Nayeon
The outside noise was muffled.
It always was in here.
The dressing room had a way of swallowing sound, of keeping the world at bay. The heavy curtains, the thick walls—everything about this place felt detached, suspended in a way that made time itself feel slower. Quieter.
She moved through the space without urgency, her fingers grazing over the edges of furniture, the smooth finish of the vanity. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just looking.
A last look, maybe.
She pulled open a drawer, then another. A brush, a scattering of hairpins, an old perfume bottle—remnants of past performances, long since abandoned.
And then—there it was.
Her lipstick.
She stilled for a second, her fingers curling around it, the weight of it familiar even after all this time. It had been pushed into the corner, almost forgotten. But it was hers.
She turned it over in her palm before twisting it open. The color was still rich, untouched.
Stepping closer to the mirror, she leaned in, eyes catching on the cracks running jagged through the glass. Fractured reflections. Fragments of herself.
She applied the color carefully, pressing the pigment into her lips with an old, practiced ease. When she was done, she pursed them together, smoothing out the edges.
A small smear of excess caught on her skin, and she wiped it away with her ring finger.
And that was when she saw it.
The reflection.
Not just hers, but something else. Behind her.
Flickering, shifting—alive.
Flames.
Her breath stilled, lips parting slightly.
The fire moved in the fractured glass, weaving through the broken edges, licking at the shadows like it was waiting.
Waiting for her.
/////////
She was already bored, and it was barely the afternoon.
Time dragged in this house, stretching endlessly, suffocatingly. She had so much of it, yet nothing to do with it.
He was out. Like always.
Every morning, the same thing—as soon as the sun was up, he was gone. And Nayeon was left behind, drifting from one empty hour to the next. She got bored easily. Lonely too.
She had tried.
She had tried to fill her days, to carve out something meaningful from the quiet spaces between his absence and his return. But the hobbies never lasted.
She had picked up painting once. Bought an expensive set of brushes, the kind artists swore by, along with watercolors and thick sheets of paper that felt luxurious beneath her fingertips. She had sat by the window for an entire afternoon, watching the way the light shifted through the glass, trying to capture anything that moved—a bird, or a cloud.
But by the next morning, the brushes were shoved into a drawer, the paint barely touched.
Then came baking.
Then reading.
Gardening.
None of it stuck.
Her mother always said she had no patience for stillness. That she had never learned to sit in a moment without needing to reach for something more.
And maybe that was true.
Maybe that was why she was here again, at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, scrolling through her emails like it could be her salvation.
She wasn’t looking for work—not really.
But the thought of it... Of stepping back into the spotlight...
The idea of putting herself out there again, stepping onto a stage after so much time away—it thrilled her in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
And the emails were there.
Scattered between irrelevant messages and automated reminders, she saw them—casting calls, invitations, auditions.
Her name still meant something.
It had been years, yet her inbox never fully emptied. There were still people who wanted her, still directors who remembered what she could do.
Her fingers hovered over one of the emails, poised to click, to open it, to just look.
But she didn’t.
It was too dangerous. Too tempting.
Instead, she locked her phone and pushed it aside, exhaling slowly.
This was just another distraction. Another thing to pretend to care about before ultimately setting it aside.
She got up from her chair, wandering into the living room. The house was spotless—too spotless. Everything in its place, everything perfectly arranged. There was no mess to clean, no chores to busy herself with.
She circled the room anyway, aimless, restless.
She’d spent so much of her life in motion. Moving from one stage to another, one rehearsal to the next. There was always something to do, someone to see, a performance to prepare for.
And now, there was just this.
The quiet.
The waiting.
The feeling of time slipping by, second after second, with nothing to hold onto.
She sank onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the silence pressing against her skin.
This house had always been too big for just two people.
And most days, it felt like it barely had even that.
She felt the vibration first then heard her phone ring. She waited, letting the call connect on the second ring.
"Hey, so... I’m gonna be a little late."
Nayeon groaned, already rubbing her temple with the heel of her palm. "Of course you are."
