Chapter 1
Nayeon’s voice stills MusicBank’s studio as her lines close off ‘Strategy,’ the notes fading into thunderous applause, and Mina finds herself counting breaths instead of beats. One, two, three—the familiar rhythm of post-performance adrenaline coursing through her veins. The stage lights are still too bright, casting long shadows that dance across the stadium floor as she follows the others toward the exit.
"Did you see their faces during the rap verse? Youngji really killed that part," Jihyo's voice carries from somewhere ahead, breathless with excitement. "I thought the front row was going to pass out."
Mina smiles, muscle memory guiding her feet down the familiar path to their dressing room. Her body moves on autopilot while her mind drifts, caught in that strange liminal space between performance high and creeping exhaustion. She's done this a thousand times before—the careful navigation of backstage corridors, the gradual unwinding of stage presence into something more personal, more contained.
The dressing room is chaos incarnate, as always. Sana's already claiming the best mirror, Dahyun's sprawled dramatically across the couch documenting their post-show emotions for their video diary, and somewhere in the background, Chaeyoung and Tzuyu are engaged in their usual debate about where to order late-night food.
"You can't possibly want tteokbokki again," Tzuyu sighs, but there's fondness in her exasperation.
"It's tradition!" Chaeyoung protests. "We've ordered from that place after every show this week. We can't break the streak now—it's bad luck."
"That's not how luck works," Tzuyu counters, but she's already reaching for her phone, and Mina knows they'll all be eating tteokbokki within the hour.
The familiar bickering washes over Mina as she makes her way to her designated corner. Her fingers find the zipper of her stage outfit, but something feels off. The room seems to pulse slightly, like a camera losing focus, then snapping back. She blinks, gripping the makeup counter for support.
"Hey, careful with those boots." Nayeon's voice comes from somewhere to her left, closer than expected. "The heel's still loose from yesterday's rehearsal."
Mina turns, ready to remind Nayeon that she'd already had the boots fixed, but the words die in her throat. The world tilts sideways, colors bleeding into each other like watercolors on a canvass that’s left in the rain.
When her vision clears, she's not in the dressing room anymore.
The practice room stretches out before her, early morning light streaming through the windows. Nayeon's there, but different—younger, hair pulled back in that messy bun she'd favored during their rookie days. She's running through the chorus of "Like OOH-AHH," her reflection determined in the mirror.
"Your timing's still off," Mina hears herself say, the words falling from her lips without conscious thought. Memory, she realizes distantly. This is memory.
Nayeon whirls around, surprise melting into something softer when she sees Mina. "I thought everyone had gone home."
"Almost everyone," Mina confirms, and she remembers this—remembers staying late because she'd noticed Nayeon struggling with the new choreography, remembers wanting to help but not knowing how to offer.
"You don't have to stay," Nayeon says, but her eyes say something else entirely. Please stay, they whisper. Please don't leave me here alone.
"I know, unnie," Mina replies, both then and now. "But I want to."
The practice room dissolves like sugar in coffee, and suddenly she's back in the present, stumbling slightly as reality reasserts itself. The dressing room is exactly as she left it—Chaeyoung and Tzuyu still arguing about food, Sana humming their newest single as she removes her stage makeup, Momo already changed into comfortable clothes and scrolling through fan reactions on her phone.
"Minari?" Nayeon's voice—present-day Nayeon—cuts through her disorientation. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Maybe I have, Mina thinks, studying Nayeon's face. The years between then and now feel paper-thin suddenly, like pages in a book she could flip through at will. She sees echoes of rookie Nayeon in the way she stands now, in the slight tilt of her head when she's concerned. Some things, it seems, never change.
"I'm fine," Mina manages, but her voice sounds distant even to her own ears. "Just tired, I think."
Nayeon frowns, unconvinced. "You've been pushing yourself too hard lately. You’re just coming from the MiSaMo tour, too. Here, sit down before you fall down."
Gentle hands guide her to a chair, and Mina lets herself be moved. The touch is achingly familiar—Nayeon's always been tactile with her affection, always ready with a steadying hand or a comforting embrace. But now Mina wonders how many of these moments she's missed over the years, too caught up in the whirlwind of their lives to notice the weight of them.
"Remember when you used to need my help with the choreo?" The words slip out before Mina can stop them. "Back during 'Like OOH-AHH' promotions?"
