By the time I stumbled back into my apartment, the sky outside had already slipped into its evening blues. My body ached — not the sharp pain of injury, but the worn-out heaviness of pushing through everything you thought you couldn't do. My ankle throbbed in dull protest, but I managed to kick off my sneakers and throw myself onto the couch without completely crumbling.
My phone buzzed. A group message from the backup dancers. More memes. More chaotic banter. I stared at the screen but didn't have the energy to respond.
Instead, I let my head fall back, closing my eyes.
Sim Jae's voice lingered in my mind — calm, grounded, quietly observant.
"You adjusted the timing... smart."
And then Ryan, always close, always teasing.
"You're not like the others."
I exhaled loudly and pressed the heel of my palms against my eyes.
Why were they both in my head? And why did both feel... different?
A sharp knock broke through my spiral.
I jumped.
Another knock.
I hobbled over and opened the door to find Sujeong grinning ear to ear, bundled up in a fuzzy coat, with Hoon standing behind her, balancing two plastic bags of what looked dangerously like takeout.
"You didn't think we'd let you spend the evening wallowing in foot pain and dance despair, right?" Sujeong said brightly.
"I didn't know I was wallowing," I muttered, moving aside.
"You were about to," she said, already kicking her boots off. "I could smell it through the door."
Hoon chuckled and followed, holding the bags up. "We brought japchae, kimchi pancakes, and Sujeong made some weird cinnamon tea that I refused to taste."
"I didn't ask you to taste it," Sujeong shot back, flopping onto the couch. "It's detoxing."
"For what?"
"For her emotional damage," she said, pointing directly at me.
"I'm fine," I said, closing the door behind them.
"Sure you are," she replied with a knowing smile. "But let me guess. One boy looked at you like you hung the stars, the other one grazed your wrist and you forgot your own name."
I froze.
Hoon gave a dramatic gasp. "Wait. Both of them?"
"I didn't say anything!" I shot back.
"You didn't have to," Sujeong said smugly. "It's all over your face. We've been friends too long."
I made a strangled noise and reached for a pillow to hide behind. "Why did I let you in?"
"Because you secretly like it when I psychoanalyze your love life," she said sweetly.
"And also because we brought food," Hoon added, setting the table. "Now sit, ice that ankle, and give us the unedited rundown."
I collapsed beside her, finally letting my body relax.
"You know..." I began, "I never thought I'd feel this stupid over a dance rehearsal."
"It's not the dance making you stupid," Sujeong said, sipping her tea with a too-smug smile.
I threw a balled-up napkin at her.
She caught it midair. "Still got those backup dancer reflexes."
"I swear I'll throw the pancake next."
"Don't you dare," Hoon said, clutching the box protectively.
For a moment, everything felt normal. Soft. Like I was still the same Siwon I'd been before LOVE2, before tangled emotions and glances in mirrors, before Ryan's warm fingertips or Sim Jae's quiet praise.
Then Sujeong's voice cut through the laughter. "By the way, what are you doing for New Year's?"
I blinked. "Huh?"
"It's in two days. We're going to that rooftop party at Baekhyun's café — remember?"
"Oh... I don't know if I'll be able to go. Depends on rehearsal schedules."
She made a face. "Ugh. You're going to spend New Year's Eve in a studio surrounded by boys with too much hair gel."
I laughed weakly. "You're not entirely wrong."
Hoon passed me a small packet of instant heat pads. "If you do have the night off, just come. Even if it's just for a while. A change of scenery will do you good."
I nodded, pocketing them with a grateful smile. "I'll see. If I survive the next rehearsal without collapsing."
Sujeong leaned in. "Or without someone kissing you in a dark corner."
"SUJEONG!"
"Just saying."
Hoon covered his ears. "I don't want to hear this part."
"You're the one who brought cinnamon tea into my home!"
We all burst into laughter again, the kind that cracked open the ache in my chest and filled it with something lighter.
Even if only for tonight.
