she had suggested leaving the country without informing anyone. “Uh…when?”

“Before I leave for Milan.”

“You’re leaving for Milan the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“You have a schedule tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then when exactly are you planning to go?”

Jimin paused. Her determination had not included careful planning. “After my schedule?”

“Did you forget your schedule tomorrow for the whole day, Unnie?”

“I'll work hard to end the shoot early.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You’re flying to Milan the next day.”

Jimin frowned. Minjeong was right, but she refused to let that end the discussion. “Fine. We’ll go after I come back from Milan.”

“I’ll be in Hawaii.”

Jimin blinked. “You’re going to Hawaii?”

“I told you.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

Jimin furrowed her brows as she searched her memory and vaguely recalled Minjeong mentioning it over breakfast, although she had been half-awake and distracted by messages from her manager.

Ahhh…

“Right. Hawaii.”

Minjeong returned her attention to her game, apparently believing the conversation had been settled. “So we can’t go.”

“We’ll go after you come back.”

Minjeong looked up again. “Unnie.”

“What?”

“You’ll probably have another schedule by then.”

“Then we’ll go after that schedule.”

“And if I’m working?”

“We’ll go when you’re done.”

“What if both of us are busy?”

“Then we’ll find a day when we aren’t.”

Minjeong narrowed her eyes. “You’re being stubborn.”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least you admit it.”

Jimin sat beside her. “We’re going to Lotte World, Minjeong.”

Minjeong looked into Jimin’s eyes trying to understand why she’s insisting, “Why is this suddenly so important?”

The question made Jimin hesitate.

But she has to say it.

She knows she needed to.

“Because this isn’t working,” Jimin said.

She could have said they needed to relax. She could have blamed their exhausting schedules or argued that they deserved one normal day after months of promotions. All those reasons would have been true, but none represented the entire truth.

But Jimin looked around the apartment that was supposed to belong to both of them. Their belongings were there, but their lives had not settled into it. They had agreed to live together and then immediately started behaving as if closeness were something they needed to avoid.

“This really isn't working and it's affecting us greatly.”

Minjeong’s expression changed. “Living together?”

“No. Maybe. That isn’t what I mean.” Jimin turned toward her. “We barely talk when we’re here. You ask if it’s okay before sitting beside me, and I feel like I need to warn you before entering the kitchen. We’re acting like we met last week.”

“We’re still adjusting.”

“I know, but I don’t want us to adjust to being like this.”

Minjeong lowered her device.

“I don’t want to go somewhere because we have a schedule,” Jimin continued. “I don’t want managers arranging everything or staff waiting for us. I don’t want to think about where we’re supposed to stand or whether someone is watching. I want one day when we don’t have to be aespa's Karina and Winter.”

Minjeong remained quiet.

“No guards,” Jimin said. “No managers. No cameras. Just us.”

Something softened in Minjeong’s expression, but she quickly looked away. “People might recognize us.”

“We’ll wear masks.”

“That has never stopped anyone.”

“Hats too.”

“Your head is smaller than almost everyone. A hat won’t make you invisible.”

“I’ll hide behind you.”

“You’re taller than me, Unnie, that’s very inconvenient,” Minjeong released a quiet laugh, and the sound made Jimin feel as if she had finally achieved something.

“You’ll complain about your back afterward,” Minjeong said.

“Then you can carry me home.”

“I’m leaving you there.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You sound confident.”

Jimin gave her widest smile, “I’ve known you for ten years.”

Minjeong shook her head, but there was a smile on her face. “Why Lotte World?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“That’s your entire reason?”

“Do I need another one?”

“You usually have ten reasons for everything.”

Jimin considered it.

“Fine.”

Jimin faced Minjeong, “I want us to do something normal. Mundane.”

She looked straight into the younger woman’s eyes, “I want us to do something only Jimin and Minjeong would do.” 

Minjeong was taken aback,

“I want to walk around without anyone telling us where to go. I want to choose our own food, waste money on games we probably won’t win, and argue about which ride to try first. I want to spend time with you because we want to, not because our schedules place us in the same room.”

Minjeong was speechless, her teasing expression disappeared.

The familiar tension returned, carrying all the things neither of them knew how to discuss. It was present in Minjeong’s silence and in the sudden nervousness gathering inside Jimin’s chest. It was the same unseen thing that had made living together feel dangerous.

Jimin forced herself not to look away.

After several seconds, Minjeong placed her Switch 2 on the table. “After Hawaii,” she said.

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“We’ll go after I come back from Hawaii.”

A smile spread across Jimin’s face. “Really?”

“Yes, but if either of us has an important schedule, we’ll move it to another day.”

“That’s fine.”

“And we’re not staying until closing.”

“We’ll discuss that when we get there.” Minjeong raised an eyebrow, “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“There’s always something to discuss.” Jimin did not back down.

Minjeong sighed as though she already regretted agreeing, but her smile betrayed her. “No managers?”

“No managers.”

“No guards?”

“None.”

“No cameras?”

Jimin held out her little pinky finger. “Just Jimin and Minjeong.”

Minjeong looked at her hand, she internally face palmed herself. She couldn't believe had to do this childish gesture, but eventually hooked her own little finger around Jimin’s which made the older woman smile in victory.

She looked at her Unnie, “Just Jimin and Minjeong,” she repeated.

—

As Minjeong had expected, their schedules continued to interfere. Jimin left for Milan and returned exhausted, barely having enough time to unpack before another commitment demanded her attention. Minjeong traveled to Hawaii, and by the time she returned, Jimin’s calendar had filled again.

Still, neither allowed the plan to disappear.

Whenever another commitment was added to their calendars, Jimin reminded Minjeong that Lotte World was waiting. Whenever Jimin appeared ready to surrender to exhaustion, Minjeong quietly checked their schedules for another opening.

Eventually, they found one.

There were no managers waiting outside the apartment that morning. No guards followed them through the entrance. No cameras documented their arrival, and no staff members reminded them when to smile. They dressed simply, hiding beneath masks and hats, and traveled together with only their phones and a few necessary belongings.

For several hours, no one asked anything from them.

They argued about which ride to try first. Jimin accused Minjeong of deliberately choosing attractions designed to frighten her, while Minjeong innocently insisted she had no such intention. They shared snacks they could have purchased anywhere, but somehow the food tasted better because they had chosen it for themselves.