Nayeon pauses in the middle of removing her earrings, surprise flickering across her features. "That was ages ago. Why are you thinking about that now?"
Because I was just there, Mina wants to say. Because I saw you as you were then, and somehow you're still the same person who stayed late in the practice room, too proud to ask for help but too determined to give up.
Instead, she says, "No reason. Just... remembering."
Nayeon studies her for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. "You were always so patient with me back then," she says finally. "Even when I kept messing up the same move over and over."
"You never gave up, though," Mina replies, and she's not sure if she's talking about then or now, about dance moves or something else entirely.
The conversation is interrupted by a triumphant shout from Chaeyoung. "Food's ordered! Twenty minutes until tteokbokki time!"
"You're going to turn into a rice cake one of these days, Chaeyoung-ah," Jeongyeon calls from across the room, but she's already clearing space on the coffee table for their impromptu late-night feast.
The familiar rhythm of their post-show routine continues around them, but something has shifted, subtle as a change in choreography. Mina catches Nayeon watching her in the mirror as they remove their stage makeup, concern still evident in the slight furrow of her brow.
"Stay at my place tonight," Nayeon says suddenly, voice low enough that only Mina can hear. "You shouldn't be alone if you're not feeling well."
The offer sends an unexpected warmth through Mina's chest. They've had countless sleepovers over the years, but something about this feels different. Maybe it's the lingering effects of whatever just happened to her, or maybe it's the way Nayeon's looking at her—like she's trying to solve a puzzle she doesn't have all the pieces to yet.
"Okay," Mina agrees, and Nayeon's smile is bright enough to rival the stage lights they've just left behind.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of tteokbokki and comfortable chaos. Mina finds herself hyper-aware of Nayeon's presence—the casual way she drapes herself across Mina's shoulders while looking at something on Dahyun's phone, the familiar cadence of her laugh when Sana recounts a particularly dramatic fan interaction from earlier.
It's nothing new, this physical closeness. They've always been like this, haven't they? But now Mina can't help but wonder how many of these moments she's taken for granted, how many times she's missed the weight of meaning behind casual touches and lingering glances.
The drive to Nayeon's apartment is quiet, comfortable in the way only years of friendship can make it. Mina watches the city lights blur past the car window, trying to shake the feeling that she's simultaneously here and somewhere else, caught between moments like a song between verses.
"You're doing it again," Nayeon observes as they step into the elevator. "That thing where you go somewhere else in your head."
"Am I?" Mina asks, watching their reflections in the elevator's mirrored walls. Present-day them, standing close enough that their shoulders brush, but she can almost see echoes of their younger selves superimposed over the image—rookie Nayeon with her fierce determination, trainee Mina with her careful smiles and halting Korean.
"Mm," Nayeon hums. "You've been doing it all evening. Like you're here but not here."
The elevator doors open, and they make their way down the familiar hallway to Nayeon's apartment. Everything feels slightly surreal, like Mina's watching a movie of her own life with scenes from different years spliced together.
"Maybe I am somewhere else," Mina murmurs as Nayeon fumbles with her keys. "Or somewhen else."
Nayeon shoots her a curious look but doesn't press for an explanation. Instead, she ushers Mina inside with practiced efficiency, disappearing into her bedroom to emerge moments later with comfortable clothes for them both.
"Shower first," she declares, pressing a bundle of soft fabric into Mina's arms. "Then we can talk about wherever it is you keep going."
The hot water helps ground Mina in the present, washing away the last traces of stage makeup and the lingering disorientation of her... whatever it was. Time slip? Memory? Hallucination? None of the words quite fit the experience of being suddenly transported years into the past, of seeing rookie Nayeon with such vivid clarity it had felt more real than reality itself.
When she emerges from the bathroom, she finds Nayeon curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone with a slight frown.
"What is it?" Mina asks, settling beside her.
"Fans noticed something was off during the encore," Nayeon says, tilting her screen so Mina can see. "They're worried you might be sick."
"I'm not sick," Mina protests automatically, then pauses. "At least, I don't think I am. Unless randomly traveling through time counts as being sick."
The words slip out before she can stop them, and Nayeon's head snaps up, phone forgotten. "What did you say?"
Mina considers brushing it off as a joke, but something in Nayeon's expression stops her. Maybe it's the remnants of that morning's memory—of Nayeon too proud to ask for help but grateful when it was offered. Maybe it's just that she's tired of carrying this strange experience alone, even if it's only been a few hours.