——
The laughter slowly faded as we sat surrounded by empty takeout containers, the air in my apartment cozy and full of food warmth. Hoon was lounging on the floor, head resting on a cushion, while Sujeong curled beside me on the couch, her socked feet tucked beneath her.
"So," I said slowly, side-eyeing Hoon, "did you ever make up for your mistakes?"
He looked up from his phone, brows raised. "What mistakes?"
I gave him a sharp look. "Really? You're going to pretend like you didn't abandon Sujeong in the middle of your relationship last year and go silent for three months?"
Sujeong shifted slightly beside me. "Siwon..."
But I was already leaning forward, narrowing my eyes. "You ghosted her. No texts, no calls, no explanations. And now you're sitting here acting like nothing happened?"
Hoon sat up, frowning. "I didn't make a mistake. I needed space. I told her that."
"Space?" I scoffed. "That's what we're calling disappearing acts now?"
His voice sharpened. "You're not in our relationship, Siwon. You don't get to judge what happened between us."
"I'm not judging," I said, my tone tight. "I'm just saying that leaving someone hanging without closure is the kind of thing that changes people."
Sujeong laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Hey, it's okay. We've talked about it—"
"Have you?" I asked, cutting my gaze to her. "Or did you just accept it because you missed him too much to be mad?"
"Siwon," Hoon said quietly, "you're making it sound worse than it was."
"Am I?" I challenged. "Then maybe you can tell me how it felt from her side. Sitting alone at that dumpling place you always went to, crying in the bathroom, pretending you weren't waiting for someone who never showed up."
His jaw clenched. "That's not fair."
"Neither was leaving."
The room thickened with silence.
Sujeong's hand tightened on my arm. "Stop," she said softly. "Both of you."
I looked at her, my breath shaky, the old hurt I'd witnessed — the late-night calls, the way she fell asleep crying in our shared dorm room — still alive somewhere inside me. She didn't deserve to carry it alone.
Hoon exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I made a bad decision," he admitted at last. "But I didn't stop loving her. I just... didn't know how to deal with my own crap."
Sujeong glanced between us, her eyes a little glassy. "We've both made mistakes," she said. "But we came back. That has to mean something."
I let the air in my lungs cool, my voice gentler. "I just don't want you hurt again."
"I know," she whispered. "And I love you for it. But I'm not the same girl from last year. If he leaves again... I'll survive."
Hoon looked at her, guilt flickering through his eyes, and then at me. "I didn't realize how much it hurt you too."
I shook my head. "She's my family. When someone hurts her, I remember it longer than she does."
He nodded. "I won't ask you to forgive me. But I'll keep showing up until you do."
We sat in silence for a moment, tension melting slowly like ice left out too long.
Then Sujeong, voice a little too bright, said, "So... does this mean I don't have to drink my own cinnamon tea now?"
Hoon groaned. "Please throw that stuff out."
I snorted. "Only if you promise not to disappear again."
He held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."
"I swear you were never a scout."
"No," he admitted. "But I've watched enough survival shows to fake it."
The laughter returned — hesitant, softer — but it stayed. And maybe that was enough.
____
The next morning crept in slow and pale through the curtains. Pale gold light dripped across the floorboards, dancing softly on the edges of my blanket. I stirred when my alarm buzzed — low, gentle, but insistent — and groaned into my pillow.
My muscles ached in that strange, satisfying way that only long rehearsals could cause. My mind was slower, still fogged from dreams I couldn't remember but didn't want to leave.
I stretched, limbs tangled in sheets, and forced myself upright.
The apartment was quiet. Sujeong and Hoon had left late the night before, after insisting on doing the dishes together and stealing the last tangerines. I smiled at the memory as I slid out of bed, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.
Padding toward the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. My hair was a bird's nest, my oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, and my eyes were puffy from sleep.
Whatever. The mirror could judge all it wanted.