Jimin wasted money attempting to win a prize for Minjeong, only for Minjeong to succeed on her first attempt and spend the next ten minutes making fun of her.

“Stop laughing,” Jimin complained.

“You said you would win.”

“Hey, I almost did.”

“You weren’t even close.”

“I was distracted,” Jimin countered.

“By what?”

Jimin looked at her, and the answer almost slipped out.

You.

The silence allows the answer to remain unspoken.

Minjeong’s smile faded slightly, but she did not look away.

For one brief moment, the world around them softened. The music, conversations, and movement of the crowd became distant. There was only Minjeong standing before her, holding the prize she had won, and Jimin wondering why looking at her could feel comforting and dangerous at the same time.

Then Minjeong lightly pushed the prize against Jimin’s chest. “You can have this,” she said.

“Eh? But you won this.”

“I know.”

“So why are you giving it to me?”

Minjeong answered before walking ahead, “Because I want to.”

Jimin accepted it with an exaggerated sigh. “You just want me to carry your things, aren’t you?”

“You invited me.”

“Right.”

They continued walking, their shoulders brushing occasionally. Neither moved away.

The awkwardness that had followed them into the apartment did not disappear all at once. It loosened with every shared joke, every disagreement over food, and every moment when one reached for the other without thinking. By the end of the day, Jimin’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and Minjeong had laughed more openly than she had in weeks.

On their way home, Jimin rested her head against Minjeong’s shoulder.

Minjeong remained completely still, afraid that the smallest movement might cause her to pull away.

“We should do this again,” Jimin whispered.

“Hhmm,” Minjeong’s eyes remained closed. “Go to Lotte World?”

“No. Spending time together without anyone else.”

“We live together.”

“That doesn’t automatically mean we spend time together.”

Minjeong was silent for a moment. “Then we’ll make time.”

Jimin looked up at her. “Promise?” She brought out her little pinky finger again.

Minjeong opened one eye. “Do I have to do that again?”

“Yes.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“You did it before.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop bothering me.”

“And it worked.”

Minjeong sighed before lifting her hand and hooking her little finger around Jimin’s.

“We’ll make time,” she promised.

After that, living together became easier.

Not immediately. They were still awkward sometimes, and there were still moments when one of them went quiet and the other did not know what it meant. But little by little, the apartment began to look like theirs.

They stopped asking permission to exist in the same room. Minjeong sat beside Jimin without wondering whether she was interrupting. Jimin entered the kitchen without announcing every movement. Their belongings gradually spread across the shared spaces until the apartment carried evidence that two people lived there rather than two careful guests.

Jimin’s hair ties appeared beside Minjeong’s phone. Minjeong’s blankets somehow ended up on Jimin’s side of the sofa. Two used mugs waited in the sink instead of one. Shoes gathered beside the entrance in pairs.

They learned each other’s routines. Jimin learned that Minjeong needed at least twenty minutes after waking up before anyone attempted a real conversation. Minjeong learned that when Jimin spoke too quickly and jumped between unrelated topics, she was usually worried about something.

They argued about the air conditioner, laundry, and whose turn it was to replace the household supplies.

Nothing was perfect.

None of those arguments destroyed them.

Sometimes Jimin returned to her family home to see her grandmother. Sometimes their work kept them apart for days. But they made time. They shared food at strange hours, sent messages asking when the other would be home, and left a light on when one of them worked late.

The thing between them remained.

It lived in old messages neither had answered, in invitations that had never been offered, and in moments when both had mistaken silence for rejection. It lived in the affection they disguised as habit and the jealousy they dismissed as protectiveness. It existed whenever one wanted to say, I needed you, but settled for, You should have called.

But it no longer felt like it was waiting to destroy them.

That was okay.

As not everything had to be fixed immediately. Some feelings needed time before they could become understandable.

As the months passed, living together became so natural that Jimin struggled to remember why she had feared it.

Then came a day when work became too loud.

Jimin was accustomed to meeting different people. She treated every production team respectfully, learned names whenever she could, and worked hard regardless of how exhausted she felt. She understood that she could not please everyone. People carried their own opinions, and no amount of effort could control what they chose to believe.

She understood that.

But understanding did not prevent the pain.

The day had already been difficult and tiring before she overheard the staff members talking about her. They criticized the way she had behaved while filming. So many opinions about it. There was no correct way to exist when people had already decided they disliked you.

Later, she heard two producers talking about using her popularity to attract attention to the show. They spoke about her name and face as though she were part of their budget.

Then came the comments about her appearance.

Her body.

The way she looked beneath the clothes chosen for her.

Jimin knew people would talk. She knew the industry was like this.

That did not make it hurt less.

By the time she arrived home, she felt hollow.

Empty.

She remained inside the van for several seconds after it stopped, staring at the apartment building through the tinted window while her manager reminded her to rest. Jimin nodded, thanked her, and stepped outside with the same composed expression she had worn for the rest of the day.

She carried it through the lobby, into the elevator, and along the hallway leading to their apartment. It stayed in place as she entered the passcode and waited for the door to unlock.

Jimin had become skilled at holding herself together until she reached somewhere private. Usually, that meant her bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the door closed, where she could sit alone in the darkness until every painful thought became quiet enough for her to sleep.

Tonight, she only needed to make it to her room.

She entered the apartment softly, hoping Minjeong had already gone to bed. If she could remove her shoes, walk down the hallway, and close her bedroom door before anyone noticed, she could deal with everything on her own.

She could fall apart alone.

She always did.

Before she could set down her bag, Minjeong appeared from the hallway. Her hair clearly just dried up from a shower, and she wore an oversized shirt with sleeves long enough to cover most of her hands. She looked comfortable and unguarded, entirely different from the polished version of Winter of aespa that appeared beneath stage lights.

“Oh, Unnie.” Minjeong noticed her and smiled, “You’re home.”

It was not a smile performed for a camera or offered because someone expected one from her. It was sweet, warm, and immediate, appearing simply because Jimin had returned.

Something inside Jimin broke.

Her bag slipped from her shoulder and landed near her feet. She lowered her head before Minjeong could see her expression, but the tears came too quickly.

Minjeong’s smile disappeared. “Jimin Unnie?”

“I’m fine,” Jimin answered automatically. The words were barely understandable. Her voice trembled around them, exposing the lie before she had finished speaking.

It sounded pathetic, even to her.

Minjeong crossed the room without hesitation. “No, you’re not.”

