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MEGAN
The thing about being in a girl group is that personal space becomes a theoretical concept rather than an actual reality.
Megan's learned this the hard way over the past twenty-three months — twenty-three months of squeezing into dressing rooms the size of shoe boxes, of sleeping on the floor of airports where someone is always snoring (it's Manon, always Manon, though she denies it with the conviction of a lawyer defending a murder case), of existing in each other's pockets so thoroughly that Megan can't remember the last time she went to the bathroom without someone calling after her to ask where she’s going.
So really, she should be used to it by now.
Should be immune to the sight of Yoonchae sprawled across the practice room floor during breaks, all long limbs and loose joints, like a marionette with cut strings. Desensitized to the sound of her laugh — the real one, not the camera-ready one — that starts low in her chest and bubbles up into bright, uncontained spillage, like champagne fizzing over the rim of a glass, or sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Uncaring about the precise shade of Yoonchae's hair today (dark brown with hints of auburn under the studio lights, pulled back in a ponytail that's slowly unraveling because Yoonchae has a habit of running her hands through it when she's concentrating).
Thing is: Megan is absolutely not immune to any of it.
She’s also pretty sure everyone has noticed.
“You're staring again,” Sophia murmurs, not even looking up from where she's stretching in the corner. She’s folding herself practically in half, forehead to knees, and Megan cringes every time she chances a glance. Seriously, how does Sophia do that?
“I'm not staring,” Megan lies. She’s very much staring. She’s been staring for the past five minutes while pretending to scroll through her phone, watching Yoonchae work through the new choreography with their instructor. “I'm just...observing. For educational purposes. I have to learn the choreo too, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Sophia finally looks up, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly knowing way. “Educational purposes. Is that what we're calling it now?”
“Yes.” Megan nods with all the defensiveness of someone who knows they’re absolutely full of shit. “Educational. Observational. Choreo-graphical —”
“That's not a word.”
“It is now. I just made it one.”
Sophia snorts, returning to her stretch with a shake of her head. Her spine curves impossibly, and Megan turns away before she can think too hard about human anatomy and how Sophia is clearly not fully human but some kind of advanced…pretzel species.
Across the room, Yoonchae laughs at something their choreographer says, and Megan's eyes snap back like they're on a rubber band.
Yoonchae.
Yoonchae.
Yoonchae.
Her name loops in Megan's head like a song stuck on repeat, like the chorus of their debut track (on cue, she starts to hear the thrumming beat and ohhhh we-ee-ee ain’t flexin babe, we do what we do — ugh, it’s stuck again. At this point, it’d be there for life, like she’s a prisoner punished with an eternal, mind-numbing soundtrack instead of actual jail time. Put it on her gravestone: HERE LIES MEGAN SKIENDIEL. SHIT LIFE. DEATH BY DEBUT), which she hadn’t escaped for six months straight.
Except this is worse — so much worse — because at least with the debut track, she could eventually change the station. There is no station-changing when it comes to Yoonchae.
There's only: Yoonchae stretching her arms overhead, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of stomach. Yoonchae tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. Yoonchae flashing her a quick smile in-between song changes. Yoonchae biting her lip, leaving a small indent Megan can see even from fifteen feet away, because she's memorized the exact shape of Yoonchae's mouth and could probably sculpt it from clay if anyone asked — no one’s done that, which is for the best, because that would require explaining why she's spent four hundred plus hours studying the curve of her member's lips.
“Okay, let's run it again from the top!” The choreographer claps twice. “Megan, you're up.”
Shit.
Dilemma of the day: what does Megan do when, hypothetically of course, a pure hypothetical, she accidentally spent the entirety of practice staring at her bandmate instead of, say, actually learning the choreography she is paid money to perform? She’s choreo-gra-fucked.
Megan scrambles to her feet, phone clattering to the floor with an uncomfortably loud bang, one that has Sophia wincing and her muttering out a quick “Sorry.” She scoops it up, shoves it in the pocket of her sweatpants, and tries to remember literally anything about the choreography they've been taught for the past two hours.
See, Megan's a good dancer. Not the best in the group — Dani’s secured that spot since Dream Academy days — but solid. Reliable. She picks up choreo fast, has good rhythm, and can freestyle when needed. Fun facts with Megan: she’d put that on her application, actually, all those years ago. Her application to be a Dream Academy participant. Adept at freestyling. Megan was not, in fact, adept at freestyling. But life is full of exaggerations, and her humble ego deemed herself good enough. She was in the group now, anyway, so…
But right now, standing in the center of the practice room with Yoonchae's eyes on her — gaze weighted enough to feel like a palm pressed to her back — Megan's brain empties out. Blank. A void. Not a single, coherent thought outside of Yoonchae is watching. It snugly slots itself into the forefront of her brain, until the observation is the only thing taking up space. Oh God, Yoonchae is watching. Watching Megan. Watching her uselessly stand there like deadweight. A malfunctioning Roomba. Oh God.
The music starts.
Haven’t you heard? I’m the internet girl.
Muscle memory, thank fuck, kicks in.
Her body moves through the eight-count, arms sharp and footwork clean. She's done this routine enough times that it's embedded itself in her nervous system, which is good, because her conscious mind is otherwise occupied with the knowledge that Yoonchae is standing three feet away, mirroring the choreo.
Eat zucchini, eat zucchini
Eat zucchini, eat zucchini
Do you read me? Like the emoji?
I want you, I want you, I want you
(She’s done a fact of the day, so here’s a secret of the day — hearing Dani’s voice, charming as usual, because the Heavens like to fuck with Megan, sing I want you, is akin to a bullet to the chest. Or something just as bad, like, watching a dog drown in the ocean. Said dog is Megan. Dani is the ocean).
Yoonchae’s hand almost touches hers during the second verse transition, close enough that Megan can feel the displacement of air between their fingers. Not like she’s paying attention to the distance between them. She’s just. Noticing.
Focus, she tells herself. Focus focus focus.
She fails. Amazingly. All it takes is one glance, one singular moment where she allows her eyes to wander to Yoonchae, and her mind becomes nothing more than a Yoonchae-fact-vessel. Yoonchae's wearing a black sports bra today, and it makes her collarbones appear sharp enough to cut glass. Megan wants to test it. See if it’d cut her. Then nearly slaps herself in the face for thinking that.
Haven’t you heard? I’m the internet girl
Yeah, it isn’t my fault that it’s always my turn
What’s the word? What’s the word? I’m the internet girl
Ten out of ten, yes, not maybe
That’s just how my momma made me
The pre-chorus hits, and suddenly Yoonchae is right there beside her.
They share this part, curse their choreographers, meaning the three feet barrier they’d previously had is completely decimated. Every shift of her body has their shoulders nearly brushing, and Megan can feel the heat radiating off of Yoonchae, flushed from exertion. This close, Megan has a golden view of Yoonchae's jaw clenching, the muscle flexing beneath skin dewy with sweat.
This is fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.
Yoonchae’s neck has a single bead of sweat trailing down. Momentarily, jealousy ignites in Megan at the mere thought that anyone in this room could glance over and witness this beautiful sight.
It’s hard to watch, I hear
I’m getting out of here
Yoonchae's ponytail is swinging, following the beat the speakers drone out. It’s matching the rhythm better than Megan is, with her attention waning from the song the longer she indulges in Yoonchae. Yoonchae's breathing hard now, chest rising and falling, bordering a full-on pant. It’s a sweet sound. A…very sweet one. Megan’s mouth goes dry listening to it. It’s sweet enough that she has to actively stop herself from wondering what other contexts might draw those same breathless little exhales from Yoonchae's lips. God, Megan’s gross. There’s a small sheen of sweat stuck to her forehead that catches the overhead light and —
Megan's foot slips.
It’s barely noticeable, a half-second delay, but enough to throw her off balance. Her training years demanded perfection, and it’s become a thorn in her side, an unrelenting habit Megan can’t get rid of. It’s dumb. She’d been so distracted by Yoonchae, and fuck. It’s the same stupid mistake that’d happened at Lollapalooza; Megan had tripped during the Gabriela dance break, and while Manon had assured her for, like, two hours straight, that not a soul had seen, Megan hadn’t forgiven herself for it. Couldn’t forgive herself for it.
Because here’s the thing, the icing on the cake, the cherry on top, the utterly shameful secret she can’t tell anyone: at Lollapalooza, Megan had let herself be greedy. Curiosity piqued, she’d turned and allowed herself to admire Yoonchae’s keen ability to shine on stage. Yoonchae had been…glorious. There was no way to describe it, no other appropriate word for the grace and prowess she’d shown on that stage. She’d fucking owned it. Megan had been mesmerized, caught in the gravitational pull of her. All that pre-show anxiety washed away, replaced with an uncontrollable excitement, ready to end the show and tell Yoonchae how awesome she’d performed.
And then Megan fumbled. Slipped. During the most important part of the song. The special part they’d added specifically for performances like this. For things as big as goddamn Lollapalooza. And, fuck, they’re prepping for this tour that’s only a few days away, and she’s still making mistakes like this? Tripping because of pretty girls? Can’t she be smart, for once? Can’t Megan be better?
Her slip doesn’t go unnoticed. “Megan, you’re off count. Let’s go again. Come on, girls,” their choreographer says, punctuating his words with a loud clap. He continues with some motivational spew that Megan half-tunes out. She’s registering the words, can tell it’s something along the lines of you got this! and tour is so soon and don’t stress, but her mind’s already gone somewhere else.
Somewhere else being Yoonchae. Again. Inevitably. All roads lead to her, or whatever Dorothy said. For a mere second, Yoonchae’s eyes flicker toward Megan's. She does a quick hand gesture that Megan instantly knows is meant to make fun of their choreographer’s sorry attempt at public speaking.
Megan has to hide the grin threatening to surface. It feels like a win — it being the knowledge that Yoonchae, who could’ve looked at Sophia, could’ve tapped Lara (who stands beside her, making her frankly the easiest person to grab the attention of; then again, Megan’s attention is always on Yoonchae), could’ve chosen anyone, wanted to include her in some kind of joke. A joke that only the two of them were privy to.
Their joke. Their joke. Her’s and Yoonchae’s, only.
“— Megan? Megan?” The choreographer snaps his fingers in her face, and she blinks in shock. Oh. Right. She’s in rehearsal. For a tour. A tour that’s…what? Five days away? Still, the only thing Megan finds herself feeling proud about is the fact that Yoonchae chose her. Mayor of Pathetic Capital Central speaking, My name is Megan and I can’t stop looking at my groupmate. “Try to keep yourself stable this time, m’kay?”
"Sorry," Megan gasps, trying to catch her breath even though it’s been a solid five minutes since they practiced the dance. She’s winded for an entirely different reason — their joke, their joke, their joke — but nobody needs to know that. “Sorry, I’ve got it.”
Their choreographer lets out a skeptical hum. “Alright, running time!”
“Yeah, hah, yep!” It's code word for please give her another chance to humiliate herself while Yoonchae watches.
They run it again.
And again.
And again, until Megan’s shirt is certifiably ruined by sweat and she’s pretty sure she’s going to collapse. On the bright side, she’s stopped thinking about Yoonchae long enough to actually execute the moves. Small victories.
“Better,” their choreographer announces, before waving them away. “Take five, then we’ll clean the bridge section.”
Megan nosedives for a water bottle, chugging to her heart’s content. When her lungs start feeling like she's been sitting underwater for too long, she takes it as a cue to stop.
Stopping, as it turns out, is a bad, bad idea.
Because right next to her is…Yoonchae.
Oh no.
She’s also attacking her water bottle, the elixir of life for run-down girl group members, but it’s done in a far more graceful and, well, in Megan’s completely unbiased, objective opinion, attractive manner.
Her ponytail’s pulled higher, exposing the full length of her neck, which means, lucky her, Megan’s in clear view of every gulp and movement Yoonchae’s throat makes. Is she trying to kill Megan?
Her throat moves in these slow, deliberate waves — each swallow tracing down like a heartbeat Megan can see. The muscles flex, tighten, release, and repeat. There’s something hypnotic about it, the way her skin catches the light with every motion, like the smallest movement in the world just got magnified. Megan can’t look away. It’s embarrassing, how she loses her bearing over something as mundane as someone drinking water, but it’s Yoonchae, and Yoonchae’s secret weapon is making her lose her cool.
Megan swallows hard, as if that’ll make it stop, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes her more aware — of how her own throat suddenly feels dry again, despite the fact that she just drank enough water to fill a bath tub, how stupidly hot it is that Yoonchae doesn’t even notice what she’s doing. She’s just there, throat moving, neck shining, completely unaware she’s ruining Megan’s composure in real time.
Or maybe she is. Yoonchae’s evil like that.
Yoonchae finally caps the bottle. Just when Megan thinks her misery is over, she walks closer. Oh no. Oh no. Demon. Stay away, demon. Not today, Satan. Please, seriously, not today.
Nobody hears her pleas.
“Hey,” Yoonchae starts, tapping her finger on Megan’s shoulder, as if to remind her that she’s there. No need for a reminder, Sherlock. Megan’s pretty hyperaware of that face. Yoonchae’s hand is a bit wet from her bottle’s condensation, but simultaneously sticky from her earlier sweating. It leaves a weird feeling on her shoulder — something she’d typically hate. Megan finds herself not minding, partially because it’s Yoonchae's hand and partially because…because…well, it’s Yoonchae’s hand. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.”
Straight to it. Never any tact with Yoonchae.
“Me? Distracted? Me? Megan? Skiendiel? No. Never. I'm the least distracted person here.” Megan's mouth is running without permission from her brain again, which happens approximately 87% of the time around Yoonchae. “I'm like, hyper-focused. Laser-focused. If focus was an Olympic sport I'd be —”
“Megan,” Yoonchae interrupts, lips curved into that small, private smile that makes Megan want to do something stupid, like kiss her, or write songs about her, or both. The answer’s always both. “You can just say yes, you know.”
“Yes,” Megan admits, deflating. “Maybe. Possible. Perchance —” Yoonchae gives her a confused little look at that one. Which, wow. Lack of culture, much? Megan will most definitely be showing her that essay soon. She has it memorized, actually. Probably better than she has this choreo down. Could recite it right now, to Yoonchae. Everyone knows Mario is cool as fuck… “— Mario exhibits experience by crushing turts all day.” Megan finishes, because she has a problem where her thoughts go one direction and her vocal chords unconsciously follow.
“What?”
“Um,” Megan says. Eloquent. “Ignore that last part.”
Yoonchae kindly follows her advice. “So…what’s on your mind?”
Megan could be honest. You. You you you you you. You're on my mind, Yoonchae. You're always on my mind. I think about you so much it's probably classified as a medical condition at this point. YTD. Yoonchae Thinking Disorder. I've mentally composed approximately two-hundred and eighty-seven different love confessions, ranging from texts to in-person conversations to a banner on an airplane to a simple love note signed Anonymous, and deleted them all. I have a folder on my phone labeled "practice room" that's solely photos of you dancing. I have another one labeled “<3” filled with your Weverse and Instagram photos. Another one labeled “<33 FOR MEGAN” to memorialize the photos you’ve privately sent to me and never posted. I'm obsessed with you in a way that would be genuinely concerning if anyone found out.
“Just tired,” Megan says instead, because she's a cowardly coward who can’t do anything but be a coward. “Didn't sleep well last night.”
Yoonchae's expression shifts into concern. Megan instantly feels guilty because, who the hell does she think she is, making Yoonchae feel concerned? She doesn’t deserve that. But Yoonchae’s kindness is unlimited, and she reaches out, brushing Megan's arm — a brief point of contact, fingers on forearm, maybe three seconds total — and her entire nervous system lights up like a fucking Christmas tree.