Jihyo chuckled on the other end, but Nayeon wasn’t in the mood to find it funny. It wasn’t like Jihyo being late was new—if anything, it was expected. But tonight was different. Tonight mattered.
"I can’t believe you," Nayeon muttered, shifting the phone to her other ear as she paced in her living room. "It’s nothing fancy, you know? Just you, them, me and Harang. That’s five people, Jihyo. Five people who all managed to free their schedules—except for one."
"Hey, I didn’t do this on purpose."
"You never do, but somehow, it always happens."
A sigh crackled through the speaker. "I’m getting out of this now."
Nayeon frowned, dropping onto the couch. "Wait—where are you?"
“I’m... on my way."
Something in Jihyo’s tone made Nayeon pause. A little too casual, too vague.
"Jihyo," she said slowly, already bracing herself for the words to come, "where are you?"
Silence.
Then, too soft, almost hesitant. "On my way to the airport."
Nayeon bolted upright.
"Jihyo!"
"Look, it wasn’t my fault!" Jihyo rushed, words spilling out before Nayeon could even start. "They rescheduled a scene at the last minute, and I got stuck. What was I supposed to do? Just walk off set?"
Nayeon pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling sharply through her teeth.
"You were supposed to plan around this."
"I did plan around it! But the director didn’t exactly ask for my input before changing the schedule!"
Nayeon let out a slow breath, tapping her fingers against the couch armrest.
She wasn’t angry, not really. But it was frustrating. It was exhausting trying to keep up with Jihyo’s schedule—her life wasn’t filled with travel anymore, but her hours...
"God," Nayeon muttered, shaking her head, "you’re impossible."
Jihyo huffed. "You act like I don’t feel bad about this. I do. I was looking forward to seeing you guys again. I’ve missed you... And tonight, well...”
Tonight.
Jeongyeon’s anniversary with Joon.
A couple of years together, and tonight was the night he planned to propose.
It wasn’t a grand thing—just a quiet dinner with close friends, an intimate setting where he could pop the question with the people who mattered most.
Or so it was meant to be. If Jihyo could actually make it in time.
"What do you want me to do?" Jihyo asked, exasperated now. "I’m heading to the airport right now. It’ll be tight, but I’ll make it—"
"Oh, yeah? And what happens when you don’t?"
Jihyo groaned louder this time. "Nayeon."
"Jihyo."
Another pause. Then—softer, with a hint of guilt hidden with a smile she could picture so well, "You’re gonna have to stall, aren’t you?"
Nayeon let her head drop back against the couch, eyes closing. "Oh, you bet I am."
Jihyo laughed, just a little. "You love me. You’d die without me.”
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing."
A small, reluctant smile tugged at Nayeon’s lips, but she didn’t let Jihyo hear it in her voice. "Just hurry. And pray I don’t kill you when you land."
Jihyo grinned audibly. "Duly noted."
Nayeon rolled her eyes, ending the call before she could say something sarcastic.
She exhaled, the reality of the night settling in once again.
Great. Now she had to stall a proposal.
Just great.
/////////
But... Stress turned out to be a decent time killer.
Not that she had much to stress over—not really. But this night, this moment, was supposed to be special. For Jeongyeon.
And Jeongyeon deserved something good.
Something uncomplicated. Something that wouldn’t be overshadowed by schedules and delays and all the other things that always seemed to get in the way.
But there was only so much she could dwell on before it all became useless noise.
She let out a slow breath, sinking deeper into the couch, her head tilting back against the cushion. The ceiling blurred slightly as she stared at it, empty and white, nothing interesting to hold her attention.
Her gaze drifted toward the clock on the wall.
Still so much time.
Too much.
The house felt too big, too quiet. The kind of silence that stretched, making everything feel heavier than it was.
She grabbed her phone again. Out of habit, not out of need.
Scrolling.
Not looking for anything specific, just going through the motions. Emails. More casting calls...
Her finger hovered over one.
She shouldn’t open it.
But she did.
A script.