Jimin continues to look down and tries to make her voice sound strong, “I’m just tired.”

“Unnie-”

Jimin tries to compose herself while hiding her face from Minjeong, “You should go to sleep. I’ll be okay.”

Instead of listening, “Unnie,” Minjeong stepped closer and carefully touched Jimin’s arm. It was not enough to pull her into an embrace, not yet. She waited, leaving the choice to Jimin.

“Do you want me to stay?” she softly asked.

The question hurt more than it should have.

Jimin knows she can’t hold this any longer.

She can’t hide this.

Especially from her.

She slowly nodded.

That was all the permission Minjeong needed.

She wrapped her arms around Jimin, and the last of Jimin’s composure collapsed. Jimin buried her face against Minjeong’s shoulder, gripping the back of her shirt while Minjeong held her securely.

For a while, neither spoke.

Minjeong did not immediately ask what had happened. She did not tell Jimin to stop crying or reassure her that everything would be fine before she understood what was wrong. She simply stayed, one hand moving slowly against Jimin’s back while the other rested protectively behind her head.

The apartment was silent except for Jimin’s uneven breathing.

Eventually, Minjeong guided her toward the sofa. Jimin followed without protest, still holding onto Minjeong as if releasing her would force her to break even more. They sat close together, their knees touching. Minjeong reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table and handed one to her.

“Do you want water?”

Jimin shook her head.

“Food?”

Another shake.

“Hmm,”

Silence envelops them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jimin hesitated.

“You don’t have to,” Minjeong added.

There had been a time when Jimin would have accepted that offer and retreated into silence. Retreated back to her room. She would have insisted that it was nothing, washed her face, and returned the following morning with aespa’s Karina’s smile perfectly restored.

But she did not want to be Karina tonight.

Not here.

Not when Minjeong is here.

Jimin twisted a tissue between her fingers. “They were talking about me,” she whispered.

Minjeong remained quiet, giving her room to continue. “Some of the staff members at the production. They didn’t know I could hear them.”

Minjeong’s expression tightened, but she controlled her reaction. “What did they say?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Jimin sighed. “They talked about how I acted during filming. They said I was trying too hard, but if I hadn’t done enough, they probably would have complained about that too. It feels like no matter what I do, someone has already decided what kind of person I am.”

Minjeong moved closer until their shoulders touched.

“And then I overheard the producers talking,” Jimin continued. “They were discussing how they could use me to attract attention to the show.” She scoffs, “They were excited about the numbers they might get. They talked about me like I was part of the promotional budget.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It’s normal.”

“No,” Minjeong said firmly. “It might happen often, but that doesn’t make it normal.”

Jimin turned toward her.

Minjeong’s face carried none of the easy comfort people sometimes offered because they did not know what else to say. She was angry on Jimin’s behalf. 

Quietly angry, but angry nonetheless.

“I know how the industry works,” Jimin said. “I know popularity is useful. I know they invite me because they think people will pay attention. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Knowing why they do it doesn’t mean you have to be unaffected.”

“I kept telling myself that.”

“Then stop.”

Jimin blinked. “Stop what?”

“Stop telling yourself what you should and shouldn’t feel.” Minjeong’s voice softened. “If it hurt, then it hurt. You don’t need to make a presentation explaining why you’re allowed to be upset.”

A weak laugh escaped Jimin. “A presentation?”

“You organize your feelings like bullet points.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” Minjeong sighed, “First, you explain why everyone else behaved the way they did. Then you tell yourself that you understand. After that, you decide you’re not allowed to be hurt anymore.”

Jimin opened her mouth but could not think of a response.

Minjeong reached forward and gently took the crumpled tissue from her hand, replacing it with a clean one.

“You always try to understand everyone,” Minjeong continued. “You understand managers when they change your schedule. You understand staff when they’re stressed. You understand people who judge you because you tell yourself they don’t know the whole story. Sometimes I think you spend so much time understanding everyone else that you forget to be kind to yourself.”

The tears returned before Jimin could stop them.

Minjeong opened her arms again, and Jimin leaned into her immediately, resting her head against Minjeong’s shoulder.

“There were comments about my body too,” Jimin whispered after several moments. “I don’t want to care. I know I shouldn’t listen, but when people keep talking about it, I start wondering whether something is wrong with me.”

“There is nothing wrong with you.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do and there’s nothing wrong with your body.” Minjeong said it with conviction, “You have a gorgeous body, and you are very beautiful too.”

“Of course you would say that.” Jimin chuckled, “you’re my friend.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of having eyes.”

Jimin released a tearful laugh and lightly pushed Minjeong’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to comfort me.”

“I am comforting you.”

Minjeong took Jimin’s hand, turning it over between both of hers and tracing the lines of her palm with one thumb. “You shouldn't have to make yourself smaller just because people refuse to look away,” Minjeong said softly. “And you shouldn't have to harden yourself just because they keep saying things that hurt.”

Jimin watched Minjeong’s thumb move across her palm. It was a simple gesture, yet it grounded her more effectively than all the reassuring words she had repeated to herself during the ride home.

“I don’t know how to stop caring,” Jimin admitted.

“Then don’t.”

Jimin looked at her.

“You care about everything,” Minjeong said. “That’s who you are. You care about your work, the members, the staff, and people you barely know. You can’t suddenly turn that part of yourself off because someone used it against you. You simply need somewhere you don’t have to carry all of it.”

The words settled deeply inside Jimin.

She looked around the living room. The apartment was dim except for a lamp near the sofa. Minjeong’s unfinished drink sat on the table beside Jimin’s discarded hair tie. One of Jimin’s jackets hung over the back of a chair. Their blanket was folded badly at the end of the sofa.

This was that place.

Jimin had spent the entire day surrounded by people. Staff had adjusted her makeup, producers had given her instructions, and cameras had followed her every movement.

Yet she had not felt seen until she stepped through the door and Minjeong looked at her.

“I thought I had to handle everything alone,” Jimin whispered.

“You don’t.”

“I usually do.”

“I know.”

Minjeong said it with such quiet sadness that Jimin turned toward her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t sound like nothing.”

Minjeong looked away. “It’s because you always do it.”

“Do what?”

“You disappear when things become difficult.”

JImin furrowed her brow, “I don’t disappear.”

Minjeong sighs, “You do. You become busy. You answer messages with one or two words. You tell everyone you’re tired and then pretend to fall asleep in the van so nobody asks questions.”

