Mina
The curtain loomed before her, heavy and unmoving, drenched in crimson, thick with history. The kind of red that set the blood aflame, that swallowed the light, that turned everything behind it into a secret. It was a perfect illusion—a final act wrapped in velvet.
Mina stood at the center of the stage, spine straight, hands trembling at her sides. The boards beneath her feet felt alive, humming with something raw, something ancient. She knew these floors better than she knew herself. They had carried her, broken her, built her.
And tonight, for the last time, they would hold her again.
Beyond the curtain, the world stirred.
It wasn’t the usual murmur of an audience settling into their seats, nor the rustle of programs being smoothed over anxious hands. This was different. This was chaos barely restrained. Voices clipped, urgency, feet moving too quickly, too sharply, things being shuffled, adjusted, secured.
Mina’s heart pounded against her ribs.
It was starting.
The heat, the pressure, the anticipation—it all swelled within her, stretching her skin too tight. This was how it always felt before a performance, that sharp, stomach twisting thrill before stepping into the light. The hunger to deliver something unforgettable.
But this time, it was different.
This wasn’t just a show.
This was the finale.
Mina exhaled slowly, lowering her chin. With the same precision she had perfected over the years, and she took her bow.
A slow, intentional motion—not of submission, but of devotion.
To the stage. To the life she had given it. To the ending they had chosen.
She stayed there, bent at the waist, her arms hanging gracefully by her sides, her eyes closed savoring it all.
And as she held the pose, she vowed—to the stage, to the moment, to the fire already licking at the edges of their story.
The final act had begun.
And there would be no encore.
/////////
The water was scalding, steaming up the bathroom until the mirror was nothing but a fogged blur. Mina let it run down her back, massaging her scalp as she worked the shampoo through her hair, her muscles tight with tension. She needed a massage, needed sleep, needed something to loosen the knots pulling at her body like tightly wound strings.
Her phone was ringing again.
She groaned, tilting her head back, letting the water rinse the soap from her hair. It never stopped. Calls, messages, updates—her phone buzzed so often that even when it wasn’t ringing, she still heard it in her head. She knew most of them were pointless, things that could wait. But now, every time it rang, she felt that sting of hope, waiting for the one call that would tell her Jeongyeon was awake. That she was okay.
The phone rang again, vibrating against the sink.
Mina reached for it blindly, water dripping from her fingers, slicking the screen as she fumbled for the answer button. She didn’t bother checking the caller ID—she’d done that too many times, and it never made a difference. Whoever it was, they were either giving her news she needed or news she didn’t care about.
"Hello?" she exhaled, shaking the excess water from her hand as she stepped to the side, away from the shower. Her skin was still dripping, hair clinging to her neck, steam curling around her as she tried to focus on the voice through the phone.
There was a pause, then a deep, gravelly voice crackled through the speaker. A man.
"Miss Myoui, I hope I’m not calling at a bad time."
Mina blinked, wiping the water from her face, shifting slightly under the stream. The voice wasn’t familiar. She hesitated, shifting the phone to her other ear. "Who is this?"
"My apologies. My name is Mr. Kim—Kim Daeho. I run the Hanok Theater in the city."
The name struck something faint in her memory, but not enough to immediately place it. "Right. What can I do for you, Mr. Kim?"
There was a small chuckle, deep and warm. It felt inviting, like it belonged to an old storyteller. "It’s more about what I can do for you, actually. I understand you’ve been expanding your investments into smaller theaters."
Mina pushed wet strands of hair from her face, shifting her weight. "I have. If you’re looking for funding, my team—"
"Not funding," he interrupted gently. "I’m looking to sell."
That caught her attention.
She reached for the knob, turning the water off with a sharp squeak before stepping out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself. "Sell," she echoed, her brain catching up to the conversation. "You’re looking for buyers?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "I’m getting old, Miss Myoui. Running a theater isn’t as easy as it used to be, and I have no heirs willing to take it on. The Hanok has been in my family for three generations, but it’s time I step away. I want to sell it to someone who will care for it, not just let it rot in corporate hands."
