Chapter Text
Mizi, at nine years old, glares at the door in front of her with as much displeasure as she can muster. She crosses her arms, looking away from the source of her displeasure to stare at her mother, who is gripping her hand so she doesn’t try to squirm away. “I don’t want to.”
“It’s going to be fun, Mizi!” Her mother forces an enthusiastic grin on her face as she gestures forward.
“That’s what you said last time,” Mizi says, letting the pout bleed into her voice, hoping it will convince her mother that the fourth time is not the charm. Usually, this works; it got her out of soccer two weeks before, and the other boring hobbies her mother had tried to coax her into as she searched for an outlet for her daughter’s restless energy. But this time, her mother doesn’t bend; she opens the door to the gymnasium and waits for Mizi to follow her.
“This time’s different! You liked watching the ballet last month, right? This will be like that, but more fun! Look, I see a girl doing a split, don’t you want to learn how to do a split?”
Mizi’s shoulders droop— it really doesn’t seem like she’s getting herself out of this one, so she trudges after her mother into the gym. A group of girls, dressed in a rainbow of leotards, flit around the place, stretching and twirling around on mats. Some have been allowed to work with hoops or balls, practicing not to drop them; some jump into handstands or carewheels, and one girl even lands in a split.
A flash of white catches her eye. Mizi turns to see a smaller girl take center stage on the largest, central mat, poised and at the ready, hands clasped on her chest, a baton held tightly between her palms.
Music begins to play, and with the first notes of the piano, the girl is in motion, throwing the baton up to the sky, twirling out to chase its arc. Mizi stares at her as she spins across the mat, never letting the baton touch the ground, even as she balances on one foot and pulls the other high above her head, higher than Mizi ever could. In her white leotard and with her silver baton, she reminds Mizi of a fairy; she reminds Mizi of the music box one of her aunties had gifted her, the pirouetting doll in the center dancing free of her box, as she gracefully lands on her knees, baton raised above her head.
Mizi, spellbound, pulls herself free of her mother’s hands and sprints across the gym, ignoring the shouting from behind her. She skids to a stop in front of the girl, who’s back on her feet and bent over, catching her breath. The other girl flinches, startled, but still turns to face her. Mizi blurts out, “You looked like a snowflake! Wow…”
The girl blinks, her big purple eyes growing somehow wider. A faint pink flushes across her cheeks as she stands up straight, opening her mouth to reply—
“Mizi!” Her mother is beside her now, scolding, “You can’t run off like that, how many times do I have to tell you…”
Mizi turns around, pouting again, “But Mom! She’s so pretty…”
From behind them, someone laughs, a little harshly, “It’s good to see that your daughter shares your sense of beauty, Shine.”
“Oh, Nigeh, it’s lovely to see you.” Mizi’s mother smiles at the woman who has appeared next to the other girl, who holds her chin high and wears shiny pearl earrings, despite the gym she stands in.
“Is this your daughter?” The other woman looks down at Mizi, eyes narrowing as she gives the girl a once-over. Mizi stiffens, feeling like she’s failing a test she hadn’t known to study for. “Well, she’s definitely… energetic, like you said. Maybe gymnastics will be good for it; we’ll just have to see. I don’t work with the beginners— I have to keep focusing on Sua, you understand, especially as she’s approaching more competitions— but I’ll have to keep an eye out for your dear Mizi’s progress.”
“Ah, yes, your Sua is just so adorable, such a talent, especially so young…” Mizi’s mother sighs, taking Mizi’s hand back into hers. “Come along now, Mizi, let’s get you registered.”
Mizi lets her mother lead her away, her eyes still fixed on the other girl. Her mother speaks to her now, and as she listens, the girl tugs at her sleeves, eyes downcast. When she is made to look up, she briefly looks away from her mother, meeting Mizi’s eyes instead. Mizi waves at her, nearly knocking herself over with the force she puts into it. The other girl’s eyes widen before she gives a tiny wave back.
“Sua,” Mizi mumbles, sounding out the name of the snowflake girl, committing to memory.
“What was that?” Her mother asks.
“Nothing, mom! I wanna get started with my lesson, let’s go! How often are they? Can I come every day?”
Her mother stares at her in shock before smiling proudly down at her, “See, I told you that gymnastics would be good for you!”
Mizi beams back at her and does not correct her.
And so, three times a week (unfortunately, not every day, but she manages), Mizi’s early, waiting by the door, hair pulled back into a perfect ponytail, water bottle filled at her feet, ready to go long before her mother. She begs to get there early, just to watch Sua get in her extra practice, watching her with awe, waving across the gym every time Sua catches her in the act. She plans her waterbreaks around Sua’s, so she can talk to the other girl, chattering about her day, or how amazing Sua’s newest routine is, or about the latest movie she watched, anything that might make the other giggle.