"Something happened in the dressing room," she begins slowly. "When you mentioned my boots—suddenly I wasn't there anymore. I was back in the practice room, during our rookie days. You were practicing 'Like OOH-AHH' and I... I was there. Not just remembering it, but there. I could feel the floor under my feet, smell the cleaning products they used to use on the mirrors. It was real, unnie. As real as this is now."
She expects disbelief, maybe concern about her mental state. Instead, Nayeon is quiet for a long moment, studying Mina with an intensity that makes her skin prickle.
"What was I wearing?" Nayeon asks finally.
"What?"
"In the practice room. What was I wearing?"
Mina closes her eyes, the image crystal clear in her mind. "That oversized gray t-shirt with the English text you could never pronounce. Your hair was up in a messy bun, and you had a bandage on your left knee from where you'd scraped it during dance practice the day before."
When she opens her eyes, Nayeon's staring at her with an unreadable expression. "I remember that day," she says softly. "You stayed late to help me with the choreography even though you were exhausted. I never told you, but it meant a lot to me. That you noticed I was struggling without me having to say anything—that’s what you were talking about earlier."
"I… I always notice you," Mina says, and immediately feels her cheeks warm at how that sounds. "I mean—"
"I know what you mean," Nayeon interrupts, and there's something in her voice that makes Mina's heart skip. "I notice you too."
The moment stretches between them, heavy with unspoken things. Mina wonders if this is another time slip, if she'll blink and find herself somewhere else, somewhen else. But the seconds tick by and she stays firmly in the present, watching the play of emotions across Nayeon's face.
"You should get some sleep," Nayeon says finally, breaking the silence. "Whatever's happening... we can figure it out tomorrow."
Mina wants to protest that she's not tired, but a yawn betrays her. Nayeon laughs, the sound soft and fond, and suddenly they're moving through the familiar choreography of preparing for bed—Nayeon insisting Mina take the bed while she takes the couch, Mina arguing that they've shared beds hundreds of times before, neither of them acknowledging that something feels different tonight.
Later, lying in the dark with Nayeon's steady breathing beside her, Mina stares at the ceiling and wonders. If she's really traveling through time, why now? Why these moments? And most importantly, what is she supposed to do with this new perspective, this ability to see their shared history from angles she'd missed the first time around?
She turns her head, studying Nayeon's profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. In sleep, her face is peaceful, years falling away until she could almost be that rookie again, staying late to perfect her moves, too proud to admit she needed help but grateful when it was offered.
"I notice you," Mina whispers again, testing the words in the safety of darkness. "I think maybe I've always noticed you. I just didn't know what I was seeing."
Nayeon shifts slightly but doesn't wake, and Mina closes her eyes, letting exhaustion pull her under. Her last conscious thought is a wonder—if she slips through time again, will she see their story differently? And if she does, will she be brave enough to change how it ends?
The night wraps around them like a familiar melody, and somewhere in the space between seconds, Mina dreams of practice rooms and stage lights, of missed chances and moments yet to come. Tomorrow, she knows, she'll have to face whatever this is head-on. But for now, she lets herself drift, anchored by Nayeon's presence beside her, a constant in both past and present.
Morning arrives like a gentle tide, sunlight creeping across Nayeon's bedroom floor. Mina wakes to an empty bed and the distant sound of someone moving in the kitchen. For a moment, she lets herself float in that liminal space between being awake and sleep, where reality feels soft around the edges, where sunshine filtering through the blinds look like something straight out of a video game screenshot.
The smell of coffee draws her out of bed. She finds Nayeon in the kitchen, hair tied up messily, wearing an oversized t-shirt that Mina recognizes as her own from years ago. The sight triggers something—a flutter in her chest that has nothing to do with time travel and everything to do with domestic intimacy.
"I was beginning to think you'd sleep all day," Nayeon says without turning around, as if she can feel Mina's presence. Maybe she can. Maybe they've always been attuned to each other in ways Mina's only now beginning to understand.
"What time is it?"
"Just past ten." Nayeon turns, coffee mug in hand, and the world shifts.
The kitchen dissolves like morning mist, and Mina finds herself standing in her old apartment in Japan. The air is heavy with summer heat and something else—despair, she realizes. This is 2019. This is the day she decided she couldn't do it anymore.