Jimin opened her mouth to defend herself but found nothing to say.

Minjeong continued looking at their joined hands. “You go somewhere inside yourself, and the rest of us have to wait for you to come back.”

It took awhile before Jimin acknowledges, “I didn’t know anyone noticed.”

“I notice.”

The answer came too quickly.

Minjeong seemed to realize it as soon as she said it. Her fingers became still around Jimin’s hand.

The familiar, unseen thing appeared between them again. It did not feel threatening this time. It felt tired, as though it had also grown weary of being ignored.

“I didn't mean to shut you out,” Jimin said.

“I know.”

“Then why do you sound upset?”

Minjeong let out a slow breath. “Because intent doesn't erase the hurt, Unnie.” The words were gentle, but they landed heavily between them. “I know you didn't mean to push me away. That doesn't change the fact that it still felt like you did.”

Her voice never rose, but Jimin heard the crack in it anyway. Somehow, that hurt more than if Minjeong had yelled.

The conversation had shifted almost imperceptibly. They were no longer speaking only about what had happened during Jimin’s schedule. They were standing at the edge of something older, something created by missed opportunities and silences both had interpreted incorrectly.

Jimin tightened her hold on Minjeong’s hand. “I thought you wanted space.”

“Sometimes I did.”

“That’s why I stopped asking.”

“Sometimes I wanted you to ask again.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“You weren’t.”

Jimin frowned. “That isn’t fair.”

“I know.” Minjeong lowered her head. “I know it isn’t.”

The frustration left Jimin as quickly as it had appeared.

Minjeong pulled her hand away, not harshly, but enough for Jimin to feel the absence. She folded both hands in her lap and stared at them.

“I kept thinking that if I really needed you, you would notice,” Minjeong said quietly. “And when you didn't... I just kept making excuses for you. I told myself you were busy. Or tired. Or dealing with your own things. I told myself I was being selfish for wanting more when I hadn't even asked for anything.”

Jimin's chest tightened.

“You were never asking for too much.”

A small, sad smile appeared on Minjeong's face. “You don't know that.”

“I do.”

“No.” Minjeong finally looked up. The vulnerability in her eyes stole the breath from Jimin's lungs. There was no anger there. No resentment. Just an honesty so raw that Jimin almost wanted to look away. “You don't know,” Minjeong said softly, “because I never told you.”

The words settled heavily between them.

And suddenly, Jimin understood.

This wasn't Minjeong blaming her.

It wasn't an accusation.

It was a confession.

Minjeong was admitting that she had been hiding, too.

For so long, Jimin had thought she was the only one who didn't know how to reach for someone when things got difficult.

But Minjeong had been doing the same thing.

Whenever Jimin pulled away, Minjeong convinced herself she was no longer needed. Whenever Minjeong went quiet, Jimin assumed she wanted space. Somehow, they had spent years mistaking consideration for distance.

Distance for rejection.

Both of them waited for reassurance the other didn't know how to give.

“I'm sorry,” Jimin whispered. “I should've tried harder.”

Minjeong immediately shook her head.

“This isn't all your fault.”

“Maybe not.” Jimin's voice cracked. “But I still should've been there.”

“You were there.”

“Not when you needed me.”

Minjeong looked down at her hands. “You didn't know.”

“I should've known.”

A shaky laugh escaped Minjeong before she could stop it. “See? That's exactly the problem.”

Jimin frowned. “What do you mean?”

Minjeong drew in a breath, holding it for a second before letting it go. “We keep expecting each other to know things we're too afraid to say.”

Neither of them spoke after that. Because there was nothing to argue with.

The truth sat between them, quiet and undeniable.

For years, they had been speaking around their feelings instead of through them.

Hoping the other would notice.

Hoping the other would understand.

Hoping love alone would somehow fill in all the blanks.

But love had never been the problem.

The problem was that neither of them knew how to ask:

Stay.

So they had both spent years waiting for an invitation that never came.

Jimin thought about all the messages she'd typed to Minjeong over the years.

Are you okay?

Want to hang out later?

Can we talk?

So many of them had never been sent.

She would stare at the screen for minutes, convincing herself she was being annoying. That Minjeong was probably busy. That if Minjeong wanted company, she would ask.

Jimin remembered passing her in hallways, spotting her sitting alone during breaks, seeing the faint exhaustion she tried so hard to hide.

Every time, she had wanted to sit beside her.

Every time, she had talked herself out of it.

She looks tired.

Maybe she wants space.

Don't bother her.

And beneath all those excuses was a question she never had the courage to ask.

Do you still want me around?

Instead, she disguised it behind teasing remarks and poorly timed jokes, hoping Minjeong would somehow understand what she really meant.

Maybe Minjeong had been doing the same thing all along. The thought made something ache in her chest.

Slowly, Jimin reached for Minjeong's hand again.

This time, Minjeong let her. Their fingers slipped together naturally, like they had done it a hundred times before.

Jimin swallowed. “When I came home tonight,” she said quietly, “I was actually hoping you wouldn't see me.”

Minjeong's gaze dropped to their intertwined hands.

“Not because I didn't want to see you,” Jimin added quickly. “I just... didn't want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Falling apart.”

Minjeong's thumb brushed absentmindedly against hers. “Why?”

Jimin let out a weak laugh. “Because I didn't want to worry you.”

Minjeong looked at her immediately. “You worry me more when you pretend you're okay.”

The words weren't sharp. Somehow, that made them hurt more.

Jimin lowered her eyes. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I know that now.”

Minjeong tilted her head slightly. “Do you?”

Jimin couldn't help smiling. “I think so.”

“Only think?”

“Okay, I know.”

Minjeong hummed skeptically.

The sight of it made Jimin's chest feel strangely warm. “Because when I saw you tonight,” she continued softly, “I felt relieved.”

Minjeong blinked.

“Relieved?”

Jimin nodded.

“I spent the whole ride home trying to hold myself together.” She laughed quietly. “Then I opened the door and you were there.”

Her grip unconsciously tightened around Minjeong's hand. “And suddenly I didn't have to do it alone anymore.”

For a moment, Minjeong just stared at her.

“So what I'm hearing,” she said eventually, “is that my presence made you cry.”

Jimin groaned. “That's not what I said.”

“Sounds like what you said.”

“You know what I meant.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Minjeong's mouth. “My smile made you cry?”

“You're impossible.”

“It's a little offensive, actually.”