Only a few pages long, attached to an audition notice. The production name didn’t matter—she already knew it was awful. The kind of writing that reeked of self-indulgence, a playwright trying too hard to sound profound.
But still, she read it.
Her lips moved, forming the words aloud, slipping into the dialogue like it was second nature. She wasn’t trying—she didn’t have to try.
The cadence, the breath, the shift in tone—it all came effortlessly, muscle memory guiding her through it all.
Her voice filled the empty space of the house, breaking through the silence that had been pressing down on her all afternoon.
No audience. No stage.
Just her.
And yet, she still killed it.
Still, even now. She knew that much.
She went through the lines once. Then a second time, adjusting her delivery, shaping the emotion, finding different ways to make the words work. The writing was weak, but she knew how to make it feel like it wasn’t.
She leaned into the emotion, into the weight of the character’s desperation—her voice dropping lower, softer, before lifting into something sharp, something raw.
And right in that moment, she almost felt like herself again.
Almost.
She was in it, her focus locked on the lines glowing on her phone screen, her breath measured, voice slipping into something practiced.
She didn’t hear the door open.
Not at first.
But then—
Arms.
Familiar. Firm.
A quiet inhale against her neck.
Harang.
His presence was always silent—his footsteps never loud, his entrance never announced. He liked to slip past her unnoticed, only making himself known when he was close enough to touch her.
It used to make her feel wanted. Kept her on her toes.
Now, it only made her feel caught.
She stilled for a second, the phone still in her hand, the script still open. Then she exhaled, forcing the tension from her shoulders, tilting her head just slightly, just enough to let him think she was leaning into the embrace.
His grip tightened, a quiet sigh against her skin.
She used to lean into it without thinking. Used to feel that warmth and melt into it. But that was another time. Another version of her, another version of him.
Still, she was a good actress.
And pretending?
That came as naturally as breathing.
His lips brushed against the curve of her jaw, his voice warm with amusement.
"You’re a killer now?"
Nayeon blinked, still half-anchored in the scene she had been practicing, her phone still in her hand. She let the words settle for a moment before turning her head slightly, just enough to catch his gaze.
"Depends," she murmured. "Do you think I’d be good at it?"
Harang chuckled, the sound vibrating between them. His arms were solid, wrapped around her waist as he pulled her just a little closer. He was in a good mood tonight.
That didn’t happen often.
And that was the strange part—because she remembered this version of him. The one who used to tease her, who used to look at her like she was something bright.
The one who hadn’t yet turned into a stranger.
She clung to it now, to the warmth of his hands on her hips, to the easy rhythm of their words. She played along, the way she always did.
"I don’t know," he mused, fingers grazing the fabric of her dress. "You always did have a sharp tongue. Deadly, even."
"Oh?" She hummed, tilting her head in mock consideration. "And here I thought you liked that about me."
"I do," he admitted easily. "But only when it’s not aimed at me."
Nayeon smirked, feeling the press of his fingers against her waist, the way his grip lingered. It was easy, falling into this, pretending it was real.
"Lucky for you, I haven’t found a reason to kill you yet."
He laughed, a real one this time, deep and unguarded. His forehead dropped against her shoulder for a moment, and for that brief second, it felt as if they were truly something whole.
Something real.
"Tonight’s a big night," he murmured after a pause, the teasing edge in his voice softening slightly.
"For Jeongyeon, yeah."
"Maybe for us, too."
She frowned, pulling back just enough to look at him. "What do you mean?"
There was a beat of hesitation—just enough to spark curiosity—before he finally said it.
"Someone put in a good word with my boss."
Nayeon blinked. "And?"
"And... everything points to a promotion."
She stilled, lips parting slightly in surprise.
"A big one," he added, watching her reaction carefully. "It’s not official yet, but it’s looking really good. It would change a lot of things... For both of us."
Her mind flickered through the possibilities, the implications.
A promotion.
Bigger responsibilities. More power. A larger shadow cast over their lives.
She knew what it meant—more expectations, more obligations.