“You should rest more,” Yoonchae adds, a little quieter, “Our tour starts next week. We can’t have you passing out on stage.”
Megan pretends that when Yoonchae says we, she really means I. As in, Yoonchae can’t have Megan passing out on stage. As in, Yoonchae worries about Megan. As in, Megan matters to Yoonchae.
“I won't pass out.” Probably. Maybe. The odds are honestly 50/50 at this point, but that has less to do with exhaustion and more to do with the way Yoonchae is looking at her right now, all soft eyes and genuine concern, like she actually cares. Like Megan is someone worth caring about. Like Megan is more than a group member to her. Fuck. It’s all she wants and all she can’t have.
“Promise?” And because Yoonchae is Yoonchae, she holds out her pinky. Megan had taught her that. A pinky promise. It’s become their thing too. Megan thinks she’d die if she saw anyone else make a pinky promise with her Yoonchae.
Megan links their pinkies. The contact is jolting, in the best way possible. Like having three gallons of coffee. Hey, Megan thinks, deprecatingly, who needs caffeine when you're hopelessly in love with your group member?
“Promise.”
Yoonchae lets go of her pinky first, moving to squeeze her shoulder. Then it’s gone, and Yoonchae is gone too, heading back to her position. Megan’s stuck in place, missing the prior contact. Mourning it. Already negotiating her left kidney on the black market in the off-chance of having it back.
This is pathetic. She's pathetic. She needs to get a grip.
“Okay, break's over!” their choreographer claps again, and everyone groans but shuffles back to the center of the room. "Bridge section, let's go. And Megan —” She’s pinned with a look. Megan feels her face burning red. “Stay on count this time.”
“Yes, sir,” Megan salutes, because joking is what she does best. She’s already the comedic relief to the fans — oh, lookie here, the one who can’t do anything, the dyslexic, allergic to this, this, and that, the pre-diabatic…and so on, the list endless — so she might as well be the comedic reliefs to her groupmates too. She counts it a success when Lara giggles and the choreographer sighs into his palm. It’s a personal win too, because Megan’s now managed to stop staring at Yoonchae for five consecutive seconds, but that’s not something she can say out loud.
The rest of practice blurs, filled with eight-counts and corrections and Megan determinedly not thinking about the shape of Yoonchae's hands (bigger than hers, only slightly, but it’s there) or the sound of her laugh (quieter than Megan’s, but so sweet it’s akin to eating cotton candy), or the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles (she doesn’t have whisker dimples like Megan does, but it’s a crowd pleaser anyway). She doesn't think about any of it. She's a professional. She's focused.
Totally, totally focused.
The thing about their post-practice routine is that it started accidentally and became sacred.
It was three months into Katseye’s creation, back when they were still figuring each other out, still learning who took the longest showers (Manon), and who stress-cleaned at 2 AM (Sophia), and who would eat literally anything put in front of them (Dani, no contest). Megan had been starving after a particularly brutal practice, and Yoonchae had suggested they grab food together before heading back to the apartments. A bonding activity, she’d put it.
Just the two of them.
And Megan is Megan, so why wouldn’t she say yes?
It should've been nothing.
A casual, one-time hangout.
Except they did it again the next week. And the week after that. And suddenly it was their thing, this unspoken agreement that after Thursday practices they'd find a restaurant and decompress together.
And it was just theirs. No group members intruding on Megan’s time with Yoonchae, no cameras suspecting anything out of the norm (they were groupmates; it was quite literally expected that they’d go out to eat together), no managers yelling at them to stick to a script.
Now, twenty-three months into their group’s creation, Megan would rather skip breathing or take a long, long trip to Hell than skip their Thursday dinners. It’s embarrassing, quite honestly so, how she plans her entire week around them. She has to make her doctor’s appointment on Tuesday, so it doesn’t interfere with their time. Oh, and don’t forget about that extra practice their managers wanted her to get — just can’t be on Thursday. Megan’s texts start looking like: I’m busy Thursday. Thursday’s my busy day. Can’t do Thursdays. Simultaneously, her brain plans the perfect day. A mental list of restaurants they haven’t tried yet, of cuisines Yoonchae hasn’t touched (the price of growing up in Korea). Back-up choices for the week in case their first choice is suddenly closed on Thursday. Conversation topics saved in her notes app for when her brain inevitably keels over and dies from being alone with Yoonchae for extended periods.
So…she’s maybe a little obsessed with it.
Yoonchae’s been missing home lately, and Megan’s a sucker for pleasing her, so it comes as no surprise to absolutely anyone when they end up at a hole-in-the-wall Korean place, tucked between a laundromat and convenience store, hidden from the world. It’s the small mom-and-pop restaurant that doesn’t show up on Google Maps, has exactly six tables, and a bathroom that requires a key to unlock it.
Megan loves it. More importantly, Yoonchae loves it, and anything Yoonchae loves automatically ranks in Megan’s favorite things in the world.
“Order whatever,” is the first thing that leaves Yoonchae’s mouth. She says this every time. The truth of the matter is that Megan orders the same thing as Yoonchae so she can have double portions. Yoonchae needs it, okay? She’s tall, taller than Megan. Admittedly, it’s a thought that, at times, leaves her head heady and boiling. But, so not the point. Not the point whatsoever. It does not matter how much her groupmate’s height affects her. Groupmate, Megan repeats like a mantra. Groupmate groupmate groupmate. The point is that taller individuals require more energy (even if the difference between herself and said taller individual is 3 miniscule centimeters) and Megan will gladly play the sacrificial lamb if it’s to help Yoonchae.
Yoonchae’s scanning the menu, eyebrows furrowed, murmuring dishes out loud every so often as if to taste the word. Another truth of the matter: Yoonchae’s a creature of habit. Her comfort dish is kimchi jjigae, because her mom used to make it for her when she was younger, and there’s nothing in the world that'll stop her from getting that at a Korean restaurant. Rain or shine, kimchi jjigae will be eaten. With extra tofu and a side of pickled radish, because Megan likes to know Yoonchae’s specific order. Just in case. Also so she can copy it.
“You could try something new,” Megan suggests, but it’s really just to break the silence. Yoonchae won't try something new. Yoonchae will get the kimchi jjigae. Megan will get the kimchi jjigae. This is how it works. This is how it's always worked. Megan wouldn’t change it for the world.
“I could,” Yoonchae agrees, still scanning the menu like she's actually considering it. Her eyes flick up, teasing. “You could also. Live a little, Megan. So much to discover. Dishes to try.”
“I am living. I'm living so much right now. I'm practically overflowing with life. Hell, the fountain of youth? Who’s she? Fake news, because that’s me.” Megan slumps in her chair, boneless with exhaustion. The extensive rehearsals they’ve been doing this week, all to prepare for the tour, have rendered her to a near-death state of mind. Her thighs are screaming at her. Tomorrow's going to be…so bad. “If I was living any harder I'd need to be hospitalized.”
“Very inspiring. You should put that on a motivational poster.”
She will, thank you very much. Sarcasm does nothing to hinder Megan. “I absolutely should. I'd make millions. I'd retire early and live on a beach somewhere eating nothing but ramen.”
“Solid life plan.”
“Solid life plan,” Megan repeats, mirroring the grin growing on Yoonchae’s face. She immediately has to look away because Yoonchae’s smile is just on the rough side of blinding and it’s too much. Too bright. Too everything. The overhead lights catch in her eyes and, for a second, Megan can picture Yoonchae’s face as a shining star in the sky. A shooting star. Megan makes a wish. Please — please just — please — she can’t finish it. No. It’s too honest. Deflect and move, people. “How are you not dying right now? We did the same practice.”
“I hydrated.” Yoonchae shrugs, like that explains everything. It explains nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Like, literally nothing.
“So did I!”
“Not enough, clearly.” Yoonchae doesn’t give her a chance to respond, already flagging down the waiter and ordering for both of them in rapid Korean. Megan catches maybe every third word — kimchi, tofu, something about radish — before giving up and letting the familiar sounds wash over her.
When the server leaves, Yoonchae turns back with her eyebrows raised. “If practice is leaving you this brain-dead, you’re going to give yourself brain damage on day one of tour.”
Unbidden, Megan’s mind goes to some TikTok she recently saw. Her For You Page has become less of for ‘her’ and more of for ‘holding her hostage and forcing her to integrate into the NFL fandom.’ Tua’s got, like, twelve head injuries in the bag and he’s still thriving. Well. Thriving as one of the worst quarterbacks in the league, but nevertheless persisting. He’s still a millionaire, anyway. And if Tua’s still up and at em, there’s no possibility of Megan being head damaged from mere dance practice. Just…slightly beat-down. The sheer ridiculousness of the Tua-Megan comparison causes a chuckle to rise up in her chest and she squashes it down. If Yoonchae catches her laughing, she’ll pout and question what’s so funny, and the NFL is an entire beast of American culture that Megan hasn’t yet introduced Yoonchae to, outside that one Rams game they and the girls were invited to. The concept of a quarterback doesn’t even live in her brain. For another day, she decides.
“Worth it.” Megan shoots back. “I’ll die doing what I love.”
“Very on-brand.”
“The most on-brand.” Megan slumps further into her chair, if that's even physically possible. She's basically melting into the wood at this point. “Put it on my gravestone. Here lies Megan Skiendiel. Young, awesome, beautiful, talented. Yadayada. She lived exactly how you'd expect. Died how you’d expect too.”
“Dramatic,” Yoonchae utters, mockingly placing a hand on her forehead, but there's fondness in her voice that makes Megan's chest tight. “Very you.”
“I contain multitudes. I'm complex. I'm —” Megan bonks her head. “— an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in sweatpants —” She sniffs her pants. Ignores the weird stare that Yoonchae gives her. Yikes. To the laundry these go. “— that desperately need washing.”
“Gross.”
“You're still sitting across from me, so what does that say about you?”
Yoonchae considers this, tilting her head. “That I have terrible taste in dinner companions?”
“Wow. Rude. I'm wounded. Stabbed. Betrayed.” Megan clutches at her chest like she's been shot. “And here I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends,” Yoonchae says, and it's so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it both lights a fire inside her and hurts worse than if she'd been joking. Because she loves being Yooonchae’s friend. She loves it more than anything in the world. She’s someone Yoonchae treasures, someone she cherishes beyond her wildest dreams. But. But. But, because there’s always a but. But, friends. Right. That's what they are. Friends who have Thursday dinners and inside jokes and —
Megan's spiraling thoughts are cracked to pieces when Yoonchae reaches across the table, completely casual, and picks up a strand of Megan's hair that's fallen forward over her shoulder.
And then.
And then she just.
Brings it to her mouth.
Megan's brain short-circuits. Flatlines. Dies. Her entire nervous system goes offline and then reboots in safe mode, struggling to process what's happening.
What the fuck.
What — the — what the — OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
Yoonchae is — she's just — there's hair, Megan's hair, between Yoonchae's lips, and she's sort of nibbling on it? Not biting, exactly, more like...pressing it against her mouth with this thoughtful expression, like Megan’s hair holds the keys to the universe.
Post-mind-breaking, only one coherent thought bubbles up in her head. Well, less a thought and more a fractured two-word attempt at a sentence. Yoonchae cat. Cat Yoonchae. Yoonchae meow. Meow meow meow meow meooooooow. Yoonchae. Uh-uh. Megan starts nodding her head, eyes wide and fingers twitching. Yes. Meow. Cat. Yoonchae. Sounds about right.
“Um,” Megan starts, because her vocabulary has been reduced to Yoonchae, cat, and meow. Like clockwork, the cycle begins anew: Yoonchae cat. Cat Yoonchae. She meows on my mother like a truck! She hisses at the mailman in systematic waves. Oooh! Systematic. Two syllables. No. Wait. Four syllables. Megan’s returning to normalcy. “The cat couldn’t hear but with the boot it could see.” On second thought…maybe not.
“It’s soft.”
“It's —” Megan's voice cracks. She clears her throat. Tries again. Yoonchae's still holding her hair. Still. Holding. Her. Hair. Between her lips. Against her lips. Near her lips. On her lips? Grammar's a fuck, and Megan gives up on it. “You literally told me last month that people who chew on hair are gross. You had a whole rant about it. Remember? When we did Truth Serum with Allure!”
“I'm not chewing it,” Yoonchae retorts, unbothered, the strand of Megan’s hair muffling her voice. Megan can’t help but picture Yoonchae meowing. Cat. Meoooooooow. “I'm not flossing with it or anything weird like that.”
“Then what are you doing?” Megan’s voice has reached a pitch only dogs can hear. Ha. There’s a joke in that. Megan, communicator of dogs, versus Yoonchae, communicator of cats. Cats have won this battle. And the war. And have taken over the entire nation. Dogs are being hunted and decimated one by one. Dear God, is hair doomed to be shaved off and made into a fur sweater?
“I'm just…” Yoonchae pauses, searching for the right words. Her eyes are earnest and genuine, like this is a completely reasonable thing to be doing. “Like. Putting it on my lips because it's soft. You see?” She demonstrates, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to demonstrate, pressing the strand of hair gently against her mouth. Back and forth. A tiny movement. “Soft.”
Megan stares. Her brain is currently attempting to process approximately seventeen different thoughts at once, all of them variations of: Yoonchae's lips are touching her hair. Yoonchae is touching something that's part of her with her mouth. This is fine. This is normal. She’s being so normal about this. Also, because she can’t help herself: cat. Meow. Yoonchae cat.
“It's wet with saliva now,” Megan finally manages, aiming for disgusted but landing somewhere closer to breathless and maybe a little bit insane. “But okay.”
“Your hair has been in your mouth before,” Yoonchae points out, still — still — holding onto it. “I've seen you. After dance practice, when it gets in your face.”
“That's different.”
“How?”
“Because —” Because it's Megan’s saliva, not Yoonchae’s, is not something Megan can say out loud without revealing the entire humiliating truth of her existence. “Because it just is. Science.”
“Science,” Yoonchae repeats, flat.
“Yes. Science. Biology. The — the bacteria composition is different or something. I don't know, I'm not a doctor.”
“You're so weird.”
“I'm weird?” Megan's voice pitches up. Dogs start to understand her again. Woof woof. She hopes they resonate with her misery. “You're literally playing with my hair like it's a — a —" A comfort object? A stress toy? A manifestation of Megan's wildest fantasies? "— a thing!" is what Megan settles on.
“It is a thing.” Yoonchae takes mercy on her, releasing the lock of hair and letting it fall back against Megan’s shoulder. There's probably saliva on it now. Yoonchae's saliva. On her hair. Megan is never washing this hair again. She's going to preserve it somehow, like people preserve four-leaf clovers in resin. Selfishly, part of her already misses having Yoonchae’s mouth on her hair. If Megan was, say, a dog, that’d be borderline mating, right? Marking territory? Like when a dog pees on the other doggie’s leg, but, in this case, chewing up Megan’s hair? Did Yoonchae just mark her? Is that what they are? Or. Okay. Well. Let her delusions thrive. “A soft thing.”
“This conversation is insane,” Megan mutters. Dani had forced her to read — AKA she’d bought the audiobook — Hamlet a few weeks ago. Something about Megan needing a taste of classic literature. O that this too too solid flesh would melt / Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Yeah Hamlet, Megan glumly thinks, she too wishes her solid flesh would melt. She says as much out loud: “O that this too too solid flesh would melt…alas…How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable…”
Yoonchae shoots her a bewildered stare, but doesn’t do much past that. She’s gotten far too used to the eccentricities of Megan. “You started it,” Yoonchae says primly, like she didn't just commit what Megan's pretty sure counts as an act of psychological warfare. Yoonchae? Angel? Katseye’s innocent baby? False news. Hell, she’s closer to a Fallen Angel than anything else. Evil. Villainous. Attempting to kill Megan. “With your gravestone talk.”