Jimin laughed, wiping at the corner of her eye. “It was a nice smile.”

“My smiles are always nice.”

“No, they're not.”

Minjeong gasped dramatically. “Wow.”

“Some of them are smug.”

“That's still nice.”

“Some are annoying.”

“Still nice.”

“Some make me want to throw things at you.”

Minjeong nudged her leg with her own. “And yet you're still here.”

Jimin nudged her back. “Unfortunately.”

A soft laugh escaped Minjeong.

Jimin smiled, but she could still see something sad behind Minjeong’s eyes. “Did you feel like this too?” she asked.

“Hhmm?”

“Like you needed somewhere you didn’t have to carry everything.”

Minjeong went still.

The silence that followed felt larger than the living room around them. It stretched between them, settling heavily in the space where an answer should have been, and Jimin found herself recognizing it for what it was. 

Not avoidance. 

Not rejection. 

Fear.

In the past, she would have mistaken it for a boundary and stepped back. She would have accepted the first excuse, the first I'm fine, the first shake of Minjeong's head because she had convinced herself that leaving people alone was the same thing as respecting them. Looking back now, she could think of countless moments where she had done exactly that. Countless moments when she sensed something was wrong and chose silence because she was afraid of becoming a burden.

Not this time.

She tightened her grip on Minjeong's hand, just enough for her to feel it.

"You don't have to tell me everything," Jimin said quietly. "Not tonight. Not all at once. But I'm here."

Minjeong swallowed.

Jimin brushed her thumb over the back of her hand.

"And I'm not going anywhere."

For a moment, it looked as if Minjeong might say something. Her lips parted, only to close again. The words seemed trapped somewhere deep inside her, caught between wanting to be understood and being terrified of what would happen if she finally spoke.

When she eventually did, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"When Aeri Unnie stopped staying at the dorm, I thought I would enjoy it."

Jimin said nothing. She only listened.

"At first, I actually did." A small smile appeared on Minjeong's face before fading almost immediately. "Having the entire place to myself felt nice. I could leave lights off. I could spend hours reading without anyone interrupting me. I could go through an entire day without saying a word if I wanted to."

Her fingers shifted against Jimin's.

"It felt peaceful."

"What changed?" Jimin asked softly.

Minjeong let out a quiet laugh.

"I don't know if anything changed." Her gaze drifted toward the darkened hallway. "Maybe I was just distracting myself in the beginning."

She leaned back against the sofa, and Jimin followed the movement naturally, their shoulders brushing.

"After a while, the quiet started feeling different."

The words were simple.

The loneliness behind them wasn't.

"I would come home after schedules and find everything exactly the way I'd left it. No lights on. No sounds. Nobody else's things lying around." Her eyes remained fixed somewhere in the distance. "At first, I liked that."

Another pause.

"Then I started leaving the television running."

Jimin frowned.

"Why?"

Minjeong's smile this time was sad. "Because I hated hearing the apartment."

Jimin didn't understand until a second later.

Then she did.

Not the apartment.

The emptiness.

"There were nights when I sat in the park longer than I needed to." Minjeong's voice grew quieter with every confession. "Sometimes I'd spend nore minutes gathering my things after everyone had already left. I'd find excuses to stay behind."

Jimin's chest tightened painfully.

"Because you didn't want to go home?" Jimin asked softly.

Minjeong's gaze remained fixed on the hallway. For a moment, Jimin thought she wasn't going to answer.

Then she nodded.

The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but it struck Jimin with surprising force. She couldn't stop herself. "Why didn't you call me?" The question escaped before she had a chance to soften it.

Immediately, she regretted the way it sounded.

Not because she didn't mean it, but because there was hurt tangled inside it. Hurt that Minjeong had spent so many nights carrying something so heavy while Jimin remained completely unaware. Hurt that she had been close enough to reach, and somehow still too far away.

Minjeong looked at her. "I almost did."

"Almost?" Jimin frowned.

A faint laugh left Minjeong's lips. "A lot of times, actually." The confession settled between them.

Jimin stared. "A lot?"

Minjeong's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "There were nights when I picked up my phone and stared at your contact for a long while."

Something in Jimin's chest twisted painfully.

"There were nights when I typed messages and deleted them. Times when I was already halfway through calling before I convinced myself not to."

"Why?"

The answer came immediately. "You were busy."

"You don't know that."

"You usually were."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't call."

Minjeong looked down at their joined hands. "I know that now."

"No." Jimin shook her head. "Not now. Then."

Minjeong was quiet.

Jimin waited.

Eventually, Minjeong exhaled. "I didn't know if you wanted me to." The words were spoken so softly they barely sounded real. But they landed harder than anything else she'd said that night.

Jimin felt her heart crack.

"Why would you think that?"

Minjeong gave a small shrug, but there was nothing careless about it. It looked more like someone protecting an old wound.

"Because things were different."

Jimin understood immediately.

Different.

Not worse.

Not broken.

Just different.

Somewhere along the years, the effortless certainty they used to have with each other had disappeared. Nothing dramatic had happened. There hadn't been a fight. No single moment either of them could point to and say this is where everything changed.

Instead, distance had arrived quietly.

Schedule by schedule.

Missed conversation by missed conversation.

A hundred tiny steps neither of them had noticed until one day they looked up and realized they weren't standing where they used to be.

"I noticed it too," Jimin admitted.

Minjeong looked surprised. "You did?"

"Of course I did." Jimin laughed weakly.  A familiar sadness settled over her. "I thought you were pulling away."

A short breath escaped Minjeong. "I thought you were."

They looked at each other. For the first time, neither of them looked away.

"I wasn't," Minjeong said.

"Neither was I."

The silence that followed was almost absurd.

After everything.

After all the worrying.

After all the loneliness.

After all the years spent wondering.

Neither of them had actually been leaving.

Minjeong rubbed her other hand over her face before letting out a strained laugh. "So what exactly were we doing?"

Jimin couldn't help smiling. "Being stupid?"

This time, Minjeong laughed for real. The sound was brief, but genuine. "That's probably the most accurate explanation."

The heaviness in the room eased slightly.

Not enough to disappear.

Just enough for them to breathe.

Jimin shifted closer without thinking.

"Is that why you suggested we live together?" The question hung between them.

"It was practical."

"There it is."

"It was."

"Minjeong."

"It was."

Jimin raised an eyebrow.

Minjeong stubbornly avoided eye contact.