I flicked on the bathroom light, wincing at the brightness, and began my usual routine: brushing my teeth with one hand while scrolling through missed messages with the other. A couple of updates from Coach Kim. A sticker from Shiaan. One missed call from Dad, which made guilt ripple through me. I'd call him later.
Foam in my mouth, I reached for the face wash and splashed cold water across my skin. The jolt woke me fully, sending a little clarity through my mind.
Today would be another long one. Camera blocking. Coordination with the production team. Possibly another run-through. My foot twinged just thinking about it.
After drying off, I wandered to the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I moved by muscle memory — switching on the kettle, reaching for the coffee jar, spooning it into my favorite mug (the chipped green one with the dancing bear on it). As the water boiled, I leaned against the counter, letting the silence wrap around me like a hoodie too big.
There was something oddly comforting about mornings like this — when I wasn't needed by anyone, when the air still felt untouched. I could pretend, even for just ten minutes, that I wasn't juggling choreography, expectations, or the memory of Ryan's voice low in my ear.
Or the way Sim Jae had looked at me like he saw too much.
The kettle whistled, shaking me from the spiral. I poured the hot water slowly, watching the steam rise, curling like a secret.
Mug in hand, I made my way to the small window by the living room, tugging it open slightly. The city was still waking up — buses growling down the street, students in uniforms darting between corners, the sky bruised with soft oranges and sleepy blues.
I sipped my coffee and pressed my forehead to the cool glass.
New Year was in two days. I hadn't even noticed until Sujeong brought it up last night — she'd mentioned it in passing, something about fireworks at the river and whether Hoon would kiss her this time instead of flaking like he did last year.
New Year's.
A time for resolutions. For closure. For possibilities.
For people to pretend the past didn't bite.
I sighed and took another sip, letting the bitterness of the coffee keep me grounded.
Behind me, my phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a text from Ryan.
Morning, trouble. Don't be late. Coach is in one of those "let's suffer together" moods.
Followed by a second message:
p.s. still thinking about that tangle.
I choked slightly on my coffee.
Great.
And now I was awake.
——
I stared at the screen.
Still thinking about that tangle.
My thumb hovered over the reply button, but instead of texting back, I just blinked at his message. Slowly. Like the words might rearrange themselves if I stared long enough.
Wait...
Hold on.
How the hell did he even get my number?
I scrolled up the chat history.
No previous conversation. Nothing from before. It wasn't even saved in my contacts — just his name typed in manually, as if he'd sent it himself.
I didn't remember giving it to him.
I definitely didn't mean to.
My brows furrowed as I set the mug down on the windowsill and began mentally retracing every possible scenario. Had I filled it out in a rehearsal form? Had Coach Kim shared it? Had Shiaan...?
No. Shiaan wouldn't.
And Ryan didn't seem like the type to ask permission.
Was that even allowed? Wasn't that, like, a minor invasion of privacy?
I picked up my phone again and typed a cautious response:
How did you get my number?
Three dots appeared instantly.
Then vanished.
Then came back.
Then vanished again.
I could almost see him smirking somewhere on the other end of the screen.
A moment later, his reply came:
Wouldn't you like to know.
I dropped the phone on the couch like it was radioactive.
Ugh.
What was wrong with me?
One flirty message and I was acting like a drama lead on episode two, clutching a coffee cup like it held the secrets of the universe.
I dragged both hands through my hair, groaning softly into the quiet.
He was annoying.
Infuriating.
Charming.
And apparently resourceful enough to dig up my number from somewhere I hadn't authorized.
And then there was Sim Jae, who had probably never texted a girl first in his life — and yet one soft sentence from him last night had rooted itself somewhere deep inside my ribs.
I stared at the mug in my hands.
This wasn't good.
I was too deep in something I hadn't even named yet.
And the year hadn't even started.
____
I padded back to my bedroom with the coffee still warming my fingers, trying to keep the caffeine from going straight to my anxiety. But the moment I opened my closet door, I knew I was doomed.
Nothing felt right.
Nothing looked right.