Mina squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the towel a little tighter. A year ago, she would’ve jumped at this offer without hesitation. A small theater in the heart of the city? Family run, probably still intact without too much modernization? It was exactly the kind of place she wanted to preserve.
But now... her world felt like it was teetering, too unstable to take on something new.
"I appreciate the call," she said, keeping her voice even, professional. "But I’d need to look into the property before I can even consider making an offer."
"Of course," Mr. Kim said. "I’m not rushing the process. I just wanted to reach out personally. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to set up a meeting. Walk you through the space, show you the numbers."
Mina paused, staring at the fogged up mirror, her own blurred reflection barely visible.
"Let me get back to you," she finally said. "I have... a lot going on right now."
"Yes," the man said, his voice gentler now, as if he already knew. "I heard about your friend. I’m sorry."
Mina inhaled sharply, caught off guard. "Thank you.” she said.
There was a pause, then the sound of him shifting on the other end of the line. "I won’t take up any more of your time. Just think about it. The Hanok deserves someone who understands the stage."
Mina nodded to herself, fingers tightening around the phone. "I’ll think about it."
"That’s all I ask."
The call ended with a click on the other side.
Mina exhaled again, lowering the phone from her ear, staring down at the wet screen.
She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more—the fact that she was considering it, or the fact that a part of her already wanted to say yes.
/////////
She was running late.
The first time in years.
She had always been meticulous about time, precise to a fault, but today, it had slipped through her fingers like sand. One moment she was stepping out of the shower, phone in hand, considering an offer she hadn’t even asked for—and the next, she was racing to get dressed, eyes darting between the time on her watch and the notifications piling up on her screen.
The theater was already awake without her. The director had planned a full rehearsal today—a stress test before they moved into the final stretch before opening night.
Mina wasn’t needed there, technically. No one expected her to be. The director likely didn’t even want her hovering over his process.
But that had never stopped her before.
She refused to be just a name on a contract, another silent benefactor funding a production from the shadows. She was present in every part of the process. From the first draft of the script to the final bow, she watched everything, adjusted everything, ensuring that what went on her stage was worth it.
Not just profitable. Not just passable.
Grand.
That had been one of the reasons she left the spotlight years ago—to take control. To preserve something that was slowly slipping through the cracks of commercialized mediocrity.
Theater had lost its heart, its depth. Productions had turned into cash grabs, stages filled with performances designed to be digestible, marketable, palatable to audiences that barely cared.
Mina wasn’t naive enough to think she could stop it altogether, but she could push back. She could demand excellence.
And she was changing things. Slowly. Carefully. One show at a time.
She grabbed her coat, slipping her arms through the sleeves, before heading for the door. Outside, the city was buzzing, alive, impatient.
At the curb, her car was already waiting.
Her driver stood beside it, holding the door open for her, always on time, always anticipating her needs before she voiced them. She stepped inside without a word, settling into the back seat as the door clicked shut behind her.
Mina checked the time one last time, sighing to herself as the car pulled into traffic.
She hated being late.
But if she had to be, at least it was for something that mattered.
/////////
Her phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
She pressed her fingers against her temple, exhaling in frustration as she tried to focus on anything but the persistent vibration rattling against her desk. It was giving her a migraine.
One day.
That’s all she had taken for herself. One day away from it all. One day pulled from the chaos of her work, from the nonstop rhythm of her life—just to be at the hospital, to sit in the thick of it, to wait.
And that wrecked it all.
She hadn’t met the others yet—the rest of the girls had arrived just as she left. But she had to leave. Sitting beside Jeongyeon’s hospital bed, staring at the slow rise and fall of her chest, waiting for something to change—it felt endless. Like she could have stayed there forever and it wouldn’t have made a difference.
They would call her.
They promised.
If anything changed—if Jeongyeon so much as stirred—they would tell her. And then she’d be back, ready to face it all again.
Her phone stopped buzzing at some point, the silence stretching just long enough for her to forget about it. But then, just as she picked up her pen, it started again.
She looked down at the screen.
Sana.
Mina sighed, hesitating only a moment before answering. She held her breath, not even sure what she was expecting—if she was expecting anything at all.
“Sana.”