“That's not — that doesn't even — those two things are completely unrelated!”
“Are they, though? Are they really?”
“Yes!” In all fairness, Lara’s been influencing Megan lately.
Yoonchae rolls her eyes, disbelief painting her face. “Are you, like, Lara-ing out right now?”
“Can you really say that when half of our fandom credits your accent while speaking English to her?”
Yoonchae’s imminent retort is halted by the approach of a waiter. The food arrives, which is good, because it stops Megan from further embarrassing herself, by doing something like asking Yoonchae to play with her hair again.
Two bowls of kimchi jjigae, steam rising, extra tofu, pickled radish on the side.
Exactly as always.
Another thing: Yoonchae has a quirk. When she’s eating, that is.
Megan noticed it the first time they had their Thursday night dinners, in the same way she’s memorized every single one of Yoonchae’s habits. She’s not insane, or anything. Just aware. Of Yoonchae. And anything to do with Yoonchae.
Yoonchae eats fast. Not in a gross way. She’s…efficient. Spoon in hand, protective napkin equipped on lap, and the food starts chugging like a train.
Yoonchae will take big bites, barely pausing between them, and inevitably — inevitably — end up with food on her face.
Today it’s a bit of the jjigae’s broth, a small droplet clinging to the corner of her mouth.
Megan watches it. Tracks its movement. Drip drip drip, the rest of its buddies drop to the floor. One singular piece remains. Yoonchae takes another bite, oblivious.
“You have —” Megan points at her own face, mirroring where the droplet sits on Yoonchae’s face. “Something. Right there.”
Yoonchae wipes at the wrong side, mischief alight in her eyes. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Megan indulges it anyway. “Other side,” she tries, pointing more specifically.
Yoonchae swipes at her face again. Misses again.
This is also part of routine. The I-have-something-on-my-face-and-can’t-find-it dance they do at least once per meal. Megan could reach across and remove it herself, but wouldn’t that be weird? Odd? Not very friendship-y of them? Megan guesses that's part of the problem. The line between friendly and more has become so blurred that she can’t tell which side they stand on most days.
“Here, just —” Megan shifts without thinking this time, thumb swiping gently at the corner of Yoonchae’s mouth.
Her formerly crazy self was right. Yoonchae is a cat. Even her skin is soft, akin to the matted fur of a spoiled white Persian cat. One of those cats a billionaire owns. Said billionaire has four children but still chooses to state in his will that all his money is going to the cat. The cat being Yoonchae. Yoonchae’s going to be rich. Rich, with her drop-dead looks, and smooth, supple skin and. And. Yeah.
Yoonchae, for her part, has gone very still. Her eyes have widened slightly, lips parting enough that Megan can feel her short puffs of air against her thumb.
Oh.
Oh no.
The touch lasts two seconds. It feels like two hours.
Megan pulls back like she’s been burned, hand retreating to her lap. She grips her thigh hard enough to hurt. Which, frankly, isn’t that hard when it’s already aching from practice today but, still. Semantics. “Got it,” Megan says, voice strangled. “You’re good. All clean. Very clean. Extremely clean —”
“Thanks,” Yoonchae quietly cuts in.
Megan looks down at her own bowl and tries not to die. She’s not exactly eating, anyway, because she’s saving it for Yoonchae. Because, well, it’s Yoonchae’s favorite food. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do. Perfectly, incredibly normal.
They eat in silence for another thirty seconds before Yoonchae speaks again.
“You have rice,” she comments. Megan looks up to find her staring, a small smile playing on her face. “On your chin.”
Another thing: this game of theirs goes both ways.
Megan reaches up. Can’t find it. Doesn’t really try to find it. She can feel the grain, far too crumbly and prickly, attached to the square of her chin — it’d be an easy one-and-done to remove it. Megan complicates it anyway.
“Other side,” Yoonchae echoes, using Megan’s own words against her.
Megan reaches up and dusts her forehead.
And then Yoonchae’s letting out an exasperated sigh, leaning across the table, and oh God, this is the part where Megan struggles to act normal, where Megan’s heart starts pounding so fast it threatens to break several ribs.
But Yoonchae’s cruel. She doesn’t use her hand, instead sneakily grabbing a napkin and dabbing delicately at Megan’s chin, with all the concentration of an in-operation surgeon.
“There.” Yoonchae nods, sitting back with satisfaction. “Clean.”
Megan makes a sound that might be “thanks” or might be “evil” or might just be her soul leaving her body altogether. It’s hard to tell, at this point.
They go back to eating.
Yoonchae gets tofu on her chin this time. A small white cube that clings stubbornly below her bottom lip.
“You have —” Megan starts, but the words die in her throat because Yoonchae’s tongue darts out, pink and quick, catching the tofu and pulling it back into her mouth with a pleased (re: vile, evil, devious, devil devil devil devil) hum.
Her tongue is. A tongue. Yes. Yoonchae’s tongue is a tongue. Stellar things are happening in Megan’s brain right now. Thoughts that have never been thought before are being thunk. Yoonchae’s tongue is a tongue. She resists the urge to laugh hysterically; the waiter’s been giving them weird glances for the past twenty minutes, ever since Yoonchae’s hair-chewing act, and if Megan outs herself as a weirdo any further, they might actually be kicked out.
“What?” Yoonchae asks, noticing her staring. She bats her eyes innocently. Cat, Megan thinks, devastated. Evil cat.
“Nothing. I — nothing.”
It’s not nothing. It’s never nothing with Yoonchae. It’s everything, all the time, constantly, and Megan’s drowning in it.
More jjigae. More broth on Yoonchae’s face
It’s on her cheek, now, a small smear of red that stands out against her skin.
“Again?”
“Again.” Megan confirms.
Yoonchae tries to wipe it off. Her version of ‘wiping it off’ is letting her hand brush her ear.
Megan can never say no to indulging.
“Oh darny,” is all she utters out loud, already reaching across the table because she’s a masochist who enjoys torturing herself.
Her thumb catches the edge of the smear, wiping it away in one slow stroke. Yoonchae’s skin is warmer on her cheek than it was on the corner of her mouth or her chin. Not that Megan’s taking count, or anything. Megan’s thumb lingers for a second too long, hovering near the edge of her lips.
Their eyes meet.
Neither of them move.
The restaurant fades out — the clattering of dishes turns to nothingness, the murmur of other conversations crawls in a corner and dies, and the hiss of cooking in the kitchen slithers away.
It’s all white noise.
Yoonchae’s lips part. Just barely. Enough that Megan is once again greeted by the glorious sight of her tongue behind her teeth.
Megan’s thumb is still her. Still touching, still —
Fuck. She needs to move. She needs to stop staring at Yoonchae. It’s a game, it’s a game, it’s a fucking game. It doesn’t matter, certainly not to her, and most definitely not to Yoonchae.
A little fun between groupmates. That’s all. Nothing more.
She should do something. She should do literally anything other than what she does next, which is tug on Yoonchae’s collar and lean in. She can count her eyelashes.
Megan’s close enough to kiss her.
So she does.
It’s brief. Chaste. A mere press of lips, soft, uncertain, and over almost before it truly begins. It doesn’t matter, not really, when her lungs still feel like they’re being tied up and squeezed with barbed wire at how consuming their mouths conjoined feels. Megan’s the one who initiated it yet she gets the sense that she’s the only one combusting right now. She tastes kimchi and the faint sweetness that’s just Yoonchae. It’s like sugar. That one viral song starts blasting in her head, unhelpfully, because the world and everything holy in it hates her — like sugar on my tongue, on my tongue, on my tongue.
Yoonchae’s lips are softer than her skin. And there’s a hand on her arm, instinctive, pressing down on her, and Megan’s skin burns like nothing else. She tries to remember, fuck, what was she saying? What was Megan doing? What is Megan, without Yoonchae?
Her lips. Oh, right. Softer than anything Megan’s had the joy of touching. Like clouds. Like the Gates of Heaven.
She’s pathetic.
Reality comes crashing in. “Sorry,” Megan blurts out. “I — sorry, I don’t know why I —”
“It’s fine,” Yoonchae interrupts, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her voice is strained. Tight. She won’t look Megan in the eye. She’s a horrible, terrible person. “It’s…fine.”
It’s not fine.
They both know it’s not fine.
It’s not like this is their first time kissing. It’s just that. The first time, the very first time, Yoonchae had stared, eyes sparkling, and had asked Megan what they were. It was a chance. A chance to go further. Breach that line.
But Megan’s a coward, so she’d ground her teeth and gave a half-assed “Friends? It’s not, like, weird or anything. Friends kiss sometimes. It. It feels good. Y’know?”
And Yoonchae had looked a hair away from throttling her (marvelous display of self-control, really), before deflating.
The air had become as stilted and awkward then as it was now.
Megan looks down at her bowl. The jjigae has gone cold, congealed around the edges. She picks up her spoon anyway, stirring it absently. So much for giving it to Yoonchae.
She still tastes Yoonchae in her mouth, mixed with the blood seeping from her over-bitten tongue.
Fuck.
The thing is, Megan has an…issue. To say the least.
Megan created @yoonchaelouuuuuurver seven months ago, during a particularly brutal bout of insomnia at 3 AM. That’s her story anyway. She was tired, complete deadweight, and still, her mind refused to rest. So, it’s only fair that she made a burner account. She was bored. Bored and exhausted, and a bored and exhausted Megan is never a good thing.
It’s easier to blame it on the insomnia, anyway, and not her admittedly unhealthy obsession with Yoonchae.
There’d been this edit. Of Yoonchae, laughing during one of their Touch performances, hair falling in her face. She looked gorgeous. Like, the most beautiful thing Megan had ever witnessed. Had ever been graced with witnessing. And she’s a weak-willed creature, so Megan's thumb had hovered over the comment section for approximately forty-five seconds before she'd thought: fuck it.
She created the account. Made the username dedicated to Yoonchae, because who else would she dedicate it to? Puts six u’s, something she’d spent twenty minutes deliberating over, because Yoonchae’s birthday is December sixth and Megan is nothing if not pathetically romantic. Left a comment. Something innocuous like “she's sooooooo pretty omg.” Megan kept it cute, thanks! Just a new fan. New to Katseye. Oh, hi! Nice to meet you too? Who’d you say the youngest was again? Lol? Yoonchae? She should date the orange-haired one. Haha. Sorry. Joking! They have good chemistry!! Nothing special to see here, folks, just an average, run-of-the-mill burner account. Tale as old as time.
That should've been it. One comment. Done. Cathartic release achieved.
Except.
Except then she'd found another edit. And another. And suddenly she had seventeen tabs open, all Yoonchae edits, all begging for comments, and Megan's sleep-deprived brain had supplied nearly a billion thoughts that couldn’t stay inside her head.
So. She kept commenting.
The account had been simple. Safe. Anonymous. A place where Megan could be hopelessly, pathetically, infatuated — not in love, she’d die before she’d admit that — with her group member.
Right. Anyway. Her first comment had been innocent enough.
But then there was another edit. Yoonchae at their LA showcase, the lights catching her face just right. She looked like an angel. An angel of purest form, hair cascading down her shoulders and knuckles shining in the glow of the stage. Megan's fingers had moved without permission: “THE WAY SHE MOVES??? HELLO??? ohmygidiifffffffffffffff im not surviving this”
Which…wasn’t a bad comment. By any means. Perfectly normal.
And another. Yoonchae laughing during a Weverse live: “her laugh could cure diseases i swear. scientists need to study this. god im gonna sneak into her room and do it myself. mine mine mine mine. ALL U FUCKWARDS EDITING HER AND LIKING THESE EDITS NEED TO LEAVE HER ALONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHES MINE BITCHES SHES MINE SHES MINE FUCK OFF KILL YOURSELF KILL YOURSELF DIE DIEIDIEIEIDIEIEIIDEI”
So. It spiraled. Fast.
She's become...a presence in the Katseye stan spaces.
Not exactly a beloved one.
Under an edit of Yoonchae and Lara dancing together: “HANDS OFF BITCHHHH SHES NOT YOURS. EVERYONE NEEDS TO STOPPPPP SHIPPING THEM LARA DOESNT DESERVE HER. NOBODY DOES. ONLY ME. IM THE ONLY ONE WHO SEES HER FREAKS FREAKS FREAKS THE LOT OF YOU”
Under a compilation of Yoonchae's visuals: “you're all fake fans if you can't name the exact shade of brown her eyes turn in direct sunlight (it's amber with gold flecks and a ring of darker brown around the iris and sometimes green if she's wearing her emerald hoodie and the light hits just right and)”
Another fan had replied: “girl are you okay”
Megan, at 4 AM, fingers moving with manic energy: “NO IM NOT OKAY HOW CAN ANYONE BE OKAY WHEN SHE EXISTS. WHEN SHE BREATHES. WHEN SHE”
Someone else: “oomf this is a wendy's”
The thing is, Megan knows she has a problem. She's self-aware enough to recognize that @yoonchaelouuuuuurver has become something. A presence in the fandom. People know the account. Which is…bad. Because this was supposed to be safe. Anonymous. A way to blow off her Yoonchae-steam, no questions and no nonsense, so Megan could show up to practice the next day and focus. Except. It doesn’t work. She starts gaining traction, and her brain is still auto equipped to zone in on Yoonchae, and, well, everything’s shit.
People, like, hate her, or whatever. There are dedicated threads about blocking @yoonchaelouuuuuurver. About how the account is “ruining the fandom experience” and “making all Yoonchae stans look bad.” Which is so wrong. This fandom would be nothing without her. It should be nothing without her. She’s the only Yoonchae account, ever.
Some of her greatest hits include:
“i want to be the air yoonchae breathes. i want to be the water molecules on her tongue. i want to be absorbed into her bloodstream and circulate through her body forever. i want to be the neurons firing in her brain when she thinks. i want to BE her. i want to CONSUME her. i want to crawl inside her skin and live there”
Reply: “WHAT THE FUCK”
Another: “im calling the police”
“every time yoonchae blinks an angel gets its wings. every time she breathes a new star is born. every time she exists my life gains meaning. i would let her run me over with a truck. i would let her stab me. i would thank her for it. id say THANK YOU MOMMY PLEASE DO IT AGAIN”
Reply: “yoonchae is 17 you freak”
yoonchaelouuuuuurver: “IM 19 ITS LEGAL SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP”
“i need to be euthanized like a rabid dog because the thoughts i have about yoonchae are NOT normal. theyre NOT healthy. i need to be put down for the good of society. i need to be locked up. i need to be studied by scientists. i am FERAL. i am UNWELL. i would commit CRIMES”
Reply: “girl what crimes”
yoonchaelouuuuuurver: “wouldnt you like to know weather boy”
Another: “this account is proof we need to bring back bullying”
“just saw an edit of yoonchae tucking her hair behind her ear and i had to lay down on the floor of my bathroom and stare at the ceiling for 45 minutes. i think im having a medical emergency. i think my heart stopped. i think i died and came back to life. i need her carnally. i need her biblically. i need her in ways that would get me excommunicated from the church”
Reply: “MODS BAN THIS ACCOUNT”
Another: “ive seen yoonchaelouuuuuurver three times today and each time i want to die more”
“the way yoonchae says 'Megan' in that one live makes me feel VIOLENT. like i need to punch a wall. like i need to scream into the void. like i need to go outside and fight god himself. she doesnt even KNOW me but she says my name WAIT I MEAN HER MEMBERS NAME. MEGANS NAME. NOT MY NAME. IM NOT MEGAN. WHY WOULD I BE MEGAN. HAHAUDUEJJ BAKRKO WOOF WOOF WOOF” (She’d panicked here, okay? And panicking meant going dog-mode. Totally normal reaction).