For a few seconds neither said anything.

Then Jimin simply waited.

No teasing.

No pushing.

No attempts to corner her into an answer.

She kept holding Minjeong's hand and let the silence do the work instead.

Eventually, Minjeong sighed. Her shoulders sagged. And Jimin recognized the look immediately. 

Surrender.

"I told myself it was practical."

Jimin didn't speak.

Minjeong continued quietly. "You would've been living alone. I was already living alone. Maintaining separate places didn't make much sense."

She swallowed. "All of that was true."

"But?"

Minjeong’s voice sounded smaller than before. "But it wasn't the whole truth."

Jimin felt her pulse quicken.

The apartment seemed impossibly quiet.

"The truth is..." Minjeong's eyes glistened. For a second, she looked embarrassed by it. Then she looked tired instead. "The truth is that I didn't want to keep coming home to an empty place."

The confession shattered something inside Jimin. Not because it was dramatic.

Not because it was unexpected.

Because it sounded so lonely.

Minjeong laughed weakly and wiped at her eyes before any tears could fall. "I spent so much time pretending I liked being alone."

Jimin's throat tightened. "Everyone believed it."

"So did I." Minjeong exhaled. "That's the problem." Her voice trembled. "Being alone wasn't the part I liked." The tears finally escaped. "I just got used to it."

The room fell silent.

And for the first time that night, Jimin understood just how much loneliness could hide inside someone who seemed perfectly comfortable on their own.

Not because they preferred it.

But because they had convinced themselves it was easier than admitting they wanted someone to stay.

Jimin’s fingers tightened around Minjeong’s hand. There were a hundred things she wanted to say, apologies and reassurances crowding behind her teeth, but none of them felt large enough to hold what Minjeong had just given her. So Jimin stayed quiet, forcing herself not to fill the moment simply because the truth made her uncomfortable. 

She let Minjeong breathe. 

She let her cry. 

Most importantly, she remained beside her, their shoulders pressed together and their hands linked between them, offering the one thing neither of them had ever been brave enough to ask from the other.

“I was lonely, Unnie,” Minjeong admitted at last, her voice uneven. “More than I wanted anyone to know. Everyone thought I liked being alone, and I kept agreeing because it was easier than trying to explain that being alone and feeling alone weren’t the same thing.” She blinked quickly, but the tears still flowed down her cheeks. “I liked having space. I liked the quiet sometimes. But there were nights when the quiet became too much. My thoughts would get louder, and there was nobody there to interrupt them. Nothing to remind me that the world outside my head was still there.”

Jimin felt something tighten painfully beneath her ribs. She had known Minjeong for years. She knew the way she retreated into herself when she was tired and how convincing her silence could be. She also knew, with a growing sense of guilt, that she had mistaken Minjeong’s ability to endure loneliness for proof that loneliness did not affect her.

“Some nights, I didn’t trust where my thoughts were taking me,” Minjeong continued. She looked toward the hallway, but her face suggested she was seeing a different apartment entirely, one still empty and waiting for her. “Nothing happened. I was still functioning. I went to work and smiled when I needed to smile, and nobody noticed anything was wrong. But I would come home and feel like I was disappearing inside that place. I think part of me believed that if you were there, I wouldn’t disappear so easily.”

Jimin reached for her before she could think about it. She placed one hand protectively against the back of Minjeong’s head, holding her with a care that was almost desperate. Minjeong resisted for only a heartbeat before the tension left her body. A broken breath escaped her, followed by another, and Jimin felt each one against her shoulder. This time, it was Jimin holding her together. This time, she did not wait for Minjeong to ask.

“You should have told me,” Jimin whispered, unable to keep the tremble from her voice. She knew it was not fair the moment the words left her, but the thought of Minjeong suffering alone made reason difficult. “I would have come. It wouldn’t have mattered where I was or what time you called. I would have found a way.”

“I was scared.”

“Of me?”

Minjeong shook her head against Jimin’s shoulder. “Of needing you that much.”

The answer made Jimin hold her more tightly. It hurt because she understood it too well. 

For years, she had treated her own need for Minjeong as something dangerous, something that had to be hidden beneath jokes, casual invitations, and practical explanations. She had worried that reaching too often would reveal more than she knew how to explain. She had believed that keeping a careful distance would protect what they had, never realizing Minjeong had been standing on the other side of that distance, wondering whether Jimin still wanted her there.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” Jimin said.

“You’re here now.”

“I still should have noticed.”

Minjeong slowly pulled back, although she did not move far. Her hands remained curled into the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, as if she needed something solid to hold while she looked at her. “You said we were going to stop expecting each other to know everything.”

“That was you.”

“Then listen to me.”

Despite the tears on both their faces, a trembling laugh escaped Jimin. “Are you scolding me while you’re crying?”

“You need to be scolded.”

“So do you.”

“I know,” Minjeong replied, and the quiet certainty of it made them both laugh, though neither of them sounded particularly steady.

They stayed wrapped around each other while the worst of the crying passed, exchanging apologies that could not undo what had happened but might prevent them from repeating it. 

There was no promise that either of them would suddenly become fearless. Jimin did not claim she could protect Minjeong from every difficult thought, and Minjeong did not pretend she could silence every cruel thing people said about Jimin. Their promises were smaller than that, but perhaps, its more honest. 

They would ask instead of assume. 

They would answer even when the answer frightened them. 

Most of all, they would stop leaving each other alone inside moments that were already difficult enough.

When they finally drew apart, their faces were damp and their eyes were red. Jimin reached forward and wiped a tear from beneath Minjeong’s eye, smiling weakly when another replaced it almost immediately. “We’re a mess.”

“You started it.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“You came home crying.”

“You cried more.”

“I had more to say.”

“That isn’t how crying works.”

“It is tonight.”

Jimin laughed, and Minjeong joined her. Their laughter was soft and uneven, interrupted by the last stubborn remnants of their tears, but it lifted something from the room. It felt almost ridiculous to laugh after admitting so much, yet perhaps that was why they needed it. For years, humor had been where they hid the questions they were too afraid to ask. Tonight, for the first time, it felt less like a hiding place and more like a way home.

“You used your leader voice on me,” Minjeong murmured after their laughter faded.

“I don’t have a leader voice.”

“You do.”

“When?”

“When you said you weren’t going anywhere.”

“That wasn’t my leader voice. I was trying to reassure you.”

“You sounded like you were giving me an order.”