There was a pause on the other end, then a small noice. “You sound exhausted.”
Mina closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
Mina let out another breath through her nose, pressing two fingers to the bridge of it. “Any updates?”
“No changes,” Sana admitted, her voice softer now. “She’s the same.”
Mina swallowed. That should be a good thing, right? No worse. Just... the same.
Sana didn’t fill the silence, didn’t rush to cover the heavy pause with meaningless words. She knew Mina well enough not to.
Instead, she continued, “I left the hospital. It was getting too crowded.”
Mina hummed in acknowledgment, her gaze drifting to the city lights outside her window. It had probably been chaos—Momo, Chaeyoung, Dahyun, Tzuyu all arriving at once, Jihyo and Nayeon already there. They had never done well in confined spaces together. Too much energy, too many emotions.
“Sana.” Mina’s voice softened. “Thanks for staying as long as you did.”
A small chuckle came through the line. “You make it sound like I was babysitting.”
Mina didn’t answer, just let the corner of her mouth twitch slightly.
“Momo and the others were sulking about missing you, by the way. Tzuyu especially.”
Mina ran a tired hand through her hair, already feeling the heavy weight of the guilt settle in. “I’ll go back tonight.”
There was a shift in Sana’s tone, subtle but there. “Mina, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Mina cut in. And she did. But that wasn’t the only reason.
She could already hear it in Sana’s voice—the concern. The careful way she was treading, like she was trying not to push too hard but still refusing to let it go.
Sana had always been like that. She was the only one who knew just how much Mina pushed herself.
So, of course, she wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
“Mina.”
Mina sighed. “Sana.”
There was another pause before Sana spoke again, voice a little lower now, a little closer despite the distance between them.
“You need to take care of yourself, too.”
Mina glanced down at her desk, at the neatly stacked papers she hadn’t even touched all day. “I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m managing.”
Sana scoffed, unimpressed. “You’re barely holding yourself together.”
Mina’s jaw tightened. “Jeongyeon is the one in a hospital bed, Sana.”
“And you’re acting like you should be right there with her,” Sana countered, unshaken.
Mina didn’t reply.
Sana sighed again, softer this time. “I’m just saying... don’t push yourself, okay? She’s going to wake up. We’ll call. You don’t have to—”
“I’ll be fine.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, finally, Sana let it go. “Just... let me know when you’re on your way.”
Mina nodded to herself. “I will.”
A quiet hmm from the other end. Then, a softer, “Take care, Mina.”
The call ended, and for a long moment, Mina just sat there.
She was fine.
She just needed to manage things a little better, that was all.
And if she could just keep herself busy, keep moving, keep fixing things—
Then maybe, for a little while longer, she wouldn’t have to think about the fact that nothing she did could actually fix this.
Mina gave herself just a few minutes. A pause. A moment to inhale, to let the tension in her shoulders settle, to remind herself that she was still standing, still functioning, still here.
And then, almost instinctively, she got to work.
Her inbox was a disaster. She had cleared it out just the day before—responded, scheduled, approved, redirected—but here it was again, full to the brim as if she’d never touched it at all.
She skimmed through the subject lines, already filtering out what needed immediate attention and what could wait. Directors. Producers. Managers. Some were follow ups, others new requests, a few things flagged by her own team, asking for a meeting.
It was overwhelming, but manageable.
Mina’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, tackling the most pressing matters first. A response to a director about a revised script she had yet to approve. A quick but professional acknowledgment to a producer pushing for an early budget discussion. A firm but polite rejection of a project she had no interest in backing.
Her team had sent over a request for a meeting—probably to check in on everything piling up on her end. She marked it for later, knowing she’d have to sit through it eventually, but not today. Not when she had somewhere else she needed to be.
She worked through the emails systematically, efficient but never rushed. Mina knew the pressure of her position, the expectation behind every word she typed. She couldn’t afford to be careless.
Time slipped by, but when she glanced at the clock, she realized she had managed to clear enough of her inbox to breathe a little easier. And she still had enough time to stop by the hospital at a decent hour.
The rest—the less urgent emails, the ones that didn’t make her feel like she needed a bigger screen to take them seriously—she could handle on the way.