Her phone lies on the table, open to the group chat. Messages scroll past—concerned voices, love wrapped in digital characters. But it's Nayeon's messages that catch her eye, sent privately in the midst of chaos:
You don't have to explain anything.You don't have to be okay.Just don't disappear completely. Please.
Past-Mina sits on her bed, phone clutched to her chest, trying to find words for the darkness that's been growing inside her. Present-Mina wants to reach out, to tell her younger self that it gets better, that taking this break isn't weakness, rather that it's the bravest thing she'll ever do.
"I miss you," Nayeon's voice comes through the phone's speaker, and past-Mina starts crying. "I miss you, and I'm not going to pretend I understand exactly what you're going through, but we’re here—I'm here. Whatever you need, however long it takes."
The memory stretches longer than the previous slips, allowing Mina to relive the full weight of that conversation. She watches her past self curl into a ball on the bed, phone still pressed to her ear as Nayeon talks about everything and nothing—practice room mishaps, Chaeyoung's latest tattoo and how the management had asked to cover it up with skin-tone plasters, the way Dahyun tried to teach Tzuyu aegyo and ended up creating chaos that would definitely be a meme in the morning instead.
"You don't have to say anything," past-Nayeon says after a particularly long silence. "Just... stay on the line with me? Let me pretend you're here?"
And past-Mina had stayed, letting Nayeon's voice anchor her through one of the darkest nights of her life. Present-Mina feels phantom tears on her cheeks, remembering how that simple act of connection had felt like the first breath after being underwater too long.
The scene shifts again, but instead of returning to Nayeon's kitchen, Mina finds herself in the practice room. It's later that same year—she recognizes the outfit she's wearing, remembers this day with crystalline clarity. It's her first day back after the hiatus.
The members are there, trying so hard to act normal while stealing concerned glances when they think she isn't looking. But Nayeon—Nayeon doesn't pretend. She plants herself firmly at Mina's side, a constant presence that somehow manages to be protective without being suffocating.
"Water?" past-Nayeon offers during a break, and past-Mina accepts with hands that shake slightly. Present-Mina notices what she missed then—the way Nayeon's own hands trembled as she passed the bottle, the dark circles under her eyes poorly concealed by makeup.
"Did you sleep at all last night?" past-Mina asks, and Nayeon's surprised laugh is answer enough.
"How could I? My favorite penguin was coming back today." The joke is light, but there's weight behind it. "I kept thinking about all the things I wanted to tell you. Practiced them in my head like choreo."
"And now?"
"Now I can't remember any of it." Past-Nayeon smiles, soft and genuine. "Funny how that works, isn't it? All those practiced words, and all I really want to say is—I'm glad you're here."
The practice room blurs, and suddenly Mina's standing in the company building's rooftop garden. Still 2019, but later—she recognizes the autumn chill in the air, the way the city lights blur in the distance.
"Sometimes I still get scared," past-Mina confesses to past-Nayeon, both of them huddled under a shared blanket. "That it'll come back. That I'll have to leave again."
"Then we'll handle it again," past-Nayeon says simply. "Together. All of us. But especially me, because I'm your favorite unnie and everyone knows it. Jeongyeon’s a far second."
The teasing tone makes past-Mina laugh, and present-Mina feels the echo of that relief—how Nayeon had always known when to be serious and when to lighten the moment, how she'd helped make healing feel less like a mountain to climb and more like a dance to learn, one step at a time.
Reality reasserts itself with the gentle clink of a coffee mug being set on the counter. Mina blinks, finding herself back in Nayeon's kitchen. But this time, the transition leaves her dizzy, and she stumbles.
"Mina!" Nayeon's there instantly, steady hands gripping her arms. "That's it, I'm calling the manager. Something's wrong—"
"No," Mina catches Nayeon's wrist before she can reach for her phone. "I'm okay. It's just... I was there again. In 2019."
Nayeon goes very still. "During your hiatus?"
"Yes. I saw... I saw how you helped me through it. Things I didn't fully understand at the time." Mina's voice catches. "You never gave up on me."
"Of course I didn't," Nayeon says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like Mina saying she was there again makes the most sense. "I couldn't."
The words hang between them, heavy with meaning. Mina studies Nayeon's face—older now than in her recent visions, but with the same unwavering devotion in her eyes.
"The phone call," Mina says slowly. "That night when I couldn't stop crying. You talked for hours about nothing important, just to keep me company."
"I remember," Nayeon's voice is soft. "I was so scared you'd hang up, that you'd slip away completely. I think I told you about every stupid thing that had happened in practice that week."