More of him being gone. More of her staying at home.
But she smiled anyway, because that’s what she was supposed to do.
"That’s amazing, Harang."
He studied her for a moment, then exhaled, nodding. "Yeah. It is."
They stood together, wrapped up in each other, his warmth pressing against her, his hands resting against her waist.
It was easy.
Deceptively easy.
They kept talking—lighthearted, effortless. As if things had never shifted between them, as if they were still on the same page.
It wasn’t until he checked the time that he finally loosened his hold on her, brushing a quick kiss against her cheek.
"I need to shower," he said, stepping back, stretching his arms slightly. "We have a big night ahead."
Nayeon nodded, watching as he disappeared down the hall, the sound of running water filling the silence he left behind.
She exhaled, her gaze drifting back to the darkened screen of her phone.
A big night.
For who, exactly?
She followed him into the bedroom, her steps unhurried, more out of habit than anything else.
The bathroom door was already open, steam curling into the air, thick and humid against her skin. The sound of running water filled the space, drowning out everything else.
Nayeon grunted, waving a hand as if it would do anything to clear the air. He always did this. Left the door open like it didn’t matter, like she wasn’t trying to breathe through the fog of hot water clinging to the walls.
“So, Jihyo’s late,” she said, arms crossing loosely over her chest.
Harang laughed, stepping under the stream of water. “And you’re surprised?”
She rolled her eyes, leaning against the doorway, watching as he disappeared behind the curtain.
His voice carried through the rush of water, casual, easy. “What about the others? Are they coming?”
She barely gave the question a second thought.
“They weren’t invited,” she said simply.
Another beat of silence, then a hum of acknowledgment. Not really curiosity, just conversation filler.
She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask.
There wasn’t much to explain anyway.
It had been years since the last time all nine of them were in the same room together. She still saw them, still crossed paths with some of them now and then—Momo at industry events, Mina at plays, Dahyun and Chaeyoung in glossy spreads of magazines.
But the group, as it once was, didn’t exist anymore.
The only ones who had really stayed together were her, Jihyo, and Jeongyeon.
The three of them had always been different. Always closer.
And so, when Joon planned tonight—this moment—he hadn’t extended the invitation beyond them.
Just a quiet dinner with their closest friends.
The only ones that... stayed.
She shifted slightly, glancing toward the bed.
The dress she had picked was elegant—classy. The kind that fit the kind of restaurant they were going to, the kind of night this was supposed to be.
She had to look the part.
Harang peeked through the curtain, water dripping from his hair, his eyes catching hers. She felt his attention linger—not on the dress, but on her.
"You should wear something special too," he said, his voice smooth, laced with that heavy sound.
She didn’t need to ask what he meant.
She already knew.
His favorite. The delicate lace set tucked away in the drawer, the one he always asked for when he wanted the night to end a certain way.
And just like that—she knew.
How the night would end.
How it was always supposed to end.
Harang wouldn’t force her. He never had. Never would. But he also wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She smiled—small, effortless. Automatic.
And like always, she played the role.
“Of course.”
She left him alone, he would take his time, she knew. It was a habit of his, a bad one at that.
So she left him to it, slipping out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, letting the cooler air settle against her skin after the humidity of the bathroom. She wasn’t hungry, didn’t care for food, but eating would pass the time, and she needed something to keep herself occupied. She grabbed a light snack, biting into it as she made her way back to the couch.
She was mid chew when she picked up her phone—forgotten on the couch—and saw the screen light up.
Her stomach dropped.
One missed call from Joon. Three from Jihyo.
Her chewing slowed, the food suddenly tasteless in her mouth. She swallowed, feeling it catch in her throat, and coughed against the dryness as she stared at the notifications. She already knew what this meant. Jihyo wasn’t going to make it. The dinner, the proposal—it was going to be postponed. Joon wouldn’t do it without her there.
With a sigh, she wiped her fingers, swiped at her phone, and called Jihyo back. The line barely had time to ring before it connected.
"You better be on that flight right now, or I swear—"
"Nayeon."