Mina reached for her phone, she had long since mastered the art of working on the go, balancing between responsibilities without ever fully stopping.
She grabbed her coat, slinging it over her shoulders as she stepped to the door. Outside, she could already see the car waiting—like always, her driver standing patiently by the side.
She let out a weary breath, her grip tightening around her phone as she scrolled through, her vision blurring at the sides from the strain in her eyes.
Always moving. Always managing.
At least this way, she wouldn’t have to think too hard about everything else.
She slid into the backseat, glancing up as she murmured, “The hospital, please.” The door shut behind her, and before her legs had even fully settled into the seat, she was already working again—thumbs flying over her phone screen, sending out replies with practiced efficiency.
The city blurred past the windows, streaks of neon and headlights melting into each other, but she barely noticed. Her phone was still full, still demanding, and she needed to get ahead of it before she reached the hospital, before she had to switch from business mode to something much heavier, much harder to control.
But even as she worked, she felt it.
The subtle sense of eyes flickering toward her in the rearview mirror, quick glances, barely there but noticeable enough. He wanted to say something.
He never interrupted her, never spoke unless she gave him an opening. Mina noticed that about him early on. He wasn’t like most drivers, who either filled the silence with idle chatter or acted like she wasn’t even there. He waited. Waited for her to put her phone down, for her gaze to drift to the window, for her body language to shift just enough to signal that she wasn’t too busy to listen.
So she indulged him, lowering her phone for just a moment, leaning her head lightly against the cool glass of the window.
And just like that, he took his chance.
“Mina.”
She turned, meeting his gaze through the mirror. First name basis, as she had insisted. He had hesitated with it at first, but she had corrected him early on—told him to save the stiff formality for the rest of the world.
“What is it?” she asked, voice even.
He hesitated, glancing back at the road, fingers tapping against the steering wheel before finally speaking again.
“I... was wondering if you could look at something for me.”
Mina raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.
“A script,” he clarified, glancing back at her reflection before quickly focusing ahead again. “I’ve been working on one for a while. And I thought... maybe you could take a look. Give me some pointers. Or, if it’s actually any good, help me figure out where to take it.”
Mina blinked, caught slightly off guard. It wasn’t the kind of request she got often, not from someone like him—someone who’d been quietly present in her life for over a year now, but never intrusive.
She studied him for a moment longer, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip had tightened slightly on the wheel, as if bracing for rejection.
“Why not Nayeon?” she asked finally, keeping her tone neutral. “You’re family.”
He gave her a small laugh, shaking his head. “I already asked her.”
Mina tilted her head inn question. “And?”
“She said we were too close for her to be objective. That she wouldn’t be able to look at it the right way.” He glanced at her again, more cautious this time. “But you... you don’t know me that well. Not personally. I figured if anyone would be honest, it’d be you.”
Mina hummed, considering that. He wasn’t wrong—she wasn’t the type to sugarcoat things, especially not when it came to theater, scripts, storytelling. And she understood what Nayeon meant, too. Sometimes, the closer you were to someone, the harder it was to see them clearly, to judge them fairly.
She let the thought settle for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Send it to me.”
He turned to her then, just for a second, the headlights from passing cars illuminating his face in fleeting bursts of color.
His expression shifted—relief, excitement, maybe even something close to gratitude. It was subtle, restrained, but she could see it in the way his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.
“Really?”
Mina allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch her lips. “Really.”
They were already pulling up to the hospital entrance by then, the car slowing to a stop. He reached for the gear shift, his fingers drumming lightly against it, a leftover habit from nerves he hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
“Thank you,” he said, and when their eyes met in the mirror again, his looked lighter somehow.
Mina only nodded, reaching for the door handle.
And as she stepped out of the car, she felt like she had done something good. Even if it was small. Even if it was just a step.
She walked into the cafeteria, eyes fixed on her phone as she moved forward in line. The scent of coffee and over salted hospital food filled the air, but she hardly noticed.
She wasn’t hungry.
She was stalling.