"You told me about Chaeyoung's tattoo," Mina confirms. "And Dahyun trying to teach Tzuyu aegyo."
Nayeon's eyes widen slightly. "How do you remember the exact details? Even I don't—"
"Because I was just there," Mina interrupts. "Not just remembering it, but there. I heard every word, felt everything all over again. And I saw things I missed the first time—how tired you were when I came back, how your hands shook when you tried to act normal."
"You weren't supposed to notice that," Nayeon says, attempting a laugh that comes out slightly watery. "I was trying so hard to be strong for you."
"You were strong," Mina insists. "You are strong. I just didn't realize... I didn't see..."
The world tilts again, but this time Mina fights it. She's not ready to leave this moment, this conversation. She grips the kitchen counter, feeling Nayeon's hands steady on her shoulders.
"It's happening again, isn't it?" Nayeon asks, and Mina nods, unable to speak as reality begins to blur. "Okay, don't fight it. I'm here. I'll be here when you get back."
The kitchen dissolves, and Mina finds herself in the dance studio. It's late 2019 again, but a different day. She's watching past-Nayeon run through the choreography for "Feel Special," again and again, long after everyone else has gone home.
"You've already perfected it," past-Mina says from the doorway, and past-Nayeon startles, catching her eye in the mirror.
"Perfection isn't good enough," past-Nayeon says, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Not for this comeback. It needs to be..."
"Special?"
"Yeah." Past-Nayeon's laugh is tired but genuine. "It's your first comeback since... I just want everything to be perfect. For you. For all of us, but..."
"But especially for me?" Past-Mina moves into the room, drawn by something in Nayeon's expression. "You don't have to carry that weight, unnie."
"I want to," past-Nayeon admits quietly. "Let me do this much, at least."
Present-Mina watches their past selves navigate this moment, sees the care and concern that had flowed both ways. She'd thought she was the only one healing then, but maybe Nayeon had been healing too—from the fear of almost losing her, from the months of worry and waiting.
The scene shifts again, faster now, moments from that year flickering past like pages in a photo album. Nayeon bringing her tea during late-night practice sessions. Nayeon creating diversions when fans or reporters got too close with their questions. Nayeon's shoulder pressed against hers during video calls with their families, a silent reminder that she wasn't alone.
Time becomes fluid, memories bleeding into each other until Mina can't tell where one ends and another begins. She sees their story from new angles, understanding blooming like flowers in spring. Every small kindness, every moment of protection and care, builds into something larger, something she's only now beginning to recognize.
When reality finally stabilizes, Mina finds herself sitting on Nayeon's kitchen floor, her head resting against the cabinet. Nayeon kneels beside her, one hand running soothingly through her hair.
"Welcome back," Nayeon says softly. "You were gone longer that time. Almost an hour."
Time slips are becoming parallel now, Mina realizes. The longer she’s seeing these pasts, the longer she’s out from her present.
"It felt like days," Mina manages, her voice rough. "I saw... so much. All from that year."
"2019?"
"Yes." Mina turns to look at Nayeon, really look at her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"How much you did for me. How much you..." Mina struggles to find the right words. "How much you carried."
Nayeon is quiet for a long moment, her hand still gentle in Mina's hair. "Because you didn't need that burden," she says finally. "You were dealing with enough. My feelings, my worry... that was mine to handle."
"But it wasn't just worry, was it?" Mina asks, and watches something vulnerable flash across Nayeon's face. "All those moments, all that care... it was more than just being a good unnie or friend."
"Mina..." Nayeon's voice wavers slightly. "What exactly did you see?"
"Everything," Mina whispers. "I saw everything. And I think... I think I'm seeing it clearly for the first time."
The morning sun streams through the kitchen window, painting patterns on the floor between them. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honks, and the sound of the city drifts up—life continuing its normal rhythm while they sit here, on the cusp of something that feels both terrifying and inevitable.
"I don't know what's happening to me," Mina admits. "Why I'm suddenly traveling through time, why I keep seeing these specific moments. But I think... I think maybe I needed to see them. To understand."
"Understand what?" Nayeon asks, barely breathing.
Mina reaches up, catching Nayeon's hand where it's still tangled in her hair. She brings it down between them, threading their fingers together with deliberate care.
"That some things transcend time," she says softly. "That maybe the reason I keep going back to these moments with you is because they're trying to tell me something I've been too afraid to see."