Reply: “...did this person just accidentally imply theyre megan”
Another: “no theyre just delusional enough to think yoonchae is saying their name lmao”
Another: “average yoonchaelouuuuurver L”
“i know what underwear yoonchae was wearing in that airport photo from three months ago because i LOOKED. i ANALYZED. i ENHANCED the image. and before you say im a freak i KNOW im a freak. i KNOW im sick in the head. i KNOW i need help. but im TOO FAR GONE. there is NO COMING BACK FROM THIS IM GONNA BUY IT AND START SNIFFING IT SO I CAN PRETEND ITS HER UNDERWEAR”
Reply: “im going to be sick”
Another: “this is why god doesnt talk to us anymore”
Another: “genuinely reported this account for harassment bc what the actual fuck”
“yoonchae breathed in that last practice video and i swear to god i saw the meaning of life. i saw the secrets of the universe. i saw GOD. i am ENLIGHTENED. i am ASCENDING. i am TRANSCENDING my mortal form. i need to be institutionalized”
Reply: “we know”
“sometimes i think about yoonchae's hands and i have to take a walk around my block seventeen times until my feet bleed and im too tired to think anymore. her FINGERS. the way they MOVE. the way she HOLDS things. i need to be lobotomized. i need a full frontal lobotomy. take out the part of my brain that thinks about yoonchae (its all of it. youd have to remove my entire brain. im okay with this)”
Reply: “least insane yoonchaelouuuuuurver post”
“i would let yoonchae ruin my life. i would let her destroy me. i would let her tear me apart piece by piece and id say THANK YOU. id say HARDER. id say PLEASE DONT STOP. i am not well. i am not okay. i need an exorcism”
Reply: “the demons cant help you at this point”
Another: “yoonchaelouuuuuurver makes me embarrassed to be in this fandom”
Another: “ive blocked this account seventeen times and it still shows up on my timeline im going to lose my mind”
And. Well.
The thing is.
The other thing is.
Before Yoonchae, there was Dani.
Before @yoonchaelouuuuuurver, there was @strapmedani.
Megan doesn’t like to think about it. The account’s deleted now, scrubbed from existence, a forgotten page in a manuscript that used to be sacred.
But it did happen.
Because Megan is Megan, and when she’s overrun with desperate, consuming energy, she has to let it out in the most parasocial way possible.
And because Dani had been…Dani. What, like it’s hard? To get obsessed with her beauty? Her flow, her rhythm when dancing? The way she smiles at Megan, sunny and overflowing?
They’d had something. Sort of. A secret something. The kind of something that happened in the dark, in empty practice rooms at 2 AM when everyone else was asleep. When Megan would finally crawl under the covers, it’d be with lips bruised and her heart racing. Credited to the way Dani would press her against the wall and kiss her like she was dying of thirst and Megan was water.
It was theirs.
Dani's hands in her hair. Dani's mouth on her neck. Dani whispering "fuck, Megan" against her collarbone in a way that made Megan's entire body tremble. She craved that praise. Megan’s weak like that, so fucking weak, but…but…it’s Dani.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
The Dani thing was supposed to be — what? A learning experience? A trial run? The appetizer before the main course? Except Megan's stomach is still full from the appetizer and she can't even look at the main course without wanting to throw up.
The thing is: Dani had been good.
Not good in the way that Thursday dinners with Yoonchae are good, where Megan's stomach is stuck on a rollercoaster and she mentally snaps a photo of every smile thrown her way like she's on a museum tour. No. Dani had been good in a way that made Megan feel like she was burning from the inside out. All hands and heat and Dani's mouth on her neck, moaning, fuck, Megan, you're so — and other less-than-savory noises that Megan's brain refuses to replay because if she thinks about it too hard she'll combust right here in her bed and Sophia will have to explain to their managers why there's a Megan-shaped pile of ash on the mattress. And then she’ll get fired for being creepily obsessed with, not one, but two of her groupmates, and Megan’ll never have a music career again, and, and, and. And.
It doesn’t matter.
Because Dani had ended it.
Well.
No.
Megan had ended it. Technically. But only because Dani had basically ended it first by going on that live with Lara and Manon and saying — fuck, saying —
Megan's stomach twists just thinking about it. It’s not fair. Megan remembers seeing it, grin fading and chest aching. Like a child who’d just lost their access to candy, whining like a baby. It’s not fair. It's not fair. It’s not fair. In hindsight, the way she acted was…embarrassing.
All Dani had done was say "Stop the gay allegations, I'm straight."
Megan had treated it like the very syllables had burned her skin, until all that remained was red and scars.
Though, to be fair, she’d been emotional, and stupid, and it’d hit as harsh as a beat-down to the throat, followed by a salt pour on the still-bleeding area, before the wound was lit on fire for good measure. Or whatever. She’d been, like, really, seriously emotional, okay?
Dani had said it so casually. Laughing. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like she hadn't had her hands in Megan's hair two nights before that. Like those hands hadn’t dipped lower, drawing stars in Megan’s eyes. Like she hadn’t whispered mine against Megan’s collarbone, possessive and unyielding.
And…Megan is weak. Selfish. So she’d ended it that night. Sent a message that was probably too formal, too stiff, but what the fuck else was she supposed to say? Hey, so, that thing you said about being straight? Yeah, that kind of implies that the past four months of us fucking in empty practice rooms was what, exactly?
Megan had typed and deleted that message seventeen times before settling on: “we should stop. this thing we're doing. let's just be friends.”
Dani's response had come three minutes later. One word.
“ok”
And that had been it. The end. Four months condensed into two letters.
Megan had cried. Obviously. In full Megan fashion, regulating her emotions the way she does best, she'd shoved her face into a pillow and cried until her eyes were swollen. Loud enough that Lara had knocked on her door, peeking inside and asking if she was okay. Megan had lied, of course, and said she was fine, just tired, just stressed about the comeback.
That was back in May. May 4th. May the fourth be with you, Megan thinks, sardonically. It certainly hadn’t been with her.
Her guilty conscience will admit one truth: it’s why she’d been so quick to establish her and Yoonchae’s dynamic as friends. Because last time, she’d let Dani control the reigns, and had gotten hurt, fast. If she told Yoonchae they were just friends first, Megan would never again feel that pain. Would never again be someone’s…plaything. Toy.
And, yeah, it had been her fault too. Megan wasn’t exactly innocent. She’d let this kiss-and-not-kiss push-and-pull thing go on without a label for far longer than planned.
But…it hadn’t changed the fact that seeing Dani say that felt like drinking straight acid. Straight acid. Ha. Dani-ified acid. Ha. Coping. Coping. Coping.
And because she’s an extremely failing-to-cope coper, Megan opens her burner account, where she can say anything she wants, without consequence. Where she can be as desperate and pathetic as she wants.
Her timeline’s full of Yoonchae. It’s always full of Yoonchae.
It’s exactly how Megan likes it.
Because Yoonchae is puppy meets kitty love. Don’t get her wrong, it’s intense. It consumes her every bone, rendering her nothing but a Yoonchae-thought-machine. And it’s not like Megan doesn’t have…carnal. Opinions. When it comes to Yoonchae.
It’s still different from Dani’s, though.
Safer.
Megan likes safe.
Megan likes being wrapped in a warm blanket, hot chocolate mug equipped and a whipped cream mustache forming, laughing with Yoonchae about some inside joke that's only theirs.
Megan’s always had to share Dani with the rest of the world; Megan chooses to share Yoonchae.
Right at the top of her timeline is a new edit. Yoonchae at the VMAs, looking sickeningly beautiful. The caption agrees with Megan, some love-sick comment on how gorgeous Yoonchae is and how lucky everyone is to bear witness.
Megan instantly frowns. Because, no. She hates when other people look at Yoonchae. Hates when they think it's okay to call her pretty. Because she is, but that doesn’t mean anybody but her can say that. Yoonchae is Megan’s to call ravishing, irresistible, graceful, bewitching (cue the thousand other synonyms for beautiful that Megan could utilize in describing Yoonchae). Not anybody else. Hell, Yoonchae is Megan’s, and nobody else's.
In the edit, the one that Megan’s now watched for fifteen minutes, there’s a moment where Yoonchae turns her head and the camera catches the silver necklace at her throat.
It’s the one Megan gave her.
The one that had a sun pendant, because Yoonchae had once said, off-handedly, casually, like it hadn’t carved itself into Megan’s chest, that Megan reminded her of the sun.
God, she’s hers and Megan will be damned if some lowly editor thinks otherwise.
She’s typing before her brain can catch up, before the logical part of her brain — the one that’s kept her employed for twenty-three months — can intervene.
The words pour out like water from a dam, blood from a cauterized wound:
“its crazy how you act like im not real when i know the way you talk in your sleep. i know the rhythm of your breathing when you lie. i know what that necklace means and i know why you wore it here. my sun. you are so so gorgeous. fuck. all mine MINE. EVERYONE NEEDS TO STOP FUCKING POSTING ABOUT HER. SHES MINE.”
She hits post.
The button makes a soft sound, a whoosh that feels entirely too peaceful for the paragraph’s content.
She locks her phone. Tosses it onto her bed. Stares at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back, judgmental and white and utterly unhelpful. Megan tosses it a glare for good measure. The ceiling only keeps gazing. Rude, but also…nonchalant king. Sensei, Megan needs teaching in this field. Sensei, please help a gal pal out.
Her phone starts buzzing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again again again again again —
Megan's stomach drops. Falls through the floor, through the foundation, through the earth's crust, and lands somewhere near the molten core.
She knows that pattern. That's not the pattern of a few likes on a burner account post. That's the pattern of something viral. Something spreading. Something very, very bad.
Her hands are shaking when she picks up her phone.
Forty-seven notifications.
Sixty-two.
Eighty-nine.
The number keeps climbing, multiplying, reproducing, a digital virus that's going to kill her. Actually kill her. This is how Megan Skiendiel dies. Not on stage, not in a plane crash, not doing something noble or brave or even vaguely dignified.
No.
She's going to die because she posted her obsession with her group member on main.
On. Main.
Her actual account. @meganskiendiel. The verified one. With 4.3 million followers. The one that has her face as the profile picture. The one that's linked to every official Katseye account.
"No," Megan whispers. It comes out distant, detached, like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't currently experiencing a full-body system failure. "No no no, fuck, no no —"
She opens the app with fingers that refuse to cooperate, tapping three times before she manages it.
The post is there.
Right there.
At the top of her feed.
Posted two minutes ago.
1,504 likes, 420 comments, and it isn’t slowing down, no, on an exponential climb that Megan mourningly watches.
The room spins. Megan's vision blurs at the edges, tunneling, focusing only on those numbers that keep rising. Her chest is tight. Her lungs have forgotten their primary function. Breathing? Never heard of her. Breathing? Unnecessary. Not needed. Stupid, stupid human requirement. One she is forcibly stopping so she dies and doesn’t have to witness this moment.
She scrolls through the comments with mounting horror.
“MEGAN WHAT”
“girl are you OKAY……”
“HELLOOOO????”
“yoonchae and megan dating confirmed??????”
“this is either the most romantic thing ive ever seen or megan got hacked”
“THE WAY SHE TALKS IN HER SLEEP??? MEGAN???”
“all mine MEGAN SKIENDIEL WHAT THE FUCK”
“so…are they fucking?”
“MEICHAE IS FUCKING REAL BITCHES OH SHES JEALOUS AS HELLLLLLLLL”
Two comments leave her particularly horrified because, oh God:
“megan babe i think you meant to post this on your burner”
“WAIT IS MEGAN YOONCHAELOUUUUUURVER”
Something in Megan's chest cracks open. Fractures. Splinters into a thousand pieces that embed themselves in her lungs.
No.
No no no they can't know that they can't —
Her hands are moving again, shaking so badly she nearly drops her phone. She needs to delete it. Delete the post. Delete her account. Delete herself. Move to a remote island. Change her name. Fake her death.
But her thumb hovers over the delete button and won't press down.
Because.
Because.
There's a part of her — small, stupid, suicidal — that doesn't want to delete it.
That wants Yoonchae to see it.
That wants Yoonchae to know.
“Fuck,” Megan breathes. Her voice cracks. She ignores how pathetic it is, speaking to silence. She’s done enough things deemed ‘pathetic’ today. What’s one more? “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Megan bemoans, head falling into her hands.
She’s spiraling. Free falling. Correction: Megan wants to free-fall off a cliff. Sky-dive without the equipment! Such fun! Yay!
What if their managers see it? Scratch that, they most definitely have. It’s been three minutes. That’s enough for it to be full blasted on Twitter. But what if Yoonchae sees it? Her groupmates? Dani? Is this going to ruin everything? Fuck, another Megan mess-up. Just like the Lollapalooza dance break, just like that tiny voice crack she’d done in last week's London performance, just like…she’s so stupid, God. What if they kick her out of the group? What if Yoonchae hates her?
She needs help.
She needs damage control.
She needs —
Dani.
The thought arrives with perfect, horrible clarity.
Dani, who's always been good in a crisis. Dani, who’s got uncanny knowledge about social media management. Dani, who's seen Megan at her worst and somehow still tolerates her existence.
Dani, who Megan tries to never speak alone to. Not since…since…everything went down.
But Megan’s desperate, and a desperate Megan is a crazy one. She’s on her feet before she can second-guess it, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought has failed. Her legs are unsteady, trembling, but they carry her anyway. Down the hallway. Past the bathroom where she'd cried for three hours after ending things with Dani. To the door. Open the door. Take the elevator. Manon and Dani’s apartment is one below them.
Their front door is unlocked because they’ve never been the poster children for safety.
Dani’s room door is decidedly closed.
She knocks.
“Come in,” Dani's voice calls, muffled.
Megan's hand on the doorknob is clammy. Slick. It takes two tries to turn it.
Dani's sitting cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, probably working on choreography or watching dance videos like she does every night. Megan still remembers watching her analyze their instructors, back when their nights were consumed by each other.
She looks up when Megan enters, softening like beaten cheese. A smile twitches to her face before she can stop it because, heh, Dani as beaten cheese. Wisconsin’s pride, except she isn’t from Wisconsin, she’s from Atlanta, which is practically the other side of the globe but…listen, Megan needs some humor right now.
“Megan? It's almost midnight, what —”
Her mood dies as soon as the words leave Dani’s mouth. Because, right. She’s not here for fun. She’s here for a reason. A desperate reason, but a reason nonetheless.
“I fucked up.” The words burst out of Megan like they've been physically ejected. Her voice is too loud, too sharp, serrated at the edges. She tries not to wince. “I fucked up so bad. Dani, I — I need help. Please. I don't know what to do. I can't — I don't —”
She's pacing now, moving without meaning to, her feet tracing patterns on Dani's floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her hands are gesturing wildly, fingers splayed, grasping at air because there's nothing solid to hold onto.
Dani's expression transitions through several stages: confusion, concern, and then — when she glances at her own phone — understanding.
“Oh,” is all Dani utters out. “Oh, Megan.”
And that's when Megan knows it's already everywhere.
That's when she knows she's completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked.
“I need your help,” Megan blurts out, eyes pleading.
Another thing: Dani’s never actually said no to Megan. At least, not to her face. Megan had asked once, curious, why she always conceded. Your eyes are evilly brilliant. Makes me wanna say yes, every single time. Without fail. It’s been so long since she’s asked Dani for anything. After their…break-up not-break-up (they’d never been together after all), it felt too weird. She prays her charm still works. Prays something in Dani folds.
Dani blinks. “Okay.”
So, operation damage control, headed by Dani and Megan — Meizini, she’d once upon a time whisper, giggly and fond, head in the clouds and full of fantasies — begins.