She knew for a fact that Nayeon and Jihyo hadn’t left the hospital since they arrived. They probably hadn’t eaten properly, either. So she would bring something back with her, use that as an excuse to buy herself a few more minutes before stepping into that room—before facing everyone again.
The others were there now. All of them.
Mina dragged in a slow breath, letting her fingers scroll mindlessly through old emails as if that would stop her from thinking about it.
She couldn’t remember the last time she saw Tzuyu. Couldn’t pinpoint the last real conversation she had with Dahyun.
She had kept in touch, of course—enough to exchange pleasantries, enough to send the occasional check-in. But that was different. That wasn’t what they used to have.
Before, it had been constant. Effortless.
They’d been cast together so many times—shared so many roles, so many lives that weren’t their own. Friends, family, sisters... even lovers.
Her lips pressed together at the thought. Some of those roles had been easier than others. Some she had pushed to the back of her mind, half buried under layers of years and distance. And some—one, in particular—had never really left her at all.
Nayeon.
The name surfaced before she could stop it, creeping up like an old song she had tried to forget. She wasn’t even sure why she thought of her just then, only that—
“Mina?”
She blinked, the voice snapping her out of it.
She turned, only just registering the line moving ahead of her as she searched for the source—until her gaze landed on a familiar face, standing a few feet away.
Chaeyoung.
For a second, Mina barely recognized her. It wasn’t that she looked so different—she had always had that effortless coolness about her, the kind that made her seem untouchable, even when she was anything but.
But there was something in her eyes now. A glaze over them, a slight furrow in her brow, a tightness in her shoulders that told Mina she had been just as shaken as the rest of them.
And then Chaeyoung moved, quickly, without hesitation.
Mina barely had time to react before the girl was on her, arms wrapping around her, gripping her tightly like she was afraid she’d slip away again.
Mina held her back just as hard.
It was dramatic, the way they collided—like something straight out of a stage performance, like a reunion written to pull heartstrings.
But it was real.
They’d been theater actresses, after all. Dramatics were in their blood.
Neither of them spoke. They just stood there, held there, breathed there.
Mina felt Chaeyoung exhale against her shoulder, felt the slight shake in her grip before she finally pulled back just enough to look at her.
“God,” Chaeyoung muttered, shaking her head. “Look at you.”
Mina huffed out a laugh, eyes flickering over her features. “Look at you.”
Chaeyoung still had that same youthfulness about her, but there was something sharper in her gaze now. Like knowing. Like life had taken its time with her, too.
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d—” She stopped, shook her head. “I mean, I knew you were coming, but seeing you here... it’s different.”
Mina nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
Chaeyoung’s grip on her arms tightened briefly before she let go. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Yeah. Same.”
There was another pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy. Just full of things they couldn’t quite say yet. Not just the two of them.
Chaeyoung was the first to break the silence. “Did you see her again?”
Mina’s stomach twisted at the question. “I... No, I just got back.”
The guilt in her voice was narrowly masked, and Chaeyoung caught it instantly.
“That’s okay,” she said. “You needed to handle things. We all knew you wouldn’t be able to stay here the whole time.”
Mina nodded, but she didn’t answer.
Because she had wanted to. She really had.
She’d stayed with Jeongyeon for as long as she could, waiting by her bed, watching her chest rise and fall in that painfully steady rhythm, counting the seconds between each mechanical beep. She had left only when she had no choice—when work had pulled her away, when responsibility demanded her attention.
And the moment she left, she had hated herself for it.
Chaeyoung must have seen something in her expression because she nudged her shoulder lightly, trying for something a little less heavy. “Let’s get back in line. I still have to grab some things.”
Mina blinked, then looked down at her empty hands, realizing she had completely abandoned what she came here for.
“Right,” she murmured.
She followed as Chaeyoung stepped back into place, the two of them side by side again, as if no time had passed at all.
/////////
Turns out, meeting them all again wasn’t awkward at all. It wasn’t uncomfortable or strained. It didn’t make her feel out of place or like too much time had passed to piece things together again.
It just made her feel lonely.
She hadn’t expected that. She had braced herself for tension, for the fumbling through old familiarity, but instead, she was overwhelmed by how much she’d missed them—far more than she’d ever let herself admit.