Nayeon's breath catches, and Mina watches emotions play across her face like light through stained glass—hope, fear, longing, all mixed together in a way that makes her heart ache.
"And what do you see now?" Nayeon asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
But before Mina can answer, the world begins to blur again. She grips Nayeon's hand tighter, fighting against the pull of time with everything she has.
"No," she protests. "Not now. Please, not now—"
"It's okay," Nayeon says quickly, squeezing her hand. "It's okay. Whatever you're seeing, whatever you're understanding... it'll still be true when you get back. I promise."
The kitchen dissolves one last time, and Mina finds herself watching another moment from their shared past. But this time, something's different. This time, she's not just observing—she's understanding. And maybe, she's finally ready to do something about it.
The sound of Jeongyeon pressing the door codes to the lock startles them both. Mina's still on the kitchen floor, head spinning from her latest temporal journey, while Nayeon kneels beside her, their hands intertwined like they're sharing a secret.
"Yah, Nayeonnie! I brought lunch because I know your fridge is probably—" Jeongyeon stops dead in the doorway, plastic bags swinging from her wrists. "Mina?"
There's a moment of perfect stillness where no one moves. Then Mina feels Nayeon's hand squeeze hers once, gentle and reassuring, before letting go. The loss of contact feels like stepping out of warm sunlight into shadow.
"Surprise breakfast guest," Nayeon says smoothly, rising to her feet. Her voice carries just the right amount of casual cheerfulness, as if finding them on the kitchen floor is perfectly normal. "Though I guess it's closer to lunch now."
Jeongyeon's eyes narrow slightly, taking in the scene—Mina still sitting against the cabinet, the untouched coffee going cold on the counter, the slight tremor in Nayeon's hands that she tries to hide by busying herself with the coffee maker.
"Are you okay?" Jeongyeon directs the question at Mina, who manages a weak smile. “Onces think you’re—"
“I’m fine, unnie. Just tired," she interrupts, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. "Post-performance crash, you know?"
"Mm." Jeongyeon doesn't look convinced, but she starts unpacking the food anyway, giving Mina space to collect herself. "Well, I brought enough for three. Though if I'd known you were here, I would've gotten those weird seaweed chips you like."
The normalcy of the moment—Jeongyeon's casual thoughtfulness, Nayeon's practiced deflection—helps ground Mina in the present. She pushes herself up from the floor, steadying herself against the counter when the room tilts slightly.
"Next time," she says, and pretends not to notice how Nayeon watches her with barely concealed concern.
They settle into lunch with the ease of long friendship, but something's shifted. Mina catches herself watching Nayeon more than usual, remembering how she looked in 2019—younger but somehow heavier, carrying the weight of Mina's absence like a physical thing. The contrast makes her heart swell with affection, with gratitude, with something else she's not quite ready to name.
And that's when it happens.
The wave of happiness crashes over her just as she's laughing at one of Jeongyeon's stories about their manager's latest mishap. The world blurs at the edges, and Mina has just enough time to catch Nayeon's eye, to see understanding dawn there before—
She's in the practice room again, but it's different this time. They're younger, maybe 2016 or 2017, and past-Nayeon is teaching past-Mina aegyo poses, both of them giggling uncontrollably.
"No, no, like this," past-Nayeon demonstrates, her nose scrunching up in that way that always makes Mina's heart flutter. "You have to commit to it!"
The scene shifts before she can see past-Mina's response, and suddenly she's watching them share bubble tea after a late-night practice session, past-Nayeon stealing sips from past-Mina's drink because "yours always tastes better somehow."
Another shift, and they're at a fansign, past-Nayeon drawing little penguins in the corner of past-Mina's notebook when she thinks no one's looking. Each memory is tinged with warmth, with joy, with the kind of happiness that makes Mina's chest ache even as she's experiencing it.
When she comes back to herself, she's still at Nayeon's dining table, but Jeongyeon's in the kitchen getting more water, and Nayeon's hand is on her knee under the table, grounding her.
"That's the trigger," Mina whispers, the realization hitting her like summer lightning. "It happens when I'm happy. When you make me happy."
Nayeon's hand tightens slightly on her knee, but before she can respond, Jeongyeon returns. The moment passes, but the understanding lingers.
Days blur together after that. Mina catches herself slipping more frequently—during practice when Nayeon brings her favorite coffee unprompted, during movie night when they fall asleep tangled together on the couch, during quiet moments when their eyes meet across a room and something unspoken passes between them.