Slowly, Mizi gets to see the other’s smile more often than not; Sua warms up to her, looks over her shoulder before a routine to see if Mizi’s watching, listens intently to Mizi’s rambling as she sips on her water bottle, compliments the little white flower pins Mizi uses to hold back her bangs. When Mizi completes her first routine without slipping up, Sua claps, startling the other girls in the gym, especially the ones in the advanced class with Sua. (Sua, once, will mumble under her breath that the other girls can be cruel— only one can win, after all). They don’t attend the same school, but their mothers’ intersecting social circles bring them together outside of the gym, and Mizi seeks Sua out at every gala or luncheon. No one can pinpoint the moment they become inseparable— in the minds of most, it is always ‘Mizi and Sua’, joined at the hip, never one without the other.
One summer, when they’re sitting in Mizi’s house, her mother turns on the TV before running off to take a phone call. It is a complete coincidence that it opens to the Olympics, and the two of them watch, entranced, as gymnast after gymnast twirl across the mat, never missing a beat or dropping their gear. Mizi finds her voice when a woman in a glittering leotard is awarded first place, the gold medal placed over her head, resting against her heart.
“That’s going to us, one day,” Mizi says, pointing to the screen with all the bravado a preteen girl can muster.
Sua, who had rested her head on Mizi’s shoulder a while ago, shifts to meet Mizi’s eyes. “You want to go to the Olympics?”
“Mhmm! We’re going to go, and we’re going to win, and then they’ll give us the gold. Me and you, in front of the entire world, together.”
Sua settles back down, resting her hand against Mizi’s, before curling back around her. “Okay. We will.”
___
“Next up, representing the Republic of Ireland, is….”
Mizi stares blankly at the TV screen, barely paying attention as a tall woman with brown curls begins her routine, her ribbon swirling behind her, streaking red and gold across the screen, reflecting in Mizi’s glasses. A mostly empty carton of ice cream— strawberry, with little chunks of dark chocolate— melts between her thighs, spoon resting in her hands. Eating the entire tub in one sitting completely wrecks her meal plan; her coach would probably throttle her if she knew, but it’s a small comfort. Ivan had dropped it off that morning, wrapped in a ridiculous bow. Mizi had laughed at the sight, but her voice had sounded hollow. Even as his eyes narrow at the sound, Ivan thankfully doesn’t pry, just hands her the tub with what might be understanding. A gift from both him and Till, since they couldn’t be there— one already across the country for some elite training camp, the other catching a flight that afternoon to move into his university dorms and meet with his new coach.
In two weeks, Mizi will do the same; she had been recruited to play tennis for a university on the other coast, far away from their hometown. Like she had been hoping for the past year. Tennis hadn’t, of course, been the original plan, but despite her childhood efforts, Mizi had never quite been good at gymnastics— there was no real future in the sport for her. Tennis started as a hobby, played at the country club after she grew bored of chatting with her mother's friends. Someone had watched her play, deemed her a natural, and convinced her to take lessons under his daughter. While she had been good before, a trained Mizi excelled in the sport, quickly becoming a rising single champion in their region, and then beyond. Tennis had felt much more natural than gymnastics ever had, still requiring grace in her steps, but allowing her to exert much more power—she came alive on the court, chasing after the ball and decimating anyone who stepped onto the court with her. Mizi threw herself into tennis, her promise, the shared dream, always at the front of her mind— even if it wasn’t what she had expected, as long as she could hold up twin gold medals at the end, as long as she could win for Sua, that was all that mattered.
Mizi’s heart clenches. She loves her friends, truly, and appreciates their little display of support, but she is grateful to be left alone, nursing her ache. She can’t hide the pain she’s in, doesn’t have it in her, wants to keep her broken heart held between her hands where no one else can see it.
“And next up, representing the Republic of Korea, is Choi Sua!”
And God—
It’s not that Mizi hasn’t seen her. She stares out at Mizi on the front page of every single newspaper in the grocery store, as the aunties murmur about their latest local Olympian. A clip from her routine at the Rhymantic Gymnastics World Championships went viral and appeared on every athlete’s forum Mizi scrolled through. In the dead of night, Mizi finds herself scrolling through Sua’s oh-so-rarely updated Instagram; studying the selected pictures she posts, brand deals, and practiced smiles as she receives her medals and accolades. Sometimes, little hints of truth crack through— the tea she drinks is the same as high school, a mint blend Mizi had only drunk with her, the books she posts that she reads between her flights are ones she used to tell Mizi about— and Mizi hoards the scraps close. Sua’s everywhere she turns, and Mizi cannot help but chase something she is not allowed to hold anymore.
But here, on the television, it almost feels like she’s in front of Mizi again as she steps out to the light, careful steps, and not a single strand of hair out free from her slicked-back bun. The gymnasium lights catch on her costume, a soft blue traced with hundreds of gemstones. She looks like she’s stepped out of a fairytale, a winter faerie set out among mortals. She’s perfect; Mizi’s heart clenches again as she takes her place in the center of the mat, holding out her ribbon, glittering silver, letting it flutter beside her. For a moment, she looks directly into the camera, violet eyes pinning Mizi in place, statue still for only seconds. And then, the opening notes, the whisper of strings, ring out, and Sua springs into motion.