They’d hugged, some tighter than others, warmth passing between them in quick embraces. There was no hesitation. No overthinking. Just recognition—of what they once were, of what they still had, even now.
They’d fallen into easy conversation, snippets of their lives exchanged like puzzle pieces Mina hadn’t realized she was missing.
Momo was explaining, half exasperated, half-unbothered, saying she had to cancel an upcoming magazine shoot to come here. “My manager almost lost it, but whatever,” she said, shrugging. “I told them I’m not leaving until Jeong wakes up.”
Dahyun and Chaeyoung chimed in with something similar—the trio, inseparable now, apparently. “We work together, live together, even book our gigs together most of the time,” Dahyun said with a small grin, nudging Chaeyoung with her elbow. “Figured we’d stick together for this too.”
And now, they were here. All of them.
The private hospital room was big enough to fit them comfortably, yet somehow, it still felt suffocating. They all wanted to be close to Jeongyeon, even if she couldn’t see it. Even if she hadn’t moved a finger since she got here.
And so she sat there, watching as the machines beeped steadily, their rhythms cutting through the low hum of conversation.
It was strange, watching someone you cared for so much exist in this in-between state. Like time had pressed pause on her, while the rest of them were forced to keep moving. It didn’t feel real, it didn’t feel fair.
She glanced at Nayeon and Jihyo, sitting on either side of Jeongyeon’s bed, their expressions hard to read. They looked... fine, considering. Tired, drawn out, but still holding themselves together.
But they hadn’t left the hospital at all.
Tzuyu had tried to convince them. “I’ll stay,” she said. “I can call if anything changes. You should at least go home for a night.”
But they refused. Neither of them even entertained the thought.
Mina understood that.
She understood it because she couldn’t offer that same reassurance.
She couldn’t say she would stay, that she could sit here for days on end, waiting, hoping.
She didn’t have the time—not even in a time like this.
She’d been here for an hour already, and even now, with the clock nearing midnight, her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing. Her team. Her responsibilities. Calls she let ring until they faded to voicemail.
For now, she could ignore them. Just for a little longer. Just for this moment.
Because despite everything, despite how life had separated them over the years, one thing was still true.
She was here. And so were they.
Mina stepped outside, the air noticeably cooler against her skin after hours inside the cramped room. The quiet hum of the vending machines filled the corridor as she moved toward them, pulling out a few coins from her pocket. She hardly looked at the selection before pressing a button, waiting as the machine whirred to life.
Her phone vibrated in her other hand, a small stack of unread messages still waiting for her attention. She glanced at the screen, opening a few to skim through as she waited for the can to drop. Most were things she could ignore for now—updates from her team, reminders about upcoming meetings, logistical things she had no mental space for at the moment.
Then, a new email popped up.
She already knew who it was before she even opened it.
Mr. Kim.
She pushed some air out her lungs, her thumb tapping the notification. As expected, it was an invitation. Closing night.
She wasn’t surprised—she’d known it was coming. He was trying to sell her the theater, after all.
Closing night for a play they’d been showing for a while. The final performance before he officially stepped away from his theater, leaving it to whoever took charge next.
He wanted her to go. To see the place one last time, to experience it in full before she made a decision. He was hoping she’d fall in love with it, that the nostalgia and the spectacle would sway her into making an offer.
She took a deep breath. He was probably right.
The can clunked down into the dispenser, but she barely noticed. She stood there for a moment longer, staring at the email, debating whether or not she should just delete it and be done with it. She didn’t have time for this. Not now.
And yet...
She exited out of her inbox and called Sana.
It rang a few times before Sana picked up, the rush in her voice immediately noticeable. There were footsteps, fast and uneven, the faint sound of wind against the mic.
"Where are you?" Mina asked, adjusting her grip on the drink as she leaned against the vending machine.
"On my way to the hospital," Sana answered, slightly breathless. "I figured I’d get a last visit in before things get hectic."
Mina frowned slightly. “Already?”
“Yeah, just—" Sana exhaled. "The play starts in two days. And you know how it is—full day rehearsals, media rounds, last-minute fixes. If I don’t go now, I won’t be able to for a while."