Jimin brushed another tear from Minjeong’s cheek. Her fingers lingered there, resting lightly against the warmth of her skin. “Did it work?”

Minjeong did not answer immediately. She looked at Jimin with an expression so open that it made Jimin’s breath catch, then leaned almost imperceptibly into her palm. “Yes,” she admitted.

The laughter between them gradually disappeared, leaving behind a silence that felt different from the ones that had come before it. 

This one was not empty. 

It was filled with everything they had confessed and everything still waiting to be named. 

Jimin became aware of how close they were. Her thumb moved gently across Minjeong’s cheek, and Minjeong’s gaze traveled over her face with a quietness that made the air feel suddenly fragile.

For years, they had been able to hide behind misunderstanding. Jimin had told herself that Minjeong wanted distance, while Minjeong had believed Jimin no longer needed her. 

Now those explanations had been stripped away, leaving them with something more frightening than uncertainty. They knew the truth. They had wanted each other close from the beginning, perhaps in ways neither of them had been prepared to examine too carefully.

Jimin’s gaze dropped briefly.

Minjeong noticed.

Neither of them moved away.

Jimin leaned forward slowly, giving Minjeong enough time to retreat if she wanted to. The small distance between them narrowed until Jimin could feel the warmth of Minjeong’s breath, and for one suspended moment the entire apartment seemed to hold itself still around them.

Then Jimin’s phone rang.

They jumped apart so quickly and Jimin went to where her phone continued vibrating. The screen displayed a reminder from their manager about Jimin’s private piano lesson the following morning.

Minjeong cleared her throat. Her cheeks had turned noticeably red, but her voice was almost impressively steady. “You should cancel.”

Jimin placed a hand against her chest as though she could physically calm her heart. “I can’t.”

“You know you can.”

“It’s already scheduled.”

“You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest afterward.”

Minjeong folded her arms, shifting into the familiar stubbornness that was easier for both of them to handle. “Take one day off, Unnie. You came home crying because you were exhausted, and now you’re trying to convince me that waking up early for a piano lesson is a good idea.”

“And what exactly would I do all day?”

“I don’t have work tomorrow either.”

They stared at each other. The moment that had been interrupted did not disappear. It remained somewhere between them, close enough to touch but too delicate to approach carelessly.

Jimin placed her phone face down on the table. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t sound like nothing.”

Minjeong’s ears began turning red. “I’m suggesting that you sleep.”

“And then?”

“I’ll make breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“I know how to make breakfast.”

“I know.”

Jimin chuckled, and Minjeong smiled as though making her laugh had been the only purpose of the suggestion. It probably had not been, but Jimin decided not to challenge her yet. “After that, then?”

“We stay here,” Minjeong said, attempting to sound casual. “We can watch something, order food, and do absolutely nothing.”

“Together?”

Minjeong looked away. “We live together. That part is unavoidable.”

Jimin moved closer again, not enough to recreate the moment they had lost, but enough that Minjeong could not pretend she had not noticed. “Is this another practical suggestion?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Minjeong.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

Minjeong hesitated before lifting her eyes. The uncertainty there made Jimin’s expression soften. She reached for Minjeong’s hand again and felt immediate relief when Minjeong allowed their fingers to interlace. “You know you can ask me to stay with you, right?”

Minjeong sighs, “I know.”

“You don’t need to invent a practical reason.”

“I’m not inventing anything.”

“You asked me to live with you because you were lonely.”

“Its because maintaining two dorms was inefficient.”

“You want me to cancel tomorrow because you want to spend time with me.”

“Its because you’re tired.”

“You could simply admit that you want me here.”

Minjeong lowered her gaze to their joined hands. Her fingers slowly tightened around Jimin’s, and when she finally answered, the defensive humor had disappeared from her voice. “What if I do?”

Jimin forgot how to breathe.

“If I admit it, what happens then?”

The weight of ten years seemed to settle around them. 

Ten years of friendship, shared stages, private jokes, exhaustion, arguments, celebrations, and countless moments that had meant more than either of them had allowed themselves to acknowledge. Jimin understood why they had remained silent. One honest answer could alter the safest relationship either of them had ever possessed. But as she looked at Minjeong, she wondered whether silence had not already changed it. Silence had made them lonely. Silence had nearly convinced them that they were losing each other when neither had wanted to leave.

“Then I tell you the truth too,” Jimin said.

Nervousness flickered across Minjeong’s face. “What truth?”

“That I didn’t agree to live with you because it was practical.”

“You didn’t?”

“I told myself that was the reason.”

Minjeong looked at her eyes, “Then why did you say yes?”

Jimin reached to touch Minjeong’s cheek, her palm rested there carefully, giving Minjeong another opportunity to turn away. Instead, Minjeong closed her eyes and leaned into her touch as if she had been waiting for it.

“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you coming home alone,” Jimin admitted. “And because when you asked me to live with you, some selfish part of me was relieved.”

Minjeong opened her eyes.

“When I came home tonight and saw you,” Jimin continued, “I felt like I could finally breathe. I had spent the entire day surrounded by people, but this was the first place where I didn’t feel alone.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” Minjeong whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I might misunderstand you again.”

“Then ask me.”

Minjeong’s breath caught. “Ask you what?”

Jimin’s heart was pounding so violently that she was certain Minjeong could feel it beneath her palm, through their closeness, through the silence that no longer offered either of them somewhere to hide. “Ask me what you’ve been trying not to ask.”

Minjeong looked terrified. Jimin suspected she looked the same.

“If I ask,” Minjeong said, “everything might change.”

“Everything has already changed.”

“What if it becomes worse?”

“What if it doesn’t?”

Minjeong searched Jimin’s face, looking for hesitation and finding none. Her gaze briefly fell before rising again. “If your phone hadn’t rung…”

She stopped.

Jimin moved closer until only a small space remained between them. “What would you have done?”

“I think…” JImin whispered, “...you already knew the answer.”

For once, Minjeong did not retreat into logic or hide behind something practical. She leaned forward, closing the distance before either of them could lose their courage.

Their first kiss was quiet, soft and gentle. It lasted no more than a moment before they pulled apart, but neither moved far. They remained close enough to feel each other’s uneven breathing, staring as though they had both forgotten what was supposed to happen next.

Then Minjeong covered her face with both hands.

Jimin blinked. “What are you doing?”

“That was embarrassing.”

“You kissed me.”