DANIELA
Megan is being weird.
“Okay, but Megan’s like, always weird,” says Lara from her perch on the couch. She doesn’t look up from her phone to see Dani’s expression of exasperation, which only makes Dani roll her eyes.
“No, but. It’s like.” Dani is floundering. She doesn’t have the words to explain, doesn't have the means to express how she can just tell the difference between regular-weird Megan (see: Junko-posing on live (Megan had also been the one to explain that to her, seeing as they’d been on completely opposite sides of TikTok five years ago), announcing she’s allergic to cinnamon, pre-diabetic, and that she’d eaten a dog treat – all unbidden and spontaneous for the cameras, by the way – to her most recent habit of strictly wearing the same pair of jeans everywhere despite the plethora of Sriracha stains dotting both the front and butt fabric), and whatever is going on with her right now. “She’s… being weirder than normal.”
Wow. Okay, she is really not using her words to their greatest capability right now. Maybe she should finally resume working through the stack of books on her nightstand to build up her vocabulary again, because she seriously can’t think of any other way to describe Megan other than weird.
Choice of words aside, though, Dani knows it’s out of the ordinary. Because she knows Megan. Ever since the moment Megan had wrapped her in an enthusiastically rib-collapsing hug and all but declared their friendship in permanent black ink like the star tattoo sitting snug on her ribcage, Dani has grown accustomed to being privy to her on a deeper, soul-baring level. Of not just getting to know Megan’s sunshine outward smiles and laughter, but the reasons behind it as well, getting to be the reason for it, too.
Because Megan is her friend, plain and simple. And after so long of being in a group with other girls more or less her age, Dani has gotten comfortable with the idea of having best friends, who care about her as much as she cares about them. She now has the ability, the privilege, to say she has girl friends, a number she can count to the fullest on one hand. She knows what their cries sound like, their Wingstop orders, their snoring, their jewelry metal preferences, the smell of their sweat.
Okay. That last one’s nasty, but her point still stands. Hopes, dreams, insecurities, anxieties, wishes, desires — she’s bore witness to it all, surface level and bone deep nicks alike. Manon’s deep sensitivity, Sophia’s dedication bordering on neuroticism. Lara’s emotional wisdom, Yoonchae’s reserve that doesn’t necessarily entail shyness.
And Megan’s… Megan’s everything. Megan is earnest to the point of bloodshed, the way she wears her heart on her sleeve and lets her tongue run its course freely, seemingly without thought. But she is also introspective to the point of muteness, and sometimes Dani feels like she has to laugh, just to compensate for the sheer intensity of Megan’s pondering gaze.
More than that, though – Megan is one of the only people who truly gets Dani, sometimes. Who knows when Dani should push herself harder in the choreo, or to take a break and ice her fatigued muscles, like only another dancer could. Who knows what songs to play to cheer her up on quieter car rides back home after rough practices, like she has some affinity for the Spotify queue that’s linked to Dani’s emotional brainwaves. Who knows her lip combo and her favourite liner colour from Sephora, when she’s running low and she could use a new pen.
Megan has also traced her fingers between Dani’s lower vertebrae, weaving them like a snake between the ridges covered by even Dani’s lowest-waisted jeans. Megan has also pressed her mouth, wet and hot, lavishing bloody murder to Dani’s neck, eyes burning like something Dani had never seen before, to the point where she’d had to shut her own because it was too much to bear. Megan has also folded, pliant and soft beneath Dani’s fingers, bruised Dani’s skin with her teeth; held Dani close and whispered sweet nothings in her ear in a way that had taken her apart and rebirthed her like a phoenix, rising from the ash of her tangled sheets beneath the rays of early morning sunlight. The reason Megan’s the one constantly replenishing Dani’s lip liner supply is because she’s the one who’d pressed their lips together, smearing the colour off like she would have died if there was even a millimetre of space between them; because she knows the shape of Dani’s mouth like nothing else – no one else – ever has.
So Dani doesn’t really want to examine any further why it hurts, just a little bit, when Megan is being weird. Because Megan being weird means she’s not being her usual Megan self, and this means she’s shutting Dani out. Closing her off. Like she was once a window through which Dani was able to peer through effortlessly, all clear, shiny glass, but now she’s become clouded, fogged over.
And maybe it hurts a lot, actually. Because – no. She refuses to think about the text. She won’t think about it. Won’t reopen the hairline fracture of pure and searing hurt Megan’s words had hammered into her sternum so many months ago, after which she’d begun distancing herself from Dani as if they’d never shared fucking spit and breath and promises and whispers between them for four months straight.
Like it was nothing. Like it had meant nothing. Four months of Dani wondering if maybe, just maybe, she could have crossed some invisible, thin line, maybe breached the territory of something new with Megan. Absolutely fucking terrifying, no doubt, but not wrong. Different. New. Because Megan had always been grounding, reassuring, protective in the way she wrapped her arms around Dani, and Dani had always trusted her like it was as simple as breathing. So why not? Why not just take the plunge?
Dani had thought maybe the I’m straight comment on live could provide them with another layer of protection. A barrier of deniability, shelter from scrutiny while they dwelled in their own world and navigated it together. Maybe not the smoothest way to cover for them, but it was the only thing she could think of.
And then Dani’s phone had pinged with a text, and she’d felt her heart absolutely shatter in her throat.
But she’s fine. She’s over it now. It doesn’t matter. That was – months ago. Megan has moved on, regardless, so surely this isn’t about that. If she concentrates hard enough, she can look at Megan and the way her hair falls around her shoulders without remembering how it felt to comb her fingers through it.
After a couple more seconds, when Lara doesn’t say anything else and continues to scroll on Instagram reels, Dani sighs and turns around. The endless brainrot of the algorithm claiming yet another victim. Dani gets it, she does; she knows how it works. She knows it’s convincing. She just hadn’t really expected Lara, of all people, to be lured in by – she pauses, waiting to hear the sound of whatever it is she’s actually watching – people getting… crushed to death?
Dani turns around again to peer over the couch at Lara’s screen, because what. Lara’s snickering maniacally to herself at a video of a physics professor smashing a concrete block that’s been balanced on another person’s chest with a giant hammer.
It’s not even that funny, Dani thinks to herself.
She knows she’s just annoyed. Maybe on another day, under different circumstances, she would’ve laughed and rolled her eyes, called it stupid. But seriously, none of the girls have been in school for at least two years. If Lara wanted to watch someone getting pulverized in a feat of physics Dani will never understand, in this lifetime nor the next, she could just go watch a Marvel movie, or something. There’s literally that one guy with a big ass hammer, and Dani’s sure he must have smashed at least one person with it.
She bids Lara good night, gives her the standard ‘Text me when you’re back at yours’, then turns around once more to face the empty hallway that branches off towards her and Manon’s separate bedrooms. She’s sort of aimless for a moment, before she decides to just go back to her bed, where she’d been sitting restlessly for an hour until it had gotten to be too much and she’d had to get up and walk around.
The Megan issue, as she’d so poignantly coined it in her mind, had been nagging at her like an annoying, persistent buzzing in her mind all day, from the entire duration of practice, to the car ride back to the apartment where Lara had sat in shotgun and sang along to full volume R&B with Manon, up until now – hours past dinner, when her and Manon normally lazed around for a couple more hours before heading to bed. In more lenient times, they’d go out to party, or a club, or for dinner, but now that they’re so close to tour they’re all but eating, sleeping, and breathing practice. And they’re all wiped. Dani swears the other day she saw Sophia walk herself right into the ballet barres which had been pushed all the way into the side of the practice room, movement sluggish from exhaustion.
So, upon finding Lara – who’d come over to hang out for a bit, and had said she’d let herself out soon enough – sitting on their couch, Dani had figured she’d just ask her about it. After all, Lara and Megan were close, as well; they literally live with each other one floor up. If anyone that wasn’t Dani could figure it out, maybe Lara could.
Except, well. So much for Lara’s unconditional love and support. Clearly, hammers and the agonized cries of old men being crushed beneath them are more important than Dani’s issues. So that was a bust, she thinks sourly, dragging her feet.
She passes by Manon’s room, where the door is cracked open just enough for the soft yellow glow of Manon’s fairy lights to spill out. It’s quiet at first, and Dani assumes Manon has fallen asleep; she’s about to push the door open further to make her way inside and shut the lights when she hears it.
A giggle. So juvenile, so giddy, Dani has to do a double – no, a triple take. Did Manon just… giggle? Alone, in her bedroom, like a lovestruck schoolgirl?
She peers through the gap, looks around until her eyes land on Manon’s figure, lying on her stomach in bed with her back to the door. Her legs are crossed behind her at the ankles and she’s holding her phone, and she’s still giggling.
Dani squints. She’s on the phone with Sophia. FaceTime, actually.
Listen: Sophia is funny. Dani knows Sophia is funny; she’s laughed at enough of her witty quips to confirm this as fact.
Dani has also never honest-to-god giggled, kicked her feet, and blushed at any of Sophia’s jokes before. Which – yep, Dani makes visual confirmation that Manon’s legs are swinging at the knees, and she actually puts her head down at one point, shoulders shaking as Sophia’s tiny face grins with the force of a thousand suns onscreen.
Dani backs away. This night has been weird enough as it is, and she seriously does not have the energy to dwell on this any longer. At least the sound of Manon’s giggling isn’t audible from the hall; it might drive Dani up the walls if she listens to it for another second.
Back in her bed, buried beneath her comforter and her favourite stuffed animal resting beneath her chin in its comfort position, Dani stares at the ceiling and tries to let sleep overtake her.
But – it’s there again. The nagging. That incessant buzzing in her brain, the roaring of her blood, the persistent fly humming right beside her ear. Megan.
She doesn’t even know why she’s so bothered about it. Everyone has their ups and downs, their on and off days. There’d been this one week, as they’d been brainstorming the choreography for Gabriela, where the choreographers had asked Dani to improvise a little something with the hips, and she just hadn’t been able to move them properly. For the life of her, she couldn’t orient them in the way she’d been doing like it was second nature, like it was breathing, for as long as she’d been able to remember, and she’d had to fumblingly explain that – she didn’t know why, it just wasn't working. It had been devastating, actually; she’d gone home and cried for a few long hours into the night – but the next day, she’d been completely fine, up and at it with her natural fluidity and gracefulness again like nothing had happened. Again: on and off days.
So, realistically, this shouldn’t be any different, the Megan thing. Maybe Megan’s just tired, stressed, anxious, about tour. They all are. Sophia’s nails are practically bitten to the quick, and Dani knows she’s going to get an earful about it once they get them done in a few days’ time. Most of the time, Dani’s too tired herself to even spare the energy for one nervous thought, but she can still feel the nerves humming beneath her skin like an electric current.
Or maybe it’s – oh, and now Dani’s remembering again, the thought permeating through her muddled mind, taking shape like water freezing into something more tangible, more holdable, like ice. Maybe it’s the thing she’d approached her about the other day. The comment.
Honestly, Dani had brushed it off at first. Megan’s been on all corners of the internet since she’d been allowed on it (a little too early, Dani thinks – people use that one video of baby Megan drinking Sprite as a reaction meme all the time, which she knows because she’s been on TikTok just enough to see Megan’s adorable big eyes pop up in the comments several times; she’s just not too sure if that’s good, like, child safety internet policy. Then again, Dani supposes – her, Megan, Yoonchae, and Lara were all not-yet-adults and all but thrusted into the pitchforks and spears of the entire internet when the documentary had aired, so who’s she to speak, really?), so maybe Megan’s comment had remained somewhat floating within the realm of normalcy.
But – then Megan had dashed all the way down to Dani’s room, poignant agony in her expression scaring the shit out of her and nearly making her drop her computer on the floor, and there’d been pure and unadulterated panic shining in her wide eyes as she’d waited for Dani to pick up her own phone.
Oh, Megan, Dani had said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Oh, Megan, your hands and mouth work faster than your brain sometimes. And there had once been a time where Dani would have whispered just that, deep and sultry into the shell of Megan’s ear, but now, all she can feel is – is – pity? Sympathy? Because Megan had looked so crestfallen, so helpless, in a way that had made her seem so, so small, shrunken in the doorframe. So what else was Dani to do but to extend her help? Offer aid that Megan hasn’t come seeking from her, in what feels like forever? She’s never once said no.
And so, she had had to play damage control, for reasons she wasn’t entirely sure why were that serious in the first place, other than, like, issues with the social media management or whatever – but they also practically built their brand and popularity off the idea of authenticity and transparency online anyways, so. Tour is practically a week away; she figures practically anything can be swept under the rug under the guise of publicity.
And, okay, maybe Dani wouldn’t have said… anything about Yoonchae’s breathing, or her necklaces, necessarily, but it’s not like the general sentiment doesn’t ring true. Yoonchae is gorgeous, shaping up to be – if not already – devastatingly attractive; this isn’t exactly a secret. And Megan has her own way with words, her own way of expressing it. Her and Yoonchae are close, extremely so, so what big deal is it at all that Megan just says so? It’s not like any of Dani’s romance novels have never said anything similar, sort of. Kind of. She’s sure Tessa Bailey or someone had to have written something about sleep talking being endearing.
Dani’s head hurts. Too much thinking. Way, way too much thinking. She shifts over to her side, reaching out to flip her lamp shut and tuck her stuffie under her chin once more. She can worry about Megan another day; she’s used up her quota of thinking-time dedicated to her. The last coherent thought she has is that Megan should pay rent, for the amount of time and space she’s been occupying up there in Dani’s mind lately.
She’s just about to fall asleep, mind finally quieting to white noise that lulls her into unconsciousness, when her phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s loud, and sudden, and scares the shit out of her. Seriously, this keeps happening, and she’s a little more than sick of it.
After getting over the initial shock of being jolted back into wakefulness, and allowing herself to think Are you fucking kidding me? She accepts that it’s her fault she’d neglected to turn on Do Not Disturb, and groggily pulls the phone towards her face.
Squinting in the darkness, she sees Lara’s name. Several texts are stacked on top of each other, one sent about fifteen minutes ago, and the others successively right after each other. She taps them open.
Lara
made it back safely!! No incidents this time xoxo
Lara
Omg girl speakinf of megan being weird that comment tjing is gonna blow up in her face lmaoo
OH MYGOD I DIDNT SEE THAT U POSTED ON WEVERSE LMFAOO
ugh u let her drag u into her mess. U poor thing
lol I’m scrollign twitter now
IM DYINFGGG no one believes her dumbass
or yuo actually either. U guys both suck ar this
Then there’s a screenshot. Dani is already exhausted anew from trying to parse through Lara’s typo-ridden messages, and sighs aloud as she opens the screenshot. At least they both have their phones on dark mode. The image is a quote tweet from the Katseye Weverse Twitter updates account.
Dani’s original Weverse message – her damage control, post Megan-randomly-deciding-to-wax-poetic-re: Yoonchae – reads:
🦁: Guys!!!!!!
🦁: Ugh look at her. my baby sister
🦁: Shes growing up so fast… cant believe my girls gonna be 18 soon!!
🦁: She looks so good in black doesnt she
🦁: 📷x1
Attached is a picture of Yoonchae in a black cropped t-shirt and black jeans, winking and pursing her lips together. Dani’s not too sure how it had ended up in her camera roll in the first place, but no doubt it was a good – and recent – photo of Yoonchae, so she figures she’d picked it without thinking twice.
Maybe she should have thought twice.
The quote tweet reads:
LOLL this is so unserious this is how u know that wasn’t megan just platonically hyping yoonchae up they got dani’s ass on weverse when she’s literally never active 💀 plus sophia posted that photo in her instagram dump so its not even dani’s recent photo
Okay, well, shit.