Mina nodded even though Sana couldn’t see her. She understood that.
For a moment, she considered letting the conversation drop there, but instead, she took a breath and pressed on.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"If you need me to tell the girls you’ll visit soon, I already was going to," Sana said, her tone light.
Mina groaned. "That’s not— I forgot to tell you. I’m at the hospital right now."
There was a beat of silence.
"You are?"
"Yes."
"You didn’t say anything."
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Sana made a soft noise, like she was debating whether or not to tease her. "Mina Myoui, are you finally slacking?"
Mina rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Don’t start."
"Okay, okay." Sana laughed, the tension easing a little. "So, what’s the favor?"
Mina paused, glancing at her phone again before speaking.
"I need a partner for something."
Sana snorted. "You’re dating now? That’s new."
"Not that kind of partner." Mina said. "I got invited to see a play. Closing night. It’s at the Hanok Theater. The man who owns it is trying to sell it, so he wants me to see it firsthand. I just... I don’t want to go alone."
Sana was quiet for a second. "You need a business partner, then."
"No," Mina clarified. "I don’t want to bring my team. If I do, they’ll just try to rush me into making an offer. I don’t want input. I just...” She pressed the phone tighter to her ear. "I just want company. Someone to sit next to me and actually enjoy the play."
Sana hummed softly in thought. "And you’re asking me?"
"Yeah."
"I can’t."
Mina had expected that answer, but it still made her stomach sink a little.
"You sure?"
"I’m swamped, Mina” Sana said. "I barely have time to breathe right now. Even coming to the hospital is pushing it."
Mina nodded again, rubbing at her temple. She wasn’t surprised, but it still left her back at square one.
"Maybe ask one of the girls?" Sana offered.
"They just got here. They’re here for Jeong."
"Yeah," Sana agreed. "They probably wouldn’t want to leave."
Mina let out another quiet sigh, already considering dropping the whole thing. "It’s fine. I’ll figure it out."
There was a pause before Sana spoke again, her tone shifting slightly.
"You were gonna ask Jihyo, weren’t you?"
"Maybe."
"She won’t."
Mina frowned at the certainty in her voice.
"Why not?"
Sana exhaled, but it wasn’t a normal exhale—it was measured, calculated. Like she was debating whether or not to tell her something.
"She just—" Sana started, then stopped. "She has stuff to sort out there."
Mina narrowed her eyes at that.
"Sana."
"Don’t ask," Sana said quickly, but the way she said it only made Mina more suspicious.
There was something there. Something she wasn’t saying.
But before Mina could press, before she could continue, Sana swiftly changed the subject.
"Invite Nayeon instead," she said casually.
Mina didn’t time to refuse before she spotted movement in the corner of her vision.
She looked up—and there she was.
Nayeon.
Walking toward her, phone in hand, looking just as exhausted as Mina felt.
"Hey," Nayeon called her with a soft tone.
Mina’s breath caught slightly, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she shifted the phone away from her ear.
"I’ll see you soon," she told Sana, cutting the call before she could reply.
She pocketed her phone just as Nayeon reached her, her presence so familiar yet so distant at the same time.
“You look good,” Nayeon said, leaning casually against the vending machine as she cracked open her drink. Her eyes skimmed over Mina, the tailored coat, the polished demeanor—so different from the girl she used to know. “Put together. Like a real businesswoman.”
Mina let out a small chuckle, tilting her head to the side. “Was I not put together before?”
Nayeon smirked, taking a sip of her drink. “Not like this.” She glanced at Mina’s fitted ensemble again before shaking her head. “I remember a different version of you.”
Mina arched a brow. “Yeah?”
“A girl who would occasionally get stage fright,” Nayeon mused, the hint of amusement evident in her voice. “Who once locked herself in a dressing room ten minutes before curtain call.”
Mina groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“Probably not.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Nayeon grinned, clearly enjoying this. “I have a great memory.”
Mina shook her head, but there was another smile tugging at her lips. It was strange, how easily they slipped into this—teasing, familiar, effortless. A reminder of what once was.
The conversation shifted naturally, gliding from old stories into the present, into something softer, something more real.