“You leaned closer first.”

“You finished it.”

“You could have moved away.”

“So could you.”

They stared at each other until nervous laughter overtook them. Jimin carefully caught Minjeong’s wrists and lowered her hands, revealing cheeks that had turned bright red. “Was it really that bad?”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

“Should we try again?”

Minjeong stared at her. “You’re supposed to be shy.”

“I’ve been shy for ten years. I’m tired.”

A smile appeared slowly on Minjeong's face, softening the nervousness in her eyes.

This time, when they leaned toward each other, neither hesitated.

The kiss was gentle at first, tentative in the way only long-awaited things could be. Jimin felt Minjeong's hand settle against her shoulder, touching onto the fabric of her shirt as though grounding herself in the reality of the moment.

When neither pulled away, the kiss lingered.

Jimin's hand rose to Minjeong's cheek, her thumb brushing softly against warm skin. The touch drew a quiet breath from Minjeong, and instinctively she leaned closer, closing the small distance that remained between them.

What had begun as cautious became a little surer. 

Their lips met again more fully this time, no longer testing the moment but settling into it. Jimin felt her heart stumble when Minjeong shifted closer, her hand sliding from Jimin's shoulder to the back of her arm.

For a few precious seconds, neither seemed willing to be the first to pull away.

Years of almosts lingered between them. 

Unsent messages. 

Missed opportunities. 

Feelings tucked away behind practical excuses and careful distance. 

The kiss carried all of it, quiet but undeniable.

When they finally parted, it was only because they needed air. Even then, neither moved far.

Their foreheads brushed together. Their breaths mingled in the narrow space between them. Minjeong's eyes remained closed for a moment longer, and Jimin found herself smiling before she even realized it.

It felt less like becoming something new and more like finally allowing themselves to acknowledge something that had been there all along.

“What happens now?” Minjeong whispered.

Jimin considered the question. 

Tomorrow would still arrive with responsibilities and expectations waiting for them. There would be calls to answer, schedules to follow, and different versions of themselves to present to the world. 

One honest conversation would not resolve every misunderstanding, and one kiss could not erase all the fears they had spent years building. 

They would still make mistakes. 

There would still be moments when one of them became quiet and the other did not know what it meant. The difference was that now, instead of guessing, they could ask.

“Tomorrow, I cancel my lesson,” Jimin said.

“That’s all?”

“You make breakfast.”

“Hhhmm,”

“And then we take this slowly.”

Minjeong’s expression softened. “How slowly?”

“Slow enough that neither of us feels like we have to run away.”

“What if I’m still afraid?”

Jimin intertwined their fingers. “Then you tell me.”

“And if you’re afraid?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“No more assuming?”

“No more waiting for the other person to understand something we haven’t said.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It probably will be.”

“Not very practical.”

Jimin smiled. “Not everything has to be.”

Minjeong leaned into her, resting her head on Jimin’s shoulder as if it belonged there. “Do we… have to call this something?”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“No.” Minjeong wrapped her arms more securely around Jimin. “I just like who we are when nobody else is here.”

Jimin understood. 

Outside the apartment, they would continue being the people everyone expected them to be. They would be professionals, performers, colleagues, and figures onto whom strangers projected countless assumptions. They would navigate cameras, questions, and expectations while protecting the parts of themselves the public had no right to claim. 

Inside, they could simply be Jimin and Minjeong. They could disagree over laundry or even cooking. They could leave lights on for each other and place an extra pair of slippers beside the door. They could come home exhausted, sit together in silence, and learn that comfort did not always need permission.

They did not have to understand every feeling that night. It was enough to know neither of them wanted to walk away.

Jimin looked around the apartment, noticing how thoroughly their lives had blended into one another. The apartment no longer belonged entirely to either of them. It had become a collection of small, shared things, evidence of two people learning how to exist in the same space without disappearing.

She then remembered how frightened she had been when Minjeong first suggested living together. She had believed sharing a home would force them to confront the thing neither of them could name, and that confronting it could only end badly. She had imagined awkwardness, distance, and the possibility of losing the one relationship she could not bear to lose. Instead, living together had given them somewhere to return to. It had placed them close enough that avoidance became difficult, though apparently not impossible, and it had filled an empty apartment with proof that someone else would eventually come home.

“You know,” Jimin said, “I think living together might be the best decision we’ve ever made.”

Minjeong lifted her head. “Because it’s practical?”

“No.”

“Logical?”

“Not even slightly.”

“Then why?”

Jimin looked at Minjeong.

“Because I get to come home to you.”

Minjeong stared at her for a moment before smiling. It was the same smile that had broken Jimin at the door, only this time, it did not make her cry.

Well, almost.

“You’re really emotional tonight,” Minjeong murmured.

“You cried too.”

“I was having a difficult moment.”

“And I’m having one now.”

“Should I comfort you?”

“Yes.”

Minjeong chuckled. “Okay then.”

Before Jimin could reply, Minjeong closed the distance between them.

This time, the kiss was different.

There was no hesitation, not even uncertainty that had lingered between them before. Minjeong kissed her with a quiet confidence that made Jimin's breath catch, one hand settling against her cheek while the other remained intertwined with hers.

Jimin froze for only a heartbeat before leaning into it.

Her fingers tightened around Minjeong's sleeve, pulling her closer almost instinctively. The kiss deepened, lingering longer than either of their previous ones, their earlier nervousness slowly giving way to something warmer and harder to ignore.

Minjeong tilted her head slightly, and Jimin followed without thinking. The change was small, but somehow it made everything feel more intense.

Jimin could feel her own heartbeat pounding in her chest. She had imagined kissing Minjeong more times than she would ever admit. She had imagined it being sweet, awkward, maybe even a little clumsy.

She hadn't imagined this.

The warmth. The closeness. The way Minjeong seemed just as reluctant to let the moment end.

When Minjeong's thumb brushed gently along her cheek, she felt the faint smile against her lips, and she smiled too.

Neither of them seemed to remember who had started it anymore. They only knew neither wanted to be the first to pull away. Eventually, they broke apart just enough to breathe, their faces still close.

Jimin opened her eyes and found Minjeong already looking at her.

For a second, neither said anything.

Minjeong's smile slowly grew.

“Better?”

Jimin laughed softly, her cheeks burning as she tried, and failed, to hide her smile.

“Much better.”

Minjeong leaned closer again, just enough to make Jimin's heart jump.

“Good.”