Each slip shows her another piece of their shared history, another moment where happiness bloomed between them like flowers pushing through concrete. She starts to anticipate them, to welcome them even, each journey through time helping her understand the depth of what she feels, what she's always felt.
Until the beach.
The transition is different this time—smoother, like sliding into cool water instead of being pulled under. The first thing Mina notices is the sound of waves, gentle and rhythmic against the shore. Then the weight of fabric around her legs, heavy with seawater.
She looks down. A wedding dress. White lace darkening where the waves lap at the hem, pearls catching the late afternoon sun like tiny stars. Her wedding dress.
Everything about this feels wrong. The quality of light is different, the air tastes of possibilities not yet realized. This isn't the past she's been visiting. This is—
"I don't think she's coming, Minari."
Sana's voice is gentle behind her, her arms wrapping around Mina's waist in a gesture of comfort that feels like a goodbye. Mina doesn't turn around. She can't. She knows what she'll see in Sana's eyes—sadness that doesn’t suit her at all, maybe, or worse, understanding.
"I know," she hears herself say, and the words feel like glass in her throat.
The waves continue their eternal dance with the shore, indifferent to the tragedy playing out on their stage. Mina watches a seabird wheel overhead, its cry carrying across the water like a lament.
When reality reasserts itself, she's in her own apartment, sitting on her bed with her phone in her hand. There are missed calls from Nayeon—three of them—and a string of increasingly worried texts.
Where did you go after practice?Are you okay?Another one of those… time slips?Minari, please answer me
Her fingers hover over the screen, but what can she say? How can she explain that she's seen a future where something goes terribly wrong? That she's seen herself in a wedding dress by the ocean, waiting for someone who never arrives?
The implication sits heavy in her chest. In all her time slips, every single one has been about Nayeon. Every happy moment, every shared laugh, every quiet understanding—they all led back to her. So this future vision, this wedding day abandonment... the conclusion seems obvious.
But something doesn't feel right. The memory—if she can call it that, this glimpse of what hasn't happened yet—feels different from the others. Less solid somehow, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
Her phone buzzes again. Another text from Nayeon.
I'm coming over
Panic flutters in Mina's chest. She's not ready to face Nayeon, not with this possible future hanging over them like a storm cloud. Not when every happy moment between them seems to trigger another slip through time, each one bringing her closer to understanding something she's not sure she wants to understand.
I'm fine, she texts back quickly. Just tired. Going to sleep early.
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. Finally:
Okay. But I'm here if you need me. Always.
The last word hits Mina like a physical blow. Always. Such a simple word, such an impossible promise. She thinks of the wedding dress, of Sana's gentle comfort, of a future where someone—Nayeon?—doesn't show up.
But then she thinks of 2019, of Nayeon's unwavering presence during her darkest days. Of all the moments she's revisited recently, each one filled with a joy so pure it literally sends her traveling through time.
Her phone buzzes one more time.
Sweet dreams, Minari. See you tomorrow?
Such a simple question, but it feels heavy with meaning. Tomorrow. The future. A choice.
Mina stares at the message for a long moment before responding with a single heart emoji. It's not much, but it's a promise of her own. A promise to face tomorrow, whatever it brings.
She falls asleep that night to the phantom sound of waves, to the memory of Sana's arms around her waist, to the echo of words that haven't been spoken yet. In her dreams, she's walking on the beach again, but this time she's not alone. This time, there's a figure waiting for her by the water.
She never quite sees their face.
Morning comes too soon, bringing with it the weight of knowledge she's not sure what to do with. Mina goes through her daily routine like a dance she's practiced too many times—shower, breakfast, practice clothes, bag packed with everything she needs for the day.
When she arrives at the company building, Nayeon's waiting in the lobby with two cups of coffee. The sight of her—casual in practice clothes, hair pulled back messily, concern evident in the slight furrow of her brow—makes Mina's heart swell with that now-familiar happiness.
The world starts to blur at the edges, and Mina thinks, Oh, not now, please not—
But instead of fighting it, she lets herself fall. Because maybe that's the point of all this. Maybe she needs to understand everything—past, present, and possible futures—before she can decide what to do with any of it.
The time slip takes her, gentle as a lullaby, and she goes willingly, trusting that when she returns, Nayeon will still be there.
Always, after all, is quite a promise to keep.