But she stopped. She couldn’t continue, not when Jihyo’s voice sounded so... wrong.
It wasn’t guilt over being late. It wasn’t exasperation at Nayeon’s usual nagging. It was something else—something tight and frayed at the edges, something that made Nayeon sit up a little straighter.
She barely had time to process it before Jihyo spoke again.
"It’s Jeongyeon."
She frowned, confused by the way her chest suddenly tightened. "What?"
She heard her exhale, but it sounded more like she was struggling to breathe. "She—there was an accident."
Something cold and heavy dropped into the pit of her stomach. She gripped the phone tighter ready to break it in her palm, fingers numb.
"What are you saying?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, edged with the disbelief and the panic.
"Joon called me," Jihyo rushed, and Nayeon could hear how fast she was speaking, like she was trying to keep herself together just long enough to explain. "He said she fell. From their balcony. She’s—"
But Nayeon didn’t hear the rest.
She was already standing, already moving.
This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. They were supposed to see her tonight.
Jeongyeon was supposed to be sitting across from them at dinner, rolling her eyes at Nayeon’s dramatics, laughing at Jihyo’s lateness. She was supposed to be there, supposed to be fine.
But Jihyo was still talking, her words frantic, breaking apart at the edges.
"They’re at the hospital now. She’s unconscious, it’s bad—Nayeon, it looks bad."
Nayeon’s heart pounded in her ears. Louder than Jihyo. Louder than anything.
"Which hospital?"
And when Jihyo didn’t answer fast enough she called again.
"Jihyo, which hospital?"
She didn’t realize she’d grabbed her keys until she was already halfway trough the door. She didn’t evenremember putting on her shoes, didn’t feel herself moving through the house, only knew that she had to go. Had to see Jeongyeon. Had to make sure this wasn’t real.
"Tell me where she is," Nayeon demanded, voice breaking, and she hated how it sounded, hated how she was losing it too.
Jihyo choked on a sob, but she got the name out.
And that was all Nayeon needed. She ran out to her car, leaving everything else behind.
She didn’t know how but she was driving, speeding down the city lights, her focus solely on the road to the hospital.
Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing after the call with Jihyo.
It rattled against the cup holder, lighting up every few seconds, vibrating with messages, calls, notifications—but none of it mattered.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing her focus to stay on the road, but her mind was spinning, racing, unraveling.
At the next red light, she finally glanced down.
The group chat was alive again, the screen flooding with messages, names lighting up one after another. She barely skimmed the words, her brain too fogged, too preoccupied with the one thought looping over and over—Jeongyeon.
That was all she could think of.
She barely registered how some of the girls were saying they were flying over, booking the next available flights, doing whatever they could to get there. She didn’t process the questions, the panic, the ones asking for the hospital name, for any kind of updates.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even try.
She just kept driving.
Her vision blurred more than once, the streetlights smearing into long, white streaks, distorted by the unshed tears gathering in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, forcing them back, but the pressure in her chest only grew heavier, darker.
Her phone rang, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of the engine, and she barely spared it a glance before swiping to answer.
Harang.
She didn’t say anything at first, just breathed.
He must’ve heard something in it, because his voice was softer than usual, edged with concern.
"Nayeon? Where did you go?"
She didn’t know how to start or what to say, and she realized too late that she was crying again. Silent tears, relentless, unstoppable.
"Jeongyeon," she managed, her voice almost gone. "She—she fell. She’s in the hospital."
Harang was quiet for a moment, processing. "What? When? Are you—?"
"I don’t know," she cut in, because she really didn’t. She barely even knew what she was saying, barely understood the words coming out of her own mouth. "Jihyo just called me. It’s bad. She’s unconscious, I—"
Her voice cracked.
Harang sighed on the other end of the line, like he wanted to say something, like wanted to fix it somehow.
But he couldn’t. No one could.
She barely heard him when he spoke again, his voice distant against the pounding in her ears.
“Are you staying there tonight?”
And with that she froze.