Why was I even thinking about what to wear? This wasn't a date. It wasn't a drama shoot. It was a rehearsal. A dance rehearsal. Meaning I was going to sweat like a human waterfall by hour two anyway.
Still...
I eyed a loose black cropped hoodie I usually wore when I didn't want attention. Then glanced at the fitted white tank I'd bought last month and never worn — because it made me look like I cared. Like I was trying.
And maybe today, I was trying.
Stupid.
I pulled both off their hangers and threw them on the bed with a sigh, followed by my black cargos and three different sports bras because I couldn't make one single decision without overanalyzing the entire psychological weight of it.
"If I wear the hoodie, Sim Jae won't notice anything," I muttered to myself, flopping down dramatically beside the clothes. "But if I wear the tank, Ryan's going to be annoying about it."
My phone buzzed again.
A new message.
Ryan:
Don't overthink it. You'll look good either way.
I gasped out loud.
"Yah!" I whipped around like he was physically in the room. "How—?"
Then I realized what he meant.
He knew I'd be overthinking it.
He didn't need to hear my thoughts.
He just knew.
"This guy," I muttered, clutching my phone to my chest like it had committed a betrayal.
I considered blocking him for exactly three seconds.
Then texted back instead:
Don't flatter yourself. I was deciding whether to wear something I could sleep in later.
His response was immediate.
Ryan:
Multitask queen. Sleepwear chic.
I choked on a laugh and rolled my eyes, throwing the phone onto the pillow like it offended me personally. But a smile tugged at my lips anyway.
I finally settled on the tank and a zip-up hoodie over it, letting the illusion of "I didn't try that hard" mask the actual war I just fought in my head. My cargo pants were forgiving and broken-in, and my hair — well, I tied it up in a loose ponytail and told myself it was "effortless" and not "lazy."
By the time I zipped up my dance bag and slung it over my shoulder, my heart had calmed enough to survive rehearsal.
Maybe.
But as I stood in front of the door, phone in my pocket, I couldn't help but wonder:
If Ryan noticed what I wore today...
Would Sim Jae?
And if he did...
Would he care?
____
The elevator was painfully slow that morning.
Each floor ticked by with a mechanical groan as I stared at my phone screen, thumb hovering above the messages. I knew I shouldn't text him again. I knew it would only invite more chaos into my already scrambled brain.
But his words from earlier kept circling in my head.
Don't overthink it. You'll look good either way.
He said it like it was obvious.
Like he'd seen me a hundred times and memorized the conclusion.
But why?
Why was Ryan Choi — THE Ryan Choi— sending me texts that made my stomach flutter and my palms sweat?
I took a deep breath and typed, pausing at least four times to reword the message before finally hitting send:
Hey. This isn't how things are supposed to go. You're... you're a huge artist. A big deal. And I'm just a regular girl trying to keep up. You're not supposed to text people like me. Like we're friends or something.
There. It was out.
Honest. Awkward. Raw.
My phone buzzed just as I stepped out into the cold morning air.
Ryan:
People like you? What does that mean?
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I bit my lip, hesitated, and typed again.
I mean... we're not equals. You have fans and managers and fans for your managers. I'm just the girl Coach Kim assigned to stay in the back row until I stop limping.
There was a longer pause this time.
I kept walking, trying not to keep checking.
Trying not to care.
My phone buzzed again.
Ryan:
That's cute. But wrong.
I text people I like, Siwon.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
Literally stopped walking.
A man behind me gave a very dramatic "tsk" and sidestepped, but I couldn't even apologize.
Because all my thoughts had just... evaporated.
I like talking to you.
You don't fake things. That's rare.
I notice rare things.
My phone trembled in my hands as I stared at the message, the cold biting at my fingers but somehow not getting through the warmth crawling up my neck.
I had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.
I shoved my phone into my pocket and kept walking.
Faster now.
Heart racing. Brain fried.
And somewhere behind all the shock, a tiny, embarrassing part of me whispered:
What if he actually means it?
...