Dani’s first thought is that she sincerely hopes it doesn’t look like she’d been lazy, that she’d simply gone to Sophia’s Instagram and screenshotted one of her posts out of some lack of care for Yoonchae. For the record – because now Dani’s brain is working a little faster, cogs turning smoother – actually, it was her photo; she’d just sent it to Sophia upon her request, because Sophia has this carnal urge to possess as many photos of Yoonchae as is physically possible. Sophia’s phone has been crashing lately due to lack of storage, and Dani thinks she’ll probably buy more just to keep collecting more photos. Mother hen activities.
Dani’s second thought is, Hey, what the hell. It’s not her fault she keeps forgetting her password, an honest, genuine mistake. She swears she’d clicked Remember me on the Weverse login page every single time she’d signed in, but for some reason her password never autofills the next time she remembers the app exists. Maybe she should write it down in her notes app. But that’s not a very safe place to record passwords, not good internet safety practices, she chides – who? Who is she even talking to? Why is she fighting with herself, arguing with thin air?
Dani closes her eyes for a long moment and takes a breath in through her nose. It’s almost 2am at this point, and they have rehearsal again for six hours tomorrow. This is seriously not a problem for right now.
By the time she’s exited out of the screenshot, Lara has messaged her several times again.
Lara
daniiii I can see u have read receipts on
is this what u meant by megan bein gweird???
Cos
i wont lie snd say I haven’t noticed it either
Shes kind of insane ab yoonchae
like i get it kind of but not to that degree
Idk
Dani stares at the words until they start to blend together in one big blue light soup. Her thumbs hover over the keyboard, but she can’t think of anything to say that won’t confuse Lara or her any less than how she feels right now.
This is a problem for tomorrow, she resolves once more, turning her phone off. After two seconds she turns it back on again to activate Do Not Disturb. Lara might whine to her about it tomorrow for doing it in the middle of their conversation, actually, so Dani relents and thumbs up reacts to Lara's message about Megan being weird. Good enough, she figures, placing her phone back on the nightstand. Then, she rolls over and closes her eyes.
Dani doesn’t think she’ll ever get sick of her job. If she can even call it that. She’s basically being paid to do what she knows best: dance, sing, perform; look hot during it all and bask in the adoration of thousands of people. So, maybe it’s cheesy, and she can’t for the life of her think of a better way to express the sentiment of having her dreams come true. It’s Sophia’s job to wax poetic, not hers, and it’s insane, it’s surreal is a perfectly acceptable way of going about it in her opinion, so it’s fine.
Anyways. Dani’s been onstage before; they all have: it’s not like tour is the first time they’ve ever stepped foot beneath the spotlights. Dani practically grew up with the plywood and vinyl beneath her feet, hair pulled up flawlessly and stage lights illuminating the twist of her body.
But holy shit.
How else is there, really, to say it? Holy shit. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more delirious basking in the warmth of the lights, of the eyes of the crowd packed together like sardines in a tin. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt her heart beat so fast, so strong, so loud. It’s all the new choreo, she thinks, all the little additions and tweaking they’ve been working on. Dani’s body is her second mind, and she speaks with it like a language, but she’s far from perfect, and the nerves claw at her stomach.
Dani is a good actor, though. So, she’d set her expressions in stone and let her body do the talking, and from then on she’d felt perfectly at home.
When she and Megan had done the choreo for Internet Girl, during soundcheck, at that moment it had solely been them, the two main dancers – and nothing more, nothing less. Putting literally everything else aside, Megan had looked so happy, so free again, it was physically impossible to feel anything but that familiar rush of warmth towards her, the feeling that they oscillated along the same wavelength. That Dani could reach out, and find Megan’s hand no matter where – onstage, in time, in space – they were. It was nice, and she had missed it.
It makes her remember. From the moment she’d stepped foot into a studio, taken in her reflection in the full length mirrors spanning the entire wall, her mom had told her – the stage is no place to focus on the bad. In dance, there is no room to dwell on all the things that make you sad, or mad, or hurt, or angry. It’s just the stage, the body, and the movement.
You let it all go, Daniela, her mom had whispered, fixing the positioning of her arms from behind. Steely eyes assessing the two of them in the mirror, Dani’s face a carbon copy. Get it all out – use your body.
So, she had.
Haven’t you heard? I’m the internet girl, she’d sang, draping an arm across Manon’s neck and feeling hot, flaunting it. Yeah, she loves her job.
Unfortunately, there is a downside, and it manifests in the form of Dani’s physical inability to walk as soon as they step foot in the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International airport.
“Woah there, Dani, are you alright?” Sophia reaches forward to steady her, grabbing her arm and pulling her up from where she’d stumbled forward. Because it’s always Sophia catching them, holding them, really, and there’s an immediate twinge of guilt when Dani can sense the lack of any real strength behind her grip. Now that she’s not putting on a show, and there’s no audience to perform for, her bare face betrays her exhaustion.
“Yeah,” Dani grunts, rushing to right herself. Her leg had just given out, and she says as much, brushing it off with a light laugh. Sophia’s eyes still scan her analytically, echoed by a couple members in management standing further back behind her, but Dani ignores them and forces the tension in her face to dissipate. “I promise. Just tired.”
“Don’t want you ending up like me in Tokyo,” Manon chirps from beside Sophia, who immediately turns to her with an aggravated scowl. Dani, on the other hand, snickers, and hits Manon’s shoulder lightly.
“Don’t joke about that,” Sophia scolds sternly, though there’s no real bite behind it. Despite her tone, there’s a small smile on her face, and after a moment, Manon’s softening face reflects it right back.
Okay, then. Dani looks away, and they keep walking, flanked by bodyguards and their management team. She catches glimpses of Megan’s inky black hair through the gaps of two tall figures for a few minutes before deciding to stop looking.
Their flight to Toronto isn’t until 4am, and it’s just after midnight. Dani kind of wishes they could have stayed a little longer in Minneapolis, if not for some genuine tourism and exploration of the city then for at least a couple days of rest. But the tour schedule, while only hitting sixteen dates, is still grueling, and as soon as they’d stumbled off stage high on delirium and bumping into each other in a daze, they’d been ushered into the tour bus and hustled off to the airport.
At the very least they’d been supplied with these adorable colour-coordinated sweatsuits, so comfortable that Manon had full on conked out in the fifteen minute drive to the airport, snoring loudly all the way. Dani had taken a video, and Lara no less than thirty selfies with Manon positioned at creatively unique angles. They will definitely be using those at a later time.
Now, Dani is thumbing through various apps on her phone, not really paying attention to which ones are being opened and closed, bag positioned between her feet. They’re all slumped in various positions in the stiff airport chairs; Dani’s eyes look up from her fifth swipe up on Tiktok to sweep over the other five, observing: Manon, passed out again if her snores are any indication, Sophia also sleeping with her head resting on Manon’s shoulder. Yoonchae curled up, impossibly tight in a way where Dani doesn’t fully comprehend how her shins aren’t hurting from being pressed against the armrest, headphones on and eyes closed. It’s unclear whether she’s asleep, but she’s unmoving, and she looks peaceful. Lara has headphones in, too, albeit wired ones, but she’s awake, sort of just staring serenely at a spot on the floor
And… Megan.
Megan’s contrast in energy to the rest of the group is so distinct that Dani furrows her brow when she clocks her bouncing leg, her darting gaze, the restless fidgeting of her fingers with her hair. She’s sitting the furthest from Dani, one chair over from Yoonchae, and she looks like a dog doped up on sugar.
Dani keeps her head angled downwards, but lets her eyes flick over at Megan once, twice. Megan doesn’t notice. Her own eyes are busy flitting towards Yoonchae’s sleeping form, every other second.
She looks insane.
She’s being weird.
And there it is again, that relentless unease that courses through Dani’s bones like a full body shiver. Megan is acting up, she’s being so fucking weird, and no one else is awake to see it but Dani. Because of course she is the only one there to bear witness to Megan’s insanity. It makes her feel all the more crazy, and she’s starting to get fed up.
As if Megan can hear Dani’s thoughts, she stands up abruptly, so quickly that her phone clatters to the floor, muffled by the thin carpeting. A couple management members look over, startled, but Megan’s bending over and picking it up immediately, then stumbling over the tangle of legs and baggage down the aisle towards Dani.
“Bathroom,” she tosses over her shoulder at one of them, not looking at anyone in particular. Her voice sounds scratchy, hoarse, from lack of use. Then, she’s brushing past Dani, not sparing her a single glance, and Dani is temporarily stunned, left simply watching her stumble off towards what she can only assume is the direction of the bathroom.
A beat passes. Two. The harsh white lights flicker above them, and Yoonchae lets out a soft snore.
A snapshot from earlier in the night flashbangs in her mind: Yoonchae snaking her arm around Megan’s waist, hand splayed almost possessively on her back as the synths of Mean Girls pulsed around them. Dani had been having her own fun, skipping around and swaying with Manon, giving her the signature hand kiss, but she hadn't missed the way Yoonchae’s fingers had been inching their way towards the corner of Megan’s ribs, towards her star tattoo.
Dani feels it like a phantom pain, knows the shape of it, knows exactly when Yoonchae’s index and middle fingers had brushed it. Because she’d traced it herself, with her own fingers, her own lips.
Floral perfume floats its way into Dani’s nose. Megan’s. It’s strong, lingering like a memory, twining its entrails into the folds of Dani’s brain and stubbornly burying itself there.
She blinks, forcing the shade of Megan’s skin out of her mind. Shakes herself out of her stupor.
Before she can really think about it, think about what she’s doing, she’s getting up herself, half-walking half-jogging after Megan’s shrinking figure. She thinks she hears someone call her name, tell her to wait up, but she ignores them. Lily of the valley floats around in her brain, and she has the strangest urge to sneeze, or cough.
The airport building is fairly small, especially compared to LAX’s winding corridors and terminals, and Megan doesn’t leave Dani’s line of sight until she turns a corner, hanging sign above reading BATHROOMS.
Dani catches the door, having not yet swung shut fully, and pushes her way in after her.
The bathroom is empty save for the two of them. The lights are no less forgiving here than outside, and are in fact tinted an even more sickening shade of green.
Megan is standing at the farthest end of the bathroom. When Dani barges her way in, Megan whips around, pausing, surprised.
Her face is flushed so deeply scarlet she looks like a tomato, and her hair is messy, flyaways sticking up all over the place despite her hair having been nicely styled only a few hours before. Most ridiculous of all, though, is the fact that her eyes look panicked, guilty, like she’s been caught red handed doing something illegal. All in all, she looks like a flushed, frazzled wreck.
What the fuck is going on with you? Dani wants to say. Wants to gesture at her from top to bottom. Why are you being so weird? What the hell is happening?
“I think you should just get rid of the pink altogether,” is what ends up coming out instead.
Megan looks at her, stunned. She swallows. Dani watches the column of her throat bob visibly, feeling her own face flush.
Megan shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Oh. Um, yeah, me too,” she says, finally. She picks up a piece of hair, one of the faded pink pieces that are all but hidden beneath the curtain of newly – gorgeously – dyed black, looks at it for a moment then drops it.
It’s quiet again, and Dani distinctly becomes aware of the sweat beading and tracing its way down her back.
“I just – is something up with you and Yoonchae?” Dani blurts, finally. The words come out louder than she intended, echoing off the walls and bouncing around them in their own makeshift echo chamber. She can hear the weird tinge to her voice, like her voice forced its way out of her mouth through its own willpower.
At the mention of Yoonchae’s name, Megan’s entire face shifts, and it’s so obvious Dani has to fight the urge to scoff, or something.
She should have known, from the moment Megan had come barging into her room pleading for help to cover up a plain – well, Dani won’t go as far as saying deluded, but it still looks like a pretty damn insane expression of interest towards Yoonchae. Hands splayed possessively. Fingers gliding towards a tattoo like a magnet. Megan and Yoonchae are close, it’s true, but ever since Megan had severed the thread along which her and Dani had been dancing along, it’s like Megan has turned into a heeling dog at Yoonchae’s feet.
“What? Me and Yoonchae? What are you talking about? There’s – there’s nothing going on,” Megan stammers, forcing out the worst impression of a relaxed smile Dani has ever seen on any person’s face, ever. Megan’s face is still red, still flushed. “Between us… what do you mean? What do you even mean!”
Megan tries to laugh, fails miserably at passing it off as cool, and Dani just looks at her. Fixes her with a not-quite glare, but something similar, something she can’t help the intensity of.
Under her stare, Megan’s nervous smile fades away, and Dani exhales, feeling like there’s fifty belts constricting her chest and forcing the air out. The silence pulses between them, alive and uncomfortable.
“I don’t… Dani, what’s wrong? What do you mean?” Megan tries again, after she’s wrung her hands out approximately three times and cracked her wrists in the process. Her voice is quieter, no longer reedy, but still thick with anxiety.
The lights flicker again, as if they can also sense the tension crackling between them.
Dani lets out a shaky breath, opens her mouth.
“It’s just – it’s,” Dani starts, and she’s drowning, again, getting deja vu to when she’d been trying to explain to Lara. Apparently, when it comes to Megan, Dani will never be anything but tongue-tied and stumbling over her own feet.
“I don’t know. I feel like – like we used to be so close, and now you just – you keep pushing me away,” she starts again. “Like, you used to call me all the time, or you would come to my room, or we would go out for brunch, and we would just hang out all the time and it felt comfortable, but now – it’s like you. I don’t know. I’m not trying to sound, like, crazy, or jealous, because obviously we all have our lives and friendships.” Her voice is pitching higher and faster, but she can’t find it in herself to stop, so she has no choice but to keep –
“And I get that you and Yoonchae are close, and I’m not jealous because it’s not like we were – we were dating, or anything. Obviously. But then – why did you kiss me, the first time?”
That last part feels like bile coming up from the depths of her throat. Immediately after she says it, her stomach drops, and regret crashes over her in a colossal tidal wave.
Fuck. Fuck –
Because she’d told herself she wouldn’t bring it up. Wouldn’t think about it, acknowledge it, address it.
Because it’s not fair of Megan. And it’s not fair that it does this to Dani: now her eyes are stinging with tears, and she feels like she might throw up. Oh, god, she might actually throw up. Why did she say that? Why, why, why –
The way Megan is looking at her doesn’t help in the slightest.
Her eyes, normally so warm and bright, are wide, and she looks devastated. Her mouth is open, and the lights fall in such a way that Dani can’t help but notice the way her bottom lip shines with spit, and it’s just – it’s too much.
She turns tail, wrenching the door open and all but throwing herself through the threshold. If she spends one more moment looking at Megan, her tall, lanky figure standing helplessly amidst the toilet paper and water spills in the godforsaken airport bathroom, expression shattered –
She just barely makes it to a garbage can by the bathroom door before she’s dry heaving. There’s nothing to expel, seeing as adrenaline had stolen her appetite and she’d hardly eaten anything all day, exhaustion preventing her from having more than a few bites of a salad after the show. Now, it burns all the way up as she coughs and hacks ungracefully like a cat.
The thing is, Dani is over it. Really. She knows the visual of her hunched over the trash gives the impression that she’s not, but she is firm, resolute in the fact that it’s not about – whatever her and Megan were months ago. Shoving literally everything else about the situation aside like a heavy stage curtain, Dani is just hurt. That Megan – tossed her aside? Replaced her?
She’s not in love with Megan. She doesn’t think she had been, or even could be, now. But it still stings. She doesn’t have to be searching for the flame for it to burn her. They’re still friends, obviously, but Megan abandoned her post at the docks and there’s no harbour that cradles Dani’s ship quite in the way Megan did. No back flush to Dani’s chest, like it was there solely to cushion Dani’s heartbeat. Megan had been her safe space, her rock in stormy weather, and Dani is upset more than anything else that Megan had been the one to cut her off from that.