She blinked, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white.
For a second, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
"Are you serious?" she asked, her voice too low not capturing well enough how annoyed she was at the question.
"I just meant—"
She hung up. she didn’t want to hear a single word from him anymore.
Her hands were shaking. And she threw the phone onto the passenger seat, her breath coming out uneven, sharp, furious.
She didn’t have time for this.
She didn’t have time for him.
All that mattered was getting there.
She pressed harder on the gas, the city lights flashing by, everything around her a blur.
Faster.
Faster.
Just get there.
That’s when Jihyo called again.
Nayeon barely had time to answer, fumbling for her phone as she swerved into the hospital parking lot, her pulse pounding in her ears.
"Are you there? Are you inside?" Jihyo’s asked, and she could hear that she was barely holding it together.
“I’m parking,” Nayeon muttered, shoving the car into place before killing the engine. She barely remembered pulling the keys out of the ignition, barely felt the bite of cold air as she threw open the door and sprinted toward the entrance.
Jihyo was still in her ear, her voice shaking and breaking like she’d never heard before.
"Did you find her? Have you seen her yet?"
Nayeon didn’t answer, her voice blended in the background as if forgetting she still had her on the line. She was already inside, already speaking to the first nurse she saw, her words coming out in a blur.
“Jeongyeon Yoo—she was just brought in. Where is she?”
The woman barely glanced up before directing her toward the elevators. Intensive Care. That’s what she said.
Intensive.
The word clawed at her throat, but she didn’t let herself think about it.
She just ran.
The elevator ride was unbearable. Every second stretched. The walls felt too close, the space too small, the numbers on the panel climbing too slowly. Jihyo was still on the phone, still asking, begging for any kind of update, but all Nayeon could hear was the rush of blood in her ears, the deafening silence that filled the empty space between them.
The doors opened, and sure enough there he was.
Joon. Sitting in the waiting area, his knee bouncing up and down, his hands gripping his hair like he was holding himself together by force. His suit jacket was crumpled, his tie loosened, his eyes red.
He looked wrecked.
Something about it made Nayeon gasp, her breath catching. She had been running on instinct until now, operating on shock, adrenaline. But seeing him like this—seeing him come apart at the seams—made everything sink in.
Made it feel real.
He looked up, and when their eyes met, she moved before she could think. She went to him, dropping to her knees, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a tight, desperate embrace. He didn’t react at first, just sat there, frozen, like he didn’t know how to exist in this moment. Then, slowly, his arms came up, his fingers gripping the fabric as he exhaled a shuddering breath.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. “What happened?”
He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words. “She—she fell,” he rasped. “We were—she was standing by the balcony, and I—I stepped inside for a second, just a second, and then I heard—”
He cut himself off, inhaling sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t see it. I just heard it. She was—” He exhaled shakily. “She was just there. And then she wasn’t.”
His voice was flat, distant, like he was still processing it himself.
Something about it didn’t sit right.
But Nayeon was too dazed, too exhausted, too shattered to think about why.
She just nodded, her mind too overwhelmed to latch onto anything else. Every other detail escaping her.
Joon stood abruptly, running his hands through his face. He didn’t say anything, didn’t offer any last words before turning and walking away, leaving her alone in the waiting area.
She’d forgotten, but Jihyo was still on the phone, still crying, still asking.
Nayeon wiped her face, realizing only then that she was crying too.
She turned, moving past the chairs, past the corridor, following the signs toward Jeongyeon’s room. The hallway felt endless, stretching before her, the fluorescent lights above flickering too brightly against the sterile walls.
She reached the room, stopping just outside the door.
The curtain was drawn, but through the panel window, she could see the outline of the bed. Her hand trembled as she pressed it against the glass. She tilted her head slightly, peeking through the smallest gap in the curtain—just enough to see.
And then—
Everything inside her collapsed. Her breath stalled. Her stomach dropped. Her knees nearly gave out.
She could hear Jihyo still crying on her ear as if she’d seen her too.
Jeongyeon.
“Oh god.”