And like every time before, Mizi cannot look away from Sua as she spins, a snowflake in motion, as she jumps and throws her ribbon and catches it with ease, as she pulls her foot above her head like it’s nothing. She flits around the mat like some sort of fae, graceful and a little terrifying in her beauty. She’s always been incredible, a natural on this stage, but there’s something in her eyes now, as she focuses on every step and twirl, something that Mizi doesn’t recognize but wants to, so badly. It burns in her as Sua hits the final steps of her routine, tossing her ribbon in a high arc above her, dancing from one edge of the mat to the other, before falling to the ground, reaching out to retake her ribbon from gravity, swirling it above her hand before dropping her hands, entangling herself in silver.
The string orchestra fades away, and for one beat, everything is silent. And then the crowd roars to life, screaming her name, cheering as the camera looks away from Sua to show her teammates smiling and clapping for her. The commentator begins to speak again, praising her routine, noting the technical skills she displayed, but Mizi—
Mizi watches, still and achingly hollow, as the camera pans back to Sua, lying still on the mat, her chest heaving. Her eyes are closed, and as Mizi stares, she swears she sees Sua whisper something, lips moving faintly, before rising to her feet. She waves politely at the crowd, who all shout her name louder and louder as Sua rejoins her teammates. One of them whispers something in her ear, and Sua glances at her, a soft look of surprise overtaking her face. Another girl places a jacket over Sua’s shoulders, and Sua smiles in return saying something that Mizi can’t hear, and she feels her nails dig into her palms, knows she’s breaking skin, knows she’ll probably leave bruises that will hurt when she picks her racket back up, but can’t stop herself, even as Sua settles into a chair, reaching for her bag—
Attached to the bag is a little white keychain. A misshapen bunny, with ears far too big for its body, a little off color, clearly old and well-loved, and so out of place beside Sua’s perfect costume and designer bag.
Mizi had gifted it to her years ago, had won it for her in an arcade on one of the rare nights both of them were free, no practice, no games, no competitions, just the two of them, treasured peace. Sua had spotted the little bunny through the crane machine’s glass and stopped to point it out to Mizi, who had instantly dropped all her pocket change into the machine to win it for her, encouraged by Sua’s giggles when she missed and cursed under her breath. When she finally earned her prize, she had spun to face Sua, beaming, holding out the plushie to her. A good luck charm, she’d announced. For when she couldn’t make it to Sua’s competitions, which was becoming more and more common as Mizi advanced through her own brackets.
Now, Mizi wants to scream, throw something at the TV, shatter the perfect scene before her. She wants to cry until she’s dehydrated and curl up under her blanket and never see the light of day again. Instead, she just keeps staring. She should be there. She should be running down from the stands, out of breath, bouquet in hands, spilling flowers across the stands as she races to Sua, too caught up in the other woman to hear the shouts from the other spectators, from her coach and teammates. She should pull Sua close to her heart, crushing the flowers between them as she twirls Sua in her arms. If she is lucky, Sua would laugh, throwing her head back in joy, smiling down at Mizi, soft and real. Sua would rest her hands on Mizi’s shoulders, and in front of the entire world, she would let Mizi kiss her.
But Mizi is not, and it’s no one’s fault but her own. If only she hadn’t pushed, if only she had just let things happen, if only she had swallowed down her tongue like every other time, maybe—
As the camera turns to watch the next gymnast, Mizi’s body finally unfreezes, reaching for the remote and shutting down the TV. Later, she will learn that Sua placed fifth for hoop and third for ribbon. She’ll witness Sua take home the bronze, her very first Olympic medal, not by her side but through a news article: Sua photographed holding her prize up, glittering in the warm Los Angeles light. For a brief moment, Mizi will be caught up in glee, pride swelling in her heart; Sua, incredible, impossible Sua, finally showing the world how amazing she is. Mizi will reach for her phone, open their chat, and begin to type before she sees the last message she’d sent, ‘I’ll see you after the ceremony, I have a gift for you! She'll see the purple heart Sua had sent as a reply, the message dated over a year ago. And then the mess in her heart will crawl back in. She’ll delete the text.
(She’ll hope that, despite everything, Sua will still know.)
But for now, Mizi throws away her ice cream tub. She pulls back her hair and finds her headphones and laces up her best running shoes. She’ll step outside for the first time in three days, the summer heat burning down on her back. She’ll press play, and she’ll run, run until her legs are sore and her lungs ache and she remembers how to breathe again.
Mizi promised her that they would get gold. Sua, with her bronze medal in hand, is already chasing that dream, making it a reality. And despite it all, Mizi cannot bear to let her down. In four years, she’ll have her shot. And maybe, with a gold medal between her palms, she can be worthy of Sua again.
Until then, she gets back to work.