One of their bodyguards immediately steps up beside her, from where they must have been waiting outside the bathroom for both her and Megan. Dani doesn’t look at them, gripping the edges of the garbage – she’s past the point of caring for cleanliness, or her own dignity – and wonders if she can throw up the remains of everything she hadn’t said to Megan, as well.
Things like For four months, what was I to you, then? What were we? Things like Did you love me? Words stuck behind her molars, sentences she can’t floss out no matter how hard she tries. The aftertaste is all cherries and remorse.
The chill of mid-November Toronto air bites at them, but Dani hardly notices it. They land in the early morning, sun hardly poking out from behind the thick clouds, and Dani is stumbling numbly behind Lara and Sophia, who have interlinked their arms and are animatedly prancing down the concrete. She hadn’t slept a wink, and she can feel the exhaustion pulling at her tendons, but every time she’d tried to close her eyes, the image of Megan frozen in place would flash behind her eyelids, and she’d jolt back into wakefulness.
It also doesn’t help that she’d made the mistake of checking Twitter as soon as they’d settled on the plane. Megan’s comment, of course, is everywhere, alongside a boom of Megan and Yoonchae related content, speculation, and edits. In addition, every so often, another quote tweet of Dani’s Weverse message would pop up, and she would grit her teeth as she scrolled past.
Dani had uninstalled Twitter and turned her phone off for the rest of the ride after that. Which she should’ve done ages ago, honestly, but it’s not like she’d been an avid user beforehand.
The CN tower is a faint pinprick in the distance, unassuming from just outside the airport, but the girls marvel at it anyways, and Sophia spends five minutes in vain trying to capture it in a semi-aesthetic photo. Unfortunately, the landscape doesn’t provide any help in this venture.
“Sophia, babe.” Lara’s voice has this syrupy, melodic quality to it as she explains that there’s only so much Sophia’s expert framing skills can do with the dreary sky and unattractive horizon. Sophia simply sighs and pockets her phone again.
Yoonchae bumps Dani’s shoulder as they’re waiting for baggage and the bus to be sorted out, and she jumps, startled.
“Hey,” Yoonchae says, voice low with sleep. “Are you okay?”
She looks a little mussed, hair a little rough and face smushed in from where she’d been leaning against the seat of the plane. Still, her eyes are wide and alert as she stares at Dani.
It feels like an echo of yesterday, with Sophia, when Dani answers, “Yeah, I’m just tired.” Like mother, like daughter. Yoonchae blinks at her, but lets it go, and breaks off from her side to go stand near Megan.
And, well, if Dani feels like shit, Megan looks like absolute death. Yoonchae pokes at her cheek, giggling and saying, Megan, you look terrible, and Megan’s mouth pulls into a pained smile for exactly a second as she lets out a small ‘heh’ noise, but her eyebags are prominent and her hair is sticking up at crazy angles. Dani watches Yoonchae attempt to pat her hair down, and she feels a twinge in her chest.
Halfway through the first of their pre-show rehearsals, they’re surprised with a plethora of treats from Tim Hortons spread out in an array on a folding table pushed to the side of the room. For the next fifteen minutes or so, they’re allowed to mill around and take a breather, and Dani is reaching for another jelly-filled Timbit when Yoonchae sidles up beside her again.
“Dani, can I ask you something?” she says. She’s not meeting Dani’s eyes, reaching across the table to grab – well, Dani had thought she was going for the chocolate Timbits, but instead she plucks a singular napkin between her thumb and forefinger.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Dani’s mouth is full and she tries not to chew too aggressively, because she knows Yoonchae will wrinkle her nose at it.
Bracing one hand against the table, Yoonchae angles her body towards her. “Has Megan been acting… weird, to you, lately?”
Dani freezes almost comically, mouth stopping mid-chew. Then she forces herself to swallow, because ew.
She peers at Yoonchae, feeling her brow furrow. Yoonchae is looking at her thoughtfully, pensively – wow, since when have her eyelashes been so thick, so long?
It takes her a moment to speak, to lick her teeth clean of donut residue, and then all she can get out is an eloquent, “Um.”
Yoonchae raises an eyebrow at that. She tucks a bit of sweat-slick hair behind her ears, and Dani finds herself looking at the floor for a moment before looking back – looking up, slightly. Jesus, Yoonchae is so tall. And like, yeah, she’s known this for a while now, especially being the shortest in the group, but still. It makes so much sense, really, that Yoonchae used to play basketball, was probably just as skilled and natural at it as she is at – well, the whole popstar shebang. She has the height, the big hands, the –
“Honestly, yeah. But I have no idea what it’s about. Do you?”
Yoonchae purses her lips, shakes her head minutely. “No. She’s just… not her usual Megan self.”
Not her usual Megan self. And is that not exactly what she’d been trying to convey to Lara the other night?
Dani considers asking her about the comment. Wonders if Yoonchae’s seen it. Considering it more deeply, Dani genuinely has no clue how to parse Yoonchae’s would-be reaction to it.
Yoonchae shrugs and lets out a gust of air through her nose, turning slightly to glance at Megan over her shoulder. Dani lets her gaze follow to where Megan is standing with Manon near the mirror, drinking water and checking her phone. Dani wonders if she’s looking at Twitter, seeing the response to her comment, to their – failed – damage control. It’s been, what – a week? Since the incident? Megan hasn’t talked to her about it nor brought it up since. Distantly she wonders why no one’s really said anything about it, not management, nor the other girls. Maybe it’s what they expect from her, at this point.
Megan is kind of a terrible actor. Absolutely everything is transparent on her face. When she catches both of them staring at her, her face cycles through about three distinct emotions before she settles for waving with the hand that’s holding her phone, then quickly looking away, acting about as nonchalant as Sophia when it comes to Manon.
“No, yeah, I agree,” Dani says. “Not her usual Megan self.”
Yoonchae’s face shifts, a small smile breaking through the expression of stormy pondering masking her features. She doesn’t say anything, though, instead lifting the napkin up to wipe at the corner of Dani’s mouth. Then she pinches Dani’s left cheek gently, making sure her nails don’t scratch at her skin.
“So cute,” she giggles, almost as if to herself, then walks away.
Dani’s phone buzzes in her pocket before she can even begin to process what that was. She pulls it out and opens it without really thinking, searching for a distraction.
jonah
heyy!! saw u landed in canada today :)) make sure u enjoy the tims lol
Dani has to close her eyes for a moment, still tasting strawberry filling coating the inside of her mouth.
It’s really nothing. Seriously. She knows she should feel happy, giddy, that he’s texted her; her boyfriend of around three months, now.
It’s not that she doesn’t like Jonah. He’s cute, really cute, and so nice, and honestly, perfect boyfriend material. Sophia and Manon had squealed when she’d shown them his Instagram, and whenever he does things like call her baby or wrap his hands around her waist, she feels warm inside, and she likes it.
She thinks it’s just the mess of everything, of Hurricane Megan ripping through the limits of her emotional issues, that makes her think, Megan also has a Jonah.
Which isn’t even – she knows it’s not fair. She’s not nasty, she’s not a snake; Megan had shyly brought him up for the first time when she’d been hanging out with Lara and Dani, and the two had earnestly encouraged her to shoot her shot, giggling like school girls huddled together on Megan’s bed. They’d still been sort of – fresh out the not-breakup, but Dani had truly, honestly been happy at the way Jonah seemed to make Megan feel. He’d called her pretty, and Dani had seen the way she’d smiled.
He’s her – well, honestly, Dani isn’t too sure what he even is to Megan now, anymore, since Megan has all but stopped talking to her about anything like that. Dani hadn’t seen or heard much of him lately, come to think of it, not since the summer, so maybe they’d broken up, or were on a break, or something.
In a fleeting moment – so miniscule, Dani can pretend she’d never had the thought in the first place, because it immediately floods her system with guilt – she wonders. Was Megan only vibing with him, with Jonah, because Dani had also had one?
Right after, Dani locks her phone, puts it down on the table, and places her face in her hands, because what the fuck. She cannot be thinking shit like this right now. First of all, because it’s insane to even insinuate that kind of idea, and second off, she knows it’s so mean. As if everything Megan does is because of her, as if she’s some shining example of what to do, who to pursue, when you don’t want to think about everything that had broken your heart.
Which isn’t even it, either, because Dani hadn’t been heartbroken. She was fine. Is still fine, now. Oh god, okay, she’s spiraling, walking herself in circles, and maybe she actually is going crazy. Somehow, this is all Megan’s fault.
And then she feels bad for thinking that, and really wishes her brain had a mute button, wishes she could be lobotomized right up until the show. She thinks of Yoonchae’s big WNBA-worthy hands, and wonders if she would take Dani up on a favour of smashing her skull into the table.
Their choreographer slams his hands together, echoing in a clap that bounces off the walls of the room and snaps everyone to attention, and it’s like a physical manifestation of the words, Get it together.
Get out of your head, Dani. Not everything is about you.
She sighs. Scrubs a hand over her face one more time, gives a small nod and thumbs up in Manon’s direction when she spots her mouthing You okay?, and moves back to her spot in the formation. When the music starts, bass pulsing through the floor and creeping under her skin, Dani tucks stray curls behind her ear, steeling her gaze, and focuses only on the contraction and arch of her spine.
Fluidity, mija, her mom’s voice echoes in her mind. Let go.
Toronto is nice, even though it’s barely above forty degrees. Dani texts Jonah back eventually, telling him as much, and he asks her what she thinks of downtown, of the CN Tower. It makes her smile a little. Tall, she writes back. Tall and concrete. Maybe she’d have more to say if they’d had the chance to dine in the panoramic restaurant at the peak of the tower, but almost three days before their show means staff has decided to ruthlessly pack their schedule to the brim.
Their last rehearsal before the show is – tiring, to put it lightly; rough, to put it bluntly. Megan is slightly off her game, slightly off-kilter, and it’s obvious to Dani because she has been noticing her in the corner of her vision all practice, but it’s evident even to the other girls, as well. Sophia’s been glancing her way every three seconds, and she’s never been a particularly good faker, either, which just makes things more awkward when her eyes get all wide the way they do when she notices the smallest mistake.
The music starts up for the sixtieth time. They make it through about thirty seconds of Gnarly before Megan angles her foot wrong, which inverts her knee by the slightest degree, causing her trajectory to shift ever so slightly to the left, directing her path of motion – right into Yoonchae.
The two go down in an array of limbs, and an audibly caught off guard oomph from Yoonchae. The music yanks to a halt. As they disentangle themselves, the others glancing down with expressions ranging from concerned to teasing, Megan’s face is beet red, and Dani literally gets goosebumps from second-hand embarrassment.
“Guys,” the choreographer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like Megan messing up is giving him a headache. “Four hours till showtime. Break for water, then we’re coming back and running through Gnarly again, top to bottom, full out.” He punctuates his words with snaps, and Megan visibly winces at that, planting her eyes on the ground.
Dani knows with sound certainty that Megan took that like an arrow to the heart. She thinks back to Lollapalooza, Megan’s momentary slip, how distraught she’d been, and she feels it in her chest.
Megan isn’t doing it on purpose. Dani knows that’s the last thing she would ever want to do; Megan is nothing but sheer earnestness, eagerness to prove, working herself to the grit to prove herself something special. Something noteworthy, something – someone – worth remembering.
Dani wants to reach out and say, I see you. You are.
Because, despite it all, Dani does still see Megan. Maybe she is no longer that personally cognizant of Megan’s inner workings, but she’s known her heart, known her mind, and Megan has always yearned to be truly seen.
It’s already been two and a half hours, and despite the cold outside, the room is suffocatingly stuffy and humid, in veritable – nostalgic – LA fashion. All six of them have sweat straight through their tops, either tucking them into their sports bras or having discarded them in a pile altogether.
They’re all tired. It’s nothing they haven’t lived through before, but the fluorescents are illuminating the rivulets of sweat sliding down their temples, and without makeup, it’s like being thrust three years back into the past. For a heartbeat, they look younger again, faces fresh and vulnerable.
Sophia steps closer to Megan right before the moment snaps, runs a hand along her arm, and Dani allows herself to feel comforted by the small gesture, too.
Finally, finally, they call the rehearsal with no further incident, and Dani’s legs are aching anew from the ups and downs and simply standing upright by the end of it. They can’t afford to let their stamina, their energy, drain on them, though, and they’re all but ushered to hair and makeup straight out of the rehearsal building. Dani barely has the energy to hook her finger onto her water bottle and throw on her – ew, sweat-stained t-shirt – before they’re cramped together in the van, headed over to the venue. Lara’s thigh presses against Dani’s, and she resists the urge to lean her head on the cool window, knowing she’ll just fog it up.
Hair and makeup prep is a blur. Hands tug at Dani’s hair, makeup brushes dab at her face; she is commanded to open her mouth, close her eyes, move her hands here – no, here, purse your lips, now, okay, come over here and hold still. She listens, obeys blindly, tries to snag twenty minutes of shut-eye in the chair before it’s hustle hustle again. Up, out the room, check your makeup and outfit in the mirror – feel good? Feel tight enough, comfortable enough to dance in? Yeah? Okay, perfect, off you go.
Dani assesses herself. She looks good, feels good too; for good measure she pops a hip, stretches her arms above her head until her spine crackles and pops and she feels looser. As she’s guided through the hallways, walls covered with noise reducing black felt that swallows the dim lights, she shakes out her shoulders, rolls her neck around, mentally prepares herself.
Whoever was flanking her leaves after a quick, succinct murmur in her ear directing her to the end of the hall, towards the doors that lead to backstage. The girls are set to be called in about twenty minutes, but seeing as at the last show they were nearly half an hour late for various minor occurrences (Lara’s top had refused to stay put in a comfortable position for at least a third of that time), who knows when they’ll actually make it onstage.
Once she nods in understanding, Dani is left alone, treading down the rest of the hallway. It’s weirdly dark here, and Dani’s kind of worried she won’t find the right door.
She makes it about three steps before someone’s hand grabs at her wrist. She feels a jolt of absolute panic run through her before checking the body attached to the hand, seeing that it’s –
“Yoonchae? What’s–”
And then, unbelievably, she gets cut off.
By Yoonchae. Specifically, Yoonchae’s mouth.
It’s so sudden and unexpected, Dani doesn’t even realize what’s happening until she’s been pressed back against the wall, material scratchy against the bare expanse of her shoulderblades. She all but lets out a wheeze that’s swallowed whole. Yoonchae’s mouth is firm, feverish, lapping at Dani like she’s on a mission, searching for a meal, looking for the answer to some soul-searching question that’s laden on Dani’s tongue.
Dani’s hands are dangling uselessly at her side. Her lungs start to strain, and it’s only then that she registers she hasn’t taken a breath in at least ten seconds. Maybe lack of oxygen is what’s rendering her brain absolutely useless, unable to form a single coherent thought other than what the hell, hey, what, hello. When she inhales through her nose, she senses Yoonchae stiffening, and she instantly becomes aware of Yoonchae’s hands on her hips. She must have placed them there to guide – well, shove – Dani against the wall.
And they fucking dwarf her waist. What the fuck?
Suddenly, as quickly as it had started, Yoonchae pulls away, heaving in a breath that sounds more like the strangled gasp of a dying animal. Her eyes are frantic, wild, and her chest is rising and falling so quickly Dani isn’t sure if it constitutes breathing.
There’s a pause, and it hangs heavy in the air for basically a century. Dani’s tongue feels like lead in her mouth, tastes as much. Actually, no, there’s a hint of what can only be Yoonchae’s lip gloss, which –
“Hey,” Dani says, trying not to sound hysterical. “Um, what was that?”