“What about you?” Mina asked, watching as Nayeon fidgeted slightly with her drink. “How’s life outside of all this?”
Nayeon let out a small breath, rolling the can between her palms. “Normal, I guess.”
“That sounds unconvincing.”
Nayeon shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible movement. “There’s not much to tell.”
Mina gave her a pointed look, one that made Nayeon sigh like she was debating whether to answer properly or keep it surface level.
“I wake up, I make breakfast, I do all the things I’m supposed to do,” Nayeon said, voice even, almost detached. “And then I repeat it the next day. It’s... predictable. Safe.”
Mina studied her carefully. “But... you’re happy?”
The pause was subtle, a small flicker that passed over Nayeon’s face too quickly for most to catch. But Mina wasn’t most people.
“Yeah,” Nayeon said after a beat, her lips curving into something that resembled a smile but didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course.”
Mina didn’t believe her.
She didn’t press, though. Just like she didn’t press when she noticed the way Nayeon’s fingers tightened slightly around the can, or the way her eyes flickered to the side, like she was trying to convince herself that the words were true.
Instead, Mina let the moment settle, let the silence stretch between them as they both watched the world continue around them—the hushed voices of hospital staff, the steady beeping of machines, the distant echo of someone’s footsteps down the hall.
And then, without thinking, Mina shifted the conversation.
“You should go home.”
Nayeon frowned, turning to her. “What?”
“Take a shower, rest for a bit,” Mina said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been here for days. You need a break.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Nayeon let out an exasperated breath, shaking her head. “I don’t want to leave. I want to be here when Jeong wakes up.”
Mina softened, her voice lowering. “I know. But you’re going to burn yourself out before she even does.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Mina didn’t argue. Instead, she found an opening, a different approach.
“I have an invitation to see a play,” she said after a moment.
Nayeon blinked, thrown off. “What?”
“It’s closing night at the Hanok. The owner invited me because he’s thinking of selling the place.”
Nayeon gave her a skeptical look. “And you want me to go?”
“Yes.”
A scoff. “Mina—”
“Just hear me out,” Mina interrupted, her tone measured. “I don’t want to go with my team. If I do, they’ll just pressure me into making an offer, and I don’t need that. I just... I just want company. Someone to sit next to me and enjoy the show. No business, no expectations. And...”
Mina looked at her, making sure she could finish her sentence.
Nayeon gave her a skeptical look, shifting her weight slightly. “And I need a break?”
“Yes,” Mina said simply.
Nayeon shook her head, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t know. I just... want to be here. I need to be here.”
Mina exhaled, then tried again. “Do it as a favor for me.”
That made Nayeon pause.
She bit the inside of her cheek, glancing away as she mulled it over, fingers tapping lightly against the aluminum of her can.
Mina could see it—that internal battle. The resistance, the exhaustion, the pull of wanting to stay but knowing that maybe, just maybe, stepping away for a little while wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Seconds passed.
And then, finally, Nayeon let out a breath. “I’m going to regret this.”
Mina smiled, slow and satisfied. “No, you won’t.”
Nayeon groaned, rubbing her temple. “Fine. But I’m coming right back after.”
Mina nodded. “Of course.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Not awkward, not heavy. Just another shared moment.
Then, Nayeon sighed again, looking at her like she couldn’t believe she was actually agreeing to this. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
"You weren't that hard to convince." Mina just smiled her tired smile, head tilting slightly. "I'll pick you up."
Nayeon rolled her eyes, but there was a ghost of a twitch on her lips.
They stood there for a moment longer, not saying much. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It just was—a quiet kind of truce wrapped in exhaustion.
Mina could feel it in her limbs, in the tight pull behind her eyes. The drain of everything. Of days spent balancing grief and responsibility, of holding herself upright because no one else would.
And when she glanced at Nayeon, she saw it there too. In the way her shoulders slouched just a little. In the way she blinked slower than usual, like everything was catching up to her at once.
Maybe the play would help. Not fix anything—but offer a few hours of quiet, of looking elsewhere.
Or maybe it would do the opposite.
She wasn’t sure.