Yoonchae doesn’t answer. But her hands also don’t move from Dani’s hips. Instead, her thumbs start moving almost unconsciously, and her eyes keep flicking from Dani’s eyes to her lips.
Jesus Christ.
“Yoonchae,” Dani murmurs. Her voice is low. Her throat feels raw. Her lips sting.
Where the fuck did you learn to kiss like that, are the words Dani can’t force her mouth to work around for the life of her. Yoonchae just keeps brushing her thumbs against the latex of Dani’s outfit, curling her fingers in, and Dani closes her eyes, has to inhale.
“Do friends kiss?”
Yoonchae’s question is sudden, and her voice is quiet, but there’s no trace of any wobble. God, this girl is resolute.
The same, however, can’t exactly be said for Dani’s voice, when she replies, “No, not really.”
The sound of a door slamming shut echoes, and it wrenches them apart like there’s string wrapped around the waist of their floppy puppet bodies. Yoonchae runs her hand through her hair, looking like a spitting image of Sophia. Finally, she meets Dani’s eyes, and after a second, brings her right hand up to brush at Dani’s chin.
“You have – here,” she says, stilted. She is methodic in wiping the lipgloss off, and her tongue pokes out absentmindedly from the corner of her mouth. Dani freezes in place, lets her finish, swallows as discreetly as possible when Yoonchae licks her thumb to get the rest of it off. When she’s finished, she takes a step back.
“We should probably go,” she says, finally breaking eye contact to glance over towards the direction of the backstage door, and where the slam must’ve come from.
“Yeah,” Dani echoes. The words come like she’s on autopilot. “Okay. Lead the way.”
Dani knows dance is not supposed to get easier, necessarily, or stagnant, over time. She gets that it’s perpetual motion, an upwards hill, continuously straining against the boundaries of your own body until you break through to a higher stage, then you keep pushing. Sometimes, she feels like she’s nine again, and learning for the first time what her hip joints were truly capable of, feeling like she’d broken through to a different dimension. Sometimes, at twenty-one, she pushes so hard she can feel the muscle push against her skin like it’s trying to crawl out in some grotesque imitation of a crude horror movie.
It’s not – it’s not comfortable. It’s all she knows how to do. It’s dance.
Dani is used to slipping into a flow state, while being onstage. Letting her body carry itself through the motions, do the work, so all that’s left for the mind to do is simply stare out into the crowd, and remember to breathe. She lives in it like a second skin, a protective carapace, carving a refuge out of the stage. It has carried her through years and years of blood, sweat, and tears, cradling her bones and cushioning her falls when her stomach threatens to swoop from the motions. She likes it, relies on it, needs it, sometimes, because it feels good to be assured, to be confident.
It’s not immobility; it’s not that conscious drive, the fire licking at her heels, that pushes her forward over and over even when she has nothing left to give. It’s the middle ground where water meets flame; it’s where Dani finds home onstage, can allow herself to transcend from, and throughout, her body.
Right now, she doesn’t think she’s ever felt so distressingly in her body all night, maybe all year, and in the absolute most overwhelming way possible. It’s not grounding, but she feels elated, ecstatic, in a way unique to anything she’s ever experienced before. She’s never been so aware of every little touch, every little bit of contact she makes with everyone and everything.
And, call her crazy, but she swears there’s never been this much physicality to the choreo. Yet, how many times has Yoonchae found a way to sneak an arm around her waist, sling it again over her shoulders, brush past her and tap her cheek, reach for her hand to swing it along?
Maybe she’s making it up. As restricted as they are by heavy-handed sections like the dance breaks, there’s plenty of wiggle room in between, and they’ve always been affectionate with each other. Dani knows Yoonchae finds her cute, knows Yoonchae has become much more touchy with the others as they’d spent more time together.
Still, she’d figured Yoonchae would have been lavishing this all towards, say, Lara, or Megan, or something. Dani has no opposition, but when Yoonchae wraps her in a hug from the back and rests her chin on her shoulder, for a moment she thinks it’s Sophia, before glancing down and recognizing the nails.
To be honest, she’s still semi-reeling from the events of the hallway, from Yoonchae’s complete shift in demeanour. Dani has never seen her jaw so set, never seen such steely determination in her dark eyes. It’s half fascinating, half daunting, to see her like that, and Dani’s skin tingles where Yoonchae brushes her nails against it.
Yoonchae moves to break away, but before she fully turns around, Dani catches her expression. It’s directed towards her, and only her. Her eyes are alight with mischief and something burning when she looks at Dani, then shifts her gaze over at Megan meaningfully.
Oh. Megan.
For the first time in the last week, Dani’s mind had been completely taken off her other bandmate. She feels her body slow to an awkward stop, before chiding herself back into movement, and Yoonchae grabs her hand, giving her a twirl. Dani giggles and lets herself be guided into it.
Out of nowhere, Megan appears as if she’d sensed their eyes and teleported from the other side of the stage. She’s grinning, but she moves to stand closer to Yoonchae, who’s forced to drop Dani’s hand as Megan attaches herself to Yoonchae’s side, pulling her in.
And that’s when it hits Dani, like a fucking freight train, right as the beat drops for M.I.A.
Do friends kiss?
Okay, so.
Smoky mirrors, see me clearer when you close your eyes, comes Megan’s sultry voice. Well, isn’t that ironic, Dani wonders.
Her positioning is right next to Yoonchae, is what she’s realizing as she forces her mind to work with her body and keep her stable. Yoonchae, who’s glaring not quite at Megan, but pretty closely in her general direction, as Megan’s rounding out her verse.
There’s – something, forming in the back of her mind. Some semblance of an idea. Maybe it’s not really an idea at all, but some crazed urge to act out. They are onstage, after all, and Dani really can’t be relied on to think critically – or at all – right now.
She counts to four, syncing with the music and not her erratic pulse, because she’s counted in bars since the moment she could walk. Then, she reaches out, places her hand on Yoonchae’s thigh, using it as leverage to hoist herself up.
Yoonchae makes eye contact with her right as Manon takes over. She gives her a miniscule nod.
From that moment on, the concert fades into the simple thrum of the bass through the floor, and Dani can feel herself slip back into her body, into relative solidity. Yoonchae’s hands are cool to the touch, and they remain in her hold for most of the show. Dani finds herself noticing that she really doesn’t sweat that much at all, which is crazy considering how much she’s whipping around.
And then it’s over, and they’re bowing. She’s shouting a delirious, high-pitched, “We love you, Canada!” towards the audience, which Manon echoes with a whoop, and then they’re stumbling offstage like newborn fawns again, legs buckling as the adrenaline rushes out of them.
Yoonchae’s hand is clasped tightly in hers the entire walk through the winding corridors, and Dani grips it just as solidly. She doesn’t let it go for the twenty minutes that they’re waiting for the vans that take them back to the hotel, even as straggling fans gather at the back entrance, and they say hi as much as possible, smiling and nodding for the cameras, ignoring the exhaustion pulling at their limbs.
Once the vans arrive, when Yoonchae makes to move, Dani’s clambering into the backseat right behind her. She doesn’t look back to see which van Megan gets into, with who. Her head is swimming from the dissonance of the soundproofing compared to the roar of the venue, and Yoonchae’s body pressed against her is a firm, soothing sensation. It’s now hitting her just how fucking tired she is, and she’s about to lean her head on Yoonchae’s shoulder and pass out when she has one more idea.
Fumbling for a second, Dani pats herself down, searching for the seam of her sweatshirt pocket. Finally, she finds her phone, and under Yoonchae’s questioning gaze, she swipes to open the camera, and orients it into selfie mode.
Surprisingly, both of their makeup still looks flawless. Dani checks herself for a moment, fixes her hair, then angles the phone so Yoonchae can do the same. Then, she extends her arm out, and squishes her cheek against Yoonchae’s. Closes her eyes, makes a kissy face. She feels Yoonchae’s face move, too, hears her pucker up beside her.
She takes a few photos. It’s a little dark in the van, but the lighting actually isn’t terrible, and the photos are – they’re cute. They’re really cute.
She still hasn’t said a word, but Yoonchae only watches as she opens her phone, navigates to Weverse, lets out a sigh as she wracks her brain for the password that never saves. Then she’s in, she’s opening a new message thread, she’s typing, and she’s attaching the selfies.
Toronto thank u for being such an amazing crowd! We love uu
📷x3
Me n my girl again 💕
Damage control, she thinks. Megan.
She hits send, closes her phone, and places it facedown on her lap. Then, she leans her head on Yoonchae’s shoulder, closes her eyes, and lets her body become dead weight.
The noise quiets down over the next two weeks, at least as much as possible. The shows are still amazing, of course, as are the cities; Dani had had to resist the urge to scream throughout the entire Atlanta show.
The weather’s getting colder, a little more dreary by the day, and Dani starts to feel like the weight is lifting off her chest, just a bit. Jonah is planning on visiting for the holidays, to come stay with her family for a little bit. Megan starts to smile at her, softly, genuinely, during the breaks in their schedule, and Dani smiles back, because she always will. Megan, holding Yoonchae’s hand already, reaches out for hers – tentatively, at first, grip growing bolder as Dani holds her firmly.
It’s nice. She misses nice.
They’re back in California, straight from Seattle, when she sort of fucks it up.
Casually, hanging out in Megan and Lara’s hotel room, Dani asks Megan how things have been with Jonah. They’ve been sitting on Megan’s bed for about an hour now, soaking up all the rest time they’re allotted, and Dani stretches out like a cat, wriggling comfortably. She hadn’t planned to stop by their room, exactly, but the door had been propped open, and she’d wanted company.
It’s like a record scratches. The energy shift in the air is so palpable it’s unbearable. Megan, who’d been laughing a second prior, kind of pauses, dimming, and Lara respectfully glances away.
Okay, so she’s royalled screwed it up. The silence that ensues is so awkward she’s about to start apologizing profusely when Megan inhales like she’s going to start talking, and the words die on her tongue.
Megan pauses for a moment, and Dani waits with bated breath. Distantly, she thinks, Lara knew about this and I didn’t, and it stings for all but a moment before she pushes it down. Not the time. And they’re working on it.
“We’re, like, kind of taking a break right now, I think,” Megan says, fidgeting with the duvet. Her hand creates a particular fold in the fabric that she starts running her fingers along. Out of the corner of her vision, Dani sees that Lara’s pulled out her phone, but isn’t exactly doing anything on it. Both Megan and Dani fixate on the movement of her finger down the bedding to avoid looking each other in the eye.
God. It’s like they’re strangers, again.
“Oh, shit,” Dani says, voice soft. “I’m sorry, Meg.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I was kinda the one who asked for it, so.” Megan’s voice is so quiet, Dani’s slowing her own breathing to hear her clearly.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation kind of peters out, from there. It’s right there, on the tip of her tongue: Why? she wants to ask. But – she’s not sure if she should, at least not now, not with the way Megan is biting the inside of her cheek. She wonders if Lara knows, if she should – if she’s allowed to ask her. Maybe later in the night, when Dani is left to her own thoughts and she can kick herself mentally, she’ll make the decision to ask.
She leaves ten minutes later, under the pretense of getting food. Really, she goes back to her room, to where Manon is missing – probably with Sophia – and buries her head under the covers. She doesn’t emerge until nightfall.
The show, a few days later, goes well. Every single one has gone well thus far, and Dani can only hope and pray it remains the case for the rest of the run. She’s settling into the routine of it, the whirlwind of nerves and adrenaline coursing through her body like morphine before the inevitable crash at night, and it no longer feels like such a steep drop.
She’s walking back to the dressing room she shares with Manon, where they’d dropped their things off before heading backstage, when she realizes she’s left her sweatpants somewhere near the stage. Manon goes ahead without her, and by the time she circles back – somehow, she’d found them near the wings, of all places, despite having been in her stage outfit for most of the day – the hallway is silent.
She has to take three flights of stairs up to the dressing room spaces. Quite inconvenient for someone whose heels are halfway to blistering and whose thighs are burning in agony, but she grits her teeth and pulls herself up anyways.
She’s in the process of imagining holding a heat pack to the backs of her thighs to soothe her hamstrings when she hears it.
A slam.
Or – a bang? Nothing too loud, not like the slam of a door, but more so like the dull thud of a body hitting a table, hitting a surface. Which is strange, because under what normal circumstance would that be happening?
Dani hesitates in the middle of the hall, strains her ears. The corridor is lined with doors, presumably all dressing rooms, and she’s not sure where the others were assigned. Her and Manon’s is the furthest down the hall to her right, but –
And now there’s talking, coming from her left. The voices are too muffled for her to parse through whose they belong to, though, so she decides to follow them down the hall.
The voices get clearer. Dani spots one of the doors, slightly ajar, and pinpoints the source of the talking. The conversation sounds heated, argumentative, but still, Dani can’t hear individual words, and she still can’t tell who it is.
Ten steps. Five. Two. Then her hand is bracing against the door, pushing it open –
Well.
Okay.
And Dani can’t even say the sight of Megan, propped up on the counter, back against the middle of the mirror, and Yoonchae, hands on her thighs, and their faces flush together, even comes as that much of a surprise. Maybe she’d be more shocked if, like, Playboi Carti himself would have been the one in the room.
The door squeaks as Dani pushes it fully open, and like she’s pressed a button, Yoonchae shoots backwards from Megan, staring at Dani with wide eyes. Megan, on the other hand, still looks kiss drunk for a moment, though she has the decency to snap out of it after a moment and look startled.
There are a lot of things Dani doesn’t like about this scenario, about what she’s just walked into. She thinks that the worst one, though, is that she already knows what Megan’s face looks like kiss drunk.
“Dani,” Megan croaks. She’s physically at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing around air like a fish out of water. Dani would’ve laughed, if there hadn’t been a sudden pressure building behind her eyes, or red marks littered all down Megan’s throat.
So, she’s stupid, is essentially all she can think. Like, genuinely so stupid.
She’s not even sure what it is that has her thinking this, but her head is reeling, spinning like she’s on the goddamn Tilt-A-Whirl. Like she’s on the Fairly Odd Coaster at Nickelodeon, the one she’d ridden with –
She turns to look at Yoonchae, now, all but drags her eyes away from Megan. Yoonchae’s fisting her hands by her side, looking distraught. Her mouth is red, so red, and Dani’s stomach is coiling and twisting in on itself.
Okay. So maybe she should leave, maybe she should turn around and close the door and leave Megan and Yoonchae to sort out whatever the fuck they’d dragged her into. Maybe she should do all this, and then go back to her hotel room, and ask Manon to smother her to death with one of the nice pillows.
Do friends kiss?
She’s rooted to the spot. She can’t move.
Me and Yoonchae kiss all the time. Fuck off, Megan.
It’s Yoonchae who breaks the spell.
“Dani,” she says, echoing Megan, but her voice is different. Where Megan’s had trembled in naked distress, Yoonchae’s is soft, but somehow still undercut with that sturdiness, that rocky refusal to yield.
Dani’s not mad at her. Not really. She’s not sure if she’s mad at Megan, either, but.
“What do you want me to say, Yoonchae?” Dani asks, faintly. “Genuinely, what do you want me to say?”
The silence is telling, and oppressive: neither of them know the answer to that, either. Megan’s hands start to shake, but Dani doesn’t stay long enough to know for sure, before she’s whipping around and letting her legs carry her out.
Megan has always reminded Dani of cherries. Her dream charm, her duality, the sweetness of her character, her smile, her laughter.
Now, as Dani turns her back on her, on Yoonchae as well, and stumbles down the hallway with spots blurring her vision, all she can feel is the pit lodging itself in her throat.